Chapter Two - She Doth Mock The Meat She Feeds Upon [Semi-Closed]

[Morgan]

"Move swiftly to Crescent Knoll, inform the others to prepare a feast. Tonight, we celebrate," Melarne ordered several of her sisters as she wiped the tears from her face, her composure regained. The women departed quickly, darting into the woods heading southeast. She turned towards the treasure hunters, "I do hope our newly formed friends will accompany us?"

Iylianna had not a moment to appreciate her surroundings until now. The vivid greens of the forest thrust upwards to meet the darkened hues of the evening sky. Stars, like diamond dust, sprinkled the blanket of night, merging with the brilliant, silver light of the fall moon. Arjana was just beginning to peek from behind her brother's shoulder, signifying the first eve of the Ascension.

"Please, accompany us, Iylianna. You and your protectors," though the woman had yet to identify herself, their thought exchange had left Melarne with the impression of her name.

Iylianna's gaze lowered from the sky to fall just behind Melarne, settling on the grotesque view of those Acolytes that Melarne and her sisters had earlier executed, "What of them?"

Melarne turned her head, unsure of who Iylianna may have been referring to and, noting the remains, replied, "What of them, indeed. We will leave them there. A warning to Xaroc and his Necromancers."

Iylianna's face convoluted in innocent horror, "Leave them? You cannot!"

"It is our way, Iylianna."

"Your way is blasphemous! Those men deserve to have a burial. If not, at least a pyre, but you cannot leave them that way!" Salted tears pooled at the corners of her eyes, threatening to spill over as her eyes darted between Melarne and the corpses.

"Those men were traitors of Isélyr and murderers! They killed two of my sisters and," she paused as Iylianna shook her head, her hand pressing heavily against her mouth as she bit into the knuckle of her fist. She fought to control herself, remaining silent as Melarne raged on, "had I not stopped them, they surely would have killed you, as well."

"They were still men. Creations of the Seven, to give them anything less would be the same as to deny the Seven their freedom. They deserve more, Melarne."

The ebony warrior looked over the alabaster female and sighed before turning away to issue the command, "Build a pyre. We will burn the bodies."

"Thank you. May your soul rest easy now."

"Do not thank me, Iylianna. No tears will be shed for these men nor shall regret be harbored. Our souls were at ease already. We do this only to appease you." Melarne turned away. Temporarily leaving Iylianna in the company of her protectors, Melarne joined her remaining sisters as they crossed the Soothsigh River.

[Acies ab Vesania]

Typheris stands by idly while the others work out their differences. Given that confrontations with one woman per day was more than enough for him, he was not about to get himself involved with this next one. Was the situation one that others might call a little more... normal, he may have welcomed the squabbling. In fact, he may have encouraged it, should he see potential gains from it. There were few things sexier than a few pretty women about ready to tear each other apart, hopefully their clothes in the process. Yes indeed, were he anywhere else at any other time, things would be different. Instead, he had to settle for gems that give birth to weird prophetic women with a tad too much compassion, an Elven beauty whose idea of foreplay was shoving an arrow in your face and a consort claiming their meeting the party was destiny.

It made certain one thing: He would be drinking A LOT tonight.

Still, there was one of those women from the consort who has been eyeballing him all night, perhaps not everything would go for waste. He could get some free food, a bit of wine, a night worth remembering and then silently take his leave. That too would be a good plan. Saving the world, those were things for the people he wrote stories about, not for those who use the tails to help gain the favor of ladies whose pants were a little too loose...

"Well, perhaps it's just me, but the smell of burnt flesh really doesn't fit my idea of good ambience for a nice feast under the moonlit night. Perhaps we could get out of this clearing and find somewhere a little more suiting for this whole gets to know you bit?"

Typheris flashes a winning smile, using his charisma to work his way through the awkward situation.

[olivejuice.]

Things seemed to only grow more dire and complex. The elf, much like the others, remained rather quiet during all the conversation between the newly born woman and the giant warrior. The bard kindly offered the woman clothing, which was ironic to say the least, and oddly and suspiciously helpful. This did not change her personal feelings toward the man, however, as the elf crossed her arms and bore a look of heavy disdain toward the disgusting man. The just born woman, come to be known as Iylianna, was suddenly left in their company, as the warrior and her companions crossed the river to their village. They had all been extended an invitation that Amara assumed they would be forced to take, but it was after the bard spoke that the elf disrupted the entirety of the situation.

