text: Strange to be back. After many years, you're finally returning to your homeland. The Helswith Desert. Part of you wonders the state of your father's house, while another part seeks to block it from your mind. No sense in living in the past, even if your curiosity is piqued.
  
  The boat ride took several days. Morgan spent most of her time at the ship's bow, overlooking the water, free from interacting with the sailors. You spent your time above deck as well, subconsciously finding new places to pass the time: a result of your latest boat journey and the shackles that accompanied. The captain, a man that rode the border between jolly and social ineptitude, gave you both space, something that you and Morgan both needed.
  
  The warm air of the Helswith greets you upon landing. After dropping payment off with the captain, you step onto the dock, one built from stone, and journey towards the central hub of the city. According to your findings in Lune, this is where the Tristrandian captain ported, the place where his mysterious guest disappeared.
  
  As far as cities go, it feels empty. Sure, the streets aren't vacant. Shops line both sides. Servants and slaves alike carry goods for their masters, some holding the reigns of pack animals. Still, the population seems low, like the crowd of a traveling circus after a few performances in the same town.
  
  "Something about this place is off," Morgan comments, striding next to you holding her pack with one hand, slung over her shoulder.
  
  "Yeah, where are all the people?" you wonder aloud.
  
  "What're you new? They're all at the western front." The voice answering your question comes from a man sitting on the ground, leaning against a post, one that is meant for tying animals to. A beggar.
  
  "Ursa has mobilized that many?" you ask.
  
  "That's High Lord Ursa. You better get used to stating his title, otherwise his guards might have some fun with you. Then again, they're all at the border! Ha-ha!" the beggar says with a widening grin.
  
  "We know of the tribesman horde in the west," Morgan steps in. "We know they have banded together, somehow. The fact those savages can even stand next to one another without slaughtering each other is a miracle."
  
  "Ahh, apparently you think you know of the horde. Then why did you ask where all the people were?" the beggar retorts, scratching at a beard far past the regular grooming stage.
  
  "Enough of this. I have no time for games," Morgan answers, starting to walk down the street. As you turn to follow, a strong grip wraps around your wrist twisting your forearm open. In a blink, your sleeve is rolled up to expose the tattoo, the one placed by the Lady herself.
  
  "Interesting ink you have there, traveler," the beggar says, articulating his speech much clearer than before. "Some would call it a blessing, others a curse."
  
  "And what do you call it?" you ask, allowing the man to keep his grip. If he turns violent, you are ready, but you won't be the first to escalate things. What's the honor in striking a beggar, especially landing the first blow?
  
  "Depends on who bears it," he answers. "A blessing to some, a curse to others. It's relative, depending on who you ask."
  
  "You speak in circular riddles. We've come back to the very beginning. I don't know what you're after, but you'll not make a jest of me," you say, twisting your arm from his hold.
  
  "I'm not surprised one bound by shackles is uncomfortable with a firm grip on the arm. I grow tired of your presence. Leave me be," the beggar replies, waving his hand at you as if batting a fly, a nuisance away.
  
  Strange way to end a conversation, even more so when you remember he was the one initiating it. Your past is no secret to those with the ability to interpret, not just with a seer's sight either. Scars at your wrist point to either slavery or incarceration. The tattoo, while mysteriously appearing, draws eyes as most markings do, self-imposed or otherwise. See. The words spoken by the Lady resonate in your mind. You must be made to see. Still, you have little experience in the matter. "Seeing" goes both ways. You aren't sure what happens if your new-found power is noticed...and used against you.
  
  > leave him be
  You turn to leave. After taking a few steps, you stop, looking to address the beggar one final time. He's gone. The place where he once sat is empty, well, of him it's empty. A passing citizen struggles to tie his pack animal to the post. The animal, a mirshka, is carrying more than its weight on its carapace-like back and struggles in defiance at its owner's direction, firmly stomping its six hooves into the ground. Strange. There are not many who can slip from your detection, especially after training on the island.
  
  "Gods," Morgan curses. "That must have been a member of the Dreamwalkers."
  
  "The who?" you ask.
  
  "The Dreamwalkers, or Walkers. Rivals of sorts. No, 'rival' implies some level of shared ground. They are enemies of the Lady, seeking to disrupt her work. Killian must have mentioned the war with you. Well, it's with them."
  
