It had been a little while since the incident wherein Cyran and Delaela had been targeted by a cult for some strange ritual in which they barely managed to escape with their lives. Ever since then, Zarius had Eirynor and Eameia delve deep into what was going on, and if this cult truly had been eradicated by the elven pair. People were still disappearing across Darkveil, more so than what is expected of the family gangs.

For weeks, there were no substantial leads to speak of, and it was looking more and more like perhaps Cyran and Delaela had just eradicated the group. Though that still left no explanation for the continuing disappearances across the city.

Something about this whole situation made the fellblood anxious. His skin prickled with anticipation of…well, he doesn’t know what exactly. It’s an odd unease, but a part of him is almost excited at the same time. At first, the feelings ebbed and flowed like the waves that lap at the Ash Lands’ blackened shores. The more time that passed, the more it was like the building pressure of a volcano moments from exploding.

Other than feeling anxious, there’s something else going on with him. On more than one occasion, he has found himself almost spacing out and staring toward the precipice of Mount Drakolt as if something of note would appear out of the smoldering mouth of the volcano. He had first attributed it to just how run down he had become after all the trouble in the Arid Mesa, but it’s been happening more frequently as of late, so much so that he’s lost full hours out of the day to it. Hours he did not have the luxury to spare.

Luckily for him, he was not the only person working around the clock, and others achieved some success in their endeavors despite his idling. Eirynor picked up a new lead on the fanatical group who were bold enough to attack Delaela and Cyran in their home city. Seems that the group’s failure within the city drove them to the Ash Ruins, no doubt to hide amongst the remnants of a long-destroyed civilization amidst the chaos of the tremors wreaking havoc everywhere else.

If they were careful and approached the situation prioritizing stealth, they should be able to infiltrate and catch the cultists off guard.

This time, the fellblood wouldn’t let the hunter go it alone. Zarius and Caedes would join the hunter in what would be the nail in the coffin for this cult group. Based on what Cyran told Eameia about the cult’s abilities and tactics, between the three highly skilled fighters, they should be able to end the cult’s nonsense once and for all. Assuming everything goes as planned, of course.

Zarius and Caedes arrive on the doorstep of the Shade's Orphanage. It is good to see that the place has recovered from the earthquakes that shook the city not so long ago. Something that couldn't be said the same for the Rookery. Eameia had made sure to bump up some of the funding they had been funneling through the orphanage to cover the cost of repairs and even ensured to do background checks on any help hired to assist Del with making the necessary repairs. All in all, the effort did not go to waste from the looks of things.

Under normal circumstances, Zarius wouldn't be caught visiting the orphanage himself. If anyone were to spot him doing such, it might draw unsavory attention to the orphanage. But those circumstances have changed. He's made an effort to be much more in the public eye after returning from the Arid Mesa, supporting the small business owners that fall within his father's sphere of influence to project some empathy for their struggles during these trying times. It's important. If only a little, he might be able to strengthen the connections his family has throughout the city. With the growing uncertainty about if Darkveil's rotten core had finally led to the city's complete and utter decay, perhaps he could still sway a few minds to his favor.

The fellblood was still being careful. Ever since Cyran and Del's kidnapping, Zarius had put much of his funds towards hiring more eyes to keep an eye out for trouble around the orphanage and Del's smithy. It hadn't been a cheap endeavor with more mercenaries raising their prices of service, but luckily Zarius was able to hire the group Askr was associated with.

With any luck, their actions today would further protect the orphanage from anyone with ill intentions.

Zarius knocks on the door before glancing over his shoulder at Caedes.

"Thank you for coming along."

He'd explained the most important parts of the situation to the changeling assassin but left out further details of why Cyran or Del were targeted. It wasn't his place to share such things, even with Caedes. If Cyran wanted to provide those details, that was up to him.

That said, it was still nice to have Caedes at his side. Things have been…complicated between them. Though things were less tense than they were after the Night of the Red Rogue mishap, there was still the matter of just what was going on with Zarius. As much as he wants to just ignore it, pretend like he's fine, he just can't anymore. Not after what happened with Kamille and Astrid and what almost happened with Wolfe. Too many others had caught on to something being wrong that it was not something he could deny any longer.

Whatever this was, he wasn't in control of it anymore…if he was ever in control of it, to begin with.

A part of him wonders if there's some connection he's missing between everything. But even Eameia has been at a loss. They finally had a proper conversation about everything after Snow relayed their observations from the fight against the Arcuila with Kamille. It was shocking to hear Snow's recounting of the incident, but it more than aligned with Astrid's claims she voiced the last time he spoke with her.

Eameia admitted to having noticed the change a while ago. She had done what she could to look into it as much as possible, but every lead seemed to dry up quickly. What she ruled out was that this was some passenger her brother picked up during that stint in hell. No. This was always inside him. And it wasn't only inside him.

Though not nearly as frequent, Eameia had heard the whispers and tasted ash on her tongue too. She chalked it up to stress and her emotions running high when Zarius and Caedes were being idiots, but it is clear now that it's not so simple. They could only speculate on why her symptoms weren't as bad as her brother's, but it may be due to how much more Zarius ended up in dangerous situations wherein his life was being threatened.

This entity seems to have some sort of self-perseverance, only acting up in what could be determined to be self-defense. But even that was starting to change as the burning in the back of Zarius' throat was a near constant these days, and his body had grown scalding to the touch. This thing grew stronger for one reason or another, and they still do not have any insights on how or why.

At the very least, Zarius did end up sharing what he does know with Caedes. It wasn't a fun conversation. When it was all said and done, there was some feeling of relief. In some ways, a weight was lifted, or– maybe more accurately– that weight was now shared between them. Caedes opened up about what happened to his sisters that horrid night, it was only fair for the fellblood to return that display of trust and honesty himself.

This still left them with more questions than answers. Not to mention the looming dread that something could go catastrophically wrong at any moment. It just wasn't a risk Zarius wanted to take.

This was another reason to bring Caedes along on this task. The assassin was well enough aware of Zarius' strange condition or unwanted passenger that, hopefully, he would be able to notice if something was wrong with the fellblood.

Still, Zarius was not about to leave Cyran in the dark about this matter either. He owed the man just as much trust as he did owe Caedes. So, he does intend on sharing this dire information with Cyran as well. Given what is at stake with this mission, they must all know the risks, even from within their little group. Like it or not, the fellblood's condition puts all those around him at risk. It is not an option to ignore that fact, and he needs the support of those he knows he can trust to do what is necessary should something go sideways.

Even with those thoughts weighing on his mind, Zairus wasn't about to let this get in the way of getting his own hands dirty. If he couldn't overcome this, then he would be letting down everyone he had worked so hard to garner trust with. 

These cultists. 

This thing.

Both needed to be brought to an end before they could do any more harm. 

