Insight

Prologue
“A dream itself is but a shadow.”
 * - Hamlet, William Shakespeare

''It is the Eleventh hour by the Shadow on Cointaking, the 16th day of Whistlewind in the year 627. It is a very cold night. The air is stagnant, not stirring with the slightest breeze.''

Clanging Gong  -


 * A popular hangout for retired soldiers from the Emperor's Blades who have made this town their home away from the bustle of the palace on Caryas Hill or the usually dull routine of life on patrol atop the Aegis, the Clanging Gong was established by Yontalas Lomasa, but built with help from about a dozen former Bladesmen and Horsemen who served with Yontalas.


 * A scattering of polished biinwood tables surrounds a C-shaped counter for the keep and the kegs of ale. A rectangular fireplace with a polished granite mantel has been built into the eastern wall.

-

Norran and Celeste currently sit together at the bar, both of them engaged in quiet conversation. Norran is outfitted in his half-plate and is turned slightly so he can face her, while Celeste wears her usual attire.

Celeste lowers a hand to the bar between her and the Lomasa. "What do you mean, looking at us? I have I not stayed away while you worked things out with Kat?" She cants her head to the side. "No regrets, Norran. It's been a long time since someone has done such things. It just came at such an odd time, I had left you and Kat...and went to drink for a bit."

Norran grins again, explaining, "Before you decided to force Kat and I to talk, we were an obvious enough pair at times." He rests his own arm on the bar, a few inches away from Celeste's as he leans against it. "I'd have no idea how he could've said anything, otherwise. You should've stayed."

The air outside is frigid, but still, so there's little to announce Syton's arrival except the creaking tavern door. He drags himself in and closes the door, leaning back against it for a moment before plodding towards the bar. As he walks, he throws his hood back, revealing a young man that's missed at least one night's sleep. His eyes are heavy and bloodshot, and there's an unusual amount of blond stubble on his face. The young merchant falls into a seat at the bar, several feet down from Norran and Celeste. He doesn't seem to notice them. Syton rests his head in his hands and calls and order to the bartender in a raspy voice.

"I ...didn't want to go," Celeste mumbles. "But I didn't realize you would reconcile...you love her, Norran. You said that to me just yesterday." She reaches up to brush a white gold lock behind her ear, shrugging slightly. "Seemed you had enough girl troubles without me throwing my gauntlet into the mix." She shifts uncomfortably on the chair, but her arm remains on the counter.

"She's the mother of my daughter, Celeste. I always will, just...not in the same way that I once did," replies the Lomasa with a sad smile directed at the blonde Mikin, before taking notice of Temple wandering in from outside. The short height and the blonde hair tend to be enough to give the Lomasa notice. "Well, speak of the Shadow," murmurs Norran to Celeste, eyeing Temple but speaking no words as he looks curiously over Celeste's face. "Is there a reason the both of you look like you've decided to forget sleeping for a night or two?"

Syton yawns and rests his forehead against the bar for a moment before he seems to realize that the bar is, in fact, quite dirty. He lifts his forehead up and wipes it with one hand, looking disgusted as well as tired for a short time. He shakes his head violently, trying to wake himself up. Syton rubs his tired eyes and turns around, facing the rest of the tavern. He watches the other patrons of the tavern, holding his eyes wide open, so as not to nod off. Still, he doesn't seem to have noticed the other nobles with him at the bar.

Celeste follows the gaze of the Lomasa, her own blonde brow knitting together. "He was up late with me, but I don't think that would be it." Turning her back towards the Lomasa as she stands, a hand raised in the air to catch the Freelander's attention. "My my, are you following me, Master Temple?" A soft laugh escaping her as the stress seems to leave her face at the man's apparent tiredness. Slipping out from in front of the Duke to walk towards the Freelander, "you look like you haven't slept since I saw you...shall I carry you to bed or would you prefer to walk?"

"Then what would your reasoning be for you own?" queries the Lomasa curiously as he rises after Celeste, walking off with a slight shifting of his armor while he moves. "Unless Master Temple remained up all night in total devotion to Master Stumper's teachings, I'm not very impressed at all."

Syton turns to regard Celeste through a single, bloodshot eye. Without saying anything, he leans back, peering around her to Norran. "Hail, my Lady. Hail, your Grace." He nods slowly to each of them and runs his hand through his hair. "You may carry me to bed if you wish, my Lady, but I think you've trouble enough." Syton turns around at the barkeep and accepts a mug of ale with a tired nod and some murmurs of thanks. His attention returns to the nobles and he asks, "How does this night find each of you? Well, I'd hope."

"I told you my reasoning, Norran, "Celeste chides the Lomasa softly as she reaches the freelander's side. Her gaze drinking in his appearance, "I might just do that, Syton. Do not tempt me to prove that I can handle you like a new born babe," a smile upon her lips as she states this. "Now...want to tell us what happened?" Leaning back as she crosses her hands towards the Freelander. "I've a small jealous streak in me, unfortunately, Celeste," playfully returns Norran, nudging the Mikin softly in the side with a chainmailed arm before turning his attention back to Temple. "Or I could drag you up there, Master Temple. Celeste is far more gentler than I. Yes, the answer to her question sounds like it could be quite interesting."

"Then take a seat," he says, belatedly adding, "please." Syton motions vaguely to the seats beside him at the bar. "It's silly, and will probably make little sense to either of you, but I'll tell you, because you asked." He takes a swig of his ale and unclasps his cloak. "I've two stories to tell... Neither is long, but please interrupt me if you want."

Celeste shoots the Lomasa a perplexed look at his jest but moves to take the seat directly in front of the Freelander. "I'm sure that we will be wrought with questions, Syton." Sitting down, she turns slightly so to focus on both men. "But in the end, if I have to drag you off to a room to sleep... then I shall do just that... gentler or not."

"I'll explain later," concedes Norran, grinning faintly before taking his seat near Celeste. It puts him a stool away from Temple, but easily within earshot. "I'm sure he can make his way there on his own, but for the moment let him speak."

"I'll be fine," Syton insists, clearing his throat and taking a deep breath. "This is a story that my grandfather used to tell me," he says, adding, "I don't know if it’s true." The freelander pauses for another moment before he begins.

"A long time ago, before the Aegis, I had an ancestor--of my father--who was a weaponsmith. His name was Passon, a name now shared by my older brother. He worked for an ancient nobleman, though I cannot say who, or of which house. Passon owed his livelihood to his liege, and labored loyally for the man for many years." Syton says this first part quickly, as if to get through it. He slows his voice down a bit, and continues: "As the nobleman grew older, he grew mad, and one day he ordered Passon to make him a dagger. He said to Passon, 'make me a blade so sharp, that it can cut the space between things.'"

