There, amidst the twilight hours of dawn, a dazzling crimson orb peeked over the horizon. Embracing the shadow of yesterday’s ghost, a warm fiery glow slowly crept into the plains, painting the tall reedy grass a hue of dark scarlet. Life was stirring in the still air of the blossoming morning, though none but the smallest of rodents scoured about, no doubt eagerly seeking a delectable meal. They did not need to look far however, for this city was always ready to feed them. – beckoning them to enter this beacon of filth. In essence that was what became of Keldon Tor, exalted city of man. Home to their most sinister desires, the faded grey stones lay testament to a once proud past - now long forgotten in times of utmost despair and desperation. The voices here appear lost and gold is all that seems to speak; a native tongue to those growing fewer by the day.

With a quick glance, olive eyes peered over the cityscape – readily scanning the veering distance for signs of life. Though exhausted, the hunter’s weighty lids remained open, refusing to surrender a moments rest. He wondered if he was still awake or simply sleeping as if wrapped in some dream entered only moments ago. For caught in his unwavering stare was the sacred palace of kings, a looming fortress revered even by great magi from Khurdas. Said to have been made by a thousand craftsmen from the farthest reaches of the world, this sanctuary was supposedly an eastern totem; separating lands of men from elves. With ivory walls tinted by linings of gold, the majestic pillars were to have humbled the most prideful of men – striking them with awe as they basked in the glory of such divine elegance. Even the roads that ran along the markets and streets were to have been engraved by the finest of stones, completely covering every bit of earth lying beneath

Surprisingly enough, all recounts from wise men proved wrong – a description from age old texts no longer held a grain of truth. Tainted by shades faintly reminiscent of freshly drawn blood, the city laid before him appeared broken and disorderly. Beset by debris and shoddy tents scattered wildly about, it became a venue embodied by a lack of grace – Proving that darker days had indeed befallen the land – and there was no greater a scene inspiring much needed distain.

“Perhaps a siege took place?” The witty mage pondered but shook his head in immediate denial. Strain from the perilous journey must have left him drowsy and uncertain or perhaps he was merely disappointed by the lack-luster sight witnessed. Either way he quickly dismissed the thought. Besides, a unified army in this time and age was an absurd idea – something more of a joke to be laughed at by the reigning region. For no one could simply afford the cost of a large force, and those that took up arms were treated the same as mercenaries; deemed nothing more than a roving band of bandits, heeling to the will of those that feed them.

The scene was more befitting that of a cluttered slum – the mass of bodies weaving in and out of each other seemed almost too orchestrated for anything else. And the rancid odor fluttering in his nostrils would only prove this to be true. Mixed in with residue from morning dew, traces of foul stenches formed together to create new, more intoxicating aromas – growing more pronounce and prevalent. Something the hunter failed to expect in his approach.

Though he felt a bit uneasy, Cyrus lifted his leather bound sack off the floor – his heavy feet continuing to trudge onwards. He was simply too exhausted to care for matters appearing trivial and every muscle in his body ached horribly. Any place housing the weary seemed like a haven now, even if it was a pit made for livestock; because travelling through elven lands proved to be taxing on both body and spirit. Despite everything he had been through, it would not be enough – the man needed to press forward, for the light of day could only prove to hinder his advancement – no doubt forcing him to travel a road least taken and lose out on desired sleep.

As Cyrus drew closer to his destination, he soon found himself absorbed by the wandering masses – bumping shoulders with strangers wearing unknown faces. Their clamor was something he had never grown accustomed to, since a mage lived an exiled life – far away from crowds of this magnitude. Needless to say, the sounds were almost deafening – mindless chatter sang in his ears. Shuffling merchants stood in his way, and their wagons rose above his field of vision; blocking the magi’s sight. Before Cyrus could react, he was herded in like cattle to the gates, awaiting a gatekeeper’s approval.

With a sigh of morning, something still and quiet, the sun lay over the ground and trees softly. Much like a mother’s breath over the skin of her newest child. The land lay relaxed, untouched, and virginal in the dawn of a day whose path would be chosen by the people and creatures who inhabited it. The path could be winding, riddled with holes; or paved with easiness, the light ahead clear and true. Clouds, like white rays of the sun, remained stationary in the palest of blue skies. The sparse trees sitting on the edge of a farm, larger than others in the region, were casting shadows off a recently tilled, damp field. Anything could be planted there within the following days: corn, hay, cabbage, or turnips. The smells of wet dirt and waking leaves drifted over the hills and through windows of barns and the house set in the middle of its lands. Farmer and family stirred within the doors and walls of the humble estate, having beat the sun to rise over the hills. From a door to the rear of the house, a young girl emerged carrying a wooden pale larger than she could hold comfortably. Her face, young and clean, was dutiful however, and she carried it with pride and purpose.

Inside the smaller door on one of the three barns behind her home, she entered and made her way toward the one cow they owned. It was clear they kept the cow for their personal use. A bell hanged quietly from her neck and didn’t make the piercing sound until the young mistress patted her hindquarters. With a shake of wakefulness, the cow turned its head to look lazily upon the owner. These hands would graciously take milk from her swollen utter. The bell was the first real sound of the morning. Not even the family preparing for the day inside the demure home made any noise. It rang out bouncing around the plank walls and exited out the windows. The reverberations of the stark clang hit against the hay covered ears of a stranger, sleeping carefully within the confines of the cow’s stall. The mass of a human body stirred beneath the pile of straw. The young girl, whose hands had been poised at the nipple, stopped with wide blue eyes. What was this beast that lay within her animal’s home?

Rising like a whale from the rippled surface of the ocean, a cloaked figure lifted its body from out of the bedding. A mane of hair, needing a thorough brushing, hanged down around the face to hide any features of gender or age. Still the girl remained frozen in place, along with the cow. The cow, however, seemed less affected by the spirit sharing its sleeping space. Shaking straw from its clothing and wiping it from face and hair, the countenance of the stranger finally turned onto the diligent and obedient daughter.

