Twinflame

He knew the names of everyone who had worn those stones, each dead wrist from which he'd taken them at Cartenau. K'ile could remember the way the stone on his wrist had resonated with K'ada's, flickering in rhythm with her own as they danced. The stone had glowed on her wrist after she'd died. It had left a circular burn on her pallid skin when he'd pulled it over, and continued to burn until he'd joined it to the others and danced with them. It was as though the stones themselves had mourned. It was as though the souls that clung to them had wanted to dance. K'ile did not resist the K'jhanhi, letting him take the stones. But he did speak, with a bite, "Who will dance with them? Who knows how? K'yohko can't even smile for his own children, let alone dance for the tribe. Who will dance for the feast?"

"I'm just no good at turning people away," K'ile answered, eyeing the broken bone fetish that still sat against his leg. He could feel the glares of K'takka and K'jhanhi upon him, heavy and burning. "I want to confess everything I did so that you can punish me for it and we can leave it behind, move on, move forward. I brought enough food to provide a feast to the tribe. I want to put my mistakes behind me, and then challenge K'yohko for the role of Nunh. K'luha will vouch for me so that the ritual can take place."

What was to tell? Specifics? K'ile shifted in visual discomfort, keeping his eyes downward, and then said, "K'luha and I began to share a room in Drybone during the scouting mission. I crossed a lot of lines, especially when we were getting K'tahjha from Gridania. As for Piru, in Ul'dah, we were close briefly. I'd never mate with a woman without becoming Nunh, I can promise that, but I know that I went well beyond what is allowed. I've kissed Luha and held her." A hiss came from the shadows,. K'takka spat, "I won't listen to more of this, K'jhanhi! If you mean for him to recite every touch between he and the Nunh's woman, I will leave."

"I'm expecting to be punished, but I want you to know all of it before you do. There's more." He made sure to speak quickly, so he couldn't be interrupted. "On top of all of that, I've also been intimate with K'luha, and K'piru. I knew exactly what I was doing at the time. It was-" Something his his head with a surprising firmness, a small rigid object that broke against his skull and made his ear twitch wildly. It made him lean to one side, successfully silencing him. The remains of a bone fetish clattered to the ground next to his leg. "I've heard enough!" K'takka hissed from the shadows where the bone fetish had come from. "K'jhanhi! Take the bracelet from him! We will give it to Yohko. Let this Tia rot int he desert."

"She didn't even look!" K'takka snapped from the shadows, her eyes flashing in the light. The silhouette of the rickety woman shook. "She did not return from the Cartenau with the others and did not search afterward! That might be forgivable, but for now she is as absent as the others, and not to be interacted with." Her hadn lifted into a shaft of light, her long claws shivering. Her one, twisted finger with its wicked, singularly black claw, extended towards K'ile, "You abandoned family to run to the side of exiles, summoned exiles here, and I hear you've now brought one back personally!" Ears twitching under the unpleasantness of K'takka's words, K'ile did not look at that old woman. She would take it as a sign of disrespect or objection, if he was unlucky, as though her eyes had turned dark in the Calamity and saw only unpleasant things now. There was no way around the anger of the elders, though. The things they accused him of were true, and he could never be anything if he did not submit to their judgement concerning every bit of it. "I have more to confess to." K'ile Tia returned his eyes to the sand, and without waiting for reply, went on, "I convinced K'luha to bring K'tahja to the tribe without waiting for the opinions of the elders. I spoke with K'ailia after her exile and told her to return, hoping you would accept her back. I also met K'hai and spoke with him. When K'luha was hurt, I asked K'haaz to heal her with outsiders' magic, knowing he was an exile."

K'ile almost told the elders about K'aijeen. It was on the tip of his tongue, that the girl had lied to K'airos. But that might just complicate the story. That K'aijeen held sway over the hearts of his family just made her a more problematic kind of exile, a troubling flavor of exile. If K'ile wanted to open the hearts of the elders to those they had lost in the past, he would have to tell the story in the right way. Mentioning K'aijeen was likely to make them defensive. Instead... "Airos thought that there weren't any survivors," he said, looking up at K'deiki more boldly now. She was the one most likely to be swayed by sentiment, the others too bitter or protective. "She didn't realize there was a tribe to come home to. When she found out that wasn't true, she celebrated!" He smiled at K'deiki, "You know how happy she can get, how excited she can be. You've never seen her as happy as she was when she found out we were still alive."

"You won't like the reason," K'ile volunteered. He leaned slightly forward, lifting his face to look through his hair and let K'deiki see his eyes. She would need to, in order to know that what he was going to say was true, and not the result of madness of manipulation. "K'piru was in Ul'dah. So was K'airos; she survived Cartenau somehow, but didn't come home. I know we aren't supposed to talk to those who have left, but I couldn't just leave without talking to them."

His ears twitching, K'ile Tia bit down on the words he was about to say. Empty of knowledge, empty of wisdom: he needed to remember those things. The elders were seeing this in a way that he would not, and he resisted the urge to object, to accuse them of not understanding. They understood how he thought already, and had either taken it into account or disregarded it. Still, "I had believed that they had belonged with me. With the firedancers. Forgive me, but no single person in this tribe carries the memories and skills of the firedancers like I do." "Pompous," a hiss snapped out of the shadows. The silver of elder K'takka's eyes widened even more, and then narrowed. "You believe only yourself worthy of them? You believe you have right to them." Did he? He certainly didn't think anyone else in the tribe would see any benefit from wearing them. They would have no luck with them if they were not taught, and without the ritual, the dance was pointless. "I took them from the wrists of my friends. I wouldn't part with them if given the choice, no matter where I go."

K'ile Tia ducked his head to conceal the twisting of his expression at K'jhanhi's words. His gut turned at that. They were angry at him for wearing the bracelet? He shifted his wrist, causing the red stones to flicker, and said, "There isn't much more precious to me than these stones. The firedancers were my friends. We went to Cartenau together." He brushed his hands over the stones, feeling their warmth against his skin. "We still walk together. I wouldn't be able to hide them in a box in the dark."

K'ile Tia paused outside of the elders' tent at the center of the Hipparion Tribe's camp. The sun hung high over the deep Sagolii, burning its way through the exposed skin on his shoulders and back. Through hair red as a fire, he watched K'luha Haaz being carried into the Shamans' tent by K'rahto Tia and K'nahli Yohko. Behind them followed K'zhumi, the shaman, and K'tahja, who was K'luha's adopted daughter. K'ile had played at being K'tajha's adoptive father, and wanted to teach her how to dance, but what were the chances of that when the girl's real father, K'yhoko Nunh, was still alive and so well-respected. Any other Tia would've left it at that and let K'yohko have the child for his own. But K'ile did not think that K'yohko was a very good father and for whatever reason -- likely the Tia's affection for K'luha -- he wanted K'tahjha to have more happiness in her life than K'yohko was able to provide. The tribe's last great Nunh had been K'ile's brother, K'thalen, a joyful man and an excellent father. K'ile was no K'thalen, but he was certainly no K'yohko either. K'ile Tia's ears twitched as he listened to K'luha's pained shouts, the woman's injuries being agitated by the movement. She was in the shaman's care, now, though, and K'tahjha was there to comfort her. K'ile didn't need to worry. Everything would be fine. He flicked his wrist and the five tiny stones on his bracelet flickered. Then he turned away from the sunlight and stepped into the elders' tent. It was shaded and stuffy, warm, with the scent of incense. The fetishes hanging from the ceiling were unfamiliar. He wasn't sure how the ancient Miqo'te managed to build and hang new constructs of bone and animal sinew so frequently, but he didn't know for sure what specific purposes they served either. His ritual was and always had been fire dancing, a very different but perhaps no less important part of the beliefs. K'deiki blended in with the shadows and the dirt, as though she became one with the tent as soon as she entered. K'ile saw off in the dark shadows of a corner, the large glowing plates of the elder K'takka's silver eyes. It was all that was visible of her, besides her frayed and rickety silhouette curled into a tight ball upon luxurious pillows. The eyes stared at K'ile, wide awake, unreadable. He could not see K'janhi, the last of the only three elders to survive the Calamity. Like the firedancers, their numbers had been decimated. Unlike them, however, K'ile was the singular firedancer to survive Cartenau. K'ile ducked his head now, make his meager stature even shorter. He made his ears fall limp to either side of his head, forced his tail still, slowed his strides to a timid shuffle. K'luha had said the elders wanted to see him immediately, that they were angry with him and would punish him. He was not surprised. One of K'ile's jobs was the enforcement of punishment doled out by the elders, so he knew well what agitated them and what sort of behavior they required alongside apologies. For one, K'ile maintained silence. The instant he stepped into the tent, he had lost all right to speak or act. It had been a ritual portal into a world in which he possessed no knowledge or wisdom. He came empty but for his feeble will, his tiny wants, so small that to even utter them would be a waste of breath. He took on this guise out of faith in the elders, that they would not be callous, that they would give him the wisdom and the knowledge he needed, and that they would put value on the things he desired without need to be convinced. All K'ile had to do was to decide if he should kneel immediately or wait until they demanded that he do so. He opted for the former, placing himself in an open spot of dirt near the front of the tent and dropping to his knees there, keeping his eyes on the ground in front of him. ((Tagging: K'deiki, K'zhumi, K'luha, K'tahjha, K'nahlo, K'rahto, K'takka, K'janhi, K'iara, etcetera. This thread brought to you by the letter 'K', for Hipparion!... wait.))

