One arc later

[Faith Augustin]

20th Ymiden, 717
following this

Faith was frantic.

Faith didn't, as a rule, do frantic. She did disciplined, controlled, calm. It was an arc ago this trial that she had first been allowed out to meet free people and in that time she had experienced more than she had ever dared dream of. Through it all, with a few notable exceptions, Faith had remained calm.

Except now.

There was something wrong she could feel it. She knew it. She could feel it and hear it and, more than anything, Faith could taste it, like ashes in her mouth. She had paced in the living room, not quite knowing what to do. The bond that she and Padraig shared meant that she could feel what he was feeling, hear snippets of his thoughts and it told her that he was angry. His emotions were tumultuous and Faith needed to know that he was alright. The surge of anger that he had felt earlier was like nothing she'd ever seen from him and Faith's worry was through the roof. She gave thanks to Famula that he couldn't feel what she did, because it was the last thing he needed.

Cyrus and Katie had accepted her explanation, that she knew there was something wrong, that she felt like he was coming home but Faith had known that she had to go to the docks. To meet him. As Faith had more or less flown around the house, picking up medical supplies, snacks, books, anything she could think of that Padraig might need, Cyrus had stepped in front of her and just gently held her arms for a moment, looking down at her until she calmed down.

"Take the medical things, you might need those. You're all he needs. Go on now."

Faith looked at Padraig's grandfather and tears sprang to her eyes. He gave her a brief, but very heartfelt hug and Katie assured her that they'd have food prepared by the time the two of them got back, she shouldn't worry about anything.

And then, Faith had run to the docks as though she was being chased by all the fears she'd ever had. In a way, she was.

When she got there, they were trying to organise getting one of the Order to come. There was a boat coming from Immortals' Tongue and the captain had signaled ahead for a medic. They knew no more than that, the signal itself was a basic raising of a flag. All that the dock worker told her?

"It's injur'es, Miss, but it's contagion too." Faith looked up at the man who was talking to her as she watched the boat come closer.

"Take the dock workers, get them out of the way. No one goes on there." Faith said and she smiled at him. He looked at her and frowned, looking down with a perplexed expression.

"How will you make sure they're a'right?"

"I mean," Faith said with as calm an expression as she could muster, "None of you. I'm getting on there."

"Well, miss, I'm not sure that's a good idea," the dock worker said. Faith looked up at him and considered that he was a good foot taller than her, easily three times as broad and all muscle. When she turned her gaze to him, she would have been lying if she hadn't said that she was rather pleased that he took what seemed to be an involuntary step back.

"I don't need you to be sure whether it's a good idea or not. My... " the pause was less than half a trill and the word was out before she even realised it, "husband is on that boat. Get your people, get back and get out of my way."

Watching the ferry come in to the dock, Faith realised that she was shaking so hard even her legs were trembling. The last time that had happened, she'd been waiting for the Venora brand, she recalled. That hadn't been as terrifying as this. Not for a moment had that been as terrifying as this. "Please, Vri, if it is your will. I'll take it, whatever it is. Keep him safe." She hadn't been prepared to let the dock worker see it, but the fear which filled her at his lack of safety gnawed at her.

Finally, finally the ferry docked and they lowered the gangplank. Faith stood, at the dockside and her eyes searched into the distance, trying to spot him. Just to see him. She knew he was alive, but she needed to see him. Standing there on her own, it was the quiet which surprised Faith. As she caught sight of a familiar figure, her low groan of relief broke that silence.

So, one foot in front of the other, she climbed up on to the boat. Her legs shook, all of her shook and, more than anything, Faith wanted to just run to Padraig. But one look at him and she knew that he was trying, desperately, to communicate with her. He was not alright, he was upset and concerned but more than anything he was trying to protect her. It took every ounce of discipline she had, but Faith stood where she was. When she spoke, her voice was calm and controlled. She was beyond terrified.

"What's the situation?"

[Padraig]

If there'd been any logic at all to pick, shuffle and sort out from all the madness and lack of logic and good sense that the ship had left behind on Immortal's Tongue, it was Lakia's suggestion that in returning to Scalvoris Town, they risked carrying some unknown danger with them, that in turn could put the community at risk. As for all the rest, if he hadn't been halfway out of the ruins by then with the slave they'd found there, Padraig might have pointed out that reason delivered down the shaft of a bolt aimed at anyone, wasn't reason at all. He'd wondered, since they'd set sail again, if she'd managed to learn that lesson, courtesy Varn's intervention. Maybe, or maybe not. But he'd wondered if he'd see Lakia or her slave Delta, or even the guide Yolande alive again. And if he did, would it be something else that had been their undoing? Or would it be them who'd done it themselves?

He'd spoken to Varn however, Pash, and the man who commanded the vessel, and since none of them knew if they'd been exposed to anything that was catching, and couldn't communicate clearly with those ashore, they'd decided that perhaps a self imposed quarantine was the best course of action. At least until they knew more. If there'd been anything catching on the island, then it was possible that he'd been exposed. Varn, the girl, Pash most certainly, and what about the crew? It had been a slow trip home nonetheless, and Padraig would have grown impatient and restless if he hadn't kept himself busy. He'd have had too much time to think as well, about what had happened. And if Faith had sensed any of it, for remembering, she might have sensed it all over again.

So he'd tended to the poor girl who'd somehow become the focus of so much violence and anger by virtue of simply being. She'd gone with him without a word, trembled as he encouraged her to climb aboard, and kept herself curled up by the rail through most of their journey, silent unless she was spoken to. And even then, it was only him that she'd speak to at all. After tending to Pash's injuries, he'd used the supplies from his kit that had been returned, to clean up her scratches and tend her best he could, and tried, mostly failed, to find out from her what had happened before they'd found her there, abandoned in the ruined temple. She referred to herself as she, it, this slave. But never me or I, and no matter how Padraig tried, she insisted that she had no other name. He wondered. Had she ever, if she'd been born into slavery? Or was it that she couldn't remember, or had been so damaged that she simply refused to acknowledge it?