---

SPOILER: Click to show

Quest Name: Fuel for the rebirth!
Post Requirements: 6 post per person, 200 words per post
Reward: +1 Renown, +1 Mystical Archive Ticket
Description: Random citizens have been going missing, kidnapped by mysterious cultists. We believe they are being taken to Mount Drakolt for some sort of ritual. You have become entangled in one of these kidnappings. You can go about doing this a multitude of ways such as having one PC be kidnapped while the other mounts a rescue, or both PCs could witness a citizen getting kidnapped. Whether or not you succeed or fail in rescuing the kidnapped PC or civilian is up to you and your writing partners.

“Of course.” The voice which answers back is familiar, but not his own; within the borders of Darkveil, it’s hard for Caedes to maintain his normal appearance given his particular situation. There is some semblance of safety within a warehouse, a hideout, or the rookery; but out on the streets, it’s hard for him to take chances.

Still, Mei flashes back a sharp grin at the fellblood.

“What was I going to do, let you have all of the fun?”

As they wait for an answer at the door, Mei pulls down the hood which covers her head and shakes free her platinum hair from its coiled collar. With the amount of smoke and ash in the air, it’s not terribly necessary for her to wear the cloak; but there’s always the chance that she’ll need it, and she’d rather come prepared then broil beneath the rays of the sun if by some slim chance it were to peek through the dark clouds and ashen snow.

She splays her fingers beneath strands of pale hair, lifting her locks into a loose ponytail to gather the strays clinging to the nape of her neck; as she does so, she lowers her eyes to the doorstep below, barely catching the heel of Zarius’ boots within the blurry frame of laden lashes.

Things are complicated; and it’s not just what’s occurred between him and Zarius. Despite their attempts to push through what happened months ago during the Night of the Red Rogue, there’s still no sign of a break for the fellblood, nor the changeling. If it’s not a personal disagreement, it’s a personal disaster: the Rookery’s collapse, or Zarius’ ailment; and if it’s not that, it’s a widespread disaster: the missing individuals of Darkveil, the rise of strange cultists, the threat of a very real eruption.

It leaves little room to breathe and little room to think; and it’s a problem given Zarius’ concerning condition.

Even from here, as Mei lets her hair fall to curl around her shoulders, she can feel an unnatural warmth radiating off Zarius; and even though Zarius has shared what he knows of his condition; and that he trusted him enough to do so… he’s glad, really— but the comfort which comes from knowing that he’s taking this serious is minimal, because there seems to only be dead ends despite it.

Just more unanswered questions.

In a desperate bid for something, he had attempted to communicate with her; but no sooner had he spoken Zarius’ name into the darkness, did the shadows thrash and coil with discontent at the memory of sulfur, smoke, and brimstone. Baseless whispers hissed from the darkness, as if the mere existence of the fellblood— or perhaps the entity, the ailment, whatever the hell it is— offended her by word alone.

It left him speechless in the aftermath, heavy with an ever-lingering anxiety; one which cannot be remedied; only ignored, because it is only in part his own.

It isn’t that he thinks Zarius is a fragile thing; there is no one he could trust more to hold their own; but even those he knew to hold their own had perished, leaving behind nothing but a legacy ground into the dirt with the palm of a close betrayal.

To say he fears it could happen again is an understatement.

There’s a lingering sense of doom, of something far beyond any of their control, and he despises it with every fraction of his being. It’s in the air, as thick as the ash which sticks to her hair and shoulders in parchment like snowflakes. Between the cultists, the eruption, and Zarius’ condition, something feels like it’s going to give.

And he’s not sure which might go up in smoke first.

Mei closes her eyes for a moment; there is nothing to be done but continue on with their lives in caution, and she’s grateful to even be offered the opportunity to share this kind of burden with Zarius— despite its weight. After all, he’s done the messy job of assisting her with what needs to be done with the Crimson Hand; and really, he and his family have gone above and beyond given the risk that his presence poses to them.

She opens her eyes and breathes a slow sigh.

“You know, I don’t think I’ve really seen Cyran much since he moved out of the Rookery…” Mei remarks while they wait; she leans a cheek into an open palm, figuring she may as well do what she does best.

Which is, of course, being a general nuisance.

“Must be busy… being a father of twenty-seven, a doting admirer, and holding a full-time job.”

The weeks following Del’s capture and their subsequent entanglement with the Vulcadreus-worshipping cultists were busy ones. For that, Cyran was unsurprised to find himself thankful - it was much easier to keep himself from wallowing in his paranoia and misery by throwing himself into his work to prevent this from happening again. He would no longer allow his own negligence to let the people around him get hurt. So instead of wallowing, he didn’t stop moving or working, no matter how it tired him. There were extra precautions to be taken, safety measures to be secured around Shade’s Valley to ensure the orphanage was as safe as possible. There was the cult to be investigated, which yielded frustratingly little results. There was the mystery to figure out as to how they’d gotten word of Del’s bounty and her identity as the Crucible, which had even driven Cyran to Sol City to figure out where the leak in information was. This, too, had yielded little, everything locked tight between government walls.

And between it all, there were still other little jobs to be taken care of - contracts to carry out and a city to protect. Hell, just recently he’d seen Zarius in an endeavor to take care of the celestial beast in the Deadwoods before it could pose a threat to Darkveil. Cyran had run himself ragged so he didn’t have the energy to think or feel. And the last time he’d seen Zarius, during the aforementioned Ur Beast hunt, the fellblood had seemed just as run ragged as him. There were too many fires to put out, and if something did not give they would not be able to contain the spread before it burned them all to the ground.

The call from his friend and employer, admittedly, came as no surprise. Cyran figured it was only a matter of time before Zarius wanted to speak with him on the cult activity in a more official capacity, especially since people were still going missing all over the city. Del and Cyran had not been targeted since their initial kidnapping, but he refused to let his guard down. Overconfidence would not be his downfall. Still, no robed figures dared approach the fortified and heavily-watched orphanage, and people were taken from their homes to be sacrificed to an ancient god, and life went on. Until one of Zarius’s sources managed to supposedly track down where the cultists had fled to after Del destroyed their temple and killed most of them in a cave-in. It was finally time to finish them off for good, and in this matter, Cyran was more than happy to assist.

He was just finishing up strapping his blades to his belt and slinging his cloak over his shoulders when Cyran heard the knock on the door. He’d been told to expect Zarius today, but not when - the sound felt like a herald of something final that he could not quite place. Cyran squared his shoulders and made his way out of his office, steeling his nerves for what was to come. One way or another, they would nip this spark before it grew into a wildfire.

“Good afternoon.” He opened the door with a tired smile and a warm greeting to the two figures standing at the building’s threshold. Zarius, he recognized, looking as tired as he had the last time Cyran saw him during the Ur Beast hunt. Worry clogged itself in the back of his throat, a desire to ask if he was alright, but he paused at the sight of a second figure. A woman, with pale hair pulled up and out of her face. One of Zarius’s agents? He’d not seen her around in the tight circle Zarius generally kept around him, which primarily consisted of Snow and Eirynor. But she was here now, and Zarius did not give any indication that this was out of the norm, so Cyran figured that this was all part of the plan. Opening the door wider, Cyran ushered them in out of the ash and away from any prying eyes. “Please, come in.”