She did not seem beautiful at first. Quite the opposite, in fact. The girl saw the woman as voluptuous, but dirty and worn. The hair was wild, the eyes lifeless, still full of sleep. Her skin needed a thorough scrubbing and her clothes needed thrown out and replaced. Determining age was difficult. The eyes and lips were young, but she had lines around the nose and on the forehead. These could have been deepened by the dirt caked within the wrinkles. Perhaps she was still young, but she could very well be a maturing woman almost forty or older. The child was too novice to tell age well and figured she was an old hag, hiding away from life in the barn that belonged to her father.

Shaking the last of the straw from her cloak, the figured picked up a wide hat and placed it on her head. It seemed she slept with everything else on, not wanting to lose any piece of what she’d solemnly become. With a nod in the direction of the impromptu hostess and a pat on the cow’s nose, the traveler trudged her way from the barn and out into the calm morning - fading into another quiet, work-ridden day.

The plan for the day ahead, in the case of the cloaked stranger, was to find a place to clean herself and her filthy clothing. Her skin felt stiff with sweat and dust. Finding food would be the next task. How long had it been since her last meal? A day or two? There had to be a berry bush or a fruit tree somewhere in the forest. Finding the farm had felt like a treasure to her, but they had nothing sewn. It seemed that, once again, the gods were laughing at the poor woman. But with thoughts like that, surviving within the hostility of nature, and the humans around her, Beatrix Thornwood would not live for much longer. She had gotten thus far on thoughts of isolation, pessimism and even a little hope was mixed in. There was a constant fight to the death within her heart. Her childish hope, still lingering after running away; and the newborn cynicism that traveling through the prejudiced lands had taught her. How she had gotten this far based on physical attributes alone would be a laughing matter. It had been quick learning and a sudden will to adapt in order to survive. Death was not something Beatrix had left in search of. It had not been family either. She’d just wanted to know what was going on. The darkness of real isolation was settling over the Khurdas and she’d wished to escape it. But it was only to find a different kind of isolation in the sunlight. Perhaps she should have stayed? It was a question she tumbled around with many times in one day, but nothing could change her decisions. The Mage had left. Surely now, she was hunted, as most traitors were, but she would take whatever came her way. Lucky for her she could not forget the teachings of her nature. Magick remained in her always. She could count on that.

The smell of fresh water hit the nostrils before the sound of it whisking over flat stones flowed into her ears. It was a sight for tired, worn, and dirty green eyes. Her plush lips curved into a smile of peace and thankfulness. Stripping herself of her clothing, she first bathed herself in the cool waters. It had been far too long since her last bath and this felt like a massage to her hardened body. Her long, thick black hair curled and swam about her waist and arms, hugging close to give its appreciation. After a long while, Beatrix removed herself and began cleaning her clothes, remaining naked in the beams of light peering through the canopy of trees above her. The forest had only become thick the further south she moved from the farm. After a thorough beating and rubbing lavender oil from a nearby plant over the hems and collars of her things, she tossed them over a branch. The wind would appreciatively dry her things and she could rest for a moment, figuring out her thoughts and travels. Leaning against a boulder, Beatrix’s hand dangled at her side, the long fingers and nails caressing the surface of the stream as she smiled in her reverie. Who knew bathing could be an almost spiritual task? One felt closer to the elements when sharing in their raw essences.

The young Mage, though practiced and well learned, always felt safer among the rare earths and grasses. It was odd, however, that she still chose to leave them and find her way among the people, hungering for something social. Beatrix found it easier and easier to hide what she was, even with a power as strong as her own.

And this morn, it rained. Tiny droplets cascaded from the sky, the infinitesimal pattering sounds the only break in the stillness of dawn. Just outside of Keldon Tor, in the minuscule and oft-ignored Forest of Kearth, a solitary soul emerged from a well-hidden wooden dwelling, little more than flexible boughs bent and twisted to form an arch amidst the branches of a great oak tree. The figure straightened from a slight stoop, and blinked slanted blue eyes, adjusting to the soft light emerging from the eastern horizon and spilling out over the treetops before him. The incandescence gave everything a pinkish cast, even as the light drizzle from spare clouds high above dampened it. The result was an ethereal, glittering quality to the leafy expanse, and the vista appeared to arrest the watcher for a moment, before the man brought life to his limbs once more and turned from it, padding noiselessly along one of the thick branches that supported his home.

A few moments and some carefully-judged jumps later, Vortigern’s booted feet made contact with the soft ground, and the elf was off through a forest not his own, choosing to travel along the floor covered in decaying leaves rather than between the treetops as he was more accustomed. The precipitation, light as it was, could slick any such arboreal passage, and the hard leather encasing his lower extremities was not well-suited for dealing with that. Instead, he ate the ground in easy, loping strides that carried him swiftly to the edge of the trees, eyes never leaving the space directly in front of him, heedless of the verdant tunnel of canopies that surrounded him.

At his pace, it was mere minutes before he broke the line of trunks that marked the edge of the woods, and found himself standing upon a narrow dirt path that led directly into town via the slums. Well, perhaps that was not quite accurate. A large portion of the town was now a slum, the buildings decaying where they stood, filth and grime the only unchanging things about the facades behind which people lived. It was a most unsavory place, and it wrought havoc on senses firmly attuned for a lifetime to the pleasant, the light, the fragrant.

Moreso even than this, entering Keldon Tor meant leaving the peace of solitude behind. Once a social being like any other, Vortigern had in recent times so detached himself from the need for others that he had managed to convince himself entirely of his near-complete self-sufficiency. In doing so, he had learned to ignore the gnawing feeling of emptiness that pervaded his very soul. Like any persistent pain, it eventually became such a fixture that its significance was negligible, much like the tree to the forest, or the man to his society. To leave his solitary existence, therefore, was the only thing that ever rubbed salt in this particular wound, though that was not the name he gave to his distaste for such travel. Rather, he called it irritation, another insignificance easily left in the darker corners of his own consciousness.

