Finding the Road

''Eventually, all they can see is Shadow. It grows long and distracts us from what casts it. But a shadow can never become more than a weak outline. It may stretch and grow fearsomely large, but always must it circle its master.''

Dawnstar Keep: War Room 


 * One of the largest rooms within Dawnstar Keep, the War Room is also one of the most brightly lit, thanks mostly to the ceiling featuring a stained-glass dome depicting nothing more than an interlace of colors and light.


 * The central feature of the War Room is the large, round redwood table that dominates much of the floor space from within its positing in the middle of the room. Polished to a deep shine, it has space for twelve people to sit around it at equidistant positions, and thus comes equipped with a number of highback redwood chairs for that very purpose.


 * Set atop the standard red-with-gold-trim carpetting against the usual backdrop of dark bluish-gray stone, the redwood table shares the War Room with a number of other items of furniture, such as the trio of sturdy desks tucked into an open alcove on the northern side of the room, and the various bookshelves that line the walls, complete with documents and maps of trade routes and Imperial Fort locations that would be out of place within the main library.


 * Serving as a place of study, business, politics, or simple retreat, the War Room is a location that is tasked with a number of roles when the need arises, but remains mostly empty and quiet all the same.

Fundamentally, the marksman aims at himself. Which leaves to question what those with a crossbow do; a question that Serath Kahar is apparently attempting to find out. Sat at the large, round redwood table that dominates most of the room, at a seat roughly north-east from the entrance to the War Room that faces the doors themselves (thus resting on the far-side of the table proper), the Prince is reclined in a somewhat casual posture indeed, leaning back in the chair with his dusty-blue gaze fixed entirely on the workings of a silver crossbow that rests in his palms. Two pristine boots of black leather rest upon the surface of the table itself, containing the feet that have placed them there attached to the legs that bridge the gap between table, chair, and the Avatar of the Dragon in all his glory. Yes, Serath is taking liberties in his Keep as he ponders the mechanizations of the ranged weapon in his hands, yet the scene hardly looks out of place, regardless of the Royalty involved. Large detailed maps of the various districts of Fastheld are spread out on the table itself, though are mostly neglected. Overhead, a soft tapping of scattered rain falls upon the outside of the stained glass-dome that blossoms from the ceiling.

Mildly agitated, and slightly damp, a blonde woman approaches the doors of the war room with her hands on her head. Beneath her fingers are coarse curls afflicted by the excess frizz that moisture often induces in that hair type, but this does not seem to be the primary cause of concern by the way she slicks the yellow hair back dismissively and peers into the room. There's a moment of hesitance and then a gentle knock at the frame of the entrance that barely carries above the tap of the rain.

The doors are open, as the visitor has no doubt discovered as she taps, causing the Prince's attention to slip away from the crossbow and towards that door in a single movement of his head; a movement that causes him to forget where his fingers are, which in turn depress a trigger as he instinctively reaffirms his grip on the weapon in the wake of the distraction, which in following causes the mechanism to do what it is was constructed to do. "Come i-" ''Click. Whistle. Thud.'' That regal purr of His Highness the Prince Serath Kahar abruptly cuts off as the loaded bolt embeds itself in the wall to the right of Milora's peeking head. It's a good distance enough away so as to not be dramatic and cliché, so there was never any fear of it ruining the Lady Lomasa's day, but the quarrel is there sticking out of the wall all the same, much to the Prince's amusement. "Oh," he states in a sincere matter-of-factly way, "That's what it does."

There's a startled tensing of Milora's muscles and a widening of her common green eyes as the arrow pierces the wall to her right; she turns around, locking her fingers tightly and bringing them to her heart in a gesture of shock. "Light!"

A moment, and then the woman turns to the Prince and wrings her hands, protesting with a mixture of glee and sulky bemusement: "Please, Your Grace! This is the only head that I own!"

