Cat Blues

The Great Oak


 * A large tree surrounded by a circle of parkland deep within the Freelander district of Redwater, the Great Oak is an ancient oak tree where the townsfolk gather to share the news of the day. The oak tree is certainly impressive, and is believed to be one of the largest in Fastheld.


 * It is also under the direct protection of the Imperial Watch, who deem the tree to be a national treasure, and who can often be seen patrolling the area, day or night, to ensure that some hormone-riddled teenager doesn't decide to carve "kha luvs jah 4 ever" into the side of something ten times as old as them.


 * Priests and Scholars alike can sometimes be found among the relaxing citizens, preaching the heavily revised virtues of the Light and the equally revised dangers of the Shadow to an appreciative crowd.


 * The Great Oak itself is said to be the only thing in Light's Reach that wasn't restored or created by the Light when Serath Kahar raised the city anew; local Bards claim that the tree was the only thing that managed to survive the destruction wrought by the Ravager, and that the reborn city was raised around it in turn.

"So, I hear you're getting married?" Knowing trees, I understand the meaning of patience. Knowing grass, I can appreciate persistence. The Great Oak is one of those places that offers patience and persistence in equal measure; a distinguished haven of serenity and certainty in a world filled with conflict and indecision. Though the breeze is strong and the clouds are low and dark, the Wildcat Prince of the Blood doesn't seem to care. It's the kind of weather that just makes places such as these even more tranquil at times, devoid of people who fear a little wind and harbor too much attachment to their hats. Besides, the Wildcat isn't called the Ranger-Prince (on occasion) for nothing. With the application of a little common sense, Serath has chosen a place to sit that permits the wide trunk of the Great Oak to act as a break for such rebellious gusts, sat as he is with his back against that very body of tree next to one Milora Lomasa. His eyes are closed and this seems to be one of those rare occasions where he looks a little tired. Late night. "Is that really what you want?"

Juriatale lies rather diagonal - or perhaps perfectly straight - in the grass, the calm face of the red dragon cast into shadow by both tree and dusk and turned an attractive blood red. The Arbiter's face is shaded as well, but bright: she leans against the tree with one arm crossed over her abdomen to create a picture of relaxation and comfort. She has been talkative and animated, apparently delighted with the company that has found her this evening.

Such a statement, and then such a question, makes her jerk sleepy eyes wide open. "Light, I've forgotten to send the invitations! I shall do that tomorrow." She shakes her head, lifting a hand to fix some tendril or other that has escaped its bindings. "I would forget my head if it weren't attached to a fool. Why would you ask me such a thing, Serath? It is not an uncommon question for women in my position to hear from their friends, but indulge me."

"You shouldn't answer a question with a question, Milora," Serath purrs in a soft voice, generally unmoving save for the stready rise and fall of his chest, the motion of lips, and the flash of teeth as he speaks. "You know better than that."

There's something of a laugh, and then a little sigh. "What has love got to do with it?" she asks gently, unsheathing a blade of grass and pinning it between her thumbs. "Convenience rules all - it would now be convenient for Norran and I to marry, and he certainly needs a little of my softness as well as I have needed to affect his relentlessness in recent days. We fit together, and it would be good for my House. Well, if you want my answer, all of this deliberation aside, I am in love with him. We have proven that we can live alongside one another. I like the idea of a permanent situation. It follows that marriage should be, and is, what I really want."

"Spoken like a true Noble. Well, except for the love part and all," Serath muses, finally opening his eyes to offer a small side-glance towards his female companion. "I mean this as no slight against the Duke, but his track record is... well, suspicious at best. You're young - in the grand scheme of age - and I suppose I'm a little concerned that you might just become yet another feather in his proverbial hat."

The blade of grass is brought to her lips: the first attempt at utilizing it bears no fruit; the second yields a sweet, green whistle and a grin from the lady. Her eyes shift over to Serath and she gives a little shrug of her shoulders, shifting her position. "When we initiated this little affair, I had no intentions of marrying him. My plans were to let it run its course, enjoy myself, and ultimately know and survive my first heartbreak - quietly and without theatrics, if possible. I told him as much, and he was disgusted with the idea. He did not have to ask to marry me; because he has expressed that desire without obligation, I trust him."

