Freedom Forsaken

Alacer Phasmatis wrote:((Melchios))

The bitch’s lips curled back in a sneering smile, the sort of smile one could expect from a snake. ”Cease your crawling, Morteza. I have no need of a worm.” The faery straightened immediately, flashing her a bare-toothed snarl of a grin.

The queen settled back into the ebony chair, sultry lips tense and lush. She minced no words when she spoke again, but said directly in her titillating hum, “My scouts have seen two mounted strangers at the elven pass and I have reason to believe that Major Ambey is one of them. If so, then my fire-bird has managed to gain the aid of another companion... though unlikely, it is – unfortunately – possible. Commander Pardai was destroyed – as were the majority of her followers – and yet, Major Ambey still lives and still hides. She knows no elf, therefore her companion can only be a faery. It is that which concerns me.”

Major Ambey? Now this was someone his little Sorea had neglected to mention in her reports. An errant human, perhaps? But no, no, not if his pet had—fire-bird! The subsitiute name rung a chord in the destitute Arandein’s mind, it brought back pages and pages of memory—literally so! Only in the earliest reports had the commander mentioned her at all, mentioned her in great detail at first, then came to describe that woman’s exploits less and less as far away in Occalus, Melchios grew for the first time to suspect the aloof young woman, began to doubt her and theorize on the potential relationship forming between the pair. Even as he speculated upon these troubling ruminations the queen rose to pace back and forth, back and forth and he tore away his gaze from her. Let him continue to calculate, if only because it threw order in the dishevel of his mind.

She halted before him, smiling languorously. He glanced up, mindfully aware of the dangers of provoking her ire.”But I’m afraid my little fire-bird isn’t the whole of it, my pet,” she said in liquid tones without warmth. ”I believe you will remember the name Foertis Deus?—Foertis, the little mad one, the golden shadow!—” He was captured a moon or so ago and tortured into revealing that one of Pardai’s close companions is involved in sabotage attempts against our inevitable progress..” No sooner had she said this than he knew who this close companion was, knew it as he knew the blade of his sword, knew it and hated it, loathed it, despised it—Sorea Pardai had only ever been close to one alone!” Now,” his tigress murmured, hyacinth eyes becoming arrows that bore into his skull, “we seem to have established your… loyalty… despite your affection, shall we say, for the late Commander. That leaves the high healer, Signum Vulnus – whom it is said loved her more than even you, my friend – and, of course, my dear Jasmine Ambey. A strange little triangle that is, isn’t it?”

He shot forwards, pulling up short just a meter away from her, wresting with this animal urge to bite and claw her dark, pouting mouth for having uttered such horrendous blasphemy!—sacrilege!—for uttering that painful truth. But no, no, it was a lie, it was a foul, vicious lie—may hellfire rain on black, abhorrent, beautiful, monstrous Signum before his Sorea could love that lowly angel better! It was he who’d had her in the end, and he would never let that pale-faced follower forget it.

If his anger showed, it served only to interest the queen, who’d stepped back and gazed musingly at him. “Now, Morteza,” she said, ”Seeing as you have connections to all those I have mentioned, I feel you are the best informant I have. However, do not – for one moment – believe that my trust in you is complete. I know who you are – I know your background – and I know that your loyalty is not always absolute. You will be pleased to hear, I think, that the faeries no longer have a monarchy.”

YES! The deranged faery laughed at that, laughed at the shrivelled old king and laughed scornfully at his own euphoria, disgust welling up in a dark cloud at his own reviled debilitation—his traitorous intentions were repulsive to him? It was the magic at work, the evil bond that wrapped his spirit close to the other men of the East and South. But it failed to grasped the bird-winged, his sympathies died before the onslaught of the original turncoat. In a way, his strike back would be taking revenge for the assassination and forced unification carried out by King Regis the thrice-damned Conqueror. Smiling in full mischief, his Rau-lass gem murmured, ”Now, you must have something useful tucked away in that darkened mind of yours…”

He glanced at her and then turned to glare furiously at a candelabrum, the hundred of minute flames distracting him momentarily before he resumed gazing at her. If only there were windows. “I want him dead,” he hissed softly, “and I want to do it myself. But my liege,” he growled softly, turning to stalk around the room, “there’s a flaw in your thinking. You’ve concentrated too much energy on one enemy—“ his fingers curled into a fist, “—and in doing so undermine your thus far successful enterprise.”

His wings were folded to trail cloak-like behind him, the rigid structure trembling with the force of his agitation. He was getting closer. “I know little of your history with Major Ambey,” he snarled, though not at her, “certainly she’s important, but be cautious of neglecting another thorn that, though it has yet to prick, is just below her. Ambey can’t succeed alone, if she seeks to overthrow you—am I correct in assuming that? She needs allies, strong ones. It is they you should focus upon. Consider,” he murmured, pulling free a candle and staring pensively at it, “that Pardai would had been an inconsequential victory (compared to our more prestigious Deis) had she not been on the same field as Phoenix, had she not befriended Phoenix and come to ultimately be a catalyst to returning her memories, then through that discovering you. Had she not done that, her beloved Altus wouldn’t have known which enemy to prepare against after her death, and she wouldn’t have known to send both your rebellious tool Ciarán and her mage Malkeya to miss Raine’s prison. Too much energy on one little bug. There were many more,” he continued, “who took arms against you on that field. The late generals Adisa, Heraldrus, Bellator, and Gerthanus of Tumulosus, who fought to the death—the commanders on the other fields—they died because their enemy knew more than them, and that was because the enemy ignored all but their ultimate actions.”

Smiling sardonically, Melchios stated, “I’ve doubtless bored you to tears with that little prolix there. What I mean to drive at is an unpredicted link—I would tell you how they formed a trio, but it strikes me as inconsequential.” A drop of hot wax fell from the candle he observed, cooling before it could burn his flesh. Frowning, the faery balanced out the rest of a puddle just waiting for a chance to overflow. “He whom I speak of is Lysander Ælfher, an elf who serves as an accomplice to Signum and Foertis. What information you may have of his family should be enough to tell you of their strong loyalty as well as their strength. A family of mages,” he mused, “who could even be coerced into joining your forces—if the right leverage is used.”

“How,” he exclaimed suddenly, “would you capture your little pet! How would you end Vulnus’s crusade! They are both dependant on fellowship, far too much so! Ambey is an injured bird, she cannot travel far—your troops at the pass, they have her. Yet what if she gets away? Straight for Occalus is her route, and from there, she’d look for Signum. Let them pair up, and she’s safe, safe and gone. How can they disappear so easily?” He laughed, murmuring, “Lysander, of course. The records and reports all state that aside from fire and air, he’s an earth mage—my dear queen, he’s sent them underground!”

Another droplet of wax fell, forming a small mountain at the candle’s base. “To draw out Signum, “ Morteza sighed, “is not readily doable. The one person or bribe we could have used—Anahita Pardai—was taken care of, doubtlessly by himself. Ambey might be easier, or she might be harder. If we were to go about conducting a massacre while widely spreading word that the killings would end should she hand herself over, I imagine she would. But such a thing is both costly, time-consuming and what’s worse, it’ll stir up the whole of Aduro to arms again. You’d be the conqueror of feuds and an infertile, war-torn landscape. Now Lysander,” he smiled, “is another matter entirely.

“He cares deeply for his family. If we attack them,” the faery said lazily, “we remove the threat presented by the mages, as well as destabilizing the elves ever further. And we’ll draw him out. When an undertaking that is shaky at best relies on one person, and that one person is the only being who can be easily swayed, it suddenly falls. One slight problem, though,” he muttered, “one slight problem.” The carefully balanced puddle of wax fell, not managing en mass to cool before it hit the flesh of his hand. Swiftly replacing the candle, Morteza crumbled off the burning tallow, walking over to the queen’s side and kneeling there, so that with her sitting and he bent on knee, they were nearly eye-to-eye.

“They’re a bloody army of mages. Not soldiers, but mages,” he scoffed. “The idiots have few among them who can take to arms, but as long as they have their magic, they will present far too much trouble to your soldiers. It will take longer,” he said bluntly, “but it will save you your Rau-lass mages. Give me a battalion—whether of Raí’alssa or humans interspersed with them, I care not, but I fancy your magic-based atrox would die in my presence—and let me march upon them. All I would have to do,” he hissed, smiling ferociously at the candles, “is stand there! And they’d be done.”

ShadowWake wrote:((Hylas))

Tarn left to dispose of the animal remains, leaving Hylas in charge of ensuring that the meat was cooked evenly. Beaming proudly, the young shifter grasped the end of the spit firmly and turned it in his small hands, the rabbit flipping over obediently onto the opposite side. Selan spoke softly and Hylas lifted his head to look up at her, still grinning.

"We'll do that if you promise you would be coming back to us, if you feel the smallest odd thing...ok?” she said, smiling in return. Moving closer to the fire, she took a handful of berries from her stash and squeezed them over the game, fresh, sweet juices assaulting his nose in a sharp, heady aroma. It was almost like he was home again.

Feeling his throat knot uncontrollably, the young shifter sniffed quietly, turning his attentions to the cooking meat and spinning it once more. Within a few moments, Tarn had returned, yet still everything was laced with a silence that was both comfortable and unnerving. In the distance, an owl hooted and Hylas’ head shot up, dark eyes glittering orange from the fire as he stared into the trees. The bird hooted again and the boy relaxed, dropping his gaze to the shimmering embers of the warm blaze once more.

“Do you think we’ll ever be able to go home?” he murmured quietly, picking up a twig that had fallen out of the pile and prodding the glowing ash until it sparked, “Why did they try and take ours when they have their own home?” Hylas sighed – a sound that was far older than his young appearance – and then pouted, immediately spoiling the effect of maturity. “They’re just big bullies.”

Alacer Phasmatis wrote:((Signum))

The young man glared suspiciously at Signum, red eyes mirroring faultlessly the expression so customarily on lilac eyes. "So what does that have to do with me?" Samir demanded, the brusque quality of the question tempered by the fact that Lilith sought yet to maintain some of her ‘brother’s’ character.

“Well,” Signum murmured, “think about it. What are our most feasible options, if we’re splitting up into groups? Would you rather be with Foertis? Forgive me for saying so,” he stated, “but I rather fancy the pair of you would explode the whole of the forest before he’d spend a peaceful journey with you. On the other hand,” he continued, “I could go with you, which would be best were it not that Lysander and Foertis would be at each other’s necks, and Anahita would need to go with either them or us, and the children wouldn’t be properly cared for if the two are bickering from dawn until dusk.”

Running a hand through his hair, the faery muttered, “it’s a bit of a tricky ordeal in either case, but Lysander really has changed. After all,” he said wryly, “he’s the one who spent six months underground, surrounded by toddlers. Further more, as an elf he’s suited to your manner of travel, whereas we faeries would be slower when land-bound; need I add that you and he are aware of each one’s magical capabilities and I trust you’d be mature enough to work together in an undesirable situation, just as Foertis and I could?”

“Think on in. Besides,” he smirked, “there’s one undeniable fact: Caelen will be insufferable if he has to leave his ‘daddy’ behind.” Signum stood up, one hand casually gripping the wrist of the other behind his back, a default military at-ease. Running his eyes up and down the elaborate disguise Lilith had created for herself, he sighed regretfully. “It’s a pity,” he noted, gesturing towards her, “that you’ll have to get rid of your disguise eventually. There’s a certain degree of hilarity when I see you interacting so well with the two most volatile people here—and, thank the gods, not creating any problems.” Lilith’s outrage was expected, of course—it could only accompany such a demand. Yet the necessity remained, for it was to the Ælfhers that she was to go. Apologetically, he explained, “Lysander has a cousin, Trisha. You’re aware, I think, that his family is strong in the magics? She herself can see through lies, or rather, she sees the truth, so even if it should be Lysander who introduced you, she’d know differently. To find this out at the same time Lysander did and to know he himself was unaware would undermine their trust and jeopardize our cause. So,” he said evenly, holding Lilith's gaze in a mock of her own piercing look, “can I depend on you for this?”

ShadowPhoenix wrote:((Samir))

”… What are our most feasible options, if we’re splitting up into groups? Would you rather be with Foertis?” Samir shook his head as the faery went on. “... On the other hand, I could go with you, which would be best were it not that Lysander and Foertis would be at each other’s necks, and Anahita would need to go with either them or us, and the children wouldn’t be properly cared for if the two are bickering from dawn until dusk.”

Sarcastically, the elf responded, “And yet you have somehow gotten it into your mind that I, of all people, can take care of children better than they could?” The gaze had now sharpened, losing all semblance to Samir. “I fail to see how such a delusion could have come about, for—to my knowledge—assassins aren’t well-known for their childcare skills.”

The faery ran a hand through his dark locks, murmuring, “it’s a bit of a tricky ordeal in either case, but Lysander really has changed. After all,” he said wryly, “he’s the one who spent six months underground, surrounded by toddlers.” “Of course,” Lilith said, “habits more than 300 years in the making can be changed in merely half a year by a group of midgets.” The faery ignored her, saying, ”Further more, as an elf he’s suited to your manner of travel, whereas we faeries would be slower when land-bound; need I add that you and he are aware of each one’s magical capabilities and I trust you’d be mature enough to work together in an undesirable situation, just as Foertis and I could?”

