The Wandering Isle

[Luned]

Closed to Warpath.

All uses of Aurelianus Drak'shal's character have been approved by his writer.

This is somewhat of a followup to Child of Darkness.

In the kitchen window, Muir lounged on a stool and reveled in the last golden rays of the evening, soaking in the warmth like a lazy house cat. His arms sprawled across the tangles of ivy that decorated the sill and the sun caught his auburn hair, highlighting it in flame as he watched the room. A light breeze filtered in and he shivered, cocking the collar of his jacket to insulate his neck.

"Are you really that cold?" Luned asked as she tidied the mess from dinner, the blissful scent of baking still hanging in the air as she busily returned cooking implements to their rightful homes. She was perfectly comfortable in her thin blouse but, then again, she hadn't spent the past several years in a desert. The girl had taken to wearing her long, darker hair down, but from the way she always gathered it over her left shoulder, it was obvious she just used it to play down the fresh scars on her jaw and neck. When unobscured, they shone bright white against her already pale skin. "You've been in Fallien too long. This is the best time of year to visit Radasanth, nights are warm but not too humid yet. Don't you remember?"

With a groan, the young man forced himself into somewhat civilized posture, his boots hooked in the rungs of his stool. "You don't know what you're missing, Lune. The desert is like being wrapped in a fuck-ton of blankets and just sort of shoved inside an oven all the time." He spoke with gratuitous use of his hands, insinuating some sort of fluffy burrito.

His sister wrinkled her nose, not particularly appreciating the metaphor. They were quite obviously siblings in spite of their differing demeanors, particularly in the face; they shared similarly delicate features, and though his darkly tanned skin greatly contrasted with her fairness, their freckles marked them as two of a kind. "That's supposed to sound pleasant?"

"Never mind," Muir gave up, dragging himself to his feet. He smoothed his coat, a nautical looking thing likely pilfered from another man's closet, which made him appear rather like a pirate in combination with his pinstriped pants that were tucked smartly into old leather boots. He wore a brightly woven Fallien-style kerchief at his neck in a scarlet that made his emerald eyes glow. "I think I'll go pay Rez a visit."

Luned hung her apron up with a little smile. "Have fun." When she stood next to Muir, with his radiant complexion and eccentric clothing, she felt a bit like she disappeared, but that was how she preferred things. He'd likely get up to some rampant mischief with their mutual friend tonight, but instead of feeling left out, the scribe would be glad to get one last evening of quiet reading in before preparations for the upcoming voyage grew too hectic.

With a wry little grin and nod of parting, Muir stuffed his hands in his pockets and strolled out of the room. "Will do!"



Hot mug of tea in hand and a choice book under her arm, Luned ascended the steps which led to the living space of the library, the scuff of her soft-soled shoes against stone nearly echoing in the tall, narrow passage. Off the small second floor hallway were a small parlor, a couple of guest rooms, and the scribe's own bedroom at the far end, where she deposited her reading on the desk. Dusk loomed over the view of the water from her window, casting deep shadows and bathing the world in gray, and as she reached out to the lamp, a voice erupted from the darkness behind her.

"'Ello, luv," it greeted her, the demon's grin apparent in his tone.

Her heart lurched and she dropped the mug, ceramic shattering hard and loud against the floor.

[Luned]

Getting the light was an unnecessarily complicated task with trembling hands but the scribe managed, and as the pale glow reached the corners of the little room, it illuminated the villain. Aurelius lounged on her bed, legs outstretched and back against the headboard, where he was sorting through some reading. He looked every inch the hooligan he was in dirty boots and black leather. The tiefling took a draw on his cigarette, blowing a stream of smoke from the corner of his mouth as he flipped through another book. With a small grunt of irritation, he discarded it in a pile at the foot of the small bed. "What's the matter, luv? Not 'appy to see your old mate?"

Luned didn't budge from her place at the window, cringing at the peculiar accent that had haunted her nightmares over the past few months. "What do you want?"

Feigning a look of hurt, the half-breed stood up, the fag pressed between his lips. His coat was laid over the chair next to the bed, leaving bladed armor on display. "Alright, straight to the point: I want information, and I figure you're the chit to come to when I need to 'ave a scan of a few tomes."

The girl nodded, arms wrapped protectively around herself, and she instinctively pressed back against the window as he stood. The glass was cold and sent a chill up her spine. "What information?"

