-
~The first thread~
He sat down next to the tree, the grass still warm from the day. It was good to have for once a place far away from the loud trouble and stench of human life. Aden felt tired and closes his eyes. Many things had happened since he had last sat down for a meditation, and even more were on his mind. Sixty-five breaths until he had ordered his thoughts, picked a single thread and followed it, let it branch, be woven, expand.
It was too late when I realized what I had gotten myself into. Again.
I can't even recall why I traveled deeper into the land instead of staying close to the coast. How could I forget the sea, the seagulls and the wind? The passage was rough, but great and intimidating at the same time. It wasn't boring either, but the work was hard and challenging. An interesting experience many might overlook, simply thinking of the danger and what they endured. The sea is a harsh mistress and does not discriminate between rich and poor: the richest merchant and the poorest sailor survive or die depending on their skill and sheer luck. The sea is uncertainty, and information what separates a dead sailor from one that makes it to the harbor. People on solid ground seem oblivious to this, yet it is just as true here as on the sea.
These ships have their own dynamics, and it is not a world I could live in for long. But maybe it is the human self that escapes my grasp. Yes, I think I left Port Hempstead to escape the odor of humans for a while.
But this small village is not better. Not for me, either. It is the kind of place that follows the slow beat of the seasons, a place where every traveler is perceived as an adventurer with many coins in his pocket and a unfriendly attitude, willing to help out with the oddest tasks. Yet it is not as hostile as bigger cities, but just as boring. I will see what I can learn here, then move on.
I miss the city, the roofs, the possibilities to move unseen and dance gracefully through the shadows.
//New posts follow once I finish writing them. Comments, critique and corrections highly welcome.
-
~The second thread~
The tiger was still roasting over the fire, and Aden cut a piece of the grilled meat of and ate. His neck hurt, his feet were worse and he still could feel the deep wound the tiger's claws had dug into his left arm. He could be lucky to be alive.
Aden sighed and started to eat. The other adventurers already left, leaving him alone at the campfire in Fort Wayfare. The circus show was still going on in the big main tent, but the elf didn't care. He needed sleep. It felt strange to eat the animal that wanted to kill him earlier, but with salt and herbs it tasted alright and why should one let so much meat go to waste? And he was hungry, hungrier than ever before.
Later, when he locked the inn room door carefully behind him, he was already half asleep and dreaming of tigers in the forest appearing out of nowhere while he was covered in white paint, unable to hide -
It started with Breanna, an elf he met on the path to Fort Wayfare. A little bit chit-chat, a little bit talk about the Al'Noth. Maybe she tried to convince me taking up studies to become a spellweaver, but she seemed nice. Made a comment about my eyes, and I found it odd. Nobody ever commented on my eyes, and it made me feel strangely vulnerable. I couldn't hide here, not in the forest. It didn't open itself to me, was nothing but a chaotic whirl of creation, live, death, and recreation. It hurt to be not part of it as I was before in Prantz before its heart was poisoned and eventually died. I felt exposed, way to exposed, and after we parted ways I spent my time wandering around, trying to melt into the forest. I found a wild bee hive, something I hadn't seen before, and studied it for quite a while. Bees are interesting, much more so as I understood that they were completely oblivious to me being there. They simply didn't care, busy with serving her queen. All the information they exchanged was simply to ensure the continuity of this kinds existance. I found a few maple trees and other things, studied nature for days, always close to the small city of Center without anyone paying attention to me. Are they oblivious for the breathing nature that surrounds them, hiding so much deeper wisdom and knowledge? I refrained from doing odd jobs for the townsfolk, I don't like clearing out cellars or roaming around in crypts. The crypt was quite a challenge, I couldn't remain undetected and had to flee from these skeletons. I think I forgot to have fear when I explored the dark rooms and hallways, it was more of a throbbing curiosity mixed with excitement. Typical adventurer lust for fame, fortune and reputation among gravediggers.
And then I stumbled over this circus matter in Fort Wayfare when I explored the areas around it, seeking out all the places where threats lingered, some way to close to Center for my taste.
The adventurers in Fort Wayfare were a colorful bunch, of course hired to protect the circus from thieves and other so called riff-raff. I found myself agreeing to the protection contract, and nobody cared a bit. I bet on that day I missed out on a lot of interesting stories by not talking to them and simply observing what they, the crowd and the people from the circus were doing.
The dwarf was doing the right thing, he patrolled the area. The druid was busy with trying to talk or buy the only lion the circus had so it would be in freedom instead of a way to small cage. Maybe I should have picked the lock after everything was over, a little gift for the druid, but I doubt she would have thought about why I did it, or the consequences. She was oblivious to things, it seemed, pressing forward her own ideology. Maybe that's the same with the radicals of my kin that murder and burn whole woodworker camps because they chop down the trees.
The seaelf, her name was Elenwe, sat by the Lake and didn't do much. Two Rofireinites watched the kids and did the thing they are good at, remaining friendly and being good. Then there was a strange man with an iron arm, a spellweaver. Then the usual charmer, some mysterious man with a strange hat, and a goblin called Daecon. He was the most interesting person of all, being able not to simply get killed and being quite smart, his appearance was a curious one. He served the Longstrider, so I overheard, and was a ranger.
All in all, a group of individual people, all very competent it seemed, but apart only the dwarf Naldin and I patrolled around. The druid found out that a member of the circus was missing, a person called Vao, who had been caring about the animals and went off to find a partner for the lion. We split up, and I joined the search party, mainly because Elenwe and Daecon did too. We sneaked around in the forest, and I was useless and not very silent at all. I tried to understand how Naldin and Daecon managed to remain so silent, which paths they chose and how they followed the trace. I have much to learn, if I ever want to be at home in the woods. Or at least survive there. They had the air of someone who is in tune with the forest, just as I was in tune with the city. In the fights I stayed back, but one of the tigers broke through and nearly killed me, if Armand hadn't been close by. Vao was dead, killed by the tigers, and we carried his remains back to the circus in Fort Wayfare. There we learned that the circus had been ambushed.
The thieves had used to oldest trick in the book to steal the circus' whole gold: lure the remaining adventurers together in one place, then strike quickly. If I had stayed...
We tracked the bandits down and brought the gold back, got our share and parted ways. I never understood why people always fell for the oldest tricks, and I am sure that I will too one day. But why in the name of common sense keep all the gold in one place, instead of hiding it in multiple? Why starting to bargain for a new contract, holding everyone back in the talk and giving the bandits more time to escape?
They were interesting, indeed. I learned a few things, failed shamefully at what I do best but understood that I better work alone for the time being.
I need to meet Daecon and Elenwe again, even if it's solely for the desperate try to find out how they became who they are. Should I open my mouth more, or shouldn't I? But who cares what the stranger says, the silent one. Nobody. Ever.
It's cold here. And lonely. And foreign. I want to dance again, but I can't even understand the melody. Who needs acrobatics and stealth when there are dangerous creatures around, threatening civilisation? Who needs the advice of a stranger, when they can do everything better themselves?
And if that smart town crier ever taunts me again with that song, I'm gonna throw him in the lake for being a hypocrite, no matter how right he is.
-
~The third thread~
The copper dagger's blade bled in the candlelight, and Aden hesitated for a moment before putting his other dagger beside it. The scabbards needed cleaning and a few drops of oil.
When he bought these daggers, he'd thought to use them solely as everyday tools to cut ropes or bread. This evening, he bought a copper short sword shortly before the trader closed his shop. Crickets sang outside, and he had taken his usual precautions he learned in Prantz: keeping a low profile, securing a perimeter to the best of his ability.
But apart from staying out of sight, he had no defense against magic or miracles of any kind. Steps in the hallway?
Aden listened into the night. Nothing. Crickets and the sound of water flowing its usual way. His mind was focused, calm.
He had learned to fight in Prantz gloomy sidestreets and in Master Llendir's hall. He avoided fighting back then, but this was different now. The few days he spent with the adventurers had been enough of a lecture, and now he found himself cleaning weapons, fearing steps in the darkness. Breanna was right, of course – he should avoid danger and try to stay safe, a lesson from Prantz he'd thought unforgettable. He stayed out of the local politics, did not meddle with other people's business too much.
And now this.
She had been an odd sight, her demeanor cold and arrogant, tell-tale lights of someone that was likely to cause trouble. Black hair and pale, almost too perfect skin. Unfriendly, too; spat out arrogant sentences people like her liked as he watched and passed by on his way to the trader. When he came back, she talked with a big hairy man near the big tree and shouted that all should burn. Tell-tale lights that he should have killed her right there and then. She kneeled down and started to pray to Pyrtechon. Yes, it was his fault. He could have made it quick, end it right there and then, the dagger into the neck near the spine -
but he didn't. And now he didn't know why he hadn't.
She walked away, he didn't even follow her how he should have, gathering information then passing it on to the Rofireinites or someone in charge around here.
He didn't.
He waited until she had disappeared, then informed Breanna who was, as expected, in the shop in Fort Wayfare. Shared the piece of information. Send word to the Rofireinites. Stayed on the lookout.
Nothing.
She didn't return.
He looked around in Port Hempstead, looked on the roads. Nothing.
She was gone.
Aden stood up without making a sound, slid the first dagger back in the scabbard on the small of his back. The other one went into the scabbard at his right thigh. He picked the short sword up, tested the short bow's string. Twenty-five arrows in the quiver. Good. He rested and left the inn early at dawn.
-
~The fourth thread~
“Good dog!”
He ruffled the dog's neck.
“Suppose you didn't see a black haired female crazy person?”
The dog blinked and whimpered. Aden smiled. Druids could talk with animals, he had heard about it. Saw hints of it, too, at the circus. He couldn't, but he liked dogs. They were domesticated wolves, tamed, corrupted by civilization just as him. They had buried the wild deep inside.
“Figured as much.”
He liked dogs, even they had been enemies in his Prantz days. He couldn't really hate them for their loyalty or for the times they had chased him barking loudly because he had made a wrong step. No. They protected their pack, or thought so at least. Most fat merchants were master puppeteers, that's how they piled up their wealth without really doing all the hard work. He wasn't really a bad person because he took away what wasn't theirs, and often it just had been a souvenir. Or a small note with an elvish rhyme, mocking the merchant to at least change the locks to his daughter's bedroom. He never did anything, it was a challenge to get inside and outside undetected. And he enjoyed see them panic because they forgot that there is always more than one way inside, always more than one way to threaten their profits. And sometimes, it was just a friendly reminder to those too naïve to realize what kind of world they were living in.
Dogs, dogs were just like guards. They worked on the other side.
He had to smile, it was reassuring to see something so familiar far away from the stench of civilization’s breeding pools. It was the first encounter out here, near Lake Splendor, that hadn't ended with either side either sneaking past the other (mostly him), running away (mostly him, too) or making the other side bleed (mostly the others).
It had been Storold Doesscha, an impressive man and scholar, who pointed him towards Master Enzo and Lady Ferrit, but so far, the way to Silkwood had been to dangerous for him and Lady Ferrit wasn't present when he'd visited her shop in Port Hempstead.
He had spread the word of the encounter with the Pyrtechon priestess, had given descriptions and so on, but she didn't cross his paths again. What a joke – and he wanted to be a good spy?
Knight Protector Daniel Benjamin Poetr had been right – in these days, the people need heroes. They expected well-educated and highly trained elvish warriors, not shady and useless riff-raff.
Aden smiled as the dog trotted away and ran with his pack. He had still a lot to learn. And something to hunt.
-
~The fifth thread~
Last year's brittle, damp leaves crumbled beneath his boots with a soft treacherous rustle. His quiver was almost empty, his backpack already heavy with all the various plant samples he collected. Rain started to seep through the seam at his collar, dripped from the edge of the hood into his eyes. He shivered. It was cold.
The gnolls didn't mind, of course. They sniffed in the air, growled at each other. Aden glanced at the axes and shields in their hands, didn't move – he suspected that the gnoll with the face markings was some sort of shaman or their leader. If he wanted to survive the fight, he had to kill him first and then run.
He had encountered gnolls before when he was collecting mushrooms and did some scouting to accustom himself with the wilds (that was, before he got utterly lost). He knew that he would not stand a chance; the string of his bow was wet and so was the bow. The leader cowled into Aden's direction; some of the red face paint washed away from the rain dripped down from his flews and growled. Every muscle in Aden's body tensed, ready to jump and strike as cats do. He forced himself to breathe in the way that he learned in Prantz.
He could take down one of them if he had luck with throwing.
He could hold them off for a while with the quick, half-crouched stance he learned in the backalleys. But then they possibly still had a shaman, and only the Longstrider knew what kinds of spells he could weave.
“Let's get it over with.” Aden clenched his teeth. “Come on you ugly dog, come on over here...”
And as if the gnoll could read Aden's thoughts, he make a small step forward and growled.
Last year's brittle, damp leaves crumbled beneath his boots with a soft treacherous rustle. His quiver was almost empty, his backpack already heavy with all the various plant samples he collected. Rain started to seep through the seam at his collar, dripped from the edge of the hood into his eyes. Elderberry juice made his fingertips slippery, but he didn't mind. Plucked another handful and collected them in a small wooden box so they hopefully survived the transport to Port Hempstead. The Lake was beautiful, even now. A grey, dull mirror covered in the ripples of wind and the small circular waves raindrops cause. If he hadn't spent so much time haggling in Center, he would work in sunshine instead.
Aden noticed that the box was full, closed it carefully and put it into his backpack. While he walked, the sky started to clear up slowly; the more the closer he came to Hempstead. He pushed his hood back, shook some raindrops from his hear and started to eat the surplus Elderberries carefully, trying out their taste. Maybe this time somebody of the Angel's Guild was around at their shop. If not, he would look around at the market hall for a buyer.
He needed a few things, apart from a regular income. A new coat to being with. His old one was in a terrible state. He knew which one would be useful to him, he wanted one ever since he roamed the streets of Prantz and first heard of it. Maybe they had it on the shelves. Maybe they even had a job for him. His guts told him that there were to many maybes involved, and the maybes and he had a difficult relationship.
Aden tucked at his old coat and smiled. The coat has followed him over the ocean and through quite some trouble. It was time for a new one, that was obvious even by simply looking at it. Maybe that was why Brisbane gave him the other one. But he couldn't wear it. She had told him that it would protect him from unwanted attention. A cloak of Az'atta.
He wore it one time.
And felt that it was wrong.
He simply couldn't use it. It was a gift. So many gifts. But what had he ever given back? The only real thing he could do was to stay out of sight and gain information that others couldn't. But that was worth nothing. Not in these times.
Storold's tale and the people attending, those listening to his words by the fireplace – they where old. Experienced. Fought in wars, whereas he had only cowered in the shadows, afraid and undecided. Set things into motion, while only he had been in motion and running away had been the most of it. Tried not to get into too much trouble in the past, when getting into trouble was what they did.
He sighed and carefully opened to door to the shop.
Came out later, a new coat around his shoulders. He waited until nightfall, hid his pack at the vault. Waited for the guard to pass. Climbed. Easy. Made some noise, just to see what happens. The guard didn't even look up. Good. Aden grinned. Upwards. Sat on the roof for a single moment, like a cat. The guard passed right beneath him. He waited. Took a deep breath, all his muscles tensed. Spread his arms and jumped.
“Hey! Guards! Guards!”
He ran, grinning broadly.
And a few hours later, he was on his way back to Center. He needed more resources, if he wanted to be of any use at all – bandages, arrows, maybe a new short sword after giving his old one away. A new bow, one with longer range. He needed to practice archery again. And practice it a lot.
He sighed, went to the trader and bought parchment, quill and ink to write a letter.
He watched the gnolls walk away, looking for their enemies elsewhere and slowly relaxed. Good. Seemed like he was getting better at this. Last time, in the cave near the beach, he had performed horribly and two new scars had been his reward. He took a deep breath and waited for a long time before continuing his travel. He wasn't quite sure where he was going, but it didn't feel that awkward any longer. He was losing his fear of the wild and its creatures, started to better understand their behavior. They were like the cityfolk, most of the time, behaved in similar patterns of resource allocation, aggression and finding niches to survive in.
And the rain wasn't so bad anymore.
-
~The sixth thread~
Hence, there where new unspoken unspeakable words in his head now. New, unwoven filaments oscillating with yet unheard sounds; resonating with every small step, every smallest possible moment in time passing into infinity – indescribable, inaudible symphony.
Salty wind in his face, fine cold mist pushed inland. Her scent and her gentle touch still lingered with him, imprinted into the fabric of his self, glowing as if the corona of thousand blacked out suns had been woven into a filigree above his heart.
He bought a few things, made his way past bartering traders with dubious glints in their eyes. Looked around without doing so, gathering information, impressions, the occasional insight. Just followed the vibrant music all around that so few noticed at all, danced with the streets and felt that all was coming back, an avalanche of memories.
