With Eyes Wide Shut

[Restless Soul]

((Solo))

The light drizzle of gentle rain was a reminder, finally, that the seasons were changing. Although very cold, it was refreshing. Winters grasp was letting up, fingers being pried from their hold on the lands of Scara Brae. It had lasted a month longer and started almost a month sooner than Amras had ever remembered; the bitter months that it had lasted were the worst he had endured in life. It was all coming to an end though, and he was never so happy. It was a change, he hoped, not only to bring the warmth and vivacity of spring but a new start to his life.

Tipping back his hood, the young elf lifted his throbbing head towards the gray sky. Sweet buds of heaven sent peace tapped against his battered face, his bruised eye and cut lip stinging. Smiling hurt, the rain hurt, his head hurt, but he placed his mind at ease. Running into a group of wandering Underhanders from Uthia was coincidence, especially so early in the morning on the streets of Olme. It was his city. Amras was the leader of the Bastards, a small gang of mostly elven kids who banded together to cause trouble – seeking something to do more than anything. The Underhanders were their rivals from the sister city, a human gang who hated the Bastards as much because of similar goals as much as because of their elven members. Bigotry was an eternally starving wolf, always hungry and hunting for prey, looking for a fight.

“So stupid,” Amras whispered to the wind. He inhaled a deep breath. Sharp pain shot through his hands every time he clenched and unclenched his fists. Three against one was unfair, but he had given as good as he had gotten. Luckily, the Underhanders leader Chezear was only with his little brother and another younger member of the Uthia gang. Tossing aside two children was easy, even when they used makeshift clubs, but Chezear’s silver rings cut as easily as they bashed. “I know I’m going to be blamed for this one too.”

He pulled his hood over his head, listening to the taps of rain against the cloth. The sun was already rising on the edge of the horizon, lighting the small town. A rainbow stretched across the sky, but the striking symbol of peace went unnoticed as Amras shuffled through the street. His booted feet found muddy puddles, his muscles tensing and sore from his early morning beating. As he walked the streets of Olme he lingered on thoughts of revenge against Chezear. Why was he in Olme? Amras assumed to either stir up some trouble or to visit his extended family. His aunt and Locien, the young elf’s father, would undoubtedly have words as always and it would come to a lecture for Amras.

“The day’s just begun, and it’s already a pain.” He shrugged his shoulders forward and continued walking the soaked, packed-dirt streets. Thoughts about leaving the sleepy logging town came to mind as he walked, not for the first time. With a swollen lip, bruised knuckles, and a split lip just another page to his life in Olme; Amras let the thoughts come to him and dwelled on them. “Anything is better than living this monotonous life.”

[Restless Soul]

Three hours of sleep, it was all the elf could afford to get before his door slammed open. He jumped out of his bed, his feet slamming flatly on the cold wooden floors. In nothing but his underpants, Amras was confronted with a furious father. Locien’s dull eyes were mere slits, his face a flustered crimson, and his hair a mess. Instead of words he showed his anger by launching his helmet at the ground, as if an unspoken snarky response to his father’s entrance was already on Amras’ face. Quite the opposite, he was startled and his eyes wide open despite the sleep that lingered in them. “Long night?”

“You think this is a joke!” Locien stormed into the room and was face to face with his son in a split second. Eye to eye the two stood for moments, Amras trying to arch his back away from his father without taking a step away. Amras, despite the situation, could only concentrate on the unimportant aspects of the not-totally-unexpected confrontation. The smell of oiled leather filled his nose, a scent that told him his dad had only been halfway through cleaning and maintaining his armor. He had not bathed before entering either, Locien still smelled like dirt and sweat despite the fact that he was soaked through from the rain. Perhaps it had been a long night, but it was not trouble with the watch that had caused the interruption. Amras let his eyes fall away as soon as he realized he was staring his father down, accidentally causing ire to build and teeth grind. “Chezear’s aunt came to visit me this morning, at the end of my first shift. She had the damnedest story to tell me about how her nephew was assaulted on his way to visit her this morning, by none other than my own child!”

His sword was missing; maybe he had left it at the guard house? Surely if he had waited till his sons room to take off his helmet he hadn’t taken the time to stop and disarm himself before coming too. Or maybe he had, just so the off-chance thought of drawing it and killing his useless son did not come to pass. Amras shook his head, trying to clear it of the stupid thoughts that came to mind. He let his lips purse and tense, trying to clench his teeth so an unnecessary retort would not be loosed. It was a futile effort. “Chezear jumped me,” he muttered under his breath. He lifted a single hand to his face and rubbed it against his swollen eye. “I was just defending myself.”

“Chezear isn’t the one she complained about, not directly. She said you had the audacity to strike his little brother and young friend. Children, not even in their teens.” Locien huffed and stepped away. He turned his back on his son, slowly stepping towards the door. As he reached it he faced his son again. “Children Amras, little kids. I don’t know what happened between you and Chezear in the past, but your silly games and this tiresome Bastards group of kids you are part of has gone too far. I’m the Sergeant-at-Arms of Olme; I’m second in charge of the entire towns Watch and militia; a bloody Lieutenant! How am I supposed to take news of my son fighting small children and citizens of Uthia?”

He sighed, his tone worn and tired. “Perhaps it’s my fault, maybe I raised you wrong. I don’t want to hear your excuses; I’m tired of your old complaints about those Uthia boys and your reasons for whatever stupid actions you take. I want you to do chores around the house, all day. You are not to leave.” Amras began to protest. Being stuck in the house all day was as bad a punishment as public flogging. “I don’t want to hear it! I have to go back to the watch house, a double shift that will keep me all day. Your mother will be home around noon to deal with you.”

