2:48 Inaction spoke louder.

Master Ranclyffe stared holes into the Dwarven male before her.  Though he had drawn himself to full height, he still stood no taller than her hips, and had to crane his wrinkled neck upward to challenge her gaze.  The slight Halfling messenger who had brought Nithraz the Dragonborn archer's message some days ago flew into the room, but the Eladrin female whose ornately carved wooden throne was immediately next to the Dwarf's vacant one simply held up one slender, porcelain hand.

"Just a moment," she said, her melodic voice brimming with the laughter she wasn't allowing herself to release.  "Master Ranclyffe and Counselor Erantun are completing a dominance ritual."

"Jindranae!" a Human female next to the Eladrin exclaimed in a choked voice.  "You really shouldn't-"

"What else is it to be called?" the Eladrin female replied, turning her gaze from the messenger to the woman.  "Every so often, Arnsvold checks if he's managed to grow a longer stubborn streak than Trizelle, and-"

"Blast it, woman!" the Dwarf burst at once, shuffling off to his throne and slamming himself down into it.  "I'll do it.  I won't like it, but I'll do it."

"Good," Master Ranclyffe sighed, crossing her arms over her chest.  "Blinding sickness blinds people."

"Shoulda never drunk water in bloody Sembia, is what," the Dwarf grumbled.  "I told him not to drink the-"

"It might have been in the Dark Quarter," Master Ranclyffe interrupted.  "Restoration of the contaminated wells has consistently been interrupted by people dying in them."

The Dwarf planted his elbow on the arm of his throne and put his head in one hand- a universal sign of distress that the Eladrin and the Human female watched Master Ranclyffe completely ignore.  The Human female let out a low whistle of amazement at the court mage's apparent disconnect from suffering, but Jindranae pursed her thin lips and turned straight in her throne.

"What news, darling?" she asked the Halfling messenger, who was now shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot.

"Um, we got everybody from the Mage's District and the Central Quarter to go back home, indoors," the messenger reported dutifully.  "The orphanage still won't take Thunder and Sparrow in, though, so they went back to the Dark Quarter.  They said the She-"

"The She doesn't exist, child," the Human female remarked instantly.  "It's just some old witch we haven't managed to find and burn yet."

"Perhaps she means the randy, nameless, red-head female that lives under the docks," Jindranae comforted.  "She certainly exists."

"It ain't no loose woman livin' un'er my docks," the Dwarf growled with his head still in his hand.  "I ain't never seen 'er, so she ain't there."

"Someone walked through the bodies of the guards the Dragonborn archer killed and dishonored them," Jindranae stated flatly.  "Every merchant that still trades with Dark Quarter folk came up to the Central Quarter the next day with the tale of the She's displeasure.  They were terrified, as though they'd seen the wrath of a powerful banshee."

Nithraz, who was supposed to have been in the council room before Master Ranclyffe had arrived, stepped through the heavy wooden doors and into the circular, stone-built room.  No one bothered to look at him until he spoke. 

"There are three concurrent theories of what the She is- an old crone, a male demon, and a radiant, red-haired woman.  There are even some that believe that she is Dresan Hawke, and that he has mastered all three forms."

The court mage rolled her eyes, but no other muscle in her body even trembled.

"Master Ranclyffe certainly doesn't believe that one," Jindranae smirked.  "I think she'd know it, if her son were masquerading as a red-haired woman or some old bag."

"Besides, the closest he gets to the Dark Quarter is the docks- to meet his pirate bitch and walk 'er home," Arnsvold commented, finally having the strength to lift his face out of his hand.

"That 'pirate bitch' put both templars and the mages squarely in their places, Arnsvold," the Human counselor shot back.  "Should she apologize to you for that?"

"It's a shame Lord Hawke's gone out again, actually," Nithraz commented.  "She's a fighting savant."

"She's also single-handedly protecting our sea borders- from the Pirate Isles denizens, might I add," the Human female marveled.  "She can only be in one place at a time.  Now, dear, Thunder and Sparrow aside, you're saying that everyone's shut up safe, right?"

"Except- um- Master Semnemac," the young female replied, biting her lips.  "He was lying in the Great Pool face down- I thought he was dead, but then he turned over and sat up, so I told him the message and- and he laughed at me.  Like I was joking."

"Did you show him the letter of it?" the Human female asked, her eyebrows raised.

"Yes," the messenger replied, winding her fingers in the bottoms of her sleeves.  "But he ate it."

Jindranae began snickering at once, biting her lips to keep herself from outright laughing.

"Gods," Arnsvold mumbled.  "Blasted magic nutters."

"I'll have you know Master Semnemac is the only magic worker in this city who's that far outside of his senses," the Human female retorted, hurt.  "You'll note the rest of the Mage's Quarter is safely indoors!"

"No one cares to check the graveyard to see where Aric's people are," the Dwarf replied with a shrug.  "He's likely holdin' a candle lit dance for the guards what aren't yet dead."

"Why would the Raven people celebrate more death?" Jindranae asked seriously, crossing her arms over her chest.  "Not two days after their Master Svaentok was snatched from them by some foul traitor they have yet to hand over to us for judgement, they're descended upon by furious family members of the departed!  We'll have to write them into the Persecution Act, I fear."

"What should I do about Master Semnemac?" the messenger asked meekly.  "He got out of the Great Pool and was walking around the Bone College, soaking wet, when I left him."

"Someone needs to tame that beast," the Human female grumbled.  "I can only imagine what he must look like in wet burial wraps.  They just barely keep him descent when he's dry."

"Hide behind him," Master Ranclyffe noted after some thought.  "The Bone College is the safest place in Urmlaspyr."

"What?" the Human female exclaimed, appalled.  "They keep Human parts in saline solution jars on their basement shelves!"

"Human parts are difficult to maintain," the court mage replied simply.  "Proper storage is mandatory."

"And you've known her how long, Jindranae?" the Human female frowned, peering past the Eladrin at the stoic matron.

"Semnemac's nature is useful," Master Ranclyffe noted.  "He confirmed the tests I performed on Ntoru's mirror, then proved my suspicions.  She must be put in a proper prison, and some expendable adventurers must be sent to shut that underground temple down."

"It's too bad we couldn't've packed 'er off to Cormyr with MacSairlen," Arnsvold groaned.  "Blighter isn't needed on the docks anymore, sure, but they oughtn't to've recalled him so suddenly."

And at that moment, a harried guard with thin, mouse brown hair charged up the spiral stone steps that arose from the lower levels of the converted fort.  "What?  What?  What do you want?" he exclaimed before he was even fully visible.  Behind him trailed a shame-faced Human boy who ran to the female Halfling at the center of the room as soon as he could safely pass the guard in front of him.

"Sakoda," Nithraz began, taking a step toward his furious subordinate.  "This really isn't-"

"For gods's sakes, you bloody Tusk-jaw, the sun's barely in the sixth hour, and this is the third message you sent me!"

"Sakoda!" the Human female exclaimed, putting her hands to her face in embarrassment.  "That mouth!"

"Why're you so shocked?" the Dwarf smirked, watching the physically well-matched guards stand so close to each other that they could have kissed.  "That's why he's in the basement."

"You were to answer to the appointment-" Nithraz began, his eyes narrowing in anger.

"No!" Sakoda roared back.  "No, no, and a hundred times no.  I will not return to active patrol, I will not oversee the inner guard, I will not be the goddamned Lord Captain!  How many times do I-"

"He wasn't the one who asked," Arnsvold called, earning himself the sudden brown-eyed stare of the furious guard.  "It was a Council Mandate.  That's why it was sent with Mimsa's boy."

"Well, then with all due respect to the Merchant Council," Sakoda managed with a tight bow, "I still say no."

The Human female covered her face with her hands completely while Jindranae again fell prey to snickering.  Arnsvold crossed his dark-haired arms over his chest and leaned back in his throne.

"You've been passed over three times, you damned stubborn child-eater," he rumbled.  "They put me on the rutting Council, and you're still twisting thumbscrews and mucking prisoner stalls.  Now, I won't have it a day longer.  You're Lord Captain, and that's enough."

"Oh, so?" Sakoda shot back, standing straight.  "You rutting madman- I'm an archer, what in all the bloody hells will I do with a contingent of sword-toting inner guards, you thought of that?  Worse, I've not walked a street openly since the war- nearly a decade of inexperience- why would you put that out at a time like this?  When guardsmen are dying in the streets?  What kind of a daft decision is that?"

Even Master Ranclyffe had to allow a slight, bemused turning of lip as she watched Sakoda stand like a pillar of defiance between the carved circle in which the Council sat and Nithraz, who glowered behind him.

A huffing Human girl pushed by one of the inner guards and fell on her knees at the back of the council hall.

"Yes, dear?" Jindranae asked kindly.  "What could you have been set in for?  You're not one of our new messengers, are you?"

"No," the girl responded, glaring over her shoulder at the inner guard behind her, who had turned around to face the outside as though he hadn't just tripped a child.  "Old Lord Perth sent me.  He says-"

"I said I'm not sending my daughter to her death," a silver-haired Human warrior bellowed, yanking the helmet from the offending guardsman's head.  "You feel bold, tripping little girls?"  Spitting in the guard's face and slamming the helmet back on, he stepped inside the council room unchallenged.  "My girl's just married, might even be expecting by now.  I'm not sending her to the Dark Quarter to die."

"Are Lady Rae and Lord Terrance still arguing in the courtyard?" the little girl asked as the older male knelt to pick her up from the floor.

"Yes, though Terrance has managed to get her to lower her voice," he said with some levity in his voice.  "He'll be pulling at that mule forever, so I came myself."

"By the gods- Luvec!" Sakoda exclaimed, turning around to look at the man at the back of the hall.  "I thought you'd been put to a dirt nap, man."

"Eh?" the man replied, as though he hadn't heard his name in quite some time.  Catching the dark-eyed gaze of the poorly-armored guard, he put both legs down and sat back on his ankles.  "Pohatkon, you blighter.  You stayed."

"He did, but may as well have left with you," Arnsvold snorted.  "Playing in the bloody torture room so long, you'd think he lived at the Bone College.  Now, what's this flap you're talking?"

"Mimsa, make yourself useful and transcribe the treaty terms, dear," Jindranae said comfortingly to the withered Human female.  "The menfolk don't need us just now, and they're likely to have forgotten all about writing them down.  Must expect Nithraz to be able to offer them from memory."

"Thirty seven guards are down in the dirt in the Dark Quarter, and more deserters than have gone since the war are pouring out of the guard," Luvec said, sending his messenger off with a gentle hand to her mid-back.  "I don't want to put my daughter down.  If it weren't for the shutting of the market today, neither Terrance nor I would have even known Nithraz tapped Rae to come to the Dark Quarter with him."

