Sighs Beyond Words

[Sighter Tnailog]

Some truths are known only to candlelight and silence. They are fragile, like the dead petals of a hydrangea resting delicately on a paved street, crumbling to dust under the boots and wagon wheels of busy-ness. And there are some realities too thick, too true for the thinness of the world. In the fabric of time, stretched taut by the wounds of ten thousand years, such truths have settled like generations of silt into the mouth of a river, building up quiet formations, new ground, structure, formation. The land we stand upon is such a reality, thick, taken for granted, ignored.

In the same way, some songs are too soft to hear above the rumbles of war, yet they are the only songs worth hearing.

And now in the candlelight a central dais stood illuminated, and a circle of seven hooded figures faced inwards towards an altar in the shape of a seven-pointed star. Though the silence was the same as it always was, an onlooker might have guessed that a change came across the group, and without any motion, without any outward sign or sigil, something deepened through the group. The silence became real, manifest, and in it words spoke, and music arose.

And the onlooker would be right, for music was springing up in this circle, a strange music that seemed to reside in the very rock of the chapel, emanate from each form, a music that manifested itself without vibrations of the air. It sounded like nothing, and everything was contained within it.

And then the music suddenly moved into embodiment as the figures threw back their hoods, and began humming into its frequencies, absorbing their voices into its gentle rhythm as a single beam of light shot from the tip of the chapel to strike the altar. A crystal placed there glowed with brilliance and the space was illuminated, glowing. One could see that it had seven sides, with strange letterings and symbols written on the walls, images of what must be saints, the bygone communion of a forgotten world.

And then the light faded, and the figures ceased their wordless chant, and the music that was silence faded into mere silence again. One of the figures stepped towards the altar and leaned forward, and there slipped from the folds of his rove the strand of a magnificent rosary. Quickly slipping the rosary back into his grasp, he blew out the candle with one quick breath.

They exited the chapel into the starlight, surrounded by cliffs, the night air bracing, the darkness sultry and meaningful. There was truth in it, and thickness. And as Findelfin ap Fingolfin followed the other Hinrim into the refectory, he knew there was an even more important truth than darkness and starlight.

While he was here, he would not be found.

[Niril]

We find our hero trapped…

Niril grinned. Those words echoed through his thoughts like a specter, always there but completely intangible. He wondered if he was being driven mad, tormented by the slow corruption of singularity. There were others, but there might as well not have been. They were elves. Point-ears. Fair folk of Raiarea. Bastards, all of them. He pictured one vividly in his mind, or what was left of his mind. It was blonde, and had the hair of a horse. Thick and sturdy, yet bright, smooth and polished. Niril stopped walking, his breath condensing into a pale fog between thoughts. He couldn’t determine whether or not that elf was male or female.

He bit his lip, softly. Come to think of it, he couldn’t place a gender on any of the elves he’d encountered. Did elves have gender? The left half of his upper lip raised in a sort of questioning snarl. He shrugged and continued walking, his boots softly crunching on foliage still remaining from last fall. Their voices were the same. Their eyes were the same. They even all dressed the same. He hadn’t met any elven children. Or was it elfish? He stopped again. He hated everything about these people.

He still only recognized one elfish phrase: Tylus Finnarer, which probably most closely translated to: “Who the hell are you?” That was the most frustrating aspect of his captivity, he couldn’t understand the elves. Niril wasn’t even really unhappy about the fact that he was a prisoner of a war in which he had no allegiance, he actually couldn’t think of any place he’d be instead.

He was also agitated because in the whole library, or more specifically the parts that hadn’t been rigged into a fort, there were only three books in the Common Tongue. He had stolen them, read them each three times, and was actually beginning to commit them to his incredible memory, not like it mattered. He had about three quarters of Cobbler memorized. It was a dry novel about a shoe maker. Unfortunately, this was the most interesting title. The others were Curtains: Decorating Your Home and 17 Recipes for Snapping Turtle.

Niril suddenly slammed back into reality. He looked down and gently kicked a stone. He couldn’t complain. Even if the elves completely distrusted him, they hadn’t killed him yet. And he was safe from the undead forces of the Necromancer Xem’zund.

He was just so utterly bored…

[Kylin Rouge]

All commented out things in the character profile are usable for this thread.

