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Pedrius continued to aimlessly fly around above the pair and for a moment almost missed the group of bandits that suddenly sprung up. And in that brief moment, Pedrius considered what had to be done. Should he jsut continue to remain a silent allie and see what they could do? Or should he do what he does best and save the day? And in Pedrius' mind, there was only one thing to do.

Drawing his mighty sword from it's steath, Pedrius dived head first at the ground. And at the last moment, he flipped around and landed on his feet, kneeling with his wings out stretched. Pedrius slowly stood up and as the wings closed on hs back, they reverted to their former cloak appearence. Pedrius glared at the leader of the gang and at the insignets that addorned him. After a moment of awkard silence, Pedrius spoke.

"So, you are Coemgen. I had always thought you fatter. Either way, stand down and come quietly or you will taste my blade."

The lupine came in fast and fierce, a rug of soft fur blaming past Pedrius' backside. Before what he could react properly to what was deemed an enemy Coursabal was bearing down upon a sleek faced bandit. His strong digits closed about the smaller being's face and squeezed until doing so hurt.

As her companion collapsed one man's face her dress shifted, becoming lighter and less restricting as the blades slipped free from their leathery homes. The first blade, an onyx edged weapon, pierced through the armored chest of someone who deemed it right to take the advantage of her companion's vulnerable backside. With an extra twitch of momentum the dark blade continued through the backbone and the silver-topped woman let out a snort before twisting the blade and ripping it free. He stumbled to his knees and she could see his eyes...they were hazel.

Coursabal tossed the man who's face had been turned to pulp like one would a sac of potatoes, the speckles of deep red staining his fur lightly. He dropped down to all fours and pushed himself back, avoiding a greasy haired attacker with grace as D'artra moved forward to intercept. Her second ketene came up, an ivory blade shimmering so clean that it appeared to have never once tasted the blood of battle. Though she used it freely enough to know that such things were not true, and should be left for story-tellers to elaborate on. She batted away the steel of a defending bandit with her right, her left swiftly coming in towards the man's narrow face. A spray of red blinded her for a moment before it vanished into dusty ash.

The lupine darted past her on all fours, clearing an obvious path of wounded in his wake he reared up beneath a brindle-faced opponent's attack, his clawed fingers snapping out and catching the weapon-bearing wrist with viciously threatening force. As the bones snapped one could hear, if not see, the swordswoman cleaning up the mess he had left behind. She didn't look towards Pedrius, but her words to him as she passed were clear as the blood that speckled her face, "Go find to your mark."

The onyx blade slammed an attack out and up before the other cleared clean into an armored ribcage. Another shove of force and it pierced a lung. With a soft grunt she tore the ketene free, kicking the man back into gurgled convulsions as he began to drown. She then spun, her blades moving back and forth in a well-trained defense as two more opponents pressed down on her with well-measured attacks.

Coursabal easily twisted the arm until the socket was wrenched from its place. His smile contorted his maw in a way most would see as scary as he shoved the man back. There was no way he'd be picking up a sword again. That in mind he turned, his opposing eyes shimmering with a savage feral nature. He dropped down again, charging one of the remaining four with an almost playful snarl. As he rose the tip of a nearby foe's blade found his thigh.

D'artra dropped to a knee, slamming an attack against her two opponents before dashing forward and switching her grip. Each blade slid along a waistline before they came about and burrowed cold steel into vulnerable spines. Her breath was coming in a little ragged and on her brow sweat mingled with blood. She twisted both blades until a resounding snap echoed out.

A miniscule trickle of blood led the flow of darker liquid, spilling down pale fur and trailing upon the gray clay of the road. His hands clapped on the offensive steel before twisting, forcing the weapon to snap mid-blade. His foe was at a loss, and didn't even notice the corresponding attack from behind until the onyx tip thrust through his spine and protruded the front of his leathery armor. The silver-headed woman didn't pull the blade free, but instead forced it deeper, her hand twisting it with each inch. She leaned forward, her pure voice a spit of subtle loathing whispered into the man's ear. "Madden Raa!"

Coursabal snarled and whimpered lightly as his claws pulled the remaining quarter of steel from his leg. He heard the insult, and had to fight not to cringe at it. It was the highest and darkest form of curse one could use. His pale ears flattened to his head as he clamped a hand over the stinging wound, thick blood leaking out warmly between his digits.

With a well-placed boot D'artra kicked the body off of her dark ketene and turned to the last standing challenger. Her eyes were dark spirals of ebony against the pale blood-smeared face of what might, on any other day, look like an innocent young girl. She shifted her feet, holding the tip of the ivory blade out before her as the darker one leveled parallel to her body.

The moans of the man with the ruined arm were pitched pained whimpers that drown out the quiet sounds of the dying. He rolled, his good arm trying to clutch the awkwardly gnarled shoulder feebly.

D'artra didn't move, her body poised ready for both attack and defense. Then she spoke, her voice as carefully neutral as she could ever really manage to make it. "Gather your comrade and go..."-

When the young man stiffened, his fingers tightening upon the pommel of his scimitar, the silver haired woman frowned. Then she lowered her blades, taking a moment to wipe them clean on the twisting darkness of her gown before sheathing them slowly. Indeed, the vile material seemed to have actually consumed the lifeblood with a pleased appetite.