Locien scooped up his helmet and slammed the door behind him, leaving Amras in a flurry. The young elf dropped to his bed, shaking his head and furious. He was near tears at how angry he was. Responses came to his thoughts as soon as the door was closed, wrath and disgust fueling him. He wanted to yell at his father, scream that he was being an ass and never took his side, never understood what he had to deal with. He wanted to make his father be able to relate to his situation.

The Bastards were not just a group of kids playing games. It was life or death at times when they fought the Underhanders of Uthia, and Chezear was the leader of the sister cities little gang. They were fighting a war against bigotry, against hate. Boys will be boys, as he had heard many times, but it was not just a matter of teenage angst causing friction. It was deeper. Amras may have been only nineteen, but he understood full well that it wasn’t the children that were the problem. It went deeper, came way before. The city of Uthia was populated densely by humans, humans who did not like that the twin city of Olme was populated by upstanding and useful elves. Bastards and Underhanders were as different as their parents, as the towns themselves, and the fights were more than just young squabbles expressing the racism that was extended from Uthia.

[Restless Soul]

Amras wanted to punch the wall, but restrained himself. Bruised knuckles never won the fight against stone in the end; it would just be punishing himself. Instead he threw his pillow across the room. The feather filled projectile hit his dresser and sent his daggers tumbling to the ground. He looked up and saw his reflection in the mirror. Puffy-eyed and full of tears, his eyes looked as bad as they felt. The cut on his lip was raised and starting to scab already, but when he let his tongue slide across the wound he still tasted the blood. How could his dad, the one he was supposed to look up to and was supposed to protect his family turn his back when Amras looked the way he did. The young man couldn’t figure it out. He could not fathom how Locien could be within inches of the battered face and feel nothing.

“Blast it all!” He yelled, sure by that point that his father had left the house and would not be within earshot of his anger. As the adrenaline wore off he felt tired, but was far too furious to lay his head back down and just fall asleep. He tried anyway. The pillow was across the room, but he had perfectly good arms to lie on. “Who needs a pillow anyway?” His arms and a ground to lie on were enough. Leaving home would not be such a hassle, it was not as terrible an idea as everyone made it seem. “I don’t need this abuse. I could be making a living, off on my own, doing whatever I want to and not having to have my father bashing in my door.”

He lied fitfully on his bed an hour, staring at the sloped ceiling. He had a sword, a couple daggers, his bow and a full complement of arrows. He had been trained how to use them very well. A sell-sword could make some money; he had seen quite a few pass through the town. They always seemed happy, with a woman under arm and ale in hand. They tossed coins to bar-keeps like rice at a wedding. Amras could do that, he was sure of it. It would be the good life, the kind of life that would mean no responsibilities and especially no authority figure screaming at him. On the training grounds he had bested all his friends, even out-shown a couple of the militia and watch recruits. With what his father and mother had taught him – ”no”, he thought, “what I learned on my own” – he could make something of himself.

If being a wandering mercenary did not work out – “and how couldn’t it, plenty of fights going on around the world and places to explore” – he knew he had a fall-back plan. His hands were quick and his fingers dexterous. Cutting purses and unlocking doors was as easy as picking flowers; flowers that gifted him with a shower of coins. The Bastards were getting better at stealing, and Amras was the reason. He taught his friends what he learned, and those skills he learned all his own. Locien and Miriel had no hand in their son’s thieving skills, did not even know he was good at it – ”not that they care to know what I’m good at anyway”. Scara Brae was a big city, the only real big city on the island it was named after. He had heard rumors about the Scara Scourge, he knew about the way to get into the group and the rituals that were necessary. How hard could it be?

Amras tossed his blankets aside and stood up. He walked to the mirror and stared at himself for a long time before he pushed his thoughts aside. The dirty and torn clothes from the morning were pushed into a corner, half-hidden they were in good company with the other dirty clothes he did not feel like deal with. Instead he grabbed a short sleeved white shirt and pair of gray pants. After blousing his trousers into his boots he tied them and tightened the leather straps, tucking his iron dagger on the outside of his right boot. He tossed on a dark gray sweater and put on the hood while he strapped his studded leather vest over it. The grays of his pants and sweater mingled with the splotchy gray and black jerkin, with the dark iron studs and hood up he looked the part of a thief perfectly. His gloves and weapons he left on the dresser, if he wasn’t leaving the house he didn’t need them. He stepped back, fully dressed, and admired his strikingly roguish appearance. If he did not fit the part of dashing thief perfectly, he was at the very least dressed well enough to pass.

[Restless Soul]

“Where are you going?” A snide comment spat by a shrewd watchdog.

“What do you care?”

“Dad said –“ Amras raised his hand and shook his head. His reflection told him everything he needed to know. He took a step to his side and it showed the vile creature that slunk at his door. Rodiel was waiting for him to turn around, her piercing eyes glaring at him as a reflection in the mirror. As if not turning around to talk to her face was some grand travesty she crossed her arms and narrowed her almost black eyes. Behind her, looking over her shoulder, was Rodwen with as much curiosity as Rodiel bore rage – ”sisters are bad enough, twins are going to be my death”. “Don’t you raise your hand like your some noble lord stilling his unruly servants tongue.”

