Artur awoke with a start when the lightning struck, sending the horses into a frenzy. He lunged for their reins, trying to soothe them with gentle words until they stood still, just in time for a second bolt of lightning to undo all his work. Thankfully, he had tied them to tree, having learned the hard way that trudging by foot through muddy villages in search of two prize stallions was more than his priestly dignity could take. Especially after the incident with the old witch and the snakes, which had cost him a jeweled ring and three of the blessings he had brought with him from the City of Gods. He'd gotten back his horses, yes, but he had no intention of repeating the exercise. Even after more than ten years with the Order as a novice, an acolyte, and now an ordained priest, Artur found some shreds of his pagan childhood remained. He knew witches were no more than old women dabbling in divination and apothecary, but a part of him still insisted that these heretical old women knew things, and there were certain things Artur preferred to keep to himself.

The sound of thunder quieted, but didn't disappear altogether, much like the hum of the huge church bells continued to fill the chapel long after they had been struck. The horses crowded together, turning their ears and rolling their eyes nervously, wickering softly to each other and tossing their heads. Artur picked up the blankets they had thrown off and went to cover them, but it was useless, and he folded them into the saddlebags on the ground near the dying fire instead. The air continued to thrum and seemed to grow thicker as Artur tied his saddlebags. It wasn't his imagination, he realized. The fine blonde hairs on his arms stood up, and the back of his neck tingled. He looked nervously at the sky and, to his shock, discovered it was completely clear. The full moon shone brightly into the meadow where he had made his camp at sunset, and the fire had died to nearly embers . . . He drew in a sharp breath. It was the witching hour. His lips formed the Mother's prayer even as he turned slowly around on the balls of his feet, still crouched, assuring himself that his Circle of Protection remained intact.

Slowly Artur stood and moved to the fire, coaxing it back to life with an incantation. It refused to give off more than a few tongues of weak yellow flame, and still the humming continued to grow, like a cloud of insects descending on the forest. The horses huddled closer and closer together. Artur wet his lips, turning in slow circles to watch the perimeter of his Circle, and began to recite the Guardian of Light, his soft, airy voice lost in the deafening hum of the night air.

"I am the Guardian of Light
and the Gods go with me.
Where the night is darkest
I go without fear
for my sword is a lantern
and the Gods are my light
and the darkness recedes
before the fire which never flickers
and the servants of darkness
cannot hunt me!"

With the final word the flames of his little fire flared to the height of a man and something dark came flying into the Circle, breaking it. The horses screamed. Artur dove through the flames for his sword, rolling gracefully into a deep kneel and unsheathing the blade just in time to bar the next attack.

Morgan was sitting on a branch of a soaked oak tree, staring up at the bloated sky and clouds that blanketed it like a thick, wool comforter. "Ah, where's the moon when you need it?" Morgan said, his elvish accent ran thicker with every spoken word. "It seems that the moon will not be joining me tonight, instead the earth has graced me with it's tears. I love the moon." He said, babbling out loud to himself. What would anyone want do with the "curse-bearer" or "demon spawn". He scoffed as he got down from the branch, landing on the ground with the dullest of thuds.

He was rather tall, like most of his kin, and his skin was a pale as freshly laid snow. He was from the north, after all. His intense violet eyes glowed brightly, poking through the thick veil of rain, mist, and fog that seemed to always roll in at night. He began a slow pace back to the nearest village, about a fifteen minute walk. His hand instinctually ran down to the pommel of his longsword which was sheathed at his hip. As he walked, his long, wild locks of raven hair bounced up and down with every step he made. Surprisingly, he didn't even make any sound. His grey trench coat was open, revealing a long thick pattern of dull, pink scars, painted out in a bizarre pattern. He was dressed simply, just a pair of black linen pants and leather boots. Just enough to get by.

"Crackkkk!

He immediately drew his sword and started to run towards the village. The was no lighting...only thunder. The sound of creeping darkness, slinking it's sinister way towards the village full of ignorant, innocent people who lived their lives on the basis of fear and loathing. As terrible as he was treated, no one deserved to be eaten alive by demons not of this dimension. He looked up, and he couldn't even see the clouds, let alone four feet in front of him. He broke off in an inhuman pace towards the torchlight. When he arrived, he saw demons of all kinds, incubi, succubi, and all kinds of foul spawn of the darkness trying to break into people's houses for their souls and their flesh. "By the gods, run! Run as far as you can! You will be no more if you don't!" He said, slipping a wand out of his sleeve and quickly charging up a bolt of energy that crackled out towards the nearest demon, splattering him up against the wall, leaving a cavern in his chest. He danced his way through the crowd of thirty or so demons, slicing and stabbing, all the while launching spells. After he was done, and the evil dissipated, he poked his head through the building and saw a...knight of some sort, fighting off demons.

