The World Will Remember

[Sighter Tnailog]

EDIT: ((All bunnying has been approved by both parties throughout this thread.))

"No, Hilmandil, you've helped me enough. I'm a full-grown elf, I don't need a shepherd."

Findelfin was speaking with an exasperated, although not angry, tone. The Haidian Elf next to him frowned, obviously disliking the idea. "But, Captain, what if you are attacked? We're in Alerar, and if anyone here recognizes you, it could be very dangerous. You may not be a true Raiaeran, but you sure look enough like one."

Findelfin nodded his recognition, and said, "This is true, but Alerar does not wish to spark a war with Raiaera. Killing Councilor Urondir was bad enough, but if Findelfin ap Fingolfin was to fall the entire weight of Raiaera's army would descend upon their heads like the wrath of a thousand Durklan Templars. I've already seen the stares, you know. One person even grabbed his swordhilt when he saw me, did you not notice?"

Hilmandil's eyes widened out of shock. Whether it was because the Haidian was surprised, or if he was baffled to have missed something that threatening, Findelfin did not know. "Really? Then that's reason enough to stay, you could be killed if you missed something like that!"

Findelfin shook his head, and with a laugh, said, "Ah, but what happened next tells me you should go back to Raiaera. A Kyorl walking by -- and when is there not a Kyorl walking by? -- saw the Alerarian's hand fly to his swordhilt. When the Kyorl saw me, he grabbed the would-be assailant by the wrist and gave the elf a glare that would have frozen Haidia itself. It appears that the Kyorl, at least, knows of my presence. And they intend to keep me out of harm. Look around you!"

Hilmandil did, and it was immediately apparant. Before them, behind them, indeed, every way you looked, there was a Dark Elf wearing the badge of the Kyorl. They were, of course, far enough away to look surreptitious and non-intrusive, but they were there nonetheless. Hilmandil saw them, and began to laugh himself.

"It appears, my Captain, that you have an escort even Queen Valsharess would be proud of! You have convinced me -- you seem to have enough guards, as much to make sure nothing happens to you as to make sure you aren't some sort of saboteur. Very well, I shall leave and be on my way. You're right -- Raiaera needs my tactical services more than you need my sword at your side."

Findelfin smiled, glad that his favorite Commander had seen the truth of the matter. With a faint smirk, he said, "Yes, you're right: I am right. Be on your way, if you're to get back to Raiaera in time to be of some use. You'll need to get back to El'Innsring before nightfall. Do me a favor...when you pick up your horse at the city stables, take Pelektar with you. Entrust her to the stablemaster in Valinatal, and drop my bow off at my villa on your way to Anebrilith. I won't need it here, and I'd rather not leave Pelektar in an Alerarian stable for longer than necessary."

Hilmandil gestured his assent, turning around to walk away. As he walked, right before the throng of people on the street surrounded him, he turned around and waved, calling, "Farewell, Captain. If you die, I'll see to it there are more brigades swarming over the Twilight Peaks than Alerar has seen in a century."

Although some people looked askance at Hilmandil when he said this aloud, most continued on their journeys. Findelfin merely raised a hand to acknowledge Hilmandil, and whispered, "Farewell, my friend. Raiaera will sleep safe with you back."

Turning to continue -- he wanted to visit the Library and find an inn before going on to obtain an audience with the Queen -- he walked down the city streets. This city was truly amazing. Although others might call it dirty -- for indeed it was -- Findelfin could appreciate its singular charm. He was alone among partisans of Raiaera, perhaps, but Ettermire had a character all its own, a vibrant pulse of people striving to get by that even Radasanth could not match. And Eluriand, for all its rich history and magical wonders, seemed ethereal, a sort of paradise. Ettermire felt more like reality, and every once in a while the elven heart needs a dose of reality.

Findelfin walked for a while, dazzled by the city, soaking in the sweat and the grime and the dust which gave Ettermire its distinct eccentricity, when he was suddenly brought out of his reverie by a familiar-looking face. The owner of the face quickly turned, and Findelfin wasn't sure if he saw right, but his heart skipped a beat. Could it be? Could I have sent away one friend only to run into another?

Picking up the pace, Findelfin called out, loudly, "Ho, Legeliwyn! Ayel, Legeliwyn! Is that you?"

The person he was tailing turned around, and Findelfin's hopes sanked. It did look like his oldest and dearest companion, but it was not so. It was merely a look-alike, who looked at Findelfin as if the elf was crazy, then turned and went on his way.

Findelfin stopped in the middle of the street, crestfallen and embarrassed. Those Kyorl flanking him would be laughing at his foolishness now. What was a poor, lonely elf to do?

[Old Wyn]

Wyn looked at the array of weapons with disdain. "You're trying to tell me that all of these were made in Kachuk?" he asked incredulously. The adventurer picked up a dagger from the counter, turning it over in his hand before holding it up to the light. Besides the fact that the steel was of a poor quality, the blade had countless nicks in it.

Disgusted, Wyn dropped the thing blade first onto the counter, but it was so dull that it fell flat against the wood. The merchant, an elderly man with a stoop, smiled nervously and pretended not to notice. "Oh, all is as I told you, I assure you," he said. "It may be that I acquired these weapons some decades ago, but my memory is still sharp. Everything you see here on this table was forged by the dwarves of Kachuk."

The swordsman bit the inside of his lip, trying to look at everything closely, just to make sure he wasn't overlooking anything. Finally he picked up a long sword and slid it out of its sheath, testing its balance and taking a few rough practice cuts with it. It was a terrible sword. Holding it up to the light, much as he had done with the knife, Wyn saw that it was of an even poorer make than the previous weapon had been.

This time he didn't even bother to put the weapon back on the table. He dropped the weapon on the floor, where it snapped in half. "Which Kachuk is that?" he asked the man coldly. "The one in your bloody basement?" He spit on the floor and turned, quickly making his way toward the door. Not only did he want his exit to seem a little theatric, but he didn't want the merchant to send the guards after him for breaking a sword.

"Wait!" the old man cried out. Wyn was standing in front of the door, he could have easily swung it open and walked out into the streets... But something made him turn around to see what it was that the old man wanted. Maybe he did have something else.

"What is it?" he asked. "Did you find a real blade underneath the table, now that you know your customer can tell a sword from a steak knife?" Wyn crossed his arms and tapped his foot impatiently, letting the old man know he better be quick.

"I'll give you everything in my shop for that pretty sword at your side," he said. "Not the ugly bastard sword on your back, but the long sword with the emerald in the pommel. Everything in my entire shop for that one little sword. It's a steal for you, really."

So the man's a cheat rather than an imbecile... He knows a good sword when he sees one, thought Wyn, although he had half a mind to show the old man what he could do with the "ugly bastard sword" on his back. "I'm sorry," he said with a knowing smile, "but I'm afraid that a sword in question belongs to an old friend of mine."

With that, Wyn turned and walked out the door. Ettermire wasn't his favorite place in the world, but he had to admit that the city had a certain dark allure that would at least make his stay here bearable. Besides, it was not like he had anywhere else to go. After the ordeal in the frozen bog in Corone--something that he would rather not dwell on at the moment--he figured that he had carried around Findelfin's sword long enough.

He'd gotten it from the Elfsmith in Haidia and had been carrying it around with for the duration of his recovery in Raiaera and his adventure in Corone. Findelfin was more than likely beginning to wonder where it was. Word said that the elf had headed into Alerar, so Wyn had taken a boat from Corone too look for him... And for a new blade for himself. He wasn't going to cross a bloody ocean just to give away one of the nicest swords he'd ever held. After he found Findelfin, he was headed for the mines of Kachuk.

Wyn pushed his way through the crowd haphazardly, trying to find an inn so he could have a drink and scout out for word on Findelfin. It shouldn't be too hard. It wasn't everyday that a Raiaeran Captain traveled to Ettermire, after all.

Suddenly, he thought he heard someone calling his name. He looked ahead through the crowd to see none other than Findelfin ap Fingolfin standing forlorn in the middle of the street. Wyn couldn't help but laugh. He jogged the remaining distance to the elf, but slowed to a stop when he was several feet away. "Ah, Findelfin," he said, smiling, "though you're not in chains this time, it appears you're ever in distress without me."

His eyes light up, as if he had suddenly remembered something. He removed the Haidian blade from its sheath on his sword-belt and tossed it to the elf. "Here," he said, his grin breaking into a laugh, "take your bloody sword. I've lugged the thing halfway around the world and I haven't even been able to use it. I'm rather sick of the thing."

[Sighter Tnailog]

Findelfin heard Wyn's voice, and whirled around. The expression on his face looked confused, almost stupid, as he looked first at Wyn, then back at the lookalike receding into the difference, then back at Wyn. His mouth opened wordlessly, then closed again, and then he shrugged, shaking his head as if to clear it of some great dizziness.

Taking a few steps forward, he suddenly saw a blade flash towards him, and before he knew what was happening he had reached out and grabbed the hilt whirling the blade to point straight down towards the street. He looked at his swordhand, still somewhat befuddled. It was like his own actions surprised him. I didn't realize my reflexes were that good. If I weren't an elf that sword would have skewered me.

He admired the sword-hilt, an elegant golden inlay with a rubbed leather grip, a crosspiece of mythril-and-delyn sweeping across the top. The emerald pommel seemed to shine with new light, the Turlin rune on it glowing brighter than ever. Up and down the blade's blood channel ran elvish runes. Findelfin smiled and he read them aloud, "'Sina sa Ainalindil, tel Calim tanya'ristea imya kula, tel Lina tanya'fallanea ilye harwea.' 'This is Ainalindil, the Light that cuts through evil, the Song that heals all wounds.' Ashiakin, it is elegant. I am in your debt for bringing it to me."

Suddenly noticing that the Kyorl in the background were much more menacing and wary now that he had a sword in his hand, he sheathed the blade and looked up at Wyn. With a voice full of both disbelief and happiness, he said, "Legeliwyn Ayel. I was chasing after someone who looked at you one way, and the next thing I know you're throwing a sword at me from the other. Either you're trying to kill me by confusion, surprise, or violence. You can decide which."

Laughing, he said, "Ah, you know I'm joking. I've felt naked without that sword, it means the world to have it back by my side. But next time, try not to impale me on things you give me -- not a good habit to get into. If I'd been a man I'd have died where I stood."

Moving forward, he clasped Wyn warmly in an embrace of friendship, then drew back, hands holding tightly to the sides of Wyn's arms. With a broad smile, he said, "I can't tell you how good it is to see you again, old friend! What brings you to Alerar? What has happened to you since I left you in Haidia?"

[Old Wyn]

Wyn grinned lightly at Findelfin's jests, not feeling quite so bad for having travelled across the ocean only to act as a delivery boy. He grasped Findelfin's arms in return, saying, "If you'd been a man, or a creature of any sense at least, you'd know that it's a general courtesy to address someone while looking at them, rather than away from them."