Serath takes a moment to unhook the scabbard that's awkwardly attempting to conform to the lay of his left leg, contenting himself with placing the leather container on the ground next to his leg without the bindings of buckles and straps. "Well, at least you won't have to worry about changing your last name," he muses with a smile. "I suppose that's something."

Another hoot from the grass, and then Milora flicks it aside and laughs. "Do you see? This is a very comfortable and convenient matter. Will you come, Serath, and bring your pretty Mongoose, if it is not inconvenient to you at the time?" She leans down on one hand, toward him, and smiles. "Furthermore, you never did answer my question, and now I have answered yours." One yellow eyebrow is lifted in curiosity.

"My pretty Mongoose goes where she likes, and there are few powers in Fastheld that could tell her otherwise," the Wildcat purrs, deep affection quite evident within the intones of his voice as he makes reference to a certain Duchess. "However, I imagine she'll make the attempt if she can find the time. And I did answer your question - I said I was concerned for a friend, and elaborated on the source of that concern. If you need a better answer than that, well..." Serath shrugs a lazy shrug. "I can't provide one."

"Well, very well." Milora's smiles turns to one of satisfaction and she gives a little nod. "As simple as it is, I like that answer the best. Then I will see how the Duchess wields my invitation; to my experience, we get along well enough." She reclines again, for a moment, and then tilts her head back and lets silence reign for a time. There is a sort of soft din, a chorus of the usual evening sounds, a pleasant smell that comes with the mild dampness of a good summer evening.

"I love these transitionary hours, dawn and dusk, especially in the warm months. The light and temperature are both exactly perfect. Serath, I heard nice things about you this morning, or rather that you had said nice things about me, but the person to whom I was speaking would not elaborate. I am not particularly curious as to what these things were, specifically, because I imagine that they revolved around the issue of my personal qualifications for my current position, but I /am/ curious as to your business at Night's Edge last night."

"Is that so?" purrs the Wildcat, deciding that now would perhaps be a good time to pick up the resting scabbard and draw the obsidian longsword that sleeps within it with a hiss of metal upon leather. "Well, I decided to spend the evening, the night, and - as it turns out - most of the morning wandering aimlessly along Mikin Road with Vhramis Wolfsbane. Mostly just talking and catching up about things, as it had been far too long since we'd spoken in such a capacity as brothers, rather than as a Prince and a Freelander." He pauses there, perhaps musing over his words for a moment as he takes the time to rest the obsidian longsword across his lap before placing the now empty scabbard back down next to his leg. That done, the Prince holds the blade diagonally across his hands, evidently inspected the blade itself for any defects or marks. All told, the longsword looks freshly forged.

"As fate would have it, we happened upon Night's Edge, and I recalled that I had a long letter and a number of concerns that I decided to attend to in passing. I also suspected that the proximity to the Tribunal, and the mixed attention and disquiet, that Night's Edge holds would place it at the top of the Tribunal's "things we can send the Arbiter to do" list."

"I had already intended to spend some time there, to speak to Celeste and to perhaps witness her performing the task of an educator if one such class would occur before my presence began to smell of fish," Milora replies with a smile. "I will not be welcome, and I mean to bring along /my/ pretty Bull, with the understanding that he is to remain utterly silent on any matters that involve Celeste as a person, and any matters which involve your half-brother at all. They two are not fond of one another, suffice to say. I can imagine that you, and the Tribunal, echo some of my concern. -- I had heard of such a letter, and wondered whether it contained very much personal information; whether I might be allowed to see it," she admits, looking mildly sheepish.