He wanted to be with her, now -
The city's silhouette was a small gray dot in the distance and the road indistinguishable from the land. He tried to remain silent, to not disturb the natural order of things out here. Tried to get all the names of the animals he could stop right, cowering wand studying his surrounding: the scent in the air, the leaves and the fragile wood soil, hearing the birds song in the bushes, bright red berries in the underbrush's twilight. He smiled subtly and waited before he moved on.
She loved the smell, she had said. It was terrible to think of her and not be able to hold her again soon, hear her voice -
But all things come for the cost of sacrifice. From which book was that? He couldn't quite remember. If only she would have been here. She would know, most likely.
He found some comfrey and took a sample with him. It had a strange smell to it when it was fresh. He wondered for what it could be used. Would she have any use for it? Maybe as a reagent? He remembered that Elora mentioned it to him the last time he visited her.
He found a few other herbs he didn't know and carefully took samples, then walked on.
He climbed on a tree to sleep. It was cold and miserable. He wrapped his coat around himself and stared out into the night. He still heard her laughter, felt her touch. Imagined her face in the dark.
Bre-an-na.
Even her name had this...melody to it, if it wasn't spoken. A little bit similar to the nights under a clear night sky in his youth. A little like the dances he had late at night with the streets and the roofs.
But different in a way he could not describe. Different in a way that made him tremble, made him lose words and thoughts.
The Longstrider must have sent you.
He wasn't so sure of that, but it did not matter. The few hours with her, always hidden, always scared that the trouble she was in might reach out to him -
But he couldn't see her like this. No. Maybe he should enroll as a scholar. Maybe. The thought of hiding and fooling around with the Al'Noth to be around her made smile all of a sudden. He wanted to be her shadow – something she could step back into, be embraced by and find a place of cooling serenity in the heat of trouble.
Aden looked at his hands and remembered how he followed the unsteady rhythm of the shadows through the pirates' hideout. The wish, the urge to simply step into the shadow, melt with it and dance along the filaments of shadows, light and matter – it had been just as strong as the urge to be close to her now.
He had thought she had gone missing back then.
He hat remembered his promise to her – and would have broken it to bring her back. At any cost.
If the Longstrider really had sent her, made their paths cross in such a fashion, then what did he want of him? That he should finally pull himself together and do the right thing?
Bre-an-na. Where are you now? What are you doing, thinking? It hurts not to be with you.
The road led on. Rain, fog, shadows, odd silhouettes in the distance. He felt wet and cold, but he also felt, heard the land's song. Its melody. Felt resonance, felt dissonance and listened closely.
What are you telling me?
“Thanks for the comfrey.” Elora smiled. “Don't hesitate to ask if you need something.”
Aden nodded.
“I need some bandages, if you have some spare...”
He packed a small box with bandages and stored it away. The war was on his mind, the danger, the trouble. Her words, voice – and the promise he made not to let it show what he felt for her unless they were alone. The promise not to be seen together.
He came across a few trees a recent storm must have felled. Took his dagger, peeled of the bark. No bugs had claimed the trees' carcass yet. Good. He went back to town, got himself a few tools and started to chop the tree. Part of it he could give to the community of center to burn. Part of it...well, there was a workshop he could use. He needed to keep his hands busy.
Busy hands, busy mind.
Busy mind, not thinking about...
Bre-an-na.
The sound that woodpeckers made, it sounded like laughter.
-
~The seventh thread~
Black toes softly turning in the wind, south, southsoutheast, south, southsouthwest -
The stands for the well-educated, well-fed and well-known had disappeared. Just a row of well-groomed gallows remained, with ravens blowing their feathers dry in the wind.
the realms may now breathe easier knowing that such a vile criminal no longer plagues the lands, and that his men may find just & fair administration under the law of Mistone
He had brought them here, to find their death in the hands of the law. And what about the choking, the fear, the embarrassment? All of these men would have been better off if they died in combat, quickly and without feeling much pain in the heat of battle.
And why didn't they put them to work somewhere? There were enough things to do, mines to fill to bulge their coffers. He turned around and walked away.
And justice to our terms...
He left the place as quickly as he could, its melody distorted, its shadows odd-angled and quiet. The aftermath of adventurers passing through town. And him? He felt the strong urge just to melt with the shadows and flee this place. Be in her arms again. Kiss and hold her close, and not tell her about it.
There was melody and shadows everywhere, even if they tried to hide it. He had visited Vehl and the Temple of Rofirein; and while former had plenty of shadows and the usual shady business, latter tried hard to muffle the shadows in the temple with light.
Where there is matter and light, there is shadow. He had been a shadow in many places, studying them and their inhabitants as best as he could, studying their songs and shadows and how to hide. He felt disappearing time and time again. Being unseen without him noticing it, as if it was a given. Breanna had been right.
Just don't disappear.
But he was. Spirit Dunes, Silkwood, Caves and other odd things. He should start writing some threat assessments, or something else. Something more useful than practicing.
So he bought himself new weapons, a tanto and a wakizashi, simply because the design interested him as he saw them in a harbor shop. Mundane things, both of them, the trader reassured. Never been used. Sure.
He cleaned them, let them check, trained with them and decided to keep them. Oiled them and the scabbards, made their blades not reflective in light using oil and ash. Waited. Head off for the wilds. Adjusted their scabbards so he could wear them close to his body, easily drawn and in a way that wouldn't make trouble when he was moving very agile, climbing, sneaking and jumping. Bought himself a few throwing daggers, too; and head out into the wilds.
The Ire mountains were interesting, he walked around until he found the wolf pack again, watched them, sneaked around to test if he was becoming better. He was.
He spent days walking around, watching the landscape, exploring caves and picking plants. Trained to be silent outside. Studied hunting techniques.
And in the evenings, he meditated trying to get in touch with the Longstrider, hoping for answers on the big whys in his life. He looked into Breanna's mirror only to see his own eyes, his own face. And it looked strange.
He eyed the harbor and pushed his hood up against the rain. Mariner's Hold. He had been here before. An auction, they said.
Aden smiled slightly.
Time for some opening moves.
-
~The eighth thread~
He peeked out, his nose just above the murky and stinking water, and glanced around. Raelites over there. Still not moving. He tried to remember any features of the woman's ship, but it had been too generic.
He swam on, gave the thought of letting the Raelite slipping into the water – it might be easy, drop them backwards and disappear – some room in his head to quench the burning anger.
He had been stupid. The woman escaped. He had to warn Jillian, at least. You're alive, that's all that matters.
You made good use of your skills, but you failed.
Try again, loser.
Making his way to the Inn, he tried to smile. At least he hadn't failed completely – and survived. Pure luck. Nothing more.
He needed to have a talk with Reid later. Much later.
Slept in the cold. Thought of her. Felt miserable. Needed to hold her. Needed to talk with her – and calmed down, slowly, looking into her mirror, then slowly caressing its edges in thought.
He closed the door behind him with the thought that she was gone. Where to? He wanted to see her again. The shadows sang, and he felt mute, stupid, limp. Diving into the crowd, he made himself disappear the best he could for a while.
-
~The ninth thread~
A longing kiss and a sad goodbye -- touches, sweet and soft and desperate. He tried his best to sooth her pain, but time was running out. He knew. He could feel it rushing through his fingers, see it fleeing in every shadow dancing in the light of torches.
He studied the Inn's room for a moment after closing the door behind him. More than one facade to maintain. Warnings, messages. No traps so far. Good.
He closed the blinds, blew out the candle and listened to the song of the night. Put a chair near the door and jammed it with a throwing knife, switched his clothes, prepared the bed for a distraction, and climbed silently onto the heavy closet.
Time to sleep.
Time for dreams and becoming one with the sounds and shrouding oneself into the silk cloak woven from threads of shadow.
-
A letter to Breanna
Dearest Bre,
This is the fourth letter I write you as I cannot find the right words to apologize, nor to describe or make real what is in my heart. It is dark now, and I have the stars above me. Do you remember the stars in the mountains, by the campfire? I wished I could have shown you my affection there, hold you; just as much as I miss you now. I have found myself a spot where I can write without being bothered by the other soldiers. I know that all of them write home now, to their families, their loved ones. It is silent in the tent now, I can hear quills moving over parchment and the occasional dumb joke. It is the calm after the storm.
The City has fallen.
The Monster Undrok is dead.
The blood rushing through me is now tainted with the lust of war, Breanna. I have seen and done things indescribable, shed blood and payed for it. Have felt powerlessness, have felt weakness and horror, all mixed with the rush of the blood and the hunt. I have never seen such carnage before, and never I will again. My hands tremble, I can't even hold my bow steady.
Before the utmost brutality of this conflict, everything apart from you falls to pieces. There was no song in the shadows or in the streets, just blood, wounded, corpses.
Will you, when I come back, hold me? Will you hold me, despite the smell of fire, of death and blood that I cannot ever wash away? Tonight, I will howl to praise the Longstrider that I passed his trials, that I made it out of this pit. I will howl for the spirits of the dead, will howl to the moons to not hide their faces from this place. And I will howl to ask for your forgiveness dearest, for I broke my word and my heart.
Tomorrow, I will return to the place and tend to the wounded, help cleaning up, help writing letters home. I owe it to them that I deliver a few of them by my own, yet I dare not to ask such thing from the Commanders.
This City and its surroundings will remain a wound in the heart of the people and the landscape for some time. And it is not done yet. The land must be secured, rebuild. Many, so many wounds to tend to. It is not the first time that I gave the thought of devoting my life to the Lifegiver room in my head. Yet how can I heal with those hands, if they urge to hunt and to protect a pack? How can I step away from the task to find out what this strange thing is which has beset me?
I will try to sleep now, this letter will leave the camp via falcon tomorrow. I will keep it close to me at night, in my cloak, and sleep under the stars so they may look down upon me and judge my worth. I can see your face, Breanna; your emerald eyes so filled with something I cannot comprehend or possibly deserve. My skin, my lips long for your gentle touches and my spirits burns with the desire to be with you again. You are so far away, even when you are close sometimes.
Do you remember the stars in the mountains, by the campfire? I wanted to hold you. I wanted to hold you when you where exhausted, give you some of my energy somehow. I wanted to mourn loudly when you where dead, but I couldn't give us away, so I closed myself, cracks all over me now for this mistake. I hoped that I could be with you once all was over. But I had to go, like you.
I will try to sleep now, Breanna. Maybe I can't, unable to wash the screams and the pictures out of my head. I wish you would be here, whispering softly soothing words in my ear. But you aren't, but you aren't. I will get up, get my bow and make silent rounds, helping the guards to secure the camp.
In love,
~Aden
-
Yesterday's dreams
It was still night, the heavy and sweet stench of burning oil, pitch and dead with the color of gray wax. He stood in a wasteland made of broken buildings, weapons, lives, lies, siege engines, arcane devices and the orange light of raging fires in the distance. Breathing was hard; the only thing he could hear was the eerie sound of flags and banners fluttering in the wind.
He struggled to free his feet; exhaustion and pain burning in his muscles, his hands, his body sore and screaming for rest.
A howling in the distance, sound of shuffling paws. His knuckles became white as he clenched his fist around his longbow's worn grip, glanced around, his heart pounding loud in his ears as he felt the gentle and familiar sensation of feathers stroking over his fingertips as he readied an arrow.
The Shadows before him accumulated, spun into strands and forms and shapes; vague at first but soon gaining a solid shape. At first, it was a giant wolves head, gray and old but still strength and a packleader's wisdom in his eyes, strands of shadow like a mask adorning him. The rest of the body followed. It bared its fangs.
Get on your feet, pup. The pack needs you.
Aden climbed through the rubble towards the wolf, steadying himself with one hand as the rubble rumbled down with every step he took. His shoulders hurt as if on fire.
The wolf bared his teeth again, as if he grinned.
Stay behind me and watch the skies. Let's go.
He tried to keep up with the wolf as he ran through the ruins, sounds of wings everywhere. He looked up and saw a giant silhouette sweeping down towards him, claws first. He heard a scream, smelled the stench of the creature as it passed by him and picked something up, broke the fragile female body with ease and let it drop before turning and returning.
He was alone, all of a sudden, slipped and fell hard.
His fingers fumbled for another arrow, he forget to aim and just shot. It just bounced off the beast's body.
Claws, dirty and sharp and blood rushed towards him.
A howl.
A flying shadow.
The two creatures clashed.
ON YOUR FEET! YOU ARE OF NO USE HERE, PUP, SO DO WHAT YOU CAN!
Aden jumped on his feet, behold silhouettes in the distance. Closing in fast. He reached for his quiver and let the arrows fly.
Fire.
Al'Noth discharging, lashing out in the distance.
Blinding light for a moment.
Arms, raised into the pitch black sky as the arrow hit and made the silhouette fall backwards, screaming in agony for a moment.
FIGHT, PUP, FIGHT!
He looked over his shoulder, and instead of the two giants fighting he behold cities, behold gardens, woods, bathed into the sunlight and boredom of everyday life.
Aden reached for another arrow.
As the day dawned, filling the dark with a lighter shade of gray, Aden stumbled up the pile of rubble and dust unable to use his bow any longer. The creature was dead, and the wolf stood near the body of the woman.
Aden's heart stopped to beat as he rushed forwards, fell to his knees and wept. Breanna's skin was cold, her eyes staring into another realm -
He heard what she never would be able to say, heard the laughter of children and her worried words for them -
Aden woke with a muffled scream, his lungs aching he gasped for air
Find me, pup. You will be one of my teeth, one of my fangs and I will watch you both -
"Oh, look, Skinny is awake. Skinny don't like the big bad cultists, does he? Can't sleep at night?"
The old soldier grinned, showing a row of decaying teeth. Some where missing, and the stench of beer was so bad Aden nearly had to vomit.
"Get lost."
The man stared at him for a moment as if confused and then staggered away. Aden reached for his canteen, drank and got up, turning his head to overlook the wasteland around the fallen city.
Work awaited, and the sun wasn't so hot in the mornings.
//If the wolf was Folian S'pae talking to Aden, I let the GM decide. For now, it is just the dream of a stressed soldier.
-
~The tenth thread~
The water was cold, but he needed to clean himself and his armor nevertheless. Incredible how much dirt he had collected in his armor during his time in Briardusk -- it took him quite a while only to get the armor clean, and he hadn't even started with the rest of his gear.
He needed to be clean just so he wouldn't be thrown out of the inns right away when he wanted to rent a room. Most of his wounds hadn't healed yet, his skin was still sore and screamed out as he started to clean it with cold water and alcohol, then applied some slave.
He even bought new boots, his old ones were falling apart. The wind was cold, unfriendly. Weather change, maybe.
Numbness was all he felt, still. And she hadn't written back, maybe she simply hadn't had the time yet. He was patient. He could wait. There were other, equally pressing matters he had to focus on.
Sadia.
A proper work. He needed the latter to have the resources to deal with former, however former would get in the way with latter.
He needed to do some preparations. Precautions.
He needed arrows. A hidden place to sleep, caches, prearranged transport. He needed wards, emergency plans, safe communications.
Aden put his armor back on, cleaned the rest of his armor and left the place after covering his tracks and all the signs of his present here.
The shadows engulfed him as he climbed up, rain pouring down. The Shadows sung for him, the rain, the rock and his heart.
And when he reached the mountain top, he throw his head back, grinned and howled to honor Folian.
It felt feral.
It felt good.
-
~The eleventh thread~
He thanked the Longstrider silently and hold her in his arms.
Folian's Vale was nearly asleep now, but he could hear the soft sound of the guard's leather boots moving around in the night. He couldn't quite see them, but he knew they where there to watch over them.
They found a place close to the temple of Aeridin, a platform build between the branches of a tree. It wasn't much, but at least it provided a little bit of privacy and security. That was all they needed for now.
He could hear her soft breathing, starlight illuminating the platform and her face. It was peaceful, freed from fear and sorrow and all worry. A place under the stars. Aden smiled softly, half awake, and the feeling of her warmth and her the scent of her gave him all the comfort he needed.
They had whispered for a bit, before falling into trance in each others arms. It was pure luxury, and he thanked Folian for weaving their fates together. And for letting Quantum cross their path, carrying Toran's light with him and showing them the way for a brief moment in fleeting time. He would keep his word and protect them both. And not only him.
A shroud woven from starlit twilight and the tree's silhouette covered them both, and Aden smiled.
Great Wolf, I thank you. Help me learn to become the hunter from shadows so that I may protect my love, my friends, my pack; so that I may walk among the shadows to strike the enemies of the balance, the enemies of life and the enemies of my pack with quick precision. May my heart never harden or succumb to arrogance, greed, decadence and darkness. Protect me and my love from death and enslavement of both body and mind, and teach me so that I may become one of your fangs to protect the all-pack.
In the distance, a wolf howled and Aden finally fell into a deeper trance, dreams spun into his head unraveled and took his spirit with them for a while.
