Mirkk's Tale (short story)
Title: Mirkk’s Tale
Author: Mirkk Timbertree
First published on the 10th day of Fashanos in the year 5119
In mid Ivastaen 5121, Mirkk admitted he was the mystery poet and had confessed his love for Rohese. Immediately afterward, he departed for Vornavis for a short time, uncertain where things with Rohese would lead. He wrote several more poems and left them for Rohese, to which she leave her replies. Mirkk returned to Ta'Illistim from Vornavis in late Ivastaen. As he perceived her fondness for him was growing, he was elated. Then, in Lumnea 2021, things took a turn into what some would call “Mirkk’s Tale.”
Timeline of Events
| Date | Event |
|---|---|
| 4th day of Lumnea | In late evening, Mirkk returns to the secluded glade in Sylvarraend for the night after having spent the day with Rohese in Veythorne Gardens. His uncle’s men lie in wait, seize him, and take him by force after a scuffle, but not before Mirkk is able to leave a note on the limestone altar. [Big Trouble in Little Sylvarraend] |
| 6th day of Lumnea | Rohese, having not heard from Mirkk in several days, goes to the glade in Sylvarraend to discover signs of a struggle and the note left on the altar. [Stars]
Mirkk awakens in a cell beneath the keep in Gallardshold, stripped of most of his possessions. His guard, Jensur, is less than hospitable. |
| 7th day of Lumnea | After the conclusion of devastation in Mist Harbor, Rohese lights four candles at various places in the town, for grief, for courage, for memories, and for love. [Five Candles: Part 1] She places the fifth candle on the altar on the glade in Sylvarraend, for hope. [Five Candles: Part 2]
Mirkk is escorted to his uncle Donnavan who is breaking his fast. Donnavan discloses to Mirkk that his rightful place is in Bourth as Lord of Viridian Manor and as bannerman to the Caulfields. Mirkk disagrees, but is informed by Donnavan that he will begin training as a Greensman of the Deep. Mirkk acquiesces under the condition he get some of his possessions in return. |
| 8th day of Lumnea | Rohese is sitting in the glade, wishing to leave a note for Mirkk. Once she pens it, she departs to the drop location. Cainoyen, a monk that works in Gallardshold, agrees to deliver a letter for Mirkk and drops it off on a shelf in the Mist Harbor Library. Rohese passes a monk on the way to the Library, dropping her note and surprised to find one awaiting her. |
| 10th day of Lumnea | Mirkk begins his training beyond in a field between the keep and the Wyrdeep Forest. Rohese keeps vigil at the glade in Sylvarraend. |
| 11th day of Lumnea | Mirkk continues his training in the field. He considers running into the forest, but before he can, he is shot by an arrow and killed by one of his uncle’s men, his body lying at the edges of the Wyrdeep. Rohese, still holding vigil in the glade, hears Mirkk’s voice faintly whisper her name and sees the candle of hope burn out. |
| 11th day of Lumnea | The Greensmen stare in shock as the monk Cainoyen walks out of the gates of Gallardshold and drags Mirkk’s body into the Wyrdeep Forest. Just inside the trees, several Wyrdeep Elves are waiting to help with the body. |
| 15th day of Lumnea | Mirkk finds himself in the Pale, with only the Ebon Gates to give him solace.
Donnavan discovers his men allowed Mirkk’s body to be taken and demands the Greensmen dispatch troops to all possible passes in order to intercept if Mirkk somehow escapes. In the storerooms of Gallardshold Keep, Donnavan has a meeting with Jensur, informing him to abduct or otherwise eliminate Rohese, and to keep it a secret. Rohese, in a state of despair, refuses to leave her chambers in Sylvanfair Manse. Her maid Aavia tries to help, but only makes matters worse. |
| 16th day of Lumnea | Mirkk, losing sense of time, pleads to be released from the Pale. He musters all the energy he can to cry out.
Rohese has the inclination to attempt higher magic to reach out to Mirkk. She goes to the glade and performs a ritual and believes she hears him cry out. |
| 18th day of Lumnea | In eternal darkness, Mirkk is losing his sense of self, questioning his own sanity. He believes his only hope of seeing Rohese again is by walking through the Ebon Gates. He walks into a warm light and awakens in a room surrounded by Wyrdeep Elves. Orómar the elder informs Mirkk that he is safe. Mirkk hastily writes and sends a letter to Rohese by way of the monk Cainoyen.
Rohese, lying asleep in her bed, his preyed upon by Jensur. She awakens and sees that the windows are open. She realizes it is time to let go of Mirkk. In Gallardshold, Donnavan demands an update but receives no good news regarding the recovery of Mirkk’s body, and no word from Jensur. |
| 20th day of Lumnea | Ceyrin, having been dispatched several days earlier at Rohese's request, arrives in Gallardshold with Corlyne to make inquiries as to the whereabouts of Mirkk. [Ceyrin] |
| 21st day of Lumnea | Rohese participates in the Ceremony of Remembrance on Cysaelotar glacier. [Memories] Mirkk, feeling recovered enough, ventures outside of his room in the Wyrdeep to observe his surroundings. Cainoyen delivers another letter to the Mist Harbor Library on behalf of Mirkk. [Fireflies at Night] |
| 22nd day of Lumnea | Ilizzaro, Mirkk's chaperone, gives Mirkk a tour of the city among the trees where he is being kept. He writes a letter to Rohese to describe it. [Midst the Mighty Oaks] |
| 23d day of Lumnea | A courier from the Wyrdeep arrives in Ta'Illistim, delivering a letter from Mirkk to Sylvanfair Manse for Rohese. [A Letter Delivered] |
| 24th day of Lumnea | Rohese discovers the latest letter from Mirkk dropped off by the monk Cainoyen at the Mist Harbor Library. She also receives the letter delivered by the Wyrdeep courier, and writes her reply to him. [Why the Dragonfly?] |
| 25th day of Lumnea | With hope returned to her, Rohese heads to the Sylvarraend Glade where she is accosted by Jensur and his three men. As she calls forth magic to temporarily blind them, River leaps out of the woods and stands by her side, causing the men to flee.
Mirkk meets with Orómar the Elder who confronts Mirkk about his past and challenges him on the decision he must make between Rohese and his family's legacy. Donnavan still seeks word of both Mirkk and Rohese. [A Time to Decide] |
| 28th day of Lumnea | Donnavan doubles down on his attempts to capture Mirkk at one of the choke points and sends one of his best men to the Locksmehr River crossing. [Best Laid Plans of Mice and Men] |
| 29th day of Lumnea | Marilla, the Wyrdeep Courier, is blocked at the Krinklehorn Pass by men who are now camping there and is unable to deliver correspondence. [Obstructed]
Rohese and her maid are murdered by Jensur in broad daylight at the Sylvanfair Manse. Rohese is able to call upon Lorminstra and resurrects herself. On the move, Ademir, one of Jensur's men, chides him by reminding Jensur that killing Rohese was the last resort, not the first. Three Elven rangers depart Ta'Illistim in pursuit of Jensur and his men. |
| 1st day of Koaratos | Mirkk plans with Orómar and Ilizzaro to return to Ta'Illistim. His most recent letter is returned. Meanwhile, Jensur crosses the Locksmehr River and finds Degmir on the other shore. [Undelivered] Across the river, the Elven rangers watch. |
| 2nd day of Koaratos | Merelle and the other Elven rangers track Jensur and company to a tavern in Gallardshold where the discover Corlyne. After a brief exchange with Merelle, Corlyne discreetly stabs Jensur, killing him. Merelle sends word to Rohese that "The Deed is Done." [The Deed is Done] |
| 3d day of Koaratos | Donnavan discovers Jensur's body, realizing his problems may be closer to home. [No Code to Live By] |
| 4th day of Koaratos | Mirkk, aided by several Wyrdeep Elves, makes an evening departure from the Wyrdeep. [Departure] |
| 6th day of Koaratos | Mirkk, again with the assistance of the Elves, manages to sneak past Donnavan's men in River's Rest to teleport to Mist Harbor. [Sleight of Hand and Turn of Head] |
| 7th day of Koaratos | Mirkk and Rohese are reunited in the Mist Harbor Library. [Together][Wishes Do Come True] |
| 8th day of Koaratos | Mirkk attempts to pass the Locksmehr River Crossing, but finds Donnavan's men waiting. [Perils of the Road] |
| 12th day of Koaratos | Degmir informs Donnavan that Mirkk has escaped to the Elven Nations. There seems to be a division within the ranks of the Greensmen of the Deep. [Division] |
| 15th day of Koaratos | Rohese and Mirkk spend some much needed time together and with friends [Retreat] Mirkk recounts conversations with the group as he prepares to accompany Rohese to Revelia Carnivale [Whirlwind] Donnavan begins to become unraveled. [Craze] |
| 20th day of Koaratos | Rohese struggles with loss as she prepares for her journey with Mirkk to the Landing for Carnivale. [Faith, Hope, and Love] |
| 21st day of Koaratos | Rohese struggles with bad dreams and sleep while attending Revelia Carnivale. [Doubt] |
| 26th day of Koaratos | Mirkk's anxiety manifests through his own nightmares. [At the Oars] |
| 29th day of Koaratos | Mirkk writes a letter to Oromar informing him of the plan. [A Letter Sent] Rohese reflects on things as the two prepare to travel to Solhaven. |
| 30th day of Koaratos | In Solhaven, Rohese sneaks out at midnight to seek wisdom from a willow tree. [Willow] Ceyrin reflects on the road ahead and the decisions that the group will have to make. [Preparation] |
| 31st day of Koaratos | Merelle and company feel the pressure of the Greensmen near Gallardshold. They are forced to leave after an altercation leaves several Greensmen dead. [Cat Among the Pigeons] |
| 1st day of Phoenatos | Rohese and Mirkk share a sunset at Brisker's Cove. [Sunset] |
| 2nd day of Phoenatos | Early in the morning, Mirkk has another nightmare. [Blood and Soot and Mud] Later that morning, Mirkk requests a favor of Ceyrin as the group prepares to leave River's Rest for Gallardshold. [Tempest] |
| 3d day of Phoenatos | Early in the morning, Mirkk has another dream about his past. [A House Divided] Rohese and Corlyne talk about choices on the road to Gallardshold. [Dilemma] Corlyne helps Mirkk to realize that Rohese needs him as much as he needs her. [A Step Ahead] Rohese informs Ceyrin she is aware of Mirkk's plan to keep her away from conflict. [A Step Closer] |
| 4th day of Phoenatos | Donnavan receives word that the group of four is heading toward Gallardshold. [Let Them Come] Rohese and Mirkk share another moment on the road as they struggle with the idea their time together may be short. [A Silver for Your Thoughts] Rohese collects her thoughts and begins writing them in a diary. [Afraid of the Dark] |
| 5th day of Phoenatos | Early in the morning, Mirkk has another vivid dream. [Contain It] Ceyrin continues to reflect on tough choices; the whole group struggles with sleep that night. [Abeyance] |
| 6th day of Phoenatos | Mirkk makes his last request from the group, which most seem to disagree to. Ceyrin notices they're being followed. [End of the Road] The group comes face to face with Gallardshold and Donnavan. Mirkk commits to a fight to the death with Donnavan. [Let Weakness Be Strength] |
| 10th day of Phoenatos | Degmir, Donnavan's lieutenant, writes a report to Lord Caulfield regarding Donnavan. [Report] |
| 11th day of Phoenatos | After the long journey home, Mirkk meets with Corlyne to arrange a deal. [Epilogue, Part 1] |
| 12th day of Phoenatos | Rohese reflects on the past few months and past and future love. [Epilogue, Part 2] |
All works added with authors’ permission.
4th of Lumnea, 5121
Big Trouble in Little Sylvarraend
Nearing the Hour of Ronan, Day of the Huntress
It was late when Mirkk went to his secluded spot to rest for the night. He had been on edge all day, and it had taken its toll on him. This spot near Sylvarreand was a comfort to him in its seclusion. Aside from Mirkk, rarely did anyone trespass here. Still, the leaves rustled differently tonight and he could not understand why. And then he heard it.
The sound of several longbow strings being pulled taught was all he needed to know. He had been reckless recently - he had said too much to too many people. Though he was always careful when he came here. How did they find him here? Did she…? No, she did not. He recently spoke openly about this place, so they could have overheard. He did this to himself.
“Mirkk Timbertree of Bourth,” a voice called from the shadows.
Mirkk grinned slightly, his hand gently touching the pommel of his longsword. “I suppose it depends on who is asking,” he replied.
He had to be careful. His blades would not be able to stop the longbow arrows. He counted at least four bowstrings. There may be more.
“Mirkk Timbertree of Bourth, our orders are to escort you back to your uncle Donnavan. Back to Gallardshold, where you will be kept as a … guest of the Greensmen of the Deep.”
Five shadows emerged from the surrounding trees. Mirkk let out a slow, deliberate breath. The five Greensmen moved closer toward him, and one had ropes in his hands.
“Guest of my uncle, I presume?” Mirkk asked flatly.
“A guest of your uncle, aye,” said the one with the ropes.
At that moment, a blue-eyed white tiger leapt from the shadows, gripping the arm of one of the longbowmen in his maw, shredding the longbowman’s arm. The man cried out in pain and fell to the ground. Two of the other men turned their bows toward the tiger. Mirkk gave the tiger a glance and the tiger understood. The tiger complied with the request reluctantly and darted into the woods, but not before a bowman released an arrow, striking the tiger in the front right paw. Mirkk winced.
The presumed leader of this squad bent over and picked up the ropes from the ground. “Somebody clean him up,” he said to the other men. He cautiously approached Mirkk with the ropes. “Let us not spill any more blood tonight. Our orders were to bring you back unha-“ he paused. “In one piece.”
Mirkk slowly backed up and felt the limestone behind him. He deftly pulled a piece of folded paper out of his pocket and placed it on the altar, and then extended his hands to the man with the rope to not arouse any suspicion. He hoped she would find it there.
The group’s leader punched Mirkk in the gut, doubling him over in pain. “That’s for giving us so much trouble these past few days,” he grumbled. The leader used the opportunity to force Mirkk down do his knees and bound his hands behind his back. He then took Mirkk’s longsword and short sword out of his swordbelt and tucked them into his own.
Mirkk looked up, still trying to regain his composure from the punch, only to receive a swift kick to the jaw, knocking him out cold.
“That is for Jensur. He’ll probably lose that arm and never use a bow again.”
Stars. Stars through the trees. One bright star out shined all the others. That is all Mirkk saw as he raised his head with a groan. He was being carried on someone’s shoulder. And then he saw different stars as someone clubbed him over the head, drowning him in the unconscious.
6th of Lumnea
Stars
The sun was setting behind the high stone walls, casting a warm golden glow over the dense forest beyond. She failed to find joy in its spectacle this evening though, feeling a sense of dread as she watched the shadows of night encroaching on the garden below, its ominous talons clawing their way towards her.
Her heart sank again as she recalled that there had been no whispers on the wind today. Hadn’t he said he would be in touch? Lowering her gaze, her hair fell like a curtain across her face, shielding her emotions from the maid busying herself around the chamber.
“Thank you, Aavia. You may go now.” It was all she could do to keep her tone steady.
The maid bobbed a small curtsy and hurried out of the room. She waited for the door to close behind her before allowing herself to weep softly, quiet tears falling from your eyes. Her thoughts drifted over the last few days, remembering the words spoken and kisses stolen. Pressing her fingers gently to her lips, she suddenly wondered if his earlier voiced concerns had been realised; River had been behaving erratically, after all.
He had mentioned a glade!
Without any thought to propriety, she quickly reached for a robe and ran out into the twilight, oblivious to the fact that she was barefoot and dressed only in her shift. An owl’s hoot nearby seemed to be warning her to take care so she kept to the shadows of the trees as best she could. Keeping her hood up to conceal her identity, she made her way through the hamlet of Sylvarraend and towards the wooded garden.
Entering the secluded glade and stepping between the white stones, she noticed dark smears of what looked like dried blood and patches of scuffed ground. Something had definitely happened here recently! It was then she caught sight of a sheet of silver-edged paper on the altar and ran over to it. Her fingers trembled as she opened it and read the hastily scribbled lines.
She sank to her knees in the grass, clutching the paper to her chest. Tears welled behind her closed eyelids but she bit down hard on her bottom lip to stem their flow.
Do not fret for me, my Eternal Star.
For one transitory moment, a shooting star arced across the night sky, just visible through the tree canopy. The drifting breeze, fragrant with night-scented stock, lifted her hair and she swore she could hear her name being whispered on the wind. She knew then that she would come here every night until he returned to her.
Just like a shooting star
You've shown me that
Something could be brief
And still be beautiful
Meanwhile, in Gallardshold…
Mirkk shifted slightly. He felt the presence of cold stone beneath him. He could smell the scent of straw and the thick air weighed on him. His head hurt too, but he wasn’t sure why. He opened his eyes slowly. Iron bars came at precise intervals from the right, meeting the large, flat stone surface on the left. Beyond was another cell. And then what looked to be another.
Pressing his hands to the floor beneath, he slowly raised himself to a standing position. He wasn’t ready for it and became lightheaded, forcing himself to grip the bars and lean into them to steady himself. He closed his eyes and the moment passed. Opening his eyes again, he looked around the room. He was in the first of four cells lining the far wall. Three more cells stared gloomily back at him from the other side of the room. Directly across from him was a doorway with stairs leading up. Next to the door, hanging from a peg was his satchel. He saw no sign of his swords. At the far end from him on the wall was a single torch, and underneath it was a man sleeping in a chair. The man had bandages on one arm and he was missing a hand.
Turning around ever so cautiously as to not get lightheaded, he examined his cell. There was a thin opening no wider than his hand on the far wall. Beyond it, was more stone. Underground, he thought. He moved to the small opening and realized he was just below ground level, and that he could see the sky from this thin vertical window. He pressed his face hard into the cold stone wall, trying to look up.
The stars. If I can just see them…
He pressed harder into the stone but saw no stars. Dawn was about to break and the sky was getting lighter. He grunted pushed his head even harder into the stone, desperately trying to look up to the heavens.
Just one…
“Looks like somebody is awake,” a voice said from behind.
Mirkk sighed and closed his eyes, easing his head away from the wall. He turned and opened his eyes. It was the presumed guard, the man with the missing hand.
“I’m sorry about your hand,” Mirkk said in reply. The guard said nothing, only sneered and spat on the ground. "Will I be seeing my uncle soon?"
The man with the missing hand responded, "Your uncle is unavailable and will not return until late tonight or tomorrow morning. Best get comfy in your new accommodations."
"If you wouldn't mind - would you get the quill and paper out of my satchel? I'd like to write him a message for when he returns."
Mirkk watched the man with the missing arm glance between the satchel and the cell, uncertain. Then, with an aggravated demeanor, the man moved to the satchel hanging on the wall and rummaged through it, producing a quill and a single piece of paper. Mirkk backed slowly from the door of his cell as to not make the man think he was up to something. The man set the paper and quill cautiously on the ground, slid them between the bars with his foot, and backed away.
"Thank you. Would you be so kind as to hand me the stick of wax?" Mirkk asked with a smile.
The man spat again and, rummaging in the satchel said, "What wax? This wax?" and proceeded to take the wax over to the torch and let it melt slowly onto the floor. Mirkk sighed. At least he now had the paper. The man gave Mirkk another glare and sat back down in his chair and closed his eyes. Mirkk waited a few moments until he was sure the man was asleep and scribbled a few lines. He folded and addressed the paper and then quickly moved back to his tiny window to the stars, but by now it was daytime and he could hear folks moving about.
There must be a street above me.
He pushed his hand as far as it would go, hoping some kind passerby would notice his hand. As a reward for his actions, his finger was stepped on by some street urchin who ran off. Mirkk winced, but muffled his cry of pain as to not wake the guard. He heard someone quietly snickering behind him. He turned and saw what appeared to be a young monk standing in the doorway holding a tray of food. Mirkk rushed to the cell door and begged the monk to come close. The monk obliged and Mirkk whispered a message in the monk's ear. The monk nodded once and Mirkk slipped him the note. The monk took the note and slid it into his robes and gestured for Mirkk to stand back. Mirkk walked backward slowly to the back of his cell and sat down on the hard stone floor.
The monk walked over and placed the tray of food gently on the floor next to the gaurd. He gently placed a hand on the guard's shoulder, and the guard startled awake. The guard muttered and nodded to the monk, and the monk turned to walk out. Before heading out the door and up the stairs, the monk glanced in Mirkk's direction and gave one swift nod of his head, and then exited the room.
Mirkk looked at his captor and asked, "Is that for me?" The man with only one hand looked at him and laughed.
So much for hospitality.
7th of Lumnea
Five Candles
Part 1
Rohese walked around Mist Harbor, solemnly taking in the desolation and damage to life and property around her. Word had reached her of the evening’s events and her heart ached at the thought of all the pain and suffering her friends had gone through to protect their beloved Isle. She felt totally inadequate; her family responsibilities had kept her in Ta’Illistim of late and she had been unable to come to their aid when they needed it the most. But she had to do something; even if it was selfishly for her own peace of mind. She was then reminded of a ritual her grandmother had taught her when her mother had died.
I shall light five candles: one for grief, one for courage, one for memories, one for love, and one for hope.
Finding herself in Gardenia Commons, the heart of the Isle, Rohese resolved to start there and duly placed a candle on the bench. With a quick flick of her fingers, a small flame appeared and drifted over to the wick. Her skills with such simple incantations were thankfully improving despite her recent lack of study.
Gazing into the flickering flame, she whispered, “This candle represents grief. The pain of loss is intense but reminds us of the depth of feeling.”
Heading west along Oleander Avenue and into Hale Hall, she stepped through the doors into the Administration office. Taking a moment to remember Ilsola, she placed a second candle on the desk and lit it.
“This candle represents courage - to confront our sorrow, to comfort each other and to change our lives for the better.”
Continuing into the Western Harbor, Rohese walked sedately along Seathrak Way and entered the Stumbling Pebble Bar. She could hear Greth moving around in the backroom so quietly placed a candle on the bar and lit it.
“This candle is in memory of the times we all laughed, the times we all cried, the times we were all angry with each other, the silly things we all did together, and the joy we all shared.”
The choice of the fourth location was easy: the library; her beloved library where they all gathered during more peaceful times and where they had first heard the name, Katillios. Closing her eyes, Rohese exhaled and hoped that everyone didn’t hold her responsible for the subsequent actions of that misguided half-elf. The mere act of entering the dimly-lit foyer lifted her spirits a little. As if by habit, Rohese wandered first into the west wing where she trailed her fingers idly along the shelves of the bookcase and noticed something that made her heart skip a beat. Pulling a book from the shelf, she quickly pocketed it and adjusted the remaining volumes to conceal the gap.
With the trace of a smile on her face now, she returned to the foyer and reverently placed a candle on the desk.
“This candle is the light of love. Day by day we cherish the special place in our hearts that will always be reserved for you.”
With her hand in her robe pocket, she tightened it around the book and knew exactly where she would place the fifth candle.
Part 2
An elf owl swooped low, startling her a little as she made her way into the glade. The sun had set some time ago and the air seemed to be filled with all manner of unsettling noises this evening. Stepping through the circle of stones, she felt a sense of serenity wash over her as she knelt before the limestone altar.
Placing a candle on its smooth surface, she deftly lit it with a quiet snap of her fingers and whispered into the wind, “This candle is the light of hope. It reminds us of love and memories that are ours forever. May the glow of the flame be our source of hopefulness now and forever.”
With a slow exhalation, she rose to her feet, brushing away a few blades of grass when something caught her in the darkness of the surrounding trees. There it was again! A glint of blue and flash of white. Holding her breath, she stayed as still as possible but couldn’t make out what was lurking in the shadows. Biting her lip, she backed away slowly, taking flight as soon as she had stepped out of the circle.
Meanwhile, in Gallardshold…
No daylight peeked through the small hole of a window now. The noise and commotion of the passersby had died about an hour ago.
It is probably more for ventilation than it is anything else.
Mirkk raised from his position along the adjacent wall and moved over to the window. He pressed his head firmly into the stone wall and cocked his head so that his left eye could gaze up into the celestial expanse. And then he saw his shining, eternal star.
His sense of hope and resolve was renewed in that very moment. He had not lost faith - not at all- but rather he recommitted then and there that he would make it back. He would make it back home. He gazed at the star for a long, long time. It was now well into the night.
The lack of sleep the past few days along with the lack of food started taking its toll. Though he struggled, he could no longer fight it. Ronan, the god of dreams, overpowered him and his will, and he slid to the floor and fell into a slumber.
‘Wakey, wakey,” was all he heard. Something was poking him firmly in the ribs. It did not hurt, but it was enough of a discomfort to wake him. He started, and sat up, turning to the direction of the irritation.
Through the cell door he saw the man with one hand poking him with a long stick.
Jensur. That was his name.
Mirkk smacked the pole away and slid back to the far wall of his cell, unwilling to take the provocation any longer.
“Awww. You’re not ready to get up?” asked the man. “Big day for you today, sleepyhead. Your uncle is back, and would like a word. You’ll be joining him to break his fast.”
How long was I asleep?