Although his last words turned into a grin, it quickly faded when the swordsman took a look around them. "Both of us should likely be more careful," he said, stepping back from Findelfin as casually as he could. "In a place such as this, at least."

Many of the Dark Elves around them had stopped to stare. Evidently it was a rare sight for the Raiaeran Captain to toss swords around with a bedraggled adventurer in the middle of the streets of Ettermire. Wyn's dislike of the city caused him to frown, though that frown turned into a grimace when Findelfin asked his last question.

"After Haidia," he started, gray eyes gazing absently into the distances of the street, "I spent a time in Raiaera recovering from... from the wound I took there." Though he did not seem to notice it, he brought his right hand up to touch his left shoulder. He would say nothing more of it here. How he had fought with the treacherous Lómaniel ap Leonë and been wounded by a cursed dagger was not a topic to be discussed in a place where anyone could be listening. "It is not completely healed, the Elves say," he continued, "Something about that cavern we visited long ago." He was being cryptic again, but it did not matter. Findelfin would well remember the Shadow.

"While I was in Raiaera," he said after a short pause, "I received a letter from the Ai'Brone requesting that I meet with a pair of their order in the Silver Pub. There was an evil in Corone, they said... I had to go. It reminded me so much of... of that thing in the cavern. I'll talk of it later, but not now. Now is not the time." Whether he did not want to discuss it because of where they were or because it was too painful was hard to tell.

Finally Wyn smiled again, seeming to move away from the dark mood that had settled over him for the past few minutes. "But I suppose that you could say that you're the one that brings me to Alerar," he said. "I'd been carrying that sword of yours around with me since Haidia and I figured you would like to see it. But I confess that I also come here looking for a sword myself. My intention is travel to Kachuk."

Wyn shook his head, shaking out the long strands of his sandy brown hair, still a little surprised by the strangeness of this chance meeting. "I've told you of my travels and I would like to hear of yours," he said. "But perhaps we should discuss them in a place that's a tad more private than an Aleraran street corner?" His eyes glanced over the Dark Elves passing by them. "This is not a city I've ever held much trust for."

[Sighter Tnailog]

Findelfin listened intently as Legeliwyn spoke, trying to ignore the passerby who would often linger for a moment to try to hear the conversations of the odd pair on the streetcorner. He could imagine why they would be interested. By now, word had probably passed around parts of town that Findelfin ap Fingolfin was in the city, and on what mission and for what purpose were still questions on the minds of those interested in Alerar-Raiaera relations.

Findelfin's eyes darkened when Wyn mentioned his wound. He was present to see the cursed blade enter into his friend's arm, and he still felt guilty, in a way, for the whole affair. He had left Wyn to face Lómaniel alone, and while he had replayed the events of that dark night over and over in his mind, he still could find no way to have changed things to make it better. The wound was a brooding hurt in Wyn, one that Findelfin would give much to heal.

When Wyn mentioned the Shadow, Findelfin's face grew even more intent and solemn. Findelfin was certain that there was some way that the Shadow was still affecting this world, although he didn't know how, and he filed away Wyn's words well. They would indeed have to speak of this later. Findelfin had begun, in recent weeks, to seek knowledge above many things. There were things he had to know -- demon lore, the history of the War of the Tap, the origins of magic and the secrets of Tel'Quessir, to name a few -- that could only be found in dusty corners of libraries, on forgotten shelves and unmarked tomes. He had recorded much of what he had learned, to. If anyone were to find his villa above Valinatal, they would learn much. Perhaps too much.

Now that Wyn asked to know of his dealings, though, he came out of his brooding silence and said, "Trust me, I hate this city as much as you do. The only thing keeping me from being torn asunder by every rabid nationalist here is Kyorl protection...the Alerarian throne does not desire war with Raiaera. My death would assuredly bring just that.

"As to what I've been doing, there isn't much to tell. I've been spending many a restless night poring over scrolls in Anebrilith, engaged in, well, learning. I've been reading, for instance, about the Shadow, along with information about some of what happened to us in Haidia. But I've about exhausted Anebrilith, and while I'm in town I thought I'd go to the library here. I was going to find an inn and a place to rest after that. But it's good to see a friend again! I don't think I've been with someone whose company I truly enjoyed since I last saw Natamrael...I wonder how she's doing?" Findelfin remembered that meeting with great yearning...the face of Natamrael still haunted his dreams more nights than he cared to count.

"Care to accompany me?" Findelfin's answer was a question, although he expected the answer. "I can tell you what little I've been doing on the way, it isn't a long walk." He half turned in the direction of the library, looking at Wyn with the question in his eyes.

[Old Wyn]

Wyn could all but choke back a laugh when Findelfin mentioned that he'd spent the past several months scouring a Raiaeran library. Despite all the hardships he had endured lately, he still would not have traded his adventures for sleepless nights amongst books, peaceful as they might have been. Wyn had never been the type for such pursuits. He was glad that Findelfin was or might not have known anything, besides what he had learned second-hand from drunks in taverns.

Come to think of it, though, he had traveled to a Radasanthian library before his adventure with the A'Brone. And in that library he'd met someone entirely by chance that would no doubt interest Findelfin--none other than the daughter of Devon dan Sabriel, the man the two of them had journeyed into the Shadow's Cavern with what seemed so long ago. It struck him as odd that he had forgotten to mention her to Findelfin entirely. I've been through too much lately, it seems, he thought.

"I can't say that visiting a library strikes my fancy," he said, "but if there's an inn and some rest at the end of it, I'll gladly tag along." He grinned at Findelfin wryly. "Although, I must admit that I'm leery of following you. Every time I go with you anywhere, I seem to wind up in large amounts of trouble. But then again... What sort of trouble could we possibly get into in a library?"

The swordsman laughed and waved for Findelfin to lead on, falling in step beside him. "After you are done with your tale, though," he said, "you've reminded me of something I neglected to mention. I'm afraid it's not something we should discuss on the streets, though. We'll speak of it once we get to the library."

Wyn seemed saddened once again, although he did his best to mask it with easy smiles and laughter. From the way Findelfin was acting, he did not seem to know that Natamrael was dead or that she'd had twins by Devon. Telling his friend of the woman's death was not something he looked forward to--and it was certainly not something he would tell him while in the middle of a busy street. The library seemed less and less enticing.

[Sighter Tnailog]

As Wyn indicated he was fine with visiting the library, Findelfin began to walk forward, moving at a brisk clip without going so fast they could not converse. He began to speak, but then Wyn continued for a second. Findelfin's curiosity was aroused by his companion's words, but he shrugged it off. All in good time, Wyn would not keep secrets from him.

"So, where to begin? You may think it crazy that I've spent these past months in libraries, but I've been reading all I can on The Forgotten, Duke Bealial, this Ashiakin fellow...but, more importantly, the Tel'Quessir."

Findelfin stopped for a moment to read the streetsigns. It was not an easy thing to do -- the Dark Elves were ridiculously proud of their language, as bastardized and diluted as it was from the true tongue of the Elves. Vulgar dialect, I wish they would print the names of their streets in Common, at the least. Arrogance will be the death of these Alerarians.

Turning quickly once he knew where they were, he kept walking, and said, "However, Anebrilith library has been exhausted, and the librarian is fed up with me bothering him for information. But I have discovered much -- oh, have I discovered much!"

Suddenly excited and agitated, he said, "For instance, deep in the catacombs where all the old books from the War of the Tap and before, I discovered fragments from one book stuffed inside the pages of another. I felt when I found them like I was the first person to see them in years. Do you realize that those who participated in the Adventurer's Crown were hunting for the objects that are key to controlling the Forgotten Ones -- and maybe even learning how to use the Eternal Tap? Only Aurient can know who has them now, but finding them is of utmost importance."

Findelfin did not wait, he merely plowed ahead, "And Ashiakin, that ice demon so many people talk about nowadays, is in reality an ancient lieutenant of Denebriel. The way the bonds work, many of the commanders of the Forgotten were bound with the Forgotten -- so if Ashiakin Xan-ris Azzarak is free, so too may be other lieutenants. I don't know how much we have to fear as yet, but we have no idea what's been happening with the Forgotten, or where they could be hiding. Wyn, more than I could tell you now..."

Stopping at another streetcorner, he deciphered the mazelike writing on the sign, even as he continued, "Anyway, I was coming to Ettermire to treat with the Queen, try to bring some sort of peace out of our current situation. But just this morning I received word from Raiaera that developments have changed, and it I am to return as soon as conditions permit. But I have decided to stay and visit the library here. I can't pass up learning what I can from the greatest storehouse of knowledge in the world."

After only a few more steps, they were standing in front of a massive building. It extended into the sky for nearly eight stories, ornamented with gargoyles and friezes of ancient Drow victories. That made Findelfin chuckle. Drow victories? They beat some Dwarves by using what they knew of Raiaeran magic when they were expelled. They haven't won a real war since they began using those ridiculous steam contraptions. But it was already approaching dusk, and there was no time to stand about and gloat. He needed to find what he was seeking and be gone.

Walking up the monumental stone steps leading to the elegantly carved oaken door, Findelfin turned to Wyn, smiled, and said, "See, here we are. I hear they have displays here, too, of all sorts of dwarven and enchanted weapons. You might look around, see what sort of blade you're looking for. But don't steal anything, I'm sure the guards will kill you." Turning, he pushed open the small door by the side of the large one -- it would take eight men to open that monstrosity -- and entered the library, holding the door for his friend.

[Old Wyn]

Wyn stopped next to Findelfin on the street corner, studying the strange Aleraran text on the signs as Findelfin deciphered them. The swordsman's father had been an illiterate fisherman, but his grandfather--who had also been an adventurer--had taught him how to read Common in his visits to Kalewin. He had even learned a bit of High Elven, though he was far from mastering it. The Aleraran language seemed strange and alien to him, however. Even if it was based off High Elven, he couldn't begin to read it.

As they walked through Ettermire, Wyn took in all that Findelfin said without saying anything. He knew of the War of the Tap, Ashiakin, and the Forgotten Ones, but he never felt like he knew quite as much as Findelfin. Often he wondered how the elf could spend so many months in a library and still be so bloody good with a sword. Even after his adventure in Corone he felt slightly out of practice. During his time recovering in Raiaera he had done drills when he could, but they did not compare to actual fighting.

The thought of his wound caused Wyn to bring his hand up to his left shoulder. When he realized what he had done, he shuddered. The Raiaerans had said that his wound was not completely healed and he took their word for true. It still ached, a cold and dark ache, from time to time. Sometimes he felt it when he moved it, a pain quick and sharp. But most of the time he would simply forget it was there. To think that there was some remnant of the Shadow still lingering within him was too frightening to dwell on.

