Tarel Soarvas

Though a flicker of uncertainty flickered over Eliade's face when Galen took her hand, it became reassured, and even appreciative when he actually said his piece. The Warder, for all his behavior in Ospero, did have a bit of a way with words when he actually got around to speaking his mind. Yild couldn't help but feel, somewhere, that if Alfaina had gotten half as much nicety as what he was now offering the Duchess, Galen's current situation might have been quite different. But then, Eliade had yet to try and trap him anywhere just yet. That was likely a few points in her favor.

Still, Galen's slowly increasing willingness to speak was as encouraging as it was nerve wracking. After speaking to Eliade in some semblance of privacy, Yild was beginning to appreciate how strong the girl was for her age. But when the subject of Galen's speech came to her father and even, to Yild's unexpected embarassment, their future 'romantic life' (he would only use the term loosely, as he couldn't claim real feelings from either side just yet with any certainty), Yild was certain that it would be enough to ruin how remarkably well thins were going. Even he was tentative to go into those subjects this early on, but, somehow, Galen was taking them in stride. It likely helped that it wasn't *his* future marriage the Warder was discussing but, to quote Valorie back when she had been negotiating with Linder back in Ravenholm, Yild wasn't sure 'whether to thank the guy or slug him in the face'.

Fortunately, Eliade's appreciative expression stayed up, and she even seemed impressed by the time he looked awkwardly away from her. She even managed to keep her eyes on him for her reply, seeming a little less embarassed than before now that they were discussing it logically.

"That's... actually exactly my intention." Eliade smiled politely, in what looked like an effort to reassure Galen that his advice had been well received. "Assuming, of course, that Yild believes the same."

She looked over to Yild, and he gladly nodded. He hadn't been able to think over the situation too much himself, but what Galen had said made the most sense. No rushing, as much as Yild wanted to get the entire affair over and done with, but with a solid plan and, importantly enough, an engagement that would put the minds of everyone interested in Estrad's future at ease. The Slauths, *and*...

"Marriage is a big and definite step, but an engagement should prove sufficient to keep any unwanted suitors at bay," Eliade concluded, finishing Yild's thought aloud before he could think it himself. "Most of them wouldn't step out of line to save their life, and propositioning a girl whose engaged is generally considered bad form."

The Duchess's last line had clearly been intended as a joke, but Yild couldn't help but retreat into himself a bit when she said it, his own situation immediately springing to mind and his support suddenly waning despite himself. Lach and... Her. And Cira. They were engaged, weren't they? She made her choice. But his thoughts still kept lingering on her. The very thought of Lach and Cira together drove him mad, but he really was the one who kept lurking around them, like an unwanted shadow. Why had he even bothered to ask about Cira when he bumped into Galen in Estrad? He could have asked about any of them after Ospero. But she was the only one that had even crossed his mind, and he knew that he was likely never crossing hers. Lach was the one responsible for protecting her now; the one she had chosen, even if he didn't want it.

So was that how people saw him? Some loser creep, going after a girl who had already made her choice and moved on? Yild knew that even if he tried to ask, there was no one who would give him a straight answer about it, and so he just had to assume that that was the case. But even if it was... how was he supposed to just stop caring? He was trying to get past her. He was in Estrad to marry someone else entirely for crying out loud! But the moment he thought he was done with her...

"I had hoped I would have time for a more respectful mourning period but it was beginning to look like that would be impossible." Eliade's voice was still going on. Yild shook his head, physically, to try and force Cira out, and was glad that no one seemed to be paying him too much attention to call him out on the motion. He had managed to steady himself by the time Eliade looked his way again. "But with this, I think my mind might just be at ease enough to give my father the respect his passing deserves. I can't thank you enough for that."

"Think nothing of it. You take all the time you need." Enough about... Her. He was in Estrad now. With Eliade. End of story. And, just as importantly as Eliade... "Speaking of which, I think it's about time I got Panya into a decent bed. I should excuse myself."

"Is that who that is?" Eliade peeked at the softly breathing figure on Yild's lap, leaning down slightly as if to peek under her cloak. "How in the world has she slept through all of this?"

"I have to say, I'm impressed, if not surprised." Yild chuckled, a bit of his good humor returning, though he was careful to (subtley) keep Eliade from actually seeing anything. "She's been bouncing around everywhere for days. It's no wonder she's this tired now." Nodding to Eliade, and Galen, Yild
respectfully bowed out. "But that said, I really must go. Could I get her the room next to mine, perhaps?"

"Of course." Eliade handed Yild the key ring. "I really must be getting back to my own work... We'll have that talk later though, yes?"

"Of course." Yild knew his explanation would have to come, even if he wasn't looking forward to it. With one last nod to Galen, he departed, the Duchess retiring to the throne room as well.

* * *

Yild had a much harder time however finding his own place to retire. Though Eliade's instruction had been easy, he found himself coming up against far too many stairs and changing paths to have taken the right approach. The castle was, of course, a castle... It could only be expected that a newcomer would get lost as easily as he did, Yild supposed. But he thought that years of life as a high noble might have somehow made him more prepared for the endless identical passages and brightly lit, though mostly empty, stray rooms. Needless to say, they did not.

He rested Panya on an empty chair, suddenly envying the girl's casual dozing while he was left to navigate. Drow had gone to fetch the luggage, so seeing him would have been a sure sign of the right direction, but he hadn't even heard a voice in a good while; and those that had had either been echoing from places upstairs or simply vanished by the time he reached their original source. It was like the castle was making a conscious effort to ignore him. And, at this point, it would almost make more sense to turn back. He was near the back end of the castle, near the docks now; but given he wasn't on ground level, this was little help. He likely wouldn't find anyone at all moving goods upstairs at this time of day. Even-

"-A dumb bastard like you should be able to figure out that much!" A familiar, irritated voice came from just down the hall, and Yild sprang on it, moving before the first sign of life he'd seen in nearly a half hour now.

"Pfft. You have his mouth at least, I'll give you that! Fine, let..." A second, deeper voice, Yild did not recognize, but it's slight accent sounded Khorsan. It spoke clearly though, Lochsalan coming easily to it where Renner had struggled. The voice started fading away as soon as it came though nearly undiscernible when it wasn't yelling, and Yild picked up his pace, before coming to the abrupt end of the hallway, at a door that was only barely ajar. Yild carefully reached out to open it, but it creaked anyway, and

"-in. That good enough for you?" The voice, Yild saw, was coming from a small orb in Sena's hand. He could also make out a face in the orb. It wasn't one that struck Yild right away, but it took only a moment for the vague familiarity of it to solidify into horror. The man on the other end of the scrying orb was a Vashovy Pirate; and the image of Alfaina's gallery was even visible behind him. The glimpse was lost however, when Sena turned to face him, startled by the noise, and the voice was cut off before it could ask again as the Ra'an maid's eyes went wide and then narrowed, flicking off the device the moment she registered his presense.

"What are you doing here?" Sena growled, but Yild held his ground this time. The Vashovy Pirates were in Estrad. Of course they were. As if Recide would ever send him to a city without their spies. He hadn't expected it this quickly though. There was nowhere that was safe. And if they had someone this close to the Duchess, any hope of a peaceful life away from their scheme was gone. Beyond that... Galen might even be in danger. How had he not seen this coming from the start?

"I should have guessed!" Yild felt his own anger bubbling up, his voice growing dark as his indecisiv thoughts towards Recide turned into a dull rage. How dare they? Even when he tried to just leave them alone, they would dog him as much as Lach, was that it? There really was no winning with these people. "Why were you sent here? To spy on me?"

"Let go of my arm." Sena's voice, though firm and trying to be threatening, sounded nervous; startled even. It took Yild a moment to realize that he had actually grabbed the maid by her wrist, moving to hastily stow away the scrying orb before he stopped it flat. It surprised him that he had taken such an action, practically on instinct; and even more that it had actually succeeded. He didn't even remember crossing the room, but he was right beside Sena now, close enough that he could see that the anger had dropped from her expression, replaced by a vague startled look that shined in her green eyes. Her hair was pressed out against the wall as she backed against it, moving away from him in her alarm. It wasn't just at being found out either; it was far too intense an expression for that. She looked almost... Scared.

Slowly, Yild released her arm, and Sena, still staring at him, placed the orb gently on a desk beside her, and moved her hand away. Yild felt uncomfortable, suddenly so close to the girl, and he also, carefully, rolled his chair back a few feet, as Sena, equally unnerved, stepped away from the wall and looked at him cautiously. After a long, painful moment that felt like forever, but was in all likelihood only a couple seconds later, she spoke again.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Sena muttered, slowly, and without any of the conviction her earlier voice had held. "I was calling my father."

"Your father?" Yild caught Sena's eyes, and thought that she winced back a little when he did. Why, he had no idea. She had obviously been caught on a lie already; that wasn't changing now. Steadying his own voice, and trying to keep the force his accusation had without the menace, Yild forced out what he knew. "That was a Vashovy Pirate."

"Of course it was," Sena spoke, almost on instinct, and as she did, a bit of confidence eked back into her posture, the maid rising back up to her full height from her near slump. Squaring herself, Sena crossed her arms and put a note of pride into her tone. "My father is a Vashovy Assassin." To underscore the point, Sena narrowd her eyes, and her feet moved vaguely towards the combat position they had assumed back in the alley. "And he taught me everything he knows too, so don't get any ideas!"

"Ideas...?" Now, Yild was feeling a bit confused. Exactly what did she think he was in a position to do here?

"About... Telling somebody, or something. I'll... I'll end you if you do." Sena seemed to find a bit more courage in the threat, and her voice grew bolder again, her face turning to an almost relieved smile as she swiped at the air with her fist like it was some enemy waiting to be gutted. "Yeah! Without a second thought!"

"So you want me to let Recide spy on me in peace?" Yild's own eyes narrowed. "On Estrad? Is that it?"

"Recide?" Sena gained a confused expression of her own, her tone changing to one of vague suspicion. "Who? And why would anyone be spying on you?" The maid's eyes narrowed again. "I knew it. You're into some shady crap after all, aren't you?"

