5:25 A made alpha.

In the darkness of an evening punctuated by the clanging and grunting of a few training sessions, Howler's nose twitched.  His hearing, made slightly sharper by the lycanthropy that had apparently been cast instead of contracted, caught the quiet rustling of thick fabric.  When a faint, but acrid alchemical smell wafted by, accompanied by the more welcome scent of fresh meat, Howler had to cover an involuntary huff by turning over on his bedroll.  The sound of rustling abruptly stopped, although the smells remained.  Howler, interested in how careful the unknown agent would be, began counting the seconds that went by in silence.  In their crates, a few of the dogs shifted and snorted, probably catching the smells themselves.

Howler's count had gone well into the hundreds before the careful stirring of fabric began again.  A series of thin, high squeals made Howler grind his teeth for more than one reason.  He hated having to admit that Kronmyr was right about anything, but apparently, the cage locks really were as easily picked open as the Drow had claimed.  Every single cage was convinced to open, then closed and- strangely enough- resecured.  The process didn't take very long, and when it was completed, Howler heard the intruder's whispered steps going out toward the training area.  He supposed that an intelligent rogue would be able to find a way to use the ruckus of multiple trainees to cover both a stealthy entrance and exit.  One of the more interesting points of the entire process, however, was the fact that not one of the dogs had been unfamiliar enough with the scent of the operator to awaken.  Food bribery or not, almost all of the regular breeding stock had at least been kept away from socializing with anyone who wasn't part of the mercenary crew.  They would react to any stranger- so it stood to reason that the interloper was familiar enough to ignore.  

Howler waited and listened, and while there were a few scrapes and hisses of claws or fur on the wood and metal of the crates, no dog awoke fully.  Slowly, quietly, the dogmaster got up from his bedroll, retrieved the key to the crates from the wall, and began the process of opening and checking the crates.  He found in each one a generous cut of meat, but one of the cuts bent strangely.  Howler laid out all of the meat cuts and used a stone and his cutting knife to light his fat candle, which sputtered and crackled as it caught the flame.  Carefully, he sniffed at each of the cuts, then separated away from the others the slab that had been intended for Niku, which smelled just that bit off.  He carefully considered the others, then began cutting through the slab that didn't bend in the same way as the others, which had been intended for his breeding female dog.  Slicing her slab first sideways, then straight up and down, Howler found small, thin, sharp pins, each no larger than his pinky fingernail, inserted throughout the meat.  With a snort, Howler scooped up all of the meat, save the strange-smelling cut, and threw it in the fat and scrap bin.  His breeding female dog and one of the young dogs woke up, sniffed the air, and began whining hopefully.  

"Hush you," Howler scoffed as he wiped down his cutting table and recovered the last meat piece.  He left his kennels and headed down the stairs toward the cellar- and more importantly, toward Kronmyr.

The Drow was absent from night training, since Rasha was working on forgery training with Mordren.  Instead of slinging spells or small pointy objects at the spiked chain wielder, Kronmyr was "rehabilitating" his mostly-healed upper back and shoulder.  By doing tiger rolls on the bare stone.  Howler paused to watch Kronmyr tumble all the way across his room before moving to block his return to the other side.

"What do you want?" Kronmyr asked, standing to his feet as he rubbed at his right shoulder.

"You got any antivenom or antitoxin around here?" Howler asked brusquely.

Kronmyr tipped his head slightly.  "Why?  The stuff Mordren's pet wyvern makes won't do, for you?"

"Of the two of you, you irritate me less, and you're awake now, when I need you," Howler replied.  "I don't want to have to explain the foundations of the world to the bitch when all I need is to not die choking."

Kronmyr nodded and walked over to his beat-up desk.  As he rustled around in the lower right hand drawer, he asked, "Gonna explain the foundations of the world to me after I make sure you don't die choking?"

Howler watched the Drow produce a single, slender bottle.  "Tell me you've got more than just that."

"You don't even need all of this, unless you want to take whatever-it-is into your system more than once.  Where I come from, both the poisons and our antidotes are very serious business."

Howler nodded.  "Another reason why I'm here and not with Mordren's bitch.  Now, prepare yourself; if whatever this is awakens Lycan Gan-"

"I've dealt with you before, and I'll do it again," Kronmyr cut in.  "Whatever you're going to do, do it now, before one or both of us loses our nerve."

And with a sharp nod, Howler took a bite of the raw meat that had been intended for Niku.

5:24 The single-carriage road.

