The Hunter and the Hunted

[Letho]

((Closed to Sagequeen))

Patience was relative. If Letho learned anything about patience, it was that. It was relative to the matter at hand, depending on one’s own attachment to the subject in question. A hunter could lurk in the rushes for hours without moving a muscle, without making a sound, patiently waiting for the prey, because he knew that if he didn’t make the kill he would go home with nothing to show for his effort. Yet the same man could be the first one to boo a public speech of some slick-haired, silver-tongued politician, launching curses from the crowd. A husband might listen to his wife go on about inane things for hours, feigning interest in unconfirmed gossip, price differences at Bazaar’s hawkers or little Jimmy from two houses over having a roll in the hay with that Marie girl. He would nod in all the right places, ask questions when questions needed to be asked, all because he cared. Yet the same man could brush his neighbor off with a shrug, even if the said neighbor came to him with a matter of some importance like his only cow gone missing or his crop failing catastrophically. It was simply human nature. Some things people cared about, and some things they just didn’t give a damn about.

Letho too was the victim of human nature. He had been able to listen to Myrhia for hours as she spoke of all the dresses she seen, all the different fabric patterns, the wide variety of designs and vibrant colors that lured his late wife from the stalls and shop windows. The fact that his fashion sense seldom ventured past the simple functionality of denim and leather (and that the only difference he every really noticed in clothes was whether they were clean or not) didn’t really matter. And he could still listen to his daughter, Lorelei, yammer on about all the intricacies of sorcery and magic which she had mastered even though he himself had never really shown any aptitude for magic (and didn’t really think much of it as means of combat other than being bloody annoying at times). Because those had been and still were the things – the people – he cared about.

The man that sat before Letho at this moment, however, was not.

The young nobleman fidgeted in the crude wooden chair for the umpteenth time, clearly discomforted by the lack of proper cushioning under his pampered arse. Letho didn’t smirk at this, but certainly not out of some sense of respect towards the man. No, it would be a niggling thing to do, and such pettiness was not the pleasure he wanted to give to Darien H. Bransworth the bloody Third. He didn’t really know the boy, yet in the five minutes since Darien walked into his office with a white-faced page shadowing his every step like a puppy Letho found out enough.

He knew the type, met enough of his kind to last him three lifetimes. Sons and daughters of Corone royalty, they all walked around as if it was their personal martyrdom to walk among the common folk, driving around in their intricately decorated carriages or trotting on useless horses with bushy tails and combed manes fluttering in the wind, sitting in their cafes and restaurants in clothes that worth more than a soldier’s yearly wage. It was a theatre, a carnival of fools so empty on the inside that their subconscious drove them to scour the land for thrills in an attempt to fill the gaping hole within. Some merely filled it with liquor and harlots, but there were far worse depravities behind some of those perfect masks. There were enough skeletons in the closets of the Corone royalty to fill a decent sized cemetery.

Darien was no different. His poison was adventuring, or maybe just killing really big things. Letho wasn’t entirely certain. He had walked into Letho’s office in Tol Andana with his head in the clouds and a wealthy man’s swagger. The nobleman had spared barely a glance on the crudeness of the office and the utter lack of decoration, wrinkled his nose at the smell of oiled leather coming from the locked armoire next to the entrance, and marched straight to the large wooden desk. The page – a beardless boy dressed in attire with far too many vibrant colors – announced the name, his master stated the reason of his visit. He wanted to slay a dragon.

The reasons, of course, were as weak and trite as expected. He wanted to prove himself to his father. He wanted to improve his stature in society. He wanted a story to tell to other prissy noblemen as they sat for their afternoon tea, nibbling croissants or some other overpaid pastry. He wanted some glory to go along with the hoards of gold he already had. Darien didn’t put in those exact words, but Letho was more than capable of reading between the lines, especially lines as idiotic as these.

“This dragon,” Letho finally said once the lad was done running his mouth. “Is it a threat to those nearby?” The young man’s face wrinkled in a frown. “Does it devour villagers, steal their livestock, burn their fields?”

Darien shrugged. “Not that I know of. Does it matter?”

Letho felt a headache lurking somewhere beyond his forehead. He rubbed his temples and exhaled through his nostrils before he continued. “Of course it matters. The beast is not bothering anyone. Why would I go bother it then?”

“Because... Because it’s a monster, Mister Ravenheart. And you are supposedly a monster hunter!” Darien said, leaning forward and pointing a finger at Letho. Once he noticed the bearded warrior wasn’t impressed by his little fit, he moved the hand away from Letho’s general direction, turning his palm up almost apologetically. “And I’m offering a sizeable sum. Are you not for hire?”

