From being an Abandoned who had rarely left the Hollowed Grounds, to embracing the call of adventure, to dying and being reborn first as an Ascended and then as an Ancient, Maea has gone through quite the amount of changes in her life. One thing remains common, though, in her attempts to find out just where she belongs; she’s always had a craving for knowledge which has brought her to so many places and to meet so many people here in Caido. We can’t wait to see what else is in store for her!
Congratulations, Maea!
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Court of the Fallen was created in October of 2018 by Odd, Honey, and Crooked.
Skinning and hosting by the epically talented Kaons, and functionality fanciness by the coding magic of Neowulf. If you ever see either of them around, make sure to show them some love!
Loren’s first response caused a brow to arch, if only to leave the other man uncomfortable for a moment. It was not the first time Deimos faced the morality of his incantations. But he’d lived with it for so long, had embraced the enchantments since his birth, had wielded it through different lifetimes and lifelines, that it hardly mattered to him. It was death and destruction, and so was he when the motions were required, trained and honed to harpoon, to maul, to rip, tear, and bludgeon until enemies were crushed and victory was bellowed, howled, across battlefields. A place for it, obviously settled in to counter, and he barely withheld the smirk, smothered the snort billowing along his lungs. Yes, he nearly answered, when someone threatens those I cherish, but it stuck itself somewhere his throat, too many revelations and foundations for a stranger to press within.
As for the discourse upon corresponding enchantments, he shrugged. “I trust in Vai’s powers.” His eyes looked elsewhere, glancing off into boughs, canopies, and shadows, along Zuriel’s slow, leisurely strolls, no longer a dance beside puddles. Maybe she’d lost interest, seen all there was to see. Then his gaze segmented back to Loren, proffering only raw explanations and theories. Sometimes it was all they had. “Perhaps they cancel each other out. One takes. One gives. But they cannot prosper both.” The Reaper didn’t have an inclination to test it – he’d already stuck himself in situations where it was evaluated and corresponded to: flinthopper burns along shoulders, hidden from view, taking himself to the infirmary only to discover naught mattered, given a burn salve instead when assuaging, soothing predilections had no place upon his figure. The length of his stare flickered back to Zuriel briefly. “Unicorns can heal those with life drain though,” another shrug hastened; that particular route had been discovered beneath caves and falling rocks, when he’d tried to save and had to be aided by Remi, by Isla.
As for targets and controls, he’d have to concede on that front. In another life, he might have simply blown the whole thing apart, everyone within his reach, a pervading, surrounding, malevolent force tethering them to his wiles, to his powers, to his barbaric tendencies, until they all screamed and howled and cried for mercy. He’d had no friends then; only foes, indifferent and nonchalant, chilling and coldblooded, capable of swinging swords through every throat. “Fair,” the beast acknowledged – even if that certain realm of warfare wasn’t usually in his reach or thoughts. He’d calculate and devastate, but not to such analyzing decrees and degrees; a warranted effort to keep in the back of his mind if the situation ever called for it. “If you happen to know your foe is an illusionist. Before then, it might be too late.”
Like Confutatis; a name shoved into his senses as a formidable, barbaric foe. Her manipulative efforts had been numerous, lies entangled upon lies, ensuing one of his many challenges – and upon arriving, he was met with the face of his fellow monarch. Confusion had been imminent for a moment, until senses rendered her as a fraud, a fake, duplicity because he’d been wise enough to notice, because he’d known enough to comprehend the layers unraveling around him. “Or if they cannot adapt to the circumstances.” Something missing, something misplaced, something off - Ophelia without her dragon, or a friend lacking a certain tic, a peculiar movement.
Items and artifacts meant to claw through illusions were intriguing, but only useful for those particular moments, and as the fellow mage had mentioned, only useful when there was certainty in cloaks and daggers. The Sword had naught left to offer on that front. It would require further digging, speculation, and examination.
