Land of Pointed Teeth

[Morkotar]

Closed to Poison. Please be advised we are not following a standard posting order due to the nature of the thread.

The ship's concerted oarstrokes countered the rhythmical lapping of waves on the hull. Sun filtered through the forecabin's grimy windows despite the bloodstained rags curtained on rusted nails. It doused the small wooden room in rosy light, like a bloodred sky warning of a coming storm.

Aullos Morkotar rolled over to hide his sensitive eyes from the harsh light, licking cracked lips to wet them. The familiar, near nauseating tang of salt clung to his tongue and the inside of his mouth, a bitter taunt to his strained sanity. Despite his mother's careful work setting his once sleek nose, it remained swollen and stinging. The sailor who had smashed it was the only violent death on the harrowing voyage, meeting his end at the tip of Aullos' father's dagger. But the shortage of food and drinking water had claimed many lives, bringing the death toll on board to twenty-six, nearly three quarters of the crew. Aullos and his father - Rumaille Morkotar, once a notable scribe to the High Bard Council in Eluriand- had lifted each sailcloth-wrapped body between them and heaved them over the gunnels. With a single lifeboat on board and little lumber to spare in the economical elven design, the traditional burial at sea remained infeasible. The lack of the rite for each of those twenty-six souls weighed Aullos down as much as the fatigue and strain, the hunger and thirst. At night sometimes he felt as if it were him at the bottom of the ocean, with no land or light visible forever. But then the sun woke him and the painful gurgling in his stomach forced him to his feet and out of the forecabin.

They're rowing! Although he'd heard the broken rhythm upon awakening, the young elf had not considered the implication until he saw his emaciated shipmates bent over long yew oars, pulling as if a feast were waiting for them ahead... Land, it must be land!

With torn silk pants swishing around slender legs, matted blond hair billowing and tanned chest bare in the sunlight, Aullos weaved around barrels and cauldrons, sapphire eyes intent on the forecastle. The crew had lashed every container large or small to the deck, capturing the scant cloudbursts that relieved daytime heat. As he climbed off the deck and looked out over the bowsprit, a hot ball of tension evaporated between his narrow shoulderblades. So many times in the past months Allous had imagined spotting a speck of land on the horizon... and now he saw a dark rocky headland in astonishing detail.

We will never make it ashore on those rocks... the ferry landing from Scara Brae must be near, assuming this is indeed Corone. Aullos had studied geography as a child, and pored over the few maps they had aboard at great length during the voyage. Perhaps a fortnight earlier they'd glimpsed Corone's Jagged Mountains biting the sky like a land of pointed teeth. The sight had brought grief rather than joy, for the ocean's currents had carried the small ship Anwarunya parallel to the mountains for a short few moons before turning and bearing them southward through an endless mist.

Realising he had slumped over the gunnel when relief flooded his veins, Aullos hopped back to the deck and staggered to an unmanned oar, legs unsteady with excitement, insides burning with famine and nervous energy.

"You should have woken me!" He called in a cracked voice, catching his father's pointed ear. Several oarlocks ahead, Rumaille turned and winked at his son, but wasted no breath on idle speech. Seeing his father's sunblotched face and seamed lips decimated the pain and discomfort as he leaned over the oar and pushed with his long legs, pulling water and helping to propel the craft. Hope blossomed within him, strong as the sun's rays.

The escape from Eluriand and voyage had claimed so many of them, but ten remained, and they were not going to die at sea. We're going to live. Aullos told himself with each taxing stroke. We're going to live.

[Morkotar]

For the first hundred or so backbreaking strokes, Aullos leaned out over the waves to glimpse the distant land. Salt spray soaked his face and hair, but the rocky mass never seemed to grow larger. Finally he resigned himself to rowing meditatively, humming an old marching song in the back of his throat. The eight working oars came together around his tune, and the elves who had boarded the ship as refugee families propelled the Anwarunya through choppy waters like a crew of seasoned sailors. Aullos could hear his mother weeping softly, but even so she worked the ornate wooden handle with shaking shoulders and steady hands. Through the loose ringlets of her silver hair Aullos could see his father rowing steadily as he whistled in time with the marching song. Aullos could not see his sisters, but heard them giggling excitedly as they worked the sternmost oar between them. Of the ten survivors, only the twins could still speak without hurting their throats. They were linditari, great prodigy singers, and it seemed more than dehydration or seasalt would be required to injure their voices.

On the port side of the ship two grizzled sailors worked the foremost oars. Between them they had three eyes, and had spent over three hundred years on Althanas' wild seas. A seaworn elf was a shocking sight to most non-Raiaerans, and indeed many of the inlanders from their dearly damaged home. Seated before them were a young couple who had lost their children during the voyage, who rowed with the stiffness of something constructed in the dark laboratories of Alerar. The final survivor was too sick from the sun to do more than lay in the lean-to constructed amidships against the mainmast. A grey-haired greatelf, she wet her brow with a bit of sailcloth from a bowl of seawater, and called meek encouragement to nine elves who had become her family by rite.

"Keep it up lovelies. Don't strain yourselves though, there isn't enough room in here with me!" She coughed pityingly.