"I told her to get over whatever petty resentment she holds against you for whatever trivial slight she feel wounded by," the Wildcat bluntly offers, placing the longsword down delicately to balance across his lap, "And that, if she couldn't do that, then to salute the rank, not the woman, if it came to it. You'll be there as the Arbiter of the Imperial Tribunal, after all, not as Baroness Milora Lomasa. You might want to remind your "Bull" of that as well." With the longsword balanced and the edges buffeted by the leather surcoat that he wears, Serath takes a moment to remove a small pouch that also has the honor of sleeping upon the belt at this waist before retrieving two folded sheets of parchment and offering them to his younger (and substantially curvier) counterpart. "Royal decree dictates that you're not to use them to further your crusade against the innocent inhabitants of a certain monastery," the Prince quips with a smile. "And apparently, you called her a whore, and now she hates you forever and ever and ever so there."

There's a little puff and a rolling of green eyes as Milora takes the papers from the man. "I did no such thing. I was angry and told her that she was similar to women of low noble standing and no reputation. I would have to be /very/ drunk indeed to call Celeste a whore, as it would of course mean that the wrath of the Light would descend upon me." There's an incoherent utterance that accompanies a hastily covered yawn. "Norran'll be fine. I'll knock him about a little if he behaves like an ass."

She gazes at the documents, squinting a little from, probably, mild but untreated nearsightedness. "These will probably help her case, as they will likely give me some further idea of what exactly happens at the monastery."

"I'd have thought a former Scourge would have been called far worse than "whore" in any case. You know? While cutting tongues out and whipping people," the Prince muses as Milora takes the letters. "Light knows I've been called worse, but you don't see me running around Fastheld removing arms at the waist." That kind of makes him smile in a dark kind of way before he catches the black humor and thinks better of it. "In Viscountess Mikin's defense, keep in mind that she's not quite well versed in the written word as you might be. You can discount most of it as convoluted madness, and the rest I seem to have her assurances on that it'll be all above board when you go to visit."

There's a good-natured smirk and an accompanying chuckle. "Yes, well. Celeste is a delicate flower, and her daintiness has not been at all compromised by her tongue-slashing, eye-gouging sprees, et cetera. Such traits are so strong within her, I suppose." Apparently Milora is capable of speaking easily on such matters. "I am aware that she loses herself in eloquence. If I can pick out one kernel of sense from these pages, I will be satisfied - truly, I would not like to see Night's Edge take a real fall. It is a place of good intentions but poor reality, from my understanding."

"It seems to balance on a knife's edge, and very few people - Celeste included - seem to have any idea as to how it's going to fall." Letters out of hand (almost literally, depending on the context), Serath turns his attention back to the obsidian longsword that he was inspecting but a few moments ago. "I'm probably going to burn those and forget they ever existed, so enjoy them while you can."

The papers are folded neatly and tucked up a billowing sleeve. Milora grins and shakes her head. "I shall return them to you shortly, Serath, but I think I had better be allowed some time to study them. I've no doubt I will need to confer with a neutral party on their contents, and I know exactly a one." She shakes her head before her attention is caught by something long and powerful. "Is this a new addition to your library of weapons? It does not look well used."

"I gave my last one to Duke Kahar," Serath explains by way of answering, running a finger down the length of one side of the sleek reflective-black blade before nodding to himself as he finds nothing of concern. "It seems that the previously humble steel longsword that I was hauling around because I needed *something* at my side didn't get through the Aegis event and the Light's Reach restoration unchanged. So it seemed a fitting gift. This," he gestures to the obsidian, "Is something for the interim."

There's a brief pause, and Milora grins. "So you will be getting something new, ultimately - I mean, something particular. That's good, a ranger and a Prince should have a sword that suits him exactly. I know what it is to be fond of a weapon, or something material, when it has sentimental value, but I do not understand the fervency with which some specific people protect their things."

Serath considers that for a moment, and then inclines his head in a subtle gesture of affirmation. He then stands for a moment to slide the longsword back into the charcoal scabbard in which it sleeps before dropping sliding back down against the trunk of the Great Oak to adopt his previous stance of casual sitting. "I had fighting knives once," he explains, "that originally belonged to Sirion Starkhorn. I gave those to Vhramis. I had a longsword that's now fused into the ground in Freeha..." His voice breaks with a moment of pained recollection before he manages to shake the memory away, "In Freehaven. I had a pair of scimitars for a while, but I forget what happened to those. Eventually, I had myself a very special pair of Seraphite blades made - Ebony and Ivory, named for the different hilts - which I ended up trading to a red dragon amidst the ruins of Light's Reach in exchange for a certain longbow and shield."

