After a short nap in the sun, Venator decided that he had procrastinated his next deed for long enough and slowly rose to his feet. He turned and walked back towards the small building, just on the edge of the clearing, that the vampires had been using for shelter. He reluctantly pushed open the door and made his way inside.

Vampires, while hunters of the night, can be lazy just like anyone else when it comes to finding food. Oftentimes they would steal the weak and the young in order to store them away for continuous use in times when going hunting is simply too much. Lying on the floor in front of Venator were three such victims, chained to the wall where they were fed off of until they died of starvation, blood loss, or dehydration. The first two were boys in their early teenage years, clearly twins as they were dressed in matching outfits and even styled their hair in a mirrored fashion. The third was a little girl no older than eight in a bright yellow floral dress with hair as yellow as the sun.

The children reminded Venator of the town kids he grew up playing with, always full of energy and looking for new games to play or adventures to start. He imagined the twins as a pair of intelligent pranksters always out to start humorous trouble for friends and family and the young girl as the type to spend countless hours admiring the fields of flowers sporting enough colors to contest with the beauty of a rainbow.

Sadness overwhelmed Venator as he played through possible personalities in his mind. Knowing they would never get to enjoy life as so many other had before them, cut down by vicious monsters before they could even grow up. The thought sickened him and his sorrow quickly turned to rage. Venator shouted angrily as he lashed out with streams of blood, destroying everything the vampires ever owned within the small shack.

The sight of everything in the room broken and covered in blood brought Venator back to his senses and subsided his aggression. He absorbed all that he had used to wreck up the place and walked back over the the corner of the room where the three small bodies laid. He broke the chains with a quick flash of red and proceeded to carry the children out of the wretched hellhole where they met their untimely ends. He rested them side by side on the ground in the clearing and went in search of a shovel or spade to dig their graves.

He returned shortly having found one near a pile of rubble within the ruins, most likely used in an attempt to dig someone free of debris. Venator went to work quickly, digging into the dry cracked earth in order to give the kids proper burials. A short time into the digging process he began to feel a wetness on his face, he looked up expecting to see small drops of rain and was met with clear skies. As he looked back down and began to dig once more, the tears fell from his face a few at a time and left small shaded splotches among the dry earth before him. No matter how he tried he could not take his mind from the poor children and the demons who stole away their lives. The thoughts that flooded his head simply fueled his desire to slaughter the bloodsucking bastards in droves. He wanted nothing more than to bring them suffering and litter the world with their dead.

The holes only took about a half hour to dig as they were short and shallow, but the oddly sized graves were perfect for their uncommonly small inhabitants. He set each of them carefully down into the earth and covered them up one by one until all that lay before him were small mounds of unmarked dirt.

In the roots of Isildier’s oldest trees they would surrender the bones of the dead and dying, for in the time that you choose to pass, your body will wilt and in turn become the grass. The trees bloom on the graves of her kin, bidden by the vestiges of time that too curse the forest in ever changing rot. Today she wills her soul to quiet and her face to still, stoic and reserved, a deadly flower in the unwillingness of her bloom. The trees are quiet, no rustle or rattle of skeletal twigs, the silence is deafening - it crushes her whims.

It’s the only day she doesn’t smile or speak and there she perches on the edges of a grave: no epitaph or marker, no flowers she brings for there aren’t any to illustrate the loss. Her fingers close around a stone and with the surge of pain of a thorn bedecked wrist, she carves a well known prose into the bark, it bleeds and so does she - evergreen.



Kylmi didn’t eat for days.

---

　　You do me great honour. . .
　　
The Nymph released a silent gasp, arms momentarily locked and withholding her frame before his voice drew her eyes down. Meeting them within silence, he spoke her name and bid her thanks, an honour he said and the novelty of the term settled across her shoulders in a fine weight she could not discern. The quietness lasted for merely a second but it was enough, and she too willed her stare else where.
　　
He spoke of her will and with a heavy emphasis that she did not miss, Kylmi laughed to herself in a fine tune, a chortle that sounded deep and soft in the cadence. Her will was never her own, but the depth and emotions of her heart often influenced by the life around her instead; ever changing, evolving and conforming by feral instinct. It was common of her birth, her kin, her desires of survival and splendor, and should this be any other Lord bidding for her assistance, she would have denied him and took from him selfishly. But as it were, she had to think of more than her own self and that was a custom she had never practiced.

"Oh yes, my friend." She murmurs.
　　
Her eyes lifted from her musings and met the topaz gleam of Aevah, her thanks and gratitude shown within the beryl depths and Kylmi smiled at her; a wide simper that peeled back over her felidae teeth.
　　
“I know my brothers and sisters are difficult by their borne souls, but it as the nature and Cerv Albi wished and willed us to be.” With those words said, she had tipped her antlered crown to her, bidding her luck by silent graces. She continues to smile, taking and absorbing these small comforts as everyone begins to settle within their willingness to help, offering each of their prowess and abilities to their sudden Prince; they too wish to see the world he has painted for them to see. Kylmi though can’t help but recall that 9 is not among them and it bothers her to think he’s somewhere, fixated to another cage. They had been the ones trapped and chained the longest, it’s a cruel fate to be the unknown.
　　
She knows that the aforementioned cry was his, a mental assault in his loneliness, she covers her brow for a moment, it reminded her of her own tortures. In surprise though she lifts her head and finds that 9 is now among them, as if summoned by her thought, lost to her own reflections she didn’t notice him coming in and only then did she see the commotion he caused. That, she wasn’t appalled by and she smiled graciously at his evolved state of appearing new and forged of strong sinew and chitin. But she too, like the others, had been assuaged with memories and it has unnerved them.
　　
Kylmi though can’t forget that without him, she would have died in the depths of that dungeon and witnessing the Prince rise up, stumble and accuse her savior in his own ill-fitting rage, she seethes. Thorns bristle across her arms, risen by aggravation and she moves herself away from his flank, willing to approach the arthropod just as Aevah had, which momentarily took her off guard by the bi-blooded elf’s boldness to stand before him despite the amount of soldiers beginning to take place. The Nymph raises her hands in a placating gesture, a ruse to summon a wreath of vines across shattered tiles and walls and in the place of lilies with their spices, poisonous flowers begin their bloom. She takes defense affront him like he once did to her.

The Nymph listens to Aevah’s plight and once more bows antler and tine to her graciousness and heart, she’s a kind soul and like she, knows the misfortunes of life. Being a constant victim of countless persecutions, Kylmi knew the situation at hand far too well and also grew aware of her volatile plants snaking and nearly hissing with her rapidly descending aforementioned kindness and will. She returns Aevah’s nod and watches her depart before relinquishing her hands and dropping them to her sides, and with it, comes the receding of vines and thorns that had threatened to festoon the dilapidated war room in violent wake.
　　
“She is right, though perhaps compounded by it, but he did save us and if not for him I surely would have perished. As a being indebted to him, I beseech you turn your weapons and inquires from him, he-”
　　
Kylmi suddenly flinched, a great tremor coiled down her spine from the harsh and thick waves of pure agony and terror that 9 permeated the air with. What flowers and vines remained around her in constant fixation suddenly grew lax, appearing cumbersome when her eyes rounded and the insectoid’s voice broke across her mind in accusation and hopeless baritone. Her heart fractures, bled with him, and Kylmi completely turned her back to the room and faced him completely. She did not know his kind or their habits and she had been alone before in the dark of her torturers, but her family was within Uchfos, she would see them again and yet he would not. Again, she was blessed with small fortunes and at his keen of true despair, the Nymph began to hum.
　　
They were small vibrations from her throat, gradually ascending in pitch as she gently, carefully, placed her clawed fingers on one his arms, the one that the half-breed had patted before. There is no indicated wording to this melody she proffered him, just intricate notes and hums that spill from her throat and fur cloaked breast.
　　
“I never got the chance to thank you for protecting me, for saving me in the dungeon. I was surely meant to die down there and you saw me from that. I’m indebted to you, for that. In my home, we have a name for those we deem as saviors: Frelseren. And I bequeath that to you.”
　　
In this moment, Kylmi wished for nothing more than to return home to the family she still had. She removed her hand from him and cast her eyes over her leafed shoulder at the Prince, she stares, for a long moment she holds his gaze; there is no repulsion or fear, just a silent, boring focus, before bowing her head and holding out her hand when a magpie twitters and flies to her gesture. Perching carefully within her palm, she breaks her eyes from Mundhir and quietly whispers to the bird, willing it to follow the bi-blooded child and with her directions given, the bird parts its ebonette beak and beneath its tongue where the rumoured drop of the Dark One’s blood lays, is the answered letter to her earlier missive.
　　
“Thank you my friend, I hope your wife fares well.” The black and wide bird twitters once again before flying after the pale one. Kylmi’s vines snake up and across her figure once again, an endless movement as she watches the bird go and clenches the small roll of parchment in her fingers that is folded numerous times and sealed with a sprig of mint.
　　
“I’ll go to the Southern ruins,” she says tiredly and tips antlers to the remaining council before departing from the war room, plants following her and leaving the room to the cold stone of its masonry, with only the slight perfume of the lilies former spice.

---

Prince Mundhir’s gaze followed the Halfbreed as she left his chamber, and perhaps not for the first time of late, he questioned his cause. The Prophet had visited him in his dreams, and had spent a great deal of time showing him what was, what is and what will be. Mundhir saw the innumerable thousands of the Khanate’s warriors marching into cities of crystal and obsidian; saw the pitched battles as half a million men and women of Eulona’s dwindling realms of Elves, Dwarves and Men marched to meet them.

Fire, destruction, genocide. Knowledge lost. Entire countries consigned to the tomes of history, tomes that were then themselves scorched by the unfeeling march of the various war machines in play. Mundhir saw entire fields, once laden heavily with crops as far as the eye could see, reduced to immaculate burial grounds. Elf maidens crouched by the graves of their beloved, wailing in tones that stirred his heart to shame. In the distance, great mountains ringed with walls and castles glowed with the unholy rage of some fel-magic.

