Jillian felt a tinge of pity for the great, winged creature when he expressed his feelings of sorrow over the loss he had felt this day. She could not even guess at his true age; hundreds at least, possibly thousands of years. An unfathomable time span for a mere human. Most of it he must have spent in the forest that she had just witnessed being turned into a wasteland. His home was gone, and so were all of its inhabitants save for Crone, if indeed she had always lived there. She doubted this. Loss on such a scale was difficult to accept and Jillian felt a degree of kinship with Renold. After all, she too had lost the things dear to her, even if in a less violent fashion, for the most part. Gerald too had known great loss, the only unknown here was Crone. She was old enough, certainly, to have been able to experience similar tragedies, if only by virtue of outliving the people dear to her. Everyone’s personal tragedy near this pond felt like a bonding link that tightened their alliance, if only by a little.

“Then it is decided,” the Green declared after everyone had agreed to back down and rest for the remainder of this evening before taking off into the sky to hunt. Similarly, Renold and Crone each went their own way, leaving the witch to figure out what to do with the time given to her now. Originally – before the communion with the Grand Master – she had intended to wash by the pond, preferably using Renold as visual cover. Reminding herself of this, she once again felt thorough disgust towards her filthy clothing and greasy, ungroomed hair. She’d simply have to make do without the great dragon.

“I’ll try to get some of this filth off of me,” Jillian said, grasping at one of her sleeves in an effort to appraise just how badly worn her attire was, eyeing it with revulsion. “Assuming the water hasn’t been tainted now and makes me catch some kind of demon plague.”

“I better not catch you peeping, Glass,” she chidingly added over her shoulder while she was trotting off towards the pond, her gait somewhat sluggish and saggy.

Moments later, coming to a halt just at the water’s murky edge, Jillian cast one last look behind herself, seeing Gerald by the campfire, evidently paying no attention to her. Unsurprising; she had come to know him as a quiet and introverted type, more interested in their own thoughts and goals than the outside world. Maybe her impression was wrong, however, as she’d only known him for less than a day. He resembled Vincent in that regard, although the latter had been more impressionable and less willful than Gerald. Jillian wondered how the two would get along if they had had the chance to meet, as her shirt fell into the damp grass to her right.

“Kreshtaat, it’s cold!” she muttered to herself, clutching her meager arms around her emaciated chest. After a brief moment, she outstretched her right hand and traced a handful of symbols in the air while softly whispering under her breath. Within seconds, a bright orange flame burst from her palm, which she cradled near body. With the other hand she fumbled on her makeshift skirt until it too became loose and was dropped on the ground. Then she carefully dipped one of her feet in the water, finding it expectedly cold. All she could think of was a luxurious tub filled with steaming warm water. What she wouldn’t give to have one now. Clenching her teeth, she sunk one foot, then two into the water, feeling them sink into the soft earth below the surface. She could only hope not to step on anything revolting. When she was at about waist depth, she knelt down and made her brightly burning flame vanish. Submerging herself in the water, she began scrubbing her body, then later dipped her head and hair underwater and thoroughly rubbed through her scarlet mane.

Some fifteen minutes later she returned ashore, dripping wet, quivering body and chattering teeth. Only the biting wind listened to her incessant, mumbled cursing, foul words to lament a foul fate. She grabbed her shirt and submerged it into the pond next, kneading it as best she could in the murky waters. While doing so she was reminded of the unusual foreigner who had given it to her, as well as his colorful group of followers. What a disastrously awkward meeting that had been. Was he from Catohlone? Golerin? He threatened Jillian at sword point (even going so far as to train his bizarre war animal on her), wanting to judge her for her actions when he had no authority over her, and seemed to keep that other insufferable woman around for unknown purposes, though the witch could hazard a guess. It would fit the bill for a Catohlone. But maybe she was mistaken. The woman had shown some aptitude for magic of some sort – the kind of which Jillian had never seen, seemingly able to inflict orders on other people. She would have to ask Gerald or Crone about that, maybe they could explain to her what she’d witnessed. Could have been favored power of some kind.

When she was done, she wrapped the blanket that had previously been but a skirt around her entire body. The cloth was plentiful enough to allow her to decently cover herself from the breasts down to just under her knees in thanks to her modest height. Dangling the wet shirt in one of her hands, she slowly returned to camp, curious eyes spying about for her companions and what they might have been up to in the meantime.