Chapter Text
Brushgrass swayed in the cool winds of midnight. The golden spiral of Amnoon danced on scarlet banners, held aloft high above the grassy patches that dotted the outskirts of the city. A sharp crescent moon hung its head near the peaks of sand dunes in the east, providing little light to dampen the shadows that had gripped these free lands. Even the torchlight of the camp seemed duller than usual. It had been a slow week. The night watch were getting complacent. Downwind, they couldn't smell the fetid stench of something evil approaching.
It was something out of a nightmare. A quadruped made of human parts, with bulbous joints jutting out from its long, misshapen limbs. Without any unnecessary things like skin, one could see every tendon and strip of blackened sinew. The grinning skull of a skale sat superimposed onto a human's vertebrae. The abomination crept through the tall grass on its bony hands, yet moved silently from the cushioning fat tissue on its palms. It was the perfect assassin, designed and manufactured from a plethora of different beasts and men. Rarely did the living ever see the beast in the flesh and live to tell the tale. Tonight would be no different.
As monstrous as the assassin appeared, Joko had bestowed it with rationality. It coolly waited in the brush, observing the patterns of the watch. Learning. Absorbing. Then, when it felt that the time was right, it crouched low and scurried off into the grid of tents. It knew the smell of its quarry, and with supernatural senses, all it had to do was pick up the trail. The assassin ducked behind a cover of bleached canvas and concluded its search within the span of seconds. Such an easy kill for so severe an order. After waiting for a passing guard, it went.
There, at the opposite edge of the encampment, the scent grew strongest. One particular tent stood out from the many. The patchwork creature wasted no time approaching the closed flaps. It paused once more just at the entrance, listening for signs of alertness, but hearing only the slow rhythm of a slumbering breathing pattern. The assassin made sure no one was nearby before peeking its head through the tent. In the pitch darkness, it saw the man whose destiny it was to die tonight. Only his face, neck, and the arm that rested above his head were visible from the fur blanket that covered him. It only needed the neck.
The assassin pushed its way through the flap and started creeping towards its quarry. Destiny laughed aloud as the darkness that surrounded the man opened its one silver eye.
Another pause. Confusion and indecision. The assassin hesitated too long, allowing the charr to spring to a stand. With the mission compromised, the patchwork creature reflexively shot backwards, already planning its escape into the hills. However, the beast inside the tent uttered a booming incantation, casting some spell that caused the very soil beneath the assassin's hind legs to shift. The earth did the charr's bidding and swallowed its limbs up to the ankles, the loose joints dislocating with two loud pops. A hoarse screech left through the teeth of the drake's skull. It would have to destroy its legs to break free.
With the razor-sharp shard of bone that extended from its upper wrists, the assassin cleaved one of its legs into a stump, and started to work on the other one before the earth shifted once again to throw it off balance. Solid ground dissolved into sand, and that sand became like a living liquid. The charr stomped their feet with a punctuating shout, hardening the earth to its natural state once the assassin was half-submerged. Undulating muscles cracked the bones beneath trying to tear away from the trap. A body without pain, controlled by something without preservation, tearing itself apart like a trapped animal.
The charr took up a staff and swathed themselves in a bluish light. That light flashed into their weapon the very moment they raised the pole over their heads. The assassin would give one final howl of defiance before its draconic skull caved in.
Dhamon wasn't quite ready to see the thing that had apparently been creeping into their tent. Still half-asleep, the ghoulish abomination jutting out of the earth in front of him sent chills up his spine, like he was caught in a nightmare and couldn't wake up. While still a collection of rotten tissue and exposed bones, it seemed so particular in the way that it had been constructed that not even nature's finest apex predators could compete with its efficiency. Even with only its bottom jaw remaining, the creature's glare fell on him through vacant sockets.
"What in Grenth's realm is that thing?" he gasped, turning his blurry eyes to the half-dressed Gwynn.
The charr let her staff clatter to the ground, still shaking from the encounter. The gray tinge of her fur was all but hidden by the darkness. "Horrible. Of all the Awakened I have seen so far, this is by far the worst one. I-..."
The commotion attracted the guards before long, but most of them had the same ghastly reaction to the beast. They'd never seen anything so gruesome, either. Some of the soldiers Dhamon knew had been dozing off on the job rushed back to their posts with a renewed vigor. When somebody finally woke Captain Marao, he had the most mild reaction of them all, and even then the old man’s weathered features contorted with disgust.