“I beat them all,” the Prophet had said with a sly smile, “the immortal races, with their magic and their military finery were no match for Duranar’s divine will.”

“I will beat them all again,” Mundhir had said with fierce determination.

At this the Prophet had laughed, he had laughed until there was no air left in his lungs. The Prince felt shame and anger in equal measure.

“A new age has dawned, little Prince, and Duranar has seen it fit to make a rare acknowledgement,” the Prophet said, as the images of death, fire and anguish melted away behind him. “He made a mistake, even with his impossible knowledge, he made an error.”

Mundhir looked at the Prophet questioningly, “how does the Lord of All make a mistake, Great One?”

“Duranar is Lord to fewer things than All, little Prince. He is powerful, and he is the greatest divinity to walk the ethereal plains – but he is neither King nor Slave of the higher beings,” explained the Prophet, although this explanation left the Prince with only more questions.

Suddenly the dark void around them shook, and pulsed with lightning bolts. The Prince lost his footing, but the Prophet was untouched. An angry voice, echoing with rage, passed through them like a bolting horse. The language was one of brutality, of evil, and the Prince felt his heart decline under the hammering blows of a mysterious dread.

“My time is short, Prince, She has found me. It was foolish that I come here, to you in this way, but that is now neither here nor there. Duranar has a command to make of you,” the Prophet said, his form fading.

“Name it, I shall serve dutifully,” replied Mundhir, trying to keep himself from falling under the increasing vibrations.

“Gather the people of Eulona. Meld them to your banner. Time is in short supply, and when the darkness falls, it will take more than the high walls of Eblistan to fight the kind of war demanded by such an evil.”

Mundhir awoke suddenly, his blurry surroundings quickly scrambling to form images. Had he truly been sleeping? For a moment there he was back in the dream, but then, from the lack of anyone’s notice he must have been out for only a second. The Lizard said something, but his words came from miles away, and the Prince slapped himself to bring his senses to focus.

"After what I did to save you, this is how you repay my sacrifice? You have me locked in a cage, guards pointing their sticks at me like an animal!"

The pure bestial savagery of the voice sent Mundhir’s head backwards as if he’d been punched in the face. The guards edged in on the monster, although they exchanged nervous glances with each other. Before the Prince could fight through the pain, the confusion and the rage the Insectoid sent another shockwave of anger through the room.

"I AM NOT SOME BEAST TO BE LOCKED IN A CAGE! If I didn't waste the energy saving you I could have been to my home, I COULD HAVE SAVED THEM!"

The Insectoid fell to its knees; its chitin armour clattering like steel as it did so. The floor beneath him started to crack as ancient stone gave way to the raw power this being possessed. The guards backed away, no longer certain their numbers could overcome this adversary. It looked up at the Prince, and Mundhir recoiled.

"They are all gone, I'm the only one left. You don't even know what that means to a being like me. For the first time, I am truly... alone."

Meld them to your banner. Time is in short supply, and when darkness falls, it will take more than the high walls of Eblistan to fight the kind of war demanded by such an evil.

The Prince stood from his throne, his weakness from the venom fading. In speed reminiscent of his former self, he materialised in front of the moaning creature and held out his hand. His guards tried to get him away, but he shot them the kind of glances that threatened execution.

“Forgive me,” he said softly, “mine were hasty words. For your services, you have my thanks, for your imprisonment, you have my apology, and for loss, you have my sabre. We will find out what happened to your kin, for I feel that the evil afoot is something that may affect all peoples.”

He felt a certain pair of eyes upon him, a feeling he was quickly growing used to. He turned his head slowly, and caught the Nymph’s features. He no longer saw some exotic lustful experience waiting to be had, but danger. The Prince, in pursuing the ideals the deeds of long dead heroes had once instilled in his mind, was threatening to alienate his allies from his cause.

“I’ll go to the Southern ruins,” the Nymph said.

“I am sorry for out burst to the creature we know as 9, but you must understand, mind reading in Eblistan is an offence punishable by death. It is ungodly to lay bare someone’s thoughts so plainly, but this is perhaps a belief I have been too ready to accept. I will dwell on it for a time, but for now, I feel that our friend needs a new name,” he said, point a hand at the Insectoid.

“You came to us as a number of cruelty, no doubt. Arise from your sorrow, not as a symbol of Eulona’s twisted ways, but one of hope. I pray that you will take this opportunity to forge for yourself a new future, to choose a new name for yourself, a name that will be known across the world from Eulona to Olcra,” the Prince said.

Hazim marched his way into the War Room, dressed for battle in heavy bronze plate. Gone were the light attire of horse archery, and before the Prince stood a man ready for a toe-to-toe battle. The Prince looked across at him questioningly.

“Such honours will have to wait, my Prince. The Silver Moon sails on the eastern hills, Nillanor has come,” the Captain Said. “I put the Elderborn host at a thousand strong.”

“Thrandel,” said Mundhir bitterly. “Prepare my horse, I will parlay with the Mad Prince before I see Man and Elf shed blood.”

“I would advise against it, Sire,” said Hazim, shaking his head.

“I have fought the Mad Prince far too long, and have exchanged few words. This War ends today, either with my head on a spike, with a covenant or a thousand dead,” Mundhir replied, turning to face those adventurers still in the War Room. “The ruins will have to wait. Ride with me, as I go to meet the Prince. Perhaps all of you could help me persuade Thrandel that this war is an affront to Eulona’s prosperity.”

***

A thousand feet pounded the earth in perfect harmony, each contact sending tremors through the ground. Silver banners fluttered in the cool breeze of Spring, and an array of trumpets played their heavenly symphonies. Spears, shields and longbows were held firmly in the hands of grim faced, but otherwise beautiful Elderborn, with their flowing white hair and immaculate complexions.

At their head, upon a giant pale stag, rode the last Prince of High Elven Kind. Thrandel, was not as pretty to look at as those he led. His face was marred with horrid scars, and through the slits in his golden full-helm, two fleshy patches stood where his eyes should have been. His right hand, gripping the reigns of his mount, was devoid of three of its fingers, and its palm bore the branded mark of imprisonment.

The ruins of Baalor sat peacefully in front of them; there were no bells tolling their alarm, or sounds of commotion as the hated Eblistanis mustered to form a defence. Prince Thrandel was wiser than to take things for as they seemed however, and already, he sensed that his adversaries were gathering for combat with their usual discipline and professionalism.

Prince Thrandel had come to respect the Men of Eblistan as worthy foes, though such respect did little to douse the flames of hatred in his heart. Where others may have seen Prince Mundhir in an almost romantic light, especially given his chivalrous nature on the field of battle, Thrandel only saw the embodiment of his agonies. He had gathered the last of his kin for one final campaign to bring Eblistan to its knees, and he would not falter in putting each man, woman and child of that godforsaken country to the sword.

“They are sending a parlay, my Lord,” said Thrandel’s attendant. “We will wait until they are within longbow range, and then I will give the order.”

“No,” said Thrandel coldly. “I will sense the fear in them, as I explain to their pathetic Princeling the futility of his peoples’ stand. Let them come to me.”

Tarwin stood calmly back in line, watching the rest of the scene play out while at the same time attempting to determine if his actions had been, more or less, successful. On the one hand the Prince had rejected his idea to rally the nomads, this had been somewhat insulting for the spell sword as he himself was descended from them and was proud to be one, he spoke as if they knew nothing of honour and commitment to a single cause...To be fair though it was probably true, while his family and the groups familiar to him would likely side with him the rest would likely have gone with the highest bidder or rather the side that had the greatest chance of success and this was, of course, not the side that numbered less than 1000 elite warriors. On the other side it looked as though his 'offer' to take a command position was accepted, it may simply have been because the Prince was desperate but Tarwin knew that he had a foot in the door of leadership and that meant that if somehow they won the war he was near enough guaranteed a reward. All things considered it was a pretty good outcome.

When the insect-beast-creature...Thing. Burst into the war room Tarwin went quiet and decided to let the Prince handle things, mostly because he himself didn't fancy the job of reasoning with an obviously agitated, very dangerous and possibly psychic...Thing. As the cow-beast entered Tarwin felt that things were slowly sliding downhill in terms of both progress and sophistication, he was about to speak and try and restore some order when a third being entered the war room, this one a lot more human than the others, unfortunately he was bringing bad news.

Tarwin followed the Prince out to the stable, he was still equipped for traveling as he hadn't really slowed down since his arrival. The horse he had 'acquired' while leaving the citadel was tied up away from the others the colours of the king had been stripped and instead it wore a simple saddle which allowed Tarwin to admire the beautiful shade of chestnut brown that covered it's body, he approached it cautiously, well aware it might harbour feelings of resentment after how he'd dealt with the previous rider. Thankfully it seemed the generous food helpings and care the steed had received in the pair's brief week long partnership had won it over, he quickly and gracefully leapt onto the horse's back and rode out with the Prince and the others to meet with the aggressors.

9 felt guilty, these soft skins didn't have the right minds to fully comprehend what he was doing and as a result it caused them as much grief as his own. In turn this guilt fed his sorrow like wood to a flame. The emotions were taking over, the loss consuming everything he had. Rationality, logic, memories, they all were leaving him and being replaced with grief.

Then something happened. A sound entered his mind unlike any that had before and it was beautiful. However it too was being drowned by the flood of emotion that was pushing against everything else. Reigning in the flood, 9 pushed against the current and fought through the emotions as the sound got clearer and more beautiful. Finally after fighting tooth and nail for what seemed like an eternity until he broke out of his mental prison. Blinking several times, 9 gazed upon the source of the sound and was filled with awe.