Captain Aaron Kennsey "the Shark" Raibeart, recipient of three medals of service, famous for his meteoric rise through the ranks of the Blue Dragons, and infamous for his abject refusal to do anything that would put himself and Lieutenant Taricia Mairiel duGrasse on different ships, was passing his evening calmly in his comparatively spacious quarters.  By the light of a nearby hanging lantern, which sweyed slowly with the rocking of the gentle dock waters, he was hard at work repairing one sock.  The sock's companion, already mended, rested over his knee.  The rest of men in his crew, mariners and sailors alike, were dancing, singing, drinking, and playing cards or domino in some port-side tavern- those of them that weren't tucked into some courtesan's bed.  They all knew that their captain had little concern about their activities ashore so long as they didn't result in arrests, indecency charges, death, or poor performace of assigned duties on the next morning.

The only exception to the dock-side revelers was Taricia herself, just as unwilling to move from Aaron's side as he was to have her move.  However, the seasoned mariner often praised for her focused calm was anything but focused or calm on this first night of the month of Flamerule.  Instead, she moved slowly, but repeatedly, in a diagonal path between the porthole that looked out upon the open sea beyond the port and the door of the captain's quarters.

"There's more rum in the corner cabinet," Aaron stated flatly, without looking up from the sock.

"I know, Ronny, and you've said that three times now," Taricia replied with a sigh.

"I wouldn't have repeated myself if you'd had some the first time I told you," Aaron volleyed, completely undeterred.

"Why would I have rum right now?" Taricia argued.  "I don't nee-"

"You'd have to sit or stand still to drink it," Aaron noted.  "And we both need you to be still."

"Get another chair in here if you expect me to sit," Taricia sighed gustily.  "Is there anything I do that doesn't irritate your peace?"

"No, but there are some things that grate worse than others, and pacing is one," Aaron answered as he set about taking apart a knot in the thread.  "It's good rum; have some."

"You mean, 'Have some more,' and no."  Taricia scoffed and rubbed the back of her neck with one hand.  "If I'm drunk and nervous, I'll cry, and that'll be even worse."

Aaron abruptly stopped picking at the knot in the thread and looked up at Taricia with an intensity that would have passed for absolute fury, had it been coming from anyone else.  "Do you need to cry?  Do you want to?"

"It wouldn't solve anything," Taricia shrugged.

"That doesn't answer either question," Aaron replied. 

Taricia chuckled at his genuine attempt to be considerate of her emotional needs, but broke off into another sigh.  "I'm... not sure, Ronny.  I don't know.  You have enough to-"

"Not anymore I don't," Aaron shot back immediately.  He picked up his mending work and laid it on the tiny dining table beside him.  "You have my full attention, in every capacity I occupy.  Bring me the rum bottle, and sit on my lap; those are now orders, Lieutenant duGrasse."

Taricia moved slowly to the far corner of the room and retrieved the oddly shaped bottle that Aaron had brought back to the ship after a night market stroll on Hawk's Isle.  Despite the many years that had passed since the hardly-notable strife between the eponymous pirate and a much more famous one, the small island still branded itself as the lesser pirate's haunt.  Taricia handed the bottle of "Hawk's Genuine Cane Rhum" to Aaron, then sat sideways on his lap so that she could reach the table herself if the need arose.  Aaron reached his arms around her to pull the stopper out of the bottle, took an ungracious swig, and turned Taricia's face to his own with a firmly-placed finger on the side of her chin.  Before she could protest, Taricia found herself the recipient of a vicious kiss, along with half the rum in Aaron's mouth.  What started as nearly an attack, however, quickly warmed into an accepted embrace; once the kiss had been broken and both parties had swallowed their liquor, Taricia folded her head into the right side of Aaron's neck.  Aaron hummed and cleared his throat of the scorch that the rum put into it, then put the bottle and the stopper on the table one at a time.

"Now, talk, or the next time I do that, I'll bite your tongue first," he threatened as he wrapped both arms around her as though the cabin were cold.

Taricia gave a few small coughs, and wiped at the corners of her mouth, as if any of the rum had managed to escape her.  "You... if anyone ever hears you pulling rank while... fraternizing-"

"I said every capacity," Aaron said, unperturbed.  "Further, the crew already knows about our 'fraternization'.  Not only is it blindingly obvious to everyone why I won't sign off on your being transferred to anyone else's command, there aren't any secrets on this ship- you might not remember that domino game, but my sailors certainly do, and thanks to their hearty reports, quite a few of your mariners congratulated me.  No one's sent a nasty letter to Dauntinghorn as yet."

