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Ydalon
His eyes took in the scene of the skirmish, growing wide and uncertain. He hesitated there, under the shadow of straight-backed trees keeping a silence of their own. Ydalon suspected their reasons were not quite the same. The fertile soil of the forest would drink up the spilt blood eagerly. Wildlife would claim the flesh, and given enough time, roots would embrace, then crush the bones.
It gave him a shiver.
Bracing himself, immensely thankful that flies and rot were still a ways into the future, he approached the fallen assassin. He nodded once, in confirmation of his own thoughts. This was a setback. The time and place were wrong. He had fallen here... for what?
The answer lay on the ground not far off, a stranger carrying injury. The man looked to have been in decent shape before his last encounter.
"Attend him too, please," he said to Isokla. "He'll have some answers to give."
Turning back to Zak, he frowned a moment, then looked around.
"That man from the tower, Keal. He ran off in tears, didn't he?"
His tone made it clear he didn't think much of his resilience.
"If he comes back, he can take this body to some family graveyard if there is one. If he doesn't, we'll divide up the supplies. I'm sorry if it reminds you of your apprentice."
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