*Nathlan*

Jorge stared into the campfire, the flames flicking their shadows across his familiar features. Nathlan had always considered the man to be pleasant – If not smiling, then never far from it. A twitch to his lips, a slight crease around the eyes that lent him a friendly demeanour.

But every now and then, only rarely and in times of great difficulties, he saw the older man beneath the surface. Jorge was old, he knew that. Hells, he made fun of him for it often enough. But only in the moments when the ever-present half-smile vanished from The Shepard's face, did Nathlan truly get a sense for that age.

Weathered. Craggy, even. His features now, highlighted as they were by the swirling firelight in the dusky evening, gave the sense of an enduring monument, upon which the weather of the world had raged for centuries. And yet still he sat there, shoulders hunched forward and hugging his knees to his chest, as if the cold could affect him.

Nathlan wondered then, possibly for the first time, whether it was all an act in truth. Did he play the role of old man, weary of the world, simply for fun? Or did he truly believe it? Gods knew that his knees didn't actually ache when he squatted down, but perhaps the performance was simply engrained cultural conditioning? Had a lifetime of repetition drilled into him habits that couldn't be shaken now that he was grown?

Did he hunch away from the cold, closer to the fire, not to seriously receive its heat but because that was what one did when near a fire on a cold night? He was deep into the 3rd tier, possibly pushing toward the 4th. Maybe he had even transcended that legendary barrier? Either way, a chilly summer's eve in the high hills of the Dragon-Spines would not be enough to even mildly inconvenience him, let alone cause him to crave the warmth of a fire.

So was he simply fooling everyone, playing a game because that would make them more comfortable around him? Nathlan rubbed his hands, clicking and popping the knuckles as he thought, the gesture automatic.

It wasn't a pleasant thought, and he couldn't decide what worried him more; that the act was calculated or unconscious. One implied a level of concern for his companions, which was good, but also an attempt at active manipulation, which was less so. The other option was that the man staring into the fire was so old and powerful that the only thing keeping him human was habit. That was much more worrying.

Perhaps a third answer though; maybe the old man clung to the act purely to connect himself to the experiences of regular people, a reminder that the world was different to how he experienced it, and that he should keep that connection alive so as not to lose himself.

The urge to ask bubbled up inside Nathlan then, in a way he was not used to. Talking to people had always been a requirement, a duty to be met and prepared for, rather than anything genuine. Knowledge was always something he'd hungered for, but never the inner lives of others.

And yet.

"What is it like?" He found himself asking.

Jorge stirred, hard lines coming to life with movement once more, and he looked up at where Nathlan sat stretching out his fingers. "Hey?"

"What is it like, to not feel the cold?" He asked again and saw understanding flood the older man's face.

"Ha! I still feel it lad. I may be stronger than you, but I don't lose the feeling. It's more… Under my control, I suppose is the best way to say it."

Nathlan hummed softy in agreement, digesting the words as he puzzled their meaning. "Is that true of all sensations? How do you cope?" Again, he surprised himself by asking, the questions occurring to him and tumbling out of his mouth at nearly the same time.

"Roughly, I suppose," he replied with a smile. "I choose what's important and ignore the rest. Takes a while to get used to, but you tend to settle into it. Age has a way of doing that to you anyway though, lad." His smile turned into a grin and a wink at the end, and Nathlan rolled his eyes in response.

"Is that why some of the most powerful people act in such petty ways? Their emotions are too strong, and they are too thralled to their feelings?"

"No, lad. I think the powerful are surprisingly reserved, to tell the truth. Tsanderos wasn't always as peaceful as it is now – relatively speaking, that is – and it's remarkable how little they meddle in the affairs of the various states and 'the mortals', as they sometimes call them."

Nathlan was surprised by the answer – it went against everything he had heard and experienced, so he was keen to capitalise on Jorge's surprisingly loquacious mood to mine all the knowledge he could from him on this topic. "What makes you say that?" he asked.

Jorge just sighed, levering himself up with a barely suppressed groan and stretching out as he talked. "You're right in some ways; the powerful sapients still involved in mortal affairs tend to feel things more strongly on account of their level, and so their actions can escalate far past reason. But they're also inordinately powerful, and I've seen what a few can do to a country if things turn sour. The fact that there hasn't been a major war for a few decades is good an' all, but the fact that there are still enduring political entities to war at all is a gods damned miracle, if you ask me. As far as I understand, with the exception of the mid-2nd era, this is the most peaceful time to live in Tsanderos."

Nathlan mulled that over, a dozen follow-up questions occurring to him in the moment, but as he opened his mouth to speak, Vera returned. She was covered in dust, her dark hair now an ashen grey, and a fine powder coating every link of chainmail and plate of armour within sight.

