A multicolored wagon bumped across the sands - its pace, only able to be harkened to a snail’s crawl. But its wheels were designed for desert travel, and a little uneven terrain was far from the worst it had endured. So it forged onwards, leaving empty sands behind it, and the wastes up ahead. Only a dot on the horizon, its darkened colors shifting from the heat’s mirage (even so late in autumn’s grip, Zeinavian temperatures were unbearable), betrayed that there was any sign of civilization around them. The speck was not a city or a village or even a hamlet, but a temple. A single temple, its blackened pitch stone stark against the pallid earth. Even in the shimmering air, its presence was an ever-growing constant the deeper the wagon plunged into the White Sand Sea… much to the chagrin of the wagon’s driver, a lavender-skinned fellblood of svelte stature and a petulant expression on their face.

Morrigan Moonweaver - the great Wizard of the Wasted, enchanter, diviner, storyteller, creator of miracles and blah, blah, blah, something about alchemy and clowns, you’ve heard this all before - let out a rather affronted huff, shoulders slumping. They turned to face the only other occupant in the passenger seat. A striking face framed by dark hair and vulpine ears, looking right at home against the backdrop of the desert dunes. Given what Morrigan had learned of his heritage some months ago, this should have been no surprise. It was a shame, really, that Morrigan had never gotten to see him in his vagabond heyday. He probably would’ve made a really cute little desert warrior…

But they digressed.

“I don’t like this.” They asserted petulantly, what probably marked the thousandth time they’d said this particular phrase since leaving the Desert Rose Apothecary, no doubt to the chagrin of Kvasir Sigurros - medic, scholar, chemist, and one of the few people in this godsforsaken country that Morrigan had ever learned to care about.

The expression might have sounded childish, and it was; though not without its own weight to it. Their trepidation to venture further to this temple was solely due to the very man sitting next to them. Not an admission from Kvasir’s own lips, but rather, information they’d managed to pry from the archivist god-king’s traitorous tongue, the deity’s cruel plan for exactly what he was to do with his vessel.

White Sand Sea. Lost Temple. Resume my divine role.

Oh, Morrigan would not forget anything that spineless worm had admitted for a long time. It still haunted them, sometimes, the thought that Kvasir might one day make his pilgrimage into the desert, and the annals of time would drag him under. That he might return in a daze, his mind so muddled with thoughts that weren’t his that he would not even be able to remember his own name. If he even returned at all. Yes, Morrigan was not Kvasir’s keeper, but they would be quite content if Kvasir never returned this far out into the White Sand Seas again.

Yet, here they were. Doing this very, stupid, suicidal thing.

Morrigan was fine taking risks and playing fast and loose with their own life. Hell, they were fine playing that game with others. People did not matter to them. Even coming to grips with the fact that there were some people exempt to this rule brought its own series of challenges. Like right now, they were ready to tear their hair out over this trip rather than enjoying an otherwise pleasant romp to a temple with a dear friend. They enjoyed spending time with Kvasir. So why did it have to be poisoned with… feelings? Was this how normal people operated on a day to day basis? No wonder they all had gray hairs at age thirty! Oh, Ginma, was Morrigan going to start getting wrinkles?

“I don’t like this.” They repeated, once more for good measure, because Morrigan so enjoyed having the last word. “I just have to make my opinion known. Are you certain we have to go to the temple itself to find these Unbandaged?”

It was about five days ago now that the first patients showed up on Kvasir’s doorstep that had caused this entire mess. A couple of excavators, rotted inside and out from an unknown plague. Dark magic, festering and tearing their bodies apart. The only words any of them had managed to get out of them were,

Obsidian Temple.

Tomb.

And, They woke up.

Morrigan wanted to leave it all the hell alone, but there was only one way the two chemists were going to be able to synthesize some kind of antidote for the thing that was killing them. And if it really had come from some undead blight, then chances were those creatures wouldn’t stay in the temple for long. And oh, no matter how much time passed, no matter how much the fatigue sunk in from fighting a losing battle with a fuckdusty deity, Kvasir never stopped caring about helping people.

It was their only hope to save those who were sick. So naturally, traveling to the temple was their only choice.

It would be fine, Morrigan had bargained with themselves multiple times throughout the journey. Surely, this couldn’t be the secret temple, could it?

Could it?

There was nothing Morrigan Moonweaver, not really a wizard at all but a lying sham who’d only recently come to grips with how pathetic they truly were, could do but bite their nails and wait until they found the temple. And from the looks of it, the temple had found them first.

They turned to Kvasir once more, mouth open as if to speak. There was a plethora of things they wanted to say, to get off their chest. So much so that they could fill a book with it all. Are you going to be okay? Say the word and I’ll turn around right now. Damn them all if you’re not going to live through it. That’s not a victory I want. Or... You really shouldn’t count on me to protect you the way I think you do.

But Morrigan bit their tongue with sharpened teeth and withheld from truths that were all too raw. They, foolishly, still wanted to believe they had all the time in the world to say them.

So they forced a grin on their face, normalcy as best they could. There was no time like showtime.

“Don’t worry, though. If you get scared, I’ll go in first. I’ll hold your hand if you’d like, my dearest medic, so you don’t get scared of the mummies.”

---

Bringing Pets
Adult Form Bubbles (Adult Drake - Counts Against Pet Cap)
Nugget (Phoenix, Beastmaster III - Counts Against Pet Cap)
Junior (Black Bog Leech - Doesn’t Count Against Pet Cap)

SPOILER: Click to show

Quest Name: Unwrapped
Participants: Two or more
Location: Zeinav Desert
Post Requirements: 6 post per person, 200 words per post
Reward: +1 Renown, +Dark Catalyst, +1 Zombie Ash
Description: Further exploration and excavation of the Zeinav desert has disturbed many once forgotten tombs, causing the spirits inside to become restless. Now an uncontrolled amount of Unbandaged have been seen roaming the desert, preying on travelers and merchants. Brave adventurers are being asked to dispose of these creatures, helping to cull the growing threat in the desert. Take down a roaming band of 6 unbandaged, making Charon safer and helping their spirits find rest.

There are very few hard rules Kvasir has drawn up for himself in his time.

He likes to consider himself a man who values practicality, the sort of man who evaluates all the risks a situation throws at his feet before stepping into it– it’s one of the few virtues he can comfortably admit to having, one of the few he doesn’t second-guess when he curls up beneath the moonlight and lets sleep start to pull him under, his thoughts escaping, wandering away into the night. He values risk assessment, values knowing what he’s getting into long before he dips his toes in.

And yet, the world is the world and life is life, and there’s an inevitable unpredictability that comes with both– sometimes danger does not rear its wretched head until you’re waist deep, until escape is far behind you and you no longer remember the path out. Sometimes someone else is depending on you to guide them through, and you must be wise and be strong and be the beacon that they need as you drag the both of you through hell until you can curl your battered fingers around the scrap of hope you’re searching for. Sometimes the earth merely demands that you forego evaluation, that you forego thinking, and asks that you take someone’s hand and fall, fly, shatter all your virtues into little glass shards.

So Kvasir is… lenient with any rules he has in his life; more lenient now than he once was, thanks greatly in part to the fellblood in the driver’s seat beside him. And yet, he has a few he does not dare to cross– he is not to neglect his journaling, lest his memories be wrested from him. He is not to deny anyone who is injured the help they need, regardless of the time or place or circumstance. He is not to speak of things a patient tells him not to, not to go looking for the man he once nearly married, not to step foot into the deepest reaches of the White Sand Sea–

And yet, here he is, having traversed further into the desert than he has in ages, with the person who’s advised him against doing that the most seated right by his side.

The guilt of it all sits heavy as a stone on his shoulders.

“...I know,” he whispers, voice caught somewhere between a shaky laugh and an uneasy whisper as he responds to Morrigan’s second insistence that no, they do not like this, is there another place they can go, is he sure? “I know you don’t. Can’t say I’m a fan myself, really, but it really does seem that the temple’s where they’ve settled.”

The Unbandaged– those strange, horrific creatures, harbingers of a plague not even the brightest of magic can touch. He’s heard faint tales of those creatures before, heard whispers from excavators and archaeologists and those with any amount of curiosity about what lies within the desert’s most forsaken of tombs, but he’s never dealt with them personally– and he’s certainly never dealt with the effects they have on the body. It’s a horrific thing: a rot, deep-rooted, clawing at the skin, the bone, the soul, so dark and deep that light cannot touch it, the grace of the strongest healing magic unable to breach it.

Such conditions are a rare thing, but Kvasir knows to be prepared for them– there are so many things that magic cannot touch, so many reasons that no doctor should place their faith in heavenly power alone. A bandage is as good as a spell– a poultice as good as a mage’s touch, a salve or medicine as good as a potion. It’s cyclical, balanced; one touches where the other cannot reach. You cannot let your faith in one poison your skill with the other.