"Save your breath Iainwen!" Aullos' mother exclaimed from the seat in front of him, "We need you to carry our luggage once we make land. We'll be too tired!" Tarawien Morkotar laughed at herself, joined by the other nine survivors. They all ended up coughing painfully, and then resumed rowing in silence.

The sun grew stronger as minutes stretched to hours, scorching Aullos' sweat-slicked back. The chatter from the twins faded eventually, but their oar kept time as sure as the rest. Not one of the refugees was willing to cease their efforts, lest they turn around and the island be revealed as a mirage. Finally Rumaille Morkotar stood and leaned over the gunnel, sleek scribe's hands balanced on the oarlock, a wide smile cracking his unnaturally ruddy face.

"We've nearly made it. Take a rest, all of you... it will help nothing if we dash this great lady on the rocks." He placed both weather beaten hands on the ship's rail reverently and arched his back, reversing the crunch of rowing. "Ahh, that's better. Aullos, get your nimble toes up the foremast to call directions... one of our sailors will take the tiller I'm sure. We've all but made it!"

[Morkotar]

The feel of Anwarunya's keel scraping pebbly bottom loosened the spines of her crew better than the thumbs of legendary elven masseuse Valin Tyell. The carrack wedged amongst thousands of smooth salt washed stones and settled at a gentle angle within throwing distance of the Ferry landing. Rather than risk damaging the seasoned docks with an ill-aimed landing, the crew had opted opted to run her prow up the beach. Rumaille Morkotar stood to stretch and lost his balance, tumbling awkwardly to the tilted deck. After uncounted months lost at sea, he'd briefly lost his land legs. His laugh was rough but melodious as he propped up on his elbows, assisted by his daughters and wife. Across the deck, the sailors moved cautiously up the forecastle, using hands and feet braced on deck and gunnels to stay upright. Tarawien kissed her husband on the nose and each of her daughters on the head, her sailcloth toga and moonbeam hair draping about slender shoulders as she rose.

"Tanatta, Tamuenna, your father took quite a spill. He will need many kisses to recover." Tarawien wiped a final tear of happiness from one delicate cheekbone and strode across the ship as the twins swarmed their father with wet, noisy kisses. Their giggling and Rumaille's choked laughter caught the attention of all aboard except the young couple, who hard barely moved from their benches, simply curling closer together and weeping softly. Her pointed ears quivered as she caught the names of their lost a daughter and son, both younger than ten, dead from exposure and swallowed by the merciless sea. A generation of elves the nation would never see grow wise. Tarawien placed a blistered but elegant hand on the shoulders of each of the young mourners, and spoke to them with soft words. She had seen the Gods claim too many of her people, and would not watch grief to the same to these two.

Aullos had not moved from where he clung to the foremast, arms and legs laced about the sanded yew. He was mesmerised, drinking in all of Corone that his eyes could see.

The rocky headland they originally spotted had risen and fallen in cliffs and grottos, seeming endless and impeachable. Finally, as the sun moved well past its zenith, the jagged rockland bowed and curved gracefully as the neck of a high lady curtsying, and became earth. The Anwarunya had landed in a tiny pebble cove between the ferry docks and vaulted cliffs, and leaned to the side as a lady gazing quizzically at the great forest Concordia. Although it began gradually with spear-leafed weeds and low bushes, trees grew more than thrice the height of their mainmast and thick as hairs on a hundred-year-old's head.

Aullos had never seen such a forest, and realised he had begun composing a ballad of the Anwarunya's voyage, inspired by sudden hope and the thought of finding food, fresh water, and civilisation. More like a dirge than a ballad, he thought as he reflected on the maddening months lost in a limitless ocean. His father's voice broke through the reverie.

"Back to the deck with you Aullos, we must confer!" Aullos shimmied down and met his father and the sailors on the forecastle, leaning out over the pebble beach as waves lapped about the ship's prow. They were silent a moment, realising none of them had truly expected to make land. They stood breathing easily and listening to the faint sounds of Tarawien and the twins comforting the broken family. A seabird appeared in the clear sky, soaring out of Concordia's fringe and landing with a ruffle on the beach. It squawked and advanced tentatively on the foreign vessel. Aullos' stomach rumbled, and he said the first thing that came to mind.

"Where are all the people? This is the ferry landing... shouldn't someone be here?" The question hung in the brackish air for a moment, then the one-eyed sailor shrugged and responded.

"Ferries come only as they are needed. This late in the season, it could be a week or more before the next arrival." The veteran made a sweeping gesture of the empty forest cove, "Looks as though there's been no one here for some days. Humans always leave trace, but the tide and animals have taken it all away." He pointed and squinted his single eye at the far end of the beach, where a track leading from the ferry docks led into seemingly solid forest. "The mouth is a mite overgrown, but that is the road to Gisela. If my memory serves there's a well less than an hour's walk from here." His voice caught and he took a moment to clear his throat before spitting a ball of phlegm and blood into the surf. He turned and leaned against the gunnel, fixing each of them in turn with his flinty gaze.

