#bettany

(art by @sh4rkb0y-004)

“I don't… I don’t have the money for that.” The young man admitted, shuffling in his worn-in leather boots. The Orkish barkeep glared down at him with a fierce gaze, his nose wrinkling in distaste. “Mummy didn’t give you your lunch money, eh, kid?” He snorted, large tusks extruding from his bottom lip as he laughed a deep rumbling noise. His eyes glinted with malice. “Please, I just need it for one night, that’s it,” Bettany begged, his legs wobbling from his long travels. The last town he’d stayed in had been over 16 hours away, and he’d walked straight from there.

“Tough luck, lad,” The barkeep chuckled, “you’ve mistaken my place of business for a fuckin’ charity. What’s a young thing like you doin’ out at this time of evenin’ anyway? Didn’t you see the signs, or can you not read, either?” He jabbed a green thumb toward a wooden plaque that read: 18 and unders will be kicked out NO EXCEPTIONS!

I’m not a kid! He wanted to scream.

His slender frame and bad posture led many to think he was a young teen, thus many treated him as such. As if he wouldn’t be able to handle more “adult” subjects of conversation.

 “I’m twenty,” Bettany muttered, voice barely above a whisper as he frowned at the sign. “Right, and Imma pixie,” The orkish set down the glass he’d been polishing with a dull thud, he gripped his hands on the counter as he bent to Bettany’s height. “You can’t pay? Then get out of my FUCKING bar!” He roared, spittle splattering across Bettany’s face. “And for god's sake, cover that disgusting face of yours. You’re going to scare off my PAYING customers.” Bettany winced, his lip trembling furiously as a lump raised in his throat. “Please,” Bettany whispered once more, his nervous eyes looking to the spot on the counter between the Ork’s giant hands. “Are you STUPID or somethin’? OUT!!!” The barkeep bellowed, jabbing a furious finger past Bettany’s face and towards the door. Bettany scrambled backward, stumbling towards the door. Bettany hung his head low as the other patrons of the bar watched him leave, their curious whispers following him as he retreated.

The door slammed behind him, and the minute he left a joyous roar of laughter erupted from the grimy windows, as the guests of the establishment quickly jumped back into their festivities. Rain pounded the dirt streets, mud pockets burbling up from the earth as the storm thundered above. Bettany exhaled sharply, trying to stop tears from running down his face

The Barovian morning was surprisingly pleasant as the adventuring party made their way towards the town Constantin had told them of. The wind was cold, as a thin veil of fog dampened everyone’s clothes, their boots sloshing in mud. The weather was perfect by Bettany’s standards, as he tilted his head upwards to feel the mist on his cheeks. A light smile graced the druid’s face as he closed his tired eyes for a second. He sighed as he re-oriented his head to look forward at the stretch of land ahead of them with no town in sight. He was briefly startled by the sight of a burly man with long black hair, not dissimilar to Bettany’s, marching through the woods with an intense purpose. Constantin was back… seemingly reanimated alongside Bettany. They had both been all but dead less than 24 hours ago, only to awaken with no wounds, and twin medallions hung from their necks. Bettany came back normal, and more or less the same. But Constantin had come back… wrong. With shoulder-length hair and a long beard.

A golden eye with a nasty scar snaking across his face. Had Bettany and Constantin looked different before, now they looked like one and the same. The change was sudden, and upset Bettany, he generally disliked surprises of all kinds. While being slapped awake by an alive Constantin had been a welcomed one, his new look wasn’t as pleasant. Bettany hadn’t had a chance to speak with Constantin yet… not a real conversation at least.

The closest contact they’d had was Constantin punching him in the head. Albeit Bettany had poked him in the eye, but only to see if it was real. He’d been so startled by Constantin being alive that he didn’t handle it well. Everything was far too complicated, and it still didn’t feel like the last day had happened. One minute Bettany had been chasing a traitorous cowboy, abandoning his search when he smelled Constantin’s blood being spilled, being murdered by one of the nuns, only to wake up as if nothing had happened. 

All in all, it was slightly uncharacteristic for Constantin to not even offer Bettany a nod of encouragement. He wasn’t a warm and cuddly person by any means, but Bettany knew that he cared for him- in what could be described as a fraternal way. Bettany could really use some reassurance right now, just to know he was doing the right thing… that he was going to be okay.

