Legion of Light I: The Muster

[Flames of Hyperion]

Open to all, although continuity-wise it would probably make most sense if you were not involved in the first chapter of the FQ. Details can be sorted out by PM or IC if necessary ^^.

Scara Brae was a peaceful island nation, seemingly far removed from the conflicts that wracked the continental mainland. While zombies walked amongst corrupted glades and faith fought loyalty in blood-strewn snow, Scara Brae remained quiet and relatively calm. But even such serene tranquility could not hope to escape the darkness that stalked the world.

Before long the haggled refugees began to pour in, packed to the brims on fishing boats and merchant caravels fleeing from the Elvish port of Anebrilith, carrying with them dark tales of terror and fear. Imports from Raiaera and Salvar all of a sudden dried up, sending the prices of precious commodities skyrocketing. Clouds on the northern horizon, vengeful and ominous, preyed upon the minds of honest folk, and their dreams turned restless in the wake of unsettling rumours.

Some said that the daemons of Haidia had risen once more to devour the lands of the living.

Some said that the entire continent had fallen to a dark and evil force.

Others, of course, blamed it on the elves, or on the dwarves, or on the drow, or on any other easy culprit they could lay their hands on.

Nobody really knew enough to discern fact from rumour, tall tale from truth; dread and consternation only served to spawn further gossip, none of which was substantiated... all of which was believed.

Then, over the course of one chilly night in the death of winter's grip, the following writ appeared across the city of Scara Brae, posted prominently on every available noticeboard. Every single one was handwritten in Common, letters small and neat, almost calligraphic in style.


To the goodly and most honourable people of Scara Brae,

It is with much sorrow and great haste that I call upon all folk strong of sword-arm and sharp of mind to unite in battle against the necromancer Xem'zund, in a crusade to rid our fair world of this evil. I seek those with the courage to face the darkness and the righteousness to overcome it, so that our lands may be free once more of this cursed plague of undeath.

If you wish to join this just expedition, or if you wish to make further enquiries, contact Commander Arminas at the Auld Hoose, sundown tonight.

The fate of the world rests upon your shoulders.

Signed,

Arminas Ereinon
Commander, Rangers of the Eclipse

[Flames of Hyperion]

I did not expect to see such change in Scara Brae during the week or so that I spent travelling to the Mountain-Tear Falls. Where before I left there was cheer and joy, now there is a strange sense of foreboding and doom, hanging low and heavy over the markets and the streets. Hawkers mutter to each other in hushed voices, the merchants eye their customers carefully before conducting sales, and the City Guard are watchful and wary, fingering their truncheons with dangerous intent.

Above all, there is one name on the whispering wind, one name tainting the air and trembling the ground, one name at the centre of all the rumours, reeking of corruption and evil power.

The name of Xem'zund...


~ Entry in Ingwe's Book of Travels

Welcome again to the Auld Hoose, still not quite the biggest tavern in Scara Brae, still not nearly the cheapest either... but it's certainly making the headlines often nowadays, is it not? Enter once more through the heavy oaken double doors, disregard for a second time the snowy white falcon that is preening itself on the creaky sign, and please mind the threshold as you do so, for it will not do to give a bad first impression will it?

Let your eyes adjust to the darkness, and notice as you do so the subtle changes in the atmosphere from your last visit. For one, there is no quartet playing on stage tonight, and even hushed whispers exchanged between patrons reverberate almost too loudly amongst the low wooden rafters now. Only one bargirl is left to serve, not two, for the prettier has gone home to her family in Radasanth... much to the chagrin of the obese merchant at the fireside table drinking his usual pint. Ware the slippery patch in the middle of the floor where a patron has spilled a drink and the barkeep has yet to mop up, for he is overworked these days serving the glum rumourmongers; good for business, certainly, but not so healthy for the sanity.

Finally, if you are so inclined, look to the tightly-packed corner on your right, cordoned off from the rest of the tavern by a perimeter of empty tables, where your eyes will settle upon a most eclectic gathering of adventurers, sell-swords, and well-meaning soldiers of fortune. Human, elf, dwarf, even the odd half-blood or drow... every major race on Althanas is represented, and a couple more besides, amongst the hundred or so warriors crammed along the walls and around the overladen tables. Most boast armour and weapons of varying quality, from the intricately-runed axe that one of the dwarves is using to prop up his weary head, to the badly rusted breastplate sported by the second son of a Scarabrian knight, but it's obvious that one way or another they're all volunteers and lone warriors rather than an organised band of brothers in arms.

With the exception, it seems, of the tightly huddled group of cloaked Elves at the centre of their attention. Though the remnant of the gathering is busy talking away, from overloud curses in guttural Dwarven to lilting greetings in formal Elvish, the small group of eleven warriors keep mostly to themselves and let their eyes do the roaming instead. Their eyes are coolly professional but not quite as intolerant and condescending as your average High Elf, for these are the Rangers of the Eclipse, and they are outcasts (of their own choosing) from mainstream Raiaeran society.

If you are especially perceptive, you will be able to infer that one of the two Elves amongst them not silently eying the crowd is their leader, Arminas Ereinon. He wears banded armour of a dull burnished bronze beneath his flowing evergreen cloak, and glints of fine mithril mail can be seen beneath that. He doesn't seem to be armed with the exception of a short sword sheathed at his right hip, but don't let that fool you... he hasn't lived through three-and-a-half centuries of trouble and strife, exacerbated by his wandering path, without learning a few things in the process. His hair flows down his shoulders like a waterfall of dark brown, but it isn't done up artistically like that of many of his more civilised compatriots; obviously, Arminas Ereinon is not one for luxury or appearances. His eyes are the same colour as his hair, keen and piercing, but since they are closed at the moment in either meditation or contemplation, it's difficult to tell that. Judging by the fact that no tankard of ale or goblet of wine lies on the table before him, it’s possible that he's not much of a drinker, either... although, to be fair, none of the Elves under his command seem to be interested in alcohol on this particular cold, starlit night.

Should you be brave enough to wish to approach him, be forewarned. Some say that Commander Arminas Ereinon does not suffer fools lightly. The truth is he does not suffer them at all.

[Flames of Hyperion]

“… have you heard of the troubles in…”

“… laddie, ye huvnae seen naethin’…”

“… may the stars bless you…”

The tavern whispered with the echoes of a thousand tongues, each distinct in nuance and inflection, unique in accent and intonation. Attempting to sort them, much less comprehend them, was like sifting through a beach of sand searching for a single particular grain; a task daunting to say the least and awesome in the extreme.

But there was one person who was doing just that, getting a feel, as it were, of the varied folk who had responded to the call to arms. From dulcet elven tones to the raucous laughter of half-drunk dwarves, filtering precious information from random utterances and warming to the regional dialects and the differing pronunciations from the languages he knew. The intense concentration on his face was not faked as he pretended to study the thick tome in front of him, and it was not only once that he stumbled in translation or misheard a word…

… I’ll buy you a dog pancake…?

On the other hand, Ingwe wasn’t known for giving up easily. And, by the time somebody asked him the all-important question, he’d pretty much got the subtleties down pat.

“So, what have you found out so far?”

She was the only Ranger in the room – Arminas excepted – who was not discreetly keeping an eye on the crowd. Admittedly, she was also under strict orders to contain her usual fiery exuberance, but surely she was allowed to converse with the bespectacled young scholar whom they’d contacted the previous day to aid them on their venture?

Her hair was shimmering golden silk that threaded its way down beyond the nape of her neck in a deceptively simple braid; her eyes piercingly blue and bright. She was young for an adventuring elf, barely a century of age, and her features still carried hints of the soft lines that characterised her race's puberty. As Ingwe wrestled his memory for her name – ah, Selinde. Selinde Celebrindal. – he still found it difficult to believe that she was quite the blademaster as well, as she had so convincingly demonstrated to him the previous evening.

He didn’t consider himself to be the best of swordsmen, to be sure… but to be completely disarmed within five strokes was never very helpful to the self-confidence of a student of the discipline. Then again, it wasn’t as if he had any of that in the first place, so…

“… the brown-bearded dwarf with the winged helm is royalty, a prince,” the young warrior-mage replied, nodding a polite if apologetic greeting in her direction to make up for the lack of a spoken one. “I’m afraid, though, that’s all I have for now of any importance…”

Ingwe carefully closed the book he was reading – Arkakroth's Cross Continent Travel Journal & People I'd Like to Bludgeon – and leaned back in his seat to relieve cramped shoulder muscles, still aching from the previous day’s workout. The week-long journey to the Mountain-Tear Falls had done little to relieve the inactivity of three months confined onboard a sea-borne caravel, and his body was certainly letting him know that. Noting the amused expression that she wore, he gave her a rueful, sheepish grin; not something that he did every day in the presence of an elf, much less one that he'd only met recently, but somehow it didn’t seem to matter at the moment. For he had come to the conclusion that one of the things that characterised the Rangers of the Eclipse – and perhaps Selinde more than any other – was that they did not seem to bear the haughty arrogance that was so prominent amongst the High Elves he had known. Perhaps it was exposure to the world beyond their glades and grasslands, or perhaps it was the adventure that had moulded their reception towards others; in either event, he was genuinely pleased by her seeming acceptance of him.

He knew that Arminas did not fully trust him yet. It was only natural, since he had only been approached the day before, in response to the Ranger's request for an aide who could speak all three major dialects – Common, Elvish, and Dwarven – competently enough to translate should the need arise. The job description had entailed acting as a conduit between the various factions that were sure to form in a multi-racial, multi-national volunteer army, and to work to smooth over any difficulties that would arise; a thankless task to be certain, but when Ingwe had been informed that their primary aim was to combat the necromancer Xem’zund and liberate Raiaera, he hadn’t needed to be asked a second time. The scholar within him had relished the challenge of the job, the knight had savoured the righteousness of their proposed deeds, and the warrior had judged it a worthy opportunity for self-improvement. Not to mention that he was headed in that approximate direction anyways; a free journey and some skilled company couldn’t hurt, especially since so many fares to the mainland had dried up due to the troubles.

“From what I can hear, the men are mostly eager to volunteer,” Ingwe continued, his voice low as he circumspectly cocked his head towards the nearest table. “The dwarves, on the other hand…”

He rolled his eyes, and Selinde struggled to stifle a giggle at the young human’s reaction. She slipped into a seat on the tabletop (for the chair opposite was occupied by an ancient greybeard of a dwarf who had apparently fallen into a deep slumber as soon as he’d sat down) and pulled her olive-green cloak tighter around her shoulders, detesting her claustrophobic surroundings and the fact that Arminas had insisted that they wear arms and armour inside. How she longed for the freedom of the forest and the open skies, or even the marbled beauty of Eluriand… though she had spent over a decade now travelling the world, the towns of mankind remained foreign and uncomfortable to her. But her eyes sparkled with fun, and she dismissed her sundry thoughts as wholly inappropriate to the new adventure that was about to begin.