Still, he had need of the humans and their dwellings today. Though Vortigern was indeed largely self-sufficient, there were a few things he did not yet have that he would need when winter set in about this region, and the misty rain became snow. Pulling his earthen-colored cowl up about his distinctive sharply-pointed ears, the elf exhaled softly before setting his feet upon the path, taking it at a more sedate walk this time. There was no need to draw unnecessary attention to himself, after all.

The city of Keldon Tor was sprawling, the slums thrown together without an eye for architecture. Some of the older quarters of the city were laid out less haphazardly, but for the most part, it was impossible to find anything unless you knew where it was. This had initially proved quite the hurdle for the outsider, but after enough observation and practice, he eventually managed to discover the most efficient route to those few places he needed to go. Technically, there were two ways: by ground, through a dense network of alleys and wider streets, and by rooftop. The former was easier for blending in, though he had found also that people rarely looked up, as though the fact that their feet were on the ground necessarily oriented the rest of them that way as well.

For today, though, there would be no need for the convenience of the thatched roofs, tiled in the richer districts. The woman he wanted to see lived not too far into this end of Keldon Tor anyway, just beyond the gates that marked the city proper. Tempted as he was to hold his nose, Vortigern forced his face to show not the smallest trace of his displeasure as he strode purposefully down a road marked “Bethen Avenue.” It was mostly small storefronts, the vendors too downtrodden to bother actively hawking, for the most part. The goods were cheap and tawdry, the shops and stalls rickety, most in various stages of disrepair. Here and there, plaster or thatch littered the ground, and he had to take care to avoid the fresh puddles lining the deeply-rutted road, product of thousands of wagon passages through here on the way to somewhere better.

Behind the gates of a once-proud city, a once-Khurdasian mage awoke slowly, the shafts of sunlight breaking through grimy windows falling over her eyes at an angle that forced her to stir. Turning over slightly, Erowyn yawned, stretching out in a way that somehow resembled Miss Rosaline’s cat. For a moment, she lingered underneath the rough woolen covers that provided her a nighttime boundary from the world and watched with what seemed like interest as the particles of dust floated slowly through the patches of illumination. The visual sensation reminded her of the Archives, her favorite childhood haunt.

For a moment, the tiniest of frowns creased the youthful face, but she was never one to let such things stay for long, and the girl climbed nimbly to her feet a few seconds later, folding the blankets with great care before laying them atop her straw pallet. The space in which she resided was tiny, being in the attic of a poor townhouse, but it had everything she needed. The rough wooden floors underneath her feet bothered her no longer, and there was not a hint of discomfort when she crossed the meter or so to the trunk that served to store the few articles of clothing she owned.

Pulling her favorite mint-green tunic from the chest, she arranged the rest of her articles to match and dressed quickly. There were things that required attending to, after all, and from the sounds of shuffling downstairs already, she would be needed soon. The mass of silver-blond hair was a problem all its own, thick as it was, but this battle had been fought and won countless times before, and a simple braid was the best solution. Someone she knew had worn it that way, too, once, and taught her this particular trick.

The reminiscence was cut off by a call from the floor below, and Erowyn chuckled to herself as she recognized the voice of Jace, Miss Rosaline’s nephew. At a whole ten years old, Jace was of that particular sort to wind up injured doing the most ordinary things. For whatever reason, he’d taken a shine to Erowyn, and now insisted that she attend to his war wounds, whatever they might be, rather than his aunt.

Soft boots padded noiselessly down the narrow staircase, and she was met with the wide grin of a straw-haired child whose face seemed to be permanently besmirched with dirt. “Good morning, Miss Wyn,” he greeted in that charming way all children seemed to have, and she could not keep the answering smile from her face.

“Good morning, Jace,” she replied softly, which appeared to satisfy him. Apparently, he was uninjured this time, and merely visiting as was his persistent habit. He dashed off to who-knew-where, and Erowyn made the short journey to the kitchen, only to be met by Miss Rosaline on her way out. The older woman, perhaps nearing forty, looked a little more careworn than usual today, but spoke before Erowyn could inquire after it.

“There’s breakfast in the kitchen, girl. I’ll be needing you as soon as you’re done. One of the blacksmith’s boys had an accident with a hot iron. The burns are fairly grave,” the woman’s firm contralto trailed off into a significant look, and Erowyn nodded solemnly in understanding. If that was the case, it meant she would likely have to use her magic for at least part of the healing. As scorned as magi were in Keldon Tor generally, it was a risky thing for the girl to practice hers at all openly, which was why she chose to pass it off as herbalism. While she might wish to heal the patients she saw quickly and completely, it was simply impractical to do so, and Miss Rosaline had convinced her that it would be better to help in secret, under cover of something else.

The older woman was a marvel unto herself, in Erowyn’s mind. She’d discovered the young mage’s talents quite by accident, having come upon her lighting a fire to keep herself warm on the side of a street just outside the gates. Rather than reporting her to the nearest hunter or running in terror as many would have, she’d offered the shelter of her own home. The resulting arrangement had been Erowyn’s way of paying her board here: Rosaline was good at what she did on her own, but these days, she never failed.

The table in the kitchen was adorned only with a simple repast of bread, cheese, and water, but such fare was more than Erowyn generally had on the road, and she ate it gratefully before washing the dishes in the basin of water brought in for the day from the communal well a quarter mile from the house. Double-checking to make sure she had all her important possessions with her, she reemerged and headed for the front of the house, which generally served as the clinic area. Several bunches of herbs hung suspended from hooks in the plastered ceiling, drying. A cabinet to one side of the room held most of the necessary supplies; only occasionally would Erowyn make a journey into the market district of town for new goods or to resupply something they had used up. Immediately, she set about making the necessary preparations for multiple patients, laying out mats of woven straw and removing from the cabinet such common supplies as bandages and pain-reducing poultice ingredients. Hopefully, it would not be too busy today.

The touch of the sun’s warmth, though it had risen nearly an hour ago, would never be felt in the dreary cavernous depths of the cages. What little light was shed in this wretched and dank hole would be mere splinters, shafts breaking through for a few hours during midday via the handful of grates that acted more as drain pipes for Keldon Tor than windows to the underground holding cells. For the most part there was little more than the eerie blue-grey of diffused light that managed to reflect down the tunnel from the pit, casting the entire derelict scene into something resembling noir rather than reality.