"That you know of," Taricia frowned.  "And I wish you'd tell me what I did that was so... noteworthy.  Anyhow, this only needs you to be... who you are when you kiss me like that."

Aaron blinked, momentarily lost for a response.  "That was challenging, Reecy," he said after a moment.

"Okay, well, you've just done a very good job of admitting that," Taricia said with a dim smirk.  "How can I help?"

 "You're being playful and serious at the same time, but you're upset, so I don't want to confuse when to say what.  Can you please choose one and stick to it for now?"

Taricia nodded firmly.  "I'll be completely serious; no sass or sarcasm.  But that doesn't mean that I need Captain Raibeart.  I'm going to be serious, but I need the Ronny who's in love with me.  Every other part of Aaron Raibeart can take a quick powder."

The man breathed a quiet, but genuine sigh of relief.  "Got it; talk."

"I'm worried about the risk we're about to take in going to Marsember," Taricia began.  "Just being in the same city as Papa Raibeart is... risky.  Either he's far enough gone that he won't even allow me in the house, or there's just enough of him left for him to start asking questions that we don't have good answers to.  You know the ones.  Besides, you have a Purple Dragon family, and Blue life has always been no end of confusion for them.  Your mother hasn't gotten your rank right even once in all of her letters, and your father likes being confused by how we receive and carry out orders- nevermind who either of us take them from- as much as you do."

"Which is not at all," Aaron noted, despite knowing that he didn't have to say that part aloud.  "My mother has no excuse for not handling my father as she should, and I'm eager to tell her that to her face.  If I could have taken her to the Pillars for not putting him away when he denied Dassy parental leave to join up with honest mariners, as you suggested, I'd have done it.  Thanks to our father's denial, she ran away, sold herself to pirates, and even became a pirate herself.  The true Papa Raibeart lives in Suzail.  We're only landing in Marsember as a courtesy."

"Your father still has enough prestige among his own to take Iordi to the Pillars for murder and treason; the only thing that saved him was his decision to- at last!- enlist with the Purple Dragons."  Taricia sat up and huffed, crossing her arms with a frown.  "I still suspect that's what the old man wanted- to get the last laugh at his 'womanish' youngest son before he hadn't enough of himself left to do so."

"He doesn't have as much pull with the Blues," Aaron counseled, swaying his legs slowly in order to gently rock Taricia.  "He'd have to convince our entire chain of command that we're enough of a problem to be pulled out of service, and I'd love to hear him try.  We're spearheading the freemariner initiative; a few of those brigands have claimed aloud that they won't trust any Cormyrean ship that isn't ours.  We won't be spared our work on the word of a greysword suspected to have half-damp wits."

Taricia tightened her arms around herself.  "I just don't know- and it's the not-knowing that's killing me.  It's the not being sure.  If I were as sure as you are about how little he'd be listened to, it'd be easier, but... I just can't be, not while I have the proof of how powerful his opinion still is in the clear writing of Iordi's judgement papers.  Who knows what would happen if he ever remembered or recognized Dassy?"

"He won't be able to do a damned thing; I swear it.  Stephen can't do her much help from land, but I hunted her captain down to get him on the freemariner deal.  Even if he doesn't stick to it, I've ordered that any woman found aboard a ship is to be arrested and brought to me instead of killed straight away."  Aaron noticed that he'd stopped moving when he fell silent, and began rocking Taricia again.  "When we do go ashore, Stephen and I are going to have a good fight about letting our father even bring those charges against Iordi in the first place.  They couldn't have gone to the Pillars without his allowing it, and I want to know why the hell he allowed it."

Taricia sighed, considering another swig of rum.  "To be fair, your father didn't bring the charges; he reported the murder as a retired lionar, and then Iordi then turned around and admitted to committing said murder, which strengthened credibility that your father shouldn't still have at all.  He could have just let the surviving officer do his job, but because he was so eager to have Iordi punished, he reported the murder himself, put his status as a greysword behind it, and-"

"There wasn't a murder; Iordi might have killed the man, but it wasn't murder," Aaron interrupted, stilling his legs again.

"It's the same thing," Taricia noted.

"It's not," Aaron argued.  "I know Iordi better than any of my siblings; I know what I'm talking about.  The man was killed, sure, but not murdered.  If anything, it can be posited that the man was supposed to die, and the boy isn't any more at fault than a hangman's noose or an executioner's axe would be for the deaths they cause."