While Findelfin stopped at another street corner to read a sign, Wyn didn't even bother to try this time. He simply took in his surroundings, the dark streets of Ettermire and the cold buildings rising on either side of them. For a time he watched a group of Dark Elves walk by, trying to pick out any words of their conversation he could understand. It was no use. This place seemed so strange to him. Wyn had traveled all over the world and rarely felt like, at least on some level, that he did not belong in a place. Except for Ettermire. In this city, he was always a stranger.

When they reached the towering, ornamented building that could only be the library, Wyn breathed a quiet sight of relief. While he would never openly admit it, he would rather be inside a library than out here on these streets. It was not that he was afraid, exactly... Only that the sight of books would seem a little more common and familiar than these Dark Elves and their strange city. But he would not dwell here long. Wyn was rather looking forward to Kachuk and its dwarves, if only for their inns and their ale.

The swordsman's eyes light up at Findelfin's mention of displays of weaponry, but smirked just as quickly when the elf instructed him not to steal anything. While he was in Alerar in search of a fine weapon, such a thought had never crossed his mind. Is he joking or does he really think I'd be so brash as to steal something from the Dark Elves...? he wondered, looking up at the massive building as he walked to the door.

He stopped in the doorway and looked over his shoulder to grin at Findelfin. "Then let me warn you now," he said jokingly, "if you spend too long reading I'm likely to wander around and get myself into trouble. And it seems you wouldn't want that. I'll be glad to keep you company here, but I confess the inn when this is done sounds more enticing."

Suddenly his look soured. "Although, there is that thing I need to tell you," he said. With that, Wyn turned and walked into the library of Ettermire.

[Sighter Tnailog]

"Whatever you say, my friend, whatever you say. I, too, look forward to the inn, and a fire...and a nice warm bed. I've slept on the ground too much recently."

They had entered a small, clean room. There was a couch and a couple of arm chairs lining one side of the room, and on the other a bookshelf that stretched the length of the wall. The bookshelf was filled to the brim with titles, most of them appearing newly-bound, with golden lettering covering their spines, and titles like Romances in Raiaera and Demons and Dames: Six Tales from Haidia. It was obviously a showcase of some of the new fiction. The books were behind glass -- it appeared as if you had to go farther inside to get to them, these were just the display copies.

At the end of the long room was a door, swung open, and beyond Findelfin could see a new room, one which looked bigger. It seemed to stretch much farther than this anteroom, with what appeared to be a massive reference desk taking up the whole field of vision. Walking towards the door, he said, "I'm actually looking for one specific title, the libarian of Anebrilith told me I could find it here, and only here. Once I find what I need, we can be on our way."

As he entered through the door, even he was not prepared for what he saw. Rows and rows of bookshelves stretched in every direction, forming a sort of ray pattern from the circular desk in the center. The desk itself was a mammoth structure, carved out of what seemed to be a single tree. It was designed in a style that was very Dark Elven, angular, harsh, as if there were something, some creature made of razors and nails, attempting to burst free from the wood itself. Four broad aisles led to it, intersecting in the middle of the circular room to form a cross. Lining the aisles were glass cases, each with a different enchanted weapon -- here and there a dagger, quite a few swords, and even one massive war bow.

Behind the desk sat a small, wizened librarian. Compared to the enormous structure in which he sat, the figure of the librarian looked very, very tiny indeed -- like an acorn next to an oak. Looking at Wyn, he said, "This shouldn't take long. I'll ask where I can find what I'm looking for, read what I need, and then we can go. You can look at those weapons if you like, and you can tell me what you need to tell me before we head to the inn."

Leaving Wyn to peruse the weapons cases, Findelfin walked straight up the aisle towards the librarian. He noticed several Dark Elves seated at desks within the bookshelves -- from time to time there is a small alcove within the room where people can sit to study -- and several cast him dark glances as he passes. He could see, too, far away through the stacks, Kyorl standing. Waiting. Watching.

As he neared the desk, the librarian looked at him with a pedantic air, his petite glasses magnifying his eyes. Findelfin almost laughed -- the little man looked positively owlish behind such thick lenses -- but he restrained himself. He was actually more impressed that the librarian was not a Dark Elf. It took great skill to be in any position of respect in this city without being a native Drow. Few save Thoracis had ever achieved it.

"Sir, my name is Findelfin ap Fingolfin, and I'm looking for --"

"Mending the Tap, yes, I know." The librarian interrupted him, his voice surprisingly strong given his many years. "The librarian at Anebrilith sent word you would be coming, seems he knew you well enough to know you couldn't miss a chance to read a rare book. I've prepared it for you here at the desk. I'll have to sit with you while you read it - standard procedure for such a precious book. We can't risk them losing them to overzealous scholars like yourself. Follow me." He picked up an old, small, and very brittle-looking tome from the desk, then swung himself from his stool, raised the bar keeping him in, and gestured towards Findelfin, muttering something about elves and their books.

Findelfin blinked, surprised, but did as he was told. As he followed the old librarian to a study carrol, he felt something stir within him. Was it curiosity? No...that was odd. It was fear.

Why should he be scared of a book?

[Old Wyn]

Wyn took in the small anteroom in a sweeping glance. The chamber was thankfully more comforting than the streets of Ettermire, although he couldn't say the same about the library that loomed beyond an open door. Even the library looked strangely uninviting. The swordsman didn't see why anyone would want to live in this city. Perhaps he would just stay in this room and wait for Findelfin. No, he thought. That would be foolish. It's a bloody library. I doubt a bunch of books are like to hurt me...

The adventurer shook his head, pushing away his unfounded fears. It was only then that he noticed that not only was Findelfin walking into the library, he was also speaking to him. I really need to learn to pay more attention, he thought. Wyn hurried after Findelfin and stepped through the door into the library proper. "All right," he said. "You have fun looking for your book. I believe I'm going to take a look at some of those weapons... Just to see what Alerar has to offer, since I imagine the librarians would be loathe to let me take one of them home with me." He laughed, parting from the elf.

Before the swordsman could reach the weapons cases, a small booth built into one of the library walls caught his attention. Rich and exotic smells seemed to pour forth from it, indicating that it was some kind of Aleraran kitchen. He approached the counter and tapped on it with his fingers, probably too loudly for a library. " 'Ello?" he said, peering inside to see if he could see anyone. "Anybody even in here?"

Several moments later an Aleraran human with dark circles under his eyes shuffled out of the back, looking for all the world as if Wyn had woken him up. He didn't seem too happy about that fact, either. "Yes?" he asked defensively. "Can I help you with something?"

"Aye," said Wyn, scratching the several-days-growth of beard on his chin. He had never been too fond of the food they served in Ettermire, but most of their drinks had proven to be at least tolerable in the past. He doubted they had dwarven ale in a library, but certainly they had something worthwhile. "Do you have anything to drink here?"

The tired man simply nodded and shuffled off to the back again. Wyn waited impatiently and was about to turn to leave, noting that the Alereran had never even asked what he wanted, but the man returned with a mug of steaming liquid in his hand. It's probably some kind of poison, Wyn thought dryly. But he took the mug and paid the man for it anyway, both of them more than thankful to see the other leave.

Walking toward the weapons cases, Wyn brought the mug to his mouth. It was all he could do not to spit its contents out all over the floor. The liquid was dark and bitter and hot. It was absolutely awful. It is bloody poison, he thought.

Wyn had to step over a dirty, bearded man in ragged clothes who had fallen asleep at the foot of one of the shelves to get to the weapons cases. He looked down at the fellow distastefully, but it was only when he brought his eyes back up that he realized just how many of the Dark Elves in the library were watching him. They weren't being overly obvious about it, but it was clear that they did not want him here. Wyn shuddered coldly and was suddenly glad for the mug of warm liquid in his hands, bad as it tasted.

The weapons cases proved able to distract Wyn for a while, however. The fine craftsmanship of the blades not only restored the swordsman's faith in the weapons of Alerar, but made him wish their stay in Ettermire would be over soon enough that he could get to Kachuck and get something similar for himself. The bastard sword he carried with him now was a good enough blade, but it had been weathered by much use. If he planned to enter the Serenti when it rolled around again, he would need a good blade.

While he was looking at a warhammer and wondering what the Aleraran inscription under it said, he spied two Dark Elves, Kyorl by their badges, through the glass case. They were entering the aisle on the opposite side of the case he was viewing. In order to avoid any harsh stares or words they might give him, Wyn quickly moved behind a large Aleraran banner hung between the panes of glass. The Kyorl had evidently never seen Wyn or did not care that he was there, as they continued talking as they had been before.

"... have to take him, there's no other way around that," said one voice.

"Oh, I agree," said the second voice. "I just wonder if this is really the proper location. We could always wait a little longer. He's not likely to leave Alerar too quickly."

"How do you know that?" asked the first voice, sarcastically. "Have you spoken with him? Taken him out for tea, maybe? I would hope even you wouldn't be that foolish. No, we have to do it soon. The sooner the better, if you ask me."

"Yes," said the second voice, sounding a little meek. "I can see your angle now. The opportunity exists, so we have no reason to..."

"...precisely, to Anebrilith... we can't allow..." said the voice of the first speaker, the pair of them now moving out of Wyn's range of hearing.

"... Varalad... won't accept..." said the other voice, fading out of his hearing completely.

The adventurer took a sip from his mug, finding it was strange that he was starting to enjoy the odd Aleraran brew. But what the bloody hell were those Kyorl talking about? he wondered as he continued walking along the case, looking at the weapons. Wyn hoped that Findelfin was enjoying his stay at the library more than he was.

[Sighter Tnailog]

The librarian led Findelfin to a small round table, split down the diameter with a wooden board, so that one half of the table was separated from the other half, allowing two people to work on either side without bothering the other. On the side the librarian stopped at there were two chairs. The librarian laid the book on the table and took a seat, indicating for Findelfin to take the other.

The surface of the table was cool to the touch, with a slight roughness to the wood, as if the grain had never been fully polished away. As Findelfin sat down on the hard seat, made of blended oak and mahogany, the librarian said, "I'll just be reading my own book while you do that one. If you have any questions, feel free to ask -- my doctoral thesis was actually on the topic Mending the Tap covers."

Leaning back in his seat, the librarian began reading his book. As soon as Findelfin turned away to study his tome, however, the librarian began regarding him over his eyeglasses with a mixture of skepticism and curiosity.

Findelfin lifted the book gingerly, not wanting to damage its bindings or its already time-worn pages. As he opened the cover, he felt a thrill pass through him, his fear extinguished. This is it! This is the book that contains the key to restoring the Eternal Tap...I have it in my hands! He regarded the book with a mingled awe and excitement, wondering what deep secrets lay between its pages.

