Tarel Soarvas

“Never again” were the only two faint words that managed to crawl from Lachlan’s lips as he tumbled out of the boat upon reaching the outskirts of the capital. Truly, he looked as though he would never again allow his feet to leave solid ground for the whimsical and infinitely more sinister grip of the flowing river. They had landed on a stretch of riverbank that rose at a sharp incline leading to a dense forest, and there intended to make camp for the night before hiking to the center of the city the following morning. Knowing that they would never be able to haul the two boats up the slope, Micah had been on the point of rummaging through his packs for a length of rope with which to secure them before Lachlan, guessing at his intentions, checked his hand.

“We’ll let them go here,” he said. “Send them farther downstream. Word will have traveled down river by now, and they’ll be looking for us and the boats we took. The river will carry them for miles before they’re caught, and by then we’ll be long gone. No way to trace us.”

Micah nodded, and together he and Xalem waded into the water and sent the two boats into the rushing current. In no time, they were swept from view and Lachlan, who had stood a good few yards up the bank, let out a deep sigh of relief. His intentions were far from covert, and he knew that none of them had missed his true reasons for wishing to send the boats off. But he was grateful nevertheless when no one brought it up. Micah’s eyes lingered questioningly on him for several moments, though, and so without another word, Lachlan turned and began to climb the steep incline, at times having to plant a knuckle on the hard packed snow to steady himself.

The motions of setting up camp had become so familiar over the past few days that by now it was second nature, and without words, each turned to his familiar tasks. There were no tents to set up, and now they had no food to stave away the hunger curling in their stomachs. But there was firewood to collect and clothing to lay out to dry. Taking two hooks and some fishing line from his pack, Micah and Isaac disappeared quickly enough, and soon Lachlan was only collecting firewood for lack of anything more productive to do. And, of course, there was the eternal cold that the continual movement kept at bay.

As he walked the same track over and over again, leaving for the forest and returning to their clearing and leaving again, Lachlan’s mind ran a similar circuit. Little over a year ago, Nutmeg had come to him on the Myrr. He had befriended (in a rather loose sense of the word) Lachlan and offered him assistance in getting off the Myrr and away from the watchful eye of the Council. When that had not quite panned out the way Nutmeg had likely expected it to, he had tailed Lachlan and spent the last year with him and Xalem. And though Lachlan had occasionally wondered why, he had never pushed the topic with Nutmeg. Whatever Nutmeg had wanted with him, Lach had never imagined it to involve anything as macabre as the cold-blooded murder of an entire family. No… because Nutmeg had been so… so kind and thoughtful, infinitely helpful and always there to support Lachlan in any way he’d needed. How was such a person capable of such base evil?

“Lachlan… I think that should do it.”

Ace’s voice startled Lachlan out of his thoughts. He looked down at the woodpile where he’d just dropped his last load and saw that it would indeed be more than enough to carry them through the night. The fire was already blazing, and Xalem and Lydia were tending the flames, building their fire as big as was safe to do so in their small clearing.

“Yeah, I guess…” he said slowly, though all he wanted to do was head out for another load again. As long as he kept moving, the truly troubling thoughts would not bother him. As long as he kept his feet moving and his hands busy, he would not have to think about what he would do or say tomorrow. For tomorrow they would venture into the capital at last. Tomorrow he and Lady Ahlmir would attempt to gain entrance to the palace. And tomorrow… tomorrow they would work to undo all of Recide’s carefully laid plans.

He turned to Cira. “Walk with me?” Reaching out as she stood, Lachlan took her hand and they walked side by side into the frost covered wood with nothing but the crunch of snow beneath their feet and the puffs of white breath to accompany them. His left wrist ached, and below the frozen metal and blood, a shade of yellow, or perhaps green, tinged his skin. But he had ceased to notice it any longer. His long coat sleeve pulled down low over that hand, it had been out of sight and out of mind since the previous morning.

They walked in silence, though Lachlan was fairly certain that the thoughts running through their minds were similar. Tomorrow they would part ways. At least for a time. And all of the uncertainty that Xalem had spoken of would hit them full force. Lachlan slowed to a stop and turned to Cira. The rustle of birds taking flight overhead was the only sound to fill the air besides that of their shallow breaths, which gave rise to puffs of white clouds between them. And Lachlan held out his hand in the stillness and silence. “May I have this dance?”

((Just one reserve... I don't think I need any more.))

The soft light of a couple dozen lanterns lighting Himmin’s main square gave a friendly glow to the jovial faces of the townsfolk as they mingled amongst themselves, laughing and chatting like family while those so inclined (or so inebriated that the inclination was ever-present), danced to Hendrik’s lute. Beside him, young Demi maintained a steady rhythm on the small hide drums that fit between his knees, forcing all who heard it to tap their feet along, thickening the excitable atmosphere. All sorts mingled at gatherings such as this, and Cira- even more so than most- could think of no better way to spend a warm early autumn night.

Dusk was the first person she spotted amongst the crowd, his vividly colored hair forcing him to stand out (as if his distinctive laugh wasn’t enough) as he sat amongst a group of men his age, joking and drinking like it was a sport. When Veile, the eldest of the tavern owner’s two pretty, young, daughters passed by him he called out, motioning dramatically. She gave him a wolfish smile in return, and though Cira couldn’t hear what had been said, she couldn’t help but to chuckle when Veile gave her reply leaving Dusk looking sarcastically pained, urging up a round of consoling back-pats and laughter from his friends.

If she knew anything of the troublesome young man, it was that he was right where he belonged, except...

“Where’s Lachlan?”

Lady Ahlmir, knowing Cira’s mind better than she did herself sometimes, spoke up with a smile that hinted ever so slightly at some implied factor- which Cira purposely pretended not to mind.

“I’m not sure.” She answered back as if she hadn’t been looking, but a moment later she caught a mischievous look cross old Hendrik’s face as he took again to his lute, calling out to the crowd: “Oi! Where’d our favorite pair get off to? ‘s about that time, in’nit!?” and immediately the crowd’s focus turned to the luteist, recognition on their faces as they scanned the square.

“Oh, there ‘e is!” A burly man pointed, and Cira followed his finger down to the other end of the ring where Lachlan was emerging from the crowd, wearing a grin.

“And Elyse?” Hendrik continued, a call coming up a moment later from Veile as she offered her little sister up.

Taking back to his strings, Hendrik began to play a song to which the crowd was visibly roused, their eyes turning on Lachlan and Elyse for every year, every event, it was to them which it was dedicated.

As the music began to flow on the tides of an energetic melody and wistful- almost romantic- harmonics, Elyse and Lachlan took to it, much to the adoration of the townsfolk and estate workers alike. Their hands clapped in time, and Cira gladly followed their example, unable to keep from smiling at the sight. In a vest that he wore only on occasion with a pair of his father’s well kept trousers, Lachlan had an admittedly personable aesthetic to him which Elyse’s lilac dress and naturally curled locks accented beautifully.

Clapping and cheering, the crowd jubilantly watched the two dance while Cira, letting her eyes stray just a moment, caught Dusk’s gaze from across the ring. There was meaning in the way he was looking at her with that grin, his hands clapping all the while, but she couldn’t quite make it out. So, with a nod his direction, she turned her focus back just in time to catch Lachlan’s fleeting gaze instead, his deep brown eyes forcing her crystalline blue ones to the ground as a blush found its way to her cheeks.

But... why?

“He only had eyes for you.”

Jostling awake as the boat made for the shore, Cira lifted her head from where it had been resting up Lachlan’s, shaking Micah’s words from her mind. In front of her sat Lachlan, her arms still steady around his shoulders while his focus remained glued to the nearest shore as they ran aground on it. Before long, the boats were well on their way to the capital docks while the group, bound in anxious silence broken by bouts of short conversation, were set up round a small fire for the last time before what was to be an eventful morning.

“He’s been at it for hours.” Cira spoke to Ace as Lachlan made his eighth trip into the woods for firewood- of which they already had plenty. She knew it had nothing to do with the wood itself, but rather a means of keeping himself as occupied as his mind, seeking a release of sorts which Cira herself craved. Still, he was due to tire himself out, and so Ace spoke up in her stead, assuring Lach that there was no more need for wood.

“Walk with me...?” He offered instead, and Cira readily took his hand, just as desperate for a moment of peace from her own worries as he was. Above them, the birds took flight to their intrusion on the stillness of the forest, and so Cira gazed up at them wonderingly, feeling Lachlan come to a stop beside her, drawing her attention.

That look in his deep brown eyes, she knew she had seen something like it before, and a telltale blush threatened to redden her cheeks as she took his outstretched hand without a word.

A soft smile stole across Lachlan’s face as Cira accepted his hand. Hand in hand and one hand at her waist, Lachlan and Cira began to step in time to a silent tune, one of their own imagining. Her eyes fixed firmly on his as he looked down into her soft eyes, a blue of the deepest beauty, not like the ocean waves, which were cold and unfeeling. Her eyes were like the wing of a blue jay, soft and comforting and so full of peace and calm that he knew her words to be true at last. ~It’ll be all right, Lach. We’ll be all right.~ Tears dampened his eyes at the thought, though they were brought on by a kind of relief, and so he could honestly say that they were tears of joy.

Peace penetrated down to his core as he and Cira turned slowly on the spot, a sort of peace that would neither allow him to think about the future nor deny that all would work out for the better. Because he and Cira were finally free… free on their own terms. Free to dance, free to laugh, free to cry. And free to do so together. Had it been so long since they’d tasted such freedom? Or had they ever really been free, Lachlan wondered? For now he knew with blinding certainty that there was no freedom away from Cira.

Lachlan stumbled slightly as his foot nearly came down on Cira’s and he lurched awkwardly to the side to avoid doing so. Laughing as he righted himself, Lachlan swept his long hair from his eyes. “Sorry, I’m… I’m out of practice.” He chuckled nervously, tallying up the seasons it had been since he’d last danced. It had been fall… three years and a season, then. Three years and a season since he had danced, and though he had done so every year with Elyse since his fifteenth year, it was the first time he and Cira had done so. Shaking his head, he had to chuckle at the irony of the situation: the first time he had asked Cira to dance, and there was no music to accompany them.

