Rebellion - 13.2 - M,M,T,A (Patreon)

Light shone forth, burning and scalding pale flesh as Magroth strode forth and waded through their foes' lines. "May the Light grant you peace, may the Light grant you rest, may the Light forgive your sins." He uttered stoically, eyes fixated on a single monstrous soul amongst those many faces he recognised from a village that had so readily offered him welcome and succour. "For you shall not live to atone. Your foul acts end here, necromancer."

The zombies were no impediment to him, no matter their unholy strength which empowered their claws, no matter their gnashing teeth or simple spears, nor the guns that some clumsily held. A mockery of skill they might once have held in life turned against the living.

Behind him plants rose up, tangling and binding the zombies one by one, from where practiced spears and swords cut them down.

Liticia, the soft-spoken barmaid, back-pedaled until she reached the wall. Not to escape, the madness that held her heart had stolen her fear, but to gain time for another dark spell. An orb of black shadows and green ichor flew towards him but he did not falter – to avoid her strike would risk it harming those he led, those who trusted him to protect them.

For a brief moment the foulness tried to drown out his Light, a faint clamour of doubt as to why he was here ringing in his mind, before he reached her.

"No matter my end, the Lich–" her final words ceased as his hammer fell, crushing her skull and scattering the remains across the floor of the tavern. The deed was done, the source of the darkness that had lurked here banished, until they found another hiding away in these hills for a moment to strike.

But though the necromancer was dealt with, his work was not done. "May this madness come to an end at last." He muttered softly, before shaking off his thoughts to crush a zombie with a single blow.

With the death of their creator the organisation of the undead faltered, their cohesion and tactics simplifying even further. Without a whole mind to direct their bodies they were little more threat than a rabid beast – though, perhaps, not so deadly with their bites.

And far more deserving of kindness. When only one remained he lowered his hammer, kneeling before a boy of no more than ten whose jaw was slack, skin ashen, and eyes red. Struggling against the roots that held him in place.

"I failed you." He said, placing a hand upon the child's shoulder. "No matter the reason, I failed. Revenge is not my path, and to have no recourse save to seek it, a failing. Rest well, in the kingdom of the Light, brave child." Light poured forth from his hand, burning away at the boy's body until the flesh was black.

Perhaps, for a brief moment before the boy's final end came, he saw peace in his eyes. Perhaps not.

It mattered little, for it could not change the weight he bore for failing to protect the innocents of this village. "Do you still believe the workings of the undead a ploy by the rebellion, Witch Ethel?"

"Mebe not." She said with crossed arms. "Not you. But that don't mean the king's wrong in saying she brought 'em here, and while we're fighting you lot we can't deal with what's right. Better ol' Greymane wins quick and we can handle real problems." Frowning she looked over the bodies of the poor villagers. "Like this, afore it gets bad."

"As you say, little is worth leaving the innocent to the predations of the undead." Magroth nodded, knowing that she meant it differently than he. "A swift end to this war benefits us all."

Ethel's scowl showed that she knew it too. "Whatever traditions she wants to break now ain't worth this mess." She scoffed.

"No matter the nature of our disagreement, I shall not break my word." He looked to Lord Offen, the ostensible commander of the forces he led, and watched until the man nodded his agreement. "You and those loyal to the king who put aside our petty differences may retreat along the coastal road." Planting his hammer with a heavy thud he bowed his head. "I merely ask that you aid me in granting these poor souls rest before you leave."

"I ain't her." She denied as she turned to take her leave. "Ain't got the magic for it. No, we're going, afore any of you change your minds."

A shame, but one he understood. Sister Roper had collapsed from exhaustion just yesterday as she healed the wounds inflicted upon the men in their last skirmish. " We shall not impede you, nor judge you should you rejoin the war. May our next meeting be one where we may fight alongside one another again."

"Tell that to Crowley!"

As the royalists faded into the distance he, and the other members of the Northgate Rebellion, set about interring those who had suffered such indignities in death.