"Who goes there?" Morgan spoke out, curious to see if this knight would be hostile or not. They all were, for the most part.

Artur lost track of the demons as they swarmed the meadow. Their black dragonfly wings had been the cause of the humming in the air, and the lightning, he concluded, had heralded their summoning. His lips never ceased in their endless prayer and his sword cut though the night without pause. They were lower-level demons, no match for him and his flames, but before long his limbs had grown heavy with exhaustion from the sheer number of enemies.

Then, just as suddenly as it had appeared, the swarm thinned. Fewer and fewer demons came within reach of his blade. In fact, they seemed to be ignoring him in favor of flying as quickly as possible toward their destination. Artur turned his head – they were flying in the direction of where one of the bolts of lightning had struck. He stood looking in the direction a moment longer, and then his stomach twisted. There was a village in that direction, an hour's ride away. He'd been headed there yesterday, to bless the chapel and read a sermon in the name of the Guardians to help renew the faith in these distant pagan reaches.

He sheathed his sword and picked up his saddlebags. Time was of the essence. Already he could picture the screams of the innocent villagers, the blood, the dead, and the possessed wandering the streets. The horses shied away from him; Apocalypse was calmer than Revelations, so Artur offered him a sugar cube laced with calming spell then untied Revelations, leaving him with the bulkier saddlebags and a homing spell that would help him make his way to Artur. He mounted Apocalypse and kicked him into a gallop.

An hour later, he arrived at the village in the midst of a cloud of demonic activity, slashing right and left, Apocalypse rearing and kicking and stamping on the fallen dark ones. To the villagers watching, he would have made an impressive vision: a white-robed priest of the Guardians single-handedly wielding a hand-an-a-half sword from the back of a massive black stallion, shouting the Guardian of Light, long, blonde hair cascading down his back. Unfortunately for Artur, however, the villagers had mostly hidden themselves, so the demons were the only ones to see his strength, and they were soon gone.

This Artur found strange. He had expected more blood, more demonic activity. Perhaps someone had come before him; it was unusual for villages like this to have their own protector. The buildings looked singed, and there was evidence of spells being cast. He kicked Apocalypse into a slow walk, looking around warily, sword out.

“Who goes there?” Artur reigned in sharply, causing Apocalypse to neigh in annoyance, and turned toward the voice. A man was leaning out of a doorway, calling to him cheerfully. The priest straightened in the saddle and put on what he thought to be a look of great wisdom and smiled softly the way his counselors smiled at young novices.

“Artur Lightbringer, Fifth Guardian of the Tenth Order of the Guardians of Light, herald of the Gods and bearer of the--” he broke off and narrowed his eyes. Sharp ears, black hair.

“And elf!” he cried in a voice that resembled a young girl's, and raised his sword, “What are you doing here?”

"...I am the one who eliminated a group of the incubi who have come to destroy this little village." He said, sighing and sheathing his sword as well, his wand slid back up into his sleeve. "Yes, I am an elf. Just another elf......or maybe you've never met one?" Morgan wondered aloud, walking closer to the knight. "I can promise you that I mean you, or these people no harm." Morgan said, popping his hood back onto his head.

"Oh, and I suppose you want my name. Morgan Medraut. Alas, you can call whatever you wish, most people don't even ask my name." He chuckled rather emotionless and walked even nearer. "Pleased to meet you Artur." Morgan said with a slight bow, his accent thick with elvish tone. The fact alone that he was being interrogated by a knight made him nervous. Knights and Morgan have...bad history. Nothing that the elf could've prevented however. People are afraid of that which they do not understand.

He examined the knight, and....well....he was confused to say the least. He couldn't tell whether or not...it...was a female or male. Nevertheless, the horses were well bred and her sword looked worn and well used; all the signs of a paladin. "Oh...so you're a knight of the light? One of those "order of light" bladesman?" He asked...apathetically. He backed up against the wall, and slid down, burying his head in his lap, ruffling his hair and obscuring the bright violet of his eyes. The tips of his ears twitched as he rose his head to speak again.

