Arguen Garth
Hardir O’ Fardor
Lord of Morn Taras
Monarch of Wetull
King beyond the Pale Mountains
Aniculo Rokae
Duath Erin I Menel
Malantur O’ Furu
Rhu Fareno
Who murdered Sir Nyvorlas?
Taras and Hardir's Port with Smugglers Den added
RRRRREEEEEH! Uvrycres announced in a trumpeting roar, his whole scaly body vibrating as they dived, half of it to showoff to those watching them horrified and the other half for more practical reasons. The flying wyvern wanted to clear out the landing area inside Jinx’s yard.
“Cut this shit out!” Glen blasted the wyvern, cheeks ballooning and face-skin taut from the wind rapping on it during their final descent. “Darn it!”
I’ll roll on the ground. Twice, Uvrycres warned the Monarch, the latter hanging on from the horn of the fancy saddle Master Laedan had installed. The large saddle had made the extremely dangerous feat of flying about on the wyvern’s back much easier, even pleasurable. Also comfortable with four large leather saddlebags (two per side) where Glen had started storing weapons and supplies, amongst other useful stuff for the prepared adventurer.
The wyvern hated that.
“I’ve ordered the kitchen to prepare a packet of freshly baked biscuits. Cinnamon flavored,” Glen countered with a yelp as they landed, the wyvern’s talons ruining the ground and soldiers sprinting to duck out of their way.
That’s some good shit, Uvrycres agreed with a gnarly sneer, turning his large horned head to eye the slapping at his thighs in order to jump start circulation Monarch. The wyvern kept staring at Glen, until the latter jumped from the saddle with a grimace of frustration. Then the Monarch went to open one of the saddlebags to get the packaged biscuits out.
The cube-like sturdy package was pretty heavy and had some oil leaked out of the paper carton’s outer brown wrappings.
“The paper wrap is uneatable,” Glen warned after he heaved the package to Uvrycres.
I’ll be the judge of that human, Uvrycres retorted and took a chunk out of the package, with biscuits flying everywhere, afore he added. Magic in the air. Different threads on the ground, very fancy. Their trail leads south.
And after a small pause.
The paper is fine.
“Right,” Glen said and turned around to walk towards Jinx’s half-ruined villa. The whole south side and part of the roof had crumbled to a pile of debris inside the yard. The Monarch could see the guts of the villa as he approached the nervous Folen, Wetull’s Master of Silence. The shifty Zilan official, carried his lute, but thankfully for them he wasn’t playing it. “Moira got away,” Glen started before Folen could utter a single word.
“I was going to get to that, great Hardir,” Folen replied with a glance at the chomping wyvern sprawled on Jinx’s lawn.
“Unfortunately for you, I went the opposite way,” Glen retorted and furrowed his brows examining the damage to the building. “Captain Fane’s lads used a catapult?” He probed, perusing the crowd –kept away from the smoking villa’s stone fence- and wondering whether he should put Zaos’ mask back on.
“I’m told, Berthas had to use a fire spell to nullify the target, Hardir,” Folen replied, brows partially sizzled and face painted with black soot. “I don’t know what happened. I was trying to subdue the Ticu downstairs. She used the bedlam to disappear as well.”
Hmm.
Glen’s amber eyes scanned the still smoking villa and spotted the lone figure of the black-haired girl watching them from the rooftop. The southeastern corner.
“You were here to arrest Moira, not bother Jinx’s weird friend,” Glen reminded him with a sigh and started walking towards the soldiers working to clear the debris. Some Royal knights amongst them and Glen located Berthas pupil, the sorceress Keya treating an injured man. The latter had the top of his head wrapped with thin strips of white bandage.
“Lady Lussiel’s friend mutilated a soldier, Hardir,” Folen informed him.
Damn.
“Uah, how bad?” Glen gasped coming to a stop. He immediately went to put his royal mask back on. The royal helm, the mask was now attached to, not too comfortable to wear under the summer’s sun, but it offered Glen an edge when talking to people.
And probably something else, the Monarch hadn’t figured out yet.
“She ripped his right ear out.”
Shit!
“Was the ear retrieved?” A disturbed Glen asked in a fake casual manner, whilst trying to stabilize the helm on his head to buy himself some time.
“It was consumed,” Folen replied stiffly and seeing Glen’s numb stare, he added. “She ate it.”
“I got the plaguing picture Folen,” Glen warned him. “Ye need to be more sensitive in public.”
“Yes, great Monarch.”
