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Turn 160.0: Celebrating?

Posted: 9/2/01

            "Thank you, Dodgen," Emma responds to the Hathean priest, "We truly appreciate all that you've done for us here at El-Balans and we could badly use a rest.  Also, we did what we could to honor the trust you placed in Rinder's Six when you agreed to aid our cause.  I'm even more delighted at your willingness to include a Sword Bearer and Shield Maiden in that trust."

            Emma looks from Dodgen to Amos and back again.  "I know that our two castes are not always as close as they otherwise could be," she says, "And I, for one, think that's wrong.  What good is war, after all, if there's no one left to sing the songs that memorialize it and lay the dead to rest? 

And how much harder is it to maintain morale in the face of adversity without the kindness and free-spiritedness of Hathe?  Your generosity and commitment have done much to educate me on that.  Hopefully, the actions of Skandor and I can also have a positive effect on you and your followers.  Remember, the caste of Anhur stands ready to defend your temple should you ever have need of us again. And we do so out of a sense of brotherhood and cooperation."

            Emerging into the light and into the fresh air is just short of miraculous for Elloharin.  Dimmed though he was named, the sunshine brings a smile to his face, and relief to his eyes.  Excusing himself from the party, he goes outside to bathe in the outdoors.  He looks around at the compound, looking for leaves, trees, bush of any kind.  Too long he has been separated from nature.  Elloharin is no Slyvan or wood elf, but even a Gray elf cannot be below the surface for long. 

            Scrubbing his hand through his hair, he is startled and please to see on his hand, a long, silver hair.  The change was beginning.  He tried to remember why that was important, or what it was a portent of, but as usual his memory sifts away like dry sand in his fingertips.  Grimacing, he lets go of the thought, and suddenly a face flashes through his mind. 

            The face of a young elf girl, not older than twenty, a mere babe.  Her hair long and golden, and her eyes violet, slightly lighter than his own.  Who is she?  The sand sifts through his fingers, and his head begins to pound dully.  He looks at the priests, enjoying the freedom that the Six had won for them.  He had been an anomaly.  His hair was jet black.  No Grey elf had black hair.  His father had wanted him exiled.  His father?  Exile?  The sand is gone.

            Elloharin is kneeling on the ground, head resting on his knee.  When would his memory come back?  When would these headaches stop and these mysterious spells of dream and sickness leave him?  He frowns and mutters Orcish curses under his breath.  He could not be weak now.  He had failed too many times down in the depths of the Vault.

 

            "Composer Dodgen," Director Amos had said, stepping forward and alongside his fellow priest, "Great thanks are indeed owed to Crayne, Emma, the Dimmed One, Canter, Storm, Skandor, and of course Hannibal the warrior thief..."

            A warm rush passed over Hannibal.  For the first time ever in Hannibal's life that word, that cursed word he had been referred to for all these years, seemed almost poetic!  It would figure that in all of his journeys, Hannibal had to come to this tiny speck of a temple at the end of the world to find his destiny.

            Why not a Warrior Rogue?!

            For the last few days he had questioned his future, whether where he was was where he wanted to stay.  Back in the cavern he had come to the painful realization that he would be forever a thief but then later, when accepting his treasure, felt that he was being told to follow a new path, the path of a warrior!

            Now, after his mind had run countless circles over this, he saw clearly what it was he needed to do.  The talents of a man of the shadows, coupled with the fighting prowess of a warrior...it was beautiful.  A smile passed over Hannibal's face as the thought crossed his mind.  He had found his calling!

 

            Crayne was feeling pleased with himself.  The last few days had been chaotic to say the least.  The bruises were still evident and the tiredness was beginning to creep in.  However, there was much to be thankful for, Crayne acknowledges.  He remembers back to the Battle of El-Balans where his use of the Ring of Water Command had turned the tide of the battle and when the priests of Hathe had come together and overpowered the Caerloon troops with their holy magic.  It all seemed to him like he was reading this out of some epic book.  He then switches his mind back to the battle with the stone guardians, where the

brave Hannibal had defeated one of the them on his own, sending it over the bridge to the depths below.  And then, the battle with Covarc, Crayne ponders.  He thinks of how well the Six had planned and worked so well as a team.  His magic had aided the group a lot he thinks to himself.  The way he had tricked the two guards on the floor of the chamber with his illusion.  His Clauraudience spell had helped locate the enemy and shed light on their plans.  Through his invisibility spells and his magic missiles Crayne had pinned back Covarc whilst the rest of the group equally caused the mage problems.  Hannibal with his supreme bravery sending the mage careering over the bridge.  The priestess Emma with her casting of Dispel Magic at just the right time.  And the other warriors, too, had fought with great bravery and skill.

            Rinder's Six were becoming an elite group, Crayne was sure of it.  They all seemed linked in some way as if they were one.  Everybody offered something to the one and at the moment they seemed impenetrable.  However, Crayne knew that they shouldn't be to confident for that was a weakness in his eyes. 

            He wonders if the news had reached Paros yet.  Whether Paros knew that Rinder's Six had defeated Covarc.  Crayne remembers back to their last meeting when Paros had called him nothing more than an apprentice and had rubbished him to his face.  He wishes he could see the reaction of Paros when the news was broken to him.  The thing that pleased him more, though, was the fact that they uncovered another lead as to the location of the Ring of Fire Command.  The most eastern of the Islands of Vile, Crayne thinks to himself, Latimus.  It was there that they needed to go, and as soon as possible as far as Crayne was concerned, for this was a race and it was Rinder's Six who would have to be the winners.  For the sake of the people of Rinder and maybe even Caerloon, he thinks to himself.

 

            Hannibal takes a long, warm bath, allowing the water to soak all the cramps and soreness from his aching muscles.  After nearly half an hour he dressed in the clean linens and made his way back to the bunks.

            Badly in need of a bath as well, Emma lingers in the water to wash her hair out thoroughly and scrub the grime from her pale skin.  Gingerly, she traces the edges of some of her wounds, looking forward to a visit from the Hathean healers.  She slips deeper into the water and allows herself to forget all about the quest for a short time.  Her frayed nerves and exhausted body appreciates the relaxation.  Finally, she removes herself from the water and covers up with a simple linen towel.  Her modesty seems of little consequence if the priests are to do a thorough job.

            Hannibal breathed a sigh of relief as the healers fixed him up as good as new.  From the battel on the bridge to the electricity to the statues, Hannibal was hurting pretty bad and this was just what he needed.  In fact, he actually felt a little energized and, grabbing his sword, went out to the courtyard to give the new blade the once over.

            Sighing happily, Emma feels almost as if the ministrations of the priests are just a dream.  But, after they've left, she stretches and can feel the difference.  The burns from Covarc's fiery spell have become soft pink patches.  In time, she would be able to call upon Anhur to heal them completely. Contemplating upon her god, she begins to think just how far she has come in her faith.

            Emma had never considered herself a miracle-worker, but there could be little doubt that some of the answers Anhur had provided recently bordered on such. The same could be said for all their actions.  Crayne himself had mastered much of the arcane lore necessary to defeat Covarc.  And the Ring of Water Command finally seems less of a danger and more of a tool.

            Emma narrows her eyes as she thinks about Paros and the rest of the Red Dragon renegades.  She doesn't need to divine an answer to know that a day of reckoning looms upon the horizon.  Rinder's Six would face that challenge.  'What matters now is that we prepare ourselves for it,' Emma thinks, 'A good soldier finds a sturdy shield and a sharp weapon before venturing out to do battle.  To do otherwise is to risk being unprepared for the challenges that will come.  And for us, we can't afford such a risk.'

            With that in mind, Emma closes her eyes.  She begins to pray while resting upon her soft bed.  Sometimes the words are meaningless, almost dream-like as her consciousness moves back and forth between the real world and fantasies conjured by her mental exhaustion.  A short while later, she awakens, refreshed and ready to venture outside.

            Skandor gratefully accepts any attentions offered him by the Hathean healers.  He then recalls that he still has the healing powers of Anhur to distribute to one of his companions.  He knew that the power was available to him once per day, but if he did not use it, he would in effect be 'wasting' it.  He looks at his companions present and judges who to be the worse off, then he recalls that Emma herself was still wounded, as well.  He decides that he would wait until he sees all of his companions after their healing attentions, and decide then who to use his ability on.

            During this "break time," Skandor takes the time to clean up, as well.  After taking to a bath, he devotes as much attention to his armor and weapons as he does to himself.  He painstakingly cleans the metal links of his chainmail, his helm, and of course his two swords.  He holds the blades up, viewing their length up and down, looking for any imperfection.  Small nicks and scars from battle can be seen across each of their surfaces, and he uses a soft cloth to polish them as best he can.

            'A road map of victories and death,' he thinks to himself, remembering an old Anhurian proverb.  Most of the battle-wear done to his blades, he couldn't remember where each ding had come from.  But there were many...many more than the last time he had cared for his weapons.  His mind wanders over the trip to the dungeon, the vault.  He recalls how Hannibal had willingly, aye, even eagerly ascended to the bridge to deal first with Corvac.  'Twas truly an act of bravery.