"...I suppose you want to know my business here. I live in these forests, and I saw the demons invading and pillaging the village, so I helped you vanquish the foul presence that is now no more-."

The scars on his chest and back began to glow with a strange, eerie black light that could be seen through his thick wool trench coat. "Oh gods." Morgan said before breaking into a sprint into the forest, away from the knight. Midstride, he fell down to the ground and his scars began to glow a thick, rich purple that illuminated his position. As began to howl and wrench himself involuntarily into a ball. Jolts of pain stretched through his body, leaving him paralyzed with no way to move.

".....H....help....help...m....me!" He screamed out loud, hoping that someone would help him.

Artur looked at the elf -- Morgan, he supposed -- strangely as the other blabbered on like a small child talking to his imaginary friends. Artur's sword arm fell to his side, though his grip didn't loosen. It was unreal. He couldn't get a word in edgewise the elf as he went from lightspeed introductions to apathy laced with fear and wariness, to sitting down and cradling himself. Moreover, he had called Artur a knight and by the Gods Artur looked nothing like one of those armored brutes. True, the Guardians' garb took after the armor worn by the First Order well over a century ago, and they were currently in a very secluded part of the reaches, but . . .

Could the elf be unstable? Artur quickly did a check-over the way all acolytes were taught in their Counseling lectures. Deep scarring indicated possible battle wounds, but they were old, and the shock of injury would have worn off by now, though Artur knew little about the elven composition. There seemed to be no Taints on him, so he ruled out lower-level demonic activity. Battle wounds of the spirit often plagued those who had experienced extreme violence -- that would certainly explain the speech, which flowed like wine from an unstoppered skin. Judging by his accent -- and here the elf's ears twitched, and Apocalypse suddenly tossed his head, rising up on his back legs a few times and turning in a circle as if to bolt -- judging by his accent . . .

Artur didn't have time to make a judgement as the elf suddenly began to glow with demon's light and Apocalypse reared and bolted, nearly throwing Artur. The elf took off at the same time, still glowing, running at inhuman speeds toward the forest. Artur yelled at Apocalypse, who thankfully, in his fear, chose to run in the same direction. Heedless of his passenger, the stallion burst through the forest, Artur low on his neck. The elf was easy to follow, glowing brighter with each moment, and Artur locked his eyes on the light. Suddenly, Apocalypse screamed and tilted, and Artur had only a moment's notice to leap off his back before the horse fell, having tripped on a stone in his wild gallop. Artur landed and rolled, the heavy padding of his surcoat sparing him some damage, though the wind was knocked out of his lungs. He lay there, gasping for breath, while his horse screamed beside him.

"Hush, now," he forced out between clenched teeth, and reached for some calming powder in his pants pocket. He found it and was about to toss it at Apocalypse, when a scream broke the silent night.

"Help me!" Artur sat up, wincing. He had broken a rib. Every breath was agony. But he slowly clambered to his feet, found the light again, and began to run. The fine, blonde hairs on his arms began to stand up, just as they had when the lightning struck, and Artur had long ago learned to trust his body's reactions to the world around him. Demonic activity, he thought, and squared his jaw.

The elf was writhing on the ground when Artur came within sight of him, illuminated by the kind of soft light that would have been beautiful if it hadn't been the lavender of the No-God, and if it hadn't been coming from the elf himself. Artur halted and gasped. The elf looked like he was being torn apart, a porcelain figure slowly disintegrating, all the while screaming in pain. The priest still clutched his calming powder, and now he tore the pouch open with his teeth and threw the entire contents over the elf. It would quiet pain and blur the mind, locking it in a cloud of sleep. Often it was burned as incense in the halls of Counselors, to put those seeking their comfort and advice at ease. In strong doses, it could put a man to sleep for many days.

The powder scattered over the elf. Artur didn't wait to see if it would take effect, for he was deeply afraid that it wouldn't. His rib panged and the sound of a millions of insects filled his ears again. He fell to one knee, supported by his sword, still clutching it tightly, and began to recite from the book of Excorcisms, shouting over the sound of demons in his mind. He hadn't specialized in Exorcism, but his instructors had always praised his perfect pronunciation and beautiful voice, and he prayed to the Gods above that they would aid him now.