He turned past the title page, carefully, and began to read.

Since the breaking of the Eternal Tap, those with some mixture of ambition, greed, or passion have sought the clearest way to restore the Tap to its full form, so that it might again be utilized by the mighty in exercising authority over the weak. Although the Tap is not exactly the sum of all magic (a correction of this common misconception can be briefly found in Appendix 4), it contains enough power to level mountains and drain seas --

Findelfin started at this statement. Not the sum total of all magic? Turning the pages, he read the brief statement:

There are undeniable historical accounts from the War of the Tap which show that Raiaeran song magic, specifically the magic of Turlin, could counter and negate the effects of the Tap. While Raiaeran song magic does not approach the sheer power of the Tap, the fact that it could serve as a nullifying factor indicates to most mages and scholars of repute that there is some fundamental difference between it and the Tap, as of today not fully comprehended.

Findelfin wondered at this. Raiaeran song magic, a separate entity from the Tap? The thought was new to him, and entirely unexpected. Turning back to the beginning, he began flipping through the pages as quickly as he could without damaging the tome, skipping over the parts that were familiar. He knew about the destruction of the Tap, he knew of how the Turrea a Calan were involved...but how? And then, he saw a name he had never seen before.

Telendor Nauvarin has a duty to understand how the Tap can be remade, in order to more effectively defend against the possibility of its resurgence. To that end, and though we may risk putting information into dangerous hands, here is a description of how the Turrea a Calan may be utilized to remake the Eternal Tap.

The task is simple, and thus I will keep the description simple. Even a child, who knows what to think and when to think it, could perform the spell. First, the wielder of Lightbringer thinks on power, thinks of the separation of power, and then thinks of power coming together. At this point, light will begin to gather between the wielders of the Turrea a Calan, and the wielder of Lightbreaker is to concentrate on breaking apart the light, while the wielder of Lightbinder is to concentrate on bringing them together. This is indeed the tricky part -- if the bearer of Lightbreaker concentrates more than the one carrying Lightbinder, the spell fails and the Tap will not come together. But if Lightbreaker is not present and being used, then the spell will fail. It is surmised that it is not so much the binding power of Calan Tilar which causes the spell to work, but instead the conflict created through the presence of Calan Terendar which causes the spell to succeed.

Findelfin was almost ready to laugh. Here it was, a two hundred page treatise on how to fix the Eteranal Tap, and the actual description of how to do it took up less than half a page. Scholars did love to talk -- the rest of the book was composed of philosophical musings and metaphysical theory, and had little to do with the task it purported to teach.

Suddenly, a hand on his shoulder caused him to start. The grip was like iron, and he turned to find the librarian staring at him. Before he could say a word, the librarian said, "I hoped I would have more time to tell you this, but I don't. Listen carefully, Tur Aranthi."

Findelfin was quite surprised to hear those words coming from a human. He thought they were only know to those elves of Tel'Quessir.

"That book is banned, recently so by word of Valsharess herself. I have broken the law in giving it to you, and you have broken the law in reading it. The Kyorl have been looking for a way to arrest and deport you -- if you'd gone to an inn first, you would have heard the rumors -- but I had planned to let you see it before they arrived. But while you were reading, I can see them approaching, and there is no way I can hide the book now."

Findelfin moved to speak, but the librarian cut him off with a glance, "No, Tur Aranthi, let me speak. You must go immediately to an inn, Remember the Glory. It lies six blocks away from here. There you will meet the leader of Telendor Nauvarin."

Findelfin could now see Kyorl moving closer, and he quickly said, "But, sir, what IS Telendor Nauvarin?"

The librarian grimaced, obviously worried, as he too saw the Kyorl approaching, and he said, "It is a secret society, founded a century after the War of the Tap in order to prevent the Tap from resurging. I am a member, as are the librarians of Anebrilith, Eluriand, and Radasanth. So are four members of the High Bard Council, several noblemen here in the city. But Valsharess is not a sympathizer, nor are most -- we are trapped in secrecy even here, the city where the group began. But you must go! There are things you must know, things I cannot explain. Hurry, they're coming...and take the book!"

He shoved the book into Findelfin's hands, and kicked the chair out from underneath the bard. Findelfin was surprised at the old man's strength, but he got up from the floor, took one look at the librarian, and began to walk away. "Run!" the old man hissed.

And Findelfin did, and the Kyorl gave chase. They leapt on top of tables and threw chairs out of the way, shouting at him in their harsh tongue. Findelfin ducked through the stacks, at one point sticking his arm out to knock books off the shelf as he ran, leaving a messy obstacle behind for his pursuers. Oh, poor books! I hate to do it to you!

As he ducked and weaved through the aisles around the bookshelves, trying to keep ahead of the Kyorl behind him, he thought of how absurd this was. Running away on the rantings of a senile man, carrying a simple, if maybe a bit old, book? It was insane. Suddenly, as he was almost to the door, a Kyorl dressed in the dark black of his order stepped directly out from behind the bookshelf, and Findelfin ran smack into him.

The Dark Elf grimaced as he leaned down, saying, "Findelfin ap Fingolfin, Captain of Tel Aglarim, you are under arrest for stealing forbidden literature from the Library of Ettermire. Remain silent, or you will regret it." He plucked the book from Findelfin's hands even as the other Kyorl arrived. Leafing through the pages without half as much care as Findelfin had shown, the Drow said, "Evidence, this is perfect. Your actions seal your own fate, Raiaeran."

[Old Wyn]

Curiosity, as it often did, got the best of Wyn. The snatches of conversation he had gleaned from the two Kyorl had to point to Findelfin. It could certainly be no coincidence that a high-ranking Raiaeran was in the library of Ettermire and the two Dark Elves had been talking about abducting someone. He tossed back the last bit of the warm Aleraran brew and sighed heavily. Apparently Findelfin was in trouble. If he had not already been detained, he was surely about to have an encounter with those guards.

Wyn set his mug down on a display case and began to trail the two Kyorl, quietly loosening his sword from his scabbard. Although he generally disliked sneaking about, he was crafty enough to follow them without being detected. He weaved silently through the bookcases, keeping a watchful eye on his quarry. Whenever the opportunity presented itself, he scanned what he could see of the library for signs of Findelfin. Surely he would not be captured without causing at least a small ruckus.

Suddenly the sound of people running and books slamming into the floor broke the library’s clerical silence. That had to involve Findelfin, Wyn knew. He was standing on the opposite side of smaller bookcase from the two guards he had been tailing. At the sound of the commotion, they began to argue with each other on whether or not they should rush straight for its source or take a more cautious root.

Loathe as he was to assault an unknowing foe, Wyn did not give the Kyorl much time to debate. With a haphazard show of bravado, he slammed his shoulder—with all his weight behind it—into the bookcase. It only teetered for a moment, bound volumes and scrolls wavering at the disturbance. Wyn grunted and pushed again, harder, and the entire book shelf crashed down to the floor. The two Dark Elves shrieked in agony as their bones were shattered under the massive wooden skeleton. The site of their wrecked bodies and their pitiful cries were too much for the adventurer. He had to look away from them, from what he had done. He cast the image from his mind.

With a nervous resignation, Wyn drew his sword from his scabbard and sprang toward the area where he had heard noise only moments ago. He did not bother trying to hide this time. Findelfin was likely in danger and the collapse of the book case would have alerted the enemy to his presence. He could only hope that they were few.

The swordsman came upon them quickly, darting out of an alley between bookcases into the open. There were only three. Although it was not thirty, they still numbered one more than himself and Findelfin. Two of them, apparently Kyorl officers, had Findelfin between them and were looking his way. The third almost ran into him. Evidently the last, only a footman, had been going to investigate the fallen bookcase.

Wyn lashed out with his sword as soon as he recognized the Dark Elf as an enemy. Unfortunately, the elf was armed with a sword-breaker. The adventurer’s blades slid into the other weapon’s cruel notches. The Kyorl wrenched his hands. Wyn’s sword shattered under the sudden application of force and the jarring shock of the event caused his broken blade to fly from his hands. Shit! was all he thought.

He stumbled backward into a display case, his elbow plowing through the glass. Dazed as he was, it did not take him long to realize that the case held a sword. Wyn reached inside and pulled it free, whirling to face his adversary.

Suddenly, with no command issued on the adventurer’s part, a bolt of white heat shot forth from the weapon’s blade into the elf’s chest. The air cracked and a shockwave flashed through the library. Wyn was thrown to the ground. A quick glance as he was pulling himself to his feet revealed that the two remaining had also been knocked to the floor. He knew that Findelfin would capitalize on the situation.

It was only then that he saw the body of the slain Kyorl. A hole had been burned clean through his chest, neatly cauterized by the heat of the blast. Disgusted, Wyn grabbed his wretched new weapon and darted toward his remaining foes.

[Sighter Tnailog]

"Urnof, Hazarali!" The Kyorl's bark sent his soldiers into a quick salute. "You guard the prisoner. Sekni, Aliran, find the companion he entered the library with...I want to question him. As for this," the captain reached to Findelfin's belt, and with a quick snap he tore Ainalindil away from Findelfin, "You won't be needing it where you're headed."

Findelfin was prepared for anything, but not that. He could not bear to see his precious sword pawed over by an Aleraran. His face contorted in a moment of unthinking rage, as he rushed forward. But two of the Kyorl rushed in and pinned him between them. Findelfin strained against them, spitting his words through clenched teeth: "You will pay for this, Dark Elf. Raiaera will not stand such treatment to her captains."

The Kyorl's lip curled into a sneer. He rolled his tongue around in his mouth for a moment, then spat a gob of saliva directly into Findelfin's eyes. As the Raiaeran captain blinked in disbelief, spit dripping from his face, the captain snarled back. "I'm shaken to the core. Someone, please save me from the Kingdom of the Faeries."

Shouldering the sword, the Kyorl captain turned and began to lead the way. The two dark elves at Findelfin's side dragged him forward roughly, but he yanked at them and said, "At least let me walk myself!" The guards laughed, but heeded what he said, and he walked between them, captive.

As they walked towards the door on the avenue of tiles, a sickening sound filled the air; it was like wood being driven through a bone. The Kyorl captain gave a shout, and one of the Dark Elves holding Findelfin's arm released him. Findelfin wanted to turn around to see what had happened, but the captain strode forward to grab him. Suddenly there was a noise like metal rending against metal, then the shattering of glass. Before Findelfin could blink he was knocked to his feet by a blast of heat and wind emanating from behind him.

Both Kyorl seemed blinded for a moment, and Findelfin grabbed the opportunity to wrest Ainalindil away from the captain. Scampering back, he turned to see Wyn moving forward, blade in hand. But with a sickening sense of horror, he realized that the weapon Wyn was carrying seemed to be melting, dissolving into dust.