" What the hell is going on? " Her voice pierced through the moment, perhaps causing the bard's statement to go unnoticed or ignored. The elf's gaze was settled harshly on Iylianna, who obviously knew a great deal more than all of them combined, despite her birth.

" If we are forced into this," Amara barked, " I'd love to know exactly what is expected of me... us. " She corrected her last word, though it was obvious her own selfishness was still the initial concern. The elf made it clear her participation required details, and though the lot of them were in it together, she was still clearly thinking of her own safety. Considering all these new circumstances, she was beginning to hope the warrior's village had strong ale.

[Morgan]

Iylianna had managed to settle herself atop the smooth surface of the boulder, drawing her knees to her chest she began, "You were chosen to destroy Xaroc and help return Order to Isélyr. What more do you need to know?" She shrugged her shoulders.

"You already know the tale of Xaroc and the invasion he and his necromancers wrought on Isélyr. You also know, or should know if you kept up with your studies," Iylianna assumed the members of the small party had all received some form of education and, according the lessons she received from Corlin, Isélyr history was a common subject, "that Xaroc has kept the Seven held captive within the Soul Crystals and that his Generals each have one."

Iylianna spoke words of common knowledge, occasionally her eyes would stare up into the sky or dance across the surface of the rushing waters in awe of her surroundings. A red bird fluttered across the canopy of the wood, weaving its way in and out of the darkness and her eyes followed its path until it darted into the woods and she lost it.

"To kill Xaroc, we need the help of the Seven. To receive the help of the Seven, we need to retrieve the Soul Crystals. I," Iylianna paused, unsure of how to continue, "I don't know how to unlock the Soul Crystals, once we have them, but the Athenaeum in Chemosh will have the answers."

By then, Melarne had resolved to leave the rest of her task to her sisters and had returned to Iylianna's side.

"We should go. If we move quickly, we can make it to my village before the sun comes up. Be wary, though, the way is dangerous." Melarne moved towards the line of trees, turning once to be sure the rest were following as she withdrew Bane from its scabbard. To describe the surroundings of Crescent Knoll as dangerous would be an understatement for its positioning within E'Kraune was specifically chosen for the natural dangers surrounding the small village.

[Hembrent]

The track. The track was nowhere to be found, even by this most skillful of trackers as his breath was almost caught up in his throat by the laboured panting. Blazing through the trees as if his own steps could spark a flame where he stepped, fear would be the smallest word for his current condition as he panted like an overheated dog on a hot day. His steps guided his stalkers through the forest at a quick pace, they were no doubt experts at their task given to them by whoever sought the death of this tracker. This tracker going only by the calling of "Erik."

He could see the forest as if the sun was shining brightly even through the absence of light. He paid no attention to what was behind him, he was far too focused and high on adrenaline to tell his legs to stop for even a second. He leaped through the woods, hopping over streams and smaller chasms created by elevated land, rock and trees. His arms swung as if they could make him airbourne at any moment, but they only kept his pace high. This was no sprint, but could easily be deciphered as one. He was simply used to running at very fast paces. The same tree-line others would be looking upon was broken by the woodsman as he dashed into the high grass just outside.

He was seen briefly, very briefly, in whatever light might've been shed upon him, before he was among the stalks of the high grass. His own stalkers came to a stop, each of them equally laboured as Erik was, but Erik was far from done with these monsters naming themselves after Men. He crawled like a snake through the high grass, until the distance was great enough. He rose slowly. Very slowly. The supposed assassins were sweeping the field of high grass, cutting it as they passed by, but it was to no use as one of them soon fell with a pained scream. A pained scream extracted by an arrow set into his heart. Erik was no longer in near panic, he was slowly gaining the advantage he sought and he crawled through the field again to find a new vantage point from which another arrow whistled through the air before claiming the next life silently save for the soft thud of his enemy striking the ground. The last one was graced with the visage of his death as Erik let the last arrow go, striking the forehead of his last stalker and throwing him back with the impact.

The now lonely woodsman was standing in the tall grass, coughing and panting as his body settled down from the adrenaline, struggling for lost breath and some extreme dashing. Perhaps the eyes of others would find the man who had single-handedly killed off three bandits with only one of them actually seeing it's death.