((Mature content warning on this post)) [align=center][/align] [align=center] Year 1 of the 8th Astral Era Two weeks go [/align] The anonymous person writhed briefly beneath the thin sheet, and then bolted upright so suddenly that Lyrique Midichante was brought fully awake, eyes alert. She didn't recognize the woman who was in bed next to her, though that had been introduced. The woman was Maelys, a gift that Anaelle had escorted into her room well after midnight, and after affixing a blindfold over Lyrique's eyes. The red blindfold still hung limply from the Lady Midichante's thin neck, almost lost in the long hair that lay over her naked skin. It was impossible to miss the air of distress around Maelys. The muscles beneath the thin woman's dusky skin were stretched tight; Lyrique had never seen those shoulders before, but she had felt them. The shoulders of the anonymous, silent woman had been soft and controlled, but now tense, strong muscles stood out against the tips of the woman's dark hair. Her small fists clutched the sheets where they pulled about her lap, the exposed line of her spine a straight line from her haunches to her neck. Lyrique Midichante sat up slowly, sheet sliding from her body, green eyes wide open to take in Maelys' face for the first time. The dark woman's eyes were wide and awake, but looking at nothing. They were pale in color, murky, blind. She ground her jaw, teeth audible, as her body almost shivered in readiness to move. She spoke suddenly, her voice surprisingly small, little more than a breath. "Anaelle. Lock the chamber door." In a sudden snap of movement, Anaelle burst from the bed to Lyrique's opposite side. The woman went from repose to fast motion in an instant, tearing the sheet from both of the other women in the process. Anaelle's tall, pale body was as white as the ice that lined the massive windows of the room, the snow drifting against them. Her her was red like blood in the snow, shifting about her angular shoulderblades. As Anaelle moved, the padding of her barefeet was audible in the large stone room. It could be hear just over the shuff of the falling sheet, over the held breath of the two women on the bed. Lyrique shook herself from her half-asleep daze. "What's-?" A grey palm slapped her leg, thin fingers curling over Lyrique's thigh. The touch was familiar, shivering similarly to how it had last night, bu now Maelys' gesture was unmistakable warning. Lyrique's brow dropped, watching the hard lines of Maelys' tendons, the way the wrinkling on her hand gave away the woman's advancing age. When she reached the chamber door, Anaelle threw the bolt. No sooner had the mechanism clicked into place then the mass of the door crashed against it, pushed by some external weight. The wood slammed against the metal, but held fast. The sound echoed in the room, shook the window, shocked Lyrique to her feet where she stood wide-eyed in a broad stance, hands open. Anaelle flinched away from the door, retreating backwards. She looked over her shoulder, her blue eyes catching Lyrique's and showing the same sense of shock. Anaelle crossed her arms tied around her body. She must've felt just as exposed in her nudity as Lyrique did. The only one of the three women to maintain her composure was Maelys, who remained sitting on the bed, staring at nothing. "There are soldiers outside. I can hear-" There was another slam against the door, louder than before, heavier. The metal of the bolt and hinges groaned. That slam was followed by another, and then another. The sound shook the room, making the window and the light coming through it shiver. Anaelle turned from the door and ran back to the bed, taking up the fallen sheet in her hand and throwing it around Maelys. Lyrique turned from the bed and took several quick steps towards her wardrobes, throwing open a large cabinet door. She didn't bother with hiding her body, instead sliding her hands immediately into the armored gauntlets of her dragoon armor. The soulstone concealed in her right gauntlet pressed reassuringly against her skin, the power contained within filling her. A shadow flashed across the floor an instant before the window burst inward, throwing shards of glass, snow and ice, and frigid air into the room. A human body hit the floor of the room, landing in a crouch so forcefully that the stone beneath him cracked. He wore the armor of the dragoons, shining in the white light. Two more dragoons landed near him an instant later, slightly behind him, all with lances drawn. The glass falling everywhere, brilliant snow and reflected light dancing through the air, the room seemed for an instant to be made of light. Anaelle, perfectly pale and seeming to glow, wrapped the white sheet around Maelys' shadowy form and bent over her protectively. Lyrique required no such protection, and would have rejected it. She took her lance from where it was stored and turned to face the intruders. Reflected light danced over her form like flying diamonds, but Lyrique was as pale as the light, her hair as brilliantly red as rubies cascading over her shoulders, her eyes like inset sapphires glowing with challenge. She took a single step forward and stopped at the feeling of broken glass beneath her feet. There was no pain, but a glance down revealed blood trickling from beneath her toes. For several seconds, the falling glass made the sound of a hailstorm, and then it died into silence. The pounding on the door had stopped. Gradually, the wind blowing through the window began to howl. It carried in snow that settled in Lyrique's hair and eyelashes, lay itself over Anaelle's body. Maelys didn't move, sitting limp and blind where Anaelle shivered around her. Lyrique shivered in the cold as well, though she tried to keep it in her fingertips only. The three dragoons that were suddenly in her room stood with the clattering of armor. Two Elezen and a Hyur, faces hidden behind dark metal plates, all men. She didn't need to see their eyes. It didn't matter to her. Lyrique Midichante presented her lance in front of her, decorated with gold and gemstones but no less threatening as she held its point towards the men. If they didn't give the weapon due attention, it was to their own detriment. One of the dragoons turned and paced nonchalantly to the chamber door, throwing the bolt and pulling it open. It swung with a heavier groan, hanging from damaged hinges and scrapping the floor. The outer finish of it, once bearing the carved seal of the House Midichante, had been defaced by the pounding of armored fists and feet. Two more dragoons entered, both as anonymous as the first, along with a man in a rich blue robe and relatively humble ornamentation. This robed man walked with the poise of a priest and the business-like coldness of a politician. This man was not a stranger. He stepped into Lyrique's personal chamber, letting his eyes peruse the nudity of the Lady Midichante and the women in her bed. His lips parted like a bloated corpse splitting open. "Lyrique. I say, this is an interesting state to find you in. Not exactly a chaste woman, are you?" Lyrique tightened her grip on her lance, the clawed fingers of her gauntlets clicking against it. "You will answer for this disrespect, inquisitor. You will answer for everything." "Tut," he said. His eyes lingered on Anaelle's shivering back. Lyrique wanted to cut them out, but withheld her anger with great effort. The inquisitor continued his idle meandering into the room, the eyes of the dragoons watching him for some cue. "We have reason to believe you are working with the dragons. You are required to submit to trial." "Are you insane? I am the head of House Midichante!" She cut the air with her lance. Two of the dragoons, the smart ones, took this gesture as a threat and reached for their own lances. The others, the idiots, had yet to look away from her body. "You already judged my father, and he passed! He was innocent and is now dead for that!" "Yet by your own admission it was your brother who betrayed your House's keep to the dragons." He lifted a hand and pushed aside a predicted objection, though he still wasn't looking at Lyrique. "Yes, I know, you didn't want us to find out about that, but we did. You can't prove you were not working with him. The only witness to your supposedly valiant defense was a Miqo'te, and he disappeared mysteriously, didn't he? Rather incriminating." "I'm not going to submit," Lyrique snapped. "If I die, who will lead the House? My cousin is just a child! She-" "The cousin you speak of," the inquisitor observed, finally turning his dead-looking gray eyes on Lyrique, "The little girl? She underwent judgement yesterday. She did not pass." "What?" Lyrique shivered, something even colder than the ice and frigid wind sliding through her belly. "You... judged a child...?" He spread his arms, "We threw her from the cliffs. She summoned dragons and they saved her from the fall, but the dragoons took care of the lot of them. We believe that your father may have been working for the dragons as well, and merely allowed himself to fall to his death to throw off the investigation." "You... killed her?" Lyrique moved her lance closer to her body, wrung her hands upon it. This was not an outwardly threatening gesture, but the two intelligent dragoons recognized the shift in stance and glanced at one another. "Lyrique," the inquisitor walked towards her. "You are the last of the original bloodline of House Midichante. You are the only one who can ensure that whatever new bloodline takes over from you, will be able to do so with honor. And the only way to do that is to be judged and found innocent." "To let you murder me, you mean." Lyrique turned her eyes to the bed, where Anaelle had now fully concealed the darker woman from view. Maelys was bent forward with her head in Anaelle's lap, and the pale, lanky Elezen was folded over Maelys with the sheet swaddling the woman completely. The shrouding was complete. It was not completely necessary; after all, it was not as though Maelys were a Duskwight or anything like that. But with the way Anaelle kept her face against Maelys back, and her pale hands held the woman face, made it obvious how precious the blind woman was to Anaelle. The blue-eyed woman on the bed watched Lyrique carefully, not afraid, and did not seem to request any extra consideration or protection. Exhaling, Lyrique recalled the touch of Anaelle's cheek upon her own the night before, as her attendant had tied that blindfold about her head and purred, "I've brought you a present." It had been a good present. Lyrique had made gestures of affection for Anaelle that no other had ever warranted. The Lady Midichante turned back to the inquisitor, raising her head high. The wind caught her hair and pulled it out behind her, a ruby veil behind her naked form. Her armored hands lifted the dark lance in front of her. "I once asked you, inquisitor, how many of my family you would have to throw from those cliffs before you were satisfied. I now have my answer. But the heinous actions you have taken this morning endangered not only myself, but those under the protection of House Midichante. Your manners need work." The inquisitor's pale lips smirked, and he showed her the palms of his hands. "I stand chided and will make due recompense to your harem for their humiliation." "I do not believe that you will." The man's smile vanished. "Will you submit or not?" The wardrobes next to Lyrique were reduced to splinters, the ground beneath her cracked, as she launched herself with incredible power towards the open window. In an instant, she was sailing through the white air, snow pelting her face, the bones and flesh of her body crying out in pain from the suddenness of the movement. Purple dots lay over her vision for a moment, shadows darkening the edges, and she felt incredibly dizzy as she flew. It was all she could do to hold onto her lance. Lyrique had hoped her body would be able to handle the strain, that her senses would come back, but they continued to fade. Of course, she hadn't predicted just how cold it would be. Even as she fell from the tower she had been in, she felt like her hair was freezing against her scalp and face, and her senses darkened all the more. One of the cruxes of the use of her soulstone was making sure that she did not take action that would exceed the limits of her body. This jump was powerful enough, sudden enough, insane enough that it should have taken her well away from the reach of any pursuers, well outside of civilization, at the sacrifice of her health. But she hadn't had a choice. If she had tried to fight, the inquisitor might have hurt Anaelle and Maelys. At any rate, the end result was the same: the church would say that Lyrique had fled her trial, and declare her a traitor. If she evaded suspicion, Anaelle would be placed in temporary control of the House. If nothing happened to her and to Maelys. Lyrique closed her eyes and prayed. Her eyes remained closed when she was done. Her body went limp and still, pale and icy. By the time she reached the snow-covered ground, she was unconscious. [align=center][/align] .

