[Athamar: Quests from Lorana] Chapter 2: Introduction to Delwyn's Gift

Incoherent ramblings between stifled sobs and "I'm sorry"s were the girl's replies. Her head was pressed tightly into her knees, and her fingers were locked together in front of her ankles. Her cloak was rumpled around her on the disheveled bed--slept on, but with the covers still drawn to the headboard. Splinters of wood and tiny slivers of glass peppered the wrinkled blanket.


Abruptly the girl's shaking body stiffened to a halt. Her muted crying silenced, as well as the watery sniff of mucus in her nose.


The girl's head slowly lifted, and the shine of the corridor's light pouring into the room reflected against her spectacles, obscuring red, tired eyes; but not the twin trails of tears down both cheeks.


"I had an accident," said Marilyn, hoarsely, and quite deadpan.


Her back straightened and she extended a hand as if to motion at the ruined mirror. The arm weakly rose, but a tremor overtook it, and so she steadied it with the other, grabbing the shaking appendage by the wrist. She stifled a wince and made quick to conceal the quivering hand beneath her cloak.


"I will seek out a servant to assist me with the clean up. Please do not trouble yourself. Your concern is appreciated, Mistress, but I am fine." She paused. "And... I must take responsibility for my incompetence."


She stared as if through Isora instead of at her. Her lips mouthed syllables and her tongue lolled with them, but no words came forth.
 
His tiny purple nose wrinkled in disgust. What was this mess? Why was this girl on the floor? And why did she look a ghost? For all Vaivata knew, she was! But to break a that odd, solid water (it was too shiny and reflective to be ice! What was it?!), she couldn't have been. He took off from the redhead's shoulder and hovered over the scene.


"Ha!" he muttered to himself as she spoke. "An accident? What sort of foolish waste does this? You aren't much of anything, are you girl?" The dumb thing was just babbling, and Vaivata took advantage of that to lower himself closer to the shaking girl's face. But not too close, not within her arm's reach! He didn't need any panicking dimwit grabbing onto him. Big ones never knew their own strength, especially when they were wallowing in dumb misery like this one seemed to be doing! Her eyes were wide and her mouth was open.


Vaivata raised the volume of his voice. "Wasted all your words on nonsense, have you? Why don't you speak up now?" He whipped his head around to look at Isora. "She's useless, she is! Her mind must be as shattered as this water thing!" With a long finger, he pointed to what was left of the reflective object still standing.


Fluttering closer to the ground, Vaivata tucked his feet up close to him and reached down to pick up a piece of the water thing. It was sharp, and he was careful to handle it with more his fingernails than his actual fingers. Turning the shard over and over in his hands offered no explanations of the object's mysteries. But he did like that he could see his own face in it, and grinned at himself, along with an ear wiggle. He opened one of his pouches and, even though the shard was much too big to fit in the small animal hide, it easily went in. Cinching the bag up, Vaivata finally turned his attention back to the scene at hand.
 
Oh dear. The poor girl looked to be a wreck, and Isora couldn't blame her. As capable as the young mage was, Isora didn't believe that children should have to battle, no matter how competent. And after her brush with death at the tower, well... it took a particularly strong young woman to even be talking after that. But she wasn't entirely sure what to do. It was obvious the girl was more distraught than she was letting on, and Isora never had to deal with such a situation. Her life was, and had always been, a very lonely one.


Pushing the blanket aside so that she had a place to sit, Isora tried to get a closer look at Marilyn to see if there were any cuts or scraps to attend to. Of course, her fluttery new friend was making it rather difficult, especially with such cruel things to say. "Please be kind Vaivata!" she asked politely, completely taken aback. "That's very rude to say to someone you've just met!" Or at all! She turned her attention back to Marilyn. "Please, try to relax. I'll call a servant and we'll get it cleaned up, alright?" Attempting a small smile (how long had it been since she felt the need to reassure anyone?) Isora stood up and stepped over the mess once again to go on her mission. "Come along little one, l-leave her alone."


Of course, this presented another problem. She didn't actually like to speak to any of the servants, considering the way they were shying away from her like that. "Um...Um, excuse me, please," Isora beckoned, trying to alert the first servant she could, who happened to be a young girl. With a gasp, the child ran away. Alright...she could try again. The next person she found was an older woman. "E-excuse me madam, if you please..." This time, the woman just gave a sneer, throwing down her rag in frustration at such an odd request.


Isora followed the maid back to Marilyn's room, and watched her mutter and curse to herself as she got the cleaning supplies. What now? "Um, Marilyn..." Isora had no idea how to be friendly, but perhaps this is what normal people did with their companions were upset. "Would you...like to go to the inn with me? The fresh air might be agreeable, and you won't risk cutting yourself on any broken glass..."
 
Quentin Von Fiore spent the last of his money on a fine horse, travelling as far and as fast as he could until the horse collapsed of exhaustion. When the horse collapsed, he continued on foot, sleeping beneath the porches of strangers and the treetops of forests, but even then he hardly slept, hardly ate, hardly drank, all with the promise that by the end of his journey his pride and his wealth would be restored without question.