Submission to the poetic allure of the moment came naturally to Cira as she followed Lachlan's lead through the soundless tune that carried them; imagined, but real all the same. Her hand sat comfortably in his as they moved slowly and in time, albeit with their minds lingering distantly outside of their surroundings while they became immersed in the emotions and unspoken understandings that neither tried to hide. It was in this that Cira found a smile- one that shamed all those that had come before it- for Lachlan's gaze finally reflected peace, real peace, that was made all the more beautiful for the knowledge that it was likely fleeting. It would give him hope, she knew; resolve. Just to know that peace was out there, even if it came in the form of a song-less dance in the middle of winter with nothing but trees and the night sky as their witness.

Chuckling as Lach make a quick flounder to avoid her foot, Cira just shook her head, knowing that she, too, was out of practice. Of course, under her father's insistence she had learned to dance at a young age and had been certainly well-practiced at it by her early teens due mostly to all the balls and events that she had attended, but dancing had since become the last thing on her mind. It was there, tucked away in her memory, but her fluidity had certainly taken something of a decline. Still, it was surely quite the scene for their silent onlookers, for between their flatteringly practical outfits and their bumbling steps, they were certainly a presentable pair.

"Well, I suppose we'll have to get you more practice, then." She answered with the same smile that had yet to leave her face. Meaningfully, she returned her hand back to his, persuading him to make a second attempt. After all, setting and stumbles aside, the moment was not one worth letting slip away until the choice was no longer theirs.

"But you're going to have to give me something in return; a promise."

Falling back into the comfortingly slow steps of their dance, Cira allowed herself a moment to be drawn in by it, knowing that her next words would bring to a halt the serenity that they had achieved. She had so little time, though, for once the sun rose, she wasn't sure another chance would present itself- and that was a truly frightening thought. So, tucking her head into the crook of Lachlan's neck, she spoke in a near whisper as if the trees themselves would hear her weakness and remind her that despite all her inwardly focused reassurance, she was scared.

"Tomorrow, whatever happens, just... don't get hurt."

“Well, I suppose we’ll just have to get you more practice, then,” Cira said, taking his hand again in silent encouragement. Chuckling, Lachlan shook his head as he realized that Cira too had once danced, and likely far more often than he. The types of dances they would have known would have differed quite a bit for, as a noble, he was sure her father had insisted that she learn traditional Lochsalanian ballroom dances—who’s movements were much more stiff and less free-flowing than the Treagan folk dances he had grown up with. Whatever sort of dance their feet were carrying them through at the moment was not truly any sort of dance he had ever learned at all. But it was slow and simple, and neither seemed to mind in the least.

“But you’re going to have to give me something in return; a promise.”

The smile in Lachlan’s eyes faded slightly upon hearing these words, for he knew by the way Cira had spoken, by the way she rested her head gently on his shoulder, what she would ask of him. He did not stop their music-less dance until the words fell from her lips, though when they did, they seemed to break on the ground at their feet with a loud shattering despite how quietly she had actually spoken. The spell holding reality at bay had been severed, and though Lachlan knew that Cira had needed to say it for her own peace of mind… he wished that it could have waited. And that their dance could have gone on.

“Cira, I…” Lachlan lowered his head to hers and wrapped his arms around her, perhaps trying to convey a kind of assurance that he truthfully could not give. Not when it was the unknown he faced. He no longer feared it… but that did not mean Cira did not still worry. “I’m going to be in good hands, you know. The best,” he said, hoping that mention of her master would ease at least some of Cira’s anxiety.

“But I have to do this. You know that. I can’t even tell you why right now, but it’s about more than our future now. It’s about more than them using my name. It’s…” He shook his head and trailed off, unable to find the words to express the places his thoughts had taken him that day. Drawing in a fortifying breath, Lach pulled away from Cira and looked down into her clear blue eyes. “Nothing could possibly hurt me except losing you.”

"Aft hands, move to forward cannon." The dark voice echoed out over the ship's lower decks, as the sound of rushing water and scurrying feet were drowned out by it's presense.

"Aft hands moving to forward cannons." A toneless, authoritative second voice carried the order, and the scurrying grew louder. Men in armor strode down the hallways of the great ship Dominion, their positioning cued by wicks lighting up with the sparkling hiss of fire, and the smokey glow of cannons that echoed across the turbulent Ra'an seas.

"Your majesty, are we moving into position for an attack?" A startled voice rose up from one of the officers to the side of where the great voice sat. "Your majesty, we're the command vessel for this entire fleet! Their numbers have scarcely been depleted at all. Surely such an action would be too hasty..."

"Their remaining numbers are meaningless." Cezare Lodewijik's voice silenced the room immediately, snuffing out any hope of countermand from the first word. "This is my Dominion. The world has never seen a stronger ship, and never will for a hundred years." Lodewijik's eyes burned deeply from beneath his crown, boring, it seemed, into the very soul of the officer who had questioned him. "Our days of fighting toe to toe with the Ra'an's driftwood are over. Today, we lay our foothold upon our future shore. We're establishing a beachhead."

The officer nearly choked. "Your majesty, we're nearly a mile from the shore! Half of their entire fleet is ahead of us!"

"Then half of their fleet will burn to ash!" Lodewijik thrust his arm forward, holding his hand as if every ship in mention were in it, and clasping it into a fist. "We are Lochsalan. Our will is that of an Empire. Fire all cannons! Cleanse my enemies from this world in an ocean of fire!"

* * *

They seemed evenly matched. No matter where Lochsalan's navy engaged with Ra's, their weapons never seemed to be able to overcome the Ra'an defensive line. Lochsalan had numbers, and quality on their side, but the Ra'ans had been sailing for countless generations, and they new every trick and tactic in the book by heart. Not to mention their firebombs. Lochsalan had tried to adapt that technology, but thus far they were still unable to use them with the deadly accuracy of their enemies. The Terkaut and Dorchalba had already fallen to enemy fire, and despite their own kills, Prince Ghosseler knew that if things persisted this battle would turn into yet another stalemate. Explosions rang out across the water, some coming close enough that they nearly struck the Larshada's side below him, but, thus far, the ship remained highly undamaged, despite the hit it had taken to it's port side. If that firebomb had gone off, things might have gone significantly differently for him thus far.

"That vessel there..." Ghosseler squinted into the distance, stepping towards the edge of the deck as he made out a tall mast, along a squat vessel with a thin front that was cutting through the water between the Ra'an ships like butter. "That's Lady Saelze's ship, the Tempest Harpy, is it not?"

The first mate turned the gaze of his periscope to the spot and nodded beside him. "Aye sir. It's likely their flagship." The man lowered the periscope, and nodded approvingly to the Prince. "You have good eyes my lord."

"They are my fathers." Ghosseler left it at that. He was his the second son of his royal majesty, Cezare Lodewijik. To be anything less than at his best would be to offend his father's good name.

"Prince Ghosseler!" A soldier clambered to the side of the prince, stumbling as bout of waves rocked the Larshada roughly. As the soldier steadied himself, he panted out his message. "The Dominion is beginning a charge! They're heading straight for the enemy."

"My father is..." Ghosseler took his first mate's periscope, and looked out into the fray. The Dominion was visible at once, it's dual decks blazing out fire in all directions, as the length of the ship, four times or more that of the next largeststandard militant ship in the fleet, broke Lochsalan's line and begin to tear through the mostly open water between the two. As it approached one ship, on a collision course, the Dominion did not bother to turn. Instead, its sheer mass shattered the other vessel on impact, crunching the Ra'an boat to splinters and charging on as if nothing had happened. Ghosseler's Larshada had power, but witnessing the Dominion in it's full glory was... Awe inspiring.

His father would bring any enemy to its knees. Ghosseler was sure of it. But to leave the Cezare alone now in his charge would be foolish. His father knew what he was doing. Ghosseler would have to believe in his decision and follow Lodewijik's example.

"Bring the Larshada around! We will support his majesty's charge!" Ghosseler handed the periscope back to his first mate, and waved to the soldier. "Send flares to call all other ships forward as well. Today, we shall break our enemies lines once and for all." Ghosseler struck his fist into the air. "For the Cezare!"

"For the Cezare!" Echoed the ship, and the Larshada surged forward to join its flagship in the charge.

* * *

"They're breaking through..." Upon the Tempest Harpy, Timot stared in horror as the Dominion rended a Ra'an ship in half with it's cannons, scouring the water with fire. It wasn't pausing to lay siege to the ships around it; the Dominion ignored them as if they weren't there, and destroyed another vessel before the occupants of the first even had time to realize they were doomed. The wreckage along from the vessel the Dominion obliterated had exploded with such force that it's flaming pieces caught aboard the mast of the ship beside it, and its sails took light, caving to the fire and collapsing onto the deck. The battle, when it began, had seemed like a fair fight. In moments, Cezare Lodewijik had turned it into a massacre.

This never would have happened under the First Princess. Lady Saelze would have found a way out of this for them. She was always a hundred steps ahead, her brilliance and courage a rallying point around which all of Ra could rally. Without her...

"Captain! The Larshada's headed right for us!" The Tempest Harpy swerved, and Timot staggered as a ball of metal slammed past him into the deck, tearing it apart. The shrapnel plunged through his gut, a piece of wood the size of a broadsword piercing his left leg as surely as any real blade would have. Timot's gaze rose, slowly, to the deck of the ship that was barrelling past them. A single, tall figure stood on the decks. And, as Timot caught the eye of Prince Ghosseler Lodewijik, he felt, in a way, that he found acceptance there. It was as if the man had declared him a worthy opponent, but was telling him that it was over now. It was time to let go.

"Lady Saelze..." Timot whimpered out, collapsing to his knee as the large shrapnel tore out half his knee in a wrenching bout of pain. "Forgive me..."

The Tempest Harpy burst into flames, cannonfire rending through it's decks, and destroying every trace of the smaller vessel as if it had never been. Barely even scrap remained. And Timot, Princess Saelze's most personal guardsman, left to join his princess. Lost to the sea of fire, the image of Lodewijik's blood kin was the last he ever saw.

* * *

"The Tempest Harpy has been destroyed, your majesty." An officer calmly reported to the news to Lodewijik, and the Cezare smiled faintly at the idea of the vessel's loss. "Prince Ghosseler's ship performed the deed."

A shudder ran through the deck, and the Dominion slowly halted it's motion, the great ship groaning at the effort. The scurrying stopped, and the cried orders of sailors fell, slowly, quiet. Slowly, the cannons ceased as well, as the realization slowly swept across the men aboard. The ship had hit land. The Ra'an fleet, behind them, was in ruins, scurrying off to regroup. The tide of war had not only turned, but been shattered.

