“Corrupt one vital pillar, and the entire structure will crumble after it,” Smaya answered Ghent’s nearly inaudible question. Her soft voice bounced off the waters of the mysterious pool with a pleasant melancholy. “Though we reside in different planes, we are all still connected, two parts of one whole.” The Guardian waited patiently for Ghent’s answer to her request. If not for the gentle billow of her hair caught in the occasional phantom breeze, the woman looked for all the world a statue. Though barely a twitch of her lips, a knowing smile tugged at their corners at Ghent’s apology for his reaction to her request. With a slow blink, she gave a slight, unhurried shake of her head in dismissal. “Laughter unfueled by death's mania is hardly in need of apology. These woods have been devoid of such a sound for far too long,” she finished through another sigh filled with longing and regret. She fell silent, watching him as he stared into the rippling waters. Only the gentle rush of the impossible waterfall broke the silence. Even the dance of the stars above grew subdued, as if they had decided to pause to listen in on their conversation. Smaya met his gaze when he looked back to her. His words drew another soft, sorrowful smile from the woman. “That’s all I ask, young vinifcium.” A lost soul keened somewhere in the distance, the woeful sound little more than a whisper. Smaya glanced toward it, her downtrodden expression unwavering. “My duties call.” She looked back to Ghent, her voice ever mournful. “You are welcome to stay a while, but it is best you don’t linger too long in my absence. The Betwixt can be a dangerous place for the living without a Spiritayian escort. Especially for a vinifcium. Stay too long, and it will claim your spirit.” She nodded respectfully to Ghent, then turned with a gentle swish of her dress. Before the folds at her bare feet could fully settle, her form burst into green mist. It swirled about, glittering in the moonlight. [i]“Farewell, young Madrail.”[/i] Her voice echoed in the air as the mist wrapped in a loose spiral around him. [i]“And good luck.”[/i] The glittering mist dissipated in a twinkling burst. It settled toward the ground and vanished as quickly as it had come. With Smaya gone, the moonlight once more silvered the world. The orb’s undulating form reflected brokenly in the pool, the gentle rush of the waterfall quick to replace the silence. [center][img]https://i.imgur.com/olp6rXf.png?1[/img][/center] For a long moment, only the warm voice of the fire filled the clearing. The enchantment around the area turned a distant wail into little more than the moaning whisper of a nonexistent wind. Elayra glanced toward Ghent, curiosity getting the better of her. In the darkness resting outside the fire’s small, comforting ring of golden light, Ghent’s form was nearly impossible to make out. She blinked, squinting, until her eyes adjusted to the difference in lighting just enough to tell Ghent had again become translucent. She released a breath she hadn’t realized she held. Hoping the dunderhead wouldn’t offend the Guardian and make her send her wrath raining down on them, Elayra glanced to Drust. The White Knight still had his eyes closed. His chest rose and fell in a forced steady rhythm. A rhythm she knew well. The heat and crackling lullaby of the fire made her eyelids weigh heavily. With another glance to make sure Ghent hadn’t turned solid, she let her own eyes droop closed. Without her consent, she began to doze sitting up. Her chin dropped to her chest, and she jerked awake. “Rest, girl,” Drust intoned, one eye open and on her. It met her gaze before closing. “The curative works best in slumber.” “I know,” she said through a sigh, struggling to keep an irritated edge from her voice. She glanced uneasily between him and Ghent. With her luck, as soon as she fell asleep, she’d wake up to the sounds of Ghent screaming bloody murder from the sharp end of Drust’s katana. “But—” Drust interrupted with a heaving, growling sigh. Something a strange mix between a toothy grin and a scowl pulled at his face. “Then you should also know you’re no use to us in your condition.” He opened his eyes and met her stare, hard. His gaze had returned to their normal, eerie black-veined red. The lines snaking from the corners of his eyes remained stationary, the Curse subdued for the moment. She nodded stiffly. “Fine.” Reluctantly, she got into her pack. After a moment, she pulled out her cloak. With a groan, she draped it over herself like a blanket, careful to keep its tattered, worn fabric far enough from the fire. She glanced toward Drust when the Knight moved to grab his katana. She stiffened, but he kept his actions slow, deliberate. Reassuring. He gripped the sheath in one hand, then drew the long sword. The satisfying [i]shing[/i] of it pulling from its scabbard rang in the air. Its long, silver blade glinted in the firelight as he examined it. A hint of pride tinged with regretful sorrow sparkled in his eyes for a fraction of a second before he carefully twirled the weapon and stuck its sharp tip in the ground beside him. “But if anything—” “It’ll be [i]fine,[/i] girl,” he growled, an eye twitching. “Sleep.” He smirked down at her. “If you can’t, I’m sure I can find a remedy for that.” Elayra scowled. “I can manage, thanks,” she grumbled, reaching to adjust her pack roughly where her head would land. Drust gave a snorting “Hmm.” Legs crossed under him, he took a deep breath and closed his eyes again. Taking a breath of her own, she laid down, using the lumpy pack as a familiar makeshift pillow. She drew the cloak tighter around her, warding off the chill of the night at her back. Quicker than she thought possible, her aching body fell into a sleep deeper than she could have hoped for. Drust watched her for a moment until her breathing evened out into that of slumber. Satisfied she had at last done as ordered, he gave a short sigh then resumed his meditative position, his back straight. Hands resting on his knees, ready to grasp his katana at a moment’s notice, he slowed his own breaths. Each one drew in quieter than the last as he shifted focus to the sounds of the forest, listening to muffled rustlings and warped voices even Elayra couldn’t have picked out. If Ghent so much as twitched upon his return, chances were, he’d hear it.