Quent never considered himself a desperate man. When he was stripped of his knighthood, he took it in false stride, shirking the shield as one not meant for his personal strengths. When he paid his debts with the rest of his wealth, he fancied it had been worth the safety of the citizens. Even in poverty, even far from home, he managed to maintain composure. Quent kept his blonde locks bright and his face clean while occasionally handing a passing stranger a handful of his sorrows. But one man comes and offers him the promise of redemption in return for the hunt of a single human, and all that composure collapses into a non-stop, three-week excursion of resentment.


Sometimes, status is more important than honor.


The stranger offered the one-handed sword to the ex-knight, balancing it delicately with his fingertips.


“That rusty thing at your hip will do you no good for this mission. This woman is a forced to be reckoned with. Bring her to us, dead or alive, and I promise… well… we know how to pull strings.”


He kicked open the tavern door with a heavy crash. He was caked in dirt from head to toe, blonde hair turned brown and sticking out at odd ends and angles. His face was blemished by weather and mud, and his shirt and breeches were tattered. He held his sword with one hand, pointing it at the crowd, breathing heavily while baring his teeth in a hateful grimace.


“Isora Lelah!” he yelled to the crowd. “Where is the witch called Isora Lelah?!"


Near the Stumbling Bard


Early Evening


Bastian Tenias


It had been some time ago since he had a chance to rest and relax. It was the case of duty before comfort they say, and he followed it like it were a religion. If there were some way for him to show his capability and reliability as a soldier and a knight, he took it even if he hadn't been home in days. The barracks, for the most part, had become a second home for him.


Bastian sat in his room just taking a moment for himself, it had been at least a full week since he'd actually been home. Compared to Ialia's family estate, his was minuscule. She had a grand home and her own grounds that required servants to tend, his was a single building with a small archway that opened into a closed roofless garden courtyard that lead to the estate entrance. His rest had been wonderful in his own comfortable bed, to the point he wanted to say to hell with the tavern tonight. Though that wouldn't be much fun, he always liked to have a good reason to drink Ialia under the table.


Once he was up and changed into a more casual wear, other than the knights armor he so commonly wore about, he made his way for the tavern. By now the sun had just fully set beyond the horizon, darkening the streets leaving them lit by only the lamps on each side. He smoothed out his pants and straightened his shirt out underneath his tanned leather vest.


From there it was away from the estates, past the castle walls, and into the city streets. Though his attention was immediately caught when he spotted a messenger from the castle pinning up a post. Always interested in something to do he walked up to it and read over it once.


"Oh my, a dragon's egg, our little princess has high standards." he gave a bit of a grin, a nice challenge. "This ought to catch Ialia's attention sooner or later." He took the quill, inked it, and signed his name on the top line. He was very eager to find out who else would join in on something like this, dragons after all were not to be trifled with.


Bastian entered the Stumbling Bard and gaped when he noticed the giant in the tavern. "You don't see those everyday," he muttered. It was always the same group of people, with a few new comers, and rarely Sir Hesper. It didn't take long however for one person to ruin such a perfect evening and Ialia wasn't even here yet.


"I do not know this Isora Lelah you speak of," he responded, "But how about you put that sword away and have yourself a drink?" He said in his usual smug tone.


Three seconds passed with Quent staring at the stranger. He reached his hand forward and grabbed a fistful of the man's shirt, yanking him close to snarl in his face.


"I suggest you clear away, boy, and leave me to my business." Quent then shoved the man away from him, caring not where he fell.


At the bar, Ualan perked her head up to look at the scrabble.


"Watch your tongue new comer! Your business is that of a knight's once you enter Lorana," he snapped. Bastian went to draw his sword, except, he remembered he left his weaponry at home; believing there will be no quarrel on the fine day. For once, he wished Ialia was here to step in as well.


Ialia's Estate


All she wanted to do was head to the tavern already! Why the sudden disaster now? She said they could rest, not break things! Ialia lightly picked up her skirt and sprinted down the hall until she was met with Ialia and Marilyn. Of course it would be the mages! She never did have a fondness for them, but it was the young girl who worried her at the moment. Death took her and they brought her back, surely Lora'Un or any of the gods were not pleased by this.


"Isora is right," she finally spoke up. "My servants will attend to the mess. Fresh air and some food might do you some good young one."


The Stumbling Bard


"I don't have time for this. I ask once more, where is Isora Lelah?!"


Ualan sighed, scratched at her neck, then stood up from her kneeling position at the bar. She thundered on over to the quarreling men. The dirty one stared up at her with wide eyes, suddenly stunned. She crinkled her nose upon approaching. Truly a dreadful odor.


"Stop, stop, stop, no fight, no room." Surely the bartender would hate to have a fight break out in this fine little establishment. There simply was no room for such a quarrel. "You want Ee-sora? Why Ee-sora?"


Quent faltered as he was shadowed by the strange woman's height. He gripped the sword tight in his hands before speaking again. "Why is none of your concern. The matter is urgent, and I hear the witch is in this city. If you know of her, then tell me of her whereabouts, giant."


Ualan shrugged her shoulders and shook her head. He spoke in a strange way that made it difficult to understand him. As far as she knew, the black mage would be coming to this very bar sooner or later "Ee-sora... uh... I no know. Somewhere... maybe soon here.... Ask later, she be here soon."
 
The Stumbling Bard;


Sant having finished his peaceful offering of the desert's serenity, in an attempt to lend some warmth toward the tolerance of his presence as an unwelcome stranger to the streets of this city, looked up to witness the entrance of an even more unlikely creature to its streets, as he returned the ancient bone flute to its case.