A scroll spirited itself from Master Ranclyffe's hands to Mimsa and Jindranae and floated before them, spinning slowly.  "There.  Copy that," the mage matron instructed solidly.

"You're a dear, Trizelle," Jindranae smiled.  "Tea later?"

"You may be her father, but I'm her commander," Nithraz retorted, annoyed.  "I need her sword arm with me."

"Not at this rate," Master Ranclyffe sniffed.  "Supper, perhaps."

"You need a sword arm of your own," Luvec shot back acridly.  "Of all the things your father did wrong, he did manage to keep the blood warm in my body."

"That's cruel, Perth," Sakoda admonished immediately.  "The older tusk-face is a hard act to follow for anyone."

"Pop- get out of my way!" Rae Silus, with her helmet at her side and her short, thick brown hair pulled tightly to the nape of her neck, charged past the guard into the council room and faced her father down.  "Pop, I have to go, I have to!"

"Gods curse the bloody guard!" a furious male voice called from down the stone hallway.  "Gods curse the guard and the blasted, cowardly tusk-jaw that runs it!"

"Terry!" Rae and Luvec both cried in perfect unison, turning to glare down the hallway toward the source of the shout as though they had been choreographed.

"Well, we know what he thinks of the matter, poor soul," Jindranae commented offhandedly.  "Triz, this wasn't something we agreed to."

"See it his way, Silus," Sakoda advised the blushing Rae.  "You're the strength of his heart, you've often said so.  You think he wants to lose you like this?  Shot through the neck in the Dark Quarter?"

"It's necessary," Master Ranclyffe replied unrepentantly.  "Read it again, if you must."

"Gods burn this place to the ground!" came the anguished male cry.

"No, no, you're right- safety and education should be provided for," Jindranae nodded slowly.  "There's not a trade shop in the whole quarter- just taverns, whore houses and alchemic-fiend shacks."

And Master Ranclyffe nodded.

"Your eldest brother's hurt, your younger killed," Luvec sighed heavily.  "Yet I should sit at home, reading broadsheets and sipping wine, while my girl-pup is pulled from prison guard duty to play soldier against her own people?  How could I stand my sire's scorn if you were killed?"

"But Pop, what if-" Rae began, her eyes tearing in frustration and concern.

"If I die, Rae, I die well," Luvec stated strongly.  "I reclaim the Perth honor that I hot headedly threw down along with the crest when I left.  You will take up my sword and mount it with my father's sword, with my grandpop's hammer, and with your great grandmum's staff."

"Curse you, you bloody coward tusk-jaw!  Curse you to the Hells!"

"That man's near to mad already," Arnsvold noted quietly, holding up a hand to prevent Nithraz from responding.  "Can hear the grief comin' from his guts."

Sakoda nodded, speechless.

"I can't bear it," Mimsa said at last, handing the second scroll off to Jindranae.  "The war is over, isn't it?  Didn't we win the war nine years ago?  I thought this was-"

"So did I, Mimsa," the Eladrin replied quietly.  "So did we all.  But that was... naiive of us, wasn't it?"  With that said, she twisted her right hand in the empty air.  A quill appeared in it, and an inkpot materialized at the edge of the right armrest of her throne.

Outside, Terrence could no longer put words to his fury, and simply cried aloud.  Arnsvold sat down in his throne and closed his eyes, listening.

"He knows he can't do nothin'," he commented, nearly to himself.  "That's the sound of a man that knows he can't do nothin' about what's hurtin' him."

"All of us die," the court mage pronounced gravely.  "The matter is how, when and where."

There was, for a few moments, a weighted silence.  Jindranae continued to work on the transcription, unabashed.  Mimsa glared at the completely expressionless court mage.  Rae and Luvec burned holes into each others' eyes while Nithraz sighed deeply and pinned his gaze to the ceiling, as though imploring Pelor for help.  Sakoda, remembering his own wife and children, bit his lips and ran a cold hand across the back of his neck.  Arnsvold didn't move an inch, still listening to the heart-broken wailing of Terrence, who either wouldn't or couldn't cross the inner guards to scream in the High Captain's face.

"You win, Pop," Rae managed, at last dropping her helmet to rush to her father with open arms.  "Give 'em bloody hell."  Luvec granted her the hug that neither could stop themselves from giving each other, and Sakoda turned his back on the goodbye.

"Gods, woman, haven't you a heart?" Mimsa exclaimed, standing up to stare across the room at the unmoved mage.

"Yes," Master Ranclyffe replied with a raised eyebrow.  "But I doubt my blood circulation concerns you."

"Go home," Luvec urged, taking his daughter by the shoulders and pushing her away from him.  "Get Terry out here before he gets himself run through or something."

The Human female flopped herself back into her throne with a quiet cry of frustration, and the Eladrin looked over her shoulder at the court mage, who gave a very small nod of self-satisfaction.  In the silence that reigned afterward, Rae picked up her helmet and tore out of the room.  Luvec sighed deeply, as though the weight of the world had freshly settled itself on his shoulders, then turned to face the Council.

"Well, we gained a swordsman," Arnsvold noted with his eyes still closed.  "So Sakoda can stop bellyachin' about being an archer in charge of blade-swingers."

"Forgot basic training, Pohatkon?  You can swing a blade," Luvec scoffed.

"When I pick up a sword, it's as dangerous to me as it is to whomever I'm trying to hit," Sakoda replied, sitting down on the floor as though he were in the lower levels of the prisons.  "That hasn't changed."

"Come, come now, man," Luvec encouraged, moving over to Sakoda to encourage him to stand back up.   "It's not a war yet.  Right now, it's a skirmish that's bordering on revolt.  We can handle that."

"I've not been topside in years," Sakoda replied simply.  "I'm getting a sunburn from here."

"Gods, that bitter wit," Arnsvold groaned.  "He's fine; don't coddle him."

"There are the treaty terms, copied off Master Ranclyffe's original scribing," Jindranae announced.  "Nithraz, take this scroll to the center of the Dark Quarter and pin it-"

"Who will read it?" Master Ranclyffe reminded in a sharp, sour voice.

"Ah- you shall take it to the center of the Dark Quarter and read it aloud- as loudly as possible- to as many as will listen.  Will that do, Trizelle?"

"He'll die there," Master Ranclyffe replied calmly.  "Will that do?"

"Why are you friends with her?" Mimsa whispered very quietly behind her hand.

"Go with him, Pohatkon and Luvec," Arnsvold counseled, sitting up straight.  "If you take the bow and you take the sword, Nithraz shouldn't fear nothin'."

"Trizelle, beidh tú a chur ar na páistí a bhfuil tú?" Jindranae asked, stepping down from the carved circle in which the thrones sat and pausing before moving all the way toward Nithraz.  "Choinneáil sábháilte do dom, le do thoil?"

Without a word, Trizelle turned her attentions to the messengers, who had both been all but forgotten.  She snapped her fingers, and both young creatures jumped to their feet at once.  By the time she turned on her heel, the Human male and the Halfling female had darted after her like two puppies, and Jindranae smiled gratefully.

"That's why," she breathed, too quietly for Mimsa to hear.  It hadn't been for her benefit, anyway.

Nithraz moved forward to accept the scroll, and Jindranae put it into his waiting hand.  With a bow, Nithraz accepted the scroll and moved toward the hall that led to the courtyard.

"Well?" Arnsvold asked, raising an eyebrow at Luvec and Pohatkon.  "He's your commander, for now.  Make sure Master Ranclyffe is wrong about this one."

"Where's that filthy composite bow of yours, Guardsman Sakoda?"  Luvec smirked, turning to go behind Nithraz.

"Under your mother," Sakoda snorted.  "We sweat so hard, we warped it.  My darkwood bow's at home."

"Go get it, you whoreson."

Jindranae watched the guardsmen leave in different directions, then turned to walk back to her throne.  Mimsa's face had paled from the various oaths, but Arnsvold was smiling widely.

"About how long will it take you to carve a new throne, Arnsvold?" the Eladrin asked calmly as she sat, wondering what memories were entertaining him.

The Dwarven counselor raised an eyebrow at Jindranae.  "So we are givin' 'em a seat?"

Mimsa squealed, appalled.  "We can't!  What Dark Quarter Shadovar would you see on a throne?  Nothing's even there but taverns, brothels, and alchemic shacks!"

"We trusted you to invest in the area," Jindranae reproved.  "If there's nothing there but... those places, after all this time, we can only assume that you've allowed that to continue to be the case.  It's most prudent to find a steward more deeply interested in the area's improvement immediately, now how long will a new throne take, Arnsvold?"

"You lost too," Arnsvold nodded slowly.  "That old bitch just about spoke outta your mouth."

"It's... hard to argue with her, isn't it?" Jindranae smirked sheepishly.

"She's not a council member," Mimsa argued.  "She's never been a council member- she's refused a throne multiple times!  Why is her opinion of such sudden importance?"

"Well, new throne'll take me a couple hours, so long's we don't got nothin' else to do," Arnsvold replied gustily.  He leaned his head back so that the top of it rested on the back of his own throne.  "We gotta hear cases, it'll take me nigh on a day."

"I'll plan on the day, then- shut up, Mimsa, or I'll put whoever it is between me and you."  Jindranae squinted her eyes at Mimsa, who threw herself back in her throne like a sullen child.


By the time Sakoda made it back to the courtyard, Nithraz had already begun to address the remaining inner guardsmen.  Their ranks had been bolstered by outer guards who were supposed to be patrolling other areas, and for some outer guards, it was the first time they had seen the guards who kept the prisons orderly and the Council chamber safe in years.  Nithraz could hardly make himself heard over the din of surprise and recognition between the two sets of soldiers.  Sakoda was hailed by the prison guardsmen by a name that surprised the other inner guards and concerned most of the outer guards- Ser Sadist.  Luvec was among the concerned.

"I've heard tales," he commented as he looked down at his compatriot's freshly oiled bow.

"They're probably true," Sakoda replied simply.

It was a statement that Luvec found himself unwilling to poke at any further.  War did things to people, he reminded himself, and Sakoda had remained constant to the oath he'd taken as a guardsman.  For better or worse, the man next to him would always and forever be a different creature than the one he'd met more than a decade ago.  Then, in a strange twist of imagination, Luvec found himself wondering if Pohatkon were thinking the same thing about him.

"...and the last third of you, led by the honorable Luvec Perth, will be taking the Main Corridor down to the docks, then hemming any skirmishers in by pushing north," Nithraz finished smoothly.  "We must have no mercy on these cretins!  We must stamp out the flames of indecency and rebellion!  We must avenge the thirty-seven fallen-"

"Wait, you're splitting us up?" Luvec piped up suddenly.  "You're going to follow the exact same strategy that got more than half of those thirty-seven killed in the first place?"

"Oops," Sakoda chuckled, ducking his head in the attempt to hide his amusement.