This is a prime example– if magic cannot heal the stain upon the excavators’ soul, an alchemist’s touch will do.

Kvasir is determined not to let them down.

And yet, the shadow of the temple hangs heavy over them both– dark with reminders, with a promise, with the laughter of a god who is always watching, waiting, gilded eyes searching with all the intent of a serpent for the right time to strike. There’s a stinging in the back of his skull, a prickling feeling, something he’s not sure is stress or anxiety or something more sinister, but he’s determined to ignore it. He has to ignore it.

He has people depending on him, after all– and not just those excavators waiting back within the safer reaches of his beloved oasis.

He curls his fingers. He does not reach for Morrigan Moonweaver’s hand.

Not yet.

“How very sweet of you, Morrigan Moonweaver,” he laughs, half-genuine. There’s an uneasiness he can’t disguise beneath it, but really, Morrigan does always make him feel… better. Not just their smile, their theatrics, but their presence at his side– them. Just them. “I’m so very lucky to be traveling with one as noble and chivalrous as yourself. But… I believe I’ll be just fine.”

He will, right?

Kvasir looks up at the mouth of the temple standing over them both, its maw expectant, shadowy, offering no promise of what lies inside. He narrows his eye, tilts his head, trying to figure out what’s contained within before ultimately sighing and taking a few steps forward, beneath the archway, into the entryway of the temple itself.

He pauses, waiting for Morrigan to follow– though he does glance around the darkness, relatively unimpressed. He’s hardly impeded by the harsh shadows, but… [1]

“Would it be a waste of magic to just start slinging Purity Bolts everywhere, my dearest enchanter?” he calls back, voice light with sardonic laughter. “The dead are terrible at interior lighting.”

---

1 - Night Vision

The ancient art of tomb plundering had been a favored pastime of Zeinavian lowlives for as long as tombs had existed. The upper echelons were ever so fond of being immortalized with their wealth. It was not a bad way to go, Morrigan thought. They’d always operated under the assumption their own likeness would be buried underground. Their wealth solidified and turned into a statue of solid gold; their trinkets, distributed to the good, dishonest people making a dishonest living stealing their things. Patron of the thieves, their own greatness immortalized in the memory of those that gazed upon their things and remembered the kind wizard who’d given power back to them.

Morrigan spared a thought for the ghost upon whose hallowed halls they were about to tread and wondered if they might be merciful.

It was only a passing prayer, for Morrigan had never put much stock into the dead who should stay in their graves, much less the shithead gods who deserved everything they had coming to them in the nine layers of hell.

Nor did they have a care for the nameless, unrestful dead rotting in their bandages. There was only one lament on Morrigan’s mind.

I will not let him crawl out of his grave. I will not let him take hold in this world once more.

It had not been long since their unpleasant journey with Astrid Stormstone - an enlightening venture it had been, but no easier for it - but the little snot-nosed shit had shoved harsh truths up their pipe and told them to smoke it. Morrigan had a lot to think about, none of it to their liking. When they closed their eyes they still heard Astrid screaming at them, the anger and passion in her voice, screaming words that had rattled them to their very core, YA HAVE POWER!

She was not wrong. In the twisted way a serpent’s venom had the power to paralyze and kill in a single bite, Morrigan had power. There was no taste as bitter as that of a harsh truth,but the nastiness of the medicine would not be Morrigan’s alone. The charlatan had been subject to a piteous birth. An existence that was not meant to be. And now, that would be the rest of the world’s problem.

Kasra’s, most of all.

The bastard had gotten the drop on them once; Morrigan would not allow him to do so again. If Morrigan’s curse was ever good enough for one thing it would be well served staving away the magic eating at Kvasir’s brain and ridding it of infection. It was as the good medic was prone to saying. Where spells failed, it was old fashioned medication that did the trick. And so long as Morrigan could prevent Kasra’s reentry to the world of the waking… well, for a moment, they might even be able to pretend that their affliction was a gift.

Ha. As if.

Still. The point being, they would be fine, because Morrigan Moonweaver would make sure they were. Not because of the dead gods, or the fates, or ancient history brought to life, but because they had willed it, and they had built this life with their own two fucking hands, and no one. Not a damned soul. Would take what was theirs.

So they smiled, with all the bravado of one who so desperately wanted to believe what they were saying. Believe enough in a lie and it became true, after all. They flirted and joked, because that was what they were wont to do, and that was normal.

They retracted their hand, not particularly offended that Kvasir did not take it, even in jest meant to bring brevity to the situation. There would be plenty of time.

And, if Morrigan’s instincts were anything to go by, plenty of need.

“But of course.” They replied airily, gripping the reins to Sparkle Blossom with a lavender-knuckled grip. “What are a chivalrous and noble knight’s hands made for if not to hold when the hour is most frightening? Or their arms, if not for holding one’s beloved medic in a princess carry when he gets scared of the zombies? That last one is an open invitation, by the way.” They added with a wink.

Pretended the worst thing they might find here were the Unbandaged.

And in front of them, the temple beckoned.

Morrigan brought the Wagon of Wonders to a halt in front of ebony-tainted steps, as hot as baked marble. The temple’s exterior, worn by time and neglect; yet, there were signs of life outside. Remnants of an empty campfire - an excavator’s site, abandoned in haste. Signs of dislodged sand and dust. Morrigan turned their attention to the gaping entrance, from which cool, rotting wind poured…

If they focused they thought they could hear the distant moans of the dead which lingered inside.

Morrigan suppressed a shudder and hopped off the wagon, securing their things while Kvasir lingered at the doorway. The charlatan double-checked their potions, grabbed the Unweaver from its resting place by their side. The wicked, curved black-metal blade inscribed with white swirls fashioned in the same design as Morrigan’s own tattoos. A metal blade quite literally forged with their own blood. Its curse sang a quiet hymn in the dead desert air. No more pitious little daggers.

Morrigan secured the blade to their hip and joined Kvasir at the precipice of hell.

They smirked at the jest before tapping their palm, the pitch-black ink still healing from where they’d etched it into their own skin.^[1] A familiar, warm orb of light lingered in their palm, bringing with it an idyllic memory of a forest on the other side of the world and a lifetime away. But it provided enough light to see by. “Waste not your magic on the menial, my medic. Where the Unbandage want for glamour in this hovel, Morrigan Moonweaver always arrives with style!”

^STYLE… _STYLE…

So their voice echoed down the depths of the tomb.

Morrigan grinned.

“Your holy light is better served for more pressing matters. Like making jerky of those mummies, hmm?” With their hands occupied cradling the light, Morrigan bumped Kvasir’s hip with their own playfully. “Remember, You stay back and I shall weaken them, you finish them off, and we bring the pickings home.”

As simple as that…

Or so they hoped.

Yet each shadow cast by the lantern’s light seemed larger than life; each divot and groove in the aged stone creating the silhouette of an enemy, a ghost, a haunted face. Morrigan swallowed and raised their sandal, as if to break the tense bubble by being the one to make the first step. “There is no point in dallying.”

And so they took the first step.

Half-engulfed in the darkness, Morrigan turned to Kvasir. This time, their smile didn’t quite reach their eyes. And yet, somehow, the solemnity felt the most honest, in that moment.

“Banish your worries, my medic. I will not allow the monsters to reach you.”

---

1. Lantern Light Tattoo

Kvasir has heard no shortage of stories about Morrigan and their greatness.

It’s been some time now, he thinks, since that first shopping trip they had together in Zeinav– that chance second encounter, brought about purely by some strange, uncanny miracle, one traveler brought into another’s court. Some of the details are a bit fuzzier than they should be now, the finer parts having slipped him by, but Kvasir remembers the important parts– remembers the elation of spending that time together, the gifts they’d hunted for for one another, the resolution he’d made at the day’s end that maybe keeping one person close couldn’t hurt.

And he does remember chatting with Bubbles in Morrigan’s wagon– the brief fragments of stories they’d thrown out into the air, little pieces of tales of Morrigan splitting the sea and twisting the very skies into a hurricane in an act of vengeance. He’s heard more great and grandiose things, from Morrigan’s tongue and from the whispers of townsfolk, from a few other people– detangler of festering corruption, splitter of the earth and unearther of lost secrets, slayer of gods and defier of fate, they who cleave through the strings of fate as easily as a blade through lace. Kvasir has heard it all, heard every story of Morrigan’s power and achievements there is to hear, each show of magic grander than the last.

But oh, selfishly, Kvasir can’t help but feel as though no spell Morrigan could cast could ever rival the power that lies within their simple, wonderful ability to put him at ease with just a few words, no magic needed. It’s beautifully mundane– in the moments Morrigan flashes him a smile, a few playful words, a quip, a touch, Kvasir knows calm, and Morrigan becomes more man than god, and that’s when they are truly magic.