The inn door was cast wide, and to Sant's sheer amazement, the hulking figure of a female Giantess crouched, and ducked across the threshold awkwardly.


"Strangers, the both of us among this lot." Sant mused as he took in the sight of the Giantess, who appeared as uncomfortable with her surroundings as those nearest her were with her. At least for the moment, Sant was no longer the focus of attention.


The Giant was massive, though less so than the majority of her male counterparts that he had born witness to. She stood near eleven foot tall, and bore the sun darkened skin of the Desert Giants, her garments were simple, a well worn sand colored tunic, a wide brown leather belt and a faded, edge tattered brown traveler's cloak that might also serve a as a sail for small water craft.


Sant watched as her nervous gaze passed over the taverns patrons briefly, taking notice of the Giant's deep and wary orange eyes as they briefly met his own in her accounting. "Had they lingered a moment in recognition of his origins?"


He was fairly certain the Giant had recognized him for Drow, and as much an outsider here as she surely was.


The Giant approached the bar, and Sant caught the exchange clearly with his keen ears. She spoke haltingly in crude common, but managed to make herself understood. She ordered water, which held no significance, but she had done so whilst presenting what looked to be a small ornament, a silvery pendant on a slender chain, which seemed rather odd Sant noted.


Sant watched her attempt to settle into her environment uneasily, she scanned the crowd once more, her gaze lingering on the door momentarily as if in hope, before she took what looked to be an uncomfortable perch kneeling at the bar, her deep orange eyes cast downward and slowly pinched closed, as if cringing from the sound of the Inn's return to cacophony, that had been muted briefly by the sheer incredulity of her entrance.


In the mere span of ten heartbeats since her entrance, even as Sant considered approaching the newcomer in what he imagined might be the welcome sound of an invitation in her own native language, the Inns' chatter and din was interrupted yet again.


This time, the disturbance was of a more deliberate type as the door swung open violently, racking against the wall in a loud crack, propelled by the booted foot that had hammered it.


The first detail of the new arrivals appearance that Sant noticed was the bare and glinting steel of the short sword the man held before him in an accusing manner.


The bare steel belonged to a tall figure of a well muscled man, who by his stance and posture clearly was familiar with the weapon he held and the proper use of it.


The man himself appeared as angry as the weapons edge. He was disheveled to say the least, sporting the appearance of someone having just come off a long, hard trail.


The curls of his blonde hair were wild, unkempt, and matted with mud, his face ruddy with sings of weathered exposure to wind and sun as well as more of the mud which also caked his tattered shirt and breeches, which once would have been indicative of a higher station than the rabble he now represented.


His brown eyes glared in obvious animosity, as they quickly scanned the tavern, and his chest heaved with the labored breath of a man more exasperated than truly winded.


He took a few purposeful strides into the room before calling out for one, “Isora Lelah!”. He brazenly yelled to the crowd. “Where is the witch called Isora Lelah?!"


Sant knew nothing of the name of course, and watched interested, with a long pull at his ale as the exchange took place between this irate newcomer and another patron clearly of a high station, whom had arrived only moments before on the heels of the Giantess.


As the irate man bearing steel accosted the nobleman whom had attempted to diffuse his accusatory inquiry, with the offer of a drink and more rational mannerism, Sant watched as the Giantess stood to face the man, and closed the distance with but a stride, to put her between them.


The sight seemed to be the first thing to penetrate the irate man's resolve, as he visibly tightened in reaction to her towering presence.


The two exchanged words, and for a brief moment, Sant thought perhaps the Giantess was whom the man sought to confront.


Sant was unsure as to why, perhaps because he both shared the status of an unwelcomed outsider here, and had grown to know a deep respect, if not even a little love for the Desert Giants, but without the thought having been bidden he came to realize he now stood facing the armed man, Crowfeeder to hand, sighting down the deadly dark fletched feathers of an arrow at the man's heart.


It wasn't the wisest of moves, especially considering his position as an outsider, of a race which was little tolerated by those this far from the Ghallagon, but it was a little late to falter from the course his heart had clearly made, inspired no doubt in part by the ale imbibed.


"Perhaps, you will find my invitation of a drink to wash the dust of the trail from your throat a bit more persuasive, if not downright convincing sir!", Sant quipped in the common tongue with a frosty tone.


"Whatever your quarrel is with the one you seek, I assure you this is not the place to air it. What say you sheath your steel and accept our offer of hospitality, and place a tankard in its stead?" he offered, letting his emerald eyes speak to his sincerity.
 
Ialia's Estate


The girl's breathless speech had halted by the beratement of the faerie. Her face had frozen into a stupid, emotionless mask that conveyed neither cognizance nor recognition. Isora's attempts at addressing the situation, along with Lady Ialia's entrance to the scene apparently occurred without notice.


After a disconcerting moment of silence the girl slowly blinked, raking the lids of her eyes across doey corneas. Her chin shook slightly as if shaking off her trance.


With a slight cough and a swallow to lubricate her throat, she averted her gaze from the two women and set about fussing over herself with a downcast gaze.


"As Mistress Lelah and Lady Ialia wishes," she assented.