"Perhaps if you had remained constant in the guard, you would know better manners than to question your commander," Nithraz spat back, furious.

"Perhaps if the commanders hadn't led their cronies into taking bribes, doing favors and turning blind eyes to criminal activity, I'd have stayed!" Luvec shot, sore.

"And what did you do, Ser Perth, to stop that activity?" Nithraz demanded, moving in to stand face to face with the angered Human.  "What did you do to prevent what we have to deal with today?"

"That's enough," Sakoda stated heavily, putting the top of his bow between the two males.  "We all could've done more, and we didn't.  You hear me?  All of you?  We all could have done something to prevent this day, and because we were greedy, because we were silent, because we were afraid, because we were bloody complacent or plain lazy, thirty-seven of our companions are dead!  Because of our goddamned selfish inaction, we now move to attack those we should protect!  There are no innocents here, no saints, no clean hands!  We are all to blame!"

There followed a solemn silence, and Sakoda put his forearm against the still-bristling Nithraz to get him to back away from Luvec.  After the push, the half-Orc turned on his heel and moved off to address the entire company again.  Winded, Luvec dropped his head and sighed.

"Stop being right, Pohatkon," he breathed, "or we won't make it out of the courtyard."

But Sakoda, painfully convicted by his own words, said nothing.

"We march together," Nithraz ordered, his voice dropped nearly to a growl.  "Keep your eyes on me.  If I drop this treaty for any reason, it is a sign to attack.  You are to move in, to attack as many as will fight you, and to put the Dark Quarter under martial law, where it will stay until the aggressors are all eliminated.  If we do not succeed, we present an open sore that Sembia can use to flood this place and kill us all.  We cannot fail, or Urmlaspyr falls.  Today, we protect our people.  Today, we defend our sovereignty.  Today, we crush the revolt and restore peace to each and every street in this city- are you with me?  Fora!"

"Fora!" called most of the guard.  Sakoda and Luvec looked at each other- both of them had remained silent.

"Hurts, doesn't it?" Luvec managed as the forward march began.

"His father was a hard act for anybody," Sakoda replied, forcing himself to keep his eyes on the road before him.  "Maybe that's why none of us wanted to try."

"Gods rest Ganturaz," Luvec said sadly, looking at the road himself.  "You had mercy on me and his boy-pup just now.  Old tusk-jaw would've spat in both our faces."

"Gods rest him, wherever in Sembia's rutting dirt he lies," Sakoda sighed.

The company marched out of the Palace District via the Main Corridor, but then turned to the left to pick up Magebelt, which would turn into the West Way once it had reached the Dark Quarter.  The morning sun lavished itself on the even cobblestones and embraced the silent houses, from which pent-up citizens watched the advance that was being dubbed Nithraz's last stand against the raucous Dark Quarter denizens.  Many of them, like Sakoda, knew that had the current High Captain simply finished what he started before he'd ascended in rank, the people against whom everyone else in the city shut up their doors and windows would have been much less prone to the current bloodshed and revolt.  A few quiet sympathizers, mostly merchants who had seen for themselves the hideous conditions under which the Dark Quarter residents lived, had even begun to raise murmurs of treason- first against the deceased High Captain, and now against Nithraz himself.

The sun's light dimmed as the company approached the rising spire of Shar's above-ground temple.  The cobblestones that had been so well set together farther up the road now broke up and drifted apart from each other.  Soldiers began to perform various small signs of blessing- the touching of their heads or hearts, the whisperings of prayers, the tapping of special little trinkets. 

Luvec felt himself running his fingers over the runes that adorned his ironwood blade- the one that his wife had spent four years perfecting and detailing for him.  Instead of calling on some distant deity, he turned his thoughts instead to the much-beloved mother of his three children, who had herself been no better than the prancing wood-hags that had been daily burned in public after the war had ended.  She had escaped the pyre only by falling under the protection of a furious swordsman, Luvec knew.  She had been lovingly grateful, of course, but she had stood at the window to watch her friends and coven-mates burn- day, after day, after terrible day.  And for each witch, each warlock, each druid and mage, she cut a piece of her hair and burned it, with tears in her eyes.  She cut and cut, until her once waist-length brown hair barely brushed the nape of her neck.

Luvec watched her.  And could say nothing. 

Not only had she been a druid, she had been a Eastern Quarter-born druid, who had survived being abducted by Semmites, and had endured Thultanthar testing, the horrors of which she could not even bear to recount to her husband.  On the day her home quarter surrendered completely to the thick shroud that stretched over it, never to be touched by sunlight again, she had fallen on her knees and cried aloud.

Luvec had seen the darkness, too.  But he could say nothing.

"Courage, man," Sakoda urged, as though he could hear his companion's thoughts.  "Keep yourself together."

Luvec hadn't noticed the tears slipping down his face, but when he came to himself, he roughly brushed them away.  He shook his head sharply, and Sakoda looked away from him again.

At last, the line between the Eastern Quarter and the rest of all of Urmlaspyr brought itself sharply before the troop.  The cobblestones gave completely out, leaving nothing but bare footpath.  A stench- blood, sweat, vomit and offal- struck unease into even the strongest of stomachs.  Part of the wood of an abandoned shack collapsed under Sakoda's gentlest touch, bathing the entire company with a gust of rot and maggot-scented breeze.  One soldier, an Elven Quarter guard that everyone knew had been born in the Eastern Quarter, and who hadn't had any chance to return home since he'd given his sword arm to the guards, burst loudly into tears.  Luvec grunted quietly, as though the man's cry had been a solid dagger pushed into his gut.

Surprisingly, a small child tore around the side of another row of buildings farther up the road and stopped a good distance away from the company.  He lifted a grimy finger, pointing toward the guard, whose mates were attempting to calm him down- largely without success.

" 'E alright?" the child asked, the high voice resounding in the bare street.

"No," replied a strong female voice.

Past the child, the clash of battle rang out, and the little boy scurried away, terrified.  When he moved, Nithraz could see one young female struggling against two larger creatures.  She was lightly armored, but there were dark spikes on both of her attackers.  Sakoda quickly stepped between Luvec and Nithraz to take a clean shot with the hope of evening the odds, but before he released his arrow, he heard two different bows singing at once.  Immediately, the two attackers fell, one pitched forward with an arrow piercing through his uncovered skull and the other knocked back with the arrow in his throat.

"C'mon!" a man cried from somewhere, and a filthy group of men and women rushed toward the fallen female.

"By the gods," Nithraz breathed, drawing his sword and moving toward the situation.  "She's not even-"

"Still alive; get 'er in quick!" a woman called, and the group struggled to hoist the female to their shoulders.  As they did, the symbol of the Cormite dragon gleamed proudly on her bloody short sword.

"Fe whole of fa gard's 'ere for us," another female voice called from behind the company.  More than a few soldiers attempted to find the source.

"What do you want, High Captain?" the same strong, soprano voice soothed, now sounding much closer than she had before.  "Who do you intend to strike down with that toy of yours?"

Whispered fears of the She suddenly came alive in the company, and Nithraz grit his teeth as he put up his sword, then held up a hand to try to calm his guards.  Signaling to Luvec and Sakoda, he made his way down the street and toward the center of the Dark Quarter.  As he walked, people began to come out of their hovels- children, elders, wounded fighters- all lined the streets with set faces and burning eyes, watching the High Captain's trudge to the center of their area.  By the time he arrived there, he felt as though every resident had come to see what he would do.  He took out the scroll, then realized with annoyance that it was too dark to read it.  However, just as he turned to ask for light, the boy who had run from the fight before returned with a stinking fat torch.  It made his eyes water, but he had enough light to read, so he took a look at the terms.  Sakoda, whose bow was silent at his side, quietly looked over his shoulder as Luvec moved before him with his hand on his sword.

"People of the Da- of the Eastern Quarter," Nithraz began cautiously.

"Speak up, dammit," an older woman called from somewhere in the gathered crowd.  "How's a body 'sposed ta hear?"

Nithraz searched through the crowd until he saw the source of the voice- a red and grey haired woman whose slumped back preached loudly of her age.  In the torch's poor light, her heavily-lidded eyes still gleamed with contempt.

"Shall I speak loud enough for the She to hear?" he asked, raising an eyebrow at her.

"I can hear you well enough," the soprano voice purred.  "But do talk harder for our mother.  It's many years since anyone's been able to do less than yell at her."

"People of the Eastern Quarter!" Nithraz began again, not allowing himself to fall into a fight with a woman he could not find.  "Here are the terms of peace, sent from the Merchants Council!  The guards' house shall be rebuilt!  The abandoned buildings shall be done away with!  The streets shall be lit-"

"Slavers- run!"

Sakoda backed away from Nithraz and drew his bow, looking up to the rooftops in the attempt to head off any airborne attacks.  Nithraz raised his hand and waved it, pulling his sword and putting the treaty in its sheath to keep it safe.  Around them, people began clutching their children, grabbing their mates and stampeding away from the center.  The little boy, startled, ran off with the torch, allowing the darkness to engulf everyone.

Luvec saw the running shadows that ripped between the buildings, but it seemed as though they moved faster than he could even perceive.  Worse, in the utter darkness, it was nearly impossible to tell which shadow was a lightly-armored slaver and which shadow was a well-padded citizen-turned-militia member.  The guardsmen who had answered Nithraz's summons were similarly puzzled, and wound up clanging into each other in the attempt to follow the shadows.  Luvec himself collided with a young male who attempted to address him in a language he didn't understand before realizing that Common would be better.

"Elven," he said simply.  "But you're not- c'mon, this way!"

Various cries eventually went up from families that had not been successful in safeguarding all their children.  Most of them were found with other families, and shouts of terror began to turn into happy, boisterous yelling, as though there had been a festival.  It was hard to hear anything at all, but a pained, sharp intake of breath was punctuated by a revolting gurgle caught Luvec's ear, and he looked down to find the treaty on the ground.  Looking across the street, he met the confused eyes of Nithraz for less than a second before he fell backward behind some dark building- possibly into an alleyway. 

"Pohatkon!" he shouted immediately.  "The High Captain!"

"Light- light!" Sakoda cried immediately, putting his bow away and running from where he was toward Luvec.

The rag tag Dark Quarter militia members urged one another to find the boy who had stolen someone's fat torch, which took some time.  And all the while, Luvec was tortured by the soft sound of gagging.  At some point, someone realized that they were actually looking for Nithraz, and a few jokes of his overpowering cowardice began to arise.  Sakoda made it to Luvec's side before the torch came, and together, they began to search for the half-Orc's body- around corners, in abandoned house doors and down alley ways.

"My apologies," the soprano said gently after about five minutes had gone by.  Sakoda whipped himself around to meet one gorgeous green eye, radiant red hair and a half-shrouded face.  "You're looking for this.  If you would be so kind, Honorbow."

