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[I]She is so close, so powerful... I wonder if she can sense us all the way out here, even though we are miles and miles away? I would not be surprised; there has not been a single necromancer since the founding of Rodoria that could even begin to compete with her mastery and power. Maybe she could even contain the Withering indefinitely, or cure it altogether? I'm a lesser necromancer compared to her, and I have managed quite well. How would she fare against Hazzergash's unleashed self? Maybe she would be our only chance... there are no magi in Rodoria who could challenge her.[/I]
Interesting as they were the real reason Gerald pondered such things was mainly to keep his anxiety at bay, because even now he could not seem to erase the image that had been etched into his mind; the sight of the distant Tower of Night, the heart of the Black Tribunal's domain, hidden past the rooftops and walls of Pelgaid City, standing in the center of the great swirling darkness that spread upward and outward from it, turning the sky black and shrouding the land in perpetual shadow. No matter how much Gerald tried to look at things rationally, that sight still filled him with an unfounded dread. In there was Delian Gilmah, the most powerful sorceress and lich Rodoria had ever known, along with her league of necromancers and horde of undead minions, surrounded by some of the people in the world who hated necromancy the most... Even now as it had been hidden from sight past the formations of rock that surrounded them he could still see where it was, as the rays of the setting sun drew a neat outline of its dark aura.
Luckily Renold said that this was not where they had to go, or even the warlock might have lost heart before he went there. The dragon had suggested that someone he had once known was apparently an expert on all things dark and sinister, and that if anyone knew of the Withering and how to end it, it would be this acquaintance. He would like to speak with Jillian before they ventured any further, though, and for them to have a chance to recover their strength, and Renold said that they should wait here for a while anyway in case Crone managed to escape the Anaxim Forest and caught up with them.

He did not look up from where he had been staring all of this time - the ground directly between himself and their campfire, where unusually black shadows danced mesmerizingly with the flickering of the flames - before the witch started coughing violently, which was the most reaction they had managed to get out of her since their flight from the forest. Even then he only raise his gaze slowly, his face cast in shadow by his hood, as he turned his attention to her in time to witness her roll over and vomit, and then continue to struggle with herself. He remained where he was and said nothing, and simply left her to it; there was nothing he could do for her anyway, and the way she had reacted to things thus far suggested that she was a prideful woman who would probably not appreciate him paying too much attention to her current somewhat humiliating state. Besides, she had brought this onto herself.
It took a little while of waiting before Jillian recovered enough to become aware of her surroundings and notice him, at which point she spoke a name with which he was not familiar, likely momentarily mistaking him for this 'Vince'. Gerald did not find this particularly insulting, though; it was quite common to be disoriented after having been as magically exhausted as she had been, and it was really a miracle that she was able to speak at all... although Gerald somewhat doubted that deities had anything to do with this particular miracle. He had also observed that the deterioration of his own body had reversed significantly faster this time than any time in the past during which he had drained himself so much, and when he had taken a moment to restore the illusion that concealed his Withering he had been shocked to see that the graying skin was actually peeling off around the edges of the contaminated area, revealing healthy skin underneath. He did not have any definite evidence yet, but his main theory was that it was an effect of the natural energy of Anaxim, causing their bodies to heal faster than they ordinarily would. He had no idea how long it would last, but he could not imagine it would be long; in time the energy would adapt to their souls and lose any unusual properties, but for now it seemed like a rather useful and unexpected benefit.
Jillian proceeded to apologize for mistaking his identity - that she realized her error so quickly was a good sign - and corrected herself, and then assured him that she felt worse than he could possibly comprehend. He could not help but to smile grimly at this, curious as to whether she gave any thought to who she was talking to when she made that declaration. Not only was he a magus, one who had also been young, impulsive and reckless once, before his life had shown him how dangerous the world really was, but he was also a bearer of the Withering, a plague that continuously sapped his soul. In the months immediately after he had contracted the plague he had been constantly on the verge of death from magical exhaustion as he had just barely managed to contain the Withering, and with it constantly weakening him it had taken immensely long time before his energy had somewhat recovered. He knew very well how terrible she felt right now, and he sympathized; she may have brought this onto herself, but she had still done so with good intentions... considering the circumstances, at least.

Which was why he was expecting her request for something to drink, nodded his head in silent confirmation when it was voiced and turned to his left, where a pewter cup stood on the rock beside him. It was already full of water with little brownish dried leaves floating around in it, and if one looked into it from directly above one would notice an arcane glyph etched into the bottom of it. He did not have a pot or kettle to boil the water in, and since he could not very well just hold his cup into the fire to heat it, he had to resort to magic. He only reached his hand forward so that his fingertips touched the edge of the cup, let his magic flow and spoke the word "[I]Dregoth[/I]," and a faint red glow appeared in the depths of the cup, heating the water to the point of boiling in a matter of seconds. Immediately its acrid smell filled the air, but Gerald was used to it and simply abstained from breathing through his nose as he picked it up and went to his ailing ally.
"It tastes bad, but drink it anyway," he told her as he knelt besides her, carefully handing her the cup, handle turned towards her. "It lubricates your throat, clears your airways and calms your stomach; I keep it with me specifically for times like this."
His gaze wandered briefly, checking that the Green was still fast asleep on the opposite side of the lake - his posture oddly tense for someone sleeping, his head still raised to just above chest-level, with a general posture that someone from Earth would have recognized from the Egyptian sphinxes - then his amber eyes returned to her, staring at her intently. "You are safe; you can relax. We are in Pelgaid. We lost the battle."