Chapter I: Nyermersys

[Roy Tmofl]

The cool waves of rest threatened to envelope him. Just as water douses a fire so this darkness wished to take him. To Roy it seemed as an ocean of darkness. All the time pounding at him with waves of force attempting to drown him.

Yet just like his magic his mind was a raging inferno not to be bested by anything else. For what appeared like hours his mind battled the darkness. It was a battle that was larger than the planet itself inside of Roy's mind. No weapons were used or oaths uttered. Just a simple struggle as old as the day life and death were created.

The oceans of darkness washed over him and battered him until he thought he could stand them no longer. Yet everytime he was beaten down his will rose up and burned away the edges of the vast darkness which threatened him.

Yes perhaps the darkness was an ocean. But his will was a sun. This is why he survived this is why he was still alive.

Roy woke up not knowing any of the dramatic events that just recently took place only knowing that he could have died that very moment. But though he was alive he was not well he could hardly breathe, hear, see, you name it.

However at the moment it did not matter. He knew he must not die that day nor any day in the near future for if he did his existance would have been a waiste. So before he could drift into a nice safe sleep one he would definintely survive he needed to make sure he would last the night.

He rolled onto his side and saw a boy who was strangely familiar with a wolf like creature and a man with a horse.

"Hee-" he manged until he felt a spasm of pain iside of his head which literly took the breathe away from him. With a horrible painfull breathe he gasped out

"Help." hopefully loud enough for some one to hear him as he could no longer remain concious.

[Movash]

"Are you alright?"

The master. Movash had almost forgotten about him. But he was glad to see that the man was alive, and touched by the concern in his voice. Movash looked him in the eye, and nodded.

Did you see me, master?  I was a giant. I was stomping on this city. I kicked away its bridges, I flattened its houses, I swept people away like ants. I was enjoying it. No, not really enjoying. It was as if I had to do it, as if it was the only thing left to me. Did you see me?

It was me, but it wasn't me. I was in another world, perhaps. But it was this world. I don't understand it, master. Do you understand?

Movash could not say what he thought. Instead, he pointed at Humbaba. The underwhelp was breathing feebly in Movash's embrace. Her long tongue hung limply from her beak-like snout. Her naked, puppy-like skin was speckled with fresh sores, some of them oozing. Near her neck, where the rat had sunk its teeth, there was a set of deeper wounds, which were bleeding slowly but unceasingly. Without help, Movash thought, Humbaba would not be well.

He hoped the master would accept her, would see how important she was to him. Did he recognize that Movash had tried to draw her picture earlier? Movash moved his finger to and fro from the master's horse to Humbaba. We both have companions , he wanted to say. Humbaba and your horse, they are the same.

”Help!”

The voice reminded Movash of the raspy cawing of an injured corbie he had once found by the roadside. It belonged to the gaunt man who had battled the ball of fire. He was rolling his thin body on the ground and called out to Movash and the master. It was obvious that he was in great pain, and in despair.

Movash could not see whether the man was wounded. But it was clear that he had not called for help lightly. Movash looked at the master for reassurance, and then began to make his way towards the injured man, pulling Humbaba with him, holding her by a fold of skin under her chin. The underwhelp followed, reluctant and limping.

[Ayaelia]

The night was deepening, spiraling through the dark hours, rolling ever closer to the morning. In the eyes of the stars shone the reflection of the dawn, and senescence hung like a cloud across the face of the moon. But in the cold glow of the woman's eyes, it was eternally twilight. Hers was a distant gaze as she watched the sleek, black creature pull itself out of under the giant rat. It slinked back, out of the alley, but kept its eyes upon her. She stared back with eyes, not compassionate or malicious, but clear and cool.

She was still, but never seemed to be without movement. It was as though the wind had been searching for her, and when it found her standing in the back of the empty alleyway, several peds away from the giant rat that now lay dead upon the cobblestones, it rushed to her adoringly. It caressed her pale cheek and fluttered through her soft white strands.

