The thought that her plea might not sway the guards hadn't been entirely past Annara but that they would actually be taken prisoner, treated and led through the city like common criminals, the target of curses and rocks... How could that be happening? Hadn't they risked their lives over and over again to drive people from the endangered villages? Hadn't they done everything they could to save those who didn't know and wouldn't have believed that they needed to be saved? Didn't most of the people who attacked them on the streets owe their lives to them?

And yet Aust was carrying her down narrow stairs, all their weapons confiscated; even her daggers had been roughly taken from her, the guard in question ignoring her winces and the groans she had to bite back. But that was nothing compared to what happened at the bottom: In their eagerness to lock them up, they were shoved into the cell and Aust, poor, exhausted Aust who must have been well past his limits already, lost his balance, fell... and Annara with him.

The explosion of pain was so overwhelming she couldn't hold it back, couldn't even think about stifling it - she cried out so loudly that it must have echoed through the entire castle. Her torso and arm felt like she had landed on a board of nails, even after Aust lifted himself off of her and helped her lie down in a corner where the straw was a little thicker and didn't reek as much. She thanked him with a forced smile and gentle touch of his hand, still struggling against the agony that had claimed her voice. Was he apologizing? The Eretol was barely able to focus on her own thoughts, let alone the noises around her, so she wasn't sure, but she certainly didn't blame him for the fall. Without him, she wouldn't be here. She couldn't think of many men who would have carried her through the desert for an entire day.

Yuna's and Lothren's face appeared at the edge of her field of view and she thought she could hear somebody say something but she wasn't sure and it was still a little too hard to focus on the world outside her body when so much was broken inside it.

Maybe she deserved it. When she closed her eyes, she could see the knight, hands tied and defenseless, as she hit him again and again, only her blinding anger preventing her from drawing a weapon; she could see the little boy she had threatened and his terrified parents; she could see the girl she had killed, feel her warm blood on her hands.

Maybe I deserve this.

But even wallowing in self-pity was hard when the pain was this great. Nobody would be looking at her injuries anytime soon, that much was becoming ever clearer. There was another way, though. The Ancestors listened to every prayer but calling on their aid without an offering could offend the more ill-natured among them. They were fickle enough even when they were treated with proper respect and gifts but without them...

I don't have a choice.

Her headwound was still oozing a little under the bandage, would probably continue to do so for a couple hours more and get infected unless it was washed and stitched soon, but maybe that was enough to placate them. Annara gingerly raised her healthy hand to her head and shrugged off the bandage, almost immediately finding the faint wetness of trickling blood.

"Ancients, forgive me", she whispered between rattling breaths, "For I must call upon you... Ancestors, I beg you... Aid us in this time of need... Give us strength... Make me whole... Help us who linger under... Blue skies... Have mercy on those who... Wander the desert... Ancients, forgive me... For I must call upon you..."

She repeated, chanted, sing-songed, hoping that one of the spirits would come to their aid before the exertion robbed her of her consciousness and heal a broken bone, make the guard with the keys stumble and break his neck right in front of their cell or send a merciful soul to them who could free them some other way. Strange how infallibly that last thought made her think of the King of Areta.

Alan...

Around the same time the refugees started arriving at Udny Pass, Harold was sat near the back of the tavern, nursing a mug of bitter lukewarm beer and scribbling notes into a leatherbound book.

It was not exactly a fine establishment. The table was damp from the day's spillages and the air smelt like wet dog and smoke. Another patron lay slumped at the table next to his, snoring deeply. Harold liked the place.

Another man sat behind Harold, at a different table, at a glance ostensibly muttering to himself. After each burst of manic mumbling, Harold jotted a series of lines, ticks and symbols into the book, pausing only to swig at his drink. He wrote in no known language any Aretan would recognise, but rather a form of shorthand he'd developed for personal use over the years. He'd started it originally in an attempt to obfuscate his notes to the eyes of would-be snoopers, but eventually found it a much quicker way of writing than the common tongue, and took to writing everything in Qg; the name he'd given his note-taking, which simply meant "quick".

Eventually the man behind Harold seemed to lose interest in his monologue and got up and left. Harold kept writing, but his pace slowed. Before he could finish up, a commotion at the bar drew his interest. It was a city steward, arguing with the barman. Harold watched with increasing irritation as the barman glanced in his direction, said something to the steward, and then pointed in his direction. The steward marched over.

"Alright, old man. Let's go."

"Go where?"

"Dungeon. Guards've got some refugees for you to look at."

