Leaning in on Gerald – perhaps more than was necessary – Jillian’s overall impression of the necromancer’s body posture could be summarized thus: stiff. There was a kind of rigidness to his form that was not as readily apparent underneath the swaddling robe of his, but which she now felt very physically. [i]He’s tense. Nervous, perhaps. Or at least uncomfortable.[/i] She could only wonder why; she knew that he had been married once, even expecting to become a father, so he clearly had no fear of women in general. Was it specific to her? Or was it just a more recent symptom, born of his tragedy? She couldn’t say, but no matter the reason, she could hear her inner devil whisper temptations of seeing just how far she could push the necromancer until he recoiled from her – or gave in. Briefly she wondered how he would react (and what he would think) if she leaned her head against his chest. Put her hand on his leg. Stroked. Purred.

It was all fantasy of course. She understood that she was pushing her luck as it was, and she was not trying to seduce him; she was legitimately freezing and wanted his warmth more than anything else right now. In fact, maybe it wasn’t her physical presence at all, maybe it was her question that made him uneasy. It was obvious that he wasn’t happy with having things about his person known to her or, probably, anyone. It was not inconceivable that he would avoid her question, change the subject, or at least only ask about her. Although he took a moment to savor his tea and consider his next move he did, to her surprise, open up and talk about himself, revealing far more than she would have expected.

“Remdal…” she muttered thoughtfully. Of course the name was known to her; not only was his name common knowledge for someone who lived in the higher stratum of Zerul City, but Jillian had furthermore been a student at the very academy that both Gerald and his stepfather had been associated with. Wide, viridian eyes stared at the necromancer’s face. Remdal… something about the name had a spicy aftertaste, like a half-forgotten memory about to rise from the ashes. It was there somewhere, in her subconscious, but before she even had to dig for it, Gerald spelled it out for her: the fire, of course. The scandal. It had been the talk of the city for weeks, speculations running wild. Now, however, there was no more need to guess as the final piece of the puzzle fell into place with a satisfying click.

“Huh, so that’s you. Makes a lot of sense now; not many bought the story of an innocent accident. I know I didn’t.”

The witch betrayed no smile, but felt glad that, for perhaps the first time, Gerald was so willing to open up to her. It was a good sign. His story was not yet complete, he hadn’t mentioned his wife yet, or his reasons for learning necromancy, but it could wait. Few portraits worth their Rodlins were painted in a single day, after all. She wondered what Dennis was like. Asking was unlikely to give her an objective answer; Gerald would almost certainly feel disdain for the man, given their disagreement. She couldn’t blame him. Unlikely that she would find him charming either if his stance towards necromancy was to burn it all to cinders. Well, at least she could appreciate his chosen method. Before she could ask about his stepfather, however, the necromancer tilted the spotlight onto her. How had she been discovered? What was her punishment? Well…

“Mh,” she murmured, “Not exiled. Not quite. I think you got off easy because you’re a Remdal. Hum, say, have you perchance heard of the Voice of Reason?”

In the likely event that he hadn’t, she continued: “As a necromancer, there was a small chance you might’ve. Put simply, it was a little secret gathering of like-minded individuals – influential people, I might add – with a desire to push for legalizing forbidden magics. Peacefully, mind you. And slowly, but firmly. My… well, my teacher – in black magic – was associated with them and through him, I was also introduced to their little round table. Long story short, though, something went wrong. Maybe we hid our trail too poorly, maybe somebody talked. Either way,  our meeting was busted and we were all arrested on two charges: the practice of forbidden magic, as well as treason. They put us in the dungeon, had me neatly tied up from head to toe. Couldn’t move a finger. They had to, gave them the illusion of safety. They hadn’t gagged me for the interrogation, meaning I could have conflagrated half the dungeon with a single word. I didn’t, but someone else did I think. You don’t put that many sorcerers together into a tight space and promise them deaths of varying painfulness. Someone’s going to snap. And so they did. T’wasn’t long before the dungeon was in utter chaos and fugitives took to the corridors, overwhelming wardens and releasing more prisoners. They sent reinforcements quickly. Witch-hunters, mages, whatever it took. If they couldn’t contain us, they would purge the entire dungeon. I don’t know how we did it but Vince and I, we escaped with our lives, fled into the nightfallen streets. No idea what became of the others. We packed our things and left the city. Were pursued still, ran into witch-hunters on the Zerulic-Anaximite border just this morning. They… they got Vince. Almost did me in too.“

“There,” she nodded to the sheathed silver sword lying next to the bedroll that she had been sleeping in earlier, “that’s the weapon that killed Vince. Poor bastard. He didn’t deserve it. Never hurt a soul.”

“Much nicer than I ever was,” she added more quietly. She stayed quiet then, catching her breath after a rather lengthy answer. [i]So, Gerald, there you have it. You’re cuddling not just a witch, but also a traitor. I don’t suppose that bothers you, huh?[/i]