Enigmatic in nature, darkness sweeps across the lands in conquest of light. In its search it tramples life and brings decay. Yet, light seeks darkness. Following in the tracks of darkness, it spreads radiance and growth over the darkened lands. In this cycle the world operates. Order is maintained. Rather than a force of disarray and chaos, darkness actually rectifies the excess of light.

There was once a time in this world of great light. Darkness, having been chased into the furthest of corners, could not quell the untapped essence of light. It was called The Eternal Tap, and it took an age of darkness to return the world to its proper place.

Out of an elven tavern and into the elven streets under the starry night sky rolled a clay cup, chased by a young elven waitress. The cup rolled across the street and then hit something, and stopped. Several feet from the wall of the next house, the cup had hit something that was not visible. The elf reached down and for a brief moment, she saw a pair of gray boots in front of the cup. When she quickly looked up however, there was nothing there. With a shrug she returned to the tavern.

From the darkness a young Mystic stepped out from the shadows, his eyes sad and his hair as crimson as his eyes. He was the arbiter of darkness; a force of order. To him, order was goodness. For a man to desecrate the dead and fill their bodies with darkness was as great a crime as filling them with light.

Wandering the streets of Tirinost at night, Kylin Rouge was nearly undetectable in the fortress-city. For every light in the city, there was an accompanying, essential shadow with a symbiotic relationship to the light. Kylin was that shadow, searching the city for the truth. He was Findelfin ap Fingolfin's shadow in the war, working behind the scenes and keeping his identity a secret. However, one day the light to his shadow disappeared. Following rumors of patrols recently that had seen him, his search had brought him here. The city was hastily constructed, but in the last months had transformed from a refugee camp into a thriving town, well under the protection of the General Nalith Celiniel.

One must wonder: Why the secrecy? Why not ask her directly where Findelfin was? Surely all the patrols reported to her, no matter how secret the information. As one of the few followers of truth in the world, Kylin suspected this person. Not only was Findelfin apprehensive about her when he was still around, but afterward it seemed unlikely that she was the only survivor of the High Bard Council. A more covert investigation in the Mystic's time here revealed some disturbing details about her rise to power. However, for now her lead was necessary to Raiaera's survival in this war, so only Findelfin's pair of ears were privy to such information.

Built around a great tree, a small hut was his destination. Sneaking inside, Kylin waited until an elf named Hilmandil Vil Galas returned. The tall, dark-vested elf had just returned from a military excursion and was about to make a report of it on a scroll under candlelight on his desk. As he picked up the quill, dipped it in ink, and was about to start writing when Kylin stepped out from the shadow of the candle. Hilmandil was not too startled, as the softness of Kylin's approach and the gentleness he felt in the Mystic's heart were not indicative of an assassin.

Not to mention, he was used to visits like this, being one of Findelfin's watchers as well as one of Nalith's captains. After introducing himself, Kylin simply asked for the location of former General of Raiaera.

The elf's green eyes shined with admiration, but at the same time his brows lowered in suspicion as he spoke accusingly, "It would be an honor to meet you, Mr. Rouge, if you are indeed who you claim to be." In his heart, he felt like he was meeting the real Mystic, but that tiny shred of doubt in his mind had to be cleared away.

Kylin revealed a small coin and tossed it over to the elf. Hilmandil looked at it, rubbing its face with his fingers, reading the inscription on it. It was a real Purifier Challenge Coin. Hand-stamped by Findelfin himself and with a special one for each member of The Purifiers, it contained the name of Kylin Rouge in elvish, in Findelfin's handwriting. The ridges, the grooves, it was all indicative of true marksmanship. It was the only one of its kind. He was convinced that either this Mystic was either Kylin Rouge or the one that killed him. He felt sincerely that it was the former.

With pride, the elf beckoned Kylin over to the light so he could have a good look at him. This was the Mystic who fought against the brutal matriarchy of Alerar, the one who had bested the elven enemy Thoracis in a ring of battle, and whose fortune allowed Raiaera to be tipped off to the Aleran attack. Like Findelfin, he too had a part in elven history, yet he did not accept his place. Living in the shadows, he kept himself from forming connections. It was apparent to Hilmandil that Kylin cared too deeply. It was hard enough to watch countless elves perish to the scourge of undeath, but losing someone he had formed an attachment to was too much. The world was already too dark a place for him; the trial of his his own darkness was his limit.