"Two of us should strike out presently, and I nominate myself and Aullos. Rumaille, if you can ensure the others are prepared to follow-"

"We are not." A tired but strong voice interrupted. Iainwen - the eldest aboard - had emerged from her shelter and approached them slowly, worn palm whispering along the rail for balance. "I am in no state to go charging through the wild, nor am I about to let those sweet young girls get eaten by a bear." She shook a long finger with a peeling enamelled nail at the one-eyed sailor. "You and the lad may go, but take the weepers with you, and send them back with as much water as they can carry." She stopped directly in front of him and glared both of her purple eyes into his grey one. "And if you let any harm come to these goodelves, Fingolvin Elanesse, you'd best hide yourself in that forest for the rest of time."

Although he tried to swallow it, a single-note laugh of exhilaration exploded from deep in Aullos' diaphragm. The thought of danger was almost welcome, so long as it happened on real, solid dry land.


~ * ~

[Morkotar]

~ * ~

The fire guttered and sparked, spitting embers further than it cast its flickering light. The pale glow made Aullos Morkotar's shadow dance on the side of the old well set in a clearing just off the road to Gisela. The well was made of ancient stones and modern timber, steel nails still shiny. They had arrived whilst daylight still permeated Concordia's canopy, Aullos and Fingolvin leading with bow and stave, the Seregons following laden with empty bottles and skins. All four had been outfitted in chameleon cloaks found in the hold - a treasure trove of the most prized possessions of three dozen noteworthy elves - upon firm insistance from Iainwen.

"The goodelves these belonged to would want you all as safe as possible. Take anything you may need." She'd declared. Aullos had outfitted himself in his own sifan clothing and shin high leather boots, choosing soft earth tones he thought would blend with the forest flora. He strapped on his belt knife with the lute-shaped handle, and shouldered his father's nihon redwood bow, but found an ornate quiver containing a mix of mythril bodkins and broadpoints, and took it in place of his own. Fingolvin dressed similarly in darker shades and selected three long, sheathed knives in addition to his quarterstave. The Seregons had garbed themselves in layers and followed instructions automatically, barely seeming aware of the world otherwise.

As they had hiked along the dirt road, birdsong and insect buzzing had nearly driven him mad. There were some birds which sounded eerily similar to those native to Raiaera, and the minute differences in their cries made Aullos itch to teach them to sing properly. After he'd nearly fallen into the ditch trying to fend of a cloud of biting gnats, the young elf resigned himself to trudging gamely onward and focusing on how nice it was to be out of the sun and salt. Indeed, the dank forest seemed to hydrate him partially even before they sighted the well.

Upon arrival Mablung and Luthien had folded into the loam to rest while Aullos and Fingolvin worked the surprisingly well-oiled crank. As they drank greedily from the first bucket brought up, the one-eyed sailor pointed out blackened scorch marks on the stones near the top of the wells base.

"One of the factions of their civil war must have burned the old well to gain advantage over another," Fingolvin had said, seeming intrigued by the tactic, "explains the new lumber." Aullos was feeling quite superior until he realised that the war that had driven him out of his homeland could be described as a civil war, same as what happened on Corone. Not quite the same though, he had convinced himself as they worked in turns, pulling water from the well until they filled all of their flagons, at least, until I know for sure, I do not have to believe my people turned on one another.

As the light began to fade Fingolvin had sent Mablung and Luthien back in the direction they'd come, laden with as much water as they could carry as promised. They had decided to camp by the well for the night and press on toward the nearest village at first light. Fingolvin had fetched a hare with an almost casual throw of one of his long knives whilst they gathered firewood, and the unlikely pair had settled down for the night.

"Supper's served," Fingolvin said with a wolfish grin, prodding the roasted hare on its makeshift spit. The words brought Aullos out of his reverie, and he inhaled deeply, cherishing the moment.

"This smells better than anything ever cooked in Raiaera. What must these creatures eat?" They both chuckled as the sailor scooted their dinner onto a flat rock to cool.

"You're just the hungriest you've ever been, lad. The longer the fast, the more we appreciate the meat." Fingolvin drew a knife from beneath his cloak and pulled his stave across folded legs, beginning to whittle one end to a point with the mythril blade. Aullos was distracted by the intoxicating steam rising from the hare's carcass, but finally tore his attention away long enough to ask the first thing that came to his mind.

"Are you making that into a spear?"

The sailor sighed.

"A javelin, technically, but yes."

"Why?" Aullos regretted the one word question as soon as he saw Fingolvin's eyes, but could not take it back.

"Because... there are things in these woods, one can't kill with a knife or arrow."

[Poison]

As the sun finally set, Poison rose from her bed. She'd rented a small room in one of Gisela's inns and slept the day away. There wasn't much to the room, just the bed, a small bedside table that she had not bothered to light, and a wash bowl with a full pitcher of water beside it. She sighed heavily as she looked out the window. A few more minutes and it would be safe for her to walk the streets without the cover of her cloak and gloves. Over the last few months the time she could spend in daylight had shortened dramatically. When she had first been turned into a vampire, she could manage several long minutes before the sun began to burn her pale, delicate skin. Now, if she let any skin show to the sun for more than a minute her skin would begin to burn painfully. Fortunately, she'd always been able to get herself covered or into shelter from the sun before too much damage was done.

