Fantasy All's Fair

[Conifer]

If Remin had eaten a thing, then surely it wouldn't last long in her stomach; the sight alone was revolting, and the smell was even worse. It was unfortunately far too easy to realize what it was that she was seeing and smelling. How many people had been captured and shoved here? How much suffering haunted this space? Would she soon be just another mass of bones and rotting skin and putrid fabric, rat-bitten and forgotten? For the first time since she'd been dragged from her bedroom, Remin felt wholly and completely terrified. There was always that quiet pulse of hope, but now, it was diminished to barely an ember.

But that was no excuse. She simply had to last long enough in here for Cyeria to find her. That was all she had to do - nothing more, nothing less. So how would she do that? Remin looked around, taking inventory of her surroundings. This room was just that - a room. A room with a door. A room with four torches on the walls, that weren't beyond her reach, that burned away steadily. The rats seemed to dislike their warmth and light, so she could use that. Also in this room was corpses. It was genuinely hard to tell how many, but there were...some. They might have things that she could use. Surely Wellen and Zivra hadn't taken the time to strip them of everything if they were simply going to throw them to the rats. There likely wouldn't be anything genuinely useful, and she tried to not get her hopes up (partially because searching those corpses would involve touching them, and she wasn't sure she could stomach that,) in case they held nothing. This room also, however, offered some amount of privacy. Rats had eyes to watch her, but had no mouth with which they could tattle. So she could attempt to speak to Cyeria. Not for long, likely, as she didn't doubt that someone was on the other side of the door, but the scurrying of nails against the damp (damp with what, she didn't want to know, and hoped it was only mildew,) would cover her whispers.

But that was for another moment. Cyeria had enough to start in on a plan and there wasn't much that Remin could do to add to her knowledge. It would be purely motivated by want, not need. Need had to come first. So, first things first - not all those torches had to be burning. If she only kept one alight, down to its embers, then she could light the next. That would give her more time with some barrier against the rats. It would, however, also require moving from the space beside the door that was relatively clear of the vile grime, and her feet were still only bare.
Thankfully the nearest torch was nearly within reach; just a few steps and she was able to jimmy it out of the sconce that held it. A few rats shrieked as the flames grew closer, scrambling back and away from her; the sound was grating and terrible but welcomed. This one would stay lit. It would be her tiny bit of hope she dared hold in her hands. The warmth of it was almost taunting, but in a way she wouldn't give up for the world.

It was a process to get to the other three. She could only give so wide a berth to the corpses before she ran into the space of another of them; it wasn't a large room by any means. Perhaps it had at some point been intended to be a moderately sized wine cellar that simply was never finished? That was a better thought than this being a room intended for the purpose it was being used for right now, at least, and she clung to it. Whoever had built this place wasn't twisted enough to plan a rat-tomb. No, it was a wine cellar. She clung to that, and the promise that she'd be able to reach out to Cyeria soon, as she made the walk across the floor to the other corners. One, two, three, each extinguished and then tucked under her arm. They might burn for each a few hours; she'd run out by the night surely, but it was better than running out by noon. (Truly, though, she had no idea what time it was. They could have simply told her it had been breakfast to throw her off, and it was honestly the middle of the night. She would have no way to know.)

With the torches secured, and her fourth still burning, Remin made her way to the corner opposite the door, near the front of the room. It held the least putridity that she could tell. She didn't want to sit in that mess, but standing infinitely was a worse fate, and sitting would allow her to keep the torch closer to the floor - and thus, shedding more light around her immediate self. The rats hadn't done too much to antagonize her yet, despite the red-tinge hunger in their eyes, but surely that would only last so long. She didn't want to know what may happen when the torches ran cold. She sat, then, keeping her spare unlit sticks pressed between herself and the wall like they were some sort of glorious treasure she was tasked with guarding with her life - and then, in this rat infested scrap of privacy, she cried; there was no point and no ability anymore to stop it.

 

[Aerynth]

Dealing with her allies went... surprisingly smoothly, though perhaps it wasn't surprising at all. Remin would have opposed any plan that involved her going straight to the enemy, but those people weren't Remin. To them, her life or death meant nothing. Actually, Cyreia suspected that many of them welcomed her leaving so soon; without her interventions, they'd get to kill as many prisoners of war as they wished. They had sworn they wouldn't do that, of course, though she wasn't nearly naive enough to believe that they'd keep that particular promise. Not when it was so, so easy to claim that the would-be hostages insisted on fighting to the bitter end. Who would challenge that narrative? The corpses they'd leave behind? No, Cyreia didn't think so. (Was she terrible for going away despite knowing the outcome? Maybe, but if being a good person meant sacrificing her wife on the altar of her ideas, then she didn't want to be good. The rebels must have anticipated the possibility of dying for their cause, right? Well, it seemed that they would get to experience just that. Perhaps nobles dying alongside their soldiers for once would cure their peers from the idea of ever trying it again.)

Either way, there was no time to lose. Wellan would definitely keep Remin alive, that much seemed obvious, but-- well. There were also terrible ways of being alive, some of them worse than death, and she didn't want to think about the things he could do to her. About what her wife had to go through just because of her. God, Cyreia was the cause of this, wasn't she? If it hadn't been for the invasion. Werough would never have rebelled, and Remin would lead a comfortable life with someone more worthy of her by her side. With someone who knew how to fill out all those important documents, who could go more than five seconds without embarrassing himself in front of the entire court, who could give her as many heirs as she wanted. Thinking about what-if scenarios was pointless, though. No matter how hard she chastised herself, no perfect hypothethical spouse would emerge from the nothingness to save her. No, doing that was her job; hers and nobody else's. It didn't take long for her to gather a few men and once she managed that, Cyreia embarked on the journey to Zivra's home. Did she have a plan? No, not really. Not anything beyond 'get inside the castle somehow, save her and get out of there.' The details could be worked out as they travelled, though. At least she'd have something to think about; something that didn't revolve around the way she put Remin in danger just by existing.

Remin's tears couldn't mollify the rats. They had been feasting on the corpses before, but fresh, warm flesh apparently looked much more appealing in their eyes. That must have been the reason they watched her so intently; their eyes shone from the darkness, vigilant and cruel and - that was possibly the worst part of it - intelligent. Fire scared them, yes, but the longer they remained in the room with Remin, the more their courage grew. More and more often, they dared to approach her, the sounds of their little feet almost thunderous in the silence of the small room. The torches always forced them to retreat in the end, but never entirely. Instead of returning where they had been, they got just a little bit closer every single time. It was becoming increasingly more obvious that if Remin didn't do something, the rats would, and it wouldn't be pretty. The circle was slowly closing around her.

 

[Conifer]

Remin took what little time she could to cry. She deserved it, gods knew it. (Had the people rotting in this room with her worshipped? Had they gone out begging for mercy from some deity? Or did they resign themselves to a death in loneliness? It wasn't often that Remin wholly wished that the gods were more than well-told stories of heros once-were, but now she found herself asking kindness from each of them in case her own beliefs were wrong. She murmured the names under her breath; there were enough of them that it was hard to recall them all, and that gave her something to think about that wasn't the hunger personified swarming around her, growing more and more bold by the moment, and caring less and less for her swinging the torch wide around herself to keep them at bay.