“Not for this,” Letho’s raspy baritone rumbled. “This beast is not a monster. Monsters cause discord and chaos, disrupt the natural order of everything around them. In a sense, we are all greater monsters than your dragon. It simply... lives, while the likes of you want to kill it for no other reason than the fact that it lives.”

The nobleman jumped from his chair, face scrunched into a disgusted frown. Letho wasn't quite certain whether he was going to shout or cry. Probably both. Instead, Darien said: “Maybe you’re just afraid.”

There were times when Letho would’ve smacked the kid around for such words, times when he too was young and his temper was like a stick of dynamite with a very short fuse. Nowadays he merely brushed it off. The weaker people were, the more prone they got to taunting and mockery. And there was no honor in fighting the weak, especially asinine ones such as Darien.

“Afraid? Afraid of what?” Getting up from his chair with deliberate slowness, Letho planted both palms on the desk and leant forward. The young man retreated a step and nearly bumped into his squire. “A creature built like a house, with fangs as long as your arm, claws that can rip chainmail like canvas? One that breathes fire that can incinerate a man in an instant? One that has survived the likes of you for centuries?” He paused and cocked an eyebrow. “Only an idiot would be without fear.”

There was nothing Darien could come up as a response to that. His lips kept trying to form syllables, but no sound came out, as if Letho’s firm gaze somehow prevented air from dashing through his vocal cords.

“Now scram. I have work to do,” Letho finally said. He sat down, picked up a stack papers and paid no more heed to the young man. It took Darien a couple seconds to gather enough composure to force some firmness back into his spine, lift his chin up defiantly and march out of the office like an offended wench, leaving the open door and the sickly sweet scent of perfume as the only signs of his visit.

Once liberated from the nuisance of nobility, Letho allowed a relaxing sigh before he got back to his feet and made his way towards the door. Outside, the valley of Tol Andana invited him with its magnificent shades of fading green and yellow, and the moist scent of early autumn was spread bountifully by a mild southern wind. It wouldn’t be mild for long, Letho knew, not this far north, and especially not this far up into the Jagged Mountains. Come early winter, all passes to the Valley of the Eagles would be blocked with snow and remain so until well into spring. It turned the town into place of peace and solitude, which was possibly the reason why it was populated mostly by elves. They were after all folk more prone to pondering and meditating, fiddling around with a single idea for a decade or two before moving on. Letho had nowhere near such mental stamina, but he liked the solitude for a different reason. Over the long years of adventuring he had witnessed and experienced most of what the world had to offer and now was time for reprieve. Nowadays it took something extraordinary to make him hit the road anew.

[Sagequeen]

The vice of a girdle Erissa Caedron wore steadily squeezed the good nature from her disposition, and her patience waned with every painful breath. She sat genteelly, as a good diplomat should, hands folded upon her lap and ankles modestly crossed. The elf politely nodded at times, and clapped her fingers lightly upon the palm of her other hand when appropriate.

It was all a boringly scripted affair and Erissa despised it. She more than despised it; the elf practically seethed as the puffed-chest speaker hooked his fingers inside the double-breasted coat and smiled a weasel’s smile upon his dais. He white teeth flashed as brightly as the polished pearl cufflinks that, doubtless, would be worth enough to feed for a month the downtrodden souls he claimed to help. Erissa was ripped from her internal rancor by the melodious voice that called her name.

It was her turn to speak.

With a grace and poise afforded her by both her heritage and her childhood drilling in the arts of affluency, she flowed to the dais. To any onlooker it would seem her feet never touched the ground beneath her floor-length, jasper gown.

“Most honorable ladies and gentlemen,” Erissa began, her voice as smooth as velvet and candlelight, “I have come before you today to humbly ask for your help. As a member of Ixian Knights, it is my sworn duty to see that the people of Corone are kept safe, unmolested by famine or foe. In the north, there is a threat that lurks blackly, and cares not about the war that rages across the land. It cares not that the people are already hard-pressed to survive, and that winter is coming. This beast has long been known to thrive in the area just south of Tol Andana, and for ages it was tolerated. Brenthan, the people named it, and though it was the stuff of local legend and bedtime stories, it kept to its own wood and grotto.

“Recently, however, this behemoth has strayed from its abode, presumably because its own food sources are depleted, and there are reports that the beast has a brood, ready to hatch.” Erissa scanned the opulent audience, searching for signs among them they were hearing her plea. Many sat just as she had before, equally as practiced in the arts of feigned attentiveness as she was.