Still, she was in Gisela for a reason. A certain collector in Radasanth had heard of a priceless elven artifact that had been brought here by an elf lord. Presumably, the elven lord had smuggled the artifact out of Raiaera whilst fleeing Xem'zund. The human collector had no love for elves, regardless of the situation. However, he did enjoy collecting the fine things they made. He had contacted Poison and for the price of 1,500 gold pieces she would go into the elven manor to retrieve the item.

Pursing her lips, she looked over the hand-written description of the artifact once more. What she was to steal was truthfully a masterfully crafted elven sword. According to her employer, it was not an ordinary sword, but one with great power. She didn't remember what he said it could do. Such things did not matter to the thief. The weapon was about forty-two inches long. The blade a scant two inches wide. The hilt was wrapped in top-notch black leather with an emerald set into the pommel. Elven runes ran the length of the blade. Poison assumed those runes were what gave it its alleged power. What made the blade even more special though was the material with which the blade was made. This was an adamantine blade. As far as anyone knew, there was nothing that could damage a blade like this except perhaps the very rare icemold. Never would this blade need to have dings beaten out of or a new edge put to it. That alone made the blade worth a very large amount of money.

It may be worth more than that piffling 1,500.

The vampire kept her thoughts to herself as she folded the paper up and placed it in a pocket on her belt. She doubted she would need to refer to it a second time, but it did not hurt to be prepared. She took another quick look out the window and nodded once. The sun was far enough down to allow her to enter the streets without fear of her skin blistering in minutes.

Methodically, she checked that her two sai were in their sheathes. Then she took out a bottle filled with a material that had a smokey yet silvery sheen to it. She swirled the contents of the otherwise dark liquid gently then carefully opened the bottle. She put on her gloves and took up a small piece of cloth. After a quick dip in the liquid, she put a light coating on each of her blades. Then she took her needle-knife and dipped it in liquid. It quickly soaked up some of the liquid. Smiling to herself, Poison carefully put the cap back on the bottle and put it away.

This was a new recipe of poison she had been experimenting with called Black Death. In preparation for tonight, she had gathered the ingredients as she traveled from Radasanth to Gisela and prepared it here. Black Death was supposed to kill its victims within twenty-four hours. Tonight, she would give the poison a test run should anyone get in her way.

Satisfied now that she was as prepared as she could get, Poison left the inn and started toward the manor of the owner of the adamantine sword.

[Poison]

The manor had not been hard to find. Silver-grey eyes watched it carefully, seeking out the guards and watching their patrol pattern. Within the city, it seemed they felt very much at ease. No guard seemed to be actively looking around, but merely walking his path with a bored expression on his face. Poison smiled softly to herself; she could easily make her trip a much more interesting one for the guards, but she was making a name for herself as being one that did not have to resort to killing or maiming every guard she came across. She was becoming more and more known as one who could get in and out without anyone knowing she'd been there at all.

Another time perhaps...

Moving confidently, she strode across the practically empty square and slid into the shadow of the wall. After waiting several minutes to be sure no one had noticed her, she closed her eyes and focused briefly on the shadows around her. In a few moments, she felt them swallow her and she opened her eyes. She moved at a quick walk through the shadows, completely invisible to the normal person's eye, until she was close to the main building. At that moment, the shadows abruptly released her and she hurried forward into the next shadow. She panted a little as she caught her breath. As useful as that ability was, it required a lot of effort.

Now to find my way inside...

Poison slunk along through the shadows, pausing every now and then to let a guard walk by. By the time she found an unguarded servants' entrance, she was almost convinced that she could have been dancing like a jester as they passed and they wouldn't have noticed.

Wonder if this elf lord knows how little effort his night guards put into their job?

Pondering that, she silently padded inside the mansion and started through the halls. Her client had not been able to offer any clues as to the whereabouts of his coveted elven sword. Her first thought was to try to find an armory, but then the thought of it being an elven heirloom made her think again. The first room she would check would be the elf's personal bedchamber. Providing of course that she could find it in a decent amount of time. As she moved through the halls, it began to occur to her that this might take a few reconnaissance trips before she narrowed down where the sword was kept.

She took her time moving from one room to the next. She had no need to rush other than to be out by dawn. Besides, haste often created more noise and that was the last thing she wanted. Every now and then she paused, holding absolutely still and barely breathing as a guard or servant came near. Fortunately, none of them ever noticed her. For that matter, it seemed oddly quiet for being just after sunset.

Perhaps he is out at a party or something...

After an hour and a half of searching the first level, Poison finally concluded that wherever the sword was kept, it was not on the ground level.

I've been here too long already. I'll just have to come back tomorrow night.

Somewhat frustrated that she had not at least found the room the sword was kept in, Poison quickly made her way out of the mansion and back onto the streets of Gisela. The night was still young as far as she was concerned. She needed to find herself a meal and perhaps someone to help warm her bed. Smiling to herself at the prospect of both, she loosened the top buttons of her outfit to display a tantalizing bit of cleavage and selected a tavern in which to have a little fun for the rest of the night.

[Poison]

As expected, the tavern she chose was full of men at tables with a wide variety of drink and food. Pretty wenches wove their way throughout, avoiding the many groping hands, while still delivering various meals. There was nothing special about the tavern, it was arranged like any other. An very large, unlit fireplace filled one wall. A long bar counter stood at one end of the common room with a few empty stools standing in front of it. A very light haze of smoke from cigarettes and pipes hung around the rafters and the air stank of alcohol. In short, it was the perfect place to find what she was looking for.