His thoughts were clouded with screams and the howling of people getting massacred. But by who? Morgan knew the answer, but he would never tell a soul about what had happened there, fifty years ago. "STOP!" Morgan yelled, tears running down his face, "Why....why me? What did I do to deserve this!?!?" He could never escape his past, or this damnable curse. He was sure that who ever found him would cut his neck for being "demonic". But as of this moment in time, Morgan wouldn't exactly have cared about dying. In fact, the proposition of relief from this hellish routine was pretty welcoming. But as many times as he had tried, his curse wouldn't let him commit the self ending deed.

THUMP

The elven man didn't even make a noise when something hit the ground not too far from his location, the sound of a body hitting the ground, but not a limp, lifeless one. He heard the movements, and no one would come for him...if it wasn't him. It had to be him. That paladin from the village. He couldn't move, but he was shaking with fervor and his teeth were clenched so hard that his gums and lips were dripping with blood. It felt like someone was taking a small blade, and jabbing it into every single little nerve in his entire body all the while twisting it deeper and deeper, slicing and hacking through muscle and sinew, down to the very bones. He screamed and kept screaming, as that was the only thing that he could do. "Hng!" He coughed out as he broke out into another spasm which caused his muscles and limbs to cramp up. He rolled over, and out of his coat, and his bandaging same undone, falling to the ground below him. What was revealed...would be sure to surprise whoever saw it. An intricate design of runes and ancient elven words were etched into his back in the form of thin and thick scars. In the middle of his back, was an image of a raven...with its eyes open and flying towards the moon. An ancient sign for the summoning of a being not of this realm; an incubus. Morgan was the Ouija Board for someone's sick twisted grasp for power.

He felt the little sprinkles of a powder or pollen drape over his now bareback and torso, and almost immediately his violent shaking stopped and his sharp breaths returned to normal, silent ones. His eyes opened and the bright purple glow changed to one of a white, almost golden hue, and then quickly receded back to the dull pink that normal scars were. He couldn't stand, but somehow he managed to catch a glimpse of what, or who rather, that just saved him from this pain, temporarily. He attempted to speak, but before he tried, Morgan began to think about what he would say and if what he relayed out would even matter.

"....Why save me?" He wheezed out, his accent thick, "I'm...cursed...with no soul, cursed never to perish...." He said, as his eyes involuntarily closed and his pattern of speech ended with his drifting into unconsciousness with every passing second.

Artur didn't move for what felt like hours, breathing slowly and carefully thinking about absolutely nothing. A clear mind was the first defense against demonic possession. After a time, he began to realize that the screaming and the buzzing had ceased, and his mind drifted to the fact that he was still down on one knee, head bowed, hands clasped on the hilt of his unsheathed sword, the point of which was buried deep in the earth in front of him. He tried to pull it out, but his frozen muscles refused to move. Taking a slow, deep breath, Artur tried again, unclasping first the little finger of his right hand, the the little finger of his left. Thus, he was slowly able to take his hands off the sword. This was probably unwise -- the moment his fingers hands were free the rest of his muscles let go, like a heavy door that has swung free after scraping heavily over the first few inches of its path.

Thus Artur found himself on his side, head swimming. He could see the elf from here. His pale body seemed to glow in the light of the full moon. The milky-white marble statues of the saints which adorned the Order's temples came to mind, and that was the thought that brought Artur fully back to his senses. No, not a saint. A demon. An elf possessed by a demon. And not just any demon -- one of the No-God's, the Other's, lavender-lit own.

With the same heavy slowness, Artur pushed himself into a sitting position. From there, he tried to stand, but it was useless. Gritting his teeth against the bruising his pride was about to take, he pulled himself, half-crawling, half-rolling, over to the elf to examine him more closely. He was a gruesome sight up close, skin knotted with scars and thick with ink. Artur shuddered involuntarily. The illustration seemed to writhe like the bodies of a million black maggots, and the picture resembled nothing more than a page from the unholy Demonata, the dark works of the No-God's pagan worshippers. Artur looked away, and slowly made his way back to his sword. Every movement jostled his ribs, and by the time he managed to get himself fully upright and wrench his sword out of the ground, it was all he could do to keep himself from collapsing once again. Even just reciting exorcisms took all the strength out of a Guardian's body, and this, Artur felt, was not just any exorcism.