“This was after you?” Marao said, prodding the corpse with the edge of his broadsword and frowning. He brushed at the underclothes he'd been sleeping in, clear markings where his armor had long-since began to wear down the cloth.
Gwynn grunted to the affirmative. “Heard it sneak through the flaps. I don’t think it noticed me until I started to move.”
The captain snorted and shook his head. “Black-furred fucking charr in a dark tent. Lyssa’s tits, Dhamon. I guess you do know how to pick ‘em. Don’t think you’d have made it to morning otherwise.”
“What-” Dhamon squeezed at the bridge of his nose. “Do you know what this horrible thing is?”
“Mm.” Marao raised his sword, tested its weight for a swing, then chopped off another one of the creature’s limbs for good measure. “One of Joko’s assassins. The really good ones—the ones he makes for important people. Nobody knows what they look like because nobody’s supposed to see ‘em.”
“But was it coming for you?” Gwynn asked, a worried eye trained on Dhamon.
The captain laughed and rubbed his bald head, then placed a hand on Dhamon’s shoulder without looking his way. “I’ve got bad news for you, friend. You’re an important person. I’ve only heard stories of these bastards, ‘n half the time I just assume it’s shit that was made up by loyalists to put the fear of the lich in people.”
“I'm sure nobody feels any better to learn that they're right.” Dhamon glanced over his shoulder at the shrubs that covered the dunes, squinting to pick apart motion in the shadowed mess. His eyes played tricks to make sure he saw what he was looking for, but he didn’t quite believe them. “I suppose we’ll just have to keep watch, then. Gwynn and I will take shifts.”
“Nope,” the captain said, reaching for where his smoke pouch would be and frowning when it wasn’t there. “No, sir. I don’t mean any offense, but I don’t want anyone hanging about my camp who Joko sees fit to slaughter in his sleep. It’s a danger to my men, especially this close to the southern border. I’m lucky it didn’t think it had to get through anyone to get to you.”
Dhamon sucked in a breath to speak, but the words fell through. He deflated with a yawn. “So you’re sending us back, I take it?”
“First thing in the morning,” he said with a nod. “Along with Hobbs and the rest of the people that ought to see a real bed once in a month. Hate to throw out the manpower, but…” Looking down, the captain kicked at the Awakened once more. “Damn, can somebody get over here and take care of this thing? I want it beneath six feet of dirt in case it decides to start twitching again.”
The rest of the men were no more keen on letting the Dervish of Amnoon go than the captain, but the three who'd been tasked with burying the assassin kept their tongues for the most part. The morning came in a rush, and though Dhamon had very little in the way of possessions, he spent a great deal of time and effort helping others load theirs into the caravan.
The stagecoach—a dreary man named Hobbs who had never smiled in his life—came around the back to glare at him. “Hey. You sure that magic of yours won’t work on animals?”
Gwynn, who took up most of the remaining room in the back of the covered wagon while she helped rearrange their cargo, leaned out between them. “It does work on animals. It works on wounds, not persistent injuries. That beast’s hip won’t get any better no matter what we do.”
Hobbs scowled in her direction, grunted, then shoved off back to the front of the caravan. The most common beast of burden that Dhamon saw in Elona wasn’t the dolyak, but some massive creature known as the ntouka. They were somehow even rounder and more stout, and their long heads were covered from the bridge of their snout all around in curved horns, the centermost of which bloomed outwards like some kind of strange flower. The caravan contained four of them, and one happened to have a condition with their left hip that put in some slack.
With all that out of the way, they loaded the people in last and prepared to take off. Dhamon wiped the sweat from his forehead in the brutish elonian sun, which had now risen above the low-hanging mists of the morning and began its reign over the land. He wandered a short way back into camp to get a drink of water when one of the day guards approached him and asked that he bless the camp for protection. He agreed, of course, and had done so with many other places many times before.
Captain Marao held his face in his palm when he heard about it. “Dhamon. We run a tight schedule here, you know this. In fact, you should have probably shoved off ten minutes ago.”
“It’s not a long one, captain,” Dhamon said. “And besides, it makes your men feel more at ease, and having the favor of the gods is a good idea in any case.”
“Bah! Just get it over with. But make it quick.”
To perform the blessing, Dhamon just needed a few dried sprigs of decent size. A tumbleweed carrying some shed jacaranda branches ended up sufficing for this task. While he and Gwynn were searching, she leaned in close to whisper to him. “I feel like he’s getting worse. The Captain's lost his faith entirely.”
