The guards bear Iskander deeper into the bastion, his fevered voice trailing behind him like smoke. The name Morgenstern slices through the air, distinct even amid the muttering. Caio's eyes meet the steward's in the flickering torchlight and her brow furrows. They step aside into a quieter alcove beneath a stained-glass window just off the infirmary hall, depicting cleansing light breaking a battlefield of shadows.

"We don’t know yet," she admits, low and grim. "He collapsed outside the gates, fevered and half-dead. His wounds are old and healing poorly. Whoever he was, he’s been surviving by sheer will."

Brighthill crosses her arms, the golden sun of her mantle glinting.

"He speaks the Imperial tongue, but his gear is a patchwork of mercenary dress and he carries nothing of value, except his weapons. No badge, no coin, no sealed orders, but that name… that he would curse the name Morgenstern even in a delirium… either he’s encountered one of them directly, or he’s been on the wrong end of their manoeuvring. This may be providence, Inquisitor. I know that you do not believe in chance.”

From within the infirmary, another broken phrase rings out in raw Sarameian, followed by a hacking cough and a garbled slur of curses that even a native speaker might struggle to unravel.

Caio nods.

”Providence indeed, it would seem.” He taps a slender finger to his chin, wondering if he has the time to wait for the man to be healed. The others are waiting on him, but… most likely Shiva has already gotten herself into trouble. Most likely he’ll be waiting on them once he gets back to the sanctum. 

“How long will it take your priests to heal him? At least enough to hold a conversation.”

The steward considers for a moment, eyes narrowing thoughtfully as she gauges the state of the broken man just beyond the chamber wall.

"He’s strong," the dwarf tells Caio. "Stronger than he has any right to be, given the state he’s in. I’ve seen worse survive on sheer hatred alone and he’s certainly clinging to something."

She glances toward the infirmary door, where the murmured curses have gone quiet.

"It's a question of resources. Divine blessing can heal any one man, but doesn't suffice to heal all the poor in the city. Who decides who is and isn't worthy of such a gift? With focused attention from our healers, we can bring down the fever within a few hours. He won’t be fit for battle, but, if he doesn’t relapse, I’d wager you’ll have your conversation by nightfall."

Brighthill tilts her head slightly.

"If you need a place to wait, I can guarantee that your return to Five Towers will be swift when the time comes. Our circle remains at your disposal."

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Gorash grunts in surprise, twisting away, but not fast enough. The orc's expression flickers as Shiva's fist connects with his jaw, the first hint of true awareness gleaming in his eyes, and the crowd erupts as blood is drawn. The gladiator steps back, rolling his neck, before thumping the ball of his thumb up into his jaw to set it straight.

"Hah… not bad," Gorash rumbles, his grin no longer quite as cocky. "Guess I’ll have to take ya seriously."

Moving with surprising deftness, the orc kicks his axe up from where it lies at his feet to catch the weapon in mid air. The blade spins twice before settling between Shiva and her foe. This time his stance is more cautious.

Outside, the dwarf lets out a short, wheezing laugh, his thick fingers tugging at his beard as he eyes Alaris anew.

"Charities, is it?" He asks, tone teetering between disbelief and amusement. "Well, that’s a new one. Can’t say we get many philanthropists through the Pits, but I suppose even good deeds need a strong sword arm now and again." He jerks a thumb toward the arena entrance, where the echoes of Gorash’s stomping still reverberate faintly.

"Still, if you’ve been cracking skulls for the public good, you’ll fit right in. We get plenty of group brawls in the later heats. Crowd loves a scrap with more than two bodies flying around. Still, if you're curious what it's like to test your steel against just one other, no distractions, no backup... well, I’m sure we could arrange somethin’." He gives Alaris a sidelong look. "After your friend’s done, of course."

He pauses, glancing out over the pit. "...assuming she’s not planning on taking the place apart, that is."

With this declaration, Shiva takes a slow step back and steadies herself into a deeper and more lethal stance, lifting her blade fully to her front. "

"No killing."  "No killing. But I'm gonna make this hurt." 

She shifts to flex her offhand at her side, only barely thinking the better of it in time to stop the demonic claws from extending outward in their vicious matte black. She takes a deep breath, focusing on the oath she had made a mere hour ago. She looks to the runes on her sword-bearing arm, beautifully intricate in their golden symmetry against her azure skin. Stirring forth the magic, she shapes their influence into a non-lethal means of offense. 

