Mistic Circle ~ Story

Izzy:
Atalaya considered the story. She sensed there was something untrue about it, but couldn't tell what, and her bond with Solaras wasn't pinpointing the exact areas where he was lying. While she was debating whether to call him on what unspecific information she had, Fallenangel stepped in.

"You know what I am. Now why don't you tell me exactly what you are and where you got that sword."

Catching the cold glare and listening to Jonas's reply, Atalaya stepped to the side. (Apparently these two have their own personal argument. Can't see how it affects me, except – wait.) As the discussion came to a pause, she looked to Fallenangel and Jonas.

"Excuse me, but I was wondering if either of you could describe this god, Laoghaire, to me?" (And maybe I can figure out if this is something that matters to Solaras one way or the other, or not.)

Angie:
(Why....) Shadowblade didn't really listen to Agalein. She didn't think that the woman would try to explain. Memories of the little girl in her simple peasant's frock were dashed by this woman, who may at any time betray their group. Memories....

She had been on a break from the Elven court of Derioth under King Kerion, taking the opportunity to complete her adulthood ceremony, which involved a hermitage along with other inconveniences.

Kerion, as her liege, had been able to Summon the young mage-cum-assassin back to the courts at any time. Since his death by his traitorous brother's hand, 'Blade had avoided the realm as much as possible. Kerion's brother knew nothing of her – King's secret as she was. Her only open roles had been as an ambassador to the human court near the Gates to Derioth, and as a mage during the war between said court and Derioth.

During the aftermath of the war, she had sought permission to retreat to the wilds to complete her rites. Thinking she was finally able to relax, she had prepared herself for soul-searching and penance for the deaths that lay at her hands. (Relaxed... huh. Not when a certain little girl appeared. At least she provided me some small measure of joy. When I was with her, the world didn't seem as unmanageable. Then I had to return to the courts....) Her lips twisted at the memory. (The whole world came crashing down around my ears. First, Slayer's death.) Slayer was the usename of her assassin-mentor. He died after a mission in order to hide any links from the assassination with the Deriothan Court. (Then, Kerion's. Then Savar had to attack the village and carry away the child. I wish I never left. If I hadn't....)

:If you hadn't, you would have died in Slayer's place. And a lot of good that would have done for Kerion. At least you were able to warn him of his brother.: Ynys' voice broke into her reverie.

:A fat lot of good that did. He hardly paid attention.: She looked down and shrugged away Agalein's hesitant hand. The woman was trying to explain. 'Blade didn't want to hear. She couldn't. Hearing would mean understanding the death of a child she had loved. (I can't deal with this....)

:I think I'll help with the cooking. The others look busy setting up their own tents.: She shut out Ynys' response and walked towards the small mountain of food that Xenon had dumped on the floor before running after another elf. (I need time alone... to think, to figure out my life.) Aloud, she said, "Anyone in charge of the cooking? No answers mean that I cook...."

Kathryn:
After Fallenangel finished speaking, Jonas stood, picking up the sword from where it had lain on the ground.

"Now, if it please you, I don't particularly favour the look your familiar there is giving me in the least. Please advise her I would appreciate it if she didn't do anything hasty...." he said.

Isis glared at him, as if wondering how he would taste. The she turned up her nose and walked away, conveying that she didn't think him worth the trouble.

At that moment, Atalaya stepped forward. "Excuse me, but I was wondering if either of you could describe this god, Laoghaire, to me?"

Fallenangel sighed. "Well, it's a long story. How about we find a place to sit first?" With that, she walked over to a nearby boulder and made herself comfortable, while the other two followed.

Fallenangel hesitated a moment, then looked at the paladin. "I hardly know where to begin, and unless you feel like sitting here all day, maybe you could narrow your question down a bit, Atalaya?"

Dax:
(Who's he talking to? And what does he mean about Karilanthian purebloods?) Zeke wondered as Xenon turned his thoughts inward – quite skillfully, he had to admit. (I wonder what the eleven ranger is going to find in the fire pit?)

:More than he bargains for, I'll bet,: came the answer, tightly shielded to him. Zora continued. :If he tries to 'Read' the land there, he is most likely to run into impressions of humans being roasted alive, goblins dancing in glee, orks sporting with unwilling wenches and demons torturing innocent and not-so-innocent souls in its dying coals.:

:Oh, a party,: Zeke answered, sad that he hadn’t been invited, but glad, because he didn't really like those kinds of parties anyway. (There is never enough to drink and they always waste the best women by killing them, and the screaming gives me a headache.) And though he couldn't admit it to even himself, their cries for help hurt his soul.

The ranger stiffened and Zeke could see his whole arm go rigid as the pain of the reading took hold. He felt sorry for the elf. But then, he saw a relaxing that must herald getting past the pit and out into the land, if what Xenon and Zora said were true. (Which is always suspect.) He stepped closer to the pit as the ranger withdrew his hand from the dirt and soot. Standing, Solarin, brushed his hand off and turned away, looking tired for a moment before straightening and striding off before Zeke could talk to him.

(He didn't even light the fire!) Zeke shook his head. (Maybe he doesn't have enough magic for that. Oh well. A drink, but no warm fire. As for the third....)

Zeke took a moment to look around at the rest. There were two, no three, off by the edge talking, the man on his knees. (Maybe the women are in charge here and you have to beg for favours,) he hazarded a guess, looking at the elf in armour and the woman with wings. (Looking at those two wenches. I'd beg just to pleasure them. Of course they would have to be dangerous; an angel, who luckily has been fooled by the amulet, and a... why does she shine so bright?)

:Because she's a paladin of Solaras, you fool. Why don't you just walk up to her and ask to be banished back to the eighty-seventh level of hell? Save Xenon the effort?: Zora wondered yet again how long it was going to take to raise the other soul to a state of intelligent self interest.

:Oh.: Zeke was crushed. (Two down. Hey! that's a demon blade in his hand! If we had that, we could rule the underworld!) Visions of striding across the hellish landscape wandered through Zeke's head, the sword waving above his head, as demons and imps bowed before him and he freed the poor souls from the Demon-king's grasp. And then their eternal gratitude as they vowed allegiance to him, to serve him ever after. When that fine daydream passed, he looked around some more. Thankfully, Zora had seemed to ignore his flight of fancy this time.

The troll and sheep were eating over under a rock, and he thought that the sheep might be eyeing him up for dinner, so he moved away from the firepit, which didn't have a fire in it anyway. (Everyone is splitting up instead of working together; I thought that everyone was supposed to work together on adventures,) Zeke noted with the zeal of youth and not quite innocence.

Three of the other women were standing together – two looking dazed, the other looking superior. (Hmm, the little bard didn't seem to mind sitting on my lap before... maybe... no, Xenon was interested in her; no touch. Three, no count the other out too, so four down.) The fairie had come into the clearing some time before; she looked too expert with those knives, but she could be a possibility in a pinch. (So, five down and the cute, dark-haired beauty belongs to the elf, so that makes six down.) Zeke sighed, the odds were getting decidedly slim when it came to the possibility of getting a willing woman.

(Wait, over there by the tree!) The beautiful human woman who had sat down to play a flute he had noticed earlier while leaning against the carriage before he got distracted, had now been joined by another elf! They seemed to be reaching out to each other for a moment as the flute player stilled. Then pain overcame both of their faces, and the elf turned blindly away, ignoring the other's words. (A lover's spat? Maybe I can sooth one or the other?)

The thought brought a bit of joy, especially when the elf – (I do like elves) – finally stopped at the firepit and stared at the mountain of food for a moment before saying, "Anyone in charge of the cooking? No answers mean that I cook...."

Zeke stepped jauntily forward. (Lord of Luck, cooking means you have to have a fire! I may just get all three today after all.)

"M’lady, I would be glad to lend my meager efforts to your aid. I am no cook but I can keep you company and, perhaps. Help with, say... warming things up?" Zeke wiggled his eyebrows and smiled broadly, then gave a slow wink, just in case she didn't understand him. (That elf I talked to once, always said if you help people out, it garners their gratitude. I could use some gratitude right now.)