            'Should it have been me?' Skandor asks himself as he polishes the hilt of his two-hander.  'Because it wasn't, am I a coward?'  Skandor smiles suddenly, his hand pausing.  His eyes focus on his war blade, and he feels a gentle sensation of warmth.  Perhaps imagined, perhaps not...but Skandor could still feel the power of his god flowing through him.  If Skandor *had* been a coward, if he had embarrassed his war god in some manner, that feeling would be absent.

            Bowing his head, Skandor suddenly felt the urge to pray.  "Blessed father, almighty Anhur, hear these words of your servant.  I am your Sword Bearer, your instrument of war.  I am your justice.  I am your right arm in this world, your disciple, your squire.  My blade is your blade, my words are your words, and my life is your life.  I give thanks to thee, for the glorious victories my companions and I have witnessed.  We grow stronger thanks to you, praise be to you.  Until the next battle, I am at your

command.  I await your orders, most holy of generals."

            Skandor rises swiftly, his mood and stance moving from one of relaxation to sudden intensity.  With a practiced circle, his claymore whistles through the air, his arms straining to weave the heavy blade with precision.  He swings wide, around, and low, letting the momentum of the blade arch behind him.  His left hand comes off the handle for only a second, and for that short period of time, his weapon is gripped by only one hand.  But instantly, at the completion of the maneuver, both hands come round to meet and firmly grip the handle again as he rises to stand perfectly still, solid, like a chiseled stone statue.

            The short work-out had yet begun to make him sweat, and he chides himself for trying to get dirty again when he had just finished cleaning up.  With a soft smile, he scabbards the blade and scoops up his armor, and heads to the bunkhouse where he knew he'd find Storm doting over the gold.

            The lazy afternoon drifts by as most of the group rests.  Hannibal spends some time in the large

courtyard at the center of El-Balans practicing with his new longsword.  It had been a while since he had

wielded a blade of such fine craftsmanship, and with one as balanced and finely tuned as this--it is far

nicer than the blade he had been using!--he can begin to recall some of the more intricate moves he once new on the fields of Bigamore.

            It was amazing to Hannibal just how well this sword fit him.  It was almost as if the blade moved by will alone and in time was like an extension of his own hand.  Eyeing Canter crossing the courtyard after his own healing was done, Hannibal called out to the leatherman's son, playfully challenging him to a friendly duel.

            Emerging from the newly constructed bunkhouse, Emma squints her eyes against the setting sun.  The afternoon has nearly passed her by, but she is attracted to the unmistakable sounds of a swishing sword and the grunts of a warrior going through attack routines.  She expects to find Skandor knowing that he enjoys such practice as a relaxation and meditation technique common to most Sword Bearers, but smiles when she spots Hannibal instead.

            Remaining in the shade of an overhanging tarp and still clutching the linen around her body, she watches silently.  'Look at him,' she thinks, 'A wiser choice was never made.  The blade suits him.  And it's made him happy, too.  I just hope he can forget Bernigan and forge a new path of memories and experiences.'  Her heart still goes out to him, even after all of the harsh words they once traded on the trails that led to El-Balans.  She wonders what the days ahead will hold.

            She also thinks upon how close the group came to losing Hannibal.  Covarc's lightning had seriously burned him.  But, thankfully, it had been within her devoted power to Anhur that she could heal him.  The memory of how Hannibal had returned to consciousness still embarrasses her a little.  'What's one kiss anyway?' she asks herself.

            "Watch your feet!" Emma finally calls out.  When Hannibal turns to recognize her voice, she nods with a smile and gestures with her chin toward his boots.  "Your feet," she explains, "Be sure to place them like so..."  She demonstrates by stepping forward slightly, but the linen wrap hampers her ability to do the movement justice.  "Don't overextend either," she continues, stepping back into the shade undaunted, "Keep the sword in close, until you're ready to strike..."

            So intent on his new blade, Hannibal hadn't realized that he had picked up a spectator.  Pausing for a moment as Emma corrected his stance, he couldn't help but stare at the priestess.  On this day she was more beautiful than he had ever remembered her being!  Realizing that she had finished her instructions, Hannibal shook the thought off and nodded, playing out the steps briefly to ensure he had the move as she had instructed.

            Twirling the sword once in the palm of his hand, Hannibal returned the blade to it's scabbard before approaching the priestess.  "Maybe you can show me that move sometime," he remarked casually.  "Besides, I could use a brush up on tactics and technique if I am going to make good use of this sword."

            "Perhaps I shall...," Emma smiles, tilting her head slightly with a bemused expression on her face.

            Avoiding eye contact at first, Hannibal finally does meet the priestesses eyes and then comes undone, stammering and stuttering over nearly each word.  "Well, I...uh, you probably need to get dressed, um, I mean I should go get...well, you know, cleaned up for tonight and..."  For a moment the thief was speechless and very embarrassed.  He scratched his head for a moment while he pondered what to say next.  Finally giving up, he patted the pommel of his sword and smiled at Emma. "Well, thanks."

            "Sure...," Emma replies, a little confused at how rattled Hannibal seems. Had she offended him with her words?

            Quickly Hannibal turned and walked away, headed for his room and leaving Emma standing in the shade no doubt very confused.  'Way to go Hannibal!' he muttered to himself as he walked.  'Now she thinks your an idiot too!'

            'Oh no!' she thinks to herself, 'I did it again.  I was critical of him.  He must be upset, but too polite to say anything about it.'  The feeling leaves her saddened and somewhat angry with herself.  Only later does she stop to consider that he wouldn't have asked for further instruction if he truly felt offended.  'What then could have caused him to act in such a way?' she wonders.

            Growing wistful, Emma turns and reenters the bunkhouse to seek out the others...thinking she'll find them in various states of restfulness as well.  The tinkling sounds of coins make her smile. 'Storm's probably beside himself by now,' she thinks.

 

            Turning his attention back to the present, Crayne smiles as he sees Storm sitting there counting the money and gems.  To see the dwarf counting on his fingers making the occasional grunt was humorous

to the mage.  As the dwarf announces the result Crayne is quite staggered.  "That is a lot!" Crayne says, "Now we need to think about how much we will take out of it and how much we are going to give to the kingdom.  And then we need to deliver it to the right hands.  I for one believe Merriam is too far off track and will cost us much time.  However, what if we head east for Dillend? We know that our good friend Dire Luthor is there and he can surely be entrusted with the money.  Furthermore, if we do want to buy some equipment then we can head for Jilten.  I think we should steer clear of towns and cities in Caerloon for it will only bring us trouble.  What do you all think?"

            Standing in the doorway, Emma clears her throat and says, "Well, obviously we can't take the treasure with us into Caerloon.  We should probably take enough to reasonably outfit ourselves for the rest of the journey, but leave the rest behind.  I agree with Crayne.  Dire Luthor could probably be entrusted to deliver it to the King on our behalf.  If we detour to find him once again, I think it will save us valuable time.  And, he might give us an idea of what the border is like now.  Remember, we'll have to slip across into enemy territory again.  And I don't think I'll be able to pass as Lady Hannah of Seden this time around."  She laughs and gestures towards her linen.

            Skandor rises as he sees Emma enter.  His momentary relaxed mood shifts swiftly back into 'protection mode' as he sees his shield-maiden unarmored, and without weapons.  He suddenly feels moderate anger at himself, for his lack of attention, for his apparent shirking of duty.  His weapons are within reach, but he is without his armor.

            Some bodyguard he was, sitting here laughing with Storm, Canter, and Crayne over the box of gold, while his charge was out and about.  "The most comfortable times, are the most dangerous times," an Anhurian proverb had warned.  Even though they were done with the Vault, they were still Rinder's Six, and at all times, all hours, every minute, they were in danger.

            Glancing at Emma for a moment, his eyes study her form.  She still walked a little gingerly, he could tell.  He approaches Emma and bows slightly.  "Sir Storm is a masterful accountant.  He studiously counted the gold no less than seven times, and came up with the exact same number each time."  Skandor smiles back at Storm.  "Would that each of us had a small portion of the contents, to do with as we please?  I feel the need to make a donation to our church at our next opportunity."

            "Indeed," Emma nods, "Though I feel compelled to give most of my portion to the kingdom itself.  I know our caste is tasked with using such donations to defend our countrymen, but I'm not at all certain that a hundred percent of it passes from the collection plate to the army anymore."  Her eyes meet Skandor's clearly expressing a sentiment that could be deemed blasphemous in certain conservative circles of their caste.  But obviously she doesn't mind saying such a thing in front of him.

            'If he's been appointed by High Priest Towers and the others to spy upon me, then he might as well get an earful of my message and deliver it back to them,' she thinks, 'And if he owes no allegiance to them, then he should still hear my philosophy so he can judge for himself when the priesthood is called to judgement for its actions during this war.'  Coolly she appraises the Sword Bearer's reaction to her words.