“… let’s just say that they’re ready to be off at any time… just so long as there’s ale on the road and a battle on the horizon,” the dark-haired scholar finished, briefly glancing at her owlishly from above the rims of his glasses. A small sip of the glass of water at his side, just enough to wet his lips as his eyes continued onwards to roam the room, acquainting himself with the warriors that soon he would call his brothers.

“In not quite such courteous terms, of course,” she laughed gaily in response, the sound rising above the swelling tide of ambient chatter like the pleasant ringing of wind-chimes in the spring breeze. Only when she caught an angry glance from the neighbouring table did she belatedly remember her superior’s injunction to remain sober and quiet. A brief pause for remorseful reflection… and then Selinde picked up where she’d left off, almost as if nothing had happened. “Eru…” – she indicated with a look the older elf-woman who had just admonished her, lowering her voice so that it was conspiratorial and confiding – “… doesn’t have a very high opinion of dwarves. She once called them ‘beer-barrelled ale-guzzling cave-hiders, bark far worse than their bite’…”

Ingwe met the description with a single upraised eyebrow, causing Selinde to spasm once again in an effort not to break out in laughter at the sight. The warrior-mage certainly didn’t put it beyond Eru – a notoriously stern disciplinarian – to think that way, and although he didn't quite share in the opinion, he could also just about see where she was coming from as well, given that the majority of the dwarves in the room were even now raucously drunk. Perhaps the only exception to that rule was the old greybeard opposite… and even he was soundly snoring.

“In any case, they can’t be that bad…” the elf-maiden amended, guiltily glancing to where Eru was softly conversing with another cloak-clad figure, this one the masked markswoman Nerdanel, Selinde’s older sister. “After all, they’re willing to join us in…”

“The question,” a third voice interjected from behind, causing both elf and human to jump… the latter rather more so than the former, “… is how much of it is pure bravado, and how much of it is courage and honour.”

Arminas Ereinon was not exactly small of stature, but he had a way of moving so stealthily that other adventurers – and even experienced Rangers such as Selinde – had trouble telling when he was approaching them. There was a faint trace of worry in his dark brown eyes as he spoke, contemplation and concern perhaps, as he looked over once again those who had answered his summons. His voice was smooth and quietly confident, truly elven in its capacity for subtle meaning and inflection, but Ingwe fancied that his ears caught just a hint of sorrow embedded there… foreboding, perhaps, at the horrors and the darkness into which he would lead these peasant’s sons and petty adventurers. It was a revealing moment, fleeting as it was, for it reminded him that as proud and as perfect as elves could be, they too were mortal… they too were fighting for their lives, their very existence. Perhaps even more so, for if they did not lay their lives down in battle they were nigh immortal; a fact that made the sacrifice of those of their race who dedicated themselves to combating evil so much more tragic and poignant.

Such were the thoughts that passed through Ingwe’s mind as his eyes touched Arminas’, just for that brief moment. And Arminas saw they were there, but he did not respond, and the moment passed.

“Let us hope, at least, that the dwarves fight as well as they drink,” the commander concluded, a wisp of a smile touching his face as he stepped forth to make his presence known.

Ingwe had time to exchange one last glance with Selinde… and realised, with a start, that the greybeard was fully awake and eying him thoughtfully.

So much for useless drunken dwarves…

[Flames of Hyperion]

"Peace, good folk of Scara Brae..."

Arminas Ereinon was one of those orators blessed with the ability not to have to speak very loud to be heard. Without raising his voice or gesturing excessively, his soft words fell calmly upon the ears of all who had not seen him step forward from the shadows. He needed no introduction, either, for his name had been prominent on the proclamations posted around town... and who else would be the first to address the assembly?

"Although others upon Althanas are not so fortunate."

That caught the attention of those gathered before him. Even the rowdiest, drunkest dwarf turned to stare, ale and company suddenly relegated from attention. Ingwe, seated as he was just behind Arminas, wished fervently for a hood on his cloak - the assembled eyes made him feel that much more conspicuous, though the scholar within knew that nobody was really paying any attention to him anyways.

"My fellow citizens and adventurers, I bring bad tidings from the mainland. By now most of you would have heard of the news that Raiaera is besieged by a horde of zombies led by the necromancer Xem'zund."

Sage nods ensued from all around, with the rare surprised gleam from the eyes of those less in tune with the times.

"What perhaps you have not heard is that the outer city of Eluriand has fallen, and that there is naught left of the town of Trenyce but wasteland." A shocked gasp ran through the crowd, mainly from those who had relatives within the predominantly human enclave. But Arminas had no intention of pausing to allow the information to sink in. "Valinatal is no more, dark fortifications now serving as a base of operations for the undead legions. Anebrilith is cut off from all aid and is under siege, and any moment now I expect a messenger with the news that our great port has been razed, and the refugees there slaughtered."

Even the merchants at the far end of the tavern took heed of this little piece of information. Yes, that's why the trade has dried up, Ingwe wanted to shout at them, working to suppress the twitch that threatened his left eye. Although unlike most of those assembled it was not the first time he had heard the list of defeats and setbacks, still it was a desperate struggle to maintain his composure throughout. Somewhere amongst the stunned faces and nerveless fingers, the tinkle of shattering glass could be heard; one or two hasty departures as those with friends and family in Raiaera could not bear to stay around any longer.

"... you never told us it was that bad!" a voice rang out from the crowd, scared and protesting. Gone now was the false bravado and light camaraderie that had enlivened the inn for the past half-hour, dispelled like an afterthought on a midsummer breeze. There was fear in the air now, rancid and infectious, an insidious seeping mist infiltrating the tentatively flickering candlelight.

Ingwe picked out the speaker from the sea of shadows, focusing on the anonymous face that had been the first to object. A human youth, the pimples on his face not yet abated, wearing a battered cuirass and a scabbarded broadsword at his waist. A farmer, perhaps, or more likely a merchant's son judging by the cut of his cloth, who had naively seen in the posters a chance for glory and fame. Had he ever paused to consider the consequences of his actions, Ingwe wondered. Had his battle lust and enthusiasm so clouded the stark fact that he would be asked to fight for his life?

"Trust a human to speak so lightly," Selinde murmured quietly to his right, and the young Nipponese couldn't help but agree. Still, it was a necessary evil, for by being the first to reply the young man had given voice to all their fears and worries, and now Arminas could move against them.

"I never meant any deceit," Arminas assured, palms upraised to quell the apprehensive undercurrents that swelled like a rising tide through the tightly packed adventurers. "But neither did I ever imply that this was to be a stroll in the park."

Ingwe noted the half-smile that flickered on the commander's face as he used the human turn of phrase. One or two others in the room also stirred, encouraged perhaps by the elf's apparent willingness to reach out to the younger race.

"Let me be open with you now, then," the Ranger continued, his eyes sweeping the assembly and seeking the gaze of all before him. "The fighting will be desperate, for the undead are relentless and know no mercy. Many have already fallen, many more have yet to die before this war is over... those of you who decide to leave these shores with me may well never return."

A low groan rippled through the less stalwart members of the crowd, their dread manifesting as a heavy oppression blanketing the room. Those who could not meet the eyes of any other, those who quaked in their shoes and felt the cold goose-bumps running up and down their spine at the realisation that there was little glory for the taking here.

Yet there were those amongst the gathering who faced those fears and conquered them, whose wan expressions and haunted gazes soon returned upward to meet Arminas' once more. And it was those faces that Ingwe saw, and those eyes that he took heart from.

"... what has it to do with us?"

This speaker was less discreet than the one before, and half the room turned to look at him. A middle-aged warrior, a huntsman by his garb and arms, chin wreathed in dark curly stubble and eyes a piercing dark blue from beneath bushy eyebrows. He rose from his perch on the edge of a table and faced Arminas, arms crossed across his chest in a menacing posture. "What does this war have to do with us?" he repeated, this time with more firmness and confidence as he took heart from the nods of agreement that surrounded him. "Scara Brae is a peaceful nation, not a land of warriors. Let others have their wars..."

"You must not!" Arminas interjected in reply, and for the first time that evening there was a note of power in his voice. Not quite wizarding strength, but certainly strong enough to cut the man off midsentence. "If Raiaera falls, Xem'zund will sweep into strife-torn Salvar like an inescapable plague. Alerar will be isolated, Corone will be overwhelmed, and Scara Brae the peaceful will be wiped out. There will be no escape, for anybody... the elves will wither, man will be broken, even the dwarves in their mighty fortresses of stone will face more in the underdark than they ever bargained for."

"Big words from a poncy Elf," the dwarven princeling grumbled just loud enough to be heard, but Arminas chose to ignore the implied challenge, concentrating instead on the man before him.

"There is no escape in hiding," he repeated, hammering the point home with his eyes until the dark-haired huntsman was forced to look away. "We must stand as one, lest we all perish alone."

Silence. Every man, elf, and dwarf attended to his or her own thoughts, and Ingwe couldn't fail to see that there was suddenly a lot more empty expanse in the tavern than before. True, some of it was probably due to the fact that a number of those assembled had quietly slipped out the door whilst Arminas was speaking - the youth who had first spoken up seemed to have been amongst them. But a greater part of the growing void was because most of those left had shrunk in upon themselves when confronted with the harshness of the Ranger's words, their ego deflated and false bravado dissipated. One or two remained completely unfazed, and it was those whom Ingwe marked out in his mind as potential leaders and problem-solvers... or perhaps just plain insane. For the majority though, the inconvenient truth had mercilessly shattered the spurious illusions that they had allowed to build up in their mind. Reality had struck with all the force of divine lightning, and lives... priorities... values... all had to be re-examined in a new light.

Predictably, it was the huntsman who once again breached the distraught quiet. His voice was low and throaty, all the confidence that he'd had before having seeped away.

"Then what do you expect a paltry hundred of us to do...?" he whispered helplessly, his words echoing hollow around the tavern. "How are we..." - he looked around to indicate the motley assembly of unseasoned adventurer and untrained citizen - "... supposed to make a difference?"

Somewhere a dwarf grunted in derision, for the hardy folk of the mountains were unfazed by such trepidation. Most of the elves remained tacitly silent, their own decisions long made and preferring to allow the younger race to sort this out amongst themselves. However, the men and women who heeded his words wavered on the brink of cowardice. Though none of them had seen fit to express their own thoughts, it was obvious that the speaker had spoken for them all.

The dark blanket of dread swelled and expanded, until it was a heavy cloud nigh tangible within the claustrophobic confines of the tavern.

Enough.

"We fight," Ingwe spoke, addressing the crowd in his gently lilting tones. For the first time that evening he rose from his seat, a diminutive and unremarkable figure behind the experienced Ranger. But small and insignificant as he seemed, his was a voice of courage... and as his words continued, the veil of darkness cleared as abruptly as it had burgeoned. "We stand and fight, for the free peoples of the world. We protect the innocent. We battle through terror. But most of all, we do not let this evil grow unchecked, for to do so would be to abandon all that is good and right."

One or two of the men gave him looks that ranged from sceptical to downright disgusted. The elves sought to hide their supercilious smiles, whilst the dwarves glared at him and his out-of-place tirade. Now that he paused for breath, he realised for the first time just how seedy his words sounded; a nasty flush coloured his cheeks, and the scholar within now wished for the ground to open up and swallow him whole, such was his embarrassment.