The thought caused another wave of anger to well up in him, though he was careful not to let her see it. She'd have assumed the anger was directed at her. Eventually, during a moment when he managed to engage her, after she insisted repeatedly that in fact he was her master now, rather than argue the point fruitlessly, he suggested then that he might like her to choose a name of her own. For the first time in her young life maybe, something that was hers and hers alone. He hadn't thought then that he'd reached her. But later, he found her gazing up at the moon glowing pale against a bright trial sky in wonder, that he smiled and asked, did she like it? Smiling back, he gazed at it too, agreeing that it was beautiful and mysterious..."Luna," he uttered, and the way she looked his way, an almost imagined smile on her face and too fleeting to know for sure, made him think that she liked the sound of it.

"Luna...Is that what I should call you?" he asked. Though she only nodded and looked back up at the moon then, at least it appeared that she'd chosen a name. Yet afterwards, while she'd look his way and answer when he addressed her that way, still she referred to herself in her usual way. She, it, this slave. He'd discovered early on, from the first bit that they'd left the ruins, that she watched his every move, no matter where he was and if she needed to shift her place to see him here or there, she did. She watched, fearfully, he thought. As if on the one hand she relied on him to protect her, while on the other she wondered if as the new master she'd decided he was, that he'd turn out to be just as callous and cruel as the others who'd come before him.

Once they dropped anchor and had raised the flag, Padraig stood by the rail and observed the activity on the docks. There was one face above all that Padraig yearned to see, but on the other hand hoped he wouldn't. Faith. He knew she'd come, and in fact there was no one he'd rather see at that moment. But then he hoped that she wouldn't, no matter how impossible it was that she'd stay away or fail to climb on the ferry that carried her to the ship. Immortals only knew what, if anything they'd carried back with them aboard the ship. But while he cared for the whole of Scalvoris' population, it was her he most wanted to protect from exposure. To him, or anyone else on board.

He waited for her on deck, and couldn't help the swell of emotion that overcame him when she climbed on board. She was safe, though the tension and worry, the fear was plain to see. He held up a hand if she tried to come too close, stepped back if necessary to make sure. Still, Padraig smiled a little. "I guess I'd have been wasting my breath to ask you not to come," he said. But all personal fears aside, she was the most talented and intuitive healer and researcher he knew. She'd have come, even if he wasn't on board. There was too much to tell. So he'd sort out what was most immediately concerning, and save the rest for after. "We may have been exposed to something," he said. "Through contact maybe? Airborne even? I'm not sure," he said. But the distinction between those two might be the difference between just him, Pash, Varn and the girl exposed, maybe, and all those who'd joined them on the voyage home.

"We came upon a ruined shrine, to Moseke I believe," he added, though Pash might tell her more of what they'd observed. "It was surrounded by four trees with moss growing on them in very distinct patterns. Not a pattern that makes any ordinary, natural sense. None of us touched it, but after some self inflicted abrasions, that same moss began growing on a member of the party. Pash," Padraig said. "He'd touched a number of us by then, after being touched by yet another member of the party, one of our guides. She had tattoos, like yours. She was a follower of Famula, marked by her and was a dreamwalker too. She disappeared later, but not before touching me as well." Was there a connection? He had no idea but Faith needed to know it just the same.

He also wasn't sure if it was touching that had caused anything to spread, if it had at all or if there was anything to find at all. "If there's something, contact, airborne, I'm not sure. And the girl there," he said, gesturing to the poor huddled creature that had managed to creep closer to him while fearfully casting glances Faith's way. "I don't know what she's been exposed to if anything. We found her bruised, beaten, tied up and abandoned in the temple. Abandoned by her master," Padraig said. "She said something about her master, and the others...whoever they were, intending to turn loose a plague." He didn't tell Faith just yet, why he'd brought the girl back with him or why she never seemed to let him out of her sight.

"Of our party, the woman who followed Famula disappeared. Our guide, Varn, Pash, me, the girl, we're the only ones that have returned. Two? I'm not sure." Of course, it wasn't a matter of them abandoning any of their group,leaving them to fend for themselves. Something else had happened. But though Faith might realize that from the way he said it, it wasn't the most immediate problem.

[Faith Augustin]

"I would not have heard," the depth of emotion that Faith felt threatened to overwhelm her completely. She did not, could not, drop her gaze from him and as much as she seemed calm and controlled, her eyes showed the whirling emotions which threatened to overwhelm her. As she gave a slight, tight smile Faith realised that even her lips were shaking, "besides, I thought I'd come fishing. That's why I'm here."

He explained, she listened. "One tattoo or two?" Faith asked, of the disappearing woman. "And was there one on her neck, too?" All indications, she knew, of the level of favor Famula held her chosen in. The rest of it, she listened to and the only time her eyes left his was when he spoke about the girl. Then, her gaze flicked and... stuck. The colour left her face and her eyes widened as she looked at the young woman who huddled there, gazing at Padraig in a way that Faith knew, recognised and understood.

"Oh," she said and nodded her head, just once.

"Oh." Faith rarely repeated herself, but she really couldn't think of anything which was more appropriate. Then, she breathed in and stepped forward. "Please," she said to Padraig, fairly sure that he would step back. "Please just let me look at you. I can.. " A frown of concentration marked the calmest Faith had looked since he'd set eyes on her and, in fairness, for quite a few breaks before.