She turned and moved off, and before Sakoda or Luvec could take off after her, a flaming arrow struck the ground.  In the light of it, both men saw Nithraz lying on his right side with his hands clutched to his throat.  His eyes were still bolted open in surprise.  Blood seeped between the fingers and pooled on the ground.  Looking up, Sakoda saw that the guardsmen looked to him, and that every one of them had put their weapons away.

They were looking at him.

Without a word, Sakoda put his bow behind him and stooped to pick up the treaty, which was quite a ways behind him, to his left.

"Did you find-" Luvec began, turning around.  And then he too saw the fallen scroll, and the focus of the gathered guard.  Nodding, he put his sword back into its sheath.  "Well, then, read it, High Captain Sakoda."

The Dark Quarter militia agreed with Luvec, and at last, the boy with the torch returned, holding his pilfered light high.

"There shall be guards that shall permanently live among you, in houses that they shall choose and buy," Sakoda began in a raw voice.  "I'm sorry, mother, can you hear me?"

"Just fine, boy," the older woman replied as she stepped back out of her home.  "Just fine."

"The borders shall be fortified, and shall have guards placed there.  Those guards shall be rotated once each week.  The infested, abandoned and dilapidated buildings shall be taken down, and those families of more than six persons that apply to the Council shall be assisted in raising new ones.  Magelight torches shall be made available to all commercial ventures, reguardless of their nature, for a modest price- and they shall be required, under penalty of closure.  Residents shall be permitted to worship in the Temple District.  Orphans shall have access to the orphanage.  Those of apprenticing age shall be permitted to seek apprenticeship outside of the quarter.  No merchant of any kind shall be permitted to levy a 'Dark Quarter tax' on their goods.  All posted guards- rather, all surviving posted guards- shall be put to trial for treason.  A Merchant Council seat shall be made available to whomsoever the people of the Da- of the Eastern Quarter select as their representative.  Those who are aberrant shall not be stoned, but instead brought to Master Ranclyffe for proper study and testing- which shall bear no resemblance to the testing of the mages of Thultanthar."

As Sakoda read, more and more of the Dark Quarter people began to appear outside of their homes.  And instead of standing away from the guards, they mingled with them, moving between them like shadows at first, but then at last actually acknowledging them.

"What proof have we that you'll do all of this?" a Human male replied after Sakoda had finished.

Sakoda looked up from the scroll to the Human, then rolled the scroll up.  Tucking it into his belt, he moved toward the Human, stopping about a foot in front of him.

"You, ser, find me the most disgusting shack you can think of.  Next to a cess pool.  Across from a whore house.  Riddled with alchemic users, I don't mind.  And you point me it out.  I will live there, with my wife and my children, and what affects you will then affect me, too.  I swear to you that I'll do this, on my grave, and on my mother's."

The Human sighed, pursed his lips and nodded.  "Alright.  But you've got to take caution, mind, or your ladyfriend'll get a good slice in her hide.  Goddamned slavers come in anytime they like, you saw it yourselves.  D'you want us to up your corpse?"

And Sakoda looked behind him, where Nithraz lay.  Beyond him, Luvec snorted.

"Put him wherever the She wants him," Sakoda decided at last, putting two fingers in the air and twirling them to indicate his desire for the gathered guards to about face.  "Let it be a final offering.  Number thirty eight."

"Yes.  Thirty eight means completion, High Captain Sakoda," the soprano breathed.  It was so quiet, yet so close, that Sakoda felt as though if he turned around, he may see the woman again- what little of her he had seen to begin with.  "Our business here is completed.  But there will be- other transactions, let's say."

Somehow, Sakoda felt as though she had won a game that he wasn't aware of playing.

2:47 A friend that bleeds.

"She ain't- gonna get it, missy," a grizzled beggar managed between hiccups.  His deep brown eyes wandered between the Tiefling and the Elf with a hazily bemused look as he slid down from the wall he'd been leaning on to the ground.

Mi'ishaen, with her glossy, crimson veil firmly pinned across her face, pushed off the ground, pulled her knees toward her chest, pushed her arms out like the sides of an arrow, and watched the cobblestone street whip its way over her head.  A second later, her flat-heeled, common leather boots were back on the ground, and she looked over her shoulder at the incredulous young Elf behind her.

"It's not that hard!" the Tiefling exclaimed, turning herself around completely.  "It's just like...like starting to hop over hot coals, only to discover that someone's thrown a knife at you."  There was a pause in which the Elf crossed her arms over her flat chest and fixed Mi'ishaen's red eyes with a doubtful look.  "What?" Mi'ishaen shot as she turned her back to the priestess again, annoyed.  "It really is just like that!  Try it- just try it again."

Beyond them, the beggar chuckled.  It was a sprawling gurgle that seemed destined to devolve into shameless vomiting.  Mi'ishaen ignored him, but the Elf looked over the Tiefling's shoulder at him with a shy smirk.

"Alright, fine," she sighed at last, rolling her neck again.

Mi'ishaen, who knew that the creature would again fail to get enough power into her legs to get her knees above her head, merely waited for the heavy sound of living flesh on cobblestone.  What she got instead was a sharp shriek of surprise and terror.  Mi'ishaen whipped herself around to discover that the Elf had landed perfectly on her feet.

"By the- you got it!" she exclaimed.  But the Elf instantly marched over and slapped her.

"You didn't have to actually throw a knife!" she huffed.  "I could have been-"

"I didn't," Mi'ishaen shot back, her hands clamping down on her hips.  "I was turned around, how could I-"

"Oh, don't give me-"

The priestess fortunately stepped one foot closer to Mi'ishaen in the attempt to boldly confront her, and the Tiefling watched with wide eyes as a brilliant silver blade sung behind the Elf's back and into the wooden beam of a poorly-built, two family home.

"Kidding me-" Mi'ishaen breathed as she reached forward to grab the priestess and push her deeper into the Elven Quarter.  "She's not even-"

"Guards!  Guards!" the Elf screamed at once, having sharply turned around to spy the knife herself.  But the nearby beggar, now lying on his back in the middle of the street, emitted the same sticky, burbling laugh.

"What guards?" he called after the two hustling females.

"Guards!" the priestess called out again, her voice made plaintive with the realization that the beggar was absolutely right.  "Why aren't we heading back toward the dancing hall?"

Mi'ishaen didn't bother to answer the question at all.  As she hustled the Elf toward what seemed to be a safer side of a building, she noted another shadow that couldn't possibly belong to either one of them- it seemed as though whatever was casting it was immediately behind them, though Mi'ishaen didn't hear any footsteps.  She began shuffling quickly along the other sides of the close-sitting houses, hoping to outrun the flanking maneuvers.  Before them loomed Le Lune Silvestre, the lights just being lit for the oncoming evening.

"We should be going to the dancing hall," the priestess insisted, now putting physical weight into her protest.  "And we should find a guard- what is going on?"

"Do you really think that now is the very best time to ask questions like that?" Mi'ishaen finally exclaimed, exasperated, as she pushed the priestess around another corner.  "Maybe a couple of aggressive types from the semi-hostile country that completely surrounds this place decided to take advantage of the fact that nearly every guard's in the Dark Quarter right now, you thought of that?"

"Semmites wouldn't spend time targeting priestesses of Lliira," the Elf replied caustically.  "We're joybringers, not combatants."  With this, the Elf wrested herself out of Mi'ishaen's grasp and moved to return toward Lliira's dancing hall, stepping out of cover and into an open pathway.  Mi'ishaen turned around and whipped her tail across the backs of the Elf's knees hard enough to force a fall backward, and just as she did, a mess of thick strings suddenly appeared where the shorter priestess's body had been.  Lying on her back, she had the perfect chance to look up at the result of someone's desire to trap her.

"Oh my goddess," she breathed, her back hurting and her heart slamming in her chest.  "Oh.  My.  Goddess.  I never-  I didn't-  What did you do?"

"What?" Mi'ishaen whispered fiercely as she dragged the priestess back behind the building by the back of her robes.

"It must be your fault," the female griped as she forced Mi'ishaen's hands off her and stood up.  "If you were innocent, we'd call for the guards and run for the dancing-"

"The guards are either in the Dark Quarter, on a mage's operating table, or in the ground, and that web just came from the direction you want to go!" Mi'ishaen argued, forcing herself to whisper as she pushed the priestess backward until their bodies were pressed together on the wall of the building they were using for cover.  Taking full advantage of her blood-red beauties, she stared holes into the eyes Elf before her.  "You think walking into an offensive spell caster is safe?"

As she spoke, the undercover rogue caught another stray shadow, landing on the wall behind them, that could not have been cast by either of them.  While whoever it was had attempted to put its shadow in the Tiefling's, the unplanned movement that the priestess had forced put the stalker out.  Not wanting to give away the fact that she'd noticed, Mi'ishaen bowed her head toward the flustered priestess as though she were tired or in need of consolation.

"I need you to look as far as you can behind us, without turning your head, and tell me everything you see," she urged as quietly as she could.

"Forget it," the priestess retorted, full voiced.  "The minute you let me go, I-"

And then she, looking over Mi'ishaen's shoulder, spotted a dark Elf as she carefully leaned out of cover with a crossbow at the ready.  The two Elves looked at each other for approximately ten seconds before the Drow's face pulled into a wretched smile.  It occurred to the priestess that hundreds of surface raids, supposedly blessed by Lloth, began just like this- and the frigid terror rammed into her bones by her mother, her grandmother, and her great-grandmother suddenly stole the petulance of her heart.

"Drow," was all she managed.

The crossbow bolt cracked free of its owner, but Mi'ishaen used the split second warning to her advantage.  She simply pulled the priestess to the ground with her, closing her eyes and exhaling her own nervousness out with a single puff.

"Last time I checked," Mi'ishaen mouthed, "Drow don't like surface Elves."

The priestess literally began to tremble in Mi'ishaen's loosely wrapped arms.  Her mouth worked at forming words, but nothing came but sparks and hisses of consonants.  Not ungrateful for the silence, Mi'ishaen simply put a hand over the muted mouth.

"Calm down- if they can't see us and they can't hear us, they can't hit us.  Now, let's get out of crossbow range, shall we?"

Mi'ishaen rolled over so that she was on her knees and elbows, listening carefully.  Though there were no more careless shadows- and Mi'ishaen knew the Dhuurniv Drow would make sure not to give themselves away so easily again- her ears reported distant rasps so quiet that she wasn't certain of their reality.  Deciding to continue moving toward Le Lune Silvestre and the safe house that she knew was just beyond it, she pulled the Elven priestess to a crouch and began hustling behind her from evening shadow to evening shadow.  She made sure to zag from the corners of buildings, keeping as many solid stone walls between herself, the real priestess and Dhuurniv eyes. 

