A Patient Death

Part One: The Age of Insanity

~ Chapter 01: Descending ~

Breeze raked a claw through the mud, dragging his body forward, the stench of piss and shit and blood filling his nostrils. Death stained the senses in a way few things did; the wolf could even taste a salty mixture of dirt and ash. Pain racked his limbs, so he did his best to focus on crawling and not the multitude of arrow holes punched through his flesh. Wouldn't do to die now, not after surviving so much, that would make for a terrible song. The combination of shock and adrenaline kept him going, yet the urge to close his eyes was powerful – but Breeze knew if he let them shut now they would not be opening again.

And he thought dying a very poor way to get revenge indeed.

Black Paw died next to him, a single empty paw curled against his chest; an unbloodied knife clutched in his other. Just beyond the wolf's corpse laid his horse, the poor beast left alive and paralysed from the fall, small whinnies sounding from its maw, yet unable to muster the strength for anything more. Its eyes were wide and crazed. Breeze was sure it could see hell.

Hellan was to his right, and Breeze forced himself to look at the young oryx's body. The others were grown men, but Hellan was young, always afraid. The boy didn't deserve to die in a cold place such as this, with nothing but narrow trees and mist for a gravestone. The fletching of an arrow jutted from the socket where his eye had been, his fingers left twitching still in a rather poor imitation of life. Death's exhale, the throes, corpse rattles – call it what you will - it was anything but life. Breeze bared his teeth in a silent snarl, dragging himself forward another stop, biting into his tongue to block the pain as sharp rocks dug deep into his belly. The fall had ripped his clothing to shreds, and somewhere along the way he'd lost his sword too, the steel no doubt lost to the mud by now. It mattered not, he'd done more with less before.

“Aye lookit 'tis great bastard. Triumvirate's tits, 'e must'a eaten a lot!" Breeze felt fire in his gut, the nasally voice grating like sandpaper against his ears. They were certainly crouched over Barslov; the biggest bull he'd ever met. Breeze had seen him lose his head even before they went over the chasm edge, still riding his wailing mount. “By my tail, the fuckers weren't hardly carryin' nothin'! Why'd the chief care so much 'bout this sorry lot anyhow?" The sandpaper voice continued.

“Y'heard Jarst. We ain't meant to be lootin' yet." Another voice, this one deep and baritone, with a tinge of guilt to his tone.

“Damn it all Lan, could you follow a bloody order fer once in yer bleedin' life?" A third voice added timidly. “Jarst ain't gone be pleased when he gets back, he ain't."

Sandpaper-voice scoffed, “Untwist yer dresses ladies, yous watched 'em go in that there chasm same's I, anyone gotten up and walked it off yet?"

“Well, no." Said the guilty-one. “Not exactly, but… I mean… well you heard what Slaugh said."

Breeze froze in place, squeezing his eyes shut as a stinging pain shot up his spine. His stomach turned and bile threatened to force its way up his throat. His muscles trembled as if they were not his own.

Slaugh. He did this. Breeze opened his eyes, looked behind himself, to where Ribneck's mangled corpse had been pinned to a broad old oak by a ruddy great spear. How the old warthog had come to learn Breeze was alive he didn't know, but he'd thought after so many years Slaugh might simply let sleeping dogs lie. No, deep down you knew, didn't you? Oh yes you knew he'd never forgive you, don't you dare try and tell yourself any different.

“Come off it! Don't gimme none'a that Witchborn drivel. E's a superstitious old pig - the old'uns always are - least'n this shithole of the world. Mark me now lads, Czeslaw's as dead as any wolf'd be off a fall like that. Blasted hill, why I almost broke my neck gettin' down m'self." Sandpaper-voice went on, chuckling. “You ain't scared'a some washed up old blade, are yous?" The other two chuckled nervously, and Breeze heard a clap on a back.

“I'm still keepin' a paw on me spear. Jarst's been quick on 'is lashes of late 'e as." Said timid-voice.

“And so you should my friend!" Sandpaper bellowed. “And so you should! Tell you what, you see any'a these old gits movin' you let me know'n I'll skewer 'em me-self."

Breeze stymied a groan, crawling forward again and shifting his weight as he slid behind a mossy log.