He shrugged. “It happens in harsh times. Either you give your everything to the gods above you, or you rely on what’s right in front of your eyes. Rarely both.”
“Fair,” Gwynn muttered. “Though I’m not sure how it’ll affect the faith his men have in him.”
“You should have seen the godlessness in Kryta. There were more than a few very heated discussions in my mother’s temple, I assure you. When it comes to Elona, everyone’s here for the same reason.”
He started at the northern end of the camp while accompanied by Gwynn and the captain, using one of the engraved signets on his Olmakhan bandolier to light a small fire. Once the flame was stable enough to spread along the twigs, he began to circle the perimeter of the camp.
This prayer in particular had nothing to do with the ways of a dervish. It was an old ritual of shelter which he had performed several times while hopping from caravan to caravan in his long journey to Atholma. Although the incantation dragged on for a while, he only needed to walk a lap around the camp with while burning the branches in his hands. However irrelevant it might have been in the end, it sure made his travels cheaper.
Gwynn in particular studied his actions with an intense scrutiny, absorbing everything she could. The captain sauntered beside her with an opposite degree of interest, staring off into the distance with a thumb resting in the crook of his belt. Dhamon blinked to recenter himself and found the next line of the prayer. Sanctified specks of ash drifted on the wind into the camp, following the path of the smoke that curled up into the atmosphere. A symbol of the cleansing wildfire—of destruction and rebirth, of sanitation and purity. Cast out the shadows that loom, and let there be no curse which stands the holy flame…
After a long walk, Dhamon came to the exact point at which he began the blessing. He set what remained of that burning branch onto the ground and withdrew a vial from one of the pockets of his bandolier. Consecrating the ritual with some final words, he doused the flame and stepped back as an unusually large plume of white smoke rose. A breeze blew at his back, pushing the cloud directly over the camp and confirming that he hadn't made a mistake somewhere along the line.
“Fine then,” Marao said with a grunt. “Now off you go! And make sure my report finds its way into Atolla’s hands when you see her. ‘S more convenient that way.”
The journey began in earnest, with six people spread out among two carts. Dhamon and Gwynn just behind Hobbs in the first, crammed into the same space as much of the cargo they were hauling back. The two of them technically served the purpose of armed protection, but as far east as they were from Amnoon, these roads rarely encountered trouble. The occasional sand drake or two—maybe a wayward hydra who would much rather wander back to its den then lay waste to travelers. The winding road and heat were the only real inconveniences.
Dhamon struggled to find a comfortable place for his legs, knowing that most positions would get old very quickly. He ended up tangled beneath Gwynn’s arm, who had an even harder time adjusting than him. After nearly piercing the canvas above their heads with her horns, she grumbled and ducked across his back, holding onto him a bit too tightly.
“You’re worried?” he said, wiggling a bit to give himself room to breathe.
Gwynn huffed. “Of course I am. The lich is sending assassins after you now. Why wouldn’t I be worried?”
“Because we’re fine!” Dhamon leaned into her and flicked at one of her ears. She turned her head and motioned to snap at him, but never followed through. “I’ll admit, we were in that camp for a bit too long. And on the edge of Amnoon’s influence, no less. If we hang low for a while then I’m sure everything will cool off.”
“You could have died,” she mumbled.
“But I didn’t, because you saved me.”
Craning her head, Gwynn dragged her tongue across the side of his head, pulling at his beard and making him wince away. “Thank the winds I’m here, then. Those fools would have let a hydra waltz into camp.”
They ended up configuring their intimate mess a few times during the next few hours of the journey, with Gwynn visibly scowling from the pain that her joints caused her. They wouldn’t be able to get any salve for the ache until they reached Amnoon, and the many compounding discomforts of their journey certainly weren’t helping. She always tried her best to conceal the issue, and to most it worked, but Dhamon knew how to read charr by now. The flicking of her ears and the twitch of her nose said more than enough. He massaged at her wrists despite how little he knew it helped.
Then the caravan stopped. Hobbs hissed and yanked at the reins until the ntouka slowed to a halt, giving their guttural complaints all the while. He turned towards his two passengers and put a gnarled finger to his lips, then slowly reached for something just out of view near his feet. Gwynn and Dhamon both rose as much as they could and reached for their weapons, but there was a crooked grin on Hobbs’ face all the while. Not far behind them, the second wagon went through the process of slowing down as well.