Since the elf knew this, he kept this professional. After telling Kylin that Findelfin had gone off to Kilya Gorge that, he advised to search for any small monastic communities. He said he did not know why specifically Findelfin had journeyed there.

Kylin thanked him for the information and apologized for imposing, but as he was about to leave, the elf shouted, "Wait! I hate to take up your time, but it's a rather prudent matter."

The Mystic stopped, turning to declare that it was really no trouble at all and to go ahead with his request.

The elf continued, "There's a rather young human improperly imprisoned here. You're the only one who can get him out undetected."

Kylin didn't know what importance, if any, this man had, but it wasn't in his nature to leave someone in need, especially in the form of such a sincere request.

As he was leaving, the elf wished him a safe trip and added, "Do not think that Raiaera has forgotten your deeds, young Mystic. The lands never forget the valor of its warriors, elven or otherwise." Kylin smiled and disappeared into the night.

The prison in Tirinost was actually an old inn, the rooms modified into cells. With dehlar shackles bound tightly around the ankles of the lesser prisoners in the rooms on the ground floor, with the more dangerous kept in the basement with several dehlar chains, magical enchantments, and whatever else the elves could think to do. The ground floor was mainly filled with harmless cultists, suspicious characters, and anyone who happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time. Kylin found it simple to infiltrate, standing invisible in the shadows between guard patrols, moving ever so slightly forward each time. If it was impossible to get by undetected, Kylin would step on their shadows and temporarily give the guards the illusion that he was invisible even if they could see him in plain sight. It was in this manner that he procured a keychain from the lobby guard. Trying out various keys, he finally found one that worked and got in to see a tall man, chained up with a glazed look in his eyes.

Kylin raised his hand and put a finger to his mouth, motioning to be quiet. Flipping through the keys again, he found one for the shackles and then instructed Niril to only move when Kylin did, and to keep his hand on the Mystic's shoulder. Closing the door behind him to buy as much time as possible, Kylin exited the prison much in the same way he came in. He was worried that the man might slip up and accidentally move while they were invisible, or make some sort of noise, but he was surprisingly focused. Not fidgety at all.

Outside, Kylin told him he could rest once they got far enough away from the prison. They were still in Tirinost, but getting out was easy at this point, at least for The Mystic.

"Sorry I didn't introduce myself earlier, sneaking about and all. I'm Kylin Rouge, and I hope you're well."

Not caring for gratitude or questions about why he would save him, Kylin was simply happy to help. In this war, necromancers weren't the only ones victimizing the innocent.

[Sighter Tnailog]

Findelfin had grown used to simple fare. In lower elevations, the food was richer, thicker. It had the gust of wealthy life in it, no matter its station; thin-sliced potatoes layered on top of duck and quail in tarragon-and-quince sauce were no different than strips of dried beef and hard-tack. Though the former was accustomed to the High Bard's table and the latter was for long journeys and meager budgets, both carried within them the hard work of many hands, the wealth of a world where rivers ran deeper and abundance flourished.

No true simplicity could be found below, where the thickness of earth bred a thinness of character. Only here, where the thin air did not obscure the stars and where even the clouds were often lower against the cliffs, did the star-flowers grow, petals that soaked in the light of the stars and closed themselves up for protection as the sun rose withering across the sky. Their delicate flesh formed the basis of most daily meals; salads, water sweetened with their simple nectar, only occasionally an yak that had wandered too close to camp. There was more, of course: what they could cultivate in this rocky land, what had been laid down with care during the short growing season. And the winter was finally leaving them, and with its departure came new plants and more animals. But still, this was simple fare.

Findelfin had said as much, early in his stay among this community, and the ancient elf that attended his words smiled, his eyes glinting, "Simple?" he had said, "Ah, but how simple! Simple in the Living Prime are the star-flowers."

Findelfin had been befuddled by the statement, but had grown to see more of what it meant. He had only been tangentially introduced to the liturgical mathematics of the Living Prime, Ere'erarimmo -- that is, the seventh digit that contained the essence of the truth of Tel Aina Otso. But there was something in the swirl of the sepals on the star-flowers, the way they opened as the sun dipped beyond the higher cliffs to the east, their three mesmeric pistils and their three anthers arranged with a single stunted thorn in the middle. What this something was Findelfin had not yet been able to describe.

