Snippet #1518976

It wasn't all that long before the civilians were subdued- thankfully, none dead- and the Child seemed to have disappeared as well. Talae glanced around, flicking her eyes from one Legionnarie to the next, before settling them on the nearest limp body. A body, yes, but not a corpse. Interesting thought, that. She was far from the strongest or most experienced of combatants, but neither had she ever made a habit of doing something so stupid as to let her opponents live.

Well, stupid in an ordinary situation, she amended to herself. Here, it was probably the lesser of two evils. Some of these people hadn't seemed exactly... with it, and she wondered if mind-control was a new thing for the Children, or if they'd always been able to do it. maybe they couldn't at all; there were drugs that could have this effect on people as well. Dragging the first in what would become a series of bodies over under the nearest awning, Talae worked mostly in contemplative silence, only breaking it twice.

The first time was to respond to Neira's comment. "Of course not. I have always found their adherence to logic to be most impressive," she replied dryly, setting down a deep human with far more care than he likely would have shown her in the same situation. She wasn't fond of the idea of helping these people, exactly, but by some flaw of nature she was not completely merciless, either. It was probably Fae's fault.

Once they'd moved everyone to where they wouldn't be soaking up any more rain than was strictly necessary, Talae dusted off her hands and straightened from her stoop. "Come see me in the morning if you're hungover," she told Kisikoni. "I know a remedy that will help. General, Neira, Thanaros," she saluted the first and nodded to the other two before turning on her heel and heading back to her tent. She studiously ignored all the whispering and gossip between people that she heard on the way there. If it was important, they would still be talking about it the next morning.

---

Alistair emerged from his tent the next morning feeling a good deal better than most of his compatriots, having neither imbibed much nor fought the night before. In fact, he was doing quite well, all things considered. The orcish woman's stew had been most savory, and though he hadn't been able to eat much of it, he still felt full. What was more, his wing seemed a thousand times better than it had the night before, and he flexed the joints without even a hint of pain. For a moment, he entertained the thought that the old woman- Hvetha, she'd said her name was- had used magic, but quickly dismissed it. Not because he thought it impossible, but because it still made him uncomfortable to deal overmuch with sorcery.

There appeared to be a large gathering of people in a clearing, and Alistair garnered from the general conversation that what he'd heard on his way back to his tent yesterday evening was true- Iriana Kellas had been seen wearing the robes of a Child and trying to kill Mikana. Of course, she had thus been slain. Something about the entire situation didn't add up to Alistair, but it was not what everyone else was getting at. A spy, if that was indeed what she had been, would have no reason to give up her position like that. Why don the robes of the enemy to kill someone? She could have done so just as effectively in her Legion armor, and perhaps it would have stayed the blades of those who found the two of them long enough for the lamia to actually finish her task.

Additionally, why blow cover for the sake of killing one person? Mikana had only recently joined the Legion, so there was no way that had been Iriana's only assignment from the beginning (if indeed she was a spy). Why abandon whatever information-gathering was important enough to warrant placing a spy in the ranks here (and to give her clearance to kill dragons if she had to) just to kill one person? Strategy demanded that she complete whatever other assignment she had first if it was some kind of secondary directive or a personal vendetta.

The choice of target caused him no small amount of suspicion. Mikana generally conducted herself in an inoffensive manner, and seemed at most times glued to Caine's side, or perhaps he hers. She had joined at the same time as he, but nobody else in that group had any knowledge of her. Alistair would know; he had talked with all of them at some point or another, and he felt that it was something that would have come up eventually. No, to say that a spy had attacked an innocent Legionnaire was just too simple and clean for the murkiness of the situation. Spy or not, something else was involved here; the harpy simply knew not what.

---

Just outside a tent on the edge of the clearing, Talae sat and listened to the general flow of conversation. She wasn't sure what she thought of the whole incident, but she would not dismiss the claim on the sole basis that Iriana had helped slay dragons and Children. That was kind of the point of being a spy: you had to act in such a way as to make the enemy believe you were an ally. What better way than to help slay a dragonling that was going to die anyway, one way or another? If the information was important enough, a sound strategist would recognize the necessity of that ultimately small sacrifice.

What bothered her was that Iriana, if she was a spy, was a very bad one. To Talae's knowledge, she had not attempted to ingratiate herself with the leadership in any notable way, which was what she would have done if it were her assignment. Well, maybe her directive was something else, who could say? The dark elf stirred the pot she had boiling over a small fire, the pungent smell of herbs rising from the ingredients within. It tasted awful but there was no better way to kick a hangover.

Ladling some into a cup, she took a gulp herself. She hadn't been drunk the might before, but had awoken with a headache all the same. Refilling the ceramic, she ducked into her tent for a brief moment and placed it next to Faera's sleeping head. Her sister never slept this late, and Talae had the distinct impression that she would be waking up in a good deal more pain than she was accustomed to.

She shoved more servings of the awful stuff at a few passing Legionnaires, all of whom looked as though they had been hit by a runaway caravan. Most of them were too groggy to protest, at least until they tasted it, but by then the yelling usually stopped as the agony did. She even got a few thank-yous, which was odd. It wasn't as though she was going to behave otherwise. The previous evening had informed her that her instincts were correct: they needed to be vigilant even now, when they thought they were resting. A hungover Legionnaire was much less useful than an alert one, and she happened to possess the means necessary to turn one into the other. What else would she do?