Poison walked across the floor, letting her hips swing a bit more than usual. She wore her usual outfit of a skin-tight cat-suit. It left very little to the imagination even though she was completely covered. She took a seat on one of the empty bar stools and ordered a glass of red wine. Though the alcohol would have no effect on her, having a drink was part of the cover. This was not a tavern at which she could order a drink that would truly sustain her, though she was sure they existed somewhere in the world.

Out of the corner of her eye, she watched a table full of young men. They had clearly already had a few drinks themselves, though they were not yet incapacitated with drink. She put on a sweet smile, turned just enough to catch their eyes, and winked. She then casually turned back to her drink and began a slow countdown in her head.

Five... four... three... two... one.

Right on cue, one of the young men cleared his throat at her elbow. “Excuse me, Miss, you seem to be all alone. Would you care to join me in a dance?”

Poison turned and gave him a smile. His brown hair was somewhat tousled, but his clothes were clean and neat. His smooth cheeks were just a little rosy from having been drinking, but he wasn't wavering where he stood.

“A dance sounds like fun. I'm Alicia,” she said as she slid off the stool and took the arm he offered.

“Dylan,” he answered simply and led her out onto the dance floor.

As they danced, Poison could almost smell the blood rushing through his veins. When she caressed his neck and left her hand against his chest, she could feel his heart beat faster. For the next couple of hours, she gave all her attention to Dylan. When they took a break from dancing, she sat in his lap, and let him buy her more drinks. By around one in the morning, she had him firmly in the palm of her hand. Now it was time to move to more private quarters.

'Alicia' yawned and laid her head against Dylan's shoulder. She shifted slightly in his lap and then whispered in his ear, “I'm getting tired of the tavern, maybe we can find somewhere else to enjoy each others' company? Somewhere... private?”

Drunk as he was, Dylan was not stupid. His eyes lit up a bit and his grin was just a tad foolish as he got to his feet. “Alicia and I are gonna call it a night,” he said, smiling and winking to his friends, “I will you boys in the morning.”

Without another word to his friends, Dylan and Poison climbed the stairs to the rooms on the second floor. Once the door was locked, Poison wasted no time as she kissed him soundly. A light moan of pleasure slid out of her throat as he eagerly returned it and let his hands begin to roam. He'd wanted to to leave his friends earlier, but hadn't been sure that Alicia was quite willing. Being young, a trail of clothes soon marked the path they took across the small space between door and bed.

An hour before dawn, as Dylan lay in bed, half asleep, Poison sat up, leaning over him. The night's activities had been quite pleasurable for both parties. Dylan reached up and pushed a stray strand of Poison's silver hair back over her ear, “You gonna come, sleep? It's nearly dawn.”

“I know, and I will in a moment.”

She leaned over him, nuzzling at his neck for a moment. She let her fangs slide out slowly, then with eyes closed, bit hard into his neck. He yelled of course, but it was much too late and he was too exhausted to fight back. She had made sure of that. She drank deeply, relishing the metallic taste of his blood.

A part of her wanted to drink until there was nothing left, but she pushed that part away and stopped after only a pint. She had not bit the jugular, so he would be fine in a few minutes. Quickly, she dressed herself and from one of the pouches of her belt, she pulled out a cloth pad. She tended to the wounds she'd given him.

“I'm sorry, Dylan,” she told the now unconscious young man, “but I had to eat. You'll be a little woozy when you wake, but you'll be fine. I had a wonderful night...”

She pulled the covers up around him, then quickly slipped out. She kept to the alleys as much as possible as she made her way back to her inn. She had not intended to stay out as late as she did, but Dylan's company was very enjoyable. Just as dawn began to warm the street in front of her inn, Poison slipped inside the front door and made her way up to her room.

“That was a little too close for comfort,” she scolded herself as she began to undress once again. She made sure the drapes on the window were firmly shut, then climbed into bed to sleep the day away. Perhaps tonight she'd find that blasted sword.

[Morkotar]

"They sleep during the day," Fingolvin explained as they broke camp the next morning, "the sun burns their skin like a leaf beneath a lens." The one eyed elf tied his belongings in a neat bundle and slung it across his back with a sigh.

"And how often must they feed?" Aullos asked like a star-eyed pupil on his first day at Istien. The young elf had dreamt the previous night of finishing the gruelling trek to Gisela only to discover it populated by these vampires. The prospect of failing to bring aid to his family and countryelves had woken him with an urge to begin the hike and an itch to discover everything possible about the bloodthirsty creatures.

"It varies," Fingolvin replied, measuring his words. "So far as I know most bloodrinkers can go a few weeks before starving. It's more a question of how often they can feed." While Aullos worked on tying up his own bundle the sailor buried their firepit and the scant remains of the hare. Fingolvin grimaced as he added, "it's one of the only pleasures in their lowly lives. Some succumb to gluttony and go down easily, like a biteme that bloats itself and can't fly away. But most are clever as they are vicious." Fingolvin chuckled as he picked up his stave. "Can you manage that on your own?"