She needed a better plan than this; they might be wary for a short while longer, perhaps if she was lucky until the end of this torch, but what of the next? What of the few moments of dimmed light between the next one catching fully and this one dying out? Remin took a shaking breath - trying not to inhale too much through her nose, but even then, the smell permeated every inch of this room. The stone smelled of it. The smoke was the only thing that didn't smell rotting, and that wasn't...advised to breath in. Neither was sitting in a room with flesh-hungry rats and twisted, disgusting rot, so. It was the lesser of two evils. Remin dragged herself to her feet; her dress clung to the floor that was sticky with things she refused to consider. Ignorance was rarely something to be prideful of, but this was an exception. She needed a plan. Search the bodies, for one, perhaps. Would they have anything worth it, though? Surely they weren't likely to have a weapon on them. There'd be signs of that. Long knife-scratches on the door. There were none of those; just the furious scratches of a a few dozen rats that had outgrown a taste for the less-than-fresh.

...But. That may be some sort thing. They might have nothing on them, but-- they were something useful, maybe. Gods. Remin leaned back against the wall, daring to close her eyes for a moment. Just a moment, though. Was she truly going to do this? The rats feared the fire, and all she had was the tiny flickering torchlight. What if she could have more? Surely-- surely the bodies would catch? People - or any animal, really - held a good deal of fat. Surely that hadn't gone anywhere. Eaten, maybe, but something in all those piles of decomposition might catch. She was no healer by any means, and only understood as much about bodies as she'd learned from hasty tutors, but she knew that bodies were some amount of flammable, especially when mixed with putridity-soaked cloth. She hoped. And she had fire - she could do it.

But anything useful might burn. She-- she had to. It might be the literal difference between life and death. They'd clearly given up on keeping her alive, or they were really incredible at bluffing. Either way, these rats didn't care. They seemed plenty happy to sink diseased teeth into her skin. Remin's hand trembled as she brought the communication stone closer to her mouth, opening the connection again. "My soldier-" Gods, she's never sounded as scared as she does now. She can barely speak. She feels nauseous. Her whisper to Cyeria is barely audible - partially so no one outside can hear it, and partially because she can't manage anything louder. "I need to know you're coming. I need-" a sob threatens to escape her, and she cuts herself off. She can cry, but she cannot be inconsolable. She has to stay aware. She takes a few shaking breaths, trying to steady herself out, and waves the torch before her again, sending the wave of rats scrambling back a bit.

 

[Aerynth]

They'd manage, Cyreia told herself. Everything had gone wrong, wrong in ways she couldn't have anticipated, but-- that was her entire shtick, really. All those instances where her carefully crafted plans had crumbled under pressure? She couldn't even count them at this point and yet she had always prevailed somehow. It was fine. Alright, it very much wasn't, but it would be. Soon, Cyreia would hold Remin in her arms and this whole nightmare would turn into a bad memory. Into a cautionary tale. Would her wife have been kidnapped if she had never left the castle? That was the question that tore at her. Wellan's goons would still have attacked, that much was obvious, but-- with Cyreia there, maybe she could have fought them off. Maybe she could have saved her, dammit. And what had she done instead? Ridden off into the sunset to play with swords. (Had it been her sense of duty that had motivated her to do that or boredom with her new life? An addiction to adrenaline? God, Cyreia didn't know. She just knew that she'd never, never abandon Remin again.)

"What's the best way to approach the castle?" Cyreia asked one of her men as they rode, wind in their back. Most of those that had come with her were her guards - the ones that had accompanied her and Remin on that fateful trip - but she had also recruited a soldier who had grown up in the area and a local magic user. Circumstances hadn't allowed her to engage in thorough preparations, though Cyreia still refused to act completely foolish. Wellan and Zivra used the terrain to their advantage; with some knowledge, a small group could do that just as effectively, or maybe even more so.

"If we approach from the south and climb for a while, we should get to the castle walls unnoticed. The mountains block their their line of sight."

"Good. I don't suppose that there's a convenient hole in those walls somewhere?"

"I'm afraid not."

"Of course not," Cyreia sighed. Think. Think! What's the most painless way of getting on the other side? If they couldn't go through the walls, they either had to go above them or... or under the whole structure. Oh, if only they had access to the castle blueprints! Maybe they could bypass the defenses entirely and emerge in a cellar or something like that. Too bad that Zivra wasn't kind enough to provide them. Well, there was no sense in crying over that; they would simply have to make do without the advantage. "We'll have to dig under the walls, then. Nehet," she turned to the magic user, "can you speed it up with you magic somehow? Or is there a different way? Can you... I don't know, make a section of the walls disappear?"

"I... I suppose it won't be impossible for me to create a tunnel, but I'll likely be on the verge of passing out after that," the man frowned. "You can't expect me to do anything else."

"That doesn't matter, and thank you." Going inside without magical support would be... unpleasant, though obviously still infinitely better than not getting there at all. Cyreia opened her mouth to discuss other aspects of the slowly-forming plan, but then her medallion trembled against her skin softly. Remin spoke and-- god, she sounded so terrified. Had she been crying? What they had done to her to melt the earlier defiance into... into this? She should be happy about hearing her voice, except that in that moment, all she could feel was burning hatred. Hatred for Zivra, Wellan and everyone involved. They should all perish and by god, Cyreia would take care of that. "I am," she said as she clutched the pendant, not caring at all that others might hear her. Let them hear everything if they wanted to listen! She was tired of pretense, tired of staying reserved when she felt like screaming instead. Now, wher her wife's life was at stake, surely nobody would judge her for being honest. "I'm on my way, my love. Where-- where are you in the castle? What's happening there?"

 

[Conifer]

She wishes she could say she was flooded with relief when Cyeria's voice came through the speaker, but it only provided some small scrap of peace. It was perhaps too late for relief that didn't come from seeing Cyeria's face in the flesh and just going home. "I-" she wishes that she could answer properly, but she had no idea where she was besides the fact she was somewhere deep beneath the castle. She said as much, sounding no better than she had just the moment before. "Beneath." Remin manages to whisper back. "A cellar somewhere. There's-" She doesn't even want to say what surrounded her. That would be giving a solidity to it, a realness, that she wasn't sure that she could handle it having. Did it matter what there was, anyways? It wouldn't help him get to her any faster. She took a shallow breath, not wanting to breathe in too much of the smell, "-there's someone guarding the door." Relevant things. That's what mattered. Things that would help Cyeria have some warning of what she's barging into. "Please hurry. As much as you can." That doesn't stop her from begging. Remin breaks the connection off; it's almost too overwhelming to have it open. It gives too much power to her terror, makes it hard to think of anything else. Cyeria can reach back to her if she needs to, but-

-there's things to do. Remin stays against the wall for another few frantic heartbeats before pushing off of it; the rats are caring less and less about her meager fire, and she needs them to stay scared of the torch while she does this. She approaches the nearest disfigured puddle of fabric and bone and flesh; on first glance, there's not much to be seen, but that's only some small amount of disappointing. "I'm sorry." She whispers, as if there's anything left of it to apologize to. Who had this been in life? It was impossible to tell; any features that might have once been there were unrecognizable now. But there's the vagueness of a human form. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Remin repeats quietly as she stoops low, closer to the body, and begins to search for anything useful that they might have held in their death.

She continues the process for the others, as well, that quiet litany of apologies a constant companion to her. The feeling of the greasy rot against her fingertips makes her dry-heave; if she hadn't been doomed to lose the lunch she almost ate when she entered this room, it would have been gone by now. It's admittedly not the most thorough of searches, but she can't manage to bring herself to root around in decomposing bodies too much.

 

[Aerynth]

"I will," Cyreia said quietly. "Wait for me, Remin. I promise I'll get there soon. I'll find you and get you out of there." Her wife's answers were... less than satisfactory, but her desire to not speak of the things she was going through was palpable and she didn't want to pry. It wouldn't solve anything. On the contrary, it would likely wound her even more. Cyreia had no idea what Remin struggled with down there, but-- well, she knew a lot of people who had seen things nobody should have, and few of them were eager to share their experiences. And when they for some reason had? It had seemed as if the act of putting it into words had broken them for the second time. No, Remin had every right to stay silent; every right not to describe what was happening to her, no matter how nervous it made her. I'll just have to see for myself.

