Starry Night [Open]

[Taelar]

A clear, starlit sky looked down on Taelar as he trudged down the road. The long day's travel had ground some of the spring out of his step, had hunched him over with the weight of his pack and supplies. But there was still a smile on his face, a lightness to his eyes as he glanced up at those stars. It was a sign of favor, he thought, even if the Lady might have had very little to do with the weather. A good omen. If it was traditional for the brooding hero to enter in the midst of a downpour, dripping and glowering, Taelar was just as glad to buck the trend of the tales he'd absorbed as a young thing.

Taelar could barely see the glimmer of Underwood's lights through the trees. Golden, glimmering, promising warmth and shelter – even if it was shelter smelling of humans and beasts. He wouldn't ever let onto it, of course, for it was the height of rudeness... but humans did have a collective scent. At the moment, though, Taelar wasn't sure he'd be bothered by it even if he was fresh off the boat from the elven homelands. The brisk, cold breeze coming down from the mountains had gnawed at his cheeks and stuffed his nose all day long. He swiped at his face with his bracer, chafing his skin a bit with the texture of the deerhide, and sniffed. Mgh. Irritating, but there would be warmth soon. And then...

Then, it would be hard to say. Taelar knew that there was work to be done, that there was a calling for him in this humble village. He just didn't know what. The Lady had not been very forthcoming in her vision, but the flashes of Underwood and its famed tavern were unmistakable. His destiny, for better or worse, lay here. And for his part, Taelar didn't mind. Concordia was a good forest, had strong roots, even if all manner of fiends and monsters were gnawing at—

“Halt.”

Taelar's breath froze. A reflexive clutch, a call to the Lady, and his sword glimmered in hand. It cast a faint light around, very faint, but enough for him to make out three cloaked and cowled shapes. Two of them crouched to the left of the path in a prepared position, bows nocked. Metal arrowheads gleamed dimly. The third stood in the middle of the path, brandishing a straight blade and wooden shield. Their armor and gear reflected little light – likely leather or hide.

All these details poured in at once, in a spike of war-spirit and stomach-clencing dread. Were they brigands? No... they didn't have the feel about them. It was taking a chance to leave himself open to them, but they could have shot first. A risk worth taking.

A heartbeat pounded in Taelar's ear. He raised his off-hand, and lowered the blade of the Lady so that the tip brushed gently against the dirt of the path. “I mean you no harm.”

“Remains to be seen,” growled the lead human. His stance didn't waver. “What's your name? What do you want in Underwood?”

And suddenly it made sense. These were Rangers. The civil war had been a dispute waged between human factions, and between those of the People who had involved themselves. He'd given it little thought... but Underwood was one of the last few bastions of resistance against the dominant faction. He licked his lips.

“Taelar Alrenhadil,” he spoke, careful to keep his tone quiet and even. How to put this... “I am here for...” Following the whims of a mysterious being who granted me magical powers that I was too weak to learn on my own? Oh, that would go over well. “For adventure,” he finished, offering a small smile. There, that was close enough to the truth. “And to make myself useful to those in need, both of elven blood and otherwise.”

He could feel the gaze of the lead ranger boring into him, as though weighing his words and his heart. Taelar met that gaze evenly, though he could see little of the man's eyes in the glinting silvery light. Another heartbeat passed, loud enough for Taelar to hear in the darkness. A third. Fourth. At last, the ranger in the path lowered the tip of his sword, and Taelar sensed the creak of bows as the two archers to the side relaxed their guard.

“Thanes know we need the help,” grunted the lead ranger. “And you seem nice enough, if wet enough behind the ears to use as a washrag for my boots.” Taelar grinned a little in response; he couldn't dispute that assessment. “Word to the wise, be careful travelling on the roads. You run into a pack of Radasanth's thugs, you'll get a lot less questions and a lot more stab-an'-loot. Shiny blade might not help you out much there.”

Taelar bowed his head and shoulders. “Thank you; I'll keep in mind. Is there anyone I should see to register, once I reach Underwood?”

The man barked a laugh. “Register. I wish. Adventurers come and go, no accounting 'em. Still... you said you were looking to help?” At Taelar's nod, he continued. “See the duty sergeant in the barracks. Doubt a stripling like you would be much use in a real battle, but things have been hard lately. All sorts of things that someone looking for... 'adventure'... might find to liking.”

“Then I once more thank you for your help.” Taelar sketched a light salute with his blade, then released it in a glimmer of silvery motes that drifted to the ground and were lost. “I'll take no more of your time.”

