((Adeyemi))

"I don't know why you think I'm not going to be honest with you," the boy said frankly. "I mean... you sort of have me in a bad position. If I'm not honest, wouldn't you just kill me?"

Because, Adeyemi thought, perhaps I wouldn’t be able to tell? She dared not voice the quip, though—if indeed the fool were so greatly unoriginal as to not have thought of that, then hearing the comment might very well give him the presence of mind to lie.

"I'm Gios Kyros of the Fifth Rank. I belong to the Skorpios Clan.”

Ah. That checked out with his appearance, the calculating, slightly lethal look of a scorpion, as well as with his manner of speech. The shifters, particularly clan Skorpios, were more in contact with humans. They didn’t have the large central government of the faeries to help manage trade and the flow of money, after all.

“ I'm trying to become the Archigos... er... I mean I was trying to. But I need an exotic item in order to rise to power.” Adeyemi narrowed her eyes slightly—exotic could mean many things. “So I became a merchant - a normal one, in case you wanted to know.”

The faery couldn’t help it: she gave a throaty snicker at that. “ I might not believe you yet, mjinga*,” she returned, settling so that her grip on his collar was tighter.

”I sold fur and little trinkets, not kids!” He protested. ”For Heaven's sake, why would anyone want to buy kids for? They're all noisy and bothersome. You know, they always go, 'Me, me, me!!!' Very annoying. Not to mention, I don't think they taste good.”

Adeyemi stared with undisguised revulsion. “Taste?!” She said scathingly. “Why ever under the sun would you be concerned with the taste of an infant. Last we saw of clan Skorpios, they weren’t cannibals.”

Unconcerned, or perhaps keen on finishing his piece in order to depose of the faery-girl, Kyros continued in a easy-going, mildly defensive tone. “Anyways, I was a merchant for a while. Except I sort of deserted them. So I'm an ex-merchant, you know? So I've been running for a while now."

He laughed sheepishly. "Uh... sorry about... you know, hitting you earlier. I thought Acantha was trying to betray me and all that... hehe..."

Adeyemi paused, deliberating. His story checked out, as well as she could check it, for in truth her collection of facts regarding this boy were scarce. However, most tribes were aware to some degree of the going-ons in other tribes, and it was widely-circulated that there had been a dispute of some sort in selecting the new Archigos of the scorpions. Even so…

With eyes of hard rock, the girl rose off of him and offered her hand in pulling him to his feet. “Tribe Onaeda welcomes you if you speak truly, Gios Kyros,” she said, bowing her head over her hands and touching the inner portion of her wrists together, blossoming open her fingers like the tartooth** flower.

“I cannot trust you to come in peace yet,” she murmured, “but as one who has accepted you as a guest of my tribe, I will extend to common courtesies that befit an heir and offer you my aide as was decreed by Odjani.”

In a formal tone, to underline to Kyros that she wasn’t entirely committed to keeping him, Adeyemi explained, “as was stated in the beginning of time, when we were cast of the wind-blown sand into faery-form and you were cast of fire into shifter-form, I will aide you, my fellow being, by offering lodging and what provisions I have, as well as steel and arms if you are pursued. As a man of rank, I will willingly help you on your journey if you desire my aid, but only for the span of three days and nights.”

Kicking the cool grit with a bare foot, Adeyemi scowled at the broken dawn and muttered, “but mjinga, if you should accept, it will cost you a day’s wait. I’ll not give courtesy to a stranger until night falls and I’ve returned to my family with their water.”

*Trans.: stupid
**Trans.: desert hyacinth

((Tek Tek, joining the shifters. Hopefully. Sort of.))

Tek Tek moved slowly through the trees. It was reasonably dark up here, flush with broad leaves and cool. He could feel himself becoming sluggish in the pleasant atmosphere. He could not afford to do so, he had to live on his wits. In this strange place, he believed some shifters of influence lived. Quite what they influenced and the significance of it escaped Tek Tek entirely.

But at some point in the night, some days hence he heard the distinct call of an elephant. It had been a long time since he'd heard anything like that. It put him rather in mind of a fart, he'd laughed for a goodly while about that, until he'd had to stuff a rag into his mouth so no one would hear him. The guards at the gate had heard him at least twice now, once when he'd clumsily snapped a branch and once again when he'd been laughing. Besides this, he'd overheard them being told food was going missing. Nothing much, a ration of bread here, a little wine there. As leaves brushed his back, he jumped, slightly startled. Everything was so quiet and boring here, he found it quite impossible to believe anyone would choose to live here. Perhaps they were squatters!

He would have to be more careful, if he was to continue eating what he could find. Last night, he'd had to bounce a stone off a guards head to distract him. The diversion had given him enough time to get away, but he'd sworn one of the guards picked up the tobacco he'd rolled up into a leaf. In any case, they were not telling anyone yet, and he was safe enough in the trees.

He spent the rest of the day there, barely moving, occasionally picking a nit from his back. He would stare at it inqisuitively for a while, before leisurely chewing on it thoughtfully. At length, with the sound of the branches swaying, the leaves rustling and little creatures inside the trees moving about, itching and working away, he began to doze off.

He woke some immeasurable amount of time later, and decided he would be safer not being human right now. He reached up to his back, hooking his legs round the branch he was on, and took off his pack. He pulled the fur lining out of it, which was attached by means of having been sowed on loose, and dragged it over the bag, clipping it into the fur lining on the back, sides and straps.

He replaced the bag on his back, and began to change lazily. His already long, thin arms grew and became completely furred. His fingers became much longer, and as he changed he decided he would be black today. He liked black, it was better for shadows. At length his arms became shaggy, and long furred all along. Two fingers on each hand fused together, becoming effectively one, and he could feel his chin swell and burn. His neck tightened and the skin of his chin became very rough. It felt like something were about to break through his skin and burst. This resolved itself into a pouch, rather round and unbelievably textured in a peculiar skin and blueish colour. The light here made it look very brown. His already rounded, beady eyed face became more so, and his frizzy, fluffy brown hair became lank, black and short to his head, slowly merging into the fur that had grown allover him. With the backpack, he looked rather curiously hunched, but he always made to with that by walking in a low, arched gait, one hand over the other and his legs clomping along just behind. It was a good gait, and in any case did the job.

Said job done, he began to fall soundly asleep. He dreamed of large amounts of rich food, rapidly resolving themselves into various roots and figs. He liked figs, just currently, rather a lot! It was only some time later, his dreams shifting into pleasant overtures of brachiation and humping that he began to feel the oddest sensation of falling. It started with his dream, a missed hand grasp here, a clumsy retrieval which knocked his own arm and sent him spiralling down towards the floor. He was unbothered, he would wake in a start any second now and be fine, possibly grasp the tree to steady himself and roll over to sleep. He also felt that the ground looked rather . . . well spongey and altogether pleasant. Probably nothing to worry about at all, most likely it was made of clouds. Yes, he liked clouds. Oh, that one looked like an elephant . . .

A furious and rather mixed bag of feelings hit Tek Tek with a resounding WHUD, as of something hitting solid earth. The feelings ranged from anger, grumpiness, pain, panic and insane, worryingly un-warranted happiness. He was up and running before he'd even fully hit the floor, a trip turned into a roll and then he leaped into the air, flailing madly at nothing and trying to grasp branches many feet above him now. From behind him, he could hear things hitting the ground, no doubt his attackers were throwing small projectiles at him! He heard the clang of a metal blade and decided to increase speed. Dimly, in front of him he could see a gate. Aha! Shelter, safety from whatever was attacking him. He charged for the gate like a wilderbeest gone mad.

The guards at the gate saw only this: a black gibbon, eyes closed, descending peacefully from the trees, it had a rounded, hunched back and a large sack under its chin. As it crashed to the ground, it went hump first, the hump itself swuashing almost flat against the ground. It immediately sprang up, startling them, and began to hugh and cry like a being possessed. Its arms flailed as it tried to grab something invisible, and then with a very deliberate air it charged straight at them, eyes gleaming and mouth letting out a terrible scream of doom and fury. As it ran, small items began to fall from its broken hump. First a few leaves, with something rolled inside them. A scrap of parchment, covered in dry ink. Some berries, and nuts, and with a resounding clang a goblet bearing the mark of the guards own masters dropped to the ground, this seemed to anger the strange devil beast, whos speed increased tenfold, it was now running straight for them bent double, it's eyes streaming and its arms flying out behind it like black flags.

On the whole, it had been a rather good day for both parties until now . . .

((Siggie, then Foertis))

In the dim non-light of the barn, Signum’s eyes parted their bars of lashes, just glintingly visible as they sought out his companion. Catching the slitted blue eyes of his friend, who’d taken the pretense of slumber above his head, Signum motioned that he rise, eliciting a curve-mouthed smile from Foertis. Stretching languorously, the brown-haired magician floated delicately down from his make-shift pallet in the rafters.

“They’re out,” the other minstrel murmured, his dusky hands lifting a limp tabby from the half-stone floor; the feline was replaced on a battered shelf that was empty of anything bar a few bent nails and a broken bottle—from the sharp scent caught in the glass depths, it had been a container of liniment. “Oh, you’re a devil,” Foertis snickered, stroking the unconscious barncat’s head. “I really should keep a better eye on you next time,” he muttered, slipping stealthily towards a side-door which opened into a small, quaint garden. “I mean,” he rambled distractedly, lifting the latch and peering around before scampering fox-like to a line of bushes, “the good missus and her fair lass weren’t enough for you? Good light, I couldn’t trust you with a bairn…”

Signum shrugged a shoulder, glancing cautiously about. He’d knocked out the family through the judicious administration of sleeping draughts to their repast, and the tabby had to go too (in light of the Rau-lass’s powers), but it didn’t do to get cocky. His dearest friend had been bagged by the military by investing too much faith in her potions’ efficiency, and that had led her down a twisted path indeed… Signum’s contemplation wasn’t so deep, though, that he didn’t blush pink when Foertis grumbled, “it’s true then, all that they say about you licentious, lascivious fae folk.”

“Hush!” The fey northerner interrupted, his tone a whisper, “ please.” Foertis curled his lip in familiar insult, though he bit back his retort to ferret ahead instead.

