Chapter 3

(A failed test, the prince, the Wyrm, the tale continues...)

 

"G      

ood. Very good, my young elven friend." The voice was soothing, even gentle. Like a cat purring next to your ears. Kalatel had never known a woman capable of sounding quite like that. He had known many women in his long life, yet this one lady surprised him. He still wasn't used to many surprises, partially due to living with the wood elves for so long. The elves, a constant that rarely changed in this ever-changing world, were hardly the wealth of experiences that this elf would have preferred. That was just one of the many reasons that Kalatel had come to study with his master.

            The woman he sat across from seemed ageless, though he knew her true age, and kept his silence to any who might be so brazen to ask. Most of the mystic robes that she wore shrouded any real details about her. Age, race, and the like were hidden beneath the aura of her magic, and a potent magic it was. Now she, like others of her experience, taught would-be magicians.

            Taught them... the art.

            A glowing ethereal ball hung in the air, suspended between the master, and the student. It remained a constant white haze, and floated in the air, hovering, powered only by the student’s will. Kalatel concentrated to keep the color uniform to the specifications of the spell, but his fragmented thoughts intruded anyway.

            "My young elven friend!" thought the elfling, with his usual cockiness. Young she had called him, but he was easily three times her apparent age. But, as humans measured time, she might have a valid opinion. Some judged others by age, but a lot of other people measured time by looks or experience. And Kalatel easily looked young, and based on the experiences that humans garnered in their short lifetimes, he guessed that she probably could be older than him, for the elves lived for centuries. Ten years pass for a human the way a single one does for an elf.

            Being of elven blood, Kalatel had most of the fair features that the elves are famous for: Slim, delicate hands; a trim and yet tightly muscled frame; pointed ears; sweeping eyebrows that curved upwards ever so slightly; and long, almond-shaped eyes with impossibly large pupils set deep within the irises. Those same eyes could easily see heat patterns that living beings emanated, in darkness, or the absence of normal warmth. In fact, the only trait that Kalatel possessed that proved he was not completely elfin was his light, close-cropped beard, the color matching his long flowing locks of hair. It was sandy in complexion, and had a little red thrown in - ‘for character' - his mother had joked.

            His mother's mother, Betria, had been human, a kind-hearted ranger that had come to love the elves far more than her own people. And Kalatel's maternal grandfather, Ry’trian, had loved Betria with a passion rarely seen among the elves. To this day, he remained true to her memory, by never making another his mate, either for love or life.

            Both of Kalatel's father's parents were elven, and, for a while, had exhibited a typically racist attitude that most elves displayed towards humans. But, as with most people, they too had come to love their new daughter as one of their own.

            Betria lived, and died, proud to be human, despite her feelings about them. When she passed on, all of the elves mourned their cousin and friend. Even now, Kalatel's own mother, So’yianna, was half-human, and aged dramatically compared to his father. His mother looked no older than a human of forty, despite her one hundred and ninety-two years. But to the long-lived elves, So’yianna looked positively ancient. A full-blooded elf that looked similar in years to his mother could very well be into their third or fourth century of life.

            Kalatel was so wrapped up in his thoughts about his parents, and the comment made by his mentor, he failed to notice the subtle change in the very air around him. Ever so slowly, the magical ball turned a crimson color, and sank to the tabletop before him. Upon touching the wooden surface a mere foot or so away, the sphere suddenly exploded. No shards marked his body as only sound issued forth from the explosion, and the waves of magical energy dissipated harmlessly to their respective sources.

            Eventually, sound returned to the crowded room. Almost as if nothing had ever happened, birds once again began their joyful songs, and even the sound of the wind could be heard as it twisted and bent around trees, leaves, and anything else that was in it's way. Light restored to normal as well, for Kalatel's eyes adjusted to the candles that now burned in the little room that was used for spell training.

            As his sight and hearing recovered, the sound of a low chuckling reached his ears. He turned, only to see his teacher shaking her cloaked head.

            "Bad. Very bad, my young elven ass!" came the expected retort.

            The young mage grimaced and readied again to again try to pass this test before him, but was held off as his master spoke again. This time, however, the voice was not so soothing as it once had been.

            "No!"

            Her voice carried the weight of magic, as the shout spell overtook his senses. Numb, he could only turn and stare. The feeling wore off in a few moments, and seeing that now she had his full, undivided attention, she slowly raised the cowl off her head, illuminating her face in the subdued lighting.

            She was exquisite. Her face barely showed signs of any aging, for the skin was still taught and smooth. There were few lines around her eyes or mouth. Her hair was drawn back into a braid that went around the back of her head, and curved around her neck to lie across her breasts, the end tied off in a golden tassel. The color of her hair was nearly impossible to see in this light, but the young elf had seen it before to know the range of brown, black, gold, silver, and red that wove playfully throughout all the fibers of those lengthy strands.

            She took a step forward, and placed her cool hands across his lower face, gazing into the depths of his unusual eyes. She appeared to be fascinated as she stared deep within him. Time almost came to a stop as she began to fall into the depths of who the elfling was. Finally, with an effort, she broke contact with his gaze, and stepped back.

            "You're concentrating on the wrong things, my pupil. Unlike some other spells you’ve performed in the past, this is not simply a test that can be mastered after many failures. You must have complete clarity of thought, whether it is good or evil, right or wrong. This isn't a toy for the young, nor is it a burden for the old. It quite simply, is. If you attempt to master the spell again so soon after such a recent failure, then you will only fail it again, and accomplish nothing."

            He appeared slightly confused at this, and his eyebrows knotted slightly, trying to piece together this new mind puzzle. His master smiled at this, her thoughts apparently going back to remember her own intermediate training. Finally, Kalatel lowered his head, humbled. He sighed slowly, and nodded. "Very well, Reia. What should I do next?"

            "Relax in your quarters. You know the way, I believe." Her voice wasn't so disappointed now, and he acknowledged what she said with another nod.

            His fingers made fluidic movements in the air, and Kalatel spoke a sentence of magic, and with his last gesture, he opened a mystic door before him. It shimmered, and solidified, throwing a bluish-white light across the room. He stepped through it, and his foot touched a wooden floor in another room... his own bedroom, on the other side of the giant hollowed out tree. He stepped through completely, and as he passed through the aperture, he felt the tingle of the dimensional doorway filter through himself, a small reminder of the potent magic at work. When both feet were solid on the floor, he turned around, and saw his master nod her head in approval. Then, and only then, did he dismiss the portal with a final gesture. Behind him, the spatial opening faded to the nothing that it was only seconds before.