The sound came from the antlered one and it enchanted his senses. However he couldn't help but think of his queen, but not in a way of sorrow. When 9 first hatched, like all hatchling, the queen sang to him. 9's song was one of defense and protection, to put himself before all threats that would come to the eggs and herself. In a way, it was his name and 9 would never forget it. When she finished, 9 had calmed significantly and felt like he should return the gesture. Before he could however, she said something that shocked him immensely.

“I never got the chance to thank you for protecting me, for saving me in the dungeon. I was surely meant to die down there and you saw me from that. I’m indebted to you, for that. In my home, we have a name for those we deem as saviors: Frelseren. And I bequeath that to you.”

Frelseren. The word was foreign to him, but the meaning struck a cord deep within. Mulling it around, 9 contemplated the word before deciding that it sounded much better than "9". As the antlered one touched, his arm in what he assumed was in a show of comfort, memories of pain and suffering crashed through his mind as parts of her recent past came known to him. 9 shivered as he relived the pain himself and endured a torture unfamiliar to him. Whatever it was, he wouldn't wish it upon anyone. Shaking it off, 9 watched her leave for a place called the "Southern Ruins".

9 was about to fallow when web chest came to him and extended his hand in what seemed like support. Web chest spoke in his usual eloquent way and apologized to 9. About to say something, 9 was again interrupted by the entrance of the angry one. He brought troubling news, something about an incoming elven army. 9 didn't know what an "elven" was but it seemed like a bad thing.

However there was something he 9 had to set strait. Sending a message, 9 cleared the air with web chest, "I apologize for my emotions, may you never experience what I have. It is a feeling I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy."

Extending small feelers from the crevasses of his chitinous hands, 9 said "I cannot read minds as you say, but I can do this." As he finished that sentence, 9 gently grasped web chest's hand in his own.

---

In a flash, 9 was inside the memories of web chest. However they were fairly specific memories, well sort off. The prospect of hands was a new one to to 9, for all of his life he had claws. These small tentacles were not as the usual ones, they seemed to only articulate in one direction and they lacked any weapon besides small points at the ends. A far cry from his claws, but from the bone he broke they have great strength.

So it was in this vein that 9 searched every memory web chest had on the uses of hands. The first was how to properly articulate them, as it stood 9 only grabbed things and crushed. He had know idea how to actually use these hands in any way other than that. Quickly, memories from various moments of web chest's life flashed into his memory. From there, 9 moved on to more advanced maneuvers.

Handwriting, utensil etiquette, several obscene hand gestures and finally how to hold a sword. Of course, there were other weapons he could have looked at, but the saber seemed...better. Years of training, hundreds of battles, and many mishaps imprinted themselves into the mind and muscle memory of 9.

---

What felt like years only took several seconds. Shaking his head a bit, 9 said "Again, I apologies. I cannot read minds, but I can read your memories. Adding your experiences to improve myself. When I gain a skill you could use, I will make sure to give it to you as payment for yours."

Bringing himself up to his full height, 9 struck a pose regal in nature. Looking down at web che- Mundhir, 9 said "I cannot return home, there is nothing for me there. But I can help you protect yours. I shed my name as prisoner and gain the one given to me by my friend, from now on you shall call me Frelseren and I will be your sword."

Aevah jumped a little as Rin tapped her on the shoulder and smiled up at him, "And here I thought I was the only sneaky one aside from the dark elf..." She tucked her hair behind her ears before attempting to answer his questions, "I'm not sure... but I intend to find out. Can you watch my back, my friend? I have no weapons to speak of so if I run into trouble I will need your help."

She moved along the ruins till she spotted a figure, using a shovel to bury what she guessed was bodies. She frowned, a bandit wouldn't bury those he'd killed for their goods... So, perchance he was an innocent passer by. Warily, she stood from her crouch and headed towards him. "Stranger, what brings you to this place? Did you not see the many soldiers patrolling not far from here? I fear your blaze has called quite a bit of attention to you."

It wasn't completely the truth but she didn't need a potential threat knowing that help was not on the way. He didn't look like any spy she'd ever seen, so she doubted that that was the case either. She glanced back at Rin, so long as this man was no threat to the Prince they needed to hurry and get a move on. The Prince's health would be ever declining and they didn't have time to spare dallying here.

"I apologize for my haste but I need to be on my way soon... do you need a way out... Were any of these poor souls your family?"

She was hoping he'd be open with her... She was quite obviously unarmed and she was not sure if Rin had followed or stayed behind and was keeping an eye on her from the shadows. An unarmed lone woman didn't look like much of a threat. She could, of course, attempt to pull him into a friendly handshake and steal the information with her gift but she was too afraid of what else it may show to even consider such an option.

Kyrtaar smiled to Aevah when she thanked him, and then looked at the nymph as she spoke her rhymes and mysteries. Something about magpies being the key to finding this Norn. The forest and it's strange rituals perplexed him, and he was eager to know more. However, Kyrtaar was mostly distracted by the woodland creatures body, and he made no attempt to hide it. The flowers and plants intertwined in her body were alluring to him, and for a fleeting second he thought of those same vines and flowers being intertwined with him. But he saw the thorns too, and had no doubt he could be impaled with thorns. He suppressed the feelings, and turned to leave, when the piercing mental shriek tore through the air.

Kyrtaar saw the forest, and his parents. They turned to him. Angry. Enraged. Yelling. Kyrtaar had no desire to relive this, and had put almost a century between himself and these events. He summoned forth the vast will power he possessed that allowed him to control the cosmos in his hands. The same will power that bound the stars to his mind. Oh no, the stars didn't use him. No, no. Kyrtaar used them. Old Cha'ia, did not possess his mind. Cha'ia was in his dreams threatening to devour his soul, but it was all show for such a weak star. Kyrtaar would absorb the power of Cha'ia when he went supernova. Kyrtaar felt the fear of the old star's dead in the back of his throat when he slept.

Kyrtaar blinked, back in the room. He turned to everyone else who seemed much less composed than him. As they came to, a large argument broke out, that Kyrtaar had no interest in, but he did learn that Aevah could read minds. He wondered if she knew of the pact, of what he thought, but it was a question for another time. The journey through the jungle would be long, and conversation would be needed, and this topic might fill the void of the trek. He turned to follow her, and the Lizard out. He meandered after them, at a slow pace. His hood was down, and he enjoyed the sun on his face. His arm was sore from the arrow wound, but he could feel the throb of power in his body, thumping with his heart beat.

He smelled the fire before he saw it. He followed Aevah at a quicker pace now, and watched her start to sneak off. Rin, the lizard, followed her, and darted up a tree. Kyrtaar, simply sure of his abilities, walked towards the fire. He had lost sight of Aevah, and Rin, but saw Aevah circle around, and reappeared. Kyrtaar stepped out into the clearing, Aevah had been timid in talking to the man, but Kyrtaar had never known a man to start large fires as a friendly one. Aevah was unarmed, and technically so was Kyrtaar, but he was more than confident in his eldritch powers to keep him safe. "Hey!" he called. "Whats your business here?" he asked. He looked at Aevah, and back to the man. He couldn't tell if the man was a threat or not, but didn't trust him, and started to feel the full strength of his abilities flood into his limbs. His eyes weren't glowing yet, but he was already channeling his powers into his limbs, to speed up his reaction times and strength if the man did try to attack them.

---

Kylmi lingered outside the war room, the door a mindless barrier from the remaining council as she tipped her head and willed herself to listen. Murmured and exchanged conversations, regal promises and vows and inclined respects in various pitches that she was beginning to familiarize herself with and committed them to memory. She had figured 9 - no, her Frelseren - would had followed after her, but she was pleased to at least hear that Mundhir was more accepting and willing to entrust them, starting with the one they hardly understood, more than herself.

She nodded in her approval and smiled, a genuine grin that flashed across her visage when she turned to retreat to her chambers, eager to read her mother’s respondent. And she would have done just that if she had not caught glimpse of Hazim, his name only given to her so that she’d desist calling him That Bastard. Their shared glances were hostile, annoyed, a disdainful glance of acknowledging each other at best. Kylmi tipped her lips in a saccharine smirk and he glowered, shouldering around her in his heavy, bronze coloured plate. Dressed for the field she thought idly and pondered on his state of glamour as she began treading back to her room. It could only mean one of two things, or both really should fortune not grace their group, and neither of them were favouring in the least. It would mean that someone was attacking them, or gathering a force to combat against their numbers one, Kylmi’s expression darkened at those odds.

It made her all the more urgent to review the missive clenched within her grasp. The mint coiled up, delicate in its fragrance and it reminded her of home and not for the first time she wondered if not traveling with Aevah and the others had been a faulty decision on her part. But she had already committed to her destination and would have to see the deeds done, or she would really become a coward and run away - again. Kylmi approached her door carved of lilies and thorns and using the vines festooned to the walls, entered her chambers that was alive in bird song. Robins, larks, and sparrows, every kind of avian was perched upon vines and thorn wreathed furniture as if patiently awaiting her beckoning, even a hawk loomed high above in the banisters and from somewhere in the thick foliage she heard an owl’s low drone and hoot. She wasn’t surprised by these representatives, but what did perplex her was the screech of a bat hanging on the posts of her bed covered in mats of flowers.

Bats were not her messengers, but could only belong to one individual. A rarity in her own right: there were Nymphs that were bred with infernal beings of myth and legend, barely surviving their hellacious births. It was seldom seen or heard of: the bi-blooded offspring of Lampades and the Dark One.