  She continues explaining as you approach a horse trader. The man stands behind a row of horses, displaying the individual animals, each with their own small stable. His curved hat, made of straw, curls down to his shoulders, protecting him from the Helswith heat. He calmly twirls one end of his dark moustache as you approach. Ignoring the man, you listen to Morgan.
  
  "The war is not a traditional one. Not in the sense of simply killing one another. There's a much deeper goal. Killing is easy. Walkers seek to harvest our power...one they share to a degree, but not like ours. Theirs is a watered-down version, attained with magical artifacts. To the commoner, it's the same, but to us it's an abomination."
  
  "Why not just kill them?" you ask, watching Morgan place coins into the horse trader's palm. "What do you seek from them?"
  
  "Knowledge," she answers. "Imagine if we could enhance the Lady's work with the artifacts they bear. Our few numbers would mean nothing. And I know your next question. No, using the artifacts isn't the abomination. It's using the Lady's gifts against her will that's the true sin."
  
  "Again, I'll ask: Why not just kill them? You could take the artifacts from their bodies."
  
  Morgan sighs, casually directing the horse trader to throw saddles on the newly-purchased animals. "That's the problem. Each is somehow tied to the user. When the body dies, the artifact crumbles to dust. There's a reason why the order keeps a low number. Certainly there would be strength if more were trained, but that's a double-edged sword."
  
  "More numbers means more potentially harvested by the Dreamwalkers," you comment. "Aiding the order could mean directly aiding the Walkers."
  
  Morgan nods. "Exactly. Killian is fond of keeping it at two. It used to be much higher, tens, even hundreds of members at one point. With a population that high, it's hard to truly know each one. Where do you think the Dreamwalkers came from? A tainted sect of the order, only they didn't master the initiation rite. It's more than a ceremonial graduation. It's when the Lady blesses us with her power. Two is where Killian liked to keep it. We've had up to five at one point. That's still a manageable number. But the order has thrived the best when only holding two."
  
  "It's less of an order, and more like a couple," you say, intending to point at the quantity, rather than the relational meaning of the word.
  
  "Don't get any ideas," Morgan says, pulling herself on her horse. You do the same next to her.
  
  "Wouldn't dream of it," you answer.
  
  > Information on Joren
  After visiting a few taverns, watering holes where gossip is exchanged for coin, you discovered a recent tale of a mysterious man arriving into town. Hazel eyes with a tendency to burn those in his path. Sounds familiar. The story, according to one heavyset barkeep with thick sideburns, is that the man, Joren, you're sure, got into a disagreement with several of his patrons. All were more than a few deep at that point, the hazel-eyed man more than the rest. It wasn't anything too unfamiliar, although the lesser amount of guards have resulted in alteration escalation on a few occasions, this being one of them. "Without none of them shiny spears, men got nothin' to fear," the barkeep said.
  
  Everything was running smoothly. Sure, the night's patrons were a little more indulged than normal, but that's good for business. Talk of the war overtook the place. It started as mere rumblings, men discussing the most recent news from the western border.
  
  "That topic is always on everyone's tongue," according to the barkeep. "Hard not to think of it with the streets bein' this empty. The men left behind, that weren't recruited for the High Lord's army, are all essential to the economic well-being of the nation. They're craftsmen, mostly. Possessing skills above the commoner. Too important to allow their brains to spill from their skull on the western front. Me? I'm the most important of them all. Their well-being relies on me!"
  
  You had to politely get the man back on track.
  
  "One night, the boys were getting a little patriotic. The hazel-eyed man had been here before. More than a few times, actually. He never speaks to anyone. Just drinks silently at the end of the bar, back in the corner. Normal discussion of the war effort took place. Soon, it built into a love for king and country. All were getting in on it, except the hazel-eyed man of course. He soon joined, though. Just not in the same way as the others. In fact, it was the exact opposite. Insults started being hurled at the 'New Great Warlord,' the one who united all the tribes. Reports say he's a direct descendant of the one of old. Well, at least they say he claims that. Soon as that started," the barkeep shook his head. "All hell broke loose."
  
  > All hell broke loose
  The tavern was lively and filled with more patrons than usual. It's near the end of the week, approaching on the holy day. That and Hedges closed shop early this week. Maven, proud owner and the tavern's sole employee, somehow avoided being pulled into the High Lord's army, the thought causing him to scratch at his lengthy sideburns. Hedges, who the place was appropriately named after, wasn't quite as lucky. And so, all of the regulars at Hedges became regulars at Tankard and Cheer.
  