"I can take it from you," standing as close to him as he'd allow, she smiled mirthlessly, then relief poured over her like a wave, immediately written all over her face and Faith felt her knees start to tremble. "Except there's nothing to take. Padraig? There's nothing wrong with you." Unless he stopped her, Faith stepped forward and hugged him, clinging to him for just half a bit. Holding on to him, her shaking subsided and yet there were tears in her eyes when she looked up at him. "All the words, my husband," she whispered, emotion making her voice tremble, "they're not enough. Not even 'mine'." Reaching up, she put her hand on his cheek, unable to stop the tears of relief which fell, although she got herself under control quickly.

"Let me look here, then." Faith regretfully stepped away from Padraig, but not too far. She knelt down in front of the young girl who was cowering there. She hadn't knelt that way for a long time, but she thought that it might be even subconsciously familiar to her. "Hello. I'm Faith. He wants me to have a look at your wounds. Show me, please?"

Of course, she obeyed.

Faith sighed and smiled slightly, "You've done a good job of patching her up. We'll do better when we get you home, alright?" Padraig had taken responsibility for this young woman, Faith thought. Even if he hadn't taken it, then it was certainly his now anyway and he needed to know that she supported him one hundred percent. They'd make it work. "I know how afraid you are. How confusing this is." Faith's voice was quiet, as she worked on cleaning up the cuts. "It was an arc ago to-trial, on this very trial, that I met the first free person I ever met. My owner let me out for the first time." She was entirely matter of fact when she told the slave that, quietly working.

"It seemed like such a big world. But he helped me," she motioned up at Padraig with her head and smiled a gentle and compassionate smile to the traumatized young woman, "slowly, as slowly as you need. Alright?"

She glanced up at Padraig. "She's dehydrated, starved and needs long term medical care. Which is fine." Faith stood up and looked at him with a very calm expression, an accepting one. "We'll make that all work. We have all the time in the world. Let me look at Pash. Where is he?"

[Pash Raj'oriq]

To lull the tall Biqaj into stillness and silence was no small feat, to turn him so inward that he said less than the archaeologists’ slave would have been impressive had anyone who’d known him longer than half a season been able to see him. Pash had relinquished Padraig’s belongings and allowed the green, growing, living whatever that marred the inked lines on his tanned arm to be examined, cleaned, and dealt with, but he had no witty banter and no smile to offer. If words were required, he gave them, but they were short, quiet, and dull.

The sea should have been a comfort, but it was not.

Pash had not just left the rest of their team, if it could have ever been called that, behind on the Immortal’s Tongue. The other team was still there, too, and with them, Kali’rial. Was their expedition faring so dangerously? He could only hope Moseke would keep one of her own, as well as the others, safe. He wasn’t sure he could forgive himself for much of anything this trial, but if something happened to her because of his own reckless curiosity, surely, he would drown in the guilt. Petulance and defeat did not at all become the sun-kissed countenance of the seafaring minstrel, and yet he wore the clouds darkly anyway, bloodied and tired and growing things, mind seared, spark exhausted, and heart worn.

He watched with a detached longing as the other man tended to the slave they’d taken away from the wretched Immortal’s Tongue, the hull of his chest splintered like a ship run aground at the thought of leaving the other broken, bound slave behind without the same promises of respite and healing. How ugly he felt to have failed so horribly—no one rescued (not that the archaeologists needed rescuing so much as stopping, it seemed), no one unscathed (Padraig’s mind, after all), and no one truly freed (not yet). He hadn’t felt this kind of weight, this anchor of failure, so heavily in arcs—he remembered when, though, and how insignificant and selfish that sadness felt compared to all that he felt now. How small one relationship was compared to how big this seemed.

Pash had nothing to say to Luna, her very presence making him uncomfortable for reasons that weren’t at all her fault. Ne’Haer was a place her kind didn’t exist. He’d never met someone who could only talk about themselves as if they were so worthless, as if they were an object given breath but not a soul. He didn’t really want to dwell on where they had just been right now, if ever, at all.

Stormy blue eyes watched Padraig’s growing anxiety and anticipation without ignorance—no, he damn well knew everything and more, more than any man should know about another man’s feelings without permission—so aware that the other was just as eager to get home for the same reason he was eager to stay away. His body language spoke volumes, as did his face, for while he was no longer sharing emotions with anyone, Pash was far too sensitive to even need a trill of Empathy to see what was so plainly viewed.

At least Faith was safe.

But, damn it all if the woman wasn’t also his employer.

This could not at all be any more awkward. Or humiliating. No sorry time on stage could ever rival this moment, not one in his memory. Shame was a heavy anchor and if Pash hadn’t already felt like he’d drowned and been dragged ashore, he would have felt that way again.

“Empath—” The tall Biqaj corrected gruffly when Padraig described Yolande, the word burning his tongue like too much salt water, the sting of incriminating himself for all to hear burning across the back of his neck and bringing the faintest hint of rose-colored embarrassment to his windswept cheeks, “—She may ‘ve been an Empath. But I don’ know. I couldn’t make it past ‘er tangle o’ fear t’ find out. I couldn’t—never mind.”

Pash stood and approached just outside of everyone’s personal space when asked for by the dark-haired woman who’d once trusted him enough to hire him, wanting nothing more than to hide in his sloop and crawl away into his bed.

“I started itchin’ th’ closer we got t’ th’ shrine an’ the ruins. It started in th’ base camp, but I touched nothin’ there, I swear—I touched nothing else—no one else—save Yolande an’—uh—an’ Padraig.” He ended those words by looking at Faith’s fiancé, just for a moment, unaware of how to breach the subject of why or just how much touching in the non-physical sense he should bring up right now but painfully aware of his feelings on the matter.

