"Ah. Noddy makes sense then. Well that's not really a concern for you anymore, so there's something of a silver lining, Noddy." Mezolene laughed into her hand. She would have patted Noddy on the head, but it would have meant her putting down her belongings. Instead, she carressed his cheek with the suede tip of her boot, "Do you know what synchronicity is, Noddy? I won't bother you with the philosophical ins and outs of it, but in short... sometimes events collide. In the finite span of a human life, the improbable seems just like that..."<br/><br/>She raised an eyebrow curiously at the much battered and muscular form that was crawling along the mountainside, unaware of the northern most entrance her slaver friends had used to enter the catacombs. Coughing to clear her throat, she smiled back at Noddy's rapidly curdling flesh, "Impropable. But then, impropable things happen all of the time, what with the world being so very big and there being so very many variables. We only notice these things when they intersect. The odds of many wanderers meeting in the vastness of the desert wasteland? Poor. The odds of many wanderers meeting in one of the three sheltered areas between Baduin and civilization? Substantially better. All a matter of perspective. You see, when one considers an event that has happened to be impossible, it is not the fault of chance or the event, but rather of the person for not seeing how everything came together. You understand?"<br/><br/>The severed head stared sullenly past her, blood congealing rapidly across the floorboards. She sighed wistfully, "I only mention this because I am putting off the inevitable, Noddy. I have to say goodbye. I wish that things could have been settled more amiacably between you and I. I really do. Things are about to get much worse for you. You see... you weren't a very good person. Do you know why the dead love my kind? Certainly, we're noted as being great conversationalists, but aside from that, it's a relief to have something other than your own memories to interact with. With no one else to brutalize, where do you think your mind will turn? I feel responsible so... I promise I'll visit a couple times. Till then, keep a stiff upper lip, Noddy. Remember... events collide. Even after you're dead. Look forward to next time, kiddo."<br/><br/>Noddy imagined she was looking down at him sorrowfully. This proved how little he knew of the woman. She had already left the cart behind minutes ago, but Noddy's eyes were sightless now. He wasn't used to these new senses now that he was reduced to ether and regrets. The only thing he DID trust with certainly was the sensation of Mezolene sealing herself off from his screams. It was for all the world like a heavy door sliding in place across a cell.<br/><br/>The silence was already painful.<br/><br/>++++<br/><br/>Mezolene Myndar had a habit of looking to the left as she walked, occasionally murmuring little tidbits to her shoulder. Most often she was speaking to Bellingham. On par with a little girl and her imaginary friend, when late for an appointment she would often remark that she had been speaking to Bellingham. Many of her clients began to wonder who this Mister Bellingham was, given that she was supposedly a "free agent" as far as Scarlet Companions went.<br/><br/>They say there's someone out there for everyone. Mezolene could neither confirm nor deny this, but she did know what love was. Or at least she knew what her concept of it was within the cripplingly small emotional range her madness allowed for. There were few things about Mister Bellingham that she did not like. Ruggedly handsome, fit, well spoken (particularly well spoken given his former occupation as a gladiator), and full of the most insightful and vibrant stories. Admittedly he was something of a sadist, his viciousness a thing of legend, but with her own collection of unusual fetishes and quirks, it was the sort of viciousness she could really wrap her legs around.<br/><br/>Pity he died almost three centuries ago.<br/><br/>"Noddy... Hahahaha..." Bellingham laughed for the fifth time in as many minutes, finding much more humor in the story than Mezolene had. She could argue that the bandit's path was derailed by this sort of belittlement, and it had stunted him in his formative years making his development into an insecure murdering bastard almost inevitable. Then Bellingham poked her in the cheek, murmuring, "Dimple!"<br/><br/>And she couldn't help but laugh. Mezolene raised an eyebrow at her companion as they ascended the cliffs towards the cavern, "I can never understand your fascination with other people's emotional distress."<br/><br/>"We call it schadenfreude in Valeria."<br/><br/>"I am aware of what it is called. It's a sign of low self-esteem."<br/><br/>"Self-esteem? You and your twisted words, you Damacians. Have you noticed how despite the fact you all waste so very much time studying the human condition, the most depraved and broken minded tend to come FROM Damacian?"<br/><br/>"We are not more depraved. Just more frank about it."<br/><br/>"Well if I am... sadica?"<br/><br/>"Sadique. A sadist, yes."<br/><br/>"Then what are you precisely?"<br/><br/>"Complicated."<br/><br/>"Of that, I was aware." He replied, eyeing the pulsing green smoke that connected him like an umbilical cord to her parasol. For his part, Bellingham did NOT love her. She was well aware of this, and took no real offense. It wasn't in his nature to love. But he did consider her to be amongst his favorite harlots. This was an earnest and genuine compliment, despite the fact that now she was one of a scant handful of people on this planet that could converse with the departed.<br/><br/>As they approached the cavern, he was considerably more interested than she was in the melee. It stood to reason, given his previous life. Mezolene tried to empathize. She really did. But given that she was an assassin and not a warrior, she really did not understand the appeal of two warriors locked in mortal combat. It seemed both logical and more efficient to just wait until they were asleep or use magic or poison their whiskey.<br/><br/>"How is this NOT making you wet?"<br/><br/>She lifted her eyebrows at Bellingham, the look in her unblinking, dead eyes too familiar to the ghost. Apparently they were done talking. His shoulders slumped a moment before he felt himself banished, his being unraveling and seeping into the parasol like so much smoke. All of this, of course, took place outside of the normal range of human vision. What was apparent to those who could spare the glance, was that a tall Damacian had arrived.<br/><br/>Looking as out of place as a diamond ring nestled in a dog turd, she closed her umbrella now that she was away from the direct sunlight. She had the look of a woman who had stumbled into a play at the third act, and desperately wanted to ask what she had missed... but was far too polite to interrupt. With her lacy umbrella and slim vase, she looked less like she was ready for battle and more as if she was waiting for a carriage. It seemed strange that the slavers that did notice her were suddenly ill at ease.