Her hat was back upon her head and its strap was tightened beneath her chin. Her fingers flexed within her gloves and she pulled them on tightly by the cuff. Single-mindedly she set about mending her appearance, barely looking at herself and not at all casting a glance at the others who were occupying the room with her. When all of the little adjustments to her clothing were made her outstretched hand fell short of the remains of her shillelagh. And then she began to arrange its shards like a jigsaw puzzle in front of her. The same was done to the many pieces of mirror: glass and bits of wooden frame were separated into piles before her; she seemed utterly consumed by the task.


"The pieces must be gathered," she muttered to no one. "It can be Mended... I will Mend it... I will Mend it..."


The Stumbling Bard - Interior


Early Evening


Having regained his composure to Ualan's entrance, Al decided to take her sudden appearance in stride. After all, there were rumours of Ghally dignitaries being in town on the tongues of merchants and tavern patrons all day--the Duney with the raven and that girl might be part of the entourage, after all.


But then Coran guy burst into the scene.


"Say what?" said Al, his face twisted into an incredulous sneer at the accusation of witchery.


"Someone's a witch?" asked Mitch, feigning interest.


Al cupped his chin and studied the man: he was tall and muscled, but also had that stern and serious expression that came with being both anal-retentive and noble. "So... That guy's an inquisitor?" Al mused. "Are we havin' an inquisition?"


Mitch offered a shrug. "'Could be just a lover's quarrel."


"A spat, you say? Well, I dunno. Was that a 'witch' with a capital 'w' or a miniscule 'w'?"


"What's the difference?"


"One you break out the I'm uncultured for, the other is just a disagreeable hag," explained Al.


Mitch's brow wrinkled. "No need to be offensive now."


Al's hands spread innocently. "What's to be offended by?"


"'Hag.'"


Al sighed and slumped his shoulders. He recounted, "Hag. Synonyms: crone, beldame, ugmo. Just where are you going with this?"


"Ageism." Mitch took a sip. "You were being ageist."


"Okay, okay. 'Disagreeable female with no implied age'. Better?"


"I suppose," said Mitch with a shrug. "Lexicography aside, is there something we ought to be doing?"


"Not really. Ain't got nothin' to do with us. But if it's a wager you're getting at, then--Ah, geeze. He shoved a knight. Bet a gold on--fuck. He ain't got a sword. Okay, okay. Bet's off."


They both drank; watching, perfectly content to be spectators.


"But I do enjoy a good witchburning," said Al tangentially. "It really brings the community together."


"It's a well-respected profession, though," said Mitch.


"Not when it's used to imply an arcane user who's just being a jolly I'm uncultured with her magic--hexes and shriveling balls and whatnot. It's a label with a lot of meaning, you know. Hence why it's bad for any reputable practitioner of the arcane arts to be labeled a witch." He gave the barmaid a signal for another tankard. "And also why people just can't just go arbitrarily accusing this girl or that bird or that gran of being a witch."


"Now you're being sexist."


"What?" Al sneered again and then rolled his eyes. "Fine. Yeah, there can be male witches. But popularly, the term is usually 'warlock'. And don't get me started on the whole 'sorcerer'-'sorceress' thing." He nodded and thanked the barmaid when his fresh tankard arrived, neatly delivered into his hand. "Look. It ain't my fault that our common, bastard tongue is skewed along lines of sex." He slurped the head off of his ale and then wiped his lips on his sleeve. "How the fuck do we get into these conversations, anyway?"


The two took a brief respite from their banter to address their tankards in silence. Returning his attention to the dramatic farce that was unfolding between the witch-hunter, the giant woman, and the knight--oh, and look, the Duney decided to join in, too--Al decided to chime in.


"Oh yeah, and buddy." Al whistled to get the young man's attention. "Isora Lelah? That's the name of one'a them heroic types that took up a quest from the king from like a few weeks ago. Dunno if you wanna go 'round besmirchin' the names of local celebrities like that." He raised his tankard to his lips. "Just sayin'."
 
Arsene was, simply put, bored. Brol had been sampling all the different kinds of mead and ale there was too offer. The thief slumped his chin into his palms, giving a slight exhale in lethargy. "There aren't any jobs. Nothing or no one to do." He whined to his Dwarven companion. Brol hadn't complained at all, perfectly content with drinking and eating. How many tankards cluttered the table? The world may never know.


"Quitcher belly achin'. No need to rush into dangerous situations." He proclaimed, bringing a full tankard to his mouth.


"But those are the best kind!" Arsene groaned. But fortunately the pub became embroiled in much, much commotion. A youngish looking man barged into the tavern. He was incredibly dirty, as if he had rolled around with pigs for a few nights. Sword in hand, he ranted at the pub goers. Yelling for some witch woman or some such along those lines. Another man had offered him a drink, to which Mr. Mud denied in a most curtly fashion. It seemed there was to be a tavern brawl, and was made more interesting when the Giant interfered.


