Spoiler: Chapter 33 - Errands of Peril - Part 1
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The soft rays of afternoon sun spread lightly across the courtyard, uncaring as it passed through air that was heavy with venomous loathing and hatred. Though the skies cared not, the blood that churned and tempers that flared were heightening. The rancour draped over the firmament in seething fury, tension pulled impossibly taut, as if the fabrics of forbearance were unravelling with each moment that passed. The Forsaken clutched their blood bathed weapons, keen eyes unblinking as they surveyed the impending battle. Willow stood upon the top of the prison gate wall, both blades held in a crushing grip, staring down towards the entrance, watching the two angels slowly ready themselves. A quick glance to her right found both Raiju and Bor atop the wall, leaving Garvana and Pellius below. Sith’s rumbling snarl, his feral hiss of warning, told her he was directly below her on the cobblestone path. With slow and deliberate movements, Willow stepped to the right upon the edge of the wall. Eyes locked with the maul-bearing golden being, she stepped off the edge and dropped gracefully to the ground below. In a slender waft of dirt, she slowly lifted from her crouch, spinning her blades between her fingers. A sudden and familiar fiery wave of profane malice pressed against her skin, smouldering and seeping through its layers, furrowing deeply into her veins. She could feel the Pellius’ wrath, she could feel his burning anger, his blood aflame with vicious abhorrence. His eyes blazed a brilliant scarlet, his jaw clenched his teeth as tight as his hands clutched his mighty warhammer. His maleficence fed the fire within Willow’s chest, the thrumming beat of his infernal pulse, urging her hunger for celestial blood.
It was a sudden explosion of frightening speed that saw each of them simultaneously launch in battle. The Forsaken charged forward to the angels, flashing steel with deadly intent. Pellius launched himself towards the one on the right, cleaving his warhammer with terrifying might, only to have it blocked by the crushing gold of his targets’ weapon. Garvana growled a vicious incantation, shaking the ground that surrounded them, ripping open cracks of infernal flames through the earth. Sith snarled a savage growl, pouncing forward to let loose a torrent of blistering flame from his maw. Willow somersaulted underneath the craning swing of the great maul, springing upward with her blades, tearing them into celestial flesh. Her keen sight and aim had managed to plunge the point of her dagger through the seams of his armour, deep into his torso, forcing a grunt of pain to expel from his chest. As the foreboding trumpet blew its inspiring melody, the beings responded in kind. The archon used his magnificent wings to lift into the air, painting intricate patterns with his fingers, calling on Mitra’s aid to heal his wounded comrade. The flow of blood was sealed upon the side of the armoured angel, Willow cursed and leapt backward, as he turned to face her. For a moment, the jovial enjoyment had disappeared from his face, as if he was insulted by the unexpected idea of a fiend drawing first blood. Willow knew she had earned his ire, in the way he hefted his weapon with a further air of vengeance. Though she was nimble, she failed to be quick enough to dive out of the path of his frightening maul. The slim flanks of leather armour that wrapped around her waist offered little protection from the impact of his swing. As the tarnished and battle-worn metal of the maul’s head crushed into her back, Willow felt the crippling pain shoot upwards along her spine. The weight of the weapon continued to force her forward as it crushed along his mighty cleave, her slender frame no match for the angel’s brawn. A sudden rush of divine arcana shot from the maul, tendrils of pure and holy white light rippled through her armour and into the innards of her flesh. With the impact having knocked the wind from her lungs and the agony pulsing so heavily, she had little left to resist the righteous onslaught. The momentum of his attack had her flying through the air, as the magic unfurled along her skin. Her limbs and bones became rigid, her breaths heaving through a constricted chest. As she crashed into the ground, she felt the enchantment take control. She was immobilised. Frozen, unable to move, fight or defend herself. It was a true and honest fear that crept deep into her mind, of a type she had never encountered before. Even as the celestial beings turned from her, discounting her now that she was contained, a fierce panic set in. Her mind still churned, her eyelids blinked rapidly, and slowly the breath could be drawn in and out of her lungs. Yet, she had no control over the paralysis of the rest of her body, each leg and arm lay limp and sprawled among the dirt.
“RAIJU!” Pellius commanded, lunging forward with his attack, “Get to Willow!”