"And what do I look like, the judge of a refugee beauty pageant? Get lost," Harold snarled.

The steward stared at him. Harold turned back to his notes and sighed. He wouldn't get out of this one.

"Alright fine, lead the way," he said quietly.

As the steward turned to leave, Harold picked up his pencil and wrote one more thing down in his notes, before flipping the book closed. A name. In plain Aretan, this time. He had a second system for disguising names and places, something his Qg shorthand didn't account for, but in this case it didn't seem necessary. If his source had given him accurate information it'd be a short investigation.

Harold wrote: 'Ilingard.'

Marcus took the mead given to him and drank it down in one, continuous drink. It was the first liquid he had in a long while and offered substantial relief to his sore, dry throat. He would have preferred something cooler, or perhaps at least not warm, but he still wasn’t complaining. He felt as if he could breathe once more. Once he finally sated his thirst on the tankard of mead, he set the empty container on the table and strode over to one of the large vertical windows. He had chosen not to sit. Having spent an afternoon already sitting, his legs still felt stiff and uncomfortable from the ride.

As he stood and looked out into the city, he listened to the posturing of the two nobles. It was interesting that the proxy for the leader of this place would know so little of their own King. Even Marcus had been able to suss the man out just from his attire and demeanor. Still, the Lady looked competent enough. She seemed… Fiery. As he mused and listened, he pulled from his robe a long pipe and small crushed velvet pouch of fine tobacco. A bad habit learned from his former master. As he filled the tiny meerschaum cone, he observed a scene happening out in the distance. A crowd seemed to be forming around a group travelling down the streets. From this distance, it was impossible to tell what was happening or even hear the commotion the people were making, but the people obviously seemed agitated.

He watched the scene a while longer until he finished packing his pipe. He placed a thumb over its opening and began nursing it. It slowly began smoking for him. As the King introduced him to the Lady, he raised his pipe holding hand up in greeting, smoke slowly streaming from his nose, before returning the pipe’s tip to his mouth. He stayed at the window, leaned against its edge and free hand propped on its ledge for support. When he exhaled, the breeze from the window quickly carried his smoke outside and vanishing from existence. It was as if he had specifically chosen that spot to be courteous.

When the topic of who or what those creatures were and what that power was that they were wielding came up, Marcus would answer. Once the others had finished speaking, he cleared his throat. “While I have never, in any of my travels or studies, come across anything like those creatures, I have heard of and seen weapons similar to the ones they wield. Vile blood magic. That scepter was made to carry out magic most inhuman and despicable. If one of your Inquisitors saw that, here in your lands, he’d probably lose his mind. Hell, if one of our Magi saw that, he’s lose his mind. If I hadn’t lost it already, I’d be losing my mind. I don’t know if any of you have any sense at all magically, but that thing is vibrating with power. The number of souls that took to create something so powerful are hardly imaginable.”

He took another sip from his pipe, watching the scepter, as if it might leap up and attack them all right now. “It may be purpose built to channel one single, hellish spell or any variety of weaker, equally hellish spells. It may be a brother to the one used by that other subterranean demon which swallowed Vicenna in one single gulp. If so, it is a most powerful and dangerous artifact.” His gaze was focused and hateful on the scepter as it lay there, throbbing at him as if taunting. “I don’t know what agenda those creatures had or their reasons for laying complete waste to my civilization. Perhaps they wanted to consume Vicenna’s lives to craft an even more powerful weapon; we did have a sizeable population dense with the magic adept, making it great fodder for such an exploit. Or perhaps they were just using an inordinate show of power to send the other great nations into fear and panic. If it was the former, then the power of this staff and the one used to destroy Vicenna will appear paltry compared to whatever weapon they may conceive of from the power they gathered destroying Vicenna. It would be power old world mages would have considered worthy of challenging a god…”

Those were powerful, challenging words, even in Vicenna. Especially so in Areta. But after seeing that display, Marcus believed anything might be possible from those demons.

“Had any of those from that elven band lived, perhaps they might know something. Their leader seemed acutely aware of the danger. Though I deplore his choice to drive the people from their homes instead of contact the Council of Magi, he may have saved a few Vicenni people from the horrors of what those beasts did. If they do yet live, those elves may be our best hope of understanding what exactly has transpired and what the best next course of action may be…”

He turned back to face the dissipating crowd off in the distance. Whatever commotion was happening seems to have passed for now.

"...Your sovereign," rasped Kolbe, the standing knight.