No preamble or well wishes. They all knew what they were here for.

As Zarius and the young woman entered, Cyran cast one final, suspicious glance along the street, searching for any figures that might lay in wait in the dark. But Darkveil was ominously empty. He closed the door behind him, taking care to double and triple lock the bolt.

The inside of the orphanage, in contrast to the harsh environment outside, was warm. Carpeting and furniture filled the space of the foyer, along with bookshelves containing a myriad of topics for a wide range of ages. A few children were running around in their own game of pretend, mostly uncaring of the two strangers that had just entered their home. Some stopped to stare at the unfamiliar visitors before resuming their games, going back at each other with wooden sticks and knives. Andromeda leaned against the wall, arms crossed while she watched the kids, sans the usual mask and dark attire that Zarius was accustomed to seeing her in. Her eyes narrowed at the sight of guests, hands twitching for a dagger that was not currently strapped to her belt, before recognizing Zarius from their last encounter during the hellhound incident. She dipped her head into a respectful nod.

Cyran turned towards the others, sheepishness painted in the corners of his expression. “Sorry about the noise. It should be quieter in my office - the kids have just been a little rowdy since reconstruction finished. They’re all very sweet children… it’s good to see their spirits up after having to evacuate.”

As he spoke, one of the children broke from the crowd and darted up to the trio, stabbing Zarius in the leg with the point of a toy dagger.

Cyran gasped, moving to scoop the child up. “Now, that’s not polite! Where did you get this toy - Eleanor? What did I say about letting the kids play with fake weapons?”

Andromeda picked herself up from the wall, scooping the child from Cyran’s arms. “What?” She asked. “It’s preparing them for the real world. You have to start them off young.”

Cyran flushed, side-eyeing Zarius and the stranger. This probably wasn’t helping any suspicions one might have that this orphanage was a front for training young assassins. It truly wasn’t, despite Andromeda’s best efforts to make it so. He plucked the toy dagger from the child’s hand, tucking it in his pocket.

“Safe toys for playtime only. Now, if you need us, we’ll be in my office.”

Andromeda gave them a sharp nod, though she couldn’t hide her curiosity. Upon Cyran’s instruction she and Oriole had been patrolling the limits of the city more often, scouting Darkveil for any new hideouts. Oriole was out in the town right now, doing a preemptive scout of the area that Zarius had given Cyran - the two were aware that Zarius had found something big, a lead, but Cyran had frustratingly kept them both in the dark. After a moment of silence she shrugged. “I’ll go tell Del you’re working then.”

Cyran watched her off before leading the others into his office, shutting this door behind them - and cloaking the trio in relative darkness. He made his way to his desk but didn’t sit. Rather, Cyran kept his attention trained at the portraits on his desk, the collection that had slowly been growing over the past months. His kids, friends, Marlow, Del, even the one of Zarius and Caedes. A reminder that the elven man, though a deadly assassin of some renown, was still just a sentimental old fool on the inside.

He took a breath and turned his attention to the others. Namely, the young woman that he’d yet to be introduced to. Holding his hand out, he tried for what he hoped was a welcoming smile. “I don’t believe we’ve been acquainted. I’m Cyran, though I’d wager since you’re here Zarius has told you a bit about me.” As he spoke, he looked between the two for a moment, as if he could stall and delay this conversation only for a few seconds longer. “Can I get you anything while we talk? Tea? Zarius, I have a special blend around here for energy rejeuvenation, if you need a pick-me-up.”

“You would be busy too if you had the same parental drive he has.”

Zarius can’t actually imagine how Cyran puts up with a whole orphanage worth of screaming, demanding, grubby-handed children. While the fellblood tolerates most kids well enough, but definitely not to the extent the older assassin elf does. It’s hard enough trying to imagine being a father one day, let alone someone responsible for dozens of children who will eventually turn into sassy teens like Shael. Hells, he gets enough sass from her, Astrid, Iryla, Caedes, and his own sister to more than fill out any sass quota that exists.

“Afternoon,” Zarius nods in response before stepping through the threshold.

The orphanage certainly is homey, but in a different way than the Rookery or his parent’s manor is. It's certainly far louder, which is saying something considering the Rookery was a bar. 

He's a bit surprised when one of the children run right up to him, a stranger, and then promptly proceeds to jab the tip of a wooden dagger into his leg. His tail twitches in response and he has a moment where he has to resist the instinct to swat the toy out of the kid's hand.^[1] Cyran was standing right there after all. 

After being assaulted by the small child, Zarius chuckles at the sheer audacity that he just took a wooden toy to the leg. To attack a foe in such a straightforward manner with no understanding of the difference in skill, this child was lucky to have an assassin as a shield.

Cyran's flustered apology only makes him smirk more. It wouldn’t bother him at all if Cyran actually was training the orphans to follow in his footsteps, but he knows that the man has no intention of leading anyone down the same path he already walks. Even his apprentices. Cyran isn’t the type to think about making a legacy of blood and death what he leaves behind in this world after time finally catches up with him.

"It is fine."

He gives a nod to Andromeda, acknowledging her and honestly agreeing with her comment to an extent. His father started training him in martial arts at a very young age as well, so the idea of training children to handle weaponry or be able to defend themselves was not a crazy concept, especially in Darkveil of all places. 

The pair follow Cyran to his office. It's the first time either Zarius or Caedes have been in this place, so the fellblood's curiosity is piqued a bit as he scans the room. His eyes follow Cyran's attention down to the portraits propped on the desk and linger on the faces he recognizes, but more so on the ones he does not. The picture of Marlow in particular. 

His attention is pulled away from the portrait as Cyran addresses Mei. 

“Ah, Cyran, you actually do know who this is,” Zarius corrects, though he lets Mei take over explaining what was going on or choosing to shift back to Caedes on their own terms.

He shakes his head at the offer of tea. Even amongst his closest friends, he still cannot shake the habit of avoiding drinking anything offered to him by someone else. “No, thank you.”

There's a moment where his expression falters as if he is reconsidering his response. "Maybe later."

---

[1] Fighter's Senses

“Thank the gods I do not…” The comment comes in a breathless laugh; but in truth, he hasn’t actually thought deeply about the prospect of having a family. He can get along with kids just fine; but could he ever actually take the standpoint of a parent? Be a good influence? Teach the way his parents had taught him?

Would he want to?

These things always felt as if they were for others; and after all which has happened, they continue to be for others. His future feels blurry and uncertain; a mass of time which hasn’t passed, and space which hasn’t been traversed.

Mei doesn’t dwell on it long; partially because an elven man comes to the door. She perks up immediately, flashing Cyran a grin and a small wave, “Hellooooo~” she greets, her tone melodic as though greeting an old friend; but when Cyran’s gaze pauses on her, she has to hold in a laugh with pursed lips. It really has been a while since she’s seen him; and even longer since Caedes began masquerading through Darkveil with stable identities, in order to protect himself and the Rha’Oriyn by proxy.