The one stroke of luck he had was that Revelations had found Apocalypse, and the was calmly standing and nuzzling his brother when Artur approached and tried to lead him to the elf. The horse wouldn't come near the body, however, and Artur was left with no choice but to pick him up and carry him to where Apocalypse still lay, breathing heavily and eyes rolling with pain, though no longer screaming. The elf seemed unusually light, underfed, and bony, as whatever had caused the incident earlier disappeared off with half his body weight. He flopped the elf face down on the ground, none too gently, and went to his saddlebags. He found the jar of dove's white used for painting Circles and talismans and a brush, along with the Guardians' reference guide, and returned to stare at the pattern on the back of the elf.

"Sealing Circle," he mumbled, and flipped through the fat tome until he found the appropriate section. It listed several fundamental circles and hundreds of modifications to be used as needed. When sealing a demonic force for transportation within a vessel, one section read. Artur took a deep breath, winced when the attempt jounced his ribs, and set to work as quickly as he could.

When he was done, the elf's back was covered from shoulder to hip by the strongest Sealing Circle Artur could manage to invent, reinforced by symbols and talismans, while his chest bore an excerpt from Sealing the Demon and some symbols to reinforce the spirit, all written in Artur's best attempt at textbook script. He wasn't very good at Symbology, and he certainly didn't know if this sort of thing worked on elves, but he would damn well try anyway.

The last thing he managed before collapsing was to tied the elf's hands and feet and prop him against a tree after confiscating his sword and wand and a number of other things that he'd found in his pockets. These he neatly laid out on a bare patch of ground. He couldn't even muster a fire, but he determined to stay awake to watch the elf, and set about mixing a potion to help put Apocalypse at ease.

The elf stirred. Artur watched, stony-faced.

"Is it true what you said about not having a soul?"

Morgan awoke, and eyed the moon that poked it's way through the clouds, leaving a small silver-ish glare on his bright violet eyes. Their were bags around his eyes, as if he hadn't slept in at least a fortnight. He had noticed the seal wrapped around his torso. The runes and whatnot were unfamiliar to him, due to being unable to enter any holy ground without being chased out of town by an angry, torch and pitchfork wielding mob. Morgan didn't know that he would have been saved by this paladin, as a matter of fact he was expecting to have his throat cut in his involuntarily slumber. He sighed and began to rub his temples with his palms. His blade and wand were missing, but at this point in the evening, he didn't care. He felt like someone dropped a boulder on his back. He heard the high pitched voice speak again.

"Is it true what you said about not having a soul?" Morgan heard his rescuer enunciate., and he sighed once more, this time sad and empty. "Yes. It was stolen from me when I was a young one." Morgan answered honestly. it was the least he could do when they had done a lot for him. He wasn't sure if this seal would work or not, but he was glad that someone tried to help him for once. Being alone for as long as Morgan has, he had given up on finding someone that wouldn't judge him because of his predicament. He looked to the left out of the corner of his eye, and saw his belongings. That made him happy. That sword and wand were the only things that actually were his own. He looked at the other one, and what he saw was someone in pain. Broken bone maybe? He wasn't completely sure, so he opened his mouth and spoke once more.

"Are you hurt? I know some healing magic if you want me to try and mend your wounds. I am in your debt after all." Morgan said, looking him right in the eyes. "Thank you." Morgan said, as honest as he could. He had to thank him, for what he had done. It was something that he had drilled into his mind. Even though most people shunned him, he was still as polite and courteous as possible. "Thank you for sparing me. If you want, I will tell you more about me. It's the least I can do. There's a lot to explain, so it'll be a while, if you are even interested that is." He didn't like being tied up, but for the time being, he wouldn't argue.

"Are you hurt? I know some healing magic if you want me to try and mend your wounds. I am in your debt, after all."

Of course he'd forgotten something something crucial like, oh, sealing the elf's magic. Little details like that tended to get lost between the being woken up by the summoning of a demonic horde and the fucking No-God's own spawn appearing in the form of possessed elf. Artur scowled, furious at himself and completely done with the situation. He should just give up on the Guardians. He felt like just getting up and leaving or falling over on the ground and crying, or taking up life as a hermit. Instead, he continued to glower at the elf in the best approximation of an intimidating way as he could muster, with was difficult with his baby face and huge, teal eyes that anybody would sacrifice a child to have. He resented his looks almost as much as he resented his own utter inability to just do things right for once.