Oh, Perrine thought. Ohh. I'm ruined. Stupid, stupid girl. She sank to her knees before her king, pressing her forehead to the fine carpet. When she spoke her voice betrayed her, escaping her throat as a high, breathless squeak. "Your Majesty. Forgive me. I didn't know."

She held the pose, waiting on the man who could unmake her tenuous position, her family, her world, on a whim. But he did no such thing: his words, when he spoke were conciliatory, dismissive, distracted. Of course they were. There were bigger worlds than hers coming apart. None of this mattered. She rose sheepishly to her feet. And let us never speak of this again, she prayed.

And then they were back to business.

---

So, the king had been in Vicenna and his knights sent to retrieve him. That explained some things. What he was doing there, she did not know, but from the sound of it their reunion had coincided with Vicenna's fall, and the emergence of the hellish insectoids to whom that fall was being attributed.

Perrine eyed the scepter where Kolbe had thrust it down on the dining table. If the magus - if Marcus spoke true, it was a mighty and terrible object. Her own knowledge of the arcane was, as yet, frustratingly limited, but there was a palpable presence to the thing. An almost animal quality. She could believe the thing was powerful. She could believe it was made with blood magic. More disturbingly, though, the presence carried with it the uncomfortable inkling that it was something she should recognize, that she desperately wanted not to recognize.

Yet as she stared the familiarity of the presence grew undeniable. She had felt this before - not in Udny Pass, nor during her dealings with the Viceni, but in Marion Bay, in the underground sanctum beneath the temple of Hayaz.

That ineffable sense of life, of animacy had accompanied three objects - a bowl, a lantern, an auger - each held by one of the masked members of the Laughing Priesthood, the chosen of Hayaz. If this scepter, their most tangible lead to the cause of Vicenna's destruction, was of a kind with those other items, their source could be similar. Following the the lead could bring the king and his men right back to the Circle of Mirth. She was not keen to find out what would happen then. At the same time, the lead could not go unfollowed. Knowing whether Areta was at risk of following Vicenna underneath the sands and what, if anything, could be done about it was of utmost importance. She would aid in the investigation as best she could, but she would not hand the crown the rope to hang her with.

In any case, if the young magus was right, this blood magic was a known process. The artifacts needn't all come from the same place. She hoped that was the case even as she feared it wasn't. There was no way around having to investigate the Circle, but she would do so on her own.

"It is true that here on the outskirts of the kingdom, with Vicenna so close, the attitudes toward the malign arts of witchcraft are perhaps looser than they are in Marion Bay, but this is a relative thing. We of Greenbank are as God fearing a people as anyone, and House Anquis does not make a habit of providing safe haven to warlocks and soothsayers. We have of course had our dealings with the magi of Vicenna, but these dealings have been primarily matters of trade, and even then our main liaison in recent years has been Ambassador Farwater, who to my knowledge does not practice."

Faint cries echoed down the guest corridor. The ambassador was having another fit. "As fate would have it, Sir Orson Farwater was staying with us when... We have confined him in a guestroom, for the time being. He might be worth questioning - I would defer to him or Marcus here where it comes to the arcane, and the state of things in Vicenna during its final days, but I warn you: he is not in a good place. I'm afraid those screams you inquired about are his." She suspected Orson could be persuaded to talk, or she hoped he could. She did not relish having to have the man tortured.

"Udny Pass also has a resident inquisitor. He is retired, I am told, but he may have valuable insights. If it pleases your majesty, I will have him summoned."

She turned to the matter of her father's absence, "It is true that had we known of your coming, and the nature of your visit, my father would have wanted desperately to attend this meeting. He..." She looked to Renée Kennin - given the present unexpected circumstances, ought he make an appearance after all? But the matron shook her head, frowning tiredly. So it was that bad, again. Already. "He is very ill, your majesty. Moving him would be...taxing. When we are done here, if it is your will, if he is lucid, I can take you to him. You and...Sir Linus Kolbe. Sir Linus was... I believe he would want to meet with Sir Linus," before he passes, she thought.

Juna was actually shocked at the guard’s words, as she expected to be allowed through the gates with nothing but a bit of trouble. Now it seemed that they would be marched onward through the city, straight into cells. In fact, that was what the guard had proclaimed. His actions had made Juna filled with a fury, as it seemed that he had not even a single pang of sympathy for Annara’s well-being. Juna’s weapon, her long steel sword, remained hidden under her coat and easily retrievable to the Elven woman with but a quick sweep of her hand. She looked onwards at the gathered garrison of guards and saw only a pathetic group of third-rate fighters, and she had no fear that she could have their heads removed from their necks in a matter of moments without even a bit of slight assistance from her weary companions. She was certainly filled with enough emotion and enough determination to do so.