She steps in after Zarius once they're invited inside.

The orphanage is warm, chaotic, and loud; it’s lived in and messy; but enough to feel like a place one might call home— and clearly, many of the children do. They look comfortable here. It’s unlike the Rookery— reminiscent of sentimentality and childish innocence— big, curious eyes as two strangers step through the thresh hold; and as she’s looking around, the sound of a pair of particularly brave, tiny feet rushing towards them catches her attention. 

Though her shoulders tense, she’s quick to relax when she realizes what the child is actually holding.

A figure nearby watches them, but Mei does trust Cyran enough to know the man would never intentionally put them in danger, so… she makes absolutely no effort to stop the child from jabbing Zarius in the leg with a wooden dagger.

Instead, she chokes on a laugh when the inevitable actually happens. Mei clears her throat, covering her mouth with a curled fist as she looks away from a flustered Cyran trying to apologize and one tiefling trying to keep his composure in light of being stabbed in the leg with the equivalent of a thick toothpick.

“Ferocious,” she chuckles; as they bypass Andromeda, Mei takes it upon herself to swoop down just within earshot. “I like the spirit, but next time, aim for the back of the knee.” She whispers to the child, patting the back of her own knee after a slightly exaggerated step in example, “If you hit them hard enough, they’ll fall flat on their face.” Afterwards, she offers Andromeda a cheerful grin and an innocent wave of the hand as she continues past, to join Zarius and Cyran in the elven man’s office.

This is definitely at least one of many reasons on why she probably shouldn’t be a parent.

Mei cheerfully pads into the office after Zarius, twirling around on a heel as she settles her hands together behind her back; the darkness is familiar, welcoming even; but she’s never set foot in here before. She tilts her gaze to one side of the room, then to the other; eventually, settling on the portraits that are propped on Cyran’s desk.

She recognizes some, but there are so many that she doesn’t know that it’s hard to take them all in with any semblance of quickness; she’s lingering briefly, with some surprise, on the portrait of herself and Zarius when Cyran suddenly speaks up— and introduces himself.

Mei blinks, looking up to gaze briefly at Cyran’s face before looking at his extended hand; a grin promptly crosses her face when Zarius speaks out. "Zarius,” Mei laughs, clasping Cyran’s hand with both of hers. “Give the man a break; it’s not like I guided him through the perilous forests of the Moonglade, lived under the same roof with him for several months, and even have a very well-drawn portrait on his desk or anything.”

It is a bit of a strange experience to hear Mei’s voice alter mid-speech, but it takes only a moment for Caedes to be holding Cyran’s hand instead. He still shakes Cyran’s hand with a childish enthusiasm, “Long time no see.” He chuckles, offering the man a lopsided grin as he pulls back and brushes a lock of white hair from his face. “Clearly I need to stop by more often if you've forgotten me already... Good to see you alive and well."

---

^{Alter Appearance — (Dropped)
Sound Throwing — (Dropped)
Beads of They}

Thank the heavens Zarius didn’t seem to take offense to being on the receiving end of a child’s imagination and rampant energy. Admittedly, the child did not pose any threat at all, not to the man whom Cyran had seen perform impossible feats of strength. But he still couldn’t help but feel a little bit embarrassed at the display. The kids were normally a bit more well-behaved than this. Perhaps they had a lot of pent up energy from being confined in the orphanage for so long. Ever since the attempted kidnapping Cyran had deemed the city too unsafe to send the kids running around where they could be snatched up by a mad cultist. He wouldn’t dare risk it.

The young fellblood brushed it off with a couple of polite words and a nod to the young assassin, who returned it with a look of confusion towards the young human woman behind him who was shooting her a casual wave as if they’d been friends for years. She was bending down to whisper something to the kid, and okay, she most likely was not going to be invited to babysit anytime soon. Cyran already had a hell of a time trying to dissuade Andromeda from putting weapons in the kids’ hands.

Realistically, he knew there was no way to keep the children from learning forever, especially in an environment like this. Most Darkveil kids had come to his doorsteps with makeshift knives and shivs in their hands - a few had even come to rob him, hearing that there might be food and clothing and money here, and assuming that anyone stupid enough to own an orphanage around here was defenseless. They understood that the world was not always kind, and knew that there would probably come a day where they would have to pick up a weapon and fight for their own survival. But that did not mean he wouldn’t try his hardest to keep them from that moment for as long as he could, to give them something of a childhood before they were thrust back into the world.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. Great. Now he was going to have to deal with them going around and stabbing at the vulnerable spots of anyone who visited around here… but that was a problem to be dealt with later. Their first priority was the issue at hand. It was a sobering thought, to remember the danger to their city that had brought them here today. So many people gone missing, not enough recovered. And each one escalating. It was only a matter of time before someone tried something as stupid as kidnap Zarius. Del was powerful, but the pair of them were hardly of the same influence as the fellblood criminal. This had to be nipped in the bud.

The mood was considerably more somber in the shade of Cyran’s office.

He wasn’t surprised that Zarius denied his offer for a drink - it was not something he thought about often but something he’d noted, starting back when they attended the gambling event together in Zeinav. Zarius did not often like to drink in front of others. He’d always attributed it to caution in unfamiliar settings, which was why he took no offense to this denial. It was a momentary shock for Zarius, so normally sure of himself and his convictions, to reconsider his answer, though Cyran tried not to look put off by it. It was only a testament to how tired Zarius was. He forced an ill-fitting bright smile while the two examined his series of portraits, gazes lingering on faces old and new.

“I’ll set some water to boil, then.” He replied, voice as gentle as he could manage. Holding onto that composure was like preventing sand from slipping down the hourglass as serenity gave away to worry. Worry about whether Zarius was even up to this task or whether he was forcing himself on sheer willpower and desperation alone. Worry if today was the day he finally watched the younger man burn in the face of his ambition. This, too, he put aside as he momentarily breezed over to the kettle hanging over the office fireplace, stoking the flames and pouring some water in. When he turned back around, introducing himself to the young woman, Zarius smoothly interrupted with a claim that only served to further Cyran’s confusion.

The elven assassin’s brows furrowed - he wasn’t so old that his memory was starting to fail him, was he? But then the woman grabbed his hand with a burst of laughter whose tone was utterly foreign to him, and whose inflection haunted the recesses of his memory - and she started talking.

“It’s not like I guided him through the perilous forests of the Moonglade…”

“Oh!” Cyran’s eyes widened, sheepish. He did, in fact, know who this was! It had been some time since he’d seen the other assassin that resides in Zarius’s home, but he could never forget one of the first people to show him kindness back when he was still a fledgling hunter, too burnt by his own experiences to allow himself to get close to others again? Just as the realization began to dawn on him, Caedes had already dropped the disguise he’d donned, still shaking Cyran’s hand with a spark of humor in his eyes.

“Far from it.” Cyran asserted in response to Caedes’s ribbing that he’d forgotten the younger man’s face already. “Actually, I think it’s a testament to how well done your disguise is that I didn’t even have an inkling that it was you. Nice work.” He praised, genuinely impressed. After the initial shock wore off, seeing the two standing together only served as a reminder that Zarius was here to deliver important news.