Lochsalan had a beachhead.

"I am Cezare Lodewijik." Lodewijik rose from his seat, a true throne in the midst of the Dominions' second deck, and strode forward, his officers left to fall wordlessly in around him as he marched up the stairs at the end of the room and up, onto the deck, where the sounds of birds and jungle greeted his ears. He strode straight to the front of the ship, and, when he reached it, stepped over, landing his feet on the railing below once, before finishing his descent onto the beach, and standing, straight, to his full seven foot height, his crown shining like a beacon on the otherwise empty shore.

"I claim this island in my name. In Lochsalan's name." Lodewijik's hand tightened into a fist and he thrust it upwards. "LOCHSALAN NOW."

Lodewijik's below was joined with that of the Dominion's crew, and rang out over the fleeing Ra'an's, and the decks of the Lochslanian ships drawing in from the sea.

"LOCHSALAN FOREVER!"

"That name doesn't mean what it used to son. I can't allow it, even for that."

"This is a job for us real Lochsalan boys. Not you."

"Sorry. Lochsalan still doesn't allow Mages into the corps. Even ones like you."

"Running back to Lochsalan the minute your little Council goes belly-up? We don't need cowards in our army. Get lost."

"It's not that we don't appreciate the offer." The commander at the recruitment station shook his head. It was the tenth time Aleph had been given the same speech, with only minor variation, in the past month or so. Sometimes, they were rude. Sometimes, they were sympathetic. But the answer was always the same. At least this commander was going to break it easy. He patted Aleph on the shoulder. "Heck, it's good to see there's some patriots in your lot. But we can't do it."

Patriot. 'Your Lot'. Someone 'like him'. Right. It was amazing the excuses people would come up with to prevent a mage from throwing his life away. Especially when he actually wanted to do it. Had a thousand mages been forcefully conscripted into service, the military would have taken them without a second thought. But the moment one tried to do it by choice, they were up in arms against the very idea. Freaking assholes... Why couldn't they let him die in peace?

After seeing Valorie... Aleph didn't know what the heck to do with himself. He had lost Ravenholm, and after Valorie's rampage through the streets, Aleph was probably the only Tyrant Moon guy left alive who was dragging that sort of failure around. So going back to them... Hadn't been an option. And he didn't want to anymore either. When the hell had Valorie gotten so... grown up? He never asked to be spared by her. He certainly didn't ask for a freaking life lesson. But because of her, he had no idea what to do with himself. And he didn't like thinking about it either. He had screwed over tons of people, messed up so many lives that didn't deserve it. Eventually, he figured that if he was going to die, he might as well do it for a cause. So he'd walked up to enlist in the Lochslanian army in a little town far enough away from his infamy for him to pass unnoticed. And been rejected. And again at the next town. And the next...

Aleph dragged himself away from his latest attempt without comment, in the tiny town of Gostaker, just past the edge of the space widely considered the Heartland. There was nothing for it. He stumbled his way to the nearest bar and collapsed onto the stool, ordering a drink before he knew it and collapsing onto the table. What had he beeen reduced to? At least under Valorie (literally, and metaphorically) he had felt... Alive. Right. Purposeful. Even if their only purpose seemed to be causing chaos for everyone else. Somewhere, he missed her. Badly. He would never have hunted her down so obsessively and for so long if he didn't. But she didn't want him now. No one wanted him now, apparently. He had burned his bridges home, he had burned them with his Master, he had burned them with his boss, and now that the fire was settling Aleph was just beginning to realize that he had burnt everything keeping him up. Damnit. Damn Valorie, Cira, that bloody governor Yild... And Alberto. Damn that smug little freak of a Prince more than anyone. If Aleph never saw him again, it would be too soon.

* * *

"My former slave is inside." Alberto gestured at the bar behind himself, still standing in his same black mourning clothes even four days after the funeral had come and gone. The dinky location in the town of Gostaker was not the place that one would expect to find a Ra'an prince but, if only for the impossibility of his presense there, the town went on about its business as if he were not. It was incredible what people were willing to ignore, if only to preserve their fragile realities. Alberto had always been fascinated by it, pushing the bounds to their limits. But, despite the storybooks where a King came into town with its populace instantly at his side, lavishing him with praise or lamenting his evil without the slightest warning or preparation, the same rarely occured in real life. As important and regarded as he might be in his own kingdom, as a normal person, in normal clothes, people were more than happy to dismiss him as just another person in Lochsalan. They didn't expect him. So they had no reason to believe him there at all. It was, in a way, hilarious. And Alberto chuckled at it, fully willing to acknowledge his own cleverness before moving on for Morgan's sake.

It was something Morgan was in all likelihood used to by now. Alberto had brought him along simply and casually, to everything from a meeting with some of his Lieutenets to the preparations to his sisters funeral, to the bathhouse, and now to Gostaker. He had nothing to hide. Alberto did not take precautions when the biggest one of all was that people were too stupid to look into the matter further. And it wasn't as if he was worried about Morgan spying after all. He watched very closely any and everything Morgan tried to send back to his Master. He couldn't do much to stop him, alone, but with the aid of his Lieutenets it wasn't so hard to keep the same tabs on Morgan that the Redshirt kept on him. And life went on.

At the corner of the building across the street, a blond man with a dark brow and fierce eyes strummed his fingers on the wall. He was not particularly tall, though he was broad shouldered and fierce, and his presense, far more than Alberto's own or anyone else on the streets for that matter, drew attention immediately. To Commons, he was very clearly a man of danger, a violent, ruthless person around whom children would be closely watched, and adults would stay weary with their hands on whatever they thought, in their time of need, might protect them. He was far from sutble, and his stark blue jacket was bulky, making him appear even larger than he was, and an obvious draw for the eyes.

A Mage, would find him even more easily. The man leaked out magic like a fountain, bursting forth with something dully contained and primal. Alberto's own magical affinity was decent, when stood next to the average Mage's, but this man was an element in himself, exploding power far beyond what should have been sensible for even the highest class of mage. And, apparently, badly contained enough that where the man's fingers hit the building, the smell of scorched wood rose up and, where his fingers had touched, the sooty and deep indentations of fingers remained.

As Alberto and Morgan approached, the prince waved to the other man cheerily, and turned to Morgan to present his introduction, providing a dramatic flourish as he did. "Might I present to you the Terror of Monthredo, Egelbert-"

"Edge." The man cut Alberto off abruptly, and looked at Morgan a second with dark eyes, as if sizing him up. When he was finished, he held out his hand as if to shake. "My name is Edge."

"I wouldn't take that." Alberto pointed merrily at the extended hand. "He'll char your arm off. 'Edge', is currently my top Lieutenet. His power is on the scale of the former High Mage, or so I'm told." Alberto said 'Edge' the same way he said any of the name's Morgan requested of him. But Edge, at least, seemed used to it, and only grunted at the apparent insult. And Alberto continued on. "Anyway, as I was saying, my former slave is within this jolly little dungsack of an establishment. I don't expect much from him- sorry self-abusing kind of man- but, I figure it's about time for you to pull some weight for me, 'Tredegar'."

Alberto smiled faintly, and shrugged before continuing. "He's a Spiritmage, like you, but his only real affinity lies in fighting. Keep his mind under watch and tell me if he thinks about doing anything stupid. Edge will, as neccessary, stop him from performing said stupidity. I suppose you two can handle that much, yes?"

Sunlight cascaded into the vaulted ceilinged gallery from the high, curved windows, throwing light on the walk of portraits and landscapes hanging along every inch of the white-painted walls. A tea table set for two sat waiting, daintily perched on a Halagrian rug and decked out with Ra’an silver cutlery and a porcelain tea service of Treagan craftsmanship. Lady Alfaina’s sinfully delicious and exorbitantly abundant scones rested beside the teapot. The only thing missing, Galen thought as he was escorted to the table and told pointedly to sit, was the smartly dressed, furry little girl who had been his first acquaintance upon arriving in Ospero five weeks previously.

He did not apologize for being late.

Without looking up at Alfaina, Galen busily began pouring his own tea and mixing in cream and sugar. Finished, he placed a strawberry scone smartly on his plate and then sat back with his hands folded neatly in his lap. It had been Alfaina’s custom over the previous five days to continue inviting him daily to tea. It had been his custom to ignore the summons until whichever pirate happened to be watching him forced him up to the manor. What invariably followed was a very thick, uncomfortable silence in which Alfaina wordlessly sipped her tea and Galen stiffly ignored his own.

He had taken Serville Howe’s advice and had refrained from troubling Alfaina with his only too clear take on Recide’s proposal and their involving Lachlan in it. In fact, since speaking with Serville Howe, Galen had uttered precious few words, and even fewer that were not some combination of Lochsalanian or Treagan curses.

Galen was a naturally silent man except, of course, when a situation affected him directly. But the depth of his silence over the course of the past week would have alarmed those who had known him most intimately… which was really only Fallan, who was three weeks dead at this point. The pirates in whose charge he had been didn’t seem to mind, though. Day in and day out, they stood, silent and unmoving at his side, never more than two feet from him at any given time anymore. Not after his first two bids for freedom, at any rate. All following attempts had been checked almost before he’d lifted a finger, and the ensuing scuffles had drained more energy and more will from him than he cared to admit. Whether he’d continued his defiant resistance to rattle Alfaina or to prove to himself that he was not yet finished… he was not entirely sure.

No news had yet come of Lachlan and the others, and though Galen knew that no news was definitely good news, Alfaina’s words, now five days old, still rang in his ears like the drawn out note of a low gong that refuses to die. ~ It's not a matter of resources Galen. It's a matter of whether we get to him... Or Lord Arathorn gets him first. And he'll be far less merciful than us if he does.~ It had been his one oversight. He would admit that. But really, what could have been done about Arathorn’s hounds, even if he’d thought of them from the first? Lachlan would not have waited for Galen to come up with a solution to that problem. As it was, he could only sit in Alfaina’s presence as his tea grew cold and hope for the best.

