3. Letters Home (The House Of Teroldys)

Letters Home (The House Of Teroldys)

  • T

    _Two letters arrive shortly after Ashena makes her destination, sealed with blue wax, the signet of falcon pressed into each. One fine morning, just after breakfast, the letters are delivered to her, Ashena snatching them up with as much decorum as she can muster before excusing herself and making a beeline for the rose garden.

    Here, a blessed slice of solitude can yet be found, the bumblebees buzzing in the myriad of fragrant flowers around her. Ashena smooths her gown, an elaborate creation in silvery silk and green velvet, then takes as deep a breath as the tightly laced bodice will allow. Her hands tremble slightly as the first letter is opened, the handwriting instantly recognizable as Cecil's._

    @a71cd92260:

    My dearest Ashena,

    First, let me say what I've been feeling this whole time, and that which has never stopped for a moment. "I love you." That, if nothing else, has not wavered an instant this whole time. I have been held, but am returned, and whole still, and eagerly await your return home.

    I miss you terribly, and will explain everything when I see you again, and pray that your family does not think me unfit for you now, as it has been an ordeal up to this point, and circumstances were beyond my control.

    Every rose I pass reminds me of you. I will be waiting for you, as I hear you have waited for me.

    Yours -always-,

    Cecil Northman
    Your Lion.

    Tears fill her eyes as she reads the letter once, twice, and three times over, then folds it back up with loving care, pressing a soft kiss to the paper's surface. She puts it down, then plucks it up again, looking around furtively before tucking it down her gown's front, smoothing the fabric carefully.

    This done, she smiles to herself and cuts a single red rose to stick in her hair - today fastened in a fancifully worked crown around her head. The second letter is opened next, written in a delicate hand.

    @a71cd92260:

    Ashena,

    As you know by now, he has returned and we have even gotten into a bit of trouble. Worry yourself not though, he has a priestess of Tyr watching over him as much as I am humanly able to. I will do all in my power to make sure he stays and is whole upon your arrival back in Narfell. I have saved Allestors life -twice- and helped saved Cecil's once from a bugbear, I am exhausted already! Being a Squire is so tiring!"

    Your sister,
    Talindra

    Ashena wipes at her eyes, then writes a swift reply while the day is yet her own, and not yet claimed by family affairs.

    "Dearest Talindra!

    Your Sending reached me whilst still onboard the ship, and it has been all I could think of ever since, blocking out my worries, concerns and woes over things great and small. As you might have guessed, t'was with mixed emotions that I started this journey, for while home sickness oft plagued me in Narfell, I knew that I was leaving you with a heavy burden to shoulder without me. But, selfishly, I also left with such a heavy heart for not returning with that special someone.

    I knew there was tension to face at home, I could tell from Aymon's words and even more so by the words he did not speak. We had been away for too long, and our father grew disgruntled. Perhaps there's more to it, trouble stirring at court, but I know not the details nor am I certain I wish to. What I do know is that though I travelled to my sister's wedding, I had the unsettling, sinking feeling that I myself would leave with a match made, my fate sealed for the sake of the family's best interests.

    If ever I should doubt the good gods kindness, or fate's benevolence towards me, remind me of this - that when these dark thoughts assailed me, your sweet voice rang out the news which dissolved it all! Aymon looked thoughtful upon hearing the message, though continued to say that such news would go a long way towards easing the tension he foresaw in our return.

    I was too euphoric to notice it much at first, but it is true - there is friction, a discontentment which is not voiced openly but is there in the edges of words, like a growl just barely held in check. Father and Aymon speak behind closed doors, voices rising and falling. They do not see fit to let me in on their debate, nor is it my place to insist, but ~something~ is most definitely wrong.

    It is with some frustration that I conclude this - that all my accomplishments in Narfell, the evil thwarted, my becoming a knight and a Champion, all the things I have learned, done and overcome - these matter not half so much to my family as do my future wedding plans. When it comes right down to it, my true worth in the family's eyes is defined through marriage and children. The irony is that I sought none of the latter - I just ~happened~ to fall in love, without wishing or intending to do so!

    Another frustrating fact about being back is related to the above - tis to be defined as a Teroldys first, and myself second (at best). In Narfell, the Teroldys name is what I and my siblings make of it, but here, it holds centuries of expectations, obligations and duties, all of them now feeling heavier and more restrictive than I recall. For instance dressing takes an ~age~ in the mornings, when it suffices not to simply braid my hair and don the same things I wear every day. It feels strange, stifling. I have grown used to my independance, verily!

    Alera and Targus have grown so much that it feels like I barely know them anymore, but Gralam is ever Gralam, my sweetest brother. We have had precious little time together so far, but I think he plots an escape into the so called wilds of our estate, just us two. There's an old treehouse to check up on, amongst other hidden things only he and I know about.

    I can hear my mother's voice growing near, and must hurry. We're to have a small tea party with select guests this morning, and as usual everything must be ~perfect~, including yours truly who still has a thing or two left on the dolling-up agenda. Like my pearls.. and something other than old sheepskin slippers to wear on my feet!

    Please, give my best to Allestor! I feel as though I left him shouldering the heaviest burden of all and I know he is troubled, though of course he played me the stoic Slayer card when I left. Eee-aw'lways so stubborn! Things are tense, and they shall be tenser still as the Puppeteer rears his ugly head into the mix - but keep faith, keep calm and keep each other safe.

    All my love,
    Ashena"

  • T

    A letter is sent by raven, the quorking bird settling on the roof of the Norwick barracks, black and beady eyes watching each guardsman passing until a particularily tall one approaches. Once a certain black cat is out of bird-swiping range, the raven swoops down to deliver his brief message. The note is buckled with moisture, the text blurry but still ledgible, addressed to one Cecil Northman. Once opened, it reads:

    "I love you, I love you, I love you! All else can wait 'til we meet again - yours then, now and always, Ashena"

  • T

    _A grey and dreary morning onboard "The Red Wind", seagulls croaking their hoarse song as the crew bustle about on the slippery deck, under the watchful eye of their rough-and-tumble female captain, Stiletto.

    Inside the captain's quarters, Ashena sits, warming her hands around a dented mug, full of steaming tea. Despite her brothers presence, she is quiet and withdrawn, staring absently out at the weather which so aptly matches her heavy mood.

    Suddenly, her head jerks up in sudden, acute attention, breath held for a long moment as a female and familiar voice speaks softly to her, as though out of nowhere:_

    "My dearest Ashena, after a delay beyond my control, I am home, I am safe, whole and love you always. Cecil."

    As the Sending slowly sinks in, Ashena's eyes go wide, the mug dropping from her hands to spill hot tea across the table. A high-pitched squeal, of pain or sheer delight, follows immediately after.

  • T

    Back in the Temple of the Triad, in the small prayer chambers upstairs, Ashena rises from her prayer with a distraught look on her face, eyes rimmed with red. Hugging her elbows, she stares at the altar for a long time, then pads silently through the still, darkened halls. After a failed attempt at sleep, she lights a candle to write, covers draped around herself.

    "Gralam!

    Alera is getting ~married~? Why was I not told!? She is far too young, and regardless of the possible merits and good qualities of her prospective husband, she has not yet had the chance to experience the world, to know her own heart enough to have the rest of her life staked out like this! I fear, having learnt the name of the groom, that the match was too appealing to decline regardless of Alera's own wishes. Aymon himself seemed in some doubt, though he tried to cover his concern.

    We are returning to The Vast with all haste now, Aymon, Sigibert and myself, despite the myriad of problems the Order grapples with at present, despite the complications bubbling in my personal sphere, despite ~everything~.

    Still no word from Cecil; he remains gone without a trace, as if swallowed up by the ground. Aymon regretted the fact, even as he proceeded to speak of all of our duty to continue the line, to marry, to have children, to serve the House. 'You will have to find a husband eventually', he said, gentler than I would have thought. But I cannot give Cecil up as lost to me yet, I just ~cannot~.

    Five years have passed. Five long years since the peace treaty with the bugbears, a treaty that runs out in but a tenday's time. Are the two related? Cecil went missing just as that treaty was to be signed, his first important task as acting Chancellor. Would he willingly abandon both his duties and myself? I simply cannot believe that. Is he Ostromog's prisoner, does he lie dead in the ground somewhere with a bugbear assassin's sword in his back? I don't know, I just do not know, and my heart is caught in that cruel vice, wrenching at every horrid scenario my mind conjures up!

    My heart is trapped, suspended in motion, while the rest of me moves inexorably on with the world around me. I manage this feat quite handily, until the imbalance is pointed out or brought into too sharp a focus, shattering my concentration and all of my resolve. I stumble, I despair, but always Allestor is there to nudge me back on course, gently but stubbornly insistant, ever smiling.

    Except now.

    Oh Gralam… I wish, oh how I wish free of these mortal coils sometimes, of selfish desires and wants and the ~complications~ of simply being human. Does it really have to be THIS complicated?

    I'm not making much sense, but let me try to explain - I told you of Talindra and Allestor before, did I not? Though cautious in nature, love was beginning to blossom 'tween them, or so I thought. Three is a crowd, I also thought, only to have both of them refute it. But now, there's four.

    Four is most ~definitely~ a crowd, the forth a most unexpected addition at that. It seems Shallyah, the warrioress ever striving for personal excellence in combat and little else, has suddenly had a change of heart - where before she treated the heart as a functional organ only. I first noticed it on a journey to the snowy slopes of the Icerim mountains, where she stood ever close to Allestor, whispering and smiling tentatively. I half expected a girlish giggle, and dark thoughts crossed my mind, while another part was simply baffled.

    Allestor, the Ilmateri heart throb? Apparantly all this Slayer stuff has given him the shine of a hero true, as now not one, but two women found such appeal in him - and that's not counting his little flock of followers!

    I decided to find it amusing, to think no more of it, when suddenly the situation grew infinitely more complicated. Talindra - in true self-sacrificing knight manner - had been approached by Shallyah, who confessed interest in Allestor. Talindra in turn said naught of her own interest, swallowing it down, standing willfully aside since she does not feel ready to committ fully yet.

    'I just want him to be happy', she said, but I berated her at once, when I learned of it. I ~know~ she likes him, and he likes her! Allestor would ~never~ go for Shallyah anyway - it seemed about as likely to my mind as me falling head over heels for say, Sirion! Neither are physically unattractive, even admirable in their own respective ways, but bundles of charms, they are verily not! Yet as we left the temple, Shallyah and Allestor headed upstairs together, looking altogether too chummy.

    ~WHAT~ in all of Faerun is going on? I felt like tearing my hair out, and gave the brunt of my anger to the poor Ilmateri priest called Jason, admittedly not undeservedly so, as he had made swift and to my mind eager judgement of many of my friends in a previous situation which was neither an easy nor a straightforward one.

    This is ~not~ how it was supposed to be, and what followed only made it worse. Oh, the confusion! Allestor was unhappy, Talindra was unhappy, Shallyah confused but wishing to explore these new feelings, and endless talking followed, with me seeming either trapped in the middle, or waiting on the sidelines. But when I say endless talking, t'was with Talindra or Shallyah, oft both, but never Allestor.

    Never in all this mess did I get to talk to the one professing to be my closest friend, for every time we found ourselves alone, Allestor clammed up, taking defensive stance behind either a forced smile or the most stoic expression ever, more miserable than ever I have seen him. Yet he had ~something~ to say, an admission to make, before bad came to worse.

    He spoke but a sentence or two, something about a heavy burden, of being, perhaps, a fool. There was such a tension in the room, a bowstring stretched so taut that I all but jumped at the sudden knock to the door. With Allestor's mouth already half opened, I scrambled out of my seat and near bolted to the door, finding Talindra on the other side.

    Oh, dearest brother - remind me once again to never meddle in things I clearly lack understanding of! I prompted Talindra into being candid about her feelings, thinking somehow that this would make everything alright. She blurted out that she thinks she is falling in love with Allestor, upset and accusing in tone, before storming off, while the object of said emotions sat mute, stunned.