Axe & Dax:
As Xenon scanned the roadway and surrounding area, his danger sense prickled mildly but noticeably... then a thought from Kang told him why.

:the dragon is watching you Xenon my own and is now moving into the roadway:

:Thanks Kang,: Xenon sent tiredly as he and Dak came face to face with the dragon. Dak was looking off back down the roadway for his moll of the moment and her urchin, and somehow had managed to miss the fact that the dragon had moved into the roadway a way ahead of them. Missed it, that is, until the beastie spoke.

Her eyes shifted away from the newly healed-elf to the mage, and she bowed her head just slightly to acknowledge him, her eyes locked with his. "I have quessstionsss for you, SSZ'enon," she said, forcing her jaws to form the awkward human language she had heard the others using. "I would know what you arrre, and what yourrrr purrrpose isss herrre." Her eyes softened just slightly after that, looking over the mage’s weary appearance. "Now isss not the time. But ssssoon, we will hold palaverrrr, mage of the old waysss."

As Dak whirled around with the expected look of utter dismay on his face, his hand, of course, going for a non-existent sword, Xenon bespoke the dragon, seriously annoyed at this unwanted presence so near his moment of weakness in healing Dak. He tightly locked down his shields and body language to present her with nothing to read but what he wished... utter confidence and boredom to replace any unsureness or tiredness. This close he saw she was pretty young for her kind, and wondered what such a young dragon was doing out here away from her family and haven.

"How nice that you have questions for me, O Exalted One," Xenon replied in an even voice. "I see you are seeking information, and I will be happy to supply you with at least some of that which you desire to know... once time permits. As for who I am, I am Xenon Xerxes Zohar, Archmade Adept of Twilight. As for my purposes here, assuming you mean in a deeper sense than my momentary presence upon this roadway, I am accompanying this group of travellers on their way to the Citadel, and acting as sometimes guide and advisor, as well as protector on occasion, for them."

Dak relaxed his posture as he realized than they were not about to become dragon bait. (Xenon acting as native guide and protector? That's about as likely as a goblin turning down a free meal.) Dak's thoughts were open as always. (What's he doing working with dragons anyway? Doesn't he know their dangerous? Besides, he hates dragons; says that their uppity. Well, when face to face, politeness matters, hmm, Dak my boy?)

Dak's thoughts rang out like a jaunty minstrels’ bellow as usual. Xenon had forgotten just how amusing and/or annoying this particular little foible of Dak's could be.

"As for palaver, young dragon, I tend to hold it when, and as I see fit. Still, since you address me as a mage of the old ways – which in truth I am – I must assume that you wish to challenge me, formally, or you wish to request my assistance or correspondence in some matter. If it is the first you seek, I think we should reserve it for another time, but I am willing to meet you in Challenge now if you desire. If it...."

Dak recognized a problem brewing and decided to jump in with both feet. (Can't let a friend get himself fried).

"Lady Dragon, I'm afraid I don't know your name, as we haven't been formally introduced, and as Lord Xenon has many things on his mind at the moment, it must have slipped his, for he is ever the paragon of manners when it comes to a Lady. I am Dakorillon SilverSong, minstrel of the hiways and biways and an acquaintance of Lord Xenon." Dak paused for a breath and glanced surreptitiously over a Xenon to see if he was calming down yet.

As Dak took a breath and executed a lovely and flourishing bow, Xenon continued his formal recitation, knowing full well the dragon wasn't asking for challenge at this time, but since he had been addressed as a mage of the old ways, thus indicating formality, he replied in such fashion as to make the young dragon aware that he understood the ancient rules.

"If it is assistance you require, then I shall happily render it if I can, keeping decent regard for those responsibilities I have assumed at this time, and for a Price as stipulated by the old ways. If, as I assume, you are merely wishing for this humble one's converse, then, dear Lady, I will gladly converse with you as we return to the campsite – later at our mutual convenience, or here at this time if you prefer. And," he finished, looking at Dak with bemusement, "as my erstwhile companion here has introduced himself to you, and with the warning that he is a gentleman of questionable intent in respect to any lady – and that does, indeed, cross many if not all species barriers – I commend him to you as a fine minstrel, an accomplished rogue, and a generally kind and good-natured fellow." Smiling at the dragon and patting Dak on the shoulder in a basically friendly manner, he awaited her reply... or Dak's interjection which was not slow in coming.

Dak took the "friendly" pat on the shoulder as a "get lost" cue from Xenon, and as he certainly didn't wish to raise the mage's wrath by interfering with business and have himself end up in the same state he had just vacated, he interjected, "I don't want to intrude on your private converse, my lady, so as you seem to have important business with Lord Xenon, I'll bid you adieu, and continue on my way, as I only stopped to talk with Xenon for but a moment before continuing on my trek. I've many miles to cover yet this day." He smiled roguishly, brushing his bangs out of his eyes, and turned to collect the Black who was still standing there, though the Black's ears were quite flattened to his head as he stared at the dragon.

:Kang,: Xenon sent quickly, :tell the bonehead you seem to like so much for some unfathomable reason, to park his behind or I'll fry it for him. There is too much of danger in the Kaladh for someone as completely inept at forest travel and survival as him to wander off weaponless into it... especially an elf. Besides,: he sent, well beneath he and Kang's shields, :he needs to rest after his healing, at any rate, and there is a group of travellers on a great quest nearby – a quest just waiting for his questionable bardic skills to immortalize in song and verse. And, besides, the origins of that dumb look he gets soon after any mental communication will send him wandering in fancy, most like, for a while, at any rate... keep him here.:

Kang related the message to Dak, editing it appropriately to become the friendly invitation it was surely meant to be by his Xenon to friend Dak.

Darvoso:
Sofaltis leaned up against the tree and watched as the party split up into a couple of groups as tiredness and laxness set it. (Although I don't think I can honestly accuse these people of being lax. Most of them have had combat experience... and that makes you less likely to be caught off guard.)

He then watched the knight and felt little for him. (Religion... religious fervour, perhaps, but flawed. What a shame,) he thought dryly. (Silly humans.) It was the one instance where he was glad of his long-lived elven heritage. He didn't think you should rely on a force outside of yourself more than you had to, and should only ask the gods for help when you had nowhere else to turn, in your own blood if need be. (And speaking of silly coinkydinks....)

Sofaltis saw Xenon summon up food and scurry around. (Gah, it looks like I'll have to go and get myself something to eat....)

With very little regard, Sofaltis slipped so quietly out of camp that he was positive nobody knew he was gone. (Even with the most experienced elven ranger, my natural talents outstrip them. How odd.) Using a bit of magic to will a beast closer to him, he soon caught something that looked like a rabbit, but he wasn't sure. Totally unaware that his good luck in hunting was not due to just luck, he hurried back off to camp.

(I do hope they have a bloody fire going,) he thought with contempt. (They should have that meager skill down pat by now.) Now that his tiredness was setting in and he was able to think again, his defense against the world, which was sarcasm and biting humour, started to reinstate itself.

Caiata:
"I am Xenon," he whispered this time to the beauty on his left, his voice low and gentle, full of promise of the forbidden. "And you, dear dark bright Delane, are pleasure are you not? Shall we soon call a moment free of our pursuits, dark or light as they may be, and mesh ourselves in that fleeting but rich full pleasure for a while, and twist and twine in passion – you and I?" Xenon's left hand had moved to those places on her form so made for the pleasure he spoke of, to awake there that passion....

Delane smiled softly at Xenon, arching her body into his hands and nearly purring. "A lovely thing indeed that would be, m'lord Xenon... but before then I want to know how you know me for what I am... and then perhaps, in the darkness we share, we shall find such pleasures...."

Much more talking and bickering commenced, which Delane watched quietly with the air of one who wasn't watching at all. Her mind was filled with thoughts of hope at the rabble she saw around her. (Yes indeed here We have a group of people ripe for Our feeding,) she mused to herself, letting only the slightest of enigmatic smiles cross her face. (And whatever ends this group comes to, the means shall certainly feed Us.) The mention of Savar nearly made her eyes widen in surprise.... (We have heard of him before, oh yes... Our Sardiek would be proud to have him amongst our legions. It shall be a treat to meet him, if We might....)

