Mourning

Polished some of 8.1 — 18m50s — 2021/06/06

Polished 8.1 — 33m25s — 2021/06/08

Polished 8.1, 8.2 and 8.3 — 2021/06/24

Polished 8.3, 8.4, and 8.5 — 1h09m27s — 2021/07/08

Polished 8.5 and 8.6 — 1h10m42s — 2021/07/13

A skeleton of flame-scarred timbers tenuously hung in the bright morning air. Flames stretched from the top of the House of Leaves, but no longer spread, as the most zealous of citizens flung their buckets of water at the last few hot spots that remained.

Celesi did her best not to think of Traust, buried somewhere in the ash. She glanced about her companions, happy that so many of them had made it out alive, yet anguished by the amount of blood on their clothes.

Saleos and Duboha parlayed with officers among the Pan Iskaer as the others rested under the watchful eye of their captors. A Pan Iskaer guard, a slight and weaselly man, caught sight of Wenifas among the surrendered party. He nudged a friend as he pointed at the priestess, and whispered “Ministrian.”

At his word, the other Pan Iskaer turned. They stared at Wenifas, then approached to get a better look at the unsuspecting priestess. Several other Pan Iskaer leaned in as more and more noticed. The one that discovered her stood just in front of Celesi as he pointed at the beleaguered Ministrian, then ordered her to stand up. Wenifas turned and stared back at the slight guard, dumbfounded and unsure of his language. “Git up,” he told her once again.

Celesi’s anger boiled over. She lunged at the accusing Pan Iskaer and struck him with her balled fist before he could do anything about it. "You will not touch her!” she snapped at the man, already hysteric. “She is exiled! You hear me! She is no more a Ministrian than you or I and YOU WILL NOT TOUCH HER!" She screamed as she struck him again and again.

The Pan Iskaer was most surprised by the audacity of Celesi’s attack. He flinched and shrugged aside her assault, then caught her hands and wrapped her in a restraining hug. “Easy now,” he growled. “You don’t want to fight me.”

Despite her fury, Celesi could do no harm. Although the combatants were similar in size, the Pan Iskaer was well muscled and seemingly made of wood. To break this woman would take nothing more than a hard squeeze. “Let go, you brute!” Celesi yelled as she tried to get away. She kicked at his shins, though it seemed only to hurt her heels.

“Stop striking, and perhaps I will…” the Pan Iskaer replied between gritted teeth.

A dark hand gripped the Pan Iskaer’s shoulder. The guard turned to see the serious face of Carringten. With a bit of a bow, the captain imposed himself between the two. “Apologies, Squirrel,” he said to the Pan Iskaer guard, as Toar took hold of Celesi and pulled her away.

Squirrel bowed back to the dark foreigner and Celesi allowed Toar to hold her back—though she still yelled at the man. “You speak Ministrian, so why don’t you ask her?!” Celesi glared. “Go ahead! Ask her!”

Squirrel turned to Wenifas. "Is it true?” he began. “Are you exiled?"

Wenifas shrank from the man, but the others encouraged her, and so she gave a nod.

"Is it because of you that they attack?" Squirrel continued.

Wenifas shook her head.

“Then why has this trouble started?”

Wenifas looked to the others, but they simply waited for her to answer in her own way. Not knowing what else to say, she began with the truth. "The Degorouth and their Baradha allies believe we had something to do with Kezodel’s death, though I can assure you it was nothing more than a cosmic accident.”

Squirrel gaped as he looked about the group with new eyes. “It was you!” he half-accused. “You faced the judge, and somehow killed that reprehensible cretin?”

Carringten shook his head. “Chance killed the beast. We cannot cause meteors to fall. Indeed, the shaman tried most fervently to warn the wayward judge,” he continued. “Still, we knew the Degorouth would blame us, and so we thought it best to leave the city. We've been delayed—though we were safe until last night—when they discovered us. They crept upon our house and thought we slept. They lit the house on fire. That is when we rushed away, that we might escape.”

“You got a good distance,” Squirrel shrugged. “But you had a good number of your enemy behind you. Indeed, we caught half a dozen, and chased off a couple dozen more. I’d guess there was half a company after you.”

“You have captives?” Carringten noted. “What do they say about all this?”

“They say they are after fugitives. After that, they simply demand their release,” Squirrel shrugged. “We’ll see if they change their tune once we soften them up a bit.” With a snort, the guard turned and stepped over to where Duboha and Saleos continued their conversation with several of the Pan Iskaer captains.

They continued to talk as the crowd of onlookers grew, interested in the militias activities. Noticing the growing jumble of busybodies, the Pan Iskaer came to a quick agreement. Squirrel left their midst and returned to the dark captain, as the commanders gave orders among their own to push a path through the growing throng of rubberneckers.

"It is evident to us that you were defending yourself and should be free,” Squirrel smiled. “However, since so many take an interest in this morning’s mess, we think it is best if we escort you into the countryside; and since we travel with you, we hope that perhaps you will tell us more of your story,” he bowed.