“The Ixian Knights have long been a shield of the people, and we still are, but our generals and armies are spread thin in central Corone and to the south. So it is to you we look for assistance, for men and women willing to accompany me and dispatch this beast.” Erissa paused, noticing the raw surprise dancing in the eyes of many before her. In moments the surprised turned to judgment, sizing up the waif of an elf in immaculately tailored garments. “Please,” she continued, adding just the right amount of emotion to her voice. “The people need your help!”

It was wasted breath that carried her words, and Erissa knew it. The chairman would rise and join her, would take her hand and pat it gently as he expressed his concern. He would promise to form a committee in light of the recent information, and some months later, they might issue a statement of intent, or possibly even send a few meager supplies to their northern neighbors. They would argue terms and leadership, dates and strategies, and more innocent people would die in the clutches of bureaucracy. Perhaps they would stall on purpose so that someone else would take care of the problem first, and they could feel warm and fuzzy about their own good intentions.

The chairman approached her, that look on his face the elf expected to see, and he reached for her dainty hand. Erissa gripped the edges of the podium until her knuckles were bone white. Her muscles twitched as an uncharacteristic anger began to swell within her.

Kicking down the podium might get their attention, she thought grimly. The weasel of a man placed a patronizing hand around her shoulders.

“This is terrible news,” his voice boomed through the posh hall. “And something must be done! Of course we will help,” he said, and turned to the council members. “We must make a committee to decide how to move forward.”

Committee. The proper elf almost spat.

“Useless!” she barked at the man at her side.

“I beg your pardon?” he said, genuinely shocked. Erissa composed herself.

“People are in danger and dying now! And if there truly is a brood, it is not just those to the north who will be threatened by it. One of these beasts is bad enough. Can you imagine the havoc that twenty, fifty, a hundred of them will wreak?” The elf was beside herself once again.

“My good Lady,” a councilman said, “there are only rumors, and there is no need to get worked up about it before we know for sure.” Erissa’s mouth was agape at him, and she shook her head. “Besides,” he said cooly, “I’m not sure I like the idea of sending our forces under the command of a diplomat. This is battle, not cakes and tea.”

Her vision faded to white and she lost the feeling in her hands.

It was not that she expected these people to know her past, but that they assumed they did. If patience was a virtue, then Erissa was a veritable pariah among them. She was ready to erupt.

“Their blood is on your hands, on every pair of hands that refuses to help,” she growled. The elf shoved the podium aside and paced from the room, somehow managing to keep her dignity intact despite her hastiness.

It was yet another so-called alliance member to tick off the already short list. There was the elven community in the far north, although Erissa doubted they could - or would - offer much assistance. She broke through the doors of the town hall and waved at her driver. The woman tapped the horses’ hindquarters with her crop and brought the carriage around to the curb where Erissa boarded. As the town hall grew smaller and smaller in the back window, another horse bearing a single rider overtook them, and he peeked into the side porthole at the elf. Erissa recognized him as one of the men sitting near the back of the room. She called for her driver to halt and opened the door for him. Her own sword lay close, and she rested a hand upon it.

“No need for that,” he said, never dismounting. “Just a tip. A word of advice. Call it what you will.”

“Go on,” Erissa replied flatly.

“I’ve heard neither head nor tail of him in these parts for many a year, but if you’re going north, there’s someone you should ask for. Name’s Letho. Can’t promise he’ll help,” the man said with a shrug and a wink, “but it’s something.” Erissa nodded slowly, brow furrowed.

“Thank you,” she said warily, a thin shaft of hope breaking through her mood. She had not only heard the name, but also the legend that was attached to it. He was a hero to some and a terror to others.

"Letho Ravenheart," Erissa said softly. The carriage bumped and jostled its way to the north.

Feel free to bunny me to your office and as needed.

[Letho]

“They turned out to be fine horses indeed, sir.”

The boy who said those words was standing on the crossbeam of the crude wooden fence, feeding one of the piebald steeds a green apple. The colt chomped and neighed and stomped in bestial approval before he finally trotted away to his brothers and sisters, all just as spotty as he was. The boy couldn’t suppress a smile. With his dusty brown hair tousled and his face a bit grimy on the cheeks, he looked like a street urchin. But he only looked the part; there were no street urchins in Tol Andana as far as Letho noticed. No urchins, no beggars and most certainly no harlots. Not on the street anyways. The elves liked to keep their little valley clean, as if they were consciously or otherwise trying to replicate the golden avenues of Eluriand or one of the other great Raiaera cities.