That probably left no time for small talk, did it…?

Cyran resisted the urge to sigh once more. An instinct that was growing harder and harder to suppress with each passing moment.

“I can’t say I’m not glad to see you, but… I’d imagine that this meeting won’t exactly be happy. What can I help you with?”

Zarius rolls his eyes at Caedes comment. "Please, I am the one that needs a break here."

He lets Caedes and Cyran get reacquainted before responding to Cyran's question. 

"Well, that depends on if the prospect of putting this cult in the ground for good brings you any joy."

While he's certain Cyran wants nothing more than to eliminate such a threat, he doubts the man relishes in the opportunity to do as such. Killing wasn't a pleasure for the man, it was just an unfortunate necessity for survival given his circumstances. As far as the three criminals go, Cyran was likely the least suited for the unpleasantries of murder and extortion despite his skills for it. The elven man wasn't raised to be a crime lord or a killer as far as Zarius was aware. 

He glances at the portraits on the desk once more before meeting Cyran's gaze. 

"We have a lead. What is left of those cultists have fled to the Ash Ruins on the side of Mount Drakolt. They have been driven into a corner, all we need to do is get close, and strike."

Obviously, it wouldn't be so simple in practice, but they could discuss strategy on the way there. First, other matters needed to be addressed since they posed a potential complication to their task. 

"Before we go, I do have something else that I need you to be aware of."

He pauses for a moment. There's no good way to go about talking about his affliction, and he has no doubts in his mind that Cyran would likely have many questions the fellblood just could not answer. He's also aware that making Cyran aware of his condition may force the hunter to turn his support away in order to put the safety of the children and others first. He wouldn't blame the man, but the fear of that potential outcome does gnaw at him inside. 

Taking a breath, he continues. "It is not easy to explain, but you have more than proven time and time again that I can trust you. I have somehow become host to something or perhaps it is more like being afflicted by a curse. Whatever it is, it has given me abilities I never trained in, but it also has a habit of forcing its own will upon me at times."

He steps back towards the wall and leans against it while tucking his hands into his pockets. His fingers trace across the edges of his knuckle knives concealed within the fabric. A small comfort given the severity of the current discussion. 

"It is only fair that you are aware of my situation in case something happens and I become a threat to you and others. There have already been a few...incidents where it took control over me, but thankfully no lasting harm was done."

Perhaps that is where all his luck has gone, or perhaps it says more about how weak he is. If this thing had a choice of hosts, why him? Why not focus on Eameia and her incredible prowess with magic? Maybe it's specifically because he is inept with magic that it has sunk its claws so deeply into him. Too weak to fight against it at the sacrifice of not having access to someone with a much more powerful arsenal.

He couldn't say if his theory was at all close or if he was just reaching for a reason to pity himself. Any attempts to mentally reach out to this thing or figure out its motives and goals led to just a piercing headache as the voices all overlap in an incoherent chorus. All he knows for certain about this thing is that it has gotten stronger, though even the reason for that has eluded him as well. 

Taking another breath, he feels the burning in the back of his throat intensify, the irritation grating as he breathes. He can't help but grimace as he resists the urge to cough and just manages to clear his throat instead. The taste of ash coats his tongue, leaving an unpleasant acrid bitterness as he speaks again.

"I will try to answer any questions you have, but I will admit that I still know very little about this thing. Eameia does not know either despite feeling some similar symptoms, which is certainly not comforting."

“Yeah, you do.” Caedes agrees without missing a beat; he tilts his head just enough to see Zarius, “Everyone agrees on that, and you still haven’t taken one.” His tone is light despite the scalding note, and he sticks his tongue between his lips at Zarius in a simple taunting gesture, before swinging back around to face Cyran— grin bright and mischievous all the same.

He finally releases Cyran’s hand to give him some personal space.

“Uh-huh. Sounds like something someone who forgot their very good friend might say.” The changeling waves a hand dismissively, but the tone of his voice easily belays his exaggeration; he steps back to rejoin Zarius, cocking his head to the side with a subtle smile when Cyran extends his praise. “Well, thank you; it’s a natural talent, so I would hate to brag.”

He brushes aside a lock of white hair with a soft laugh, but falls quiet as Zarius speaks up to answer the elven man’s question. He turns his head to glance at the fellblood from the corner of his pale eyes; as nice as a small reunion with Cyran may be, it is unfortunately not why they’re here; and as Zarius continues, Caedes’ mood seems to darken subtly.

Although the smile never leaves his face, it does soften, becoming nothing more than a pleasantry; and he turns his eyes towards the floor while Zarius mentions that Cyran needs to be aware of something else.

He’s already had this talk; and it is not any easier to hear a second time, despite not even being directed at him.

It’s the unknown nature of the beast.

The changeling shifts his weight, placing it on one tilted hip; he folds his arms over his chest and crosses one ankle behind the other as Zarius explains. He makes no move to interrupt or interject; although, the clearing of his throat causes Caedes to offer Zarius a side-glance laced in subtle concerns.

It doesn’t last long, though; he turns back to Cyran as Zarius finishes. The shrug that Caedes offers is void of the playful energy he’d exhibited earlier in light of the new topic at hand. “There’s no guarantee that anything will happen, but it’s a precautionary step all the same.” His tone has evened out, losing its energy; but he doesn’t speak any further on the topic.

It’s not his to speak on, after all.

Whatever details Zarius is comfortable sharing, or whatever questions he may be comfortable answering, he wouldn’t interrupt.

“Yes, Zarius, please get some rest.” Cyran’s tone was in jest - his suggestion was anything but.

He sincerely, genuinely hoped that Zarius would allow himself to take a rest, though he doubted that would happen anytime soon. But he would not press the matter now - he fell silent while Zarius went over what he’d found. Cyran pursed his lips, already acutely aware of what they were setting off to do. A final strike, a chance to cut the dragon’s head off of its shoulders and cut off at the source. He straightened, brushing dust and ash off of his jacket. Now that he’d heard the details, he couldn’t imagine they would want to dally around a noisy, kid-strewn building for much longer when there was a job to be done. “Alright. I’ll let Del know we’re heading out, and-“

The somber quality of Zarius’s interruption stopped him in his tracks.

Cyran halted - Zarius’s request was innocent enough, but he had a sinking feeling clawing at the back of his chest that this was going to be especially grim. Call it intuition. Or perhaps it was the way Caedes’s expression tightened, as if his his smile had been forcibly stretched over his face rather than placed there. The marksman already knew what Zarius was about to say. Cyran took a step closer, concerned. He wanted nothing more than to pull the young man in for a hug - for seeing Zarius so rattled over something felt like it ought to have been impossible, and yet. But when Zarius and Caedes were so bothered, they needed a cool head, someone to maintain their composure. Cyran drew in a sharp inhale -

“Okay. What’s the matter?”

And he truly did not savor the answer.