"Sorry," Serath returns, sounding half-distracted as he turns the crossbow over, peering at the trigger mechanism, before deciding to place the device down on the table in front of him, pulling his feet off that wooden surface in turn to place them firmly on the ground beneath him. The transition of postures is nothing if not feline in grace. "I've never actually handled a crossbow before. In my defense, they're somewhat new and... shiny... to me, if I’m permitted an excuse for my upholstery-threatening actions." A disarming smile, a polite and measured demeanor, and two eyes that sparkle with amusement are there to greet Milora should she dare risk entering the room proper. "I promise I'll be good?"

"Well, since you promise." She steps into the room without difficulty, then, apparently put at ease. The crossbow certainly does not escape her notice, in fact, she seems to be distracted by it as well. "I've only ever used one a few times: first when my brother received one as a gift and second when a few were obtained by the trainer at Riverhold Castle, which is where I do most of my practicing now."

Sliding up to the table to examine the weapon more closely, her fingertips pressed against the tabletop: "I've never seen a silver one before. It's very pretty, but I don't have enough taste to decide whether it's of any quality. Do you mark?"

"I've been known to have an affinity for the longbow at certain times." the Prince warmly replies, offering but the slightest hint of a shrug as if to suggest such tales would be of little interest. "It came with the territory, as it were. Still, I don't think I've loosed an arrow in quite some time, which I'm sure is all very interesting, and I'm far from the shot that my half-brother is." A smile, and the Wildcat ends that line of conversation by placing his hands upon the edge of the table, one atop the other on a cross position, before regarding Milora with a curious expression. "I doubt you came all this way and endured the often conflicting or unhelpful directions of the Tribunal officers just to ask me that, however."

Milora smiles, raising her eyebrows slightly. "You’ve caught me out, sir. It is that I have come here for a specific reason. ... However, the matters that I would like to discuss with you are serious, and you are in a joking mood. I dislike spreading gloom." There's a twitch at her mouth, and a tilt of her head. "I think that if I were to leave you to this nice humor I would never come back to find you in somber spirits. May I be seated, if it is of any convenience?"

"You may." Serath affirms, without hesitation, "However, your interpretation of my current disposition is a little off. You've caught me in an inquisitive mood, which I assure you is far different from a mood defined by witty repartee." he gestures to a set near to his own with a black-clad hand before resting it atop its counterpart once more, and then continues, "You see, cats are curious creatures, and those that wear the colors of House Kahar are usually no exception."

He pauses for a moment, his tone resigning itself to what may yet be offered from his female visitor when he finally adds, "You'll find me no less curious about what you have to say, and a name would be a good place to start."

This seems to catch her rather off guard, and she dips her head respectfully before seating herself. "Of course, I suppose I do have that advantage on you. -- I'm very sorry. My name is Milora Lomasa, and I've come from East Leg to see whether you would speak to me. We have never met, but I have seen you twice - once at the Aegis and once on the night that my Patriarch and Lady Celeste Mikin and our companions stormed Light's Reach and invaded the Temple of the White Dragon. I am sorry for that, as well, and I fully appreciate your graciousness then."

There's a flash of recollection as that name is given, followed by a soft incline Serath's head as she elaborates. "I remember you now." he states, catching Milora's green gaze with his own. "Duke Lomasa's safeguard, unless I'm mistaken." He lets his unusual choice of word stand for a moment before granting Milora a knowing look. "I'd have said partner, but I'm not entirely up to date with the social scene and the gossip that’s necessarily married to it, and - considering the Duke in question - I have a suspicion that you're the buffer between him and the unsuspecting evils of the Empire right now." If Serath seems at all bothered by the "storming Light's Reach" thing, it doesn't show.

Only mildly phased by Serath's diction, Milora crosses her ankles, folds them beneath her chair and folds her hands on her lap. "To appeal politically to the fickle citizens of Fastheld, a figure must be attractive and soft spoken. The face that he presents is handsome; the face that I present is gentle," she explains quite seriously. "Thank you for reflecting that high regard upon me, but I can only pretend to fully understand your meaning."

A soft expression of amusement crosses Serath's features as Milora offers such an honest statement. "Let me see if I can make it clearer:" he offers. "Duke Lomasa is a wild horse. You're his cavesson, noseband, and crop. Am I close?"