It was hard to know what was going through Deimos’ mind regarding Loren’s commentary on their respective magics. Indeed, all he got from the other man was single arched eyebrow. Given the intimidating nature of the warrior, the Launceleyn decided to remain silent, as further discourse did not seem advisable.
That didn’t mean he would stay quiet on the entire magical discussion. ”Alright, but canceling each other out would imply neither of them would have any effect. From what you said, though, it seems that life drain supersedes healing.” Of course, it was entirely possible that Loren had just misheard the warrior. At the mention that unicorns, however, could heal individuals with life drain, the summoner gave Zuriel a fond smile. ”Well, I am not surprised that such majestic creatures are more powerful than us mere mortals, but I wonder why their healing magic might differ from ours.” Then, of course, his mind caught up to his ears, and the Launceleyn frowned at Deimos. ”Wait, did you say that healing didn’t work on those with life drain, or healing didn’t work on those who were being life drained?” The former was a well documented phenomenon back in Northwind, with many theories as to why; the latter would be something completely new to Loren, and so obviously much more interesting.
”Well that’s pretty much true of any opponent.” Any foe, properly concealed, could be deadly. However, Loren agreed that illusionists were worse than most; luckily they seemed far less prevalent here in Caido than they had been back in Northaven, where they had seemed almost ubiquitous. Or maybe that had a little something to do with the fact that the summoner had grown up in a family of them, always being the odd one out, and suffering for it. Not entirely understanding the warrior’s next statement, however, Loren just nodded.
It wasn’t the first, nor damned to be the last, that his lack of communication skills centered and implored on confusion. The Sword often only said what he believed necessary and certainly understood his discourse, the thoughts, the notions, the sentiments behind it, but that didn’t means felt the same. Measuring over the bewilderment and uncertainty, he roamed back to the particular subject. “I have life drain magic. I cannot be mended by those who possess healing magic.” He made it more point blank – a gesture of understanding endeavors, a witness to its upheaval – nothing touching his burns, nothing to end the smoldering pain in the infirmary by Vai’s enchantments. He’d relied on salve until it healed. As for the other particulars, it’d be slightly alarming if those being drained of their existence couldn’t be assuaged, but he didn’t have any experience on the latter. The things he often attacked were monsters, plants, or something necessitating destruction and torment, forgoing the time he’d trained with Jigano to see if the bard could maintain some sort of shield against the potency – and in those cases, he hadn’t encouraged them to be mended or soothed. The soldier had wanted them to wither, decay, and die. “I am not certain on the other front. I have not examined it.” And still had no intention.
At Loren’s description of unicorns, Zuriel opted to lift her head from the leaves she was munching upon – superior and smug written all over her features. Deimos fought off an eyeroll, only glancing over his shoulder at her with a muted, flattened expression. If unicorns could snicker, she would’ve done just that, sauntering further into the woods, complacent, proud, and conceited.
So instead of venturing further into illusionist lanes and deceptive measures, because they weren’t going to be able to conquer those upheavals and seditious motives for the moment, he dove further into curiosities, into exploits of the last meeting. “What do you summon?” The beast hadn’t seen that sort of magic at work – more or less hastening to the keener, blunter intonations; earth, fire, water, creation, and the darker voids, the bestial abysses. Loren had insinuated his ability to call for mythical beings – which prospered intrigue in his mind simply because the warrior had seen several in his lifetime, across lands, across seas, across skylines. There’d been dragons, hellhounds, kitsunes, and boggarts in Helovia – some as companions, some as barbaric, twisted monsters.
Alright, so it was indeed the case that those with life drain could not be healed by magic except for that of the unicorns. Loren did not miss the exchange between Zuriel and Deimos, and the Launceleyn shot the unicorn a grin while the warrior’s head was turned. Something about the taller man begged for seriousness, and seeing as the summoner wasn’t the most chipper person out there, the grin seemed out of place. Still, Zuriel was so majestic that Loren couldn’t help it. ”Ah, alright then! I’ve encountered that before, certainly. As for whether those suffering from life drain can be healed, well, that’s something to test out then, along with the difference between unicorn and our magic. I’m sure Zuriel’s powers are far superior to anything I can muster, but it would be good to confirm.” The Launceleyn inclined his head to the unicorn, just in case.