Somewhere in the sound
of the twilight hours drifting,
there is the call of quiet clouds
and milky moonlight lifting.
And in between the music
that comes when daylight fades
is the echo of a shadow,
the whisper of a shade.

Once the boy's creature had retreated far enough, the woman slipped into motion once more. Her pace was cautious, quiet and graceful, like the pace of death. She paused at the rat and pulled her sword from its temple. She held it, slick and shimmering in her stained hands, but never took her eyes off the underwhelp. In fact, it wasn't until the appearance of the Cyhallrhim that she seemed to soften. It was hard to know if he had broken a spell, or put one on her.

"You silly people shouldn't rush into action so recklessly, especially not if you're injured... It's dangerous!" he chided.

He was looking at her, and she at him with a bewildered look. Her lips parted with blossoming confusion, and her eyes took on a defenselessness.

"To be fair, you two did manage to eliminate a threat. Good job."

Her expression did not change. In one hand, she held her armoured fan, in the other, her moonblade. Both were covered in blood--and on her shirt and across her arms and hands were the smears and stains of crimson associated with her deadly deeds. And yet, to see the innocence that came across her countenance, one might hardly believed she had killed so skillfully, and so much.

Somewhere in the sound
of the temple towers ringing
shines the silver melody
of chirping crickets singing.
And behind that darkling choir
that veils like fragile lace,
resounds the soughing voice
of footsteps made with grace.

"'ey!  'ey!  Some 'elp 'ere.  I be bleedin' ta death," came a gruff shout, and both the Cyhallrhim and the woman turned to see the large man half walking, half crawling toward them. Instinctively, the woman tightened her grip on her weapons, and her eyes flashed with ice and steel, as though the warrior were passing behind them. The Cyhallrhim approached and after a moment began dexterously sewing at the back of the man's head.

The gentle winds infused her movements as she sheathed both her slick weapons. The pest pillar was quiet and the warriors and laymen and all these itinerant souls seemed to be pressing their palms to the earth and lifting their bodies from the dirt. There was blood on the street, and its darkness was half-hidden against the darkness of the stoney streets. A strange, passing thanks whispered in the heart of the woman, who was glad there was no snow.

The sound of footsteps behind her turned her to see a man with dark hair and dark eyes approaching. In color, he was the opposite of the Cyhallrhim who reminded her of home, but he was pleasant to look at, for he moved with the easy grace of an aristocrat, and his manner was strong and confident. He approached, but his eyes were upon the boy. Perhaps he did not see her. Perhaps the shadows were veiling her again. Sometimes she felt them embrace her when the night was old and lonely.

Somewhere in the sound
of the midnight zephyr blowing
are songs of songs and rustling leaves
and distant nightbirds crowing.
And just beneath the chorus line
from where the morn might start
there is the flutter of a gaze,
the beating of a heart.

[Altario Shialt-eck-Gorrin]

For what seemed an eternity, Gurrant waited for someone to come.  He breathed a sigh of relief when one of the group from the tavern hurried up.  Good, a healer, Gurrant thought to himself.

"You're in luck, I've my work equipment with me. Stay still. This will hurt."

A sneer of derision crossed the bearded man's face.  "Well, o' course tis gonna hurt ya fool su-" the word 'surgeon' failed to completely leave his lips as he watched the man pull out tailoring tools.  Not his first choice, to be sure, but then he'd seen more well stitched garmets in his day than well stitched wounds, so perhaps this was divine intervention.  As such, a short silent prayer was offered up to Koraya.

Silently, save for the odd inadvertent grunt, he endured the discomfort of having his scalp made whole once more.  Then, while hearing the faux surgeon's breathing change, where it sounded like he was swallowing air in order not to empty his stomach, Gurrant could hold his tongue no longer.  " 'ey, dressmaker, I'm sorry for puttin' ya through this.  I know 'ow much it must 'urt ya."

Upon completion, Gurrant chose to ignore the dressmaker's attempt at brevity, and instead shot him a glare.  "Jus' cuz I owe ya me life, dressmaker, dunna mean we be friends."