    'This is when you go after her..', I added helpfully, and eventually he rose to stumble after her. They spoke, but upon returning, t'was all very awkward and continued to be so. Does he ~really~ want to be with Shallyah, then? I wondered at this fact, thinking it perhaps a little less strange than before as I got to see the changes in her, a far more talkative side, smiling, open and it seems eager to explore aspects of herself hitherto neglected. I guess I can see the appeal in that, but Talindra.. Talindra is Talindra!

    Allestor looked very strange indeed when I later told him I'd be cross indeed if he chose Shallyah, but that it would pass. Perhaps I was too harsh, but he was so ~stoic~ that I had to try something! Right?

    More talks followed - Talindra claiming everything was alright, and Shallyah that she wished not to make anyone unhappy or muscle in on anothers territory, and meanwhile both sought his company for quiet, whispered conversation. T'was all very tip-toey and emotional, and just to top things off, t'was hinted that Allestor himself, the center of all this female attention, had feelings for a ~third~ woman. Oh, the tangled webs we weave..

    My guess is that t'was their guess that I am this third woman - and to be honest, I must wonder if that is indeed the case, for why else would he so refuse to discuss the matter with me? Unless he, like myself, is simply uncomfortable speaking of matters of the heart, especially if they are painful to touch or even think of? Honestly, I have been wrong so oft of late that I do not dare to presume ~anything~ at this point, for all I know he may aswell be madly in love with Celia (if two out of three knights prefer blondes, what's to say the third does not also?). I did see the two of them speaking in hushed tones, not long ago, turning remarkably quiet as I approached.

    Things got worse still, before taking a turn for the better; Talindra breaking it all off completely and then patching things up a few days later. Now, she and Allestor are both smiling again, though she still claims they are only friends. Just, you know.. friends who take picnics together in their cutest outfits, and hug each other often.. in other words, back to where they started, more or less. I do not know where this leaves Shallyah, except that the flirtatious tone remains, oddly augmented by Talindra. The two get all girly together, laughing and joking in a silly way which - perhaps inexplicably - makes me feel the odd one out, stiff and awkard once again. Mayhaps tis that undertone of flirtation, it all catapults me back to the many social occasions I so wished to flee in the past; the stupid games and petty rivalries.

    On top of Allestor simply not speaking much with me at all, you see, I also have this distinctly unsettling feeling that should I seek ~him~ out, t'would somehow make me part of the competition, one of his "fans" in a sense. And I just don't want to play any games, I won't. I can't! It's all so complicated, and I don't want it to be. I want my Allestor back, the one I could confide in and laugh with, but I cannot even have that if all I get in return is a smile, which while always kind, still shuts me out.

    In truth, if he did have feelings for me, how would I even react to that? I honestly do not know, all I know is that I am and remain caught in this vice, seeing no way out of wanting, longing for, mourning the one who is not here. 'You will have to find a husband eventually', Aymon said, but every time I try to think ahead, my heart wrenches and revolts.

    I am not ready to move on. The question is, will I ever be?

    Your sad and simplicity-seeking sister, Ashena"

  • T

    Blissfully submerged in the soapy suds of a hot bath, the young knight stretches out as far as the copper tub will let her, wriggling small pink toes in contentment. She sinks deeper down into the water, long hair swaying languidly beneath the water's surface - then suddenly startles, sitting up straight with a small whoosh of waves rippling through the tub. Ashena looks left, right, then twists around, squinting through the soap in her eyes - but the small room is empty, and the window latched to prevent unwanted eyes. Reassured, she settles back into the bath, emerging a time later to the quiet inn, squeaky clean and with her hair neatly braided. While sipping from a mug of steaming tea, she writes anew.

    "Dearest Gralam,

    I'm but a day's ride from returning to Heliogabalus, to catch my proverbial donkey ride home, and as always it seems things are ne'er quite so interesting as when one's time is near an end. I was making my last and seemingly futile enquiries outside a book vendor's shop, just about ready to ride out of Praka when he approached me on the street, hobbling - a wizened old cripple with many sores and scars, trailed by a little group of street urchins.

    He had that unmistakable sense of kindness to him, nut-brown eyes sparkling in his weathered and aged face. The old man, as it turned out, was a priest of Ilmater, my donation immediately dispersed amongst the children who vanished soon thereafter.

    'The cult of the Dynasty, you said, young lady?'

    Some things are fated - I truly believe this. How else does one explain that this elderly priest's path crossed mine, at the very last moment, to provide the only substantial bit of information on the Cult of the Dynasty thus far? We spoke of my quest during a simple meal of bread, cheese and plump pears from the market nearby.

    The priest stated that 'The Dynasty' is but one of the names of a band of very powerful vampires as old as Faerun itself. This name apparently derives from their propensity in recruiting nobles who prove particularly valorous in combat, and that such ties to nobility are what has ensured their great wealth and influence over many centuries. This fits perfectly, hand in glove with what little I knew, and my elation grew as the priest continued.

    As he chewed on the pear, the priest proceeded to try and remember the other name he knew this coven by, but struggled with the recollection - although he did go on to explain how he learnt of this 'other name' from a mulan man that visited Praka some years ago. A Paladin of Osiris, he knew much of this coven. The paladin even brought them up himself in the conversation when describing his 'First Repose' which initiated him into his order. Oh, if I could but find this man next, but time, oh time was assuredly running out, 'lest my own priest of Ilmater should be very cross with me indeed!

    I thanked the priest with great warmth and another donation, which will no doubt see kindness spread to those in need, then set out on my journey, a little late but a lot excited for having learnt something of note. The weather has held up nicely though, and we made good time so far, Fury and I. Barring any unforseen incidences, we should arrive in Heliogabalus with just a little time to spare, then it is back to the many other mysteries which await in Narfell. Though the quest for the Shroud of Ilmater frustrates me, I will most certainly put my best effort into it anew, and let sleeping vampires lie for now.

    Though I must wonder if my recent enquiries have gone entirely unnoticed… Of late, I have oft felt myself observed, scrutinized more closely than I imagine any strangers roving eyes would have cause to do. In crowded streets, in dimly lit shops, even in my solitude, this feeling has washed over me, yet I cannot think it an ill one, the chill gaze of evil upon me. Rather, despite it being somewhat unsettling - in particular when one finds oneself bare naked in a bath tub! - this gaze feels quite the opposite of hostile, and did retreat with speed upon the latter instance.

    Perhaps it is just my imagination playing games with me, but I shall nonetheless take good care to travel in the daylight hours, for prudence's sake if naught else.

    Your travelling sister, Ashena (homeward bound)"

  • T

    _A small and spartan inn room this time, moonlight filtering in through the shutters, joined by a choir of voices seeming in heated argument below. A crash of something brittle follows, and the argument turns to a drunken brawl, while a lovesick tabby meowls out his hoarse and unrequited passions in a back alley nearby.

    Inside the room, the young knight sits on a narrow bed, hands clasped around the hilt of a massive greatsword. She seems lost in thought, resting her cheek against the sword while the waves of sounds from below wash over her. When at last silence begins to prevail, Ashena unstraps her armor, writing by the light of a single candle, before sleep claims her._

    "Dearest Gralam,

    Ostel is proving interesting so far, a small but lush province with the river trade providing easily as much income as the many farmlands, and an abundance of craftshops. The people I have met are a pious and thrifty lot, accepting my no doubt unusual enquiries with more kindness than I could have hoped, given the omnious topic. However, the story I chase seems no more graspable than the mist of a vampire, and I am not yet convinced the root of it, the coffin if you will, truly lies here.

    Indeed, contrary to the details of the story so far, none of Ostel's castles seem to have been razed in quite some time, and the many waterways of the area would seem ill suited for vampire activity, verily. Yet horror stories are not in any shortage, far from it, there are such a bounty of them as to muddy my quest further, for the Witch King's ravages left deep scars upon Damarans to this day.

    A few do seem familiar with the tale I seek, although there are many versions and interpretations. This very eve, a drunken fellow swore most vehemently that he had heard the same story about the duchy of Camarthen, while another aggressively proclaimed the legend to be naught but Vaasan conspiracy. The barkeep, ignoring both, claimed it is just another Cormyrian myth, redressed to suit a Damaran audience. Tempers flared as the ale consumption continued, and I eventually fled the scene I had inadvertantly caused with my questions.

    The noble families I met with were of course far more polite, though initially, I was met only with starch denial of any such goings-on in their own families - the kind of deceit my story entails only happens in Sembia, after all. One elderly gentleman puffed thoughtfully on his pipe, however, and invited me to the library. Something of a historian, he spoke of Ostel's former close ties with Vaasa during the Witch King's reign, pointing out how deceitful and hated the former ruling house of Ostel was, by common and nobleblood alike, before it suffered defeat to the Dragonsbanes. Perhaps this Dimitriy fellow belonged to them, he suggested, though without any access to such family lines, tis theory only.

    If the matter of origin is full of debate, then the fate of Dimitriy's lover in the fable seems to have just as many alternatives. In some she becomes a vampire as well and rules beside him, whereas in others she either dies peacefully still in love with her vampire consort or is brutally murdered by him.

    Frustratingly, no story mentions her name, this beautiful courtier at the center of it all. You see, the tale says that Dimitriy's elder brother, maddened with jealousy over his younger brother's luck in being allowed to marry this lovely, though lowly born woman, while he himself must be bound by duty and politics in such matters, took action into his own hands. The elder brother killed their lord father, covering the crime and taking his place as ruler. Then, he married the courtier himself, to which neither Dimitriy nor his love could object with any right. But it goes on, oh, tis such a ~sad~ tale!

    The elder brother then appointed Dimitriy head of the army, ever at the forefront of battle, hoping he would soon be slain. But Dimitriy instead rose to the challenge, a ferocious and accomplished fighter, winning great victory and fame. That's when the craven, deceitful brother played his last card, and arranged for his brother to live no more. Dimitriy was betrayed twice over, robbed of his bride and struck down from behind by one of his own soldiers. But as his life bled out upon the field of battle, a vampire approached him with a dark offer - become one of them, and see the treachery repaid in blood.

    Tis said the brother was staked by Dimitriy's own hand, the castle razed to the ground and his once love.. well, the stories differ as I said. Armies of terrifying undead rose to ravage the lands, lead by the mighty figure I have come to know as Olenin. Something resonates within me, at this tale, for if betrayed by all we hold dear, who might not turn to such darkness, in a moment of utter, bitter defeat? Once, he was a proud, strong and dutiful man; life smiling and full of promise. Engaged to the woman he loved, the future was bright for Dimitriy - until it was all taken from him, stolen by his own blood.

    As he lay defeated at my feet, in the dust filled halls of the Norwick crypts, petrified by the stake half-driven into his chest.. his eyes met mine, for the longest moment, suspended in time. Such intense hatred, I have ne'er seen, burning with dark fire from below his helm. His eyes haunt me still. I could do naught but end it, and I know t'was the right thing to do, for all that remained of him was hate. And still.. still. I cannot let it go, blame a futile wish for a happy ending if you wish, but I would have some measure of redemption, and the last of my questions answered.

    Why me, out of everyone fighting the undead - was it my noble status, the fact that I am a knight, or did I in some way remind him of ~her~? Allestor insists I must not feel singled out, that it was all designed to make me feel that way to cater to the vampire's cruel sense of play, the games they play to fill the endless years of unliving. It was not personal, he said, yet to me it is. Dimitriy's life, before ruined by deceit and betrayal, was not so unlike my own.

    The Dynasty, this cult or coven which finally warped him into a creature of cruelty and hate - they are an evil which seems to cut close to home. I shall spend the last of my time here attempting to learn more of them, but so far, it has been a game of grasping at straws. Except for the sword I carry, naught has brought recognition - naught, but a symbol just as the one the Sword of the Dynasty carries, upon the flat of the blade of a Khopesh, shown to me by an avid weapon's collector in Portith.

