Avishraa Reloaded

Demarath sat out in the common room. He'd remained in Ilirith's room for as long as he'd been allowed, but the healer, Shoss, had eventually resorted to politely but firmly ushering him out. Zadireth had been laid down in a second room, dozing while he waited to be attended to, and Ferleth, so far as he could tell, was lurking in a third, not comfortable around so many people.

He knew he should have tried sleeping himself, but something about the unusual situation kept him awake - some mixture of worry for Ilirith and fascination with his current surroundings. Certainly this place was fascinating, not just in its design and appearance, but in its scale. All his life, he'd lived in surroundings built for people bigger and taller than he was, but here, everything was sized for witches. He didn't have to sit on a pile of cushions to reach the table in front of him, though, truth be told, some cushions wouldn't have come amiss regardless.

The woman, who he'd learned was the mentalist Kurass, came out into the room bearing a pair of bowls. She set one down in front of Demarath; he didn't recognize most of the contents, but it smelled appetizing enough.

“If you're not going to rest,” she remarked with a faint smile, “you might as well eat.”

He squashed an instinct to protest – food would, in fact, be good for him, and his body quite readily said so in response to the scent. He remembered to say “thank you,” before he said “Do you think she'll be all right?” With the question asked, he poked his muzzle down into the bowl, giving its contents a tentative taste.

The stew was not intensely seasoned, but it was savory. And hot, an important consideration; the swamps outside had put a damp chill on him, and though it was warmer in here, it was not quite warm enough for his tastes.

“Oh, I think so,” Kurass replied, putting the other bowl on the table and then strolling around to the other side to sit. “I don't imagine you've come across any lifegivers before, but this is the sort of thing they're good at. It might take a few vigils of work to get her entirely healed, and she'll probably be miserable through most of it, but she should come out of it all right.”

She paused, her head cocked to one side, and then raised her voice slightly. “The other bowl is for you,” she said, “if you want it.”

Behind Demarath, Ferleth poked her head into the room; she looked, for once, less angry than frightened. She glanced at the bowl, but got no closer.

Demarath paused in his lapping of the contents, peering across at Ferleth. He smiled mildly, gesturing once to the food by way of an invitation, but without really expecting an effect from it. Still, he felt an obligation to at least try.

To Kurass, he said: “No lifegivers, no.” Having no idea what else to say, he let his ravenous hunger guide him into digging into the food instead. It was not raw fish, honestly making it the best thing he'd eaten in a while.

Ferleth crept into the room, but remained close to the wall, as if expecting to be attacked from an unexpected direction. She glanced at the bowl, then at Kurass, looking as if she wanted to say something; Kurass gave her a penetrating look, but said nothing, waiting for her to speak first.

Instead, she said to Demarath, “How are you finding traveling with Zadireth?”

The question was alarmingly precise. Not 'How are you finding traveling?', no, 'How are you finding traveling with Zadireth?', as though there was something about the witch that might come to dominate their travel experience. He mulled on the question as he ate more of his stew, trying both to puzzle out why someone would ask it, and how he might answer it.

“He has helped us a great deal in overcoming its dangers,” Demarath said. It was the polite answer, really, the one that didn't at all reflect on whether any of the dangers had been precipitated by Zadireth - though other than the Ferleth intervention, Demarath couldn't think of any that might fall in such a category. “But I don't fully understand where we are going, to be honest.”

Sanctuary, yes. 'Citadel', yes. But there was at least one other place out there that was safe for them, and they weren't heading that way, giving the matter, in the current context, a renewed taste of the arbitrary. And what of these refuges? How many had they passed?

Given that Kurass was a mentalist, she almost certainly saw more of Demarath's thought than he spoke aloud; but, again, she did not speak of it. She simply sighed a bit. “Yes, that sounds about right. I'm fairly sure he means well, but he's not the most forthcoming with information. There's some history there, I daresay - he came to the Citadel from outside, himself. Many who did likewise have had to live bad lives.

“The Citadel is a hidden country, tucked away in the mountains, where only Chosen live. It's not easy to get to, because if it was, it wouldn't stay hidden for very long, but it's possible. It's not the most comfortable environment, it's fairly cold, but there's been a lot of work put in to make it more enjoyable than it was at the start. And at least there no one's trying to kill or enslave you for being able to do magic tricks.”

She smiled wistfully. “Not that being stationed out here doesn't have its good points, but I think I'll be glad when it's time to go back.”

“Are you on a rotation?” Demarath asked between bites, reckoning that it was what she meant with 'time to go back'.

“Of a sort, yes. It's hard to find volunteers that would want to stay out here all the time, so depending on how far out a sanctuary is, they'll send someone out for a certain period of time. I've hung on for nearly a cycle at this point, but I should be getting a replacement in a few turns or so.” She smiled. “Shoss and Shemyl are decent enough fellows, but I'm ready to look at some other faces. Get better food than what I can make here. See how the family is doing, that kind of thing.”