For a moment, Lilith was tempted to snarl at him. How dare he imply that she wouldn’t be mature enough to get along with someone during a mission? She would be the first to admit that she was the most immature elf her age, but that didn’t mean that she couldn’t control herself if need be. However, she made a small smile pull at the corner of her lips, knowing that she could make it look completely real. Keeping her tone borderline amused and serious, she said, “Of course I can. I only ask you to remember that I cut off his hair, which—as I am lead to understand—was his greatest pride and joy. I seriously doubt that he’d be able to refrain from attempting to kill me. In fact, I would think that the time spent shut-up in this hell-hole with children would only worsen his outlook on life.”

Healer Vulnus smirked. “… There’s one undeniable fact: Caelen will be insufferable if he has to leave his ‘daddy’ behind.” Samir sighed. “As disgusting as the fact is, I’m afraid your right.” The faery stood, taking up an at-ease position. Lilith watched him sharply, as the other’s stormy gray eyes scanned up and down her body. A chill gripped her as he sighed. He couldn’t, he just couldn’t ask her to do that.

“It’s a pity that you’ll have to get rid of your disguise eventually.” No, she thought fiercly as a cold rage gripped her. She forced it to the side, though. Make him see what you want him too, don’t let him know how much this upsets you, she firmly told herself. She arched one eyebrow in a questioning look, and the man continued. “There’s a certain degree of hilarity when I see you interacting so well with the two most volatile people here ...”

If he expected her to respond so soon, he was wrong. With a note of apology in his voice, he said, “Lysander has a cousin, Trisha.” Lilith zoned out for a moment, calling back the scrolls which formerly resided in Sanusier’s library. There was some information on the Ælfher line, but not more than what was common knowledge. Lilith knew that that would be a source of great displeasure to the Avelate, but it was practically impossible to implant a spy in that family. They were too tight-knit, too reclusive for that to happen. But Trisha… Lilith remembered the short paragraph saying that she was the one that knew when people were lying. When she started paying attention again, Healer Vulnus was saying, “… herself can see through lies, or rather, she sees the truth, so even if it should be Lysander who introduced you, she’d know differently. To find this out at the same time Lysander did and to know he himself was unaware would undermine their trust and jeopardize our cause. So, can I depend on you for this?” he asked, eyeing her seriously.

For a moment, Samir started at him, ruby eyes contemplating. She owed him nine and a half months of unconditional servitude—the contract between herself and Sorea had been extended to two months, and she had gained an additional eight months during her absence. The Avelate had decreed that for every day spent somewhere else, every day that the agreement was broken was a day of interest added onto the original agreement. Every six months, this ‘interest rate’ doubled. Since almost a week had passed since she came here, and she had fulfilled a week of the contract under Sorea, it lead to nine and a half months. But she didn’t have to tell him that.

A small sigh escaped his lips, and Samir gave the faery another small smile. At that moment, though, she wished she could gouge his eyes out. Not a shred of this desire slid past her mask, though. “I suppose you’re right, Altus Vulnus,” he said regretfully. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go change and explain everything to Anathae Deus.”

With that, the albino slid past the man and out the door. It’s going to be a long nine months, she thought bitterly.

ShadowWake wrote:((Phoenix))

The cold wind stung Phoenix’s cheeks to a rosy pink as they trod carefully along the steep slope, all the while very aware of each precarious step that they took. Argenti’s hand grasped hers tightly, fierce and protective as he led her perpendicular to the mountain’s height, the shadows gradually becoming deeper as the sun worked its way across the azure skies. This they had planned – the worried faery unveiling the suggestion as though it were one that was necessary but as preferable as a suicide mission – and as much as she disagreed with the latter, Phoenix had to admit she wasn’t particularly comfortable with it either. Although subdued, the shadows certainly weren’t silent and nor were their tongues curbed: while their words were deceptively soothing, there lay beneath them an edge that was as sharp as the knife she had cast to the ground and it was there that the real danger lay.

Whether her companion knew this, Phoenix couldn’t be certain, yet Argenti was carrying a tension in him that was nothing to do with their treacherous steps, his shoulders hunched tightly beneath his cloak as he cast his silvery gaze upon the far horizon. Silently she followed, her own eyes fixed upon her footfalls, as she willed the snow beneath to stand its ground against her weight. With barely a pause, her lover tilted his head to the mountain-top briefly, before turning to settle his gaze upon her own, the pale irises ringed in stormy grey.

Taking both her chilled hands, he pressed them to his lips with a small smile and relieved by the motion, Phoenix returned the gesture. “Here then?” she asked simply, the corners of her lips curled slightly and Argenti nodded, features moulding once more into concern.

“The mountain should be able to hide us now with the shadow it casts,” he murmured – his voice barely above a whisper. They had found hoof-prints in the snow some hours past and both of them had been on edge since; a single scout was one thing, but half-a-dozen? Neither had voiced it but both had seen the riding pattern before: the pass was not just being searched, it was being scoured. It was clear the Rau-lass were hunting for something and it was also clear for what… or more accurately, for whom. “If we keep as close as we can to the slopes, the magic should hide us…”

“And at least then we can get close enough to see what’s happening,” finished Phoenix, twisting her head in an attempt to peer around the impenetrable rock that barred the view of the faery capital. Releasing her hold from Argenti’s, she wrapped her arms around his waist and drew him close to rest her head upon his broad chest. Smiling slightly, the tall faery leant down and pressed his lips against her tousled ginger hair.

“You’d better tie your hair back,” he commented, a trace of amusement in his murmuring tone, “Or you won’t see past those drapes of yours.”

With a sound of indignation, Phoenix slapped him on the shoulder with the heel of her hand, faint wisps of shadow swirling about her fingertips as she drew them away from his form. Argenti simply raised his silvery eyebrows, watching curiously as she bent to draw a dagger from the inside of her boot and then stood, grasping a handful of her hair in a single hand. “Would you rather…?” she threatened – though a grin played about her lips – and the healer shook his head.

“You have nowhere to put the loose strands,” he pointed out rightly and, rolling her eyes, Phoenix tucked the knife back into its place. “I didn’t even know you had that one,” he remarked, prompting another grin from his companion as she rummaged about in the small sack they had kept with them. Standing, she held out a small strip of leather triumphantly, swiftly using it to tie back the unruly crop that was already beginning to sit upon her shoulders.

“And I didn’t know you preferred long hair in a woman,” Phoenix returned, tossing the bag back to Argenti with an expression that could only be called impish, “Come on, then: help strap this onto me and then we can get going.”

-----------

She didn’t think she would ever laugh again.

What they had thought were rain-clouds scudding across the horizon was actually something a lot more sinister. Piled nearly half as tall as the great stone walls of the city, the soldiers of Occalus burned: no different from the humans now – their wings consumed by the greedy flames like parchment held to a torch. The stench of roasting flesh and singed down wafted upon a breeze that was nearly solid with the smell of the dead: a lingering warning to any that passed that nothing would go unnoticed or unscathed by these vicious-blooded, vile creatures that had claimed the lives of innocents for power.

Wrapped securely beneath her arms, Argenti’s muscles tensed and Phoenix felt his wing-beats slow, the horizon rising to cover the massacre like a rug over broken stone. “No,” she whispered hurriedly, resting her pale hand upon his own tanned fist, “Wait, Argenti, please.”

Several tiny figures trudged their way through the smaller pyres surrounding that of the main pile of corpses, flanked on all sides by armoured individuals. The party halted, a soldier moving swiftly from the entrance of the gate and bending at the waist to survey the nearest of the figures. A sudden movement, the reverberating crack of contact, and the tiny form slumped sideways to the ground, forcing the rest to skitter backwards into an imposing wall of mages.

“Children…” Argenti hissed, the venom in his voice almost stinging in its fervour, and mutely, Phoenix nodded, watching as the remaining children were herded though the formidable mouth of Occalus’ main gates. Signalling for the faery to lower them down, the woman stayed silent, unable to untangle her own churning emotions.

Occalus had fallen. And, as far as she could tell, so had any of their chances of finding Sorea.

Hedya wrote:((Pyrei))

"Guys...I'm sorry..." Pyrei spoke in a soft voice.

"Oh, c'mon, little Pyrite, you don't have to apologise. You have been helping us a great lot, and...well, it's obvious...you want to go, right?" Lak smiled, even though this meant a member of their group would be leaving. It was for her own sake, so it should be fine.

"Pyrei...you come back, ok?" Much to Pyrei's surprise, it was Hande's voice that spoke. He, the rude one who, although hadn't get on bad with Pyrei, hadn't really talked to her that much. At that moment, she realized that what she was about to do was crazy. But still, she chose to go.

Jahz handed Pyrei a small book. "It's the map we've been drawing, it should be somewhat accurate." he grinned. "Worry not, young lady, we have another copy... now, you're going back to us, eh?"

Finally, it was Olanea's turn to speak. The woman was almost in tears, when she offered Pyrei her help...although for a little while, only. "Let me accompany you for a bit! I will help you get further!"

Reluctantly, Pyrei declined he offer. Of course she would have loved that! But it would have made it more difficult to say goodbye, as well as slow down her pace. If she travelled alone, she wouldn't have to take care of anyone else other than herself. Someone could say it was a selfish point of view, but it was the raw truth, and Pyrei knew that.

She put her hood over her head, and took the book, keeping it safe. She looked back at her friends one last time, and smiled, wide, wider than they had ever seen in her face.

"I promise I will be back!" she rose her sword, so the sun would shine on the blade. "Light will always protect me! I'm an Ilyea, after all!" she finally turned around, facing the path that lied in front of her.

"I'm finally ready to go after you, my sister. I will find you..." she muttered, feeling sure of her success. She felt so glad she was about to sing, but decided against it, and preferred to waste the least possible of her strength. She sheathed her sword, the Ilyea, and watched the grey clouds gather into the distance.

ShadowWake wrote:((Nstif’ikta))

“I know little of your history with Major Ambey,” the faery Arandein growled as the Queen watched him passively from her seat, “certainly she’s important, but be cautious of neglecting another thorn that, though it has yet to prick, is just below her. Ambey can’t succeed alone, if she seeks to overthrow you—am I correct in assuming that?” Features expressionless, the Rau-lass simply blinked slowly, fingers settling upon her lips as she rested her chin in her hand. He had a point, certainly, but she would give up a lot more before she would allow him to see her acknowledgement of it. ”She needs allies,” Morteza continued, ”strong ones. It is they you should focus upon. Consider that Pardai would had been an inconsequential victory (compared to our more prestigious Deis) had she not been on the same field as Phoenix, had she not befriended Phoenix and come to ultimately be a catalyst to returning her memories, then through that discovering you. Had she not done that, her beloved Altus wouldn’t have known which enemy to prepare against after her death, and she wouldn’t have known to send both your rebellious tool Ciarán and her mage Malkeya to miss Raine’s prison. Too much energy on one little bug.”

Malkeya. This name struck a chord in her mind – a shrill ring that made the woman still completely, dark tentacles freezing but for the twitching of the ends. Argenti Malkeya. Ciarán had communicated the tall, apparently bright butterfly that had been sent with him to retrieve her precious fire-bird. Malkeya, the faery who could walk among the shadows and yet scorned them as though they bore him harm... yes, her shadow-mage had been quite... distressed about the matter. He had disappeared too, on that night that her rather wayward elf made a rather unsolicited life-choice and, rather fittingly, upon the same night Major Jasmine Ambey had walked right out from under her nose.

”There were many more,” Morteza continued, apparently unaware of his newfound-liege’s tense awareness, “who took arms against you on that field. The late generals Adisa, Heraldrus, Bellator, and Gerthanus of Tumulosus, who fought to the death—the commanders on the other fields—they died because their enemy knew more than them, and that was because the enemy ignored all but their ultimate actions.”

The bold faery paused and Nstif’ikta’s gaze snapped onto his, scarlet eyes narrowing. “I’ve doubtless bored you to tears with that little prolix there,” he told her, a smile lingering across his lips that clearly showed his opinion on the matter, ”What I mean to drive at is an unpredicted link—I would tell you how they formed a trio, but it strikes me as inconsequential.” Morteza frowned, the mad little faery focussing on the old tallow candle that was melting slowly onto his tanned skin and the Queen mimicked the motion, already beginning to wonder whether he was actually worth the wait... but no, she had one of the missing pieces already – who knew what else he could give?

“He whom I speak of is Lysander Ælfher, an elf who serves as an accomplice to Signum and Foertis. What information you may have of his family should be enough to tell you of their strong loyalty as well as their strength. A family of mages who could even be coerced into joining your forces—if the right leverage is used.”

“You make a fair point,” Nstif’ikta finally allowed him but the black-winged faery continued on regardless, seemingly caught up in his own thoughts. The Rau-lass studied him as he talked, intrigued. Maybe she had made the right decision after all; her mad little lion cub... Smiling slightly, she settled back into her chair, resting her ankle on the opposite knee as the candles guttered in the gentle shifting of her robes.

