Through half-squinted eyes, Jillian followed the necromancer’s actions – how he utilized magic to heat an apparently pre-prepared mixture of sorts, perhaps tea – and brought it over to her within mere seconds. It was a simple trick, for a magician anyways, Jillian knew, but even so she felt a kind of small happiness inside, witnessing the wonder of magic one more time. Indeed, the mere sight of Gerald activating a simple rune gave her the immediate urge to cast magic of some form, to bedazzle simplistic peasants and experienced sorcerers alike. Only, she was quickly reminded of her sorry state, hardly able to move, feeling cold and in pain, and so incredibly dirty. When Gerald knelt beside her to hand her the cup, she clumsily lifted her upper body and leaned on her elbow, and in that moment she could not help but notice how drenched in sweat and caked in dirt she was. The feeling of shame that washed over her made her unable to look him in the eyes. What a sorry sight she was!

“It tastes bad, but drink it anyway,” Gerald suggested, offering her the steaming cup and apparently not paying any heed to her appearance. It was entirely plausible that he had gotten used to it by now – the Spirits knew how long she had been asleep. She saw that it was evening, but it could still have easily been many hours from when she had last been conscious because it had only been afternoon then.

The witch took the cup in shaky, thin and cold hands and sniffed at the wispy vapors emanating from the watery concoction, quickly realizing how strong and foul it was. What in the planes was that? It looked like tea, but she had never smelled any tea like that before. Perhaps reading her thoughts, Gerald further explained why this drink would help her, and she could not deny that the benefits outweighed the cost of having to drink it.

“Heh, I just puked. Can’t t-taste much worse, can it?” she mused, partially towards Gerald and partially towards no one in particular. Was that even humorous? She did not find it terribly funny. Holding the warm cup made her feel even colder and, with a shiver, she took her first sip – and then Gerald briefly recounted what had happened while she was asleep. They were safe, that was a relief. Pelaid, why? She’d have to ask, that was a long ways from Anaxim forest. But what about…

Jillian almost choked on her drink when he told her that the battle was lost. She coughed for a moment to clear her pipes, then, as if all malady had been lifted from her by a miracle, she blurted out in full force:

“We WHAT?!”

Her voice was elevated, and she was clearly upset.

Jillian’s mind raced, trying to find answers to her many questions. Did the dragons come at all? If they did, how could any mortal hope to stop them? Were her actions, her almost becoming a martyr, all in vain? What happened to the forest, and to the demon prison? And what happened to the dragons if they lost? Dead? Preposterous!

She was more than just confused, she was angry. She wanted a justification for this, she wanted someone to take the blame. She had promised to overdeliver, to show Gerald how good of a sorceress she was and how she would be able to turn the tide of battle singlehandedly, and now someone had turned her victory into a humiliating defeat and, if her worst fears were confirmed, a catastrophe for all of Rodoria. Jillian did not want to stand for it, this was not her fault or her defeat. She did not deserve this, Gerald did not deserve this, nobody did, they had all tried too hard.

“Lost? Lost how?! I almost died over there to save our hides and you’re meaning to tell me they somehow managed to hand the battle to the crusaders anyway? It was a success Gerald, I did what you asked of me! The dragons were supposed to come, what about the dragons, Gerald?! Surely those bastards could not handle at the very least three dragons that I know of?! What happened? How could it go wrong? Gerald, tell me!”