The Homunculus Knight

"Did ya hear, Ser Murtery's been called south! Grandpa Time wants him helping out against the clot-suckers. So you best be wary, kiddos, no one here to dig you out of trouble if ya go prodding the wrong mound in these parts. Ah, don't worry your pretty head, sweetling, Mak is strong as iron and clever as water. He'll be alright, and once those fools in the League are right sorted, you lot will be back to pestering him for mage trinkets." - Alderman Oscar of Bhridully speaking to the fosterlings of his village.

"So let me get this straight, you were sent by Vindabon's Ivory Tower to offer this cockeyed expedition of yours magical support and expertise on faerie magic despite you not being a fully fledged magi? Oh and, that this support of yours, somehow involved pissing off that tainted spirit so badly he hauled your scrawny ass into Harmas alongside this sting-slave here?"

Paladin Mak Murtery punctuated his words by jabbing a crossbow bolt at Yara. Flinching from the gesture, she looked away from their current captor and potential ally to once again examine their surroundings. She and Kit were currently sitting on a pair of rickety wooden chairs within the warehouse, hands bound before them as a "safety precaution" until the mad paladin decided what to do with them. Every instinct in her small body screamed to run, and leave this stinking man and his stinking lair, but Natalie's orders were clear: she was to survive, and right now cooperating until Kit could talk them out of this mess would give her the best odds.

"That is a… way to describe events, yes. But as I said before, Yara's patron is a powerful vampire refugee with Master Time's approval. She, alongside some of our other colleagues, are required for a ritual that might be able to change the situation here drastically." Replied Kit, the magi pulling on a wellspring of etiquette freshly tapped by mortal peril.

Nodding slowly, Mak set the crossbow bolt down and then picked up a small metal box. Popping its lid, he snorted some of its contents and, after a racking cough, spit a wad of filth into a nearby bucket whose stains spoke to considerable use. Yara had no idea what fresh vice this was, but that it was a vice seemed beyond any doubt. For all of Cole's oddities, he now seemed infinitely more like a paladin of legend when compared to this addled wreck.

Clearly seeing something in her expression, Mak tapped the box against the nearby table before saying. "Don't give me that look, this is purging powder, something the elves cooked up for bad hangovers and worse trips. Uses alchemy to force out all the fun toxins, and then keep you awake enough to replace them."

Yara just bobbed her head meekly, hoping the attention would go back to Kit. Which it thankfully did, as the paladin pressed on one of the more sticking issues in the magi's explanation. "And Cole, he's here to keep this stigmatized vampire on a tight leash?"

After a beat, Kit replied. "Yes, yes, he is.

Mak's eyes narrowed at that, but he didn't push it. True to his words, the man had an excellent nose for lies and even half-truths. Still, Yara couldn't disagree with Kit's choice to leave out the exact details of Cole and Natalie's relationship. As there was no telling how that bit of their story would go over with another paladin.

"Now that I've shared our tale, could you offer us some of yours?" asked Kit. "We'd had no word or even notion that another paladin was in Harmas."

A tense silence filled the room, and when Mak got up from his seat, drawing a knife as he did, Had Kit finally pushed things too far? Gesturing with the blade, the mad paladin said. "Stick out your tongue, changeling."

Kit visibly recoiled. "That's not necessary, I'm too many generations removed for tha-Ahh!"

Slipping forward with concerning speed, Mak grabbed Kit's tongue mid-word and pulled it out with two fingers. Yara started to stand in panic, but Mak froze her with a threatening jab of the knife. "Move and I kill both of you."

Paralyzed by fear and indecision, she hovered above the chair, watching as Mak brought the blade up to Kit's tongue. Yet instead of slicing through the red flesh like she'd feared, he simply pressed the flat of the blade against the long muscle. After a few seconds, Mak withdrew the knife and held it up for examination in the twilight streaming through one dusty window. Along the blade's spine were a series of swirling sigils, and two close to the base glowed dully.