            Skandor tries hard to not show his shock at her words, but it was too late: she could see his eyes widen ever so slightly with surprise.  Unable to hide his surprise, he merely stares at her for a moment.  She had made near-blasphemous comments about their priesthood in his presence before, and it seemed to him that perhaps she was becoming more open about some of her caste...reservations.  But, nothing yet, to date, had been so...accusing.  Perhaps she knew something?  Perhaps she had proof that this corruption she hinted at on a few occasions was real?  If so...when would she trust him enough to share more of her suspicions?

            "I am not one to judge my superiors, that is for the Almighty to do.  He knows all, and sees all.  If they somehow displease him, or do him any injustice, their own justice will be swift and sure.  Have faith in Him, Emma.  He will take care of those who may have done you, or our caste, wrong."  He smiles at her, only hoping that she would not take his words unkindly, but rather truthfully, and as a friend.

            Emma nods, keeping her demeanor neutral...neither acknowledging a blind acceptance of Skandor's philosophy, but not dismissing it entirely either.  She is careful to maintain their friendship regardless.  And as his friend, she seeks to help him understand the counterpoints of her own beliefs in order to more closely scrutinize his own and those of their caste.

            "We are instruments of our god, Skandor," Emma replies, "And as such we are often called upon to act as Anhur's judges in this plane of existence.  It is our responsibility to not only judge the world around us, but to judge with wisdom.  It is how we safeguard that which Anhur directs us to protect, after all.  And, if our superiors lack the wisdom to judge correctly, then it is our ever stronger duty to enact the justice that opens their eyes.  And if our generals lead us into battle for the wrong reasons, we must make that known lest an army of followers fall needlessly upon the swords of our enemy.  As the Scrolls of Anhur clearly state, 'To blindly accept an unwise dictate is a greater injustice than the ones a false leader may choose to deceive himself and his followers into pursuing. War is not just, in and of itself.'  Our leaders would be well advised to remember this..."

            Skandor turns his head slightly and nods several times, as if thinking to himself.  Biting his lower lip for a moment, he then turns his eyes back to Emma.  "Perhaps, if you are made to see this corruption, then maybe Anhur has chosen you to be his judge.  Perhaps it is His will that fosters the seeds of doubt in your mind, but He leaves the rest up to you.  Likely, if such charges are true, this would lead to some sort of conflict, some sort of battle, or challenge.  That is His way, after all."  Skandor pauses, weighing his words, realizing that perhaps his words, too, border on the blasphemous.  "Just know, though, that if you choose to act against our superiors, and if you act for good reason...I will be there beside you."

            Emma narrows her eyes just slightly trying to read between the lines of Skandor's commitment.  She knows that he will be beside her if such a conflict eventually arises between her and their superiors.  But, the question remains as to which side he will actually support.  High Priest Towers placed him within Rinder's Six for a purpose, after all.  To protect her, yes.  To insure that the quest for the Ring of Fire Command succeeds, certainly. B ut also quite possibly to see to it that the ring finds its way into the hands of their caste's leadership...not just to protect it from the Red Dragon renegades...but to use it to foster more war for the greater 'glory' of Anhur.

            The Shield Maiden remains undecided about her 'protector'...and how close she should allow him to enter her circle of trust.  She admires his bravery and sense of duty...but fears about his loyalty.  Skandor had hinted a number of times now about displaying proof of her insinuations...but she had none.  Just a gut feeling.  Just a sense of frustration from countless debates where it had become clear the priesthood's leadership followed a different doctrine...and a potentially disastrous one at that.  Still, he spoke the truth.  To sway the caste, it would take such proof and she had yet to find it.  Perhaps when they returned with the Ring of Fire Command, they would discover something?

            Finally, she nods at Skandor.  "I believe what you say may be right," she acknowledges, "Perhaps Anhur has placed this seed of doubt within me so that his message can be carried to those that have turned away from him?  I know not for certain.  I only know that it is a troublesome worry that eats away at my resolve.

            "In the end, Skandor," she continues, "It is imperative that we all keep an open mind and an open heart to hear the message of Anhur. Sometimes it's most difficult to do that over the din of the battlefield, but we *must* do it.  It is our duty to come to the call of our General's trumpet. 

And when that moment comes...when our leaders are faced with the message Anhur delivers to them...that is what I would ask of you.  And I would ask the same of all our brothers and sisters in arms.  Listen.  Listen or the tide of battle may change in this life and sweep you away, forever lost to him."

            Skandor then smiles and tried to change the subject.  "I notice that your wounds still trouble you somewhat, although perhaps not as much as before.  Still, I would be honored to administer the Rite of Healing upon your person, if you would allow it, Lady?"

            Emma considers the paladin's offer.  Refusing it would cause the situation to become more awkward...and she'd already done enough damage with her insinuations against their masters.  Besides, the Ritual of Healing brought with it a certain communion of spirit and purpose between a Sword Bearer and a Shield Maiden.  In many ways this act would bring them closer together.  And perhaps in so doing, his eyes might be opened further.

            "By all means," she agrees, "I'd like to participate in the festivities tonight, and as I understand it involves quite a lot of music, I thought I might dance away the evening."

 

(OOC: Skandor lays hands on Emma.  12 hp restored to Emma.)

 

            Crayne then adds, "I also have an idea when we cross the border into Caerloon.  What if we travel under the cloak of invisibility?  I have an area effect spell so with a few of the spells focused on different people we should be able to travel quite comfortably under an invisible shroud. I would have thought that it will make our journey an easier one!"

            "An interesting idea," Emma says, tapping her chin and leaning against the door, "It might make for more trouble than it's worth to do it for an extended time, though.  Without the ability to see one another, we might become separated.  And, getting lost in enemy territory isn't something I'd care to experience.  Still I'm sure a series of invisibility enchantments would go a long way toward remaining unnoticed in areas where the Caerloon scouts are more active.  A worthy ruse, Highbrow..."

            The Sword Bearer listens closely to their ideas, and nods enthusiastically, agreeing with all that he hears up to this point.  They had an idea where the Ring of Fire Command was.  They needed to get there first, and they needed to get there fast.

 

            Following the decision to head east in search of Dire Luthor, Crayne takes Covarc's spellbook from his backpack and blows the dust from it's cover.  He then brings the book to his face and smells the cover and pages.  How he had always loved the smell of books.  He remembers back to Halen when he had always enjoyed the smell of Old Halbraden's library.  Being careful not to open it though Crayne memorises Detect Magic and casts it over the book.  He is relieved when he can detect no spells protecting it, and no magical traps placed upon it.

            After he and the others have been cared for, Elloharin seeks out the Mage Crayne.  He is studying the book.  Covarc's treasure.  In his own backpack he carries two scroll cases, already uncomfortably filled.  Does he even have any paper left?  The priests must certainly have some.  Instead of disturbing the mage, intent on his work, now copying into his own spell book, Ellorhain seeks out Amos.

            Crayne nods at Elloharin and begins the process of looking through the spellbook.  After a few moments Crayne becomes enamoured with the book.  He flicks through the pages one by one running his long slender fingers down the page.  His excitement grows as he delves in deeper.  Turning to his companion to share his excitement, Crayne realises that the elf has deserted him.  He stands up and closes the book.  Muttering under his breath, he wonders where the elf might be.  Tempted to just go on with the spellbook, Crayne knew that the two of them should be present.  The book belonged with both of them.

            Taking his staff up which rests against a nearby window ledge, Crayne smirks to himself.  Another item of his which had been pried from the body of a dead Red Dragon mage.  'Would they never learn?' he thinks to himself.  Suddenly, he quickly pushes the thoughts out of his mind, embarrassed by the arrogance of them, and focuses on the task at hand.  'Where was that elf?' 

            Ever since Crayne had first set eyes upon the elf he had known that there was something he was hiding.  He was secretive and very withdrawn as if something was troubling him.  Crayne had wondered why he was called Elloharin the Dimmed.  Since his time with the party, Crayne still hadn't learnt much about him and it was a worrying aspect of Rinder's Six.  For the group to be so much in the dark regarding this elf could be a danger.

            It was time to confront Elloharin, Crayne thinks as he steps through the threshold into the courtyard where the evening's party is being set up.  Perhaps there was some way in which he could help him and find out what it was that preyed on the elf's mind so deeply.

 

            El finds the Director in deep consultation with one of the initiates.  Though he tries not to listen in, his elven ears pick up clues regarding tonight's celebration.  How long since El had been at a festival?

            In a moment El is down on one knee again, clutching his head and his stomach which are both roiling like a steaming kettle.  He dry heaves, oblivious of the priests and musicians staring at him in shock.  Suddenly the dream has hold of Elloharin again.  The music plays loudly and it drowns out all thought.