"Wyn, no!" The Kyorl captain had by now recovered, and Findelfin didn't know what to do. He had to stop Legeliwyn before the courageous man ran into the Dark Elf and discovered his weapon nothing but dust. Aiming Ainalindil forward, the tip moving to follow a spot directly in front of Wyn, Findelfin concentrated for one second. A burst of white light spurted from the swordpoint, heading directly for the tile in front of Wyn's feet. It had to work...if Wyn did not stop running, he would be dead at the hands of the Kyorl.

But Findelfin did not see if he succeeded. A sudden blow hit him in the side, and he sprawled over, his sword flying from his hands and echoing loudly on the cold tile. He half-fell-half flew to the left, his arms flailing, desperately trying to see what it was that had struck him.

[Wyn]

((A note to the mod judging this: I started out doing this thread with my Old Wyn account because I had planned something that I later decided against. So please ignore that I did the first half of this thread with that account. All of the EXP, GP, and rewards that are given to this character after this thread is judged should go to this account. Thanks!))

Wyn looked to Findelfin as the elf cried out, wondering what on earth he could be doing wrong. Then the blast of energy struck the tiles before his feet and sent him sprawling onto the floor. He slammed the hilt of the enchanted sword onto the ground to stop himself, then realized that the blade had disintegrated and all he held was the hilt of the thing. Seems like that's what he was trying to warn me about, he thought wryly.

The sound of boots scuffling across the floor brought the adventurer quickly back to his feet. He leapt up just as one of the remaining Kyorl came at him, slashing with an Aleraran blade. Wyn brought up the hilt of his vanished sword up in a flimsy defense. The jarring impact of the blade on the useless crosspiece sent the adventurer stumbling back. Not wishing to continue facing his foe with such a useless weapon, he quickly jammed the thing inside one of the nearby cases. The glass shattered and he dropped the broken hilt, pulling an ornate flail from inside the case just as his attacker came at him again.

Wyn danced away from the Kyorl's second onslaught and set the spiked ball of the flail whirling above his head. As the dark elf moved in again, Wyn brought the jagged sphere crashing down toward the head of his lightly armored foe. The Kyorl raised his sword to intercept, but a static charge shocked the air... the dark elf's blade leapt from his fingers and connected to the ball of the flail, sticking as if compelled by magnetism. Oh, he realized, the weapons in the cases are enchanted!

His disarmed adversary was quickly backpedaling, but Wyn closed the distance between them and sent the flail's end whirling into the center of the drow's chest. The light armor he wore protected him little when the spiked ball slammed into his chest, the sound of his ribcage collapsing in a snap reverberating throughout the library.

As the drow lay dying on the floor, Wyn turned his attention back to Findelfin and the only remaining Kyorl. Evidently Findelfin had lost his sword after firing the blast at Wyn's feet and had not been able to retrieve it. Wyn ran over to one of the glass display cases and broke it with the hilt of his flail. He pulled a small battle axe from the case and threw it toward toward the elf. "Findelfin, get the axe!" he cried. The thing spun through the air toward a wooden display case near Findelfin. Hopefully he'll be able to grab that before the drow gets to him, he thought.

Wyn started a slow advance toward the last remaining Kyorl, chained sphere whirling above his head, intending to finish this battle once and for all. This had been a rough day and it was only going to get worse. Valsharess wasn't going to take it kindly that half of the guards at the library had been slaughtered by a prominent Raiaeran officer and his accomplice. It was going to be a long week of moving about quietly, being hunted, trying to sneak their way to the border without being found out and killed. If Wyn never saw Alerar again after this, he would feel no remorse.

"Stop, human!" cried a voice from behind Wyn. "Stand down, Raiaeran! Throw down your weapons, you are outnumbered!" He whirled around to see that three more dark elves were rushing towards him and Findelfin. One was armed with a halberd, one with a spear, and the last with a saber. They slowed down as they came closer and spread out across the makeshift corridor that was created by the ends of the book shelves and the display cases. Wyn looked as if he would stand his ground and face them.

"If you can't bloody notice," he snarled, "we were outnumbered before you fellows showed up." With that, he advanced forward, dearly hoping that Findelfin had killed the other Kyorl and would be able to back up him. If not, this may be the shortest heroic charge ever.

[Sighter Tnailog]

"Ugh! By Aurient!"

Findelfin had stopped watching what was going on with Wyn. Even as he landed with a thud and a curse, he leaped to his feet -- and not a moment too soon. A Kyorl with a wickedly curved blade was bearing towards the elf, the scimitar smashing into the tile where Findelfin's chest had been a moment earlier. Before the Dark Elf could get the blade free, Findelfin's dagger was in his hand. Findelfin rushed forward to slash at the Kyorl's neck, hoping to end it immediately. But he wasn't so lucky. Even as he made his move, the Kyorl wrenched the blade free, and they began to spar.

Findelfin's knife was everywhere, but he knew he couldn't last at this pace for much longer. He pressed close to the Kyorl, knowing that he couldn't defend against a scimitar unless he was too close for the enemy to make use of it. He blocked a punch with one hand, the knife sweeping forward in an attempt to puncture the Kyorl's armor, but a sudden swivel by the Dark Elf caused the small blade to simply glance off the armor, and another well-aimed punch sent Findelfin flying out of dagger-range. Quickly leaping back and dodging a charge by his opponent, Findelfin suddenly heard a shout coming from off to the side. He turned to see an axe spiraling through the air, coming directly for him. It was too late to duck. He only had time to flinch and shut his eyes tight before the axe hit home.

Thud.

Opening his eyes in surprise, he saw that the axe had diverted its course as it approached him, veering downwards into the wooden box at his feet. But Findelfin had no time to wonder how the miracle had occurred -- the Kyorl had, in the second in took for this all to happen, turned to charge again. He twisted desperately to avoid the attack, but the gleaming scimitar still cut a red line across his forearm, ripping the fabric of his tunic as it swept across his skin. Biting back the sudden pain, Findelfin wasted no time in wrenching the axe from the wood. The Kyorl turned, took one look at Findelfin wielding the hefty thing, and...laughed.

"An axe? A Raiaeran with an axe? Be careful you don't fall over! You know you can't shoot arrows from that thing, right?" The Dark Elf gave a malicious grin, and began advancing, "Give up, fool, I'll tear you apart."

Findelfin wasn't about to be intimidated, but the Dark Elf was right. The thing was too heavy for him, he had no clue how to use it, and the Kyorl definitely knew how to wield that scimitar. Looking around in desperation, Findelfin's eyes fell on the furniture, and an idea hit him. Quickly grabbing a big, heavy bookend off a nearby bookshelf, he hurled it in the Kyorl's direction. The Kyorl saw what he was doing and dodged the projectile by falling flat to the ground, but in that brief moment Findelfin raised the axe high, preparing to run forward and slam it into the Dark Elf's back.

Before he could take a step, though, the axe seemed to...wrench. It jerked as if trying to come free of Findelfin's hands, and then pulled hard, its weight dragging Findelfin forward. The axe slipped from his hands, then transformed into a glowing white beam. It flew forward with unbelievable speed, smashed into the Kyorl's head, and exploded in a flash of light. When Findelfin's vision cleared, the Dark Elf lay face down on the tile -- and his face was in two pieces.

Turning to face the others, the Kyorl now rushing towards them and calling aloud, he saw Wyn advancing towards the Kyorl, his back to Findelfin. Taking a few steps forward, he called out to Wyn: "I see you've graduated from chucking swords to hurling axes. What's next, a catapult?" He quickly swallowed his lighthearted words when a realization hit him: without him, Wyn wouldn't be safe. These Kyorl didn't want to kill Findelfin, as to do so would spark a war with Raiaera, something even the Dark Elves didn't want right now. But Wyn...Wyn had no such protection. He wasn't a Raiaeran captain.

Findelfin had to act, and quickly, or Wyn would dash right into the jaws of death. Quickly snatching Ainalindil from where it had come to rest, he pointed it at the advancing Kyorl, carefully avoiding Wyn. And then, he began concentrating. Beams of light shot out of his sword at regular intervals, firing into the Dark Elves. The beams weren't terribly powerful against any enemies that weren't undead, but he could tell from the reaction of those the shots struck that, at the very least, it was painful. For a brief moment, the Dark Elves fell back under the barrage of bolts.

He couldn't keep it up for much longer, but it gave Legeliwyn the cover he would need. "Wyn, fall back. Smash the cases, take the weapons, and let's get out of here." Maybe Wyn would get some tools they could use to bar the door as they made their getaway. If that didn't work, at least they could go down with one helluva fight.

[Wyn]

As Wyn sprinted toward the three newcomers, the foolishness of what he was doing struck him. He was running into a fight with three armed guards carrying a weapon that he only had a few moments experience with. Given the fact that two of them were carrying pole-arms, they would be able to keep him at a safe distance and make short work of him whether Findelfin showed up to help him or not. The three Kyorl began to close in on Wyn and he panicked. His list of options was too short for his liking.

Maybe this will finally teach me to think things through! he thought. Well, if I survive this deathtrap and am ever granted the chance to run into another one.

The adventurer, not knowing what else to do, let the flail that he was swinging above his head fly from his fingers. It sailed toward the guard who held the middle position—the one that was wielding the halberd. The dark elf was obviously shocked by the desperate tactic, but managed to extended his halberd and deflect the whirling projectile. As the heavy ball of the flail thudded into the floor, Wyn used the momentum he had gathered running to leap off to the side, past a display case and away from the Kyorl.

The drow closest to Wyn, the one with the spear, lunged at the man as he leapt. His attacked was too quickly aimed, however, and only collided with the glass display case and sent it toppling over. Wyn landed in a clumsy heap on the floor near the broken glass, but picked himself up quickly. Instead of closing in on him, the three dark elves had become distracted by Findelfin—who had evidently slain their officer and was now using his sword to fire bolts of energy toward the remaining Kyorl.

Wyn, at Findelfin’s urgent prompting, gathered up the three weapons that lay amidst the broken glass of the display case. He tucked an elegant long sword into his belt, and hefted a dagger and a throwing hatchet in either hand. Not knowing how much longer Findelfin would be able to distract the three Kyorl, Wyn shifted all of his weight toward one foot and prepared to run toward the door as fast as he could.

However, something caught his eye before he could move. On the opposite side of the library, one of the doors had been swung wide open and more armed dark elves than Wyn could count were now streaming into the library. Evidently word had gotten around to the commanders of the city watch that the blood of Aleraran warriors was being spilled by the bucket load in one of the capital’s most famous attractions. To Wyn’s eyes, it appeared that they had decided to respond to the situation with a military fervor.