The runes shine, veins of arcane force weaving their way up her forearm and onto her hands. Gently, they circle her knuckles like whirlpools, solidifying into connected plates of teeming energy. She suppresses a smile as she sees the magic respond to her will, and Gorash takes advantage of her momentary distraction. 

Closing the distance between them faster than Shiva would have thought possible, the orc brings the haft of his axe up and slams it into Shiva's jaw. Stars briefly fill her vision as her head is knocked to the left, and before she can right herself, the pit warrior deftly twirls the axe in his hands and cuts a bloody line across her forearm. The light of the runes sputter, the weave of the magic around her knuckles becoming frayed as red sparks crackle outward from runes engraved into Gorash's axe. With three simple steps, he again puts distance between himself and Shiva. 

But Shiva is no stranger to such attacks, moving with the momentum of the blow to her jaw to lessen the disorientation that only lightly settles over her perception. Quickly standing up straight, she clenches both fists, forcing the disruptive magic out of her runes by flooding them with power. The golden light flickers for one second more, then expels the invading energy as both her forearms now shine twice as brightly as they had before. Settling back into her lower stance, she launches herself towards the man without hesitation.   

Gorash's surprise as she overcomes the disruption to her runes is short-lived, the clang and ensuing liquid screech of metal on metal rings out through the pit as their blades meet. A well-placed horizontal slash with sufficient force is enough to knock the orc's defense open and allow her to make a deep vertical cut up through his chest. The wound spits blood onto her face, and the man exclaims through gritted teeth as he brings his axe back round in retort.

The strike should have cleaved through muscle and bone, leaving Shiva's sword arm a bloody mess. But with her earlier advance, the world had brightened into the symphony of movement and light that is becoming more and more familiar to her in her newfound awareness of her abilities. The adjustment of the backfoot, the tensing of the muscles across the torso, the sharp intake of breath alongside a shift in posture. All of this choreographs for her the man's intent and where the blow would land, and in rearing back she manages to receive only a moderate cut into the crook of her arm. 

With his defenses again laid bare, Shiva takes advantage of her positioning to line up another strike to the man's jaw. With her offhand now augmented with the scintillating mystical knuckles of the warden's runes, she lets out a roar as she brings her fist down onto Gorash's jaw with titanic strength. She feels the bone give way entirely beneath her arm, and Gorash sways from side to side as he tries to bring himself up to standing, jaw broken and axe slipping from his grasp. Shiva reflexively brings the blade up at her side, point aimed at the orc's heart. 

"NO KILLING."

The voice rings in her ears, and she drops the sword. In another fluid motion, she reaches out to grasp the back of the man's head with both hands before launching herself upward. She pulls downward with all her weight, simultaneously driving her knee upward and into Gorash's face with the same force she'd wrought upon his jaw. Again, she feels bone give way beneath her strike, and the orc flies onto his back in another spray of blood. Shiva hears nothing as she surveys her work. Nose and jaw broken, chest covered in wounds, gurgling with eyes half closes as he unconsciously draws air into his lungs. She feels unsteady, hands trembling ever so slightly.

"...Thank you." 

"You did great, Shiva. This guy will have some scars but he'll live to tell the tale. I'm proud of you."

Shiva is unsure of what to say to her Other, and the few seconds of silence between them are enough to bring the world screaming back into focus around her. The crowd was in a near frenzy. She turns to face them, lifting up a bloody fist in solemn triumph. 

Caio lets out a sigh of mild disappointment. It wasn’t the answer he was looking for, but it would have to do.

”Very well. If I may ask for yet another favor, would you be able to send word to the Warden that my business here will be taking longer than originally expected?”

"Of course," the steward replies smoothly. "I’ll have him sent a fire message."

She turns, already signalling to one of the junior clerics nearby, before glancing back to Caio.

"If this man speaks truth and the Morgensterns are tied to his suffering…" the halfling adds in a lower tone, "then I think that you were meant to be here when he arrived. You’ll get your answers."

Brighthill offers the inquisitor a parting nod, before moving off to oversee both the healing and the dispatch of his message.

Caio nods in agreement to Brighthill’s insight. After she departs, he finds a quiet alcove somewhere to kneel and trance while he waits for the healers to do their work.

When Iskander wakes he is somewhere bright. He squints against the light and feebly raises his arm to block the glow and sees a shadowed figure - a vague outline obscured by the light, but clearly humanoid. He knows who it must be.

"No! I'm not done yet. Send me back," he pleads in throaty Beschcadik accented Sarameian . "Let me avenge them. I'll kill Morgenstern and then Ammut can have my soul after"

 There was no question of what Anubis' scales would say; for all that Morgenstern was worse, Iskander could never atone for his part in it all. But this wasn't Anubis. Iskander's eyes have been adjusting to the light and now he can see the person in front of him has a distinctly elven face.