Carringten nodded. "Before we go, we would like to collect our fallen," he said.

“Others already see to it,” Squirrel gave a nod. “Now, it is best if we take you from the city with all possible haste. We may control this quarter for the time, but the Degorouth and their Ministrian allies still hold sway over the city. They will gather a force we cannot oppose.”

With that, the Jindleyak and their associates gathered their weapons and were pointed toward the nearest city gate. As they walked, Scurra leaned between the brothers Homoth and Komotz. "What happened to Traust?" she asked under her breath.

Komotz shook his head. “He is lost. We are lucky he is the only one."

"No," Scurra replied. "Apulton caught an arrow in the back and tumbled from the top of the house."

Komotz frowned. “Oh…” he began.

"What of you?" Scurra turned to Homoth. "That’s a fair bit of blood."

“I’ve attended to it,” Komotz shook his head. "It is superficial, very much like my brother,” he grinned. “You know Homoth; he must be the best at everything, even bleeding.”

With a snort, Homoth took a swipe at his little brother.

"How many of the enemy did we claim?" Andrus interjected.

"Eight or nine on the ground?”Komotz shrugged. “We injured at least that many more. What of you?"

"We got at least a dozen from our perches,” Andrus grinned. “We might have killed twice that."

Scurra snorted. "Not to entertain this ghoulishness, but I doubt we killed half that many."

"And how many were there?" Komotz asked.

"A lot?" Andrus shrugged. "We were lucky. Those stuck at the front were cut off and slow to follow, thanks to the fire."

“A fire they set,” Komotz noted.

"Once they started the fire, I think they expected we'd come out naked, unorganized, and easy to arrest," Homoth sneered. "It must have shocked them to see a dozen men crash out of the house in full battle gear at the very beginning of it all."

"Still, Apulton and Traust..." Scurra shook his head. “And what happened to Aim and Elpis? Did anyone see what became of them?”

The others turned and glanced about the other members of their party. Only then did they realize that the big man and their injured cousin were nowhere to be seen.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 8.2 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

“Three times, this duke has eluded us!“ Meriona complained. “Is he destined to return home and ruin me?!”

“It is your fault we were late to the party,” Toddles complained. “If you had not insisted we chase rumors and ghosts to Edgewater,” he continued.

“I didn’t suggest that!” Meriona recoiled from the throat-cutter. “I said it was only a few of their new Trohl friends, and not the duke at all! You took us to Edgewater!”

“That’s what I said,” Toddles agreed. “You took us to Edgewater,” he repeated her words—although not their intent. The other throat-cutters chuckled.

Exacerbated, Meriona glared at her new companions. “Gliedian said I am in charge,” she reminded them. “Not only do you pay me no mind, but now you mock me for your decisions?”

“You are in charge,” Toddles gave an exaggerated nod. “That is why we blame you for taking us to Edgewater.” He repeated yet again, then raised a hand to cut off any further protest. “Please. Your complaints are not making this trip any quicker. Just accept your failings, and let us follow after our quarry,” he concluded with a sneer that revealed discolored and mishapen teeth.

The others laughed as Meriona glared at them in turn. She thought she might have a friend or two among them—but they had banded against her almost immediately, and treated her as a burden—then, they’d mocked her for her civility among the commoners. But she was not all grace and niceties. She had her own ways of getting even and a long memory. Already, their debt to her was growing.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 8.3 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Aim lost his pole arm. He buried it in a Ministrian's ribs, the weapon got caught, and since he couldn’t take the Ministrian with him—though he tried for half a block or so—he let the dead man keep it. After that, he pulled his long sword to fight his way clear—but he also lost that weapon when he threw it at a fleeing Degorouth. The blade almost cleaved the man’s head in two, before it carried another twenty feet down the alley. Having felled the man, and deciding to go the other direction, Aim let the sword go, as he still had other weapons.

After seeing seeing his friend and mentor, Traust, die in such a sudden and violent manner, Aim was running a touch hot under the collar.Of the knot of men that once stood against him, a single Degorouth still stood. Having witnessed the juggernaut take apart several of his friends in such a quick fashion and with a minimal effort, the much smaller Degorouth soldier took the prudent course. He turned heel and ran down the cobblestone alley as fast as his feet could carry him. Aim chased a half dozen steps, but was quickly outpaced, as he was still weighed down by Elpis. This last opponent disappeared, and Aim gently checked to see that his cousin still breathed; then turned back to see where the others had gone. With a frown, he realized his cousins were nowhere to be seen. He listened to the distant mayhem and hoped they were doing fine without him. He knew he should not have allowed his anger to get a hold of him so, as he hurried to the end of the alley.

The streets were suddenly full of men running in every direction. Calls and screams filled the air. Aim turned to the south and west, fairly certain his friends were somewhere in that direction, and barreled his way through the early morning crowd. Most of those on the street took immediate note of the burning House of Leaves and turned to battle the blaze, so it might not spread into the city proper. Though many of them noticed the giant man—how could they not—they prudently passed him by.

