WELCOME!

I greatly apologize for the lack of posting lately, things have been pretty rough at a literary perspective. HOWEVER I would like to inform you all that I will now have a colleague and good friend joining me on here with his own contributions to the storyline. So please, if you will, I would like all of you to join me in welcoming “Sorrilac” as our latest addition to the hopefully soon t grow team of others on this site.

Reader Input

okay, I realize I’ve missed my promised timing yet again and I apologize for this. Having a bit of an issue with the latest chapter in trying to somehow connect my thoughts and put them into words. In the meantime though I was hoping to maybe get some assistance from the few readers I have asking your input on a certain detail. I’m recently attempting to somehow find a piece of music for each chapter that manages to incorporate either its entire theme or a portion of it. I’ve already managed it with a few and I’d appreciate your opinions  on the current choices and ideas on other possibilities if you have any.

Apologies

Hey guys, sorry it’s so long for the next chapter. I seem to have hit the worst case of writers block and can’t seem to push through it. I think I’m going to take a break for the day and try again tomorrow. It shouldn’t be too long before it’s up, just bear with me for a bit. I’d really appreciate the patience haha

Dark Shadows on the Horizon: Chapter 3: Bodies in the Well

The air reeks of smoke and ash, a thin gray haze hanging over the forest, obscuring the treetops and the bright blue sky above. The smell of burnt corpses of men and the charring of the surrounding trees wafts through the air, an ugly reminder of yesterday’s battle and a warning of the battles yet to come. The iron-clad bodies of corrupt mercenaries now little more than blackened silhouettes in the blaze as flames dance upon their flesh. They slaughtered those men, they piled their bodies on the wreckage of the shattered caravan and they set the scene ablaze, a sign to Nazin and his men that they were coming for him. As long as this “New Alliance” was on his trail, there was nowhere for him to run or hide and already they’ve made sure of making this fact known to him.

They leave the nightmarish scene behind them, hoping to cover the remaining distance to Harken before the day is through. The journey is long and quiet, not one of the men willing to speak after the exhausting few days they’ve been through. Having witnessed their first taste of the mission at hand they know that the road ahead will be treacherous and soaked with blood of soldiers and innocents alike. His mind weary and his body tired, Laire can’t help but look down at his hands as he walks along, thoughts and memories of the past filling his mind.

“Many a men have died at these hands.” His mind flashes to the night of the battle outside Orodreth’s homestead.” And many more will soon follow those men.” Blood begins to collect on his hand in small pools. “I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to forgive myself for the lives these hands have taken.” The blood now flowing in thick rivers from his hands, dripping and oozing onto the ground beneath him. “The husbands that will never again return to their wives, the fathers who will never be able to watch their sons and daughters grow to adulthood. Can I ever face those men when my time comes? How will I be judged by the gods? Am I really any better than the men I’ve killed?” He looks up, an image of Arlan now standing before him. “And how will I ever be able to face you again?” A friendly hand grabs hold of his wrist, knocking him from his living nightmare. He looks to the figure, the grim smile of a rather short man before him pulls him back to reality.

“It’s okay lad, we’re in this together. You don’t have t’ carry that load on your own anymore.”

Urist’s words bring a smile to his face, glad with the knowledge of the new friends that stand beside him in this battle. The dwarf slaps him on the back with a hardy laugh, almost sending him reeling over as he attempts to catch his breath again.

“Now cheer up me boy, can’t have you losin’ focus when we need ye the most”

He nods, feeling a little more at ease considering his circumstances and trudges on, pushing thoughts of the past to the back of his mind. The next few hours are spent joking back and forth between the men and telling hilarious tales of their past lives.

Smile on his face, Laire looks to Urist. “So, tell me Urist, how was it you managed to end up locked up in that prison earlier when we met?”

“Well, truth be told lad, I was mindin’ me own business in that there tavern in Fallcrest, drinkin’  the night away and doin’ what all self-respecting dwarves do when ye give ‘em a pint. Was havin’ a right good time with some of the local boys when off the streets walks the sorriest excuse for a man I’ve ever laid me eyes upon. He sits down at the table beside us and asked the barkeep for some bloody water! Who does that?! So I finished me drink and let ‘em have it.”

Slightly shocked, Laire can’t help but laugh at the ridiculousness of the story he just heard and almost doubles over onto the road, his sides aching from laughing so hard.

“What’s so funny lad?”

“You Urist, you’re by far one of the strangest men I’ve ever met.”

The day wears on, the sun beginning its descent when a small farm house appears in the distance. Tired from the day’s travel the men near the house, hoping to maybe find shelter for the night. All seems well enough as they near the homestead, but suddenly Xenos stops, holding his large metallic hand out, signalling for the others to do the same.

Urist pipes in first, “What’s wrong?”

His deep, tinny voice responds in a hushed tone. “Something seems off about this place, I suggest we approach with caution from this point onward.”

Nodding in understanding the others follow suit, slowing their pace, their hands on their weapons in case of danger. Slowly climbing the slight hill to the home, Roland spots something and signals to the others accordingly.

“A good dozen men, all heavily armed. I think these might be the same as the guys we encountered earlier.”

Thyllan unsheathes his axe. “Alright, time to lop some heads off.”

Xenos holds out his heavy arm to stop him. “I’ve got a better idea.”

Annoyed, Thyllan looks at him sarcastically. “What do you suggest tin man?”

Ignoring the comment, Xenos continues. “I say we take these fools by surprise. Laire, Roland, you two go up that side wall there and cause a distraction then the three of us will charge them from the south here.”

Roland and Laire both nod in agreement, and begin slowly working their way along the low, western stone wall that surrounds the enclosure. Literally crawling along the wall, they finally reach a spot they decide should be good to attack from. Pulling a small mirror from his pocket, Roland uses it to look over the wall and judge the situation. He looks to Laire, signalling that there are two men standing just a few feet behind the wall. Readying some shuriken, Laire presses himself against the wall and waits for Roland’s signal. Roland readies his bow and nods to Laire, the signal given. The two rise over the low wall in unison, Laire hurling half a dozen shuriken, Roland firing a small volley of arrows. To their surprise only a few of the shots actually collide with their targets, bloodying the two mercenaries while the others bounce off their plated armor with a clang and scatter in various unpredictable directions. They seem to have succeeded at one thing though, catching the attention of the now angered and annoyed soldiers.

Swords now raised, the men both charge at Laire and Roland, swinging downwards at them with large heavy claymores. Reacting before they even have a chance to think, the two duck down behind the wall, narrowly dodging the blows as the swords bury into the stone with a loud cracking sound. They grab their own blades, taking the opportunity for what it is and jump over the wall, kicking both men square in the chest. The men stumble back, disarmed, and realizing they’re at a disadvantage turn to retreat. One of the men stops short as a large lance of solid light blasts through the courtyard, tearing a large gaping hole through his mid-section.  The other man, more afraid than ever now turns course for a small tool shed no more than ten and five feet away in an attempt to barricade himself away from the carnage.

