“I seek Calan, high priest of Ashhur,” Tarlak shouted. A few priests turned to him, recognized the yellow robes, and rushed off in obedience. The two half-orcs glanced about, the praise to Ashhur echoing from every piece of stone unnerving their souls. They could not have been more uncomfortable if they had been naked.

A door opened, and out stepped an old man dressed in white, a symbol of the golden mountain hanging from a long silver chain around his neck. Not a single sharp edge existed on his entire face. Such a round, gentle look made it so that when he smiled, it was impossible not to warm one’s heart to him.

“Tarlak Eschaton,” the high priest said, his gentle voice disarming. “I trust there is good reason to interrupt my nap with such rude shouting?” His beady green eyes stared at Tarlak, unflinching.

“This girl is dying of poison. I need her healed.”

Calan glanced behind the mage to see Tessanna curled in Harruq’s arms. The high priest nodded. “Place her on the ground, half-elf.”

Harruq glanced at the man, confused and angry.

“Do as he says,” Tarlak ordered.

“Don’t you need a bed, tonics, potions and such?” Harruq asked, gently placing her on the stone.

“The only bed she will need is back at your tower.” Calan knelt down beside Tessanna, examining her with his eyes. “What a poor soul. Such beauty, even in a body so frail.”

He bowed his head and laid his hands across Tessanna’s forehead. He whispered a prayer to Ashhur. Healing light surrounded his own hands, but unlike Tessanna’s, its glow was comforting, uplifting. Its shine was deeper, its light, purer. Gently, it flowed into the young woman, banishing the poison in her blood. Mere seconds later, Calan stood, the magic fading from his hands.