The elven boy almost laughed at how melodramatic his sister’s tone was. Even for her, it was over-the-top, a turn for the worse. Obviously she had been awake when their dad had come home to scold him, heard the argument, and undoubtedly was waiting till he came back home to tell him of Amras’ outburst afterwards. It was her nature, anything to make her older brothers life a special realm of torture. Sometimes he wondered if his mother had indeed bore both children, or if they had happened to be born on the same day… Rodwen from his mother, Rodiel a special spiteful gift from N’jal. “So? Where do you think you’re going? Dad was furious and I heard what he said, you aren’t supposed to leave the house.”

Amras turned around and left his reflection, hoping that his face would stop swelling so much but not before his mother had a chance to look at it. Miriel was a Ranger of Brokenthorn, a hard woman when it came to discipline, but he was the first born and only male child. Perhaps he would be able to goad some sort of pity from her, any response would be better than what his father had given him. “Not going anywhere, just dressing. What’s it to you?”

Rodiel tightened her arms across her chest, pushing up her still blossoming bosom as if she was feigning anger at a boy she liked. Her brother just shook his head. That sort of motion was something he noticed, but only because it was so similar to what he had seen from his mom. She was learning womanly wiles that came with age, whether intentionally or not, and was accidentally using them all the time. He shooed the two away with his arms, and a hiss. The twins might have been growing older and into their place as women, but their age always came out in the end. On cue, Rodiel stuck out her tongue with eyes shut and turned to leave.

“Remember what I said last time! I saw that tongue again and it’d be mine.” Amras chuckled as his sister squealed and ran away. He could hear her flat shoes clack against the wood floors as she darted down the hallway and towards the front door. She would be smiling, he knew. It was a quip he had began years ago, when she started the annoying habit of showing her tongue.

“I’ll tell dad if you do!”

“How? You won’t have a tongue to talk with!” Rodwen laughed as her brother darted past her. She ran after him as he chased his sister through the house. The three laughed altogether; Rodiel with a flat pan shielding her, Amras with a ladle in hand and Rodwen blissfully amused as the sibling rivalry carried on. It was nice to have at least a few moments of peace and enjoyment with the Fletcher family, even if the parents were not involved. When his mom came home, he knew he would be in for a lashing, but until then it was a house full of children. Even at nineteen he did not care so much about looking like a fool, so long as it was in his house and nobody outside knew.

[Restless Soul]

Kitchen tended to, dining room set, fire flickering in its stone setting… all in all it was a fairly calm afternoon. Amras was lounging on a large padded chair in the corner of the living room, watching as the drops of rain continued to fall outside the window. Panes of glass fogged with the warmth of the house, hindering his vision of the freedom of the outdoors. The patter of larger drops occasionally drummed against the clay-scaled roof, seemingly calling the young elf to come play. He enjoyed the challenge of running across the rooftops of the small city. Clay tiles were on many of the nicer houses, the Fletcher household being among them. Other buildings were just as carefully tended; all of them at least two stories tall like his house. Other smaller houses of those who either did not care or could not afford better roofing littered the small town of Olme, making the difference in height and footing a training ground for the fleet-footed youth. With rain added to the mix it was a veritable party, but his passions were forcefully put aside. Instead he focused on his sisters.

Rodwen was knitting something in her chair by the fire, carefully attending the yarn and keeping it orderly as she also tried to keep the ball from rolling into the flames. She was a spitting image of Miriel. Quiet and slow to anger, she always seemed to do everything in a calculated manner. Her hair was always brushed a set number of times followed by fresh braids every morning. Amras had tried to help her when she was younger, maybe around the age of ten. He had braided her hair, the most awful excuse for a braid, and in turn had his hand smacked by the silver adorned brush she loved so much. “If you can’t do it right, don’t bother”. He still remembered her words and her shy tone scolding him as she did it herself. She looked so delicate and fragile, as thin as her mother and brother, but he knew she had a passionate fire that could come out at any time.

Rodiel was a different matter altogether. She was fidgety. Throughout the afternoon she had gone from her chair across the room from the fire to the kitchen. Nothing was ever straight enough, or in the right place apparently. She had to rearrange the pots and pans, clean the stove for the third time, and could not help but poke the fire every ten minutes no matter how well it was burning. Amras had to watch her. She was the kind of person that would get burned by the flames if only to ensure that they were warm enough, even though she would never show that she needed it to begin with. A firecracker on mid-summers night, the antithesis to her sister was no different than Locien. Perhaps that was why Amras and Rodiel had always butt heads.

He smiled at both of them though. Leaving his home and finding his way in the world would be a chore, and he would miss the comforts that his mother and father provided. His twin sisters though, they would be the ones that he would long to remember in time. He wouldn’t be around for their first kiss – ”or the first boy I have to beat for making one of them cry” – or for the first time they stayed out all night and got scolded for coming home at the wee-hours of the morning. In time, when he made a name for himself, he’d be back though. He’d always be their older brother, and they’d always be his little sisters.

“What?” Rodiel smirked at him as she poked the fire again, knowing he was going to tell her to stop. He turned his head and grinned at her. She turned away from him and jabbed at it again. Her brother stood up, started towards her to take the poker so she couldn’t continue bothering the already warm hearth. Instead, however, a knock came to the door and all of them stopped. It wasn’t often that they had visitors, unless their parents were home and were being called off to work again. Amras turned to the door instead of his sister, as the two stood and peered around him to see who was there.

