The Cleansing Flame

[Cinnabar]

A feral grin as skulls connect, a vicious hope that that will bring some tears to the bastard's eyes; but then he's being seized, brute force pinning his arms to his sides for the time it takes for Teron to cross to the furnace. The Constable writhes and twists in an attempt to break free, hissing at that bitterly chill grip upon his skin, but finds himself at a disadvantage in terms of leverage; instead he is borne back across the forge, boots kicking at the fiend's armoured legs, and plunged back into the coals from which he had only recently struggled free.

One might expect the man to shout, and this he does; one might expect the air to fill with the stink of charring flesh as his struggles and cries weaken in the white-hot heart of the fire, but in this one would be sorely disappointed. Cinnabar writhes and roars, it's true, but it becomes apparent that his cries are not pain but rage, wordless fury against his assailant that no furnace-blast of heat can still; his movements are not the agonised spasms of one being burned to death, but the angry flailing of one who intends to escape that he might wreak brutal vengeance upon his foe. There is a smell of scorched hair but that is all, no sickening stench of burned meat, no sizzle of skin and blood searing away.

What manner of creature is he?

It is a question that may have to wait, for his movements swiftly gain purpose and reason; while the armoured horror's hands are occupied with pinning him into the flames, Cinnabar's own hand lashes out beside him to grab a generous helping of blistering-hot coals between clawlike fingers, then he's twisting, jerking a shoulder free that he might lift that hand to grind the blazing handful into one of Teron's eyes.

The other hand at last releases those tongs, no longer able to maintain his grip upon them while locked into this close-quarters struggle with the Ashfiend; he needs that hand free, and so the tongs are dropped into the coals next to him as the now-empty hand reaches across to pry at one of Teron's own, intent on grabbing a finger and wrenching back as hard as he can. If he refuses to retreat then at least he can be made to suffer for it.

[Carnath-Emory]

What manner of creatures are they? Except that this is Myrken Wood, where we're all monsters of one sort or another, so that a woman should have become accustomed to such strangenesses long ago -- and somehow never had. So that the awful coldness of Teron Ashfiend has sunk such strange claws through the gaps of her armour, a reminder of long-ago frozen tundra. So that she has been certain three times now of Cinnabar Calomel's death, and has three times found him too stubborn to perish. Only so ferocious a clash as this could have kept skeptical Ariane from questioning either marvel.

But this is the nature of such combat, and of the rapier-woman's art in particular: that the focus must be sharpened to so narrow a point, that she must experience the world in terms of reflex, reaction, experience. So that the sudden coldness of the forge means nothing to her; so that Ashfiend exists only in terms of reach and strength and volatility. So that she will let Calomel perish in the flame of those coals, because experience her that he is likely not to; she will count on the man's uncanny strength, alarming speed, because an hour in the cultist caves have made her sure of them.

Sure, most of all, that she may take certain risks with him, risks which Ashfiend's endurance make entirely necessary. Risks which that choking hand have made absolutely enticing.

There is the matter of that tattered cloak: the chisel is sacrificed to brush its coiling hems away from the legs it means to tangle. There is the matter of the schiavona, dropped back into its sheath with a hiss that Ashfiend's furious struggle will surely conceal. There is the matter of this heavy bucket, caught up from a shelf with two gauntleted hands; the whole of her body must wheel about to swing it at the back of Ashfiend's head, and both hands release its handle at the apex of that swing.

Necessarily release, for the moment after it sees the juggernaut rushing at the armoured man, and had Cinnabar's embrace seemed almost intimate? So might this: these hands which reach for that unarmoured head; the close press of her ironclad body to permit it; the sudden, gritted cry roused from the back of her throat. But this is quite inevitable, for there's quicksilver coursing the length of those arms, gushing forth to flood Ashfiend's features and tearing her skin wide with its haste.

[SinVraal]

Yes, there were indeed many weapons the serpent considered. Sometimes a blacksmith's tongs, a poignant lie, a fulfilled but unspoken desire...

As Cinnabar releases the smithing prongs, the silver creature flutters the graceful, elegant wings that unfurl from its sides. In a moment, perhaps two, the wrought creature, heated to a searing, pale yellow, forces upon the teethless, tempered clamps that bind the creature to whatever fate the victory of the ongoing struggle deems fitting.

Now, its fate is once again in the hand of its master. Hissing softly, the creature takes to the heated air and careens towards the door. Quickly, its wings fold and the serpent slithers beneath the door.