Cyreia had never been cruel to her horses, but she couldn't not be this time. Not when speed was everything they had. The animal wheezed and threw his head at the reins, clearly at the end of his strength, and yet she didn't allow him a second of rest. Faster, further, more! The scenery changed in front of her very eyes; first villages and settlements surrounded by fields, those transitioned into grasslands and grasslands soon gave way to untamed wilderness. To mountains on the horizon. Normally Cyreia would have admired the sight, but she was too busy dying with fear. Please, please, Remin, be alright. Don't leave me. Not like this. Once again, she kicked the horse to make it go faster. Cyreia didn't dare to guess how long it took, but eventually, the terrain got too difficult and they had to get off their horses. It was time for climbing.

Meanwhile, Remin rummaged through the corpses' belongings. How many of them were even there? It was difficult to tell, really, with all those limbs missing and mangled faces; the rats weren't the most diligent of embalmers. At first, she found nothing of use. Torn pieces of cloth, rotten remnants of food they had likely planned to save for later, those sorts of things. In one heartbreaking instance, her fingers wrapped around a small pendant; when she examined it closely, it turned out it had a portrait of a smiling young man inside. Had he been that person's brother? Brother or maybe a son, a friend, a lover? Whatever the story was, the corpse wouldn't share it. And then-- finally, finally Remin struck gold. Something that was worth more than gold down here among parasites and filth, actually. One of the dead bodies gripped a large, sharpened bone. It was no steel, obviously, but its previous owner had done their best to turn it into a weapon. It would... it would probably do fine against rats if they didn't swarm her. Rats and unarmored people, too.

 

[Conifer]

She left the locket where it was; she was no graverobber, even it this was an awful grave. The sight of it, though, somehow made this all simultaneously easier and harder; it was easy to see the horror in masses of rot, it was easy to be terrified of it, but it was hard to be terrified of people who had died awful deaths clutching at what they had left of the things that they held dear. Was she going to be among them? Had anyone left these walls alive that hadn't begged and screamed for mercy? If she begged, if she screamed, would she get that mercy? Remin truly had no idea. Was what waited out there for her better than what existed in here? If she pounded on the door and promised to agree to them, if she played along until Cyeria arrived-- could she? Would they believe it? Or would they simply laugh in her face and throw her back to the wolves, seeing through her? If she did...there would be none of her own volition left here until Cyeria saved her (if she did.) Here, at least, in this rat-infested room, she was herself. She wasn't prideful enough to think death by rats and joining the awful masses down here was worth the cost of that, but it was...something. It was something, surely.
If they were willing to do this, though, surely this wouldn't be the limit of what they were willing to put her through. Even if she played along. If they were willing to do this to many people, it wasn't the limit of what they would do. The rats at least only acted on instinct and hunger; the people outside the door acted on cruelty.

The bone shank was, however, something she welcomed. It obviously hadn't done much for its previous owner, but perhaps they hadn't even had a chance to use it. Maybe it would serve her some use. It seemed sharp enough when she pressed it lightly against her skin. With enough force, it could pierce. Feeling all the madwoman, she looked towards the rats, gesturing the bit of bone at them. "I-- I don't want to use this on you." She said, as if they could understand her words and act according to them. "But if I must, I will."

This left the second part of her plan. It wasn't a good one, by any means. The room would likely fill with smoke, if the bodies even caught - but it wasn't airtight. She was sure of that much. A small scrap of light spilled in from under the door, and she would -- she would keep low to the ground and allow the smoke to travel towards the ceiling. Gods. This wasn't a good plan. It was perhaps the worst she could. And with the ground so slick with gods know what, who says that the room wouldn't simply all alight? With her own clothes, her own skin, now covered in the things she intended to burn - how does she know that she won't be just as easily lit? It's a plan for desperation. The rats still fear her fire somewhat, and she's clumsily armed. Maybe she can do something with that before she endangers herself more than she needs to.

Remin retreats back to her corner, with her un-lit torches, and her lit torch in hand, and her sharpened bone. She just had to wait. She just had to wait, and Cyeria was on her way. She pressed herself as close to the walls as she could, knees pressed to her chest, with her weapon in her dominant hand and the torch in her other. It was a waiting game now. A waiting until a rat got to close and she had to kill something for the first time in her life. A waiting until her first torch dimmed and she had to light another. A waiting until Cyeria came. A waiting until she was freed. So, so much waiting, and she was prepared for so very little of it.

 

[Aerynth]

Cyreia cursed internally. When her guide had spoken about climbing so casually, she hadn't imagined... well, this. Steepness, sharp edges the seemingly bottomless pit beneath, threatening to swallow anyone foolish enough to look down. The wind howling among the peaks wasn't exactly helping, either. A single misstep, a single hesitation at the wrong moment could send them towards their deaths, and the icy air currents seemed determined to nudge them into their direction; had Cyreia not known better, she would have said they had a will of their own. Thank god for her arms, really, because if it hadn't been for their strength, her corpse would have been resting somewhere on the bedrock already. Who would have thought that it would come in handy in more situations than just swinging her sword? (If fate had been molding her into someone who would be able to save Remin in this exact scenario throughout her years in the army, then it was worth it. Oh, so very worth it.) "So this is your idea of some climbing," Cyreia called at the man as she grabbed a protrusion and pulled herself closer to it, "I don't think I want to know what you'd consider to be a serious workout."

"Ha! I took this route many time as a kid. For me, it is just some climbing. You're not doing too bad for someone who has never been here before, though."

"Well, I did grow up in mountains," she confessed. "For a while, anyway." Her childhood seemed so far away, almost like a figment of imagination than reality, but-- well, muscle memory didn't betray her. Even if Cyreia had forgotten more details than she was comfortable with, her arms and legs still knew what to do, knew how to move, and that was a strange, bittersweet feeling. Her companions, on the other hand, seemed much less moved; they approached slowly, awkwardly, and Cyreia wished she could make them hurry up. Who knew what was happening to Remin in this very moment? If their failure to advance faster didn't sentence her to death? Despite the grim thoughts, she managed to stay silent. There was no point in rushing now; not when they could easily die here, and then they'd be of little use to her wife anyway. Inch by inch, they got closer to their goal; that was enough, it had to be, and if not, then... Cyreia didn't know what she would do in that case. Falling victim to pessimism wouldn't improve the situation, though, so she just grit her teeth and kept going. Hadn't that described her entire life once? Her life before Remin? It had served her well in her past and surely it would serve her now, too.

By the time they reached the castle walls, Cyreia felt completely and thoroughly exhausted. Everything hurt - especially her arms - and a part of her would wanted nothing more than to close her eyes, but-- no. No, she couldn't do that. Not with Remin finally so close. Her wife had asked her in that terribly scared voice to hurry and Cyreia wasn't about to break her promise; not even if it cost her her life.

"Can you make that tunnel for us?" she asked the mage. "Remin said she's in some cellar, so if you can sense these things, maybe you could lead us there directly?"

The spellcaster sighed in exasperation. "Look, I'm a magic user, not a human sensor. I have no idea where the cellar is and even if I did know that, it's likely made of stone. Soil I can manage, but breaking through stone? That's not happening. That's insane."

"Alright, alright, I understand. Be so kind and get us on the other side, then. That will be more than enough. Oh, and if it's possible, try to make the process quiet. We don't need any commotion right now." Or at any point during this endeavor, though it wasn't very likely that they'd succeed at that. Still, the more time they had for exploration, the greater their chances of finding Remin. The man nodded and dropped on his knees; he put his hands on the ground and chanted words in a language Cyreia didn't recognize.

