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Vanguard, Book 2, Chapter 2.5

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The rain had finally come to a stop. The dawn broke in silence, the clatter of raindrops now a thing of the past. His eyes peeled open languidly to look upon the white ceiling of his tent, which he stared at for quite a while, slowly gathering the strength to rise from his bed. More than once he felt age whispering into his ears 'go back to sleep', but he was not about to let heavy bones and sluggish muscles defeat him. He sat up slowly and put on his shirt, thankfully large enough for a man of his size. He tied up his long, pale hair into the upturned ponytail he was so fond of. Age had reduced him in many ways, but still he could boast a mane that could put jealousy in the hearts of the strongest warriors. He sat for a long while in his bed, his tired legs slung over the edge, his eyes in the muddy floor. It was only as he donned himself in his steel pauldrons, greaves, and sabatons, that he remembered he was not alone in his tent.

The boy was still fast asleep. He lay nicely tucked into several fur blankets, one underneath him to keep him off the mud. His eyes were closed, his mouth slightly ajar, his fangs peeking out from behind his lips. His tail was buried under the layer of fur blankets, but his horns glimmered in the morning light that poured in through the open entrance. He fell asleep in his silk and velvet drapes of black and red, and the way his horns were littered from root to point in rings of silver and gold, reminded Ramund of the importance of this boy. He stared tiredly at the boy for a long time, slowly consuming the fact that getting rid of him wasn't going to as easy as he had hoped—-not with a title looming over the boy's head. If he had simply been a servant, or a civilian, then it would have been so easy to simply bring him back to his parents. But when the child was part of one of the greatest, wealthiest, and most influential noble houses in all of The Mortal Realm, being blamed for kidnapping was a very real risk. If only the boy could remember how he had gotten to that cave... it reeked far and wide of kidnapping and foul play, and Ramund wasn't ready to be blamed for it. His great shoulders slouched in a long, tired sigh. This wasn't going to be solved here on the bedside, he figured. Tightening the last straps of his pauldrons and greaves, he walked out the door, and tied it shut behind him.

As he stepped outside, a red dawn woke to greet him. In the distance, the first rays of light came peeking forth over the groves, glimmering like fire upon the thousands of puddles all around him. His heavy boots sloshed in the mud as he soldiered through the uneasy terrain, every step a struggle for a man of his weight. The morning was soft and gentle, the remnants of yesterday's rain still lingering in his nostrils, the smell of water a thing of inevitability in lands like these. He reached the road soon enough, the one that cut through the camp like a knife wound, and shook off the mud from his sabatons. He met several soldiers on his way there, Myaani and men alike, some casually strolling by and others part of a routine morning patrol. He had to admit, every time he looked into the eyes of one of those Myaani squad captains, he saw one of two things: Duncan, when he was still slaying demons in The Wastelands and still had a squad to commandeer; or the same look in their eyes as the one he saw in the commander that ordered the extinction of the Casserton people. The one who nearly put an end to him for good. The one now banished and dishonored. The thought made him feel sick to his stomach, but even so, he tried to smile as they came marching by.
Before long, he came to another little tent, at the other end of the camp. It was a meager little thing, humble even for soldier standards. He stood before the closed linen entrance, and cleared his throat with a little 'ahem'.

“Agatha... are you awake?”

“Oh! Ramund!” an elderly voice called from inside, clearly surprised to see him—-or rather, hear him “Of course, of course. Come on in, have a seat.”

Ramund smiled a little as he undid the knot on the entrance of the tent, and stepped inside. It was a cozy little place that Agatha was given, much smaller than his own—-but then again, the woman in question was much smaller too. She sat by her desk, a smile on her face that age had tolled badly. Her eyes were weak and withering, her arms frail, her hands bony as they held around a book in her lap. Ramund spied the title: 'The Godshill Complex'. Ramund arched an eyebrow as he sat down in a chair opposite of her, gesturing to the book.