            Angry, in spite of his casual expertise in this recent spell, he plopped down on the constructed bedding, eliciting a groan from the wooden supports beneath the furs and padding, not to mention him. He went over the sphere spell again in his mind, trying to trace when and where his thoughts had betrayed him. Eventually, he dismissed the idea, and decided to take his master's advice. He took a deep breath and relaxed, letting his consciousness drift to soothing heights.

            Several hours later, though he didn't know exactly how much time had elapsed, he made another decision. A nap will do me a world of good.

            Kalatel arose from the bedroll, and crossed the room to open the windows. Despite the approaching chill of fall, he always slept better in the soothing drafts. Plus, the breeze helped to take the dampness out of the wooden room that was built into the layers of this ancient, oak tree. He lifted the wind-guard on the lantern, and plunged the room into a darkness that was so complete that it took a few moments for his eyes to adapt to the play of the shadows.

            Then, as his eyes adjusted, he noticed with some satisfaction that the room was illuminated slightly, lit by the moon and stars that filtered through the forest, far above his windows. His elven spirit soared as he felt the world of man and elf leave, to be replaced by the completeness of nature. Feeling small and insignificant, Kalatel felt humbled once more. No longer a sorcerer, whose magic could shape the world; Just one mortal amongst many.

            Sighing, the pleased elf quickly stripped off his leathers, and climbed on the bed rack again, except this time he climbed into it. He grabbed the down-filled pillow, adjusted it to where it was fluffed just right, and slowly drifted off to sleep.

 

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            Prince Aqrian Kradeem of Tora, the infamous floating isle, rode his mount hard, much harder than usual. Tora was once a majestic part of the country of Tor, a small country in the southern part of Erin-Tal, but it now resided two miles above the surface of the land. Long ago, a pitched battle nearly laid waste to much of the area before them. Many centuries ago spells from both venerable, greedy magicians, as well as the power of the gods invoked from dutiful priests, had tried to raise this section of Erin-Tal to ascend to the heavens. They intended it to rise well above the legendary Mount Olympus, home of the Greek gods.

            But those same gods that had bestowed powers to their priests had invoked a terrible price from their followers for their folly. Those deities reached out through space and time, and took the two warring families for the god’s own pleasures, not to mention their pains. The spell casters & the clerics from both factions were reduced to their primal energies, and were joined once more with the very core of the planet. It’s said they are still supplying the needed energies to keep the land aloft to this day, some six hundred years after the incident.

            Modern sages now know that the isle rides magnetic currents emanating from a naturally occurring weakness of the planet’s core. But the religious sect of the general populous has always believed the gods formed that phenomenon.

            Over the years, a wide variety of locals moved to the island. Eventually, Lord Franklin Kradeem brought peace and prosperity to the isle, and set up mystic paths that tied the land below with his domain. You simply passed through these gateways to go from one land to the other. It was like walking through a door. The only difference is you crossed dimensions to appear two miles above the land below, or vice-versa. The dutiful clergy that have supported Kradeem’s family, even to this day, even now, they maintain these doorways.

            Aqrian Kradeem didn’t give the legends much thought. All he knew was the island had always flown above the continent, and probably always would. Right now, his mind was on other matters. If rumor was to be believed, a rampaging beast was on the loose, and devouring whole herds of cattle in the neighboring kingdom, Dora, along it’s eastern boarder. He was on his way to see the royal Viser, to see if the old man had any other information about the attacks, or even if he could verify the account. The soldiers that were guarding the entrance to the elder's courtyard keep quickly opened the gates upon seeing the serious look on the knight’s expression, and on the war-horse as well. He thundered through the aperture without thinking about it, but he acknowledged the actions of the men with a quick nod. In fact, one of the guards looked familiar. Shem, his name was, thought the prince. Yes, old Shem had guarded the prince when he was a little tike. I must see why he is doing this unexciting duty. Perhaps he can be useful in the future.

            Aqrian dismounted the powerful stallion by leaping from the saddle. He landed fairly quietly, considering that he was outfitted in full battle armor. Most men couldn't even walk quietly in battle plate mail, let alone accomplish what the young prince had done. He stormed through the front door of the stronghold, and nodded at the retainer who met him in the hallway, giving the surprised servant his cape and his helmet. The prince quickly saw the stairs, and sped up them two at a time. The young man glanced up at the top of the stairwell, and there he saw his father's advisor standing by the railing, with a rather aloof-like air about him.

            "What news, Westurn?" Aqrian demanded, not even winded by his exertions.

            The old man looked rather perturbed at the cavalier's informal way of starting the conversation, but let it pass. No doubt about it. He's his father's son! With a shake of his head that caused his long locks of white hair to float about like feathers in a summer breeze, the sage stated, "Bad news, my lord. The creature is heading this way. It appears that scorched crops and consumed animals are not all we have to fear. And for one of it’s kind, we will not be safe here, as we have been from other creatures in the past."

            "Have you seen it in your crystal ball, old one?" questioned the prince, excitement showing on his face for the first time. Finally!  Real Battle. Not just goblin slaughter, either. Finally! A real opponent, worthy of my attentions.

            "No, my prince. It is too far away to be able to locate it, mystically. However, if I were you, I wouldn't be so eager to face this beast."

            Smirking at the old man, the youth leaned arrogantly against the wall. "Oh?"

            Just then, all the candles in the small receiving room they stood in flared up at once, illuminating everything brightly. The young commander was astonished, for he had seen very little wizardry in his experiences, and didn't trust it much to begin with. Westurn, though, ran into his other room, his long-flowing robes swirling behind him. The prince paused just a moment and ran after the older man.

            The room they next entered was round, with a domed ceiling. From there, light from outside cast unusual patterns of all sizes, shapes, & colors due to the ceiling’s stained glass apertures. The pictures depicted therein could not immediately be understood, for it took long moments of study and contemplation to even begin to scratch the surface of those images. They were perfect for rest and meditation that was so necessary for those that studied the mystic arts, for that was the price of the magic. This was how the gods kept man in their place. The walls were covered with royal tapestries, various coats of arms, and assorted items that the sage used in his work.

            The lower areas of the round room were covered with specially designed tables that maximized the space therein, including tables and desks that were literally two or three layers deep. Along the southern area of the room, opposite from the entrance of the door, was a curved bookcase containing books, spell components in assorted jars and flasks, candles, torches, piles of different colored clothing... and a small five-legged table that held a round item that was impossible to tell what it really was due to the purple cloth draped over it.

            Crossing the room quickly, Westurn roughly threw the cover off the item, grabbed it, and placed it on the round table that sat in the center of the room. Once it sat there, the sage checked the position the smaller table was in with the domed ceiling. Nodding his head, he began to chant softly. Now, the item could be identified as light from the entire room slowly began to show details that at first were not so apparent to the nearby cavalier.

