fair warning

D e i m o s

Send a heartbeat to the void that cries through you
Relive the pictures that have come to pass

There were days, hours, moments, where he recalled memories of indifference and nonchalance – not giving a care, so detached and isolated from anyone and everyone, his kingdom’s own pariah, nettled and thorned on the edge of their precipices. It’d been easier then, not drowning in the wake of another’s misery, free from the burden of anguish and melancholy; drifting in and out of his own suffering without the ashes and embers from someone else’s inferno reaching across his shoulders. It’d been himself and no one else – lonely and despondent, but not chained and rattled and tethered to all these lines, all these motions, all these seething enterprises. His seething, devastation, and ire had been his own. His mistakes hadn’t cost the world anything but a movement of dust, a spiral of chaos, the slash of a scythe; eternally the Reaper, cast in his own shadow and darkness. Reality was truly too far gone for that now – and he wouldn’t alter it, wouldn’t change it, wouldn’t malign it for anything. The fact that he’d been accepted and tolerated by so many individuals (why was truly beyond him) clenched at his cold, nefarious heart, lined it with glacial points that had begun to melt, that had begun to peek out into the light. He could exist here, in the alms and arms of others; and they didn’t sneer, didn’t jibe, didn’t hiss, didn’t growl, didn’t stare, didn’t rebel at his presence. But lords, sometimes it tried him, to be wrapped up and enamored, to be afraid for others. The latest was only another point of a ticking bomb, and he could feel the fuse rising in his chest, eagerly awaiting the trigger, the moment, where he could set it ablaze. His ferocity was a blistering, scathing thing, corded and roped and coiled in the regions of his veins, where they hastened to bleed contempt and wrath, where they yearned to threaten the world with their potency and disaster. Amalia kept telling him not to do anything – like that would ever happen – and he fretted and pulled at the strands of his composure like a brooding, scathing monster, a fiend kindling and inciting some brush. Then he sent a missive to Jigano, because shouldn’t he know the ensuing damage? Shouldn’t he be aware of his guild disbanding, of Amalia clinging to its roots and foundations, of a threat bearing down on her? The growl tucked in the back of his throat stayed silent for now. Instead, he attempted to render himself busy – and Zuriel received the brunt end of it, staying perfectly still (and likely content – a very proud look on her features; maybe even haughty) as he worked bits of leather across her shoulders, intending for it to become some form of armor. But all the while, his mind churned and burned, plotting and musing, machinating and calculating, intending to set things ablaze. For now we stand alone, the world is lost and blown And we are flesh and blood disintegrate with no more to hate

The missive had a roundabout way of finding the bard, through a certain blond intermediary of their mutual acquaintance. Deimos was one of the few who knew how close the leatherworker and the bard were, however, and who could get a message to the fugitive in these dark times.

The guild being threatened to be disbanded had initially raised Jigano's temper high, but after a snarling hunt that ended in a rabbit dinner for a fox and a gryphlet he had calmed down and thought it through. Hearing later that Amalia had taken over the Provost-ship had left him with mixed feelings, pride and worry intermingling, but he trusted her to know what she was doing, and he respected her courage in stepping up. The Guild was as much hers as his, after all, and Sam's as well. If either of them wished to challenge Zariah for it he would support them. Sam, however, had disappeared, and in spite of everything already weighing Amalia down, she had cared enough to hold fast to what was theirs. No, he could not fault her for that.

He assumed Deimos had some information on seditious secrets or rebellious revels; more weapons to forge or strategies to concoct. Never the most ebullient of warriors, still his words held weight and importance to the bard these days, both for the man's own wisdom and for Amalia's love of him.

Jigano Smith made his way through town, not sneaking but not stopping to chat with anyone either, a slouching grey figure who moved with the flow of people, neither hurrying nor lingering as he walked with casual purpose towards the home of a friend and fellow member of their defiant band. He ducked into the backyard with a grunt of greeting, still wearing his disguise a few minutes more.

Better safe then sorry, after all.

"You asked for me?"

