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The expedition was not going well, at least not for the Scholar.
Himself, the Undertaker and the Recluse had been chosen by their ever-wise Priestess to once more take up arms against the Night, throwing themselves once more into the tainted battlefield that was Limveld. The Scholar believed the Priestess had sent them to once more take victory against the Nightlord known as Tricephalos, the primordial Night’s fiery three-headed hound.
It had started off relatively fine- they’d cleared the encampment that the Hold’s Spectral Hawks had dropped them at with ease, and afterwards moved onto some nearby churches to gain blessings for the flasks before taking the fight to a dilapidated fortress a short ways away. The Nightfarer trio had made short work of their befouled foes, and as their first day progressed onto the first night, they’d used the runes to bolster their strength at grace and took down the dreaded Bell-Bearing Hunter fairly easily. The Scholar had smiled when he heard his dear Undertaker let out a quiet sigh of relief at that- the Hunter had garnered quite a fearful reputation amongst the warriors of the Hold, and for good reason, so the chances of him lurking in the darkened basement of Limveld’s central Castle were next to none. For now.
Unfortunately it was as the second day’s morning sun washed away the foul rains that the expedition went downhill.
Whilst his two companions had sprinted ahead in the direction of the Spectral Hawk that would take them to the Castle, the Scholar had found himself struggling to keep up pace. At first he had hoped it was simply exhaustion from their fight with the Hunter, but as the day progressed his condition only seemed to get worse. The more the three of them traversed the landscape, running into battle and climbing up the mountains and cliffsides, the more the exhaustion and pain began to seep into his bones- old as they were, despite him being a man of a mere 25 years. Once more this dreaded disease that plagued him was holding back his potential, and as always he could feel the frustration building.
Thankfully his dearest Undertaker and the Recluse both were capable enough to deal with various night-drunk adversaries that had been thrown their way, and both were patient and understanding when it came to his condition. Numerous times his beloved had stopped when she noticed him staggering behind or becoming out of breath, partially using his thrusting sword as a walking cane to support him, and each of those times he’d given her a strained smile, pushing himself to stand straight and carry on despite the ache in his bones.
“I am fine, my dear,” He would assure her, and though he could see the worry and uncertainty in her eyes, the Undertaker would nod and they’d be off once more.
The day only seemed to get worse, despite bolstering his strength as much as he could. The Scholar’s bones throbbed and tingled, burning the more he pushed and exerted himself. His lungs smouldered with each ragged, pained breath, and more than once he nearly collapsed from the struggle of it all. By the time the rainstorm had returned, and the three of them were making their way to the roots of the tree that would shield them, his frustration had reached its peak.
‘By the grace of Marika,’ He kept thinking to himself ‘Why can’t I just keep up with my fellow nightfarers?’
His next move was an impulse one, fuelled by his annoyance as he clutched one of the many firepots that the Recluse had been kind enough to procure for him from a merchant. Irritated as he was he threw the pot, a little flimsily due to the gnawing pain in his body, and whilst it didn’t go far it did attract an enemies attention.
A large red wolf, said to belong to a litter once raised by an old King Consort at that. Not the hardest enemy to deal with, but a bother considering the storm was drawing closer with every passing second.
The wolf attacked at once, using both sorcery and its teeth to strike at the trio. The fight was over relatively quickly- the recluse used her ancient, forbidden blood rite to mark it, and twice did his darling use her loathsome hex bone and big, black slate sword that she’d looted from the Castle to strike the beast down- but the fact that the three of them were now in the rain itself, its cold, unforgiving droplets eating away at their vigor, was the main issue. Several times did both his disease and the rain both cause him to drop to the floor, the Nights chains preventing him from standing, and several times did the Undertaker stop to break them and help him to his feet. It would be easier to just let him fall victim to the Night and be brought back by grace under the tree’s roots, but the Undertaker never did like the concept of that. She was stubborn in that regard, and whilst it was not entirely convenient- the more times he fell in battle, the stronger the Night’s chains would become- the Scholar did find it endearing. He did with a lot of things about her, in truth.
Once the nightfarers had at last made it under the golden tree’s protection, it only got worse. The Scholar’s recklessness had unfortunately cost them most of their flasks, and the foe that had emerged from the Night’s shadows was, even more unfortunately, the familiar golden armour of a Tree Sentinel and its two cavalrymen. Under any other circumstances, the fight would not have been one so troublesome.
The Scholar tried his best to support his sisters-in-arms, pushing through his pains to analyse the foes to give them an advantage, though a Cavalryman had made short work of him. As focused as he was in his ability, he was winded the moment they’d charged full force with their spear, letting out another disgruntled, ragged breath as the Night chained him to the ground.