Aim pulled the horse blanket over his own head. He hunched over, affected a hobble, and acted malformed. Many stared as they passed, and those that stared too long were met with Aim’s own stare; which could be quite unnerving, as he continued toward the nearest gate.

Aim turned a corner and stepped into a larger street. He found several Pan Iskaer in front of him. He had no weapon in his hand—though he had several more upon his body, including Elpis’s long axe. The armed men turned and blocked Aim’s path. "You ain’t no Pan Iskaer,” one of them noted. “You Degorouth?” the man sneered.

Aim shook his head. “I’m a Wood Hound,” he answered. He wore a doltish mask, as if he was as dumb as he was big, and prepared to kill the lot of ‘em should they answer unkindly. His hands slipped to a pair of short swords.

The Pan Iskaer shrugged as they knew nothing of this strange militia, though they breathed easy since the large man denied being a Degorouth. The first of the Pan Iskaer turned back on Aim and pointed his sword. “These streets belong to the Pan Iskaer, so clear out or be arrested!" he ordered. Not actually wanting to trouble the large man, he took several steps away. Another of the Pan Iskaer thought better of it and turned to the giant yet again. “Would you care to join our hunt?” he asked.

“Who do you hunt?” Aim asked.

“Degorouth!” the man proclaimed.

Aim grinned, then shook his head. “As tempting as that is, friend, I shall do as you ask, and make myself scarce.“

With a disappointed nod, the Pan Iskaer turned and followed after his colleagues.

Aim smiled as he watched them go. The Degorouth were about to have a bad morning of it, what with the Pan Iskaer chasing after them. He resettled Elpis on his shoulder, and made for the gate once more. The crowd grew. Aim drifted among it. Most of the gathered rabble were simply curious bystanders—but there was a thick ring of Pan Iskaer militiamen—and at the center of it were his friends. Happy to see that at least a few of them had survived, he kept his distance and watched as Duboha and Saleos pleaded their case to the Pan Iskaer officers. There were far too many Pan Iskaer to fight—but if they tried to hurt his friends, Aim figured he could cut down several before they realized their mistake—and then he should have his friends fighting with him. At that point, at least a few of the others might get away and return home to tell of what happened. For his own sake, Aim didn’t care if ever made it home or not. He simply wanted to do damage, as there was still a bloodlust upon him.

Yet, it was the Pan Iskaer militia, and Aim knew them to be a rather level headed bunch. They had little love for Kezodel and his Ministrian allies, so it was just as likely his friends would be let free—once it was realized they were attacked in cold blood. Though the Degorouth had the general run of the city, the various militias did much of the peacekeeping in their own enclaves and townships, which was a big reason the Oak and Beast kept their safe house in Pan Iskaer territory.

Aim was not surprised when his friends slowly gathered their weapons and began toward the nearest city gate under the watchful eye of the Pan Iskaer militia. Slowly, the growing crowd made its way to the gate. As they walked, Aim counted his friends. He frowned as he came up short. He must have counted them four or five times before he realized Apulton was missing. This made his heart heavy—though he had to admit they were incredibly fortunate that only Apulton and Traust were lost. He wondered if perhaps his good friend was simply missing, like himself, simply somewhere in the crowd... He searched for Apulton among the growing sea of people as more and more gathered to witness those at the center of the early morning disturbance.

As the crowd grew, so did the number of Pan Iskaer. They appeared everywhere with their red and gold emblems, at least a hundred obvious men. There were bound to be a number of more subtle agents about the crowd. He spotted a number of obvious spies, though they seemed to ignore Aim and his mask of doltishness.

Of all the spies, the one that caught and held Aim’s attention was the strange woman with striking red hair and a familiar look. He snatched glances of the older woman, one of many spies that Apulton or Duboha most have noted during their forays into the city. There was a young boy with the old woman. They were undoubtedly Ministrian, as they spoke the foul language in short, hushed snippets—which is to say the boy spoke Ministrian—while the strange lady with the pointy face didn’t seem to speak much at all. Aim glared at her and imagined the worst as he followed. He considered grabbing her from behind and squeezing the truth from her—but there were still too many people around for such a direct approach. For now, it was simply best to follow. The strange lady and the young boy continued past the city gates. Aim kept his distance. He knew he was not inconspicuous—especially as he carried Elpis—but he knew a few tricks when it came to stalking a target and blending into a crowd.

Soon, his friends arrived at a stable, and the Pan Iskaer proceeded to outfit them with mounts. The crowd had thinned and Aim decided it was time to be seen. He confronted the redhead and the boy as they snuck up on his friends. He grabbed the woman and the boy by their shoulders.