Even as Zarius spoke, in slow, measured terms, he put distance between himself and the others, leaning back against the wall like he could physically account for distancing himself from the vulnerability he was showing. Cyran supposed he could not blame him. He couldn’t imagine that Zarius had ever been raised to show his emotions, or express his fears. Even if he was not asking for help in so many words, Cyran could not help but think of it as such. Careful data collection had failed him, leaving the meticulous man with nothing but the great unknown, a parasite creeping into him until he was consumed. And Cyran’s heart broke for him.

When Zarius finished, Caedes spoke up, perhaps an attempt to reassure him or assuage his nerves. Up until now, Cyran’s attention had largely been held by the fellblood, but now he faced the other, steely silver eyes meeting red. Caedes looked… carefully flat was the best way to put it. Controlling his reaction as to not give away his unsavory thoughts. He nodded - wished he had more reassurances to convey, but came up short.

“I understand.”

To both, he spoke after a long moment’s thought. His only visible eye was shut in concentration, or perhaps because he did not want to see their faces when he spoke.

“I believe you. This isn’t the first time I’ve seen something like this.”

No, the first time had been some time ago now, so long that he rarely thought about it until the tear in the scars on his back forcibly reminded him of such. Rowan.

“I once knew someone whose mind was consumed by a being from… some other plane of existence that she had communicated with. Truthfully, she’d done so purposefully, so I’m not sure what to make of your situation.” He was hardly a scholar. All Cyran had was his own experiences, and Rowan, clearly, had not survived. He steeled himself, pushed those unpleasant thoughts aside - ignored the ache in his old scar - and continued.

“She’d experienced the same side effects. Powers of darkness that she’d not trained in, occasional bouts of… silence that I’d not understood at the time. Looking back on it, I know she was possessed by whatever she’d allowed into her soul.” And it nestled there, until it eventually consumed her.

Cyran did not voice that last part out loud.

Nor did he give voice to his other suspicion. Rowan’s symptoms had arose because she had entered a pact with an elder being from another plane, of her own will and accord. And it had killed her when she accepted more power than her body could handle. If Zarius and his sister suffering to the same effect, but no idea of where it could have come from… Cyran had a sinking suspicion that someone had forced such a pact on the both of them.

“I wish I could offer more. Alas, I’m no expert when it comes to magic. And if even Eameia does not know…” Lunala, that truly did not bode well. When he spoke again, his voice was softer, traces of melancholy clinging to his words as he finally opened his eyes to look at the others once more.

“In any case, thank you for telling me, Zarius. Your trust means a lot, and I hope to be able to help you, if you’d let me.” Perhaps he could not do much. He was an old, broken man, pieced back together only so he could continue to hobble along a little bit longer. No money, power, or influence. Nothing to offer Zarius that he could not obtain with money and time. But…

None of those semantics mattered. Zarius was his friend, and for once, was at a lost for what to do. If Cyran could do something, he would. It was that simple.

“I do have one question.” He continued, now turning thoughtful. Through his limited experience on pacts, or whatever this was, the abilities bestowed to the mortal differed depending on the type of being. In Rowan’s case, there had been the shadow magic. Magic that had been serendipitously awakened in Cyran after her death. But he’d also met those who’d made such arrangements with divine beings, who poured holy light from their fingertips and leaked divine power from their very core. It was a slim chance, but it seemed like Zarius and Eameia had little to go on - they needed to take advantage of any scrap of information they could get their hands on.

“These… abilities you’ve seen manifesting. What are they?”

The end of Zarius' tail twitches as Cyran expresses that he has seen something similar before. If only for a moment, he hopes that Cyran can provide some sort of explanation for what this thing is beyond their current suspects. But the situation Cyran describes is different.

He breathes out through his nose. Like Cyran, he'd known others with tag-a-longs, but those people seemed to have more beneficial or willing contracts with the beings they played host to. The fellblood never signed anything, at least, not anything he remembers. Even if he somehow fumbled into a pact while surrounded by fiends during that jaunt to hell, that did not explain the situation with Eameia.

She'd never left the house, yet she felt the burning in the back of her throat and heard the echoes of whispers in her mind. She even suspects that they're not the only ones in their family to have this affliction, noting that Karize mentioned having strange nightmares lately and observing some odd behavior from their parents. There's a tension in their family home, an anxiety or air of anticipation that wasn't there before.

Something was going to happen, but none of them knew what. 

Zarius scoffs. "Silence would be a blessing at this point."

The whispers have only gotten worse over time, especially as of late. He'd had moments when he could hardly hear his own thoughts inside his mind. It's a wonder he hasn't been driven mad yet. 

The fellbloood shakes his head at Cyran's lament of not being able to offer more guidance. "That is alright, you already have more experience with something similar than I was expecting. I hope to reach out to Lady Kamille about it, if she has forgiven me that is."

He nods in response to the elf's offer to provide aid. "Any help is appreciated."

Though it is frustrating to admit weakness, he's not so absorbed in his own ego to think he can do everything himself. He's always been painfully aware of his limitations which was one of the reasons he went out of his way to gain so many allies with diverse skillsets and backgrounds. There were doors they could open that even he could not.

Cyran was no exception to that. Though they ran in the same circles and had a similar line of work, Cyran had lifetimes of experience under his belt compared to the fellblood. There was value in that alone, even if Cyran did not see it that way. 

His counsel was invaluable.

Zarius shifts his weight a bit when Cyran mentions having only one question. Any question regarding this thing was like facing down a looming beast wreathed in shadows. And Zarius was without any source of light to shed on it. Thankfully, Cyran's question he did have some insights on. It was probably the only question he could actually provide accurate details on rather than just speculations thrown into the wind. 

"It varies," he admits. "When I am still in my right mind I can conjure these blue flames that look like fire but they do not always have heat. I also can...influence others, command them to bend to my will for a short time."

He'd used that ability in front of Caedes before, so the changeling could vouch for him on that one. Zarius wasn't too keen on demonstrating his ability to call forth any flames given where they were currently. There was always a chance that drawing on that power could trigger something far worse, and Zarius would not risk endangering the kids running around outside the door.

He does, however, push off the wall and step towards Cyran. As the fellblood nears, the air grows noticeably warmer from an aura of heat radiating from his body. He holds out a hand in an offer for Cyran to touch it if he wants. While not hot enough to burn anything, his skin is near scorching in temperature.^[1]

Regardless of if Cyran touches him or not, he continues to explain other abilities he has gained. 

"According to those who have seen what happens when I lose myself, the flames are more intense, I gain wings, I cannot tell friend from foe, and other voices speak through me. I do not have any memory of these things myself, but I trust their words."

He steps back away from Cyran so as to not linger too close for too long. "That is all I know. There could be more that I am not aware of, or more that manifests if this thing keeps getting stronger."

---

[1] Internal Inferno (re-flavored Heated Gland) makes the boy extra spicy

This is an uncomfortable topic for multiple reasons.