Arminas, on the other hand, looked him in the eye and nodded.

"We fight."

[Edmund Talbott]

"Brave words." It was true, there was no quartet upon the stage, but a single bard had occupied it, and quietly shifted his instrument into another key while they spoke. Now his voice, taught to carry over nearly anything, rang out. "Very brave words lord elf. And do you plan to recruit any more of us? You have my allegiance, as a note, but we are a scarce hundred strong, and the horde is much larger. Numbers matter. While I might immolate a thousand undead given time, a thousand more could be made for each that dies by my hand. I will go despite everything, as this is certainly worth writing about, and I cannot pass up the opportunity. But, despite that, I would like to survive and actually write of what we have done, and not become aname in someone elses song."

[Flames of Hyperion]

Settling back into his seat, blushing furiously at Selinde’s dry grin and feeling the intense gaze from the greybeard probing his back, Ingwe transferred his attention to the latest man to speak up. Largely built and plainly dressed, at first glance he didn’t quite look the part that the instrument across his knees implied, but there was a certain poetic nuance about his words that caused Ingwe to reconsider that opinion. It was no surprise that the majority of the occupants of the tavern followed his gaze, and that a large number of them nodded in agreement with the man’s words, looking to the elflord for his answer.

“You speak wisely, master bard.”

Arminas inclined his head towards the raised dais, a gesture encompassing both polite greeting and acknowledgement.

“You ask whether there is hope. You ask whether the legions of light can stand against this overwhelming tide of darkness and prevail.”

Another pause, carefully timed, as Arminas swept the gallery with his piercing stare. Trying to will courage into the assembled eyes, trying to instil within them the faith and the valour that would be necessary to see them through the dark times ahead… whether or not they chose to journey with him.

“I say yes.”

When he spoke again, his voice carried almost as much power as the bard’s. It rang out like a clarion call, imbued as it was with just a hint of the dignity, might, and wisdom borne by the elf princes of old.

“Defeated on the plains of Eluriand and at the fortress of Valinatal we may have been, but our forces have regrouped in the sanctity of the forests and yet resist the necromancer’s hordes. The armies of Anebrilith still fight valiant, and word has come that even now the levies of the island colony of Tor Elythis sail to their aid. Neither will we be the only band to march, for I have heard rumours of similar mustering in Corone and Fallien.

“Word has also reached my ears of a small group of volunteers, less than a couple of hundreds strong, who held Vanwanen Bridge against an overwhelming tide of undead warriors. Make no mistake, master bard, master huntsman… numbers do not win a battle. No matter what we do, they will always outnumber us… but they will never be able to match us in skill, or in valour, or in courage.”

The Ranger halted, and then sighed gently, a breath of wind in the hushed tavern air. So much depended on his next words, on whether he could win the hearts and the minds of those who’d assembled before him. To the young man who sat behind, watching the oration with a conflicting mixture of awed wonder and detached scholarly appraisal, it seemed almost as if the elflord bore the weight of the world upon his slender shoulders.

“Please, let me be clear… I do not seek to recruit you. I will not ask of you to follow me into certain death. But I will ask… nay, I will implore of you to stand with me against this evil.”

Sincere was his gaze, genuinely heartfelt his words as they echoed quietly amongst the smoky oaken planks and flickering candle-flames. For Ingwe… and indeed, for many of those assembled, even the Rangers themselves… it was as close as they’d ever come to seeing an elf begging.

“Master bard, I harbour no delusions. We cannot do this alone.” Though his words continued to be heard throughout, Arminas' eyes remained fixed now upon the tall man seated upon the stage. “But we are not yet alone. And thus we must act whilst we still can.”

For a moment, the entire gathering was silent, not a single sound heard amongst the breathless still.

“Are you satisfied, master bard?”

[Edmund Talbott]

"Very much so lord Elf. I am with you, and I would hope that if a bard might follow, the more combative among us might follow as well. I hope that no man or dwarf would let it be said that a singer of songs was more brave than he, walking knowingly into danger while they remained behind." Edmund knew crowds. Nothing worked to get warlike men, and some women, riled up faster than questioning their courage, and dwarves more than men in that respect. The fact that the doubter now accepted the Elf's words would yet further solidify Arminas' support among the other races, they weren't elves, and they didn't think like them.

"You mistake yourself in one part milord. You do indeed seek to recruit us. We are not elves. For what reason do valiant men fight? For the passion, for the glory, for the memory, for the money, for land and family, occasionally because a cause is just, and right, but that is the least of their reasons. For what reasons do the noble Dwarves fight? For glory, honor, fame, for wealth and for their clans. But for what reasons do the elves fight? Does honor motivate them? Are they seeking some ephemeral glory in brave deeds? Do they simply fight as I do, because it s needful, or do they fight for their lost land?" He smiled sadly as he spoke, recognizing the bravado behind some of the mens words for what it was.

"We are men, and dwarves and elves here together, and we unite under one banner, but each for our own reasons. Milord, we are not elves, but I believe I speak for my constituents in saying that while we are not, we will still fight on their behalf. What say you scholar and warriors? Are the elves and dwarves more brave than yourselves, or will you go and fight the undead horde, crush them as we meet them, and earn that which motivates you? Heroes will be made when we venture forth, victory will lead to wealth and magic items beyond imagining, and our lands will be safe from the future predations of the undead horde. Do not even consider defeat, those of you with families consider this, if we fail, you had as well to slit their throats, for we are among the last lines of defense for the world. If you think that by waiting, you might save them later, consider this. We will fight them now, when they are not yet at their greatest strength. If you do not fight, your absence may well be the missing link that weakened our line to the point of failure, and then you will have to fight us all in death. If you are still reluctant, then follow me, and not lord Arminas. While I will follow him, I will not follow him to certain death, as he himself has said. If you cannot trust the noble elf, then trust the common man that will follow him. And now the all important question, and please be sure I can HEAR your responses over everyone elses, who is with us, and who is with me?!"

Any that were undecided are yours now Arminas. You have your army, and now to see what use you make of it. The bard relaxed on the stage. Exercising his gift to sway such a crowd with oration alone was difficult. The most weak willed among them would see some ray of hope, and those resigned to death would know the possibility of victory, moved by the masterful oration of one of their own. He was something different to everyone. To the elves, he was a calm voice of reason, to the men, a strengthening presence who gave them courage, and to the dwarves a challenge to be better than those like him. He knew his audiences, and everything they needed.

[Flames of Hyperion]

A roaring chorus of “Aye!”s erupted, threatening to tear the roof from the tavern and shaking the very foundations upon which it was built. Even the scant few patrons who were not involved in the conversation by now were forced to sit up and take notice, so deafening was the cacophony. And amidst it all, Arminas Ereinon smiled.

“Thank you, master bard,” he bowed, low and grateful.

Ingwe, on the other hand, remained quiet and indeed quite stunned. Not only by the masterful oration – not that in a million lifetimes would he be able to even wish to match such powerful words. But also by the way that the bard had managed to stir the hopes and the passions of every last man in the room… himself included, he admitted, although he somewhat hesitated to embrace the view that mankind did not often fight for a just cause.

And now he saw that this was precisely what Arminas had wanted all along. For somebody to step forth from the ranks of men and to rally them to the cause, to be their speaker and their representative in a way that neither Ingwe nor the commander of the Rangers himself could be. The bard had done so, albeit in a more spectacular fashion than had been expected; the hint of respect that Ingwe caught on Arminas’ face as the Ranger retreated from the spotlight was genuine.

However, if it was one thing that the bard had underestimated, it was the pride of the mountain-folk. In particular, the fiery impetuousness of a young princeling quick to anger. Ingwe sensed it first, a swelling rage as fierce as rock and as terrible as stone, taken form in the shape of a mail-clad dwarf who stepped forth into the space vacated by Arminas. Barely reaching chest height of the majority of the assembly, his knee-length beard was fulsome and beautifully brown, a gilded helm upon his head and a fearsome glint in his eye. By the time everybody else had focused upon the stocky figure – or perhaps it was the beautifully crafted rune-encrusted axe that caught their attention – Ingwe was already looking elsewhere, desperately seeking the one he knew could help avoid the forthcoming confrontation.

“Who is this manling tae think he speaks for the dwarves?” the princeling challenged in guttural and heavily accented Common, to general cheers of agreement from his comrades. It bears note here that most of them were his age – from the length of their beards barely into what passed as dwarven adulthood – and drunk as only dwarves could be.

Dwarves on the whole are a cautious and long-tempered race, but this is largely due to the great respect they accord their experienced elders, who know firsthand the dangers of being rash and foolish. Younger dwarves, on the other hand, are known to be hotheaded and easily provoked, especially after imbibing a few pints of their favourite dwarven ale or without the restraining presence of a steadier mind. Many are the tales in which a thane lost control of his throng due to an impulsive beardling breaking formation too quickly, and although they don’t always end badly – dwarven steel has a tendency of setting things right in the end in stories told by the longbeards – the moral is always the same. Listen to your seniors, and respect their wisdom.

Which was why Ingwe was now searching for the greybeard who’d been at his table when Arminas had first stepped forth. The greybeard who’d found it necessary to pretend to be sleeping in the depths of his oversized cloak whilst covertly gathering information about the gathering; the greybeard who, he surmised, was undoubtedly the young prince’s “advisor”.

The greybeard, who met Ingwe’s eyes and gave the young man a knowing nod as he slipped off to his lord’s side.

“We came here on a trading mission to the mines, not to fight a blingin’ war. If the necromancer wants tae come tae us, let him come tae us, let him break his armies on our mighty walls and fortresses of stone.” The prince raised a gauntleted fist into the air and practically bellowed his defiance. “The dwarves hae endured afore, the dwarves will endure evermore.”

The words couldn’t fail to catch Arminas’ attention. As undiplomatically provoking as they were, the elflord had little choice but to prepare a reply of his own, especially if he wished to maintain any form of authority whatsoever in the eyes of the volunteers. Slowly, deliberately, his cloak swirled in the tense air as he turned to face the impertinent naug. His eyes bore a definite regret at the need for a war of words, but there was no hesitation as he opened his mouth to refute the dwarf.

But then, astute as a gently soothing breeze, Ingwe was at the Ranger’s side, a calming murmur whispered into his ear and a restraining hand just about touching his shoulder. Flickers of irritation passed over the elf’s face, obvious enough for the nearby Selinde to blanch at Ingwe’s irresponsible action, and if the young man had not indicated the greybeard purposefully shouldering his way through the seated crowd, he would most likely have been ignored there and then.

Yet for all the apology on the scholarly warrior-mage’s face, he knew that he could not allow the age-old tensions between elf and dwarf to surface again here. He’d done the right thing.

Or at least… I hope I did…

Blind to the fact that Ingwe’s head was now clinging to his neck by a single thread, judging by the growing ire on Arminas’ face, the dwarf continued with his truculent monologue.