For one brief moment Magroth looked to the skies, seeing a raven flying high and towards the forests. Doubt flicked in his mind once more, wondering as to his fate, what good he might have done, had he remained beyond the wall and sought to aid all those that fought against the Scourge in Lordaeron.

Then he squashed it, surety of purpose drowning out the lingering shadows of doubt the necromancer had inflicted upon him. His choice was made and done, all that was left was to ensure the future was a bright one.

-oOoOo-

"–In the darkest moment, when all seemed lost, the Light shone down with all its fury upon the foul undead!" The preacher yelled, exciting the crowd into even more of a fever pitch as he extolled the virtues of Gilneas' defence against the monstrous Scourge. "The Dawn came to save us all! The might of Gilneas unbroken and our will prevailed, ancient gods springing forth to fight at our side against a demonic lord! And yet, and yet!"

Mia closed the curtains of her carriage, blocking from view the man wearing the vestments of a lay priest of the Church of Dawn. She, along with the roaring crowd, knew well what came next in the story.

"Take us away." She ordered her driver, feeling the crack of the reins and the horses start their trot to pull them along.

"The one most exalted, most blessed by the dawn– he was betrayed when he fought for his very life!" The preacher all but screamed to be heard over the din of others speaking the same words. "And worse! Worse still – if one can but imagine – the Miracle Witch was betrayed in parley! Under the auspices of the church! By the king's lapdogs– lapdops! Let go of me! I speak the word of– let go!"

She could hear the beginnings of a riot as the constabulary took charge to suppress the preacher's words. This was not the first, it would not be the last, and Mia lamented that she could not walk amongst the city as freely as she had done in the past.

The checkpoint they passed through, the first of several, to reach the Military District was but one symptom of many of that situation. The carriage, the armed and armoured riders that escorted her, a far more blatant one. Able to witness and watch but not reach out, not understand; too distant, too sheltered, too safe.

Yet such protection was now necessary as the capital seemed all but ready to simmer over into anarchy, whether it be spurred by preachers and riots or the fear of the rebel's continuous advance.

"Thank you Goderic." Mia said as they pulled up outside of High Command, the solid young man helping her down the steep steps of the carriage.

"A pleasure as always, Your Majesty."

She nodded lightly in acknowledgement. "Escort me to my husband." It was time to learn what news, good or ill, had come from the front. Rumours abounded as they always would, yet truth was hard to come by.

As had become commonplace since the undead first threatened the Greymane Wall, the ostentatious building was abuzz with activity. Gone were the sedate and gentlemanly classes on warfare, meant to teach the tactics necessary for usage with pike and shot rather than that of shield walls and bows, and in their place was the frenzy of managing the logistics of a force tens of thousands strong.

And that on a third of the expected staff, so many having been relocated to the wall – or even Crowley's demesne – for the purposes of handling the logistics of defending the wall.

No one barred her passage, though not due to her appearance; instead, parts of her escort moved ahead and completed the security checks while she ambled steadily through the halls. None knew the full capabilities of Crowley's mages and witches but there was little doubt they were extensive, and a single illusion could spell disaster for them all.

Secrecy, however, seemed to not be a consideration. Even before she reached the war room in which Genn conducted his business she could hear the argument raging within, and the stiffness of the guards who normally prided themselves on their stoicism made clear that this was not a recent matter.

"Had I succeeded and the witch was here before us, bound and at our mercy, you would sing a different tune." Godfrey said condescendingly, his sneer audible even through the thick oaken door. "My army would have–"

A hand slammed down upon a table with a meaty thunk. "For the last time, whether or not you were successful is not in question here!" The distinctive baritone of Lord Hewell roared. "You dared to break the sanctity of parley, to act no better than the savage orcs! In one fell swoop you have turned even those of the church who held true to us against us!"

Allowing Goderic to open the door for her, Mia strode inside. Genn sat morosely at the war table, staring at the maps which painted a grim picture of their military situation.