She strode right up to Jorge and shook like a dog, flinging a cloud of dust into the air with the force of her attribute enhanced wiggle. Jorge groaned and staggered back out of the miniature dust-storm, and Vera cackled in victory.

Nathlan simply frowned, still working through Jorge's earlier statements. He didn't have long to consider things though, since Vera swiftly took a place by the fire and called them both in.

"Settle in, it's bad news."

Once all were seated around the fire, Vera gave a brief summary of her trip into the cavern, the tracks around it, and ended with her thoughts; "Lamb definitely went in, and probably managed to collapse the roof somehow, as well. The D'Sware prick entered not long after and cut his way through the mess – definitely peak 2nd tier with his attributes, unless he has some Skills specific to moving earth and rock, which I saw no evidence of. Would be strange for a Lion, too – he's likely following a familial path of some sort, and the nobles tend to avoid any Skill that could be construed as useful for manual labour."

It was easy to see what Vera thought of that, her face twisting as she spoke, as if she tasted something sour and wanted to spit.

"Well, that's not great, but you said we're only about a day behind them, right Jorge? What's the issue?" Nathlan asked.

Vera glanced at Jorge, and the two shared a look that Nathlan couldn't read before she replied. "The tunnel appears to be made by a Deep-Worm and then later chiselled away by sapient hands. I must have gotten a good few miles in before coming back up, and I'd wager Lamb is just running blindly, trying to put as much distance between himself and the man after him as possible. He's gonna get lost in a fucking maze of tunnels, and there's a lot down there for him to worry about. Hells, I'm worried about going down there too far. If we don't find him before something else does…"

Jorge sighed, shaking his head at that. "We'll run him down, it's this Lion I'm more concerned with. He's a bloodhound to be going down there alone. I wouldn't expect a mercenary to risk this much for Lamb, even with the prize of Vera here. He's got to be worried about us coming after him as well, so I woulda' thought he'd abandon the mission by now. three men dead, hostage escaped. Better to deal with whatever comes down the pipe from the higher ups than risk it all, surely?"

Vera scowled. "As much as I hate to suggest it, maybe he's just got some balls on him? Can't imagine he'd get much of a punishment from the Academy bigwigs given he was going up against 'The Butcher of Sternsbridge'. Probably give him a fucking medal just for surviving, the cowards."

Another derisive snort. Nathlan was surprised, seeing her more animated in a single week than she'd been in the near two years he'd been travelling with her. He understood why, but it was still strange to witness.

Nathlan cleared his throat, meeting the two gazes across the fire and once again putting his theory across. "Unless it's nothing to do with Vera. If there's another reason they've taken him–"

Jorge huffed and waved a hand at him. "Not this again, lad. I'm not saying you're wrong, but what could it be? We've got no evidence of that, other than things not quite adding up neatly. Besides, it wouldn't change our approach, anyhow."

He sighed then and raised his hand before Nathlan could respond. "Look, this is bad news for the lad. A 1st tier has no business going down into those fucking tunnels. Bound to be all sorts of nasties running about in there, and I don't want to come across a corpse. We'd better pace it out, Vera," Jorge said, starting to stand.

"Nathlan – I want you up here securing a camp and guarding the exit. Lamb's a massive idiot at times but I wouldn't put it past him to sneak back out under our noses somehow, and we can't miss him if he does. Vera and I will go faster than you can keep up with, and while I'm impressed with your bladework, son, I wouldn't fancy your chances if you come across anything in those tight tunnels, alright?"

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Nathlan hummed with impatience at that. He was here to fight. To gain strength and levels! He'd taken a combat class for a reason, and he wasn't going to get far twiddling his thumbs around a camp in the wilderness. He felt the familiar resentment bubbling up, boiling in his guts and rising up until he couldn't hold it in any longer.

But he wasn't the same boy that The Shepherd had found fleeing the Leviathan Coast with little to his name but blood, tears, and rags. Lamb was down in the bowels of the earth right now. Alone, probably bleeding, definitely scared, with an overwhelmingly powerful enemy hot on his heels. Jorge was right; Nathlan would only slow them down and keep his friend in that awful state for longer. So he swallowed the feeling and mastered himself.

Jorge slapped his shoulder. "Set a perimeter as best you can and guard the entrance. If someone other than us comes out, you make yourself scarce. Give us a day to find him, and three before you start to panic, aye?"

Nathlan nodded, taking a long breath to calm down and rid himself of that bitter anger that flooded through him whenever he felt excluded.

"Oh, and catch", Jorge said as he threw him a ring. Nathlan quirked an eyebrow and the older man laughed. "Storage device! One of the Lions had it on hand – surprising for a 1st tier, I'll grant you. No surprise that Lamb missed it though, the moron. Can't really blame him though, I get the sense he was in something of a rush when he made that corpse.