The shadow of a bird flitted across one of the portraits Galen had been staring absently at. His gaze drifting up to the high windows, Galen caught sight of the tail feathers of a black raven as it swooped past. A fleeting image bloomed before him, blocking out the gallery around him and Alfaina before him. Xalem and Lachlan strolling through the fallow fields at a casual pace, now and then stopping, Xalem seemingly instructing Lachlan in some matter. Galen watched as Xalem stretched out a hand, and a blackbird swooped down and perched lightly in his palm. Lachlan followed his master’s example, and soon a blue songbird answered his call and fluttered down to his hand. It had filled Galen with awe then, an awe which had not been lessened by the passage of time.

The soft tinkle of silver on porcelain interrupted the memory, and it faded away like a golden afternoon fading into dusk. He watched Alfaina raise her teacup to her lips and sip briefly from it.

“I’ve been musing over the most mundane matters,” he muttered quietly, unexpectedly. It was the first time he’d spoken during tea that week. “Managing mercenaries, manipulation, machinations, murder… it must all be so monotonous.” He looked down into his un-drunk tea, but did not move to lift it. His shoulders lifted in a great intake of breath. “Your mastery over them is unmitigated. The merest murmur of your mouth sets them moving in a morbid haste to comply.” Galen looked up, and when he did, a mad glint entered his eye. “Tell me, how many men did you massacre in order to achieve such a position?”

Estrad lived up to its former glory. Even thought it had been on a downward spiral for years, the walls of the city still stood tall and, barring some moss, in good condition. From the winding road to reach the city, boats could be seen distantly moving into the harbor, few but enough, and the guard towers were, commendably, still fully staffed. Given how far Estrad was, the recruiters for the Ra'an war hadn't been nearly as pushy there, and though they had lost some of their complement to the front, the guard as a whole was in much better shape than most cities could claim. Which meant that, especially when compared to Ravenholm, the streets were calm and quiet. There wasn't a criminal to be seen, or even a loud merchant. Products were sold squarely and in little stores, built up with four walls and a roof instead of a few posts and a big tarp. It was... Peaceful. Calm.

It wasn't what Yild wanted. If he had a choice, he would have taken some town on the farthest shore, close enough that the threat of Ra'an bombardment from the sea was still a constant threat, and where he could put what ridiculous wealth and priviledge he had been given without earning to the use of people who really needed it. It was silly, and Yild knew that he'd likely be little more than a nuisance there. But it was what he dreamt about at the very least. When he did dream. Yild hadn't dreamt much of anything over the past few days though, despite how much he thought he should have been restless, he slept well and deep, and awoke alert and ready. The northern roads were empty enough that his carriage, even loaded down with luggage, had made remarkable time across the lower regions of the Old Treaganlands, and the upper ones of Lochsalan. They had even managed to raft their way at a good pace, covering many days of travel in a span that took them only a day or so. Panya had liked that. She said she had never been on a boat before.

It was Panya that really needed Estrad. Even now she was tucked away in the carriage, sleeping with blankets and a pillow they had pulled out at one of the stops. She didn't deserve the kind of life that being with groups like Recide, or even Lochsalan's feuding upper crust would bring her. The girl had been thrown from one bad situation into another and always made the best of it. It was about time someone at least did her the courtesy of making the world around her as nice as she would make it out to be. If it meant protecting Panya, Yild was willing to give up his chance at making a difference in the world and idle the rest of his days in a place like Estrad. Even if the other person he wanted to protect was...

"Alrighty. And that's it for customs checks." Drow hopped back onto the front of the carriage, where he had left Yild with the reigns while Estrad's guards ensured he wasn't carrying anything 'illegal'. In any other city he had gone to, they would also be expecting a small stipend if he was. But Yild hoped this was different. At least as far as that went.

"Do you want me wake up Panya?" Drow craned his neck to see inside, but Yild simply shook his head.

"She needs her rest. And she'll have plenty of time to see the city later. We shouldn't bother her before we reach the castle." Yild handed the reigns back over, and looked over the crowd ahead as the city's secondary gates opened to let them by. The quiet streets were pleasant but, given the situation, somewhat disconcerting. They had sent several messages ahead of themself, with rather good estimates of time as well. At the very least someone should have been there to greet them. But the road ahead seemed empty. "Do you think they got our message ahead? The guards didn't seem to recognize us."

"I don't see the need to bother them over every fatass noble that comes by." A single figure pushed open the door up to one of the guard towers, her voice noticeable in the absense of most other sounds but raised in annoyance more than to get anyone's attention. The clearly female figure walked up to the edge of the carriage and looked nastily at Yild, her young voice dripping with sarcasm. "Sorry, did you need a gilded escort? Maybe some banners? Or I could always fan you with my boot to keep your ass cool on the way there."

"No, hah, that won't be neccessary." Yild cut in before Drow could utter out his immedate objection. They had just arrived in a new city. Even if this wasn't the welcome he'd expected, he wasn't going to overstay it because of a small misunderstanding. Keeping his nicest tone, Yild smiled and nodded down at the figure. "You're our escort I take it?"

"That's right." The figure sounded none too enthused about the idea. As she stepped out of the shadow from under the tower, Yild noticed at once that she was wearing a black and white outfit, like a maid at a formal castle. Below the frilly apron and dress, she was only wearing sandals however, and he could make out finely toned legs, lithe and formed. But the other thing he noticed caused Yild pause, despite himself. His eyes rose to see light red hair, falling low, so that it fell nearly around her waist, but was straight and silky all the way up. Her eyes were a striking green, fierce and angry, and on a face that was at best nineteen or twenty, and the scowl on her face did nothing to spoil her obvious charm. But the thing that had struck Yild was something much more visible. Her skin was a deep tan. Not dark enough to be pureblooded, but it would be clear to anyone around that she was... "Leave your cart here. The guard can bring it into the stable entrance later. That is unless you're too high and mighty to walk in the dirt with us normal people."

Yild barely caught the comment, and though he noticed the girl's glaring about her looks, he couldn't hold his tongue. Speaking carefully, he tilted his head and kept his voice as unaccusing as he could, given his question. "You're... Ra'an?"

It was as if he'd lit up a bonfire. Yild got the feeling the girl had been waiting for the question, as quick as she was to pounce on the edge of the cart and lean towards his face, eyes blazing with the accusation he himself had avoided. "Yeah, I'm Ra'an. And?"

"And..." Yild nearly hit himself for beginning to speak back at all. He probably would have, were his good arm not on the side of the girl. She was clearly looking for an argument, and Yild, after everything and with actual sincerity, was on the verge of apologizing from the knowledge of just how bad a debater he was, and how much it would have dissapointed her if he tried. Instead, he gave up on trying anything fancy, and just sighed, speaking what was on his mind. "I don't know. I was just surprised."

"What, is a Ra'an not good enough for you?" The girl, despite Yild's answer, pressed on regardless. "Is that why you're staring? You think we're all supposed to be spies or assassins or something, right? Wait, maybe we're not even supposed to speak your language! You want me to start cooing like a baby? Make gargling sounds? Would that make you feel better you stuck up prick?"

The girl was everywhere at once. As close as she was, Yild could clearly see her eyes, and knew that she was watching his every move, and sizing him up as she went. It would have been best, in all likelihood, to have made some big speech back to her, or even to have called her out on her rudeness. But it had been a long trip, and, really... Yild didn't really have a problem with her speaking her mind. At the very least she was making her feelings clear from the start. So he replied back with equal bluntness. "I've never really spoken to a Ra'an for very long. So I wouldn't really know what to think."

This answer seemed to give the girl pause. Yild, took that pause. At the least he didn't want to wake Panya.

"I didn't mean to offend you. But could you please keep your voice down? There's a young girl sleeping in the carriage." This answer seemed to shut the girl up even more, and Yild amended himself, returning to his original point. "But walking is fine. I can carry Panya in my lap. Drow, would you get my chair?"

"On it boss." Drow hopped down from the carriage, but the girl cut in his way, stepping past him to the side of the carriage and opening the door before he got the chance. Her fingers found Yild's chair instantly, and brought it out, setting on the ground and staring at the strange contraption for being... well... a strange contraption.

"What's this thing supposed to be?" The girl still sounded accusing, but Yild noted that her voice had dropped several levels upon hearing about Panya within the carriage. "Too fat with riches to even walk by yourself?"

"Most of my body is paralyzed." Yild nearly whispered back, and tried to demonstrate, lifting one of his bad legs slightly and letting it thud back down on the carriage. "I can't move without it."

The girl frowned, and opened her mouth as if to retort before closing it again. Eventually, handing the chair to Drow to unfold, she uttered a simple "Oh."

"No one pushes it for me, usually. I just go like this." Yild waited as Drow helped him down, and then demonstrated, pushing with his hand on his wheel and rolling forward a ways down the street.

"Oh," the girl replied again. She was looking at the chair now, and Yild could tell she was struggling over whether to say something in apology.

Yild tried to defuse the situation with a smile. "Whose staring now?"

"Shut up." The girl scowled, and the three of them stood there for a moment, as Drow depositied the sleeping Panya into Yild's lap.

"Alright. Can you show us the way...?" Yild trailed off, leaving his question apparent. After a moment, and after taking a few steps down the road, the girl seemed to realize what he was waiting and turned back around.

"I'm Sena." Sena glared at Yild, and Drow, as if angry they had made her wait at all. "S-E-N-A."

"Okay then." Yild smiled, and nodded to her. "Sena, would you lead the way?"

"Sena isn't my real name."

The sudden retort caught Yild off guard again, and he could only manage an indecisive "Errr..." in response. The girl, who seemed more than willing to bring up these points and drop them, continued after another awkward pause.

"My real name is Senapaulde." Sena turned back to the street, and began walking down it without waiting. Yild wheeled along beside her, and she seemed surprised when he managed to keep pace, looking away and talking to the walls they passed instead of at him. "But Lochsalanians can't pronounce it, apparently. So you made me change that. Now, I'm just Sena."

Yild only nodded in response, as they continued their way down the street, Drow falling wordlessly into place behind them. As they went, Yild pursed his lips, and cleared his throat, before looking back at Sena and struggling out the name.

"Senapaulde."

Sena stopped in her tracks and stared at Yild hard enough that he could have sworn he had grown a second head for such interest to have happened. At first, she seemed accusing, then confused, and slowly she shifted to a wary glare, which Yild answered with further clarification.

"I've taken lessons in Ra'an. I don't think that was perfect, but I can call you Senapaulde if you want." There. That was some kind of olive branch at least. "I'm sure I'll get better at it."