”One slight problem, though,” the Arandein murmured softly, seemingly towards the end of his informative tirade, “one slight problem.” Swift enough to cause the demoness’ pale hands to twitch upon the chair arms, Morteza dropped to her side, his brown gaze locking onto hers. “They’re a bloody army of mages,” he said, his voice tainted with scorn, ”Not soldiers, but mages. The idiots have few among them who can take to arms, but as long as they have their magic, they will present far too much trouble to your soldiers. It will take longer but it will save you your Rau-lass mages. Give me a battalion—whether of Raí’alssa or humans interspersed with them, I care not, but I fancy your magic-based atrox would die in my presence—and let me march upon them. All I would have to do, is stand there! And they’d be done.”

Surprisingly, the hypothesis made sense. Yet that did not mean she was entirely comfortable with the idea. Crimson eyes like hot coals upon snow, the Rau-lass Queen surveyed the man silently, tracing his features for any indication of deceit. And – just as surprisingly – she saw none. Morteza was as sincere as a prisoner forced against his will could be – which though not much, was enough to satisfy her. ”Very well, pet,” she murmured, her gaze still pinning the faery knelt before her, ”You may have a score of soldiers – no more. We will be marching to Duilliúir in less than a week: be sure to be finished by then. A single member of your party will travel enough distance from you to report to me daily and any message you wish to bear to me will be sent via that means.”

Unfolding her long legs, Nstif’ikta rose to her feet, reaching out with a single finger to grace the burning wick of the candle nearest, a sly smile twitching at her black lips. “There is another I wish you to take with you,” she said softly, her eyes sweeping languidly back to the dark brown pools of the Arandein as she pinched out the tiny flame, “He is an... experiment of mine. I want to see how well he performs, though I am afraid you and he may not be able to spend much time together once you reach the Ælfer household...”

Taking a short pace forwards, the demoness extended her hand so that is briefly touched upon Morteza’s hot skin, her long fingernail tracing his strong jaw-line. ”You’ve done well, pet,” she purred languorously as she drew her hand away once more and, turning gracefully, she made towards the chamber doors. ”General Is’vatus will see to your needs,” she called over her shoulder as she stepped through the worn doorway, torchlight causing the shadows to flicker behind her – the door left ajar – ”Report to my office in an hour’s time.”

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((Aerain))

Sighing, Aerain let her small smile drop as the young elven woman left the room and raised her hand to her brow. The pale limb shook very slightly and the faery dropped it immediately to her side, fingers curling into a fist. For the first time in years, she was feeling almost overwhelmed: with both the realisation of the enormity of her task and with old ghosts that refused to leave her be. Her thoughts lingered on Terailan and a wave of guilt washed over her; she should not have left him. Still, their relationship had waned over the last half a decade, gradually ending up to one of a loving acquaintance that nonetheless no longer had the energy it once did. Most of it had been her own fault: a distancing of herself that she couldn’t prevent, initiated by a disaster they had both suffered, and this alone was the source of her remorse. To a woman who had grown up knowing the meaning of pride and honour, it was the worst punishment she could’ve given herself.

With another quiet exhalation, the faery turned for the bathing room, unbuckling her belt as she went and tossing her garments onto a free chair. It had been days since she’d had a decent wash – barring the short trips to local rivers on her travels – and she desperately needed to soak the chill out of her tired bones. And who knew: maybe it would be good for the ache in her heart also?

---------

Clean, warm and feeling a little more like her normal self again, Aerain descended the stairs down into the main inner courtyard. There had been clothes in the armoire but they had been designed for elves and wouldn’t fit over her winged shoulders – nor did she wish to ruin them by making them do so – and so she had simply thrown on her travelling garments. After all, she wouldn’t be staying long.

Elves were milling about the vine-strewn courtyard and Aerain noticed some sitting on the low benches scattered around small pools. One of which she thought she recognised from the meeting earlier – yes, it had been she who had spoken out against her family member – and intrigued, the faery soldier made her way over. Stilling behind the tall elven maid, Aerain clasped her hands behind her back, wings draping to a rested position over her interlocked fingers.

“Caera,” the faery murmured softly, remembering the red-head’s name when spoken by Altair, “I wish to thank you for your support earlier: it was kind of you. However, I also wish to apologize for the trouble I caused. I was…” She paused, dropping her amber-coloured gaze to the floor self-consciously. “…biased.”

Alacer Phasmatis wrote:((Kaedo))

The faery awoke slowly, the fetters of age letting the gentle tides of sleep ebb evenly away. Fanning out his wings, the one glory age couldn't mar, Kaedo rose in a move all the more graceful from his years of practice. Though rising from so long a rest blurred his vision, he didn’t swipe at his eyes, but rather blinked until it cleared; the vision of a body in decay, even if it was the hand that was lifted to clear his eyes—who alive could bear it?

The warm buzz of hundreds upon thousands of minds enveloped his, the steady feed of information narrowed until the barest attention was paid to an area only 300 feet around him . Wait… Jael? When Kaedo had failed to register his friend, he’d assumed the elf had gotten bored or, less likely but still plausible, had gotten hungry and was somewhere within close mental range. [u]He wasn’t there[/i]. The solid steel foundation of Jael’s mind had become of the ether surrounding the living creatures, vanishing like the ghost of a breeze—

Kill. The words shot out at him, the shape and definition of the words registering far before any thought of the metal-wrought message’s true intent. Kill. Feet dragging, the old man crouched down in despair, one hand reaching out to curl desolately around the rusted metal, wrought of the nails his friend had given him earlier that day. Kill. “May the gods blind me for this,” he whispered, weak fingers curling around the bar. “Damn it, Jael—damn me for being so stupid. Gods help me or take me, if anything happened to you…” Pivoting, Silens sprinted across the rooftops with a pain his knees refused to abide—tossing aside all self-centered anger, he spread his wings to the skies, taking flight towards the Raí’alssa’s keep. Aware of the dangerous situation, he sought to make himself appear to be a butterfly, much like the one whose life he’d snuffed out those long ages ago. Jael, Jael—what the bloody hell happens now?!

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((Caera))

Something bending and pushing leaves, one or two crushing with a sore spasm of pain, which wouldn’t go away until the leaf died. It was merely one part of the plant, a fragment of the whole. Caera could sympathize with that one leaf. Opening her eyes, the elf maid took a shaky breath, shifting further back against the arbour. With her vision as an aid, she could see that the creature responsible for the sensation’s she’d picked up on was none other than a forest bird—the species she’d assume was a sparrow, though truth be told, she had no eye for songbirds.

Go ahead, distract yourself. Useless, all useless. Gingerly, she laid a hand on her shoulder, quivering when her fingertips brushed the collarbone. Her fine, pale flesh was bruised beneath the gown— an unseemly, mottled mark on her elegance. Lip curling slightly, Caera’s free hand curled into a taloned fist. How dare he! Altair had been furious. Not initially, of course, but when she’d refused to back down to her cousin… the stars, he’d been angry. Arrogant, vainglorious fool, idiot bastard to sully their pure line. Birds of a feather were he and Lysander, in the end. Save that the brat wouldn’t be so pigheaded either, the noblewoman thought savagely.

It simply wasn’t fair—not at all. Even force couldn’t be used to make her point, for her sharp slap’s reward had been a pointed assault from the brute. Uncultured, uncouth was she, for the simplest crime of all--- worrying for her sister’s health in front of a guest? Uncultured, though she wasn’t the one taking advantage of a cousin’s stolid magic, using his own advantage to blemish her shoulder—uncouth!? Teeth bearing down, Caera bit resolutely on her lip until the tears that threatened to fall were swallowed. Damn it, it wasn’t Altair who faced the possibility of a sibling’s death! Or was this it, was he so selfish, so self-absorbed as to take out his grief for the missing Lysander by bereaving her of her own sister? Was that it, then? Curse you, Altair.

Caught in her woes, Caera was unaware of Aerain approaching from behind until the faery’s mellow tones interrupted her fiery ruminations. “Caera,” the mage murmured softly, eliciting a surprised turnabout from the elf, “I wish to thank you for your support earlier: it was kind of you. However, I also wish to apologize for the trouble I caused. I was…biased.”

Turning fully about and standing so that the disparity of height was somewhat evened, the addressed said in equally soft measure, “What do you mean, biased? Aerain,” she said, slight heat entering her voice, “I defended you believing you could help Trisha, and that was it.” In truth, she would have done it simply because of the warrioress’s grace, the untamed sense of militant pride so strange and delightful to her; but when the words had slipped, when the faery had admitted she could heal her sister—then the cause had evolved. “Do you mean to say—“ she swallowed, her voice coming out with more hurt menace than she’d intended, “do you mean to imply that your words weren’t entirely… the truth?”

ShadowWake wrote:((Aerain))

Caera rose to her feet with the inerrant grace of her race, long bronzed hair fanning slightly as her head turned to fix the faery with eyes filled with a myriad of emotions: sorrow, hope… even a stabbing blaze of anger.

“What do you mean, biased?” she retorted sharpishly though Aerain let the sting pass as though it were aimed for another, “Aerain, I defended you believing you could help Trisha, and that was it. Do you mean to say…” The elven maid paused slightly, swallowing at something the faery knew all too well, “Do you mean to imply that your words weren’t entirely… the truth?”

Aerain bristled despite herself, her lips narrowing and feathers ruffling as she returned Caera’s stare. “I do not lie,” she stated slowly and pointedly, her caramel eyes hard, “It is dishonorable to lie of such matters.” Taking a deep breath, her gaze visibly softened and she lowered it slightly, taking a step forward so that her booted toes were at the edge of the pool – hands still clutched tightly beneath her wings. “I said I could help,” she said simply, any previous trace of emotion gone, “I did not say I could cure her… though it might, if we were lucky. However, I’m not willing to take the risk in saying that it will.”

Spinning on her heel – wings fanning slightly to aid her balance on the damp stone edge – Aerain met Caera’s gaze once more and though she fought it well, there was a lingering shadow she couldn’t hide. “I was biased,” she repeated carefully, her voice holding a harsh sense of bitterness to it, “because I had to watch the same thing happen to my son, more than half a century ago. He was too far gone for my efforts and didn’t have the strength to fight it.”

Averting her gaze, the faery took a deep breath before continuing, brown eyes settling again on the elven maid’s. “Nor did we,” she stated coldly. “I don’t see the same in your family, Caera. You are strong-willed – all of you. Your sister, Trisha, spoke for me when all she had was my word; yes, her magic told her they were truths, but she needed not to have voiced her knowledge, yet despite her illness – and the disagreement of her family – she did. And that is what makes me believe I can help her… at least for a while.”

Finally releasing her hands from their grip – for they had begun to get stiff with all the pressure she was putting on them – Aerain ran her fingers through her long, still rather damp hair: a feat she had not managed before her bath. “Yet I cannot go against the will of your family,” she murmured tonelessly, staring into middle distance while she thought. A part of her – a really large part of her – needed to give the young elf the aid she deserved, wanted to give her the help she needed… however the other side of her mind – her father’s side, she surmised briefly – knew that lingering would likely cause other more deleterious effects… possibly even the fate of all their peoples…

“I can relieve her symptoms with a moment or two of my magic,” she said, features seemingly placid while her mind worked in overdrive, “but in order to tackle the root of the problem, I would need to stay for far more than that and, as much as your hospitality has been very pleasant, I feel that in such an incursion I would certainly be outstaying my welcome.”

Aerain’s brown eyes snapped up once more, fixing upon Caera’s with clear determination. “However, my offer will always stand,” she added candidly, “And, if such a case were to arise when my services are needed, as long as I am in your family’s company, I will protect it like I would my own. With my life, if necessary. And that includes you,” Aerain finished, her tone hardening slightly.

Flashing a dark nod at the discoloured skin upon the woman’s shoulder, Aerain interlocked her fingers behind her back for a second time. Concentrating – her eyelids falling shut briefly – she reached out for her magic, feeling the familiar sliding sensation as the tendril of energy slipped beneath the elf’s flesh, loosening the clots that coloured the bruise. When her caramel gaze snapped open once more, the mark had already progressed onto the yellowing stage – and would be gone within a day – but the cold cast to the faery’s features showed clearly her thoughts on the matter.

Alacer Phasmatis wrote:((Lysander))

“Caelen! What the hell—Caelen!” Lysander roared, striking blindly with fire, his head ringing. Oh, the Lady, if the child could stop screaming so that the mage could actually think. Mere metres away a slight figure leapt away from the fiery assault, her skirts billowing around her as she did so. The elf struggled to his feet, fingers twined into his hair, nearly pulling it out at the roots—ack, the screaming, it wasn’t letting him think…

… “You’re not really a hunter,” the woman snarled. Her voice, her beautiful, seductive voice—it sent an eerie, erotic passion in his heart, even as he recognized and feared the sound. Raising his eyes, blinking through the screaming, he saw her: a Rau-lass female, her partner already abandoning the coachman’s guise and striding towards them with fleet, light steps, mouth curled in an arrogant smirk. “Get… out…,” he hissed, erecting a shield that stretch to cover both he and Caelen, writhing and damn it, wouldn’t the boy just shut up so that he could get them out of here!?!

“You,” the woman continue in almost lazy tones, stepping boldly up to run a finger down the side of the rigid air, “are an elf, aren’t you. No, no, don’t worry—it isn’t your mental defenses. It’s the child’s. Your son? He thinks of you as a father,” she murmured with a mocking smile. “How cruel,” the creature cooed, “to place your own little boy in Death’s hands.” Beads of sweat formed on Lysander’s brow… he could stand through this, he knew he could… “Get out of my head,” he snarled again, “stop giving me his pain!”