The seafaring minstrel was already rolling back up his silver-stained sleeve for what felt like the millionth time, though he refused to look at any of it again, so much was he bothered by its reality that he refused to acknowledge that it existed. He really didn’t look at Faith, either, so unsure of how to behave or how to feel or what to do, cloudy gaze washing downward to stare at his feet instead,

“I tried to help.” He muttered, clearly out of sorts in a broody, distanced sort of way.

[Padraig]

One tattoo or two? Padraig frowned, trying to remember the marks on their disappearing guide, how many and how they'd looked. There'd been so much going on, so many disagreements from the very beginning. On her neck? "I...think so," Padraig said with a frown, "But the other one was like yours, but different too. Her touch was warm, like yours. If it helps, she also mentioned that there were no ghosts. Not anywhere. And that too I guess," he added thoughtfully when Pash joined him.

Padraig could see the man was tormented, much of it possibly self-inflicted, by what had occurred just before they'd decided to leave. He could sympathize. "I didn't realize at the time, but she may have gotten into my head, made me feel, physically, things that were out of character." He didn't elaborate then, though he'd talk more to Faith about that once they were alone together.

"You tried to help," he said to Pash then and what anger there'd been in his voice the last he'd spoken to the bard on the island was long gone. Heat of the moment. "Your intentions were sourced from the best possible place. And if you sorted out any mischief that Yolande had done me, I thank you." Still, he grinned a little when he added, "That said, for future reference, I'd prefer to forego any poking around in my head without a by your leave." It was the best he could do in regards to levity at the moment. But it was enough. No grudges from him and if there was anger remaining, it wasn't focused on Pash or even the slave girl who'd come unhinged and tried to murder another in cold blood. It was with the mistress who'd egged her own and threatened to kill him, Varn, perhaps everyone there.

Once Faith looked though and assured him that there was nothing wrong with him, that he didn't appear to be a carrier of something that could harm others, he forgot Pash's presence for just that bit and caught her up in his arms, pulling her so close that her toes lifted up off the deck. Nothing could have felt more right. Husband? He smiled and kissed her. "Wife?" he said quietly before setting her back down gently. And then there was Luna, the girl who so far would answer to the name, but not use it herself.

At first when Faith approached her, the girl shrank back, her eyes swinging wildly to Padraig. A new surge went through him at the sort of treatment she must have received, and what she'd experienced even after they'd found her. He looked back at her and nodded, encouraging her to allow Faith to take the lead. "She's the one I told you about. No one here is going to hurt you. She and I will make sure of it. Let her help." Luna nodded and looked back to Faith. She heard the healer's words, seemed to process them but she'd heard many promises before that weren't just broken, but had been cruel jests at her expense. Still, "This slave will do as master wishes."

Padraig frowned when Faith joined him. "I haven't been able to convince her that I'm not...but haven't wanted to push it. When I do, she seems to believe I'll pass her along, which in turn seems to make it worse," he said quietly. "I know it's not convenient, but I couldn't leave her. Whatever she suffered before was made worse by two of our party. One who attempted to kill her, another slave, and a mistress that encouraged her and threatened to kill anyone who tried to stop her." That, probably, was the moment Faith had sensed his anger flaring, even from afar. He seemed to confirm as much when he added, "On the other hand, that sword drawn from the light? Works like a charm."

"We parted ways with them," he added, referring to the two who'd made things so difficult that had they chosen to return, he'd have resisted sharing the boat ride with them. "I don't know if they've chosen to stay, or take another boat home." One thing seemed clear to him however. If he hadn't brought the girl back with him and had left her there, he couldn't guarantee that she'd have survived the trial with those two around her. As for Pash, Padraig looked back at the bard as he rolled up his sleeve. "Has it spread Pash?" he asked, referring to the patch of moss.

[Faith Augustin]

She heard what Padraig said, and then Pash spoke and spoke of empathy, from a worshipper of Famula who also disappeared? Literally? Faith smiled in greeting to Pash, but then shook her head. "No one with three of Famula's blessings is going to be using magic, Famula forbids it. Empathy and rupturing? No. Either it wasn't magic or she wasn't Famula's favored." The idea that anyone, no matter who they were, could have seen fit to try and mess with her Padraig caused a flash of fury to cross Faith's face. There was something about what he was saying, though, which made him uncomfortable and so she said nothing but considered. "Anyone can have a tattoo. I could make you warm to the touch, with herbs. If she was Famula's she wouldn't be using magic."

All of it, though, was forgotten as she felt Padraig's arms wrap around her and he lifted her off the ground. Faith let out a single sob of pure relief as she clung to him. She couldn't be ashamed of the tears which left her and she ignored them as she kissed him. Her hand on his cheek was, of course, warm as he whispered that one word and she nodded. "Always," she saw no one but him in that brief moment, but they had to get back to the world.

She felt more able to do so, in fairness.

The slave's reaction didn't surprise her, Faith simply knelt there and let her come to the conclusion, one way or another. "Thank you," she said to Luna, as she examined her. To Padraig she nodded, although one word he used caused a slight raise of her eyebrow. "Neither of us would be very good examples of humanity if convenience trumped morality or compassion." The salve she applied was cooling and soothing to Luna's wrists, which were infected. "This will make these feel better. They must be very painful." She smiled at Padraig's word. "He did the glowing light sword? It's impressive, isn't it? You're safe now. He won't let anyone hurt you again, and neither will I."

Standing, once she was done, she looked at Padraig and her gaze told the absolute truth of her words, "I am so proud of you. You are the best of men."

Once she was sure that the slave was as comfortable as she could be, though, Faith turned to Pash. "You'll need to sit down, I'm afraid, unless I'm going to guess," everyone was taller than her, Faith considered and she smiled at the minstrel. "Thank you."

