Small crescents deepened where Altan's nails curled into his skin. It stung. A lot. Unlike all the fairytales and stories he'd been told, the healing magic patching his torn flesh back together was not warm and soothing. It was hydrogen peroxide, on a scrape, lit on fire. Altan forced back the shout in his throat, toes curling in his shoes as Griffin muttered strange incantations, palms sweeping over his wounds. He inhaled sharply as Griffins hands passed over his forearms, the deep tears in his flesh angry and red, filled with dirt and puss and grime. Some part of him that wasn't having his arm actively stuck in a meat grinder was mildly fascinated as his skin burbled and expanded in twisting strings, skin reforming and stretching to seal the wounds. A few seconds passed and the pain faded as Griffin pulled away, perspiration clinging to his furrowed brow. Altan turned his arms this way and that- not a scratch on them. Not even a scar. Griffin had expanded on the laws of magic as he healed himself before Altan.
"Healing magic is an appropriate example of the limits of magic I taught you yesterday." He said, wincing as his flesh began to stitch itself back together. A lack of reaction told Altan he was probably used to the pain. "To heal any injury is theoretically possible, no matter the severity. However, to heal a wound takes the same amount of energy it would for the body to naturally recover, just all in an instant. It is an incredibly taxing endeavour."
"Could you bring someone back from the dead?"
Griffin nodded, "Yes, even death technically can be overcome. But doing so would cause certain death for the caster. One life for another."
Some old memory of his mother chiding him about manners surfaced in the back of his mind, and he muttered out a forced, "Thanks".
        Griffin blinked in acknowledgment, but otherwise did not respond.
Over the wall of leering trees daylight slowly began to seep into the sky, the stars dimming on the horizon as hues of orange clashed with a blanket of deep indigo. Distant birdsong flitted on the breeze. Somewhere, not too far in the distance, Altan spotted several small columns of smoke lazily wafting above the trees. We were so close...
     Griffin shuffled around their trashed campsite, pulling his cloak from under the toppled shelter, retrieving his blood stained sword from the tall grass, and snuffing out what little remained of the fire. Altan finally had a chance to really look at the weapon. It was long and somewhat slender, double edged and flared both near the middle and at the tip of the blade. There were raised details of gold streaking along the flat side of the blade, and near the tip there was some sort of fancy golden rune inscribed into the metal. The hilt of the sword was a darker silver colour and its ends split into a couple separate prongs. In the middle of it sat a large yellow gemstone of some sort. The handle was pretty simply made of a twisted dark wood and it all ended with a pommel made of the same material as the hilt. It was admittedly kinda cool.
      With a hefty sigh Griffins donned his cloak,and strode past Altan.
"Come on. Wilders Edge isn't far now."
Altans whining stomach needed no further convincing.

* * *

"Wilders Edge" was a small village- no more than a hundred houses sat nestled amongst the forest. Built of mostly stone, wood, and some thatch, almost none of the buildings had more than one floor, save for a much larger cobblestone building Altan could only assume was an Inn. Soft morning light filtered through the canopy behind them. Stretched out for miles past the village were endless open fields and rolling hills, the sea of pulsing grass only broken by the occasional grove of trees, ponds, villages, or the vast mountain range filling the distant horizon and breaking the clouds. If Altan squinted really hard he could just make out what looked to be a much larger settlement cradled against an ocean far to the West. To the far East, a marsh. He could see where the name "Wilders Edge" came from. Not very creative.
As they approached the small village, Griffin pulled the hood of his cloak over his head.
      "Scurus". A cloud of black mist fell from his lips as he exhaled. It hovered for a moment, then shifted to fill the space under his hood. Whereas before the grey morning light allowed the faintest of features to be visible under his hood, this mist clouded the space with so much darkness not even the piercing glow of his golden eyes shone through it. Altan opened his mouth to question the secrecy, but Griffin interjected before he could get a word out.
"I am going to visit the general store and purchase us enough supplies to get to the next town. Hand me that pouch on your belt... thank you. In the meantime, I want you to go to that tavern," he pointed towards the centre of the village where a clearly hungover man stumbled from the entrance of a squat, hexagonal building, "and order us a meal-"
"Two issues," Altan interrupted, "One. I don't have any money. And two, I don't know what kind of... weird food you guys have here."