Tokens marking out rebel forces had taken all that lay east of the Ember, sweeping aside whatever opposition that had laid there. What little she could remember of the meaning of each marker spoke ill – the largest force was not marked out with the thousand tokens but the ten thousand tokens. Artillery, cavalry, infantry aplenty, and magical support...

With the support of the now Lord Johan Candren, the loyal militias raised from the Duskmist Plains, and the city garrison they could match Crowley's numbers. Even should he combine with Tulvan's six thousand.

But when so many were green men and women, scarcely ready to fire from a line let alone act properly in battle, and they struggled to match the magic of their foes, that was of little comfort.

"The capital is all but ready to follow suit." Mia said primly as she looked down her nose at Godfrey. "A new riot has erupted along the south canal, your exploits have proceeded you, Commander Godfrey." She didn't react as his nostrils flared, her insult hitting home.

Before the position had been stripped of him the lord had been the commander of all Gilneas' armed forces. Reformed into the mantle of Warden of the Wall that had instead been granted to Darius Crowley.

And, as of yet, not stripped from him formally. A petty reminder of Godfrey's past mistakes.

"And indeed, as the honourable Lord Hewell has already said, whether your plan succeeded or failed would matter little." She walked past him to stand at the table, selecting the archmage token that represented Gwyneth Arevin and picking it up. "Had you succeeded, imprisoned the witch... how long would she have remained that way? How long would it have been before she destroyed Stoneward Prison in her bid to escape?" She met Godfrey's gaze evenly and kept her voice painfully even. "Or perhaps you intended to execute her and deal with the problem 'permanently'?"

Godfrey adjusted his monocle, nothing beyond the faintest curling of his lip betraying his mood. "The mages assured me that she could be subdued and her magic restrained. Adept Tristain spoke authoritatively of his time serving in the Violent Hold of Dalaran."

"A mistake on your part." Genn chastised him, though hardly as harshly as the man deserved. "Both to trust the mages to speak honestly of what they do not understand and to underestimate the witch. Worse still, you overstepped yourself, Vincent; so long as Tulvan and Crowley remain in at the head of the rebellion, subduing the witch alone will mean little." He narrowed his gaze at his friend. "You are dismissed."

Letting out an indignant harrumph, Godfrey adjusted his jacket and bowed. "Very well, Your Majesty. I shall see to the disposition of my men until you summon me once more."

With how arrogant his departure was Mia had to stop herself from tutting. To her satisfaction, however, Lord Hewell had no such restraint.

"Good riddance to bad rubbish." He spat, shaking his head before turning to Genn. "Your Majesty, you must see that he does nothing more than harm our cause. Godfrey has a grudge and intends to see it through to the end. Even Amelia – Lady Tulvan has more restraint!"

"We have too few allies as it is, and fewer still that have experience with true war," Genn muttered darkly. He rose from his seat, holding out his hand to her – into which Mia placed the token from the table.

He had wished for more, she knew, a gentle gesture of reassurance and affection. But, at this moment, she felt no little frustration with her husband; how long would he entertain Godfrey's behaviour? Enough to consider taking Tess and leaving, making for the Greymane Manor and waiting out the war in safety with her daughter.

Princess Calia and Lianne, as well as the young girl's friend Trix, could come also. Removed from the danger that faced them all here...

"His experience matters little if he ignores it in an ill-targetted quest for revenge!" Lord Hewell protested.

Mia let out a long breath, calming herself. She felt the tremble of fear in her heart, for her son who had departed for the wall in anger, and for her daughter most of all. But also for her husband; she was the soft touch, the guiding hand, while he was the pillar of stability that held up the nation.

Once more that stability, that stoicism, had turned too far towards cold stone and it was her task to correct it. "Lord Hewell." Though she did not meet the man's eyes, instead meeting her husband's cold grey ones and daring him to countermand her, she spoke with the authority of a Queen. "Assemble a squadron of Our guards and see to Lord Godfrey's arrest. He has sullied the honour of the Crown and caused harm to our prospects in this war."