-
~The twelfth thread~
The hinges that had been quite a challenge when he entered warned them and possibly saved his life. His heart stopped for a split of a blink as the door was opened and shut sharply.
"Hide!" Her whisper and the widened eyes told of her panic and he just bow his head slightly in silence and made a step back so he wouldn't be seen once she opened the door. She hurried outside and closed the door behind her silently.
His heart was beating, blood rushing in his ears. He slowly pulled his dagger out of the oiled scabbard on the small of his back, the familiar rough grip cold and calming against his palm.
Breathe.
Focus.
He closed his eyes for a brief moment and moved his shoulders subtly to avoid being to tense.
Relax.
No good spot to hide here, so he just positioned himself better so he wouldn't be seen immediately when the door was opened. He couldn't hear what happened. Or if somebody was sneaking towards her room.
Breathe. He flexed his fingers and waited in the shadows. Nothing in here was to his favor. He could use the flowers for a distraction, but he had no yarn with him. And she wouldn't like the mess on her carpet anyway.
Come on, focus and breathe!
He felt the shadows shrouding him, as he breathed how the human has taught him when he was a boy. He relaxed, his mind was losing the fear and the panic.
Time passed, Aden measured it in slow breaths. He tried to remember the rooms he passed through, tried to remember all the little things, the details.
Six hundred breaths later he heard steps near the door.
Control.
Don't hold you breath now.
Focus.
The door swung open, Breanna walked in and closed the door behind her, letting out a deep breath.
"Aden?"
He felt her whisper briefly, it sounded good with no pressure or hidden intent. Or force.
"Here."
He moved a little so she could see him and let the dagger disappear again.
She smiled. "There you are. He is ... gone."
Aden's mind added: "for now."
He told her to leave through the main door and used the portal back to Center. This was the easiest way, although he had to lie to her to get away.
Not nice, but he got away and she was in vague safety -- without him around, they would have one little bit less to torture her with.
She sat by the fire and -
He forgot what he wanted to say. Just smiled at her, maybe he was even grinning.
-
~The thirteenth thread~
All stones on his way up looked different, but they all were gray from the rain that washed the traces of clay, ash and the unbearable smell of firebeetles from his bruised skin. He barely felt the cold or the stones' sharp edges trying to cut through his boots into his feet. It was a strange full moon night, the shadows silver and the land empty and quiet.
Once he reached the mountain top, he silently walked the last bit of the way to his hideout, paying attention not to be a visible silhouette against the horizon.
Nobody had been near the fallen pine, or at least hadn't left any traces of their presence. He slipped under the camouflaged tarp and quickly got out of his wet clothes, rubbed himself dry with a rough linen cloth and put dry clothes back on.
He found it quite difficult to hide in the wilds, but he was slowly getting better. It took a bit of thinking and experimenting to figure out how to have a fire but hide it's light at the same time. He dug a hole and three small ditches leading to it. The ditches he covered with branches and then the earth he dug out and put on a old sack. He filled part of the ditches with rough stones, enough to hide a lot of the fire's light but still letting it suck sufficient air. He then camouflaged the end of the ditches and the hole for the fire before setting up the tarp, which he also camouflaged. He wasn't quite sure if he had done something like this before on his travels, but the work took half a day.
Dark-red embers on the gravel in the small pit, and Aden put a few small branches of firewood on them. Heated the stew, ate a bowl. Listening to the sounds of the silver shadows outside, the wind in the pine needles, in the underbrush, the shortsword close-by.
Sleeping lightly, dreamless.
The next day he got up early, packed his things and broke down his camp, destroying the traces of his presence as best as he could. Then he washed in a small stream nearby and returned to Center for work, spent the day digging clay and sand, crafting molds and glass and tried to be a good craftsman. Practiced with the bow and the blades in the evening, moved around in Center and the Wilds to practice stealth and how to move in favor with the terrain.
Rented a room in the Bull's Eye again and read notes and books until he fell asleep. He needed to be prepared, needed to catch up those years he just spend surviving. He needed to use what little knowledge and skill he had acquired over the years to get forward and be ready.
Slept lightly without dreams.
Practiced alchemy and burned a hole in his recipe parchment the next day, observed the other craftsmen in the Hall in Hempstead. Watched deals and politics being made. It was interesting, but most of it he had seen before. It was all the same, it seems, and people did their best to profit from the war.
And Khul was yet to take.
He shrouded himself into the shadows again for a while and watched in silence, practiced and learned.
About a week later, he fled into the land again to collect abundant raw materials and earn some money.
-
~The fourteenth thread~
A little bit to top-heavy for his taste, but good enough. Next time he should make a little bit smaller heads or use better wood.
Aden balanced the finished arrow on his left index finger before putting it away into quiver.
“You're getting better, huh?”
The woman smiled at him. He shrugged. She had been watching him for a day or two, her eyes beautiful like the rest of her appearance. And he couldn't escape her, she was sticking to him like a shadow as long as he was in the craft hall. A watcher either way, eyes - but for whom?
“Only one way to find out.”
He smiled at her and she smiled back. Well, whatever. He packed his things and cleaned his workbench up before leaving the craft hall. If someone was following him again, that was bad. Really, really bad.
He made his way into the wilderness in the evening, heading towards one of the Longstrider's shrines. Testing the arrows he made against an old, fallen log. Meditated a bit, then booked a passage to Mariner's Hold.
The woman didn't follow him, but others might have. He used a different name and a different robe to travel, used a different demeanor, much more harsh and rough than he usually was. Once the ship had left the harbor, he searched himself a place where he could wrap the shadows around him against curious eyes and daggers in the night, spent the time being an arrogant elf with the air of an adventurer.
It was a good time to think about various things. About the war, about Sadia, about Breanna and the Dark elves he had met. He needed to cover his tracks even better, confuse them, mislead them with contradicting information. Build a net of contacts, informers, shroud himself in multiple masks. He had never done this before, he had always stayed out of sight, out of politics and out of trouble. It had worked mostly.
He asked around which tavern was good and clean with good entertainment, and they told him to go to the Silver Buckle. Maybe he could speak with Andrew again, then, maybe not. It is not like he found him trustworthy, but he might be useful.
And he need to build a small defense against Sadia with him, and it better be a good one after what the bard hinted at their last meeting.
And afterward, he would go to the temple of Aragen to look a few things up, if they would let him. Hm. He could say that he was a traveling craftsman that wanted to learn more about the world.
That would be a possibility.
It wasn't even that far from the truth.
He wrapped himself into the shadows, prayed to the Longstrider in his mind for Breanna's safety and walked out into the harbor at night. He didn't knew if Sadia or the Raelites were still around, and he didn't want to find out the hard way.
-
~A quiet conversation~
He nearly gave the old priest a heart attack, raised his hands apologetically and helped the man to pick up all the scrolls and pieces of parchment.
“Thanks, son. You're a really quiet one, eh?”
Aden nodded. “A library is a quiet place. But I didn't mean to startle you, Sir.”
He handed him the parchments back and smiled slightly. The priest nodded
“Thank you. What are you looking for? You don't look like the adventurers we have usually around as visitors.”
Aden shook his head. “I'm a craftsman, and I had some time at hand to read and learn a bit. Might help me in the future, I think.”
“Information is very powerful. What are you looking for?”
“History, Sir.”
“Hm. Can you be more specific?”
“Yes. History of the Deep and everything you have on the Drach Ori. And about Dregar.” He smiled. “I want to know more for the next discussion in the craft hall.”
The old man chuckled softly and signaled the elf to follow him.
“Must have been a human beating you in a discussion, elf.”
Aden hesitated and nodded.
“Yes.”
“You are moving to Dregar?”
He nodded. “Good work needs to be done, once this war is over. I need to prepare for that.”
How ignorant he has been for all these years! He buried himself in books and scrolls and pages of parchment for days, having an occasional conversation with other people. He did make notes into a small book, to remember the important things. These writings were nothing like the stuff he had to read as a child, these were genuine attempts to find and preserve the truth, baring the lyrical air of elvish works.
Of course, these tomes were useless to him if he would not start to listen around for information more, preparing for the eventual clash with his enemies.
And, as far as he could see it, there was a lot to be done with all this knowledge stored here. Briardusk had been a mistake, one that must be circumvented when pushing towards Khul.
And if Khul falls, Rael might seize the opportunity and expand his territory. He doubted that he ever would see the death of this crafty shorty and the end of his kingdom, but at least he could try to stop him spreading his urban decay all over the place.
Prantz had become a city of dead shadows, a wound in the ever flowing rhythm he grew up with. He could feel it everywhere but in Prantz, it's magic somehow gone, crushed by accurately cut stones and the art of focused minds. They were just as bad as every other kind of extremists, and eventually would have to realize that their path would fail, too. All things must come to an end, if they ever had a beginning.
Only the melody of the Shadows, the ethereal symphony of the world would be eternal; all else was folly.
It rained outside, and he pulled up his hood. The way to Mariner's Hold was long. He would have enough time to shroud himself into the pale shadows of gray and listen to them in silence.
-
~The fifteenth thread~
She smiled at him in that special way and whispered softly.
“Are you alright dear?”
He could just smile back. “I am.”
They got off the road and searched themselves a place were they could talk in private, taking care that nobody followed them.
She wrapped her arms around him and kissed him. His heart began to beat faster, and he hold her, kissed her lips and breathed her scent.
“I was gone for too long.”
He had been indeed. Being around her was dangerous, but that only added to his desire to be close to her. She was so sweet, so ... everything, and he wished the could stay in her arms forever. He told her what he had been up to lately, and then let her talk.
She told him that Nym might suspect their relationship, Aden didn't answer. He hold her, caressing her neck and shoulders. If either Nym or Duchess found out, they would be in terrible danger.
It was hard to be separated from her, to pretend that they don't know each other. He told her that no matter what happened, she could not betray him.
He said naive, stupid things, but some of it he meant like he spoke them. But he wasn't sure if she understood. They would find out either way on a day Aden didn't know, and they would use it against them, would use him to hurt her or the other way around. But no matter what would happen, she could not betray him. Not even if she told them about him. He could not talk sense into her about that, maybe he was just bad with words. She told others about him and her, and would not disclose it. This was all very messy. He hold her and kissed her, because sometimes things just were that complicated and difficult. He would find a way, eventually, how they could both be together and safe, having a house somewhere, maybe children – simply a more secure life, one which they could use how they pleased instead of being forced to run, hide, move and survive.
Trials. Yes, trials to be survived and learned from. They needed a few things, secure hideouts, caches, a way to communicate, a secret language and codes how to escape when things got rough. And they were bound to get rough eventually, how much time they had was just determined by how good they were at hiding and shadow-play.
She introduced him to Midnight, her familiar. The panther seemed to accept him enough not to eat him right away.
She departed with a spell, and he stepped back into the shadows and made his way to Center, careful not to attract watchers and hoped his attempts at hiding his traces was enough to give him a slight headstart.
He had been stupid, of course. No way to tell what might happen if someone has seen them, despite their precautions. He had a quick look at the prison where Steel had been incarcerated. Something else to look into. He had a hunch, but no way to be sure. He would ask around later, when times were more suitable.
The next day, he got up early and made a short run through the wood to improve his stamina. It also helped him with his thinking, and the cold wind made the shadows of leaves treacherous and jumping around all the time. The sun was shining, but it wasn't hot. He tried to move along with the rhythm of the wood and the shadows, birdsong in the air.
Standing on the trunk of a fallen tree on one feet only, the other lifted up – balance practice. The key was not to move too much at all, letting the shadows and the world move instead. The patient hunter gets the prey.
And if he was too patient, the window of opportunity would be closed shut forever.
There were so many different way to look at it and solve the problem, so many arguments to have over who was right and wrong in which aspect that he really didn't care. He was a creature made of matter in this world, and he would walk around in the dark and in the light always followed by a shadow. He would protect his pack, maintain a frail balance, some sort of conflicted equilibrium that made survival possible.
And the rest he left to the scholars and thinkers. Right now, it was necessary to use the skills and gifts one had to get out of this mess and into another one. Preferably one in which he did not have to worry about dark elves and things like lies, hate, betrayal and revenge.
There was no point in this conflict. He wished he could show Breanna how he saw the world, maybe he needed to dance for her, dance like a shadow in flickering candlelight. He could do that, but maybe she still would not understand.
How could he, a child of more than one world, teach her something anyway? If he could quote words of wise men from the top of his head, if he had divine revelations like others had, maybe this would be easier.
His shadow twisted as he made his way through the wood unseen and silent, picking up a few feathers and herbs. He was his shadow, and his shadow was him. He did not doubt that there were creatures that were just shadow, but that was a different issue. Shadows were the fleeting children of light and matter, sometimes showing the truth, sometimes confusing the senses.
All in all they were just like what gave birth to them in the first place. Like everything else - and like shadows, ignorance made people oversee the most interesting and beautiful things in their short lives.
-
~The sixteenth thread~
He brushed the hickory swarf from his sleeve and ignored someone two workbenches away trying to crack a supposedly funny elf joke. It wasn't even a good one, and Aden didn't want to enlighten the man about good jokes about elves. There was work to do, a lot of work; he rummaged through his tool bag until he found the sandpaper. He bought a small bundle of parchments with notes on woodworking, and despite his tries he failed on making his own sandpaper. Maybe he would try that again later, he already had all the saw dust he would ever need to supply a library with parchment for the next few years.
He sighed and started to balance the arrows carefully, putting those aside that were so difficult to balance that he could use those as wasters for practice. There was a different method to fix arrowheads, and he also wanted to try new arrowheads.
So much work to do, so little time. And afterward there was the question what would be the arrows' targets.
Animals too sick to recover, endangering the other animals near them?
Bandits?
Undead or other abominations?
He had to think about Andrew's song about the Blackwatch. It was not quite what he had expected from the bard, maybe because he seemed to be too settled.
Aden balanced the arrow on his finger and smiled. It was the same old song playing over and over again, but a song that was not the symphony of the world. It was made by mortals and immortals alike; which means he could take part in it too, if he wanted, and would be forced to sing along if he didn't want to -
He could serve as a spy, scout, whatever in the great play, open up his own troupe and play along. Might all be very interesting, but of what use would it be?
Who watches the watchdogs was something that had broken all and every organization with ideals; and he would not be able to stop things like Breanna and him and the dark elves from happening. But the thought was nice. A pack that hunted from the shadows, pulling strings and taking care that the equilibrium was not too much damaged.
The equilibrium of what?
He shook his head and worked on an arrow with sandpaper. He needed to clear his thoughts, then think again. This was not at all the place or time for it. He needed a place to sleep in safety, preferably with Breanna in his arms. She looked so sweet when she slept, and nothing was making him more happy than having her close to him. But it was not going to happen – this night, he would wrap himself in the loneliness that was an anonymous, cold inn bed of average quality.
-
~The seventeenth thread~
It was easy enough to slip through the inn unseen, most of the workers focused on the beer mug in front of them or the waitress. Every pickpocket must feel in paradise here, but there was none around as far as Aden could see. It has been payday, and the mood was better than the days before. Even he had earned some true, doing work for SehKy and Fleur. He wondered what he should do with all the true. It wasn't enough to buy a house or one of those enchanted items adventurers fancied, but too much to not spend it. And he could not buy a gift for Bre, either, since that would rise suspicion. Or not. He should inquire some things, first.
When he bolted the door to his room shut, the rain outside had become a storm rattling at the window shutters. He ate something, secured the door and lay down, a dagger under his pillow. But sleep won't come, and he thought about Breanna – where was she now? Was she good, did someone beat her? Did she have to feel miserable right now? Did she tried to sleep, missing him? He thought about Lily and Melody's words. It was wrong, yes it was. On the other hand, it would provide him and Breanna with a good cover. And hurt Lily immensely, something she didn't deserve. It was a backup plan, he needed to find something better than this primitive idea.
Shadow play.
Lighting tore the darkness in his room apart, casting odd shadows all over the room. He sat up, the dagger following him like a puppy dog. He took a deep and silent breath. And another one. And another one.
Sixty-five breaths until he had ordered his thoughts -
And the first thought was about love.
About the love between two or more thinking individuals, the love that one could feel towards a certain craft -
Ilsare's domain was something he could not properly understand, even if that might not be true. He needed to talk with a non-nonsense follower of Her, but that would be a person maybe hard to find at the current moment. If such a person existed, she or he would be busy. Very busy. At least that was what the street had taught him.
And he certainly didn't want to speak with SehKy about women. Or with any other Ilsare, for that matter. Not now. It would not better things with Breanna.
What would better things with her was if he really started to move, to work – and to understand.
First, he had to understand his own self, his desires and so forth.
This would lead to the attempt on understanding the world, however; an impossible task for all he knew. And then he had to make a decision.
Another lightning struck. Thunder. Strange shadows.
What did he desire, then?
