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[h3]The Duchy of Zerul, by a road in southwest[/h3]
It was a blessed relief to put some distance between himself and Angora, a refreshing sensation similar to getting into a tub with warm water after a day of hard toil in the cold. Jaelnec could feel his muscles relaxing as the world ceased moving under his feet, his thoughts started to flow more easily and the horrid paranoia that had gripped him before softened into mild anxiety. He sighed softly as his shoulders slumped, finally starting to feel properly like himself again. Being in that aura for extended periods of time, he thought, would be a nightmare.
He could not allow himself to relax all the way just yet, though; Aemoten would not have requested that they spoke privately unless it was something important, and the squire owed it to him to take the situation seriously. The first thing that occurred to Jaelnec might need to be discussed between them was Roct – the sword and the entity within it – which seemed disturbingly relevant with Olan having just revealed to the others where the previously dubbed “Mother Tigress” truly resided and with Angora’s condition having turned out to be unnervingly similar to his own. He tried to guess what the Sekalyn would say about her that would be this important, and nervously realized that there was a pretty high chance that Aemoten would demand that he got rid of Roct as he had with Black Thorn. And why would he not? Roct had proven dangerous, so why not just discard her first chance he got? It was not his responsibility that she, whatever she was, would apparently be condemned to total solitude without a wielder... was it?

Jaelnec’s brow furrowed in effort to understand when Aemoten actually started speaking, setting immediately into, of all things, an explanation of one of the core values of the Knighthood of the Will, which was also the namesake of the order and something Freagon had lectured him on at several different occasions, and which his old master had made a point to frequently test to its limit, all while goading him to defiantly push that little bit farther every time. Yes, willpower was certainly a resource that could both be depleted and trained, and Jaelnec had experienced both and thought that he probably possessed a stronger will than most... though nowhere near that Freagon had had. How could one compete with the willpower of someone who carried on his knightly duties even when inflicted with the Withering, right up until his body finally gave in to the plague?
It was the part about principles being broken and emotions listened to that made the Nightwalker realize why he was bringing it up: Jaelnec’s stated desire to kill Angora just minutes ago. The young squire shrank visibly at the thought, avoiding their leader’s gaze in shame as he – now much more clear-headed than before – recalled the thoughts and emotions that had passed through his head when he had stood over Angora, remembered the sadistic bloodlust that had consumed him in that moment, and was shaken to the core of his being by it. He trembled, thoroughly disgusted with himself, and found that it was even more shameful that his left hand kept clutching the hilt of his sword in desperate search for comfort.
“I’m sorry,” he said under his breath, still unable to meet Aemoten’s gaze. But the human was not done speaking just yet, it seemed.

Now the subject turned to Roct, as Jaelnec had suspected. The squire actually made a point of taking his hand off the sword once the topic was brought up just to be completely sure that he had severed all connection to the entity within it, and forced himself to pull himself together and face Aemoten, lest he ended up nervous enough for the compulsion to seek comfort from the sword to overpower the conscious decision not to do so.
“I only started hearing her... well, after Master Freagon died,” he explained when Aemoten inquired about him hearing Roct before. “But then again I didn’t have the sword before then, and it was a pretty emotional time for me. She was completely silent for a while after that day, when she took control of me, but...” He shook his head. “I didn’t think anything of it back then... I think she has always made it a point to speak when I’m distraught, though, or angry. To try to calm me down.”
He paused a moment to think before commenting on the rest of Aemoten’s questions. “I don’t think I’ve had any... no, that's not true. I don't think she possessed me, but she made me black out this morning, when Rilon's child form appeared. Said it was to stop me from trying to move. But...” He paused again, straining himself to remember. “When... the time I was possessed... I think I have a vague memory of... dying? I can’t remember the specifics, it was like a dream, but I remember the dread and the desperate realization that I was going to die, and that I wasn’t me. I think it was one of Roct’s memories. So... I think it does go both ways, yeah.”
He sighed. “I’ve learned to shut her out and can sever the connection between us by letting go of the sword, but I don’t think I can isolate myself from her completely unless I get rid of the sword. Maybe you should speak with her, see if she really can’t comprehend humanoids? And if she can’t...” He shrugged. “I guess I’ll have to find a new sword.”

After a bit of confused anxiety in regards to Thaler – anxiety that Jaelnec shared, to the point where he was about to start running off back towards the road in an effort to locate her – it appeared that Aemoten decided to split their group up, at least for a while... a decision Jaelnec did not like one bit.
“Are you sure you’ll be okay without me?” he asked, afraid that something might happen to his only two friends in the world while he was not around to at least try to protect them, but undeniably also hesitant to return to the others and subject himself to the full intensity of Angora’s aura once more, probably for much longer this time. “If you want me to go to the others I will, but the three of you... none of you are at your best, right?”