"Ronny, Iordyn is a grown man, and he's got to answer for his own tavern wench crusades or poorly-planned forest hunts," Taricia argued, crossing her arms over her chest.  "Further, no one in that court was going to ask a god whether or not a married man who- leaving hungry children and an impaired brother-in-law in his wake- was killed while doing his duty to his country, was supposed to be shot clean through the center of his head by an acolyte who- for some incredible reason- was half the country away from his mentor.  I have the notes of the trial; I sent for them, and I have them.  You should actually read them yourself."

Aaron scoffed and took another pull of rum.  "That nonsense is a waste of time; Iordi is Lathander's archer, and that's that.  No stranger can tell me more about my own little brother than I know."

Taricia pursed her lips, but relaxed them again almost immediately.  "Alright; we'll see for ourselves how Iordi's grown when we talk to him.  Even so, your father is the reason strangers had a hold of him in the first place, Ronny.  The way he weaponizes his displeasure with the choices your siblings make is a real threat to us, because our situation here is a target.  And it will be until either we're married or he's dead."

"That's the important bit; say it again," Aaron said, closing his eyes.  "Be specific."

Taricia unfolded her arms and shifted a bit so that she could look Aaron in the face, even though she knew he couldn't see her at the moment.  "You're safe, but I'm not; if your father gets upset about anything about us, and he decides to tell tales like he did about Iordi, that's it for me.  My father is gone, so his permission no longer legally applies, and I can't stay in service without some man's say-so.  If I'm not your woman- if I'm not married to you and serving the Blues by your leave- then the judges will hunt up some one of my male relatives to dump me on, and I'll be 'Reecy the Briny Aldermaiden' until they hitch me up as fast as possible, like a mare two steps from the glue factory.  Stuck with some idiot farmer or greedy tradesman who's never seen more water than he could drink in his life, I'd die of landsick boredom inside of a single season."

Aaron nodded slowly and opened his eyes.  "We'll visit your father's grave when we're ashore.  Aldermaiden laws and regulations against female mariners are idiot shit; everyone aboard this ship knows that.  And, you're my woman, of course.  I don't mean to make you desperate about it.  I apologize."

Taricia bit her lips and chuckled in spite of herself.  "I'm yours everywhere but on land and on paper, and if I trusted your father farther than I could pick him up and throw him, I'd go on being satisfied with that.  But with things as they are with him, the way he's gone on with Iordi... we need that paper.  Just in case."

Aaron huffed, but nodded.  "When we land, the very first proper priest of any god, I don't care which, will do us the service."

"Let's find a priest of Lathander, so that your mother doesn't lose her voice screaming at you again," Taricia managed through giggles.  "We'll find a priest of Lathander, specifically, first; we'll visit both of my parents' graves afterward.  Then, we can safely visit with your parents, then head to Suzail to either celebrate the baby or console Suze's loss.  And the crew could use more provisions than we're being rationed, while we're in Suzail; some of your sailors are secretly aching and scratching while your back is turned.  I'll remind you, so you can go back to your sock, if you want.  I promise, I feel a lot less like pacing and crying now."

"It can wait," Aaron reasoned.  He laid a kiss in the center of Taricia's chest, then put his head there.  "I'd like to make sure the patch job here is done properly before I go back to that one."

"Tell me you love me, Aaron Raibeart," Taricia smiled wistfully.

"I love you, Taricia Raibeart," Aaron replied without missing a beat.  "With or without coin, with or without land, with or without family, with or without permission or pardon.  That's all the wedding vows that ought to need being said, but we'll say whatever the priest of whoever tells us to as well, so that both my useless progenitors can leave us alone."

5:23 Merely drinking.

 Anaeriel's room in the tavern was sparsely furnished, but richly decorated.  The walls, small table, bed, and chairs were all wooden, and hastily crafted, but curiously enough, the floor and the wash basin were both stone.  There were medals, inscribed with languages that Li Hama could not read, pinned to a cork board that had itself been tacked to the wall at its four corners.  Lovely sashes, dyed the radiant oranges, splendid golds, and robust reds of the most beautiful sunsets were strung all around the room on tacks that hadn't been hammered all the way into the walls, clearly left proud for their purpose.  A few clay incense holders in the corners of the room had nothing but ash in them, but the holder with the squat, slotted metal pot that was filling the air with a delicate jasmine scent looked as though it were solid black stone.  Only the small flicker that occasionally made itself seen at its midnight base let Li Hama know that the flame responsible for slowly warming the incense rested within the brutal piece.  There were a few leaf rubbings tacked to the walls, and some flowers hung upside down to dry.  The latter made Li Hama think on Anaeriel himself.  The concept of him was so sadly beautiful; somehow made a dry shell of the highly-esteemed and decorated archer that he used to be.  A butterfly in amber, the impression of a rose pressed in a heavy book- but then, what was the amber that had trapped and suffocated him?  What heavy event had, like a weighty tome, crushed out his life?