“Sure thing, kid.” The ranger stepped to the side of the path, next to the pair of silent archers. “And welcome to Underwood.”

–

The warmth and life of the tavern drove away the chill from the long hike, banished the aches, as though they had happened in another world. Taelar had experienced enough travel to know that it was a pleasant illusion at best; he'd feel every twinge and stiffness come morning. For the moment, though, it was a welcome respite. He strode over to the common room's fireplace and unfastened his pack, slinging it down to rest against the back of a chair, before he took a seat. The cushions were a little threadbare from the comings and goings of a thousand bottoms, but nothing poked or struck, and they supported him well enough. He leaned back, reveling in the warm glow of the dancing flames.

Some tavern server or other would approach in a moment, he was sure, but for the time being he just savored the warmth. Reaching Underwood in one piece, with all his blood inside instead of out, was cause for a bit of levity.

Now... the hard part would begin.

[Wynken]

Occupying his typical seat, nestled into the far back corner of the Promenade, Wynken sat with his back to the wall and his eyes to the door. A thick haze lingered before his cowled face as he took a drag from the smoking parchment paper which encased a foul blend of herbs. His other hand gently caressed a goblet of the establishment’s finest red wine. He sipped it slowly, and between puffs of smoke, as though he had been sentenced to the executioner’s table and could delay his eventuality through prolonged enjoyment of his final accommodations.

He had always been partial to Underwood. The bustle of connecting trade routes, the simple locals, and the community’s uncanny allure to adventurers of every ilk were fine ingredients in a recipe for entertainment. Though his business had been in Radasanth, Wynken would pass through the forest town whenever he could afford the diversion. As it often turned out, the diversion more than paid for itself, and, each trip, Wynken had been pleasantly surprised at the amount of information his simple observation could yield. In fact, his last visit had facilitated his current dealings in Radasanth, and his current employ with an Aleraren militant.

Taking the final puff from his cigarette and the last sip from his glass, Wynken casually placed his hands behind his head and leaned back upon the rear legs of his oaken chair. Under the shadow of his cloak, his stoic gray eyes surveyed the room. Nothing caught his attention but the night was young.

[Taelar]

Surely enough, there was soon a voice at his shoulder. Young, female. "G'd evening, sir. Can I get you anything?"

Taelar looked up from the dancing mesmerism of the flames, a smile already creasing his lips before he'd even laid eyes on the serving girl. Youngish, perhaps fifteen or sixteen, and otherwise a plain if attractive specimen of humanity. She averted her eyes shyly -- if it was a ploy to get a greater tip or a true hint of something else, Taelar cared not. He was here for other things. "Yes, please," he replied, keeping his voice quiet though still audible over the room's muted chatter and the grating of utensils and mugs. "A bottle of wine -- it can be cheap, just so long as it contains grapes in some fashion -- and a glass. Oh, and if you could bring me some scratchwork paper and a stick of charcoal I'd appreciate it."

He sensed the server's puzzlement. Her mouth began to open, but then quickly closed as he forked over a trio of gold coins.

"Keep the change. Burden over the roads is heavy enough without a lot of spare copper." Taelar flashed the young woman a grin.

"Yessir!" she promptly replied, eyes bright, and moved off with a quick step. The coins had disappeared into her apron as though by magic. He'd probably overpaid by twice or so ... possibly a little less given how scarce supply was likely to be out here, but an appreciative soul for a crown or two was a bargain in Taelar's book. Besides, his chance of missing the extra was slim in the extreme.

The elf had a moment to scan the crowd of the tavern as he waited. No one really stood out to him as trouble or potential, though they were all strangers as far as he was concerned. Not a surprise to find no one from home -- the elves would be loath to flee from one war into the middle of another.

Satisfied, Taelar turned back to the fire. After a moment's thought, he tugged the rickety wooden end-table between the two fireplace chairs a bit closer to the left side of his seat. The unfinished legs scraped a bit on the tavern's stone floor. He had some figuring to do, and charcoal without a flat surface was nothing but frustration.

[Wynken]

By and large, the Promenade was a peaceful place to have a drink. It was cozy and well kempt. The setting was pleasant, both within and without, and the locals were mostly hard working people. Like other taverns though, it saw its share of the typical riffraff. Seedy characters making shady deals, or passing, like Wynken, on their way to the city of Radasanth. Those were the individuals of whom Wynken took particular notice. Listening for sensitive details and watching for the covert transfer of goods, the man continued to examine the room from his strategic far corner.