He smiled darkly, seeing her try to move away from him. The shiver she gave was delicious to the depraved creature that he was. "Chant is there's some ruins, down Fallien way. The usual ride-jink, magick trinkets, spell tomes and the like. But this ain't just any old ruin. This'un is… important. Used to 'ouse a Demon Lord, a few 'undred years back. Chant tells 'e left somethin' down in the depths. Somethin' powerful. Naturally, I want it." The warlock idly toyed with a few of the talismans, glyphs, and amulets tied around his wrists, letting his cold gaze wander over the girl, before holding his palms up in an inoffensive shrug. "This 'ere's a library, an' I need a few books," he said, as if it was really that simple.

"I'll find what I can, and I'll leave them downstairs in your name with the clerk. Give me a week." This was a standard research agreement, but it served another purpose: Luned would, if everything went as planned, be on a ship halfway across the ocean by the time he returned. That prospect was only comforting if he agreed, of course, and in a manner that didn't insinuate he'd harass the library's other staff in her absence. The scribe couldn't help but silently wonder just how Bleddyn's mysterious power, depths unknown, would contend with the scoundrel if things went awry.

The tiefling mulled that over for a few moments, obviously not happy with the answer he'd received, but he let slip a chuckle at Luned's obvious discomfort with his presence. "You sure you don't wanna come search the stacks with me? We could always pick up where we left off back in Ettermire," he smirked lasciviously, leaning against the wall next to Luned.

It took every ounce of energy the scribe had left not to betray just how thoroughly terrified she was that he would; even just the memory sent her stomach churning and put the metallic taste of rancid blood in her mouth again. Handling that threat with composure took significant effort, but she managed. "I might need to send for books from other archives if we don't have what you need. It takes time." There was something almost funny about falling back on her standard responses for any patron who was impatient about a request, a desperate tactic drawn from habit, but she didn't have it in her to show amusement. The usual disgruntled visitors generally weren't half-demons with things like bladed armor and penchants for slitting throats.

He gnashed his fangs in irritation, serpentine eyes flashing over the scribe. If she lied to him, he'd have known, but he knew that the girl was too smart to risk that. He relented, lighting up another cigarette and stepping back to gather his coat. "If that's the best you can manage, luv, it'll do." He nodded toward the door to her room. "'urry up, then, and off you pop."

Luned backed away, first against the wall, then toward the door. Her steps tracked spilled tea across the hardwood floor. "I trust you know the way out," she said with the fortitude of a mouse.

"Aye, that I do. That also means I know the way back in. Keep that in mind, luv," Aurelius said quietly as he stalked past the girl, narrowly avoiding her with the blades adorning his leather. He headed down the stairs, his figure followed by curling wisps of smoke, and he chuckled. "Be seein' you real soon, Luned."

[Luned]

When the man disappeared down the stairs, Luned didn't move from the threshold into the hallway. She remained still as death as she listened carefully, following his footsteps as they grew more and more distant until the creak of hinges told her he was really, truly, ever so gratefully gone.

"Oh, gods," she gasped as she covered her face with shaking hands, using slow, deep breaths to calm herself. Her ashen skin made her ghostlike and she stared at nothing for a moment, wide, blue eyes unseeing. She couldn't bear Aurelius' reappearance alone, she didn't feel safe, but who could she possibly tell? If she went to Bleddyn or Resolve, she'd be forced to come clean about everything. She feared their inevitable disappointment almost as much as she yearned for their eventual forgiveness, which might never come. And Muir? They weren't close, not like that…

But no –– she did have someone.

The scribe stepped back into her room, shattered mug crunching underfoot as she walked to her desk. She slumped into the chair, searched her pockets for her journal, and soon she'd extracted something from the pages, which she unfolded to reveal its surface half-filled with correspondence in two very different types of handwriting. The enchanted paper's mate was in some unknown, undoubtedly distant region of the world, she was certain, but at the other end was the only person who didn't judge her for her mistakes, and who understood just how unsettling it was to discover that particular villain lurking in one's home.

Pen hovered at the ready, Luned stared down in a daze. What would she even write? The previous notes were all pleasant smalltalk, it felt wrong to tarnish it with Aurelius' name… so she didn't.

In simple penmanship and shortness wholly uncharacteristic of herself, Luned merely wrote:

He was here.