That was one of the reasons Letho liked Tol Andana that much. Everything seemed to be in order, everything had its place, and anything that failed to adhere to the rules was either changed or evicted. And that was fine with the retired Marshal. He had been raised as a soldier, lived most of his life as a soldier, and as such grew to like the rules. They made matters simpler, made lives easier, kept the gears of the world spinning.

No, the boy with unkempt hair was Joel, son of the groundkeeper of Ravenheart Manor. Not that many aside of the groundkeeper and his family actually called it the Ravenheart Manor. Letho certainly didn’t call it by that or any other name, probably because of the fact that he didn’t like the bloody thing overly much. It was far too large, too slick and smooth and shiny, too damn elvish for his tastes. Compared to this three story, two-winged colossus, the house on the Willow Hill where Myrhia and he lived some years ago looked like a bungalow. Yet that house had been warm and simple and everything a home should be. Ravenheart Manor was frigid and faceless, somehow faux with its fancy colonnades and arching windows and spiral stairs and artistically carved wood and artistically chiseled stone. It reminded Letho of one of the dollhouses that he had never bought his daughter. Yet it had been the smallest and the cheapest on the market when he arrived to the Valley, so he was stuck with it.

There were two redeeming qualities to the manor, though. The first was the view from the second story balcony, below which the Valley of the Eagles unrolled like a painting on a parchment, the river so far down it looked like a stream of pure quicksilver. The second was about half an acre of grassland on the side opposite the balcony, covering most of the small plateau etched into the hillside on which the manor grounds rested. One of the previous owners maintained a hedge maze on that parcel, but by the time Letho came into possession of the manor, it had grown wildly and had to be chopped down. In its stead now was just knee-deep grass soft as a dream, rippling in the light breeze like the surface of a green lake.

It amidst the waves of grass that Letho was at the moment. Dressed in a dark green plaid shirt with sleeves rolled up and muddy jeans, he was checking the hooves of one of the piebald colts. The kid was right; all six of them turned out alright. But it was rather unsurprising given their stock. The six had the same father - Letho's pegasus Midnight - but each had a different mother. It was a little experiment the Marshal had been running for years now, crossbreeding the pegasus with just about any type of horse he could get his hands on. The colt that whickered restlessly as Letho plucked some stones from the hooves was half-fallieni and it certainly showed in his demeanor. He was the youngest of the stock which also made him the smallest of the lot, and the Fallien heritage made him smaller still. But he could run. And run. And run. Long after the rest had given up their chase around the fenced grasslands, the colt would keep on with his steady gallop.

He was done with the rear hooves and prepared to move to the front ones when his ears picked up the rattling sound of a carriage climbing uphill. The sound was faint and seemingly coming from all the way on the other side of the valley, but sounds tended to be quirky in valleys and Letho had spent enough time here to be certain that someone was coming up to the manor. Releasing the horse with a light pat on the hindquarters, the Marshal made his way through the tall grass and joined the boy at the fence.

“Someone’s coming,” the boy said, standing up straight while still on the fence, trying to catch the first glimpse of the visitor. But the terrain was too steep and the road clung too closely to the hillside to offer a view of who was coming. However, the sound alone was alone for Letho to discern a few details about whoever was coming.

“Indeed. A two-horse carriage, probably an expensive one at that,” he said, trying to make himself a bit more presentable. But after a few attempts at cleaning the grime off his pants, he abandoned it as a lost cause.

“How can you tell, sir?” Joel asked, his face scrunched in a suspicious frown.

“Listen,” Letho simply said. After a few seconds of silence, the lad’s face looked so focused that he looked like was trying to look through the hillside. “The rhythm of the hooves is too frantic for a single horse, yet not enough for four. And the wheels of the carriage barely rattle. You don’t put such wheels on a cheap wagon.” The approaching sounds continued to grow. Letho added: “The horses sound a bit tired as well. Probably isn’t local, came up the mountain today.”

Joel listened for a short while more, then asked with a careful but childishly hopeful look on his face: “The snorting?”

Letho nodded, even allowed a smirk. He liked Joel, though he couldn’t really explain to himself why. He didn’t see himself in the kid, for the kid was timid where Letho had been rambunctious at that age, wiry where Letho had been brawny, cheery where he had been cynical. And he certainly didn’t see him as a son he never had, for he had a daughter and so far she had been two handfuls and that was quite enough for him. Perhaps it was merely solitude that made him feel some sort of stern affection for the lad. Or perhaps he was just growing softer with age.