"Don't play dumb." Exasperated, Yild pointed accusingly at the Ra'an. "You're with the Vashovy. That means you're with Recide."

"My *father* is a Vashovy. And I don't know *what* the hell this Recide is you're talking about, but I'm gonna bite off that finger if you don't put it down." Sena glared at Yild, and, believing the threat if nothing else, Yild did lower his hand.

"And that man on the orb was your father?" Yild tried a new tactic. "He didn't look much like you."

"No!" Sena barked out her protest, but, unsure of how to proceed, brought her voice back down to manageable levels. "That wasn't my father. They told me he was out on a mission."

"A... mission?" Trying to get himself to the same calm Sena was slowly acheiving, Yild finally took the time to take a breath, and let up slightly. "And so you were talking to...?"

"Some guy." Sena shrugged.

"You don't know him?" Now, Yild was surprised. Even in Ospero, the Vashovy had seemed a very close-knit group. Even if they stayed uninformed about eachother for secrecy reasons, he had a hard time beleiving that and of them would actually not recognize eachother.

"My dad didn't want that life for me." The shift to dad surprised Yild, though Sena didn't seem to catch it herself. "So he crammed me up here. Pardon me for being so freakin' ignorant."

"I don't understand." And Yild didn't.

"Do I have to spell it out for you?" Sena growled. "He didn't want me to be a freaking Vashovy, so he freaking left me here." The maid flung her hands in the air, suddenly back to her ill temper. "Why the hell am I telling you this? I don't have to explain crap to you, ass."

"And the Vashovy don't ask you for anything?" This was all a little too... conveniant. "About Eliade, or Estrad, or...?"

"No." Sena replied bluntly, with a resentment that, for once, didn't seem directed his way. She crossed her arms, clearly not liking where the conversation is heading. "Why the hell do you think I'm a spy? Vashovy don't spy. They kick ass."

"You're..." Yild was baffled. "Really serious, aren't you?"

"Enough of this crap." Sena growled. "Look, are you going to tell on me or not?"

"Tell on you?" Yild was curious now, but Sena, despite her confusing story, seemed to be telling the truth. But now he was suspicious again. Why would she be worried about him telling people if she wasn't even in the group? Or even if she was? It certainly would have gotten her more respect than her position as a Ra'an maid, at least this far north.

"Don't be an ass." Though it had an edge, Sena's voice sounded nervous again, Yild's answer confusing her. "My dad's an assassin. And I'm Ra'an. That's enough to get me kicked out of the castle and you know it."

"Why would you even care?" Yild was more confused than ever.

"I don't..." Sena started, but stopped again, and Yild sighed, holding up his hand.

"Look, let's both calm down before one of us pops a blood vessel here." Trying to heed his own advice, Yild carefully steadied his breath. Sena seemed suspicious at first, but she slowed down too, her uniform moving in and out with deep, tense breaths, before slowly returning to something normal. Yild took a bit longer, surprised at how wound up he'd become. He took every possible delaying tactic he could; straightening himself in his seat, adjusting his ever ill-fitting collar, and even clearing his throat, like some silly public speaker. Anything to just let some of the nervous tension flow out of the room. And Sena, compliant, made a similar effort.

Only then did Yild, carefully, speak again.

"I have no intention of telling anyone anything... Assuming there's actually something to be told." Yild sighed, leaning back in his chair and trying to stay at ease. "Now, from what you're saying, you're not actually with the Vashovy?"

"No." Sena said, and sat down. "Why do you care?"

"For the same reason as Galen." Yild paused, and clarified. "Not that I'm a mage. But because I was recently with the Vashovy, and I don't like the idea of them spying on me."

"I... wanna ask, but would you actually tell me anything if I did?" Sena sat, cross-legged, on the floor, and stared back at him with her big green eyes.

Yild was tempted to tell her everything, but, considering his promise, instead chose his words carefully. "I... don't know how much I can say. But that group I was talking about, Recide? Well, I can tell you that they seem to be bossing around the Vashovy right now."

Sena frowned, reflecting on that a moment, but wound up shaking her head. "I don't beleive you."

"That's okay." Yild shrugged. "It's a pretty weird story." He waved it away. "But if you're not lying to me, then why are you so worried about keeping this job here in the castle?"

"I'm... A Ra'an." Sena said, matter of factly and as if itexplained everything. When Yild was silent, the maid grumbled, and continued. "And... I don't know how to do anything else. I can't go back to Ra. My dad killed a lot of people there. And with the war, no one in Lochsalan will hire a Ra'an. Except, maybe, some criminal." Her eyes narrowed. "And I'm not a criminal."

Though Yild wasn't sure he saw the difference between assassinating and criminal acts... He understood where she was coming from. Lochsalan was a hard place for Ra'ans at the moment. Mages were mistreated everywhere, but if they were careful a good one could go completely unnoticed their entire life. But when two nations were at war, it wasn't hard to start labelling everyone that just looked like an enemy a threat. There were no Ra'ans in Tectun; or in most of Lochsalan at the moment, for that matter, simply because they'd been forced to pack back up and leave by their own neighbors. Those that were left, were in places like Sena. Who... Despite himself, Yild found himself beleiving fully now. It was hard to argue with the face she was giving him. Even if it had threatened to kill him a few times already.

"I'm not gonna do anything, y'know." Sena announced in response to his silence. "I mean, to reward you for not telling. I know you nobles may get blackmailed everywhere, but I've still got my pride."

"You really seem to dislike nobility...?" Now Yild felt he was pushing his luck, but he'd gotten so far already. Still, Sena clammed up at the question.

"It's how I was raised. Besides, I've seen it personally now." Sena grumbled. "You're all the same."

"You mean you sit and tell this to every suitor?" Yild tried a joke, if a weak one. "And here I thought I was special."

"Yeah... We'll see." Sena snorted at the lame joke, and Yild was vaguely reminded of Gregor. Even when he was amused, Yild rarely saw more than a chuckle out of the man; and when he did, it often meant a lot more than what he conveyed. Maybe he had gotten to her more than he thought...

"You done trying to be all touchy feely with me yet?"

Maybe not. Yild sighed. "For now, I suppose."

Sena smirked. "Jackass."

"Can I ask one more question?"

Sena shrugged. "Shoot."

"You seem awfully interested in what happens to Estrad." Yild tried to think of a polite phrasing, but eventually gave up. "Is that just because you don't want to lose your job?"

The maid frowned, crossing her arms and seeming to actually think about the statement. "It's... not that. I mean, yeah, it's kinda that. But Eliade is... Not like you guys." Sena waved at the air, referring to nobility in general. "It's... Look, I'll make it easy. If you do *anything* to upset her, I will snuff you out without a second thought."

"I have nothing but Estrad's best interests in mind," Yild said, with all sincerity.

"Yeah... We'll see." Sena slowly rose from her sitting position, and Yild offered her a small smile. She only rolled her eyes in return, but then, frowning, raised her eyebrow at Yild. "Shit. I dunno what it is about you. You have some sort of a freaking silver tongue, you know that?"

"Not the worst insult I've gotten." Yild chuckled.

"And purple eyes..." Sena shook her head.

Purple eyes. Yild wondered why she kept commenting on the feature. It couldn't be that strange. Gregor's eyes were the same color. So were-

Yild's eyes widened. "Oh gosh, I left Panya in the hall!"

Sena did a double-take. "Say what?"

Taking off, Yild was still overtaken by Sena's own running, out the door and around the corner before he'd even begun to roll. Panting heavily by the time he managed to arrive himself, Yild was nevertheless surprised to see that the little girl was exactly where he had left her, snoozing away on a lounge chair. Sena, standing above her, simply shook her head as he approached.

"Wow. That girl is a rock."

"Yep." Yild replied simply. He moved to lift Panya into his lap, but Sena quietly took her instead.

"And *you* are a crappy guardian," Sena retorted. She cradled Panya in her arms and, for a moment, looked rather matronly herself... For someone that was younger than him, anyway.

"Come on. Let's get you two nutjobs to your rooms."

"That's the best idea I've heard all day."

By now, Morgan was well used to the comings and goings of Prince Alberto. In effect, he had become the Second Prince’s shadow, moving silently in step with the Prince and complying quickly, efficiently, and without comment with any task, big or small, required of him. He had become nothing more than the Prince’s new toy. His pet. So injured was Morgan’s pride that he wondered how he would ever be able to go back to his home, to Herfiligr, to Lintu and hold his head up high. Once, he had even pleaded with the Melrakki to be relieved of his duties to the Prince… but to no avail. The order had come directly from Lord Arathorn, and only by his word would he be allowed leave.

And thus far, Prince Alberto had done nothing that would cause Lord Arathorn to remove him from the Prince’s service. And so Morgan had settled into the state of compliance that he now displayed. Walking in silence half a step behind his new master, he barely bothered to take notice of his surroundings, but for one curious detail: They were in Lochsalan. Though this should have elicited at the least a raised eyebrow from him, he gave no sign of surprise that the Prince was walking in the open, without escort, without guard, without attempting to conceal himself in any way. No doubt Alberto was enjoying himself immensely, and Morgan’s suspicions were immediately confirmed by the deep chuckle of the Prince.

The look of deep apathy did not leave Morgan’s face as they approach a man who was much more magically impressive than the Prince and even Morgan himself. In fact, as they neared, Morgan found himself fingering the Ether, almost basking in the warmth of the power he emitted, which was almost on par with that of Lord Arathorn or even the Melrakki himself. It was… refreshing.

He nodded curtly to the man, though kept his hand well away as instructed. Alberto nodded to the building, and Morgan turned to it, his interest in their current undertaking not rising even when Alberto explained that one of his former ‘slaves’ was inside. Without comment, without shifting or giving any physical indication that he was carrying out the Prince’s orders, Morgan sank slowly into the Ether.