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[h3]The Duchy of Zerul, by a road in southwest[/h3]
Olan tumbled backward onto his back once Angora’s trials seemed to be over, panting heavily with exertion as his chest ached and his arms and back hurt, and rivulets of sweat drenched his face and his tunic, both front, back and under the arms. He breathed so hard that it made him feel nauseous and light-headed – even more so than Angora’s aura did – and squeezed his eyes shut as he tried desperately to regain his composure.
It was more than just the strain from restraining the not-entirely-human woman while Iridiel did her deed, a part of him pointed out, and he knew that it was true even without investigating the matter any further. Yes, holding down Angora had been hard, but not [I]that[/I] hard. The way his stamina felt drained and the soreness in his muscles... he had not even felt it before because it was relatively minor, but exerting himself definitely made him conscious of how magical exhaustion was weakening him. It was merely first stage of exhaustion, to be sure, and was far from his limit, but it was still unnerving to realize that speaking in true words – even without invoking power through them – could drain him that much, even if he had spoken quite a few of them. Recalling times before he had lost his memory when he had used the power of the words, there could be little doubt that he was weaker now, for some reason...
So naturally Olan was doubly relieved when Angora proved to have recovered the ability to speak and understand Rodorian; there was really no telling how long he could have kept speaking in true words before he would have started progressing along the stages of exhaustion.

“Slow down there, you know?” he chuckled between heavy breaths when Angora profusely declared how she owed them all a lot and wanted to help them to repay what they had done. “It’s great that you’re feeling better, but you just went through something pretty bad... and you don’t even know who we are, you know? Or what we’re doing.”
Seeing as Aemoten and Jaelnec were both a bit off into the distance for the moment discussing whatever they needed to discuss, Olan figured that he might as well continue speaking on behalf of his group, as he had done thus far. “My name is Olan, and my group – Aemoten, Thaler and Jaelnec – are trying to end the Withering, you know? And yeah, we’re going to the city, but I’ll warn you that we’ve had the [I]worst[/I] luck... I mean, we’ve learned a few things about the plague, but only in-between fighting demons, monsters, cultists and gods, you know?” He chuckled again, wiping his face with his sleeve. He shot a glance at Domhnall, hoping that he would realize that the warning was meant for him and Iridiel, too. “You might not want to get involved.”

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[h3]Duchy of Pelgaid, secluded pond[/h3]
“I didn’t sacrifice everything I’ve ever had just so I could die for nothing.”
Gerald closed his eyes, feeling a throb of a pain he believed himself accustomed to that was strong enough to nearly break his resolve, however strong it was and however long he had held on, and make him surrender to oblivion. It was not the Withering, though that certainly inflicted both constant pain and tested his resolve... No, this was an even older agony that had lived in him since years before he contracted the plague, one that was far worse than any physical torment he had undergone before or since, and one that had worked both as the source of his determination and the force that pushed him ever closer to the abyss of hopelessness. A wound to his heart, a poet might call it, though he doubtlessly sneer at and mock anyone making such a statement.
“Sacrifice everything I’ve ever had”, Jillian said, and she most likely had; being recognized as a witch was bad enough, but if she had become a murderer since, chances were that all that awaited her in Zerul City was a potential disownment from her family and the consequent loss of whatever wealth might have been hers, the loss of her magical abilities as she was made a sniffer and a prison cell. Her name, home and wealth had certainly been sacrificed, though at least she still had her health and her magical power. He did not even envy the fact that she had those two things, though, even as both his power and health waned more with each passing day... but even if she were to lose that, she still would not feel the truth of how deep loss could cut, how cruel the world could be.
How many times had he contemplated simply ending his suffering in his darkest moments? Especially in the beginning, back when he was still an instructor at the academy and had yet to delve into necromancy, his will to live had been diminished until it was negligible and he would likely have allowed anyone with the inclination to do so to end him with little more than token resistance. But he had lived... in spite of it all he had lived, even when most thought it impossible for him to do so. Through the murk of his own sorrow, through disgrace, persecution, sickness and danger he had continued living, always moving on, always with the resolve to sacrifice [I]anything[/I]. He had killed, tortured, exploited and stolen until he was so thoroughly permeated by evil that he barely cared anymore, and he had to live with despising what he had become.
No, however true the words might be in a practical sense, Jillian did not know what it meant to truly sacrifice everything one had. That did not invalidate her statement, though.... and he certainly did not want to die, either, least of all for nothing. Not now.

“I could manifest minions, conjure undead or summon wraiths to support us against assorted servants under Hazzergash’s command,” Crone told Jillian, addressing the matter of what to do if the Swallower of Worlds was not alone, “but doing so would leave me less energy to sustain the circle. Furthermore, they would be destroyed or evade domination if Hazzergash were to possess me, unless the demon seized control of them instead.”
“That won’t do,” Renold admitted sadly. “As for the minute, that is the [I]worst[/I] case. At best we might be able to hold him for several minutes, but I dare not guarantee more than one minute.”
“You won’t [I]need[/I] a minute,” Gerald muttered sharply, sounding even more irritable than usual. “Once I get my hand on Hazzergash’s host and start moving him he won’t be able to do anything, circle or no circle. Once I’m in position you can abandon the binding circle and take care of whatever others he might have with him.”
The Green nodded, apparently pleased with this piece of news. “As for if things go wrong...” He sighed. “There is nothing we [I]can[/I] do. Even if Crone doesn’t get possessed and still has enough energy left to teleport and get away with the crystal, Hazzergash will probably have a fresh host by then and teleport to follow her. If this fails there most likely will be no escaping him...”