Emoria: Chapter One; Mountains of the Night

After the council…

Saint made a point of being the last representative to leave the council chamber. While others announced their intentions to travel about Emoria, he held silent. The Vatiennien and Thendári delegates had decided to take him up on his ever so generous offer, so he already knew what his place would be in the next few weeks. Only once the library was clear of strangers did the ex-archivist seek out the librarian.

The eye she turned on him was critical. Not friendly, but not a callous dismissal, either. “I did not expect to see you again,” she said softly. “You’ve changed so much. Perhaps too much.” The weariness and sorrow Saint had felt in the long years since their parting suddenly seemed all visited on him at once. He had loved her, for a time, and still felt some form of affection, deep as it lay within him. Her disapproval hurt, and suddenly his loneliness seemed overbearing. She must have sensed something of his turmoil, and seemed to soften her look, but she turned away.

“I’m not the monster you see, Saila. I have a goal. I can’t leave it behind now, or everything will be for nothing.” Angry now, she shook her head. “How much of yourself do you plan to sacrifice before you are satisfied? Fionu, I have known you long. You are not this stupid.” Her pointed words seemed to rattle something deep within him, and the ever-present anger slowly began to rise to the surface again. He pushed it back down with visible effort. “Can you ever forgive me for what I’ve done?” he whispered, afraid to truly vocalize his fears. He had sacrificed everything for the sake of a goal that still seemed so far away: his friends, his emotions, his memories, even his life. The thing that truly frightened him most was that he couldn’t remember it all, couldn’t remember every life he had ended. What sort of monster was he, then?

Saila nodded and smiled sadly. “I understand why you left, Fionu. I don’t agree with you--I think you could have found a better way to help your sister--but I understand. I might have done the same in your place." It was more than Saint had ever dared to hope, yoked to the shadows as he was. He turned his face away. He wasn’t worthy of her friendship, let alone anything more. “Thank you,” he said. “That means more to me than you could ever possibly know. His eyes wandered from her face for a moment, and he was shocked to see Chälan just outside the council chamber, rage unmistakable on his face. As he was distracted, Saila reached up and gave him a peck on the cheek. “For what could have been”, she said as he recovered from what was a startling yet... delicious experience. When he looked again, Chälan was gone.

Saint began to motion towards the door, but Saila simply told him she already knew he was leaving again. “You need to guide Chälan and Poiters to the mountains, I know. Chälan may not be as understanding as me, Fionu. You must speak with him as soon as you can.” Saint nodded his silent acknowledgment. Something hopeful seemed to leave Saila’s eyes as Saint confirmed his imminent departure, but there was nothing to be done of that. Angrily, he cursed himself for hurting her yet again. Saila simply finished with “Take care of them… Saint. They have been good friends to me.” As she walked away, Saint almost felt as though his insides were flipping. Not for the first time, he felt discontent with his fate.

The mass of Paladins met him at the library’s entrance, as he had been sure they would. They kept a close eye on him, though to what end, Saint was not able to make. Perhaps they did not want him to disappear. Jean Poiters, the priest, also appeared with a surprising amount of retainers at his heels. He quickly told them of his intention to leave on the morrow, and recommended to them a inn of the Vatiennien style on the edge of town. He planned to stay there himself, as a show of good faith. Leaving behind the crowd of light-worshipers, he found his stabled horse and began to lead it towards the inn.

In stark contrast to his traveling companions, Saint would be alone. The men he had come with were artisans, hoping to seek their fortune within the walls of Taurë Arda, and he had seen no point in dissuading them of the notion. Now, he somewhat wished for their company. Riding alone among a group of forty-something potential enemies was not a situation he planned to relish. Saint supposed he would simply have to trust to the good intentions of his companions, something that made him more than a little uneasy.

He came to the Eagle’s Alcove at the head of the traveling party. I had been designed in exaggerated Vatiennien style, stained glass and gilded halls. It was far gaudier than Saints tastes, but he had chosen it to out his traveling companions at ease. The arrangements for the night were quickly made by two of the older Thendári, and they settles in to the main hall for a hot meal before retiring. It had been a long day of argument, and the delegates fell upon their food hungrily. Saint ate alone in the corner, simply observing the interaction. The two groups filled the common room nicely, blending as those with shared history often do. Not a single altercation erupted, despite the plying of alcohol among the guards, and soon Saint was grimacing. The two groups were not fractious at all, nothing he could use to his advantage should things go bad. He decided to retire, handing his silver to the innkeeper. The old grizzled Quendë puzzled a moment over the strange minting of the coins, but eventually nodded, and Saint went upstairs. As he left, he slipped a piece of paper to Chälan, who pocketed it with barely-concealed disgust.

His room in the inn left nothing to be desired: a bed too soft to sleep upon comfortably, a carpet, a chest--even a mirror. For a moment he stared at his reflection, as if seeing the dusky new hues of his skin for the first time. Slowly, he reached up and pressed his finger against his canine. Was it sharper than before today, or was he simply tired? Sighing, Saint removed his rucksack from his back and sorted though the contents, making sure once again that everything was intact. It would not do for the tools of his trade to be wasted before he might need them. Satisfied that everything was in order, he began to repack the small bag.

A knock on his door interrupted him, and he quickly pushed the rucksack under the bed. “Come in,” he said casually, thought he already knew who it was. Chälan entered the room, a furious expression painting his normally-serene face.

Spring/Month 1/Day 1


Jean waited in his seat for a minute. What a waste of his time. What incompetence, idiocracy and just plain moronity this council had been full of. Those of the Mountains of Night and that ghastly Tynir general were the tumor that oozed the disease into this council. If it were up to him, he would have dispatched two fully armed regiments to each of their decadent homelands and scour the place, calling in the bulk of the Imperial forces if need be to root out the evil and darkness that resided there. The cockroaches would never be able to know what hit them and the light will have already shot them down. Unfortunately, he did not have the luxury or the authority to do so. He would have to instead go himself to inspect the Mountains of Night and hand over Ayurent an invitation to Vatienne to discuss about this armament scandal. Where was the creature, anyhow…?

The priest finally decided when most of the so-called dignitaries left the room to leave as well. Jean first inspected those who left before following them. These weren’t apt representatives of their peoples. They were mostly decorated peasants for the most part. Civilians doing a politicians job; how filthy could you get? He thought, no, he knew, that this was the reason that nothing concrete came from this council. Too many headless chickens, not enough doers. Pity, really. Jean was certain that if these nations would have sent capable diplomats everyone would have agreed with the Vatienne’s and the Thendari’s conclusion that Morgarath has returned. No matter. Jean would find out the truth first hand and prove to the world that he and his allies were right during his investigation of the Mountains of Night.

Jean walked out of the room, but before he did so, he passed in front of Saint. He quickly walked over to him and had a slight taint of discuss in his words when he told him that he would be taking him up on his word for the invitation to his country. Before the corrupt being could answer, Jean left his presence, heading straight outside. On his way, however, he paused. He then took out the shriveled piece of paper that the I’nak had thrown to the floor during the meeting out of his pocket and took out the quill that had suffered the same fate as the piece of paper. He quickly jotted down these words: Vatiennien Inn, 8 o’clock. He folded the paper in two and put the quill back into his pocket. He then started looking for Ayurent, that Tynir friend of his.

During his search, the priest stumbled upon Saint and Saila having a conversation. It seemed somewhat heartfelt and emotional. How cute. And repulsive. Saila would have every right to slap him across the face for simply addressing her. Obviously she didn’t, Jean wished she had. It would have been fitting. Then the priest came to a realization: he had no time to have a discussion with the Tynir right now. He was leaving with Saint, and others if they wished, to the Mountains of Night. He would simply have to give him the formal invitation was only interaction. So Jean set out to find the Tynir once again.

Finally, Jean found him. He wasn’t too hard to miss, obviously, so Jean quickly went up to him and gave him the invitation without a word. Their eyes had an entire conversation on their own. The intensity in which they burnt up could almost be used to start a camp fire. Almost. The Vatiennien had no interest in staying in the Tynir’s presence much longer and quickly and simply left. Once outside, Jean quickly gathered his Imperial escort; 17 soldiers and 3 priests. It was a bit much, Jean thought and guessed by the faces of passer-bys, but it scarcely mattered. He then simply waited for Saint to show his evil face…

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A couple hours later, Jean was sitting alone on a table with a pint of ale in his hand. Saint had gone off to bed and so did a couple of his escorts. He, however, was still very much awake. He simply sat there, sipping his ale. My my, Jean thought as he pondered over what may be in store for him at the heart of his enemies’ country. What have I gotten myself into.

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Chälan and the other Paladins had been first to leave after the council was dismissed. All thirteen made their way through stately halls and past endless shelves until they emerged from the library altogether. Once they were a short distance away, they conversed in their own language among themselves.

Anatar spoke first. "I would hear from each of you before circumstances force us to mask our thoughts. Each of you is willing to enter the Mountains of Night, this much I doubt not--or I would have answered the council myself. As it is, Tatyana's words were well spoken. Unexpected as the dark elf's offer was, we cannot but lay hold upon the chance we have been given. What, then, do you foresee upon this new path?"

When invited to speak their minds, a thendári group spoke from eldest to youngest. The lord Anatar was older by far than any of them, but at 31 Cycles--more than 5,000 years--lady Nendra Telden was next to speak. Blond-haired, loyal, serene, she spoke with confidence. "I have waited ages," literally, ages, "for a glimpse of the shadowland. I will carry the light into the darkness, whether or not we make it out again."
The lady Tariss Chedhëna, white-haired and experienced, spoke with the perceptive voice of logic. "They would not have invited us in if they did not plan on one of two extremes: letting us out, or killing us all. Remember always that Morgarath is behind this. He will be scheming at something. If we are allowed to leave, then all we see will have been a lie. If we die, it will all have been true."
"Unless his plans go deeper still," said the dark-blond Áirdan Deltéra. The adventurous lord had a different notion to submit. "Morgarath has had nearly twelve Cycles to plan his next move. I doubt any of us can foresee anything with certainty. Regardless, I for one plan on making it out alive no matter what he throws at us.
Anatar, black-haired and calculating, nodded his agreement. "May it be even so. All the greater the victory when we succeed. Tatyana?"
"There is something between the dark elf and my brother Chälan. I sensed it earlier and tried to buy him some time."
Chälan put in a soft grunt to show confirmation and appreciation. Anatar seemed to have put some of it together, for he said, "We will speak of that in a moment.
Tatyana went on. "As for our journey, I do not believe we will return. But the greater the darkness, the stronger the light. We must not waste this chance to do to Morgarath and his designs what hurt and mischief we can. We must be the swordpoint that bathes itself in blood to effect the victory of its wielder. Never to tire, never to falter, working as it is wielded until it can no longer."
Tharan, almost the same age as Tatyana, was of a similar mind. "Whatever befalls, we must not shy away from our purpose. Plunge toward death even as we strive for life! Only then will we accomplish best the mind of Alos. There is something behind all this. We must learn all we can and send back the tale, even if we ourselves cannot return." The blond-haired lady's insight was a saving complement to her daring.
The lord Rannund Sehril, only about 2 Cycles younger, scratched his black hair behind one ear, wearing a concerned expression. "I like not all this talk of glory in the midst of death and doom, when if we stay true to each other, nothing can overcome us. We have only to be alert and watchful and wise. The answers to every trial will be found if we keep each other alive long enough to see them."
Serena Haruthen, a dark-blond lady just under 1 Cycle younger than Rannund, added thoughtfully, "I'll help you there, Rannund." Serena was known to be the unbreakable bond of any team she worked with.
Talus Aeryán was next, his face impassive as always. Of the same family as Anatar, the dark-blond lord's noble voice was steady and firm. "Live or die, we are honored beyond measure to be the first prick of light to truly penetrate the Shadow. Even alone, I would not pass this chance."
The light-blond lord Edrian Nuldar had a subtle, perpetual squint, as if his mind never ceased picking apart whatever his fiercely sharp eyes focused on. It was a long moment before he said, "Nor would I, but not for honor: for justice."

At last it was Chälan's turn to speak. He and the remaining two Paladins were more than 800 years younger than Edrian, all three only in their third Cycle, compared with Anatar's excess of 40 Cycles--less than a Cycle away from 7,000 years. But even 100 hundred years was a longer life than most humans, and these youngest had more than three times that. Their will was not shaken, and Chälan's least of all. His rank proved it. With that authority, if without the weight of years, he spoke with conviction.
"Let us keep in mind that we are not alone. Though much of Emoria has failed to heed the warning, the old alliances yet remain. Vatienne rides with us, and the Sythen may come as well. It matters not where the rest of the ambassadors go; other Paladins will learn of it, as they will learn of what transpired at the council. We who have witnessed the council itself... we must use that knowledge to solve the riddles of the Mountains of Night. The Light of Alos will guide us. We will make it out again. We will succeed. And if the chance finds us, we will strike down the shadowland while we prowl its heart."
Alder Echelan, known for his intuition and cunning as well as his bright personality (currently matched by light-blond hair), was quick to voice his agreement. "Well spoken, Chälan. At last we have a chance to uncover the mysteries of the Mountains of Night. We will go; we will seek; we will overcome."
And last, the white-haired lady Shenhra Chëiden--shy, helpful, steadfast--firmly nodded the collective finality. "We will."
Anatar, his eyes alight, bowed his head sagely to seal their resolve. "And now, Chälan, would you share with us your connection with the Shadow's ambassador?"

