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[I]They sure turned quiet up there all of a sudden,[/I] Fixer thought amusedly, shooting a glance over his shoulder back up at the roof where Ixion and his little friend were still watching. He wished he knew what was going through their minds right now; fear? Anger? Some kind of sense of righteous justice? They had to be preoccupied with something, the Sniffer in particular, considering that they had barely even moved from the spot and not uttered a word since he had dropped down here, held his speech for Blue and started basically looting her corpse. He had half-expected at least the Sniffer to take the opportunity and try to ambush him while his back was turned and he was busy fiddling with the woman's belt and scabbard, considering the one's lack of affiliation with him and previously displayed irrational hostility. It would have been a grave mistake to do so, of course - one that would have promptly cost the Sniffer a few internal organs - but he had not been fully confident that even that one realized the true power-gap between the two of them, considering that his soul was deceptively small for one of such a fearsome role as himself; still large by mortal standards, certainly, but nothing compared to an immortal. But then, magic was not preferred mode of fighting, either; he liked being up close and personal, feeling his opponent's skin against his own if at all possible, being able to feel it every time a bone snapped and a tendon ripped. He wanted to feel warm blood on his hands, wanted to see the dread and agony in their eyes as the light faded... He did not usually use his weapons at all, either. It was regrettable that he had had to kill Blue the way he had... no fun whatsoever.
He had to remove Blue's belt entirely to free the scabbard on her right hip - the one that had held her Dirge - and remove it, after which he unbuckled his own belt and attached it to his own right hip, right next to the hoop that held his war pick in place. It was ironic, somehow, that he could kill probably ninety-nine percent of all beings in the Planes with one hand or less, but something as mundane as unbuckling a belt, putting a scabbard on it and holding up his pants required him to use both of his hands. It was only when handling his own belt that he removed his left hand from its pocket, too, and revealed that it was indeed exactly what one would expect a left hand to be: a mirrored copy of the right one, nothing more and nothing less. It was not particularly stronger or weaker than his right one, it was just the one he had picked not to use in order to give himself a handicap against lesser opponents - which was pretty much everyone - to make fighting them last a little longer and provide a little more entertainment. He liked limiting himself in different ways like that; the weaker the opponent, the less of his full potential he unleashed. Against Ixion and the Sniffer up there he would have gone bare-handed and only used his right hand, and probably only used elemental magic if they surprised him. He had plenty more up his sleeve if they turned out stronger than expected, then; his weapons, his magic, his other hand and the additional dexterity that came with it, the secrets bestowed upon him by Lysis, and of course the power he had traded his freedom to the boss for. He had never encountered an opponent that had required him to go all-out, though... but that was the dream. A worthy opponent! A truly exciting fight! Ah, it had been nearly a decade since he had surpassed nearly everyone out there, since last he had a true challenge... He might have considered challenging the Seclyrian Tournament Champion, Samuel Self-Namer, if he had not been on the boss' no touchie-list. Or the one who had just sauntered right into Cave Bear's Keep, insulted and threatened Kevalorn, the vessel of Hazzergash, told him where the Demon Prison could be found and then left; such power a man had to have to possess that kind of ridiculous confidence! Surely this person - this 'Draigen', as he had called himself - would be a worthy opponent if he ever found him.
Once his belt was back in place and his new scabbard resting comfortably against his right hip, Fixer first returned his left hand to its pocket and then sort of crab-walked sideways without straightening to retrieve Blue's demon-hilted sword; her Dirge. No one outside of Corpse Forge and the Oracle knew this, but there could only ever exist fifteen Dirges at once, so new ones could only be made once the old ones were destroyed, allowing the magic in the sword to return to its maker to be infused into a new blade. Each Dirge, despite of them being virtually identical aside from generic wear and tear, was unique and belonged to a specific tool: one for each of the nine tools of Rodorian dukes, Blue, Yellow, Red, Green, Orange, Purple, Pink, Black and White; one for each of the four tools of the Rodorian king, Gold, Crystal, Gray and Grim; and finally, one for each of the two Kirkinian tools, Fersta and Ekunda, or First and Second in Rodorian. Now that Fixer had the Blue Dirge from today, and the Grim Dirge he had taken with him from the time he still recognized Grim Tool as his own name, Corpse Forge would not be able to truly name successors to those positions among their numbers; as long as Fixer had these Dirges, there could never be another Blue or Grim. He was going to collect all fifteen.

Sliding Blue's Dirge back into its scabbard at its new home on his hip, Fixer turned his attention back to his two new friends on the roof. He had a couple of things he wanted to say before leaving, but now that the important business was over with he knew that he really had to hurry a little; Blue had made something of a spectacle of fighting against the two, and while the authorities would definitely do whatever they could to downplay and hide Blue's death to preserve the existence of the tools as a secret, dead guardsmen or civilians was bound to start sowing enmity against him among the populace, potentially making conducting his business in Zerul City much more difficult. He would prefer to be gone by the time additional witnesses arrived at the scene.
"Oy, Ixie," he called, easily slipping back into his fake Kirkinian accent despite having just spoken perfect Rodorian; all tools were multilingual, so speaking one with the accent of another had become a natural evolution of that skill to Fixer, as had knowing when to use which accent and when to speak without one. Accents had a profound psychological effect on most people, he had observed, and were yet another effective way of manipulating them into thinking and feeling exactly what he wanted them to think or feel. "Is the guy tha' pois'n'd ya still 'live?"