    I declined his many offers to purchase my blade, his own weapon seeming incredibly old and worn by comparison. Though he remained evasive as to how he came to possess it, I suspect it was through the sordid hands of a grave robber. I left the weapons collector with my best look of reproach, and returned to Praka.

    Torm willing, my last day here should yet reveal something, some strand to follow or pull, to unravel what lies hidden.

    Your still questing, questioning sister, Ashena"

  • T

    _The sun is high in the sky, a shimmer of warmth hanging over the road, a waivering wall of dust and light as horses hooves, carts and worn boots tred the beaten path through green and verdant hills, lush with summer's fullest bloom.

    Underneath the trembling leaves of a great aspen tree, the knight sits in the shade, drinking deeply from a waterskin. Her steed drinks just as deeply from the river flowing lazily past, solemn horse's eyes watching a passing river barge as if judging it for potential threat against his lone rider.

    Ashena wipes her brow, takes another sip of water and relaxes for a moment, eyes half closed as she watches the play of sunlight on water, the aspen tree whispering softly as the breeze flutters it's leaves. To keep the temptation of a nap at bay, she fishes up her box of letters to write once more:_

    "Dearest Gralam,

    I'm now about a day's march from Praka, one of two major settlements in the small province of Ostel, not far from Heliogabalus where I took my impromptu vacation whilst waiting for Aymon and Sigibert to wrap up their current affairs in Narfell. I was far too ready to travel to remain there waiting, and far too unprepared to return home alone, so here I am, a road-dusty explorer on my own personal quest.

    A quest for what, you may wonder - and I am not entirely sure of the answer to that myself, only that I feel a ~need~ to do this, to shake the remaining questions and doubts from my mind regarding the vampire Olenin, or Dimitriy as was his first name. I'm chasing myth and legend, it's folly but somehow deeply thrilling. All of this is, simply travelling alone, without a set plan and free of routine. I made the decision so hastily in fact, that I did not even think to pack a map!

    I feel nigh entoxicated with the sheer 'newness' of everything - every sight, every person I meet, the dizzying scent of flowers, grass and mud, the hustle and bustle of the great city of Heliogabalus, the sights and the smells, everything! Whether I should find what I seek or not, the trip itself has filled me with wonder, the bounty of all these new experiences slowly but surely filling the void I felt inside, after Fendon's defeat.

    I told no one of my destination, not even Allestor, and felt a guilty, almost giddy sense of wickedness at this fact. A few days from Heliogabalus though, I cracked and wrote him a letter. To my great surprise, a letter arrived for me in turn, at the temple where I was staying! Granted, it did not take much investigative skill to figure out that I would likely stay at the Order's closest allied temple in the city, but still.. and the letter itself! Oh, it was big-brotherly and full of chiding concern, the sort of letter I imagine Rath might send, precisely. I'm not sure when the tables were so turned between us that he would wag his finger at me!

    Perhaps it is different because he is a knight now, and we are equals to a far greater extent than before? Truly, he has grown with knighthood, seeming to stand just a little bit prouder and speak his mind more openly and confidently than before. I like all that, but I'm not sure I like being urged to abandon my quest. I like it far less for knowing he's right, there ~are~ more pressing matters to attend to, and when duty calls, I always answer. Allestor's in fact made arrangements to see that I return in time for Hope's knighting, and I could hardly object to that, now could I!

    But I have a few days yet to spend exactly as I see fit - which is currently in the blessed shade of an aspen tree, overlooking a gleaming river. A bumblebee buzzes pleasantly nearby, and I can smell the wild roses growing in thickets by the riverbank. Both the river and the road are full of travellers, and though I do stand out to an extent, I also feel but one in many, anonymous in a way I find certain appeal in. We've each got our separate agenda, yet are all somehow connected, drifting on the same current.

    Once in Praka, I'll begin my investigation in earnest - I did visit a few libraries in Heliogabalus, but scholarly persuits were ever my weak point as you know. I'll speak to people instead, to everyone and anyone who will lend me a moment of their time, commonfolk and nobles, clergy and merchants. If this is indeed the scene of the tragic events that gave birth to the monster we destroyed, then someone will know.

    I'm chasing myth and legend, stories centuries old, perhaps, and it might be like grasping at air, it might be futile and pointless. But strapped across my back, a heavy and solid reminder is ever present - the Sword of the Dynasty. Olenin was real, the sword is real, and somewhere out there, somewhere close by, the truth is too. And I will find it.

    Your rambling, roving gypsy sister, Ashena"


  • (( cheers to the player and DMX for patience with slow delivery and allowances made ))
    Some days later in the guest room of the temple in Heliogabalus, a letter awaits. The wax seal bears no sigil, though it is clearly addressed to one Lady Ashena Teroldys. As the days activities come to an end, the seal is broken and the letter read by the soft glow of a tiered candelabra.

    Dear Ashena,

    I hope that this letter finds you well and am glad to hear your journey has been unhindered thus far. Rest assured Bob, while ever persistent, is far from a nuisance or burden and that your rounds have been maintained in your absence with no shortage of punnery. You are missed as well by all of your friends, and are asked about commonly, so I send with this letter their warmest regards.

    I was quite surprised myself to receive your letter, and again at it's message of course. Though you are correct in your assumptions that I scowled at least once reading your admission, I understand well a life on the road and would not deny you a chance to experience that. However, while I did agree that closure would be beneficial, you can expect some stern finger waggling at kicking the proverbial hornets nest while we have many problems to deal with already. Though I have not the authority, I urge you to cease your investigation into the cult of the Dynasty at this moment, and pray you see the wisdom in this. While a worthy cause, this is not the time to begin such an endeavor, nor shall I agree with you doing so alone. I know it is alluring, but we must prioritize and see through what we have begun, before we begin to chase new mysteries.

    On that note, you will be most pleased to know that Hope has returned, not long after you had left. There have been developments into a certain quest of our own, though I will not afford the details to this letter. As well, Lady Elena has planned her knighting ceremony to be held near the end of the present month, which I'm sure you will agree is well deserved and overdue. There is a also a tournament to be held in the days after, which will no doubt please you to hear, but unfortunately there will be no jousting event this time. Still, it will go a long way to increasing the morale across the area, and right about now it is sorely needed.

    From the maps in the study I have roughly calculated your time out to Heliogabalus, and by the time this letter should reach you, you will no longer have the time to ride back in order to make Hope's ceremony. I have no doubt you would wish to attend to see her knighted and of course, would not want this to dampen such good news. To that end, I have made arrangements of my own to remedy this. On the morning of Hope's ceremony - the third last day of this month - I shall appear at the Temple in Heliogabalus where you have been staying, to fetch you and return you to Peltarch by means of Recall. If my calculations are correct, and my messenger is as swift as he claims, this should allow you a couple of days yet to enjoy the City as you wish. Speak of me if you will to the attending priests and paladins for they shall have the opportunity to meet me in person before long, but do try not to over inflate my alleged fame. Remember, moderation in all things. Use your time wisely until then and know that when matters have settled here, I would gladly accompany you to assist in your investigation of the Dynasty should you wish it.

    Stubbornly accepting no argument,
    Allestor.

    P.S.. Ee-aw.

  • T

    A travel-dusty letter arrives at the Temple of the Triad, sealed with green wax and bearing the interlocking rings of House Teroldys. It is addressed to one Allestor "The Slayer" Hollins, and upon very close inspection, the writer has added a miniscule depiction of a donkey after the name.

    "Dear Allestor,

    I'm now approaching Heliogabalus, the road ever more bustling with caravans, donkeys and carts, riders and couriers. Perhaps with such beasts of burden near, it is natural my thoughts should turn to you, but in truth, I am feeling a little bit guilty too. You see, when Aymon told me he had business yet to wrap up, after I myself had packed and repacked, more than ready to leave, I just could not bear to stay and wait. But I also could not bear to return home all alone, with too much time to brood.

    Instead, I packed up the sword of the Dynasty, copied a few notes and maps, and headed to Damara in search of clues to Dmitriy Olenin's past life. I know what you're thinking, I know what you would say to me right now, but it is ~not~ obsession! At first, I thought closure was the best choice of words for this need I feel to persue the matter, although I admit curiosity is part of it too. But now, with the sword itself strapped to my back for miles upon miles, I've begun to wonder about this mysterious coven too, the Dynasty itself. If you think I am but chasing dead ends with Olenin, then surely unearthing more information about this group of vampires is a worthy enough cause for my travels?

    I should have told you - I was unwilling, I think, to risk having you change my mind about it, although I have already oft wished I had invited my friends along. I see this journey as a rare chance for solitude and exploration, though - something I oft dreamt of as a child, but hardly ever got to experience for myself. Of course, I'm never truly alone, and Fury keeps a watchful eye out for anything resembling either a threat, or an apple. Mostly the apple bit… but still! He shall keep me safe, wherever I may roam. And yes - I, Ashena Teroldys, hereby solemnly swear that I will use caution and the best of my judgement while travelling, charging neither giant demons nor covens of vampires. So do not fret!

    I hear there are many Ilmateri paladins in Heliogabalus - I'm very keen to meet those, and I may attempt to strike up a few useful alliances for the Order while at it. Perhaps I shall take the opportunity to spread your fame too, oh Slayer? We shall see, for once in my life, I have no decisive plan beyond arriving in the city. It feels in equal parts naughty and liberating, taking the day as it comes!

    I miss you! Send Talindra and the rest my love, and don't let Bob terrorize you ~too~ much. He may be small in size, but his ego is bigger than myself and Fury combined!

    Torm's grace - and my fondest regards, Ashena"

  • T

    @204dc0fbcf:

    The Vast To-Do List:

    1. Hugs for everyone, without mercy or exception!

    2. Banish Father's foul mood.

    3. Quality time in the rose garden with Mother.

    4. Revisit the ~secret~ tree house with Gralam!

    5. Find Allestor a cat-sitting gift (speak to stablemaster)

    6. Don't be sad over Cecil - be happy to be home!

  • T

    _The young knight folds sensible white cotton undergarnments, packing them neatly into her footlocker, alongside various other, less unmentionable pieces of clothing. The armorstand gleams with freshly polished blue and gold metal, her desk is impeccably tidy, and still Ashena paces, sorting Bob's toys, aligning all twelve Mr Wobbleses on the shelf overlooking Rath's bed and then straightens the already perfectly folded blanket on her own.

    After a quick trip downstairs, she returns and sits with a sigh at her desk, recovering her correspondence box to write:_

    "Dearest Gralam,

    While Celia and Reynauld took off with much haste and little warning, my own trip home seems ever more postponed as there is always some emergency or other to deal with. Most recently, an outbreak of slime creatures within the sewers, but a more dire situation by far is the one shaking the ruins of Jiyyd, where fiends have roamed since the N'Jast war.

    An ancient device was set off to open portals to the Hells and Abyss, back then, and ever since, fiends have been coming through - the outbreak contained within a magical barrier, erected with great effort around all of the former town. But now, though the barrier still holds, it holds creatures other than fiends trapped inside, too…

    Seventy Celestials, all servants of the Triad, were somehow summoned within, and are equally unable to leave. Lady Daisy herself is one amongst them, one of only six yet remaining, for the fighting is relentless and full of fury. A Balor of surpassing might leads the hordes of fiendish foes, and it is Lady Daisy's belief that the temple of Helm is key in all this. The Celestials guard the temple grounds with all their remaining might, though we ourselves were gently but firmly ushered out, with a task to learn more.

    Research is not my strong side, and as the skies above Jiyyd lit up with hellfire and purest white, the shapes of winged angels and horned horrors colliding within, I felt frustration and helplessness tug at me once again. I wanted to be ~there~, to fight alongside those glorious beings in their epic and perhaps very last stance! To not able to, to do naught but sit and wait, it stung, even though I know we are but ants in a battle of titans. With half a mind to wallow, and half a mind to simply pray, I made my way to Heroes Bluff to watch the fighting from afar, alone with my thoughts.