[align=center][/align] On her way up the tower, Lyrique Midichante collected one of the golden lances from the monument to Halone. It wasn't the most effective weapon, but anything less than a lance built for a Dragoon's use was likely to be insufficient, and she'd lost her best in the fight earlier. The golden lance was imperfectly forged for use, but it would have to be sufficient, just as her broken body would have to be sufficient. Lyrique exited the roof of the tower in the reverse of how she'd fallen into it, launching herself into the same skies where minutes before she'd been swarmed by an unexpected number of heretic dragoons. The Lady of Midichant no longer felt like a Dragoon should feel. Her body had been shattered, her armor defaced, all ornamentation twisted into ugly patterns, and so covered was she in heretical dragonsblood that she thought she must look like a wyvern as she moved through the air. Mitari had gone mad with the heretic's soulstone, and she felt her body had been debased by his healing. She might as well be a heretic herself at this point. Her hand tightened on the golden lance, monument to Halone, but it could not help that she felt very far from grace. No amount of washing, fasting, prayer or humility could get this black blood out of her body. But maybe if she died... Finding the skies empty, Lyrique fell. She dropped past the tower's summit, watching the parapets flash past her on either side. The dragon no longer circled the tower. The minor beasts and common heretical cannon fodder were either dead or gone. As she came close enough to the ground to see through the whiteout of the storm, she saw nothing but corpses, and a great many of them. But no Dragoons. None on her side, none on those of the heretics. Had the Dragoons of Midichnate really betrayed her? So many of them had been her friends, confidantes, allies; more than a few had secretly been lovers. She rejected it. These Dragoons were something else. But then where were the Dragoons that should be protecting the keep? She hit the ground hard, but her body held together. Snow flew away from her impact in a maelstrom. From the golden chains that had once born glass beads, drops of frozen blood now flicked in the light. Her sweat had turned to frost in her eyebrows and hairline. Sick black-blood icicles hung from her hair, patches of it clinging to her legs and greaves. The absence of the enemy was like a threat uttered by the world around her. It settled into her bones and lay there like the snow piled up against the tower walls. Lyrique pointed her lance at strange objects as though they threatened her, sating her instinctive need to find a threat. But it was ephemeral, and uneasiness overtook her. They would not just leave. Lyrique jumped sideways, throwing a trail of snow as her greaves flew just over the snow cover. She hit the outer wall of the keep and pushed off of it, moving to a different side of the tower. But there was only emptiness there, as well. At once infuriated and fearful, Lyrique moved in strange silence. She decided to return to Mitari and the survivors he was escorting. [align=center][/align] With quiet and tentative steps, Mitari led for the congregation of wounded and frightened Elezen. None seemed pleased to follow a Miq'ote, but also none argued since he was the only one there with armor and a lance and the ability to wield it. He lead them from the rubble of the keep towards the stables where they might be able to round up some Chocobo to flee towards Dragonhead on. Surely, Dragonhead would aid the Midichnate Keep in this time of need. Slipping inside the stables, Mitari indeed found a few Chocobos and instructed the young and the elderly and the injured to have first take of the Chocobo flock. It took a few minutes to make sure everyone was settled, but as they were it left only the middle-aged and uninjured. Which was good, because they could run faster than the children or the severely injured. Mitari peered out the door, eyes scanning for any sort of darkness on the horizon. But there were none. Everything was strangely... quiet. So he lead the way, chocobos and Elezen behind him. They managed to make it out of the keep without much incident however, it was only moments outside the keep where they had found where the horde had gotten off to. Minor dragons and heretics doing Halone knew what and it was all Mitari could do to command the civilians to make for Dragonhead fast on foot. And with that he leapt up high into the air and crashed down, lance first into the center of the horde, grabbing their attention with a fantastic Dragonfire Dive. Flames licked and burned the creatures, all of their attentions moved towards the single Miq'ote while the others were able to run. He could only hope that would last long enough. And that he wasn't going to be ripped to shreds instantly. [align=center][/align] How? Lyrique saw through the whiteout, just a flash of a moment before the snow blew in and obscured it again, a white-haired Miqo'te attempting to fight off a swarm of heretics and lesser dragons. How had the heretics tracked down the survivor's so flawlessly? How had they moved as one to intercept them, evading Lyrique entirely? How was Mitari even thinking to fight them? The Lady of Midichante hit the snow with a great thud that broke the dark stone beneath it, leaving a white crater with cracked black earth in the middle. Then she launched herself into the air again, flying towards the heretics and the single defender in their midst. By all good reason, Mitari should have torn his own body apart in his first attempt to use the power of the soulstone untrained. The might of dragons was easily enough to shatter one's own skeleton, to immolate one's own innards. And yet Mitari was using it. He was a clumsy novice at best, but he was surviving. This meant two things. First, that Mitari was a liar: the orphaned Miqo'te had been trained at some point, albeit clumsily. Second, that the heretic dragoons had not yet descended upon him: he would be dead the moment they did. Lyrique hit the ground on the outskirts of the heretics, landing directly on a lesser dragon's head and crushing its skull beneath her greaves. No sooner had she realized that she did not see the heretic dragoons among the group than she saw the plumes of snow thrown by the dragoons' advance. There were five heretic dragoons, not counting the three Lyrique had successfully killed and the one who had somehow managed to die while fighting Mitari. They launched themselves parallel to the ground, throwing snow behind them as they flew with lances out directly at Mitari. The orphan Miqo'te stood fighting at the heart of the heretic horde, and the five dragoons drew a five-pronged star of snow thrown high in their wake, converging as one on the place where Mitari stood. If he had wanted their attention, he had gotten it. They had already done too much damage to the house of Midichante that day, though, and Lyrique wasn't going to let them do any more, even if it was just to some errant stable boy. She crouched and readied her lance to intervene. The dragon crashed down in front of her, black and glistening, eyes aglow with unholy fury, and its maw opened to bellow in rage at Lyrique. Black blood spilled onto the snow from the wound Lyrique had given it earlier. Its teeth were terrible. Its gaze sought to corrupt her. Lyrique did not hesitate. She threw herself forward just as planned, but her lance preceded her, the point embedding deep in the dragon's throat. It made a viciously sick sound and spat blood, its wings shaking, its body convulsing as it threw itself backward. She ducked low and managed to pass just beneath it, one of the spikes on her armor embedding between its scales and breaking off. She left it behind and continued on, flying over the snow and throwing up a plume of white behind her as she went. Disarmed, she bundled one hand into a fist and opened the clawed fingers of the other into a talon. There were now six dragoons flying at Mitari, one of whom did not intend to kill him, and the only warning he received was a roar from Lyrique's thin throat, "Mitari! Move!" [align=center][/align] His fight with a horde of dragon heretics was not going well. How could it be expected to? Mitari had fought before, away from the Keep, and with a soulstone before, but never with this intensity. Every move he made, lives were depending upon him, and it was frightening. But as frightened as he was, he was also furious. Furious that Lyrique's own knights would turn against her and become corrupted. Perhaps the Ishguardians were not right in their fight against the dragons, but the dragons certainly weren't correct either! Mitari was only picking sides with the lesser evils. After he had landed, he had set to using the lance like a baseball bat and swinging it hard in a circle to knock everything around him off its feet. And he had succeeded at the cost of dislocating his shoulder. Next came the wave of dragons, whom had a faster reaction speed and were upon him in seconds, tearing at his armor and flesh. They ripped into his armor easily and claws dug deep into his chest and limbs. The armor around his head came ripping off in a needlessly violent fashion, and it was all Mitari could to flail and roar angrily. He flailed his arms and legs, the immense power from the soulstone making for a powerful movement that managed to shake loose the dragon's very teeth from their mouths and free Mitari, albeit with dragon fangs and claws stuck into him like a pin cushion. He breathed hard, and it was then that he heard Lyrique scream. Well it wasn't like he had planned on standing still particularly, unless he wanted to be a Miqabob. Which he did not. While Lyrique's screech was noted and heeded, and so he jumped up high with all his might, lance in bloodied hand. There was a breathless moment as he glanced down at the ground form high above, overlooking the scene. He hovered in the air for what felt like a millennium, watching below before he began falling straight down again. After Mitari jumped, Lyrique found herself looking across a hundred meters of snow and heretics into the face of an oncoming Dragoon. A familiar face, once bright with color, now pale and cold, the hair thin and brittle, the eyes pale. But it was him. She knew him. It made sense. It made her sick. Lyrique went limp mid-charge and fell at full speed, hitting the rough stone earth that the snow concealed and tumbling hard. Snow and dirt flew up as she careened like a metal-clad ragdoll for nearly twenty meters before she came to a stop right where Mitari had been, laying face-down with her limbs skewed in painful directions. The heretic dragoons continued on as the had been, only now they were going to converge on her instead. She stirred, slowly, her limbs straightening out one by one. Too slowly. If she were to get up now and run away, she could escape. But Lyrique only pulled herself to her knees, returned her gaze to the heretic dragoon with the familiar face. And that face smiled at her as five unholy lances extended towards her, and they converged on Lyrique Midichante in a rush of snow and black metal. A small blizzard erupted outward from that point, spiraling upward into the sky to consume the descending form of Mitari. In the blind column of white, several seconds after it swallowed him, Mitari would be struck by the rapidly ascending form of Lyrique Midichant. The momentums of the two bodies momentarily negated one another, causing them to hang in the air for another second. Clinging to Mitari with one hand covered in black blood, Lyrique's helmet was missing, along with massive chunks of her armor. Her red hair shook in the wind, failing to hide the dead look in her eyes. She watched the white around them in complete disinterest. Her off-hand was unarmored, and her thin fingers were holding by its hair the dismembered head of the familiar heretic dragoon. "Mitari," she said, while they lingered in the air without sight of the ground. "Can you still fight?" He could see nothing of the fight below or what had happened. A flurry of snow blocked his vision, and the heavy impact of Lyrique as she shot up and ran into him confused his brain and senses. He vaguely felt a hand clinging to his ragged form and straightened himself to recognize words and Lyrqiue herself at least. "Yes." The answer was simple, straight-forward. He was badly injured like she was, but his body wasn't completely broken yet. Probably a mixture of adrenaline and healing magicks had him thinking he could still move when in reality he should have been dying on the ground. But the moment of silence and clarity was broken by the dying roar of the dragon. It hurt Mitari's ears, and he cringed at the unholy sound. But not for long, as the dragon's powerful wings knocked away the snow that covered them. The dragon's roar was barely an instant's warning before the teeth and the lances were upon them. One dragon and four heretic dragoons rose to them as they fell to earth. And they were at the mercy of the dragon and his heretics. Mitari did the only thing he could think of as the dragoon's rush for them. He threw his body in front of her as best he could in mid air and watched with nothingness as a lance from the heretics impaled itself through his chest. His body convulsed for a moment. The moment had felt so long, but it was only a short few seconds and again they were falling, spiraling towards the infested unholy ground. Lyrique noticed Mitari's seeming death with half a glance to one side, registering it dully. She was not so cold that she did not care. But compared to everything else that happened, what was this? Just one more thing for her to lose. She put similar emphasis on her own life, lazily catching an extended lance in her chest, the point smashing through her ruined arm and pushing into her flesh. She could almost feel the black heretic blood on her clothes mingling with her own red blood. Her expression was bored, her lips turned down and insult. The dragoon that had struck her smiled for a moment, and then his head snapped to one side as the toe of Lyrique's sharp boot ripped a jagged line through his helm. She stomped on his shoulder with shattering force, knocking him off of her and pushing her back up into the air. His lance pulled from her flesh, and her pierced lung began to fill with blood. The dragoon fell away and was knocked aside by the dragon that still ascended. Lyrique still held onto Mitari by his shirt, the dragoon that had killed him hanging near them in the air and tethered to them by his weapon. The teeth were coming. Dead, perhaps not. Dying, perhaps so. Mitari went limp in shock for a few moments, hardly registering what was happening. All he could see in front of him was the pointed jagged teeth of the dragon and his minions, faint specks of black hovering around them. He inhaled sharply, muscles moving on their own accord. If this was to be his death, then he was going to die in a blaze of glory. Mitari reached down and grasped Lyrique's hand, moving to free his shirt either by ripping the fabric to just unfurling her hand. The dragon that had been below her blasted past her with a violent thrash of wing and claw, but it did not do more than shake her, and Lyrique's expression did not falter. She spied the shaft of her lance between its teeth, still lodged in its throat. A streak of black blood bubbled from the wound as it rose away. "I'm going to do it." Mitari whispered, just barely loud enough that Lyrique might hear him. "I'm going to kill that dragon. And when I kill it, you'll believe me that I could have been a great Dragoon." And with that, he pulled himself together, pushing his leg off Lyrqiue to rocket her downwards and him up