“That is quite the controversial book you are reading, madam. Was the author not jailed for implying conspiracy and corruption in the Godshill court?” he asked, even though he already knew the answer.

“So the story goes.” Agatha said, turning the book over to glance at the author's name imprinted on the back. She was wearing a woolen robe that the Myaani had been kind enough to give her, emblazoned with the Tu'Myaa herald; a set of tribal armor, beautifully intricate with signs and glyphs far beyond his own comprehension. Agatha set the book aside.

“It's... a rather disturbing read, to be fair. I had always been strong in my faith for Deum, convinced that he only wanted good for the world, and to keep the demons at bay. And so it does seem, doesn't it? But I guess I am as disillusioned as the poor soldiers being sent out there, thinking that there is victory to be found; thinking there might be an end to it all.” she looked up at Ramund, her smile dwindled, concern in her eyes “Did you know that the High Commander cannot be put off his post by a democratic demand, as long as there is a war being waged? According to the book, only the king can do that-—and doing so is unheard of, to say the least.”

Ramund nodded solemnly “It has reached me. It reeks of conspiracy, does it not? Like this, Deum will continue to wage his war, the people will continue to think that there is victory on the horizon, and the soldiers will continue to be butchered... for what? So that Deum may continue eating grapes in his gilded sleeping hall, while young men throw them into the jaws of demons, just beyond the horizon? And when the fires of war were truly stoked, when the demon army was amassed, what good were all the farmer boys, all the sons and daughters that had suffered in the name of gods and fatherland? What good was all the pain that Deum had wrought, all the families he had tricked into giving away their children? Death came for us, either way.” he thought back to Angus, the way he dangled there from a rope around his neck, and felt sick to his stomach. He sighed, and shook his head “I'm sorry... I did not mean to sully the mood like this. This aside, I hope you are doing well, Agatha. Are you?”

Agatha folded her hands in her lab, her fingers thin and bony, the skin dry as a barren wasteland. Her expression faltered, curtains of uncertainty and longing falling over her withered, feeble eyes. Her tongue ran across her lips, smoothing the way for bitter words, though it seemed as if they would never escape her throat. She sighed.

“I won't lie to you, Ramund. I feel so... divided. Little of this makes any sense to me, and it seems as if we are running from the foe, and charging the friend. I use the word 'friend' lightly, of course, knowing that Deum is... well... he is what he is, the word eludes me. Is it really best to fight on two fronts, while the entire world is already threatened by one?” She asked, turning a confounded look up at Ramund, her eyes weak like that of a child seeking comfort in their father, confused and wrought in dilemma. Ramund ran a hand through his pale mane, and said nothing. He felt uncertainty set its roots in his own heart for but a moment, but devotion tore that weed away, and ate it whole. He shook his head.

“It is risky, but it is what must be done. Allying with Deum may help against the demon threat, but I fear what he would do, what strings he would pull when that wind has blown. Silencing his political enemies with steel and lead is not unfamiliar to him-—this we know. And allying with him would not only strengthen him even further to achieving his own wants and desires, but we would open our arms in welcome for a dagger in our chests. We are many in this rebellion, and we cannot afford to sow doubt in our own ranks-—the soldiers must always be certain of who the enemy is. Deum has persuaded most of the known world into thinking him nothing short of a half-god... but I fear that he will not settle with only half. There are few tongues more deceitful than Deum's.”

“So the story goes.” Agatha repeated, casting a bleak glance toward the book she laid aside. Her frail fingers entwined, fiddling with one another, her hands seeming like a pair of mantises crossing claws “I know this to be true, don't worry... it just pains me so bad, knowing that I was the one who urged my own son to fight in his name, under his banner, in wake of the lie he had fed us all. I thought my son would come home one day to tell great stories about how The Crusade snaps the forces of darkness like moldy twigs... but what came knocking on that door, was not my son. I tried to believe it was, but I could sense it from the beginning. It was not him. It was a hollow husk, wearing his face. It was a pitiful remnant of the boy who used to play in tulip fields and blush at the neighbor girl. That boy died the moment he donned that armor.” her voice seemed as brittle as the rest of her, and Ramund could hear her tears, but he couldn't see them. Her eyes were so full of bittersweet reminiscence, and they seemed like they would weep, if she had any tears left to shed. Ramund let the silence rule for a few seconds, knowing that words alone said less than a quiet held in respect for a mother whose son never came home. She broke the silence, as she looked back up at Ramund, and asked the question he had hoped she wouldn't.