[Restless Soul]

Locien spun his dagger on the top of his desk, a hole long since formed being whittled away as if it was anything but a new development. The habit had started when he was young, decades ago as a new recruit to the watch with only a wife and a small room at the local inn. How far he had come in such a time... The desk was his now, instead of belonging to the city. There was no older guard yelling at him for the dagger’s damage, that was his job. The dagger itself was not a worn, iron blade passed down for years from watchman to watchman. It was a beautifully crafted, mock-elven design – titanium blade with a gold-inlaid handle. It was a letter opener, not a weapon. At least the iron blade had seen real use. The spinning blade with its winking glint mocked him with its beauty and reminded him that making holes in an extremely expensive desk was all he had used it for since it had been gifted.

“Sir,” the words came with a knock on the door-less frame to his office. He looked up and saw a young recruit, his name was simply missing. A double-shift on guard meant a night of roaming the streets and being outside the watch-house with his night guards, in the cold rain no-less, not sitting around his office. The morning shift of the guard was for sitting around, reading reports from the night, and keeping tabs on the recruits around the building. After a night of work and a morning of being yelled at by Chezear’s aunt and yelling at his son, Locien was beyond tired. “Sir,” Locien shook his head and looked at the young man again. “There’s a message for you.”

“Where is it then?” His placid face made the young man squirm, but he did not mean to come off as a hard-ass. That had been the way the former Sergeant-at-Arms had been, with the watch and the local militia. It was how he had learned, the firm and forthright way. He didn’t see the need for it, and never wanted to be like his predecessor. Locien cleared his throat and tried to muster a smile. “Sorry… Frank –“

“Franz, sir.”

“Yes, yes. It has been a very long night, and the day has started off pretty poorly. Just worn out. Where is the message?”

“Isn’t a letter or a note, Sir. Itsa man at the front door. ‘E’s been waiting downstairs a bit, couldn’t make out what it was ‘e wanted. ‘E wouldn’t speak to none of us, kep’ telling ol’ Bertrand to get you. Jus’ – just, sorry sir – gave up tryin’ and I was sent up to tell you. Itsa direct message for you.” Franz held his helmet in his hand, wringing his dirty fingers against the dull steel lip. Locien remembered him as soon as he could put a name to his face. Just turned twenty, Franz had come from a wheat farm on the outskirts of Olme. He was an average-built boy, barely over one hundred fifty pounds and under six feet tall. Dirty when he arrived, Franz had proven to be a valuable recruit. He wasn’t much for desk work, couldn’t read or write, but he could hold his own with a mace and shield. The elven commander recognized his abilities when he trained with the militia and gave him an invitation to the guard. Locien had taken it on himself to help teach the farm-boy to be literate and speak without an accent. “Says ‘e’s from the Duchess.”

Locien stood slowly and nodded to dismiss the boy. Eventually Franz would become a watchman and a sergeant after that. It would be important that he could read and write. Locien had groomed many young men over the years, treating them as if they were his own children at times. It was a constant undertaking, but at least they listened. Amras, he was a different matter. He had no interest in the watch, no interest in anything, not like his boys in the watch. “Tell him I will be down shortly,” Locien called after Franz. He sheathed his dagger and strapped on his sword-belt, pulling the two tightly against his side.

[Restless Soul]

The man waiting was short and bedecked in furs, though they were soaked through with the rain. He was wiping his boots on the rug by the fire, cleaning off mud at the guard’s expense. His gray hair was slicked across a large balding patch, seemingly oiled in place. Frail fingers were stretched towards the fire, so close Locien wondered if the man had feeling in his old bones still. Each finger except one had a large gold ring on it. Furs, greasy hair, gold rings of station, and a lack of care for the watch-house; he was certainly an envoy of the Duchess. “Careful,” the graying elf called to the man as he walked down the stairs, “get too close to the fire and you’ll burn those soft hands.”

“Mr. Grayson,” he said with an all too important tone. He turned from the fire and rubbed his hands together. They were the hands of someone who wrote messages and counted coins, and his clothes screamed ‘too important to be delivering messages’. His sour expression was all Locien needed to see. The conversation would be short. Mr. Grayson had other things, more important things, to be doing then meeting with the Sergeant-at-Arms personally. Entadaa’s messenger was exactly why Locien had passed up promotion to Constable of the Watch and Militia, as well as Sergeant-at-Arms to the Duchess. There were noses that were raised in the presence of citizens, and then those that thought that their noses belonged above those that were entrusted servants of Olme because they weren’t in the castle. “I’m here to deliver this note to a… Locien Fletcher?”

“That’d be me, Grayson – “

“Mr. Grayson.”

“Yes yes, sorry about that. I am the Sergeant-at-Arms, Lieutenant Locien Fletcher.” Throwing titles around with an ungrateful servant of the castle was a pissing match the elf did not intend to get into. Tension between the two was almost palpable though afterwards, and Locien wanted nothing more than to sigh and send the man on his way. Mr. Grayson shook his furs, as if brandishing a weapon, and reached into the map-case at his side. It was a beautiful, deep brown leather case with gold embellishments and a silver sigil of the Duchess across it. Locien kept his unimpressed expression plastered, despite wanting to laugh at the man. Instead he placed his hands on his hip and let the gold and gems of his dagger glitter. It might have been a dagger for appearance alone, but it did its assignment well.

Grayson cleared his throat and pulled out the scroll. He tapped it against his opposite hand and tilted his head towards the elf. “What do you want? A tip?”

“Do you have proof of station and who you are?”

Locien wanted to give the little man a knock across the head. His expression shifted violently from disinterest to disgust. “Who am I?!” He whipped his dagger out as quickly as any young man could hope to see. The titanium blade reflected the light as clearly as a fresh snow reflected the sun. “This blade was given to me by the Duchess Entadaa herself, almost ten years ago. Her sigil and thanks for my years of hard fought duty are etched into the titanium blade, right along the razor-sharp edge. I suggest, if you don’t want me to remove one of those wrinkled fingers, you’ll give me my damned message.”