Breanna. But he did not want to life a secure live with her, he also wanted to life a fulfilled life. To him, that meant doing good which was not an easy thing to do by itself. It meant that things needed to improve from yesterday to today and into tomorrow, one pebble at a time. What he really wanted it the power to change things. But power was treacherous, like the shadows of leaves. He had to be careful. He did not want to wake one morning at Breanna's side only to find him head of a vicious thief or assassin guild.
No, there were more important things to do. Knowing things, controlling information meant wielding power, too. This was nothing new, he knew it before. He could become a spy, or a sort of spy. He could found a shadow pack, dedicated to maintaining peace and natural balance. No assassinations, but diplomacy and politics. Seeking out dangers when they arose, gently manipulating people into dealing with it. If Paladins where warriors in shining armor, seeking to root out injustice and other things, the shadow pack was the friendly old man giving advice to the newly wed couple. The courier that delivered a piece of vital information in time. The rogue that observed a group of merchants for a year before blowing the whole slave trader ring apart with a single, elegant stroke. The man that send adventurers to bring him a meaningless magical artifact before somebody could use it in a dark ritual six moons later.
It would be complicated, and maybe it was beyond what mortals could do –
He took a deep breath and shook the thoughts off, closed his eyes.
They left him, and he saw with great clarity for a brief moment as his mind balanced on the fragile edge between nihilistic truth and cynical delusion. The symphony, inaudible but loud as the storm outside.
Lighting cast hard shadows through the room, and he felt the cold slowly crawling into the room.
He felt like a bird flying on the storm and watched, life, death and the shadows without judging. Here, in the shadows, he could watch, wait and heal. Make decisions without being affected by the heat of life. And dance, as he wanted to; swift and elegant, free of sorrow with the sere grace only shadows could have.
He opened his eyes in the morning and felt as if he had slept for days. Dawn's soft light drew shadows through the shutters, and he got up, did his stretching and prepared for a new day.
-
~The eighteenth thread~
He carefully placed the last mushroom in the box. It had started to rain slightly, but Aden did not waste too much thought to it. There was nothing he could do about the rain apart from adapt to it, so why should he bother? He locked to box and put it into his backpack before pulling his hood back up. There were enough mushrooms around to seed a new generation, and even if somebody came and picked even more than he did, there would be still enough spores left to let them grow again. SehKy would have his three boxes of mushrooms before the end of the week, if there was no trouble on the way back.
The man that had called himself G'rok had been worse enough. He had been faster and despite whatever tactic Aden had used, he still had found him. This was bad.
Really bad.
Aden was lucky that G'rok didn't try to rob and or kill him, as he certainly seemed like the kind of person that would do so. Five thousand true for a murder.
Things started to get cheap, especially lives.
Aden felt the rain on his face and wondered who would be interested in such an information.
Sir Stargazer? Maybe Miss Ferrit? Protector Daniel for sure. SheKy might not be interested, but there were rumors about a folower of Ilsare with a bow bringing someone whose description sounded like it had been Steel into custody at Fort Wayfare.
Which was interesting enough, given that Steel did have some ties to the Angels Guild.
Maybe it had been Gel? He was a bow-waving Ilsarite, too.
The name Hardragh did not ring any bell.
Whoever that was. Possibly someone who would arrange the death of a few of his enemies.
His fingertips itched, but this time, he focused on the work at hand. No need to bring himself into even more trouble. And he could pass on the information, of course. It wasn't quite valuable enough to demand a favor, but it could be dangerous enough to not be used to build trust with possible recipients.
Stupid situation; and all Aden really wanted to do now was to train his craft. Do some alchemy, some tailoring maybe. He needed some protection when wearing clothes, but not as much as his leather armor. The leather armor was nice, but heavy. Restricting, even. During the last few weeks, he had only carried it when he was heading into a dangerous situation to begin with.
It's better to be swift and not get hit, better even not to get in a fight in the first place. Combat could not always be avoided, but most of the time. Why waste resources and take any risks when it wasn't necessary?
He practiced fighting with the blade a little, both with the dagger and the shortsword - or, how his former owner had called it: a wakizashi. He needed to visit the man's homeland at some point, not only to do something against the poverty and famines, but also to study its culture – but not only in his room before going to sleep and after waking. The bugs he hunted had been troubling some local farmers or simply endangered the equilibrium in the woods. And they had a lot of nests, reproducing faster than anything else as it was the case with all insects. He had taken his time and studied one specimen for a while. It took him hours to scrub the stench off his skin afterwards.
The shadows proved to be good allies, he started to consciously use them to distract opponents so he could place a single, deadly blow. But once they had seen him, he could not step back into the shadows and become invisible to them again. He was afraid that it was part of his technique, maybe it was too aggressive to return into the shadows again after the first strike, and he needed to practice that, too.
Aden sought shelter under a small tree until the rain stopped and ate something. This time of the day, the gnolls would not even bother to leave their usual hunting grounds so he was safe for a while. He should travel with more caution later on, when he entered their territory again.
He had seen different styles of fighting during his travels, and there was few that appealed to him.
One was blunt but effective, it was the style that Daniel used. Clad in heavy armor and using a shield, defended by blessings of the Great Protector, he simply clashed into enemy lines and used his sword to kill everything that came to close. Or called upon the wrath of his god to kill the enemy. He did not evade fights, and Aden saw how he felled a treant – which was not necessary at all, since they could have used a longer route.
The other he saw was the one Jetta had used. It was quick, swift and brutal efficient, using two kukri to kill the enemy. A combination that needed the fighter to get close to the enemy and lose defensive capability.
Ty was another example for close combat. He fought swift using a fencing style. It looked like dancing, but it lacked the grace and inherit tranquility that he was looking for to implement into his fighting style.
He had seen Stiletto fight a few times, and it was her fighting style that he saw the most similarity with. And not.
Could someone be able to strike with the same silence and grace as shadows did when light fell on a monk practicing his fighting?
The gnolls simply ignored him as he passed them, busy with their own affairs and power struggles. He moved slowly and in silence until he reached Center. From there, it was only a hop to Port Hempstead where he would deliver the goods SehKy had requested.
He tried to evade whoever was following him, but the attention that someone had given him seemed to have vanished. Very well. He could return to building trust, resources and skills then for a while until he ran into the next kind of trouble.
-
~The nineteenth thread~
The Wild Surge Inn still smelled of smoke, but the beds and rooms where clean and comfortable. He would have preferred to sleep outdoors, but the weather was getting too bad and he had a slight cold. Time to get well fast.
Variation of the standard security measures, routine was a killer. A mass-murder, even. Worse then a slightly drunk wizard fresh from the Spellgard Campus.
Aden looked around and sighed slightly before blowing the candle out. The place between the bed and the armoire looked good enough. And with closed shutters and from the door, it still should look like as if he was sleeping in the bed, he made sure of that.
Wrapping himself in his panther cloak, he put the blade down beside him and removed the clamp from his dagger's scabbard. A safer place to rest, possible more than one, where rather high on his list. But this was all he could afford at the moment.
It was a dark, rainy night. Hlint was silent, apart from the animals in the barns. And the guards.
He relaxed, stretched a little and tended to his sore muscles. All very slowly. No need to hurry. The shadows were bland, unified and tired. He should have let the candle burn for a while, so they could dance for a bit. Breathing calmly and focused, he stepped over the threshold.
J.C. Merkinson was a person that knew the rules of the game, albeit trying to hide it behind the mask of an cliche wizard.
He had killed him.
A favor he wanted to return as soon as there was a proper excuse and opportunity.
He needed to level the field, first. Where did the guy get the coins from? Research wasn't cheap, as a priest of Aragen had told him. Who was that guy anyway, apart from a name that sounded fake, and appearance that could have been an illusion and an old, dusty tome? He intended to find out. Given how much other information he still had to find and think about, he should work on his crafts and do some legwork. If there was time left, training awaited. He had to work on his stamina and practice some jumps and spins, moving with weapons and of course fighting.
And he needed to study some of these tomes about the Al'Noth and its related arts. Information was powerful and sometimes wrong, and Merkinson was the kind of person that would spread wrong information. He should start to do that again, too.
His eyes moved behind the closed eyelids. He focused on the sounds and the shadows, banishing the darkness that surrounded him as best as he could.
I am not darkness, but shadow.
Those who hold up the light -
I am always behind you, yet I wait there to protect your backs.
Those who hide in the darkness -
I strike from shadows, only leaving death behind
Those who seek shelter in the shroud -
Do not fear, rest and find healing in contemplation.
I am not darkness, but shadow.
I am the eyes of the Great Wolf
I am the fangs and the claws
And my purpose is to protect and teach the pack
to secure the balance of the hunting grounds
to return what I took
And to ensure survival of the all-pack
I am but a lone stalker in the shadows. Do you hear the symphony of all, Great Wolf?
He left Hlint in the first gray of dawn. There was work to do.
-
~The twentieth thread~
Clear, cold water; stained with the blood and the grime he washed from his skin. He felt the cold and the exhaustion draining from him, but only as something that affected his body. Reverie: soft sleep with Breanna dozing in his arms, a wish that was a dream by itself.
He stretched, rubbed himself dry with a rough piece of cloth and slipped back into his leather armor.
I am not darkness, but shadow.
I am the eyes of the Great Wolf
I am the fangs and the claws
And my purpose is to protect and teach the pack
to secure the balance of the hunting grounds
to return what I took
And to ensure survival of the all-pack
Words, resonating in his head with every step he took. And nothing but words, purposeless as a few improvised barricades. Another day in Center, another day with drums in the background. Maybe he should have stayed in Hempstead, at least it would have been safe there.
Aden caught himself humming a voraxian song he had heard in Briardusk and returned to help with Center's defense. How stupid of him. But still, it needed to be done.
He rushed to Center when he heard one traveler bringing the news to the Hall of the Al'Noth in Hempstead.
That had been for certain not his first mistake, but surely felt like it. He had found Sir Doesscha and SehKy defending the town. Later they defended Center from multiple attacks with Kate, and he still bore the wounds of one of those assaults.
More and more adventurers and soldiers of fortune came there, and from then on it had been fighting, looking for clues, and more fighting. SehKy told him to go to Wayfare and speak with Captain Tunning.
It took a while until he could speak with the young Captain himself – too slow, way to slow, but until he met the man he was calm again. He took the time to study the man's behavior. It was quite obvious that he had a lot of matters at hand, and that he feared something – Aden guessed a little, but it was currently not of his concern why they were so tense. Most likely fearing another prison break.
But the Captain was a professional, and Aden immediately liked that. He even send some guards and even cavalry to aid Center.
Time, fleeting memories as he tried to focus on the present and not letting his mind wander all the filaments of possibility.
He stumbled into Cailomel's shop, he needed some gear. He needed to learn how to be invisible even when fighting, so he could take his enemy by surprise more often. Or run away, whatever was better. He knew that there were some items that might help him in training to step back into the shadows after having stepped out of them to attack an enemy. Hopefully he had the true he needed. If not, he eventually needed to go adventuring again. Or work.
Breanna was there, and she -
and to see her, to feel her kiss -
but
he
couldn't -
Back to Center, feeling empty. Fighting, fighting, standing between the bodies of the fallen. Nobody seemed to care, at all.
Breanna arrived some time later, and he just could not do what he wanted to do. But the conversation had been ridiculous.
He soon realized that all his skill in stealth was surpassed or useless. But he still had his bow, and that worked perfectly in Briardusk.
At night, he curled up into a ball and realized that there was nothing, no Breanna, no serene shroud of shadow.
Nothing.
-
~ ~
Death and Blood.
Death and Blood.
Mass-murder the only solution.
He was out of thread.
-
Breathing cold air, his head and face covered by a mask. Sharp shadows, sharp wind. His robe fluttering between shadow and light, torn from travel and fight, little more than rags around his battleworn leather armor. But they kept him warm, kept him hidden, too. Not as good as his cloak, but good enough.
The valley was drenched in silver and the shadows of trees, and if his thoughts were not occupied with different matters, he would have simply looked at it, enjoying the serene view.
But there was no time for that.
He needed to establish a net of hideouts, best to begin with an obvious one: he could ask Andrew for a room at the Buckle, a small one, mainly to be used as a stash – and as a warm place for Breanna and him. Maybe a staging place for future endeavors. The thread was slipping through his fingers, he could not stop it, could not control it. Something was whispering deep inside, and he could not understand.
Going to the Lake of Glass with Breanna sounded like a good idea back then, but now he wasn't so sure anymore if it was the right way to go.
They both would endanger her parents.
And he did not know the Wolfswood good enough.
He needed to hone is battle skills, he needed to make himself a weapon, sharp and quick but durable. Prayers, prayers unanswered. If ever, the others and he kept safety and tried to solve problems, he did not see any help from the Longstrider so far.
But that should be the least of his problems now. He turned around and walked away, back into the paths filled with shadow, back where he came from. But the shadows feel different, the music gone. Blood rushed in his ears, the wind, the cold.
Nothing.
-
It could not be helped.
He had spend too much time adventuring, and trying to fight for the good cause – or at least for what he perceived as good – that he forgot about more essential parts of life.
Like finding proper work. More friends and allies. Honing his skills. His short excursions into alchemy led him not exactly far, and he did not have the proper training with all the tools he needed.
I need to ask myself where I want to go. What I really want to do, apart from becoming just another shady person with pointy ears. And even if I should settle that, I just know what to do, but not how to solve all the other problems.
Aden shrugged the thoughts off, stared into the shadows of another morning and sat up.
The Angels will not help me, they are mercantile. I need to be a better craftsman until they would consider employing me. Same goes for other guilds.
I cannot join the Toranites, not even as a far distant asset. Although that could be considered – everyone needs information, in the end. And they certainly won't pay me, nor would I let them.
The Longstrider...
I am out of mundane work opportunities. I am impressed.
He stretched and got dressed for a new day. Time to do some gathering and collecting and thinking. He needed to talk with Enzo again, if he was around and not on some mission elsewhere.
-
He carefully examined the hickory for any cracks and signs of knots that could make the branch unsuited for carving a bow. But he found none, marked the branch with his knife and proceeded with the next.
Work. But it kept at least his hands busy.
Hopefully the Shining Hand has resources free. If not, I need to get myself a larger stick that I can whack that ancient lizard thing with.
Make your weapons sound.
Sound.
He doubted screaming arrows would be useful against undead creatures. But against orcs and such it would be nice. Maybe make some that make them run when they hear it hurling towards them? Or a howling blade.
Maybe some acid enchanted dagger, too.
He doubted he could find JC and bring him in for questioning and a trial. But he was a spellweaver, those were usually tricky to get.
Briardusk.
The sandpaper was torn and no more sand left on it. He would recycle it, together with some of the saw dust and all the other organic side products. Maybe he would add some ash, too. Wood soil was thin and fragile, smaller plants usually had it difficult to grow and without the trees, it would be washed away quickly.
Even if he hunted, he tried to leave something in the wood for the animals and insects to consume. In the end, all was one: it came into being, born by the world; it lived in the world, used it to survive better; and finally it would return to the world. Creation, death, recreation. And as long as the equilibrium necessary for the continuation of life was not utterly destroyed, there would be life.
Aden put the branch away, he would carve the bow later. He needed bow strings first.
Briardusk will remain a wound for long, but in the end it would be a scar. Nobody might remember, but it always will be there. History was measured in scar tissue written about in books.
Should I ever become what they call a shadowdancer, what would I become for the people that lead war in the name of the Greater Good? To those that hide and weave their nets of intrigue and power struggle? To those that try to go by every day, that just want to lead a life in peace and happiness?
Would I be a spy?
And assassin?
Feared in the dark, my name whispered by enemies and allies alike?
That would mean I need to kill myself first and recreate me – to make myself vanish and stay in the shadows.
It would mean to become mysterious. Cold. Warm. Unpredictable predictable, resourceful and poor.
It would mean to search people I could work with perfectly and yet leave them in the dark about what I am up to. Like living as a thief, it would make a good mask, too. A ranger of sorts, on the fringe of light, nowhere at home.
Nothing to be afraid off.
Unless you intend to destabilize the equilibrium too much, push your destructive and restrictive views onto others, make the world oscillate. Unless you intend to silence the music flowing in all things.
Or hurt the pack, or make the world a garden of flowers for your pleasure.
This world was the hunting ground of the mortals, it had to be protected from itself and from those that sought to destroy it from the outside.
And he needed to understand the intentions of the things, their language and their way to think.
And the places beyond this world.
I need to get a new mask.
I need to become what I always was, am and will be.
Another branch was ready. He took a sip from his canteen and brushed the dust off his clothes. There was still the black thread of wool around his right wrist.
Thread. Filament. Oscillating strings, creating the vibrant sound of all things. It was existence. The shadows vibrated as he left the craft hall to roam around for more raw materials he could work with.
He could move unseen, one with the shadows. Not always, but most of the time. The weaving called True Sight was a real problem, he needed a way to counter it. Just as he needed a way to take away different advantages. He needed to become better than even the dark elves were.
