A Sanguine Trail To Tread (Closed to Poison, Arphenion, Lyric)

[Ranger]

Salvar was a harsh mistress. It was a land that would scold an inhabitant for not reading its attitude; punish another for ignoring it outright. Luckily, it was early spring and the long, lonely nights of winter had begun to give way to a mid-afternoon sun that was trying its best to smile kindly. The mistress though, she was not yet done with the flurry of snow or the thunder-storms laced with sleet. Bands of weather pushed through without expectation or prediction at times. For the Northern wastes, as many of the southern Salvic cities called it, it was just another cycle. They did not have aeromancers for weather prediction or control, they were hearty and fully capable.

Arphenion hated Slavic winters, hated the general culture of the people of Salvar hated the awful alcholic drink preferences of the hearty humans, but most of all hated The Sway. Unfortunately, had a claim in the Northeaster portion of the wastes that he had taken over since Damion Shargath had disappeared. The young, psychotic human was amusing in his own way but had been missing for some time – since then the Raiaeran Bladesinger claimed the Shargath Estate, a name he gave since it had no other. However, Arphenion was a broken man who had no true home.

He was a split between his body and soul, and conscious. He had the reincarnated body of a high elven Bladesinger, brought back by the powers of the infamous necromancer Xem’Zund with assistance from his ‘sister’ the twisted druid Pode. The soul was that of a dark elven prophet of the Thayne, Ranger Nailo, who had been pulled from the antifirmament to act as a catalyst for the reincarnation. The problem, with the situation, was that the mind was split with memories of the past life overlapping for both, while Arphenion fought to retain his identity in place of the whispers of Ranger’s life prodding his subconscious mind.

One of the expectations of maintaining the Shargath Estate was presence. Being a prominent figure in the region, both seen and known. Arphenion had met some of the local nobles as they called themselves, people that were kings and queens of their own small patches of nothing. Some had titles they liked to flout, as if they had meaning, but others were more humble and polite in their interactions. Either way, the Forsaken Defiled mage had asked each for their kinship and trust. The sturdy handshakes were laced with the dark magic of the Forsaken, willing hosts accepting the connection between them and the elf.

It was with utmost surprise that the first of the Slavic nobles to attempt contact was the seemingly confident and forward Lady Juine of the Revellier Manor. Arphenion had met her at her estate while traveling back to his own. She had made a slight impression. The woman was a young human, brunette hair and dark eyes, but with a presence about her that intrigued the elf.

Arphenion lounged in his chair and swirled a deep, red wine in a wide glass goblet. The warmth of the wide fireplace fought the stab of the cold. He read the letter again, shaking his head and wondering if it was worth it.

“Dear Mr. Arphenion De Lecuyer,

I write to you this day to ask for your assistance. It appears that there has been some concern with a local, small village known as Grimsgol. In the surrounding forests a bloody affair has occurred, with the bodies of many individuals affixed to trees. The village is in a tizzy, suspecting the work of vampires, and many avenues of regress have been reached that are paramount to requesting travel protection from a conclave of brigands.

It is not known what the true nature of this macabre spectacle is, but I believe your expertise and understanding may be warranted in this case. I have other personnel that can assist in this venture, but you are one I would like to ask – if nothing else – to please take a look at that situation.

Please accept my gracious invitation to the Revellier Mansion, whether accepting this request or simply for the pleasure of regional discussion, to discuss and have civil conversation.

Sincerely,

Juine Revellier

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The Raiaeran elf rode up to high hedges that obviously outlined the entrance to the estates of the Revellier Mansion. They were well-trimmed and seemed to extend the length of the face of the estate, with a smooth cobblestone path that was extremely well maintained since at the mile mark before the beginning of the estate. His horse, a non-descript auburn mare, had been his only companion for the last sixteen hours. The journey, tiring as it was, made Arphenion want to do nothing more than present himself and let them known that nothing was needed of him.

“Good morn!” A cheerful, somewhat wide guard with the Revellier crest called out as the elf slowly rode up to the entrance. Beneath the heavy fur cloak was a cheerful human, with naturally slumped shoulders and a smaller physical build. He had a leather cap on his head, a beard that looked as if it was a few days into growing, and a stupid grin. At the center of his breastplate was the symbol of the house, a shield with gold and black, small rain drops falling in the black section. Above the shield was a simple helm and a boar's head. “How can we help you... sir?”

It was obvious that the man caught the long, sharp ears and pale skin of Arphenion as he looked his direction. The guard put on a placid smile, but one that was accompanied by a quick glance over his shoulder and nod to other guards. Other humans, armor the same uniform but the garment for warmth slightly different, began to rise from small fires and grab their weapons to come meet the elf.

“I am Arphenion De Lecuyer,” the voice of the man was deeper than his natural tone, yet not aggressive. He wanted to impart that he was important without scaring them, or inciting further concern. “I was requested to visit by the Lady Revellier. You can take my reigns and care for my horse and call for the house staff to show me to my room. I have been on the road for some time and need a hot bath.”

“Oooh,” the man said as he, without losing eye contact, used two fingers to summon the other guards. Arphenion was dressed in his common clothes. He had a pair of leather boots, black britches, a long sleeve white collar shirt with blouse, tight black vest, and baroque frock. He was, in his own way, the epitome of non-threatening. The armor and weapons that he could bring to bear were well hidden in his pocket dimension. “I can’t just let any elf... I mean any person in. What’s a Raiaeran want here?”

Arphenion shook his head as he swung his leg over the horse and saddle and held the reigns. He put them forward to an attendant in the black and gold stripes, who looked at the guard for approval. When the guard continued staring at the elf he looked back and sighed. “How about you send someone with this,” he extended the letter he had received, “and while you do so I’ll contact her directly.”

“You’ll what?” The guard took the letter and brought it back to the others.

Arphenion wasn’t sure that between the four of them, including the stable hand, anyone could read. Instead he closed his eyes a second and thought of the young Revellier noble. In his mind a long, broken stream of magic appeared that looked like a novice crocheting of a single line. It was not tight, loose at times, a couple knots incorrect but worked through. With the connection he pulled very gently. He could sense her direction, her feeling of excitement and the word Bordeaux, and that her eyes suddenly were pulled towards him.

“She’ll be here soon. You can send word that I have arrived, or you can wait for her to tell you.” He handed his reigns to the stable hand. “You can keep this one, I just used her to ger here, but I expect a fresh replacement.”

Arphenion turned to the guard and waved his hand dismissively. “Go, why are you still here?”