The smile fades from Milora's face and a twinge of confusion crosses her features, but she seems to think better of pressing the matter. It's much too fine and dry a night for there to be too-serious discussion. "I know of such a red dragon," she says quietly. "It seems to be that Drakes are not too concerned with matters of human sentiment - they barter, and they are fiercely practical. But, then - /that/ is how Vhramis regained his bow, and how Lucius regained his shield, and ... perhaps part of the reason that Vhramis guards the Lady's Flight so passionately, because his brother made such a sacrifice on his account?" There's a crease of Milora's forehead that marks curiosity and thought.

"Actually," the Wildcat corrects, a warm smile acting as companion to equally warm words, "Vhramis didn't know how or why his longbow had returned until last night. I suspect that Lucius Nepos still has no idea." That disarming smile is given to Milora now as Serath turns that ethereal gaze of his upon her slender form, sharing these secrets and providing answers to some of the enigma that surrounds him.

"The original plan was that Vhramis was to seek this red dragon out on my behalf and make him an offer to come and see me upon the Light's Reach Mesa, which was covered in ash and death back then, where I would trade for his aid in rebuilding the city we sit in now." A pause. "Instead, Vhramis was tricked into making an offer of trade, and then tricked again later on, so Sara and I had to try a different tactic." A second pause follows, and Serath lets Milora attempt to understand *some* of that before continuing on. "As for Vhramis's attachment to his longbow, I've never pressed him on the issue, and I wasn't there when he received it. I'm told by a certain dragoness that he received it from the Instrumentalist herself, though, and whatever she said to him on that occasion must have had an profound impact."

There's a nod of Milora's head, and a little, barely visible, shiver that runs through her form. Fortunately she isn't exactly a dim sort, so this information is quickly received, sorted and registered to the best of her understanding. As such, she remains stoic-looking, but comprehending. "I have long been curious. Vhramis is not unlike me in temperament, as far as I have seen, and I would be shaken and honoured if I were to receive such a personal and elegant gift."

A pause ensues, and another little bob of her head as she maintains Serath's gaze. "I do not believe that Val'sharax operates out of malice, because the Drakes must be far above such pettiness. Is it that, then, to your understanding, he plays these tricks for his own amusement, or to test the minds and wills of humans?"

"I-" There's a delay in reply as Serath finally looks away from Milora, shifting his glance to a space more towards his left than where Milora is position to his right. If one were to study the subtle nuances of his expression and attention, one might assume that the Wildcat was actually looking at something ahead of him. Yet, as the stars twinkle between the ominous display of six moon in the night sky, there doesn't seem to be anything nearby *for* Serath to be looking at. And yet, for all intents and purposes, Serath is quite obviously watching something that isn't there. "Sara'tharalax believes that Val'sharax - which is not his real name, I'm told - is as pretentious as he is devious. Apparently, red dragons are of a breed that enjoy meddling in the affairs of lesser creatures, especially if the sphere of chaos that they cause is as detailed as the web that they wove to create it." The Wildcat tilts his head a little to the left, and then finally looks back upon Milora with a smile. "She likes your trinket, by the way, but is of the opinion that the head should have been blue."

This information is absorbed solemnly, and although Milora makes no pretenses of understanding fully, she does not appear prepared to interrogate the Prince much more deeply. "So it is that the Arbitrator has another name? I have always imagined that the Drakes have their own language, and dialects within that language, and out of such a tongue they spawn true and profound names for themselves and one another that they do not share with us. But it is just a feeling."

There's a little pause, and a breathy, almost nervous smile. "Although the color speaks of such a dragon as Val'sharax, the face," she seizes said trinket to observe it more closely, "does not. Val'sharax deserves a smirk, something that is good natured and mocking in perhaps not quite equal parts. When I heard you first speak of Sara ... Sara'tharalax, I am afraid I do not do the pronunciation justice, I imagined on her head features and an expression similar, almost identical, to this. Is she a calm and patient sort?"