All the hurt and rage flooded back at the change of subjects. It was still very hard to believe. "He was an archivist, here at the library, twenty years ago. I scarcely recognize him, now." He had to stop and sort his emotions.
"Go on," his sister prodded gently.
"He was a Hyarya Quendë named Fionu Arqueno." He told as much as he knew about Saint's past--which was not a great amount. He was able to disclose in much greater detail the friendship that had grown between for three years up until Fionu left. Something was ailing his sister, and he knew no cure. Chälan had even offered to take them to Aendrel, but a forlorn Fionu had returned from his sister's presence. He had barely convinced her to keep her sanity, he said. Chälan could not imagine why, and Fionu refused to say. When he told them he was taking her to the Mountains of Night instead, Chälan--being a Paladin--had feared him mad. "Now he has returned... like this..." he gestured with his arm toward the library, palm up, his fingers splayed and tense, in the general direction of the council room. "It is worse than I had feared. I thought death, torture, or slavery awaited him and his sister. Now I see how wrong--and yet how right--I was."
"Do you want some time alone with him," asked Anatar.
Chälan looked up. "Yes. I have to hope he isn't lost."
"Then by all means, use all the time you can. Not only for your friendship's sake, but for all Emoria. Mark this well: if you can win back your friend, if you can bring back Morgarath's very ambassador, we may find the key to thwart all the dark lord's designs."
Chälan swallowed. He had thought of that, but hearing it from Anatar put a burden on his shoulders that only added to his anxiety.
Young Shenhra put a hand on his back. Rannund said, "Don't force things, though, no matter how much hangs on this. You'll only hurt him and yourself all over again--and get nothing but failure for your trouble. Keep your wits, steady your heart, let him pour out the shadows, and you pour in the light."
Tatyana came to stand in front of her brother and put a hand on his armored shoulder. "Chälan, the light within you is so like that of Alos, I feel as if one day you will guide us all. Don't let hurt and fear draw a cloak over your heart."
"We are here for you," said Serena.

Chälan managed to lift his head, look everyone in the eye, and if not smile, at least look less grim. "Thank you," he said. "It is not so easy as that... but thank you."

By the time Chälan got all the way back to the council chamber, the rest of the delegates and representatives had filed out. When Chälan arrived just outside the doors, it was to see Saint vulnerable, hanging on the words of the only other person in the room: Saila. "...could have found a better way to help your sister--but I understand. I might have done the same in your place."
Saint turned his face away. Chälan read rivers of emotion from every movement of the dark elf's expression. "Thank you," he said. "That means more to me than you could ever possibly know."
Then Saint's eyes wandered for a moment--straight into the clutches of Chälan's hot glare.
Saila moved close to Saint and kissed him sadly on his cheek. "For what could have been," she said.
At that point, Chälan decided he was not in control of himself, and he left.

What he had seen enraged him on so many levels. How could Saila understand?! How could Fionu allow himself, the vile abomination that he has become, to speak to her?! What all has he done over the past twenty years? And then the searingly familiar: How could he have left in the first place?! But worst of all, beyond the outrage and the disgust and the madness, was the pain at seeing the Saint so utterly, scathingly vulnerable. It was a side of Fionu that Chälan had always sensed buried somewhere deep inside. Seeing it so openly on the surface, from the twisted creature that was Saint, took the feelings of pity, betrayal, loss, and regret to new and dreadful heights--grating, suffocating, sharp.

Suddenly coming out of his daze, Chälan found himself back outside the library, where the others were waiting for him. Chälan did not slump his shoulders, did not drag his feet, did not hang his head. He closed his eyes. "It was not a good time," he said, forced to lean against the outer library wall, or colapse.

Later, as Saint joined the Paladins and the Vatiennien entourage, the company made their way to the Eagle's Alcove inn, where Áirdan and Tariss saw to the arrangements for rooms. A meal was prepared before everyone settled in for sleep. The paladins and Vatienniens got along joyously. Chälan had too much on his mind to enjoy himself much, though he did find the atmosphere and the food refreshing. He was just making plans to see if he could persuade Saint--alone in a corner--to talk somewhere in private, when Saint himself suddenly walked by and discreetly slipped Chälan a piece of paper. Chälan found it difficult--he had to hold his breath--to hide the disgust he felt at having the dark elf so close.

Chälan waited a few minutes, then followed the paper upstairs to Saint's room. He knocked, waited until he heard a muffled, casual "come in," then entered the room. The emotion was back on his face in an instant.

"Why, Fionu?" Chälan's voice was surprisingly calm, even if it trembled with what boiled beneath that filmy layer. "That day. You never told me what was wrong with your sister. Why did you have to choose the Mountains of Night? Why?"

Siade Ayurent rose from his chair, Zahiik Tusohe practically leaping from her own before storming out of the council chamber with a look of disgust dancing across her features. The general watched her go silently, before offering a smile and a curt bow of his head to the remaining delegates. “I wish you the best of luck in your investigations.” Turning from the table, the general followed the path of his companion out into the library, taking note of the group of paladins moving soundlessly towards the doors. A sense of purpose hung around them, and it wasn’t hard to tell they had important things to discuss. He was sure many of the councillors would have something to discuss after this…meeting.

Following the trail of confused and worried scribes, it wasn’t that difficult to track down the towering I’nak amidst the smaller eleven folk, glaring furiously at those who passed her gaze, although she made no move to strike them. Perhaps she had listened when he warned her of the defences. A quick survey of the room brought numerous books to his attention, many of which would be worth reading.

Coming to a stop beside his furious companion, Ayurent allowed a moment of silence between them before he spoke. A bandaged hand reached up to a nearby shelf, and grabbed one of the many tomes lining it. “Tell me, Tusohe…what do you know about war?” The dusty tome flipped open, cold jade examining the contents quietly.

“War?” She looked over at the Tynir, “War nearly destroyed the I’nak. War destroyed the Zahiik Nimiak, scattered our survivors to the winds. It is not a thing to be taken lightly.” Her eyes flicked back towards the room, narrowing to pale slits. “The pale-skins are racing towards war. You can hear it in their voices, their movements.”

His fingers slide across the worn out tomes pages, tracing the words quietly as he listened. “And do you think them unwise for seeking it?”

“They are too eager. Like unblooded pups on their first hunt.” She pressed her tongue to the back of her teeth, making a sound of displeasure. “Tch.”

“They are passionate. They seek to solve the troubles of their world, and are more than willing to spill blood to further their goals.” He closed the tome softly, motioning to one of the scribes to come over. “What they lack is unity. Are we any better?” A brief exchange with the scribe followed, and the elf left to go secure a copy the tome at the General’s request. “So little divides, and yet we stand so firm in our difference.” Quick footsteps drew his gaze, and the sight of the Vatienne Ambassador caused him to chuckle softly. The human didn’t seem to like looking for people. Where all of his kin so…high strung?

Once Jean departed, he gave the note a casual glance, before stashing it away in a pocket. “Well, it appears we have a meeting with our dear priest tonight, Tusohe.” A smile flashed across his face. “I have news that will most likely distress him a great deal, provided you can bear his company.”

The I’nak’s eyes flashed blue, locked on the retreating back of the arrogant priest. “The pale-skin?” Her gaze returned to Ayurent, grey beginning to edge out the blue. “I can stand him long enough to see you ruin his night.” She let out a low laugh, imagining the priest’s distress.

“Then I fear for the journey ahead.” There was no chance to respond, however, as the general soundlessly moved across the room, quietly taking the tome from the scribe with a soft thank you. A gentle look crossed his face as he glanced back at the I’nak, before motioning for her to follow. She gave him a curious look, before starting after him. “The others will most likely be outside.” A soft grunt was her only reply, as they weaved quickly back through the hallways and passages of the library. Before long, they emerged out into the light of Nowle Osto, and the general took a deep breath of the fresh air that rushed up to greet them.

At the foot of the steps, the Tynir escort stood, still with the mounts and in varying states of anger. The banner carrier in particular looked like she was more than ready to kill the next unfortunate elf that dared to cross her path. The lead gave a quick salute as Ayurent descended before speaking. “Kon’ost Ayurent, we were unable to find any inns willing to house the Kol‘bah. Too dangerous.” She growled low at the dangerous part, her eyes narrowing into deep brown.

“It was expected, Liluaane. Kol’bah are not as docile as horses. The elves cannot risk their other client’s happiness over that of ours.” She paused, before bowing her head, twin braids of black rolling off her shoulders. He chuckled, patting her shoulder once. “Do not let it trouble you. We can simply camp by the Vatienne Inn.”

A small chorus of agreement echoed through the group, and he swiftly mounted his Kol’bah. Trained eyes flicked over the sun, and with a soft pat on the beasts neck, the group started down the crowded road, falling into formation with practiced ease. Ayurent glanced back at the group, before chuckling quietly to himself.

Quite the journey this is shaping up to be…


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The door swung open silently, and the Tynir’s large frame ducked under the frame to avoid hitting his head. Cold eyes flicked over the inn, ignoring the few sharp looks as powerful strides carried the general to Jean’s table. Ayurent slid into the seat across from him, offering a smile and a chuckle to the priest in a form of greeting.

Tusohe stood by the door, shadow’s clouding her face, but the unmistakeable aura of hostility radiating from her ensured that everyone respected her space. Beside Ayurent, Liluaane stood at the ready, ebony eyes watching Jean for any potential threats. A simple precaution, to be sure, as the Kon’ost was more than capable of protecting himself.

She glanced quietly to the various soldiers scattered throughout the room, each seeming content with his own business and yet watching the exchange that was about to unfold. Perhaps these humans had something to them after all. Some eyes lingered on her, although she couldn’t really place them.

Her outfit was likely the source of their attention, the black fabric clinging to her body as it spiralled down from her neck, across her chest before circling again into a short ‘skirt’. Liluaane’s skin was darker than the average Tynir, some even going as far to say it was more like I’nak than that of a Tynir.

A brief silence reigned between the Tynir and the priest, before Ayurent laced his fingers on the table, and spoke. “Well, here I am.” His gaze snapped about the room, finishing his observations in seconds before refocusing on the priest. “I’m glad to see your men aren’t drawing blades. I’d prefer it if this trip remained peaceful. After all, we are going to be seeing a lot of each other for the next few months.” A smirk spread on his lips, as he chuckled darkly. “But, what did you need me for, Jean?”

Jean sipped his ale with his eyes closed. He thought upon how he had acted in the council room. It had been very unorthodox for him. Normally he acted with slightly more class than he had, but it is true to say he had never met those abominable Tynir or demonic swampland sorceresses. They had somewhat soured him towards the beginning but he was sure that some way, somehow he would have been able to calm himself at the sight of those nations being allowed to walk in the Library. Then ‘they’ arrived. Once he saw that a representative of the Mountains of Night had been allowed to take part of this meeting as with the weird snake like being, Jean knew that this meeting had no seriousness and legitimacy. He let himself loose. This, in the end, didn’t matter. The representatives there of the other nations were total fools. They had achieved nothing and talked about little. No one heard of the evidence he and the paladins had brought to light, instead choosing to believe the poison of a dark elf. Jean turned his head to the side of his chair and spat. It was disgusting how the scum of the world held more sway over the malleable minds of the international body than did the jewels and models of modern prosperity and greatness.

Jean was mumbling something fierce to himself when he heard – and smelled – them coming. It was unmistakable. The foul nature of those who were about to besmirch this inn were thick enough to see in the very air Jean breathed. Loud footsteps, cluttering metal… they sounded more like a horde of barbarians than anything else. Jean wasn’t sure if, outside of the library, he would be able to keep himself and his escort in check. He was even less sure about the mindless actions of the Tynir and fiery I’nak who were just about to enter his presence. With a quick glance and hand gesture, he motioned the 10 or so soldiers that were left in the bar to be alert. They were suddenly on-duty again.

Surely and soon enough, they filed into the inn. Surprisingly only three entered. There was the pig-headed general, the childish I’nak and… Jean’s hand started to shake. What in the name of all that is holy, thought Jean. He wasn’t looking at his soldiers, but he knew all eyes were on the female Tynir that had just walked in. What kind of barbaric race dressed their women like that? It was truly disturbing, unnecessary and frankly disgusting. Jean was soon pulled out of his distant thoughts, however, when Ayurent waltzed over and slumped on to a chair that was right in front of him. All that he gave Jean in guise of welcome was a chuckle and a smile. It was sorely predictable practice from a sorely predictable buffoon. Did he think he somehow intimidated him? That the I’nak over by the door somehow scared him? Perhaps the barely dressed female was supposed to give the willies? Well, unfortunately for them, it didn’t and all Jean did right now was to simply look Ayurent dead in the eye.

The Tynir was the first to speak. He said something about keeping it civil. It was Jean’s turn to laugh. “I honestly do not believe that civility will be a problem on my part, Ayurent. I am more afraid of what foolish and hot-blooded actions your friend in the back could do. She did lose her temper quite easily back in the council room.” Jean glanced over to the I’nak, giving her a wink. The priest’s head then slowly turned back to the general, but not without lingering for a moment too long over the barely dressed female Tynir.

“But please, what is this?” Jean motioned to the female. He was making up and down motions with his hand, clearly pointing out the lack of clothing. “That could hardly be counted as civil. Not only did you bring your… wife? Or whatever you people call them to the table of discussion, but you forgot to give her clothes. We may be in international grounds, Ayurent, but decency is always a must. Minimal clothing is part of that decency and should, no, must, be enforced at all times.” Jean looked the female he had been referring to.