Bettany crept up behind Constantin, never really being one to initiate conversation, so he lurked a foot or so behind him as he waited for his presence to be felt. Constantin trudged in silence, heaving the pack of salvaged supplies as he walked in the company of his traveling companions. Long raven hair flowed down his exposed shoulders, his shirt torn to tatters by the brutal knifing he'd received from a nun he didn't even know existed. While Bettany had been rendered simply unconscious by a thrashing delivered to him by the very same woman, Constantin had been... Dead. His friends may have left him dying. with the nuns that betrayed them, but by his best estimations, he had surely died. 

He noticed the small presence in his vicinity, and he elected to slow his pace, allowing the others to accelerate past him absentmindedly, following his given directions.

"You were foolish. You could have died, for nothing." Constantin grumbled, finally addressing the Druid. Bettany blinked as he felt tears well in his eyes, which wasn’t uncommon for him. It didn’t make it feel any less embarrassing. The smaller man frowned, his brows tightening in the middle. “I- I know,” Bettany muttered, his hands found their way to each other, and his fingers began to entwine together like the legs of a spider. “I behaved irrationally. In a way you would’ve chided me for had you been-” If you’d been there. Bettany’s voice caught as the images from the cathedral flooded his mind. Villamina covered in Constantin’s blood, grinning at him as she licked it from her fingers… the image burned in his memory, clouding his thinking even now. The cackles of the spirit guardians as their small claws tore into his flesh, weakening him as he fell to his knees. He’d been weak. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for it to happen. I was trying to save you.” Bettany said, keeping his gaze firmly focused on the ground at his feet.

Constantin huffed angrily.  "Everything I have tried to teach all of you, it goes out the window. I don't know what the world is like where you are from, but it is not safe to play the hero, to try and save the day. I made my choice, in that windmill. I knew the risks and I knew the price to pay, for you all to leave."

"That is my right and my duty, as a servant of the people of Barovia. Your duty is to go home. Alive. And when I am not there to guard you, that should be your first priority."

Several more minutes passed, the Barovian marching in silence. He would not speak, and the look on his face was one of discomfort and frustration. After some time, he spoke up.

"Thank you." He grunted. "For not leaving me in that windmill... Or in that infirmary." He did not turn to look at Bettany, his eyes locked on the road.

Bettany shook his head, “ I wasn’t trying to play the hero. You’ve taught me a lot of things. But you also taught me to fight, especially when there’s danger. I was just trying to…” Bettany faltered, “I don’t know. I smelled blood. We’d just been betrayed, so I wanted to find you.” Bettany staggered on the uneven ground, his body still tired even despite slumber. “I needed to make sure you were okay.” Bettany chewed on the thought for a second, “And for the record, I did a pretty good job taking care of the nun. She looked rough when I… when I died.” Bettany’s heart pounded in his throat, the taste of sawdust filling his mouth.

He’d died. His hand reached up to touch the gold medallion that hung from his neck, fearing that he’d drop dead if it was taken off, though he was terrified to leave it on. It clanked against his bony chest, each metallic tink like a clock ticking the seconds down on his mortality.

"You wouldn't have died if you waited for the others. Or if you'd left like you should have."

Constantin sighed.

"This is my failure. I should have taught you how to pick your battles before I instilled the warrior's spirit within you."

“Don’t you understand, it was my battle!” Bettany snapped, uncharacteristically sharp. His gaze finally turned away from the damp grass and up to Constantin, his golden eyes narrowing in frustration. “You say my duty is to go home? Bummer, I don’t have one.” The words stung him as he said them, a childhood of happy memories overshadowed by the sight of a brown feather disintegrating in his hands, “The party is my home… without that… I have nothing. I couldn’t lose you too, don’t you understand that?” He conjured a handful of magic and threw it in front of them. It sailed through the air and burst into sapphire sparks a hundred feet or so in front of them, Bettany made a noise between a chortle and a growl, his hands curling and tightening into fists. “That’s why I went in alone, okay?”  Bettany flipped his head back towards the ground. His lip quivered like it always did when he started to feel mad or frustrated.

His entire life he’d been told he wasn’t enough. Not owl enough, not smart enough, not big enough, good enough. He’d never been enough. With his friends, he’d finally felt like maybe he was worth something, more than just a sewer-dwelling creature who lived off of rats. Now he was being told yet again.