And then Li Hama sighed in frustration with himself.  Not only was it ridiculous to fantasize about how "lifeless" or "delicate" the cheery, street-brawling, cider-loving Elf was, it was inappropriate to entertain such thoughts when he was supposed to be meditating.  Years of training seemed to be doing the distracted monk no help; he could focus neither on his breath, nor on his centers of energy, nor even the awareness of the present moment.  The imagination of Anaeriel loomed large in his mind, smiling gently without saying a word or moving a muscle- a silent witness to the utter failure of the Standing Tree's emissary.

The flesh-and-blood Anaeriel, either blissfully ignorant of his compatriot's struggle or very much aware of it, entered his own rented room with whispered footfalls.  The spicy sweetness of warm cider and the tannin-heavy tang of fresh tea joined the incense's jasmine scent, and Li Hama carefully turned his eyes toward the door without moving any other part of himself.  He watched the Elf place two steaming clay mugs down onto the knee-high, simple wooden table that was close to the warm stones of the chimney, then sit straight down on the floor, facing one of the two mugs.  Since Li Hama could not follow Anaeriel's movements any farther to the right without turning around, he tried again to put banal, mundane matters out of his mind.  The air was rapidly filling with the scent of Anaeriel's drinks, so Li Hama opted to try focusing on the energies within himself instead of on his breath.

Anxiety.  Excitement.  Disapproval.  Loneliness.

The opposite side of the room was completely silent, which Li Hama noticed just seconds before admonishing himself against listening for any sounds that would indicate what Anaeriel was doing.  He abruptly got up and walked over to where Anaeriel was sitting, crosslegged, with his gently closed hands comfortably resting on his thighs.  The Elf allowed the shadow of a smile to play at his lips, but did not look up from his cider-filled flagon.

"Good morning, Friend Tree," he said in a welcoming tone.  "I didn't want to disturb you, but your tea is just there, if you're wanting it now."

Li Hama immediately noted that his companion did not ask if he were thirsty or hungry, which was normally the first topic of conversation between the two men.  "If you didn't want to disturb me, I wonder why you entered at all," he managed through a choked throat.

Anaeriel's smile seemed to fill out, or somehow become more real- not that it had been false to begin with.  It simply seemed to transition from a shadowy semblance to a brighter, more solid thing.

"And when the trout saw the mussel, she cried, 'Go to, churl; wherefore clingst thou to my stone?' " 

Li Hama blinked rapidly, then purposefully breathed out slowly.  "I was meditating.  It is the quieting and centering of the mind; the observation of the connection between one's self and all else in existence."

"Or, it's merely sitting," Anaeriel replied.  The radiant emerald eyes of the Elf looked up from the cider-filled mug at last.  The substance had not originally had alcohol in it, Li Hama knew; it was not the same drink as was drawn from barrels in the basement.  Instead, what had once been pressed and barreled apple juice had been heated with spices, and had a rather high-proof liquor of some sort added to it.  The sharp scent of the alcohol made the monk's nose burn. 

Anaeriel took up the tea-filled mug intended for Li Hama.  " 'Still yourself'," he said, almost too quietly for Li Hama to hear it.  " 'You will see your likeness even in stone'."

"This... what is the intention of this practice?" Li Hama asked, looking from the tea to the man holding it up.  "Did he who has three bears teach this way to you?"

"Come and see," Anaeriel encouraged.

Li Hama wasted a few moments in hesitation, then assumed the kneeling position that he would have while performing his own meditation practice.  He looked at Anaeriel expectantly, but the Elf kept his eyes on the mug, and the tea within.

"Bend a little, Friend Tree," Anaeriel beckoned, his voice little more than a whisper.  "Just a little will do."