“I speak and I speak, yet I wonder if you understand a damned word that comes out of my mouth… Regardless, I am sorry you must put up with such disrespect from your society, dear. Now, if you were to come to Vatienne, things would be different. First of all, you would be treated with at least the bare respect it takes to decently dress a woman.” Jean tilted his head to Ayurent. “That is, in fact, the whole point of this discussion.” Jean lifted his pint of ale to that and drank. This was going to be a long night. He had forgotten to keep his tongue in check. He didn’t know why, but he had a feeling that the female Tynir wanted to rip his brains out. No matter. It was probably just the alcohol.

“We must speak about the meeting, not between you and me, but between the Emperor of Vatienne and the Lady of the Tynir, but of course. I believe that a cordial meeting between the two would bear much more fruit than us rambling for hours on end. The Emperor is, indeed, much wiser than I am, and I am not afraid to say it. Anything wrong with this proposition, Tynir?”

“Better to accept what you are than live a lie, Chalän.”

Saint did nothing to disguise the hatred on his face. For twenty years, he had fought against Chalän and his kind, and killed more than his share of the servants of the light. Only now did he realize why he hated them so much: they all reminded him of the self-righteous, sacred posturing of the Thendari.

“The entire situation is really more your failure than anyone else’s. Even when you knew me so long ago, I was driven by pride. The only thing that has really changed is that I’ve been given the capabilities to match my ambition.” Saint allowed his hands to slowly fall to his sides, gripping the pommels of the knives hidden in his sleeves. He didn’t mean this to come to confrontation- not yet, anyway- but it never hurt to have a little insurance.

Saint’s tone became suddenly light, mocking. “I hope you enjoyed the show I put on for the council, as well. I’ve always been a good liar, but the entire assembly of the nations of Emoria? I think I may have outdone myself.” His smile suddenly turned to a sneer. “Of course, you and I know differently. A pity, really. If all of Emoria had assembled against us, you might have stood a chance against what is to come.”

Chalän’s shoulders seemed to tense, and Saint could only guess that Thendari discipline was keeping him from throttling his old friend. He chuckled a little. Fionu would rage inside the Moriquende, if he still had a voice. Chalän had been one of the few friends he had ever had, and to treat him like this… It was inexcusable. Saint simply threw the sin in the pile he had already amassed for himself, and chuckled.

“I asked you here because I want you to bring a message to the other Thendari. I want them to know that there will be no heroics on this trip, no forays into the shadow unattended. It would be very… poor for their health. Additionally, there will be no gathering of information or weaving of light magics. If you all follow those simple instructions, you will probably leave alive.” Saint’s smile changed again, to something almost predatory in nature. “Fail to follow these rules, and all of you will be tried for treason by our high inquisitioners. That will be all.”

Truthfully, he wished the Thendari would simply leave. He cared little for them, but he did not wish another betrayal on Chalän. While they stood on other sides of a line now, he did not want any harm to come to the one he had once called friend, and he knew just how tenacious the Dark Lord’s grip could be. He was caught in that grasp, but he would do what he could to help Chalän escape it, even if it meant driving him away. At the very least, he intended to make him cautious, and minimize the risks.

I would probably be somewhat of a futile gesture. Every brave Thendari of this expedition would end up dead or corrupted by the shadow. Probably that insufferable priest as well, though he was far less regretful for that. Perhaps he could do something to convince the dark lord to simply trick them rather than kill them outright. It would take all of his skill, however. Still, he wished to do right by Chalän, even if the Thendari never knew about it.

If only the Paladins weren’t so damned bull-headed! He would never have guessed they would actually accept his offer, which had obviously been a severe misjudgement. He had work to do tonight to fix that mistake, and so he waited patiently for Chalän to leave.

“Then perhaps you’d see it fit not to antagonize her. If she truly got it in her mind to kill you, neither me nor your men could save you. We are far from the protective arms of the library here.” Ayurent glanced over to the I’nak, raising a hand in a pacifying gesture before focusing back on Jean. He watched in amusement as the priest spoke of civility, and how it directly related to clothing (a foolish notion, if there ever was one), as Jean even went so far as to call Liluaane his ‘wife’.

As the priest drank, Liluaane looked down to Ayurent, silently requesting permission to speak, which he allowed with a nod. “Kon’ost, I would like to speak with the ambassador, if you would permit it.” She spoke softly, knowing full well the humans were incapable of understanding, but still wishing to keep the conversation private.

“What drives you to?” His reply was quick, as if he knew what she was going to say before she had even said it, never breaking his casual watch of the man before him. His fingers drummed out a steady rhythm on the strong wood of the table, a strange tune to the ears of a foreigner, but one far more common in his home lands.

“This will truly be a fitting test of my common, no? And what better situation than that of diplomacy, the very point of my knowledge in it?” She glanced over to Jean, flicking her eyes about the room once to check the soldiers, before returning to Ayurent. “Please, Kon’ost.” He chuckled, obviously pleased with her answer, as he gestured towards Jean.

Smiling, she turned to the human and cleared her throat. “I do understand what you say, but I feel that it would be best to tell you, Ambassador…Poitiers?” The word rolled off her tongue slowly, as if she had difficulty pronouncing the foreign name, before continuing. “That I myself chose this outfit. Whilst it may not define your code of civility, amongst my kin, this is perfectly acceptable attire and that the Kon’ost shows me infinite respect for allowing me to tutor under him.” She bowed her head briefly, braids rolling over her shoulder and dangling around her waist at the motion.

Rising from her bow, she gave the priest a soft smile. “Nor do I claim the privilege of being the Kon’ost’s mate. Simply his pupil, nothing more. Please pardon my interruption; I felt it best for you to hear this from me.” Another nod and she fell back into silence, content to watch the conversation to come.

“Well done, Liluaane, and very well said. I’m impressed.” Ayurent smiled, quietly cracking his knuckles as he spoke, slipping back into the common tongue with practiced ease. “Well, I trust that I needn’t address that now.” Leaning back in the chair, he crossed his arms into a comfortable position, and easily allowed him to watch the bar for any movements from the soldiers, or the paladins. “As for the meeting, I must agree. Us old men can argue till we’re blue in the face, but neither of us have the power to pass policy, now do we?”

His eyes flecked with jade at the joke, but his face remained still, save for the movement of his lips. “I will travel south with you and the other ambassadors through the Mountains of Night, before continuing on to Korun Otak, where I will speak with the Lady of what we have discussed both in the council and hear tonight. But, if we are to travel to your lands, I must request something of those who would receive us, and possibly transport us.” There was a moment of silence, as he considered the wording of what he was to say, before settling on one that seemed to satisfy the general.

“Much like humans and the eleven folk cannot eat the food of Renjira Krin, my kind cannot eat the food and spices of your lands. It is more akin to poison than actual food. If we are to visit your lands, the Lady will need fresh, and I truly stress that, game to eat. The local slaughter animals will only serve to harm her, and I doubt very much that either of us will want to deal with the consequences of such an error. In a similar vain, I must ask that you also keep…what are they called again…” He paused a moment in thought, as the word finally clicked. “Strawberries out of all the food. While they are not poisonous, the effects are…undesirable.”

Falling silent, Ayurent watched Jean quietly, as if to allow him a chance to voice any questions regarding these requests. “I trust these are reasonable enough?” He doubted there would be any protest, as to be unable to meet such simple demands would likely reflect poorly on Vatienne, something he knew the Ambassador would never allow.

The door to the inn creaked open, as a young man slipped inside. A soft snarl from Tusohe warned the elf to watch his step, and he cautiously approached the table where Ayurent and Jean sat. Liluaane stepped aside to allow him past, and the general turned his attention to the courier. “Forgive the intrusion, but I have a message for you, sir.” Taking the letter, he nodded and placed a coin in the young man’s hands, who bowed quickly in thanks before hurrying out of the Inn, making sure to give the I’nak a wide birth as he went.

Flipping the letter over in his hands, he examined the signet for a brief moment, before slipping the letter inside his jacket without a second thought. There would be time for that later in the evening. Focus back on Jean; he awaited the priest’s response patiently.

Spring/Month 1/Day 1



Jean heard whispers as he sipped his pint of ale. Well well, what could they possibly be planning, he thought to himself. Possible escape routes? Maybe all that talk was about the weaker points in Sildari physiology? Perhaps they were even going to the point where they were whispering about the weakest joints of the armor worn by Jean’s guards? The priest had no idea, but it was enough to say that he had absolutely no trust in these Tynir. In fact, he had no trust for any Tynir. He viewed them as a threat for the safety and prosperity of Vatienne. Jean didn’t even want to get started on the I’nak.

Surprisingly enough, it was the woman who was poorly dressed who spoke. Jean then immediately guessed that all this whispering was simply her asking Ayurent for permission to speak. As it would seem, the female seemed to be in a subordinate position to Ayurent. What exactly that position was to the priest was completely unknown, but he had a feeling he was about to find out. When to lady opened her mouth, all of Jean’s guards turned their gazes towards either her, Ayurent, or the enraged I’nak behind the duo.

The woman’s words rang true, and, oddly enough, did not enrage, upset or otherwise destabilize Jean. Apparently dressing that way was ‘normal’ in Tynir culture. He should have guessed so. Barbarous clothing for barbarous people. Jean also learnt that she was Ayurent’s pupil. That explained her presence here, as it explained her knowledge in Common.

When she had finished speaking and, Jean’s guards all shifted their gaze towards Ayurent. Appropriately enough, he began to speak. He explained, although somewhat vaguely, the general plan. Fortunately, Jean had nothing to object to. However, it quickly turned to him asking for transport. That was not much of a problem, either. When Ayurent finally came to asking for specific accommodations for his Lady, a small, discreet smirk crept on the Vatiennien’s face.

Meeting all of these culinary requirements was not going to be a problem at all. If there was one thing that Jean would accept nearly a hundred percent of the time it was accommodations for a travelling noble or dignitary. It was simply part of the general, unwritten code for being a host. Also, his country had strict regulations on allowing many, if not all, of the smallest details asked of these visiting noblemen to be done. It was one of the rare moments where Vatiennien pride took the backseat to any demands of any kind. However, this was rarely known by any non-Vatienniens. Simply because if this were to become common knowledge, it could become costly to Vatiennien coffers or just simply annoying for domestics charged with dealing with every whim of abusive foreign dignitaries.

Just as the Tynir finished talking, the Inn’s door was slowly opened and a courier handed Ayurent an envelope, of which he hastily dissimulated. How curious, thought Jean. Receiving suspicious looking letters, are we? The priest made a mental note to either ask the General himself on the contents of the letter, or get the information he wanted some other way. It somewhat irked him that this happened right before his eyes, and that Ayurent offered no explanation or excuse. Regardless, for now he would keep his mouth shut on the subject.

When the courier took his leave, Jean began speaking himself. Jean wasn’t sure if the alcohol was giving him cold blood, or if it was the need to seem proper in front of his kinsmen which pushed him to act without much venom in his words. Regardless of what it was Jean toned down his sarcasm for the while.
“Those recommendations will be readily addressed, simply be certain to have the needed animals ready for travel once Vatienne’s navy comes to escort us all from your homeland to mine. For I presume that the way that the Lady will be travelling from the Korun’Otak is on boat? And since that the Tynir don’t have any sea vessels, I find it safe to assume that we will be providing the transport, as you requested.

Now, these demands will be met, however I urge you to keep threats of any kind under your belt. You say it would be unwise to displease the Lady, you say? I take it that you mean this in the way that it involves that failure to meet her demands will result in a bad reputation for Vatienne, correct? And in no way does it present itself as a threat to the physical or intellectual health of any of my country men, yes?”

Any notion of Jean’s supposed calmness evaporated once he started talking. Out with the new, in with the old. Jean’s gaze fell upon Ayurent’s pupil.
“As for you, I am glad to see that you are not only fluent in Common, but very well spoken. It is also very fortunate for you to accept such clothing. To me, it seems revealing and slightly inappropriate for diplomatic discourse, but who am I to question Tynir culture…” Jean shot a glance to Ayurent before returning his gaze to the female. “And since you are a General’s student, I am guessing I am staring right into the face of a future general!” And future enemy, though Jean. “In which case, I would like to extend to you, on behalf of all of Vatienne, cordial greetings.” It may perhaps sound odd to give her a cordial greeting, after slyly giving her a rude remark, but Jean did not even notice. He was starting to feel dizzy.

The priest’s eyes fell back on Ayurent. “So, as I hear it, you and I, as with a couple other ambassadors, will be going down to the Mountains of Night, where you will then continue on towards the Korun’Otak to inform your leader of what transpired here today. Then, when you will await my arrival and that of Vatiennien ships to then bring you to Vatienne, as with your lady, correct?

There is one small thing, and that is this: when comes the time for me and my guard to travel through your land, we will be needing a guide. I hope you have a solution for this?”

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________


Instead of answering Chälan's question, Saint--Fionu--had changed the subject, brazenly admitting to all of the paladins' suspicions. Chälan's shoulders tensed, knowing such confidence would be well founded. Chälan wanted to believe Fionu had not been completely corrupted by Morgarath, that there was some shred of his former self still left. But while Chälan's face changed from enraged to detached, what he felt when he saw the dark elf was no longer hurt but disgust.