to the dragon. Lyrique didn't even spare the thought to which him luck, nor to wonder if he would succeed or not. The heretic Dragoon still held the lance that had impaled the Miqo'te, but as Mitari kicked off of her, she took the heretic by an eye socket with her clawed fingers. Under such pains, the man let go, and let Mitari keep the lance, too. He pulled the lance from his own chest at the same time and bellowed a roar back at the dragon, heading lance first for its teeth. Lyrique was thrown downward, a decapitated head in one hand, and in the other was a head with a writhing heretic at the end of its neck. She did not concern herself with the fact that Mitari had injured her in using her as a launching platform. The disrespect of his action was far worse than that, and it did not measure near the other insults of the day. The Dragoon whose eye-socket she held struck at her hand with supernatural strength to dry and dislodge it. Lyrique too the blow and added her own strength to the gesture, and ripped her claws through his skull. The man's helmet shattered, bits of bone and dark gray brain splattering into the air. She let go of the man as his body seized violently, leaving him to die either before or after he hit the ground. Mitari launched skyward, lance forward as he rushed to the dragon's maw. Air rushed past them, and suddenly his body tremored from the impact upon the black bloody teeth. The teeth, and it felt like every bone in his body, shattered and still the momentum from his jump pushed him forward still. Through the mouth of the beast, his lance ripped through flesh and blood shot out like foutains at him, coating Mitari in a thick hot black blood. Yet still the force pushed through, his lance carved through the soft internal flesh of the dragon. Its throat sliced to bits and still Mitari flew straight through. First the lance appeared at the back of its throat, and suddenly the flesh blew open with the greatness of Mitari's force. A shower of black blood hissed as it settled upon the snowy landscape and Mitari just another large drop of blood. The dragon could make no noise other than to flail and die as it fell to the ground with a tremendous thud, crushing a good portion of the remaining heretics and minor dragons. Lyrique was crouching on the ground not far from where the dragon fell, and she watched the Miqo'te shaped glob of gore fall into the snow. The heretics and the lesser dragons were not harassing her. The last two dragoons -- she'd glanced their faces as they passed by, both familiar -- had continued into the sky away from her after she had killed the last, abandoning the dragon to Mitari's attack and, from what she could tell, vanishing. Though she didn't trust it. The Lady of Midichante stood up crookedly and walked. She did not run, leap, or fly. She walked to the corpse of the dragon, to where she'd seen the orphan fall. The heretic forces and dragons began to disperse around her, neither attacking her nor pursuing the survivors, but universally moving back towards the keep. Likely to occupy it again, or finish demolishing it. She couldn't bring herself to care. "Mitari!" she called, looking into the black-bloodied snow. There was silence that only the muted snow could bring after a battle. Laying mostly broken and drowning in dragon blood, Mitari was somewhere. His head swam and he knew not where he was, only that he had done the one thing he had always set out to do. He could die like this and he would be alright. He had become a real dragoon. He had killed a dragon. He had saved so many people. It would have been what his mother wanted. She would have been sad to see him die, but happy he could die in such a way. Not gunned down by Garlean scum as innocents, but a brave and mostly honorable man. Fading somewhere on the line between death and life, his body choked out the blacken blood from his mouth in a singular sick cough. The sharp point of Lyrique's boot kicked Mitari's arm. "Stop being lazy. If you've got a soulstone on you then you need to act like it." Mitari coughed heavily again, spitting up black blood and bile and rolling over to his side to vomit what little remain in his stomach. It took a few moments to try and shakily regain some sort of consciousness, but he managed to look hazily up at Lyrique. The Lady Midichante waited patiently. She pulled herself up into a proper posture and gazed at the horizon, but inwardly she was in ribbons. It showed only in her eyes, which bore a tired despair, and her shoulders which heaved in desperate need of breath. When she noticed Mitari looking up at her, she spoke in a strained voice that sounded either pained or angry, "Can you move or not?" Mitari let out a long soft breath. He just laid there breathing for a few moments before slowly pushing himself onto his knees. "I... can..." he breathed out slowly, feeling dizzy and half dead. "Then find me at Dragonhead and I'll see to it you receive medical care. If you aren't mistaken for a heretic and killed on sight." She turned abruptly stumbled and reset herself. Inhaled and exhaled and began to walk away. The decapitated head still dangled from one hand. Mitari only let out another long exhale before his eyes fluttered shut and his broken body slowly became limp. After a few steps, Lyrique looked over her shoulder. When she saw Mitari slumped down in the snow, she turned to look at him and said, "Don't sleep here or you'll freeze to death! Don't make me carry you to Dragonhead!" Mitari didn't reply, only remained still as the falling snow slowly began to bury him. "Mitari!" And she paused, "Did you die?" After another long moment with no response, Lyrique let her composure snap like a stressed buttress, first sagging forward and then collapsing completely into the snow. The head she was carrying slipped from her fingers and she pitched forward, falling on her face. For a moment, she just lay there like this, her shoulders shaking. The snow muffled the sobbing until she stirred, and then the woman's crying was unfairly loud in the snow. Vauge sounds flittered past Mitari's ears. He heard the sounds of a woman crying. The movement of snow, something that had become familiar to his ears over the years. But they died on his mind which didn't yet stir, although the sound of a crying woman always bothered his very soul. Lyrique pulled off her last gauntlet and threw it away like something worthless, and washed her hands in the snow. She lifted snow and pushed it into her face repeatedly, scrubbing frantically to get the black blood off her features. Ice froze in her eyebrows when she was done. Icicles hung from her hair. Slowly, she composed herself again. Then she stomped over to where Mitari lay in the snow and unburied him. First, she checked to see if he was alive, finding that he was, however vaguely. Then she sought the soulstone of the heretic. Her intention was to take it from him, but she hesitated when she realized without its power he would likely die before he received any medical attention. Not that she was in the habit of caring, but... With the decapitated head back in her right hand, she took Mitari by the collar in her left hand and began to pull him through the snow. Eventually, the feeling of rough movement across the landscape and the black blood being wiped from parts of his body as he was dragged stirred Mitari's mind and he wearily reached up and grabbed at Lyrique's wrist. "I can walk..." he slurred at her stubbornly, as he could only assume it would be Lyrique dragging a half dead man through the Coerthas snow. The Lady stopped walking and looked back to Mitari, her green eyes framed by ice-laden red hair as she stared down at the man for several seconds. And then she said, "You don't need to. I can get you there." "No... I..." Mitari half-frowned, slapping weakly at her wrist before his arm limply fell back to the ground as it was dragged along again. There were a few moments of silence before he could muster up the energy to speak again. "A lady shouldn't... carry her... disobedient servant through the... snow..." "No she shouldn't," Lyrique agreed, directing her gaze forward and continuing to walk. "And a knight should not let himself be dragged. But we'll not speak of it." "A... knight..." Mitari repeated the words in a slurred somewhat delirious haze. Was she really calling him that? It was as much acknowledgement from her as he could ever hope to get, and somehow... he felt less like dying now. Lyrique wordlessly dragged him on. She found the trail left in the snow by the survivors who had left the keep and began to follow it, using all of the strength in her soulstone just to keep walking forward in the snow, maintaining her grip on the broken man. Mitari remained wordless like Lyrique, just letting her drag his body somewhat roughly through the snowy fields. He could only hope that they didn't run into anymore dragons, heretics, or corrupted dragoons. [align=center][/align] [align=justify]Camp Dragonhead was not a holding of the Midichante family. Not by a long shot. It belonged to one of the High Houses, several orders above the Midichantes, but the place was a friendly refuge to them. And the Midichante family was given a building of its own, albeit a small one. Lyrique Midichante held court in a small five-meter room without windows, a single desk sitting centered. The Lady occupied it wearily. It had been a weak since the fall of the Midichante keep, and she had mostly recovered her mobility. Pain and a need for sleep and medicine remained, but she was trying to keep herself busy. Even so, the desk was pristine and empty, bare wood. Two attendants, both Elezen women, stood off in the corners of the room and watched the Lady, but she did not look at them. This was the place to which Lyrique Midichante had summoned Mitari, with a message promising the formalizing of his knighthood, which she had promised on a whim on the worst day of her life. She stared at the grain of the wood on the desk, thinking about that decision. Her red hair, cut much shorter, hung over her features as she pondered. Mitari was not faring well. Even with the medicine and medications the extent of damage was beyond the capacity of Camp Dragonhead to heal. He needed the healing capacity of the warm waters of Camp Bronzelake, and thus was soon to be sent off to the place. But first was his meeting with the Lady Midichante. The white-haired miq'ote knocked tentatively on the door. He was a mess of bruises and bandages and swollen injuries. But at least he was limping around decently these days. It was something about the dragon's blood he was covered in, seeping into his injuries, that had made them so difficult to heal. Lyrique nodded to one of the women in the room, and the attendant moved towards the door. The Lady stood from her seat. She was not wearing armor, but instead a dress, blue and decorated with a great number of silver chains and crystal. They shifted on her body as she rose, and she composed herself before the door opened to the wounded orphan outside. Mitari tentatively glanced about the mostly empty room. Just... Lyrique in some fancy dress and other Elezen. Always more elezen. He limped forward into the room, still hazy eyes, from the medication of course, taking in the room before settling on Lyrique. There was no chair to offer to Mitari, so instead, "I know you're not recovered yet and going to leave soon. That's why we need to talk. I'll be brief." She gestured to her attendant and the door closed. "There's suspicion you've been corrupted by dragon's blood. Do you still have that soulstone on you?" Mitari watched the attendants leave and quietly turned his attention back to Lyrqiue. Corrupted? Of course they would think such a thing. He came back practically chocking on dragon's blood and had used a corrupted dragoon's soulstone. He paused. Should he tell her such a thing? "I do." He finally answered and pulled the small stone from his pocket to show her. She did not react to that. She had not expected anything else, not with how Mitari had been talking and acting while in possession of it. Lyrique had mixed feelings about that behavior. She said, "I want you to put it down and leave it here." Mitari hesitantly looked to the stone. How could she ask that of him...? After all he'd done for them? A frown flashed across his broken features. He understood why... and yet. The miqo'te stepped forward and placed it gently on her desk. "I want another one. I want to be a Dragoon." He insisted quietly. Lyrique reached out a single finger, set the very tip of her fingernail upon the corrupt soulstone, and moved it aside. She said, "I could make you a Dragoon. I have that authority. I am now the head of my family." Mitari's ears fell. Then... her father hadn't made it? He had tried so hard to keep the old man alive and yet... All those efforts for naught. "I want to be a Dragoon." He repeated, voice devoid of the once passionate calls for knighthood. "My brother led the attack on our keep," she explained, ignoring his request a second time. "My brother, a dragoon. I took his head as proof. He was corrupted. He corrupted the others. He attacked his own keep. My father fell under suspcion and was taken to have his loyalty tested yesterday." She spoke as though telling an uninteresting story. "He was thrown from the cliffs. He passed the test. I am the head of my family now." Her brother? Mitari looked up to Lyrique, his eyes wet but yet not crying. It was... horrific. Her own family... her own brother. How could he do such a thing? The dragon's corruption? There was something more there. There was more than just a dragon's corrupted touch. There had to have been hatred there that the dragon took hold of. Of this, Mitari knew at least. Dragons were corrupting... but they had to have the seeds to hatred first because they could so easily take over someone. As for her father... Mitari closed his eyes and said a silent prayer to Halone. He hoped that the man would find peace finally. "I will make you an honorary knight of Midichante," Lyrique said, and knocked the heretics soulstone off the desk. "I will not make you a dragoon. My answer is no." Mitari looked up to her like he had been betrayed. His hands clenched into tight fists. "Why?" He asked, torn between fury and despair. The Lady turned her green eyes on Mitari and said in a frigid voice, "You need to leave now. Take the mercy that you are being sent away, or soon they'll throw you from the cliffs as well." "I killed a dragon! I helped save as many as I could! Why!? Why would they question me? Or you? Or your father? It doesn't..." Mitari winced as he gestured widely by habit. He put his hands back to his side and looked at the ground, feeling as small as he had when he'd first been taken in by them. There was silence before Mitari turned to leave. "I WILL be a dragoon." He declare beneath his breath, anger seeping into his words. "Hey!" Lyrique called before Mitari got out of the room, "If you see U'tania around. I miss him. He would've made a good Dragoon." All Mitari felt as he left was ice in his chest at her words. Miss him? Would have made a good Dragoon? How he had begged and pleaded and stolen and racked himself raw to become a Dragoon when he still bore that name. And now she would say such a thing? It was too much. He felt no sorrow when he left. Only fury. And he would leave the keep that day, stopping by the former Midichante Keep keep to pry another soulstone and a dragoon's armor off a dead heretic. He felt nothing but righteous fury when he tore the garments off the dead body and reclaimed a new soulstone. He was a Dragoon. Regardless of whether that woman admitted it or not. He was a Dragoon. And he was better than she would ever be. [/align] [align=center][/align] .