Delane smiled softly, leaning against Xenon wordlessly as he lead the carriage on until it stopped. She continued to work out her plan of corruption and deceit, watching the sky grow lighter and lighter, and when the carriage stopped she turned to Xenon again, and said in a quiet voice, "I do believe we will talk more later... the trip and the battle with the damnable screylinh have tired me, and I am afraid I would not be good... company... in my state. Wake me when you are ready to talk...."

She slid down off of the carriage without another word and neared the fire-pit. She smiled serenely to the other adventurers and said in her low, seductive voice, "If you wouldn't mind watching my back?... I'd certainly do the same for any of you." She lay down on the ground, smiling softly at her closeness to the earth, and closed her eyes, the darkness and her fatigue enveloping her....

Angie:
Shadowblade waited for a response to her offer of cooking for the ones without food. Hardly anyone turned her way, so she shrugged and started to fish out her flint and tinder, when the two-souled one, currently in the form of "Zeke", stepped forward, saying, "M’lady, I would be glad to lend my meagre efforts to your aid. I am no cook, but I can keep you company and, perhaps, help with, say... warming things up?" Zeke wiggled his eyebrows and smiled broadly, then gave a slow wink at her. The elf looked at him, and couldn't help but let a small lopsided smile escape through her dark thoughts of home and revenge.

"I... appreciate your offer, Zeke." She sat down cross-legged on the ground and started to dig a small pit in the ground to hold her cooking flame. "I hope you have firewood?" The elf looked up from her digging and lifted a wing-like eyebrow at Zeke. From the slight chagrin passing his features, she allowed another tired smile. "Don't worry. I got some while getting wood for my tent-poles. I'll need more though. I suppose others would want to use this fire for heat later on as the night draws in. Happy fire-lighting!" She pressed her flint and tinder into his hands.

She waved at him to sit down while she got up and fished a small pot that served as a bowl, cup and holder out of her pack. Watching Zeke out of the corner of her eye, she took her water canteen and store of herbs out, filling the pot with the water and fragrant leaves. Sticking two forked pieces of wood into the ground to hold up the pot once Zeke was done, she rummaged through the pile of food that Xenon left behind. (Ahh, do I see? Yes! Meat jerky!) She dumped those into the potential stew and checked the amount of jerky. (I hope someone got meat. Fresh meat. Otherwise, we'll be getting preserved stew for dinner. This pot should feed those still not eating.) Grabbing a root from the pile of food, she started slicing them into the pot with one of her hunting knives. (Ugh, gotta sharpen these again.)

Sneaking a glance at Zeke, she couldn't help but smother a grin. (Poor one. I'll bet he hardly expected this... but he did offer!)

:You are wicked, child.: Ynys' mindvoice intruded her thoughts.

:Ahhh. you are just feeling hungry, my friend. Want a root?: 'Blade nodded towards one of the many roots lying beside the pot.

:No, thank you. I'll survive on the grass, sparse though it may be. I wonder what passed through here that caused this desertification.:

:Careful, oh white one. Your use of large words are about to confuse me.:

:Maybe the campsite has been used once too often.:

:Maybe. Now let me cook in peace, please? Before I put in too much of these herbs and give everyone nightmares.:

The unicorn's mindvoice faded away, leaving a hint of amusement in the elf's mind, driving away the last of her melancholia. (Strange effect that cooking has on me.)

She felt Zeke's stare. (I suppose I look stupid grinning at a root.) "Yes?" She turned to face him, aware that a fire was already laughing merrily in the pit between the two of them. (Wonder how he did that so fast....) She balanced the pot on a relatively thick branch over the fire and watched it heat up.

Andi:
Etain walked over to where Shadowblade and Zeke were working.

"Well, I see we have some master Chefs among us," she said laughing. "Would you like some fresh herbs? Plants? Fruits of the forest? I would be happy to bring some back for you. Unfortunately, I don't eat meat, or I would help you there."

Shadowblade nodded and Etain went over to root through her saddlebags.

(Hmm... Oh! Cummin! Forgot I had that! Here's some salt.... Perhaps she could use this as well....) Digging a little more she found her sheathed hunting knives.

"I'm going gathering. We need food. Anyone who wants to come is welcome," she simply announced to the group, tossing the two bags she had found to Shadowblade. "I found these in my bags; if they can be of any use, use them."

Donning her forest green cape, she melted into the dark evening in the woods.

Walking silently for a bit, she kept her eyes in the woods around her. (Strange. I have not seen any of the wild ones yet! No birds sing, no squirrels scurry, what a strange wood.) She walked up to a large oak, laying one hand on the bark. The tree hummed, as all things of the forest did, with life.

:Sister of the woods, hear my call:

A tiny dryad alighted on the nearest branch. :Why do you call, Sister of the Earth?:

:Why are the wild ones not about this evening?:

:There has been a disturbance. A powerful army has entered the woods. Mage-Gifted most of them, with demons, shape-shifters and a dragon.:

(Why, that's us!) :Sister, I can assure you. They mean no harm to those of the woods.:

:Do you deal with them sister?:

:No, I merely wait for the bond to call me. I travel with them. We wish them no harm.:

:I will tell them.:

:Thank you sister of the woods.: The little dryad vanished.

Up ahead she spotted a grove with a single apple tree in the middle. The tree was not as tall as the others around it, but the tall evergreens kept back to allow the apple tree some of the life-giving sun. The apples were lush and red, ready to be picked. Offering up a prayer to the tree, asking for its fruit, she picked a bagful of red apples, and also took a long branch that was about to fall off, for a walking staff. She had been looking for another apple staff since she had broken her last over that drunken Liaarian's head in that barfight. He had had a very thick head; now he just had a very thick lump to go with it!

Slinging the bag over her shoulder, she headed out in another direction, still looking for food.

Typo:
Erelan bit down on the flare of temper that rose at the mage's bored dismissal. This one was arrogant, but that was not necessarily a bad thing; at times, she thought that arrogance must be wedded to great power, as deeply as any elven soul-bonded to his beloved. Regardless of her somewhat bloody history, Erelan's first and greatest calling was the path of the diplomat and scholar, and she had no love of foolish wars. She lifted an eye-ridge as Xenon launched into the formal recitation, impressed by his apparent schooling in the old forms, if not by his tact. ('Exalted One', my aft end.)

Xenon spoke. "Since you address me as a mage of the old ways, which in truth I am, I must assume that you wish to challenge me, formally, or you wish to request my assistance or correspondence in some matter. If it is the first you seek, I think we should reserve it for another time, but I am willing to meet you in Challenge now if you desire...."

She shook her head very slowly as he reached the point of ritual challenge, folding her wings to her back, with just the wing-talon tips curving over her shoulders. If he was as well-versed in the rituals as he seemed to be, there would be no mistaking that pose of chosen non-aggression tinged with the hint of cautious readiness.

"Peace, mage," she rasped in an equally unruffled tone, her eyes dark with assumed calmness. "Do not draw yourrr weaponsss in hassste or in foolishnesss. We might make good adversariesss, but there are waysss otherrr than battle to prove equalsss." Just the hint of a smile entered her eyes as she spoke. "And do not think me sso bassse or unsssporting – werrre I to challenge you, t'would be in keeping with the honourrr of old." She blinked once, pausing. "Howeverrr, I do not mean a challenge, and you know it to be sssso."

Dak interrupted. "Lady Dragon, I'm afraid I don't know your name, as we haven't been formally introduced, and as Lord Xenon has many things on his mind at the moment, it must have slipped his for he is ever the paragon of manners when it comes to a Lady. I am Dakorillon SilverSong, minstrel of the hiways and biways and an acquaintance of Lord Xenon." Dak paused for a breath and glanced surreptitiously over a Xenon to see if he was calming down yet.