The carriage that finally appeared on the plateau was just what Letho expected, as was the solitary passenger that gestured towards the driver to stop once she caught sight of Letho and Joel. There was no mistaking her elven heritage even with her silvery hair covering the sharp-ended ears. As with most elves, it was betrayed in every move she made, every look she cast, as if she existed in a bubble of time belonging to her and her alone. And though Letho lived among elves for a while now, and though he had met with a good number of them on his ramblings through the lands of Althanas, it still fascinated him how they always looked as if they took a wrong turn in the land of dreams and wound up on plain old Althanas. Not that his face showed it, not now and not since Tayotihua all those years ago. He met the incoming kindly gaze with an unyieldingly indifferent one of his own.

“Excuse me,” the she-elf spoke through the window of the carriage. “I was told that I could find Letho Ravenheart hereabouts.”

“And what exactly do you need Letho Ravenheart for?” Letho asked, leaning forward and planting his elbows on the fence leisurely.

“That is my business,” the woman replied with the sort of subtle coldness only an elf can conjure. It made the temperature of the world drop a couple of degrees without you even noticing. “And if you can direct me to ser Ravenheart, I would be much obliged. If not, I will look elsewhere.”

“He is..." Joel tried to tell the elf she spoke to the one and only, but Letho finished the kid's sentence.

"...over yonder. Go up to the manor, but do not try the front door," the Marshal said, gesturing towards the large house with the gray many-angled roof. "I shall summon him to his office on the far side of the manor."

"Thank you," the woman said, and the carriage driver clucked the heavily-breathing horses forward.

"You better run along, kid. This one looks serious," Letho said.

"She's pretty," was all Joel said before he was off like an arrow. The retired ranger didn't disagree.

Five minutes later, Letho walked under the "Monster Hunter" sign that hanged above the entrance to his rather humble office. The office itself was in the refurbished servant's quarter, where the main room now served as the office itself, while the others were either used for storage or just gathered dust. The room itself initially looked a bit more impressive, with the usual merc miscellanea such as crossed swords and shields and suits of armor and even a couple of trophies staring down on the visitors with their dead glass eyes, but Letho took them down as soon as Lorelei went away. He didn't need to impress people anymore. If they wanted his help, chances were they knew what he could do. He didn't need shiny swords and tall tales.

The elf from the carriage stood serenely next to the desk, gauging the Marshal with her eyes as he advanced through the room. Gone were the grimy pants and the plaid shirt, replaced by dark blue denim wrapped in a well-worn leather duster. The realization dawned to her long before Letho took his place behind the desk.

"So, apparently we have some business to discuss, miss...?"

[Sagequeen]

Letho Ravenheart, in the flesh, and she had mistaken him for a common field hand. Erissa hoped the mix of awe and bemusement on her face was not too obvious, that she might offend the man.

“Yes,” Erissa said. “I have been to town after town, province after province, and I have yet to find someone willing to help. You see, I am a member of the Ixian Knights,” she said confidently, the name itself serving to grease most wheels. However, the reception she expected was replaced with unimpressed silence. The elf primly cleared her throat. “It is my duty to ensure the safety of the people of Corone.” Letho pursed his lips slightly, but said nothing. “There is a creature, a spider, south of here that needs putting down.”

“I know of this beast,” he said levelly, his tone hinting of something more, “but it has never caused trouble. It stays in its territory, and the smart people stay out. Why should we ‘put it down’ for no reason?” he asked levelly.

“Well, it has never caused trouble, until now,” Erissa said earnestly. “The creature has been venturing from its territory into the farmlands and ranches. It was bad enough when it began taking cattle by night, but now it has been creeping further into populated areas. It has killed several people, and the residents of the town are afraid to leave their homes.” Letho rubbed his chin thoughtfully as he listened. “That is not the worst part, Mr. Ravenheart. There are rumors of a brood. The locals were able to raise a militia and confront the beast at its lair, but few returned. Those that did reported a large, webbed structure suspended in the cave. Either the spider caught a dragon and wrapped it in silk, or it is filled with eggs. You can imagine the implications of such a thing.” The grim man sat back in his chair with a troubled sigh. Erissa implored him with her green-blue eyes. “Would the elves of Tol Andana be willing to help?”

“Not likely, miss. They are prone to staying in their little haven,” Letho said. Erissa’s shoulders drooped, though she had expected as much.

“And what about you, Mr. Ravenheart?” Erissa asked softly. “I can only hope this qualifies as a ‘Monster.’ I should hate to face that creature alone, but I will if I must. I cannot stand idly by while it terrorizes innocent people.”

“What about the rest of your Knights? If this thing is such a threat, why would they not dispatch an entire unit instead of just you?” Letho asked, narrowing his eyes at the elf.