  Tankard and Cheer wasn't fancy by any means. The interior was filled with pine and similar light wooden furniture. Several pillars, looking too thin to handle structural weight, were spread out over the floor, seven of them total. Maven always got nervous when larger folk leaned on them. Whoever designed the building must have thought they looked regal. Maven can't think of another reason for the inefficient beams.
  
  A man in the corner, one with distinguished hazel eyes, raised a finger up, signaling for Maven. The barkeep strode over to the man, two tankards in his hand. Part of keeping regulars was to learn their mannerisms, to learn their consumption methods. You needed to anticipate their requests. This man in particular had come in every day for the past three, always ordering the same. First, something strong. Then, two ales. He tipped well, which is why Maven was extra certain to serve the man with a high level of service.
  
  Two tankards landed with a thud in front of the man, hazel eyes falling upon them with thirst, hands closely following.
  
  "Good to see you again, friend," Maven said.
  
  "Good to be seen," the man answered, reaching for the closest ale. A little froth spilled down the side of the tankard onto the bar top.
  
  Maven pulled a rag from his apron pocket and began wiping. "New in town? I don't mean to pry. We rarely see travelers now, you know. With the border disputes going on."
  
  "I'm sure that won't go on for much longer," the man replied between sips. Behind Maven, a pair of loud voices rose above the noise of the tavern. After a few ale-induced insults are thrown towards the "savages from the western plains," ale-induced laughter closely follows.
  
  "They're just blowin' off steam," Maven said. "The war's putting pressure on their work. Even more so with most of their help recruited into the High Lord's army. They're decent folk, just feeling the burden of the conflict."
  
  "HA HA HA! I would give the 'Great' Warlord some of this!" Again, their shouts broke through the typical tavern noise. The man who raised his opinion so subtly, gestured towards his codpiece in a manner of equal subtlety.
  
  "They bring dishonor on themselves," the hazel-eyed man spoke, more to his tankard than Maven, who assumed it was directed at him. "They're not warriors; they're the children left behind at war, while true men fight."
  
  Another gesture is shown, this one having to do with flipping around an imaginary Great Warlord and riding him from behind, one hand swaying in the air as if trying to tame a wild horse.
  
  "They're just--" Maven started to explain, before the hazel-eyed man slammed down his second tankard. A hand, gently, but with enough force, pushed Maven out of the man's walking path. The hand transitioned the message well as any words could. Maven knew the man held no grudge against him, but an attempt to get in way would instantly ally himself with the shouting men. Holy flame appeared at the hazel-eyed man's fingertips, a ring of blue searing into the open air.
  
  Calmly, he walked towards the pair of men, a blank expression on his face. His hand curled into a fist, save for the pointer and middle finger. The blue flame swirled around the two outstretched fingers like clouds at the top of a mountain. As if a sword thrusting in and out from a victim, two fingers, lit by holy flame, slid in and out from one of the men's temples, dropping him to the floor.
  
  The tavern noise grinded to a halt, all the inhabitants turning to the hazel-eyed man. The blue flame spreaded to both palms, one outstretching to grip the remaining man's throat, fingers clamped around the throat, holy flame burning the skin. Screaming, the man tried to release the hazel-eyed man's grip, only to burn his hands on the holy flame. He collapsed next to his drinking partner.
  
  "Now," the hazel-eyed man, Joren, spoke with a low tone. "Any other 'patriots' feel like voicing their opinions?"
  
  Maven thought it meant to be rhetorical, especially with two bodies at the hazel-eyed man's feet. That wasn't the case. Several other patrons, nodding grimly towards one another started to surround the hazel-eyed man. Maven gulped nervously. All hell broke loose.
  
  > continue listening
  "This place doesn't look like the chaotic mess you're describing," Morgan comments, looking around. While the place couldn't be described as clean, it definitely wasn't in the realm of natural disaster, like the barkeep, Maven, made it sound. A few chairs lie on their sides, some bottles are broken on the floor, but besides that, the place is standing well enough. Several black marks on an otherwise light-colored wooden beams are really the only indication of destructive magic.
  
  Maven nods, his thick sideburns bobbing up and down. "The blue-flamed man was very...courteous to avoid catching the Tankard on fire. Most of the damage was done to the patrons."
  