Yet the order had come from Lothren that they should not resist. That was infuriating to her. Although it would not have been in their best interests to continue to fight here for all to see, Juna was unhappy that they would simply capitulate with not even a wink of resistance. Such defeatism had never come across Juna’s own mind. Nonetheless, she would follow her orders, simply because she they had come from Lothren.

“On your word alone, I won’t resist,” Juna replied to Lothren in Elvish. “But the result of this is on you.”

And so Juna would subject herself to be marched through town in complete defeatism. She looked at the guard barking orders, gazing at him with a pridefully indignant smile with a level of unbelievable in her eyes.

Gazing at the guard who walked alongside her with a sword near her, Juna mockingly said, “Pray tell what you intend to do with the sword, young man?”

Juna did not care at all if they beat her for her defiance and arrogance. She may have been convinced to surrender due to Lothren, but she had yet to be convinced that she should surrender her arrogance for meekness. As she was marched through the street like an exhibition for all eyes to see, the Viceni refugees threw whatever they could at her and the rest of her companions. Rocks, bread, rotten food, it mattered not what it was, as long as it could be thrown.

“Well, well,” Juna said mockingly. “What a warm and pleasant welcoming from the Viceni! I am so glad that even with all the difficulties they face, they still put in the effort to be hospitable to strangers.”

Then they were thrown into a single large cell, cut off from the rest of the world in their darkness. Juna sat down on the flat and cold iron ground, setting herself down as comfortably as she could in the most uncomfortable of all places. It seemed that unfortunately that this place was also more than just a cell with a locked door, as it was barred by an iron slat she couldn’t get out of place from this side.

“Well, Lothren,” Juna said in Elvish. “I suppose now is the moment when you tell us your escape plan.”

The Eretol painted a convincing picture. Here she was, a girl begging for help from the “strong” guards. One seemed prepared to give it all in and help, but Rodney was quick to intervene. Tobias cursed under his breath as the senior guard began on a power trip. “Firstly, you, shut up.” Tobias bit back a bitter retort, realizing that Rodney would be quick to forget their drinks and turn the bow on him. Still, Rodney had sound logic. There was reason to be afraid of these strangers. Tobias wasn’t sure it was quite so simple, but how could he explain that to the victims of those raids?

The mention of prison was a dull eventuality, but still frustrated Tobias. Rodney, now emboldened, was leading the group of new prisoners with a strut in his step. He noticed the presumed leader of the small band whispering instructions, and tried to get closer, only for Rodney to stop him mid-sentence.

The front guard approached Tobias, and Tobias nodded quickly at his instructions. He wanted answers, and apparently this man did too. Or at least, not to see the pretty women die, the gentleman.

As they traveled through the streets, the mood turned violent. The people Tobey had taken care of, who had taken care of him for all these years, were a violent mass of screaming faces and raised fists. Tobey ran to those he recognized, and tried to calm them down, but was greeted by furious replies. “How can you defend them! I thought you were one of us, Tobey!” The words bit hard, and Tobey was cowed into quiet by the shouts of disdain from those he had called neighbours and friends.

That was before they began throwing items. Tobias moved to the fringes of the group, trying to keep up while avoiding the various projectiles, but found himself being targeted almost as much as the prisoners on display. He didn’t have the nerve to call back.

After a time, he reached the keep. He was nearly denied entry, but the guard who had recommended he come along let him through, and into the dungeons to wait with the prisoners. Upon entering the grounds, a wave of nostalgia wash over him. Aretan architects weren’t know for there extreme innovation, and this castle reminded him of Lormanie, his family’s seat. He was reminded of them once again. What had become of his Father? Or his half-brother, who he had left without a goodbye? He had never heard news from home, and at the time had been quite happy with that, but standing on the grounds of the keep, Tobey felt a deep curiosity build up in him. He needed to know what had come of his family. A country had sunken into the ground, and the rapidity of this event made Tobey anxious. Could something similar occur to Areta?

As he left, Rodney threw a dark glance towards Tobias, who replied with a crooked smile. Internally, Tobey wanted to crack him across the face, but knew that there was little chance of that coming about in a way that would let Tobey walk away a free man. Tobey approached the prisoners cautiously, glancing to the guards who were waiting, but they seemed to care little for the bearded man’s movements.