"That's stupid," Sena shot back immediately, and her pace increased even more. So much for an olive branch. "I'm Sena."

"But I thought you said..."

"Just... shut up!" Sena waved him away, rushing forward and stopped at a corner that was nearly an entire street ahead of Yild. When he finally caught up, she was tapping her foot impatiently. "The Duchess is waiting for you."

"Duchess?" Now it was Yild's turn to be confused. "You mean the Duke, right?"

"Are you crippled *and* stupid?" Sena lashed out again. But this time she paused, and actually seemed to rethink her insult. When she spoke again, she still sounded bitter, but she had dropped to a more appropriate level of volume, and a sadder tone. "Duchess Eliade rules Estrad now. The Duke passed away three days ago."

Yild didn't reply to the news with words. Instead, he simply nodded. Of course no quiet city could ever be that simple. If it wasn't a black market, or theft, or lawlessness... Then it was death. Yild held Panya a little closer. There was a lesson to be learned from the girl. Even though she was fast asleep, she looked as if she couldn't be more peaceful. If only the world could learn a little from her example...

He could only hope that, at least, whatever forces guided Estrad's future would be willing to try.

“But I have to do this. You know that. I can’t even tell you why right now, but it’s about more than our future now. It’s about more than them using my name. It’s…”

"I know," Cira whispered, unable to abstain from voicing the somber frustration she felt towards her ability to understand. It was bigger than him now; bigger than the both of them, but she was just as proud of his decision as she was fearful. Having been tossed about by the ruthless tides of the politics and agendas beyond his control for the past four years, he was choosing to struggle against the flow instead of letting it drown him. It would send ripples out into the world which were unpredictable in both nature and magnitude, but it had to be done, all risks considered- didn't it?

If there was one thing she could take solace in, it was that Lachlan would indeed be in the care of the most capable person she knew: Lady Ahlmir. She understood Cira's need to protect Lach as much as she did herself, and the occasions had been plentiful during their trip when she spotted her master watching her sympathetically from across the fire while she fought back her worry. Yes, if anyone could- and would- protect Lachlan in Cira's stead, it was her, but that in itself was a grievous prospect for one sole reason;

“Nothing could possibly hurt me except losing you.”

Pulling back her head just enough to look up at Lachlan, Cira didn't need to say a thing to convey her mirrored sentiments. There could be no greater blow that life could deal her than to loose Lachlan now, no matter the potential gain or perceived necessity of it. It was closed-minded and selfish, she knew, but she would sooner see the royal family fall and Eoti descend into all-out war before she would let him die. Still, this wasn't the only danger Lachlan had faced, and it wouldn't be the last; all she could do was continue to hope, and place her trust in Lady Ahlmir.

Lachlan's lack of a definitive answer sitting heavy in her chest, Cira watched him, unable to speak for a long while until the slow, melancholic dance of snowflakes began to permeate the air with silvery flecks that glistened with the light of the moon, silently observing the two of them like the stars above that were only just visible through the tangled canopy of the forest. It painted their hair and shoulders in the same ghostly hue, gently falling between them without a disruption until Cira, knowing that the words would never find her, leaned in and kissed Lachlan with tender conviction, reminding him that she would support him- whatever that meant- but she would not loose him.

Eyes on Cira, Lach felt the drumbeat of his heart begin to role as Cira struggled to find words to answer his. There were none, though, and he knew that it was futile even as she looked up to him. He’d meant what he’d said. Nothing could hurt him except for the loss of Cira, for he had endured pain both mental and physical in the past, and he knew that none of it could measure up to… to….

Anguish seized his soul at the returning look Cira gave him… the one that confirmed that she felt no differently than he did. It was terrible enough simply dwelling on the subject, but imagining the many and varied possible outcomes of his mad quest… it was too much at the moment. His head dropped just as Cira leaned up and caught his lips in a kiss, so warm and reassuring that he could do nothing but close his eyes and sink into the feeling…. His heart raced faster. And his mind forgot all of the worry and dropped all of the worst-case scenarios he had been running through. He would savor this moment. He would store it within his memory, and it would carry him through whatever mountains he had yet to climb.

“Cira…” Lach pulled away only as Cira did, feeling a bead of sweat drip down his neck despite the cold winter air, the frosted trees, the snowflakes falling onto Cira’s shoulders and settling in her hair. “I…” A glint of desperation entered Lachlan’s eyes, and it was only too clear that he wanted with all of his heart to answer Cira’s question firmly, for it was only too clear that the uncertainty was still eating at her from the inside. “It’s going to be all right,” he choked at last. “Really, I don’t know what you’re so worried about! Maybe it’ll be difficult to find a way in… but once I’ve given them my message… I won’t be the one in trouble, will I? And as soon as it’s over, I’ll come back… we’ll hold our wedding. And Ace and Lady Ahlmir can remind us how to really dance. But we’re done taking orders and following another’s will.” The taste of freedom… it was almost as sweet as Cira’s kiss. And both of them, somehow, felt stolen.

Ospero was quiet. And not, for the first time since Alfaina had moved into her husband's manor there, in a good way. Gregor had returned to the capitol to be at Lodewijik's side, Ixiel was off with Val, and Nestor had returned to his operations in Khorsa. Even Voglethorpe was gone now. Most of the other Pirates remained, as did Serville, and the villagers. But the feeling of liveliness wasn't the same. Especially after the incident with Lach. The other seemed to have recovered in good form but... That look on Cira's face still stuck with her. It seemed like the Oaklears were trapped now. All shifting in different directions. Alfaina had seen it happen to many families before, and though she had seen it coming, in a way, from the beginning, she didn't like the sinking feeling she got when the idea of Cira's defiant glare game back to her.

Alfaina took a sip of tea. It was all she could do to occupy herself with the one person who had remained, willingly or not, in Ospero after the rest of Lach's associates had fled. But Galen Fox was silent. Quiet day in and day out. She barely knew why she invited him anymore. It... wasn't that she expected some sudden revelation on his end. Or that she had seen much more than this before. But something, some little voice that told her to keep trying, made her summon him to tea anyway, day after day. There was always the hope that he might surprise her. But even that, by now, was dwindling.

Her eyes caught on a blackbird, flying by the window. Alfaina watched it, before losing it again, and wondered, if she told it something, if it would eventually find its way to her nephew. Or, even, Lach. It was something she'd never truly be able to understand. Everyone else in her family. Down to the last, tiny cousin. They had a chance, perhaps. But when it came to her...

'I’ve been musing over the most mundane matters'.

The voice caught Alfaina completely off guard. She hadn't, personally, heard Galen so much as protest for five days now. And now, when he finally did say something... It was completely out of the blue. And, as he seemed to be liking 'm' words, morbid and malicious. He hadn't touched his tea,but she wondered briefly what he had been drinking that brought up his sudden string of accusations. Or, if nothing had, why he had finally chosen to talk now. Still, she didn't stop him til the end... If only out of incredulity that he was finally using his voice. And when he did, she still stared at him a moment, trying to find the trick in his madness.

"One," she eventually answered, simply, and caught Galen's crazed look with one equally cold. "I've only had to raise a weapon once in my life. And when I did, it gained me everything I have now."

"That's what you asked, isn't it? The one man I killed was the former and last living leader of the Vashovy Pirate's Triad." She spoke simply, but didn't make light of the situation, giving Galen the exact, to the facts story his question seemed to warrant and nothing more or less. "They didn't expect a woman of no significant skill or character to be the one to do it, so I entered normally, and even claimed my intentions before performing them. Ignorance is as powerful a weapon for good as it is for evil."

"In their hierarchy, a simple physical murder is enough to gain rank. Anyone would have been available to challenge me then, but when two tried Lord Voglethorpe cut them down where they stood. He was not my ally then. In fact, had I not interfered, he would likely be their leader now in name as well as fact. I have nothing to explain his actions then and since in terms of not trying to usurp me. Despite their code to protect me as their leader, I doubt they would stop him. But he hasn't." Alfaina was thoughtful, but didn't bother trying to add any sort of softness or sympathy in her voice. Voglethorpe's intentions were his own. He was... fascinating. But it wasn't something Galen needed to hear about. "The rest of Recide's militant and otherwise contacts were built with them as an ablebodied foundation. That's all there is to it."

“I see,” Galen said slowly, taking up his teaspoon and using it to stir the creamy contents of his cup. He watched the swirling liquid with a kind of uncouth fascination, seemingly not even taking in the rest of Alfaina’s answer, though he did indeed hear every word. For all of the attention he was paying her, though, it would seem as though the further information she offered was unneeded, unwanted, and a general annoyance in face of the silence they had previously kept up.

Galen had never found himself in such a delicate situation. He was accustomed to the blunt rudeness offered him by the Council… and he was accustomed to ignoring the mountain of insults that had grown up around him. Here, though… he had not known how to proceed at first. Not when his enemy claimed to be his friend and where silence and a stubborn will to ignore whatever adversity he might face got him nowhere. Until this very moment, he had been no closer to freedom than he had been five days ago. But now to speak with a silver tongue, to engage Alfaina at last in what he hoped seemed to be conversation born of malcontented anger at his containment… now he would have answers. Now he would know if the one thought that had taken root and grown in his mind over the past week would be proven futile or not.

Murder.

He set his teaspoon, dripping, upon the white linen napkin and looked up at Alfaina once more. Resting his elbows on the table and clapping his hands together, Galen leaned forward. The mad glint bloomed again, forcing aside the dull look of boredom that he’d held as she spoke. “And tell me this. Why is it that these Pirates…” He did not bother to conceal his distaste when speaking the word. “… Obey you unquestioningly when your goals run contrary to their own? Their code is binding, yes. But the Vashovy Pirates have always been united by their hatred of Mages. One would think that this ideal, this prejudice, would prove more powerful than any code or law they stick to.” He was horribly aware of the presence of the Pirate beside him. “I am aware that the other two Triad leaders were murdered by the former High Mage’s sister Valorie. What if she had completed her quest? Or… what if I—“ Galen stood “—murdered you where you sit. Here and now?” A grim look entered his eyes, and it spoke of a determination that suggested he would indeed carry out his threat.

The pages were yellow with age and stained with the dust of a never-ending road. Listless fingers flicked through the thin pages without pausing to read any of the carefully printed words. For lack of anything better to do, though, he sat day by day and night by night, flipping through the pages until his fingers were stained with the scent of the ancient volume and his eyes had taken in every inch of the book and he knew its contents by heart.