Until I can strike coming out of nothing but shadow and leaving nothing but shadow behind.
And then he was gone, disappeared. The door to the craft hall ajar.
-
“What if telling our secret, keeps us safer?”
She was asleep in his arms, relaxed and peaceful; a soft serene smile on her lips. No cold wind around them this time, but not stars above them either. The Buckle was quiet, very quiet. He could hear some of the staff working downstairs and smiled. It was all he could ask for, all that he wanted now: a nice, warm and safe place for him and Breanna. The whole rest of issues was meaningless to him now with her close to him. Something new could start right here, something better.
Thank you, Andrew.
Aden closed his eyes and tried to get some sleep, inhaled Breanna's scent and smiled. How he missed her touch, her eyes, the sound of her voice and her scent, her warmth -
The first thing you learn is how to shiver.
Shivering keeps your inner organs warm and alive if you do it right. Undercooling was dangerous, but Aden worried more about the things in the water than about the water itself. If he shivered too much, these things would feel his presence.
The shadows of this place were odd, and the water made everything he knew about hiding nearly useless. But he needed the greenstone; there was no way to substitute it. His skin was sore from the sand and dirt under his armor, and burning from the salt water. He had applied a thick layer of oil to his skin and to his armor, but the effect was gone long ago.
He waited, the tanto between his teeth, let the cold approach him a bit. Water sloshed around him.
The guard passed by, and Aden swam deeper into the cave. The bag filled with already mined greenstone minerals didn't make it easier, but at least the bag wasn't completely full yet. And so far, he had not been detected.
Fight the cold and the desire for warmth, for the free sky and the sun.
Fight the pain in the feet, the muscles, the sore skin.
But his mind was focused, closed, ready to strike. And the last guard between him and the exit did not see him, either. He would empty his bag and return -
And all this pain only for making healing potions. Pain was weakness leaving his body, endure the suffering and harden – a lesson well learned in Briardusk.
He ground the minerals to fine dust and carefully collected it in small bags. He needed to collect aloe, garlic and comfrey, too. But the work at least put his hands to work while his mind was milling around in endless paths.
Should he tell Breanna about his room in the Buckle or keep it as an extra card in his sleeve? But it had no to few tactical value, it was not secret, not well-equipped enough. Everybody would knew he had connections to Andrew, therefore, it was already calculated that he would use the Buckle as a hideout at some point. But as long Sadia and JC didn't come knocking at the same time, he could figure something out.
JC.
The next trouble. He should write a report to the Shining Hand, but he forgot about it. He should do it right away, arrange a meeting with Beacon Stuart. Communications were just to slow for his taste, once you expanded the area from a city to a continent, it was horribly, horribly slow. He should sit down and figure out a proper encryption, maybe Breanna could help him with that. Then again, she could give the key away. He wanted to avoid that.
No.
He could not lie to her, they both needed a safe and warm place. He would tell her.
-
Maybe she was right. Maybe he could not relax, maybe because he should not. He told Protector Merrit that it was sometimes good to face one's fears.
Maybe it was time to face his own.
He jammed a his tanto between door and frame, let his backpack slide down beside him and inspected the room carefully. He found nothing, not even at the second sweep. Very well.
He had earned himself a bath tub with warm water. And he certainly needed it, too.
Traveling with Ty, Beacon Jillian, Protector Samantha and Knight Naldin had been interesting enough all by itself.
Not only because of the Protector's viewpoints on marriage and relationships – she presented the law, but he wasn't sure if she understood what was written there. Maybe he did not, but either way he should talk with Daniel. It would be certainly enlightening.
And Jillian was engaged to Riley, and the two would marry soon. Made it probable that Sadia would make a move soon or already made one. The look in her eyes when he had given her the dress! With a slight grin on his face he reached for the towel.
And he told Jillian of Merkinson and his skeleton toy. And the rumors from Brelin, too.
Which meant that the Shining Hand might or might not be on the board now, having another thread in their hand. The risk for him and the other adventurers was considerable, they all could end up in prison. Or worse.
The other options he saw weren't better.
What was left to do was to pick up JC's trail again. Which meant traveling to Haven. If the other people would still give him help, there was no telling if they felt “sold out” to the Shining Hand. Or if they cared at all. After all, they had taken the money and left. He had just recently donated the money when he was in Fort Llast – he did not want shady money, and the Toranites could use it to hunt more undead.
He needed aloe and wondered where he should put the white stag skin. Aden had shot the animal when a satyr wizard had messed with his mind. Breanna would be sad about it for sure, but he couldn't just sell it in one of the pawn shop – that would just mean it would go to waste eventually.
It was time to work on plans, caches and potions.
He needed more copper and bronze arrows. A few silver ones, too. Or enchanted ones.
It was time for his evening training. Stretching, combat moves, and acrobatic running. He needed to remain in perfect shape, and the Buckle was large enough so he could do all of his training indoors.
-
He sat down on his bed, the sheets clean and soft. The room's shadows and twilight settled around him slowly like old, stirred up dust that lazy sunk to the ground again. The Buckle was rather quiet at this time of the day; silence and shadows sang a duett, but not for him. He was just listening in silence.
Time has passed. A lot of time.
He remembered the first meeting with Breanna and how she commented on his eyes. He still had that mirror she gave him in his travel equipment. He remembered missing her so much, he remembered hidden meetings and her tears, her eyes and her touch at the pool near Haven.
Promise me that you will never change.
He still did not know why it happened; why he fell in love and turned his back on the hidden life, the life of misinformation, masks and hiding. Maybe because he wanted her to have a strong, not shady shoulder to lean against. He remembered all the travels and all the boots he ruined while wandering back and forth over the continents. He remembered Briardusk and returning to Prantz, he remembered speaking with Storold Doesscha, with Master Enzo and with Daniel Benjamin Poetr. He remembered their words, unsure if he could all trust them or if their words were just that, words, and nothing else.
So what have you done until now?
Nothing. Or, at least, not much. He had a place for his love and him now, had made enemies and friends and was dancing over the social rooftops to better his position. Working endless hours in the Hall of the Al'Noth, hiding in the shadows, scouting out the paths before others.
His spirit has become settled, rooted, boring and just like every other man's. He had fought, bled and died, cast back to the stone – and what for?
He had learned how to hide in the desert, in the woods and in old ruins, in caves and on the street. He had fought more than he ever had wanted to, had seen lifes wasted and ignorance blooming, had seen the lack of someone caring about a great picture, everyone just focused on a small, tiny fraction of the symphony vibrating around them.
And where do you want to go from here?
Gel'larian said that it was sad that he showed no affinity to the Al'Noth and that one part of the elvish heritage would be forever closed to him. But at least he was not as high-brow as the other elf who called himself Night. Establishment.
And then this Samantha and her All-Seeing, she nearly ticked him off with her annoying talk about shared resources and breeding. He never thought humans could have that much of elvish stupidity in them. No matter his personal opinion, he still needed to study the various laws and codes of the various deities so he could understand their followers better. He had begun to thank the Longstrider after an successful hunt, but inside he felt that he could not follow grandfather's path. Yes, he had been in the Den, had offered the Great Wolf arrows he made and things he took from his enemies. But there were no more dreams, in fact, he had no dreams at all.
He did not want to learn about Shadowdancers anymore. It was stupid anyway, if either the Longstrider or the Shadowdancers had an interest in him, they would contact him. Period.
He needed to get out of this spot, this point of weakness where he had no strings to pull, no valuable information to share, no interesting skills to offer. A mediocre scout at best. Nothing to fear, weak, exploitable and currently not needed by anyone.
Ty Reid, Charlie and Tori had skills similar to him, and it could be useful to team up with them or use them to gather information. But he had nothing to give in return, and he do not want be in someone's debt.
It was time to deal with the JC issue, and then with Sadia. He needed some sort of indicator if someone was under the influence of mind-control, he did not want to wake up one day and find himself surrounded by mind-controlled agents of that witch.
And even if he figured out how to deal with that, there still would be the dark elves. Strong, no weak points currently known to him, and just as bad as Sadia, if not worse.
If normal stealth fails, stop sneaking and become different to the others that sneak. Set yourself a goal and see how you can archive it instead of just trying to survive, urchin.
Well then.
Let's dance.
-
Andrew's hands are bound, but possible ally. Help him on political path without showing support, but have strings to pull yourself out or remove him from the public interest.
You know Jillian and Quantum.
Only Quantum gave you his word to protect Breanna and you. If your motives and methods remain righteous, they will be good allies.
Breanna's filament is intertwined with yours. Need to secure her against mind control and marking. If relationship becomes public, find out who truly is on your side and who is not, then secure areas. Andrew might threw you out of the Buckle.
Ty Reid can be trusted a bit, same with Charlie and Kate. Robb is loyal. The three are good companions when traveling. Figure out their motives and they might be helpful.
Do not trust the Rofireinites, they seem to care for the law and do not appear to understand why there is a law in the first place. Also, political impractical. Never forget Prantz.
You need to know who sufficiently hated dark elves.
You need to find out their weak point. Work slowly.
You need to discuss strategy and tactics against Sadia with Elohanna and then put up a second and third, hidden line of defense.
You need to study the application of poisons, alchemy and Al'Noth to be able to defend yourself against them.
You need to build a obvious mask and an not so obvious one. One of them must lie to Breanna, but she still have to know who you are.
-
The last guard saw him, and Aden let himself slip into the water, hold his breath and rolled towards the wall, shadows swallowing him in the cave's twilight. Time so slow when in this dirty water, fingertips recognizing stone. Waiting. Movement of scaly feet nearby, treacherous waves, the flow of water. He got up slowly, behind the creature and killed it before it could make a sound. Clouds in the water, red clouds, slowly drifting apart.
He made his way to the exit of the cave, dragging his bag behind him. He stank of murky water, blood and Troglodyte. Rain outside, washing away the water and the dirt. Another expedition into the caves was impossible today.
Nothing out of the ordinary. He washed, cleaned his gear and marched home, back to the Crafting Hall. How pathetic he was, all he ever got done was to collect raw materials right in front of other creature's noses. And even then he got spotted and had to kill them.
However he always enjoyed sneaking barefeet through the wood at night, slowly and careful. Treants moving slowly in the twilight, so serene and tranquil that it was hard for him not to sit there, enclosed by darkness, his cloak and hood and watch them until the sun went up. Crawling around between them, finding aloe, precious aloe; it was both a game and a challenge to him. Just like playing hide and seek with the guards, studying how they reacted when he changed the game, trying to keep them in the dark if they were hunters, pray or simply confused guards confronted with strange situations.
While he carefully worked with the greenstone, he remembered how he placed an empty bottle in a stair's shadows, tied a bit of thread around it and made it fall and break when a guard passed. He looked into the direction, immediately but in slow motion and obviously tired. And then making a obvious step from one shadow to another, from one side alley into the next.
At least he didn't gave the poor guard an heart attack.
But those had been the times of his youth, his younger self. That was before Breanna, before Briardusk; way before he realized that he had to put up with all the stupidity, greed and lust for power too.
Why could he not just appear and disappear in the shadows as he wanted? Why could he not just be little more that an observer of an insane and beautiful world, why did he need to get involved all the time? Why was he so curious about everything – sure, information was power, if he knew things, he got himself into trouble, but he also had some sort of power, a power different than those that was used by kings and other people that thought they had some sort of influence over the world. Fleeting, fleeting, all must fall and be created anew. The symphony was filled with the sound of that, and maybe he should just stop worrying sometimes, clean his mind with hard work and danced to honor the shadows. Yes, he should do that tonight.
Aden sighed, smiled subtly and continued to work. Healing potions, for keeping people alive.
And later, he moved silently and acrobatically from shadow to shadow, finding paths others would never walk.
-
Jetta is a merc, either pull her on your side or leave her hanging in between. Hauntingly familiar, the major difference between you and her is her carving for money.
Caly is good-hearted, try to explain to her what the all-pack is. If you would have told her that you think killing members of the all-pack is wrong but might sometimes not be avoided, she would have thought you weak again.
Nym messed with her head quite a bit. But if his heart is not completely lost to the darkness, he might return to the light. If not, he is a thread to my pack and has to be dealt with accordingly. Nym will lie and cheat to save his skin. And so will you. In the end, you are not so much different.
Andrew showed more involvement then expected. Your room at the Buckle stays your room after all.
Harrigan is a druid, no question about it. He keeps out of fights, among other things. He also does not care about the whole power-struggle inside the All-Pack, instead, he just takes care that our hunting grounds do not fall apart and strives towards the hunting grounds – those of stone and those of wood – remain in balance.
Lance Stargazer, Daniella Stormhaven. High-ranking followers of Toran. Do not meddle with unless under extreme duress.
Nym, Duchess; filaments seeking to overpower and subjugate all of us. Claims that this is done by the necessity to showing strength or a messed-up society might hold some truth. You will not let the All-Pack getting taken over by them. Nor your pack. Not on your watch. Never. Those that honestly and with all their heart seek redemption, grant mercy. Those who seek to destroy you, fight. Killing remains last resort.
Throw your dreams of becoming a shadow agent into the trash barrel.
You need to learn Knights and Kings.
And how to hide the truth.
-
Work under the assumption that both the conversation with Caly and the conversation with the Illusionist have been compromised.
Also work under the assumption that Nym and Duchess and her handlers and or assets either know or could find out everything about you.
Streets, silent and dirty gray with evening. He wished he had put his arm around her waist and hold her a bit in that room. Why didn't he? It hurt him, now that he didn't. The whole thing hurt him, and he wished he could just be in her arms and she in his. There was a lot to talk about, a lot of things that he wanted to say to her.
All his dreams and plans just faded away after he met Caly in that cave. After they started to talk, because she wanted to get to know him; because she knew that he was with Breanna.
Then he would fight in the open. Either give the Al'Noth a try or ask Master Enzo how one can learn to be a ranger and scout. There was a lot to be done out there, not only on Mistone.
The war left scars, those needed to be tended. The Aftermath needed to be cleaned up either way and the wilderness protected when everyone started to rebuild and used up more resources than usual.
And all of this only because he simply could not lie properly. But wasn't that exactly the kind of life he wanted to leave behind? All this shadow-play, the shady life? He wanted to be part of the shadows, but not that shadows. He wanted to be a good guard that hid in the shadows, watched, observed, was everywhere and nowhere at the same time.
And he needed to learn languages.
Caly was a strange girl. She had strong opinions, and she cared about Breanna. Maybe he should have told her that he did not know exactly what happened, then he would have a second account now.
But it was still sickening to hear it. And these women cared about Nym? Either was his he very charismatic, or he was impressive at manipulation.
If he was not evil and just acted evil, then why in the name of the Longstrider doesn't he try to break away from those that try to control him and hurt him and those he love?
Instead, he was a source of hurt, and Caly was deluded by him. Whoever was that Kaelan was, he was heading for some really worse trouble. He lied to Caly and did not tell her percisely what that All-pack was, and that different wolf packs usually fight over territory and prey, fought over control. He needed to talk with her again, even if it was just to tie her and Kaelan into his pack. But he was not ready to defend and care about that many people yet, but eventually he would. Breanna and the people in the Buckle were enough currently, and Sadia enough of an enemy.
Oh yes, Caly, I am weak. You don't like that. But I am an urchin with blood on my knuckles and proud walk after my first won knife fight. Yeah, that guy with the dirt in the face and the schmuck grin. And I do not care about whether you like it or not. If you are so afraid that I might hurt Breanna, well then, come and dance with me for a while. I don't have the time to spit out pathetic words and sentences of how strong, how manly I am.
I actually have to do things and change them for the better. And for all I know, you are just not more than a toy of someone if you don't start using your instinct more. That urge to survive, embrace it and harness it together with your instinct, and the pain will become less over time.
So, he would need to think about a precious ring he could give to Breanna. A wonderful and useful one, but first he should find out exactly what she wanted in that direction. He needed to ask Elohanna if he could trust SehKy, and Breanna if he could trust SehKy and Elohanna.
And then he had to find out if Breanna's answer could be completely trusted.
It was indeed the time now to give up his old self and start learning from books and how to behave in society.
How come you think that when I say I am an urchin I mean that I am worth nothing? I am just powerless, can't play with the other folks in the same league.
Yet.
And I don't care so much about all that power and control and influence stuff. It is just means to an end, and most ends I see around are pretty ignorant and stupid.
He stretches and flexed his muscles subtly. It was about time for his daily training anyway. Spellgard. JC. Undead lizard.
I need a bigger stick.
But at least he did not feel so tired anymore. There was something on his chest he needed to talk about with Breanna, and quite a lot actually. And not all of it would be nice and pleasant and easy. That was part of a relationship, too. He should bring along ... grapes? Odd. He didn't even know basic minor things about her.
But at least he found out a little more about what made her, Jetta, Daniel and Andrew tick. And those illusionist was an interesting fellow. Eccentric. He needed to look into her/his history. Truth and illusion. Very interesting topic. Time to learn about that a bit, too.
