>>5505204Whether it is unfinished business or romantic nostalgia which underlies your motivation, or perhaps simple logical expediency, you opt to take the fastest possible route to Bloodrise. You have lost too much time already—to injury, to idleness, to your enemy. You say your farewell to Jazkarmel and her scouts, thanking her for her aid and hospitality. Had Olu the Archer been here, you suspect the farewell would have lingered longer; while the Archer was sent ahead and his favoured mate shall remain here, you have spent the last day with your son’s mother and your beloved one, and now both your females shall accompany you.
The Archer is a loyal servant, deserving on such peace as you find yourself feeling… But life isn’t fair, and neither is the foe you now face.
You travel a familiar path, and you do so with the speed of a male on a mission—which, of course, you are. You are slowed by only two factors: your injury, and your company. Glowie was once surprisingly swift, though admittedly moreseo in her Reptilian disguise; now, she is easily five to ten times her previous weight, trailing yards of organic apparatus, unable to benefit from the compacting properties of the Amulet of Disguise. At least she is strong, though—stronger even than you, now, able to force her way through a cave-in which would otherwise have required you to exert yourself magically! Moreover, Hamaraska the Lancer proves a most excellent babysitter, requiring only occasional intervention by you or the Throat-singer’s Presence to tame your unruly princelings.
When you reach the spring, though, you find yourself face-to-face with that which you might well have expected—dreaded, anticipated, prepared for. The cursed spring roils with a dark energy, its calm surface belying a mystical turmoil beneath. You feel it, the Novice and Glowie feel it, the Ambassador and the other elves of your entourage feel it… Even your apprentice Throat-singer feel it. Tension fills your lungs, spreads to your hammering heart, floods your blood and sets your nerves alight like dragonfire—no, HELLfire.
When the dark shapes of piscine bipeds part the water with their looming, darkly beautiful forms, their hideous bulging-eyed faces, and their slick and shining green-black scales, none among you are surprised.
“Did you not learn your lesson last time?” you snarl.