    But I was not alone, after all. Fury took vigil behind me, but at my side sat Allestor, banishing the heaviness of my heart with his gentle smile, his kind words and that rock-steady, never faltering hope. Somehow, he can always make me smile, even when I do not wish to let go of whatever worry bone it is I'm shaking and nagging at. We watched the war of light and shadow, we prayed and we talked - we talked for hours, night turning to day and to night once more.

    I think my previous concerns are mostly laid to rest, after that talk. We spoke much about love, establishing that between the two of us, we have a full experience (physical and emotional respectively). Talindra was of course in focus, Allestor professing a frequent confusion and uncertainty whether he is doing or saying things right (it seems in love, we are all uncertain - there's a strangely soothing quality to that notion). I think she just needs time, and perhaps is even afraid of truly opening up to someone again, after having lost so much.

    I had given each of them some wine previously, with the clever plan of seeing them enjoy some of it at the bath house together. I nudged Allestor onto the idea before broaching what truly worries me - my own place in all this, in their friendship-turned-almost-love relationship. Am I the third wheel, a perhaps not unwanted presence, but yet one that holds progress back simply by being there?

    I had extracted myself out of their company before, very slyly indeed I thought, to instead humour Uljas in cooking some venison - little realizing I was in fact volunteering to cook for the entire band of Raumviri warriors, who all eyed me with much amusement and comments in their incomprehensible tongue. It did not go terribly well, in fact one of their men eventually took pity either on the meat or on myself and nudged me out of the way as I stood there, prodding and poking inexpertly.

    It was all ~very~ embarrassing, yet afterwards there was music and feasting, and a sense of great simplicity - a feeling of camradery around the fire that I knew I was not part of, yet invited to join nontheless. I tried some of Uljas strangely transparant beverage and coughed profusely, my eyes tearing up. He laughed, but not mockingly so. Uljas has a fine laugh; deep, booming and hearty!

    As I spoke of these things to Allestor, he looked as close to shocked as e'er I have seen him, immediately protesting the notion that I was in any way a stumbling stone or a third wheel. 'If Talindra wants to be alone with me, I'm sure she'll find a way', he said, and he's right. She's not shy to speak her mind nor to take what she wants - unlike both of us, she has got the actual, full experience. 'She enjoys your company aswell as mine', he continued, and was of course right again - we have far too much fun together for that to be untrue! So why am I worried about it at all?

    I spoke to Talindra herself later, and she instantly confirmed Allestor's take on it. There was no need to ever excuse myself or leave, as my company is most dear to her. I am the sister she never had, she continued, and I could not help but smile, turning warm inside. Truly, it is like this only with a few, select persons in life - an immediate, inexplicable sense of kinship and liking that only grows with getting to know them. Treasure each and every one such person you meet, Gralam - they are what makes the everyday grind and grit not only bearable, but full of joy!

    So then, as my two dearest friends ~both~ insist I am not the third wheel, I should most definitely cease any self-pitying attempt at feeling like such! Allestor is in fact trying his darndest to thwart ALL my attempts at either brooding or self-pity. Annoyingly, he is most always successful, though I admit it stung a little when he insisted I should not think my vampire's mocking attentions personal. Olenin had probably played that game a thousand times, and I should not think myself special in any way. But that's just it... a pitiful but truthful fact which I tried to make light of with a joke:

    'Geez, can't a girl feel special even if only to toothless old men or murderous vampires?'

    Perhaps everyone wants to feel special, if only to a single person, if only even to their enemy? I know in Torm's eyes I am special, I do have merits worthy of Him choosing me to serve, but as a woman, simply as Ashena? Yes, perhaps it is pathetic, but I think I do want to feel special as just plain Ashena too.

    Allestor gave me a glance, murmuring something near unintelligable, then blushed as his soon averted gaze crossed over to my bed and the smallclothes I had hung out to dry nearby (unfortunately I am still so used to being the only person permanently residing there, that I tend to let my personal space grow a bit too wide). When I prompted an explanation to the garbled mumbling, he said that in another life, he would have gladly attempted to make me feel special.

    I'm not quite sure what to make of that. He's always saying nice and encouraging things, and perhaps this was no different than his usual wallow-thwarting nudges? Note to self, however: for un-awkward friendship's sake, keep Allestor away from undergarnments and bathing suits, unless they should be Talindra's! No matter what either of them say, I still wonder if things between them would not blossom better with a little less me to go around. Perhaps my trip home will be a boon to their budding relationship, in fact? Only time will tell, though I think for my part, the time is right for homecoming. Dire situation or not, I cannot aid until we have the right information to proceed, both regarding Jiyyd and Maria's lich.

    Aymon is late, and I can only surmising hunting down Sigi is what's keeping him. I've packed and tidied and packed some more, and now even writing shan't keep me occupied much longer! Time to go brother-looking, methinks, and plan our journey!

    Your road-ready rambling sister, Ashena"

  • T

    In a simple white nightgown and fuzzy slippers, Ashena sips the last of a mug of warm herbal tea, making a face at the bitterness of the dregs. Her eyes turn first to her pile of paperwork, then the bed's vast and inviting surface, to the armorstand and back to the desk, sighing. With a small wince of pain, she drapes a warm wooly shawl around her shoulders, wriggles her toes in indecision, then reaches for her personal correspondence.

    "Dearest Gralam,

    In the wake of both victory and loss, I find myself at once feeling restless, emotional and mayhaps still more weary than I should like to admit. Though losing our beloved Grandmaster is a hard blow, we have also four new knights in our ranks, all of which have distinguished themselves with much honour to their gods and the Order itself. To say I am proud of them would be the understatement of the year, verily!

    Victory then, against the grand threat of Fendon, and my somewhat personal nemesis Olenin, both. It feels less triumphant than I would have expected, and more… well, empty? It is at once a vast relief, and a void of purpose, and the result is a closer proximity to both tears and laughter than usual. I feel ~brittle~, as though were my defences stretched thin, emotionally and physically. Physically, most definitely so - greatsword upon greatsword induced trauma, followed just now by greataxe upon greataxe, swung by the fiercest of ogres. I am whole, but at a point where I can no longer ignore the strain completely.

    A few days rest would be the wise option, Allestor is right, but such would leave me with too much time for wallowing in various self-induced piteous thoughts. I am dreading and I am longing to travel home, in equal shares; missing all of you so, but not wishing to face the fact that I shall bring no one home to present to the family. It is strange - I never felt lonely for being alone, before I had Cecil. But now that he is gone, it is a near physical thing - as though had I a Cecil-shaped void beside me, a big chunk of sheer absence. I feel lonely, I ~feel~ abandoned, though none of it may be his own fault!

    The most pitiful thing of all - I feel twice as lonely for watching those around me find love and happiness with each other, even though I wish for naught but happiness for each and all of them. I told you I had seen signs of affection 'tween several of my friends, did I not? I also told you I thought t'would lead nowhere anytime soon, but it seems the scale of the threat we were about to face, in marching on Fendon, prompted a few unexpected developments. Danger can be most beneficial to romance, verily!

    Would that I had had better foresight, however, for as glad as I was to hear Reynauld and Celia declare their intent to wed, I was inwardly ~kicking~ myself for the advice I gave Ky'Amendos not a week earlier. I had seen Reynauld walk in circles around an oblivious Celia for longer than I can even remember, and thought that if it was ever going to happen, it would have by now! But I was wrong - I'm not sorry to have been wrong, quite the opposite, but I wish, oh how I wish I had at least warned Ky of preexisting interests (I honestly thought them on Rey's side only!). Or had had the chance to tell him, prior to the public announcement…

    Almost as big of a shock - and I say almost for Talindra downplaying the whole incident afterwards - was the kiss she planted upon a wholly unexpecting Allestor, prior to the battle's commencement. He literally grew ~speechless~, reddening and fumbling to find his tongue! I was surprised to an extent only, for knowing she liked him well, if not quite SO well as that. Talindra still mourns for a love lost, you see, and though I saw the interest, I had thought it would take it's long sweet time to blossom into anything more. For luck, she said afterwards, but once the battle was won, she kissed him again - and he kissed her back.

    She still protests making too big a thing out of these rather obvious signs of affection, yet sits close to him always and narrows her eyes at the rather many admirers he now has (in fact, for being credited with being the Slayer of Fendon, Allestor has a whole little flock of incredibly eager followers, recently converted to Ilmater). As for him, he looks happy, I think. I suspect he thought her teasing not very serious in nature at first, but was pleasantly surprised to find it may well be more than that. Be patient, she asked, and if there's anything Allestor excels at, tis that.

    He is infinitely patient, and unbelievably kind. Tis that kindness which draws me in, I think, and makes me wish to confide in him, to tell him all manner of things, great and small, admirable and shameful. I did, too.. after having drawn one story after the other out of him, I tried to share some of my own, but was overwhelmed by my own treacherous emotions. He gave me a rose - a red rose, perfect and richly fragrant. I kept my face still - he says I can be hard to read, and I meant not to rain on the storytelling parade - but in the end, I crumbled.

    'You used to wear roses in your hair', he said with a smile. I did, each and every one a token of love from Cecil, each and everyone preserved, a dry and brittle memory in a box beneath my bed. We sat in Ashald garden, and I told him the marketplace story, told him of Anna and the stolen bread, but my mind was elsewhere. My mind was full of rose thorns, and eventually I sprung a leak from their sharpness. I buried my face against the folds of Allestor's cloak and cried. It wasn't a pretty, ladylike sniffle, no - it felt like knots of barbed wire, drawn painfully, oh so painfully out of me, and my whole body strained to fight it back.

    His sympathy was too much to bear, and I had to look away, I had to bury my face once more while I struggled to contain my tears. It was ~so~ exhausting... like hours of combat, packed into a few short minutes! He stroked my back, and I fell asleep, resting awkwardly against his side. When I woke, he escorted me back to the temple, and we spoke no more of it, barring our usual joking pleasantries.

    I know it is his duty to ease suffering, to take upon himself the pain of others, and this was no different truly - but I did not wish for him to see me so, nor be another of his duties. He says I am his closest friend, and that I can always confide in him - but I wonder if I would not be doing him a disservice in obliging now, for having our closeness be a hinderance to how things are going with Talindra?

    To make matters worse... Allestor - after hearing Talindra and I speak on and on about the blissfulness of the steam room at the bath house - decided to try it himself, in my presence no less. I fully expected him to be a bit shy about it, but what I had not expected was the look he suddenly gave me, a sort of look I have ~never~ seen from Allestor before, as though were I part holy grail and part siren. As though he only just realized I was flesh and blood, like anyone else?

    To be quite truthful, he was not a poor sight to behold either, quite startlingly more muscular than his modest posture lets on in full armor. There was this awkward tension in the air, which we both tried to ignore, Allestor stuttering and seeming to fumble for firm ground while his gaze skittered to and fro. Perhaps he is simply ~that~ unused to seeing ladies in any state of undress (I was covered with a towel aswell as bathing suit however), or was it just that he is not used to seeing ~me~ in that state, specifically?

    I recall Rath blushing and coughing upon chancing upon me in the bath house the first time, but that initial awkwardness was soon gone, and now, we oft chit chat amicably there in relaxed manner. Ky'Amendos, in even starker contrast, was simply concerned he was intruding upon my personal time - other than that I may aswell have been wearing fullplate armor for all the lack of ogling. I think he truly sees me as all knight and mentor, and the breasts simply do not register!

    Not so with Allestor, but we managed to make light of it, I think, upon leaving. I know he likes Talindra, I ~know~ it, and I will not let anything risk ruining that. My friendship with both of them is too important by far to be undermined by these urges, the illogic of the flesh and skin we happen to reside in. I will NOT be a prisoner of my body, nor let my loneliness ever reach out to claim what is not meant for me.

    I miss Cecil - truly, that's the first and the last thing on my mind as I wake and go to sleep. I am still his, but like the roses he gave me, the bond between us - once so dizzying in scent and colour, so vibrant and alive - is turning brittle and faded. I have to put these feelings, these memories away, store them in some safe place inside me before they should crumble to dust and be no more.