It is painfully selfish, more selfish than he ever wants to admit to being, but Kvasir hopes, sometimes, that he’s the one who gets to see that quiet, real magic most.

He covets, he yearns, even if he’ll never do so aloud.

“I’ll be sure to take you up on that offer should I need to,” Kvasir says, shooting Morrigan a weak, but genuine smile. “How do you know I won’t pretend to be scared, just to make you carry me around?”

He accompanies the words with a quiet laugh, sonorous in the cavernous mouth of the temple’s entryway. There’s an edge of nervousness to it that he would rather not admit to– a feeling that only intensifies as Morrigan plucks light from their own skin, a luminescent orb flowering to life right above their palm, casting just enough light around the room to illuminate its sheer vastness, its age. The stones are weary, the crevices between them layered with sand– the smoother finish of the frescos, even, seem dusty, forgotten, a relic of a time long past, all the paint dulled by time. The ceiling feels miles above, the temple a labyrinth ahead.

Suddenly, it’s hard not to feel like an ant.

Another little surge of pain blooms to life at the back of his skull, a dull, resonant ache, and Kvasir shoves it aside, desperate to ignore it.

“...Always so kind, my dear wizard,” Kvasir laughs quietly, quick to take a step after Morrigan, following right behind them. Even if they insist he needs to stay back, no part of him will ever allow too much distance to sit between them in such dangerous circumstances. “Ah… well. No way left but forward. The Unbandaged must be further in.”

And so he takes another step forward, and another, and another, until the two of them are well within the halls of that forsaken place, mapping the forgotten halls by lantern-light and little else in search of the wretched monsters they’d been sent to find.

The ache doesn’t cease.

The school of hard knocks had taught Morrigan an important lesson at a very young age:

No one else will take care of you but yourself.

Instead of wasting away in the back of that pitiful merchant’s wagon – instead of moping and waiting for something to change, they’d taken matters into their own hands. Because no one else would. How liberating, it was to shed one’s skin and become something more than people’s expectations. How easy it was to flourish when you remembered that other’s sentiments regarding yourself was just that; their own. Their adoration, a delight, their pity, a trifle. Their disgust, barely a whisper in the breeze. How liberating to know that you’d left such an impression on their lives, yet they were but a speck in your own. You owed them nothing. You could take what you wanted from them. Leave behind what you didn’t want to acknowledge. All in the act of self-preservation. Why feel guilty about it when you knew the other party was doing the same to you?

Oh, the irony that it had never once occurred to them that the external world was little more than a reflection of one’s deepest thoughts and desires. You saw what you wanted to see; you saw what you didn’t want to see. A beautiful illusion created by the deepest crevices of one’s psyche. Smoke and mirrors.

Perhaps that was why Kvasir’s worldview challenged their own so fundamentally.

Here he stood – a man who’d dedicated his entire existence to helping others, selfless to a fault – selfless to his own detriment, considering he didn’t charge his patients for his services. And here he stood, a man so beaten by what the world had taken and taken and taken from him that even when he didn’t know where he ended and Kasra began… even when sapped of his personhood, he refused to give up that which would serve others. He was, in short, an enigma. Not because of his celestial power, but because he had been subject to some of life’s worst horrors and still found it in himself to continue to give. How did he do it? How did he spend his years shuffling through each day, a dead man walking, content to allow himself to quietly unravel, yet still come to life when it came to giving to others? Surely, Morrigan had convinced themselves, it had to be an act.

Yet after months of growing closer to him, Morrigan thought they knew the answer; the truth was that Kvasir didn’t even think about it. Even as he lost himself, Kasra could not take what existed in his deepest roots – that Kvasir was wholly good. It was in the very fabric of his being to give just as it was in Morrigan’s to take.

And to admit that people like Kvasir existed, who could be so kind and selfless, was to admit that Morrigan had always just been one selfish bastard.

But maybe that wasn’t always such a bad thing. When they met him Kvasir felt as if he’d given up fighting Kasra’s influence, because with every inch of space he lost in this battle was an inch he didn’t know how to take back for himself. Well. It was a good thing Morrigan refused to give up what was theirs.

And how strange it was, for this reason, that Morrigan didn’t mind at all when Kvasir asked them for something, even wrapped in half-jokes and lightness as it was. As he teased, threatening to leap into Morrigan’s arms and never leave, Morrigan just wanted to grab his face and promise, promise, promise. It’s okay. You can take what you need. You don’t have to be afraid to ask.

And because Morrigan was a horribly selfish bastard, they wanted him to ask.

Morrigan raised their arm, unable to resist showing off a little. They flexed their muscles – pitiful, though not nonexistent considering that their lack of arcane prowess had them entertaining martial inclinations as of late. “You see, I have been imbued with the strength of ten men for this express purpose. I shall carry you out of the very pits of this damned place so long as it means you trust me to do so.”

Easier said than done.

Especially staring down the temple’s awaiting mouth.

Morrigan suppressed a shudder. The stench of necromancy hung rancid on their tongue. Momentarily, they were surprised they were able to place it as the magic curled around them, desperate for purchase under the Mana Cursed charlatan’s skin. “They’re down there, alright.” Morrigan murmured under their breath. “I can sense them.”^[1]

They halted in their tracks, a dull throbbing pain lingering in the cavern of their skull. Like a steady drumbeat, a cautious visitor. Knock knock knock, let me in. Yet, as they massaged at their temples, the pain refused to abate.^[2] Psychosomatic echoes, a facsimile of the real thing. The curse? Morrigan didn’t understand their own affliction enough to say for certain. Either way, they didn’t relish the sensation.

So too did they shove the feeling aside, focusing on Kvasir’s words.

They opened their mouth, one final objection on their lips – a budding suggestion that they just leave the sick people behind, travel back to the oasis, and unwind by the water’s edge – that died as clumsily as the creatures lurking below. Kvasir was determined. There would be no turning back.

“Right. No way left but forward.”

Their head throbbed, as if in agreement.

Navigating by the dim light provided by Morrigan’s luminous tattoo proved to be a challenge. Not because the Unbandaged lingered this close to the surface – rather, they were absent, but the threat of them remained. Every shift of the wind, a quiet inhale, made cobwebs and rubble shift and groan. Morrigan was reminded of tales of a hibernating dragon… a beast so grand its body could not sustain itself save the soft rumbles of dormancy. All that remained was its own sickly immune system to fight off intruders, maintaining a decaying heart. Morrigan paid little attention to the engravings and heiroglyphs etched into the walls. They had no idea what kind of noble or sultan might have been buried here, and quite frankly, Morrigan didn’t care. They were here for a reason.

No point giving credence to that which had crawled its way out of the annals of time to poison all it touched.

The past should be left in the past.

Morrigan turned away from the depictions of ancient kings and powerful wizards and continued down the hall.

They moved in silence. Partially because Morrigan did not wish to attract any stray Unwrapped by breaking it; partially because the potent magic in the air left them feeling almost a bit drunk. It was difficult to understand all the ways their nature affected them… but Morrigan didn’t need to put words to the sensation to understand the foreboding aura that settled in the dead air. Not a chill, but humid, rotting, and bloated. Not even the protection from the sun here could shield them from Zeinav’s particular touch.

Morrigan wasn’t sure how long they traversed. For all they knew, it could have been minutes. Hours. Days. Time always was a nebulous concept when one was removed from its grasp. In places where the sun and moon did not exist, all they had was the fluctuating sands, shifting through the hourglass. But the travel was inordinately tense and long… until Morrigan heard sound up ahead. The distant dragging of solid flesh against stone. It was subtle enough that they might have mistaken it for the creaks and groans of settling foundation if it weren’t for the agonized wails.

“It looks like we’re getting close.” They had no sooner spoken than the hallway they were traversing widened, opening to a cavernous chamber, one that might have once been beautiful had it not been plundered by raiders. The walls had been stripped of gold lacquer, a throne in the very back of the room containing holes where gemstones had been stolen. A treasure coffer bereft of a single coin. The fine architecture and sheer monstrosity of the room was the least of Morrigan’s concerns, as they took another step and nearly lost their footing entirely as a piece of stone yielded under their sandal.

Morrigan was immediately thrown off-kilter; the tile they’d stepped on cracked and crumbled, immediately giving under their weight and collapsing into the gloom of the chasm which split the earth – the chasm Morrigan had almost missed. And with the tile, so too did Morrigan stumble and lose their footing from the sudden loss of solid ground.

“FUCK!” They shrieked, wildly spinning their arms backwards to counterbalance gravity. It was only their own tail, lashing out wildly and wrapping around a nearby broken pillar.^[3] The stability gave them enough purchase to yank themselves backwards… a force which caused Morrigan to fall flat on their ass, rather ungracefully. Face flushed, adrenaline coursing through their veins at the prospect that they’d almost just fallen to their death, and Kvasir had almost just witnessed it, Morrigan pulled themselves to their feet and hastily brushed tomb dust off their attire.