“Is he alright? Duncan? After what happened, I... I was lucky to get away with little but a broken ankle, but your medic refuses to tell me what has happened to my son. It has been days, Ramund! Why must I be tormented like this?” she asked, and she was clearly not talking about her broken ankle. Ramund ran a hand across his face, as if trying to hide away his expression, but his doubt was so clear that Agatha could surely smell it from here. He swallowed, and bit his lower lip.

“I cannot say, Agatha. He... he hasn't woken up yet. He still breathes, but we don't know if that is all he can do until Morrin comes to take even that away. I've not had the chance to see for myself what has happened to him, and even Lex seems doubtful. I've seen men with their legs lost, their rib cages snapped inwards, their innards turned on their heads, but I have never seen a single soldier lie upon Lex's table, and remain there for more than a day. Either they rise to fight again, or...” the words stuck in his throat like a sickly ball of rot. He couldn't push it out, as much as he wanted to, but the look on Agatha's face showed that it wasn't necessary. He let it sink back into his stomach, where it would remain, making him slowly decay from the inside. The thought was like an infection in his mind, the more he thought of it, the more it spread to all the things he held dear. It was as if nothing was sacred any longer. All seemed tied to whether or not Duncan was ever going to stand up from that bed again. They said that you never truly knew what you had, before you had lost it... Ramund had not lost Duncan yet, but he had never felt more needing of that man than now. All he needed, was an answer. But here he was, lingering in bitter ambivalence.

A second later, the linen flaps of Agatha's tent flung open, as a new face stepped inside “Ramund! Sweet Keyen, I've been looking everywhere for you!” the elf that burst in through the doorway was a rather spindly one, tall and slender, with white hair carrying a stark resemblance to a porcupine. His white lab coat flew and swayed as he came to an abrupt stop, heavily adorned with pencils innumerable and pockets filled up with notebooks. Ramund saw the distress on his face, the plague-mask that he usually wore now hanging from his neck, down his gaunt chest. His face was smooth and white like porcelain, but a slight red hue had begun creeping forth under his skin. His wide eyes, their usual softness given way to worry and concern, snapped to Agatha.

“Agatha, I hate to intrude like this, but it really cannot wait. May I?” he asked, though didn't clarify what. Even so, Agatha gave a silent nod, some curiosity in her expression.

“Lex, what is the meaning of this?” Ramund asked him, slowly rising to his feet, now towering several heads over the elf.

Lex quickly dug into his pocket, and fetched out a little piece of paper “I went to check on Duncan, and I found this on the table beside him. You'll want to read it.” he handed over the paper, his slender fingers shivering. Ramund carefully took the paper, and read it.

This rose has too many thorns, and its petals have wilted. Don't come looking for me.

He looked back at Lex, realization striking his heart like frostbite “Is this—-“

“—-From Rose?” Lex interrupted, uneasily pacing from side to side, fingers interlocked and twiddling nervously “I think it is. I can't imagine what has struck the poor girl like this, but when I went to check on her own tent, she wasn't there. All her things were, so if she really has stepped up and left, she did so in a hurry. I even asked around camp, and no one's seen her since last night.”

“Then there is no time for hesitation.” Ramund declared as he stuffed the note down his pocket. He turned back to Agatha “Agatha... I hate for this to leave so suddenly, but I fear what trouble Rose has brought upon herself. She may be unsteady, she may be unpredictable, but she would not just leave like this. There is a reason behind it, and I intend to find out what.”