It's Milora's turn to be amused. Partly this way, and partly embarrassed, her eyes sweep the floor before returning to Serath. "I understand that metaphor and it would not be modest of me to agree with you," she replies, nodding her head.

"Well, I may be a little rusty, but it seems I still have some perception after all." the Prince offers in a warmer tone of voice, just as quickly dismissing himself as he adds, "Yet it seems that I have managed to deviate from the road of importance to the trail of utter triviality. In spite of my banality, Lady Milora, please continue with what you’d originally planned to say before I side tracked you."

"I find myself in a state of confusion," Milora confesses. "I am presented with a number of conflicting opinions, many of which seem to make sense to me but not all of which I agree with." Despite herself, she fidgets with her hands - the fingers lock and unlock rhythmically. "Since the Aegis, I have been different. I feel more strongly connected to the Light than I have ever been before; I know that you understand. Since this new development, however, I have completely lost my direction. I do not know what to do, and of all the choices that have been presented to me this far I do not know that any of them suits me perfectly. I cannot seek counsel from my friends."

There's a pause, and she inhales deeply but silently. "I have heard that you once said that we are what we choose to be, and I think that I understand and agree with you. But ... I am no good at listening to my own heart, and that choice feels beyond me."

"You were one of those awoken by the dawn." It's not a question, but rather a statement of fact as Serath begins to understand the problems that Milora speaks of. "The thing to remember is that your connection with the Light, as you call it, has always been there; it just was asleep beneath a blanket of darkness. What seems new to you is actually something you've had your entire life, but never realized, and so now the weight of that revelation is pressing down on you, I see." A few moments of silence follow in the wake of that account as the Prince seems to content himself with merely *watching* Milora closely, taking in the hue of her eyes, the shade of her lips, the color of her hair, every blink, every subtle moment. Though his connection to the light is quite severely plain to see, it would seem that Serath is looking for coincident traits upon Milora, regardless of what hidden and personal opinions he may have about how she looks and how she is. "The road is ours to walk," he finally offers, his voice but a warm zephyr a shade above the tapping of the rain upon the glass above, and the ambiance of the Keep beyond, "But first we need to find it, and you don't know in which direction to look, do you?"

Milora seems to waver beneath Serath's gaze, as though she's vividly aware that he's looking for something in her. She is unchanged in appearance: there's no white glow to her copper skin; none of her thick curls have lightened in color to denote the awakening of any new spirit in her. Perhaps, though, maybe, there is a new quality to her painfully ordinary green eyes, an uncommon depth or dimension to them that sets them apart from the norm as she blinks, catlike and artfully calm, at the Prince.

She moves her lips after a moment, but appears to have difficulty forming sounds. "Yes. Exactly," she concedes at last, the clumsiness of her tongue contrasting Serath's eloquence beautifully. "Well - I seem to be at an impasse, a fork in the road with unlimited opportunities for progression. I am not afraid that any one will be dangerous, but I would like to take the path that will ultimately serve me and those around me best. I am… lost."

Abruptly, Serath stands. The crossbow is forsaken in the wake of the movement, the Prince leaning with his left hand pressed upon the edge of the table now in front of him as he offers the other to Milora. "I think the first thing you need to do," he softly muses, "Is to have you understand what it is that you've become a part of. A perception of the Light and the Shadow as they really are, free from the opinions and beliefs of others who try not to offer conjecture from their point of view, but instead try to force you to think like them. Take my hand."

While Serath makes his speech, the girl's eyes stay fixed his hand. His words seem to strike her hard from the furrowing of her eyebrows, but she doesn't flinch. Although unsure of herself, Milora takes his hand firmly in hers at his command and rises to her feet.

"Come on," Serath offers, gently leading Milora around the table and, it would seem, towards the entrance to the room. "There's something I need to show you for you to be able to understand it as I do."

Dawnstar Keep: Basement 


 * It's too dark here. You can't see anything.