Apparently satisfied by this, Mak let go of Kit and returned to his own chair. "Well, you've not got enough sidhe in you to go around charming people with just some words. But your blood still gives you a real knack for that kind of magic; good thing you've not tried any of it on me, otherwise this blade would have seen proper use."

After spitting the taste of metal from his mouth, Kit actually glared up at Mak. "I don't do that sort of thing."

Mak snorted. "Aye, and that's what a boy from my hometown said as well, but that didn't stop him from having a bastard in every village along the coast, and a tongue that could talk a sailor into buying saltwater."

"You're from the Isles then."

"And you are not, odd thing for a changeling."

Yara paid this exchange little attention; she was too busy staring at Kit and trying to tamp down on her mounting dread. She understood now why she'd followed him, why she'd kept risking herself for Kit; he'd bewitched her. His fae blood gave him the power to influence people, and even if he had not used this magic on Mak Murtery, she'd not been so lucky. Suddenly, every conversation, every moment with him, took on a sickening hue. Was this why he'd come to her back when they'd been on the road and offered to play? Had that been when he'd started weaving this unseelie charm into her mind?

A mix of nausea and self-loathing threatened to overwhelm the thrall. How could she be so stupid as to fall for this? How could she have let herself be swayed by spell-poisoned words when her mistress's orders were so clear? The more she thought about it, the worse it became. Kit wasn't strong, but he was clever, so who else in the expedition would he target but the weakest of them? Yes, he'd done something to her, some strange faerie magic that made her skin flush and heart skip beats when he got close. What else could explain this twisting, sting-like need in her that he provoked?

"Hey! Don't go spewing in here, it smells bad enough already!" Mak's words hit her like a slap, and Yara flinched.

Kit cleared his throat. "Uh, speaking of the smell, I think she's reacting badly to it. Could we maybe continue this conversation somewhere else?"

She quashed the odd little flutter his words provoked and refused to look at Kit. Finding a way to resist the magic had to be her main goal. Otherwise, she'd keep getting pulled towards him and away from her mistress.

As Yara started to make, revise, and discard a series of frantic plans, Mak went and opened the nearest window, muttering as he did. "Needed the fresh air anyway."

Turning back to Kit, the mad paladin said. "I have half a mind to say your story is some leech scheme meant to bait me into a trap, but their blarney is at least sensible. Besides, you seem to actually believe this tale, so unless your master is clever enough to reorder your memories, while also being stupid enough to not put them in a more plausible configuration, I think you're telling the truth."

Kit started to nod excitedly, only to stop when Mak picked up his bolt and pointed it at him. "But not all of it."

The magi looked to Yara for help, but she refused to meet his gaze, that might be risking too much. So after a moment's hesitation, Kit then said. "Some of the details might be a bit too fantastical to be believed straight away. Furthermore, trust is a bridge built from both ends, and so far, you've had us bound and at crossbow point this entire time."

After a moment's consideration, Mak grunted and spat again into the bucket. "Aye, fair enough. Now that leaves the question of what to do with you two."

"Keep us alive until our allies can come to our rescue. They'll confirm our story, and we can all join forces."

Something in Kit's words struck a nerve, and Mak's lips curled back, revealing stained teeth. "And what makes you think anyone is coming for you? No one until now has made it in or out of this accursed city in months. Besides, how do your friends know you're still alive? They might just think the oak spirit ate you both."

That got the magi to hesitate, his expression growing more concerned the longer he thought about it. A twinge of sympathetic worry reached Yara then, and before she could fight off the spell's malignance, she said. "I can feel my mistress through our psychic link. Something keeps me from contacting her, but if I can feel her, she can feel me."

Perking up, Kit bobbed his vigorously. "Yes, Natalie is deeply attached to Yara, and she's got a prodigious set of abilities even for a vampire. She'll come for us, and Cole with her."

"Cole?" Mak's expression grew confused. "Why would he come for a vampire's thrall? He has no love for leeches and their servants."

Kit tried to quickly correct his mistake. "People here need his help; he'd come. Besides, the ritual requires being inside the city to work, at least I think."