Li Hama, deciding to take Anaeriel completely literally, sat just slightly forward and looked into the tea.  When his conscience could bear it no longer, he slid his tender hands underneath and between Anaeriel's calloused hands so that he may at least hold his own mug.  It was far warmer than the monk had at first suspected it might be- a testament to just how protective the thickened skin on the insides of the Elf's hands was.  Anaeriel's hands allowed Li Hama's to take the weight of the tea, but did not depart completely, and for a few moments, Li Hama felt the thrill of being clasped by the hands race through his being.

And then came the embarrassment.  Then, the guilt.  Finally, the disapproval and reproach.

"Come," Anaeriel repeated.  "Warmth felt terrible to one nearly frozen; it burned worse than any wildfire.  Be still, and come."

Li Hama immediately craved the full story, and tried to put away the desire to ask Anaeriel about it.  For a few distracted moments, the Standing Tree monk searched every corner of his mind for something to say or do.

And at last, there was the realization that he was doing exactly what Hai Shui had told him to do.  More mindful of the name of Li Hama's order than Li Hama himself, Hai Shui had given the clear, but metaphorical instruction to "drink mud".  To start at the bottom, with the basics, the nutrients of which all saplings have dire need.  Anaeriel, faithful son of his father, had warned Li Hama in a way that also was metaphorical, but outside of Li Hama's ability to grasp.  So now, here he was, breathing deeply, slowly, inviting Li Hama to do what Hai Shui must have called him to do after all the training,  accomplishments, and accolades that had been gained in the years and battles through which the Elf had come.

Begin again.

The first thing Li Hama noticed, after that realization, was the slightly diminished heat of the cup itself.  Soon afterward, he thought of the cup's weight and smoothness.  The common folk of his homeland made such simple pieces of pottery, with no ornament or design that could embellish or detract from its intended purpose.  In the moment that he thought this, he realized that he was still considering himself in a class apart from those people, as though he hadn't renounced his position and his family's wealth.

Still I cling to that definition of myself- I should have released that before I came here, yet... my master sent me out on this retrieval quest now, as I am.  For what?

"Come and consider with me, Friend Tree," Anaeriel mused.  "Is it possible to consume without having first been consumed?"

Li Hama, noticing that the tea was so dark that he could not see the bottom of the mug, allowed the question to float gently through his consciousness.  In it, there seemed to be echoes of the exhortation to leave desires behind, but he quickly discarded that connection.  Instead of focusing on whether or not it was needful to abstain from consumption, the question rested upon the conviction that consumption would happen.  The sticking point was whether or not one could avoid the state of being consumed- the state of being partially or wholly possessed by the drive to obtain a given object, state or goal.  And Li Hama thought at once of his own goal- true enlightenment.

Was it possible for Li Hama to achieve a life without desire without passionately desiring such a life?  For what else could have driven him to abandon his family, the land and responsibility his father had set up for him, and the wife intended for him, apart from the passion and desire for a state of being that he believed outside of himself?  If it was true that the definition of enlightenment was a life free of desire, but just as true that such enlightenment had to itself be chased down and brought to the self from elsewhere, then it would be just as impossible for him to attain it as it would be for a dog to catch her own tail.  One of the two had to be erroneous- either the definition of enlightenment, or the focus of the methodology used to attain it.

Li Hama put the mug of tea down, and found that he had been holding it by himself.  Anaeriel had returned his hands to his own lap, and was gazing into the mug of cider, but looked up when the monk's movement caught his eye.

"I can ask the bartender to pour me a bit of rum or whisky," the Elf noted.  "To get the blood going.  You've gone pale."

"You've called me Friend Tree for a while now," Li Hama said, reserving his deeper thoughts for further consideration.  "Who are you?"

Anaeriel nodded slowly, but said, "Not who you are looking for."

"Perhaps not, but I've passed by too many of your kin without being able to tell you apart.  If I don't find you, and myself before that, I may never find the one brother that my master sent me to bring back at all," the monk replied frankly.

"You've said it," Anaeriel said, getting up slowly.  "Call me what you see, when you see me.  For now, what do you think- rum or whisky?"

"How should I know, having had neither?" Li Hama chuckled.  "I trust you, brother; bring your Friend Tree what you think is wise and prudent."

"Well, I've never seen blood scared back into someone's cheeks before, but I celebrate the rose of you," Anaeriel joked.  "Let's get you some warm potato, so as to keep that colour where it belongs.  And rum- a bit of sweetness for the occasion."

"The occasion?" the monk echoed, raising an eyebrow.

"The long-delayed beginning of your search," Anaeriel volleyed as he got up.  "Today, Friend Tree, you take root."