"Calm, patient, reverent, pragmatic, steadfast, and too curious for her own damn good," Serath purrs in an affectionate tone. It's like he's speaking of a friend that's been by his side all his life, and yet what or who he speaks of could very well exist entirely in his own imagination... had he not proven that theory to be quite baseless, that is. "Words and descriptions don't really do justice to people. You alone will have to make your own assumptions based on your demeanor and knowledge of the world and the people that inhabit it, Milora. Sara suspects that our red is not the "Arbitrator" of anything, either, as she knew of no Drakar'ri who assumed such roles when she was alive to be a part of that race."

These words bring a bright smile to Milora's lips, and she breathes a little sigh. The next bits of speech, however, makes her quirk her eyebrows and give an assenting, almost sheepish nod. "Thank you, Serath, I will remember that. So 'our red', as you say, is not properly called Val'sharax and not properly called the Arbitrator; it is that he has a good deal of names and few or none of them are quite right. What does Sara call him?"

"I'm not sure," the Prince admits, offering a side-glance back towards the nothing that he sees, and then shaking his head a little as he looks back upon Milora again beneath a canopy of green leaves, brown branches, and a canvas of moons and stars beyond. "He was Val'sharax since she's known of him, but he was never "the Arbitrator", so there's entirely the possibility that at least some truth remains within the deceptions. It's nothing to worry about, regardless. Speaking of concerns, though..." Serath smiles a soft smile once more, offering a quizzical expression in Milora's direction. "Do you know of a Freelander by the name Taran Songbird? A bard of no little renown, all told."

"The last time I spoke to Master Songbird," Milora reminisces, her nose crinkling as she tilts her head back and focuses on Serath from the corner of her eye, "we were beneath this very tree. He spoke to me of being Shadow Touched, and I was angry at him for never having taken the Mark. That is ... we know each other rather well. He..." She frowns, gives a calculated shrug, and closes her eyes. "What an odd name to mention."

"He just about tripped over me on the steps of the Tribunal," Serath explains, looking away again to now gaze upon the stars and the oddity of all six moons. His attention seems to be caught upon the cerulean orb of Herald, shining like an orb of Seraphite upon an obsidian lake.

"Literally tripped over me, actually, before proceeding to trample over the Shadow Amnesty policy with various shouted lamentations about how unfair it was, and how his life was over, and how he'd need a new career, and a number of other items that I care not repeat. I suspect he's one of those that's of the opinion that everyone should just accept that some Shadow Touched can be acceptable people and just move on, while failing to understand that one person's opinion matters little in an ocean full of them. Especially when the majority of that ocean is turbulent and storm-wracked." "I don't think I've ever had a Freelander scream at me before," Serath muses, thinking the event over. "I'm impressed that some people can so easily forget the Church and the lessenings when they complain about how evil the Mark is."

If Milora had to choose a moon, she would choose Stormwatcher, as large, looming and green as the girl's own eyes. This is the one that she chooses to track; her left hand is extended, glimmering with its gold ornaments, her bad eye closed and the green orb is blocked out from the sky behind one of her long bronze fingers. "I am Sunkissed and can hardly very well understand the turmoil that must come of being Touched. I will say, however, that if I were in a position where, if the nature by which I was born were discovered, I would be horribly killed or maimed, I should be /exceedingly/ grateful for any law that would change that fact and especially the man or woman who instated it. In short, Taran is silly and being forced to be brave will do him some good. I suspect that you were behind such an amendment as was recently proposed; you have done him more than enough favors."

"Actually, I was generally indifferent in regards to the 'Dog Amnesty'," the Wildcat admits, deciding that Milora is far more interesting than the moons as he looks back upon her once more, watching her watching the moons watching Fastheld. "Aside from the name, which amuses me to no end entirely because of the confusion it caused."

"I had not given it much thought. What does it mean?" Milora asks softly, moving her finger to allow half of the moon to show and then moving it back. "I wish I knew a little more about astronomy and things," she notes absently.