For once, a half-truth seemed to slip by the mad paladin. "I suppose he is stupid enough to throw himself into this mess just on the chance of saving someone."

"Stupid isn't the word I'd use to describe Cole, but yes."

Mak made a dismissive noise in the back of his throat. "Anyone who gets within melee range of the undead is a moron, especially if they aren't willing to shell out the coin for proper armor."

Clearly unsure of exactly how to respond to this, Kit meekly offered. "He has dwarven-made plate now."

"Would have served him good before he ended up a walking slab of scars."

Strangely, Yara found herself a little affronted on Cole's behalf. He'd saved her life, and more than that was her mistress's favorite. Sure, he'd slain Dietrich, but that act made him a figure of fear, not ridicule. But this wasn't a place for her to even have opinions, let alone voice them.

"On the topic of scars and skin, there is something else I should tell you," added Kit.

He quickly explained Yara's encounter with the masked men and the eldritch magic they'd wielded. Mak seemed unsurprised, only tensing up when Kit mentioned her near brush with the masks' enchantments. Throughout this, Yara kept a close watch on the magi as she felt reasonably confident he wouldn't try anything with the mad paladin present. Once again, merely looking at him had an effect on her. How deep did this bewitchment go? It mattered not; her mistress could cut away the infection once she was rescued, all Yara had to do was survive until then.

Once Kit finished his tale, Mak spit once again, hitting the bucket's rim with shocking force. "Credit where credit is due, you two did well in dispatching those wretches and the blighted trinkets they'd been using."

"Yes, about the masks. I've read about similar things in history texts, but the descriptions in those told of more… nuanced relics."

"Aye, well, those books told of proper sidhe handiwork, not the shoddy scraps you encountered."

Silence stretched for a moment as Kit gave the paladin time to elaborate, but he didn't. Seeing Mak wasn't going to be volunteering anything more, the magi then asked. "Are there more of them?"

"Most likely, the central island is thick with lunatics and monsters."

Kit slowly got to his feet then, hands still tied. "Then I think I know a way to help both of us, and maybe grow a bit of trust. Give me a few hours, and I should be able to locate more of the masked men ."

That got the mad paladin's attention. "Using your lantern?"

"Using my lantern."

Mak considered this, and Yara could almost see him weighing his options. Was this just Kit being persuasive, or could he have fooled the paladin's knife and be casting a faerie charm right this moment?

"This city is marked with the Grey Beyond's spoor. If you're green enough to mistake me for Cole, then you've got no chance in sifting out the needles from the haystack."

Kit turned around then. "Which is why I kept this."

Clutched in one of his hands was a strip of leather, a piece of one of the skin masks. "Needles aren't hard to find, actually, if you've got a magnet."

Snatching the scrap from Kit, Mak examined it gingerly. "The spell's ruined, but the rules of sympathy might still be enough, especially with the lantern. Risky to keep this, but still smart."

"I mean, worst case, I find out where they dumped the flayed corpses instead of the masks' current wearers."

Mak's expression hardened, and his eyes went distant. "No, you don't want to know the worst case."

Yara sat beside the window and watched as Kit worked. Her hands were now thankfully untied, and the warehouse's stink was manageable thanks to the fresh night air, but that was a paltry balm for her frayed nerves. Over the past hour or so, she'd been stuck on a painful question. What to do about Kit?

She'd known the answer even before the sun finished setting, but even thinking about the solution burned like a hot skillet. Which seemed just more proof of his eldritch charm, as she'd never before shied away from what needed to be done in service to her mistress. Kit was dangerous; his bewitchment of her was proof of that alone, and after what happened with Mina, there was no doubt in how destructive betrayal could be. Yara wasn't going to be like that miserable priestess; she wasn't going to let herself be used against her mistress at the worst possible moment. Instead, she'd take care of the threat, permanently, no matter how much doing so would hurt.

