Teveriel (prime)/Enemies in High Places

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Teveriel stood dockside behind the rustic yet immaculate cottage, leaning casually on the dulled and weighted blade he used for his morning exercises. He was stripped to a simple tunic of sepia linen, grey trousers and sturdy leather boots, and in his other hand he held a glass of whiskey. He lifted it to his lips, his gaze lifted skyward, lost in thought. Golden owl, grey hawk, black raven. Not much to go on; owls were a common sight in the vicinity of Yander's Farm; hawks were commonly grey, and nearly all ravens wore black feathers. Uniana had provided the descriptions, having spied them during last night's attack. She said they were behaving oddly, disappearing skyward all at once as if working in concert.

Eyes in the skies, he mused darkly.

Swishing another sip of whiskey in his mouth, his thoughts turned to the battle itself. It had felt good to be fighting alongside the Fortress City's stout defenders once more. He'd felt completely at home, in his element, as if he had never retired from the Golden Hawks or the Legion before them. It was a bracing victory for all of the defenders, but also one that carried personal meaning for Teveriel. It was the first true test he'd faced since leaving the guiding hand of his patron, Voln. Far from self congratulation, he had taken critical measure of his own prowess on the field against the best and boldest of the night's defenders, and was confident that he and his blade more than measured up to any one of them. But the nature of their foe troubled him: it was hard to say whether or not the earth elementals that emerged from the very rock and soil were somehow called forth by the crones and shamans, or if the pitched battle had disturbed the confluence in some manner, enraging them. Regardless of the circumstances, however, they were the greatest threat of the night. Uniana, Orssus, himself and their other allies were hard pressed to destroy all of them.

He considered penning a missive as he strode past the firepit to place the practice sword among the others in the rack, but thought better of it. Leave the reporting to the Legionnaires, he reminded himself. But recalling the matter of the strange birds, another thought came to mind.

Some Ravens wore crimson.

With new purpose, he made his way inside. There was at least one letter he still had yet to write; one long in the coming. Setting his glass down on his writing task, he retrieved his quill from the inkwell and ebon-edged parchment. His pen flowed easily over the sheet, writing "Letheras, my friend, it has been too long.."