Mirkk would normally never sleep past the first coos of the mourning doves at dawn, and that was if he was sleeping late.
Within the hour, two men Mirkk did not recognize came down the stairs. They were both dressed as Greensmen and armed with short swords. One of the men motioned to Jensur to unlock the cell. Jensur did not hesitate to do so, but did bring his pole to prod Mirkk back as he opened the cell door. Mirkk stepped forward and the two men nudged him forward toward the doorway. He started walking toward the stairs across from his cell and took them slowly. He did not want to move too fast and lose consciousness. He knew he was weak. The guards followed closely behind him.
At the top of the first flight of the stairs was an archway and the two men instructed him to proceed down a long hallway. There were no windows along these walls. Mirkk wasn’t sure if that was because they faced out toward the Wyrdeep, or if they were interior walls that forbid the pedestrians from looking in. They passed several large doors along the left side of the passage until they came upon a large maoral doorway with doors already opened. Light shone through. Mirkk had to shield his eyes until they adjusted. As his eyes became more focused, he could begin to see a large fireplace with a heavy stone mantle along the left wall and windows along the back wall that stretched upwards to the high ceilings. The sun shone down on a large, floral patterned green and crimson rug. On the rug was a long dining table that had several bowls of fruit, baked goods, and sausages placed in dishes at the near end. Seated, oddly not at the head of the table, but just to the right of it, he saw his uncle Donnavan who was breaking his fast.
The men pushed Mirkk forward and both took up their places as sentries flanking the door. Mirkk stepped forward toward the light of the sun and toward the darkness of his uncle. He stopped about six paces away from where his uncle sat. His uncle Donnavan had aged over these last twenty or so years. His beard was now almost fully grey with only a few spots of dark brown left. His hair was also grizzled, but still there was enough there for him to slick back, and he kept it long enough that it started showing its curls along the back of his neck. He was wearing a heavy green cloak with a ruby clasp. He looked healthy after all these years, just older.
Without looking at Mirkk and between bites, Donnavan said, “Have a seat, boy. Eat.” Mirkk continued to stand. Donnavan stopped eating and sighed. Finally, he raised his head and stared at Mirkk. “I need you healthy for training. I need you to eat.”
‘Why am I here?” Mirkk asked in reply.
“You are here because here is where you belong. Not out playing rogue or whatever it is that you do with whomever it is that you do it. You have a duty here, remember?”
Mirkk couldn’t help but laugh slightly. He turned his gaze out the window and said, “I do not have anything here.”
“You are incorrect,” Donnavan said calmly. “You have a duty to your people here. By all rights, Viridian should be yours and you should be a bannerman for the Caulfields.”
So that’s what this is about. He wants to grow his own power and influence, and he wants to use me to do it.
Mirkk snorted. “Whatever you think, you’re wrong. That was just some silly story a mother told her son before bedtime that-“
“Your mother believed it!” Donnavan interjected. “And your father knew it. For whatever reason, you have decided to not do your part for the barony. And so that is where I come in. It is my job, as your uncle, to make sure you stay on the straight and narrow and fulfill your duties and responsibilities."
"Responsibilities to the Caulfields?" Mirkk asked. "The same Caulfields that raised their banners 500 years ago and slaughtered thousands in the name of the Empire? And not just soldiers, but women and children! No thank you, Uncle. I'm not interested in playing out whatever fable or story you believe."
His uncle slammed his hands on the table loudly! "Boy, do not think for one moment that I do not have ways to convince you," he sneered.
Mirkk looked away from the window, bypassing looking at his uncle directly, and looked at the fireplace. This time of year, there was no fire. Leaning against the wall between the fireplace and a servant entrance, he saw his two swords wrapped together in his swordbelt. He turned back toward his uncle. "There is nothing you can do to convince me."
A dark smile crossed his uncles lips. "Greensmen crossing into Elven territory to grab one of their own is one thing. We know about the woman. We have been watching you for some time."
Mirkk's instantly felt a knot in his stomach.
That doesn't make sense, though. Even he would not risk a war with between the Empire and the Elves over me. And he knows that would be viewed as a hostile act.
This thought brought Mirkk a sense of relief. His uncle was bluffing, and he knew it.
He changed the topic to steer the conversation how he wanted it to go.
"So then, when does this training start?" he asked his uncle.
His uncle leaned back into his chair and grinned. "I reckon it will tomorrow afternoon. We'll see if you are still as good with the bow as you were as a boy," his uncle replied.
"So be it," Mirkk said as he reached for an apple from the fruit bowl nearest him on the table. "And this will be all I wish for breakfast this morning, Uncle." The last word he emphasized with a biting tone.
I know a horse that would like this apple...
Donnavan, now having what he wanted, nodded his head and said in an affirming manner, "So be it."
"I do have a request."
"What is that?" his uncle asked.
"I would like to have my things back, my satchel at least. And a change to my lodgings would please me."
"You'll get your satchel, but not your blades. And no gold rings, to be certain. As for your lodgings, you'll stay in the cell until you prove your willingness to cooperate."
Mirkk nodded once, turned, and started to walked out of the doorway, followed by the two guards. As he did, his uncle said clearly, “Do not think I will not accept the risk with the Illistim elf.”
“Gosaena take you,” Mirkk shouted as he turned back toward his uncle. The two guards grabbed him and and forced him back into the hallway. He could hear his uncle laughing in the room he just left.
At the bottom of the stairs, the two escorts handed Mirkk back over to Jensur, then both turned and walked back up the stairs. As Mirkk was walking into his cell, Jensur said from behind, “Oh, there is one more thing.” Mirkk turned around and stared at him with anger filled eyes. Jensur grabbed Mirkk’s right arm, pulled it out straight, and with all the force he could muster with his leg, kicked the cell door, slamming it into Mirkk’s right arm with a loud CLANG and the sound of a crunch. Mirkk fell to the ground in pain.
“We’re not even close to being even,” Jensur snarled.
8th of Lumnea
Sitting in the long grass with her back against the altar, she nibbled pensively at the end of her quill. The limestone was cool against her skin, in contrast to the late spring sunshine permeating the leafy canopy of haon and oak trees. She turned her face skyward to bathe in its warmth for a moment and allowed herself a brief smile.
The last few days had been difficult for many reasons but since she had received word from Mirkk, she was a little less anxious. What had he said? Do not fret for me. She was trying not to but such restraint did not come easy to her.
How can I reply without compromising him or putting him in danger?
Tapping the feather of her quill against her lip, she pondered the blank sheet of pale lilac paper resting on her knees. Her concentration was broken by a rustling sound to her right. As she turned instinctively towards it, a small rabbit broke free from the undergrowth and hopped a little closer. Standing on its hind legs, it observed her for a few moments with a gaze that implied she was intruding.
“I’m sorry, he’s not here but I am hoping he won’t be away much longer.”
Picking a dandelion, she offered it to the rabbit by way of an apology but it seemed to be satisfied with her response. Scampering away, it disappeared from sight with a flash of its white scut.
She giggled to herself and returned to the task in hand. Quickly penning a few lines on the paper, she folded it, kissed it, and slipped it into her pocket.
An hour later, she walked along Sea Turtle Lane inhaling the heady fragrance of magnolia blossoms. The lanes of Eastern Harbor were quiet at this time of day so she was surprised to see someone walking towards her. With a soft smile, she greeted the shaven-headed man and bade him a good afternoon but gave him no further thought as she continued on her way.
Reaching her destination, she slipped the paper into place but was surprised to see another sheet already there. Retrieving it, she held her breath and unfolded it.
The monk’s surroundings shifted.
He didn’t care for this place, as cosmopolitan as it was. At least he could let his guard down. As the ripples of his shroud of deception gave way, and his facial features changed, he found himself with his long hair and pointed ears again. This brought him some sense of relief.
OK, now to help the human.
He made his way along Gardenia Avenue toward the East Harbor to drop a note. He thought again about the human. The human boy was now a man and had aged probably 20 years. He on the other hand, being an elf, had changed very little. He remembered the young boy the day the boy’s father died. He was there, and it was tragic.
The monk proceeded through the gate into East Harbor, found his place and entered and set a piece of silver edged paper on its spot. He exhaled.
Going back out the entry into the street, he murmured a phrase and made a gesture. His features changed on his face and he found himself once again with a shaved head and round ears.
Now, time for the other request.
10th of Lumnea
The monk stood on the ramparts, looking north toward the archery training. They were working on long ranged, stationary targets. He had stood for a moment at the same spot yesterday, watching the man who had lost his hand get flogged.
That man suffered greatly with the loss of his hand, and now he suffers from hate.
He again looked toward the training that was going on this morning. He heard a voice shout, “You’re not supposed to be up here!” The monk looked over and saw a Greensman heading his direction. He nodded politely, bowed, and scurried his way down the nearby stairs.
Outside the walls, the grass gently sloped down to the north. Not far from the walls a squad of longbowmen stood, exchanging stories and banter. Near them, but not among them, Mirkk stood next to his uncle and two sentries.
I wonder if these two centuries are here to guard me or to protect him?
Mirkk stood and watched the finest bowmen this side of the Dragonspine compete against each other. They would rib each other after every shot. There were several targets toward the bottom of the gentle slope. At mid morning, they had exhausted most of their arrows and the targets resemble porcupines rather than bull’s-eyes.
“Looks like we need to go gather. Whose turn this time?”
“Who has the least points on the board?” another replied.
“I’ll go,” said Mirkk. Everyone turned to him and stared. “It’s the least I can do since I cannot train,” he said as he raised slightly his right arm that was in a sling.
All eyes then turned to his uncle Donnavan. Donnavan nodded, but signaled to the sentries to keep their bows pulled taught.
Mirkk slowly walked through the grasses toward the targets. He carried with him a large basket that was partially slung over his shoulder by a thick rope. As he met the first target, he stopped, dropped the basket, and lowered his head slightly, closing his eyes.
His first time alone and outdoors and many days, he whispered the words “Oialea Elen” which were carried off by the wind. All sounds ceased in his mind as he held his breath. He could not even hear his own heartbeat. Time seemed to stop altogether.
And then he heard her whisper in response.
His shoulders relaxed, he exhale slowly, and he began to breathe again. They had a brief exchange, assuring each other that they were both okay, but just as quickly as the conversation started it came to an abrupt end.
“Better get to pulling those arrows, boy,” someone shouted from up the slope.
Mirkk raised his left hand to gesture that he understood. He could feel the warmth of the morning sun on his back.
They are watching me close. Now is not the time.
He opened his eyes and slowly raised his head. He started pulling the arrows with his good arm, all the while staring beyond the targets. Not ten feet away, the dark and foreboding Wyrdeep Forest stared back at him.
Looking up from her tome, the governess coughed lightly. The giggling had gone on long enough and it was time that her two young silver-haired charges resumed their studies. Both sisters looked suitably remorseful after the gentle chastisement though, so she let the matter rest there.
“What was the year of Chaston’s Edict?” The governess quizzed, barely masking her amusement at their playful antics.
The elder sister’s arm shot up in the air and she answered immediately, “4310!” Her smaller sibling huffed a little and began to doodle a feather on the empty sheet of parchment in front of her.
“And what are the dates of the conflict resulting from the heinous acts of Gallard Wilke?”
Again, the older elf’s hand reached high as she bounced up and down in her seat. “4599 to 4610,” she blurted out before the governess could even finish her question.
“Excellent,” the governess responded with a broad smile, giving her eager pupil a nod of approval whilst glancing at the quieter child, who now seemed to be filling the whole page with feather drawings.
“You’re not interested in imperial history, little one?” She gently inquired, to which the young elf nodded enthusiastically.
“Oh, yes, I am! But I know all of this already.” Reaching down, she picked up three small books from beneath her chair, each stamped with a Turamzzyrian Empire crest, and deposited them on the table. “I read these yesterday.”
Her curiosity piqued, the governess came over and lifted the book from the top of the pile. Turning it on its side, she read the title on the spine and smiled at her ward.
“The Wyrdeep Forest is certainly a good place to start.”
The whinny of a horse snapped her back to the present day. The sun was low in the sky and her equine companion was clearly getting restless.
Keeping her promise to come back every day, she found herself once again in the glade and savouring its tranquility. She had spent the afternoon reading from a well-thumbed book. The cover bore the impression of three trees ringed by five feathers and the faded title on the spine read, “Tales of the Wyrdeep.” A folded sheet of silver-edged paper lay across the open page, marking a passage of particular interest. The makeshift bookmark had since been decorated in feather doodles and she smiled at the memory it had prompted.
“How apt”, she thought, picking up where she had left off from her favourite story: “The Hunter and his Nyin’niel.”
Discovering one of her favourite books from childhood tucked away on the library shelves a few days had given her such joy but being reminded of her sister at the same time had tempered it somewhat. Finding a note tucked inside that same book had caused her heart to skip a beat.
Her heart had also skipped a beat earlier that day when she heard Mirkk whispering her name on the wind. She had reiterated her promise to keep the candle lit until his return, so here she was, keeping vigil.
Another hour was soon lost to the story and the horse decided to resume his grazing of the long grass. He clearly wasn’t getting an apple anytime soon.
11th of Lumnea
With the thwump of a bowstring, the bodkin tipped villswood arrow was loosed and flew serenely through the air toward its target. As the hawk fletchings righted the arrow on its trajectory, keeping it true, the landscape of grass seemed to flow by underneath. A hare froze momentarily from his lunch of fresh clover. The arrow whizzed over the hare’s head safely onward. The hare would live to see another day.
Mirkk made his way down the gentle slope from Gallardshold toward the practice targets. The afternoon sun was warm again today. The two sentries had relaxed a bit, and one even had his bow leaning against the wooden table used to stage gear during training.
This is a good thing, Mirkk thought.
About halfway down the sloping grassland, he spotted a rabbit munching on a large patch of clover. Mirkk offset his path as to not disrupt the animal. He peeped its head up and slowly munched as he watched Mirkk walk at a safe distance past. Once satisfied, he lowered his head and continued with his afternoon meal.
Mirkk finished his trek and set the basket he carried on the ground with his good arm. He rose back up and stared beyond the targets at the Wyrdeep Forest.
It would shift on him. Everything would shift today.
He had had time to think things through since yesterday. Most of the men were not from Gallardshold and wouldn’t dare follow into the fabled Wyrdeep. Some would follow, though. He hoped the shiftings would disorient them enough for him to make a clean getaway. He would continue to run until dusk, when they would undoubtedly make their way back to Gallardshold, unwilling to stay the night in the dark forest.
Remember the light. The light tells you which direction to go. The light will get you home.
He started to yank the arrows out of the targets. He would make his move very soon. His nerves were on end. He was very anxious. He would take handful of the arrows with him, as they may serve a purpose, perhaps as weapons of opportunity if needed, since he didn’t have a bow. It was a pity they were training arrows and not bodkin.
He had about four arrows in his hand. He shifted his weight to the right of the first target just enough. The edges of that fateful forest were maybe ten feet away, and within thirty feet he would be out of sight to the men that would give chase.
The bodkin tipped arrow was designed primarily as an arrowhead that would penetrate specifically chain mail and plate armor. This particular bodkin tipped arrow on this particular day did this exceptionally well. It made contact with its target, penetrated through the chain mail of the back, moved through the torso, and even came somewhat out the other side of the mail armor.
Mirkk looked down at his chest. He blinked, and reached up with his left hand to touch the bloody bodkin tip protruding out as if to question the reality of if it actually just happened. It felt cold, but was covered in a warm, bright red blood that seemed to now be all over his hands. He slumped to his knees with a grunt. He looked back up at the forest before him, and then back down at his chest. He became light headed very quickly. His head was swimming and he did not fully comprehend what was occurring.
In an instant, a flood of memories flashed through Mirkk’s mind.
Thoughts of growing up, playing in the outer trees of this very forest.
Thoughts of the Elves he would play with - the ones that looked his age but seemed so mature because they were over a hundred years old.
Thoughts of his mother and father. Of streams and sunlight streaming through the canopy.
Thoughts of laughter and friends in an old garret tucked away in the Wayside Inn.
But mostly, the thoughts were of her. Thoughts of her bringing him back to life. Thoughts of slipping her silvers as compensation and hiding in the shadows. Thoughts of reading her works on altruism, of avians, of many things, and feeling a connection within his own soul. Thoughts of her infectious giggling by a dogwood tree as the pink petals blew in the gentle breeze. Thoughts of the both of them being so unkempt but having coffee and tea together in an orangery that seemed so close but so distant now. Thoughts of butterflies and blankets and flowers.
He reached into his satchel and pulled out a feathery pale pink leaf. He was not ready for this to come to an end - not like this. He loved her with every fiber of his being - with his soul. He would love her til his dying breath. Choking back the tears, he closed his eyes and, trying to muster as much of a breath as he could before the bad stars overtook him, he whispered, “Rohese…” which was carried in the wind. He followed with, “I’m sorry.”
He fell over on his right side, facing the forest, and the light faded from his blue eyes.
Back on the hill, his uncle Donnavan gave a single nod to the bowman, turned, and walked back toward Gallardshold.
Settling herself down in the long grass, she opened her book to the marked page and began to read. She had rushed her chores again that morning, eager to retreat to the solitude of the glade; to her only connection to him.
She was only a few lines in when she heard it - her name - carried in on an errant breeze. Instinctively, she looked around for him. The gentle zephyr caressed her cheek, lifting her hair and leaving behind the words, “I’m sorry.”
Then nothing.
An eerie silence pervaded the glade as everything simply stopped.
No birdsong, no leaves rustling in the trees, not even the sound of her own breath as it caught in her throat.
Turning to the candle burning on the altar, she watched in horror as the flame flickered one last time and died.
All hope had gone.
The longbowman stood there in silence, dumbfounded by what just happened. He and several others just stared in the general direction of north, toward the targets, saying nothing. To the east just off to his right, a monk could be seen walking calmly but surely down the grassy slope. He shifted his gaze toward the monk and watched.
What is he doing?
He watched as the monk startled a hare, sending it scurrying toward the forests edge, where it froze. The creature stood there for just a moment, then darted east along the edge of the forest before disappearing out of sight.
He turned his eyes back toward the monk. The monk? Something was different. It was the same monk, but with long hair… And pointed ears? This didn’t make sense. He watched this being lift the body that was lying on its side to a sitting position. He watched as this person slid his arms under the arms of the body, clasping his hands just below where the arrowhead pierced through.
What is going on?
The man watched the monk, back now turned towards the forest and facing Gallardshold, start to drag the body toward the woods.
“Hey, stop right there!” one of the other men shouted as he started down the hill. The man watched three more men follow and decided he should join them. As he started his run down to the target area, he continue to hear them in ahead of him shouting for the monk to stop. The monk continue to slowly drag the body toward the woods, unconcerned about the rabble of men bearing down on him.
The man saw his fellow longbowmen close in on the monk and then they froze at the edges of the forest. As he closed the gap and met them, he saw them slowly raising their hands and backing slightly away. He didn’t understand this. It was only one monk, who is now just inside the first edges of the forest. The man squinted, searching among the trees.
We can still catch him. If we just…
And then he saw.
Just inside the treeline stood a host of Elvenkind- long ago descendants of the great elven houses, and half-elf alike- all with bows trained on them.
Three of the Elvenkind lowered and slung their bows, quivered their arrows, and helped the monk with Mirkk’s body.
Once they were out of sight, two-by-two the rest cautiously but deliberately disappeared into a forest that was now catching only the last rays of the afternoon sun.
15th of Lumnea
Mirkk opened his eyes. He found himself standing in a space of endless blackness, but he could see the nothingness in every direction as if it were daytime. He turned around and the solid ground underneath rippled like water, but it made no sound. Now in front of him, close enough for recognition, but far enough away as to not appear looming, stood the Ebon Gates.
“Everyone has a choice in death,“ a voice called out.
Mirkk turned around in the vastness, his back now toward the gates and saw a bright figure standing equally distant from him. He had to shield his eyes.
“In the hours of death, everyone has the choice to pass through the Ebon Gates,” the voice said. “But you, Mirkk Timbertree- you still have favor with the goddess Lorminstra. Should you make the choice not to pass through the gates, you must hope you made the choices in life that allow for those who care for you enough to safeguard your body and rejoin it with your soul. Choices in life can have consequences in death. But should they do so, you have been granted safe passage once again by Lorminstra.”
The light faded away.
Donnavan was visibly angry. It took all his restraint not to strike the soldier who was reporting to him. The Greensman had informed Donovan of what had happened not even an hour earlier with the body.
Donnavan stood and walked past the fireplace, passed the bare wall and the closed side door to the room, and stopped at the tall windows. The sun was all but set.
Through clenched teeth, Donovan said, “Find me that body, or find me that man. I want to men at the Locksmehr River crossings, every chronomage office the side of the Spine, Kragsfell, and even the pass near new Ta’Faendryl.”
The last phrase made the soldier’s stomach turn it in knots.
“If they stay in the forest, we will keep him boxed in. And, most importantly, this cannot be tied to the greensmen or Gallardshold, or the Caulfields. Period.”
“Aye, Sir,” The man said, saluted, turned, and walked out.
The monk headed across Gardenia Commons toward West Harbor. He just left a note, one that the man had given him when he was in his cell. Back when he was alive.
The monk felt ashamed. He had read the note, as it was not sealed, because he was unsure if he should still deliver it. He decided to deliver it anyway. He was not certain how it would be received, and was not sure if the recipient was aware of all that had occurred.
It is not my place to decide, only to comply with the request.
He was now on another task given to him by the elder. He found the dark elf in West Harbor, right where he said he would be. Dark elf with somewhat of a misnomer, as he had lighter skin being only half dark elf and half Sylvan. He was a half elf in his own way, though fully an elf.
Eurasmon held out and opened the sack. The monk examined the contents, counting the white flasks, nodded and handed Eurasmon the promissory note. The monk turned to go, but heard Eurasmon ask, “Why do you need that many, anyway?”
The monk only shrugged and walked away.
As the monk’s surroundings shifted from Mist Harbor back to a more familiar town, he recalled with the elder had said.
“We cannot yet bring him back as he is human. His prudence will give away to passion, and he will try to return to Illistim. There will be men looking for him throughout their empire and he will be caught. We must keep him as he is for a time, and when we bring him back, he must be weak for a time more. This is in his best interests.”
The monk recalled another elf asking, “Why do we care about his interests? Why is he important? Who is he?”
The elder responded, “In rána man sítë. The stranger who belongs.”
Jensur walked down the corridor on the second floor of the keep. There were several store rooms with weapons and provisions. He entered one.
A strange place for a meeting.
In the room on the far end was Donnavan, who signaled him to close the heavy oak door, which Jensur did.
“Yes, sir? Do you want to see me, sir?” said Jensur.
“Correct,” said Donnavan. “I need your expertise in a particular matter. It needs to be... discreet.”
Jensur nodded. “Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”
Donnavan continued, “I need a form of insurance, in the event things go sideways with my nephew.”
Jensur nodded, unsure. “Okay…”
“I need the woman… from Illistim.”
Jensur gave him an incredulous look.
“You have been there before and you know how to find her. I need you to take three or four of your best men. I need you to bring her back to Bourth. Not here. Somewhere she will not be found.”
“And if things go sideways on me?” Jensur asked.
“Then kill her and anyone who bares witness. This could start a war and cannot come back on us. Do this, and you will be handsomely rewarded.”
Jensur’s lips curled up into a wicked smile. He nodded once and turned to open the door. Donnavan stopped him by saying, “Take no long bows, or green cloaks. Nothing that can tie you to Bourth.”
Aavia knocked tentatively on the chamber door.
“Milady?”
Pressing her ear against the wood, she strained to hear any sound that might indicate her mistress was receptive to visitors. Nothing. She knocked again.
“Milady, I’ve brought you some soup. Cook thought you might like a little of your favourite.”
The lack of any response was concerning. It had been four days since her mistress had returned home distraught and shut herself away. No one had any idea what had upset her so much.
“I’ll leave it here for you then, just in case.”
Placing the bowl on the floor, Aavia glanced once more at the closed door with a heavy sigh and retreated down the stairs.
Back in the kitchen, she went over the last few weeks in her head, seeing if she could remember anything that might help her understand. Hadn’t she overheard something about a poet and early morning visits somewhere to see if he’d written again.
“That’s it!” she exclaimed, wiping her hands on her apron and quickly removing it. A quick glance in the mirror to make sure she was presentable and she headed out of the door.
A few minutes later, with a quick turn of her brooch, she found herself in the middle of Mist Harbor. Trying to find her bearings – not being very familiar with its avenues and lanes – she stopped a passer-by to ask for directions and, following his advice, headed east towards her destination.
It didn’t take her long to find it but she hesitated to enter. The building seemed so grand! Pinching her cheeks to add some colour and smoothing the wrinkles in her dress, she stepped inside and began to peruse the bookshelves. Her patience and tenacity paid off as, an hour later, she stepped back into the afternoon sunshine with a piece of silver-edged paper in her hand.
Let’s hope this helps!
Aavia slipped the paper under the door and lingered for a moment. It was when she heard the gasp and cry, she realised she may have made a mistake. She couldn’t leave it like that! Turning the handle, she was relieved to find the door hadn’t been latched and pushed it open only to see her mistress on her knees, clutching the paper to her chest and sobbing. All Aavia could make out was …
“He chose to leave!”