    Is it completely weird that I should kind of miss my dark Cecil too, the vampire who killed me horribly-horribly on the battlefields of Norwick? While twisted to it's opposite and full of hate, his attentions are still the most like romance I have had since my fiancée disappeared, and at the very least, made me feel ~something~. I was so full of rage, fighting him, even angry at first with my friends for interfering (and no doubt saving my life), but now that he is gone, I find myself strangely sad.

    Lady Val drew the story of his life from the blade he used, and it is such a heart-wrenching tale at that, full of dark deceit and love lost! Truly, it is no wonder that some men become monsters. I will pray that his soul finds peace at last, alongside his father and his once beloved.

    The tea Allestor brewed me is kicking in at last, I think. Sleep combats even my twisting thoughts, and I will fight it no more.

    All my love, your battered sister, Ashena"

  • T

    _The bells toll at the Temple of the Triad, long and sorrowful notes, while banners fly and mourners gather. Upstairs, dead asleep and for the moment blissfully unaware of the world or anything in it, the young knight lies as if simply fallen on her side in the middle of her oversized bed, soot-stained armor and all, face streaked with blood and tears. A massive greatsword - several sizes too large for her own arm - lies beside her as the strangest of bedfellows, one hand resting on its hilt. Bob the cat eyes the occupants of the bed suspiciously, finding his handmaiden for once lacking in both softness and cleanliness. He gives a catty huff, prods the sword tentatively with his paw, then slinks off to find more comfortable sleeping arrangements.

    Ashena keeps sleeping, not stirring until the late afternoon sunshine warms her face. With a groan of effort, she struggles up out of bed, stumbling off to rid both herself and her equipment from the numerous marks of recent battle. Hours later, as darkness falls outside, the young knight takes a seat by her desk to write, wearily:_

    "Dear mother and father,

    It is done, the task complete - Fendon is defeated and destroyed, a threat no more. The sweetness of victory is laced with our own losses however, first and foremost that of the Order's Grandmaster, the beloved lady Daisy Millern of Tyr. But let me tell the tale as I lived it first, faulty though my own recollections may be:

    We gathered in Norwick, spirits bolstered by the recent knighting of four of the Order's squires, and with a fair turnout of volunteers. I layed out the two-step plan - to first strike down Fendon's physical shape, then destroy him for good as he reformed in his hidden lair - and assigned command to the second strike force to the able arcanist Maria, knowing her sharp mind and magical expertise would be needed in this most difficult second step. To my own group, I chose my fellow knights Allestor, Celia and Reynauld, brave Talindra of Tyr, then added many of those we are used to fighting alongside - good men I know I can depend on: Romulus, Andrew, Gnarl, Dermin, Arlan - and Sirion. Sirion, the elf who was accused and put on trial, suspected to have goaded Fendon into attacking whilst the bugbears held the town.

    Though naught could be proven or disproven in regards to his guilt, many remain convinced of his villainy. I myself have yet to ever trace true evil within his soul, nor seen any malice of intent in his words or actions. Lack of wisdom, yes. Arrogance, certainly - and the combination of the two is oft a dangerous thing. Yet I sensed a chance for redemption of sorts, and decided to trust my own instincts. I asked him to accompany us, and he agreed.

    Another elf, one most assuredly on the side of light, a powerful priest, was also asked to join, to even the strengths of our two teams. I ~asked~ him to join us, but was met with a sullen silence before the reply came: 'I want to kill Fendon, otherwise I'm not going'. I did not order him to one group or the other, but instead reminded everyone that what we were about to do was NOT about personal glory. If one team fails, we ~all~ fail. It's as simple as that, yet the priest withdrew his support and left.

    Maria's team counted several of the strongest and most seasoned of Narfell's adventurers and heroes, and with such an able woman leading them, I had full faith their team would be successful. Yet I also knew there was but a few of my own who had e'er fought Fendon before. We ~had~ to succeed, we had to, or there would be no second strike.

    Outside the gates of Norwick, the Alchemist and his golems awaited us - quite a force indeed, split evenly between our parties. With a few final instructions and well wishes, I lead my team into the crypts while the second group made their last preparations.

    Initially, my first reflection was on how strikingly ~normal~ things appeared. No bodaks, no shades or shadows, mummies or undead harpies, no.. only the expected undead blocked our path, and with the golems making way before us, things seemed disturbingly easy, almost, until we came to the lowest part of the crypts, Fendon's 'reception room' of sorts. We heard his laughter, a cackling maniacal sound, drifting upon the dank winds of the cavernous room, while around us shadow stalkers and ghouls tore and ripped at flesh and bone. The golems, directed with swift and snappy orders by Talindra, were to their best use in this, the first descent, I believe - otherwise a fair many of us had been drained of our strength right then and there.

    But this fight took it's toll, and as we progressed further in, only one big boned golem remained. We ourselves were ready and eager for the real fight to begin, and it did - vampire guards harried our defences as we came nearer to the source of the echoing laughter, sinister mists rose and an omnious figure in black came forth to challenge us - but resolve was in our hearts, and we did not waiver. Across a narrow stone bridge, we saw him, the glimpse of a glowing red blade in the distance.

    Fendon.

    After clearing our rear and steeling ourselves, final prayers were said and we crossed the bridge. The isle was packed with his vampire guards, the fighting fierce but successful, until finally he alone remained. Fendon greeted us with false familiarity, speaking of Sirion as his 'dear friend' and thus attempting to sow distrust amongst us. But I had chosen my team and Sirion's presence wisely, for knowing this would come. None of us rose to the bait, instead taunts and jeers began to go the other way, and Fendon soon tired of his game, attacking.

    As his sword rose, however… thick mists arose also, all around us. With Torm's name on my lips, thrumming in my heart, I launched myself into the attack, ignoring all but Fendon himself. My shield held for one strike, two.. with Gnarl beside me, we pinned Fendon into a corner, and I reached out, my hand pushing past his blade to touch his chest. Never have Torm's might been so strong, coursed so powerfully through my arm as that moment, never! He stiffened, reeled at the shock, but only briefly.

    Regenerating was too swift, too simple a thing, and with a hateful sneer, Fendon's next cut struck true. Gnarl staggered, moving away, and pain bolted through me as the red blade bit deep. I lost sight of the others in the mist, but followed Fendon's retreating form as fast as I could, reading my last resort scroll of Holy Weapon, turning all to brightness for a moment.

    Where is everyone? I heard cries and screams in the fog, figures moving and muted footfalls. Talindra appeared out of the mist, Allestor a vague shape behind her. There, Fendon, dead ahead! We charged again, and the red blade flashed. Talindra fell, and there was nothing I could do, nothing but to raise my shield, nothing but to strike again and again, as hard and as fast as I could. More screaming in the distance - Celia's shape moving swiftly to someone's aid, but there was no time - Fendon regenerated from each blow, moving with catlike swiftness and grace to deal blow upon blow upon us.

    I staggered after a near mortal slash, my arm feeling disjointed. A Heal potion to my lips, try again, pile effort upon effort, he must fall, he MUST! Regardless of how many hits were landed, how many strikes were blocked, it took but one single blow for him to send me reeling, just one. Just when I thought the fight lost, a bright light crashed down, illuminating Fendon's form entirely. He stiffened, opened his mouth to scream, but all was silence - his body blackening, scorched and crumbling to the ground!

    The fog parted to reveal Allestor standing there, nodding quietly. It was done, Ilmater's grace shining through when our need was the greatest. We took but a moment's pause at the smouldering remains, red mist rising to disappear up through the stone ceiling above, before rushing off to disperse the vampiric fog and rescue those most badly afflicted by it. Romulus was saved on the very brink of death, and then, finally, we could all breathe out and send the message to proceed to our allies above.

    Their task was yet more difficult, as I later learned from Maria herself, but ours was not yet over either. Undead rose all around us as we made our way out of the now omniously shaking crypts, skeletal dervishes and archers, mist and zombies - and the creepiest part of all - myself.

    Rather, a ghostly image of myself, appearing from around a bend, calling out: 'Dimitri, my love! Where are you?'

    Behind this ghostly reflection of me, a tall spectral shape - Olenin. I shall verily spare you the details of this irksome scene, meant no doubt to enrage me with its mockery of courtly love. He meant to anger me, and he did, so much so that when at last he appeared himself, greatsword wreathed in flames, I wished for nothing so much as to strike him down.

    This was precisely according to his own desire also, as he demanded to fight me alone. He wanted only me, he said, and the rest of my weary, battered party would then be free to go. I could not resist this challenge; I ~wanted~ to fight him, to repay him in steel for the death he dealt me before, for the mockery he followed it with e'er since, for the lack of sleep on troubled, lonely nights. I wanted to fight, I NEEDED to fight, and accepted.

    Allestor coated me in Stoneskin; I barely noticed. I had eyes only for him, my dark foe. He seemed to grow taller the closer I got, the sword's flames more hungry, matching the look burning in his dark dead eyes - but I am ne'er alone, I thought. Never, while Torm still graces me.. for He is my shield, my sword, the hand that strikes! I took the last few steps in a near run, but he stood steady, ready for my attack. The clash of steel echoed in the crypts, mingling with the tremors and rumbling which had begun with Fendon's fall.

    He's so much taller! SO much stronger, but I stood my ground for one heartbeat, two and three. Block, block, my arm burning with the strain. A searing slash across my side, blood trickling down my leg, turning the ground slick and dark - and as I changed my stance, a hard shove. I was on my back, gasping for air, when the greatsword was drawn high.

    It is somewhat hazy at this point.. I felt defeat's sharp, acrid bitterness more than any sort of fear of my impending death, and struggled up, determined to die fighting. Just then, spells flew and bows twanged, and Olenin's triumph turned to rage. 'NO!', he roared, 'No, I had her BEAT!'

    Speed coursed through my body, and Olenin lunged after the unseen mage playing his last card. Sirion ran for dear life, while the rest of us all launched ourselves at the vampire, pinning him with all our last strengths combined. He cut Andrew down with a vicious blow, but Dermin slammed into his side, Rey's sword cutting hard and true, while Gnarl hacked at his knees.

    'NOOO', he screamed as steel flashed all around him, 'NOOOO!' My blade delivered the finishing blow, and with a mighty crash, Olenin fell to the ground. I felt as though in a dream as I knelt over him, fumbling for the stake. I had dreamt just this, if in more self-flatterering light, and now my hands shook. He hissed, the slit in his bull horned helm displaying eyes full of intense hatred, staring straight at me.

    Reynauld swiftly drove a stake into his chest, and Olenin froze, yet his eyes remained fixed upon me. I had to know.. I had to see his face for myself, to banish my ill dreams. I reached to lift his visor, but as I did, the softest click was heard. Fire ignited, a burst of red hot flames, scorching all of us. When my vision cleared, he was naught but smoke and ashes, leaving only the greatsword behind.

    I picked it up - it's handle was still warm, remains warm to the touch, the sword itself a massive thing. It is far too large for me to wield, but I claimed it nontheless, to no one's objection. Andrew was raised back to life, and the rest of our journey up was uneventful, the top floor of the crypts silence itself.

    But a strange feeling came over us suddenly, all of the knights at once. Sadness, loss… The purple door stood ajar, and as we stood there wondering what was wrong, a celestial being appeared, glowing with light. He told us the task was complete, our friends awaiting us by the gates. Some things are as they must be, as fate has written it, but the gods are proud of our deeds this day.

    Maria told us, by the gates of Norwick - lady Daisy sacrificed herself to destroy the red blade. She closed the door to the room with the sarchophagus, and a blinding, brilliant light emerged, brighter than anything Maria had ever seen, even just through the cracks of the door.. and afterwards, she and the accursed blade were gone.

    The bells still sing their mournful song, and flowers line the temple walls. A great evil has fallen, but likewise a legend of the light. May the bards sing in times immemorial of the wise and courageous lady Daisy Millern!