  "How very kind of him," Morgan absently says.
  
  "And after?" you ask. "Where did this man go once his dispute was over?"
  
  "Where do you think?" Maven asks with too much attitude for Morgan's liking. "A man like that, so quickly to jump to the Warlord's defense, despite being in enemy territory. He's heading to the western plains, no doubt about it. I know what he is. Men share stories. Words flow as easily as drinks in the Tankard."
  
  "And what exactly is he?" Morgan asks.
  Maven leans in close, making his sideburns appear even larger. "A priest. A shaman from the plains. What he's doing here, in Helswith, I know not."
  
  "I do," you say. "We were on the same boat, one that crashed in a storm in Tristrand's waters. Your tavern is one of many stops along the way to the western plains."
  
  "Careful what you seek, traveler," Maven warns. "I've heard many stories with adventurer's quests ending poorly. Sometimes what you search for isn't what you need."
  
  "We don't need your warning, innkeeper," Morgan sharply answers.
  
  "It's appreciated though," you tag on.
  
  "It's 'proud owner,' Miss. And you're welcome," Maven says, ending the conversation.
  
  You both exit Tankard and Cheer, arriving to where your horses are tied up. The warm Helswith air meets you as the journey takes you from the shady overhang of the Tankard. It reminds you of your childhood, growing up with the hot, dusty air all around. Yet, you don't miss it. Who would? The mountains you fled to were certainly more harsh, and still, you prefer the sharpness of the cold opposed to the heat.
  
  "Well?" Morgan says, meeting your eyes expectantly.
  
  "What, did you say something?" you ask.
  
  Her eyes narrow. Bright green peer through her eyelids. "I said our hunt will likely take us through not one, but two armies. Are you prepared for that?"
  
  "The Lady will give us strength," you answer, knowing it will satisfy her.
  
  "That she will."
  
  > To the western plains
  The Helswith Desert, while holding the namesake of something barren, isn't as lifeless as one would think. Many centuries have the people of the Helswith navigated the desert, learning where underground water flowed. Navigational maps are common. There aren't many who find themselves lost in the desert. While there are certainly rolling hills of sand, extending as far as the eye can see, the majority of the Helswith is dry rock, dust, gravel stamped into the earth forming a flat surface. Legends say the flatness is from the Eternal Father's footprint. Scholars say otherwise.
  
  Due to the terrain, High Lord Ursa's army is supported with deadly chariots. The High Lord may not have an unmatched navy or unbreakable fortress, but he does possess the finest cavalry led by horse and armored cart. No invader had been able to march through the Helswith, even reaching the capital city; they're all run down on the Helswith path.
  
  The path, the one in which you ride, is almost a direct shot to the western edge of the Helswith. Along the way, you encounter many military transports and battalions rushing to reach their destination. As far as travelers go, you're one of the few trekking the Helswith, and the only pair heading towards the plains.
  
  Several weeks pass...
  
  Off in the distance, tents, lining the horizon, appear, their golden flags flying in the wind like tiny flames dancing from the tip of a candle. As you continue towards them, more and more show up, continuing to rise from the edge of your vision. Before you reach the outer one, a small squad of soldiers stop you.
  
  There's ten of them total, each dressed in their silver and gold uniform, glinting the Helswith sun from their chainmail sticking through. You're greeted with a spear to your nose; the man behind it speaks.
  
  "No civilians in the High Lord's camp. Turn around and leave the way you came."
  
  "The High Lord is here?" you question. To your knowledge, he only marched when the enemy threat was high. His days of fighting in border skirmishes were over.
  
  "High Lord Ursa is personally addressing the gathering barbarians. He will lead us to ultimate victory. I'm sure of that." Behind the soldier speaking, his fellows nod their head and murmur in agreement. "Listen," the soldier begins, lowering his voice. "It's unsafe for you to be here. Traveling this far west, you must be determined, but I assure you, you don't want to keep going. We are miles from the border, but there is no safety beyond this camp."
  
  "So which is it," Morgan says. "Unsafe here or beyond the camp?"
  
  "Listen, lass," the soldier answers, getting Morgan to raise an eyebrow at being called "lass." "There's no reason to risk your lives over a simple honeymoon. That's what I'm assuming this is, right? No matter. This is where your journey ends. Turn back, please, otherwise we'll be required to force you back."
  