"You are already defeated..." She turned towards Coursabal with a worried expression. He gave a reassuring tilt of his blood-splattered head and she turned towards the distressed cries of the injured bandit. "...see to him. He needs your aid."

Then she turned once more, returning quietly to the first body before sadly kneeling beside it. Pale fingers rose and brushed closed unseeing hazel eyes with a gentle care as she began to say the softest prayers in an ancient language. "Etrios ketron ca'len itro kosik, Guarnyua Isaraph iiellon. Aertriun, Gunadoul, Israphelle, Danthion, Rhi'ette."

When the words had passed her lips she leaned forward and brushed a kiss upon his brow before standing and moving over towards the next...

When D'artra knelt beside the man with the collapsed face she repeated the prayer, brushing her tongue against the pad of her thumb and cleaning away a bit of the congealed blood before kissing his brow. She was very meticulous, and as she moved from body to body, repeating the ritual, Coursabal kept an eye on the remaining bandit untrustingly, letting the man gather his injured comrade and begin to drag him off.

Once the two had vanished back into the thick line of darkening trees his eyes turned towards Pedrius. He regarded the Knight for a moment before giving a gentle, almost appraising nod.

When the dark-eyed woman had finished she tore a strip of material from the leggings of one of the felled, her soul having drifted into a deeper sense of silence.

Once the wound on her companion's thigh had the make-shift bandage bound about it she straightened up. Vile dark material mixed and mingled with silvery pure hair on a stiffening breeze as she wiped a speckle of blood from her face with the back of her wrist. Only the blood didn't wipe away, but smeared down her cheek. Somberly she finally turned towards Pedrius, her dark eyes a churning mixture of contrasting sentiments.

"There were..." Her voice was a soft feeble wavering sound, appearing as if it might snap at any given moment. It didn't match her strong, resolved expression. "...many better ways of dealing with that."

Coursabal didn't say anything. He knew how his young friend felt, and wouldn't trouble her with the fact that he agreed with the Holy's choice, even if she did have a bit of a point.

"To dwell in the Past is to live without a Future...to look in the Future is to forget the Past and it will relive itself." She turned, looking down the road that would hopefully lead her to the end of this chapter of her life. "Only those who dwell in the balance of the Immediate can live to make their own choices. Living in the Now is the only choice I have."

As she began to walk on once more, her footsteps much more weary than they had been before, Coursabal offered Pedrius a wolfish smirk. It was as if he was almost expressing sympathy. After all, how many times had the lass told him such things in their travels together? His raspy baritone of a voice came out a touch softer than what D'artra's expected listening was, simple and true.

"She means well."

He turned both gold and blue eyes to follow the young female. He knew he should have stopped her from giving that warrior her food. Her body couldn't take this neglecting abuse much longer....

Ahead of Pedrius the two strode with an almost epic companionship. D'artra was frowning, and Coursabal made sure to watch her carefully. It was only a few moments before she smiled sadly up at him, her gentle wisp of a voice easily discernable to the keen eared Knight behind.

"I'm fine..."

Coursabal kept his gaze clear upon her, and she turned her own eyes back towards the road.

"It's just..." She frowned, her eyes narrowing sorrowfully. "...I'm not strong enough...I've still got so far I have left to go before I can..."

A blood-stained paw-like hand rested knowingly upon her shoulder. She didn't normally speak of him. He understood clearly how much it bothered her. In a way, he understood, too, why it was finding Necia was so important to her. It was something to set her mind to, a goal that was personal and impersonal at both the same time. And it was all because of him. Yes, he understood fully.

The breeze shifted direction and Coursabal paused to sniff. D'artra slowed to raise an eyebrow at him in subtle question. The wolfish grin he gave her was all the answer she needed, and in return offered her own smile. It had definitely been long enough since the last time she had, and felt in dire need of another since the most recent battle.

Without so much as a word the lupine took point, leading into the forest with a smooth stride, the petite woman keeping half a step behind his heels. It wasn't before long in which they came across it...

The sound of water slipping over and about cold stone was the first indication of the stream. After a few more steps the crystalline water could be seen, cold and clear as it cut into the moss-covered ground like a winding snake. Coursabal crouched to his hands and knees, calmly lapping at the surface as D'artra paused at the water's edge a little further downstream. She looked down to the liquid not all but a few inches from the toe of her boots. Yes, it had indeed been long enough since she had bathed.

She dropped to her rear and began to unlace her boots, smirking like a child in a candy-store.

D'artra let out a soft laugh as she stood up and peeled off the dress, wrapping what looked to be plain gray material about the twin ketenes. Her ethereal skin held many pinkish scars, much more than would have been expected from looking at her when she was dressed. She stepped into the cold waters, repressing a shudder as she sank down and began to scrub clean the grime and blood.

"You'll have to forgive us...but we've been traveling non-stop for just about a week and a half before we reached Northbough this morn." She leaned forward wetting her silver hair and sinking a little lower into the icy grips of the river.

Coursabal finished his drink upstream and likewise began to cleanse himself, splashing the clear water onto crimson-kissed fur.