Then, he rolled up his sleeve and Faith examined his arm. The moss had grown, and then some, on his arm and Faith reached into her bag, got a container and took a sample. She needed to do that, she explained to look at what was underneath because the moss now covered where he had been scratching.

When she did get that look, Faith raised an eyebrow. Just one, just a little.

"Right, well that's interesting. I'm just going to unbutton your shirt a moment. Try and remain as still as possible, Pash, thank you."

As she did, she examined what seemed to be a very slight, very feint rash on Pash's stomach. Of all things, she gently laid a glass beaker against it and then Faith nodded before returning her gaze to his arm. "Ignis Ventri. The rash is unique and very specific. It's highly contagious and should be further along than this in just the time it's taken you to get back here. Early stage is a very quick development."

She frowned, her examination of him taking what must seem like an impossibly long time. Eventually, she looked up and smiled. "The moss is protecting you. It's saved your life and probably everyone with you. Ignis Ventri is horribly contagious. Did you feel nausea, dizziness? That's usually where it starts."

Faith then went on to explain, as best as she could. Ignis Ventri, or 'burning stomach' as it was known, was a fatal disease created by Lissira. It was found on Immortals' Tongue, as was its only known cure, which worked as a cure very rarely, but as a means of staving off infection, very well. "You know the cure has worked if the rash disappears under glass. It's a sign that you're getting better. Yours does." Faith assured Pash. If left to it's natural conclusion, the disease would literally dissolve the stomach over the course of a very painful few trials.

"It's passed on by creatures called 'Couriers of Lissira', who also live there." Faith had read up on the Immortals' Tongue from the moment she'd found out that Padraig was going there. "They're like.. big shambling moss monsters. One cut from them, infection is inevitable. But what's really strange?" Faith was either very confident she was right, or really not concerned about contagion.

"Underneath this moss, there is a perfect hand print. Small, a woman's hand. Like someone touched you like this." On her own arm, Faith demonstrated the kind of grasp Yolande had undertaken as Pash helped her during the journey to the ruins. When she had been struggling to keep up.

"Shrines to Moseke? I'd say this moss is her work. Her and Lissira are at constant odds." Faith explained. "But, either way. Before anyone leaves, I check everyone for rash. I don't think I'll find any, you'd all be nauseous and dizzy by now and Pash, your rash is going, not arriving." With a shrug, Faith looked at the minstrel and smiled, then turned to Padraig and the slave with him.

"Does any of that make sense in light of what you've experienced?"

[Pash Raj'oriq]

Pash complied quietly with everything asked of him, not vacant or detached so much as purposefully distant, aloof because he found it difficult to process everything that had happened and was happening at once. That said, he finally forced himself to look again at the mossy growth when Faith had him sit, unable to hide the rising panic from his face at how much the green had spread, covering where he’d scratched and obscuring the inked lines under his tanned skin. He didn’t say anything so much as make a sound of unmistakable surprise through clenched teeth, darkened eyes unable to not watch his dark-haired employer-now-doctor take samples of what was growing—growinnnnnng—from his own skin.

Her request to look under his shirt produced no coy remarks or sly smiles, which, had anyone else who knew him other than his obviously pledged to someone else employer been around would have been surprising evidence of his internal status. He didn’t expect to see anything other than his familiar, tanned skin, so the sight of the rash found him chewing the inside of his cheek to keep the cold wave of fear from crashing on his tiny shore of calmness just a little bit longer.

Finally, when Faith said the moss was protecting him, he smirked, utterly incredulous, and his doubt was as thick as his Rakahi accent as he answered her question, “Aye, I started t’ feel a bit ill in th’ base camp. T’ be true, though, I didn’t think much ‘f ‘t ‘cause o’ th’ altitude an’ m’ livin’ on th’ sea. I became dizzy an’ itchy ‘s we wasted time in pissin’ contests a’ th’ camp an’ then th’ ruins.” His last sentence held a bit of subdued anger in the baritone of his voice, though he still spoke so quietly, a hint at what was truly subduing his ability to really be involved in his own current situation.

At least she said he wasn’t going to die. That was no small comfort, and yet he found even that difficult to feel anything strongly about, his emotions dulled and frayed after so much bombardment from someone else’s. His smirk twisted into a sneer when Lissira’s name was spoken aloud between them, confused and angered despite the good news that he was most certainly not dying. Anger seemed the easiest to come to the surface, which wasn’t at all like Pash on a normal basis, but was apparently all he was capable of in undisciplined duress,

“Aye, she—Yolande touched me. Jus’ like that. I bent t’ help ‘er on th’ climb up t’ camp. She struggled, seemed tired. I gave ‘er m’ hand but she chose ‘er own grip, jus’ like that.” The tall Biqaj blinked slowly, leaning back on his sea-worn palms and looking away from Faith as if admitting to what he knew also burdened her with knowing how he knew it, “I was suspicious o’ her. She acted so afraid, so quiet an’ meek for a guide, for a seasoned archaeologist, y’know? An’ even when I—when I—er—when I tried t’ see how she really felt—”

Pash paused, not wincing so much as anticipating, having made it abundantly clear that he was not just a musician, but he’d already seen that no one was just who they seemed. Not Faith. Not Padraig. Not anyone. That was, of course, neither bad nor entirely a surprise, just the way things often were, “—when I looked at ‘er as an Empath, she was so afraid. It was overwhelmin’ t’ me, an’ yet her tattoos had me fooled ‘cause o’ you. She isolated Padraig whenever she could, too, an’ yet if she was at all like me, if she also used magic, she was more skilled but no’ subtle until that disappearin' part. I didn’t trust th’ way she moved an’ talked, th’ way she seemed to pick who she wanted—but she also touched Padraig an’ Varn. Why am I th’ only one infected? Th’ moss, though, is it, y’know, stuck there?”

