More Lomax...
Verdigris; noun: a green or bluish patina formed on copper, brass, or bronze surfaces exposed to the atmosphere for long periods of time, consisting principally of basic copper sulfate.
... A visible effect of exposure to time.
He cried and cried. It was cold! How could it be so cold! Why was it cold!? Not fair! Wails filled the morning air.
"Another one, Guardian Yorell?". The dark haired young man looks over the shoulder of the matron, looking into the bundle of sack cloth, into the bunched up screaming face, protesting the unfairness of the world.
"Yes, child. Not as loud as you were though, as I recall.", she replies dryly, moving back into the temple to where the warmth of the altar fire still reached.
"That's a harsh judgement that I'd thank you to leave out of the history books, Guardian.", Dean responded amiably, before pausing to scoop something from the ground.
"You dropped this." He holds out the brooch, a simple elipse of gold, filled with a patterned cross and a semi precious grey stone set at its centre.
Yorell takes it, contemplating. "Not I. It must have fallen from the child."
As she turns to go, to take the child to receive his first care of the temple, she hesitates. "The rules say the first Guardian to give care to an orphan has right of naming. I have brought him in, and so I shall name his family, however you found his one possession and returned it to him. Give him his speaking name, Dean."
"I'd hear what family you plan to place him with first, Guardian.", Dean replies, suddenly grave.
"He screams loud enough to be one of yours, boy. He will be a Sorenar."
Dean smiles, waves a finger in front of the eyes of the boy. "He looks like a Sorenar to me too. We will call him brother in private. In public, he is Lomax."
Yorell nods and turns away without further comment.
***
Legs a blur, they tore through the city, weaving in and out of market stalls and people with reckless abandon. More than one person shouts after them, both abuse and greetings, which are answered cheerfully in kind.
A tall dark haired boy, a black haired girl and a brown haired boy, all maybe eight years of age, dirty faced, breathless and grinning, collapse into a doorway.
"I win!" proclaimed the girl, between gasps.
"You didn't! You cheated!" countered the brown haired boy.
"Did not!" "Did too!" "When?!"
"You cut the wrong way round the Baron!"
She pinches him savagely on the nearest arm. "That was to Bal-Ance you two going the other way. I had to! Guild rule!"
"Ow! Not right!" He rubs the arm and punches her back in the same spot.
"Hey, don't hit Leah!" interrupts the other boy, punching Lomax on his other arm. Instantly Leah slaps him, grinning and shouting, "Can't hit back, Thone, paid round the world!".
The three are quickly embroiled in a vicious three way squabble.
***
He stands, stiffly upright, chin held high, shoulders back, face impassive. There's a knock at the door, sudden sharp, twice, and he flinches.
Frowning, he takes a breath. Torch light flickers from a sconce on the wall, illuminating the small room, the cot on which he'd slept since he turned ten; the desk at which he'd worked, marked in so many places by ink stains made by him and others; a stool he'd made himself; a small bag by the bed packed with all his possessions.
He steadies himself, checking his clothes are straight, his brooch set straight at his throat, a woven bracelet on one wrist, a gift from Leah, and a new belt, cured and cut by Thone.
"My door is always open", he calls.
The door swings open, to reveal the lean dark shape of Dean, dressed in ceremonial robes of black and red, the colours of the family of Sorenar.
"And will you pass through it, Lomax Sorenar, though it may open onto darkness and onto light?" asks Dean, in serious tones.
Lomax takes a breath and gives the first of his replies which are his own and not part of the ceremony, the first of his words on which he would be judged. If Dean would not let him pass through then he would have to seek another family to take him in and sponsor him.
"I embrace both darkness and light. If this door opens to light, then I will seek the darkness. If to darkness, then I will seek the light."
"Then embrace the future, brother", Dean intones, stepping back and leaving the doorway open.
Heart thudding in his chest, he shoulders his bag and with a last glance back, steps through. Dean pulls the door closed behind him and turns away without a word, walking with slow steps into the depths of the temple. With as much dignity as he can manage and a quick sweep to clear his hair from his eyes, Lomax follows.
They walk for what seems an eternity through the temple, though he knows every pace of the way, every inch of the carefully laid stone, every thread of every tapestry on the walls. People appear in the side corridors and doorways as he passes, some in whispered conversation, some going about business and some just loitering, but they all stop to watch the two pass, and as they go new whispers start.