She waited in polite silence for a long moment as Xenon continued the ritual and his companion began to slip away with graceful words of parting. She glanced back at the elvenkin for just a moment to acknowledge his words, unwilling to provoke a fight through the simple disrespect of not meeting the mage's eyes as he spoke. Quietly, she bespoke the elvenkin, her mental voice amber-colored, gentle and warm as the beaches of her birthplace, with only the faintest hint of distraction and the deadly seriousness of the ritual tingeing the edge of her words.

:Peace to you, brother-in-song, and may Mother Sola shine warm upon your journeys. I am Erelan, daughter of the SeaCliffs Aeryie, and sometime champion of the elves, my kindred. If you are well, and your path is unhindered, do not worry – I have no intention of eating you, Xenon, or your horse. This is a silly rite, but one born of wisdom for it has averted many wars of misunderstanding. If trouble finds you, elvenborn, by oath of blood and kin, I am sworn to bare my fangs in thy defense.: There was just a moment of pause, the silence tinted with wry humour like the faint taste of sea-salt. :I must say truthfully, by oath of my own blood, I hope that trouble has not found you. I imagine I have even less liking for the scent of scorched dragonhide and mage-hair than you do.:

With no perceptible shift, she turned her full attention back on Xenon once more. "I have sssaid I desirrre answersss – ssso too, I sssay I shall wait. You are a predatorrr, but that isss no insssult, lest I insssult myssself. You are dark, mage, bred of darknesss, and I need no othersensesss to tell me ssso. Yet you befrrriend my sssworn kin," she said, glancing for just a moment at the elf. She paused for a moment and gusted a sigh. Unless she was very much mistaken, Xenon himself could boast some elven blood, but his scent and sense seemed more human, and he did not evoke the instant response that most elves woke in her. "I am at a losss, and am no empath or avatarrr to know your reasssonsss." She cocked her head to one side for a moment at that. It was considered a handicap among her own kind, but strong empathy was not so necessary in this part of the world, it seemed. "Thisss I tell you freely, that you may anssswerrr with equal candorrr at the properrr time. Do not ssseee it foolissshly as a sign of ssssheathed talonsss. Young I may be, but I am no hatchling to be trifled with. Many of your ilk have died by my fangsss and flamesss – some greaterrr in power than you, SSZ'enon."

Her eyes were calm and silvered-hazel as she spoke, masking the underlying nervousness. For clarity's sake, she put aside her unwillingness to call on the violence of her past long enough to make the point. She was no stranger to the ritual either, though in truth, she had only performed the deadlier side of it once, and that in practice. By the old ways, the message of her arched neck, folded wings, and calmly-lidded eye was that her words implied potential defense and her capability in battle only as a warning to an equal, not as an insult. She flipped her tail once against the ground. The spines rattled just slightly, as if in afterthought. "Thisss isss neither challenge nor threat – it isss merely fact," she finished evenly, dipping her muzzle in a tiny bow to soften the harshness of the words. There was no reason to be impolite, after all.

"Thisss time isss for rrresting, not for battle or for foolisssh gamessss of wordsss. I followed you because I do not trussst you – and thisss you know well. Because of your actionsss, and because it isss appropriate, I give you the honourrr due an honorrrable man, no more or lesss. I do not requirrre your servicesss...." Here she paused, grasping for a tactful way around the anger that rose in her heart – not at this relatively young mage but at one long dead and longer hated. Telling herself firmly that this was part of the ritual, and not an intentional jab at one of her few, very sore spots, she shoved the unwelcome violence back into the darkness and shut as many doors of forgetfulness on it as she dared. It was possible that she and the mage had met before, though she seriously doubted it. However, her memory of her time bound to the service of Luine Tor was full of holes, and if this one truly had a history of traffic with the greater mages of darkness.... ("No possibility is beyond the bounds of prudent preparation," as uncle Aristide would say. I'll be cautious, and ready – as always). She permitted herself only the tiniest bit of satisfaction that her voice remained even as she spoke. "If you will parrrdon my bluntnessss, Lorrrd Mage, I will owe a Prrrice or live Bound to another morrrtal when my cold, ssstripped bonesss litter the Worldsssend Mountainsss. Sssir.

"If yourr wordsss are true, then we are odd alliesss on thisss road SSZ'enon. My inquiry isss born of a good sssense of ssself-preservation. You arrre not the only ssscholar of the old waysss here," she said, calming enough to let a note of amusement and perceptible appreciation enter her voice. "I, too, choose my enemiesss at leassst as carefully as I choose my friendsss."

Angie:
Etain walked over to where Shadowblade and Zeke were working.

Shadowblade nodded and Etain went over to root through her saddlebags.

(Hmm, the vegetarians need to be taken care of. I think I have another pot with me.... Either that, or I'll have to see to a metal pan? I wonder....) 'Blade looked around her. (Oh yes! Baked roots! Sweet potatoes... we are in luck!)

She ignored the funny glances that her cooking partner shot her, taking the sweet potatoes, wrapping them in soil and placing them inside the fire. The water in the soil was smoking out but it hardly interfered with the stew.

"Hope they'll eat the baked potatoes...." she muttered to herself. Covering the lid on the pot of stew that was just beginning to bubble, she wiped her hands on her breeches, hoping that she will find clean water soon. Her water canteen had a precariously low supply of water left after pouring so much to make the stew. Slouching beside the boiling pot, she thought she saw some of the group glancing at the source of a certain fragrant smell....

:I think I'll have one of those potatoes later...: Ynys' Said wistfully.

:I thought someone said that she would survive on grass?: 'Blade playfully replied. :Ai, gourmet unicorn!:

Ynys turned from her watch of the darker forest to wink at the elf. 'Blade sighed. (At least I don't have to deal with....) the thought trailed off. She did not really wish to continue it. (I need a distraction. Cooking only lasts for so long.)

Dax:
"I appreciate your offer, Zeke." She sat down cross-legged on the ground and started to dig a small pit in the ground to hold her cooking flame. "I hope you have firewood?" The elf looked up from her digging and lifted a wing-like eyebrow at Zeke. From the slight chagrin passing his features, she allowed another tired smile. "Don't worry. I got some while getting wood for my tent-poles. I'll need more though. I suppose others would want to use this fire for heat later on as the night draws in. Happy fire-lighting!" She pressed her flint and tinder into his hands.

(What is this?) he wondered, looking at the stone and fuzz in his two hands. (Maybe they have an enmity between them? Put them together, friction causes heat, heat makes fire?) He knelt by the firepit and first whispered quietly to the stone.

"Look, rock, I just wanted to let you know that fuzz has been saying some really bad things about you behind your back, and well, I for one, wouldn't put up with that. Being the solid fellow you seem to be, you shouldn't put up with it either if you get my drift." Zeke then placed the rock in the center of the firepit. Next he whispered to the fuzz.

"Fuzz, I know you don't know me, but I only have your best interest at heart when I say that there's a certain stone, who I can't name names, but, well, he has been really putting you down to some of the other rocks in the vicinity. Truly slanderous. I know you have a soft heart, but there comes a time when you have to stand up for yourself. I know you'll do the right thing, I'm right behind you all the way." (That should get them going,) he thought with pride. He then placed the fuzz next to the stone, just touching and waited for the fireworks.

Nothing happened. Not a spark, not a flare – and when he put his hand over them, they weren't even warm. (Have they no self respect? Well, I'll just have to light the fire my way.) He continued holding his hand over the stone and fuzz, and with a snap of his fingers, fire flared, igniting the tinder easily. Fire came very naturally to him. He then added sticks and small logs to the pile, nudging the fire bigger when it threatened to go out under the load of damp wood he placed on it. Then he sat back with a grin of triumph, tucking his hair behind his pointed ears.

He looked over at the elven woman who waved him out of the way while she poked sticks into the ground and hung a pot from them, filled with water and dead leaves. Then she tossed in something that smelled like meat.

(She keeps looking at me. That means either she likes me or she's sizing up the best parts to cut off for the stew,) he mused. (I think she likes me. Yep! she's trying not to grin at me! Yes, life is looking up.)

She felt Zeke's stare. (I suppose I look stupid grinning at a root.) "Yes?" She turned to face him, aware that a fire was already laughing merrily in the pit between the two of them.