He looked out at the group, and saw the huge warrior at the pillar.  " "ey!  'ey, ye!  If'n ye want ta knows about Kale, then I gots what ye needs ta 'ear."

He looked at the dressmaker and stretched out his arm.  " 'elp me ta me feet, damn ya."

[Thorgas Ironforge]

For a while Thorgas considered taking a nap right there. The headaches subsided, but he's still feeling dizzy. The sweet relaxing embrace of sleep beckons him, luring him further. But he knew he should not sleep...

The demon is still here, waiting for the right moment to strike, biding his time, hidden until the dwarf let down his guard. Thorgas breathed deeply, drawing as much energy as he can. He is enraged. His eyes are ablaze, reflecting his wish to incinerate the demon along with the netherworld that spawned him. From out of the shadows the demon lunges, its piercing claws threatening to impale him. The dwarf managed to catch its claws with his bare hands and fierce fighting ensued -- until reality and its problems came crashing down on him.

He jerked himself up and barely kept himself from screaming. He looked around, noting the pig on his side, the pillar with the skulls, and the people in the plaza. He rubbed his head, trying to remove the throbbing pain and clear his blurry vision. Once he was able to have a clear sight, he stood up aided by his staff.

"ey!  'ey, ye!  If'n ye want ta knows about Kale, then I gots what ye needs ta 'ear."

Information! He hobbled towards the burly man, but walked over to the sleeping elf first and tapped him gently with the end of his staff. "Commander, I would appreciate it if ye don't tell anyone aboot me bein' a mage. Lots o' commoners dunna think o' me kind very highly." He didn't care if the elf heard it or not. Thorgas had said his piece, it's up to the elf if he would heed it or not. With that, he made his way towards Gurrant and stood close by, waiting to hear what the man has to say.

[Garth Avery]

Mouse felt somewhat distanced from the proceedings. After the wailing stopped, some of the people on the square were moving, and others were quite still, possibly recovering from the fight. It was not until a gruff voice called out about knowing about Kale that Mouse himself came back into action. He approached the little group with the bully who had called for their attention. Staying to the side, he made sure to be able to hear everything, though without going into the center of things himself. Now that the fight was over and he was no longer confronted with his own cowardice, he was curious what exactly had caused all this, and if there was a way to stop it. He did not want to go through that again.

[Calron Moonsilver]

From the look of him, the boy was alright, and intact if a bit shaken. Still there could be a lot worse, and for someone who had just undergone a supernatural attack the child seemed to be handling himself well. Perhaps it helped that the boys strange pet was keeping him company. The creature was hurt, but how badly hurt was up for debate.

In silence, Calron sent a silent apology to his tailor and sister, both of whom would surely have a fit if they came to know what he was about to do with a very expensive coat. Undoing the silver buttons with a swift grace, he removed his jacket, and tore it into strips with which he then set about binding the animals wounds. Healing wasn't one of his specialties and he'd never been one to usually fix a person up, but he'd seen his grandmother do at least this much. If hell didn't break loose once more that evening, it was possible that they could get back to the inn so that the animal could be taken care of a bit more carefully. He did his best to be gentle, and made sure that the bindings weren't horribly tight on the dog like animal.

Cloud had trotted over to a robed figure who lay sprawled on the ground, and set about gently nuzzling him. Once Calron had wrapped the dogs wounds, he walked over to Cloud, and looked over the man who lay on the cobbled stones of the square. He'd obviously suffered some grievous injuries, and from his voice it seemed he might have even suffered some internal wounds, but again he was no doctor. It seemed that the man had passed out spectacularly, and while he was hesitant to move him, he was more loath to simply leave the man on the ground.

Carefully, he lifted him up, and lashed him into Cloud's saddle using some spare rope, doing his best not to rock the injured man to badly. In silence, he lead the horse back over to Movash, and motioned for the boy to stand, and follow him. It was then that he spotted a woman who's beauty left him momentarily incapable of movement. She seemed to have materialized from the darkness, and even in the shadows she seemed to glow. She was as pale as the night was dark, and it seemed to him that he'd never seen a being as lovely as her.

Walking up to her he asked, "Are you alright milady?"