He’d disappointed Constantin, the person he’d been protecting until his last breath. Constantin thought he was stupid, a petulant child for trying to take on a nun. He doesn’t think I’m strong enough, Bettany thought, his shoulders heaving with quickened breaths. He shook his head as his eyes flared blue, trying to calm down before he caused any more problems.

“Strength is nothing without strategy.” The Paladin preached. He finally turned to look at the Druid as he walked, and where his voice was tinted with anger, his eyes betrayed only worry. 

“You are stronger than most give you credit for, but what is the sharpness of a blade’s worth when one does not know when to swing?”

Constantin shook his head. “It is not my place to admonish you for such choices. I feel as if I am responsible for your well-being as if you were my charge. That is unfair to you.” He trailed off, shaking his head and looking back to the road. 

“I see myself in you. Brash, angry. I did not have someone to guide me as I needed, to temper the boldness and fury into a cautious warrior. Those lessons were learned through pain and loss. I simply wish to spare you the same, медвежонок.”

It took Bettany a second to translate the Barovian, he’d been studying the language as much as he could, but it was still not his strongest skill.

Bettany figured out the meaning of Constantin’s speak, and for a brief moment felt slightly taken aback at the name. A name that had recently been used to toy with him now settled him. The fiery blue magic faded from his eyes as his shoulders sagged. “I asked you for guidance, you know? After the windmill. I tried to reach out to you, and you told me to use my strengths…” Bettany admitted, still unclear on whether or not he’d dreamed of the conversation he’d shared with Constantin or if it’d simply been an illusion. “I tried to do what I thought was the right thing but I messed it up.” Bettany admitted, “I thought you would be proud. I thought I was being brave and doing something you would’ve admired. I was reckless, and I understand that. But I was desperate, and look where it’s gotten us.” Bettany conjured a small daisy into his hand, twirling it between his fingers absent-mindedly. “I messed it up. I got us both killed, and now you have a beard.” Bettany frowned.

“Is the beard really the worst thing?” Constantin asked, bringing a hand up to the eyelid that concealed his marred, golden eye. He scoffed, shaking his head again. 

“It is possible to be proud of someone and also think them foolish. Ask my mother, should we ever find her.”

Bettany paused, “your mother…”

He thought to back in the inn the night before they headed to seek out Mother Rhonna. How he’d reached out to his own mother, how she had encouraged him to seek his father’s help for how to save Constantin. Only for no sign of help to appear.

“I spoke with my mother,” Bettany frowned, his head hurt when he tried to recall her face. She always apeared blurry when she reached out to him. He’d always end up loosing memory of her features after a few days. “I… reached out to her spirit. I wanted her help, and she told me to seek my father.”

Bettany turned to look at Constantin, “clearly that never happened… when you spoke of the woman you met by the lake. I’d hoped it had been her… it’s stupid, I know.”

“I do not know the woman at the lake.” Constantin muttered, his gaze becoming distant. “I… let us not speak of it. Not now.” He trailed off. Something about the ordeal didn’t sit well with him, clearly. 

“You said… We spoke?”

Bettany nodded, “I thought we did… I’m not sure if it happened or not.”

The Druid thought back to his dream, the twisted landscape that swirled like fog, blurry and out of focus. Constantin appearing to him in the monochromatic environment dressed in strange black armor before the image changed  itself into a more familiar form.

“I was hoping it’d been real. In case we were too late. At least I’d have gotten to say goodbye in some sense.” Bettany dropped the flower he was holding, crossing his arms over his exposed chest, shivering slightly as the cold bit at his skin through his tattered clothes.

“Tell me what happened.” Constantin intoned quietly.

Bettany shook slightly, intimidated by the softness in Constantin’s voice. He licked his lips, pursing them before he spoke.

“You didn’t know me… not at first. You weren’t able to recognize me. Once I told you- well, it wasn’t really you, it was like a recorded message. You were speaking in commands. You asked me what I was seeking from you.” Bettany faltered, unsure of how to proceed.

Constantin mulled it over silently, pondering Bettany’s words. He trudged down the muddy road for a few minutes, wordlessly. Eventually, he spoke again. “What was it that you sought?”