“Thesipha, I’m surprised my mother let you from her sights.” Kylmi calmly muttered, closing her door quietly and sealing it closed with a thick barrier of bruised ferns and thorns. She turned to face the Nymph in question who lounged much like a feline across one of her thorn impaled benches. She was of pale skin, nearly white and translucent across her bones, each definition of her face and figure seeming to nearly protrude from the membrane. She was so thin, eerily so with a solid mass of dark hair winding in a thick braid reminiscent of an oil slick against the stone and flowers. Eyes of hollow blue, glassy, the sclera a darker shade of azure that darkened into ebony edges. Thesipha was a ominous figure almost in the way she didn’t move or breath, and how her breaths were tinged with a fog of white and her ears, like Kylmi’s, were surrounded in tines and in place of antlers, her crown was of curving horns akin to a ram’s genetics. She smiled, her mouth was black and her lips pale and thin.

“Klymeina,” she purred, holding out her elongated arms where her veins stood out in black webbing. “Or it is Klyphotise now? Kylomopeilia perhaps? I’ve forgotten.” The Nymph teased, her needle fanged mouth riddled with a mocking sarcasm.

“It’s Kylmi,” the woodland woman answered, sweeping into an embrace with the Netherworld creature. “And why did my mother send you? You’re bound to her side as I recall.”

“She wanted to make sure you were actually safe, unlike most of us, you can lie and she doesn’t trust a magpie’s letter no more than I would. You understand why.”

Kylmi nodded quietly, watching the woman carefully when she began plucking flowers from their vines and admiring their colours with a silence that dredged on and on. Thesipha didn’t speak anymore, merely hummed to herself and ignored any and all of Kylmi’s glances before she deemed her appearance genuine rather than threatening - still, it was best to keep her guards up around the pale Nymph.

Her fingers worked quickly to unfold the missive, the parchment an old leaf that was worn and delicate and thus fragile in handling. The ink was brown, as if aged and was in her mother’s looping script that was embellished and done with a heavy hand. The contents were what she had hoped for, and then not, detailing her worry and anger and bidding for Kylmi to come home despite her requests. She shook her crown of antlers and read on, her brow lowering in displeasure.

“You’re all leaving?”

Thesipha hummed. “That was the original plan, yes. Your mother and the Grotta agreed on seeking another home, the fires of war will come, you know this. There’s no stopping history from repeating itself, we’ve seen it countless times.”

“We don’t know that this will be different, Thesi. We don’t have gifts of foresight, not anymore, and the Nords don’t tell, not without a price, at least to us. I believe we can stop the fires -”

Thesipha laughed, a hoarse and ragged sound that raked from her throat and it stung Kylmi. “What is with this hopeful tone, Kylphotise? You who would have vouched for us running away into the wood before!” The pale woman grasped her shoulders, ignoring the shooting of thorns into her gripping palms. Kylmi’s lips peeled back in a snarl and vines writhed across her figure in agitated motions and above them the hawks and birds shrieked.

“This is different, I can’t run away from this, I won’t allow the fires to reach our home again!”

“What is in it for you? The Kylmeina I know doesn’t do anything without benefit.”

“There are some who saved my life, I can’t leave without seeing that dept repaid.” She spat, digging her claws into Thesipha’s chest and allowing a hiss to rip from her throat. “I’m bound to remain, just like you are to my mother’s side.”

“But that’s not all, I would say, you’re not righteous enough to stay on morals like those. You don’t have any,” said the pale one, nursing the claw marks on her nearly transparent flesh.

“I know that, I know I’m not deserving of such comforts. But I can’t do anything else but see this to the very end. I have to.” There was a strong conviction in her tone, wavering only slightly but otherwise firm. Blue and green melded together into a singular glare and plant life wreathed entirely in thick, suffocating thickets from Kylmi’s swarming emotions.

“But I can’t do it alone, please, tell my mother that we have to fight, we have to let Nature’s wrath be known.”

Thesipha’s expression flickered, smidgen with a brief glimmer of awe before vanishing entirely under her vacant gaze. Above her, the bat released its roost from the bed post and fell down to her bony, protruding shoulder, gazing at Kylmi with eyes as blue as its mistress.

“I’ll tell her, it’s a fool’s hope Kylmi, but I can do that at least.” It was a reluctant treaty between the two Nymphs, but it was something and Kylmi smiled a felidae fanged grin.

“Thank you, I have friends venturing into Uchfos in search of the Norn, open the borders for them upon your return. I know it isn’t custom for us to help outsiders and mortals, but this is a certain exception.” She said.

Thesipha merely nodded, her brow quirked but she did not inquire the details. Sometimes less known was better and from her experience with the forest Nymph and her family, she also knew better than to pry in their affairs. She turned to leave, her bat clinging to the thick coil of her hair, and then she stopped for a moment by the bench from earlier and only then did Kylmi notice the bundle settled against her vines.

“This is part of the things you requested and I left a mount behind for you, I wouldn’t trust the poorly domesticated beasts they ride,” she handed over the burden, mindful of the belongings. “Also I should warn you, in coming here I came across a force a thousand strong, it seems they’re waiting for something though I don’t know what.” Her hollow eyes glanced up through her ebony lashes. “I assume this Prince I’ve been hearing about is the target?”

Kylmi only nodded, her eyes shining.

“I wouldn’t trust him,” Thesipha uttered. “A man’s heart can harbour more darkness for all of his royal blood, Kylmi.”

---

It was by listening through the chiseled wood of her door that she gathered what was happening. Thesipha had departed on the wings of her strange bats, using whatever magic her kind possessed to blot out her appearance from the sentries. Her cousin had been right, it seemed the Elderborn elves were seen heading in their direction, a force a thousand strong. Kylmi didn’t know if this was a gathering of attack on their part, but she would see to the Mad Prince and would serve as a representative to the woods of this world, he would know the wrath of her heart.

Kylmi sought to the gifts from her mother, pleased to see that her usual wears were present and with a twist of vines she hoisted her hair into a complex twirl of knotted tresses to keep most of it off her back and neck. She fitted the lattice works of her Fernium kind, each of their species were allergic to certain metals and thus special appliances were made to every individual. Her pierces of armour were artfully tarnished and gleaming an emerald colour, malachite pieces on her elaborate head piece that wreathed up along with her antlers. Silver chain hugged her torso and thighs, every piece was tailored to her physique, aligned along her spine and every curve of her hips and bodice.

Her arms were bare for the thorns at her skin and she flexed her wrists, testing out the growth until satisfied. Last she donned for her foot wear, the peculiar stiletto of each boot aiding in her swagger when she walked on her clawed toes, emerald clawed pieces finished off the entire ridging with elaborated vine work embossed along every plated section. Kylmi felt secure, confident more so than her natural state of undress and followed after the bustling of bodies, some indicating to the stables when she inquired.

Thesipha had said she left a mount behind, which Kymli was grateful for, but silently dreaded whichever creature the Netherworld Nymph had bequeathed to her temporary service. Though loyal, Thesipha had a sadistic way of humour that bordered malicious and horrid cunning, ironic that she would be her mother’s closest friend and adviser through an ancient, ritualistic bond. There was a slight commotion by the stables, some pointing in perplexity and others clearly stunned and disturbed by whatever was the catalyst of such emotion. Kylmi hastened her steps, her boots sharp as she shoved her way through the on lookers and stood gaping at the sight before her.

In her departure Thesipha had left a creature that Kylmi knew as a Kelpie. It was an equine, and then not, constantly wavering in and out a glamour. The slick pelt was black, of course, and gleamed like the oily slick of the pale Nymph’s hair, the mane and tail were overgrown and bedecked and tangled with bones and reeds with random pieces clumped together in braided cords that held dead vines. It was taller than most of the stable borne horses, but slender and lean rather than bulky, the hooves though were gleaming pale like bones and feathered and its mouth was crested with fangs and blunt teeth. Glancing at the head made her shudder, it was nearly bony and gaunt with the thick bangs of its mane covering most of its face.

Kylmi stared into the vacant, pallid sockets of the beast and at her approach it knelt to the ground, allowing her astride. There was no reins or saddle or any tack to speak of and her vines wove through the beast, clinging to it. She scowled to herself, leave it to Thesipha to leave her a truly nightmarish creature, she would have to properly summon a mount to ride, Kelpies were deadly on their own but Kylmi wouldn’t trust herself to a beast that lived off the flesh of its victims. Properly seated and geared, Kylmi ushered the not-horse to follow Mundhir and Tarwin, hoping the Kelpie wouldn’t try to make a meal out of her companions.

The soldiers of Eblistan’s rogue prince were cut from finer rock than their peers. Each was a great warrior, with bloodied legacies laden in feats of arms. They were skilled on horse, and matched the Elderborn in the use of the bow. Professionalism and righteous morals stood in high regard from every lieutenant to every soldier, and they were perhaps one of Eulona’s last armies that did not gorge themselves in the deaths of non-combatants.

As the Silver of the Elderborn host came to a standstill in rigid formation on Baalor’s outskirts, Mundhir’s men remained hidden. They crouched behind ruined walls, or hunkered down in holes dug for purpose. One of the rogue prince’s greatest tactical blessings was in his ability to hide the strength of his force’s disposition to an enemy; such a blessing had won him many victories against Nillanor.

Prince Thrandel however had approached the ruins with little bravado. He had no more trebuchets, and his army was the dregs of a dying peoples. No one in Eblistan knew for sure how many High Elves still lived, but every time an Elderborn war host assailed the borders, it was always with less soldiers than before.

It was custom for the Elves to survey Mundhir’s men, working their hawkish eyes to get to the bottom of his tricks and machinations. There were no scouts this time however, and Thrandel’s men looked especially vulnerable in their tight formations. In almost every engagement between Mundhir and the Mad Prince, the battles had started with a skirmish of arrows; not this time, it seemed that Nillanor was prepared to charge the ruins directly.

Mundhir was certain that this would be folly. The Elves, even in their splendir armour and tall shields, would but cut to pieces by the mamluks as they charged the open plain. When they did finally reach the ruins, then Mundhir’s men would fall upon them from all directions. It would be a slaughter – no – a genocide. The rogue prince grimaced at the thought; this was not who he was, this is what he had tried so valiantly to stop.