"Thank you," the elf said, breaking into Artur's angry inner monologue, "Thank you for sparing me. If you want, I will tell you more about me. It's the least I can do. There's a lot to explain, so it'll be a while, if you are even interested that is." Artur met his eyes and was surprised to see honesty there, if not a full helping of sanity. He looked away. His ribs did pain him, but he wasn't the one in dire need.

"Do you need your hands to do magic?" he asked, "My horse broke a leg chasing your through this damn forest." He ignored the elf's offer of a heart-to-heart. Of all the Holy Arts Artur had proven himself utterly incompetent in, Counseling was his greatest failure. He hated listening to people, especially when he himself was in an impossible mood.

(This is an accidental double-post so I'll fill it with a picture of Artur's inspiration instead)

"Of course I can heal your equine, if my hands were free." Morgan said, getting more and more frustrated that the human had bound his hands and feet together. He didn't blame the paladin though, if he wasn't himself, Morgan would have most likely done the same. He looked over at the human, and he received a glare. The kind of glare that was hard to decipher. He looked mad at himself, or mad at Morgan. "Oh gods, what did I do this time? Or....is it something that you did or didn't do? Something you forgot to do to me while I was unconscious?" Morgan asked. He was always pretty perceptive, and could tell what people were feeling just by the look in their eyes.

He didn't expect to wake up, nor did he want to. But, nevertheless, Morgan was here and alive. "After I heal your steed, what happens next? I don't see you leaving me here alone bound in the middle of this forest to die." Morgan said, looking down at the muddy ground. It was still wet from the night's earlier downpour. "...You don't have to say anything, i'm just not used to anyone stopping for me, let alone not trying to kill me. Figured it would be nice enough to try and spark up some relevant conversation." Morgan explained out of the blue. "I'll shut my trap now."

"Oh gods, what did I do this time? Or....is it something that you did or didn't do? Something you forgot to do to me while I was unconscious?"

A thick cloud of irritation that felt remarkably like a headache had been building in Artur's head, and the elf's chatter was only making it gather all the quicker. He took a deep breath, which jostled his rib, and tears sprang to his eyes. He looked away. Apocalypse was panting, rolling, and Revelations had paced away and begun to nose at the muddy ground.

"I'll shut my trap now." Well, thought Artur, the elf didn't look too dangerous, and he had helped kill the demons in the village. The priest rose with some struggle and walked over to the elf until he stood over him. He twisted his face into yet another variation of the stern looks his Counselors had worn at the Temple when chastising young acolytes and made up his mind.

"Elf," he began, then reconsidered, "Monsieur Medraut," that was the right title for a male in these parts, right? "I can see without knowing your personal history that you are in need of guidance and guardianship, and as a Priest of the Order of the Guardians of Light, it is my duty to provide these things for you. However," he lowered his dark, thick eyebrows to seem more threatening and underscore what he was about to say, "if you give me any reason to believe that you are lost to the clutches of the Other, or, Gods forbid, that you willingly serve it, I will have no choice but to deal with you as a Guardian must. If you are lost due to the misfortune of your . . . predicament, you will of course receive last rites and proper burial. Traitors, however . . . " he trailed off, eyes still drilling into the elf's. It was nice, for once, to have the upper hand, and he was proud he hadn't stammered once, though he could feel his cheeks were flushed and his hands trembled with something other than exhaustion. Years of being the smallest, the baby, the pretty one, and now, a chance to be recognized as the fierce Priest of the Order that he was. He was going to do the best he could to vanquish the No-God's hold on this creature.

With that he crouched and fumbled at elf's restraints. Halfway through, he realized that he probably shouldn't remove them entirely, and turned them into hobbles. The elf could freely walk, but not run or ride, and his arms could hang naturally at his sides, but spread no wider than the rope connecting them allowed.

"Is that good enough?" he stood, and without waiting for a response, walked to where he had laid the elf's possessions out, "I'll be keeping these. If you can heal my stallion, I would be ever grateful, and happily to return some part of them to you," he said, bundling the trinkets into a piece of cloth, which he his in one of the hidden pockets of his robes after making sure his back was to the elf. The wand he refused to touch bare-handed, wrapping it in another cloth and hiding it in his saddlebags, well away from anything holy. The sword, when he touched it, seemed oddly warm and familiar. So familiar, in fact, that for a mad second Artur felt as if he was picking up his own sword, and he automatically went to hang it at his back when he realized that his sword already hung there. He stared dumbly at it. Of course it wasn't his, the stone set into the pommel wasn't blue, and the inscription on the blade . . .