Glen pursed his mouth and Zaos’ mask mimicked the Monarch’s expression.
“Where is Moira?” He asked changing the subject and greeted Sir Delmuth and Sir Alan Kirk with a nod of his head.
“We’ve blocked the exits of Taras, notified the south gates and have also alerted Hardir’s Port about them.”
Wait a god darn minute…
“Them?”
“There was a man present in the house,” Folen replied.
Alright.
“With Moira?” Glen asked unsure and a little shocked at the level of damage they had caused to the building.
“No one saw the Cofol, Hardir,” Folen replied and Glen puffed out exasperated. He marched towards the royal knights, mainly Sir Nuvian who had removed his cuirass to bandage a shoulder wound and Sir Delmuth, who stared in silence at what appeared to be the corpse of Sir Nyvorlas.
Luthos closed the door on his dirty foot, turned his big ole toe to red mush.
“Hardir,” Sir Delmuth greeted Glen, who stopped with both hands tied behind his back for another closer inspection of the ruined villa’s south side and the bloody corpse of the Royal Rokae.
“An accident?” Glen probed just as Aenymriel arrived in the company of Dhin and Priestess Aerien. An imposing hooded figure build like an oak’s trunk standing back with their horses.
“Nyvorlas was murdered,” Delmuth replied. “Nuvian shall attest to that.”
Well, fuck you, bringer of bad news.
“Who was the culprit?” Glen probed with a grimace.
“I didn’t see him that well, Hardir.” Nuvian replied. “But he killed Nyvorlas in less than a minute.”
Nyvorlas was a difficult sparring partner for Glen and the Monarch stood back impressed.
“An ambush?”
“Nay, straight up, attacked him inside a well-lit room. He used a dagger by the way,” Nuvian reported. “Got me with a knife as well. A fast son of the woods.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Looked like a half-breed of sorts Hardir. Ghoulish-looking bastard. Something wrong in his lineage. Especially rough-looking for a human also.”
“Might have been a Zilan?” Glen asked with a smack of his lips, not believing they had suffered casualties in their attempt to apprehend the woman.
“A ghoulish wiry knave. I don’t know his make. Pale as death,” Nuvian replied with a rustle. “Ruthless. It was a death blow. No mercy. Nyvorlas was a great warrior with the blade. He didn’t deserve to go out like this.”
He was indeed. Also weighed down by armour.
Ah, my friend. No one does.
Glen rubbed at his nape with a hand and puffed out, then stared at the small triangular blade Delmuth was working with his fingers. “Is this the blade? Part of it?”
“The throwing knife. Could be used as a spear tip,” Nuvian informed him. “Crude piece of steel, sharpened and cut from a bigger blade, I reckon. It’s a repurposed custom-made weapon.”
“Right,” Glen said, overwhelmed at the amount of detail and glanced at Aenymriel’s face for clues. The short-haired Zilan female had taken an interest to the weapon in the meantime. “Have you seen it before?”
“It’s just a blade,” Aenymriel replied casually. “Can I have it?”
“That wasn’t a plaguing answer!” Glen snapped.
“I haven’t seen it before Garth,” Aenymriel replied in a serene tone.
Condescending boy-faced bitch!
“Give her the blade,” a pissed off Glen ordered and then stared at the collapsed wall for a moment. “Folen you mentioned this man. A killer it seems. How did he escape the room? You had the stairs blocked coming from the lower floor.”
“I fought him briefly inside the bedroom, Hardir. No human can move that fast. Or Zilan for that matter and I had a ‘quickening elixir’.” Nuvian intervened before the mulling over a ‘proper’ answer Folen could. “Then Berthas used his fireball and both the killer and the female vanished, right after the roof came down.”
A ton of details here, Glen thought. Let’s break it down like professionals.
“How good is this elixir?”
“It heightens your reaction times Hardir, for about ten minutes.”
“Any side effects?” Glen probed, seeing that the Rokae moved very sluggishly.
“Best to avoid a brothel, overuse weakens the phallus,” Folen elucidated with a smirk that wasn’t well received by the worn-out and injured Rokae.
Fuck’s sake.
“I wanted the woman arrested, not boiled or blown up. Jinx’s place kept relatively intact guys,” Glen reminded them, after an awkward moment of silence.
“This was a Zilan female, greatly forgiving Monarch,” Folen answered for the Rokae.
“Yeah, good try. Your info sucked big time Folen. By the way, just to throw it out there. Did anyone see Moira?” Glen asked and then added a little peeved after seeing the reactions from those present. “These two… they were vaporized, you think?”
