Horns no longer sounded, no wild blood howls, nor wailing children.
They were so far from any battles one could've believed they weren't anywhere near the world's cursed never-ending war.
Turis, the elder man, had bloody feet after days of walking, and Larosa suggested they rest.
"Not a crone yet lass," Turis muttered. "I'll sooner be right t-."
She gave him a sharp look, and his face reddened.
"Yes my lady, of course, we must recover our strength!" The old man stuttered.
Upon setting up camp after dusk, there was a slight warm breeze. Though he fought to keep himself awake, he found himself asleep.
White walls, tan, brown, incoming, babe, and his friends cheering with him at the black square along the wall. Fireballs turned to dust, and he saw himself standing beneath a dark figure. Old, the figure so misshapen yet man-like, he knew it was a warrior, or perhaps it used to be a warrior.
Shadows rose like swords, engulfing the dusty soot smitten fields. The figure grasped each sword, its arms so many there couldn't have been less than a hundred.
Flail in hand he met the shadow demon, angel, maybe even a god it was.
Swords met him face first, every single one of them plunging through his face, yet he didn't bleed. He woke within the inn, greeted by a warm familiar light. Then the swords drove through his face, again, and again, and again.....
....What a load of shite.
Hot dust filled his nostrils, and he shook himself awake, fog dispersing along the hillside.
They arrived.
At long last, there was nothing to chill his bones or freeze his nostrils.
Larosa was in tears, at the sight of water flowing so steady, glimmering beneath the suns warmth. Even the elder, Turis he was called, wiped a few tears away before drinking from the river head first.
With cool water and fresh herbs along a nearby tree, Larosa made a soothing ointment to run over his arms.
"This should ease any aches you have," she promised, caressing his forearms. "I see you've awakened quite a few times since our last encounter."
He nodded.
"Well, in any case, should you find yourself weary, I'll have plenty more to apply for you by the end of the day."
She was smiling, despite all to have happened to her.
There was a certain confidence about her, and without doubt the sharpest mind he'd ever seen. Whenever she spoke, her voice clearing since the long walk, he was almost attentive, as if he needed to listen.
He shook his head.
The Bane of Razelael, angels, demons and all things evil, straightening up at the sound of a lass smaller than his arm?
"She's an incredible woman," Turis said, laying back next to him. "One of the only students in the last two hundred years to be promised mastery upon graduation."
Without a clue of what any of that meant, he laid back as well.
"We're in your debt, m'lord, er…"
"Brute," he answered, looking at the blue sky. "Or Babe, Bane of Graves, Slayer of Alrieon, or War Master, pick as you must."
"Babe?" Turis asked, and he knew he shouldn't have said that. "Someone's called you bab-."
"Fuck Babe, just call me anything else!"
The old man tried holding in laughter, and he gave him light clout. Larosa was silent, going to a nearby tree, looking for roots.
For the rest of the day they rested. Warmth from the sun felt better than any fire, and he took it all in, dreaming of a keg of ale with his name on it.
If he had one.
Sunset appeared as a heavenly glow of orange instead of raging fire amongst the fog. He managed scourge up a few trout, and a river snake, the latter which neither Larosa nor Turis dared take a bite from. The stars above were so vibrant, and he'd almost forgotten what they looked like.
It was all up there. The walls, firebombs, his friends, and the woman's voice who he knew to be proof even a cold bastard like him was capable of love.
Would it all be worth it, Victoria asked as he left the nests.
She was right to ask, and others made the point about his sanity.
Darkness wasn't something he was accustomed to; he was born it.
Festered, stinking, bloody swamps was where he crawled out of the ground. Worms between his teeth, bugs skittering out his ears and arse, and a murky wet air always forcing him to scratch. Waters cooled him, all for but a few seconds, then the bog hellscape ensued.
Too long he'd been raised in such a manner, and it was the only thing he knew.
What little he got from it was a chance to at least gain some closure, and learn who the hell he really was. If the gods didn't want him to know, why give him memories at every fallen champion?
He needed to know, lest his suffering was for naught.
At dawn Larosa made breakfast, fresh caught trout, along with a few bird eggs she managed to find nearby. It was among the best he'd eaten, dare to say better than the inn, as she'd been one to linger by his majesty's chefs on many occasions.
"You from the capital?" He asked, finishing the last of the trout.
She shook her head, cutting her trout. "I hail from valley Friarhorn. A village bigger than most, but still a cozy little place isolated from the rest of the kingdom."
"What made you want to serve a greasy lard fuck like Carl?"
She had a blank stare, but answered, "We of the Archives do as the Master commands, and he is commanded by his majesty. My youth, combined with my natural talent with medicine and study, made me a primary candidate to serve House Pyr."
"Tale as old as time," Turis muttered, spitting a bone out. "Best minds and bodies are sacrificed for one family, whether they be ungrateful or not."
"Can't you just tell him to fuck off?" He asked. "Your own freedom too much to ask for?"
She fiddled, as if one it was such a complex thing to answer. "An apprentice must serve five years in an actual role, then another five upon graduation."
"Ten years? With those bastards?"
"Please, my lord. You mustn't speak so ill of his majesty or his house."
Steam rose from his eyes. "Fuck them! They were in such a hurry to come find you, and I know his majesty's brother to be a bigger cunt than him."
She was startled, and he cursed at himself in thought.
'Very good man. Very good, making use of your words.'
"I don't think m'lord means any ill will, m'lady," Turis said, giving her hand a light tug. "Ye' are young, and many like you have perished in a cold forgotten land with nothin' but their guts hanging out, a sword in hand if they're lucky. Perhaps this is the best opportunity for ye'."
"I…," she started, but then said nothing else.
She made her way to the river, where she continued making ointments and medicines for the rest of the journey.
Turis sighed, tossing fish bones into the fire. "I'd see Isaac Pyr's head on a spike, were I a younger man, still bearin' by white armor."
He raised his eyebrow. "You? A white knight?"
The old man grew a tiny grin, stroking his short beard. "Not the finest swordsman, but good enough to dance with the best. Was loyal to a fault, fighting in Pyr's wars twice, scrubbing their privies, clobbering peasants for 'em, and anything else an ungrateful lord or lady would ask."
"Take no offense, but if I were ye' I'd spend the last of my days in a tavern with a well washed wench."
Turis laughed. "I'm old, but not that old! Am I not the last man standing? Gods rest Raul and the others. And, my grey hairs and old bones bring wisdom."
"Fair," he said, standing up, stretching his neck. "I were you, I'd talk some wisdom into that girl. Long as I've known the Pyrs they been nothing but trouble, she's best going back to her valley."
Turis frowned. "Were she able to, she'd be not welcome anywhere in the kingdom breaking an oath between the Archives and royal fire blood."
"Fuck 'em all," he said, heading to the river. "What good's an oath if only one side's the better for it."
Turis said nothing to that, and he took silence as compliance.
He washed himself farther down the way, stripped naked, enjoying the cool current between his legs. Hair down to his waist, he used Alrieon's blade to cut it, down to his shoulders. Though his beard could've used some work, it was good enough to soak out the dry sweat.
Another day they rested, nothing coming from the Burning Lands as before.
What happened since his first arrival he couldn't say, and there was still no real answer as to why the fog came in the first place.
Razelael must've been powerful to have had such a lasting effect, and there was no telling what other consequences there'd be for his killing of champions.
At dawn they left the river, with food, water, and medicine enough to last them a week's travel.
Every step farther south, shadows became thicker.
Darkseekers were waiting, along with an old friend.