As she matched Genn's gaze she could hear Lord Hewell swallow nervously, his clothes rustling as he looked between his two royal superiors. His position was not a kind one.

Hanging from the wall the clock ticked away, seconds passing into minutes before Genn lowered his gaze. The King of Gilneas reached for an empty glass and bottle of brandy, pouring a glass before closing his eyes and sinking into his seat.

"At once, Your Majesty." Lord Hewell said, his voice filled with relief as he bowed. "I shall see it done."

Deep inside Mia a knot of tension unwound itself and she nodded regally to their loyal lord before turning to her husband. Stepping up beside him she rested a hand upon his shoulder, gently kneading away at the oh-so-firm muscles he carried even as he grew older.

"Will I have any friends left at all when this is over?" Genn murmured, then drained his glass in a single biting gulp. "First Jeremy, then Acton, Crowley, and now Vincent." He refilled his glass and poured out a second for her. "Adam. Dead by my own hand."

Lord Marley, who fought in Godfrey's charge against the dreadlord and fell in the same. Lord Ashbury, who had been infected but the curse. And of course Archbishop Tulvan.

She had no words to offer him. There were still lords that remained loyal, that fought for their king, but those that had known Genn before he was king had dwindled to but one. Those who had befriended the man, not the king, lost one by one, torn away by unkind fates or foolish desires.

It made her wonder for her own friends, her knitting circle of the well-to-do ladies of the Duskmist, and how they fared. Lillian had joined the rebellion alongside her son, writing a letter of her intent and offering her apologies that she could not let him go to war alone. Mathilde would likely be fretting over her husband as she was wont to, made far worse by the close call he suffered at the wall and how he was trapped behind rebel lines.

Yet her mind drifted to another, a woman barely grown, that had endeared herself to both her and her son. Besotted him in truth, their romance like one out of a play now that they were torn betwixt–

"Do you believe Liam shall make a good king should the worst come to pass?" Genn asked, interrupting her thoughts.

There was no doubt that he would, yet she did not answer immediately. There was more to this question than the words he said. "He would, of course." She allowed, after careful consideration. "Though he is not ready he would rise to the occasion. You have raised a good man, husband."

"Of course he is a good man." Genn said sombrely, taking her hand from his shoulder and kissing the back of it gently. "He is your son, there is nought else he could be."

He smiled in that way that told her he saw nothing but her, a softness he hid away from the world and only allowed out in those rare moments they were alone or caring for Tess. The face of a man who would kneel beside a bed and administer medicine to their ailing daughter every half hour, without fail, for two days straight without hesitation.

Her heart could not help but flutter.

Genn, her Genn, would do no less for her or their children than offer all that he could. The very world if he deemed it necessary.

"Shall we retire for the night, Mia?" He spoke with a deep rumble that sent a shiver of anticipation down her spine. "We have little enough time before I must return to the campaign and I would not neglect my lady wife."

Heat filled her cheeks and she leaned closer to his ear. "Having more of you would certainly make my night, my wolf," she breathed huskily.

She could not put aside the new worry his words evoked forever, the thought that he did not expect to survive this war, but the night was long and promised many pleasures. There was time to worry in the future – for now, she would perform her duties as queen with great enthusiasm.

-oOoOo-

Trix knew that she shouldn't be unhappy that she only had to entertain the princesses. It wasn't even difficult to do it! Just throwing out little lights, stars, and shapes – and listening to how much better Gwen was at it all, which of course she was, she was Trix's teacher! – but never actually unpleasant.

At times it could almost be fun. Like when she played with Marigold and Merrie before and after lessons, or tried to show off and one-up Richard...

Her breathing hitched painfully as she remembered him. Maybe she deserved to be in the dungeons, in the cold, cold, cold dark, waiting under the dripping stones and shivering wind and– and–

"Stars gone away!" Princess Lianne Menethil whined petulantly, her shrill voice breaking Trix out of her thoughts.