Agatha sighed through her nose, but didn't object “I understand. Heavens guide you, Ramund.”

“I pray they will.” he muttered under his breath, and he stomped out the door.

Lex followed in his heels, he in a steady jog, but Ramund simply in a hurried walk-—his steps counted two of those of elven legs, tall as he was. The sun had climbed a little further up unto the sky, but while the heavens were free of clouds, a pale mist had begun to gather. White specters seemed to dance in the corners of his eyes, but every time he looked, they were gone. The mist was known to play tricks like these, so he paid it no heed.

“Rose is a strong woman, but the Rimnoll Wetlands aren't exactly known for their welcoming wildlife. I heard about Lieutenant Wolfe's encounter with a wendigo, and... ever heard of chimeras, Ramund?” Lex asked as he tried to keep up with Ramund's hurried pace, his voice cracking slightly.

“I have.” Ramund replied in a dire tone, knowing those creatures all too well. He had been fortunate enough never to encounter one himself, but they were spoken of in legend and stories to scare children more often than not. A wicked amalgamation between animals, most usually a wolf and a scorpion—-but they were always said to boast three meters in height, and the strength of a bear tenfold. He wasn't certain about the last part, but he knew that they weren't simply the spawn of fantasy and fairy tales. These creatures were undeniably real.

“If she comes across one of those, we will not see her again. I guarantee it.” Ramund spoke, leaving no vagueness in his words, every syllable thick with a dire solemnness “I pray the spirits will make sure we find her before the chimeras do.”

Some soldiers cast them curious glances as they marched by, but Ramund kept his gaze locked on the road ahead. He followed the road, but strangely enough, he was heading south, rather than north.

“Uhh... one little glitch in your plan, though.” Lex commented, gesturing over his shoulder “You want to go north, you know. If she went south, she would be going toward the Fairlands—and we all know what's going that way. If she goes to meet the demon army, you can be damn sure we've lost her by now.”

“I know, Lex.” Ramund replied sharply “But I am not going to catch up with her on my own two feet. I will need a mount.”

Lex seemed utterly perplexed for a moment “Ehh, I hate to say it, but we've got no horses that can carry a gentleman like you, big man. That's why your kind ride war-bred bears, remember? The only thing you'll find this way are the Myaani and their... oh. Oh.” realization shut him up immediately, as it became clear that Ramund had no intentions of riding a horse today.

The more he marched down the lonesome road of stone and mud that cut through the camp, the more Ramund noticed the growing presence of the Myaani. Unsurprisingly, they had separated themselves a lot from the humans, tending to their own military ways and culture. While the humans patrolled in squads of five or six, prancing about in their armors, the Myaani spent more time in meditation groups, drowned away in incense and with minds far, far away. He noticed one particular group of Myaani practicing the eastern art of spirit dancing; a style of magic rarely seen in this part of the world. Ramund only glanced briefly, but it was yet a beautiful thing to behold. Myaani young and old stood in a square formation, imitating the smooth, sailing movements of a single tutor before them. Their hands soared around them like blades, and in their wake, strings of magic seemed to well from their fingers. Blue, green, yellow and red all came clashing together in a wondrous spectrum that Ramund had not beheld in far too long. The tutor was an elder Myaani, dressed in flowing tan robes and with all kinds of jewelry littered over his tail, his foxy ears, his muzzle, piercings of bone and steel. But before long, as the smell of rain was washed away by a rancid reek of fur and manure, he recalled what he was here for.

“Ugh... that smell!” Lex complained, the smooth features of his face now wrinkled and scrunched together in revulsion. Ramund had to agree on this point, even though age had taken off some of the edge of his sense of smell-—and it was at times like these that he was thankful for that. Tucked away in the middle of the Myaani section of the war camp, were the warg stables. Wooden scaffolding, makeshift and held together by rope, made up the great big boxes that would house these beasts of war. There was made great space for them, a big clearing far away from the tents, so that those trying to sleep didn't have to live with the smell. A huge fence of planks rose to encircle the stables, but only a fool would think that this could hold the wargs back—-but perhaps it was not to keep the wargs in, but to keep reckless strangers out.

