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White Iris Breeze
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Calidore seems to accept my story for the time being.
He was there, after all, when we discussed our need for transportation.
But on the detour to collect the ripening bandits from yesterday, and on the subsequent ride home, he displays little of the jollity he had on our approach.
Instead I focus my attention on the fuzzy little demoness bouncing in the back of the wagon, strangely unperturbed despite her seat on a gore-stained tarp covering several dead bandits.
Spidrift, Astrea, and myself all sit as far from her and her macabre perch as we can.
"You are not to endanger the souls of myself or my traveling companions," I tell her, shortly.
"Of course not." She lounges against the wall of the cart. She has still not covered herself, although her legs are crossed and her fur is thick and dark enough to spare us any visual distress. "Although some of you are more than capable of endangering your souls on your own."
"But if unhindered, would you interfere?"
"Of course not. It is not the Demonic way to bring a good man to sin. It is the Demonic way to expose the sin that was there all along. Like an inquisitor. Inquisitors are good, right?"
"No," says Astrea.
"Well, they're holy." A dipping, rolling shrug.
"You will show mercy and restraint when dealing with our enemies," I say. "Ask Thomas here what that means." I put my hand on Spidrift's shoulder. "He did a good job of it today."
"Milord," says Spidrift, the vein of pride clear in his voice. "Your power was, as always, the most supreme on the field!"
"I'll make a mental note," says Layla, dryly.
"And in towns and around civilization you will remain entirely invisible."
"Very well."
"Speaking of which," calls Calidore, "The walls of Dorow are just over this next hill, unless you have some other destination in mind."
"Why would we?" I ask.
"You've been full of surprises today," he responds.
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