Sometimes your worst enemy could be the most useful weapon, it considered, as it tasted freedom with a forked tongue.

[Teron_Ashfiend]

For all that Cinnabar appeared to be a mortal man, Ashfiend finally concluded that he certainly was not. Whether would-be angel, delusional devil, or something else entirely - the constable was no mere man as surely as Ariane was no mere woman. The two cut an interesting pair, alike and yet not. Both joined in their hatred of him, at least for the moment, apart from whatever else had brought the two together.

Their attacks are the double-prongs of a pitchfork, for as Cinnabar shoves orange coals towards his eyes the heavy bucket smashes into the back of his head, knocking him forward into the waiting smithy fuel. A tight, livid snarl of barely-tempered fury escapes him and fills the room with its awful, morbid rage. At once he spins away from the pair, unleashing a shower of searing brimstone upon the chamber and tearing free of quicksilver that sought to bind him in yet another coffin.

The translucent flesh about his crimson eye bears the mark of Cinnabar's motley branding attempt, the eyes themselves still safely cloaked beneath shadow - a warning that even his unveiled countenance was not meant for this world.

As rage flows through him, battering down whatever feeble dams he had erected against the sustaining flow, he quickly stoops, recovering the mace, and is on the defensive again. Crimson eyes note the parted tongs, the serpent's distinct lack of a presence, and he risks a darting, searching glance about the room before turning his attentions solely upon the two before him.

The stooping brings a tight, controlled twitch to one raw, pale corner of his lips as Ariane's first wound tears further. The skin about his eye seethes in time with the throb of his own hate which times the ebb and flow of the miasmic, chilling cloud that surrounds him. It is a heartbeat for him, measuring, contracting, directing and sustaining - all that he is smelted into unremitting fury.

It is a fury that grows upon realization of the serpent's departure. Defeat and victory were strange things once you reached a certain age, once you had seen a certain number of battles and knew that there would always be more. There was rarely loss and victory. Rather, conflicts were merely that - small steps. There were countless small steps to be taken; every step leaving one more thing accomplished, every step leading onward towards more.

It was an awareness he had not found until after his heart had ceased to beat - for the second time.

"You serve your master well," he icily began, the words again rumbling up from a chasm of shaped, merciless rage. "Well enough to protect his precious servant... and spare it from my wrath."

His free hand falls upon the dark handle of Araq's Ruin, knuckles brushing against the elongated prongs of its hilt. A metallic hiss accompanies the bearing of his second weapon, a pale imitation of the escaped serpentine servant.

"Now tell me what is left to stop me," he rumbled as he readied both weapons. The fire flickered in his eyes and it promised only destruction. "From wreaking my hate upon you."

[Cinnabar]

Once again Cinnabar claws his way out of the furnace to stand in a half-crouch, poised, balanced, arms spread to grasp or grapple should his foe draw near enough; he shakes his head sharply to clear his eyes of ash and sparks before glaring at the armoured man again, watching alertly from beneath lowered brows.

His hair still smokes, standing up in charred tufts, and his face and torso are smeared with soot and coal dust while hot embers stuck to the skin of his back smoulder and spark. He's a mess, almost unrecognisable as the neatly-dressed High Constable in his smart grey uniform and brass buttons and pleasant manners, but for all that he somehow remains impossibly whole, unscarred save for scrapes and bruises earned in his clash with Teron's armoured form.

A moment's glancing around has him stooping to retrieve a billhook from the floor, hefting the blade briefly to gauge its balance before he steps to one side to grab a gardening fork behind its head, wielding it in guard position, tines aimed to trap that baleful blade should it be put to use. Thus armed - albeit with horticultural tools rather than proper weapons - he can take a moment to survey this dark figure, to consider their situation for a time, to circle warily around him on the search for some chink in his defences, some weakness that might be exploited. But in the meantime the Ashfiend is speaking, some of which makes very little sense to the Constable at all.

"Which master would that be, then?" He can't help but grin at the thought that this hulking madman might have kicked in the forge's door in search of someone else entirely; the ridiculousness of the idea has him laughing, a low chuckle deep in his chest. Then he's tilting his head at the man's challenge, brows raised curiously.

"What's stopped you so far? Aside from the fact you're outnumbered, outclassed and on course for a bastard of a kicking, you corpse-faced son of a whore."

He jerks his chin towards the forge's door, still ajar and sagging slightly on its hinges from Teron's dramatic entry.

"The way out's over there. Piss off before I really lose my temper." He crouches lower, improvised weapons held ready, boots scuffing slightly to ensure him a firmer footing.