He wished it could have been different. He opened his mouth to say so, but something stopped him. Better to accept what you are than live a lie.

In this Chälan caught a fleeting glimpse of the former Fionu, faint and distant. It didn't make sense to Chälan. Of its own his mind countered, Better to change what you are than live for evil. Why hadn't Fionu seen that? Why had he given in? Chälan was still back to the same question: how was Fionu's sister involved?

But Saint wasn't taking any more questions, that was plain enough. With nothing to be said, Chälan finally turned his eyes away and started back down the stairs. How had it come to this?

From below, the Vatiennien priest Jean de Poitiers's singular voice drifted up as Chälan reentered the inn's common room. "--ins of Night, where you will then continue on towards the Korun’Otak to inform your leader of what transpired here today. Then, when you will await my arrival and that of Vatiennien ships to then bring you to Vatienne, as with your lady, correct? There is one small thing, and that is this: when comes the time for me and my guard to travel through your land, we will be needing a guide. I hope you have a solution for this?”

The shadows of the stairwell contrasted with the lighted room, so that it seemed all the remaining sounds came to life at the same time Chälan stepped into it. The low, barely voiced vowels of Tynir muttering among themselves; the ambient clink and clatter of utensils, platters and goblets; distant, unintelligible voices elsewhere in the inn; all amid the hundred other insignificant noises Chälan had neither focus nor motivation to identify. Though seeming composed as normal, the look he shared with his fellow paladins would communicate much. Chälan returned to his seat at the table but said nothing. Next to the rest of his worries, a lost appetite was not worth even a passing thought.

“No threats. Just a simple caution. Poisoning will not go over well with my Kin.” Ayurent glanced over Jean’s shoulder as one of the Paladins returned from upstairs, and it looked as though a great weight had suddenly settled on his shoulders. What had the dark one said to cause such strife? Hopefully not enough to hamper the plans made here today.

As Jean spoke with Liluaane, Ayurent simply rolled his eyes at the Priest’s snide remark, letting the weak jab roll off him like water. Liluaane nodded her head in thanks for his ‘kind’ words, and allowed a smile to grace her face. “Thank you, Ambassador Poitiers, and may the storms forever dodge your path.” The meaning of the phrase was good, but Ayurent wondered if the Priest would ‘accept’ it as he had ‘accepted’ everything else today.

The priest continued his ramble, and the general found his eyes drifting down to the brew that sat before Jean. How much of that had he drank? The effects of such liquid was never an area of expertise with Ayurent, but he knew well enough that if a human were to consume enough of it…well, their tongue would loosen. As tempting as it was to see what Jean would spill, feeding the priest more of the liquid would likely be poorly received by his guards. He wasn’t in the mood for having to smooth things over after killing one or more of the humans.

“Yes, that is indeed correct.” His hands stretched out, knuckles cracking in harmony as the Tynir spoke. “When you come to Korun Otak, you will pass through what your kind call The Razors. At the end of the path, you will find a small building, made of stone. Think of it as an…outpost. You’ll find an escort inside waiting for you. They’ll ensure you reach Kamon’Belkar as safely as possible.” Trailing off, he thought of the journey for a silent moment. It would do better to ensure their co-operation than to leave it to chance.

“All I would ask is that you take heed to what they say. There will be at least one who will speak Common to ease the journey, but understand that it is not a well known language in the south, and it may be rough. Patience will be a must if you wish to ensure safe passage through Korun Otak.” He glanced over to Tusohe, giving a subtle nod towards the door. The I’nak wasted no time in leaving, expertly weaving her way past any who obstructed her path. Liluaane took heed as well, bowing one final time to Jean.

“It was a pleasure to meet you, Ambassador Poitiers.” She turned and followed after the I’nak, glancing quietly at Jean’s guards as she went. Ayurent rose, a smile on his face as he straightened his jacket.

“I trust that will be satisfactory. Anything else, I trust we can discuss on the road, yes?” Bowing his head ever so slightly, the general chuckled. “Please, enjoy your drink, Ambassador. I have business that I must attend to before the night is done. I shall see you tomorrow.” Without another word, he turned and left, casually reaching into his jacket and retrieving the letter.

Stepping out into the brisk night air, he examined the small envelope for a moment. “What can I do for you, dear cat?” The Tynir murmured as he peeled the letter open.

Dusk settled on the golden city like a dark blanket, smothering the sounds of life. Lights came on in some windows, and activity slowly ceased on the streets as the merchants packed their wares for the night. Even the animal sounds of the stables quieted as handlers prepared mounts for their night of rest. Somewhere in the distance, a cat yowled once, content with its first meal. The golden city settled into to silver moonlight, into its nightly slumber.

That was not a privilege Saint would receive. He had work to do.

He pulled his cloak from his shoulders, exposing the leather armor beneath; chestpiece and thighpads. He would not need them tonight and they were restricting. He pulled on the straps to release the armor and placed it in his trunk. Turning to his rucksack, Saint carefully took an intricately carved wooden box from it. Inside were several vials cushioned carefully with sponge, to protect the precious cargo they held. Shrugging his cloak back on, he selected several knifes he might use- slim, lightweight blades. From the box, he selected two vials, one milky and cloudy, the other black as ink and jelly-like. Then the assassin locked his door and left.

Thendari and human alike looked at Saint as he descended the stairs to the common room. Carefully, he avoided eye contact with familiar faces, as glances followed him across the room. He paid the looks no heed. Conversation seemed to entirely cease as the Moriquendë crossed the meeting area, where the forces of light dined together before their journey into the dark. As he walked from the inn, whispers turned back to normal conversation.

The night outside was sharp and crisp, without a cloud in the sky. The moon was a bright sliver in the sky, lighting up the city with a pale silver light. Saint breathed the night air a moment before moving, and almost ran directly into a massive shadow. Surprised, he jumped back and his hand flew to the knife concealed in his sleeve. He should have worn his armor! Saint’s hand only relaxed when he realized the shadow was the humongous Tynir delegate. The man stood a good three heads taller than him, and the moriquendë nodded stiffly as he let his hands fall back to his sides. The delegate simply smiled in response, and Saint had the feeling that the Tynir had mare wisdom than the ferocity his people were known for. The man had somehow read into him.

He found Asmodeus skulking near the well behind the inn. Sythen relished shadows and the shedding of blood, and the grinning Inquisitioner was no exception to the rule. Something about Asmodeus set Saint on edge. He wasn’t trustworthy, though none of his people were, and the way he smiled… His teeth seemed just a little too long for his mouth, and too thin. It made his smiles more than a little unsettling.

“Well, Hand? Have you ssomeone in mind for tonight’ss ssport?” The snake hissed more than spoke, and Saint frowned in response.

“Oddly enough, I do. Meet me at the corner of Wintersbreath street when the moon hits the roofs of the city. And do not be late, there is much to do tonight.”

The Sythen answered him with something that was almost a smile.

Nolwë Osto stretched out before him, glowing in the faint light of the moon. It had always seemed welcoming, before. Now it seemed angry, stretching out above Saint, trying to drown him in its beauty. His memory sparked as he wandered the empty streets, moving straight for Wintersbreath. All you had to do was follow the wind. The streets acted as a natural funnel for it, and Wintersbreath was were all of the wind gathered, especially at night. Those that lived there had thick blankets and warm hearths. Saint passed some things he had never seen before in the city. People lounging in alleys after dark, shops boarded up, here and there. These had been hard times for everybody, and even the Quendë capital had been affected.

Wintersbreath was just as frigid as he remembered, but he did not feel the cold. Saint didn’t feel much, these days. Even on a night as clear as this, the city’s wind whistled down the street mercilessly, tearing at the edges of his cloak. Memories, here… Saint could not help but recall this place. This was where he had first lived in the golden city, as a scribe and apothecary. He had seen those who did not have the money to seek magical healing, and did the best he could with his herbs and tinctures. Those same potions had turned to poisons and drugs. A life ago he had thought he could make a difference, even while he ran from his traitorous blood.

What a fool he had been.

Saint shook his head as he walked down Wintersbreath. The chill wind blew signs that hung the shops of the street, chains slowly creaking as they swayed in moonlight. There was not a soul to be seen on the street. Eerie, but Saint couldn’t help but grin at how applicable the night was to his task. His old house ̶ no, Fionu’s house ̶ called him back.

It was a chandlery now, the sign announced. Saint was unsurprised it had been reused, though he wondered who had gotten the rights since he had disappeared. No matter, it was nothing but poor luck now. The door opened smoothly and quietly, as if oiled recently. None latched their doors in Nolwë Osto, Saint remembered with a grin. Lavender and orange flooded the stillness of the workroom, and candle stumps were scattered everywhere. Wicks and tallow had been placed out for early dipping, and scented soaps lined the walls behind a short counter. Though it was black, he could see perfectly, one of the benefits of his transformation.

A family slept on the second floor, a single torch flickering embers in its sconce. A sad smile crossed the Moriquendë’s face as he felt out for the dim light. He threw his cloak over it, smothering the dim embers with its thick weave. The room was suddenly plunged into darkness. Only the sliver of moon at the window let in light, and little of that.

The family slept in two beds, the same beds that he and his sister had once slept in. She had told him that they could share one, for the cost of it, but he had heard nothing of it. Her bed had been a gift from a woodworker after he had saver his daughter from fever… Enough of that. His hand went to his sleeve, and suddenly a bare knife winked in the moonlight, shadow-forged steel glinting darkly. He pulled the milky vial from his other sleeve and uncorked it carefully, letting a single drop fall on the blade.

Night-adder venom, distilled to its purest alchemical form. Normally clear, it had been boiled down until it was milky and thick. Even the smallest amount would cause the victims muscles to seize until they were paralyzed. Eventually the lungs and heart would be paralyzed as well. With a piece of silk cloth, Saint wiped the poison up and down the blade until it was even.

The father was easy and quick, a nick behind the ear. He did not stir, though his breathing became rougher as he left sleep and transitioned to terror. The mother was more difficult, waking as he nicked her. She tried to cry out, but Saint pushed her head into her pillow before her scream left her. She felt like a child struggling against him, his strength born of the change inside him, and her muffled sounds grew weaker and weaker as the venom took hold. Eventually, she shuddered and went limp. A quick look told him no one had awoken, and he gave himself a quick shake before continuing. He had once slept in the same bed.

The son was almost a man grown, and unusually muscled for a Quendë. Saint quickly made his cut and watched for signs of waking. None came. The last was a girl, young, especially for Quendë. His blade hovered in his hand a moment before descending behind her ear. He jerked back suddenly as she turned over in her sleep muttering something quietly.

Saint’s breath caught in his throat. She was obviously of the Hyarya, the wildness was in her features, but she was so young. So young.

Too young.

“Spirits take me,” Saint swore under his breath. At the window, the moon was almost at the top of the buildings. He had very little time, if he was going to do anything.

Quickly, he went down the stairs. Herbs… he needed herbs. They had to be somewhere, this was a chandlery! Without scented candles, they would never make it through summer months! The basement. It was where he had once kept the sick he had not wanted spreading to other patients, and now it was devoted to the drying of plants for candles. Every variety, too much at once. Angelica, Cowbane… There! Mercan’s Husk and Mandrake would put even the hardiest in a peaceful sleep. He grabbed the two and threw them in a cup, then went back upstairs. He found a bucket full of water for the morning, and poured it into the cup. No time to boil it, he would have to crush the herbs into it. He did so with the pommel of a different dagger.

Carefully, Saint shook the girl until her eyes fluttered gently. Her eyes were a soft green as she looked into the dark, confused. “Father? Is that you? Where are you?”

Saint held out his hand. “Right here, child. You were having a dream.” It was too dark for her to see his face, but even so, he was worried. “A bad dream. Drink this, it will soothe the nightmare from you. We have a long day tomorrow.”

The child did as he told her, though she screwed up her face at the bitter taste of the potion. So unquestioningly trusting. Spirits, what had he become? Saint waited until she fell deep into sleep before he took her brother from his side of the bed. She did not make a noise.

He took the brother to the basement, leaning him against the far wall. The father and mother came soon afterwards, light as babes in Saint’s unnaturally strong arms. They lay against the wall, lay and stared at him accusingly. Their eyes followed him as he left.

True to his word, Asmodeus met him at the corner of Wintersbreath. His hood was pulled down low dispite the dark. “You are late,” the Sythen hissed at him. “Is everything prepared?”

“Of course,” Saint replied with scorn. “Coming, Inquisitioner?”

Saint led Asmodeus to the chandlery, and down to the basement, hoping desperately that the potion would work for a time yet. If the child woke and was noticed, he would be able to do nothing for her. Among the dried herbs, in the basement where Fionu had once seen to patients, the two agents of shadow prepared to mete out death.

Asmodeus drew a knife of his own, a thick black thing. The snake cupped the knife in his palm and drew the blade carefully along the flat of his hand, drawing forth blood. Clenching the wound into a fist, he dribbled a rough circle on the ground. It was not complete , but left space for shadow to leak in and gather. Then, the Inquisitioner lifted his hands in the gesture that always began the ritual, preparing to offer the ingredients required.

Ingredients. A dark laugh played about the moriquendë’s lips. A certain dark humor in calling them that. There were only three ingredients in the ritual of summoning.

Blood, pain, and death.