Syton leans back and takes another breath, considering how to go on. "Passon asked how he could do such a thing, and his liege replied, 'sharpen it.' So Passon did as he was told. He made a dagger and he began to sharpen it against a whetstone. He started with a coarse stone, then a finer one, and a finer one. He went to miners and jewelers to find the smoothest stones that there were. The stones he used, some of them, may not even be found within the walls any longer." The young storyteller smirks and shakes his head slowly. Then, he continues, "Finally, after years and years, focusing his life on this one task, he took the blade to his liege, who was nearly dead from age. The nobleman took the blade"--Syton holds out his hand, as if holding a knife--"and he cut the air in front of his face."

There is a long pause and another deep breath. Syton rubs his eyes with both hands. "There are two ends to this story. The first is that Passon saw what was behind the cut, and it drove him mad enough that he threw himself from the battlements that very night. The other ending is that, as soon as it was open, nightmares poured forth from the cut. Horrible things, whatever they were, and Passon spent the rest of his life fleeing from them." His story seeming to be over, Syton just shrugs and takes a drink from his ale.

"And this is why you are so tired," Celeste muses. Her sea green gaze seeking out the Lomasa behind her, a sly smile to her lips. As she turns back she places an arm on the bar, so to rest her head on her hand. "And the next story, my friend?"

"I've seen mysterious slashes in the air before. Well, one. At the crossroads. Shimmering violet, the Stranger came from it. Anyone who touched it faded to ash," murmurs the Lomasa quietly after Syton's first words, grinning afterward to Celeste. "Continue, Master Temple."

"The second story is worse," Syton warns, though exactly what he means is not clear. The freelander sets his mug on the bar and begins again. "One or two generations after the Aegis, when the land inside was beginning to be tamed, a homesteader was out one afternoon, tending to his land. In the fields, he heard a soft buzzing, and looked down to find a large, shiny brown beetle, the size of his palm, scurrying through the dirt." He holds his hand out in illustration.

"Something about the bug bothered him, so he crushed it beneath his boot," Syton says, stamping his foot down against the floor. Smiling, he adds, "but the beetle was not harmed. The farmer took his hoe and bludgeoned the beetle with its blunt end, but it didn't die. It just kept scurrying, slowly, over the dirt. So the farmer took it in his hands and carried it back to his home. He tried to kill it again with a hammer and with a knife. He became more and more enraged as each attempt failed. He threw it into the fire, but it just crawled out, so he took it to the blacksmith, who crushed it beneath his heaviest anvil. The beetle just crawled out from beneath it. Finally, the farmer took the beetle to the mill and ground it beneath the millstone. It looked just as it did when he first found it, shiny and brown, buzzing softly."

Syton yawns into one fist and shakes his head again, keeping himself awake. Expressionlessly, he finishes the story. "Finally, one night, his anger having passed, the farmer took it deep into the woods and dropped it onto the dirt, resolved to be rid of it. As he turned to leave, he heard it... a buzzing, like that of the beetle, but much, much louder. It was the sound of a swarm. He turned, and saw through the darkness. A whole swarm, a blanket of beetles covering the forest, shiny and brown, scurrying slowly through the underbrush. He ran back and warned his neighbors, but none believed him, and no swarm ever came from the forest. Still, he spent the rest of his life convinced that they were coming, and died weeping for his family, who he thought would be consumed."

Celeste leans back in her seat, contemplating the freelander. "Sounds as though you have been speaking with Master Taran. But how do these stories bring you little sleep?"

"Master Taran tells it in a better falsetto, Celeste," chides the Lomasa, settling to lean against the bar as he further watches. "Yes, two interesting stories, I suppose. But what does it all mean?"

"I've no idea what they mean, Your Grace, if there is even a meaning to be had." Syton twists around and takes his mug back up off the bar. "As for why I can't sleep. I laid down last night, and those two tales came to me. I do not know if I was dreaming, or if my mind just wandered to them, but I could not think of anything else." The freelander takes a drink from his mug, then exhales slowly and shrugs. "Two tales that tell nothing, I suppose."

Celeste reaches a hand towards the freelander's hand. "No story is without meaning, or warning. Perhaps there is something within them that you should heed." She glances back to the Lomasa, "don't you think so, Norran?"

"You're either mad, or you're Shadow-Touched," figures the Lomasa, shrugging his shoulders at the thought. "Either way, you're better off asleep." With that, the armored Lomasa slips off the stool, walking slowly to approach Temple. "Walking will make it easier, I'm sure."

"Optimistic as always, Your Grace," Syton replies, grinning weakly. He makes no attempt to move his hand away from Celeste's touch, he just rubs the back of his neck with his other hand, then uses it to finish his ale. "I think I'm going to sleep tonight whether I want to or not, so neither one of you need worry for me. You both have enough of your own, without adding my foolishness on top of it." "I have little concerns," Celeste quips. "But it seems that His Grace does not wish for me to hoist you up to bed myself." She waves a hand towards the freelander with a mischievous grin to her face. "Though, I disagree that you are Touched...sometimes we have thoughts that refuse to let us sleep."

"Mad, then," concurs Norran with Celeste, flashing the Mikin a grin before looking back down to Temple. "You'd better move along, then, Master Temple, before Baroness Mikin does it herself."

"I would be mad, your Grace, if I were to refuse Lady Celeste's offer." Syton chuckles, coughs, and then leans back against the bar. "I believe I'll stay up a while longer, at least. I've some energy left... though not much." He looks back and forth between Celeste and Norran. "Unless you're trying to run me off, that is."

"We are not trying to run you off," Celeste scolds playfully. "You just look a bit haggard is all. I'm sure that if His Grace needs to speak quietly with me some more, then we could do so outside." She arches a blonde brow to the Lomasa, "though I would like that comment explained at some point."

Norran looks slightly disappointed at Celeste's words, glancing warily toward the tavern's door. "Outside, Celeste? It's freezing out there! And dark. And did I mention cold?"

Syton looks at Norran for a moment, then turns to Celeste and nods in agreement. "Very cold," is all he says. He runs his hands through his hair again, tilts his head back, and closes his eyes.

"I'm sure you cold brave the cold," Celeste laughs, shaking her head. "It depends on its importance, and I see you dodge my questions as I do yours at times."

"You dodge mine with far more frequency, Celeste, but at least you finally admit it," chides the Lomasa afterward, Temple quite conveniently forgotten. This said, he turns and begins to lumber off toward the door.

Syton's head starts to fall over to one side, then he jerks it back upright and opens his eyes. "Okay," he finally admits. "I'm falling asleep." The freelander slowly rises to his feet, supporting himself heavily against the bar.