Using an old technique he was taught back in his days as a Watcher, Laire takes a single step forward. The world shifts and bends around his figure, a small rift between planes opening around him as he steps from this world into the fey for a split moment, only to reappear within the tool shed a good dozen or so feet from where he stood earlier. To the others, however, it would appear as though he just vanished from existence and appeared several feet away in the exact same instant. He kicks in the door with crunch as the wood splinters outwards and his foot collides again with chest of the guard that just attempted to escape him. Catching the man before he can even fall to the ground, Laire brings his hand around, knocking a few large wooden splinters from the air as he pierces his katar completely through the man’s heart, a quick and painless death dealt. The remains of the door clatter around him at his feet as he pulls the blade from his victim’s chest, the grating sound of steel against steel ringing through the air.

Before him stands Thyllan and Urist locked in hand to hand battle with a small contingent of Iron Circle mercenaries, Xenos a small distance away firing small bolts of energy from his hands at one that has taken to firing arrows at him while hunkered below the cover of a small stone well. Stopping his barrage, Xenos waits for the man to poke his head up one more time and when he does a single dart of magic fires from Xenos’ finger, burning a hole through the center of the man’s skull. He turns to aid Thyllan and the dwarf, however someone beats him to it as two arrows smash throw one of the windows of the home and find home in the temples of two of the remaining men. The two men left attempt to catch the dwarf and Dragonborn in one go, swinging their large blades in symmetrical, horizontal great arcs. Their attempt proves in vain though, Urist using his short stature to drop beneath the blades, Thyllan jumping over them in a great leap. Two identical gut wrenching sounds of metal and bones being sheered apart break the air as the men are both cleaved clean in half by the blade of their once companion. The bodies slowly slump to the ground as they fall into two, a moment passing before their blood begins to flow again and collect in a large pool on the ground.

Panting, breathing heavily the group collectively sheath their weapons, another battle coming to its bloodied end. The door of the house swings open and two figures step forth into the dimming sunlight. One, a Tiefling wielding her bow in hand, her red skin, curled horns and long tail giving her a slight demonic look when hit by the glow of the setting sun. The other, a tall Eladrin female clad in pure white cleric robes embroidered with a brightly shining star, the symbol of Corellon.

The cleric addresses the group first, a hint of irritation on her voice. “It’s about time someone showed up to help us out here. We’ve been attempting to keep these men at bay almost all day now.”

Already knowing he’s not going to get along with this woman, Laire responds with as much sarcasm as he can muster. “You’re welcome.”

She looks to him in disgust. “Well what do you suppose we do with these bodies now? No doubt there will be more to come if we leave this mess here. And the last thing the poor family inside there needs is even more harassment from idiots like the ones you just dealt with.”

A large smile on his face, or what can only be assumed as a smile, Xenos wordlessly picks up one of the bodies and drops it into the depths of the dried up well. “Problem solved.”

Urist chuckles at the man of iron. “Well with that out of the way, I think we could use a well-deserved rest.”

Without even waiting for her response, the men clean up the rest of the bodies and walk into the small rundown home. Awaiting them in the dining room at the rear of the house is a small family of four, all huddled in the corner from fear of the men that were once outside.

Thyllan steps forward, somehow diplomatic all of a sudden. “You should know that those men shall never be bothering you again anytime soon. However I can’t help but ask why is it that you had such a large group of armed men outside your door waiting for a reason to kick in your door?”

A small man steps forward, presumably the father. “They’re men of Nazin. After we refused to pay his taxes he sent us a few warnings in the form of brutes and threats. What you just dealt with was the result of us denying his warnings for the last time. I’m glad you people came along when you did, they had given us only an hour to come up with the appropriate gold before they set the house on fire.”

The wife steps forward next. “Yes, thank the gods you arrived when you did. You must all be exhausted though, you look like you’ve been through hell and back. Please, allow us to return the favor somehow, feel free to spend the night here if you wish, we have plenty of room and more than enough food to sate your hunger I’m sure.”

It’s Urist’s turn to speak up this time. “We appreciate the hospitality madam, and I believe we just may take ye up on the offer.”

Update

Hey guys, recently just updated the blog with a “Question Box” page if you haven’t already noticed it. I’d appreciate any comments there from anyone if you have any suggestions or questions about the stories or the characters or even myself to throw at me.

Dark Shadows on the Horizon: Chapter 2: Broken Caravans and Hardened Steel

The chimes ring as the door swings open, a rather interesting group of four entering the store’s small front room. A large humanoid being known as a Dragonborn appears to lead the group, he stands roughly six and one half feet in height, with broad shoulders and large, barreled chest. A mane of sharp ebony spines descend the length of his back from the base of his neck to the tip of his long tail, and chromatic golden scales encase the whole of his body creating a natural armour. He’s garbed in a light mail that covers his torso and legs and wields an extremely large double-bladed battle-axe on his back in broad view for all to see. To his immediate right stands a man with the stereotypical slender, athletic figure of an elf, a trait befitting of those who spend their lives leaping through trees. Left of the Dragonborn is a stout looking dwarf. Behind the rest as though to stand in the shadows is a man similar in build to the elf except for the long silver hair and solid, bright amber eyes that lack pupils characteristic to the Eladrin race. He wears a long green cloak clasped at the front with a silver broach bearing the symbol of the goddess Avandra, concealing two well-crafted twin katars belted to either hip and. Selarund looks up and welcomes the day’s first customers with a bright smile, paying little attention to the odd strangers. The Dragonborn steps ahead of the rest, eyeing the wares with an uninterested expression.

“Welcome to The Halfmoon General Store, where we sell everything from milk to maps. How can I assist you fine gentlemen today?”

The large, hulking Dragonborn before him mumbles sarcastically, “Catchy name. We’d like to purchase a map of the Nentir Vale, along with 5 days’ worth of rations.”

“I’d be more than happy to fill that request for you, unfortunately though due to a minor incident yesterday I’m a little short on fresh fruit. Are the any objections to dried fruit and seed?” Twiddling his thumbs awkwardly as he says so.

Grumbling slightly the Dragonborn responds with a shrug, “I prefer meat anyways. How about the rest of you?”

A silver-haired Eladrin steps forward in response, “I have none, although would you be so kind as to package the seeds separate from the meat? I’ve never been one to partake of flesh and wish for it not to contaminate my food.”

Selarund twitches slightly at the sight of the Eladrin, remembering him as the one from yesterday that so carelessly destroyed his fruit stand. He chokes down his annoyance as he spits out his answer, “Very well sir. That will be 10 gold in total for the items.”

Suddenly Selarund is lifted off the floor by his shirt collar, the Dragonborn holding him a few feet in the air. He bares his teeth slightly with an intimidating growl and looks the startled Halfling in the eyes.

“I beg your pardon? How much was that again?”

Selarund stumbles with his words, stuttering slightly, “D-d-d-did I say 10? I meant 5, 5 gold. That’ll be 5 gold for the items, please don’t eat me I have a family!” He throws his hands up to protect his face and starts crying in terror.

The Dragonborn, smirks contentedly in triumph, “That’s what I thought you said.”

The old dwarf next to him, let’s out an irritated ‘humph’, “Put the poor man down Dragonborn, there’s no need to bludgeon your way through everything.”

With a laugh the Dragonborn lowers the cowering Halfling to the ground who proceeds to run full as fast his legs can carry him to the back of the shop and gather together all of the necessary supplies for the adventurers. He returns nearly as quickly as he left with a stack of various packages of smoked and salted meats, along with two large sacks of seed and dried fruit and a rolled up piece of parchment tucked neatly under his left arm. As the Dragonborn stores away the meats in his pack, the Eladrin and elf grab a bag of seed each and the dwarf takes hold of the map. The Eladrin drops 5 gold pieces on the counter bowing with a gracious thank you and then follows his companions as they exit the small shop.

