[center][h3][color=00aeef]Ianthe[/color][/h3][/center]
And there went the monk. 

Ianthe heard the concern in Edgar’s words, she felt the same. Though Avaddon had been a rather loud and seemingly excitable man, she doubted he meant to face a nesting of miniboros all by his lonesome. Still, intentions often held little weight to what could actually happen, and if he wasn’t careful—or perhaps even if he was—he may find himself in a dire situation without aid. She hoped not, not just for his sake, but for the group’s as well. 

Balder seemed to be holding together well, which was a relief. She’d seen plenty of leaderly-types among the bandit troupes, and plenty of them were quick to crack when faced with a real threat. Of course, she didn’t want to compare the Hunters Guild to them, but in the back of her mind, the part that denied the existence of true altruism, she couldn’t help it. She felt like a mercenary. 

The dragoon pulled her back, and it was nice to hear another voice of reason among the group. Ianthe shifted to the right flank, casting quick, occasional glances back at Luna, Artemisia and Blaike. She kept her focus mainly upon the fog, but pushed from her mind its more mystical qualities. Balder was right, forward was the only way. Everything had an end, and this forest—this fog—was no exception. 

Unfortunately, neither were any of them.