"My my," Arsene mused, tapping is finger to his chin. "This could be interesting..."

~~~Pretty Scene Transition~~~

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Calisa's House.

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Calisa was furrowed her brow in tense concentration. She slowly poured a yellowy, slimy liquid into a glass container, filled with a blueish powder. As the liquid met the powder, the powder began to crystallize. It followed the stream of the slime, building the deep blue crystal upwards. "Hm..." she hummed. She grabbed a pair of tongs and remove the sharp crystal. As her back was turned, a bright orange cat stepped inside of the powder.

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"Oh no!" She stammered, shooing the cat out of the mixture. "Blast it Dominik! Now look, you have a crystal foot!" She hollered, shaking her hands back and forth. Dominik was her feline familiar, and did indeed have his left front paw covered in the rocky blue matter. He looked up at her and gave a short meow.

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"No, you silly cat, I don't think it looks good." She claimed as she picked him up and set him down off her alchemy station. He scurried away, a clinking sound was heard as his foot hit the floor. He looked back and gave a louder, but lower in pitch whine.​




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"Yes, it'll come off, I just need to mix up the solution. I'll head to the shop and by some of the materials." She said, donning her armor over her causal tunic. Snapping her hood together, she set out of her house into the massive capitol of Lorana. Guards and street lamps dotted every street corner, and women of the night every two. She would grow red at the sounds of them, beckoning to her for a, quote, "Good time". True, Calisa did fancy women, but not one she would end up getting a disease from. The Spider's Legs, Hair Hermits, and Dragon's Itch were all very unpleasant. Anorgath had a Coitus 101 class. I should pay a visit to Arsene and Brol. They better not have gotten into trouble.' She thought.

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Her house was just near the downtown district, which is where the Stumbling Bard was located. She reached the pub, and began her ritual of entering public spaces. Hood up? Check. Cloak firmly wrapped around her body? Check. Fear? Check. The door swung open with ease. It felt loose, like a pressure had burst through it. The was a very tense scene unfolding, a classic Lamordian Stand off between a Giant, a Swamp Person, and a Knight. Ignoring that (after getting an eye-full first,) she sought out the table where her companions were.

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She shuffled past the drinkers and their locked gazes at the standoff. It made it very easy to get through. On a normal day most people stared at her. She saw the Thief and Dwarf, who now as well were enthralled with the scene unfolding. "Hello gentlemen," Calisa said quietly. "What in the worlds is happening here?" She inquired.

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Arsene replied, pointing his finger at them. "I think the dirty one is a bounty hunter coming after some witch." Brol stood and allowed Calisa to enter the middle of the booth. As he sat back down, the dwarf also answered the cloaked Elf. "Aye. A few minutes 'fore you came in that surly looking fella there mentioned this witch were some kinda hero." Arsene nodded in agreement.

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"I have my coin on the Giant." He added.

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Steal a dragon’s egg…steal a dragon’s egg, the thought of the quest made Ialia tense as she led Isora and Marilyn out of her estate. How was she going to explain this to the others? Not only this, but who were going to volunteer with her—the overall task was daunting! Although the great knight had encountered a dragon herself, Ialia was not ready to invade their territory. Delwyn grew mad by the day.


A mage would be wise to have for the journey, Ialia thought, but not Marilyn. Poor girl needed her rest after what happened and Isora proved some use. Verlous, she concluded, would be the perfect bait for a dragon; Ialia chuckled at the idea. “The quest is too risky,” she muttered to herself. As much as there were some people she did not trust, she did not want to see them die either.


As soon as they arrived at the tavern, she noticed the new post on the King's Bulletin. Once the mages stepped inside, she read the piece of parchment. A reminder to all that Delwyn's birthday was soon and the little brat requested a dragon's egg. Yet the quest did not anger Ialia further, it was the name signed on the first line:


Bastian Tenias.


"You idiot!" She practically scolded to herself, "Of course you would sign your name. Well, not without me!" She took the quill, inked it, and hastily scribbled her name on the first line next to his.


Ialia barged into the Stumbling Bard, scouting for the dark blonde fool. And there he was, talking to Ualan and some other man? Who was he? Regardless, she gave a little scowl as she stormed towards him. "Bastian! Are you mad!?"


“Mad!? Certainly not Ialia,” he responded. “But this fool is,” he snapped, motioning at Quent. “Said he’s looking for a witch! And I told him to settle down and have a drink instead of a quarrel.”


The atmosphere felt different for Ialia for there was tension and curiosity in the tavern. Did this man mean Isora? Was she wanted for a crime? Ialia needed answers and much preferred to receive them from the mage. Immediately her hand went to the hilt of her sword, “We’ll have a drink once this issue is settled,” she said sternly. She leaned towards Bastian, “Be ready,” she whispered.


Ialia gave a hard cold stare to Quent, “What is your name, sir, and who is this witch you speak of?”


“Oye Avalden! There will be NO fighting in the Stumbling Bard,” the bar keeper shouted. “Take yer enemies and problems outside.”


Ialia nodded in agreement and focused on the newcomer, “Speak now!”
 
Lamordia


“Watch your footwork and keep your shield arm higher, your entire upper body is exposed when you come forward.”


“Captain, I thought tha-“


“Do know how techniques come to be established? The warriors who used them lived long enough to pass them down to young knights such as yourself. Now from the top and keep your shield arm higher.”


Young unblooded knights frustrated Rendus Aveldan, they constantly wanted to innovate at the cost of proper form. The Knight Captain of Lamordia was a stickler for proper form and had always felt that recklessness would get you nothing but a sword in the gut. Truly though despite the agonizing adherence to training and working on the same techniques over and again was just another in a myriad of ways that Rendus doted on his charges with the care of mother hawk.


As Rendus strode toward the stables, his brass spurs clinking on the cobbled stone walkways of the keep he thought back to his first charge as a knight. A young talented knight walking the same streets on the way to the same caravan on the same route, the black silver ring on his finger seemed to glow in the midday sun as if it too was remembering the bandit ambush that saw it crown the finger it had dwelled upon ever since.


Memories of bloodshed held no fear for Rendus, he often looked back on old skirmishes and battles, critiquing his form and musing upon how to make his technique more efficient. Yet for all his effort trying to recall the bandit raid that had made his name the mind of the knight captain drifted to a warm fire and cold ale. The tavern in Lorana where he had drank to his success and sang songs of great warriors with his cousin Ialia. She had still been a squire then, Rendus a few years her senior but she had since made a name for herself as one of the finest knights in the kingdom but this was to be expected, she was of course and Aveldan.