“Run!” cried Wyn as he finally turned and sprinted toward the exit. “They’ve more reinforcements than we could ever face! Get to the door as fast as you can.” His urgency would be quite obvious to Findelfin—he had totally forgotten to make a comeback to the elf’s jest and Wyn, for once, seemed genuinely terrified.

[Sighter Tnailog]

Findelfin had never seen anything like this. When they had teetered on the rolling column in Tul Siukan, Wyn had roared with excitement. When they had encountered piles of rotting corpses in Concordia, Wyn had gritted his teeth and assisted in the purification of the grounds. When he had fought Lómaniel, he had known her power and yet walked fearlessly to meet her.

What Findelfin saw in Wyn was something he had never seen in him before: terror. Those other events had been dangerous, yes, sometimes potently so, but in all of them Wyn was confident that his skills and the skills of his companions would carry the day. But faced with a crowd of highly trained Kyorl flooding through the doors, even his courage left him. Seeing his friend in such a state was enough to knock Findelfin to his knees; Wyn had always been the braver of the two, at least when it actually mattered.

But there was no time to collapse into a gibbering pile. The only option was to turn...and run. So Findelfin did. He didn't run as fast as he could...at all costs, he had to keep himself between Wyn and the Kyorl, and had he run as fast as an elf can he would surely have outpaced the human, especially when his friend was carrying those heavy weapons. He could hear the cries behind him, the "Stops!" and the "Stand downs!" He didn't look back, but he would guess they were gaining on them. Pointing Ainalindil backwards as he ran, he shot a few random bolts behind himself. The shouts of pain he heard from behind him indicated that, at the least, he had hit someone. He hoped it wasn't an innocent patron.

Suddenly, he felt cold iron bite at his left arm. He wheeled about to see that one of the drow who they'd been fighting earlier, but left behind when they fled, had caught up with him. His short sword had cut a deep gash on Findelfin's left shoulder, but through the haze of adrenaline Findelfin barely noticed. Without ceasing to run, Findelfin cursed and swung Ainalindil hard at the Alerarian. The Kyorl raised his blade to parry, but Findelfin's mythril sword was stronger. The Kyorl's blade snapped in half. Findelfin thrusted for the Alerarian's face to finish it, but the Kyorl slowed running while Findelfin kept moving. Quickly, Findelfin concentrated, and a burst of white light sped from the sword's tip. With his sword as it was, pointed directly towards the Dark Elf's face, the bolt knocked the Kyorl over. Thank God for the Haidian weaponsmiths. This battle would not have been the same without his new sword.

Turning to make one final breakneck dash for the door, he saw it wasn't far off. Wyn was almost there, as he had been able to run unimpeded as Findelfin was fighting. Pushing himself to his limit, Findelfin began to close the distance rapidly, when suddenly he felt a sickening tug. He swiveled to see the Dark Elf standing where he had fallen before. The drow's hand grasped a golden scepter that he had pointed directly towards Findelfin. He gave the scepter a jerk, and Findelfin felt as if some invisible hand was trying to draw him backwards. He was still making headway towards the door, but he was moving too slowly. What was worse was that he could see that behind the elf there swelled a veritable host; at least twenty Kyorl had filled the library, and if Findelfin couldn't move any faster then they would be on him before he could escape.

It was Findelfin's turn to feel terror. "Wyn!" He cried, struggling valiantly against the magical tether. "Wyn! Help me!"

[Wyn]

Findelfin's cries sent Wyn skidding to a halt. Stopping himself just as he reach the entrance to one of the library's many antechambers, he grabbed hold of the door frame to steady himself and spin around. One of the dark elves who were rushing forward had used an enchanted weapon to impede Findelfin's motion and pull him back toward the horde of guards. Loathe as Wyn was to give up one of the relics he had planned on selling once they got to the border, he did not hesitate for a moment to save his friend's life. He paused only long enough to heft the throwing axe he had confiscated over his shoulder and take aim. The weapon flew through the air with a lack of grace that was made up for by force--Wyn wasn't exactly sure how to throw an axe, but he had figured it would be easy enough--on a collision course toward the dark elf.

With that, he turned once more and sprinted into the antechamber. The drow were approaching too fast for him to even consider aiding Findelfin any further. If the axe had failed, he would only get himself killed by going back. Findelfin's rank would prevent the Kyorl from murdering him, but they'd likely feel no remorse for killing a ragged adventurer who had slain a number of Aleraran guards. If Findelfin was captured and imprisoned, Wyn knew that he could find a way to free him from jail. Breaking into and out of one of Alerar's prisons certainly did not appeal to him, but he knew that he would attempt it if it came to that. Even if they did escape now, getting to the border alive was going to be a nightmare. What'll it matter if things are just a little harder for me? he wondered.

The door leading out of the library groaned and creaked as he opened it. An odd feeling of elation filled him, although he was surprised that he was so glad to see the streets of Ettermire, smell the soot in the cool night air. But the feeling didn't last long. As he ran out, one of the Kyorl shot him in the back with a crossbow.

Wyn screamed and tumbled down the steps, sprawling face-first on the paved roads of the city. He tasted blood in his mouth and his head spun, his shoulder burning with an unbearable pain. But something inside Wyn told him that we would have to get up, have to keep moving, or he would die. He knew that he had likely already attracted the attention of every dark elf nearby. So he gritted his teeth and reached around his back with his left hand and wrenched the bolt from his shoulder in one clean motion. He screamed again, through his teeth.

The bloody bolt clattered to the road and he placed his palm next to it, using what strength he could to push himself to his knees, then to his feet. He gasped for breath and stumbled a few paces forward, finally starting to feel the warmth of his blood running down his back. "Findelfin...?" he muttered, confused, stumbling another step forward. His head still swam and it was hard to think about anything but the pain in his shoulder. Still, somehow he knew that if he did not get off the street soon, the guards were going to find him and kill him.

If I don't die of this wound anyway... he thought. He shuddered, feeling cold all of a sudden. "No one's going to heal me," he said to the empty street, a dusty wind sweeping his words into th dark alleys of Ettermire. "I'm a criminal, I'm a criminal, I'm a criminal... No one's going to heal me... Findelfin!" Snapping loose from his delerium, he turned his head toward the library to look for the elf.

[Sighter Tnailog]

Findelfin was doomed.

He could see Wyn turning, struggling with something, but it was too late. There was no way the tired adventurer could save him in time -- and none of the weapons in his hands stood any chance of reaching the Dark Elf who held him prisoner. And Findelfin had been slowed to a stop by whatever strange force had him in its grip. But then Wyn managed to grab one item, and in a quick motion he hurled it in Findelfin's direction. All Findelfin's hopes leapt up in that moment, every dream he had of escaping, of learning the true meaning of Raiaeran magic, of discovering the secrets of Tel'Quessir.

And then his hopes fell apart, not with a crash, but a clatter. The weapon Wyn had thrown fell clanging to the floor, skidding slowly to a halt across the tile floor. And that invisible hand still held the elven captain tight. With that sound, Findelfin knew it was over. They wouldn't kill him, but he would never make it to Remember the Glory. The only thing left was for Wyn to escape; these Kyorl had no qualms for him. "Wyn!" He shouted, the sound itself almost swallowed by the force that held him fast. "Wyn!"

But he couldn't get the next word out before his friend turned and ran. As the back fled away, he whispered, the small sound lost in the noise of Kyorl footsteps against the cold stone. "Run...."

He couldn't even turn, but he knew they had him. He could hear the patter of feet slow, and a breathless voice said, "Findelfin ap Fingolfin, your freedom is forfeit to the law of Valsharess. You are coming with us." The voice took in another breath, preparing to say something else.

Then the library erupted. A blast of hellish heat smashed against Findelfin's back, and the force holding his feet firm to the ground suddenly dissapated. Flying forward, propelled by whatever power had just unleashed itself on the crowd, he smashed face forward into the cement floor, skidding a few feet before coming to rest right at the door.

Getting up and dazedly grabbing the doorjamb to steady himself, he turned around to see a scene of carnage. Bookshelves had fallen over, burning. Their contents spilled into the floor, pages and pages of knowledge roasting in the flickering flames. Kyorl were strewn everywhere. The one closest to Findelfin had probably been who spoke, a piece of some strange metal protruding from his back. On the floor in the middle of the carnage lay an axehaft without an axehead, smoldering, and Findelfin smiled. Wyn's axe did its job after all...but maybe he should throw away the rest of those items. We don't have a clue what they do. But thank Aurient for that Kyorl Captain! He took a piece of metal meant for me...

But a few of the Kyorl who had been farthest from the blast or merely lucky were starting to stir, so he turned and left. On his way out, he smashed a case and seized a small sword. Slamming the door behind him, he jammed it with the blade. Who knows, if they try to open the door it could open a portal to Galatiriel-knows-where.

Turning to walk -- no, limp, the blast had done something strange to his legs -- through the door, he cast his eyes about for Wyn. But he didn't see him. While they had been in the library, dusk had deepened into night, and it was hard to see after the torchlit library. Does he know where to go? Staying to the shadows, he hobbled a little bit in the direction the librarian had told him. "Wyn?" He whispered. "Wyn? Where are you?"

[Wyn]

Wyn stumbled back as a wave of heat rushed onto the street from the library, the acrid smell of smoke making him cough. The reaction only made the pain in his shoulder flare up. He cringed and clutched his shoulder. Disoriented as he was, he knew that whatever had just happened in the library did not bode well. If Findelfin was killed... he thought, but stopped, realizing that he had no earthly idea how to finish. Findelfin's death would be too much to bear at this point.

Sounds of the elf's escape, however, brought a feeling of relief to Wyn. So when Findelfin used the sword to barricade the library door and stepped out onto the road, Wyn was smiling despite the situation. He looked bad, that was for sure--he was pale, sweating, and tired, although Findelfin would not be able to see the wound on the back of his shoulder or the blood that had pooled around it. Wyn stumbled out of the shadows when Findelfin whispered for him. "I'm here," he said, letting his hand fall from his shoulder. Though he had smiled, all traces of his earlier good mood had vanished. They were too close to death to laugh. There was something sad in the frankness of his voice. "What should we do now? Find the easiest way out of the city, then head to Raiaera or Tular?"

Wyn bit his lip as Findelfin explained the book that the librarian had given him, the conversation he'd had with the man. None of this sounded like a good idea to him. Staying in Ettermire any longe would be suicide. Within the hour, Kyorl and bounty hunters would be swarming all over the city looking for them. Just because a crazy librarian had told Findelfin about a secret society didn't mean it was worth risking their lives to find it. But Wyn was tired and he could tell that Findelfin looked insistent--not to mention that they didn't have any time to argue out here on the street--so he silently assented with a nod. "I told you I wanted to go an inn earlier, but I wasn't this bloody bent on it," he muttered. "You're not going to be able to write a damn history book if you're dead."