The high windows of the infirmary admit a golden spill of afternoon light, glinting off polished brass sconces and the pale ceramic basins besides each cot. Incense burns faintly in the air. A subtle and medicinal scent, rather than a cloying one. The low murmur of a priest’s chant fades as a healer finishes tending another patient down the row.

Iskander stirs.

It’s slow at first. A twitch in his fingers. A rough exhale. Then his eyes crack open, bloodshot and hazy. The scent of clean linens and dried herbs hits him harder than any painkiller. The sheets are unfamiliar. The ceiling isn’t a sky or a tent. He’s alive, but where?

He tries to sit and winces at the movement. His leg still aches, but the fire is duller now, dampened by divine restoration and poultices. Someone took the time to wash the worst of the filth from his skin and bind the wounds that festered.

Across the room, a tall figure in dark garb unfolds from the shadows.

“Welcome back to the world of the living.” says the fuinequendi, a vision of death amongst all the light and life that surrounds them here. The wide brim of his new hat sits low behind him, hanging at the back of his neck and framing his face like a sunken halo. The curled meteor hammer at his hip shines strikingly bright in the soft lights. 

“My name is Caio Cypherien, and I believe we might share prey. Tell me your name, and what you know of the Morgensterns.”

That was in Taneman. Iskander realised he must have made it. He did not say anything for a moment and took in the surroundings, he was pleased to see he was in a well maintained infirmary and not chained for questioning somewhere far less hospitable. 

He looked back to the man he'd mistaken for a deity. "Iskander Miralay," he said before looking down with a thoughtful expression and correcting himself. "Just Iskander"  

"Morgenstern is a snake who has somehow wormed her way into the court and now throws the lives of soldiers away to advance her own nefarious schemes." Iskander could speak Taneman fluently, but he spoke the words with the same throaty Beschcadik accent that was natural in Sarameian. "Bringing her to justice is my final goal in life."

"And you? You're the one who saved me?"

Caio smirks.

”No. You have the healers of the Sunhold Bastion to thank for your life, but I believe it was Fate who brought you to them and thus serendipitously to me. You say ‘her’ so I assume you must speak of Clarissa. My friends and I currently hunt her and her father, Valentine. My business here in Paragon was of preparation, we plan to teleport to Beschadik to go after the snake in the court. To a certain extent we were about to go in blind, however…” Caio cocks his head, onyx eyes scanning the man’s bandaged state. “Well were it not for your wounds I’d ask you to join us, but perhaps you can help me with some information. Surely she has gathered both allies and enemies in the court. Do you know their names?”

Quote from stormchaser6 >>

 

Outside, the dwarf lets out a short, wheezing laugh, his thick fingers tugging at his beard as he eyes Alaris anew.

"Charities, is it?" He asks, tone teetering between disbelief and amusement. "Well, that’s a new one. Can’t say we get many philanthropists through the Pits, but I suppose even good deeds need a strong sword arm now and again." He jerks a thumb toward the arena entrance, where the echoes of Gorash’s stomping still reverberate faintly.

"Still, if you’ve been cracking skulls for the public good, you’ll fit right in. We get plenty of group brawls in the later heats. Crowd loves a scrap with more than two bodies flying around. Still, if you're curious what it's like to test your steel against just one other, no distractions, no backup... well, I’m sure we could arrange somethin’." He gives Alaris a sidelong look. "After your friend’s done, of course."

He pauses, glancing out over the pit. "...assuming she’s not planning on taking the place apart, that is."

Alaris follows the dwarf's gaze to the ongoing duel. Both warriors are mighty indeed, but Alaris sees the weeks of practice with Shiva bearing fruit in their friend's new-found patience and balance. "No - that's not how she fights anymore. Do you see her control? Her anticipation? Your warrior fights well, for certain, but my friend has coupled the fierce beast inside her with the discipline that will make her unstoppable." The bogatyr cannot keep the tone of pride and appreciation from their voice as the bloody clash continues. Caio will be so pleased... Nikolai would never believe it. Thank you, Lady, for your blessing...

"Yes, I think it's time to work up a sweat of my own when she's done. Can't let her get too far ahead of me."

The dwarf glances sidelong at Alaris, stroking his beard as a grin creases the weathered leather of his face.