  Honesty being your course of action, you say, "We're seeking a man. Hazel eyes. Tendency to leave behind burning victims in his path. Has he crossed through here?"
  
  The soldiers glance at one another, obviously betraying the fact that they recognize the description.
  
  "And just what's your business with the man?" the soldier asks.
  
  "A debt of blood," Morgan replies. "A ruined temple, a murdered teacher, and many bodies left in wake of the man. We're seeking collection on payment due."
  
  "We may have had a run-in with such a fellow," the soldier says, finally removing his spear from staring you in the face. "This is above my station, though. Yarln, see these two to the councilor. He'll know what to do with them."
  
  A man from the back of the soldiers steps forward, dressed in the same uniform and spear. His face is shaved, except for a sizable braid from his chin, which hangs down a few inches, neatly tied at the end with red string. "This way, then." He starts walking towards the camp, not glancing back to see if you're following. You are.
  
  > The councilor
  You're escorted into a rectangular tent filled with bright colors and extravagantly embroidered furniture. The very center holds a pile of pillows, silk by the looks of them. Most are bright red stitched with gold. Others are blue of a similar brightness, still stitched with gold. Beyond the pillows, a large desk is at one end of the tent, two green plants on either side, small trees, planted in transportable pots. Behind the desk, several bookcases stand, filled to entirety, some holding message scrolls similar to the ones found in the Crow's Nest.
  
  A man, sitting behind the desk, wearing red silk matching the pillows, looks up. Light flashes from his eyes, a pair of glasses resting on the bridge of his nose. His face is mature. Lines of worry starting to show on his skin, coupled with short blonde hair that is starting to gray at the edges.
  
  "I'm told you have news of our fugitive." His voice, while not demanding, speaks with authority. Strong, firm, confident.
  
  "Your fugitive," Morgan answers. "Started his wake of destruction in our home. He is ours."
  
  "Not so," the councilor replies. "Do your shackles hold him? Do your soldiers stand guard? No, my dear, he is our fugitive."
  
  Learning that Morgan's direct approach isn't always effective, especially with people of authority, you interject. You've found Morgan's tactics to be a bit too threatening to their position. "We're allies seeking the same goal. It's no secret the man we search for has harmed the High Lord's army in some way. What exactly did he do?"
  
  "Damn near tried burning the entire warcamp down," the councilor says, loosening up a bit at your calm approach. "We refused his request to pass through into the plains. We can't allow just anyone to waltz through. There could be spies in Helswith. My job is to protect the High Lord and his armies."
  
  "We are no enemies of Helswith," you reply.
  
  "Interesting comment to be made. I don't see you fighting to protect her either. You are of Helswith, are you not?"
  
  "I am."
  
  "Clearly, you are. This woman, however, does not look to be a direct descendant. And somehow you escaped service, yet preach that you have your interests aligned with Helswith. You see, that doesn't give me confidence at the statement. You speak with much expectation. I imagine privilege accompanies your namesake?"
  
  "It accompanies my father's, yes."
  
  "But not you?"
  
  You hesitate, unsure if revealing your father's house would help or hurt. The name carries weight, but also the responsibility to aid country. While given leadership roles, ones that view combat safely from afar, dignified families are still expected to serve. "I am from the southern mountains. Of the Nameless."
  
  "Interesting," the councilor starts, "and you just spoke of being of Helswith. Which is it then?"
  
  > Nameless
  You answer, choosing your words with care. "Helswith may be my place of birth, but it is no longer my home. I was once of the house of Scholhart. My name, title, even inheritance was made forfeit with my departure, which was many years ago. I am of the Nameless."
  
  "I see," the councilor comments. "I am well aware of the sudden departure of young Master Scholhart. It's not every day a great house's firstborn disappears. So that's where you went. The Mountains of the Nameless. Your actions put your father, and his house, in a precarious situation."
  
  "Which is?"
  
  "Don't tell me you're that naive. An heir. You left your father without an heir. Who would continue his work after his death? Who would manage his business, take care of his employees?"
  
  "There is no shortage of ambition in Helswith. I'm sure finding a replacement is easy," you say.
  
  "Sure, it's easy. Harder so, to find one that shares the same vision as your father. The house of Scholhart was put in jeopardy by your decision, and all the lives that associate with it. Luckily, you made your decision early enough before Arroden grew too old."
  
