The conflagration of wrath in the paralyzed kazari’s heart and mind was stoked further at being disarmed by the ghouls... Fueled even more by the condescending tone of the death-priest’s words… Then, when the cleric allowed the gigglers to eat Midge, he may as well have dumped lamp-oil into the inferno. At the sight of the ghouls falling on the Cid’s body, Ch’dau felt as if he might tear himself from his own body and the explosiveness of it might serve well enough to bring the place down. He hoped it would happen. Willed it to happen. In the end, though, despite the fury that threatened to consume him quicker than his wounds, it was not to be.

Instead, the pompous priest of D’hurgen had his chittering minions drag them further into the temple’s foul depths and put them in cages. “You will remain here at my leisure,” the death-cleric leered as the last cell door was shut, “You have no weapons, no way to call upon your gods.  You live - for now - because I allow it…”

And you live only because your gigglers were able to still me before I reached you, Ch’dau seethed even as the touch of the grave began to loosen. If only it could have done so faster, perhaps, the kazari might have been able to reach through the bars and, at least, tear the monkey’s smug face off of his grinning skull before he walked away.

“…If you are wise, you will be good houseguests, and I may reward you.  If you make a nuisance of yourselves, you will have no value to me, and I will deal with you accordingly,” the D’hurgenite continued, “I hope that you understand, and are wise enough to comply.  If you attempt escape, the ghouls will rend you to pieces, and I will not intercede again.”

Ever defiant, Ch’dau growled, though the sound scarcely made it from his throat.

“Goodbye for now,” the priest said, sauntering out of sight only a moment before the grip of the grave finally released the cat-man.

Ch’dau’s roar chased the cleric down the hall but was quickly drowned out by the maddened laughter of the ghouls that remained. For several moments, the kazari paced the floor of the tiny cell, snarling and chuffing and fuming. Finally, though, the severity of his injuries caught up to him and the growling diminished into a pained moan and he slumped to the floor, his back against one stinking wall in order to keep himself propped up. For a good while, he languished in the pain that washed over him; he might have even lost consciousness a time or two. After suffering the pain enough that it had begun to numb, though, the kazari let go of a shuddering sigh that gave way to a weak chuckle.

“In another k’tomba cage,” he snorted softly into the dank dark of the dungeon. “There is something ironic about that, yes, Ara? The path we have walked together began with me in a cage and Kithran on the other side of the door and, now, it seems, it will end the same way…”

He shifted his weight, thinking his injuries forgotten, but the effort refreshed his memory and another agonized groan escaped the kazari. He fell silent for a bit, the fresh waves of hurt coursing through him, but, again, everything went numb. “I am sorry, khatun,” he sighed over the incessant giggling, “that you have to be here at the closing of that circle. Sorry to you all, my friends… m’rra’fiki… that I could not spare any of you from this.”

With a grunt, Ch’dau forced himself back to his feet and stumbled for the door of his cell. Gripping the bars to hold himself up, he pressed his face against the repulsively cold iron. “I have been honored to know all of you, rrow’ka’a,” he rumbled, “Honored to have fought so long beside warriors the likes of you, honored to have called you friends, and I am honored to go to the Hunt with you at my side.” He sighed again, heavily, and closed his eyes. “And Aranwen Galandel,” his voice scarce a whisper, “no matter what failure you think was enough for you to drop your blade, you have never failed me… You never could… I have loved you since Davnor… and that, too, has been my honor.”

((OOC: Kazari translations - k'tomba = "f**king," m'rra'fiki = "my friends/clan"... And, yeah, I said it! I love you! Take that!  )

After her prayer, Aranwen did what she could to stem the bleeding, undoing her armour to better use the leather straps for holding her injuries closed so they may clot, but the fact remained that she was a mess. She leaned back against a wall, and found herself adrift between wakefullness and unconsciousness.

“In another k’tomba cage,” Ch'dau snorted softly into the dank dark of the dungeon. “There is something ironic about that, yes, Ara? The path we have walked together began with me in a cage and Kithran on the other side of the door and, now, it seems, it will end the same way…”

Aranwen's head perked up, and she looked in the direction of the voice, "Not yet," She replied, her voice quiet but far firmer than her last appearance would have suggested, not at all a voice to match the look of the silent, defeated Syl who was led to this cage.