"So," she turned to the rest of the group, "here's the plan. Once we get inside, we'll observe the situation for a bit, dispose of guards that are there - quietly! - and steal their gear." Guards tended to wear full armor including helmets, which would be helpful in concealing their identity. Once they would be dressed as people that were very much supposed to be there, moving around the castle should be significantly easier. "One of you will go and secure horses because we absolutely can't use the same route that got us here." Cyreia wouldn't subject to Remin to that; one harrowing experience was more than enough for her. "The rest of you will help me look for Remin. We'll split into groups of two - anything more than that would probably be suspicious - and we'll comb through the lower sections of the castle. Oh, and someone will also stay there to protect the caster. Any questions?"

"Just one," Hawthorne said. "Can't you just ask her with that device of yours, your h... ehm?" he swallowed her title awkwardly when he realized that relative strangers were listening to this conversation, too. Frankly, she wasn't sure whether that matter at this point, but his dedication was admirable all the same.

"She doesn't know where she is," Cyreia shook her head. "I can try to get some information from her, but it's hardly a safe bet. We'll cover more space if we split."

In the next few moments, the ground opened in front of their eyes slowly, almost like a rosebud unfolding in the sun. Why had she ever condemned the use of magic again? It was just so convenient. Had Eupriunia found a way to utilize it properly-- okay, maybe that wasn't the best of ideas. Her homeland had already trampled enough nations into dust even without the advantage of magic. "Let's go. There's no point in waiting." And so they emerged on the other side, fortunately behind a shed that provided a good cover. The guards standing near the entrance hadn't noticed their presence yet; they looked rather bored, really, and Cyreia guessed that they had been standing here for the entire day. No, not standing. Patrolling, she realized when they slowly started walking across the courtyard. They probably did it to stave off boredom more than anything else and she was thankful for that basic human instinct. Why? Because it would be easy, oh so easy to let them come near and strike; much easier than if they had to approach them. Cyreia looked at her companions and nodded; the flicker in their eyes suggested that they understood. God, her heart was beating so fast. What if she had miscalculated? What if everything fell apart here?

It didn't; the guards didn't even know what hit them. Since they got to target them from behind, the advantage was fully on their side. Putting on the damn armor felt more stressful than actually dealing with their owners - god, the guards could see her, they could see her and then everything would be lost - but Cyreia hid behind a crate and dressed herself so quickly that nobody noticed. Hell, now that she thought about it, they didn't even have a reason to steal glances at her form; not when they were so intent on watching their surroundings. Still, paranoia could rarely be silenced with the voice of logic. "Hide the bodies," she instructed the guards who opted to stay there. "And try to avoid fighting. If someone comes and wants to see these people, try to invent some explanation. If they don't believe you, though, kill them before they manage to call reinforcements. As for the rest of you, let's go."

Finally, finally they entered the castle. Hallways were empty aside from the servants occasionally rushing for their next task, but those paid her no attention. To them, Cyreia was a part of inventory now. What was a castle without its guards, right? "Remin?" she whispered into the medallion, hoping it would connect. "Remin, I'm inside. Did you-- I don't know, did you see anything helpful on the way down there? Anything that would make navigation easier?"

 

[Conifer]

It was...truly impossible to tell how much time had passed between when Remin had hunkered herself down in the corner and when her necklace pulsed against her gore-smeared wrist, hot and alive. It was impossible to tell in hours, at least. She could tell you exactly how much time had passed in a multitude of other ways: It had been the rest of her first torch, the second, and most of the third. It had been a first horrible, horrible experience of a rat losing all fear of her and her torch, and charging towards her with an inescapable hunger in its eyes, and then an even worse one of her haphazardly stabbing at it as it tried to bite at any part of her it could. The only way she managed it was that it managed to attach itself to her leg - which had hurt, gods, and who knew what diseases might be coursing through her now, but it had been enough that the rat had stayed still for long enough that she could drive the bone through it and wrench it away from her. (She had no idea whether the shriek that had filled the room as it died had been the rat's, hers, or both.) It had been more of that, but thankfully less bites. The length of time had been an amount of rat-blood on her hands that she couldn't find herself capable of counting, it was an apology that grew more and more desperate but also more and more detatched after each one. It had been enough time for her to name each of the gods half a dozen times, and enough time for her to start praying to each of them even if she didn't think they'd offer her any sort of help. It had been enough time for her to doubt that Cyeria was coming. It was enough time for her to doubt that she would make it out of here. It was far, far too much time.

She dragged the stone to her mouth with a sob, though, the friendly sound in this horrid echo chamber of rat claws against the stone and their awful shrieking and their awful sounds they made as they died and the awful squelching and the awful-- "I don't know." She manages, though it's hard to keep herself quiet. Honestly, it was enough time for her to also wonder if there was truly anyone outside her door. She's done enough talking to herself that at least this won't be too alarming, if there is. "It's-- It's a maze. Or they led me through it like one." Cyeria's here. Cyeria's somewhere above her. No more rats, no more wondering what will happen at the end of her last torch. She tried to recall anything - anything at all that might help. "There's...nearby, there's a painting. Of a boat. It was near the stairs. A few halls away. But-- but no doorways down the hallway the stairs were down. No paintings. Just some torches." She's talking too fast, it's all a bit of a too-quick blur in both her mind and from her mouth, but she needs Cyeria here now. She needs her to know all this information immediately.

 

[Aerynth]

"A painting of a boat," Cyreia repeated, looking around both in hopes of seeing that picture and in fears of someone identifying her as an intruder. Neither turned out to be true; the castle continued to be strangely empty, devoid of both decorative items and life. The lack of men almost seemed ominous. Not that Cyreia wanted to complain about it being too easy, but... shouldn't there be more people here? It took a lot of staff to run a castle, after all; she had seen the budget dedicated to keeping their castle in shape and the parts of it dedicated to covering the salaries of various maids, servants and guards were ridiculous. It couldn't be that different here, so where were all those people? Had Zivra sent them away so they could contribute to the war efforts or was this one giant trap? A trap she had walked into eagerly? No, that didn't seem too likely. To set a trap, one had to actually anticipate one's prey. "Understood. Thank you. I'm going to sever the connection now so as not to appear too suspicious, but if you ever remember something important, call me. See you soon."

Remin had been right; it really was a maze, and whoever had designed it should end up in the deepest pit of hell. More than once, Cyreia somehow managed to return to the same place where she had started out at without ever turning back. What was even the point here? To confuse visitors? It would have been fascinating, really, if so much hadn't hinged on her being able to locate Remin quickly. Remin. God, she wanted to see her so much, and once she actually got to her, she would never let go of her again. Which will never happen if I can't find her. It took a few more minutes of wandering through the hallways and cursing the name of every single god she knew before-- oh, a painting. A painting that depicted a boat. Cyreia could only hope that there wasn't more of them, perhaps placed deliberately in similar places to confuse her even further. At this point, such trickery wouldn't surprise her in the slightest. Still, there were no other leads to follow, so she clung to it; clung in the same way a drowning man clung to a blade of grass. The stairs led them lower and lower and lower, deep into the bowels of the castle, and when they reached the entrance to what must have been catacombs, Cyreia knew that they had followed the right path.