Regardless of what passing officers of the Imperial Watch or the Tribunal may have thought as they bore witness to the Prince of the Blood leading Milora Lomasa into the basement, his hand in hers as she followed, Serath seems entirely undaunted as he leads his female companion into the substructure of Dawnstar Keep. He pauses as he crosses the threshold, waiting until Milora is by his side before closing the door shut behind them both. The effect is instantaneous: Where once streaks of light rushed into the dark depths of the substratum, now only darkness prevails. Deep, oppressive, blinding darkness. Yet with great care he guides Milora down the stone steps that lead to the floor of the basement, walking ahead into the void behind them, and then... Abruptly, Serath let's go of Milora's hand, and all contact with the Prince is lost to the nihility of the space around the female Lomasa. No light, little sound, perfect darkness.

Unsurprisingly, Milora is unsettled. Stairs have never been her friend, and as such she takes them with exceeding care despite being led by a hand attached to a man who clearly has descended these steps before. When she finally arrives at their base, and is left in the darkness, she stands still, allowing her night vision to adjust until she can make out a few dark grey shapes and fighting the urge to stumble forward and grasp for something solid.

"It's a metaphor." A familiar voice states from somewhere amidst the oblivion. "This is the Shadow." Serath continues, his location hidden within the overwhelming darkness. "What do you see? How do you feel?"

"I can hardly see anything," Milora replies, something resembling understanding creeping into her voice as her fingers curl under and her hands become fists. She blinks at the nothing and sighs. "I feel afraid, and lost. I do not know what is here with me or which way to go."

"There could be anything within the shadow." the Wildcat acknowledges as he prowls through the darkness, his voice to the left, or perhaps to the right. The vocalization seems to bounce from the arsenic-hued walls of stones down here; the only ambiance beyond Milora's own breathing, and the occasional creak or groan from the fortress above. "Some will claim that the Shadow can only exist if there is Light, and that the Light can only exist if there is Shadow. The darkness here exists without light, which would seem to prove them wrong. Imagine a world of this, Milora: A world of sheer tenebrosity, hiding everything and offering nothing but fear and uncertainty. Some will also claim that the Shadow is inside of everyone. This darkness is around you, not inside you.

''Something moves to the left. A pebble? A creature? A Prince?''

"But," Milora says, and she falls silent. Nodding, although it does no good, she breathes a gentle sigh. "I suppose, then, that if there is a room with no Light, there must be such a thing as a room without Shadow," she says thoughtfully. "But who could possibly live in a world like this? Serath, you said that this darkness is around me and not inside of me, which is true. So you must not mean that this is what those who are touched by the Shadow experience every day, but rather that this room is symbolic of a world where ... you must tell me more, or my mind will reel."

She darts to the right, only by a step, and turns to squint at whatever is beside her - but of course she can see nothing.

There is nothing to see, regardless. For a minute in following, there's nothing to hear, either. No answer, no voice, no Serath. Another minute passes, and then another, and then another, and only the silence and the darkness are there to embrace Milora.

"Your Grace?" Panic.

Milora's eyes widen and she looks around her, trying desperately to see something in the darkness. Her hands squeezed together tightly, she closes her eyes for a moment and brings those extremities apart - there's a pitiful flicker from between them, like a candle lit and then snuffed in quick succession. Frowning, she turns around to assess the stairs - impossible - and then moves forward into the room, bracing herself.

To Milora's left, the darkness suddenly retreats in the face of a small white orb - no larger than a marble - of pure light. It's an orb that's contained in the up-turned palm of the Prince of the Blood, stood - as he is - with his back against the wall there.

Pale illumination washes over the black leather of the surcoat he wears closest to the point of origin, scattering light across his right side that fades into shadow on his left, covering him in a shroud of chiaroscuro.

For his own part in this, he just watches Milora with an expectant smile, dusty-blue eyes resting upon her lithe form as he waits for any sign of reaction or understanding in regards to the point that he’s attempting to make.

Before Milora can progress very far at all, she becomes aware of a small, glowing relief from the darkness beside her. Suddenly she has something to focus on; she turns, and approaches. Within moments her face becomes bathed with white light that paints her features steadily. She looks up at Serath, returns the smile, and raises her hand to hover over the droplet of light, watching as it turns her bronze skin a pretty golden colour.