A few more, and he'd have to move on. Aleph stared glumly into the empty wine glass in front of him. It was breaking him; not physically- Valorie had taught him to hold his liquor plenty well, and he hadn't been too shabby from the start. But what money he had from his service with Tyrant Moon was actually running out. He had never even dreamed about the idea of running out of cash before. In Tyrant Moon, it was a 'keep what you grab' system... and though Aleph had never been much for hoarding things away, he was begining to wish he had taken something besides clothes and liquor money with him when he was still in that line of work. In the old days, even if that had failed he wouldn't have been opposed to extorting some more money from his own wealthy family, but even that just felt... Wrong now.

If he could stomach beer like any normal depressed drunk, it would have helped. But as much as Aleph was beginning to realize it was a lie, he still felt like on some level he needed to have his pride. He was a nobleman. He drank wine. Even when he drank more of it than a normal person drank beer. And that habit was costing him now. He could make it to one, maybe two more towns before he ran out of funds, assuming he went by wagon. He could Gate, but when he was already getting shoved out at every turn for being a mage, he was trying as much as he could to avoid flaunting the fact like he used to. That, at least, made him feel nostalgic. When he was with Tyrant Moon, he'd felt like a damn king. Even with Valorie, he'd held his head up high when the word 'Mage' came into play. But now he just felt like crap. If one of them came back now... Aleph didn't see any reason why he shouldn't jump right back on board with them. Either of them.

"Hohoho! Fancy meeting you here."

...That was a reason. Aleph's eyes slowly widened and somehow, with every muscle in his being screaming in protest, he quelled the urge to snap to his feet and run for his life. Gate for his life, even. Freaking horseback-ride for his life he had to. All Aleph knew was that only one person could sound that cheery even after being actively fled for over a month. The bar seat next to Aleph shifted back, and a shortish, long haired man sat next to him, the smile on his mouth like a dagger to Aleph's heart. And not in the fun, kinky way either. The wine that he'd been chugging down suddenly felt like a lead weight in his stomach, and his wrists itched vaguely, as they always seemed to when he was nervous. Not that he'd ever tell anyone as much.

The Mad Prince was here... Aleph had thought of Tyrant Moon tracking him down as only a vague possibility really. He may have felt big with them, but he knew he was a nobody where it really counted. Besides, Alberto didn't care. He didn't care about his minions, or his Lieutenets, or anyone for that matter. The guy was sick. Really twisted. And Aleph knew that given what he had done, that was saying something. But he was also scary. Anyone who would admit they were mad and ask you to join them; and *know* that you would say yes before you had the chance... They had something. Something dark, and something powerful. And Alberto had it.

"I wasn't trying to run away," Aleph blurted before he could even fully realize what he was saying.

"Of course not. Aleph, you remember my Edge, don't you?" Alberto hadn't even flinched or paused to think about Aleph's response before answering. Aleph could vaguely feel someone sitting behind him; a hot presense like a muted flame heating the back of his neck, even though he was sure that Edge hadn't moved even remotely close to him.

"Of course I do." Aleph's voice nearly cracked when he spoke, his throat feeling absurdly dry given the amount of liquid that had passed through it recently. He slowly rotated his stool to make out the other man, and tried not to make eye contact. Edge was like a badly caged animal. The slightest thing could set him off, and his raging tantrums leaving burning corpses all around the central lair was less infamous than legendary. He wasn't, Aleph liked to think, very smart. But when you had enough power, even an idiot could manage an army. Valorie had always said as much about Arry- Err, Arathorn too. "Terror of Monthredo, right? Hah."

"Something funny?" Edge's voice growled, and Aleph tried to refrain from wincing.

"No, no, just, remembering a bad joke." Aleph tried desperately to change the subject. "Why don't I buy you two drinks?"

"That would be the three of us." Alberto slumped back in his chair, his decrepit clothing sagging down like a dead animal, and rustling vaguely as he gestured to the man behind him. Aleph felt like the prince had planned their placement very specifically... It wasn't just a way to ensure he couldn't run, but a calculated effort that forced him to turn fully around with his back to the bar when the third man showed up. Back against the wall had rarely been so literally played. Alberto only kept his faint smile however, his calculating mind never betraying a thing on his demonic face. "My newest toy, Morgan."

Actually seeing 'Morgan' made Aleph do a double-take however. It was obvious immediately. The way he stood was like a soldier. Tyrant Moon made soldiers out of petty crooks and slaves, but he was too rigid, his face too constipated. And he was a mage. The symbol on his clothes destroyed any doubt that was left. Morgan was a-

"Blackshirt." Aleph said the word with certainty, and, really, a bit of hate. He was as big of a snooty mage pusher as anyone, and he was proud of it when it didn't bite him in the ass. But Arathorn? Valorie had drilled it into him that the guy was a lunatic (the bad kind). And he killed the High Mage. Everybody liked Katya. Even the freaks like him. Arathorn crossed a major line when he did her in.

"The hell?" He wasn't even going to suggest that Alberto didn't know every moment spent with the Blackshirt there would go straight back to Arathorn. But the man's presense put Aleph even more on edge than before. Maybe Alberto wasn't going to drag him back in or kill him after all. Alberto recruited. Arathorn, had mines. Aleph knew enough of the stories. No magic, stuck down there like a rat in a maze with no exit. And no damn cheese either. Anything was better than that. Even getting roasted by Edge. Aleph aimed his next comment at Morgan anyway though. For Katya's sake. "Persecute any random hobos lately, shirt? Recruitment standards must've really dropped without me around." He hastily corrected himself for Alberto. "Not that you were without me, at any time. I was just about to find you, actually..."

Aleph tried to scan the room without moving his eyes, letting his wind do the work. He could bolt now... Flip over the bar, light up the drinks, he'd be out the back exit before they were any wiser. If he flicked something in Edge's eyes first he might even get away without getting hit. The wineglass? He could smash it. Aleph found his hand reaching carefully back for it, putting on the act of leaning back against the bar to cover the movement...

Stupid stupid stupid stupid... And Sena wasn't thinking about mages, for once. She had totally crumpled for him. Her first chance to give a noble what he had coming; just her and Yild alone in a room, and she'd buckled like a... like a thing that buckled! A belt! Yeah! He had no right to know anything she'd just said to him. But he was just so insistent that it caught her by surprise. Normally, she'd never tell him anything. And he had a little girl with him! Well, not technically during their talk, but she was there! He was just going for some crazy emotional high ground, catching her off guard. And now, Yild knew her secret...

He didn't seem to want to reveal it, but she could never be too sure. But even beside his speeches... That girl, Panya, seemed to mean a lot to him. And he'd been willing to let her carry Panya all the way back to her room; and even tuck her in, a bit. Lochsalanian nobles were not supposed to trust the enemy like that. It was supposed to mean something, right? Sena was never good at that kinda symbolic stuff. Besides, it might have been nothing.

It wasn't like it was an effort for her. The little girl was as light as a feather, and she had been easy; even refreshing, to lift. Though... Sena felt a bit strange about the fact that she was just as pleased at getting to lift someone as to help the little girl in need. That had to have been why she felt satisfied with it, after all. Her job as a maid just didn't require much heavy lifting. Or sucker-punching. Or any real anger-releiving activity, past scaring Eliade's incoming suitors until they wet themselves.

Speaking of which, that was gone too, wasn't it? Yild was just coming along and ruining everything she had going for her, wasn't he; and he thought he could smooth it over with all of his fancy little girl helping stuff? But that wasn't why she was so pissed. She was pissed because he was so dang *nice* about it! All of the other suitors she'd wanted to smack in the face at first sight. And she'd wanted to do the same to Yild too, actually, but as always was the nice girl and restrained herself. But he had to be so... sympathizable. A chair that kept him from walking? That meek little frame of his, and the girly hair? He had to be some kind of poster-boy for a charity case.

At least if he'd acted like one she could have rolled her eyes, mocked him for the overacting and moved on. But she'd even had to lift him up the stairs. That had to have been awkward for him, but at the end of it all he was just... nice about it! Even when she screwed up! He had to be mocking her, or something. No one just acted nice to the random Ra'an maid the very first time they met. She'd... Get to the bottom of things. She could...

"Pull yourself together Senapaulde." Gah. Her dad was an assassin. She was supposed to be able to keep cool. Not that Vashovy did, really. It was more like barely restrained beserker rage; at least in the ones she'd seen. Talking to yourself, explaining the situation, was supposed to help. But she just felt more bothered than ever now. Why...?

Sena groaned, not caring who heard. It was because Yild had said her name too. Correctly! It had been ages since she'd actually heard her whole name, and pronounced that well. If only it had come from someone with a heart bigger than their fat wallet.

Enraged at the thought, Sena punched the wall nearest her in furstration. Which turned out to be the door nearest her. A gruff voice grunted some assent back, and Sena remembered why she was waiting in the hallway to begin with. It was time to get that dang Mage out of Estrad. That would make her feel better. Probably. Well, of course it would, why wouldn't it? Bleh.

"That should about do it." A grizzled, aging but not old man opened the door, but he was still looking into the room behind him. "Those stitches ain't pretty, but Lochsalan's pretty famous for its medic core. I like to think I picked up a thing or two." The man grunted. "But you don't go doing any lifting for the next coupla days, ya hear? Arm'll never heal if those wounds keep reopening."

Finally irked enough to intervene, Sena half-pushed her way into the room, though the medic's healthy return push was enough for her to know she was still getting in under his graces. "Will he live?"

"Looks like it. But it won't be a good life." The man chuckled, and shot a sympathetic look back to Galen. "That's a joke."

"Shame. You could've saved me the effort." Sena didn't like that he was being so friendly with the Warder. He had to remember what all the other mages were doing in the castle recently. It was the reason he was their only physician on staff after all.

"You better not go aggravating my patient." The medic grunted. "You two can kill eachother when he's good and healthy. Lay a finger on him before that and you'll be the one who needs stitches."

Sena let out a short, harsh laugh. She was used to the medic by now, but it didn't mean that his gruffness had ever ceased to surprise her. "If you're our medic, I'd hate to see our soldiers."

Only grunting again in response, the man walked off down the hall at his own pace. Sena waited til he was around the corner before she finally turned to Galen. He looked a bit pale, and his sleeve was up so she could see where the medic had drained the infected sites and fixed them up. It looked a bit worse now damage-wise than it had originally... Though the normal color had returned, so that was a start. Not that she was gonna waste time on his health now.