The earth here was ravaged and torn and filled up with warg piss, impossible to clean up, try as they may. Ramund stood by the road and felt his knees grow slightly weary—though he was Mjaln, though he was strong and a fierce adversary in battle, he felt horribly defeated by this pungent mix of droppings and wet dog. He saw the great big beasts stand there in their stables, their hulking figures seeming like the spawn of a god's nightmare-—and probably that of many other people too. They snarled and growled like demons at one another from across their stables, some of them thrown into bloody fighting over a leftover meal, their barks sounding like the roar of cannons. He looked down at Lex and saw him cringe, saw the reluctance in his eyes and the assurance that he was not going one step closer.

Although being a stable-boy for most humans seemed like a meager task, something given to the lowest of low, this was something entirely different. Ramund saw a rather young Myaani man, hardly even having reached his twenties, walking amongst the great big beasts with hunks of flesh in his arms. There was not a trace of fear in his eyes, not a speck of hesitation in his gait, and though the wargs brawled and tumbled around him, he did not flinch and did not stagger. Ramund felt the urge to jump in and save the boy from being squashed under the weight of two feisty wargs clashing against one another over and over, claws flying and monstrous fangs bared in fury-—but every time, the wargs moved right past him, as if something greater was keeping a protective hand around the boy. Ramund could scarcely understand how the boy was so calm. Maybe showing fear in the presence of wargs was a swift way of becoming a meal for the beasts.

“Please tell me you're jesting.” Lex said with a trembling voice as he looked back up at Ramund, but saw no jest in those eyes of his. Ramund squeezed his lips tightly together, nose wrinkled and breath heavy as he summoned forth the strength and courage he needed. He shook his head.

“In this, I do not jest.” his voice emphasized that, not a single letter brought forth with mirth on his tongue. Lex stiffened like a board in the moment Ramund stepped forward, fists clenched and heart full of audacity. Deep in him, Ramund could feel the fear bubbling, his bones telling him that this was suicide, but he knew that showing fear in face of creatures like these was a path to a bloody end. He pushed open the gate in the fence, eyes locked on the pair of wargs furiously clawing at one another, and marched straight at them.

“Hey! Hey you, stop! Do you have a death-wish, old man?!” Ramund heard the young stable boy call for him, voice raised over the vehement growling of the wargs, but Ramund simply raised a hand to him, his own voice calm and collected.

“Fret not, young Myaani. I bear strength in mind and authority in soul; these wargs shall see that I am not to be trifled with.” in truth, Ramund could feel his legs growing weaker with every step, nearly all of him telling him to turn around—-and yet, he soldiered on, walking straight for the monstrous wargs locked in combat. He could hear the stable boy shout something else, but at this point, he wasn't listening. With eyes that did not waver from the wargs, he blocked out the fear, the reluctance, the blood and mud flying as a thousand droplets from the battling wargs, and dropped into celestial focus. Everything seemed to become silent. Everything seemed to slow down, all senses blocked out and ignored as he dropped into a trance. He was moving closer to the rampaging wargs with every step, but it was as if his legs were simply moving on their own by now.

In this trance, he felt a connection and an a new level of awareness of things that the naked eye could not perceive. He felt the omens that rode the wind, what way the hundreds of creeks flowed in the mud by his feet, the exact time for when this day would become dusk, pinpointed down to the very second. He felt the touch of higher things pour in through his flesh, into his veins, becoming one with him. His fingers tingled, his flesh bustling with energies known to none but those who could speak the tongue of the spirits. Hundreds of words spilled from his mouth, instinctively and almost by reflex, as his mind and soul grasped out to harness these celestial forces that welled inside of him. Before long, he stood stock still before the roaring, snarling wargs, and felt nothing but power in him. No fear, no reluctance, no urge to turn around and flee. This was what shamanism felt like.