“Unless she pegged me for what I really am from th’ start,” the salty bard almost hinted at a smile then as if he would have found that special, but it was more uncomfortable than amusing and he considered himself far too insignificant for such a praise, “an’ decided killin’ m’ off was th' best option.”

To say those words out loud felt more grounding than disturbing, strangely enough. The thought of someone, of anyone, wanting to kill him was an alien thought in his musical mind. He was hardly a threat and surely not worth such extravagant efforts as a painful infected death, but now he was also uncomrfortably aware of his limitations underneath the Biqaj bravado he wore so well,

“I wasn’t intrudin’ because it’s a habit,” Pash finally looked to Padraig in apology, “But you weren’t yourself, an’ she’d been twistin’ th’ feelin’s y’ have in a way like I’ve never seen. I couldn’t warn you, else I’d jus’ give m’self away an’ give ‘er time to do worse. I don’ think I could forgive m’self if I didn’t try to stop her from turnin’ your heart anywhere but where it’s so firmly planted now—” He couldn’t really put into words all that he’d seen or felt, all that he knew so clearly about the breadth and depth of the other man’s feelings, specifically for Faith. It was a strange thing to know, especially now that he was sitting there in both of their presences. It would have been awkward, but it was far too late for such a feeling and Pash was far too incapable,

“So, sorry for that, but no' entirely sorry.”

Looking back at his dark-haired employer-turned-field medic, he was clearly still confused, but perhaps the light confession had allowed warmer currents to trickle into the dark, flooded cabin of his mind, “So, I’m no’ dyin’, but I could’ve. An’ this is Lissira’s work tryin’ to kill me, but Moseke’s work tryin’ to save me at th’ same time? I wouldn’t think I’ve done anythin’ t’ earn ‘er favor, but I s’pose I’ll have t’ say my thanks for this trial. Immortals, fightin’ on my worthless flesh? I’ll take it o’er death. Yolande’s a mage, then, but also Lissira’s servant—damn it—”

Pash paused, desperate to wade through the wave of panic that stirred at his own words, “—th’ other team’s—,” his fear, his concern, was both particular and biased and despite himself and everything else that trial, he had to say it, “Kali’rial—er—an’ everyone else—’re still there.”

[Padraig]

Could the marks on Yolande have been tattoos instead of actual blessings? Certainly, Padraig agreed. He'd only given them a glance at that time and hadn't taken the time to examine them more closely. He'd had no reason too and there were too many other distractions. Already in fact there'd been fractures forming in the group. In honesty from the very bit that they'd all come together and had begun outfitting themselves for the expedition. "Makes me wonder, if she wasn't one of Famula's chosen, if her insistence that there were no ghosts on the island was just another ruse to convince all of us otherwise."

When the time came that Faith asked him what he'd experienced, at least in regards to Yolande, he frowned. "She touched me was well. Briefly," he confirmed. "She reached out for a hand up off the floor. She'd made a point of mentioning that she'd failed the physical for the outing. I was wearing gloves however. I assumed at the time that she must have some unique talents that would make her presence invaluable, in spite of it."

Luna, in the meantime, allowed Faith to tend to her without complaint, as long as she sensed that it pleased Padraig that she did. She didn't say much, only nodding or shaking her head. But from Padraig's perspective, it was progress. At least she didn't shrink away and cower further into herself. As for the moss and the idea that somehow it was protecting Pash from something much more nefarious? It was as large a relief as learning they hadn't brought something contagious back with them. Lissira though, like Pash then he wondered if that might be the truer nature of Yolande, rather than what she'd led them all to believe.

As for Pash and his reasoning for using his empathic talents on Padraig, it was an old as the ages debate between practice and theory. But then? Padraig planned to tell Faith all of what had occurred when they reached home and were alone together. All of it. But when Pash took it upon himself to reveal what amounted to all, right there on the boat in front of Faith, Padraig looked the bard's way with an incredulous expression on his face. The man had broken the code.

There was an unspoken agreement among all men, from the beginning of time, a sacred one, that stated that no man, friend or foe, should ever or would ever tell another man's wife, lover, significant other that he'd been seen dabbling with or even looking at another woman. It was almost, well, arguably it was as grave an infraction as dabbling in another's man's private thoughts. Padraig frowned, glanced at Faith with the promise that nothing had happened, that they'd speak on it later, and said dryly. "You didn't see what you think you did, Pash. No matter what Yolande intended, it wasn't my heart that was the affected organ in question."

[Faith Augustin]

Pash's explanation of his use of Empathy magic and of Yolande, whoever she was, caused Faith to frown slightly. Fear? Overwhelming fear? That didn't sound like one of Famula's either, but then she didn't and couldn't know for sure. It might well be her putting her own experiences on to another being. Pash explained that she'd isolated Padraig and Faith glanced at him with a concerned frown. She'd touched Padraig and Varn also? It was a fair question to wonder why they too weren't infected.

"Did she have bright eyes? I'm told that Lissira's Plague-Bearers often do." Reading on them was required for the order of the Adunih and the Burning Stomach which, whilst rare, was too common for them to ignore. "I imagine they'd be able to pass on diseases. Either she had a limited number to pass on or what I can only assume to be Moseke's intervention scuppered her so she kept trying?" Faith frowned and shrugged. "I don't think we can say for sure, with the level of information that we have, but that makes the most sense to me."