---

It was the Easterner who entered the home first, stepping in with a nervous flitter which he masked by adopting feckless mannerisms. He waited for Signum to draw up behind him before ghosting ahead, telling himself that the pounding fear of his heart was thrill. And he focused on the objective, avoiding weakness before his ex-Altus. Damn him, though, that he can still seem so stoic and blithe . Back then with anger, now with fear…

Licking his dry lips, Foertis walked to the armory with his shoulders thrown back and coy glances at any object worthy of unique attention—such as the centerpiece on a table—as all the while, his mortal soul flinched when it saw a strange shadow or thought it heard heavy, gloating breath from behind. And Aurelius lend him strength, that was the most frightening of the vespers that flitted about and nipped at his mind. The Rau-lass Hir’a still had the faery captive, though the feelings were suppressed. It took the rush of quiet adrenaline to pull the trigger, the soft sneak of espionage, but that was all the release his Hell needed. And he could still feel (his skin crawled to recall it) how sickeningly he’d wanted the beautiful, beautiful, maddening Rau-lass male, how perversely and effortlessly he could ensnare and torture the senses… it could flay you to insanity, even; he’d seen it in the captives that had been there the longest, or those who had the worst guilt. Internal strife was twisted into soul-shredding chains.

Suddenly he found himself breaking stride, stopping just before the door to their goal, with his eyes squeezed tightly shut and his lip tearing unexpectedly as he bit down on it, hard. He felt frighteningly alone, though Signum had stopped beside him and was shaking his shoulders, uncurling the fingers that clenched his narrow, scarred shoulders so tightly, saying nothings to him, paltry little nothings. Gods…

Foertis couldn’t believe himself. Jerking away from Signum with his mouth raised in a snarl—more animal than fae—he brusquely, angrily shoved into the armory of the humans’ home. The pair quickly surveyed the rows of weapons, neatly stacked and ordered in boxes, with little scribbles of paper indicating which Rau-lass regiment and region they were destined for; a brief walk amidst the refulgent steel and one could tell, instantly, that it was of faery make. It had that whisper about it, that ghost of insentient intellect that connected with the wielder and made the metal near-divine in its properties. The swords and pikes might not be self-aware, but they all thrummed with life.

It had a calming influence on the blond, who was lost again in the sensation that he’d allowed himself to fall apart at the seams— that the Rau-lass had poisoned him and made it difficult to regain the mentally organized Foertis Deus who’d been such a likeable, friendly cynic. Smiling to himself, he airily told Signum, “I’ll fetch the steeds while you get everything to the door,” and doubled back to the barn.

((TBC))

((Kyros))

He relaxed considerably once Adeyemi released him. He let out a sigh of relief. "Okay, so you forgive me then?" he asked. But then she began to talk again.

“Tribe Onaeda welcomes you if you speak truly, Gios Kyros.”

"You have trust issues, don't you?" he asked, making small 'tsk'ing sounds. "Have you never heard that you can't gain trust until you give it first?"

“I cannot trust you to come in peace yet,” she continued, “but as one who has accepted you as a guest of my tribe, I will extend to common courtesies that befit an heir and offer you my aide as was decreed by Odjani.”

"See what I mean?" Kyros grumbled. He then nodded slowly after he heard the conditions of the deal. "Alright... that doesn't sound too bad. I get help for three days. I get food, shelter and arms... why do I need arms for? I mean... wouldn't that hurt to rip off people's arms just to give to me? And wouldn't that be kinda counter productive because I'll have bunch of arms but I won't be able to use them? And lots of people would lose arms just because?"

He tapped his chin. "And there's one more thing that bothers me...."

He looked at Adeyemi. More specifically, he stared at her chest area. "Doesn't that," he pointed at her chest, "mean that you're a girl?"

((Aerain))

Anahita settled down beside her and Aerain tucked her long feathers close to her back, allowing enough room for the young faery to slip into her space without much commotion. The Occalus soldier had watched her cautiously as she flitted between the children, ensuring that their needs were cared for before allowing herself sustenance – though Aerain knew that Anahita would likely need just as much as the young ones after her trials. She imagined that, as noble as his morals were, Lysander was certainly not one to lower himself to providing entertainment for his charges; nor did Lilith seem the kind of person to tolerate the children’s whims for overlong, despite the number of times Aerain’d heard the blond elven boy refer to her as family. Odd, that. She started slightly as the child – Caelan, she remembered from the small-ones’ chatter – began to choke on his meal but Lilith’s response was swift, snatching the offending implement from the boy’s grip and admonishing him in their native tongue.

Aerain smoothed her ruffled feathers – mentally and physically – and reaching forwards, brushed aside her goblet, selecting a few choice cuts of meat for her plate. Someone had filled the cup with a delicate wine that was rather dry to her palate and weariness still flooded through her limbs from their bout earlier; the last thing she wanted was to find herself sluggish in the face of her current adversity.

Speaking of the man, he seemed happy to simply ignore her presence for the time being, chattering happily to his brother in elvish – of which the faery soldier knew only a few words. Deciding that he was likely talking fast enough to ensure her incomprehension, Aerain returned her attentions to her repast, currently satisfied with simply replacing the energy she’d lost. Until, that was, a name caught her attention; yes – there it was again. “Pardon me, my lord,” she spoke up in a convenient pause, placing her cutlery carefully upon her plate, gaze flickering briefly towards Altair before settling upon Lysander. What chaos would arise if it happened that the deserters she sought were part of Lysander’s close company? Duty and honour had always been held in high regard by her father – and indeed the generations before him... what would he have said if her loyalties were torn between her own people and those of the elves? She knew exactly what his words would’ve been, for he had spoken them before with all his cold indifference. No, she’d do best not to resort to her father’s habits for this confrontation.

“My lord Ӕlfher,” she repeated instead, lowering her voice, “Are you aware that the faery military is currently considering both Signum Vulnus and Foertis Deus as deserters to our cause? They have not reported in for many months and, though it has been noted by some that they may have perished in their travels, there are many who believe them still alive and simply ignorant of the travails of their race.” Seeing that the lording was about to angrily retort, Aerain held up a hand to stall him, unable to help the sharp tone to her words. “Please,” she snapped, “Allow me to finish.”

“Altair is aware of the reason why I first came to this household,” she explained – though she didn’t doubt the brothers would’ve shared their news in the short time that they’d had, “But I hope he is also aware that my loyalties have been torn two-ways by the circumstances to which I arrived. However, I give my information now to you as warning: there is at least one of the Elven Elders in Duilliúir who believes you to be the same. If you know the faeries as well as I believe you do, I would advise none of you to venture out to the elven Capital without grave need.”

If Aerain had been more akin to her mother, she would’ve blushed in her embarrassment, but instead, she returned her eyes to her meal. “I am ashamed to say I believed so too until very recently,” she admitted, though she swore to herself it would be the last and only time she’d give the mage such a display of weakness. Even those simple words left a bitter taste in her mouth, true though they were. Changing her tactics, she drew a few condiments and goblets close to her and arranged them in relation to the nearest plate of food. “From my latest estimates,” she said in a louder tone, though still keeping her voice pitched below the general noise of the diners, “while the main bulk of Raí’alssa have been set upon the elven city,” she placed three rich-coloured sauces a hand-span from each other, about two from the platter, “there are three large scouting parties enroute to the Queen’s points of interest, though I cannot hazard a guess at the number of smaller troops.”

Setting her goblet down, she indicated the position of the Ӕlfher household - pitching it at the worst-case scenario - and heard a subtle indrawn breath, though she had no idea from whom it came. Looking up, her caramel gaze locked onto Altair’s before returning to his brother’s arrogant visage. “I admit that may be a little over-exaggerated but I would rather be pessimistic and prepared than otherwise. One of the others I believe heads South towards the shifters – I would presume further reinforcements for Calydon.” Picking up the last dish and setting it down again, she shrugged wryly. “The third group I haven’t been able to place. The rumours in the villages that I passed were that the Queen was looking for something – or someone; they used a codename: ‘Firebird’. I image it would be of great value to either side of the war or she would not be so intent on finding it. A weapon, perhaps, like the humans’ at Tumulosus? I don’t know. But the fact we don’t know where they are concerns me more than their goal.”

Pushing the condiments back into their places, Aerain waited for some sort of outburst from the noble. She had pushed her luck so far – and she knew it – but this time she had felt the knowledge was worth the risk. If he believed she was shoe-stepping, let him; if he disapproved, so be it. Her patience had gone past the point where she would bow to high-born fools for the sake of honour. Her father had been right in some respects: duty did matter. But his mistake had been to ignore his duty to his family and friends – he had made that fatal error of putting his honour before those he loved. It would be one of the mistakes his daughter would not follow again in her lifetime.

((Lysander))

“Pardon me, my lord.” Lysander froze for a fraction of a second, delicately replacing his fork and touching fingers to his forehead with a repulsed sigh. “Nach mian cinniúint a chara, cad faoi na réaltaí an sí…*,” he growled, with a warning check to the wrist from Altair. “Be courteous, Lysander,” he swiftly murmured in their kingly dialect, “for she has done much to earn our respect—“

“—as you ceaselessly remind me—“

“—and,” his beloved sibling firmly impressed, “I know you will find, in time, that she embodies all of those traits which you esteem highest, my brother, and that you will regret having had such ill comportment.”

A sneer of disbelief twitched at Lysander’s lip, and he’d have responded that oh yes, of course he very greatly valued the usurpers of one’s own position in a family, but the object of their discourse chose to press her address over being ignored. Resting one hand on the fist of another and steadfastly regarding the elves panned before him rather than the woman beside him, he clenched his jaw and acceded. Out of kindness to his brother, Lysander told himself, and nothing more than that, he’d give her leave to speak.

“My lord Ælfher, are you aware that the faery military is currently considering both Signum Vulnus and Foertis Deus as deserters to our cause?” Though in person he remained stony and unmoving, his verdant eyes dusbiously moved to hers, for she had confirmed an uncertain concern. It had been a minor suspicion among the three, most strongly with Signum, but there had been a reason behind the two faeries’ last account to Arandein Melchios. Signum had even entered Occalus through the byways of thieves, when he'd gone for Anahita, but his wariness had been borderline paranoid. Barely perceptible, Lysander's slender fingers tightened so that his fine knuckles and ribbed carpal bones pressed against his silken skin. The perversity of this world had come to sicken him, and if the Arandein should prove a traitor too—a faery who in age surpassed him, and who he’d interacted with in the past century on a political level—…

“They have not reported in for many months and, though it has been noted by some that they may have perished in their travels, there are many who believe them still alive and simply ignorant of the travails of their race.” Swiftly unclenched his hands to grip the edge of the table with supernatural rapidity, Lysander’s attention targeted her full on and hot, boiling words rose in his throat. “Ignorant!” He snapped, “we wer-“ but she cut him short and Altair made an intentional show of listening raptly. It was the look of sadness in those green eyes he so loved, that stopped him and gave Aerain fair berth to continue--for it rarely ceased to pain him that Altair couldn’t learn to not feel on a deeply emotional level. In a race where the primarily killers were unbearable emotions and illness, he held his brother’s peace of mind dearly.