"Go on."

[Carnath-Emory]

There is an awkward, tangled moment here: snarling Ashfiend fills the smithy with his wrath, showers smouldering debris down upon the both of them, so that the swordswoman ducks her head aside despite the broad cover of her misshapen helm. The livid thing is torn away from her reaching arms, and for two terrible moments the fluid iron stretches, as if it meant to restrain the man's head, and let the body run free --

But it cannot last, it does not last, for iron has a limit, and eventually snaps back against Ariane's bleeding arms with force enough to make her shudder. She is back a step from Ashfiend then, as he stoops to retrieve his weapon; back another, and neatly to the side, to survey the forge during this lull. Two matters demand her attention, and one is found almost immediately: Renne's dagger, retaining its vicious gleam even amidst the pile of scrap that had half-buried it. Crouched to retrieve it, a woman must very slightly smile. Some things never change.

The second remains the serpent, and her quick gaze does not discover it amongst the forge's coals, does not find it fallen amidst the files and buckets that she'd tumbled from their shelves. The realising that Ashfiend scours the room for it too, is her cue to give the thing up as lost. Better instead to let the two speak, for when words are the weapons of choice she is as good as dead. Better to let them discuss a matter become increasingly strange, for she would rather retain its simplicity: the struggle of flesh and muscle and iron; the crash of steel and sparks. Here is a heart that longs for purity of purpose, and very seldom finds it...

But...

"I bow to no man," advises a woman who once had, so that it's a dubious smile which she turns upon the pair as she says it. 'Master'? Here is your answer, m'ser styervo; have the decency to choke upon it. And let them continue with their talk unhindered, for she is glad of the moment's rest: it gives her the opportunity to let that chestpiece soften and recede, so that by the time Calomel's spoken his obscenities, the iron has reformed -- and the section Ashfiend had buckled is repaired. The same cannot be said of her arms, of course: they are raw within tattered sleeves, blood-slick within the iron which plates them. But the damage is not evident to Ashfiend's eye, and that is what distinctly matters now; they will serve her a little longer yet.

So they are let to talk, as the swordswoman sees to these things, quiet, casual steps taking her in an arc opposing Calomel's own. It's only the unmistakeable hiss of a weapon drawn that lifts her head, only Ashfiend's taunting question which frees the schiavona into her hand. In distant Aithne, there stands a small statue which holds a thing in this manner, which stakes a claim and defies the world to take what she's named for her own. Of course, Aithne burns at this very minute: soon, the distant glow of those flames will lend a ruddy note to the night sky. But for now...

For now, a swordswoman stands in just such a manner. For now, a very slight smile quirking one corner of her mouth, a swordswoman dares.

[Teron_Ashfiend]

Cinnabar's words break against him like water upon stone. Unfazed at the bravado, the barest hint of a smile tugs upon cold lips and reveals the even line of white teeth. His chuckle is an icy, hollow thing with the sound of stone grating against stone.

"The serpent is the greater foe by far," he offers in response as the brief bemusement perishes quickly. The few injuries he has suffered occasionally tug and throb, but they have since begun to cool as embers seperated from fire.

His gaze descends upon Ariane then as a rising storm of fire and ash upon the horizon. The infernal light in his unblinking gaze promises despair and destruction as the shadows in the room ripple and, for a moment, bend towards him in supplication.

"You lie to me, woman," the remark begins. "You have called two men master, and now you both use the same title of a third and have fallen beneath the serpent's sway." His gloved fingers recurl about the handles of each weapon. With the serpent gone there are now only two objects of wrath remaining, he considers. A dull, dim ghost of satisfaction preys upon his mind at meeting worthy enemies and so soon upon his arrival. The promise of their challenge is a momentary refreshment.

The satisfaction does not last. The figment of a smile has long since perished. Both fade into the dim, dull grey that surrounds his ancient and wearied mind: smoke from the burning pyre of hate at his core.

"For what fell purpose you brought that creature here I do not know," he continues while attempting to call to mind what sorcery of which he is capable of using. "But anyone who would protect it must serve Vraal. And anyone who serves Vraal is my enemy." The name is a curse and a symbol of undying vengeance. It is coldly explosive upon those ruined lips and sets a tension through his entire tall, armored frame - a testament to age and ruin.

"Unleash your fury, constable," Ashfiend utters coldly as the sword sinks low and the mace rises. "I will show you what it is to hate."