Bits of refuse, puddles of diseased water, piles of bodily waste and several abandon carcasses made sure the stench of the cages matched their gloomy appearance. Even the sad scene that the once proud city of men had become didn’t hold a candle to the egregious conditions of this sub-surface world.

Scattered slumbering beasts speckled the grimy compacted earth and rock, which bared little resemblance to the flagstone streets above, filling the air with snores and groans of those still lost in a dream world. The telltale thumps and grinds of the city stirring to life above had yet to reach the ears of the Jackal that made their home in these dingy conditions, save for one.

As usual the intangible call for spilled blood has roused Raji from his slumber long before the cherry flame of the sun had peeked its head above the horizon. Lids still heavy with slumber hung lazily above sharp honey eyes that drank in the crumbling masonry, rusted bars and cobweb-laden ceiling that was his home. His single ear flicked and twitched to detect the subtle drip of water from the gutters, rippling across the stagnant water that was their only drinking source as well as the ever-rising voices of merchants and citizens, willfully ignorant of the world below their feet.

The sky had wept the night before, as if to mourn the next victim of The Butcher who would fall today, leaving the smell of damp earth hanging above the putrid stench Raji had long grown accustom to. His partially cleaved black nose twitched anxiously, picking up nearly every scent that wafted through the small grates, his only portal aside from the pit to the outside world. In the recent weeks a baker had set up shop not but an arms reach from the nearest of these grates, the smell of freshly baked breads and desserts drifted torturously through their slates, causing the under-fed stomach of the Jackal to growl like a beast possessed.

They would arrive soon. By the droves the vicious little insects would cram and push to fill the bleachers that overlooked the pit, cheering for violence, screaming for someone to satiate their bloodlust. And Raji would deliver as he always did.

As one might expect there was little solace to be found in such conditions, it was a fact that gnawed at Raji’s mind like a starving animal would an already picked-clean bone. It was especially bad in the hours leading up to the fight, the vacant, seemingly endless time that he would spend mulling over what could or what should be of the world. Such heartache would slowly transform itself into ire, bitter and dark as his surroundings, before it was let loose upon his hapless opponent.
In the ring such thoughts held no place, no purpose, there was only the canvas of death, waiting to be painted by his seething fury, wrath and passion. There was no artist who could claim to be better at their craft than Raji. While others may choose wood, tapestry or sculpture, Raji was born to weave agony, destruction and sorrow.

And oh how they would cheer. Sadistic souls who had lost their way as the world plunged further into darkness. In that sense, Raji was ironically grateful for his opportunity, even in the little information he had gained through overheard conversation, and the brief snapshots he had taken of Keldon Tor throughout his career he had seen the lavish city slowly consume itself, becoming a fractured husk of its former glory.

Even as he sat, his mind could not help but wonder if it was the fate of all things. How long before he too was destroyed by his own misguided attempts at finding peace in the midst of chaos?

Such thoughts were pushed from his mind as he heard the first crier yell out to the ever-thickening crowds. “Get your tickets now to see the raw power and bestial ferocity of The Butcher! All who stand before him are slaughtered for your viewing pleasure.”

Twisted, vile, insignificant insects. Come, worship your god.

Moonlight filtered through the thin curtains, casting a haunted shadow over the stone floor. The window, itself, was left open to keep the room cool in the night, shutters clacking against the wall once and a while, announcing the passing of a particularly strong gust of wind. The same wind, with no limits to its paths and consequences, would often blow in the light curtains, allowing them to dance within the room for a brief moment before settling back into their natural folds. It was during one of these brief moments, when the curtains remained in a suspended state floating in the air, that a shadow, fleeting in its presence, slipped into the room. Anyone watching, their eyes catching on movements unexpected, would dismiss the shadow as a trick of light, never to know that the second story balcony over-looking the clean streets of the upper-class section of the city, had just admitted a visitor, an intruder by any rights, and in the unlit darkness inside the room, a figure crouched in the corner, surveying the space with eyes long accustomed to working in the dark.

Rae, absolutely positive the house lay in quiet slumber, its silence interrupted only by the frequent sighs of restful breathing, slowly stretched upward, her eyes darting about to take in every possible detail available, her in flow of data accompanied with the information acquired by her other senses. This mission was not like her usual requests, leaning more towards stealth than brawn. She almost hadn't accepted it when her contact debriefed her over the client's story. The client, a young woman who now lived on the streets performing all sorts of menial labor and trying her hardest to avoid the fate of all women with limited means: the whorehouses, was the daughter of a peaceful middle class family who had lost all their holdings during the war. In an especially violent raid, her mother had been raped and murdered, her throat slit and left to die in the still-warm pool of blood belonging to her now-deceased husband. The client had been by her mother's side during her last ragged breaths and had watched as her parents lifeblood seeped onto the floor of what had once been their beautiful home. The raiders had taken everything, even to the point of ripping a simple wooden cross fixed with a single, small diamond from her poor mother's neck. Rae, not wanting to accept a case such as this if her client lied about her story, had thoroughly investigated behind the matter before accepting the case and then finally traced the cross's whereabouts to this home.

Rae slipped to the wardrobe and tugged out the box one of the servant girls had told her the lady of the house kept her jewelry. Pawing quickly but quietly through its contents, finally locating the cross attached to a leather thong crackling with age. It was obvious from its state that it was not even being used, and Rae felt a small flame of hot anger within her, but she extinguished it, not wanting to allow her emotions to influence her actions, especially on a mission. Instead, she focused on tugging the necklace out of the tangle of jewels, and without a second thought, she snatched out a silver ring with a ruby so large, it would be enough to pay for the girl's room and board for a good few months, thinking back to how the girl had scrimped and saved just to pay a scoundrel like Rae to steal back something as simple as her mother's poorest possession. Rae swiftly put everything else back into place and padded to the balcony. With one cautious glance over her shoulder, Rae vaulted herself off of the balcony railing, catching hold of whatever stuck out on the way down and landing almost silently on the cobblestone street. Brushing herself off, she continued on her unhurried way, her mannerisms not revealing for one instant she had just done anything at all, let alone something illegal.