Celeste stands quickly, nodding her head in apology towards Temple. "Light Keep you, Syton." She turns quickly to follow the Lomasa, a frown deepening on her brow as she crosses her arms.

"It won't be nearly as exciting as you think it to be, Celeste," answers the Lomasa as they continue off outside, a passive grin on his face as he draws his cloak about him and makes his way into the freeze.

Chapter 1
Know then thyself, presume not God to scan The proper study of mankind is Man Placed on this isthmus of a middle state A being darkly wise and rudely great
 * - Know Thyself, Alexander Pope

''It is the Ninth hour by the Shadow on Riverstretch, the 22nd day of Whistlewind in the year 627. It is a very cold night. The slightest breeze stirs over the land infrequently.''

Darkwater Keep Mastery


 * An iron chandelier dangles from the arched ceiling of this vaulted chamber, walls adorned with colorful tapestries and drapes of violet velvet. The biinwood door leading back into the corridor is engraved with a horned Lomasa bull - a reminder that this castle originally belonged to House Lomasa. But the purple and black raven banner hanging above the black marble dais and biinwood throne leave no doubt that this edifice now belongs well and truly to House Zahir. An oval table of polished biinwood, surrounded by cushioned chairs, provides a place for the master of Darkwater to meet with guests and advisors.


 * You appear to be alone here. A steel vault is here. A violet velvet oak throne is here. A violet velvet oak chair is here. A violet velvet oak chair is here. A black marble table is here. A large violet velvet tapestry is here.

Thayndor Zahir sits in the throne at the far end of the Mastery, in front of the large marble table. He's conversing with a small man who sits at a chair at the table in quiet tones.

Syton Temples meanders, more or less, into the mastery, looking both confused and awed. His eyes scan the chamber quickly, settling on Thayndor. A slight smile comes to the freelander's face, and he takes a few steps towards the throne. He says nothing yet, waiting to be acknowledged.

"Ah! Master Temple, please approach. Toomes, could you leave us?" Thayndor says. The scribe stands and, with a slight bow to Temple, walks out. He closes the door behind him.

"Thank you, my Lord," Syton says, coming a few steps closer to Thayndor. "This is a marvelous keep, my Lord," he adds, glancing around briefly. "It has lived up to its reputation and more."

"Thank you, Master Temple. I was unaware the Keep itself had a reputation. More the drinking and whoring habits of my men who live in it." The Zahir smirks, and gestures. "As you can see, we are alone here. Please, have a seat."

Syton smiles and nods, moving to take the nearest chair. "I must admit that I was surprised at your summons, my Lord," he says, fidgeting with the gloves of his armor. "How may I be of service? Thayndor Zahir says, "Have you not yet taken the Mark because your current sponsor is too immoral and incompetent to protect you to your liking?" Thayndor acts, directly. He leans back and crosses one leg over the other, resting one elbow on his knee.

Syton seems confused for a moment, then sighs slightly, looking down to the table. "My Lord," he says, speaking in a carefully measured tone, "I know there is some misunderstanding between us about this, but I am not Shadow Touched." He shakes his head. "I've no powers. No gifts, or curses, or whatever you will call them."

Thayndor Zahir smiles a knowing smile. "Ah," he says. "I see now. You don't know it yet." The Zahir uncrosses his leg and rises, stepping down from the dais. "Master Temple, I did not know I was Touched myself, until a few months ago. I knew there was something strange going on. I felt more at home in cold weather on the river than I did inside with a fire going near my feet. I felt attuned to the water and the movement of the wind. I thought it was just an innate love of nature. It turned out to be a connection with the elements far greater than simple appreciation, but I was not sure until very recently."

Syton just falls silent for a few moments, listening to Thayndor. Even after Thayndor finishes, the freelander remains quiet for several seconds more, still picking idly at his gloves. "I've nothing like that, my Lord," the freelander replies, sounding as though he's lost the wind in his sails. "So you will have to forgive me, my Lord, if I believe to know myself."

"I thought I did too," Thayndor replies sympathetically, pushing his cloak out and sitting at the table across from Temple. "When the realization came, I was confused. Briefly." He grins. "You see, Master Temple, I have always been Touched. I must have always been Touched. Yet I am still the same man who has been twice over the Aegis, risked death fighting Wildlings in defense of Hawk's Aerie, was nearly disemboweled while defending the honor of a long lost love. I am, in short, just as worthy and noble as I was before I knew. Thus, being Touched must not inherently blemish one's character.""

"My Lord, I trust that you wouldn't deceive me about something like this, but I've my entire life telling me that I'm not what you say I am." Syton tilts his head to the side a bit, leveling his gaze--a mixture of confusion and determination--at Thayndor. "So please tell me, my Lord, why should I believe you?"

Thayndor Zahir leans forward again. "Shadow-Touched have a way of identifying their own," Thayndor replies. "A sort of sight that reveals the measure of a man -- if he is a Mage, I mean, or has the capacity to become one. I don't have the sight ... but someone I trust does. And has identified you as carrying power similar to mine."

"I... I..." Syton is at a loss for words, his mouth opening wordlessly. He leans back in his chair and shakes his head for several seconds. "My Lord, this is madness," he finally says, frantic and exasperated. "How can I be Touched? I can't do anything!"

Thayndor Zahir watches Temple closely, smiling with sympathy. "Because you are not a Kahar," the Zahir replies, as if it was that simple. "Master Temple, perhaps you cannot do anything now. When I noticed that something was strange, it was just that -- a strangeness. Only with time have I come to begin mastering my power. And my grasp of this magic is tenuous at best."

Syton breathes deeply, resting his hands for a moment on his lap. "So..." he begins slowly, "someone you that trust, but I don't know, told you something that I feel, with every bone in my body, is not true, and there is no proof beyond this power, which you don't have." He shakes his head again, "I know your intentions are well-meaning, My Lord, but I don't know what you expect me to do with this."

"The fact of the matter is that you have a gift," Thayndor replies. "If you do not believe me, seek another Mage -- present yourself to Duhnen Seamel and ask that he explain what it is that I say. He is not the one who told me of your powers, but in times past he helped mages when it was risky to do so. Tell him what I have said and he will find a means of proving or disproving it for you."

"Lord Duhnen Seamel..." Syton repeats the name carefully to himself, thinking it over for a few moments. While he's deep in though, something occurs to the young freelander. He straightens up quickly, and his puzzled look deepens. "Why tell me this now, my Lord?" he asks. "Why go through the trouble of summoning me here? What value is there, for you, in telling me this?"