-
Everything fade away into a bland gray mixture, and he hold her in his arms, felt her close to him and heard her breathing.
Grown from living wood, atop all other trees. Soft warm wood was creaking under her bare feet.
The rising sun flooded the room with light and warmth, and Breanna stood at the balcony running the whole length of the house. One of the large windows was open, the white curtains moving softly in the morning wind. Her silver-gray dress glowed yellow and white; birds sung. He looked up at the entangled breaches that formed their living roof, at the small crystal lanterns dangling from them. Blue, he remembered blue dim light.
The laughter of a child from downstairs, giggling. Breanna turned around and smiled at him as he sat up and stretched.
Her lips moved, her eyes hid a glint of wisdom and something he know very well. He smiled back.
A loud hiss made the world turn cold and gray and she rushed downstairs. Crying, struggling, sound of unleashed Al'Noth.
He looked out of the window and saw his granddad; the old man staring up at him from the shadow of the woods, a big wolf by his side.
You fail me, like your father did.
His voice was filled with sadness and sorrow. Shadows moved and grew into tentacles that leashed out for him and beat him to the ground, pressing him against the floor. It was cold.
Breanna staggered up the stairs, her clothes rags, a black slave collar around her neck, bruises and whip marks on her skin. She had no face; and he crawled towards her, fighting the tentacles off and she fell into his arms, clawed at him in panic. She was cold, so cold, just like everything else. And then finally the gray swallowed him -
She was still sleeping, and he stared up at the ceiling, tried to breath the tension in his stomach and his head away. Relax. Stay calm.
He got up silently and without waking her. It was time to make breakfast, and then to wake her. Mundane things. Get your muscles moving.
-
“We are here.”
Holding hands, their fingers entwined the walked the last few steps towards and into the Den. Just like the valley, just like the clifftop; it felt like home.
Traveling with her was so beautiful, and they should just have stayed up there, forgetting the world. His heart had felt light up there, his spirit free and ready to fly with her wherever the wind would carry them.
The Den smelled of warm fur, campfires, fresh carved wood and stew boiling in a dented iron pot. He could hear voices, but there was nobody around he could see.
Breanna walked close by his side, smiling. The many alcoves in the Den were stuffed with offerings to the Longstrider, from dried meat to arrows or his share of the successful hunt someone had prayed for.
Aden opened to small box he brought along and placed his offerings in a small alcove next to one that was completely filled.
I took from the woods and the land, hereby I give the lands and the wood back part of what I took so the balance is maintained and both land and wood can be cared about by those that step in your tracks, Great Wolf.
A small boy with wild hair and dressed in fur clothes watched them from a distance and silently emptied an alcove. Aden understood, got up, put the box back into his pack and beamed happily at Breanna. She took his hand and led him to a small quiet place, pulled him very gently down to sit with her and cuddle. Here, in the half-light she even looked more breathtaking. He felt how peaceful and protected this place was, its shadows soft, the symphony calming and soothing.
Home.
They cuddled for a while, enjoying the silence, enjoying the safety and each other's happiness, forgetting all the trouble, all the pain for a while.
“Aden I don't want to hide. Not like I wanted to at first.”
He smiled.
All they needed now were resources to keep them safe, assets, alliances, friendships, trump cards up their sleeves. And hidden daggers at the small of their backs.
She was so sweet, so kind and good at listening. But also so afraid to lose him, and she hugged him tightly as if she could not believe that he was there, as if she was drowning and he was a log of wood keeping her afloat.
Emeralds. No, no emeralds. A ring was nice, but also very classical and somehow a bit posh. Traditional. He needed to talk with her parents first anyway, there was no way around it. Running away with her, be frowned upon by the Rofireinites, be smiled upon by those they both know.
As long as she was with him, save and happy; she, his heart, his mirror of thought and emotion. It was scary how good they knew each others emotions sometimes, but soothing and fulfilling in a way he did not know. Beautiful, strange and serene; and he wrapped his cloak and the soft shroud of shadows around them both and hold her.
Somewhere out there in the forest, wolves howled to mark their territory.
-
His thoughts were spinning as if they took lessons from an insane cyclone; trying to overwhelm him and take what little he knew with them into the void. Breanna was stirring softly in her sleep, and he clung to her gently for dear life.
The symphony in his head was numbing, breathtaking, trying to violently break the thoughts apart rushing through his head, trying to loose the cold grip around his stomach. He had banished the animal back into a small corner of his head, but it howled so beautiful, so primal and true, rattling on its chains.
Don't be afraid to follow your instincts.
You should know the Longstrider gives them to us for a reason.
But what if I can't trust them anymore?
I understand your love now, your longing your touches your kisses and why you are what you are. Too complicated and too simple to tell you what I feel, nothing kisses and touches can't convey and I wish we could escape to the planes together, just you and me lost in the vast realm of the Strider's domain or simply have no name -
We are, what we are. I love you, and I hope that I can hold your spirit forever against all hardship and all quarrel and strife.
No sign can ever mark you as mine, no ring truly symbol the bond we share. Gifts are meaningless for us as we call freedom our own, yet we will use them as symbols for the appreciation we have for each other, as if that would mean anything, as if that had helped all the other couples with their problems and their love and their desires and imaginations of what should be. If talk doesn't make a difference, nothing else might help us either. We need to make sense of each others wishes but how can I know what you want if I don't even can't figure out what I want, which is stupid, but still. I want to run away in fear from you, even if I said that I will never fear you, I sometimes still do. I fear myself, I want to run away, I want to stay silent as in silence all words must fail and all things end. I want to be free, but I am chained, I can't breathe or understand, I am lost and proud of us and happy and lucky and just so terrifying stupid that I have no other choice than to love you and strive every day to work towards our love, to show you what I feel and think, to be the wind that carries you far over the land, to be the cloak that holds you warm and the knowledge that you feel the same I will close and hide deep in my heart so it might never be broken and endure everything, a feeling that I can feed on when all seems lost but nothing is lost as long as we know that we love -
And I will unchain the animal; let go it go, lift me up, dream with you and finally become what I intend to be.
He closed his eyes and listened to the sounds of night, falling asleep; a new movement had begun, gradually changing the symphony's sound tone by tone.
-
Sweat pooled between his shoulders, tickling down his neck, teasing the urge to take the cloak off. It was hot, despite the gray weather, and last autumn's leaves rustled a bit under his boots.
He just pressed his teeth together and focused on breathing, on staying silent and on the creatures that lurked in the underbrush nearby. If Breanna ever would knew what he was doing, she would be infuriated; a notion that was very sweet of her, but sometimes also not very wise at all.
In case of the Satyrs, it was wise. He attuned his breath and his steps with the melody of the forest and melted into it, became part of it. It was a strange feeling, as if he could see everything from a great distance, cold shades and soft wind wrapped around him, invisible to the world. The patrol passed by very close, he could distinguish the different hairs of their beards. He was getting better; but he needed to improve a lot, still. He had gotten a bit sloppy on his training, it was time to catch up.
-
This was so easy in a city.
I look down, feel my weight in my arm, boots pressed against the oak's trunk. My palms are sore and raw despite the climbing, despite the gloves. Another deep breath.
I let go of the slippery branch.
Flying, the ground upside down, whirling towards me as I spin.
Rustling of leaves, I land like a panther but louder. Jump up, run, press the boots against the other oak's trunk, grab the branch, pull myself up. My muscles ache, but still. I grin and climb higher.
The land is still gray from the rain and smells of wet bark, mud and rotting leaves. Cities are different yet the same. I remember waking in the night, howling wolves; before the clouds lit by lighting swallowed the stars whole and brought the darkness and the rain. I miss you, Breanna.
I jump down swiftly, grab my packpack and start running. Mist in the morning, hovering over the meadows. A few farmers at work in the distance, I stay hidden. The symphony in my ears, sweat biting my sore skin. Miles pass under my boots, the sun rises and dries skin and clothes. Sore feet, too; I wash in a cold stream and eat a few berries I find on my way. The backpack is heavy, straps cutting into my shoulders. Seeing Jil reminded me of Briardusk, and I need to train, need to become better. A fallen pine I use for target practice, my hands trembling from exhaustion. My aim is bad, unsteady. I focus. I try. I try again, until my quiver is empty, then I collect my arrows.
Stalking, eating elderberries. The orcs left deep tracks in the soft ground, they are still very close to Center. Way to close. At least they still not have wolves that could help them with detecting me, so I stay hidden and unnoticed for a while before moving on. They seem busy with their lives, no need to get into a fight.
Unwanted attention later. I find myself pulling an arrow from my shoulder, snarling at the archer and attacking him with two blades at once. His comrades rush to help him, and I strike them down too. I made a beginner's mistake.
Move on, after rubbing my wounds with a healing potion. More scars, maybe. New orcs will be born, fighting, dying, nature absorbing them.
And then?
Then nothing, listening to the symphony, watching dancing shadows of leaves on a sunny day. Balancing on a tree trunk; fallen trees nourish so many creatures, nourish the forest itself. I nearly cut myself with the longsword, it is to heavy for me, clumsy, slow. It is easier with shorter blades; I balance from one end of the trunk to the other one, jump, salto. Too much noise when landing. Try again.
And again.
Dancing, spinning like a spool of thread on a loom; wrapping the vibrating shadows around myself, becoming unseen to the world, blending into the symphony.
Traveling; I walk uncounted miles in silence wishing; dreaming of ghost wolves by my side, dreaming of Breanna. Exhaustion, finding rest between the roots of a large oak. Hiding.
-
Never ask, never tell but always know. If Lady Jil trusted that Aynndel character enough, that was sufficient for him. And he traveled with him and Melodious once.
He was good in a fight, used a shield of Azatta and a katana. Called him lad. That he was close with Jil surprised him, but the belief might be a common connection. Wasn't her husband Marcus also a follower of A'zatta?
So Jil said that he was ready and good enough to achieve anything he set himself as a goal. He wasn't so sure of it. He was still clumsy with all the weapon and fighting things. He couldn't track or survive in the wilderness as good as he wanted to; more practice was needed. It would come over time, sure -
But practicing wilderness survival when trying to make money as a craftsman? There was few people he could sell to these days and doing contract work for the military of various kingdoms or churches wasn't exactly his thing. Maybe he could get a favour or two if he helped with the rebuilding efforts so he could get into a spot where he could ask for a better place to live in.
Breanna and him really needed a good place.
Aden sighed and closed the boxes with all the things he needed to make some more potions. There were letters to sent, too.
But first, combat drill and more practice. Some running.
-
Dream by day, work by night. Hear the furnance's slow deep breath; melting the fine dust into a new shape. Glass was an interesting material, and he worked hard to get enough of the raw material needed.
The Desert was an interesting place, and he had enough time to study it. It was a very competitive habitat yet it held a strange, mystical air to it; and he liked to visit the oasis to speak with the natives or to meditate. When the lush forests soothed, healed, places of dreams and tales then the desert was the opposite. Heat and cold hardened the soul that sought refuge in the shade, blinked the sand fines from the eyes; aware of the silent threat of snakes, scorpions and thirst. Yet this soul behold dreams and insights of great clearness. Time was measured in the slow move of shark shadows and the fine sand that winds pushed over the dunes' tips by dusk and dawn. This work was not so bad at all, it seemed to strengthen both shell and spirit. He learned how to survive here, too. Watched the small animals, the snakes, and ask the locals. He should learn how to make his own antidotes.
He had talked with Ygraine a bit, but somehow he was a bad student when she tried to teach him something about animal behavior.
Pouring the liquid glass into a mold to cool, he thought of what he had learned so far.
And of Breanna and her smile. And how to finance the house.
He smiled serenely.
-
He smiled and shook the sawdust from his sleeves. Oh, she was incredible, indescribable, his Breanna. Unbelievable.
Aden got on his feet and gave the shelf a questioning look. It would do, he was sure of that. One more to do. Then the bedroom. He smiled and got to work.
Placed a bowl with blackberries on the drawer next to the bed. Made everything look nice. Tucked a small piece of parchment between sheet and pillow: Love you.
Went for some running outside. Hlint was good territory for that, the Silkwood not that far away. He spent some time in the mist to hone his skills. Watched animals. Climbed trees in silence, moved unseen like a shadow. Run some miles. Scouted. Tracked.
Returned to Hlint with a smile hidden in his eyes. Their own house. Their own home, hideout and den. Sat down to write a letter to her parents, or at least try. There was just now, like a dream but so much more real.
-
What a nice housewarming gift.
He poked the thing carefully, jammed the spring and began to disarm the thing. It was a really nice gift, very well placed in both an obvious and yet subtle manner – connected to a more obvious one near the door. Disarm that one, this one goes up. Very clever.
It took him some time to get the spring free, the gas container was already made useless. What kind of morning was this anyway? He'd just wanted to bring some aloe and garlic by for his sweet, then continue the training in the woods before heading to Llast to keep his ears open for the newest gossip.
Now this. He left a note for Breanna and swept the house room for room, tile for tile, inch for inch. Twice.
Then it was back to work and training. Dragons, Undead, whispers of a velvet cloak. All weapons sheathed, quiver full.
Well then.
-
Dear Miss Stuart
I hope this letter reaches you and your family in good health and happy times. There seems to be a lot of new faces in your ranks, and it's good to see so many young people taking up the difficult tasks.
While I do not generally mind them or you hunting undead, monstrous insects and similar things in the woods, there are a few things I would like to express my concern about.
I can overlook the fact that they leave prints the size of a halfling's bathtub behind or don't care about scaring the natural wildlive away with the noise they make, I can live with that.
But please, spare the animals as much as you can, and take care not to kill female animals in the breeding and upbringing period. If you cannot go past them and have to kill them, do at least clean up after yourself and take of the animal what you can use.
Given how many dead treefolk I found a while ago, I also would like to point out that it's - while they do present a danger to the unweary travelers - no use to kill them. They will not change their minds and it will just reinforce their will to kill everybody that treatens the trees. Should you really need the aloe that grows in their groove, I could get that for you without the need to kill.
Respectfully,
~Aden D.
-
They left deep imprints, these Toranites. He never understood that part of their behavior: how could they think they ever would be doing net good if they behaved in such a wasteful manner? Most likely these tracks come from their new recruits, Aden guessed, and these treants had to die because of some overzealous youngster looking for aloe in this grove. The treefolk here surely were not exactly benign, but they did nobody any harm as long as they stayed out of the grove.
The elf frowned and studied the fallen treants. It had taken a lot of force to cut them down, and he was sure whoever killed them had put herself or himself at quite some risk, had been injured even. What a pointless waste of resources. If they needed aloe, why would they not simply ask those that could gather it without interfering with the balance or putting themselves at risk? Once he was home, he would write Jillian a letter.
He had thought of them better than they proved to be.
And we let them fight the wars, the most wasteful of all stupid things ever invented.
He shook his head and melted into the shadows of the forest again to finish his patrol. There would be a new generation of treants soon, just as brutal and stupid as their parent generation.
This was not exactly the way that lead to good, but all parties involved fight against any kind of symbiosis with everything they could come up with.
-
Dear Misses and Mister Shadowraven
My name is Aden Delaveth and I believe we have never met before. You surely want to know why a complete stranger is writing you letters, and why now. I will try to explain to the best of my ability but I have to admit that writing letters is not one of my strengths.
I first met your daughter a not so long time ago.
He woke early, long before dawn's first light. There were days were it was especially hard to leave the warm cozy sheets, and Aden closed his eyes once more, cuddling up to Breanna. Just a moment more to hear her breathe.
Then he slipped out of the bed without any noise or letting the cold crawl under the sheets to her. It was time to make her breakfast.
We were both traveling, and our paths met near a small trading outpost called Center. Back then, I did not know what the future would bring; I still remember the day and it brings a smile on my face.
With a soft smile around his lips as he watched Hlint, asleep but for Alicia and some others, still standing guard over the city. Frogs in the small lake, birds in the trees (he could distinguish a few of them by song, yet he was not sure if it were the same birds every morning); he cut slices of bread, made some tea, searched for the jam and tip-toed back to her, carefully pushing the bedroom door open with a boyish grin. He like to do this from time to time, even if it was silly.
Meeting your daughter was the change of seasons for me; before meeting her I had been a drifter. After we met, events unfolded that quickly dragged me into the life of an adventurer. I met Breanna again, we traveled the lands together trying to make them a little bit safer. I wish I could explain to you how we fell in love, how we hid from the world just to be together for a few hours. The Longstrider watched over us, and when Breanna and I were not together I felt his call stronger than before. I found my destiny, and even when I traveled alone in cold and misery I knew that soon we would be together again - were and are each others strength.
He left the house together with her, they kissed and then their way parted: she went to work for the Shop, he went towards the Silkwood, stalking along the roads unnoticed, looking for tracks and hints of brewing trouble.
