“The ritual known as Sael’fuizohn is but one of many secretive eldritch arts practiced by the cabal that forms the so called Skrandonese clergy, although it is perhaps one of the most troublesome to have to encounter upon the battlefield. Employing a heretical amulet hanging from iridescent beads, whilst chanting loudly to their false goddess, members of their ‘holy order’ can manage to disgustingly pervert the natural order of the departed’s passage to the beyond. However, it has been found that there are some very pronounced limitations to this dark art that can readily be exploited to prevent its implementation to the advantage of their godless armies. Chief amongst these is that Sael’fuizohn is impossible to implement if not enacted within a very narrow time frame after the striking of a mortal blow; as well as the fact that it can do nothing for any injury that causes damage to the seat of one’s faculties, or flat out removes it entirely.”

- Excerpt from the Encyclopedia Corsinthia

Chapter 27: “Simply Could Not”

So great had the rage of Terus Kyreon been a few moments ago that - had there, at the time, been any doubts in his mind as to where the soul of the deceased assassin was bound for - he might have considered asking his mentor to explain to him how the ritual of Phal’muenstaqk was performed; but now - as the backstabbing heathen lay before him, dead by his own blade - his thoughts were actually most far away from the emerald haired man from Skrande. Following the flow of the course that these thoughts lead him down, the swordsman in training turned around from his deceased opponent and briskly walked towards the pink haired girl he had previously charged past to reach his quarry. Upon reaching the girl he had not yet known for a full two whole weeks, Jysalef’s apprentice bent down and offered Latte – still trembling in fear upon the dirt of the roadway to Dulsnik - a hand to help the young lady back to her feet.

“I apologize, Milady,” began the lad - with an apologetically beaming face - as he helped Miran Via’s assistant regain her footing, “if he my uncalled for hesitation back there put you through too much distress.”

Once having first rejoined those that were amongst the standing, Latte - as she proceeded to brush away the dirt and dust from her wardrobe - sheepishly declared “No, its okay, you don’t need to apologize; I’m perfectly alright.” It must be stated, this self declaration of normalcy had been given in the extra withdrawn - definitely not quite alright - tone she had been using ever since their travelling quartet had departed from the lodgings of Tallus Osmaard the night before.

Meanwhile - at the same time that Terus has been walking over to Latte, so as to apologize to her about his previous moment of hesitation – the cyan-haired priestess from Skrande had bolted straight past the young swordsman in training to the fallen body of the man that Naun’tkch had traitorously stabbed just a few moments earlier. Upon reaching the fallen man, with cyan colored hair upon his head very much the same as her own, the woman known as Reoisce’aihr began to furiously fumble around in her robes for something as if life itself depended on her retrieving it that very instant. After a brief moment of searching, but what from her viewpoint seemed to slowly drag on for an arduous eternity, the priestess finally snatched from within the folds of her outfit a string of iridescent beads with a talisman of some sort hanging from it. Immediately upon retrieving the talisman that she had last put to use on Jysalef Soresh back in Kyosem, the Skrandonese priestess began to tear furiously at the blood stained clothing worn by the fallen Reoisce’lahkt.

Although Terus Kyreon had been too busy fretting over the presently melancholic Latte to take much notice of the cyan-haired woman’s current actions, what Reoisce’aihr was presently attempting to do had not be lost at all upon the youth’s mentor. Jysalef, realizing what was about to transpire, promptly strode over to where the woman was currently preparing to invoke the ritual of Sael’fuizohn upon the body of the betrayed assassin. While he hadn’t exactly been cognizant to see this particular rite be enacted when previously everyone had retrieved him from the blood dripping maw of a deceased dragon, that meant very little; this was one of many heathen rituals he, and his comrades in arms, had been educated to be on the look out for during those days when the crusade with Skrande was still very much active.

As far as the vagrant swordsman was currently concerned, leaving the dead man as he presently was would be a far simpler state of affairs than permitting him to be resurrected only so that he would later have to put him back down at some point in the near future. This was why Jysalef’s blade, which he had yet to be sheathed after his recent clash with the now deceased Naun’tkch, was being readied to be driven down through head of Reoisce’lahkt very much the same way one would drive down a stake for the securing of a tent. Needless to say, despite her current focus on hurriedly removing the upper attire of her brother, the cyan-haired priestess from Skrande had no choice but to have her concentration upon the task before her broken when she noticed Jysalef rearing back his blade so that could bring it down impalingly on Reoisce’lahkt’s head.

Without a moment’s hesitation, the distraught woman desperately threw her body between the intended path of the blade and the head of her fallen sibling; after which she pleadingly locked eyes with Jysalef as he beggingly screamed out in Corsinthian, “Please, this man is my brother!”

This outburst, put forth in a language that he actually understood the workings of, forcefully yanked Terus’s attention violently away from the melancholic Latte, “Who did you just say that man was?!” Terus stood there, utterly dumbstruck, as he looked at the scene between his mentor and the priestess. His mind was now having a most trying time processing the fact that not only had Naun’tkch killed one of his own companions in cold-blood for seemingly no reason whatsoever, but the emerald-haired man had furthermore done so in front of the said companion’s family.

Unlike his now hyperventilating younger ward, Jysalef hadn’t actually learned anything new when Reoisce’aihr had desperately declared to him that the man – of whom he was making ready to ensure stayed deceased – was in fact her very own brother; after all, though she was not aware of it, his military training had enabled him to follow closely the entirety of her previous conversation with the two would be assassins. So, the fact that he stood there - eyes twitching, and teeth gritted menacingly - while he resisted the urge to thrust down his shaking blade had nothing at all to do with this freshly delivered revelation. Instead, despite all of his training from a young age to feel no remorse whatsoever for the execution of the godless Skrandonese scum, he simply could not bring himself to follow through with her looking up sadly at him like that.

Reluctantly, and silently cursing to himself as he did so, the vagrant swordsman slowly lowered his blade and placed it back within his sheathe without making a single mark upon the body of the cyan-haired man. As the priestess then began chanting rapidly in the Skrandonese tongue, causing the area to become bathed in a pulsing blue light, the former Corsinthian soldier could not help but to think to himself how great a mistake he was making right now. Simply put, these former subordinates of the Death Hawk had based their entire lives after the war on finding a way to eventually track him down - and kill him - for the sake of their commander’s honor; so why should he expect anything less than that he would eventually be meeting this man again on ill terms?

Still, with her looking at him sadly like that - as she had been just moments ago - he found himself utterly incapable of doing what he knew was the most prudent and wisest course of action to take.