It had been his full intention to remain behind within the whitewashed walls of the Temple of the Initiates, while seeing to the lady's escape. He would go on denying that he knew her, or bore any sort of relationship to her. He would lie for her... die even. For her. As he crossed around the desk where the greenly cadent still lay slumped, unconscious, Vedric siezed her lips right through her veils, and tightly bound her to him within the embrace of a working man's strong arms.

Yet in that moment, the fiery yet sterile kiss broke asunder, and in her fleeting glance to the door behind them, he read a thousand urgent words. Yes... that was for the very reason a warrior lay like sleeping stone upon his desk, oblivious to their carnal union. As Vedric pulled back, releasing her in small reluctant increments, he would whisper again, reiterating an old claim he'd made once before. "You shall be mine on the other side, bound by a contract written in blood."

Which was the expected way one entered into the Cities of Dust, via spillt blood. Few Goreans would concede to succumbing to the Aging Disease, for the centuries that they lived merely increased the odds that they would not die of natural causes, but by some other untimely fashion, based upon the law of probabilities.

Following the Promise, and with the woman's backside pressed to the sill, he reached over while leaning his full weight into her, and pried a window open that had been whitewashed, painted shut. She was hoisted to the ledge of the still, and still embraced lest she tumble, yet not without some recompence taken from her. For as he cradled her back in the crook of his one arm, the other calloused hand made libertine gesture beneath the flounce of her skirts, where his fingers brushed almost delicately over the petal soft folds of her sex, moist the way he would have expected.

The belated shock in her eyes came too late, for already he had turned her out over the precipice and like a grommet, lowered her down with his hands clinging tightly to her arms until her feet skimmed the ground. Then... he let go. And pressed his fingertips, tainted with the faint salt of her body's scent, just beneath his nostrils. Breathe in. There it was... the sketchy clean scent of the woman he loved. The very scent of her soul, where it dwelled internally and mingled with the heat of her belly.

The scent broke him inside, fractured his steely resolve to plough through life and trample everything in his path. To coin a cliché, the scent of Athamé made him want to be a better man. And this without the reward of having her at his own side. Such the tragic irony. For what substitute could possibly fill that harrowing void of unrequited want and longing, chemical or carbon-based?

Meet me someday, Athame. Anywhere.

No more whispered words to be overheard as he gazed down at her from the sill above. He stood still, like an unmoving statue. And he would remain until she was well out of sight and safely gone into hiding. The Metal Worker would linger behind to think up some plausible concoction for what had transpired, never once considering the possiblity he might be charged with all new crimes for obstructing the due process of Arian justice. What he had considered however, was that he didn't want her to spend any length of time in a stone-floored cell, falling victim to small amputations here and there, in order to elicit a confession from her lips. Or worse.... his lips.

Athamé's plan was much different, though no less impetuously wrought. Not even a breath of sound would cross her lips to speak of this marvelous plan of hers. But a mere gesture of fingers. She beckoned the Metal Worker come... come with me.

And his reply was whim. If this be the end of days, let them arrive at the Adamantine Gates hand in hand. In that split second, it would seem the forked road had come to its conclusion as the Metal Worker hiked himself up and over the sill and leapt to the ground below.

And through this open window, he and the Seer escaped to freedom. Yet left behind in the sudden adrenal surge of flight, was his Talisman. Imminent Fates would have it be, for thus there was purpose in all things.