[Warpath]

The rag-clad thugs dragged the castellan through the sturdy stone walls he managed in the baron’s name. They held him by his arms and carried him backward, and out of despair he let his ankles drag, ignoring the pain when they would catch and bounce on upraised stones and gaping crags. When they carried him out across the tower bridge, he laid his head back and looked up at the cloudless sky, painted in a thousand shades of blue and pink and orange. It was the most beautiful sunset he’d ever seen, and thus he was sure: the Sway had betrayed them. How else could one explain the totality of their loss, and the world’s indifference to it?

The thugs knocked before entering the inner tower, hoisting the castellan along with them. This had been the baron’s study. Indeed the baron was still there, his head bare and his hair grey and wild, his finery torn, and he was on his knees on the floor. The baroness was there too, huddled in a corner with her daughters and their ladies. More of the invaders were inside, standing in a semicircle around the baron, and the castellan knew with a certainty that the man they looked to was the orchestrator of this grand sin against the divine.

The keep’s blacksmith had, until now, been the biggest man the castellan had ever seen. This black-clad brute was easily a half-foot shorter than the blacksmith, but infinitely thicker with muscle until the signs of his physical might struck the man as being grotesque: this was surely no human being, but the result of an unholy union between man and beast.

“They call you Flint, don’t they?” the castellan croaked. “You were supposed to be a myth. They told us you were a myth.”

Flint had been staring down at the baron, but now he turned his severe, unblinking gaze to the castellan. “That is why this was easy,” he said. For a half-man, his voice was soft and his speech eloquent – a blasphemy, like the rest of him.

“We caught him at the back wall. Can’t be sure, but I think he might’ve been considering a jump down into the moat.”

Flint did not immediately acknowledge that his lackey had spoken, continuing to stare down at the castellan. Maybe he hadn’t understood the words?

“His wife?” the ape said at last. “Family?”

“Word is his wife’s dead. We didn’t find any signs of family, but he’s a fossil. If he had kids, they moved on.”

Flint went on staring. How long had it been now? Two minutes? Three? And not once did he blink, or look away. Was he even breathing? And then, blessedly, he turned that gaze to the ladies huddled in the corner. A petrified stillness went over them, as if he could turn their flesh to stone with a glance. Then he moved.

He walked over to the castellan and slowly, deliberately, he curled his fingers into the material of his shirt, just over his heart. The thuggish escorts stepped aside, as unsure of their leader as their victims were. Flint began to push him backward, and the castellan tried to walk, to back away, but he tripped. He squeaked, but he didn’t fall. With one arm, Flint held him upright by his shirt, and half-carried him to the window.

It was an ornate affair, stained red glass with orange depictions of the Sway’s generosity to the Salvic people. Flint pushed the castellan’s back to the window and stared into his eyes. The castellan stared back, defiant.

“This is a man of faith,” Flint declared. “Look at him: so outraged, so sure. So deluded. If I asked you for the genealogies you kept, the records of land ownership, the tax books, the deeds, what would you tell me?”

“You can fuck yourself,” the castellan spat, struggling to keep the tremor from his voice.

“Such loyalty to your position,” Flint mused. “And yet you were going to jump from the wall and leave your family to their fate. You’d preserve this keep, the barony, the aristocracy, but not your own blood.”

“I have no family.”

“No?”

Flint’s forearm tensed and the castellan had a moment, a heartbeat of panic before the brute shoved him. His back screamed out in pain, shooting red-hot agony from his spine to every inch of his body as the glass shattered around him, raining sparkling red stars and glinting orange diamonds in the peripherals of his vision. His breath caught in his throat and the scream cut short when he instinctively felt the vast empty space beneath him, and the rush of hot air eager to snatch him up and toss his body about like a plaything.

A single clear voice cried out, heartrending in its fear and anguish. She tried to bottle her voice back up when she saw that Flint still had hold of her grandfather, who was bloodied but alive, peering wide-eyed back over his shoulder at whatever distance lay below him. It was too late. She had been hidden; anonymous amongst the baroness’s handmaidens, but now she was a fleck of gold in a vein of iron.

“Stupid girl,” the castellan hissed, clutching at Flint's forearm.

“And yet she’ll weep for you,” Flint said, and then he let go.