[Morgan]

Already, the acrid stench of burning flesh filled the evening's air as plumes of black smoke rose into the skies. Iylianna turned her gaze from Melarne to the funeral pyres and she slipped from the surface of the rock to face the western shore.

"In your eternal slumber, I pray that Avantes grants your souls the peace that was wrought from you in life," a whispered prayer left her lips before she turned to face the party. Emerald eyes passed over each member, pausing momentarily on the Elven archeress and the hume bard, before silently asking the Creators of Origin to grant them protection as they began their journey.

She turned away, silently moving to join Melarne before turning to look at those who were still cemented in place.

"Shall we?"

[AthreleCaliver]

Minutes had formed pools of merging time. Everything seemed to be passing rather quickly in front of her eyes, her body and mind just barely following the entire happenings of their growing group. She was exhausted, and reached to her shoulder for her pack, pulling out the small sack of nuts and berries she’d purchased what seemed like a lifetime ago.

Slender fingers dipped amongst several textures until one that seemed pleasing enough was found, and she popped the dark brown object into her mouth. The chewing was slow, and her eyes would advert to familiar and foreign faces alike. Athrele couldn’t help but feel some sort of emptiness for the people surrounding her; she was used to being alone. This much company for this length of time… was simply amazing to her.

Even as there were clouds of smoke billowing from the pyre, she continued to chew ever so slowly. Death had come and gone through her life like a simple breeze, it was nothing new. Amara was still facing denial as it so seemed, asking for the answer she already had within her.

So simple, and yet so very deadly and complex a situation it seems…

When Melarne intended for them to continue on, she did. Rather emptily and yet curious to see what was awaiting them, food being a necessity for the moment. Her stomach turned from hunger, the smell of burning flesh not even a bother. The pack found its way back onto her shoulder, the small bag of nuts and berries now resting in her left palm, being dug through with the right set of fingers. With every few steps, something made it past the thin pink lips to be chewed and swallowed in quite repetition.

[Malum]

The night settled loftily upon the treetops, piercing through unto the ground upon which Juba walked. An evening stroll, perhaps, but suspiciously so as the Apeman was far from his village. There is an air about the woods that surround the Soothsigh River banks that appeased Juba, he was partial to these parts, so it was no surprise to see him on foreign soils such as these. But there was more than leisure afoot, for with him was a pot no smaller than seven quarts in size, a finely self-crafted work that he had brought to collect clay deposits that settled where the water table levelled off into the tree’s. These were the perfect clays, and the perfect time of year to harvest them for his crafts.

But there was something wrong here. An apt sense of awareness for the wilderness honed Juba’s senses to the disturbances that had occurred not far from where he was. This was not the time of day to expect such commotion. Something had gone awry, and although these were not Juba’s woods, he sought to investigate.

Through a pass in the tree’s he could see them, the party of travellers. It was not their movement that allowed him to track them, but the smoke and flame left in their wake. What blasphemy is this that desecrates the forest, Juba thought. Frustration boiled from his shoulders down to his fingers that gripped tight to the rim of his pot.

“You.” His voice was deep as the night and loomed with reverb off of the trees. “What business do you have here.”

The site of a pot carrying goliath in the dead of night was enough to put anyone off.

[olivejuice.]

Amara remained still for a few more agonizing moments before she reluctantly moved forward, her feet stepping in a smooth stride behind Athrele. Slow, heavy, and hesitant steps took place as she moved in a manner that greatly showed her disapproval, confusion and complete lack of self confidence(so unlike an elf). It seemed the journey was beginning, regardless of her own confusion, and though it was obvious she was less than thrilled by the oddities that Melarne considered a party that surrounded her, she bore a seemingly unforeseen need to continue. Perhaps it was really the hunger that lead her by the nose, for the darker it grew, the hungrier the elf became, but regardless, she felt it(whatever it was). Amara's brow fell when she felt the agonizing turn of her stomach as a reminder that she had eaten little since the morn, and paused momentarily before continuing with the group. She grunted slightly, her hand coming to rest on the cause of the noise and almost tripped from her lack of attention to the uneven forest floor.

" How much farther? " She barked in anger, though it was quite obvious her emotion was misdirected, and more of an outlet of her frustration. Though Amara didn't truly care of the answer, she still demanded some type of conversation to break the uncomfortable silence. What was to come was clearly unknown, but regardless of where they were, Amara certainly hoped they had food.