This could be the last time any of them see him. By nightfall he could be outside. Silently he passes Leah loitering in a side corridor. A few minutes later, he does so again, and a ghost of a smile breaks his composure as he sees her.
Too soon, the way is barred by a heavy oak door. Dean stops before it, then stands to one side, silent, watching.
Lomax stares it the door for a long moment. The first trial is that of passage, both to family and to altar. If the supplicant cannot find a family member to show him the way and cannot reach the altar once there, then he has failed.
With a shrug, he tries the door handle. It clicks hard against the lock. "So much for the most obvious...", he mutters. To one side, Dean clamps firmly on the smile that threatened his lips.
He turns to face Dean. "I know you could not answer my questions before. Can you now?"
"Perhaps. That depends on the question and on you."
He tries to stare hard into Dean's eyes, but the calm waters are too much and soon he breaks away, fear worming in his gut. He looks back, "Well... Then how do I get in?".
"Through the door."
Anger burns in him for a moment. "That's no answer!"
Dean smiles, not speaking.
He takes a breath, calms himself, seeks Kor'Laghs inner peace. "Very well, how do I go through the door?"
"Generally, by opening it", is the mild reply.
"And how do I open it!?" He snaps.
"By Balance."
A pause. "What do you mean, by Balance?" Silence is the only reply.
He stares at the door, mind working. 'For there to be Balance, the price must be paid for the opening of the door. What is the price of the door opening? What does it cost for the door to open? No, I'm not trying to open the door, I'm trying to pass through the door. What is the price of passing through a door? What is the cost to me?'
He takes a deep breath and the world flexes, everything seeming to distort like a pool of still water touched for the first time. "What is the price to me to pass through the door?"
BOOM!
Dean slams his staff butt into the floor, the echoes resounding around the small antechamber and out into the corridor. A bolt thuds on the other side and slowly the door swings open. Before him lies a room bearly larger, but the ceiling slips away in a long climb to the roof, two stories above. A ray of sunlight strikes down from afar, lighting a central slab of grey stone brightly in the midst of gathered gloom. Two figures wait there, on either side of the altar. On one side, the now hunched figure of Guardian Yorell, Guardian of Youth. The other, the tall, silver haired figure of Guardian Fortess, Guardian of Trials.
"Knowing to ask the question. Henceforth, this will always be the question." Says Dean solemnly.
Lomax nods, straightens his shoulderbag, and steps forward. A pace later and he stops, looking back, questioning.
"This is as far as I go. Trust in the Two, Sorenar."
He turns away and takes the last steps to stand before the altar stone. With a thud, the door slams shut behind him and the world shifts and settles.
***
A low moan of pain echoes in the cavern, rebounding from wall to wall. If he hadn't been able to see Kendal in the dim candle light of the tunnel on his right, he wouldn't have known where it came from.
Hunkered against the wall of the tunnel to his left, Caffrey's white robe is a splash of lightness in the dark, his hands quickly and deftly examining the wound before him, his voice a gentle mutter of prayer to the powers of Justice. Lomax could feel the ebb and flow of the divine, a stream to the pitiful trickle he felt inside.
He frowned, planted both feet firmly, a rock to block the passage, a wall past which none could go. Inside, he trembled, fear surged in waves, thoughts a whirlpool, 'What am I doing?! Run! Flee! The others have! WHAT AM I DOING?!!'.
His eighteen year old voice cracks slightly, destroying the effect his words are meant to inspire. "I warn you, the very power of Death is mine to wield!" He raises his hand, one finger spearing down the length of the corridor to pick out the central of the three figures who block the passage.
The man he points to dismisses him, glancing away to his two companions and muttering something quietly to them. With grim determination on their faces, they lock together and start to advance.
With the first step, Lomax reaches deep inside, draws out his fear, his self revulsion for the failure he knows is coming, his hatred for his companions who hide in side passages, defeated, his despair that it will all end so soon. The emotions rush through him, pour into his hand and his head, flood out of his mouth and pointed finger, lashing at the central figure, the leader.
"She'Lagh!" He spits the word, and the human flinches, a momentary stab of pain deep inside. For an instant, Lomax exults as her hand embraces his, as her finger lies along his and her power touches his victim's aura.
Then it's gone. The cavern is dark. The trickle is dry, a barren rocky bed with no drop left. They square their shoulders, realising no barrage of dark powers is about to descend, and continue their advance.