As he touched her, the woman turned on Aim and tried to bite him! Aim let go of the boy and brushed the redhead away before she could sink her teeth. He pulled a knife, then stared her down—but the woman stood her ground. She hissed as she stood in front of the boy, though she had no obvious weapons. For his part, the child pulled a dagger, though the sight of it did not bother Aim at all. “You’re a bit of a spitfire,” Aim glared at the boy. “Put down the knife, before I have to hurt you.”

The boy’s gaze turned quizzical as he stared at the injured man on Aim’s shoulder. The horse blanket had slipped, revealing his injured cousin. “Elpis?!” the boy began—though his words trailed off into Ministrian, which was too quick for Aim’s tenuous grasp of the foul language.

Confused that his ward should be identified, Aim took a step back. “What’d you say?” he glared at the child.

The others turned and stared after the commotion. “Aim!” Komotz beamed. The younger brother waved and took several steps forward—though he also turned and stared—as squeals of excitement erupted from the priestess.

Sitting on a wagon, Wenifas pushed Evereste into the shaman’s hands, then jumped from her perch with such abandon that she nearly ended up face down in the dirt—only to right herself and rush at the boy with outstretched arms. She gathered the child in a rough smothering hug, and also the strange lady, as she berated them both in her foreign tongue. From there, she proceeded to kiss them and stroke their hair, as they all giggled and cried in each other’s arms.

Embarrassed, Aim turned to the others who smiled and laughed at his bewilderment, then wrapped him in their own hugs, and asked his story as several checked to see that Elpis was also okay.

So it continued for several minutes.

Eventually, the party rode from the stables. As they left, Aim continued to stare at the strange, silent old woman with flame red hair. She was still such a stranger to most of them, and he couldn’t help a sneaking suspicion. There was something odd about her, almost alien. It was obvious that she harbored secrets—but he had no idea what they might be.

Several miles down the road, as Aim continued to stare at Meu, Andrus noticed his cousin’s preoccupation with the strange lady. He leaned close to his cousin. “What is it?” Andrus whispered.

Aim shook his head. “Something ain’t right with that one,” he began. “Weird, in the weirding ways, like the shaman, I think,” he suggested, then shrugged.

Andrus stared at the woman. With a calculating nod, he glanced back at Aim, held two fingers to his eyes, pointed at the strange woman, then back at his own eyes in a gesture that said: I’m watching.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 8.4 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Baet found himself free of concern. Thanks to the Pan Iskaer, the duke now had an escort of a good fifty men. Other friendly militias appeared about the Copper Kettle and Rooms to speak with the Jindleyaks—but few, if any, bothered the foreigners at all—which made Baet’s job an easy one. Most of those that came to visit did not even look at the duke. They were far too interested in the crinkly old shaman and how he’d predicted—or possibly caused—the death of Kezodel. They stood, enraptured by the strange story, and heaped praise upon the unsettled little man as he blushed prudently and accepted the compliments in a graceful manner—though he mostly tried to avoid the Jindleyaks telling his story and also those listening. Still, they occasionally cornered him, that they might stare at his scarred countenance, shake his withered hands, and wish him well—the poor bastard—and since the grumpy old wizard was busy hiding, he had no time to glare at the Saot guard. To think that he’d almost reclaimed Cloud Breaker from the cantankerous preistess…

Since they’d arrived at the Copper Kettle and Rooms, Baet had Carringten’s blessing to do as he liked. The inn boasted several small pools, fed by a hot spring. Baet sat in the heat of the water, and occasionally shifted to one of the warmer or cooler pools. The sun dipped in the west as he rested his eyes. There were still so many hours until dark, when Baet would take the watch with Homoth and Komotz, and loiter about the inn’s grounds. He smiled to think of the cards that would fly between them.

A shadow crossed over the undressed man-at-arms and brought an uneasiness with it. Baet reached for the sword he kept with his towel, only to relax as he realized it was Carringten standing over him. “Silent as the night,” he forced smile.

“Apologies,” Carringten replied. “Duboha and the Pan Iskaer have retrieved the bodies of Apulton and Traust. The others mean to light a fire and mourn their friends.”

“Ahh,” Baet bowed his head. “The others have gathered?”

“As the sun sets,” Carringten answered. “For now, they gather wood.”

Baet gave a nod and relaxed back into the water. “I shall miss these pools when we leave.”

Carringten smiled. “Then you will be happy to know that our friends mean to stay another day. Elpis is still quite weak, and I think everyone is a bit weary. They all seem quite certain we are safe.”

Baet nodded emphatically. “I don’t know about you, but my tiredness goes to the bone,” he began. “It's been a long couple months since we left Gaurring Heart.” He stared at his captain. “Do you think we'll go home any time soon? Does our master still mean to search for the thief?”

“Do you prefer one over the other?” Carringten asked, quite certain that he did.

Baet frowned at the question, then admitted it. “I should very much like to go home,” he nodded. “I would have liked to stay in the first place.”

“You did not have to come,” Carringten replied with a quizzical eye.