Hazim led the procession of the Prince and his companions. Carrying the banner of Mundhir Sadek proudly, Hazim ushered his steed onwards, and it strutted confidently towards the clinical steel of the Elven army.

Mundhir was unsure of how to approach this matter. He was desperately eager to avoid bloodshed, but was dreadfully certain that the Mad Prince would have none of it. Thrandel held a certain fire against mankind, especially those that dwelt in Eblistan, and for a long time he had tried to snuff them out. If he attacked, then Mundhir would reclutantly put the Elf down along with his kind – but no doubt the losses his forces would take in the process would cripple him. How long until Basar and Jazeer marched on Baalor? Days? Weeks?

He was thankful for the presence of Tarwin, whose high spirits seemed contagious, and for a moment Mundhir’s heart lifted just by engaging the man in brief small talk. Frelseren’s powerful visage, stomping alongside them on foot, was another heartening blessing. The Prince did not quite trust the creature, out of sheer ignorance of its capabilities, and its ability to apparently see everyone’s past deeds. However, there was no doubt that it was of an honourable disposition, and for now Mundhir would give it as much trust as he could afford.

The Nymph was uplifting in another way. In her green armour of elaborate design, accompanied by a beautiful malachite studded helm, she looked different; less the strange exotic female, and more a warrior. This slight change in appearance had made it easier for Mundhir to see her for what she was, and as the group came up to the Elven battle line, he ventured a few words to her.

“When this war has found its conclusion, you will have to show me Uchfos. I have heard it is as beautiful as it is deadly, much like you I dare to presume,” he said with a wink. “Unlike that creature you’ve chosen to ride."

The Elven lines suddenly parted down the middle; shields and armour clattered as the Elves moved to make room with effortless grace. Down the centre of this clearing, rode Prince Thrandel on a giant white stag. Mundhir urged his horse past Hazim, despite the Captain’s reservations, and met his adversary face to face.

“Elen sila lumenn omentilmo,” said Mundhir, bowing his head slightly. For the parlay, he had chosen to wear no armour, instead favouring the red silk of his regal house. Hazim had agonised over this for as long as time allowed, but Mundhir needed to show the Elves that today he was a man of peace.

Thrandel sat looking down at Mundhir for what seemed like minutes. Six feet tall, skin as pale as snow, and the awful scars marring his face made the Elven Prince a menacing figure. The several layers of burnishes steel plate that he wore, only added to that perception.

“I do not exchange words with your kind in my own tongue, little Prince,” Thrandel growled finally.

“My apologies, my Prince, I meant only respect,” replied Mundhir, bowing for a second time.

“Bah,” spat Thrandel, “save it for the countless thousands buried beneath our feet, monster.”

Mundhir sighed. This was not going well. “I do not want to fight you Thrandel, we’ve been killing each other for far too long. Surely you’ve lived enough lives of men to have such wisdom?”

“You’ve been killing my kind for a thousand years. I have slowly been paying back the favour, little Prince, and today I will grasp the fruits of my long labours. That is the extent of my wisdom,” sneered Thrandel. Blue lips twisted into a wide grin, revealing a mouth with no teeth.

“Then we cannot avoid battle?” Mundhir asked, preparing to turn his horse from the parlay.

“I can,” Thrandel hissed. “You can’t, human.”

Mundhir frowned, “I do not understand, my Prince.”

“You may go back to Baalor, but you will die there. My master has decreed it,” Thrandel chuckled. Mundhir noted that the Mad Prince’s men did not share their leader’s humour.

“You have a new King?” Mundir inquired, stroking his bearded chin.

“In a manner of speaking, yes, but this king is a queen, and she is far more powerful than any worldy ruler,” Thrandel said mockingly. “Return to Baalor, little Prince, and pray to your precious Duranar for deliverance… though I fear you will be answered only with silence.”

“Enough of this madness,” said Mundhir as he reached the end of his patience. He looked at Thrandel’s men. “Your peoples have died, and continue to die for this insane fool? You have my pity, and my love, but none of you shall leave this field alive.”

Longbows were strung at the Prince’s parting comments, and Hazim dutifully rode in front of him. No arrows were released however, and the procession promptly made its way back to Baalor without incident.

“I do not like this,” said Mundhir.

“Me neither, my Prince,” retorted Hazim. “Let’s hit them, hard and fast.”

“No. I saw his men, they do not believe in his cause; they follow him out of loyalty, or perhaps forlorn hope. Thrandel is a problem that I have allowed to fester long enough. We must slay him,” Mundhir said frowning. “If we can kill him, then his men may disband altogether.”

“You jest Mundhir, how do you propose to kill him?” Hazim gawked, almost falling from his horse.

“Not me. My companions,” said Mundhir smiling and looking at Kylmi, Tarwin and Frelseren. “What’d you say? Want to end a war in a day? Save thousands? Sign up right here.”

Tarwin was able to conceal his nerves on the ride out by idly chatting with those around him, when his mouth was moving his brain was too busy coming up with topics of conversation to worry about the vast army of eleven warriors they were approaching. He wore his large and colourful poncho as always, it allowed him to conceal a short sword and still appear unarmed. While he did see the sense in not brandishing weapons he also wasn't prepared to meet this mad prince without a weapon handy. He quietened down as the elf ranks parted and their leader stepped forward, steeling himself and putting on a slight smile to try and appear less scared.

He let the prince do the talking, bar patrons and merchants were the kind of people Tarwin normally conversed with and so he had no real clue how to conduct himself in this sort of situation. Atop his horse he sat, slightly behind the prince but listening closely, not that it meant much to him, politics and world affairs bored him greatly so the talk of a new king was neither significant or surprising in his eyes. He looked around at the guards on the elvish side, the tired and bland exasperation that painted each of their faces spoke more than words ever could. Turning back to the parlay for moment he heard that it was actually a queen, he tilted his head to look upwards, picturing what she might look like before swiftly shaking his head and returning to the moment at hand.

It looked like the peaceful attempt had failed as they rode back with near enough a guarantee of battle sooner or later. "Hmph. Spare us from the arrogance of elves!" He shouted as their leader sunk behind into the wall of shields. His steed turned and the group slowly withdrew before convening, the prince certainly had a good idea.

Tarwin nodded. "I saw it on each of their faces, no commitment to the cause." He thought for a little while, weighing up his options. While the idea of risking his life and trying to assassinate an elvish didn't really appeal the thought of doing nothing and waiting was far worse. "I'm in." He drew his short sword and grinned, the enchantment causing a red shimmer to run along the blade casting a faint glow. "I 'reckon we could probably flank them if we rode far enough north then turned to loop behind them, that'll be where the prince is right? Some kind of commander's tent? We get in, do the deed and slip away." He laughed a little, likely out of nervousness. "Sounds nice and simple when you say it out loud." But he knew in reality it would be anything but.

Shorus got very angry when the big insect warrior was attacked, his eyes became red and he lifted one of the guards by his collar while roaring to leave the big insect alone. But the Prince calmed the situation pretty quickly and Hazim calmed Shorus by telling him that no one will harm the chitin beast without the Prince's permission.
Shorus calmed down and put the poor guard back on his feet.

When the Prince suggested the chitin creature to pick a new name for itself, the Minotaur suggested that 'Shorus' is a wonderful name, but then he backed up when he realized that having two Shorus's in one group may be rather confusing.

Then Hazim returned to the room, wearing a battle armor. Shorus looked at the former World Breaker and appreciated his outfittings.
" It is a good armor Hazim, Shorus will need an armor and weapons too if you want him to be helpful!" he said to Hazim.
For a moment the big man stood silent while looking at the Prince, turned out that Shorus's battle axes were so badly damaged in the last fight that they became practically unusable. But after a moment Hazim and the Prince nodded to each other and Hazim sent few of his soldiers to bring something from the arsenal.
The soldiers returned carrying a black set of armor and two huge black axes.
"This is the armor and weapons of the first World Breaker, the legend tells he was as big as a huge Minotaur and as strong as 10 men! You will have the honour to wear this!" told Hazim to Shorus with a trembling in his voice, Shorus could swear he saw a tear in the big man's eyes at this moment.
Shorus glanced at the armor, it was a state of the art craftsmanship, most certainly created by the great ancient masters.
The chest plate was made out of a black and strong metal alloy Shorus never saw before, it was hard as forged steel but a lot lighter.
The axes were made from a similar alloy but were much heavier, although very well balanced.
Shorus was surprised to find out that after hundreds of years, the axes have remained as sharp as at the day they were made, it seems it was one of the black alloy's properties. The axes were also rather wide and could be used as small shields when turned sideways.
Shorus thanked the Prince as he wore the armor and took the axes.Unfortunately the helm was not made for a head with horns, so Shorus couldn't use it in it's complete form, the Minotaur disassembled the helm and tied the separate metal plates to his head with pieces of steel chain.
"Shorus is ready!" said the Minotaur as he followed the Prince out of the war room.

On his way to the battlefield Shorus didn't speak much, instead he divided his time between thinking about the battle ahead and looking on the Nymph's behind. Even when wearing a battle armor, she still was feminine and enchanting and the Minotaur followed every move of her beautiful figure with his eyes.

Upon arriving the battlefield, Shorus took position right near the Prince and Hazim. The Minotaur was ready to strike the foe hard and fast if needed. But for his surprise the Elven Prince didn't attack.. which was rather weird.
When the Elven Prince left and Mudhir asked for warriors to take him down, the Minotaur loudly banged his new battle axes together with a sound that reminded a thunder and then bellowed: "Shorus at your service too, noble Prince!"