“How horrible,” she breathed, “how very humiliating… your own flesh and blood, unable to be saved by your own magic… just give in, why don’t you? Just.. give in…” Give in. Feel the agony, embrace it—can’t you see it’s killing you? Give in to it, go hand-in-hand with Death, for only there will you find true tranquility. Give in. “Shut the hell up…” Give in. “Ciach ort, ní mac é!”, the mage roared, involuntarily unleashing a gout of flame. Damn you, he’s not my son!

With a great heave of mental effort, he shoved off the load of the probing Rau-lass and, taking advantage of his cleared mind, dashed to Caelen’s side. Whipping off his tunic, he wrapped the writhing boy tightly, so that the flailing limbs wouldn’t hinder their progress. Flashing a last look at the Rau-lass—already their probes returned—he raised a hand and allowed the earth to engulf the pair, descending ever further and sideways into her rocky bowels, until the pain became faint enough to focus completely. Breathable air was the main issue now—as long as he could, Lysander would leech it from the soil around them, but they had to resurface far away, and soon. Straining under the energy demanded for the pressuring situation, he began to tunnel.

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((Melchios))

”You may have a score of soldiers – no more,” his queen murmured, sending a small smile to his lips. The bargaining, it reminded him of so many transactions he’d carried out himself—but now, oh, now that little boy with the world under his feet had to do the grovelling. Life was so very, very rich! “We will be marching to Duilliúir in less than a week: be sure to be finished by then. A single member of your party will travel enough distance from you to report to me daily and any message you wish to bear to me will be sent via that means.”

The faery tilted his head to the side—extremely far, like an owl examining an unusual specimen. What exactly he looked for he wasn’t sure himself—should he be?—but then, it could be mere rationalization, the bane of the insane, the crux of humanity, his own logic trying to reason his observing the fold of those elegant legs, and what they led up to… It really, truly was fortunate that her enticing temptations lay without, not within, the realms of magic!

Unfolding her body, she graced a candle with the sweeping touch of her finger, saying with the slyest of smiles, “There is another I wish you to take with you”Righting himself, the faery moved closer, his lips lifting ever so slightly—what was this? His features bespoke nothing lionish now, but rather radiated a sort of innocence, a wide-eyed, guileless look belied by the playful smile he wore. “He is an... experiment of mine. I want to see how well he performs, though I am afraid you and he may not be able to spend much time together once you reach the Ælfer household...”

Her long, tapering nail reached out to trace his jaw line, eliciting a shiver of pleasure. By the gods, by Calixto, by all the ruler of death and decay, worshipped by any a number of heathen races, she knew, she knew well how to consort with him.”You’ve done well, pet,” she purred , making her way towards the chamber doors. ”General Is’vatus will see to your needs; report to my office in an hour’s time.”

Her absence left a sort of a void in the room, an empty lightness free of heady intoxication or simplest cruelty. Look at the light. It’s so bright, you can almost touch it—but see here! See it’s cruelty, see how insensitive and self-absorbed light is—you reach out to touch, only because it’s so beautiful, and now it burned your hands, which only sought to pay homage to such beauty! His finger ached with the burn—a mere thing. He’d suffered too much more here, in this land all alone. But if you reach to blackness, mysterious and dark—though you reach out for blindness, it will guard its own. Cold and impassive, inky and calm. See how it bathes the woes of bright light.

“So my heart sings, for you here, in a land all alone. And my soul rings, for you here, in a land of my own.”

Too alone, too much so, all alone with his thoughts—rue the bond! What did he needs his own kind for, why should he desire their company, which had only burned him for so long!? No more tears.. In a fit of—what was this unidentifiable emotion!—Morteza flung himself against the wall, striking his head over, over and over again on the hard, unyielding stone surface. Him or the wall, one of the would have to cave in eventually! How he hated this existence and yet how he loved it! How it intoxicated, bewitched and seduced, yet how too it could just as easily abandon.

“ADVEHO In!” He roared, blood running down his face from his torn forehead. COME ON! “Erigo meus mucro ut vos , Vita , QUOD VOS Nex!” The strength of the scream, the howl, scoured his throat raw with its very utterance—I challenge you, Life, AND YOU, Death!

“Pugna mihi, VOMICA VOS! PUGNA MIHI!”

“Fight me, damn you!” Melchios screamed, tearing out locks of hair. “FIGHT ME!” Tears and blood, intermingle, streaming down his face— would it never end, would his wrenching affliction simply not leave, would it not? What was this, what sort of poison flowed in his blood, what malady could stay and never leave— his wings were unbound! His thirst slaked! Hunger fed! Bruises bathed, body cleansed of blood and grime—so why did he bloody him afresh, why lay on new bruises when healers were a barren choice, why tear out hair and burn it, WHY?!? Curse this, curse it all, what was wrong with him?

“AAARGH!” Whirling around, he grabbed a knife—he would free himself from these convulsions, he had to! Grabbing all his hair, all that sandy, striped blond, he let the knife cut its arc, shearing the locks to within a few inches of their life. There. The ribbon that had bound the back remained, the bedraggled symbol of vapid traditions. “See now if I can feel,” the faery hissed to the candles, “see now if I can feel grief or joy, anger or madness. See now, now that I’ve freed myself from the constraints of a world worth burning!” Pulling his arm back, he flung the bundle at the winking flames, staring half-triumphant, half-uncaring as the fine strands caught fire and the ribbon disintegrated, sending the burning threads to the ground, where the flames died out, leaving naught but the acrid smoke of a dying culture. Blond, now black. Light turned to dark. Raven black—now they withered to grey, dark grey, stormy grey—“no.” Horrified by the flitting phantom he saw in those depths, Melchios leapt forwards, scattering the ashy dust with a swipe of his wing. Breathing hard, he leaned back, body wracked with sobs.

You killed her, you killed her, you killed her. You killed her. “You killed her.” Such strong accusation in those words—“Do not repeat those words to me,” the Arandein snarled. “How could you,” that soft voice whispered, whispered with such socked, hurt grief that even the fire seemed to shrivel inside. He’d done what he’d wanted to.

“Leave me in peace,” he whispered fervently, rocking back and forth, pleading with he knew not what.

“How could I do what, Altus?” He responded, in a voice as mockingly soft as the healer’s own. “How could I let her die? Forgive me for saying as much,” he snarled, cool eyes narrowed , “but I reposed here, in Occalus—you were there. You were the one who could have saved her life, weren’t you? The youngest Altus, Signum Vulnus,” he mocked, “mulish lover, willing to stand by and let his fancy consort with any man she desires.” Signum stood away from him, beside the fire, light washing over his shining eyes, the tears falling in rapid order, tangling in his eyelashes, dripping past the corner of his mouth’s sweet bower. Light penned in, cupped by the wings of a swan, with nothing more than a few bars escaping to slant across the Arandein-- leaving him in darkness, painting him as the evil-doer. “Tell me,” he murmured, leaning towards that infertile lover, “the last report from the Tumulosus battle front, as is your job, Taladei. Then go—I’m a busy man, with far more concerns than a favourite whore’s death.” That black head shot up, eyes wide beyond fury. Come on, angel, attack me. It’s what you want to do, isn’t it? No, no—the greater mastery was his, for the Altus stormed away, saying in ill-controlled tones, “I take my leave of you, Morteza—let Anathae Deus make the report. After this month, I assure you that you’ll need not hear from me again.” The door slammed shut; a mere few minutes later, Foertis entered, an entirely different picture from his superior. Handsome, beautiful little creature.

“Forgive me, gods,” Melchios whispered, curling in on himself. “Please, please—forgive me.” But though there could be forgiveness for a murder, there was none for a tyrant.

ShadowPhoenix wrote:((Jael))

His eyes flickered open, blurred images passed through his eyes, trying to shape themselves into some kind of order. Was he awake, or was this some bizarre dream, barely caressing what he knew as Reality? Or was this some odd mix of both, the gray area not unlike the land between his states of mind? Don’t ask, he thought, closing his eyes again. Or had he ever opened them? It doesn’t matter… he thought again. But wait… this thought wasn’t his; wasn’t born from the depths of his mind. Just go back to sleep, it whispered again, Nothing will harm you there. Just go, rest, be at peace.

No, he thought, feeling some sort of defiance. Reach, he thought. There was metal nearby, he could feel it, hear its voice whispering on the very edges of perception, he knew it was there. Draw up the magic, speak to it, make its will your own, make it an extension of yourself, he thought, desperately trying to use his magic. The voice snarled, pushed it away from him. Fine, it hissed, since you desire consciousness so much… With that it let something go, let loose the floodwaters of pain that his drowsy body had been unable to recognize.

He tried to curl in on himself, but his body refused to move, forced to remain motionless. No… he thought, feeling panic, you can’t… I need it… give it back! The voice just laughed and pushed him farther away. Why do you need your magic so much, elf? it crooned. Your friend should be coming to rescue you, now shouldn’t he? After all, you couldn’t have gotten away all by yourself, now could you?

For a moment, he had no idea what the voice was talking about. Then, memory came back to him in spurts. The wall he was clinging to, the cat he was running after, the child, the sleeping form, the Rau-lass looking at him, the voice ashamedly saying “I’m tired”. With a sudden panic, Jael strained to push the Rau-lass away, so that he could use his magic, to get out of here. However, there was a reason that he had always depended on Kaedo when telepaths were involved. The Rau-lass stabbed his mind, sending needles of pain throughout his consciousness. It was not his body that ached now, and he could not push it away.

When it was finished punishing him, he could feel tears coursing down his cheeks. Kaedo, he silently begged, where the voice wouldn’t hear him, don’t come. Please, don’t come. Just this once… He silently begged any deity that might exist to keep the faery away, even if the elf didn’t believe in said being. You know he’ll come, another voice said. This time, though, it was his own voice, the one that he never wanted to hear, the one that he hated with a passion, and the one that was always right. He always comes. Always has, and always will. As long as he’s alive, that is.

Shut up, he snarled at himself, wishing that he could retreat far enough into his mind that this one voice couldn’t follow. You know he probably won’t survive this time, it continued, ignoring Jael’s pleas for it to leave him be. Or, more likely, it was spiting him. Remember the last time? He came to rescue you, but you were the one that had to drag him out of there, and away from Death’s threshold. He’s too old to be doing this; you see that he can’t even use his fire magic safely. Now he’s going to come and try to pull you out of the Rau-lass keep. Tell me, or rather, tell yourself that he’s going to make it out alive.

Stop it! he thought. Go away! Stop talking to me, leave me alone! It laughed at him. How can I? I am you. I am your doubts and fears, I am everything that you hate about yourself. I will be with you until the day you die. In a sudden movement, Jael forced his eyes open, forced himself to stagger to his feet. Someone said something, probably a curse, and he fell to the floor again, the world regaining its inky blackness. Please… just this once… don’t come…

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((Caelen))

Roughly, someone grabbed him, wrapping him in something so tightly so that he couldn’t move. Caelen panicked, struggling to be free, wanting the pain in his head to leave, wanting to stop screaming. Even with his eyes screwed shut, he was dimly aware of something else encompassing him, surrounding him in its embrace, hiding him from the sun and the two daemons.

As time went on, the pain lessened, and Caelen’s screams turned into slight whimpers, which themselves lapsed into silence. For a time, the child didn’t think, just remained curled up in Daddy’s arms as they passed through the earth, let himself bask in the sense of security, knowing that—for a time—they were safe. That everything would be alright now, that Daddy would keep them away from the Rau-lass.

Then, he shivered. It was his fault that they had gotten into trouble, it just had to be. He had given them away. He had messed up, had done something wrong, hadn’t acted properly. Why else would the Rau-lass attack him so suddenly? It was all his fault; his mental shields hadn’t been good enough, and he had failed. Failed to accomplish the mission, and—even worse—he had failed Daddy.

To add to his misery, he had screamed. He had been too loud, exactly what an assassin shouldn’t be. No one ever screamed. No one ever cried, showed that it hurt. You always hid it, made a mask that said ‘I don’t care what you do to me, it doesn’t hurt’. The only time you could cry was when you were alone in a safe place, somewhere that no one could hear you. Even then, you tried not to cry, because if you got into the habit of crying, you would cry in front of other people, too. Then people would think that you were weak, and they would pick on you even more. No one had told him this; it was an obvious fact, much like the unspoken rules of the Assassin’s Code. It didn’t need to be spoken, because everyone knew about it and agreed with it.

Caelen sniffed and buried his head into Daddy’s chest. He hadn’t been good enough, and almost got both of them killed. When Mommy came and found out, she would think that he was worthless, and Daddy wouldn’t ever talk to him again.

Even though he told himself that he didn’t care, Caelen still felt a hurt inside that had nothing to do with the Rau-lass.

ShadowWake wrote:((Nstif’ikta))

Deep indigo robes sweeping the dust motes into eddies as she passed, Nstif’ikta made her way briskly down the corridor towards the grand flight of stairs that led the way into the great hall of the faery keep. Serving as both a laboratory and a torture chamber, it was one of the few places that she felt at home, able to take strength from the terrified minds that surrounded her. As the great, wooden doorway came into view, the atrox that were flanking the entryway sprung to attention, opening the doors with a zeal reserved only for those most loyal. A human mage and Rau-lass soldier observed silently from overhead, the latter’s mind pressing against hers briefly to inform her of the comings and goings of the day.