[align=center][/align] Right, to the cellar then. Again. Mita wasn't really sure how he was going to get down to the cellar after presumably breaking some ribs but...Lyri's dad was in bad shape. If he didn't move him carefully and quickly, he was going to die. Mita had been through that. The last thing he wanted was to watch someone else go through it when he could help. Forcing himself to move, Mitari pushed forward towards Lyri's father, only to have his spine chilled with the words of the last heretic dragoon. He stopped in his tracks and turned behind him to look wide-eyed at the beast. No longer was he hyur, or elezen, or whatever he was. A monstrous dragon was all that was left, lusting after power and only power. Lyri's command jumped his senses and he lunged forward towards her father. Checking the man's wounds for a moment, he wasted no time pulling the man carefully into his arms and starting for the stairway. The Dragoon laughed at Lyrique and pressed the point of the blade on his against the blunt end of her own and dragged it down the shaft. He didn't so much as flinch as Lyrique's blade cut into the side of his face, just swinging his head away with a grin. Lyrique's blood hit the floor at her feet, warm enough to steam on the stone. She barely felt the pain in her numb hand, her fingers simply feeling strange, and she didn't look for fear that they'd been severed completely. The Dragoon's arms and head swung from his spine like a corpse on a pike, and he said, "Midichante. We've been counting down on your siblings. You're the last one." "Blasphemy!" Lyrique swung her lance at open air. Ice and snow broke around her in the wake of the Dragoon's leap, the dark form launching into the sky and away from her attack. His heckling chuckle trailed behind him like a heinous stench, even as his silhouette vanished into the white haze of the storm. Her thumb and two primary fingers still had gripping power on her lance, and she hooked it against her opposite elbow for support as she pursued the Dragoon, throwing herself blindly into the white static sky. Meanwhile, Mitari ran as fast as possible without hurting the old man, or himself, down the stairwell. Rubble and debris was falling past his head as the tower seemed to be falling in on itself. He cursed loudly to himself, and could only hope Lyri would be okay. She would never forgive him if he left her father though, and he wasn't sure he could do that same. So down the spiraling staircase he went until he came to the broken stairs. "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck." He cursed, panicked, to himself. He glanced down towards the ground. It wasn't that far. If he positioned himself right he could... He didn't have time to think. "Hold on tight old man!" He winced and dived off the side, keeping the old broken man close and his back to take the impact. He landed hard on the rubbled ground, but solidly at least. Blood spewed from his mouth as he tried to take in air again. The old man... Mitari looked to the man, but he seemed relatively unchanged. But Mitari... he was going to have trouble getting up again. There was a silence that Mitari found a certain peace to. Where he could focus on breathing and pulling himself back together as much as possible. The pendant the hung around his neck glowed faintly, but it was obscured by the armor her wore. Slowly, he pulled from the endless aether of life around him to tape back together his ribs and body. Enough to walk. Enough to keep moving. He had to keep moving. And finally he shuddered and moved to sit up, but it was too late. The tower shuddered violently and through the roof crashed a figure of blood and steel. The ceiling gave to its weight, and then the floor and Mitari was sent falling. [align=center][/align] Lyrique was a star of gold, glass, black ichor and red blood, and she left a tail of swirling snow as she fell. With an unnatural speed she descended, like a bolt thrown to earth. She struck the roof of the tower head-first, and her helmet shattered on impact. Shards of the crest of Midichante that had decorated her facemask now cut into her face, or spread themselves about the ruins. Her crashed flat against the stone of the roof even as that stone cracked and splintered, fell inward and became ruin. In a brief moment that seemed to slither by, the roof gave way under the force of the impact, and Lyrique was falling again. This time the stone from the floor preceded her, crashing into the weakened floor below her and caving it in before her own body reached it. Lyrique was limply rolled up in between rubble below and above, massive chunks of the building pressing down on her as -- one floor at a time -- she fell through a thousand tonnes of stone. This ended at the ground floor, the cellar reinforced enough to endure the incredible blow. With a crash that rolled ike thunder, rubble hit the ground and began to pile up, large chunks of stone being thrown to the sides and knocking holes in the walls. The whole tower sagged, but it stayed standing, now little more than a hollow urn with stairs wrapping its insides. As the stones settled in the bottom of the tower, a chunk of a wall rolled free and collapsed to reveal Lyrique Midichante half-buried in the rubble. She was arched improbably with her feet over her head, her arms hanging down, red hair pouring from her scalp like blood. Red drops pelted the stoned beneath her, falling from steams that ran down both arms and criss-crossed her face. Her green eyes stared tiredly ahead at nothing. She breathed shallow and fast. Gold chains and broken glass beads hung from her chest and shoulders, the flayed remains of her sundered armor. [align=center][/align] [align=justify]He flailed, tried to find the old man in the air. His back hit the ground hard and the small patch of floor beneath him held. Mitari scrambled, eyes lit with adrenaline as he looked for the broken figure of the old man. His eyes caught a glimpse, and he darted out faster than he knew it could, grabbing the man and pulling him into his arms. "H-hang on!" Mitari sputtered, placing Lyri's father on the small patch of standing stone and pressing his hands to the man's chest. Again, the stone against his chest glowed and grew warm. The knowledge of healing arts that was not his own pulling forth life and aether and pressed it into the old man, weaving it carefully to mend and hold steady. Mitari looked at him again, panicked and sweaty and thought the man looked as if he had regained a bit of color. He wasted no more time, pulling the man into his arms and heading down the rest of the treacherous path to the bottom. It was not far. Just a short jump. And Mitari scrambled, finding the cellar door covered in rubble. He knocked it away with his foot and quickly saw to it that someone from below had grasp of Lyri's father, only to shut the cellar door and push another piece of rubble over it. Mitari's task completed, he looked around, scrambling for a lance. "Lance... lance... where..." He froze as he saw a body, dagling from the rubble and drowning in blood. "L-l... Lyrique!" Mitari called, rushing towards the broken figure. He did not know if it was really her, but he had to go to her side regardless. [/align] [align=justify]Lyrique was like a bloodied windchime hanging from the stone, her armor broken and bent into strange shapes that were outlined in gold and fogged glass. Snow had already begun to settle in the cracks over her body, drifts of white powder that had fallen into the crevice with her, in places turned pink or black by blood. Her gaze fell as though pulled by gravity, to watch her hair stained a darker shade of red in streaks that reached towards the stone beneath her, to watch the small channels of blood running down the rubble. She didn't show any initial reaction to Mitari. "Lyrique!" Mitari called again, rushing to her side and skidding onto his knees to tend to her. He looked frantically at her, hoping she was still alive, looking for a sign of breath. "Sorry Lyrique, hate me later for being lesser and touching you or whatever." Mitari spat out before pulling her tenderly and roughly down to the floor proper so he could examine her wounds. Mitari pulled off his gloves and pressing his own injured hands to her chest. Healing, healing, he needed to heal. A third time, the soulstone against his chest glowed so brightly now that it shown faintly through his torn armor. The heat is exuded burned his chest lightly and he tried to ignore in favor of patching up the worst of her wounds. It was clumsy healing, and with a weak flow to it since he had nothing to channel energy through, but he hoped, he prayed to Halone it would be enough to keep her alive. As Mitari began to heal her, Lyrique's shallow breaths became audible, and her eyes moved in lazy, confused circles. She was pale from cold and bloodloss. Her muscles were both hard with tension but limp all over. Into her voiceless breath she began to painstakingly insert letters. "U'ta... I mis... I'm not..." "Mitari goddamnit. Is it that hard to say? Mi-tar-ri!" He hissed back furiously at Lyrique, pressing his hands a bit more firmly against her chest. "Just... shut up. Shut up and let me do this one thing that I can do. Okay?" Mitari took a deep breath and refocused his efforts, doubling them into healing whatever he could. For a few long moments, Lyrique simply lay there like a body only half-animated, staring through the holes in the ceiling at the white sky high above them. Snow fell on the two of them. Her eyes closed and she exhaled, "...Mitari." Mitari didn't say another word. He just sat there and used everything he could muster to try and magically duct-tape Lyrique back together. The soulstone against his neck burned, and for some reason, it felt like there was a particularly warm hand on his shoulder. Almost like his mother was there, channeling her energy through his and into Lyrique. He pulled from the surrounding aether until it would give no more and finally looked down to her, afraid he had failed in healing her but desperately hoping that it was enough. The woman lifted one hand onto her chest, and grabbed Mitari's arm. It was the hand that had been broken before, still aching and weak, but it somehow had a small degree of gripping strength. She looked at Mitari and was able to focus on him, and when she spoke, she had a voice, as tired as it was. "Mitari. Since when can you...?" "Since always. You just never bothered to notice." Mitari smiled a bit and pat her hand, hoping to pry it loose. "Did you kill them all? Are there more? I got your father to the cellar. They're taking care of him." An expression of grief washed over Lyrique, pulling on her every feature. She drew in a deep breath, her mouth hanging open and her eyes widening, gripping Mitari's arm more tightly. "I miscounted. I was wrong. There were more, in the sky. We can't take the keep back." Mitari scowled and glanced up to the sky. More? Too many... If they couldn't take the keep back then they had to run. But... he could still fight. Maybe she couldn't, but he could. "Give me your soulstone." Mitari asked, glancing back to down Lyrique. "I can still fight. Let me borrow your lance and your soulstone. I can kill the rest." Shaking her head fervently, Lyrique responded bitterly, "You're an idiot. There's more to being a Dragoon than having a soulstone and a lance. Those heretics would kill you and I'd be left without my power." "I know that Lyrique. Did you really think I sat around here for as long as I did and only shoveled chocobo manure? Did you really think I didn't learn anything and just did as you said?" Mitari scowled deeply at her. There wasn't much she could do if he just took her soulstone. He could just take it. It was in his grasp. "Fine. If you wont' give me yours, I know where I can find one." Mitari stood from her and turned, moving towards the distant and shadowed body of a dead corrupted dragoon. "Don't be an idiot!" Lyrique rolled to her knees quickly, and then promptly collapsed onto her haunches and caught herself with her hands. "Even if you'd trained for a decade with the High Houses' best, you've no experience! You won't even know how to control the power in the stone so you don't smash your body against a damned wall!" Mitari paused and offered a dark smile back towards Lyrique. "Maybe someone should have taught me properly then." And with that he turned and walked, kneeling next to the body and rummaging through its corpse to find what he sought. With inhuman speed, Lyrique launched her broken body off the ground and threw the mass of her body against Mitari to knock him violently away, herself tumbling several times after the impact. Mitari heaved a loud exhale of air as he was violently knocked from the corpse and beneath Lyrique's heavy, and quite spikily armored body. He found the wind knocked completely out of him and struggled for a minute to catch his breath again. Laying on her belly in the snow and stone, too weak to stand, Lyrique struggled to speak, "You... Can't. There are so many reasons. Fool." She turned her face so that her green eyes glared at him through red hair and blood, "I need you to help me. Do not leave me like this. Do not touch the heretic again." Mitari slowly got to his knees before standing again. She had always told him no. They had always told him no. The temptation to fuck them all and run off with their 'precious' resources struck him. He could be stronger than they ever were. He could show them his power. In all of his powerless life, he knew he could have that power and strike them all down as if he were Halone himself. But he turned his head