Laire tries to hold back his laughter as they leave the shop but gains little success, letting out a slight chuckle and a wide smirk as the door swings shut behind him. They continue on their way, making quick exit of the town, Laire silently smiling to himself the entire way about the chaos of yesterday. The journey through Fallcrest is not very eventful, not much happening other than the usual busy activity of the market place and the crowded streets from new refugee caravans looking for a safe haven. The group stops shortly after leaving the eastern gate, Urist unfurling the map to gain a glance at the journey that lies before them on their path to the city of Harken. He scowls slightly when he sees that they’ll be travelling along the King’s Road for the entire distance, it’s seen its fair share of highwaymen over the past few months so they’re sure to run into some trouble along the way.

The caravans grow more sparse as their distance from the town increases, the dusty, old trail now completely void of activity after roughly three hours of travel. And with the day reaching its end as the sun begins each descent below the horizon, a harsh wind begins to blow across the land. The travelers, now thoroughly chilled to the bone make the decision to set up camp for the night and continue at dawn.

Unfurling a light blanket to shield himself with for the night, Laire looks to Urist and the others.

“As I require no sleep, I shall take first watch tonight if there are no objections.”

Urist, rather intrigued by the comment, is the first to respond. “I’d always heard rumours that those of your kind never sleep, but never did I think it more than just that.”

“Indeed it is true my friend, we require little more than a light meditative state. It allows us to remain aware of our surroundings even while resting our bodies and minds. Perfect for when travelling through the dangerous wilds of the Fey.”

The dwarf nods, and with that the others each make bed at their respective places around the small fire that Roland prepared. Laire grabs his blanket, wrapping himself in it, and assumes a sitting position opposite the very loudly snoring Urist. Other than the sounds of his already sleeping companions, the air is rather quite this night. The peacefulness of it seems almost out of place when the world around them stands on the verge of utter chaos. It seems almost eerily silent however; the forest seems void of any sound other than the howling winds and incredibly loud snoring.

“Honestly, how can anybody sleep through that? He sounds like an earthquake that could crumble mountains.”

He readjusts his blankets and tries to blot out the noises coming from in front of him when suddenly he hears something off, something different from the other noises. It’s so faint that he nearly missed it; almost as though it were coming from somewhere off in the distance. But then it grows louder as it nears, an eerie howling that differs from that of the wind in the trees. This howling is far from that of the wind, indeed it is that of something much more animalistic. Realizing what it is, Laire rushes to wake his companions, grabbing his weapons in the process and readying them for the coming storm. They all clamber to their feet, tripping over themselves and each other in the sudden confusion and there they stand, Laire with his twin blades, Thyllan and Urist with their large, heavy battle axes, and Roland with his bow drawn and ready. All of them waiting for that which lies beyond the light of the fire.

The shadows move… a figure… something stands on the edge of the shadows, pacing back and forth on all fours. It moves back and forth as if eying its prey when more shapes appear beside it, all of them now standing there, awaiting their chance to strike. The air is stiff, the moment so tense that even the slightest movement from either side could be noticed in an instant.

The shadow lunges from the darkness and chaos ensues, the first blow thrown as it goes for Laire’s throat. He lifts his arms just in time to block the vicious, razor sharp fangs of the savage wolf, but the two get sent tumbling towards the ground. He falls hard on his back, the wolf standing on his chest, snapping at him as he tries to fight it off. Somehow he manages to get his feet placed under the wolf and gives it a massive shove. His foot contacting the wolf square in the jaw, Thyllan brings down his heavy axe to finish the job. He misses, axe scoring a nice chunk out of the dirt as the wolf dodges to one side just in time. Urist brings his axe around in a great swing, bashing one wolf in its ribs and cracking a few. A stick breaks below Roland’s feet as he takes a step back, letting fly a volley of arrows straight towards the wolf’s face. Narrowly dodging the attack, Laire leaps up and charges at the wolf, leaping to the side as the wolf lunges towards him a second time and buries his blade into the side of its throat. He pulls his axe from the ground and catches the wolf in mid jump, cracking its skull wide open wide a loud crunch. Reversing direction, he brings his axe back and jabs the second wolf in the left temple with enough force that the hilt of his weapon digs deep within the beast’s skull. The wolf jumps back, escaping the arrows but in its moment of distraction it failed to notice Roland running towards it. Dragging his blade the full length of the canine’s side, a great, thin arc of blood sprays through the air, coating the trees and staining the night sky. Dropping the blood soaked axe, he grabs the next wolf by the mouth and wrenches its jaw apart with his bare hands, snapping its neck and tossing it aside. Throwing the wolf away, Urist spins his ax, blood arcing in all directions, and places it back in its holster on his back. Grabbing a fresh arrow from the quiver on his back, Roland jumps over the wolf and lets loose the arrow straight into the beast’s eye as he soars upside down over it mid-flip, landing gracefully on his feet behind the dead animal.

The last of the wolves now dead or gone, the men sheath their weapons and stumble back over to the fire. Fully exhausted now, they collectively slump to the ground and without so much as a sound other than the odd grunt, they each proceed to fall into a much needed and well deserved rest. When morning finally comes, they cleanup quickly, destroying the fire, and make their way back onto the empty road. The roads are completely void of activity, as is to be expected this early in the morning and this close to Harken.

It remains as such for a short while longer until the party catches sight of a single caravan just ahead, traveling at a speed that doesn’t exactly give the notion of rush. Unlike the others this wagon appears to be in no hurry at all, however what catches the attention of the companions even more so than this is that it’s traveling in the wrong direction. Whereas others are fleeing from Harken to escape the chaos, this particular group of individuals appears to be nonchalantly traveling straight into the eye of the storm as if they have no idea what stands before them, or maybe they just don’t care.

Roland holds his hand out signalling the others to stop, “I’ve got a bad feeling about this one guys, there’s something about that group of men. I say we approach with caution from this point onwards.”

The others nod in agreement and continue forward, hands poised to draw to their weapons should anything happen that results in a need for violence. They approach at a normal pace, attempting to keep their distance but all the while acting as though not to take notice of the men. The distance between the two traveling groups closes quickly with there yet to be an incident as Laire and the other companions approach the caravaners from behind. The men ahead of them, four upon first count, appear to be garbed in a light chain armour with a cloth shirt brandishing a large gray ring insignia. Suddenly one turns his gaze to the travelers, finally seeming to become aware of their presence and halts abruptly, almost knocking over two of his companions. Following his gaze the others turn to the group, placing their hands on their weaponry and scowling at the adventures as though annoyed by their appearance.

The man of obvious authority steps forward, and speaks to them in a warning tone, “You had best turn around travelers, these roads are no longer safe. Not even for gentleman as heavily armed as yourselves.”

Laire responds to the man with equal assertiveness, “I assure you sir that we can handle ourselves.”

Furrowing his brown, the man unsheathes his blade slightly. “Don’t misinterpret me Eladrin. That was no request.”

Thyllan steps forward this time, “Was that a threat I just heard?”

“Yes, and you’d be wise to heed it.”