With a sigh and a wince of pain, he followed Findelfin into the darkened alleys of Ettermire as fast as he could. Running in his state was exhausting, but the sheer exhilaration of their predicament almost made him forget his wound. His mind wandered to the path they would take once they were out of Ettermire.

Over the years, Wyn had met plenty of farmers in his travels across the Aleraran countryside. He still remembered roughly where many of them lived, and he hoped that at least a few of them would be willing to harbor a pair of highly wanted fugitives and give them supplies. The countryside would be the easy part, though. Even if they could find no safehouses, they could sleep outside without being seen and they could live off the land. It would be the mountains that proved the biggest challenge. The pass to Raiaera would be watched. Wyn knew other smaller, more dangerous passes, of course, but he did not relish the thought of having to take any of them. He realized with a sickening lurch in his stomach that this was going to be the hardest thing he'd ever done. Of all the ancient temples and ruins he'd searched and plundered, of all the great beasts he had fought and killed, a trip to a library might be the thing that killed him.

Remember the Glory was unimpressive. Wyn recognized it as the sign was written in both Aleraran and Raiaeran, an oddity in Ettermire. It was a small inn stuck between a factory and a museum, its only entrance down a narrow alley between the two buildings. Wyn came to a slow halt in front of the inn, panting and looking all around them to make sure they were not being watched or followed. His wound ached and he was sure that the run had not been good for it, as it was likely causing him to lose more blood. This could be the last building I ever walk into, he thought. Still, he slipped into the alley all the same.

"This could be a death trap," he whispered to Findelfin. Then he opened the door.

[Sighter Tnailog]

Findelfin had very little time. The librarian had been insistent on his arrival at Remember the Glory, and whether Wyn liked it or not they had to go there. "I'm sorry about this, Wyn, but it's more than a history at stake. I don't know what it is, exactly, but it's important, I know that." He turned to run. They had to make it before the entire city was awake. Distant alarums were already beginning to clang, bronze bells clanging to alert the guard.

He ran as fast as he could, the pain in his leg almost crippling him. He hobbled along, throwing his bad leg forward and wincing as it struck the uneven cobblestones. He could hear Wyn behind him, following with labored breaths. He didn't even know what he was running towards. For all he knew the librarian was a spy, the book wasn't real. Maybe this was all an elaborate plot to take out a Raiaeran Captain and Tur Aranthi of Tel'Quessir.

But he had to take the chance. Secret societies warding against the Tap? Magical weapons that could make or break the universe? If even a shred of it was true, it meant danger. It meant that the world needed to remember.

Finally they were there. The streets had been a blur, the facades on the buildings had all merged together as Findelfin and Wyn had run past. All they had noticed was the number of blocks they had run, the pounding of blood in their ears and the sweat on their backs, the pain in their wounds, the hope in Findelfin's heart and the worry in Wyn's. But there they were. In front of the inn.

Wyn whispered words to Findelfin that could prove all too true, then pushed open the door. As he did so, Findelfin finally noticed the dark spot that had soaked all of Wyn's back, from shoulder to waist, and he felt the severity of whatever had happened to his leg. As soon as they got inside, he pulled Wyn to a table and sat down himself, resting and breathing.

The inn was almost totally dark; only moonlight and starlight served to illuminate it. On the wall adjacent to the entrance extended a long bar, but the countertop was covered in cobwebs and the shelves only held a few bottles, open and empty, some fallen over to rest on their sides. The circular tables and chairs creaked as Findelfin and Wyn sat, and these sitting areas surrounded a large sem-circular stage, where a bard or a juggler once kept patrons entertained. But if this inn was Remember the Glory, then glory was something it had forgotten long ago.

"Wyn...Wyn..." he said between panting, "Give me a moment. We're both...we're both injured." He took in deep, labored breaths, until at last he mustered his strength. "I'll help."

He began to sing. It was a low sound; he did not have the strength nor the courage to sing any louder, at least not in this place. As the soft and sweet sonata began to do its work, his voice quavered less and he was more confident, but it still stayed the same low volume; they could not risk being heard. As the sound echoed lightly within the chamber, Findelfin could feel his leg...change. Something inside it seemed to shift and pop, and then the sharp pain ended and was replaced by only a dull ache, as if of pain remembered. He stopped his song, knowing that it would have worked by now for Wyn as well, and leaned back, breathing hard. He had run too far to sing very well; he would not be able to work a spell again this night.

[Wyn]

Wyn gave the interior of the abandoned inn a cursory glance, but the pain from his wound was too persistent for any sort of close inspection. He stumbled inside and found his way to a bar stool, not even bothering to dust it off. Having sat down, the adrenaline that had been keeping his body running seemed to have shut off completely. He was exhausted and in pain and half of his tunic was covered in his own blood. The idea of examining his wound scared him. Please don't bleed to death, please don't bleed to death, pleasedon'tbleedtodeath, don'tbleedtodeath, don'tbleedtodeath, he thought again and again, as if it were a mantra.

When Findelfin mentioned that he would heal them both, Wyn was too drained to do anything but wave his assent. The severity of his wound had caused him to forget about Findelfin's magic entirely. He would have felt foolish if his mind had not been so preoccupied by the burning injury in his back.

As Findelfin's quiet song progressed, Wyn felt tissue inside his shoulder meshing together smoothly, his skin stitching itself back up. For a few moments, it was as if his body was made of clay and was being gently reshaped. When the song faded, all that remained off the wound from the crossbow bolt was a quiet ache somewhere inside his shoulder. Despite the relief that flooded his body in the spell's aftermath, magic could not replace the blood he had lost. Wyn looked pale and tired, with a sheen of cold sweat on his brow dampening the ends of his hair. His head was cloudy and he felt as if he were walking through a dream, nauseous and frightened. The room seemed surreal.

"Why are we here?" he asked softly, seeming uncharacteristically frightened and worried. "There's no one here but us. Maybe we should leave. We have no more reason to trust that librarian than we do to trust this city." There was now paranoia in Wyn's voice. He wasn't talking sense, but the intensity of the situation and the loss of blood did not help him in making rational decisions. "Maybe he just tricked us into fighting those guards to make us criminals. Perhaps he was in league with the whole time, some sort of bribery. He could be coming here with guards to collect the bounty that's no doubt been put on our heads. We have to get out now."

Wyn put his hands on the stool and pushed himself off in an attempt to stand, but one of his feet caught the rung and he fell clumsily to the floor. "Shit," he muttered, pulling himself quickly to his knees. He seemed to realize how ridiculous he was acting in that moment and sighed, shaking his head from side to side. He slumped with his back against the bar counter, not bothering to get back onto the stool. "I'm sorry," he murmured, offering no further explanation. "So who is it that we're waiting for?"

There was a sudden creaking of floorboards from the back of the inn with a figure emerging from shadows that had hidden a doorway Wyn had not seen. The breath caught his throat and his fingers instinctively went to the knife he had stolen from the library, but they faltered when he heard the figure speak.

"You'll forgive me, I hope, for skulking about in the shadows, but I had to make sure you had not been followed," said the figure. "Telendor Nauvarin is not a welcome guest in this city, but the two of you are certainly welcome in our local... home, such as it is." The voice was familiar to Wyn, but at the same time not. The figure spoke in fluent High Elven, but his accent was that of southeastern Corone, Wyn's home and place of birth. As the figure emerged from the shadows to stand before them, Wyn's fingers still had not figured out what to do with the knife they had attempted to wield.

Wyn gasped when the figure emerged from the shadows. The man standing before them was his maternal grandfather--the man who had taught Findelfin how to wield a sword, the man who had taught his grandson the language of the Raiaerans and filled his head with notions of adventure, the very man who Wyn had been named for. He was in his early sixties with a wrinkling, amused face, and his long gray hair had been tied into a pony tail. He was shorter than most men, but seemed remarkably strong and quick for someone of his age. The clothes he wore were those of a typical Aleraran commoner, probably some sort of disguise. And through his belt, as ever, he wore a simple but elegant long sword.

"Grandfather?" Wyn asked incredulously, his eyes looking to Findelfin to make sure he was not delirious and hallucinating the whole encounter.

[Sighter Tnailog]

His back against the hard wooden wall, Findelfin slowly lowered himself until he was seated on the floor. His eyes closed, all he could concentrate on was breathing deeply and listening. The air smelled stale...but clean. It had none of the clog of dust that so many other old abandoned places tended to possess. It was as if someone kept it clean, even if they never opened the windows.

He cherished the feeling that his strength was no longer fleeing from him. Although it seemed none of it was returning, at the very least he had a chance to rest without running. The fight with the Kyorl had not been easy; he had wasted a good deal of his energy trying to escape from that strange force, that magical weapon that had held him in place. The thought of it still sent shivers throughout his body. At the last, he had seen something in those Kyorl's eyes...they were not going to spare him. Something in the way they had attacked him at the end indicated that his position would not keep him from danger. And the words of that captain still smote his eardrums, as if being spoken even now...Your life is forfeit.

The words of the Kyorl faded, though, as Wyn began to speak. Everything his friend said sounded good to the elven general. It seemed perfectly logical...trick someone into thinking they had to get somewhere, despite the costs, and they might be willing to kill for it. For all Findelfin knew, a high-ranking Kyorl had just been killed--slain by Findelfin's own actions--and war was inevitable. Alerar may have sacrificed one of their own in order to pin the blame on Raiaera. Wyn's words were quite possible, in many ways.

But there was something in the way that librarian had spoken...something in the way he knew what Findelfin had come for, the way he had Findelfin's desired book before the elf had even asked for it. The Kyorl couldn't have engineered that, could they?

He was about to cut Wyn off and say as much when a creaking floorboard silenced his tongue. It was a mark of how fatigued he was when his head turned to see who it was, but his hand did not bother to go to his sword hilt. He was legitimately shocked to see who it was. His old sword teacher, Legeliwyn Ayel, the elder by two generations of his best friend, also named Legeliwyn Ayel. The two Legeliwyns looked strikingly similar, although the older man had grayer hair and seemed more worn. By Selana's Star, what is Old Wyn doing here?

Findelfin recovered more quickly than his friend, whose disbelieving query still hung on the air. When he was able to speak, all he had were questions. "Tura Ayel...what...is it safe? What do you mean about Telendor Nauvarin? Are you a part of it? What...what do we have to do with it?" He tried to rise, but merely slumped back into his position. His legs were worn out. But then he asked the most important question of all.

"Why are you here?"

