They cheered.

            He walked across earth that was bloated and writhing with disease, and a part of him was ashamed to realize that this place—this land where corruption had laid itself into the ground, into the very air, with such unholy vigor that his skin literally crawled—still managed to feel more than a little like home.

            He knew the people here; these strong, brave, persistent people. As he walked among them all, these familiar faces, and they cheered at his arrival, he gave a smile. It did not feel like an honest smile, it did not feel like a natural smile, but he was marginally pleased at least to notice that when it spread on his face, no one shied away from him. No one backed up a step, no one’s expression turned frightened or even the faintest bit apprehensive. They simply cheered louder.

            The great hunting cat that walked by his side did not seem to notice the noise. He glanced fleetingly over at the boy, seated atop the cat on the saddle that still looked…wrong. The boy was smiling—and the boy’s smile was honest—so he ignored it. It was the first time he’d seen the boy smile since arriving in the area, and it returned to him some vestige of courage.

            He recalled that he was here for a purpose.

            He was here because he had to be.

            The chapel remained the paramount landmark of the encampment (and why wouldn’t it?), and so he had kept it in his sights. His armor shifted and creaked as he walked. He remembered the last time he had been here, when he had been wearing a suit of simple frostsaber hide, a set of protective clothing that he only ever wore at all because it kept him from freezing to death.

            What he wore now marked him for what he was now.