Asmodeus’s eyes took on a flat look as he brought the chandler to the edge of the rough circle and knelt him down. “Dark father,” he intoned “Lord of the night, we call upon you. Come before us, and be known. I offer to you this gift of blood.

A light cut in the male Quendë’s wrist brought forth bright red blood. The Sythen licked the knife with his forked tongue, then dragged his fingers across the wound. He used the man’s blood to finish the circle, trapping whatever had already gotten inside. From this distilled essence, he would summon their lord.

Saint stood the female on limp legs, and Asmodeus smiled his almost-smile. The moriquendë knew that pain was the Inquisitor’s favorite part of the ritual, and hated him for it. At least allow them to die with their dignity. As he held the mother before him, the Sythen stabbed her deep in the arch of her back. In between the ribs and into the lung- a fatal blow. She would linger for a time before she drowned on her own blood, but she would die in agony. Saint could see her eyes questioning him, asking him why it was them. He wished he had an answer for her. Random chance, or fate, or destiny. There was no kindness in that. Bloody bubbles appeared on her lips as her breathing became labored and choked. Saint leaned forward and whispered into her ear. “I am sorry. I am so very sorry. I can only promise you your daughter will be fine.” There was no acceptance in her returning gaze, only anger and mute incomprehension. Saint brushed a tear from her eye for her before laying her gently on the basement floor.

Asmodeus looked at him strangely. “Did you say something? I thought I heard…”

“I lost my grip, Inquisitioner. Continue with the ritual.” Saint’s face was a mask, the shadows underneath his eyes dark. Asmodeus did not question him.

The snake turned back to the circle, chuckling under his breath. “With pain, I bind and strengthen. Grow, shadows, and take your form! I offer you a meal of agony!” The shadows within the circle writhed and became almost liquid. They strained against the outsides of the circle, but could not break through. “Come forward, master of the Dark!”

The chandler’s son looked at Saint with frantic eyes as he dragged him to the circle and threw him facedown. Asmodeus wasted no more time with further chanting. He pulled back his dagger and plunged the flat steel into the young Quendë’s neck. The bones of his neck crunched as the dark steel broke through the vertebre, severing the precious cords within. The boy was dead before the Inquisitioner removed the knife.

“Lord, your servants place themselves before you! Speak to us, that we might do your will!”
A presence seemed to fill the small room as the shadows congealed, congealed and retreated. A sickeningly sweet smell filled the room, the scent of death and fresh rot. Reality seemed to tear, and then a figure stood from the center of the circle. Though he was short, his presence filled the room like a weight, bearing down like hundreds of pounds of pressure. Saint felt thick with the stench, as he always did. He almost retched with the suddenness of it, but managed to keep his stomach. The figure reached out carelessly with a foot and scrubbed a part of the circle from the floor, making the room suddenly crackle with static. Then he turned his gaze to his minions from beneath his hood.

Gods, the eyes. Saint could not look into them. He never could. They knew all that he was, could pull apart the fiber of his being with a glance. Gods, that gaze burned!

“Is it done?” The words echoed were softly spoken, but echoed unnaturally in the now-quiet basement.

Asmodeus wasted no time ingratiating himself. “Ass you commanded, Lord. Emoria will search for more evidence before they commit to a plan. We will have time to begin the offensive. They will not move against uss yet. I, myself…”

“Excellent,” The Dark Lord cut the Sythen short. “Tell me, Hand. What of my enemies? What of Taurë Arda and Vatienne?”

Saint shuddered in the warm basement. The tattoos on his left arm flared with a quiet pain again, just a reminder of who the Moriquendë belonged to. “Vatienne will bear watching. Of all the delegates, thiers was one of the most difficult to talk down. They will remain unconvinced. Taurë Arda will be caught unawares, however, secure as they are in their neutrality. The Thendari may become a problem, however, lord. They push for action.”

“Meddlers. No matter, they stand alone in Emoria, with their precious Light. I will deal with them personally, if need be.”

The sythen’s face nearly broke in half with the smile he gave the lord. “Thendari Paladins return with uss to the mountainss, lord. They willingly walk into our handss! I cannot wait to have one on my table! If my lord will permit, of course.”

Spirits! Chalän! Sweat broke out on Saint’s skin, and he suddenly felt light in his stomach.

The Lord chuckled. “The bravado of those fools is commendable, if not their survival instinct. What say you to this, Hand?”

“Perhaps, my lord, a different option presents itself.” Saint found himself looking into the eyes. There was nothing in the yellow gaze but madness and rage, and he felt as if he had stepped in something cold and wet. “Perhaps these Thendari could be used. They are of the council called here, and if we fed them information of our choosing… If evidence came from the Paladins as well as the mountains? That would be impressive proof. None would suspect us until we marched to their doors.”

The eyes dimmed a moment, appraising Saint. “Very well, Hand. That is a wise move, but I will not have a company of Paladins traipsing about my Mountains. The damage they could do if they got loose… I will set a trap for them on the high roads past the wall, to whittle down their numbers, and then we will feed them your lies.”

Asmodeus looked as though he wanted to kill Saint. At least Chalan would have a chance, now.

“lord, that does not sseem… Think of all we could learn from thesse Thendari!”

“I have made my decision, Inquisitor. Best to remember your place.”

The Dark lord evaporated quickly, leaving as suddenly as he had appeared. The room seemed to lighten, and Saint released a breath he did not realize he had been holding. Asmodeus stared daggers at him.

“What in the hellss, Quendë? There iss nothing to be gained from the Thendari at this sstage, you know that as well as I! We are on the brink of war, a day or two will make no difference! You have gone ssoft!” The assassin could feel the Sythen’s rage radiating from him. He gave him a level stare back.

“You forget your place, Inquisitioner, and your rank. I am not one of your questioning subjects, and I will not suffer your anger. Need I remind you of Seliss?”

Asmodeus jerked as if struck. Seliss was… had been his meld-partner. The Dark Lord had thought to teach the Sythen a lesson, and had her killed to bind Asmodeus to him. It had fallen to Saint to carry out the deed.

And so Asmodeus hated Saint. And he could do nothing about it.

“Ssomeday, Quendë… I will see to that debt. Our livess are long, and you cannot be in the Lord’s favor forever.”

“Tell me, Asmodeus. How did it feel when she died? Before she died? Could you feel it when she bled out in her chambers, and you could do nothing?” There was murder in the Sythen’s eyes. “Our lord ordered her skinned with a red-hot blade. Surely you felt some of that?”

Their souls had been linked together. Saint knew that he had. He had felt all of it as though it had been done to him. In a way, it had.

Morgarath had done it simply to keep one of his subjects in line. Poor bastard. Saint was secure in the knowledge that he and his sister were too valuable to waste… so far.

“Best keep an eye on that ssister of yours, Hand. Things have been known to happen in the mountains. Accidents and the like. Tomorrow, we have long to travel, and I will be thinking of you.” With that, the Sythen slammed the door and strode up the stairs out of the chandlery. Saint winced as there was a noise from the second floor. At least the Inquisitioner hadn’t found the child.

He took the stairs two at a time, rushing up to the second floor as quickly as he could. His cloak had fallen from the torch, but the child remained fast asleep. A smile touched Saint’s lips as he looked at her, sleeping peacefully. This would be hard for both of them. He would have to be on guard, not just from the Sythen, but also from the more well-meaning of the caravan party. This night’s events could never come out, not if this child was to have any kind of life. For that matter, neither could she remain here. Taurë Arda might become a battleground in mere months, and she would have no protection from that.

“I am sorry for this, girl,” he whispered to her sleeping from. “I will take care of you the best I know how. I am afraid that now we are both lost.” He pulled her gently from her bed, and grabbed a leather-bound journal he had noticed on a writing desk next to the window. Moonlight still streamed though, faintly.

On his shoulder, the Quendë child shifted slightly, getting comfortable under his cloak. Saint made his way slowly back downstairs and spread about some of the candles in the shop. Then he pulled the second vial from its securing in his sleeve and let it drop to the ground, shattering. Immediately, the jelly inside caught fire, burning a sickly yellow color. Shadowsulfer. It would burn through the floor to the basement, would burn for hours before it had exhausted itself. The room caught quickly, the candles melting to pools of wax as the heat became unbearable.

Saint stood for a moment on Wintersbreath, and watched his past burn.

There was nothing for him in Nolwë Osto now. He had once lived here, and now nothing remained but ashes. Everything was ashes.

The return to the inn was uneventful. In the small hours of the night, there were even less people than dusk, and none eyed strangers. Trustworthy folk were in bed by this hour. The sun was beginning to dawn by the time he got back. The common room was empty, and he trudged up the stairs to his room quietly. Tired as he was, he knew that he would not find it in himself to sleep this night, not when they left so soon. He cleared his armor from the bed and lay down the child. Then he took the chair and began to read the journal. It was not long until he found what he sought, and a smile grew on his face that had nothing to do with his job, or what he had become. Nothing to do with dark humor or irony.

“Hello, Aellos,” the Moriquendë said to the quietly sleeping child. “I’m your uncle Fionu.”

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________


Chälan had been up since just after dawn, his somber mood lifting a little with the start of a new day. A few of the paladins had been assigned to leave word of their departure at the paladins' tower in the city. It had been empty since yesterday, and likely would be empty for several weeks or months. They needed to put it in order and set the wards. For this purpose Chälan, as Anatar's second, strode through the early morning streets accompanied by Nendra, Talus, Edrian, Alder and Shenhra.

The paladins' tower in Nolwë Osto was almost due south of the Great Library. The paladins stationed in the city currently stayed in different inns and used the tower to hold meetings or observe the countryside. They were still working out the details with city officials in order to build a proper headquarters. The tower itself rose only two stories higher than the surrounding rooftops, but it served its purpose. White and cylindrical, wide enough to house moderate-sized rooms, and accentuated with climbing vines that clung to its walls, it blended well with the elven architecture all around, and yet it was distinct enough to be recognizable as a Paladin outpost.

The sky was already blue, and the morning sun struck the tower's eastern face with a golden flame. The paladins had been speaking softly in Thendarin elvish along their walk, but they hushed now as they approached the tower. Chälan turned a white metal handle and opened the door safely. Inside, Chälan and Nendra got to work storing and organizing the records and rooms. The others, who had come from Aendrel with Tatyana, ascended the spiral stairs to the top of the tower in order to view the city and surrounding area.

A short time later, as Chälan and Nendra were working their way up the tower and began to hear the speculative chatter of the paladins above, one of the paladins, Edrian, called down to them: "Come up, you two! A paladin approaches the city from the east road!"
Chälan hurried up to the top level and looked out and instantly spotted the single rider approaching the city gate. There was no mistaking the glint of isildin armor. And the direction... "Sretin...?"
Nendra came to the panoramic window next to him and was soon leaning forward to discern details. "Dannya!" she exclaimed in recognition.
Chälan turned his head. "Your great-granddaughter?"
The elder paladin nodded.
Chälan sensed that the only thing keeping her from rushing down the stairs was her loyalty to the paladin ways. It was a strange thing, Chälan reflected, to outrank someone ten times your age. "You should go and meet her," he said. "We'll finish everything here."

Chälan enlisted the other paladins' assistance after Nendra left. The time lost in explaining things to them was made up in having more hands to tend the work. In less than two hours, they had closed down the rooms and spellbound the tower so that none but a paladin might enter. Inside they left word of their mission to the shadowlands, as well as a brief summary of the Council of Nolwë Osto. A full report would wait until they brought the news directly to Aendrel.

By the time they had finished, the entire city had heard the frightening news.
The Sretin Provinces were all but destroyed.

It was morning in the elven city and the birds were chirping, the streets were starting to bustle with activity and the sound of the city life started to fill the air once again. Jean was outside of the inn where he had stayed for the night and was preparing his horse for the voyage towards the Mountains of Night, as were his guards. The priest’s head was throbbing thanks to his binge drinking last night. It was very rare for him to drink anything at all since he was a priest, and the stress that accompanies him through his job finally caught up to him. His two mugs were enough to do this to him. He just hoped he didn’t say too much to those barbarians that could jeopardize him or his country…

It was during this time that he heard the ‘news’ that wasn’t really ‘news’ to him. The Sretin provinces had fallen. It was all but false. The last known information sent to the Senate that Jean had known about, Sretin was indeed falling, but that was before the Empire sent out some two thousand men to honor the long standing defense pact between Vatienne and Sretin, but also to secure the Empire’s northern front from a potential devastating zombie invasion. Jean had received no reports from the Capital since he had left concerning the Sretin expedition, but he assumed the imperial army had done its job. Jean made a mental note to comfort anyone who was frightened by Sretin’s supposed destruction and to put in place anyone who thought otherwise.

A couple more minutes later, and Jean was sitting on his horse, his escort around him with the flags out and waving in the gentle morning wind. Jean instructed his horse up towards the entrance to the inn to call up on anyone who was not ready or was still sleeping.

“I do hope the rest of you are ready for our journey, let’s get moving. I am anxious to see if there is any truth concerning the Mountains of Night.”

Jean’s next words were obviously directed towards Saint, their guide.

“As soon as you are ready, I do hope you grace us and lead the way as soon as you are ready.” There was some intense and obvious scorn when Jean was being polite to his enemy, but he genuinely wanted this trip to go on its way. He waited impatiently for Saint to lead the way.