"Because you're going on my expedition, for one," Thayndor replies. "Understanding what you are will increase your chances of survival. And when you know what you are, you will be able to make a decision about whether or not to take the Mark. Which I would strongly, strongly encourage, and I would offer you Darkwater's protection should you fear persecution for revealing your nature."

Syton looks down at his lap for several seconds, then just nods. "I don't know if I believe you, my Lord," he says with a helpless shrug, "and I don't know if any man would." He frowns before continuing. "However, I will try to find out."

"You must try to find out," Thayndor replies. "If you are indeed Touched, unknowingly, and someone with ill intent divines your nature ... you and those you love would be placed at great risk."

"I understand, my Lord," Syton replies, shaking his head slowly. The freelander begins to stand and says, "If there's nothing else, then, my Lord..."

Thayndor Zahir shakes his head. "That is all, Master Temple," he says, rising. "Light keep."

Syton stands and bows his head to Thayndor. "Light keep you, my Lord," he replies before turning to exit the room.

Chapter 2
"We know the truth, not only by reason, but also by the heart."
 * - Blaise Pascal

''It is the Twelfth hour by the Shadow on Cointaking, the 23rd day of Whistlewind in the year 627. It is a terribly cold and frigid night. The air is stagnant, not stirring with the slightest breeze.''

Hawk's Aerie 


 * The sprawling township of Hawk's Aerie is one of the plushest, wealthiest and most politically important settlements in the realm of Fastheld, poised as it is at the fork of River Road and the Imperial Thoroughfare, with control over the economically vital Fastheld Wharfs and the strategically critical access point of the bridge that spans the Fastheld River to Aegis Road.


 * Founded five centuries ago by Edran Nillu, the bustling river port town has been a primary source of that noble house's cache with the throne on Caryas Hill and the guilds of the Market District, and has enabled the Nillus to establish themselves as an economic powerhouse.


 * The streets are kept clean of garbage and filthy peasants as much as possible. The elegant stone and wood buildings are kept in fine repair. It is rumored that the ravens of Hawk's Aerie get their talons polished, morning and night.

Chaori Balsam rides her wagon in from the south, at a trot.

No one lingers outside for too long on a night like this. The few people seen on the streets move quickly from warmth to warmth, avoiding the bitter cold as much as possible. Those forced to stay outside, like guardsman, huddle closely around their fires. One cloaked figure stands as the exception to this rule, pacing up and down the streets restlessly. As it passes fires and open windows, flickers of light reveal the figure to be the young Syton Temple. Perhaps it is only a trick of the light, but Syton appears rundown, exhausted, and much worse for wear.

Chaori Balsam gets that fat pig of a horse of hers to stop next to Syton, or relatively close. "Good evening, Syton," she calls down from her perch. "How are you?"

"Mmmm?" Syton groans inquisitively, ceasing his restless pacing at Chaori's words. He looks up to her, showing that he has seemed to miss at least two days worth of shaving and bathing. "Chaori?" he asks, puzzled for a moment before nodding at her. "Good evening," he says quickly, "I'm fine. You?"

At closer range, Chaori has a bandage on her right cheek. "I'm recovering," she says. "I hate to say this, Syton, but you look terrible. Can I coax you in out of the cold, at least?

Syton blinks at Chaori, lost for a moment before shaking himself free and refocusing on her. "Yes, of course," he says. "I could use the company." The freelander touches his cheek, where Chaori's bandage is, and asks, "Are you okay?"

Chaori Balsam visibly steels herself before answering, "Yes, it's just a recent tattoo. Don't worry, it's healing fine."

"Good. Then I could really use the company." Syton says gruffly, eyeing Chaori's bandage for a moment. Finally, he coughs into one of his hands and flicks his head back towards the tavern. "How about you stable your wagon, and we get out of the cold before it kills us?"

Chaori Balsam nods, carefully dismounts and gets her horse stabled.

"So how have you been, Chaori?" Syton asks, taking a step towards the tavern as Chaori finishes her business with the stable boy. The usual brightness in his voice is gone, replaced with a gravelly, weary quality. "Aside from the"--he taps his left cheek--"of course."

Chaori Balsam walks with the aid of her cane, as always. "Oh, a little busy moving," she replies. "I just became the Healer of Sweetwater Fields. The Countess and I are trying to arrange for a place for me to see patients, as I'd rather not have people bleeding all over my living room. Don't worry," she teases, "I can still make house calls here and bill you for them." Syton manages a weak smile. "That's good," he says, scratching his stubbled neck. "But... I'll only pay if you start charging more. I've had lunches more expensive than your services, Chaori, and you save lives."

Chaori Balsam sighs. "I try not to rob my friends, Syton."

"You called my bluff," Syton says, opening the door to the tavern and motioning Chaori inside. "I'll pay no matter how much you charge." As an afterthought, he adds, "I saw Alainne earlier. She looked like she was feeling good. No dementia, no wailing, no moaning, no vomiting..."

Chaori Balsam heads into the Thirsty Trout.

Thirsty Trout 


 * Well-kept, with ample seating at the U-shaped biinwood counter and around numerous tables, the Thirsty Trout enjoys a rather dignified reputation among the taverns of Fastheld. Mischief isn't tolerated, and the prevalence of private and Imperial personnel providing security tends to discourage most troublemakers.


 * The rushes on the floor are often replaced before they can be too soaked with ale or spilled stew. Vassals keep the logs burning in the corner fireplace throughout the night.


 * It is here that many of the port town's business deals are struck.

Chaori Balsam replies as she starts looking for a quiet table, "I haven't seen her, but I spoke with Kael. It sounds to me as if Alainne's made a full recovery, thank the Light."

"And thank you," Syton adds, allowing Chaori to take the lead for now. "So it sounds like Lady Nillu is treating you properly," he says in a weary, but conversational, tone. "How do you like it at Sweetwater?"

Chaori Balsam settles herself at a warm table for two that's out of the way of most of the patrons. "I lived there once before, so it's familiar. There's more life there now than there was last year." Syton more or less falls into his seat across from Chaori. "That's good," he says, leaning both elbows forward onto the table. "Where have you been living since then?"

Chaori Balsam thinks a moment. "When I left Sweetwater, it was to become Healer of Outroost Keep. I was there until I was moved to the Hall of Healing while comatose, or tranced, depending on what one thinks of things. Once I was well enough to leave the Hall of Healing, I was spending time in inns and in the back of my wagon. Why do you ask?"

Syton closes his eyes tightly for a moment, then opens them back up, giving Chaori an odd look. "I'm sorry, Chaori," he says, rubbing the back of his neck, "but did you just say comatose, or tranced?"

