To the messenger's credit at least she didn't scream.

Surrounded in pitch black darkness, Nemera's sepia vision did nothing to deter the brightly burning Light Traited from introducing herself. Still caught in the thralls of her Pulse, her necromancy hummed dangerously close to the young soldier, aggravated by the arkalite reacting to her ostentatious armour and drowned out the majority of her speech. Nemera didn't need to know why the girl was here. All Opalians wanted the same thing. To be heard above everyone else.

"Forgive me, Deathkeeper but...we are in a slight time crunch. What Basra is trying to say is....we need your help."

Nemera fought the urge to laugh in her face.

Excelliars tended to be overly proud of their appearance but not even a boggy swamp could deter her tail from lifting her chin high and her long blonde hair from remaining tightly wound within her braid. The standard white armour of the Excelliars wasn't a surprise to Nemera but the gold inlay not only indicated a high rank but the rarity of such an item meant she wasn't just some random mercenary attempting to buy her services. She was important. Annoyingly, so.

Nemera fought the urge to trip the poor sod into the muck, but something niggled at the back of Nemera's brain like a piece of information she was struggling to grasp. How did she know about the Keeper's of Trait? For the first time that night, Nemera gave the Excelliar eyesore a smile that tended to unnerve even the toughest of generals.

"If you're looking for an assassin I'd suggest avoiding barging in on a necromancer's Domain, Lady Aira. Or should I address you by your current title, Throneholder? I doubt even you could evacuate an entire town without it." Nemera said, unable to help herself despite the company she seemed to attract.

The demure, respectful and slightly shy facade of a standard apprentice vanished the moment Nemera called out the newly appointed leader of the Opalian monarchy. Her expression became stern but hid an eagerness to prove herself despite the natural terror she felt over her country's current situation. Nemera wondered if it was too late to still shove her into the bog without it being a national outcry.

"That has yet to be formally announced. But I would assume anything less from the Night Rider's successor."

Letting out a breath of frustration Nemera stretched her arms, her enhanced sight recognising the familiar look of someone trying to be more important than they were. Nemera had seen it in those who begged Midari to choose a different apprentice. She had been a simple lamplighter from Hazehollow, a small village in Shuriken stuck in the grasp of a cursed forest deep in the Mirewood. Nemera smiled at the memory, the marshy lands of Willowstone a far cry from the enclosed hollow of her home.

It had been a quiet, close knit community that made quite a discovery through the Shadowtide, a long stretch of river that had created a natural set of tunnels underneath the border. Those said tunnels had started the illegal alcohol trade and eventually, what had given her family prominence through the creation of Silvercross mead. But much like her family, the village of Hazehollow was no more. When the demons came Nemera had lit the way with ...well, it didn't matter anymore.

"I'm sure Basra would say differently, My Lady." Nemera said evenly, opting to turn away from the conversation in favour of those aforementioned duties.

Nemera didn't need her Pulse to hear Basra's scoff within her mind.

Of course the Gorgon hadn't bothered to meet her in person. Only a fellow necromancer could invade another's Domain and like the idiot she was, Basra had permission. They had grown up together but it didn't make the childhood reunion any less bearable. Shadow Traited rarely mixed with anyone else. Especially not a sulky childish Sand Traited.

"Aren't you going to offer me a drink first?"

Basra's form began to solidify much like her Sand Trait, the multitude of ashen granules rising up to restore Nemera's chosen dwelling to help guide her necromancy like her Master before her. The Spirit Bar allowed her to compartmentalise every spirit that passed through her vision, splitting her attention between their realm and her own.

A part of Nemera would rather remain there than any waterlogged field in Tarragon and Basra knew that better than anyone. She had pincered her fellow necromancer, forcing Nemera out of her half-trance and to face Basra and the annoying Throneholder head on. The Gorgon never did anything in half measures.

"You know it doesn't work like that. Either tell me why you're here or get the fuck out of my head. Some of us have work to do." Nemera demanded, her vision flickering in and out of artificial brightness with every step she took away from Basra's scapegoat.

A shuddering breath escaped Nemera's lungs even as her necromancy, her Pulse fought back the memories to no avail. Colour flowed into her vision once again and she really wished it didn't. One eye remained hazed in the familiar vision of her Spirit Bar while the other saw through the darkness and the Excelliar before her.

"Ah..are you...talking to General Basra right now? I could assist with...that."

Nemera gave a noncommittal grunt, following the trail of glowing candles and half listened to Basra's stern lecture. Aira's bumbling steps contrasted the inane conversation between the two acting as a contrasting, stinging counterpoint that made her head hurt. She hated to admit it but it was a strange comfort to have someone at her side again.

The Pulse of a necromancer was a tricky thing to describe and even trickier to put into practice.