[Cinnabar]

Fury, he says. Hate, he says. Enemy, he says.

Which leads the Constable to blink, a perplexed frown creasing his features.

"Wait, what?" Weapons are lowered slightly as he straightens, staring at the armoured figure as one might regard the most hopelessly blithering of idiots. "The snake? We brought it here to destroy it - hence the tongs and the fire and all that. And we were managing quite well before you kicked in the bloody door."

He glances to Ariane as if to confirm that she's hearing the same thing he is, then back to Teron. Billhook and fork are lowered to his sides - not set down entirely, mind, but no longer held poised to strike either.

"Vraal? I know that name, yes, but that's about it. Who is he?" Now there's a very good question. His own researches had been unable to turn up very much about the fellow at all, which makes the Constable very curious. But apparently this flame-eyed apparition counts him as a deadly foe, so perhaps there's some information to be gained here after all. The fury fades gradually from his features to be replaced by a kind of frustrated annoyance, as if someone's being thoroughly difficult for no good reason and he wishes they'd bloody well stop it.

"I would suggest that there seems to have been something of a misunderstanding, sir."

[Carnath-Emory]

Like water upon stone.
Like water upon glowing coals, so that the both of them must suffer, must recede, must find some sort of awkward accord.
So that everything quite shockingly changes.

That Ashfiend accuses her of deceit somehow stings, and shouldn't, for the charge is ludicrous: hadn't even Calomel realised her quite incapable of such a thing? But the circumstances make this a negligible concern; it inspires only a brief burn of colour, in features already lit crimson by the forge's glow. Still, perhaps she might have been roused to some protest, if Ashfiend hadn't continued with such oddities, such puzzles, as to leave the woman baffled. And glancing now and then to Calomel as if for confirmation that they hear the same words. And staring, near the end of it, for Ashfiend has declared that the sky is green, the grass quite blue, that waterfalls spill their burden into the clouds --

In short, he has turned the world upside down and inside out, or else they are all gone quite mad.

So that as this continues, she has found it quite necessary to curl the back of one hand before her mouth, and nevermind that it makes the arm to ache. For the corners of her mouth had begun to slightly tremble, the iron arcs of her shoulders had aquired so distinct a tremble, and laughter ... oh, at such times as these laughter is highly inappropriate!

And utterly irresistable.

By the end of it, Ashfiend has spat Hate as if it were a curse, and the Constable has insisted on misunderstandings, and Ariane herself has become quite, quite useless. Laughter cripples her, and by then it has become a helpless stream, choked poorly into a gauntlet's edge. With her shoulder rested against the wall she has buckled; with head bowed, so that when she looks back towards the pair, it is through the tumble of her own dark hair, and with eyes grown bright and moist.

"Poslushay ty, mudack!" she eventually gasps. "You found us murdering it -- and now you have let it flee!"

[Teron_Ashfiend]

As Cinnabar insists on a misunderstanding, and Ariane descends into a fit of riotous laughter, his simmering gaze flickers between the two. Suspicion keeps the grasp tight upon his weapons, as well as a willingess to smelt them upon the forge himself should this display turn out to be a ruse.

"Destroy it..." he begins, fury still dancing amongst the syllables to a slow, hungry beat. "Nonsense. Any fool who knows the serpent's nature would not bother with such... mundane... methods. They would prove useless."

His sudden conversational companions slip easily into their conversation. Though he is not foolish enough to think that their guards are down. For all of the constable's battle-fury he seems to put it aside. Not so Ashfiend, though he lowers the mace to his side while regarding the pair, his gaze is still fed by hateful fire and the chill nestles about him protectively.

"Smelt the creature...?" The voice waxes incredulous, as he gestures easily with the mace's length towards the coals that, a few moments ago, he had attempted to drown Cinnabar in to no avail. "One might as well attack it with a wooden sword. Do you not know the flames of its forging? Do you not know from whence it came?"

Their expressions seem to indicate that the truth is now naked before all three of them. It is a small truth, yet its bite is deep. His immediate thought, nor any thought thereafter, is for the lives he may have seriously threatened. All his mind is bent, for a few moments, upon the object of his hatred: the silver serpent. That it was here and that it had escaped.

"Murdering?" he snarls, turning his gaze upon Ariane as if it were a pack of wild, hungry dogs. "I found you preparing to amuse the thing and waste your efforts." His words, laden with icy fury, still hint at a once cultured voice, given to education and precise enunciation.