"Uh, the fire's going. May I, perchance, help with anything else? I'm quite handy with a knife...." Zeke answered. Shadowblade's replay was forgotten as a voice interrupted.

"Well, I see we have some master Chefs among us," Etain said laughing. "Would you like some fresh herbs? Plants? Fruits of the forest? I would be happy to bring some back for you. Unfortunately, I don't eat meat, or I would help you there."

Shadowblade answered in the affirmative and Zeke watched as the winged woman rummaged in a sack and brought out more dead leaves. Then Shadowblade started digging through the pile of food and happily pulled out some tubers which she promptly rolled in the mud and then buried in the coals.

(I usually like less dirt on mine, but with all the dead leaves in the stew, it doesn't really matter, I guess. The elves always seemed cleaner, but I guess I have never really seen one cook before.) He watched as she looked disgustedly at her fingers, then wiped them on her breeches.

(Oh, I can help! I know those cleaning spell the succubus taught me; she always hated seducing dirty peasants. The big one, I think; it’s showier,) Zeke thought with glee. (Helping people garners gratitude. She seems really sad to be dirty,) he continued as he saw her sigh and look wistfully at the forest.

Zeke summoned up the magic within him, shaped it to match her body, mentally, and then released it. Blue light, dim in the daylight, coalesced around her, and millions of motes of magic scrubbed every nook and cranny clean – even teeth and ears – in the time it took her to realize something had happened. Then it was gone. Zeke smiled and bowed, sure she would be thrilled, just waiting for all the thanks that was sure to come his way.

Kathryn & Ámp:
Atalaya perched on the edge of another rock, checking her sword from force of habit before she started to talk. "Mostly, what he has jurisdiction over and what standards or goals he wants to achieve."

Fallenangel considered her words for a moment, gazing at where Shadowblade and the young man – (Zeke, I think his name is....) – were cooking. She turned toward the paladin with a wry smile.

"What He wants to achieve.... Who can say what's truly in a God's mind?" She shook her head and brushed a lock of her red hair away from her face.

"We are bound for the good of the sentient races – but," Fallenangel shrugged, "Laoghaire isn't extremely... picky... about how we do so. Not that He condones evil, of course," she said, raising her hand as if to stop any forthcoming comments.

"As for what He has jurisdiction over – Laoghaire isn't like most Gods in that he has a certain... area of which he rules. There are Gods of War, of the Elements, of the Forest and of Nature. I would say that if I was pressed," she smiled to show that she didn't consider this to be one of those times, "that Laoghaire's jurisdiction is humanity. Or, rather, any of the sentient peoples – not just humans, although they do compose the majority of His worshipers."

"There are three main high ranks in the church: Divine Knights, Bishops and Angels. The Angels are appointed by Laoghaire Himself, rather than by the church Hierarchy. Most often, Angels are chosen from within the ranks of the Divine Knights." She glanced in the direction of Jonas, clearly thinking that it was unlikely THAT Knight would ever be chosen. "I was a special case – but that's another story, and it's not answering your question.

"Laoghaire prefers that those in His Service be self-reliant – He has little patience with those who cannot defend themselves. That is another reason that Angels are chosen from within the ranks of the Knights, and why Bishops are taught magic – and are teachers. He will answer prayers for help – but if only if there is no other recourse. Most of His churches are to the west – few of His worshipers travel this far east. I am here because I received a message that led me to believe the man I am seeking was currently at the Midnight Sun. A message, in fact, received from Laoghaire."

Fallenangel smiled, somewhat bitterly. (I had started to think that He had completely forsaken me over the... incident... with Alian. Despite past services....) She avoided looking at the great sword Masamune, not wanting to remember the seven hellish days that she had spent fighting it over twelve years ago. (Gods, you could you be so stupid?) she berated herself. (It figures, you can bind a demon-spirit into a sword, but can still fall for a mortal's sob-story.)

"It's possible that He sent me here because Laoghaire wishes to be rid of the Dark Mage. However, He doesn't fully disclose His mind even to His Angels. We have to do what we think is right – for as I said, He has little use for those who rely solely on others instead of themselves."

She shook her head and looked up at Atalaya. "Excuse my rambling, it's been a long night." Fallenangel glanced at where the sun was rising in majestic glory. "Is there anything that I missed that you'd like to know?"

-*-

Jonas took a seat on the ground near Fallenangel, taking care to cast a small shield over the Masamune's blade. It'd be unfortunate if someone were accidentally wounded by it; he was not completely sure why, but aside from its razor sharpness, the sword left wounds that healed slowly and were prone to infection. He got the distinct impression that most of the party didn't trust him, and the less they knew about the Masamune, the better off he'd be.

He listened to Fallenangel tell the paladin of Laoghaire and the Church with only half of his attention. As he generally did when bored, he turned inward, idly caressing the hilt of his holy blade, mind seemingly a thousand miles away. He briefly caught a stray thought from the Angel, something along the lines that he would never be chosen to become one of the God's principal agents. (Hah. So much for the myth that angels are infallible. I will. I will. The Masamune is the key to it all. They can't destroy it safely... and as long as something this powerful exists, it needs to be used! But no! Those old farts just kept it locked up tight and blathered on and on about how 'dangerous' it is! Yes, it is dangerous... I could have been burned out the first time I grasped the hilt. Yet I survived. I survived. And as such, it's my right to wield the sword. They should be thanking Laoghaire that one of their own was called to it instead of some unscrupulous mage... heaven help us if that were to happen.) Unconsciously, the Knight sat up a little straighter and a hint of a smile touched his lips. (I said I serve still and I do. In my own way....)

The savoury smell coming from the cookpot reminded Jonas that it had been (two days?) He honestly couldn't remember the last time he had eaten. He dug around in his coat pockets for a few moments, finally bringing up several pieces of hardtack, a strip of jerky and a modestly large flask of whiskey. After pouring himself a small amount into a collapsible tin cup he had found in another coat pocket, he offered the flask around. "Allow me to make my own small contribution to our meal, please. After all, it seems as though I'd better start earning my keep somehow."

Muranog:
Sable felt the touch of a hand on her wool as she munched her dried meat and grain, and slowly turned her head to regard the person responsible, whoever it might be. Though the giant war sheep had been in the warm, comfortable stable for much of the council at the Midnight Sun inn, she had observed proceedings through her troll bondmate's eyes and recognised the singer who had performed there.

:I greet thee, Maker-of-Music,: she formally bespoke the human, looking into her eyes as she munched the last few mouthfuls of her meal. :What wouldst thou of me?:

While Sable mindspoke Sand, Muranog had finished his stonebread and was roaming the clearing, checking its defensibility again with the expert eye of a veteran warleader. He paused by Fallenangel and Atalaya to listen to the empath's description of her god Laoghaire.

"An interesting-sounding god you follow, friend Fallenangel. Some of his tenets do sound similar to those of my lords Graal and K'Sath. Perhaps, once our current travels are done, you could introduce me to some of the hierarchy of your Church? Since my mission from the Dukes of Trollhome is to discover more about the lands and peoples of the surface and make alliances with the worthy ones, that would certainly include the worthy religions. Unfortunately our information about the gods and goddesses of the surface is very limited: our lore texts mention only our own gods' old ally Solaras," the troll bowed to Atalaya, "and no other deity of goodly ways. Presumably your Laoghaire's faith had not spread to these lands six hundred years ago, when my kind last walked the surface in these parts."

With another bow to Atalaya and Fallenangel, and a careful look at Jonas, still not overly trusting him, Muranog continued his circuit of the clearing, while at the same time listening in through his mindbond to Sable's mindspeech with Sand. As the huge troll passed Solarin and Raven, he noticed the human woman drifting into sleep while the elven ranger watched her with a look of unshielded tenderness. Clearly a close relationship of some sort, he thought. Passing on, he completed his circuit of the clearing, finding it suitable defensible, and wandered back toward Sable, wondering where Erelan and Xenon had disappeared to, hoping that the dragon had come to no harm.