D e i m o s

Send a heartbeat to the void that cries through you
Relive the pictures that have come to pass

The Reaper might’ve been amused by the disguise had his temper not been incensed, stoked, fed flames and too many potential outcomes. “I did,” he spoke, rising from his crouch beside Zuriel’s shoulder, tugging away the piece of armor and leather, watching it fall away from her frame so he could adjust it accordingly. The unicorn’s gaze, much like his own, rested firmly on the bard, narrowing suspiciously, before she turned away, ambling towards a patch of grass. Deimos stretched the leather over a piece of wood, stitching a seam that needed to be extended. Brooding, brewing, bristling, uncertain of how to proceed without causing the situation to escalate – because the memories of the day at the notice board had been all too clear and real; a festering, withering contortion and munition. He’d been afraid for her, for Kiada, deep in the Faw woods, caught and snagged, desperate to tear into someone’s hide and sharpen his blade on their flesh. It hadn’t done him much good, in the way of things – the frayed ends hadn’t mended themselves until much later, and Amalia had rescued herself. It could happen again. He could feel the cycle rippling over his hide, his mind a hive of expositions and exhaustion, working its way through frenetic fervencies and irreverent pulses. Control, he muttered to himself, though it might’ve been Zuriel’s voice too, unimpressed with the vitriol and vehemence threatening to explode. It curled over his fingers as he worked on the armor, as he found other things for his hands to do besides choke or throttle someone. He was silent for a long, long time, diffident and discordant, shoving the apprehension, the consternation, the irreverence through his throat, willing something to batter against his teeth and tongue. Eventually, he managed to raise his eyes to the guised bard – who’d tried to save himself from a damned list, who rebelled in a quiet, hushed form, and who had begun to wove a series of circumstances and consequences – neither knew the outcome. “After taking over the guild in your stead, Amalia received a letter from Zariah, stating unless you gave yourself up, she would be arrested.” Then he waited, taut and rigid, for the reaction, for the synapses, for the sagacity and wisdom to render themselves capable – because the world knew Deimos wouldn’t stay still for long. For now we stand alone, the world is lost and blown And we are flesh and blood disintegrate with no more to hate

Deimos' terseness was no surprise now, not after getting to know a little of his ways. Jigano might have shrugged it off as simple tension given the sudden shift in tides that might throw their plans askew, but Zuriel's sudden coldness came unexpectedly, and he paused in his approach, watching her walk away. Watching Deimos focus on his leatherwork with troubling intensity. Something was up - that much he could have assumed from the request to meet - but it was no ideal conversation to discuss tactics or trade information, as he had hoped. Something had happened... or was going to happen soon.

There was no point in pushing the mountain; he would speak when he was ready, and their friendship had grown enough that Jigano was willing to wait now, to give Deimos space to think (and brood) and find the words to drop from his tongue more precious than pearls, and each one as reluctantly released as from a miser's vault. He ambled over to the stone wall, sitting there as he had one day in Longheat, not so long past, and settled himself to wait until his companion was ready to speak, knowing it would be important.

The words that came were initially curious, but not necessarily concerning. A letter from Zariah? Had the Queen refused to acknowledge Amalia's leadership of the Guild? Unfortunate, but not the end of the wo--

Oh.

Oh.

Three full seconds the bard sat, as stunned as if Deimos had struck him between the brows with a hammer. First, the shock. Second, the rage. Third, the ice that washed through his veins and crystallized in the one uncovered blue eye of his disguise. "She wouldn't dare," he said flatly, his voice not quite a hiss, but dangerously close to it as he turned his head to glare in the direction of the Manor. "She would face a riot if she tried to take Amalia. Surely she has to know that. It wouldn't just be us standing between her - it would be half the Settlement. There would be blood on the streets..." It was that realization that stopped him from continuing. Because if they had learned anything in that wretched meeting it was that Zariah would dare. She would see the Hollowed Grounds torn apart by war... and Vai had warned him that the Launceleyns were ruthless warriors. No, Zariah wouldn't hesitate to unleash her deadly magics on the populace. Might even be looking for an excuse to do so, to cement fear where she had been unable to gain respect.

"Fuck!" It was a vicious, uncharacteristic curse, and he wished he had something to hit. Or bite. Zariah's throat would make a nice target.