Eh, we could have worked it out, Glen thought sadly. I’m willing to listen to a pretty girl.
“We are still searching the debris for crushed bodies,” Sir Delmuth assured him.
“Brilliantly,” Glen retorted sarcastically and glared at Folen. He needed someone to blame for this fiasco. “How did this fucker get inside the villa, uh? I specifically ordered to arrest anyone who tried to enter!”
“He didn’t use the front gates, patient Monarch,” Folen replied and whistled a mellow tune to calm Glen down. It didn’t work at all on the irked Monarch.
Glen narrowed his eyes. “You are about to get on my nerves Folen,” he warned the Master of Silence. “The sun is boiling my brains proper and I have sweat streaming down my arse crack. Angering me is the last thing you want friend, at this difficult time for you.”
“I hope not Hardir.”
“Your hope is misplaced you slimy fuck. Speak.”
“We have more casualties.”
“As in very light injuries from the falling debris?” Glen chanced. “A blown eardrum?”
“As in fatalities, is where I was heading, great Garth.”
“Don’t give a shit about yer heading, but now you’re navigatin’ a tight rope ‘n there is plenty o’ oily grease under yer boots friend. Better to course correct, is my meaning,” Glen grunted a final warning and puffed out audibly. Lips flapping and cheeks deflating. “Right. So… to summarize, more people died? I bet this will cause a kerfuffle, fer sure.”
“Two local guards were found slain outside the fence. Hidden amidst the bushes,” Folen reported. “They were supposed to enter through the back door. Never made it past the fence.”
Glen stared in the Zilan’s face soberly. “Show me,” he finally said in a hoarse voice.
The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
Well, the villa looks almost untouched from this side at least. But still, Jinx needs to relocate as far away as possible, without raising her suspicions. I might have to straight up bribe her. Then completely level the villa due to ‘safety reasons’ or some other shite.
Uhm.
The troubled Glen walked towards a couple of soldiers near the stone fence on the northern side of the building that pretended they were searching for clues, whilst mulling the matter of the failed operation in his mind.
“They are over the fence,” Folen explained. “Sergeant Peron is in charge. Barkley, where’s the sergeant?” Folen asked one of the city guards fiddling with their dicks instead of combing every inch of the yard for clues.
“Interviewing the witnesses’ sir,” Barkley replied in a respectful manner and slowly raised his hand to his forehead to salute the disinterested Glen, who didn’t even bother returning the gesture.
“Who put the fucking ladder there?” Glen asked cutting to the chase and pointed at the wooden ladder.
“They were supposed to flank the villa, Hardir,” Folen explained whilst Glen approached the set against the wall ladder and slowly climbed it to the top of the stone fence. The small effort made him start sweating like a pig.
“Obviously, they were ambushed before making it inside,” Glen continued, now saddled on the fence and looking at the soldiers searching the two corpses’ just outside. One of them did a double take upon seeing the masked Monarch of Wetull watching their actions, whilst sitting atop the stone fence.
Surprise motherfucker! Glen’s glare warned the panicked guard.
“The culprit used the ladder to climb the fence,” Folen said from under him.
Evidently.
“Folen, I got all this by myself my dude,” Glen grunted. “Was it the same cretin who butchered Sir Nyvorlas? He better be, else we have two unidentified killers on the loose here!”
“The current hypothesis is that it was him. He used a sword,” the nervous Folen explained. “A neighbor spotted someone matching his description on the path, but couldn’t make him out clearly, because he stayed very close to the fence. He narrowed her field of view despite the good vantage point. By the way she knew one of the soldiers and his friend. Our guy wasn’t one of them.”
“So our guy, was alert enough to stay near the fence in order to avoid getting spotted by this nosy neighbor, who happened to spy on him from a different fuckin’ building, and from a distance of about sixty-seventy blasted meters away?”
Glen had roared the last sentence before he could control himself.
“I haven’t thought of that Hardir. She didn’t see him entering the villa’s yard,” Folen replied and with a deep sigh of frustration Glen climbed down the ladder.
“One of the guards was robbed,” Folen continued. “Both had their ears sliced off.”
Glen paused mid-stride and turned to stare at the Master of Silence. Folen took a slow step back to avoid the Monarch’s reach. Glen was known to lash out violently when frustrated.
“Their ears,” he repeated Folen’s words back to him and the Zilan nodded. “Is it a secret message of sorts? An underworld code? Was this a hit?”
“Eh, we are not certain Hardir.”