Baet snorted and wondered if that were true. He suspected if he had refused, they would have thrown him in a cell—then he wondered if it was possible they asked him to join the hunt simply because he was a talented and dangerous man. Did they know—could they know of his betrayal? He felt a tinge of guilt as he remembered why he came, and how the whole fiasco had started—but said nothing about it. The duke and Carringten gave nothing away—and so Baet was forced to wonder. “I am honored to guard the duke,” Baet repeated. “And I an honored to do as he says. He certainly pays well.”

“And when we get to Hearthstone, who is to say we will find Humbert at all?” Carringten shrugged as he stared off into the distance. “Who is to say he has not lost himself on the road; to brigands, or sickness, or some other calamity?”

“And who is to say we won't find him running further afield? Perhaps for Grimgoar territory, or even New Tallia?” Baet interjected.

“Who is to say he hasn't come west and lost himself somewhere in Ebertin?" Carringten replied. “But it is impossible to know, so let’s leave the unknowable future where it belongs.”

“It does not matter,” Baet agreed. “The duke will say what he wants, and I will do as he says. I will serve as I always have.”

For a long second, Carringten stared at his junior guard; then he turned and glanced at the sun, determined to change the subject. “Tomorrow, I go with Saleos and some of the others to get supplies. The duke wants you to check in with him when you wake. I think he means for you to do whatever you like tomorrow, just stay upon the grounds of the inn—and keep your eyes up, of course,” Carringten said. “You deserve a rest.”

Baet smiled and gave a nod. “Thank you. Care to join me? The pools are warm, and big enough for a dozen of us, I should think.”

“You shall have company soon enough,” Carringten smiled. “I am told they get crowded as the sun sets and rises. For now, I shall help gather wood. I leave you to your own peace,” he turned and stepped away.

Baet closed his eyes that he might forget his troubles, and concentrate on the warm water as it rippled across his skin. For several minutes he managed to relax. For a touch, he even fell asleep. Indeed, he did not hear the patter of little feet. Nor did he see the small Ministrian boy as he stopped and glared at the guard. He did not see the child huff, and go look for other distraction as he twisted the handle of his naga blade.

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 8.5 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

Baet approached the bonfire to find the others already there. Even the injured man, Elpis, sat at the edge of the fire. Despite his weakness, he looked increasingly likely to recover, though he was still pale and drawn, with his injured eye staring off in strange directions.

The crowd was reverent and sedate as the the flames climbed through the giant stack of wood—except for a bubbly and wide-eyed Evereste—as she cooed, babbled, and blew raspberries at the dancing fire. The flames licked higher and higher into the fading darkness. Sparks rose to mingle with the first of the night's stars.

The various members of the Oak and Beast stared into the fire, a morose and somber lot. Toar sat next to the Soat guard and translated their words. "I grew up with Apulton,” Komotz began with gathering tears. “We used to swim the waters of the Heartflow together. He was with me on my first hunt."

"Nine years I served with Traust," Duboha stated in a flat tone. "I've never known a better man."

"There is nothing but darkness," Andrus mused.

“It is a shame," Aim noted. "It is a shame indeed."

The mood became increasingly despondent and sullen as the Jindleyak drank and spoke of their friends in respectful and morose snippets. As they continued, Creigal's mood became increasingly dark. After a short time, there was something of a scowl upon the duke’s lips. For nearly an hour he remained quiet—as the Trohls mourned their losses—so it surprised the natives when the duke stepped on the trunk of a fallen tree and looked about the group with a commanding eye. Although the others were surprised, Baet realized immediately that their duke meant to deliver a speech, and he meant to do it the only way he knew how: in a grand and dramatic fashion.

Creigal waited for the others to be quiet. He began slow, and with a low voice as he directed his words at the Jindleyaks. "I barely knew them—your brothers. We met only a few days ago. I was to be hanged for sins I did not commit,” the duke began with a grim smile. “Despite the serious charges against me, Traust offered to escort me to safety. He lent me money. Like the rest of you, Apulton was agreeable, and when push came to shove, he put his life on the line," Creigal hanged his head. "Now the deal is done. We have paid our enemies, tit for tat, and my loyalty is bought with the most precious of coin: life’s blood.

“But these are not all the men that have died of late,” Creigal continued as he stared about the gathered Jindleyak militiamen. “My men in Wibbeley died that I might live: Vearing, Marik, Haddleton to name a few… These are not names you know, but they were loyal to me, and I have not had the time to mourn them proper. I have not had the opportunity to inform and comfort their families. I hope they forgive me for short shrift.” Creigal bowed his head. He gave his dead men a moment of silence. Tears welled in his eyes as he began again. “One day, Nature will take us all, righteous and wicked alike!” He said with a booming voice. “She gave us life, and one day she will claim us, each and every one! You and I are but food for her worms! Our friends simply go before us, their bodies settled in the deep dark earth, their sprits drifting in the the great beyond!” he roared. “Despite our inevitable endings, I celebrate what our friends have bought—for they have bought our lives, our hopes, our ambitions—and I will not go lightly to my death!” Creigal scowled as he stared about those gathered. He shook his head. “We do not honor the dead by following a deadening path, with sad and morose platitudes! We honor them by living full and courageous lives! We honor them by clinging to our values, tooth and nail! I will not go lightly! On all their graves, I swear I will be a boon to my friends—and I will be a terror in the face of my enemies!” he charged. “I cling to my precious life with a tenacity, and I do all that I can for all that I love!" He lifted his arms and turned his face to the sky. "Sweet Abra, receive the spirits of our fallen friends! Remind them of our love! Do not let them be forgotten, for one day, the earth will claim us all; and that day we shall know our friends once more!” he roared.

