Shiva turns and scrunches her nose in response to Caio's rather repulsive comment, as well as the finality with which he seems to expect assent to his statement.

"I shall never be satisfied, Caio, especially when it comes to what lies between my legs. And controlling the abyssal maw in my soul will keep us all safe, no one would need to almost tear off anyone's arm with an arrow ever again." She lets the words linger in the air for a moment before continuing.

As far as resuming our journey to Five Towers, that's fine with me. This place is clearly more broken than I care to understand or intervene in. I'm not going to break my back ripping out the throats of the leaders who allow and likely profit off of sex slavery just for ******** just as bad to replace them. This place needs to fix its own problems."

Alaris ushers Shiva away to the infirmary, where the abbey's healers see to the pair's injuries from the fight with the Norscans.

Besides the more mundane poultices and bandages applied, there is also some divine spark to the efforts of the devout. Alaris's celestial constitution seems to draw in the Lady's light like a plant seeking the sun and the paladin feels better than they have in days. However, Shiva's demonic blood proves less accepting of the blessing, which leaves her with an itchy, prickling sensation all over her skin.

     Astrid steps over to Shiva and nudges the halfling cleric aside with her hip. "Here, you're doing it wrong with this one." The dwarf gives the tiefling a wink, but she places a hand upon the tiefling's wound, it's with a less than gentle touch. "I think you're being too gentle. She seems to be a glutton for pain... Plus some of this is the result of my hand," she adds meekly.

     Astrid then begins to offer a prayers to Brightmantle to heal her friend and a glow appears under the dwarf's hand for a moment. When the cleric removes her hand, lighter blue patches of healing tissue take the place of the radiant burns. 

Shiva furrows her brow as she begins to itch and knead all over her body to alleviate the strange sensation. The reason for this reaction is apparent in the way that Alaris's body responds, and for a second she feels isolated and ashamed. It were as if the essence of life itself viewed her as an invading body and was trying to rid itself of her. She thinks to herself that she would like to spend some time amongst people like her: tieflings. Then a pang of sadness as she is reminded that Ling is far from her and likely in some degree of danger. 

Astrid's ministrations bring her back to the moment with a jolt and she laughs at the dwarf's comments. "According to some religious folk, pain can bring you closer to divinity. So I should've sprouted wings after you nearly burned me to a crisp." She laughs and stretches as the pain and irritation subside, all harm seeming to have been reversed. "Looks like your magic works best for me, thank you." 

The library at Paragon Abbey is a majestic sight to behold. The room is circular in shape, with high ceilings adorned with intricate carvings and paintings of past abbesses and important events in the abbey's history. The walls are lined with tall bookshelves made of polished oak, filled to the brim with weighty tomes and delicate manuscripts. The room is bathed in a warm, inviting light that emanates from the numerous chandeliers hanging from the ceiling.

The shelves are organised by subject matter, with sections devoted to history, religion, philosophy, magic and more. Each section is meticulously curated, with books arranged in alphabetical order by author name. In the centre of the room, there is a large reading table, made of the same polished oak as the bookshelves. The table is surrounded by comfortable chairs, perfect for hours of uninterrupted reading. Atop the table sits a massive tome, open to a page detailing the history of the abbey and its founding.

Shiva takes in the space before her before beginning her search. The smell of parchment and ink, the grand order and peace of such a place, it is a welcome change from the norm that had been recently wearing her down. Combing the rows of books, she has difficulty finding books that detail the Abyss, mariliths, or demons in general. She does, however, come across a text detailing the nature of tieflings. Within this work, the two types of tieflings are distinguished: Infernal & Abyssal tieflings. It explains that the rarity of tieflings like her is due not only to the profoundly violent predisposition of demons and the persecution of those who are discovered to harbor demonic heritage, but the physiology of Abyssal tieflings themselves. 

As their demonic heritage fully manifests, the bodies of Abyssal tieflings begin to fail as the mortal form struggles to contend with the warping and unstable seed of chaos within them. The text then states that each time that an abyssal tiefling willingly invokes these abnormal physical shifts in their body, their chances of developing life-threatening physical abnormalities is roughly doubled.

The words on the page seemed a harmless thing at first, but now Shiva quickly stands as if they were daggers aimed at her throat. She can feel the bile rising in her throat as her breathing quickens and her heart begins to pound. She is unsure of where to go or what to do. She had fought through so much to live and now her own body would be the source of her early death. Grasping at whatever thread of hope that she can, she begins combing the shelves again for books on physical transformation.

"Shiva...I'm so sorry. You deserve so much better than this. Better than what this world has forced upon you." 