“Ahm nae gonnae take any orders from…”

Saved Ingwe breathed, as the greybeard reached his charge just in the nick of time. The prince seemed surprised, taken aback almost, when the older dwarf ordered him to halt in his native tongue; not harshly, but firmly enough to warn against any argument.

Subtly Arminas relaxed, and so finally did the Nipponese at his side. Ingwe was only able to catch hints and flashes of the conversation, conducted as it was in quick guttural mutters of a Dwarven dialect slightly unfamiliar to his ears… a florid curse, a calm retort, a rebuttal cut short followed by what sounded suspiciously like the older dwarf knocking sense into the younger. In not quite so many words, of course, and both quickly and delicately enough that it wasn’t immediately obvious even to the interested bystander that the prince was being chastised, although it was undeniably difficult to disguise the fact that a heated discussion was taking place.

Never insult a dwarf, it is said, and never give them a reason to begrudge you, for they are notoriously unforgiving and long-lived. They are known to be slightly xenophobic as well, and distrustful of all those who have not taken the time and shown the skill necessary to earning it… which made the greybeard a rarity in that not only did he not seem unwilling to working with other races, but also did not mind doing so diplomatically. Ingwe knew that he’d found a valuable ally here, in his role of keeping the peace between the different factions in the newly founded Legion.

“Ahm nae gonnae take orders from nae poncy elf or wet-behind-the-ears manling,” the dwarven prince repeated when the greybeard finally let him loose, almost as if nothing had happened. “But I’ll shave me beard if ever we owe them a debt. In the name of the ancestor gods, we will fight this enemy, and we will win. Us dwarves will nae fight under ye, but we will fight with ye!”

Somewhat grumpily he retreated to his seat, muttering to himself as only a true dwarf could, but his complaints were lost amongst the second roar to shake the Auld Hoose that evening… this one, a score of drunken dwarves in full voice, hammering their pewter mugs on the oaken tables and bellowing oaths of battle and victory at the top of their lungs. The din was such that many of those close by shied away, deafened by the clamour.

Retreating to where his compatriots sat, the greybeard gave Ingwe another meaningful look, eyes steely sparks deep within the folds of his cloak. The intent of the glance was clear… We’ll talk about this one, later.

Ingwe, in contrast, just about managed to sink back into his seat, weak at the knees and trying to stop himself from shaking uncontrollably. Even the faint nod Arminas gave him did little to ease the aftershock of his first true piece of diplomacy.

[Edmund Talbott]

"It is well you did not confront him. I had not considered how truly inebriated he was when I spoke, nor his youth. I believe that when your mage speaks with his handler, things will be set aright. I, by the way, am Edmund Talbott, and it is quite good to meet you." The bard had slipped from the stage during the commotion, and now stood next to the leaders of this small gathering. "It's going to take awhile to get to Anebrilith, and I'll not be able to make the journey with you. I have plans to deal with some of our enemies machinations, but I must go to Alerar first, and that may be complicated." He knew of a few bits of magic he might not be personally able to cast, but with help from other bards, perhaps their combined might could complete the legendary magics and wipe out a portion of the besiegers.

[Flames of Hyperion]

“Greetings, and well met,” Arminas replied in the common tongue, forgoing the more esoteric and formal greetings of his people in favour of tactful restraint. The smooth eloquence that the elves were known for truly showed in his voice, and he seemed much more at ease when not addressing a crowd. “My name, as you probably know, is Arminas Ereinon, commander of the Rangers of the Eclipse.”

He inclined his head, just so, and then indicated with a graceful hand the young man behind him hastily scrambling to his feet, spectacles askew.

“This is Ingwe Helyanwe, recently of the eastern isles… I think it best that you make each other’s acquaintance. Ingwe has agreed to help me keep this band of adventurers together… as you have seen, he has already proved his worth.”

Blushing gently at the unaccustomed praise, from the mouth of an elflord no less, Ingwe bowed to the bard.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Master Talbott,” he said, keeping things short and succinct. The crowd was becoming rowdy once more without an orator to guide them, and the warrior-mage had to speak up to be heard; rather unused to doing so, his voice cracked just slightly at the edges.

“I am sorry to hear that you will not be joining us on the sea journey,” Arminas continued seamlessly, “… but perhaps it is for the better. There will be plenty of seasick dwarves on board, and I’m afraid they do not make for very pleasant company.” There was hard-earned experience in his words, and though his eyes were smiling, it was clear to both Ingwe and Edmund that he wasn’t really relishing the thought either.

“We shall look for you when the skies grow dark and the shadows long, Master Talbott. Until then, I bid you a safe trip and success in your researches… and I thank you again for your inspirational speech this evening.”

Arminas inclined his head once more, lower and more respectfully this time, in temporary farewell. Leaving Edmund in the company of Ingwe and Selinde, his banded scale armour clinked lightly as he stepped out into the middle of the gathering, left hand upraised in an appeasing gesture. It took a while for all of the fervent crowd to notice him, and even longer for them to set aside their alcohol and their battle lust long enough to listen. Eventually, however, Arminas garnered enough quiet to begin addressing them again.

“I thank you all for the support you have pledged to our cause. It will no doubt be much appreciated in the dark times to come.”

Yet another time his eyes swept their ranks, gauging their reactions and weighing his next words accordingly. He saw the fear in their assembled eyes, but it was a healthy fear… the fear in the eyes of men who had seen their future and were willing to fight for it. It was a fear that told him that they knew what they were in for, but were not willing to give in and let it rule them.

Arminas saw it, and the dwarven greybeard saw it as well, and they were both surreptitiously pleased, for they knew that such conquered fear was the first step towards true courage. Ingwe could only see the grim determination that so many of them wore on their faces like a hardened mask, but even that was enough to give him hope. He marvelled thoughtfully at the effect that a few well-chosen words could have on the hearts of men… and dwarves… and elves too, for that matter.

“I have chartered a pair of small carracks through an elf-friend in the Scarabrian harbourmaster’s office,” Arminas continued after the obligatory brief pause. “They are in the process of loading provisions at this very moment, and will set sail for Anebrilith in two day’s time… I hope to see you all on board by then.”

He nodded graciously to the assembly, and then reached into the shadowy folds of his cloak to retrieve a small leather pouch. Metal tinkled and candlelight flickered on a bare glimmer of exposed gold as he tossed it onto the nearest tabletop… in full view of all in the tavern, but still safely within Eru’s reach.

“This night, however, I ask those of you who will to drink and make merry. For there is still joy and hope in this world of ours, and I would not have such brave and noble folk as yourselves forget it.”

For perhaps the first time that night, the corners of the elflord’s lips curved upwards in a small smile. It was only there for a moment, gone as fleetingly as the shadows that danced across his face, but it was genuinely there nonetheless.

Then his expression turned serious.

“Tomorrow, make peace with your family and say farewell to your friends, for the day after we sail to war. Do not mistake me… I will not hold it against you if you decide at that time that you cannot come. But I ask you to remember the words of myself… and the words of the bard who stands behind me… our fair world is imperilled, in need of a few brave men and women. I would be honoured if it would be you who would follow me into battle.

“On behalf of Raiaera… and indeed, as one humble denizen of that fair realm… I thank you all.”

Arminas bowed low, the elflord’s head nearly touching the floor in his sincerity. When he straightened tall once again, the eyes of most every man and woman in the tavern were upon him… willing to follow him into the depths of Haidia itself should the need arise.

[thewriter]

Yet just as the crowd started to ruffle and break up, A black metal flash was seen as a black enameled stiletto came whizzing in the room to firmly plant itself in the opposing wall. Men, Dwarves and Elves alike grabbed weapons and were ready to kill the one who threw it...until they saw who it was.

An elf woman was walking in, a gigantic claymore strapped to her back and a note in her hand. Beside her was a wolf who's back was equal to her elbow, about four and a half feet tall. The gigantic wolf could be ridden as a warhorse for some dwarves, a pony for its master.

But the wolf was not so much what attracted attention. It was the elf, for nobody could place her in any particular elven race. She was short for an elf, yet she had the slim, well muscled-body and long pointed ears that no half-breed could adorn. Yet her arms, hands, ankles and even on her neck there were hard-earned scars of battle.

Her face and hair are truly what stood out as the diamond in the rough. Unlike the rest of her body, her face had no scars and the skin was seemingly smooth and a dark-tan shade like the rest of her body. Eyes as gray as the smoke that came from the fires rested on the weary crowd of travelers, exchanging the awkward stares. Her hair was like thousands of strands of spun platinum, though it had the softness and texture of satin. Due to normally being braided out of the way for fighting, it had nice waves that conformed to the curves of her back - or would, if she was in more feminine clothing that showed the curves of her back. She had no piercings, but did not appear to need them for beauty. For that seemed to be the thing that wouldn't change about her - it was a face that could be pictured beautiful in any emotion - joyful, sorrowful, angered, questioning, calm, entranced. Somehow, it could work.

"My people send their apologies for the late arrival, m'lord Arminas," She said, walking up to the dais casually, regardless of race or rank. True, she looked no more than a common warrior with an impossibly large wolf, but she didn't seem to care.

"Who are ye, t'walk in heer, toss a knife t'ta wall, n'disr'gard us all?" one of the dwarves demanded angrily. Many of the others agreed with him, putting up their own arguments. "And what in the name of our beards ARE ye? Ye look like t'haff-breed o' sum primitive human an' an elven bitch!"

Her gray eyes lit with anger at that last comment. "My name is Ryah Ya'kii, yet you will only know me as Narida. My people are the Beast Elves, a dying breed of elves that have spirits that are at one with our animal companions. My father rules over all of our tribes, and should you feel the urge to insult my people again, be warned that Neoku's fangs are the length of your legs." Somehow this disquieted the drunken dwarves, who glared at the wolf before returning to their seats.

"My apologies, m'lord, for the interruption," She said once more. Her voice was smooth, cool, and held a hint of what could be a wit as sharp as the sword on her back should she decide to use it. "I am Ryah Ya'kii to my people, yet to everyone in this room it is Narida Cestelle. Long have the Beast Elf tribes hid, but hide from this necromancer we cannot. We are not noble elves. We cannot cast magic. We do not speak pretty words, nor do we embellish what we see. And we do not fear death, even as it stares us in the face. I am a young elf, only 143 years of age. Twas this day 90 years ago I, the princess of our tribes, was banished for defying orders of staying within the tribe. Yet now, banishments and such are amended and forgotten. It must be, if we wish to survive." Narida drew the enormous sword one-handed with ease. It was then the masterwork was surveyed.

The sword was a good one. It was made from the finest and purest steel, and sharpened to the point of slicing half a finger off should you graze said appendage near the blade. Its hilt and pommel were obsidian, carved in the shape of howling wolves. But the Butt of the blade was a shining red crystal that matched a smaller one around Narida's neck. when the two came close, they pulsed a blood red light shortly. How a woman that was so small could hold the blade so easily was a mystery to some in the room. Yet the more keen could figure what Beast Elves lacked in magical abilities, they made up for in muscle.