The sun's rays peeked over the highest roofs, letting Rae know just how long she'd been inside and how close she might have come to being caught, as she weaved throughout the streets and alleys of Keldon Tor. She came to a halt across the street from the shop where the owners 'allowed' the girl to work for a pittance, ignoring her slumped form, clutching itself against the cold, that always rested in their alley at night. Skirting the building, Rae approached the girl's sleeping form, a soft look in her eyes that didn't exactly transfer well onto her face. Bending down, she tucked the cross and the ring into a pouch she carried and pushed the pouch into the girl's lightly clenched sleeping fist. Satisfied, Rae straightened and headed back out into the city. Now that she had completed a charity case, she would need to work extra hard to earn the fare she couldn't in the time she had lost on the case. She wouldn't accept the girl's money and would make herself scarce at the appearance of her contact for a while, knowing that particularly long acquaintance would understand. The girl's case was too much like her mother's for Rae to accept payment.

Approaching an inn located in the edges of the city, Rae slipped quietly inside and climbed the stairs two at a time. She would only be here long enough to wash, collect a change of clothes, and grab a light breakfast. Then, she would go out to find work, which was always to be had for a strong, young male. Expecting to be washing in cold water, Rae was surprised to find her wooden tub full of still-warm water. she knew this to be courtesy from the innkeeper's daughter, and her heart twinged in guilt. She knew the girl had immediately developed a crush for Rae, partly out of attraction to Rae's strangely beautiful face and partly out of desperation to attach herself to a strong man who could take her away, but alas, Rae could never be the one for her. She only hoped the girl would find another soon, knowing Rae couldn't afford to waste time in order to find another place to stay just to avoid trouble.

Once Rae finished bathing, she slipped on her clothes, walking out the door and almost stepping on a tray of food covered with a cloth to keep the flies away. Twitching the cloth aside, she revealed a hunk of cheese and strips of jerky, perfect for a meal on the go. Rae snatched up the morsels and began to nibble on them, taking the stairs down two at a time. The innkeepers daughter was sweeping, cleaning up before their customers awoke. She stopped to greet Rae when she descended, but Rae merely shrugged in return, not wanting to encourage the girl any further, and stepped back out into the street. If she was lucky, she would find more work and gain the money she needed to get on the road again, which she hoped would be soon. This crowded city life didn't suit her.

Light petered in through stained glass windows. Fractal and cool, beams of blue and green were cast along a satin rug from the orange silhouette that remained suspended outside. To the left and to the right, tall columns of granite reached high into the ceiling which stretched as if to pursue the heavens. Pews of mahogany and gold slanted against a long aisle, their intricate design rich with the imagery of cogs and gears in action. A centerpiece which hung above them shot filtered light across the cathedral floor, a large obsidian twist hammer, the mark of the craftsman.

Outside, heat and sand blistered the skin, but within the heavy temple doors blew a chilly breeze through catacombs and distant rafters. It whisked up dust and wrapped around candlesticks, stirring up bits of static and restless souls, working its way through the legs of furniture and pillars of stone to travel up the long aisle and brush against a forsaken alter. The light about this slab was gentle and warm, as if it were too delicate for any other, leaving the wrought iron of its make to glow ever so faintly. A silver tub of golden fluid adjacent to the bench stank of brine, yet shimmered as it cast rays out into the abbey. And the forge would beckon them closer.

Edo awoke with a cold chill on his skin and a lonely aching in his heart. He lay in the same stiff position he had retired in the night before, long legs outstretched before him with each tan-colored arm wrapped around his chest tightly. His body heat stayed close, bleeding out slowly only through each strand of ashy hair which spread lazily across a linen pillow. To unfold his tight posture was to accept that the day had begun, and that soon he'd trudge out to collect yesterday's post. It was a movement in every way lethargic.

His limbs eventually stretched out before falling back on him. Touching the fingers of his left hand to his cheek, he could feel it wet. Have I been... crying? He thought, a thread of concern drooping his gray eyebrows an inch down his face. Drip... A globule of rainwater splashed his skin, leading his eyes to follow it up to a crack in the ceiling. Against the roof, he could hear the sober patter of rain drops, falling through sky to burst on their lodging before leaking through it to fall on Edo. "Wet mail..." He mumbled in a sort of passive tone, like it were any other kind of chore. Wet mail, dry mail, run here, climb this, deposit these... It was vaguely repetitive work that might have become robotic for anyone else, but for Edo it was a gauntlet of ever changing proportions. An incentive to wake.

With a shift of his spinal column, one leg stretched to the far end of the bed while his arms reached to another. A series of internal crackles sounded up his back as buildups of lubricating fluid in each muscle bubbled and popped. Just beneath the skin, he could feel the entire length of copper cable that bent and stretched. Forefathers give me strength... He prayed silently, pausing for moment before twisting his figure up and out of bed. The oak make of the frame had bowed beneath the weight of a fresh occupant and let out a sigh as it bent back again. It was just one of a series of beds in this tavern, a rather quiet and cozy one this morning. He remembered much more chanting and singing and cajoling last night, but at what hour it finally stopped and gave way to rest, he could not recall.

The scratchy wool trousers he wore by day were tucked below the cot. Bringing them out and up around his waist, Edo drew the belt tight as to ensure they wouldn't sag as he ran. "Mista Fodda," An elderly woman's voice carried through his half open door from out in the small corridor of the tavern's upstairs. Though last night was one of dance and song, the occasion of paying for a full night's stay didn't sound familiar. "Mista Fodda, is that you? Are you still there?" The woman called out, her voice nigher to the door this time. Thinking with moments to spare, Edo trotted to the corner of the room to fetch his bag. Throwing it over his shoulder, his eyes shot from the door to the closed window and then back again. I guess I'll take my chances... He thought, slipping into his sandals as he knocked the latch up on his window, swinging the two small wooden doors open and vaulting through it.