Caffrey gives a shout and suddenly the rest of the patrol erupt from the side passages and sweep in. The tunnels ring to the sound of sword on sword, the grunt of armour taking a blow, the hiss of pain at a cut.
The battle ebbs and flows, and he stands and watches, energy exhausted, will spent, and wishes for a sword. He watches them fight for his life, gives ground as they are pushed back, and feels useless.
A last cry of ragged pain, the thud of a body hitting stone, the clatter of small rocks as the patrol regathers. Kendal is down, blood oozing from a series of wounds. With everyone accounted for, the three healers gather round him. Caffrey's energies are spent, Justice failing at the last. His sister Guardian whispers a gentle word to the fallen form, a terrible cut down the length of his back closing, then looks at Lomax.
He hesitates and the world shifts, sensing the choice of price.
This man went forward to win back his life. He would not fail him. Resolve steels his mind. He lays his hand directly on the wound, feels the slick touch of warm blood, feels below that the beat and thud of heart fighting for life. He remembers Kendal's smile, sees him running ahead, fleet of foot and whole of body. He feels in his heart the place Kendal holds in the patrol, the place of scout, of Pathfinder. He feels his own place, the place of healer, of Guardian.
The world shifts, seeking and finds the decision, settles. The sense of place, of purpose, of unity, flows from deep inside into his hand, and for a moment their auras merge, become a single whole, and some of what was Lomax is now Kendal, and his wound is closed.
As suddenly as it is begun, it ends. The auras split, tear and a terrible pain slices deep into his gut. He tastes the bitter tang of blood in his mouth, feels the tears of She'Lagh on his face.
With a shuddering breath, Kendal opens his eyes.
***
Time seems to slow as the moment comes. The world around him sings and he knows that the balance is being restored. He's done something terribly wrong, he knows that, but he doesn't know how wrong yet. Surely his life had been enough? Surely enough blood had been spilled to pay for a thousand such sins?
He could still taste forest sap in his mouth, still feel the tree roots gripping him, piercing his broken body in a hundred places, feel the light, the glorious light, being torn away. And now here he was.
They'd dragged him up the slope like a criminal, they who'd been helping him mere moments before to do what they'd all known had to be done. Only, he'd been the one to act, hadn't he? The one to seize that moment on which the world turns, to take reality by the scruff of the neck and twist it to a new form.
So he'd died. His action, his price.
And here he stood, before Headman Bob and Marshal Mathonwy, and after that, after he and his enemy had expressed themselves in the most perfect dance of power and price, they were going to pass judgement on him, find him wanting, give him a punishment.
He stared at the semi circle of faces and the world flexed, shifted, looking for his future. Over their shoulders, not more than ten metres away, a man stood at his guard post, but distracted, watching the show, the tableaux. He looked over their shoulders and met his eyes, quizical, interested, but not really caring. Behind him, step by stealthy step, a green skinned creature approaches, naked steel in hand, intent on death.
In that moment, he stared into the eyes of a Barony citizen, a fellow human, a man also dedicated to preserving the lives of others, and let him die.
The world flexed and, as two arcs of steel swept down, settled.
***
"A strange place to find a man travelling alone." The voice speaks suddenly from behind him and Lomax starts, a look of shock on his grimy, weathered face, leaping to his feet and turning, hands raised.
He is confronted by a slim man, a human, of bearly more years than himself, clad in toughened leathers riven with dulled metal studs and hand on the pommel of an undrawn sword. The hand is clenched now, in reaction to the sudden move, but his posture and smile in the light of the campfire and stars suggest relaxed readiness, not threat.
Slowly, Lomax eases upright, smiles crookedly. "I could say the same."
"Perhaps then, we are strange men?"
"Perhaps, but there is no need to be strangers. My fire is warm and I have spare food." Lomax gestures to one side, stepping slowly to the other.
The man looks contemplative, an expression made foreboding by the flickering shadows and highlights of the flames. "A good offer. But what kind of man turns to a threat with empty hands, leaving his sword sheathed by the fire?"
A rueful expression crosses Lomax's face. "One that has more faith than skill with the sword, at least to buy time to escape. Does that bother you?"
"That depends. No healer turns with their hands raised as weapons."
"And few who are a threat to others leave themselves so open to threat in return. If you find my offer unwelcome, walk on. I'll not bother you. I would be upset though. Your good nature in approaching me without weapon drawn despite my lack of awareness requires a kind gesture in repayment."
