As the sun rose Katerin stretched her weary muscles. She wound her way up the street, thoughts pulling her attention this way and that.

Beymor had not left her mind, nor had Juen'tal.

She understood that any fight was risky. And in Beymor's case, it had been ill luck. Bad timing. But she worried for him until her stomach soured. Thoughts of what might happen to Aughk'tor and Anklestrap without him painted a bleak image in her mind.

Juen'tal was harder to put together. He hated the orcs with something she could not comprehend. The way he looked at Fykes was nothing compared to the anger that sparked in his eyes when someone mentioned them. He was not here to help the dwarves--he was here to kill orcs.

Another thing were the fangs and claws he had shown. That bloodshot murderous gaze, and the way he held his shoulders as if he was fighting himself more than anything else. Was he sick? Under the influence of some spell? She had only seen hints of that look in his eyes when they had fought together before, and so she worried for him too.

Her musings were broken by the chatter in a busy doorway.

She stepped through and looked around, asking quietly after Beymor. His room was dark, but it bothered her not at all. She could see in tones of gray and shadow enough to make out his bandaged and sleeping form, covered by a thin blanket.

It seemed the saying was not true. Dwarves were tough but they were not, in fact, tougher than the stone itself.

She found the stool at his bedside and took a seat, letting her exhale sag her shoulders as she stared at his bandages. He would heal. She was sure that within just a couple of days all of the clerics here would be up to fighting to keep him at rest.

"I don't really know what I'm doing here," she whispered, surprising even herself. "Not sure if its even a good place for me. But today I'm glad I was here. These people need you, Beymor. They trust you. You pulled them through starvation... you pulled them through hell. They would be devastated if you were gone. So heal fast, and keep pushing them forward." She leaned her head on her hands, and tried to let go of the tension in her shoulders.

"Ya know what helps us dwarves heal faster?" Beymor's voice was weary and rough.

She started, blinking at him.

"Alcohol," he said. "Hand it over."

She snorted out a laugh. "Here." She poured and handed him a mug of water from the table at the foot of his bed. "That'll have to do... get better and I'll bring you a barrel, if you insist."

He grumbled but took a drink anyway. "What was that about?"

"Nothing," she said, with a shrug of her shoulders that even a passerby on the street could call a farce. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I got one hell of a beatin'... what happened?"

"Giant got you... sent you flying. You nearly died on us," Katerin said, watching him with a mixture of worry and joy.

"That's what they told me... I needed ta hear it from a reputable sort, though." He tried to push himself up but grunted instead and gave up the attempt. "My city?"

"Perfectly fine. We even got the wall repaired, already."

He grinned, despite the look of pain on his face.

Katerin stood and nodded, the awkward feeling hanging over her shoulders like a blanket. "I should go. You need to rest, and so do I."

He had a look on his face as if he was in immense discomfort. "I'm glad you were here today too, girl. Not just for saving my arse, either." He fidgeted, clearing his throat. "Delicate as ya look, you're tough as any dwarf I know. Don't doubt yerself."

Katerin pushed the smile from her face and offered him a curt nod instead. It would not do to make him any more uncomfortable than he already was. "We're leaving tonight after we sleep, to try and end this for awhile. Give you time to build in peace. "

Beymor scratched his chin. "May the mountain watch over you," he said, closing his eyes.

Katerin could not help but smile at his words. It was a phrase that she had heard nowhere else save for here. The dwarves used it almost religiously, with proud smiles every time.

Beymor had promised that before long, it would be the most popular farewell anyone heard.

Trunk's hands sank into the damp soil, his toes flexed and he felt the tickle of the mosses. He felt the warm rays of the sun as they filtered down to him from the trees—always warmer when he prayed and when his mind was clear of thought. As if the pure essence of nature was welcoming him, embracing him as a friend. He kept his eyes closed, and he waited. His goddess was a patient one and her whispers came rarely. But for days he had felt that she would speak to him, so for days he stayed here under this oak tree and waited.

If his goddess was so patient, he too could try to find a fraction of her wisdom.

When his people had asked after his purpose, he had told them. She will speak to me, he had said. And though his people were reverent of nature, he could tell by their eyes that they wondered of him. They said the gods only spoke through the whispers of wind and the sighing of the trees, but he knew better.

The trees spoke with their own voices, and his goddesses voice was so much more than that. He often hoped that one day they might hear her, too. But he knew that his blessing was not for all to share.

He had waited for six days now, but never once did he worry or stray, for the butterfly on his shoulder did not worry over the span of its days, either. The sun rose and set, and the cycle continued. As more nights had passed into morning dew, he could smell the rain as it lumbered towards its release.

Finally, that voice came to him once again.

When the oak tree cracks, and the birds cry for the loss of their home, their time to move on to another, I ask you to journey out from here.

A smile lit his face, as raindrops pattered into his fur, and he lowered his head. "Travel to where?" he asked, elation causing his arms to tingle as vines gently grasped his hands, growing up the moss in a flourish. The voice of his goddess was soft and nurturing, loving in its every syllable.

Her tone was like flower petals on a still pond, or wind through fresh grass.