Craning his neck to see around the corner of the canvas, Dhamon saw fluttering shadows cut across the landscape. With a great degree of caution, a small flock of man-sized birds touched down along the raised ridge beside the road and peered down at them. They hadn’t been flying necessarily, but glided down from a nearby cliff, their wings lacking most of their flight feathers and instead each ending in a single long raptor-like talon. Their tails and head crests, however, were seemingly where all the plumage went.
If he knew anything about typical avian dimorphism, the females were probably the mottled brown ones with much fewer feathers. That suggest the presence of two males, their plumage a steely blue tipped with such a vibrant red color that it was almost difficult to look at. In fact, that wasn’t just a trick of the eyes–he genuinely had trouble looking at them. A few more females flew down, and behind them followed young chicks.
Hobbs quietly chuckled to himself while the flock started to get comfortable. One of the females hopped closer after about half a minute, then jumped up onto one of the ntouka’s backs. The beast hardly moved. She seemed to twitch for a moment, regarded the back half of the ntouka, then lowered her beak towards its hip. A flash of soft light left her mouth—passing in the blink of an eye like a lightning—but the glow stuck to the beast for a few seconds longer. Hobbs chuckled out loud and slapped two clay tablets together, the signets etched on them completing a written spell and unleashing a resounding clap of thunder.
The birds scattered in a fit of feathers, rushing off over the ridge and disappearing into the desert. The ntouka stirred from the noise, but didn’t seem too upset about it. Hobbs cracked at the reins and set them off once more.
Gwynn poked her head over Dhamon’s shoulder. “What was that all about?”
“Ntouka birds!” their driver replied, more cheery than ever before. “Guess it is about hatching time, huh? You ain’t been around long enough to see the Season of the Scion.”
“But what did you just do with them?” Dhamon joined in.
Hobbs angled his head like he had just rolled his eyes, still facing the road. “Ntouka birds. They hatch their young in the fall, and they need a place to keep ‘em safe ‘til their feathers grow in and they can take care of themselves. Safest place in all of Elona is right next to something bigger than you are. So, for Melandru knows how long, those birds’d come down and find themselves a herd of ntouka like these, and they’d watch out for each other. Heard that there was a word for that once. Don’t remember what it was.
“Anyways,” he continued. “Those bright ones, those are males. They hurt to look at cuz they eat iboga petals—gives ‘em some mesmeric spells I think. The females, though, are natural healers. They keep a herd healthy, males scare off predators, and these big pieces of shit keep the little ones safe. All I did was wait until one of the females took a look at this one’s hip! Better than your magic, eh? Must have better bird gods.”
“That’s still not how-” Gwynn gave up halfway through the sentence, deflating in a way that Dhamon could feel her put more weight on him. “I’m sure there’s a very specific way that those beasts have learned to instinctively use healing magic.”
Hobbs grunted and flicked his hand through the air. “Have to scare ‘em off quick, though. For as long as it takes to break these big bastards in, they’re always gonna trust a ntouka bird much faster than they trust a human. Let ‘em hang around for too long and we won’t have anything to pull the caravan anymore. ‘Cept maybe the charr, I guess. A dumber driver woulda just scared ‘em off right away, but I’m past that now! Damn good thinking on my part.”
Gwynn slid back down between the cargo and huffed. “Bird gods. Tch! What does he take us for? Having nature’s blessing doesn’t mean we can cast miracles on a whim.”
“Melandru herself probably brought the two species together,” Dhamon whispered. “How many generations has the ntouka bird been healing their protectors? It’s probably built into their very essence. Perhaps it’s less about ‘bird gods’ and more instinct.”
“That’s what I’m trying to say!”
A few minutes further into their journey, the excitement had already faded back into the monotony of travel. The comforting disunity of the wheels against stones, sending soft quakes through the wagon and into him. Dhamon squinted against the heat and stared out into the Crystal Desert with Gwynn’s hand resting in both of his. The dunes had receded somewhat, allowing Melandru’s braver flora to creep into sight and grow in these harsher lands. Gasps of green became more common the closer they got to town.
This was all desolate once upon a time. After the divine war that scarred this land and sent Abaddon’s margonites into the mists, it sat empty until the pilgrims of ascension who followed Turai Ossa came and attempted to conquer the secrets of the gods. He wasn’t sure whether they had succeeded or not, but the ruins of that civilization were long gone by now.
Then came the Flameseeker, who apparently in their journey truly did ascend after they had bested the trials of the gods. Or so the story went, anyway. Still, the one good thing that Joko had done was bring life to these northern sands by damming the Elon and diverting its course. The waters that he stole from those nations followed Melandru’s will rather than his own, seeking solitude further and further north—away from the terrible lich’s dominion. Indeed, this place was a blessing of its own.