[Wyn]

Wyn opened his mouth to say something, but he was incapable of forming words with the shock of his grandfather's sudden appearance still settling in. While his presence here was not impossible, it was certainly bizarre. He knew nothing of the organization that he had mentioned, what he assumed Findelfin had dragged him out to this tavern to find out about. “It’s… It’s wonderful to see you again, grandfather,” said Wyn finally, still dazed. “Although I have to admit I’m surprised to be meeting under these circumstances. We had… Well, we had an encounter with the guards. I’m sure they’ll be—”

The older Legeliwyn silenced his grandson with a motion of his hand as he stepped closer to his former pupils. “You need not worry about the guards following you here,” he said. “Believe it or not, there are still a few officers in the Aleraran Kyorl who hold old traditions sacred.” He placed his hand on the back of a chair and leaned on it as if he were tired. “I can’t say how wonderful it is to be able to see the both of you again. I feared that I might not have been able to before I met my end.” He smiled the same smile that Wyn always smiled, as if it was something his grandson had learned from him.

“And yes, Findelfin,” he said, gazing toward the elf, “I am indeed a member of Telendor Nauvarin. More than that, I am a member of its highest council, in which I hold the position of Diadem. I lead Telendor Nauvarin as I have for almost fifty years. When I was only twenty-five years old, I took the position by mortal combat from the great Salvic nobleman Dritavak Ezsk, who had taken it from the Coronian shipping merchant Edward Sulvarri thirty years prior, who had taken it from a gifted dark elven blacksmith many years before that. I hold a title whose line follows an unbroken tradition all the way back to The War of the Tap.”

He was silent for a few moments, letting the two of them know just exactly how ancient and powerful the organization they were dealing with was. “As to our purposes, that will be explained in a letter I have concealed inside Mending the Tear. Our Elder will tell you more of our goals and answer any questions you might have. You'll be meeting him very shortly.”

Old Wyn then moved quickly, bending down near Findelfin as if he was going to pick up the book and remove the letter from it. “Remember to read it,” he said. “It will explain why I must do this.” With surprising quickness for a man of his age, the older Wyn pulled a knife from the folds of his cloak and stabbed Findelfin in the chest.

Before either of them could react, Old Wyn stepped back and fell to his knees, gripping the bloody knife in both of his hands. “I truly am glad I got to see the two of you again,” he said, struggling to hold back tears. “I’m only sorry I’ve seen so little of you lately. You’ve been the only family I ever knew.” Then, without hesitation, he plunged the knife into his stomach and forced it violently upward towards his heart. He choked awkwardly and his eyes widened, though the smile never left his face. Before he slumped over on the growing pool of his blood, the elder Legeliwyn Ayel was dead.

[Sighter Tnailog]

Findelfin barely had time to absorb what Old Wyn was saying before he felt the knife slide between his ribs. His whole right side was suddenly consumed by what felt like fire. The wound in his chest gurgled and sputtered with every wracking breath he took, his lungs seemingly unable to fill with air; his entire body agonized over the tremendous pain, and he could only watch in horror as his former teacher...a teacher he had loved...turned his knife upon himself.

But Findelfin was now gasping for breath. He could feel that chill creeping in at the edges of his consciousness. It was a double shock; physically he was reeling from the sudden pain, a collapsed lung, blood loss. But psychologically he had just been betrayed by someone he had respected. Sucking in air, he looked to the only other person he had.

"Www...ww...Wyn....wyn..." His breaths were sharp and ragged as his hands reached towards his friend, still seated in the chair. His vision rapidly blurring, he could scarcely even see the man's face. Had he seen it, he would have seen a young man, still a boy, wrapped in the worst sort of pain: his grandfather dead in front of him, his best friend dying at the same time, and he still living and having to see it all. But Findelfin couldn't see that, and in his state he might not even have realized what he was seeing.

"Wwwynn...please...come here." Findelfin leaned forward earnestly, feeling what was left of him seeping out between his ribs in a bubbly red mess. "Ih...ih..ucchk...if I don't make it...tell...tell..."

He felt a sticky warm feeling in his throat, and could feel it rising to choke him. Before he was overwhelmed, he spit it out.

"Tell Natamrael I...chhhh...I love her."

And then the blood slipped from his throat to trickle onto his chin, and Findelfin ap Fingolfin slumped hard against the wall.

[Wyn]

Wyn had not fully recovered from his crossbow injury and watched the scene in a daze. Seeing his grandfather assault Findelfin without offering an explanation had been wrenching, but when his namesake fell to his knees and slide the knife into his heart, Wyn let out a startled cry. None of this could be happening. This whole bloody inn isn’t real, he thought. I’m hallucinating. I have to be. I’m hallucinating, I’m hallucinating, I’m hallucinating… But nothing changed. His grandfather was still lying dead in a pool of blood and Findelfin was still gasping and choking from the wound that he had received. It only then occurred to Wyn that it might be fatal.

As he scrambled toward his friend so that he could tend his wound, the words he spoke hit him as if he had been struck. With everything that had happened since he ran into Findelfin earlier in the night, he had forgotten to tell him about Natamrael. About the children she had with Devon Starslayer. That she was dead.

When Findelfin coughed up blood and slumped against the wall, Wyn’s heart sank. This was more than he could bear. He sank to the floor, just sitting there, defeated. “She’s dead, Findelfin” he whispered. “She’s dead. Now grandfather’s dead. And so are you. You’re dead, too…” Tears welled up in his eyes and he bent over, palms pressing hard into the tavern’s floorboards. He sobbed like a child. His mind could not grasp everything that was happening. This can’t be right, he thought. This can’t be what grandfather wanted. It went wrong. It must have. Something went wrong.

Slowly he lifted his head, gazing at the bodies of his two dearest companions. They were both still dead. He forced himself to his knees and hobbled toward his grandfather. Wyn brushed his fingers over the man’s eyelids, shutting them closed forever. As much as it pained him to do it, he grasped the hilt of the knife that was buried in the man and pulled it out, laying it next to his arm. He clasped his grandfather’s hands together over the wound. Finally, he removed the scabbard and sword that his grandfather wore from his sword belt, sliding it into his own. He would not leave such a weapon for the Kyorl.

As he moved over to Findelfin, Wyn removed the weapons he had stolen from the library and dropped them on the floor. To take them would have been an act of greed. Given what had just happened, it would have been blasphemous. But as he moved closer to Findelfin, Wyn noticed something. The elf’s chest still rose and fell. He was breathing. Unconscious and suffering from a possibly fatal wound, but he was not dead.

A wordless sound of elation escaped from his throat. I have to get him out of here! Wyn picked up the copy of Mending the Tear containing his grandfather’s letter and slid it inside his cloak. Then he gathered Findelfin up in his arms and headed toward the door, his head clouded and his body weary, but knowing he was alive. Knowing that was Findelfin was alive and that his grandfather must have had some purpose for doing all of this. It doesn’t end here, thought Wyn. Not yet.

Wyn reached for the door handle, but before his fingers found it in the dark, the door swung open on its own. In the unlit alley outside Remember the Glory stood a score of heavily armed Kyorl, their faces grim and pitiless. One of them lifted his torch so that he could clearly see Wyn and Findelfin. “Take them to Lord Azzarak,” he said, his voice as dark as the streets of Ettermire that now seemed so far away.

((Some final notes: Please remember that all bunnying in this thread was approved and that the EXP for all posts by Old Wyn should go to the Wyn account. Findelfin humbly requests that he be given enough EXP to reach the next level, as he is making substantial changes to his character. He also asks for the copy of Mending the Tear which contains a letter from Wyn's grandfather and a medium-sized key of unknown origin or purpose. I ask that Wyn be able to keep his grandfather's sword--a simple but elegant mythril long sword with a dragon-bone hilt.))

[INDK]

Well this was a fun read. I’m going to recommend it for a Judges Choice! Madison, you should have enough EXP for a level up out of this, though you shouldn't thank me. Thank the formula!

And the score is 81!

Story

Continuity- 7. See my comment in dialogue. Also, I felt that this adventure hit the ground running a bit too much. I understand it was taking off from Madison’s last thread, and since I read that, I should know what is going on here. However, if you could have brought in a bit more backstory, I would have appreciated it. I understand you two both seem to prefer the third person limited, so it may have cramped you in writing style.

Setting- 7. I have one comment, and one commentary. I’m going to get to the comment first. I really liked your descriptions of the people and culture as well as your descriptions of things. However, I don’t know if I thought you necessarily did as great of a job linking the two together. Much of the physical setting didn’t conjure up the same images of dark elves that matched their culture as you played it. Also, I was a bit surprised the way you talked about nationalists in Alerar, especially since there is nothing about Alerar that speaks of it being a nation state. Government institutions are definitely pre-modern. I know that’s a really picky qualm, but it just seems hard for me to imagine in nationalism in Alerar. I’ve always seen dark elves as a bit racist, but not nationalist. This didn’t affect your score in any way, but I just wanted to make the comment.

Pacing- 8. I thought I hated how this ended, until Wyn’s last post. Otherwise, I feel like things felt a bit rushed towards the end of the quest. Seeing as Old Wyn was essentially a new character to me, his actions didn’t seem as shocking as you probably intended them to. For all I knew, he was just a crazy old codger. The beginning, however, was superb.

Character

Dialogue- 8. I really liked how natural this was, though in a few cases, it seemed like Wyn and Findelfin were sharing inside jokes between the two of them that wouldn’t be apparent to the reader until later in the thread. If they were meant for forshadowing, I would have commended you on this, but I don’t feel like that was the intention.

Action- 8. I’m tempted to score this a bit lower, but most of the things I’d want to take off for are really pacing issues.

Persona- 9. I really felt that Wyn excelled here. Findelfin was not written badly, but at the same time, I didn’t develop the same kind of feelings for the character. Both of you definitely showed that your characters do have personas, but I don’t feel like Madison took the time this thread to help the reader understand Findelfin the way Adam did. Perhaps, this is in part because of the degree of difficulty with the two characters. Wyn is someone who you have to understand or he seems completely unbelievable, where as Findelfin is more of the kind of person one can naturally sympathize with.

Writing Style

Mechanics- 9. You two have a great sense of your writing styles and how to tell a story.

Techniques- 6. I’m scoring this a bit lower because it reeks of missed opportunity, particularly with regards to setting. See my setting comments.

Clarity- 9. I would have scored this a perfect ten, save for the fact that I found myself wondering for gaps of time what the character whose POV I wasn’t getting was up to.

Miscellaneous

Wild Card- 9. In general, when I feel pretty happy with the way the rubric has scored the thread, I make the wild card the average of the other categories. That is the case here. However, I gave you a bonus point for having the patience to complete a thread that spanned so much time.

Spoils=
Findelfin gets 3500 EXP, the copy of Mending the Tear and the mysterious key of doom. Also, he is pleased to find that someone accidentally left a certificate for 100 GP in the book. Silly drow and their choices for bookmarks!
Wyn gets 2200 EXP and the mythril sword.
Old Wyn receives nothing but my scorn.

[Cyrus the virus]

EXP added!

Both of you level up. Woop! Good job!