"Hah! You speak like a mentor, but your eyes say 'kin'," he nods slowly, watching as Shiva slips Gorash's strike to her arm and counters with a measured blow to the jaw, precise and unflinching. "You're right. That's not wild rage that I'm seeing. It’s shaped. Like steel that's been reforged. Takes more than strength to pull that off."

A thunderous cheer erupts from the crowd as Gorash falls and the dwarf chuckles.

"She's winning the crowd, too. Always easier to spill blood when the mob's behind you, but controlling the fight while the mob screams for chaos? That’s something else."

"Go on up," he tells Alaris, gesturing to one of the upper tiers of seating that winds around the arena, shaded beneath high stone archways. "There’s a spot near the judge's box. You'll get a fine view from there. When it’s your turn, we'll see if your sweat matches your words." The old fighter slaps the bogatyr on the back with a firm hand. "Can’t lie. I like your kind. Trouble follows you, sure, but you don't run from it. Go cheer your friend. The pit remembers fighters like her... and those who walk beside them."

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Caio smirks.

”No. You have the healers of the Sunhold Bastion to thank for your life, but I believe it was Fate who brought you to them and thus serendipitously to me. You say ‘her’ so I assume you must speak of Clarissa. My friends and I currently hunt her and her father, Valentine. My business here in Paragon was of preparation, we plan to teleport to Beschadik to go after the snake in the court. To a certain extent we were about to go in blind, however…” Caio cocks his head, onyx eyes scanning the man’s bandaged state. “Well were it not for your wounds I’d ask you to join us, but perhaps you can help me with some information. Surely she has gathered both allies and enemies in the court. Do you know their names?”

"I only have suspicions," Iskander replied. The emphasis on the last word indicating that he felt fairly certain of them. His eyes narrowed at Caio. "And what will you do with the information? I want Clarissa's head but I'm no traitor. 

Caio cocks his head to one side like a bird of prey. Clearly the man is aligned against Clarissa, but where do his other loyalties lie?

”Her enemies, we hope to make allies of. Her allies, we hope to avoid. I too would love to see her head on a spike, but that is not our ultimate priority. Most importantly we need some effect of hers, a vial of blood or a severed finger perhaps. This will serve as a key with which we plan to breach her father’s private sanctum. Though Clarissa is a mighty foe worth felling, she pales in comparison to her sire, Valentine. In the process we hope to undermine her efforts to sway the Imperial court. Her dealings there have an ulterior motive beyond just accruing political power. She lusts after the runestone which hangs around the emperor’s neck.”

"A finger might not be enough. I think you need to take more." Iskander replied without any levity. He considered the Shadow Elf for a moment. "Vizier Tarefan Shuqir. Hoja Nemea. Ferik Obran al-Sirr. Those are in her pocket; they deserve whatever is coming to them."

He grimaced as he leant forward. "Morgenstern is the one behind this invasion. I want what's best for my country and I know that means I will need to fight my own. That said - I do not know you, Ciao," Iskander's suspicion was clear in how he said the elf's name. "I don't want the invasion to succeed but I'm not going to help some foreigner with a secret agenda destroy my country and plunder the crown jewels no matter what nonsense you peddle about 'runestones'."  

Caio smiles, cold and cruel, apparently amused by the man’s vocal mistrust.

”Iskander, if I sought to destroy Sarameia from within, don’t you think I’d be working with Clarissa, not here talking to some half-dead janissary?” He leans forward, ice radiating from his voice. “We are going to fight the Morgensterns to the bloody death with or without your help. If we happen to aid Sarameia along the way then so be it, but I could not care less about your petty human politics. That witch and her father play at things which would spell ruin for all of Arden, and what’s worse, they have one of my little band held hostage. We will stop at nothing to free her and stop them. Help us or don’t, trust me or don’t, it makes no difference. Our fate is set.”

"You could be playing both sides." Iskander pointed out with a degree of petulance. Truthfully he did know he couldn't do it all on his own, and knowing about Caio's companion did a lot to help him trust him. 

Iskander lets loose a heavy world-weary sigh and slumps back. "Fine. I'm not in some secret resistance movement or anything like that. The names I have for you are people who publicly speak against her." He counts off another three names on the fingers of one hand, "Mushir Diyan Vorek, Hemt-Netjer Halime and Hanim Sariya Tanem-Basqar." He cocks an eye at Caio, "You know these titles, yes? Or do I need to explain any of them to you?" he asked without condescension.

"Diyan will be hardest to approach; he's under investigation and I suspect any contact with him will be noted. I might have tried to contact him myself otherwise. My best option was faking my death and making my way here."