[Acies ab Vesania]

Typheris flinches slightly as Amara talks over him, voicing her concerns pertaining to the mess that the party now found themselves tangled with. She showed an obvious sense of self-concern, which made Typheris shoot up one of his eyebrows. After all efforts to keep him from walking away from their newly wrought 'destiny', she sure seemed to be less than altruistic. It occurs to Typheris that the bloody woman was more likely interested in keeping him along only to increase her odds of coming out of the mess alive. It was certainly less than comforting to know that this woman would probably gladly trip him and leave him to whatever nasty thing is chasing them at the time. It is a good thing that he already had his contingency plan made ready; this mess will have him no more than a day. Typheris believed in making his own destiny and his plans for such included many more days of drinking, womanizing and entertaining- certainly not dying to try to meddle in the affairs of gods. Lofty and noble goals certainly, but alas, his mother always said he had no ambition.

Typheris walks with the party when the leave, choosing to ignore his hunger pains and the constant, incessant whining of the all high and mighty elf (whom he had to admit was rather attractive when she was angry... or more like attractive all the time and just the intensity of her anger made her sexier, though seeing that element only made the level of danger higher... which for some reason was arousing in and of itself... he would have to think on this...) and instead keeps himself busy with juggling, tossing around five apple sized balls, each a different color than the others. While he juggles, he thinks about how much he looks forward to sneaking to the tent of that one woman who was eying him earlier, getting to have a bit of fun before making off for the road again. That is, until his reverie and juggling is interrupted by both a large, hairy thing toting around a giant sized pot and Amara letting loose an even stronger course of complaints.

He was not sure which should have more of his attention: The large hairy guy with a giant pot who also appeared to be quite angry, or Amara whose yammering was numbing his ear drums and her sexy body making his pants uncomfortable. Though it was a tough call, he settled on the ape man after a moment, deciding it would be pointless to dwell on the possibilities with that one if he got his thumped in the next moment and therefore never got a chance to go after it...

[Anathema]

“Tch, what are you looking at?” Said the blacksmith as he eyed the tall mouth-breather carefully. Always hating when he came into his shop with the stench of alcohol spewing off his breath everytime he opened his mouth.

“WHEN WILL MY WEAPON BE FIXED?!” Barked Mikhail Xhiandris Cyretez. The lone mercenary who refused to join with any of the Band groups in the city or outside by the orchards. He refused to even acknowledge them, just a bunch of clans on their high horse ready to do battle with silly strategies that would mean nothing to him!

Four nights ago, he had brought his Claymore in for repairs to the blacksmith. Generally he would assume this dwarf would have a damn clue on how to fix a weapon considering they were good for nothing fart smellers that could not find a proper job in the human class system. He eyed the dwaf suspiciously as he hammered away at his precious blade.

“Well, whaddya expect from me, Mik!? This is the nineteenth time you got a crack when I 'ecifically warned ya about using it after it was welded!” The blacksmith grumbled onward about how irresponsible he was. Continuing the old tale about how Weapons Must be Treated with Care. Then preceded to tell the foul breath human about how if he was the father, and the blade was the child. He'd be considered an abusive father who beats the hell out of his child right after getting out of the hole.

He raised his hand up and slammed it down upon the dwarf's head, “Looks like I am a real child abuser now!”

The dwarf turned his head, “WHY YOU!” He grasped the bucket of once cold water, but after sticking hot weapons and armor in it all day, it was scolding hot, and tossed it into Mik's face.

“D'aahhh!!” Mik grasped his burning red face as he fell backwards, sliding his foot out to trip the old scuffling dwarf as he attempted to go for the pointer. For which who do not know, Mikhail is not that educated in 'Welding and Smithing Equipment'. A pointer is the poker of a fire stick. When he heard the thump, he hopped onto the dwarf's back, and began to tug at the arm, “Who is your father?! WHO IS YOUR FATHER?!” He barked downward toward the dwarf.

The dwarf fell forward and felt his arm being wrenched backwards, “Gah! Gah! Mik!” The sudden air around his arm, felt he was free and lowered his hand. He pushed off the floor, and grumbled, “Gots me garments all dirty. I guess we shall call this a draw.”

“Fat chance, shorty.” Laughing aloud, Mikhail sat back against the old wooden interior, closing his eyes to let himself relax. Opening one eye to glance at the dwarf working on his weapon. For as long as he knew, Thoril had been like a father to him. If there was one person he could count on, that was definitely him.