“Altair is aware of the reason why I first came to this household,” the faery explained, doubtless blind to her redundancy, “But I hope he is also aware that my loyalties have been torn two-ways by the circumstances to which I arrived.” Altair dipped his head lightly, a small smile tugging his mouth—not a happy smile. ” However, I give my information now to you as warning: …, I would advise none of you to venture out to the elven Capital without grave need.”

Softly—too quietly for Aerain to hear, though the tongue was foreign—Lysander whispered, “you didn’t tell me this, Altair.” He looked steadily at his brother, somewhat sadly and accusingly, whose own gaze was hard-pressed to meet his. “How could you not?” he murmured, closing his eyes briefly. There were only so many families that had men old enough to be worthy of the title, and he didn’t know if he wanted to ask Aerain what the identities of his accusers were. The oldest of the now-eleven aristocracies were Parthalán Unorian, Aralt Eald, Muiris Cynfæst, Ciardha Blodsian, and Maelán Fæderne. Each name summoned the image of an elf, so old that they had the vaguest of thin lines about their mouths, and their foreheads had slim lines from centuries of frowning; delicate crows-feet graced their ancient eyes, which reflected the weight of years almost physically.

“While the main bulk of Raí’alssa have been set upon the elven city,” Aerain said, using illustrative dishes of condiments in a manner reminiscent of Commander Night, “there are three large scouting parties enroute to the Queen’s points of interest, though I cannot hazard a guess at the number of smaller troops.” That said, she indicated the Ælfhers’ location, eliciting a hiss from Lysander ; he snatched Altair’s wrist in a vise-like, perhaps hurting, grip. They were flush stark against his family, so close that were this the military, a panic would be brewing in the high command.

Aerain was still talking, a curse on her ceaseless prating, but Lysander really couldn’t bear to exhort his focus on her any longer; his attention was wholly transfixed by the imminent danger that Altair was placing every damned soul he held dear in . How could that bastard be so infuriatingly…

“Brother,” Lysander said coldly, “you sorely understated the severity of the situation.” The other Ælfher defended himself with soft apology, saying, “Lysander, you have come from long travel just this afternoon and it seemed the wrong time to excite you, especially when I wouldn’t be the best vessel for such news—“

“And,” Lysander snarled, shooting a scathing glare at the soldier, “this rude, brash, uncouth stranger is?”

“Yes!” Altair snapped, though his volume didn’t rise, “as she knows more of the outlying factors than I do, and she has done more to prepare us for this adversity than I can, so please, little brother, do try and be little less raw yourself!” A few had noticed the restrained discord brewing between the brothers and soldier, and the Pardai chit had the air of an intervener flitting about her.

Lysander’s heart burned in an impotent rage, for he had never dared imagine that he would find himself in another such situation in his life, where he’d be powerless before the tyrant’s forces and the only choice was to cut and run. In clipped, succinct tones, he said shortly to Aerain, “Firebird isn’t a weapon or a tool, faery, she is a woman—and she was a friend of the late Dei Pardai, who you’ll likely become a personal acquaintance of after the Rau-lass meet our mages!”

And with that, he abruptly rose and swept off, with no more desire to talk or even see the people who had become the burnt corpses and decapitated bodies of his betrayed comrades.

---- ---

It’s just about summer. The thought wasn’t happy, or idle, so much as it was a note of fact: this far up north, the night-time air could get chill enough to set a light shiver up your spine but tonight, it was merely cool, refreshing. Lysander tilted his head back into a breeze, appreciating its flowing movement through his hair; then he leaned back against a stone vine-pillar with a shuddering sigh, overwrought. By all the stars, he shouldn’t have treated the matter of his family so lightly, but they were too easy to forget in the action-filled aftermath of the war and when underground, the memories had superseded reality. “Oh, fate…,” he groaned, sinking down against the cold of the rock.

His head and heart ached; he really shouldn’t have treated them so lightly. The sudden reminder of what was happening, the horror of his experiences batting down any hope of his dear, inexperienced kin succeeding—if Lysander had but thought to consider the prospect more fully beforehand, he might have managed to emotionally inoculate himself in degrees. Now…

Damn you, Altair, why the hell do you have to be so cursedly loyal to old-fashioned values! Not that he himself wasn’t, but at least Lysander could pull it off! Altair was in over his head though, and Lysander could only see, behind his closed eyes, the various ways in which disaster might play out, in which people would die. Ways in which something that had been stable and whole and there for the lord through the roar of decades would violently vanish. And what hurt was that he couldn’t be there himself to be sure that Altair, loveable fool that he was, didn’t make a grave misstep in some crucial plan. And fates! He’d dragged Darragh into this too, and Tréasa was still here rather than gone with the other parties, and Caera was being trusted to do something right! Moreover, the person running this carnival was a thrice-cursed Northern faery with more arrogance and idiocy than a drunk Foertis!

Lysander’s fingers curled claw-like into his hair, and his shoulders shook with emotion. But Lady, they were all going to die, they were all walking off of a cliff to their doom, and they didn’t even see it.


*Good fate, what under the stars does she want…

((Aerain))

“Firebird isn’t a weapon or a tool, faery,” the mage spat, clearly furious – or was that despair she was catching a glimpse of? Deciding that it was likely a combination of the two, Aerain held her tongue on a retort, instead masking her face with a layer of cool calm. “She is a woman—and she was a friend of the late Dei Pardai, who you’ll likely become a personal acquaintance of after the Rau-lass meet our mages!”

The insult stung and she could see the mixture of sadness and similar irritation in Altair’s greenish gaze, but her mind was more on the concept the noble elf had posed. A woman? She was hard-pushed not to shudder at the thought; it was one thing fighting in a war where the enemy were up-close and personal, but it was quite another to run from the Queen herself. From Lysander’s words, he knew more than he was willing to say; did he know her? Leaning to whisper a word of comfort in Anahita’s ear, Aerain folded the fine napkin upon her lap and placed it upon the table as she stood, nodding once at Lysander and his uncle (or father: she could never bloody remember the complex Ӕlfher genealogy) before taking her leave.

Surprisingly, it didn’t take long to find him. Not wanting to disturb him more than necessary – though she was already bracing herself for the veritable wave of insults he would throw at her – Aerain made sure her steps were audible enough for him to compose himself, lest she inadvertently catch him off-guard. Immediately, she could see his back tense, despite the fact that she was well enough away that his eyes were hardly visible behind his glossy locks, but he make no move to acknowledge her. Releasing a silent sigh, the Occalus soldier took a single step into the courtyard.

“Lysander,” she said softly, her tone as steady as she could make it, “Please: let me help.” Innately knowing that he was not the kind of man to accept the same comfort as Anahita, she kept her distance, settling herself against the pillar opposite him and sliding down to the floor so that she sat cross-legged. It was a relaxed position but the Gods’ knew she was feeling no such calm now. “We are not all the same, you know,” she told him gently after a moment’s pause, “Gods, man, you seem quite willing to defend your own faery companions and yet repetitively disdain my aid without even trying to understand my reasoning.” Thinking back on his earlier comments, she raised an eyebrow. “I had – and have – no wish to impose myself upon your family. My only reason for being here is to offer help, yet you decide to automatically assume a misinformed stereotype, rather than seeing the situation for what it is.”

“Yes,” Aerain said in almost exasperation as the mage tried to interrupt hotly, “I know you are quite capable of providing protection and support without me. You were one of the few mages who survived from Sorea Pardai’s battalion. I ask,” she continued, catching his gaze across the courtyard, knowing that her next words would bite, “Can Altair provide the same for his family without you? And I ask: were you in my place – seeing the things that I saw and knowing the things that I did – would you not have done the same?”

Stretching out a wing to curl the tip upon her lap, Aerain ran her fingers absently through her flight feathers. “Lysander, Trisha was dying. I had the means to heal her but even with her own words as truth, Altair would not allow it. You have worked with healers: you know what it is like for them if they want to help someone but cannot.” She lifted her head to look at him again, steeling her features into their natural impassivity. “I am a soldier, my lord, whether I like it or not,” she said coldly, “And I was trained to be one from the moment I was strong enough to lift a weapon. There have not been many chances for me to ply the healing aspect of my magic and many know only the destruction it can unleash. But that does not mean I care any less.”

Standing, Aerain ruffled her feathers back into position with a flick of her wings. “Who else was there, Lysander?” she asked quietly, “When they needed aid, who else was there but I? I made a choice, my lord. I think you need to make one too.”

After the comparatively short flight, Fiala dropped to the ground reluctantly. The stone entrance yawned in front of her, daring her to brave it’s depths. Upon release, Hylas shifted into a larger form. She reached down and heaved upward, unable to help a few curses in several languages. The boy settled upon her shoulder, curling up around her neck. His fur was soft and warm, and she resisted the urge to pet him.

Approaching the guards at the mouth of the cave, she muttered the password. One of the men nodded to Hylas. “Who’s that?” Fiala shrugged.

“Another shifter. My partner is on his way with his...companions.” Nodding, the two men stepped back, allowing Fiala to enter. On an afterthought, Fiala turned back. Where’s Lord Kariff? I need to speak with him.”

“He’s busy,” one replied. “Last I heard, he and the Lady were going over supplies.”

“Mmm...thanks anyways.” Fiala turned and headed down into the darkness. By the time they came upon the first torch, her heart was racing. She hoped Hylas couldn’t hear it. Unable to help a quick glance up at the ceiling, she muttered a quick prayer that the ceilings wouldn’t fall in one of the more obscure languages she’d picked up over the course of her childhood. Living among the constantly changing crowds of a large market city had helped her learn several different languages, most of which she could speak communicate in, although a bit clumsily. It was a trait the rebellion coveted.

As she wound her way through the passages, she made her way to the room where most rebellion members ate. As she had hoped, several people still sat at the rough-hewn tables. Approaching one of the members she knew from training, she slid onto the bench. Taking in her slightly flushed face, he remarked calmly, “Still afraid, then?”

“I’m not afraid!” She snapped. “I just...don’t like it.” At his grin, she clenched her trembling fingers into a tighter fist. “And don’t get to cocky. I can still beat you in unarmed combat. Anyway, where’s...oh, I don’t know. Darrack and I found...met...this boy and his...companions on patrol. Do you think I can just find an empty room for him? I want to get out of here as fast as I can.”

