Medaurus crawled through the hole Onora had rent in the stone wall, aching shoulder and all. He was amazed at the size of the castle; seemingly endless, carpeted paths crisscrossed several floors and a vast expanse of moonlit hallways. Not only did his wound throb, a stupefying daze had been steadily creeping upon him. He wondered if the slith’s bones were coated in some toxin that sedated the mind. Or perhaps he was just in dire need of sleep. In any case, he knew he needed to push past the pain and reach the well as quickly as possible. Proficient with her scimitar as Onora was, she would be unable to stave off blows from the oncoming onslaught of slith forever.<br/><div style="text-align: center"><div class="bbImageWrapper lazyload js-lbImage" data-lb-caption-extra-html="" data-lb-sidebar-href="" data-single-image="1" data-src="/proxy.php?image=https%3A%2F%2Fs8.postimg.cc%2Fm9yok7211%2Fphotomania-ed9dbe4933c3c6c5e7889c73814a5c33.jpg&amp;hash=46c6938832f8427883a867fbce607d77" title="photomania-ed9dbe4933c3c6c5e7889c73814a5c33.jpg">
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<br/>
<i>Well of the Goddess<br/>
</i>​</div>The short tunnel opened into a small room. A sour, earthy aroma swept over him, and as he planted his feet upon the ground he felt the texture of dead grass beneath his boots. In the center of the room stood a marble statue in the shape of a woman: a goddess perhaps. She was exceptionally fair, with two antennas and three insectoid eyes upon her forehead, and illustrious moth wings which arched from its back. Thorny brambles covered her hands and a dimly lit, red gem, which served as the only lightsource in the windowless room. Something sickly, and teaming with rage emanated from the frozen woman. He did not wish to touch the statue. But if he was to commune with whatever spirit it harbored, he’d need to bond with it, and the intimacy of touch seemed an intuitive way of doing so. As his fingers made contact with the statue’s cold surface, something altogether dreamlike and surreal swept over him. His eyes turned pale green once again, as though he were possessing the skin of a beast. He felt himself tugged from his body, his soul inexplicably drawn to some obscure space within the statue.<br/><br/>A scene materialized before him. He found himself at the end of a massive stone bridge lined with fierce gargoyle statues. Waves crashed into large stretches of jagged, volcanic glass on both sides of the bridge. A furious storm roared overhead; bolts of electricity jumped from cloud to cloud without relent, illuminating the night sky. At the edge of the opposite side of the bridge, a woman, the same depicted by the mysterious statue, weeped, her head cradled within her slender hands. He drew closer to her. Hesitantly, he placed his hand on the spirit’s shoulder. Her flesh was soft to the touch, though colder than that of human being, much like the bark of a tree or the dew upon a blade of grass.<br/><br/>“You suffer, spirit. Let me share that suffering…” Medaurus said quietly. The woman looked up at him. Tears ceased streaming down her face for but a moment, a glimmer of hope returning to her eye. He took a deep breath, and placed his arms around the woman, embracing her, and tethering his spirit to hers. He could suddenly feel her pain as though it were his own. The pain of heartache, of losing a child, a son, pierced his psyche like a searing hot knife. He held her tighter, serving as a conduit for the soul, until the last of the woman’s rage and pain passed through him into the void.<br/><br/>Her relief, and his, was immediate. The very image before him disintegrated into white hot light, and he was abruptly returned to his mortal skin. The small, red gem shattered, releasing with it an explosion of ethereal energy that washed across everything in sight. Though it left Medaurus, Onora and the mysterious orb unphased, the moment it made contact with the slith, their demonic flesh caught fire. Soon the small room and surrounding hallways were filled with the aroma of charred, reptilian flesh.<br/><br/>Four glowing, white roses sprouted from the empty space where the red gem once resided. From their pistils, a shimmering green fluid leaked profusely down the petals. He took in a deep breath. A cascade of emotions swept over him: relief, exhaustion, tinged with anxiety and guilt over the loss of Onora’s men. He collapsed onto his back beneath the roses, the sweet ambrosia dripping down his face, lips and tongue. He’d never tasted the nectar of the old gods. Its reputation proved well deserved; each sip soothed his body, mind and soul. He wondered what manner of spirit he had liberated; perhaps a creature not unlike himself. He longed to study the statue, and perhaps learn something about the tenets of the old religion, but that could wait. For the moment, he needed to rest.<br/><br/>He turned to Onora, fighting sleep at each moment as he wrapped his wound with a piece of cloth from his linen shirt. “There’s a figurine of jade in my quarters back on the Widow’s Nest.  My master gave it to me before his death. I was to sell in the case of an emergency. Help me destroy the Vralthaar and it’s yours. Sell it, and you needn’t work for decades if you choose.” He fell onto his side, the dried grass beneath him offering surprisingly comfortable cushioning.<br/><br/>“Sleep! Pathetic. You find yourself at a the feet of the Mother Goddess and you decide it’s time for a nap?” the ever cynical orb spouted. Medaurus was unmoved by his words. He felt peace for the first time in days as the darkness of sleep enveloped him.<br/><br/><div style="text-align: center"><div class="bbMediaWrapper">
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