"There has to be an answer. There has to be." Shiva says without even bothering to keep the words in her mind. Finding a book on vampirism and lycanthropy, she reads about the effects of the ailments on the body, both positive and negative. Eventually, she comes to a section that extrapolates on the intentional contraction of either condition in order to combat the progression of other diseases. It states, "A rare, but potent technique when dealing with 'incurable' curses, is to make two fight one another to the benefit of the host. However, this method is very unpredictable and can be just as likely to kill the subject when it goes wrong. For example, intentionally contracting lycanthropy to take advantage of its regenerative benefits and actively fight against the influence of another curse or magical disease."

"There. See? There may be a way to beat this. To survive." Slamming the book shut, she rushes from the library in search of Alaris. On the way, she spots a member of the Abbey and flags them down. "I need to write two missives, can you bring me ink and paper, please?" 

Without waiting for a response she's off again in the direction of her friend. Upon finding them, she approaches them with barely-contained panic. "I need to speak with you, Ari. Now."

“Impressive.” Caio remarks as he takes in the well endowed shelves. It’s been a long time since he has walked into a library, but in his years that now feel long past he spent many hours pouring over tomes a both in the Matron’s hallowed repositories and in the forbidden troves of esoteric knowledge which the 99 Hundred liked to frequent. He cracks his knuckles as he dives in after the first real lead he’s discovered on his hunt for that very same coven. 

It takes some time, but after following several vague references in books on theology he finds mention of Azrael in an old draconomicon which claims that some chromatic dragons and their kin revere him as a progenitor. He searches the pages for mention of a runestone linked to this dragon god when Shiva abruptly stands up, clearly stricken by something she has read. Caio merely raises an eyebrow, but behind his nonchalance he is ready for anything, one must be with Shiva. But the tiefling says nothing, instead rushing off to grab more books and then rushing out of the library. Caio watches this all with distant curiosity before closing his current tome and resuming his studies.

Eventually he finds information about the  runestone in a treatise by a gnomish theurge who waxes poetic about the cyclical flows of the elements, magic, and mortal souls. The theoretic musings are beyond Caio’s more practical approach to metaphysics and arcana, but it is clear from this source that the runestones are powerful artifacts intrinsically linked to the heart of Arden itself.

Feeling that he has successfully exhausted the abbey’s resources, he neatly tucks the books back where he found them, takes a big stretch, and heads out of the library to rest.

Alaris delves into the history of the abbey, trying to absorb the background of the area and learn what powers might be at work in the area that could be threats. The aasimar gently turns page after page, keeping careful track of the page the history had been opened to. When Shiva catches their attention, they ease the pages back to their original positioning and then turn their warm silvery gaze to the frantic tiefling. "What's the matter, Shiva? Did you not find what you were looking for? I can ask the librarian if there are any other resources."

Shiva sits down very close to Alaris, speaking in a frantic whisper. She explains all that she has just read, and that her only hope of survival will turn her into an even greater monster, if she survives at all. As she finishes her explanation, she finds her pacing and begins to relax as the information finally settles in.

"It's ironic, really. My favorite book was about the perils of immortality, how one loses themself to it and becomes something else. Something unrecognizable as the person they once were. And it may be my only choice now." 

She takes a deep breath, her mind flitting from one thing to the next. "I'm going to write a letter to give to you. If I die of this thing before we see Ling again, I'd like you to give it to her. Shit, if I die of this even after we're all back together, please give it to her."

Alaris absorbs the racing words, the frustration and the desperation. When they speak, it is with the bright and firm voice of purpose, the teaching voice from the skirmishing yard. "Stop this puling, Shiva. Neither of us were destined to die in our beds with a crown of grey, too feeble to wrap our fingers around a blade. We control the things we can control, and we let the rest take a screaming stab at us, and if we must go down, we go down with our eyes blazing and buried under a mound of our fallen foes."

Not having been the reaction that she was expecting, all of Shiva's fear falls away at Alaris's response. She recognizes this posture, this tone of voice, and what she fears comes into stark clarity before her. She begins to shudder and she feels that she may cry, but instead she laughs. Leaning back in her chair, she laughs. More to herself than anything. When she looks back at Ari, it is with a mix of anger, exhaustion, and resignation.

"You're right, angel face. We do not live peaceful lives, so a peaceful death seems like a pipe dream. And I think that is what I'm afraid of. That this isn't a thing I can point at, a thing that I can bear my fangs at or deliver the point of a blade into. This is a race to see if I can stop it before it stops me. It's less control than I'm use to having over things that are trying to kill me, but I shall fight it all the same." 

Then all else falls away as she crosses her arms and looks to her aasimar friend with nothing but sincerity. "But I will write that letter to Ling all the same. She deserves more than some story of me dropping dead, forced to clutch the memories that she has of me for dear life. And I will be pursuing a physical change to combat this maladie, dear friend. I think I will go after vampirism, as a demon werewolf sounds like something that even I wouldn't want to fight. Will you still stand by my side if I survive the change, an unspeakable conjoining of all that you have sworn to destroy?"