"Here so soon?" one of the guards standing near the door wondered. "I thought there were two more hours left." Two more hours. That... meant that they should be undisturbed for quite a while, didn't it? Under different circumstances, Cyreia might have tried to solve the problem of their presence peacefully. She would have recognized that the men were just doing their jobs, probably didn't deserve to die for it and invented some story to make them go away. Cyreia wasn't in the mood for peaceful solutions now, though; in fact, the idea of them walking away just like that disgusted her. After what they had done to Remin? No, not a chance. Her blade thirsted for blood and they had the dubious honor of standing in her way. In one swift motion, she pulled out her weapon. "Wait, wha--" was all the man managed to say before the sword ended up buried in his neck. His scream died before it was even born, drowned in the fountain of blood that spilled from his throat. His friend met a similar fate, although by the sword of her companion. "Scum," he spat on the floor. "Jailing our queen like that and being so casual about it-- gods, I cannot imagine."

"They got what they deserved, as will the others." Cyreia wiped the blood off her blade, took the key from a dead guard's pocket and opened the door. Immediately, her nose was assaulted by the pungent odor of rot and death. So they dared to keep her wife in a place like this? God, no wonder she had cried; the cell made Cyreia sick to her stomach and she had just entered. She hadn't had to-- hadn't had to spend countless hours in here. "Remin?" she asked softly, her voice a bit shaky. "Remin, can you hear me?"

 

[Conifer]

Remin was deadly quiet as the door opened, as if her silence would hide her location in the room in case it wasn't her wife come to save her from this horrid pit of hell. It certainly wouldn't have - her torch, slowly burning out, would give her away. It was the only bright spot in the room; the rest was cast in writhing shadow thats contents were better off being hidden than seen. But then came Cyeria's voice, and she let out a broken sound. She was saved. She was-- halfway saved, at least, but Cyeria had a sword, and she knew how to use it, and surely getting in here and finding her was the hardest part of this whole mess? It didn't even matter if it wasn't. They'd manage it. Cyeria hadn't made it all the way here, to her rescue, for them to both fall in the last moments of the escape. They'd make it out and they'd make it home and considering anything otherwise was too awful to bear.

The light that spilled in from the hallway did a duel-purpose job of blinding Remin, whose eyes had come to adjust to the light of the single torch, and the rats, who scrambled backwards at the introduction of this much-brighter thing than they'd seen in ages. It wasn't glorious, how Remin all but crawled towards this too-bright beautiful thing, towards the sound of her wife, towards salvation, but she was long past caring about glory or its kin. "Here," She says, pulling herself to her feet, leaving the torch on the ground but keeping her bone-knife held tight in her hand as she used her other one to cling to the slime of the wall. Her legs refused to function properly, too stiff from staying so tense and near to her and the pounding pain of the deep rat bite making it difficult to put weight on one. "I'm here--"

If Cyeria looked heavenly, all gleaming stolen metal and bright blinding light, then Remin must look hellish, crawling from the depths of rot and dark and wearing half of it on herself. There's blood stained on the once-clean tawny fabric of the dress, and where there isn't rat blood (or her blood, where she'd pressed the cleanest part she could find against her acquired would to stem the bleeding - that the other rats had been far too interested in,) there was rot and grime and all means and manner of putridity. She looked ghoulish and half-dead, surely, and the whole effect was only amplified of her clutching of the bloody shard of bone as if it were the only thing that mattered. For a while, it had been.

 

[Aerynth]

Throughout this entire mess, Cyreia had been strong. She had locked her dread in the deepest, most private part of her soul and thrown the key away. When the pain had gnawed at her insides, when it had threatened to tear her apart like a wild animal, she had marched forward still. It hadn't been about her, after all, and Remin-- Remin had needed that strength. She had needed Avther the soldier, not the terrified, desperate Cyreia. Terrified and desperate was what she very much was, though, and the sight of Remin finally caused her eyes to fill with tears. The sight of Remin who looked like as if they had dragged her through seven hells; Remin who somehow, even despite that, managed to be at her most beautiful. Was it the relief that colored her perception or the fact that it had never been the softness and pretty silks that appealed to Cyreia, but that iron will of hers? Knowing that, on some level, they were one and the same? A combination of both, Cyreia wagered, or she would have had she the capacity to think of these things now, which she very much didn't. Her head was blessedly empty, all thoughts pushed away in favor of gratitude; all-consuming gratitude towards fate and gods and all those concepts she didn't truly believe in that they had allowed her to find Remin fast enough. That she wouldn't lose yet another loved one. Her sword fell on the floor with a loud 'clank', forgotten and entirely unimportant. Everything but the woman standing in front of her was.

"Remin. My god, Remin," Cyreia stammered and embraced her, cold steel against the warm skin. (Warm skin and things she would rather not think about, blood and filth and rot, but none of that mattered because her wife was underneath it all.) She caressed her face, softly and lovingly, before kissing her. So what if they had an audience? Cyreia was beyond caring. The way hot tears streamed down her face had given her feelings away anyway. "I'm so sorry. I-- I never should have left. Please, please forgive me," she whispered in her hair. Again, probably not the most regal of moments, but to hell with the crown! To hell with her precious reputation, too. Right now, Cyreia wanted to be a wife and nothing else; wanted to wrap Remin in kindness, kiss her pain away and make her feel safe. Unfortunately, they didn't have the time for these things just yet. No, they had to get out of here first. "Are you hurt? Can you walk?" Because if not, then this whole ordeal would be a lot more problematic. (Not impossible to handle, though. Definitely not. Cyreia would wrestle her from Wellan's grip even if she had to carry her out of this forsaken castle in her teeth.)

 

[Conifer]

Remin clung to Cyeria with all the desperation of someone who'd just been trapped in a room with death and dying for gods know how long, unable to speak for the sheer relief of simply being held again, kissed again, seen again. She wants to wipe the tears from Cyeria's face and kiss her again and just be so overwhelmed by her closeness that it's almost overwhelming, but that-- that's for later, when she's not covered in terrible things and they're not trying to escape a castle. For now, she'll just allow herself to be held. The armor makes the whole thing clunky and not as warm as it could have been, but Remin doesn't even notice it; all that she notices is that Cyeria was beside her once more. She did, however, notice the two dead men, bleeding out on the stone landing, and gods, she feels terrible for it, but she's glad for their deaths. They were likely mostly innocent in all of this, but they must have heard her desperation and hadn't done anything about it but safeguard it. Let them be dead. Better them than her. Their other companion seems to be studying their corpses quite thoroughly, trying to give the two of them some scrap of privacy for this moment.

"I can-- I think I can walk." She agrees shakily. There's pain, but she can push through it if it means leaving this terrible place. Nothing's broken, just bitten, and so surely walking on it wouldn't make anything worse. If Oren were here, she's sure that logic would earn her a very specific look, but he isn't here, and she also needs to not be here.

 

[Aerynth]

"Alright," Cyreia nodded and wiped her tears away. It felt kind of silly, crying in the middle of an enemy's fortress. 'Kind of' may have been an understatement, actually, but something had broken within her and she had to get it out of her system. It was like-- like getting rid of poison that had been circulating in her veins for far too long, and even if nothing about their situation was objectively better than it had been five minutes ago, Cyreia did feel more at peace. (Who would have thought she'd be discovering the benefits of crying in her twenties? Certainly not her. Then again, she hadn't expected to discover love, either, so her track record in predicting those things wasn't great.) "Let's go, then," she said, her voice already sounding more firm than a few seconds ago. Clearly, the moment of weakness had passed. "We shouldn't give our enemies the chance to find out that something has gone very wrong for them here."