“Well, well,” One of the elves said, her tone biting. “What a warm and pleasant welcoming from the Viceni! I am so glad that even with all the difficulties they face, they still put in the effort to be hospitable to strangers.” Tobias broke into laughter.
“What did you expect, dare I ask? A parade?” The proud elves could suffer the hit to their ego. “You raided a village, their village. Didn’t you?” He took a moment to examine the group more carefully. They were battle hardened, most of them wounded, the rest exhausted.

“You had a reason, though.” He continued. “A reason for your attack. You weren’t trying to kill us, that much is certain. So what was your motive? Be honest, please. I may be your only chance of making it out of here in a timely manner, if at all.” The words were hollow, he wasn’t quite sure what he could do, but he did wish to help them, if he could. There was more to this than he understood, and he would refrain from making judgment until he did.

“Be careful, Annara,” Lothren cautioned as he lowered himself carefully into the corner of the cell. Shade, at last. Though imprisoned, this stone cell offered the first dose of cool air he’d felt in what seemed like an era. Water, he hoped, was soon to follow. Every word scraped his throat. “You know as well as I the humans here may think a simple prayer to be witchery.”

While Juna and the friendly refugee traded words through the bars, Lothren tenderly arranged his broken arm in his lap, clasping one hand in the other. He knew little of complicated humanoid anatomy, but from what he could tell, the arm had shattered well above the elbow. Yet here, his hand down to the fingertips had swelled and turned violet. Beyond the pain, he couldn’t feel anything anymore. Not even the cool stone.

Lothren lifted his head and traded a worried look with Aust before Juna’s question pulled his attention.

“Escape?” he recited the elvish word. He continued the rest of his thought in Aretan Common. “I wonder, what would you have done back there, at the gate, had I said nothing? Fought for freedom? Killed a few guards protecting their city? Been killed? Even if you succeeded and fled, where would you go, Juna? Areta is hardly a verdant paradise.”

Enough Ytharien had died today of his failed leadership. After surviving by the skin of their teeth, it would have been senseless to die here, at the Greenbank Baron’s shady doorstep.

“I saw you fight that beast,” Lothren carried on, initially ignoring the refugee’s questions. He was half delirious from thirst and pain, and his voice came in dry, breathy gasps. “You were beautiful, Juna. Your hair like cornsilk, eyes like,” he paused to smile, “like home. I’ll get you out of here, sister, I promise you.”

Finally, Lothren acknowledged the human. He was inquisitive, a mark of intelligence. By the look of his tanned complexion and light hair, he appear to be native Viceni stock, but humans were known for interbreeding. He was the first of the humans to approach the elves respectfully and ask their motives, instead of hurling the nearest rock.

Perhaps he was foolish for following the prisoners into the keep’s prison yard, but perhaps his curiosity was all he had left. His home was gone.

“We did have a motive,” Lothren told him from his shady corner. “I know, stranger, what tunneled through your lands and sank your nation. I know what those creatures were, and what they wanted. I know that the only reason you and your remaining countrymen still live is because me and my Ytharien risked ourselves to herd you to safety across the river. Furthermore.”

The elf shifted in his spot as he stretched out one leg after the other, settling in for what could be hours.

“I know that, beyond the gratitude your lot owe us for saving your lives,” which had been so profusely shown so far, “that the information I hold is the only thing that makes any of us worth keeping alive. Forgive me if I do not share it with you quite yet. I will tell you this: the Aretan king is here within the city. He must be. He was present this morning at your country’s downfall.”

Lothren turned and regarded Annara with a fatherly gaze. With his good arm, he lifted a piece of her hair to get a better look at her headwound.

“If your good will toward us is true,” the elf added, “would you fetch my compatriots and I some water from the trough across the yard?”

---

“Blood magic?” Alonso felt his lip curl. Ordinary arcana was dangerous enough, but what Marcus described was utterly heinous. Even terrifying. All too much for a travel-weary King to comprehend in the state he was. Alonso’s mind was on his waiting bath, a fresh set of clothes, and a soft bed. “Saints alive. Yes, send for the Inquisitor. By the King’s order.”

Still, no word of the creatures or from what infernal pit they had spawned.

“Captain, you’ve not said a word. Have you anything to add?”

Summoned to life, Amon swiveled his head back and forth as he gathered his bearings, as if having forgotten where he was. Disheartening Alonso, the Captain appeared ill prepared to join the discussion.

