[sub]ft. [@Spoopy Scary][/sub]

With every passing minute they put more distance between themselves and the chaos at the inn. Solomon kept looking over his shoulder in the hopes of seeing a victorious Janus emerge, backlit by the increasingly distant blaze, but he was disappointed each time. Aside from him, everyone that had been in the common room with Solomon had made it out, and Henry had survived too. Everyone else, all the other guests and the staff -- his cook, his cleaning lady, his barmaid -- had perished, torn apart and mauled by the voracious undead. Now that the clamoring and the combat had ceased and the surge of adrenaline began to fade, as the still, impenetrable blackness pressed in on them, it didn’t even feel real. Not even the starless sky above his head felt real, or the freezing chill in the air, or the Serpent burning like hot coals, staring down at the world with malice. 

“Don’t look at it,” Solomon said to the others in a low voice. “Don’t look at the Sign. It’s… there’s something wrong with it. It’ll stop you in your tracks and make you deaf and dumb. Keep your eyes on the horizon and your heads on a swivel. There’s no telling what else might be lurking out here tonight.” He sounded confident and commanding, but inside he felt just as confused and afraid as the others. He had lost more than any of them and the weight of that sat heavily in his guts, like a toxic clump of lead. But they weren’t out of the woods yet, and Solomon had to focus. They were in a warzone now and he was their commanding officer. There would be time to mourn later. 

His eyes furtively scanned the rows of grain and corn on either side of the road. Each wavering shadow was another corpse stepping out of the dark until he blinked and the crops were once again just that: crops. Still, he kept a white-knuckle grip around the hilt of his falchion, leaving behind a trail of black blood, a droplet falling from its curved tip in the cadence of his steps. He left behind a trail of his own blood too, from the various bite wounds and claw marks he had been dealt in his fight against the undead horde, but he paid it no mind. He’d suffered and recovered from a lot worse. Solomon kept up a rapid pace, too fast for talking, and the group moved in silence. It felt wrong to speak anyway; as if they might disturb something and shatter the fragile peace they had found on the road. 

After two miles, one-third of the way to the city walls, Solomon turned and finally saw what he had been looking for: Janus, sat astride his brave steed, catching up to them at last. He breathed a sigh of relief and the group halted for a moment, but their collective breaths were caught in their throats when they saw that Janus was slouched forward in the saddle, face buried in the nape of his horse’s neck, clearly no longer conscious. Henry shot forward to take Vodevic’s reins and began to whisper the horse’s name into his ears to calm him down. Vodevic himself was clearly frightened and exhausted, whinnying nervously while his muscles trembled and his eyes were rolling in their sockets. “Good boy,” Henry cooed, finding his own courage and purpose in calming the horse. Janus had entrusted him with the stallion’s name -- this was his task now. Mercifully, the headless horseman was nowhere to be seen.

Meanwhile, Solomon inspected Janus. His clothes were wet with blood and there was what looked like a giant bruise on his temple, but he was alive -- a slow and steady pulse could be felt in his wrist. Solomon looked over his shoulder at the expectant faces of the others and nodded. Once Henry had finished calming down Vodevic, Solomon climbed into the saddle behind Janus and wrapped his arms around the big man to keep him steady. He was too heavy for any of them to carry. Solomon groaned at the weight of the man. “What in Oblivion do they feed you people… wherever you’re from,” he muttered. They had to keep going and find a healer for him in the city. Out here wasn’t a safe place to stop and tend to his wounds. Solomon used his heels to spur Vodevic into a light trot, setting the pace for the others to follow. 

The remaining miles until the city came into view were mercifully uneventful. The city appeared from behind a rolling hill as the road turned towards the high walls of Daggerfall. “We’re close now,” Solomon said to the others, daring to speak a little louder. “Just a little --” His words died in his throat as he realized what he was looking at. 