"I found your stupid Council place." Sena closed the door behind her, though it was more instinctual than anything else. She didn't want people looking in at her; or Yild to come in and change her mind about something. She just had to tell him now, and he'd be outta here. Sena'd be happy, Eliade... would... probably, be happy? She knew the duchess was getting just as nervous around the mage. Why wouldn't she be? But... Eliade had given the guy a room. And he still had the key. It wasn't... going against her or something to say something to Galen, was it? Errr, better safe than sorry. "...But I'm not telling you where it is."

“Many thanks,” Galen said, a genuine smile coming to his face as the medic stood to leave, though it slipped from his face almost at once as he saw the Ra’an maid, Sena, at the door, ready to push past the medic. He had been rather surprised at the ease with which the medic had handled the situation. It was uncommon to find someone quite as uninhibited around Mages as he had been, and for that Galen was thankful. A nervous medic with shaky hands or a hostile one with intent to do more harm than good would have been… much more probable in Galen’s eyes. Though he did feel much more lightheaded than he had before… so though he wouldn’t say it aloud now, he rather wished he’d gone with his first instinct and simply sought out a Healer.

Though she had barely been in the room for more than half a minute, Sena already looked angry. Drawing himself up, Galen waited a moment for the lightheadedness to clear before tucking the Speaker Articles under his arm and turning to face her. The heavy weight of acceptance had settled quietly on his shoulders, and he no longer looked in the mood to confront her for her terribly misguided views. The fight seemed to have drained from him as easily as the blood the medic had let.

He nodded curtly to her. “Thank you for going to the trouble.”

“…But I’m not telling you where it is.”

With a heavy sigh, Galen looked away, shaking his head ever so slightly as if to tell himself that he would not argue. When he looked back to the Ra’an maid, though, he was unable to keep the look of fatigue and frustration from his face. “Why not?” he nodded to the bedside table. “The key is there. I will leave as you wish… and never come back.”

Despite possessing a Treganish vocabulary that was lackluster to say the least, the sheer look of awe on Micah and Ace's faces served as Xalem's translator regarding the identity of the girl. Pretty as she was, and rounding on what he assumed to be her early adult years, she was every bit the image of a Treaganish princess that one could expect. She carried with her an air of confidence that stood just outside the border of arrogance, due mainly to the suggestion of strength to go along with her appealing build. As Micah had clearly noticed, she was a beauty, and Xalem couldn't help but smirk to himself at how thoroughly Lachlan's younger brother's eyes were glued to the young princess. Even Lydia seemed amused.

Just about to ask on what Micah had said about the 'Zaaltoryn', Ace jumped ahead and explained to Xalem in Micah's stead, knowing that he wasn't yet fit to give much of a follow-up. He did, however, manage to bring up a point that piqued Xalem's interest so much that he turned around to face them, a thoughtful look on his face.

"Heterochromia..." He muttered, pushing his glasses up his face. It was more common in animals than in people, but was by no means a distinguishing characteristic of a Mage. Still, he knew his history well enough to fully agree with what Ace and Micah were saying about the whispers within the general populous, and so, with a shake of his head, he sided with Ace's pessimistic view on Micah's proposal.

"No, Ace is right, we can't make a claim like that- especially when we can't back it up. It could be recasted, but I'm sure he's in no position to go accepting help from Mages when he's trying to prove that he isn't one. That said, maybe we can still use it to our advantage."

Glancing back over to the court where Lady Ahlmir and Lachlan were making their leave from, Xalem tried desperately to force up a plan but stopped himself short when he realized that the princess was nearly out of sight. Perhaps it was a minor lead, but it was something.

"Ace, Lydia, can you two trail her and see if you can find out anything useful? We can wait at the meeting spot until early evening, and maybe by then we'll have something."

He didn't much like the idea of sending the two girls alone, but since Cira was obviously a Mage with her blue hair and Micah was far too much of a risk in terms of getting them caught, he tried to embed his wish for them to be careful in his tone.

Ace looked over to Lydia as Xalem put together their patchwork plan. It wasn’t much, and it was spur of the moment. But it was really all they had at this point. Apparently, Lady Ahlmir’s presence and Lachlan’s fluid Treagan had not been enough to gain them entrance to the castle much less the inner courtyard. And though she wasn’t sure how she felt about going off without one of the men, she knew that it was out of the question to take Micah along. Though she had seen both Xalem and Lydia’s knowing smiles, she hadn’t been able to get over the precariousness of their situation to laugh at her brother’s typical response.

As if in answer to her thoughts, Micah immediately spoke up. “I could go,” he said, looking up to Xalem with eager expectation. Letting out a slightly exasperated chuckle, Acacia turned away, leaving Xalem to gently let down to Micah that such was likely not the smartest idea. His staring would become… noticeable. What she saw when she switched her gaze out to the open road, though, did not serve to comfort her much. No, because looking away from Micah sent her attention to Lachlan, who was even now turning away from the gates and motioning to Lady Ahlmir. Even from her distance, Ace could tell that he was motioning either for Lady Ahlmir to return to their rendezvous point, or at least not to follow him.

“Xalem…?” she said uncertainly, drawing his attention and motioning to Lachlan, who was now circling around in the street, obviously planning to intercept Zaaltoryna Cantoradel from the front.

--

It took a moment longer than it should have for it to register in Lachlan’s mind when the Zaaltoryna walked past him and Lady Ahlmir, paying them no more attention than she would a pair of street beggars. For several long moments, he simply stared after her, his mind reeling at the unexpected shock of seeing with his own eyes one of the members of the royal family. Her extravagant dress, her jewelry… the thin circlet running ‘round her noble brow… they left no room for him to have to guess at the identity of the aloof woman passing into the Common streets with but one guard trailing her. And then his feet were carrying him after her, determination plastered to his face as he waved Lady Ahlmir back. They had not listened on her authority. But what if…?

And so it was that a new plan, one rough around the edges and completely unapproved by Xalem, Lady Ahlmir, or Cira, formed in the back of his mind as he wove through the crowded street, navigating with fleet foot until he was several yards ahead of the Zaaltoryna. Turning as she walked steadily on towards him, Lachlan drew in a fortifying breath and then… approached her with something of a tremble running one circuit around his body, causing his hands to clench into fists once before he calmed himself.

It was clear perhaps a moment before he stood in front of her what his intentions were. And before she could step out of his path, Lachlan dropped to one knee and blowed low before her. “Zaaltoryna Cantoradel,” he murmured reverently, eyes to the ground as he spoke in flawless Treagan. “I bear a message from the Council of the Myrr. Will you hear it?”

"You're kidding..." Xalem muttered, running his hand down his face in helpless exasperation as Lachlan rounded off his route and made for the princess.

"He isn't going to...?" Cira spoke up from somewhere within the group, but she already had her answer by the time Lachlan dropped to a knee and spoke something that was well out of earshot. Meanwhile, Lady Ahlmir was only just nearing them, just as confused as the rest of them were but failing to show it. Whatever Lachlan had planned, she seemed to have faith in him whereas the others looked more concerned than anything- and rightly so as the princess' guard made for his sword.

----

She would make for the little road just off the market with overhung roofs and stalls selling handmade goods to a more local crowd than the main square, and there, once she sought out Nicarin, Cantoradel would hear her first version of the week's gossip about her dear younger brother. The words of the street could be cruel when they absorbed speculation and falsities as truth, she knew, and so the old vendor was always a good first stop considering his soft-spoken tenancies. He would tell he the truth, he usually did, but it was always softened. Perhaps it stemmed from his almost fanatic loyalty to her family, or fear that his two sons that served as guards would be reprimanded should he step out of line, but either way, he was a good source.

Then, there was Trelara, a noblewoman with a louder mouth than Cantoradel didn't care to lend an ear to for longer than was required. The woman was a gossip, and though it seemed she never stopped talking long enough to listen, she held within her a wealth of hearsay and rumor. Thankfully however, the woman was as intelligent as the ugly little dog with which she lived, and so Cantoradel would visit her under the ruse of a simple visit to enjoy her company when in truth she was taking in every word about Tyrulan that she could draw out. Then, once she was sure Trelara had no more to say that was of any importance, she would take her leave and implore the noblewoman to keep their meetings secret as if it was a part of their little 'friendship'. Of course, Trelara had undoubtedly babbled to others about it, but few had believed her- and those who had, had been silenced by coins and a royal order.

"Hmm?"

Having been mentally checking off her list of contacts, Cantoradel hardly noticed the man moving towards her until Feldar made a noise, moving instinctively towards his sword. Before he could stop the young man however, he took a knee before her and spoke of the Council in an accent that was so perfect she would not have seen flaw in it if she hadn't been looking for it. Still, despite the man's subservient stance, Feldar was ready to draw until her voice stayed him. His stance, however, did not shift.

"Sheath your blade, Feldar, but keep your hand on the hilt." She ordered in flat Tregan, and he obliged with a nod.

"The Council, yes?" She repeated, looking down at Lachlan as if daring him to look up. "Tell me, what drives you to make such a claim without proof? You come wearing tattered clothes and a cloak of fur from the mountain-lands, so I can only assume that you have not gated here as most Mages do, and thus I am inclined to believe that what you tell me is as false as your identity. Should you wish to test your luck and bet your fate, however, go on; Just be sure that you waste no more of my time than you already have."

Lachlan could feel the stillness around him as the Zaaltoryna actually stopped. He hadn’t really known what to expect. But a large part of him had wrestled with the knowledge that she would likely sidestep him at best and at worst… well, he wouldn’t consider that. Not now… not when he realized with a sudden swoop of dread and guilt that Cira was likely watching. And she would likely be furious with him for going out onto this precarious limb, alone and quite without protection should the soldier decide to draw his blade.

He could also feel the weight of the Zaaltoryna’s eyes on him. But he did not dare look up. Even as he knelt there, he felt the old burn of a harsh blow whenever he’d ignored his own advice and challenged the Blackshirts with his eyes. There was something powerful about that contact. There was something challenging about it that dictated his eyes remain right where they were: on the ground.