"Anyway, have a look through and see if there's anything interesting. I'll leave you some supplies to set us a camp. We'll be staying for a few days after we return – I suspect Lamb will need a rest, and we'll have one hell of a debrief. Might even be a good place to train for you both as well, come to think of it, so best make it comfy."

There was a clatter as a host of supplies fell to the ground, deposited by Jorge from his own storage device. Tent poles clinked against rocks and stove pots, and heavy canvas slumped to the earth with finality before the old warrior and the slightly younger but no less intimidating berserker flashed off into the cavern a moment later.

Nathlan looked around the tight gorge, camping supplies on one side and corpses on the other, and sighed to himself. Then he got to work.

*Francis*

Francis D'Sware, second born son of Matriarch Celeste D'Sware and contested inheritor to the third most powerful house in the Western Marchlands, strode calmly through the tunnel before him.

Contrary to what he'd told his former underlings; he did in fact have a tracking Skill. It was wrapped up with a few other general survival Skills into a larger merge and was one of only three non-combat Skills he possessed. It was currently helping to guide him along the trail of Lamb – the God-Touched bastard with the stupid name.

He looked forward to seeing the shock on the prick's face as he caught up to him. He shouldn't be surprised though, leaking blood everywhere like he was. Francis was a little surprised he was still moving, in all honesty. He'd put a bit too much power into his strike when he'd knocked Lamb aside back on the surface, and had thought for a moment that the man would expire before they could reach the Sunsets.

Thankfully, the God-Touched was more robust than expected and so Francis would still have a trophy to bring home. The downside, though, was that he was currently following a trail through dingey tunnels far underground. He was still confident in catching the man, and he'd been closing in over the last few hours, but he had to admit that if this went on for much longer, he'd begin to get nervous.

At the peak of the 2nd tier he may be, with a large number of combat Skills as well, but he knew that there were dangers here he would not be keen to face. It was the same story as above ground; hidden valleys, deep forests, high peaks and empty skies…. Anywhere people didn't often tread held terrifying monsters, and Francis was no fool to go charging blindly into an unknown biome.

Unlike the moron he was following. Although he couldn't blame him too much for that, after all; while Francis himself might know better, the difference between an ancient Hollow-Claw and a 2nd tier warrior might seem indistinguishable to a wet-behind-the-ears peasant boy. Especially one that was God-Touched, notoriously ignorant as they were.

He'd passed the corpses of some sort of burrowing insect that Lamb had killed, and by the fresh drops of blood following that scene, he could tell the battle hadn't been an easy one. Again, not surprising given the number of corpses and the man's low level, but still, it confirmed that this chase was soon to end.

He played with the axe hanging behind his right shoulder, making it bounce in time to his steps and the tune in his head through the telekinetic link he'd established. He whistled quietly to himself in satisfaction. A hunt soon to end.

Strangely, he began to notice curling patterns in the walls. Squiggles of raised rock, as if something small and thin had squirmed beneath the surface, pushing aside the stone in its path. After noticing the first one, he began to see it everywhere. Within another mile, the walls were covered in these bizarre patterns, and the thickness of them seemed to be increasing.

Another fork in the path, with one tunnel dipping down further into the earth, and the other breaking off to curve gracefully to the right. Francis followed Lamb's trail along the branching path to the right, wincing in almost-sympathy as he observed the smeared blood on the side of the tunnel, where the man had clearly fallen against the wall to stabilise himself.

He marched on, no doubt in his mind that he was within only a few miles of his quarry now. He couldn't quite summon the confident smirk he had started with though, given the size of the patterns in the walls now. They were thick around as one of his legs and extended for a few dozen feet at least before seemingly disappearing. It almost looked as if something had swum though the rock towards the tunnel, then veered away at the last moment to avoid breaking through.

He knew there were Deep-Worms within the Dragon-Spines, but they were so far beyond mortals that he'd barely thought of them outside of the stories he'd heard as a child. Creatures only rumoured to have been fought – never confirmed, and even then, only by the rare legendary 4th tiers. There couldn't be such titanic creatures so close to the surface.

It still made him uneasy, though. He'd spent years in the Academy, and years afterward on contracts in the field. He'd risen through the ranks, outshining his peers and carving a bloody name of repute for himself. It had been a long time since he'd last felt small. Looking at the swirling patterns in the wall now, though, deep underground and cloaked by darkness, he once more felt like a child.

He increased his pace, finally breaking into a run, eager to close the distance between him and his quarry, to end this farce and return to the surface. The tunnel gradually widened until he could no longer see the patterns in the walls. His dark-vision extended only a dozen feet around him, after all.

He heard a distant voice and further increased his pace. His footsteps began to echo, slight at first, and he slowed to a walk once more before the sound could spread far. The voice was still there, murmuring at times, no longer shouting. A conversation perhaps?

He felt damp air ahead, and the promise of light. Dripping water soon met his ears as he crept around the tunnel, keeping tucked to the side as he reached, incrementally, the end of the passageway.