She successfully moved out of the Temple District and into the Elven Quarter, then turned to the left to press toward Le Lune Silvestre.  The priestess balked, throwing her gaze from one side to the other in disoriented confusion.  Mi'ishaen pursed her lips, knowing that bringing such a ditz to the safe house would be a risk in and of itself.  Just as she'd made the decision to get in front of the priestess and lead her to the door of the tavern, a volley of hissing, nearly-clear arrows split the air.  Not able to do much else, Mi'ishaen simply leaned back on top of the Elven priestess and forced her to the ground beneath her.  Farther down the street, the arrows smacked against the stone of a building and breathed out a horrible stench.

The priestess and the Tiefling scrambled to their feet, but at first, they weren't quite in agreement about where they were about to go.  The priestess pulled toward back, wanting to turn farther down through the Elven quarter, while Mi'ishaen was intent on continuing to move in the direction that they had gone.  It took some fierce tugs, but Mi'ishaen won, and let go of the priestess nearly immediately in her haste to get out of what seemed to be a spell caster's line of fire.  All around them, the darkness of night began to press down like a large cloak.

Two sets of light leather boots around two buildings.

The same quiet lisp of thin soles down a darkened alley from which Mi'ishaen could catch a grim glimpse of the top of the Hawke manse.

But when Mi'ishaen was four houses down from the tavern, she knew something was wrong.  It was a solid sinking in the bones, a sharp pricking of the hair on her body, an itch that gnawed at her belly.  She stopped moving, stood up straight and whirled around on her left hoof.  The motion was so sudden and beautiful, covered in scarlet, indigo and orange robes as it was, that the Dhuurniv assassin whose left jawbone was on the receiving end of the right hoof never suspected the danger and pain of it.  His head smacked into the wall of the building against which the Tiefling was sneaking, and when he fell to his knees in response, Mi'ishaen pushed the same boot-covered hoof into his throat.  Moving forward and stealing his dirk, she whipped the small, sharp blade across his neck.

The resulting scream- a high, thin, distinctly feminine sound, settled in Mi'ishaen's bones like thick, cold porridge.  She bit her lips on a curse and whipped herself around the corner of the building to go back toward the safehouse- and was stopped by the body of the Elven priestess rolling off the roof above her.  The corpse, still warm, pushed Mi'ishaen onto her back, where she was rewarded with the sight of a pair of radiant red orbs in the darkness.

"Why?" she whispered fiercely, feeling a dampness that she didn't want to explain on her upper right arm.  "Are you the only Elf I'm allowed to know?"

But Bahlzair's gaze remained unmoving, and in the silence that reigned between them, Mi'ishaen was certain that she heard a crossbow's bolt snick into place.  Pulling the priestess's body up in front of her like a meat shield and ducking behind it, the rogue just barely avoided two crossbow bolts to the chest and eye.  She knew without doubt she would remember the thudding of the bolts into the dead body that covered her for the rest of her life.

"Okay," she nodded, her breath catching in her chest.  "I get it.  This is the most useful she's been all day."

Bahlzair rolled off the roof and landed on top of the corpse, pinning Mi'ishaen beneath it.  Unable to think of anything else to do, Mi'ishaen pushed her tail up and around Bahlzair's ankle, then squeezed and twisted.  Surprised, the Drow turned the wrong way, and a shock of pain thrilled up the side of his leg as he fell to the ground beside Mi'ishaen.  After sitting up and pushing the Elven female's body off her, Mi'ishaen took the dirk and cut a strip out of the priestess's robe.  Throwing the strip on top of Bahlzair's belly, she got up and began moving toward the safe house again.  Unobstructed by any bumbling hanger-on, the horned woman had a much easier time of eluding the Dhuurniv.

Bahlzair, meanwhile, rested his head on the ground and closed his eyes for a few moments, turning his wounded ankle in as much of a circle as he could manage.  The joint had swollen nearly to the size of a ripe tomato before he decided to sit up and actually use the strip that had been cut for him.

He plucked the eyes out of the priestess's head and wrapped them carefully in the cloth with a satisfied nod, then limped his way toward the Dark Quarter.

2:46 Never forgotten.

Amilie pulled a short, sharp knife under the last of the damaged silvery hair and allowed the rest to scurry from her fingers.

"It's beautiful," she smiled, leaning forward to look into the young female Shadar-kai's platinum eyes.  "I only took an inch off the bottom, so it's still quite long, if that's what's bothering you about it."

"No, not at all," the female replied.  "It's the way we've sat and trimmed each other's hair- the last person do this with me was my older sister, that's all."

"Ah," Amilie sighed knowingly, leaning back with both her hands in her lap.  She looked down at the silvery strands of hair contemplatively before allowing them to fall to the floor with the rest.  "I understand.  My grandmother used to teach me to mix potions and pigments.  I can't crush a rose petal or prepare charcoal liner without thinking of her."

The female, who'd introduced herself by one name and then insisted that she be called another, turned around and sat forward on the stone bed.  "She also taught you some divination, right?"

"She did," Amilie nodded.  "Though I could hardly remember any of it until she sung the spells to me.  I have a whole head full of spell-hymns, and though my mother used to cross her arms and roll her eyes at me, my grandmother assured me that it was how she learned them, as well."

"At least she taught you," the Shadar-kai smiled faintly.  "My grandmother- paternal grandmother, the only one still alive and close by in the Shadowfell- couldn't be bothered... I don't know if she liked my mother very much."

"That's a shame," Amilie counseled, looking over.  "When everyone else is gone, family is all we have."

"Not so."  The statement wasn't sharp or maudlin- it seemed only to be the product of experience.  "Our memories, our thoughts and our experiences are all we have.  All else comes from, belongs to, or will go to someone or something else."

Silence reigned between the two for a few moments before Amilie switched the knife from her right hand to her left.  She gingerly rested her right hand on the left of the Shadar-kai, who looked over at her with a calm expression.

"I hope you find, one day, that you're wrong," Amilie whispered, somehow feeling as though the sentiment shouldn't be spoken too loudly.  "I hope one day you find something, or someone, that stays with you so permanently that you realize that it's yours forever."

Udala poked her head under the open cloth flap that separated the cloister from the rest of the catacombs.  "What're you two mulling over that's got you so serious?  You swapping urine stew recipes?"

The Shadar-kai's face registered surprise, but Amilie merely laughed.  "No, no.  And the urine mixture is specifically for warning pests away from the garden, it's not to be eaten with rice or baked in pies!"

"Oh!" the female smiled.  "Urine, pepper, hair- yes, I've heard of that done, though it wasn't for a garden.  My mother's good friend used to pour buckets of our urine mixed with other things around the manse to remind the shades that it was occupied.  My mother hadn't thought of trying that, but she did admit that it was gloriously effective at keeping absolutely everything and everyone away from the manse, for a time."

"But I thought you used warding magic," Amilie offered as Udala moved into the room and sat on the stone bed next to her.

"Wow, and you still have all that hair left," the Halfling commented, looking at the bits of silver hair that were all over the cloister floor.

"It's really much thicker than it looks," Amilie explained.

"I use warding magic, yes, but it's not something I learned directly from my mother, who seemed to lean more toward illusion and domination," the Shadar-kai replied simply.  "Her friend was no good at spells at all, save the ones that were naturally in her blood."

"You know, I wonder about that, the spells that seem to live in the bones of some people," Amilie commented with a sigh, watching as Udala began to scrape some of the brown and silver hair on the floor together with one foot.  "I wonder if my spells, even though I had to sing them to remember the words, aren't somehow attached to where I grew up, and how.  And then, that attachment is somehow buried in my bones, so that every other spell worker knows me instantly for a swamp hag."

"Is that what your name means?" the Shadar-kai asked innocently.  Udala glared at her immediately, which shot the younger female's gaze to the floor.

"No," Amilie replied with a raised eyebrow at Udala, who attempted to soften her look.  "It means 'rival.'  I'm not sure what made my mother come up with it."

"Perhaps she thought you'd do a lot of jostling and fighting to get your place in the world," Udala offered, almost in an apologetic tone.  "My mother must have been homesick, since I'm named after a place I've never seen.  Beat that."

"My name means 'death charmed silver mage,' " the Shadar-kai admitted as though it were some sort of distant shame.  Udala gave a huff, but Amilie pursed her lips for a few moments before laying a hand on the bluish shoulder.  The silver eyed female looked up slightly, first to the hand, then at Amilie with a slight smirk.  "In Undercommon, because my mother's friend named me.  No one could say it- even I can't say it properly.  I got used to getting called Silverhag after awhile."

"Say it," Udala prompted at once.  "We can try."

"Jyklihaimra," the Shadar-kai said slowly. 

"Shikla...um...Cheekli....oh," Amilie frowned.  "I'm sorry."

The silver eyed female shrugged lightly.  "It really should be Jhula'unhaemaree, but when my mother attempted to say it, she said Jyklihaimra, and when she and her friend stood before the commune to present me, Jyklihaimra is what stuck."

"Then how did you wind up with Silveredge?" Amilie wondered.  "I thought you asked me to call you Silveredge."

"I did," the female smiled.  "A Tiefling female- I consider myself her friend, but she does not like to be- she gave me that name, and I prefer it, unless the matter warrants the name my mother and her friend gave me."

"Where is she, this Tiefling friend of yours?" Udala asked immediately.  "Is she down here with you?"

"No," Silveredge sighed.  "She's elsewhere- causing a bit of trouble, I bet.  I don't know if she always means to, but it's in her nature, as though something laid a strange blessing on her similar to our people's Bleak Blessing."

"Oh, I've heard of that!" Amilie exclaimed.  "Is it true, then, that you can be forced back into the Plane of- oh, sorry- the Shadowfell just by a cut or a bruise?"

"It would have to be quite a bruise," Silveredge replied, a little surprised.  "We must be weak when the shadows behold us for the Blessing to take hold.  But it takes more than a casual bump to-"

"Or else I'd have already been in the Shadowfell long before Elder Vhalan and Dedicant Jyklihaimra could have arrived," a male voice chimed in.  "Most of us are brought up fighting brothers, sisters, cousins, neighbors- anyone who crosses us, on a daily basis.  It really does take more than a casual bump."

Silveredge got up at once, but when her gaze remained steady on the tattooed face of the Shadar-kai male before her, he smiled.

"Well done," he breathed.  "Now, darker matters.  Amilie, Udala, your leader has sent for you."

"Oh no," Udala sighed.  "I bet I know why."

The male nodded once, then turned to step out of the cloister.  Udala got up and extended her hand, indicating her desire for the other two women to go first.  Amilie got up, then looked awkwardly at Silveredge, who didn't move.  Udala, after noticing that neither woman was willing to go before the other, rolled her eyes and left herself.  Amilie immediately pushed off after her, leaving Silveredge to think of Mi'ishaen for a few moments before moving through the entranceway and putting down the cloth covering to prevent anyone from seeing the snippets of brown and silver.