The cold damp air of the morning rain fell over Edo in an instant. Landing on his hands and knees against ceramic shingling, he could hear the industrial scales crack and shatter beneath him. He gathered to his feet, fighting for traction on the slick wet roof as the door of his room opened. Edo didn't wait to hear the land-lady's voice, he couldn't. Instead he broke into a run across the slanted surface, each step pattering with the sound of broken shingles, each movement causing him to slip a bit lower down. "Fodda! Fodda!" A smile fell over Edo's face as the cries faded into the background. Moving towards the roof of an adjacent building, an apothecary, he bounded with long strides until springing forward to jump across the gap. The smaller, stubby building had a roof of salt and mortar, one that threw up a plume of orange dust when he struck it. His landing was fair and safe, though several extra steps to brake himself had Edo stumbling over the roof of that building as well, falling into the alleyway below.

The courier boy was less fortunate with this landing, instead crashing into a trough of stagnant water. The not-so-graceful drop ended with the splash of Edo's entire body into the mix, with his bag landing serendipitously beyond it. The water's surface settled for just a moment, enveloping the boy completely before being broken again as he sprung up head first. The small plunge left his clothes heavy and wet, his demeanor distraught, and his body smelling of livestock. Panting for his breath, he quickly shuffled out and began shaking his head dry again. When the last spare drop came glistening off, a single bony hand shot forward to his Messenger Bag. Wet mail... He thought fondly, trudging out of the alley in search of his first post box.

"Woman! It's morning! Get the hell off my bloody blanket and move along!" The majesty of the early morning was no concern of this homeless, human male. Short and portly, this man had clearly been no stranger to the wonders of wealth and power until very recently. By the hair on the end of his chin-mole, he was going to get back his only property, his blanket! Not that his predicament was the fault of anyone other than himself - it was through an act of his shady maliciousness that the elven woman was even upon his bedding to begin with. In the middle of the night prior, the woman had stumbled upon the alleyway in which he had proclaimed his grungy quarters for the night. She looked exhausted, and her pockets empty, but boy, was she ever a beauty. In all his life, the balding, portly man never seen such a vision of magnificence (although this could be easily explained by his own outward appearance). With ill intentions in mind, he'd offered the red haired goddess a place to rest. A tired woman, in his opinion, was an easy woman. Things all went according to plan. She accepted the offer to rest in his care, likely unaware that he was looking to fill his sexual desires. Nothing. He had gotten NOTHING from her. All of his advances had lead to the loss of his blanket for the entirety of the chilly night. Yet, he never found the power within him to kick her out and reclaim his sleeping spot.

The young woman suddenly sat upright, a dainty right hand that looked hardened by the use of a bow rubbed her left eye first, and then her right one, before letting a yawn escape her lips. Another unfortunate night had been endured, so she could bring herself to look towards the upcoming day. A short shiver ran down her spine as her mind recalibrated with her nervous system. Apparently, it wanted to tell her she was cold. Brushing a crimson lock of curly hair off to the side of her wide, purple eyes, she abruptly rose to her feet soon after. Thanks to the fine and generous gentleman that had lent her a place to rest, her pure white cloak had remained unsoiled as she slept. Though... he did seem to be colliding with her in his sleep a lot. Nothing a gentle tap didn't fix.

Giving the man her thanks, the woman removed herself from the alleyway and continued down the street. She had a contact she was meeting today, someone that just might help her track down the man she was looking for. Removing her hand from her cloak, she held a piece of bloodied fabric before her while she walked forward. She still wasn't sure why she had bothered to hold on to his bloodied rag, a piece of his expensive robes that had been soaked with the blood of his own flesh. Was it to remind herself of what she'd done? It had only been two weeks since she'd found her parents, slain at the feet of a man who had desperately wanted her affection. Only two weeks since she had acted only on instinct and murdered the man, her childhood friend. Only two weeks since she realized she might have killed an innocent man. The visions still haunted her, and they were much more vivid than the lucid city around her.

At the sound of the oncoming rain, she girl withdrew the bloodied rag back into her cloak, wherein she placed it delicately down the chute of the quiver hidden on her back. The bow that accompanied it was in the care of an ally for the time being - a man she had met on her travels to the city of Keldon Tor. Relaf, he called himself, was a blacksmith who'd been on a pilgrimage (of all the crazy things for a blacksmith to do), and they'd bumped paths as she had exited the forest that she'd once considered her irreplaceable home. He was the only mortal- no, the only one outside of her previous home entirely that she had entrusted with the secret behind leaving the Elven forest. He fed her and gave her shelter during the trip to the city, and even now he was aiding her by maintaining her bow and arranging meetings with people who could aid her in finding Vortigern Weylin. At times, she questioned why she was even looking for this man. She had no idea what she would say to him in the case that they actually met, but in all likelihood he wouldn't report her back to the forest. The way he spoke the day he left... he really understood the glaring flaws in Elven hierarchy, so at the very least she could talk to him about that.

"Azara! Over here!" The girl's head perked up at the sound of her name being spoken by a familiar sounding voice. She arched her neck from side to side in attempt to locate the origin, and ended up taking in all of her surroundings as a result. A dirt path, but it was busy for the time of day. People were yelling left and right, running to remove themselves from the wrath of the wet beast in the sky. Eventually, she caught sight of Relaf... or rather, his big bushy beard off to the side, hiding beside a wooden door that was obscured by a fruit cart that the clerk was tenaciously trying to cover up from the rain. With her first smile of the day, she freed a hand from her cloak and waved as she began her approach. "Ya really need to stop daydreamin', ya hear? Ya look really out of it and any old pickpocket coul' go ahead and 'ave 'is way with ya!"