Faith knelt back down, once she was sure that Pash was sorted, but this time it was to rummage in her bag. She did that next to Luna though and she smiled over at her. "These herbs here, do you see? They have a bright yellow flower and a deep green leaf. I crush them together, then mix them with something that takes away the taste, and they act to help fight off this disease, this burning stomach." Faith held the small jar out for Luna to look, just putting it down in front of her if she wanted. "Sometimes, they cure it too, but they're not very good at that. This is what they look like crushed together." She retrieved the herbs in the state she wanted them and smiled at Luna. "When we get home, I'll show you some other herbs, they'll help you feel better."

Standing, she turned to Pash, jar in hand as he spoke to Padraig and then Padraig replied. Pash had intruded on Padraig, was the point where she started to frown and then it just got progressively more.... Turning his heart? Faith's gaze shifted to Padraig as he first frowned, glanced at her and then made a reply. Was that a joke? Padraig said that Pash had seen something. What had he seen? What had they been doing that there was something to see? This woman, who had pretended to be Famula's, to see spirits? Except she'd said there were no spirits, so they were alone. Padraig's dislike of the constant presence of spirits was something he talked to her about, not to random people. Had Yolande told Padraig they were alone when they were doing whatever Pash had seen when he intruded? Padraig had said that she'd made him feel, physically, things out of character. Faith's mind raced to a hundred different places, not one of them good and she breathed in deeply and looked down at the jar in her hands, or more precisely, the hands holding the jar.

"I'd like you to keep taking these for at least two trials after the rash is completely gone," she said to Pash with a slight smile. "Two pinches in some mint tea, twice a trial. If you can separate them out by twelve breaks, that's best." She gave a brief, disciplined and well rehearsed smile as she spoke and then answered his question. "If it hadn't been stopped, by now you and all the others on this boat would be dying or dead, yes. I'm not sure that I can say that you were specifically targeted, if you came across those shrines to Moseke and that moss was on them, it may be that you've stumbled into some kind of conflict unknowingly."

Kneeling back down next to Luna, Faith smiled at her. "May I? Thank you." She took the herbs the girl had been looking at back. "Or it might be that Moseke singled you out particularly. I'm not sure, and it isn't my place to comment." It wasn't the only thing that it wasn't her place to comment on and so she focused on doing what was useful. Putting her supplies back in her bag with careful, controlled movements Faith breathed in and stood again. There was, apparently, another group of them but then Faith knew that by the time they got back there it would be well into the next trial. "The moss is growing on you, not in you exactly. It seems to be connecting to the handprint and the disease contained within it. I'm confident that, when the handprint fades, it will. I've taken some samples and will check it, though."

Turning to Padraig, then, Faith smiled a slight smile; her relief at his safety was written all over her face and there was no anger or annoyance. There was more there, a lot more, but she had put it in her hands, hidden it and pushed it to one side. She looked closed, in a way she hadn't for a while. "I'd like to check everyone for the rash before we let anyone off and ask everyone on board to take those herbs for three trials. I am just being over cautious, I'm sure." She put her hand into his and squeezed slightly. He was frowning, concerned that Pash had spoken about what he saw when he intruded on Padraig and Yolande. Maybe he was worried what her reaction would be, but hopefully that would let him know. "I can check you and Luna first and then you two can go home and I'll.. umm.. I'll follow you? Cyrus and Katie are there, they're worried about you. I was frantic, probably wound them up more than I should have."

That was what she was going to do and, putting every bit of confusion that she felt into her hands, she smiled and nodded, "The sooner I get started the sooner everyone gets to go home," which was undoubtedly true especially since, as she would discover, Pash was the only one with any rash at all.

[Pash Raj'oriq]

“Bright eyes? Aye, that she did.”

The seafaring musician remembered that clearly, though Faith’s use of the word ‘Plague-Bearers’ made him realize there were things going on in the world that he was clearly not as knowledgeable about as he should have been. He knew of Lissira, but he now knew he didn’t know enough. And now that one of her servants had tried to kill him? Well … all of that would have to change.

Pash realized that any further, deeper, specific talk of magic, of Empathy magic, would be not only strange, but difficult to follow. To those who didn’t or couldn’t see what he could, who hadn’t felt someone else’s inner emotional self, it must have sounded impossible and fundamentally wrong. To talk about someone else’s feelings, the deepest kind of feelings such as devotion or love or even real hatred, always dredged up the strongest of reactions—anger, fear, hurt. Feelings were supposed to be private things, and Pash had his own personal view. To anyone. Whenever he wanted. And while he wanted to be honest, it had probably been the tiniest of lies to say peeking into peoples’ hearts wasn’t at all a habit. A hobby, maybe. The correct phrase to describe it all was definitely a grey area, but it wasn’t something he did out of an interest to harm anyone so much as an insatiable curiosity to know more about them.

So, Padraig’s response was not a surprise to the seafaring minstrel. The uncomfortable look of betrayal when Pash said everything out loud that he normally shouldn’t, normally wouldn’t, when he crossed a line that he was normally expected to respect. But nothing, nothing that trial had been normal and the tall Biqaj had left any veil of control somewhere in those ruins when he’d overstepped for the sake of two slaves—Delta, the one not present, still fresh in his frayed mind. That said, neither was Faith’s reaction entirely unexpected. Not really. In the number of ten-trials that he’d known her, she appeared a well-contained person. Here she was, functioning in the middle of what would otherwise be chaos, in front of someone she clearly loved in a way that Pash understood but had not felt in a long time, in front of this love who’d just returned from danger, all while dealing with a deadly disease that wasn’t so deadly because of Immortal intervention … and yet, somehow, she managed to continue focusing on what was necessary. All this and more, despite the blatant admittance that something had happened that was beyond normal control on the Immortal’s Tongue.

