Duthash Albyr Syncath [May 3rd, 237 VY]
The rescuing of the pilgrims was not satisfying for Jarmok; they had gotten there too late for most, and those that did survive would likely have night terrors for the rest of their lives. Jarmok knew only too well that particular award for survival.
He tried to not think about the poor souls who were lost, and the poorer ones who were saved. He lay on the floor near the fire in his little cabin; he hadn't been able to sleep in a bed - other than while convalescing with the gypsies - since he could remember. His leg and shoulder ached and oozed thickening blood, but he knew that they would be mending themselves soon and would likely be gone but for some minor scar tissue by morning.
When the rat had exploded in the subterranian temple, Jarmok thought it was frighteningly odd, but in the caves, when the lizard-thing exploded, that was different. The waif, he was now sure, was the cause of that. But she seemed afraid of herself. No one, he thought, should be alone and afraid of themselves. She is in need of a friend now, that much was clear, and she needn't be as skittish and frieghtened as she was. If Jarmok was any judge, she was not fully grown; little more than a child, despite her appearance.
As he considered how best to help her, yet keep secret what she obviously wanted to retain, sleep overtook him as he watched the flames caper lightly in the fireplace.
Crisp early morning air and a sharp pain in his head wakened Jarmok before the sun breached the eastwall. He looked around, his head fuzzy and sat up, then, succuming to gravity's brutal force, he fell down through fronds that tore at his face and hands. He tried ineffectually to grasp some purchase, but what little there was to be found was fleeting and harsh. He only did himself more damage.
Stunned and bleeding, but on the ground at last, he found himself laying prostrate beneath a broad southern fir. How it came to pass that he was in that tree, he could not guess...although shards of a dream of flying pierced his mind rather suddenly. Something odd was clearly afoot.
Whatever the case, it was near-dawn and he should be up and about already. Intimate with all areas of this forest, he rose stiffly and returned to his cabin. Dressing - but leaving his sleeves short so that the fresh wounds upon his hands and lower arms might be more rapidly healed by the morning air - and gathering his weapons, he left on his daily tour to the westwall; he was late, but that could not be helped.
Threshold was yet quiet, as it tended to be. Maal, Jarmok thought, would doubtless be touring the southern fringes about now. Jarmok picked up his gait, jogging toward the Rosewalk. He had already missed the sunrise, but he could at least poke around the forest for signs of the rat-man. He needed to collect Maal and go looking for him, he reminded himself, time was of the essence.
Jarmok was surprised to see the familiar cuvaceous form of Kit walking through the early Sythus morning towards the Rosewalk ahead of him. She was alone, and it was unusual for her to be about this time of the day. His thoughts of last night came unbidden to his mind, and her current solitude punctuated his conviction that she seemed to feel very much alone. Again he picked up his gait to catch up with her; opportunity had surfaced, and he would be remiss if he did not seize it.
He ran up behind her, holding his gear close as was his wont: a hunter must make no noise. That lesson, driven so repetitivly by Mercer, was now more an autonomous response than an effort. He pulled up short just behind the girl and said, "You hurt rat and lizard? Is secret?"