Artur stopped again. No, the stone wasn't blue, but there was an almost identical stone set into the pommel at the same place where his would be, and though the inscription was different there was an inscription. He could count on two hands the masters who had inscribed their swords, and on one the number of inscribed swords that remained in use. Lost in his stupor, back still to the elf, he drew the sword. The motion was the same, the balance, the length, the weight the movement. If he didn't have eyes, he couldn't have told it apart from his own.

"Elf," he said, forgetting his manners in his fascination at the blade, "Where did you get this?"

"Hmm?" He said listening to him speak, taking in everything the human had to say. "I'd say that a centuries worth of weathering this particular storm is more than enough to show you that i'm not a weak one, and that the evil ones won't have any more power over me than they already have. I can promise you that, in the very least. I will follow you though, for this help that you speak of. If you can free the binds on my mind and heart, and get my soul back, I will be forever in your debt." Morgan explained looking down as the Guardian released his binds enough for him to move. "Oh, and please, call me Morgan. I'm nothing more than a simple elf." He was prepared to heal the horses leg, but he was still confused about why he wouldn't let him mend his broken bone.

His wand was not to be seen, so he would have to use his hands and his inner magic to heal the wounded animal. He stood, and walked over to the injured equine and kneeled, pressing the tip of the wooden length against it's broken leg. Morgan began to mumble something in ancient elvish as the tip of his wand began to glow a bright, luminescent white light. The horse began to scream out in pain, but quickly there was a sharp pop or two, and the horses leg was healed. He moved back to the tree and sat down. "Your steed should be healed well enough to keep walking. I won't be riding either of them, seeing as they know that I am possessed." Morgan said, burying his head back in his lap.

"Others of your order have tried to kill me before."

"Are you even listening to me, elf?" Artur rounded on him, holding the elf's sword comfortably in his hand. "I don't know what sorts of Guardians you've been meeting before now, but I would be appalled if anybody belonging to the Order would so much as hurt you unless they saw you causing violence to someone else. We don't strike preemptively." His voice had gotten away from him, rising to a girl's high, soft tones. He came up to the elf and towered over him again.

"Now answer the question, elf. Where did you get this sword?" Because Artur, suspected, but couldn't make himself believe, was that he knew precisely where it came from, and that there was a Guardian's body rotting somewhere in the wilderness.

"I guess you don't like to use manners. Disgusting. Why would I lie about that? Your ORDER isn't the nicest bunch sometimes. They saw my scar and attacked me. That's precisely what happened. I always run though. I never do want a bounty on my head for something I didn't do." He was not in the mood for this moronic deliberation with him, and his headache was getting worse. Morgan sighed. He didn't want it to come to this."I don't know. If I was informed, I would tell you. Honest." He said, his accent flowing thickly through his tone. There was much that Morgan didn't know, much that was gone from his memory. "I woke up one day with this blade next to me. So, of course i'm going to use it. Who am I to turn down a free sword?" He said, shrugging. This wasn't going to go well, and when he finally found someone that was kind enough to even speak to him, that damnable demon inside of himself had to ruin it.

"Listen, if your going to kill me, just do it now. I do not have any qualms pertaining to death."

For a moment Artur paused. Could he actually do it? Could he actually kill a living being?

And if the elf was so unafraid of death, why was he not dead yet? It would be easy: be caught by an angry mob, slip and fall in front of a cart, let those knights -- Artur refused to consider that they might be Guardians -- do the deed. He would have to ask.

Those thoughts fled quickly, however, before he could dwell on them. Artur usually tried to act distinctly not-seventeen, but he couldn't help wanting to throw a tantrum. He was confused. He felt helpless. He wanted to sleep. He closed his eyes and silently recited the first ten proverbs, composing himself.

"I apologize for my behavior, but please excuse me if I continue to doubt you," he opened his eyes and looked at the elf, "Thank you for healing Apocalypse. We . . . have been together a long time," he offered the personal detail as his way of clearing the air, if only a little bit. "Here," he took the wrap of trinkets out of his robes and tossed them to the elf, then knelt to examine his stallion. It seemed the magic had put him to sleep. Artur took off his bridle and tied his lead a tree.

"Are you sure you know nothing about the sword?" he asked as he was working.