But as he sipped his nectar-sweetened tea and ate the last remains of the mountain goat stewed in a star-flower broth, he could taste, dancing at the edges of his perception, a subtle flavor, something shimmering cold above the earthy flavor of the meat and the mountain freshness in the water. And a fleeting thought occurred to him: this may be the most complex meal of all.

* * * * *

Leaving the refectory, Findelfin stepped across the slow-growing mountain grass and lichen-spattered rock to join the elder, who stood with his back to the west overlooking the gorge. The monk's head was thrown back, a beaming face soaking in the glory of the stars. Findelfin would not have disturbed him, but the monk seemed to intuit his approach and turned to greet him.

"Ah, Hir-Menegil." It was the monks' name for him. Findelfin knew its meaning, and it made him uncomfortable: Lord of a Thousand Stars. It was an occultic name, one that the elder had given him upon his arrival. The elder had not told him what it meant beyond what Findelfin already knew, but it sounded...important. And while he had every intention of leading elves from this place someday to try to reclaim the land of Raiaera, he hoped the day would be long in coming.

Findelfin bowed, and said, "Ainalindstra, my nights are restless. I repeat the words you gave me to say. I have kept track; from the moment I could speak, my father taught me to sing the songs with every new night. And though there were nights when I might have forgotten, I must have said the words 80,000 times at least. But in these past six months...in these months I have spoken words of scripture at least three hundred times a day. In another six...I will have surpassed all the times I spoke them ever in my life prior to coming to this place. Yet still...still I feel as though the holy words are not for me."

The elder turned away, his face again towards the stars. "Perhaps that is because they are not. No! I hear your protest before you say it. Hir-Menegil, you are not a monk. You cannot be. You need to learn more, you must learn more, but sometimes learning must stop. And it will..." he trailed away.

Turning back, he said, "Even now, it has started. Go to bed, Hir-Menegil. Focus your mind on your rosary. Sleep. The stars have told me they are coming for you."

Findelfin did not want to hear that. And this was not the first reference to the stars he had heard, "Ainalindstra, you know I trust your wisdom. But the stars told you? You cannot read that in the stars, the motion of the heavens was laid bare to the astronomers ages ago."

The elder laughed, "No, dearest Hir-Menegil. No, I did not read that in the stars. Do you noT know us well enough yet? We do not read the stars, that is silly superstition. No, we do not read them."

He turned back to holding his face upwards towards the sky, and Findelfin could tell that he would get no more from the Ainalindstra this night. He turned and left. As he was almost to the dormitory, he heard the elder call softly to him. "Hir-Menegil?" He turned, and the elder was still standing with his face up to the sky.

"Yes, Ainalindstra?"

"We do not read the stars," said the elder, never altering his pose. "We listen to them."

And suddenly Findelfin realized what he had seen all along. The elder stood there, his face to the stars...

But his eyes were closed.

[Niril]

When Niril awoke once again, he found himself in the same predicament. Hmm… Well I can rule out the option that this is simply some bizarre nightmare that I will awaken from in only a matter of time… Damn. His room wasn’t uncomfortable, just incredibly boring. He was free to roam about his prison, and he could make escorted pilgrimages to the library, or to the Thel As’nya, he believed it was called. Apparently he wasn’t perceived as very dangerous.

It was there he chose to go this day and contemplate. It was a beautiful garden. Nay, garden is an understatement. It was a haven of flowers and decorative bushed. There was a small maze that was about knee-high; not very perplexing, but beautiful none the less. It was comprised of a row of small shrubs that Niril had only known as Brackenberry. The berries were a pale blue, almost like the sky on a chilly winter day. It was edible, made good pies, but was very bitter un-sugared. Niril ate one anyway.

Accenting the Brackenberry bushes were similarly colored flowers, with long spindly stamen that sprouted forth like a pink spider from its azure fortress. Niril concentrated on this flower. He sat there for three hours, just contemplating it. Niril admired it’s soft glow, it must have been a magical flower. It was dusk, and the petals were just opening. It was odd the way it almost danced in the star light.

He has two elven guards containing him in the garden. They had long slender blades, and if he were a talented rogue, they’d both be skewered on one and he’d have the other. They wouldn’t even know what hit them. If he were a sorcerer he would conjure the foulest beasts of hell to devour them. He would laugh at their arrows and their meager magic. But he was neither of these things. He was merely a prisoner.

So the man - not really much more than a boy - sat. And thought.