            The crystal ball wasn’t as large as the knight had at first thought it should be. He had been raised on tales of magicians and their magiks, and so was a little disappointed at the plain looking orb that was about the size of a small child’s head. The surface was smooth, flawless, dust free, and didn’t appear to be any particular color. The advisor stared hard into the very depths of the crystal sphere. There appeared to be a source of light that was within it. Aqrian, who was peering over the mage’s shoulder, couldn’t see from where it could possibly have come from. Suddenly, the old man lifted his gaze, turned, and gave his undivided attention to the other.

            "Go and mobilize your airborne army," Westurn said, with a voice that even he didn’t recognize. It sounded forced, and unpolished.

            "Wha-"

            "You young, stubborn fool!" screamed the shaken advisor.  "It's coming!"

 

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            Tresicarilarian soared through the skies, reveling in his strength, and unable to believe his good fortune. These mortals would tremble at the sound of his wing's drubbing alone, not to mention the exalted sight of him. The Wyrm had no idea how long he had slept, but knew, without knowing, that he had matured during that time. Even my own powerful sire would shirk away from myself, he arrogantly thought. The Serpent had feasted well, and already much of his strength had doubled, compared to the weakened condition that he was in when he had slaughtered his first offering, that sweet tasting tidbit of a dwarf.

            And yet, what was this? A few of these human vermin were approaching fast from a floating island that was in the sky before him. They were riding pegasi, and the reptile smiled his long, toothy grin. Good, he thought. I haven't had horsemeat in ages! 

            Tresicarilarian turned to meet them fully, not even wanting to use his incredible breath weapon. It had been too long since he had fought real combat.

 

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            “You never did finish...  what did you say to the prince after he insulted your mother?”

            Before the mystic could answer, the halfling, in a rare moment of compassion and sensitivity, perhaps motivated by his recent clash with the monk, stopped his taller friend with a tiny hand, just outside of the city’s gates. “To we Halflings, and also many other races on this land, family is also important. Was there something else that was the cause of your explosion?”

            Smiling again, the monk knew that the thief wouldn’t let this pass until he had found even the smallest of shadows. “Yes, my friend,” he eventually replied, turning back to the gates of the city before them. “Something even more than honor.”

            The thief didn’t have to wait long for the rest. Todrick kept his gaze on his Asian friend as Talanon replied.

            “Love,” he said simply. “I loved my mother deeply.” He started walking into Jun-A-Ta, but before he completely turned, the halfling saw the moisture forming in his friend’s eyes.

            Once more, Todrick stopped his friend’s motion. With just the beginnings of irritation forming on the young monk’s expression, Talanon turned to face his friend again.

            “Forgive me.”

            The irritation vanished with the monk’s grin. “Between brothers, there is nothing to forgive,” he said simply. Having said that, the monk ruffled his friend’s curly hair. Together the pair walked through the eastern gate of the town now known as Jun-A-Ta. The city never ceased to astonish the monk, having known the Orient all his life. He thought he would never stop being amazed at this land of foreigners... and yet, he felt a kinship that he couldn’t easily explain. Part of it was being an outcast in his own land; that much Talanon was sure of. Yet here he was known as ‘the blood of Stronghelm’, an impressive title and reputation to live up to, to be sure.

            The monk had met several of his father’s friends that had survived the years, and they seemed to like the mystic. Many of them had complimented Talanon that he resembled his father in more than shape and looks. Much of the monk’s spirit, or ki as it’s known in the mystic’s homeland, more than resembled his father’s own soul. Jonar’s son glowed with such high praise.

            Approaching the tavern from the eastern side of “Olde City”, the section of town that had been virtually unchanged for nearly two hundred years, the laughter and merry-making could be heard from several buildings down the street, even over the clanging of the local armorer’s anvil and hammer. This always brought forth a memory fragment to the monk, for it was here, in this direction that he had first gone when in search of the tavern shortly after arriving in Erin-Tal, and the isle of Jun, specifically. The inn, according to the bored city guard, was rumored to be the best source of information for just about anything. Fairly new at the time, it was the rage of the town, and adventurers loved the place. In fact, many experienced adventurers went to the House of Bards for more than just good times and great food. The monk had been given basic directions by the lookout that had also given him an unusual bit of advice.

            “Until ye wear the colors of ‘Father’s Folly’, best keep yer hand on yer money purse.”

            This prompted other questions from the monk at the time, but the guard just smiled and moved away. Talanon had seen an identical deep-blue earring in the majority of most of the town’s citizens, and assumed that they were related to that. In addition, he also noted many of the shops in town displayed a blue banner, or something similar. This amount of coincidence was not lost on the newcomer.

            The monk kept his hand on his money purse the entire trip through the town.

            Remembering this, Talanon’s hand crept to the small pouch he kept at his right side of his waist, and fingered his ring given to him by a soft-spoken, red-haired swashbuckler. Cham had reasoned that the monk would not adorn himself with the customary ear decoration, so he had made the ring with the blue sapphire specifically for the monk... at a price, of course.

            The halfling noted with amusement that the monk had deftly placed the ring on his right hand, for his friend didn’t wear the trinket unless he was in town. Todrick started to say something, but decided against it, rather wisely. Since the incident with the hags, the monk was moody, and unusually ill tempered. So thinking that, the halfling wondered exactly how his friend was going to keep his promise of taking care of the peasant family - now fatherless.

             Trying to lighten up the mood of his friend, who usually was always cheerful and optimistic, the halfling turned to the monk as they were walking into the always-boisterous tavern. “So what you’re trying to tell me, in your own round about way, is this prince mouthed off about your mom, you got mad, and put him down... the hard way! Then they shipped you off to the monastery.”

            Talanon gave the halfling illusionist a questioning glance out of the corner of his eye, muttered, “Sort of,” and entered the establishment. Glancing around, the monk found his favorite booth vacant, and headed towards it. Upon entering, the many different forms of perversion once again assailed him, and they always frequented the well-lit inn. Smells of cooking spices, several types of alcohol, breads, and many others that the young mystic simply couldn’t or in some cases, didn’t want to identify, filtered throughout his senses.

            Not to be ignored, his sense of sound was stretched to it’s limits as well, as several conversations were going at once, and laughter from ladies and lads of nearly every civilized race known to mortals could also be heard here, for the inn allowed everyone entrance; it’s purpose to serve and be served.

            Despite its reputation as the residence of ‘Father’s Folly’, the local thieves guild, it was the safest place in all of Erin-Tal. Fighting was not tolerated, and pickpockets didn’t thrive as thieving of any kind - unless authorized, of course - resulted in the harshest of penalties. The town had its share of handless beggars, and the graveyard was littered with unmarked sites that marked the final resting place for those that had transgressed.