Standing up from the spot on the ground, the night seemed to only be filled with the sounds of the city. Taking a glance outward, he shrugged his shoulders moving out of the old blacksmith shop. The fresh air felt nice, and it sucked that he had another mission in the morning. He reached into his pocket, picking up the WANTED poster. He read the name off aloud:

Klarence Demeriz – Short blonde hair, pale tint. Average build, about mid five foot. Notable features is the scar on his neck. Wanted for the murder of an investigatory group.

Feh.

A few hours later, Mikhail wandered back into the shop. The dwarf had retired to the backroom, or hole, or crevice, or wherever the hell it was dwarves slept. Walking to grab some water by the wash hose, something gleaming caught his eye. Woah.

His claymore, Gott Krieger, or God's Striker was fully repaired. The silver had been re-polished, the blade had been sharpened. He stared in amazement at the wonders of the blade, lifting the snakeskin hilt up. A smile formed upon his lips, he reached by his side as he took the entire pouch and tossing it onto the table.

Once he exited the shop, he glanced around to ensure no hoodlums or pickpockets wandered the street. He threw the claymore over his back, tying the strings to his strap. He went on by his room at the tavern, and searched his things. He hooked the armor on, attaching the armaments along his body. He drew the cloak over his body, thankful he had such a large build. People would assume he was stealing, but his size took care of that, along with the blade hanging nearly by his ankles.

He left the tavern, giving the owner one last adieu and pay, and he was gone.

Traveling toward the gates of the city, he glanced left and right among the guards. He held up the wanted poster, assuming his right to hunt. He was allowed out, and began his journey across Iselyr.

[paradigm]

Some had been driven mad by the dark. How he knew this was beyond him, but he knew it like a priest knew his prayers, it was knowledge that had been present within him since his whore of a mother had first spat him out.

The darkness will drive you mad.
I know...

The sun was remarkably bright, with luck the moon would shine brightly as well and his journey would continue without fa-

The world had abandoned him, he had been birthed by the sky and left to free fall into nothingness. He fought like a man possessed, trying with all of his might, with ever last fiber present within him to climb the air itself. He would do anything to prevent falling into the darkness.

Impact.

No, that's not right...there's nothing in the darkness...it wouldn't have hu-

Oh god's above, below and those yet to be formed his head ached. Was this the afterlife? Had he died? Where was he? He could feel his lids, immobile as they were, keeping him trapped in this darkness, but sounds...he could hear them! He wasn't dead then. Nothingness was nothingness...not nothingness and sound. The wind was blowing, he could hear it, but could not feel it's cool embrace upon his flesh. How long had it been since he'd felt the wind tousle his hair? Did he even have hair? What was his name?

The darkness drives men to madness, Ro-
Rah?, is that me? Oh gods, what's happening

There was nothing gentle, or silent about his awakening. A piercing scream escaped his lips as the youth shot up out of his bed, wide eyed and drenched in sweat. He had been falling and...landed on a bed?

The strange man rose to his feet without bothering to test his strength and paid the price by staggering towards the door. Catching himself against the wall, the youth waited for his legs to stop shaking before going any further.

"Ro..." he said, peering at his own reflection in a nearby basin of water. Splashing the contents about with calloused hands, the youth washed his face and felt the stitching at the base of crown.

Someone had taken him in and saved him. None of this made sense. He had something important he was supposed to be doing. Something very very important...but it eluded him, trapped in the recesses of his mind along with his name.

His legs had finally regained their strength and after throwing the door open the youth stepped outside, only to stare in shock at the sight before him. Tree's as far as the eye could see and there were houses built in and around them, connected by bridges suspended over the forest. The entire place was interconnected and yet closed off from the world below.

What in the hell had he gotten himself into?

[Morgan]

"We are not far," Melarne answered the complaints, her shoulders sagging only slightly as her concern for Iylianna's, and even Isélyr's, future grew immensely. The Elder priestess knew she should not question the intentions of the deities but, how could she not with a troop of mostly inexperienced adventurers who obviously did not want the responsibility that had yoked them together?

She shook her head as the grumblings of their bellies disturbed the otherwise quiet walk, "T'is probably a good omen that we've not had to move with stealth in our steps. Your stomachs would give our positions away!"

As if on cue, a deep questioning voice had pierced the depths of the wood and Melarne's steps paused in their tracks. Narrowing, her eyes landed on the voice's source; an apeman whose massive arms cradled a gathering pot.