The smoke that creeps from the coals, pulsing with orange and crimson veins, casts its light upon his battered, blackened breastplate enough to highlight half of the sword and one weeping, wilting rose engraved thereupon.

Slow, he turns back to face Cinnabar once again. "I will answer none of your questions until I am satisfied you neither serve him nor care to prevent the serpent's destruction. It is a most cunning creature..."

Glancing aside to Ariane, he continues, "As I am sure you know."

[Cinnabar]

"No." replies the Constable peevishly. "No, we don't know anything about it, save that it speaks, it has considerable powers, it makes all manner of promises, and it is a thing of deceit. It's made of metal; how else does one unmake such a thing, other than by melting it in a forge?"

He clears his throat, scowling and spitting ash and coal dust onto the fire to sizzle briefly; the billhook is set down atop the anvil against which he leans with the air of one who is tired, and annoyed, and wishes that the whole mess would go somewhere and sort itself out without his help. But such things never seem to do so. So he eyes Teron irritably, a moment taken to brush embers and soot from what remains of his hair, to flick still-sparking coals from his shoulders as one might dust off a coat after a long ride. Then, it seems, he is prepared to talk.

"I have little idea who this Vraal is, as I have said. His name was raised as some sort of scholar of lore, someone who might know about the serpent, and that is all. My own investigations have been able to discover little about him. I have never spoken to the man, nor even met him. That is the truth." A flat recounting of what he knows as fact; unvarnished and plainly-stated. He nods towards the swordswoman who currently fights to control her mirth, a slight smile quirking his own lips.

"The serpent came into my friend's possession through chance, I believe. It soon became apparent that it could understand her wishes, even unspoken ones, and acted to carry them out as best it could. We came to believe that it was... dangerous. We suspected it to be some sort of spy, being as it could hear one's thoughts and its true provenance was so unknown, so she took to sending it on pointless errands to keep it occupied, yet at a distance." His gaze hardens somewhat, a note of outrage returning to his voice. "It was from the last such errand - earlier this evening - that it returned with... a child. Who had been dead for some long while, and yet walked again."

He shakes his head at that, eyeing the Ashfiend's cadaverous features warily.

"It was an abomination. A horror. We resolved to destroy the thing immediately, this very night, and so we came here to do so. You know the rest, as you arrived soon after we started the attempt - why else would we be roasting the thing in a forge, if not to melt it or destroy it?" He shrugs lightly, watching the armoured figure for a moment.

"So who is Vraal? And who are you, for that matter?"

[Carnath-Emory]

"Of course it would prove useless -- " And really, this is too much; a moment is required to grasp some sort of composure, to quieten herself before the laughter becomes dangerously unrestrained. This is a woman verly newly-come to the appeal of humour. A hand is lifted to request this pause, in any case; its arm stings with the motion-- and pain proves to be sobering. Twisting, she can slump her back against the doorframe, tilt back her head, roll her gaze back to the pair as iron becomes quicksilver against her flesh.

"Of course," Ariane begins, when there's breath enough for it. "But we begin with the small things, mn? And then work to the better, and we were able to, mne dolboj'eb, for that we held the thing. And now it is lost, and beyond our retrieving, and that is your gift to us, mn? So," a spread of the hand, to encompass the smithy's battered interior.

"You witness our gratitude."

Quiet for a time then, so that they will speak unhindered by a creature who's sense for humour is still not quite what it should be. Time is required, so that the fluid iron may recede from her forearms, and reveal the extent of what its gambit has cost her: not so bad as it might have been, she discovers, but there's bloodflow steady enough for bandages, and she's straightening at the sight of it. To the door then, for there awaits a dark horse outside with well-stocked saddlebags, but:

"The chyort thing speaks of what is dear to me. Or threatens it; perhaps murders as it sleeps, so to have its vengeance upon me for this, mn? And it tells me that a thing visits my door: a thing cold, ancient, rotten -- these are its words. Perhaps it means you, yes?

"Perhaps this Vraal.

"Now. A moment, mn?"

With a tilt of her chin down towards fingers gone bloody, by way of explanation; she has her shoulder to the door, is afforded a breath of cool air, a glimpse of dark skies, and their distant ruddy glow.

[Teron_Ashfiend]

He studies the pair anew as their words begin to sink in, their stories beginning to make sense. It is not long before he suspects that, indeed, the two are forging the truth with their words. His scowl is a sour, arctic expression. Although Ariane leaves he speaks as his rumbling is loud enough to be heard outside.