    Beyond exhaustion, your loving daughter Ashena"

  • T

    _The young knight, alone in the Order's quiet halls, sits curled up on a plush couch, brushing her still damp chestnut hair into a deep shine. Night has fallen outside, stars gleaming against the darkened skies glimpsed through the tall window. Ashena seems in a pensive mood, fingertips absently stroking the soft fuzziness of her white clothing. She leaves her hair hanging free, turning solemn brown eyes up to the window, though her introspection is inevitably interrupted by Bob the cat, purring loudly as he plants himself in the paladin's lap.

    She chuckles, indulging the tabby with his rightful share of attention before carefully attempting to use the couch's arm rest as a make-shift table. Bob's ears flick at the soft rasping sound, but his eyes remain shut while he drifts off to sleep. Ashena writes:_

    "Dearest Gralam,

    It is easier being a knight than being a woman, that is verily what I wrote you, not long ago, is it not? Not only is it easier, but somehow, despite the dangers I face each day, tis also safer, in a sense. You know full well my reluctance to partake in the games of courtship and flirtation so fondly (and sometimes cruelly) played by our peers. It always made me feel horribly self conscious, awkward and stiff. I remember thinking that if ~this~ was what being a woman was all about, then I wanted no part of it. Being a knight though… being a knight, I thought, trumphs gender entirely, making it irrelevant, an aesthetic detail only.

    I was right, and I was wrong.

    I am a knight, and in my service to the True, being male or female matters not at all. But I am also Ashena - sister and daughter, lady and lover to be (or not to be, that is the question). It was not until I fell in love myself that I understood that being a woman really ~is~ part of me, a hitherto neglected aspect that suddenly carried both weight and joy. Oh, I was oft called beautiful before, sometimes even in earnest, I'm sure. But it meant nothing to me; my appearance is naught to do with any of my real achievements or aspirations. It was just a word, with little more significance than 'brown' or 'short' or whatever other words one may fix to the surface of description.

    But when Cecil's eyes looked upon me, when his mouth formed the word I saw echoed in that gaze, then I truly felt beautiful, I felt desired. I liked that; the swirling tug in my gut, the prickles on my skin from just that one look. He awakened something I didn't even know I had, and now, I'm surprised to find that I miss not only him, but also those stirrings within, the thrill of discovering something new, as if my body had it's own language, silent all these years until we met. I miss it, and I hate it, because I have nowhere to put these feelings now; I stuff them deep down, but they won't be still. They still ~want~.

    Ever since his disappearance, I have been twice as much the knight, or so it feels. Partly of necessity, for being the sole knight active in the field, but partly to keep from grieving, I think. Duty is a blessed thing, for more reasons than I shall bore you with by naming them! I feel needed as a knight, useful, confident and full of purpose. As a woman, however... I am a faltering, fumbling fool, full of pointless pining.

    If I told myself I would not wait forever, would this yearning stop? Would my body cease to ache and play cruel tricks on me? I caught myself staring the other day as Cecil's tribal friend, Uljas, removed his shirt, stretching unashamedly. He's tall, though not quite so tall as Cecil, and more than well muscled. I stared, and he ~caught~ me looking, grinned in genuine flattered self-satisfaction and commented that he ought to have oiled up too. I was mute in mortification, breathing a sigh of relief as he opted to find his wife (one of many, if you can believe it!) instead of teasing.

    Most everyone around me are too respectful to behave as Uljas though, or perhaps tis even that they do not see the woman for the shining knight. That's what I always did strive for, is it not? To be respected for what I do, who I am rather than how I look. But that half awakened part of me, she who stirs under the surface, she takes inexplicable thrill in being noticed for those other reasons. Dermin's eyes gliding down to my chest, as if slipping and falling, accidentally. He looks near apologetic too, and as if on silent agreement, we do not mention these trespassing glances. Lence is less discreet, but also tends to follow such looks up by silly, defusing comments. Vick, a scout from Peltarch, is likely the closest to actual flirtation - though he makes such a show of it as to ensure it is but in jest. Still, I blush.

    The men more near and dear to me - sir Rath, Allestor and Reynauld - are all far too well mannered and respectful to treat a lady thusly (although Rath can be rather cheeky with other women, Allestor and Talindra jest to the point of flirtation and Reynauld pines for Celia, so blatantly that everyone notices but her). Verily, they do not ever treat ~me~ as anything but what is proper though - collegue, comrade, master and, I hope, friend.

    I want that this should feel enough - that men and women can be friends, true friends, and both be content with this. Why must our bodies whisper and murmur in their own mystic, hard to read tongue, and make one wonder when or if a simple touch is more than that?

    I feel very close to Allestor of late - we cheer each other up, watch each others backs, trade silly jokes and stories back and forth. He saved my life, carried me to safety when I passed out from the earth elemental pummelling, always supports and encourages me while remaining gently but steadily true to himself and Imater. I held his hand in mine, after an injury to it in that very rocky adventure, and he startled, tensing at the gesture. The extent of the injury was clear enough the first time, but I took his hand again, just for wanting to, after a while. He has nice hands, warm and gentle, with long, strong fingers. Then I let go, suddenly realizing the gesture may be inappropriate, misinterpreted or too intimate.

    Master and squire, woman and man; the lines in the sand that keeps behavior ever reigned in within the bounds of propriety. If we were both knights, formally equals, brother and sister in faith, or if we had both taken the vow of celibacy to rule the whole man and woman issue out from the get go - would that shush the murmuring within and let friendship simply be, as close and as warm as one might wish, without the unbidden, unwanted, unavoidable question of more?

    Your overthinking, Cecil-missing sister, Ashena"

  • T

    _The sky is grey, the first hint of dawn's full glory just beginning to peek through the ornamented windows of the Morninglord's temple. A few quiet chants can already be heard, but serenity still reigns within the sacred halls. A clearly pregnant woman lies in a cot, in secluded corner. She is pale and very still, though breathing steadily in and out.

    The young knight sits nearby, concern written plain across her fair brow. On her lap, a black cat lies curled up, adding a soft, soothing purr to the muted sounds of the temple. Ashena scratches Bub's silky head, then gently lifts the cat over to the cot, where he soon makes a nest for himself by Maria's feet.

    Pensively, Ashena looks to the windows, the chanting growing as the sun begins to light up the multicoloured glass panes in glorious rainbow hues. She whispers a fervent prayer, letting the beauty of the moment fill her before taking her leave, finding a quiet spot beneath a tree to write._

    “Dearest Gralam,

    The decision has been made; for better or worse, I have accepted the Alchemist’s offer and chosen to take the fight to Fendon, finally. T’was not a decision made lightly, though meeting with the Alchemist in person (if you can call it that, given that he is a golem) is what finally tipped the scales. His assertion of using no necromancy in his craft, the motivations given to fight, and his complete agreement with the statement that I would not condone the slaying of any living being, even evil ones, for the purpose of harvesting ‘material’ for his golems – this, together with the great urgency of our cause, swayed me. I’m not wholly without misgivings, but I ~am~ convinced of the Alchemist’s sincerity and earnest intentions.

    The plan itself is simple, yet far from easily accomplished. My own role, besides fighting to the best of my abilities, is to rally the remaining defenders, adventurers and heroes to the cause, for even bolstered by the Alchemists golems, we shall need numbers, skill and strength of both body and mind to defeat this terrible foe. Some have already heeded the call, others are silent; absent or uncaring, I know not which. One needs my aid in order to fight - but more on this later, tis a story unto itself. I must do better, I must try to inspire courage, to summon forth the will to fight in those that have either ceased to care, or given the quest up as lost. I’m not one for grand speeches, so I shall speak from the heart and from my own convictions, and pray that this is enough.

    I feel better for having set a clear course at last – so much better, and so much the calmer. The obstacles set in that path no longer seem quite as daunting, nor am I troubled by doubts. Near immediately in the wake of my newfound resolve, however, came the finding of an omnious trail of paper scraps, within the crypts of Norwick. They spoke of the Loyal Fury, at first with determination and faith, then increasing fatigue and despair, to finally seem to renounce Torm entirely, for some dark and terrible lord. This trail, seemingly designed especially to draw my attention, lead us deeper and lower down into the dank crypts. The usual horrors wandered below, shambling undead giants of massive strength, vicious ghouls and restless champions, dark priests and horrid, gnawing wights.

    We pressed on, from one note to the next, my frown growing deeper as the tone of each grew ever bleaker. Then, through a long corridor where undead massed, spilling out from a room beyond, I saw it. A neat sign in the distance, right beside the doorway. It bore a message, but I could not quite make it out. We fought our way over, the room itself shrouded in darkness, though large shapes moved within. ‘Hold the door!’, I shouted to Beourn, he and I standing side by side as the giants emerged from their cover. Dark energy burst into red light, flaring around us. I blinked my eyes while Romulus and Allestor shot the undead priest full of arrows, my shield held high to block the giants infront of me. The sign rattled, and I chanced a sideways look.

    ‘Keep out! By appointment only, currently reserved for D. Olenin and A. Teroldys.’

    Olenin - the vampire who had killed me, on the battlefields of Norwick’s south gate. The same vampire who afterwards had sent me a mockingly affectionate letter, who plagued the sanctity of my dreams, and now this?! First a chill, then anger grew in the pit of my gut, white and hot and pure, and my next strike sent the giant staggering, divine light searing its pallid flesh. ‘Not this time’, I thought to myself, ablaze with determination. ‘If you want me, come get me! You’ll get ~nothing~ without a fight, and by Torm I shall fight!’ My next strike came faster, surer, that white hot fire spreading throughout my body. ‘I will not falter! I will not fall!’ Light as a feather, sharp as a razor blade, I was but distantly aware of Beorn roaring and Andrew’s greatsword sending sparks dancing beside me. White light burst into the darkness, again and again, Allestor's voice ringing out with a conviction echoed by my own fire. Then the dust settled, and all was suddenly still.

    Still aglow, I stepped into the inky darkness, daring it to linger in my presence. It parted, dissolving into ribbons of black, shadowy snakes slithering soundlessly into the nearest corner. In the centre of the room stood a small and intimate table set for two, and a bottle of the finest wine.

    My ‘date’ of course failed to show up. To my surprise, I was disappointed.

    In hindsight’s more somber light, I’m still not sure I am strong enough to defeat him. But for the first time in so long, the first time since he bested me in fact, I feel fit for fight. And ~by Torm~ I shall fight!

    Your determined, defiant sister, Ashena”

  • T

    The young knight is kneeling, deep in prayer at the altar of Torm within the Order halls, her eyes closed and her cheeks tinged with a delicate flush of pink. Suddenly, a soft and furry paw nudges her nose, batting it once, twice and a third time before Ashena replies in a soft and even tone, eyes still shut:

    "Not now Bob."

    The tawny cat flattens himself onto the altar again, eyeballing his knight intently as if attempting to stare her into attention, but her focus remains stubbornly on her prayers until finally, she opens her eyes.

    "Silly cat, ~please~ tell me you do not do that to sir Mariston and Shannon too.."

    She can't help but giggle at the thought, scratching Bob's little chin before rising, looking much envigourated. With the cat slinking back and forth between her feet, Ashena makes her way to the desk, sitting down to write with a thoughtful expression.

    "Dear mother and father,

    Please know that while my duties here remain many, thoughts of home are ever on my mind, and I shall heed the summons to return as soon as I am able. Currently, I am intent on working towards knighting several of our squires, in order to better distribute responsibilities, thus allowing me the time to leave at least temporarily. Most of them are ready and deserving of such, I believe, though I shall need to have to have a few talks with both masters and squires first.

    In truth, I did not think myself ready when I was knighted, and I still oft wish for a trusted master to simply ~tell~ me what to do, that I may obey and not need to question my own choices quite so much. But then again, I do not think my path is supposed to be easy, nor that I should e'er stop thinking my actions through, to know the why of what I do and so be ever firm in my convictions.

