The River North of Trinity Bay

    The ship ride for Azaran and Anathema would be a short one, totalling a few hours at most before they arrived at the distant shore, only a short walk from the river’s mouth. After they taken all of their supplies from the ship and entered the forest lining the side of the river, Azaran would begin to question Anathema while he cut through the underbrush with his hook, taking the chance to ask about her homeland and, if she were inclined to share, her part within it.

    Occasionally the wanderer would stop to inspect a bush or tree, looking at its fruits to determine if it were edible and usually deciding it best to leave the unknown plant be for the time being. If it were similar enough to plants he had seen before though, he would take a few of the fruits and stuff them in his bag for when they inevitably set up camp.

    Azaran would listen quietly as Anathema recounted her time in such a life, nodding thoughtfully as he did. “I understand.” He said, cutting through a bush. “The memories of my travels blur together as well. I saw the same things, time after again, no matter where I went. By the time the Waters came I could barely recall what my h…what the place I grew up looked like.”

    A red berry by the water caught his eye. He attempted to pick it up, but the berry burst onto his hand, leaving behind a ruby stain. He looked at it. “However blurry those memories get, there are always moments that stand clear as crystal, with the clearest of them all being my biggest mistakes.” He wiped his hand onto the ground below, leaving behind only a minor redness on his hand. “Those moments when I left people behind, or those where I was forced to do the unthinkable. Unfortunately we cannot take it back. All we can do is remember it, and miss those that no longer know us, no matter how distant of a memory they seem to be.”

    The wandering warrior glanced over at Anathema as she dropped the berry into his pack. “You and I are like fire, Anaþema. We destroy, we burn, and the things we char will always carry that mark.” He took a deep breath and looked up, feeling the sun come through the leaves. “However, fire can also light the way. It can warm the coldest of nights. It all simply depends on how the wind blows it.”

    He smiled slightly, looking back at his traveling companion. “I guess this is just a long-winded way of saying that I understand how it is to regret the past, but know that it does not define you. You are full of fire, but this Legion no longer holds your torch. That is in your hands, and I trust that you know how to direct it.”

    Azaran stopped, looking at the area around them. The trees parted slightly, revealing a small clearing speckled with grass and dead leaves. He peers up at the sun, before starting to clear some leaves away from the center of the open area. “What would you say to setting up camp here for tonight? I know that we would be stopping quite early, but I figured it would be good to take it slower on the first day of travel. Besides, if you were still interested in learning it would be a good time to demonstrate some of the martial arts those monks taught me.”

    Azaran was quiet as Anathema went silent after his words. Hopefully, he thought, his carrying on was not becoming grating to her. Upon hearing her speak again, he smiled softly. “I have faith you will prove that I am.”

    After Anathema agreed to the campsite, Azaran began clearing it out some more, making the leaf-free area for the fire larger and finding a few stones around to begin lining it. After finishing that, he drops his own supplies near a tree, including his shield and weapon. “I would say not this time.” He tells her as he walks over, taking a defensive stance with open hands. “I think it is easiest to start with basic hand to hand. If you could throw a punch at me so I can demonstrate? And no need to hold back, it will be easier to show if you don’t.”

    Assuming that Anathema did indeed come at him with a punch, Azaran would twist to the inside of it, directing the actual strike away with one hand, then with the other as he throws a hand under Anathema’s arm and puts his shoulder to hers. Then, in a fluid motion, he stepped back between her legs and checks his hip into her body as he pulls her punching arm forward, using her momentum to throw her over his shoulder and to the ground. He let go of her early, to allow her to roll back up to standing without interference. “That may not be the easiest move, but it is one a seasoned fighter like yourself could pick up quite quickly, and I feel it embodies the art as a whole quite well.”