The man grins. "Now I understand. Very well!" And with two quick strides, he is in the clearing, hand outstretched.
... A visible effect of exposure to time.
He cried and cried. It was cold! How could it be so cold! Why was it cold!? Not fair! Wails filled the morning air.
"Another one, Guardian Yorell?". The dark haired young man looks over the shoulder of the matron, looking into the bundle of sack cloth, into the bunched up screaming face, protesting the unfairness of the world.
"Yes, child. Not as loud as you were though, as I recall.", she replies dryly, moving back into the temple to where the warmth of the altar fire still reached.
"That's a harsh judgement that I'd thank you to leave out of the history books, Guardian.", Dean responded amiably, before pausing to scoop something from the ground.
"You dropped this." He holds out the brooch, a simple elipse of gold, filled with a patterned cross and a semi precious grey stone set at its centre.
Yorell takes it, contemplating. "Not I. It must have fallen from the child."
As she turns to go, to take the child to receive his first care of the temple, she hesitates. "The rules say the first Guardian to give care to an orphan has right of naming. I have brought him in, and so I shall name his family, however you found his one possession and returned it to him. Give him his speaking name, Dean."
"I'd hear what family you plan to place him with first, Guardian.", Dean replies, suddenly grave.
"He screams loud enough to be one of yours, boy. He will be a Sorenar."
Dean smiles, waves a finger in front of the eyes of the boy. "He looks like a Sorenar to me too. We will call him brother in private. In public, he is Lomax."
Yorell nods and turns away without further comment.
***
Legs a blur, they tore through the city, weaving in and out of market stalls and people with reckless abandon. More than one person shouts after them, both abuse and greetings, which are answered cheerfully in kind.
A tall dark haired boy, a black haired girl and a brown haired boy, all maybe eight years of age, dirty faced, breathless and grinning, collapse into a doorway.
"I win!" proclaimed the girl, between gasps.
"You didn't! You cheated!" countered the brown haired boy.
"Did not!" "Did too!" "When?!"
"You cut the wrong way round the Baron!"
She pinches him savagely on the nearest arm. "That was to Bal-Ance you two going the other way. I had to! Guild rule!"
"Ow! Not right!" He rubs the arm and punches her back in the same spot.
"Hey, don't hit Leah!" interrupts the other boy, punching Lomax on his other arm. Instantly Leah slaps him, grinning and shouting, "Can't hit back, Thone, paid round the world!".
The three are quickly embroiled in a vicious three way squabble.
***
He stands, stiffly upright, chin held high, shoulders back, face impassive. There's a knock at the door, sudden sharp, twice, and he flinches.
Frowning, he takes a breath. Torch light flickers from a sconce on the wall, illuminating the small room, the cot on which he'd slept since he turned ten; the desk at which he'd worked, marked in so many places by ink stains made by him and others; a stool he'd made himself; a small bag by the bed packed with all his possessions.
He steadies himself, checking his clothes are straight, his brooch set straight at his throat, a woven bracelet on one wrist, a gift from Leah, and a new belt, cured and cut by Thone.
"My door is always open", he calls.
The door swings open, to reveal the lean dark shape of Dean, dressed in ceremonial robes of black and red, the colours of the family of Sorenar.
"And will you pass through it, Lomax Sorenar, though it may open onto darkness and onto light?" asks Dean, in serious tones.
Lomax takes a breath and gives the first of his replies which are his own and not part of the ceremony, the first of his words on which he would be judged. If Dean would not let him pass through then he would have to seek another family to take him in and sponsor him.
"I embrace both darkness and light. If this door opens to light, then I will seek the darkness. If to darkness, then I will seek the light."
"Then embrace the future, brother", Dean intones, stepping back and leaving the doorway open.
Heart thudding in his chest, he shoulders his bag and with a last glance back, steps through. Dean pulls the door closed behind him and turns away without a word, walking with slow steps into the depths of the temple. With as much dignity as he can manage and a quick sweep to clear his hair from his eyes, Lomax follows.
They walk for what seems an eternity through the temple, though he knows every pace of the way, every inch of the carefully laid stone, every thread of every tapestry on the walls. People appear in the side corridors and doorways as he passes, some in whispered conversation, some going about business and some just loitering, but they all stop to watch the two pass, and as they go new whispers start.
This could be the last time any of them see him. By nightfall he could be outside. Silently he passes Leah loitering in a side corridor. A few minutes later, he does so again, and a ghost of a smile breaks his composure as he sees her.