[Altario Shialt-eck-Gorrin]

Gurrant took the hand offered by the dressmaker, and pulled himself to hi feet.  For a moment, he tried to steady himself as waves nausea and dizziness washed over him.  When he was sure he was not about to vomit or fall over, he looked at the group surrounding him.

"I 'ave a tale ta tell.  It begins many years ago, far in the north country, where ahm from.  Armies of the dark lord swept o'er the land, killing and enslaving all that opposed.  But my people joined the dark lord.  We were merciless in 'ow we treated our enemies.  But, there were those that were beyond cruel; beyond merely evil.  There were those of us who riveled the dark lord himself in the depths of depravity."

Gurrant paused, taking a deep breath, looking each of them in the eyes.

"One such man, a general, 'elped ta lead the dark lord's armies south.  It was 'e who found a way through the Tandala's.  Yes, there is such a route, even taday, though none now know where it lays, or would travel there even if they knew.  But, this general did pass through.  And for the rest of the war, he was left ta guard this path for the dark lord's army."

He coughed and gingerly touched the stitching on his head, then continued.

"During those years, left with nothing ta do but guard these tunnels under the mountain, the general grew bored and turned his eye toward the peoples living in the foothills.  He sent his men to gather the women, and the children and kill all the men.  And to these women and children, he committed acts so vile that even I dare not repeat them, for the very utterance of it would taint your very soul."

Gurrant shuddered.

"Ta this day, the land still remembers 'is evil.  The wind calls 'is name.  'is eyes can be seen in the flashing of lightning during the darkest storms, and 'is laugh 'eard among the thunder that rolls."

He paused again, for effect.

"And 'is name was Caeltakker."  He nodded toward the Pest Pillar.  "That was the name called out by yonder pillar.  It was 'is evil that lurks there.  For it is said, that as 'e lay dying in his bed, 'is body covered in the sores of the pox, fever gripping him, that 'e vowed to come back.  Vowed to create another army and continue 'is decadent ways."

As if to add to the mood, in the near neighborhood, a dog howled at the moon.

[Roy Tmofl]

Roy did not feel the horse that was nuzzleing him. But he did awke when he was being tied to the same horse. If he could have spoken he would have said thank you. Then he would have told who ever was helping him to waite. But as it turned out he did not have to. When whowever was helping him stopped his horse he was able to perfectly hear the man he had saved.

"I 'ave a tale ta tell.  It begins many years ago, far in the north country, where ahm from.  Armies of the dark lord swept o'er the land, killing and enslaving all that opposed.  But my people joined the dark lord.  We were merciless in 'ow we treated our enemies.  But, there were those that were beyond cruel; beyond merely evil.  There were those of us who riveled the dark lord himself in the depths of depravity."

Gurrant paused, taking a deep breath, looking each of them in the eyes.

"One such man, a general, 'elped ta lead the dark lord's armies south.  It was 'e who found a way through the Tandala's.  Yes, there is such a route, even taday, though none now know where it lays, or would travel there even if they knew.  But, this general did pass through.  And for the rest of the war, he was left ta guard this path for the dark lord's army."

He coughed and gingerly touched the stitching on his head, then continued.

"During those years, left with nothing ta do but guard these tunnels under the mountain, the general grew bored and turned his eye toward the peoples living in the foothills.  He sent his men to gather the women, and the children and kill all the men.  And to these women and children, he committed acts so vile that even I dare not repeat them, for the very utterance of it would taint your very soul."

Gurrant shuddered.

"Ta this day, the land still remembers 'is evil.  The wind calls 'is name.  'is eyes can be seen in the flashing of lightning during the darkest storms, and 'is laugh 'eard among the thunder that rolls."

He paused again, for effect.

"And 'is name was Caeltakker."  He nodded toward the Pest Pillar.  "That was the name called out by yonder pillar.  It was 'is evil that lurks there.  For it is said, that as 'e lay dying in his bed, 'is body covered in the sores of the pox, fever gripping him, that 'e vowed to come back.  Vowed to create another army and continue 'is decadent ways."