towards Lyrique and sighed. "What do you propose then?" Pulling herself up onto her knees once more, Lyrique said, "We need to get everyone out of the keep. There will be camps nearby. Those you've hidden in the cellars will know where. You can help them and I will stay to give you an opening." "Tch. You can't even stand!" Mitari scowled at Lyrique deeply and shook his head. But she was right about one thing. They had to get the others out of here. He walked over the dead body and towards the cellar. With a heavy heave he pushed the rubble out of the way and pulled up the door. "You won't be distracting anyone. Let's just get them out as best we can." He called back darkly before sticking his head down the cellar stairs. "They knew to call me Midichante," she muttered, forcing herself to her feet. Her knees wouldn't fully extend, her back hunched. She had lost her lance somewhere. The woman looked to be holding together only through some magical mixture of Mitari's healing and the power of the soulstone she carried. "Once they realize I survived the fall, they'll focus their attention on me. This time until they are sure that I am dead." Mitari paused and glanced back. Why wouldn't they know to call her Midichante? Didn't everyone know of her? Of the Midichantes? He didn't question it for now, instead moving a bit further into the cellar and peering around. "Well at least take a lance. You won't be a good distraction if you just die immediately." He called back, rummaging around before throwing a lance towards her. Lyrique caught the lance, her posture weak but her arm and hand strong. This just before another lance struck her from above, crashing into the armor on her back and sending chunks of golden filigrees skittering to the ground. The only barely-assembled woman collapsed with a silent groan, curling up on the floor next to where the dark lance landed. A heretic dragoon joined the lance a moment later, cold face smiling, his eyes on Mitari and a smirk on his face. "So that's where the survivors are located. Thank you, Miqo'te." Mitari spun on his heels and stormed up the stairs as he heard something strike from above. He slammed the cellar door shut and stood on top of it, as if his body could protect the flimsy door. A dragoon. A corrupted dragoon no less. Mitari unfurled his tail and caught a small stone in the palm of his hand. It was a good thing he had never listened to Lyrique in the first place. With a might he had never known and a speed untested, he launched himself at the dragoon with all the power he had stolen from the other heretics. His fist went forward towards the man's shield face with a power to shatter the very mask he wore, and probably his hand in the process. Lyrique curled up on herself, her lance forgotten, her body broken, her armor in pieces all around her. She could sense Mitari's movement even if she couldn't see it, the speed and power of the charge enough that she could hear the displaced air, feel the floor trembling in respect. She wanted to shout, but whispered instead, "No, Mitari! Not the heretic's soulstone! Not that!" Power. More power than he had ever felt surged through him. It was breathless. Weightless. It shattered the shackles he had always felt tied tightly around his body. It was freedom. An exhilarating feeling that coursed through his body and head like a high. The Heretic and the Miq'ote slammed into the nearest wall, further toppling the tower and sending rubble crashing to the ground. It took took a second before they were off the wall again, flying through the air like dragons in a sick and twisted fight. Whatever buildings still stood, where standing no longer as the two crash through and then darted back to the air again. Whatever lance the heretic had was gone, dropped upon the floor someplace near Lyrique and the cellar. Screams and the loud ringing noises of the fight echoed through the air and finally the duo slammed into the ground not far from Lyrique again. Mitari was on top, his hands wrung around the heretic's neck. The heretic struggled beneath him, grasping and scratching at Mitari. But with his immense newfound power, Mitari dug his nail into the mans neck and pulled as hard as he could. The result was a grotesque scene. Something so gruesome, even Mitari scrambled back from what he had done and turned his head to shakily vomit what remained of the contents in his stomach. Still, when he regained a mostly semblance of himself he was in worse shape than he originally though. Lyrique had been right in that the power of a dragoon's soulstone was more than he was capable of handling without proper training. Bones shattered and broken in odd directions, but the adrenaline high kept him from feeling it all yet. His body shook with disgust and power. Through all his helpless life, he had obtained more power than he thought possible. And there was even more to be obtained. His eyes cast upwards. That dragon... there was one outside wasn't there? If he could tear a man apart with his limbs, what could he do with a weapon to a dragon? The temptation was strong, and he shakily moved towards Lyrique to grasp for the lance. Shivering on the ground, mostly limp, one arm across her chest, Lyrique watched Mitari's approach with eyes wide, as though he had fangs and horns. She took a breath that shook deep in her chest, and said in a cloud of warm breath, "Mitari, you need to stop. You need to help me." Mitari paused faintly, looking at Lyrique for a moment before grasping for the lance anyway and moving to stand. He gave a hollow laugh towards her, his eyes glancing back up towards the sky. "And what will I get for helping you? More rejection. More disreguard. Finally... I can finally have all the power I was always denied. I don't have to be helpless. I can do it. I can kill anything." He grinned maniacally towards the sky, towards the dragon. He could slay that dragon. He had the power now to do it. He could slay that dragon and take its power for his own. And then he could do whatever he wanted. He wasn't bound to being some vagrant anymore. He could do anything with that sort of power... "You're going to die," Lyrique bit out from between her teeth, clutching her own body tight with one arm as though she could keep herself from falling apart while she struggled onto her knees. It was a humiliating process, pressing her forehead against the ground while she got her knees beneath her, and when she lifted her face to look at Mitari, it was smudged with dirt and snow and blood. "There are more heretic dragoons, every one of whom is better than you. What happens to me after you die? What happens to my father and everyone in the cellar?" Mitari let out a laugh. A hollow, cruel, dark laugh. Something completely out of character for him. Throughout all is his years with the Midichantes, he had never been cruel. Cocky, perhaps, but never cruel. "What a fitting end for us all then, don't you think?" He hissed back towards the broken women. He stepped towards her, his own broken body moving in a somehow serpentine fashion. "How fitting that we all die together then. And to think, we could have all lived if only you had trained me. If only you had seen what I am capable of. Then maybe we would all live because I could have fought with you at the beginning. I could have helped in a fashion more substantial then what I did. How fitting it would be for you all to die because your pride for all these years doomed me to fail. If I were the vengeful sort, that's precisely what would happen." His words were seething and dark. Something corrupt emanated, as if he were turning. And then it stopped and he stood up straight. "But revenge isn't my style." He said flatly before limping over towards Lyrique again. "How do we get everyone out with the keep infested?" Grinding her teeth, Lyrique stared at Mitari as though she'd never seen anything like him. Like he was something other than a person. Her one hand tightened on her chestplate, pulling on some of the ornamentation there, and her red hair veiled one of her bright green eyes. But as far as Mitari knew, Lyrique had never considered him a person to begin with. So her look didn't change to him. It was the same as it had always been. When he was done speaking, without changing her expression, she said, "I'll give you a chance at revenge when we're done here, if you want." She then leaned forward, swayed backward, and stood. Her stance was unsteady, and her gaze turned about in expectation of being attacked again at any moment. Though she couldn't have done anything about it. She was practically helpless. Mitari waved a hand dismissively and limped his own half-broken self over. "The hard way. Do we have anyone else that's alive I wonder..." he muttered before motioning to Lyrique again. "I got a little bit of healing left in me. We need to be as taped together as I can get us before we start hauling people out of here. If need be, I can distract them and you can get everyone to run." Mitari held out his hand and motioned for Lyrique to take it. Lyrique took his hand, though she still watched him. "There are no other Dragoons here. I don't know where they've gone. I think some of them are our enemies now." Mitari gave an exasperated sigh. "I can't believe I'm more loyal to the Midichantes than your own Knights. This is completely..." He grunted and shook his head before pushing it completely out of his mind. "Right, healing. This might feel intrusive but, don't think you're good to go. I'm just going to try and shove everything where it's supposed to be and hold it there for the next few hours. You'll die if you go around acting like you're totally healed." Mitari warned seriously before closing his eyes. Most of the aether around him was tapped out or corrupted, but he could pull from further away. Again the stone on his neck burned faintly and he focused himself on pulling the living aether from far away. Further out into the snow where life was blanketed beneath the white fluffy cold. He pulled it all closer to himself and Lyrique until it permeated the air with a thick and breathable tension. And then he focused it abruptly on their persons, forming a sort of magical barrier around the muscles that would force them in place and hold them there for perhaps the next thirty to forty minutes. The actual feeling of shoving all of his bones and brokenness back together properly took Mitari's breath and he fell to his knees to cough and try and regain it. His everything felt stiff and uncomfortable, but the spell itself was fairly efficient. He couldn't quite feeling the pain anymore, just a lot of stiffness and with that he looked towards Lyrique to see how she had fared having a large force of external magic shunted into her. The woman was looking at her once-broken hand, shifting her wrist around, gripping and uncurling her fingers. Her face was set in a frown, but her body stood straight and independent. She gave Mitari a disturbed look and pulled away from him, turning her back from him and walking a few paces away. Lyrique stretched her limbs and turned her back one way and then the other, working her shoulders and neck. "I feel sullied," she observed, quietly."I do not assume that either of us are going to survive. You aren't exactly my pick of people to die with." "Well..." Mitari coughed and stood up, rubbing his arms lightly and making sure everything was set properly. "I wanted to be a dragoon and I didn't want my family to get murdered. So I would say dying with someone who helped your stupid ass in the first place isn't that bad. Now quit your bitching and get a lance. We have innocents to evacuate." Mitari said, somewhat disturbingly cheerfully before turning and grabbing a lance from the floor. With lance in hand he moved over towards the cellar and threw the door open again, peering down below. "Get them started," Lyrique said, walking back towards the center of the room. "I'll get the heretics started in the other direction, as was my plan in the first place. Make sure you stay with those you are evacuating." She went to one knee underneath the hole in the ceiling, preparing to jump away. Mitari paused and quickly moved next to her to grab her hand again to stop her. "Hey... they're your people. Shouldn't you be the one to guide them to safety? You'd have a better chance at living if you stayed with them..." Mitari frowned deeply at her. "Do not touch me," Lyrique said, knocking Mitari's hand aside and jumping away. She landed on the pile of rubble, though, only half a floor up. She lingered there in a crouch, "My father is the head of my family. As long as he and the other heirs live I don't have the luxury of thinking of my own survival. I'm a Lady at peace, but right now I'm just a Dragoon. As are you, for the next ten minutes, and under my command. Do as I say." Mitari clicked his tongue as she snapped and jumped away. Always a bitch. Always. Even when she was dying and he saved her. Several times. He shook his head and shrugged. "Yeah alright. I can listen to directions." He huffed, cracking his neck and moving back to the cellar. "Make sure you stay with them, Mitari!" Lyrique repeated and then leapt up the center of the tower, disappearing. She hadn't even taken a lance with her. Mitari clicked his tongue. No lance? She was going up there to die and it wasn't gonna give him any time to... ugh. He called down to the people below in the cellar and quickly got them to the surface. Making sure they were all in a tight group with the injured being carried, he started to lead them from the rubble, hoping to stay out of sight as much as possible. [align=center][/align] [/align]