With the left side of her face pressed into the ground, her vision clouded by dirt and grass, she strained her right eye to see the battle. She saw the back of Pellius’ blackened armour, as he moved around into a defensive position in front of her.
“NOW RAIJU!” he snarled.
Suddenly, two rough hands hooked themselves under her arms, lifting her from the ground. It was fortunate that she was only of a slender weight, for she seemed no burden or trial to drag across the courtyard, the large oni unbothered by the task. Sith withdrew from the fight, quickly running to Willow’s side, standing over her protectively. He growled a warning to Raiju, baring his teeth as he dropped Willow heavily against the stone gate. In utter frustration, she watched the others carve their weapons mercilessly towards the two celestial beings. Suddenly, the pair called out a rumbling incantation in unison. Bor, Garvana and Pellius had unknowingly grouped themselves together, close enough for the angels to sync their attack. With raised arms, an arc of white light beamed between them, tendrils of arcana morphing into thousands of bright blades. The magic swarmed to form a dome of razor sharp fury that encompassed the Forsaken, trapping them in, lest they face the walls of keen and serrated wrath. The two angels flew to the top of the gatehouse, casting spells with incantations utterly foreign to Willow. The paralysis slowly began to lose its hold, yet she could do nothing but watch as Garvana grabbed both Bor and Pellius by the shoulders and rush her arcane words, vanishing them from sight. In the blink of an eye, they had reappeared behind the maul-wielding angel upon the gatehouse, wasting no time to launch another attack. The angel propelled himself high into the air as Pellius swung his hefty warhammer, crushing it into the golden armour, taking the breath from the archons chest. But as before, the trumpet baring being used his divine power to heal his wounded companion. With a sigh of sheer relief, Willow finally felt the enchantment cease. As life and mobility returned to her body, she swiftly got to her feet. High above the small clearing, completely out of reach, the angels circled their prey.
“Get under cover!” Pellius called to the others, “We need to get them down from the skies!”
As they quickly made their way towards the door into the stone gatehouse, both angels suddenly disappeared. Straining her ears, Willow could still hear the faint flutter of wings.
“They’re invisible!” she called, backing up under the cover of the arched entry, “Be on your guard!”
As she heard the thud of the door close above her, she activated the power of her ring, backing up silently further under cover as her skin morphed translucent.
“Dravith, fivv shilli,” she whispered to Sith, commanding him to find cover and await her word.
For a time, there was simply silence, bar the sound of beating wings. For only a moment she felt the wind brush across the skin of her face. Willow remained flattened against the wall, shielded by magic from view. She waited by the lower door to the gatehouse, remaining perfectly still with all of her focus on listening intently. The sudden sound of the creak of a door had her eyes whip to her right.
“Willow,” Pellius whispered, “Where are you?”
As the flutter of wings still lingered in her ears – she remained silent.
“Willow?” he whispered a little louder.
Still, she did not say a word. As his face came into her sight, she watched indecision war across his face, and she was unsure whether he would be daft enough leave the safety of the gatehouse. His brow pulled tight as he exhaled sharply. Although the look of determined heroism was certainly endearing, Willow cursed his foolhardy bravery. As he moved to step out of the doorway, she leaned silently towards him.
“Stay inside,” she whispered as quietly as she could.
She could not help the small smirk that grew as he failed to hide the look of relief that came over his features.
“Where are they?”
“Somewhere above,” she replied, “Get inside.”
He nodded curtly, sealing himself inside the building, leaving the door open a crack while they awaited any sign of the celestial beings.
It was a fair time later, that they finally gave up waiting. Willow ordered Sith out into the courtyard, ready and waiting to pounce should the angels have showed themselves. But as the blazing hound prowled forward in eager anticipation, nothing was there to meet him.
“What do you think?” Willow asked, after the others had emerged from the gatehouse.
“They shall return,” Pellius replied seriously, “Such creatures do not take their tasks lightly. They shall not return to the outer sphere until success or death takes them…”

With the skies clear and the apparent retreat of their foes, the Forsaken continued inside the prison. They were met with no resistance, all of the guards having been slayed in the battle for the gate. What they found inside the prison was little more than squalor. Prison conditions were never luxurious or sanitary, but the Mitrans had always kept their detentions to a certain standard. Though the sack on Daveryn had left the guards and captives in dire straits. Prisoners starving, befouled and desperate. As the Forsaken roamed the soiled stone hallways of the dark and wretched building, they held count of over one hundred forgotten and abandoned captives. In groups shy of twenty, Pellius gathered them together and offered them the same deal.