He handed it over reluctantly and turned back to the fire. Rubbing his hands and adjusting the gold rings. “Don’t mind if I stay and warm myself by the fire? It’s raining quite heavily outside, and I have to go back out there very soon.”

“I’ve been out in it all night, I understand.” The smug tone came to Locien as he tucked his dagger back in its sheath and the rolled scroll under his opposite arm. “You’re welcome to the fire, anything to comfort a servant of the Duchess.” Condescending and blunt where traits he wanted to avoid above all, but Mr. Grayson had struck nerves Locien thought only Miriel knew how to prod. He turned and nodded towards the guardsmen in the common-room, each removing their hand from their sheathed blades. Even the oldest guardsman, Bertrand, was standing behind the main desk. “Just be on your way as soon as you’re dry enough, we have business of Olme to attend to here.”

[Restless Soul]

Locien grabbed a cup of coffee from the kitchen area around the corner, pouring the thick brew into a mug. It was lukewarm at best, but that was the way he preferred it – didn’t have to wait for it to cool before he could drink it. “Sugar or cream, Mr. Fletcher?”

He turned and saw the smirking face of two guardsmen, Dale Jr. and Franz. Dale was a little older than his companion, but not by much. Both had come to the watch as recruits at the same time, though Dale had a history with the watch. His father, also named Dale, had served for twenty years, practically grew up in the shadow of Locien. When he passed away, valiantly fighting a group of bandits trying to raid a caravan on its way to the capitol, his son had immediately signed up to join. He was a good boy too, if a bit of a troublemaker. “It’s Lieutenant Fletcher, boys.”

The three laughed together, both recruits loud enough to be heard from the common-room. Locien knew they were genuinely laughing, but how loud they did so was as much for their commander as it was to be heard by Grayson. Locien chugged half his coffee – black – before refilling the cup and clapping Dale on the shoulder. He shrugged slightly, but he was a stout boy. A few months of training and guard duty had filled the chain chest-piece and steel pauldrons well. “A spitting image of your father,” Locien said with a smile. “He’d be proud. Now, get on. It may be raining, but you still have the armory. I need this week’s inventory taken, bring it to me when you’re done, and then start the upkeep of the weapons and armor.”

“Sir!” The two saluted smartly and performed a clumsy about face, still laughing. Locien smiled and watched them mock-march away. If he had done that in his youth the former Lieutenant would have chewed him a new ass. It was important to remember they were human though, not just lumps of flesh stuffed into a steel suit. He shook his head and sipped his coffee before continuing up the stairs and back to his office.

It was a plain, mostly unadorned little closet of a room that he called an office. The door had been removed just before he had taken the mantle of Sergeant-at-Arms; a constant reminder of who he would never become to the men that he commanded. His predecessor had locked himself into the office, which belonged to a sergeant at the time. Drunk, belligerent, and past his best days he had remained in the office for a full day before action was taken. Locien had been part of the detail. He remembered the door splintering as the ram struck it. It only took one swing to split the door in two. Before the shards of wood had struck the floor the elf had charged in, head first and unarmed. The struggle that ensued was between youth and beleaguered age; wild swinging blade against an agile man trying to help. The damnedest thing about it, in the end, was that even when he was on his death-bed Lieutenant Grady didn’t apologize for the incident.

Locien tapped the scarred wall as he passed it, a tradition that he had come to keep for over thirty years. It was his office, since he was just a sergeant working the night shifts, before his family even came about. That sword swing had taken a chunk of wood out of the wall, which had been a relief and a savior. A split-second of thought, or a few years off the elderly Lieutenants joints, and that spot would have been stained with his blood and brains instead of a notch.

Before he sat down he removed his sword-belt and placed the worn sheath on its hook. It was a sword he had hoped to pass down to his son one day, his father’s sword, and his great-grandfathers sword, as far back as the Fletcher’s history went. It was a beautifully unadorned, true-elven blade. On the hook next to his lineage was the dagger that spoke of his station. The two together were polar opposites when sheathed, and unsheathed. One gaudy and plastered with precious gems – never having been used in battle and made without the intention, the other was a worn leather handle on a smooth, sleek weapon maintained for use in combat for centuries.

“Father,” he said as he raised his mug to the blade and took a sip. Since his run in with Lieutenant Grady he had never touched alcohol, coffee would just have to do for a salute. He spun the wooden chair towards him without moving the base, a mechanism allowing it to rotate in every direction something he still didn’t understand. It was a marvel he always smirked at nonetheless. “Let’s see what this all important message is about.”

He flicked the royal seal aside without breaking it and unrolled the parchment. It was elegantly scrawled letters as fabulously frivolous as he expected. But as he read his eyes became slits, squinting as if his vision was failing him. The words were written quickly, by the Captain of the Guard of Entadaa. As he read, the chair was forgotten and he leaned forward, grabbing the edge of the expensive desk. His knuckles went white as he gripped it tightly. His legs weakened and eventually collapsed. Tears filled his eyes and an uncontrolled roar passed his thin lips.