Cold and fire twisted angrily through his stomach as he rose and folded his arms across his chest, too disciplined to pace, but too tense to remain sitting. "Does she have a plan?" He asked instead, trying to corral his thoughts down a more useful avenue. "To hide? Or to lure Zariah's guards into a trap?" Tactics and strategy, plans and counter-moves. Zariah had left on some secret mission... but that didn't mean Edrei wouldn't continue to carry out her cousin's orders.

But Edrei, though more trouble than any three men (or women) could handle... Edy was not Zariah. She wouldn't turn on her cousin, not from what he'd heard of her upbringing. But... she wouldn't necessarily do anything she hadn't been specifically ordered to, either. Maybe there was a way...

Maybe.

D e i m o s

Send a heartbeat to the void that cries through you
Relive the pictures that have come to pass

“She would,” he answered at first, eyes lifting so he could watch Jigano come to the same conclusion. If it was one thing Deimos had learned at the open forum, it was that no matter what they had to say or do, it fell upon deaf ears. Zariah had her own intentions, her own constructions, her own machinations meandering along her mind, and to think they’d have some notion of appeal or an alteration in her schemes was ludicrous at best. And she didn’t care. She didn’t care about how many died in her streets. She didn’t care about how many of her citizens faced her down; based on Wessex’s stories alone, Zariah would likely do it herself. He pretended he didn’t use to be the same exact way – cold and brutal, calculating and detaching himself from everyone around him. The weapon they wanted for themselves, and abandoned when he wasn’t a necessity. The layers of ire and vexation seem to swarm around the field behind his house, a tempestuous trap lined with munitions and mercurial efforts, the perseverance lined across his brow fading into hostile breaths and acrimonious distortion. “Amalia would not tell me,” which caused a furrowing, stare fixated on leather instead of ghosting off into a myriad of possibilities, where Amalia was gone and he’d demolished the realm simply because it was all he had left to do. “She has saved herself before, but the stakes are higher now.” He clenched his jaw, stitching seams together when all he craved to do was unleash some sort of unbidden havoc – but it would’ve played into Zariah’s hands, and so he was stuck, wedged, and he battered, beat against the notion, the sentiments, with a polished, contorted loathing. “If we had gone with my plans, the manor would already be in flames.” He would’ve sung rebellion with his blade and launched whatever means necessary, likely dead and gone in the process, destroyed during the frenzy, accomplishing his goals for Amalia’s liberation, deliverance, freedom, and then naught more. Sacrificial but purposeful – far better than his previous death. “She does these things to save you,” his voice wasn’t quiet, but sharp, a reminder of sacrifices they all made to companions, to allies, to things forged long ago, before the rise of a Merciless regime. What do you for her in return? was silent, but contorted through his mind, an unrelenting being too. For now we stand alone, the world is lost and blown And we are flesh and blood disintegrate with no more to hate

At hearing that the baker hadn't even told the man she loved what she planned, Jigano grimaced. Frustration and sympathy both in that expression, because if she didn't trust Deimos with her plans, that meant they were plans he wouldn't like. Which meant that, likely, Jigano wouldn't like them either. The woman they both loved in different ways was a fighter, but not a killer. She resisted by enduring, not by lashing out in violence.

And she was entirely too self-sacrificing at times, that same sin of which they were all guilty.

A glance to Deimos showed the stoic warrior battling demons of his own. Worry over Amalia made him sharp, and echoes of their meeting at the Notice Board seemed to thrum through the bard. This time, though, this time Jigano had a better idea of what drove the mountain. A man would do and say many foolish things for the sake of love. Amalia being in danger had to be eating Deimos alive... as it would soon be eating him, now that he knew about it.

"It still makes for a good backup plan," Jigano conceded to the thought of the manor in flames, relishing the brief mental image with a petty satisfaction. He might try to be a good man, to be better than he had been...

But he still feel back into old habits under stress. And they were not the habits of a particularly good or nice man. Hopefully he would have the luxury to feel guilty about that later. Hopefully they all would, for what Zariah was driving them to do.