“Guidance,” Bettany admitted, his voice quiet. Bettany’s hand found the sharp point of the sickle strapped to his belt. The golden blade glinted in the gray light. “I wanted to learn how to be stronger… to protect the party. I asked you to teach me to fight but you refused.” Bettany sighed. “It was a long shot, to be fair. I didn’t expect you to even be there, let alone teach me how to use these.” Bettany patted his sickle. “But you did…” Bettany stopped for a moment, feeling awkward about recounting this dream to Constantin. It was personal, and he didn’t want him to be offended or find anything Bettany said to be childish. “You offered me encouragement. You told me I didn’t have to be strong like you. I just needed to use my strength. My strengths… my nature.” Bettany muttered, shrugging slightly, not in a way of indifference or dismissal, just to have something to do. Bettany also recalled the hug. He chose to leave that out. Constantin thumbed the belt loop of his Warhammer, scratching the leather with a fingernail, an idle activity as he walked. 

“Is that all?” He asked gruffly, coughing once to clear his throat. Bettany nodded, pursing his lips. “Mhm. Yep.” He lied, “So… where we’re going, You said they’d have armor, but will they have just regular clothes?” Bettany shivered. ‘I’m flattered that you see me as your… trainee of sorts, but I don’t think I’m a chainmail person.” Bettany rubbed his slender arms, knowing full well that if he even tried to lift chainmail he’d probably be sore for days.

Constantin did not answer Bettany’s question. He instead fixed the Druid with a piercing gaze. An eye of blue. Icy, familiar, looking almost beyond Bettany’s eyes, to the soul. An eye of purest gold. Different, strange. The iris and pupil, all gilded, abnormal. The gaze still somehow penetrating. Perhaps it was the nature of Constantin rather than the nature of his eyes. 

His gaze was that of inquisition, a silent interrogation that offered merely one chance. If there is something you have not yet said, now is the time to say it.

Bettany squirmed under the gaze. Even from a friend, there were few things in all of Faerûn that made Bettany cave under pressure as easily as eye contact. He sighed, the tips of his ears and nose flushing with a tinge of pink, “You may have hugged me in the dream.” Bettany admitted. He felt stupid and pathetic, childish. He’d been so easily comforted by a hug that hadn’t even happened, was he really that desperate for any form of affection?“In the dream. Which didn’t happen, so…” Bettany grumbled, trying his best to not appear as vulnerable as he felt sharing that information. Constantin’s expression darkened, for a moment. “This specter. You say it did not recognize you but spoke with my voice.”

“How did it appear to you? Spare no detail.” As unsettling as it was for Constantin to suddenly speak with such urgency, it relieved Bettany that he seemingly didn’t care enough about the hug to bring it up. Bettany thought on it for a second, struggling to recall the finer elements of the specter’s appearance. “He was tall,” Bettany looked up at Constantin, realizing that the man would probably need more clarification, “taller than you… Black metal, iron I think?” Bettany’s face scrunched in concentration, “Helmet. He had a helmet on, shoulder paldrons. Dark red leather tied some of it together. I don’t know… gloves? I don’t know, Constantin… I don’t know the technical armor terminology, if I did I’d be more detailed.” “He looked like you, when he took his helmet off, just less tired… not as pale,” Bettany recalled, remembering how coldly the figure had treated him at first, almost sizing him up for a fight. Analyzing him for weaknesses. He looked back towards Constantin with a frown, feeling anxiety creep into his shoulders. Had he done something wrong?“Why?” Constantin mulled the description over. 

“The helmet, a sharp, pointed visor? Ridges on the skullcap? Large pauldrons, with.. Almost blades on top of wide curved panels?” 

Constantin pressed for details as if he was seeking confirmation of something.

“I guess maybe? Yes, You could call the ridges on top of the paldrons blades, I suppose. Large silver buttons on them too,” Bettany was feeling especially concerned now. How did Constantin know this? “What’s going on?” Bettany asked again, his frightened eyes flicking up to meet Constantin’s miss-matched gaze.

The Barovian frowned. “My grandfather wore that armor. It is entombed in a mausoleum below the cathedral in my home.”

“He was nearly a giant. Larger than me, so the story goes.” He huffed a sigh. “But once you were recognized, the ghost spoke with my face.”