For weeks he maintained this dreary existence. He awoke, was escorted to either the library or Thel As’nya, sat and did nothing all day until he was returned to his cell. That ended three days ago. Apparently, all prisoners were now being held in chains in a small barred cell. Fantastic…

* * *

Niril had been chained in a standing position. The least they could do is at chain me down. Bastards. He had been focusing on a small chip in the wood for precisely forty seven minutes. There was a small metallic ping in the ambience of nothing. Niril presumed it was a water leak. Rain? Niril thought about smiling, and thought better of it. His eyes remained glazed over. Forty eight minutes…

And then someone appeared. There was a finger to his lips, indicating Niril should be silent. What if you’re employed by that corpse raising magician Xem’Zund? Why should I trust you? What if you are Xem’Zund? Never mind that; I’m not nearly important enough to be blessed in the presence of anyone that’s as influential as he. No matter; how the hell did you get in here?

One of Niril’s hand was placed on this stranger's shoulders and they pretty much waltzed out of this make shift prison. Sure he was a little worried, but Niril was not in a position to argue. Worst case scenario he would end up similarly chained in a similar make shift prison on the other side of this confusing conflict. Maybe they’d have better books?

The man eventually labeled himself Kylin Rouge. The first words of Common Niril had heard in months. He seemed to be waiting for a response from Niril, but none would be given. Niril merely rubbed his sore wrists and stuck them into his deep pockets. This Kylin character had simply succeeded in uprooting him from one position of inconvenience to another. Now Niril didn’t even know where he was.

[Kylin Rouge]

Kylin would've asked Niril why they decided to relocate the prisoners, but it seemed apparent. The elven forces were marshaling, and they wanted to keep all the prisoners in one place and under close watch while the main forces were out fighting. He didn't quite know what to do with this man, but the elf he talked with earlier, Hilmandil, requested this action, so Kylin thought to take him there. As they approached with some discretion, he stopped when he heard a couple voices coming from inside the elf's home. From what he could gather, Hilmandil was sending a scout to inform Findelfin of Kylin's coming.

Why? Does the watcher actually know exactly where Findelfin is or is that up to the tracking abilities of the messenger? Nonetheless, this was Kylin's chance to find Findelfin in a reasonable amount of time. He waited for the scout to try to leave and got as close as he could so he would still be invisible in the shadow of the doorway. Just as the scout was leaving, his shadow fell upon the ground that Kylin was standing on, and that was all that he needed. It would be no problem to track him now.

After checking that the coast was clear, the Mystic told Niril, "The one inside wanted you free. I'm sure he'll help you escape the city if that is what you desire. Well, take care."

So not to lose anymore time, Kylin took off after the messenger. He was reasonably sure he could keep up undetected. The tents, huts, and hastily-constructed homes passed by Kylin as he stuck to the shadows and ran after what looked like a ghost in speed. If he wasn't so fast himself, he'd have lost this scout already. Before he knew it, he was at the edge of the city, peeking around the corner of a tree as he saw the scout remove a board on the ground and jump in. After waiting a minute, Kylin followed and jumped into the small passageway. The tunnel was short, and when he carefully exited through a similar opening on the other side, he was outside of Tirinost. Covering it up, Kylin looked around caught the shadow of the scout in the distance. He had some experience in tracking, but someone whose job was to go unseen? It was a mystery as to what the plan was if he was noticed. He would have to reveal himself and attempt to tag along. However, he didn't want to potentially ruin the scout's mission, so he kept at a safe distance away and simply followed.

Although Kylin had formed a contract with the man's shadow, he had to maintain a moderate distance so as not to lose his influence. This was not a big problem however, so he could take his time and notice his surroundings. He was in the forest, following a route alongside the Escaldor River. A few times he ran up close to it and watched the racing blue waters. Kylin's serene feelings washed away his worries for a few moments, his senses tuning into the rustling leaves, the gentle sway of the trees in the night, the grass and dirt passing under his soundless steps. To think that in mere moments all of this could be reduced to a burning ash. Life was fragile and sacred, and yet all over the world people insisted on wars and bloodshed. It made no sense to the young Mystic.