            By the time the monk had sat down, the waiter, another halfling that went by the name of Halfast, had already zoomed up to their table with Talanon’s usual drink, and Todrick’s ‘normal’ portions of spiced quail, several types of breads, and differing cheeses. The speed that the halfling waiter had delivered their order always impressed the monk, even when he found out about the waiter’s enchanted anklets, that acted like the monk’s own boots of speed that he had inherited from his father.

            The monk only wore his enchanted boots on special occasions, despite Todrick’s protests. The halfling thief saw the advantages of magically enhanced speed during their adventuring, but the monk preferred his own natural quickness, and refused to become dependent upon magic to accomplish what he could not normally do on his own.

            Flipping out a few silver pieces, more than enough for their order, Talanon sat down, and sipped his wine, a local favorite called Fire&Ice, which went down like it’s name; burning all the way down his digestive system, then sudden freezing that lasted for several minutes.

            As a matter of fact, the monk had liked the drink so much he had taken extreme delight in arranging a shipment of several casks to the new Eastern city, Clu-Jan, where his mother presided over. His delight was made due to the fact that nearly all the Easterners - Talanon’s own countrymen - believed themselves superior to their Western counterparts. The mystic lived for the moments when he could enjoy watching their discomfort when they experienced ‘Western’ forms of excellence.

            Perhaps superior was too strong a word to use here. Maybe more “civilized” was more apt, he offhandedly thought.

            The monk and his countrymen had only been in this country just shy of one turn of the seasons, and already he had lost count in the number of times his people had been surprised by those discoveries. As the contented munching of Todrick slowed, Talanon stopped musing over those events when he felt the thief’s eyes upon him. Shaking his head slightly to clear his thoughts, he glanced over at the illusionist, and answered the thief’s previous statement.

            “You were mostly right, my perceptive friend. But where you erred is that I was to be executed. And at six years...”

            “Executed!” screamed Todrick, putting the first known silence in recorded history at the bustling tavern-inn. Then knowing what he had just done, for the hush was extremely oppressive, the halfling glanced about to see everyone’s eyes upon their table. Talanon had retained his control, and was even now animated, enjoying the discomfort of his stout friend.

            Todrick, ever the resourceful one, recovered quickly, and addressed the crowd. “Err sorry. Excuse us. Monk stuff ye know,” he stammered out.

            He really didn’t have to go to all that trouble, for the citizens had recovered quickly, and had gone back to whatever it was they were doing or talking about when they were so rudely interrupted.

            Todrick, looking back at his still smiling friend, hesitantly asked, “Executed?”

            Nodding in agreement, the monk continued. “At six years of age, I found myself hiding in alleyways, scraping off a meager existence... until I was found by a kindly mystic. He took me in where I was raised by himself, and the rest of the masters of Kren-Ta, the school of thought.” Talanon broke off for a second, steeling his thoughts.

            “What led to this was the prince, who was about ten years of age, called my mother... a gaijin whore...” he stopped again, still clearly pained by the words and memory. He swallowed more of the potent liquor, allowing the soothing effects of the magical drink to accomplish what he mentally could not.

            “That is just about the worst thing a civilized man could say to another in my country,” Talanon growled deeply, when he could speak again in a voice without it shaking too noticeably. “When I heard my second cousin utter those horrible words, all reason left me. I- I don't remember the exact saying I shot back, but I c-certainly do remember the content.”

            Todrick noted his friend’s stumble, and suspected that the monk was withholding some information, but let it slip. Everyone needs their secrets, he thought, so wisely kept his peace. In addition to that, the halfling was so immersed in the story that he had stopped eating, only sipping on his ale as the younger man told the tale of his tragic past. Indeed, when the waiter removed the plate from in front of the little thief, fully half of the now cold and stale meal remained untouched.

            The speedy waiter was truly dumfounded, and said so to the pair of people that sat at a table by the bar, against the western side of the tavern. A bearded man, both tall and robust, glanced over at the two companions, his thoughts now speculative and calculating. His friend, dressed almost exactly as the other man, though he was of course a smaller build, stroked his light reddish mustache, lost in thought as well.

            “I won’t repeat the meaning,” Talanon said. “I will tell you it made my cousin explode in rage, for he could not counter in words what I had said. He faltered, unable to speak. Meanwhile, the lord, his father, denounced me on the spot. He barred my mother forever from the castle and proclaimed her as near a traitor as possible, blaming her for what I had done. Ironically, my father intervened, using his status as the trading emissary. He apologized formally, for his family, in what he termed as his dishonor, thereby taking the blame for my actions as if he had spoken them. This, according to the protocol of the time, allowed what I had said to be forgiven, if the lord so wished.” This last bit was practically scratched out as the monk, unused to talking for so long, had made his throat hoarse with the effort of turning storyteller.

            Talanon reached forward to take another drink, but his glass was empty. But, as if expected, a slight, feminine hand placed a new glass in front of him, the liquid swirling with it’s many colors, altogether a hypnotic effect all of it’s own. Blushing a little, for the monk knew to whom this particular extremity belonged to, he reached in his pouch to pay for the drink. But the long, slender fingers came to rest on his forearm. He looked up to stare into her luminous gray eyes, slanted, and exotically large for her smaller frame. The wondrous expression on her pale face was even more intensified by her slightly upraised eyebrows that angled upwards into her higher forehead. How far up those brows went, it was hard to say, for her silver hair cascaded into low bangs that teased her eyelashes. That same silver hair when unleashed from the bun it was now in, fell to just below her knees, Talanon remembered. The hair bun was one that consisted of jewels and leaves, common for her people.

            The elf maid, Marilissettia, or Mari as she was known by nearly everyone at the inn, spoke softly in her musical notes. “This one’s taken care of, my hero. It’s payment... for the tale.”

            The monk blushed furiously at her casual mention of when he had stopped three sailors from accosting the elven woman when she was at the bazaar a few months back. He had heard the commotion from a nearby produce stand, and went to investigate the incident. Mari had done rather well in defending herself, for one of the three brawlers was sprawled in the dirt, howling and holding his leg, where her dirk was currently protruding out of his thigh. And only with a cloth bag that was at that time empty, she was holding back the other two, but was rapidly losing ground. Talanon had gone over and grabbed one man in the nerve cluster on one forearm, and was even then twisting and with a final shove, sent the stunned sailor into his compatriot. Together, the two men crashed into the third, where they rolled around in the dirt, reinjuring their friend in the process, causing him to swear and yell even louder.