“What the hell?” They demanded to no one in particular, holding their light closer to the side of the fateful pit that had nearly taken their life. “Must have opened up when those earthquakes were wracking the desert. Stupid danger pit.” It was a good thing that between the two of them Morrigan had the tendency to blaze forward without taking note of their surroundings, else Kvasir might have also been in for a nasty surprise. “I wonder how far down it goes…”

It was difficult to ascertain. Morrigan’s light was too dim to see down to the bottom. And yet, the closer they looked – the deeper they stared into the abyss – Morrigan could hear the groaning again, like the air itself was letting out a quiet sigh.

No, not the wind. That was the sound of a cacophony of voices melding together; vocal chords which had forgotten their purpose yet maintained their function. The groans of the damned.

“… I do believe we’ve found the Unbandaged. Think they’ve been crawling up from the pit, Kvasir Sigurros?” They addressed him, narrowed eyes still peering into the dark, as if focus could magically give them the ability to see better.

Completely trusting of the man behind them.

Completely at his mercy.

---

1. Witcher Pitcher Tattoo
2. Kvasir’s Eternity Ring
3. Prehensile Tail

The only comfort in this temple that Kvasir can look to is Morrigan’s presence by his side.

He knows and knows well that he should be doing everything he can to stay away from places like these, to stay away from the endless expanse of the White Sand Sea. Even as memories are ripped from his mind, dragged away until they’re nearly out of reach, impossible for Kvasir alone to restore, the knowledge that this part of the world is not safe for him has roots that run too deep to fully drag from the earth.

And even so, he’s here anyway– beckoned out here by the promise to go digging for the key to an elusive antidote, led by his refusal to ever turn down someone in need of aid, even if it drags him into territory he’d sworn to never walk again. And though he stubbornly clings to this mission, though he refuses to turn back, he cannot help the deep, deep unease that festers within his heart– an unease that’s only further nurtured by the shadows of the temple, of the fragments of a time long since faded embedded into its very structure. Every step he and Morrigan take into the cavernous halls of the temple sends a terrible thread of anxiety through him, strikes fear into his heart– as the light of day fades away, leaving them only with the glow of the orb floating in Morrigan’s palm and the sharpness of Kvasir’s own vision. [1]

Morrigan is his one source of comfort, the only thing here preventing him from falling to pieces with panic. He couldn’t turn back, of course. That would go against his mission as a doctor and his promise to the excavators slowly dying from the plague thrust upon them. But oh, nothing could stop him from panicking– nothing but Morrigan, their voice a balm in the darkness.

Especially when they confidently declare that they’re getting close.

“Thank the Gods,” Kvasir murmurs, taking a deep breath in the moment that follows, hoping it will steady the thunder in his chest. “I can’t wait to–”

Whatever it was Kvasir was intent to say leaves his brain as soon as he hears the crumbling of stone, the distant sound of something hitting the ground, the terrified shriek that’s pulled from Morrigan’s throat– he quickly moves to steady them, even if their tail is already wrapped around a pillar, preventing them from falling down the now very obvious, dangerously wide pit lying in the center of their path.

He takes another deep breath, trying to swallow down the fear quickly blossoming through him, trying to focus on the sheer relief of Morrigan being okay. That’s what matters right now– Morrigan is okay, by his side, no worse for wear.

“...of course the only way further is down,” he sighs, not pulling his hands back. No, it… it’s comforting to feel Morrigan’s skin beneath his palms, comforting to be able to feel them breathing, the proof that they’re alright. “Ah, how troublesome… I certainly hope it’s not a deep pit. I might be able to get us down, but…”

But falling is the faster option.

Kvasir freezes.

He’s… not sure where the thought came from. He’d never suggest such a thing, not in a place like this– there had been their mission with the Sirens, the freedom of flight, but as wonderful as that had been, it had happened in Sol City, on familiar grounds, not in the horrid, unpredictable depths of a temple in the White Sand Sea. He… he’d never…

He winces, indiscernibly, at the ache building exponentially in his skull, so intense by now that it’s impossible even to think. Kvasir blinks quickly, incessantly, trying to will away the feeling of his skull cracking apart, the overpowering feeling of his mind slipping away–

---

But it gives all the same.

An inevitability.

It’s been some time since Kasra had been able to breath air on his own– the air is musty, ancient, dust and the dead flittering about throughout it, but oh does it feels like home. All of it feels like home: the stone beneath his feet, the cavernous halls, the writing on the wall, the frescoes, all of it.

It isn’t Kasra’s home, of course– no, that would be far too fortunate–, but it’s a temple all the same, built into the very desert he’d once freely wandered. It doesn’t matter who was worshiped here or where they might be, doesn’t matter who else had once wandered these halls; they aren’t here anymore, and they’ll likely never return, doomed to be an ancient relic of the glory days of Zeinav. Sifted through, claimed by foreign hands.

And if this feels like home, then it’s Kasra’s right to purge it of any pests– namely the one that stands precariously at the edge of a deep pit with no signs of a floor.

Vulnerable.

Easy.

Kasra’s borrowed fingers curl over Morrigan’s shoulders, squeezing just enough to be uncomfortable– cruel, a shift in the kind, gentle touch his too-soft vessel always uses with this wretch. But before the fellblood can glance back, before they get a chance to figure out what is about to happen to them, Kasra leans in, lips nearly brushing against Morrigan’s pointed ear as he whispers:

“Guess who?”

And, almost too eagerly, Kasra shoves them forward, ready to condemn the eternal thorn in his side to a quick, painful death–

…that is, until he notices that the cockroach’s tail has curled around his leg, and that he’s falling with them.

Kasra bites back what would’ve been an embarrassing screech as he starts hurtling down into that horrible chasm, stolen heart thundering in his chest as the floor finally starts to reveal itself, promising horrible pain at its bottom. And yet, as he falls past engravings, old runes, a burst of blue light quickly flashes from a set of scrawlings he gets no chance to decipher, and he can feel something shift, feel a strange sensation tingling throughout his body–

And then he hits the ground, the pain too blinding to let him immediately notice the complete shift in his form, from the constraints of his vessel to the body he once walked in so very long ago.

No, for now there is pain, and resentment, and hatred for this utter pest that has once again dragged him down with them.

"...damn it all," he grumbles, barely processing the shift in his voice. "Words... words cannot encapsulate how much I loathe you, you damned worm."

---

1. Night Vision

If Morrigan were afraid of falling, they’d never have been the one to attempt to fly. And yet, as charlatan and medic stood once more at the edge of the known world, peering into a darkness that stretched into forever - that reached upwards - that beckoned… Morrigan felt a smidge of apprehension.

Of all things they’d not anticipated climbing.

Why hadn’t they anticipated climbing?

Because you’ve never bothered putting forefront to anything in your life, their own whispered voice reminded them. The haunting expression of the facsimile Wizard of the Wastes from those volcanic trials danced in the shifting shadows. Because you’ve always so enjoyed flirting with the whims of fate and seeing where the outcome takes you. But it’s not just yourself anymore, is it? No more throwing caution to the wind if you don’t want him to be hurt.

And that wasn’t any fun.

But it was worth it.

They still did not savor the prospect of dropping down there with little hope of crawling back up, but it was not a question as to whether they would accomplish it or not. Morrigan would make it so. They simply lacked the physical equipment; but they’d scaled mountains before. They could handle the bowels of a dead temple. “I believe I do have an elixir in here for just this occasion…” They mused, remembering the tincture they carried around in their bag designed by fellow consortium member Beistmild. “It will be a touch uncomfortable, though I think it will be enough to get us down and back up reliably…”

They’d noticed that Kvasir had fallen silent, which was just fine with them. Morrigan was perfectly content filling the space with noise. Anything to get rid of this sudden, pressing headache, the feeling they were forgetting something important. The pressure built to an impossible point; Morrigan reached for a flask at their hip, taking a long swig of some sweet drink they’d loaded it with before departure. Cactus wine, perhaps. There. Much better.

Kvasir inched closer, and Morrigan wondered if perhaps he would shed some better light on the pit –

Oh, that bastard.

Over a year it had been since Morrigan had the displeasure of meeting Kasra, then meeting his purity bolt, though they’d not readily forget his voice as long as they lived. Of course, they didn’t have much time to think about this at the present moment, as pressure blossomed in their back and the world spun and Kasra sought to take advantage of the opportunity to get rid of Morrigan for good, cast them to the mediocrity they so despised.

…

But Morrigan refused.

Time and time again their selfishness had bid them to sink their claws into what they wanted; deep enough to leave gaping marks when it was wrenched from their grasp. If they could not hold onto it - money, fame… friends, life – then they would make the loss burn.

Time and time again their selfishness had bid them to sink their claws into what they wanted; deep enough to leave gaping marks when it was wrenched from their grasp. If they could not hold onto it - money, fame… friends, life – then they would make the loss burn.