"We'll be in more plentiful lands and feasting on fruit and roots by the time Midsummer comes." K'ile found himself smiling broadly. Despite his exhaustion, hunger and thirst -- almost as if he had been fasting while riding home on a feast for dozens -- he energetically followed K'deiki and even walked a ways past her towards the elders' tent, his eyes on her the whole way. "No, this is for ritual, celebration and contest like none of us have seen since the sky fell. You should pass punishment on me quick once we're with the other elders, so we can talk about it!"

The sand was forming drifts against K'ile's feet, and he could feel Azeyma's gaze burning it's way through the reddened skin of his neck, shoulders, and back. He watched his family working together, even if K'rahto and K'nahli were doing so with bitterness. They took K'luha back eagerly, and would apply the same energy to restoring her health, he was sure. K'tahjha was helping K'zhumi, a good place for her, and he saw no one treating her as anything less than a sister. K'mih was interacting with the exile's son, and nobody was stopping her from doing so. K'yohko's anger had been rejected, along with everything it implied. "K'iara!" The Tia shouted out to the woman, still near the wagon. "That wagon is load up with food and water! Make sure it gets covered up and stored! We're going to have a feast later!" He turned, then, to follow K'deiki. He smiled at the elder, saying while he walked, "It was really hard work to squeeze a feast out of that trip, but I managed it! And for a good reason."