“You may serve us,” he commanded fiercely, “You may pledge your loyalty to us. You will follow our commands and obey our orders. We will not be questioned. In return for obedience – we offer you freedom from this prison, food and shelter. Those of you who do not wish to serve, may remain. But you will remain locked in here to die.”
It came as no surprise that not a soul chose the later. While Pellius and Bor saw to the release of the prisoners, Willow continued to the halls where the captives destined for Branderscar were kept. The far end of the prison where the bars were thicker and each captive was separate for one another, for fear and punishment of their dire sins, great enough to have been sentenced for death. There was only a single man held within the cells. A man clearly foreign to the lands of Talingarde, enveloped in countless profane tattoos, words written in an unknown language. He sat in the corner of his cell, seeming unbothered by his situation or condition, straight backed and still. Even as Willow approached his cell, he remained silent and simply looked on with an impassive expression.
“You do not look as the others in this prison do,” Willow commented, eyebrow arched slightly, “You are no peasant nor petty criminal.”
“The lady is observant,” he said, no trace of emotion to his words.
If the statement had come from any other, she would had known it was a remark dripping in sarcasm. Yet this man showed no sign of enough interest to bother with such a thing.
“You have overheard our offer, I suppose?” she asked.
The man gave a slight nod, saying simply, “I shall refuse. I shall not swear allegiance to you.”
Willow’s brow rose further.
“And may I ask why not?” she enquired, “You would rather stay here to die?”
“I cannot swear an oath while another remains.”
It was then that she realised where she recognised the diabolical hint to tattoos. Long ago she had read about a cartel of assassins from a far away land, though she could not recall why they painted themselves in such a way.
“A contract?” she asked, “You serve the Nine Knives, do you not?”
Ever so slightly his brow rose, the first sign of emotion he had shown, as he looked Willow over more shrewdly.
“I do,” he said warily.
“Is it what brought you to Talingarde?”
He nodded carefully.
“For one to hire the Nine Knives, it must have been a target of immense power,” she mused, a strange notion forming in her mind, “For it is a far stretch for anyone to hire you for anything less than nobility…”
“And who is the target of your contract?” asked Garvana, walking in from the next room.
Willow smiled, for she knew the answer they would get.
“I shall not reveal that,” he said plainly.
Pellius’ heavy stride echoed down the hallway, Bor’s brawny marched along side it. As they entered the cellblock, Willow inclined her head. She took the warden’s keys from Pellius and returned to the cell door, speaking as she unlocked and opened the weighty cage.
“I shall be candid with you. We are not simply after prisoners to serve us. We are under a contract ourselves, one of a different, yet similar, kind. I have a feeling you and I are aligned in our intentions. Our end goal is quite simple. Overthrow the reign of King Markadian and his beloved Mitra.”
“The king?” the assassin asked, shrewd eyes telling of the thoughts in his mind, “Your mission is to kill the king?”
“It is,” Willow replied, raising her chin slightly.
At this, he remained quiet.
“I believe I am correct in assuming your target is the king,” she continued, “And I offer you this; a chance to fulfil your contract.”
While awaiting a reply, Willow walked into the cell, looking around at the filth with disdain. She returned her sight to the assassin, eyebrow arched in expectance and question.
“I would choose that,” he nodded, “What is required in return?”
“You will serve us,” she replied firmly, “Perform well and we shall hire your services.”
“I shall not commence any further work until my contract is fulfilled.”
“Acceptable,” Willow clipped, “But, everything comes at a price, freedom most prevalent. The repercussions of unpaid dues are most fatal.”
“Understood,” he nodded.
Willow turned to Pellius, her brow raised.
“Very well,” he said, “We have more immediate tasks to see to, but you shall get your chance.”
The assassin nodded again. Willow continued forward and unlocked the crushing manacles around his wrists and ankles. She moved with an air of calm, though she kept her senses keen for any trace of unexpected movement. When none came, she stood and stepped back.
