The landscape continued its relentless, almost aggressive display of life, utterly indifferent to the ragged trio traversing it. Beside them, the river murmured, its tranquil surface reflecting the high, thin clouds drifting across the vast sky. The air, though still carrying the faintest, acrid memory of smoke from the ravaged village behind them, was now thick with the scent of damp earth and unseen wildflowers blooming with fierce abandon on the rolling hillsides. Yet, drawing steadily closer, piercing the horizon like a shard of ancient bone, was their destination: the spiralling, grey stone summit of a great tower. It scraped against the underside of the clouds, a silent, brooding monolith whose very presence seemed to leach the vibrancy from the air, casting a long, creeping shadow that felt colder than it should.

  Mola: "That's it right *there*...!"

  She announced, her voice tight, trying for casualness but falling short. She gestured towards the imposing structure with a flick of her wrist.

  Mola: "Not too far off now..."

  Bazren let out a low grunt, less relief than weary acknowledgement. She shifted the awkward weight of her severed arm and torso piece, the imperfectly healed wound in her side throbbing dully.

  Bazren: "Finally...!"

  The air thickened, charged with unvoiced anxieties. The tower loomed, a destination promising potential salvation or utter ruin, and yet their strategy remained dangerously unformed.

  Mola risked a glance back. Bazren, despite the obvious discomfort, scanned the approaching tower with a kind of defiant curiosity, her rose-colored eyes narrowed. Xayn, however, walked with his gaze lowered, the grim set of his skeletal jaw betraying a mind working furiously beneath the surface, the faint blue light of his enso irises reflecting the troubled thoughts within. The tattered remnants of his ornate plate armour, marred by battle and the creeping black void-stain, seemed heavier than usual.

  Mola forced a brittle brightness into her tone.

  Mola: "Oh, cheer up, bone-pile... I've thought of everything already!"

  Xayn's head snapped up, the surprise evident in the sudden flare of blue light in his eyes.

  Xayn: "You have?! Do you jest? Spit it out already!"

  She cleared her throat, squaring her shoulders, adopting an air of forced confidence, like a player laying down a desperate hand.

  Mola: "What if there were actually survivors from that village...? *Two* survivors?"

  Bazren raised a skeptical brow, the implication dawning immediately. Her gaze flickered pointedly over her own ravaged form, then Xayn's corrupted state.

  Bazren: "... Please. I'm sure you of all people have noticed our current aesthetic is a bit too far detached from 'human villager'."

  Mola waved a dismissive hand, warming to her theme.

  Mola: "Yes, obviously... But! That could have been the dagger's doing, couldn't it? A side effect of its horrific power. What used to be two innocent, perhaps somewhat grubby, villagers became two horribly disfigured, traumatized, decaying --"

  Bazren cut her off, her voice sharp.

  Bazren: "Don't push it... We get the picture."

  Mola ignored the interruption, pressing on, her eyes gleaming with frantic ingenuity.

  Mola: "-- survivors! *Refugees*, seeking aid!"

  Xayn and Bazren exchanged a swift, assessing glance. The silence stretched, filled only by the wind whistling past the tower's distant peak. Xayn slowly ran a gauntleted hand over a patch of void-corruption spreading across his chest plate, the dark energy seeming to writhe sluggishly beneath his touch.

  Mola pressed her advantage, turning specifically to Xayn.

  Mola: "The both of you'll have to ditch your armour, though -- *all* of it. Villagers don't wear ancient, demonic armour plate! Plus it's practically useless now anyway, most of it's either shattered or being eaten by that... *gunk*."

  A flicker of revulsion crossed her face.

  Mola: "Not to mention it looked about ready to fall apart when I first saw you two."

  Xayn considered this, his gaze distant. He nodded slowly, a pragmatic acceptance of necessity.

  Xayn: "Well, things are... rough... back where we came from. New armor doesn't stay that way for long."

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  A dry statement, devoid of its intended context for Mola.

  Xayn: "Very well... I suppose as far as justifying our origins, I have no objection."

  Bazren, however, looked distinctly reluctant, clutching her burdens tighter.

  Bazren: "W-wait, are we leaving our armor behind just like that?! Where are we even supposed to leave it? What if someone finds it?!"

  Mola pointed a sharp finger towards the flowing water nearby.

  Mola: "It's deeper than it looks -- just chuck it down there. Let the river take it."

  Xayn met Bazren's gaze, his own expression grim.

  Xayn: "I realize this isn't ideal, Bazren... But if we are to maintain even a shred of believability, we cannot march in there looking like recién arisen warlords. It'll be a dead giveaway -- she's right about that."

  Bazren sighed, a sound like grating stone.

  Bazren: "Ugh... Compromise has really been the word of the day, huh..."

  Xayn: "Hang on, Mola. We ought to get rid of it now. The farther from your Master's eyes, the better."