Aavia berated herself for not reading the note before leaving it.
16th of Lumnea
There is a certain pain in death. It is not a physical pain- no, that part is over and done with. It is a mental and emotional anguish that comes from separation from the ones you love and care about. It is a spiritual pain.
Mirkk was in spiritual pain. Time was immeasurable in this well-lit blackness. His only companion - the imposing black gates that seemed to beckon him.
Out of frustration, he shouted, "Let me out! Get me out of here!" There was not even an echo in return. He looked back toward the Ebon Gates. They seemed closer now.
Did they move?
He was beginning to question things.
"Get me out of here! Please! Raise me!" he pleaded.
Nothing.
He ran away from the gates for what must have been a quarter of a mile before he stopped and shouted again, "Is there anyone there? Release me!"
Silence.
He turned and saw the Ebon Gates still right behind him. It was almost like they followed him. Silently they stood, bidding him to take a closer look. He took a step toward them. And then a second.
Why has no one helped me? Am I beyond all hope of return?
In death, his faculties were escaping him. He screamed!
Stillness.
He stared at the gates, which in turn stared back at him with an eternal patience. He fell to his knees and closed his eyes, summoning all the fear and anguish and pain and spirit he could muster, and shouted as loudly and powerfully as he could, "RELEASE ME!"
"Did you hear that?" one of the elves said to the other, as he nudged him awake. "Did you hear it?"
"Hear what?" the other one with blond hair responded grumpily. It was not his turn to watch the body.
Four of the elves had been instructed by the Elder to stand watch over the body. Two would sleep or eat or run errands, and two would watch. Always two watching at all times were the instructions. And they would take turns, pouring the white flasks into the body at certain hours of the day. But never had it said something.
"It sounded like it said 'release me' or something, but it was very faint," the first elf with long, brown hair said to the second. The second seemed unsure. A third elf appeared in the doorway of the room where the body was being kept. "Who wants some fresh baked bread and tea?" the new arrival sang.
"Shhhh." said the blond elf. He inclined his head and listened.
Then, faintly, the words "release me" could be heard coming from the body.
The blond just stared in awe at the body. "What do we do?" the first elf asked. He waited for a response and, when he didn't receive one, he leaned in and asked a bit more emphatically, "What do we do?"
"Go get the Elder," the blond elf responded with a sense of urgency. "Quickly."
Aavia sat with her mistress as she slept. Feeling partly responsible for causing more upset, she resolved to try and put things right. Seeing a book on the nearby table, she reached for it and began to read about the language of flowers. It gave her an idea: what if she were able to send a message back to whomever was leaving them for her mistress? Something that was symbolic. Flicking through the chapters, she found just the right flower. But it was almost dawn and she had her morning chores to get to. She would seek out the flower and leave it in their designated place later that day!
The sun crept over the windowsill, bathing her in its soothing warmth and stirring her from her slumbers. Aavia had opened the window so she could hear the birdsong in the garden and forest beyond. She covered her ears in an attempt to block it out but to no avail.
They sing of happy things: of summer sunshine, nests, eggs … and love.
Her maid had also left the chamber door ajar. She could hear the usual early morning commotion of a lively household so she rose and wrapped a light robe around herself. She felt stronger today and determined to move forward; too often had she fallen prey to the vagaries of the heart and suffered for it. She would learn to be more resilient.
Her eyes fell on the scrunched-up paper on the floor and she retrieved it. Flattening it out, she re-read the lines of verse and bit down hard on her bottom lip, drawing blood in the process. Wiping at the sanguine bead, she pondered its crimson stain on her fingertip and was reminded of a ritual she had read in her grandmother’s grimoire. Was it really possible to reach out to those in or beyond the Pale – if that was truly where he was? There was only one way to find out! The ritual in question was classed as higher magic; something she was definitely not skilled enough to practice but it was worth the risk. She had to know for sure.
She spent the remainder of the day reading through the grimoire, cross-checking and clarifying certain parts of the ritual with other spell books in her collection. Evening fast approached and not wishing to delay any longer, she dressed herself in a simple dark woollen gown, gathered up all she needed and made her way back to the glade. She hadn’t returned since the day the candle had been extinguished and she realised he had gone from her life.
Her steps faltered a little as she saw the lump of wax still sitting on the altar. Taking a few deep breaths, she moved into the stone circle. A sense of serenity came over her and she felt calm again. Now to begin, before I’m missed.
Pulling a small flask from her bag, she held it out at arm’s length and tilted it slightly. The ritual typically called for blood but she refused to have anything to do with blood magic. A thin trail of holy water trickled forth. Turning slowly, she let it pour around her to complete a circle. Kneeling down reverently, she slipped the flask back into her bag and drew forth a pale ivory candle, which she carefully placed on the ground in front of her.
A quick flick of her fingers and the candle began to burn steadily. Leaning down, she slowly ran her finger around the circle in an anti-clockwise direction and murmured the first part of the cantrip.
“This place is safe and sacred; this path is closed to evil.”
The candle flickered a moment and nearly went out, but its flame sprang to life again, burning merrily.
Pulling a grey merlin feather fan knotted with silver-threaded bells from her bag, she held it out with an outstretched arm. Purposefully focusing all of her energy, she gently swirled it through the air over the candle and haltingly repeated the cantrip.
“This place is safe and sacred; this path is closed to evil.”
Raising the fan high over her head with wide, sweeping gestures, she drew the air upward and murmured the brief chant under her breath. The updraft caught the flame of the candle and it flickered brightly.
“This place is safe and sacred; This path is closed to evil. Shepherd my guiding spirit and bind me to the person in my thoughts.”
Closing her eyes, she formed an image of Mirkk in her mind. Holding the feathered fan flush against her chest for a contemplative moment, she made an outward sweeping motion with it.
The candle flame suddenly burned high with a soft roar so she tentatively called out his name: “Mirkk?”
The flame died as quickly as it had erupted but, faintly on the wind, she heard the whispered words, “Release me!”
Repeating his name, a little louder this time, her hair lifted on an errant breeze but there was nothing. No whispers could be heard. The candle flickered softly once more, casting its warm light throughout the area and she knew she had failed; she still had no answers.
With a heavy sigh, she rose to her feet and returned home.
Candle bright
Burning fire
Keep within you my desire
Now listen to the words I speak
And clear a path to whom I seek
Let my wishes all come true
As they burn this night with you
18th of Lumnea
With a countenance of Zelia, Mirkk opened his eyes. In the brief moment before he cried out, he thought he had heard her. He thought he had heard her call out to him.
Was it her? Did I hear her?
Don't be foolish. There has not been a sound in this place since you arrived...how long ago?
He turned his head to the left and gazed into the infinite, afraid that this all may be eternally his fate. His eyes were bloodshot and pink around the eyelids- that kind of crazed look of hopelessness to them- and he was beginning to question everything.
Will anyone come for me?
It doesn't seem like anyone will come now, does it?
Does anyone care?
No, nobody cares about you. Not enough, anyway.
Did my uncle perhaps hide my body somewhere so that I may never be brought back?
That would be in his best interests, wouldn't it? Seems likely.
Do I even still exist?
Only in this space. This is all that is left for you.
It would seem so.
Yes, it does seem that way, doesn't it? And how can you change that?
He felt defeated. Broken. He had made many mistakes in life, but he thought he had done some good in this world.
Have I not done enough that no one finds me worthy to bring back?
You know the answer to that by now.
Mirkk hung his head as moments slipped away, belonging now to the vast emptiness around him. He didn't know if these moments were days, weeks, or years. He had been away once before and lost everything he thought he loved. Rowing on a Krolvin slave galley all those years, he kept hope only to return to find all he loved or cared for was dead or had moved on, nowhere to be found.
Am I to suffer the same fate as before?
I should have never let her know it was me writing those letters. She would be none the wiser now. I would suffer alone. Now I have this burden of guilt for what has happened.
He didn't know if she knew he was dead, but she knew he was captured at the least, and at this point she would not ever hear from him except from the grave. The grave.
Even the departed get to come back once a year to see loved ones at a festival for...
He turned his gaze to the gates before him.
Is it not better to see the ones you love once a year than to be stuck in this place never to see anyone? I will see her again.
Slowly, he rose to his feet. He stared at the black gates with a look of grim determination. Five steps and he would be through the gate. Four steps and he would be able to touch them.
He took one step. His leg felt heavy. There was a cold that seemed to emanate from the gates.
Another step. His other leg was slow to move, but perhaps a little easier than the first step.
He took a third step and started to feel lighter. The air seemed to begin to warm around him, as if ready to accept him.
A fourth step. Floating now and the warmth wrapped his body and soul. It almost brought him a certain peace. He was close enough to touch the Ebon Gates, though he didn't. He closed his eyes, exhaled slowly, and thought of seeing her again.
Mirkk opened his eyes, but nothing was in focus, only a piercing white light. His lungs burned as they had not had air in them for some time and he found himself stunned, unable to fill them right away. He couldn't speak. He could only lie there in the moment. He heard hushed voices.
As things gradually came into focus, he saw an older man - no, an elf- with long brown hair showing signs of grey, knowing green eyes, and wearing robes of flaxen, brown, and deep green.
"Mirkk. Mirkk..." the elf called to him. "You are alive and with the elves in Wyrdeep. I am Orómar. You are safe."
Shafts of silvery moonlight pierced the shadows of her bedchamber as she tossed and turned in her sleep. A tall figure, hooded and cloaked, stepped silently out of the darkness. Pulling a small knife from his wrist sheath, he loomed over her for a few moments taking in her pallid countenance. The blade glimmered as he tilted it from side-to-side and lowered it slowly towards her neck.
“Mirkk,” she murmured, her eyelids flickering.
The intruder leaned closer to listen, the point of his blade now resting over the star inked on her throat.
“You promised,” she added, in a barely audible whisper. A tear trickled down her cheek, staining her pillow.
I should just kill her here and now, save us all any further bother.
Jensur’s head whipped around as he heard footsteps outside. Someone was coming. He stepped back into the shadows and held his breath. A young sylvan entered laden with clean linens, which she quietly placed into the press and retreated, closing the door behind her.
Jensur exhaled.
That was close. Best not to risk it. We’ll get her in a less obvious place.
With a one last cursory glance at the sleeping elf, he sheathed his blade and slipped out of the window, climbing back down to the ground by way of the twisted lilac tree.
Four figures blended into the darkness of the surrounding trees and disappeared.
Vivid dreams tormented her sleep. She had experienced a range of emotions throughout the night: fear and anguish and pain. Visions of … nothingness; a black void stretching out as far as the eye could see. Feelings of desolation and despair swept over her leaving her breathless and exhausted.
Had she actually succeeded in bonding with Mirkk … wherever he was now? Dabbling in higher magic had been risky but it would have been worth it if she could have reached him; just to let him know that she cared.
A sudden flash of blinding white light startled her and she sat up with a gasp. Her heart faltered for a moment but soon resumed a steady beat, albeit faster than normal. Glancing anxiously around the room, she noticed the drapes at the window had been pulled aside and were now billowing on the cool night air.
She rose to stand at the open window, taking in the beauty of the bright silver moon and breathing in the heady scent of lilacs. The earlier sense of dread faded and she realised it was time to let go.
He was gone.
18th of Lumnea
Mirkk found himself on the floor. As soon as he was cognizant, he had tried very quickly get out of bed, became lightheaded and fell to the ground. Two elves helped him back into bed.
“You are still very weak. You need to rest for a while,” Orómar said. “Ilizzaro will look after you, should there be anything you need.”
Mirkk looked over to the corner of the room and saw the other elf standing there quietly. He looked very similar to the elder, with long brown hair and green eyes, but much younger. He also wore the flaxen and brown and green colors, but in the form of a tunic and trousers.
Suddenly, another elf entered the room, seemingly unaware that there would be others in there. He looked surprised. He was dressed in the robes of a monk.
Mirkk stared thoughtfully at the monk for a moment. He looked familiar in a strange sort of way.
“You have already met Cainoyen,” Orómar stated as he gestured to the newest visitor. “Cainoyen was our… man on the inside for many years. Since before… Well, it does not matter now. He now serves in a different capacity, and is happy to be out of Gallardshold for a while.”
Cainoyen stepped forward and produced a sprig of bleeding-heart, which he placed on a small table next to Mirkk’s bed. Next to it, he set a silver-edged folded piece of paper. Mirkk looked at it and read the words, “Oialea Elen, Part 3.” Mirkk looked at Cainoyen with a pained and confused look. Then, Mirkk feebly took the paper in hand and touched a corner to the flame of the candle on the table. He held it until it had satisfactorily caught fire, and placed it in the tray of the candlestick holder. The paper burned fully, flickered, and went out. Cainoyen glanced at Mirkk, nodded once, and stepped back.
“Did you deliver part two?” Mirkk asked Cainoyen.
The monk nodded.
Mirkk rested his head against the wooden headboard and appeared lost in thought for the moment. He then turned back and said, “May I have my satchel? My quill and a piece of paper?”
Ilizzaro nodded and stepped forward from his corner, walked to a peg near the door and removed the satchel that was hanging there. He walked toward Mirkk and gave him the satchel. Mirkk did not see his swordbelt anywhere.
“Of course you may write to whomever you wish. You are a guest here and are free to leave whenever you like,” Orómar said.
“What is this place?” asked Mirkk.
Orómar responded, “You are in one of the oldest settlements of the Wyrdeep. Soon you will see it with your own eyes, but for your and our protection, you must not know the location or the name. I hope you understand.”
Mirkk nodded.
“But you must rest now. Hopefully in a day or two, I will be able to walk with you. There are things we will need to discuss,” said Orómar.
“Of course,” said Mirkk. “And thank you. Thank you for your hospitality,”
Orómar nodded and turned to walk out. On his way out the door, he said quietly to Ilizzaro in an old form of Sylvan, “He must rest. Let him recover slowly on his own. This is best.”
Ilizzaro nodded and watched Orómar walk out the door.
Mirkk was not familiar with Sylvan as much as he was High Elven, as some referred to it. He saw Cainoyen turning to walk out the door, but stopped him.
“Lord Cainoyen! If I might request one thing…” Mirkk said.
The monk turned around and nodded.
“He doesn’t speak. He took a vow of silence years ago. It made it quite frustrating, since he was our spy in Gallardshold,” chuckled Ilizzaro from the corner.
“If you would deliver another note. I cannot promise it will be the last, but if you can deliver this one, please!” Mirkk was begging at this point, but that was not needed. The monk nodded in agreement.
Working from memory, Mirkk hastily jotted down a few lines on the paper in what was probably his worst handwriting. He did not have beautiful calligraphy like Rohese. He got by with decent handwriting, but with a broken right hand, it was all but impossible to keep it tidy. Somehow, he wrote down all he needed to, folded and addressed it, and handed it to Cainoyen.
“If you could put it in the same spot, hopefully she will find it.”
The monk took the paper, nodded solemnly, and walked out.
“I will be just outside. Call out if you need anything. Again, I am Ilizzaro.” The tall elf gave a half-bow, turned, and walked out the door, closing it behind him.
Mirkk closed his eyes, opened his mouth, and tried to whisper the name, “Rohese.” The still air hung in the room, carrying nothing in the wind. Mirkk sighed in frustration, but couldn’t open his eyes. Exhaustion and weakness took over his body and he fell asleep with quill still in hand.
“Degmir!” shouted Donnavan.
“Yes, sir?” the soldier said as he entered the room. “How may I assist?”
Donnavan stared down at the paper in front of him with a quill in his hand. He placed the quill down on the tray next to the paper and read it again. It read:
Dear Lord Caulfield,
Provided below is the military update for Gallardshold and eastern Bourth:
Nothing else was written.
“Degmir, what news from our men at the Locksmehr? Or Kragsfell? Have they seen anything yet?”
“No, sir. No sightings yet, at least from Kragsfell. Locksmehr has not sent word as of yet,” stated Degmir tactfully.
“And…and Jensur? Any news from our men in the east?”
“No, sir. Nothing from the east.”
Donnavan nodded. He had a look of frustration on his face, but did not take it out on Degmir.
“Thank you, Degmir. Please let me know soonest if we get word. That is all.”
Degmir nodded, rendered a salute, faced about and exited the room.
Donnavan was already a day late providing an update to the Baron. He wanted to provide a good update. He wanted to provide one knowing there were no loose ends. He needed Lord Caulfield to feel confident in his abilities to take care of things without drawing any attention to the barony. Donnavan had his men in other baronies now, and across the DragonSpine. He was in a precarious situation.
20th of Lumnea
[Ceyrin]
While the Tempest Falls made regular trading and travel up the Tempest River from River's Rest into the Empire all but non-existent, routes still exist that the brave or foolish might use to traverse deeper into the Empire. It was one of these routes that had led Ceyrin and his travel companion towards their destination. Ceyrin expected that the closer they got to Waterford, the more likely it was that he and his companion could find a group to travel with, but since his companion was an Elf he intended to eschew these groups in favor of ensuring they remain as unnoticed and anonymous as possible, for as long as possible. The two wouldn't have that luxury in Gallardshold, and the longer they can go without attracting attention here in the Empire, the better their chances of finding what or whom they're looking for with minimal disruption.
Ceyrin and his companion both had chosen to travel to Gallardshold at the request of Rohese, who seemed concerned over the whereabouts of an acquaintance she had recently made. To Ceyrin, the importance this individual held to Rohese was quite clear, and as he had taken it upon himself to safeguard Rohese and her well-being, this task was logically a part of that mandate to himself. The obvious difference in Rohese's demeanor between three weeks ago and one week ago was stark. Previously, she had been, ebullient and joyful. Before Ceyrin left, Rohese was quite obviously sinking into a melancholy that deserved closure if nothing else.
I will find him, or I will find his corpse. She deserves to know.
After spending most of the day hiking their way through the Hendoran woods and bypassing Waterford, the duo uneventfully arrived in Gallardshold. Guardsmen bearing Bourth's crest were a heavy presence as they approached, their business, making themselves informed of everyone else's business that wished to enter Gallardshold. Several traders queued up for entrance, carts of random wares consisting mostly of tanned hides and other unique prizes from the local fauna. When it was their turn, the pair of guards performing inspections looked them up and down.
"State your names and business", the guardsmen blandly insisted.
"Ceyrin Feynde. Trade.", was the simple reply.
"Cor. I'm his muscle.", she quipped with a bright smile.
The guardsmen stared between Ceyrin and Corlyne from a pregnant moment before inquiring, "Where's your wares?"
The other guard chuckled to himself, before repeating, "wares wares" which earned him a brief but sharp glance from his coworker.
Slowly reaching into one of the pockets of his mantle, Ceyrin produced a dense bundle of storm griffin feathers. "Small but valuable"
"Unlike you, I imagine", the guardsman's pointed tone hung in the air, "...giant. Aren't you too big to be a hunter?"
Ceyrin suppressed any annoyance and calmly replied, "I never claimed to be a hunter. I'm just here to trade."
After another silent moment, the guardsman writes something down and says, "Don't cause any trouble."
"Never." At least none that could be linked to me, and with that, the two passed through the gates into Gallardshold proper.
The city itself was a sprawl of buildings, some makeshift and some permanent, surrounding the fortress proper. High-flying banners and pairs of guardsmen displaying Bourth's crest were in abundance. The display of patriotism for Bourth and the Empire at large an obvious shadow looming over the presence of everyone who visits.
"So, what's the plan again, handsome?", Corlyne inquired.
"Divide and conquer. I'd be lying if I knew how you planned to get information, but I'm sure whatever it is I'll likely be in the way."
"You're never in my way", she replied with a wink. "I'm just going to... talk to some people."
"I'll start here, closer to the edges of the town." Ceyrin paused for a moment then added,"If I'm lucky, I'll find what I'm looking for."
If this Mirkk has come or gone through the city, there's a decent chance someone unnoticeable noticed something.
"Be careful, Corlyne.", Ceyrin cautioned, before stealing a kiss and passing her an obvious wink.
Ceyrin’s elven companion turned with a wink and headed off in the direction of the market, the heavy fabric of her hood concealing the sharply curved identification marks nestled within her obsidian locks.
And with that, they parted ways. Ceyrin made short work of locating a tavern, it was noisy and there was a sizable crowd. The sign was mostly faded away but Ceyrin was able to make out the head of a lion and a goat facing away from one another, the lettering only faint flecks of reddish paint -- or maybe that was just mud.
Upon entering the tavern, Ceyrin was immediately greeted with an assortment of looks from the largely human patrons that ranged from irritable to indifferent. It wasn't surprising to see the tavern filled during the midday, when it was a reasonable choice to avoid working outside in the heat. Ceyrin made his way to the bar where he set a small pile of silvers down before ordering.
"I'll have something light, and local". Ceyrin's request was filled by the burly barkeep, who clearly looked as though in a past life he had spent his every waking moment felling trees. If he were much taller, Ceyrin would have assumed they were kin.
"I go'cha right 'ere friend. Pint of the finest Bourth 'as to offer." The barkeep decants the draft into a mug for Ceyrin placing it on the bar before him and then adds, "Yer right ta be havin' a lager in this heat."
Ceyrin took the mug and nods to the barkeep before having a large gulp. The light effervescence of the draft is complimented by the sweetened fragrance hearty wheat and barest of malt undertone. "I'm looking for something. I've got some nice wares, but what I want to be paid in isn't coin."
"Wh'cha lookin' for then?", the barkeep asked, his expression suddenly more guarded, and his tone a bit lower.
"Stories...", Ceyrin obfuscated, letting the word dangle for a moment, "Local ones."
"Wha' like ol' folk tales 'bout tha 'Deep?", the barkeep gave off an unhealthy sounding chuckle that turned into a cough.
Ceyrin paused for a moment, then replied, "Something more recent, I think. I've heard stories about a misbehaving nephew."
The barkeep gave Ceyrin a long stare, "Ain' much o' one ta' speak on the dead."
"Nor I", was all Ceyrin said before producing a bundle of storm griffin feathers from his mantle and laying them on the bar.
Ceyrin removed the bindings and opened the bundle of griffin feathers up watching the barkeep as he does. He revealed a smaller hawk feather amidst the larger griffin feathers before quickly re-securing the bundle. "As you can see, I am prepared to pay the cost of any such information, I believe."
This time Ceyrin was staring at the barkeep to note any change in expression. There was none.
Abruptly, the barkeep grabbed a nearby rag and began wiping down an old mug, "Ya really oughta go see the Wyrdeep, son."
Ceyrin considered whether the old man was lying to him for several moments. Everything about this place was old, as if he or at least this establishment had been there for some time.
Either he is an ally, or he is sending me to my death. Either way, I will learn something.
Having come to a conclusion, Ceyrin downed the rest of his lager quickly. He left the bundle of storm griffin feathers upon the bar and simply remarked, "Buy yourself a new sign" as he turned to leave.
"I like ma sign", the barkeep muttered to himself.
"I'm headed towards the Wyrdeep, but it could be a trap.", Ceyrin directed at Corlyne's thoughts as he walked briskly out of the tavern and onto the street, moving towards the gates.
I will find him. I must.
21st of Lumnea
Memories
She stood at the edge of the Cysaelotar glacier, it’s mirror-like finish capturing the night sky in all its celestial glory. The pale blue of the ancient ice was light in the center, yet near cobalt along the edges with skeins of white frost creeping across its reflection and darkening it to azure. Cradled in her right hand was a silk-sailed windracer.
Pressing her fingers to a locket concealed beneath her gown, she whispered a name into the sails and carefully set the windracer down on the glassy surface before stepping back with a shiver. Almost instantly, it surged across the ice as the air current that coursed through the area caught its bright sail and sent it racing over the cliff, only to be lifted by the wind and into the sky where it disappeared from sight. She gazed up at the stars and whispered a second name into the biting cold wind, still hoping to hear a response. Nothing.
The Ceremony of Remembrance earlier that day had seen her place flowers into the flames of the bonfire in memory of all those she had loved and lost. The thrumming of the aelotoi’s wings during the circle ritual had drawn the attention of a cluster of jeweled dragonflies. They had hovered above all their heads for some time but one – a pretty gold one with iridescent wings - had settled upon her hair and was still resting there now. It had oddly brought her comfort so she was loathed to disturb it.
Memories. That’s all she had now.
Memories and the flowers that Sighisoara had brought to her each morning. Memories and the more recent slips of silver-edged paper filled with beautiful prose. She had purchased a pretty binder from one of the local traders and had decided to spend some time filling it with pressed flowers and penned verse as a keepsake.
Light snowflakes had started to fall, settling briefly on her eyelashes. Pulling her coat around her to ward off the chill, she settled herself upon one of the stones at the edge of the nearby waterfall. She pondered the gently cascading water for a while, losing herself in its crystalline beauty. Thoughts flowed through her mind like the babbling, crystal-clear waters before her; cleansing her of any sense of guilt, purging her of regret, and clarifying her uncertainty.
It seems I am destined to be alone. So be it.
Her mind made up, she toyed with the engagement ring on her finger and exhaled. There was a letter that needed to be written but first …. opening the binder, she slotted in the first page and began to decorate it with forget-me-nots.
So many memories.