Thyllan chuckles mockingly, “Make me.”

The man motions to pull his blade from its sheath, but before the blade even makes it halfway, Thyllan lets fly the large two-ended axe he had been brandishing this whole time and cleaved the mans skull with a bloody crunch. The man’s body slumps to the ground moments after the axe is pulled from his caved in head, soaking the surrounding dirt a deep red. His companions react quickly, rushing towards Laire and the companions with simultaneous cries of anger that quickly turn to that of pain as their wild swings miss their targets. Laire now crouching low to the ground holds one of his twin katars deep within the chest of one of the men, wrenching it from him with a twist and a sickening sucking sound as it slides out soaked in the blood of its victim. Urist stands opposite of Thyllan in a similar pose after just cleaving the third mercenary’s head clean from his neck, sending it rolling several feet across the ground. Behind the three stands Roland, bow in hand after just releasing an arrow into the eye of the fourth and final man. Hearing the commotion four more men climb from inside the caravan, these ones far more heavily armoured than the previous men as they step forward covered in a steel plate armour, each holding a large two-handed blade. These men don’t make it far however, stopping dead in their tracks as the cart begins to violently shake back and forth. All eight men stand there, staring at the wagon in awe and confusion as angry begin to come from with the vehicle. The four armored men appear very worried, backing away as large chips of wood begin to rip from the wagon’s body. The side of the wagon explodes outwards, shrapnel flying in all directions as a rather large man clad in a heavy plated suit of solid gold. He carries no weapons as he steps towards the four soldiers, creating a rather ominous and intimidating atmosphere. He merely lifts one hand to the men and after a pause that seems to last for an eternity a ferocious flame bursts from his palm and completely envelops the gladiators. Screams of pain and terror echo through the forest as the men are literally cooked inside their armour. Several moments pass before the flames finally die down, leaving four seared and smoking suits of armour that arre now welded into the positions the each stood in at the time of their demise. The golden armoured man turns to Laire and the others, each taking a defensive stance as he begins his approach, expecting the worst. However, the least likely thing occurs as the man stops several steps from them and his previously intimidating demeanor seems to vanish as quickly as it appeared.

He lifts his hands in what is probably the friendliest gesture as one of his appearance can muster and speaks to the group, a metallic voice being what’s heard. “I would like to formally thank you my friends, you were able to create just the right distraction for me to finally escape from capture. Thanks to this rather violent incident I shall no longer have to worry about having to work under some deranged dark mage, doing what only the god’s may know for the man.”

Urist is the one to respond to the unexpected greeting, “Well, if by chance the man you’re referring to is one by the name of Nazin, then by chance you may wish to accompany us to Harken. We could always use the help in tearing him from his ill-begotten throne.”

After some contemplation, the man of metal chuckles a little, “The chance to destroy a man who sought to make me a slave in his army? I’d be a fool to pass up on such an offer. I shall accompany you to Harken for the sheer pleasure of personally burning him into an early grave.” A small ball of flame appears above his hand, “And oh shall he burn,” he says with an evil voice as he rolls the fire between his fingers.

Dark Shadows on the Horizon: Chapter 1: Chasing Chickens

It falls… It falls so very slowly, fluttering in the breeze and dancing along every gust of warm summer wind. Twisting and turning it around the old, knotted branches it falls ever downward. Upon the end of its journey, the delicate leaf floats to a soft landing upon his sleeping face. The grass around him is wet with fresh morning dew and the air still carries the smell of last night’s rain. Off in the distance the sweet morning calls of a songbird bring start to the new day as the sun begins to bear its face, its beautiful red glow illumining the scenery. Atop the hill, the lone willow stands amidst a sea of grass, swaying in the morning air. Waves of grass ripple through the field, a slow movement befitting the peacefulness of this natural Eden. Below the willows weeping branches he lays, visions of a past to be forgotten and a hopeful future to come swirl in his mind.

Five years ago he started running, and for half a decade he’s continued running to escape a past clouded with darkness and bloodstained hands. Long ago he was abandoned by the world he once loved and in return he abandoned her. His heart still yearns to return to the wilds of the Fey but his mind knows the impossibilities of such a dream. The days have been long and weary and the road ahead is still shadowed with unknown mysteries. He knows not where he is headed, but part of him keeps urging his body to move forward. He spends most of his days journeying along the untrodden paths of the forests, wandering from one town to another. He collects money completing odd jobs for strangers and citizens alike, using it to pay for supplies and the nights he spends in local inns. He’s a drifter now, never staying long in one place and almost constantly on the move because some part of him believes that he can escape the memories by simply walking.

The rising sun warms his face and he opens his eyes, the thin leaf resting upon his brow brings a smile to his face as he brushes it aside along with a few loose hairs. His hair sways in the morning wind as he stands watching the awakening town on the horizon. He finds himself standing atop a hill just outside the town of Fallcrest, a small township standing amid the Moon Hill at the falls of the Nentir Vale. The town is protected by a large stone wall at the north, south and east ends with the Nentir River to the west. A large cliff runs east and west through the town’s center, separating it into two tiered districts. From where he stands he can see another hill at the northeast corner of the town, what appears to be a small keep standing atop its plateaued peak. There seems to be a small market at the town’s center below the cliff line, he decides that to be his destination as descends the hill towards the town’s southern gate.

For a city based around trade and travelers the roads seem as though to be untouched by cart-wheel or foot for days, although a few carts appear to be on the road this morning. Taking a closer look at some of the wagons as he passes them he notices that these are not the wagons of your average adventuring traders, but rather they are beaten from many days of travel and some are already falling apart at the hinges,. They look as though to be fleeing from something, the somber faces of many families filling their interiors. When approaches one cart to question where they hail from the driver looks at him with a saddened expression and in almost a whisper of a voice, the voice of one who has lost all hope, proclaims he and his family travel from the city of Harken. As he tries to pry further though as to what caused them to leave the man looks away and says to question someone else, tugging at his horse’s reins and urging it forward. With an annoyed sigh and a shake of its head the exhausted horse trudges forward with much effort, dragging the heavy cart behind it. After attempting to question a few others and gaining little results, he pieces the sparse bits of information together to infer that some tragedy has befallen the once great city of Harken and that some mercenary group lead by a strange man stands at the center of its cause. He ponders this strange situation a little further but then proceeds to push it to the back of his mind as he continues along the road towards the Fallcrest, believing that there isn’t much he can do for the refugees from Harken in his current state.

Soon he enters through the vast gates of Fallcrest’s southern wall, pushing through the crowded streets as he moves towards the market district. Intently focused on his destination he wades through the crowd, completely ignoring the urge to pilfer a few coins from the pockets of the unaware. He finally escapes the vast swarm of people containing mainly refugees only to be totally caught off guard by the sudden attack of one very angry, frightened chicken. His eyes go wide from the surprise encounter as the frantic bird flies headlong right into his face, knocking him completely off his feet and onto his back. Dazed and confused he just lays there on the dusty road for a moment, staring straight ahead with a bewildered expression and then proceeds to stand back up and dust himself off. He shakes the dust out of his hair and then looks around slightly annoyed to locate the offender. He spots the little demon running, jumping and flailing into the market with about the same level of vigor from when it struck him, also noticing that the coin pouch on his belt feels oddly lighter than a few moments ago. The mere thought of this cause him to turn his gaze downwards and inspect the place where his gold would normally be hanging…

“Orcus damn that foul bird! I can’t believe I was robbed blind by a simple chicken!”