"I bring before you now Gaia's Rage, the most sacred and powerful sword of our people that has the power to send both the elves and their animal companions into the biggest adrenaline rush our bodies can handle, amplifying every sense and muscle as long as they need to be to either win our fight or until we die of exhaustion. Outside this tavern, we have three-hundred fifty of our best warriors - over half of our dwindling population."

Narida thrust the sword into the front of the dais, a few feet from Arminas. "It is by the Heart of Gaia, I swear to you now, you have the will of the Beast Elves, and our aid." With these words said, she bent one knee, while her wolf, Neoku, stretched his hind quarters backward and curled in a fore paw. After a second she rose, and handed him the note.

"We also bring tidings of this necromancer," She told him. "His pace has quickened. Why, I cannot say. But this is what our scouts have told us. Thank you."

Narida turned and sat in a seat adjacent Ingwe, Neoku choosing to curl up in a corner nearby his mistress. "If you wish to address them, they are setting up camp just outside. Mind you, unlike most elves we aren't the cleanest or most eloquent...yet after dealing with dwarves, I doubt such should phase you."

Narida did not pretend to feel the curious stares upon her. These people have never seen a beast elf, have they? "And you all can stop staring - if you are so curious of my people, over three-hundred of them are just outside."

Almost as if on queue, some fast drum beat started up, followed by sounds of voices in a most peculiar language and a flute unlike any that has been heard before.

[Edmund Talbott]

"Ostentatious." The simply dressed bard spat the word, almost like a curse, implying more with that single statement than a thousand words strung together. "Arrogant, flashy. Wasteful in the extreme. I'm a professional showman, and even I'm disgusted by this pointless show of dramatics. Ingwe, Arminas, I'll be taking my leave momentarily, but just remember who your allies are. The greybeard, those who most doubted you, and above all, the maniac throwing knives at us. She's obviously not stable, but she has more than doubled your strength. I will be in Alerar for some time. At least two spells will be coming back with me, though the two I acquire is yet uncertain. It depends what writings of the bard survived the ages. Watch for my return before you reach port. It will be a long voyage, and I will be making a short trip back to you. Also, pray to your Gods that I find something useful. We can't afford another loss like Vanwanen bridge or Valanital, and I will do my best to ensure we do not suffer one."

He plucked the dagger from where it stood quivering in the wood, turned, and walked from the bar. Within a hundred paces from the door, he had disappeared in a suddenly brewed fog, though the haunting strains of his guitar could be heard clearly in the night, until they abruptly ceased, and the fog lifted, showing nothing remaining of the Bard.

[thewriter]

Narida rolled her eyes. "That WASN'T dramatics - it's a ritual for swearing fealty," she said with anger flashing in her eyes. "He should be honored to know that the leader of a race just bent the knee. And believe me old man - you not nothing about being 'not stable'. absolutely nothing until you know what my people go through."

Neoku watched the man leave carefully. Narida turned to the man the bard addressed. "I'm sorry, your name is Ingwe, no? what is your part in this? Arminas is the leader, I just provided over half the muscle you'll be needing, but you...what is it you are after in this? You seem rather scrawny to be in a fight...."

[Flames of Hyperion]

To Ingwe, it seemed as if events had unfolded in surreal slow motion. It was as if some higher power had spirited him away from the dim claustrophobic tavern, granting him an omniscient vantage point from where he could detachedly observe all that was happening.

A dagger of cold black enamel flashed through the darkness, embedding itself cleanly in the wooden wall and startling elf, man, and dwarf alike. But Ingwe felt, and Arminas knew for certain, that the only reason the knife had made it that far was because a dozen pairs of keen eyes tracked it carefully across the room, ready to intercept it in a variety of ways should it show any sign of harmful intention. Only because it had been so skilfully thrown in the first place, had the Rangers of the Eclipse let it pass their watchful gazes.

Tensions had swollen, tempers had flared. The doughty dwarf had spoken for them all when he demanded an explanation from the newcomer, and both elflord and warrior-mage had watched warily as her scathing reply reduced him to an angrily quivering mass of bristling beard. Were it not for the restraining presence of the greybeard nearby, the dwarf may have tried to settle matters with an axe to her neck… and then there would have been hell to pay. Ingwe had frowned in scrutiny from his seat in the shadows, trying hard to gauge her personality before the entire gathering rose in an uproar and undid all their hard work of the previous hour.

”I thank you for your aid in our time of need,” Arminas replied, accepting her oath of fealty with a stately nod. “Long have I heard tales of the Wild Elves of the remote forests… it is good to know that they have not yet forsaken the lives of those so different from they.”

But Ingwe had missed neither the flash of concern that had darted across the elflord’s face as Arminas glanced at the note handed him, nor the edge of impatience that his well-chosen words had ended upon. And in that instant the young man had realised… despite the careful pretence of hauteur and tact, Arminas was not a diplomat at heart. For all his need to rally the free peoples of Scara Brae to his cause, in truth he wanted little more than to be roaming the wild lands in search of his prey… or, better yet, hunting down the evil magi responsible for the troubles now besetting his homeland. He was a Ranger, true and through.

“I shall escort you to the door, Master Talbott,” Arminas spoke, a subtle hand motion indicating to his second-in-commands – stern Eru and passionate Aegnor – to follow. With his other hand, he forestalled Ingwe’s attempt at standing up and joining him, an order in not so many words to remain with the gathering.

“I wish you luck in Alerar, my friend, and I hope that you find what you seek.” A small smile danced in wry mirth about his lips as he continued. “And if there are indeed over three hundred elves outside this very tavern, then I doubt that the citizens of Scara Brae will take kindly to a midnight revel in the middle of their streets. I shall arrange for alternate accommodation.”

The coldly disapproving glare that Eru had given the newly come beast elf burnt itself indelibly into Ingwe’s mind, intense and harsh as she followed Arminas towards the door. Obviously the senior Ranger disapproved of the drama as well, her cloak the last in a line of three that swirled irately just above the dusty floor.

But even the blunt force of her censure could not help to keep his tenuous grip on the present from slipping through his fingers. The sounds of his surroundings wavered, seeming to echo through a long resonant tunnel to reach his ears; his eyes did not seem to be able to keep up with the movement around him, gradually losing focus amongst the dampening fog.

And then he was borne away, the tides of power and the winds of magic taking him forth from the vaguely flickering tavern and its low-slung timbers. Through the starry night sky he sped, a breath upon the zephyr breeze, flying swiftly across the slumbering darkened lands below. The world sped him by as he lost all semblance of control over his rampaging soul, all semblance of sight amongst the hazy blur that surrounded him.

When he finally came to a stop, after what seemed like an instantaneous eternity of boundless flight, he did so with a sudden jolt that found him in the middle of a cavernous chamber of blackened stone. He had no idea where he was or why he was there, or even if the sensations that he was currently experiencing – the cool dewy nature of the air on his tongue, the faint scent of camellias in the room as the shadows danced playfully across the walls – were but a dream.

All he could make out was the face at the stone-hewn desk in front of him… the face of a young woman in her prime, skin of alabaster white and eyes of fiery coal-black, her fine dark hair trailing down the nape of her neck to grace her shoulders. She reciprocated his recognition, and her mouth widened in surprise.

He stuttered for breath, she began to utter a syllable…

“J’h…”

***

“Ingwe!”

A steel-clad boot to his shin brought him abruptly back to his senses, rousing him startled out of his trance-like reverie. With a resounding mental crash he returned to reality.

“… ka!” he gasped, the involuntary exclamation escaping his lungs like a long withheld sigh. He blinked once, owlishly, as his mind belatedly caught up with the fact that he was back in the Auld Hoose once more, surrounded by the low murmuring growl of conversation as the majority of the gathering settled down to a long evening of drink.

“What…” Selinde began, peering closely at the human’s forehead with a pretty frown crossing her elfin features. But somehow Ingwe retained the presence of mind to deflect her concern with an innocently disarming smile, even as he swatted discreetly at the cold beads of sweat that trickled down his face. What, indeed… were the thoughts summoned unbidden through his mind, but now was most certainly not the time to dwell on the whims of magic.

Turning upon his creaky wooden stool to face the wild – beast – elf, Ingwe tilted his head gently in greeting. How he even recognised what had been asked of him through the miasma of his mental sojourn was beyond his comprehension… yet another addition to the long list of arcane mysteries that had been bothering him recently.

“I have some small skill with the spell and the sword,” he admitted softly, almost hiding behind his spectacles at her scrutiny. “Enough to know that I should not stand around doing nothing when evil threatens innocent folk.”

Somewhere between his words Selinde smirked, and it was difficult to tell what exactly she had reacted to. He forged on regardless.

“I’ve also an aptitude for languages,” he explained further, his glasses glinting unintentionally. Furtively he pushed them back to their proper perch on the ridge of his nose before continuing. “Lord Arminas requested that I assist him in whatever capacity possible… mainly trying to smooth over the differences between, for example, your people and mine.”

He paused for a moment, glancing around the shadowy room. Despite it all, he hadn’t failed to notice the surly looks in Narida’s direction, and when he spoke again his voice was muted and sorrowful.

“I beg you, do not judge them harshly. Many still view even dwarves and high elves as mysterious beings… a people as exotic as yours is bound to attract attention.” Ingwe smiled ruefully. “Especially since your entrance was not exactly… circumspect.”

[thewriter]

Narida could not help but sigh and lean back in her chair. "My entrance was according to ritual," She began, loftily scratching the back of Neoku's neck. "See, Beast Elves rarely swear their fealty to any - it has only been done four times in our entire history. It is considered the highest compliment a man can receive when we bend the knee to serve. That is why the ritual makes us enter such theatrics. The throwing of the black enameled blade - which is normally obsidian, not enameled steel, but we had to make do - is the symbol of the coming threat. The entry of the one who intends to bend the knee with his or her finest sword symbolizes the hope of allies, and then the swearing and implanting the sword symbolizes that we will go with them to our graves if we must. I don't like it myself, but unfortunately, my father does not understand that people do not receive our ways and culture as easily out here."

Narida carefully noted that....that thing that overtook him for a brief moment. It was like he was in another world, talking to another person...a loved one perhaps? One can never know. "But as a scholar of languages, I can guarantee that if you ever try to learn our language - well, it's so simple, it's complicated. Only a handful can even comprehend us, even after learning the language simply because it's so cut down and the pronunciations are so close to one another, that they either have no idea what we're saying or mistranslates most of the time."

The beast elves outside were not being to disruptive, they knew people would be resting now, even though, being partially nocturnal, this hour is peak for them. You could hear some low, butter-toned drums and a few voices, but nothing of too much racket.

"They're scared," Narida observed. "This is the first time in a long time this many beast elves even thought of leaving the village areas."

She looked out the window to see one of them touching an anvil near the blacksmith's, in utter curiosity. The blacksmith came out, angry, and shoved them away. Dazed and confused, he whispered something to his friend, and walked away.

Narida's hands needed to do something. Sitting when she was not tired was not something she was used to or liked doing. they drummed on the side of her chair with a beat that only someone who had been an expert drummer could have conjured. It was quiet, but the wood had a plucky noise when her fingers tapped it, which added a certain charm to it.