Jazeer was tired of living. The pain throbbing through his limbs, stiffening his joints, was but a minor curse when compared with the fate he had been laden with. A few hours ago, he had been the Crown Prince of an ancient power; his name was glory, honour and promise. Now he was an outcast, thrown to the wolves by his own brother - and none of his 'loyal' soldiers did anything to intervene. He had treated them personally for their wounds, seen to their every need as any good commander should, and he plied them with the luxuries destined for his command tent. Yet, in the end, it seemed that warriors always appreciated the physically strong: Basar was such a man.

The former Crown Prince was not angry at this twist of events, however, he was just bitterly sad. Life's dwindling rays of hope had been snuffed out from under his own nose, and now his beloved brother, Mundhir, was facing annihilation. He had little doubt that the plot arrayed against Mundhir had consumed him too, but what really irritated Jazeer was not the shooting pains in his knees as he walked the endless green, but that he had no idea of the plot's goal.

Eblistan's history was bloated with acts of regicide. If his father was murdered and supplanted, war would reign for a time, followed by peace, but eventually the citadel would shrug off the stain like it had always done. A new regal line would be established, Duranar's chosen would thrive for another century; rinse and repeat. What was the point? Surely Basar was not that stupid, as to try and seize the throne? He was a meat-headed imbecile with a taste for rape and slaughter, this much was unfortunately true, but he had little love for a crown. He saw himself as a War Lord, first and foremost, the serving sword of Duranar. So why would he give his hand in Mundhir's death?

Jealously perhaps? It was no secret that Mundhir's defeating of Nillanor on the plains of Eblistan, and then at Baalor, had won him the love of the people. His father had seethed with rage, as the Elven delegation entered his palace and demanded an explanation. However, he never made mention of killing Mundhir, only that he should retire and spend his life administering the people through civil means. Personally, Jazeer felt that the Caliph had always favoured Mundhir over he, for Mundhir was brave, strong, noble and fiercely intelligent: the embodiment of a perfect Duranar Blessed Mamaluk. Basar, on the other hand, was seen as a thug and a beast. How much gold had the Caliph lavished noble families for their silence in fell-matters?

Jazeer remembered bitterly Basar's assault on Lady Talia of House Felmar; that was a nightmarish affair. It was Jazeer, not Felmar's physicians, who tended to her wounds. The worst part of it all however, was not that damage done to Talia's body, but what the attack had inflicted on her mind. She never left the confines of her house after what Basar had done, and spent days staring out at the elaborate terrace of her father's estate. She was broken, dead inside, and Jazeer's earthly medicine was no match for the stain that had marred her honour and dignity.

Basar's punishment? A temporary station on the borders of Uchfos Forest. Jazeer conceded to himself that stripping the monster of his titles and lands would have been a better path to go down, but alas, Talia's father cared only for gold, and sought to profit from the grim occurrence. Profit he did, and now it was no secret that House Felmar's prominence was on the rise. A woman's life and well-being was cheap in these times of religious zeal and power gluttony.

Something screamed as Jazeer passed an outcropping of rocks, a few miles from Baalor. The scream was not a human one, and sounded more like that of a wounded animal; a horse maybe? Did horses scream? Jazeer was not certain, nature and the animal kingdom being far from his intellect's comfort zones. Still, his life was over as far as he saw it, and so rewarding curiosity was no longer a question of stupidity. He stalked towards the direction of the scream.

Sleeking around the corner of a rock, Jazeer looked upon a Goblin staked to the ground by several metal pins. It squirmed, twisted, and shrieked as bloodied limbs tried to flail their way out of the restraints stuck through them. The former Crown Prince had read of Goblins, seen portraits of them, but this was the first time he had seen one in the flesh. He had learned that they were vermin and pests, hunted for their hide and teeth by some, but otherwise culled by most. He did not see vermin, though, he saw only pain and anguish.

If Jazeer was to die, wretched and wasted as his wards faded from him, then he would die as he lived: noble and compassionate. He approached the pitiful form, and knelt beside it.

Immediately the Goblin spat at him, shrieking curses that even Jazeer's worldly knowledge could not translate. Its ghoulish face shot forwards, struggling against rope that held it down, and its jaws clamped towards the kneeling Prince.

"I mean no harm," came Jazeer's muffled voice.

"Suck my cock, human," screeched the Goblin. Jazeer noticed one of its ears had been sliced from its head, and dark blood had pooled and dried on the grass alongside.

"As tempting as that may be," Jazeer said, smiling behind his mask, "I would much rather help. Who did this to you?"

"Kill me now, you cock gobbler, I ain't one for entertainin' torturing cunts," it hissed, and continued to snap its powerful, teeth-thick jaws at him.

"I am no torturer, just a lost soul left out here to die," Jazeer said softly, as he examined the wounds. "These pins have not struck your arteries, from what I can see; whoever did this knew their way around a Goblin. Who were they?"

"You should know, you bastard," the Goblin wined. "They all wore that stupid, fucking mask you're wearing."

Jazeer recoiled. Eblistani soldiers did not wear masks; masks were a sign of weakness, for they hid a man's shame. Warrior's had no need to hide shame.

"I do not know them. How long ago did they do this?"

"What do you care?" It spat at him, the discoloured slime running down the gold of his mask.

Jazeer sighed, "I will release you from your torment. If you wish to kill me for doing so, you would only be fast-tracking my story by a few hours."

With careful and practised hands, the Crown Prince pulled the metal pins from the Goblin's wrists and shins. It shrieked with each tug, and as it became free, it lunged at Jazeer, beating his face and chest with clenched fists.

"Die, die, die!" It screamed.

Jazeer did not resist. As the small fists rained down on his frail body, he merely closed his eyes and waited for it to be over.

"Fight me, I've enough in me to kill you, you pig fucker," the Goblin growled, wheezing with exhaustion.

"No," Jazeer's voice carried pain.

The Goblin stood from his victim, stumbled a short distance, and collapsed. Jazeer took a few minutes for his bruised face, and clawed ribs, to let up on their pain, and then he staggered to his feet. He looked down on the poor creature, and shook his head bitterly. It was on death's door, already the dark veins of infection were spreading from its wounds, and no doubt his attackers had used poison. Kneeling besides the fallen Goblin, he reached into his robes and pulled out a small pouch of herbs.

"These are harvested from the Welltrees of Uchfos. They are as expensive, as they are essential in treating infection. As possibly my last and final act in this world, I, Jazeer Sadek of Eblistan, will see that you walk away from here," Jazeer said, breathing heavily.

Aevah moved through the ruins of Baalor towards the tower looming in the distance, she hoped the others were following but she'd already made up her mind to continue onwards even if they did decide to leave her on her own. As she walked there were times when she was certain that something was following her... something fast and small. She frowned, she knew that there were tales of Goblins in these ruins, she'd heard Mhundir's guardsmen speaking of seeing them on occassion. They were supposed to be skittish, timid creatrues who avoided larger beings whenever they could but perhaps this one was curious? The three of them were an odd match, two elven travelers and a giant lizard moving through an area where human soldiers were lurking. Indeed, in this current time it would be a strange sight indeed.

It took a while to reach the tower itself and once she had it was a rather significant relief to find her daggers and her quiver of arrows there. She placed the daggers in the sheaths on her thighs and pulled the quiver over her shoulder alongside her bow.

"We should get moving, once it gets dark I will hunt for game... a few rabbits or squirrels should fill our bellies."

She'd also made a point to pick what useful herbs, mushrooms, and berries she'd passed along the way and though she knew much of what they could eat she knew only the basics of what could heal. Still, in a pinch her limited knowledge could prove useful.

As she mounted her steed she sighed softly, "We should go now... He'll decline quickly. It's getting worse every day and I'm afraid if we linger too long he will be passed over before we can return."

She glanced over her shoulder to see if she was speaking to the group or to herself and then spurred her horse foreward, it was near dusk before she stopped after removing her bow from her shoulder and letting loose on a hare leaping about in the open meadows ahead of them.

She climbed off her horse, aimed and shot another in the middle of fleeing it's dead companion. She skinned the hare and frowned, there were very few trees out here and very little to make enough of a fire to cook. She glanced at Kyrtaar, hoping he'd followed, and risked asking a stupid question.

"You wouldn't happen to be able to cook anything with all that heat you build up without obliterating the target could you?"

In the open meadow she was hoping she'd be able to find bigger game, possible a deer... but they were obviously sticking to the forests further away.

Kyrtaar followed Aevah to the tower, enjoying the open space, and getting to be outside again. He could just take the horse and ride, forget the prince and his worldly issues. He could hear the goblins as the skirted about watching them, but he didn't pay them any mind. If they attacked he would have to fight back, and his powers would likely be more than enough to decimate them. Once he reached the tower, he would take his quiver, and place it on his hip. Kyrtaar picked his bow up, and placed it on his back, along with his longsword's sheath. He held the weapon and balanced it in his hand. It felt good to hold it again. After a few seconds of posing with the weapon, he put it in it's sheath.

Kyrtaar listened to the things Aevah was saying, and nodded. He agreed, but he didn't really have anything to add to it. He mounted his horse, and rode after her. "I am quite excited to learn about this norn" was all he said as they left the ruins. During the ride all he could think of was the sun above beating down on them. Usually it was comforting to him, but now it was not. He thought it was a giant blazing pupil in a blue iris sky. It stared at him, ceaselessly. Watching every move for a slip up. For him to be thrown from his horse and killed, so it could take his soul. Kyrtaar pulled his hood up, and felt cold sweat drops running down his back, but eventually, he managed to suppress the paranoia and anxiety.

At dusk, they set up a meagre camp, really just the horses tied together to prevent them from running away, under the open sky. Aevah had killed and skinned a hare, and asked if he was able to cook it with his hands. Kyrtaar was actually curious about this. It was something he hadn't even considered trying before. "Well" He said, "Lets find out." Kyrtaar held his hands out, and literally shot green fire from the palms of his hands. The second try, his hands were only slightly warm to the touch. On the third try however, he was able to control the heat output. His palms had a faint green aura, and his eyes started their familiar glow. "Alright, just put it on my palms, I guess" He said. After a few minutes, he flipped it over, and proceeded to cook it, smiling at this new discovered talent.