  The implication of the statement is known to you.
  
  "There is a new heir?" you ask.
  
  The councilor nods. "You, my Nameless friend, have a younger brother. He's here in the camp, too. At least the house of Scholhart bore one worthwhile son to bring glory to the High Lord."
  
  "I've proven we are no enemies to Helswith. Our debt must be settled with this 'fugitive' as you call him. I'm sure he's awaiting execution, is he not? Allow us to finish the deed for you. Then, we'll be on our way."
  
  "I'm afraid I can't do that," the councilor answers. "You see, there is a level of order I must maintain throughout the camp. I can't let just anyone demand to be executioner, striking down men in the name of vengeance. Chaos would ensue. The good news is you'll be reunited with your fire-loving friend very soon."
  
  "What is your meaning?" Morgan asks.
  
  "You'll be kept here until I decide what to do with you. If you are Nameless, then I can't conscript you, legally, into the High Lord's army. Then again, your previous familial ties are no small matter. Likely, I will send a message to Arroden and inquire for his thoughts. Perhaps he has one last lesson to teach his firstborn son." The councilor finishes by rapping his knuckles on his desk.
  
  The knock causes soldiers to rush into the tent's interior. These ones are unlike the ones encountered at the camp's outskirts. Their plate armor is a shiny silver, trimmed with gold. While the mainhand of each carries various weapons, they all bear a sizable shield. The royal guard, if you had to guess. Elites.
  
  "Now, will you kindly escort these two to their quarters?" the councilor asks.
  
  Your hand reaches for your sword, but then is stopped. Morgan's hand rests at your wrist, keeping you from drawing the blade. She shakes her head, and you understand her thoughts. You may not be arriving as expected, but you've finally found Joren. Shackles clamp around your wrists, bringing back memories of the past. You're meeting Joren the same way as you did originally. Bound by chain.
  
  > Bound by chain
  The familiar feeling of cold steel around your wrists. The Helswith elite guard escorts you from the councilor's tent. Back into the hot Helswith air, they lead you through several makeshift streets lined with collapsible structures to a large open area. A simple wooden fence as the perimeter, many cages fill the entire space, pressed against one another. By your estimate, each cage is holding eight to ten prisoners inside, although the proximity of each jail cell makes it look as if it's one huge enclosure. Luckily, the Helswith soldiers don't seem too hell-bent on separating prisoners by male and female, so both you and Morgan are "politely" placed into the same cell.
  
  Stripped of your weapons and armor, you wear a simple loose tunic and trousers, Morgan the same. The other prisoners in the cell glance at you as you're thrown in, then quickly avoid making eye contact. Conditioned not to stare. You're accustomed to such behavior by those in shackles. Hell, you experienced the same thing on the boat that eventually crashed into the island. Eye contact is seen as a threat. One that is punished severely by those holding the whip, often extending between prisoners themselves. The result is a frightened bunch, hardly capable of mustering a revolt. Or so the slavers on the boat thought. Still, you recognize the storm created more of an opening than the prisoners did themselves. If the storm never hit, you'd probably still be chained to that damn oar.
  
  "Why did you have us surrender like that?" you whisper once the cell door slams shut.
  
  "Surrender?" Morgan asks. "I had that pomous man place us exactly where our prey lies. Even more, he's locked in a cage unable to run from us any longer."
  
  "Yeah, but in case you didn't notice, so are we," you reply.
  
  "Are we?" Morgan, again, asks a question she obviously knows the answer to.
  
  Instead of audibly responding, you raise your hands in a questioning manner, gesturing to the cell walls around you as well.
  
  A small laugh escapes Morgan's lips. "Please. It only looks that way. Now to locate our man..." She scans the sea of prisoners around you. After a few seconds, she speaks again. "There. Five cells over."
  
  Sure enough, five cells to your right, a man with brown curls, far longer than you remember, sits on the ground, leaning against the cell wall for back support. You can almost see a twinkle in his hazel eye as he winks in your direction, noticing who his two newest fellow prisoners are.
  
  "If our plan was to surprise him, I don't think it's working," you comment.
  
  "Surprise?" Morgan asks. You groan inwardly at a third rhetorical question, reminding you of her teaching style on the island. "I'd rather him peer into my eyes as I slide my dagger into his heart."
  