            The stranger can see revelers dancing about the street.  Only one festival a year takes place in

Redaroleen alar Cai.  For the rest of the year, the city is quiet.  The city magistrates study in the

soaring crystal towers.  From time to time great licks of flame, or sprays of color emerge from a tower

window, the results of a spell gone out of control.  The artisans work quietly in their shops, carpenters

at work on pieces that would be sold at the highest prices in every market in the world.  The work of the

Grey was prized by all, even the cursed ones.  The blacksmith's anvil seems subdued here, and the

candlemaker's tallow seethes silently in aluminum kettles. 

            Redaroleen alar Cai was a quiet city.  But during the Feast of Fears the city erupted.  The mmajestic spires were layered with streamers and magic screens displaying colorful sunbursts in the night

sky.  The streets were crowded with every kind of elf.  The one night of the year when the distinction

between elf and elf was overlooked by all.  The Feast of Fears was a happy time, a time to throw away those cares which plagued the community, indeed the world.  It started at noon, when the city burghers would ring the High Bells from round the city all at once, playing Lucar's Elegy, a tune said to have originated with the Seldeine.  The librarians and scholars would all look up from their books then, smiling soberly at one another, and marking their place carefully, closing the precious volumes for a full two days.  Getting up and gathering their belongings they would return to their homes, where their children were already waiting, released from the Havar early.  Once their elders had returned home, they would bless the children, and cast the Delfree Ovar upon them, sending them glowing brightly, clothed in light, into the streets.  There the children sported in the afternoon sun, avoiding the work-elves as they set up the platform for the High King.

            By sunset, the streets would be crowded beyond recognition.  Elves from all over the realm packed the clean streets, travelers from all the partitions came to see the Feast of Fears.  Even a few humans and dwarves could be seen.  The temperature of the city would rise in anticipation of the High King's benediction.  That benediction would begin the Feast.  A field of large trestle tables would serve all who had come to celebrate.  Only to be cleared in moments so that the dancing could begin.  The Feast of Fears transformed the Grey elf . For two days the Realm would be reminded of the majesty and antiquity of the elven race.

            The stranger pressed through the crowd not seeing anyone.  About a mile from here, three hundred feet higher, a great experiment had gone wrong.  No one knew yet that the tower of Sorcerer Verakli'thon, the great Verakli'sheva bel Cai, was a flaming ruin.  No one knew yet that the sorcerer and all save one of his apprentices had vanished in the explosion.  No one knew yet of the doom that was descending on them.

            People eyed the stranger in disbelief and gave way before him.  He stumbled forward toward the stage where the High King and the Counsel of Six awaited the convocation.  The music faded and stopped as more and more people stopped their idle chat to gaze in horror at the Stranger in their midst.  The stranger stood before the stage in complete silence.  His eyes were empty and devoid of emotion.  Both King and Counsel had turned to stare at him.  In the oppressive silence, the roar of the burning tower could be heard even a mile away.  Heads turned toward the sound and jaws dropped.  Women wept and men shuddered.  The cacophony rose as waves of fear and terror swept over the city.  Panic was seizing the masses.  Redaroleen alar Cai, a city that had never seen chaos, the great star of the Western Realms, the Jewel of the Elven Nation, trembled in the advent of its own destruction.

            Elloharin opens his eyes, seeing Amos and the other priest approaching him at a run.  And then he sees nothing.

 

            Crayne makes his way through the courtyard.  He nods at a few of the priests who smile back warmly.  It is then that he spots Elloharin going into one of the cloisters as though looking for somebody.  He quickens his step.  He sees Emma, and Skandor and Hannibal practising with their swords.  He moves over to Emma, the priestess, "I think you may help me here Emma.  Something is troubling Elloharin I am sure of it.  I believe it is time to confront him.  To speak with him and help him.  He seems in so much pain.  It is not good for him nor the group."  Emma notices the concerned look on Crayne's face.  "Come with me if you will.  He has just headed in through the Temple doors."

            Perplexed, Emma agrees. "Sure, Crayne.  I'll help however I can," she responds, "What seems to be the trouble?"

            Crayne then moves off quickly again wondering what had caused the elf to disappear without so much as a word.  As he goes through the main doors heading into the main cloister area Crayne shouts, "What the..." as he sees the elf lying on the floor clutching his head.  Crayne rushes over to the elf, oblivious to Amos and the other priests.

            "What has happened here?" Crayne questions.

            "By the Scales!" Emma exclaims, joining the Highbrow next to their elven friend.  She looks up toward the priests hovering nearby.  "Has he fallen sick?" she asks, "Send for a healer!"

            After a few moments of panic pass Crayne takes his water bottle from his belt and splashes some

water onto the elf's forehead.  He then gives the elf a few sips hoping to bring him around.  As Elloharin stirs Crayne begins to smile, "You had us worried for a moment."

            Crayne looks towards Amos, "Help me help him up onto one of the chairs."

            As the elf begins to breath more steadily and some colour begins to emerge back into his cheeks,

Crayne confronts him, kneeling and looking at him directly.  "Elloharin I do not mean to pry and I do not

wish to offend you.  However, this attack and your general demeanour recently has given me cause for concern.  Your melancholic mood and your secrecy worries me.  Furthermore, I beg of you not to think that you are being judged by me or anyone here.  We are here to help you.  You have been a great servant to Rinder's Six and the kingdom so far.  Your bravery is to be comended and you are growing strongly with your magic.  It is my wish to help you get stronger with it to if you'll except my invitation.

            "Firstly, however to study magic you must have the most strongest mind.  However, I view your state of mind at the moment as fragile.  I see that you are in great pain as if you carry a great burden on your shoulders.  Please be open with us tonight Elloharin.  Let it be my burden as well!"

            Crayne looks at the priest intently.  He just hopes that his words were strong enough to convince

the young elf into revealing something of his background.  Crayne looks to Emma at that point.  It was certainly a defining point in Crayne's recent change.  Before he had been so mixed up with himself that he would never have even noticed the elf's troubles.  However, he was here now offering the elf his hand in friendship.  He was offering to help the young Elloharin in any way he could.

            'Perhaps it was a mistake,' Crayne thinks to himself, 'to confront the elf in such a blatant way. It was too late now, though,' Crayne thinks as he looks back to Elloharin.

            Emma nods encouragingly at Crayne, preferring not to speak overly much.  Elloharin shares a common bond with Crayne through the practice of magic.  Any words the Highbrow might offer will probably be listened to more intently than her own.  And besides, Crayne clearly cares for the elf.  He has Elloharin's best interests at heart and he is doing quite well.

            "Is there anything you need?" she asks Elloharin, "We're here to help and listen if need be."

            Still shaken, Elloharin looks up warily at the mage and the priestess.  He pauses to look at his hands.  They are shaking slightly.  He can see one of the veins along his knuckle pulsing as if he were moving his fingers.  He shakes out his hands reflexively, apalled by his own attack of nerves.

            "I ... I am all right." 

            He pauses to breathe deeply.  How much can he tell to these people?  How much does he himself really know for sure?  How much of his life is fact, and how much fiction?  And worse...where to begin?

            "Please do not take my reticence in speaking too badly, my own past is as muddled to me as it must be to you.  Perhaps I should start from the beginning...As you may or may not know, I am not from these

lands.  At least I do not think so.  I came to Rinder from beyond the Sinele River.  From beyond the Orcish Lands.  From the great Elven Kingdom of Hercleamestis.  More I cannot say for sure.  Something happened to me...I am older than you think...young, a mere child as an elf, but older still than the oldest human.  I have seen over 120 winters, and yet, I do not recall more than two.  I cannot recall the faces of my parents.  I am honorless.  I am...exiled."

            Crayne nods, listening intently to the elf.  For the first time Elloharin was beginning to open up.  He was 'exiled' from the great Elven Kingdom of Hercleamestis.  It seemed that was his punishment along with the memory loss.  Had he been tortured in some manner?  And what had the elf done?  Crayne ponders the elf for a moment and wonders whether somebody had put some sort of mind block on him.  This was a delicate matter, Crayne now understood.

            Emma is surprised by Elloharin's announcement.  In her studies at the library of Seden, she had had many an opportunity to read about elves, though she'd never met very many.  This kingdom that Elloharin refers to doesn't ring any bells in her mind, though if given the opportunity, perhaps she could research the place and help to put El's mind at ease?

            El struggles for the right words.  Common is not his first language.  Fear, trepidation, nervous angst and intense concentration war on his face and in his body.  Exiled is not the right word, the word in his own tongue, 'atay,' means so much more.  It means blindness, it means destruction, hubris, dimness.

            "I came to Rinder, because something terrible has happened to Hercleamestis.  I cannot tell you what, because I am not sure.  And I was not specifically sent here to aid my country because I am not sure there was anyone left to send me.  The city I fled, the city where I learned to read, learned the old lore, the city where I was sent to study magic, that city is no more.  I...was there.  In the courtyard, watching Amos...I remembered.