There was no time to ponder whether they’d truly stumbled upon Kasra’s ancestral home - whether Morrigan had walked Kvasir straight to the sacrificial altar. So Morrigan did not think. Instinct seized rational thought and it was all Morrigan to do to regain their sure footing the same way they had moments ago when they nearly fell. This time, they found purchase around Kva- Kasra’s leg. Well. He’d have to choose between bracing himself to save his skin, coward he was, or let his vendetta against Morrigan win and fall to the depths of depravity with them.

Evidently, he’d not even considered the possibility of Morrigan retaliating at all, and so it was that both let gravity’s hold drag them down. Morrigan wished they could say the company was better.

Darkness swallowed them whole.

Roaring wind and falling debris accompanied their race towards the bottom; Morrigan lacked Kvasir’s sensitive eyes, lacked the ability to discern how far they were falling or the ancient runes and carved-out structures they passed. Sight and sensation evaded them, save the cold shock of the air and the feeling of Kasra tumbling next to them. Once more dethroned in his overconfidence. It was a good thing, then, that Morrigan did not fear death. Would Kasra – the immortal, the ghost king, the deity who was so afraid of staying dead that he had wormed his way back into Charon - feel the sting of fear? Would he seize up as they fell, fell, fell, anticipating the crash at the end? Would the moment of hesitation cost him everything he feared to lose?

If he lashed out during the fall, Morrigan wouldn’t let him. It helped that they had been trained how to tumble gracefully by trapeze artists at the Dreamscape Bazaar. With the grace of a dancer, Morrigan flipped in the dark; without knowing which way was up or down their only frame of reference for direction was Kasra himself. So together they would go.^[1] Morrigan shrugged off their brocade, twirling it like fine aerial silk, looping it around the warm presence above-below-around them, until the two were tied together. There would be no satisfaction of escape –

MotherFUCKER.

Their collision with the ground was about as graceless as a flailing fish out of water. Centuries old dust and dirt was dislodged from the impact, forcing Morrigan to cough and sputter while their body caught up with the pain. This mortal vessel never had been especially sturdy. At least it gave them a healthy appreciation for the nets employed by those trapeze artists.

Perhaps Kasra might take some satisfaction in knowing that the force from the impact had rendered Morrigan unable to move. Their bones and muscles ached like fine crystal smashed along the ice floor; shards neatly tucked away from their body. And if the blow hadn’t already stolen breath from their lungs, the stale stench of decay would do the job just fine. And yet, they lived.

They had to wheeze out a choked laugh, attempting to roll over on their stomach and find wherever Kasra had landed; a difficult task in the dark. Their only source of light, the single dust-stained beam filtering from the very crack they’d fallen out of. “Is that what you do all day, while you rot in the cracks you wrought in Kvasir’s skull, Kasra? Sit around and think about how much you loathe me?” They dragged the words out, delicate on their tongue. Bloody, injured, and thrown at the mercy of the creatures that resided within this hellhole; but oh, did Kasra’s chagrin taste so sweet.

“How enriching that must be for you. Quite flattering for me, to be the object of your attentions.” Around them, though Morrigan could not see it, they could hear it – the shuffling of feet, dragging along the inert sands. “And luckily for you, perhaps my name will even be the last thing on your mind, considering your fumbled assassination attempt has just left us at the mercy of the undead.”

---

1. Bardic Virtuoso - Dance (Dancer's ethereal grace)

It is easy to forget, when you are reduced to merely a wisp in the mind of another body, the gravity of physical sensations.

It would be inaccurate to say that Kasra yearns for such things; gods do not yearn, do not wish, do not languish over wanting for things beyond their reach, over what they cannot have. Those are fragile, tender feelings, the kinds of feelings reserved for fragile, tender creatures: something that Kasra very much is not.

And yet, there are times he looks back to when he had flesh of his own, when he had still walked the gilded sands with his own feet, written page after page of history and stories with his own hands and dreams– dreams, not yearns– of how wondrous it will be to have such things again, when he has finally won this war against the oh-so-stubborn creature he calls his vessel. The memories of what he had before his… untimely death still linger with him, after all– the chill of water that flowed freely through the stone bed beneath the stairs of his temple, the glorious heat of the Zeinavian sun, the paradoxically gentle touch of calloused fingers in his hair, against his cheek–

He does not… miss them, he merely… looks forward to experiencing them again, even if they will not be the same. Even if the people he once knew are gone and there is no gathering them back up from where they’ve been scattered to the wind, even if those experiences are unique to their time, there will be new ones– similar ones.

But oh, if there is anything Kasra has not been looking forward to experiencing again, it’s pain.

Regrettably, pain is all he can think about as he lays at the bottom of that accursed pit, mere feet apart from the utter wretch his vessel calls a partner– it resonates through his bones, sings through his back, his ribs, his skull, gods, does his skull ache, and it shows no signs of fading completely– though it does start to dull, just slightly, enough so that he can force himself to sit up. Even so, the motion makes his head spin, spots flashing across his vision and something that may very well be nausea stirring in the pit of his stomach– a nausea that only intensifies when he is subjected to the irritating sound of Morrigan Moonweaver’s voice.

“Oh, don’t flatter yourself, you rat,” Kasra spits, voice laced with utter venom– he’ll die a second time before he ever admits Morrigan is even remotely correct about how often they appear in his thoughts, about how much time he devotes to contemplating his sheer detestation of them. He can lie as much as he wants, and they will never know. “I have far more significant things to focus on than a pitiful little thing like you– it would be a waste of precious brainpower to spend so much time ruminating on that loathing, but oh, yes, do I loathe you.”

He huffs, and once more, he will never admit how childish it is. He is merely… expressing his discontent, as a king is wont to do.

“As if some feeble, rotting corpses could ever hold their own against me,” Kasra half-laughs, rolling his eyes– and… hm. He’s quite confident he had still had that pesky eyepatch on when he’d fallen– had it gotten scattered somewhere in the fall? “I’ll handle them with ease. And besides… it is your fault we’re stuck down here, charlatan.”

He rises to his feet on shaky legs, taking a brief moment to steady himself before glancing around just where they’d fallen– the stone walls climb high, yes, but there’s a large opening stretching before them, indicating a long hall leading deeper into the temple, and already, Kasra can see motion in the distance: the unnatural shuffling of something risen from its grave. [1] The silhouettes are vague from where he stands, but he can recognize the motions. The distant disturbance of the sand, the low, strangled cries of the condemned.

It is uncomfortable in a way he does not care to examine.

Kasra furrows his brow, swiping a sharp tooth over his bottom lip as he moves to conjure his scythe, fingers curling around the pole with practiced ease. He reaches back to do something about his vessel’s pesky cape, ready to cut it loose for the sake of combat–

But there is no clasp, none of that embroidered blue fabric, no cloak– for that matter, there’s no flowers adorning his hair, no irritating white blouse, none of the things his vessel always wears.

His breath hitches.

It is his own skin, his own clothes, his own hair, his own everything– his body, as it was on the last day he had walked the earth alive, restored in full, down to its finest detail. The embroidery and plating on the clothing he did wear, the beadwork on his headpiece, the white of his eyelashes, Sahar’s ring on his finger–

He swallows. He already knows it is an illusion. He already knows it will not last.

But he will savor it, and oh will he lord this over Morrigan Moonweaver’s head with everything he has.

“...Get up, charlatan,” he demands, voice a lot lighter than it had been, practically sing-song. Why wouldn't it be? He feels positively invigorated. “I cannot help but feel a little… enthused about fighting, today. It’s been a while since I’ve had the chance, after all.”

A grin splits his face, sharp in the dark.

“I believe this temple needs a reminder of its king.”

---

1. Night Vision

“More important things… like how you’d kill me by pushing me down a pit?” Morrigan was not buying Kasra’s claim in the slightest. The opposite of love was only indifference, after all. “Do not worry, Kasra. Your secret is safe with me. Considering you’re not even the first person to try and kill me this month, I find myself more flattered than anything.” They hoped his dark vision allowed him to see their wink.

Morrigan was no stranger to pain… mostly from their own machinations blowing up in their face. By now they should have learned their lesson about throwing themselves into impossible situations they’d no hope of winning. Time and time again - Displacer Beast, lava pits, ice beans, Kasra, purity bolt, Girallon, cold, cold, cold - pain had been etched into their body the way Morrigan had scratched their own tattoos into their skin with ink. One would think they knew better than to keep risking their safety, especially when Kasra was involved.

One would think.

Yet, sputtering and coughing, dust choking their lungs and an impossible visage in front of them, a ghost in human skin, Morrigan found themselves ready to risk it all again.