Blinking furiously she wiped away her tears and refocused on her spells, reforming the ghostly shape of a dog made of stars and ambling it awkwardly back towards the princesses. She owed Tess, she owed her a lot. She could eat good meals and sleep in the warm and only had to keep the princesses entertained.

Gwen would be hurt if she was in the dungeons. Mum and Dad would be hurt if they knew. They were worried for her, wishing she could come home, and telling her she could quit being a witch if she wanted.

She didn't. This wasn't Gwen's fault. It was hers. It was hers.

A hand landed on her shoulder and she jumped, only her experience from being so scared at the wall stopping her from losing her spells from the surprise. Princess Calia Menethil, the big princess – and somehow less terrifying for it – had sat next to her without her noticing.

"Who did you lose?" She asked, her voice achingly empty. Even more empty than Trix felt.

Trix opened her mouth to lie, to say she hadn't, to not bother the princess, but her throat closed up. Too tight, too painful, she couldn't say it. "My..." She shouldn't, she shouldn't. "My... I wanted to marry him." It was stupid, he just liked to tease her.

Pull her hair. Mess with her and call her names, brag when he beat her in magic, get angry when she beat him. But he was always there, ever since she started, and then... when she got sad, when she got picked on, he was there.

Right beside her, standing up for her. Telling her to stand up for herself. Because his rival couldn't let stupid superstitious peasants get her down.

Which was stupid, they were peasants!

He could be stupid a lot but it wasn't a bad kind of stupid, and he never minded when she was stupid and got them into trouble. Which she did a lot because it was fun and funny. Was fun and funny... would it still be? She didn't know. It couldn't be the same anymore.

"Richard. We were both students, apprentices, and he even got taken as a proper one in the Blackwald." She blurted out, the words tumbling out without her even knowing why. "He always wanted to be better than me but I was always better than he, and he got mad about it, and then he found something he was better and I got mad at him, but we were still friends and he's gone."

Trix swallowed back her tears, her throat burning with how tight it felt. "He's gone 'cause I was slow. 'Cause I was stupid. 'Cause I was playing when I should've been doing what I was supposed to with Gwen and not let everyone die 'cause I stole Tricks to go play games like a stupid little girl." Her breaths were coming fast, so fast she felt lightheaded. "So many people died and it's all my fault because I wanted to have fun when we were fighting a war and I was meant to be helping! I should be in the stupid dungeon freezing and damp and dying because it'd be fair and Richard could come back 'cause he never goofed off like I did–"

"You know," Princess Calia Menthil said, and Trix immediately shut up because you did not talk over a princess, "I started this war. Father was a good king, but it seems I'm more like Arthas than him. My brother killed our people, our family, and destroyed Lordaeron. Just like I managed to do here."

Calia wrapped an arm around Trix and pulled her against her, squeezing too tightly like she was hugging a blanket or toy for comfort. "At least he made a good paladin for a time. Everything I do is a mistake – I let Prestor use his magic on me, I fell in love with a footman, I became pregnant before marriage, I ran away from my responsibilities eagerly. I chose to come to Gilneas, I could have gone to Aerie Peak, or perhaps even Ironforge... but I insisted." She let out a broken and hollow laugh. "Then I ran away from Lord Crowley. And before that I let my husband confront the orcs alone. Everything I do is a mistake, I don't deserve to be queen."

The mad princess, tears falling from her eyes, looked down at Trix as she suffocated in the princess' embrace. "What a pair we make."

"Stupid!" Trix spat up at her, then immediately regretted it.

She called a princess stupid. But there was still no way the princess had made as big of a mistake as she did!

And at least it made her let go of her.

"Did you even get taught to rule?!" Trix protested, trying to find a way to refute her. And the princess actually shook her head. "Magic is hard, learning it without a teacher takes someone amazing, brilliant, a genius! Like Gwen. And ruling is hard too! Gwen was always grumpy after going to Lady Lorna's lessons, 'cause they were hard, and that's just for a lady, a duchess, not a princess or a queen!"