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Unfortunately, while Paladin Murtery had left them alone in one of the makeshift rooms inside the warehouse, he hadn't given back her knife. Of course, Yara didn't need her knife, but the idea of using something else, like the chair she now sat on, or even one of Kit's sharper tools, made her feel too sick to do more than vaguely consider those options. No, she'd need to wait for a better opportunity. But then the question remained, would she get a chance before Kit's charm fully broke her will?

The ramshackle door to the room opened with a clatter, and Yara jumped from her seat, spinning about to find Mak Murtery standing in the entrance, crossbow slung over one shoulder. "Is it ready to be tested?"

Kit cursed and dropped his tools. "No, especially not since you interrupted me in a delicate section."

"Shame," he muttered before gesturing at Yara, making her blood turn cold. "That subtlety spell you used, can you cast it again?"

In spite of everything, she still looked to Kit, seeing her own concern mirrored in his features. "Why?"

"I need to check something nearby, and I'm not leaving you two here alone."

Considering this, Kit said. "I could maybe get some preliminary dousing done, depending on where we're going."

Accepting this, Mak reached into one of the myriad pockets covering his tattered clothing and fished out Yara's knife and Kit's violin bow. The magi reached out eagerly for his unusual wand, but Mak pulled his hand back slightly. "Try anything and I'll kill one of you, and pull what I want to know out of the other."

With that dire warning, he let Kit collect his tool and then offered the knife to Yara. Staring at its hilt, knowing what its presence would demand of her, she fought down a shiver.

"You want it or not?"

She plucked the knife from his hand like it was a poisonous insect, and nearly dropped it as her skin made contact with something greasy on the hilt. Quickly shifting her grip, she stared down at the strange silver splotch on her palm. Before her very eyes, the smear melted into her skin, leaving behind a coin-size patch of bluish discoloration.

"What did you do to me!" she cried with atypical fervor.

"Making sure you can't run away. And now, before you go thinking about cutting off your hand to escape, know that mark is already in your bloodstream."

Kit came over and tried to examine her palm, but she yanked it away, glaring at both men. The magi stepped back, and she noticed his hands were untainted. "Why not him as well?"

Mak Murtery bared his teeth in something a little too cruel to be a smile. "I don't need help in tracking anything faespawned. Now let's get moving and see what my trap caught."

Wordlessly, the pair complied, leaving the warehouse and returning to the salt path. Night had fallen hard over Vindabon, and the glow of Kit's lantern barely pierced the gloom. The relic's strange, too-white light seemed to create more jagged shadows than it did anything else. In that pale unseelie illumination, the route they'd taken before became somehow even more unsettling than when they'd not known its origin. Every crumbling building, every scarred ruin, was home to dancing flickers that caught on the corners of Yara's perception. Worst still, she couldn't even dismiss these illusions out of hand, as there very well could be monsters lurking just out of sight. Here in the city block, Mak Murtery had turned into a death trap the ever-constant groan of ghouls was dulled to a barely audible whisper, but in its place other sounds could make themselves heard, like a constant, subtle rodent-like scratching or the clatter of shifting debris, and even an occasional shriek that couldn't have come from a living throat.

Yet despite all this, Yara and Kit crept forward, driven forward by the unsubtle threat of Mak's crossbow behind them. Unlike Cole, this paladin felt no need to walk first into danger when others could do it for him. Or at least that's what Yara assumed until Murtery broke the tense silence.

"Stop, and dim the lantern."

Kit looked back at him, clearly confused, but still complied. As darkness swallowed them up, Yara found her hand going to her knife; feeling its hilt and the tiniest hint of whatever Mak had smeared upon it, a bitter reminder that she was still trapped. As her eyes tried and failed to adapt to the deep black, her other senses took up the slack. The first thing she noticed was a faint whiff of rotten eggs, and with it the ever-familiar copper of blood. When her ears caught up to her nose, another noise joined the night's eerie chorus, a faint rasping sucking sound that sent a shiver up her spine. She knew that sound; she'd heard it before somewhere, but couldn't yet place it.