The others stood and cheered as Creigal finished his speech. He turned and sat once more as a call went up among the Jindleyak.

"Let us be worthy!" Saleos added.

“Brave words!” Duboha nodded. “Praise Jeiju!”

"Praise Jeiju!" Homoth repeated.

"Praise Jeiju!" the others took up the call. "Praise indeed!"

The men stood and crowded about Creigal. They patted him on the back, hugged him, and thanked him for his kind words. Several of their eyes were wet with remembering.

An ethereal sound began, a high-wailing moan, otherworldly, and strange. The group turned and realized the song came from Meu, the ever silent and slender redhead as she sang a haunting ethereal song, a dirge of her kind.

Krumpus caught the melody and hummed along. As the song ended, he shifted it and changed the tempo, that he might hum his favorite song, written to memorialize the Broken Legions of Old Tallia, as they ran from their enemies, and prayed that they might find a new home. It started slow and sad, as the people suffered greatly on their march, hounded and hunted for hundreds of miles across the plains of Tallia, with only the 'traitors' Tronde and Rigel and their 'criminal' men to protect them. Meu knew the song, as it as the same one he sang to her the first time they met, the song of a harried march; and countless men died, in battle, of fatigue, of sickness, of hopelessness.

Yet, so many lived, and in the mountains of the Bunderhilt, the survivors of Old Tallia found a friendly people, warm and welcoming. The song swelled and became hopeful as the Tallian refugees met the various Yak tribes. It took on a joyous tone as it turned to the mingling of these peoples. The native tribes of the mountains took in the beleaguered survivors of Old Tallia and helped them establish themselves. They gave freely of their surplus, and shared vital stores. They saved so very many those first few months—and the Tallian refugees were thankful for such kind treatment.

Indeed, the Yak and Tallians found each others customs to be rich and endearing. There was much knowledge and wisdom shared between them. Over the following years, manyof the refugees and their rescuers mingled and melded into a single people. The nine nations of the Trohl were born.

Smiles overcame the company as the glad sound of the shaman continued. Others among the Jindleyak took up the song and filled the air with words.

As all this continued, Wenifas thought of Derris. Emotion overcame her. She wanted to sing the sad parts of their songs, but she could not. She did not know the lyrics. But she could follow the rhythm. She could dance. Music was sacred to Ministrians and dance was one of the primary ways that her people worshiped. Despite her tears, Wenifas stood and began to stir. Tonight, dance would be the way she mourned her lost love.

The movements came naturally as Wenifas weaved and snaked around the bonfire. As the song shifted and became joyous, Wenifas allowed her expression to shift with it—though it belied her devastation and grief. Though she barely noticed it, the others stared and clapped as they cheered her on.

Celesi joined in, trained in the ways of Minist, and knowing the dance that Wenifas performed. Although she mourned those that were lost, the apprentice Jay felt boisterous. She was free, thank the gods, free! And she had a man to impress! Her dance took on a seductive edge as she lingered near Toar.

Meu followed their lead as she very much loved to dance. Her serpentine nature was wise to the fluid shift of song, and she performed well.

Scurra also joined, though she was a novice compared to the others. Still, she managed to keep time just fine, and was a beauty in her own right. Indeed, Scurra received the loudest applause as she stood to join the other women. In comparison, her steps were simple—but the Jindleyak men cheered and whistled to see their cousin move in such a womanly manner. They knew her to be a tomboy and were most surprised to see her implement her feminine wiles.

The song shifted in pitch and tempo as Krumpus stood and began to dance with the women. Several of the other men joined the dance too. For some time, much of the party weaved in a circle about the bonfire as the long and ancient song continued. Evereste screeched and laughed to see them dance. She bobbed and clapped as Claiten held her.

Baet found himself dancing with Wenifas. It happened by accident—though he was glad when he noticed. He stared at the priestess as she stepped, bounced, and waved all about. She was beautiful in an exotic way, her dress and features so very foreign, as were her manners and attitudes. She was a vision, despite the tears that streaked her face.

Baet realized that the priestess was not mourning Traust and Apulton, but the guard at the fort, her lover. He stopped in his step as he remembered how he had wronged her. He stared at the woman before him and wondered if there was any way he might possibly win her heart. Would she ever forgive him for what he’d done?