[Warpath]

Flint turned away from the window empty handed, and hardened his face as his prediction came true. The girl wept openly, not for herself but for the unfeeling, pious curmudgeon she’d known all her life. Sometimes – oftentimes – he did not understand people. What they would say and what they would do, what drove and motivated them, all that he understood, but why they felt the way they felt would forever be a mystery.

His men went to the girl and extricated her from the other ladies, who put on a show of attempting to protect her but really didn’t fight much at all. The girl herself did nothing but produce tears and a soft, mildly annoying wailing noise.

“Didn’t we need him?” Radek said.

“He would have been more precise,” Flint said, “but forcing a man’s mind to change is time-consuming. She may not know exactly where the documents are, but she’ll know enough.”

The men brought her closer as they escorted her out of the room, and for the briefest moment she found it in her to bury her grief, and she attempted to murder Flint Skovik with a single teary-eyed look. It was a valiant effort and her hatred was almost tangible in the space between them, but the field of freckles across her button nose softened the blow and the brute went on breathing, no worse for the wear.

At least, outwardly. Inwardly he felt a disquieting thrill, and his hand went instinctively toward a pack he wasn’t wearing.

“The boys will get it out of her,” Radek said.

“No,” Flint said sharply. The girl’s escorts hesitated, looking back at him. “No harm is to come to her. Find out every place where she lived, where her parents lived, and where the old man worked. Search it, then burn everything, and take her back into the village and turn her loose. Take all of them back to the village and turn them loose.”

“What about him?” Radek said, pointing at the baron. The old man looked up with hope gleaming in his eyes.

“What? No, toss him out the window.”

The baroness made a strange sound. It didn’t strike Flint as being the sound one makes when losing a husband, but maybe one a person would make when losing a particularly nice trinket. Strong disappointment, but not grief. The baron’s shoulders slumped; two thugs grabbed him, and began dragging him toward the shattered window.

“Wait,” Flint said. The thugs looked at him expectantly. “Don’t be wasteful.”

Confusion returned to the baron’s face, and then a modicum of hope quickly lost when the thugs began pulling his jewelry, accoutrements, and finery off. No reason to throw the baby out with the bathwater.

[Warpath]

“This was a little tougher than the last one,” Radek said. “Eventually they’re going to figure out how we’re doing it.”

Flint was descending the tower hurriedly, but Radek was right on his heels.

“We need to find a way to recruit more men, because eventually we’re going to have to resort to a proper siege. We need more money. If we could just take a keep instead of gutting it, we could use it as a base of operations,” Radek continued.

“Sieges take time and can be broken,” Flint said. “More men necessitate more supplies, fewer winnings to divide amongst more people, and a greater degree of organization and discipline. A static base of operations can be attacked. And Radek, if we take control of a place, we become one of them.”

“I’m just trying to think long-term here, Flint. We can’t keep doing this much longer, not in this region. You say we can’t become like them, but we’re not. We’re us, and they’re them. Wouldn’t it be better if we were calling the shots? I mean, hell, it isn’t like someone else isn’t going to fill the voids we’re leaving behind. Even if you burn all the records and confuse the lines of succession, somebody will eventually take control of these fiefs by force, and then it’ll just start all over again.”

They became aware of a scream rising in the distance, a voice raised in unceasing and constant terror, and the sound swiftly grew louder. They ignored it as they descended.

“This isn’t the endgame,” Flint said. “Fet’s plan is sound, otherwise I wouldn’t be here. We’re arraying our pawns, and forcing the aristocracy to array theirs on our terms.”

“But what’s the goal?”

“Victory,” Flint said.

The scream reached a crescendo just as the pair passed a tower window, and they caught a glance of the baron as he made his own descent. His persistent scream gradually faded.

“I guess I just don’t see the big picture here.”

“And I’m no more privy to it,” the brute said with a shrug. “It is good that you don’t need to trust me. Only Fet.”

They emerged from the tower into the courtyard, and Flint stepped over the baron’s broken body without changing pace. Radek glanced over at what was left of the castellan and winced.

“Why is the church still boarded up?” Flint said, marching up to the supply wagon.

“We can’t get in,” Radek sighed. “Apparently the priests had some clue we might show up, which is part of what I’m talking about. Even if the barons don’t see us coming, the Church is starting to catch on, and where the barons are stubborn, the clergy ain’t. If the bishops tell them to start putting the records in the churches and sealing them up, what then?”