Bettany shook his head, looking around in confusion, “That… that doesn’t make sense? Why would I see your grandfather? I never met him.” Bettany’s brow furrowed with confusion, realizing Constantin had asked him another question he snapped back into his right state of mind. “Yeah, you- he… once they’d realized who I was they… changed. He got smaller, and the armor vanished. It turned into your gambeson. It was you. Wasn’t it?” Bettany asked the last question to himself more so than he asked it to Constantin.

“When I was wandering purgatory… I came upon a hall of mirrors.. No, windows. Windows into my past. I saw memories, but I also saw you, in a forest clearing, speaking to this specter. It wore my grandfather’s armor, but it was not me.” 

Constantin hefted the rucksack higher on his shoulder. “It is said that the Vasiliev men are possessive of an ancient spirit, the essence of a warrior. One that came to my grandfather’s ancestor in great need, and finds home in the heart of my bloodline. Perhaps, in searching for me through your dreams, that was all that remained of my soul, at the time.”

“You… You saw me?” Bettany asked, his head tilting slightly. He blinked slowly. “So… I did see you, then. At least, a part of you.” Bettany looked down at his hands, unable to ignore the hideous scars that engulfed almost the entirety of the left side of his body due to all of his clothes (including his gloves) having been torn to ribbons. His left hand bore no black nail lacquer like his right hand, as he usually covered it with elbow-length gloves. His skin was grotesque, a sickly shade of blue as ribbons of marred skin made their way down his entire left arm. Scars spiraled and tapered up and down like the groves of a tree. He tensed and flexed his fingers to watch as the damaged skin pulled tight over his knuckles. He frowned, taking the (surprisingly still intact) silver and onyx ring off of his pointer finger and sliding it into his pocket. Wearing it with a glove was one thing, but the band kept catching on his skin, pulling and pinching it.  “So. You saw me in a field… anything else? Did you see anything else of me besides that?” Bettany asked, curious over why his death experience had been so drastically different than his friend’s. All he’d seen was… black. The complete absence of anything.

"No." He replied. "I did not linger on it, as my time in the realm was running short. It was shortly after that I found myself on the shores of Lake Zarovich." Constantin continued.

"I do not believe you saw me, rather, a facet of the Vasiliev spirit. Whether it haunts or guards us, or whether it is a manifestation of our will, it is hard to say."

“But I…” Bettany faltered.

It didn’t make any sense. It’d have been more plausible if it had just been simple wish fulfillment from his subconscious. 

The idea of seeing a fraction of the Vasiliev spirit was just confusing…

Then again, Bettany was haunted at night, something he’d known since he was a child.

“Do you remember the night you found me in the woods?” Bettany asked, “Do you remember why I was out there?”

"I am possessed by a case of the brain fogging. I apologize." Constantin said plainly. "I do not remember. Death does strange things to a mind."

Bettany nodded, not expecting that response but understanding the answer.

He sighed, that night’s terrors had been particularly bad. A series of memories, overcut by screams of anger and terror… terror of him. “It’s okay, I had a dream.” Bettany explained, scratching at the back of his neck, “It was something I’d lived before…” He sighed, “My Ma… died. She died and it was my fault. It was my fault. My… Mom- Arteana blamed me for it… she looked at me like I was a monster, told me I wasn’t her son.” Bettany’s voice shattered, it’d been the worst day of his life. Arteana’s shrieks still echoed in his head, the scars on his body reminded him of it at every turn. The scars etched the truth into his flesh, that he was nobody's son, monsters didn’t deserve a family. “When you died… And I wasn’t there, I was scared. I was scared that the party would turn on me like Arteana did. I’m still scared. Scared that if what I truly am is a monster… I’ll be destined to be alone. That I will not be able to love or be loved.” Bettany coughed, not crying, but definitely choked up. The last few days had been hell, and he hadn’t even been the one walking through it.

"That is... Unfortunate." Constantin said, with as much of an apologetic tone as the Barovian could muster. "You have known them longer than I. I don't understand why they would turn on you. In any case, if our roles were reversed, it would be more likely. With them, you are not alone."

“Did my mom not know me? She turned on me, turned on me after being my mother for 20 years.” Bettany countered, biting his lip. He was exhausted, “Honestly just forget it. As far as I can tell you’ve never even experienced fear. You’re not weak like I am, And I don’t want you to try and suggest I’m ‘strong in other ways’. Save your soul the sin of dishonesty for the day.” The words rang hollow in the woods, only the rustling of the wind could be heard as the two walked.