"As much business as any would have in their own home," Melarne answered as the trajectory of her path shifted. The apeman didn't seem to be on the offensive, just slightly curious or perhaps a bit wary. The latter of which she could hardly blame him. Even so, he did not resemble any of the apemen clans that she was acquainted with.

"And you? Are you not far from your own home, Apeman?"

Her approach was not a haphazard one. Though her weapons were held in a non-combatant manner, the sisters who had followed Melarne already had their sights trained on the center of his massive skull and would, undoubtedly, relieve the apeman of his worries, if even slightly provoked. They were far too close to Crescent Knoll to take any chances and the Phaeleros consumed all races into their ranks.

[Morgan]

"No, no," an Elven female had approached the man. Strands of platinum framed the pale, rounded features of her face. Her hands, empty and non-threatening, were held out before her as she tried to reach for him and help steady him on his feet.

"You've taken quite the tumble, Rah. You must return to the healing place." Pleasantly calm steel blue eyes would gaze at him with nothing but honest concern for his well-being. If he allowed, the woman would guide him back into the tree-top hut.

"That is your name, is it not? Rah? You were," she paused as she helped him return to the small, feather-stuffed bed, "I'm sorry. I hadn't meant to intrude but, while you slept, you called out that name. I assumed it was yours?"

The hut, constructed of yew saplings woven together with sturdy reeds, was considerably large. Housing the single bed that he had found himself on, as well as a small table skirted by two chairs, a simple book case, a chamber pot tucked away and hidden in a corner, and a rudimentary kitchen that banked off to the side. Small windows afforded a bit of light, but not much.

"I am Telen," she introduced herself as she shuffled to the table and lit the oil lamp that was centered there. "My sisters and I had been gathering the Singer berries when we came across you. Apparently, you had taken a fall, though we were all surprised you had survived."

As she spoke, she moved into the kitchen. Pinches of various herbs were thrown into a cup and water from a kettle atop the wood-burning stove was quickly poured, "We brought you here, to Crescent Knoll, and I was assigned to nurse you."

Telen returned to his bedside, the cup in hand, "Here, drink." Her empty hand reached out, the palm to press against the man's forehead and cheeks and then to check the sutures at the base of his skull, "It will help with the fever and help you to regain the strength in your muscles. You've been asleep for seven days.

[AthreleCaliver]

As the journey seemed to progress at a slow rate, the forlorn travelers tumbled onward. Was it towards oblivion and a certain death? More likely the best she could find. Amara was as mouthy as she usually seemed to be. The pervert was still starring at her through her clothes, which was ever amusing. The more tense Amara seemed to get, the more Typheris’ eyes bore into her.

“You know, if you made yourself any more obvious, she’d prolly have to cut your eyes out… Or maybe something else, something a little more important to you instead?” Athrele had stopped to turn and look at the human over Amaras shoulder.

The running water was a soothing rush upon her ears, as it washed away the irritation dropping from complaining lips. She continued to munch on the assortment of power food from the little bag in her hand. It was forced, but she held it out, an offering to Amara as she was closest to her. Melarne seemed displeased as ever, no surprise there, with the grumblings stomachs, and Athrele herself had been attempting to restrain her own.

“Well maybe if you hadn’t been so threatening, and allowed us some sort of fodder time, you wouldn’t have to hear their stomachs cry in displeasure… Am I right?” Athrele was no sow to the way Melarne felt about them, and she was sure Melarne could tell they weren’t happy with the way she drug them around either.

Her sight would feign towards the girl that had hatched, as if just now realizing what she was looking upon. The distraction of yet another demanding voice, cut through her current thoughts. Empty emeralds would displace themselves upon the Apeman, what a merry bunch they would be; hungry, angry, resentful, and clueless.

“Welcome to our happy caravan of fools, we’re marching off toward the circus of death. Why not join us for a party of laughs?” If she were feeling any more of an ass, she may have bowed at the waist, but instead she walked past Melarne to get a better look at the water they were obviously going to be crossing. Melarne was already testy enough, no need to push anyone of them over the edge. Something was bothering her senses, and it wasn’t the Apeman. A darkness was setting upon her very soul, and it was beginning to stifle any intentions of good she usually possessed. Food and sleep lay beyond that running water. Yet it seemed to be out of reach for uneasy reasons.

How many more of US are there to be....?