He comprehended this information perfectly but was unfortunately unable to record it into his spellbook. This demon interested him considerably. He had never heard of anything like this creature what with its strange cloud like friends and shouting of names. Yet he was strangely interested in it. Perhaps he would learn more about this demon yet. Thought Roy to himself. If so then it might be benificial for him to stay here longer than he had imtended.

[Azalahn]

Azalahn just stood there and wondered if what had happened was a dream... a nightmare or real. The pain from his wounds was real enough so this had to be real as well.

Someone tapped him on the shoulder and then he heard the dwarf's voice: "Commander, I would appreciate it if ye don't tell anyone aboot me bein' a mage. Lots o' commoners dunna think o' me kind very highly."

"very well master dwarf, I your secret keep will, also I for your help in this battle thank you"

Then the human brute started to talk: "...That was the name called out by yonder pillar.  It was 'is evil that lurks there.  For it is said, that as 'e lay dying in his bed, 'is body covered in the sores of the pox, fever gripping him, that 'e vowed to come back.  Vowed to create another army and continue 'is decadent ways."

Azalahn started to look around, the others that had come here from the tavern were here, as well as a few others. He started to walk towards them.

"We perhaps join the others should and then back to the tavern head we can. What do you say master dwarf? Also to ask that human some questions want to you might. Big mouth and very aggressive behaviour to commoners he has, but in real battle very little true courage he has I observed. I thrust him do not."

[Manik Targin]

Blood pounded through Manik's veins as he sprinted towards the group of civilians. He ran for all he was worth and was still sure the rat was gaining on him. He could feel it like a deadly shadow on the back of his neck, waiting for the pain to blosom through his back as it caught him. Through his shaking vision he could see that a house had caught fire, and the group were in a frenzy. No, it wasnt a house on fire. What was it? Manik's heart sank and he almost stopped his run. It was a creature of fire! It was some kind of netherworld demon! By the gods how could this happen?! But the shadow ready to take his life from behind brought his attention back. One thing at a time, he skidded to a halt rounding back towards the giant rodent bringing his sword into a defensive position. The rat was closing in at a full run, and fear pushed against his resolve. Manik had only just turned when another shadow struck the rat from the side, topplin them. The beasts struggled and Manik paused as he made out that it was some sort of large dog come to his aid. He looked back over his shoulder and caught another glimpse of the fire creature and some of the citizens but returned again to the rat. It had the upper hand over the dog.  Manik quickly started forward to help his apparent ally, but he only made it two steps when a deafening concussion hit him from his side and he was thrown through the air. Manik hit the cobblestones and rolled to rest on his back. He struggled for air but couldnt have it. The air was knocked out of him and he was disoriented. The world seemed quiet, but anything but calm. A few seconds and he was wheezing the air back into his lungs and coughing. His sword was beside him so he grabbed it and struggled to his feet. With his left hand on his knee he spun searching for danger, searching for the rat.

There were corpses of rats but none moving. He scanned for the dog, couldnt see it either. Some of the citizens were moving around. That was good, he wondered how many dead they would have. That made him think of Redrik, and he quickly scanned the square once again for danger and deciding it was safe, scanned again for his friend. He couldnt see Redrik and his concern increased, those rats had surely done some terrible wounds. He walked, searching for a sign. His hand hurt and he looked down to see blood dripping from his knuckles, and then realized his knee hurt too. The bearded man that had been part of the group when things went bad was yelling for thread. Manik ignored him and walked to one side of the square, but couldn't find Redrik, so he walked back to search more. His mind was already rolling over the things he needed to do. He needed to organize the wounded, he needed a report for the captain, he needed witness accounts, he needed a reason this happened. All in, he needed help to put order to the residual chaos. But first, his concern for his friend, he needed to find Redrik.

As he made his way up to the group of civilians that had gathered he heard the bearded man call out, "ey! 'ey, ye! If'n ye want ta knows about Kale, then I gots what ye needs ta 'ear." So as he scanned he made his way over. He needed the information but he kept scanning for a sign of Redrik.