“You have bought an apartment overlooking the main square,” he told Folen, who was caught unawares from the query.
“It’s a small three bedroom place for the girls,” Folen replied guardedly.
“You’ll give it to Jinx. I’ll pay for it. Half the price, since it’s now used by your harlots.”
“It’s difficult to find another place so near the center in this market, Monarch,” Folen argued.
“I don’t care. Make it happen and I’ll forgive your blunder here.”
“Monarch,” Sir Delmuth reported marching towards them. “We found no bodies in the debris. Just this cheap rope. It has a dagger tied to it and was stuck in one of the broken window frames.”
What does that even mean?
“Of course you didn’t find them. They are gone,” Glen replied and tied his hands at the low of his back to silently examine the two floor villa. “How much time occurred between our killer’s initial approach and double murder, and Sir Nyvorlas’ entry inside the villa?”
“Less than ten minutes Hardir. Close to five,” Folen replied. “I was with Sir Nyvorlas. Sergeant Peron had just checked with both of them with a runner.”
“Obviously, our pale cretin didn’t use the front door,” Glen started sarcastically. “You did use the front door, right?”
“Aye sire. The back door was found locked and it doesn’t lead to the first floor anyway, per your instructions,” Folen informed him, “You have to walk to the front of the villa and you could not do that without falling on our men.”
“So you don’t know,” Glen added sarcastically and Folen nodded without shame.
Glen stared at the open first floor balcony door numbly. Then at the wall still sporting what appeared to be a muddy stain, three meters from the ground and four from the balcony. Was it from a boot?
“Could the rope be a grappling hook, Sir Delmuth?” Glen asked and the knight offered him the loop of oiled hemp rope that had a curved dagger tied at its edge.
“It doesn’t look practical Hardir,” Delmuth argued and Glen took a forward step while the Rokae Leader was still speaking, aimed briefly, and then tossed the tied up dagger towards the marble rails of the villa’s balcony. He aimed for the gap between each rail.
The dagger clanged and then dropped to the ground, but Glen gathered the rope patiently and tried again. The Monarch’s entourage cheering when he managed to send the dagger between two rails in the second attempt. Glen pulled at it softly and the blade caught, turning the rope taut.
With a bit of training it can be done.
“It’s not stable,” he commented after the dagger detached and dropped back down, the moment he tagged at it once. “You need to briefly use it as a lever to vault yourself like a gymnast, walk up the wall alike a circus acrobat and then grab the edge of the balcony to climb over the rails.”
Whoa. He did it.
Kudos.
“Seems pretty risky, Hardir,” Folen offered. “It’s a nasty drop. Almost ten meters.”
Not if yer almost desperate to get inside, before Sir Nyvorlas and the soldiers.
Why?
For Moira?
“Yeah,” Glen agreed and glanced at the disheveled Ticu watching them from the edge of the rooftop. Ah, what was her name? He wondered. “Here. Hold this,” Glen said remembering it and tossed the rope –and dagger- to a startled Folen.
Almost stabbed the multi-talented –according to himself- Zilan official in the gut.
It was a pity that he missed.
Glen reached the rooftop five minutes later, taking the internal stairs located on the north side of the villa. The rooftop offering him a good view of the surrounding area, the villa’s garden to the east and the yard up to the stone fence. Some of the rich Taras’ neighborhood over it.
Assara, the Ticu, was resting near the loggia at the front of the villa and watched as the masked Monarch paused to make an open-armed gesture.
“There’s no cause for alarm,” Glen assured her. “I’m not looking for you.”
Assara wiped her bloodied mouth with the back of her hand and blinked those huge fish eyes in response.
Glen approached the Ticu slowly, keeping his hand away from his sword handle and assuming a non-threatening posture. In fact he walked up to the shade of the loggia and placed both hands on the marble banister. Assara came to stand next to him, keeping a safe distance and they both stared down at the guards cleaning up the yard. There was a small crowd of citizens that had gathered in the Main Street to check on the collapsed building, but also to gaze at the resting under the sun snoring wyvern.
“Bad wyvern,” the Ticu said with her faraway whispery accent.
“He’s a good fellow, once ye get to know him,” Glen argued with a grin, the mask translated a little corny for the Ticu. “I’ve spoken to yer mother by the way. I told her you are alright.”
Assara had something in her closed hand, she glanced at Glen and grinned sheepishly.
Her shark-like teeth almost made the Monarch flinch.
“You are a cute thing, aren’t ye?” Glen said, fighting back the shiver to offer a half-genuine compliment. “If one gets past those disturbing eyes and teeth.”