Seeing as they’d spent pretty much the entire time talking about Deimos’ magic and illusionists—well that and looking in puddles, which Loren was still doing his best to avoid staring at, which was hard given the visions—it seemed only fair that they talk at least a bit about Loren’s skills. Luckily for the other man, the summoner was getting really good at explaining his art. It seemed no one else in the Hollowed Grounds could do what Loren could do, at least not yet. ”Any animal, either real or imagined, whatever I can think of.” That seemed to be as succinct a way of saying it as possible, which hopefully Deimos would enjoy. The other man was stingy with his words.
But not the discourse that followed, tilting his head to listen, maneuvering away from puddles, stranded somewhere between grove, leaning boughs, and brambles. The fathoms of his gaze settled back on the man, brow arched again, because he wasn’t certain what we being asked of him – or if it was just scholarly attributes, the way Jigano voiced his evidence, thoughts, and theories out loud. His eyes narrowed again, considering, contemplating. “Test out?” A pause, pondering if he too was being examined and assessed. “Do you want me to attack you?” Something else? Or just a notion, prompted and voiced, given naught else but air and wind?
Zuriel arched her brow too – and in the right light, both warrior and unicorn might’ve been reflections of one another.
Loren’s capabilities were on a range, but being capable of orchestrating, beckoning, any kind of animal, either real or imagined (and when did it end – those spiraling hallucinations and chimeras?) would’ve had its merits. Another Spark Bird for a time, mentioned at the meeting, would be ultimately beneficial, hopefully keeping the monsters of Long Night at bay. Could he assemble dragons at his request, at his command, demand their fiery intonations upon enemies? Could he drag hellhounds from the underworld, to howl and growl at his side, unleash his dogs of war upon adversaries? Or were there other, more merit-worthy inclusions? Loren didn’t seem the type to render immediately to treachery and demolition (unlike Deimos, baptized and reborn in fire, in vehemence, in violence, the basking sway of war with blades suddenly struck into sides). “Admirable.” He shrugged again, allowing the smallest of smiles – recalling stories and legends, myths of grand sea monsters along their tide homelands. “How long do they stay?” Were they corporeal, tangible things, or wisps of dust and wind, structured to be fleeting?
Loren blinked at Deimos’ questions. ”Uh...no. Definitely not.” The Launceleyn tilted his head and gave the other man a concerned look. ”I just meant it would be good to know if healing magic could be used on someone or something being life drained, to counteract the effects. But I wasn’t suggesting we test that here.” No, the middle of the woods sounded like the worst possible place to do some arcane experimentation; the Launceleyn ran back through his words to try to figure out what might’ve given the warrior that idea.
This conversation was certainly odd. The summoner ran a hand through his hair in a nervous gesture. He was still puzzling through the questions from earlier and what had prompted the other man to ask them, so the librarian probably sounded a bit distracted when he answered the next question. ”As long as I can actively maintain them. And no, I don’t know how long that is. Most of the time I’ve summoned them it’s been for discrete tasks or in the middle of battle, so I haven’t had much opportunity to see how long I can last.” He’d have to sooner or later: they needed to know how long Loren could summon the Spark Bird. That was if he could summon it to begin with.