    Of late, I have also found myself being questioned by others, and my patience tested. It has surprised me - though perhaps not you - that patience is in fact not one of my stronger virtues, but brother Allestor of Ilmater, one of our squires, has buckets upon buckets of it, and is ever generous in sharing. If not for him, I believe I would have had sharper words by far with several persons in recent weeks.

    The truth is, people have very high expectations of a knight and whenever we should - in their eyes - fail to meet those expectations, our worth and our courage are called into question. Most recently, there was much rallying to go fight a beastly creature resembling a Beholder, down in the deep of the Underdark. While such creatures are evil, they are also intelligent beings with their own agenda, who tend to stay well away from cities and farmsteads. They can also kill one, literally in the blink of an eye (of which they have oh so many).

    Those propagating an attack, my own squire Reynauld amongst them, to my great surprise, argued that since it was evil, it must be my duty to slay it (Reynauld being mostly concerned of the creature wandering towards other areas). Oh, how I wished to retort sharply that if my duty was quite that simple, I should at that very moment strike down one amongst them for being evil himself! But Allestor gave me a kind smile, and a near inperceptible shake of the head, calming me. I do find it most offensive when my courage is called into question, simply because I possess a degree of common sense.

    The Code of Torm says; Be stern, unyielding and unswerving in your battles with evil. The precepts follow this up with a sentence I also take to heart: Seek not only courage, but also wisdom to see that stupidity and courage are cousins. To me, this means choosing my battles wisely. Why should I risk death fighting a random monster who lives where only other monsters and the most able adventurers roam, when the world is full of much other evil which threatens innocent lives, the very lives I am sworn to protect? Yes, I delve into crypts and barrows, e'en when the restless undead there do not currently spill out to march on the living - but their very existence is agony, and to end it a good deed. Not to mention that the threat to the region right now is very much these dark forces, and I must strive to be well fit and prepared to fight such, honing my skills that I may serve better.

    I find myself oft relying on the Code, especially in the absence of mentors and senior knights to speak to. Perhaps the very best guidance the precepts of the code offers is the following: Hold to the virtues and duties of the code, realizing that though the ideals cannot be reached, the quality of striving towards them ennobles the spirit. In confronting difficult matters, if at first you leave it alone, fix the code in your heart, exclude self-interest, and make an effort, you will not go far from your mark.

    I know that to die in the fight that does not matter, the fight that could so easily be avoided, now ~that~ would be failure and surely diminish Torm. I know this so very clearly, for having foolishly failed in this manner twice - against ice golems on a quest I should not have given my aid to in the first place, and gnolls for no greater cause than gathering supplies. Neither served Torm's purpose, but when I stood my ground on the battlefields of Norwick with undead all around, ~then~ my life was gladly forfeit, for I was a tool in His hand, serving the goals of the Triad.

    Upon consideration, perhaps it is good to be questioned, now and again? Verily, it has made some of the doubt in myself vanish, for seeking the answers and the proper words to put to my convictions. I know my fourfold duties, they are to faith, family, masters, and all good beings of Faerun. Always and foremost, I shall be the champion of the weak and the defenceless, rather than allow myself to be used, to be goaded into serving as a shield for thrill-seeking adventurers (who frankly can take care of themselves).

    Fearless does not mean stupid.

    Your loving daughter, Ashena"

  • T

    _The young knight awakes slowly tucked into one of the large beds on the Temples second floor, a cold compress across her forehead. On a small table to the side sits a bowl of water and a set of fresh wraps, a mortar and pestle and various herbs scattered about. Beside the table lies a rickety, uncomfortable wooden chair upon which Allestor, the Ilmateri priest - pushed well beyond exhaustion - sleeps soundly, his left hand completely bandaged to the wrist…

    Ashena takes her surroundings in, rising with a grunt of pain, every limb feeling bruised. On the armorstand, the usually splendid gold and blue suit sits, covered in large buckles and dents, as if pummelled repeatedly and severely by something large and vicious. Bob the cat, awakened from his slumber at the knight's feet, greets his handmaiden with a soft meow and a buff of his tawny head.

    Any thoughts of shifting her Ilmateri squire to a more comfortable sleeping arrangement are abandoned when Ashena rises, wobbling precariously as colour drains from her face. She steadies herself for a long minute, then settles for draping a blanket around Allestor's slumped form, and sits down at her desk with a thud, head still reeling.

    She stares at the report folder, shakes her head and immediately regrets the motion, going pale again. With a far more careful motion, she reaches for her private correspondence, fishing up a letter already opened to read it again, in thoughtful silence._

    @a823f874e3:

    My sister Ashena,

    I have been writing to you, but it appears someone or something has intercepted my letters to you. This letter I went out of my way to personally ensure it reached you. I have a creeping feeling our father has been responsible for the silence. He has been moody and speaking of Aymon and the rest of you who went to Peltarch with an attitude, though of you less so.

    I am terribly concerned about your fiancee. Not that I disapprove in the slightest, but that he is gone and it may not be his fault. I have so many things I want to say but hardly have the parchment for! All I can say is marry for love! Based on what I have heard from Father, Aymon probably would not sell you off like he might with Emma or Alera. Or any of us for that matter. But being a paladin is hard enough without being imprisoned in a match you don't want for the rest of your life…

    I have heard from Aymon about this Fendon character. I have also heard of this business with the golem who creates other golems even out of corpses. Aymon thinks that it is not necromancy, and after speaking about it with Mother I am inclined to agree. But I am not sure if it is right.

    I think that it might not be right, but it might not be wrong either. I would bet you Emma would have no problems with it. Maybe she would think it is unsightly, but I think she would accept help from this golem and his corpse-made minions for the greater good. Our cousin Lothar, who I should note has been knighted and given title by our Lord, says that it breaks no oaths or rules of ours, as does Mother, and Lothar rather ambitiously agrees with accepting the golems help, though Mother a little bit less so. Father has made no comment on the matter.

    But I think I would have to say, if it were me, I would feel guilty to my grave if the innocents I am sworn to protect suffered and died because I refused the help of someone or something, especially if it was not an evil thing, and its actions and tools themselves too were not evil. But I am no paladin.

    I hope my words have helped, and I wish you the best of luck and Torm's guidance.

    Love,
    Gralam

    Ashena strokes her fingertips to the letter's surface, tears welling in her soft brown eyes, then snatches a blank page to write her reply.

    "My dearest brother,

    As ever, you and I are much like of mind, and I cannot tell you how blessed it is to hear from you, nor how much I miss you right now. Aymon's around, at times, but he's being ~Aymon~, naturally, and will always offer infuriatingly sensible advice when what I really long for is understanding.

    There's so much weighing on my mind of late, so many causes of concern, and I can barely seem to focus my mind on any single one for long enough to really ~do~ something about it. Being beaten to a paste by gigantic rock elementals the other day didn't exactly help the issue, but I cannot complain as I walked into that one quite willingly, seeking adventure.

    I'm having nightmares I cannot shake, I'm having doubts, second-guessing myself, and always there is this churning sense of unease and worry inside me. Am I making the right choices, for my Lord, for the Order, for our House, for the innocents I am sworn to protect? I'm walking in a veritable quagmire with Torm as my sole guiding light, for all the seasoned knights are engaged elsewhere.

    The Alchemist troubles me, for while I could perhaps agree that what he does is not exactly necromancy, it still does not sit well with me. While not ~technically~ wrong, tis also not right, just as the Alchemist and his creations themselves are neither good nor evil (and likely lack the moral concept of either). Sir Shannon seemed to think some manner of animation of the dead was involved in the making of these golems, but the Alchemist lets no one study either himself or the details of his craft as far as I can understand.

    Fendon troubles me even more however, and I know deep in my heart that this is the true fight, the one where I can make a difference. And I know, regretfully, that we can ill afford to turn down allies, even the likes of the Alchemist. Not now, with so many of those initially turning his offer down having left. I'm upset in fact, knowing that their absence all but forces this choice upon me. Just like you, I could not live with myself if the innocents I am sworn to protect should suffer and die because I declined the Alchemist's aid, distasteful though it may seem. On the other hand, the end does not justify the means, and I shall surely answer to Torm for the actions taken. May He grant me the insight I so sorely need!

    Perhaps I ought to worry over the fact that the bugbear truce is near an end also, knowing, having seen with my own eyes that they are watching us closely? Perhaps, but that one will have to be Norwick's own fight to plan for. Raryldor is confident we can somehow beat them all, but I think Hope was right all along. The people are Norwick, not the land itself. Evacuate, rebuild somewhere else, free of blight and endless bloodshed. But the Norwick leadership, if you can even call it that, is without drive or initiative in their own future. That too worries me, very much so.

    And now Father has grown a dark mood? I wonder if I should return home then, though part of me is convinced I am needed here, and the other part dreads the questions about Cecil that I just cannot answer. And I dread facing the sorrow I know will come, the sorrow that is already there, but still overshadowed by my many duties. It breaks my heart that you won't get to meet him - that one simple thing is enough to shake my composure. I ~so~ wanted you to meet him, to know him, to see what everyone I love would think of my chosen one.

    Maybe he is on a quest, chasing his Black Lion pawprints into worlds of ice and dream. Maybe Fendon's forces have seized him, maybe the crafty bugbear king, seeing the same potential we saw in him to be the leader Norwick needs? I do not know, and thinking about it only makes it worse, so I try not to. But I dream, I wake in tears and dread, feeling so achingly hollow! I cannot believe he abandoned me willingly, I cannot. If he did, he's not the man I fell in love with. If he did, t'was all a lie.

    When I first wrote about us to mother and father, I stated that it was Cecil or no one, and whether he ever returns, whether I shall know his fate or not, this at least stands true. If I wanted to marry simply for the sake of it, I could marry Rath. From purely rational viewpoint, the match is ideal - we are both of noble blood, we are already close friends, we share mostly the same values and let's be clear, our children would look ~stunning~. There's just one problem - to have those children, we'd need to do things I have absolutely no desire to do with Rath, for he is close and dear to me as a ~brother~.

    Ew.

    For love, or not at all, agreed! I would see you do the same, Gralam. Is lady B still your Queen of Hearts, by the by?

    Your worried, wobbling sister Ashena (nursing a concussion!)"

  • T

    A lone candle flickers by the oversized bed of the young knight, the linen crumpled and tangled. Ashena sits huddled up with her knees under her chin, face pale and her eyes rimmed with red. With seeming difficulty, she untangles her limbs to make her way to the desk, candle in hand, and writes frantically, as if just to write and leave whatever ill dreams awoke her trapped there on paper. The pages are then left hidden in the bottom drawer of Ashena's desk, never sent nor spoken of.

    "A rose garden, lush with the full bloom of summer, sweetly fragrant, dark as blood. The grass is soft and wet with glittery dew, my nightgown sticking to my back as he pushes me gently down. The morning is but a distant promise on the horizon, stars still twinkling overhead. Though he pins firmly me in place, I am spinning, dizzy with the beauty of the night and the sweet closeness of the one I love.

    His lips are hot against my neck, and I shiver. So warm.. he is always so warm, so full of life. I am so cold.. the ground is cold, the heat seeping slowly out of me. His mouth so greedy, gentleness forgotten for an all consuming hunger. Pleasure. Pain. The coldness spreads, numbing my limbs and the stars spin above my head. Red roses turn funeral white when the dim realization hits. Something is wrong. Something is very, very wrong.

    My eyes are slow to focus, but I know he knows. He pulls back to watch me struggle.

    'Sweetheart', he murmurs, a warm fingertip caressing my icy lips, 'I know, I missed you too.'

    A shiver down my spine. The voice sounds right, but something is terribly wrong. I can't think straight. His face floats into view, flashing madly before my eyes as the world will not stop spinning. Cecil's face, open and honest, lips turned into the softest of smiles.

    He holds me closer, and the spinning slows to a gentle swirl, a slow waltz.

    I have missed him.

    For a moment, I want to surrender. I'm so cold, and he so warm. I could just rest in his arms.. it would be so easy.

    He leans in closer, and the spell shatters. Hard, hungry eyes, that of a predator. Lips pull back to reveal sharp fangs, and I must escape, I have to wake up now!