"You think I don't experience fear?" Constantin grunted, stopping in his tracks and fixing Bettany with a sharp gaze. His golden eye almost glistened in the faint Barovian light, his brow furrowing. "You must be the jokester." He snapped. “I haven’t ever been described as funny,” Bettany frowned, glancing to look at Constantin before realizing the bigger man had stopped. He turned around completely, stopping to study his glaring friend.

Something was disconnected in his gaze, the heavy set of his jaw and the cover of his brow didn’t reach his eyes. Even through the harsh landscape of the rest of his face, Bettany could see the softness in his eyes. The exhaustion, and how they didn’t stay still for longer than a few seconds, always attempting to gage their surroundings.

“You’re afraid?” Bettany asked, confused as to how a warrior as strong and consistent as Constantin could experience anything close to a true spine-tingling fear. 

Even after being revived from death, he first turned to anger… Oh… Bettany knew what this was, he knew this all too well. The masking of fear under a different emotion, one easier to express. Before the party, when he’d been isolated Bettany turned to indifference when he experienced fear… a cold mask. In times of his own uncertainty, Constantin turned to anger.

“You are afraid.” Bettany realized.

“If you doubt I am afraid, then you have lost your grip on reality.” Constantin said through grit teeth. “What do you think I felt, when my skin was melting off the bone and I knew that night hag was going to kill you all?”

Constantin scoffed. “When my father beat me within an inch of my life, and threatened to have me expelled from my home because I could not manifest divine power. What, little man, do you think I felt? My whole life has been driven by fear. Fear of failure. Fear of death, of not being strong enough, a fear that was vindicated.” He fixed Bettany with a glare that was beyond angry, but fell short of entirely hateful. Even under the burning gaze, Bettany could tell that he was not the target. It was distanced, unfocused, as if trying to look inward.  Constantin hefted his hammer over his shoulder and began to walk again, shaking his head and muttering to himself in rapid Barovian.

Bettany followed, skulking behind Constantin like a stooge with his shoulders hunched in shame. He shuffled along in silence, listening to the furious Barovian speak in his native tongue. “Мне жаль,” Bettany spoke up, looking back up to his friend. Knowing that the best way to reach Constantin’s attention would be to speak in Barovian. 

“It was a foolish thing to say, and I’m sorry,” Bettany fumbled over his words, “It’s selfish of me to assume that just because you don’t show fear the way I do you don’t fear at all.”

Bettany was desperate to get him to stop marching, though it proved to be no use. Constantin kept moving forward, his stomping echoing through the woods as Bettany grimaced uncomfortably. “You know that you’ll be able to figure it out? I can help you, we can figure out what’s next.” Bettany tried again, feeling more and more out of his depth by the second.

"Вы прощены." Constantin replied flatly. He did not stop walking, but he turned to look back at Bettany, noting the absence of the sound of footsteps, instead a quiet, dull shuffling. "Come on." He said, his tone softening just enough to hopefully reach the Druid instead of making him cower, albeit with an undertone of frustration.

"We cannot plan our next steps in the middle of nowhere, without shirts. I fear you will simply die if you catch cold, little man."

Bettany scurried forward, the mysterious new medallion clanking on his sunken chest.

“I’m fine.”  Bettany insisted though his sniffled, wiping his nose. “Shirts is easy… shirts is a plan, isn’t it? We can do shirts.” Bettany suggested, gripping at his arms. He recalled something he hadn’t thought of in quite a while, not for years. “Something my Ma would say is to plant one thing at a time. You can’t plant everything in one season, because some plants aren’t meant to be planted in certain weather conditions… so you’ve got to focus on the seeds that need the most attention.” Bettany stuttered, unsure if his metaphor was fully understood. “What we need to plant first is shirts, then you need weapons, and then we need to find Yvan. There, that’s three seeds,” Bettany tried to gague if Constantin was following.

"Hmph. Yes." Constantin nodded. 

"We need new clothing. Then I need armor. Yvan will find us, that is his seed. We must find food and supplies." Constantin countered.

He then fell silent for a few moments. "Your Barovian is improving, медвежонок."

“Спасибо брат,” Bettany smiled wider than anyone had seen him smile in a long time before he sheepishly brought a hand up to his mouth, “I’ve been working on it when I can.” “I could still use a teacher, though,” Bettany suggested, “Albeit it isn’t the most pressing thing we face right now, but I’d appreciate the help.” He twisted the leather cord between his fingers, waiting for a response.