Licking his dry lips, he held back his fears. She was sharp, and she had just called into question his entire story. And he had nothing to keep it from unraveling. Nothing but a calm that he was simply not good at keeping. And she had questioned his identity… yet he had not yet claimed one. The… the truth, then. That’s what it would be. “Y-yes, your majesty. I… you are right in saying I did not Gate here. I was given instruction to travel without aid of magic and have been long on the road.” Trembling slightly, he lifted his hand so that his sleeve shifted upward on his wrist, revealing the shackle. “And given the contents of my message, as a show of faith and trust, my master bid me wear this. So that you may know my sincerity.”

Mouth dry, Lachlan coughed once, and then launched into his message. His completely fabricated message. “Dated the 12th of November. Katya, High Mage of the Council to the royal family of great New Treaganland. Peace, prosperity, and grace be forever with you.

“I send to you with troubling news and beg that you would not dismiss these words on any grounds. War approaches, and I fear that it is inevitable. Yet I seek nothing more than peace, both for New Treaganland and Eoti. This is why I send to you: knowledge of a conspiracy against the crown of noble New Treaganland has fallen into my hands, and I can in good conscience do no other but send word and warning on to you. Guard yourselves, for your enemies have numbered your days. They call themselves Recide and dwell in a place called Hope, though in reality they are murderers and war-makers. They cry for your blood, knowing such would send all of Eoti into war.

“Therefore guard your lives jealously.

“I send this message with my servant, L-Lachlan Fox the Younger, in the hopes that you may know that, as no name is irredeemable, neither is any people.”

Falling silent, Lachlan felt himself tense… waiting, simply waiting and knowing he could do nothing else.

Though Yild himself had wandered for nearly a half hour, Sena made the trip to his actual room take less than a quarter of that time. Seeming embarassed, or frustrated, or both, she'd taken off as soon as they got to actually getting Panya into the bed. Yild wanted to show her the same trust that she had him, but when it came to Panya he was still taking no chances; her 'special' nature was something to be introduced properly, not thrown at someone when they hadn't even met her while awake yet. Even when Panya did wake up, Yild didn't know how they would manage it. Ospero, no matter what Yild's feelings towards Recide, had been a very accepting place, and he couldn't expect Estrad to be the same. The incident with Renner had been enough to drill into him that he was back in the real world now, and it could be a harsh place for the unwary.

Maybe, as a Duke, he might be able to change that. But while the biggest loss of his life had happened because of slowness, Yild wasn't about to throw caution to the wind. He wasn't Governor Sloth anymore. But he was someone who knew the value of time. Panya would be a first step. And if only because she was the sweetest little girl Yild had ever met, it wouldn't be a very hard one. What would happen from there... Well, at the very least without Recide's eyes over his shoulder, whatever happened from there in Estrad would still be soundly in Eliade and his own hands. Hopefully, in Lodewijik's as well. But Yild just didn't know *what* to think anymore about him, and the sooner that particular question was resolved the better.

"No... No more scones." The soft murmers of Panya drew Yild's eyes back to her sleeping form in the bed. He had left her in her cloak for decency's sake, but while he had considered leaving her hood on in case someone walked in, had instead resolved to simply lock the door when he left and let her little ears stick out freely. When she woke up (whenever that wound up being), he could handle filling her in on everything. But for now...

"AHHHHH, GIANT BLUEBERRY!" Yild blew on the candle illuminating the room and the light within slowly faded. Almost instantly, Panya sat up and started waving her arms at some invisible assailant. Which, because Yild was the closest object, became him.

"Oh, *now* you're awake, are you?" Rolling pointedly backwards, Yild shook his head. It *would* be the moment she was actually supposed to sleep that she decided not to. "Sorry to dissapoint you, but I'm not a fruit."

"Foo..." Not seeming too dissapointed at his lack of fruity properties, Panya rubbed her eyes and let out a big yawn, falling back on several layers of pillows behind her. "What'd I miss?"

"Nothing you need to be worrying about." Yild chuckled, and looked at her for a moment, wondering how something as tiny as a change of lighting had woken her up. "Has anyone ever told you you sleep like a log? Or... a boulder, for that matter?"

"I'm like a boulder?" The information seemed to interest Panya, and she gave him a determined look, extending her arms in either direction and making a stern face as she tried to add some very badly played gravel into her voice. "I'mma roll at you."

Yild couldn't help but laugh at her bad rock impersonation, but Panya only giggled herself, and started looking around the room for the first time.

"Where are we?" Poking a pillow, Panya seemed pleased with what she found.

Struggling to relight the tiny candle, if only so they weren't chatting in the dark, Yild clarified. "This is Estrad."

"Oh poopy..." Panya's face dropped a bit at that, distinguishable even in the lack of light. "I missed the whole trip in?"

Yild frowned sympathetically. "I'm afraid so."

"Did we go on any more boats?" Panya poked at her pillow sadly now, the softness not making up for the lack of adventure. Still, considering they were well past any rivers by the time Panya slept, Yild couldn't help but smile at the question.

"Sorry, it turns out those don't run too well on land."

Crossing her arms, Panya laid back down on the bed and faced away from him. "Pfff. Stop being so mean."

"Haha..." Yild fixed the covers over her again. "Sorry."

The moody state lasted barely half a second however, before Panya rolled back over with a face full of curiosity, and disheveled all the covers once again. "So... you met the Duke person?"

Yild winced. Of course she wouldn't know about that. Maybe it would be best not to tell her at all, in fact. But Panya was a curious girl. She'd get the truth soon enough. With a sad sigh, Yild corrected her. "The Duchess."

"But I thought you said..." Panya responded immediately before a look of understanding entered her eyes. Her expression turned throughtful, and then into a frown, and then to just plain sad looking. "Oh. Well that's just sad." Grumbling, she sat back up in bed and crossed her arms around her legs. "Why'd you have to go and tell me that!"

"It was peaceful," Yild offered, though he didn't know how much it would help. The subject of death was never easy, and it was even harder with children. Sometimes just learning that someone had been long gone for decades had been enough to make him sad as a child. "He had a good long life."

"Yeah..." Panya grumbled. "But I still don't think you should be telling little kids this stuff."

Despite her grumbling, Panya took the news better than he expected. But Yild didn't want her dwelling on the topic, so he switched it to something more pleasant. "She's not much older than you, you know. The Duchess?"

"For real?" Panya rasied her eyebrow, instantly curious at the chance of a new playmate. But when the rest of what this meant sank in, she stuck out her tongue at him in disgust. "And you're supposed to marry her? Icky!"

Well, maybe not so pleasant after all. Yild had almost forgotten the obvious second detail of their relationship. Not that he'd let onto that. "Oh come on. I'm not that old, am I?"

"Bleh." Panya only offered him her tongue again,.

Sticking his nose up snootily, Yild turned his chair away to face the door. "Well, forget any notion of you being the flower girl."

"Huh!? But..." Panya grabbed him from behind, her little arms wrapping around his shoulders and pulling him back. "Errr, 'bleh' retracteded?"

"Good enough for me."Chuckling, Yild took her hands off of his shoulders and turned back around. "Now, it's late."

"Late!?" A look of horror crossed over Panya's face. "But I'm wide awake!"

Yild waggled his finger. "Then you shouldn't have taken such a long nap!"

"Oh pfffffff." Panya bounced a few times on the bed as if to prove how awake she was, and looked at him pleadingly.

"Well..." She *had* been asleep for hours now. Yild wondered ow he'd ever get her to bed at all. But considering she was awake, he didn't know how he was supposed to refuse her. "I guess I'm not that tired either."

Panya jumped out of the bed, searching for her shoes on the floor. "We should totally explore!"

"We're on the second floor. Exploring is closed til morning, I'm afraid." Yild amended her statement as she pulled on her little shoes in a hurry. "But I do think we can reach the balcony from here. Good enough?"

As she adjusted the second shoe on her foot, Panya seemed to consider the idea. After a short moment, she nodded. "It'll do." A smile spread on her face, and she shot him an excited look. "For now!"

Shaking his head, Yild carefully plopped her hood back over her head as she made fot the door. "Haha..."

He really didn't look so good. Sena couldn't help but see how exhausted Galen was. Even if he was patched up, the big palooka looked like he'd had the snot beaten out of him. Which, from what he'd said, he had. Even if Sena didn't believe it was by the people he said. She wanted to trust Yild... Well, no, she didn't. But she wanted to be able to trust whoever the new Duke was enough that she didn't have to kick him out a window and then clean up the mess herself later. Maid duties sucked like that, and had gotten in the way of more than one of her revenge fantasies over the years. Whatever the case, Sena wasn't willing to beleive that the Vashovy, the most ruthless badasses in the world, would ever be suckered into working for someone else, or, more importantly, to sparing a mage at all. They were harsh, and they were efficient. Just like her dad.

If Galen had been with the Vashovy, wounds like his were nothing. The cuts weren't even that deep. And even she could have inflicted those bruises. No, he was lying. He was a mage that got caught up with some common thugs (lower case C all the way) and got the snot beaten out of him. Probably for being a thief like that Renner kid.

But Yild's face when she had made the comment about Galen getting lost... Heck, even Eliade hadn't seemed to like it. Sena didn't give a crap about some mage that was exploiting them again, past wanting to kick him really badly. But Yild had said he'd keep her secret. And... Sena *wanted* that. She hated her job, but she liked that she had it at all. There was nothing guranteeing it. And something had always made her not want to irk off the one noble who gave her a decent time of day. Eliade was something special. Galen didn't have to get that. But Sena offered it anyway.

"Yeah..." Sena waved at the key, as if acknowledging his whiny complaints that she really only wanted to tune out. "But Eliade would get pissed if I let you run off."