“N-no…” Serona stated, uselessly. He held his ribs as he spoke. He hadn’t eaten a thing, just taken a few sips from his goblet. “Forgive me, my liege. I had… family, there.”

“Ah…” The King felt his eyes lower. “I am sorry.”

Exhausted, Alonso sank back into his seat, resting his brow in the palm of his hand. His head was pounding and his limbs felt wooden and weak. To stave off the sensation, the King picked up a piece of bread and dipped it the salted, meaty juices of the rushed banquet the House had provided. The weight of Alonso’s crown, even when worn, was growing heavy. Every soul in the room waited to hear what he would think, and there wasn’t a single magistrate in sight to help him organize his thoughts, or decide what should be done.

“The elven band,” the King began to illuminate, after swallowing his bite, “was called the Ytharien. Ythari, wolves, in their language. But they traveled as the Mummers of Merry Andrew.” All of them were dead. The name sounded perverse now. “Actors. Raiders. Indeed you are right mage, their leader did know something of the swallowed villages. He spoke of antlions, great monsters from the south, but mentioned that their behavior was odd. As if they were being directed. If he still lived, we could…”

Alonso leaned in his chair as two armed militiamen came unannounced into the dining hall. Were this the castle at home, the interruption would have outraged the older lords and magistrates, but the Anquis Keep was decidedly less rigid. Almost refreshing.

“My Lady.” Nervous looks were spared in the mystery noble’s direction, but Alonso was patiently silent. “We have apprehended elves at the gate. They could be our raiders. They await your attention in the prison yard. I have already called for the inquisitor.”

The Ytharien? The King rose to his feet again, forcing his chair to stutter loudly behind him.

“How serendipitous.” Alonso waved an arm at Captain Serona. When the Knight Captain proved unattentive, the King furled his brow and deferred to Gawain instead. “Castagher. You were with the elves. I know you are hurt and weary, but I want you to see if these are the elves who raided Muon Pond. See to it the Inquisitor is brought here. Mage—”

It was rather a challenge to know what to do with an ungoverned mage. He was the King’s guest, but in a sense he was also a prisoner. Once false move would be his undoing, despite his value to his remaining countrymen. The Viceni were now endangered.

“I’d like you to stay close to Sir Gawain. I cannot have you roaming free. Kolbe.” Despite looking worse for wear, Sir Linus was the most able Knight among his injured brothers. The King needed an escort. “With me. Lady Anquis, before we resume our grim business, I would like to meet with your father.”

Inquisitors… They were an interesting bunch, to say the least. He had met several young ones in his travels. They would come to Vicenna from time to time in order to better learn to hone their magic detection. It was part of one of the earliest treaties made between Areta and Vicenna, that the Magi Order would aid Areta in exposing magic within their lands. While Vicenna strongly opposed what seemed to essentially be a witch hunt, they none the less respected their neighbor’s wishes to remain free of magic.

Marcus had often found it a bit ironic, those Inquisitors with the strongest sense of magic would probably have been great magi in their own right had circumstances been different. Some, in fact, were. It was a simple thing to hide one’s magical prowess when you were essentially judge and jury over such matters. They enjoyed a special privilege in these lands and, often times, very little oversight. If Areta was really concerned about magic in their lands, Inquisitors were the wolves in sheep’s clothing they should be watching out for.

But Marcus was glad he probably wouldn’t be present to have to deal with the headache of having to be around them. He would accompany Sir Gawain to see those elves. If they were the ones who had been attacking Muon Pond, he would remember them. He could never forget them. Among other things that had been permanently burned into his mind from that day. His blood boiled just thinking of them, but he would reserve his opinion of them until he could learn their reasoning for acting so clandestine with their rather pitiful attempts at saving a handful of Vicenni souls.

He strode back over to the table, now covered in various dishes of food once the ember of his pipe finally shriveled. He took a piece of bread and fruit and politely devoured it. He hadn’t eaten anything since last evening. He was not about to starve himself from his own depression over his lost home. There was still far too much to be done.

Finally finished he bowed to the King and Lady. The situation may have been dire, but he was still in the presence of nobility and would show them their proper respects. “Thank you for the hospitality, Lady Anquis. It was a pleasure to have met you. I promise to keep my magic to myself and away from wandering eyes. And thank you, King Alonso, for allowing Vicenni refugees in your lands. It is good to know that Areta has both a compassionate and competent ruler. I will make my leave with Sir Gawain to investigate these Elven prisoners. I’ll be sure not to leave his sight. And let me know if I can be of any further assistance.” He straightened and waited for Gawain to finish before exiting with the Knight.