Daggerfall was on fire. They could see the city clearly now, a mile away from its gates, and the eerie sound of the alarm bells ringing began to penetrate the stillness of the air. Thick columns of smoke rose up from behind the walls, lit from below by raging fires, some of which were visible through the massive city gates that were open wide. People were spilling out, just small figures in the distance, backlit by the all-too familiar incendiary light of the fires, scattering in all directions. They were fleeing the city. Had the undead risen in Daggerfall too and set fire to the jewel of Glenumbra? Perhaps not; he saw others too, too fast and too coordinated to be zombies, chasing after the citizens and cutting them down in the fields in front of the walls. Even from this far away, he could hear the killers whooping and hollering, celebrating the slaughter in a twisted fashion. 

Solomon felt the painful knot in his stomach tighten even further as the enormity of the situation sank in. The citizens of Daggerfall were fleeing to their doom. They would find no safety in the dark countryside. And with the city fallen to an unknown foe and the inn burned to the ground by the death knight, Solomon felt his resolve falter at the thought of being forced to wander the countryside until daybreak. They needed shelter -- to rest, to eat, to heal. He checked Janus’ pulse again and found that it was weakening. “Fuck,” Solomon growled.

“This is no place for us to be standing around.” Bruno said, his voice breaking the despairing silence. “Come. My cabin should be nearby. We should remain quiet once we get there. No sign of life ‘til morn.”

It took a second or two for Bruno’s words to register with Solomon. Of course -- he’d forgotten that the shepherd lived here, outside the walls. He looked at the Nord with visible gratitude in his eyes and nodded. “Agreed. Lead the way.” 

It was perhaps another half hour of travel before the group happened upon a homestead - it looked dead and abandoned under the night sky with nothing lighting its interior, and its size left a lot to be desired if this would truly be their shelter for the night. It was a small, one room cabin meant to house one or two people, but it was surrounded by a fenced-in pasture. The livestock that would normally be fast asleep were restless and fearful under the Serpent’s light. Undoing the latch, Bruno led the others through as he played sentinel at the gates. He silently cursed the darkness as he tried to look down the road toward Daggerfall, and on the other side toward The Loyal Hound. Immediately running up to his side was a black and white dog, whining and fretful, and pressing itself against his leg and seeking it’s master’s comfort.

“Don’t worry Bozo, I’m home now.” He said, petting the dog’s head.

The inside of the cabin was quaint. Small, as expected, but quaint and surprisingly well kept. There was a large bed in one corner of the cabin that took up more space than was needed, using up the already limited space, not to mention the cooking space, workbench, and what have you, which made the furnished porch make more sense. But Bruno knew that his guests weren’t about to complain about their shelter.

“There’s a door to the cellar next to the fireplace,” Bruno said, “though it’s even smaller and there’s not much headspace. At least there’s beer down there, though.”

He stepped outside, seeing Solomon struggle with Janus. “Let me help you with him.”

Together, the two men -- along with Henry’s more-hindrance-than-help form of assistance -- were able to carry the wounded Janus inside and lay him down on the bed. Sirius had found Bozo and the two dogs enjoyed a moment of happiness at being reunited, at which Solomon shot them an agitated shush. Using his hidden blade, Solomon cut open Janus’ clothes to reveal the injuries beneath: two slashes on his torso, along his ribcage and down his back, that fortunately hadn’t cut too deeply. It was the blunt force injury on his temple that had knocked him out. Thinking on his feet, Solomon conjured half of an ice spike in his hand and pressed the magical shard of ice against the Colovian’s temple to reduce the swelling. Meanwhile, he instructed Henry to cut up some cloth and make field dressings for the cuts. 

“Never thought I’d be laying a half-naked [i]man[/i] into my bed,” Bruno remarked sardonically, “but what can you do.”

Too wired and too tired to respond to the wisecrack in kind, Solomon only shrugged and sat back against the wall to make space for Janus’ wounds to be tended to while he dabbed at the man’s temple with the ice. He looked out into the rest of the small cabin, made even smaller by the others as they filtered in, and looked at each of them. Some, like the Dunmer women and their respective magical abilities, had revealed hidden depths. Others were just regular citizens caught in a nightmare, like Joy. He exhaled slowly, leaned his head back and closed his eyes for a moment. 

“Fucking hell,” was all he could say.

“I’ve got an alchemy table in here.” Bruno said, gesturing to the inside workbench. “I’m no expert or anything, but I can get him started on some pain relief if nothing else. Hopefully it can reduce the swelling.”