“Not so fast,” he grinned. “If you had an incident, you’ll need to report it.” She groaned.

“Can’t Darrack do it when he gets back? I’m not sure I got all the details. I was in the sky for quite a bit of it.” The other shifter nodded thoughtfully.

“I suppose...an exception could be made, although I don’t think you can just stick the boy in a room. I believe you’d need permission from Lord or Lady Kariff.” When Fiala pulled a face, the other swept his brown hair out of his face and smiled. Looking down at the martin curled around Fiala’s neck, he smiled, his eyes crinkling up around the corners.

“Hello little shifter,” he said. “Care to introduce yourself? I am Eadmar, a corvidae shifter, which means I can shift into different birds, much like Fiala here. Unfortunately, my forms can’t fight as well as Fiala’s, nor fly quite so far, which is why I’m kept cooped up here, doing guard duty. However, I’m luckier than she, because I don’t have the claustrophobia that so many avian shifters do.” He said the last with a grin at her, and she muttered a few choice insults at him.

“That's it! You, me, practice field, now! Well, after Hylas introduces himself," she said, with a glance at the martin staring up at her. Reaching towards him, she gently set him down on the bench next to her, feeling a momentary pang at the loss of the silky warmth next to her skin.

((Lysander))

Cold comfort from the stones did little to assuage the elf’s barrage of feelings—and it was almost frightening how strong they were. Lysander wasn’t an introspective man, nor the sort who considered the baggage of grief to be much use, and so the sheer intensity of this… this agony, was such that his immortal soul even quailed before the raging storm.

Get a hold of yourself, you effeminate lordling. Lysander was curled against the pillar as of one kneeling before a mighty presence, though his head was pushing bull-like against the rock, and one hand pressed a fist into the tiled ground. Right yourself, face it and control it—what behavior is this! His eyes were clenched shut, for he didn’t know if he was on the verge of tears or not—he had tried so hard over the course of years to tamp down the deadly weight of turbulent, all-consuming feelings that once he was finally caught in them, he was at a total loss for dealing with it. Stars above, let them live…

But all it took for Lysander to regain self-possession was the sound of approaching footsteps. It was the threat of being seen by someone other than Altair that automatically straightened his shoulders and bade he rise, glaring ahead. More than that: the distinctive sound of uneven weight distribution to the heel, the faintest shush of feathers, and the measured stride—echoing the eight-fifths rhythm of the Arandein’s get—indicated that this was one specifically distasteful individual.

“For the love of your damned gods,” Lysander hissed in an Elvish so soft he doubted Aerain heard, “why the hell can you not leave me alone.” Tossing his head back, the proud stallion to her mulish self, he turned loftily to face her. But for the stiffness of his bearing, he was composed—he was, after all, one of many politicians.

“Lysander,” she said, his high name sullied in her mouth, “Please: let me help.” With an exquisite sneer, he scoffed, “a laughable notion at best; I am the second highest lord of this house in title, the highest in action, likely older than your parents, and clearly in want of solitude. Have you no conception of privacy?” Staring at a leaf silhouetted by the star-flecked sky, whose tip bobbed and waved in the occasional wind, he pondered what aspect of the female he loathed the most. Her comportment was certainly one thing, her air of supercilious self-absorption another. And the way she cheekily assimilated herself into the family, took his position beside his brother and made her right-hand woman the family’s primary imp and troublemaker, well, that spoke for itself. It was a point that couldn’t be stressed enough. And the way she meddled, constantly, unnervingly, persistently…

“We are not all the same, you know,” she murmured, to which he snapped, “I know it, believe you me! Signum should hardly presume to ever act like such a perfect young upstart!”

“Gods, man, you seem quite willing to defend your own faery companions and yet repetitively disdain my aid without even trying to understand my reasoning,”She spoke in the same trying manner. Really, while they were on the topic of Vulnus—that man ought to be the only person allowed to speak to Lysander’s noble self in such a condescendingly gentle voice, such as suited a spooked horse. Really! And Vulnus’s exception to the rule was only due to the fact that gentility and womanish mannerisms were his default, a state he was permanently glued in.

“I had – and have – no wish to impose myself upon your family. My only reason for being here is to offer help, yet you decide to automatically assume a misinformed stereotype, rather than seeing the situation for what it is.”

Lysander saw red. “You doubt my--!”

“Yes,” the chit interrupted, and that in and of itself was as maddening as alcohol to flames. “I know you are quite capable of providing protection and support without me. You were one of the few mages who survived from Sorea Pardai’s battalion.”

No, not Sorea Pardai, but Lieanna Night; how dare she associate him with that small, steel-hearted presence! His command had at least a compassion to feel for those who were not her men, and the kindness to love her people openly; and curses above all else, Sorea Pardai was in part responsible for the straits he and his associates now faced.

“I ask: can Altair provide the same for his family without you? And I ask: were you in my place – seeing the things that I saw and knowing the things that I did – would you not have done the same?”

“Were I in your place,” he spat, “I should think foremost to kill myself, finding the loathsome mind I’m saddled with to be an unbearable burden. But were I in your position, I should wrest all command over warrish affairs from my brother, whose meekness you underestimate to your peril.” A tongue of flame snapped its luminous jaws from the elf’s fingertips, to his contrition; even the smallest semblance of wild power was undesired by one whose mentor emphasized total poise. “Of course he leans on you,” Lysander snarled, “because he cannot rely on himself.”

“Do you know what will happen-,” he hissed, facing her with venomous fervor, “-when he finally enters a field of battle and has the means and the cause to kill? He will find himself useless, woman, because it so contradicts his nature to run through even the most vile, foreign enemy! Naturally he welcomes you!”

“Lysander,” Aerain replied, running her fingers through her feathers. Fate, would she stop saying his name? “ Trisha was dying. I had the means to heal her but even with her own words as truth, Altair would not allow it. You have worked with healers: you know what it is like for them if they want to help someone but cannot.” Lysander knew what it was like for Foertis to watch himself failing. He had seen Signum actually moved to self-inflicted violence when he was incapable of healing the Anathae fully, and how the slow pace of progress—but the blonde had been disfigured beyond recognition, a fact which Signum would overlook in favor of self-hate—had occasionally even reduced the soft faery to tears. But he could only imagine how it would be to see his beautiful, ethereal little Tréasa twisting in her body’s pain, her fair brow shining with a sweat that darkened her bright hair and plastered it against her face.

The reality of the image simply added to its haunting nature. And back then, it had pained Lysander to see her so helpless, though he had been comforted in knowing that she was on the mend. That had preceded his entry into the military and he naturally assumed that Tréasa’s semblance of growing health was a continuation of that mending. In other words, when his little love had told him just a few hours ago that she’d been fit and happy… well, the truth-mage had lied to him. Now he could understand how Aerain had entered the tight weave of the Ælfher home, now that a missing portion of the account from both Altair and his promised had been filled in. Tréasa, he thought, not harshly but somewhat hurt, why couldn’t you tell me? Did you not want to worry me? Did you think yourself insignificant, or that you’d matter so little to me that you had to trust a stranger?

That thought was what broke his defenses.

Standing, the faery spoke a few last words—and he doubted that she realized their pain. “Who else was there, Lysander?” she asked quietly, “When they needed aid, who else was there but I? I made a choice, my lord. I think you need to make one too.”


Lysander looked at her levelly, his looks no less cool or proud for all his inner strife. In Common—accented only by the riverine flow of the words and light pronunciation of the harsher consonants—the elf-lord murmured, “Dian Aerain, it is folly to have you take my place beside Altair, for you face the Rau-lass too confidently and stand in a place that since birth has been mine.” Bowing his head only slightly, he spoke still low, but harder now, “You do not know the full breadth of what can happen, if you’re so sure. I have seen death tail me and my comrades, and I have seen the strongest of men fall in suicidal last-stands. Moreover,” he hissed, “I have seen the man you call Altus with his head bowed to his knees, wings limp about his undefended body as he screamed in pain for his dead commander, grey eyes as hollow as a corpse’s. He will not utter her name for ache of love, Aerain, and he will not act without the memory of her flaying him onwards to act in her stead. Signum is too strong to kill himself, faery, but he is too weak to let go.”

“And,” Lysander murmured, walking over to the woman until the gap between them could fit no more than two people, “I doubt you have ever seen Foertis Deus though if you have, it may underline my point. He was captured by the Rau-lass, only three months ago now, I think, and he was a comely man before then.” Raising his brow haughtily, the elf added, “mark that I do not oft find beauty in men, or seek it, but he was a handsomely crafted creature, and he carried himself well both socially and professionally, having been trained in his arts by elves.” Ordinarily, such words would have hardly been reserved for the vexatious Foertis, but in this instance, Lysander found that his lingering dislike for Aerain made the latter seem a less bitter pill.

Folding his hands into the sleeves of his robes, Lysander murmured, “However, when he was pulled from torture… from the sight of him, a charred-black infant might have been a prettier picture.” Lip curling a touch, the elf stated, “His scars cannot be healed to completion, either in mind or body. Foertis’s company was almost enjoyable before he was hosted by the Rau-lass, for the little man was ever a crowd-pleaser, and now speaking to him is about as likeable as walking on broken glass; you can just barely guess at what will set him off and what won’t. Things that he’d accepted long ago are now as sensitive as hot coals.”

“Aerain Luelia, these two men began their mission with sane minds. Now one of them is mired in an unending sadness he won’t control. The other has fallen from the perch his ambition ever climbed closer to.” Lysander sighed and turned away, walking to his original position, near the lip of a path. Standing poised, he regarded her over his shoulder. “Faery, I have not lost anything so personal to the Rau-lass yet and while I trust my strength to exceed that of my incredibly young and inexperienced companions, I bear no desire to be put to the test. I leave my family in your hands because I have no other choice—but believe me woman, it is an enormous task you have taken on. If they are hurt due to it… I will hold you responsible. You are dismissed.”

With those words, Lysander turned and departed, heading to the only place where he felt he could receive a measure of solace and not be disturbed: in the pasture, beside warm-hearted Brónach.

((Adeyemi))

"Alright... that doesn't sound too bad. I get help for three days. I get food, shelter and arms... why do I need arms for?” With a puzzled look, Adeyemi’s lips parted to as what he meant, seeing as the threats of the desert were obvious (as she did so, she also wondered if he was perhaps one of those foolish pacifists who died off so quickly), but her strange, strange mjinga hadn’t stopped talking—his words were, unfortunately, all too clarifying.