The place was atypically calm that night. Not empty, or even at a lack for prospects, for the room was all but full. However, those who had gathered seemed content to merely be warmed by the fire, and the comforting atmosphere, as they solemnly enjoyed their escape from the coming winter. Wynken had determined by the worn looks and jovial banter that they were, for the most part, honest people. As he made his assessment, Wynken thought to wait just a little while longer before retiring for the evening.

‘One more smoke and another glass of wine’, he thought as he casually got the attention of a passing barmaid. She fussed behind the counter a moment before disappearing into the cellar to fetch another bottle of the imported Raiaeran red. Wynken lit his parchment, and, before the woman could return, a gruff man burst loudly in to the double doors of the tranquil inn.

He was a tall fellow, and built like an ox. Thick scraps of leathered hide formed the man’s vest and pants, and the furs of several different forest species completed and adorned his ensemble. His long hair was matted to his face and the thick beard which hung to the center of his chest was similarly wet. He stared into a room of curious onlookers, started as if to speak, and promptly fell face first upon the wooden floorboards.

[Resator O'Caariel]

Smoke – it hung so thickly in the air that Reese could taste it, the ephemeral haze within the hovel creating a true miasma. It smelt of foreign herbs and dung, burning his eyes, causing them to water; and combined with the disturbing lack of light within the dirty living-hole it was absolutely impossible for the young knight to see, much less breathe. Being in a strange place without any means of garnering one’s bearing was foolhardy, but if the rumors were true then Resator had to risk the danger. He had spent the past two months searching this woman out – this witch – and minor inconveniences would not deter him. Attempting to speak, the acrid cloud immediately dried his throat (and thus his words), causing nothing more than a croak and a cough to escape his lips.

“Desperate, desperate, Valiant Heart, to have borne your self to where you art,” came the hag’s words, at once dissonant and melodic. The decrepit woman’s voice shuddered, and Resator wasn’t able to tell whether it was a cough or a chuckle.

“You are the Witch, then?” he queried, his voice unsure and his question reflecting that uncertainty. Reese had wandered the entirety of the Bold Reaches, from Hammerfeld to Crane Hold, from ocean to ocean, and had found no truth in any rumor or tale of magic. Now, standing in this filthy home, he wondered if this search had been for naught – or worse, that his desperation (for the woman’s words rang true) had driven him to a place that would be his end.

“Master of Spirits, that we are – to find us, you have traveled far,” she replied, this time her voice emanating from a wholly different direction. Reese couldn’t see where the old woman was, the smoke too thick and the light too dim to differentiate between so much as ceiling and floor. Regardless, he steeled his resolve and pressed the question:

“Madam, I come to you seeking magic. I am told that you are able –“

“To reverse the spindle, turn back the day, allow you to save your fiancée?” she mocked him, both in song and in knowledge. The taunt barely hindered the strong-hearted knight.

“Yes,” he simply stated, the volume of his voice dropped to little more than a whisper. Resator wiped sweat-drenched hair from his face, smearing some of the hovel’s filth across his cheek. He hadn’t bathed in weeks, and a mixture of blood, dirt, and rain had turned his auburn hair nearly black. The youth appeared beaten in all manner of ways, save for the bright-burning flame of determination in his eyes – and even that sight was hindered by the witch’s smoky brew.

This was his quest. No, that was a lie – this was his life. He had sacrificed everything: rank, station, wealth, all of it gone, spent chasing a miracle. He had to, though. He had made a promise to the one he loved most to never allow harm to come to her, to always protect her. Reese would be damned if he didn’t spend every resource he had trying to find a way to bring his Liliana back.

“This world has not the magic you seek,” croaked the witch’s sing-song voice, definitive in its tone.

Resator had nothing to say. He had tried everything, ventured everywhere, sought out every myth and legend. Not a shred of the Old Tales had been true – magic did not exist in his world. Miracles did not happen. There were no blessings to be found. No, in the young knight’s world there were only curses.

“… But if you wish to turn back time, then perhaps you should venture into mine.”

The Knight-Errant’s brow knitted, confusion and frustration blatant upon his haggard features. His patience, while great, had begun to wear thin; and this hag’s cryptic words were simply wearing upon said virtue even further.

“Yours? Your what, witch?” responded Reese, his voice gruff, anger emanating from each syllable.

“My world,” she hissed, trailing off into a near maniacal cackle, the laughter seeming to come from every corner of the visibly-empty hovel at once. The devilish cacophony increased in volume, pounding at the knight’s brain, pummeling his mind. He reeled, attempting to cover his ears only to find the witch’s voice within his head, laughing louder and louder. Unable to bear the sensation, Resator was overwhelmed, falling to his knees – falling into darkness.