A city, my child. But do not distress. The one on the riverbanks, thick with tangle. I know what you wish... and to find that you must flow like the waters there, and find where they fall into the realm of the myth of man. You will find a woman who seeks myth, and carries a weight about her mind. She needs you, and you her, should you be true to your desires.

"Such water is only disturbed by the passing of river craft and the filth of the city."

No, not disturbed. Enlivened and given a small purpose, one that only will promote the growth of all life. What you search for lays across endless water, and waves that love to inspire fear in the hearts of those who behold them. Mischievous, the oceans are. But your lesson and your answers lie there. Go when the oak cracks, and you will find your passage forth.

"I will go, and I will watch," he promised.

As the vines released his fingertips and faded back into the soil, Trunk opened his eyes and his anticipation rose. He had never cared for cities. The people there always worked so hard to distance themselves from their very essence that the peace of life faded, replaced by the chaos and ever-busy intent of the mortal mind that pushed the dwellers of such places forward through the ages.

Trunk pushed himself up and glanced at the cloudy sky above as he stretched his sore muscles. He reached out and plucked a few berries from a nearby bush, and contented himself to wait until the oak tree cracked and the birds cried out, to seek a seeker of myths.

Katerin's dreams were lucid, and gripping. She watched Brazen sparring with someone cloaked but thick of shoulder, she drank wine on the balcony of some place she did not know. She planted flowers for her father, went clothes shopping with her stepmother, and pondered an elusive question with the many scholars that called Hearth-Home's Tower of magical study their sanctuary.

When had the world began?

Then her dreams shifted and she was was on another balcony, facing Byron. Staring into his cold eyes. As he swung she could see her expression reflected back, and it was one of fear. She watched as if from a window as Fykes fell from that balcony, and her mind pieced together the strange happenings that she had missed while Byron fought her and Arnet lay bleeding.

Suddenly, the dreams changed again and instead of reliving a fight, or conjuring some ideal memory, it was as if she was staring at a painting of the scene, with everything still and frozen.

"You were right about his path, you know." It was a feminine voice, ethereal yet powerful and seductive.

"Who's path?" Katerin answered, fighting against the haze of her dreams, in search of this voice, or a face to put to it.

"Byron's, of course." The voice let out a soft chuckle. "If things had gone differently, there would be much more progress towards my goals, though this path is... ever more pleasurable."

Katerin felt that warm dreamlike feeling leave her, though she was still seeing the same image of Byron standing bloody, his sword raised to strike her, Fykes falling and the angel below crying out. "What goals? What do you want?"

"I want many things. Things that have the ability to sow hurt like a druid grows a flower." Mirth floated through that delicate tone, and turned sour. "Like the touch of a lover can turn to violence."

Katerin stiffened, or felt as though she did, floating somewhere away from herself. "Who are you?"

"I am your savior, Katerin. I will keep a watch over you, and in return... you shall be my hand. I cannot show you the future. But I can tell you of it, of it's grand possibility. If only you knew the struggles you might face. Or the triumph you could bring me."

"I have no desire for conflict, nor victory."

"Oh, but you do. You're looking at it wrong. Don't forsake the pain."

"I won't help you, " Katerin insisted, as the image she saw faded away.

It shifted again into a series of things. Of a gigantic claw skewering Agrata, of another creature slashing Fykes' throat. Of sword slamming into Brazen with so much force that he splintered into pieces. With each image there was desperation as Katerin willed herself to help them, to stand in the way or parry the attacks. But she could not move to see them free, she could only shudder as she watched them die.

The voice said nothing more. Instead the images continued, growing ever more gruesome, until the fear and the grief tore Katerin awake.

She sat upright, and the smell of smoke met her like a tide. Evening was just now considering falling—the sun eclipsing the wall that sheltered her. Everyone at the camp was already awake and the smell of coffee found her, forcing her eyes open. She pushed her tangled hair from her face, and held her steaming cup of coffee under her nose for a moment, before she took a sip.

Brazen held forward a loaf of bread, cut in half with some strips of whatever game was hunted the days before stuck between it.

"I was wondering if we were going to have to leave without you," Fykes said, as he organized the pots and pans around the fire.

"You'd need another plan, for that," she said, with a grin. "It's quite a walk, isn't it?"

Lugaria nodded. "Most of a day. Longer if we're quiet."

Katerin stretched, and reached for her staff, looking longingly at the pot of coffee. After she drained her first cup she poured a second, ignoring the look of disdain Lugaria passed her. "I would like to be coherent, since I'm playing bait."

"Energized or not, I hope you don't mess this up," he said.

Fykes winced. "We're really sticking to that?"

"Agrata was right. It's all a risk, and this makes it simpler. No sense worrying about it, now," Katerin said. Though as she spoke she felt rather hypocritical, as she was already worrying about it, and knew that she would be until it was done. But, she would much rather worry about the orcs and their chief, than the voice that had whispered in her dreams. Its source-less, knowing tone unsettled her so much so that even thinking of it sent bumps to rise down her arms.

When everyone stood ready and their fire was snuffed, Katerin shouldered her cloak and pushed her dreams away. Her eyes fell on the gate, and the silhouette the sun cast on the land beyond.