The warrior shrugged at Loren’s proclamation; never calling for the darker traces of his flesh to coil and unleash. They were often reserved for treachery, for omens, for ultimatums, for those who dared to taunt, to hurt, to prey upon those he devoted himself too. Once, it’d been used almost exclusively on his sojourns along borders and rime, piercing and piecing upon fools, infidels, and morons thinking to sneak, to crawl, to slither into his kingdom. – demonic crowns and rapacious scepters. During battles it’d been swift perfection, not even requiring a singular touch, just a sweep of silence, a breath of air, a sinking of irreverent raptures and reveries – complete, utter control of death in his hands, in his ploys, in his tactics. Times where ruthlessness was expected, when tempestuous decisions were high, when life hung in the balance, precarious at best. It might’ve been the same way here too, except his nefarious, insidious incantations cannot pluck blight out of bones, blood, and marrow, cannot proffer any sense of salvation, cannot riddle and scar and mark pestilence from tissues and flesh. Sometimes, all he could be was demolition and desecration, abominations and annihilations, rapture in death, contemptuous nothings. Loren didn’t wish to see it, didn’t wish to experience it – and he didn’t blame him.
No, perhaps the worst possible place wouldn’t be the forest, with thickened groves and hanging branches, but when the Reaper had come for you, quiet scythe and wrath unhinged, when destruction was imminent and terror a beating, bestial onslaught.
The mere inquiry seemed to make the other man nervous. Ordinarily settling someone in an apprehensive position, given his intimidating stature and overall demeanor, might’ve amused him; it had ages before, lifetimes ago, when he basked in the forge and iron of his mountains, when he dared the world to best him. Now though, he hadn’t intended for it – so he shrugged, whisked the vitriol away, adapted to a lighter approach, form less rigid, less taut, less triggered for assaults. “You could test that here then.” There might’ve been a smirk within his lips too, a touch of mischief, a ghost of amusement – Zuriel lifted her head and regarded him suspiciously, and he carried on, wandering closer to another puddle out of meager curiosity once more. “Could you summon a kitsune?” A challenge, a dare, a light provocation; partly inquiry, partly out of a world that had so many of the wily foxes, a comfortable notion to the former lord of peaks and summits.
Thankfully, Deimos didn’t actually attack, which Loren had been half-worried the other man might. If it had come down to a fight between the two of them, the Launceleyn didn’t like his chances; his skills, while quite potent under certain circumstances, weren’t the best suited for a fight, while it was clear the warrior was no stranger to combat. However, it did appear that the summoner wasn’t quite out of the woods yet, both literally and metaphorically speaking.
Although the other man’s request was fairly innocuous, the Launceleyn hesitated. He still wasn’t used to showing his magic off around other people: the few who’d seen him in action seemed weirdly awed, and that wasn’t something he was fully comfortable with. Still, he’d have to get over that if he was going to change people’s perceptions of him and his family. ”I’d rather test that particular limit somewhere safer, if you don’t mind. It leaves me tired, and I’d hate to be exhausted and drained of magic so far from home.” His tone was apologetic, even though the librarian knew he didn’t really have anything to be sorry for. At the second request, however, the Launceleyn’s brow furrowed. He knew of kitsune—the mischievous fox spirits were quite popular among his fellows back in Northaven—but had never called one himself.
Instead of answering with his words, Loren decided to answer with his actions. It was easy enough to picture a fox with multiple tails and an otherworldly presence. While Loren doubted he could manifest the powers some kitsune were rumored to possess, the creature itself popped into being: five-tailed, every fur perfect. It stood before the two others, regarding Deimos and Zuriel with cool eyes. Of course, it was simply a construct of the Launceleyn’s magic and imagination, but it looked and appeared real enough.
Apparently Loren wasn’t in the mood or correct circumstances; only theorized. Deimos wasn’t offended that the fellow mage didn’t seem obliged in his presence – but he would’ve guarded, protected, and led him back home without hesitation. It was normalcy, sword in his hand and ferocity on his breath, coiled in his chest like oxygen, fully capable of insinuating safeguarding and tactical measures, ensuring safety in his mighty, dastardly convictions. But perhaps he wasn’t trusted, and it was understandable – he shrugged off the happenstance. “I would not leave you to fend for yourself,” he proffered instead, chancing a glance at Zuriel as his words slid into the grove, into the copse, her head turning and snickering. The Sword wouldn’t push him either.