----------X----------

Reese awoke with a start, the bed beneath him moaning in protest as his weight rocked it upon its aged frame. He lashed out, attempting to find something on which to steady himself, his balance somehow unable to be maintained within the crevice of the sunken mattress. A moment later he had a grip upon the nearby end table, the reality of the surrounding room dawning on him one sense at a time.

The smoke was gone, now replaced by the smell of stale ale and roasted meat. Muted voices – something akin to a dozen people, it seemed, all speaking at once – came from somewhere below his feet. Faint music, possibly a lyre, was broken by the sound of clattering dishes and clinking mugs. He could breath, now, and with great comfort; but more impacting than anything was the fact that Reese could now see – and what he saw.

No longer was the crusader within the witch’s hovel. No, now he was in the room of an inn – and one did he not recognize. How had he gotten here? Had the witch hexed him? Or had his entire quest been an elaborate nightmare, an eternity captured within a few hours of sleep?

Reese looked himself over, noting the fact that he was no longer covered in the filth and wear of his travels. His tunic was clean, without unnecessary wrinkling, and his family standard was still as pristinely white as ever. Even his armor gleamed, polished to perfection, just as he’d always kept it before…

“Wait,” he stated aloud, thought giving way to vocalization without any intention. If this had been a dream, could she be alive? Could Liliana be waiting for him?

By virtue of pure reflex did the knight grab his sword, leaping from the mattress and bolting out of the nearby door. Bursting into the unfamiliar hallway, Reese took a moment to orient himself, quickly pacing towards the downward stairwell; his quick step soon turning into a jog, hope forcing him to run. Down the stairs he bound, exploding into the inn’s main floor – and right into the path of a hulking savage.

It didn’t even take a true moment’s thought for Resator to realize the danger inherent in such a situation. There was a behemoth of a man in the doorway, clothed only in furs, a wild, glazed-over look in his eye. Not three feet before him was a young waif of a server, caught unawares by the sight of the barbarian in the same way a doe is stunned by lantern light. Reese knew he didn’t have time to draw his weapon, much less use it; and truth be told he had the gut feeling that drawing his weapon would put the lass in even greater danger. As such, he did the only thing he could do.

“Madam!” came the shout, Resator lunging forward to snag the girl by the waist, jerking her out of the way with a pivot of his hips. He had barely enough time to dodge the mammoth warrior as he fell forward, flat on his face – which, coincidentally, was the last thing Reese expected him to do.

Reese glanced over his pauldron at the fallen savage, ensuring he was no longer a threat before looking at the lass he’d grabbed. Her cheeks were ruddy, most likely a combination of embarrassment and fear comingling to redden her complexion. She averted her large brown eyes, fussing over her apron and attempting to brush the wheat-colored hair from her freckled face.

“Miss,” he spoke, reaching out to steady the girl, “Are you alright? I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Err, yes – yes, I’m fine, thank you,” came the hurried response as the lass turned and sped off for the kitchen, leaving Reese even more confused than he had been in the room upstairs. He turned about, kneeling beside the fellow who’d somehow found his face within the inn and his boots without. The knight unbuckled his right gauntlet, tugging it free of his hand; subsequently moving to place two fingers against the man’s throat, just below his jaw.

“He’s alive,” plainly stated Reese, standing and donning his glove once more. Only now did he turn to look at the rest of the inn’s patrons. Inwardly, he was more concerned with where he was and whether or not Liliana was safe. But for now, his duty as a knight required him to face the present situation with his full attention. That being so, he collected himself, waiting for a local of some kind to step forward and explain what had transpired.

[Taelar]

Taelar didn't look over at the opening of the door. He barely noticed, lost as he was in thought and contemplation, and his chair was facing the fire. Drowsiness stole over him briefly, an unfamiliar feeling for the young elf. He was losing focus, and no surprise; it had been a long and grueling day. Still, the armchair cradled him comfortably, the dancing flames warmed his bones, and there was little reason to rise or stir at the moment. His wine should be arriving at any--

“Madam!” A shout, from behind him. The note of worry pricked at the back of Taelar's neck.

He spun in his chair just enough to see the a hulking figure in the doorway sway once, then gracelessly meet the floor. Thwunk. Details crashed in a moment later – another human, nearby, armored. He'd swept up a nearby serving-maid, which Taelar recognized with a start as the one who had come to his chair. And the collapsed man himself – he gave the impression of a great bear, and even prone his form dominated the entryway of the inn. He lay unmoving.