    –-

    Locked in combat, the bodies of the fallen all around us. Moonlight glints off the greatsword as it comes crashing down in a powerful arch, my shield arm buckling with the pressure, but this time I am in my element. This time, I will not falter.

    Torm's might courses through me, and I shove the shield back, straightening. My sword strikes, again and again, sparks of light flying. I am fury, I am righteous wrath, and he will fall, he ~must~!

    In all the world, there is only he and I, only this fight, only right now, and there is my opening, now is the time! My palm thrust out, my lord's name ringing true and my enemy staggers, he falls to his knees. A hard shove, and he is on the ground, he is mine now!

    I fumble for my blessed stake. Just one last strike, directly into his heart, and it will all be over. He is still, defeated, yet suddenly my blood runs cold. I ~have~ to see his face.. I have to know.

    Time seems to slow, a faint silver moonlight reflected off the polished steel of the bull horned helmet. Same type of helmet, same type of sword.. so tall and so strong. But it cannot be, it's impossible!

    Even as I lift the visor, I know it's Cecil, and triumph turns to bitter grief, so sharp I cannot bear it. The stake falls from my hand, and my eyes blur with tears. I want to kiss his face, to wrap my arms around him, but he turns to mist, dissipates and leaves me holding naught but air and regret."

  • T

    Dark chestnut hair gleams in the candlelit room as the young woman brushes it with slow, diligent strokes. Eventually, brush is exchanged for quill, a thoughtful and melancholy expression stealing across Ashena's face. She smooths back a strand of loose hair, pulls her woolen shawl closer and begins to write.

    "Dearest Gralam,

    Of late, I have found my fiercest foe is not the ones I combat with sword and shield, but rather that insidious sense of futility and despair that comes creeping up on me, whenever I let my guard drop. Naught seems to happen on the Norwick front, tis silent as the proverbial grave. If the intent is to lull the defenders into a sense of false security, I must say it appears to be working, for interest has dropped so low that I myself am hard pressed to remain vigilant. Speaking to Arlan revealed further problems; rifts within Norwick's ranks, for it seems he himself has left the town's employ, disgruntled with the current leadership.

    Which brings me inevitably to the one point of hard truth that I have been avoiding facing for so long now - Cecil's absence. Undeniably, the town needs him, they need someone good, strong and passionate - someone people can believe in and rally around. I am doing my best to coordinate efforts in the absence of any initiative from the town's own, but therein lies my problem - I am not of Norwick, I do not represent the town itself, nor do I even know any of the remaining redcloaks. It feels a futile effort, but someone must try, ~someone~ must still care.

    Again, I have turned this into the bigger picture, when I meant to face the truth on a personal plane. Alright, no more stalling, here it is - I miss Cecil, I am worried about Cecil, and I am angry with Cecil, all at once and to naught but frustration, for I do not know what has become of him. Am I deserted, the jilted bride, or should I instead take to arms, go on a holy crusade to rescue my love from whatever horrid fate that has befallen him? I simply do not know, and feel completely at a loss on how to handle the situation.

    I met a ghost, not long ago, in Norwick. It wrapped its ghostly fingers around mine, pressing and tugging insistently upon my ring finger. It spoke in whispery murmurs, unintelligably, yet I got the sense that it wished for something returned to it, most urgently. I had the eerie sensation that it, like me, was meant to be wed, but cruel fate had intervened. Perhaps she - for I could not help but to think of it as a she - had lost her ring, her love, and her life, and cannot rest until at least one of the above are restored? Again, I do not know, but I cannot shake the feeling of that ghostly touch, the sense of sadness and loss it carried with it.

    More recently, a gnomish gentleman asked me a series of painful questions regarding my marital status, wishing perhaps to strike a match 'tween myself and his employer for having learnt of my noble birth. I found myself faltering, uncertain how to answer truthfully. Am I even still engaged? Truly, I have naught to show for it but memories slowly seeping through my fingers, a promise and a dried rose, collecting dust in a storage box. Time means nothing when we are apart, he said once, with the ardour I love so well. I find myself wishing I could feel the same, but time ~matters~. The hard times in particular.

    I died once, and kept myself staunchy cheerful, determined not to miss a beat. I died a second time, and could not keep despair at bay. Ne'er did I need him more than when I took that first, unwilling gasp of air and awoke on the cold temple floor, ne'er since I first took my vows have I felt so ~desperately~ in need of comfort. Talindra, Allestor and Hope hovered near, but I sent them away, immediately cursing my pride when they respectfully heeded my words. I wanted to cry, to release the pain inside me, and could not.

    Tis a silly thing, really, is it not? I know these wonderful Painbearers, yet I won't let any of my grief go, I cling to it so tightly, tis as if I am afraid that opening myself up means falling apart at the seams. Yet there's Elena and Allestor, two of the warmest, most caring persons I know, who would ne'er judge me or think less of me if I did. Then there's Hope, who has such gentleness and insight to offer. And then there's me, stupid, stubborn me, clamming up all the tighter for neither of them possessing of the specific arms she wishes to cry in.

    It is easier to be a knight than to be a woman, truly (not to mention more dignified!). In that respect, I should perhaps be glad that my original plan seems to be the one I am destined for. Yesterday, a distraught Celia even told me that the sacred chalice of Torm from her convent, the one intended to be used in my marriage ceremony, is lost too. The groom is missing, the chalice lost - clearly, this is not meant to be! I shall be wed to duty, as I always wanted. That's really nothing to cry home about, when you think about it, but the uncertainty of it all does haunt me. T'would be better to know, one way or the other, and find my peace with it.

    Yet whenever I falter, whenever these bleak thoughts seize me, I thank Torm that there are friends beside me - Allestor, Talindra, Celia, Reynauld and the others. Allestor has been my rock of late, generously allowing the many little jokes I play on him, and with the same warm-hearted cheer, reminding me what I already know, but temporarily forget - even should darkness surround us, we shall ne'er give up our light. Neigh, we shall clip-clop and eee-aw into the valley of dispair, and fear no evil!

    (that last bit makes more sense if you knew the constant donkey jokes Allestor attracts, for not owning a horse - and on occasion turning himself into our beast of burden!)

    Your ever struggling sister, Ashena"

  • T

    Heavy boots clack against marble as the young knight reenters the temple, dusty from travel. A tawny cat sticks his head out from under the bed, then emerges fully to assail the knight with a suspiciously lecture-like set of meows. Clearly, Bob is feeling neglected, a fact he makes very clear to his paladin. Ashena briskly changes her clothes, packs a few fresh supplies into her backpack and washes her face, then snuggles the still protesting cat into fuzzy, purring submission. While Bob slumbers, she snatches a quill from the desk and begins to write.

    "Dearest Gralam,

    From the highest peaks to the deepest depressions; verily my life and lack thereof has swung to and fro until finally, I have regained some sort of equilibrium. One late evening, as we left a farmstead which had been assailed most brutally by kobolds, the weight of the world and my duties in it felt heavier than e'er they had. Always before, duty had been a cherished thing, a privelege even, that filled me with purpose and joy.

    After waves upon waves upon waves of undeath, with no progress and no end in sight, I was hard pressed to keep that joy alive. And on this eve, when we had managed to put a stop to a kobold attack, but been that one, that few accursed steps too late to save the lives of all the farmers, well.. joy escaped me entirely and tears did fill my eyes.

    The farmer's face is so clear to me, the bleakness of his features, the hopelessness in his eyes as he said t'was better his wife remain dead, than to live in this cruel, hard world.

    Too late, again. If I had insisted Bitsy and I take a stand in the caves, what then? Had the farmer's wife yet lived?

    Tormented by these doubts and the unshakable feeling of defeat, despite having won the fight, we walked back to Peltarch in silence. Twilight painted the landscape in a beautiful amber glow, a sad serenity reigning. I fought the knot in my gut, the lump in my throat that insisted on tears, blinked determinedly and then.. then I saw them, white and pristine, shimmering silk against the rough granite wall. Three roses, flawless and fragrant, for three heavy-hearted faithfuls walking past.

    Allestor smiled, his blue eyes bright when he said that such blossoms are a sign of the divine. Truly, we have seen them before, a trail of white roses leading to a hidden stash of supplies, and my spirits lifted somewhat at the thought. But then, oh, then..

    Trumpets.

    Distant at first, a mere echo from above, like a memory or a dream, half forgotten as you wake. But the sound grew stronger and closer, piercing through the clouds and forcing us down on our knees with it's sweet, jubilant notes! A brilliant beam of light, near blinding, and then she stood before us, bright and beautiful beyond compare - the Trumpet Archon. Do not despair, she bid the three of us - do not despair, for you walk in the light of the Triad. Though these are trying times, faith will see you through. You must not falter, for the eyes of the gods are upon you.

    The Archon left with another blaze of light and sound, leaving us slack-jawed in awe, trembling and teary-eyed for all the right reasons. Allestor and I burst into helpless, joyous laughter while Hope merely stood there, stunned. The loftiest of heights, the most divine of lights..

    And still, I fell. Oh, t'was such a pointless and stupid thing, savage and devoid of meaning. I had wanted to turn back, knowing in my heart of hearts how ugly things could get further into the gnolls territory, but the group had fared well so far, with spells to spare and injuries still low. We pushed on, and soon, all too soon, all my months of training, all the dedication put into recovering from the weakness of death was followed by death once again. Weaker still, upon returning to my unwilling flesh, the overwhelming sense of defeat flooding me even as I took my first, rasping breath.

    Every failure diminishes Torm.

    That was all I could think about, all that filled my head as I knelt by the altar, head bent low as if my neck could not straighten, could not support the weight of my shame, my failure, the loathsome self pity I could not shake. My friends care and concern only made it worse, and I sent them away, even while a part of me wished for nothing more than to be held. 'Do not despair, mortals', the Archon had said - yet I did just that, feeling as though all my strength, all my joy and all my hope of accomplishing my duty were gone.

    Of course, they were not, naught is truly lost while faith remains, but death does something to you, it robs something of one's self, and it takes time to adjust. Recovering is even slower, but I have mostly come to terms with the fact that physically, I will not be as swift or as sure as I was, not in a long time. Or ever, should Torm decide my duty is done, next I fall.

    What I feel most ashamed of, though, is that when a doomsayer came, shortly thereafter, preaching the death of hope, I could not summon the right words or the right passion to disperse the dark tidings. Instead I grew angry, frustrated with myself and with the situation, and let sweet Hope walk off alone with a seemingly panicked commoner. Now, parts of her memory are gone, some dark spell robbing her of the precise details we need to continue with our quest.

    Hopelessness spreads a dark, dank blanket of gloom to cover everything, and instead of rising up straight, shining all the brighter, I too let it envelop me. So many have left; people I thought strong and passionate, clever, courageous and caring. Where have all the heroes gone? The elven community, drifting off like leaves upon the breeze. The Norwick Remnant, now not even that, for it seems everyone who strove so hard to reclaim the town are now absent from defending it.

    Even Ardent left, seeking a new and more peaceful life with her Nelor. She had resented me, she confessed when last we spoke in earnest, and asked my forgiveness for it. Perhaps I do come across as too perfect, successful and sure, but tis faith alone that gives me that shine, and for faith alone that I strive to succeed, to add to His splendour. We came to a new understanding, I thought, yet she left without so much as a goodbye.

    Worst of all, so much the worst that I try not to think about it, talk about it or acknowledge it in any way, is that Cecil too is gone. Without a trace to follow, without explanation, cause or goodbye. I ~cannot~ think about it, I can ill afford the heaviness such speculation brings, but he is missed, more than words can say.

    I cannot let myself wallow in self pity for very long, you see, not when the gods are watching, when such a rare honour was bestowed upon us as the Archon's message! I decided on cheer, decided on planning, on action and on ~hope~, come what may. All I can do is my best, and perhaps, just perhaps I can inspire others to do the same.

    Your mule-headed sister, Ashena"