“I am sorry, khatun,” he sighed over the incessant giggling, “that you have to be here at the closing of that circle. Sorry to you all, my friends… m’rra’fiki… that I could not spare any of you from this.”

Aranwen smiled sadly in the darkness, "Do I really deserve to be called that? Would a true khatun have done as I have done?" she asked, her voice a bit weaker as it echoed the ache in her heart.

“no matter what failure you think was enough for you to drop your blade, you have never failed me… You never could… I have loved you since Davnor… and that, too, has been my honor.”

Aranwen's breath caught in her chest, and she felt an icy panic grip her heart.

Part of her wanted to disbelieve; that was the safest response for herself. For a Sylvari to deeply love was dangerous. Only another Sylvari would potentially live as long as she might; any other species would not live so long, and she didn't know if she could take that. Not again.

Part of her, however, recalled to her mind Ch'dau's warmth, and she began to relax. She held a hand to her chest, and nodded to herself.

"Thank you, Ch'dau," Aranwen replied, finding the warmth returned to her voice. My dearest friend; my love. The only reason she didn't reply with these words was because she knew what she had to ask of them all, and those words would only make it even harder for Ch'dau.

Finding the flame in the abyss once again enkindled, Aranwen took a deep breath and drew of its warmth. She looked around her at the other three nearby, her golden eyes once more burning bright.

"This path I led you all down has ended up here. Would that I could have made it otherwise. But I fear I must ask of you still more, if not as a leader, then as someone who wishes you all to survive this. I will say this but once - I did not choose this to steal the honourable death rightfully earned by you in battle. I chose this as one last gambit. One last chance.

Temper your spirits in the flame of your will. Forge your hearts into blades that are yielding, but strong. Even should it be bent in two, let it bend but never snap. And if you must lash out, lash out at me. Curse my name. Strike me down. Forsake me. Do what you need to do.

The only advantage we may yet gain is whatever can be gained by ceding ground which complacency assumes will never be trodden again.

Do you understand?"

Aranwen knew what she was asking of the people she had called allies. Not so much of a plan but a desperate gamble. Something to buy them time to learn, to plan, and, should the opportunity come, strike.

Death's pale grip releases him mere minutes after the torturous and painful trek to the cell. Wounds torn through his flesh and clothing by fetid, rotting tooth and nail collect stained hay and earthen grime with childlike abandon. Finally free from the paralysis, Gib is wrought with pain that commands contorting muscles stealing his breath with feverish hunger. Forcing his consciousness back in control, the warrior-priest clenches his teeth against the stinging and throbbing, the blue heat, and the fear that accompanies such masters. Shifting his knees underneath him, Moreno stifles a grief-stricken groan. As much elicited by the anguish of his weak movements as the gruesome memory of Midge's body being devoured. 

Let it live in my mind, Mighty General, he begs. Let the deaths of my friends live within me as fuel for your Flames of Battle. Smoldering ember flames peer from his skull as he lifts his head to look out the iron gates. Give me that righteous battle, my lord. Grant me this one wish before you call me to the Halls and I swear by my eternal soul that you will have victory!

Ch'dau's roar echoes with the sounds of a thousand beasts in these halls. Settling limply on his haunches, Gib allows his head to fall backwards, basking in the thunder.

There is no need for reality to break through fantasy here. The priest of Therassor is grimly aware of their predicament. Reason is their only weapon at this point. Resolve is their armor. Drawing in a ragged breath, a practiced mind sets about determining the extent of his many wounds. Their time may be more limited by the onset of infections unless the injuries can be remedied.

"Everyone, find the cleanest parts of your clothing. Rend it. Create bandages and clean out your wounds. Use your own spit for there will be nothing cleaner in these cells. We must do the best that we can to fortify ourselves from infection and gangrene if we are to patiently wait for our opening."

"Good call, I'd grown too accustomed to the care given by you and Cedric to think about it," Aranwen replied. 

Out of her armour she made something of a makeshift table to place her things. Unabashedly, whether due to the dark or desperation, she tore the whole of her undershirt into makeshift bandages. Treating her own injuries as prescribed brought with it a sense of nostalgia to the Sylvari. 