Chaori Balsam replies, "I'll explain, but I think we'd better tuck you into bed by yourself. Since I'm not a bard, there's no charge for bedtime stories."

Syton chuckles and leans back in his chair, nodding. "If there was, you wouldn't charge enough anyway." He takes a deep breath and looks across the table to Chaori, specifically the bandage on her cheek. "I trust you, Chaori," he says, "so I need to ask you something."

Chaori Balsam nods a little. "Ask," she says, "although I'm beginning to think we need to take this conversation to somewhere more private."

"Let me ask my question first, and you can decide where you'd like to answer it." Syton unclasps his cloak, allowing it to fall onto the back of his chair. "Chaori," he asks, staring directly across the table to his companion, "I need to know if I'm Touched."

Chaori Balsam says, "I think you had better put your cloak back on. I cannot see auras, but I do know of another test for such things." She's sitting at an out-of-the-way table with Syton.

"Put me in a sack, throw me in the river, and see if I float?" Syton laughs darkly, turning to get his cloak from his chair and put it back around his shoulders. "That's what my da would do."

Chaori Balsam carefully gets to her feet with the aid of her cane. "I don't want to think about what my father would have done if he'd suspected that of me. He all but disowned me when I refused to work for the Church. No, nothing that drastic, Syton. We just need to take a walk."

"Okay, because I'm not a strong swimmer." Syton grunts and rises to his feet. He runs his hands through his hair quickly, and then steps to Chaori's side, ready to follow her.

Chaori Balsam heads into Hawk's Aerie.

Hawk's Aerie 


 * The sprawling township of Hawk's Aerie is one of the plushest, wealthiest and most politically important settlements in the realm of Fastheld, poised as it is at the fork of River Road and the Imperial Thoroughfare, with control over the economically vital Fastheld Wharfs and the strategically critical access point of the bridge that spans the Fastheld River to Aegis Road.


 * Founded five centuries ago by Edran Nillu, the bustling river port town has been a primary source of that noble house's cache with the throne on Caryas Hill and the guilds of the Market District, and has enabled the Nillus to establish themselves as an economic powerhouse.


 * The streets are kept clean of garbage and filthy peasants as much as possible. The elegant stone and wood buildings are kept in fine repair. It is rumored that the ravens of Hawk's Aerie get their talons polished, morning and night.

Chaori Balsam says, "It's not far. Just a little walk through the woods. We won't be long. Have you gone walking in the woods here?"

"No," Syton answers with a shake of his head. "It's been too cold, since I've been here. Besides, no reason." He shivers a bit and smiles to himself. He mutters, "Why couldn't I have found this out when it was warmer?"

Chaori Balsam chuckles. "Because whatever can go wrong, will, at the most inconvenient time. Look for a path on the right," she says as she leads him into the woods.

Syton coughs again into one of his gloves, squinting against the darkness as he follows Chaori. "So what do you do?" he asks, "What's your... gift, I mean."

Chaori Balsam replies, "A number of people tell me that it sounds as if I can magically heal people. I'm not too sure I believe them. I may or may not have hallucinated half-healing a shaving cut."

"Last night I drank so much that the bartender said I should've been dead from it. Maybe that's my gift." Syton rubs his hands together, a step behind Chaori. Chaori Balsam comments as she walks, "You look it. Look on the right. Do you see a clearing?"

Syton slows his pace, peering into the darkness. "Yes, I see something," he says, adding after a moment, "I think." He tilts his head towards it. "In here, then?"

Chaori Balsam nods. "Go down the path. I'll be just a little bit behind you."

You head into Dark Clearing.

Dark Clearing


 * A shadowy clearing on the northern outskirts of Hawk's Aerie, surrounded by clusters of hale birch trees and scattered shrubs. Animals can be heard chittering, scurrying and growling in the shadows of the underbrush. Smoke twists from the brick chimney stacks of buildings in the nearby town.

Chaori Balsam says as she arrives in the clearing, "Well, either someone lied to me, or you do have decisions to make."

"And what decision is that?" Syton says as he steps into the clearing, rubbing his arms beneath his cloak to stay warm. He looks around the clearing slowly, breathing the night air deeply.

Chaori Balsam takes a deep breath. "Countess Sahna Nillu explained to me that this is a place where the Shadow-Touched have practiced their powers for a long time. It's safely out of the way, it's quiet and only the Shadow-Touched can enter."

Syton spends several more seconds inspecting the clearing--the trees, the grass, the sky above. "So then, just the fact that I'm standing here..." he begins to say, running out of words to finish the sentence.

Chaori Balsam slowly nods, expression compassionate.

"Shit..." Syton says dejectedly, turning away from Chaori. He takes a slow breath and looks down to the ground beneath his feet. Ultimately, something in him seems to snap. Syton balls up his fists and screams as loud as he can, not really saying anything, just making as much noise as he's able. His scream ends with a short fit of coughing, after which Syton is coherent, but no less enraged. "WHY?" he shouts at the clearing, his back to Chaori. "WHAT'S THE FUCKING POINT? WHY NOW? WHY ANY OF THIS SHIT?" He falls quiet as suddenly as his rage struck, shaking with emotion from head to toe.

Chaori Balsam carefully takes a step towards Syton. "If I didn't hallucinate a certain incident last year, I asked much the same thing. Why now? Why not when my older sister died, or when all those Blades died, or when I tried to bandage Pia's legs? The only answer I can give is 'I don't know'."

Syton takes a shaky breath, then another, before turning back to Chaori. "Well who does know?" the small man says, speaking through a clenched jaw. "I need answers, not more of this bullshit," he says, motioning to the woods around him.

Chaori Balsam says, "I'll try, Syton, but I'm not an expert in these things. I suspect you'd have to ask your question of the Light to get a good answer anyway. What made you suspect you were Shadow-Touched?"

"Count Thayndor Zahir told me I was," Syton answers flatly. He begins to pace restlessly from side to side. "Until he opened his mouth, I didn't know. I shouldn't have believed him... there was no reason to believe him, but I did."

Chaori Balsam says, "I didn't realize that the Count saw auras. No odd occurrences? No strange dreams?"

"He didn't see anything, someone else told him." Syton replies, waving a hand in the air dismissively, though the gesture carries a good deal of anger with it. "Nothing strange happened. And I've had bad dreams since I was born, it's..." he pauses, frowning, "I thought it was normal."

Chaori Balsam nods. "With bad dreams that go on that long, you would. I think you should know that the Countess can see auras. She says she's not the only one, either. Please, tell me about your dreams, either here or in a private room at the inn."

Syton stops pacing and listens to Chaori, running a hand through his hair. "I'll tell you everything, Chaori," he says, "but not tonight." He sighs and looks around the clearing one more time. "I've nothing left."