Without intending to,
You broke me into pieces
And shattered my soul,
Yet somehow you're the most
Gentle love my heart
Has ever known
Fireflies at Night
Mirkk opened his eyes. The candle on the small table next to his bed had burned low, but still was lighted. He sensed that it was night, but how late in the night he did not know. The room was empty of persons, save for him. He rolled over onto his back and pushed up with his left and still healing right hand into a sitting position and took a closer look around the room. The room was of adequate size – not large by any means, but not small either – and seemed to be carved out of a solid block of wood. The floor, walls, and tapered ceiling were all solid and same, with no planks to be seen. He almost felt like a squirrel in a hole. Across from him, he saw the door with the peg next to it. The door had an ornate stained-glass window in the center and near the top. Hanging on the peg, he saw his satchel. Someone had hung it back up. He also saw his herb kit, and below it he noticed his boots with his dark cloak folded neatly beside them. To the immediate right of the door was a window, but it was shuttered with blue-grey haon shutters.
He took this moment to finally take inventory of himself. He had no shirt, but was bandaged around the torso with fresh linen dressings. His right hand was also in a splint and bandaged. He extended and closed his fingers. Still some pain, but movement is possible. Otherwise, he was from head-to-toe healing from minor scratches and bruises. He was wearing some loose wool trousers on his legs.
He glanced around the room again. Oak. This looks like solid oak. There was an empty chair resting in the rounded corner to the left of the door. He continued his gaze along the bare wall to the left of him until he found the next corner. Along the back wall next to his bed was the table that was serving as a night stand, with its candle burning low, a sprig of bleeding-heart, and a white feather quill.
I wrote to her. What day is this? How long did I sleep? Has she received my message yet? I must…
He shifted in his bed, but realized he needed clothes. He continued to gaze around the room. To the right of his bed the wall was bare, but along the wall adjacent to him to the right he saw a beautifully carved deep grey haon wash basin stand with an ivory porcelain pitcher resting on the surface. The carvings along the legs were those of white oaks with branches that extended along the front doors and along the sides of the stand. Atop, the rack that held two neatly folded towels was carved with two mighty stags, suspended forever on their back legs with heads down, ready to clash together in a fight that would never ensue.
To the left of the wash stand was another chair. On the chair was a simple linen shirt and a brown Elven ruhan. Mirkk carefully got out of bed, his bare feet lightly touching the smooth solid wood floor. He moved quietly over to the table and slipped into the shirt and pulled the ruhan over his head. He had no way to cinch the ruhan. No need to worry about that now.
He crept over toward the door and carefully grabbed his boots and slipped them on his feet. He briefly thought perhaps he should go barefoot, but decided to continue with the boots, as he was uncertain into what he would be heading. He also grabbed his black-banded invar pipe, which still had some tobacco in it. He then turned, lifted the latch, slowly opened the door, and stepped outside into the night.
As he stepped out, he felt the separation of planks under his feet, though they made no sound. The air was still, but very pleasant in this very early summer night. The darkness played with his eyes, and they needed to adjust. Even so, Mirkk could make out the soft, warm glow of lights scattered before him like fireflies suspended in the air. It was so beautiful, he just stood there for a moment, letting his eyes continue to adapt to the dark beauty of the night. He was able to begin making out the lines of what seemed to be dark trees that seemed so immense he thought he was going to have to pinch himself to prove he wasn’t in a dream.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” a voice called off from behind him over his left shoulder.
Mirkk quickly turned to look, but couldn’t make out anything in the greys and blacks of the forest at night. His eyes still had not adjusted enough from moving from light to dark.
“Sorry,” chuckled Ilizzaro as he moved a few steps closer to allow Mirkk to better see him.
Mirkk relaxed a bit. At least not a total stranger.
“It is. Those lights, they are…,” Mirkk said, turning back toward the nocturnal spectacle. “You were waiting for me out here?”
“Sort of,” Ilizzaro said with a grin that Mirkk couldn’t see. “And the lights are máralda. Tree dwellings. I was around the corner whittling when I heard all your noise. You’d think you were trying to let folks know you were here.”
Mirkk couldn’t help but return the grin, which the elf of the forest could clearly see. It was starting to set in that he was among the true wood elves, many of whom had never left this forest. They had made a life here as the lerina hos, or free folk. They are the ghosts of the woods, the faeriekin, the monsters of the forest, the Hunter and his Nynell, all in one. When they moved permanently into these woods after Chaston’s Edict, that is when the stories began. Still, there were magical properties to this place.
“I will go and let Orómar the Elder know you are up and able to walk. He will likely wish to speak with you about important matters,” said Ilizzaro.
“Will he see me tonight?” Mirkk asked.
Ilizzaro chucked. “Important matters. He is an old elf. He may speak with you tonight, tomorrow, or next week. Time moves differently for us, remember.”
Mirkk nodded, though he was eager to move forward with what was coming next. “I understand. Let him know I again thank him for his hospitality and look forward to speaking with him.”
Ilizzaro flashed another grin, which Mirkk caught this time. His eyes were adjusting.
“Will do,” said Ilizzaro. “Don’t wander too far. We don’t want you to fall off!” he said with another chuckle, and then disappeared into the darkness.
Mirkk took note of this last comment, and looked into the trees before him, this time focusing downward. The fireflies extended down for what seemed like at least a hundred feet, though his perception of the depth couldn’t be certain. The fireflies now had the shapes of windows in dwellings and doors, with some máralda carved into the mighty dark grey trees of the night, and others built on the sides of the trees or along the edges of platforms or branches. Still, he could only make out so much.
He turned and noticed a small wooden bench next to the door of the máralda in which he was staying. He walked over and sat down, lit his pipe, and took a puff. As he exhaled, he looked as far as he could directly up through the mighty branches and platforms and máralda and leaves until he found a patch of the night’s sky. He fixed his gaze on a single star which he watched for a moment. He then closed his eyes and whispered the name, “Rohese.”
The mighty oaks of the forest did not allow his words to travel, and their leaves rustled with a breeze.
As his surroundings shifted, Cainoyen once again found himself in West Harbor. The last time he was in West Harbor, he was picking up a sack of white flasks from the dark elf. Thankfully, today he was not picking up, only dropping off. As he moved out of Seathrak Harbor for East Harbor, he heard something that piqued his interest. A large man was standing outside some sort of tavern or bar. He was having an emphatic conversation with a gnome.
“You missed it because it wasn’t here yesterday,” the man said to the gnome. “Lady Rohese said it was to be held somewhere near the lists at some bonfire or something,” the man muttered.
Cainoyen, having taken a vow of silence and not being able to ask questions, had learned to listen a lot more to the conversations around him. He stopped momentarily and acted as if he was fishing for something in his robes.
The gnome said something Cainoyen didn’t hear, and the proprietor of the tavern said, “I don’t know. I think it is in a week. Some sort of lecture at the library in West Harbor, but it’s not a book meeting. Don’t show up here again for something like that, because it won’t be here.”
The gnome, looking dejected, nodded and started walking in the general direction of Cainoyen. Cainoyen quickly turned and started walking again toward East Harbor.
This bit of information may be of interest. But how can I share it?
He made his way across Gardenia Commons and into East Harbor, making his drop at the appropriate place. He was not sure what to expect, as the last time he was there he found flowers. There was nothing, and he was not sure what that meant. Regardless, he placed his note in the appropriate spot, and departed, passing several individuals who greeted him, and at least one or two looked familiar.
I’m beginning to be recognized in this place. I’m not sure that is a good thing.
22nd of Lumnea
Midst the Mighty Oaks
Mirkk could tell he was on the mend, as he had woken up with the cooing of the mourning doves somewhere outside his máralda. He had dressed himself as he did the night before, and stepped outside to meet Ilizzaro. Ilizzaro was standing outside, ready to greet him. This was the first time Mirkk had seen this place in the daylight. He was not sure what to expect after the fireflies of the night before. He was not let down.
As he stepped out onto the platform, he realized he was at least one hundred feet in the air. The boards of the platform were masterfully cut, leaving only enough gap between them for rain runoff and the expansion and contraction during the seasons. This platform wrapped halfway around this tree. This tree? Mirkk realized the tree was not really a tree at all, but was rather the remnants of a tree – a tree with no base trunk or roots at all. Two massive branches extended from the tree at the same level as the platform, as if the tree were extending her arms toward her sisters on both sides. The large branches of the two other trees had been grafted together with the branches of this tree through the process of inosculation. This tree is receiving its nutrients through the branches of the other trees. Mirkk stood at the base of the platform and stared down below, looking at where a trunk should have been. He then gazed up and saw that the tree had continued to grow up toward the sun, but that this white oak was not as large as the surrounding trees of this grove.
He took a moment to look around at the rest of the grove, which seemed to be comprised of six or seven massive oak trees, larger and mightier than any tree he had ever seen before. Many of them had grafted branches between them, creating bridges from one to another. In the middle of the grove stood what was likely the most ancient and mighty tree of the grove, and perhaps even of all the forest. It stood at least one third larger than all the other oak trees.
This must have been cultivated over hundreds of years, maybe even a thousand years.
He stood in awe until Ilizzaro asked, “Ready to see the place?”
“Yes. Please. Just give me one moment,” Mirkk said.
He pulled a quill and piece of paper out of his satchel, and jotted the beginning of his letter. After a few moments of hastily writing, he put the paper and quill back in the satchel and gave a nod to Ilizzaro, who chuckled in return.
“This way,” said Ilizzaro.
They made their way northwest, crossing one of the grafted branch-bridges. Mirkk noticed the bridge could easily fit four humans or Elves across, or perhaps two giants, at the same time. The mighty branches were certainly sturdy enough to hold giants. While the majority of the branches were intact, the bridge was carved on the topmost portion. As with his máralda, the bridge was a single carving of oak. The smooth surface of floor stretched to the next oak tree, but was recessed to provide the carvings of handrails. Intricate carvings of harpy eagles on the ends in flight rested on the ends of both handrails, wings spread and talons clutched on the rails themselves as if the eagles were holding the bridge in place. All of this was carved into the branch, a single carving of wood.
Moving across the bridge, Mirkk noticed a slight transition as the wood changed from white oak to black oak, though he couldn’t tell exactly at which point the transition occurred. At the northwest end, two matching harpy eagles, this time carved from black oak, carried the other ends of the bridge. They were now standing on the platform of a massive black oak. This oak’s platform wasn’t as wide, but circled the tree completely, making it slightly larger than the previous hanging oak’s platform. Several máralda were carved into the tree, but several more were built onto the sides of the tree. Many had peg steps curving slightly up or down the tree to their doorways. Mirkk made note that, although these trees were the largest he’d ever seen, even larger than the ancient trees near Melghoren’s Reach, the leaves and bark were similar in size to the oak trees he was used to seeing. They’re the same species, just much older.
“Why are some máralda built into the trees, and others onto the sides?” he asked Ilizzaro.
Ilizzaro chuckled, as was his typical response, and said, “Space, for one. But the other is that you can only cut so much into a tree before you kill it. We must leave most of the bark and inner tree undisturbed so they continue to provide for us.”
This made sense to Mirkk. The old woods and the old Sylvan Elves would have learned each other’s balance a long, long time ago. He nodded, indicating he was ready to continue. Ilizzaro nodded in return, and headed southwest across another branch-bridge.
This bridge was carved from two extremely large branches of black oaks. At the entry to the bridge, there were no mighty eagles, but rather stags flanking the entrance. Mirkk looked at them in awe, for one because they were again carved along with the bridge from a solid bit of black oak, but also that if such stags ever existed, they would be the mightiest of stag he would have ever seen. Additionally, as they moved across the bridge, he noticed the carvings on this one had several other forest creatures along the handrails, to include rabbits and various owls and other animals.
Emerging through the next platform was another black oak. This black oak served as a junction, with the stag bridge heading back to the northeast, a suspended rope footbridge heading southwest, and an extremely wide bridge heading southeast.
“Go on, do it! Don’t be scared!” Ilizzaro shouted, snapping Mirkk back to reality of standing on the platform. He turned to see what Ilizzaro was shouting about. Several young elves, seeming to be adolescent, were daring each other to jump off the footbridge into the deep waters of the river below. The river flowed from the northwest in a southeasterly direction, under the footbridge and continued down under a second footbridge Mirkk could see down the way, ultimately leading to what appeared to be a dam. The dam made the river a bit deeper and wider than it naturally would have been. This must feed into the Tempest.
Mirkk heard the shout and turned back to watch the final moments of the drop of one of the youth plunging into the river. Mirkk held his breath, perhaps out of habit. He finally exhaled when the young elf emerged, took a deep breath, and shouted to his friends, who shouted in excitement in return. Mirkk looked down again. We must be at least one hundred feet above the ground!
“A test of bravery,” Ilizzaro chuckled. “They do this every now and then. It is fun to watch.”
“It certainly is. I don’t know if I would do it,” Mirkk grinned as he was jotting down a few more lines on his paper. Once he was finished, he nodded again to Ilizzaro. Ilizzaro nodded, and headed southeast across the massive bridge.
This bridge seemed much different to Mirkk. For one, the black oak gave way to another oak, but Mirkk was not certain of the species at all. It was oak, certainly, but what oak? The carvings along the wide bridge also did not have animals. These carvings took a more somber tone, with the first parts of the bridge showing a story of an empire and cities and castles. Toward the middle of the bridge, the carvings showed large groups of Elves leaving the cities, moving toward the end of the bridge. He could sense other passersby coming and going across the bridge, and absentmindedly dodged them as he continued to study the carvings along the rails and sides. At the end of the bridge, the carvings displayed a forest with the Elves arriving at some very large trees. This bridge is telling the story of Chaston’s Edict, and the Elves settling here.
Having been lost in thought over the carvings of the bridge, Mirkk had not realized he was now standing on the platform of the largest of all the trees. He looked up and was startled to see how large this tree and platform were, and that there was a hustle and bustle about this place. This is the heart of the city. He gazed up and saw this tree extended well beyond the canopy made by the other trees. He looked back at the platform. There were máralda, certainly, winding their way around the tree. There were also many other things. For starters, there were shops and other máralda mixed along the edges of the platform. He looked across the platform and saw a smithy, with the blacksmith hammering away. He looked left at the tree and saw a twelve foot tall carving in the southern side of the tree of what looked like the Arkati Phoen. Beneath the carving rested candles and wreaths and flowers. Along the platform, as streams of light defeated the canopy of the leaves and made their way down, planter boxes were everywhere. Anywhere there was light, there was a planter box, some with vegetables, others with small fruit trees, and some with nut trees.
“Just in time!” said Ilizzaro as he beckoned Mirkk to follow. As Mirkk walked across the platform toward the smithy, the platform took a different feel under his boots. It now had flat slate underfoot. That must be how they have the fires here without risking burning it down. Ilizzaro stopped at a bakery that Mirkk had smelled halfway across the platform. Ilizzaro shared a word with the baker, and the baker handed him a piece of warm flat bread. Mirkk broke the bread in two, and handed the other half back to Ilizzaro and said, “Thank you, my friend.” Ilizzaro accepted with a grin, and ate his bread.
Ilizzaro took him around the platform, explaining to Mirkk that each side had a name. The southern side they referred to in Elven as the “sun side” because it received the most sun that the trees would let through. This side was dedicated to Phoen. Along the west of the platform, there was a large carving of Tonis, which they called the “sunset side.” To the north was the “dark side” that they had dedicated to Ronan, which also had a carving of the Arkati inset into the tree. This side was interesting to Mirkk because they had a series of low-light plants, mosses, and lichen growing. He realized all the more that the Elves truly maximized their space and lived with a balance here. The last side on the east was called the sunrise side, and had a carving of Lumnis. Mirkk stopped in his tracks. He did not have much on him, but he reached into his satchel and pulled out a dried pink leaf from a dogwood tree. He placed it at the foot of Lumnis and whispered a few quick words. He looked up, glance at Ilizzaro, and then reached again into his satchel and pulled out his quill and paper and frenetically wrote a few more lines. When done, he raised his head again and nodded to Ilizzaro.
They made their way back toward the general direction of the smithy, and Mirkk saw another bridge heading to the southeast. This bridge was just as wide as the other bridge leading to the great tree, and the carvings seemed to be the same. Anyone crossing these bridges bear witness to what happened to the Elves.
Ilizzaro was showing him the water wheel that was down close to the waterfall, and how it used pulleys and buckets to bring things from the river’s edge up to the trees. Mirkk thought it was a mechanical masterpiece, and very efficient. At that moment, a young Elven boy ran up and tugged on Mirkk’s ruhan, giggled, and ran off back to what was presumably his sister. He hid behind her skirt. Mirkk grinned at the boy. He looked around and realized that, despite all the hustle and bustle of this central tree’s platform, many of the Elves were looking at him, some whispering, some of the maidens giggling. He suddenly felt very awkward. He did not like attention.
Then, in unison, all whispering and giggling and working stopped and all the Elves turned their heads south. There was a profound silence and Mirkk looked at Ilizzaro, who seemed to be looking at something far off in the distance. After a brief moment, and just as suddenly as it had started, everyone returned to what they were doing as if nothing happened.
“There is more we can show,” Ilizzaro said with a smile. “But, we have some time. We do not want to wear you out all in one day.”
On the walk back, Ilizzaro had told Mirkk of a boathouse below the waterfall, and that the rope bridges were there in the event they had to cut them down and use the river for protection. Everything was starting to make more sense to Mirkk about how this place existed. The forest was here because it had to be. The Elves were here because they had to be. They both relied on each other in one way or another in harmony. The Elves would defend the forest, the forest would protect the Elves.
Upon return to the máralda in which Mirkk was staying, he finished his letter to Rohese, folded it, and asked Ilizzaro if he could get someone to send it to Illistim.
“I think we can arrange that, easily,” Ilizzaro said with a grin. He waved, and walked off. Mirkk sat back down on the bench outside the máralda, once again lit his pipe, and just looked in awe at the trees.
Oialëa Elen,
You are all that I hold dear. I want nothing in this life or the next than to be with you once more, if only for the moment that is given to me. I wish to tell you that I am alive and with the Elves in Wyrdeep.
Rohese, I wish you could see this place. Outside of you, it is the most beautiful thing nature has bestowed upon my mortal eyes. I shall do my best to do it justice, as many words, both common and Elven, cannot describe what I have seen today.
First, allow me to tell you that this settlement is built among the largest trees I have ever seen – mighty ancient oak trees of several different varieties! Through them, below on the forest floor, two of the rivers that feed the Tempest River flow. It appears to me that the trees running from the utmost north of this settlement down the southwest side are of the black oak variety, and from nearly northernmost and running southeast are of white oak. Once both sets of trees meet the river, they changed to a willow oak species. Central to this is the largest of the trees, which I will describe later. Its species I cannot determine, though it seems to also be some sort of oak. The Elves have dammed up the river, which flows from the northwest in a southeastern direction, and use it for fishing and drinking water. A smaller, but equally impressive river flows in from the north and meets the other river just before the dam, and the two rivers create a beautiful waterfall, at which point those able waters continue to flow to the Tempest, and ultimately to the sea. The waterfall creates a mist around it which conceals several paths to the bottom of the waterfall where they keep several long, narrow boats. I have not yet seen the lower levels of the waterfall, nor have I seen the boats. Ilizzaro tells me they use them to move up and down the river, usually at night to ensure not being seen by Gallardshold.
I am sorry, I forgot to tell you of Ilizzaro. He is a young elf, if ever there was such a thing to a human. He has long brown hair and green eyes and the colors of the forest in his clothes. He hears things from this place that are happening at the far edges of the forest, and I feel when his eyes look at me they are so keen and bright that he can see just as far. He has been assigned as my escort. He is a lighthearted and jovial Elf who never seems to take too much too seriously, but when given a task, carries it out almost as disciplined as a soldier.
So that is it for the rivers. Across them they have rope bridges. Oh Roh! The bridges! There are only two rope bridges spanning over the larger of the two rivers at about one hundred feet above. One bridge stretches from the black oaks to the willow oaks, and the other from the white oaks to the same row of willow oaks. Some of the more daring Elves challenge each other to jump off them into the deeper parts of the river below. I have watched this twice already and, even though the rope bridges sag a bit in the middle, I cannot say I would dare to do such a thing! But the other bridges…
The other bridges, equally high, are the most amazing things. They are the immense branches of oak trees – black oak, white oak, willow oak- that have been bound together over the centuries with rope and tightened until they form one single branch through a process that I have seen only once, and only on much smaller, flexible trees, called inosculation. From these inosculated branches, the Elves have carved stairs and bridges that link all of these trees together, with the exception of those two rope bridges I mentioned before. Each of these bridges between the oaks is carved with a different animal. The bridges on the black oak have stags for one, and owls on another. The both bridges leading to and from the hanging oak have harpy eagles that are carved in such a manner as to be holding the bridges up in their talons. The one closest to the dam on the white oak side is carved with beavers. Everything here has had hundreds of years of thought and patience placed into it by the Elves. I have not been across the river to the willow oak side yet, so I do not know about the bridges there. All in all, there are about seven of these mighty oak trees surrounding one central tree that is clearly and by far the oldest tree in this oak grove, and maybe even this forest.
This sentinel tree is at least a third larger than all the other trees, and it is as if all the other mighty trees are circling it to pay homage. This ancient oak (as I call it) has two paths leading to and from it through these mated branches from other trees, but these paths are so wide, two horse-drawn wagons travelling side by side could cross them! (This, of course, assumes one could get horse-drawn wagons to this height.) At the main level of this oak, which is still at least a hundred feet above the forest floor, is a large platform that circles the entire tree. The Elves have what they call the “Sunrise” side which faces east, the “Sun All” side, which points south and gets the most sun of the day as it peaks through the canopy above, the “Sunset” side that faces west, and lastly the “Dark” side, which faces north and gets the least amount of direct sunlight. Carved into the four directions of the tree are solid oak sculptures of Lumnis, Phoen, Tonis, and Ronan, respectively. This oak also has a large staircase that circles it, one set going down to another level that appears to be the bottom level about sixty-five feet above the forest floor, and another that goes up into the treetops. I have not been able to venture these paths yet.
I am so sorry, my prose is all over the place. I am so used to writing neat, rhyming lines in meter for you, and I realize you must think I’m a follower of Zelia (rest assured, I am not) with how I am writing you right now.
This mighty oak not only has máralda(tree dwellings, I have learned. Houses. Remind me to tell you about these, also!), but also they have found ways of having a blacksmith up here by laying slate stone on the wood platform, as well as a bakery, among other things. (Ilizzaro handed me warm flatbread this morning and it was delicious.) They keep the smithy close to the waterfall, likely to mask the noises of the hammers when they are working. This platform is the busiest of all the trees I have been able to visit, and many of the passersby have either never seen a human before, or are quite peculiar of seeing one here in this place. The children run up and tug on my clothes, the maidens look, whisper, and giggle (You have nothing to worry about! My heart is taken!), and some of the more distinguished give a curt nod but keep a watchful eye on me. I must be quite the spectacle!
Much of this ancient tree’s platform is lined with illuminated planter boxes where they harvest vegetables and have some small fruit trees, and these planter boxes are placed advantageously as to get the best light of the day. Ilizzaro tells me they are moved throughout the year as the light from the sun changes its course with the seasons. On the dark side of the tree, they grow low light things such as moss, lichen, and lettuce, and broccoli and other quëa. The Elves have learned to maximize everything here, particularly when it comes to things requiring resources such as sunlight and soil, which can be limited in the trees under the canopy.
Oh yes! The soil and slate! How do they get these things up here? They have created a water wheel using the force of the river just before the waterfall, and this wheel turns, moving ropes between pulleys, bringing baskets of things or buckets of water up to the trees, requiring no strength other than the strength of the rivers. It is so remarkable. I have seen water mills before, but never vertical ones.
There is so much I can tell you about this place, but I fear I am running out of paper! I must at least save a few sheets, as I have designs for them.
My dear Rohese, I know I bring it up all too often, and I do not wish to end on melancholy note, but I must. I am human and I am only reminded every moment while I am here of how short my life is compared to those around me.
If I had only but one year, would you spend it with me?
And if only one month?
A week?
If I had just an hour, would you choose to spend it with me?
If I had an eternity, I would with you. You know this, I think.
As oialëa melmë,
Mirkk, from the Wyrdeep
23rd of Lumnea
A Letter Delivered
The courier used her typical route heading north through the Wyrdeep, making sure to avoid the deeper parts of the forest. She halted at one of her usual spots, allowing her horse to graze at a glade with a small pond, and waited for the hour of Tonis to pass and night to take over. She liked waiting at the glade because it was peaceful and serene. Dragonflies would zip around the cattails and sometimes land on her finger if she held it still long enough. As the hour of Tonis came, the dragonflies would disappear to wherever it was that dragonflies went at night. It was time to continue on.
She passed Krinklehorn in the dark, choosing to lead her horse through the rockier parts heading up the mountain to a small pass that only a handful of residents of Krinklehorn knew about, though it was well known among the Elves. The Wyrdeep Elves had long used this pass, mainly for couriers to relay messages. The Wyrdeep Elves cared nothing for the politics of the great houses, but did care much about trade, particularly for grains, spices, and textiles - things that didn’t come easy in the forest. In exchange, they would trade fine woods, bulk lumber, furs, and other things that were plentiful in the Wyrdeep. With trade came required correspondence, and that was her duty.