    He paced over a short way to grab his hook, using it to draw into the ground three symbols, underlining them. “It is known as Fáduþ, The Way of Living Water. Take a look at the river we have been following.” He walked over to it, taking the opportunity to refill his waterskin as well. “As the water flows, it does not destroy the rocks it encounters. Instead, it flows around them, wearing them down slowly. It is the fact that the rock does not go with the water that causes it to wear down and erode. In Fáduþ, the fighter seeks to emulate the water, while the opponent is the stone. Flow around them, and let their own stance, their own fighting against the water, be what causes them to fall.” He turned to Anathema. “Do you want to try the technique?”

    Azaran saw…something, as it flashed through Anathema’s eyes. He was concerned, but with whatever it was gone the next instant, he didn’t have the time to ponder that further. He watched as his companion took a stance like his, looking it over. Low center of gravity, open hands, relaxed shoulders, even weight on each foot. Everything looked good from what he could tell.

    “You have the stance.” He told her. “If you just hold out your arm, I will talk through my moves this time, so you can see it better.”

    As he began, much slower this time, he would begin to speak. “As you step towards them, start with an inside block, then replace it with an outside block.” He said, flowing through the motions as he stepped with a half-turned foot, already beginning the twist he’d have to take. Then, he grabbed her wrist with his hand. “From here, grab the arm and begin to scoop under their shoulder. Then, bring your other foot down hard between their legs.” He finished the twist and planted his other foot in place, lightly checking her with his hip and tugging on her arm as he did so. Unsurprisingly, the lack of strength in his throw and the lack of Anathema’s own momentum would leave her stationary this time. “Then guide them over your shoulder. If they are attacking at full speed, they cannot help but go to the ground.” He walked a short ways away from her and turned to face her again. “Are you ready to try doing it once?” He asked. “The most important parts to remember are to never stop moving and to primarily use their own momentum against them. It should not be a great effort to throw them.” He drops into his stance again. “Whenever you are ready for me.”

    When Anathema deemed herself ready, Azaran rushed in with a punch. He had expected her form wouldn’t be perfect, but he hadn’t quite expected just how much extra force she’d bring into the technique. Caught off-guard, Azaran felt himself fly momentarily through the air, before coming down to the ground in a powerful thud. A few seconds after he landed, he would begin attempting to get up, coughing, before the cough morphed into a hearty laugh.

    “Good show!” He said once he had calmed down enough to form words through the laughter. “That was quite a good first attempt!” He stood from his sitting position, rolling his shoulder to make sure she hadn’t dislocated his arm. “I must say, you caught me off guard with that force! I would recommend not pulling too hard on the opponent’s arm. Usually, checking into the person harder would make you not need to pull with quite as much force, at least in my experience.” He takes his stance again, ready to come in with another attack so she could try again. “Also, I saw you stumble some at the end there. Try taking a deeper stance, that should make you harder to knock off-balance. Ready to try again?”

---

    Azaran walked over to the fire, a small bundle of wood he had collected carried in his arms. He dropped it into the fire before dusting off his hands and sitting down. After spending most of the afternoon showing Anathema a few of the self-defense moves he had learned, Azaran had spent time chopping down some of the brush around them to use as firewood, using the relatively easy task as a chance to take it slow after how much he’d been tossed around. He winced at a pain in his shoulder. If there weren’t a bruise there tomorrow, he’d be surprised.

    “I can take first watch.” He offers as he takes out his hooked blade, using this chance to polish it, and more specifically to wipe off the residues and wood chips from using it to gather the firewood. “That way you can get some rest.”

    He raised his gaze from his weapon for a moment, and it came to rest on Anathema. As his eyes returned to Deshimóh, he remembered what she had said about it back in the village. ‘I get the impression it doesn’t like me much.’ He leaned back onto his hands, thinking about it, about how plainly its warpath was written on the blade. How death and destruction was said to have followed in its wake, disguised as actions needed to save humanity. At least, that’s all he could guess had happened with the old story. If Anathema were any indication, demons couldn’t have been bad enough to warrant what had happened. Now, it was up to him to prove that it could do more than slay demons. Perhaps the best way to start that journey was to put one at the other end of it, if only to prove a point.