Again, her eyes move to Serath. "I see now," she says in a low voice.

"It makes a world of difference, doesn't it?" Serath softly asks of Milora, looking from that returned smile to the hand placed above his own. "That something so small could make such an impact upon something so deep and expansive, bringing illumination to even the darkest of places and removing that fear of the unknown, even if the unknown itself has only been pushed back a little." With that, Serath lowers his hand, yet the orb remains in place upon Milora's upturned palm, quite happy to accept a new owner. "And that's the power of the Light, and the nature of the Shadow, synonymous as it is with darkness. Light may cast shadows, but such a statement is erroneous in what it presents; the shadow is what remains when the light cannot reach such places, not what is created by the presence of such luminosity."

Milora brings the small orb closer to herself, at first covering it protectively with her other hand, very much like a small girl would hold a butterfly, and then watching in astonishment as it stays there freely in her hand. "Oh, thank you. You can't imagine how you've helped. I feel so... clear headed, for the first time, I think. Thank you."

"Of course that doesn't explain the Shadow Touched, or those - like you and I - who are Sunkissed." the Prince notes, pushing himself up and away from the wall behind him to lead the way back towards the stone stairs that lead back up to the north wing of Dawnstar Keep, his steps as silent as the darkness that cringes away from Milora's hand. "Imagine," he offers while walking, "That you could shape this darkness into something else; that the shadow were a canvas that you could paint your deepest desires upon, making them a reality. We have a lot in common with the Shadow Touched in that regards in that we can shape the Light as they can weave the Shadow, but the main difference is that while the Light itself is not a source of corruption, the Shadow most certainly is." He pauses mid-step, looking back over his shoulder at Milora and the sphere of divine light she holds in her hand. "And, above all else, it is seductive to the point of addiction."

Almost absent-minded, Milora follows Serath up the stairs. Although the light in her hand is distracting, she is attentive to his speech. When he turns, however, she comes to an abrupt stop and blinks back at him. A moment -- and then she nods her head in gentle understanding.

The Wildcat leads on, heading up the steps without even the merest of footfall sounding in his wake, "It is from that seduction that the evil of the shadow gives rise. We'll take the example of a farmer, struggling to make ends meet. He has barely enough money to feed his wife and children, the harvest was poor, and the crops he seeks to cultivate now are weak and of poor quality. It would seem that his family may fall deeper into poverty." The door opens, and the shadows of the basement of Dawnstar Keep retreat away from the illumination from beyond that portal. "Yet, the farmer discovers that he is Shadow Touched. At first he is afraid of it, but he finds that he can encourage his crops to grow and the bounty of his harvest that year is great enough that he can sell most of it for profit, and still keep enough to feed himself and his family with. Does that seem evil, Milora? Would you judge that man as corrupt for wishing to feed his family and stave off poverty?"

The small woman is able to climb the stairs easily, guided by the tiny globe in her hand. Sreath's moral question does not appear to appeal very greatly to her; she furrows her eyebrows but ultimately must shake her head. "No, sir. I think that if the use of that magic benefits without doing any harm, it can not be called evil. Do you mean to tell me that Shadow magic /can/ be used for good?"

"It can. You've seen it for yourself." the Prince notes, waiting for Milora to catch up. "However, let's say that this farmer did the same the year after, and the year after that. His crops and produce became the talk of the township, and people were so impressed by the quality of his harvest that they only bought from him. In turn, those farmers who raised their crops by hand using nothing but their skill and the cradle of nature are shunned as a result.”

“What they take to market becomes wasted, and what they earn from their harvest became less and less, their ambition and drive weakening in the face of far superior competition. As a result, those other farmers and their families succumb to poverty themselves, while our Shadow Touched farmer becomes a wealthy merchant at their expense."

Reaching the top of the stairs within seconds, Milora gives Serath a gracious smile as she passes him. That smile fades, however, as she listens to the next part of his story. "That is evil," she concedes. "That is greed. You are saying that this sort of magic can be beneficial in moderation... perhaps when used within restraints?" She blinks at her own words, and then looks curiously at the Prince.