Once Kyrtaar was finished, they had one slightly overcooked hare to eat. It would have a faint alien taste to it, but all in all, it would be edible and filling. "How about that" Kyrtaar said with a chuckle "If this save the prince deal fails, I can always become a cook."

After eating, Kyrtaar would look at Rin and Aevah. "So, tell me. Where are you two from." He had only a passing curiosity, but he figured he should know a bit about his traveling companions. He found the Half-elf likeable enough, and pleasant to talk to. The lizard was interesting, but he hadn't truly conversed with him. He also had thrown a wrench into Kyrtaar's plans if everything went awry. He supposed he'd have to try to pass Rin off as a pet, or servant or some such thing, if they had to try and enter more elven territory.

The entire procession, to Kylmi, felt like hours but could not have been no more than a few dawdling minutes to decide their, potential, ultimate fates. This could have been faulted on the fact that time was still not within her grasp, days could have been years and she wouldn't have realized. The repercussions of longevity combined with a prolonged torture saw to that in malicious detail, and she reflected on that briefly as the Kelpie beneath her stirred at the tumultuous effect of her mirroring empathy. Bleached hooves stomped, cantered, lanky hocks quivering in a rising anticipation of battle as blunted dentures and fangs snapped at any passer by that drifted too close to the Nymph. Some flinched and ushered their horses away, some whinnying their discomfort as the inky, hideous creature bore down upon them with milky eyes and teeth, the bones woven through mane and tail clattering eerily with his fervor. Only when he craned his thin neck around and gnashed his teeth against her plated shin did Kylmi stir from her musings, she hissed much like a tempestuous feline and bared her own simper and kicked his bony, gaunt face.

"Do that again and I'll return you to your mistress as a thorn festooned corpse." To emphasize her threat, dark tines began to writhe against his oily pelt, scraping bone and flesh and tangling deeper through his threads, her claws tugged on the plaits of his mane and directed him back into a straight tread. The Kelpie was still wild by temperament and his stubbornness shown in his random intervals in trying to gallop forward but for the most part he remained sullen and brooding, blowing through his velvet snout to broadcast his agitation. Kylmi smirked at that.

Then pay attention you wilting plant, the air is rife with enough tension without you adding to it.

She did not anticipate its' voice, a horrid sound that was neither feminine or masculine but a mindless droning cadence that was hollow and raspy, as if raked over bones and shards of glass. It was chilling and her body involuntarily shuddered when those peerless orbs seemed to rotate madly within its' hideous face and glare back at her. Thesipha had a sick, twisted sense of humour to make her ride such a thing.

"Do you have a name?" She inquired to him, her fingers woven tightly among slick hair and tangled reeds.

Your kind cannot, would not, be able to pronounce it, not unless you wish to kill everyone here. Kylmi flinched at the implication, though nearly emotionless and apathetic in tone, the prospect was enough to ward her.

"I'll just call you Bones, then." The Kelpie didn't seem to mind, or care rather, and simply whipped his long, inky tail in response. Which she didn't complain about, one could only receive his voice for so long. Bones did not seem to mind the presence of her Frelseren, but in the company of Tarwin and Mundhir, he was mocking at best: snapping teeth, and resonating a strange click and grating noise somewhere within his throat that vibrated up through Kylmi's legs, she kicked him again. She couldn't imagine how he would face in the line of silver imposing across the hill and once again she glanced up, since they left the ruins she had felt eyes on her, admiration once again of course but also a slight appreciation for the fact she had donned armour rather than sporting nothing but flowers all cleverly placed. Her glassy, peridot eyes briefly glanced back over her bare shoulder, Shorus, as she had come to know by his preference of speech had taken to staring her down across her backside. Her stare flickered away as Bones made a low sound of displeasure, he obviously didn't appreciate attention, unlike she.

Kylmi drifted back into her thought, much to Bone's displeasure but remained silent otherwise. It had been nearly an entire century since had last even attempted to fight and even during their impromptu jailbreak, she had lingered behind and did nothing but be carried out into the light. She questioned her capabilities and tried to recall on memory of battle etiquette when the Prince's timbre broke through her revere. And not for the first time he pulled her from the brink of her darkening subconscious thought process, her stare brightened, lifting by the ascension of her smile that nearly beamed - canines and all.

"You presume right," Kylmi nearly purred, tipping her antlers donned in the pieces of her headdress and the wink of polished malachite. "I'll show you that and more." She uttered the latter to herself, in which Bones snorted through his nose and bared blunt teeth at Mundhir's choice of words.

This boy has no idea what he rides next to on that pitiful creature of his own.

The Nymph amused Bones with the digging of her stiletto heels, urging him forward when suddenly he reared, lashing out with his bony hooves and if it weren't for her vines and tight grip within his mane, she would've fallen. The sound he made was a deep, stuttering growl that capered off in a peculiar whinny that made her shudder.

"What the hell -"

Look at the creature the Elder Prince rides. His voice intoned, almost sounding bitter and within awe.

Kylmi's eyes wavered as their own Prince rode to meet the Elderborn, silver plating versus red silk, she did not favour those circumstance one bit, but her attention could only last on them for a second. For the aforementioned beast that Bones was afraid of visibly bothered and worried her, to the point where she stared vacantly with a pained expression creasing her lips and brow in a woeful grimace and disbelief. A pale white stag, being degraded to the services of a mount like a common animal when it should have been lauded and treated with a regal fanfare. Kylmi's habitual worships from many years ago thrummed within her limbs, but Bone's reluctance to approach any further kept her from beseeching to the pallid bull to who and what it was. The only other snowy creature she knew had been their own and only Cerv Albi and he was nothing more then a festering shade now, or so she thought. Kylmi's heart pained and tightened and the surrounding plant life responded just so, nervously crawling and wavering, bidden by her emotional state and beneath her thighs, Bones stirred and spoke:

It doesn't have a soul.

The Nymph gaped and tried to keep the Kelpie in place who stomped and twitched nervously, hair whipping across her body when his tail lashed, but she ignored it for the time being save for her small wince. When the Mad Prince mentioned his new queen, it concerned Kylmi beyond reason, he spoke of her with a confidence and arrogance, dismissed the mortal God who she knew nothing of beside his name, but the six foot tall Elderborne seemed reassured by it where as his troops did not share the same reverence. He seemed adamant in facing them in battle and Kylmi prayed, though she didn't know to who now, that the souless beast he rode was not what she thought or what Bones feared.

When Mundhir turned his horse from the unsuccessful parlay, the Kelpie and Nymph lingered, drawn and distracted by the creature akin to their own long forgotten Lord. If her mother had been there, would she have turned sides in respect of their dead and forlorn God? They were borne and cultivated on tradition, the older Dryads attempting to carry on their rituals and so on into the newer world to preserve their histories, Kylmi had never taken part, had only stayed true to lustful whims and splendors. Now she reflected on those before she and Bones reluctantly turned and followed after the retreating procession. She met the Prince's eyes when they rode up, Bones grinding his fangs and his milky, hollow stare troubled by the yellow shade that bled over the twin orbs. So they were going to fight, Kylmi was both troubled and eager by it, the vines across her hair trembling and cinching tighter around the elaborate mess she had made out of it. Her armour suddenly felt extremely heavy.

She listened to Tarwin, considering his option and glanced her eyes to her Frelseren and back to the others when Bones seemed to laugh, a troubling chortle that vibrated in his thin chest, it was mocking surely and Kymli pulled on his various plaits to silence him, the two working into a spectacle of his cantering irritation and her hisses that snaked down before a screech tore through her throat.

I don't like this, the air tastes peculiar, I don't trust this Prince of yours either.

Kylmi didn't know what to say to that, and remained contemplative even when the others conversed about their plan. The Mad Prince would die today, but one thing could not be forgotten.

Speak then.

"I'm troubled by the queen he speaks of, new Gods and such do not rise so suddenly, not without a cause or purpose," she began, felidae canines worrying the pout of her lip. Kylmi never showed such habits before, but something unnerved her to the point of fidgeting. "We kill him and lose any sort of information about her, we kill him and a war is ended. But if he speaks true of a new queen, then another will rise in her service, such is the way of histories. Power is a tempting force, we may stave off a massacre but it wouldn't be long until her name would come across us again."

Bones threw his head up and down, as if to agree. He was as old, or older than she.

"We could interrogate him," she mused aloud, flexing her fingers. "I could try and pry information from him, either way it is as you say, we kill him and the others will disband or rally against us in revenge." Vines coiled around her, beckoning. "Capturing him, I believe would yield the same response but we cannot dismiss his queen, I fear it will come back to us tenfold and the beast he rides..." Her voice faltered dipped into a strange keen.

"There are too many variable here for me to just simple attack and slaughter, not without reservation."

Mundhir nodded at Kylmi, "you may be right... though I have witnessed a dozen brazen lunatics becall the will of false Gods in my time. I am Duranar's Chosen, he has spoken to me through the Prophet of Truth. With his blessing, whatever evil opposes us will never be great enough to overcome me."

As he finished speaking, he heard, more than felt, the familiar heavy drumming of his heart. The organ was beleaguered, sick, decaying; wrecked by the Ice Venom from over a week ago. For a moment his strength faltered, and he became visibly pained, but then rallied against it.

He looked at Tarwin, and smiled. "Me and you are of similar minds, young Tarwin. Though I have a slight more to add."

As if on que, Hazim knelt down, pulled a rolled piece of paper from his tunic, and opened it up over his knee. Mundhir walked over to him, and patted his finger on various places.

"This is the surrounds of Baalor," Mundhir said. "The ruins are here, Thrandel is there, and we're... we're here."

"The Elves have no love of night fighting," grunted Hazim.