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What a pair of greedy, aimless buggers his new companions were Gerald observed with some annoyance, particularly at Salas' demand in return for his cooperation. On top of it seeming like a mostly unreasonable demand from someone who had just moments ago stated that he would go along with just about anything the rest of them decided in return for him supplying his "knowledge of the use of a sword", the warlock was not even sure that he [I]could[/I] teach him at all. He was no elementalist and had no practice in elemental magic whatsoever, so although he had once been a teacher at the Academy he was largely unqualified to teaching that school of magic. Unless he meant for Gerald to teach him arcane magic? But that idea seemed preposterous; a mute wielding a type of magic of which at least half of the standard incantation was in the vocal component was so improbable that it was almost laughable. It took a masterful sorcerer to be capable of reliably casting even simple spells with words or gestures only, so for a novice to hope to be able to use magic with only gestures was close to impossible. Using his wind to produce the vocal component of spells might work in theory, but having a flow of energy feeding his wind-voice at the same time as he was supposed to mold energy into his spell would once again require great skill and possibly necromancer-level control of magical energy.
He did not say anything in response to Salas request, however, but reacted only with a shrug of his bony shoulders; an ambiguous gesture that could be interpreted however Salas wanted. If Salas came along Gerald might try to teach him as best as he could, but chances were that Salas would never learn much from him, and at most would probably end up killing himself by failing a spell.

At least Jillian seemed more willing to cooperate this time around, although that was probably mainly because she had already been promised what she wanted in return and felt that she just had to uphold her end of the agreement, and reiterated how she had nowhere else to go and indirectly how she had nothing but this left in her life. The necromancer was still annoyed with how helpless and weak she allowed herself to seem, especially after all that bravado back in the Anaxim Forest, but he opted to ignore it for the time being. They were coming along, which meant that Gerald's chances of success increased dramatically.
"In fact I would recommend that you postpone your departure until the coming dawn and seize the peace that remains of today to rest," Crone surprisingly replied to the witch's statement, drawing her shawl closer around herself to ward off the chill of evening. "There will be nary a chance to rest once you traverse the ashen fields of the east, and upon your return the confrontation with our infernal adversary will be imminent; now may be the final opportune moment to conjure the strength required for these great goals."
"Very well," Gerald nodded, prompting Crone to look at him instead of Jillian. "We will head to Jevog Denûm tomorrow, then."
"I will not be accompanying you," the old woman once again surprised Gerald. "You will have Renold, so this task of yours should not require my assistance. I shall instead embark upon a journey of my own, to find an old friend who may be able to lend us valuable aid in our battle against Hazzergash. Walking the paths of magic, I will likely conclude my business before you accomplish yours; I will await you here when that time comes, for us to face the enemy."

"One thing," Gerald demanded abruptly, turning to face the Elder Green with a frown upon his face. "I appreciate that you will take us to an expert who may be able to give us the next clue on the Withering, if not the cure itself, but you still owe me the explanation you promised." He crossed his arms over his chest, the necklace with Hazzergash's Demon Prison still clutched in his hand. "The one about why people have been recovering from the Withering in the Anaxim Forest, I mean."
"Yes, I suppose I do owe you that," Renold admitted with a sigh. "Very well, I will tell you what we have deduced, both before you came here and after."
[I]After?[/I] he thought, his frown deepening. Had his arrival helped them understand the Withering better?
"In short, the reason that the Withering has been dying whenever it came near the Anaxim Forest has nothing to do with the forest itself," the dragon started explaining. "I originally suspected that it might have been because of the Tree of Life, myself, until I realized that the tree does not possess any properties that should cure diseases like it did. I began to think, and became certain once I heard of your discovery on how the Withering is an affliction that drains magical energy, that the true thing that has been purging the Withering from its victims is not related to nature at all; rather, what has been curing them has been the very thing you now hold in your hand."
Gerald raised the hand holding the Demon Prison, arching an eyebrow at the dragon. "What do you mean? [I]This[/I] is the cure?"
"Not exactly; the prison as you hold it now will not cure the Withering in yourself or anyone else, but its taint - the demonic essence that seeped from it over the course of the thousands of years it has been hidden in the Anaxim Forest, which I'm sure you noticed permeated the very air there - was strong enough to overpower the Withering."
The scholar was still skeptical. "How?"
"When two immortal forces clash, the greater force will always overcome the lesser one. I was not sure how it was that the Withering was supposed to antagonize Hazzergash's taint before, but knowing now that the Withering drains magical energy from its victims it makes much more sense. If the Withering tried to draw in the ambient demonic essence in the forest, the taint would definitely react by affecting the plague with an oppositely directed force, and since the taint in the forest was so strong, it destroyed the Withering."
"I see," Gerald nodded, seeing how that could make sense. "So the Withering is divine, then. A god is doing this to us."
"No," the Green shook his head. "I don't think so. If this was a divine affliction, simply absorbing shreds of infernal energy should have been enough to annihilate it. It did not seem like the act of absorbing the taint itself was what destroyed the Withering, but the retribution of the taint. What we're seeing is not divine and infernal energies cancelling each other upon mixing, but of one infernal energy destroying a competing infernal energy."
"Meaning..." the warlock muttered breathlessly, feeling suddenly very ill at the realization of what Renold was telling him.
The dragon nodded. "The Withering is a demonic taint. A demon is devouring the souls of thousands of mortals with the plague... but we have no idea who it is, or how it is doing it."