            The city’s soldiers, the Guard, had shown up by then, and after a brief discussion with Mari and Talanon, escorted the sailors to the docks to have their captain deal with the situation. Talanon introduced himself to the maid, and commented that he had seen her before in the busy tavern, where she worked as bartender. The elf acknowledged that she had seen the mystic in there before, but had never met him until then. She explained that she was at the bazaar on business for the tavern. The monk offered to assist her, and she gratefully accepted. And so began their friendship; with Marilissettia developing a huge crush on the mystic, and Talanon’s fascination with a non-human. Not to mention his own growing affection for the maiden.

            “‘P-Payment for the tale,’” the young monk repeated, more than amazed. “Just how did you hear... from way over here in this crowded room?”

            Marilissettia just smiled, and raised her hand to the side of her face, where she pointed at her tapered ears. Talanon closed his eyes in mild embarrassment, forgetting the fact elves are known the country wide for their heightened senses, hearing being one of them. Todrick put his head down on the table between his hands, and laughed silently, his shoulders shaking up and down in amusement. Halflings also shared in this trait, due to their long, tapered ears. Talanon kicked the halfling lightly under the table, and then started laughing himself.

            The elf maid winked at the monk and walked off, her fingers grazing Talanon’s as she did so. Both men turned to watch her as she departed, her hips swaying seductively. The mystic was immediately reminded of light tree branches bending in a strong gale, and knew why. The high elves, as they are commonly known, are spirits that are as one with nature, communicating with the other beings that dwell there. When the monk listened to Marilissettia talking, he naturally thought of her playing amongst the trees. Indeed, the elf maid resided in a hollowed-out aspen at the edge of town. It took an effort, but the highly moralistic Talanon broke his gaze, and sat back in the booth, his eyes distant and staring.

            “That one will get you eventually, yieto.”

            Smiling at the word that means “my friend” in his native Quaranelian, the mystic raised his eyebrows, not displeased with Todrick’s notion. A moment later he cleared his head to see the mischievous look on his comrade. “You’re getting better, yieto. You’re actually starting to sound like a native the way you speak my language. You learn quickly.”

            “But how are you doing with mine?” Todrick asked, in his own racial tongue.

            “Better,” admitted the monk. “However, I know I need more practice,” he replied back, in Halfling.

            Todrick raised his eyebrows in appreciation, impressed that the mystic was as quick a study as himself. “So, were you forgiven by your lord?” he asked, changing the subject back to their previous conversation.

            The monk nodded his head. “Ib’den, my cousin, accepted this humbly as well, thereby nullifying the encounter between us. He father nodded once and started to speak, but was interrupted by Ib’den.

            “‘In truth, I am satisfied. But he has dishonored me. By our traditions, I hereby challenge him to a honor combat.’

            “The whole room stood still, and I swear I could hear the dust fall on the polished marble floor. My father glanced my way and saw that I was still fuming from what the little kraden had said, and what he was trying to do now. Then, somehow sensing what was happening, the prince took matters into his own hands. Grabbing a guard’s sword, he charged as I stood burning with hate. Both my parents tried to stop me as I rushed towards my dishonored cousin, but nimble as a hunting cat, I avoided their grasps,” remembered the monk.

            “Though I was only six,” continued Talanon, “I had been in constant studies with my father, and with the royal trainer. My cousin it turned out, had been lack in his arts. I stopped his overhand charge, grabbed his wrist and twisted down with all my strength. The prince tumbled to the side, but still armed. I threw myself on him, and we wrestled for the blade.”

            “Ooooh,” was all the enraptured thief could muster.

            “The end came suddenly,” the monk said, with a touch of sadness to his voice. “As he came up on top of me, for Ib’den was much bigger than I, he raised his arms holding the sword before him in a killing stroke. But I proved the quicker as I kicked up with all of my might, sending my surprised cousin off me, still grasping the blade. He tried to roll with the impact but impaled himself in the process; the sword nearly cutting him in half.

            “By the time the healer arrived, Ib’den had died,” he said quietly, overcome by the memories, long buried and freshly resurrected. “Everyone had not interfered, bound by their own code. Then the guards rushed forward to slay me after that terrible fight. My father interfered again though, drawing his tremendously huge cutlass, it’s fine edge screaming out of the scabbard; the blade gleaming a deep violet hue from the enchantments within it.

            “Swearing loudly in his deep voice, one trained by years bellowing over the stormy winds of the great seas, he simply surprised the soldiers, catching them off guard. I stood from my dead cousin’s body with the horrifying knowledge of what had happened. My mother screamed for me to run, she too understanding what would happen to me.”

            Todrick wetted his parched lips with the last of his ale, and realized with sudden horror his plate was gone. Talanon, lost in recollection, seemed not to notice the actions of his panicked friend as the thief signaled for the extremely busy waiter.

            Speaking softly now, the monk looked down at the table, the tale flooding out his lips like the waters of the sea. All the years of pent-up emotions came rushing out with the story - their effect evident on the young man. “Most of what happened next is a jumble of mixed memories. I remember my father holding off the six bodyguards fiercely, for he had adapted most of his fighting style as a mixture of both cultures. His strength plus the advantage of our martial arts proved to be too much for the peacetime-trained guards. My dad had never known peace, being an experienced ship’s captain.

            “I will never forget the last time I saw him when I was that age. He had stunned a guard with a powerful punch to the jaw. He picked up the man and hurled him at the others. Jonar glanced behind him... towards me, and our eyes met. I-I’ve never seen such love in one instant, and probably never will again. I could feel his admiration, as I’m sure he could feel mine. But suddenly, the guards rushed my father as he stood in the doorway of the throne-room, blocking their efforts. He turned, and that was the last time I saw him, until two years ago.

            “Hearing other pursuit and alarms going off all over the palace, I darted into the court yard, weaving an intricate pattern between the statues of my ancestors, and the greens of the trees, scrubs and flowers. I had always been adept at hiding from my “masters” when I had been forced to do servant work, and I soon found myself on the streets of the city of Kreda.”

            Taking a sip of the by now warmed drink, Talanon grimaced, but not from the liquid - his mind in a turmoil. Todrick, to his relief, had gotten a fresh plate, plus a refill of his tankard. The new glass that the monk preferred sat untouched as Talanon swam in emotions that were once a familiar part of him. The multi-classed thief started to pay for the newer items but Halfast stopped him with a quickly spoken sentence.

            “Father ‘n Uncle took care ‘u it!”

            Todrick, with growing horror, glanced over at the similarly clothed pair by the bar, who sat watching the monk and himself with growing fascination. He whispered the only words he could think to speak.

            “Uh oh.”