Chaori Balsam gently reaches out and tries to take one of Syton's hands. "You have your life left. You have your health. Whatever you choose, you do not have to face this alone - although you're going to feel as if you're very alone."

Syton takes Chaori's hand in his, shaking his head as he looks up to the sky. "You're right," he says weakly, "I do feel alone." Looking back down to the woman at his side, he says, "I'm sorry, Chaori. I'm going to need some time to figure this out for myself... to find some answers."

Chaori Balsam gently squeezes Syton's hand. "I know. You may find it helpful to talk to Master Firelight. I'm willing to listen. I don't think you should make any decisions tonight, but I'm not certain how long you have to decide. Do you think the Count of Darkwater will keep his mouth shut?"

"Until he has something to gain by opening it," Syton says with a nod. His hand rests more or less limply in Chaori's, his thoughts elsewhere at the moment. "Besides, there's not much of a point, since I can't actually do anything... you know... special."

Chaori Balsam says, "Hmm, then he may keep quiet a while. If the Countess saw your aura, she won't talk about it. I won't report you to the Watch; neither will Master Firelight. I agree there may be no point at all in making a fuss, but the law says otherwise. So would a lot of frightened people. So will what's left of the Church, which apparently can still find the time to try to abduct and mutilate mages while hiding from the Watch."

"Well, I'm not doing anything until I figure some things out." Syton gently removes his hand, returning it beneath his cloak. As his anger fades, the cold returns, and Syton rubs his arms vigorously to stay warm. "Chaori..." he begins, stalling for a moment, "thank you for this... I think."

Chaori Balsam tries to lend Syton half her cloak. "You're welcome. I can understand not being at all happy to find this out. I think we should put you to bed for the night. Can I trust you not to do something rash before morning?"

Syton frowns and looks down to his feet. He stays a step back from Chaori, despite the offer of her cloak. "I won't do anything foolish," the young man mutters, as though unhappy to say it. "And I'm not sure I'll sleep." He takes a few steps back towards town, then slows, waiting for Chaori to follow.

Chaori Balsam follows along. "Let me see what I can do about that, Syton. You need to sleep. If it will make you feel better, I shall charge an arm and a leg for it."

Chapter 3
Man is a rope, tied between beast and superman--a rope over an abyss.
 * - Friedrich Nietzsche

''It is the Ninth hour by the Shadow on Willowwalk, the 25th day of Whistlewind in the year 627. It is a terribly cold and frigid night. The air is stagnant, not stirring with the slightest breeze.''

Dark Clearing


 * A shadowy clearing on the northern outskirts of Hawk's Aerie, surrounded by clusters of hale birch trees and scattered shrubs. Animals can be heard chittering, scurrying and growling in the shadows of the underbrush. Smoke twists from the brick chimney stacks of buildings in the nearby town.


 * It is a terribly cold and frigid night. The air is stagnant, not stirring with the slightest breeze.

The clearing, at this hour, is dark and cold - the skeletal trees standing silent sentinel around its edges in the still air. Sane creatures are asleep or home at this hour; the silence, in this place is deep and almost overwhelming. Above, the stars burn in their multitudes in the clear night sky, the moon not visible from within the circle of trees.

Underbrush rustles in the darkness, whispering the arrival of a cloaked silhouette at the clearing's edge. The figure steps between two bone-white birch trees and walks slowly to the center of the clearing. A leather hood is pulled back to reveal Syton Temple, standing in the darkness, breathing hot steam into the frigid night air.

The trees - they hardly comment. They simply /are/, skeletal observers of events in this shadowed place. Somewhere, out in the wood, something heavy crashes in the underbrush - even that distant sound ragged in the stillness here.

Syton turns towards the sound, watching the darkness from whence it came. He squares his shoulders with it, leveling a passive blue gaze on the night itself. He stands still and dark, as though nothing would surprise him here--be it Wildling, Drake, or the Shadow itself.

It comes again - along with a low pounding, moving rapidly towards the clearing, the sound of something moving heavy and fast through the brush and trees. A shadow seems to detach itself from the night, at the very limits of vision, closing quickly on the clearing's edge - a Kahar red deer, from the look, bursting through brush in full flight hooves pounding on the frozen ground.

A corner of Syton's mouth twists upwards in the starlight. His eyes take in the new arrival, appraising the deer with a dead stare. He moves beneath his cloak, sending ripples down his figure as his breath curls away above.

The deer falters, skidding and turning as it comes into the edge of the clearing, the human causing it to shy back towards the wood. Its eyes are wide and white, its breath a hot mist in the cold - and its hesitation proves fatal. A hulking shadow hurls itself out of the wood, a creature of fur and muscle and snarling teeth, teeth that sink deep into the animal's shoulder and neck. The massive thing's momentum carries it and the deer in a tumble, back into the edge of the circle of trees, a mix of fang, hoof and claw.

The shock and violence of the attack are significant enough to push Syton back a step. His eyes widen, and his breath catches, the air around him turning still. Entranced by the sight before him, he looks on, unable to do anything but stand like a monolith at the center of the clearing. He is as still and silent as the night itself, not even breathing any longer.

The beast and the deer struggle for a moment, the latter creature giving a terrified bleat - but, in an instant, it is done: with the sound of ripping flesh, the creature simply shifts its grip - white teeth flashing as it rips the other animal's throat apart. Blood flies as the deer's hooves churn the ground - but then it is done. The beast's eyes burn as embers in the dim starlight as it draws itself to stand fully, shaking nose to tail. It looks oddly... satisfied.


 * The Beast
 * In the old stories, the rockwolf is a herald of the shadow, a hound of the darkness. It is attributed with everything from stealing children to ravaging the landscape at the behest of an evil archmage or some curse on a noble. Perhaps, in this beast, there is some proof to the tales told to children.


 * It stands nearly four feet to the top of its head, hulking and black-furred, a wolf from the stories, a beast out of illuminated manuscript and fireside camps. Gleaming white fangs are set in wide jaws; its eyes burn red in any light, as the embers of a fire. From the thick fur at its neck can be seen projecting long, black quills, shivering with every slow breath.


 * It is black, mottled with a deep grey - the color of shadows and moonlight. A touch of white tinges its face, a half-moon that stands out stark against the black fur. Its movements are fluid, its passage swift.

The deer's final twitch jars Syton's mind loose from its enchantment. He doesn't leave, however, he simply shifts from dumbstruck awe to cautious appraisal. His cloak ripples once more, and the air around him fills with thick curls of hot air. Syton plants his feet firmly on the frozen ground once more. He stares back at the creature's glowing red eyes, how own looking dull and lifeless by comparison.