The journal slipped through the Moriquendë’s fingers slowly, falling to the ground with a muted thump. Saint suddenly started awake, his hand flung to shield his face before he realized he had fallen asleep in his cloak and boots. He gently rubbed the sleep from his eyes as he bent down from the chair to grab the journal. As he grabbed the leather-bound tome from the ground, he glanced over to where Aellos was sleeping.

She wasn’t there.

Saint stood suddenly, and then let out a sigh of relief as he saw her standing in front of the door. He didn’t know where she’d gotten one of his knifes, but she hadn’t used it on him yet, and that was probably a good sign. The small hand that held the blade shook with fright, but she hadn’t dropped it either. There was steel in the girl.

“Who- Who are you? Where’s mom and dad?”

Saint grimaced. “They didn’t tell you? Well. No matter, fortunately. Aellos, I’m your uncle Fionu, surely you remember me? Your mother must have mentioned my name at some point.”

The knife lowered a little bit.

“Naerwen told me that they were having a hard time with the chandlery, with the bees not making as much wax as they usually did. They were having a hard time keeping food for you two, so she asked me if I could take you next time I came down from the mountains. Maybe make a ranger of you.” Saint held out the letter he had forged last night. Indeed, that was exactly what it said- and in her mother’s own impeccable handwriting. The Moriquendë punctuated the lie with his best disarming smile.

Aellos stuck her hand out quickly and grabbed the note, reading it carefully. Then she nodded and dropped the knife, which stuck point-first in the inn’s floorboards. Suddenly, she was hugging Saint tightly. The moriquendë didn’t have any idea what to say to her, and she kept hugging him more and more tightly. Thank the spirits for that journal.

“I’m hungry,” the young Quende said after a while. Why didn’t you come sooner? Mom and Dad said sometimes we couldn’t afford food. And I caught them skipping meals sometimes.” Saint almost blushed. He wasn’t sure if he still could blush. The dark elf was unaccustomed to anyone even being willing to talk to him, let alone depend on him. He wished, for a moment, that he didn’t have to lie to this girl. That he really was her uncle, here to teach her the ways of the woods.

“Go and pick up that knife,” the Moriquendë said, comfortingly. It’s yours, now, if you want it. Just tuck it into your belt, like that. Good. First lesson: it never hurts to have a good knife around.” Aellos looked at him, beaming. She didn’t walk like the knife belonged in her belt, but it was still a good idea to keep one around. You never knew when you might need it. “Now, if you’re coming with me, we’re going to need to get you a few things. I have a little bit of coin stored away, so I suppose we’re going to market. Let’s get you a hot bowl of porridge, first, though.”

In the common room of the inn, the sun glared through the slats of the windows harshly, beaming down through a mostly-cloudless sky. Only morning, and so hot already! The innkeeper smiled at Aellos as Saint asked her for a bowl of porridge, and put a handful of almonds and honey into her bowl without being asked. Saint, she scowled at, and he rolled his eyes. As he and the young Quende sat down, she dug into the oats with a vigor he would never have thought possible. Then she smiled, traces of oat husk still clinging to her teeth.

As Saint walked outside, Aellos holding his hand tightly, she slipped on his tinted glasses to shield from the fire of the day. The young orphan looked at him strangely, but made no comment. Jean, the Vatiennian delegate, was already up, by the looks of it, yelling at everyone to do the same. How abrasive could the man be?

Jean turned to the dark elf and said, with no small amount of malice, “As soon as you are ready, I do hope you will grace us and lead the way.” Polite, but scathing.

Saint raised an eyebrow. “Actually, I must take my niece here and buy her a proper horse and saddle. If you are in such a hurry to be off, I recommend you send someone to wake the Tynir delegate and take the south road. I will be sure to catch up with you by nightfall at the latest.”

Aellos laughed. “Can I name the horse?” she asked, her face breaking into a smile.

Before walking away from the Vatiennian, Saint took some small solace in the fact that Jean looked just as confused as he was.

Ayurent could tell when something troubled his pupil, as Liluaane’s eyes were quick to betray her thoughts whenever something stirred beneath her practiced calm. As the Tynir silently packed her scant few belongs into a pack, her eyes flicked over to him, before jumping away when she realized he was already watching her.

All the training in the world can’t make them age quicker. A contented smile spread across his lips, as he moved to the female’s side, hand’s woven behind his back. She glanced up at him, offering a sincere smile before rising respectfully to her feet, somehow managing to appear smaller when she had an inch on him easily. “What troubles you, Liluaane?”

Her eyes widened for a brief moment, and she opened her mouth to protest, but Ayurent’s knowing smile quickly disarmed the thought. “I simply…wish I was returning with you and the others, Kon’ost. It’s been a long time since I left your side...”

“You’ve been at my side since your training began, Liluaane.” The general-in-training nodded happily, her eyes drifting from their usual ebony to a soft steel. “But, a Kon’ost is always prepared to move, with, or without an escort.” He clasped a single hand on her shoulder, his smile wide with pride. “I have the utmost faith in you. You will do fine, I promise.”

She gazed at his hand for a moment, before her head bowed in understanding, and he released her from his grasp. “Thank you, Kon’ost. It means the world to have your blessing.” He moved to the others without another word, keenly aware of the eyes on his back as he went. As the group stepped aboard their mounts, Ayurent gave the silent order forward, gaze focused on the road before him.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

As they approached the Inn, Ayurent couldn’t help but smile at Jean’s insistence that they get moving. At least there would be one constant on this trip, if the priest’s behaviour was any indication. Saint’s appearance earned looks from everyone, although Ayurent found himself shaking his head in disbelief at the mention of ‘niece’.

We shall see, I suppose.

“No need to wake me, Ambassadors. I may be old, but I can still rise with the sun when necessary.” His eyes sparkled with amusement, the Tynir guiding his group wordlessly closer to Jean’s own group. “Did you bring enough men, I wonder? The Mountains might think it an invasion if you bring much more, Jean.” His own escort mirrored his amusement at the size of the retinue, save for Liluaane, who stood quietly by herself towards the entrance of the Inn.

“Good luck in your shopping, Ambassador Saint.” Once the dark elf had disappeared from view, Ayurent spared a glance at his Vatiennian traveling companion. “Well, I hope the night gave you good rest, Ambassador. I suspect we’ll need it for the days ahead.”

With a quiet clearing of her throat, Liluaane spoke to the Ambassador. “Have you heard word from the Paladins? I am staying behind, so if you need to depart, I can relay Ambassador Saint’s message on to them for you.”

What? A NIECE? That monster has a niece? The twisted, dark thing has a niece. Hardly conceivable. Not conceivable. It was impossible. It did not take much to send Jean on high alert, especially from people like Saint. Jean was always looking for proof that this elf was completely corrupted. This seemed to be the ticket. Jean made sure that only surprise and not suspicion was shown on his face. It seemed that Saint’s ‘niece’ wished to get a horse. Of course. Before Jean could say anything he heard both a welcome yet unwelcome sound. The Tynir had arrived.

“No need to wake me, Ambassadors. I may be old, but I can still rise with the sun when necessary.”

Jean tried hard to suppress a laugh. It was even harder to keep himself from saying anything in retort. It was too early in the morning to poke any fun at the Tynir. Besides, if he was to travel this far with these Tynir, he couldn’t say every little mockery or satirical sentence that went through his head. He didn’t want to end up killing the Tynir and Saint before getting what he wanted. That would be a total disaster. He could still make them angry though. Right then and there he promised himself to push them to the brink, not off. Just push them as close as possible to the end. The next words that came out from the Tynir’s mouth already put Jean to the test.

“Did you bring enough men, I wonder? The Mountains might think it an invasion if you bring much more, Jean.”

Cute. It really was. Jean almost decided to ignore it. Then he realized that he shouldn’t. Why should he? The Mountains of Night were his enemies, no matter what reconciliatory words Saint said. His entire speech about the MoN’s inhabitants becoming suddenly free and good-willed were ludicrous. Vatienne and her allies once invaded and destroyed the place. The Empire could easily do it again.

Simple logic.

“Oh, don’t worry, my Tynir friends. That will come soon enough.” He said that with the largest possible smile, half joking, half serious. Jean realized that the Tynir had attempted some humor, but so did Jean. Although it was some half-attempted humor, it was humor nonetheless and should be treated as such. The priest wouldn’t be surprised if the Tynir said something about his comment. Now that would be funny.

As Saint left, Ayurent Jean saw how the Tynir barely minded the fact that Saint had practically materialized a niece out of thin air and wished him away with good graces. The priest noted that those two were probably accomplices in their dark engineerings. They had to be watched, if not only for the safety of Saint’s ‘niece’. Jean’s eyes lingered on Saint as he walked away. It took him awhile to answer the Tynir’s question and that of his female apprentice.

“Yes, thank you, I did have a good night’s sleep. The inn’s beds were rather comfortable.” Jean then turned his head towards the female apprentice to answer her. “The Paladins are up in their tower. They have received word that the Sretin provinces have been utterly destroyed. However I have yet to tell them that that news came before the arrival of an entire Vatiennien regiment to the area to keep it from imploding. Sretin is fine. You can send both my message of reconciliation and Saint’s, if it is no trouble to you.”

Jean then turned to three of his guards and spoke to them in his native language, Vadeir; “Suivez l’ambassadeur des Montagnes de Nuit, et assurez vous de la sécurité da sa soi-disant nièce. Si vous entendez parler d’un enlèvement récent dans la ville, transmettez-moi les nouvelles par Carbo.” With that, the three soldiers were off to accomplish their duty. The priest then whistled loudly. For the first time since he arrived at the elven city, his eagle, Carbo, flew over head with a screech. The animal swooped down and landed on Jean’s shoulder. Jean then pointed over to the three soldiers that were disappearing into the distance. The animal immediately understood and took off once again, vanishing over the rooftops.

Jean then turned his attention back to the Tynir party. “Waiting on the others, are we?” Jean got off his horse and walked up to the Tynir. He walked through the party slowly, stopping at one of the escorts. Jean stopped in his tracks and simply looked her in the eye. Then Jean addressed Ayurent: “Do you know how long it will take to get to the Mountains of Night?”

“Excellent. I’ll make sure to keep an eye out for weak points in their fortifications for you.” Ayurent paid no heed to Jean’s grin, deeming it much too nice a day to spend bickering with a priest. Although the word of Sretin was interesting. “Almost destroyed? My curiosity is sparked, what could almost destroy a country so quickly?” He rubbed his chin in thought for a moment, watching as the priest walked casually amongst his retinue, as if giving it some sort of inspection.

The female held his gaze, eyes dark inside her helmet, hand resting calmly on the handle of the spear at her side. “Something you need, pale-skin?” She spoke firm and even, ever aware of the Kon’ost’s watchful gaze on the priest. He was safe from her blade…for now.

“Well, I suppose it matters little in the long run if your regiment has truly done its work. Congratulations on a successful campaign then, Ambassador. Perhaps we’ll share a toast when I finally see the fabled City of Vatienne.” He raised a fist to his mouth in a brief salute, before glancing to the sky above. “As for waiting, I say it would be easier to simply depart now, and allow the others to catch up. Kol’bah don’t move as fast as horses, so I doubt they will have much trouble.” He looked to Liluaane, who allowed a brief sad smile to flicker across her face, before she slipped back into her well maintained calm.

“If the journey here was any indication, it will take several months, Ambassador. I will likely reach Kamon’Belkar before your journey is complete.” She lowered herself to sit just outside the Inn, watching the escort of the priest curiously, sensing once again their eyes upon her. “With luck, I will see you there before you depart for your homeland.”

Ayurent gave his mount a pat, before urging the beast towards the southern road. “Come, we have a long road ahead of us.” His escort quietly fell into position behind him, biding silent farewell to Liluaane as she saluted the Kon’ost as he passed.

“May the storms forever dodge your path, Kon’ost Ayurent. May the storms forever dodge your path, Ambassador Poitiers.” She watched, quiet in her melancholy as the two groups slowly disappeared down the road, before resigning herself to waiting for the Paladins. For “upholders of the light” they weren’t very punctual…

A wistful sigh escaped her olive lips, as the general-in-training gazed off at the sky, longing for the stormy skies of her homeland.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________


Chälan paced anxiously outside a meeting room, his boots echoing on the polished floor of the Aendrel embassy, a wing of one of the grand buildings near the Great Library. For the past hour, the Paladins of Aendrel had been pushing for a reconvening of the Council that had just taken place. Anatar, Tatyana, Nendra, and Dannya who had come with the news of Sretin, were all inside the room meeting with Quendi ambassadors and officials. Chälan and a few other paladins waited outside to keep the talks secure--Chälan stationed by the door, the others positioned elsewhere inside the embassy or outside the building. The rest of the paladins were continuing preparations for their departure to the Mountains of Night as previously planned, should negotiations fail. By himself outside the meeting room door, Chälan found himself beginning to doubt that a second Council in the LIbrary would accomplish any more than the first meeting had.

Chälan turned abruptly at the sound of the door behind him opening quietly. Saila slipped out through the small opening and gently latched the door closed. She carried papers and scrolls under her arm, library materials as well as records of this meeting. Her presence at the meeting had been threefold: ambassador, scribe, and moderator of the Council that had taken place yesterday. They'd seen each other on the way here, but there had been no time to talk. When Saila turned from the door to Chälan, she shook her head sadly in response to his unspoken question.
As a courtesy, Chälan addressed her first in Quenya. "Is the meeting over, then?" An all but needless question, but Chälan did want to know.
Saila, perhaps as a courtesy in return, perhaps merely used to speaking with Thendári at the moment, answered in Thendarin. "The official meeting is over, but your comrades and the other quendi are still talking." She looked over at the closed door, then back once again at him, hefting the papers under her arm. "I must archive these records. Walk with me?"
Chälan nodded and fell in step beside her, sharing a quick word with the paladins outside as he left the building.