"When is it we depart, Sir Ingwe? Where is it we go?" Narida asked him. She hoped her exotic accent did not make her words hard to understand - else she would have wasted many. "For if we are going to a big city next, then I request leave that my people will be able to sleep outside the city. If this small village peaks their curiosity, I'm not quite up to having to watch all three hundred of them like children to make sure they don't do anything considered socially rude in these parts."

Her ghost gray eyes wandered about the room now. It was so...different to what she was used to, and she had been living and exploring the outside world since she was in her fifties.

I never thought I'd see the day when elves and dwarfs would stand one another long enough to sit in the same tavern for an hour long.

[Flames of Hyperion]

“Not sir, just Ingwe,” he corrected with words hasty but gentle, blinking again in surprise. It was true, there was always a first time for everything, but for a youthful and insignificant Nipponese scholar to be labelled “Sir”… well, it wasn’t something that happened every day.

The bespectacled warrior-mage leaned forward across the table, folding his arms upon the heavy wood and resting his chin on his hands. Reflected fire twinkled deep within his warm brown eyes as they regarded Narida with honest sincerity. The muffled sounds and smells of the tavern seemed to wash over his hunched back like an indistinct wave, as if choosing to ignore the small haven of peace that was their table in the furthest corner of the Auld Hoose.

“I’m afraid I can’t guarantee anything," he sighed reluctantly, "for our next destination is a city under siege. We leave for Anebrilith in two day’s time.” Carefully he watched her reaction to the words, wondering if the journey might have been too soon for her liking. Hopefully she would not object. “We travel by sea… it should not take us a fortnight before we arrive at the front lines...”

Ingwe paused as a sudden thought struck, cutting off whatever else he was about to add. Pale skin flashed in the smouldering light as he abruptly raised his head and turned to Selinde, anxious concern glimmering in his eyes.

“What about the beast elves…?” he ventured hesitantly, brow furrowed. In the murk, he suddenly looked far older than his true age would have suggested. “Have we enough…”

His query trailed off into nothingness, watching Selinde’s lips purse as she too considered the matter. Certainly the inevitable conclusion was that an extra three hundred odd elves that Narida had brought to their cause would be a tight fit at best on the two undersized carracks they had hired. Part of him supposed that it was an extravagant worry, one signifying that the muster had been successful indeed. On the other hand, their efforts would mean very little if they could not transport the whole of their small army to where it was needed… to the shores of Anebrilith, high elven haven and a place of refuge for so many who sought to flee the tides of war.

“I’ll talk to Arminas about it tomorrow morn,” she replied at length, taking the trouble to keep her voice casual and reassuring. Her words were addressed as much to Narida as they were to Ingwe. “He would have thought about this contingency. I would not worry… it should not prove too much trouble to charter another ship or two.”

Especially since a large proportion of the merchant fleet lay idle in harbour due to the closure of the main Raiaeran ports, she didn’t have to add. Ingwe relaxed in turn as he saw the line of her reasoning, glad and relieved to have his own assumptions confirmed.

“In any case,” she continued, a sombre note entering into her young ringing voice. “I think that social indiscretions will be the least of your worries once in Anebrilith. Somehow I doubt that those who are still left within the city would care very much about such frivolities…”

Ingwe nodded in agreement, literally having had his next words plucked out of his mouth. Other men might have been slightly nonplussed by the ease at which the elf had done so; he, on the other hand, just wanted to reassure Narida that their mere presence would be more than enough to offset any of her perceived inadequacies of her people.

“If it’s gold ye be needin’, we’d be happy tae help,” a new voice intervened, gruff and stony as only a dwarf’s could be. It came from a cloaked figure just behind Narida, enshrouding hood lowered now that there was no need for furtive secrecy. If one happened to be glancing in exactly the right way at exactly the right time, a brief glimpse could be caught of dark armour beneath the folds of heavy goat wool, burnished meteoric iron of the highest quality emblazoned with a distinctively dwarven insignia – the head of a gryphon in profile, brilliant gold against the black gromril. This close, Ingwe could clearly make out the lines of wisdom on the elder dwarf’s forehead; he held himself with a bearing that more than made up for his lack of stature, boldly confident and proudly powerful. The venerable greybeard gave them all a stern once-over, before his stance softened into a more relaxed posture.

“Ah be owin’ ye all an apology, me’thinks. Especially ye,” he continued, nodding politely to Narida before indicating the dozen or so raucous dwarves behind him. Who, it seemed, were intent on getting drunk for the second time that night. “My lads are a young an’ beardless bunch… they don’t mean nae harm, but sometimes they act before they think.”

A paternal shake of his grizzled head for the vagaries and whims of youth.

“That there be Derthark Gunnson, son of Azaghan Gunn, High King of Gunnbad.” His gnarled stubby finger now pointed towards the dwarf that Ingwe had earlier marked out as a prince, tall winged helm and indiscreetly rune-encrusted axe marking him out from the midst of the throng. It then reversed direction as the greybeard thumbed towards himself. “And I be Telchar, known as Quakefist. As ye’ve probably guessed by now, I ‘advise’ this lot.”

He grinned, revealing broken yellowed teeth and wizened wrinkles in his face. From the length of his beard and the lines on his forehead, Ingwe estimated his age to be in the mid four hundreds… quite the age for a dwarf, and easily the oldest of those gathered at the table. He could see again that the usual reticence and stubbornness that characterised the mountain-folk had mellowed somewhat in this particular dwarf, and that he would prove a valuable conduit in the troubles to come.

“Ingwe Helyanwe,” he replied by way of introduction, rising from his chair before bowing low in respect. “This is Selinde Celebrindal, Ranger of the Eclipse…” – the young elf gave Telchar a distinctly cool look – “… and Narida Cestelle of the beast elves.”

A brief pause, just long enough to make sure that Selinde was not overplaying her prejudice. The swordswoman was young enough to have not yet overcome her race’s age-old antagonism towards the dwarves, and the last thing anybody needed at the moment was a bar brawl. Thankfully, for Ingwe at least, she seemed to be keeping her emotions well in check… and rarely enough for a dwarf, although not exactly surprisingly given what the Nipponese had already seen, Telchar seemed to have fully risen above his antipathy as well.

“On behalf of Lord Arminas, I thank you for your aid in this venture.”

[thewriter]

"Um...we're going to a high-elven haven?" She confirmed. Inwardly, this unsettled her. The high-born elves that spent their days locked up reading over different cultures would think her people barbarians, she knew it. But they would have to manage. "Don't worry about transporting us - give a tree for every five elves, and I guarantee, we'll sail with you in the two days. Our people on strong, and five rowing in a small boat can keep up with your ships with ease." Neoku yawned, and sat up from his small nap - the clatter of the tavern was not granting him sleep. Yet when he was sitting, his head was barely higher than Narida's. he grumped at her when he heard her talk of making boats.

"Oh wait, you wouldn't fit on one of those small boats..."she noted. "We'll have to find you and the other beast elves with large animals room in the ship then. So friend Ingwe, remember that every beast elf that you have now also has an animal companion that fights with you - I'd say forty percent are large animals like wolves, panthers, cougars, et cetera. they fight as well as any man, that's for sure. so if you count in all the companions that come with us, we made you six hundred strong not three hundred."

It was now that the dwarfen elder had approached her with the apology. "Think nothing of it - my people have never even seen dwarfs, so unlike the high born we do not hate them. You are welcome in the villages of my people, as are your youths. Though, I suggest that the youths let their beards grow longer than their egos, for the sake of keeping our people at peace." Neoku sat down and lowered his head to the dwarf, sniffing his beard with curiosity.

"Also, don't worry about Neoku - he won't hurt anyone lest I give the command. He has not seen many true born dwarfs in his eighty years, nor one with that long of a beard. You must be very wise, to go so many battles without losing it." She looked over the youths at the table. At this point they did not think more of her, but knew better than to voice it.

As most stubborn youths are, I suppose Narida quipped in her thoughts.

But it was then that he began introducing the prince of Dwarfs. She waited until he was done with introductions before saying, "He is prince of dwarfs, no? If that is true, then I have a duty to do. Had I known before, I would not have spoken so harshly." She did not wait nor excuse herself - it was not in her people's manner - but instead looked through her bag to find a circlet of black brambles, the sign of royalty of her people. She had many like it, and was required to carry it with her at all times, should this occur. Neoku stayed in the corner with the others, but took his attention from the dwarf to Narida, careful to watch those around her.

The Beast Elf princess felt the uneasy gazes as soon as she approached with the brambles. Yet she was used to it. Tonight seemed to be her night of theatrics and unwanted ceremonies, it would seem.

"M'lord prince," she began. "It is a tradition in our people that the circlet of brambles be offered from heir to heir - a sign of respect and friendship." She politely kneeled, keeping her head lower than his and offering the smooth ebony brambles. they were sharp and pointy at their tips, but otherwise had a comfortable feel. She stayed as she was quietly, and waited for the response. She knew this did not help her stature, but it was her people's way, and she was currently representing the three hundred of them outside. What choice was there?

[Flames of Hyperion]

Derthark Gunnson was a young dwarf. Fiery brown beard that barely reached past his waistline, a far cry from the ground-scraping grey magnificence that was Telchar’s; steely eyes the hue of ancient stone that truly marked him out as the son of his father, but as of yet lacking the hard-earned combination of resolve and determination that so characterised the High King. The rune axe he wielded and the winged helm he bore were but minor heirlooms of his family, powerful artefacts in their own right but nowhere near as mighty as the fabled goblin-hewer of Azaghan the Great.

For years the heir to the throne had laboured under the weight and expectation of his position. It had moulded him into an impetuous and almost reckless young dwarf, seeking glory wherever he could find it in a desperate attempt to prove himself to his father, and to the council of elders, led by his uncle the Runelord Gherlan, who had set him such high aspirations.

For years he had failed to match their lofty heights, despite his increasingly danger-fraught gambits.

And yet, for all his youth and rash action, Derthark was a true dwarf at heart. Stubborn, relentless… and honourable.

Thus it was, when Narida approached him with her circlet of black brambles, the outrageous amount of fine ale that he had already imbibed did not prevent him from remembering Telchar’s whispered words of earlier that eventful eve.

”Swallow your pride, young prince, and seek to remain friendly with these people. For without them, we have no road home… and with them, we may yet find that glory you seek.”

Derthark supposed, with a typically grumpy sigh, that they applied as equally to the dusky beast elf as they did to the poncy high elves and weakly manlings.

“Respect an’ friendship, eh?” he slurred through his drunken stupor, just about managing to keep his words coherent. A rank belch, and Derthark regarded the she-elf with perhaps just enough grudging esteem to qualify as amity. “I’ll rem’mber that, Narida o’ the beast elves.”

One ruddy calloused hand waved her up from her knees, whilst the other grasped the circlet, thorns and all, between his thick fingers. Despite the coarse brashness of the gesture the delicately interwoven brambles remained completely unharmed, for the hands of dwarves were the hands of craftsmen, even those of the High King’s firstborn son. Derthark spared a brief moment or two to admire the fine workmanship, primitive to his eyes as it seemed, before slipping the ebony coronet deep into the folds of his travelling bag.