Flint paused and looked up at the church, where massive depictions of the Virtues and the Sway were painted in incredible detail. The stained glass windows were dark, hinting at the sturdy boards erected behind them. Twelve men had a post, and were steadily hammering at the main door with it, but the wood wasn’t budging.

“Burn it,” Flint said.

“But the churches are rich, and often play host to valuable people during sieges. We don’t know what’s inside.”

“Liars,” Flint said dismissively. “Burn it.”

“Okay,” Radek sighed, and walked away to give the order.

Flint, meanwhile, found the supply wagon and began digging through it in search of his rucksack. He found it in a chest and opened it in a hurry, revealing a small collection of supplies, books, writing utensils, cookware, maps, and an otherworldly trinket. He pulled a thin notebook out and flipped through it until he found a crisp and neatly-folded sheet of paper. This soothed him, and he sat back against the wild mishmash of sacks and chests and barrels while he unfolded the paper almost reverently: a now-familiar ritual born of a careful daily action.

He knew the writings on that paper by heart. At the top left corner was a short line of Flint’s handwriting, and it said “I’m alive.” Below that, someone with much cleaner, ornate penmanship had written “I’m glad” in response. He followed the text downward, where the ornate penmanship spun a short tale, and he’d answered it with a shorter one. It was too basic to be personal, and yet the men gave him a wide berth when they saw that little sheet of paper in his mitts, and nobody thought to question it. To them it seemed an obsession, some unchanging piece of his past that he constantly revisited.

And yet, today Flint discovered a change – a line of writing that he hadn’t yet read over a hundred times before.

“Aurelianus,” Flint growled. He hesitated, drifting back in his memory to Ettermire, where he’d almost died, and where he’d been forced to strike an agreement with a devil. The looming payment of that debt was a constant pressure on him.

He had almost forgotten that Luned had made a similar arrangement.

Flint folded the paper again quickly, but carefully, returned it to its place between the pages of his book, and then returned the book to the rucksack before closing it again. He tossed the bag aside and cracked open the chest he’d found it in, dug through the items therein, and then produced an object wrapped in burlap. When he undid the burlap, he revealed twin hunks of metal. They were identifiable as weapons, but beyond that no mortal man had ever seen their like before Flint: they hadn’t been shaped by a hammer or by fire, but instead seemed to have been chiseled piece by piece from a single cut of black steel, and then those pieces were assembled, clicking together in a matrix of moving parts.

He hesitated again, but only for an instant. He slid the first of the pieces onto his left forearm, and then the second onto his right. The insides were coated in some kind of alien cloth, and after a few seconds of contact with his skin the cloth contracted, hugging the contours of his forearms, tracing every vein. The metal seemed to hum, to breathe, and he could almost feel something moving inside the bracers, like hidden clockwork spinning up.

The called them the ruiners, and as with all unknown things, he was wary of them. If he had to fight a fire-wielding devil, though, he wanted every advantage he had at his disposal. With that thought, he reached down and ran his fingertips over a shape in his pocket – a vial of clear liquid. He prayed it wouldn’t come to that.

“Radek!” he shouted.

His second turned away from his task by the church, where the men at the door were now sullenly stacking up bales of hay and dousing them in turpentine. Flint stepped off the wagon and waved for a horse to be brought to him while he marched to meet Radek midway.

“The ticket I told you to get from Tirel, where is it?”

Radek stared for a minute, then his eyes lit up and he searched his many pockets before producing a thin, wrinkled strip of paper.

“I meant to ask about that,” Radek said. “What’s an Agnie?”

“See the church burnt, and anything else you have time for,” Flint said, snatching the ticket from him. “Then get the men together and go back to Fet.”

“What about you?”

“I’m leaving,” Flint said.

“So the men are supposed to depend on me to get them home through the wilderness here? That’s insane,” Radek growled.

“If you’re not up to the challenge, send to Fet for a guide. Gods help you, though.”

“We need you.”

“Then the gods cannot help you,” Flint said. “You should have known better than to depend on me.”

Without another word, he swung up onto the horse and rode boldly out through the front gate, leaving the fallen keep behind him.