It was infallible logic. If the princess hadn't been taught how to do things, then how could she possibly know how to do things right?!

Wasn't her fault, it was her father's. The king's. Like lots of stuff going wrong was King Greymane's fault.

"I got taught to do things right. By Gwen. You didn't, so it's not your fault like it is mine. I should've known better but I made the mistake anyway!" She yelled into the princess' face.

Small arms wrapped around her from behind, then another pair followed slightly higher.

"Thank you for the star doggy." Princess Lianne Menethil said softly. "Tessy says you’re hurt so need a hug."

"I said that she's upset so she needs to be hugged and told it's okay!" Princess Tess whined at her fellow princess. "If she's not wrong because she wasn't taught to be queen, you're not wrong because you were still learning. So there."

She pulled away from the hug, only to tug on Trix's arm. "Now come play with me! That's a royal order. You can learn more when you see your..." Princess Tess started to frown. "Teacher again. I'll even forgive her. If she gets me riding wolf."

"You..." Princess Calia Menethil started, recovering from being shouted at and Trix worried she was really going to be thrown back into the cold and miserable wet dark of the dungeons, only to stop and shake her head. "Patricia Tailor, you... thank you. Take care of my daughter, I need to– I need to find the queen."

Before standing she planted a kiss on her daughter's head. "Take care, Lianne. Mama will... be better."

"Be happy, Mama." Princess Lianne Menethil told her firmly, not stopping in her hugging.

Trix felt numb. Had she really shouted at a princess? And been thanked for it? She didn't know why, but she started giggling, and even as the big princess left and the little ones kept asking her what was wrong, she couldn't stop. Not that she could answer even if she wanted to.

She missed Gwen, she missed Trix, she missed Mama and Papa. She wanted to go home and hid in the bushes by the waterwheel again.

-oOoOo-

"Test one hundred and thirty-seven: Four parts in twenty new moon purified moonleaf extract, two parts in twenty oil of aconite, two parts in twenty powdered antimony, eight parts in twenty royal bloom kingsblood, one part in twenty blossoming peacebloom, three parts in twenty triple distilled ethanol..."

Though Arugal had listened to Alchemist Aranas list the ingredients for their concoctions more than a hundred times by now he still listened dutifully; it would not do to show disinterest in his fellow researcher's work; it was the swiftest method he knew to earn the ire of an intellectual. That, and he could appreciate the alchemist's attention to detail.

It had certainly proven a boon to their efforts, ruling out many of the available herbs and materials from being used in the concoctions.

Truesilver, though initially promising, had alarming side effects which Aranas had connected to the purified metal's effect on tainted and corrupted creatures. Arugal knew well that he would not have made the connection between their patients' lethargy, tears of blood, and the metal.

Aranas finished measuring out the dosage into a vial; no more than three ounces, lest the aconite and antimony reach a point of toxicity within the worgen. "Restrain the patient, please." He ordered politely.

"Certainly." A wave of Arugal's hand saw the chains of magic that held the worgen in place twist, pulling the sulking – they could learn, in time, that fighting was a losing proposition – into a position from which it could not strike back. Then the adepts stepped in, adding their own restraints to hold the worgen's head still and her vicious jaws wide open.

Safest to keep the tasks separate, no matter his status as an Archmage, splitting his attention too many ways had deleterious effects upon his magic.

Half a dozen apprentice, and supposed master, alchemists stood around them taking careful and occasional furious notes. Each hoping to note some vital observation that would catapult their efforts forward once more. Unlikely, in Arugal's mind.

They had chosen this concoction because of its promise. Moonleaf for its, plainly stated, connection to the moons which were tied to the curse. Aconite and antimony, both to connect with and subdue the wolf within. Kingsblood to bolster the spirit of the man, or woman in this case, while peacebloom has calming aftereffects. The last attempt had held silver, but that...