I wonder if the reason they have that on there is to add specific end-game value to the game? I suppose they might look at it from a 'if new players are using this from level 10 onwards, they might be tired of it by the time they hit 50, and therefore will stop playing faster' perspective. Especially if they're still running the game with the preference that people not play alts, even if that means they're not getting a couple extra dollars per month. From my perspective it's probably more that they don't want everyone to have a house. Remember that Yoshi was concerned that if he lowered the price on FC Housing, all the FCs might actually buy houses? Like, the content might actually get used? I think he's worried about server space and being able to run enough instances of the housing neighborhoods in order for everyone to have their own houses. Much less everyone have houses on their alts. I think that this problem, just like so many others the game has, goes back to not investing in servers of sufficient number, power and size.

I don't think he asked for critique. Y'all are being jerks.

When K'yohko spun on him, the muscles in K'iles limbs snapped tight against his bones. His back straightened, eyes opened, tail shot out behind him and his chin lifted. Instinctively, he expected K'yohko to rush him, and he was ready to fight the Nunh if he was attacked. He was always read to fight K'yohko. The Nunh possessed a maddened heart, where reason only dwelt on the best of days. He was a cruel and powerful man, unbalanced. K'ile Tia's readiness to fight the man was as inextricable as his readiness to sleep at night, to awaken at morning, to close his eyes against sudden light. Before K'yohko could ever attack him, well before the time came, K'ile Tia would be read to fight back. That time was not now. The bandanna in the sand was a familiar gesture, smelling of the girl that had foolishly gone ahead. It shifted in the wind and settled. The migrating sand tried to bury it, like a corpse. It reminded him of the trappings K'aijeen had left behind when she'd walked into the sands to die. Looking on the bandanna, listening to K'yohko's accusations, it felt familiar. It felt nostalgic. It felt... Something turned inside the Tia's belly. Like a hibernating animal sloughing the mud from it emaciated body, something nauseous rolled over inside him. It made him sick. It made him smile. As K'yohko Nunh fled from confrontation with his own bitterness, K'ile's blue eyes slid in their sockets to watch him. From the shadowed veil beneath his red hair, as though from behind smoke and fire, K'ile peered at the monstrous man. His smile was small, and his head did not turn. His body remained still and his arms at his sides. His tail flipping behind him twice, K'ile turned to K'deiki's back and spoke in a very small voice, like a hesitant breath, to keep his happiness out of his tone. The Tia instead sounded humble. "I have to the apologize to the Elders for being gone so long, and for mistakes I've made. I hope they can forgive me. We can make things right again if we all work together." K'ile Tia's fingertips were numb. He felt like he had climbed a very great height up sheer rock -- so high that he had lost sight of the summit -- and just now found the utmost cliff, gripping it fast in shock. His hands curled into light fists. He smelt K'luha and K'tahjha on the wind, K'airos on the cart, but no sign of K'ailia or K'aijeen. It was like succulent blooms to his senses. It was like the morning air the instant before he began to dance.

"It's not fair to just reject people out-of-hand for being outsiders." K'ile remained behind K'deiki, speaking more to her than anyone else. His body was bowed forward, arms at his sides in open posture. He did his best to sound subservient. "There's nothing wrong with being cautious. But we're not afraid of him, are we? If he can't hurt us and isn't being rude then aren't we just being bullies?"

K'ile Tia stepped back from the shaman. He still had instincts to comfort her, but he lacked the ability. He had come here to tell her that her daughter was dead, and he had convinced her of that. It was neither his place nor his talent to do anything more, even if he wished it otherwise. There was still fire in his body as he moved back towards the tent's exist. It sparked in his heal as he rolled his food away from K'piru. It burned his fingertips as he let go of her hands. The fire roiled in his face and neck, chest and gut, as he turned away from her. He didn't want to leave. He hadn't wanted to hurt her, even though he knew that he would. The fire, therefore, was inevitable as a brush fire in summer, when the lightning storms come. The fire wanted out of him. He couldn't comfort the shaman, but he could flee the tent. He could find the firedancers and pull them to their feet. K'ada would understand. She would light him ablaze herself if she got a hold of his tail while the stone on his wrist burned hot and bright as it did. If the firedancer didn't give the flame inside of him to a staff, to a dance, he felt that it would burst from his very bones. K'ile pushed his way out of the tent without another word. He could at least take a moment to find K'thalen before he went in search of the firedancers.

The woman seemed to wither in front of him. His hardened thoughts told him it looked like heat exhaustion, but he felt that it looked like bloodless. It looked like she was bleeding out and would soon die. There was an ironic streak of protectiveness in him that told him to defend K'piru from whatever was assailing her, even though it was he himself. How would he protect her from that? Loosening his grip on her hands, K'ile said, "You should be with someone." But not with him, who didn't care for her loss, who only cared that she remain with the tribe. Truthfully, he was perhaps glad to have separated K'aijeen from K'piru and K'thalen, from their children. He had always envied his brother, and now he could do so without reservation. In his wicked heart, so obscured that he had not realized it until now, there was no part of his brother's life which he did not wish that he possessed. Among them was the Nunh's ability to offer comfort, and he did not think it was a sin to envy at least that much. "I'll go find Thalen and tell him to attend to you. He'll be able to comfort you."

"And if I don't say it, who will?" K'thalen Nunh would be too kind. That's why he was a Nunh, and the callous, secretly wicked K'ile Tia was the one who delivered the hard news, put the children in the racks, enforced exile. His heart was brittle from it, perhaps, but the loss of K'aijeen was not enough to break it. Nor, it seemed, was K'piru's pleading. Because she needed this. The Tia tightened his features. "You've every right to mourn, but you can't leave the tribe over it. You have duties. You have your other daughters. There's nothing left to give up on. There is no daughter left to return to you."

"But she won't." K'ile bent forward as he was pulled on, and this seemed to dislodge the frustration in his voice. "She would come home to Airos or Thalen, but she disregarded you, didn't she? Or did I hear that wrong?" He tightened his hands over hers, as though he though she would pull away and was prepared to hold her in place. "I'm not trying to be cruel, but even if she were around -- which she isn't -- she'd be more likely to show herself to anyone else."

The weight of K'ile's fingers went light, pulling upward as though by strings in Azeyma's hands. He lifted and wrapped his fingers over K'piru's hands, saying, "You daughters mourn as well, don't they? The tribe needs its shaman. It isn't your duty to search." He could feel weakness inside her hands -- thin, delicate hands meant for careful work. They were meant to give care to a tribe, and to children. They were not made for the strength it takes to brave the desert alone. Or to confront the demon that her daughter had called, if it were to find her while she was alone. "If you're so desperate that someone remains, let Thalen or myself do it for you."

"If she were gone we would find nothing." The pitiless drone of his words, like a yawn, would have infuriated him coming from any other voice but his own. He swallowed, as though his attitude were as simply contained as an illness might be. His wrist flicked again; he barely noticed it. Fire churned in his ribs and arms. What was he burning for? "Leaving the tribe on one's own is suicide. It is true for you the same as it is for her." He eyed the bag she had dropped, doubting it contained sufficient supplies to give her a chance at so much as one day in the desert, even in the remains of an abandoned camp. "You wouldn't leave your daughters, would you?"