  They began the laborious, uncomfortable process of unstrapping and removing the heavy, dark metal plates. Ancient buckles groaned in protest, stiff leather cracked and split. As pieces of the corrupted armour fell away, they revealed more of the ashen, desiccated flesh beneath, starkly marked by the invasive black tendrils of void energy that pulsed faintly, like a disease clinging stubbornly to dead tissue. Piece by heavy piece, they hurled the metal into the river. Each splash echoed unnaturally loud, and where the void-tainted sections struck the water, a faint oily sheen spread, and pale, belly-up fish began to drift slowly to the surface downstream, poisoned by the lingering corruption.

  Xayn straightened, now clad only in the remnants of dark under-layers, looking even more gaunt and skeletal without the armour's bulk.

  Xayn: "But the question I asked before still stands: will your master truly be willing to expend her energy on two undead... regardless of how we supposedly came to be this way?"

  Mola nodded, perhaps a touch too quickly, her enthusiasm bordering on suspiciously frantic.

  Mola: "Are you kidding?! My master... she has a soft spot for the tragically afflicted. The downtrodden, the *victims*... As long as she believes you were just ordinary folk twisted by dark forces beyond your control, she's sure to help! Just..."

  Her eyes darted between them, sharp and urgent.

  Mola: "Just be sure to keep your spectral weapons dematerialized. Anything that betrays you're actually from Mortmundus will screw us all over."

  Bazren stepped closer, awkwardly depositing her final piece of armour -- a warped greave -- into the river with a splash that sent more dead fish bobbing. Her gaze remained fixed on Mola, suspicion etched deep onto her pale features.

  Bazren: "And what's our cover story when she asks questions? Won't she want to know what we know about the dagger? Where it *came from*...?"

  Mola shrugged, the gesture a little too broad, a little too casual.

  Mola: "Ah, let her ask. So what? You two were just... minding your own business."

  She waved a vague hand.

  Mola: "Maybe shearing sheep, maybe mucking out a pigsty... whatever it is those poor sods did for fun back in that hovel. Last thing you remember clearly, this horrific thing appeared..."

  She gestured vaguely towards the shriveled dagger still secured at Xayn's hip.

  Mola: "... and started its genocide run. Everything since has been a blur of pain, terror, and transformation."

  Xayn remained silent, his expression unreadable, though the slight tension in his jaw suggested reservations. Bazren folded her arms, clutching her gruesome burdens tighter, her silence saturated with doubt. Noticing Xayn's lack of overt agreement, Mola's forced confidence wavered slightly.

  Mola: "Oh, come on, out with it! What *gaping hole* are you poking in it now?"

  Xayn's gaze drifted pointedly down to the shriveled, leathery artifact secured at his side.

  Xayn: "There remains one small, protruding detail you seem to be overlooking."

  He tapped the dormant dagger.

  Xayn: "What will she think of the fact that one of the pitiable, transformed survivors is carrying the very artifact that caused the destruction... instead of you, her apprentice, who supposedly neutralized it?"

  Bazren immediately stepped closer to Xayn, leaning in towards Mola, her voice dropping to a low, menacing growl, her wind rose eyes flaring.

  Bazren: "And don't you dare suggest we hand that thing over to you before we're fixed."

  Xayn nodded in grim agreement, his hand resting near the dagger protectively.

  Xayn: "It stays with us until this corruption is purged. That is non-negotiable."

  Mola threw her hands up, affecting an air of exasperated reasonableness.

  Mola: "Honestly? It's better this way! My spellbook's gone, remember? Destroyed in the battle..."

  Weaving truth amidst the lies came easily to her. Too easily.

  Mola: "Without it, even a dormant artifact like that could be dangerous for me to handle directly. It's not a risk I'd want to take."

  She paused, glancing between them, her expression shifting to one of calculated magnanimity.

  Mola: "And because I trust these unfortunate, unjustly cursed souls so much..."

  She patted Xayn's unarmoured shoulder with mock sympathy.

  Mola: "... I let them carry it. They were already turned, after all. Not like the dagger could do much worse to them now, could it?"

  She turned away before they could dissect the holes in that particular piece of logic, pivoting on her heel and resuming her stride towards the rapidly nearing tower. She raised an index finger triumphantly in the air, speaking over her shoulder with forced conviction.

  Mola: "Which, goes without saying, is all the more reason it is our solemn duty to *repay* their courage and kindness by ridding this vile decay from their bodies!"

  Xayn and Bazren exchanged another look behind her back. Unease flickered visibly in Bazren's rose-coloured eyes, while Xayn's expression remained impassive, yet somehow heavier, burdened by the compounding risks. Neither offered a better plan. The stone tower dominated the horizon now, its grey mass seeming to watch their approach with ancient, indifferent eyes.

  

  

  The destination drew near. All bets were on Mola, and her beautiful, dangerously fragile mistake of a plan.