” I mean... wouldn't that hurt to rip off people's arms just to give to me? And wouldn't that be kinda counter productive because I'll have bunch of arms but I won't be able to use them? And lots of people would lose arms just because?"

Adeyemi blinked. Clan Skorpios is legitimately considering this person as a candidate for archigos?! No wonder they’ve got so many troubles with foreigners, they’re probably forced to trade with humans for subsistence! Of course, she recalled contritely, with a blush that would hardly show on her smooth ebony skin, the last archigos had been a truly admirable character, from the gossip of her older cousins and relatives…

Kyros stared at Adeyemi, and when she realized where his coffee gaze was directed, she started with a glare. Innocently, he asked (with a pointing finger for illustration),"Doesn't that mean that you're a girl?"

“You leave me speechless!” The girl snapped, a hand reflexively flying up to slap him—though it didn’t land. “By the ancestors, what—why—how can you even possibly justify that comment, mjinga?! What is wrong with me being female!” Glowering, she crossed her arms resolutely and muttered, “you want to know why I don’t trust you, it’s things like that.”

She sighed and squinted at the sun, arms still crossed while her wings fanned around her form in a jade screen. Darkly, she grumbled, “you, mjinga, are going to give me a very long, very difficult day.” But I hope by Odjani that his naivety isn’t just a false cover. Danuwa protect me if it is.

((Kyros))

As Adeyemi tried to slap him, Kyros took a step back. Feeling slightly confused as to why she was acting up like this, he tried to explain his point of view. "No, it's just that... didn't you say that you're a man of rank before? But if you're a girl, how can you be a man?"

Then suddenly, his eyes widened in realization. "Don't tell me Tribe Onaeda figured out the secret to switching genders!"

"You, mjinga, are going to give me a very long, very difficult day," she grumbled to him.

"Aw, cheer up!" Kyros said brightly with open arms. "You're thinking about it too much! What's the worst that can happen with the two of us together?"

He patted his stomach happily. "Anyways, let's go somewhere to get a bite to eat. I'm feeling hungry!"

((Shifter Guards))

As he watched the small black shape hurtling towards them, Kim began to regret his previous complaints about boredom and his skin rippled as he unconsciously prepared himself to shift. The creature was obviously a shifter (no animal would bother to carry the myriad of items that came tumbling from his back) but he had no idea of its intentions. Even if they were good, the speed at which he raced towards the two guards suggested someone – or something – could be chasing him. Beside him, the huge rock that was Bellus grunted – a snort that was very much akin to his Rhinocerotidae form – and nudged his Felidae companion. “Don’t see no enemy; d’you think we should stop it?”

Shooting him an irritated look and fighting not to roll his eyes, Kim snapped sarcastically, “No, I think we should throw it flowers and invite it in for tea,” but even then the hulking man paused with a frown, confusion writing lines across his broad brow. He did wonder sometimes whether Bellus was simply a rhino who could turn human; his small intelligence certainly suggested such. Still, he was as loyal and steadfast as any of them, and Kim couldn’t help but feel a small amount of affection for the big brute. “Just block the gates, Babban mutum ne*,” he sighed genially, slapping the man on the shoulder, “I’ll see him off.”

Taking a simple step forwards, ebony-skinned Kimbera shifted into his most impressive form: a great shaggy-haired male lion with a large chunk torn out of his ear. Though Kim was a vain man and liked to keep his injury covered as much as possible, he did note that it had some uses – such as threatening strangers or enemies. Opening his great maw, he gave an almighty roar, rattling the gates on its hinges and causing the small ape-like figure to stop. Or stumble, at least, Kim sniggered quietly to himself, as the black bundle ended up unceremoniously between his huge forepaws. Swiftly – before the shifter could move from his position – the feline pinned him down firmly with a huge pad, shaking his shaggy head.

Communicating as best he could with twitching whiskers and flicking tail, Kim suggested that the small monkey lay still or the rhino behind him would see that he didn’t move at all. Carefully releasing him, Kim indicated for Bellus to join them, before shifting once more to human form and casting a quick gaze into the woods to check for further enemies. A trail of items littered the forest floor from the tree that the stranger had first appeared and the felidae shifter looked down at the monkey-boy with raised eyebrow, smothering a grin. “You seem to have been chased by phantoms, Kirkan-yaro**,” he told him, “And in your haste have discarded your inventory for the crows. As much as I like a good laugh, Bellus there is much less tolerant and is like to squash you just to stop your bawling. So, state your name and business, or I will discard you with the rest of your possessions.”

*Babban mutum ne = Big man
**Kirkan-yaro = Monkey-boy

((Niall))

Nostrils flared, the wayward elf-lord breathed deeply of nighttime’s rich intoxications, though never once did it serve as anything other than a footnote to his intent: seeking out his uncle. Actually, Niall didn’t know for certain that Lysander fell strictly as his uncle; the proximity of their relationship was a dusty memory that happened to include something of an uncle-esque tie, so he used the term and hadn’t been corrected on it yet.

A slender bough—just a twig, on checking— tugged its stout, night-blacked leaves against his loose tunic, leaflet blades prodding his stomach. Lysander, Niall knew from Diarmuid, was in the equine pasture with his new horse. He recalled seeing Aerain draped on a mahogany mare that morning, and he knew from Dia that the mare smelled sweetly of myrtle and sundry other details which were meaningless to an elf.

The sound of horses brushed upon his senses before the vision or scent of them. A ghostly, moon-pale form glowed dimly in the twilight, moving leisurely through the trees: Arawn, Nieander’s courser. The white head bobbed up, silhouette showing flared nostrils as the horse scented out the intruder, but once a sweep of his regal head had let the bright-haired noble fall into his sight, he was quick to ignore the man. With a snort, Arawn shook his mane and jogged off with a roan companion, necks long to the ground.

Laughing to himself over how like Nieander the large grey was, Niall loped out of the brush and into a meadow dotted with clumps of equines, their sleek bodies like windblown seeds strewn about the dim verdance of the field. There they are. Two dots, one tall and the other long, beckoned in the Cimmerian shade.

Fleetly he ran up to the willowy form of his elder, slowing stride to a walk just yards away as Brónach jerked back, ears pinned flat to her skull in surprise. Lord Lysander himself paused, hand raised where he’d been smoothing her neck and mane. Almost reflexively a disdainful brow shot up and his eyelids lowered in heavy condescension, rank worn like a cloak on his masterful shoulders—internally, Niall brindled at himself. These lords of state often didn’t realize how animal-like their system was, and in an echo of an upstart pup, Niall had breached a hidden wall by interrupting his uncle. I could have managed a better approach, he reflected, but he made amends: a quick bow of his head and murmured words, a brief wait for his uncle to kiss his nephew’s forehead, a return by brushing his lips on that smooth, taper-fingered hand, and things were righted. Rolled over quite quickly before the greater power of tradition’s courtesy, didn’t I, Niall mused sardonically.

“Mo nia, what brings you here?” Lysander sighed. His forest-filled eyes weren’t here, they weren’t even in his thoughts. To Niall, the elf’s eyes seemed to be flying into the near and far future, and thinking, thinking, thinking. Over-analyzing things, mulling and worrying over that which rubbed against the grain of the norm—he looked as ponderous as Altair tonight.

“Altair,” Niall replied, “for he warned that I would be approached by you, for Diarmuid’s abilities.” In the gap of silence following these soft-spoken words, a sibilant breeze snaked through the grass and Brónach shook her muscled neck, nosing a step forwards with her nostrils to the wind. Lysander himself stared against the breeze for a moment, expressionless and old. Perhaps he wondered if Altair listened.

With leaden lips, the elf spoke. “We have need of more mages and more adults capable of defense,” Lysander explained. “With just Lilith and I… it’s impossible. We have to go out as a pair, if ever she needs to leave the group, for it would be disaster for our guide to fall into mischance. Yet by that very necessity, we open the children to calamity. The Pardai girl—the faery—is disappointingly weak. She cannot be trusted with her own life, but with herself and her co-dependents? Mo nia…”

“I see.” Niall tried catching Lysander’s eye, or his expression, for he was isolated right now and needed to know how to respond to his elder. But no: the man’s regard was for the dusky field and luminously dark sky. Niall took a breath, hands alternately clenching and loosening. Fates, but this was maddening; he had three roads before him, and though the path which Altair had taken was clear, it was equally disagreeable and frustrating. Yet there was no determinate course bar that which he was most loathe to take. Should he stay with his own urges and be guided by that predated instinct which bid he fly with Dia, to see to their own safety in solitude? Or would it be the better recourse to join Lysander’s group as a loosely connected third element? Mist fogged his judgment: the future was difficult to predict.

Niall’s heart beat staccato in his chest, for he remembered Altair’s words to him—but they seemed to come through the veil of ages!—that he never forget, herein were those who loved him. Within this family were those who’d reared him, taught him speech and literacy, how to manipulate numbers and argue a point. Then there were those who tried so hard to see him as he was and go beyond gentle teachings, by obtaining a master archer to teach him how to shoot, and letting him learn skinning and tanning from a hunter of the Unorian province.

Herein were those who loved him, whether they understood his reserved nature or not. Those who made themselves his staunchest friends, in blood and action, would be staying behind. Caera was spearheading this movement with Altair, and though Niall’s heart rebelled against it, his head knew they would both die. Trisha had sworn she’d flee, but the last group had gone and the lady remained, Faedra at her side.

In truth, there were few among the Ælfhers—his own kith and kin, Niall had to remind himself—that he would willingly die for. Nonetheless, he would gladly impale himself on a spearhead for Caera, who had been for him when he’d not bothered to stand for himself, should an inevitable occasion arise. For Trisha, for Altair… for them, he did not know. For Fionnavar, his own sister? A creature who barely entered his thoughts? No, for his sister, and for the rest of his family, Niall was not willing to part with his life, low though he was. Fionnavar had given him one gift, though, and for that gift he’d fight like a rabid bear even if the battle was futile, if only because he knew that the fight should afford that gift a few more moments to live. For Diarmuid, Niall would face any degree of pain and torture; likewise would he seek to alleviate and avoid it.

Throat dry, Niall licked his lips and could not speak his assent. Mutely he nodded, and felt that in finally abandoning his family, he had just watched the last man fall.