“And what may we call you?” she asked.
“I am Irfan,” he said, his tongue rolling his sounds, “Ifran Al-janbiya.”
“Very well, Irfan,” she replied, turning for the door, “Let us see if we cannot get you fed and bathed…”

The sun fell below the horizon as dusk came to the ruins of Daveryn. The Forsaken returned to their manor, retiring to the parlour after bathing and changing, to recall and recount the numbers of their newest recruits.
“Do you trust him?” Garvana asked, sinking back into the cushioned armchair.
“Ifran?” Willow replied.
“I do not trust him,” Garvana frowned, “He is unreadable. I am still unsure of his intentions.”
“I trust his contract on the king,” Willow smiled, “Though little else. He owes no loyalty to us, he said as much. Though if what I know of the Nine Knives holds true, he will not betray us while our goals align.”
“What do you know of them?” Pellius asked, looking up from his catalogue of their men.
“Little,” Willow shrugged, “I remember that the Monteguard’s hired their numbers long before their move to Talingarde. The contracts were fulfilled as stated, gold was exchanged and all remained civil. Well, as civil as assassinations go.”
“Are they an Asmodean band?” Garvana questioned.
“I do not believe so,” she replied, gently shaking her head, “Though I remember not who they serve. Perhaps my memory fails me, but I may have read that they serve only the hierarchy or order of hell.”
“Even so,” Garvana frowned, “I think we should keep a close eye on him.”
Suddenly, the air rippled in the parlour, the floor shook beneath their feet – before a fearsome sight appeared. Tiadora, dressed in complete infernal regalia. An armored black corset wrapped in ebony and scarlet barbed metal, crimson flanks of unidentifiable leathers that fell to the ground draped in veil around her waist. Her sable hair weaved in an intricate braid that pointed high towards the sky. And hung from her neck was a glistening ruby pendant, carved into a five pointed inverted pentagram. This time, she did not travel alone. She appeared flanked by nine of the fierce and beautiful erinyes. Each of them wore matching steel corsets, embellished in sadistic thorns and spikes, painted in sanguinary decoration.
“Greetings, Ninth Knot,” Tiadora said ardently, “The Cardinal Adrastus Thorn, your master and mine, sends his greetings. Have you enjoyed your stay in beautiful Daveryn? I hear you’ve been quite the tourists, travelling across the whole span of this metropolis. Tell me, have the local been friendly?”
“Their hospitality is unrivalled,” Willow replied satirically.
Tiadora smirked, “Victory over Talingarde and the culmination of your vengeance draws near, and yet still there is one final errand that must be done. It is time for King Markadian, called the Brave, to die. You shall be our chosen assassins.”
The erinryes let out a piercing cry of gluttonous thirst for blood, swarming about Tiadora upon their eldritch outstretched wings.
“Even now, the king moves towards Daveryn at the head of an army, easily numbering twenty thousand strong. He is surrounded day and night by his mightiest and most loyal knights. Attacking him a camp is folly. But the king does have a weakness. He has not marched to war with his beloved daughter, the Princess Belinda, heir and last scion of House Darius. She is watched over by a relatively small honour guard at the Adarium.”
“He left her behind in the palace?” Willow asked sceptically, “I know the Adarium is heavily guarded, but it is hard to believe. Perhaps the rambling of Ignatius held some truth?”
“Perhaps it is in your purview to infiltrate and slay Belinda,” Tiadora continued, “But that is not our aim. The princess is merely a teenage girl and of little consequence by herself. Instead, your mission is to endanger the princess. Everywhere the king of Talingarde goes, he bears with him a magical pendant. If his daughter is ever endangered, the talisman signals her peril. With but a word, he can return to the Adarium. He will teleport into his sanctum beneath the palace, eager to save his daughter. Your mission is to first proffer the gravest peril, and when it strikes the Adarium, you are to be in that sanctum and awaiting the king’s return. And when he appears, destroy him. In one swift stroke, you will decapitate the House of Darius. With his death and the death of Belinda, there will be no ruler of Talingarde. The Fire-Axe will defeat the army here in the ruins of Daveryn, and then Talingarde will be ours.”
