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Despite the axe-wielder’s objections, the Turncloak continued to shout out to the top of the valley unrestrained. He had assured her that nothing was listening out for them, and that the valley was dead, void of the beasts that seemed to stalk the world, but even he was unsure. His voice had carried too far now for him to take back his words. 

“Show yourself!” he cried once more, his deep, thundering voice seemed to shake the very sides of the dusty valleysides and it echoed for what seemed like eternity, snaking it’s way through the narrows with startling power. He slammed his halberd into the dirt as if to symbolise his position in taking a stand to whatever had been watching them. He had heard two voices, two distinct, different voices. One of a man, and one of- 

“[color=DimGray][i]The roses have bloomed. The moon will be full in an hour. The Turn of the Light matters not, what matters is your choice of trees amongst the forest.[/i][/color]” Came a voice from seemingly nowhere. Just as suddenly as it had rung past the Turncloak’s cries, there stood Tomb not but ten feet from the Axe-Wielder and the Knight. It was a most unusual creature, draped in cloaks of shifting colours with an eye of pure, tempered glass peering from their bundled embrace. Its voice sounded like the harmonic song of grinding stones, distorted into the crude impression of words. 
It was clear that this [i]thing[/i] was one of the voices from atop the valley, and that whatever accompanied it did not do so willingly, as a head seemed to appear from the thin scrub above to analyse the situation below. A haggard yet handsome face, also clothed in a deep purple robe. Another wanderer to most, but to the Turncloak it held the unmistakable reminiscence of familiarity, even from afar. 
The Turncloak looked to the Tomb - who had suddenly appeared before them, silently awaiting an answer to its cryptic anecdote - and to the man above. His gaze seemed to dance between the two for some moments, before he began to address the Tomb. 

“The Hermit sent you, did he not?” He had to bend down ever so slightly to look level into the glass eye of the creature. “In the kingdom of the Blind, the one eyed man is King,” 

Before the enigmatic beast could formulate an answer within its mechanical mind, the Turncloak had run his Halberd through the eye of the Tomb, conjuring a great, grinding shriek from the creature who promptly began to shrivel and deform. The rocks that seemed to make up his surface shrank and distorted in unusual, chaotic ways. Unusual hues of strange light glimmered from within as it’s bellowing squeal intensified the further the blade was pushed in to the fragile eye. Cracks like those in damaged glass began to spread sporadically across the beast, reaching far across his surface like the silent shadow of some mechanical assassin. A pulse of sound and a minor shockwave that dented the sand around it with a set of perfect concentric circles signalled the final moments of the Tomb, and the shrieking came to an abrupt halt that left the valley seeming quieter than it ever had been before. 

No wind nor birds in the sky were there to fill the blank canvas of sounds.  

The Turncloak looked the the Axe-Wielder, and back up again, knowing full well that the assassin was poised to kill. He could not allow this, not to the strangely familiar face of the man above.

“[b]Life-Giver![/b]” he shouted louder than before, shattering the eerie quite following the apparent death of the doomsaying Tomb, “[b]Do not strike this man![/b]” He seemed to be addressing the land itself, for he did not know where the skilled killer could have found to hide. 

“And you!” he called directly to the Prince of Lies. “You must come down into the valley! He has been watching and he knows where you are. The Turn of the Light approaches!” he gave him little time to even raise himself from hiding before he hurriedly urged him on. “Hurry!” 

The man was unsure as to what he should do, but found himself quickly scrambling down the side of the valley walls, half sliding, half climbing, plumes of dusty sand billowing in his wake as he rode the stony dune through the windless world. It took only a moment for him to cautiously reach the levelling bottom of the valley wall, where he began to stumble back to his feet and regain his composure, part of him shying away from the ominous looking group, and part of him wishing to join them with some semblance of reckless abandon. It had been so long since he had seen people…

But the Turncloak’s hunch had been correct. The face belonged to a familiar man… he wracked his brain to remember just a single detail, a glimpse of why and how. 

[color=DarkGray][i]A castle. A fiery horizon. A maze of doors. An open walkway. A watching statue. Midnight. Midday.[/i][/color]

“We travelled together once before, to the castle…” he whispered under his breath, before snapping back into action. 

“[b]How did you find us here! Were you followed?[/b]” he aggressively shouted to the man, who stunned by the sudden display of aggression. The Turncloak ran to him, grabbing him by the scruff of the neck and roaring his questions on repeat. 

“[b]Have you met an old man with a walking stick?[/b]”  

The man seemed to answer his questions quietly, still shocked by the forcefulness of his greeting. he had not been followed but by the Tomb, he had not met a man matching his description. It was, for the most part, safe. 

“Do you remember me?” he asked, almost in a whisper as he let the Prince’s robes slip from his plated, colossal hands. 

He did not await an answer, instead turning to his assembled group of wanderers, and shouting (for the benefit of the assassin, who was still in hiding) “It is not safe here, we must make haste unto the forest before the Light can be allowed to turn!” 

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The Hermit and the Young Lad had been shuffling and walking for some days before they made it from the sandy dunes before the mountain. The younger of the two had clearly restrained himself from asking too many questions on their long trek, and instead had moved side by side in relative silence. The Hermit coughed a few times, but other than that their mouths remained sealed except for the consumption of the nearly absurd amount of rather delicious and juicy berries and mushrooms that the Hermit had seemingly accumulated at random. The hills had stretched on for miles upon miles, the horizon dead with their monotony. So when they had finally come to a sparse patch of trees, the Hermit had almost jumped up with joy - or as much so as he was capable of - as it meant they were making progress. he had leaned over to his newfound younger companion and mentioned something about not needing maps before laughing to himself in that dry cackle for several hours on end. If the man they were searching for was here, he could have made it to the treelike by now. Likely in search of water or food. 

“He must be here somewhere,” the Hermit complained repeatedly. “Go on!” he urged his companion, nudging the backs of his knees with his walking stick as if to push him onwards. “Go see if you can find him. I thought I heard him a moment ago. Just go into the dead-tree forest. Shouldn’t be far. Go find him and persuade him to come back here.” 

The Hermit grinned at Pick, his four or five teeth glaring in the dusty twilight. “Go on, lad!”