I still strife hard to follow the Longstrider's trail, to learn what is necessary to protect and feed my pack.
Then hours of trying to keep up with Brisbane, her riddles and lessons. He had soon understood that trying to learn consciously would not work, he just had to flow, feel, grasp. It was a lot like running without letting any obstacle slow one's flow down. And while Ygraine just had harassed him a little, Brisbane had him flee for each failure once they started to move from deer to carnivores. He figured out a few things that helped him to vanish into thin air – and how to climb trees very, very fast.
But it was slowly coming along. Very slowly. It was a hard melody to understand, but Aden felt that once he was past a certain threshold, it would be much easier.
There are many things I still have to learn but not that I love your daughter dearly and wish to spend the rest of my life at her side. I am very interested to meet the parents of my true heart and if you have the time, I would like to visit you together with Breanna some time soon.
When he finally came home in the evening – scratched and beaten but still smiling – he looked around in their small garden, harvesting some lettuce for dinner, walking around barefoot in the dark, fertile soil. Their own garden! He had to laugh, weighing the plant in his hand. He had begun to settle down indeed.
And yet, the danger wasn't gone, the enemy not beaten, the roads not safe. But then again, he would try to write a rough draft of the letter to her parents first today.
Save paths and may the balance be kind to you,
~Aden Delaveth
-
What has it to do with music anyway?
Everything.
A man wakes up in the morning, kisses his still sleeping pregnant wife and gets up to face a new day dull and harsh as every day before that day. He is a simple worker, a lumberjack, a farm hand – trying to make enough trues to make long-due repairs on his little cottage at the edge of town, trying to put something aside for the future and saving up for a nice amulet for his love. And the army pays handsomely, compared to the miser he is working for...
A bear cub is born hidden deep in the forest and yelps to get its mother's attention. Its instincts make it long form the warmth of its mother's fur. And she would keep her three cubs save with fur and teeth and claw, teaching them how to hunt and eating less after a stalk, so her cubs would grow fast. One day, her instincts failed and she lost one of her cubs. She grieved but for a short time but her instincts told her that she would be more likely to ensure the survival of only two cubs.
A young boy, running away from the strict discipline and training of his youth, trying to escape the shackles of the small secluded community he was born into. Trying to understand what the old, dusty tomes meant he was supposed to read and copy on parchment over and over again – because on one day in the long forgotten past, somebody must have picked up at quill to conserve his insights for generations to come. Or maybe just to not forget. And roaming the streets, he learned more in six days than in six months in the tutelage of alleged known heroes and scholars. He learned how to fight dirty and how to be invisible, became a disgrace to his community by disobeying his parents and they had to suffer for it – all those mean, cautiously placed instructions.
What has it to do with music anyway?
Everything.
It was a metaphor that he thought fitted best the countless number of tragedy, pain, suffering, love, happiness, success and failure, understanding and ignorance that were cast as fragments in front of each living thing moment after moment: the beauty of fallen trees mourned by those that stood around them, their leaves changing color in autumn – the struggle that would occur once new plants would quickly make use of the amount of light that now reached the forest's thin soil, that insects would find shelter in the fallen tree's trunk and a lone hunter would use its branches to make arrows. All is interconnected with all, a monumental orchestra, a symphony of life, death, sound, silence, darkness, light.
A boy, hearing a orchestra in a rich merchant's estate once while making use of the harmonies and sounds to mask his footsteps in a quiet alley nearby – a strange dance, and yet if you become one with the music of all things, the harmonies and disharmony, you will not be noticed at all because you will be part of what is around them all the time. Of course, it was a metaphor, but at least one that didn't boggle one's mind.
He stretched carefully and stared out into a gray day in the Wolfwood. They called it training, but it was simply drill to harden the body and practice all the moves, and he found it rather dull. He could put up with it, but it was dull, still. He had to make his own shelter and such things, that he found interesting. Swinging swords that were to large for what he normally did, getting teased about this and that made him reconsider more than once to simply vanish into the shades of the forest again.
But he didn't. Not just yet.
-
~A Letter to Breanna~
My love
If you are reading this, I won't be sitting in my small shelter anymore and listening to the rain, but I will still miss you as dearly as now and worry that you are safe and in good health. I am in the Wolfwood right now, with the Rangers, training along with them. It's an odd story how I ended up here, starting with that I met a Ranger in Mariner's Hold by chance and got invited to visit their camp and even speak with their commander. It was interesting to meet Enzo again, and he even let me do some sort of test, a sort of patrol. I don't know if I should take his offer to join the pack. Right now, I am just training with them and I fear that if I join them, I will be called away at times or maybe even vanish from one day to another only to return later. But I want to be with you, care for you – a calm life with you in Hlint, in our own house with out own family, keep the city and the lands around it safe: why should I gamble this for becoming a member of the pack? I want to talk about this with you before I make a hasty decision. I love you, and all my hopes are that we are reunited again soon so I can hear your voice again and behold your beautiful face.
Forever yours
~Aden
~Unexpected visitors~
Like bad ingredients in a large pack of good, he should have expected it: the one inevitably incident of bad luck that makes everything so much more difficult; the branch breaking under your boot rendering a whole day of stalking useless.
It had been bound to happen eventually.
The first thing out of the regular state of affairs was the arrival of a group of elves from Voltrex. And as quickly as they appeared they had left again to search for a place to rest as far away from human settlements as possible. They had a lot to learn and ignorance to lose in his eyes, maybe they would, maybe they would not. They had hunted some goblins together and he offered his help to them. Nothing all to irregular. Listening to rumors indicated nothing that SHE would show up. And then there she was, without a prior warning.
Just like the exiles from Voltrex, he now too might lose his home in some sort of cruel, elaborate game that he neither was willing to play nor able to escape. He had to admit that she was good at what she was doing. Really good.
Aden finished cleaning his kit and decided to meditate for a while before answering any letters. Something had been cracked open.
Listening to the symphony, witness its eternal flow and swim in it with the grace of a dolphin. Dance, dive, your play unseen.
-
He carefully sealed the letters and handed them over to the runner. A second set of letters would leave shortly via falcons, and he could only hope that they would reach their destinations fast. The letter was always the same, only with slightly different wording at times they pointed out the issue with all the dead animals, pointing out what the druid told him and he had been able to confirm many times himself.
Then he curled up in the inn room and tried to sleep. Tried.
...and black shadows crossing the sky above rain-gray faces with mud-soaked boots...
[INDENT]Half-awake, nightmares like childhood memories, nightmare childhood memories, cold sweat and black shadows crossing the sky...[/INDENT]
-
He had practiced intuitive shooting in the morning. Climbed up a tree in the morning mist, balanced on a branch and looked outward over the land, one hand resting against the rough bark of the tree. He as well was now somehow rooted within soil and stretching towards the infinite sky above. Tranquility and a meditation about recent years, about Briardusk and the recent change in the land, about the Wolfswood and the Forest of Fog, about the Lake of Glass and about his heart. About Prantz and that dwarf and about The Graymaned Hunter and becoming invisible. And he had smiled, had returned home with a few more flower seeds he carefully planted in the earth next to the house -
That had been then, and this was now: a small but at least dry place, writing letters and notes and inquiries. Bad sleep at night, always on his toes – he always had the feeling that he was balancing on a roof in this kind of situation. Shifting his training back to strength and endurance again. Cleaned and fixed his gear.
Worried.
Listened.
Examined the soil.
Bought some parchment and a quill. Fell asleep over an empty page.
-
Young Aden understood: there are rules to disappearing, just as there are rules on fighting and poetics. You can hide out in the open, if you want to. It is not a problem nor a miracle to be performed. If people do not want to see you, they do not see nor notice you. Move along with the colors and the sounds of the world, the great symphony of the things hidden to the normal eye – but young Aden swims in the tide of their ignorance, sees things that nobody else does. People fear the shadows because they feel vulnerable against the unknown, they fear the unknown – they like things to be out in the open at all times, yet they chose to seek bliss in ignorance.
I found that simple-minded and felt sorry for them. Their fear and hate bothered me, and I watched them from places, unseen, small. As long as I stayed hidden, I was protected from their ignorance, their expectations of how things should be. I could learn things that others overlooked and reduced the amount of pain and suffering created by the others day after day. I dreamed that I would one day be a guardian, unseen, unnoticed and unappreciated but caring about the space that I live in and the people that I live with in ways that others would never see or understand.
Young Aden trained with staffs – strengthen body and spirit, creating a harmony within himself. It was easier to get through life that way. Father said that he lacked vigor in combat and that he would never made a good and proud elvish warrior and that warriors never used dirty tactics, those were a sure sign of inferior brutes. Young Aden rejected this idea. Combat is a dispute of dominance, the worst and weakest of all ways to resolve conflict. A good warrior tries to make himself superfluous by working for peace – and father was wrong. Warriors are not scholars for peace that are able to write a better world into the land with their tools. Young Aden swam and hid in plain sight because they simply did not want to see him.
I shed too much blood and saw too much blood being shed. I nearly fell for their trap: I might be a Wolfswood Ranger now, I might feel like I need to be a mighty hunter – I am something very different alright. I do not hunt: I do not hunt because the weak and sick need to be removed from the herd, nor because I find pleasure in it or I need to provide food or protection. Isn't all of this ignorance?
Young Aden understood that if he used ignorance as a tool to work against ignorance, he would slip and fall. One cannot be entirely invisible and unnoticeable yet be a guardian at the same time. And young Aden learned that one can hide in the open by not hiding at all. Lose the attention and leave their minds by moving with the flow of all things in the right manner. To swim and navigate in these waters of perception, mental states and ignorance was comparable to dance to an unknown and ever-changing symphony like the one he heard outside one of the noble estates. Just a lot more complicated.
And that is what leads me here, then: to sit unnoticed, to see without being seen and to understand and study without studying. I am a Wolfswood Ranger, yet I am not solely that. I try to protect more and am in a conflict with ignorance, with those that believe themselves as superior to others and able to judge what is best for them or what those inferior can or can't do. Dominance is as much a weakness as being dominated. I might not be able to use the Al'Noth or the blessings of a deity for what I do, nor is my body able to fight what others think and expect I should be able to fight. My mind is not perfect and unshakable. I am a mortal, I am weak and irrelevant to most people in these lands. The task of my life is different from that of a hero, a dancer, a bard, a fighter, a scholar, a teacher. Some may call me ranger, sneak, hunter.
Am I a swimmer in their inattention, a guardian in the fringes of twilight? Yes, maybe metaphorically. Am I a Shadowdancer? No. Do I want to be one? No. Do I care about labels and words?
No.
When he was younger, he had always believed that fate and Folian had plans for him. It wasn't an obvious fate, but it was not what his parents wanted of him. It was something he did not know, nor could anybody else tell him. He moved with the flow, smiling a hidden smile. A rascal sometimes. Sometimes a good boy. And mostly he was himself, wondering about the odd and repulsive people around him that were yet so lovable still. Wrong guided, maybe. Ignorant. Lacking some understanding. Did not appreciate music – which didn't make them brutes, no, it was their greed for something as worthless as trues that made them brutes. Workers in a bee-hive, short-lived, obeying their masters for small worthless trinkets to keep them in line. Not that there was that much wrong with that, but the young mostly unseen boy wasn't very fond of tyrannies, oppression and similar wastes of time, lives and splendid good ideas. But there was so much that he could do simply by being mostly ignored. Loud voices of leaders would always lose against the low whisper on the edge of your mind, the small experiences and small good deeds.
All questions and little answers, tragedies all around.
Yet here we are.
-
He rolled off the couch and noticed that the floorboards lacked the colors and cracks he knew but were just as hard, despite the carpet. It had a foreign smell, clean and neat and somehow lacking something. It sounded differently when carefully drummed on with fingertips.
Aden stretched lazily, then pulled his legs to his body and jumped on his feet.
The floorboard creaked.
Meh. He needed to try that again.
Strange shadows early in the morning. Rural scenes outside, lacking the mist he was used to. It appeared warmer, somehow yellowish and unreal.
Port Hempstead. Right. He stretched again and reached for his boots. Angel's Guild. Shop. That much for being aware of his surroundings for the most part. It was a morning that lacked the aftertaste of a blackberry dream, and Aden was somehow happy about tasting the lack of stale professionalism and such.
New keys.
Right.
Now. Where did he put that...oh, apple! - ah, there was the hairbrush. Why did he carry an apple in his satchel? Getting some cold clean water was remarkably easy, but he noticed the lack of half-asleep guards pacing up and down at snail speed. It was one of the mornings he would wake Brea with breakfast in bed – and a piece of cloth soaked with cold water, if need be. How she could not notice her familiar scratching at the door way earlier in the morning was a mystery to Aden.
Right. The Angel's had a dog...Spot? Yes, that was his name.
Aden geared up and drew his blades, dancing slowly first. Jump. Dance. Move with the flow here, the gray-yellow silk morning. Dance with instinct and passion. Tiptoe, swirl, flip to the symphony of life and death and time. Did make little sound, enjoying the flow of things and the flow of his own movement. He felt the world.
Breanna.
-
He couldn't fall asleep, not even now. To many things raced in his head, in his veins, in the beat of his heart. Ridiculous if he thought about it, he never felt so sentimental and serious at the same time. Maybe it was because she was so close. The cadence of her breath, the sound of her sleeping and dreaming. Opening his eyes a bit, he looked at her silhouette in the dim twilight. There were things beyond shape and sound, and he felt that their love was one of the most amazing gifts he had been given and was able to give.
Symphony, a mayor movement in there somewhere for sure. he thought. So many things happened, but now, nothing of that mattered. For a short while, nothing would. Or very little. Not that she was seeking harmony with everybody again, not that she... for a moment, the thought send hot irons into his back. Aden shifted uncomfortably.
When sleep finally settled in, he realized how much weight had fallen of his shoulders in the last few hours. He had pushed himself through the webs. Now, things felt remarkable peaceful and good.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would get up, make breakfast and then wake her softly.
-
He needed new blades. A new bow. Arrows. And more, much more training. And on the other hand, he'd be the first to stop adventuring altogether and become a craftsmen and a hunter. But on the other hand, Duchess and Nym and their masters were still out there, being annoying discords. Not the major ones, but still discords.
He closed his eyes, focused on his breathing and the sounds and movements of his surroundings. The thing was: they weren't even discords. Just silence. A silence that should not be, like the absence of life in a forest. With all their puppeteering games for dominance and revenge and other silly things – really? It was all that drove them, like so many others. Purposeless, in the end, since everybody had to die eventually, and all which had been gained in life was nothing but mere piles of rubble. No matter what kind of monument they reached for – the teeth of time, the endless circle of birth, life, destruction and rebirth would take their toll.
So all he really could do for now was to train, to get better. And then take care of packs and hunting grounds that were much more larger than the forest, the lush meadows and the orchards, the couples and families and towns. He had dreamed of his parents again a while ago. Of being a parent. Life for now. Stand. Fight. Defend others and yourself.
He found the blades without opening his eyes and got up slowly. Move with the flow of your surroundings, but do not drift. The Flow, the symphony of his environment – by day after day passing to never return, both precious and painful moments, his understanding grew. It was just another thing: he ate, he drank, he slept, he dreamed, he loved and he was part of the flow.
The blades cut the air with slow movement, but he could hear the air hissing around it louder and louder as he increased the speed of his movements.
A floorboard creaked.
Breanna wouldn't come home so early, and he opened his eyes just a bit -
the floorboard next to the window, the one already bleached by the sun.
-
So they made that decision at last. Why now? He wondered if he was afraid, afraid of death and their future. But wasn't that life? Finite, short, full of miracles, beauty and pain. Oh, if only!
He balanced with one feet on the dead tree and smiled. What could he want more than a healthy, happy wife and a healthy, happy and screaming, grinning, cute and tyrannical child?
But was it possible at all?
No.
But worth a try.
Pit Moths, Vil'Larie-thingies with attitude issues and pointy horns, Dark Elves – an ongoing shadow war. And his sweet was so entangled with them, bound to trying for friendship. A slippery slope – they would merciless exploit the weakness. That was how it was. And they, if he and Brea had a child, if it survived – they would take it, or at least try to. Play the pain and suffer game. And he and his heart would need to play along, one way or another.
He would make a pilgrimage to the Den. And ask Folian for guidance and blessings in two things:
To be a good father.
And to be a warrior to protect his pack.
He would leave a simple arrow behind – the shaft was rough, nearly a branch still with a stone head that had taken ages to made properly and a rugged raven feather. It was the seventh arrow that should have gone into his quiver. The Fang, if one counted the wolf's teeth.
-
It was getting increasingly difficult to get the training he needed. Sure, he continued the physical exercise and the combat drill that he had been shown with the Wolfswood Rangers, but that was not enough. Long travels with others were educational as well, but of little use for training and practicing certain skills. Like hiding, sneaking, tumbling – Moving with the flow – to the thing he heard when listening closely in silence.