The Prince offers a soft incline of his head by way of affirmation, those dusty-blue eyes never leaving Milora for even a second. "Was the farmer himself evil? Debatable. If he knew what he was doing to his peers, perhaps? If he had no idea, then he still remains corrupt. Had he settled on merely using his power to bring his family out of that crisis, then we could forgive his actions. Had he donated some of his harvest to feed those in a position that he himself had been in, and then we could say that he defeated the very nature of the shadow, and proved that he was not seduced by the power it offered him.”

“However, whatever your opinion, it can not be denied that our merchant fell to the darkness, even though something so simple. Though the effects may be small, the consequences can be vast all the same. One does not need to set fire to villages or commit mass acts of murder to have fallen to the sway of the Shadow."

"I do not disagree with you this far, Your Grace," Milora says quietly, never breaking eye contact. "I am perhaps too optimistic for your tastes. The Shadow can be used for good, but it is more frequently used for evil, and the very use of it is a risk. This is what you are saying to me? I understand you now, although I admit that I had never thought in this way before."

"I'm saying that the potential for corruption is far greater." His voice is as resigned as it is warm, Serath offering only words of affirmation to his female student as he stands with her at the top of the stairs, spaced between the shadow of the basement on the left, and the light of the northern wing of Dawnstar Keep on the right. It is a somewhat fitting image, to say the least.

"That the Shadow does not make a good man evil, but that it can if they succumb to the allure of the power it offers. That the Shadow is not inside of people, but that it stalks the air around them, promising wealth and influence if only they reach out and accept it." There's a pause as Serath takes a breath, his voice taking a solemn tone. "Once someone accepts the Shadow, eventually, all they can see is shadow. It grows long and distracts us from what casts it. But a shadow can never become more than a weak outline. It may stretch and grow fearsomely large, but always must it circle its master."

Now there's a flicker of acknowledgement on Milora's features; she nods her head gratefully and gives a light sigh. "So that is what you meant. It was... overpowering in the basement," she says gently. "But..," for a moment the orb of light is tightly gripped in her hand, slipping out between her fingers like sand. She immediately releases her grasp. "Yes. I see." She looks at him, blinking. "I mean to learn to use the power that I have, so that I can muster more than a /flicker/ in the darkness."

The Prince finally warms at that, an expression that breaks the look of reserved resignation in a wave of soft empathy. "When people take the mark, they're reinforcing my understanding that they are not inherently evil by virtue of being Touched. They're promising never to be seduced by the temptation of the Shadow, but also wearing the mark to warn people that *should* they ever break that promise, they will need help and support to overcome it, no matter what it takes. Even if means death.”

“They're promising that while the proverbial crossbow is loaded, they mean not to fire it at other people unless they are forced to do so in self defense. They're saying: I am Shadow Touched, but I will reject the inveiglement that it whispers to me, and I will not fall into darkness." A pause, and Serath gestures to the light beyond the darkness, heading into the north wing of the Keep beyond a moment later. "And that it what I aim to teach people, with your help, if you want to belong to something." There's a hint of a smile in the wake of that latter statement as he looks away to lead on.

"To belong... belong to something." Actually, the words aren't spoken -- they're mouthed as she watches him move beyond her, fascinated. It takes a moment, but she follows him, allowing his speech about the Mark to sink into her. While she steps behind him it becomes unnecessary to carry the orb of light any longer, so she releases it from her hand and watches as the light fades into the air around it and appears to soak into her skin. "To belong to something, Your Grace? If I can help a little, it will be as much as I've ever wanted."

"It turns out that I may be in need of a Paladin or two, or perhaps a Cleric or three, in the near future." the Prince offers as he walks, that knowing smile firmly entrenched upon his features. "The Church of True Light has fallen, and those that remain seem to be making things up as they go along. Sara'tharalax is also a little concerned that she's being used as a religious icon, which in turn means I have to endure the constant fretting of a Dragoness."

He looks back and winks at his smaller and somewhat more slender companion, "And once she gets started..." He shakes his head to illustrate the unspoken point.