"If only I were closer to see to yours as well, Ch'dau" she murmured to herself, "... History does like to repeat, it seems."

Once she had done what she could for herself, Aranwen looked back over to Gib, feeling more reassured about her decision.

"Thank you, Gib, but I don't say such things lightly - I would not doubt them to make us suffer. In such suffering, it is natural to lash out. But in this place, lashing out at me is perhaps the best option - if they believe our unity lost, that's something else we may be able to hold in our favour," Aranwen explained. 

Gib finishes his prayers while the others work at their bandages. As he wearily grapples with rising to his feet, Aranwen's soft voice calls to him.

"Thank you, Gib, but I don't say such things lightly - I would not doubt them to make us suffer. In such suffering, it is natural to lash out. But in this place, lashing out at me is perhaps the best option - if they believe our unity lost, that's something else we may be able to hold in our favour," Aranwen explains.

Considering her plan, the warrior-priest of Therassor leans up against the bars, making himself more visible to the younger cleric and attempting to catch any sign of his companions in the other cells or listening guards. That's a tricky game to play, he acknowledges. A person can get lost in their own subterfuge. Their resolve may crumble, spoken words becoming their reality. Perhaps this won't be a challenge for one who has lived as long as she, and maybe even for Ch'dau, but Cedric... allowing himself a sidelong glance at his Solanis counterpart, Moreno scratches at his beard, breaking away some dried substance and flicking it from where it fell on his chest. We have nothing worth torturing us over except the bending of our knee. Compliance would, perhaps, shorten any terms of torture but I will not forsake my vows to the Church, and I doubt Cedric will willingly do so as well. There might not be any way for us to feign compliance in that case. Aranwen and Ch'dau might be able to pull such a ruse off and in doing so, may find opportunity to address our captivity or even locate Kith. Cedric and I might be able to withstand the tortures and these filthy conditions through the graces of our gods. 

Closing his eyes for a moment, he mutters into his beard, "Mighty General, grant me the wisdom to see our paths clearly that I might serve you well." Maintaining a moment of additional silence, he finally addresses the Bladesinger.

(OOC: The following occurs only if he doesn't see any enemy listening in.)

"Your plan might lead to fortuitous positioning in the future, Aranwen," he concedes in his deep, gravelly voice. "These followers of D'hurgen will likely have but two uses for us, conversion or additions to their forces. They may deign to allow their acolytes to practice on us or employ torture for the sheer pleasure of it but they are not of the Painbringer's fold and delaying our deaths for the pleasure of torture seems to me to be against their motivations. 

"While you and Ch'dau might be willing to pretend at conversion, this is not something that either myself or Cedric will be able to do without forsaking our oaths. Something I will not do. If you'll consider the following alteration to your plan...

"The act may better be accepted if you and Ch'dau pretend at the falling out while Cedric and I fight for unity amongst our group, delivering messages of hope and endurance."

Desipte all the discussions about how to best work to undermine the psyche of their captors, the party soon discovers that there is no torture immediately forthcoming.  No one comes to question them.  In fact, aside from the odd ghoul wandering around the dark, stinking hallway, no one comes to visit at all.

The minutes stretch into hours, then days.  From time to time, a ghoul will bear a bowl filled with water of questionable cleanliness, or of thin, cold, smelly gruel... but other than that, all they do is occasionally stand in the hallway, leering and giggling at the prisoners.

Those without the ability to magically heal their wounds find themselves to be sore, stiff.  Aranwen seems to have avoided serious issues.  Ch'dau, however - with the large wound on his back that he cannot properly reach, let alone clean - does not fare so well. 

On the third day, the scent of infection hangs heavy in his cell.  The big Kazari finds himself weak, feverish.  By the fourth day. he finds it difficult to stay awake.  By the fifth, the warrior loses that battle, slipping into senselessness.

Once that occurs,the ghouls seem to come by more often.  They largely ignore the other party members, but seem keenly interested in the Kazari's deteriorating condition.  More often than not, one or two will stand at his gate, leering and giggling, licking their lips in anticipation. 