The Ticu started humming with a blush and Glen had to snap his fingers to stop her. With a squeal Assara offered him what she had in her hand.
It was a bloody human ear. The right. Almost whole but for a small portion missing that had teeth marks left behind.
“I’m covered and not looking for an extra,” Glen jested, “But thanks. Go ahead,” he added and the Ticu raised her hand to shove the piece of flesh in her mouth. Good grief, Glen thought under the unsettling sound of loud chewing.
“Good food,” Assara said in between happy chomps.
“Did you kill the soldiers?” Glen asked soberly.
“Jinx says… not to harm humans,” Assara replied licking the leftovers from her bloody lips. “Can I?”
“No. The Gish is right for once,” Glen retorted. “Who gave it to you?”
The Ticu thought about it, those black fish-looking eyes mirroring Glen’s masked face.
“Death came in the house,” she finally said and Glen gulped down nervously.
“A Killer,” he translated and she nodded. “Why?”
“He wanted to save Moira from the Monarch’s people?” Assara paused and then looked at Glen unsure. “King Garth,” she said in awe. “You were in the woods.”
Damn it.
“Focus girl,” Glen told her. “Have you ever seen him again?”
“Once more,” Assara replied. “With Moira. But no one else did. He walks the shadows. A death bringer. Oras knows him.”
Glen stood back and took a big breath trying to figure out the implications.
“Do you know where they went?” He asked the silent Ticu and she shook her black mane that she didn’t.
“Does Jinx know about him?”
“Only the cat knows.”
Glen grimaced, cast a sour look about the yard for the talking cat, decided it would be ludicrous to look for a cat with half of Taras watching and stood back with an angry murmur.
“I’ll ask Folen to take you to Jinx’s new place. It’s near the lake,” he told the watching him closely young Ticu. Assara had transformed into a human female in the blink of an eye. “If she asks, we never talked.”
It wasn’t likely Assara would keep her mouth shut at such a query, but Whisper might not even remember to ask her.
Finding out who murdered Sir Nyvorlas might open a whole new can of worms, Glen thought gazing at the massive Goras old city towers in the distance. Their heavy shadow covering a quarter of the south part of Taras.
Larn
Twelve hours later
Old Southeast City ruins
Edge of the forest
Small Gullet’s Gulf
(Across Vermilion’s Peak)
Three kilometers south of Hardir’s Port
Toutatis signaled with the lightstone they had reached the beach with Labriel, the young Zilan still in a bad condition physically and emotionally from her mutilation, and Larn pursed a pair of thin dark lips on that pale-ashen face, before returning near the remote tavern near the pebbles-covered beach.
Another smuggler group arriving with a boat, just after the guards patrol had departed and the tavern owner went to signal in his turn for the unseen ships lurking in the dark waters of the small gulf to approach.
Aelrindel, now looking like an older lady of mixed origins, was standing next to the entrance with a despondent look on her face.
Larn was past trying to find out what bothered the sorceress, not with everything else going on around them. He’d spotted at least six cutthroats, or plain murderers amidst the tavern’s patrons, out of the ten in total. The rest of them only slightly better probably and it took them a good effort to pull it off.
At least in front of the soldiers coming from Hardir’s Port.
Thieves, crooks and scoundrels.
“What did the captain say?” Aelrindel asked and Larn grimaced at her loud voice, his eyes on the noisy tavern’s open door. It wasn’t a tavern per se, nor were any of those present really customers. No one in his right mind would stroll into the middle of wilderness or pretty close to that, to have a beer and listen to the calm waves splashing ashore.
“Don’t think he was the captain,” Ralnor replied and placed a dried up flesh cube in his mouth.
“It’s disgusting,” she commented seeing him. “Can’t believe you’re still doing that.”
“It’s nourishing. Fresh meat is overrated,” Larn retorted, feeling too tired to indulge in her complains with half of Goras after them. “Put some more wrinkles on your face.”
“I’m a Zilan, it is fine,” the masqueraded sorceress argued.
“So am I.”
“You’re a half-breed stray,” she reminded him. “Probably looked old as a toddler.”
“I’ll take old over being a fool,” Larn grunted and waved for her to enter the noisy warehouse, pretending to be a tavern. Several tables were occupied, but most of them were empty, the lighting poor and oil torches used instead of lightstones to keep visibility to a minimum.
The point was to make it difficult to tell who was who inside the ‘tavern’s’ gloomy atmosphere.