Without a pause, the Queen swept into the hall, not even registering the elegant yet understated beauty of the curving stone arches and subtle carvings that littered the high ceilings; a place for the faeries indeed, yet few of those feather-winged beings had even stepped foot into the place since she had taken over and those that had, had wished they hadn’t.

She could hear it in their screams.

They rang in her head - wonderful and wild in their terrified madness – pleading… begging… some even recognised her form and called out to her personally, causing her heart to soar in excitement. This is what she wanted… this is what she needed… but no, it wasn’t enough. To hear them struggle was only half the pleasure; to bind them to her will was more than that: it was Fortallat’im – an afterlife worth dying for. And one worth killing for.

Slowing as she neared a robed couple – a mage and a Rau-lass as she had them paired most often – Nstif’ikta settled her mind onto the consciousness before them, a smile breaking over her dark lips as she felt the hollowness inside. “How is our little experiment then?” she enquired and, sensing her liege’s satisfaction, the Rau-lass female bared her teeth in a slow grin.

“See for yourself, my Lady,” the human mage returned, her obsequious bow not quite masking the directness of the comment, and the Queen stepped a pace forwards, tilting her head to gaze with crimson eyes at the small figure in front of her.

It was easy slipping into the child’s mind – as it had been with the majority of the young ones – but instead of the innate magical resistance that usually occurred with the faeries, Nstif’ikta felt nothing: a great empty hollow in which swirled the essences of Rau-lass mages who had previously resided within. There was a spark still, yes, but that was nothing more than a desperate cling onto life: not even a flame but simply a dull glow that kept the child breathing and its heart pumping a slow but steady rhythm. And its wings! They had done well in keeping the faery toddler as intact as possible: those pretty, fragile little appendages with their distinct colouration… not even his own kind would recognise him for anything other than a lost member of their own race. He was – in a word – perfect.

No coaxing, no cajoling, Nstif’ikta fed her needs into the young one’s mind and instantly, the child’s gaze turned scarlet, snapping upon the human mage before him with an intent that was more than unnerving.

“I think you’ve done enough,” he said soullessly, the child-like tone made cold by the chilling precision of the words that was far beyond his years. Startled, the woman raised her hand to retaliate, but not quick enough; her screams echoed around the hall, mingling with those already present and yet stilling all other sound in its curdling wail. As the form crumpled into the Rau-lass mage – hands still clutching at her head as the seductive female shoved her partner’s corpse from her side – the child’s hollow eyes became a vibrant blue once more, wingtips and blonde curls twitching slightly as though they had been brushed by a passer-by.

Black lips curling into a smile, the Rau-lass Queen’s own dark hair coiled eagerly over her shoulders, her hands clenching beneath her sleeves.

In a word… Perfect.

Alacer Phasmatis wrote:The faery warrior said in steely tones, “I do not lie. It is dishonorable to lie of such matters.” Resisting the urge to arch a brow, for Aerain could not be treated with the casualty allotted to family, Caera listened with the hard air of a vine that had just been near-entirely consumed by aphids. “I said I could help,” Aerain said emotionlessly, “I did not say I could cure her… though it might, if we were lucky. However, I’m not willing to take the risk in saying that it will.”

“I was biased because I had to watch the same thing happen to my son, more than half a century ago. He was too far gone for my efforts and didn’t have the strength to fight it.” The young maid involuntarily raised a hand, arresting it before her tapered, refined fingertips could come to rest on the stoic faery’s shoulder. Holding her mossy gaze, enraptured as a small tree frog by flickering lights, Aerain stated, “Nor did we. I don’t see the same in your family, Caera. You are strong-willed – all of you. Your sister, Trisha, spoke for me when all she had was my word; yes, her magic told her they were truths, but she needed not to have voiced her knowledge, yet despite her illness – and the disagreement of her family – she did. And that is what makes me believe I can help her… at least for a while.”

No, we are not strong-willed, the lady thought bitterly. We are nothing, the vain vespers of a destitute line—strong, what is strength in this family, what meaning does it hold when unless your magicks are suited to combat, you are weak? What good is it when the meek cannot atone for their failings by taking up arms unless they be men, what power is there in ‘strength’ such as this? Outwardly, though, her composure was as sleek and smooth, as well-bred as ever. She was not Altair, and her feelings were not a thing to be displayed to any other than the Ælfhers.

“However, my offer will always stand,” Aerain added candidly, “And, if such a case were to arise when my services are needed, as long as I am in your family’s company, I will protect it like I would my own. With my life, if necessary. And that includes you.” As though in elaboration of her point, her hand stretched out to brush Caera’s shoulder, gently meeting the bruise her cousin had left.

Her eyes widened, though she’d seen healing magic many times—just not on herself. The discoloured flesh was not the beautiful, pearly skin it had been before, but the mar her flawless beauty had been forced to endure was markedly weakened. She could be a politician, Caera thought with mild surprise, her actions speak so well for her words. “I believe you,” the elf responded softly, still examining her shoulder, “and were you any closer a friend, I would demand that you see to my sister within the week. As it is,” she continued, raising the collar of her gown to hide the yellowed mark, “I request that you do so. I doubt,” she added as an afterthought, “that my detestable cousin would be unaware of the happening were you and I to be seen together too often, or if we were seen together not at all. So while I would like to talk more with you—“ involuntarily, her eyes strayed to the sword strapped securely to the woman’s side, “—I think it best that any contact concerning Trisha be carried out by a third party, such as Niall, the man whose nephew was offered your mare. Wouldn’t you agree?”

ShadowWake wrote:((Aerain))

“I believe you and were you any closer a friend, I would demand that you see to my sister within the week,” Caera responded, her tone gentled in seeming awe as she studied the remains of the bruise. For Aerain the action had been small; she would've healed the sore completely if she had thought the elf's family wouldn't have noticed but the Ælfhers were a perceptive people and it was a risk the faery would rather avoid. Even if she disagreed with the cause.

“As it is,” the elven maid continued, her hands instinctively twitching at her dress to hide the fading blemish, “I request that you do so. I doubt that my detestable cousin would be unaware of the happening were you and I to be seen together too often, or if we were seen together not at all. So while I would like to talk more with you, I think it best that any contact concerning Trisha be carried out by a third party, such as Niall, the man whose nephew was offered your mare. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Aerain considered Caera's words with a soldier's tactics, folding her arms contemplatively: an automatic reaction of hers to any awkward situation. That there was dissension among the family had been clear from the start, though now these simple disgreements seemed to be dragged along by the same undercurrent: a clash of two contrasting personality veins that seemed to run through the family line like parallel arteries - namely that of Caera's and Niall's against Lysander's and Altair's. It was something that the faery had inadvertently become drawn into and, like the delicate web of a spider, could not get out of without breaking the fragile strands holding everything together. She would need to be careful: that alone was clear.

"I agree," she answered simply, meeting the woman's gaze once more, "It would not be good for either of us if Altair were to see our efforts. Contention and discord Altair seems to be able to deal with-" Aerain flashed an angry look towards where the woman's injury had been, "-in his own way - but conspiracy? From my impressions of him, he does not seem like a man who could cope with family working against him."

Aerain looked at the woman sideways, lips pursed slightly. "You'll dislike me for asking," she stated bluntly, "But can you - we - trust Niall? He seems..." The faery paused, trying to think of a word she could use for her perception of the elf. He seemed downtrodden despite the Ælfhers' supposed support and protection against the past, he adored a woman who was fated to marry a fool and could do nothing of it, yet he seemed genuine in his feelings and opinions. Still, in a time of contrasting interests, Aerain had no idea of whom he would side with. "He seems genuine," she finished, "But wherein the family does his loyalty lie? Forgive me but I don't know any of you particularly well and it naturally sparks my suspicion; it's meant at no offence."

Unfolding her arms, Aerain stretched her wings slightly and rolled her shoulders, releasing some of the tension within. "If you trust him, then it's probably best if you converse with him about the matter and get him to approach me. It would not take much for Altair to find out our intentions if I'm seen to be approaching seperate members of your family; the other way around is more likely to give the impression of curiosity rather than intrigue."

Alacer Phasmatis wrote:((Lysander))

The pair had barely made it out alive—wouldn’t have, Lysander noted grimly, had he not possessed such skill in magickry. Even his peerless strength, though, had very nearly proved wanting—all in all a close shave (at least, that probably was the expression… if it wasn’t, the humans should change it).

The elf had had better days by far; his tunic, already an unwanted article of clothing, had become the apparel of bilge rats, the seam running down the leg of his breeches was torn in a most unseemly manner, and his hair. His hair! The dirt and rubble had been magically extricated, but merciful stars! The dead leaves, the tangles and knots—and he had no brush or mirror, for pity’s sake! Only worsening this odious turn of events, he thought unsympathetically, is the snot-nosed child’s behavior.

Despite his supercilious take on Caelen’s self-imposed, gloomy silence, he did manage to feel a tug of the heartstrings when he imagined how terrible it must feel to not be as capable in that situation as he himself was (a feeling dispersed by ecstasy at the peace of the past two days).

Scanning the forest, Lysander drew to a halt, adding, “stop here,” for the boy’s benefit. “I think,” he murmured, crouching down, “that we’re just about there.” Well, obviously they were there—the elf knew when he was right, after all— but he’d rather check to be sure the Rau-lass hadn’t extracted the information concerning this location from Caelen’s mind; he began scanning underground. Ciach, that was the last time they would take such a risk with an untrained child…

Excellent, he thought mildly, they’re safe. Honestly, my good man, you worry far too much for their safety. Valiant, but a vain squandering of emotion. “Take my hand, now,” he ordered Caelen, “we’re going under.” Having said as much, he allowed the maw of the ground part, the two elves disappearing from the view of the world.

-- -

Blinking heavily, Lysander took a moment to allow his eyes to adjust. A blond figure stood before him, arms crossed, mouth spread wickedly wide. “Can you tell,” Foertis sniggered, “that I’m not laughing for your benefit?”

“No,” the superior mage stated in response, “and you might want to rectify that, my pint-sized friend.” Freezing in anger, Foertis nearly lunged at his opponent, then seemed to think better of it. “Go ahead, clean up and enjoy your rest while you can,” he smirked, adding, “come on, Caelen—while Daddy-” “Don’t encourage him!” “-cleans up and puts on a dress, Signum and Samir have something to tell you.”

“Go ahead,” Lysander snarled, “and don’t forget to tell Signum that we ran into Rau-lass!” The faery didn’t break stride, but his scarred face blanched. Hehe. That always worked.

ShadowPhoenix wrote:((Lilith))

A small sound made the elf turn her head. Caelen stood in the doorway of Healer Vulnus’s study, frozen in place. “Mommy?” he tentatively asked. He seemed frozen with indecision; his face reflecting both surprise and self-disappointment. Lilith raised an eyebrow towards him, wondering why he would be upset and with himself, of all people. “Where’s Samir?” he finally asked, the Cetairiacelosian words sliding easily off his tongue. “Samir was a disguise,” she responded in Fae, “and please speak in a language that Healer Vulnus can understand, unless you think it would be best otherwise.”

The albino looked back at the faery with a ‘what now?’ expression on her face. Caelen still hadn’t left the room, and now that he had more or less gotten over the initial shock at her presence, he would be left with only whatever it was that had made him upset. Quite frankly, Lilith had no desire to comfort anyone, not to mention the fact that she wasn’t very good at it.

However, Caelen choked back a small sob, redirecting Lilith’s gaze towards him once more. Oh hell, she thought as his hands flew over his mouth and a tear made its way down his face. With a sudden burst—in Fae this time—he said, “Are Rau-lass, an’ Daddy says ‘run’, an’ I not good, an’, an’” he threw himself towards her, wrapping his arms around her knees, ignoring the fact that the albino had frozen the moment he touched her. He was clenching his jaw, trying not to cry anymore, but a tear or two still trickled out of the corner of his eye.

Not knowing what else to do, Lilith asked, “What happened?” her tones as emotionless as ever, and maybe a bit more so than normal. With some prodding, Caelen was convinced to relate all that had happened while he had been in the company of the mage. When they got to the part with the Rau-lass, his voice shook. “An’ lady won’t let go an’ my head hurt, so I say I needs pee, and go outside. Daddy say run, pretend chase mouse. But,” his face scrunched up again, and the child paused for a moment. “Not good,” he whispered, “head hurts more, and I scream.” The final part was said with a great sense of shame. “I not good, and I scream, and Daddy mad at me and not let me go.”

For a moment, there was silence, and Caelen’s shoulders hunched over, expecting some punishment. With an exasperated sigh, Lilith said, “How old are you?” Caelen looked up at her, and whispered, “Eight an’ almost half.” Lilith nodded. “And, tell me, how many years have you been mentally shielding?” “Almost two,” came the reply, confusion once again appearing on the child’s face. “And have you ever been subjected to a mental attack of the degree which you suffered?” There was a moment of silence—whether it was because Caelen was thinking or trying to figure out what she had just said, Lilith had no idea. However, she thought it might be a bit of both. Finally, the child said, “No.”