Ghouls are known to prefer dead flesh.  Their interest in Ch'dau's cell is morbidly obvious.

Anger is a poor source of food for rational thought. Anger peppered by a feeling of complete and utter uselessness in the face of a companion's suffering is even less so. Seeing the ghouls gathering around Ch'dau's cell, Gib can come to only one conclusion. The Kazari warrior is close to death. Vultures! The warrior-priest paces in a fury within his grimy cell. Driving the heels of his palms into his temples, Moreno lets loose with a primal, guttural yell. Enough!

Pressing against the bars, Gib slips his arm through up to the shoulder. "Burn, fiends! By Therassor, you'll leave or burn!" Spittle forms on his lips along with the prayer, the flame forming in the palm of his hand lighting the corridor with dancing oranges and yellow. Angling his throw, Moreno chucks the divine fire at the group of ghouls. Calling out to the God of Righteous Battle again, Gib sends another handful of fire into their midst.

"Begone! Fetch your masters!" Another fistful of flame forms and the cleric hurls it at them with fervor. 

(OOC: he'll cast again and again if he needs to so the ghouls are driven from the cell.)

Time passed, and without anything to provide indication of such, Aranwen lost track of it. But just because she lost track of it didn't make her complacent. She kept the cell she was in about as tidy as she could manage, kept herself in as good of a condition as she could manage. Her eyes always distant as she followed the training that had been drilled into her for decades, seeing a forest in her mind's eye that she wasn't sure she would see again. Even without a steel blade, she went through the motions in practise, and she exercised as much as she dared. With merely a trickle of whatever sustenance was provided them, she knew she had to be especially wary of overexerting herself. But as she kept sharp her mind, she likewise she knew not to allow her body to fail.

No harm.

But that didn't mean they had to keep them alive. They didn't need to put the effort in for torture if they let the darkness corrode at them.

So, that's the game they're playing, Aranwen had thought to herself, Have to keep my heart's blade sharp... have to keep going.

But the darkness did hold within it things Aranwen did not want to see. Over and over and over again, a replay of her choices that had led them here. Why hadn't she drawn her blade on Garn when he broke formation and walked past her to the rear? Why was she so sure of the path that failed them? Why had she been so naive?

Aranwen was so focused on the rhythm, the pattern that she had set for herself, that she was starting to lose herself in the past. The sudden flashes of burning orange light staggered her, causing her to blink rapidly.

"Burn, fiends! By Therassor, you'll leave or burn!" Gib was shouting, "Begone! Fetch your masters!"

Moving from the spot she had been exercising to the door, Aranwen saw what Gib had seen. The ghouls lurking, hungering for death... and whose cell they were standing by.

"No. Ch'dau? Ch'dau!" Aranwen called, to no answer.

Clenching one hand white, she held the other to her eyes, shielding them from the light Gib was wielding. If she had been more aware of the present... well, what could she have done? The unspoken question burned in her heart, and her mind raced.

"If they come and are amenable, they may ask a price in exchange for his life," Aranwen observed to the others.

Will this be an opportunity to take advantage of? Aranwen thought, Or a situation for them to take advantage of us?

She dearly hoped the former.

It takes several flame tosses, but eventually, the gibbering, giggling ghouls leave the party in silence.  Some time later, the priest who imprisoned you appears, looking very inconvenienced and annoyed. 

"If you choose to make annoyances of yourselves," the man decrees softly, "I will be forced to put an end to the annoyance."  He pauses meaningfully.

"Do you think to force some issue here?" he sneers.  "You have no advantage whatsoever.  I need exert no effort to end your lives; I can simply compel my servants to stay away from you, and you will perish of thirst in short enough order."

Then, his gaze falls upon the prone form of Ch'dau.  He moves closer to the bars, and his nose wrinkles at the smell.  "Ah, I see.  Your companion fares poorly."  The priest pauses, seemingly lost in thought.

"You present a quandry here," he states.  "On the one hand, I am inclined to let him seek his own fate with my Master.  If he resists the Devourer with no help, then he has earned his chance at life.  If not... then who am I to mourn the death of an enemy?"

The rhetorical question hangs in the air for several moments.  "And yet," he muses, "if he perishes now, the usefulness of your group to me diminishes greatly."