Mundhir nodded. "We wait til darkness falls. I will lead my Mamaluks, my strength upholding, into a skirmish against the Mad Prince. With his forces distracted, and he no doubt seeking the safety of the rear, he will be vulnerable. However, you must leave, and you must leave now, if you are to position yourselves correctly prior to nightfall."

"I will go with them," Hazim said. "Been wanting to get at that Elderborn bastard for longer than I care to remember."

"As you will, my friend," replied Mundhir. "Anyway, take this map, and go. The Mad Prince's confidence has blinded his mind, and he has deployed no scouts that my soldiers have seen. You should have an easy time slipping away unnoticed, but just in case, I will have my men drill all afternoon in full view of the Elderborn host. That should draw away any unwanted attention from you, to me."

As she handed Kyrtaar the rabbit, Aevah was careful not to touch his skin. What she'd seen of him had made her nervous, not of him but of the book he carried and of the shadows that had seemed to linger along the edges of his aura when she'd seen it for that brief moment. She wasn't really anxious to try seeing further into the mystery that was his connection with those strange WRONG stars. What she'd already seen had been disconcerting enough, she understood now why he had those nightmares... Seeing something like that, maybe being paranoid of something like that could drive you mad quickly. Still, she wasn't quite sure it was paranoia. When she'd seen those images she'd heard that strangely discordant music as they'd moved in their strange orbits, she'd heard the same music but fainter coming from the book... much fainter, like a whisper, when she'd been Dreamwalking.

Aevah was broken from her ponderings and watched in amusement as Kyrtaar struggled with cooking the rabbit at first and when he finally managed it she grinned, "Handy indeed... Thank you, kind sir."

She then divided the edible mushrooms and berries she'd gathered between all of them. There was enough to at least fill their stomachs partially and once they grew closer to the woodlands game would be more readily available. As Kyrtaar asked his question she considered how to answer before deciding blunt honesty was in order. It hadn't gotten her shunned yet within her little group so perhaps it would not now.

"My mother was an elf, none of the villagers knew where she came from or from what she was fleeing... I've speculated, but that is really all I have. I know that I'm half human so I suppose that I am the unfortunate product of either a doomed union between the races or... even less pleasant, rape. Either way, the elves would have seen her as tainted and would have turned her away but... from her clothes the healer said she'd appeared high born and she'd begged the healer to keep me hidden from 'the Shadows' whatever that means... The healer thought she might have been delusional or in shock because of the pain. She hemorrhaged during child birth and died only moments after I was born... The healer raised me in the village, you can find it at the base of the Spine."

She reached beneath her hair at the nape of her neck and unclasped her necklace and withdrew it from beneath her shirt, holding it out so he could see it. "This is all I have of my mother's... I've tried reading anything off of it, sometimes I can do that when I touch things... but I haven't been able to. All I know is what I read in a scroll... That it is referred to as 'The Emblem of the Seers' and 'The Eye of Akysrah.' Not that I know what that means..."

She shrugged and rubbed her thumb over the gold twisted into the shape of an embellished eye, in the center was a small round stone of light blue with flecks of grey and pale green... if it only had a pupil in the center it would look like a real iris, that's how full of detail it was. She looked at it as she continued, "As for the Norn... think of a being which disguises itself as a crone, with ravens at her beck and call. She lives under the roots of a tree so large that the roots themselves run under nearly the entire Uchfos. You can ask anything of her that you wish but you must be careful because the more that she believes she is giving you the more she will ask for in return and they are not always clear about what it is they are taking.... For example, I know a man who asked her to make a woman in the village fall for him. She asked for three years of his life... It seemed a worthy trade and so he went through with it. The next day the woman fell and broke her neck whilst fetching water, the young man died only hours later... He choked on seemingly nothing but air. The Norn can see when we die, she knew the man was doomed to die in three years and she took those three remaining years from him and because of his poor choice in wording the woman died as well... She is a dangerous being."

Frelseren marched along with the others as he brooded. This day had been one fraught with tragedy, grief, and somehow also happiness. He could not deny he preferred "Frelseren" over "9", however he couldn't shake what had happened to his family so easily off his shoulders. One day he will know what happened, perhaps when he finishes this metamorphosis? No matter, battle was on the horizon and Frelseren was aching for blood. Not literally, it wasn't like he was a Feaster, but with no kin to protect his warrior instincts replaced his guardian ones. As he moved along, he took stock of the "beast" that the antlered one had taken. In all honesty he would make a better mount than it, plus it was mean. A fact he learned shortly after moving along with it when it snapped at him with those teeth of its. Giving it a nasty hiss in return, Frelseren backed off a tad but still kept close to the antlered one in case things got hairy. Pointy eared ones made him angry.

As the group got closer, this belief was reinforced when they came upon the army of pointy eared ones. It took a great amount of willpower to suppress his urges to lung at the one that seemed to be the leader as his air of arrogance permeated and invaded his lungs as he breathed in his horrid scent. As talk turned to insults, Frelseren could only seethe while words were said then rebuked from the pointy eared ones high horse. Frelseren was thankful when they left his presence, his patience for his attitude sprained to its limits. The march back was as somber as the first and it did nothing to cheer up his mood. Taking deep breaths, Frelseren willed himself to calm himself for the coming storm. Now was not the time for blood, that would come later.

When the group came back to the ruins, Frelseren stood over the others as they collected and talked of what to do next. The antlered one spoke of interrogation, something that Frelseren could do. The angry man brought out a mad at the behest of Mundhir and they talked of what the happy man should do. As they finished, Frelseren sent out a message to the others, "If you are in need of an interrogator, than you have found one." Flicking his feelers out of his hands, Frelseren continued "I have ways of making it painful."

Tarwin continued to glance over his shoulder as the prince communicated his thoughts and strategy, watching elves as a nervous cat watched an angry dog. He turned to look at the map when the prince began pointing out locations and relative positions, the spell sword nodded and smiled at the plan. "It seems great minds do truly think alike." He chuckled lightly before looking once more to the Elven forces, they hadn't moved, the impeccably stiff and rigid formation never seemed to budge and he was glad he was not among the soldiers fighting it head on. At last he pulled the reigns of his horse and turned it to face north. "If we are to ride together we will be more organised but if we split up we could cover more angles and strike two places at once, perhaps creating a diversion. Perhaps..." He pointed to a set of tall rocks behind the formation. "One group could take position there and use bow and magic to draw attention to shift away from the front lines engaged in a skirmish and any rear guards they have. Then from the opening the rest of our party could sneak in and find the prince, then it's a matter of kidnapping or killing him, whichever is most appropriate at the time." With a slight shrug he tapped the side of his horse and began to slowly head north. "Whatever the case I'll make a start on the journey, time is of the essence after all." Waving over his shoulder he kicked the steed sharply and set off into a dash.

By the time night had fallen Tarwin had positioned himself in the cover of a set of berry bushes mere meters from the enemy camp. He scanned the area, in the distance he could hear faint shouts and the clash of steel coming from the skirmish. There were a selection of guards patrolling the rear, not many and they didn't appear to be special in any way, at least not to him. The horses had been left a short distance away, out of sight and detection range in amongst a cluster of trees. Hazim was somewhere nearby along with his other allies, they had spread out and were now waiting for the optimal moment to strike.

Crouching low Tarwin partially unsheathed his sword, keeping it shielded so the faint glow of magic would not be seen, he needed to be ready. His poncho still rested over his shoulders, the material granting him some degree of camouflage, from underneath he pulled out a small hide canteen. He unscrewed the canteen and brought the opening to his mouth before squeezing and feeling the fine mead burning his throat as it went down then warming his stomach in the cool night air. Tarwin gagged slightly, he hated the taste but the curious liquid invigorated him, he'd also spent a small fortune after the merchant had made a particularly good sales pitch and a nomad never wasted money. Wiping his mouth with his hand he replaced the cap and put the canteen away. Now he was ready .

Kyraar would listen attentively to Aevahs story. As the sun started to set, Kyrtaar would intentionally channel energies into his eyes to give a faint light off, lighting their faces. Kyrtaar's elven eyes would be able to see extremely far in the low light. When Aevah removed her Necklace, Kyrtaar would hold his hand out, and inspect it. He held it up to his face and spun it. Kyrtaar felt a faint magic to it, and handed it back to her. Kyrtaar would speak as he did so. "Akysrah is an old god. Before our friend the prince and his people drove them all away. I'd be lying if I said I knew everything about her. She was part of a pantheon of gods, although I do believe she was one of the lower gods. Kind of vague abilties. Could see future, past, and present all at once, and all possible outcomes. Some legends existed of her becoming easily confused. Some existed saying she was always lucid. She was mostly worshiped on an island off the cost called Sieran. Worshipers gave up their sight. The necklace you have is said to usually enhance the abilities of foresight, but that might be wrong. No one has had contact with the island in a while, and its said that there is a fog that keeps people out."

Kyrtaar continued listening to her information about the norn. But for a moment he zoned out, distracted by the rising moon. The fat, swollen moon. Fat, swollen, giant full moon. Burrowing into the back of his head. Worming, and seething it's way. Its parasitic tendrils reached into the base of his skull, pulling at the backs of his eyes. He felt his head pounding with pressure as the moon worked it's way into his head. And it was gone, and Aevah was still talking. Kyrtaar was sure he hadn't missed too much. When she finished, Kyrtaar "Good to know about this norn, and I'll keep myself guarded around her." Kyrtaar would continue by opening up about himself. He picked up on Aevahs blunt openness about himself, and decided it was only fair to be as open. "I lived at the base of the mountains. Small village, no name. Wasn't a particularly adept hunter, swordsman. Wizard. Anything. We traded around, but I wanted more. So, I had to leave. My parents weren't happy about it, so again, I had to leave. So, under not the best circumstances I left behind my family name, and I've mostly just been learning."