He pressed a paw into his battered ribs, wincing as sharp hooks of pain danced across his breast. He didn't dare touch his shoulder, the broken arrow shaft poked out unnaturally from just above his clavicle, his whole arm soaked with drying blood. He flinched as a beetle ran out from the fallen tree trunk, crossing his chest with a series of clicks and chitters. He crushed the insect in a paw, wiping the gunk on his spoiled trousers. That was his worst wound, but he was still covered in cuts and scrapes. The blood loss was starting to take it's due, and he felt his body sagging.

Not yet. Not just yet you old thing.

Breeze knew from the start it was no ordinary bandit raid – they were too prepared, too smart for ordinary Northmen. The edge of the Eltric Chasm was the perfect place to stage an assault, and once the enemy closed in the Sandmen had no choice but to run their mounts over the edge. After that it took only a few volleys and swordsmen to cut down the ones still standing. Everyone loves a story of the few defeating the many, but life simply didn't pan out that way, no sir. Breeze knew from experience that it didn't matter two shits how good your soldiers were – six men were no match for sixteen, especially when taken by surprise after days of hard riding.

But after the day was declared won, the bulk of the ambush party had ridden back to report, leaving these three men behind to stab anyone unlucky enough to still be moving. Clearly, they'd heard the rumours that surrounded Breeze, the reason folk called him Witchborn; shame they didn't seem to believe it, or they'd have left more guards.

He wasn't anything special, just lucky. But luck was quite the heresy in this part of the world.

“Oi," The timid voice called, stomping back through the underbrush. “Any yous actually found the bastard's mangy pelt anywhere?"

“Yeah, e's right over there, open yer damn eyes Tully." The nasally one spat, shaking a small bag of coin he lifted from one of his own fallen men.

“But, ain't there meant to be two wolves? Least 'ccording to Slaugh." Breeze was running out of time. He tried to psych himself up, patting himself down for hidden weapons. Finding nothing, he settled on a small fist-sized stone.

You'll do. He thought, biting his lip.  

“No… he ain't…" Sandpaper-voice said, stumbling somewhere close. Breeze felt a shadow (fat bastard murderer) loom over the log, a snapped twig confirming that indeed the fucker had stopped right behind Breeze's little hiding place. Stunk of bear. “There's another, m'sure of it…" He muttered.

His body screamed at him to stay low, stay hidden, but Breeze knew he needed to act now if he wanted to keep this from becoming a fair fight. And so he sucked down a breath of cold air, forcing himself to twist in place and leap up, boots scraping in the dirt.

He sprung with a vicious snarl, grabbing the wide bear by his collar and yanking him over, half a pound of bark sliding along with them. The thug cried as he hit the ground, a guttural sound becoming a hideous gurgle as Breeze crushed his face in with the stone.

The other two shouted in alarm, but Breeze was already up, the bear's small axe in paw. He hurled it at the nearer of the two – a fox – on instinct, the blade sinking into his chest and throwing him back, gore spraying across his fur. The third – yet another fox - had a spear readied, and rushed Breeze without hesitation, leaping onto the end of the log and dashing along its length.

Spears were best kept at range, and any trained spearman would have known to bait his foe into overextending. This fox was barely more than a boy however, no older than seventeen. The boy was sloppy, and dumb, and so willingly forfeited his advantage with an impassioned and idiotic charge.

Breeze was more than willing to accept his forfeit.

He sidestepped a thrust and went in, tackling the fox around his midsection and throwing them both over the dead trunk, filth splashing as they sloshed into the mud. Even if the fox had been a master, Breeze found boldness beat technique nine times out of ten. The trick was being willing to hurt more than the other guy; so long as you came out breathing. The fox tried feebly to get a hold, fumbling for a short knife at his waist. The wolf gave no chances, ramming his elbow into the fox's throat and stunning him. Without thinking, he took hold of the arrow shaft in his shoulder and tore it free with a cry, slamming it down into the thrashing vulpine's neck. He hit an artery and gore spat out, hitting Breeze's lips as the fox's violent thrashes became sluggish resistance, until finally the boy went limp.

With the arrow shaft gone came a whole new kind of pain, and it hit hard. Breeze gasped, squeezing the wound and cursing as he fought to stay upright.

He stayed in place a moment still, looking around, half-sure that some fourth idiot would suddenly appear, spoiling for a fight they couldn't win. When none came he let himself fall off the twitching corpse, panting. The world beyond his eyes spun, the dreary overcast sky almost mocking in its kaleidoscopic twirl.