He saw the wargs turn to stare at him with monstrous eyes, so full of rage, and he saw them bark. But seeing it was all he did; he could not hear it, loud as it might have been, and he could not feel the terror that most people would harbor in face of monsters like these. His right fist clenched, and as he did, he felt all the power he had accumulated surge into that fist alone; before long, even naked eyes could see the magic seeping through his skin. Deep turquoise steam rose from within his fist, silken waves of energy coiling in and around his fingers. A mere second passed before his fist began to tremble, overloading with more power than he could contain; and that was when he unleashed it all. Like throwing a handful of sand, all the magic he had summoned washed across the two wargs as a wide, turquoise wave. All his senses came flowing back to him in that very second, as his trance left him—the sense of feeble legs, the smell of piss, the morning mist nipping at his skin. But he also felt an exhaustion overcoming him, forcing him to a knee. He prayed silently that his magic had worked, for if it had not, he feared what the wargs might do to him now. But as Keyen would have it, nothing happened. He slowly looked up to see the wargs sitting on their bellies, looking at him with wide, concerned eyes. He could see the turquoise magic in their stares, rolling about like tiny marble orbs... and he smiled. It had worked.

“Ramund!” Lex's voice came following shortly after, as the white-draped medic came trudging in through the mud, fear painted all over his face-—yet, he too was smiling “Ohhh my goodness Ramund, you're insane!” he cried out, yet couldn't help a chuckle “What would you do if that spell hadn't worked?”

“Nothing.” Ramund replied shortly as he struggled to his feet, eyes still on the two suddenly quite submissive wargs sitting before him “Because then I would be dead. That, however, is not the case. Behold.” he gestured loosely at the two silenced wargs.

“Yes, I see.” Lex moved up beside Ramund, clearly still a little worried about these monstrous beasts, spell-bound or not “Do you think they'll let you ride them?”

“I only need to ride one of them, Lex.” Ramund reminded him, as if that wasn't obvious enough “The other one may stay.” he looked toward the stable boy, who was now sitting on a stool, his large canine head in his hands and a look of surrender in his eyes. He smiled at him “Young Myaani! Would it be too foul if I asked to borrow one of these beasts? I require a mount, and a horse would snap beneath my weight.”

The stable boy gave a languid shrug “If I said no, you'd probably spell-bind me too. Go ahead. You've earned one. Besides, no one's using the one on the right at the moment; she's more of a spare, if we lose one... however unlikely that may be.”

“Excellent. Then it is she that I shall ride.” Ramund approached the warg on the right, and let a hand glide over her side, feeling the coarse hairs and the leathery skin. He fetched a harness from the stable and carefully put it on her; not to his surprise, the now docile warg did nothing to resist. Despite the nature of these beasts, it was easier than most mounts he had ever ridden-—and he had never ridden a warg before. Once finished, he threw himself unto her back, and gripped her by the harness. He looked down at Lex, and gave him a slanted nod, suddenly quite serious.

“I will return with Rose. That I swear.” He gave the warg a few squeezes with his feet, and she rose to her feet, Ramund now towering almost twice the height of what he already did, as a Mjaln.

Lex gave a smile, and an overly casual salute, two fingers lightly strafing by the side of his head “Best of luck to you, warg-whisperer.” he said, mirth in his voice. Ramund smiled a little too, before he whipped the reins of his mount. The great warg set into a steady jog, and carried Ramund away from here, into the misty lands beyond.

And misty they were. Ramund hadn't kept track, but it felt as if an hour had passed by now; maybe two. The camp had long since disappeared behind a thick curtain of white, the spectral mist having consumed most of the world by now. It had only grown thicker with each passing minute, the only thing keeping him on track being the stony, jagged road below. It reached little but a stone-throw into the mist, before being eaten up, draped and shrouded in wispy white silk. The warg seemed no less vigorous than it did when he had set off from camp, its tenacity quite admirable. The great furry beast soldiered on tirelessly, the heavy stomp of its massive feet now a background noise for Ramund, and its constant bumping up and down slowly becoming more and more comfortable. His hands gripped tightly around the reins, though it felt as if he didn't need them; the warg continued down the road regardless, knowing not to wander into the mud.