The last time Morrigan met the God King in the flesh, Kasra had little sway over Kvasir’s appearance. The differences were minimal; only evident in the subtleties of his eyes and the disgust dripping from his voice. He was an outsider looking in, and it showed in his every action, every flinch when he delivered a line, every time Morrigan touched him. It was not just that he was a bad actor. It was that he was a parasite puppetting a body. It was all too easy to spot the little ticks and tells associated with one who despised their mortal shell. Morrigan knew, because they saw the same thing every time they looked in the mirror.

All the more reason to despise Kasra.

“My fault? How in the world is this my fault?” They snapped back. “If you didn’t want to end up here perhaps you should have been in command of your own faculties and you would not have been pulled in so easily. I suppose I cannot fault you. After all, you’re only human.”

Something shifted in the corner of their vision; Morrigan felt and heard it rather than saw it in this darkness. They pulled themselves into a standing position, quick as a whip - though they’d been casual and blasé up until now, there was no denying Morrigan was at a disadvantage. They could not see in the dark and they lacked Kvasir’s holy magic to dispose of these things. Gone was the casual tone, the bravado for show. Kasra did not deserve the kindness of a silver tongue. But he would feel its sting all the same.

They tugged him backwards before he could combat the undead - still slowly shuffling in their direction, closing the distance between themselves and the living, hungry for the delicacy of flesh.

“Not so fast, Parasite.” They maintained a firm grip on the silk which they had managed to tie around Kasra’s wrist during the fall - as flimsy as paper, though still hopefully enough to catch him off guard, considering he’d seemed to have forgotten about the tie. They knew better than to underestimate the slippery bastard… ever since he - for the briefest of seconds - convinced Morrigan to look back.

A decision borne from concern. One that had punished them both.

Morrigan would make the same mistake again and again.

Yet now, as they stepped closer and made out more of his dim silhouette, there was no illusion that the man in front of Morrigan was anyone but Kasra, the Archivist King.

How? Why? What was he doing here like… this? Did he have more hold over Kvasir than Morrigan initially thought? Was he growing more powerful? Had Morrigan already failed before they’d even begun-?

No. Now was not the time to lose themselves in worry. They composed themselves, though there was no doubt Kasra had seen such weakness. The split second of hesitation once more. No doubt he was gloating over it as Morrigan looked him up and down, taking in his features. It came as an honest surprise the man was not much taller than Morrigan.

“… I remain unimpressed.”

They were telling the truth, which possibly should have been even more alarming than if they’d exaggerated their disdain. But Morrigan earnestly was unsure how to proceed with the information that Kasra, in the flesh, was nowhere near as imposing as his demeanor suggested?

Having him here terrified Morrigan as much as it did embolden their hate. Morrigan tightened their grip on the scarf, unwilling to even let him have the satisfaction of winning an inch of victory in their mind.

“Did you seriously think that I would come to this shithole without doing my due diligence first? The obsidian tomb is chock full of death traps and winding mazes… all of which I studied before coming here. The escape to this hole? It’s all contained within here.” They tapped at their temple with a clawed finger. “Without me, you might be able to slay the Unbandaged. You might survive. But Kvasir did not pack enough rations for you to survive more than a few days down here, and you’d starve to death before you crawled your way back up there. Do you hear me?”

They took a step closer.

“I am your only hope of survival out of this hole. I am your jailor and your probation officer. Try to kill me - leave me for dead down here - put one toe out of line - and I leave you for dead. This time, I will not look back.”^[1]

It was spoken so confidently you wouldn’t know that every single bit of it was a lie.

Morrigan knew nothing about this place, but they needed Kasra to believe they had leverage. Give him something he wanted - freedom - and Kasra’s cowardice might make him less inclined to stab Morrigan in the back while they weren’t looking.

“Do we have an accord?”

Whatever Kasra’s response was - whether he believed Morrigan or not - would have to wait, as a blast of warm air and a blast of sand from one of the approaching unbandaged soared their way, aimed right at the Archivist King, who’d stupidly put himself right in the front line. Morrigan spun, twirling Kasra as if a ballroom dancer dipping their partner. With their other hand, the Unweaver sliced delicately through the ranged sandstorm like cutting through ribbons.^[2,3] Every inch of them revolted at the prospect of intervening rather than just letting him go… but they had no choice.

Morrigan would find a way to keep Kasra alive here, because they had no idea what would happen to Kvasir if they did not.

Morrigan would keep Kasra alive, because they’d vowed to kill him themselves.

---

1. Smooth Talking
2. Blade Dance
3. Spell Eater Blade

“What do you mean I’m not even the first one to try and kill you this month?”

There is a bit more venom in the words than Kasra would like, really– a bit more indignance, irritation, all around, far more emotion than he’d like to show in general, let alone toward his designated nemesis. He has always valued the art of maintaining his composure, after all, and… once upon a time, he had been quite gifted at it, been adept at remaining calm and commanding attention, soothing the worries of others with his own relaxed nature, his own steely confidence.

But a terrible, untimely death and… the losses the world subjected him to do a lot to chip away at such things, and being trapped in a body he cannot permanently or consistently command does little to help. So perhaps he is more prone to rage than he once was, more prone to reminiscing– but who could fault him? There is little to do when you are a prisoner in someone’s mind; inevitably, you start to become a prisoner to your own heart, your own mind. Kasra will never admit such things, of course, but even he knows that his nerves are more frayed than they used to be, that his tongue has grown sharp against the whetstone of desperation.

And so even though he knows it is logical that when anyone finds a pest in their presence, they will do all they can to kill it, and that such logic should also surely apply to Morrigan Moonweaver, Kasra cannot help but feel… incensed at the thought of anyone else getting to squish the roach before he gets a chance to. Isn’t that a privilege he deserves?

…Regardless, he shouldn’t fuss over it. The last thing he wants is to hand Morrigan any arrows to fire his way.

“...I suppose it makes sense, though,” he huffs out, finally, after a second of stewing in what he will never admit must be jealousy. “Who wouldn’t wish you dead after five seconds of glancing upon your visage? I’m still certain my vessel isn’t quite right in the head for the way he fawns over you. I’m doing him a favor, in the end.”

The smug air in his voice shifts into a cackle of amusement at Morrigan’s protests that this surely cannot be their fault, of course– and then abruptly stops as the protests near immediately shift into pointed barbs, unfettered insults, cutting and aimed as true as they can be.

Kasra thanks the veil of the dark in that moment for hiding the way he bristles, thanks all of the sounds echoing down here for masking the hitch in his breath– “only human,” the charlatan says, taunts, jeers, as if they know anything. Kasra will not dignify it with a response. He will not look back upon ages of lost history to the very dawn of his memory, to– to things that do not matter. To things that never mattered, to things that may as well be dust, now, cast to the Zeinavian winds, crumbled away with the hearts of the dead.

He will not respond to that, but when there’s a sudden tug at his wrist, he cannot help the confused noise that leaves his lips.

“What–?” he hisses, gaze immediately flickering down to the silk wrapped around his wrist– like a chain, like a leash, with Morrigan holding tight to the other end. Once again, Kasra thanks the shadows for masking the flush of humiliation that spreads across his face– how dare this rat treat him like a common dog? “How dare you–”

Oh, but then it’s there.

It’s brief, but Kasra catches it– the shock that flashes across Morrigan’s face before they get it back under control, the clear sign that they’ve seen him. He knows that they expected to see the form of their strangely-cherished medic down here, the same it had been back in the cold of the mountains, but now they stare a god in the eyes– not restored in power, perse, or in true flesh, but for now, in form.

And he knows that, however quickly they move to hide it, they feel some degree of fear.

He doesn’t get the chance to fire back on their little comment about being ‘unimpressed’– it’s… surprisingly short and understated, considering their usual demeanor, but it isn’t like Kasra cares, because at least he’d been married, once, and his wife had certainly been impressed, so there!–, because Morrigan tightens their grip on the silken scarf enough for Kasra to feel the strain of the fabric, and so quickly launches into one hell of a tangent.

One that Kasra will never admit unsettles him.

It… has to be a lie, right? An exaggeration? Something of the sorts, surely, there’s no way a charlatan would put so much effort into studying and memorizing something as troublesome as the layout of a tomb– but a charlatan always cares for the safety of their own skin, and regrettably, Kasra is coming to understand that this… pest does, indeed, value his vessel, and…

…they aren’t lying, are they?

He pauses. Swallows. Gives himself a moment to think of a proper retort, because he will keel over and die again, twice as painfully, before he so pitifully relents, but–

"Agh-!"

A very undignified noise falls from Kasra’s lips as Morrigan suddenly pulls on the scarf, spinning him around with uncanny ease and sending him backward, the only thing between him and the floor being Morrigan’s arm– he can feel his hair brushing the stone beneath them, his grip on the Fang only maintained through sheer desperation. He stares up at Morrigan with pure shock plastered across his face as they so effortlessly cleave through the sand tossed their way, blinking uselessly for a moment before getting his bearings.