When Cyran speaks up, admitting that it’s not his first time seeing something like this, Caedes allows his lashes to lower; and he looks off to the right, briefly avoiding eye contact with both Zarius, and Cyran. A wash of unease falls over him as the shadows in Cyran’s office flicker; a fly on the wall, twitching its limbs back into the mass of darkness.

If he listens closely, he can hear her idle murmuring:

Beginning-less time…

It’s all gibberish; and it’s been occurring since before Zarius told him what was actually happening. She has always been like this to some degree; murmuring and mumbling in the shadows in words hard to decipher… but her murmuring and rambling alters when Zarius is nearby.

She has never recoiled like this from anyone.

Ash and sulfur...

Not the hag, not that demon in Daisy— hell, not even Ziev had elicited such a cryptic, nonsense babbling from the shadows that followed him. Never has she acknowledged someone in this plane for so long. In some way, it’s almost like what happened in King’s Valley has stamped Zarius’ name on her cold, dead heart; but he can’t get her to cooperate long enough to figure out how, or why.

An ancient terror.

Whatever Zarius has fallen into isn't like what he's had. 

He grew up with her, heard her whispers from the cradle, knew that he would stand at her side without questioning it until it mattered— until he had to make good on that ritual he took in his youth— when all he wanted was to make something of himself in the rung of Darkveil, and make someone proud. 

It was foolish then, and it is perhaps foolish now; but it's far too late for him.

It doesn't have to be too late for Zarius.

He breathes a slow sigh before Caedes fades back into the conversation; first lifting his eyes to Cyran; and then tilting his gaze to Zarius. He doesn’t flinch when Zarius mentions the blue flames; but something heavy settles quietly on his shoulders all the same. 

In hindsight, there had been more than one instance where he should have said something— should have asked, or pressed— should have been more aware of changes he recognized in Zarius, but did not acknowledge.

Zarius moves towards Cyran, and Caedes remains where he stands, watching the two interact quietly.

How careless.

It shouldn’t have taken King’s Valley for him to finally ask, but given its circumstances, he had sat on question after question until he simply could not anymore. As Zarius passes, Caedes can feel the displacement of heat clearly in his absence. It shouldn’t have taken the murmurs of the shadows for him to know something was wrong, and yet…

Something cold, sharp, and dreadful swells within his chest; something which he’s begun to feel quite familiar with in the passing weeks. He swallows the feeling back, closing his eyes for a moment, before forcing his disposition into recovery. 

It’s not like he’s unfamiliar with faking it.

The changeling flips a lock of loose hair behind an ear, tilting a hip as he steps back just enough to rest his shoulders against the office wall. “That doesn’t happen to spark any thoughts, does it?” He remarks into the conversation, pale gaze lingering on Cyran, once Zarius has finished.

Cyran knew little about the Witch of Moonglade save the whispers of her own public reputation he’d caught wind of, and from Zarius’s own estimation of the woman. Though from what he’d heard, he had a feeling that the woman’s education and her knowledge of magic would be greater than Cyran’s own. Perhaps she might even be able to identify the creature this surge of power had come from… for Cyran did not recognize what could possibly cause the symptoms that Zarius was describing.

Rowan’s expertise extended to denizens of the realm of darkness - creatures that were neither celestial nor fiendish in origin. They merely were, as old as the sun that had created them. Though the fire that was not quite fire, the beguiling command; to Cyran it sounded like a demon had sunk its hooks into Zarius without his knowledge. But who, and how?

As Zarius held out his hand, Cyran pressed his fingers to the Fellblood’s palm. Warm, unseasonably so. Not like Del, who seemed to be a human forge, warm with the gentle fire of a hearth. This was… turbulent was not the right word for it, but it almost felt as such. Scorching might be more apt. So intense that it struggled to break free and burn everything in its path. So hot that he was surprised it was not causing Zarius himself a fever. Cyran nodded and withdrew - he was chilly enough that the heat did not scorch him, but he still didn’t want to make Zarius uncomfortable.^[1]

Cyran pulled a small, black-leather notebook from his pocket. Normally one that he kept for his own notes, in the backmost pages - though this item had not originally belonged to him. A long time ago, a different life, this was the only piece of evidence that he’d managed to steal of Rowan’s experiments. The beginning was filled with notes on spirits and demons and creatures that she’d researched. The text grew more frantic the further in one delved, the more she lost her mind to the Thing she’d made contact with. Cyran still did not know whom she’d made the pact with that ended her life. But at the very least, he could see if she had any notes that might point him in the right direction.

He finished recording Zarius’s symptoms on a blank page - leaving no mention of his name or any indication of who it was - when Caedes spoke up.

Cyran met his eyes, silver meeting crimson. Though Caedes had scrambled for a modicum of his usual flippant demeanor, there were some things that one could not hide. The concern, evident in the way he dug for information, any scrap of an answer Cyran might have. He truly cared for Zarius… which made sense, considering the strong bond of friendship the two seemed to hold. And yet, there was something tugging at the edges of Cyran’s intuition, something largely unimportant at the moment and yet entirely prevalent in the charged conversation. Zarius and Caedes were not soft men, not soft in the way Cyran was. He’d not been a born criminal, but made - and there were still squishy parts of him that refused to die. Zarius and Caedes were quite different in that regard. It was difficult to determine if they’d possessed much softness in them even in their youth, raised in a city that did not foster such feelings. So they showed their care in different ways.

Acts of service and desperation. The desire to stick close to one another, damn the rest of the world.

Cyran nodded in understanding - he could not assuage Caedes’s worry entirely, but he had an idea. Of Zarius on the verge of professing something in the Deadwoods, of secrets shared only between the two. Cyran was trusted, but in a different way that Caedes was. Something new and tentative forged between the two. All Cyran could do was try to foster that connection the best he could.

“I don’t recognize anything specific based on description alone.” Cyran murmured, setting out across the wooden floor at a light, slow pace as he flipped through the notes in the beginning of the book. “Nor does it seem like Rowan has anything specific written here.” The name escaped his lips almost as an afterthought. “There’s some research on infernal creatures, though that was not her focus.”

He snapped the book shut and tucked it away before turning to Zarius, considering. The assassin tapped at his chin in thought.

“You say that you… lose yourself to this creature?”

He had an idea - albeit a risky one. Admittedly, the idea came from Zarius’s own sister. Though Cyran was against reading the memories of friends, the situation was clearly worrying Zarius. They needed answers. They needed a name.

“I don’t think glimpsing your own memories would get us anywhere… though perhaps the next time it - you - the next time you feel the creature creeping into your consciousness, I could read it, the way Eameia can. If published literature is no help then there’s a chance information about this creature was lost entirely if it ever existed. Research only gets you so far. I don’t mind going straight to the source if it means getting us the answers we need to purge it.”

---

1. Frozen Solid (stab dad cold)

Zarius leans back against the wall and crosses his arms while Cyran thinks. His eyes flit down to the black leather book Cyran pulls out. His curiosity is piqued, but he does his best not to read over the man’s shoulder out of respect for his privacy.