((Lilith))

A prickling sensation ran up and down Lilith’s spine, only causing her to tense up even further. Every time she forcibly managed to relax a bit, an unknown elf would curiously glace at her, which would result in the re-stiffening of her muscles. Moron, she berated herself, trying once more to relax. Anyone would be curious about a stranger. Even more so if they’ve grown up in a homogenized family and a freakishly white person were plopped in their midst. Willing herself to relax (and, to a large degree, failing) she glanced around underneath her long eyelashes, trying to determine approximately how long it would be before she could leave. Most of the other elves didn’t look like they would be finishing soon, much to her growing dismay.

Lilith gripped the seat of her chair, and tried to get her breathing back to normal. The Moron got up and left, the faery Anahita had “recognized” following soon after. Lilith grit her teeth. It wasn’t fair that It could leave and she couldn’t. After all, she didn’t know anyone here and none of them would ever have any further impact on her life. Feeling very much like a cat amongst dogs, Lilith tried to look as if she didn’t have a care in the world.

At that precise moment, she saw the elf sitting next to her lean forwards, as if he would say something. The albino flinched away, suddenly grateful that another elf had diverted his attention for a moment. Taking that as a blessing, Lilith bolted.

Slithering out of her chair, she vanished through the doors, grateful that she had been seated in relative proximity to them. Her weary legs, still worn-out from their traveling, carried her up the stairs in what could, at best, be called a slow trot. Unable to take the stairs more than one at a time, she simply hoped that no one would come looking for her. Before she had reached the top, she was convinced she could have been quite happy laying down where she was and sleeping. But adrenaline pushed her forwards, and in the back of her head a voice screamed at her to get as far away as possible before someone tried to make her go back.

Staggering into her room, she was just barely able to make it to her nest, where she promptly collapsed. Before sleep completely overtook her, Lilith vaguely recognized that she should probably check the rooms to make sure that all was as she had left it. She wouldn’t put sabotoge beneath the Idiot. Even though, she thought, her eyes closing and her muscles completely relaxing for the first time that evening, I am their guide...

***************

A scream pierced the air, and another, as her arm reached out, just barely caressing the tan children in front of her, threads of solid darkness mockingly repeating that caress, burning, eating away at everything it touched. A figure sprinted by, trying to flee. She easily caught it and watched it burning away within her embrace.

The shadows vanished then, as if destroying the curly-haired child had taken the last bit of their energy. With the disappearance of the shadows, the small clearing shifted as well. The forest was gone, replaced by a snow-covered plain. Blood was everywhere, over her white dress, in her hair, in her hands, spurting from the children, the lifeblood turning the snow a dark crimson.

“Lilith,” a horrified, furious voice demanded, “what have you done? Whirling around, she confronted the repulsed, incensed gaze of the mage. Even he was dressed in red, matching the landscape around them. Confused, she looked down at her master’s dagger, dripping the scarlet liquid. She dropped it, her hands flying to her mouth. “I didn’t—” she began, halting as a salty taste filled her mouth. “Yes you did,” a grey-eyed child accused, clinging at her skirts, covered in boils and burnt flesh, eyes glassy and blank.

***************


With a gasp, Lilith sat up, panting heavily. Raising shaking hands to her face, she confirmed that it had all been just a dream. Detangling herself from her blanket, she walked to the bathroom on unsteady legs. Sitting down on the floor, she stared for a long moment at the dark shapes only vaguely outlined by the faint light coming from the window. She willed the images in her head to go away, tried to point out that she hadn’t killed them.

As if in response, an image flicked by, of the three of them standing in the old horse-barn, just as the mage rebuked Caelen for “losing” some of his money. She suddenly felt dizzy. If I hadn’t been messing around with him, they might still be alive. For a long moment, she couldn’t breathe. The children had been in her care. She had been responsible for them. She had delayed their return. She hadn’t made it back on time. The children were dead. Because of her.

Her fist hit the floor, which scraped the skin off of her knuckles. Numbly, she stared at it, wishing she could be beaten and stabbed and hit until she could be forgiven. In the back of her mind, a memory stirred. The Devkto’ans had a way of dealing with this...

Stumbling back into the bedroom, Lilith groped around for a candle. Finding one, she lit it and located her knife. Taking a deep breath, she scrounged around in her memory for everything she would need. After a few moments, she refocused on the room around her. Sitting cross legged on the floor, she took off her shirt and pulled the candle closer to herself. Starting with the back of her left hand, she began to carve intricate designs into her skin.

All her failures began to take form: her failure to keep Parrinexis alive, her failure to avenge Kalila, her failure to her master, her failure to save thirteen lives given to her care, her failure as an assassin in general, and her failure as an Indracræs in specific. Eighteen separate designs, starting at her left hand and working their way up her arm, skipping over her shoulders and then continuing down her right. Eighteen pictures, all with their own story to tell, if one could read them. Eighteen. The number of failures a Devkto’an could have before he was condemned forever.

Taking a deep breath, Lilith looked at her bloody arms. She hadn’t cut that deeply, but there was still a fair amount of blood on them. With a small sigh, she went and grabbed her dirty shirt and mopped up the drops that were on the floor, simply hoping that there wouldn’t be enough poison remaining to actually kill anyone. Generally the Devkto’ans tattooed their failures onto their arms, and added to them as the failures had been repaid, usually by killing. With her magic as it was, though, the inks would only remain for awhile before it decided that the coloring was harmful and “neutralized” it. This would serve its purpose, though.

Suddenly feeling calmer, Lilith rose and washed her dirty clothes. She wasn’t anywhere close to atoning for the children’s deaths, but she had taken the first step by clearly marking her intentions. Hanging the wet cloth to dry, she once again hoped that the poisons in the water would be too diluted to do anyone any harm. Rubbing her hands across her face, she looked around her room and spied the book she had carried with her. Sitting down on the floor, she finished it.

Examining her freshly-made cuts, she decided to give the rapidly-forming scabs a few more minutes to form before donning a new set of clothing. Eyeing a brush in front of the sheet-covered mirror, she began to tackle her snowy hair. This took a good amount of time, for she hadn’t properly brushed it in awhile, and had simply run her fingers through it every now and again.

Tying her hair back and pulling out another set of clothes (all black, but again festooned with embroidery), Lilith blew out the candle and allowed her eyes to adjust to the darkness. When they had, she slipped over to the doorway, book in hand, and listened at it for a moment. Hearing nothing, she ghosted into the hallway, pleased that the hinges were well-oiled and didn’t squeak. Noiselessly, Lilith began to ghost towards the library, avoiding the torches that lit the walkways. Arriving at the building she sought, she prowled around for a time, attempting to determine if anyone was in there and near an enterance. It wasn’t long after midnight, though, and she didn’t encounter anyone.

Hesitatingly, Lilith eyed one of the doorways. She wouldn’t put it past a mage family to have magicked their library. Given the state she was in, she wouldn’t be able to detect it. Then again, she mused, I probably wouldn’t be able to sense anything even if I did have all of my magic... With a mental shrug, she reached for the handle. If it wouldn’t let her in, there was nothing she could do about it. And if she set something off, she could just plead ignorance, and hope that the mages would let her get away with it. She twisted the handle, mentally cringing, expecting an alarm to go off as she opened the door.

Silence greeted her, as well as the beloved smell of velum and ink. Shrugging off the seeming lack of an alarm, Lilith navigated her way to the bookshelf she had been at this morning, once more climbing up the shelf. Returning the book she had borrowed, she took a couple more and made her way to the ground again. Settling herself much where she had yesterday afternoon, she opened the second book and began to read by the faint light of the shielded lantern that just barely reached her.

((Hylas))

Hylas dreamt of his parents for the first time in months. Nana had provided one of her famous lunches – cold meats and cheeses, as well as her usual sprinkling of vegetables in the hope to tempt her more carnivorous daughter and her family to eat more non-animal-based nutrition – and they had left their county home to visit the sunlit coast. Hylas had got tired and he had ridden on Da’s back for most of the way, but when Ma had found a nest of some ground-fowl – full of big juicy white eggs – they had stopped to feast on the treat. Though he didn’t understand at the time, he liked the way his parents had left three pearly balls intact: no mummy would want to come back and find her babies all gone. Ma had said something about ‘leaving them for the Lady’ but Hylas just liked how pretty they looked in the brown scrub: like three little moons.

The scene had faded as they began to scramble down the stony cliff path to the blue expanse of the sea and Hylas found himself blinking away the brightly-lit lights of a large room, his nose filling with the smells of bread and cheese. Then he remembered the trek through the temple and their fight with the shifters – and then the happy thought that everyone was wrong and they didn’t actually have to fight anymore. Fiala – at least he thought that was her name – was talking to a brown-haired man sat next to her; after feeling nervous for a few minutes (he couldn’t understand a word of what they were saying and the shifter girl’s shoulders felt very stiff), Hylas relaxed a little, for the man at least had a friendly smile.

Suddenly, he leaned towards him slightly, gaze fixing on the small brown martin’s. “Hello little shifter,” the man said kindly in a language Hylas could understand, his friendly eyes going all wrinkly as he smiled. “Care to introduce yourself? I am Eadmar, a corvidae shifter, which means I can shift into different birds, much like Fiala here. Unfortunately, my forms can’t fight as well as Fiala’s, nor fly quite so far, which is why I’m kept cooped up here, doing guard duty. However, I’m luckier than she, because I don’t have the claustrophobia that so many avian shifters do.”

Claws-tro-fobeer? Hylas tilted his small head to look up at Fiala questioningly. Did his new friend have some kind of illness? She did look rather pink, though he thought that maybe she was embarrassed by the shifter Eadmar’s words. When I find out what it is, he mused to himself, I’ll tell her that I don’t mind so she doesn’t have to be so embarrassed any more... The girl’s hands wrapped around his middle, hoisting him from his warm perch and onto the cold, hard wood of the bench. He almost grumbled and then remembered that the man had asked him a question. Nana had told him he must always use his manners and Granda liked people to ‘speak when spoken to’, so the boy shifted into his human form, swinging his legs under the table as he did so.

“I’m Hylas, Mister Eadmar,” he said, holding out a slightly tanned hand to shake (”Nice firm handshake, son, he heard his Granda say), “Pleased to meet you. I’m a mustil... musta...” he frowned slightly, trying to remember his mother’s words, “-weasel shifter,” he finished decisively with a grin. “Me Ma was one too and me Granda but Da was a Cani- Canidae shifter.” Hylas’ chest swelled with pride at remembering. “He liked to be a fox, though, most of the time. What’s Claw-stro-fobeer? Is it like Acro-fo beer? My Nana once said she had it and my Da said that was ‘cause rabbits spent all their time on the ground. Nana liked to be a hare mostly but they’re nearly the same as rabbits so I guess it’s something to do with being high up. Nana didn’t like me climbing too much.”