  "Very well. Might be hard to do so from your position. Not only would you need to break free from our cell, you'd have to sneak into Joren's without alerting the guards or having the other inmates create a scene. He may be within sight, but he's just outside of our grasp," you say.
  
  "We'll see about that," Morgan says. If there's something she knows, she isn't sharing it with you. Another sigh escapes your lips. What else were you expecting? As it seems her plan isn't to act right away, you might as well make yourself comfortable.
  
  > make yourself comfortable
  As far as prison cells go, it's not the worst one you've found yourself in. However, that's not saying much. The other prisoners in your cell haven't addressed either you or Morgan yet, at least not with words. When a passing guard came to drop off rations, one of the prisoners, a man with stringy hair at his sides while balding on top, pointed to the opposite end of the cell. Only once the entire cell's inmates stood on the far end did the guard place the food down.
  
  The thing often not shared about prison cells is how dreadfully boring it is. You've got nothing but time. Sure, it depends who's holding you. Violent wardens definitely make one's stay...interesting. High Lord Ursa's prison is more the "civilized" variety. Regular meals are given. The food may taste like dirt, but it's filling enough. Using the latrine bucket may be an assault on your dignity; at least it's not an actual physical assault like other places you've been.
  
  You've got plenty of time to think. Joren doesn't seem to be going anywhere. Morgan is content for the time being. Did your father really birth another son? The councilor didn't appear to be the lying type. There wouldn't be much reasoning behind a lie of that variety. No, he's got to be telling the truth. You have a little brother, and he's in the war camp.
  
  There's also the small matter of war. The horde, biding their time, testing the western frontier for weak points, has not engaged on a full-scale attack quite yet. Whatever they're waiting for hasn't happened yet. More troops? Supplies? It can't be additional troops; they've already assembled the largest number since the Great Warlord of old, according to the reports. Suddenly, in the grand scheme of things, your quest for revenge feels very insignificant.
  
  A nation, your place of birth, the Helswith, on the verge of destruction, its impact already being felt by military recruitment. Better not tell Morgan that, though. Her mind, as always, is singular, focused on the task. Focused on the Lady. Deviating from that path may end up with the knifepoint pointed at you after tasting Joren's blood. Part of you doesn't think so, but still, you think it safe to hold such thoughts to yourself. With Joren's death, you'll have a better grasp of the state of things.
  
  > Night
  They don't place torches near you. There's no sort of light for the prisoners, unless you count the moon. Tonight, however, it hides behind a thick cloud layer. Darkness surrounds, not even allowing you to see two cells over. Your cellmates, along with Morgan, are dark forms in the foreground of blackness. For days you've sat, imprisoned, Morgan still content where you both are for the time being.
  
  That's about to change.
  
  A cold hand lands across your mouth, the face behind it shrouded in black. Morgan. Her other hand motions towards her face, and you barely make out her finger gesturing in front of her lips, the sign to be quiet. You nod, slowly rising from your prone state. Morgan's finger, still in front of her mouth, pulls an object from underneath her tongue. A small pin, not longer than an inch, rests between her forefinger and thumb, likely something she snagged in the councilor's tent. No wonder she was content. She was biding her time for the perfect moment. A night like this, moonlight hidden, is that exact thing.
  
  She creeps to the cell door, you closely behind, and maneuvers the pin into the lock, taking care not to jumble it around and alert the others. With a satisfying click, the mechanism releases. You both pause, listening to see if there's a response from the other prisoners. It's silent. The two of you slip from your cell into the Helswith air, free.
  
  Suddenly, a burst of light emerges from one end of the camp. A group of soldiers appear, five in total, carrying torches, marching straight for you. How did they know you escaped so quickly? Before the torchlight can land on you, you make a break for the nearest makeshift barracks, a canvas tent designed in a long, rectangular position. In the safety between two of them, you watch the soldiers pass you by. They aren't coming for you. And you have a good idea who they are coming for. The sentries did say Joren tried burning the camp down. Bound to be some angry Helswith soldiers as a result of that.
  
  > Watch
  They head straight for Joren's cell, their torchlight interrupting nearby sleeping prisoners, which react by moving to the end of their cells, obviously wanting no trouble from the soldiers. The leader of the group fumbles with placing his key into Joren's lock, a likely sign that they've been indulging in a few drinks.
  
  You catch one of the soldiers muttering something. "These shackles better work. I don't want to end up like Fetts."
  