When she said it aloud though, it didn't sound like quite enough. Realizing that she had been staring at his wounds for a little too long, Sena ran her eyes over the room for the next closest excuse, and her eyes rested on the satchel. Sena pointed to it accusingly. "Besides, that thing could still be a curse book! You may have fooled everyone else with it, but I don't trust ya. Who knows what nutty stuff you're slipping out of here?" Sena shrugged, letting a cocky expression onto her face. "Or maybe I just wanna see you suffer with those wounds of yours? None of your business anyway why. I'm the only one in the whole castle that knows it, so you can kiss my sandal if you think I'm doing you any favors before I damn well please."

It was actually physically draining to look into Sena’s defiant face. A sense of perpetual negativity seemed to hang in the air, following her around wherever she went. And as frustrated as Galen already was with her, he did not have the energy to fight her. Not, of course, in the physical sense. But even to reason with her would have been impossible. “Fine, then,” he said, he shoulders drooping slightly as he raised a hand and scratched almost absently at his chin with his middle finger.

“Sena, right? Can I call you Sena?” He dropped down to sit at the edge of the bed and kicked the empty chair the medic had left behind over to Sena. “It seems to me that you have a lot of pent up anger… and you’re just waiting for someone suitable to lash out at. Or do I just offend you? I suppose I shouldn’t assume anything, but seeing as I’ve only just met you, I don’t quite see how I might have wronged you.”

Reaching out, Galen dragged the satchel over to himself and drew the thin volume out. He held it up for her examination, then held it out for her to take if she so wished. “It’s not cursed. And it does not contain knowledge of curses within it. I’m not out to fool you. And if you wish to watch me suffer, you’re out of luck. I’m just tired. Nothing more.” The corners of Galen’s mouth twitched upward slightly, as if he were attempting a small smile. It wasn’t very convincing, though, for it was still clear that Galen was quickly tiring of Sena’s obnoxiously hateful attitude.

For a moment there was silence, Galen simply looking at Sena. His eyes suggested he was sizing her up somehow. Not her… but her willingness to reason. Her willingness to “put up” with him. “Why don’t we make a deal? Give me one day… to prove to you that I’m not all that bad a person. One day to prove that Mages aren’t as terrible as you seem to think. If I succeed, you will tell me where the Council is. If I do not… you may pick your terms.”

"Lachlan Fox," Cantoradel mused, her voice barely louder than a whisper as her eyes bore down heavily upon him. She knew the name well, just as she knew the purpose served by the cuff that circled his wrist, but she dared not show anything beyond her suspicions for behind her oaken eyes dances a flurry of calculations and pondering that dared to place cautious weight on his words. He was either an honest man, a madman, or a schemer, for he was playing at a dangerous game either way; bold in the way he had piqued her interest, but temerarious in his willingness to do just that.


"That is a formidable claim you make, 'Fox'." She spoke quietly; critically. Indeed to voice such a foreboding tale was in itself risky, and though he had delivered it with a note of warning, his alleged identity placed stain on the pure intentions the message. Then again, if Katya had indeed sent him, his name was likely intended to carry meaning in itself- meaning that she didn't care to yet draw out- especially when there were more pressing inconsistencies in his story to bring focus to. Unfortunately, she couldn't be the one to do it when it was indeed her father who dealt with the Council of Mages. Still, she knew enough to catch on to two things: both of which 'Fox' likely hadn't expected her to know.

"Feldar, escort him to the bastion if you will. We'll take him to see my father immediately. There he can relay his message from a dead woman and declare his allegiance which we already know to be crossed."

The guard, young but strong, nodded and lifted Lachlan to his feet with a firm grip on his upper arm, his grasp threatening worse should he give reason for it.

"Zaaltoryna," Feldar spoke up, whispering into Cantoradel's ear as she leaned in to his request. A moment of unheard conversation passed until the young woman nodded and stepped back, her eyes turning again on Lachlan.

"Ah, yes- the elderly woman with whom you approached the bastion gate: where is she?"


----


"What is he doing!?"

"Not sure"

"The guard's drawing his sword- we should go and-"

"-Cira, calm down. I think he has a plan."

Hand on Cira's shoulder, Xalem wasn't sure his words would have the desired effect, but for the time being she was remaining hidden in the alleyway, at least. It was true, none of them really knew what Lachlan was up to, and though he didn't much like the look of things, he had to admit that he was interested to see what came of it. Lach was rash some times, but he wasn't stupid. That didn't make Cira's concern any less valid, though, and as the Zaaltoryna's guard lifted Lach to his feet, his stomach began to knot up.

"He can't go in there alone." Cira started up again, and to this rose a reply from her master who ushered her back with a sympathetic glance.

"Hide." Lady Ahlmir's voice came from where she stood just a few feet out onto the road, purposely remaining visible as the princess began to glace around- presumably looking for someone. Complying, everyone shuffled back a few steps, but it wasn't until Cantoradel's eyes fell upon her that Lady Ahlmir began to move, making her way over to Lachlan.

Lachlan was careful to keep his eyes fixed firmly downward as the Zaaltoryna spoke. And not just downward, but at his feet, for he could not risk the temptation to look up. It was hard, not being able to see the expression on her face as she spoke, and even harder when she called into question his allegiance.

The guard lifted him up, gripping him firmly by the upper arm, and Lachlan felt the warning in the grip. He wanted so desperately to reply, knowing with sudden understanding that she knew of that night on the Myrr, that terrible night when he had stood tall and seemingly proud beside his infamous grandfather. The repercussions of that night… Xalem had seemed to understand their extent. But he had been able to think of nothing but Cira. And now that one night, that one decision to cooperate, however unwillingly, may yet come back to ruin his one and only attempt to set things right before he went tumbling headfirst into the greatest nightmare he had yet lived through.

This time, however, he would square his shoulders and face it. He would not run. He would carry out his duty to the New Treagan crown, and he would do everything within his power to end Recide’s threat for good. Recide had been right about one thing: it was high time he began making use of his name. And if the beginning of that was to right their wrongs, he would do it.

Careful to keep his eyes lowered, Lachlan wetted his dry lips as the Zaaltoryna spoke again, this time to enquire about Lady Ahlmir. It surprised Lachlan that she had noticed… and honestly he wished she hadn’t. He should go into this alone. But by the time he could work up a response, he was already aware of Lady Ahlmir moving cautiously towards them from across the street. Lamely, he lifted his hand to gesture to her, speaking in a quiet voice. “My fiancé’s master. She…” His mind was blank. Would the Council have sent two? “She’s… my fiancé did not wish me to come alone.”

"Hey, careful where you're waving that thing!" When Galen extended her the book, Sena stepped away almost on instinct. She really had no idea what to think of the so called law book, even if Yild seemed to want it kept intact. Her opinion hadn't changed. It was dangerous for Mages to be running around with their own laws, getting around *real* authority and justifying it with things just like that book. Even if it wasn't cursed in the literal sense (and she wasn't so sure about that either), that book was a curse in its own way. "I don't need to read that garbage to know its dangerous."

But... that wasn't the real reason she ducked the idea of checking the book, and she knew it. The alternative to dismissing it was admitting that she couldn't read it if she had it. and she wasn't about to give Galen that satisfaction. Resolutely, and trying not to wince, she pushed it back down at him. And when she did, he fell to looking at her. Sena stood as straight as she could in front of his gaze. She wasn't trying to impress him; just show him that she had the high ground here. There was nothing that he could say to...

And then Galen really was speaking, and Sena's face contorted into an expression of horror. Give him a day to *what*!? Sena wanted to refuse immediately. She didn't *want* to have her mind changed. Let alone the Mage way. She knew what a 'Spiritmage' was as well as anyone else. That was the only way a mage had ever changed minds- by twisting them against their will. And as for the rest of it...

"What could I possibly want from a Mage?" And not just that. If he did fail, then she was supposed to just not give him his Council's location? Which meant what, that he'd stay in Estrad forever? That was a terrible solution! She'd be forced to make him succeed. Ahhhh... So that was his plan, was it? The sneaky jerk. Sena was too smart for him though. She wouldn't have given up after holding her ground this far anyway! That was letting him win as much as his own scheming option did. No, no, no he was just playing his crappy mage tricks on her, and she wasn't going to be tricked that easily!

"Forget that." Sena glared at Galen, trying to show her resolve. "Day nothing. I'll give it to you when I darn well please!" Suddenly aware that saying that sort of thing might keep him here for days, Sena amended her statement, pointing angrily ar him. "If that happens to be after a day, it's because I want it to, got it? Maybe it'll be a week, or a month, or an hour, or maybe I'll just chuck it at you on the road and run! You'll never know."

With that said, Sena confidently stomped off towards the door... Before realizing what she'd said again and flipping around one last time. No way was he going to stay in Estrad, another mage draining their resources as a guest, for more than a week, let alone... "And there's no way in hell you're staying here a month, so stop getting your hopes up!"

With that, Sena slammed the door behind her and stormed off down the hallway, grumbling.

“Sena! SENA!”

Galen was half way to the door when it slammed shut behind the obstinate, headstrong, stubborn Ra’an. He felt a cloud of Foxine rage well up within him as her accusations reverberated in his mind, battering his already weakened state of mind until he could not stand to remain any longer. It did not matter that she knew where the Council was and he did not. One way or another, she had found them. And he could do the same. Securing the rucksack over his shoulders and checking the straps and clasps, Galen stepped to the center of the room and ripped a hole through the air. Shimmering spindles extended outward, ripping and groaning until a portal hovered in mid air, commanding view of a lonely expanse of golden field. But for several seconds he did nothing more than stare at the open emptiness that he would soon step out into.

~Running off and hoping you find them before you collapse isn’t a possibility, Galen.~

Memory of the young Lord Slauth’s cautious warning halted Galen in his tracks. The rash anger boiling in his blood urged him forward at the same time that unwanted reason held him back. And yet Lord Slauth was right. He would not make it far in his current condition, not if he didn’t know where to start looking for the Council. And not when he had given the last of his coin to Lachlan and the others in the hopes that they would be able to make it away from Recide safely.

Rubbing tiredly at his pale, haggard face, Galen slowly turned away from the Gate and let it fade into nothingness. If there would be no reasoning with her, then patience would be a virtue in great demand. What amazed Galen the most was her astonishing hostility towards his mere presence… and yet her sudden change of heart in something as simple as conveying to him a piece of information that would have sent him on his way within seconds. He would not pretend to understand it.