Turning to Fiala, he frowned slightly in confusion. “Why do you want to fight him if he can’t fight good? It seems silly if you’re on the same team; like when we found out you weren’t gonna kill us, we all stopped fighting.” A sudden thought hit him and he stood up swiftly, looking around with large dark eyes at all the people. “Where’s Selan and Tarn?” he asked, searching for their familiar faces, “They should be here now, shouldn’t they? They must be hungry too...” Hylas paused, looking down at his belly as it grumbled on cue, as though suddenly realising his own words. “I’m hungry,” he stated matter-of-factly and turned to Fiala again, “Can I have some food, please?”

Just as the shifter finished responding, Hylas caught a flash of blue in the corner of his eye, and spun excitedly to see Selan thanking a guard at the entrance of the hall. “Selan!” he shrieked in glee, shifting into a weasel to gallop over to her, changing back into a boy at the last minute so that he could wrap his arms around her waist with a grin. “Oh, I’m glad you’re ok. I thought you would be – everyone’s so nice here – and it’s so cool, ‘cause they’re getting me some food too. I’m starving.” Grabbing her hand, he tugged her towards the table where Fiala and Eadmar were sat, and beamed happily at his two new shifter friends. “Hey guys: this is Selan. She’s me new Ma. She’s not really me Ma but she and Tarn are looking after me – though I look after them too – and we’re a family now, so that means she must be me Ma. She’s nice though: you’ll like her. Selan-” he squeezed her hand excitedly, "this is Mister Eadmar. He’s a bird shifter too – like Fiala (you know Fiala - she's nice) – but he’s a guard ‘cause he can’t fight so well. I don’t mind: he’s nice too.”

Hylas giggled self-consciously and shrugged. He was so happy! “I guess that makes everyone nice here.”

((Selan))

The guards Selan had asked for directions were not too sure about the location of Hylas or Tarn, so, a bit disappointedly, she thanked them and turned around. Selan was wearing the indoor clothes she had been given by the shifters. Probably her own dress would be ready soon and she would be clean and ready and she would be able to have her usual look. She she looked very different than she usually did. Her hair was let loose and the clothes were different to what she usually wore, but her hair color was probably easy to spot from the distance.

And probably it was that, which allowed Hylas to see her from afar. Selan turned around, surprised at a loud voice shouting her name. Of course, it was little Hylas, who had seen her and had excitedly started to run towards her. Changing into a weasel, the young shifter trotted to Selan and changed back into his human form at the last moment so he could wrap his arms around her waist. She smiled as she hugged him softly as well, and stroked his hair, which made the child giggle happily.

Hyles spoke fast, being very excited, his grin was radiant, he was tired, but so happy, nonetheless. Oh, I’m glad you’re ok. I thought you would be – everyone’s so nice here – and it’s so cool, ‘cause they’re getting me some food too. I’m starving. "Hylas, little Hylas! I am also glad to see you are alright! I wanted to trust the shifters, but of course we do not know them that much yet... so I wouldn't be calm until I saw you here... so it's great we meet again, at last!!" She kept Hylas close to her for a short while, until he grabbed her hand and ran back towards the table where two people were sitting. One of them was Fiala, whom Selan knew already. They had met back at the woods, of course.

Selan blushed upon hearing Hylas proudly declaring her as his new Ma. "Well, I'm... err... not a proper one, though... you know, to be a real mother you would have to..." she decided to cut her sentence, shaking her head softly. She held Hylas' hand very tight as he explained how Tarn and herself took care of him, while of course he valiantly took care of them, as well! Selan kneeled down for a moment and faced the shifter, looking directly into his eyes. "There is no obligation for me to be Ma, Hylas. You are the one who has to decide over it." Selan was happy that Hylas thought this way about her, but she wanted him to decide by himself. He was in a shifter place now, so it was up to him, to decide whether he wanted to keep her as his family or not.

She then felt how Hylas squeezed her hand as he introduced her to the shifters. Eadmar, another corvidae shifter, who apparently was charged with the duty of guarding because he didn't excel at combat. Of course, though, Selan thought, excelling at combat was not all it mattered when it came to this. What mattered most in these times of unrest was what each and every of them had in their heart. She smiled to herself, thinking how cool that would look, if she said it out loud in the right moment. She decided she'd try to remember that sentence and say it, some day.

Selan offered her hand to Eadmar, and spoke softly. "Mister Eadmar, pleased to meet you. I am Selan Ilyea, and I am a human who is staying here for... well, various reasons. She turned to Hylas, who was stating that everyone was nice there. "And who's the nicest of the whole lot, hm?" Selan faked looking around, and finally looked back at Hylas. "You are!!" She kissed his forehead, and smiled softly. "You really can't imagine how glad I am that we are finally somewhere safe, together."

Selan then remembered something. Even if they had been attacked by the shifters, it had been them who had taken care of everything, and so she had to thank them properly. "Fiala. Thank you for taking care of Hylas. He spoke very nice words about you, which means he trusts you. And if he trusts you is because you do deserve all the trust in the world." She offered her hand to the shifter. "I hope we can be good friends in the future."

Suddenly, Selan thought of something, and smirked. "Fiala, I am sorry to do this right away, but I would like to ask you a favor...". She hadn't done that for so much time, and so she felt now it was a perfect time to do that. Maybe she would even ask Hylas to watch, too. Probably he would enjoy it. However, first of all, they should find something to eat for him; he seemed to be very cheerful, but this didn't mean he wasn't hungry. After all they had been through, it would be only natural he was.

Selan hesitated for a moment, but continued speaking, seeing the puzzled expression of Fiala. "This favor I want to ask you... tell me, who is your better swordsman? If it's not much problem, I would like to train with him, or her. It's been quite a while since I last took the chance of training with a friendly blade, and I imagine you know that the road to be a good swordsman or swordswoman is a never-ending one, and I want to keep improving." She spoke without hesitating, sure of herself, confident that her skills would be unmatched here and hoping she could teach one or two things to the shifter soldiers.

And then she realized. She was changing, and only two things stood between her current state and what she envisioned her future self.

After Hylas shifted to his human form, he began to talk quickly. “I’m Hylas, Mister Eadmar,” he said, and shook Eadmar’s hand. “Pleased to meet you. I’m a mustil... musta...” when he frowned, Fiala and Eadmar shared a grin. “-weasel shifter. Me Ma was one too and me Granda but Da was a Cani- Canidae shifter. He liked to be a fox, though, most of the time. What’s Claw-stro-fobeer? Is it like Acro-fo beer? My Nana once said she had it and my Da said that was ‘cause rabbits spent all their time on the ground. Nana liked to be a hare mostly but they’re nearly the same as rabbits so I guess it’s something to do with being high up. Nana didn’t like me climbing too much.”

Now he turned to Fiala, who was working hard to hide her amusement. Did children always chatter so? Given, she was only sixteen, but she had never talked so much. Given, she had had a vastly different childhood than this one, who had lived with his family for most of his life. “Claustrophobia is fear of confinement, Hylas. Acrophobia is fear of heights. A lot of shifters have fears of things that their animal part doesn’t like.” Hylas continued, talking a mile a minute.

“Why do you want to fight him if he can’t fight good? It seems silly if you’re on the same team; like when we found out you weren’t gonna kill us, we all stopped fighting.”

“She wants to fight me so she feels better about herself,” Eadmar answered. “She’s jealous that I’m not afraid of small spaces as well. He leaned down and whispered, “I think she’s also jealous of my good looks,” and winked. Hylas, however, continued, impervious to the other’s attempts to distract him.

“Where’s Selan and Tarn? They should be here now, shouldn’t they? They must be hungry too...” The boys belly grumbled, right on cue. “I’m hungry. Can I have some food, please?”

“Of course,” Fiala answered, "just let me grab something from the kitchen." As she started to rise, however, the boy yelled, “Selan!” She stared and instinctively spun about, fingers reaching for her hilt knife, eyes looking for danger. Eadmar clutched a knife as well, but the two relaxed when they saw his enthusiastic greeting of his companion.

They trotted back to the table, where Hylas introduced them in his quick, somewhat rambling manner. Fiala blushed at being called ‘nice,’ but smiled at Selan, even if she was a bit nervous. After all, she had attacked this woman only a short while ago.

Apparently, though, she didn’t need to worry, because Selan merely said, “Mister Eadmar, pleased to meet you. I am Selan Ilyea, and I am a human who is staying here for... well, various reasons,” before turning and speaking to Hylas. Fiala smiled slightly and moved to get some food, before hearing Selan address her. . "Fiala. Thank you for taking care of Hylas. He spoke very nice words about you, which means he trusts you. And if he trusts you is because you do deserve all the trust in the world." When she held out her hand, Fiala couldn’t hide her suprise, but smiled as they shook hands. "I hope we can be good friends in the future."

“Of...of course,” Fiala replied. “And please, you don’t need to thank me. The fact that you offer me your trust so soon means more than any thanks would.”

[i]"Fiala, I am sorry to do this right away, but I would like to ask you a favor..." [/i]The girl bit her lip. “I will do my best to help you, but even though I am not a simple guard like Eadmar,” she shot a grin at him, “You should know I still rank rather lowly among the resistance.”

"This favor I want to ask you... tell me, who is your better swordsman? If it's not much problem, I would like to train with him, or her. It's been quite a while since I last took the chance of training with a friendly blade, and I imagine you know that the road to be a good swordsman or swordswoman is a never-ending one, and I want to keep improving." Fiala turned away, letting her hair fall in front of her face.

“I am sorry to disappoint you, but Eadmar would know better than I. I suppose our head guard would be one of the best,” At this, Eadmar nodded, “but I am not skilled with a sword myself. I prefer bare hands, or knives. Coming from the background that I do, I have no prior experience with anything like a sword.” At Selan’s confused look, she continued. “I’ve lived on the streets my whole life- a pickpocket, a thief, a street-rat, whatever you want to call it. Thus, I have more experience with my fists or a knife that anything else. I am fortunate to have been taken in by the resistance, to still be alive now. There are few places where those like me can live now, as the towns are destroyed.”

She stood up, unwilling to speak anymore, and mumbled, “I’ll grab some food.” To be from the streets was a shameful thing here in the resistance, where they prided themselves on being warriors, with honour. There were few who accepted her, and many who would kick her out, saying this was no place for a thief. If it wasn’t for her language skills, they would no doubt have been kicked her out long ago. The only reasons she remained were the training, and the few who welcomed her, like Darrack and Eadmar.