However, at his inclination and inquiry, Loren’s brows furrowed, and he watched the alteration with a nonchalant demeanor, either awaiting further disapproval, nothing at all, or some applicable notations. Maybe Deimos’ inclinations towards actions instead of constant, overwhelming discourse had already settled its roots into the area, and the other man applied them – in the midst of silence, conjuring, summoning, and brandishing a figment of a world the Reaper had been forced to leave behind (first in death, and then when it was consumed by shadow).
At its manifestation, not nine-tailed but five, the ethereal conjectures and alignment caused him to unleash a true, nearly boyish smile, approaching quietly, crouching near its sanction, studying and examining the magical distortions. “Well done,” he offered, still staring, enjoying its presence; something akin to home. “In Helovia, some citizens had kitsunes for companions.” They’d chased and frolicked in snow, but had been capable of so much damage (which, in turn, he’d admired them for). “They often used illusions too. Or fire.” There might’ve been some others, but the memories were fleeting – this incorporeal, intangible substance just enough to relish and savor days long, long gone.
When Deimos reassured Loren that the warrior wouldn’t let any harm come to the Launceleyn, he smiled. ”I appreciate it. But, no offense to you, I’d rather have the two of us at full strength in case we need to confront a threat out here.” The woods were blighted and full of Fae, and the Launceleyn would not want to meet whatever they could spit out at anything less than his full strength. It would make sense to wait until the summoner was fully rested anyway.
”Thank you.” At the mention of illusions and fire, Loren frowned, and tilted his head; at his command, the kitsune shook its fur and a flock of illusory butterflies lifted from it, flitting about in a riot of colors. It was a small trick—and the summoner wasn’t going to try to summon fire in the woods without knowing if he could control it afterwards—but it sure looked pretty.
However, then, perhaps because his mind had wandered in that direction, his eyes caught upon the image of a pyre consuming all the Launceleyn’s who’d passed: Wyeth, Cyton, Astra, Neron, Edy, and then finally Loren himself. It was a gruesome mockery of their funeral customs, and his breath caught in his throat. Concentration shattered, the kitsune and butterflies both vanished without a trace. It was a glaring loss of control, but the summoner couldn’t help himself.
Tearing his eyes from the puddle, Loren desperately and frantically tried to find something to distract himself. At the sight of the warrior, his mind jumped to perhaps the farthest topic it could. ”So. We’re both in the militia. Have you given any more thought to how to bolster our ranks?” Hesitating, Loren added tentatively, ”There were some I served with back in Northaven that might be willing to take up arms again for a good cause.” Of course, the Storm Watch had never really gotten off the ground, but he thought at least a few people would be receptive to it.
He shrugged at the first insinuation again – fully aware of the depths of threatening efforts residing within the woods, had once tried to chase down those who’d been taken, wandering and wandering, spit back out to where they’d begun. Only when Arduinna had advanced upon them, leading their efforts into the woods, into the village, had they ever had a chance (and they all still owed her a favor – which could be treacherous or benign). Then there’d been the blighted Undine, the dancing Naiad, and the fire woman, a series of circumstances hastened along the forest, the canopies, the brush and bramble. The beckoning, twisting unknown could’ve been a malignant press into their presences, into their flesh and bones; but he still wouldn’t have allowed it to conquer, to devour, or for them to succumb. He allowed the oath to billow there, out in the void, even if it was resisted.
The beast’s gaze remained on the kitsune, watching as fur bristled into butterflies, ascending into canopies, where they’d rest until the illusion wore off – until they seemed to snap into the abyss almost at once, gone, gone, gone. Then his eyes followed back to Loren, a brow arched only out of curiosity and why the traces had faded and diminished so quickly.
