Craven spoke calmly into the silence. "You damn fool." It was like another slap. "Was it worth it? Beating our brothers in arms to bloody pulp?" He pointed at Brass. "You even attacked the man that sacrificed years of his life in order to save you. Years!"

Everybody but Craven turned their gaze on the weaponmaster, Echser gawking, Idana staring accusatory, and Draemaugh positively dumbfounded. Brass suppressed the urge to swallow hard and say something in his defense.

"Oh, you did not know that, did you?" Craven continued, letting his head fall to the side. "Yes... Lord Ashk was kind enough to share that remarkable fact with me when we were trying to find a way out of the whole miserable affair you created." Their leader leaned forward, making a sawing motion with his right. "They would have cut your leg off at the hip, turning you into a cripple, had Brass not intervened. That is, if you had not died from sepsis due to the filth on that spear. Do you think Brass looks like this because it is the latest rage? No, he does because he is a good comrade and did not want his weapon brother to suffer more than he already had." Craven leaned back, waving a dismissive gesture at Draemaugh. "And you almost threw away his gift, not merely spitting, but actually hitting him in the face. Some friend you are..."

Brass suddenly found himself the center of attention – and didn't like it one bit. Idana looked at him open-mouthed, her gaze somewhere between bewilderment, concern, and sullen accusation. Echser scrutinized him as if he had just cut open a cadaver only to find it held a wrong set of organs. Draemaugh's features were the most telling, locked in a battle they twitched through a variety of emotions: surprise, anger, shame, guilt... along with half a dozen more that were here and gone again so quickly there was no telling what he had seen.

Squeak. Squeak.

"I," Brass began...

– SLAP! –

His head snapped to the side, fresh blood flying from his nose, a sharp pain hissing through his brain. This time Brass had not even seen Craven move, which was all the more disorientating, but when his head rocked back and he saw those unforgiving eyes – if you could even call them that – pointed right at him, he knew.

"That is for the little scene you caused in the infirmary," said Craven. "How was attempting to castrate the king's best surgeon help our cause?"

Brass stared at Craven, his brain still trying to catch up with reality. He had been slapped. That... was not supposed to happen. You don't just slap guys like him. That was like going to a bull and punching him on the nose. It just isn't done. And yet, there was no denying what had happened, the blood meandering to his mouth irrefutable proof. He tasted salt and iron and felt that familiar vein swell on the side of his head.

Squeak. Squeak. Squeak.

Craven raised a slender eyebrow. "Is that all you have to say in your defense?"

Brass all but growled at him through bloody teeth. "You said we should make sure there would be no sawbones-butchery – I did exactly that!"

"Admirable – especially since I did not tell you, but my old friend Echser."

The alchemist's eyes widened and yelping in response, he pushed himself back from the table with enough force to topple over. Showing a rather impressive alacrity and agility for a man that was allegedly well over fifty, he rolled over his back and came up with his fists raised in a defensive posture. "Don't you dare raise that glove against me, Craven! I'm not one of these kids and won't stand being treated like one."

Craven chuckled. "I would not dream of it, old friend, but since you are standing – could you please tend to Brass nose. It's hard to maintain a serious conversation with all this squeaking going on."

Brass glared bloody murder at his leader – making sure he was only breathing through his mouth.

Echser frowned as if suspecting a trap, but then nodded and ambled over to the weaponmaster. Brass briefly considered shooing him away, but, truth be told, the squeaking went on his nerves something fierce. He turned his face to Echser, giving Craven a last smoldering look.

After some painful probing and some "Uh" and "Ah's" Echser turned to Craven. "I'll need that ramrod of your pistol."

Brass frowned. He oh-so hated that part. Leonora looked away. She hated it too. Draemaugh... Draemaugh had a really odd look on his face and seemed to find his hands way more fascinating. Craven did as he was bid, placing the half-foot rod of steel onto the table and Brass briefly considered grabbing it and stabbing their leader in the head.

The moment passed, Echser snatched it up and kneeled before Brass. "You know the drill – turn to me and hold still."

Brass nodded and steeled himself. Echser held the rod under his nostril, his other hand already on his nose - then shoved it in while working the broken bone and cartilage with his fingers halfway up to Brass' brain. There were some distinct crunching and cracking sounds... It didn't feel pleasant, no sir. Brass' knuckles popped as he balled them to fists, tears shooting into his eyes. A quick twist with his fingers and a sickening crunch later, Echser pulled the rod out again. The pain was a bitch, but Brass bore it without a whimper. Well, mostly... To his surprise, it hardly bled. He took a deep, tentative breath. No squeak. He let the air go in a shivering sigh. Echser pulled the towel from Brass' shoulder, cleaning first his hands, then the rod and handing it back to Craven.