“...I suppose we have an… agreement, charlatan,” Kasra finally says, trying to iron out any strain in his voice. “I will spare you. This time. But oh, should you cross too many lines down here yourself… there’s a good chance you may not see my vessel the way you would like to once again.” [1] [2]

He speaks the words with a conviction derived from a place he cannot articulate, with all the skill of a liar, a thief, a deceiver– no better than the person he’s trapped down here with.

And, though it pains him to do so, when he sees a billowing cloud of dust build up behind Morrigan Moonweaver’s back, steadily taking the shape of bones and bandages and claws, Kasra arches back, the very picture of a dancer, before getting back to his feet, spinning Morrigan around with him as he drags the blade of his scythe through the Unbandaged that had tried to attack his mortal nemesis, spinning Morrigan around with him as he drags the blade across the floor, dispelling fading dust and bandages and a burst of sand across the chamber, one of many down.

Once more, that wolfish smile returns to Kasra’s face– though it is fractured by circumstance, the edge dulled by the knowledge that he is not the lead in this mortal dance.

Not yet.

“Let us dance, then, shall we, charlatan?” he croons lowly. “What better way to keep us on our best behavior?”

---

1./2. Smooth Talking (through Morrigan's Eternity Ring)

“Jealous?” Morrigan smirked.

Kasra could deny it all he wished, but Morrigan knew all too well what it was to be a slave to one’s mind. All you had were your dreams.

The barbed words and the incredulity were all Morrigan needed to know that Kasra fantasized about killing them. Why would he not? Perhaps Morrigan was not even the biggest threat to his goals, or a brave warrior capable of gutting him like a fish and banishing him to the afterlife. But a thorn underfoot was just as likely to kill an arrogant soldier as the threat of an oncoming blade – but with twice the element of surprise. And with any minor inconvenience, the sting of humiliation lasted longer.

It would be a cold day in hell before Kasra forgot the name Morrigan Moonweaver.

Still, they shrugged, unable to resist the temptation of stealing the wind from his sails once more. “Perhaps I have, perhaps I have not. Enough assassination attempts that your own is rather unremarkable in comparison.” A terrible irony, that their fears rang in tandem. It was easy for Morrigan to pluck at the strings and sow discord in his heart. Adoration and devotion were a god’s lifeblood. Even worse than death - a fate which Kasra had already faced - was to be mediocre. Unmemorable. It was the fate Morrigan had run from all their life.

It made them shudder in revulsion to think that they might have something in common with the arrogant fuck. The sin of pride stained both of their hearts. Yet, all the easier for Morrigan to burrow their barbed claws underneath skin and drag him down to their level. Even if Morrigan could not kill him, Morrigan could be satisfied that they could manipulate his emotions and infect him with mortal pettiness. Emotions which clouded his judgement and distracted him from his priorities.

It was a small chunk in his armor, but a weakness nonetheless.

And yet - for all their bravado, the assurance that they’d be able to beat him the way they had in Frostgale - Kasra’s venom struck them all the same.

Morrigan’s traitorous heart stammered.

There was no way he was telling the truth. Was there? If this decrepit hole was the very mecca Kasra’s birthright, a monument to all that Was, then there would have been signs – etchings on the walls, eyes following their every movement. Stirrings. Whispers. Something.And still, Kasra had only tipped his hand when the opportunity arose to take his own revenge. Stronger his presence was here – a stone’s throw away from his true home in comparison to the World’s Crown. But hallowed ground, this was not. They just had to hold onto the possibility that as they twisted and prodded, Kasra was doing the same.

“You had best hope for your own sake, that there is no truth to your words.” Frigid eyes narrowed. A blade cut the air in a hushed prayer, dim light hitting the blackened side of the Unweaver’s wicked smile. The hand gripping Kasra’s sash twirled, relinquished its hold on the fine fabric in favor of grabbing the folds of his tunic, feeling the impossible warmth of his skin as Morrigan yanked, a cruel facsimile of a dip as another bony hand curled overhead, saving his ungrateful life once more, Unweaver all the while held aloft in a white-knuckled grip, the tip pointed at his chest, poised to strike, poised to pry open his ribcage and carve out his heart so Kasra would finally, truly know what it meant to feel his soul bleed -

But not yet.

Morrigan sighed, a terribly tired sound uncharacteristic of their unburdened demeanor; before they opened their eyes once more.“Because if we return to the surface, and you have not relinquished your hold on Kvasir Sigurros, then I shall truly have nothing left to lose.”

And this was no lie.

It was all they could do not to lose themself as Kasra took control of the floor - spun them around like a ballerina, out of harm’s way. How it stung to witness him drag his scythe - a blade of whose origins Morrigan had no ken, considering he’d not had it moments before - through dust and bone like butter. How it felt like glass on their tongue to admit they owed Kasra anything. Yet it took two to tango. One to lead, and one to follow in equal measure. Morrigan had taken the lead, just barely, yet they were merely the frame on which Kasra was free to paint his bloody triumph. If they’d not lied to him about their knowledge of an escape route, Morrigan was certain it would be their own torso Kasra ran the wicked blade through.

Not out of the woods yet.

The sound of Kasra’s low murmur made Morrigan’s skin crawl.

They never should have come here.

Morrigan’s claws tightened on his arm, tight enough to sting. “Let’s.” They agreed. “I sincerely hope you were not cursed with two left feet.”

Unbandaged, on their own, were not particularly dangerous; the shriveled husks of bloated corpses whose bandages held together dust and dreams. Their danger was that a single kiss from their decrepit flesh could suck all the moisture out of an unsuspecting victim. Such was the phenomenon that their witnesses described befalling their brethren who could not get away in time. Yet there they sat, on Kvasir’s beds, their bodies slowly withering away and decaying. The ash of these specimen were necessary to bring them back from the brink of death and restore what had been taken from them.

Morrigan was not thinking about their fates right now, save the lament that it would have been nice if they’d told Morrigan and Kvasir about the pit beforehand… and how to get out.

No point focusing on the past. If they dwelled, Morrigan was viable to be swept away by the Unbandaged, or providing a window for Kasra to save them, and wouldn’t that be embarrassing?

So instead, they planted their feet on the ground; giving them ample access to allow Kasra to spin around them and swing that fancy scythe of his in an arc.^[1] Between the two of them, he had more reach. At the same time, they tucked Unweaver away and snapped their fingers, sparks catching on their gloves.^[2]

“Let’s shed some light on this conundrum, shall we?”

At once flame danced, cradled in their palm. The flickering magical flame was terribly weak, but in the dark of this pit, it may as well have been a flashbang. One that illuminated the hoard of undead and showed the unholy duo exactly what they were working with.

Gods… how many servants had this nameless rich bastard buried with him?

More important, it gave them a layout of the land. The pit was thin, but Morrigan could make out splintering cracks in the foundation, the faintest draft of wind. Escape, maybe. Or places to hide, at the very least. It had equal chance of saving them as it did locking them in. And at the same time, a few jagged rock outcroppings which might give them the advantage of higher ground.

---

1. Rooted Boots
2. False Pyromancer’s Gloves

Kasra knows how this dance goes.

This is only their second engagement– their second proper meeting, fully immersed in each other’s presence, capable of speaking directly to one another rather than merely harboring thoughts, intentions, festering feelings that will never be spoken aloud. The first had been up on that cold and distant mountain, far above and away from the eyes of others, on grounds neither of them were meant to wander; this second one is deep beneath the earth, the sand, in the graveyard of kings and servants and liars, a place all too worthy for them both.

Neither of them had won the first time, however hard they’d both fought to. Neither. Kasra is sure of it– oh, Morrigan had gotten in his head, made all of their jabs, achieved their grand scheme of turning and walking away, but Kasra had been the one to make them look back. Kasra had been the one to get their trust back for only a split-second, and prove just how much of a mistake it was in the next.

This is no different. Even here, in the tomb of some unknown king, the two of them stand at odds, taking every chance they can to snap at the other’s ankles, like beasts trying to get the advantage in an encounter in the woods. Their claws are clipped, their sharp maws caged, all the tools a wild beast uses tucked away out of their reach, but nothing changes that they both see each others’ weak points, know each others’ weak points, no matter how many or how few times they’ve met like this before.

Morrigan Moonweaver will make foolish comments, and Kasra will bristle at them, as he does now at the mere… insinuation that he’d ever be jealous of humans, at the notion that he is unremarkable; but he knows, too, that this fool’s weak point is their heart, and that no charlatan should ever let such a thing be their downfall.

He will take the humiliation, if only for the sweet thrill of knowing that for all the vital blows Morrigan Moonweaver knows how to make, they’ve bared their veins in turn.

“Oh, please,” he huffs, rolling his eyes once more, white lashes fluttering quickly in exaggerated exasperation. “Such feelings are beneath me. I have no need for envy against your would-be killers; if they’re to squish you, it’s merely one less thing I need to be concerned with. Nothing more, and nothing less.”