There it was again. Erissa had forgone the girdle and diplomatic regalia and worn her maroon leathers, as beaten and worn as they were from her forays into the Red Forest and other Forgotten strongholds. She had carefully threaded her belt through the securing straps of the scabbard that held her new delyn sword, with which she had spent more time practicing than she cared to recall in the brutal regimens of her Ixian trainers. A sword does not make a warrior, she could imagine the legendary man saying in his grim and matter-of-fact manner.

The elf was too caught up in thinking she had something more to prove, and it did not cross her mind that he might know a little more about the ‘spider’ than she did.

“They are stretched too thinly as it is,” Erissa said tightly. “With the war...” The elf sighed as her voice faltered.

And Cassandra Remi. And the betrayal by William Arcus. And the invasion of their castle and near defeat. And the skirmish war with the Phoenix Ascendant. There was a look of distress in the elf’s eyes, as one who had lost something dear and knew not where to find it.

“Well perhaps your Ixian Knights should not have meddled in the war in the first place,” Letho said, more than a hint of annoyance in his voice. Erissa’s jaw dropped.

“Meddling?” she asked sharply. “I assure you, Mr. Ravenheart, we only ever sought to end the war, and to lessen the collateral damage in the process. To protect the innocents who neither wanted nor supported the war. That is what we do.” Erissa crossed her arms, studying the man. “At least, that is why I signed on with them.”

Letho’s face remained unreadable, and the tension in the room could have been sliced and served on rye.

“I apologize for wasting your time,” Erissa said finally, and she turned to leave. With a deep breath, the elf rested a hand on the pommel of her sword. She remembered a time before when such an action would have seemed alien to her, and moreso drawing the weapon to use it against another living thing. That, for her, was innocence lost, but she did not regret it. Even as her footfalls echoed through the Monster Hunter's office, she began forming something of a plan to confront the giant spider. For all the lessons and techniques she had learned, one instruction stayed with her the most. Stick ‘em with the pointy end. That was the most important part, she reckoned, and that was exactly what she would have to do.

[Letho]

The nagging churn of his gut began as soon as the elf bid him a curt goodbye and marched out of his office, and it gradually grew more annoying with every second Letho remained seated in his chair, stroking his beard. He didn’t have to dissect his thoughts overmuch to find the culprit for this sense of wrongness. He knew exactly why he was reluctant to help the elven woman, and it had nothing to do with her being a woman or an elf or even a foolhardy she-elf. It had, however, everything to do with her being a member of the Ixian Knights.

Letho Ravenheart didn’t hate the Ixian Knights. It was more of a matter of not tolerating them and their activities. They were no different than any other vigilante group who saw fit to write their own book of rules, bending and breaking the law as they went around playing heroes and policing the realm. But like every other self-proclaimed liberators of the folk, they had a tendency not to see farther than their own nose. On a small scale, it always appeared as if they were making a difference. But when one took a step back and observed the broader picture, the warm feeling began to fade away. Aside from undermining authorities, the main problem was simple: escalation. By taking matters into their own hands, they inspired others to take matters into their own hands. And while they usually got away with striking hard and slinking back into the shadows, most others wound up in either the infirmary or the cemetery. If Letho had gotten a gold piece for every report he had read about somebody trying to avenge some wrongdoing themselves and winding up with their face smashed in, their knees broken or their name on a headstone, he would’ve had retired as a much richer man.

But that was an old bone, and one that he wasn’t supposed to pick anymore. He was no longer a lawman and Ixian Knights were someone else’s problem. And the fact that he didn’t support their actions couldn’t outweigh the fact that the elf was bound for an early grave if he didn’t do something. A bitter part of Letho whispered that that was exactly what she deserved, exactly what all fools deserved for sticking their nose where it didn’t belong. But while the retired Marshal was growing more morose and acerbic with age, he was still a farcry from actually listening to that little devil inside his head. Most of his life had been spent on protecting those that needed protection, dealing with things others couldn’t handle. And while some things changed with time, there were a worthy few that were chiseled far too deep into the core of a person to be erased by the erosion of time. Yes, he was a lawman no more, but deep down inside Letho was still bound by the same code. And it demanded action from the retired Marshal.

By the time he contemplated his way to a decision, the sound of the departing carriage had already faded away. Wasting no time, Letho paced out of the office and swung around the corner of the manor towards the stables. Sticking his thumb and forefinger past his lips, he blew a high-pitched whistle and a second later a black pegasus nosed his way past the gates. Midnight’s Fidelity snorted and stretched his massive wings as he made his way to Letho.

“Come, my friend,” the retired Marshal said, patting the beast’s neck before ducking beneath a wing and climbing onto his back. “We have an elf to catch.”