Breeze realised he didn't even know what fate befell Lam, and after a minute of lying he rolled over and pulled himself to his feet, propping his weight against a tree, the slick moss soft on his pads. His stomach threatened to revolt, but he willed it under control, only now feeling the spiny blades of a migraine pushing against his eyes. Least he hadn't pissed himself, that was something. These things happened, Breeze knew, but it was nicer when they didn't.

With the immediate danger gone, he took a moment to look his sorry-self over and take stock. He barely counted as clothed, his gambeson slashed to hell, the little armour plating he wore crumpled. His ribs might be broken, and one of his teeth felt loose against his tongue. He turned in place, eyes finding the spot where Bigger Lam had died; the tiger was a fine soldier, but he'd had the worst luck of all of them. When Breeze had screamed for them to go over the chasm edge, Bigger Lam had been first – his horse's front legs snapped upon impact, sending him face-first into a half-exposed boulder in the soil. Judging from the state of his head, he'd died instantly.

Least he didn't suffer. Breeze thought. They'd been his Sandmen, the new family of bastards and brigands he'd built up after abandoning Slaugh's latest campaign.

And now, alone again. He thought, exhaling through his nose. His ears twitched and another crash of pain ran down his skull, prompting him to reach up and feel them. His left ear had a chunk missing out of it, or at least larger chunk than before. Bashed and broken, but I survived worse before. But I am alive, of course, I am still alive.

“Alive. Hah." He muttered, without much humour. “Showed you, Slaugh."

Witchborn. With the hundred-year war raging, and the world sick with the Madness Plague, good luck – simply as a concept – was taboo in all places, but most especially in the northwest. Breeze earned the nickname for nothing more than surviving; he might not be the biggest, baddest, or even the best swordsman around, but damn it he was hard to put down for good.

Breeze sat on the log near where he killed the bear, gently taking in his surroundings as he formed a plan. The Eltric Chasm; if you were going to kill him anywhere it was as good a place as any he supposed. The particular spot they'd chosen had a narrow road, embedded on a steep but not diabolical decline; no way out, but plenty of manoeuvrability for the attackers. His Sandmen nailed a few of them in return, but it didn't matter much in the end.

They should have believed Slaugh's stories, that bastard knew Breeze better than anyone.

If he really wanted me dead, he should have come himself. He thought. Old pig's getting sloppy. He imagined there was a terrible pun in there somewhere, what with pigs and slop. Death always brings out the strangest thoughts in men.

He gently prodded his shoulder, flinching as it sang. It was a nasty wound, and he tried not to think about all the filth it had probably scooped up while he crawled through the muck. It'd be infected by morning for sure, he just had to make it to a nearby town, where some senile and decrepit weirmother would keep him sane and breathing, for a price. He felt the trappings of Madness tickle his periphery, ignoring them as best he could as he slowly plodded back to the road.

He took a short sword from Black Paw's corpse, strapping it to his waist before moving on. He put the last two living horses out of their misery, and then pillaged their saddlebags for some dried fruit and meat, a decent pot, a flask, and some firestuffs, shoving as much as he could manage into his satchel.

It felt like hours, but eventually he was up on the trail again. Jarst and his troupe of cutthroats would be back eventually, and Breeze didn't plan to be anywhere nearby when they did.

After an hour or two of limping, he finally stopped to examine himself, feeling over his wounds more carefully and taking stock of what parts worked and what didn't. He still had all his fingers and toes, always good, but there was that huge hole in his shoulder, plus the ribs, the torn ear, a sprained knee, and another arrow shaft sticking out from his thigh. The volleys had grazed the sides of his waist and neck, but they were light wounds that would heal relatively quickly. He decided to leave the shaft in his leg for the moment, tearing off a piece of his shirt and using it to wrap the wound.

Cursing through clenched teeth, Breeze forced himself to stand and continued his dead-man shuffle. It had been dim and overcast when they were attacked, but now it was just plain dark, light rumblings of thunder teasing the horizon.

“Fuckin' bastards." He muttered, turning off the road and hiking into the savage brush, trying to find a relatively defensible position to make some sort of camp. Now he was further from the ambush site the mental fog had receded, but it was still there – it came with the locale.

He felt the worst about Hellan. The others in his Sandman crew, they were tried paws at the life, they knew what they were getting into from the start. Hell, most had heard of Breeze before meeting him. But Hellan was new to the mercenary life; forced into it by a series of poor circumstances.

And now he was dead in a ditch.