[Restless Soul]

Amras opened the door, and nothing was there but Mother Nature. A burst of cold air pushed its way around him and through his clothes. He could feel the air against his arms, the cold instantly combating the warmth the fire had given him. Rain whipped for a moment towards him as the wind decided to suddenly change direction; it soaked the porch but did not make it into the house. The day had grown worse and gloomier, the sky a slate gray with splotches of black mingled in the clouds. If it wasn’t the beginning of spring he would have been seeing a storm of sleet and snow instead of rain. The reason for the door being opened though was a mystery. The elf turned to his sisters and shrugged, half closing the barrier between comfort and misery before he heard a little laugh.

“Serinthal.” He opened the door enough to peek out to the left and right. Sure enough, his porch had exactly who he thought the laugh belonged to. The little elf was hiding, poorly, behind a rocking chair on Amras’ porch. The boy had his eyes closed, playing a failed game of hide-and-seek. Serinthal was the youngest of the Bastards, only nine years old, but his older brother Thael was part of the little group. At first he had just tagged along, trying to follow Amras and his friends over the rooftops, being an annoying little brother. He had proved himself though, quite an agile little bugger and quick too. “I know you’re there Seri, if you’re going to knock and run you have to find a better hiding place.”

“Awww,” the boy stood and kicked the chair that had failed him, which brought about a clearing of Rodiel’s throat. His sister was standing directly behind him, looking at the little elf with disdain. Whatever business happened within sight of Rodiel was obviously her business. Seri shyly smiled and waved to Rodiel. In a second she was back inside, not wanting to play the role of love interest for the youngest Bastard. “I thought it was a good spot too. I didn’t have time to find a place to hide Ami, not my fault.”

As he pouted Amras couldn’t help but smile wider. “Where’s your brother? On the roof?”

“How’d you know!” Thael dropped off the sloping roof as soon as Amras spoke. He was dripping wet and as usual wearing clothes that didn’t fit him at all. The older of the two brothers was an excellent thief, as quick as any cut-purse Amras had ever seen. He was five and a half feet, and made sure that the older leader of the Bastards was well aware that he was both taller and not done growing yet. Thael shook his arms and tried to ring out the long-sleeved shirt that barely reached halfway down his forearms. A rough chest-piece covered his upper body, probably a jerkin he had convinced his mom to sew him out of stolen pieces of leather. A pair of old, worn shoes Amras had once owned were covered with mud as well as his ankles and half his exposed shins. “I tapped that door and was on the roof in a split. Going to be faster than you in no time.”

“Not in those rags,” Amras said it in jest, and the two brothers laughed together. They were the poorest of the Bastards and often were given whatever the rest of the gang could spare. Thael and Seri’s father had died when Seri was only one, leaving their mother to deal with two mischievous hellions and working however she could to make money. Many nights the two boys stayed with Amras to give their mother a break and feed them, other nights Miriel and Locien would bring over food for their mother while the boys played. “Come inside, I have some clothes that might suit you. Both of you.”

Thael and Seri laughed as they walked through the door, following Amras when he turned around. Instead of a warm fire and blankets for the pair, an arms-crossed scowl was waiting for them. Rodiel was unhappy and her words came out quickly without much thought – “just like dad.” “You forget that you’re in trouble Amras? Dad was really angry, and mom is going to be home by noon to deal with you still. You can’t have friends over.”

“Dad said I couldn’t leave the house, he never said about not having friends over. I remember that perfectly.” Rodwen was busily shuffling behind her sister, fluffing pillows and stoking the fire as she tossed on two more logs. While Amras and his sister locked eye-to-eye, she found towels for the two brothers. Instead of letting the two argue about the exact phrasing and meaning behind the words, she pushed past both and gave the brothers the towels. “See, Rodwen knows they’re alright.”

“Yeah, mom and dad won’t mind.” Rodwen elbowed Rodiel out of the way and ushered the guests into the house and to the two chairs by the fire. She quickly moved her knitting and placed it on the mantle. Rodiel huffed and went to her room, Serinthal giggling as he watched her walk away. The two were welcomed guests, and no matter the circumstances were always welcome at the Fletcher house. If Miriel was going to scold her son, she would do so out of ear-shot of the two. Even Locien would have a hard time being angry with the misfortunate boys around.

“Plus,” Seri said as he poked the fire with the poker, which was quickly taken away by Thael, “its hours past noon anyway. Can’t tell much, the sun’s been up and falling already. My daddy’s water-clock said noon when we left and that was forever ago!”

[Restless Soul]

Serinthal poured honey into his tea, stirring it before sipping and putting more in. He had quite a sweet tooth that was only ever satisfied when others helped out. Honey was a precious commodity to the brothers, and Amras wouldn’t stop the young elf from having a little tea with his honey. Amras laughed when Thael finally took it away from his brother and dropped a little bit in his own drink. The two were drying quickly. Thael fit in Amras’ clothes better than his own, and looked the part of a thief much better with a pair of black pants and a gray shirt. Even one of his old sweaters fit well enough, if only a little small at the waist on the taller boy. Seri was wearing a pair of brown trousers and a long sleeve white shirt that Rodwen had dug up from her old clothes. They were much too big, but he was beaming ear-to-ear as if the new clothes were as precious as honey itself.

“Why you all bruised up Amras? Who’d you fight?” Thael tapped the side of his eye and his lip, indicating the healing wounds. Finally having someone to tell that would listen, Amras spilled the whole story from beginning to end. He told his friend about the Uthia boys, and how Chezear was in town. The story of the fight was the most interesting to the two; they wanted to know every tactic and movement their leader could remember. The Bastards didn’t fight the Underhanders often, but when they did Amras was always involved and first to be swinging. When he explained how he was punished for it, Seri sneered and shook his head. They waited patiently though, till Amras was done complaining about his punishment and how he was waiting for his mom to come home.