Willow’s brow pulled deep into a frown, mirroring that of the others. She knew not what they were thinking, but she assumed their thoughts were following the same path that hers was.
“What peril could be so great that Markadian would risk sacrificing the country for his daughter?” Willow asked with suspicion, “He is nothing if not honourable.”
Tiadora’s twisted grin lifted the corners of her lips. It was a sinister vision, one that seemed to loosen the illusion of her humanity.
“What peril indeed,” she proceeded, “What peril could be so calamitous that the king’s most trusted servants would call him away from his campaign to save the kingdom? It can be no simple threat. It must be a threat of legend. Thorn has pondered this problem long and decided there is only one threat in all of Talingarde of worthy stature – the elder wyrm Chargammon the black!”
“You cannot be serious!” Garvana balked, “Chargammon? That is suicide! Is there truly no other threat we can seek?”
“The princess is not alone,” Tiadora warned, “Trusted knights and priests of Mitra guard her and see to her safety. These retainers will not raise the alarm unless faced by a truly impressive and overwhelming threat. Chargammon fits the bill such as nothing else. Even if you slip in and slay the princess, the king will simply be told of the tradgedy. No we need him to rush to her aid. And that takes a threat like Chargammon. Our master has long researched this and found no other way. I would trust his judgement if I were you.”
“How is it we are to gain the wyrm’s aid?” Willow questioned.
“The master is confident you will think of something,” Tiadora dismissed, “The dragon will not be moved by gold or gift, it is likely he will require service of a kind. Chargammon’s sunken throne is easy enough to find, but it is a fool’s errand to enter unbidden. Chargammon slays all who enter without his warrant; and he gives warrant to no one. Still, Thorn has confidence that you will find a way. This is your mission. Gain the dragon’s assistance and then kill the king.”
“Chargammon’s spawn,” Willow recalled, “What was his name, Garvana?”
“Oh! Jeratheon! Yes, that may be our way in!”
“It is a possibility,” Pellius frowned.
“As I said,” Tiadora continued, arching her brow, “You will think of something. There is one more trifling matter. After the king is slain and his palace lies in ruins, Thorn bids you find a book. Perhaps it will be in the sanctum or perhaps it will be in the king’s personal chamber. It is the Liber Darian – a large bound volume containing the chronicles of House Darius. Fetch it and then break this seal. And then your labours will be done and you shall be rewarded for them.”
“You may sense that this may well be your last mission for the cardinal. Soon the armies of Talingarde will be broken and their leadership will be shattered. Thorn has always known that Talingarde stands because of four pillars. The first pillar was the Watch Wall Balentyne keeping the northern border secure. It burned by your hand. The second pillar was the Order of Saint Macarius. You extinguished their flame. The third pillar is the Knights of Alerion. They march to their doom against the Fire-Axe. And now the final pillar will fall by your hand – the House of Darius.
“Are there really no other members of the House Darius that will step forward for the throne?” Bor asked warily.
“Only cousins and relatives by marriage,” Tiadora replied, “The king and the princess are the last surviving direct descendants of the Victor. With their death, the House of Darius will effectively be destroyed.”
“Of all of Thorn’s servants no one has done more than you to see the triumph to its conclusion. Do not think you will be forgotten when the rewards are given. You will be princes of the realm. The great game enters its last phase. Soon Talingarde will be ours!” She bowed low to the Forsaken, “May fortune favour you, my lords. And know that the Dark Father watches your every deed…”


“How should we proceed?” Garvana asked.
“Rescuing Chargammon’s spawn may be the right course,” Willow frowned, “But it does not guarantee us his aid. It may be enough to entice his curiosity though, perhaps at the very least allowing us an audience.”
“I agree,” Pellius nodded, “Though how we make the whelp talk to his father on our behalf is another trial entirely.”
“He does not need to vouch for us,” Willow shrugged, “A great black wyrm knows treachery and deceit better than anyone, even Jerathon would not dare rouse his ire with a lie. As for us, if he chooses not to eat us upon entry; we simply use the truth.”
“And the Stormborn King?” Garvana asked, raising her brows, “How do we deal with him?”
“The same way we deal with everything else,” Bor grunted, “We kill him.”
“Yes,” Garvana drawled, rolling her eyes, “But how do we find him?”