"What is that?" whispered Kit from somewhere a little too close for her comfort.

"A leech stupid enough to wander into one of my traps, but strong enough to survive the consequences," came Mak's reply.

Yara suddenly knew what she was hearing, and her courage nearly broke. That sound, that terrible, gurgling, rattling sound, was what a vampire made when they pulled blood from a fresh corpse. It was the rhythmic product of organs unused to breathing, let alone sucking, hard at work extracting every last drop from a kill.

"Stay here, while I end it," muttered Mak Murtery.

With that, magi and thrall were once again alone. Dark as it was, Yara could still tell where Kit was as he shifted constantly, his clothing and body announcing his location to all who knew to listen. Normally, this would frustrate and frighten Yara, but right now, now it spoke to an opportunity. Fingers tightening around her knife's stained hilt, Yara tried to muster whatever paltry strength she possessed. The longer she hesitated, the worse this would be.

Letting the stargent blade slip free of its scabbard, Yara gripped the knife with both hands, her throat and chest growing tighter with every breath. Trying to force the shakes from her grip, Yara took a slow, silent step towards Kit. He didn't react, and the arcane mutterings escaping his lips told her, his focus was utterly elsewhere. She'd done this before with a true noble; she could do this again, couldn't she? Yes, she didn't have any other choice. Kit needed to die.

"FUCK!" the magi started, and a spray of eldritch sparks escaped his lantern. Yara was discovered, she needed to act, she needed to strike now, and yet… and yet she didn't. Blade held before her, ready to drive it into Kit's chest, she stayed perfectly still.

"Yara? Where are you?" he said, voice tight with panic.

Guts twisting in on themselves, shivers flowing through her arms, Yara fought herself and lost. "Here I am."

Kit turned to her, clearly not sensing the knife a mere meter from him. "We need to get to Mak and stop him!"

As Kit stoked new light from his lantern, Yara slowly lowered the knife, so slowly that he must have noticed it, and yet he didn't so much as comment on the threat. Instead, he broke into a jog, running down the salt path, talking quickly as he did. "I cast a weaker version of the original dousing, something to tell me where Paladin Murtery was heading. The spell worked! It fucking worked, and there are two other people with Master Time's power nearby! One like Mak, another whose blessing is barely detectable, as it's buried within something foul."

Yara barely heard any of this, as her mind was still bound tight in the previous moments. Why hadn't Kit reacted? Was he that confident in his fae charm? Well, why wouldn't he be? She'd failed, she'd had the perfect moment, and she'd failed.

"It's Cole! It's Cole and Natalie!"

Kit's words echoed through the empty street and struck Yara like a bucket of cold water. All thoughts of bewitchment and betrayal fleeing in the face of that ever-intoxicating notion: hope. Breaking into a sprint, she easily caught up with him, just in time for a sobering idea to formulate. Yara had little faith in general, and none of her meager supply right now was invested in Kit's dousing magic. "Are you sure?"

"Yes!" he shouted and then started calling out into the dark. "Mak! Mak stop! We know that vampire!"

The vampire fed and the woman dreamt. She dreamt of burning pain and a hunger so vast it hollowed out her soul. But with every drop the vampire consumed, the thirst and agony dulled a little more. Steadily, like a heavy sleeper being roused by the dawn, the woman pulled herself up through the dream and towards awareness. Distant sounds and smells drew closer as her mind pressed against the edges of the vampire's perspective. Where once there had been unity, now there was schism, red-night-born instincts taking the reins and pushing the woman down into a dissociative slumber. But with a fresh wellspring tapped, and liters of potent ichor helping to wash away bane burns, the vampire ceded ground, letting the woman be roused to something more than desperate survival.

But even if the worst had passed, the woman still awoke to blood and ash. Her fangs were sunk into familiar flesh, adding to a collar of scars. From those wounds came a veritable feast; so despite surfacing from such a dreadful dream, the woman couldn't stop drinking. Life and power flowed into her, offering a heady pleasure as different from her earlier agony as night was from day. As the woman and vampire drank her fill, fell memories scratched at her burgeoning consciousness. She remembered another feeding like this, one where she gave in to curse-born avarice and stole a life. That memory, that terrible memory, lit a fire in the women.