Topics shifted, peeled away, nothing of chimeras and hallucinations, of trickery or deceitful conflagrations, back to militia, back to munitions, arms, and capabilities, those who could be recruited. He said naught of the alternating subjects, but rose back up to his full stature and height, bolstering ranks, daring the earth to take up weapons again, after Zariah had ordered, demanded, and commanded them to fill in the empty barracks. The world balked, the realm resisted, except for them, standing there amidst the forest. But this wasn’t Helovia, and he couldn’t go out to a threshold, to a clearing, where portals rankled and extended newcomers or strangers into their midst and immediately take them to a preferred kingdom (what are your talents? he used to ask those who settled into the ice and rime, meandering in those clustered ranks of crafting, healing, sneaking, or wielding). “I wonder if they need to see us in action.” Be inspired? Unafraid of what they could offer? Proffer a chance to try their hands? He’d held training sessions with Wessex, Kiada, and Jyon, with a few scarce others interested or intrigued, but they’d pilfered away too, and he frowned slightly; their situation relatively damaged simply due to drafts and ultimatums seasons ago. “If there is something we can do to implore them to join.” Lead some defensive measures to bolster the world for LongNight? “Maybe we can ask for assistance in preparing places for Long Night. You could lead something at the Manor,” since it’d already been offered to those at the last meeting, “and I can do the same in an alternative location.” Maybe the Artisan’s Guild; for those who didn’t want to be aligned with the Launcelyn’s manifested claws.
Deimos’ query was an interesting one, though Loren shook his head. ”I don’t think they need to know what we're capable of, not necessarily. Though I do think it will require us to rebuild the trust Zariah shattered by making service mandatory.” That, among other policies, hadn’t exactly made her the most popular ruler. ”I don’t know about your people, or...well, actually, I know very little about you.” The summoner gave the other man a sheepish grin as the Launceleyn ran a nervous hand through his hair.
”Anyway, as I was saying, or, well, what I’m trying to say is that I’m from Northaven. And I think my people are tired of war.” Of violence and bloodshed as a whole, really, but there didn’t seem to be anything they could do to avoid that even (or maybe especially) in Caido. ”But they are good people, and warriors at heart. They might be weary now, but if we give them something to believe in, something to fight for, they will join us.” The new kingdom was still too young for people to truly want to participate in it, and the wounds of the previous queen were still too fresh and raw. But that would change.
However, the other man’s suggestions about giving them discrete and useful tasks was actually a very good one. ”I’ll take all the help I can get preparing the Manor, though I’m afraid that many do not wish to stay there. They mentioned using the Rathskellar again, so maybe you can help them get that ready. And…” Here the Launceleyn hesitated, not sure whether he should mention his conversation with Wessex. Still, it would be useful for Deimos to know what the queen was thinking. ”Wessex and I discussed trying to see if...if the worst happens, if we could keep the blighted at the prison.” Loren looked down, sadness suffusing his words and his posture. It was clear that he did not wish to imprison those they cared about. Unfortunately, they might not have any choice.
Loren might’ve shaken his head, but Deimos had led armies, had cultivated soldiers, had trained them beneath the rubble and ruin of mountains. Perhaps they would have to agree to disagree on that front. “Capability could inspire the trust we are lacking.” Why would one join a collapsing, diminutive force, utterly ineffectual, reeling, failing? Why not show them they were willing to help? That they were strong, stalwart, and efficient? Confidence and composure could go a long way, incendiary in its own measures and calculations. For a lengthy time, they’d been bombarded with similar ilk – those who wanted to fight, those who wanted to destroy, those who wanted to condemn. Caido was different from Helovia in its constituents – less bloodshed, less annihilation, but still stark in its death count. But he figured not a single soul would venture towards a flailing, failing, fumbling militia. “It can start with Long Night preparations anyway. It should be our main focus for now.” They had nothing else to combat but the blight and the ominous monsters, which would be enough to keep them busy for the next few months.