"Yes, just one moment more..." Aullos muttered reply faded as he focused on getting the final series of knots just right, and then stood and slung his makeshift pack across both shoulders. He opened his mouth to ask whether vampires could fly, but closed it and followed the older elf's line of vision upon seeing Fingolvin's ears quiver.

A branch broke in the woods between the well and the road, followed by a rustling of leaves.

Footsteps.

Aullos found his bow and knelt to string it, agonisingly aware of the groan of the bow and the beat of his heart as he listened intently. It sounded like two vampires... no, it couldn't be vampires, the sun had risen an hour prior. Two men then, moving stealthily and lightly on their feet, perhaps stalking them...

"I think it's Rumaille and Galdor," Fingolvin said quitetly, and then chuckled as the pair he'd named emerged from the underbrush, arms guarding faces against long branches.

Aullos let out his breath, suddenly realizing he'd held it along with tension throughout his entire body. He dropped the bow and moved to greet his father.

"The ferry arrived!" Rumaille exclaimed excitedly as he embraced his son.

[Morkotar]

A warm sense of reassurance spread throughout Aullos' body as he sat along with his father and the two sailors to discuss their situation. Rumaille began by unwrapping a meagre offering of hardtack and veined cheese purchased from the ferry's stores. Picturing his mother and sisters safe and well fed, Morkotar joined Fingolvin in wolfing down chunks of the stale bread and cheese together.

"The two of you missed a spectacle," Galdor laughed, "Iainwen was one of the most tenacious hagglers in all of Eluriand. The poor ferryman hadn't a prayer." The wizened sea-elf paused with a chunk of hardtack partway to his mouth. Aullos noticed a shadow in his eyes and looked about for a sign of danger, but the woods surrounding them were as serene as the road was empty. And then Galdor wiped a tear from a scarred cheekbone.

"They had word of the Birthplace then?" Fingolvin whispered around a mouthful of food.

Aullos swallowed painfully, his head swimming. Raiaera. He and the one eyed elf stared expectantly at the newly arrived pair.

Rumaille and Galdor exchanged a heavy glance, and then the sailor spoke whilst the scribe clicked his fingernails and cast his gaze to the weeds below.

"Little certainty, except that the lands are decimated at best. Ships won't land in a smoking port." Galdor crushed the morsel of bread he'd been considering and pitched it into the brush.

"What of survivors? We cannot be the only refugees..." Fingolvin still sounded choked, and Aullos felt suddenly horrible. His own loved ones were safe - his father sitting next to him. What of the families of the brave sailors who had brought them to safety?

"Little news," Galdor said tiredly, as if he'd answered the question a thousand times in his mind, "but Radasanth will surely have absorbed the bulk of those who escaped by sea. Perhaps Akashima as well." Galdor straightened his spine and plucked a lung blade of grass, measuring it between his hands like a tailor cutting silk. "We managed to hire a couple seafaring types off the ferry. Or I should say, Iainwen did. Not much of a crew, but with the supplies we took on it'll get us up the coast to the capital." Twisting to look back the way they'd come, the tall sailor winced as his spine popped.

"I must ask a favour of Aullos," Rumaille said, halting the stirring amongst the other elves and meeting his son's eyes. "My brother Orodeth was in Gisela when last I heard from him. If you've the will to break company and make the journey, I'm sure his information on the happenings in the Birthplace and of our people landed here will be excellent. He will ensure you safe passage to meet us in Radasanth, though I would not be surprised if he accompanied you himself. He has a special place in his heart for you." Rumaille took a deep breath and produced a sealed scroll from the inn pocket of his cloak. "The choice is yours Aullos, I understand if you'd prefer to accompany the rest of us. And I'd sleep easier knowing where you are each night. But I wish for Orodeth to know we are alive."

He held the the scroll out in a long fingered scribe's hand, blistered and worn though it was from months at sea.

Aullos took the scroll and stood, pulling his father into an embrace. "I'll give uncle Orodeth the best from everyone," he promised.

[Morkotar]

Aullos strolled northward along the earthen road. The pack felt light on his back, even weighted with rations, extra arrows, and a small purse of Coronian currency. His father had sheared off most of his long hair and given him an ordinary cloak in place of the camouflaging one, and a brimmed corduroy cap for the sun. Or perhaps to disguise his ears. What if he should encounter supporters of Xem'zund, after all? But with the sun warming his shoulders and a light breeze ruffling his cloak it was hard to fear what lay ahead. Fingolvin had told him the name of the only village separating them from Gisela. As Aullos pressed onward he noticed signs of its closeness - game trails leading off the road marked by scratches in tree bark, broken wagon wheels, and bootprints in the softer fringes of the road. The village's name flashed through his mind at each sighting.

Ryeton... I wonder what they grow there?

The cacophony of insects and birdsong had long since turned to music in his ears. Each species had their own harmonies, their own pulse and rhythm, and yet together they created a beautiful masterpiece. As the sun passed its zenith small houses of wood and stone appeared sporadically either side of the road. Feeling sweat dampening his undershirt, Aullos paused to remove his pack and cloak, watching a chipmunk fill its face with seeds plucked systematically from a pinecone. His own stomach rumbled in response, but he shouldered the pack and carried the cloak over one arm and pressed on.