“If I was told not to go outside I’d die!” Serinthal cried. As melodramatically as Rodiel – ”Perhaps the age difference wouldn’t matter, they are about the same.”

“It’s well past noon though, where’s your mom?” Thael lifted his little finger and sipped the tea, laughing at his own foolish mockery of the upper-classes pompousness.

“I don’t know, that’s a good question.” The Fletchers didn’t have a water-clock; the brothers only had one because it was a gift for their father from long ago. He had no way of telling time other than the sun, which had decided to hide behind heavy clouds all day. Knowing the two of them, as Amras did, they had been out and about for a while before they got bored and decided to come see where he was. That meant it had to be at least two hours past time for his mom to get home. “Maybe she’s still busy working. The rain’s a good cover for anyone who wants to get into the Forest without the Rangers knowing. I’m sure she’s busy dealing with poachers and Brokenthorn problems.”

They all nodded together, even Rodwen who was back to her knitting but sitting off to the side. It made sense, after all. All of them were used to Locien and Miriel being gone for odd hours, and for quite a while. It was only because of the books around the house that any of them were educated. Amras taught his sisters what he knew for a while, until they indignantly decided that he was not qualified to tutor them anymore and started reading for themselves. Thael barely read, didn’t care to, but his brother was always thirsty for knowledge. Serinthal could read well, but had trouble writing, and neither could do more than speak elven. Seri though, he would learn anything as long as Rodiel was the one reading to him. It was almost a running joke for the Fletcher family to see the young elf curled up and lying on Amras’ sister’s lap.

“Why don’t we break out of here? They can’t keep you cooped up all day.” Thael smiled his sideway grin, one that spoke of a plan hatching that would most likely get them all in some sort of trouble before nightfall. “You’re already in trouble, what’s a little more anyway?”

Amras pondered the proposition, but not for long. Interruptions were apparently common that day, and slamming doors open was what Locien did best – as far as his son knew. The door was tossed aside and his father was standing in the doorway. He wasn’t wearing his helmet and his hair was soaked and plastered to his thick leather armor. His belt was skewed at his side and not tightened, the tip of the Fletcher family sword dragging against the wooden porch. Something was dreadfully wrong. Amras stood immediately.

[Restless Soul]

“She’s what?!” Rodiel was strapping on a pair of boots and attempting to find a belt and sheath for a kitchen knife. As humorous as it could have been, the news that Locien had come with was dire and tore the calm household apart. “How do we find her? Where do we start looking?”

Locien shook his head and had to stand up and force his daughter to sit. She fidgeted as always, but more furiously than normal. Miriel was missing. Amras did not know how to take the news his father had delivered. He re-read the note, over and over. It was short, to the point, and neither sugar-coated nor softly worded. His mother was working to the North, had been for the past week. It had been her turn to take the extended shift away from home and roam the top corner of Brokenthorn. A day before she was supposed to return home she did not return from a patrol. Every Ranger patrolled alone, they called for backup their specific way if anything ever happened, and more Rangers would come quickly. She hadn’t sent a warning, a cry for help, or even an update about her progress.

“When she didn’t return that night to the outpost, a small party was sent out. They followed the trail she left behind her…” Amras couldn’t read it anymore. He had read over it too many times already. The rest was to the point. When the trail ended it was because there was no more Forest, only the open plains that extended between Brokenthorn and the Windlancer Mountains. She could have been lost anywhere in the countryside or the mountains themselves. Innari lived in the northwest corner of Scara Brae, but no Ranger would have ever been taken down by a goblin – ”especially my mom, she’s too tough for those little shits.”

“I had to tell you children first, before the news got out. I wanted you to hear it from me, not some whispered rumor from friends. We are unsure as to what is going on or where she might have gone yet.” Locien tussled his hair with a calloused hands covered with a spider-web of throbbing veins. Water was still dripping from the gray mop, seemingly unnoticed by the elder elf. He was distraught and his hands were tied. If such a thing had happened twenty years ago he would have been the first to volunteer for a mission to track her down, taken whoever would have been willing to come along. If he had not been granted permission he would have gone anyway. “I am waiting for the Constable to return, we will be talking to the Sergeant-at-Arms to the Duchess and Lady Entadaa herself tomorrow afternoon. From there a team will be gathered and equipped.”

“We don’t have that time! You said… you said the note…” Rodiel was sniffing heavily as she tried to talk, tears streaming down her face. Rodwen sat quietly in a trance-like state on the floor, at her sister’s feet. She simply shook her head. “It said she’d been gone a day before you got it. That’s… three days before anyone… before anyone is even going to get ready?”

Locien tried to reason with his daughters, but they did not want to hear it. Furiously they stormed to their rooms. Amras and Locien both cringed when the doors slammed. If the elven brothers had stayed they would have seen a family fall apart, but instead they had left almost immediately. Thankful for the new clothes and hospitality, wise enough to know when to disappear. His father turned to him and shook his head. “They need you now. Keep them safe and calm. Make sure Rodiel doesn’t disappear either. I’m trusting you son.”

With that he was gone, leaving Amras alone with a lingering fire. He stared at the flames and thought. How long could his mother survive on the land? Days, weeks, she was the one that had taught him what she knew about survival. She was best with the forest, what about the plains? An arrow was an arrow, and the animals on the plains were easier to kill than those in the forest, they had to be. What in the world could have happened though? How far outside the forest would the Rangers look for her? The latter two questions were the ones that caught him the most. She would not have left her post without a very valid reason, ever. Amras was sure of that. That meant something would have had to draw her interest. The young elf was sure that there was nothing on the island – or the world for that matter – possible of taking her by force. When she was in one of her moods, Locien couldn’t budge the woman to save his life.