"A man impervious to flame," he begins, "and a woman whose armor flows like water, expected something like the serpent, with the abilities it demonstrated, to perish as mere metal?"

His mirth, too, arises; his chuckle is dismissive, derisive and bitter. The sound is accompanied by another metallic hiss as his sword slides back into its scabbard, the weapon from Tannerback Lane, and he slips the mace bearing the symbol of the One True Faith onto the opposing side of his stout belt.

"You are considerably naive, though honest. Nothing that creature does is by pure chance. Whatever fortune, or misfortune, it stumbles upon it soon twists into favor - just as it winds about the arm of its master. Just as..."

Ariane's remark, the thing stalking her, sudeenly unfurls in his mind. The serpent knew it was being followed, and by what, and also must have known of their intent to destroy it. It knew he would track them here and attack them, seeking to take the serpent for himself.

"Just as our conflict must have been planned for as well." His free hands, the gloves torn during their encounter, slowly curl into fists. For a few moments he is silent, fuming, thoughts ablaze with renewed vengeance.

"It seems we share in the foolishness of this evening."

He reaches up towards the scarf and begins winding about the lower half of his countenance. For all that these two did not seem fazed by his grim visage, should more constables arrive soon, they might not react nearly so ... neutrally.

It is not long before his face is masked and hooded once more. The ancient, faded golden threads that hem his cloak glitter with orange light that the coals still bleed into the stangnant air.

"Sin'Vraal," he begins again, the fire in his gaze cooling as his thoughts turn upon ancient things. He hesitates, however, unsure of how much he should reveal or even if the constable would believe him. How much truth does one venture before it is deemed false?

"Sin'Vraal is far older than anyone might guess. He is not human, although he has passed himself off as a mere sorcerer in the past. He is clever, cunning and quite manipulative." He pauses a moment before continuing. "I would tell you of his homeland but it would have no meaning here."

"I am called," he continues, offering the name bequeathed to him by his former master, "Teron Ashfiend."

[Cinnabar]

"Charmed, I'm sure." There is perhaps a slight touch of irony to his tone; not unwarranted, really, given that their first introduction had involved the Ashfiend attempting to cleave the Constable limb from limb without so much as a by-your-leave.

"Cinnabar Calomel. My friend will introduce herself when she sees fit, I imagine." He glances to Ariane as she shoves the door open, hand straying a touch closer to the billhook - Cinnabar has no intention of being caught flat-footed should Teron decide the odds to be more in his favour with her outside. That in mind he returns his attention to his recent opponent, eyes still glittering silver, wary and untrusting.

"Is there any particular reason you might have this feud with Sin'Vraal? Or are reasons unnecessary when it comes to swearing undying hatred against someone?" His gaze flicks down to the blade at the armoured figure's hip, brows creasing slightly. Then there is a moment of recognition, and he looks back to the fiend's face once more.

"You wouldn't happen to know anything about a number of murders in Tannerback Lane, I suppose?"

[Carnath-Emory]

Even beyond the forge's walls, the gravel of Ashfiend's voice is audible, but then she'd left its door ajar to ensure precisely that. But oh, that he has allowed her to leave at all is surprising: he's already mistaken murder for games, so that the swordswoman had half-expected that he would take excursion into night air for flight. But he has raised no hand to prevent it, either way, and includes both she and Calomel in his words now, and this suits her needs quite well.

The most immediate of which is the fetching of old, coiled bandages from her saddlebags. It is a moment's work, and the mindless sort, at that; worn, grey cotton is wound 'round and about a forearm as she listens to the pair inside. Ah: 'naive', is it? The word stings less when it's not a lover's lips which speak it; she can accept the chastisement for precisely what it is worth, and in any case a concession is swift to follow, this talk of a mutual bout of madness.

Ah, ser. Really, you are too kind.

But the most of her work is done, if a little awkwardly near the end of it, for the left hand remains a claw of thin bandages itself, and isn't much useful for more than the simplest tasks. Experience serves her instead -- oh, trust that a swordswoman is keenly familiar with wounds and their tending -- so that when she returns to the forge's interior, it is with sleeves rolled back to the elbows, and worn cotton descending there to the wrists. And pain, certainly, but kher's'nim and be damned if she'll give Ashfiend the satisfaction of sighting that. Better to plant her spine back against the doorframe, to listen as the two exchange question and answers, and near the end of it all, add:

"I am Ariane Emory. You know this thing better than we, mn? So you will educate us: you will explain how it is to be destroyed."

Through the ground beneath their feet, there courses the very faintest of tremours.