As he listened to the man's story he mentally urged the man to hurry, and winced inside at every pause. He scanned the group and saw many were in bad shape, but realized he hadnt seen any dead yet. A ways away he noticed the dog creature that had helped him as well, but had to look again at its strange form. It had a beak so it wasnt a dog, but then what was it? In any case it looked a powerful beast but subdued in the child's arms. And in battle it was an ally, so not a threat for now and Manik dismissed it from his mind.

When the bearded man finished his tale, Manik was scanning the darkness still. He didnt know if he believed the story, but considering what he had seen, he couldnt discount it. Magic, he shivered in the cold. He didnt understand it and it gave him the creeps. He'd let the captain figure that one out. The group was still milling around mostly recovering.

Manik took a deep breath to make himself calm. "Alright everyone," he called in a loud and solid voice, "First thing we need to do is organize the wounded. Once I find someone ill send them to the garrison to fetch the surgeon for anyone who needs it." It was true the wounded were important, but also he hoped the option of the surgeon would keep them together. He couldnt have them disperse because he needed to make a report and he needed to ask questions. "Lets get them over here a bit out of the wind for just now, and could someone find torches so we dont have to do this all in such darkness?" They were civilians and might not respond well to direct orders. "Has anyone seen the other guard that was with me?" Redrik, bloody hell, where are you?

[Ayaelia]

The shining vagabonds alight
their pathways through the sky,
and gaze upon man's rage and fight,
as distant passers-by.
The heart directs the bloody quest
while breezes guide the blades
and seeking out some gentle rest
just leads into the shades.

Find me where the winds are blowing,
night is growing, stars are glowing.
Find me where the birds are crowing
for the peace of dreaming.

Shadows moved through the Nyermersys. They scurried noiselessly along the dirty streets, sticking their snouts into every rancid corner and pressing their bodies into the gutters. They fluttered between the buildings, perching on the sill of windows and the awnings of shops, their feathers darkening the air. They rushed wind-like through the city, and even when they stilled, they were never without motion, never at rest, never at peace--like the heart of the woman who called them home.

She stood not far from the alleyway, watching the souls around her feel for their bodies, lift them, take them nearer to hear what the man with the sewn scalp had to say about the seed from which the events of this night had blossomed in blood-red. With the shadows around her laying the comforting weight of darkness upon her slender figure, she felt almost like a distant star within the blackness of night--shining dimly and perhaps even lonesomely upon the world below.

The night is full of figures roaming
through shadows, drunk of blood.
And while the sky is blue with gloaming
they press the ruddy mud.
Quick ears alight on every sound
and eyes search out the black.
Both cry and quietness resound
between each new attack.

Find me where the flames are lighting,
storms are fighting, chill is biting.
Find me where no heart is writing
of the peace of dreaming.

And though the wind pressed her with its coolness, she could not deny the feeling of breathlessness. This night wore her, drained her: the wound upon her side still cried tears of blood into her shirt, and her broken rib ached. No expression of pain dimmed her features. No cry of pain broke her shell of silence. And yet, her nerves all knew the injury, and insisted upon it loudly--so loudly that she almost didn't hear:

"Are you alright milady?"

The woman blinked a few times, like clearing clouds from the twilight of her eyes, and her gaze settled upon the young man she had seen before. His hair and eyes were like midnight, and there was a kind strength in his manner that threw her a bit off-guard. Perhaps it was the exhaustion clouding her over, or blood loss pressing away her senses, but between the darkness of the shadows around her and the darkness of his gentle eyes, she felt strangely at ease. Her lips parted, as though to answer, but before she could speak, the gruff man spoke loudly, catching her attention like a sudden gust of air, and her body tensed, but a little:

"I 'ave a tale ta tell.." he began, and the woman listened as best she could. She had not been in Santharia for very long, and though she had grown somewhat accustomed to the Santharian accent, the accent of this churlish man sounded strange to her, and she could barely follow his story.

Her attention never left the dark-haired aristocrat that had come to her, but she felt at ease with his presence: either some part of her knew he meant her no harm, or it knew that, in her current state, she could not avoid harm if indeed he meant it. She was weakening again, for her body could not sustain the tensity.