He stares into space for a moment, seemingly lost in thought.  "Very well," he states, apparently coming to a decision.  "I had planned to allow you to sit for some time more before presenting my offer to you, but it seems that Fate is pressing my hand."

He looks into each cell, making eye contact before continuing.  "I assume that you wonder why I allowed you to live.  After all, replacing my servants is no large task, so losing a few more to end your lives would have been trivial enough, a more than fair trade."

The priest lets his words sink in.  "However, I have a use for you four.  A task that I believe you will not find to be distateful, though I imagine that your own predjudices would prevent you from working with me in other circumstances."  The brown-haired man grins in a particularly smarmy manner.

"Truth be told," he adds, "I had thought to offer my bargain to you when the time of my need was closer to hand... but here we are."

"I will intercede to save your friend's life," he offers after a short pause.  "If I do this, the four of you will swear to perform a task for me.  Upon completion of the task, your freedom will be granted.  I will not discuss my needs with you at this time, save to give you my word that my task will not riun contrary to any vows already sworn by any of you.  Indeed, I believe that you will find that we have a very mutual interest here."

The black-robed priest looks around each cell slowly.  "Do we have an accord?" he asks.
 

It takes several flame tosses, but eventually, the gibbering, giggling ghouls leave the party in silence. Resting his forehead against the bars, Therassor's devoted closes his eyes and raises a prayer. 

"Thank you, Mighty General, for these miracles." Then, speaking towards his neighboring cell, he offers words of encouragement. "Stay strong, Ch'dau. The gods will provide a way." Staying by the bars, the cleric frequently repeats the words, knowing that his friend can hear even if he cannot find the strength to respond.

Sometime later, the priest who imprisoned them appears, looking very inconvenienced and annoyed. 

"If you choose to make annoyances of yourselves," the man decrees softly, "I will be forced to put an end to the annoyance."  He pauses meaningfully. Gib remains where he is standing, leaning partially through the bars, his eyes level with the man's gaze.

"Do you think to force some issue here?" the priest of D'hurgen sneers. "You have no advantage whatsoever. I need exert no effort to end your lives; I can simply compel my servants to stay away from you, and you will perish of thirst in short enough order."

Then, his gaze falls upon the prone form of Ch'dau. He moves closer to the bars, and his nose wrinkles at the smell. "Ah, I see.  Your companion fares poorly." The priest pauses, seemingly lost in thought. The change in timbre to his voice gives Moreno a moment's hope. 

"You present a quandary here," D'hurgen's servant states. "On the one hand, I am inclined to let him seek his own fate with my Master.  If he resists the Devourer with no help, then he has earned his chance at life. If not... then who am I to mourn the death of an enemy?" The rhetorical question hangs in the air for several moments and Gib dares not interrupt his musings.

"And yet," he muses, "if he perishes now, the usefulness of your group to me diminishes greatly."

The evil priest stares into space for a moment, seemingly lost in thought. "Very well," he states, apparently coming to a decision. Gib does his best not to reveal the anticipation he feels as he primes himself for the man's reveal. "I had planned to allow you to sit for some time more before presenting my offer to you, but it seems that Fate is pressing my hand."

He looks into each cell, making eye contact before continuing. "I assume that you wonder why I allowed you to live. After all, replacing my servants is no large task, so losing a few more to end your lives would have been trivial enough, a more than fair trade."

The priest lets his words sink in. "However, I have a use for you four. A task that I believe you will not find to be distasteful, though I imagine that your own prejudices would prevent you from working with me in other circumstances." The brown-haired man grins in a particularly smarmy manner and Gib feels a shiver run down his spine. Is that excitement or dread?

"Truth be told," the black-robed priest adds, "I had thought to offer my bargain to you when the time of my need was closer to hand... but here we are.

"I will intercede to save your friend's life," he offers after a short pause and Gib's heart skips a beat. "If I do this, the four of you will swear to perform a task for me. Upon completion of the task, your freedom will be granted. I will not discuss my needs with you at this time, save to give you my word that my task will not run contrary to any vows already sworn by any of you. Indeed, I believe that you will find that we have a very mutual interest here."

