[color=9e0b0f]Such wonders are born of these rich fires[/color] Final Words of Titian III Dormire, Last Emperor of the Somnus Imperium, during the Immolation of High Sepulchrave - The shattered moon hung low in the sky, its smoldering core lending to the night a dull red tinge, illuminating faintly what was left of High Sepulchrave, whose ruined spires and cracked domes crowded the dim horizon like a line of broken fangs. Arctos watched the night sky, as was his custom, tracing its spiraling constellations with his gaze, and tried to imagine what it was like when the moon was still whole. “It was pale,” said the wizard, who was looking neither at the sky nor at Arctos, but at the blade he was methodically sharpening, an elegant southern scimitar of Tripantese make, “So bright it obscured the stars some nights. With a tele-lens, you could see rivers and forests across its face. The Lady's Garden they called it. Quite beautiful.” Arctos glanced at his companion and snorted. He was used to the southron's uncanny way of guessing his thoughts, of answering questions that hadn’t been asked. But the moon had been broken two centuries ago. “Read that in one of your books?” he asked the wizard. The other man shrugged and shook his head and continued with his sharpening. Arctos snorted again and patted his vest, searching for his flask. Drinking wasn't his first choice- he was more a fan of the tarric root, but smoking at night in the plague lands was a quick way to attract unwanted attention. So Dalean brandy would have to do. He took a sip, washing the liquor over his gums and relishing the spreading numbness. It burned deliciously going down. “Drink?” he said, offering the flask. The other man took it with a nod. “I need to take a watch tonight?” Arctos asked. Some nights the wizard slept, most nights he didn’t. Drathans were odd like that. “No.” “Alright. I’m to sleep, then.” Arctos said, shooting a glance at the black silhouette of High Sepulchrave, looming in the middle distance. The Silent City, they called it now. He’d been born in there, spent his boyhood an orphan living in its narrow lanes and crooked alleys before being dragooned into the Legion to fight in the Emperor’s wars. He’d been back once since the Plague overtook the Imperium and left its lands a haunted waste. Looking for easy loot with a band of other ex-soldiers. Thirteen had gone in, four’d come out alive. Three had come out sane. He’d sworn he’d never go back so long as he lived. The things he’d seen were bad enough. Temples rebuilt, but not to Justinian. The rats, swollen and twisted. The children, if that’s what they were, living among the charred ruins, leering out from behind doorways and piles of stone. Worse though were the things he hadn’t seen… but had felt were there, just out of sight. Waiting. Gestating. But the southron wizard had needed a guide, and his pay was very good indeed. And by all the Holy Laws of Sacrosanctum, he needed the money. In the distance, a woman screamed. Arctos’ hand dropped to his sword belt on instinct, as it did every time he heard the Afflicted, but this one wasn’t close. Probably. Sound sometimes traveled weirdly in the Plague Lands. The wizard looked up from his sword, and Arctos’ stomach twisted slightly as he detected a trace of unease in the other man’s usually inscrutable face. “Go to sleep,” the southron said, “We’ll need to be quick tomorrow.” “Aye. Let’s hope this book you’re after is worth it. And easy to find.” “Let’s hope.” Arctos lay down on his bedroll and closed his eyes, trying to focus on the rhythmic, comforting grind of stone against steel as his companion worked on his blade. After a time, he fell into a fitful slumber, trying not to dream of the children he had glimpsed the last time he’d entered the Silent City. Of their soft laughter, and rows of needle teeth.