Massive jaws close around the scruff of what remains of the dead deer's neck... and it drags it back, deeper into the wooded shadow. It's only then that those burning eyes raise, as it lays down with a paw across its kill, to seemingly study the man. Almost casually, barely visible in the dim, white teeth pull at the deer's flesh - strangely fastidious, almost seeming to mind its fur, it begins to eat.

The burning eyes, however, remain fixed in their scrutiny.

Starlight illuminates, for a moment, a faint look of disgust on the man's face, though his eyes remain steadfast upon their burning counterparts. To Syton, however, the rest of the creature is lost. Slowly, his leather boots rise from the ground, one at a time, and carry him a few steps closer to the beast, and farther into the darkness.

"Hungry?" It's more snarl than a human voice, but it's perfectly understandable - the beast's teeth showing white as it licks its muzzle. "More 'n I can eat easy." Those eyes never leave Syton, that massive paw staying protective over the deer's remains.

"Thank you no, fair beast," Syton replies, his voice sounding crisp and cool by comparison. Without much thought, he takes another step closer. "But no," he says, correcting himself, "you are no beast. The beasts of this wood have fear enough not to set foot in this place."

It snorts, tearing another mouthful from its prey, swallowing it with an odd delicacy. "Yer quite a man." It shakes - fur ruffling, quills rattling softly, warningly. "Y' shoul' be afraid." The words, for all that they're rough and snarled, seem to be more curious than threatening.

"I'm no man," Syton answers clearly, giving the creature a firm shake of his head. "I am nothing, so I have no reason to be afraid." Keeping his gaze locked with the creature's burning eyes, the man turns and walks over to one of the birch trees around the clearing.

"Aye?" It gnaws absently on something white, and glistening. "y' smell like a man."

Syton ripostes: "You smell like a dead deer." An arm emerges from his cloak and wraps around the trunk of a pale birch that stands beside him. "I take the measure of a man by more than just his smell."

It licks at its chops, for all the world looking thoughtful, for that moment. "Then what is a man?"

"I'm not sure," Syton says, snorting two trails of steam. "A week ago, I was sure I was one. Now I am sure that I am not."

"What makes y' so sure?" Those burning eyes blink, as it gets interested in the deer's shoulder.

"Here I am," Syton says darkly, knocking against the birch at his side.

It snorts, again. "Y' ne'er acted like I were less 'n a man. What makes y' think ye are?" It gnaws on that bone again. "Yer goin' tae hae t' take th' haunch. Y' kin build a fire, but 's better raw."

"Take it back to Alainne," Syton replies humorlessly, flicking his head towards the faint light of the town, "put it outside her door and sit outside howling." He turns to the birch for a moment, finally taking his attention off the beast. "All I know," he says, "is that I'm not what I thought I was a week ago."

"Aren't ye?" It yawns, widely, going back to gnawing on that bone. "Yer more o' an ass when yer afraid 'n I expected y' woul' be." It still watches him, calmly. "But yer stil m' friend. Y' still are th' fellow what, apparently, writes bad plays."

Syton smiles, a dark thing free from joy or happiness. His expression is more amused, self-satisfied. "At least I knew I wasn't a playwright," he says. "Maybe, with the time, I could convince myself that I was one of those too."

"Look 't me, Syton." That's not a gentle request. "M' I any different? Really?" The beast stands, then, snuffling at the deer before padding softly forward. "Now that y' see.. does 't change who I am?"

"Do you know what I'm going to lose for this, Kael?" Syton asks forcefully, turning back to look at the beast. He steps forward, meeting the creature half way. He counts on his fingers, his intensity rising with each one. "My livelihood, my friends, my peace, my family, my life!" By the end, he's positively shouting. His voice lowers to but a fraction of its volume. "All that's left is what I had to begin with--the fucking Shadow."

Those burning eyes still study his with a calm intensity. "Aye?" It lifts its lip, snarling then, at him, lowering its head and circling the man. "Yer friends. Me? Alainne? Th' healer? Y' think yer alone?"

"I think that no matter how well-intentioned you all are, this is happening to me." Syton responds hotly, turning to face the creature as it circles him. "And all its consequences fall on my shoulders alone. You cannot take another Mark for me, Kael."

"Aye. I hae mine." Calm, but still it circles. "Y' look in th' mirror, an' y' cannae tell what y' are anymore." The words are distant. "Y' donnae ken whether yer e'en real anymore. S' like yer world is fallin' inta 'n endless pit." It snorts again. "Oh, aye. I hae no idea. LOOK at me, Syton. THIS is who I am." It sits then, staring at the small man. "So. Y' are standin' here. An' ye get a choice."

Syton frowns deeply. Amidst another flurry of ripples, he folds his arms beneath his cloak. "Yes, I have choices," he says bitterly. "Take the Mark, lose my family, lose my business, and spend the rest of my days hated. Or don't take the Mark, and keep my life--such as it is--for the cost of my soul, until I have a bad day and I get my hands and tongue taken."

It huffs a long sigh. "If choices were easy, Syton.. w' woul' ne'er make bad ones." It folds its tail over its paws, calm and patient. "Y' hae a power in ye. A'right. Now y' get t' choose what t' do wi' it. Yer life - what y' knew.. is gone, aye. Th' choice y' make now.. is what do y' do with th' rest o' it?" It opens its jaws in a smile, white fangs gleaming. "M' a monster. Y' kin see it. But 'm tryin' t' learn how t' be somethin' more - ye an' Alainne are teachin' me that. E'en I hae choices."

The man grits his teeth, looking down to the beast with determination in his dim eyes. "I'm not ready," he says, though his voice begins to sound as though the wind is bleeding from his sails. "I can't give up on my life..."

"Now that y' ken what y' are - y' cannae walk away from 't." The wolf's eyes still burn... and the huge thing stands, languid, stepping forward, lowering its head, to nudge Syton in the stomach. "Yer life 's jus' startin', Syton." It looks up again, calmly. "Y' kin run from 't.. like I did. Or y' kin try t' do good wi' 't. Maybe w' cannae walk in th' Light, but w' kin try."

Syton's frown deepens, and he takes a step back as he's nudged. His determined look has lost its cutting edge, weariness creeping into his eyes. He opens his mouth hotly, but just ends up sighing and looking away. "I don't even know what it is," he says miserably.

"Y' t' least ken who y' are.. n' that 's a start." The wolf turns, padding a few steps towards the dead deer, circling it twice before carefully scratching leaves and brush over the rapidly freezing thing. It growls, glancing back at Syton. "Will come 'n get 't in th' mornin'. Y' wi' come home wi' me, aye? Y' need tae sleep." Busily, it continues covering the deer. "I wi' help y' figure 't out, 'f I can, Syton." That growling, snarling voice has a note of concern in it.