He knew they were getting close when the greens began to overtake the sand. Soon they passed fields of cultivated land and watched the stained shirts of the farmers who worked them. Complex irrigation infrastructure snaked across the landscape and extended the bounties that the soil could offer them. Huts became hamlets before long, and Amnoon’s spirals stood proud against the sun’s rays.
Great triangular structures of sandstone and iron reached up towards the heavens in the distance. Guards patrolled the outskirts, most of which gestured the caravan along while others ignored them entirely. He couldn't quite parse the looks that some of them gave Dhamon, be it admiration or reservation. Even in this free city, picking sides could have dreadful consequences. Most just pursed their lips and lived their lives the best they could.
“Last stop!” Hobbs spoke over his shoulder. “For you two, anyway. I got places to be.”
“Sure you do,” Gwynn muttered beneath her breath. “Thanks.”
With only a few moments to stretch out their aching limbs, he and Gwynn slipped out the back of the wagon and stumbled off to the side of the street so the other trailing one could pass. They stood a fair way outside town, surrounded by farming equipment and guard towers, but the walls were in view. Amnoon didn't feel much like a home, and it sure beat contorting themselves amongst cargo.
Just as they started walking the last stretch, Gwynn rolled her wrists and nudged Dhamon with her nose. “I want mutton.”
“Then we’ll get mutton. But first we need to see Atolla and be reassigned.”
“But then there’s a chance we’ll just get shipped off right away.” She sighed. “You’re right, though.”
“Well it’s just-” Dhamon couldn’t quite finish, her inflection still ringing in his ears. “We don’t have to if you want. I know you really don’t care for this part of the job. If you need a break, we’ll take one.”
She clicked her tongue. “That’s not entirely what I meant. I genuinely do want mutton, and I do hate it when they toss you straight back out just as soon as we get back. It’s not as if I can complain. I’m the one that followed you here, after all.”
The dervish gave a shrug, his weapon bouncing against his back from the motion. “I suppose you might have expected something a bit, ah. Slower, maybe. More exploring the world and less standing watch for undead patrols near a border.”
“Oh believe me. Once we establish enough of a foothold that you can utter the phrase sunspear and not expect a severed head at your doorstep, we will be slowing down. I’m not letting you waste your youth on duty and honor. Trust me, I already walked that path.”
“Guess I’ll have to train a pupil at some point. Better to do it before I’m missing a few limbs, I suppose.”
“Pupil?” Gwynn said. “Just one? I could teach sandshifting to six, maybe seven unruly cubs at a time. Ah, we’ll get there when we get there.”
And they were still quite a ways off from that point. For now, Amnoon’s gates welcomed them just the same despite their fleeting presence. At its heart, the city had always been a place of passage and wanderlust, even for those that might call it their home. Legend had it that the Flameseeker landed on these very shores after fleeing from the White Mantle. Ironically, Gwynn was the one that taught him that.
The midday bustle soon overtook them. Carts coming and going, their rickety wheels rivaled only by the chatter that filled the air, though occasionally overtaken by bells and horns in the cacophony. These streets were always difficult to weave through, especially for charr. Sometimes Dhamon worried that he might be displacing Gwynn a bit too much, though she hardly seemed to care about the stares.
A pottery shop made up the first floor of Atolla’s home, and the second floor that she called “home” was nothing more than a mezzanine with a cot and a chest of drawers. A loose curtain hung from the entrance, allowing errant winds to rush through the building as they pleased. It felt very open and free—very much at odds with the sort of company she kept, but beggars couldn't be choosers.
For obvious reasons, the resistance couldn’t conduct their meetings in such a place. Dhamon had to follow a code so that he wouldn’t raise the suspicion of any watching loyalists, since he himself and several other resistance members could taint anyone they chose to associate with. If it wasn’t something already arranged, he had to walk past the shop coming from a southerly direction, turning a particular cracked vase so that the blemish faced the wall, then arrive at an alley ten minutes later. A guard posted nearby—Saqil was his name—would recognize the gesture and head in to inform her of the meeting. The strategy hadn’t failed them yet.
Sure enough, he and Gwynn did just that and wandered across town until the minutes passed. The evening sun drew shadows between the rough-hewn bricks of Amnoon’s deeper recesses. They slipped between narrow walls where the sun rarely ever touched, kicking up the dust and rubble that sat undisturbed otherwise. In a pocket of stone somewhere between four unrelated places, a locked door clattered open and beckoned them inside.