            "It happened during a great festival, bigger than the one the priests have tonight, though I do believe that is what triggered my memory.  I am very much afraid, Mage Crayne, that this is not the last of these 'attacks.'  I am with the Six for a reason.  And I must go with you no matter what.  I cannot be left behind.  But, I will try to contain myself.  Once more I have dishonored myself and my ancestors before you."

            Crayne shakes his head.  "You must stop using that word 'dishonor,' Elloharin.  You have not dishonored yourself here or your ancestors.  Your self-esteem is low I can see that, but speaking like that will never help it.  I can see now why you are so troubled.  However, you do not know that you were exiled Elloharin for certain do you.  At the moment there is little to go on.  Some evil may have crossed your lands and destroyed the great city you talk of.  Perhaps you were injured in battle and lost your memory and fled from the terror of the destruction of your home.  There are many possibilities and so you must not assume the worst.  You must not blame yourself for that will cause your own destruction.  You are here now and I believe you have bumped into the best people although perhaps not at the best time

with this war upon us.  However, we are all here to help you overcome this sadness that plagues your mind.

            "You say that your memory is returning.  That seems a good start.  As you remember more let me know for tackling this burden on your own will be the undoing of you.  Now I suggest we take a look at this spellbook we retrieved from Covarc and then we join the party.  It has been a long day!" Crayne says sighing.  Helping the elf up to his feet Crayne thanks the priests for their assistance.

            "120, hey Elloharin.  Perhaps I shouldn't be so keen to boss about my elders!" Crayne says smiling.

            Emma catches Crayne's eye as he steers El out the door.  She gives him another reassuring smile.  Elloharin would be the Highbrow's charge.  Perhaps he could help to stabilize the young elf's shattered mind better than anyone else.  She takes the hands of the priests of Hathe standing around, thanking them once more for their concern and assuring them everything will be alright.

            Elloharin the Dimmed arrives at appointed place a little earlier than most.  During the Feast of Fears he would usually slip out of the Havar early to watch the work elves set up the tents and streamers.  He did not feel the same sort of scorn that the other Grey did toward the Highelves who did the domestic work of Redaroleen alar Cai.  He was somewhat of an outcast himself.  Sometimes he would even help the elves, his strength had always been extraordinary among the bookish Gray.

            Now that memory was beginning to come back to him, Elloharin could begin to weep.  He had been fortunate to forget.  It had felt good today to speak to Crayne and Emma.  Some of the burden of his

guilt seemed waver mirage-like above his shoulders.  What had happened that day?  What for that matter had happened all the days before it?  Why had it taken him two entire years to cross from the Elven Realms to Rinder?  The questions are too numerous, and he too tired to answer him now.

            Instead he rejoices in the memories which have returned to him.  He remembers the smell of the city.  A scent of lavender.  Elvish cities had none of the refuse and rot of human cities.  He remembers the High King's keep.  Impossible towers that rose above as high as the sky itself.  Towers which glowed at night and blazed like the sun during the day.  Had he ever been inside of the keep?  He shies away from the thought as a dread flash of memory tries to bubble up from within him.  Once per day is enough.  He does not want to be a burden to the Six.  That thought brings him back to the present.

            The priests are bustling about now, the final preparations are under way and musicians are tuning their instruments.  He sees one of the instruments that he had seen earlier in the vault in the hands of a sturdy young priest.  A lute was it?  He seems to remember instruments vaguely like them from his past.

            He approaches the young acolyte.  "Boy, would you play something for me?"

            The young boy, perhaps no more than twelve years old, nods to El.

            El nods in reply, "Something sad, something fit for mourning.  There will be plenty of time for joyful music later, but for now my young friend, I want to cry."

            The young priest of Hathe does indeed know some very sad music.  The chords seem to rend the walls, and twist the air about him.  Even the other priests turn to stare at the young man in consternation.  But what's more--the tune seems faintly familiar.  Carried away by the delightful music, Elloharin the Dimmed begins to hum, and then to sing.  His voice is unusually deep for an elf, though certainly not as deep as Skandor's or, even Crayne's.  And he closes his eyes and sways.  The words are in Elven, of course, and for those who understand them, here is the translation:

            There is a land

            Far from the sea

            A land where the blood of the ancients flows swiftly

            There is a sea,

            Far from the land,

            Where the flesh of the Locar, sails out from me

            But oh what sea

            And oh what a land

            How can they leave it, he wonders silently,

            Resolved of their chains, they get up and go.

            They leave like snow, falling so quietly

            What have they seen, and what do they know?

            That would bring them so far

            From the land

            And the sea.

He is aware of a small audience, including the former Rinder's Six member, the elf Alara.  He stops suddenly, blushing.  Then he thanks the young man and turns around.  Storm is watching him.  Already the dwarf has started in on the mead.  And the thought of the drunken dwarf to be brings a ghost of a smile to El's pallid face. 

            He goes to the dwarf, and stands by him.  He says to the short one, who is still looking at him

peculiarly, "It is a children's song from my homeland."  Elloharin takes a glass of wine from one of the

priests who offers it to him and settles down in a chair to the side, to wait. He sips the beverage and

watches the people come in.  Canter arrives without ceremony.  'He is a plain man,' thinks the Dimmed, 'but a good one it seems.  Certainly a good man to have in a fight.'  He nods at him as he goes in.  Canter sits by him for a while, but it is not longer before the burgeoning festivities sweep him to his feet.

            Elloharin watches in silence, occasionally sighing into his cup.  It is becoming crowded and El can see little above the groups of people standing or dancing.  Suddenly the tall frame of Skandor appears from the crowd.

 

            During the party Crayne seeks out and finds the local herbalist at El-Balans and arranges to purchase a few of the local herbs for a fair price.  The herbalist, also a lower-level cleric, is happy to supply Crayne with most of the necessary ingredients for a healing potion and a sleeping potion, though he does not have all the necessary ingredients for a poison paste.

            Also, Crayne approaches Amos, saying to the priest, "Amos!  This is of a strange request.  However, when we freed you from the confines of the Red Dragon mages we fought a mage in the battle.  On searching the body of the mage following the death of him we found nothing on his body.  That is strange to me for a mage to not carry a spellbook with him.  Thus, if it is alright with you and your faith grants it so, I would be obliged if I could look at the mage again.  There may be something that I missed."

            Amos nods to Crayne in reply.  "The mage's body is nearly finished being prepared for a proper burial.  I will have one of my students show you the way."

            Thanking Amos, Crayne follows the student out of the party and to one of the farthest buildings in the monastery.  There, lying on the table, Crayne can see the robed body of the mage.  The smell of dead flesh permeates the room, and for a moment Cranye must squint as his senses are overwhelmed by the putrid smell.  As quickly as he can, he casts Detect Magic over the body, but much to his disappointment, he can detect nothing; no spellbook.  "Strange," Crayne thinks to himself as he leaves the corpse and heads back toward the celebration.

            Fashionably late, Emma finally arrives...and the height of fashion is exactly what caused her delay.  She flashes everyone a smile, having drafted a Hathean priestess into borrowing some festive clothes for the celebration.  A soft, velvety dress extends down to her knees, while leaving her shoulders bare.  It is a deep violet in color and her upswept golden hair lends her the air of nobility, much befitting a nobleman's daughter.  From the bottom of the dress, another layer of cloth extends, made from a diaphanous material.  A slit runs up to her mid-thigh, clearly marking the outfit as suitable for active dancing.  And the dance is entirely what Emma looks forward to.

            The paladin Skandor enters the feast-hall, for some reason, even later than Emma.  In fact, he is the last of Rinder's Six to attend.  He steps into the hall, his eyes searching out his companions.  He had come dressed like usual: armored, but impeccably clean and shaven.  The handle of his two-handed sword could be seen in its usual place above his shoulder, his gladius sheathed at his hip.  He allowed himself one small omission of his armor: his helm he had decided to leave under his bunk.

            The music was loud, but quite good.  These priests knew music better than anyone, perhaps even moreso than worldly bards that sang and spun tales.  There is a lot of talking as the mood is cheerful and festive.  He notices Crayne standing at the other end of the hall, surrounded by several priests of varying age and appearance.  No doubt the mage was informing them why wizardly magic was superior to priestly magic.  Skandor could imagine what Crayne was saying, "Wizardly magic does not come to you, nor leave you, at the whim of some cosmic force.  Wizardly magic is one's own."  But those gathered around the wizard drink from cups, and smile and laugh, and Skandor wonders if they are really debating at all.

            Skandor next sees Storm, off to the side.  If any person could carry more than one flagon of ale, Storm was that person.  He had one in either hand, and there were one or two other mugs sitting on the table next to him.  Skandor watches with a faint smile as Storm gestures to those gathered around him, his arms swinging as if wielding his swords, ale sloshing over the brims of his cups.  The priests gathered around him look awe-inspired.  Surely, Storm was telling them how he had performed some heroic feat.  And truth be told, Storm could tell them such stories well into the night, and all true stories, too.

