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It—
—is easy to swing himself onto the saddle. While he's never ridden these kind of drakes before, the thunderbeasts are similar enough to bridge the gap of experience.
Sers Mourning and Glory take off with a kick off their feet against the belly. Xantheus lurches forward first, Daisy following behind with a foreign confidence and familiarity.
It hurts.
Are you alright? Gruff asks through their bond.
He feels the touch of Daisy slip towards the farther reaches of his mind. Like a glove being pulled on the hand and cupped around the ears.
The latent buzz of their communication tickles the base of his neck, and it stays there. Like a nerve pinched between the discs. It remains, as always, an unpleasant sensation.
Rowan and Ophelia do not appear to be listening. Blocked by the incandescent shadow of Nim's form layered atop of Daisy.
I'm fine, Xantheus responds blithely. I'll let you know when that changes, don't worry.
I'm not worried about that, Xantheus. You matter more than procedure.
...I understand, Gruff.
The open farmland of Ashen Rest ascends into hills and copperplate grasslands. The drakes bound over the topography with ease, thundering past the brooks and branches.
Daisy, next.
Should we call for a break? she asks, petit and hesitant as she crosses over to replace Gruff on the line. You're sweating so much, Xantheus.
We can't stop, Xantheus tries to be gentle. It's hard to find the will beyond the pain. There are lives at risk.
So is yours.
Exhaustion makes him such an honest creature. I've never been worth much.
Xantheus—
Xantheus flees, tired of unwanted voices in his head.
Another hour passes, a lightening blue streaking above them like a river of waking stars.
The Crown.
The…Crown…
The—
Xantheus blinks when his vision slurs towards the left, his drake nearly drifting into Obsidian's flank. It's only the wealth of experience baked into both beasts' muscles that prevent a total collision.
"Keep formation," Ser Mourning snaps. "We won't slow down for anything, Heroes."
Xantheus reels his jaw from the fire that wanted to lick out from his panting mouth.
"Yes, sir," he answers, yanking on the reins to course correct his steed back into the furthest wing of the pack.
It hurts.
The Clever Toad would know what to do, Rowan's thoughts infiltrate his haze. Formless behind the red storm of pressure building up in his chest. Three hundred gold should be enough…
Idly, Xantheus considers how hard he would have to impact the ground to make it all go away.
I can contribute one hundred coins, Daisy chimes in.
Maybe fifteen more. So Xantheus can have some fun fortunes, too.
They chatter, passing distraction between them like a ball. Xantheus thinks of the time Ferrier broke his window with a well placed rock. He thinks of other scales; the different hands that have laid upon his shoulder.
Ophelia rides from behind, Percival clinging to her waist.
Here. A spectral hand carrying a flask floats just into his periphery. You need to replenish what you've lost.
Xantheus doesn't have the heart to tell her there's no filling the hole in his chest. Not when bliss kissed his mouth with the taste of absolute freedom as soon as the barrier was down. Two voices rejoiced at the levity he didn't realise he had forgotten.
He still takes the water. To be polite. Even though it hurts to swallow and the uneven terrain makes him spill most of it down his chest.
Steam rises where water meets heat, hissing just soft enough to be mistaken for the wind.
Thank you, Xantheus says, turning from the light in the distance to smile at her. His head twinges and Ophelia frowns when she sees his mouth waver.
Is it talking to you again?
Fearing that he'll just break down and cry, Xantheus shakes his head and pulls further ahead to lean into Mourning's sharp turn towards the wildlands.
Ophelia's pace falters. The soldier behind her bites down on the noise at being disrupted.
Glory cocks her head, but otherwise does not react. Her warm axe gleams in the moonlit sliver guiding their path.
It hurts.
It hurts so much.
It does not need to, Xantheus thinks and immediately distrusts it.
It's true, which is why it's so nonsensical. He's never been a mortal who thought very clearly.
If he thinks at all.
Back in the city, Obsiddias touches the scroll at his belt. Two kobolds come to refresh his pitcher of water when they see sweat starting to gather at his brow now that they've entered the third hour of maintaining the vanguard shield.
He thinks about it for a long time, eyes fixed towards the cloud of dust rumbling in from the horizon.
A long claw taps on the parchment. A static spark jumps from the magic-drenched ink to the nail, power gathering under his palm.
He decides to save it for a better moment. When the situation demands clarity; his selfishness heart put on hold for the greater good.
Xantheus hears Sovereign laugh.
Strangely enough, it's the one thing that doesn't hurt at all.