Alaris listens, their stomach plummeting with trepidation as Shiva brings things to a point. Softly and with welling tears, they reply, "You know who I am, Shiva. You know what I am, and who I serve. Know this, too, that I will strike down any dead thing that seeks to make you one of them -- else I will die trying."

Slipping back into their voice of command, they recite the old mantra that the Septem Mortale has heard so often:

I do not strike with my hand. One who strikes with their hand has forgotten the Light of the Lady.

I strike with my self.

I do not hunt with my blade. One who hunts with their blade has forgotten the Light of the Lady.

I hunt with my mind.

I do not slay with my glaive. One who slays with their glaive has forgotten the Light of the Lady.

I slay with my soul.

Shiva smiles sadly. "Then my survival will make me an enemy of you. As you said, we go down with our eyes blazing. So death can truly have me the day that it earns me. I will become something new, Alaris. Vampiric, demonic, and human. Saying it aloud makes it seem all the more impossible, but I will pursue it nonetheless." Having heard the mantra of their bogatyr many times, Shiva whispers a version of her own that she feels is the cosmic equivalent to her divine friend.

"I do not kill out of mercy. Those who kill out of mercy have forgotten the chains of their captors.

I kill out of retribution.

I do not bespoil with my hand. Those who bespoil with their hand have forgotten the tenderness of compassion.

I bespoil with my legacy. 

I do not corrupt with my hate. Those who corrupt with their hate are hollowed by it. 

I corrupt with my heart."

Shiva's eyes begin to fill with tears as well, yet she maintains her smile. "Let us travel together, till the time that we face one another in the night's embrace."

For a moment, the aasimar's countenance falls. Their eyes shift from shining silver to the dusty dark grey of cold ashes in an exhausted firepit and their spine slumps in grief. Their braided red hair shifts to tarnished copper in the light from the library windows. Then Alaris takes a deep, deep breath and the light of the Lady comes back into their eyes and visage.

"The clearing at the end of the path awaits us all, but we will face the darkness together.. You are not damned, Shiva. I won't allow that."

Alaris wraps their lean and tired arms around the mighty tiefling and lays their head on her shoulder. For a long, long moment the aasimar just holds her and breathes in wordless prayer.

Shiva wraps her arms around the beloved warrior of the Lady, returning the hug. She too stays fixed in place, in the hug that wants nothing from her, does not seek to change her, or come with caveats. She turns to kiss the top of Alaris's head, then settles her chin on their shoulder. For a time she just breathes in their embrace.

"I was always damned, honey. You just love me too much to accept it. Thank you for loving me that way, for thinking that I deserved better. I think the same could be said for all of the Trio Infernale."

Then some nameless part of her finally caves in on itself, and she pulls away. Searching the library table near them, she finds paper and a writing implement and quickly pens a letter and gives it to Alaris. 

"Please give this to Ling when it's all over. And if you one day see me lose myself completely, please remember me as I am now."

"I know what I know," Alaris smiles as Shiva walks to the writing table. When Shiva returns, they brush the sand off the paper and fold it carefully into their top with a nod.

Shiva nods solemnly in return, her eyes momentarily welling up again before she quashes the feeling and sets to the next letter that needs writing. Returning to her seat, she writes the woman who she hopes can save her. 

 Once the letter is complete, she writes a small note to Andrei to accompany it, then carefully folds it and turns back to Alaris. "I need to go send this out, can you tell Caio and Astrid while I'm gone?" 

With that, she leaves the Abbey and heads towards one of the finest couriers in the city at the direction of the library's attendant. Upon reaching the establishment, she doles out all her coin to get the letter sent as expeditiously as possible. "-to be delivered to an Andrei, owner of the Black Sheep Tavern and Inn in Piotrgrad."

The courier is a halfling by the name of James Alcott and gladly takes Shiva's coin in exchange for his services.

It's about two-hundred and fifty miles from Paragon to Five Towers, but the road is relatively safe and well-maintained. At Bluebell's pace, the journey should take several days, but no more than a week.

As they leave Paragon, Caio stops by the blacksmith and informs him that he will send a courier from Five Towers to pick up his exotic weapon once he makes it there. 

He seems relieved to be on the road, moving with purpose again. Caio had been clearly frustrated with the ease in which his companions, namely Shiva, were easily distracted, but that all melts away as he rides ahead of the group, scouting, watching through Ghoul’s eyes as he soars high above. Though no one might ever utter these words aloud, the callous, black-clad, inquisitor has a lightness about him.

Leaving Paragon on the mundane horse that she rode in on, Shiva is uncharacteristically quiet. Clearly dejected, her movements and expressions are languid, and she looks out onto the passing countryside with the adoration of someone anticipating the knotted grip of a slow and painful death.

"If things don't work out, then I hope that my death will release you back to your world. I'd guess that the world wants to balance itself out, and would see me dying as the perfect opportunity to settle the score."

"...You're not dead yet."