“Hmm?” Cirice asks, looking over at him curiously. “I was just collecting people. I made a fire. Do you want something to eat? I find conversation is best over a meal.”



She pulls a large blanket that doesn’t seem like should have fit out of the small grey bag on her hip and lays it on the ground before the cowering group. She puts her hands together with fingers steepled and soft purple light illuminates the tattoos on her face and hidden beneath her gloves. The light collects in her palms and she gestures towards the blanket where a massive, hearty feast appears¹. She sits down in the snow next to the blanket and casually picks up a hunk of meat on a skewer and offers it to him. 


“Here we go!” She smiles, “Now tell me about yourself! Who are you?”

---

1  Grand Feast

Seeing the little cleric practicing hospitality in the middle of a frozen waste, Perrath is glad he left the shadowy cloak active to keep himself obscured. Perhaps he has severely misjudged the cleric. She came out of nowhere swinging with dark magic yet here she is offering to feed the people they are here to kill?

His confusion is evident in his posture. His head turns to observe the situation like a cautious bird.

“Cleric,” he finally states. “What is the meaning of this? Why do you feed your enemies? What do you hope to gain from this?” With his hand, Perrath motions to the feast magically laid out before them in the snow. While it is warm and inviting, the barren landscape around them is not. Perhaps he has a couple of cards to play here.

“Do you plan to deliver these men back to civilization? They have seen your face, heard the name of someone you presumably do not wish to bring trouble to. Their horses are dead or better off dead, and these men are no different. They will be unable to bring their supplies. They will die of frost or hunger or both. Killing them now will be a mercy as much as it is to ensure your own protection.”

His blade has ravenous energy where it rests in his hand, hovering slightly over the snow. Perrath is happy to feed it.

“Well I can just remove their memories of me, so I’m in no danger there. If I show compassion and let them go perhaps they’ll thank Mother Moon for their lives.” Cirice says honestly, “...But you have a point. I can’t exactly take them all back alone…”

She frowns, realizing the massive blunder she has made. By attacking their wagons directly they're trapped in the middle of the Ice Fields. He’s not wrong, killing them at this point would be a mercy rather than letting them freeze or starve to death..

She looks over them guiltily, seeing the woman she’d healed her expression clouds. This would weigh on her conscious for a long time she was sure. She's glad Iryla is gone so she doesn't have to watch the slaughter.

“Fine.” She says quietly, so only he can hear, “But we leave one alive to send the message. I’ll see her to safety. Then we chat.”

The survivors are huddled closely together she raises a hand towards them and a ten-foot square of shadowy brambles erupts from the center of the group, wrapping them tight and cutting deep into their flesh¹. The few that were on the edges try to run but find their heavy clothes caught on the thorns.

"Make it quick. Please."

---

1 Stinging Nettles

At first, Perrath’s lip starts to turn up into an annoyed snarl, but Cirice instead agrees with his sentiments. Excellent. Not only did she take him seriously, but the little cleric even has made this easy by entangling them all! He could revel for days in the panic on the men’s faces, but he takes note that the woman she wishes to be left alive. Fine. He can spare one. For now.

“I might have a better idea if you intend to leave her alive,” he says with a somewhat menacing smirk. But that can wait. His blade hungers for blood.

His imposing form approaches the men begging for their lives. Their fear will satiate his bloodlust too. This is a necessity, though. They would die out here, surely. No reason for them to suffer. As if. The more the better.

He at least abides by the cleric’s request. The act of killing does go quickly, though he doesn’t make efficient cuts that would end their lives too fast. Sometimes seeing them suffer is exactly what he enjoys, and with each cut or stab, their wounds bleed with sickly green flames as their life force is slowly consumed by his hungry blade. In little time at all, all of the merchants save one spared woman are laid out and entangled in thorns gasping for breath as their life spills in the snow.

Turning to Cirice, Perrath hefts his blade across his shoulder. “Now, I have a suggestion for the woman.” He takes a blade from one of the hired mercenaries and coats it in blood, then he presses it into the woman’s hands.

”Now you may wipe her memories,” he says with a sinister and plotting grin as he steps back.

Cirice watches the bloodbath with a stoic face, not looking away but not enjoying the display. These people had done nothing wrong, they were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. Her actions had directly caused this, she has to face the consequences of her decisions. In this moment her goddess was teaching her a lesson, one that came at a steep price. She keeps her eyes on the draconic paladin, watching his movements with grim fascination. He truly is skilled at delivering death.

As the carnage subsides and only the woman is left in a pool of her comrade’s blood, Cirice lets out the breath she’d unwittingly been holding. She steps over to the woman, hand raised and ready to wipe this scene from her when the sinister smile of her companion stops her. He places a sword in the woman’s hand, clearly planning on blaming her for the carnage alone. She stiffens.

“N-no we can’t make her seem responsible for this… Leaving her alive with gratitude is one thing, but this would only instill guilt in her and she’d be punished… It would be a greater kindness to kill her than to leave her to that fate.”

Cirice looks at the poor woman, surveying the whole of the bloodbath and settling back on her. “Besides, she couldn’t have possibly done all of this on her own. May Mother Moon keep their souls and lead them to paradise. If you must kill her, do it, but don’t leave her like this. Please.”

The dragon lets out an annoyed snort, a cloud of hot steam shooting from his nostrils. Why couldn’t they let the woman believe she was responsible for all of this? For what reason should her guilt or shame be their problem? Perrath’s pale eyes study Cirice for a minute and sees in her only conviction in some form.

“Fine,” he says. The cleric compromised and allowed him to make the rest of the group less of a problem. He can give her some leeway in the event that they might meet again. He snatches the blade back from the woman and wipes it clean on the cleanest shirt in the pile of the dead. Then he offers the blade to Cirice, haft first. “But leave her the blade so that she may off herself if she chooses. Unless you are to escort her back to civilization. If that is the case, good luck to you. For now, my work is done. Perhaps we will meet under different circumstances.”

With that, Perrath opens his wings and then leaps into the cold air of the frozen tundra. The smoke that once surrounded his form trails behind him, revealing a clearer though distant picture of his silhouette that slowly becomes clouded by the breath of winter.

Cirice nods grimly and takes the dagger. "I'll handle this. Thank you. Take care, sir. Until we meet again Mother Moon keep you." She gives him a small bow before he takes off.

"What a strange guy..." Cirice muses aloud, watching him fade into the distance. Once he's too far to be more than a dark speck on the horizon she looks back at the ghastly scene at her feet with a sigh. The woman is still asleep at her feet and she bends down slowly, placing a hand on her head. A soft glow emanates from beneath her gloves as the runes on her arms flare to life. With a practiced and gentle caress she delves into the woman's memories, erasing herself and the truth of the events here from her mind¹.

"Your caravan attacked by a monster, a yeti with claws as large as greatswords." She whispers into her ear softly, honeyed words planting the story she'd crafted in the victim's mind² "You only survived because you fell beneath a cart and it didn't notice you. A random traveler happened across the scene and offered you what care she could in the name of her goddess Mother Moon. Thanks to the grace of Mother Moon you survived and make it home."

Leaving the woman to awaken on her own, Cirice takes some time to pile the bodies up and give them last rites, consigning their souls into her goddesses care. Some of the injuries were too clean and precise, and she tampers with them until they look sufficiently monstrous. Then she sits by the fire to await the survivor's awakening. When the time comes she'll reinforce her fabricated story and help the woman back to civilization. She'll be grateful for her life and not question the events that transpired here, only that it was a cleric of Mother Moon that saved her life.

---

1 Fade from memory
2 Smooth Talking