First, they had to take care of the bodies. If what the guards had claimed earlier was true, then nobody should appear down here for quite a while, but leaving the corpses out in the open still looked like a distinctly bad idea. "Help me with the bodies," she turned to Hawthorne. "We'll throw them into the cell." Was there a more fitting fate for them than ending up in what had been Remin's prison? Cyreia didn't think so. It likely wouldn't help them avoid detection for long - others would definitely find their absence suspicious even without the proof of their demise - but it was still better than nothing. Besides, if they locked the cell, perhaps they'd come to the conclusion that the previous guards had been bored with the task, slipped away and forgotten to return just in time for their colleagues to relieve them of their duty. Didn't it seem like the more likely interpretation than them assuming they had been killed? People rarely jumped to the worst case scenarios without any provocation.

Before the bodies were dumped into the cell unceremoniously, Cyreia took a sword from one of the corpses. He didn't need it anymore, but Remin might. "Throw that bone away," she said to her. "If worse comes to the worst, I'll give you that sword so that you have something to defend yourself with. For now, though, I think our best bet is pretending that we're escorting you somewhere. We've managed not to raise any real suspicions so far, so let's take advantage of that for as long as we can, shall we? Remin, look at the ground and try to look defeated. Hawthorne, we'll just... walk towards the entrance. Confidently, as if we're doing exactly what our lord asked of us." Was her plan bold or just plain stupid? At this point, she couldn't tell; not since the only real difference between the two seemed to be whether the plan succeeded or failed. Either way, Cyreia took a deep breath and began climbing the stairs.

 

[Conifer]

Remin had to look away as they moved the dead guards into the place where her own body would have ended up had Cyeria not been so quick to find her. She'd made it long enough, but what if Cyeria had taken any longer? What if they'd noticed her communication stone when she was changing? What if they'd seen it at literally any point since she'd arrived and thought it suspicious instead of some idle jewelry wrapped around her wrist? The rats would be eating her instead. It was better that they ate the men who had a hand in her imprisonment, but even that somehow didn't make it an easier thought to bare. Her leg ached. She felt sick. Cyeria was right, though. It was a good place to hide them. She had a feeling that no one was going to open that door any time soon.

It was equally as hard to throw the bone back into the cell; all of her instincts said no, no, you need this. It was what kept her safe. But logically, there were-- so, so many reasons why wandering around with a sharpened bit of bone wasn't a good idea. A guard carrying a sword wasn't suspicious. A prisoner carrying a makeshift bone knife? It would draw attention. Remin hesitated all the same, before limping her way back into the room (as near to the door as she could, not really wanting to venture in,) and tucking the bone against the lip of the doorframe. Perhaps it wouldn't be noticed there. Perhaps it would help the next person who found themselves in this room - which there wasn't going to be, if she had any say in it, but perhaps she might not have say in it for too long.

She was silent through this process, but there was no need to speak. She just had to trust Cyeria. She would get them out of here, out of this. So Remin did as the other woman asked.It wasn't hard to look defeated, despite the rescue; it was far too easy to imagine a slightly different future where these were proper guards leading her to some worse fate than even that room.

The lack of staff which had seemed ominous before was only a blessing now; the halls were still as empty as they had been when Cyeria had entered them. There were footsteps heard down a corridor that the three of them had hurried past as much as they could without it being suspicious to avoid being seen, but beyond that, they went undetected - as far as they were aware, at least - as they made their way back through the winding, puzzling halls to the door.

 

[Aerynth]

It was so incredibly difficult to walk beside her wife and not support her when she needed it so desperately. To act as if-- as if Remin was a human equivalent of a package to be delivered somewhere instead of the most important person in her life. As if they were total strangers. Cyreia tried to think back to the times when this had been true, when they had barely known each other and Remin had regarded her with thinly veiled contempt, but that had been so long ago that it didn't even feel real. Not real enough, at the very least, to recall the memory and feel as she had back then. Focus. If you don't focus, all will be lost. She couldn't afford to watch Remin with care in her eyes, no matter how much the limping unnerved her. Just how serious was it? Did it hurt terribly? Would Remin be able to ride a horse in her current state? All questions that she shouldn't be entertaining now; certainly not when so much hinged on her performance. There was an occasional servant here and there, after all, though it didn't seem as if they were terribly interested in their endeavors. And honestly, why should they be? They had their own matters to attend to and, besides, she very much doubted that Zivra had told them who their prisoner was. Hell, most of them probably didn't even know that they had one. Had she been in his position, Cyreia would have done everything in her power to prevent the rumors from spreading, which included keeping it secret from the staff. Gossip, after all, could rarely be controlled once it had taken off.

In the end, Cyreia opted not to look at Remin. It made things a little easier. She fixed her gaze on the main entrance instead; the main entrance that was getting closer and closer. Just a few more steps and they'd be-- well, not saved, not yet, but considerably safer than they were here. The guards had surely prepared the horses already, so they just had to climb into the saddle and ride, ride and never look back. It took all of her willpower not to run. Cyreia knew that it wouldn't be much faster than just walking there, but damn, did she want to leave this cursed place. For some reason, everything about it made her skin crawl. It... wasn't even the suffering Remin had experienced here, or at least not entirely. The castle just felt wrong. If Zivra had built it in his lifetime, why did it look so old, almost ready to crumble? Stone didn't age that fast. Well, Cyreia thought, it doesn't matter. Not when we'll be outside soon.

In hindsight, she probably shouldn't have thought that; it was just tempting fate, really, and fate apparently wasn't having that. When they approached the door, there was a familiar sizzling of magical energies circling around them and, a second later, a wall of fire consumed the entrance. "What the--" Cyreia made a few steps back and looked around, trying to locate the source of that magic. Nobody seemed to be there, though. Could this-- could this be some sort of mechanism? What had triggered it, though? Remin's presence? Probably. The door hadn't acted like this when it had been just the two of them, dammit. "This likely has something to do with you. Did they... do something suspicious to you? Something that could have been a spell?" she turned to Remin, alarm in her voice. Cyreia didn't even try to hide it because, well, time for stealth had clearly ended. The fire wasn't exactly inconspicuous.

 

[Conifer]

The walk through the halls is torturous, but it's a much welcome reprieve of the actual torture that she faces only moments ago; if they were caught, it would be horrible, but at least they had swords instead of boneshards and it was not one against everyone else. They stood some tiny scrap of a chance. What they didn't stand a chance against, though, was the sudden burst of fire that blocked their pat. Remin stumbled back, nearly falling, with the surprise of it, and she catches herself against the wall. They're so close. She can almost feel the cool air on her face, but instead she's met with utter overwhelming heat.

"--I don't think so." She stammers, shaking her head quickly. "I was careful. But they could have done something I didn't notice." It wasn't impossible to cast magic entirely unobservably - and honestly, if anyone were capable of it, she'd guess it they were here. Gods. She ran through every interaction in her head; nothing stood *out* as something that would cover up the casting of a spell, but again, perhaps there was nothing to need to cover up. She'd eaten nothing, seen nothing, taken nothing-- oh. Had they ulterior motive when having her change clothes? Did they dress her in a prison that she would don herself? It would be an easy enough thing for someone capable of this magic to weave the spell into the fabric, letting it trigger if it approached the boundries that they programmed into it. And with those mysterious women there to make sure she dressed as they wanted her to, when not even an hour later they were perfectly happy to leave her (relatively) alone in a room that featured no more or less chance of escape than the bedroom..."The dress is theirs. That's all I can think of." Or perhaps she's being paranoid. That seems all the more likely, with the events of today, but-- perhaps her paranoia's justified at this point.