“We know the thunderbird dwells in the Caer Bryr,” Willow began.
“The Caer Bryr is a very large place to search,” Garvana huffed in interruption.
Willow pursed her lips.
“We know he dwells there,” she continued, “And I believe we have means to find him. Were not a band of our newest recruits Iraen?”
“Yes,” Pellius frowned, “A number close to twenty of them.”
“They are people of the Caer Bryr,” Willow explained, “Whether they have lived their lives in Daveryn or not, it is likely we will find one who has information on the aerie.”
“Very good, my lady,” Pellius nodded, “May I leave that information for you to source?”
“Of course,” she smiled, inclining her head, “If I believe we need a more heavy handed approach, I shall summon you.”
It was a quick and malicious grin that, as it always did, made her tremble slightly. It was only fleeting, his devilish charm surfacing only to buried swiftly beneath the seriousness in which he approached planning their next move. Willow rose from her seat, strapping her daggers to her thighs and collecting a map of the Caer Bryr, before making her way to the adjacent manor that housed their men. They had needed to expand their property to allow their recently swelled numbers room to stay. Though the adjacent manor had not been left in such pristine condition, the men and women once locked within prison cells, seemed quite content with their upgraded accommodations. The men on guard greeted Willow with respectful words and eyes widened with fear. Although she was simply dressed in black trousers and a plain blouse, she mused that perhaps it was the confident and poised way in which she carried herself, that kept the men sure to be afraid. For all eyes followed her as she entered the newly converted barracks, yet only a bare handful of them would linger as hers found theirs. As she looked around, she was glad to see most of their recruits had been bathed and clothed, clutching chunks of cured meat and only slightly bruised fruit from the outer fields of the farmland. Although they looked to her with fear, there was a strange appreciation in their gazes.
The Iraen prisoners were not hard to find. They sat huddled together, seemingly unaware or unbothered by the others around them. As Willow’s approach came to their attention, one of the men stood to meet her.
“Do you speak common?” she asked in a broken turn of their language, “I’m afraid I speak only little Iraen.”
“I do,” the man nodded.
“And you are?” Willow questioned.
“Kalshi Aribi,” he replied flatly.
“I assume the conditions here surpass those of your previous accommodation?”
As the man stood to his full height, Willow’s eyebrow lifted as she surveyed his features. He was quite handsome, high arched cheekbones above his slender angular chin. An androgynous softness to his face, paired with a natural look of emotionless expression.
“Indeed,” he replied blandly, “We thank you for your gracious hospitality.”
“I come seeking information on the whereabouts of a thunderbird that lives in the Caer Bryr,” Willow stated, “Known as the Stormborn King and Lord of All Eagles. Do any of you know the location of the creature?”
With little change to his face, he looked her over for a moment before turning back to his group. They huddled once again in their circle and spoke rushed words in Iraen, too quick for her little knowledge of their language to understand. When he turned back to her, it was with the same indifferent expression.
“The scout Ashiki knows the place,” he said, pointing to the small woman huddled by the rear of the circle, “She will mark it on your map...”


With the location of their target in hand, the following morning the Forsaken sent word to Sakkarot of their departure and took flight towards Ghastenhall to restock and seek further information. After travelling the skies for a passing three days, they arrived by moonlight at their farmland estate, weather-worn and exhausted. As the baths were drained and a hastily thrown together dinner was eaten, they retired to there chambers for a welcome rest upon soft sheets and furred rugs. After the sun had risen, Willow set off through the city streets of Ghaster, dressed in a bright frock of virescent blue that wrapped around her waist into a signature looped knot. She made her way to the Library of Ghaster once again to meet with Brother Thrain. She paid the small silver fee and entered the grand building, strolling through its halls until she found the familiar hunched figure.
“Brother,” she called politely, smiling to him as he looked to her, “I apologise for the interruption. It is just, I cannot seem to find anything pertaining the scholar Florence Dimitri. Would you be so kind as to point me in the right direction?”
The aged man chuckled gruffly, “As luck would have it, I am holding a symposium on her works this evening. Would you care to join me in the lower lecture hall after dusk this evening?”
Willow smiled and inclined her head, “I would be delighted, brother.”