Ramund's eyes slid off the road, into the misty beyond, where the earth danced a filthy tango with the water, bejeweled in the light that pierced through the mist. The sun had risen further up the sky by now, but it was hard to tell where it was, now deep in the bowels of the mist. The sunlight that slipped through seemed almost prismatic, reflected in the thousands of droplets of water that swayed in the cool breezes. It was pretty, but he knew that these were the things that would deceive you, make you think that there was something within the pale shroud. People, creatures, buildings... whatever that the watcher wanted to see, they often saw. The prismatic glimmer left the world in such an ambiguous state, somewhere between something and nothing; caught between reality and dreams. For those not careful enough, the minds of gullible men could simply interpret the glimmers as something else. Ramund had heard the legends all too well—stories of widows seeing their husbands in the mist, running to meet them, and never returning. The stories were endless; some said too that it was the works of these chimeras, that these wicked creatures possessed the ability to shape and weave the mist as they wanted. But those were just stories... or so Ramund hoped.

By now, he had long since given up on trying to figure out how long from the camp was. The only way he could have a faint idea was the sense of how long he had ridden, but in this thick white blindfold, there were no woods to direct from, no hills to recognize, and even the sun was but a slurry bright spot somewhere above him. He had simply set the warg into a trot, and it had continued trotting, on and on and on, without as much as stopping for a mere slurp of the rainwater. He wondered how long his spell was going to bind the creature, but he hoped that even after the spell had waned, she would see him as her master-—or at least someone who could be trusted enough to let him ride on her. He had feared that he would stumble across someone on his journey down this road and scare their lives out, but in all this time the warg had been going, he had not met a single soul. There were all the fickle, translucent demons dancing in the corner of his eyes, but not only were they bad company—-they weren't real either. The trickery of the mist was not going to fool him today, nor any other day. He was more concerned about what it would do to the warg.

However, while in that thought, the warg suddenly seemed to notice something. It stopped up rather abruptly, its nose swiftly falling to the ground, sniffing at something. Ramund leaned forward, and tried to spy what the warg had found.

“Happened upon something, miss?” he asked, even if he didn't expect a response. However, that quickly proved unnecessary too, as he saw what the warg's great nose was whiffing at. It was a horseshoe, lying half buried in the mud; there was not a trace of rust on it, and the warg had picked up the scent almost instantly—-it was freshly lost, still strong with the smell of horse. Ramund felt a turn of emotions inside of him, good and bad, conflicted. If Rose had come this way, a rider would certainly have found her; there was only this road, and going out into the mist was a fool's errand. Rose may have been rather troubled, damaged even, but she was no fool. This rider... it could mean a lot of things. Was it a rider of good heart, come to take her somewhere safe, or was it a bandit, come to take her head? Ramund's jaws clenched at the latter thought, and he tried not to think too much of it. He slid off the warg and walked to the horseshoe, picking it from the mud. It seemed like no cheap work to him; quite the exquisite craftsmanship, in fact. Whoever rode this horse either had the money to purchase fine shoes, or the nerve to steal an expensive horse. He deduced nothing from this. It made Rose's odds no better. He stuffed the shoe into his pocket, and slung himself unto the warg's back again. He squeezed her sides with her legs, setting her into a steady jog. The journey continued.
And again, DeviantArt felt that the chapter was too large, so I've decided to cut it up in two, as per usual. Hope you enjoyed! And thanks for reading, as always! :)

PS. if you liked what you read, I'd love some feedback - and critique too! If there are things you think I could improve on, feel free to point them out; I'm a big boy, and can handle that kinda stuff, don't you worry. And of course, if you really liked what you read, do recommend it to your friends as well!
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