Lilith looked down at him and said, “Caelen, you aren’t expected to refrain from screaming in extreme pain until you’re twelve, sixteenish. You’ve got a few years before people—assassins,” she corrected herself, aware that Healer Vulnus was still listening, “will consider you weak for it. Even then they won’t think too badly of you if you start screaming while under attack from a telepath; there isn’t too much you can do about that. And if you are a telepath it just means that the other person was stronger than you and is tearing your mind to bits. If that happens, you’ve got a bit more to worry about than your appearance in the eyes of your fellows, though,” she added.

She finally made herself look down at the midget that was still clinging to her. His brown eyes were still disbelieving, but he had stopped sniffling. “I no good,” he said. “I let Rau-lass find Daddy,” he added, his shoulders drooping again.

The albino stared at the tawny elf in wonder. How he could ever have so much affection for a mage—let alone Lysander—was far beyond her. And yet… she couldn’t admonish him for it; it would only crush his spirit even further. Then she’d have to deal with a depressed child on top of everything else, for Caelen would only attach himself to her once she pulled him away from the mage. “For pity’s sake, Caelen, would you let someone just wander away if you were even the slightest bit suspicious of them?” The child shook his head, unaffected by the hardness of her voice. “So what makes you think that it’s all your fault?”

Not waiting for his answer, she turned towards the faery. “Quite frankly, I would like to know why the mage traveled with Caelen for two whole days without trying to soothe his conscience. It isn’t his fault, not in the least, and he shouldn’t be expected to take the blame for it.”

Hedya wrote:((Selan))

That night Selan slept really fine. She was so tired that she fell asleep soon. Between all the darkness that was surrounding her, she was in a spot of light. With Tarn and Hylas she had nothing to fear, and they had proved that in a number of occasions. She was happy to be with them, even in their situation. While she was sleeping, Selan dreamt of things, many past things, from the time everything hadn't started, around the time she hadn't met the faeries, when she was still in Oestin. It was so long ago... and while dreaming, she felt something strange. When she awoke, there was still the awkward feeling. She saw the place covered in a thin mist, but she felt magic on it. It wasn't actually very different to normal mist, though. Selan thought it looked like a wind spell. She looked around and saw that both Tarn and Hylas were sleeping, so she decided to go for a walk. She wanted to ease her mind, to calm herself, and perhaps to cheer up a bit, somehow, while admiring the places they were travelling to.

She 'wrote' a note on the floor, so they could read it if they awoke while she still wasn't there. I went for a walk, I'll take care of breakfast, back soon. She thought that'd be enough, and walk to their east. She took her sword with her. Just in case she thought. While walking, she took a closer look to the sword. She unsheathed it, and raised it as high as she was able to. Depending on the light, it even looked like it could... but it was a cursed sword, after all. A sword made of darkness, she knew that. A sword that had almost consumed her soul. But her name had been misused, she had been betrayed by her own kin; the humans. Nevertheless, she still wanted to find that temple, to cleanse her sword, her soul, and to be able to fight to save them all.

She found strange to realize that she had been thinking a lot about that stuff, that morning... and when she was still confused about that, the wind changed. It became thicker, and soon she saw the reason.

Four huge pillars were rising from the ground, each with a figure engraved on it. A human; a winged human, probably a faery; an elf, and a half-human half-horse, was it a shifter? Of course. She realized. Those were the four 'light' races. She looked further, and realized the four pillars were holding the entrance to a beautifully crafted temple. It was a large diaphanous building, with a different style to everything she had seen before. Definitely, this is the place! We've found it! It was the most wonderful place she had layed her eyes on. However, it had a menacing look, as though the place was cursed, or dangerous, or... who knew what things could it hide within it.

She spoke in a soft voice. "Tarn, Hylas, follow the wind, we have found it." and after that, she rose her right hand. "Wind, O please, bear my voice to those who await my return, and guide them to this light". She hoped her poor wind mastery would be enough to be able to do that, and looked around a bit more. It was certainly strange that this place had remained unnoticed for so long.

"Release it, Selan." she heard a familiar voice. "Oh, you don't know who I am? Surely you remember me...it's Lady Anelia, here!" Selan looked around, desperated. What was the meaning of that. And it was certainly her own voice! Finally she spotted a translucid image. It was certainly a magic being, but still...

She went to take her sword, and when she was ready to unsheath it, she realized there was no sword. The magic figure laughed. "Oh, you mean this? I'm sorry, dear Selan, but THIS is what has given me life..." Anelia changed her facial expression, which became more serious. "Now, show me what you've got. This is the first trial! Prove yourself worthy!"

And after saying that, she expert swordswoman jumped to her objective, while Selan had to throw herself to the ground, in order to avoid the sword. She tried to breathe, while avoiding the swings and hits Anelia was trying to deliver, and finally, when she found an open weak point, she extended her hand, which was already covered in a -perhaps a bit too big- glove. "Fire! Destruction! Creation! Help me overcome the darkness!" and a flame came out of the nothingness and enveloped the magic figure. After a painful shriek, relaxed laugh followed. "Selan, you will be worth it. I give up. I'm yours, from now on..." And, finally, Selan's past as Lady Anelia had been defeated.

ShadowWake wrote:((Hylas))

Furry black ears twitched, dislodging a fly that had found an irritating place to rest – but that wasn’t the reason for the movement. The slumbering little ferret uncoiled slightly from his curled position, reaching out with tiny forepaws in a long stretch that shuddered through his muscles. Raising his head, Hylas turned to look at the morning shadows of the forest, ears pricked once more for the sound that had woken him: there they were again – voices – carrying on the wind like whispers from the trees, though Hylas would’ve recognised the tone anywhere.

Warily, the young shifter trotted over to Tarn’s motionless form and then suddenly paused, dark gaze cast to the floor. The words I went for a walk, I'll take care of breakfast, back soon. were etched plainly into the dirt by a fairer hand than his: Selan’s. Ignoring the lettering, Hylas nudged the hunter’s leg with his small head and then – to make his point clear – shifted into his larger wolverine form.

Believing the man would know of his intentions by now, Hylas moved away from Tarn and into the twilight-tinted woodland, alert for any new sound and fur bristling in readiness. The rest had been good for him; already he felt older – more able to cope with the situations presented to him – and if Selan was in danger... well, then whoever was attacking would better watch out because although the young boy bore no blade, he had his teeth and his claws and he was not afraid to use them.

The voices became clearer as he walked and Hylas broke into a fast trot, heavy legs thudding softly against the leaf-litter. A shout made him startle and the young shifter paused, rounded ears flicking forwards to catch the words on the breeze. Suddenly, the sing of steel resounded in his animal hearing along with heavy panting. The sound of a body tumbling to the floor thudded softly and concerned, Hylas picked up his pace, hurrying until he saw the slender form of Selan’s figure among the shadows.

Blue hair swirling about her wasit, the woman’s gloved hand snapped out towards a second figure that didn’t seem quite as though it were there. A lost spirit! Hylas thought, his childhood mind conjuring up memories of ghosts and monsters. This one was armed – with Selan’s sword no less! – and try as he might, the boy could not force his terrified body to move.

"Fire! Destruction! Creation!” Selan shouted as Hylas made himself take a tiny step forwards, ”Help me overcome the darkness!”

Instantly, a blaze of flame shot from the woman’s fingertips and surrounded the mysterious figure, who shrieked yet did not seem to burn. Unconsciously, Hylas arched his back, bearing his teeth at the stranger with the sword as she laughed briefly.

"Selan,” she said, and the young shifter growled for the voice was the woman’s own, ”you will be worth it. I give up. I'm yours, from now on..."

Finally, fear’s hold upon the boy relaxed and instinctively, Hylas sprung forwards, planting hiself before Selan with a furious snarl, sharp canines bared to the gums and dark eyes narrowed at the indistinct figure. Selan was his family and he would protect her as far as he was able. Even if the attacker was a ghost.

Alacer Phasmatis wrote:((Signum))

Caelen entered with the timorous air of a mouse, starting for a moment when he saw Lilith was there; more than that, his face adopted an air of unhappiness that was truly alarming. Words in his native language slid easily off his tongue, though when Lilith replied, it was in Fae. “Samir was a disguise, and please speak in a language that Healer Vulnus can understand, unless you think it would be best otherwise.”

Lilith glanced at Signum irately, as though to say, what do you want me to do now? He gestured with a look that he thought it best she comfort her distraught charge; Caelen hardly knew the faery, after all, but admired and looked up to Lilith.

Grasping Lilith’s knees, Caelen half-choked out the events in their entirety, his disjointed grammar hindered all the more by his crushing disappointment in his perceived failure. Finishing, the elf said, “An’ lady won’t let go an’ my head hurt, so I say I needs pee, and go outside. Daddy say run, pretend chase mouse. But… not good,” he whispered, “head hurts more, and I scream. I not good, and I scream, and Daddy mad at me and not let me go.”

Lilith offered comfort, of course; what else could she have done? Signum, however, wasn’t focusing on the drama unfolding; rather, brows knit together in anger, he thought of the elf who’d been so self-absorbed, so arrogant as to let a hapless child spend two days under the weight of unjust guilt.

“I no good,” Caelen sniffled desolately. “I let Rau-lass find Daddy.” Spitefully, Signum muttered under his breath, “and maybe you should have let them keep ‘Daddy’.”

“For pity’s sake, Caelen,” Lilith exclaimed, “would you let someone just wander away if you were even the slightest bit suspicious of them?” The boy shook his head. “So what makes you think that it’s all your fault? Quite frankly,” she continued, addressing the other adult now, “I would like to know why the mage travelled with Caelen for two whole days without trying to soothe his conscience. It isn’t his fault, not in the least, and he shouldn’t be expected to take the blame for it.”

“Don’t presume that I condoned this,” he stated in calm reply, though masked emotion seethed to colour the words. “Lysander,” he murmured, moving away from the pair, “was and is a self-absorbed, condescending—you know how he is. I don’t speak in his defence,” he growled, pausing by the exit, on the verge of leaving, “but remember that he’d likely not noticed.” Which is why I’m going to give him hell.

ShadowPhoenix wrote:((Lilith))

“Don’t presume that I condoned this,” Healer Vulnus said calmly, even though Lilith suspected he was, at the very least, rather angry with the mage. As he continued to speak, the faery began to move away from them and towards the door. “Lysander was and is a self-absorbed, condescending—you know how he is. I don’t speak in his defence, but remember that he’d likely not noticed.” There was the slightest hint of a snarl in the last sentence, hinting at the healer’s view on the matter. Lilith merely nodded, feeling almost happy. She didn’t doubt that Healer Vulnus would punish Lysander in some way—whether it was merely a very severe scolding or if it were of a more physical nature. Lilith very nearly asked the man to break the mage’s nose for her, but she didn’t. She had no idea whether such a suggestion would make Healer Vulnus less likely to be harsh with the mage or not.

After the man had left, the albino looked down at Caelen, trying to figure out what to do with him now. He was still clinging to her knees, so she couldn’t just walk away. And even if she tried to, she was willing to bet a sizeable amount of money that he would simply trail after her. “Do you want to go play with the other kids?” she asked in Cetairiacelosian. He looked up at her, his sienna eyes still full of distress. “No,” he mumbled. There was a long silence that followed, during which Lilith mentally scrambled for something that would take his mind off of his so-called failure. Finally, just to get him off already, she asked, “Are you getting mucus on my cloak?” Caelen froze, then leapt away. That was one of the few things that your fellow assassins respected, especially if they hadn’t earned their cloaks yet. And it gave her a good excuse to more or less shoo Caelen away.

Without another word, she left the room, and, as she had suspected, the child followed her. She wandered into one of the empty rooms and took out a dagger. Drawing a rough outline of a person with average height, she tossed the dagger to Caelen, who almost caught it by the blade and cut himself. After shutting the door, she moved to his side. Crouching, she pointed to the rough sketch she had draw in the soft earth walls. “I want you to show me how well you can throw daggers,” she said, “and I want you to aim for its heart. Understand?”

Caelen stared at her, his eyes gone wide and a look of joy and awe crossed his face. “I can really practice with this?” he said, holding up the dagger that Master Jael had given her. “Why else would I give it to you and tell you to practice?” she demanded. He dropped his eyes to the ground and shifted uncomfortable underneath her piercing gaze. Lilith stepped away a pace or so and stopped glaring as much; she didn’t want him to feel like she was breathing over his shoulder.

Caelen took a deep breath, then threw it. The dagger buried itself a couple inches to the left and below the area that the heart would normally be. Cautiously, Lilith called the dagger to her; she didn’t want to reactivate whatever it was that caused it to bond her and Sorea’s minds together, especially since Healer Vulnus hadn’t really told her what had happened to the other dagger.

Crouching once more, she said, “Hold it like this,” she demonstrated. Then, she fixed Caelen’s grip on the dagger, before once more backing away. This time, it was a bit closer to the targeted area than previously. Leaning against the wall, she let herself meld with the shadows, occasionally correcting the elf child when needed. It was obvious that he would have to be taught by her in order to keep up with his classmates. Even though they probably had been moved out of Cetairiacelos by now, they would still have class. Lilith very nearly sighed at this thought. She had never liked teaching, much less when the student was a young child.