The Mages. The former Council. He had to find them. He had to deliver this book to them. And then he would have nothing left binding him to this wretched life and the putrid ground beneath his feet. As soon as he had delivered this book into the hands of a CouncilMage, he would make his final journey. Home.

Renner’s fingers curled around the edges of the book as it fell shut for the thousandth time. Weariness clung to his bones and a morbid readiness filled his soul. He didn’t know what he would say yet. Or if there would be any words. But he did know where the final Gate would take him. After seven years, he was finally going home. His family… they would receive the farewell he hadn’t been able to give before. Who knew how many of them he would be able to take with him… part of him wondered if he’d have the strength that the hatred crawling sluggishly through his blood now demanded. Vengeance demanded it, though. He would cut them down as quickly and as surely as a sickle cuts down stalks of wheat. And when the authorities arrived, they would find him waiting and unresisting. Because he would be ready to join his family… and Mayer… in death. By that time, they all would have fallen by his hands. He wouldn’t fight it. He wouldn’t.

Lithe fingers turned the book over, and the peeling gold leaf lettering on the front cover shone dully. The Speaker Articles had been introduced under High Mage Devaki… the last Speaker who had served as High Mage. But they’d been too late to save the dying class. Or so the world had believed for centuries. Renner didn’t know what had prompted fate to offer up two more Speakers… possibly the last. But he knew that without these laws, history would simply repeat itself. Strange… that fate of providence of the Gods had seen fit to remove this particular book—and only this book—from the High Mage’s tower before….

Whatever the reason, none of the other law books had survived. None of the originals, at any rate. This slim volume that Renner held fast in his bloody hands was all that was left. Making sure that it fell into the right hands was all he could do now. It would never atone for what he’d done… but it was his way of trying.

With a sigh, Renner stuck the slim volume into his rucksack and stood. When he did, he found himself face to face with a pair of men garbed in the livery of Estrad’s militia. “So. You’re the Mage we’ve been hearing about,” the shorter man said roughly, glancing from Renner’s face to the rucksack clenched tightly between his fingers. “The thief.”

“Young Mage like you ought to be more careful… this close to the Khorsan boarder,” the taller one drawled. “It’s just so convenient… being able to send criminals north.” His hand closed around Renner’s wrist. A moment later, with a blood-curdling howl, he released Renner and leapt back, watching as boils erupted on his right hand.

Renner turned on his heel and took off without hesitation, racing through the back alleys as fleetly as if he’d lived in Estrad’s back lanes all his life. Behind him, he could hear the two militiamen clattering along behind him, stumbling every now and then around the debris and that cluttered the lanes. The mad flight was brought crashing to an unexpected end a minute later as Renner darted out of the alleyway and collided with a large, intimidating looking man. Dazed, Renner picked himself up and stumbled for a moment, his head pounding from the force of the impact. Without bothering to murmur apologies, he took off again, just as the militiamen burst out of the alley with him.

He skidded to a halt a moment later in a panic… realizing that he’d dropped his rucksack at the feet of the man he’d run smack into. The guards’ shouts for him to halt fell on deaf ears as his eyes locked on the rucksack and then raised to the guards, as if calculating the time it would take them to reach him. He would never make it.

Raising a hand, Renner raised a Ward right in front of them, and both of the men crumpled to their feet after hitting the impediment with almost enough force to knock them out. Sweat running freely down his face, Renner turned on the spot… and found that the man he’d run into was holding his pack.

He was fishing. Though she kept an expressionless face up during even Galen's ending threat, Alfaina was surprised at Galen's sudden onslaught of curiosity, and even more at his apparent... Unsettled, state of mind. It was strange that he had deteriorated, or otherwise simply given in to the need to converse with others, so quickly. But whether he was truly becoming as bold as his last thread implied or not, he was clearly prying her for information. How he thought it would help him, on the other hand, was a complete mystery. As was his line of inquiry. Why the Vashovy? Alfaina had never tried overly much to conceal their history or her own position among them from Galen. She had even tried to get him acquainted with a few when he first arrived, though Boli was off with Voglethorpe and Nutmeg now on their hunt and the rest... Well, it wouldn't be out of place to say that Galen was very bad at making new friends.

Still, she couldn't see the harm in answering his questions now. And was, admittedly, happy on some level that he was asking anything at all. His raving nature, she could do without. But it wasn't mentally healthy to keep locked away from the world and never speak to anyone. And whether Galen beleived it or not, she did still care about keeping as many people as she could safe with her efforts. Folding her hands together, Alfaina tried to keep her tone level as she started her reply.

"I wouldn't be so dismissive of codes, Galen. The Vashovy's laws are very specific, very strict, and have turned them into a group that even modern governments only try to emulate. They are not something to be taken lightly and, in general, are very sound codes for anyone to live by. They also apply to a wide range of situations. For instance, if you are aware of what happened to the other two leaders, haven't you ever wondered why Valorie, with two technical Triad positions, has never tried to assume command?" Alfaina shook her head. "Mages are forbidden from holding places within their group. It is their duty to murder them the moment their magic is made known. It is something of a bragging right for Valorie that she's eluded the Vashovy thus far. I've done little to stop them, as much as I'd like to. To them, she's become something of demon. Used to scare children into shape, and given her record it's a fair enough use. But if you've noticed, she hasn't tried to finish them off either. Even Valorie knows that she had a full army with her when she faced the Vashovy before. Alone... very few Mages would fare so well against even one of their number."

"Past that, they are all sworn to protect me. Before, I caught them by surprise in a moment of extreme weakness for their organization. But it is normally not enough to face down a single man and kill him. It is required that every Vashovy, regardless of their personal beliefs about the coup, lay down their lives to defend their leader. Even when the one trying to gain power is one of their own. They would actually savor the opportunity to take out a Mage by this point, I imagine." Alfaina glanced at Trent, her look seeming to warn him back from action as much as they did Galen. Trent's only reply was a small, bitter smile Galen's way that could only mean Alfaina was entirely correct in her guess... But he also kept back in his spot. The younger Vashovy especially were entirely used to the idea of her as a leader. It was the older ones, like Voglethorpe, who really held grudges. And as for Voglethorpe...

"There's also the fact that I've done more for them than Voglethorpe could have alone. and I'm not saying that as a boast. Ra and the Council's attack was devastating for them. When the Vashovy were in power, it was a simple matter for them to secure funds from Khorsa, or even some of the more dissident forces in Lochsalan. But once they lost their naval dominance, they also lost their funding." Alfaina nodded to the equipment Trent was adorned with; the full Vashovy complmenet of weapons, at least as far as she knew. "I brought them back together from where they had scattered, got them the equipment they needed, and places where they could keep their families without fearing for their safety. I can't say that I'm able to do much more for them, now that they're ready and reestablished. But they're a very honorable group. I like to think that, eventually, our goals may even coincide. And even if they never do, I know that I won't be betrayed and usurped unless I've earned it. They, much more than you or your allies, have earned my trust."

“Ah,” Galen said, the crazed light once again leaving his eyes. He seemed to deflate a bit as he sank back into his seat again with the air of having had his afternoon’s plans thoroughly ruined by Alfaina’s answer. Broodingly, he returned to his reticence.

Even as he picked up his teaspoon again and began to stir absently, Galen did not know what he would have done if Alfaina’s answer had been quite different. Or… rather… he knew what he would have done. But he didn’t like the thought. To admit to himself that he would have simply stood there, urging himself to challenge her to a duel, but unable to voice the words, unable to rip himself from where he’d stood and strike a blow that would have placed the Pirates under his command… it was to admit failure before he’d even begun. He belonged, apparently, to the weaker half of the Fox family. A disappointment. ~If you walk out, you throw your life away. And for what? A brother who will only grow to despise you because you are what he is not. You’ll end up alone, Galen.~ How it galled him that greatfather Lachlan had been right…. More right than he could possibly have known at the time.

His lips drew down into a thin line as his mind turned to what he considered Alfaina’s most troubling line. ~They’re a very honorable group.~ Well… if she chose to see them in such a light…. Pushing his chair away from the table, Galen stood suddenly, turned on his heel, and walked silently from the gallery without thanking Alfaina for the tea he had not drunk or the conversation that had served only to send his spirits down another notch. Trent, as always, followed him at the distance of half a pace.

Honorable. If the Vahsovy Pirates were honorable, then so were the Sons of the Melrakki and the Khorsan Legionnaires. The champions of a form of purist thought upholding a banner so drenched in blood that it was impossible to see honor it supposedly represented. But how would change be wrought when the doctrine of perpetual war was all the world and its warring inhabitants knew? How, when brother turned on brother and father turned on son, would the Vashovy be convinced to lay down their anti-magic-laced weapons, the Sons be turned from their vicious vendetta, and the Legionnaires’ cruel genocide of Mages be halted?

Not through yet more war. Not at the command of the Vashovy’s blood-spattered leader. Not when…

Turning swiftly on his heel, Galen sent his elbow smashing viciously into Trent’s face. In the same motion, his hand reached out to where he knew the Pirate’s ant-magical baton was hidden away up his sleeve. It was the key—the only hope he had of escape.

Duchess Elaide. Yild wasn't sure what to think, when he thought he would be out to meet a father and was now instead going to see his daughter a mere couple of days after his passing. Estrad was holding together suprisingly well, with that considered. but there was no telling if the Duchess was as together about the situation. Yild wouldn't have begrudged her not to be. He hadn't experienced, any familial loss recently. But... Cira... No. The comparison couldn't be made. The only thing he knew was that his own mind was hardly back to the state it should have been. He was still distracted by... so many things. It was barely right for him to be thinking of marriage and politics anyway, considering his circumstance, but if both he and the Duchess were in such horrible states... He didn't know how he was supposed to ask her anything really. But Sena was still marching on, as determined, it seemed, to get rid of him as he was undetermined about how he should continue. As a local though, perhaps...

Yild cautiously called out her name. "Senapaulde..."

"Shut up!" Sena grumbled, not slowing in her pace and shooting him a dirty look. "It's still Sena." Her hand reached up and grabbed her hair fron the front in furstration. "Agh. I can't tell you people anything."

"Sena then." Yild persisted, but the girl only rolled her eyes. Yild increased his pace a bit and stopped in front of her, his wheelchair blocking her from going any further without at the very least making an awkward step around. And, while he had her, he tried pleading again. "Come on, I'm trying to be serious here."