            Talanon, not seeing what was happening, continued, his sentences halting, not at all like the smooth, constructed phrases so common to the young monk. “Only images of what it was like... to scrounge in dark alleyways, eating whatever ran in front of you, stealing money or clothes from unsuspecting victims, and most of all, the gangs. Oh, I well remember the gangs.”

            Todrick, distracted by the attention from the other table, only partially acknowledged what his friend had just said. He had noticed though, that a couple of the other tables in the busy inn were seeing the glances from both parties and some conversation was beginning to wane. The little thief didn’t know what was to come, but he knew he already didn’t like it.

            “Stole? Looks like we two are not all that different as you pretend, eh?”

            Talanon nodded back. “If you wish. But to the conclusion of my tale, or is their something that I should know about?” he queried, aware now of his friend’s growing distraction. The monk had felt the eyes of someone, or several someones upon him, but when he glanced around, he could perceive no threat. Many people had nodded in his direction when he had looked their way, so returning the greetings for what they were, he thought no more about it, and glanced back at his small ally.

            Todrick was returning the monk’s gaze right back at him, trying to calm himself. But he couldn’t get rid of his growing anxiety. “Just how bad were the gangs?” whispered the Halfling, overcome by both the story line and his surroundings.

            “Worse than any organized group I have yet to see in this country, yieto. Half of what you got, either from stealing, begging or scrounging was theirs by right, by the law of the shadows. And woe it was unto you if you lied about your gains. I was luckier than most, I guess. From the moment I met up with Wonstu, the leader of the Left Hand, the most powerful of all the gangs, I never lied about anything. I had seen from the shadows of the alleys, what they did to the other scum that did.

            “My being of half-blood, as they called it,” Talanon said, “did little to improve my standings with anyone. In fact, I was held in regard as being lower than the most low. Only my size and the training I had learned early on kept me alive. Then after countless encounters, for I had lost track of time living the way I had, I met an old man, seemingly a cripple.

            “Old ones, in our society, and in much of yours, belonged to everyone. Nearly all younger people called them ‘grandfathers’ or ‘mothers.’ They had lived a long time, and that was respected, even by the ‘lowest of the low.’”

            Todrick didn’t miss the subtle hint about the monk’s younger self. And seeing that the Halfling understood, the pleased monk continued.

            “He came muttering along the street,” remembered the young mystic. “He carried his burden upon his back, stooping so low his back was practically level with the road. He didn’t complain, even though you could plainly see the strain on his face. Just as he crested a small hill in the cobbled street, a two-wheeled wagon drawn by a jogging driver came over the hill and was headed straight for the elder.

            “Oblivious to my own danger, I dropped what would have been my dinner and jumped into the street, pushing the old man away. His bundle of sticks crashed to the street and brought awareness into the eyes of the tired driver. Fortunately, he turned in the opposite direction that the old one and I were now going. As he sped past our forms now lying in the gutter, he angrily shook his fist at us, drawing the attention of the occupants of the wagon for the first time. Their shocked expressions were worth the bruises on my hands and legs.

“The Old One looked at me, then back at the now distant cart at the same time I did. At once we both were chuckling, then wheezing with laughter. It was the first time I had laughed since leaving my family,” said the monk in a parched voice.

            Todrick had become enraptured once again in his friend’s tale, and only the monk’s sipping at the elixir had broken his attention. He glanced back over to the table that held "Father" and "Uncle", but they were gone now. Looking around, he couldn't locate them. Then Talanon's voice brought the illusionist attention back to reality.

            "The old man was looking at me with thoughtful eyes, and once he became aware that I knew of the scrutiny, he spoke up.

            "'Brave,' he cackled.

            "'Old One," I said, with my glance down, trying to show him the respect he deserved. 'Are you all right?'

            "'Respectful,' he whispered. Then he drew himself upright, and continued. 'Yes, round eye,' he halfway snarled. He could obviously see my mixed heritage, even beneath the grime, but yet it didn't seem like the old one had growled in anger.

            "His comment didn't bother me, for as I glanced up, I could see another scrounger in the shadows, picking up my dinner that was laying so casually on the walkway. Screaming, I jumped up but the urchin was gone, and now with him bore the meal that I had so painfully stalked down.

            "Nearly crying with rage, I didn’t see the old man shuffle past me, picking up the pieces of wood that had fallen to the street. As I became aware of his presence, I knelt down beside him, helping to pick up the rest.

            "'May I carry these for you?' I asked, daring to hope that he might be able to give me something to eat, for the rat would have been my first meal in quite some time.

            "'Hmph,' was all he said.

            "As we approached his place, for he said we were nearing it, I became aware of how big it was, and apparently, who he was. Soon, we were standing next to the gate of Kren-Ta, the now fabled school of thought. They only took in serious minded students, and of those, nearly all failed one test or another. Those who had graduated this school could be counted on one hand, or so it was said."

            "Sounds like you're bragging to me," harrumphed back the halfling in fake disgust, but he wasn't fooling anyone. He loved anecdotes, and this was the first time that his Asian friend had spoken for so long at one sitting.

            "No," replied back Talanon, smiling. "Just an impression from my youth."

            "Oh, sure!" laughed back the thief, sarcastically. Talanon seemed not to notice, so the thief continued. "Just exactly what is the 'school of thought'?"

            Finishing off the last of his drink, the monk replied back, his thoughts semi-spinning due to the effects of the potent alcohol. "Of the many schools that teach many things, in my homeland there are two that are the most sought after. They both teach martial ways. One is the school of thought. That one teaches the principles of strategies, of wisdom.

            "The other, the powerful rival school of Kren-Ma, is the school of action. Its philosophies teach the sudden actions of instinct. Though of differing studies, the two actually compliment each other, for of thought and action, there never is one without the other.

            "Anyway," continued the monk, his voice becoming more hoarse by the minute, "As I stood before the gates, gawking, the old man straightened and tossed his wood pile to the sides of the gates, where several similarly clothed youths gathered the sticks, and also from me. He then stepped through those iron-wrought gates, and glanced back towards me.

            "'There are pots and pans to scrub, and other chores that need attention to.'"

            "Yuck! Manual work!" replied the little thief. "Did not a few moments ago you inform me that you used to scamper and hide to avoid just that type of work?"

            Talanon smiled, and shrugged slightly. "Well, that was before I lived on the streets for six months, eating things that could make most people violently ill. Now I was being offered a chance to work honestly, at one of the two..."

            "...'Most sought after schools,'" interrupted the halfling, nodding his head as he did so, yet never quite insulting the monk. "But what good could that have done? I don't get it."