Altan could practically feel the angry glare Griffin shot at him as he stiffened. "Order jackalope stew, with a side of Sourberry bread. After we dine, we'll go reserve two rooms at the Inn, stay the night, and leave first light tomorrow." Griffin fished in his bag before pressing two gold oval coins into Altans palm. He then strode off to the right without another word.
Altan flipped off Griffins retreating figure-not that he would know what that meant anyhow-and marched off towards the Inn.
A small copper bell chimed as Altan pushed open the hefty wood door. A waft of warm, stale air immediately blew into his face and his nose instinctively wrinkled at the fermenting odor of alcohol and sweat that assaulted his nose. There were only three people in the dimly lit interior of the windowless tavern. The barkeeper, a burly man with a long, curly black beard, shiny bald head, and heavy potbelly. He didn't glance up when Altan walked in, just kept wiping a glass mug with a dull green rag, stained with unidentifiable substances. There was a man clad in full black armor, blacked out and snoring loudly in the far corner table, a stash of empty mugs crowding his unconscious form. The third was a woman.
Young-early 20's maybe?-fair skinned, and... developed... her long auburn hair was pulled back into a pony, small braids weaving and twisting amongst the waves. Her eyes snapped up to meet his  as she took a long swig from the large mug she clasped. The left was an icy blue, the iris ringed black. Her right eye however was filmy and white, a scar carving a permanent notch in her brow, across her eye, and extending halfway down her cheek. This chick was hot... and he always had a thing for older, more mature women-nothing like the blonde brat May who didn't recognize status or opportunity when it was staring her in the face. She held his stare confidently, amusement dancing behind her eyes, and it took all Altans willpower to pry his attention away. He felt her eyes pinned to him, following like a hawk as he stepped up to the bar.
"Two orders of jackalope stew and sourberry bread." He stated, sliding the coins across the counter. He risked a glance at the woman, and then added, "Keep the change."
The barkeep grunted dismissively, pocketing the coins without question and waddling off into a back room, glass mug still in hand. Tch. Do people even know what gratitude is nowadays?
"Cant say I've seen you around here before..." a voice purred from behind him, and Altan turned unhurriedly to see the woman standing a little too close to be considered friendly, eyes half-lidded and a hand resting easily on her hip.
He crossed his arms leisurely, letting a smirk crawl onto his face as he gave her a very slow, very deliberate once-over. "Just a passerby. Thought I'd grab a meal to go."
"Is that so..." she hummed, crowding into his space close enough Altan could smell the warm alcohol on her breath. Long, slender fingers trailed over his biceps and chest, squeezing lightly. "Well... that seems like an awful lot of food for one man. Perhaps I could help you," her hand trailed lower, "work it off?"
She punctuated the suggestion with a sip of her drink, and a long wink of her good eye. The mug muffled what Altan could've sworn were hushed words, and he suddenly felt uneasy as her blind eye seemed to see through him. Then her eyes suddenly blew wide, unbridled bewilderment breaking her seductive composure.
She lowered the mug from her wet, plump lips, "You're a-"
The little copper bell rang. "Altan! What in Nydred's name are you doing?"
Griffin came whooshing through the door, face still obscured in shadow, but Altan could sense the ugly scowl on his face. The lady blinked and her sudden shock quickly disappeared once again into a sultry smile as Griffin approached them. She side-eyed Altan.
"A friend of yours, Altan? My, today must be my lucky day..." she grinned, stepping towards Griffin and tentatively reaching for his hood, "I do love a mystery man."
She winked and went to draw from her mug again, only to freeze and sputter when her gaze shifted to Griffin. She pulled her hand back, eyes flashing back and fourth between the two of them rapidly. Griffin paid her strange behaviour no heed however, instead brushing right past her and gripping Altans wrist tightly. Griffin shot a long, threatening glare at the lady then he peeled Altan away and out the door, not bothering to wait for the food, despite his angry protests. Griffin shouted just as loud, lecturing him about 'irresponsibility' and 'you can't trust anyone'.
The woman watched the bickering duo leave, the baffled expression not leaving her face until long after the tavern door closed.