Jumping into a mad dash, the very annoyed Lairelandon charges after the devious bird in an attempt to retain some level of dignity and regain the gold that has been funding his survival up to this point. The chase does not get off to a good start however as Laire turns a very sharp corner around some merchant stalls only to find a wagon of flour sacks directly blocking his path. Quick thinking as he is however, Laire plants his hands on the wagon-bed mid-dash, using it as a springboard to shift his momentum upwards, and bounds over the wagon with ease. He flies through the air doing a slight flip forwards so as to land on his feet again and continue without faltering, a slight smirk on his face as he does so. Unfortunately this moment of spectacular acrobatic skill comes to an abrupt halt as he vaults full on into a merchants fruit stand, melons, apples and bits of splintered wood flying in all directions. From the glorious mess rises Laire, now coated in bits of fruit and potentially more irate than the speechless Halfling that he ignores as he returns to his chase with an apple in hand and orange pulp dripping from his face. Raising his arm to his face, he bites down on the fresh apple, his gaze still intently placed on the demon bird as it waddles away. After regaining the distance he just lost from the last accident he begins to catch up on the chicken, weaving in and out of stalls as they race back and forth through the market. The feathered beast now almost within reach an evil grin appears on Laire’s face and is immediately wiped from it as a runaway barrel of ale from a pub’s morning shipment collides with his right leg, running him down and sending him reeling through the air. Instinct saves his fall as he performs an off-balance tumble that lands him back on his feet and sends him again to chase now fuming from his horrible luck. The chase proceeds for roughly 5 more minutes before Laire finally comes back within reach of the thief, reaching his arms forward to grab hold of it. He swipes the chicken from its feet, holding it in the air by its neck with an evil smile that would make even the greatest of demons cower in fear.

He tears his coin-purse from the clutches of the bird’s beak, reattaching it to his belt and then proceeds to shove the bird into his pack where it will remain until he can think of what to do with the creature. The squawking and frantic flailing of the bird caught quite the bit of attention however and not seconds later Laire turns around to find a not so impressed guard standing behind him, arms crossed and eyebrow raised in question. The guard doesn’t even wait for answers as he grabs Laire by the scruff of his shirt and drags him to the town jail where he is thrown into a rather large cell, landing on his stomach in a puddle of questionable contents in the center. Standing with a groan, he becomes aware of a noticeably intoxicated dwarf sitting in the corner drinking away from a tankard that’s obviously empty and singing a merry tune that may or may not be in dwarvish.

His horribly slurred song over, the dwarf now takes notice of Laire, slaps his knee and let’s out quite the laugh, ” Sooooo, whar you ‘n fer me boy?”

Laire responds with a confused expression, trying to hold in his laughter at the dwarf’s speech, “Long story short, I’ve been thrown in here for stashing away a chicken in my cloak”

The dwarf looks at him quite quizzically, “An how ‘n the name’v the ‘eavans did ya manage t’ git nentire roast chickn?”

His head hanging in slight shame, he replies, “It was a live chicken actually, the damned bird stole my coins and I caused quite the ruckus trying to regain them.”

The dwarf almost doubles over in laughter, but in between the hearty chuckling Laire manages to gather, “You… bird… ‘n yer shirt… funniest thing’ve heard… Oh I’m gonna wet meself boy, how dumb can ya be?”

Before Laire can even protest to the uproar, the cell door swings open as two more are thrown in, narrowly missing him as he steps back in surprise. A rather flustered elf and one very large and unfriendly looking Dragonborn have now joined them, the elf seeming to be completely confused as to his current situation and the Dragonborn yelling after the guard while banging his massive fist against the bars. This stops the dwarf mid-laugh and he stands, looking about as sober as he can probably manage.

“You should calm down me boy, you’re gonna break yer hand if ya keep at that little tantrum of yers.”

The golden Dragonborn turns his gaze, still slightly enraged, “Silence your mouth dwarf before I silence it for you.”

“Ah it appears I haven’t introduced meself yet. The name is Urist my friend, and who may you be?” says the dwarf with a raise of his tankard

With a grumble the half-dragon replies, “Thyllan, now mind your own business drunkard.”

Now seeming tired of his irate acquaintance, Urist turns to Laire and the elf. “And what of you two?”

“My name is Lairelandon, but you may refer to me as Laire if you wish,” Laire declares to his new companion, with a slight bow

The elf pipes in a few seconds later after gathering his words, ” And I’m umm Roland, and I’m not supposed to be here.”

Suddenly the guard returns, “Still proclaiming your innocence eh elf?” He unlatches the cell door and motions for them to move, “The four of you are to come with me, unless of course your prefer to stay in this cell.”

Without so much as a complaint the four move to follow the guard as he leads them out of the jail and back onto the streets of Fallcrest. They’re taken through the town, passing by many buildings as they work their way towards the cliff-side path that leads up into the northern district. The winding path that travels up the height of the cliff face is steep and with their quick pace the group is forced to stop for a quick rest when they reach the top.

“Twas no dwarf that built such a deadly stair climb, I can assure you of that” complains Urist as he gasps for some more air.

In agreement Laire nods and adds in, “I can only imagine how horrible that must have been for one of your stature.”

“You calling me short boy?”

Laire laughs, and winks cheekily, “I would never think of it.”

After they all manage to catch their breath, some requiring more time than others, the group continues onwards as guard urges them towards the stone keep standing at the northeast corner of the town. Merely a few minutes pass as they approach the large stone structure and are quickly rushed through the front gates and towards the main door. The guard stops them at the door and continues inside telling them to wait there and after a long silence he returns and motions for them to enter.

“Lord Warden Markelhay will see you now”

The guard leads the four through the great hall of the structure and into a small study where a man sits behind his desk, reading over maps and various letters. He barely acknowledges them as they enter but waves the guard to leave without so much as even looking up from his charts.

“Were you explained as to why you were called here?”

Thyllan steps forward, slightly annoyed, “Not in the slightest, but I would like some answers.”

“Calm yourself Dragonborn or I may be inclined to send you back to a smaller cell where you can remain. Now it’s not often that we get four of your sort in this town of ours, but I can’t say that’s a bad thing as the four of you have been making quite the commotion since your arrival. From drunken preaching, to swinging Halflings around like swords, to… putting chickens in your shirt?”

It’s Laire’s turn to step forward in reply now, “It’s a rather long and embarrassing story sir.”

The man lifts his head and removes his spectacles, eyebrow raised, “I’m sure it is, anyways…” His eyes now catching the elf standing there awkwardly, “Wait, why are you here again?”

Stumbling with his words a little he replies, “I myself am not even sure of that to be honest. But -”

Cutting him off there, the man continues. “Well no matter, you’re here now. You see we stand in dark times, lately there have been many refugees fleeing the City of Harken to the east of here, and many rumors have followed them of a group of mercenaries known as ‘The Iron Circle’ that has been terrorizing the land. They’re lead by an odd man named Nazin, of which we know little, who has been wreaking havoc in the area of Harken for years now. Many a town have been raged by his men and he appears to have gathered himself a vast army of mages, adepts and the like as well as quite the militia. Our spies tell us that he plans to march on Harken shortly and well I am requesting your aid in this matter seeing as how you seem like the adventuring sort of folk.”