((Adeyemi))

The Skorpios took a cautious step back, stating with polite confusion, "No, it's just that... didn't you say that you're a man of rank before? But if you're a girl, how can you be a man?"

His eyes widened as a thought took root in his head, and the faery-girl breath a sigh of relief. Finally, he was catching on to something… "Don't tell me Tribe Onaeda figured out the secret to switching genders!" He exclaimed.

Adeyemi resisted the urge to cradle her head in her hands. No… no, I was talking about YOU… she thought despairingly. "You, mjinga, are going to give me a very long, very difficult day," she growled to him.

"Aw, cheer up!" Kyros said brightly, spreading his arms wide. "You're thinking about it too much! What's the worst that can happen with the two of us together?"

Unfortunately for Kyros, Adeyemi did decide to think about it—and the thought was very, very painful indeed. Odjani and Janu, but the work of the ancestors is cut out for them here. Squaring her shoulder, Adeyemi said staunchly down in the sand, vowin to herself that she would not despair of her chances at survival so long as she was with this mjinga, and that she would return to Onaeda as quickly as she could, once her duty to Gios Kyros was completed.

"Anyways,” the boy declared, “ let's go somewhere to get a bite to eat. I'm feeling hungry!"

“…Mjinga,” She groaned, “we’re in secluded oasis. You must realize that we’re not going anywhere until nightfall.”[/i] Burying her head in her hand, the faery shoved her dry, sweet-smelling hemp sack at him, muttering, “there’s salt meat and dried figs in there, and you can drink all the water you want right now.” For the love of the gods…

- - - - - - - - - - -

((One Week Later))

“Kyros!” Adeyemi hollered, leaning back with a white-toothed grin from her aboreal perch. “Catch!” Pulling her arm back, she winged a pair of just-ripe, succulent yellow dates at him. Deftly plucking more of the clumped fruit, she gathered up the bounty in her sash and tucked it beneath her arm, flying down to a smooth landing beside the wayward shifter. The faery smiled, not because she needed to but because she was happy; their days of travel had been some of the best in her life. Perhaps it was because of that, that the girl didn’t leave Gios Kyros when her obligations to the potential Archigos was completed. There was… something compelling about his lackadaisical nature, something which made her feel extraordinarily content with life—it was an effervescent quality rare among the men of Onaeda, heat-hardened and resilient.

So she hadn’t returned home, but stayed with the shifter. Mind you, he was still effortlessly trying on the patience. But for the time being, Adeyemi was pleased with her situation and happy to continue their partnership. Selecting a date from her stash, she casually bit in half and plucked the pit out with her teeth, spitting it into the malleable sand where it nestled half-buried. The fruit was just barely ripened, firm with a few crunchy, under-ripe spots; chewing on her food, Adeyemi wandered over to Kyros’s shoulder and peered down at his floating dagger. “I still can’t believe we’re following that thing,” she muttered wryly. Offering him her scarf, she added, “take some more, we’ve been travelling on weak rations—and your appetite is all you’ve been letting me hear of.”

The truth was, she’d stayed with Kyros and didn’t know him any better than she had during the first day. She had no conception of the dagger’s history, though it was finely made and appeared to be stolen. It was an elegant item, exotic even, with its delicate depiction of strange, thick-growing trees and sharp-toothed mountain crags. The scene wasn’t something you found in her sun-beaten home—it was clearly a place of the northern reaches, perhaps even of the bird-wing’s homeland. Certainly, she didn’t want to ask. It might break the idyllic pleasures of the past week’s travel. But she did wonder, suspiciously…

((Pyrei))

THE CHRONICLES OF OESTIN (as written by Pyrei Ilyea)

Nothing much has happened lately, and nothing has changed recently. That is a good sign. The city is looking very good nowadays, better and better every day, and people are starting to lead normal lives. They are beginning to stop fearing the shadowmen. It is precisely because of this, that a few meetins have been taking place, in order to create and organize a small special unit which would operate independently from our Lucky Brigade. This unit would go further away than the brigade has been to, in order to explore more land and make sure our zone is safe, and not occupied by our enemies.

At first, I thought this would be good for me, and I thought of going. After a while, I realized that my main reason was meeting Selan. After that, I stopped writting, and even gave up on my sword training, wanting to move away from her shadow. It was only after all this time that I realized that I should not run away from that memory. I always admired her so much that I was subconsciously believeing I was not as good as she could be in whatever thing I was doing. My decision, then, was to keep her sword as a keepsake in my home, and talked to Hande. I asked him I wanted to start as a low ranked soldier and join the new exploration unit. I had to prove myself, and that was a good way to do it. Besides, some time ago I had been searching for Selan around the zone, so most of the places nearby were familiar to me. He agreed with that, and actually praised me for taking such a decision. After that, I was sent to get a new sword; one that would my style. I had always used Selan's sword, and I had tried to adapt myself to it, but it had always seemed a bit too big for me. So my new sword was a bit shorter. Maybe it was not noticeable, from a distance, but the balance seemed perfect. It was a simple sword. Nothing fancy, nothing special, but it seemed to be very reliable, and that's exactly what I'm looking for.

My surprise came when, the day I got my sword, I was also given a small shield. It was not very big, so it was not the most useful shield in the world, but it was big enough to protect me from many different threats. But what I liked most was the fact that the Ilyea crest was engraved in the middle of the round shape of the shield. It was not colorful, so it looked elegant and humble. With all this equipment, I was ready.

My first mission would be on my own, just so I could get used to the ground and not have anyone drag me down. Personally, I didn't understand the decision until he explained to me that I should get used to go on my own because that would give me a whole set of skills I wouldn't develop going with more people, such as being stealthy. We don't know if or when we could be under attack, and he said he wanted to make sure I would survive, no matter what happened. Hande, on the other hand, would go with five soldiers with him. It was actually surprising to see him go on such a mission, which could be dangerous. But he wanted to do it himself. He didn't trust anyone else to be the leader of that unit, and so that was why he decided to go.

And so, we reach this point. Tomorrow we are actually going to leave early in the morning, and we will start by going as far as possible in a "straight line" and then coming back, before it's late. We have to note down everything we encounter; from trees, rivers and animals to anything strange that could happen. I feel ready for it, and I know positively I can be useful here.

____________________________________________________________________

The following morning, the two groups, or rather, Hande's group, and Pyrei, started their journey. A cold morning was all that greeted the explorers from New Oestin as they parted ways at the entrance of the city.

"Pyrei, I know you are not an adult yet, but you have always tried to act the most sensible way you could think of. I am sure you will, now, as well, but bear in mind you are not a kid anymore. You said yourself you want to start as a soldier. It will be hard, but if you think you can go through it and find your place in the world, you have all my support. I've seen you grow up over time, and while your personality hasn't changed very much, you have certainly matured a lot, Pyrei. Now, go. We will meet at dawn here. I expect good things from you." Hande was smiling. That was very strange on him, but this strange faint smile meant the world to Pyrei, who now knew had earned his trust completely. After these words, that had been told to her while the other soldiers waited for their unit leader, she turned around. Wearing a blue vest that was reminiscent of her old one, Selan's ring on her right hand, her new sword sheathed and tied on a belt and the shield on her back, covered by a short brown-ish cape, Pyrei walked forward and didn't look back.

The cold breeze hit Pyrei's face, and she felt her eyes watering a bit because of that. She wasn't rushing particularly, for she would be nearly all day walking, so getting tired so early would be stupid. The light entering through the high and bushy trees, it was calm. She would probably have a calm day.

((Signum))

Her heart pounded a tense tattoo against her ribs, but Sorea perforce prevented her nervousness from becoming physically manifested, bar the sweating of her palms; she could imagine how her hands would look when she peeled the black gloves from her fingers, later. Cotton lint would have gathered in every crease, blacker and fuzzier from the moisture.

She need not be so tense, and almost as though he’d picked up her thoughts, Master Kaedo sent her a reassuring vibe. It felt like a steel blanket wrapping her safely—a soft, warm shelter that didn’t fail to protect, either. Biting her lip, she slithered down the dank passage, her wings clenched like a chrysalis against her back—hold them tight. As she made her inching progress, Sorea palmed a long, narrow rapier, whose false hilt was securely planted with a message that need only fall into the right hands to achieve her employer’s goals. And her breathing grew deeper and softer, like the lightest footfalls from an inquisitive cat...

Signum closed his eyes against the memory, breathing a large and hopeless lungful of clarifying night air. There was aught to do but wait for its course to be run; it clove a burning path, too. He loathed seeing her bloody mind, her death-bearing hands, and seeing it from a vantage that most provided the course to empathy—her memory. And it hurt, the guilty knowledge that if he’d but hanged himself back then, at least a thousand men, women, and children would have been spared a premature and violent demise; the pain didn’t normalize itself, but rather came to settle as a dark, empty depressive gloom. Gods, but Signum pined for Sorea. He grieved for her return so very, very much…

Phweet! Foertis whistled a sharp staccato note in Signum’s ear; the northerner wrinkled his eyebrows, as much at the sudden incursion of hot air into the ear canal as at the painfully high pitch. Blue eyes fixed on him, Foertis’s arched mouth scowling. He didn’t look like himself as he crouched in the scree, dappled by mercury-pale streaks of moonlight and tree shade, his hair darkened and face partially masked. Foertis more appeared, Signum absently noted, like a deer awkwardly experiencing a faery body for the first time—it was an odd thought. The weapons had been carried a-foot for a long distance, with the robbed humans’ horses acting as transport for the cargo. Now the disguised faeries buried a large portion of their cache, split along a meandering route, to be gathered later. What they kept was still a good deal, and they’d need horses for it; however, it wasn’t so much that they couldn’t travel with speed.

Foertis extended a shapely arm, running his fingers across the winking blade of a rapier. “Shit,” he muttered, “I meant to add that twiggy pigsticker to this last lot.” Shaking the hair from his eyes, he leaned across the small distance separating him from the blade, plucking the weapon up as crane would with fish. “I’ll hang on to it,” he sighed, casually playing with the rapier. “Now let’s go wash off this get-up,” Foertis groused, taking the reins of a stolen horse. “I, for one, would rather be blond again before word of this gets out, and wayfarers start scouring the brush for people of our false description. We wouldn’t want to be chased all the way back home—for the sake of hair dye, no less!”