He nodded swiftly and turned back to his books. While she awaited the fall of night, Willow made her way to the others, to join them in their perusal of the market stalls. They had put together a list of potions and wands that would aid them in their attack on the great thunderbird, along with protection from the acidic breath of the black dragon. The day was spent in easy relaxation. They dined along the water front, freshly caught archerfish fillets steamed to perfection, and toasted thick red wine to their continuing success.
Bor opted to return to the manor, rather than accompany Willow to see the Mitran priest. Pellius and Garvana joined her return to the library, descending the winding staircase to the familiar chamber. As Pellius pushed open the great door and held it wide for her to enter, she smiled to see the familiar face awaiting her.
“Brother Thrain,” Willow greeted warmly, approaching with her arms open.
“Ah,” he said, embracing her fondly, “Young Willow. It is good to see you.”
She returned his kind hold, “And you too.”
“I did not think I would be seeing you so soon, my dear,” he commented.
“I did not know I would be returning so soon,” she chuckled, “We are simply travelling through.”
“And you thought to pay me a visit?” he smirked.
“More than simply a social call I’m afraid,” Pellius interjected.
“Ah yes,” Brother Thrain said, turning to him, “Young Master Pellius, and Miss Garvana.”
Pellius grasped the brother’s hand in a firm handshake.
“Pleased to see you are well, brother,” Pellius said cordially.
“Speaking of well,” Willow said dryly, “How goes your mission? I’ve heard word of an illness spreading as far as the capital.”
“Successful so far,” he nodded, indicating for her to take a seat with him upon the wooden pew, “It is a most vicious thing, quicker to spread than expected. I would keep well clear of the Red Quarter, if I was you.”
“A warning we will heed,” Willow replied, sending a fleeting smirk towards Pellius.
“And what of you, child?” Thrain asked, “Where are you next headed?”
Willow’s smile faltered for a moment, a slight crease in her brow.
“What do you know of the great wyrm Chargammon the black?” she asked finally.
The brother seemed to understand her sudden change in disposition.
“He is nothing short of a plague on the land,” he said sombrely, “Far worse than any disease. What is it you must do?”
Willow laughed bitterly, “We must seek him out and gain his aid.”
“Quite the feat, should you succeed.”
“Do you know of his spawn, Jeratheon?” Willow asked.
“I have heard of him,” Thrain nodded, “An adult dragon, roughly a century old, if I remember correctly. You must seek him as well?”
“We know he has been captured by the Stormborn King,” Garvana said, “We are hoping that rescuing his spawn will gain us an audience.”
“Quite a risk,” the brother commented, “But perhaps it may be enough to inspire his sire’s intrigue.”
“Do you know much of the thunderbird?” Pellius queried.
“Enough to know he is an ancient and powerful creature. I believe we have a few tomes that chronicle some of his history, I shall aid you in finding them if you wish it.”
“I would appreciate it,” Willow smiled.
As they continued to converse of the currents missions and events, Pellius and Garvana chose to return to the main library in search of further information. When Willow found herself alone with Brother Thrain, her mind turned to a curiosity she had not been able to silence.
“May I ask you something?” she said quietly, “I am unsure if you will answer, but it has been plaguing my mind of late.”
“You may ask, child,” came his response.
“The Cardinal was once known by another name,” she said carefully, “This much I surmised myself... He was once Samuel Havelyn, was he not?”
A small smile came upon his lips, as he withdrew his glasses to rub his eyes. When he looked to her, she saw the weariness within his gaze.
“I knew,” he sighed, “You would be the one to figure it out eventually.”
“That is who you knew him as,” Willow said softly, “Before the pyre.”
He lowered his gaze and sighed a deep exhaustion.
“Yes, but I believe Samuel truly died as Adrastus Thorn was born.”
Willow cocked her head gently, “Will you tell me of him? Before it all came to be?”
“No, child,” he said heavily, “It is not my place. What the cardinal wishes you to know, he will tell you himself. Or you will find out in the same way you figured this much.”
Although she was disappointed, and burning inside with hunger for more information, she settled her intrigue and accepted his answer.
“Curiosity is a devil of a thing,” she sighed.
Brother Thrain chuckled, “Do not lose that, child. The mind is not a vessel to be filled, but a fire to be kindled…”