Breeze didn't really do regret as a rule, he found it was almost always a waste of time; after all, one made the best decision at the time based on what one knew. But despite that, he still felt bad about losing the kid, and all he got in exchange was more of his sorry existence. He thought briefly on his life then; a worrisome and violent affair that decent folk would really consider a poor decision all in all.

After some searching Breeze found himself a small crook behind some dead logs, and built up a tiny fire, coaxing it into a pile of smouldering embers and trying to warm himself. For how long he waited exactly he wasn't sure, but he hadn't heard head or tails of Jarst's war party for hours, and slowly his eyes closed over, his body easing into a state of relaxation.

Eventually, he couldn't keep himself awake any longer.

Czeslaw, am I saying that right?

No, not at all.

He tossed and turned, fitful dreams overtaking his mind, an unavoidable side-effect of the area – plague was in the soil, and it had been much too long since he last suffered the acrid taste of a weirmothers tincture. The dreams seemed far more vivid and visceral than usual however, as if Breeze's own mind hated him, masochistic fantasies twisting and thrashing in his skull like a mass of caged eels. It clawed and flexed and howled, a chaotic shamble of venom and mania endlessly cascading through his nightmares. He felt himself being dragged, a soft, hazel-furred face hovering before his own, piercing blue eyes (rare this far north) staring in wide-eyed concern.

Oddly he felt calmer, when his mind chose to see that face.

They said you were clever. I knew you were in Eltric, and yet still.

His clothes felt wet, and he continued to feel as if he were always slipping, jerking himself upright again and again as he struggled to maintain an equilibrium. He heard horses. Constantly a high-pitched voice prodded at him, snapping rude and probing questions he didn't want to answer.

Can you read? Are you in pain? What happened to your men? Are you still alive?

He woke feeling surprisingly clear-headed, and placated. His typically ever-present tumble of low-burning rage and hysteria had – for the moment – melted away.

Is this still the north? He thought, blinking through his sleep-induced eye-gunk. Most educated men theorised the Madness Plague had come about as a result of the hundred-year war; so much concentrated death and destruction was bound to bring undesirable consequences, but it was oddly most common in the lawless and anarchic north. Aside from the odd mine to fund the war, the ruler-freed lands had no grand part in the war, yet it remained a truth nonetheless. Even despite the plague, despite the wanton violence, Breeze preferred it; it was a place for people to be as they wished. No Kings, no Emperors, no politics and rivals and archdukes and arranged marriages and other bullshit like that.

Not that Breeze had ever been to a 'civilised' nation, but still, he'd heard things.

His ears pricked up as he heard soft, small footsteps crunching towards the tarp he now rested on. The noise prompted Breeze to look around and consider the area, as he'd gone to sleep on the side of a healthy mountain; Eltric had gotten good rain this season and as he recalled it was green and lush. The place he found himself in now was dry and desolate, with barren, gnarled trees peaking only over the edge of the horizon. Pale dusty gravel littered the ground as far the eye could see, interrupted by the occasional midget boulder.

He hadn't minded the chasm, all things considered, but this was truly a lonely place to die.

Is this death? Did I perish in my sleep? He held up his paws. Death shouldn't be allowed to hurt so much.

The owner of the footsteps was humming a soft and dainty tune; like something a mother might sing a fussy pup. Breeze decided then he'd spent far too long belly-up, and rolled in place to try and pick himself off the ground. He made it to his paws and knees before his shoulder gave out, and he slammed face-first back into the rough tarp with a cry.

“Oh, my!" The tender voice cried, ceasing his tune. “Master Kesslaw, please don't do that, you're still quite unwell!" The footsteps picked up their pace, and suddenly there was a paw on Breeze's back.

“Off," He grunted, the words tearing themselves from his throat like the scab off a wound. The figure backed up immediately, giving the wolf a chance to turn and look at him.

It was the hazel-furred otter from his fever-dream, with soft and fluffy cheeks, those crystalline blue eyes staring at him with deep concern. The otter had a cream coloured chin and jaw, and the lighter fur ran down the inside of his neck and presumably over his belly. He looked soft, not only to touch but in nature as well; this wasn't a man who'd grown in the northwest with a raper for a father, this was a man who grew coddled and protected, even loved. He'd likely never felt the filth of an enemy beneath his fingernails, probably never would either.