Thyllan then cuts in, “What’s in it for us?”

And without so much as missing a beat, the Lord Warden responds again, “Your freedom. That and all charges against you will be dropped, including the cost for one badly damaged fruit stand.” He raises an eyebrow again in question.

“I see no issue with this deal at all and will be glad to accept it,” announces Laire in a very quick speech

The others nod in agreement, settling the matter once and for all.

He smiles, “I figured as much. Now off with you, I’ll have the guard bring you to the inn, your rooms have already been paid for. You will be given supplies and a map in the morning and any further questions can be answered then. Please leave, I have much work to do now.”

And so the four new companions exit the study and eventually the keep as they head off to prepare for the task that has been so abruptly placed upon them.

With Wind at His Feet: Chapter 3: The Connection

The intertwined branches scratch at his face and limbs as he sprints through the overgrown paths of the ancient forest. The girl’s body now lays limp in his arms, her face extremely pale with small droplets of sweat forming on her brow. The dimly lit forest is damp from last night’s rain, causing Laire’s movement to be slowed slightly from the heaviness of the humid air. His breathing is heavy and ragged as he bounds over the root-entangled forest floor, a small opening in the trees appears before him ahead, the short distance feeling as though to be miles of travel. The opening expands in size as he nears ever closer, illuminating the path in front of him with the faint, grayish light indicating a cloudy sky above. With desperate speed he bursts through the treeline, the small city of Everlund lying before him, its intricate architecture and delicate designs imbue the essence of Eladrin construction and reflect the natural beauty of the surrounding wilderness.

Knowing his destination by instinct alone, he wanders through the sleeping city to a small temple on the northern edge of the Everlund. His mind growing weary with each passing moment, he traces his course between the silent buildings. Not a soul appears either on the streets or in the windows of any home giving the town a ghostly, deserted appearance in the darkness of predawn. The moon has set and a thin layer of light fog coats the ground, awaiting the heat of the rising sun. Not even the brightly coloured songbirds have awoken to sing their morning song and the eerie silence is so loud as to make a person fear even the softest of noises. The cold, damp air prickles his skin but he pays it no attention as all his focus is solely on getting Arlan to safety. Her body growing heavier in his arms as his fatigue begins to catch up on him he appears not to notice, continuing forward with the same pace and energy he maintained throughout the night. Catching a glimpse of the temple between some homes he continues running in its direction and before he knows it the building appears before him. He slows to a halt just outside the boundary, sheer joy overtaking he leans his back against the heavy wooden doors. The overwhelming joy and the fatigue of running the full night causes his body to collapse instantly, his adrenaline supplies finally depleted. He slides down the door into a sitting position, Arlan still in his arms and closes his eyes, falling into a deep sleep. Only one thought reaches his mind before he falls unconscious. He made it.

He awakens to find himself in a small darkly lit room lying on a roughly thrown together bed. The stone walls appear to be fairly ancient and their cracked surface is crumbled and even missing in a few places. Large tree roots and wiry vines break the surface of marbled floor, allowing a mossy carpet to grow to thick mats in spots. A calm wind blows through the ruins, a faint arcane presence intertwined within it as if to say the wind emanates from the walls themselves. There’s no sound in this underground chamber and even his breathing sounds muffled and distant. As his sense return to him he realizes that the room is unfamiliar and he has no recollection as to how he came to awaken in this strange place. He stands, pausing to replace his moss coloured cloak and collect his blades and knife belts from a bag lying next to the bed. The air feels thin here, and causes Laire to feel slightly light-headed as he moves towards the door, but he does not allow his consciousness to waiver and forces himself forward with a shake of his head. The hallway he enters is similar in appearance to the room he awoke in, forking in either direction into a series of catacomb styled paths and rooms. Ignoring the paths before him and to the right, his intuition pulls him down the leftward path, where the flow of air appears to be coming from and where the presence of arcane magic feels as if to thicken and become stronger.

After roughly ten and five minutes of travel, passing many small, empty rooms overgrown with plants, the hallway opens into a large courtyard that lays completely vulnerable to the elements. The courtyard is built in a traditional fashion of the temples of Avandra with many layers of stone benches and four staircases placed according to the point of a compass that descend towards a large open circle in the center. A small stone altar of intricate design stands in the middle, guarded on either side by large marble statues carved in the likeness of Avandra herself. Behind the altar stand a large stone archway that’s carved to resemble two ancient willows with winding branches that meet and knot together in the middle. The energy created by the altar pulls Laire towards it as he descends the southern staircase towards it with slow, steady paces. As he draws nearer to it he notices that an elvish script inlaid in gold surrounds the top of the altar and that the four elm carvings that make up the corner appear to have small emeralds inlaid into their branches to create an image of summer’s bright green foliage. He lays his hands upon the stone altar and a strong gust of wind engulfs him from behind, the presence of a very ancient arcane power standing at its core.

A deep, omniscient voice pierces his mind with the calmness of a cool spring wind, “The Lady of Luck, smiles upon you silver-haired one.”

With a calm mind, Laire turns towards the source of the voice. Before him stands a large wolf perched precariously upon the southern wall of the courtyard, with fur of pure white and eyes of bright green, the wolf stands very regal in appearance and holds a stature of great pride. A light aura surrounds the being and with each successive gust of wind his form waivers, as though he himself embodied the wind.

Laire kneels before the being, a stance that bears great respect towards one of such stature.

“Lairelandon East-Elm, I am humbled to be in the presence of one so majestic. Is there a name by which I can call you, he who holds the wind at his feet?”

The calm voice echoes in his mind. “You may call me Belsullion, and you need not kneel before me young Laire, you bear a name of great honour within this forest. I have been observing you for some time now as I have observed many who have come before you.”

Slightly flustered Laire stands and faces the white wolf, keeping his head high and his back straight in an attempt to maintain his composure against such an overpowering presence.

“I know not of what you speak honorable Arch-fey, but before that matter I must question you on something that has been bothering me ever since I awoke. What of my friend? Where is Arlan?”

“You need not worry young Laire, the priestess that brought you here has taken the girl into her care. She shall be safe during your absence.”

He raises an eyebrow in mild confusion, “My absence?”

“You seek escape do you not? You prayed for a chance at a new beginning, a chance to remold your destiny and so Lady Avandra has graced you with such. Atop the altar behind you lays a key, this key holds great importance in your heritage and so it shall be the used as the catalyst to begin your new life. If you truly wish to change then you must keep this key with you on your travels for it alone is your only way of returning to correct the past that has been woven. Although it can merely open the door for you, you must choose the correct path on your own.”

Without response, he turns to the altar and there sits a small key of knotted wood. The single piece of wood appears to wind around itself forming a not at the base and then extends outwards into four individual branches that twist around each other and come to four sharp points at the end. The wood is that of an ancient elm and a small emerald of impossible beauty lays embedded within the knot of the key. As he lifts the key he notices the thin lines of an elvish script inlaid along the length of the four branches. The thin aura surrounding the key pulses and reacts to his touch, a light wind now endlessly flowing around it, a wind that flows smoothly over the skin, its arcane whispers creating a prickling sensation that makes his hairs stand on end. He takes the key in his hand and wordlessly inserts it in a small opening in the center of the altar’s top.