Raven Darkblade:
The day wore on, and Solarin, at his attentive seat beside Raven's sleeping form, let it slip by unconcernedly. When the subject of food came up, he remained quiet – the waybread, dried fruit, and dried meat they carried was not enough for the entire group, but could be saved for later emergencies. His small flask of feywine he would keep to himself; the properties of feywine were not to be taken lightly. He trusted Shadowblade not to poison them all.

(I suppose if someone hands me something that tastes of bitter almonds, I can simply give it back....)

The bond he had made with the surrounding land had not yet faded, and he kept silent watch for disturbances. He could feel the firepit like a bone-bruise at the center of the area... himself and Raven and the horses relative to that, and everyone else in their appropriate positions. He paid little attention to the known figures, though some were less comfortable to sense than others....

(Here, who is this? Ah, the little half-elven who almost lost his throat. Interesting shielding, my young friend... but Selaena help you if you're ever in a position where it isn't enough.) On the heels of that thought came another, more unsettling one. (There's the chance that Savar may have found a way to watch the Citadel through the earth... not likely, especially given how he abuses the land, but possible. I must think of that. He may have summoned air-spirits to his aid; I must think of that as well.)

Solarin moved his senses onward. (Hmm... wolf? Perhaps a wolf. Perhaps something more. Lupine, anyhow... and a person besides. Watching, but not approaching. Not sure how magical....) Stretching his sense farther out to the limit of his reach, he suddenly realized that the entire campsite was being very subtly, silently, and skillfully watched....

Dax:
The Knight offered a flask of whiskey which 'Blade sniffed at and shook her head, with a smile, and passed it on to the elf sitting beside her. "Here, Zeke. You want this?" Turning back to the knight, she explained, "I don't take whiskey. I'm sorry. In fact, I don't really like liquor at all... alright, so call me a prude..." She smiled deprecatingly, feeling a bit embarrassed as the knight – Jonas, was he? – shrugged.

"My, thanks." Zeke nodded and then took the proffered flask, before moving a little closer to the fire.

"Ah... thank you, Zeke. I, ah... gods... what can one say when this happens to her?.... Thanks."

Zeke grinned even more widely. (Hah! gratitude! I knew it would work!) He bowed. "It is of little consequence." He then saw the look of far away in her eyes that said she was conversing mentally with someone, but he was standing too far away to be able to listen in. Then she turned back to him.

"And yes? You were saying?"

"I only wished to say, that I am ever at your convenience, should you... desire... anything from me." (Anything at all, hint, hint,) he thought to himself. He continued aloud. "I have some small magics, and they, as well as I, would be happy to serve you." (I hope she gets the picture.)

He smiled again, took a swig from the bottle she had given him, then cut a glance at the knight to make sure that he wasn't trying to muscle in on his woman.

Angie:
Shadowblade was just deciding to look for that stream when the stranger-knight came forward from his discussion with Fallenangel.

"Allow me to make my own small contribution to our meal, please. After all, it seems as though I'd better start earning my keep somehow."

He offered a flask of whiskey which 'Blade sniffed at and shook her head with a smile. She passed it on to the elf sitting beside her. "Here, Zeke. You want this?" Turning back to the knight, she explained, "I don't take whiskey. I'm sorry. In fact, I don't really like liquor at all... alright, so call me a prude...." She smiled deprecatingly, even feeling a bit embarrassed as the knight – Jonas, was he? – shrugged.

She felt a small surge of Power coming from opposite the fire; looking up, she was surprised to see her entire self completely clean. (Gods... even my ears squeak.) She turned and saw Zeke's face – complete with smile and bow. (Has to be him... wonder why he did that?)

"Ah... thank you, Zeke. I, ah... gods... what can one say when this happens to her?.... Thanks." She found herself totally at a loss for words.

:I think he's interested in you.: Ynys opinion once again came butting in.

:Look, horse –:

:I am not a horse!:

:– I don't think anyone would be ‘interested in’ me in this condition. Maybe if I was dressed for Court, but not when I'm rolling potatoes in mud with soot all over my face.:

:Maybe that was why he cleaned you up?:

:Thank you for implying that I can't clean myself.:

The unicorn huffed from across the camp-grounds. 'Blade ignored the huff, and turned back to Zeke, keeping a bit of her attention on the baking sweet potatoes and the simmering stew. "And yes? You were saying?"

Rainbow:
Rainbow looked the man over, liking what she saw. :Nice,: she mentally proclaimed to Dee, and then spoke out loud to Darro. "I am a Princess, but if you do not believe me, so be it." She waited a second until she knew she had his attention. "Now if you'd let me anywhere near the entrance maybe I could cook some food?

Dee was angry; she didn't like the smell of this 'Darro'. As Rainbow edged nearer the doorway, she tried to Mindtouch the man. She had powers even Rainbow wasn't aware of, and they included smelling evil and Mindtouching other, well-shielded people. Darro didn't have a 'demon'-like feel to him, just a lingering feel as if he had been in contact with a demon, and for some reason even she couldn't enter his deepmind.

:Rainbow?: Dee called gently, :I do not like this man!:

:Well I do!: Rainbow replied stubbornly.

:He thinks you're a peasant!: Dee cried annoyed. :How dare he though!: She tried to convince Rainbow that this man was dangerous but to no avail, and tried Speaking to this 'Darro' instead.

:Darro?: Dee asked, :I hope you don't mind me calling you that, or being too forward, but have you been near any demons recently?: She noticed then that he was hurt. Pain littered the outer regions of his mind where she could get to – the place where Mindspeech was picked up. She sat down to wait for his answer and called to Rainbow. :If you care so much for him, why don't you try Healing him?: she asked with a sarcastic tone.

-*-

:Darro? I hope you don't mind me calling you that, or being too forward, but have you been near any demons recently?:

A voice crashed into his mind, tearing rips in the fabric of his thoughts. He could hear the voice, feminine, but he couldn't make out the words over the screaming din of the pain.

Darro crumpled to the floor in one breath, his head hitting the stones painfully. The staff was still in his hands.

The next thing he knew he was on the cold floor... he must have blacked out. The pain was slowly receding, his vision cleared. He tried to move, but couldn't. (How strange,) he thought when he could form words in his mind again. (That never happened before... the fairies used to mindspeak me all the time. But why now? Ahh, the floor is so cold... Ghoulcat? Where?!) His mind was still convoluted and chaotic. He stared at the roof of the cave for a minute that seemed like an hour, trying to assess his status.

He had fallen; the fact that he was on the ground told him that. He was breathing rapidly – his heart was pounding and his head still ached. His blurry vision showed two shapes hovering over him; they were probably talking, but his hearing was not yet restored. Something was in his hand, he was grasping something. Ahh, the staff. He squeezed it, and his hand momentarily tightened. (Well, that's a start. Let's get the body working before I start worrying about other things like why I'm on the ground and can't move....)

Slowly, painfully, he forced his muscles to work in conjunction. They were stiff, as if he had been abed for days. His head still pounded, but he had herbs for that. He stood and realized he could hear again. He looked to the others in the cave with him, curiously noting the strange expression on the part of the peasant, and the... confused?... look on the part of the horse.

"Um... What happened?"

-*-

Rainbow rushed to Darro's side, as Dee looked askance at the man. "WHAT happened then, Dee'rina Harnon?"

Dee gave a lady-like shrug and said, :I Mindspoke him, and that happened... tell him I did not mean to cause distress....:

"Dee, that is slightly more than distress!" Rainbow looked agitated and told the pegasi to go and find wood. She smiled wryly at Dee's mental moaning. (Typical....)

:Huh... not MY fault... she'd have to blame it on me... and why should I find wood?...:

(I hope he's alright,) Rainbow thought to herself, propping Darro up. (If we could just get back to the group... I know! I'll send a Mage signal... I should be able to manage that at least!)

She quickly went to the fire. First thing would be to get the food ready, then she could think about calling someone.

-*-

Darro silently ate the soup Rainbow had prepared. It was hot and had some taste. Having food finally in his stomach soothed the pounding in his mind. The girl had not offered any answers to his strange state, so all he had to go on were his strange memories.