Once over the chilly mountain pass, and through a cool, dark valley, she made her way through yet another pass. She moved down the barely noticeable switchbacks along the eastern side of the mountain until she hit scree, which she carefully and cautiously walked down. It was not the easiest route, but it was the quickest and most efficient to get to Ta’Illistim. Once she made it to Whistler’s Pass, it was back onto her horse where she could move much quicker. She was always carefully keeping an eye and ear out for bandits, though they likely would be sleeping this late at night.
She arrived at Sylvarraend in early morning. The sun was barely breaking over the horizon. She always enjoyed her trips to the Shining City and would often stop by Galieca's for a scone and coffee when she was there. First, I must deliver my message. She handed her horse off to a local stable boy, slipped him some silvers, and informed him she would return to Sylvarraend later that same day to retrieve him. The boy nodded, and headed off toward the stalls of the stable. Some of the horses in the stable were so beautiful. She wished one day she could have one as beautiful. Messages. Right! She turned, and headed back toward Sylvarraend Road.
For as many years as she had traveled this route, she had never been to Sylvanfair Manse. Many of her letters were delivered to the shop keepers and traders in Illistim proper, occasionally with the bank, and once or twice with the Office of the Seneschal. But never here. She had to ask an older, distinguished looking Illistim Elf if he knew the way. He nodded and pointed her in the right direction. She thanked him and continued on.
As she crossed the cobblestone courtyard toward the grey stone manse, she wondered if she was in the right place. She glanced at a bench that rested next to a gate that lead to a garden beyond. Inscribed on the bench was a name. This is the place.
Having never before been to this residence, and given the early hour of the day, she did not want to knock. She hesitated again, looking around. She approached the large door and pulled the letter from her messenger bag. It was on silver-edged paper – several, actually – and folded into thirds, addressed, but had no seal. She glanced around again, as if unsure to knock or to place it somewhere. I could place it on the donation box. Her anxiety began to get the best of her. Usually messages were easy to deliver, and she would move from merchant to merchant and hand them over. She had no idea what to do at this residence, and this was the only message she had been given to deliver. What if I do not deliver this properly to the appropriate recipient? They will surely notice, as it is the only message I have. What if a response does not come?
Uncertain from where it came, a dragonfly buzzed in front of her. They do like the early morning hours. The dragonfly landed on the lilac tree arch over the door and looked at her. How cute! She held out her finger to see if the dragonfly would hop over to her. It did not. It simply flew to eye level, looked at her for a moment as it hovered, and flew up out of sight. She giggled.
Still uncertain, she placed the letter on the ground in front of the door, lightly knocked, quickly grabbed a plum from one of the boxes nearby, and then hurried away, hoping she did not upset anyone that may still be sleeping. I’ll likely have to explain later. But first, coffee.
She had some errands to run for friends who had always slipped her a few silvers and asked for things from the city. The usual requests involved spices or sweets. She would spend the first part of her morning running those errands, then typically she would circle back around to the recipients of the letters to see if there was any return post. After that, she would head to Sylvarraend, get her horse, and head back to Wyrdeep. I must remember to stop by the Manse, explain who I am, and inquire about return post!
She never looked forward to the return trip. The thought of having to wait up in the mountains until nightfall to move past Krinklehorn undetected was so dreadful. She did not have dragonflies up there in the pass, only the chill. Now, back to that coffee
24th of Lumnea
Why the Dragonfly?
Aavia opened the door of the Manse to scatter yesterday’s stale bread for the birds. Dawn usually saw them congregate on the rooftop to herald in the new day with their song. Dusting the crumbs from her hands, she noticed a bundle of paper just to the side. It seemed to have a silver-edge, not unlike the note she had discovered in the library a while ago. Picking it up, she tucked it into the pocket of her apron, making a mental note to give it to her mistress later that day.
Meanwhile, her mistress was still asleep upstairs; her dreams keeping her melancholia at bay.
The wind drifted across her face, its feathery touch light and gentle as it drew her away from her resting place. Colors glided across her vision in shades of green dotted with white and she realized that she was gazing down upon a forest filled with magnificent oak trees. Her eyes shifted from right to left, taking it all in as she floated on the air currents and she was filled with the pure joy of flight.
Angling her iridescent wings, she dipped towards the forest and the world of greenery rushed up to meet her. She suddenly realized that the air had changed, no longer dry and chill, but heavy and moist. The sweet scent of flowers filled her senses, and she realized that she was thirsty for their nectar. Alighting upon the delicate petals of a forget-me-not, she bent to drink from it, but a brush of alarm filled her and she launched back into the air.
Elves! Zephyr wings carried her through the forest at exhilarating speeds, excitement filling her as her wings carried her in a thrilling race through the forest to meet them. Everywhere she looked, signs of tree dwellings greeted her vision. Spreading before her, in a riot of color, was the deep recess of a sun-dappled glade. Water murmured softly, the only sound in the area, and she felt as if the forest was holding its breath waiting for something … someone. She hovered in wonder, as she began to drift downwards, and was filled with a deep sense of belonging. Kissing her cheeks, the wind touched her once again and her vision was filled with the absolute of night. Flicking through the dark foliage was the soft glow of golden fireflies and she was overcome with curiosity. Flitting lightly through the air, her iridescent wings humming softly, she sought out the source of the light but to no avail.
Something deep inside her changed and she felt herself lifted into the air. Higher and higher she travelled, her wings lifting her up and away from the ancient forest below as she transformed into a single silver star.
Midday saw her slowly pacing the west wing of the library, her fingers lightly caressing the spines of the books neatly lining the shelves. She was in search of a particular volume; one concerning dragonflies. Ever since the day of the Remembrance Ceremony in Cysaelotar, she had been unable to shake her tiny golden companion. It followed her around, buzzing in and out of her peripheral vision, but not in an irritating way; she found it humorous and oddly comforting. She wondered about its significance though; how odd that it chose to stay with her - even now as she wandered around dimly-lit hallways – and especially after last night’s dream.
Her hand alighted upon a small green leather-bound book; its title faded and barely legible: “Why the Dragonfly?” Pulling it from the shelf, she flipped it open to a random page and began to read:
In almost every culture, the dragonfly symbolizes transformation, self-realization and new beginnings. The change having its source in mental and emotional maturity and understanding the deeper meaning of life. Moving with elegance and grace, the dragonfly’s scurrying flight across water represents an act of going beyond what’s on the surface and looking into the deeper implications and aspects of life. The iridescence of its wings and body shows itself in different colors depending on the angle and how the light falls on it. The magical property of this iridescence is also associated with the discovery of one’s own abilities by unmasking the real self and removing the doubts one casts on his/her own sense of identity. Living most of its life as a nymph or an immature, it flies only for a fraction of its life. This symbolizes and exemplifies the virtue of living in the moment and living life to the fullest. The dragonfly means hope, change, and love.
Finally finding what she was looking for, she glanced over – almost out of habit - at the top shelf of the opposing bookcase. She froze as she saw a glint of silver and hurried over to find a sheet of folded paper discreetly placed between two of the books. Was she imagining things? Could it possibly be ….
She read the name written on the front of the sheet of paper – her name - and her breath stopped. Her heart racing and fingers trembling, she quickly opened the note and read the lines within. The handwriting was unfamiliar: stilted and broken but the phrasing … the sentiment … it was from Mirkk!
Thoughts and questions tumbled through her mind. Was this just overdue in being delivered? Was he actually still alive? Or was this just a cruel joke being played by someone? She re-read the verses and felt a flutter of hope. She needed to tell Ceyrin! But then she was reminded that he had left town some time ago with Corlyne. A mix of elation and disappointment coursed through her and she was unsure what to do. With book in hand, she decided to go home to try and figure out what it all meant.
Opening her journal to a fresh page, she began to make a note of the date and recorded the phase of the moon and constellation currently prevalent in the night sky; as she did every day. It was then it struck her that the seven twinkling lights she had observed in the night sky during Mirkk’s absence had been those of the Dragonfly constellation! This revelation left her reeling. She glanced around the room and caught sight of the plump gold dragonfly settled upon the handle of a nearby teacup sitting next to a folded bundle of … silver-edged paper!
Her heart leapt and she reached for the letter, quickly opening it page by page as her eyes danced over the contents. Clutching it to her chest, she laughed softly, despite the tears running down her cheeks. He was safe and well and … he was thinking of her.
She quickly reached for a sheet of parchment and, dipping her quill into the inkwell, she frantically began to write. Several pages later, she folded them neatly together and tied them in a white ribbon. Her feet barely touched the ground as she ran down the stairs to give it to Aavia.
See that this is left outside in the hope someone collects it!
My sweet Mirkk,
You asked me once what brings me joy: receiving your poem and then your letter today brought me more happiness than mere words could ever describe. I confess I had given up all hope of ever hearing from you again but my heart now soars just knowing you are safe and well.
I am in awe of what you describe. My excursions into the Wyrdeep, whilst wonderous, were brief. I sensed I was an intruder, despite my heritage, and I was reticent to dwell too long. It felt to me as if the forest was holding its breath, just waiting for me to leave. If only I had caught a glimpse of what you have discovered, I believe I would have chosen never to leave. But then, I would not have met you. Or perhaps I might! Perhaps I would have been one of the young maidens you make light of. I could be capturing your heart even now if fate really did mean for us to be together. But tell me more of this bright-eyed escort, Ilizzaro; he sounds intriguing. Forgive me, I should not tease, melmënya, for it is you that I wish to see, not this fascinating young elf you have befriended.
There is so much I want to tell you, so much I wish I had said before you were so cruelly taken away. Whilst it is no sentinel, I want to show you the Sylvanfair oak tree and share its wonders with you. I want to walk in the Veythorne Gardens again; sit beneath its trees and savour the warmth of the summer sunshine with you. I want to giggle at your stories and learn all there is to know about you. I would give anything for just one more day. No matter if it were an hour, a year, or an eternity with you, I would consider my life to be complete. I would ensure that every minute we had together would be one of happy thoughts and memories. But you are far away where I cannot reach you except through these pages. You speak of melancholy thoughts. I have them too. You mention how short your life may be in contrast to mine. Your life should be filled with the joy of children and family; I cannot give you that. I could not ask you to forfeit such a blessing just to spend your life with me.
Write to me again soon just so that I can take comfort in knowing you are safe and well.
Tye sam órënya, illume.
Rohese
25th of Lumnea
The iridescent wings of a golden dragonfly glinted in the early morning sunshine as it hovered expectantly over a pale limestone altar. It flashed to-and-fro, lifted on the currents of a gentle breeze, almost as if it was dancing with excitement and anticipation.
She stepped into the glade, her eyes alighting in amusement on the beautiful insect flitting through the air and she smiled. Her spirits lifted as she glanced around the familiar surroundings and embraced its tranquillity. The dragonfly swooped low, skimming the smooth stone surface of the altar and landed beside the half-spent candle. She hadn’t had the heart to remove it that day; the day it had extinguished itself and all hope had left her. She never believed she would be returning to relight it but hope had been rekindled with the receipt of Mirkk’s letter yesterday. He was alive and well! Far away, admittedly, but safe and that’s all that mattered.
With an imperceptible flick of her fingers, a small flame licked the wick of the candle and it sparked back into life. The dragonfly launched itself back into the air with a graceful somersault and proceeded to dart around the stone circle in a spirited zig-zag motion.
She settled herself onto the lush green carpet of grass and wildflowers, eager to resume her vigil and continue reading her book. It wasn’t long, however, before the dragonfly’s mood became skittish; its movements becoming agitated and frenetic. With a loud buzzing of its wings, it bobbed up and down in front of her face, zipping back and forth as if trying to tell her something.
All of a sudden, three figures stepped into view. Their faces were concealed beneath the hoods of their dark cloaks but she could sense they were not elves. She quickly sprang to her feet, dropping the book as she did so, and watched them advance menacingly towards her. Each of the intruders were holding a short sword and their grip tightened in turn as they approached. She took a small step back and felt the cool stone of the altar press against her; she was trapped. To one side, she then saw a fourth man step out from the shadows of the nearby trees and walk steadily towards her. This man was not hooded and his cloak was thrown back over his shoulder to reveal a sword sheathed at his hip and a missing hand.
“I knew we’d finally catch you alone,” the fourth man said, in a thick imperial accent. She couldn’t place it but it was clear he was a long way from home. “There’s someone who would like to meet you.”
In that moment, the dragonfly darted forward, zipping across Jensur’s line of vision and he made a futile attempt to swat it away. She took full advantage of the fleeting distraction and murmured an incantation under her breath.
A brilliant white ball of light formed in the outstretched palms of her hands. As the ball began to glow brightly, she splayed her fingers to unleash the radiance and it instantaneously spread out to engulf the four men standing before her.
She averted her gaze as the incandescent light caught them unawares, blinding them and searing their exposed skin. She struggled to block out the sounds of their painful cries as they instinctively dropped their swords to cover their eyes. Her natural reaction was to cease the torment and tend to their wounds but, before she could do so, a white tiger sprang into the glade and took up position beside her. Baring its teeth, it growled at Jensur, who instantly recognised the sound and staggered back.
Still struggling to see properly, the four men floundered around for a few seconds but, as their vision slowly cleared, they soon realised they were at a disadvantage and retreated to the safety of the trees once more. River turned his blue eyes up to meet hers. She rested her hand gently on his back as a gesture of gratitude and mouth the words, “thank you.” And with that, he turned and loped away but not before she noticed he was limping.
Retrieving her book, she glanced around to ensure she was alone again and returned to her resting spot. She had made a promise to stay here until he returned to her, after all! She smiled to herself as the dragonfly alighted on a strand of her hair and settled itself there.
A Time to Decide
Mirkk spent the last few days exploring the main levels of the township. He believed it more a township than a settlement at this point, as he realized the population and infrastructure it had. He spent the last evening at an outdoor wooden table on one of the outer trees platforms, supping with the Elves, listening to their stories of Wyrlings, of forest goblins and darklings (though only a few of them spoke the common language, and he did not know any Sylvan), and sharing his own. They seemed disinterested in humans as their cities were so close. However, they were very interested in stories of other cities, particularly of IceMule and Zul Logoth. They were fascinated by Halflings and Dwarves, and of how they founded their towns. It was a slow process, as much of what he said had to be translated. Afterward, he would sit on his bench and smoke a pipe and gaze at the stars, as had been his custom every night since that first night on the platform.
Though on this day, Ilizzaro had taken him along the bridges of the white oaks on the eastern side. At the white oak closest the river and dam, they stopped. Before them was a wooden drawbridge that was in the raised position. Ilizzaro gave a nod to the elf standing sentry at the drawbridge. The elf took a knotted rope and tossed it onto a cog that was slowly moving at the edge of the platform. The cog was next to a counter turning cog, and Mirkk realized they were powered by the water wheel below. One cog was for raising the drawbridge, and another for lowering it. There was a small lever to engage or disengage each cog.
Once lowered, Mirkk followed Ilizzaro to ground level. This was the first time he had felt the solid earth under his feet in weeks. The last time he stood on firm ground was the day at the archery ranges outside of Gallardshold. They moved through a path amongst the lesser oaks, thick ferns and underbrush. Down here things were a shade darker as there was more canopy for the light to try to pierce through. They followed the path along the river to some stone steps that led down.
Mirkk couldn’t hear a thing as he moved down the steps of the cliff and behind the waterfall. The only sound was that of water rushing by and creating the white noise below. The walls of the rock were damp from the mist and water. At the bottom of the switchback stairs, there was another small path that led out from behind the waterfall to a well concealed boathouse.
The two story boathouse was beautifully crafted, with the lower portion made of stone, extending out slightly into the water. The stonework had three symmetrical openings, each with wooden docks inside. This provided for at least six slips for boats. The upper portion was crafted of logs, with the side facing the water having a three gable roof, each with large windows beneath. The fascia of the gables were lined with beautiful wyrwood carvings of branches. This was the first sign of wyrwood he had seen in the forest. There were several willow trees just on the downstream side of the boathouse providing natural concealment from the eyes of anyone coming up the river. The luntëheru, or boat master, came out and greeted them.
“I must go see to some things. I will return shortly,” said Ilizzaro.
“Thank you, my friend. I’m sure I could easily waste away a morning in such a beautiful place as this,” Mirkk replied.
Ilizzaro took his leave, and the luntëheru spent the morning telling Mirkk about the boats and the boathouse. He showed Mirkk the carved haon boats. Similar to a canoe, these longer boats could hold around six men or Elves, but with some space for storage at the bow and stern. Each had six oars, also carved of haon. The luntëheru explained they had decided long ago on haon because they would often use the boats at night to travel down the river, past Gallardshold, to the Tempest and beyond. The dark grey-purple haon wood made for natural nocturnal camouflage along the river, even with the moons full. There were five boats docked, with one slip open. Mirkk enjoyed hearing the small waves created by the waterfall gently slapping against the sides of the boats. Once upon a time, he enjoyed sailing, but that was a long time ago.
Ilizzaro returned at late morning. “Lord Orómar has requested your presence, if you are willing.”
Mirkk bowed slightly. “Of course. He has been such a gracious host, and I must take this opportunity to thank him in person.”
Ilizzaro and Mirkk retraced their steps from earlier this morning, and made their way to the platform of the largest tree. From here, Mirkk followed Ilizzaro up the spiraling staircase that led toward the treetop. As they ascended the stairs, Mirkk could see the different sides of the platform below, heading from Phoen’s side around the tree, passing over the statue of Lumnis, around the dark side of the tree with its moss and low light plants, higher and higher, continuing past the ‘Sunset side’ of Tonis far below. At the top, the staircase opened onto a large platform. This platform wasn’t as large as the one at the main level, but was large for the treetop. Mirkk found himself naturally facing toward the southwest, with the Wyrdeep stretching before him. Off in the distance, he could faintly make out Gallardshold resting on its hilltop. Mirkk saw Orómar facing away, looking toward Gallardshold himself.
Instinctively, Mirkk turned north by northeast, saw the ridges of the DragonSpine and the general direction of Ta’Illistim. He closed his eyes, and whispered the name “Rohese.” The forest swallowed his words and did not let them travel.
“The forest is peculiar about what and who she lets in, and out,” Orómar said without turning his gaze from Gallardshold. “Truthfully, I was not sure if she would accept you.” He turned and stood, facing Mirkk, causing Mirkk to see Gallardshold and the lands of the Sun Throne whenever he looked at Orómar.
“I wanted to thank you again, my lord, for your hospitality and that of your people. I have been shown nothing but kindness during my stay,” Mirkk said in return, uncertain where this conversation was going.
Orómar took two deliberate steps forward, closing the distance between the two. “My hospitality is the least I can offer. Tell me, what do you remember of your parents?”
“Memories of memories, at this point. I have a few of them, but not many,” Mirkk responded.
“You would have been too young to remember, but as a small boy I bounced you on my knee,” Orómar said as he turned back to the southwest. “On several occasions, I was invited to sup with your family. They have always shown kindness to the Elves, despite what others in their region may have done. Elves were always welcome at their home, and as such, they and their kin will always be welcome among our people.”
There was a pregnant pause, and Mirkk thought perhaps he should say something, but then thought better of it.
“Tell me, Mirkk, what did your parents teach you of your ancestry?” Orómar asked as he turned slowly around again and studied Mirkk’s face.
Mirkk could feel the frustration, and tried not to let it show. Still, he never liked telling this story because he didn’t believe it. He didn’t want to believe it. He exhaled slowly. “My mother used to tell me this story at bedtime. Not every night, but from time to time. Over five hundred years ago, there was a lady who owned much land and was a strong, wealthy and independent woman of nobility. She was loved by her people, and also by the Elves. Her house was also strong, as she had three very able bodied sons who had come or were coming of age. Their crest was that of a silver oak with three prominent branches on a field of deep green. She was the tree, and the branches were her sons.”
Another pause. Orómar said nothing, and did not move. He only waited.
Again, but with hesitation, Mirkk continued. “As the story goes, she held land near what is now Gallardshold and the eastern regions. They had a manor house near there that backed up against the trees of the Wyrdeep… Viridian they named it because of the deep green coniferous trees that provided the backdrop. They were said to be kind to the Elves, in spite of Chaston’s Edict having been in place for many centuries. They helped maintain a certain sense of peace in the areas near the Wyrdeep, and facilitated trade between the wood Elves and the Sun Throne. While the throne enjoyed the flow of goods, some other local nobility were fearful of her power and influence in the region.”
Mirkk paused for a moment, took another deep breath, exhaled and continued.
“They say that when the Sun Throne instructed Lord Gallard Wilke, another regional noble who owned lands adjacent, to exact taxes from the Elves, things went dire and … well, the Sun Throne called on their great houses and nobility to raise their banners against the Elves. The Lady of Viridian defiantly refused, knowing full well what would come of things. She sent a letter informing the throne of her decision not to raise her army, and the next morning departed to present herself to the throne and receive her punishment, which was certainly death. But before she did, she had as much silver and wealth as she could gather from her household packed up, gave her sons new names, and sent them away for their protection. Her last instructions to them were to each produce one and only one male heir, and to never mention their family name again.”
“So off she went to her fate with her head held high in open defiance. The same head was promptly removed and the Sun Throne had all mentions of the family name, their holdings, and estate removed from all records and tomes. Lord Gallard allegedly benefited from this arrangement and increased his lands. And as for the heirs, as my mother used to tell me, one son failed to produce a male heir, only daughters. His line died with him. Another son’s lineage died several generations later, when the last son of that line was struck down by a dwarf in a quarrel at a tavern somewhere to the north. And the last son’s heir…” Mirkk cleared his throat. “The last son’s heir had listened too long to his mother’s bedtime stories, and needed to go to sleep.” The last line was bittersweet, as he heard his mother’s voice saying it in his head as he said the words aloud.
“Your mother was a strong woman. She was second cousin to the Caulfields, as is your uncle Donnavan. I was sorry to hear of her illness and passing,” Orómar said. “But your uncle is very much still loyal to the Caulfields. He wanted to bring you under his wing when your mother passed, but your father would not allow. He orchestrated the events that led to the death of your father, and had every intention of bringing you into the fold, thus removing a problem for Lord Caulfield. When you left Bourth, you were a loose end. He had heard you were killed by Krolvin pirates years later, and thought things were done. Then you returned two years ago, much to everyone’s surprise. He felt he had two options – win you over, or have you killed.”
Mirkk had to control his passions in that moment. He tried to control his response, and said, “I know who my mother is. I understand what she and my father thought I was. Is this why you keep me here? Is this why you tell me these things?”
Calmly, Orómar replied, “You are here because you are a friend of the Elves of Wyrdeep, as were your parents and your ancestors before them. I tell you these things because, whether or not you believe them, this is what your uncle still believes. This is what moves him and the means he will go to in order to achieve his ends.”
Mirkk stood there, looking at Orómar for a long moment, when Orómar spoke again. “There will come a time very soon when you will need to decide which side of the DragonSpine to which you belong. I believe you may have already made this decision. But no matter, in your deepest, most secretive thoughts, you will always wrestle with who and what you are, and of your own mortality, and of who you love and their safety. Your uncle will not risk an open conflict with the Elves, as that puts the entire empire at risk. But he will try to kill you again, and he will use her to get to you.”
Ilizzaro walked forward, holding Mirkk’s swords that were wrapped in his swordbelt. He offered them to Mirkk. His hands trembled slightly as he took his blades.
“While we cannot tell you the location of this place, you will always be a welcomed guest. Should you make it into our borders, we will find you. You may stay as long as you like, but we will with swift wings assist you in getting where you belong.” Orómar bowed to Mirkk.
“Thank you, my lord,” Mirkk said as he bowed in return.
When Mirkk returned to his room, he leaned his swords against the wall on the doorway. He was wearing a ruhan, and noticed his clothes had been washed and were folded neatly on his bed. On top of them was a bundle of parchment neatly folded with a white ribbon. They smelled of jasmine and moonflower. He opened the letter, and perused them several times over the rest of the afternoon. He kept reading and rereading the last few lines of the letter.
He had several letters to now write, and limited paper to do it.
I will need to spend the next few days with Orómar, Ilizzaro, and possibly the monk to plan. Then it will be time.
He knew this time was coming, but he didn’t realize it had come.
Donnavan was furious. He had not heard anything from Jensur, and all of his men at other passes, crossings, and at the chronomage offices had continually provided the same message: “Nothing significant to report.” He slammed his hand down on the stone in frustration as he gazed off the battlements of Gallardshold at the Wyrdeep.
I may have to burn this whole blasted forest down.
28th of Lumnea
Best Laid Plans of Mice and Men
“Idiots. The lot of you.”
Donnavan’s mood was getting worse with each passing day, and he now had no reservations about taking it out on his men. Degmir was dismayed at the thought whatever invective came next. A report had finally come in from Jensur, and it was not pleasing to Donnavan. He was standing in the dining hall with the large fireplace and larger windows. The light streamed down on a map Donnavan had spread across the table.
“Perhaps Mularos has it out for me. Perhaps I have offended him in some way and now he derives pleasure from my suffering of others incompetence!” Donnovan’s calm rant turned into shouting.