            Smiling softly, Talanon reached over and took a scrap of cheese and a cracker from Todrick's plate, drawing another protest from the stingy illusionist. As the monk ate slowly, he stared at his companion, hoping the Halfling would come to the proper conclusion. Suddenly, the tiny thief’s eyes grew wide with understanding.

            “He would choose his students from the servants,” guessed the smaller man.

            “Close,” answered the monk. “Most masters make the prospective students prove themselves worthy to learn the fabled arts. There are many students, some who were very close friends, which were sorted out, recommended to one of the lesser schools.

            “So,” continued Talanon, his voice cracking with the effort, “I scrambled through the main set of gates, intimidated very much by their intricate etchings. I approached the master who stood apart from the students. Then I glanced down, fumbling for the very words that might allow me to remain in this fine complex.

            “‘I would be honored, Old One,’ was all I could think to say.

            “‘Very well, the kitchens are that way,’ he said, pointing to the left side of the huge shrine that honored our gods - to a small but comfortable-looking shack.

            “Then as I scrambled to the Shrine that stood away down the courtyard, I heard him say, though he didn’t know it at the time, ‘No, Strong One. I am honored.’”

            Exhausted by the effort of the story-telling, Talanon sat back in his booth and began to hum softly, to help his vocal cords recover from the extensive talking he had just done. It was the most he had ever said at one time, and Todrick even said so a few moments later.

            “To top it all off,” continued the Halfling thief, “your homeland sounds very interesting… from what I’ve heard about this story and a couple others you’ve told me,” he said quickly, trying to sound rather nonchalantly, yet not fooling his friend.

            Talanon, despite having known the complex character sitting before him only a few months time, could begin to guess what was forming in his friend’s twisted little mind. “Are you wanting to visit there?” he scratched out, aware his voice would be hoarse for a while.

            “Well,” he began, and then lamely smiled, knowing that he couldn’t fool his perceptive friend for very long. “It’s only been since last week that I met your mother. I also remember the ‘experience’ of your sister, and how radically different she is from you. The idea of adventuring in that strange land, having met more who have come from there… appeals to me.”

            “We’ll see,” croaked the tired mystic, who now noticed some of the unusual reactions from the nearby tables. By his own expression and body language, the thief twisted about, and watched the pair of men, familiar to both friends, approach their table. They were the same pair that had been so intent on their conversation. A distinct clinking noise behind the approaching pair signaled the appearance of another, and checking closely, the monk was surprised that a woman whose head was bowed was behind the two veterans. She seemed to be watching yet not seeing all those around her.

            “Talanon. Todrick,” noted the taller and most robust of the two. He stood just over six and a half feet tall, and his shoulders looked half that. Despite the loose-fitting gray tunic he wore, his musculature was very evident, yet the man spoke with a soft, higher-pitched tenor voice; one trained for the past few years in the singing arts, and was mastering them well. He was a bard, the teller of tales, both fictional and not. But being an adventuring minstrel-warrior, his magic was in his voice, and in his music. His spells were Druidic in nature, and were powered by his control of that same nature, both woodland and oceanic.

            Talanon nodded towards the man as he gestured towards a nearby table, and the bigger man moved it against the booth, thereby increasing the area they now sat in. “How fares thee, Lord Joseph?” he questioned, reverting to the more formal common associated with royalty.

            “Hst!” motioned Joseph, looking around in mock alarm. In regular common he answered the mystic’s question. “How many times must I ask you, Stronghelm? In public, unless I am with my retinue, I am simply Joseph, or in here, I’m known as ‘Uncle’.

            “Sorry,” rasped out the monk, chagrined.

            Joseph looked alarmingly at Talanon. “Something wrong with your voice?”       

            Then the other man stepped forward. The monk recognized the man as the one that had crafted his ring he wore to signify protection against the thieves guild. “Joseph, it’s injured. Wore it out he did, from all yon talking he did. Here, my friend.” And saying that, the smaller man with the reddish hair placed his fingers on the monk’s throat, and sang a clear note, one that lasted for the length of the man’s single breath. Talanon felt instant heat soothe his injured vocal cords, and the pain diminished to a dull roar.

            “My thanks, Cham... er, ‘Father’, right?”

            Cham nodded, and sat down, clearing the view so that the woman behind them could be completely seen. Suddenly, Todrick started, and the monk looked upon her. Her armor was very easily recognizable, for it was splint-style and bore symbols of Talanon's homeland. With interest, the mystic continued his examination by staring at her bowed head. Then the woman looked up, and the monk smiled wide.

            “Be’y!” He jumped up and enclosed her in a hug that the woman returned with a laugh.

            “I was wondering how long it would take you to see that it was me!” She smiled widely; her Oriental features alight with joy at seeing Talanon, and with the knowledge that he was as happy to see her, as she was he. The men all noted her exceptional beauty, and Todrick could see that she was no fair maid whose heart would swoon and collapse at the first sign of trouble. She was a seasoned veteran of adventure, both cunning and intelligent.

            She had dark hair like the mystic, but her eyes were brown like seasoned maple, unlike the monk’s crystal-blue ones. She was young, possibly older than the monk, but not by much. The Halfling thought she might be related to Talanon, but if she was, it was distantly, for there was virtually nothing comparable in her features to either the monk, or his warrior sister. Be’y’s figure was obstructed by her ornate armor, but she was obviously athletic, and very capable of defending herself by the appearance of her well-worn mace that hung on her right side.

            Flustered, the monk moved aside in his booth, allowing her room to sit. Smiling her thanks to the other men, she nodded to the other men, who had remained standing until she sat down. Returning her gesture, they seated themselves at the table now adjoining the booth.

            “Whe- when did you arrive back here at Jun-A-Ta?” Talanon asked her in Quaranelian, stumbling over the language he had not really spoke since his arrival on his father’s country.

            “Talanon, how rude!” she said, in mock anger, and in common. “I’ve been practicing ‘common’ for nine months now, not including your lessons while on the ship. We have no need to keep our thoughts from your friends.”

            Smiling back, the monk bowed his head towards her, and then towards the trio of men who were watching the monk with interest. “My apologies, priestess. No idea had I that many of our people were trying to conform.” And though he tried, the monk couldn’t keep the bitterness from his voice. Be’y simply smiled it away.

            “Not all are like your sister, and even she is mellowing.” At Talanon’s incredulous stare, she muttered loud enough for all to hear, “Well, a little!” She laughed when Be’y saw the monk’s smile of understanding. Soon he followed suit, chuckling softly.

            “Oh, forgive me!” he broke off as he sat back, and motioned towards the miniature thief. “Todrick, this lovely lady is Be’y, my distant cousin, and Priestess of our people. My lady, this is my companion, Todrick of Anart, master thief and illusionist. These other two men you may or may not know. Joseph and Cham are powerful bards or musical warriors, of Jun-A-Ta. I’m afraid I don’t know their country of origin...”