The black-robed priest looks around each cell slowly. "Do we have an accord?" he asks.

I trust in your offering, My General, Gib straightens and removes himself from the bars. "Save my companions and I will make such a promise providing it does not, in fact, run counter to my current oaths."

There is no hesitation in the warrior priest's part. He's been looking for an opportunity—an opportunity presented by his god—and here it is. He knows well that there are often politics at play amongst any order and figures that this priest is making his play. Perhaps it will give us the opportunity to exact justice on Garn and Devena, and save Kith.

Aranwen regarded the words of the priest before her, her head bowed low in continued pretense of a broken Sylvari. This was the price that he proposed? It almost seemed too good to be true. Perhaps he saw them either dying in the attempt to do whatever task he set for them, or perhaps there was something more to this man. There was no time, and Aranwen knew too little to make that guess. And this promise... for a Bladesigner to swear an oath, you could not ask of more from a Bladesigner.

In another circumstance, another place, another time, perhaps Aranwen would have attempted to lie by omission, declare that this promise was already in her oath to give aid in return to aid provided. The omission there being that it was only aid given freely that she had sworn to repay. But here, now, with Ch'dau at death's door, and with Kithran whom she could not bear to imagine what might be happening, Aranwen was truly desperate. She would not take that gamble. Not here. Not now. She was gambling too much already.

And yet, Aranwen could not shake the fear that by accepting this deal there would still be something looming on the path ahead, if not for her to deal with, then for an unfortunate soul in the future. She only hoped that any ill that happened by this, she would be able to atone for it somehow in her lifetime.

Taking a deep breath, Aranwen spoke through the bars before her, "I would say that you have my blade, but you know where it lies," She began, lifting a hand to her chest, feeling her heart ache, "Instead, I can only provide words. The word that I will see this task of yours through, in exchange for his life, and our freedom, even if it should cost me my life. Such is the oath that I give to you, here and now."

Be still my blade, we are not done yet.

The dark-robed priest smiles at the words.  "Excellent," he states.  "I was hoping that you would be capable of seeing reason."

He reaches into his robes, retrieves a key, and opens the gate to Ch'dau's cell.  Kneeling by the Kazari's side, he places hands upon the big warrior, then frowns.  "Your companion is pounding upon the doors of my Master's abode.  It goes against my teachings to deny his entry like this."

He shrugs.  "Of course, he will return soon enough.  Everyone does."

The priest begins to chant lowly, and the chant takes a surprisingly long time.  Eventually he stands up, then closes and re locks the gate as he exits the cell. 

"I have healed the infection," he announces, "but I will not waste my Master's favor unnecessarily.  He will awaken when his body finds the strength to do so.  The wounds themselves will be his own responsibility to heal."

The dark haired man takes a few steps down the hallway before looking back.  "Do not disturb me again.  If you trouble me further, I will put an end to your food and water, and will let the ghouls have you in a week or so.  You could be useful to me, but not so useful that you cannot be replaced; I am a patient man.  I suggest that you practice patience, yourselves; I will come for you when the time is right."  With that, the priest leaves you alone with the giggling undead.

--------------------------------------------

For a time, it seems as though he may have lied as to what he did, for Ch'dau does not awaken.  Indeed, nearlytwo full days go by before the Kazari's eyes open. 

The big warrior seems thin and weak, but he does, in fact, live. 

For now.

There's nothing to say in response to the captor. He has stopped the infection but Ch'dau is still going to have to fight his way back to full strength and there's always the chance that the infection could return. In his weakened state, the Kazari is susceptible to all manners of additional paths to the Halls of Heroes and the priest of Therassor is keenly aware of the risks. 

---------

"We are a paradox, us mortals." Captain Monhest Bollieck is a portly and friendly-looking man, extremely tall with an inherent aura of strength, his rosy-cheeks and baby face make some uncomfortable in their contradiction to his body. Standing in front of two tapestries depicting the inner arrangement of the human body, he is conducting a class on healing. "The sentient races of Audalis are resilient and determined to survive and yet, a small, shallow cut improperly tended can result in our deaths. Make no mistake, my students. For all of our strengths, we are but blades of grass beneath the boot of the gods. For all of our determination, when the gods decide to call us home, we are incapable of denying them."