“I want every available man we have that does not need to remain on the walls or on patrol out looking for Mirkk!” he shouted. “No, the walls are sound enough. Pull some men off the walls, perhaps some of the night watch. I want men at Krinklehorn. Rumor has it there is a pass there the Elves use and I want it blocked!”
“Yes, sir,” Degmir said. His voice sounded like a man that could only stand there and take the abuse with no way out. Getting to Krinklehorn without going through the forest would take some time, and he definitely did not wish to go through the forest.
“We know he doesn’t have his gold rings because we have them. He doesn’t have this, either,” he said as he held up a strand of vaalin glowbark leaves and dangled them slightly before placing them on the table. “Keep men on the chronomages. Put men on the Four Winds Halls in River’s Rest and Wehnimer’s. Degmir, I want you watching from the Landing all the way to the Locksmehr ferry. That is the most likely place we will find him if he travels overland.”
“Yes, sir,” Degmir said. He had the demeanor of a scolded dog with its tail between its legs.
“Degmir, if you screw this up, so help me…”
Donnavan looked down at the map on the table.
“He is just one man. And did not we defeat these Elves into submission once before?” he shouted. “Get out of my sight and don’t return to me unless you have good news!”
“Aye, sir.” Degmir saluted, took a step backward, about faced, and sulked out of the room.
Donnavan gazed at the map and ran his fingers along the Locksmehr River trail, over the mountains and over Zul Logoth. He traced Whistler’s Pass until his finger rested on Ta’Illistim. He clenched his teeth hard and tasted blood. His fingers slowly moved southeast where they came to a stop on Sylvarraend.
29th of Lumnea
The tea is fresh and fragrant. Aavia hums as she sets the pot aside. She picks up the bowl of bread. She opens the front door. The courtyard is bathed in early morning sunshine. She inhales the heady scent of lilac and thyme. The air is filled with the sound of birdsong. She smiles.
A hooded figure steps from behind the tree. His knife sinks into Aavia’s side. He twists it sharply. Aavia drops to her knees. Pieces of stale bread spill all over the cobbles. The bowl shatters into several pieces. The figure steps past her. He enters the Manse without even a backward glance.
Aavia slumps to the ground. A pool of sticky red blood forms around her. One by one, the birds swoop down to peck at the bread, oblivious to the helpless maid. Her eyes close. All goes black.
Jensur stands over her. His lip curls in distaste. This elf is a problem. She has no idea the trouble she is causing. He only has a few minutes. The alarm is likely to be raised soon. He wonders if the maid is dead yet. He shrugs. Doesn’t matter now.
He lowers the knife. The point rests on her throat. Just do it. Answer for it later. He slices. He waits. Her eyes fly open. She can’t scream. He stares at her. He nods once. The blood flows from the deep gash. It stains her pillow. Her eyes close. All goes black.
No shadows to hide in this time. Time to leave. He’ll have to use the stairs. He runs.
The tea is cold.
Obstructed
Marilla sat up at the edge of the clearing. She had watched dragonflies give way to fireflies and then to nothing but the dark and the shine of the moons. She always enjoyed the moonlit walks, even though it made the trip a bit riskier in terms of being seen at night. But she knew which hills to move behind and where to hug the sides of the mountains to increase her chances of passing Krinklehorn undetected.
She attached the lead to Lintië and cautiously and carefully moved the horse along the east of Krinklehorn, feeling confident she was not seen by the night watchmen along the battlements. The wind was cooler as she moved up the foothills of the DragonSpine. The pass and the valley would be cooler still, even in the summer. She was already looking forward to a large mug of coffee at Galieca's. She had another letter to deliver at the Sylvanfair Manse, one to the Seneschal which was a surprise, and several in Ta’Illistim’s merchant district. Once delivered, she could enjoy her morning.
As she moved up one of the draws toward the tucked away pass above Krinklehorn, she froze. She thought she heard voices. Lintië’s hoof pawed once on the rocks, creating a sound that seemed to echo and made it hard to hear. But then she could hear clearly. They were the voices of men, and frankly they were not being quiet about whatever it was they were talking about. She tugged on the lead of her horse and moved closer to the side of the steep hill and hopefully out of sight. She waited a moment longer, and listened.
She could not tell what they were talking about, but she heard distinctly the voices of two different men. She had been given instructions years ago that her correspondences were important, but not so urgent as to compromise the route or the letters themselves. She frowned. This was the first time she would ever have her letters undelivered. She had delivered them late once or twice, but never undelivered. She sat there for a moment dismayed, when Lintië whinnied. He knew fresh oats were waiting for him at the stables in Sylvarraend, and he was becoming impatient.
She heard the men stop talking. Did they hear us?
She had to make a decision in the moment. If the letters were that important, Orómar would send her the long way. She quickly turned the horse around and hastily made her way down the hill. She tried not to make noise, but she could hear the men behind now. They were moving out of the pass and heading toward the direction of Krinklehorn. Her direction.
She passed Krinklehorn and passed the stony base of the hills where it met the grass before the forest. She could still hear the voices, now shouting up to the night watchmen on the ramparts of the town. She mounted her horse and rode like the wind. She took a slightly different route back, choosing to skirt the forest’s edge to the southwest along the grassy areas, to maximize the distance between her and the men before heading into the Wyrdeep. This would also not compromise her precious glade. Looks like there will not be any coffee for me today. Sorry Lintië. No oats either.
Several shouts echoed around the house at the same time. Aavia’s body had been found in the courtyard just as her mistress had been discovered slain in her bed. Her silver hair lay strewn across the blood-soaked pillow and the neck of her shift stained a similar sanguine hue. At first glance she looked as if she was still sleeping but for the wide gash traversing her neck.
“Fetch me water and bandages!” Yelled the attendant. “And start praying that the Goddess Lorminstra owes our Lady a favor.” Several servants hurried back and forth, complying with the bellowed instructions, and before long the gaping wound had been tended. Kneeling around the bed, each of the servants duly bowed their heads and murmured several orisons under their breath.
A sense of peace and calm settled over the area.
Squawking loudly, a quintet of parrots swooped through the open window and circled over Rohese’s lifeless form. Each bird was banded with feathers in hues of white, black, red, blue, and green, which began to blur as the parrots flew overhead. As they swirled into a tight circle, the birds, now suddenly insubstantial, dove into her chest and she gasped, taking in a deep breath.
They all sighed with relief. Lumnis had responded with a miraculous raising.
“What were you thinking?” Adimer shouted at Jensur. “We were told to bring her in, not murder her in her bed!”
Jensur shrugged indifferently. “You saw what happened when we tried that!” He countered angrily, pointing at his colleague with cloth-swaddled eyes. “Githien still can’t see properly and Steiffan’s hands are burnt so badly, he can barely hold a sword.”
Wiping his knife blade clean on the grass, he slipped it into its sheath and glanced back at the high walls surrounding the Manse. “I’m done wasting anymore time in this place. We’re going home.”
With a swift, decisive motion, he pulled up his hood and strode towards the trees. Exchanging perplexed glances with one another, his two lesser-injured colleagues sighed and guided their partially sighted compatriot the same way.
The sun was high in the sky by the time they left the Manse at a fast pace: three elven rangers armed with longbows and dressed in inconspicuous shades of grey and green. The tracks weren’t difficult to locate since they had been made by four pairs of heavy boots. Starting from the Oak Grove, the trail led through the hamlet of Sylvarraend and southwest across country.
These were no ordinary bandits or ruffians. Little effort had been made to stay concealed so this was likely to be easy. Merelle knelt and touched one hand to the ground, chanting a respectful bird-like trill. Her fingernails flashed briefly with a tinge of green coloring and she knew exactly who they were and where they were heading.
“Bourth,” she confirmed. “They’re Greensmen.”
2nd of Koaratos
Undelivered
The wooden longhouse rested on a willow oak branch that extended toward the south. Crafted of fel, indicating that the wood was brought in from elsewhere in the forest, the cuts of the wood were as skillful as other construction in the township in the trees. The floors did not creak underfoot. The walls were solid. The fel-shingled roof was well maintained and showed no signs of leaking. The rafters were about ten feet overhead, and the apex of the roof was perhaps another eight feet above that. It had a wraparound porch of about three feet in width that encompassed the entire dwelling. Two could walk comfortably but snugly side-by-side and take in the sights of the forest and observe the forest floor below.
The double doors were simply carved, each adorned with one oak tree, and lined with carvings of different leaves of the forest, acorns, and pine cones. A simple arched window was centered on each door at eye level. Inside the doors, the well-lit longhouse had a sitting area to the left with simple, yet finely carved maoral chairs with heather grey cushions across from a matching settee. To the right was a small bookshelf and two winged back chairs facing a pot belly wood stove. The stove had a small fire going, and Ilizzaro had just finished boiling water for tea. Along the walls on both sides were hatch windows that were propped open, allowing the summer breeze carrying the scent of magnolia to blow across the longhouse as evening crept in. Beyond the sitting areas was a long, simple wooden table with two benches on both sides. There were two simple candelabras resting on the table. Beyond this open area was the more private areas of the residence. Sitting at the table, Mirkk could not tell what was beyond the doors to the left and right along the back wall, but he assumed it would be bedrooms and perhaps a small study. Orómar’s residence had a rustic simplicity to it that Mirkk could appreciate.
Mirkk looked down at the map he was studying. Ilizzaro set a cup of tea to the right of the map.
“Thank you, friend,” Mirkk said.
Ilizzaro leaned over the map. “It doesn’t matter how much you look at it, it’s not going to change,” he chuckled. “Krinklehorn will get you there fastest, but you’ll need a guide until you get to Whistler’s. And like Orómar said, Kragsfell will be watched. If not those two, then you have the long route…and then you cross the Locksmehr.” He chuckled again and sat down to sip his tea.
To their left, one of the doors opened and Orómar walked in. Mirkk and Ilizzaro stood as he entered the room. He was carrying a bundle of letters in his hand. He walked over and set them on the table without saying a word. Mirkk carefully studied the papers. One had a silver edge to it. He reached across the table and slid the paper out from the pile. He opened and read it, not because he wanted to know its contents. He already knew that because he had written it. More so to confirm it was the same letter he had sent to Rohese. It was. He folded it closed and looked thoughtfully at the letter.
Orómar was studying Mirkk’s face. After a few moments, as if knowing what Mirkk was thinking, he said, “It would appear your journey has become more precarious. If they are watching a place as obscure as Krinklehorn’s pass, it is as we suspected. They will be watching everywhere.”
Mirkk nodded. “It looks like we need to revisit this plan.” He was growing restless. He felt like he had spent an eternity here in the Wyrdeep and, as beautiful as it was, he wanted to be home. And now he could not get correspondence to Rohese, which meant she could not send word to him as well. He did not like this. He was as cut off as he ever had been. He felt a chill as he thought about the blackness of death. Yes, it feels like I am there all over again.
“I have sent Cainoyen to gather some information for you. As we speak, he is heading to the Locksmehr crossing by way of Wehnimer’s Landing. We will wait and see what comes of it.”
Wait and see.
Mirkk’s innate humanness was getting the better of him. He did not have a thousand years. He could not spend years idling, planning, waiting for the right conditions to get back to Ta’Illistim.
“My lord, I thank you for your offer of assistance and your support in my journey home. I feel my time for waiting has come and gone. We have made many plans over the past few days and knew the pass at Krinklehorn may be compromised. I ask for your aid in one of our other plans. I ask to begin the journey home.”
Ilizzaro glanced at Mirkk, then glance at Orómar. Orómar was again studying Mirkk’s face. When he did that, it was as if he were really studying Mirkk’s soul. Orómar understood the eagerness of men. Sometimes it was impatience. Sometimes it was zeal. It had both good and bad, but it was something Orómar had come to appreciate about humans that was sometimes lacking among his own kind.
After a long pause, Orómar said, “Very well. Might I make a few recommendations?”
Degmir did not like being watched. He picked up another rock from the bank of the Locksmehr and threw it into the woods. The gnome easily dodged it by ducking behind a tree, then peeked out again, observing Degmir and the three other men. Degmir grunted. He had tried to give chase earlier, but the gnome easily escaped, only to return again. Degmir’s six foot, eight inch frame made him strong, but slow. Most folks thought he was a giant. Truthfully, any larger and he could have been.
He turned back toward the ferry that was making its way toward him. Jensur and his men had come down the trail on the opposite bank. Degmir had tried to shout across the river, but the sound of the water and the distance made it impossible to hear. So he waited.
He picked up another rock and threw it in the general direction of the forest gnome. He was not even trying to hit him at this point, just doing something to pass the time. After a moment, the ferry docked and Jensur came out with a smug look on his face.
“What news? The old man is going to throttle you for coming back empty handed,” Degmir said.
Jensur sneered. “The old man will get what he wants in two days when I get back to Gallardshold,” Jensur said as he started to walk by Degmir.
Degmir grabbed his arm. “I don’t see the girl,” Degmir said in a somewhat forceful tone. Jensur jerked his arm away and scowled. “I made her smile,” Jensur said in a snarky tone. Degmir looked at him with a confused look on his face. Jensur rolled his eyes and said, “I cut her throat from ear to ear. She is dead. And so is her maid. The old man will be pleased. Enjoy your time here.” Jensur laughed mockingly and continued with his companions down the trail without looking back at Degmir, who just stood at the edge of the river and watched him walk away.
As he listened in the woods beside his tree, the gnome watched several figures moving in the woods across the river.
Merelle’s fingers held the string taut on her longbow, the arrow aimed directly at the back of Jensur’s head. Turn around, she thought, just waiting for that sweet moment when she could release it. She was pretty sure he was the one that had wielded the blade so freely yesterday. His colleagues all looked too injured to have been of any use. Come on, turn around. Let me see the whites of your eyes so you can see your death in mine.
Crouched low in the undergrowth, she could make out a small group of men on the opposing riverbank. The larger of them seemed to know her quarry, judging by the reaction, but she couldn’t make out his shouts over the sound of rushing water. No matter, she could take him down too if needed.
Despite the reputation of the Greensmen, they were such easy marks. They may be skilled on the archery field but, out here in the woods, they were no match for elven rangers, especially those with a bounty to collect.
Merelle’s two companions had split away to take up position a little further down the river, in case Jensur had decided to continue that way, but she had noticed the ferry. He had to cross at some point so this seemed the ideal spot to catch him. Her hunch had proven correct and he was now in her sights, quite literally.
Turn around. Something caught her eye in the woods beyond. A fox? No, it was a person, albeit small; a halfling, perhaps? Why was he hiding behind a tree seemingly just watching. She stifled a laugh as she realised it was a gnome and he was clearly irritating the group on the riverbank.
The ferry had now reached the other side and the four cloaked men disembarked. Merelle lowered her bow for a moment as she observed an exchange that didn’t seem too friendly. Jensur made a gesture across his throat and laughed causing Merelle to clench her fist. She should have just taken him out on the ferry but chances are they would then have become the hunted. She needed to be certain each was taken down cleanly with one arrow a piece to ensure the bounty was successfully fulfilled.
No matter. There will be other opportunities. She caught the smell of rain in the air and whistled softly to call her companions back. They would attempt to cross the river further down and pick up the trail again.
The Deed is Done
Evening approached and, with the encroaching shadows, it was an opportune moment to enter the stronghold. They had made good time after crossing the Locksmehr River. Keeping to the forests that lined the foot of the DragonSpine Mountains, they had passed quickly and uneventfully through the various territories as they made their way southeast towards the Barony of Bourth. Merelle had decided to stop trailing the four Greensmen and take the initiative instead to meet them on her own terms. No longer having to follow tracks, they had picked up their pace considerably, running through the night and following day, deliberately avoiding contact with other travellers. It seemed there were other groups of Greensmen strategically posted around the empire for some reason and she didn’t want to have to deal with them as well. She was curious to know what was behind all this and what had motivated the attack on Rohese in the first place. Perhaps we’ll find some answers in Gallardshold itself.
The elven party of three approached the gate with their cloaks fastened over their longbows and hoods up to conceal their distinctive ears. The less attention they drew, the better; not that the guards on duty seemed to be too discerning about who they were allowing in today.
“Leave this to me,” Merelle murmured quietly to her two companions and strode forward with natural confidence.
Adopting a winsome smile, she proceeded to explain that they were merely simple travellers hoping for few days respite after a tiring journey. They were looking for reasonably priced lodgings and good company in the form of a few fine-looking gentlemen, like themselves. Flattery always worked. Eithyn struggled to keep a straight face and Talitha rolled her eyes.
Merelle then whispered something to one of the guards and winked. He responded to her suggestion with an eager nod and a ridiculous grin. So gullible, she thought. One mention of a drink and a quick fumble in some debauched tavern and most men were putty in her hands. Women too, for that matter.
She passed through the gate with a teasing glance over her shoulder and her companions followed with bemused smiles. Once inside the city, they slipped into the shadows and disappeared from sight.
It was Eithyn who spotted Corlyne as she entered the tavern across from where they were hiding and taking it in turns to keep watch. Despite her unusually understated attire, she was hard to miss. That walk was unmistakeable for a start; drawing attention yet conveying an air of subtle menace. Watch me by all means but don’t touch! Eithyn chuckled to himself before letting the others know.
Merelle laughed. “This is going to be fun!”
A few minutes later, the trio entered the tavern and Merelle cast an appraising glance around the smoky room. The air was heavy with the smell of stale ale and musty sawdust but, in general, it wasn’t too bad - as taverns went. A party of four were playing dice in one corner and being rather rowdy about it. On the other side of the room, a dwarf sat alone on a bench smoking a pipe, and a pair of off-duty guards were conversing and supping on their ales. It was still early and no doubt it would get busier later. Perfect time to get settled and await their quarry.
Then she spotted Corlyne. Sat on a barstool, she was engaged in a quiet conversation with the barkeep who clearly seemed to be enjoying the attention. He occasionally flicked a rather dirty looking cloth over the bar but most of his focus was on his rather charming patron.
Merelle seated herself next to Corlyne and gave a conspiratorial wink. “Fancy seeing you here,” she said, “mine’s a red wine.”
Corlyne laughed, kissing Merelle fondly on the cheek and nodding to the barkeep who hastily complied, seeing as he now had two young ladies to entertain him.
“So, what brings you here?” Merelle inquired, taking a sip of her somewhat inferior beverage and placing the glass back on the bar. Not bad for a Selanthian merlot but I’ve had better, she silently mused.
“Keeping Ceyrin entertained mostly.” Corlyne quipped with wry amusement, “I’m his muscle, don’t you know!” She raised her arm to flex her bicep and the barkeep almost dropped the glass he was attempting to polish.
“But what about you!” Corlyne continued, “It’s not like you to be this far from home.”
Merelle adopted a serious tone for a moment and leant in closer to avoid being overheard.
“I’m with Eithyn and Talitha.” She nodded her head slightly towards her two companions now seated at a corner table. “Something happened to Rohese and we’re here to … make amends.”
Corlyne’s eyebrow raised, enhancing its perfect arch, and her expression hardened. “Tell me everything.”
Five minutes and two empty wine glasses later - despite the unappealing contents - the ladies had discussed the events that had unfolded back in Ta’Illistim and reached the same conclusion.
“Leave it with me,” Corlyne said, her tone flat and measured. “I’ll let Ceyrin know too but only after I’ve dealt with the matter.”
Merelle nodded, confident in her friend’s ability to be discreet. She and her companions would simply be passive observers and thereby free to leave the following morning without suspicion. She was sure that Rohese would prefer it that way. Besides, it was Corlyne and Rohese would be more forgiving of her best friend’s actions than anyone else’s should thing go … awry. Merelle was nothing, if not pragmatic.
Whether it was fortuitous timing or simply a matter of his daily routine when at home, Jensur entered the tavern.
“Barkeep!” He yelled, removing the sword sheath at his belt and slamming it down on the bar. “A tankard of your finest horse piss, if you will!” The four men playing dice chuckled but continued with their game. The barkeep mumbled something under his breath but drew a tankard of ale from the nearby keg and deposited it unceremoniously in front of his jocular customer. He failed to notice that some of it had slopped over the leather sheath, much to Jensur’s consternation.
“You’ll dock 100 silvers from the price for that.” Jensur exclaimed throwing a handful of coins down by way of payment.
Merelle gave Corlyne a faint nod in Jensur’s direction and rose to join her companions in the shadows. A ghost of a smile touched Corlyne's lips as she casually brushed a finger across the neckline of her corset. Ordering a second glass of wine, Corlyne, tilted her head to watch Jensur as he downed his tankard. She noted his bandaged arm and missing hand, as well as the fact that he was now unarmed. This is going to be easier than I thought.
Catching his eye, she smiled briefly but returned her attention to her half-empty wine glass. Trap laid.
Jensur grinned widely and approached. “Can I buy you a drink,” he offered, belching quietly. “Barkeep, another ale and a wine for the lady!” Corlyne was masterful in the use of body language. With an adroit pivot of her upper body and slight tilt of her head, she turned her vivid green eyes towards the shabby looking man and held his gaze. Trap baited and set.
It was only a matter of minutes and Jensur was ensnared. Draining her glass, Corlyne rose to her feet and stepped in close to him. “Let’s find somewhere quieter,” she purred, heading towards the door with a meaningful glance over her shoulder. In his haste to comply, Jensur forgot to collect his sword from the bar. He followed her outside and into the alley that ran down the side of the tavern.
Pushing him against the wall, Corlyne leaned in close and kissed him perfunctorily on the lips. “That’s for you.” Sliding the thin poignard between his ribs, just beneath the armpit, she then whispered in his ear, “And that’s for Rohese.”
With a look of surprise that turned to confusion, Jensur slumped to the ground at her feet as the poison coursed its way through his body. The narrowness of the blade would ensure there was little blood and the wound itself would take some time to locate. He looked to all intents and purposes as if he had simply drunk too much ale.
Now to find Ceyrin and bring him up to date.
Corlyne cleaned her blade on the edge of his cloak and slipped it back into her corset. She turned on her heel and walked back into the square. She smiled at a passing guard with a familiar face. He duly glanced back over his shoulder to admire her. There was that walk again! Who was she?
Merelle whistled for the third time. There was still no sign of Shen. Where is that damn bird!
A sooty grey fan-tailed kestrel eventually swooped into view and streaked towards her, leveling off at the last second to glide just a few feet above the ground! Regaining some height, it circled twice and landed on her outstretched arm.
“Finally!” she exclaimed, as it dug its talons into the thick suede of her glove – a little more forcefully than necessary. The raptor inclined its head slightly, its posture displaying both indifference and indignation.
Merelle smiled to herself. Despite the obdurate nature of her companion, she did love her. Retrieving a small piece of meat from the pouch at her belt, she offered it to the bird who took it gladly. “I have a message for you to deliver.”
She attached a tiny slip of rolled parchment to the bird’s leg with her free hand and stared pointedly into its eyes. “Home, as quickly as you can. No side ventures for fun.” Raising her arm aloft, she released the bird to the sky. She watched it skim over the tops of the trees of the nearby Wyrdeep Forest and disappear from sight.
Later that day, Rohese mirrored Merelle and raised her eyes to the sky in search of a bird. The merlin had taken flight a few moments ago and she watched as it hovered effortlessly in the sky, scouring the landscape for prey.
Rohese was still a little weak from recent events but her household had encouraged her to partake of some fresh air today. It hadn’t really taken much persuasion; she missed riding Isilme and she couldn’t remember the last time she had spent some quality time with her bird, Aiwë. It was a glorious day for hunting; the sun was shining and the sky was a clear azure blue. It had felt good to ride out across the moors and she felt revived by the feel of the wind against her cheeks. Carefully pressing the fingers of her gloved hand to her neck, she winced slightly. Her throat was still a little sore but nothing a few days rest and some honey-laden tea wouldn’t cure.
She was about to call for Aiwë to return but noticed that a sooty grey kestrel had joined her, both raptors now playing with the eddying currents in the air. The pair swooped low, their tilted wings almost touching each other as they performed their arial acrobatics in harmony together. Rohese smiled as she recognized Shen and called out to them both with a shrill whistle. With her gloved arm raised, Rohese allowed the kestrel to land and quickly removed the tiny parchment scroll tied to her leg. Shen immediately took flight again, granting space for Aiwë to do the same. Rohese tied the jesses securely and placed the hood over her eyes to keep her calm whilst she read the message.
“Deed is done. Cor sends love.”
Rohese’s brow furrowed at the implications of the first three words but she couldn’t help smiling at the latter three.
Now if only she could get news of Mirkk. It had been a while since she had sent her last letter and she was beginning to worry again. Perhaps he had heeded her words of caution and chosen a different future for himself. Time will tell and that was something she had a lot of at the moment: time alone.
Duty and Loyalty
Donnavan sat in a chair in his quarters inside the keep. It was a decent sized room, but still small as it was in the keep. Smooth were the stone walls and floor. The keep was one of the first stone structures built as Gallardshold went from a wooden fort to a permanent fortress. This place was a part of Turamzzyrian history, and he counted himself lucky to have spent time in service here.