A deep uneasiness settling in at the thought of spending the night without any promise that he would be sent on his way the next day, Galen slowly sank down to the bed again and began to mull over all that had happened—everything from his last glimpse of Alfaina to the door slamming behind Sena the vindictive Ra’an.

'Fiance'.

The word lingering in the air with an inauspicious overtone that gave her pause, Cantoradel made sure to note the passing way in which Lachlan had spoken it, giving the entire subject a muted feel. Not only that, but the girl had a Master, meaning that she too was a Mage. It was to be expected, she supposed, given the alleged identity of the man before her, but it was surely something to keep in mind. After all, such willingly and unnecessarily given personal information was not a slight thing within the context of Lachlan's precarious position, and Cantoradel was not one to miss even the slightest thing.

Deciding to keep her thoughts quiet, the princess slowly turned towards the old woman, her face worn but soft. Obviously unable to speak Treagan, she nodded and kept her eyes low, but maintained an air of... ambassadorial grace? Diplomacy? Regardless, the questions- and unfortunately her prior errands- could wait.

"Given your... status... and the warning you supposedly bring, I am inclined to believe that this woman is not simply an aid. However,"

Looking at Feldar, Cantoradel nodded meaningfully in Lady Ahlmir's direction to which he nodded back before giving Lady Ahlmir a gentle but suggestive nudge towards the bastion.

"the questions can wait. At least, until we draw the truth from your story."

Turning on her heel with the other three in tow, Cantoradel made straight for the gates, unaware of the half-dozen sets of eyes watching her cautiously from the alleyway.


(( Forgive the short post. I'm working semi-shorted out. All your faults, btw. ))

“I…” Lachlan trailed off, his heart pounding against his ribs as if trying to escape. He was almost certain the Zaaltoryna could hear it. Though it was more difficult for him to pick up the subtle nuances of tone in Treagan speech, he had clearly heard the searching quality in her words. The determined will to get to the bottom of whatever she seemed to think he was hiding. She had called him out now on two things: his allegiance and Lady Ahlmir’s purpose. Though he wasn’t quite sure what her comment of Lady Ahlmir meant, it most certainly did not bode well for either of them. Or his story. His story… which was growing more and more shaky the longer he clung to it.

He fell into step beside Lady Ahlmir, following the Zaaltoryna’s lead and trying desperately not to look as nervous as he felt. It was not working, of that he was painfully aware. The guard at his side looked no more trusting than he had when he’d kept his hand on the pommel of his sword. But at least he’d let go and now allowed Lach to walk on his own… though he yet remained a little too close for comfort.

Once or twice, Lachlan tried to catch Lady Ahlmir’s eye, though he was not sure whether by his looks he was trying to convey apology for dragging her into the whole affair or whether he was sending silent requests for advice. If the latter, it would be nearly impossible for her to respond, however, for even Lachlan knew how impolite it would be for any language other than Treagan to be spoken in the presence of the Zaaltoryna unless Lady Ahlmir wished to address her directly through a translator. Though she was by his side… he was very much alone. Alone in a world that he had never dreamed of crossing into. Alone in a world whose rules were greatly unknown to him.

The truth of his story, she had said. That was what they would be aiming to draw out. With each step he took into the enclosure of the castle grounds, Lachlan struggled with the thought of the sheer number of lies it had taken to get this far. It was not a matter to be taken lightly, and he knew that they could rightly have his head for it. Lady Ahlmir’s as well. It was absurd for him to think his story would hold up for more than a few minutes once they began to question him….

Running a hand nervously through his hair, Lachlan continued on in silence, dreading their arrival and the end of the silence. Dreading the prospect of facing the Zaaltor of New Treaganland under such false pretenses…. Dreading the uncovering of the lie and the consequences that were to follow.

Knuckles white, shirt fabric creasing up between her fingers, Cira forcefully kept her hands at her sides while keeping her anxiety silent. Regardless, it was plain on her face, and as the Zaaltoryna disappeared inside the bastion gates with Lady Ahlmir and Lachlan in tow, Xalem sent her a cautiously tight-lipped look to which she intentionally stared past.

"I don't know what he said, but it got them in." Xalem said with a hopeful chirp to which most everyone nodded. Cira however, was busy peeling her eyes off the intimidatingly tall bastion wall, unconsciously creating a moment of awkward silence while the others awaited her reply.

"Yeah," She answered softly as the faces watching her came into focus, doing her best to mimic her brother's optimism- with more success than she had expected. After all, ever since Lachlan's unexpected resolution he'd changed in ways that even she didn't yet understand. Was it drive? Need? Or something else entirely? Besides, he was with the one person whom she trusted more than anyone in the world, so how much safer could he be?

----

Gaining entry to the grounds and the main hall of the bastion without the slightest question, Cantoradel lead the small group without once slowing, wholly ignoring the rather impressive scene around her. The ground themselves, adorned with snow-capped shrubbery and ice-ladden fountains, had a sort of intimidating charm to it, overshadowed only by the smooth stone buttresses of the main citadel. Still, despite the aesthetic framework it maintained a distinctly mighty figure, looming over the surrounding area both threateningly and protectively. It was, in itself, a testament to the Zaaltor's power; a promise to his people.

Within the citadel, once the great oak and steel doors had been shut tightly behind them, the soft light of torches made the entrance hall feel warmer than it looked with velvety purple carpet and tapestries hung off the pale stone walls. The chairs set against the wall were even of a naturally dark wood, and yet, despite it all, the scene was not so suffocating to be frightening; merely... intimidating; awe inspiring.

"Del, you are early. Have you-"

Halting them all with her raised hand, Cantoradel turned towards the Treagan-speaking voice that had intercepted them from a corridor on the right, her face revealing that she already knew it's source. Thus, before the figure even came into view she began her reply, doing so with an unreadable tone.

"Unfortunately I was met with a rather pressing distraction," She started, but the look on her brother's face advised her to ignore any further explanations. If she had diverged from her goal, then the reason was likely far from trivial, thus his grunt in response sufficed to halt the conversation for the time being while he cast his eyes over the troupe, carefully tracing their faces with his mis-matched eyes.

For seventeen he was rather devoid of boyish features except in the suggestion of softness in his face. He was his sister's height, perhaps a hair shorter, and though his build was far from hulking he was certainly well-built. All in all, he was the picture of a Treaganish royal, his dark brown hair cut short a neat, and his robes both practical and regal, but his expression...

"Who...?" He asked, not taking his eyes off them as Cantoradel turned to explain, whispering Lachlan's story into Tyrulan's ear.

"Ah, haha, so he says." He said once she had finished, an amused smirk gracing her face. On his, however, once the initial chuckle had left, was interest, intrigue, and the slightest hint of fascination. Whether he believed what his sister had told him, it was impossible to tell, but as he took a step closer to Lachlan, Feldar shuffled in ever-so-slight discomfort.

"From the Council, you said?" He asked, speaking in heavily accented Treagan, letting it linger for a long moment before breaking his straight face into a smirk that was neither threatening nor friendly.

"We'll be speaking later."

His words spent, Tyrulan turned and left with a nod to his sister, continuing on his way with his hands clasped casually behind his back.

"Come."

Leading them again, Cantoradel took them further on down the passage until a gilded door and a pair of armed guards blocked their path, both of them taking the liberty of looking the group over in a way the previous ones hadn't dared.

"Zaaltoryna." They chimed respectively, lowering their heads. "Feldar."

Not sparing time for explanations, Cantoradel moved up the stairs, Feldar in tow, with Lachlan and Lady Ahlmir stuck between. However, before entering what was clearly the pinnacle room of the entire bastion, she turned around and scanned them cruelly, speaking in a low note so as to get her threat across.

"You'll show my father the utmost respect, I'm certain." She said, inching the door open. "For none of us will hesitate to strike you down."

By the time they had gained entrance to the well-guarded palace, Lachlan was beginning to believe he would trade almost anything in the world for just a sip of water. His throat was parched and there was a stale taste in his mouth not dissimilar to the one that had always seemed to linger after eating their sparse, bland meals in the mines of Herfiligr. And he was sure it had nothing to do with the fact that fish (caught in the river mainly by Micah and Isaac) had been his main source of food for the past week.

Though it likely had something to do with the grand feeling of aristocracy, of dignity emanating from the very walls they now walked through. It was all so… imposing. And it made Lachlan feel very small indeed. By now, he thought, he really should have grown accustomed to the feeling. The fact that he was here of his own accord, though… somehow made the knowledge worse. The simple truth was that he did not belong in such a place. He had gained entry through trickery… and it would likely end up working against him. All he could do now was hope that Lady Ahlmir did not pay for his mistake as well.

“Del, you are early. Have you-"

Lachlan pulled up short at the gesture from the Zaaltoryna as. The man that rounded the corner was not tall for a Treagan—a couple inches shorter than Lachlan himself was—though it was immediately obvious that he was much more sturdily built. Even through his regal robes, it was easy to tell that he was fit and well muscled, though if Lachlan had the chance, he doubted he would find the man’s hands calloused in any way except that which suggested continual practice with a sword or some similar ceremonial weapon. From there… Lachlan’s eyes traveled upward, as if drawn by an irresistible force until the famously mismatched eyes were staring into his own. Flinching, Lachlan instantly jerked his gaze away, looking down to the ground as the Zaaltoryn looked him up and down. He had caught the beginnings of a smirk… one that set Lachlan on edge for some reason.

"We'll be speaking later."

Words failed Lachlan in the wake of what he could only see as an ill-fated certainty. Was it searching understanding in the Zaaltoryn’s tone that sent droplets of sweat running down Lachlan’s face again? Or was it simply his searching gaze, which still had not let up?

Fortunately, Tyrulan soon turned on his heel and took his leave in silence, leaving Lachlan and Lady Ahlmir to follow Zaaltoryna Cantoradel yet again. This time, however, when they stopped it was painfully clear that they had come upon their final destination. Met by two guardsmen in the livery of the royal family at the entrance of what could only be the throne room, the Zaaltoryna again turned to issue one last unnecessary threat (though Lachlan would by no means be ignoring it). In the wake of such words, Lachlan could do nothing but bow once more and speak in a nerve-wracked voice. “Of course… of course, your highness.”