Most curiously, he wore a rich green robe, tied at the waist with a brown leather belt and an iron buckle. The robe was loose fitting but still sat well, especially open around the paws and neck.

A ridiculous garb for traipsing around the wilderness, the churlish knave. He wasn't one-hundred-percent what churlish knave meant, but it seemed a city insult befitting a soft city boy.

Even more curiously, Breeze felt wholly unthreatened. Perhaps that's why they sent this nescient flower of a man, for someone had undoubtedly sent him, people like this did not simply pick up the mercenary lifestyle for the fun of it.

A moment of sadness for his boys threatened to overtake him, but the wolf stymied it. Had to be realistic, this was a time for moving; the boys were dead, gone, back in the dirt. Move on old man.

“I meant no offense, Master Kesslaw."

“Urghk." Breeze growled, spitting into the rocks. His mouth was so damned dry, and so sticky. “S'like... checkers."

“I beg you?"

“Czeslaw. Cheh-zz-law. Like checkers." He muttered, wiping the slime from his split lips. “And I ain't master'a nothing. Breeze's fine."

“Very well." The otter said hesitantly, taking another step back and folding his paws before his waist. “I, then, am Artificer Erasmus Verranum of the Hieron Court, here on the royally ordained request of Third Inquisitor Sir Claude Morgan, servant of King Mordecai Niven and--"

“The fat old fox King of Ferrin?" Breeze interrupted. He looked around again. “How's he know who I am?"

The otter paused, blushing slightly. “Er, yes. Master… Breeze. The King does not know of you, I'm afraid. It's Third Inquisitor Claude Morgan whom I am here on behest of."

Breeze rolled his eyes. Pissing Ferrin. Largest Kinged border to the west, and a colossal wank of a nation filled with nothing but sycophants and egotists. A country so bloody determined to make sure everyone knows they have the biggest cocks in the land they'd remain at war for a century.

Breeze was pretty sure they were obsessed with Soothing magic too. He hated Soothers; let a man his own emotion. Sorcerers were a thing of the past, but if he had to choose between the Weirs and the Soothers, it was no choice at all. 

“I have…" He breathed slowly, pulling himself to one knee and struggling to meet the otter's eyes. “…no interest, in Union business." Erasmus paused, stifling a laugh as Breeze again fell over. “I'm to be on my way."

“Well, I can see that Master Breeze, but truthfully, it isn't strictly Union business I'm here on, but rather a tad broader." He pushed two fingers together nervously, then quickly quelled the twitch as Breeze noticed, climbing up for the third time.

“Don't wanna hear it lad. I've got a warlord to kill." With a throaty groan he pushed himself to his feet, putting an arm out for stability as the world around immediately began to convulse. Don't you dare. The monk-like otter immediately took hold of him, the firm grip keeping him from falling. Breeze gave an icy glare, but allowed it for the moment. Better than tripping on his arse again, that's for sure, pride be damned.

And besides, the boy was pretty in a way few north-westerners were.

“Easy now my good man, easy." The pretty otter cooed. Breeze nodded slowly, relaxing.

“Why're you dressed that way?" He rasped. “Look like a fucking Soother."

Erasmus sighed. “I... didn't want to appear as if I were carrying valuables, lest bandits think me easy pickings. Triumvirate knows it didn't do much good in the end though."

“You were robbed?"

Erasmus nodded. “Even dressed as a monk, aye. I still managed to find you regardless. It was far too easy if I might say so, I felt lucky you hadn't been gutted in your sleep." There was a hint of disappointment in the man's tone. “I got the sense I wasn't the only one looking, good thing I was the one to find you, oh yes."

Lucky me. Breeze thought sardonically, glancing down at himself. He felt awful, but perhaps a mite better than he had the hours immediately following the chasm attack. His shoulder ached fiercely, but it felt tight and strapped, and he assumed Erasmus had bandaged him. His knee and thigh was still weak as a pup, and each breath on his ribs sent a new wave of shuddering winces through his body. He checked his wrists next, pushing apart the fur and looking at his veins. They bulged slightly, tinged the tell-tale red of infection, but not quite as severely as he'd have imagined.

“You have salves?" He asked softly. Erasmus nodded.

“I came prepared to retrieve a working mercenary, no good if you upped and died from some rusty sword wound during our travels. Thankfully, the bandits I encountered were a tad too simple to know quite what they were looking at – they liberated only my silver." He looked pleased with himself, and Breeze found the grin oddly irritating.