"But for the grace of their divine power," Acolyte Anjelik chimes in. She's a pretty young lady with a face full of freckles and stark red hair. Gib remembers hearing that her family hails from Pardinal and she certainly looks it.

"And arcane interference," Acolyte Borodine remarks with disdain. "I hear tell that there are wizards in Sendria who have stolen their souls from the gods and live on as decaying bodies long after the gods have called them to their divine halls."

"Liches," Captain Bollieck nods appreciatively. "Make no mistake, those are some very evil and twisted minds living on without their souls. To impose your will over the natural order of things is to risk madness and to be cursed by the gods.

"But we digress..."

---------

Pacing is hardly productive, but it keeps his joints limber. Jogging in circles, so much as his strength will hold out, helps with his mental and physical fitness. By now, all of the moldy, limp straw that was on the cell floor resides in the corner Moreno has designated as his latrine. He spends most of his time close to the bars and away from the toilet, praying, engaging in a philosophical discussion with his companions to help keep their minds sharp, offering up suggestions for wound care regimens, and otherwise trying not to think about what Kith is going through and what tasks lie ahead of them. 

Blearily, Ch’dau awoke to find himself face down on the filthy floor of his cell, confused, at first, as to where he was and, moreso, how he’d come to be there. Soon enough, though, memory chased away the haze of whatever fever-dreams he had been lost in and he growled. It was a weaker sound than any he could ever recalled having made, though, and, as he rolled over and sat himself up, he found that the weakness wasn’t only in his voice. With every movement, his muscles trembled and waves of cold shuddered through him, coaxing his fur to stand on end. He tried to stand but, at the moment, found he was unable to do so; instead, he dragged himself to the iron-barred door of his cage and propped himself shakily against it as he peered across the corridor and into Aranwen’s cell.

“Aranwen khatun,” he called, the grumbling of his long-empty stomach louder in his ears than his own voice, “What has happened? I… I do not recall what we last were speaking about… Has there been news…”

His eyes closed against his will and his head fell heavily against the bars of the cell door. His stomach growled again and he shivered against another wave of cold before he managed to find the strength to draw his knees closer to his chest and open his eyes.

“…How long have we been here?”

"I couldn't say, my love," Aranwen replied, her voice soft as it travelled along the floor from where she sat next to the door of her cell, "Without the stars, moon, or sun, I've no sense of time here," She added, "I have slept nine, perhaps ten times, but that has no bearing on whether a day or a night has passed."

Aranwen looked around through the darkness, before her eyes settled on Ch'dau's prone form, "I am sorry for my part, once again, in bringing you back to this," she spoke softly, "But, it seems the situation is far more different than I had originally seen. We may not have learned the whole of that priests' intentions, but they appear to overlap with ours, if marginally. His price in return for our freedom, and in saving you, is to aid him in one endeavour which he said he will disclose later."

She leaned back against the wall, feeling the cold stone against her mostly bare back, "But, for his silence, there are things we can determine. From those things that do not add up," She mused, "He originally said that we were his guests in a manner. I originally assumed that to mean he was overseeing us until such time as we were brought in for whatever else the cult may have wanted. But we are unmoved, and when Gib sent the ghouls to fetch someone, they brought him, and him alone. We have also seen no other cultist. Not even Garn nor her, who I could certainly see gloating over victory.

Then, consider also what has been given us. Water, meager meals. At a glance, it seems typical unfavourable treatment for prisoners. However, we now know he has something intended, something planned, something that necessitates our wellbeing, to a degree. This doesn't add up, unless, perhaps, he and only he knows that we are here. If he has kept our lives a secret from all others, then for what purpose?

At best, I can only guess that he has quarrel with her, or perhaps desires leadership for himself. He cannot use his ghouls in his favour, given they also answer to other cultists as well. So he has need of forces he knows cannot be controlled, and has made certain to the best of his ability that we will comply with his request.

I do not like it. It has the feel of dealing with one problem only to leave another in its place. But we have little choice but to concede, if we are to survive."

At least for now, Aranwen mused, in the coming battle, I wonder what I may be able to buy us with my blood.