The large, burly, bearded man smiled big and wide, as usual. He was at least a foot taller than Azara, and had a very toned body. Bronze, as if crafted by the gods of the sun themselves, he made sure to display his upper torso without clothes at any chance he could. This aspect of him often made the elf uncomfortable, and she'd be lying if she said she didn't keep her distance from him a lot at first. As he led her inside, Azara noted that he was wearing brown, cotton pants for a change. "Sorry, but you know I have a lot on my mind right now. It's often hard to keep myself composed unless I'm distracted by an unrelated issue." Her eyes crept around the room she was exposed to as the smell of fresh rain disappeared from her senses, only to be replaced by the smell of burning coals. This was like one of Relaf's MANY blacksmith parlours that were located around the city. He believed that things had to be convenient from the customers, and many didn't like the idea of traveling from one end of the town to the other just to have their order filled. There wasn't a whole lot to the room. It was dark, aside from the fire that danced in the center and created the impression that shadows were dancing around the stone walls. Stone benches surrounded the fire, likely there for seating purposes, as demonstrated by the elven man that was comfortable placed there.

It was obvious that he was elven at first glance. The ears were always a dead give away, though due to the man's overall pudginess they seemed to be as wide as they were long. He had kind of a rugged appeal to him, one that much reminded Azara of her own father. This man clearly would have been rejected by elven society, which made his presence in Keldon Tor rather obvious. Her turned to look at the girl, his blue eyes reflected the light of the fire as his mangled, silver hairs danced around from a breeze penetrating the building. "You're Azara Ilyetta, are you not? Heh, you're quite famous amidst the elves these days. You have a pretty big bounty on your head." The man's smile was rather creepy as he stood and extended a hand to shake. She obliged, and felt the rough, grittiness of his palm. So she did have a bounty on her head. It had occurred to her that it might happen, after all murder was a serious offense. "After all, killing your friend AND your parents, that's pretty gutsy!"

The girl's hand suddenly moved from his hand to the side of his face in a quick motion. "What do you mean I killed my parents!? I did no such thing!" The passive look in her eyes had faded, replaced only by anger at this sudden revelation. Her left hand moved to his collar, and she lifted him up off the ground slightly, only to have Relaf push them away from each other.

"As it sounds like, if this 'ere bloke is tellin' the truth, people are assumin' ya killed your own family too. Don't go 'urting 'im just cause he's relayin' what he heard. It's bad fer my business!" The bearded man growled, and Azara glanced down at the ground in shame. She would have hurt him too. Would she have killed this pudgy little elf like she had him? Unlikely, but the fact that she acted on her anger scared her. She was afraid of making the same mistake.

"A-anyways," The fat elf suddenly piped up once again after his courage returned from the sudden outburst, "I hear you're looking for Vortigern? I don't know what kind of business you could possibly have with that bloke, but I can tell you that you've come to the right city. As for where he lives exactly, I can't say, but if you stick around long enough you're bound to encounter him." The man didn't look to be lying, and if Relaf had recommended him then he was probably trustworthy... The issue was, that little piece of information wasn't particularly helpful.

Go figure.

The winds came and rustled the dust on the ground, their movements silent as a cat. From which came the hills, situated on the eastern side of the city of the once-glorious humans, Keldon Tor. Old shamans from the Jackals once told of the glory and majestic buildings which once made up the city. The orange globe which marked the passing of the day was just rising to perform its duties for the day, and a creature stood upon the hills of eastern Keldon Tor. In the sunlight, the creature contrasted with the sparse surrounding of the hill. The Reckoning had really taken its toll on the countryside, for it was bare and the peasants working on the fields were all dispirited; their footsteps were heavy and their movements sluggish.

His axe was glistering in the sun, the rays reflected revealed his position to everyone and down below. Peasants all stopped what they were doing and looked up to find a Jackal up on the hills. Some were gasping, others were trembling as the only Jackals they have seen were the only ones in the gladiatorial arenas; those Jackals were those who were stolen or kidnapped from the tribes at a young age, separated from their brethren at a young age. Others stood petrified at their places, their eyes wide open and their faces an open expression of fear. As Tevera approached the fields on which the peasants were toiling on, he started to examine the fields on which the peasants were toiling. The corns at this time of the year were just starting to ripen, the road by which he travelled was worn, but it seemed to be more of neglect than that of travelers wearing it out. The sun by this time was just coming out and some were harvesting the crops which had ripened earlier.

Upon seeing the Jackal who seemed to emit an aura of death around it, some of the villagers protectively walked up to the approaching Jackal and raised their sickles and pitchforks to protect their crops. Tevera, however, could not bother with the villagers; as one of them walked forward cautiously, pitchfork lowered and ready to attack at a moment’s notice. Tevera merely snarled at him and with disdain walked away towards Keldon Tor.

As Tevera approached the city of Keldon Tor, he noticed that there were no guards at the gates, which was a bare piece of wood which could –almost barely- be lifted and closed. Its surface was covered with decay and fungus growth. Years of neglect and usage had already turned the gates into something of an ornament. Tevera noticed that the axle turning the gate had mostly rusted away. Most of the people walking about kept their heads low and their steps were brief; it seemed as if they had something to hide. Even so, his oddity didn’t go unnoticed. As he stepped through the gates, he felt as if he had made a barrier with protective magic, for the people around him plainly ignored and tried very hard to not notice his appearance, so much so that he was walking with half an inch of space between him and the nearest human filth around him.

But that was acceptable to him, for he had no wish to interact with these scums who had captured his kin and made most of his kind their slaves after they had sacrificed so much for him. Tevera saw that he was walking through what the humans would call the slums of the city. The people all around him had pieces of ragged cloth for their clothing. The road which he was walking on was barely dried mud trudged on by so many humans that it had become a make-shift road. Still, he found that he rather be ignored than gather attention to himself, which he must eventually for his stood out so much. He had a task to do here. He was to free the Jackals who were trapped in this city’s gladiatorial arena. To any other Jackals of his day, that task would have seemed foolish. Why waste time freeing those who are trapped when those who are free are trapped. Tevera didn’t understand the meaning of the word paradox, but that was what the tribal elder always said.
But Tevera believed differently, he wanted to save the Jackals who are trapped. They have years of experience living amongst the human filth; they would know their customs and perhaps, just perhaps these brothers and sisters of his could be used to help the Jackals break the human oppression and to save their crumbling civilization.