The elf froze, wracked by a moment's indecision. This stranger was no matter of his. Nor, technically, was the serving-girl, and she had already been made safe. In fact, her rescuer was even now speaking to her – the words didn't carry, but the tone did, and Taelar relaxed a fraction. No danger there. He could simply turn back around, wait a bit longer for the wine and paper, and let the locals sort out their own mess...

...and by so doing, prove true the slurs and snarls of those who gloried to see Raiaera brought low. The elves were deatched, they whispered. Arrogant. Stuck-up sons of bitches, who wouldn't lift a finger to help unless it was for someone with pointy ears.

He'd put the lie to their words.

Taelar sprang lightly from the chair. Tired muscles voiced their protests, but he ignored them for the time being. Three strides carried him over to the site of the commotion, but the armored man – knight? – was closer still, and knelt to check the man's pulse. For a moment, Taelar was taken aback by the sheer volume of facial hair that comprised that bushy, damp beard.

“He's alive,” the knight announced to the room as Taelar knelt in turn. And it was the truth; he could see the rise and fall of that great chest, however labored and slow. It was slow, and far too weak... what could have—

Aha.

...Feth.

Taelar reached over to pluck something dark and slender from the small of the unconscious man's back. The elf's skin crawled up and down as his hand closed around it, igniting his suspicions. He gradually opened his hand, only now realizing the risk he'd taken – but no, there it was, and his own skin was unbroken. Resting in his palm was a razor-tipped dart, forged of blackened metal and smeared across the tip with blood... and something else, sickly and translucent. Taelar shuddered. If the poison matched the artistry of the dart, it would have slain the hulking man by now if it had been meant to do so. A sleeping or disabling draught, then, of the sort sometimes used by slavers and stalkers.

Aleran. The craft of the dark cousins, unless he missed his guess.

A cold draft from the door swept up and through the doorway, sending a chill down Taelar's back. The doorway! The door still stood open, baring them all to whatever stalker of the night had thrown the dart. Unreasoning fear rose in Taelar's chest for a moment – but he resisted the urge to spring back out of the way, and kept his voice calm as he looked across the fallen man to the human knight.

“Help me get him out of the doorway, and close the door. Swiftly. There may still be danger.” He hesitated, then added with lowered voice, “But do not rush too obviously, if you can help it. Panic would be bad.” Even as Taelar spoke, he realized his words were a bit contradictory and might have had the tone of command, so he flashed the human a quick, apologetic smile.

Taelar rolled the dart aside, back towards the chair. Far enough that it was out of the way, he thought, and would draw little attention from the patrons of the inn that were slowly returning to normal conversation. He'd claim it in a moment, but they needed to get the door closed now. Even as Taelar put his slender frame into pushing the man clear of the threshold, grunting slightly with the effort, the dart lay off to the side, an exquisite work of metalcraft and the poisoner's art.

[Wynken]

Quickly the silence filled with the hushed and rumored whispers of the bar’s attendees. The spectacle was over, the fear of immediate danger passed, and so they turned from the door and shamefully resumed their evening. A noticeable tension overwhelmed the forced conversations, and it stifled the innocent clink and clatter of dinnerware which had previously resounded gaily within the cozy space.

‘It is easier to ignore the problems of others’, Wynken noted with a smirk while looking over the room. ‘Still not entirely possible for these, the soft-hearted, but more handily justifiable.’

Two out of more than a dozen individuals had inconvenienced themselves to tend the fallen hunter. The remainder labored to simply ignore the situation which was just now playing out little more than a polearm’s length away. Wynken rocked gracefully forward upon his chair and chuckled inwardly at the guilty expressions of those around him. He cared none at all of the bearded man’s fate, but he had vision enough to recognize opportunity when it presented itself. With a final puff he extinguished his smoke upon the wooden tabletop before rising to his feet.

‘The fools’, Wynken thought as he observed the men struggling to shut the door. ‘Who poisons a man in the middle of a crowded tavern? By his size, I’d say the beast likely walked, half dazed, from the forest border before finally being overcome.’ He slowly walked to the front of the tavern, remaining out of the way and keeping his profile low. ‘As if that door were the only portal between the assailant and his prey anyhow’, Wynken continued his mental assessment of the situation.

Still, he wanted a closer look at that barb.

However, and as surely as he stood there, Wynken caught site of a shadowy figure in the darkness just beyond the light which issued from the open doors of the Promenade.

'I'll be damned', he thought, quickening his pace to a sprint. In a fluid motion, he bent to scoop up the dart as he skittered past the fussing trio in the doorway. Looking over his shoulder, Wynken called back to the astonished gentlemen, "Quickly, the assailant flees". Then he turned and vanished into the night.