Morgan continued to look down, myriad thoughts running through his mind. Mostly about the human who had just saved his life, and put a seal on his curse mark. He ran his hands through his hair, and tugged at the locks ever so slightly. His frustration extremely apparent in his face, before he looked up to speak. His eyes were now a dull indigo, meaning that he had resigned himself to whatever the human would wish of him.

"There is no need to apologize. I know that you will never trust me. It's hard for a demon to trust another demon." He said, looking over at the horse. "The horse needed to be healed, or it would die. So, I did what is right and what I felt I owed you for what you have just done for me." He said, nodding. "I don't think you understand quite how much I am grateful to you, Guardian." He said, looking up at the human, straight into her eyes, as if he was looking at her inner self; her soul. He wanted to stand, to maybe walk with the human, so he did as such.

"By the way, I don't intend to leave your side. I am in your debt."

"There is no need to apologize. I know that you will never trust me. It's hard for a demon to trust another demon." Demon? Artur wrote it off as an elfish expression, and didn't pay it any mind except to file it away for later conversations. Artur didn't like the way the elf was looking at him, through him, so he turned away and went to Revelations, who had dozed off nearby.

""I don't think you understand quite how much I am grateful to you, Guardian. By the way, I don't intend to leave your side. I am in your debt." Artur turned his head over his shoulder at the elf and smiled thinly. He liked being called "Guardian". It made him feel . . . powerful.

"And I intend to rid you of this curse," he said, turning back to run his hand through his stallion's mane, "But not tonight. Dawn is breaking and I'd like to return tot the village to make sure the villagers are safe." Absently, his hand drifted to his rib. He'd need to bandage that. Perhaps the village would have a healer, or at least private rooms where he could take care of it himself, without being seen.

Morgan smirked as his words made the other squirm a little bit, as could be seen through subtle changes in his body structure. However, he was not expecting that smile to pop out of one who's "You know, that I use the word "demon" in the elvish term. To the elves, everyone is a demon and everyone is an angel; everyone can be evil, and everyone has some good inside them. That's exactly what kept me going all this time, even through the years alone, running from something that I had no control of." Morgan said, explaining what he meant. Yes, he referred to both of them as demons, but that was also subjective. Morgan smiled and stood. "Now will you release me of the rest of my bindings? I wish to accompany you. These people may need some help, moreso from you of course. I don't think the vessel of a demon could help these people, nor would they even want me to." Morgan said, striving to feel the weight of his blade on his hip once again, something he had became very accustomed to.

Artur nodded and sheathed the elf's sword, and hung in on Revelations' saddle with a meaningful look. Apocalypse had managed to stand, and Artur felt a wave of gratitude for the stallion's health. He would have to carry half the saddlebags himself, but that would be fine. He loosely saddled Apocalypse, gathered both leads and set off into the forest without another word. Just before exiting the forest he stopped to straighten his robes and his long, flaxen hair. He would have to look the part, riding into the village.

"Can you carry those bags?" He asked the elf. Perhaps it would be too much, but . . . "It's not unusual for Guardians to have charges that travel with them as squires, and they may be more welcoming if they assume that you are a soul on the path to the Light. More welcoming than . . . others have been, in the past." Of course Artur was far too young to have acquired an official charge, but the villagers could wonder at that. He mounted Revelations and tied Apocalypse's lead to the horn of his saddle. He glanced down from his high perch at the scars on the elf's chest, "Can you close your robes or something?"

The villagers had begun to gather in the streets, examining the damage done. Artur rode in from the east at a slow walk, with the dawn light breaking behind him, setting his hair and his gold-and-white robes aglow. The villagers would also be less likely to be shocked at Morgan's appearance if they couldn't clearly make out the details of their silhouette. Artur came up to the first huddle of villagers, who went silent and paused in their work, and dismounted.

"The Light brings the morning," he greeted them in the traditional way of the Guardians.

"And the morning brings us a Guardian. Were you here during the attack yesterday?" The young woman who spoke gestured at the damage in the side of an old stone building. Her lips had a twist to them that dared Artur to lie, and he suddenly felt very much his seventeen years as she looked him up and down. She was taller, and dark-haired and disarrayed and very, very lovely, even in her sleepless state.

"Yes, I was, with my, ah, charge. We arrived during the attack and did what we could. The chase took us into the woods, so please forgive us for not staying and introducing ourselves immediately, Madame . . . um . . . " he waited for her name, and tried very hard to stand still and dignified, and not like a little boy faced with a pretty girl.