“I have to go.” Amras quickly put on the rest of his armor and strapped on his weapons. His sword hung at his left side just off his hip, easily accessed by his dominant right hand. On a different belt was strapped a steel dagger, hanging on the right side also just off his hip. The final belt went across his waist flush and straight. The pockets were filled with lock-picking equipment, sewing instruments, and first-aid; extra pockets contained gauze or were empty. He slung his sheathed bow across his back and tightened the belt across his chest, making sure that the quiver was filled with arrows. He pulled his hood over his head and wrote a quick note, leaving it tacked onto the inside of the front door. His family would just have to deal with him leaving, whether they liked it or not.

[Restless Soul]

Rain soaked him immediately when he stepped outside. It was not the comforting rain he had felt that morning though. It stung, blurring his vision as he hurried. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hooded sweater, barely noticing that it was not rain but warm tears he cleared away. The clouds and the heavy rain along with them had been moving steadily northwest all day, directly towards where his mother had gone missing. If it was as large a system as he feared it had already gained a huge lead on him. Rain would wash away any trace of Miriel. He sprinted through the streets of Olme as fast as he could.

His leather boots pounded the muddy streets, splashing the cold water violently aside. With hood up he barely felt the rain, barely registered the light plunks as the drops struck him. His chest was tight against the leather jerkin. His breath was ragged and rushed. Halfway between frantic and fanatic he sprinted with everything he could put into his tensed muscles. Pulsing furiously, stress was flooding his body, making his every movement a labored attempt to go faster. Less than a mile and he was nearing the center of town. Even in the rain people were carrying on their daily chores, wandering about the large fountain as if nothing was wrong. Amras was irrationally enraged at every one of them.

“Amras!” He barely looked to see the young Seri running to him. He would want to know what had happened, would want to know the details. The boys were sure to have spoken about Locien’s sudden burst through the door of the Fletcher household. Amras knew they could talk, and would talk to anyone who would bother to listen. The quiet town of Olme had a façade of monotonous tranquility, but underneath it writhed. People, no matter how friendly they seemed, always wanted to know the most recent gossip. The particulars were missing, but something important and morbidly enthralling must have been going on. They would all be wondering and waiting for details, details!

The young elf didn’t stop running for his friend. It wasn’t until he reached the fountain that his legs felt wobbly and he finally felt the stress rise. He collapsed as he came to the center of Olme. His knees shuttered and failed him. His legs turned to rubber. Hands barely reached out in time to keep his face from dropping into the grime of the streets. Eyes were upon him from all sides, commuters stilled by the sudden and distraught appearance of the resident mischief maker. He could feel them without seeing them. They all begged for answers, wanted to leach his thoughts away and share the succulent news with whoever wasn’t present to see the breakdown.

Amras wretched viciously, spilling the contents of his stomach across the smooth stones of the fountain. He felt his stomach empty completely. The painful dry-heaves demanded more, but all he could manage was a gut-wrenching cry. His eyes were flooded; tears falling faster than the rain could hope to compete with. As he knelt in the mud he cried and prayed. Whatever gods existed, he prayed to them. It was a generic, soulful appeal for assistance. He had never believed, and still didn’t, but if there was even the slightest of chances that something omnipotent was going to demand help. When the small hand of the youngest member of the Bastards lightly brushed his shoulder Amras jerked.

He slapped away the kids hand, more aggressively than he intended. Seri dropped to his backside and stared with an open mouth at his mentor. Amras could register he was present, but could not even bear to look at him. He opened his mouth to apologize, twice, but nothing came out. It was just the muttered sobs of a broken child. “Amras…”

Moments passed, minutes slid away quickly as he tried to regain his composure. His stomach was cramping and painful, but it needed to be ignored. The eyes of the townsfolk were slowly growing closer, they needed to be forgotten. He looked at Serinthal a moment longer. Shaking his head to the boy he stood and stumbled away from him. Past the child he could see approaching horses, trotting through the crowd. At the head of the guardsmen was his father. Amras didn’t want to look at his face. He did not care if he was displeased, disgusted, or sympathetic.

“Amras,” his father said, almost cooing his son’s name. The guards with him dismounted and shifted through the crowd. They were surrounding him, as if he was a fleeing criminal. Locien’s arms were open and inviting. For the first time he saw his father as a caring parent, a potentially compassionate shoulder to cry on. Amras stumbled towards his dad. He wanted so bad to be embraced and told it would be alright. He wanted to know that things would be fine, and that his mother was safe. “Come home with me.”

“No.” Amras did not want the comfort, he did not want his father to try and console him. He wanted to find his mother. The elven boy would not wait for soldiers to be slowly gathered and geared, a council to decide on a plan of action. He would not wait days. “No!”

With a shocking burst of speed he thrust forward. His father lunged at the same time, arms turned from a gentle embrace to an attempt at restraint. Amras slithered snake-like away from Locien, pushing him in the back. He heard his father swear as his balance was lost and he dropped face first towards the ground. Amras did not look back. He hurried towards the horses. The crowd of people parted for him, or simply so they would not be bowled over in his rush. It was mere seconds till he was halfway on the saddle of his father’s horse, its hooves already beating a path towards the northern exit to town. It was an awkward task trying to mount a moving beast, but he managed as fast as he could. Whether he would be followed or not did not matter, he had to find his mother and nothing in Althanas would stop him.