"I'd given Taran the metaphor that the Shadow Touched were viewed as wild and angry dogs by an Empire inhabited by people who had been taught to be afraid of such animals," Serath explains, looking away as Milora plays with the moons to instead gaze upon the regions of the Redwater District viewable from the angle that he and his female companion rest at. "In this metaphor, the Mark was akin to placing a dog in the same room as one of these people and letting them get used to the animal that they're supposed to fear until that fear is replaced first with cautious acceptance that the dog will not bite unless provoked, and then tolerance that people can live alongside dogs without fear of being attacked, and then - in time - a general acquiescence that the fear they once had was, in hindsight, not quite as based in reality as the tales made out." The Wildcat falls silent there, letting the story bask in the moon-cast twilight as he takes a few moments to appreciate the silence before adding: "Taran found flaws in my metaphor in that he believed that the dogs remembered being beaten and killed by the people, and so were fearful of the people as the people were of them. However, that was a very selfish interpretation of the metaphor, in my opinion. It would have you believe that the Shadow Touched are of a number equal to the Untouched, and that all of them are terrified of everyone else, when recent history would suggest otherwise. It would also have you believe that the Shadow Touched and the Shadow were clearly misunderstood, and all this talk about cataclysms and villages being razed to the ground and malicious creatures of darkness attacking people were all vastly overstated rumors based in fiction."

"But wild dogs are dangerous," Milora replies, dropping her hand and turning her whole body to better view Serath's profile. Her head lolls a little to one side; her expression is calm. "Their nature and instincts incline them to be so; with exposure to people, however, and training, they can be made into acceptable and even fine companions. I think that each side has been hurt by the other. Dogs bite and claw; humans punish and are sometimes extreme. That does not change the nature of the dogs."

"Once our Freelander friend was done making his conspicuously blinded point in the most vociferant way possible, and once he'd cited all the various reasons as to I was to blame for all of his woes and why he no longer had faith in what it is that I've been attempting to accomplish all these months, I disarmed his ire by stating that I'd see if we could put both the person and the dog together in a dark room without making it instantly obvious to the person that the other was a dog, and to the dog that the other was a person." Serath's elaboration takes flight upon words that hold little malice or contempt for the subject in question, although does seem to purposefully embellish a few terms here and there within reason to silently state his perception of Taran's sorrows. "Thus the Dog Amendment was born, which was quickly and loudly shot down by those who weren't marked, and cautiously supported by those who were marked themselves. Although I believe Duke Seamel's opinion was that he himself wouldn't have taken the mark on his hand." Serath pauses once again. The Prince, it seems, can talk when needs be, and though each word is as clear as it is silken, even he needs to catch his breath now and then. "As my friend Tiris put it, a mark that can be hidden is no mark at all. I can see the viewpoint from both sides of the debate, but the majority have the most to lose from such an amendment, and the amnesty is still young. People would like to see me snap my fingers and create a world where dogs and cats live together in perfect harmony, but the reality is something entirely different. I put it to the Houses to wordlessly prove that point to Taran. I have to wonder if he saw it like that."

"I would think that such an act reflects cowardice and an unwillingness to face one's situation. That Mark is meant to speak without being muffled, is not it?" Milora speaks maybe a little too presumptuously; she appears to realize this and so tacks the last three words onto that statement with haste. "That is... were I Marked, properly, I would scorn someone who would take the Mark on his hand rather than on his face. I would consider that person's option to hide his situation a slight to the prejudice and hardships that I had had to face as a result of my condition." There's a little sigh, and a shake of Milora's head. "I know Taran. I suspect that he imagines any view opposite his own as formed out of malice to the Touched."

"He was upset because the Sunkissed did not have to be marked or vow to the Empire and her people that they wouldn't use their power to commit mass acts of destruction or...," the Prince shakes his head in amusement, "Am I missing the point?"