"Um," Amilie began as she caught up to Udala.  "Do you remember his-"

"Svaentok," the Shadar-kai male replied, his answer wafting behind him to the embarrassed Human and the oblivious Halfling.  "Elder Svaentok."

"Sfen...Svin...oh, dear," Amilie sighed deeply.  "Why can't I say either of your names?"

"I think you have more on your mind," Svaentok  replied.  "Udala informed me that death bothers you-"

"Oh," Amilie breathed, shooting a glare at Udala, who ignored the look completely.

"-and not only are you in a burial place, you're faced with the eminent death of one of your clan members." Svaentok paused at the bottom of a downward incline, then turned to his right to follow another hallway.  "It's... beyond me, now.  The illness."

"It might be wen-" Silveredge began from the back of the solemn group.

 "Without doubt, although I never saw one of the beasts..." Svaentok stopped just outside of the large central chamber where Silveredge had been accepted into the service of the Raven Queen.  "Shepherd Aric managed to break the curse, but I... just can't..."

"Let go, Svaentok," came a well-used male voice.  "Force that pride to bend, or you will be unable to forgive yourself."

The Shadar-kai male's crystaline blue eyes pressed themselves shut, and a look of utter frustration crossed over his ash grey face.

"Maybe we can help," Amilie whispered, turning back to Silveredge.  "All it is without the curse is a fever, and you practically bleed ice.  Maybe if you try to use a weak chill spell while I-"

A deep female moan stopped the words in Amilie's throat.  Something about it spoke of exhaustion- the weariness that came after a hard-fought battle.  Udala, noting Amilie's frozen agony, took her slender hand and led her into the chamber, where Darelove had been stripped nearly to nakedness and constantly attended by warrior initiates with fresh, cool water.  Still, her cheeks had sunken, her eyes had glassed over, and her breathing was rapid and shallow.  Aric, who found himself in need of his cane that morning, stood as far toward the back of the chamber as was possible, his dark robes blending with the shadows.  Betzal sat, watching, on his unprotected shoulder, and Silveredge wondered if Aric had simply grown calluses where the talons squeezed.  Much closer to Darelove, who lay directly on the floor, were Deadriver, who was sitting crosslegged with his eyes closed, and Snakesoul, who was staring at a scrap of parchment.  A few moments after the moaning stopped, a fit of coughing began.

"This is the threshold," Aric warned quietly.  "That which will be said should be said, carefully, yet with a quickness."

"It's her gonna be doing the talking, old man," Deadriver replied.  "I just do the listening."

Darelove coughed and sputtered, and Amilie suddenly moved past Svaentok and Udala to take up one of the warrior initiates' rags.  Sitting the Human female up, she gently wiped her lips.  As though she had been waiting for this movement, Darelove rolled her nearly sightless eyes to the former streetwalked who had touched her.

"Holly-eagle... on the bat," she managed in a tight voice before choking and coughing again.  Snakesoul inclined her head slightly, as though she were acknowledging the appeal of this statement, then stared at the bit of parchment again.

"What about the eagle, sister?" Deadriver encouraged, his eyes still closed.  "Is it protecting, attacking..."

"It's...it's on fire," Darelove replied, prompting an utterly confused look to settle upon Udala's already displeased face.  The ailing archer coughed more violently, and Svaentok began to move forward, only to be checked by a glance from Aric.  Darelove spent an entire grueling minute hacking every shallow breath she gulped down back up, with blood coming in the process.  Weary, she laid back into Amilie's arms and rested her head in the crook of her arm.  "This... monastery... the whole place...the ocean set it on fire."

"Those words aren't for us," Deadriver whispered, slowly tilting his head backward.  "I can feel it- their direction- it's not toward any of us."

"You are right, son," Aric replied.  "It is most fortunate that Dedicant Jyklihaimra came with your clan sisters- I believe that message was for her."

Darelove's eyes rolled and fluttered, and a stream of blood began to ooze down from her nose.

"That's it, mama," Deadriver sighed, turning to Snakesoul.  "I don't think-"

Darelove pressed her lips together and hummed, then released them with a worn sigh.  Silveredge shifted, feeling the intentions of the dying Human as clearly as if the female had still been able to speak.

"There's something else," she said, quickly moving to the other side of Darelove.  "Please- I beg you, try again."

Deadriver raised an eyebrow, then scooted over toward Silveredge, who now sat on his right, and put his hand on Darelove's head.  At once, his head jolted backward as though he'd been struck by lightning.  "Moondew.  That's hers, isn't it,  mama?"

Darelove's head rolled in Amilie's arm for a few moments, then the Human suddenly pitched forward violently and began to vomit.  The force of it pushed offal out as well, and blood sprayed from her lips and nose.  Silveredge screamed and shut her eyes, but did not move away.  Niku, who had been sitting just in front of Vhalan's cloister, bounded up and down the hallways toward Silveredge with sharp, loud barks, running over anyone in his way without remorse.

"Gone," Aric nodded, watching Svaentok turn himself away.  "Come, children- what will you have us do?"

Snakesoul looked down at Deadriver, who had grabbed a nearby pot just a few seconds too late to avoid being plastered with filth.  Niku shoved his way past Svaentok and Udala, prompting a muttered curse from the Halfling, and was only prevented from licking Silveredge clean by two periwinkle blue hands wrapped firmly around his snout.  Svaentok turned behind him to pick up one of the jars of water that had been providing for what meager comfort Darelove had been afforded in her last moments, handing the two closest women new rags and wordlessly offering them water to clean themselves.

"Pyre," Deadriver said after watching the entire exchange with tired eyes.  He reached over to scratch Niku behind the ears, then looked at his vomit-covered hand and thought better of it.  "We'll wash her up and put her out to burn, like we all do.  And when the spirit dance comes, Moondew, you'll lead it."

Udala looked down at Amilie, then rolled her eyes.  "Ami, he's talking to you."

"Oh," Amilie said, surprised.  "I thought you-"

"You just got your tribe name, sister," Deadriver explained.  "Usually mamas and papas give 'em, but Darelove didn't have any kids.  Hey, got me too, but trust me, that was a spirit name.  She gave it to you."

"I- I- she wasn't even going to let me in, at first," Amilie objected, looking around her as though Silveredge or Svaentok could help her argue her case.  "The- she wasn't even going to let me.  She just wanted Udala, at first, so wouldn't the-"

"No, sister, your big mama's gonna get her name some other time- when it comes to her," Deadriver explained, shaking his head as he accepted a rag from Svaentok.  "Moondew is for you.  You'll take the herbs, dance the spirit dance, and get your name.  And your big mama'll be right there for you- we all will."

"I just- I don't-" Amilie sputtered, overwhelmed.  With a deep sigh, Udala marched over and yanked at Amilie's rich brown hair so that their eyes met.

"Didn't he just say I'd get one?  You're driving me crazy- crazier than these prancers and their 'mamas' and 'papas' and spirit dances.  Now, you're Moondew, and that's that.  Just calm down, wipe off, and let's get out of here.  They've got work to do, and we'd best be out of their way."

Too worked up to speak, Amilie nodded as much as Udala would allow.  The Halfling let go and watched with crossed arms as she, Silveredge and Deadriver cleaned themselves, then flinched when Svaentok threw droplets of vinegar at them.

"You couldn't warn anybody before you did that?" she shot angrily.  "Let it have gotten in my eyes, and you'd've heard about it!"

Svaentok raised an eyebrow, but didn't allow himself to become upset.  "I'd rather, if you don't mind, vinegar in your eyes than fever in your veins.  Also, I'm not sure if you noticed, but Human offal smells.  It's not delectable, and we are underground.  How would you prefer I deal with that?"

"Taking Vhalan's place this day, Svaentok?" Aric smirked, trying not to laugh at the commanding Shadar-kai and the spit fire Halfling.  "I should check your veins again, I fear."

"I haven't seen Vhalan, actually," Svaentok began as he moved to clean the floor where Darelove lay, still slowly losing bodily fluids.

"He will return," Aric stated calmly.  "Even at his worst, he has always known what responsibility is and means.  He is likely to want an account of your continued work in his absence, my daughter."

Silveredge, who felt a strange dizziness as she got up to move out of Svaentok's way, could only slowly nod.  Svaentok glanced over his shoulder at her, but focused again quickly on controlling Darelove's issues.

"C'mon, let's go," Udala urged.  Amilie began to move first, handing the cloth she'd been given back to Svaentok, then took Silveredge by the arms.  "Are you alright?" the Halfling asked once all three had turned left out of the chamber to return to the cloister from which they'd come.

Silveredge thought for a few moments, then nodded.  "Yes, I... I was just remembering my breaking... so many didn't survive.  I had been placed in a pen with the other girls who knew a bit of the healing arts... between all of us, sometimes we had enough knowledge to help.  But... usually, we didn't.  And the bodies stayed.  Right there.  In the pen.  No one ever returned to take them, and we weren't allowed... sleeping was the worst... I'd turn over, and I'd be rolling into the arms of... and the smell..."


"Oh, goddess- help!  Somebody help!"

"Ow!  Ancestors curse this damned dog!"

"Go, boy, go find help!"


Silveredge opened her eyes, unsure of how much time had passed.  She couldn't remember what she had been saying, or who she'd been speaking to, but her mouth was dry- as though it had been open for some time.  She was surprised to find herself in a stone cloister, lying on a  Human female's lap with a large hound curled up behind her.  The moment she moved one muscle, the hound sat up and began barking.

"Calm," came a commanding male voice.  The hound quieted down to a persistent whine, backed up a few steps, then hopped off the bed entirely to sit anxiously on the floor.  Silveredge realized with an edge of terror that she could not remember the grey-skinned male speaking to her.   He leaned over her, then put a gentle hand to her face.

"How do you feel?" he asked, his concern radiating in his voice and reflecting in his eyes as he leaned back.

The red thorned vine that spread up his neck and across part of his face was the only thing about him that Silveredge could recognize, and she struggled to reply appropriately.  Her neck and head ached miserably.  "Your handmaiden is dizzy," she managed slowly, but clearly. 

"Your handmaiden...?" a heavy female voice dared in a tone that  tugged between insult and concern.

"Regression," the male voice pronounced gravely with a frown.

"Perhaps she struck her head when she fell?" the female holding Silveredge remarked.  Silveredge could feel her light voice vibrating through her being.

"It's more likely that the master ring was found."

From somewhere more distant, a second male voice called, "I should be able to-"

At that moment, a sudden shock of pain ran straight from the back of Silveredge's neck down her spine, and she closed her eyes and stiffened significantly in response. 

"No, don't do that," the first male immediately commanded the other male.  "That ring is part of her bone, by now.  You'll kill her."