“It’s Garth’s economy,” the owner said, an overweight Zilan with sad eyes. “His new treasure guy is killing us. We have patrols sneaking around three times each day. Scare customers away.”
“You seemed friendly around them,” Larn noted, an eye on the other patrons, not the loud ones, but those keeping to their thoughts.
Allegedly.
“I’m a friendly guy. Beer?”
“I’ll have a glass of wine and a rare venison stake in its juices,” Aelrindel ordered with Larn’s coin.
The owner gave her a strange look. “We have chicken soup. Plenty of juice inside.”
“Eh, it’s the summer,” the sorceress argued.
“It’s a cold soup,” the owner countered with a thin smile.
“Anything else?”
“Fish soup. Also cold and it might give you the runs old lady. Goes down well with beer,” the heavy-set Zilan dared her to argue. “Whether it stays down is a toss-up.”
“When is Gipsy’s Song due?” Larn asked to prevent an argument starting or worse.
The owner used an index finger to clean a hairy and very long ear. Dug inside good and kept moving the finger about to get the job done, before finally replying with a sneer.
“It might come tonight,” he told Larn guardedly, just as a fit Mori-Zilan female wearing a beads-covered leather eyepatch came to stand near them. The sorceress had taken a chair on the empty table and sat down with a groan of frustration. “Or the night after that, unknown sickly-looking dude.”
You feel empowered amidst your friends, Larn’s cold eyes told the tavern owner of sorts. But I can kill you and be out of here afore anyone realizes you’re dead.
Kill anyone who does.
“Hey half-brother,” the comely Mori-Zilan greeted Larn in the Isles jargon of Cydonia Cazan. “You seem well-travelled. Any news from Coal Isle?”
“Haven’t been in a while,” Larn lied and she smiled, then offered him one of his throwing blades back.
“Apologies,” she gushed with a flinch of worry and Larn retracted the thin stiletto he’d parked on the inside of her left thigh. “You’ve a lot of interesting stuff under that old coat.”
Larn went to answer the pretty thief, but caught out of the corner of his right eye, a tall handsome Mori-Zilan male sitting on their table across the sorceress. He’d a bottle of wine in his hand, and slowly placed it in front of the smiling Aelrindel.
Oras shadows.
Larn took a step back, suddenly all tensed up and coiled to strike, whilst a slow grin returned on the female’s lush mouth.
“Let me take a guess,” her friend said calmly and while it took him a brief moment Larn remembered the voice. “Moira? Another moniker?”
Aelrindel glanced at the tensed Larn unsure and the nicely-dressed Mori-Zilan with the fancy silk red shirt, produced four glasses with his other hand. “It’s the Monarch’s best wine. I’m willing to risk it in exchange for a good story.”
“Better that you don’t,” Larn rustled, but their uninvited guest wasn’t deterred.
“Someone asked for a ‘ride’ through Serpent’s Canal. It’s a small circle,” he told them. “Not the official roundabout trade route to Torn Earth and the Peninsula’s markets, but with a stop added to it before Desert’s Watch peak. That’s where Nesande’s Garden ends. I don’t believe in coincidences.”
“I know who you are,” the sorceress told the charming Elderblood and he shrugged his shoulders in a casual manner, long nimble fingers rapping at the table.
The elegant rhythmic tune equal parts naughty and haunting.
The ancient elegant rhythmic tune equal parts joyful and haunting. Haunting because Ralnor was there when this jubilant song of the First Era was born and was fully aware of what was to follow.
A captain fetched a gift bound in a missive, to this here distant water
From Sibara’s golden shores and Shark Isles’ rocky pillars of the Haze Sea
Afore Sintoriela’s spawns returned to Raxe-Tull to fight the dead Banshee
Beneath night’s shining stars, by Goddess’ fate compelled
Here be your reward mother of all strays, well deserved
Old Marionel’s lullabies reached a mountain’s top and kissed the sky
All her mother’s ache now turned to a whisper’s joy very nigh
A Captain brought a gift hidden in a missive, to this here distant water
Rejoice, the missive read, for the good witch had another daughter
“I know you do, although thee shouldn’t, but then I considered your particular company and what before seemed impossible, now makes perfect sense,” Nulanos noticed with a friendly smile and settled his eyes on the scowling assassin. “For where you are sorceress, the angry stray always follows after. Be it a smuggler’s port, or a rooftop. A remote tavern, or the fabled Elas’ Study,” he added in a singsong voice. “Young Tir Ral-Nor, it’s been a while.”