            Off to one side, Canter sits alone with a priestess of Hathe, apparently trying to have a private conversation.  The look on Canter's face, the smile, and the blush on the face of the priestess made the paladin wonder exactly what *kind* of conversation they were trying to have.  Skandor suddenly became

aware that he didn't really know that much about Canter, though he knew him to be a skilled swordsman and trusted member of the Six.  Skandor nods once, almost unnoticeably, in Canter's direction.

            Next, Skandor spies Elloharin, the "Dimmed One," sitting alone and quiet at a table, slowly nursing a single goblet of some drink.  Skandor had expected to see, and even hoped to see, Elloharin dancing, singing...doing the things elves were always thought to do.  He had hoped that the festive

atmosphere would help to lighten the somber mood of his elven companion.  But there he sat, alone, and silent.  The elf's eyes wander the room, taking in the party the Hatheans were throwing.  Skandor could only imagine what thoughts ran through the mind of El.  Part of him wanted to go over to his elven companion, sit, and goad him into talking...but El had always been a quiet person, and seemed to prefer to be by himself.

            Eyes raking the room, Skandor spots Hannibal.  Just as his attitude had changed recently, so had his attire.  Hannibal appeared to be a gentleman in the making, and never before had Skandor seen the warrior-rogue dressed so splendidly.  Hannibal's smile was as bright as any of the torches or lanterns

lighting the hall, and his mood seems cheerful, happy, almost excited.  Skandor had always respected Hannibal, but after their recent descent into the Vault, his respect for the man had indeed grown.

            Lastly, Skandor's eyes spotted Emma.  It was hard to see her at first, being surrounded by priests and priestesses alike had blocked his view of her.  But when he saw her, his heart tried its best to leap into his throat.  She was indeed beautiful, a rare gem amongst the priesthood, for sure.  She seemed

totally at ease being the center of attention, and always had something to say, something to talk about, especially in gentle times like now.  She and the group around her erupted into laughter, and several of those around her nodded respectfully and walked off.  Seeing few of the priests left around her, Skandor begins to make his way toward her, weaving through drink-servers, dancers, and merry-makers---

 

            After some time to think to himself and a glass of wine or two, Hannibal had recomposed himself and was better prepared this time.  Approaching Emma...

            "Why, hello, Hannibal!" Emma grins, "I was just telling Lyricist Maila here about your ingenuity in tangling the stone guardian's feet with your rope.  Perhaps they'll write an epic poem about you here at El-Balans?"  She laughed and sipped from her own goblet of wine, being careful not to imbibe too much.  Luckily she had selected a less potent concoction than the ones Storm had discovered an hour earlier.

            Hannibal offers a slight bow to Maila in respect before turning back to Emma.  "Ah, you give me too much credit my lady.  Were it not for your magic touch I would not have lived to commit the deed at all.  Besides, I had to do something to catch the ladies' eye.  Getting fried by a mage's lightning bolt didn't seem to do it."

            The comment causes Emma to blush, as she recalls not only her healing touch upon Hannibal, but the rather surprising kiss after he regained consciousness.  She just hopes he doesn't embarrass her further by telling Maila any of the details surrounding *that* part of the story.  "The lightning was quite sufficient," she says, trying to play down the situation and Hannibal's roguish charm.

            Hannibal offered a subtle wink to the priestess, showing that he had recovered slightly from his

afternoon bumblings.  "And if I may say so madam, the ladies gown suits you well."

            Smiling through her blush, Emma thanks Hannibal for the compliment.  "A little rest and the hospitality of our Hathean friends seems to have done wonders for you as well," she concedes, "So are you enjoying the party?"

            "Priestess," he stated confidently while extending his elbow to Emma.  "I hope your caste does not prohibit you from a dance or two in celebration of our victory."

            Emma smiles, quite delighted by Hannibal's offer.  'Perhaps he really isn't angry at me,' she thinks.  She excuses herself from the Hatheans and takes his hand instead of his elbow, trying to generate a spirit of close friendship rather than formality.  She blushes a little at her boldness, but is determined to loosen him up a little...not to mention that she wants to make amends for any slight he might have felt when she corrected his stance in the courtyard.

 

            ---But before he can make it half way towards her, he sees Hannibal get there first.  They both smile, widely, and for a moment Skandor believes Emma blushes deep red.  Too far away from them to hear words, Skandor merely watches as they talk for a few moments, apparently taken by one another.  Then, Emma extends a hand towards Hannibal.  The warrior-rogue seems rather reluctant for a moment, but Emma eventually coaxes him into accepting her hand, and then they head out towards the dancing area.---

 

            "Not only does my caste allow a dance or two in celebration of a victory," she tells him, her eyes flashing, "It demands it of me."  She spins to face him once they reach the dance floor.  Staying close, she asks, "Is their any particular step you had in mind?"

            Hannibal grins from ear to ear, a little surprised at Emma's forwardness but certainly not about to complain about it.  "I was never one to disagree with a god," Hannibal quips.  "If he demands that you dance then consider it my obligation to ensure you fulfill that arrangement."  Hannibal takes Emma's hands in his own and then leans in close, enjoying her scent as he whispers in her ear.

            Subconsciously, Emma braces herself as Hannibal leans in close, not knowing what he has in mind.  The butterflies in her stomach seem to take flight and she doesn't quite know what to say.  Then Hannibal speaks and breaks the momentary silence.

            "To be honest Emma, I have not danced in years.  If you could be so kind as to lead for the first song till I get back my legs I will be once again forever in your debt."  Straightening out, Hannibal throws in a quick verbal jab for fun.  "And try not to drop me ok."

            "Well, I guess there's a first time for everything," Emma responds, equally at ease with the verbal sparring, but keeping it all light-hearted for once instead of the venom that had filled their conversations in the past, "Finally, *you* are going to follow *my* lead?  Oh, if only we had danced sooner..."

            Her eyes twinkle with mischief as she begins to move Hannibal delicately through the steps of a Seden Stroll.  "This step isn't so different from a combat routine," she explains, "In fact, one of the reasons I like dancing so much is that it gives me an opportunity to improve my footwork."  With that statement she delicately performs a complicated maneuver while Hannibal holds onto her hand to keep her balance.  The Seden Stroll is designed as a somewhat flirtatious dance between a couple, with the lady displaying her talent in order to impress a male suitor.  Emma had chosen the step in part as a jest, but also because the wine has loosened her inhibitions just a little.

 

            ---Skandor feels a small pang of...something.  He feels...strange, not really understanding what it is that bothers him.  He looks around the room again, and decides after all, it would be a good idea to go sit with El. 

            Skandor walks up to his elven companion and sits in the chair next to him.  El doesn't seem to notice his approach or his taking a seat.  But it matters not to either one as Skandor reaches for a nearby mug of ale and takes a sip.  The sip turns into a few deep gulps.

            Skandor watches from his seat, watches as Hannibal and Emma swing and twirl, spin and turn.  'They are both made for the dance,' he thinks to himself.  He chuckles once, grinning wryly, as he recalls that he, himself, has not danced in ages, since he was a child.

            'By the hells, I'd probably step on her, or trip, or kill someone on accident,' he thinks, his smile fading.  He watches them for a moment longer, as the music grows slower, more romantic.  Smiling to each other, Emma and Hannibal grow a little closer to each other, at first awkward, but then more easily, almost naturally.  They were both wearing smiles...something Skandor had not seen on any of his companions' faces for quite sometime.

            It was good to see all of his companions relaxed, enjoying some "time off" from the intensity of the possibility of death at a moment's notice.  He, himself, was ready to die.  He had been since he was ordained a paladin and Sword Bearer.  Dying in the service of his Almighty General was the most honorable way to exit this world.  He knew his end would come one day, he awaited it.  Not anxiously, but like a man who knows that he was going to die.  And if we was lucky, he'd be able to serve in Anhur's host, in the heavens above, for eternity.

            Turning his head sideways, Elloharin sat near him still, unmoving, soundless.  Wordlessly, Skandor turned his view back to Hannibal and Emma, and watched them dance again, and again, and again.

            Setting down the mug, half-drained, Skandor glances once in El's direction, then turns his

attention back towards the throng of dancers, particularly to where two of his companions twirled and spun.  "So how goes it, friend Elloharin?"

            "Fine.  I suppose."  He pauses for a moment, trying to frame an honest reply.  Trying to gauge the paladin's interest.  He looks at the large man and sees a glimmer of melancholy within him.  What is there about melancholy that cries out to melancholy, he can feel an echo of his own feelings of loss and desperation hanging about the faultless knight.  Taking courage and air in one breath, he forges ahead.  "Skandor, have you ever felt helpless?  Really helpless?  Like you were pinned against the wall, though not really.  As if there were a world to be saved, a world to be won, and all the reason in the universe to win it, be it, do it, and yet..."  He pauses.  Gulping.