The village was as rudimentary as seemed possible. In Raiaera even the tiniest towns had some art to their design, some aesthetic to their function. But as Aullos reached the heart of Ryeton he realised how different humans truly were. Roughshod farmhouses surrounded by rye fields gave way to smallish shops offering everything from books to dinnerware. Further in the smell of curing leather and the ring of hammer on anvil preceded the sweet and savoury delights of multi-chimmnied bakeries.

This town is big enough to have more than one of most things, Aullos noted as he passed a pair of nearly identical taverns, but not more than two or three.

He had wandered past the northern part of the village proper before a storefront caught his eye. Racks of woodwinds and string instruments stood proudly behind well polished windows. Aullos approached, affixed on a gleaming cyper-and-bronze mandolin, but halted short enough to keep his breath from clouding the glass. He could see his own reflection like that of a ghost, and was surprised to see he looked almost human. He reached up and rubbed the back of his neck where the sun had touched his skin for the first time in so long that day. He was tanned and gaunt, but beginning to look like he belonged in Corone.

As he studied his image he glanced upward and noticed a Raiaeran star-charm dangling from the top of the window. His breath caught in his throat. Only a countryelf would hang the reflective chimes, meant to make music and art of sun and wind. Any Coronian might purchase one and decorate their eaves with it, but hanging a star-charm above an entryway was a summer tradition in Raiaera. The window lets the light in, and visitors bring fresh air. Swallowing his shyness and desire to continue northward, he grasped the carved ceramic doorhandle and pulled it open. The star-charm jingled as a breath of wind propelled him down the row of instrument, musical tomes, and tuning and timekeeping devices.

"May I help you?" Inquired the middle aged woman seated behind a messy trakym desk. She removed her half-moon spectacles and placed them amongst the sea of parchments saturating her workspace. "You must be new in town," she added with a kind smile, shaking out a mane of dark hair with the slightest tint of silver. "Looking for an instrument?"

"Ah, yes..." Aullos stumbled over his words. He'd truly expected to find a counrtryelf in the shop. Questions about Corone and the road ahead had welled up, and he found it difficult to stop the teeming flow of thoughts and respond properly in Tradespeak. "A lute please. Not a good one."

The corners of the woman's amber eyes crinkled in confusion for a moment, and then she laughed. Only as she covered her mouth in apology did Aullos see the tears on her tanned cheeks.

"I'm sorry my dear," she told as she resettled her light cotton dress and stood, showing she was nearly as tall as he. "You reminded me of a special friend for a moment, that's all. I think you meant you're looking for a cheaper lute... or maybe something used?"

"Yes," Aullos said, careful of his accent and trying to force the blood to drain from his ears. He'd felt so comfortable speaking the Coronian dialect in classes at Istien University, but those seemed a lifetime ago. "I have little gold," he said honestly, picking simple words.

She led him to a rack of worn and warped stringed instruments, some beyond repair, others looking like they might have a decent sound left within. As he took his time examining a variety of four, five, and six stringed instruments, the shopkeep told him of her travels in Raiaera as a young woman, the elven bard she'd met and loved and eventually grown away from because of their different cultures and lifespans. Aullos had heard the story before from the elven perspective, and felt fairly certain he wouldn't fall in love with this type of woman. But soon enough he found a six stringed lute which only needed a decent polish and tune-up to sing beautifully again. She gave him a price that lightened his purse only a little, and saw him on his way with fresh water for his skins, brought up from her well that morning.

Aullos travelled until night and made his bed on a collection of fallen boughs beneath a towering pine. He fell asleep tinkering at the strings of the lute and twisting the knobs on the neck to adjust them. He felt as though some vital part of his anatomy had been returned.

[Poison]

Getting into the mansion has proved to be as simple the second time as it was the first. Poison's silver hair shone in the moonlight cascading through the windows as she moved stealthily along the hallway of the second floor. She'd waited an extra two hours before entering this time so as to be extra certain that only a few guards wandered the halls.

Her feet made almost no sound on the rich, deep green carpet that ran the length of the hallway. In little alcoves here and there were many priceless busts of people she assumed to be famous for one thing or another. If it was not a small bust or other porcelain statue, it was a painting or figurine made of Fallien glass.

I could just take a few of these things and get just as much money for them as for this dumb sword.

Turning her attention from the many baubles along the walls, she began checking doors. As she came to a door, she pressed her ear against it and listened carefully. Hearing only snores, she moved on to the next. Door after door, she heard the sounds of people sleeping, oblivious to the presence of the thief just outside their room. Finally she came to the end of the hall. It ended in front of a set of double-doors made of intricately carved oak.

This has to be it.

She took a deep breath to steady herself then very slowly pulled the door open. The door made the barest whisper against the carpet, but no other sound as she carefully opened it just far enough to let her slim body slip inside.

Now, where's this elven sword?

Poison moved silently throughout the lord's bedroom suite. She could hear no snores or even steady breathing to tell her than anyone slept in the huge bed that dominated the room. Upon closer inspection she realized that there was no one here. This elven lord was once again out on the town. The corner of her mouth turned up in a smirk. Him being out just made this mission that much easier. Moving with a little more confidence now that she knew she was alone in the room, she pulled open the heavy drapes to let in the moonlight.