As for the other notions of people tired from violence – who wasn’t exhausted and fatigued by war? Lethality and ash on tongues, cinder on lungs, graves and sepulchers, endless ivory tents lined with the dying, the screaming, the howling; compatriots alive in the morning and dead in the evening, nothing consecrated or blessed on those fields except momentary glory, seething in veins until the last ax and sword fell, until decimated iron was clear. It was loss and defeat and anguish – it was triumph until the next hour. They weren’t going to war here; they were preparing for onslaughts and treachery, for whatever came out of the woods, for whatever demonic forms took hold, for whatever threatened their people.
Fighting for their lives sounded like a good start; unfortunately, it would be upon them before they knew it. He nodded, understanding, comprehending, but having been baptized in its sanction too, knew the complexities of lives outside of invasions and tactics. Their roles were immersed in safeguarding and predilection, implementation for the inevitable.
Unfortunately, with the Manor’s already stained reputation, Loren might be hard-pressed to find many capable forms pressing for its doors. “You should prepare the Manor regardless. We will always need another strong safe hold.” Especially if there were some caught out in the eternal dusk, for one reason or another, bent and broken or chased into the night by siren swell and haunting calls; he would never forget screams beyond apertures and thresholds, begging to be answered, to be unlocked, to be let in. Friend or foe? Adversary or kin? The lines blurred with illusions and hallucinations, with mayhem and menace. His brows furrowed, contemplating if there were other places to reach besides the bar. “There is the Rathskellar. I wonder if the Artisan’s Guild would also suffice.” It would have the space, and the mages capable of ensuring its sanctum. The unicorns could provide aid, mending, or healing.
The alteration in subject matter, however, had him lifting his gaze away from the forest floor, deep in his musing efforts, snapping back up to search Loren’s stare. He could ascertain both sides of the matter: because the blighted represented an inferno of problems, scalding and unwinding, brutal and enraged, and there was no telling what would become of them as the season slipped into winter, as the stretch towards Long Night kept getting shorter and shorter. Except, they were also their friends, their companions, their comrades, and one of them their King. Kiada, forced into imprisoned walls? Ronin, made to be chained, tied, and tethered? He stepped back from the irreverence of the matter, more coldblooded than he’d been in a great while, heaving a sigh that brooded and stoked from his chest. “I could always incapacitate them. Or we could lure them in somehow. Provide them with food and water.” It sounded so inhumane. Like days in the Basin, when a predator sought out another predator, when carnivorous efforts met with rapacious, ravenous insight. A little like betrayal.
Loren still wasn’t convinced that Deimos was right about this. ”There are methods other than shows of force to inspire loyalty and trust.” That might not have been exactly what the other man meant, and it was probably strange to hear that sentiment from a Launceleyn, but he felt it needed to be said. At least they were in agreement that LongNight was their first and top priority, so the summoner just nodded. ”I concur.” That much was obvious at least, even if nothing else was.
Again, Loren nodded, though idly he wondered if he should salute; Deimos was, after all, a general now, though he had only one real subordinate, since Wessex probably didn’t really figure into the normal chain of command. ”I’ll take care of it.” He’d already been making preparations, so it’d be easy enough to continue. Considering that he wasn’t particularly familiar with either the Rathskellar or the Artisan’s Guild, he couldn’t really weigh in on those options. ”You should probably consult with Wessex. Or maybe all three of us should get together, compare notes. She seemed reluctant to have people stay in the temple a second year in a row, given how ineffective it proved last year.” It seemed only fair that the summoner give Deimos that warning.
It felt wrong to be discussing their friends and loved ones this way. But the way the blight took them over, if it got worse (or when, given their luck), they’d need plans in place. ”I can probably incapacitate them as well. Finding them all might be a problem, though, since no one seems to know exactly how many there are.” It was an issue of diffuse responsibility and of no one wanting to advertise the blight. Loren would’ve probably done everything quite differently if he were in charge, but it was probably good that he wasn’t.