            Laughing, Joseph clapped the monk on the shoulder, cutting him off from his distress. “More like continent of origin. Like you, Cham and myself are not native to Erin-Tal, but sailed here across the vast oceans. But in our case, we sailed west from our homeland. My pleasure, Priestess.” So saying that, the big bard took Be’y’s smaller hand in his massive one, brought it to his bearded face, and kissed her fingers gently.

            “Oh, for the love of Ogmah!” swore Cham, disgusted. “Don’t slobber so on the lady. I doubt if her goddess approves of the touching by we barbarians.” The redheaded warrior nodded in Be’y’s direction, smiling a secret smile.

            “Oh, never fear, Lord Cham,” Be’y said, and that brought a chuckle from Joseph, who burst out laughing at Cham when the slighter redhead glowered at him, both enjoying a private joke that was lost on the company they currently kept. Be’y continued, “The only barbarians I have seen in my travels are the natives that you yourself call barbarians. Those who migrate with their herds, living off the land, dressing and arming themselves simply. In fact, I saw a few of them here tonight in this very place.”

            “They are here to trade their jewelry and hides. In return, no doubt are purchasing food and weapons,” reasoned Cham offhandedly. “I carry much of their people’s jewelry in my own shop that Joseph and I jointly own.” The bigger man nodded his head in agreement.

            “You know, this is all fascinating, but I get the feeling that you two aren’t over here for simple conversation, or to be introduced to Tal’s lovely relative...” began Todrick, but was nearly interrupted by the priestess.

            “You really can’t say we’re related, can you?” she questioned the monk, who shrugged in indifference.

            “The distance between us being cousins is hard to define as closely related, true.” Talanon admitted. “But continue, my friend,” the monk gestured to Todrick.

            “Yes, forgive me my discourtesy, little spirit,” spoke up Be’y, who became confused when all four men started to laugh. She looked at Todrick, then back to her countryman.

            “I’ll explain later,” grinned Talanon, now knowing that Be’y hadn’t met any demi-humans in this land. The closest to non-humans in their country’s influence were spirits: a few that did closely resemble Halflings, so her confusion was genuine, and certainly understandable. Talanon himself had learned the hard way adventuring in a thriving community, where Be’y had instead gone to protect Clu-Jan, the new Oriental city on the mainland. There she continued her studies with her faith by serving in the temple for the city, and the people there.

            “Anyway,” chuckled the smallest of the five, but then turned his attention to Cham and Joseph. “I’m certain that Be’y’s beauty is great enough to launch several ships, but the reason you two are over here has not yet been discovered. Know that Cham’s healing won’t be for free - nothing he does is ever free! Believe me on that!”

            “As usual, the Halfling sees more clearly than most,” spoke Joseph. “A mission indeed we have for you two, something your talents might be useful at. And, I’ll give a monetary fee, for this will be for the service of the city. As the Duke of Jun, I have that right!” he said, when Talanon started to protest. “Besides, monk. You will need the money to take care of Bromwell’s family!”

            “Family?” questioned Be’y.      

“How?” said Talanon at the same time as Be’y. He then dismissed the question with a wave of his hand. He had been ready to ask the lord of the isle how he knew of the peasant farmer’s fate, but changed his mind for Joseph just... knew things sometimes. It was often very spooky when that happened.

            “What kind of mission?” queried Todrick, curious. “Could Be’y come with us? We could always use a cleric!” The halfling didn’t need to go into detail on that. Healing was costly, and magic could only take care of so much. People’s bodies were from the gods, and as such, it was often better to let one who spoke for them administer aid. Plus, there were just some things that clerics were better suited to handle when adventuring. When it came to the monk, it was ALWAYS better to have a cleric around, thought Todrick.

            “Yes, could I?” asked Be’y, excited at the prospect of a quest to be shared with her handsome cousin. Plus she was all too familiar that she needed more practical experience away from the teachings of her clergy. A real city escapade that Cham had earlier mentioned appealed to her. This had happened when she had stopped him, asking directions to find her infamous cousin. Talanon had become something of a legend to his own people, so much so if the monk ever found out of the legend’s existence, it would no doubt bother him. The monk was an extremely humble man, probably even more so than his past teachings often inscribed upon their students. Todrick’s question about her accompanying the pair was ironic at best, for it was why she was there in the pub in the first place!

            “Well, if you do go along, you’ll have to remove most of your armor. This job requires stealth, and walking along the streets of this city outfitted such as you are, well, you would be heard for miles around,” said Cham, stroking his mustache in amusement. Like Be’y, he knew that was why she was here.

            Blushing furiously, Be’y nodded. “Don’t worry, Lord Cham. I have chain mail I purchased shortly after I arrived here.” The slighter bard nodded his head in agreement.

            And the five fell into a deep conversation that lasted for a while into the evening, sketching details for the mission that was so vital for the city of Jun-A-Ta. The only real interruptions that occurred were Todrick’s calls for ale, and of course, more food.

 

            Later that evening, after Cham and Joseph had departed, and the lovely Asian priestess Be’y had left to ready herself for their mission, Todrick and Talanon sat in the huge garden on the other side of town, watching the sun set. The monk enjoyed this place in town the most, for it was common knowledge that the two bards that he had just been meeting with worked very hard to keep this sanctuary in pristine condition - their training and upbringing taking over when it came to forestry situations. In fact, a druid from the northlands of Erin-Tal was rumored to actually live in the deepest reaches of the most overgrown areas of this newly manufactured area, but nobody Talanon had met had ever seen this cleric.

            However, the monk had seen a few of the wild animals that lived there and knew that someone was controlling them, keeping them from attacking those that entered in the ‘safe’ areas near the lake, waterfall, and scenic paths that lay intertwined throughout sections of the park like elven designs on tooled leather.

            “That voyage must have been something,” mused the Halfling, dangling his furry toes in the cool, clear water of the lake, where he and Talanon sat on a small bridge that spanned over the man-made waterway. “But more than that, I’m really curious about what it was like when you first landed here in our country. You’ve hinted at it previously, but never went into much detail.”

            Grinning widely, the monk sat back, his arms crossed over his chest. “You’re really in the mood for stories today. The tale you want told, however, now that’s a yarn worth telling.”

            “Well, we have to wait until nighttime anyway, before we can...” reasoned the halfling.

            “Don’t remind me!” interrupted the mystic. Groaning, Talanon put his head in his hands in mock-misery, yet a gleam shown in his eyes as he started to speak.