(I remember... a... voice? A woman's voice? In my head... except I couldn't hear the words. Mindspeaking, that's it! But it’s never done that before. The fairies used to mindspeak me all the time even though I couldn't reply. But then it's been a while. In fact, I don't think anyone has mindspoked me since that incident at the Citadel....) But his mind shied away from unpleasant memories.

"Well, since you don't know what happened, and I don't know what happened, I think we should get to someone who could. I mean, you wouldn't leave a weak man out in the forest in this shape would you? Have a heart! I think I need a healer...." He surged forward, then slumped back into unconsciousness, his weakened body not used to such stresses.

Katie:
Kay and Winddancer sat glaring at each other across their small camp. "I will not go creeping around out there like some kind of creature from the Dark!"

:Mindmate, we don't know if they are good or evil, and until we do, I am going to be suspicious. Look at your run of luck lately: that mage a few years ago that wanted to eat me, the warrior who thought that you would make a good trophy on his wall, the priest that kidnapped you to convert you to his way, the....:

"Enough already! Dancer, I know that I have miserable luck; I don't need you to remind me. But the sword says that they are good and I would like to believe it. There is only one mixed up aura in there, and I can't figure that out, but most of the signs I'm getting are that they are good people. I'm going to go and introduce us. I don't care what you have to say about it." Kay was mad, but the wolf just cocked his head to one side and looked at her.

:If you insist. I would suggest not mentioning that you wear an enchanted blade unless someone comments though. They might want to hear the story of how you came to have it, and that could get embarrassing. For you, at least, little miss, let's find everything we need by falling on it from the roof.:

"I've only fallen on useful items though, haven't I? My sword, two daggers, three game animals and one berry patch. All things that we would have needed anyway. Now, let's go make friends." Kay Silversong stood up and banished the watcher spell that she had laid over the surrounding forest. She wouldn't need it now that she was going to introduce herself. She dusted off her black breeches and adjusted her red tunic, making sure that her weapons and amulet were all where she could reach them. Gesturing for Winddancer to follow her, she shouldered her pack and began to walk to the warriors' campsite.

When she was within calling distance, visible to those seated around the fire, she called out a hello. She came to stand near the fire – not too close, but enough not to be rude.

"My name is Kay Silversong and this is my mindmate, Winddancer. We bid you good day and hope that you are all well. We are wandering the lands and have just recently come to this area. Does anyone know why the land near here, but a ways away, feels tainted? Like someone has used blood-magic to summon Dark Creatures, or to raise power for itself." Kay watched the faces of those she could see, and watched the rest through the eyes of her wolf-friend.

:Silver, they are surprised. I told you that your ability to sense unbalance would come in handy someday, rather than just driving you mad.: A lupine chuckle reverberated through Kay's mind and she refrained from trying to wipe the wolf's grin off his mental image of himself.

:Dancer, you can just stop now. I have to concentrate. These are all powerful people, and that elf over there is watching me closely, as though he were expecting something....: Kay waited for someone to respond to her, wondering why all these Creatures of the Light were grouped together like a giant bull's-eye for anything of the Dark to hit.

Karen:
Midnight. The bells were chiming in the topmost tower. He raised his head, gazing up at the high windows of the Florian, moonlight spilling in through the diamond panes of glass. He kept his finger on the page as he listened: first one, then two, then three… notes of silver echoing around the empty quadrangle. Three in the morning. He hadn’t realised it was so late. He glanced at his candle – the only source of light in the entire room. The flame had burned down the complete length of the wick and was just beginning to smother, wisps of elegant smoke curling up towards the rafters. He mouthed a gentle curse. Time had eluded him again. He had only meant to spend an hour within the dusty halls of the Florian but, as usual, he had gotten sidetracked, unearthing treasure after glorious treasure from the depths of the rubble. Books were his weakness, he thought ruefully; learning his drug. It wouldn’t do. It certainly wouldn’t do.

He sighed, snuffed the wilted candle with a practised hand and rose from his chair, throwing his black cape around his shoulders. It was getting tattered and worn; soon it would be so threadbare that light would pass through it. It would have to last him at least through the winter – after that he would see about getting a new one. That is, if the price of candles did not leave him broke. He grimaced at the thought, mentally kicking himself for wasting his private stash. He should have been back hours ago.

He decided to leave the volume he had been perusing on the desk. No one came here anyway – not since Medivh had launched his attack from the sky that had all but destroyed the building. Even now the city was just recovering, all its scant resources being put towards the restoration of its ancient edifices. The Florian was relatively unimportant and so it had been left untouched.

And just as well. The contents of this antiquated library had been kept under wraps for centuries. The city councillors had forbidden access to its remains on penalty of death, but of course there was no one to enforce that rule anymore. And how much harm could a heap of crumbling sandstone and dusty books do? The metropolitan guard had much more pressing concerns; they did not want to keep watch over the silent ruins.

He climbed the mountain of rubble in the centre of the room – wooden beams, shards of plaster, piles of books that had fallen from their place on the shelves when the ceiling had caved in – the crush of his boots sending mini avalanches of white powder downwards into the gloom. At the apex he grasped the rope that dangled down from the cupola and swung himself up.

Soon he was running over silent rooftops, balancing on ridgepoles, skipping across ramparts and leaping from domicile to domicile – weathered blue glass domes, marble towers and silhouetted gargoyles the only landmarks in a dusky moonlight panorama that extended as far as the horizon. Yes, the geography up here was quite different to that of the ground. He had never liked the narrow Jacoran streets – all huddled and cobbled, quite often streaming with filth. He paused for a moment, breathing in the crisp night air. He was nearly at his destination but he did not want to leave this world of stone – not just yet, anyhow.

To his right he could see the constellation of the Scorpion high in the heavens, its angular tail snaking upwards in an elegant curve and its ruby heart still bright and virulent. The Scorpion signalled the approach of winter. He just hoped that it would be a quick one.

Taking one last look at the scene around him, he clambered over the battlements and shimmied down the wall.

-*-

The corridor was lit by the light of the aerial constellations alone. His tread made no sound – the worn grey rugs which stretched down the hallway muffling his step as he walked, the edge of his cape swishing just barely above the ground. He passed by the heavy oak doors with their polished bronze knockers, the oil portraits of long-dead warriors that graced the sandstone walls, the tapestries that waved lightly in the breeze and the curving alcoves that housed white candles on blue porcelain saucers, extinguished several hours ago by the orderlies.

Abruptly he swung left, mounting the staircase up to the next level. Here there were no carpets – no oil paintings – no tapestries – no porcelain saucers; just brass rings in which to place flaming torches, and creaking floorboards. He turned to the right, taking not to make a sound, distributing his weight evenly on each foot. Four doors down, he paused, put his ear to the portal to check for signs of life, and slipped inside.

A sharp kick in the ribs sent him sprawling to the floor, awakening bruises on his arms and knees. A taper flared in the darkness, illuminating the face of a sharp-eyed girl. Her brown curly hair was pulled back into a severe braid and her face was thin and gaunt, pale amber skin stretched tightly over high cheekbones and an elegant brow.

"You’re late," she said quietly. She moved around his prostrate body, prodding him with her toe, the taper still in her right hand. She was clad in a white undershift which fell to mid-thigh. He groaned slightly, rubbing his side.

"Good evening to you too, Cairo," he said, pulling a face at her. She set the candle down on the table and clambered onto the bed, watching him as he loosed his cape and bent down to unlace his boots.

"Be quick. The wardens are due not long from now. I heard the clock tower chime."

"So did I." He began to unbutton his tunic – dyed a deep wine red like the rest of the collegiate students.

"You were a fool to come by the main way." Her eyes were narrowed, catlike.

He chose not to respond. He cast the garment aside and pulled his white cotton shirt over his head, leaving a drop of deep blue glass dangling from a leather thong around his neck.

"If you are caught, what will you do? Your risks are unnecessary for us both."

Brown calico breeches followed to pile on the floor. Only a pair of light shorts remained on his lean hardened body.