“And did you undress me also?" He asked indignantly, looking up from his unfamiliar clothing. Yet again the monk-like mustelid blushed, staring at his feet.

“I er, tried to keep you decent, and looked away as I changed your under-britches, but… you er… soiled yourself in your torpour. What was I to do? Forgetting discomfort and infection, I could hardly bear the stench." Breeze sighed, it seemed fair enough. He was a lot less angry than he expected he would be; it was an odd sensation.

“And where are we exactly, Artificer Erasmus?" He asked next, shaking himself free and stumbling away from the tarp, almost losing his footing on the loose gravel.

Sodding rocks. I'll be damned if I fall in front of this fool again. He thought, tensing his buttocks and grounding himself.

“We're ah, a little more than halfway through our journey."

“Wait--" Breeze looked back, gritting his teeth. “We're in the fucking Union aren't we?"

Erasmus laughed nervously, touching a paw to the back of his head. “I'm afraid so, Master Breeze."

“No master!" He snapped, spitting the word as if it were a curse. “Just… just Breeze. I'm just Breeze."

“We're about a half-weeks ride out of making Hieron, actually. Quite close." The otter added, looking pointedly away. “I expect we'll see a tad more greenery on the approach though, I hope."

Breeze did a quick calculation, then whirled.

“That's nearly thirty ruddy leagues from Eltric!" He cried, his face hot and throbbing. “How bloody long was I asleep?"

Erasmus inhaled slowly, eyes wide. “Well…" He said slowly. “You haven't been quite sleeping, but rather feverishly insane. We spent a whole day as I tried only to keep you hydrated. But you've been riding on Marlough there without much tragedy for about a week and a half, though some of it you spent sideways. Even talking some, all of it nonsense, naturally."

“I thought you had medicines."

“I do, but they're not magic, you've still quite a vicious infection. And, well, the plague. Binds us all eventually, and I haven't happened upon any wild weirmothers as of late." Breeze stared at the ground, licking over his teeth. Delirium had less resistance upon the ill, everyone knew that, it was just common sense.

He patted at his waist suddenly, a thought occurring.

“Where's my sword?" The otter just shrugged. “Fuck. Alright. Show me, which way is pissed-fucking-Hieron?" Erasmus pointed without thinking, and Breeze turned and started marching in the opposite direction. Each thought was difficult, as if he had to force the words in his mind through a heady layer of foam. There was a noticeable delay too, between ordering his leg to move, and the bastard-thing actually doing it. He'd taken scarcely a quarter-dozen drunken stumbles before he heard the otter run up behind him.

“Wait, wait, Master Breeze, I beg you hear Inquisitor Morgan's offer, it is important! Please!" He was like a pleading pup.

“Not to me." The wolf replied, damning his aching shoulder to hell. “Union business can Union business remain. I've no part in your whoreson war."

“Master Breeze!"

“Just Breeze."

“A week-pay in Silvers just for speaking with Inquisitor Morgan! No certainties!" The otter cried. “An-and a horse! A horse and a sword and pay, even if you should decline his offer!"

Breeze stopped in place. The last thing he wanted was to get wrapped up in some hundred-war plot, he had a warlord to kill. The Ferrin Union had done nothing for him, unless one counted raping the Madlands with their sodding mines, which he did not.  

But. One had to be practical. Turning down a week-pay of Silvers, plus a new horse, plus a new sword, when he had nothing left...

Well damn it Witchborn, that's plain foolish. Yes, he needed those supplies whether his pride would admit it or not. They'd do nicely, quite nicely indeed. He closed his eyes, and saw Slaugh choking on his steel. You can wait, you've waited this long, haven't you, old friend?

Erasmus went on. “And look, you're sick to your bones, you need respite or you'll die an idiot's death. I swear to you, it's not an offer you've ever heard before." The otter was almost babbling, and Breeze wondered at his true goal in this. “It's the reason I'm out searching this godsforsaken land for someone of your reputation, rather than begging it of a decent Union man! It has to be someone without political affiliation, someone unknown, please!"

Breeze turned on the spot, swaying in place. Curses he was in a lot of pain; how far had he been planning to get? Idiot. “The money and supplies, even if I say no?" Erasmus nodded hurriedly.

“But I think you shan't! Inquisitor Claude ordered me not to say, and yet…" He blushed, looking away.

“And yet?" The wolf prompted. Give me something here lad.