As they walked, Marcus prepared his pipe once more. “So, Sir Gawain. I hope you don’t hold your imprisonment against me. You were an Aretan Knight within the borders of Vicenna at the time. Master was sure you were the scout of a larger invasion force. He was searching for an enemy in the wrong place it seems…” With his thumb over the cup of the pipe, he nursed it to life. Smoke danced away with the wind as the two made their way to the prison. “I guess the tables have turned. I’m your prisoner now. I just hope we figure out what those creatures motivations are before all the lands are consumed by their wicked magics… I hope to live long enough to see those devils burn for the atrocities they’ve committed. We won’t let those bastards do to Areta what they did to Vicenna…” He seemed to have started talking to himself in his own thoughts.

The liveliness of the city was winding down as evening was approaching. Shops were closing down and people were headed back to their homes. The smell of a hundred family meals wafted through the air. It reminded him of his own home. After a few more moments, he snapped out of his reverie, still billowing like a chimney. “Sorry, don’t mind this mage’s ramblings. Let’s focus on the matters at hand now. I’m sure we’ll recognize those elves straight away. You might’ve been half in a hallucinatory haze, but I remember them clearly. Hopefully their pointy eared leader survived. He’s the best bet at understanding what hell these creatures might be planning.”

The response Tobias received was not what he had expected. He wasn’t quite sure what he was expecting, and had been half-prepared to merely stand there in silence, but this. This was something else.

“I know, stranger, what tunneled through your lands and sank your nation.”

What? Something was off. He had heard rumours of the elves being involved in the collapse of the Vicenna, but this was. Different. He felt the blood pound in his head. They had “herded” his people. The very use of the term made his fists clench, and for a half a moment he had a mind to hurl an insult towards the elves.

He bit it back before it left his lips. When he spoke, his tone was calm, though hard. “You ‘risked yourselves’ by attacking a village of defenseless people? Forgive me for not dropping on my knees to thank you.” Sarcasm fell from his mouth. “I lost my home for the second time, I can’t say it gets any better.” The elf, after a moment, continued.

These elves had information? Tobias rolled his eyes. The elf was grasping at straws, trying to find help. Tobey had hoped that these people would be of some use-

“The king? The king is here?” Tobias’ eyes widened. How could these elves know about the Aretan king? He looked at the leader, battered and bloody, trying to read him. The elf looked him in the eyes for a moment. There was no pretense there. If the elf was speaking the truth, this was what he had been waiting for. The king of Areta would certainly know something of the Ilingards.

“Why? Why is he here?” Nothing else would come out of his mouth. He was merely trying to digest this new information. Too much had happened in to short a time span for him to process it on the spot. Suddenly the cell yard seemed too small. He began to walk out, only to be stopped by another request from the elf.

“If your good will toward us is true, would you fetch my compatriots and I some water from the trough across the yard?”

He had half a mind to ignore their request, but when he looked upon the state of the prisoners, he couldn’t help but pity them. He nodded, quickly. As he walked, he tried to think. Little came of it.

The water in the trough was warm, but at least seemed clean. Tobias filled one of his canteens and paused for a moment, looking around. Something was off. He couldn’t tell what, but he felt that inexplicable feeling of fate shifting, though he wasn’t sure if it was in his favor.

He walked back to the imprisoned elves, and stuck his arm through the bars, the canteen in his hand. “Here, drink up.” He wouldn’t probe them any further. “Name’s Tobey, if you care.”

Juna sat there in the piercing darkness of the dank and cold cell, surely only one of many among this Aretan dungeon. There was enough light for Juna to firmly see the suffering of her companions, although it was impossible for the elvish woman to alleviate their suffering. Only a doctor supplied with medicinal supplies or a mage skilled in the arts of healing could hope to assuage it. So for now Juna sat helplessly, assembled down upon the hard wet stone, engaging in conversation with her injured leader she was unable to help.

“Well, you’ve proven me for a fool then, Lothren,” Juna replied to Lothren first comment, of which she could not deny held the truth. For he was right to say, even should she succeed, she could not hope to take shelter in the city with blood on her.

Yet his second comment made a flash of red come over her face, which appeared without the elvish woman’s permission. She would vanish it if she could, but it was no easy thing for the sensuous body to obey the rational mind. Juna had no idea that her leader could feel such a thing for her. His declaration that she was like home, and that he would save her, his sister, seemed to her more a cover for a more intimate revelation.