            Skandor turns sharply as El begins to speak.  He had not expected the elf to respond, being as quiet as he usually is, but Skandor is more than shocked.  He is quite pleased.  But at the elf's words, he thinks back to a time when he had felt just as the elf had described.  Helpless...pinned against a wall...unable to make 'something' happen.  "Aye, good sir...I have felt just as you have described.  It seems like so many years ago, a lifetime ago...but I am not that person anymore."  He pauses, and turns his attention back towards Hannibal and Emma.  Suddenly, his stomach tightened.  Perhaps he felt a little that way right now.

            El follows Skandor's gaze around the room.  To the Shield Maiden.  And the thief.  "There is a world to be won Skandor, not all is lost yet."  The elf says it softly, so softly he is not sure whether the paladin, lost in thought, even hears him.  He repeats it to himself reassuringly.  All is not lost.

            Skandor turns to regard the elf again.  "Aye...as long as we, Rinder's Six, are at work, not all is lost."  Skandor forces a smile, and nods once towards Elloharin.

 

            Skandor reflects on his feelings, on his thoughts.  Perhaps it simply bothered him that Emma did not actually "need" a body-guard?  She had proven time and time again that she was more than capable of holding her own.  And if anything, she seemed almost slightly resentful of his motherly-like bearing and attitude.  But alas, the templed at commanded it, his superiors had communed with the Almighty and determined that Emma was to have a Sword Bearer as a guard and companion.  Who was he to question the motives of his superiors?  The Almighty knew what lie ahead, and perhaps Emma was destined for some even more dangerous encounters down the road, at which time Skandor's presence might make the difference between life and death?

            But, perhaps what he feels *is* jealousy?  Jealousy had done more to kill relationships and friendships than any number of blades had ever done.  If Emma and Hannibal were 'taken' by each other, more power to them!  Skandor knew that, for now, he didn't feel like he "made a difference" at all.  He hadn't made much of a difference in the last battle, he hadn't made much of a difference when he served guard duty in his temple...He hadn't made much difference when his family was killed, his home burned

to the ground...

            Silently, and with a little bit of envy, Skandor watched Hannibal and Emma dance.

            Storm drinks quite heavily during the celebration, and invents a few new dance moves with the artful priests before turning in for the night.  At least someone at the party has to be amazed at the amount that Storm drinks...it seems quite disproportionate for someone Storm's size!  It's certainly a

good thing dwarves are built like rocks.

 

            Later, after several dances, Hannibal excuses himself and finds a seat.  Nearly exhausted from the workout, Hannibal drinks greedily from the water at his table.  Looking around, he notices Skandor for the first time in his armor and approaches.

            Emma remains upon the dance floor moving from partner to partner.  She takes the opportunity to match up with some of the best Hathean dancers, doing her most to impress them with the artistic expression of a noblewoman that is much more than the mere Shield Maiden of Anhur they believed her to be.  Periodically, her peals of laughter and excitement can be heard over the music.  She hasn't had this much fun since her days before the priesthood, and she lets herself go, the religious ramifications take on less meaning and importance.  She becomes just another reveler at a wondrous celebration.

            Hannibal moves toward Skandor, standing across the table from the seated Sword Bearer and the Dimmed.  "Hey Skan, what gives?  It's going to be pretty hard for you to relax in that."  Hannibal is of course having a great time and, being a little on the tipsy side, does not immediately pick up on Skandor's mood.

            Skandor smiles, and looks up at Hannibal standing before him.  "I am most relaxed when I am clean, and prepared for battle.  And whether we are descending into a dungeon, or dancing at a ball, Emma is still mine to protect.  However you, my friend, seem most relaxed on the dance-floor, swinging lovely priestesses this way and that!" he finishes with a chuckle.

            Hannibal shrugs, but smiles, his thoughts still a whirl from the many dances with Emma, and the draining of a mug or two of ale.

            Skandor's eyes drill into Hannibal's.  "If I didn't know any better, I'd guess you were rather...how shall we say...interested in her?"  His smile is still there, and perhaps if Hannibal wasn't high on the moment, and a little tipsy, he might recognize the intent of the question.

            But, in his current state, Hannibal just cannot stop smiling.

            After a pause, Hannibal stops his grinning for a moment and peers at Skandor through confused eyes.  He wasn't sure how to take that last comment and with his head as clouded as it was could not seem to sort things out.  Looking to El (who gives him a plain look in return) and back to Skandor, he suddenly feels like the fifth wheel on a wagon.  Almost as if he didn't belong.

            The smile gone now, Hannibal shrugged and looked back to Emma, who still graced the dance floor with her elegance and beauty.  He could not help but linger on her form for a minute longer, watching the way she moved, her hair as it cascaded across her back, the glint in her eyes.

            Turning back, he immediately realized that his delay was a bad idea after all.  It would seem the fire in Skandor's eyes had intensified, burning with an almost fiery rage.  Rarely had he seen that look in the paladin's eyes, only when protecting Emma from whatever evil that might threaten her safety, and all at once his buzz vanished.  Hannibal's smile was gone now, replaced by the look of a man who stands in the den of a lion.  A man who knows he is in danger, but not when.  A million thoughts come to Hannibal now, each one slightly more paranoid and aggressive than the last.  Was that a warning?  A threat?  Or a joke?

            "Maybe, maybe not," Hannibal finally says.  "Is there a problem with that, Sword Bearer, or am I allowed to mingle with whom I may?"  His voice is tearce and guarded, almost as if a warning lay somewhere in the words.  Unseen, but still there.  In a rush Hannibal could feel the hairs on the back of his neck stand up on end, could see the Blood Clan 'Terrors' out of the corner of his eye, and could feel the cold steel of a dagger in his hand.  He had let that come back to him and he should not have.  Guilt, anger, hatred, all of it comes rushing back to him and all because a Paladin gets in a tizzy because he cannot shield his charge from all of the experiences of life.  Hannibal is fuming now, not because of any one thing Skandor had said but because he still has little control of his temper and, in a pinch, his temper got the better of him always!

            Queitly Hannibal stands there uncomfortably in front of Skandor and listens.

            Skandor looks Hannibal in the eyes for many long moments.  His smile remains solid, firm, and unbending.  He rises slowly, the chair sliding out behind him as he stands.  The noise of the festivities around him drown out the sound of his armor as he slowly walks around the table to stand face to face with Hannibal.  Skandor carries his drink in one hand, the other empty and dangling at his side.

            Skandor leans close in, mere inches away from Hannibal's face.  But his eyes stare into Hannibal's, fearless and unrelenting.  For many long moments, it seems that Skandor isn't going to say anything.  Perhaps he searches for words, perhaps he debates his course of action.  But, eventually, he does speak:

            "Do not hurt her, Hannibal.  I consider you my friend, whether you like it or not.  But I dare say..." he pauses a long moment, motioning with his head in Emma's direction, "she considers you something more."

            He pauses, and can easily see Hannibal's confused expression.  Turning his gaze back to Hannibal, the paladin's smile fades.  The serious countenance of the paladin, seen usually before battle suddenly comes to be.  "Do not hurt her, Hannibal.  I would not take that well.  At all."

            Suddenly, the smile springs back to his face, genuine and friendly.  The fire is gone from his eyes.  He offers his cup, half-drained, to Hannibal. 'Tis an offer of friendship, one that his brothers in the temple often did after a battle.  'Who better to protect her, when I cannot?' the paladin thinks to himself.  'Would not two guardians be better than one?  Would not the watchful eye of two men be better than one?'

            Hannibal is on edge, for a moment not sure if Skandor meant to harm him or not.  With the offer of the drink, however, Hannibal's anger waned slightly and he was able to relax.  The tension remained, though, and Hannibal accepted Skandor's offer without a word, drinking from the cup without taking his eyes off the paladin.

            That done, he handed the cup back to Skandor and nodded, still saying nothing.  Deep down inside he did not take well to threats, and intended or not Skandor had threatened him.  Backing away slowly at first, Hannibal finally turned and headed back to the party, his gait quick and determined.

            "I need a drink!" he muttered to himself as he went.  Suddenly his mood had fouled and the thought of dancing and entertainment soured his stomach.  "Even in death your memory haunts me, Bernigan!  I guess that's probably how you wanted it, though, isn't it?"

            Grabbing a bottle of wine, Hannibal leaves the party and heads out into the soft night air.  He finds a perch atop a wall and begins to drink, enjoying the chance to be alone with his thoughts for the first time in some time.

 

 

            Morning arrives with a cool haze hanging low on the horizon, the soft mist wafting in playful circles just above the sand on the desert floor.  Canter rises first, smiling as he remembers the pleasant conversation he had had with the priestess the night before.  He steps out into the courtyard, sword in hand, and looks out the open gates of El-Balans into the distance.

            "It will burn off," a familiar voice says to the fighter.  "It always does."

            Canter turns to look at the source of the voice, over his shoulder.  There stands Alara, former member of Rinder's Six, who decided to stay behind at El-Balans.  It was her calling.

            "We will be leaving today," Canter replies, turning to face the half-elf.