[Luned]

Sleep never came that night, understandably. Luned spent the wee hours of the morning sorting through books in the stacks, desperately seeking what Aurelius requested so she could put the whole ordeal behind her. In the end, she did have to send out a note to one of their companion libraries who had a better Fallien archive, but there was some comfort in knowing she'd done what she could for the moment.

After her errands, the scribe found it difficult to bring herself to return to the library; for the first time in her life the familiar space felt claustrophobic, stifling, and every little noise tested her nerves. The warm weather coaxed her down to the riverside where she watched the calm water for a long time, long enough that the humid, salty breeze from the delta condensed on her skin, in her hair, and on her clothes. Boats came and went, familiar faces nodded polite greetings, and Luned stood in the tall grass surrounded by ducks and geese until she lost track of time. If it was a normal day, she would have been sketching, but she didn't remove her journal from her pocket even once.

She knew he hadn't written back. She'd checked several times already.

Eventually the sky gave way to heavy gray clouds that smothered the sun and drew the contrast out of the bright green grass and deep blue water, desaturating the landscape with the first hint of rain. Luned's eyelids fell with the dimming light as lack of rest caught up with her, and she reluctantly admitted it was time to go home.

Out of habit, she walked by Moody's Ale Cellar on her way back to the library. The ground level of the old brick building was already alive with merriment –– for some, it was never too early to drink –– and her eyes flitted to the gables of the third floor, where Resolve lived. Resolve was her best friend, but they didn't talk much these days. Not since the tournament.

By the time Luned got home, her feet seemed to be moving of their own accord, and she had the fanciful thought that she might even manage some sleep finally. Not in her room, of course, but maybe Bleddyn wouldn't notice if she locked herself into one of the archives on the lower levels for a few hours…

With the heavy oak door of the private entrance closed behind her, effectively locking her into the serenity of the library, Luned took a moment to breathe, as if doing so might summon the courage she needed to trust her home again. In that moment, something stirred down the hall, and she held her breath as she listened.

There were steps and, from the surety of the gait, they certainly weren't Bleddyn's. Instinct beckoned her toward the door and she took a step backwards, the shadow of an approaching figure playing off the gray stone walls of the main hall. Her heart caught in her throat, her hand fumbling clumsily at the latch as panic set in, and then a voice called out.

"Luned?"

Movement seized and she barely managed an audible response. "Flint?"

The approaching figure stepped out into the hall from the passage that led to the main library, revealing itself to be one particularly broad-shouldered individual. Luned smiled.

[Luned]

They soon found themselves in the upstairs parlor and the man situated himself in a comfortable armchair of creaky old leather, the scribe on the chaise across from him. She folded her hands primly atop the folds of her dark blue skirt, and as he observed the stately decor around them –– the framed maps on the walls, the simple curtains, the antique furniture –– it brought him back to the quiet days he spent there after their fateful meeting in Ettermire. He'd remembered them like faded glimpses of another life after he'd left and being back felt strange, so he reached for normalcy with words. "What did he want?"

An odd smirk graced Luned's lips, as if she cringed halfway through a grin, and she relaxed a little, leaning back against the cushions. "Books. That was all… just some books."

"Books?" Flint repeated, turning it over in his mind. The girl didn't appear hurt, just exhausted from the stress of the encounter; maybe it really was that simple. "For what?"

"Something in Fallien," she said, combing a tangle out of her hair with her fingers, the tresses arranged deliberately over her left shoulder. "Some ruins connected to dark, magic things… things he probably shouldn't find. But I agreed to help, gave him a standard research agreement. He'll be back next week for them."

He frowned, the shadows under his eyes betraying his own lack of rest. Even with Agnie's help, it was a long and tiring trip from Salvar to Corone.

"But it's alright. I'm leaving in a few days for a trip, so he'll just have the books to pick up downstairs and that's that. I worry a little, but the library itself has protection wards… I think it'll be fine." It was obvious that Luned needed to justify her cowardly decision to herself more than her friend.

"I see," Flint said as he leaned back in his chair, still puzzling over the issue.

It was then Luned realized that, out of all possible types of encounters one could have with Aurelius, she likely had one of the more pleasant ones. Her hand unconsciously rose to her neck, tracing the memory of his grip from their traumatizing meeting in the tannery in Ettermire, and she breathed a sigh of relief. She was okay. More than okay, actually –– Flint was here. That brought up a whole mess of emotions, but the foremost was a sense of security, and she relished it. "So… what have you been up to?"