“W-well,” Juna began at last, embarrassingly stumbling over her words in her embarrassment. “What are you saying, Lothren? Surely this is all just a jest on your part?”

In the meantime the conversation turned towards more pressing matters, and Juna eagerly went to collect herself, and control those emotions which had embarrassingly swayed her temperament. She was in luck, for she managed to collect her, and it only took her a little time, and by the time the conversation had shifted she no longer was overcome by the confusion of her heart, and it had switched towards the guard who thought it fitting to survey the lot of them. She recalled the man from earlier, an unremarkable man distinguished to the Ytharien for the token understanding it had seemed that he had felt.

Whether or not he was understanding of Lothren’s speech would be revelatory on whether his sympathies were the mere mistakes of the naïveté of a youthful soul or whether they had stemmed from truly honest sentiments which held some weight. Lothren certainly was not giving him honeyed words, what with claiming that he ought to be thanking him for burning down villages and herded their people away. Even Juna could not believe that was what Lothren was really doing.

It seemed that he was not impressed, and Juna expected that his goodwill had been greatly limited in actuality. Yet he soon proved her wrong. When Lothren had requested water, he fetched it as requested, and Juna was genuinely impressed that an average man such as he was able to overcome the intense hatred which she emanated around the men they’d encounter in recent hours.

The canteen was eventually offered to her, but the elvish woman firmly lifted up her left hand in a jerk upwards, the palm of her slender fingers open, and with a shake of her head said, “There’s need for that. Other’s here need it more than I do.”

"Tell father we're coming, and see that when the guards are scolded for barging in on us, it is done in a spirit of magnanimity," Perrine murmured to Renée Kennin, and the matron darted from the room. "If you will follow me, Your Majesty, I will take you to the Lord Anquis now," and with luck he will even be awake, and sane.

She led the young king and his knight through the halls of the old keep, ascending a staircase before reaching the master's chambers. A sense of mingled sheepishness and existential dread still lingered in her over her earlier failure to recognize Alonso for who he was, and treat him in kind. That the trespass had been forgiven was some consolation, but it did not mean that there wouldn't be consequences. A bad first impression was a difficult thing to overcome, and she ill-fancied the thought of House Anquis leaving a bad taste in the mouth of the sovereign. Thinking of bad tastes, the meal she had provided seemed in hindsight far too base for the royal palate. There was not much to be done on such short notice, but she could have at least called for fine wine to replace the mead. Mead! For the king!

There would be proper feasts prepared for all future meals His Majesty spent in the city.

Though Perrine found herself almost more distressed at having offended Sir Linus Kolbe. The knight's words had been harsher than his sovereign's - rightly so - and she could think only that he thought her a fool, a child, that he would disdain her and her family. He was only a knight. He had no significant holdings that she was aware of, so his opinion was of little enough consequence at court. But he had been there, with Sacha, and so he represented something. Her gut twisted.

The door to the master bedroom was closed when they arrived, but Renée Kennin emerged from it mere moments after, to inform them that the lord was indeed awake and ready to receive his guests. Perrine lead them into the room. It was spacious and tastefully decorated. Opposite the door, a large window with curtains drawn allowed the twilight in, though the room was also lit by two wall-mounted braziers, and a writing lamp on the desk in the corner, where Mathys sat, his light hair obscuring his face as he hunched over a diagram of the male form he was copying from a book of anatomy. The room was dominated by the large bed. Above it hung two portraits of young women - her father's two late wives: Perrine's mother Emeline, and Mathys' mother Nolwenn. Her father lay in the bed, his gaunt form propped up with several pillows. On the other side of the bed a balding physician with round eyes and a flat nose seemed to fade into the background.

As they entered, Mathys rose from his chair and scurried to the foot of the bed, where bowed deeply. Her father managed only a weak nod.

"His Majesty, Alonso vas Aretaeus, son of Leonard vas Aretaeus, King of Areta, and his knight Sir Linus Kolbe," Perrine said by way of introduction. "And this is my father, Lord Demour Anquis, Baron of Greenbank, and his heir, Lord Mathys Anquis. My brother."

"Your Majesty, you do me a great honor. I would stand, but..." Demour gestured feebly at the bed and the unobtrusive doctor. His breath was shallow, his voice a rasp barely above a whisper. "I have not had the good fortune to see you since you were a boy; the journey to court is hard on an old man. But I won't bore you with pleasantries and reminiscence. To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit? Besides the obvious." Besides Vicenna.