The whip crack of Deimos's voice interrupted his thoughts, and he sighed, shoulders slumping as some of the ice trickled away at the reminder. "I know," he said quietly. "And never mind that I didn't need saving..." He shook his head, loving Amalia even as he wanted to take her by the shoulders and shake her, gently, or hug her, or both. He looked up at his tall friend, lips quirking into a smile that held little of true humor. "But I probably will soon. Promise me you won't leave me to rot in that damn cage for long?"

D e i m o s

Send a heartbeat to the void that cries through you
Relive the pictures that have come to pass

Deimos, through his experiences in life, had always utilized force, intimidation, means to an end; plans and calculations might have improvised in ruses, in snares, or in inveigling an individual, but it had always come down to strength, vehemence, and some form of violence. He wanted fear to strike the heart of another when they saw him looming. He wanted an adversary to shudder, shake, quiver, wonder what they stood up against. He wanted an enemy to know he was not something to bow, to break, or to simply meander in the squall; he was a tempest, a storm, kindling ready to be set apart, eager to preside amidst the inferno. It wasn’t kind, it wasn’t moral, and it wasn’t virtuous, sliding along those carnivorous stones and iniquitous pillars as if he’d been melded from the devil’s backbone. Amalia didn’t execute these particular methods, and despite striving to train her in weapon dynamics, didn’t have the heart to execute, diminish, or demean through rugged blades or devastating wounds. Her modicum was of benediction and faith; the Reaper had gone on too long in paradoxical, hostile worlds to live in the same way – putting credence in himself and in his brethren – not the Gods, not another beacon. They were allowed to differ; it only bothered him now when he was left with naught to go on and everything revolving, descending, into some chaotic upheaval. He was left to pace floorboards and raise his hackles, not yearning to step on the baker’s toes, motives, or ambitions, but tied and tethered to his own form of vengeance and renewal. It might’ve been foolish. He’d rushed headlong into the Fae woods without much preparation at all; save for the wisdom of others, and luck had prevailed there. All the other circumstances were murky though; the Flinthopper, the Spire…fully justified and understanding that Amalia was trying to protect them – by seemingly exposing herself to the elements. That wasn’t how it should’ve gone. Caught and webbed in his own state, battering, beating, buffeting against a world he couldn’t fully comprehend (a lion’s den but with less soldiers and more diplomacy, more politicians, more than just the craft of swords protruding from another’s chest; and maybe more at stake). He had some other options, curling and contorting in his mind; last resorts that might only be good for a single use before everything fell and flickered apart. He only briefly smiled at Jigano’s insinuation of a decent backup plan (the warrior would, could, relish embers curling over manors and castles; a moment in savoring the end). The humor managed to meander its way to him, catching over figments of grins and snickers, however poorly managed their lives had become. “Perhaps some time in there will do you good.” He laughed, only a dark chuckle, before rising from where he’d been leaning, putting the leather aside. For now we stand alone, the world is lost and blown And we are flesh and blood disintegrate with no more to hate

Decision made, it was only a matter of time until he had to put it into motion. And not much time, at that. Who knew when Zariah's patience would run out and she would try to take the bright, gentle baker from them? Or at least, try to. Somehow, Jigano didn't see Deimos (or Remi, Ronin, Rory, himself, and others) standing idly by while that happened. It could very well be the spark that set ablaze a riot of rebellion against the cruel queen.

But it was a riot they were ill-equipped to undertake at the moment. And if they were going to draw Zariah out with bait, he would far rather it be himself than Amalia. No, it would seem he would be paying a visit to their new tyrant, and he doubted he would be welcomed into her home with open arms and silk pillows for his stay.

"I doubt the accommodations are up to my high standards," the bard snorted back, pleased in spite of the seriousness of the situation to hear a laugh - even a black one - from his friend. "The briefer we can make my stay there, the happier I'll be." No, the fox did not like to think of being locked away from the sky and wind, nor from his friends and companion.