Alacer Phasmatis wrote:((Melchios))

The wind raced by, fleeting little wings darting in and out, through tentacles and armor, by swords and robes, fluttering lithe wings before galloping into the vastness of the yonder. All day, it had been that way, all day; it was as though heaven was confused, and the gods didn’t know whether they wanted calm or gales, cloud-scudded sky or bright, piercing blue. Make up your minds! the faery wished to scream. Here, though, he maintained a stiff upper lip, here he squared his shoulders and replaced the urge for mad spontaneity with a measure pace and logical demeanor.

Logic, here! Morteza could have doubled over in laughter if he’d allowed himself to, the concept was so very amusing. In all truth, what was logic? Nothing, the blighted fruit of some philosopher’s hemming and hawing; nothing! If logical thought entailed sound reasoning, it was a mere dependant, a phantom relying solely on the beliefs of a system, one with rules and a logical—again, that logic!—logical ordering. Yet logic also stood to be followed and understood, and there was very little in the conceivable world that ran thus, though much stood to be observed and acknowledged. So in all truth, logic was a nonexistent creature of helpless categorization. Certainly, it is a dead man here, he thought dourly, skimming over the ranks he’d been allowed.

What driving force was it that compelled the mortal to snap its jaws at its fellow being? Feelings were so superficial, so irrelevant in the grandest scheme of schemes, yet their cloying presence hung over everything that dared exist, so many sepulchral clouds of rancid plotting and vengeance. If Raí’alssa hadn’t felt the urge to seek new shores, they wouldn’t have happened upon Aduro, and had the humans of the time not experienced fear, they’d have not resisted, and were so many chains of cause and reaction eliminated, then Signum wouldn’t have grieved over Sorea’s death, Lysander, in a moment of noblesse oblige, wouldn't have used his magics to exterminate them from the face of the earth, Phoenix Raine would have left be the fields of battle, Nstif’ikta would have felt no compulsion to maintain this chase, and he himself—had he not joined the merry dance, he’d have perhaps enjoyed a quality of life above their lowly games of cat-and-mouse, games that would be futile after so many centuries’ elapse. Still, it was his hunt as much as it was theirs—and he’d be damned if he’d lose.

Breathing deeply of the clean, fresh wind, untainted by the ugly throes of the dead and dying, Melchios thought with a rabid satisfaction, checkmate.

ShadowWake wrote:((Nstif’ikta))

Something tugged at her mind and, uncrossing her legs restlessly, Nstif’ikta slipped into the darkness, picking out the glimmering form with difficulty. “Damn that faery’s magic”, she hissed privately to herself, trying to limit the amount of energy she was putting into the link in order to sustain it. Standing, she folded her arms with a frown. What news? she enquired bluntly, forcing the thoughts into greater clarity.

...approaching Melchios... came the faint answer, ...magic... weak telepathy... limited... others... good pace... no suspicion...

Mentally sighing, the Rau-lass Queen pressed two fingers to her brow in consternation, absently tracing the furrows along the pale surface. They certainly hadn’t been there before all this... mess. What of the boy? she snapped, turning to pace her tent, armour clanking gently amongst the noisy flap of canvas, He remains untainted?

...obedient... no emotion... easy... minor problems... alone... heartbeat fades...

“Lik’vas,” Nstif’ikta swore aloud, crimson eyes narrowing in frustration as she rapped her nails upon the hilt of the sword strapped at her waist, How often are you maintaining a link?

... link...?

Angrily, the Rau-lass gave her mage a mental slap. How often?

... daily... my Lady...

Throwing her hands up in exasperation, Nstif’ikta spun on her heel, batting away the odd strand of hair that twisted into her view as it lashed about her face. Then maintain it for longer, you fools! she exclaimed irately, The boy has no soul left - of course his life is going to fade if you don’t supplement it mentally! One of you will maintain a permanent link – even if it’s only a weak one – until the mission is completed, do you understand?

...what if... die?

Then you will take over their place! the Queen snarled, firing a glare at a human mage who had quietly entered her tent behind her, The boy is to be kept alive at all costs, do you hear? All costs! Now do your duty as you were asked!

“My Queen,” the human said softly, bowing his head in respect – though it seemed he was simply avoiding her daggered gaze – “The soldiers are ready to move out.”

Drawing her sword, Nstif’ikta pushed past the robed figure with a sweep of her left arm.

--------------------------------
((Phoenix))

The wind was picking up and, though nowhere near as chill as it had been in the mountains, was weaving through the tree trunks like a serpent, biting at any exposed flesh. Clouds scudded rapidly across the overhead sky – or at least what they could see of it between the reaching boughs – seeming to promise rain and then snatching the premonition away in a wash of clear blue. Though her fingers were chilled, Phoenix’s cheeks were not reddened by the cold but more by her exertions; after seeing the fate of Occalus, both companions had agreed it would do no good to linger and, despite not having a clear destination in mind, the two had set off at a fast pace down the mountain slope and into the shelter of the forest.

It had been easier to walk alone side-by-side, but tired and downhearted once more, Phoenix moved closer to Argenti, linking her arm through his own. In her mind, the shadows whispered, content solely to murmur assurances while her guard was down but nonetheless still more subdued than they had been before. Whether that was good or bad, Phoenix didn’t like to think on it too much, but it certainly allowed her thoughts to wander a little further, sparking a few early memories that she couldn’t ignore and yet wished she had forgotten. Her training with Rae under her father’s tuition... her mother’s sorrow... her lost friendship with the northern faeries... Demon’s death... her argument with Sorea... the moment where she thought she’d lost everything...

Interlocking fingers with the faery, Phoenix took a deep breath, letting it loose in a heavy sigh. It was becoming harder and harder to keep such thoughts at bay, even with Argenti’s warm company and it was effort enough to stop herself from thinking what might be, let alone what had already come to pass. She was hungry but neither did she want to stop to eat: the more they kept moving, the higher chance they had of coming across one of their lost comrades – if, that was, there were any to find...

“Let’s turn South for a while,” Phoenix sighed softly, raising her right hand to rub at the ache in her temple, “We’ve been walking east for a few days now; I think we’re far enough from Occalus to constitute a change in direction. Besides, the wind’s shifting again and it’d be better not to have it carry our scent...”

Biting her tongue, the woman swallowed an almost overwhelming sense of loss: it had been months since she had thought with a mind akin to the wolves and the sudden instinctual need to avoid predators was both unexpected and saddening. Blinking firmly, Phoenix raised her hood, shadowing her features from the light that suddenly seemed too bright for her to bear. Swallowing again at the lump in her throat, she wrapped the worn wool tightly around her form.

“I hope the pack is safe,” she whispered to her companion.

Safe... the shadows whispered in return.

Alacer Phasmatis wrote:((Kaedo))

Heart beating a staccato tattoo, Kaedo flew fast and hard across Narda, his mental manipulations serving him well in furthering his guise as a small butterfly. He managed well until he reached the outskirts of the keep, for none of the peasantry, nor the lesser guards of the markets, would give a second thought to the sand-coloured insect flitting among them. The Raí’alssa, however, were an altogether far more forbidding prospect; Narda was a shifter’s city, after all, and it wasn’t for naught that the imposing walls of their mages’ keep rose without even the slightest indication of animal life. It was a vast moat of barren emptiness, punctuated only by the forms of the mages going about their business, or the guards that accompanied them. Those may be trusted, I suppose, the faery thought with slight disgust. All their keepers would have to do is will it, and they’d be dead.

Inching cautiously forwards, he abandoned the minds he’d had to hold in sway, so that he could create his butterfly illusion. The excessive ties would without a doubt draw the attention of the guards. Cautiously, a tendril of consciousness was extended to wander guardedly along the periphery of an iron wall erected by the mages, one not of the physical, but rather of the mental plane. He dared not touch it, but perhaps he could look at it.

Mages, mages, bloody mages all over the place. There must be some manner of weakness, though; for Jael’s sake, there had to be. Interspersed with
Raí’alssa are humans, much more readily overpowered, and then there are the guards; but can I even hope to slip by unnoticed?

As each new prospective returned a dead end, Kaedo’s desperation mounted ever higher, until after the complete passage of two hours he realized there was a shift, and that approaching swiftly from various points of the keep were new thoughts, more powerful and alert. The changing of the guard is about the commence. After that period, he would far greater obstacles. But during that period—during that period, though the numerical disadvantage should increase, would not a certain degree of unpreparedness and a lack of anticipation be on his side?

However, the Raí’alssa were doubtless aware of the strategically disarming point, and would doubtless seek to minimize it in whatever way they could. Silens had to act fast, now—gods, you took my apprentice away from me, you’ve had my home and now my youth; if you would have my friend too, at least let me go with him. With that silent plea, he mobilized the full of his mental force, using a faculty that had been a morbid favourite of Sorea’s: the possession of minds.

* * * * *

The faery was running and flying too fast, the rush of the moment reversing the years to numb joint pain and wheezing breathes. His body worked better than it had in decades; dizzily, the veteran spy thought, this would be a good way to die.

His plan had worked about as well could have been hoped for, no more or less. When the mages had been attacked by so many minds from so many directions, they’d initiated the protocol for such a situation, in so many words, the location of the source. Though the Raí’alssa eventually resorted to soul-magic, pinpointing the one faery spirit immediately, their confidence in their abilities to discern his mind among they many others had been great enough that they’d cast a vicious attack upon those first; overall a futile expenditure of energy, considering that he’d mimicked in each animal a shifter’s mind, casting upon his own the mental image of an insect shifter. They’ve got me now, though. Jael, Jael, hold on--- and here he should be?

Yes, this was it! His mind had immediately latched onto the elf’s, using his earlier confusion to avoid the hindrance of sifting through imitations of the elf’s thoughts and emotions. How unfortunate, Kaedo thought wearily, that he has his own little guards. Of course, of course; no less could be expected of them. Poison mages were one thing, but those capable of eliminating the effects of drugs were another world altogether; mental suppression of the elf’s magic would have been their only probable venue.

He had to make it…

Selothi wrote:After a quick and silent meal, all three of them, Hylas, Selan and Tarn, had decided to call it a day. Grabbing whatever they could to make the ground a little softer, and ease the toll on their bodies, each slowly drifted to sleep, the young Shifter boy first. It's only normal, he's had a very hard and tiring day, and we are asking too much of him, I'm sure ... thought the hunter. Constantly shifting to and fro his bestial form, always alert, always trying to help. He was an admirable boy, truly hell-bent on keeping the both of them safe. But Tarn was afraid they'd tire the boy out too much, as all of this was just too much for him.

Sleep found the loner eventually, the star-speckled void before him giving way to the grey blur so common to the man's dreams. Visions of the past swirled in eddies, surfacing as a still-life, people in those images sometimes dining, doing menial chores, or sometimes under attack, slaughtered, a hazy mixture of red from flames and red from the blood, tinted in a macabre grey that took all semblance of reality out of it. It was like the delusions of a depressed madman, like hellish visions sent to plague him. The ghosts that haunted him always chose the calm, calm night to start their usual assault. Again and again, images of those he'd known, those he'd lived with, surfaced from the vast ocean that was his memory. Always, each and every time, peace and quiet, happiness and joy would reign on the first few memories, setting the mood for a good night's sleep with a pleasing dream. And every time, that hope, that fickle hope that maybe, the poor man could at least enjoy one night of his pitiful life was snuffed out, a huge maw approaching the weak candle, and in one huge, vile-smelling puff, the little light radiating from that wick was taken away.

Scenes previously beautiful shifted to the horrors of man versus man, murder and deceit, the evil of the human race, the evil that it committed to itself. And then, the scenes worsened, as more races were added to the melting pot. Each night, Tarn had the chance to see all the hate, all the vile hate that mortals flung on each other. Each night, he could glimpse at the horrors of his life, that he'd witnessed, as a passer-by, a historian recording the facts, albeit mentally. Each night, yes, he remembered that one sentence: "Each night, I see what we can never undo."

The hunter was the spectator to life's great and endless tragedy. A slaughter of innocents that happened over and over, night after night. Oh, the images weren't always the same. Sometimes it was the forest communities, slaughtered by bandits for food and shelter, the promise of blood and rape. Sometimes, it was the sprawling battlefields left by armies, feasts for the crows that would flock here to get their due. And sometimes, it was those small acts that spoke just as much of the inherited evil they all had within them. Theft, arson, hate and prejudice, racism and pride.

And as the night went on, all became even more unclear, everything was blurred into one huge maelstrom of hate, a nightmarish, panoramic view of all the horrors they'd done to each other. Faery, Elf, Shifter, Human, Rau-lass. All of them, as bad as each other, just as corrupt, just as bad as the rest of them. Yes, the star-speckled sky that he last saw gave way to the sheer truth of life, the ever-occurring ordeal of death.

The hunter had in his, what, had in over thirty years of life seen many horrors that still lashed at his sleep, marred his night. Stains on his life, stains he'd been part of, every time trying to help, but only worsening it, adding dirt to it. And as if to punish him, every night, he was forced; yes, forced it seemed; to view those awful memories of times gone by over and over again. Ô, how he wished they would stop, how he wish he could cease having to watch the horror that were mortals over and over again. But alas, his empty nights were filled with this, filled with this unknown need to acknowledge it all. It was almost as if he was asked to accept it, as if his mind or some other being were asking him to forgive the horror. It was only natural, why be so shocked at it ? Why strive to undo the evil ? Why waste your efforts, when that was all we were all good at, doing ill ?