“Now,” he continued with a little more authority this time. “In dwarven custom it is polite tae share a drink with a newfound friend, an’ a member of royalty deserves naethin’ less than tae drink with a fellow heir.” Derthark reached across the heavy oaken table for his personal cast-iron mug, intricately gilded with his royal insignia, and set it down with a frothing plunk in front of Narida. Note that it was foaming to the brim with the variety of dwarven ale known as Black Ore, an exceedingly thick and bitter brew that no elf, neither high nor dark, had ever managed to stomach in the entire millennia-long annals of dwarf-kind.

Note also that all dozen or so of his companion dwarves were suddenly exceedingly quiet, and that the looks that they now gave Narida were neither distrustful nor suspicious… but eager.

***

Ingwe watched this all from the safety of his stool, and he could not help but crack a smile of relief when the dwarven prince accepted Narida’s gift without incident. Alongside the young man, the venerable greybeard Telchar was almost as restrained in his reaction, although the proudly paternal grin that threatened to overwhelm his weathered features still seeped through in the set of his eyes.

“Well,” the Nipponese scholar remarked, taking a sip of his glass of water. He suddenly realised that his glasses had slipped down from their perch once again during the ordeal, and his gesture as he returned them to a more comfortable position was nothing short of thankful. It was a tad too late to catch himself from peering at Selinde over their rims, however, and he was rewarded with another light, mirthful giggle from the young elf.

“Whatever she says, open ocean is no place for a log boat,” the swordswoman declared once her laughter had subsided and general peace had returned once more to their corner of the tavern. “Beast elf or not, it’s a fair distance across open waters from here to Anebrilith, and if a storm springs up in the meantime…”

Ingwe nodded in agreement, diplomatically failing to notice that Telchar’s complexion paled ever-so-slightly at the mention of the naval hazards. Once a dwarf, always a dwarf, he noted to himself, slightly glad to realise that even the august elder was not quite fearless.

“As I said, I’ll talk to Arminas about it tomorrow,” Selinde continued. “Don’t worry about it, I’ll deal with it.”

“Thanks,” Ingwe murmured gentle gratitude in reply. Quietly, though, his mind was preoccupied with other matters now… first and foremost, the dreamy hallucination that had spirited him away from the Auld Hoose not so long ago.

What had it been? Why had it occurred? It was not his position to question the whims of the winds of magic, but he certainly did have a need to understand them given that he tended to label himself an apprentice mage. Were he not in polite company at the moment, he would probably have been scribbling away frantically in his tome, chewing nervously at a fingernail with an erosive frown on his forehead. At the moment, however, he was limited to the occasional musing; random conjectures and lines of thought the bred like weeds before his subconscious caught his conscious and sent it snapping back to reality.

Snap!

Such as now.

“… so tell me, Telchar Quakefist,” Selinde was saying, leaning backwards subtly in her chair so that the dwarf could see the fine mithril armour she was wearing beneath her camouflaging cloak. “Why are your dwarves so interested in aiding our cause? From what I have seen and heard, you would normally be content to hide away in your mountain halls, confident in your own safety and content to allow the rest of the world to deal with their own ills. What makes so imperative that now you come to our aid…?”

Ingwe shot her a warning glance, desperate to avoid any ill will between two of those that he considered his closest allies within the gathering army. But if she saw it, she certainly didn’t acknowledge it; her expression as she regarded the dwarf was youthfully innocent and perhaps genuinely naïve, but it really wasn’t so difficult to see why so many others regarded the high elves as conceited and arrogant.

To his eternal and hard-earned credit, Telchar remained silent until the end of her question, allowing her to finish before he responded.

“We dwarves have nae love for th’ undead, ranger,” he began, gruff and stern, patient if just about bordering on angry. “Our home lies beyond th’ Mountains of Dawn… the Mountains of Twilight in yer tongue. It would be folly for us tae attempt tae cross Raiaera unaided.”

“… but would it be that difficult to travel via Alerar, instead…?” Selinde pressed, and Ingwe this time almost literally jumped in to interrupt the conversation. Almost, until he realised that Telchar didn’t actually seem to mind the line of questioning so much. Merely the way in which Selinde had phrased her first query… and he realised, they seemed to know that the only way to cure her of her prejudice would be to show her otherwise.

“Let’s just say I hae a grudge against Xem’zund,” Telchar responded, and this time his voice rumbled quietly with the power of stone. Ingwe felt a shiver run down his spine at the words, spoken so softly and yet so meaningfully, for these things were never taken lightly in dwarven society. Never give a dwarf a grudge, it was said, for he would endeavour until the end of the world to redeem it. No matter the consequences.

Whether it was the manner of Telchar’s reply or Ingwe’s continued insistence upon tact that swayed her, Selinde seemed to be satisfied with the answer. She smiled, disarmingly, yet somewhat childishly knowingly.

“Thank you,” she whispered, and for the first time that evening, Ingwe caught a hint of something other than youthful ebullience behind her clear sky-blue eyes. It was quickly gone, a shake of her carefully braided tawny-golden hair erasing all trace of whatever emotion had lain there. But Telchar had not missed it either, and if anything his next words were even gruffer and brusquer.

“I suggest we disband for th’ night,” he grunted, short-spoken and husky. “It’s been difficult for us all, an’ th’ morrow will be even worse, if I’m nae mistaken. It’d be a guid thing tae get some sleep, while we still can.” With the creak of protesting wood beneath his boots and a slight grating of metal plates from within the folds of his cloak, the greybeard rose to his feet, and both Selinde and Ingwe followed suit.

“Until tomorrow, then,” Ingwe murmured in farewell, instinctively bowing his head a little. Selinde followed suit with a slightly more formal, “Tenna’ tul’re.”

Telchar nodded his leave, suddenly curt, before departing their table for the safety of his companions. The resounding stomps of his heavy tread on the wooden floor were enough to set a few nearby tables quaking in fear; the flames on the candlewicks and the embers smouldering in the fireplace fleeing from his heavyset presence. But inwardly the dwarf was smiling, pleased that the evening could not have gone better for his little band.

Selinde gave Ingwe a lingering clasp on the shoulder before aiming her footsteps towards the door, detouring only briefly to whisper a few words into the ear of her elder sister Nerdanel. The latter gave Ingwe a careful glance from behind her shadowy hood and mask, before nodding enigmatically; not that the young warrior-mage had the temerity to stand around and observe it, of course. Within moments, the front door of the Auld Hoose creaked open, allowing just a few strands of silky wan moonlight to filter through the gap, before a fleet-footed silhouette crossed the threshold and shut the timbers behind her.

As for Ingwe?

With one last glance around the gradually waning gathering, followed by a thankful nod to the accommodating barkeep – well, he had been well-paid in advance – and a protracted look at the pale floorboards illuminated by a glimpse of the stars through the stairwell window, he disappeared towards the upper floors. Bed waited, albeit preceded by a healthy dose of introspection and not a little planning for the morrow.

For it was going to be another long day ahead, and Ingwe would most certainly need his wits about him.

[thewriter]

Narida examined the ale - she knew it's make. She also knew that it was something most high elves couldn't handle before regurgitating with their arrogant buttocks sticking in the air. But the thing that caught her was the numerous stares from all the other dwarfs. She couldn't help but giggle. Their curiosity to her, was quite adorable.

"I accept this drink, and thank you for cooling my throat," she told the prince. With two small but hardy hands, she lifted it to her mouth and drank a small bit in, precarious to taste. The ale was very, very thick. So much so that she had to chew it. But she swished it around in her mouth, truly trying to get the taste of it, and swallowed it in one gulp. She sucked her tongue to the roof of her mouth a little bit, eyes looking at the table.

"Not bad," She said finally, after a long silence. "I must admit, not bad." Honestly, she hadn't had ale a day in her life, so she had no idea what standards entailed a good ale, but this didn't taste too far off from the Bitterleaf her people would eat now and then when their stomach hurt. Politely, she took another gulp this one a bit bigger. Some froth stuck to her upper lip, which she wiped off with the back of her hand. Narida hoped this meant she gained some respect - she did not like the idea of playing peacemaker everyday.

Neoku trod up and licked the back of her hand, curious as he too never had ale. but after the first one she pulled it away sharply. "If you have ale, the alcohol will sicken you!" She scolded him. "I need you strong, little brother. strong! Who else is going to carry me to battle?" The wolf groaned but sat down and did not try again.

It was now that Narida realized it was getting late. It was as if the Fates had read her mind, because the door opened and a much larger beast elf man stood in the doorway, with a much larger wolf beside him, even larger than Neoku. It was an albino, with pure white fur and beautiful red eyes. Neoku went up to the wolf that is his mother and licked her under the jaw, as most pups did to their mothers. She growled and shoved him back towards Narida.

"Ryah, inii hehkha meshki na!" Narida's father told her, saying it was time she went back to camp and slept.

"Papi, nii khasal rhemaa y'naliini," She replied, saying that she was to sleep on the inn tonight. The man seemed to sigh, but indicated to do as he commanded with sleep, and left. The wolf nodded to her and Neoku, and followed.

"Well, my good dwarfs," she began, rising. "Tomorrow I rise early to aid my people. I must sleep now. If anyone needs me, I shall be on the roof with Neoku. Good night, my good prince, may your ale be strong and your beard long." She didn't know where the last part came from, but it sounded like something that dwarfs would take as a compliment. With that said, she and Neoku proceeded to the upper stair well to find Ingwe.

"Good night Ingwe," she said, opening a hallway window that was big enough for her and Neoku to fit through with some roof below. "I request that you have someone who rises early call out this window in the morn' to wake me." Neoku slid out the window and landed softly so no patrons would wake, but Narida lingered to study Ingwe. The moonlight reflected across her golden skin, silver hair and gray eyes in almost an angelic feel. She was beautiful, that much could be granted, but the innocent expression lasted one second, before she jumped out the window to join Neoku. They tread softly up to the flat roof of the tavern, where Neoku curled up in a ball, leaving room enough for Narida to lean on his belly as a pillow, pulling out her own blanket and snuggling against her warm companion.

"Night Neoku," She told him, her eyes drooping. No doubts this would be the most hectic and worrisome time of her life. But none of that mattered now. Now was time to rest. Time to forget the raid, and let Gaia's wind rock her to sleep.

[Flames of Hyperion]

As he made his way up the stony staircase, a sudden shocked silence cut off the boisterously enthusiastic gathering below, a full stop misplaced in the middle of an action-packed sentence. There was no hostility in the air, though, only disbelief… and when he chanced a curious glance back towards the tavern, he wasn’t too surprised to see Narida making her way up after him.

He didn’t fail to notice the fey beauty cast about her shoulders as she stepped out into the moonlight, platinum hair wreathing her dusky skin in a seraphic halo. Still, he did not match her silvery gaze as it lingered, his eyes seeming to hide behind his oversized spectacles as they turned away to study a conveniently placed crack in the wall and a faint flush colouring his pale cheeks. The very way she held herself, the innocence in her look and the grace in her movements, it was all just slightly too familiar for the pain not to touch his heart.