Although he had a lot of stamina, the fatigue of running all night had caught up to Kylin, but luckily he wasn't alone. He could feel the scout nestled in the trees, quiet and silently slumbering for the journey ahead. The dawn was already protruding, the sunrise causing Kylin to shield his eyes from the beams of light. Was he a creature of darkness? Forever bound to the shadows? He didn't want to live the life of an outcast, but what choice did he have? There was no place where he belonged. His only guide was his sense of order in the world. Following the ideal of the greater good, could the world really change? In a tree of his own, his back to the sunrise, his eyes were half-closed.

What would he even do when he found Findelfin? What possible reason would the elf have for going all the way to the edge of Raiaera and telling almost no one? Kylin looked up to the fading stars through the canopy of the branches. Light was slowly filling the sky as the stars were fading. Kylin wondered if his intentions were pure. For the longest time he thought he had only himself to rely on, now he was leaning upon another. In the end, he resolved that he could not let the suffering of innocents go unanswered, and finding Findelfin was a part of that.

[Sighter Tnailog]

April is the cruelest month... -- T.S. Eliot, The Wasteland

In Coiameth, even sleep is sacred.

Findelfin, eyes closed, sat on a bench in the dormitory. The dormitory felt alive; three generations of elves, a full fifteen thousand years worth of history, had sanctified this place with their prayers and supplications, sitting just as Findelfin did, asleep but awake.

Before tonight, Findelfin had been confused by what this sleep was to achieve. Normally, elves kept their eyes open during sleep, blending all that was around them into a living dream. And like almost everyone else, elves generally laid themselves down on a bed. But sacred sleep was different. One sat, and focused themselves on nothing but a mantra, or a devotional object. In Findelfin's case, it was his rosary. The beads clacked through his fingers softly; he had reached the metal section, and his devotions had turned to fervent, earnest prayers, prayers for victory, yet earnest meditation on the realities of that victory; the death it would cause, the woundedness of the world. Prayer was teaching Findelfin slowly.

But he had not, before tonight, been aware of what sacred sleep was for. His first few nights had been difficult; on more than a few occasions his eyes had snapped open as he drifted into the normal sleep of a tired elf. But he had grown, and now he realized that he was to stay awake that he might listen, but sleep that he might shut off all that interfered with that listening. It was, as was so much in this world of prayer and meditation, worship and liturgy, a paradox. He was summoning into his life forces of tension and unity, poles of being that existed as the soul hung suspended in air and as the body remained rooted in earth. He did not know how to deal with it. Not yet, but he was learning.

As his fingers completed the rounds of the Spirital Swords of Megillion, they moved to touch the shimmering crystal of the Seven Graces of Selana. And Findelfin's mind was suddenly focused on someone he had not seen in a long time. Kylin Rouge seemed to stand before him, in some memory from a bygone day, when Findelfin stood on that dreadful field where the Purifiers had fallen to the marauding army of Thoracis Rakarth. He remembered the Dome, the last citadel of Tel'Quessir that stood inviolate in the northeastern reaches of the Coronian Mountains, the day the Purifiers had put the finishing touches on its restoration, the betrayal of Ithermoss. He remembered the harp that Thoracis had shattered, he remembered Kylin's laughter in the Dome, remembered a journey that he had once begun and then forgotten, remembered the Shadow, remembered until his memory seemed to overflow with visions and events and murmurs he had long forgotten.

These memories formed him, and he saw them again in focus, events that he had forgotten, dull memories stirred to life in the spring, as the coming of rain and the melting snow stirred the roots of oak trees far below. This is why he slept the sacred sleep, that he might be awake to something else, a voice, a whisper in the vaulted arches of the firmament, a memory still descending to earth as faint echo, consolation, a promise.

[Kylin Rouge]

It was another dreamless sleep. Lately, he was having a lot of those. The world came into focus once more as Kylin opened his eyes. However, it was not a quiet world, as below he could hear the tapping of feet upon the ground. There was an elven patrol right under him! Had they spotted him? No, it was impossible. Sleeping as still as he was, he was completely invisible in the shadow of tree's trunk. Perhaps they had sensed the scout somehow. Speaking of whom, Kylin felt the essence of his shadow waning away. He needed to get moving before he lost his once chance to find Findelfin for good. Slipping out of the tree, his boots soundlessly landed on the ground below. While he was making no noise to notice, the elves' other senses picked up on his presence. Although, by the time they came to investigate the tree they had passed by, Kylin was long gone.