And most especially not from Rory. The farmer would do something as impulsive and ill-advised as Deimos would, were Amalia to be thrown in the clink, and Jigano's cold anger and fresh resolve crumbled a little as he sighed and gave the big warrior a pleading look. "But in all seriousness, Deimos, I'll be counting on you and anyone else you can get to help you... Don't let Rory put himself in danger over this. We'll get my situation sorted out, but he... he'll chafe at the bit, if you move too slowly. Keep an eye on him, please?"

D e i m o s

Send a heartbeat to the void that cries through you
Relive the pictures that have come to pass

Time was of the essence; movements and motions always spread like wildfire here, barely time to breathe, let alone plot or manipulate, before something struck or fell apart. It was exhausting, it was fatiguing, to always be on the run or prepared to fight, biting and gnashing, ripping and tearing; but it was normalcy once – inhaling fire, exhaling sedition. He would just have to embody it all over again, the Reaper, the menace, the mayhem, the living weapon, the deadly machine, coaxed to life from stone and enamel, carved out of the mountainside, brought into fruition because he was a necessity in the gardens of evil. There’d once been days where he did naught but destroy – and he would’ve done it here, given direction, given assurance, given the opportunity or chance. But they kept falling apart. The retorts and jokes came back and forth, humor hardly at their foundation, too blackened, too irate, too incensed, but he laughed at them anyway, half-hearted movement of his chest, a chuckle too sardonic. “We will not have you caged,” Deimos resisted another instance, too lost in the paradigms and paradoxes, the warrens and labyrinths, they always seemed to find themselves within: spreading out instead of clustering together, taking too many different directions and turns, all lost by the end. He didn’t expect pleading from the bard though, eyes following, regarding, taking in the anger amidst the doldrums. “Yes. I will,” he responded with no hesitation – he understood, could fathom the meanings, a mutual exchange between the two of them. It was a spoken agreement this time – but could likely be insinuated long after. If I’m gone, take care of them, a statement unsaid; the interpretation laden. Then he leaned in closer, conspiracy brooding and brewing through his chest, a Machiavellian pursuit caught in his mind; more calculations, more preambles, more possibilities; better to have many than none at all. “I have another plan,” and he whispered it, low, steady, and deep, into the void, where the field and the leaves and the timber would not be able to speak it repeat it. For now we stand alone, the world is lost and blown And we are flesh and blood disintegrate with no more to hate

Humor helped hide the tension and the anger, a familiar defense against showing too dark a countenance, even if the jokes were darker still than honest rage might have been. Decision made, it was worth putting a brave face on it, at least. That was practically a requirement of being a bard, and Jigano had no intention of abandoning his training now, not when it had stood him in good stead for so many years. Still, humor alone could only go so far, and it was not merely his own life he would be risking by giving himself over into Launceleyn hands. Those who loved him deserved to have their say as well...

But not if it meant putting even more people he cared for so deeply at risk. Amalia and Rory were not fools, but they could be hot-headed (no less than he and Deimos, in point of fact) and this was a situation that called for calm and clear thinking. He didn't need to tell the mountain to protect the baker, but the farmer who held the fox's heart was another matter. Jigano was given no chance to tense and wait for a considered response, however; Deimos's swift agreement brought a true smile to his lips in spite of the darkness of the reason he had asked. Deimos knew, for all they came from different worlds and different backgrounds. War had scarred them each, stolen from both, and neither of them should be asked to survive such loss again.

He inclined his head in gratitude, but tilted his chin at the sly secret in the warrior's voice, a brow raised in inquiry. An inquiry quickly answered, blue eyes widening first with surprise and then wicked approval. "I'll be there," he murmured, satisfied that his friends had things well in hand already. An extra pair was always helpful, however, and his grin held a knife's edge sharpness to it.

It faded a moment later as he exhaled and glanced away, mention of one plan reminding him of another. "And if I can win free of the Manor again, by tact or guile, you should know that I intend to go back down into the Spire," he said cautiously, studying Deimos's expression for hints of censure or the exhaustion that had overtaken them all after the last ill-fated descent. "We may have escaped, but there is one left down there who cannot, and I would not see him succumb as the Tulmhainar did." He raised a calming hand, a wry smile on his lips. "I won't ask you to come. I don't know if Amalia would forgive me if I did. But I don't want to run off into danger without letting someone know where I'm going and when." Because, strangest and most wonderful (and most terrifying) of all, there were too many people who cared about him now for him to behave so impetuously. Or so selfishly, to disappear without a word on a potentially lethal quest.