With tremendous effort, the woman forced the vampire's jaws to part, to unlatch from the neck and its many wounds, both old and young. A low bubbling hiss escaped the vampire's red-slicked maw, but the woman tightened her grip on herself. Lips now barely a fingerspan away from bleeding fangmarks, vampire and woman wrestled for control over her body. But before anything could break the deadlock, a sound reached her ears, a steady mechanical creaking.

Red eyes looked up from the bleeding corpse and into the dark alley. Something was approaching, a potential threat. This forced an armstice between the two halves, and the woman became a little more herself. Putting a regrown hand onto the stone beside Cole's head, Natalie lifted herself up slightly so she could crouch over her lover and feast protectively. She would not let anyone take him.

A metallic gleam in the darkness caught her eye, and Natalie started to growl as long red claws grew from her nailbeds. The creaking stopped, and the metal glint shifted. Power coursed through the vampire's body, and she prepared to spring like a hungry lioness, but before she could, a voice cut through the darkness.

"Stop! Mak! STOP!"

She… she knew that voice. Brow furrowed, Natalie slowly stood up, her still thirst-addled mind taking a moment to remember the voice's owner.

Bright, painful light spilled into the alley then, and she winced away from its illumination. Just as she did, a snapping sound split the air, and a new pain speared into her chest. Stumbling backwards, she reached up and grabbed the quarrel sticking from her breast. But before she could yank the steel tip free, a wave of lethargy struck her, and she toppled over, landing beside Cole with a heavy thunk. It was like her amulet but worse, so much worse. Winter's chill froze her nerves and locked up her muscles, leaving Natalie to freeze to death without even dying. Unable to move, but not forced into torpor, she lay there between Cole and their ambushers.

The first of them was a scruffy man with a heavy crossbow now resting beside him, having been replaced by a long length of heavy chain he was swinging with clearly violent intent. Violent intent meant for a skinny young man with long, messy blond hair holding up an eldritch lantern and an even skinnier young woman with striking red locks and a very large knife.

Natalie's eyes widened, one of the few movements she could still do, as she recognized her missing thrall and the changeling magi. This recognition went both ways, and Yara pelted towards her, crying. "Mistress!"

The scruffy man lashed out with his chain, but instead of it breaking Yara's legs, the length went wide, being knocked off course by a pulse of telekinesis. Stepping forward, Kit put himself between the stranger and Yara, as she knelt down beside Natalie. Violin bow in one hand, the other held up as a signal to pause. "Wait! Wait! Wait! This is Natalie, the vampire we told you about."

Yara ran her hands over Natalie's chest, muttering as she did. "It's not in the heart… so magic."

Spinning his chain faster, the stranger pulled a short knife from an armpit scabbard with his free hand. This blade was at the end of a length of cord, and it joined the chain in being whirled about, surrounding the man in twin deadly dervishes. Voice thick with menace and a foreign accent, the stranger spat at Kit. "I'm done with your poppycock, this 'collared' vampire just killed someone, I'm putting it down."

Glancing her way then back at the advancing whip-user, Kit grimaced. "This might not be what it looks like."

"Odd, because unless you switched my nighteye draft for a funny fungus, this looks to me like this leech dragged its victim into my trap and then didn't even have the manners to properly die."

Stepping backwards, avoiding the advancing stranger, the magi tried to negotiate. "Then let's check the other body first, maybe they aren't dead."

Yara gripped the quarrel and started pulling it from Natalie. Dry, dead flesh creaked and groaned as the thrall yanked centimeter after centimeter of rune-etched shaft from the wound. The magic binding Natalie started to lessen, and she managed to place a chilly hand on her thrall's leg. "Ha-happy yo-your alive."