Instead, his dark-haired employer handed him medicine and gave him instructions, clearly wanting to make sure that this illness he shouldn’t had survived was completely taken care of from all possible angles (in addition to Moseke’s mysterious intervention). He thanked her quietly and repeated back what he was supposed to do both to make sure he’d remember them but also to make sure he’d heard them correctly. Her expression was friendly in that obligatory way one had to have during this sort of interaction, but he didn’t need to use any more magic to imagine the rough seas of her mind as she explored the implications of all he’d said. She even smiled—bless her for something he clearly did not deserve—but the seafaring musician was far too sensitive and far too aware to be fooled. The moss and Moseke’s involvement were a mystery, and yet he had no idea how to express his gratitude to the Immortal who’d decided it was not his trial do die. He only prayed that Moseke found just as much favor (if not more) on the others still there.

Pash tried to let go of the incredulous look he was given, tried to simply watch the ripple of reaction pass between the three of them, and was honestly almost bent on letting it wash over him because he was exhausted, because he’d endured someone else’s constant unfiltered raw flow of emotions for far too long by his own overstepping, and because he knew better.

He did. He knew.

The salty bard had no filter on a good trial.

And today had not been a good trial.

If Padraig wanted to dig his own hole with a bigger shovel by making excuses and confusing things further, so be it, but the real explanation surely set things in a better light. Had whoever been manipulating the other man been more subtle, not even Pash would have noticed. Still, the words spoken in an attempt to smooth things over downplayed the extent to which magic had been involved. He ran a calloused, dirty hand over his face and through his hair, looking down,

“No. That’s no’ at all how it happened, so for Immortal’s sake, don’ go tryin’ t’ explain if y’ don’ understand,” Pash’s tone hardened, not insulted so much as desperate to be clear. For everyone’s sakes but also, most importantly, for his own—as an Empath and as a mostly decent person who still felt he’d done the right thing—

“I’m no’ gonna explain this all now as best I normally could, considerin' all that’s gone on this trial, but please don’ imagine t’ tell me what I did an’ didn’t see. Unless y’ can see ’t yourself. I know what I’m capable ‘f an’ Empathy ’s magic o’ th’ mind an’ th’ heart. I’m an Empath, so this be m’ domain—”

He accentuated his admission as if to establish his authority, but there was a pain in his tone at both the telling and, honestly, at the remembering. All the hearts he’d peered into and so few, so painfully few, with the genuineness of feeling as he’d seen in Padraig today. Now, the tricky part was that was impossible to explain, impossible to do justice with mere mortal words. One could only feel that, and Pash had. He was sure his employer felt the same, judging by her discomfort in the face of everything she didn’t know, of everything left unexplained and unsaid,

“—nothin’ today was your fault. You both need t’ take that home like this medicine.” Pash held up what Faith had given him as if he, in turn, was writing a prescription for the pair, shaking the herbs as if they were his words which had most likely shaken up enough, “Aye? Y’ hear me? Pure guile, Empathy magic—dealin’ with th’ invisible, emotions an’ such. I say that an’ m’self ’s included, I have no choice. My guilt this trial ’s m’own, an’ I know ’t. Now, I’m gonna lay this out an’ then I’m gonna get outta your hair, since I’ve clearly overstepped more’n jus’ for myself today. You don’ have to like it, but I’m no’ gonna go home an’ leave you two ignorant o’ what kind o’ magic was involved today an’ how it works. Y’ don’ need that. It wouldn’t be fair.”

Pash felt that from a magical perspective, the air had to be clear before he slunk off and buried himself first in tea and then in whatever alcohol he could find in the cabin of his sloop, rinsing and repeating that until the other team returned, until Kali’rial was safe. He didn’t really care if no one wanted to hear it or no one wanted any particular level of detail. He didn’t care if he was out of bounds or breaking rules. Magic broke rules—no—magic did not have mortal rules. Magic didn’t care about what was normal or expected. But he wasn’t about to let some other sorry ass Empath break any hearts, not hearts that mattered. Not on his watch.

“Whether ’t were Yolande ‘r a third party altogether we didn’t see, I don’ know. I couldn’t see who else was in Padraig’s mind, herdin’ emotions like a pod o’ dolphins for a meal, I jus’ saw what was happenin’, an’ it was like this …” and so he explained, in as simple terminology as he could, regardless of whether he was interrupted or not, how Empathy magic had been involved as far as he could see it, how real, genuine feelings were literally cut like string and then the other Empath had attempted to sew them back as seamlessly as possible but flowing in a different, alien direction.. He was clearly out to defend Padraig’s forthrightness, the true well of all his feelings had not been altered as far as Pash could tell. He kept his explanation short, but to the point. Whatever the two decided to do with that was out of his hands; he just needed them to all be on the same page.

And when he was done, he wanted to be done. It was obvious the whole time he spoke that every word made him more and more uncomfortable like a small child sitting through a long lecture even if the words were his own. He finished his explanation and clearly wanted to bolt. Off the ship and onto his and far away from the world and the eyes of people who would now forever see him differently, who would most likely worry what he was doing invisibly, magically, always from this trial on.

“If y’ have questions, I’ll answer ‘em. Otherwise, if I’m no’ contagious, y’ don’ need me here in th’ way. There’s no’ enough thanks for everythin’, but th’ least I can do ’n return ’s know when I’ve been enough trouble.”

OOC

I wasn’t going to go into a lengthy explanation, but Pash couldn’t let that heart comment go. I tried. I did. So, take this as a brief, clumsy, Empathy 101 and assume that Pash was as detailed as possible about what he saw and how things played out given his current really disturbed state. Because he cares. About you people. Do with that as you will elsewhere, at home, in private, with frowny faces.