 

[Aerynth]

Ah. Well. Her dress? Alright, then. Under normal circumstances, Cyreia wouldn't have dreamed of asking Remin to take her clothes off in front of-- anyone who wasn't her, really, but these weren't exactly normal circumstances. They hadn't been normal for a long, long time. That would never change if they clung to propriety, either, because that would likely get them killed. "I see. Get rid of them, then?" Hawthorne behind her looked on in disbelief, though he said nothing. Cyreia couldn't exactly blame him; it didn't happen every day that one got to see one's ruler in their undergarments. "We'll find you a cloak or something later. Just-- just take it off for now." There was no guarantee that the wall of fire would disappear with the dress gone, of course. Even if it really had served as the trigger, it didn't mean that its absence would necessarily put the flames out. Cyreia still didn't know much about magic, but her teachers had taught her a short lesson on magical traps, and apparently some of them could only be diffused by the person who had set them up. Maybe it wasn't one of those high-level ones? (Please, please, let it be something simple, Cyreia prayed to any god willing to listen. Her Weroughian allies would have been proud of her, really, because she was finally starting to get the appeal of religion.)

Sadly, it seemed that they weren't going to find out, or at least not any time soon. The hall was quickly filled with screams of confusion as the servants ran away in blind panic. On its own, that wouldn't have been a problem. What was a problem, though, was the group of five guards that emerged seemingly out of nowhere to investigate the disturbance.

"Hey, you two! What are you doing with the prisoner?!"

"God damn it," Cyreia whispered under her breath. No excuse in the world could make them appear innocent in their eyes now; not when they were standing near the entrance with their precious hostage, clearly trying to smuggle her away. Perhaps that wasn't necessary, though. Yes, they were outnumbered, but-- not terribly. Three against five? Not ideal, though not unmanageable in the slightest, especially with that wall of fire. Ironically, it offered some amount of protection; nobody would attack them from behind unless they wanted to burn. Moreover, if they dealt with those men quickly enough, they wouldn't be able to call reinforcements. "Time to put your sword training to practical use, I suppose," Cyreia handed Remin the sword she had stolen from the dead guard. "Stay near me - near us - and only fight when you have to. Remember what I taught you. You can do it. I trust you, Remin," she squeezed her hand.

 

[Conifer]

If only trust was enough to impart more skill into her. Remin nodded to Cyeria, trying to instill them both with some sort of courage for the fight ahead. The borrowed sword felt heavy and ungangly in her hand; the weight of metal was far less forgiving than that of the wood she'd used. How ridiculous she must look; whatever horror she had the face of when she'd crawled from the room with the rats was nearly comedic in her mind now. She was a scrawy, grimy mess holding a sword she only barely knew how to use and facing down five armored men who were far better with it than she could ever hope to be. It was, she supposed, a good thing that her pride was utterly ruined for now; in a different circumstance she might have insisted on charging in, sword swinging, trying to prove herself to Cyeria, but now she just wanted to survive. And surviving right now meant doing whatever Cyeria told her to. If that was hanging back, staying out of the way, and only raising the sword when she had to, then she would do it.

And she had no choice to, really. Playfighting when your opponent wanted you to beat them was far different than seven people in the tight space of a small entryway, outnumbered, and your opponent perhaps not wanting you, specifically, dead but absolutely wanting for your failure. It was chaotic; Remin couldn't keep track of a single thing. There was too much metal flashing in torch- and firelight, too much clanging bouncing off empty stone walls and floor and ceiling, too much armor that all matched that made it difficult to keep track of who was friend and who was foe in all the chaos, too much heat growing hotter by the moment. She felt worse than useless in all of it; she simply pressed herself against the wall, as near to Cyeria as she could be without being in the woman's way, and tried to keep her wits about her.

It was immediately clear that the fact they were outnumbered meant little. Hawthorne had one of the guards who had advanced on them felled as quickly as he had approached, and then it was four on three (or, really, two and a half if Remin were to be generous to her own abilities and realistic about her lack of them.) But four was still too many to keep full attention on all at once, and one manages to slip past Cyeria's attention - or seems to - to begins the movements to bring the sword down on her without mercy. "Avther--" She shouts, in an attempt to warn of the incoming attack, but it serves to draw attention to herself. Whether the guards hadn't noticed her or hadn't considered her a threat before now, she couldn't guess, but now the one of them is charging right for her and her tiny scrap of safety against the wall. She has no choice but to swing her sword, but it was haphazard and wild and with her eyes screwed shut tight.

 

[Aerynth]

Soon after that, everything devolved into chaos. Cyreia tried to keep an eye on Remin, tried to make sure she was safe, but god, was it difficult. The guards knew how to use their swords and knew exactly what to do to keep her on her toes. More than once, she dodged a blow that would have been deadly if not for her maneuver, at one point even twice in a row. Oh, how Cyreia wished she had her old armor! She had worn steel back in Eupriunia, of course, though mainly for parades and such because of the visual effect. For actual fighting, leather had been her usual choice. It didn't offer such protection, sure, but at least she could freaking move in leather. Steel was heavy, way heavier than it had any right to be, and sweat was pouring down her face within minutes. If this continued for long, Cyreia knew, soon she wouldn't be able to see properly.

... which means I just have to end it quickly. Failure just wasn't an option; not when the cost of that would very likely be her wife's life. If they hadn't hesitated to throw her into that hellish cell just because of a few insults directed at Wellan's address, what would they do to her after an escape attempt? God, Cyreia didn't even want to entertain the thought. Maybe it was a good thing that she had, though, because the mere idea filled her with the kind of desperate, wild energy that transcended physicality. Suddenly, the weight of her armor didn't matter. Nothing but the sword in her hand did, and she turned it into a silver whirlwind of slashes. One of her enemies couldn't withstand it; he fell on the ground, bleeding from his visor profusely. Was he dead? If not, then definitely blinded, which was a fate worse than death for a soldier. At least there was honor in death.

"Avther!" Remin screamed and Cyreia turned around just in time to see the man advancing towards her wife. In that moment, her heart stopped. Remin would likely deflect that first blow, but other attacks would follow soon after and damn, her eyes were closed, closed! Hadn't she taught her to look? Not well enough, apparently, and now she'd pay the price. No, Cyreia decided, I won't let you have her. Not my Remin. Was there a better course of action to pursue? Very likely, but Cyreia didn't exactly have the time to craft a plan. Hell, she didn't even have the time to think; her body reacted on its own, and what it did was that it pushed Remin away and stepped into the enemy's reach. It also blocked the blow, or... well, it would have blocked it if not for the momentum. As it was, the blade ended up lodged somewhere in her shoulder instead. Cyreia let out a pained sound and leaned on the wall, seeing nothing but blind hot pain.

 

[Conifer]

It was luck. That's all it was. No skill, no intention. The world went warped and Remin would have sworn it was magic if she didn't now better; the shove and the accompanying cry of pain (Cyeria, it was Cyeria, her stupidness had caused Cyeria injury - that would plague her in a moment, but right now, her mind was somehow blessedly blank,) was enough of a shock to pull Remin's training back into her muscles. She wasn't even entirely aware of what she was doing, as she spun and recovered and just-- lunged, sword out. It was lucky, that's all it was, the way it found a armor-less point against the man's torso, and it was luck that she'd had enough momentum to drive it into him, because she was certainly neither vicious enough nor strong enough to manage either of those without the gods' favor. And then the world stopped warping, coming back into sudden realness as the man fell away, and her sword with it, and hit the ground, and she couldn't do anything but watch as he lay dying (she wasn't lucky enough to kill him straight out, no; she was only lucky enough to have to witness a painful death.) Rats-- rats were one thing, and those had been hard enough, but this was entirely another. People were not rats, even if they acted it. Remin stood, stuck in place - she couldn't look away from the man's eyes if she wanted to.

And the world went on. The single guard who was left attempted a retreat - or, to grab reinforcements, more likely. Hawthorne was quicker, though, and the two of them made it a few feet into the hall before the guard was tackled to the ground and the sword driven into the gap between his helmet and his armor. The clanging stopped, reduced to only clattering as Hawthorne drew himself back up to his feet and pulled the sword from the last guard's unmoving form.