"You would not like the way I teach," Constantin said plainly. "If you wish, however, I will teach you." 

He paused. "I would speak Common to you less each day until I only spoke to you in Barovian. This transition would take place over the course of five days."

Bettany nodded, “That would be a welcomed strategy.” 

The druid pursed his lips, considering his next statement very carefully before he spoke. “I might have another seed we could plant.” The boy said. 

Constantin waved a hand. "Just say it, little man. You are beating off of the bushes, speak your mind." “You really need a haircut,” Bettany stated, “I don’t know how committed you are to the beard and the hair but I really just don’t think it’s for you.”

He winced, waiting for whatever reaction Constantin would have, good or bad. "You are allowed to have that opinion." He brushed a loose strand of long hair out of his face. "I am also allowed to disregard it." 

He continued walking, picking up the pace. "At least, until we are seeing of the look on Yvan's face. Then we will discuss the merit of this idea, yes? Good, I am glad you agree." The Barovian said, without waiting for the approval he seemingly had.

Bettany nodded, snorting slightly as they continued walking through the woods. “It’s not the worst thing that could’ve happened,” Bettany admitted, “I mean… you could’ve come back as a zombie, all decayed and rotten. We don’t really know how you came back still, it wasn’t any of us or the nuns.”

Bettany frowned once more, “Are you a zombie?’ The color drained from Bettany’s face as he patted down his collarbone, “Am I a zombie?”

"We are not undead," Constantin said sharply. "You would have lit like a flame within my senses if you were." He explained, nearly taking off in a jog to catch up to the others.

"We are going to be fine, Just have faith." He said, with a little less faith than usual, if one could sense it.

The evening fog rolled over the forested hills and valleys of Barovia… Its cold mists spreading through the twisted trees and dark skies. The fog made everything appear subdued as if seen through a thin veil. Everything stood still, not a noise could be heard as it seemed like the silence would spread for eternity.

There was no sign of life in the forest, no chirping night bugs, chattering rodents, or howling wolves. The only identifiable confirmation of at least some living thing was a caravan parked near a cobbled street, two massive steeds tied to a nearby tree. What appeared to be the warm light of a candlestick flickering faintly from its shuttered windows.

The inhabitants of the cavern had left it, leaving but one member behind of his own volition.  

Bettany Blackstarr sat alone, the party having left to find somewhere to get a drink, led by the boisterous (and frankly insufferable) Winchester. The cowboy claimed that they needed to make a stop “to clear their minds”, which apparently meant getting drunk while on a race against time. 

Well, the caravan wasn’t entirely empty, the unconscious body of Constantin Vasiliev accompanied him, his friend lying motionless on the wooden floor. 

It was the first time Bettany had been truly alone long enough to look at the Barovian’s wounds, even now he struggled to look too deeply at the horror that had become of him.

Constantin didn’t look well. His skin had become chalky, and paler than normal, eyes having sunk into his sockets slightly. His body had been horrifically burned, twisted, and pulled skin melded with his chainmail. The puncture in his neck spread nasty tendrils of dark purple magic through his veins, spreading under his skin, creeping up onto his jawline and down his chest. His curly mop of dark hair lay flat and matted with blood across his forehead.

Bettany shuddered, looking at his friend in this state was upsetting… it should be him lying there, maybe if he hadn't been so weak.

Bettany crouched closer to Constantin, placing a single finger on his forehead.

Constantin’s corpse offered no response as it was poked. He was, for all intents and purposes, dead to the world.

He was tired… so tired from the journey,

He hadn't had any time to think about what happened. How his failure at the windmill led directly to the near murder of one of his only friends. Bettany shook his head, closing his eyes as he attempted to calm his mind from the thought.

His consciousness soon slipped into sleep, a grey environment made of smudged shapes, nothing distinguishable from the other blurry objects in the foreground. 

Inside the grey dreamscape, a figure loomed over Bettany. It was a gargantuan figure, clad in black iron armor, a weave of chains forming sturdy yet flexible panels of armor. Its face was obscured by a similarly tinted helmet, a flat panel of iron with grills to allow airflow, and slits in the visor for sight. It simply stared down at the Druid unblinkingly, silently, a veritable statue.