Sena grumbled, and rested her hands on her hips, looking at him with exasperation but saying nothing. That... was probably the best Yild was going to get. He took his chance, and steadied his tone. "I don't think I should meet with the Duchess right now. Given what's happened."

"Oh, really? Chickening out now?" Sena leaned forward menacingly, and Yild regretted having stopped to allow her such a pose. She managed to stay strangely fierce for someone dressed as a houseservant."Wait, I know. You're thinking that her grieving might mess up your chances to get your fingers on our kingdom, right?" She growled. "Greedy little..."

"It's a Duchy..." Yild began, but then shook his head in exasperation. "But that's beside the point. I don't want to talk to her right now because it's *rude*." Sighing, he leaned back in his chair, running his fingers over the edge of the wheel's metal. "She's just lost her father, and here I am trying to talk about a marriage. It just doesn't feel... moral."

"*You're* talking about morals...?" Sena frowned, but her voice, despite it's accusation, sounded thoughtful at the comment. "But... she's tougher than she looks. Don't go pitying girls just because they might look all weak and stuff."

"You do realize who you're talking to...?" Yild chuckled a bit at the comment, and Sena rolled her eyes.

"Well... If that's settled..." Drow's hand waved in front of Yild's face, and he winced. His bodyguard was incredibly talented at sticking to the background when he wanted to be. It was no wonder Gregor had chosen him for his special ops. Not that Yild minded. Given the level of awkward indiscernible tension that had already risen up between him and Sena within just a brief walk, it would be a wonder if they reached the castle by nightfall at the rate they were moving.

"Of course." Yild nodded to Sena again, and gave a little half-shrug, suddenly aware that making a full one would be made even more awkward by Panya's sleeping presense on his lap. But when Sena resumed her pace, and Drow had just turned to follow her, a small figure blurred out of the alleyway to their side and barreled into the much larger bodyguard, before shooting off again on his path. A pair of guards rounded after him, and while Yild and Sena watched them give chase, Drow quietly leaned down and picked up a rucksack lying off the street. When Yild noticed what he was holding, he turned his attention away from the scene and frowned at it. It hadn't been there a moment before. Did the runner drop it?

"It looks like something a pickpocket would carry." Drow voiced on his own, and gently opened the edge with his fingers, peeking inside. "Looks like some sorta book's in there."

A yelp drew both of them away again, and Yild turned back to the alley just to see the two guards flailing back, as if they'd been struck. The runner was standing in the alley with his hand raised forward, but he clearly hadn't managed to strike either of them. And the guards weren't moving. Did that mean...

"Mage!" Sena nearly hissed the word, and her next motion was a blur, her body landing with it's feet spread like a runner ready to launch forward, and a knife being drawn from... somewhere, within her fluffy maid's clothing, now clearly in her hand and held underhanded, the bulky blade flat on one side and looking like something she'd grabbed out of a kitchen instead of from any professional source. The way her dress was poofed, Yild also had some doubts about just how capable she would be of leaping from her pose at all. Let alone in sandals. Still, her determination was evident. Narrowing her eyes, Sena position her other hand, finger's closing and unclosing as if she were ready to grab the runner if he came by, and growled. "You two run to the castle. I'll cover your escape."

Drow blinked, but while his normal hand had drifted down to the hilt of the sword at his side, he didn't seem too overly alarmed. And if he wasn't, Yild hoped at least that he didn't need to be either. The random runner, who he could now see wasn't very old either, seemed to have stopped, and while he made Yild nervous, Sena's response seemed to have come instantly from the realization of his Mage status. And, while Recide had a lot of things terribly skewed... Yild couldn't help but be reminded that this was the reaso they were doing what they were. Commons and Magi were still more than happy to jump at eachother's shadows out of sheer fear. Yild wanted, always, to trust that the guard of a city were doing the right thing, and that this Mage, whoever he was, was a pickpocket like Drow suggested, or at the very least in the wrong. But this close to the Khorsan border...

Well, needless to say bias wasn't something he'd put out of the picture. And the runner had stopped for a reason. Whatever Drow was holding had at least been enough to hold him back. Yild didn't see any reason not to at the very least use that to find out what was going on.

Rolling up to Sena, he calmly put his hand on her shoulder; and then jerked it away when she swang at him and nearly removed his fingers. Sena seemed to realize what she was doing, and recovered just in time to spare him from losing use of his one good limb, but Yild was quick to speak before her heightened tensions flared up again.

"Lower your weapon." Yild saw Sena about to protest, but insisted anyway. "You can clear raise it as fast as he could attack at the least. And if he was going to run, he'd have done it by now."

"Yeah... But..." Sena's spare hand drifted towards her neck, but she managed to force it back down, and lowered her weapon alongside. "Peh. We'll see."

Yild nodded gratefully to her, and turned to the runner in the alley, rolling to the frontmost position and offering him another nod, though this one was more symbolic of a respectful bow, something Yild could not handle in full.

"My name is Yildegarde Slauth. I'm not going to hurt you." Keeping his tone level and diplomatic, like he'd been taught, Yild gestured to the now seemingly unconcious guards. "What happened here? Why are you being chased?"

Renner’s eyes flicked for a fraction of a second over to the girl, who was fumbling with a knife and holding it out as if to guard against him. Were he in the mood, he might have laughed. As it was, however, he had eyes only for his sack, held loosely in the hands of the man he’d just run into. The second man, sitting low in a chair, he’d barely noticed until he turned and rolled towards Renner.

Glancing around nervously, Renner saw that they were beginning to become something of a spectacle. His mouth went dry as he noticed people watching… gathering… and the two guards stirring. For a moment, it seemed quite unreal. A Ra’an maid-servant, judging by her dress brandishing a blunt kitchen knife at him, the large man standing mutely with his sack, and the other man with long, lank hair falling down past his shoulders rolling up to him in the strangest chair he’d ever seen. And on his lap, some funny little… was it human?

The whole thing was so bizarre that for a moment, Renner actually considered that he was hallucinating. That he was going mad with hunger and thirst. But he wouldn’t risk the chance… not when he’d been separated from the book.

“Slauth?” he repeated, taking a step forward as if to make for the man with his bag. He decided against it as he noticed several street merchants gathering just at the edge of his line of sight. After a few double takes, Renner found that he recognized a few of them as men he’d stolen from over the past few days. Grimacing, Renner again glanced to the guards, neither seemed on the point of getting up yet, though. So he turned his attention to the man who’d addressed him. When he spoke, his Lochsalanian was heavily tinged with a Treagan accent. “You are the… gov’nor of Rahvenholm?”

Before he could continue, however, one of the men stepped forward from the gathering crowd of onlookers. “Someone seize the Mage! He’s a scoundrel, a thief, and obviously dangerous!” He gestured to the two downed men.

Renner raised his hands, and a Ward, silver in color but so light that it was barely visible glowed there. “The first man who touch me will his hand lose. The second… his arm.” He turned his attention back to Yildegarde Slauth and his company and held out his hand. “The sack. Nah.”

The situation was escalating more quickly than Yild had thought it might. Estrad wasn't all that far from Khorsa, but this wasn't just Khorsan influence now. The Mage really had done something, for such a public outcry to rise up this quickly. Whether that was in turn his fault was another matter now. The runner had just incapacitated two guards, and at this point the crowd was looking more than happy to be spurred into an angry mob if the steaming shopkeep made a few more angry orders. The runner himself wasn't helping matters. The moment the shopkeep shouted out, the desperate figure had turned instantly to magic as a weapon to defend himself, and judging by his panicked tone and strange accent, he was neither local nor rational enough to make a stand down decision on his own. Someone was going to get hurt here unless things were handled very carefully. Maybe...

"Did he say Ravenholm?" Sena frowned, her expression puzzled, and Yild was distracted for a moment from the problem as she turned to regard him suspiciously. "You're it's Governor?"

"Former Governor." Yild didn't see what this had to do with the current problem, but when he began clarifying, Sena's face darkened noticeably, and he finished his clarafication with surprise. "I passed the position on about a month ago. Why?"

"I heard about that. The Cezare apparently sent some hardcore Governor in to purge the city of Ra'an spies. Someone who burnt down half the Ra'an quarter to do it. And, of course, without a single dead civilian." Her eyes suddenly regarding Yild the same way that they did the mage trapped in the alley, Sena's voice suddenly dripped sarcasm. "Well, Lochslanian civilians at least. Y'know. The ones that *matter*."

Ra'an spies? The Ra'an quarter? Ravenholm didn't have anything to do with the war with Ra. It had all been Tyrant Moon. And while he started fires... Those had been distractionary, and all *over* the city. There was no way that mistakes that big had been made when word got out.

A sinking feeling came over Yild's stomach as the truth of the matter sunk in. They'd editted the news to make Ra seem like the villains of the situation. Zelos had been Ra'an, and Tyrant Moon's leader was one as well; it wouldn't have been a long stretch to have passed them off as Ra'an operatives trying to go against Lodewijik. And, as far as Cezare Lodewijik and the Slauth family were concerned, it would certainly look better to say that he had gone out and done a service to his country instead of destroying something that had been allowed to sit and fester for decades. It wasn't that uncommon of a concept for someone up high to change a few details and put the bad light where it belonged. But to have it applied to him, without even some sort of consent...

"Sorry for not 'commending your heroism' sooner." Now ignoring Yild's earlier plea, Sena's knife had made its way back into her hands, and while she never looked at Yild with it, he felt very sorry for the Mage now if things turned worse. "Leave. I'll deal with him."

Yes... Yild felt *very* sorry for the Mage if Sena's aggression kept building. Especially when part of it wasn't even his fault. On the other hand, the crowd seemed almost pacified by the knowledge; as if before they had felt they saw this as a meeting of the strange, but now had an authority figure amongst them taking control of the situation. It hadn't stopped some of the more fuming merchants, but they were hecklers now, not rioters whipping people into a frenzy. That still wasn't enough to convince Yild to keep up the illusion of what had happened however, and he immediately put his hand back on Sena's arm, lowering it again to an angry glare on her part.

"That isn't what happened. At all." Yild had enough force in his voice that Sena seemed hesitant, and he pushed the situation. "I can tell you about it later but... did that report also mention that Mages saved my life there?"

Sena raised an eyebrow, some doubt returning. "Mages?"