Much better...

With the little bit of light now entering the room, she took another look around. Aside from the bed, there was a small area with an armchair, a loveseat, and small coffee table arranged in front of an empty fireplace. A wardrobe stood on the wall opposite the fireplace. It looked to also be intricately carved. The walls had family and picturesque scenery paintings on them to break up the monotony of the paint. In the dim light, Poison was not sure what color the paint was, nor did she care.

Then she saw it. Set upon two brackets over the fireplace sat what could only be the sword she'd been sent after. She marveled at it for a moment, admiring the craftsmanship. This sword truly was worth every coin of that 1,500 she'd been promised and more. Much more. Grinning to herself at the prospect of how much more she would charge for the job, or perhaps even skip out on returning to Radasanth and sell the thing herself, she darted forward.


“What's this? Why's my door open?”

Poison instantly froze at the slurred words coming from the room's entrance. She hurried to be behind it, starting her melding process as soon as she got to the wall. No sooner did she make it there than the lord stumbled in to his room.

“Guess, it didn't latch properly. Curtains open too? Huh...that's odd...”

Poison watched, her heart beating rapidly as the shadows enveloped her as he slowly wove his way to his bed, then collapsed on it, fully clothed. Using the shadows, she stepped out of the bedroom and back into the hallway. She stood there in silence for a moment, gather herself. That had been entirely too close.

But, now I know where it is.

Leaving the lord to sleep off the alcohol he'd obviously had too much of tonight, Poison quickly made her way out of the mansion. Tonight, she went straight back to her room. She could forgo eating until the next night. For now, she wanted to relax and get herself ready for tomorrow night's heist.

[Morkotar]

Aullos woke with a start, his cloak-blanket damp with midnight dew, his back warm and dry on the bed of pine boughs. The crack of a branch breaking had roused him, he felt certain. Again. This time softer but with the familiar scuff of shoe leather over roots. Aullos had heard that sound many times in his walk north from the ferry landing. But never at night, a short distance from where he slept. Never alone.

A soft breeze sprang up, and the grating of branches on tree bark nearly caused the young elf to wet his makeshift bed. He took a deep breath as if he were preparing to perform before a great audience, and slid his fingers across his narrow chest into the cloak pocket resting beside his other arm. Doing his best not to hyperventilate, he fished his bowstring out of his pocket and then reached for the redwood bow. His father's heirloom rested against the pine he'd chosen as cover. Morkotar snagged the bow by one end and slid it through the damp grass to his side.

When he unwrapped his cloak the cool air touched his sweat-tinged clothing, and he shivered. Aullos hugged the bow to his body and strung it using all of his core strength, the way he had learned as a child. One of the mythril-pointed slid out of the quiver kept close to hand, and he turned to a kneeling position, drawing the bow.

What am I supposed to shoot at? He wondered furiously, aiming about in the dark, I can't see a song-silenced thing!

"Easy lad." A voice said in Tradespeak from two yards away. Beneath his same tree, on the other side of the trunk.

Aullos did wet his trousers a mite, though godfully his bladder was well emptied from before he lay down. Between the cold and the scare he shook like a leaf in a summer storm. The arrow shot from his bow at a downward angle as he dropped both and fell on his back, cloak entangled in his legs.

"No need for fear," the calm, deep voice continued, "I'm a Corone Ranger, a lawman in these parts. My name is Kiro Ryochi."

"Why are you here?" Aullos squeaked, propped on his elbows. The Ranger laughed loud and earnestly, diminishing to a chuckled and a cleared throat.

"To ask a Ranger why he's in his own woods, you must be fresh from the Birthplace." Ryochi said once his mirth subsided. "I thought to ask you that very question. Are you injured, or lost?"

Relief flooded Morkotar's mind like the rush following a snack of canesweets. He knew of the Rangers, after all. His uncle had been a member of a similar outfit in Raiaera, and spoke well of his Coronian counterparts. Unlike many elves, uncle Orodeth gave due credit to all species alike, even humans and the dreaded drow. Well, not the undead, but they were another matter.

"I am well," Aullos replied, noting his tone had dropped an octave. The Tradespeak words were thick on his tongue, but he enunciated carefully. "I strayed from the road to spend the night in safety. I am travelling to Gisela." His hands patted across a bed of dry needles and found the arrow, sliding it back into the quiver.

"Well lad, you may be a lucky one." Ryochi said, "as I'm bound for Gisela this night. If you tell me your name and you're up for a walk, we may make it before morning." Something rasped like a knife on a cutboard, and Aullos realised the Ranger had drawn a blade before hailing him. Stars be praised I didn't manage to shoot my arrow well. "This little nape of Concordia isn't safe this time of year, 'tis why I'm patrolling. I hope your legs have woken up." A shadowy figure appeared beside the trunk of the tree, wide smile shining in the moonglow through the branches.

The young elf gathered his cloak about his slim form, shouldered his bow and belted on his quiver. Finally he picked up his loot, prepared in a minute. For the second night in a row he asked a question he regretted.

"My name is Aullos Morkotar," he said, "why aren't these woods safe?"

The answer came sharper than the blade Ryochi had sheathed.

"Vampires."