A voice sounds from behind him, “The winds of change blow strong on this fateful day, and thus the doorway shall open to connect the worlds of the old and the new so that new paths may be carved and new beginnings can be formed from ashes of past life.”

Before Laire can even turn in response to the words a tremendous gale rips forth from the archway almost knocking him from his feet. He raises his arms to shield his face, the wind continuing to tear through the air with enough force to rip the trees themselves from the ground. This continues for several moments, the wind creating a near deafening whistling in his ears. He turns his gaze slightly and finds the white wolf to have vanished from its perch but before he has a chance to wonder the meaning of this the world seems to twist around him. All senses are distorted as the universe itself feels as though to be contorting and mutating, his vision becomes blurry and he feels as though he may convulse at any moment if it doesn’t stop.

“Your mother would be proud to see what you have become.”

So many questions swirl through his mind but he is unable to organize his thoughts as he is thrust through reality. He comes to a crashing halt, lying face down in what seems to be a similar temple to the one he was just in but the air feels different. The air here feels thicker and heavier, filled with the murky smells of swamp and moss. He brings his hand before his face and finds the key in his grasp once again and still filled with a multitude of questions his consciousness waivers and he collapses there amidst the leaves and dirt of this alien world.

With Wind at His Feet: Chapter 2: The Kill

The chirps of crickets split the cold night, the pale moon shining down over the enclosed courtyard. The surrounding elm trees rustle and sway slightly in the cool spring breeze. Complete silence falls over the large house and there appears to be no activity occurring within. A dark shadow sits atop a hill not far from the quiet residence, watching as a hawk watches his next kill. A single whistle pierces the air and the figure swoops down from his perch, making quick travel down to the treeline surrounding the courtyard wall. A second figure awaiting his approach appears from the shadows of the tree and they exchange a few words.

“There has been no movement within for nigh on an hour now. Any signs of a watch?”

Arlan replies in a quiet tone, “Nothing, the entire place appears empty. Something feels wrong about this one Laire.”

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this one as well Arlan, let’s remain cautious for now.”

With a sigh Arlan responds, “I say we take this one slow, for all we know he may already have guards waiting for us inside.”

“Agreed.”

With a nod the two figures disappear into the tree, not a sound as they nimbly make their way to the topmost branches of the ancient oak. They gracefully glide from branch to branch, nearing closer to the top, and using their speed and momentum they leap to the rooftop, almost seeming to hang in the air as if to exist outside the normal effects of gravity. Silently the figures move across the great length of the rooftop with a speed second to that of raging lightning, making their way ever closer to the slumbering prey. The twang of a plucked string sounds in the distance and without so much as a thought the second figure turns to face its source, twisting her body to the side as the shot grazes past her, shaving two of her long, slender hairs in half. As if by reflex she reaches into her sleeve and lets loose a shuriken towards the arrows source, using the momentum of her turn to give it speed and force. the sharp metal star whistles through the air and makes impact, a dull thud and the sound of cracking skull emanating from the shadows where it hit. A cry of pain and the sound of a body hitting wall and sliding to ground follows shortly after.

Simultaneously Laire and Arlan reach for their weapons; their images vanishing from the rooftop the instant their hands grip the hilts. Arlan appears first in the courtyard, her cloak falling loose to her feet as she pulls a long spiked chain from her back. The leather-clad figure unleashes a furious storm, her weapon ripping apart hordes of guards as she spins and twists her body in graceful flips and maneuvers to give the chain a deadly speed. The chains spin creates a visible half-sphere that destroys anything within ten paces of its wielder, tearing through flesh and shredding the armor of her enemies. As her fury slows to a stop, Laire appears in mid-fall above the courtyard, twin katars held in his hands like the talons of a great falcon. He lands amidst the guards now surrounding Arlan, piercing two through their backs and using their bodies to soften his fall. The man moves like a shadow through the guards, his blades dealing a series of fatal blows. He flows like wind through the chaos as the guards fall around him, thin lines of blood arcing through the air in great circles, following the deadly path of the man’s blades.

The slaughter continues like this for a few more moments before the last body falls, and the dark figures can be seen standing there, in a sea of bodies. They stand back to back, breathing heavily, their arms hanging loose at their sides. The threat now taken care of they continue towards the house, holding their weapons still at the ready. They push the main door open and enter the house to confront the final enemy, the target of their mission. At the far end of the great hall that very man awaits them, his back turned to them and his hands help calmly behind him. Without turning he claps his hands and the door swings shut and locks behind the two mercenaries, preventing any notions of an exit.

“I see I underestimated you two, the Lord Marshal was wise to send two of your caliber. However, do not think you have won this battle as I have only just begun to play my hand.”

Laire steps forward with a defiant tone in his voice. “You talk too much Orodreth, your corruption is at an end now. You may as well give up now and die with what little honor you have left before you make a fool of yourself.”

Orodreth turns the two mercenaries, staring them down ice blue eyes that feel as though they pierce the very soul.

“I dislike your tone lowlife; I advise that you stop your tongue before I remove your friend’s.”

With that, a dark cloaked figure whose features are shadowed by their low hood appears behind Arlan, dagger poised at her throat. A cursed dagger with a blade as twisted as the black aura that embodies it. Arlan’s body stiffens to the touch of the blade against her neck and Laire glares the man down in anger.

“How befitting for such a scum that would kill his own men to pull a cowardly trick as this.”

The man puts a hand to his hip as if to stand proud over the shadows before him. “You’ve yet to face the full extent of my power young man, I have hundreds of guards waiting outside for you so I hope you’re not thinking of escaping alive. In fact that head of yours will make an excellent addition to my collection, along with that of your frie-”

Before he can finish his sentence the once stone-like figure appears in front of him and presses a dagger into his chest. The dagger stops short however as a chain shirt below the cloth catches the tip of the deadly thorn before it finds flesh. As he does so, Arlan elbows the figure behind her and pulls a dagger to cut him. As she swings though, the figure vanishes in a cloud of black, but not before slashing her across the arm with his evil thorn of a dagger. A cry of pain escapes her lips as she collapses to the floor, clutching her wound.

The man laughs even harder than before, “Did you not think I was prepared for you dear mercenary? Have you yet to see? Amon Bassiri knows nothing of what’s going on, I have many men working for me within his ranks and it won’t be long before we take control of the Watcher’s and I end that fool’s miserable leadership.”

“You truly are a coward Orodreth, and you shall leave this room with a scar befitting one.” Laire pulls his dagger from the man’s chain, pushing the man towards the window behind him. As he does so he swings the dagger once more and draws a deep line into the man’s face, creating a diagonal cut from right his right cheek and over his left eye.

The man clutches his bleeding face as he crashes through the stained glass and into the yard behind. Knowing that he has merely maimed his enemy, Laire leaves the man and runs to his collapsed friend. She lays there unconscious, her breath ragged and sweat forming on her brow. He places his fingers to her neck only to find a weak pulse. Carefully he uses his cloak to cushion her head and lifts her into his arms. bearing her weight he carries her to the door and kicks it open. With careful grace he sprints through the courtyard faster than he has ever ran before, trying desperately to bring his friend to a healer before it’s too late, praying Avandra for the speed to make it in time to save her.

Leaving Mithrendain behind him, knowing he can never return, he runs northward to Everlund.