  "You'll be fine. You really think the High Lord would not take the proper precautions against someone like this?"
  
  Joren, chained at the wrists, is pulled from his cell. They toss him to the ground in the center of the soldiers. From your vantage point, you notice the soldier's uniforms aren't neatly pressed and fastened like the others you've seen. A few wrinkles lie on their tunics, and they aren't tied tight. After throwing a few kicks into Joren's prone body, they address him again, sure that he's not going anywhere.
  
  "Come on, gentlemen. You take things too personally. Your friend, Fetts, was it? He should be thanking me for rearranging his face. Nasty thing it was," Joren says once the kicking stops, which of course causes it to begin again.
  
  "You damn near burned the skin from his face, savage!"
  
  Joren curls up as more blows hit his body. In the mad rush of feet stomping and occasional fist, you can tell not many blows are actually causing damage. To an untrained eye, it would look as if Joren is beaten half to death. To yours, on the other hand, you notice most of the strikes are absorbed through his arms, often just glancing off to the ground as Joren twists his body in a subtle defensive pattern. The soldiers, intoxicated as they are, simply think he's squirming in pain. There's no doubt Morgan is catching it as well.
  
  Then Joren strikes.
  
  He explodes into a burst of motion, twisting on the ground, sweeping the feet out from under two of the soldiers. His fists, using his shackles as blunt weapons, rain down on them, stopping any sort of movement in their bodies.
  
  "You really think I need the Divine's power to handle the likes of a few drunks?" Joren flatly states, more as a fact than threat. "You're brutes, cruel masters taking up arms against a 'defenseless' prisoner. I know your kind, never willing to take a fair fight. There's three of you left. I'll try to take it easy in fairness."
  
  Joren engages them in a fury of chained fists. With both hands closely bound, he uses his arms as a single weapon, a mace put together with fist and steel. He blocks left, then right, kicking his leg out to keep the other soldier at distance. The soldiers, slow with drink, are more helpless than Joren was in the center of them. One drops, then another. Then, Joren takes his time with the final one, slamming his fists into the man's gut doubling him over. A quick knee sends the man sprawling to the ground, where Joren takes a position standing over the man in a mad frenzy of hammer fists. As the man's face caves in, turning into an unrecognizable mess, only then does Joren quit, taking the man's key and unlocking the shackles at his wrists.
  
  Five soldiers at his feet, his cell door open, Joren takes off into the night.
  
  > Follow
  He takes off west, traveling towards the barbarian plains. You follow his trail, keeping in the shadows, hunters stalking their prey. He's finally within your grasp. Part of you thinks intervening Joren's minor skirmish with the soldiers would have been the better choice. After all, he was at their mercy for the time being. It probably wouldn't have been too hard to catch them unawares. Still, though you find yourself here. There's a man to kill.
  
  Joren quickly ducks into a nearby tent, a barracks of sorts, likely to search for supplies. Better do the same if you're going to chase him into the plains. Then, the thought comes across your mind. Why would you chase him into the western plains when he's in a building not 50 feet away? You're within striking distance. Might as well go for the kill now, instead of tracking him into barbarian land.
  
  "It's time to end this," you whisper to Morgan, heading for the tent.
  
  "Let's make it swift," she answers.
  
  Leading the way, you slip into the makeshift barracks. It's dark. The cloud layer is still hiding the moonlight, which only makes the inside of a tent even darker. Without being able to see, you pause a moment, sensing for Joren. No sign. Then, darkness takes form. A shadow soon turning into bright blue, Joren's holy flame. Fire ignites, a blast hitting your face searing your flesh.
  
  As you scream and drop, Morgan engages Joren with a flurry of unarmed blows. His fists still emanate flame, the disadvantage clearly on her as one clean strike would ignite her body as well. A few stray blows miss Morgan, setting the entire tent aflame. Low blue light creeps up the canvas, a beacon in the middle of an otherwise black night.
  
  Prone, clutching your face, more holy flame from the canvas catches on your pant leg, soon traveling up igniting your torso as well. Unable to hold in your pain, you continue screaming until smoke blocks air from traveling into your lungs. As your vision turns black, surrounded in a ring of blue, you see Morgan land a clean hit, sending Joren sprawling to the ground. Your lips mumble a silent prayer, no sound escaping, for Morgan's success. It all turns dark.