And then it’s back to less petty matters– to the threats encircling them, leashing them, keeping them from going for the kill down here, where no one and nothing else beyond the wandering, bandaged dead can touch them. Kasra watches with satisfaction as Morrigan processes his claim, going through the motions of untangling the words to search for a lie, and they must not find one, considering the way those cold eyes narrow, a cutting reflection of the mountain of over a year past, and the frigidity in that face is so strong and stinging Kasra almost lets himself wonder if maybe the World Crown was right for them after all–

and then Morrigan dips him out of the way of a grasping, feeble-boned hand once again, their dagger practically glistening even in the dark just a short distance above Kasra’s own chest. Precarious. Daring.

For a moment, there is something like fear– the same thing he’d felt back then, in the seconds before his life on this pitiful and unforgiving earth had ended.

The next, a smile splits his face, and those golden eyes, sick as death, lock onto Morrigan’s face.

Do it, he urges without a word. I dare you.

But their dance is not yet destined to end.

As quickly as their eyes went narrow, as quickly as the thought seemed to grace their mind and sway their hand, Morrigan Moonweaver’s expression shifts once more, suddenly… tired. Exhausted, solemn– resigned, their voice low and even to match. It is… jarring, so much so that Kasra practically reels from the whiplash of it, cannot even think of the right words to say to bury his teeth into this open wound.

Is it even a wound so much as an ancient bruise that’s been so briefly shown to him, pressed into the skin so deeply and for so long that it hardly even aches anymore? For once, Kasra cannot tell– cannot tell what kinds of things might be going through his loathed liar’s mind. It looked like honesty. Such a thing shouldn’t suit them.

Something about it did.

He’s shaken from his thoughts by the pinprick of Morrigan’s claws digging into his arm, by the cool, even tone of their voice, by the whispers of sand and shuffling feet– with that, he quickly alerts, snapping back into proper focus, stepping back into proper form, clinging tightly to Morrigan’s arm, the sash still securing them hand to hand. When Morrigan digs their feet into the ground, mysteriously unmoving, Kasra leaps upon the opening provided and spins around them, dragging the blade of the Fang through another cluster of those pesky Unbandaged, cleanly erasing them, returning them to the dust that built them.

This so-called dance between them is nothing like a real one– there’s no grace to it, no practice, no rhythm behind it. This is the convergence of predators: two vicious beasts dragging each other around, snapping, tugging, trying to break one another apart, their sharp edges only tempered by the awareness that if one truly bites, it’s all over for the other. But nothing changes the way they move, the silent prayer that the other’s bones may break, the savagery, the rage, the fire that burns beneath their feet.

And then Morrigan lights a true flame in their palm, illuminating the shadowy pit, casting a light on the soldiers before them– and damn it all, there’s so many.

Kasra wrinkles his nose a little. He can’t fathom taking so many people with him to the grave.

Not willingly.

“...Oh, wonderful, you’ve shown us that there’s more shambling monsters than we guessed. Excellent work, charlatan,” he grumbles bitterly, even though he’s well aware they’ve done far more than that. “Do you really believe we’re going to cleave through all of these? I hardly imagine you have enough energy for that.”

As another figure emerges from the sand by Morrigan’s side, Kasra springs to life once more, spinning around them until they’re pressed chest to chest, his arm wrapped around their shoulder, the tip of his scythe buried in the Unbandaged that had tried to gun for them in the dark– his chin resting against their shoulder, far closer than he’d ever like to be to someone like them.

“So what do you suggest we do, here?” he hisses, voice cold against Morrigan’s skin. “Aren’t you the one who knows the way?”

“Oh, please.” Morrigan scoffed. “Deny it all you wish but you’re just as incorrigible as me.” They saw through his heart like delicate stained glass; horrible recognized horrible, after all. It was a shame Kvasir had been cursed with two such terrible burdens. At least Morrigan made a concerted effort to act in his best interests in a world where he’d been scrubbed out as thoughtlessly as scribbles in a margin. Most days they were not certain that was enough. “I don’t do myself the injustice of denying my nature, Kasra. Can you say the same?”

There was no one more keenly aware of how horrible Morrigan was than their own psyche. In its own way, that was its own form of honesty – in a way, no one could dig hooks into Morrigan’s skin and pry away armor to sift through layers of soft skin and secrets underneath. Of course, they would still bleed, like any other mortal. But if Kasra sought to attack their reprehensible character all while gazing down from a throne he didn’t deserve, then he’d learn just how easily stars fell. And that the only difference between a liar and the king was in the nature of their throne. Cover shit with gold lacquer and it was still shit.

“If you didn’t want to be the one savoring the satisfaction of ending my life with your own hands, then you would not have manifested at the edge of that pit.” Venom rested at the edge of their tongue, poised to strike – only stayed be the prevalent reminder that if they broke the delicate balance, this dance would come to an end. How much they wanted to drive the point home, twist the scorpion’s stinger into the small of Kasra’s back and savor the betrayal on their face. To manipulate his fortune the way they did their victims until all he could see was misfortune in every move, until he truly understood what it meant to loathe one’s person. Yet they could not afford to misstep.

Still – as they held the blade against his chest, felt the beat of his heart against the Unweaver’s edge, and Kasra all but tilted his neck to allow Morrigan the executioner’s blow – taunting, coy, daring Morrigan to take a shot he knew would never come – the ugliest part of them screamed for the satisfaction of knowing that his last living thought would have been being proven wrong.

It would have been so terribly easy. Just a slip of their finger and they could even justify it as plausible deniability.

No – it would have been for Kvasir’s sake.

Amazing how that made absolving themselves all the easier.

But they had to hold onto hope that Kasra was lying – that Kvasir was alive, but somehow… dormant, and Morrigan needed this vessel alive to ensure that. As they twirled back into motion, and the world shifted back into focus, Morrigan still could not help but feel like they’d let an opportunity slip through their fingers. For once in their lifetime, the charlatan had fumbled, all because of a risk they were unwilling to take.

The show had to go on. If they threw more ferocity into their movements – dipped Kasra like they wanted to snap his spine in half, or carelessly swung him a little too close to the Unbandaged – that was no one’s business but their own. It was not as if Kasra was not granting them the same indignity.

Much to their chagrin, the light did not reveal much, save the bleakness of their situation.

If this were any other situation, Morrigan might just throw a glitter bomb and be done with it. A decidedly stupid decision if they wanted to avoid messing with the weak structural integrity of the dust-bound tomb. They lacked options - they lacked an escape – and all they had to show for it was Kasra’s not-so-gentle reminder of just how utterly fucked they were.

“I do.” Morrigan lied. “I just need to gather my bearings and figure out which direction to go.” The assertion was accompanied by a decidedly sour look directed at the obsolete god-king. “You might be surprised to learn your impromptu tumble cost me my bearings.”

They needed time. A resource which was not kind to them, depleting with each passing second, the tick-tick-tick of sand dropping from the craggy cliffside rocks to the ground below. They could only hold the line for so long before this hoard overwhelmed them. Their lips contorted in a grimace, taking the opportunity to twist Kasra around – not enough to throw him off his feet, but enough to put strain on his spine as they swirled him in front of them. If he wanted the spotlight so much, he was free to have it. “Can you not just make use of Kvasir’s magic to rid us of this undead problem? Or do you only see fit to leverage it when you’re stabbing people?” They hissed.

As far as they understood, the light domain was the antithesis of the Dark. Two sides of one coin. Where one waxed, the other waned. Kvasir’s gentle power, which the medic produced in spades… it should have been enough to send them away. So why was Kasra holding back? Now was not the time for humility.

“I have to do everything around here myself, don’t I?” With a huff they leapt, hands planted on Kasra’s shoulders as they used him as an impromptu springboard to pull themselves onto the rocky outcropping. An outstretched hand was offered to Kasra to pull him up afterwards. Assuming he complied, a potion would be thrown nearly in his direction for him to catch.^[1]

“Here. Use this and hold them off. I have to navigate.” And figure out how to keep up this lie.

Morrigan’s tail flicked behind them as they wracked their brain, desperate for any kernel of information, anything that might help their situation. They had to have plundered enough tombs to have something, right? Yet in the dark they couldn’t glean anything useful. All that remained of a once-great civilization was them and the Unbandaged.

Wait.

The researchers back in the Desert Rose had remembered that they’d been on the surface, right? That they’d been spotted lingering around the tomb. They’d not said anything about the deep underground. And these creatures were too fragile to climb surfaces with their bare hand, if the way they scrabbled against rock was any indication. Perhaps, if they were servants, their quarters had a separate way to the surface.

It was a shot in the dark.

It was all they had.

“That way.” Morrigan pointed past the hoard, in the direction the Unbandaged had come from. “The exit is that way. We just have to find a way past them, and we can find the surface once more.”

---

1. Sulfuric Smoke Bomb