Too soon, the way is barred by a heavy oak door. Dean stops before it, then stands to one side, silent, watching.
Lomax stares it the door for a long moment. The first trial is that of passage, both to family and to altar. If the supplicant cannot find a family member to show him the way and cannot reach the altar once there, then he has failed.
With a shrug, he tries the door handle. It clicks hard against the lock. "So much for the most obvious...", he mutters. To one side, Dean clamps firmly on the smile that threatened his lips.
He turns to face Dean. "I know you could not answer my questions before. Can you now?"
"Perhaps. That depends on the question and on you."
He tries to stare hard into Dean's eyes, but the calm waters are too much and soon he breaks away, fear worming in his gut. He looks back, "Well... Then how do I get in?".
"Through the door."
Anger burns in him for a moment. "That's no answer!"
Dean smiles, not speaking.
He takes a breath, calms himself, seeks Kor'Laghs inner peace. "Very well, how do I go through the door?"
"Generally, by opening it", is the mild reply.
"And how do I open it!?" He snaps.
"By Balance."
A pause. "What do you mean, by Balance?" Silence is the only reply.
He stares at the door, mind working. 'For there to be Balance, the price must be paid for the opening of the door. What is the price of the door opening? What does it cost for the door to open? No, I'm not trying to open the door, I'm trying to pass through the door. What is the price of passing through a door? What is the cost to me?'
He takes a deep breath and the world flexes, everything seeming to distort like a pool of still water touched for the first time. "What is the price to me to pass through the door?"
BOOM!
Dean slams his staff butt into the floor, the echoes resounding around the small antechamber and out into the corridor. A bolt thuds on the other side and slowly the door swings open. Before him lies a room bearly larger, but the ceiling slips away in a long climb to the roof, two stories above. A ray of sunlight strikes down from afar, lighting a central slab of grey stone brightly in the midst of gathered gloom. Two figures wait there, on either side of the altar. On one side, the now hunched figure of Guardian Yorell, Guardian of Youth. The other, the tall, silver haired figure of Guardian Fortess, Guardian of Trials.
"Knowing to ask the question. Henceforth, this will always be the question." Says Dean solemnly.
Lomax nods, straightens his shoulderbag, and steps forward. A pace later and he stops, looking back, questioning.
"This is as far as I go. Trust in the Two, Sorenar."
He turns away and takes the last steps to stand before the altar stone. With a thud, the door slams shut behind him and the world shifts and settles.
***
A low moan of pain echoes in the cavern, rebounding from wall to wall. If he hadn't been able to see Kendal in the dim candle light of the tunnel on his right, he wouldn't have known where it came from.
Hunkered against the wall of the tunnel to his left, Caffrey's white robe is a splash of lightness in the dark, his hands quickly and deftly examining the wound before him, his voice a gentle mutter of prayer to the powers of Justice. Lomax could feel the ebb and flow of the divine, a stream to the pitiful trickle he felt inside.
He frowned, planted both feet firmly, a rock to block the passage, a wall past which none could go. Inside, he trembled, fear surged in waves, thoughts a whirlpool, 'What am I doing?! Run! Flee! The others have! WHAT AM I DOING?!!'.
His eighteen year old voice cracks slightly, destroying the effect his words are meant to inspire. "I warn you, the very power of Death is mine to wield!" He raises his hand, one finger spearing down the length of the corridor to pick out the central of the three figures who block the passage.
The man he points to dismisses him, glancing away to his two companions and muttering something quietly to them. With grim determination on their faces, they lock together and start to advance.
With the first step, Lomax reaches deep inside, draws out his fear, his self revulsion for the failure he knows is coming, his hatred for his companions who hide in side passages, defeated, his despair that it will all end so soon. The emotions rush through him, pour into his hand and his head, flood out of his mouth and pointed finger, lashing at the central figure, the leader.
"She'Lagh!" He spits the word, and the human flinches, a momentary stab of pain deep inside. For an instant, Lomax exults as her hand embraces his, as her finger lies along his and her power touches his victim's aura.
Then it's gone. The cavern is dark. The trickle is dry, a barren rocky bed with no drop left. They square their shoulders, realising no barrage of dark powers is about to descend, and continue their advance.
Caffrey gives a shout and suddenly the rest of the patrol erupt from the side passages and sweep in. The tunnels ring to the sound of sword on sword, the grunt of armour taking a blow, the hiss of pain at a cut.
