The shadows tipped over the gnarled trees surrounding their small party as the sun retreated even further down the horizon. As the darkness descended, the gouges and knobs in each ancient wood, though petrified from age and entropy, seemed to alight with ...
sinister purpose. A graveyard forest. She half-expected one of the old things to uproot itself from the ground--the squelch of mud, movement too fast for their eyes to catch under the dying light, and then their path would be blocked when seconds ago it was not. Adie was not superstitious, but even she -- a gladiator scarred and true, who tore and bled her way out of the Pits -- knew when to recognize energies beyond the ken of mortals. Her tribe avoided such forbidden places in her youth, and she saw the fate of those who did not. Victims of their own folly, one and all. She held no particular regard for the Venomeroth -- in fact, what remained of her regard was fraying,
fast, from Havoc's disobedience and Ruvaen's silent criticism -- but it would be a waste to lose one of them to the cursed mire.
"Keep moving, then," she said, the command simple and curt, in response to the latter's observations. Following the swath of chaos he painted across Aesyth, the former took to a sullen silence and had refrained from speaking a word since the mine. She felt a quiet sense of relief; she wanted to save the throttling for their boss, who had a lot to explain, and wasn't in the mood to deal with one of Havoc's tantrums. It was rare for them to be in as much danger as they were in right now, but the mission had been anomalous from the start. Her thoughts drifted to the past. The Venomeroth. It didn't have a name, at first; just a simple mercenary group, discreet and competent, that found patronage in the seedy underbelly of Lidaran society. And then some. They slowly built themselves from the ground up until the name became necessary, to avoid miscommunication.
Those were the good days... in a way. They knew their mission down to the last detail, the pay was good, the jobs were dirty but hardly murderous, and the Boss was... decent. A violent but pliable fool, but he was much less of a fool and a squanderer before, and Adie rarely needed to rein the boys and girls back in line. Now they were a shadow of their former numbers and she could feel the whole thing coming apart at the seams.
Hurrying near Rev, old Magpie raised her head when the trap was mentioned. She felt the surge too, and no wonder;
she was the one who imbued it with such force. The thought that she still possessed such power even in her advanced age brought a warmth into her bones, negating the chill in the boglands somewhat.
"Now, now, children. Calm down," she croaked, in case the gunslinger's attack prompted a nasty response. The other grunts formed a half-circle behind her, the burliest of them carrying the unconscious Corrin over his shoulder.
"Once we reach the docks we have to prep the boat. We can't leave the swamp at night -- too dangerous, even for us -- but we should be ready to depart once daylight breaks," Adie interrupted.
"I have to talk to the Boss as well. This child knows of the red plague. We weren't informed." Normally the non-disclosure wouldn't have bothered her, but this time there had been too little facts, and too many mysteries. The company -- their Boss -- accepted because they had nothing else. But that he would leave them to face this sort of backlash alone? It left a bitter taste in her mouth.
Adie's dark eyes, busy scanning their immediate surroundings, snapped to the right and she gestured at her fellows. They slowed, recognizing their vice captain's command: something was moving out there. And it was fast approaching.
It was several minutes after the incident, but the Magemother still reeled from the effects of the explosion. She had tried to take it all on herself, to redirect the unruly energy somewhere else, because she believed her barriers were enough -- but oh, magic was chaotic and unpredictable. Even for her. Although she silently felt proud that nothing terrible happened to the adventurers and the guards, what she had left to show for her efforts was one massive migraine. The equivalent of a psychic gunshot, straight to the brain. She never thought that she would compare magic to one of those Lidaran gadgets, but there it was.
A soft voice eased into her attention and the archmage glanced up, briefly. It was the Magical, the carbuncle.
"I appreciate the offer, sweet one, but I fear that the damage is not one a conventional healer can fix," the Magemother replied, forcing a smile to reassure the Other, who was clearly nervous. However, a new individual entered the proceedings: the telltale flapping of wings, and a familiar presence. It was none other than a colleague's apprentice, an avian-type Magical named Liam Fields. He inquired after her state too, but the information he implied at possessing interested her far more. The Magemother waved away his concerns and rasped out,
"You may call the Arcane Council, but not for my benefit, Liam. But first tell me, what have you seen? Despite our best efforts -- which my failure didn't help -- our targets escaped. Or had escaped, long before we arrived."