The Undertaker was rushing to his side the second he went down, hands gripping the hilt of her colossal sword tightly until one of the Cavalrymen had knocked her to the floor. It wasn’t enough to chain her down like her beloved Scholar, and she pulled herself up to cross the battlefield and begin to break away at the chains that bound him. It was a slow process, due to how heavy of a weapon she was wielding (such a matter would not bother the brutish Raider), and though she very nearly freed her love from the Night’s hold a pained wail rang out from a far.
The Recluse, despite having managed to take down a cavalryman by her lonesome, had been charged by the Tree Sentinel and its remaining ally both, and now both were riding towards the last standing Nightfarer.
The Undertaker’s brows furrowed- she knew she wouldn’t have the time to cross the field and free the Recluse, and the longer she procrastinated, the stronger the Scholar’s chains would become. There was no time to stop and think, the Undertaker pulled herself into that familiar, loathsome trance and sought to let her hex do the work. Pulling out her uncanny bone once more, she charged the two horsemen head on. Whilst the blow was enough to takedown the Cavalryman, the Tree Sentinel was merely staggered. She watched as the golden knight positioned their halberd, charging at her with full force. She’d tried to roll out of its way, tried to dodge the worst of its blow, but dodged a moment too late. The Halberd slammed into her with such brutal strength that it took all the vigor she’d had left, and the Recluse and Scholar both could only watch as the Night bound her too in its chains. After that it all went black, as each of their consciousness faded.
The Scholar does not remember how they got back to the Roundtable Hold.
It had always been a curious concept to him, in truth. How when the Nightfarers found themselves at a loss to the tide of the Night, they awoke back at the hold sometime later. Was it the doing of grace, or perhaps the formless master that the Priestess spoke of in her sermons? Well, whatever it was he could focus on it later. Right now he chose to focus on the Hold itself as he awoke from his seeming slumber.
He found himself in one of the beds situated in the Western wing, surrounded by books and the smell of freshly made bread from outside (No doubt the Wylder had been baking again), and the chatter from the Hold’s other denizens- the Raider’s loud, homely laughter, the quiet yet mostly tangible chatter of the Recluse and the Guardian, the faint tuning of harp strings from the undoubtedly distant Revenant..
“Ah, you.. Are awake,”
A familiar soft voice pulled his attention immediately, and it was then that he noticed standing a short ways away by the entrance to the room, almost hiding behind the doorway, was his beloved Undertaker. She’d taken off her headpiece, her dark locks tied back into a bun and her face etched into one of ache and worry. The Scholar gave her a strained smile as he slowly moved to sit up. The pain however was still apparent- he winced and let out a gasp the second he tried, causing his dearest to enter the room at once, her pace akin to that of when she drove her hex into their foes. Gently she had him lay down once more, the worrisome look in her eyes only growing deeper. Her love let out a shuddering sigh, sinking back into the pillows.
“I.. I apologise,” He started, as the Undertaker took his hand, giving it a soft yet awkward squeeze, “for my.. Performance on the-”
“Don’t,” She replied, interrupting him gently, “You have nowt to be sorry for. Miss Recluse would tell you the same,”
“But still,” The Scholar sighed, “my-”
“No,” The Undertaker interrupted again, her voice soft but more firm, “No apologies. Just.. rest..” She urged quietly, “Please.”
The Scholar let out a sigh, but nodded as he closed his eyes once more.
After that neither spoke, not about the failed expedition, not about the disease they both knew grew worse by the day. The Scholar was far too tired, and the Undertaker far too worried, so much so that she found herself watching until he drifted off to another, hopefully painless slumber. It felt as though she could do naught but stare at the wringing hands in her lap, perturbed and afright.
After a while, perhaps to comfort herself, the Undertaker gently moved to join him as he lay beneath the sheets and the pillows. For a while she simply watched his chest rise and fall, watched as his brows knitted tight and his expression turned troubled. Hoping to provide at least some form of comfort to his no doubt restless mind, she lowered her head to softly place a kiss to his temple, then between his brows, and to his nose, before shifting to rest her head upon his chest. The slow, steady beat of his heart caused her to let out a shaky breath, absentmindedly holding him in a firm yet gentle embrace as her mind wandered.
When the two had joined the warriors of the Roundtable Hold, the Undertaker was reluctant to be amongst her newly found peers, worried what they would think of her and her curse, the endless craving for the Night’s sustenance. People had always kept their distance from her, wanted to be rid of her, yet the Scholar had confided in her from the very start, tainted as she was, Loathsome as she was. And in time she had come to rely on him too- after all, he’d been the first one to show genuine care towards her. The first to not see her as a freak or a night-drunken monster.
What would she do, should his sickness take that from her?
The Undertaker let out another shaky breath, closing her eyes in an attempt to stop the forming tears. No, she shouldn’t think like that. They will find a way to keep the disease from wrecking his body further. They will find a way to satiate the loathsome hex’s unending thirst. And they will beat back the Night and the Dreglord.
She could only hope they’d soon figure out how.