"Move over," he ordered. She scrambled out of the way as he flipped back the covers, then dove like a kitten between the sheets beside him. She blew out the light as he settled down, consigning the room to darkness. The clocktower chimed across the square, signalling the hour: one... two... three... four....

There were footsteps outside. They paused directly before their room. Cairo rolled over and curled up against his back, feigning sleep. They both heard the creak of hinges and held their breaths. They both saw the flickers from a night lamp make shadows on the opposite wall. Someone muttered under their breath to someone else, then the hinges creaked again as the door swung shut and the wardens passed on.

"Never again," she whispered in his ear. "Never again, Ethan."

-*-

The collegiate bells roused them at dawn. Their floor – the entire third level – was suddenly alive with activity. The pounding of footsteps down the hall echoed around the walls of the attic chambers; shouts from the orderlies crossing the courtyard, drawing water from the cisterns, was a constant reminder that the day had begun. Cairo was the first of the two to be fully dressed in the Jeunet Collegiate uniform, her hair freshly groomed and rebraided in a long plait that fell to the small of her back. She leaned over the expanse of the bed and shook Ethan’s arm.

"What do you want," he mumbled, pulling away from her touch.

"Get up," she said briskly. "We’ll be late for breakfast."

"Give me ten more minutes."

"We don’t have ten more minutes." She shook his arm again.

"But I’m tired."

"Serves you right for coming back so late. I thought you were only going to be gone for an hour."

"Don’t care." He lunged backwards with his elbow so violently that she was thrown off balance and was sent crashing to the floor. He pillowed his head onto his arm and tried to find sleep once again.

She picked herself off the floor, cursing softly. In two strides she had circled the bed and with great speed she seized his arm and pulled it, using enough force to lever the top half of his body out from under the covers. Her knee made contact with his solar plexus and an elbow to his head was enough to make him tumble, his limbs tangled in sheets. His body hit the floorboards with a thump, jolting him awake.

"Get up," she repeated, seized the sheets and proceeded to make the bed. He muttered black words under his breath, examining his bruises, but she ignored him. He crawled towards his pile of clothes and began to dress himself. She smoothed down the sheets, tucking them beneath their straw mattress, and folded up the blankets, placing them at the end.

"All right, I’m ready."

She turned and appraised him from head to toe, fixing him in place with her midnight black eyes. His green ones returned the stare with vehemence but once again she pretended not to notice.

"Hair," she said, reaching for a comb. She raked it through his tangled chestnut locks, patting them into place. "That’s better. There are bags under your eyes but hopefully Milla will think they are a result of stress."

"Yes, and being beaten up by my partner," he retorted. She let the comment pass.

"We should go before the food is gone." She swept out of the room, Ethan not far behind.

The dining hall overflowed with noise – the clatter of cutlery and dishes, chairs scraping across the timber floors, voices raised in conversation. All familiar and somewhat homely. The Collegiate had a total of three hundred apprentices. At least a hundred of these were children under the age of sixteen who were allowed to rise from their beds later, after the seniors had completed their morning meal. The remaining two hundred were firmly divided up into three different classes – the Hunters, the Spinners and the Trackers. There were only a handful of Hunters – recognisable by their arrow-shaped breastpins just as the Spinners were distinguishable from the rest of the apprentices wheel-shaped ones. Hunters never took their meals in the dining hall anyway; they got them served up to their rooms by orderlies. Cairo and Ethan were Trackers and had been for the past two years.

They crossed the room to join their company at one of those long tables stretching lengthwise across the hall. Milla, one of their platoon leaders, gave them a curt nod as they arrived. Cairo noted with relief that Ethan had passed that cursory inspection. Milla had a sharp eye and an equally bladed tongue. She did not tolerate those who failed live up to her standards or those who behaved out of place. On the first night after the platoon had been formed – boys matched with girls, rooms assigned on the third floor – Milla’s partner had attempted rape. He was not an isolated case; many boys expected their fighting partners to be nothing but concubines for their pleasure, and often the girls were raped on their first night.

Those that could not stand up for themselves, that is. Milla, however, could. One flick of her wrist sent her assailant screaming murder and brimstone up to the topmost rafters of the apprentice wing. The wardens had come running – bursting through the door only to find Milla standing by the window – her bedmate naked, still crying out, on the floor – a bloodied knife in one hand and her partner’s… appendages… in the other. The castrated man had been slaughtered on the spot by the wardens for failure to defend himself. Milla was assigned another partner. For months he chose to sleep on the floor rather than sleep beside her. None could blame him.

Milla was not publicly commended for her actions. Neither was she punished. But when a vacancy opened up in the higher ranks of apprentices, she and her partner were chosen to be leaders. No one dared argue with the verdict.

Cairo just hoped that Ethan would be able to survive until evening. Luckily it was chilly – cold enough to keep anyone awake.

Today the porridge was thick and viscous, large grey lumps floating near the surface. The bread was hard and cold as always. Apprentices soon developed strong teeth from tearing into the crusts. It was standard fair and it was certainly better than days when the cooks scalded the food. Orderlies did the serving and the clearing up, not taking breakfast themselves until after everyone had gone. The teams of orderlies were rotated every week. Cairo was glad that it wasn’t their week.

After breakfast the apprentices headed off to morning arms practice which usually consisted of drills in the courtyard and laps around the perimeter. The Trackers were used to such rigorous physical training because they had been conditioned almost from birth. However, often the stamina required was too much – in which case the apprentice had the option of collapsing, thus inviting further mistreatment, or sticking it out. Most stuck it out. Toughness was something to be cultivated; those that survived, endured.

But morning exercises were nothing in comparison to the various other compulsory instruction classes that took place later in the day. It was still possible to get away with slackness and untidiness in those early hours. Cairo called it the "grace period", though often, unruly from sleep, the apprentices were far from graceful.

Today Milla was smiling broadly. Her attention appeared somewhat distracted which was highly unusual. Cairo nudged Ethan and raised an eyebrow at him. He shrugged, puzzled and yet, at the same time, unconcerned. He and Cairo followed their company, jogging around the courtyard. Their breath looked like smoke against the pale blue sky. At the twentieth lap they were halted for sparring practice. They went through the manoeuvres as if they were routine – which, of course, they were. Lunge, thrust, block; then the other took their turn – lunge, thrust block... it was all very straightforward. They had been doing it for years. They were at the mercy of the state so they were given no choice. And it was a tolerable lifestyle in most respects – they were given food, a scant education, a roof over their heads... what more was really required? No, they were indebted to the state. They repaid that debt with their lives. And the state was "generous"... those that made it through would be rewarded with positions in the royal city guard, a healthy pension and, perhaps, a house in a decent quarter of the city. If you made it through.

Milla called a halt to their practice. She and her partner, Arc, moved up and down between the double row of apprentices, checking them over. The twenty or so boys and girls – men and women – remained stock-still, eyes to the front.

"I have something to say that concerns you all," she said. "As you know, the metropolitan Games are only three weeks away. Many of you are hoping for a promotion from Tracker to Spinner. And only by winning will you ever attain that. However, the town council has decided to hold a separate event this year and this year alone."

The apprentices knew better than to speak at this point, though all were curious and longed to confer with their neighbours. They remained silent, waiting.

"Medivh has been particularly antagonistic of late. Members of the council wish to strike back, however troops cannot be spared for a large-scale operation as all are required here for defence of the city. An mission undercover, however, is plausible. And as the Collegiates can be spared – for we do not amount to much in the grand scheme of things – the council has decreed that the winning platoon be sent to the Citadel to act as infantry for two the city’s best spies and mage adepts." Milla paused, allowing her charges to digest the news. She circled the group until she was before them once again.

"It is a fool’s task, as you all can see, but the rewards are great. Should any platoon members make it back alive, they will be rewarded with land, riches and, more importantly... their freedom."

Even at this morsel of information the platoon did not waver, but Milla, gazing over their stoic faces, was satisfied with their response.

"Three weeks," she said, circling around them once again. "You are now dismissed for class."

And, line by line, they broke formation, marching off towards the west wing.

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