"It's true. I'd be dead right now without Valorie and..." Yild stopped himself short of saying Cira, and Sena gave him an odd look. But Yild wasn't up to the point where he felt he could say her name yet, and he continued without it, trying to regain his sureness. "And the other one. So I'm not about to let one get lynched by a mob here just because of that."

He finally looked back to the runner, now openly holding up magic. His accent was coming from somewhere. It didn't sound overly Khorsan, so...

"Thou speaks with Treagan tongue?" Yild posed the question in perfect, if overly archaic, Treagan, that got even Drow to raise an eyebrow. Sena simply stared at him. This may have been a Merchant's quarter, but it was one used to dealing with Khorsans from overseas, not anyone from the east. Still, Yild tried again, this time using simpler Treaganish he knew. "Errr... You're Treagan?" He looked slightly for confirmation, but figured that if he was right then the runner would understand the rest of his offer and, if not, would be no more puzzled than before. "I'm... not going to give you the containment unit right now. But staying here to talk about this is only going to rile the crowd more. No one needs to get hurt here. I can't gurantee you any protection if you run, but if you come with me now, I can get you to safety and see about getting it back to you after we have a better grasp of what's going on. We'll even listen to your side first. Fair?"

Renner was caught slightly off guard when Yildegarde Slauth switched rapidly to Treagan. He was even more puzzled by the initial use of what he could tell was a very ancient dialect. It was clumsily done, but he understood the man well enough to give him a curt nod when asked if he was Treagan. It was only after he nodded that he realized how strange this would seem. He looked nothing like a Treagan with his fair hair and slight build. What did it matter, though? He hadn’t thought of himself as Khorsan for seven years now. He’d cast off every Khorsan mannerism or tradition he could, right down to his family name. He was Treagan in every way except one now, and what did looks matter?

What did it matter, though? Why the Common cared was beyond him, though the man seemed to have the innate ability to calm a crowd with little effort. Or perhaps no one had yet made a move towards him because of the Ra’an’s promise to… deal… with him. Now with reason to keep all three of them in his line of sight, Renner shifted on his feet, his eyes straying from his rucksack to Slauth to the Ra’an. He tried to sneer in the face of Slauth’s offer. Containment. They obviously didn’t know who they were dealing with. And he didn’t like the reasonable tone in which the Common was speaking to him. In fact, he had half a mind to retrieve his bag and the book by force. But…

“Why… should I trust you, Common?” Renner asked slowly, switching back to Treagan, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. “You have no right to keep what’s mine from me. Hand it over now. And no one need get hurt.” He reached out a hand again to retrieve his rucksack, never for a moment letting go of the Ward he held in his left hand. “Or… I can take it back by force and he can lose his hand. You give him—“ he nodded to Drow “—his options.”

When Galen's elbow struck Trent's nose, there was a sharp cracking sound like something breaking, and the Vashovy stumbled in shock, losing his footing as a smart of blood flew out of his clearly broken nose and onto his shirt. Though he seemed too dazed to actually comprehend why Galen had grabbed at him, the blade in his sleeve shot out almost instinctively, hacking Galen's palm when he reached out to him and knocking Trent the rest of the way off his feet with the second swinging motion.

Though the Vashovy was already regaining his footing almost the moment after losing it however, the thing that moved to stop Galen was not him, but a long rapier dropping slowly into place, its tip pointed at his neck. It was a fancy weapon, surely, but the thing that set it aside and made its user clear was the faint, glowing heat that was emerging from its tip out of sheer proximity to its victim.

The weapon was the rapier of one of the Vashovy Triad, of which only three existed in the world. The one holding it, was Alfaina. And she didn't look pleased.

"You left your tea." Alfaina's eyes narrowed, and she held the blade steady with one hand, like a fencer. She wasn't doing a very good job of holding it; she wasn't a combatant, and it shook slightly in her hand from simple lack of practicing holding anything of it's nature, let alone the overly large version of a rapier. But its presence’s meaning was clear.

"Don't try anything. I'm not very good with this, but I trust I can strike before you open a Gate." Alfaina's spare hand clenched into a fist. "I don't want to have to hurt you..." She sighed. "Or why you keep pulling stunts like this for that matter. Am I really that horrible for you?"

“You left your tea.”

Galen stopped dead in his tracks, a slight rip in the air hovering at eye level just four steps before him. Blood dripped steadily from the gash in the palm of his left hand. He could feel the tip of a sharp sword or spear at the base of his neck, and each tremble that ran through the arm of its obviously inexperienced wielder. “I always do,” he said, quite before he could stop himself. It wasn’t smart to talk back. And he usually didn’t. Not when it was one of the other Pirates stopping his flight. And though it seemed to him to be even worse to tempt Alfaina than one of the others… he couldn’t help himself. The consequences he would accept. But he wondered… he wondered if Alfaina would actually have the stomach for it. She had once before. But there had been a deeper need then. She’d said so herself.

“Don’t try anything.”

Holding up his hands in a sign of surrender, Galen turned slowly, extremely slowly, on his feet until he stood face to face with Alfaina, the rapier held precariously in her hand now sliding to his throat. He shuffled back half a step so that the hot metal was no longer directly on his skin. He looked her straight in the eye, neither looking down, to the side, nor past her. It was difficult. And it wasn’t made easier by the way she was looking back at him.

“I don't want to have to hurt you... Or why you keep pulling stunts like this for that matter. Am I really that horrible for you?

Galen bit his lip, and for a long time he was as silent as he’d been for the past week. Alfaina… was a hard one to figure out. How she could detain him as she did and yet claim that she didn’t wish to harm him… that look in her eyes that spoke of pain. All when he had expressed every wish to leave…. And when he’d been ready to make whatever vows of silence she might demand.

His eyes flicked down to the rapier at his throat, and behind him the rip in the air grew a little wider. Careful to make sure that his body blocked it from view, he took another half step back.

“Yes.”

He closed his eyes. "No. Just being here."

At the very least, Yild's initial assumption seemed accurate. Whatever was in the bad Drow held meant a lot to the runner- who was, despite his claims, in no position to actually try and take it back. The best thing for both of them would be a peaceful resolution, and, given the crowd's calm and the fact that they now spoke a mutual tongue, that no longer seemed so far fetched. He took his first point as it came, not wanting to cause any confusion in the way he and the runner were seeing things this early on.

"From what these people are saying, it's hard to determine whether's it's really yours or not." Yild tried to sound sympathetic instead of patronizing. He was, after all, just stating the facts. "And even if that wasn't the case, you've just wounded two men, both of whom are the authority in this city. Whatever the case, you're clearly in a bad spot."

It was then that Renner made his threat, and Yild could only barely stifle a laugh as Renner nodded towards Drow with his threat. Though Drow didn't speak Treagan, he could clearly tell he was being referred to, and he looked for Yild to clarification.

"What's he saying boss?"

Yild sighed, but felt, strangely enough, in a slightly better mood than he had a moment before. "He threatened to take off your hand if you didn't hand over the package."

Drow looked at Yild in an amused disblief before laughing himself, his own much less concealed, and infectious enough that even Yild could barely refrain from chuckling. Realizing though, what it must have looked like to the runner however, Drow raised his spare hand and wiggled it's fingers so the younger man could see them. Wiggled his artificial, prosthetic fingers.

"I think someone beat you to it," Drow chuckled out. Yild was always impressed by how well the man handled his situation, but it was, at times like this, when he realized that Drow almost enjoyed it sometimes. It was a sign of what he'd done for his nation, just like the patch over his eye. Though Yild still wished that his friend could have shown his patriotism and good spitis without the losses. All the jokes in the world wouldn't change that.

"I don't like this." Sena was fingering her knife's hilt, though kept it down, and spoke in a low tone for only Yild to here. "I can take him. If I sneak around to the next alley..."

"That won't be neccessary." Yild cut off Sena's objection with a solid look, but kept his voice low as well, and nodded to the runner so it would seem like he was conversing about actual options with his colleague instead of plotting before finishing his statement to Sena. "I need you to trust me for a minute."

Sena simply glared at Yild for a moment. But eventually, she lowered her hand again, and Yild smiled at her, appreciative.

"You have no reason to trust me." Yild switched back to Treaganish again, returning his attention to the runner. "But the last time I trusted myself to a mage, they saved my life. You'll have to take my word on that, and trust I'll do the same for you. I have no interest in whatever item you're keeping in this... containment unit." Yild still had trouble remembering the word for 'sack' or 'bag' or anything of the like. "So I'll be handing it over to regular law enforcement. If you think they'll find it yours and give it back to you later, you're more than welcome to run now. But if not, then lower your sheild and step over here next to me. Not the containment unit. Me. And I'll get you out of this."

“You have no reason to trust me.”

These words gave Renner pause. He had expected the Common to say, ‘ you have every reason to trust me.’ Or ‘you have no choice but to trust me.’ Or even a simple ‘you can trust me.’ He had said none of these things, though. And though they did nothing to assuage Renner’s concerns nor calm his panic… they did give him reason to pause and think. Would he be able to escape with the book in hand… from the entire mob? Or did he truly need this Common, this noble… this Slauth to help him out of this corner?

“Nallir,” he said suddenly, interrupting Yildegarde and pointing to his rucksack. “It is called… a nallir. And whether you or the authorities think it is mine… I would like it back.” It wasn’t a strong argument for his ownership of the bag… or the book that they were sure to find within it very soon. And… and now that Renner got to thinking it over… he knew that he could not allow the Common to see it. Whether Yildegarde Slauth recognized the book or not… but that was beside the point. It was printed in three languages, and thus would be easily read by any of them. Except for the Ra’an. She didn’t look literate to Renner. Either way… once it was read, the Common would start asking questions. Why had he stolen it? Why… that wasn’t even a question he could answer. But no one would believe him when he claimed that he wished to return it to the Council. The old Council. The one that he could only hope was still alive in some form.

“…I’ll get you out of this.”

For a long moment, Renner stood rooted to the spot. His free hand was curled into a fist, and the other was not letting go of the Ward. “So…” he said at long last. “So… you are willing to help me because… because another Mage saved your life?” Another pause. And then… “All right…” he took a slow step towards Yildegarde, though he did not lower his Ward. “But I keep the Ward.” And he crossed the distance between them, stopping just a few paces from the Common, still, clearly, distrustful. “Now. Tell him to hand me my nallir.”