At the beginning, fear had gripped Abileith. The first nights he'd lived this, he'd woken up in pure fear, aghast, shivering, and cold sweat running down his body. Then had come desperation, the fact he could not escape, escape it like a criminal would escape from jail. He was forced to relive it all, and how he'd loathed it. Loathed himself for all of those memories that had partly been his fault, loathed himself but for what, really ? Then he'd realised he had no hand in this nightly episode. Every time it happened, and he could not get away with it. The desperation had subsided, and left a hollow, impassive shell. He couldn't accept it, no, he'd never, but he could live on with the dreams. Still, the hunter didn't view this as some test from some higher being, didn't believe this to be punishment for his incapability, not any more at least. If it was Fate, then nothing could be done about it, but whatever it was, he could not battle it. Nothing was left, therefore, but to live with it.

The nightmare was reaching it's climax, where all images merged together, fitting harmoniously in one huge jigsaw in which Tarn could see all the horror of the world, all his worst experiences, thrust before his eyes, and no matter how hard he tried, his gaze would not get off it. He would stay transfixed in front of that most hideous mosaic, and be forced to take it all in ...

---

It was cool, a slight shiver running down his chest as eyes opened to gaze at the pearl-clad sky. Something had nudged at him, and at the same time, Tarn could hear a distant echo, like words carried on the wind ... Like, yes! They were actually words carried on the wind, a voice dishevelled, torn apart by the breeze, but very much there. And although it was a ghost-like sound, the hunter heard it perfectly: "Tarn, Hylas, follow the wind, we have found it."

Those amber eyes blinked once, twice. It could be no other, although different, there were similarities, it couldn't be anyone else. But why ? Why was Selan's voice being carried by the wind. At once, folklore and old wives' tales came back to him, but, just like how the hunter pushed himself off the hard, cool ground, so too did he push those ideas away. At once, he caught sight of the message left on the floor, traced in an elegant hand. The embers of the fire, all that remained of it, cast a shadow on the inside of those traced characters, and at once, Tarn read the message. As if in unison, the wind suddenly rushed past him, tearing his gaze towards the direction it was travelling in. "Follow the wind" he mouthed, and at once, Tarn knew what to do.

One arm darted to the pile of weaponry left next to the fire. He noted that Selan had taken her sword. At the same time as the hunter's legs bore him towards his friend, so too did his arms busy themselves around him, fastening the buckles that held his weapons. A thought came to him then, the one that Hylas was not their, and that could only mean two things. Either he'd heard the words carried by the breeze, or he'd been taken, and at that second prospect, the large man only hastened his run, turning into a sprint as he cut through the brush, branches slapped aside and his legs crashing against whatever small foliage was in their way.

It took a few minutes, but finally he saw it. It was, for no other word could be found right now, other-worldly. Four pillars wrought of some dark material, basking in the dark light of a few torches held in their elaborate sconces, held aloft the entrance to a tunnel. Questions assaulted the hunter's mind, but reiterating the message he'd heard carried by, yes, it was magic. Repeating the message carried to him by magic, he knew it could only be one place: the shrine Selan had been searching for.

And there she stood, one arm extended, the other holding her up in her kneeling position. And there stood Hylas, the wolverine standing there as if ready to attack any foe. But there was none, all Tarn could see was the rapidly-scattering fumes from ... something. The hunter had still not slowed his pace, and as he crashed out of the brush, he stamped his feet down to rapidly lose the speed he'd gained.

"What, what is it ?" he asked, dumbfounded, as one of the daggers strapped about him found its way to his hand, knuckles tightening around the grip. The man's head, un-cowled, turned left and right, looking for any threat, any being that would wish them harm, but like little Hylas, Tarn could not spot a thing. Stance easing a bit, he took a few more steps towards the pair, still cautious, as his head continued moving from one side to the other, sometimes pausing to eye the structure that lay before them. "Are you both all right ?" was the first thing that came to mind, falling out of his mouth as if he'd not even willed to say it. At once, he added: "Was that, was that you who, sent the, um, message, on the wind ?"

Truth be told, Abilieth was confused. To be awoken from one's sleep by a voice carried on the wind was an unnerving thing, and to Tarn, un-used to magic, he couldn't help but feel a bit, tense. Besides, if Selan had indeed sent the call it meant that she was a magician, and that triggered yet more questions. Why had she kept this a secret ? Why had she not told them ? All in its own time thought the hunter, almost voicing it out loud to make sure he got the message. Taking a stride towards the woman, all Tarn could do was extend his arm, grabbing her slender hand and helping her to her feet, as he waited for something, someone to shed light on what had just happened.

Hedya wrote:((Selan))

While the "copy" was vanishing, Selan heard something moving fast and soon, and suddenly a large wolverine stood in front of her, with a really wild snarl, facing the empty spot where a few moments before there had been her enemy. Selan somehow felt she knew that animal, and it took her only a very little while until she realized it was Hylas.

What, what is it? a voice came asking, before the man who followed. Tarn seemed to be in a rush, probably had heard the sounds of the battle, and was worried about them. Are you both all right? Selan smiled tiredly, softly. "Yeah, we're fine. I'm un-hurt, and Hylas has just arrived...". Selan observed the figure of the hunter. He looked stronger than before, or maybe it was her, who was weaker? Her thoughts were cut short when Tarn spoke, once again. Was that, was that you who, sent the, um, message, on the wind? She then realized it was time to tell them everything, already. She smiled as Tarn helped her to get on her feet, and hit her own dress to remove the dust from her fall to the ground.

"Yes. It was me." she waited for a moment, knowing that every single word she was going to speak now was going to be crucial. "I am a mage. A sa'ancendia mage, in the tongue of the faeries. I use holy magic combined with elemental magic. Right now I commanded the wind to carry my voice to your location, and it seems I did a good job, after all! Wind is not my strongest element, I tell you. Much the opposite, in fact..." she realized she was drifting. "Well. That's the truth. I never wanted to tell you so you wouldn't have to worry. I had guessed it would be strange, so I wanted to keep it a secret for as long as possible. However, in this situation it just couldn't be helped..."

She looked at Hylas, then again at Tarn. "Thank you very much, you two, for coming after me..." Selan then looked at the shrine, in front of them, the entrance looked really, really dark, and she wondered if what she was about to do was really worth it.

"I...want to get in. Is that fine? I will answer any questions you may have, but I think we should get this done as quick as possible. And Hylas, I think it's fine for you to go in your 'human' form."

ShadowWake wrote:((Hylas))

The ghost was gone, it’s faint form vanishing into the breeze and the light that irradiated from the translucent building that the shifter only just realised was there. His dark fur bristled still: he could scent no danger but yet there was that permeating smell that hung about on every Hallows night – a sparky, tingling sense that tickled at his wolverine nostrils. Behind him, the two adults talked, but the boy paid them no attention; taking a few tentative steps forward, Hylas sniffed at the ground where the ghostly figure of Selan had stood, scratching at the ground here and there with an extended claw. Nope, still nothing.

“I am a mage.” the woman said, Hylas’ sensitive ears automatically picking up on the word. A mage... he thought to himself curiously, still half-heartedly scouting the area, Nana said that was what Ma and Da were: mages. Mages make magic, like... The wolverine paused, head turning to fix his black eyes upon the glimmering building. Like Hallows night, he finished, finally connecting the pieces together. It was magic he could smell – the place reeked of it – but could he tell the difference between them?

Trotting over to the patch where the ghost had been, Hylas glanced cautiously around himself before lowering his nose to the ground. Fire smell... he thought as he sniffed, Tingly but like burning leaves... Damp nose still pressed to the floor, the little shifter wandered over to Selan, scenting her skirts. But there was too much of a mixture around the woman for him to distinguish anything further and so instead he raised his gaze to hers.

"Thank you very much, you two, for coming after me..." she said softly, her gaze shifting to the strange building worriedly, "I...want to get in. Is that fine? I will answer any questions you may have, but I think we should get this done as quick as possible. And Hylas, I think it's fine for you to go in your 'human' form."

Watching her, Hylas shook his head. No, he wanted to smell more of this magic: he wanted to learn more, like he would’ve done if his parents had lived to teach him. And besides, the doorway that lead into the temple-like structure didn’t seem to have any light within and his night-vision was a lot better when he was in his animal form. Swiftly, the young boy shifted into a weasel – the animal he knew had the better eyesight of all that he could change into – and turned his tail, heading towards to building’s entrance, nose tilted to the ground.

At the opening though, he paused nervously. It was very dark, though his little eyes could see further into the gloom – a long tunnel apparently – but Hylas was not yet brave enough to enter without knwoing that his family was behind him. Twisting his head, he looked at Selan and then Tarn with bright, curious eyes. If he sat on one of their shoulders then he could tell them which way to go by running from one shoulder to the other... to emphasize his point, the little weasel settled onto his haunches, raising his upper body into the air and waving his forepaws in a ‘carry me’ motion. Well, it was the best he could do without words anyway...

Alacer Phasmatis wrote:((Caera))

"I agree. It would not be good for either of us if Altair were to see our efforts. Contention and discord Altair seems to be able to deal with in his own way - but conspiracy? From my impressions of him, he does not seem like a man who could cope with family working against him." Caera suppressed a grin, though internally she was doubled over in wicked laughter— Aerain was on the mark there, truly; overbearing brat that he was, Altair was nonetheless the head of their generation. Wouldn’t he be in quite a spot if she could use Niall to pull off this little ploy! And, she thought with dark pleasure, Caiseal and Faolán will take my side in this, as will Faedra. I trust that without your sweet baby brother to smooth things over, you’ll be put upon indeed, cousin dear.

"You'll dislike me for asking," the faery stated bluntly, jerking the other’s attention back to the here and now, "But can you - we - trust Niall? He seems… he seems genuine, but wherein the family does his loyalty lie? Forgive me but I don't know any of you particularly well and it naturally sparks my suspicion; it's meant at no offence."

“And there is none taken,” the elf replied evenly. “Niall’s loyalties lie with none but himself, for I sincerely doubt he fully trusts the motives of any other than his own. Perhaps I judge him too harshly, for it could be that he’s simply observing both sides of any conflict, but,” she said wryly, “I sincerely doubt it. For the most part, we can count on Diarmuid’s admittedly unstable sidings to guide his own. Herein the boy bears a heavy grudge towards Altair, who was the first to hear of Lysander’s unannounced draft, and therefore was the one to reveal it to all the others. It doesn’t make sense,” she admitted, “but then, little does with Diarmuid. It feels like he isn’t aware of much save for that which he wishes to acknowledge, so if Altair says Lysander is going away—“ she shrugged nonchalantly, shoulders smoothly rising and falling. “Altair was the messenger, ergo the source of unwanted changes.”

Aerain stretched the muscles expanse of her wings, expression still somewhat sceptical. "If you trust him, then it's probably best if you converse with him about the matter and get him to approach me. It would not take much for Altair to find out our intentions if I'm seen to be approaching separate members of your family; the other way around is more likely to give the impression of curiosity rather than intrigue."

“Yes,” Caera replied thoughtfully, “yes, I’d have o agree with you there. It would be just like us to go and loaf around the haunts of any new face.” Glancing uncertainly about, the maiden added softly, “I think we’ve been together a bit too long, wouldn’t you agree? Although my cousin isn’t here, the older ones of the past generation, such as Evander and Eithne, would side with him. Concious as we must be of that,” she finished, nodding her head and steeping away, “I must bid you goodbye.” Seeing she and I in deep conversation would arouse suspicion too, though. This wasn’t the first time in her 234 years of life that she’d brewed strife in the household. It was just the latest.

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

((Niall, 1 week later))

Swiftly did the nobleman steal through the archways and arbors of the courtyards, glancing about every which way for Aerain. An advantage for he that few among the mages could track and detect a presence as he could. Perhaps they had there magic, but so often to Niall did his family seem like a nest of young field mice, who hadn't fully experienced the world...

Uncle Nieander swept briskly by, brown eyes settling briefly on his wayward nephew before flickering back to their original focus. Niall himself didn't say or do anything, allowing his customary expression of detached impassivity accomplish more than words could. Diarmuid was doing his job, that was all well. As long as he kept Altair by the river, they were safe. Faedra, not Aunt Eithne, stood vigil by her sister.

Not in the gardens? He thought, breaking stride to casually scrutinize the dappled shade of the trees. Naturally, Fionavar thought nothing of it, smiling with the strange, genteel looks of all this family as she went by him. "Musing alone?" She asked gently. "What happened to your shadow?" Breaking his contemplation, the other gave her a small hug in greeting, murmuring, "by the river with Altair," as he did so. Sufficient enough for her, Fionavar moved on to whatever she had on her mind. Probably dreaming about Airril, but it didn't concern him, in any case...

Slipping inside, he darted past the hidden faces and whispering foliage to the room Aerain inhabited, tapping the door lightly with his knuckles before casually admitting himself. Letting the portal swing shut with a click, he stepped over, beside the faery-woman. Her black hair always made him think of Arden, though his memories of her were through the foggy haze of a toddler's memories. More unruly, though, he noted, as he said, "I think you may see Trisha now."