Mounting up his black horse Starshod Rendus wrapped his hand around the hilt of his sword and felt the weight in his hand as was his custom, the feel of a blade often put his mind into focus through reliable familiarity. Fastening his red cape of office around his shoulders Rendus took up the supple leather of Snowshod’s reigns and cantered out of the stable towards the party he would be escorting to the capital.


The knights under his guards were already arrayed in formation around the caravan, Rendus was pleased with the punctuality of his men as he dismounted and approached the merchant, embracing the portly man tightly. “Coln, it’s very good to see you again. I trust your dealings in the port cities went well?” Rendus’ voice was soft but crackled with energy and warmth born from a long friendship “It did indeed, I have a good few crates of black silver to go to the capital. I know it’s presumptuous to ask for the Knight Captain of the city to come on a simple escort mission but I would feel no safer than with the man who saved my life all those years ago, even if he has gotten a little portly.” The balding merchant’s voice hummed with jovial laughter as he prodded Rendus in the ribs through the mail that draped them. “It would be my pleasure to escort your wears Coln, even if you have more hair on your arse than on your head these days.” Jested Rendus with a firm shoulder pat on his old friend’s left side.


Before long they were on their way, passing through the gates of the city and out into the forests of the kingdom, great pine and oak trees towering above as the party rolled their way toward the capital. Rendus’ eyes scanned every bow and branch for the roughspun brown rags of the bandit clans but saw nothing, whether by chance or by virtue of the heavy escort they eventually emerged out of the forests unchallenged. The journey had been relatively quick with only a couple of knights camped out as the horses rested.


Before Rendus knew it the ivory white towers of Lorana breached the horizon and the great capital came into view. Lorana was truly a site to behold, bustling streets and strong walls all leading towards the greatest castle in the land, the home of the king and of the greatest living knight Sir Hesper of Lorana. The noise of city life could be heard minutes away as people went about their lives, smiths pounding on metal, merchants shouting their wares at any passing close enough by to catch their attention. The capital was a busy place and Rendus fell in love with it upon every visit.


Lorana


The caravan was welcomed into the city by a guard of two knights Rendus did not know, they held high flags with the royal seal and streamers in matching colors fluttering on the breeze. Rendus removed his helmet as did the welcoming party “Knight Captain Rendus Aveldan of Lamordia escorting in a caravan of black silver for the royal treasury. My men would appreciated meat for them and hay for their mounts, I will accompany you to the castle to make my presence known.” Rendus’s boredom with this formality was clearly evident in how the words fell from his mouth without warmth for enthusiasm, he wished to get away from stuffy knights as soon as possible and find his cousin and a pint of something strong.


After a quick ride to the castle and a handshake meeting with some high ranked Loranian knights, as well as some young squires who had heard of his visit and buzzed around him like mayflys Rendus left the keep to find an inn. Eventually he came to a decent looking place, in the middle of a relatively clean street right next to the bulletin of bounties commissioned by the crown.


The Stumbling Bard


Rendus strode into the Stumbling Bard feeling quite ridiculous in his full plate and hoping to quickly find a room to change. With a quick exchange of gold he had his key to an upstairs room as well as a drink the barkeep had given him on the house, the place was apparently in very good spirits to effect even the staff so positively. Looking around Rendus saw all manner of strange patrons, men, dwarves, elves, even maybe even a half giant or two. His eyes though were drawn to a woman entering the tavern, black hair and tolerance for drink greater than probably even the dwarf and half giant, Rendus had spied his cousin.


So as not to look a fool Rendus fled up the stairs and ripped off his armor, leaving it in the footchest at the end of the bed. Quickly washing his face and pulling over his best clothes, a dashing number in midnight blue Rendus began to head downstairs, pinning the red Lamordia broach on his chest as he descended.


Upon hitting the final step on the stairs Rendus heard Ialia’s voice, she sounded on the brink of rage. Knowing his cousin and her temperament Rendus’ eyes fell to her belt where her hand was wrapped firmly around the hilt, the man she talked to was clearly not a friend of hers. The unfortunate soul seemed to be a rather dashing fellow with blonde hair propped up against the bar. Sure that Ialia could handle herself against almost anyone in the kingdom yet eager to make his presence known to her rather than mill around in a room full of strangers until she was done Rendus approached his cousin from behind and laid a supportive hand on her shoulder “Best give her a quick answer stranger, my cousin is not one to be left waiting.”
 
Santos watched in amazement, not sure what to make of the situation as the events of the moment continued to play out. He wasn't sure if he was relieved that his ale addled, reflexive choice to get involved in the unfolding drama, in thought to protect the Giant had gone apparently unheeded. In a sense he was grateful that it appeared he would not have to be the one to quell the wild eyed, blade wielding psychotic's ill considered behavior. He marveled at the willingness of the onlookers, regardless of station to step into confrontation that was surely already addressed by an arrow drawn full.


Still he much preferred that the situation be diffused without the necessity of his involvement as an outsider, of a typically un-welcomed origin.


Gladly, he slowly eased tension from Crowfeeder's string, and slightly lowered the bow from its mark though keeping the arrow notched and bow at the ready, should the wildman make any sudden movements. He would wait to see how the situation was resolved, interested to see how things played out...


At least the evening had begun to show promise of not boring him to tears.
 
Isora desperately attempted to get Miss Marilyn out of the room, and eventually found herself following Knight Ialia out into the streets and towards the inn. She was well aware of the disdain practically radiating off her person, but expected no less. Knights were already wary of mages, and Isora was not helping her own station. Therefore, she simply chose to ignore it. There was no way she was confident enough to attempt to change anyone's mind, especially not a woman capable of removing her head.


As they made their way through the cobblestone sidewalks and the various unique individuals that every city holds, Isora spoke softly to her companion. "Have you ever seen a city before? Do fairies have cities like this one, only smaller?" Perhaps they were dumb questions, but she was quite curious. Having read about the fay but never actually encountering one that wasn't cursed, Isora wanted to take every opportunity she could to learn about him before he decided to leave her too.