He wasn’t expecting Cyran to really have any idea of what this could be, so his claims of being something he does not recognize are not surprising. What is surprising is what Cyran says next. A simple slip of the tongue.

Rowan.

That is a name he has never heard of before. Cyran hasn’t realized that he has dropped a stranger’s name in front of them. He glances at Caedes then back at Cyran. He wouldn’t pry, but he does make a mental note of that name in case it is important later.

Zarius digs his nails into his arms when Cyran suggests using a spell he is all too familiar with. His gaze drops to the floor as he considers the options. It’s not a bad idea, and it could work. But he’s hesitant.

He shakes his head. “No. I do not want that. I am sorry, but there has to be another way.”

It’s not that he doesn’t trust Cyran and Caedes to be able to handle anything this thing could throw at them. They were more than capable. It’s just that there are things that he hasn’t told Cyran, things he hasn’t shared because they would no doubt color his opinion. The fellblood has no doubts that Cyran is aware that he is not a good person, but what he knows is only surface level. Risking losing Cyran’s trust was not something he was keen on. Cyran was too valuable of an asset…too valuable of a friend.

Taking a breath, he lets the tension in his shoulders ease. 

"With any luck, it will not be an issue. I just want to ensure you are prepared should something happen. Anyway, we should not delay heading out much longer if we want to catch the cultists off guard and stop them from whatever they are doing."

He pushes off the wall and tucks his hands back in his pockets. His gaze is drawn down to Cyran's desk and the portraits sitting on it.

"Are you going to be okay to do this?" He asks the elven man. "Or would you prefer we handle this for you? I do not know how many foes we will be up against or what defenses they may have prepared. Cornered people do desperate and dangerous things."

If Cyran wanted to back out, the fellblood wouldn't hold it against him. This was a risky operation, and even if the cultists turn out to be pushovers, Mount Drakolt has been particularly volatile lately. Cyran had a lot more to lose now than when they first met. The orphanage, all the kids, Miss Delaela. If Cyran was smart he would take all he has gained in this past year, sheathe his blades for good, and retire somewhere peaceful. The elven man wasn't cut out for this way of life, no matter how talented he was at it.

Caedes meets Cyran’s eyes.

A chill passes through him; and his shoulders tense subtly as silver meets crimson. He’s not sure he likes the depth of sympathy, acknowledgement, or understanding that he sees in there.

There was a time in his childhood when he would have seeked such a look out; from his mother, or from his sisters. It was a time when their warmth meant something; when their presence was firm and real; and when there was any innocence left to him. He could be troubled and vulnerable; he could cry and whine; he could burrow into his family for any ounce of comfort.

… But he’s long since grown out of such things. He can’t remember the last time he hugged his own mother without rolling his eyes— even when she’d been alive— he had long stopped seeking her out. And yet, she always knew when things would become too much; she never really judged him. There was a warmth of sympathy, acknowledgement, and understanding in her eyes when she looked at him— the same glossy glimmer he sees in Cyran’s.

He doesn’t know how to feel about that.

Caedes purses his lips; Cyran’s voice cuts into the silence, soft in tone as he paces across the floor. The changeling looks away, pale lashes lowering as the elven man admits that he doesn’t recognize anything; and truthfully, Caedes didn’t expect him to. 

Thus far, finding out any information about this thing that haunts Zarius has been a nightmare— but anything helps, at this point.

Although, when Cyran mentions Rowan, Caedes turns his eyes upwards.

Rowan?

That’s new… he notes the name.

He furrows his brows when Cyran continues, mentioning glimpsing into Zarius’ memories as a potential remedy; something that Eameia once offered Caedes, himself; and which he could not take, for what he could only view as her own good in that moment. He’s not surprised when Zarius denies; and he can’t help but sympathize with that choice.

He lingers, idle and listening; a faithful shadow; until the fellblood pushes off the wall. Caedes glances briefly towards him, before rolling his shoulders to ease the tension. The edges of his cloak sway around his ankles as he shifts his weight from one leg, to the other; and he smiles lazily at Cyran.

“Neither of us would force you, should you choose otherwise, Cyran. It's up to you.”

Cyran’s eye widened when Zarius shot down his idea.

The swift denial was admittedly a surprise; Zarius was the kind of man who hated not knowing… to turn town a chance for answers from a trusted source almost seemed out of character. Cyran pursed his lips, not particularly offended by the swift denial as one might expect. Merely concerned.

I do not want that. There has to be another way.

Nails, dug into his arms like the pain might ground Zarius. Something about the offer had made him nervous. The assassin nodded, turning away from the fellblood and the mounting tension on his face at the prospect. He would not pry, merely take the answer at face value. Zarius was a secretive man, and entitled to that privacy. Just because Cyran had the power to read through the secrets of others like perusing an ancient tomb did not mean he particularly relished sifting through the barest contents of their minds, seeing the things people would rather keep hidden. And though he knew Zarius was not an altogether good or moral person, it was not on Cyran’s shoulders to play the judge and jury for Zarius’s own sins.

Lunala knew he’d committed his own.

“Very well.” He nodded, offering a tired smile. “Then we will look for another way.”

The next turn of conversation, on the other hand, gave Cyran pause.

Were they asking this because they didn’t trust him to carry out the job? Cyran hummed, a low sound of displeasure in the back of his throat. Though they’d not particularly spoken about his past at length, he made it no secret that he didn’t come from the same stock as them. Cyran, formerly of the House Fenastra of Moonglade, had not been a killer or a fighter or even someone that had grown up in impoverished means. The only boon that his upbringing had granted him was a deep-rooted sort of numbness that gripped him when it came to doing what needed to be done. He’d grown up around a man who had such little regard for human life. In retrospect, it had lent to his early days of being an assassin. Cyran was old hat at compartmentalizing and shutting things off when need be.

But there was no hiding that he’d not grown up in this line of work.

He frowned, tilting his head to the side, not unlike an owl regarding something curious in front of them. “I will not shy away from something just because it is unpleasant.” He was not squeamish, nor was he a particularly anxious man. Not anymore. “Nor would I ask the both of you to finish this without my help.”

Cyran stepped forward, his hand resting on Wraithsbane’s hilt. Forged by Del to protect him, and it would be used by him to protect this place by any means necessary. He opened his mouth to say something, expression pinched - then thought better of it, shaking his head to will his train of thought away.

“I appreciate the concern, I truly do. But I will not stand back and allow you two to do all the work. We’ve all been run ragged and exhausted by the earthquakes and destruction through town and… I refuse to allow myself to be a liability.” Quite honestly, the situation with the cultists was grim. Nothing could be more dangerous than a fanatic, but they needed to be taken care of. Cyran didn’t do this in spite of the people he had to lose. He did it for them. If left unchecked, who knew what might happen? They knew where Del lived, they knew about the orphanage. They had to be eliminated before they could recover their strength.

That was all there was to it.

Cyran would follow the both of them into the belly of the beast if it meant taking care of this problem once and for all.

He straightened, moving to the door.

“I’ll go let the others know we’re heading out. And then… I follow your lead.”