The burning light of a familiar Light Traited made Nemera's eyes water, the translucent form of Basra sitting in her Spirit Bar beginning to flicker. Nemera sucked in a breath, her chest pounding without the pull of her Agar to guide her spirit channelling safely. Every Domain depended on the necromancer's abilities, their Pulse and more importantly, to help Trollians like Comet to find a place of their own. But Opalians normally didn't see it that way.

The Throneholder knelt down to the ground as if pausing to tie her shoe and let loose a handful of sand into the air. Her light made Basra's form tangible, merging the two's abilities into a sand illusion worthy of the Gorgon. The small pockets of black sand that littered the edges of Willowstone had sprung to life and stretched out a scene befitting an epic novel.

Nemera kept both her eyes open just to humour them.

They could see every detail of Basra's disgruntled expression, the tense of her jaw, the way she rested her arms against the countertop, the winding black tattoos over her eye clashed with the ochre of her skin, far more used to the desert heat than she was. Nemera's mouth tweaked upwards at the sight of her slightly broken nose, the reminder of their last drunken fight ending with her victory and a bitter taste in her mouth.

"There's been an incident. A double murder not too far from here in the heart of Floodbound. We assumed it was a standard Eternal Death based on the ashes. Otherwise..."

Nemera's head was on a swivel, mentally counting each candle, each soul that had passed through her Shadow Trait. People had died here and without a way to rest, it was now Nemera's job to provide that respite. Alone. Without her Master to guide her. Her hand brushed instinctively against her side to her Master's treasured hat, the reminder of how she had received it forcing her away from the interrogation.

"You would've come across them, Deathkeeper. Despite your...less than thorough methods. I was assured you would be careful with the people of Willowstone." Aira added, folding her arms much like a certain Sand Traited would.

Nemera rolled her eyes.

She was surrounded by two grumpy children slapped with the reality that their heroes weren't as great as they seemed. The naive Throneholder leader had changed her armour to an intimidating white sigil of a once timid dove replaced by something Nemera couldn't make out against the smears of mud and grass.

Every Excelliar leader from the first to the last could change the emblem. It seemed Aira was no different despite barely reaching her second moon. Compared to the stockily built Bookkeeper it was a wonder she had followed Nemera out here at all. Then again, the House of Solari were once known as the original desert dwellers until they founded arkalite. It seemed Aira Solari had more in common with her Caldorian ancestors than she seemed. No wonder Basra had chosen her to gang up with her.

"I wouldn't recommend challenging a necromancer, Light Traited. Or did you forget that we Shadow Traited are the only ones dealing with the current...situation. You'd be a lot more help if you'd shine a fucking flashlight on those spirits let alone locking us up for it for even trying."

"Basra said you used to care about-"

"Considering your abysmal failure at dealing with the demons, the clean up from the Four Peaks war, the current power vacuum from Captain Havoca's misdemeanours and your own...dwindling career choices, is it any wonder Comet and I are overworked? I do not have time to care."

Nemera closed her eyes, her heavy breathing no longer providing a much needed background noise for the memories of her dragon, longing for a drink, a smoke, something to make things hurt any less. Necromancy always had a price. It was like grasping at sand and expecting to hold its shape, expecting her dragon to remain at her side despite everything, expecting Basra to be fucking Basra and talk to her.

"Then why isn't your Agar here?"

Aira's voice was almost enough to break her.

She never wanted to be the Night Rider. She never wanted to be Midari's successor. She never wanted to do it alone. She never wanted Moonshear to....Nemera knew she was making excuses. But even after the Four Peaks war things never felt this hard.

"He's busy. Like I should be. Yet you wanted me to investigate a pair of Traited when you already know the inevitable? The Eternal Death comes for us all, Lady Aira. Oathed or Agar. Traited...or dragon. We all turn to ash in the end."

As if Master Midari herself had commanded it, Comet veered towards her engulfed in a sea of candles, the burning wicks lighting up the entire field of fallen ashes. The Glowing Fields. Her Master's way of using her Pulse. Nemera grimaced at her work, by far the furthest attempt from the neat formation Midari had taught her but there had been thousands of spirits to tend to and the individual candles had to be done by hand.

It seemed she had a lot more work to do.

Nemera sighed, politely inclining her head towards the two and decided to leave them to their work. She didn't have time for this. She never had time for this. She couldn't change how Basra thought about her. She couldn't change what happened to her Master. She couldn't change the boisterous Trollian desperate for attention. All she could do was put one foot in front of the other and keep the name of the Night Rider alive. Whether the Throneholder wanted her to or not.

"What if I told you they weren't Traited?"

Nemera turned back around only to be faced with herself. The once carefree look on face was haggard from hours of uninterrupted nightmares, the spirits of war, casualties bordering on thousands that never left her sight no matter how much alcohol she dared to consume. Despite the betrayals, the battles and the endless heartbreak Nemera knew she could rely on her old friend for one, single, moment of truth.

Basra met her gaze and nodded.

"Fuck."