            Alara doesn't seem to react to the statement.  Instead, she suggests, "sword practice?  Shall we?"

            Canter smiles in reply, nodding silently.  For what could be the last time in a long time, Canter and Alara jog a short distance and then practice some sparring until the sun rises fully and burns away the mist and haze of El-Balans at the Unending Desert.

 

            Amos and Dodgen see to it that Rinder's Six's horses are prepared for the departure, and that all of the Six's bags and equipment are properly loaded.  After exchanging the proper thanks, they order the gates opened and wave goodbye to the Six, watching the group's seven members ride out into the late-morning sun, heading southeast.

            The ride is quiet at first.  Canter takes the lead, along with Storm (who finally has a pony to ride on!).  The journey will surely take some time: they would reach Fort Ironlast (the western-most fort along the Rinder-Caerloon border) by dusk.  Then another day to Fort Rycote, another to Farenhead.  Then they would turn north, toward the small city of Jilten, where they could use some of their newfound wealth to purchase supplies and newer, better weapons and armor.  Two days out of Jilten they would arrive at Fort Dillend, where they would expect to find their old friends Captain Wheeler and the wizard Dire Luthor.

            The ride is easy and uneventful, the terrain growing greener and firmer as they leave the desert behind.  El-Balans sat on the very edge of the Unending Desert, the western edge of the Kingdom of Rinder, and as they ride east the low green brush grows more dense and the trees grow taller.  By mid-afternoon a stop is made for the horses to rest and for some rations to be eaten.  A cold wind blows through the trees.

            "In the desert, you almost forget it is still winter in Rinder," Hannibal says, breaking the silence.

            "Aye," Skandor replies, nodding and looking off into the distance.  Looking south, toward Caerloon.

            Soon, the journey continues, and by early evening the party can spot the lights of Fort Ironlast.  In fact, they too are spotted, by a Rinder patrol.

            "Who goes there?!" the voice is shouted toward them from the trees.

            "We are Rinder's Six, liege to Sir Nigel of the Knights of Rinder and seeking safe passage across this land!" Canter replies quickly.

            At first there is a moment of silence, then the response arrives.  "Soldiers of Nigel are welcome here.  We bid you spend the cold night by the warmth of our fires.  At Ironlast."  The owner of the voice emerges from behind the brush, also on horseback.  He sits proud on his mount, and behind him are four other soldiers, mounted.

            Canter looks to his companions.  Crayne nods, as do Emma and Hannibal, then Skandor.  El's face is hard to read.  Storm spits.

            "We accept," Canter finally says, his voice lower as he no longer needs to shout a distance.  He maneuvers his horse close to the lead soldier.  "I am Canter Tarp, leatherman by trade."

            The soldier replies, extending a hand in greeting.  "I am Lieutenant Sceant, son of Sir Klare, Council Knight of the Duchy of Welten.  Welcome to Ironlast."

            Sceant leads the party through the trees, and soon they can see the large structure of Fort Ironlast.  Unlike Mitchend (now destroyed) or Dillend, Ironlast's walls are partly stone, with only the upper sections made of wood.  The stone is reinforced with rods of iron, Sceant explains, making Ironlast the strongest of the border forts.

            "Have you seen much enemy activity in the area?" Skandor asks as they make their way around the outside of the wall toward the front of the fort and the main gate.

            "Not as much as has been reported further east, I'm afraid.  Our patrols have intercepted a few minor Caerloon raiding parties, but we've seen no large divisions or battalions.  And our scouts have been able to penetrate a few miles into northern Caerloon and have found only low level troop movements."  Sceant sighs, then waves to four guards standing at the gate as he rides past.  "It seems most of the action is elsewhere."

            "Caerloon would be foolish to attack such an entrenched fortification," Emma says, eyeing long rods of iron stacked near one of the walls.

            "And it is because they are not foolish that they do not attack."  This voice is new.  It belongs to an armored man standing in the center of the parade ground, greeting Sceant.

            "Sir," Sceant says, dismounting and saluting the man who is obviously his superior.  "These are Rinder's Six, seeking safe passage along the border.  They travel on behalf of Sir Nigel and I have extend an offer of protection and warmth for the night."

            "Rinder's Six..." another new voice repeats, this one arriving to stand just behind the man to whom Sceant reports.  This new voice belongs to a taller, older man.  He stands directly behind the officer Sceant addresses, so it is hard to get a good look at him.

            "Then I will welcome you to Fort Ironlast, Rinder's Six," the man in front says.  "I am Captain Bandman of Ironlast."  His voice is deep and betrays a certain intelligence.  "Those of the upper ranks in Caerloon's army are not foolish, I contend.  And we are in the fortunate--or unfortunate, depending on how you see it--position of defending our section of the border from an impenetrable garrison."

            "I believe you to be correct in your contention, Captain Bandman," Emma says, dismounting.  "I am Emmalya Serralund of Seden, Shield Maiden of Anhur."  She offers the Captain a customary warrior's greeting.  Then, she proceeds to introduce the rest of Rinder's Six: "This is Canter Tarp, leatherman's son and a fighter skilled with the blade; the Mage Crayne, whose powers of the magical arts improve daily; Elloharin the Dimmed, who traveled farther than I imagine you or I will ever travel to join our ranks; Hannibal Smith, warrior-thief and vanquisher of many an enemy; Skandor, pillar of strength and Sword Bearer of Anhur; and finally Storm of the Strongblade Clan, not to be judged by his quiet demeanor."

            "Canter Tarp, Mage Crayne, Elloharin the Dimmed, Hannibal Smith, Sword Bearer Skandor, Storm of the Strongblades, and Shield Maiden Emmalya, you are welcome here at Ironlast," Captain Bandman pronounces.  Then he turns his head slightly, as if a new thought had just occurred to him.  "Sword Bearer and Shield Maiden, you may be interested to meet the man who stands behind me, Standard Torek of the Caste of Anhur."

            As Bandman steps aside, the man standing behind him comes clearly into view, as does the symbol of Anhur he wears on his chestplate.  He looks to Emma and Skandor.  His eyes linger over Emma, and he raises his chin, inhaling.  Then, with his exhale, he shifts his gaze to Skandor.  With a very slight nod to the paladin, he returns his gaze to the priestess.

            "How fortunate you are here," Torek says slowly.  His hair, a very light brown with many strands of white, blows in the evening's cold winter wind.  "I will be leaving on the morrow for the temple at Merriam and wish to bring with me a report on your progress so that I may enlighten High Priest Towers of your progress."

            "Of course, Standard Torek," Emma replies, watching the Standard carefully.

            "But before that, my second in command, Lieutenant Sceant, and I wish to invite you to dine with us this evening in one hour," Bandman says.

            "I be likin' that," Storm says, his attention grabbed by the mention of food.

            Crayne smiles at his dwarven friend, then turns to look back to Bandman, "We would be happy to attend, Captain."

            "Good," Bandman responds, smiling.  "Sceant will show you to our guest quarters where you can warm and ready yourselves."

            Sceant nods to Bandman, who heads off to take care of other business.  Then, to the group, he smiles, "If you will follow me..."

            Just as the group begins to follow, Torek speaks quietly.  "Sword Bearer..."

            Skandor stop in his tracks, turning to look over his shoulder at the Standard behind him.  The rest of the group didn't even hear Torek, and they continue following Sceant to the guest quarters.

            "A moment, if you will..."

            "Of course, Standard," Skandor replies.  Standards were of very high station in the caste, Skandor knew.  They were usually aging soldiers whose wisdom and sharpened minds were considered among the best in the caste.  They frequently served the High Priests directly.

            "I wish also to include in my report," Torek continues, walking in the opposite direction from Sceant and the rest of the party, and indicating with a flick of his finger that Skandor should follow, "a word on Emmalya Serralund.  The High Priest is most interested to hear of her recent behavior, and whether her...independent...tendencies have been tempered by her experiences in the field.  As the Sword Bearer assigned to her charge, what say you on this matter?"

           

1.  HP Status, including Skandor’s laying on hands and healing during sleeping overnight:

            Canter: 31/44, Crayne: 16/16, El: 30/30, Emma: 43/47, Hannibal: 28/29, Skandor: 48/48, Storm: 41/50.

 

2.  EMMA currently has the following spells memorized:

            1st - Command, Cure Light Wounds x3

            2nd - Aid, Augury, Cure Moderate Wounds, Hold Person, Silence 15' Radius

            3rd - Dispel Magic, Random Causality, Summon Animal Spirit

            4th - Divination

 

    CRAYNE currently has no spells memorized.

 

    ELLOHARIN currently has the following spells memorized:

            1st - Feather Fall, Wall of Fog

 

3.  SKANDOR:  How will you respond to Standard Torek?

 

4.  What will you say/do during the dinner with Captain Bandman, Lieutenant Sceant, and Standard Torek?  Do you have any questions you'd like to ask?  Messages you'd like to have sent with the next messenger leaving Ironlast?  Any other actions before heading out in the morning?

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