For her part, Wenifas did not notice Baet. He was just another man, and he could never be the one she cared for. Then, as he stood stock still, she took the time to wonder why. She realized who it was that leered at her. It did not matter that his face was stained with grief of his own—only that he stared at her with an obvious longing. She saw only the face that killed Derris. Her anger flared and she was unable to continue in her fluid step. She swayed to a stop and stared at the man with murderous intent in her eyes.

Now that he had her full attention, Baet collapsed to his knees. He took the priestess by her hand and pressed it to his forehead. After the heartfelt speech of his duke and the emotional song and dance, he felt the keen sting of his own betrayals and shortcomings. He longed to be forgiven.

The priestess continued to glare, then her free hand shot out and caught Baet's cheek with a resounding slap. The dancing and the singing slowed and stopped as the others turned toward the odd couple. There was no sound except the crackle of the fire—and the babble of Evereste.

Baet made no move. He only touched his stinging cheek as he stared wide-eyed at the priestess. Rage surged through Wenifas. She screamed and lunged at the Saot. “Die!” she roared, as she struck him again and again. She pushed him to the ground and continued to yell her fury as she lashed out at him.

Baet curled into a ball and took the punishment. Wenifas was not terribly strong, and despite her eagerness to do damage, her bare hands were not up to the task—then Wenifas spotted the knife on Baet's belt. She yanked it from the sheath and swept her hand back. She aimed the blade, and would have stabbed the man. As she swept the blade down, Scurra caught the priestess by the arm and held it. She stared at Wenifas, shocked that the Ministrian might try to kill.

Wenifas turned on Scurra with a scowl and shrieked at the Jindleyak, “Let me do it!”

"No," Scurra said to the priestess, her voice calm but authoritative.

Wenifas roared. She turned and tried to strike the Trohl woman, but Scurra deflected the blow and twisted the knife out the priestess's hand. With a gasp, Wenifas dropped the knife.

Having disarmed the woman, Scurra picked the dagger off the ground. “Whatever happened between you, leave it in the past,” she said to the priestess.

Wenifas screamed and bawled as Meu and Celesi encircled her. At first, the priestess struggled against her friends, then she crumbled into their waiting arms. The priestess bawled as Celesi and Meu led her from the crowd.

Claiten handed Evereste to Elpis. Everyone thought the drama was over—then the boy pulled his knife and lunged at Baet. He crowed and took a swipe at the man—but the guard was no longer frozen. He managed to dodge the boy—once, twice, then caught the child’s hand.

Meu left Wenifas and returned to the bonfire in a flash. She took the knife and Claiten’s hand from the guard, then led the boy away as she held the naga knife.

Claiten dragged his heels. He turned and snapped at the guard. “Stupid spearhead!” he cursed as Meu pulled him along. he continued to curse the Saot guard as the distance between them grew. “Idiot pleb! Limp pickle!” he yelled, then crowed for good measure. “ERR-AYE-ERR-AYE ERRRRR!”

~!@#$%^&*()_+ 8.6 +_)(*&^%$#@!~

After the fracas between Wenifas and Baet, the mood of solemn reverence was broken, so Creigal took the opportunity to slip away. He disappeared from the light of the fire and proceeded to the bank of the river.

After a short time, Carringten appeared at his elbow. "Quite the speech," he assured as they moved away from the fire.

Creigal nodded and smiled at his captain. "I spoke from my heart."

“Yes, and in a grand manner too,” Carringten smiled. "I appreciate your words for my fallen brothers. I believe Baet feels the same—though he has a peculiar way of showing it,” he shrugged. “Anyway, I think our new friends are quite taken.”

Normally, Creigal was quite happy to hear Carringten’s pragmatic, though often dry, commentary. Tonight he was uninterested. He turned to his adopted son and stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. "I thank you for your candid evaluation, my friend, but might I be alone with my thoughts for a while? I do not feel any danger around us, and it has been such a long time since I have been alone."

Carringten stopped in his tracks and gave a bow. "Yes, my liege," he said. "If there is need, I shall be among our friends."

"I thank you," Creigal smiled and watched as Carringten disappeared back toward the fire. The duke walked to the very edge of the river, then continued along its bank. He checked to see if Carringten followed, and although he saw no trace of the bodyguard, he knew the man might easily stalk nearby. Creigal decided it was enough. Whether he was alone, or simply thought he was alone, there was little difference. Either way, the duke was quite alone in his thoughts. Haunting thoughts. Thoughts of his daughter. Thoughts of a thief. Thoughts of his sons. Thoughts of his duchy. Thoughts of his people. There was certainly enough to think about.

Being so far from home, Creigal knew it could do no good to worry over the duchy—and yet he could not put it aside. His ministers were good and capable men, and the duchy was largely in their hands, even when he was around. He simply hoped they did not feel abandoned. He hoped they might miss him, if he should not return, that he’d be worthy of their grief—but he hoped they would not get carried away, that they would not forget how powerful they were all on their own.