“Imagine my surprise,” Atolla started to say before they had ducked into a wall of heat and musk. The only light in the room came from a crumbling crack in the corner of the wall facing the sun. She sat at a dusty wooden table in the center, her braided hair still tied back and her hands still covered in dried clay. “Aren’t you two a bit early?”
“Marao sent us back,” Dhamon said. “Didn’t like that Joko was sending little awakened assassins after me.”
“He did what?” At the other end of the table, Saqil had planted his boot on a chair and reclined on his knee instead.
Gwynn hissed. “Horrible little thing. A skale monster made of bones fashioned into knives. I trapped it in the earth and crushed its skull, but not before it tried to saw its own leg off to escape.”
“Okay!” Atolla said, shaking her head. “That’s enough. I don’t want to have nightmares about the kind of zombies that are trying to slit your throat. There’s a reason I work all the way back here.”
“You can’t lift a sword?” suggested Saqil with a snicker.
She shot him a glare in the dim light, but rolled her eyes to look back at Dhamon. “Anyway. Didn’t really plan on sending you anywhere else so soon. Not much else has come up on our end.”
“Well he can’t go back to the front lines right now.” Gwynn’s tail whipped against the wall she stood flush up against. “I won’t allow it.”
The guard raised his hands in surrender. “Don’t get your whiskers in a twist. Nobody was saying he should. It’s just kind of a big deal to the rest of the resistance where we’re putting the Dervish of Amnoon. What are our options?”
Atolla shook her head, tapping her fingers on the table. “Not much right now. Joko came down hard on one of our allied ships off the port of Nundu a week or so back, so we’re laying low until that cools off. There should be a new wave of refugees coming into the temple tomorrow, but that would just put you right back out there.”
“What about our little issue out on the Salt Flats?” Saqil said.
“Weren’t you just talking about how it’s important to show where we put Dhamon? That’s nothing.”
The guard hummed and raised a brow. “Oh, you haven’t heard yet.”
“Heard about what?” Dhamon interjected. “Just spit it out.”
But of course, Saqil took all the pleasure he could in delivering bad news, readjusting his posture with a satisfied look on his face. “Well you know that little awakened force we sniffed out heading around the north brand a while ago? The one we couldn’t get close enough to scout properly? Rumor had it that they weren’t just reconnaissance, and it’s a proper raiding force. There’s a supply caravan coming down from the Shiverpeaks outpost that we’re almost certain’s gonna get hit in a few days.”
“And you’re telling me this now?” Atolla snarled.
He gave an innocent shrug. “This is actually new as of this morning. Heard it come down the grapevine that our boys up north are gearing up to counter the ambush. They’ve got a pretty good idea of where it’ll happen. In fact, there’s only really one place bumpy enough for it to happen. Could always send Dhamon up there.”
Gwynn bore her teeth. “You're sending him to fight a battle you don’t have proper reconnaissance of?”
“Hey, how many awakened can they really slip through that pass without us knowing?” Her scowl burrowed through his lack of an answer, and like anyone else with a charr’s glare bearing down on them, he straightened his back and cleared his throat. “I mean to say it’s probably not a huge force. And besides, they think they’re attacking a caravan with maybe a handful of guards, tops. We’re sending the Dervish of Amnoon and an entire battalion in response. That’s a battle you can win, clean.”
Atolla continued to tap her boots against the legs of the table, mumbling to herself. “It’s either that or back to the front. Or you could hang out around here and do nothing for a while like Saqil.”
“Oh I’m sorry. Was my intel not good enough for you? Would you prefer I not risk my entire career to help an underground resistance?”
Dhamon bowed his head and waved him off. “I think it’s a fine idea. Wouldn’t you say so, dear? I doubt the gods would lead me astray at a time like this.”
Grumbling, the charr glanced off towards the crack in the wall. Her crossed arms tensed for a moment, then relaxed with a breath. “I don’t have a good feeling about this, but then, I’m not so certain of anywhere we might go right now. I suppose it’s not the worst of ideas in a situation like this.”
“Come on,” said Saqil with a click of his tongue. “Anything north of Amnoon is basically free country. Those Awakened don’t even know we scouted them. Go cut down some undead! Have a vacation! Go ask the caravan how much better they like it out of the snow.”
That word made Gwynn’s ears twitch. “Snow?”