The story concluded. Somewhere far off, a dog howled. A quietness settled. A quietness was settling in her, too.

"Alright everyone," called a voice some ways off. "First thing we need to do is organize the wounded. Once I find someone ill send them to the garrison to fetch the surgeon for anyone who needs it." The woman looked in the direction of the voice, and her eyes settled upon a figure trying to organize the baffled herd of people scattered about the pest pillar. "Lets get them over here a bit out of the wind for just now, and could someone find torches so we dont have to do this all in such darkness?" She noticed the authority in his voice, in his dress, in his manner: a guard. "Has anyone seen the other guard that was with me?"

Her body tensed again, and the wind urged her to run, run, run. Her quickening breathing and heartbeat put up sails to catch the breeze out of the square, away from the guard. She took a small step back, her eyes looking at the dark-haired gentleman briefly. He suddenly looked blurry to her, framed in a darkness that invaded from the edges of her sight. She took another step back: her head was swimming, and she noticed that the pain from her wounds had numbed.

She sought a third step, but never made it. A black faint took her at last, and she collapsed.

The leaves may whisper out a name
reminding of days gone,
and what may come when hearts grow tame
and darkness finds the dawn.
The wind, though soaked with sounds of war,
remembers sleepy dells,
recalls the sea beneath the stars
and knows the salty swells.

Find me where the bells are ringing,
wounds are stinging, sorrows clinging.
Take me where the trees are singing
in the peace of dreaming.

For somewhere boughs are bright with bloom
and breezes know a tune
to sweep away the nightly gloom
and wax the pale-faced moon.
And somewhere there's a hearth aglow
forgetful of things past,
a heart to press, and peace to know
when dreaming comes at last.

Take me where the clouds are raining,
dusk is waning, evening's gaining.
Take me where there is no straining
for the peace of dreaming.

[Warrior Kaelan]

Kaelan listened to the man's story, half-interested, and gave a dismissive, amused snort when it finished. Slowly, he dropped his bastard sword back into its sheathe, and turned his back on the crowd. Sorted out, then. Well, not really, but this was for mages, scholars and the like. Unless someone had some money and needed a sword-arm, his job here was done; not to mention the nasty business surrounding his former employer.

He made his way around the outside edge of the crowd, past the wounded, exhausted people, and turned south for a gate. Getting out was fairly important, just now. Answering for Kret's murder, though he didn't do it, was more than he cared to handle. He was several paces from the pillar when a guardsman showed up and started trying to put the crowd into an organized posse as opposed to the mob they'd been. Fair enough, and good for him. Keep them busy. The short, fat man's rotting corpse would let them know what had happened by morning, and Kaelan would be gone. At least, that was his plan. Somewhere to his left someone was dropping, but they were too far away to do anything about; he reminded himself it wasn't his problem, and kept walking.

[Movash]

When the  master bound strips of his nobleman's cloak around her wounds, Humbaba did not flinch. She accepted him, whom she had never smelled before. She did not usually take to people so. Was it a bad sign? Was she hurt so terribly that all her spirit had seeped out of her with her blood, leaving her unable to protest at a strange man's touch? Or did she trust the master because Movash was by her side, stroking the side of her neck, willing her to keep still and let herself be helped? Or maybe her animal senses simply knew what Movash was only just beginning to believe: that the master was a good man. He also helped the gaunt fellow who had called for help. The master picked him up – in the tall master's strong arms, the little wounded man looked like a child – and carefully, but without hesitation or fuss, placed him on his horse.

Movash watched. He now sat more relaxed: his legs crossed, one hand on Humbaba's back, who lay beside him, and was restless. She kept bending her neck backwards and guided her snout to one side of her back or the other, where she tried to lick her wounds, only to find that they had been bandaged and she could not reach them. Then she turned her head back to the front and rested it on her paws. However, she soon forgot about the bandages and turned her head backwards once more, to find once again that her tongue could do nothing. This she repeated every few blinks. Movash patted her gently, tried to calm her, and thought about who his master was.

