An exorcist.

( Possessed of a blade he waves like a crutch now, a cane, a superfluous but attentively positioned appendage. Smear of her tip on frosted snow is rivulet of scratches he will polish doubly thereafter. Best — and he raises Bichen's blade even now, her silvers glinting with the start of dus — to avoid her toils completely.

But then, this is what glints at distance: not the man, his skill, his worth, but his weapon. They traverse a territory uncivilised enough to prioritise hostility over negotiation. So be it. )

The creature should have been my toil alone. ( And yet, she has had to intercede. It rankles, rattles, stings. ) I showed negligence.