"Why would anybody do that?" the commanded creature asked with a note of anger.  "What kind of people are you?"

"Slavers, some of us," the first male responded strongly, his tone veering strangely toward defense of something that Silveredge could sense that he didn't like.  "I'm not so far from it- this is part of a set.  The slave's half goes into his or her neck or lower back, and the master's half goes wherever he or she wishes.  I am a skinmaster; it's customary for ours to be on or near our centers of pleasure- see?  We can have as many as we wish."

"Oh, goddess," the female holding Silveredge remarked, clearly a little afraid.  "Those don't catch in your robes, or hurt when you walk?"

"Not at all," the first male replied simply.  "I received them when I was of age to take on my father's role- and it was sooner than expected too, as he fell ill while I was yet young.  I had to carry heavy things in front of me instead of at my sides, for two or three days- then I realized that I could tell the slaves to lift and fetch for me.  They haven't hurt since."

"Couldn't be me, doing your toting," a powerful lower voiced female said at once.  "It was me, you'd've picked up your damned baggage yourself."

"Had you said that, I would simply will pain through the rings to you- which is what I fear has happened here," the first male sighed wearily.  "Either her master yet lives or someone has thought to take up his ring- let calm fill you, Jyklihaimra."

Silveredge opened her eyes again and sat up slowly, then attempted to stand, only to have the male's firm hands pressed on her shoulders.

"Where is your master?" he asked seriously, watching her gaze dart away from his and down to the floor.

"Dead, my lord," Silveredge replied simply and without feeling.  It seemed suddenly that something was missing from her, as though someone had taken something valuable- except she could not think of what it was.

"Was she yet wearing her ring when you left her?" the first male voice asked patiently.

"My master was male, my lord, and he yet bore the ring on his hand," Silveredge answered calmly.

"Ah," the male groaned.  "An impostor, then... and someone likely walked off with the thing, not knowing what it would do to you.  Here-"

Silveredge felt a sharp pain at her right wrist, and looked over to see something that looked like a fanged bracelet digging into her skin.  There were a few daring seconds, as her nearly unfocused eyes centered on the center of the bracelet, where the effects of all sound and light nearly disappeared from the world around her.  Eternity itself stretched into the middle of the dark piece of jewelry, and once within, stopped time completely.  Silveredge felt her heart wait, standing still in her chest. 

Then suddenly, the room became more real to her, colors flooded back into her vision, and, looking up, she recognized those gathered around her for who they were.  She, embarrassed, was going to put her right hand before her face, but found that it was much too painful to move.  Silvery eyes darted upward, catching and locking onto the gaze of Svaentok's radiant blue orbs at once.

"Don't be embarrassed," Svaentok counseled, sitting on the other side of her and taking her right hand into his own.  "Look at this hand again- that is a gal-ralan."

Silveredge looked down at the bracelet again, and noted that the ebony black bracelet had sucked up a bit of her blood, and now sported a dark blue, gem-like center that pulsed as though it were alive.

"A gal-ralan?" she repeated, terror putting an icy clamp on her chest.  "I don't dare-"

"It should afford you a bit of protection- which does come at a cost, as you can see.  After some time of bonding through your blood, it will learn who you are, and together, you will inflict greater damage upon whomever faces you in battle."

Silveredge looked up at Svaentok, surprised.  "I've never even- this is an heirloom.  They aren't made anymore."

"Nonsense," Svaentok smiled.  "That belonged to my mate- she picked it up cheaply, when she threatened the merchant the right way."

"You have a mate?" Udala asked, her voice drenched in exasporation.  "What is it with you people, walking away from your partners as though they meant nothing?"

"I had a mate," Svaentok replied, casting a glance at the Halfling over his shoulder.  "She's dead.  And she deserved it, though it could have taken longer, for my taste.  All that was hers is mine, to give or to keep as I see fit; I fought two of her brothers for that right.  Now they're dead, too.  That means a great deal to me.  Any more questions?"

"Sometimes I think I'm the only sane creature on the face of Toril," Udala muttered, turning around and moving toward the hallway.

"How do we find the master ring?" Amilie interrupted, managing to stop the Halfling with the sound of her voice.  "Wouldn't this all be solved if we could just find it and destroy it?"

"Yes," Svaentok admitted.  "But that's not as easy to accomplish as you think.  A master can always find the slave, but the slave cannot use his or her ring to find the master.  Any scrying done using it as a focus will cause its bearer considerable pain.  That's why I told Deadriver to stop."

"So what will we do?" Amilie asked, concerned.  "She can't spend the rest of her life hoping whoever has the master ring will be nice to her."

"Unfortunately," Svaentok frowned, "unless that person wills you to come and find him or her, Silveredge, that may be exactly what you have to do."

2:45 Ice heart.

"And then they just left?"

"What else is it that they can do?"

The guard, who had just put a loop of white yarn around her hook, dropped both hands into her lap.  She leveled a pitiful brown-eyed look of disapproval for a few seconds, then picked her hands back up.

"There's always something.  They could have refused to-"

Aleksei shook his head, turning his hands so that the yarn that had caught on one of his scales would come loose.  "This is no use.  I am asking them to do as they are told, so that things will go well for them.  Already they must leave house that we are working so hard to make livable.  They must not go through any more difficulty."

"Well, I still think..." the guard began, pulling the loop under and through the bit of yarn at the middle of the hook with the help of her fingers, "...that they could have done something."  Aleksei moved his hands again, and the guard shook a bit of yarn from him so that it nearly touched the bottom of the bars between them.  "If it were me, and someone had snatched off my darling, it's nobody gonna tell me to leave him rot in jail."

"He must be good man," Aleksei offered with a shrug.  "He is also guard, yes?"

"Oh, no, Voyonov- Terrence?  Gods no," the guard laughed, putting her hands down in her lap mid-stitch.  "Goodness, he'd be cut nave to chops in an instant, right outside our door.  Terry keeps a stall in the market, remember?  He's friendly, his prices are fair, and he won't put out bad work- you know, it's him taught me to weave yarn like this."

"A man of the hearth," Aleksei smiled approvingly.  "This is good.  He will care for you, when the time comes."

"Certainly, he certainly will, yes.  But I don't want him closing down the stall just to fetch nappies and my chamber pot to and fro.  It's too many of us, now-a-days, put aprons on our men so's we can have our fancy.  I'd rather put down the crest a while and do like proper women do- leave him to his business."

This time, it was Aleksei's turn to put his hands down into his lap for a few moments.  "Who are these proper women?" he asked with a distinct note of exasperation.  "Always there is comparison to mythical women who are some how kinder, smarter, and more virtuous.  This is big problem here- I am not understanding it."

The guard shook her head as she took her work back up.  "No, Voyonov, it's not just here.  Stop ten women in the street and ask each one if she's the best woman she knows, and I don't know if you'll find more than two who'll say yes.  Yet, every man seems confident that he is the gift of the gods."

"Ah," Aleksei sighed quietly as he put his hands back into the air and watched the yarn pull tighter.  "Every man may seem to you confident, but not all are truly so.  To make more confusing, in the army, I am finding that the warriors who are most preaching their prowess are not the best.  They are not the worst, but still they have betters.  And those betters do not talk."

"You know, that explains the massacre, really," the guard sighed.  "I suppose the High Captain took the men that talk- I can't believe no one told you about it.  Twelve men lying dead in the street for just about two days."

"Why should anyone tell me anything, now that I am here?" Aleksei grunted, trying to keep himself from imagining the scene the guard had just described.  "You are the only one who is still treating me as if I am guardsman."

"Well, you bloody well ought to be.  If you were, maybe some of those men wouldn't've died," the guard replied bitterly.  "But no, Nithraz puts you in here for daring to take initiative, he takes a hand picked force to the border of the Dark Quarter, gives them a overview of what he wants done, and then he splits them up and sets them loose.  No leading.  No backup.  Idiot."

Aleksei tapped a bar of the cell with a knuckle.  "Quiet, or he will hear and put you in a cage, too."

"Oh, let him!" the guard laughed, unable to contain herself.  "It'll keep me out of the Dark Quarter.  Besides, he's hard up as it is- my father says he hasn't seen so many drop the crest since the war."

"And these problems, what is he doing about them?" Aleksei sighed wearily.

"It's four days straight, you asking me that," the guard replied, stopping herself in the middle of a stitch without putting her work down.  "Yesterday, our blessed leader took himself to the chapel of Pelor three times instead of just the once, like normal.  Does that count for anything?"

Aleksei snorted sharply, tipping his hands to allow some more yarn to come free of them.  "So long as the sun god's champion is as cowardly as he, nothing in the Dark Quarter will know healing."

The guard nodded, pushing the hook between her fingers.  "That's about the size-"  She stopped herself when voices began to echo from the top of the jail down to the second level.  "You'll want to hand me back my yarn, yes?"

A sharp sensation suddenly jagged into the Dragonborn's chest, which registered in his face as a loss of focus.  The guard, not waiting for the situation to get any worse, reached between the bars and pulled the yarn off his hands.  She quickly turned, put her work into her bag, and pulled a very dark sword from its sheath.  The unusual color of the blade caught Aleksei's attention.

"What is this?" he asked, attempting to cover the strange moment.

"Ironwood," the guard replied.  "Mum's side were mages, Pop's, warriors.  Great grandpop, Mum's side, gave this to Mum when she married Pop, and Mum gave it to me when I married Terrance.  Goddess knows she didn't have any kind of use for it; she had my great grandmum's staff already, and to this day can't swing a sword to save her l-"

A second pang of pain rang through Aleksei, prompting the guard to lay her sword on the table and go back to rummaging through her bag.

"My grandpop-" she began as she produced a metal flask and pushed it through the bars,"-made this himself; it's powerful.  Shove it under the hay after- c'mon, quick!"

As Aleksei reached forward, took the flask and turned around, the voices came closer.  About half way down the stairs, Nithraz called out.

"Silus!  You're awake and safe, I hope!"

"Sir!" the guard replied sharply, looking behind her.  She noted with surprised admiration that Aleksei had already polished off the entire flask and was quickly stuffing it under the filthy excuse for a bedroll.

A few more moments of rustling and footsteps- two pairs of feet, the guard noticed- brought a radiantly dressed Dragonborn with a staff and her half-Orc commander.

"I thought I told you about that non-regulation sword, Silus," Nithraz began immediately.  "And what is that smell?"

"Grandpop's medicine, sir," the guard replied evenly, trying not to stare at the older Dragonborn.  "Cures whatever aches."

"Keep it out of here," Nithraz ordered gruffly, crossing his arms over his armored chest.  "And especially away from this one.  If you're in pain, tell me, so I can send you home."

"With respect, sir, if I go home, I lose a day's pay," the guard answered, turning her gaze to Nithraz.

