Expedition Camp, The Kermanevar, Sebua
June 25th, 761, 9:47 AM; Day 100 of the Menetnashte Expedition
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"....Are you out of your
mind!?!"
Maleagant was in rare form. Most of the time, Samael handled the various egos of the Expedition with a cool, pleasant approach, a necessity in such a group. Sometimes, however, it was good to be able to simply stare at someone wide-eyed and inquire if they've been hit a few too many times over the head last night.
"Andre, correct me if I am wrong, but do we not have, at last count, homicidal cultists, a psychopathic necromancer, armies of undead, giant ethereal-jumping spiders, the entire armed forces of Phiraz, a
demon, undead, and random shadow-constructs after our blood?"
"
What about the previous statement makes taking Miss Collins alonga good idea?!?!"
Mary was standing behind Professor Theroux and the others, looking nervous and rubbing her hands a little, as Samael continued on his rant. It occurred to you that whatever else, Mary was a big girl, and a good bit bigger then Samael. Then again, so was just about everybody else.
"I am
sorry, Miss Collins, but it is simply out of the question." Samael turned to the young Mordentishwoman, bowing stiffly. "People have been
killed on this Expedition, and I can't have that on my conscience. We'll be glad to loan you some funds you can use to fund your return, but it's simply too dangerous."
"Oh... I'm....sorry to intrude... " Mary began, even as Professor Jean-Jacques Pelletier emerged from his tent to see just what the commotion was all about. The good Professor was still a powerful, assured figure, though he seemed to have aged a decade in the last month, and walked slowly, and with a cane.
"Would someone be so kind as to explain the cause of all this infernal shouting?" The Professor said frostily, tapping his cane against the ground twice for silence. "Good morning Mademouselle. Is there some sort of problem?"
There was a brief pause as multiple people tried to explain the cause of Ms. Mary Collins's misfortune, and the proposal of Andre's to bring her along. Professor Pelletier listened to all of this calmly, saying nothing for several moments as his hazel eyes moved from Andre's face to Mary's to Samael's.
"Well..." Pelletier said at length, letting the silence stretch for a moment. "Of course you can come with us, Ms. Collins. We certainly can't leave a lone Mordentishwoman in the depths of Sebua. It would be a violation of our Ezran duty. Mr. Maleagant, see to it."
"Bu--" Samael looked ready to protest.
"Is there a problem Mr. Maleagant?" Professor Pelletier said frostily. There was a brief pause before Maleagant shook his head, sighing.
And that, as they say, was that.
Expedition Camp, The Kermanevar, Sebua
June 26th, 761, 8:19 AM; Day 101 of the Menetnashte Expedition
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All good hings must come to an end, and so it was with the Expedition's short stay in Kermanshah. Maleagant had agreed to stay in Kermanshah one day more, but the there was a sense of urgency now. No one wanted to still be in the desert when autumn arrived, and the autumn winds raised up sandstorms only slightly smaller than the God-Storm of Pharazia's border.
So it was on an early morning in late June that the Expedition was packing up its camp to depart. The morning had yet to heat up to the usual wretched dessication of the Sebuan desert, and spirits were high. Fassahd was explaining to Samael and Edmund the best route to go by to reach the Jackal's Ruse and its attendant pocket of civilization, how to avoid the worst winds and salt flats and so-forth. Guy was giving Loup a good trimming, shearing away most of the fur off the Alsatian, which while it helped keep the canine cool, also meant he vaguely resembled a man-eating poodle at the moment. Lily was taking her impressions of the Kermanevar down for the last time, while Remy fiddled around with a camera to do the same.
So it was that no one noticed the old woman approaching the camp until quite a bit later than they were supposed to. She was an aged, decrepit crone, withered away till there seemed nothing but skins stretched over bones. Only her dark, liquid eyes hinted at life, albeit a sad one. She came bearing a box, a length of cloth, and a sheathed weapon of some sort wrapped in a shawl.
"Good Morn, honored sir, but I have a gift for Mistress Mournswaithe from a gentleman, and a gift for Master Al-Atim, from a lady. And a token for Master Martel, from myself." She said to Michel, who was on guard duty. The Dementlieuse man looked askance at the old woman, feeling a little damp around the collar even if he couldn't know exactly
why. Shrugging, he called the rest of you over.
Those darkling eyes were rather familiar.