Midnight didn’t need to be heeled in order to move. He trotted on its own accord a couple of steps as he folded his wings, then broke into a full gallop with Letho bent low and clinging to the pegasus’ neck. He gathered sufficient speed, then swung his wings wide, flapping them once, twice. On the third swing he broke free of gravity and sailed smoothly over the fence, taking them skyward. And though Letho rode Midnight countless times over the long years of their partnership, that feeling of separation from earth still brought a smirk to his face. Below them, the Valley of the Eagles was like a great green gash in the monotone grayness of the Jagged Mountains. Though it was still early in the day, there was very little activity, but that was usual for Tol Andana. It was a place of serenity, utterly lacking the bustle of the packed streets and sweaty bodies. As such, it was easy to discern the coach of his visitor, slowly snaking its way down the winding road.

“There,” Letho pointed towards the carriage, and the pegasus obeyed without delay. Moving his wings backwards and pulling his legs close to his body, Midnight dove for the ground like a bullet. The whistling wind deafened the ex-Marshal and nearly blinded him, forcing him to squint his eyes as they plummeted. At the very last moment the beast pulled up, his wings spreading to their full width in a blink of an eye before it flapped them forcefully. It brought the beast and man to a stop right in front of an advancing carriage, making the horses below skid to a halt with a protesting neigh as the driver pulled hard on the reins.

“What has happened?” the elf demanded from inside her carriage. Once she leant her head far enough through the window, though, she could see the answer for herself. Midnight still hovered three feet above ground, each flap of his majestic wings sending forth gusts of wind. Letho nudged the pegasus’ neck downwards a bit, and the beast landed gingerly, folding his wings and letting the rider dismount. By then the silver-haired elf had made her way out of the carriage, a questioning look in her green eyes.

“You really would have gone through with it, went after this monster on your own?” Letho said as he walked towards her, offering no apology for his entrance. The silence was the only response he got, but they both knew the answer. The elf’s brow furrowed minutely as the bulky Marshal approached. “Why?” was the simple follow up. And as Letho stopped mere two paces from her, his muscular form towering over the slender elven woman, it was clear that he wanted an answer to that one.

“Because it is my duty,” she responded. She was devastatingly beautiful at the moment, dauntless and defiant under his gaze, steel in her eyes ready to cut. It once again recalled the image of Tayotihua, the first elf he met on his wanderings. He had forgotten most about Tay, but never the eyes. Eyes that bore through time and space.

“To the Knights?” Letho said with a hint of a scowl. But the woman before him was not unfazed by the question, her mystical greens fixed on his own like eyes of a predator.

“To the people in peril,” the she-elf retorted. Then, after a brief pause: “And to myself.”

For a couple of seconds more, the clash of wills and stern gazes continued, as if each was trying to take the measure of the other by staring alone. Letho still wasn’t certain what to make of her. She was either an incredibly courageous woman or an incredibly foolish one, and somehow he couldn’t imagine her dressed in motley, wearing a funny hat and juggling oranges. Yet deciding to face this unknown monster on her own seemed decidedly harebrained. Ultimately it didn’t matter, though. Either way she would need his help, and the beast needed to be put down, and he really had nothing better to do.

“I see. Very well.” The words broke the silence and chipped at the firmness of his visage, allowing for an amiable smirk. He extended his hand towards the elf. “Come tomorrow, we shall go hunt for this monster of yours, miss.”

Her eyes lingered on his for a moment longer before she took his hand calmly and shook it with determined firmness. “Errisa Caedron,” she identified herself. “And thank you, Mister Ravenheart.”

“Oh, I would not go thanking me just yet,” Letho said, though some of the edge has faded away from his voice. “This beast will be a world of trouble, and you might want those thanks back before we are done.”

“I sincerely doubt that. I mean what I say,” Errisa said.

“I am sure you do,” the retired Marshal submitted. “Then I shall go make arrangements. Unfortunately, you will have to abandon the comfort of you carriage.”

“I have no objections to that,” the elf was fast to dismiss any insinuations, though her brow seemed to lower just a fraction.

“Good. Do you perhaps require some additional equipment? Clothing, armor...”

“Mister Ravenheart, I am not the delicate flower you clearly believe me to be,” Errisa declared in that aggravated teacher tone that bubbled out of all elves when they were riled enough. Her ire was further accentuated by her posture as her hands dropped to her hips. “I am an able combatant, I have every intention to pull my own weight and I have come prepared.”