"Better to lose a day's pay than the crest," Nithraz shot back.  "I want the entire guard clean.  And stop bringing your ancestral sword, or whatever, in here.  I re-issued good steel to every last one of you two days ago; I expect you to use it."

"Yes, Sir."

"Good.  Now, get out."

The guard paused for a moment, then picked up her sword.  Wordlessly putting it into its sheath, then sticking the sheath into her bag, she picked up everything and moved toward the stairs quickly.  "Sun-blessed, Voyonov."

"It is my privilege to speak with you, Silus."

Nithraz snorted, then moved closer to the bars of the cell.  "Voyonov!"

Aleksei simply turned on his behind so that half his face could be seen- the left half, facial scars and all.  He didn't have to see to know that Nithraz had been accompanied by the Wyrmkeeper- the dull ache that remained in his chest told him enough.

"You could get up in the presence of a priest," Nithraz grumbled.

"Yes," Aleksei replied quietly.  "I could.  What is it that I can do for you?"

Nithraz sighed deeply, then moved forward to take the chair that the guard had been sitting it.  Putting it on the other side of the hall, so that the back of it touched the bars of the vacant cell across from Aleksei, the high captain motioned for the gaudily dressed Dragonborn to sit.

"Two counts of assault, two counts public indecency, two counts treason," the half-Orc proclaimed without even looking at the scrap of paper that bore the charges.  "The Council didn't see you as a threat to the city, miraculously, and so settled for a total of 21 years of imprisonment- instead of five days public torture and stoning to death on the sixth day."

"Stoning is good," Aleksei scoffed.  "Please to return to the Council and ask them if I may not yet be stoned to death on sixth day."

"Of course you'd prefer death," the Wyrmkeeper laughed, his yellow-brown eyes glittering with a strange joy.  "Anything to silence the screaming of your soul.  No, stoning is too quick a death for a coward like you- let the years punish you, slowly, more painfully than any other method."

"Against my better judgement, the Council did offer another way," Nithraz interjected, casting a quick look at the Wyrmkeeper.  "What you did in the Dark Quarter has reached their ears- albeit much over-blown, they see some scrap of truth still in the tale.  They want to put your sword arm to use against the archer who's taken the Dark Quarter.  Frankly, they assume that one Dragonborn can kill another."

Aleksei turned his head straight, then shifted himself so that his back was facing Nithraz and the Wyrmkeeper.  Lifting his gaze to the ceiling, he began muttering.

"Otec, vy ignorirovat' vashi deti, i oni uchatsja podrazhat' vashej zhestokosti. Ne pokazyvat' mne milost'."

The Wyrmkeeper pushed his broad head forward in surprise, then leaned back in his chair and began to chuckle.  "Let him answer you, Voyonov."

"She's obviously battle-hardened," Nithraz continued, casting another strange look at the Dragonborn beside him.  "Easily struck down armed men-"

"Vy dali ljudjam vozmozhnost' ubivat' drakonov. Zatochite jetot nozh," Aleksei sighed, a little louder, pulling in his legs and resting his arms on his knees.

"And counting Trelwynen's pack, she's offed more than-"

Aleksei bowed his head and pressed his hands to his head to avoid hearing anything else.  "Led serdca, ot vashej krovi, zhivyh sushhestv rodilis'. Probudit' menja-"

"You're acting like a child!" the Wyrmkeeper burst out at last, nearly weeping with the force of his laughter.  "If Bahamut will not hear you, what makes you think that you can invoke Io?  It will cost you more than just a few words to arouse that long gone spirit."

"The scimitar of the Ninefold Dragon functions properly, according to the most recent relic and sacred items study journal," a commanding female voice replied.

Both the Wyrmkeeper and Nithraz snapped their heads to their right to watch Master Ranclyffe slowly descend the stairs.  Aleksei, turning just enough to see her, immediately stood up.  Her deliberate movement irked him at once.

"I'll explain.  Such items cease to function as intended when their patron's power levels dip below the Deity Standard." she stated as she walked past the Wyrmkeeper and fished in her bosom for a few moments.  "Curam cum parum cognitionis."

The Wyrmkeeper, mildly embarrassed and quite confused, could do little else but stare.  In the cell, Aleksei began to chuckle- a strange, bitter sound in the strained silence.  Nithraz, uncomfortable with watching the older woman as she finally pulled a sealed paper from her bosom, began sputtering a reply.  "Master Ranclyffe, I-"

"Will, by this order, release the subject to Battlemage Ranclyffe," the court mage finished sharply, pushing the sealed paper into Nithraz's hand.  "I resent being left out of the final hearing on this case, which you scheduled for the exact hour you knew that I should be meeting with my first-year students in the courtyard.  You've also exposed this priest, in a near-criminal attempt to force your 'deal,' without appropriate precautions."

"There is no precaution needed, good lady," the Wyrmkeeper began warmly.  "It's obvious from his words that-"

"The subject was quoting draconic scriptures to the ceiling," the matron mage scoffed, refusing to even look at the priest.  "Quiet; you're not involved."

"You're lying," the Wyrmkeeper charged, standing up to look down upon the Human woman who now seemed to have all the power and gusto of a woman at least twenty years her junior.  "This male has no such sickness- if he had, the High Captain would never have brought me here.  There wouldn't even be a guard- in fact, he wouldn't be here- he'd be in the Bone College, in a cell, alone."

"So one madman might guard another?" Master Ranclyffe shot back, an eyebrow arched high.  "Battlemage Ranclyffe has vast experience with war-hardened veterans and the various diseases to which they are prone."

"He's your father," Nithraz stated.  "I can't trust-"

"I have no reputation for a cuddly, family-oriented nature," Master Ranclyffe scoffed, turning her back on the three males.  "The transport will arrive in five days."

Aleksei shrugged and retreated to the back of the cell, preparing to sit down.

"You're lying, I said," the Wormkeeper said again, much more strongly than before.  "Voyonov isn't unwell.  He is cursed- cursed by his own actions against a goddess to whom he swore his soul."

Master Ranclyffe stopped moving at the bottom of the steps as though hit with a paralysis spell.  "What?"

"You're lying, I said."  The Wyrmkeeper firmed his lips for a few moments, watching the older woman slowly turn and walk back toward him.  "You're a Human, and you don't know the-"

The court mage closed her eyes and held a hand up before the Dragonborn's face.  "Five days from today, this male will get on a transport to Suzail, to be treated by one of the most powerful mages in all of Cormyr.  Now, if you think that you can deny a decorated, war-hardened, Cormite battlemage, you're welcome.  I would suggest, however, that you settle your debts, choose a successor to your post, and write your will."  Opening her eyes and lowering her hand, she turned her head just slightly, as though checking in on a disobedient child.  "Was that clear?"

Aleksei, who had remained staring at the wall to avoid being sucked in to the red dragon's embrace, heard only the sound of his own heavy breathing for a few moments.  He looked up to the ceiling again, wondering if Sofiya were keeping close count of her kills.

Perhaps, if I am surviving, I will count again.

And then he remembered precisely why he'd stopped counting.  He sighed the idea out of his body, thinking of Bahlzair.

"Perhaps it would be best if I escorted you back to the Temple District," Nithraz sighed, taking the Wyrmkeeper by the arm.  The older Dragonborn male, however, ripped his arm away.

"Beware," he growled down at the female mage.  "You don't know whose will you thwart."

"Fine," Master Ranclyffe replied, spreading her arms in a feigned welcome.  "Explain."

"It would be best if I escorted you back to the Temple District," Nithraz repeated, taking both of the Wyrmkeeper's elbows and urging him toward the stairs.

Again the older Dragonborn shook the high captain's hands from his arms, but he clutched his staff tightly as he huffily moved past Master Ranclyffe.

"Really, Master Ranclyffe," Nithraz began with an edge of annoyance.  "You didn't have-"

"Get out," came the flat response.

And with a pained growl, Nithraz did as he was told.  Master Ranclyffe, whose gait again diminished to little better than a hobble, put herself gingerly down into the chair the Wyrmkeeper had vacated.

"How is the chained god-avatar?"

Aleksei turned back around, but did not look directly at the mage before him.  "They are putting cannibal in my cell some days ago, and when I am choking him, they are taking the chains away."

Master Ranclyffe rolled her eyes and put a hand to her face.  "Blasted stubborn half-breed."

"You are telling him this would happen, yes?" Aleksei asked, already knowing the answer.

The mage raised an eyebrow at him.  "Don't waste words, Lyosha."

Aleksei nodded, walking over to one side of the cell to lean on the wall.  "He is doing nothing.  Twelve guards dead, and he is running to chapel."

"I've mentioned that," the court mage responded with a sharp nod.  "My agnosticism draws doubt, but he's being watched.  As is Ntoru, whose mirror broke without a soul touching it."

"The danger," Aleksei mused.  "Perhaps she is it."

"No," Master Ranclyffe nodded.  "Too stuck on herself to mastermind a real problem.  She's a pawn on a much larger chessboard."  Pivoting and putting her hands on the bars behind her, the mage struggled to rise.  Aleksei turned his head until the difficult motion was completed, then watched as she made sure of each joint and muscle.

"You may wish to rest," he suggested very gently, not wanting to seem overbearing.

"Had I a competent protege, I would," the court mage replied, again fishing in her bosom.  "Come close.  This is for you, and it's writ large, I think, so that you may learn the characters that create Common words."

"Who is it that wishes to teach me?" Aleksei said wonderingly, moving toward the bars.

"You know multiple Humans familiar enough with Draconic lettering to write with it?" the court mage asked, raising her eyebrow at him again.

"Ah, Lishka," Aleksei sighed.  "And yet always she is thinking she is of little use."

"She'll learn nothing from you.  Your zeal for self-destruction so closely resembles mania that it was the only evidence I had to present to the Council.  To most minds, illness is the only way to explain one male taking on an entire coterie alone."  Master Ranclyffe cracked the plain and pitiful seal, then looked at Aleksei.  "And that explanation may save that archer, too."

A moment of silence reigned between the two, during which the clatter of armor was heard in the stairwell.  The court mage didn't bother to move, but Aleksei looked up to see Silus returning to her post- scowling, and without her bag.

"What is it?" the Dragonborn asked at once, prompting the mage to turn around to look at the advancing guard.  "You are wanting your flask, yes?"

"Bloody priest threw my sword, my stitching and my keys right down the well," Silus huffed as she planted herself in the chair across from Aleksei's cell.  "Gods alone know why; I done nothing to the creature.  I can't replace Pop's sword.  And how am I supposed to get in the house?  And I'll have to start the blanket all over; get fresh yarn and-"

"Stand in the stairwell," the court mage commanded sourly.  "We'll see about the well presently."

"Oh, well, Master-"

"Go!" the mage repeated, glaring at the guard, who hastily moved toward the middle of the stairwell.  "Now, then- this, Lyosha, is a 'D.' "