For a moment, Milora is speechless; she walks beside the Prince with an expression of pleasant shock on her features. "I understand that!" she says at last, blinking her eyes and grinning for the first time. "I can't imagine it's very good to be regarded in that way when it isn't what one is meant for. Your Grace, I will certainly do anything I can to help you." She takes a breath and then bites the corner of her lip.

Serath nods to that as Milora catches up to him, walking with his hands held behind his back now, rather than resting on the hilt of the longsword that sleeps upon his left hip, and upon the wide belt around his surcoat. "Well, think about it at least, Milora. You've certainly won me over with your charm and your desire to understand the depths of the duality, and if you can keep people entertained long enough to convey what I've attempted to open your eyes to today, then I think you're certainly a winning investment." "We're a little way away from making the foundation of this "New Church" official, but Savantis is busy attempting to find new recruits, and once we auction off the mansions and estates in Starmantle we'll have a substantial base of funding from which to start. I have no desire to dip into House Kahar funds, you see. Nor do I wish to divert funding away from the rest of Light's Reach when House Mikin is in dire need of it."

Parting her lips, Milora turns very pink and shakes her head. "Thank you," she says quietly in response to his praise, but she's more interested, apparently, in what he has to say next.

"So that is why. I am in no position to offer any aid to that respect," she says, "as I am only a baroness and my allowance is very small. However... I happen to know a wild horse who would not mind stabling in Light's Reach, and so perhaps I may be able to speak for his generosity if I assure him that the cause is good. I know where further deliberation will go, Your Grace, but I shall continue to think on the matter if you would like me to." She smiles, giving a tiny skip that betrays her mood.

"I'm not asking you to secure financial support for the cause, Milora." Serath lightly notes shaking his head a little as he refutes that train of thought, "I'm just giving you an idea of how far along I am in making this a reality. I am, however, asking you to consider becoming a Paladin or a Cleric of whatever comes of this, if it interests you."

"Perish the thought. You understand, however, that I will help to the full extent of my ability - and if I could defend as a Paladin or study as a Cleric, I would be pleased, honored and utterly devoted to my occupation and to the cause. I am already devoted to the Light by my very nature; I only want to use that devotion for good." Milora looks intently up at the Prince, her hands folded demurely in front of her as she moves. "In short: yes. Absolutely."

As they arrive at a juncture, Serath pauses. It would seem that he means to depart, now that he's sewn the seed of fate in Milora's mind. "In that case, Milora Lomasa, I will trust you and most likely call upon you as a supporter of whatever we name this new Order, and you'll become one of the first to carry the Light to the parts of Fastheld that most need it. All you'll need to do between now and then is figure out which role you'll be better suited to: The Paladin, or the Cleric. The differences are as subtle as they are vast, but I'll let you work them out for yourself."

Milora nods her head, a solemn overtone to her happy air as she repeats his words back to herself in her mind. "I am sufficiently intelligent. I will come to the best conclusion before very long, I think." There's a quick pause, and she smiles at him. "Your Grace, I am immeasurably grateful for... for everything. I am going to /try/ to understand, and I think that I can in time, Light guide my path. Um..." she steps forward, rather red in the cheeks, and moves to embrace him around the shoulders.

Serath doesn't seem to make any attempt to stop her from accomplishing the show of affection that's about to be placed upon him...

After giving the Prince a fond hug, Milora sighs and steps back, nodding her head. "I will always think of you as a friend and benefactor, sir," she tells the man warmly. "Good bye, Serath Kahar. I will not disappoint you by my own will." With that said, she makes her curtsey and moves towards the opposite prong of the fork.

If Serath was a wildcat, he'd be purring now. Instead, he just watches Milora depart without word, deciding that the mood doesn't need something as crude as language to spoil it. Still, in the end, he does whisper one word to himself: "Sir?"

It's such a foreign word that he just sighs, softly shakes his head, and then heads back down the corridor towards the War Room, and the crossbow that has yet to escape his interest. Dragon's blood or not, there are still things in the Empire that are of curiosity to even one such as he, it seems.

''Return to Season 6 (2007)