"Your highnesses." He says, approaching where they both stand, and speaking quietly but hurriedly. "We must push on."

 

[Aerynth]

To say it hurt would have been an understatement. The world itself ruptured in front of her very eyes and for a while, Cyreia saw nothing. Nothing but a heap of broken images, almost as if she watched everything through murky water. Blood, hot and thick, was streaming down her arm, too, and that couldn't be good. Even her limited medical knowledge told her that. Still, she knew that she shouldn't focus on it; not in the middle of a fight and not in a middle of an escape, either. They couldn't stay here. They couldn't, couldn't, couldn't - not unless they wanted the castle to be their grave - and so she forced herself to look, forced herself to really see. And what did she see?

That Hawthorne took care of the remaining guards. Hawthorne and... Remin? Was it just her confusion or had her wife really slain one of them? God, Cyreia had never felt more proud of her than she did in that moment. Taking a life should never be celebrated, but-- well, saving a life should, and that was exactly what Remin had done. Had she not killed him, the guard would have certainly done that to her. A few centimeters of steel had stood between her and her death, and Remin had been the one to change that. It was... a strange thought, really, but not an unpleasant one. Very much not.

Hawthorne was right, though; they didn't have the time to sit around. The commotion they had caused here? It would catch up to them in no time and when it inevitably did, they shouldn't be within the walls of this castle. Ideally, they should be miles away! Cyreia grabbed her injured shoulder and winced. "Yes. Yes, we should," she said, her voice a slightly more raspy than it usually was. "Patch me up for a bit? I don't think I should move around much with... well, with it acting like this." By this, Cyreia meant all the blood; the blood she continued to lose at an alarming rate. Hawthorne wasted no time in ripping his cloak and wrapping the fabric around her shoulder. It was a clumsy, makeshift thing, but it would do. It would have to, at least until she got to see a proper healer. "Thank you. And Remin? Thank you, too. You did well," she smiled softly. More than well, actually, but she couldn't afford to say much more than that now. No, she'd sing her praises later when they didn't have to worry about-- about roughly million things, each of them worse than the one before it. "Try to get rid of the dress now? Quickly, before more of them arrive." The wall of fire was still burning bright, after all, and it was just as attention grabbing as it had been before. And the corpses lying on the ground? They would ensure that the next batch of guards wouldn't handle them with kid gloves on, too.

 

[Conifer]

It took Cyeria saying her name (safe. She was safe, or safe enough for the moment being,) to knock Remin out of whatever bloodsoaked daze she finds herself in. Cyeria hadn't seemed to notice her state, and for that she's grateful. It must seem like nothing to her anymore; surely Remin's single haphazard, lucky slaying would not even register as a blip to the soldier. Remin knew that Cyeria wouldn't find her reaction to be an...overreaction, but it was still so much easier to not admit to something rattling you when faced with someone who'd done the same thing gods know how many times without blinking anymore. She looked up at her, owlish, and refused to acknowledge either Cyeria's praise or the roiling of her stomach. She didn't want either of them. Remin nodded quickly, glancing around the bloodied entryway for somewhere she could duck into to undress.

She supposed it didn't actually matter. Cyeria had already seen her undress, and Hawthorne was going to see her in her underthings whether or not he saw the transition from dressed to undressed. but she'd still have to stow the dress some ways away from the trap if they hoped that it might un-trigger whatever had been triggered, so she allowed herself this strange bit of modesty and tucked herself around a corner to pull the dress away. It stuck to her skin uncomfortably, caked there with muck and grime and dried blood and wet blood, and honestly, removing it was a relief. She hadn't glanced back when she hid herself to change to see if their hopes had been answered and the fire had died down, but she kicked the dress further down the hall and away from the door once it was off and onto the floor for good measure before returning to the two others. Hawthorne, eyes ducked away, offered her out what was left of his cloak after tearing it for Cyeria's arm to wrap herself in, and she took it quickly and gratefully.

 

[Aerynth]

Cyreia could only wait with her breath bated. What would they do if it didn't work? God, she had no idea. There were likely different doors leading outside, so they would search for those, she supposed, but what if fire had blocked all of them? If, if, if. It was exceedingly useless to think about all the hypothetical scenarios, but still, she couldn't stop herself. Being prepared for every single outcome had been her job for such a long time that not getting stuck in her own head seemed distinctly impossible. For a large part of her life, she had lived there.

Thankfully, all those speculations turned out to be needless. When the dress got sufficiently far from the entrance, the flames vanished; there wasn't a trace of fire ever licking the door frame, either, so it looked like it had never even been there. Had it all been a frighteningly convincing illusion? Cyreia didn't know and, at that point, also didn't care. It wasn't like it changed anything. Her shoulder was still pulsating with pain and she wanted nothing more than to escape from this strange, haunting place. From the place that had almost become her wife's grave. (Part of her wanted to turn around, head back into the castle and carve out Wellan's heart before going, but-- well, there was a time and place for vengeance and this wasn't it. Not after the fiasco with her shoulder, not with her terrified wife at her side. Cyreia just couldn't put her through yet another trial; Wellan's death would have to wait.)

Finally taking a breath of fresh air felt like victory. "Your highnesses!" one of the guards waiting outside exclaimed, eyeing both Cyreia's injury and Remin's state of undress. "Are you-- are you alright?"

"More or less," she said. They just didn't have the time to describe what had happened and besides, they didn't need to know. "What about the others? Have they returned?" Because Cyreia just couldn't leave them here. If Wellan's treatment of Remin was indicative of anything, death might be a better alternative to ending up in his dungeons.

"Yes. They are... shaken, though. Apparently they saw something terrible."

"Alright, we'll discuss that later. Bring the horses!" After that, Cyreia turned to Remin. "I've noticed you're hurt," she said softly, in direct juxtaposition with the blood on her armor and lust for death from before. Those might as well have belonged to a different person. "Can you ride on your own? I'm sure that my horse could carry two people. It would be a bit slower, but still better than if you were to fall."

 

[Conifer]

Remin had absolutely no desire to know what the soldiers had seen that had rattled them so; was there worse than where she had been? Despite not wanting to know the answer to that, awful curiosity fills her, but she stays quiet. She especially doesn't want to know what it was until they were far, far from it, and far from here, and far from all of this.

Her wound is on full display now. The bite itself is small, but deep and still seeping thick blood especially with the action that they'd gotten into, but perhaps the more concerning part is the way the skin around it has gone pink and irritated. It still hurts, but if anything, she welcomes that pain. It gives her something to ground herself with with every step she takes. But her answer to Cyeria's question has little to do with her own ability to ride on her own and everything to do with her absolute need to not be alone and to not be far from Cyeria right now. "--It might be best to ride with you." She admits softly.

It's a quick process to mount the prepared horses, but Remin doesn't truly feel saved until they've made it out of the thick, old walls of the prison. That's what it was. It was no castle - it was a prison with better aesthetics, and even that was only precariously true. There doesn't seem to be anyone coming after them, yet, and hopefully they can get far enough away that their paths are harder to track back to wherever they might be going. Once they got there, they would have the protection of other people, other swords. But even this is enough to let Remin relax; she curls her arms around Cyeria's armor-clad waist and leans her head against her back as they travel down the mountainside, eyes closed and not caring of what the other people in their travelling party might think of the interaction. She's utterly exhausted in so many more ways than one, and all she wants besides a bed, an infinitely long bath, and some food that she's sure isn't poison, is to be near her love and rescuer. If they still think she's a traitor after going through all of that today, then let them think her one. She didn't care anymore. Not right now.