As he ran, he looked slightly up and could see the great mountains that separated Raiaera from Alerar. He was close to his destination. It looked like it was slightly past noon. After catching up with the scout, he got closer and closer since he needed to see exactly from where the gorge was being entered. Still staying some distance away, he followed the scout into Kilya Gorge. Great walls of stone encircled him, their shadows concealing The Mystic between every step. At the base of the southernmost cliff a little way into the gorge there was a narrow, almost invisible stair that climbed the side of the mountain. At this point the scout had become somewhat wary, since he was not the only one who knew of this path. The smell of leaves and bark was replaced by one of dirt and rock. The air became thinner as he climbed up.

Although Kylin had a fair bit of stamina, the rocky path along the mountain was exhausting. He followed it for a while, first southwest, then around a corner and north, then along a pathway until he turned south again. Kylin's breaths had become a little more weighted by the time he saw the opening before him a shallow place in the cliff, surrounded on its southern and eastern by higher cliffs, with the land sloping back upwards into more mountainous terrain on its western and north-by-northwestern sides, with north and north-by-northeast opening directly onto sheer cliffs that drop into the gorge.

He felt that others were nearby. His heart had flared up with hope as he let himself become distanced from the scout. After all, he wouldn't have to follow very far now. Coiameth was the name given to this mountainous cove by its inhabitants, and it is the elvish word for last stand.

As Kylin snuck inside, he noticed the ongoing construction of what looked like a fortress, as well as the outcrop of monastery buildings constructed against the eastern cliff walls. Why was Findelfin in a place like this? Why had Kylin never heard of an outpost here? Not even Tirinost was informed of this. Once again, The Mystic felt as though Findelfin indeed had some grand scheme. After all, with the information granted to him by being Diadem, what couldn't he do? Kylin tried his best to hide his glee as he snuck around town, using the massive shadows of the cliff's walls to easily made his way to where the scout had stopped. He was lead to a large monastery, and waited outside for the scout to finish his report. He didn't want to make any commotion. Also, it would give Findelfin some time to prepare. The elf was very careful with his words, and Kylin really needed to hear the right ones.

The scout left the area, and Kylin finally let go of his grip of the shadows. His mind felt free. As he took a deep breath, he made his way into the monastery and finally saw Findelfin standing in the center of a grand room by himself. The coast looked clear, so there was no reason to hide anymore. Kylin couldn't wait any longer, anyway.

He walked out to the middle of the room, several meters away from Findelfin and happily declared, "It's been so long, I was starting to think you vanished!"

[Niril]

Niril stood. His breath condensed in the cold night air. The moon showed bright; bright enough that he should have seen where this “Kylin” went. But he didn't. The mystic flat out disappeared. To say that Niril was frustrated to the core was a tremendous understatement.

He found himself in an entirely worse situation. Before he had shelter, food and warmth. Now he was standing outside in the center of a community that would kill him as soon as they saw him. He wondered if they had alerted the guards to his escape yet. He also wondered if his story would be convincing. Some man appeared, I swear. And we turned invisible and walked out right under all of your noses. It was a gas! But now he's gone, he left somewhere. Where? I have not a clue. No, he was a dead man. What a bastard.

His only chance was to flee. Centuries of imprisonment had atrophied his already frail body. His temple had been eroded, beaten and battered by the wind and simply the hasted escape had left him short of breath. He had to make a move, soon. He was standing in front of a tent that was producing Hlvish language.

Had he have learned Elvish, perhaps history would have been different. The peculiarity of history is that looking back, one always can decide what should have happened and how things should have been dealt with. They are blind to the circumstances, only focusing on what happened later, not what was specifically happening. They assume that they know what the characters of history should do. Niril should have stayed. Then again, Hind Sight is always 20/20.

((fixes will come soon))

[Sighter Tnailog]

((Placeholder for organization's sake. If you need to edit your posts to make responses or send PMs, that's good; I don't know when I'll have AIM time in the next few weeks, though I will have time to check forums, so let's hash things out.

What the hell is going on? We need to get our stories straight -- Hilmandil Vil'Galas is the one who had Niril rescued. Now it might just be a perspective issue; Niril doesn't realize that Hilmandil is helping him, and thinks he's trying to harm him.

For Kylin -- Niril should be able to post more regularly, so you can stick it out with him, but before I edit this post to be the real deal I need to know that everyone's on the same page. It should take you at least two days to reach Findelfin; Tirinost is a long way from Coiameth.))