He also hoped his sons would be denied any power. He cared nothing for his boys, whom were disinherited after it was proved they killed their sister. Oh, Daphne! Did they really think they could get away with it?! That they might steal her inheritance?! Instead, they would get nothing from their father—except his holy wrath. Instead, the duchy would fall to his nephew, Varius; a solid and weighty diplomat with a serious demeanor and outlook; and very much one of Creigal’s inner circle. The duchy would prosper under his nephew. There was no doubt of that. He practically ran Gaurring as it was. Creigal was little more than a figurehead these days, only ever approving the well developed plans of his nephew and ministers.

Indeed, Creigal had no passion for his position anymore. There was just an endless war before him; cold and bitter calculation. Perhaps that is how passion and sentimentality could send him after his daughter's necklace, in a fit of rage, with the thief’s accomplice in tow—and as they traipsed across an unknown land, not a poisoning, an attempted assassination, or the threat of hanging could give him pause. There was nothing Creigal wanted aside from his daughter's remembrance, a base and simple necklace. There was no lust in his life, no zeal. There was only a small, enduring ember that he could stoke into a rage with cold calculation. He felt a fraud—even though he knew his speech was good for his new friends. Could he feel the death of his guards anymore? How many strong capable men with glaringly bright futures had lost their lives in his service? If it were not for the infernal King, for Gred duReb’s incessant plotting, how many would still be alive?

Creigal sat at the edge of the lapping water and pondered its flow. The water would never run east, never uphill. There was no undoing what was done. So much was already done. Why should he worry that he might lose his sweet daughter, when she was already gone? Was it not an irredeemable debt? Retrieving her necklace would do nothing to bring her back.

Yet, endless dreams of her spurred him on. Indeed, he was more adamant than ever about finding Humbert and retrieving the trinket—if such a thing was still possible. What were the chances he might find the thief's trail when he should finally arrive in Land's End? More than likely, he should return home and resume his duties, his heart cold and calculating once more. He loved his people, but it was a passionless love struck from a sense of duty and honor. In all honesty, he wanted to be free of it. He preferred the open road. He preferred the company of these kind strangers and their ambivalence to his status.

And what if he should die in the wilds, so far from home? He was not eager for death, but unlike many of his Baradha cousins, he did not cling to the vain struggle for immortality. As if such a thing were even desirable. Creigal had met some of the long lived; those that managed two, three, even four hundred years. He did not envy their tortured and frail forms—and especially not the unending cruelty necessary to maintain their shallow lives. They robbed the most innocent of their youth and vitality. Selfish and resentful, their lives were no boon to their peoples. Indeed, they were the cancer that sucked at the very marrow of their society; a creeping sickness that threatened to destroy the Ministrian Empire from within, and with such a perfection… what might possibly remain? Creigal was convinced of this, though he imagined it'd be years, decades, likely centuries before the Baradha might finally implode under the bloated weight of their exalted masters. But he was sure it would come. Such an end was inevitable—and it would be a sudden and bloody end indeed.

Of course there were also such men among the Saot, among the Politico Superiore—but they were not so accomplished as their Baradha cousins. Too much of their evil science was stolen or corrupted so very long ago by the sabotage and betrayal of the dark prince, Lasitus; a fact that saw the political class subsume itself to the Ministrian elite, and thereby made the Saot Kingdom little more than a vassal state of the Empire. With the best of the Kingdom’s grammars and magical artifacts in tow, Lasitus evaded and destroyed all pursuit as he fled north into the Bunderhilt, several hundred years ago. He disappeared, and with him, all the dark science he’d stolen—and good riddance, as far as Creigal was concerned.

Creigal stared up at the sky. He tracked the children of the broken moon and tried not to think of such vicious things. It was important to remember the low character of his enemies—but it was also important that he did not dwell on it. Indeed, he thought his study of the subject so many years ago only helped turn his sons to the dark path. While he was horrified and dismayed by the study of these ‘exalted masters’, his sons were fascinated and engrossed. It was their choice to continue down the easy path, the selfish path, the destructive path; and they did so despite their father’s best efforts to turn them back.

With a heavy sigh, Creigal turned from the sky and stared out over the river. He skipped stones across the silent water as far as they might go, and told himself he'd think no more about the duchy, about his sons, even about his daughter.

Plock, plock, plock.

Who was to say everything wouldn't turn out for the best? Who was to say he wouldn’t return home to find Gaurring as strong and stable as ever before? Let the people continue on without him for a time! For such effort, they'd be less dependent and all the more free!

Creigal smiled to have such bright thoughts crowd his mind, as he continued to picked stones, and skip them across the water.

Plock, plock, plock.

For a time, he thought about nothing, nothing at all, as he stared across the rippling surface, and threw another rock.

Plock, plock, plock, plock, plock.

He threw another.

Plock, plock.

And another.

Plock, plock, plock, plock.

And as the darkness grew, he threw yet another.

Plock.