It was well into the morning in Nolwë. The company preparing to journey to the Mountains of Night were probably starting to notice the paladins' absence. If there was to be no reconvening of the Council, then they needed to join their fellow paladins and begin the journey with the rest of the group.
Saila said, "Well, now we know why the Breale were absent from the council. According to the information from the paladin called Dannya, the attacks must have started shortly after our messenger returned Sretin. That explains why we had no word of this until now."
Chälan said nothing but nodded as they walked.
"The officials at the embassy deemed a reconvening of the Council of little use, since the ambassadors of other nations would only move for verification and evidence, as they did on the kidnappings. Some of the ambassadors have already left and might be hard to track down, and there would be too much time lost in investigating the kidnappings."
"I began to have similar thoughts as time wore on. We hoped to convince the other nations of Morgarath's involvement with this news, but their response would all too likely prove to be exactly the same as before."

They walked on in silence until they entered the Library. Saila broke the quiet in a slow voice. "I spoke with Fionu after the Council." She didn't seem able to say more than that.
Chälan had a harder time responding to this than he'd anticipated. After a moment, he decided to be completely forthcoming. "...I know," he admitted. "I saw the two of you talking."
When she didn't respond right away, he went on. "I spoke with him as well, last night. I asked him why he left, why he had to choose the Mountains of Night. He said, 'Better to accept what you are than live a lie.' And then he admitted to deceiving the entire Council. But I saw when he talked to you. He was different. Vulnerable."
Saila hung her head slighly. "He hasn't told me why he left, either, Chälan. But it seemed he felt trapped on his path, obligated to see it through. He wouldn't accept my advice. All I could do was be a friend to him as much as I could." She looked up at him as they walked. "He still cares, Chälan. He needs us to be there for him. When you go with him to the Mountains of Night, watch and wait for Fionu to come through. Be ready to help him escape whatever holds the Night has on him. Please?"
"Of course," Chälan said sincerely. "He..." The thendári stopped himself. He had been going to add that, once, Fionu had loved her. But Chälan decided that, if she knew, there was no point in his telling her, and if she did not know, it would only bring further sorrow. "He even tried to pass off our friendship, when I talked to him. What if he really is a monster?"
"Then he can do no more harm to us than he already has--and far less harm than he will have done to himself... and his sister."
Chälan decided, "If Fionu will not tell me why it had to be the Mountains of Night, then I will find his sister myself and learn the answers."

Saila made a shallow nod in answer. When they reached a certain place in the Library, she stopped and turned to him. "Here I must go. Be well upon your journey." She held out her free arm to him. Chälan wrapped an arm around her shoulders and shared an embrace of kin, of friends, of two people bonded by a common hope. "Thank you. I will remember your words."
"Take care, Chälan."
"I will," he said, pulling away. "Farewell."

***
A little later, all the paladins were back together outside the inn, having shared information and completed their preparations for departure. Mounting horses laden with supplies, the thendári elves caught up with the waiting company in time to see the Tynir party getting a head start for their slower, lizard-like mounts.

It was a few hours till midday, and there was a long day of travel ahead of them.

This would never work. The certainty of that fact lodged solidly in Saint’s gut like a ton of bricks. There was no way he could play off the young Hyarya as his niece, even if she did believe him, and that was a fact of which he was becoming less convinced as the day wore on. He had already caught her looking at him strangely several times when she thought he wasn’t paying attention, though she glanced away quickly when he looked her direction.

She certainly seemed happy enough with her new riding breeches and rucksack, and he had never seen anyone take to the saddle as quickly as she had, but the attention he was getting from the girl was starting to unnerve him. His skin tone already turned plenty of heads on the street, and the young girl in tow would certainly make matters worse. The quicker they could get out of Nolwë Osto, the better. Watching her on the brown pony she was trying, he felt more than a little nervous, and not just for the girl. Most of the Quendë here would have heard of the events of the council by now, and while the city was known for its safety, Saint was not about to take any chances.

Unfortunately, it was less likely she would be any safer in the caravan, not with the company they were keeping. It wasn’t that he was worried about that insufferable priest or the Thendari. While he was certain they would remain unconvinced, they would put the child’s safety first in any plans they made. That meant almost certainly that they would not take her until she could be sure she was well-cared for, and a journey to the mountains was certainly not the time to be doing that. No, while they would certainly suspect, they would do nothing. They were not where the true threat lay.

Any real danger could be placed squarely at Asmodeus’s feet. No one was more interested in hurting Saint personally, and a helpless dependent would be an easy way to do it. With the added deniability… Saint hadn’t told the Dark Lord all of the guests he was taking along, so he could hardly call it treason if the young Quendë died mysteriously. Anything he did against Asmodeus would be against orders. What was worse, he could think of no clean way of getting out of the bind.

The Moriquendë pulled down his tinted glasses and rubbed his eyes as Aellos rode a small Dun around the stable yard. What a mess. As he pushed the glasses back onto his nose, he caught the young Quendë eyeing him again. Sighing, the assassin slouched deeper against his rickety wooden fence and turned his thoughts to the more treasonous. He would have to see.

It was almost noon before they finally got underway, Saint on his charger and the young Aellos on the Dun pony she had chosen. Somehow, the saddle suited her, and she sat tall and dignified despite the horses sway. The creaking of new leather and the thump of the horses hooves on earth was the only sound for a time.

He caught the girl staring at him again as they broke to water the horses. She turned away quickly, but Saint’s patience was finally used up. Not really thinking, he snapped “If you have something to say, why don’t you just say it?”

Aellos looked up at him for a moment without a glimmer of fear. She paused for only a second, then said “Why are you blue?”

Very straightforward, young Hyarya. They were known for it. And the question was hardly unexpected, he was surprised she hadn’t asked earlier. Still, the abruptness caught him off-guard, and he couldn’t think of an answer. Oh, my skin is blue because I agreed to do a monster’s bidding and he bound my soul with a spirit of shadow. Also, I’ve killed everyone that same monster has asked me to for the last twenty years. No, that certainly wouldn’t do.

“Poor choices.” The Moriquendë said eventually. “Choices that made sense at the time.”

Aellos rolled her eyes and scoffed. “That doesn’t even mean anything. She patter her Dun, rubbing her hands along its neck. “How did you get like that? Were born that way?”

Saint sighed quietly. “No. No, I wasn’t born like this. When I was younger, I made some bad decisions. I suppose that they led to this. And while it has its benefits, it’s not worth the price I paid for it, with one exception.”

Aellos smiled back. “If you say so, uncle, but I think it’s a pretty color. I wish I could be blue like that.”

Saint’s heart skipped a beat at her words. Where could this lead? Nowhere good. She did not know what she talked of, and he would certainly not be the one to tell her. Digging in his heels, he rode ahead, out of easy conversation distance. Glancing behind him, he saw the bewildered and then angry look on Aellos’s face, but he simply didn’t know what to do about it.

The rest of the ride back the caravan passed in silence.

Ever since he and his party had left the city, the priest had been constantly thinking about the soldiers he had sent to survey Saint and his eye-brow raising niece. He had no way of knowing if they were doing their job, slacking off… or worse. There is no telling what an evil monstrosity like Saint could do to his men if he were ever to get his claws on them. The fact that he had returned before his men was slightly deconcerting.

He only hoped that they would get the information Jean was aiming for…

----------------

Earlier that day

The three Vatiennien guards prowled down the street, trying to make as little noise a man in full plate armor can, and draw as little attention. Simply put, it was a daunting task. The three men walked carefully, making sure not to run into any elves coming on to them from the opposite direction by accident. The guards were constantly looking off into the distance, tracking Saint and his ‘niece’ on each of their respective horses, as such they were hardly able to see where they were going.

For the larger part of an hour, the three men were successful in their mission. Quietly and painfully, they were able to keep track of their two targets. However, the streets were starting to get much harder to navigate. Merchants, elves out for a morning walk and other passer-bys were choking up the streets, forcing to get closer to Saint, or face losing their target to the masses of Nolwe Osto. But, they couldn’t get too close, or else they alert them. So they had to strike a balance between distance and viewability, or else they would lose them and that would be ba-…

Saint and his pet elf had disappeared into the masses. Their boss was not going to be happy about this.

As soon as their target fled from their vision, the three men started glancing furtively at each other. This was bad. Really bad. After a few moments of elevated heart beats and quick breathing, the men just stopped what they were doing. After all of the panicking, they forgot to realise that they could just as well continue their ‘investigation’ on their own. It would be better than returning to the priest as a failure.

The Vatienniens walked along the streets of Nolwe Osto, lending their ear to any sound that could possible signal any signs of an attack in the sector that happened last night. As the guards walked about, putting their noses where it didn’t belong, they garnered a whole plethora of reactions from the populace.

Some looked at them darkly, knowing they were from Vatienne and probably harbored ill will towards them. Some, on the other hand, looked at them brightly, recognizing an ally when they saw it. And, of course, there was always the uncaring observer who looked at them to no more than a fraction of a second before mentally shrugging it off and proceeding to their daily routine, as if nothing had happened.

It seemed peculiar that some of these elves looked at the soldiers of one of their closest ally’s armies with hatred and repugnance. It wasn’t only odd that an elf succumb to those temptations, but that their ill-will befall on those of Vatienne? That was completely unheard of… yet, of course, if they had heard the wrong stories from the wrong people in connection to the council that had happened just yesterday or past actions from the Vatiennien Empire. It was something one had to get accustomed to. Vatienne was not adored everywhere they went.

As the minutes passed and the guards thought about the elves attitude towards them, one of them looked to their east where a swath of sound and movement was formed. There laid a group of elves. They seemed to be staring at something… but it was unclear what. Other buildings were blocking out the potential sight. His curiosity peaked, the soldier walked towards the group of elves… of which the sight set a wave of panic down his spine, prompting him to call back the two others to see what he had just found.

A house, or what was left of it, had burned down to the ground, leaving only a blackened shell as a grim reminder of the foul act of this arson. Taking a moment to let the image sink in to their minds, they immediately dispersed in the crowd, about as stealthily as lead pipe in a glass shop, and began eavesdropping. Voices started to sparsely come through to the soldier, from everywhere at once.

“I heard it happened last night, without anyone seeing who had done it when!”

“Survivors? I don’t know… I wouldn’t bet on it… although they are missing the body of the daughter.”

“Yah, I remember the girl who lived there. She was a nice child. Her features were just…”

And just as one of the elves started to explain the features of one of the children of the burnt down house, his eyes lit up. As he listened, he built up an elven faces with the features described by the man. It seemed to ring a bell. The guard smiled. He then gathered his men, quickly explained to them what he found out, and then started making their way back to the Vatiennien Inn.

What they had ‘found’ was completely inconclusive but, since they had failed their job in espionage, getting this tidbit of information was just as good because it was good enough to keep the priest they were escorting content and got them, the guards, off the hook. The plated Vatiennien hoped that all of this wasn’t going to be overly scrutinized…

They three men finally got to their horses and saddled up. Before leaving to catch up to the group, they spotted Carbo, the priest’s eagle, who had just swooped down from the skies. It had been watching them the whole time. The eagle was staring at the guards intently. The men just stared back, unsure what to do.

Finally, one of them simply saluted the bird, to signal that the mission had been done. Surprisingly, that’s all the noble beast needed, because it took off, flying away far into the big blue sky. With that, the three Vatiennien men rode with haste to catch up to the group that had already a healthy head start.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

Present time

A distant drumming noise was erupting from the horizon. It wasn’t thunder, because there were no menacing clouds anywhere in sight, and it wasn’t the musical drum either, because the noise was too dry and short. It could only mean one thing. It was the sound of horses. Three of them. Approaching fast. Jean’s heart immediately skipped a beat; his guards were back and hopefully with precious information.

It only took his men a few minutes to finally catch up to the caravan after Jean had started to hear the rumbling sounds. The priest did not hesitate a second to ask them what happened in his native tongue, Vadeir, so no one else in the group could understand them. “Expliquez-vous maintenant!”

The guards then proceeded to explaining to the priest everything that had transpired. Jean looked pleased and disturbed at once. Gears were turning in his head. “Merci, messieurs, maintenant retournez a vos postes…” Without further ceremony, Jean had sent the guards away and he was thinking alone to himself. He wasn’t sure what his guards had brought him was tangible proof that Saint’s ‘niece’ wasn’t really who he said she was. But he didn’t need to be a genius to figure out that a Morgarath-spawned beast doesn’t come to a shining example of Northern, Light civilization simply to look at the view.

Jean knew what he was going to do. He knew what his plan was… kind of.

The priest kicked his horse gently, so as to get it moving slightly faster, so he could get right up next to the Tynir, Ayurent, who was on his ghastly lizard monster. Jean, however, was going to be different this time around. He needed to be on better terms with the Tynir, because now it involved a young, innocent, and above all pure, elf that could get corrupted. And by the light, Jean hoped He was shine His grace upon her soul.