He set his watermelon rind in the bowl on his desk and looked about the room, reflecting on his nearly fifty years of service to the Greensmen. To Bourth. To the Empire. Mounted to a plaque on the wall was a gnarled claw of a wight, permanently shriveled and permanently dead. He remembered cutting it off a wight that day. At just sixteen years old, he answered the call that was made across Tamzyrr to provide fighters for one last batch of reinforcements to aid Duke Chandrennin and the fight against the Horned Cabal. His parents thought he was too young. His twin sister thought it was foolish to go at such an age, as the conflict would likely continue for years. She said he would have his chance. But Donnavan had gone anyway. His father had given him the family great sword, which had no name, but had later been named Wightsbane. With only leather armor and a great sword in hand, he marched into battle with what everyone thought was the final army of the Tamzyrr.
He had brought honor to his family, to the Caulfields, and to Bourth during the battle. Those that witnessed the moments toward the end recalled him and two other men standing on a rocky mound, viciously swinging their swords, engaging the undead as hordes surrounded them. In the middle of the three, injured and huddled on the ground was a member of lesser nobility. Donnvan couldn’t remember the fighting itself. He just remembered the feeling of hopelessness, but the sense of duty he had to keep fighting until all was lost. He felt at the time that he could not let them down. What Donnavan hadn’t known, but discovered later, was that was the moment a band of monks had killed one of the liches, causing all of the remaining undead to flee.
The lord had made note of Donnavan and the others, and had sent a personal letter to the baron recommending Donnavan for a posting as a Greensman in Gallardshold. Donnavan thought it was a great honor, but also was humbled. He felt he was only doing his duty, something every man should have done.
Donnavan’s eyes move to a small painting near the corner. The painting was a portrait of his mother and father. This was a gift from the Caulfields to the family in recognition of Donnavan’s actions. Every good soldier needs to remember what he fights for. Donnavan could still recall the words. Above the painting was a wooden crest of the Caulfields - three black yew trees on a field of white ringed by five hawk feathers. Another gift. Perhaps a reminder. Loyalty.
He glanced back at the painting and thought about family. Once upon a time, he had truly cared for Mirkk. He used to go with Mirkk’s father, Jeckk, and the boy camping and fishing along the tributaries of the Tempest. He remembered giving Mirkk his first bow. It wasn’t much, just a ruic short bow. Gods, did that boy have a gift. But Mirkk had gone astray. After his mother’s illness and untimely passing, and the unfortunate death of Jeckk, Donnavan had wanted to take in Mirkk. He would have made a natural fit among the Greensmen. Most of them knew the boy by name already. But the boy had a wild heart. He was always off in the edges of the forest, brooding with the Elves and other interlopers.
Yes… the boy was too wild. Couldn’t be tamed. He made his choices. He chose this path.
He abandoned Bourth.
He abandoned family.
He abandoned Donnavan.
There is no loyalty anymore. Not like there used to be. No one remembers the hordes of undead and how folks had to defend their own lands, and unite to defend the race of humans altogether. The boy least of all. It was before the boy’s time.
Donnavan stood up and looked out the small window that faced the forest. He watched a grey kestrel fly over the treetops heading in a northerly direction. He had defended Gallardshold, the Barony of Bourth, and all humans from the undead and the undeserving. This is the time of the humans, and the Elves and Dwarves and bugs with their wings… they all needed to understand that.
Donnavan had realized some time ago the boy had proven his loyalties, and they weren’t to Bourth or the Caulfields or even to his own family. He disowned his own family ancestry by choice.
Yes, the boy was a problem. The problem. The girl was just an instrument to get to him.
3d of Koaratos
No Code to Live By
Donnavan crouched down to eye level. He tilted Jensur’s head from side to side before standing back up. He stood there pensively for a long moment. Poor bastard. Probably failed to snag the girl, came back with his tail between his legs, and decided to get piss drunk before coming to tell me.
He crouched back down again, but this time he gazed into Jensur’s eyes. The eyes had a hue to them. They looked cloudy. And there was a spot of blood on his clothes. Strangely Jensur was still holding on to his tankard. It still had ale in it.
He stood up a second time. Something didn’t seem right. Either way, if Jensur failed to capture or kill the girl, this was one less loose end Donnavan felt he had to worry about. Still, did someone know? Someone right here in these walls?
Jensur was a slimy individual who was willing to do the dirty work. No doubt he would have some enemies. But this…this had an air of sophistication to it. And nobody claims to have seen anything?
He glanced uneasily around the quiet tavern before turning and walking out. He gave a fleeting thought to his men out in the field.
I suppose it is about time I get out and see to some things personally. But how do I root out this local problem?
4th of Koaratos
Departure
In the hour of Tonis, near a rushing waterfall, three cloaked and hooded figures quietly stepped into a long haon boat with a shallow draft. The luntëheru gave a nod, untied the ropes and gently pushed the boat out of the boathouse and into the river. They coasted smoothly out into the middle and the figures at the bow and stern of the boat slipped their paddles into the water and began paddling downriver. The figure in the middle stood briefly and turned, looking back as if to take it all in one last time.
As they moved into the quiet of the forest at dusk, their paddles made no sound. All that could be heard was the deep croak of the frogs, the chirp of the crickets, and the river itself.
They would not rush the journey. It typically took one full day to get downriver to Tempest Falls, but they would move slowly, overland for most of it, and utilize the cover of the forests as much as they could until they made it to their destination.
6th of Koaratos
Sleight of Hand and Turn of Head
It was late afternoon and the sun was bright, hanging low in the sky over the ocean. The thief had observed his mark for the last half an hour, and now was the optimal time to conduct his finger-smithing. A seagull landed on top of the pile and seemed to laugh at him.
Emmakin, with long blond hair and crystal blue eyes, was an elf of average height, well above average looks (of which he enjoyed the many merits), and an exceptional ability to pickpocket (of which he enjoyed much profit). He was leaning against one of the piles of the pier, watching two men outside Minstral Hall. There were enough folks coming and going at this point, and the sun was just beginning to shine in the eyes of everyone before it set on the western horizon. Perhaps no one will see.
He took a quick glance across the pier as if to check something, then made his move toward the lighthouse. He bumped into a man standing near the porch and muttered, “Pardon, sir. Didn’t see you,” and kept walking toward the shore end of the pier. He grimaced. He was a good thief, and that lift was noticeable. Even if it was intentional, he still did not like that he threw it. After all, he had a reputation.
“Hey, you! Get back here!” the man shouted.
Emmakin kept walking.
“Thief! He stole my…Thief!” the man shouted, now following after in pursuit.
Everyone on the pier now turned and looked at Emmakin. His face was flush, the points of his ears turning red. He felt a hand on his shoulder and grimaced. He knew the part he had to play next, and it wasn’t pleasurable. He turned around as the man close in on him and offered the leather pouch back to to the man.
“I’m terribly sorry, sir! Your coin purse, light as it was, seemed to have slipped into my hands when I –“
The man’s fist landed squarely on Emmakin’s nose. He briefly saw stars, and felt the warm blood flowing. The man’s friend came over - Yes. One. Now Two. - and grabbed the coin pouch, kicking Emmakin down on the hard planks of the pier.
“Get tha piss on outta here before I beat you bloodier,” the owner of the ever-so-light coin purse shouted.
“Sorry, sir! I’ll be on my way!” Emmakin said with as friendly a smile as he could, hands raised in submission and blood covering his face.
The two men turned and walked back toward the porch of Minstral Hall where they stopped and glared at him from a distance. Emmakin stood up, turned and walked down the pier back to shore, hands in his pockets, thumbing the uncut diamond he just lifted off the man. A wide grin swept across his face. Not sure it was worth the beating, though. Perhaps I can find some pleasurable company to aid me in recovering.
He whistled his way down the pier, giving Ilizzaro a wink and a nod.
Once on the porch of Minstral Hall, Mirkk quickly looked for the table. The commotion wouldn’t go on forever. He had to be quick. He spotted the table, picked up the first piece of teleportation jewelry he could get his hands on, and hurriedly left the porch. As soon as he was back on the pier, he ducked behind some wooden crates and gave his bright silver rabbit-stamped medallion a turn.
7th of Koaratos
Together
To see her made his heart skip a beat. His words momentarily stuck in his throat. Her sweet smell, that of jasmine and columbine, only a fraction as sweet as the thought of being in the same room as her once again.
Books, a settee, memories of a first kiss, a moment now. Every moment ever to be, as far as he was concerned. This and every moment moving forward. He finally found his voice.
“Rohese.”
Wishes Do Come True
There is a time in the day when the blue silk-ribboned sky over Eastern Harbor gives way to the inky velvet curtain of night. A time when the air is fragrant with jasmine and everything goes quiet. A time when the veil is at its thinnest and magic happens; when wishes come true.
Rohese had one wish and a candle still burned in a small glade in Sylvarraend to keep that hope alive.
Walking the halls of the library for one last time that evening, she straightened a few books on the shelves – more out of habit than anything – and glanced hopefully at the top shelf of the nearby bookcase. Nothing. It was then she heard a name on the wind; her name. She tucked her hair behind her ear in the hope of hearing it more clearly. Faintly at first, but there it was again. “Rohese.”
Dare she even hope?
She turned around just as he stepped from behind the bookcase.
“Mirkk!”
Wishes do come true!
8th of Koaratos
Perils of the Road
Mirkk had taken some time to gather the things he needed from the bank and his locker in the Brigatta annex of Hale Hall. Among them pouch of gold rings. I only need one, but a few may come in handy. Rohese had reminded him that sometimes the chronomages have their say in matters pertaining to gold rings.
He quietly slipped out from behind the crates near Minstral Hall in the late night hours, carefully stepping over the two men-his uncles men-that weren’t disciplined enough to stay awake. Seeing Rohese the past two evenings had renewed his spirit and vigor. He felt ready for the next part of his journey home.
He exited the pier and headed east toward town. His departure from River’s Rest was just as he had hoped and largely uneventful. He made his way in the general direction of Wehnimer’s Landing and spent the night in one of his secluded spots just out of town. He would wake with the sun, even though he would set out for Ta’Illistim in late morning.
The next morning he made his departure. He stayed off the main road and paths, staying with the forest. This was the time for concealment, not speed. Not being seen in the wilds was the easy part as he moved toward the Vipershroud. The hard part would be the crossing. Just outside the old Elven village, he set one of the gold rings. Hopefully this will do. He approached quietly through the woods until he had a good view of the ferry crossing. Four men had made a camp there. Two of them were sitting by a small fire, cooking something. A third man was lying down opposite them and appeared to be asleep. The fourth man was walking away from the fire toward the dock. He recognized a couple of them from Gallardshold. Orómar has once again proven himself correct.
He needed to get on that ferry, but he needed them to see him do it. The sun was still high enough overhead. They’d probably give chase, but that was okay. He could easily lose them in the forests on the other side if he got far enough ahead, and perhaps shake a couple of them off the rope bridges. He grinned at the last thought.
He observed the ferry that had just docked at the far side of the river. He continued to watch for several trips to and fro, counting the time it took the ferry to cross, and how long the blind ferryman stayed at dock before casting off again.
He saw the ferry cast off from the other side and began counting in his head. Time to move.
He made a dash out of the woods and straight for the dock, running straight through the camp. The men at their camp were taken somewhat aback by this scene of a random man coming out of the woods and running at full sprint toward them. Then, as if things clicked in their minds, they jumped up from their campfire and clambered for their weapons. Mirkk shoved the first man down before he could raise his sword in a backswing, and kicked the second man before he had a weapon in hand. He kept sprinting. The third man grabbed his cloak and started to pull, but Mirkk managed to break free. He saw the fourth man-the large one, Degmir- standing on the dock with a grin on his face, as if welcoming Mirkk. Mirkk lowered his head and ran with full force into Degmir to knock him down. Degmir didn’t budge, he only laughed.
Mirkk fell backwards on his hands and stared up at Degmir.
“Well, look what we found boys!” he shouted to the other men.
This is fine. The plan will still work.
Mirkk gave a wry smile and said, “I don’t suppose you’re going to let me on that ferry, huh?”
Degmir erupted with laughter. “Not a chance.”
Mirkk stood and quickly removed the gold ring from his finger and immediately tried to slide it back on, but Degmir seized both of Mirkk’s wrists with tremendous force.
Mirkk was tall and a decent size and could generally hold his own. Degmir on the other hand was a monster, with several inches and probably a hundred pounds on Mirkk. He moved Mirkk’s arms around as if Mirkk were a doll, causing the gold ring Mirkk was holding to fly out of his hands and into the river.
“Did you need that? Oh, I’m sorry,” Degmir taunted.
Mirkk immediately kicked Degmir between the legs as hard as he could, causing him to loosen his hold and fall to his knees. He could hear the other men running toward the dock. He reached into his cloak and pulled out another ring which pulsed on his finger. He cursed under his breath as he removed it and tossed it at the advancing men. One of them actually stopped to pick it up.
Degmir was standing back up now with a groan and didn’t seem too happy. Mirkk hopped off the dock, darting in the direction of upstream to avoid the other two men coming after him. He grabbed another ring and slid it on, vanishing instantly.
The two men, now joined by the third man who was one gold ring better-off, stood there looking confused and scratching their heads.
Mirkk appeared as he slid the ring onto his finger. He looked around, trying to ascertain where he was exactly.
The stone giant stood up and pulled a tree out of the ground, staring at Mirkk.
“Nope,” Mirkk said and quickly removed the ring and slid it back on his finger, vanishing.
The three men were arguing about whose fault it was that he got away when Mirkk appeared, sliding a gold ring onto his finger. He looked at them. They stopped arguing and looked at him. As all parties began to realize what happened, Mirkk ducked off in a different direction and the men gave chase. This continued for another minute or so.
Degmir was watching these antics from the dock as the ferry pulled up. He watched as Mirkk ran by, turning his gold ring, and then ran down toward the Vipershroud, chased by the three men until out of sight. Degmir waited.
“Casting off in one minute!” announced the blind ferryman. Sixty. Fiddy nine. Fiddy eight. Fiddy seven… Degmir counted down in his head.
“Casting off in thirty seconds!” The ferryman leaned on his pole.
Twenty nine. Twenty eight… Degmir continued counting.
With about fifteen seconds left, Mirkk appeared right where he set his ring with a clever grin on his face. But Degmir was ready for him. Degmir threw his arms around Mirkk and squeezed him in a massive bear hug. Mirkk struggled to break free, but Degmir was too strong. Mirkk had trouble breathing.
Degmir said, “Didn’t think I saw you set that ring, huh?” Degmir squeezed harder and Mirkk could hear his bones popping. He began to feel light headed.
“Casting off! All aboard,” shouted the blind ferryman as he slipped off the ropes and pushed off the dock with his pole.
Locksmehr River stones, like most river stones, come in all different sizes -massive, large, average, small, tiny even- but generally have similar appearances. They are rounded along the edges and smooth from years of water running over them. They make great skipping stones that bounce across the water when thrown properly. The same qualities that make them great for skipping also allow them to fly swiftly and accurately through the air, as our forest gnome friend knew.
One particular average sized river stone flew out of the nearby woods at quite a swift speed. It hit Degmir on the side of the head with a solid thump. Degmir’s bear hug loosened and he dropped to his hands and knees on the dock, holding his head and groaning. Mirkk saw his opportunity, gave Degmir a sympathetic pat on the shoulder as he sidestepped him, swiftly walked to the end and took a large step onto the ferry that was two foot away from the end of the dock and heading across the river.
By the time the three other men made it to the dock and helped Degmir back to his feet, the ferry was already halfway to the opposite shore. Degmir could only stand on the dock and stare at the ferry. Mirkk slowly waved to him from the ferry.
A few minutes later, Mirkk stepped foot on the other side of the Locksmehr. He didn’t even take a look back to the other shore. He started up the trail at a fast pace. He would need to create as much distance as he could between the men to stay ahead of them to Khazar’s Hold. Once there, he was as good as home.
12th of Koaratos
Division
It took tremendous self-control for Degmir not to strike the old man. He was used to being berated by Donnavan, but never slapped across the face. The old man still had quite a bit of strength and virility to him, but Degmir knew he could crush him if he wanted. Still, Degmir did feel a sense of disappointment. He had been given a task and he had failed. But we weren’t even supposed to be there. That wasn’t a job for Greensmen.
Donnavan walked back over to the long banquet table and sat down. Degmir knew he must be irate at this point. He watched the old man. The table had been set with an assortment of food: a pitcher of water, melons, berries, and various other fruits. He watched Donnavan smack a bowl of fruit, sending it flying across the room where it made a loud noise when it landed on the floor.
Donnavan was yelling again. Degmir could hear him but he wasn’t listening. His mind was elsewhere. He had signed up to be a Greensman, one of Gallardshold’s finest – some of the finest archers in the lands. He had always followed orders to the best of his ability. As such, he had been promoted to sergeant of the watch. He had always wanted to be a career soldier. Now he was being treated like a child. No, he was being berated by a man acting like a child. He noticed Donnavan had stood up again, still yelling.
I wonder how long he will go on like this?
Degmir had taken his time coming back from the Locksmehr. He knew he would catch the brunt of Donnavan’s wrath, so he had allowed his men to take a little rest and relaxation on the way home. Why not? They hadn’t seen a good looking man or woman for weeks. They deserved an opportunity to unwind a little.
Donnavan was close now and Degmir could feel the hot breath in his face. Every now and then spit would fly. I wonder what would happen if I just punched him? Would he strike back? Would he just stand there dumbfounded?
Donnavan was now over by the fireplace, still shouting, but this time waving his arms around theatrically.
This guy was a hero? No, not anymore. His time has come and gone. He’s just a piece of history – some legacy thing that hasn’t been retired, but should be. Some old man with some weird obsession that the Caulfield’s probably didn’t care about. Degmir thought of how nice it would be if the man died, or better, ran off to find his nephew and was killed somewhere along the way. He knew he wouldn’t get promoted to an officer’s rank, but he might get a promotion nonetheless.
He snapped back to reality. It was quiet and Donnavan was just staring at him. Had he asked him a question? Perhaps this was his opportunity to finally tell the old man how he felt – how all the men felt. Yes, perhaps this is the time indeed.
“I said get out of my sight,” Donnavan hissed.
“Yes, sir,” Degmir dejectedly replied. He turned and slowly walked out of the room.
I failed at the crossing. I failed here.
15th of Koaratos
Retreat
The last few days at Windfellow’s Retreat had been a welcome diversion from the usual trials and tribulations of daily life but had also presented difficulties of their own. Rohese knew that she would have to face the consequences of her actions at some point but she had been somewhat surprised by the stark contrast of reactions from her friends.
She was troubled.
She loved Daevian – nothing would ever change that - but it upset her that he couldn’t accept her decision. No, that was unfair; he did accept it but he couldn’t reconcile it with what had prompted it. Rohese doubted he ever would and that bothered her.
Akenna had been kind and pragmatic, as always. She really valued her friendship with the pretty red-headed half-elf – even more so now. Her acceptance of the current situation came as a relief and was perhaps understandable given her connections to the Wyrdeep. Her promise to help had been readily accepted and Rohese felt a little more reassured that she hadn’t been too harshly judged. Finishing her early morning tea, she massaged her temples in an attempt to rid herself of the dull headache threatening to spoil her day.
Much to her delight, Corlyne and Ceyrin had joined her early on in the festivities. She loved them both dearly and seeing them again eased a lot of her concerns. And then there was Mirkk.
Mirkk. Just thinking about him brought a smile to her face. They had had plenty of time to talk during the festival. Time to reflect on what had happened to them both and what needed to be done in the future – soon, in fact.
Too soon.
The birds Rohese had sent across the DragonSpine last week had yet to yield a reply and she was becoming increasingly concerned about the three elves that had preceded them. There had been no word from Merelle since the last brief missive bearing the cryptic message that the deed was done. Corlyne had been very cagey about what that meant but Rohese had a good idea it was something to do with the events in Sylvarraend a while ago. She had chosen not to pursue the matter for fear of judging her friend’s actions too harshly; sometimes ignorance really was bliss.
Conversations between the four of them had been fraught with indecision and dissention but Rohese had held to her desire for conciliation rather than aggressive action. She understood that Mirkk’s uncle needed to be stopped but her biggest fear was that Mirkk would ultimately resent her for the schism within his family and familiar associates should his uncle fall by his hand. We should at least try and reason with him and know that, whatever happens, we did the right thing. Rohese was somewhat perturbed that Ceyrin had so readily acceded – or seemingly so. Ceyrin was usually the first to temper her proposals; Lumnis knows how many times he had smugly reminded her about how he had been proven right to do so. She had a suspicion that there was more they were not telling her.
Rohese took a slow, deep breath then pinched the bridge of her nose. More tea. That might help.
She was dreading tomorrow.
Tomorrow she would have to head west to Wehnimer’s Landing for the Revelia Carnivale festivities. Normally, this would excite her. She had promised to host a cocktail party and the usual annual showcase of fashion but she just couldn’t get past the fact that it all seemed so trivial compared to what was about to unfold. Mirkk must be thinking how frivolous she was to have parties on her mind right now but she didn’t want Mirkk to see how scared she really was.
Serene.
I must stay serene and retreat behind a glamour of efficient calm.
Fold your arms round me close and strain me so that our hearts may break and our souls go free at last. Take me to that happy place of which you told me long ago. The fields whence none return, but where great singers sing their songs forever.
Whirlwind
Mirkk woke up in the manse earlier than he had the previous day, but glancing about realized his only company was a blue-eyed white tiger. "Good morning, River. Lots to do today," he said. The tiger simply yawned in return. The past two weeks had been a whirlwind, a stark contrast to the feeling of unhurriedness from his stay in the Wyrdeep. Mirkk stopped to briefly recollect on everything that had happened, from being reunited with Rohese, to the festivities, and of being cast headlong into a sea of new and friendly faces. And of course the plans.
Most nights ended late, with he and Rohese staying up with Corlyne and Ceyrin discussing the lingering threat of his uncle and the possibilities for closing that dreadful chapter of their lives and moving on to a happier one. Plans were hatched, agreed to, and shelved. Ultimately he believed a consensus had been made on a final plan that he certainly felt was not the safest or easiest, but was right.
He opened the door to the manse and paused. He could smell the wisteria outside blowing in on a gentle breeze. I have lost myself in her. But she brings me back and reminds me of what is right in this world.
"Come, River," he said to the tiger. The tiger, still slightly favoring one paw, slowly rose and walked through the door to the quiet street outside.
As they made their way through Highpark to the busier parts of the city, he was reminded of what Ceyrin had told him. "The last thing anyone needs is to start a war."
He walked into Galieca's and gave her a warm smile. "You're becoming quite the regular," she said as she returned his smile. "A mug of the chocolate coffee today," he said as he handed her some silvers. "And perhaps one day you'll tell me what you have in the back." She grinned and turned to make the coffee.
Yes, the last thing needed is any type of conflict between the Elves and men. I think I should write to Oromar and let him know our intent. Perhaps Akenna will be able to help.
"Have a good day," Galieca said as she placed the coffee on the counter, bringing Mirkk back from his thoughts. He smiled and nodded. "You as well," he replied before he turned and walked out.
He took a sip of his coffee and glanced down at River. "Well, River. I suppose we should be packing. I won't let her go without us and we will not make her late for certain events at Revelia Carnivale." The tiger gave him a concerned look. "No, I don't think we'll be doing social calls. I'll leave that to Rohese. We're just going to keep an eye out." And I can't bear the thought of being apart from her.
Craze
Donnavan walked up the wooden steps that led from the bailey to the ramparts atop the walls of Gallardshold. At the top, a young Greenswoman nervously snapped to attention and reported her post. "Good afternoon, sir!" she stammered. "All quiet. Reports from the east are..."
Donnavan walked right past her.
Reports from the east... I know the blasted reports from the east!
He stopped at one of the embrasures and stared north, beyond the aging wooden table used in archery practice; beyond the targets at the bottom of the grassy slope, and beyond the Wyrdeep. He stared passed the Wyrdeep as if trying to see beyond the DragonSpine to Ta'Illistim. The reports he received from the east were not pleasing to him. Degmir had informed him just a few days ago that Mirkk had made it past the Locksmehr Crossing and with haste made it inside the mountains. All other stations had reported no sightings. Rumors had swirled that Mirkk and his lady friend had holed themselves up behind the walls of Illistim and hadn't been seen outside them since.
He clenched his teeth at the thought.That boy is gaining too much favor from the Elves. First the Wyrdeep and now Illistim.
Donnavan had to figure out how to reconcile the finances of keeping his men out in the wilds for so long without anything to show for it. He had not included anything in the previous report to the baron, and he was already late on the current report. He could now only afford few patrols around the area until he recouped his losses.
Yes... the boy is gaining favor and it seems I may be loosing mine.
Movement caught his eye, and he looked down from the mountains to the edge of the forest. Everything was still now. What movement he thought he saw was gone.
Donnavan turned back toward the stairs. "Good afternoon, sir! All q-
"Shut it," Donnavan sneered as he walked passed the sentry and headed down. This needs to end.