Though her words were sharp, Letho made no indication that they’ve cut him in any way, covering the admittance of guilt. Though the assumption wasn’t entirely his fault. All elves looked a bit soft around the edges to his eyes, too smooth to blemish, too gracious to strike, too perfect to destroy. They looked like they were made for palaces and libraries and dance floors, not muddy battlefields and dank caves. So it was far easier to imagine Errisa driving around in her carriage, going to some reception organized by some royal prick, than to imagine her wielding a sword, face caked with mud, trying to fend off a horse-sized spider. But he had been corrected, and though Letho was still uncertain whether or not he believed her words, he was courteous enough not to let his doubts show.

“That is certainly good to know,” was all Letho responded with. Bowing his head slightly, he bid her farewell. “Tomorrow, then. We shall meet at the manor at dawn.”

“Tomorrow, at dawn,” she confirmed.

[Sagequeen]

It was easy to get lost in the work. Life and death tended to take precedence over just about everything else she would rather not think about. There never was much time to kick dirt at the graves of her memories, even those she once had and knew she had lost. There was no time to search them out, to face the ghosts that lurked in the shadows of her ignorance.

And in the early hours of night, there was wine, blood-red and full-bodied. It was just as easy to get lost in a bottle of Raiaerian Red and sleep in blessed absence of dreams. Too many safe nights in plush, feather beds and Erissa was as high strung and erratic as a over-daring child’s kite. She longed for the rocks that bruised her back as she slept on the ground, the cold’s bite, the sun’s blistering, and her life hanging in the delicate balance between the point and pommel of the sword in her hand. She even longed for the brutal regimens of the Ixian trainers. They had pressed her beyond her limits, broken her mind and body, and left her so exhausted she virtually slept as she dragged herself home each night. At least then there was no time to think.

It was not healthy behavior, and she knew it. But she did not dwell on it.

The high elf watched the sun set and the moon rise through the clean, shapely window in her rented room. She had actually looked forward to being among her kind in Tol Andana. Sadly, upon her arrival she felt like an outsider to the serenity and culture of which she used to be a fixture. Elves tended to be much the same no matter where they called home. But for her, so much had changed; so much had been lost. Erissa inhaled deeply from the glass globe she cupped in her hands and, oddly, found herself craving scotch. She dismissed the notion, and after downing the last of the vintage, slid among the silken layers of bedclothes.

The wine had ensured a passable night’s sleep, and a little focus and concentration in the morning quickly relieved the remnants of overindulgence. Being a healer was more than just handy on the battlefield, she thought as she pulled on her leathers and buckled her boots. The Ixian’s pack sat ready by the door, stuffed with dried foods, waybread, and other items of necessity, and she slung the straps of her waterskins across her chest. Her sword glinted icy blue in spite of the golden hour of the sun, and after reading the inscription to herself, Erissa did not take the time as she once did to wonder if she truly was strong enough to live the life given her.

Without a look back, the high elf strode from the elvish architectural wonder that served as a humble inn, and she drew a heavy cloak across her shoulders. In the carriage, Erissa busied herself with books she had gathered from her teacher’s abandoned library, immersing herself in the various lore of beasts, especially spiders. There was much information to be found, too much and too varied to truly know the spider she would be facing. Erissa could not even narrow the field based on the sightings; the reports she had received were often fantastic and most likely exaggerated. At least she hoped they were.

The horses snorted and chuffed as they scaled the cline leading to Letho’s estate in the valley. Magnus and Lucious were two of the finest ground steeds to be found anywhere, and Lucious had been her loyal companion on many occasions. Still, with Erissa’s mentor and his magic gone, each had begun to show his age and loss of intelligence. Though she could have stopped the aging, she did not know the secret behind the spell of knowledge. It did not seem right to keep the beasts only for their bodies after she had shared a much more personal connection with them, so she let them age naturally. It would not be long before she would bury them, and rightfully so, she thought. There were natural limits on life for a reason. Somehow, she thought Letho would be the type of man who would agree, and she turned her eyes to his verdant estate.

From the small window in her carriage, she saw him as the farmhand again, among several beautiful horses. Erissa was surprised; the Ixian had expected him to be dressed for battle and armed to the teeth. Instead, he stood stoically with a length of rope draped over his shoulder. The elf called to her driver to stop.

“Go back to your home and family,” she instructed as she stepped onto the ground. She tossed a cloth bag filled with tinkling coins to him. “Thank you, and you need not wait here. I will make other arrangements." If I should succeed and need to get home. The driver did not question her, but Erissa saw the worry in his eye. She did not linger on it, and instead made her way to the well-tended fence that marked the furthermost border of Letho Ravenheart’s estate.