The change in subject brought a rise to the man's brow and he ran a hand over his smooth head, piecing together the most concise answer possible. "After we wrote I left Akashima, went home to Salvar, and found some work. There isn't much to tell." That last bit may not have been true, but he figured it may not be the best opener to tell tales of tossing the elderly out of windows.

At this point Luned knew him well enough to know she wouldn't get the epic out of him that she wanted, but that was fine. She smiled, leaning against the arm of the chaise. "Could you stay, at least for a couple nights? I'll be pretty busy with work but I think Bleddyn misses your company, though he'd never say it himself."

With a ghost of a smile, Flint nodded. "Yes, I think so."

The accepted invitation seemed to resurrect the hostess in Luned and she perked up, suddenly very concerned. "I'm sorry, I'm a terrible host! Are you thirsty? Hungry? I can get something together," she volunteered, shifting to stand.

Flint beat her to it, rising from his seat. "I could use some water, but I can get it. Wait here."

[Luned]

By the time Flint returned, the scribe had dozed off, curled up against the arm of the chaise. He paused in the doorway, thought for a moment, and then turned to go back downstairs.



The journey from the living quarters to the main library had nearly become routine in his previous stay and the path returned to him in muscle memory, his feet carrying him into the grand space almost without thought. The large room was just as he remembered with its tall, gray walls, vaulted ceiling, and ethereal orbs of white light which radiated a calm glow over the many rows of shelves. He noticed only a couple patrons as he strolled down the center aisle, brushing past aged scholar and casual browser alike until he arrived at the back hallway which led to Bleddyn's study.

Flint wasn't the elderly enigma's only visitor that afternoon; as he approached, someone stepped out and closed the door behind her. As he neared, he almost hesitated, unsure if he could trust his eyes… but, from the equally astonished expression on the girl before him, the feeling was mutual.

Pale eyes swiftly went from surprise to daggers, the serene environment doing nothing to hush the fiery reaction Flint's proximity evoked. She even appeared nearly the same as when they'd first met as opponents, swathed in vibrant crimson, strength and confidence exaggerated in her posture as she stalked up to him down the narrow passage. It didn't matter that he was wearing his skull stomping boots, nor the fact that he had nearly a hundred pounds on her; her presence was bigger, more intimidating, and apparently quite furious.

Before he could offer any form of greeting, she growled an order. "Outside. Now."



The courtyard still shone brilliant even under the first mist of early summer rain, emerald ivy and amethyst lilies softening the stark stone exterior of the structure around them; Resolve's imposing figure was a ruby set amongst a tapestry of jewel tones. She had her hands on her hips, a scowl on her lips, and there was obvious premeditation in her deliberate handling of the situation. Apparently Flint had been on her mind following the tournament, as well.

"You have exactly one minute to explain to me who you are, what the hell you're doing here, and why I should trust you with Luned."

[Warpath]

For all its idyllic color, dew, and soothing mist, the tension in that little courtyard was palpable. Flint hooked his thumbs into his belt and savored it with a raised chin, eyes locked on Resolve’s incongruous blues. He longed for a full night’s rest and all the preparation that entailed, but he’d been dreaming of this moment almost as much as his reunion with Luned. There were suddenly a lot of women in his life.

“Starting now?” he asked.

“What?”

“My minute,” Flint clarified. “I’m curious if it starts when I do, or if I’m already running out of time.”

“Does it look like I’m in the mood for jokes?”

She really didn’t.

“Strange that you mention trust,” Flint mused, “since Luned summoned me here, and not you. Strange that I know who you are, and but you don’t know who I am. Maybe we got off on the wrong foot here. I should be asking you what you’ve done to deserve my trust in regards to Luned.”

“You listen to me you son of a…”

“Honestly I’m a little offended,” Flint continued, staring unblinkingly. “I thought one shared those sorts of stories with one’s best friend. The things we’ve done together, I mean. I suppose it’s a private thing, something a girl would only talk about with her closest – her most trusted friends.”

“I am,” Resolve growled, jaw clenched.

“Maybe because it wasn’t all good. You had to wonder about all those scars. I don’t. Would it make you feel better to know she gave as good as she got? I can show…”

But then it became unnecessary to go on, because Resolve shrieked, fists clenched at her sides, and charged.

Flint smiled.