“Tynir,” Jean said, calmly, yet sternly, nonchalantly, yet insisting, humbly, yet urgent, “we need to talk.” Jean looked around to make sure they were sufficiently far away enough from Saint so he couldn’t hear them. “Tynir, I ask you, sincerely and without dagger behind my back, on this rare occasion, to not interfere when I speak with Saint. All I ask is that you do not implicate yourself in what doesn’t concern you. Can I have my faith in you, for this brief amount of time?”

What Jean was basing himself on, for this whole endeavor, was shaky and paranoid at best, but if he could break the pure elf from the spell she was probably under by forcing her to think about her origins, then that was the best he could do. Jean and his escort could then offer protection to the poor, dazed elf.

The journey had been blessedly quiet, with the groups seeming content to keep to themselves, or in the case of the Vatienniens and Thendari, mingle with each other. His own retinue kept just ahead of the others, the younger Tynir keeping a close watch on their travelling companions, and warding off any who wandered too close to the Kon’ost’s turned back, the low snarl of the female’s powerful lungs was more than enough to ward off the few curious souls.

Hooves in the distance caused his head to turn, watching the rapidly approaching soldiers from earlier return from whatever goose chase the Ambassador had decided to send the men on. The conversation, once again in the men’s native tongue, was quick, over mere moments after it had began with the guards returning to their posts whilst Jean lost himself in deep thought. Returning his gaze forward, the Tynir cracked his knuckles in thought. The low, and ignored, snarl of the retainer and the rapidly approaching horse hooves warned him of what was to come. So much for quiet.

“Tynir, we need to talk.” Ayurent focused ahead, nodding his head for the priest to go ahead, ignoring the priest’s absence of his name, although he was curious if the man actually remembered it. “Tynir, I ask you, sincerely and without dagger behind my back, on this rare occasion, to not interfere when I speak with Saint. All I ask is that you do not implicate yourself in what doesn’t concern you. Can I have my faith in you, for this brief amount of time?”

That curiosity was sated. Jean had forgotten it. Easily fixed, but for now, he was more curious as to what this matter was. His eyes flicked over to the man on his horse, and a brief smile touched the Tynir’s face. “If you had a dagger behind your back, I’d be very aware of it.” The lizard beneath him rumbled it’s dislike of the other animal, but he shushed it with a gentle tap on the skull with his bandaged knuckle. “Matters that might effect our little ‘caravan’ are my concern, however…I’m more than willing to be impartial in the matter so long as you assure me Saint shall remain unharmed and unhindered in his ability to get us past the Northern Wall?”

The priest opened his mouth to speak, but Ayurent quickly spoke again. “Of course, all this relies largely on you informing me what has you so troubled, Ambassador.” A wry grin spread cross his face, his scarred face alight with amusement at some unknown joke. “Think of it as practice. I’ve served the Lady for countless years, and she will not take kindly to being ‘left in the dark’, as the saying goes.” His ears twitched for a moment, and he glanced backwards towards the others, casually catching Saint’s eyes for the briefest of moments. He chuckled. “I won’t interfere so long as it remains ‘civil’, Jean. I’ll be listening closely,” His ears swivelled slightly at these words, as if to prove his point. “so I’ll get my information then, if you find this satisfactory?”

A peaceful journey…he was getting soft with age, longing for the quiet moments more than the rough excitement. If nothing else, this would prove highly entertaining.

Jean took in a deep breath. He wasn’t trying to calm himself, because there was nothing to calm. This was rare for Jean. No, he was clearing his mind, and trying to accept the fact that maybe, perhaps this Tynir, Ayurent as he is named, could be unique from his race: one of the rare Tynir who aren’t barbarians. As this thought sunk in, Jean accepted Ayurent’s request to know what he was ignoring, if he was to do so. This was logical, thus acceptable.

“You should indeed know what is happening… Ayurent, even before it does. It will most probably concern you in the times to come.” As Jean spoke, he looked around the caravan, eyeing Saint’s niece who was riding happily along, right next to her ‘uncle’. The Vatiennien still wondered what kind of spell or foul magic she could be under to be so docile to this unnatural bond. It must be strong, dark magic. Morgarath’s magic. Of course, this was all the proof needed to conclude inevitably that Morgarath had Saint under his thumb, but the priest would need more proof. Shedding light on the true origins of the Hyara and this little incursion into the Mountains of Night should provide him and Vatienne what was needed to prove to all of the world that Morgarath had indeed returned.

Returning to the present time, Jean spoke once more. “I have reason to believe that Saint’s so-called niece, the Hyara named Aellos, is not his real niece. That may sound like a logical and obvious thing to say. However I have some rather interesting information that could, possibly, prove that she might have been kidnapped and put under a spell by Saint himself. Why he would do this, once can imagine a couple of reasons. However, I intend to confront Saint with this and attempt to save the elf from his clutches. All I ask is that, in lieu of an argument, you leave it to me and Saint. Thank you for understanding.”

Jean nodded to the Tynir general then made turned himself towards the rest of the caravan. While the priest was doing that, he eyed the paladins over on the other side of the group. They were walking normally, focusing on the road. It was them to whom Jean needed to speak to next. He had to make sure that he had them on his side if anything was going to end badly. The more muscle he had with him, the better. The priest wasted no time in getting to them and getting close to the apparent leader of them. He leaned in, made sure, once again that Saint could not over hear them and explained to them the situation.

“My friends, I hope you will understand that if something goes wrong, you will prove me right in hoping that you will come to my aid. However, until that time passes, and let us hope it doesn’t, I wish for you to simple observe from afar. The more Saint feels threatened, the less he will respond, and that is especially true for his poor Hyara slave.” With another slight nod, Jean left the paladins. He didn’t wait too long for an answer, because he knew his allies would have his and his guard’s back even if he had not come to them in the first place. That is what allies were for. Especially allies as close as the Vatienne and the Thendari.

With the pieces in place and the ground set, Jean finally directed his horse to Saint and his ‘niece’, Aellos. As he walked up to the two elves, he couldn’t help but shoot a brief, pitying look towards the Hyara. ‘Poor child,’ he thought. ‘Caught in the clutches of such a monster must be terrible.’ Finally, Jean was close enough so that they could speak without being so loud so that the whole caravan could hear. This was a delicate matter, and Jean had no idea how this was going to pan out. It should be interesting, to say the least.

“Good day, Saint. I say, have you heard of the house in Nolwe Osto that burnt last night? Terrible tragedy. The entire family perished in it. Save for one: the young daughter’s body was never found. Sad story, isn’t it?”

‘It’s the time for reckoning,’ thought Jean. He looked at Saint with a calm stare, not menacing, but stern nonetheless. He simply waited for the lies that were to drip from his mouth.

The caravan of elves, humans and tynir was by this time some distance from Nolwë Osto. The tynir party was out in front, their slower, lizard-like mounts setting a moderate pace along the wide, southward road. The surrounding quendi farmlands, distinct in their conspicuous lack of buildings or tilled fields, were to most eyes indistinguishable from mere plains. A closer examination, however, would reveal grassy patches of differing shades, seemingly random clusters of trees, periodic movements of passing quendi or animals, and widely scattered, tall, thin flagpoles that, all together, afforded hints to the quendi argricultural methodology. There were no fences; a band of long, ordinary grass provided a buffer between the road and the farmlands. Every half hour or so, the travelers passed shade-trees close by the road, resting-places complete with accompanying benches. The caravan had passed one of these a few minutes ago.

Anatar walked his horse briskly along the right side of the road, a fair distance from the clustered travelers. Rather than be carried passively on mounts, the Thendári generally prefer a deliberate and active approach to travel, one foot in front of the other, staying connected to the land. As the paladins traveled with the caravan, they led their laden horses on foot more often than they rode in the saddle. Anatar's white horse kept up with him just enough that the trailing reins were slack in the elf's hand. The senior paladin himself was absorbing the countryside, listening to the caravan, thinking about the road ahead, cataloging the recent events, and pondering the future all at once. The processes were instinctive, largely subconscious. When the Vatiennien priest rode up to him, Anatar was able to give him most of his conscious attention with only a minor adjustment to his mode of thought.

“My friends, I hope you will understand that if something goes wrong, you will prove me right in hoping that you will come to my aid," he said in a confiding tone, leaning down by his horse's neck. "However, until that time passes--and let us hope it doesn’t--I wish for you to simply observe from afar. The more Saint feels threatened, the less he will respond, and that is especially true for his poor Hyara slave.” With that, the ambassador-priest--Jean Poitiers--nodded his head and melted back toward the central party.

Anatar took a patient breath, his mind already calculating the possible and likely ways the imminent confrontation could play out. The paladins knew from before how to handle dealings with Saint. He was Chälan's concern, for now. Still, Anatar had been watching, as he knew many of the others were as well. Failure to consider a course beforehand is in itself a course to failure. He was not worried about the hyarya child, except insofar as one naturally questioned the motives and implications of bringing one so young into the shadowlands. Beyond keeping her safe, however, it was not his place to interfere. On the other hand, if the priest knew something they didn't--say, perhaps, that Saint had abducted the child--well, that would be different. Knowing that most if not all of the other paladins would have come to the same conclusion, Anatar merely collected their gazes and directed them all at once toward Saint and Jean. They would know to observe normally and be alert.


__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________


In the loose way that the paladins had of weaving gradually in and out between the central party and the fringes of the caravan, Tatyana was among the Vatienniens, leading her white horse (thendári, especially paladins, naturally gravitated toward white or roan when choosing horses), when she caught the turn of Anatar's head in the edges of her vision. With some effort she managed to continue the conversation she was having while she interpreted Anatar's signal. She acknowledged inwardly. The long duration meant he was netting each paladin's attention before directing their gaze as a whole toward the vicinity of Saint, where Tatyana could see the priest was going.

Tatyana reattached her attention to the two sildári she was talking with before it would appear she had been distracted from their topic. One of the Vatienniens apparently shared de Poitiers's view that the Sretin provinces were in no real danger, while the other was somewhat more open to the idea that perhaps the paladin bearing the news might just know something of what she was talking about. Tatyana, for her part, was willing to believe that reinforcements from Vatienne would help turn the tide, but her heart worried that the force which had so quickly decimated the Breale would not so easily be turned aside.

Yet they all could agree that, whatever the truth, their goal remained the same. One thing about the Vatienniens, they had absolute confidence in their ability--or more precisely, their destiny--to vanquish the Shadow Lord once again. When questioned, they admitted the possibility that some of them might perish in the process, but they maintained that in the end their efforts by definition could not be rendered futile. Tatyana supposed that, in a way, she believed much the same thing, though she was of a mind that destiny is what you make it. She believed in destiny in the way she believed a sword is destined to slay, or in the way a key is destined to unlock. Destiny is that which you are set aside to do. Whether you do accomplish your destiny, and to what degree, is decided by your own deeds. And, in the same way a second hand may wield the sword with greater strength, or a voice may guide the one that turns the key, so might the Holy One aid and empower a soul to accomplish their destiny, as freely as might a comrade, a wise teaching, or even oneself.

"Tell us more about the Lord of Light," they said next. "Does he serve Sanctus Unus?"
"Of course," said Tatyana, thinking of the histories of her people as well as her own experiences. "After all, what is light but that which reveals truth?"
"Is he a spirit like Sanctus Unus, or does he have a body?"
"He is..." Tatyana thought back, unable to forget, "very tall, taller than the Tynir, and he carries a great golden staff that shines like a star. It is said that Sanctus Unus sent him to us in the early days of our race."
"You've seen him in person?"
Tatyana nodded. "More than once. At minimum, each new paladin meets with him once, alone. He is the only one we know of who can make the weapons and armor we bear, and it is to him, rather than the elders of Aendrel, to which we are ultimately responsible."

A short, unintelligible outburst caused them and others to look round behind, but all anyone saw was the priest Jean riding next to the dark-elf Saint.
"Such a tainted soul," one of the Vatienniens remarked, obviously in reference to Saint.
"Hearing your talk," the other said to Tatyana, "it makes me think of him with his fell powers--dark magic gotten from Morgarath--as an anti-agent to you paladins. I wonder if..."
Tatyana guessed his train of thought and shook her head. "The ambassador is the only one of his kind we have ever seen. One of our number knows him personally, and there is little indication that his path has been shared by any other quendë."
"I see."
"Yet surely the Shadow Lord will not have been idle. The kidnappings prove this."
"Or we would not be in this situation," Tatyana agreed. Then, wondering how her brother was responding to the developing episode, she looked over to the left side of the caravan, where Chälan was leading a silver roan whose coat reflecting the sunlight seemed truly metallic.


__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________


Chälan had been keeping an eye on Fionu even before he and the other paladins got the signal from Anatar alerting them to the priest's intentions. The others would let Chälan choose the best course to follow. Now that Jean had reined in alongside the moriquendë, Chälan assumed a more active responsibility over the situation and smoothly mounted his horse. The silver- and white-haired gelding was serving him well. Over the past couple of years the intelligent beast had attuned himself quickly to Chälan's needs and personality, despite the sparsity of riding occasions.

From this vantage Chälan was on a better level to observe and position himself according to the situation. The gentle farmlands, with their shallow hills, scattered trees and varied shades of long grass, lent an earthy freshness to the air. The more one dwelt on it, the more idyllic the landscape seemed. More than reputation was at stake if Jean and Fionu as Saint got out of hand. Chälan positioned himself closer toward the rear of the caravan and discreetly held his vigil.