20th of Koaratos
Faith, Hope, and Love
There was an unsettling air of finality to everything lately. The festivities at both Windfellow’s Retreat and Revelia Carnivale had drawn to a close, along with her responsibilities over the annual fashion showcase and Rohese felt a sense of trepidation about her future. Their future. Her future with Mirkk. She loved him with all her heart and she was confident in his love for her; that wasn’t in any doubt. What was uncertain was whether his uncle would continue to play a part in that.
She had left Mirkk to his last-minute preparations; he was obviously tense and she thought it best to leave him alone with his thoughts for a while. Their impending journey south was going to be fraught with danger but she trusted him to know how best to deal with it. The plan was to meet up with Ceyrin and Corlyne in River’s Rest and go on from there to Bourth together but they still had a long way to go.
Rohese tightened the straps beneath Isilme’s saddle and gave them one last tug to ensure they were secure. Her saddle bags were packed and she was dressed appropriately but a quick glance at her hands reminded her to find some gloves. The faint text that usually lay dormant just under her pale skin was now running fluidly back and forth, rising to the surface like bubbles on a pond, only to dissolve again. It was the only outward sign of her agitated state and she needed to conceal it from Mirkk. He didn’t need anything else to worry about.
Resting her head against Isilme’s, she closed her eyes and exhaled. She usually found the company of her horse to be a comfort but today it was an additional worry. Should she really risk Isilme’s life too? Was she about to lose everyone she loved all over again?
Opening her eyes again, she watched as words bubbled up on the backs of her hands only this time, they were legible for a brief moment.
Have faith. Have hope. You have love.
21st of Koaratos
Doubt
“I can’t do it!” Rohese cried, tears streaming down her face. She stood alongside the chestnut filly, her head barely reaching its withers.
Her father had been keen for her to learn to ride at a very young age and she had managed well on the small ponies. Now it was time to progress to a horse. Tymian Bayvel was a patient and quietly spoken man. He had spent all morning encouraging his daughter to walk the horse around the paddock and getting it acclimated to the saddle she would be using.
“As I showed you, child. Up you go.” He smiled at Rohese and gave her a nod of encouragement.
“I can’t, Ada.” She sobbed. “I just can’t.”
“Yes, you can, Rohese.”
“I can’t, Amma!” Rohese objected. “Please don’t make me.”
“Don’t be foolish, of course you can.” Her grandmother calmly countered, handing her the book once more.
“Just balance it on your head and walk across the room as I showed you. You want to make a good impression at Court, don’t you?”
Rohese sighed. “I don’t want to go to Court at all.”
She had dreaded this day. The day she was to be presented in the Argentate and would have to talk to a room full of complete strangers.
Her grandmother had explained that this was when arrangements were usually made for advantageous marriages and it was Rohese’s turn to represent the family. Her sister Poladra had been presented when her time came and her engagement to the son of a notable dignitary had just been announced.
“It’s time, child. You can’t spend all your time with your books, you have to play your part.”
“I can’t!”
“Yes, you can, Rohese.”
“I can’t!” Rohese insisted, despite Sighisoara’s reassuring arm against her trembling body. Facing the mural on the wall of the Maaghara Tower, she shook her head and took a step back. Rohese recalled all the stories she had heard about this place; of the creatures imprisoned within and the potential dangers she would face.
“Yes, you can, pixie.” Sighisoara assured her. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”
“I can’t!” She pleaded, “I’m scared."
“Yes, you can, Rohese.”
“I can!” Rohese cried. Mirkk lay dying in her arms and no matter how hard she tried, she was unable to summon up enough spiritual energy to restore his life. Completely broken, she merely bowed her head, allowing the curtain of her silver hair to fall across his inert form.
“You can’t help him,” a hollow voice responded. “No can save him now.”
“I can!” She repeated, her voice now barely audible as her own life drained away along with his.
“No, you can’t, Rohese.”
No reply was forthcoming.
She woke with a start and sat up. Glancing around, she saw Mirkk sitting by the fire, gazing into the flames, and breathed a sigh of relief. He looked up and smiled at her, beckoning her over. Rohese wrapped a blanket around her shoulders and rose to join him.
“Bad dream?” Mirkk asked, pulling her close and wrapping his arms around her. Kissing her forehead as she nodded, he smiled. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Rohese shook her head and settled her head on his shoulder. She was in no doubt about how much she loved him.
26th of Koaratos
At the Oars
It was very dark- almost pitch black. Mirkk couldn’t see anything, but he could feel. He could feel the worn smooth wood in his hands. He could smell. He could smell the distinct smell of saltwater in the thick air. He could hear. He heard the rhythmic slapping on the water. It was all too familiar and also something he never wished to ever hear again.
Almost instinctively, though he was uncertain why, he gripped the oar and began to row with the rhythm of the other oars slapping the water. His hands weren’t as rough and calloused as they once were. His heart began to race. This can’t be happening.
The oars continued to slap the water outside the ship.
I can’t be here. Not again.
The oars began to pick up their pace. In turn, Mirkk rowed faster as well.
I can’t do this again. I can’t lose everything I love again. I can’t lose Rohese.
Faster still the oars.
He looked around in the darkness but saw nothing. Then, with a shudder and a crash, the slaver came to a halt and he could feel water pouring in at his feet. Above, he heard screams and could smell smoke.
No. No! This can’t be happening!
The water was rising. First to the ankles, then toward his knees. He jerked his legs, but he was chained to his bench. The water was above his waist now.
He reached for the chain around his ankle and began to pull. The chain wouldn’t budge. But perhaps he could pull his foot through? The water was almost to his chin. He pulled and pulled, the shackle cutting deep into his ankle.
He tried to shout but only swallowed the briny water.
Mirkk sat up quickly in a cold night sweat. Thank the gods! Did I scream? Did I wake her? He looked and saw Rohese was still fast asleep. Good. It was much easier to deal with night terrors when sleeping under a tree at night.
He stood and walked to the fireplace and stared at the embers. He continued to hear the screams in his mind.
29th of Koaratos
A Letter Sent
Mirkk, knowing their time of peace and tranquillity was ending soon enough, sat down at the writing desk and took his quill and a sheet of silver edged paper and paused for a moment. After a long, contemplative look, he dipped the quill in the inkwell and began writing.
My Lord,
I feel it necessary to inform you that my party of four plans to make our way to Gallardshold by way of River’s Rest over the next week. The intention is to have a candid but peaceful conversation with my Uncle Donnavan of the Greensmen. My aim is to settle things amicably and to possibly forgive him for his actions against me so that we may all move forward and live our lives. I have a star that guides me.
My purpose in writing you is to allow you time for any preparation, even though your Elves will know of our approach long before the men of Gallardshold. I hope you can understand why I am doing this, and that I least of all wish conflict at your doorstep. I will avoid it as well as I can. I only request that when you sense we are near, to deliver a message to Gallardshold to inform them we come under a banner of peace.
I feel you have given me so much already, for which I am undeserving. There are still no adequate words I can say to thank you for your assistance. Should you ever need anything from me, I am humbly at your service.
Sincerely,
Mirkk Timbertree of Bourth
He folded and sealed the letter, stood, and walked to the door. He opened the door and flagged a servant in the hallway and said, “Please see this gets to Lady Akenna Laeraun for further delivery to Lord Oromar of the Forest.” The servant nodded smartly and walked back down the hallway.
Time
It was time to go.
Everything had been packed for a while and they could no longer delay their journey south. They had a short stopover in Solhaven planned for the Bookworms gathering on Feastday and then it was on to River’s Rest to meet up with Ceyrin and Corlyne.
Mirkk checked the stirrup straps on Isilme one last time and held out his hand to Rohese to assist her. She smiled and kissed him softly before mounting her filly in one graceful motion. Taking the reins, Mirkk then led them both from the City Stables and out onto the North Ring Road. Passing through the North Gate, they made their way unnoticed through the Lower Dragonsclaw Forest and towards the rolling hills of the Upper Trollfang. The only sound was the crunch underfoot of the countless numbers of acorns littering the ground beneath the canopy of timeless oaks.
It had been a quiet morning. Rohese and Mirkk had barely spoken since waking at dawn but the silence between them wasn’t strained. They were comfortable in each other’s company and seemed to understand when the other simply needed time to think. Rohese had sensed over the last few days that Mirkk was troubled but she didn’t want to press him on it. He had maintained a facade of positivity throughout all of their conversations, reassuring her that it was all going to be fine. Rohese was beginning to have reservations about confronting his uncle though, despite it being at her behest. From everything Mirkk had since told her about Donnavan of the Greensmen, she doubted whether it would yield the results they hoped but it was too late now; too much had been put in motion and it was the right thing to do, after all.
Time will tell.
The sun was high in the sky by the time they reached the Cairnfang Falls where the river disappeared over the precipice with a deafening roar. Rohese dismounted and, guided by Mirkk, led Isilme along a narrow ledge of angled rock as it began its descent to the cliff’s base, threading through a series of switchbacks between slippery outcroppings and boulders. Finally reaching the bottom of the falls, they headed through the clouds of mist and a curtain of young pines to find themselves at a hidden pool ringed with sandstone ledges and a tiny beach of golden sand.
With a sigh of relief, Rohese removed her boots and walked barefoot across the soft sand. Stepping into the icy cold pool, she gasped but allowed the water to lap gently over her feet. She instantly felt refreshed. It was a beautiful summer’s afternoon and she regretted that they couldn’t spend the rest of the day relaxing in the sunshine.
There was no time.
Mirkk helped himself to an apple, a chunk of bread and some cheese from one of the packs. Respecting Rohese’s ritual of daytime fasting, he offered the apple to Isilme and headed over to one of the ledges to eat his alone. Meanwhile, seated on the sand, Rohese rummaged through her bag and pulled out a stylus and a bottle of ink. No matter where she went, she never left home without assorted writing implements; they comforted her. Opening her journal, she cast a glance over at Mirkk as he finished his lunch.
Time flies and with it goes my thoughts. I should write them down in case I never get the chance to tell him how I feel.
Rohese smiled to herself as she penned the last few words in elven. She knew how keen Mirkk was to learn the language so she always tried to share a few sentiments in elvish with him. Conscious that time was getting away from them, she safely stowed her things back in the pack and reluctantly pulled her boots back on. She wandered over to join Mirkk on the ledge.
Taking Rohese’s hand in his own, he brought it to his lips and settled his gaze on her.
“You recently said you wanted to understand why your sister and Naamit did what they did to you so you could forgive them?”
Rohese nodded in affirmation. “In time I hope to.”
“Forgiveness means a lot to you, doesn’t it?” Mirkk asked.
Again, Rohese nodded. “Through practicing love and forgiveness, you can transcend all suffering and move into a space of profoundly deep joy, peace and harmony in every moment." Smiling at Mirkk, she added, “I read that in a book a while ago and it is something I truly believe.”
Mirkk smiled slightly and merely commented, “I may need some help with that.”
Rohese kissed his cheek. “That’s what I’m here for.”
Time brings all things to pass.
An hour later, they had passed through the Cairnfang Forest and were following the river towards the cliffs above Solhaven Bay. The sound of their soft footfall transitioned into a rhythmic clip-clop as they passed through the city walls and down the cobbled Tumbledown Lane. Close to the bottom of the Vornavis cliffs was a tidy row of stone cottages facing the bay, sunlight glinting on their glaes window panes. Set back from the thoroughfare was a slate-roofed, umber brickwork mews; their home for the next few days.
The muted form of the sun appeared as a haloed silver disk from behind a veil of clouds on the western horizon and the shadow of a pair of black-headed terns circling overhead fell over them both as they walked through the door.
Time flies over us, but leaves its shadow behind.
30th of Koaratos
Willow
The willow is known for being the tree most associated with the moon, water, and wisdom. It is the tree of enchantment and communing with her during a full moon can increase the potency of insights to be gained. Her energy puts us in touch with our feelings and deep emotions, and it is the ability of the willow to help us to express them. Approached with respect, willow is a wonderful teacher and will whisper to us if we are still and willing to listen.
It was fortuitous that Rohese and Mirkk had arrived in Solhaven on the evening of a full Liabo moon. Since their arrival, however, Rohese’s thoughts had been distracted by the susurrus of a willow and, as if in response, the text flowing beneath the surface of her pale skin seemed to be urging her to heed its call. She had chosen not to mention any of it to Mirkk; she wasn’t really sure why, other than it would be easier to explain once she was clearer in her own mind why it felt important.
It was almost midnight when she rose from her bed and reached for a robe. She made her way silently downstairs. Reassuring herself that Mirkk and River were fast asleep in the library, she slipped out of the mews and into the stillness of the night.
She ran lightly up the steps of Tumbledown Lane, the cobbles slick beneath her barefeet, and out onto the Outlands Road heading east, the whispering willow beckoning her closer. It wasn’t long before she reached the ancient tree that had been calling her, its canopy of arched branches and streamered leaves forming a pavilion of living green that straddled the edge of the Rockspawn River. Parting the curtain of leaves, Rohese stepped through and onto a lavender carpet of moon-dappled shadesilk blossoms that covered the bank to the water’s edge. The willow leaves touching the water created a border of tiny wakes on the surface of the river as it flowed westwards. It was all so mesmeric.
Taking a deep breath, Rohese stilled her mind. Just visible through the rustling canopy was the beautiful ivory moon in all her glory. Gazing skyward at the shining beacon of light in the night sky, she gently tied a loose knot in one of the supple branches and whispered the words of the spell that had been flowing across her hands all evening.
“Under the ivory moon, so bright,
Willow, hear my wish this night.
In your branches, I bind this spell,
Grant me wisdom so all goes well.”
A warm breeze stirred the leafy branches and lifted her hair. The gentle whispering of the willow filled her ears once more.
“Relinquish your attachment to the known, step into the unknown, and you will step into the field of all possibilities.” *
On hearing the willow’s words, she lowered her gaze and noticed that the ink beneath her skin was lying dormant. A line of text was just visible on the back of her hand and she could read it in the pale moonlight.
“Everything you ever wanted is on the other side of fear.”
Anxious to learn more, she tied a second knot and murmured another incantation.
“As she wanes, so let doubt flee.
Willow, take this fear from me.
Guide my actions, step by step.
So our goals shall all be met.”
The whispers of the willow grew louder in her ear with its gentle song of reassurance.
“Embrace the uncertainty. Allow it to lead you. Be brave as it challenges you to exercise your heart and mind as you create your own path towards happiness. Don’t waste time with regret.”
Rohese glanced at the back of her hand again. The previous text had faded and new words bubbled to the surface of her skin.
“Death is the only thing that will keep him from you.”
Furrowing her brow, Rohese pondered this latest revelation. What could it all mean? Taking another deep breath, Rohese tied a knot in a third branch and continued her invocation.
“Ivory moon in bed of night,
Silvery wisdom granting sight.
Hidden knowledge revealed anew
Willow, guide me, tell me true.”
The willow branches rustled on the breeze and whispered their final refrain. A thin green willow leaf drifted to the ground and landed at her feet.
“Have faith. Have hope. You have love.”
The same phrases appeared on her hand, as they had done so a few days ago. The ink then faded, dissolving away beneath her skin and the willow fell silent.
Rohese retrieved the leaf, slipping it into her robe pocket. Resting her hand on the trunk of the ancient tree, she murmured her thanks as Elaejia had taught her. Slipping back through the leaves, she hurried unseen back to the mews and to her bed where sleep carried her away.
Preparation [Ceyrin]
A voice calls to you from out of view. The voice resonates with you in a familiar way, flooding you with peace. You turn to look and see a long empty corridor of carved stone stretching before you endlessly. Unease settles over you quickly, as the corridor seems to continue to stretch before your eyes. You feel compelled to walk down the corridor, towards the empty nothingness... towards the promise of the familiar voice. As you walk, the passageway narrows and becomes tighter around you, until it touches your shoulders. Soon the passage insists that you turn to your side in order to proceed. You hear the voice call to you again and a moment of relief passes through your being, briefly replacing the increasing anxiety that the narrowing space is causing. You proceed forward, shuffling through the tightening corridor, no sight of an end still to be found. Without warning, the darkness ends and you can go no further. Your shoulders cramped nearly to pinching now, your anxiety is replaced with frustration as you turn to go back the way you came but you cannot. The wall behind you has closed in, and your frustration builds. You tilt your head up to scream and your vision is filled with the ceiling you never noticed rapidly approaching you in this tiny space.
Ceyrin gasps to catch his breath as he thrashes himself awake. Panic washes over him immediately, followed by regret and guilt. He looks over to see his formerly sleeping partner, having obviously been awoken by his sudden outburst.
"I'm sorry...", Ceyrin starts to apologize.
Before he can finish, Corlyne reaches over and rests her palm against Ceyrin's face and compassionately shushes him. "I know you are. You've been doing it for weeks now. I'm sure it's not on purpose."
Ceyrin closes his eyes, straining against the intense emotions and adrenaline still surging through him. Ceyrin repeats himself, "I'm sorry."
Silence hangs in the air for a moment, gently broken by Corlyne's question, "Sorry for what, love?"
Ceyrin remains quiet and motionless, his tears welling up behind shut eyelids. He opens his eyes and looks directly at Corlyne, his face filled with anguish. Ceyrin attempts to speak but no words manifest, instead tears stream down his face in silence.
For being me.
Squeezing his eyes closed, Ceyrin takes a moment to control his breathing, visibly relaxing as he realizes Corlyne's hand never left his face.
No...
Ceyrin takes another deep breath. "Thank you", he offers as he reaches up to his face and puts his own hand over Corlyne's and embraces her with his other arm, whispering again, "Thank you."
With some reluctance, Ceyrin explains, "I am sorry I woke you so early. I have some final preparations for our trip I should see to", then he gives Corlyne a brief kiss before withdrawing and shifting himself out of the bed.
I don't have to...
"Get some more rest," he bids while outfitting himself with the armor and other gear he'd left on the table the night before, "I'll find you in a couple of hours."
Ceyrin gives Corlyne a warm smile, gazing at her for a long moment. He then winks playfully before turning to exit the bungalow. Corlyne listens for the click of the lock before she rises again, her arms reaching upwards for a half-hearted stretch as she quickens to the window, watching Ceyrin's form disappearing down the pathway. She turns to begin her morning, her fingertips instinctively brushing against the scars across her lower back as she changes into her armor.
She murmurs to herself, "Not if I find you first."
Dawn's early light gives way to the more persistent glare of Phoen's Orb, fortunately the direct glare is less an issue in the Saewehna Jungle. The humidity on the other hand likely 'wakes up' even earlier than Ceyrin does. Sweat already rolling down his face and chest as he hunted down the few remaining bandits he'd been tasked to dispatch.
I wonder how much lumber we will need...
THWWWWWWP The sound of a concealed net trap drawing closed around Ceyrin is a familiar one to him, much to his chagrin. Within seconds a group of three bandits approach, their crude weapons matching the rest of their appearance. Perfect. Ceyrin scans his surroundings as best he can while simultaneously reaching for the drakar dagger he keeps tucked in his mantle. The three bandits move closer to attack, spread out roughly four feet apart and taking flaking positions. As the trio moves to strike, an evanescent shield flares to life around Ceyrin several inches away from his body, absorbing the impact of the strikes and buying Ceyrin enough time to finish cutting his way through the cinch at the top of the net that is entangling him.
Ceyrin braces for the drop to the ground as he cuts the last of the rope, the sizzle of hemp filling the air as the drakar makes short work of it and the now defunct trap disgorges him onto the ground. Still reeling from their previously unsuccessful attacks, the bandit trio begins to regain their focus and seem irritable now in addition to ugly. As Ceyrin rises to his feet he takes measure of each of the bandits, memorizing their positions -- three runes on the ethereal bracer upon his left forearm glow brightly in response to his thoughts. The somatic component of the censure Ceyrin begins incanting is enhanced by the row of runes glowing brightly on his left forearm. Though the words were the merest whisper as they escaped Ceyrin's lips, for the bandits it was a much different experience.
"For your transgressions, a contract has been placed against you. The price for your life has already been paid."
Ceyrin's left arm moves rapidly and without interruption as the incantation for his spell ends. First across his body, then straight ahead and finally to his left, at each point a soundless bolt of cobalt energy is fired quickly towards each bandit in succession. Each bandit drops dead, as the ethereal energy strikes them squarely in the chest. There is no blood, and the wounds themselves look more like the affected portions of their body simply ceased to exist rather than that actual harm was done.
Abruptly, the rest of the net that spilled Ceyrin to the ground seconds ago finishes smoldering away from the cinch and falls unceremoniously onto his head, partially entangling him again.
I dislike nets.
Ceyrin stood before the quiet lagoon, entranced by the deep blues of the water. Mentally, he was far afield, thinking about the changes happening rapidly around him and within his own life.
There are no preparations save practice killing. He already knew what was going to happen. He wanted Rohese and Mirkk to see what they're truly up against. There will be no settling, only violence and hatred. The same sort of negativity he tasked Rohese with defeating years ago, and the task he will now set upon Mirkk as well. This is the cost of his involvement in this affair. This is how Mirkk and Rohese will make good with him.
How they will make good with Lord Onar is another matter.
All life has a price in death that is carried with it. This is irrefutable. Each living animal by virtue of continuing to exist does so upon the death of something else. In this sense, we are all killers. It is in being mindful of this process that we show gratitude not only for the death of the thing we use to continue to exist, but the life it had prior to becoming part of our own.
Ceyrin's thoughts are interrupted by the hand to his shoulder from Corlyne who had caught up to him a while ago.
"I hope we'll get to share this with our friends, Corlyne."
31st of Koaratos
Cat Among the Pigeons
Merelle released the arrow and heard a solid THUNK as it hit the chalk mark on a tree trunk in the distance. A second arrow immediately followed, telescoping the first. Merelle turned swiftly with another arrow nocked in her longbow but lowered it as she saw Eithyn approach with a wide grin on his face.
“Jerk,” she muttered but returned his grin. “Any word from Talitha yet?”
Eithyn shook his head, pushing the hood of his cloak back over his shoulders. “I’m sure she’ll be back by nightfall.” His attempt to be reassuring lacked conviction though.
Merelle made no secret of the fact that she was concerned. Talitha had left two days ago to scout the woodlands that Bourth was so famous for. Ever since Jensur’s body had been found, the Greensmen had been on high alert; it wasn’t often one of their own was murdered inside the garrison. Corlyne had left shortly after the deed, citing other responsibilities, so Merelle had agreed to stay on with her colleagues to relay any news to her.
The garrison at Gallardshold was a warren of alleyways, dark corners and obscure vantage points; perfect for keeping a low profile whilst remaining vigilant. Merelle had quickly found her way around and established a few useful contacts among the community. To date, there was nothing much to report other than fewer guards drinking in the tavern.
Eithyn loosed another arrow into the tree, hitting the mark cleanly and sending a flurry of startled birds from its leaf-laden branches. Merelle’s arrow followed, striking a blackbird from the sky.
“Bad omen,” she noted, to which Eithyn rolled his eyes with a chuckle. “You and your superstitious nonsense.”
An hour later, the pair had returned to the garrison and were making their way to the tavern. A ruckus behind them made them pause and turn only to see two guards dragging a semi-conscious elf between them. It was Talitha. Eithyn pressed his hand firmly on Merelle’s arm and shook his head as she made an instinctive move to rush to her aid.
“Wait,” he snapped, pulling her into the shadows. “There’s nothing we can do at the moment.”
Talitha’s hair was caked with dried blood down the right side where she had suffered a blow to the head. The guards hoisted up their prisoner and continued towards the inner gate that led to the keep.
“We can’t let them take her in there!” Merelle protested.
Merelle forcefully shrugged away Eithyn’s hand and reached for the longbow slung over her shoulder. Pulling an arrow from her thigh-quiver, she took aim at the guard nearest to her. Eithyn gave a sigh of resignation and, nocking his own bow, nodded once at her.
“Together then and make it clean.”
Two arrows flew from the shadows, arching over the heads of the unsuspecting townsfolk and felled both guards in quick succession. Talitha dropped to her knees with a moan. Merelle and Eithyn darted through the crowd and scooped up their injured companion between them. In a flash of grey and brown silk, they retreated down the nearest alleyway and out of sight; cries of alarm fading behind them.
Eithyn checked the bandage around Talitha’s head. Apart from the wound at her temple and a mild concussion, she appeared to be in good shape. Eithyn had given her some herbal tea to help her sleep while he and Merelle discussed their options.
“It’s time to leave.”
Eithyn had remained adamant despite Merelle’s arguments to the contrary. An hour later it had been decided.
“We should send word to Corlyne then,” Merelle relented, reaching for the quill tucked behind her ear.
Merelle wrote four words on a slip of parchment and rolled it tightly.
Now to find Shen.
The sooty grey kestrel banked around the River’s Rest lighthouse and soared over the willow tree in the Town Commons in search of her quarry. Tilting her outstretched pointed wings slightly to maintain her intense scrutiny, she finally spotted Corlyne walking along the River Road and swooped down with an ear-piercing shriek.
Corlyne looked skyward and smiled as she saw Shen glide down to make a perfect landing on her outstretched arm.
Retrieving the roll of parchment attached to her leg, she nodded to the kestrel who sprang skyward again with a quick beat of her wings.
Unrolling the parchment, Corlyne read the hastily scribbled note.
“Cat among the pigeons.”
“Oh, Merelle. What have you done now?” Corlyne sighed with wry amusement.