With Wind at His Feet: Chapter 1: The Contract

A cool breeze sweeps his silver hair aside as he stares into the enchanted mirror at his feet. He takes one last look back onto the bloodied battlefield that was once a dark wizards stronghold and as he surveys the wreckage of the now crumbled Eastern wall his thoughts shift to Sandra, knowing that this very well may be the last time he sees her. With a heavy sigh he steps towards the false reality of the mirror and following the steps of his companions who left not moments before him he shifts through its liquid boundaries, moving through time and space itself, unknowing as to what dark fate lies before him. As he tumbles through reality he closes his eyes, allowing memories of a past long forgotten to swell within his mind and become reality once again.

Darkness envelopes his vision, dulling the senses and blotting out reality as he slips into the subconscious. The world slowly vanishes around him as he falls deeper and deeper into his own memories. For a moment the world is nothing, all of his surroundings have been cancelled out and what has replaced them is void. The blackness fades to light, and sounds return to the world as his mind begins weaving an illusionary world around him where reality and imaginary become one.

A light wind blows over his face, the smell of fresh spring blossoms in the air. Light from the morning sun illuminates the meadow, warming his dreaming face. The grass ripples in the wind and gently brushes against the skin of his face, tickling him lightly and forcing a thin smile upon him. A voice mumbles just beyond hearing. It grows louder.

“Laire? Laire are you listening to me? I said lord marshal Bassiri awaits our presence. Nobody’s paying you to just lay around in the sun you know.”

With a mumble Laire sits upright, “The commander doesn’t pay that well to begin with, especially for the type of work he asks of us. We honestly need to find better paying customers Arlan.”

In a slight mocking tone Arlan replies, “Well the only ones in this corrupt hole of a city willing to pay your prices are the exact people we’ve been working against for years now.”

With a sigh, “I suppose we’ve got to settle for what we’ve got then?”

With a smile and a slight chuckle Arlan grabs her close friend by the hand and helps him to his feet. “Don’t worry so much, I think today may be our big break.”

Together they begin their walk through the countryside, leaving the shade of the great willow behind them and working their way towards the outskirt buildings of the city surrounding the great citadel, Mithrendain. They pass a few small farms as they head towards the great forest, the rich fields looking rather simple in comparison to the ancient trees and large, intricate towers that make up the inner core of Mithrendain. With long strides they make quick travel of the countryside and the spring fields slowly transform into the dense forests that exist deep within the Feywild. The trees grow ever taller as they continue farther into the ancient heart of the forest and the intricate structures of the city begin to come into view. As the edges of the city grows nearer they aim their journey along the winding paths towards the market district. The ornate structures of the Eladrin built towers form a beautiful scene, woven into the trees themselves as if the large stone cathedrals were formed from natural causes.

The walk through the city is always long and boring for the first few minutes of travel but as they approach the heart of the city things get very lively as there is always a burst of activity within and around the market district. Crowds of shoppers and journey men swell around Laire and Arlan. The two stop for a brief moment and look to each other with sly grins as if to share the same thought. With breakneck speed they bound of into the chaos of the mid-day market, weaving and jumping in and around people with such a level of grace and precision that they appear to flow as smoothly as the air itself. A calamity of smells and sounds bombards the senses, filling the mind with beautiful images and colours that swirl to paint the most breathtaking of aural sensation within the subconscious. The aroma of fresh breads and this month’s new harvest of fruit wafts through the air, only to be instantly replaced by the earthy scent of newly woven cloaks of the finest silks and cloths. The hammering of steel on anvil rings through air, blending with shouts and calls of haggling shoppers and shop owners. Amongst the anarchy of sensations one can’t help but feel a sense of glee as if to create to a joyful chaos of colours within the mind’s eye. Not moments after starting, they burst through the last crowd of people and race off towards the heart of the great citadel, leaving the market and its rich treasures behind them.

Approaching the citadel Laire and Arlan slow their speed to a halt and lean against the ornate stones and marbles twisted in vast sculptures that form the outer wall of the Watchers’ barracks. Resting to catch their breath they look skyward through the thick canopy to find the sun now in its zenith. Arlan tilts her gaze to Laire with a sly grin.

“So? Any new treasures today?”

Laire grins and pulls a small pouch from his sleeve and bounces it lightly in his hand, “I’d say about 40 and 5 gold and maybe a silver ring we could probably sell later for a small profit.”

Arlan replies with a chuckle, “I’ve always been envious of your quick fingers, all I managed was 7 silver and a now broken quill.”

With a smug smile, Laire turns to Arlan, “Give it time my friend, and maybe one day you’ll be as good as me.” He winks. “Now let’s hurry up and go see Bassiri before he decides to fire us.”

They work their way around the towering defensive wall to the extravagant marble staircase that leads into the heart of the citadel. With multitudes of intricate winding columns forming archways overhead, they climb the stairwell, diverting to left into a passage leading to the western walls. Along the dark, narrow pathway the come to a small gap between two of the natural looking columns and slip into a hallway that one would not normally notice if they weren’t looking for it. The dark corridor ends with a large wooden door, illuminated from both sides by two flame-less lanterns. They come to a halt at the door and Laire steps forward, taps five times upon the twisted wood, pauses and taps twice more. The sound of an opening lock echoes through the corridor and the door slowly swings open as if by its own will.

Many dark figures in cloaks shuffle about as they enter the hidden barracks, either heading off to their next shift or returning to rest and gather information before their next. They work their way through the many other Watchers, slowly weaving their way to the door at the very back of the room. The door to the commanding officer’s study. As they approach the dark door, Laire once against raises his hand to tap upon its surface. Just as he lifts his arms, a deep voice sounds from within the room.

“Enter you two.”

Awaiting them in the room is a man whose appearance seems to complete the atmosphere of the underground keep. A wiry, pale man with dark black hair and a slightly ominous presence stands with his back to them as they enter.

In unison the two kneel before him and recite the vow, “Strike sure, strike fast. We rid the streets of plague and corruption. As Watchers of the night we maintain the peace from within the shadows so that others may live in the light.”

With a friendly smile unfitting his ghostly appearance, he turns to them. “You may stand.”

His face grows serious as he crosses his arms and leans against the small table behind him. “As you may already be aware of, I have an important task for the two of you today.”

He begins pacing through the room. “Information has been leaking out as of late and we’ve discovered the man who is the cause of it. One of our own men has gone rogue and appears to have turned against the Watchers. A man by the name of Orodreth Séregon. I sent spies to trail him and we found out that he’s been fencing for an unknown group of mercenaries. Unfortunately though, the same spies never returned from the last trail and we suspect that they were discovered. We fear he may have others among us that are feeding him info but we are unsure. As I have high respect for the exemplary work you to have shown I know that I can trust both of you with such a mission. However I’d prefer if you maintain as much discretion as possible as we do not want to invoke suspicion within the ranks.”

With a very serious tone, Arlan replies. “Do we have any information to go on as to his whereabouts?”

“He owns a small villa near the edges of the forest, bordering the farmlands; I advise that you begin your watch there. Now leave, you have much work to do. May your blades stay sharp.” Waving them off he walks to a chair at the back of the room and sits, appearing contemplative.

“Your man is as good as dead commander,” responds Laire with a wide smirk, kneeling before his superior officer once again.