An expression of pure shock mixed with disbelieving joy spread across Yara's face. Bitterly, Natalie wondered if anyone had ever said those words to her before. But before anything more could be said, a guttural sound followed by a thunk reached them. Yara turned away from Natalie, letting her see Kit sprawled on the ground, the knife rope wrapped around his throat. Violin bow dropped, hands scrabbling at his neck, the magi was being dragged towards them by the stranger, who was gesturing at Yara with his chain.

"Make another move and I crush his windpipe."

Instantly, Yara let go of the quarrel and just stared at the man like a deer facing a hunter. The hunter in question stomped over to them, Kit pulled behind him like a sack of onions. Callously, he stepped around Natalie, his boot crushing her limp hand, eliciting a small gasp of pain. "Shut up, leech."

With his foot, he rolled Cole's corpse onto its back and then fished a glowstone out of a pocket. As its dim amber light shone over the bloodless body's face, the man froze. For several seconds, the only sound was Kit's rattling gasps as he fought against the garrote. Then the hunter whirled on Natalie and, with a snarl, kicked her in the ribs. The blow sent her rolling into Yara, who frantically clutched at her listless form.

"He's dead, he's jagging dead!" spat the man. "The Tenth finally bothers to answer my useless prayers, and the paladin he sends dies to Vindabon's pet leech!"

He dropped the heavy chain and pulled a long single-edged blade from his belt. Pointing it at Yara, Kit then Natalie, he cursed. "Fuck you, fuck all of you. I'll take this clot-sucker's head, and then pull the answers I need from you faespawn."

"He's not dead!"

Yara's cry split the night, and the stranger leveled his shortsword at her. "Don't go lying to me, girl! His throat is torn open, and this leech has drunk her fill."

Shaking her head vigorously, while clinging desperately to Natalie, Yara tried to explain. "He's dead, but he won't be for long; he'll come back, I've seen him do it, Sir Murtery."

This, this was not the thing to say, judging by Murtery's animalistic growl. Raising up his blade, he snarled. "I will not let your owner desecrate his corpse further!"

Fighting against her numb tongue, Natalie tried to get out words. "No, not-not that, rese-resure-"

Murtery slit her throat with a clean slice of his blade. Black blood welled up from the wound, but struggled against the hex stymying her power. "No more lies, no more tricks."

Yara's hand went to the wound, trying pointlessly to help shut the ink-stained incision. Voice ragged with fear, the thrall cried. "He's not human! He's something else, something that doesn't stay dead!"

As the madman pulled back his slicked blade for another strike, a rasping voice cried out. "Look at his throat, you drunken fool!"

Kit had freed himself and was standing nearby, shaky hand, gesturing at Cole. Murtery paused and glanced over the blood-smeared mess indicated. "What? His scars, you think that-"

"The wound's shut!" Kit cried.

True enough, Natalie's vicious bite was gone, leaving only drying ichor and old marks to decorate his throat. Murtery slowly lowered his blade, and after a second of staring, moved over to Cole and wiped away the blood, checking to see the truth. "What? What is this?"

His words trailed off, replaced by a wet sound as something small and shiny clattered out of Cole's empty socket. Murtery reached down and picked up the arrowhead that killed the paladin, his expression one of stunned horror.

Kit tried to speak, only to start coughing, but once the fit ended, he managed to say. "He is immortal, or perhaps, unmortal is more accurate. He dies, and then he comes back!"

Jaw slack with surprise, Yara spoke for both herself and the mute Natalie. "You knew?"

The magi shrugged sheepishly. "I mean, not at first, but I figured it out eventually."

Not completely on the back foot, Murtery muttered. "What is he?"

Head cocked like an inquisitive bird, Kit replied. "I'd actually like to know that as well. My main theories are that he's some kind of regenerating flesh golem, or perhaps a lesser seraph sealed into a cadaver."

"Homunculus. He's a homunculus." Natalie gurgled through a half-healed throat.

"Oooohhhh," said Kit, before descending into another coughing spree. "Well, that explains some things and adds even more questions."