Syton takes a few steps after the beast, watching it hide its kill. "I'll sleep," he concedes weakly, looking off in the direction of the town. Managing a bit of steel, he adds, "But I'd like to find my own answers. I know you want to help, Kael, but I it's important that I try."

The beast pauses, looking up at him. "Yer fergettin' somethin' Syton." It looks down at the pile of leaves, snuffling around it, carefully. "Hmph. Will do." It turns back, padding towards the man. "Yer nae alone. 'n.. I will nae let y' be. If y' need tae search, fine - but let m' help ye, where I can."

"If it comes to that, you will," Syton replies, fixing a stern gaze on the beast's glowing eyes. It seems he's still left with enough determination to hold his ground here. "I'm doing this to learn, Kael, and I'd like to as much as I can on my own."

“Y' wi' do what y' wi' do - as y' wish." The wolf's eyes are fixed on Temple. "But y' keep yerself safe. Y' need t' trust th' ones what hae already done th' survivin' afore ye - 'f nae me, th' Lady Nillu." Thoughtful. "'r one other. Do y' trust m', Syton?"

Syton thinks for a moment. "I trust they wouldn't point me over a cliff unless they had reason to," he says, "and I trust that I haven't given them reason to do so." He gathers his cloak more tightly around him. "I've already spoken with the Lady Nillu. She didn't have the answers I wanted, but she put me on the path of one who might."

The beast paces then, heavy paws silent on the frozen ground. "Aye. I ken o' one. Maybe. I.. cannae take y' to 'er, though. I kin try pointin' 'er t' ye... she m' come. She woul' hae yer answers." It looks back up at Syton, licking its fangs - "Sh' s dangerous. But sh' woul' know."

"My lead is less dangerous," Syton says, adding after a second, "... or so I've been lead to believe." He shrugs and shakes his head a little. "Let me fail at that before we try anything more dangerous. I'd like to pay as little as possible for my answers."

"A'right. But y' be careful." It settles again, almost primly - seated, nearly as tall as the man - folding its tail again over its paws. "An' t'night, y' stay wi' us? Alainne woul' be upset 'f y' passed through th' Aerie 'n did nae at least say 'ello."

"I'll stay tonight," Syton replies, turning his head to cough over one shoulder. "How is Alainne? Is she feeling better?"

The beast opens its jowls, a sort of smile in gleaming fangs. "Aye. Much. What about ye, Syton?"

"I'll feel better when I get some answers," Syton replies, snorting out a derisive chuckle. "It's a pretty bad deal, Kael, being a mage without any powers."

"Better 'n bein' one that found out after eatin' somebody." The beast stands, shaking nose to tail.. and then seems to.. blur. It's an eye-bending moment as the beast shimmers... and leaves behind the tall, tired young man, pulling his cloak around him against the cold, his quiet tenor a softer thing than the wolf's snarls. "Y' get t' find out slow. 'n easy - one moment 't a time. S' a blessin', o' sorts."

Syton makes an unpleasant face and closes his eyes for a moment as the beast shifts to man. "Yeah," he says, opening his eyes again to look at Kael, "well, it isn't anything yet." He turns and starts off slowly across the clearing. He speaks over his shoulder to Kael, "The Lady Nillu said that I'm something of an oddity, learning I'm Touched without having any powers."

"Perhaps it was not my place to tell you what I knew," Thayndor interjects, stepping from the shadows cast by a pair of trees at the edge of the clearing. How long he had been there, waiting, is unclear. "I felt you should know the truth, and that ignorance posed a greater threat to you than anything else."

Kael shivers, slightly, reaching up to, with fumbling fingers, pull up his hood. ".. y' ferget how cold 't is, 'n then y' lose yer fur 'n 't all comes crashin' in." He looks then, to the Count. "S' a half a deer, back there.." He hooks a thumb behind him. "Yer welcome to 't, or I wi' get 't in th' morn."

Syton bows to Thayndor as he appears. "My Lord," he says in greeting. The freelander straightens, glancing sideways to Kael for a few moments before he returns his attention to the noble. "Perhaps it was not your place, my Lord," he says, "but I understand why you may have stepped out of your place to do so."

"I hope you can forgive me, then," Thayndor replies. "It seems I've caused you more harm than good so far."

Kael moves up next to Syton, looking speculatively at the Count.

"That you have, my Lord," Syton responds in an honest tone, nodding his head. "But had it not been you, my Lord, it would have been someone else, possibly with worse intentions." He frowns and adds, "At the moment, I am suffering from a lack of answers, my Lord. I need to speak with someone who can see what I am capable of."

"Did you go to Lord Seamel?" Thayndor asks Syton.

"Not yet, my Lord," Syton replies. He smirks a bit. "To be honest, I wasn't sure I could trust you, my Lord. What you told me had sent me reeling, and at the time, I questioned your motives. However, I'm now quite sure you had nothing malicious in mind, my Lord. I will make my way to Lord Seamel with all speed."

"Syton - " Kael's words are quiet. "I need tae get home, afore Alainne worries. Wi' leave th' door open fer ye, aye?" He inclines his head to the Count. "M'lord. If y' wi' excuse me?"

"I won't be too far behind, Kael." Syton says quickly, offering Kael a tired wave.

Thayndor Zahir nods to Kael. "By all means, Master Firelight. Good evening." The Zahir looks up at the sky, gesturing. "As you may have noticed, I am in a position similar to yours. I went through a similar process." He seems to focus on the sky, now, only half-facing Syton. "And my own mastery of my talents, as you can see, is limited. Otherwise I wouldn't need to practice in this secret place."

Kael moves away, even as the Count speaks, yawning, steps taking him down the path to the Aerie proper.

And as Thayndor raises his hands, the wind whistles and shifts. Tugging at Syton's robe and setting the frozen grass to rustling, it changes direction abruptly. Over time, the breeze, though stronger, feels less cold as it blows over the clearing from the south.

Syton's eyes widen slightly and he turns around, looking at the clearing as the weather changes. He turns back to Thayndor with a faint smile. "Impressive, my Lord," he says. "I could only hope for such a gift."

Thayndor Zahir lowers his hands and looks back at Syton, vaguely surprised. "Actually," he replies, "that's the first time it's actually worked for me." The Zahir gestures. "I should continue to practice, I suppose. You mentioned you had to go on after Firelight ..."

"And I shall. Light keep you, my Lord," Syton bows once more to Thayndor, then turns and follows the same path that Kael took moments before, out of the clearing, and back towards the town.

Return to Season 5 (2007)