The battle ebbs and flows, and he stands and watches, energy exhausted, will spent, and wishes for a sword. He watches them fight for his life, gives ground as they are pushed back, and feels useless.
A last cry of ragged pain, the thud of a body hitting stone, the clatter of small rocks as the patrol regathers. Kendal is down, blood oozing from a series of wounds. With everyone accounted for, the three healers gather round him. Caffrey's energies are spent, Justice failing at the last. His sister Guardian whispers a gentle word to the fallen form, a terrible cut down the length of his back closing, then looks at Lomax.
He hesitates and the world shifts, sensing the choice of price.
This man went forward to win back his life. He would not fail him. Resolve steels his mind. He lays his hand directly on the wound, feels the slick touch of warm blood, feels below that the beat and thud of heart fighting for life. He remembers Kendal's smile, sees him running ahead, fleet of foot and whole of body. He feels in his heart the place Kendal holds in the patrol, the place of scout, of Pathfinder. He feels his own place, the place of healer, of Guardian.
The world shifts, seeking and finds the decision, settles. The sense of place, of purpose, of unity, flows from deep inside into his hand, and for a moment their auras merge, become a single whole, and some of what was Lomax is now Kendal, and his wound is closed.
As suddenly as it is begun, it ends. The auras split, tear and a terrible pain slices deep into his gut. He tastes the bitter tang of blood in his mouth, feels the tears of She'Lagh on his face.
With a shuddering breath, Kendal opens his eyes.
***
Time seems to slow as the moment comes. The world around him sings and he knows that the balance is being restored. He's done something terribly wrong, he knows that, but he doesn't know how wrong yet. Surely his life had been enough? Surely enough blood had been spilled to pay for a thousand such sins?
He could still taste forest sap in his mouth, still feel the tree roots gripping him, piercing his broken body in a hundred places, feel the light, the glorious light, being torn away. And now here he was.
They'd dragged him up the slope like a criminal, they who'd been helping him mere moments before to do what they'd all known had to be done. Only, he'd been the one to act, hadn't he? The one to seize that moment on which the world turns, to take reality by the scruff of the neck and twist it to a new form.
So he'd died. His action, his price.
And here he stood, before Headman Bob and Marshal Mathonwy, and after that, after he and his enemy had expressed themselves in the most perfect dance of power and price, they were going to pass judgement on him, find him wanting, give him a punishment.
He stared at the semi circle of faces and the world flexed, shifted, looking for his future. Over their shoulders, not more than ten metres away, a man stood at his guard post, but distracted, watching the show, the tableaux. He looked over their shoulders and met his eyes, quizical, interested, but not really caring. Behind him, step by stealthy step, a green skinned creature approaches, naked steel in hand, intent on death.
In that moment, he stared into the eyes of a Barony citizen, a fellow human, a man also dedicated to preserving the lives of others, and let him die.
The world flexed and, as two arcs of steel swept down, settled.
***
"A strange place to find a man travelling alone." The voice speaks suddenly from behind him and Lomax starts, a look of shock on his grimy, weathered face, leaping to his feet and turning, hands raised.
He is confronted by a slim man, a human, of bearly more years than himself, clad in toughened leathers riven with dulled metal studs and hand on the pommel of an undrawn sword. The hand is clenched now, in reaction to the sudden move, but his posture and smile in the light of the campfire and stars suggest relaxed readiness, not threat.
Slowly, Lomax eases upright, smiles crookedly. "I could say the same."
"Perhaps then, we are strange men?"
"Perhaps, but there is no need to be strangers. My fire is warm and I have spare food." Lomax gestures to one side, stepping slowly to the other.
The man looks contemplative, an expression made foreboding by the flickering shadows and highlights of the flames. "A good offer. But what kind of man turns to a threat with empty hands, leaving his sword sheathed by the fire?"
A rueful expression crosses Lomax's face. "One that has more faith than skill with the sword, at least to buy time to escape. Does that bother you?"
"That depends. No healer turns with their hands raised as weapons."
"And few who are a threat to others leave themselves so open to threat in return. If you find my offer unwelcome, walk on. I'll not bother you. I would be upset though. Your good nature in approaching me without weapon drawn despite my lack of awareness requires a kind gesture in repayment."
The man grins. "Now I understand. Very well!" And with two quick strides, he is in the clearing, hand outstretched.