After perhaps a moment’s pause in which Lachlan could feel the Zaaltoryna’s hard gaze on him, the doors opened, and Lachlan found himself, at last, being led into the throne room—the very center of power in all of New Treaganland. And into the chambers of a powerful man who was in more danger than he could possibly know.

Physically shaking, Lachlan moved forward until he was an appropriate distance from the throne of the Zaaltor of New Treaganland. Sinking to his knees, Lachlan lowered his head and did not lift it from the deep bow as he waited for the Zaaltor to speak, knowing that it was not appropriate for him to take the first word.

Arininlan, for all the royal flare around him, was a surprisingly plainly dressed man. Even the coat over his shoulders- though well-tailored and obviously of fine quality- mimicked the practicality of those common to the outlying towns and cities where the unforgiving tundra wind was not broken by a fortifying wall. Still, it was not a casual air that hung around him for it did not deter from his position of power, but rather a suggestion of his directness. Even the lines of his weathered face presented a stern image, however when he looked towards Cantoradel for explanation, the slightest hint of calm interest suggested a personable side- albeit serious.

"Father," Cantoradel spoke, nodding as she did. Behind her, Feldar rose to his feet as Arininlan motioned for him to do so before turning his eyes back on his daughter to hear what she had to say.

"This man came to me in the street claiming to be Lachlan Fox; bearing a message of warning for you from none other than the High Mage of the Council herself. The woman is... his escort, I believe."

It was evident enough in her tone where Cantoradel herself stood on the subject, but Arininlan's expression was much less evident. The immediate shock and deep thought that followed however, were written all over his face.

"From Katya of the now former Council?" He mused, delving into his thoughs as he scanned Lachlan's figure. "...and a Fox, no less." It was certainly a tale that was hard to believe, but just before the air could grow thick enough to suffocate, the clicking of the door latch split the silence, giving way to Tyrulan's entrance from a door to the right of the throne.

"I have to admit, I don't believe it." The youngest of the family spoke as he entered the room, apparently having been listening in. "But if Del saw fit to bring him here, we should at least hear what he has to tell."

Agreeably, Arininlan nodded and turned his eyes back on Lachlan and spoke without implication.

"Yes, speak." He said, leaning forward in his throne. "And raise your face to me; I would judge your lineage for myself."

Lachlan slowly raised his face as commanded until it was illuminated by the mid-afternoon light cascading down from the high-arched windows above. He was careful to keep his eyes averted, though, fixing them on the collar of the Zaaltor’s coat rather than his eyes. It was an easy mistake to make, one that he and Cira had made dozens of times whilst in the mines. But after a year with Xalem, Lachlan had become accustomed again to the freedom of looking a man of higher stature in the eyes without fear of reprisal. He would not accidentally show a lack of proper respect for the Zaaltor now, though. He’d come too far to turn back now.

Mouth dry, it was a few seconds before Lachlan was able to speak. When he did so, his voice was hoarse with nerves. “Your majesty… I—I am indeed the son of Lachlan Fox, the Melrakki. But I do not hold any loyalty to him or Lord Arathorn.” The scar at his chest twinged uncomfortably as he spoke, though Lachlan hardly noticed it in the midst of the heightened anxiety he felt upon hearing words of doubt from the Zaaltoryn. “My allegiance is to what was once the Council of the Myrr, destroyed one month past by Lord Arathorn. I—I come bearing a message of warning.”

Drawing in a deep breath, Lachlan paused to allow the tremors running through him to dissipate, but they did not. He was acutely aware that he was shaking, though he was not sure whether it was for fear of what they would do if they found his lie or believed his truth. “Your majesty, there is a group called Recide dedicated to bringing about a future of peace between Commons and Mages. They believe… they believe that… that one final war will bring about the end of all future wars. They believe that peace can be built on the foundation of war, and are even now planning to set a war in motion that will spread across all of Eoti—a war that begins with your deaths.”

By the end of it, Lachlan’s voice had become so quiet that one would have to strain to hear it. But the throne room was so quiet that his words came across quite clearly in any case. He could sense Lady Ahlmir’s presence just behind him, and though he knew she could not understand a word of Treagan, he hoped that she would at least be able to gauge the reactions of the royal family. If she sensed danger of any kind, though… Lachlan could only hope that she would be able to save herself.

"What a typical Mage commotion." Tyrulan chuckled, shaking his head sadly. Arininlan however, looked once again deep in thought, making his first response not through words, but through rising from his seat.

"I see the Melrakki in the rise of your brow and lay of your shoulders, but you do not bear his pride nor fire. Still, you are kin, that much I can tell. As for the rest of your tale..."

Stepping down the three elongated steps that sepparated the rest of the room from his throne, Arininlan covered half the distance between himself and Lachlan, looking even more imposing at a height well above six feet. There was no cruelty in his eyes, though, only imposing; He was going to have the truth.

"I have never once heard of this group called 'Recide' and I doubt that Katya would have given you any such message without also providing an explanation. The threat of assassination, as I assume you're alluding to, is one that I find difficult to take to heart. Perhaps you are telling the truth, but just what would a group without a face gain by attacking New Treaganland?"

Sighing with a mixture of boredom and frustration, Arininlan rose his hand up before Lachlan could answer, raising the priority of what he had to say next above all else- for indeed shaded any answers Lachlan could provide in doubt.

"Perhaps you think me gullible or ill-informed, but I feel it nessicary to inform you that I know full well what happened during Arathorn's 'inauguration'."

Though unspoken, it was clear that he had no intention of neither trusting nor letting Lachlan leave. However, before he could act on his thoughts, Lady Ahlmir spoke up, creasing Arininlan's brow with her unadressed interruption in Lochsalanian which Tyrulan crudely translated from the back of the room.

"He was forced into Arathorn's service, she said. Apparently through magic which bore a scar on his chest."

"Is that so?" Arininlan turned back, staring Lady Ahlmir down as if testing to see if she would glance up. She did not.

"Then show me, Fox, if it is true."

Tyrulan’s derisive snort and dismissive words grated at Lachlan, though he did not turn to the Zaaltoryn in answer. If the Zaaltor shared his son’s thoughts, however… Lachlan simply did not know what his next step would be. He would cooperate with them fully, give them every proof he could, prove his truthfulness if he could. But when all was said and done, he could only do so much. What would become of him, Cira… their future family… if he failed and the family standing before him, so vulnerable though they did not yet know it, took the fall? What would happen when the world thought him a murderer, and looked upon him as they did the Melrakki?

He supposed it was relief that trickled through him as the Zaaltor proclaimed that he could see the shadow of the Melrakki in him. And though Zaaltor Ärininlan sounded doubtful when he suggested characteristics the Melrakki was well known for that Lachlan so obviously lacked… he supposed there was some relief in that too. At least half of his story would hold up.

"Perhaps you think me gullible or ill-informed, but I feel it necessary to inform you that I know full well what happened during Arathorn's 'inauguration'."

Fear flickered across Lachlan’s face at this, and his heart plummeted in his chest. He shook his head, knowing they would not believe his word alone, but before he could speak, Lady Ahlmir did so, no doubt reading the look on his face, the Zaaltor’s, and putting two and two together.

Her words, however, left him speechless… and nearly unwilling to translate. The Zaaltoryn, however, appeared to have understood perfectly well, for he soon translated her words.

“Is that so?” The Zaaltor asked, his voice reaching a dangerous pitch. “Then show me, Fox. If it is true.”

Lachlan turned to Lady Ahlmir, an expression of disbelief, frustration, and even shame on his face. But if he’d hoped that she would communicate some silent permission for him to remain silent in the face of the Zaaltor’s demand, it did not come. Hands curled tightly into fists, it was several moments before Lachlan could force himself to obey. Eyes cast downward, Lachlan jerkily reached up and shed his heavy winter coat. The lighter jacket he wore underneath he also removed. His fingers lingered a few moments longer over the buttons of his shirt until he could delay it no longer. Looking determinedly away now, he undid the upper buttons and spread his shirt wide so as to reveal the ugly scar.

It burned, fiery red in color, unwilling, it seemed, to fade to a pearly white as quickly as most scars would. A fine match at the moment for his burning cheeks. “There,” he said shortly, anger rising in his voice as his insides writhed with shame. “Do you believe me now? Why would I come to you with such a message if it were not the truth? When I have nothing to gain and everything to lose?”

Tracing the outline of the scar with a sharpness of eye that threatened to dig the brand further into Lachlan's flesh, Arininlan carefully considered what had been said, barely setting aside the rising tone that had accompanied it. It was clearly a wound born of magic, but the Zaaltor's silence spoke for him and his ignorance. Tyrulan however, creasing his brow at the sight, let out a short huff of breath of amused understanding.

"It's a brand." He stated aloud, a somehow understanding but wry smile chasing his words. "It would seem Mage immorality is still alive and well even within one of the most feared and respected families of its kind." As unessicary as the comment was, Tyrulan delivered it with just enough venom to sting without moving beyond a statement of what he seemingly believed to be fact- enough so that neither his sister nor his father saw fit to question the reason he knew enough to make his initial assessment.

"I believe it's a method of control." He continued, walking towards Lachlan but saying no more. His eyes suggested a knowledge beyond the innotation of an educated guess that he was using, but once again the others remained silent.

"Control?" Arininlan repeated, to which Tyrulan nodded. "But by whom, I cannot be certain. Perhaps there is something within the mark itself that can tell us, but we would be best to have a Mage look at it."

"So," Cantoradel finally spoke up, looking between everyone there before stopping on her father. "perhaps there is some merit to his story. If so...?"

"We will need to be vigillant, at least until we can prove absolutely that this is a... 'brand'..." Arininlan pointed to the scar on Lachlan's chest. "... and determine exactly what it means. Until then, I want to hear everything you can tell me about this 'Recide' and why Katya would chose to send you of all people to deliver her message."