Unfortunately, that may have come sooner than expected. As they entered the Stumbling Bard, she could hear the man yelling before she even got entirely through the door. He was a bounty hunter, looking for a witch. The only witch Isora knew of was already dead. That meant that there was a very good chance this man was searching for her - and even if he wasn't, she could never be too careful. Isora took offense to possibly being called a witch, however. A prisoner escapee and black mage she may be, but a witch? How offensive. Her hand went instinctively to her throat to hide the mark forged onto her collar, and immediately winced in pain because of it. It burned terribly most of the time, but touching it was close to agony.


What to do? Ialia was already questioning him. Within moments, it would be revealed that he was searching for her. And why would a Knight protect a wanted criminal? Isora was surprised enough that her little brand had not been noticed earlier. It was her fault of course - she was too sloppy. But a part of her wished that perhaps her bounty had been so out of date that it would just fade into obscurity. Obviously that was incredibly naive, and not the case. Because there he was. "You should hide," she whispered to Vai, somehow knowing he wouldn't.
 
The Stumbling Bard


Well. Lafe had been expecting a boring night of puppetry and maybe some drink, but this was far more entertaining. Of course, watching from the door way and straining his one good ear to hear did not lend itself to hearing what all the commotion was about. Neither did sitting on the ground. Shoving his puppets into his bag, Lafe stood. He was starting to be grateful that none of these people had noticed him in their rush to get inside the inn. They seemed a dangerous and rough sort, and Lafe had just about enough of that kind of people in his life, Thank you very much! But still, he had to know what was going on.


There was shouting inside the inn and he only caught snippets of it. Lelah! – witch – no room. And it seemed more and more people were being drawn to this mess. Soon half the kingdom would be here to look for this apparent witch. Pulling his hood up over his face a bit more securely, Lafe took advantage of a lull in the action and slid the window open, with only a little bit of struggling with the latch (which from the outside was no mean feat at all).


But of course, the moment he could hear better, everyone seemed to be shouting about going outside. What must have been a female knight came to the scene, with a woman all in black following her. And seemingly out of nowhere, a tall man approached the rapidly growing crowd. It was out of instinct but not fear that Lafe pressed his back to the inn wall. Confrontations were something he was used to and he knew that if he was not involved it was just better to stay that way. Still though, he was greatly interested in the outcome of this debacle. With the knight, a supposed witch, and what sounded like the booming voice of a giant, surely something interesting was going to happen. Perhaps it would make a good puppet show.


(On The Way To) The Stumbling Bard


Vaivata kept perched on Isora’s shoulder for the trip, kicking his tiny feet. The feeling was so slight that Isora would never even notice it. He was glad the crazy stammering thing wasn’t coming with them! She’d ruin the mood of the trip with her ramblings, she would! Settling in, and holding onto one of the girl’s loose strands of beautiful hair so he wouldn’t fall, Vaivata took in all he could see through those faceted green eyes.


He turned to look at Isora when she spoke. "Have you ever seen a city before? Do fairies have cities like this one, only smaller?" Vaivata grinned, pointy teeth showing. “Never in a human city, no, never a human one! I’ve been in our cities, yes I have, but ours are made of leaves and sticks and hollowed at plants!” He sniffed once in disdain, thinking about those showoffs with the stone houses. No one needed those tough walls or locked doors!


A lot of yelling from the building they were headed into proved to be a great distraction. The girl’s hand rose, and Vaivata jumped. Fluttering by her ear and still holding onto her hair, Vaivata shook his head at her dumb suggestion. “I shan’t!”


There was obviously something going on, and Vaivata would not miss it. But still, he was primed and ready to drop himself back into his home if he needed to. Bravery was good and well for the big ones, but cowardice kept a fairy alive. Until he figured out if he needed to be a coward, however, Vaivata wasn’t going anywhere.
 
All this talk of reason, of asking him to calm down, to have a drink, to rest a while…. Quent’s eye began to twitch. If only someone might hand him a mirror, perhaps his vanity would force him to quell the need to mend his pride long enough to drop the ugly sneer from his usually stoic face. Yet even then, Quent never knew he would be willing to sacrifice his pragmatic nature for even the slightest chance at recovering a title. He could hear the mumblings all around the tavern, the placed bets, the clucking tongues, the stares of disapproval and amusement alike. In that instant, he felt more like a side-show attraction than a force to be reckoned with.


Eventually, a woman clad in knightly armor came into the tavern. Quent hoped she would bring him good news, lest he delve further into this strange insanity. He straightened his posture, which had slumped ever slightly in his temporary doubts, in an attempt to match the woman’s ferocity.


“What is your name, sir, and who is this witch you speak of?”


Questions, questions, more questions. The bartender shouted for the two to take the matter outside, which Quent thought would be for the best. He grew weary of the eyes all around, passing judgment as if they understood. The woman’s cousin was quick to approach soon after, and Quent tried to match their stares.


“My name is Sir Quentin Von Fiore,”—his old habit of addressing himself by ‘Sir’ had come back— “and the witch I search for is—“


Yet another traveler walked in the door, though she caught his eye immediately. Her face, her hat, her hair, her collar: all distinctive. His heart fluttered, his spirits lifted. The face on the wanted poster, standing right at the door.


“Isora Lelah!” Quent addressed the woman directly and pointed his sword past the group crowding in front of him, pointing right at the black collar around her neck. “I will have your head!” Then he charged.
 
Isora didn't remember what happened next. It was all a flash and a struggle, and eventually everything went black.


When she awoke, she was dazed, but alive. "What happened?" she asked the nurse who nervously hovered by the bed, praying that the witch wouldn't wake up during her watch. Unfortunately, of course, fate made it so, and now she was prepared to suffer a burning death. The mage only rubbed her temples, however, and looked around. Her gown, under armor and hat were hanging near the bed, and beside her was a basin of water. Everything felt clean and new, which implied she was in Ialia's manor yet again.


The nurse, wringing her hands together, shifted her weight from foot to foot. "You - you don't remember?!" she asked with childlike curiosity. "You attacked him! You said some strange words and then he was clutching at his throat and, and then you went slack. He ran off, but Ialia saw it fit to bring you back here. I don't know why, considering what you can do!" Having realized her blunder, she coughed into her fist. "Ah, excuse me Miss. Not my place."


Isora looked at her hands, wondering where that power came from and why she had no recollection using it. "It's quite alright. I think I would like to get my bearings, if you do not mind," she said, more so that the nurse wouldn't feel rude for leaving. Her plan worked, and within seconds the young girl was excusing herself and rushing out. Now alone in the large room, Isora just sighed. Still no sign of the person who murdered her Master, and the bounty hunters were closing in. "Now what?" she asked out loud, to no one.


