Firalaine Lasthanel heard things.
He was a shrewd man, and he knew when something was amiss. He also knew to keep his eyes open around the nobles. So when he spotted Aristolochia Fal'anare leaving the city with an obviously well-trained set of guards, he took note and hatched a plan of his own.
His sister had not returned from her most recent job, and he knew that something was wrong. The look on her employer's face told him that things were not progressing as planned.
Firalaine knew the basic route Lori would have taken, through Stonard. She had shared with him the details of the caravan escort before leaving, as she always did in case something went wrong. Well, it seemed to have done just that, and the Paladin was not leaving his sister to die alone in some Light-forsaken, bug-infested swamp.
He did not like humidity. It made his hair terribly frizzy and unruly, so he put it into a messy war braid and slung it over his shoulder. Better.
Ari and her companions had set out toward the center of the Swamp of Sorrows, explained someone in Stonard, and it looked as though they were heading toward the nearly-deserted Sunken Temple. Firalaine was most displeased with this news. He knew of Lori's history with Trolls, and his heart burned with anger over the thought of their filthy hands all over her poor little body.
Entering the temple was not terribly difficult. The water level in the lake was low enough that Firalaine easily gained access to the doorway in the center of the temple's upper level. It was eerily silent, aside from the croaking of frogs and the occasional wail of a bird flying overhead. He hoped with all his being that they were all wrong about it and that Lori's caravan had simply taken a wrong turn somewhere.
There was a dead Troll near the entrance to the inner reaches of the temple. Its throat had been slit from ear to ear, the wound gaping too badly for even magical blood to seal the wound before it was fatal.
Firalaine crept into the temple, at least as much as a six and a half foot Paladin in plate armor could creep.
There were more dead Trolls strewn across the floor inside the central chamber, bearing obvious signs of recent, fatal trauma. The blood was not yet even dry. Firalaine knew that this was it. Either his sister was alive in one of the side chambers, or the entire caravan group was dead, along with the rescue mission.
The Paladin steeled himself and drew his mighty blade. An aura of hot, crackling Light surrounded him as he followed the trail of dead Trolls and blood into one of the side chambers. His metallic footsteps echoed through the vaulted stone ceiling.
When he reached the end of the hallway, he peered across the dimly-lit chamber. Two Elves and an Orc stood ready, blades flourished in his direction. Firalaine saluted and strode quickly to cross the room. His heart skipped a beat as he neared the group, who lowered their blades and adopted a somber tone as the Paladin approached. He could see Aristolochia's recognition, and then he noticed the pale figure laid upon the stone altar behind them all.
Aeloren, his big sister, laid there upon the altar. She had been stripped and bound in bandages, and a dark stain blossomed out around the ceremonial dagger which had been thrust into the center of her chest. The sacrifice had already been interrupted, but it was too late.
Wordlessly, Firalaine dropped to his knees and cradled the body of his sister. She was still warm, and he imagined that he could still feel the rise of her chest as he pulled the dagger from her heart.
She was beautiful, even through the obvious signs of torture the Atal'ai had left upon her small frame.
A hand rested upon Firalaine's shoulder, and he let out a ragged sob which echoed throughout the chamber. The others were completely still and silent.
"I'm sorry, sweetheart," whispered Firalaine. "We didn't get here in time. I'm always fashionably late, aren't I? I suppose...there's only one thing left to do..."
The Paladin stood and faced the other three. He looked from Ari to her companions, and then rested his gaze upon the Blood Knight. He did not know the man's name, but the two exchanged nods. Firalaine's gaze steeled, and he turned back toward his sister's still form.
The glow once again surrounded his body, almost like flames in their brilliance.
"Do not tell her I did this," Firalaine spoke calmly, barely a glance over his shoulder. He placed his hands upon Lori's heart, took a breath, and -
"Stop," ordered the Blood Knight in a firm, curt voice.
Firalaine hesitated, and his aura faded slightly. "She's all I have left," he explained quietly. "I'd rather it be me than her." The sturdy Paladin looked to be on the verge of tears as he spoke the second sentence.
"I know." The other Knight placed his black-and-red gauntlet upon Lori's torn chest, the cold metal impervious to the dark blood staining the bandages. "I would have given anything to bring my wife back. Even myself."
"Why do you stop me?" Firalaine turned to the other man, anger beginning to flicker across his fine features. The Blood Knight did not flinch.
"I believe it is unnecessary," he spoke in a low, urgent whisper. "But we must hurry. Her spirit is leaving the body. Do you remember your training? I believe we can each sacrifice enough to raise her, without significant harm to our own bodies."
Firalaine's eyes widened, and he nodded. "Let's go. Now." He returned his attention to Lori's body, hands upon her head. The Knight's hands rested atop her chest.
The Paladin and the Blood Knight both invoked the Light in their own ways, their auras intensifying and combining into one before surrounding the body with what looked like purifying flames. The blaze fully engulfed Lori, and shone so brightly that both Ari and Gorga had to shield their eyes.
They remained so for nearly ten full seconds before Firalaine faltered and the light faded. He and the Knight shared a glance before turning their attention to Lori. The blood still stood out on the bandages, and it was impossible to tell if the wound beneath had been mended. They watched closely, searching for signs of life.
Then- slowly, Lori's chest rose.
Her eyes fluttered open slowly.
She croaked something barely audible, her lips barely moving. Firalaine and Aeramar leaned in closely as she took another breath and began to repeat herself.
"Stop touching my tits, fuckin' perv," she rasped, eyes attempting to focus on the Knight. The left corner of her lips twitched. He quickly pulled his hands away from her chest, colour rising in his face.
"Well, if that's how you are going to thank -"
"Stop," Firalaine interrupted. "That's her way of thanking you. Trust me." He clapped one broad hand on the other man's armored shoulder, grinning broadly. "What's your name?"
The flustered Knight replied curtly, "Aeramar Dawnsurge. And I know who you are. Enough with the pleasantries, for now. This woman is still very unwell, and she must be returned to civilization immediately."
Firalaine nodded, scooping up the again-unconscious Lori into his arms. She weighed little without her armor, and had obviously not been fed much, if anything, during her days in captivity.
"Are there any other survivors?"
Aristolochia nodded, gesturing toward the cages lining the walls. All five members of the caravan appeared to be alive, if somewhat bruised and shaken.
"Let's get everyone home," she ordered.