Well. The patient was no longer worgen, but to their shame, they were no longer amongst the living. Aconite, oftentimes called wolfsbane, and silver had proven a lethal combination despite their attempts to dilute them.

"Administering the dosage." Krennan said, carefully, and deftly despite the very thick gloves he wore, pouring the concoction deep into the worgen's throat where she could not simply hack it back up or spit it out. After a moment she swallowed; when it was that or drown most found the choice a simple one.

Sometimes Arugal felt guilt for their treatment of the worgen, the lengths and cruelties necessary to contain them. But any injury threatened infection, any hesitation escape; already they had three cases of turning caused by a lack of caution.

Though that had taught them that, if one severed an infected limb swiftly enough, the infection could be prevented from spreading. Something which was not a certainty when dealing with magical afflictions.

Minutes passed in silent observation, the greater restraints withdrawn to offer Sergeant Sheila some freedom of motion should she regain herself... and though she thrashed violently, growling as the worgen so often did, she eventually settled down.

Sat upon the floor, chains disregarded, she stared at her hands. "I..." Her voice was thick and deep, an undertone of a growl still present, yet... "I'm... it worked? You, you... I can think. I can feel." She clenched her hands into tight fists, the sharp claws digging into her palms and welling up with blood.

Seemingly in an attempt to distract herself, she sniffed at the air, looking around and landing her gaze upon their guests. One of them particular. Curiously, after a few moments, she seemed almost fixated...

"Sergeant Sheila?" Arugal asked softly, approaching the worgen woman at a sedate pace. "Can you please repeat to me our last conversation?"

The sergeant's ears flicked in his direction – curious, an automatic reaction? Or perhaps one learned while in the feral state. In either case, it was a usefully informative expression of her attention.

"I... I told you to, to, do anything... if it killed me," she growled and tugged on the chains for a moment, "even if it killed me, to bring me back. For my brother. So I could look after him. He got hurt, he was... he was..." She shook her head, as if trying to banish some errant thought. "How, how is he?"

"Recovering. Progress is being made to undo the necrotic damage done to his body. It will be months before he can walk again with the healers we have available but, I assure you, it will be done." He paused, watching as she nodded and looked around, taking in the muttering and scribbling adepts and alchemists. "Can you describe how you feel?"

Aranas walked past him, speaking plainly so that one of his fellow alchemists would take down the details for him. "Test successful, patient exhibits memory capacity and reasoning skills not observed in feral patients..."

"I... I can feel it, growling," Sergeant Sheila held a hand to her chest, "angry. Hateful and furious and raging and hot and–" she cut herself off with a growl. "It isn't gone. I can think. I can feel. Not anger... relief, but anger. It's still there. A wolf, a beast, and it's angry."

Nodding, Arugal made a note to point out the accuracy of Gwyneth's statement of how she could hear it growling to Aranas in the future. "We cannot trust that the change is complete and stable," he apologised, "and as such you will have to remain in confinement. Should you return to a feral state, do you remain willing to serve as a test subject for our curatives?"

She looked at him, intelligence shining in eyes that had so recently been nothing but rage, and she... smiled? An odd expression upon a muzzle, but the intent was clear. "Even if I die. Keep working miracles."

There was much to celebrate in the wake of their first true success. Sergeant Sheila was, despite her restraints, the centre of the party; eating and drinking and making jokes. Her every comment on her changed state was recorded and documented, from her change in tastes – a distinct preference for rarer meats – to her finding the body odour of certain individuals truly repugnant.

Little could dampen Arugal's mood, not even word of the war and recent events that would certainly have been disquieting on another day. His guest certainly took it worse than he, by the expression upon her face as she approached him.

"Archmage Arugal, might I ask for a moment of your time?"

He nodded, quite curious as to her thoughts. Then, as she explained what she had in mind, decidedly more than curious as it outlined a possibility denied to them with Gwyneth's departure.