The master approached the fierce lady who had saved Humbaba from the rat – but Movash did not hear what they spoke, for his attention was caught by the loud voice of the fat giant: the man who was the reason that all these people had gathered at the pest pillar. He was speaking to the kind elf, who had apparently treated his wounds. For the first time, Movash wondered where the fat giant came from. His accent was none that Movash had ever heard before – and, having been a circus child, Movash prided himself on being able to place most tongues spoken between Bardavos and the Tandalas.

Movash did not want to hear the story that the giant had to tell. War, killing, unspeakable things done to children – it was all too similar to Movash's own memories. He wished he could shut his ears, as he had shut his mouth. Yet he could not; he had to listen. The fat giant's words splashed into Movash's imagination like exploding sacks of liquid dye, creating painfully colourful scenes of cruelty and death.  He saw this man Caeltakkar, who had committed a vile deed for every hour that he had lived. Caeltakkar towered over the landscape of Northern Sarvonia, standing high over the trees and houses, dwarfing the mountains of the Tandala Highlands. His cough made a wind that blew the roofs off houses, and uprooted trees. When his eyes looked at you, his hatred made that you were struck by lightning. When he spoke, your ears curled up in fear and your soul shrunk like a dried fruit.

And then he remembered his visions. Only an hour ago, the spirit or the demon or whatever it had been that had inhabited the pest pillar had sent visions to Movash. While he had sat on the ground, swarmed by rats, he had dreamed himself the destroyer of cities, the crusher of people, the bringer of death. Was it Caeltakker himself who had thus spoken to him? But why would he choose to send his message to an insignificant little boy? Movash frowned, and for a moment, he even stopped stroking Humbaba's neck. Something did not feel right. In his visions, Movash had destroyed everything in his path. And yet, at the same time, he had felt quite helpless, as if nothing could ever be right again, however much he enjoyed trampling things into the ground. Humbaba nudged Movash's hand with her snout, and he resumed his stroking of her, albeit more absent-mindedly than before. Caeltakkar did not sound like a helpless man. Was it really him who had sent Movash those horrible images? But what did they mean? What had Caeltakker wanted to say?

[Thorgas Ironforge]

"Big mouth and very aggressive behaviour to commoners he has, but in real battle very little true courage he has I observed. I trust him do not."

The dwarf nodded absentmindedly to the elf's comment. Although he tried his best to listen to what he has to say, what the burly man was imparting is much more important that his opinion. And besides, is it cowardice to save one's self from death? Thorgas took himself as an example. If he had not been surrounded by the killer rodents, he would have ran away instead of standing his ground and defending himself. History will not remember how dramatic one's failed attempt at heroism against overwhelming odds looked like, and only the living get to tell their tales.

As the man told the story of the pillar, it occurred to him that the town hides more secrets than he cared to discover. But what does this Caeltakker had to do with a pillar dedicated to a plague? From what he had gathered, he was an evil tyrant who abused the people under him. That doesn't make him special. History is filled with men willing to rape the very land they conquered for their own pleasure. What separated this creature from the others was that he was able to rally animals and other-worldly beings under his command. To the dwarf this was the most disturbing news of all.

His musing was cut short when a town guard took the responsibility of organizing the rag tag group of strangers. He began shouting orders at them. Normally the stubborn dwarf would not let a tallfolk boss him around. It's not that he is uncooperative, but dwarves are naturally obstinate and would follow no command unless it came from a dwarf of higher authority. He did notice the need for order in this chaos though, so he shuffled his way somewhere near the middle of the gathering, motioning to his pig to do the same. The boar sat down on the cold pavement, choosing a location where there were no pools of blood.

Could someone find torches so we dont have to do this all in such darkness?"

Thorgas did not speak up. Although he can provide some light whenever needed, he was not about to announce to the group that he was a sorcerer. The dwarf knew well what town guards do to magic users, whom the public often blame for bad harvests, epidemics, and tragedies, to name a few. Hopefully the chaos that ensued earlier covered his use of magic.

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