D e i m o s

Send a heartbeat to the void that cries through you
Relive the pictures that have come to pass

The sad notion was that Deimos had every ability to be calm, clear-headed, and composed – frequented it on many occasions, could step back, could mull, could puzzle, could piece together rhyme and reason. Just not when his friends were involved. Just not when Amalia was involved. There were too many losses in his life to always revert back to the coldblooded, detached machine, the beast who’d stood back and watched worlds shift apart, the warrior, the ice king, who sat upon his throne and orchestrated tactics, strategies, and ruses without thinking of those infiltrating or assaulting (he’d been in the sieges too – right next to them, vehement and distant, realms away, ferocity tipping the scales in his mind). His affection had somehow managed to mold him into an impulsive fool when vehemence threatened to strike over brethren and kin; so maybe he needed the humorous traces, the foundation of Jigano’s sagacity, to keep him from going over the edge and diving headlong into treachery: it’d be an absolute that he would’ve managed to somehow get himself maimed, mauled, or murdered in the process of gaining Amalia’s liberation. I’ll be there echoed and bounded; and he had to briefly wonder when he had no longer been left alone, to his own devices, to his own war-torn clarities and nothingness. Then the Spire came up again – Jigano needling the fringes and edges back into the forefront. He’d only mentioned it once before to him, the same evening they’d all almost perished in that damned threshold – he could liken it to Hell, with the way it made him feel (useless), with the way it had thrashed, burned, and scalded against all of them – if not for the poison, then the fruitless, end result. His eyes narrowed, more apt to discuss the predilections currently – cranium warping in the other direction, possibly grateful for the distraction. “What do you intend to do?” What else was down there? All he could recall were the plants – deadly and toxic, spreading their venom, their vitriol, deep into his lungs and veins, and no matter what he concocted or dealt with, he’d still had to run. How was it supposed to go differently this time? For now we stand alone, the world is lost and blown And we are flesh and blood disintegrate with no more to hate

In truth, his being anywhere in the recent future depended a great deal on his ability to talk his way out of the boiling water he currently found himself in. Tomorrow he would help his friend, he decided. And the day after... well, that would determine how many of his plans for the future would be undertaken, and how many would need to be left in the hands of others. Not for long, though. Not so long as he trusted his friends to shake the walls of Launceleyn Manor to get him back if they needed to. And why did it feel so strange and bright to have friends who he trusted to do that for him?

Friends who trusted him, and who were willing to follow him into danger, though not all of his previous ventures had gone well. He nodded at the question, exhaling slowly as he grasped after the distraction that had been occupying his thoughts of late. "In a chamber beyond the one we found, Amalia and I - and Roana and Lucas," he acknowledged the others with a tilt of his head, "came across a giant serpent that seemed almost to be made of stone, though he was very much alive, and an ancient creature. I was able to speak to him through the Attuned mental link. He was guarding what I would guess was a portal. At least, it matches the descriptions of the ones we found in Safrin's book. Portals not between worlds, but between places on this world," he clarified, raising a brow at Deimos to underscore the importance of it.

"Potentially, a way for others who might be hostile to reach us... or for us to find allies and safer places to live. But either way, it's currently useless with all the poison gas down there. A stone wall was blocking the entrance to that chamber, and the Tulmhainar said she had been using her power to protect the serpent from the gas... though with her passing, those protections likely won't last much longer. She said..." He hesitated, then offered his friend a wry smile. "She said that magic could be used to kill the plants and end their poison. Powerful magic, of wind and earth and either fire or life drain. Vai and Remi have already agreed to join me. I may not be much use in killing the plants, but I can at least try and protect the mages from anything that tries to attack them, like the bugs."