    He flipped the weapon around, holding the handle out towards his traveling companion. “Would you mind holding this for a moment?” He asks her. “I should really bring our other supplies closer to us, just in case anything is out there. I promise it will not hurt you.” He smiled, a slightly joking tone in his voice as he said the last part. “And it would only be for a moment.”

    While Azaran walked over to their supplies, he kept his eyes towards Anathema, watching her inspect the weapon. Anxious, he saw as she slowly turned it over in her hands, relief washing over him when he saw her own tension begin to relax. Thankfully it looked like she wouldn’t throw it in the river.

    “Indeed, it can be quite impractical at times.” Azaran said as he brought them over, setting them beside where he had been sitting. “Such are the consequences of a design as otherwise…unorthodox as this one. However, it hides some interesting quirks beneath the surface, if you know where to look. May I?” He asked, holding out his hand.

    When given back the hooked blade, Azaran would take a deep breath and hold it out in front of him. Focusing his mind on Deshimóh, he flicked it forwards slightly, only hoping that it would work this time and that the Mists hadn’t hindered it again. Upon the slight flick of the blade, a rope of purple light would flow from the apex of the hook, glowing as it formed all the way to the serrated, smaller hook attached to the end. He smiled, letting out a sigh of relief. “Indeed, it is never a good idea to be quick to judge. You never know what something may hide from sight.” He made the rope dissipate before he turned back towards Anathema, setting the weapon down. “I would say that makes up for not being able to stab, wouldn’t you?”

    Azaran nodded. “Indeed.” He knew it was only wishful thinking. As long as there are weapons, there will be a reason to use them. He was painfully aware of that.

    He could see that Anathema was beginning to tire as she addressed him again. “Of course. Enjoy your rest Anathema.” He smiled, before throwing another stick on the fire. He stood and stretched, before casting his view to the forest around them. Quiet. Peaceful.

    For at least the next few hours, that’s how it would continue. Azaran would stand near the fire, keeping it going at a dimmer level than when both were awake, while he watched their surroundings, listening for any signs of danger. But nothing came. After a while, he sat again, casting a glance to the blue demoness traveling with him. He frowned. He could tell she had been through so much even before the Endwaters came. She had been at the receiving end of so much pain, so much suffering. She had given just as much in return from what he heard from her, her reaction indicating each stab went through her own heart too. Then, just as she escaped, she found herself at the end of the world, surrounded by strangers. And her first reaction was to fight. And every action after that has been fighting against that. He sighed as he turned back to the fire.

    Azaran wondered if her company was a good idea…no, he wondered if his company was a good idea for her. It kept replaying in his head, that scene. His attempts to help only serving to further hurt them. Tearing open wounds as he tried to stitch them shut. Talking them down, only to end up with a sword at his throat. A parry, a plea. An attack in rage. A hooking motion, stopping right before the end. An attempt at mercy taken advantage of. A kick.

    Right into the blade behind his neck.

    Azaran blinked, then cast his eyes downwards. This wasn’t about Anathema anymore, and he knew it. His mind had wandered. It wandered to the same place it did every night since. He just sat there, listening to the fire in another attempt to escape the memories. Crackle. Pop. Snap.

    His head jolted up. That twig snapping wasn’t in the fire. It was in the woods. He quickly grabbed his blade and shield, knowing he wouldn’t have time to don his armor. He quickly scanned the surrounding woods, looking for any sign of what might have caused the sound. He saw nothing but blackness.

    “Anathema.” He said, his voice stern and guarded. “You need to get up,” Something shot out of the darkness, only barely missing Azaran’s head as the spiked end lodged into a tree behind him, attached to some sort of long, wet appendage. Just as soon as it shot out, it went back, returning to just below a pair of eyes glowing red in the low firelight. “Anathema! Something is attacking us!”