This pulls a laugh from Milora's lips, and she shakes her head. "Destruction? But Light magic does not backfire harmfully the way that Shadow magic does, and it is generally defensive and not aggressive. The Sunkissed are naturally good and deserve to integrate seamlessly into society, or to be admired if they choose to make themselves known. I do not even know what the point is. Taran misunderstands; perhaps he could benefit from an education." She gives Serath a wide grin and a playful jerk of her brows.

"The fallacy there is to think that the Sunkissed are naturally good, Milora," Serath points out, shaking his head a little as he corrects his proverbial student of the Light. "The Church of True Light proved that that is not always the case. The Light cannot make someone who is morally corrupt good by virtue of it choosing them to wield it, but someone who wields the Light can do much good with it. Conversely, one who is Sunkissed but walks a path of corruption and - dare I say it - evil cannot really do much harm with the Light. They may be able to foil any Mages that attempt to bring them to justice, but such failings of morality remain human, and can be countered by sheer human virtue as well."

Milora allows Serath to finish entirely, taking the words to heart, although her eyebrows furrow. At last she looks rather sheepish again and when she speaks her tone is much more mild. "I know of the Scourges. Light and Shadow have little to do with a person's actual natural disposition, to my understanding; if either side is corrupted by such power it is the individual's fault for allowing or being prone to such corruption. I meant that they are naturally good as far as magic goes, although I see that that may not be entirely right either. Is it that, then, the magic itself is good and pure by its nature because it comes from the Light?"

Good and Evil are essentially little more than subjective concepts," the Wildcat purrs, smiling despite Milora's self-imposed chagrin. Evidently tired of sitting now, the Prince then proceeds to push himself to his feet with all the fluidity of the feline from which his House's moniker is taken, changing stances with little if any noise to herald such a shift.

"But, in the context of such concepts, the Light is inherently good, and the Shadow is irredeemably evil. That one can use the Shadow for good is a joint testament to the character of the Mage using it, and just how potent that small measure of the arcane is that they command."

When Milora rises, it isn't with nearly as much grace; she is able, however, to erect herself efficiently with a little leverage from her staff. That tool is then leaned against the tree, and she commences with the lazy stretching of her neck and shoulders. "Hmmmm! So that is simple, then. This inherent badness or evil, then, is why the Marked are trusted with the use of their magic and the Unmarked are not, because the taking of the Mark implies that the person is prepared to use such magic only for good."

The Wildcat bobs his head in a subtle show of affirmation. "That's the short of it, Milora. However, the agreement is that they just won't use their 'power' to cause strife, rather than that they'll only use it for 'good'."

"I had originally intended to say 'only for good or neutral purposes', but I suppose you are better at phrasing than I am," Milora admits, smiling contentedly. "I wonder whether it's entirely possible for neutrality to exist in matters involving magic. It comes from two such deep extremes." She pauses and raises her eyebrows. "But it is quite late now. Perhaps such a lesson is better suited for another time - not that I am not an eager student, it's just that I think we both have people who are thinking of bed and perhaps sleep, and probably missing us."

"Rowena has good aim," Serath quips in a tone so sincere that the subtle pun may be entirely lost, "However, I am a nocturnal creature, and prone to wandering, so I imagine we only have to worry about you. You can stay in the guest suite of Dawnstar Keep until morning, if you like. I'd say something along the lines as how you'd be the first to break the beds in, but..."

The Prince of the Blood decides to leave the contextual innuendo unspoken, though the roguish smile that flashes upon his features is nothing short of playful. "Well, the choice is yours. I'll walk you to whatever destination you choose, at least. Chivalry demands it, but I just do what I like."

Unlikely that such a remark would miss a marksman; Milora chuckles and, far from her being offended, she seems even more amused at Serath's further elaboration. "I will accept that honour with relish, Serath, although I probably will not do the history of such rooms justice without excess effort on my part." With a quirk of her eyebrows, she leaves that statement hanging for a second before gesturing to Serath.

"Well, then, be my very charming escort. Norran is not so accurate, however, he will just have to continue to miss me until tomorrow." Then seizing her staff and gesturing toward the common district, Milora turns her foot that way.

''Return to Season 6 (2007)