D e i m o s

Send a heartbeat to the void that cries through you
Relive the pictures that have come to pass

There were other sanctions and sections to the Spire – he hadn’t been any further than that bizarre room, with its entangled plants spewing venom, with its mounds of earth hiding the Tulmhainar from its doomed fate. The fact that there was some serpent, living stone, nettled and brambled behind columns of marble and the paralyzing unknown. He wasn’t surprised to hear Jigano discussed matters with it – a bard thing to do – but that it was guarding a portal (not between worlds, even for a split second as he remembered mountains and auroras, as he recalled peaks and summits he couldn’t go back to – they were just as dead, just as destroyed), but between places on this world. His breath sharpened and something bloomed along his mind, edges and fringes honed in, keyed and keened, riveted and kindled, by the potential of regions other than these Hollowed Grounds and Greatwood. The information wasn’t alarming or surprising, but such a stark range of potential that his cranium and machinations clambered for more and more and more, the avaricious plunge into curiosity. “Places on this world,” he emphasized, intoned, and repeated, speaking through the clarity. It was another way to evade upcoming disasters and ruins, or meander their way into others (the Fae’s village a startling example of what discovery and inquisition could do, could become, could enable). “Did the books say what kinds of settings?” Were there mountains, rising towards the heavens and the sky, painted and glorified beneath the sun and the moon? Were there oceans, wide and bottomless, shoal and sand? He swallowed down the excitement; just for the moment, dimming the brighter fringes of his eyes – no need for hope just yet, when they’d failed to conquer anything in that damned Spire. He grew more taut and rigid as the exposition on upcoming tasks inclined his way. Jigano seemed to be puttering around the obvious, and why Deimos couldn’t fathom or explain. Probably because, in the end, at the notion of life drain assailing his ears, it meant he would have to go. He’d have to face the unholy reaches, the burning vitriol in his lungs, the stinging in his eyes, and the death throngs coiling in his ears. The beast didn’t admit this out loud, or add his roster to the names already listed (Vai wanted to go there again?) The depths of his stare scorched back to the Loreseeker, whatever smile that might have appeared there suddenly losing all notion, sliding away to drawn lines and reticent contortions, the calculations already spinning and unwinding. “What about the gas? My masks were not effective for long.” For now we stand alone, the world is lost and blown And we are flesh and blood disintegrate with no more to hate

Deimos, it seemed, shared Remi's enthusiasm for the portals as the taller man's focus seemed to narrow down onto him at the revelation. Jigano nodded confirmation of his friend's emphasis, and felt a wry, if weary amusement at the question. "I brought it up once before, before the barrier fell," he said quietly, but without reproach. He remembered the tall shadow brooding in the back of the room, back in the time before they had known each other's names properly. But back then no one had seemed interesting in doing anything with the knowledge he shared. Now, perhaps, it would be different.

Perhaps.

"There is ocean to the east of us, or there should be. When I went exploring in that direction before, we found ourselves hemmed in by a great elemental storm of lightning and wind. We found the same thing when Amalia took us west, towards the Stonesong... and the mountains that we think lay beyond." He exhaled slowly, remembering the very roughly drawn map that the book had contained, and gave a wry smile to his friend. "There is desert on this continent, and plains, and volcanoes... if the map we have is accurate," he admitted in the name of honesty. But Safrin had seemed to indicate that it was, and that no few of those places were connected by the portal network. Whether that network sill worked... well, they wouldn't know until they cleared the gas and tried to reach that pillar of light again.

And talk of how to reach it had the other man tensing up again, smile fading and barriers being built between them again. Jigano studied him for a long moment as he considered not the questions, but the one who asked them. "The gas is a problem," he acknowledged. "Vai will use the wind to keep as much of it away from us as possible while the other mages work. Your masks were better than nothing, and Remi will probably come by soon to ask you how you made them and see if they can be improved with the two of you working together. Other than that... there are a lot of plants, and the more we can bring to bear against them, the better. But I don't think Rory will let me go down there again without him," he acknowledged with a wistful tilt of his head, both glad to have someone who loved him enough to follow him into hell, and desperately afraid that the farmer would be badly hurt if he did. "So we will have fire, at least. Even if using it is dangerous with the gas." Vai had told him about the explosion. That was something else they would have to watch out for...