~~~~~~~~


Meanwhile, as Isora and the others took several days to rest and enjoy their rewards at their leisure, the castle was beginning the preparations for a huge celebration. There were carpenters, chefs, decorators, and an assortment of others that entered the castle day after to day to plan with the Queen herself. There was to be no skimping and no spared expense. Everything was to be absolute perfection by the Queen's standards, and all were eager to please. After all, it was only once a year that a Princess had a birthday.


Said princess was entering her fathers study one week after the victors returned from their hunt. Delwyn, the youngest of the daughters and the most spirited, had an excitement still pure from childhood that manifested itself in childish entitlement. When her parents asked her what she would want for her birthday gift, she thought for many days and did her research. After all, a wasted birthday gift was a tragedy and one she truly wished to avoid.


As she climbed into her father's lap, Kind Loranos only chuckled and wrapped his arm around the young girl. "Now Delwyn," he smiled warmly. "Did I not tell you that when I am in my study I am not to be disturbed?" The young girl seemed apathetic to such trivial things as rules and only pouted. "But faaaather!" she whined. "I wanted to tell you I've made my decision! I know what I want for my birthday!" Her father, ever patient, nodded his head. "Very well, I suppose I can spare my youngest a few minutes of my time," he teased. "What would you like? Just say the word, and your mother and I shall make it so." Delwyn gave him a broad grin and straightened her shoulders, as if preparing for a long speech. "This year!" she began. "I would like...a dragon egg! So that it may hatch and then I shall have a dragon all my own!"


Her father, though generous, had to pause at that. "Delwyn, my dear," he said uneasily. "Do you know what you are asking? A dragon is no small responsibility. They are dangerous and difficult to tame, and I will not allow you to pass off those responsibilities to a servant or one of your sisters." Delwyn just sighed irritably. "I KNOW that father, I'm a big girl! But I've read so much about them and I just adore them father! Please, please, will you get me one?" She looked up at him with big eyes and a jutting bottom lip.


King Loranos was no match for them. "...Very well, child. I will get you your dragon egg. But heed my warning! It'll be YOUR responsibility the moment it is in your possession."


Delwyn squealed and kissed her father's cheek. "Oh THANK you father! Thank you so very much!" And then she was gone, running out the door to tell her sisters.
 
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