"Here... better clean yourself up," said Echser, handing him the towel.

Craven stared at Brass, but pointed at Draemaugh. "I would wager that did hurt quite a bit, but not as much as losing the best years of your life. Are you at least happy that you rescued our friend Drae here so he might stomp off and get himself killed?"

"Didn't ask 'im to save me," the Northman growled. "Didn't want to be rescued by any of ye."

"But you have! Several times already in little less than a day. I saved you from beheading. Brass and Idana saved you from being massacred. Lord Ashk and Brass saved both your life and your leg. And Mountain – he sacrificed himself so that you might survive. And what is it you do? You spit on his sacrifice – spit on all our sacrifices and behave like a petulant child."

Draemaugh looked as if he was one second away from hurling himself at Craven at the mention of his brother. The features of his face drew together like a closing fist, veins and tendons rising from his skin in a meandering grit across his body.

He's gonna do it, Brass realized. He's really gonna attack him.

Craven saw it to, smiled, and uttered three simple words. "Oblivion or revenge?"

Draemaugh's frown deepened. "What?"

Craven leaned forward, almost as if inviting a blow. "What will it be, my boy? Oblivion or revenge? I can grant you both. Just raise those trembling fists against me and it will all be over in an instant. No more pain. No more guilt. No more suffering. You can run into the darkness and hide there. Maybe your brother will be waiting for you, but I doubt it. He died a hero's death, after all. He will wait in the Hall of the Fathers, drinking mead with the great champions of the North. You, on the other hand, will have passed from this mortal coil like a coward, committing suicide by a comrade's hand." Their leader chuckled. "There is no place for craven souls in paradise." He let that sink in for a moment, and then lifted a single finger. "Or... You pull yourself together and take your vengeance on the ones responsible for Mountain's death: the Thirteen." Craven made a dismissive gesture. "Or should we say, The Twelve?"

"Ye... Ye said we be runnin' away, that we..."

"I said no such thing! I said that we need to get out of this city because there is no chance we can survive otherwise. We are outnumbered at least five to one and have barely enough rations for a month. If reinforcements come, you can be sure they will only boost the lines of our enemy, heedless of the dangers waiting for them here. Our foe has us exactly where he wants us. I would not even have put it beyond Borgar and his lot that they planned all this. No, in order to hit them where it hurts we have to foil their plan, which means getting out of this city and warning the rest of the Empire. This might – just might – at least lure them out, giving us a chance of settling a blood debt."

Craven leaned back, studying Draemaugh's face. Much of the fury had vanished from the barbarian's mutilated features, but there still lingered a sullen resentment.

"So what will it be?" asked Craven. "The quick and easy way out, or the hard and painful one through it? Or would you rather have both?"

With that, Craven reached inside his tunic and brought forth his silver jester box, then proceeded to shake out a single Lich Tear. Holding it between thumb and index finger, he brought it up to his eyes. "This has the power to devour your suffering." He placed it onto the middle of the table and it lay there like a speck of dark infinity, at the same time mundane yet terrible to behold. "Go on. Take it. Become like me. The loss of your brother will be as dust in the wind. Go on... There is enough for us both."

Draemaugh stared at the Lich Tear with the longing of a suicidal staring into an abyss. He reached for it with a trembling hand.

Idana's fingers hesitantly touched his shoulder. "Drae..."

Draemaugh's hand stopped, scarred fingers quivering, then moved on, touching the Lich Tear. Brass was sure he would take it, but then a ghost of a smile found its way onto Draemaugh's haunted features. Instead, he snipped it back to Craven, their leader's hand once again moving in a blur and snatching the pearl.

Craven smiled as only villains could. "Splendid! Seems there is still some iron in you, boy!"

Draemaugh slumped back, drained, but with the first flames of a new fire in his eyes. "Just promise me one thing."

"Name it and I shall consider."

"If there is a chance – a real chance of killin' the bastards – we won't let it go to waste."

Craven seemed to ponder it for a moment and then nodded. "Very well, why not. Now, do I have your word that you will behave?"

Draemaugh nodded.

"On your brother's honor?"

At first, Draemaugh merely glared at Craven, then somehow managed a smile. Thoughtfully scratching his chin, his hand balled to a fist with only the middle finger extended, he muttered, "On my brother's bloody honor, boss."

Even Craven had to smile a little at that.    

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Sorry for the late update guys. It has been a busy week. 

I'll do my best to answer all the comments from last week in the coming days. :)

M.