A long, thin strip of rock jutted out from the passageway, surrounded no longer by the comforting embrace of stone. Instead, it hung in a void of twilight, and Francis struggled to muster the courage to even poke his head from under the tunnel roof to view the titanic cavern itself.

When he did, he withdrew it quickly, unable to explain the feeling of unease just the mere act of looking upon the cavern had on him. He had not enjoyed the sensation of being deep underground – what human would? – but when looking out beyond his little tunnel, he found himself wishing once more for the rock to swallow him up.

The stone path extended into a cavern, its scale beyond understanding. Near enough a thousand feet in diameter, this cylindrical hollow in the bedrock of the very earth itself oozed malevolence. Water cascaded down its sides, dripping from mossy and fungal growths clinging to the rough walls. Roots criss-crossed the stone and slithered into tunnels, emerging at sporadic intervals, making the cavern itself seem strangely honeycombed.

It was dark, but not dark enough to require his Skill-assisted dark-vision any longer. Light trickled down from above, and while he couldn't see the sky itself, he assumed this gash in the earth reached up to open air above. He looked down and saw the same below; root-covered walls descending into darkness.

At the edge of the outcropping, standing with his back to Francis and seemingly not a care in the world, stood Lamb. He was looking out into the dark void, speaking seemingly to nothing, hesitating every now and then, as if listening before again responding.

Francis would have been tempted to think the boy was just coughing his lungs up, so guttural and harsh were the noises he was making, but there was an undeniable rhythm to it. The flow of pauses and noise was similar enough to a human conversation that he couldn't discount the possibility of speech.

Was it a prayer to a strange god? Perhaps the one that had brought him here? Francis hesitated. He'd read the reports gathered by the duke's spymaster about God-Touched, and it was clear that there was no evidence of heavenly favour, no hint that they could talk to their 'patrons'. Indeed, it seemed entirely random, and they received no help aside from their title-granted powers. But there was a seed of doubt in his soul, that if he stepped out onto that outcropping, some unknown god would smite him down where he stood.

It should be impossible, but still it sounded as if Lamb was talking to someone. That he was listening. He shook it away, and calmed his mind, taking a few deep breaths before stepping out into the open space.

The moment he did so, Lamb turned. He was slightly hunched over, with one arm pressed against his side, blood seeping over and hitting the stone below with a pitter-patter tapping. Despite the grievous injuries and his hopeless position, he smiled. More of a grimace then anything but the attempt at bravado was still there.

Francis knew he needed to be careful now. Not due to any risk to his own life, but it was becoming clear that the boy was in more of a 'victory or death' mindset rather than a 'surrender peacefully' one. He thought for a moment, letting the silence stretch before he spoke.

"Come, Lamb, there's no need for all this drama. I want you alive, it's in my interest to get you back to the Sunsets as unharmed as possible. Step away from the ledge, let me get you back above ground, and then we will leave. I'll heal you up, and we can be gone."

The man made no move, observing him silently, breath hitching every time his chest moved. He was in pain, and was likely expecting more to come. Francis needed to give him a reason to stay, to not launch himself into that open void and throw his life away.

"A year or two to work on one of the biggest archaeological finds of the century, and then you'll be free. Hells, the duke will likely write you a gods-damned recommendation letter to the Triumvirate Scholasticar and you can live a happy life as a respected scholar afterwards. Think, man, there's no need for this!"

Another few heartbeats of silence.

"I know you think me a cruel man, but I am simply pragmatic. I killed Rank because he couldn't follow us, and to prove a point. I gained something from his death and lost nothing. It's the opposite with you, Lamb. I gain nothing from hurting you, but lose substantially from your death."

He saw a gleam enter the man's eye and knew that last sentence had been a mistake. Fucking child! Was he really going to throw his life away just to deny Francis something he wanted?

"You'll lose substantially from my death, will you? Guess that gives you an incentive to come out here and get me, doesn't it?"

No, he was just trying to play the odds in his favour and tempt a confrontation. Francis shook his head. The man didn't learn. Did he really think he could even hope to use the terrain to his advantage? Some last-ditch attack that he wouldn't see coming?

And he knew he couldn't talk the boy out of it. He was still wet behind the ears and wouldn't listen. Only action could prove his silly notion false – such was the way with the inexperienced.

Francis flexed his mana, channelling it to the Skill link with his axe, and it shot from the holster on his back. The heavy weapon crossed the space between them and hovered in place only inches from Lamb's neck.

He didn't flinch.

"Don't be stupid, boy. You have to know you have no chance here. Just come quietly and make this easy for both of us."

Lamb opened his mouth and uttered a single sentence, coughing out the sounds as if they hurt his throat to make. Francis frowned, uncertain what he was supposed to take from that, before he felt it.

Something stirred in the void.

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