“I will do so,” he murmured quietly in response to her request. In the night sky beyond her, a single shape took flight, wings spread wide to catch an updraft as it travelled to a window overhead. “Quel esta.”

Sleep well.

His midnight blue cloak swished lightly against the sandy stone as he turned away from the window, resuming his weary tread up the stairs. The intermittent lanterns set into the walls cast golden pools of light at his feet, but they were hardly enough to keep the darkness from swallowing him whole.

Yet there was one more surprise awaiting him when he finally arrived at the door to his room.

“Greetings, Ingwe Helyanwe,” a silky voice whispered from the shadows, the night parting to reveal a tall lithe figure shrouded – like so many others in the tavern, he wryly reminisced – in an all-encompassing dark cloak. “Elen sila lumenn omentilmo.”

A star shall shine on the hour of our meeting.

“Amin naa taulle,” Ingwe replied with a polite bow, trying to disguise the surprise in his tone and failing by an admittedly small margin. I am your servant.

“No,” came the rejoinder as the figure took one step forth and removed the hood from his shoulders, revealing intricately braided long hair almost radiant in its golden brilliance and youthful elfin features just entering their prime. “I am yours.”

Ingwe hesitated briefly, unsure of how to respond. His eyes remained wary and pensive as they studiously scrutinized his companion, picking out subtle clues as to the identity of the soft-spoken elf. Baby blue eyes with just a hint of arcane depth about them, the glimmer of silvery scales at his breast revealing the lightweight but durable armour worn by the swordmasters of Raiaera. A fiery red gem burned around his neck, glinting gently in the flickering candlelight and casting dramatic dappled shadows across the stonewalled hallway. A bladesinger then, Ingwe deduced, followed by a speculative, … but so far from home, at this time of need…?

“My name is Glorfindel Tinehtele,” the elf continued, reciprocating Ingwe’s inquisitive gaze and adding to it a lightly reserved smile. “I am, as you have probably deduced, a bladesinger of Anebrilith.”

Anebrilith! That one word was enough to ensure that Ingwe’s full attention was riveted to Glorfindel’s face.

“I was away from my home city when the undead legions struck, and I had no path home until Lord Arminas sent out his summons.” Ingwe noted the close examination the bladesinger was giving him throughout the explanation, and was careful to keep his expression neutral. “Now that I have wholeheartedly pledged my sword to Lord Arminas’ cause, I was certain that my understanding of Anebrilith and its surrounding areas would prove useful in the times to come.”

Glorfindel paused to allow his words to sink in, and Ingwe nodded slowly into the stealthy silence. It was true, the warrior-mage knew; as a wise man had once said, knowledge was power. On the other hand, there was one thing that bothered him…

“Why me?” he asked, purposely with all the bluntness that humans were renowned for amongst the eldar folk. “Why do you offer me this information, and not Lord Arminas…?”

An enigmatic smile, and an even more mysterious reply, leaving the Nipponese scholar completely confused in its wake.

“Because you would no doubt make best use of it.” Glorfindel replaced his hood and stepped back into the shadows, so that only his voice remained to haunt the hallway. “Quel esta, Ingwe… may your dreams be peaceful. We shall speak again tomorrow.”

By the time Ingwe had picked his jaw up from amongst the splinters on the floor, the elf had long since disappeared.

[Flames of Hyperion]

We leave tomorrow for Raiaera. I fear that this may perhaps be the last time I will be able to sit and write in this journal without the fear of war breathing down my neck.

I will not lie – I am scared. The sight of the ships being filled to the brim with supplies this morn would have ordinarily given me the confidence of a safe return, if I were not privy to the information that as soon as we reach Anebrilith they will be sent straight back to Scara Brae with as many women and children as can be loaded on board. In addition to the two carracks Lord Arminas originally hired, there is a new addition to our budding fleet – a large merchant galleon with more sails than I have spells. A truly magnificent sight, and one that will no doubt fill the hearts of those besieged by the undead with joy.

But I am not overwhelmed by this fear. As I sit beneath the leaves of the last living tree I may see for a long while, feeling a gentle fresh breeze upon my face and the coolness of loamy earth beneath my feet, I feel a sense of determination and purpose welling up within me. My power is little, but I will do what I can with it… the enemy is strong, but I will face it with all I have.

If the advice of the Dragon Hermit is to be heeded… and I still see no fault in his logic… then the best place to begin my search for Yuka would be in Istien. The High Loremasters of Raiaera may yet be able to answer my questions, or at least point me in the correct direction.

I still find it astounding that so many different people, with so many different motives, can find it in their common interest to band together against a single foe. In Lord Arminas I detect a cold fury at the desecration of his homeland and a sense of responsibility for the people he turned his back upon so long ago when he chose his path of exile. Telchar and Lord Derthark both maintain that they only wish to return home safely, but the former has admitted to a grudge against the necromancer, and the latter is clearly eager for glory. Lady Narida of the beast elves remains an enigmatic figure, for I have yet to ascertain her motives in the venture… although perhaps it is that, like so many of the men who follow us to Anebrilith, she and her people simply fight for fame… or glory… or survival… or a righteous cause…

The bard may have been correct when he said that men are not elves, and they do not fight for the same reasons. I can only hope that we do not lead them all to their doom.

Nay.

I will strive my utmost to ensure that we do not lead them to their doom.

And, perhaps when this is all over, I will still be alive… a little stronger, a little wiser, and a little closer to finding Yuka and the rest of my friends.

We sail on the dawn tide.


~ Entry in Ingwe's Book of Travels

Added in a hastily scribbled postscript was the following:

Am no closer to finding out the meaning behind the hallucination / dream of yesterday. All I can say is that it was too real to be just imagination... but too vague to work out any more about it. Part of me is still exuberant at seeing her, in any form... the other part hopes that this is not a bad omen. I'm not sure whether I want it to repeat itself or not.

In any case, I shall have to ponder it further.

[Skie and Avery]

Quest Judging
Legion of Light I: The Muster


STORY

Continuity ~ 5/10. This was great with Flames, but I'd like to see more work from thewriter and Edmund in the future. I have no idea what Edmund was doing at the tavern, or why thewriter was in Scara Brae or how she heard about the meeting at all. Either of them could have seen the flyers, yes, but I didn't know that.
Setting ~ 8/10. Great from Flames, but pretty much non-existant from Edmund. thewriter seemed to slack off in this department when she wasn't describing her character.
Pacing ~ 2/10. Twenty posts and they didn't even make it out of the tavern. I understand that this was to set things up, but it was long winded and excruciatingly boring. To just establish a plan and introduce each character, this should have been half the length.

CHARACTER

Dialogue ~ 7/10. A good job was done here, but there were posts here that I thought were really too much. Monologue after monologue and all that. Edmund, your posts tended to be mostly dialogue, which is really too much. They didn't give me much insight to your character anyway, except that he seems to try to manipulate people.
Action ~ 3/10. Here it is: people argue, get decided, bard speaks, people argue, get decided, wait, no, someone wants to argue, then unity abounds, elf chick shows up, people start to get mad again, wait a second, nope, we're cool. I kept reading, hoping something that would actually progress the story would happen, like maybe the old dwarf keeling over from lack of ale or something, but was horribly disappointed.
Persona ~ 5/10. Let's face it, I got nothing from Edmund. thewriter seems to like sticking to the cliche of "I'm so different and beautiful but I will kill you and I love animals!" theme that you see in so many RP women. There are ways to play the cliche that cleverly hides the fact that you are playing a cookie cutter character. I understand the throwing a dagger into a crowded room to say hello and giving people crowns of "comfortable" (haha) metal thorns is your character's racial tradition, but it seriously just screams of a big bag of crazy to me. Half the stuff you did didn't make sense. Having her never drink ale before but be able to down a couple of mouthfuls of strong dwarven brew? It doesn't work like that in real life, kid. My first experience with strong beer (my state has to sale weaker stuff by law) nearly floored me. Half the beer and I was tipsy. And that's just American pisswater. ^_~ Your character doesn't have to be the badass beauty queen. In fact, ignoring the facts and making her seemingly infallable and flawless is only going to make people give you less respect as a writer, and ridicule her as a character. Everyone has flaws. It's what gives us depth, and when characters have no dreams, fears, and especially flaws, they are just cardboard cutouts making noise in the background. Flames, you crafted distinct personalities and prejudices rather carefully, and I do believe that you saved your thread in this category.

WRITING STYLE

Technique ~ 6/10. The first two posts of this were masterful. I wasn't really sure at first about the switching back and forth between second and third person. I think I would have done it the other way around, having the very first thread in that second person and then going third the rest of the way. Going third, second, third was a bit distracting. I do love the way you write, even though you got a bit long winded at the end, with all the dialogue and sitting around and yadda yadda yadda after I already knew what the goal was. Edmund, I saw no technique at all. I notice your character has no experience, so I'm going to assume you are new to the world of role playing. When you're coming into a thread, the best thing to do is to try and harmonize with the thread's GM. I don't necessarily mean about post length, but if you see that they are describing little things, and they went into detail about describing your character, you should try and do the same. The best way to improve your writing is to write with someone more experienced than you, whose style you like, and try and emulate. After your first post, it was Flames who described your character to me, and it shouldn't be like that. From you and the writer, besides description I'd like to see more flair. Metaphor and personification are very powerful things in writing, and two of a plethora of techniques that I'd really like to see the two of you work into your writing. thewriter, I know you already use a few of these techniques, but if you could work on flowing them in more eloquently, I think it would improve your scores here greatly. Consider the following:

"The Salvarian guard slept under a mountain of blankets, trying to stay warm." It's mediocre at best. While everything is spelled correctly and it's clear, it's not necessarily good writing. Certainly not great writing. Now, with a little personification, shall we?

"The guard trembled under the ragged heap of blankets, as if he shook in fear from the freezing caress of the icy Salvarian winds." Now, isn't that a little better? Technique isn't just a spice, it's something that makes a great deal of difference between a thread that's good and one that's truly great.
Mechanics ~ 7/10. For the most part good. Only a couple of spelling and comma errors here and there. Good job.
Clarity ~ 6/10. There were a few times I had to reread, wondering what the crap happened, or sat there looking at the screen, going "Um...whyyyy???" More internal dialogue and insight would really help here.

MISCELLANEOUS

Wild Card ~ 4/10. I only hope that in the next chapter, they get out of Scara Brae. Really, if they actually get away from the tavern, I'll be happier.

TOTAL ~ 51/100.

Flames of Hyperion gains 1088 EXP and 245 GP
thewriter gains 326 EXP and 102 GP
Edmund Talbott gains 286 EXP and 82 GP

Note: While Edmund Talbott walked out with the dagger, it was lost shortly after, never to be found again. (While I know you didn't request this spoil, your ending post made me feel to make clear that you are not gaining this spoil.)

[Zook Murnig]

EXP/GP ADDED!