While Tevera was in deep thoughts, he noticed that something had changed. The atmosphere had changed, people were now staring at him. And there was something about their eyes that made Tevera feel that the human scum surrounding him now was up to no good.

“Hey, look what we have here. A life-sized Jackal that walked into town! This is our lucky day, don’t you guys think?” one of the humans said. His face was ugly, even to Tevera. His face was overly plump and he had a disproportionately sharp nose. Still, he didn’t seem to be strong, but he also wasn’t holding any weapon. He might be the weapon.

Tevera snarled at them. Of course how foolish; this city is the place from which most slave traders come from. Of course they would be here. What was he thinking to come barging straight in here. Grasping his axe, looked around. Most of the men were armed with nothing but clubs and daggers. Tevera could easily overpower any of them in single combat. But he was outnumbered; by more than he could care to count. More could run out from the street anytime, but he didn’t care. He saw a new chance. To save his trapped brethren, he would need to find them first. And these men were doing his job for him. Not the best of ways to get in. But it was a way nonetheless.

Roaring, Tevera charged into the fray. He hacked his axe into the middle of the men, beheading one of small filthy human. He grabbed another and flung him into a few of his comrades. The initial shock of surprise was over, for the humans reacted quickly. Daggers cut into his flesh almost immediately and he could feel the searing pain as they plunged in and out at rapid speed. Blood flowed from his body, but he couldn’t care as all he could think about at this moment was meeting his trapped brethren. Nobody knows who he will meet, but he was determined to find out. As more of the humans fell, more wounds were made in his body and finally a club was swung directly at his head and the last thought he had as he slipped into oblivion was that he had to save his brethren.

I am coming, brothers and sisters.

Masikar chuckled along with the child as it chortled, its pudgy arms outreached towards his elegant face. He delicately handed the human baby back to his dishevelled mother. In another life the blond woman would stand tall and proud as suitors lined up for her hand. Yet in the torrential decadence that was Keldon Tor's underbelly her beauty was more then an inconvenience in a life of hardship. A victim of her own beauty she blossomed a thankful smile to the handsome figure of the elf. He smiled back, almost as attractive as she was with his superhuman features.The elven heart broke as he considered the woman's difficult life, a glinting silver disk passed from his hand to her. He turned with a heavy heart as his darting green eyes took in the crowded street filled with hundreds of other desperate souls. Eyes for money, Masikar could recognise the needy with naught but a glance. A heart to kind for a thief struggled against departing the wretched place. Years of experience, however, allowed him to strive against the yearning. The same history that gave him such a weakness allowed him to fight it in pursuit of his life.

Leaving the hustle of the smaller street the elf stepped out into the bustle of one of the larger thoroughfares of the corrupted Keldon Tor. The odour of hundreds and thousands of unwashed unfortunates created a wave of stench, repulsing to the unwary. Everyone passing through over this dusted maze of pot holes and broken cobbles. The elf wasn't the tallest in the crowd yet he matched heads with the giants of the streets merely because a stooped figure is so easily overpowered by the ram-rod shape of Masikar. Tall and almost proud amongst the dirty figures of all sizes and shapes that filled the road, Masikar was constantly watching. The beggar crouching at the edge of the throng, the thug and his friend, the pickpocket taking every chance that opened up, very little wasn't lapped up in the green eyes' gaze. This was how the elven thief spent his time, stalking those with more then a bit of cash who dare the lower areas of life. He found one or two opportunists from either outside the great walls of the capital or braver merchants from the higher class sectors. Both offered great bounties for Masikar's nimble fingers. He brush there and a stumble here produced a few coin, nothing suspicious. With any luck the victims would not notice they had been burgled, or lay the blame upon Fenrir.

It was a curious life, but Masikiar was highly particular himself. A coin here and there, a clang in a blind beggar's cup and an unnoticed extra weight in the pocket of a poor peddler. Such actions would do not seem fitting for a scoundrel and rouge, in many ways he was from the bed time stories told to slum children; the man who steals from the rich and gives to the poor. Yet, the elf did not match the tales. He doesn't steal for the unfortunate, merely for his self. His charity is purely charity from one who has felt the oppression of poverty himself. He gave himself no airs from his kindness. He did not need to for his proud countenance comes from his belief in his own skill. Indeed it was not entirely deserved, his perceived skill did not match his nimbleness. Following the thoroughfare he was emptied out in a larger square. Leaving the ramshackle slums behind the cobblestones found themselves whole and uninterrupted. It was here that a thief found his work more profitable yet more costly. City guards scattered through the crowds in some attempt to maintain law and order. The fat-pocketed merchants employed their own protectors, all told more alert then their public service counterparts. No simple pickpocket would achieve much, yet Masikar was no simple pickpocket. Amongst the many merchants available today, one clothed in rich red. His loud announcements of "quality goods" clearly marked him as physically inept purveying dressed-up waste. He remained at his stall for over a few hours, heavy set guards kept suspicious eyes on customers and crowd. The elven rouge watched patiently for less then half an hour before beginning his approach. He slipped into the mess of bodies nearby the open stall. Suddenly slumping and insignificant in the crowd, his whole demeanour had changed. He was no of little importance to those around him, assuming a posture humbler then that of a poverty stricken child and drawing equal amounts of attention.

With a similar lack of attention as he received Maskiar made his way up behind the merchant, still boldly proclaiming his wares. Due to the density of the crowd and the distractions caused by the abundance of customers the guards and target did not notice Masikar fishing through the profits of the day. That was until a careless slip caused a unforeseen jingle amongst the metallic currency. In an instant the rich red, portly man's hand whipped to his pocket, followed quickly by a shout of surprise as he found the folds of cloth occupied by another's hand. In an instant There was a flurry of action. Fenrir quickly removed the intrusion while striking the large man in his decent stomach, ridding him of any breath. The cry cut short, yet it had done its job. An uproar ensured from guards and townsfolk. Quickly Masikar was amongst the crowd, loosing himself quickly as the guards attempted to bludgeon their way through the multitude in his general direction. The thief knew how to make a swift exit through a crowd and the guards were at a disadvantage as the elf was lost to their sight.