He noticed that he had accustomed to be quiet and silent and keep out of sight and mostly trouble, too – despite his pointy ears and small build, despite the signs that he was a man of the wilds, he was seldom if ever noticed in cities. And blending in was easy, the Angels Guild gave him enough opportunity to slip into various roles and clothes to veil who he truly was. On the other hand, there was little to no security in obscurity.
The crafting was soothing, seeing the world, taking in the beauty, the intrinsic complexity of things. But still, he worried and payed close and very close attention to perfect his training. Breanna troubled him with her beautiful and sweet heart, but it was scary for him that she befriended her torturers. Duchess was a puppeteer, a masterful on top of it. She knew he could do nothing against her, and that he as well was another of the buttons that she could push if she wanted to force Breanna to do something that would benefit her dark kin's endeavors. She was a influential person, no single gang member or cutthroat he could observe and neutralize.
Much time had passed since he first noticed the woman in green at the side of the road, since he first talked to her because of that priest of Pyrtechon. Threats, too. He survived some and succumbed to others, but such was life. He always managed to somehow get out in time, and he thanked Folian for it.
But it was not enough to just survive. And the surge of Dark Elven activity troubled him, made him realize by now that he had not the training he needed for countering such surge with efficient and careful cuts. There was power in information and power in blades, and there was power in the shade. He would walk all three paths to perfection if Folian would allow it. What would somebody say that knew about his plans, about the task the had set for himself?
But you are unsuited and untrained, and you have obligations to attend to, you can't do this -
This is my path through life.
That night, he first dreamed since long about creatures made of shadow, half wolf half men, and they were hunting, striking with utter fury yet leaving nothing but silence and more shadow behind. They filled the heart of their enemies with dread, yet those they protected knew nothing of them. Like ghosts they moved, and his grandfather was with them. They were the Graymane's fangs, and with their hunts they revered him.
-
Myths of a curse of the destroyer that brunt people from the inside out and strange deaths. Whispers of Dark Elves walking on the surface: at first, Silkwood, but that was then, back then. He should write Master Enzo.
And he should make arrows, some silver tipped.
And he should ask for them to be blessed by those of the pack.
-
He needed training and a shroud of shadows if things continued like this. The Deep, it was always the Deep. Duchess, that spider. It was only later that he realized how much he hated them – when they fell to the blades, arrows and the magic, when the blood was rushing trough his veins and throbbing in his temples, making him feel alive, very alive. And once it was over the wolfish thirst for blood and vengeance vanished as well into the hidden recesses of his spirit to not be seen again.
Sure, they were trespassing on their hunting grounds, yet, could he let them live with goodness in his heart? Breanna would never forgive him, but that was beside the point – just as much as the surface bred corrupted and twisted souls along those fine and good people – he knew they thought he was nothing more than an object, trash, low creature simply by his birth. And all because of a feud that was fueled by dark deities and even darker mantras. "Ohhh, we need to be evil". Or, in some cases, they tried to infiltrate with "Ohh, we need shelter, we are so hunted and hated by our own kin!" - nothing against the A'zattans tho, that was a different lot of people.
Why did they even bother with their feud? Why did they bother with all that stupid stuff? Because it was ingrained into them, enforced by the way their society was set up. Nonsensical waste of time. As if there weren't any better things to do. And he had to understand and evade and dodge and harass and fight them, so they would not ruin everything like too many rabbits could ruin a landscape.
He decided that it had been an utterly confuse idea to go to the Deep in the first place. The long travels, sure, the new places and the people he traveled with. But now he understood that he couldn't fight against the Deep, or that he should go there. Seal up all entries and be done with it. And yet, where to get certain resources from? By their greed alone, the surface needed the Deep. And the Deep needed the surface for slaves and as a place to bring terror to.
To put it mildly, it was a situation he didn't like at all. Period. Maybe he should go search for a place far away: something with a sea and trees, a reclusive valley. Enough land for a pack to hunt and life from. Be happy or at least content. No matter how hard they struggled, exactly that was the carrot in front of them. Run, donkey, run.
Aden reached for his pack. There were things to build and craft, places to observe, people to find. There was brutal training to be done and feet dangled into calm lakes. Every time he went out he was becoming something different, just as he was different around Elohanna and Breanna and others. But it was fine, he guessed. The walk of life. Whatever.
The trees sung of bees and insects dancing in the hot air, radiant gold-red fuzzy dots around the pale and crumpling blossoms. A day had passed, losing its heat and preparing for the night. His tunic was soaked after a few miles or so, his feet sore.
Beyond the horizon, the boy believed, there were flying cities and giant talking trees, humming softly to those that were willing to listen. No mean people, no need to hide, no hunger and no beatings. The boy knew that all the wisdom of the world was out there, not in the books they kept tidily in their shelves to hide their scars behind dried ink on parchment. There were salmons glittering in the rivers, and great many mysteries of life to uncover and understand – and all was singing and playing a song to him, back then. He remembered. The music of the rich was poor in comparison, simple-minded and thin.
-
He studied the threads, the spools and the looms for a day or so. The music, the subtle changes in the symphony. Gone. It wasn't particularly frustrating – it was! - but at least he knew something about his enemy and his fellow adventurers and people. It seemed that security was a lable, that was it. Maybe his skills needed improvement. So who should he turn to?
Folian, what are you asking of me, this is turning into something ridiculous.
And so he returned with the bad news. You never catch a spy in such cases, he told himself, they'd kill themselves rather.
And yet he still felt obliged to prevent such things, to hunt these things. Paranoia, maybe. Maybe another case of sloppy security, sloppy guards and sloppy thinking. Sloppy observing on his part, too. Maybe he was too polite and should be more rude. Whatever. The damage was overseeable. He found it scary that such things was so easy possible. What if it had been a follower of...unleashing madness in a city like this? Spellgard, all, would be gone. All it needed were a couple of determined people with a plan.
Well.
To defend it, it was the same. Just reversed. No torture, no cruelty. Just calm observation and thinking. Dancing. Listening. And howling when the last minute of their prey's life slowly ticked away.
That night, he dreamed of wolves made from shadows of old oaks' leaves in summer.
-
He carefully poured the boiling glass into the special mold, watching how the colors shifted while it cooled down slowly. Alright, off with the gloves then. While it was cooling, he could remove the already cooled enchantment rods from their molds, a delicate task that required a lot of feeling in one's fingertips.
Working was a fine way to ease racing thoughts from their circular tracks and direct them into new avenues previously unseen. Some were short cuts, other prolonged the path. No matter. He had time for now, and the work was helping the thinking quite a bit.
I can go past Tier One now, probably.
His skills in tailoring had improved, and with his own clothes that he could make it was now possible for him to design roles he could switch to. Clothes make people. It was the most basic deception, part of the body language. He needed to practice various roles. Learn to speak different accents, study them, study local lore and trivialities. And still, it was just Tier One. People who knew the area and the dialect could still notice him easily. Past that was Tier Two. Tier Three was going past magical means of detection undetected, becoming a ghost.
During the last years his abilities to remain unseen had improved. He had tinkered a bit with his gear: remove things that clank or clink, things that reflect. That had been basic ranger training. Known to him already, and he remembered episodes back then.
There was more to hiding and sneaking than to wear the appropriate gear, the right way to move and the right way to smear dirt in one's face. The key was to understand surroundings and perception, to understand the symphony, the complexity of things. Patterns that flowed, emerged out of nothing if one tried to understand instead of just seeing and thinking – like a melody in a symphony, a single tone that made one understand the whole.
There were things hidden in his backpack now: roughspun nets made of sturdy threads, pieces of torn cloth of various color. He tried it out, not to long ago, on a stalk. The pieces of torn cloth wrapped around his bow to destroy the elegant, smooth silhouette of it, the net fixed to his armor and used to fix leaves, grass, twigs and other things into place. It even had somewhat of a hood. And he'd looked like a hulking part of the landscape. One had to move slowly, but it'd be good for scouting.
And ambushes.
He just had to find a way to escape the other, non-visual senses of other creatures. Some spiders had a sense for tiny hints of vibrations that heralded the presence of prey or enemy. Some creatures were able to detect by smell, and some, so their instructor had said, could detect the heat of bodies. And then there were those with otherworldly senses. He should talk with a more seasoned ranger or druid about that, maybe. At least with magical means it should be possibly to move undetected around them, or at least somewhat. There was a difference between not being seen and not being noticed. And, of course, between being stupid and being smart. Maybe he should put his in- and exfiltration skills to a test on a couple of missions with Jil. See what he could learn from her. And then do a survival month, just him, some simple clothes, a knife.
The forge hissed and asked for more sand.
-
It was just for a moment, an odd feeling that made he hairs on the back of his neck stand. He stared upwards, past the canopy of soft swaying leaves.
They were red.
He frowned and returned his focus back on his surroundings. He walked faster now, his thoughts racing like a wild horse in flight.
He had never before been so scared all of a sudden.
-
Valen. Cutthroat, mercenary. Not a nice fellow, liked his daggers. Rough voice, covers his face with bandages and cloth. Maybe a bit too obvious, but what can you do.
He had standards, was a professional. Would lie if asked where he hails from, then say it's Leringard or so. Hempstead was the truth. He was born in Hempstead, some back alley child. What do you know about the dirt and the pain, eh? You know nothing, highborn. Even I have standards, but not for people like you.
Nimble with those daggers. He needed to train, learn how to be relaxed, be a hard-boiled merc. How would he grab his weapons? How would he walk and eat, how sleep? What was the first thing he did when entering a new environment? How would he act in bars? How when talking about biz? Hm. Talking biz. Who did he work for, last? Credentials?
Aden slipped out of the clothes he had worn and into the burlap cloak, the one with the dirt and the grass and the leaves. Time to watch some people, but first, go unseen, watch the land.
Make his way to Hlint, Hempstead or Leringard. Mariner's, maybe. Slums. It was time to study.
-
Most of the branches he left unchanged and in their natural state after having smoothed the edges and made sure they were strong and strong enough for their purpose.
It took him some time to figure it out, but it was easier than imagined in the end. The cradle could be easily disassembled and carried like a backpack or a basket, and he made it in a way that would ease the task of sheltering the cradle from the elements, if need be. He felt old, very old and remembered his own childhood, or what little he remembered of it anyway. And there was joy in it, too, at least he thought it was joy – maybe worry too.
So one day, it was ready, the splinters and the sandpaper and the painful memories clawing their way into his heart a thing of the past. It stood, covered with a piece of cloth, atop a drawer, safe until the time was there.
-
Little scratches go a long way. Brea always made a worried face when he came back home with some new injury, as if he was very creative in the way of getting them. Most weren't bad, they healed quickly. None escaped her, of course, and it was impossible to defend himself against her tender love and care. And he felt quite helpless against that frown she had. He found that a bit stupid of him, but he loved her too much to not let her care and bandage and frown. Oh. And giggle and let her call him silly. I have become that kind of man. A couple years back -
But this was here and now. He had, so far, done well – secured a house that had some space in it to store all kinds of things and provide them shelter from the weather, he had found friends and allies and a job that he liked doing, and even found that special way for him. A part of him was content with what he had, thankful for the luck he had. And still. He knew how fragile it was, the construct he based his life on. On travels, he still slept with a dagger jammed between the doorframe and the door and not in the bed. If he could, he slept outside, well hidden like the prey he was. He seldom took the same path twice, remained in the background, even changed his demeanor without thinking about it. A good sneak, sure. A funny person, a trusty friend. A ranger, a courier. Sometimes, Aden wondered if that was all nothing but a facade, a disguise that the real him hid behind. But what would that real him be? Grandfather had been a hunter, a grey warden, marked by battle and weather. Grandfather had been something that neither mother nor father had approved of – as if there was no place for a certain type of elves, of behavior among elves. I never knew my grandfather. Only by stories, and how true those were...just ask a random bard. He had found himself thinking about his grandfather more and more often recently, about his parents. And about death. About hatred and revenge. It was something he liked to do, letting his thoughts walk round and round and change course and direction while he worked on something for the Angels, or was found himself next to Breanna, wide awake suddenly. There were only so many places and circumstances he was able to think about the greater, stranger mysteries of life and all that. Why do I wake from my reverie that much? Maybe there was something wrong with him, maybe there was not. In his dreams, wolves howled and there was a different kind of land and a lord that scared him. Dreams seldom held any truth within, but they made him think, made him confused nevertheless. Sometimes he dreamt he was back in Prantz, sometimes it was Briardusk. Sometimes he was hunted by an omnipresent and omnipotent enemy that knew neither mercy nor any limit. Humans called these dreams “Nightmares”, and while the elvish expression was a bit more refined, it broke down to the same thing in the end. He hadn't talked with Brea about it yet, maybe he should. Maybe he should not. He had every reason to be happy, and often he was – and despite all that, something gnawed at the back of his mind, digging its teeth into his soul. Maybe it was the accumulated weight of his experiences that came crashing down onto him, all that he had seen and smelt and heard and endured without much flinching, thinking or reflexion. Maybe because he changed, somehow, somewhen – he looked into the mirror his love gave him a long time ago – So you can see your wonderful eyes, too – and the expression in his eyes he didn't recognize. His training intensified.
There never had been a lack of trouble that he could get into, for better or for worse. The famine create a situation unique to him, and he was eager to master it. Beasts, bandits and all kinds of opportunistic creatures lunged forward to get a piece of the kill, to fill niches opened up by war and hunger. Opportunities blossomed like the desert after rain, and it was just a matter of enduring and observing to learn something new every so often. But still. He found something very unsettling about it all, a strange feeling breathing down his neck. For now, it was good to train muscles, speed, control, coordination and observation. Learn about tactics, strategy and motivation, too – but who can teach me that? One only could push oneself that far, and to get a certain threshold, one needed a teacher. Or something to spy on. Without, I can only maintain but not improve my form.
Or forms. Listening to a foreign melody, he waited.
-
He watched Jilsopine and Sehky using their bows, and it was then, in the heat of battle, that a realization struck him and stuck with him. Everybody fought in a certain manner, used a form or forms: you can hold your weapon this and that way, you can move in this or that manner both over terrain or in combat, you can be blunt or complex in battle and so forth. He remembered Micus and Duchess who had been some of the few elves he had seen to be very proficient in classical combat with blades. And every elf seems to develop combat into a complex mixture of art and philosophy and stuff. That makes them more efficient, apparently, and capable to wage war and all the things associated with it. Sometimes, they had morals, but he had seen enough to understand somewhat where that goes and where it came from. There's no rule to fighting, and no morals can contest the simple principle of survival and procreation. If you're surviving and successful, you can have a new generation of children that will be more or less like you and adapt to what you can teach them.
He remembered Briardusk, the fight against the cult.
He remembered Pranzis, the fight against that dwarf.
And even now, during the famine, power groups struggled over who would be the surviving party. Surface against Deep. An alliance of the Good against the Destroyer and associates. And in Siphe, Hilm and Nesar the wheel went round and round again and again.
And round and round we go. A sad world full of fools. But on the other hand, fools might still be better than gods or other things. And they make killing and art. Something like shooting a bow very precise isn't a very useful skill unless you plan to go to war. Or hunt something that is incredibly difficult to find and hit. But that means that you have plenty of resources to spent on fighting. So why making it an art?
Jil and Sehky had very different approaches to their art. And Griff, too. Aden resented the notion of thinking of it as an art. Mighty elvish warriors, old and deadly their art and their techniques!
And mighty the overall arrogance as well. He remembered his youth, when they had tried to teach him fixed forms with blade and bow. Maybe he was indeed the odd one out that needed to be brought back into the line, but why should he learn the cat-catcher technique that somebody somewhen had created and named mysteriously? If he wanted to catch a cat, he used what he had and caught a cat without going to a fixed flow of motions. Maybe he would have been doing better - including the whole elvish image, whatever that amounted to – if he applied his discipline in hiding to other things as well. But they wanted make it an art. An art of death and war. How glorious and...smart. Too much resources, he decided. Their might be one or two things to learn from them, but only if they were worth the time to learn. He watched Jil and Sehky talk about something while he filled his quiver again.
Bows only. And what if they are disarmed? Ambushed? No matter how quick you are, if you specialize you're unable to adapt. To adapt means to survive. And to survive, you can either kill without being killed or hide without being seen. Or combine both, sure. Whatever. I am thinking about this Art of War and Combat and elvish heritage stuff too much.
-
They had a brief time of relaxation, and the Breath of the Muse was indeed beautiful. While the rest prepared and talked, he had found himself a small place somewhere to meditate and slip into reverie for some time. He thought of those back home before his thoughts slipped away.
He saw a young boy, a rascal with a wolf pup in his arms that appeared quite content with being carried around. The pup blinked lazily and yawned.
“I am you,” the boy said, “If things had been different. They weren't, that's why you have this dream. Bloodstone did what he did, but you parents had more courage. Now they're dead, but at least you have this puppy, a dagger, some rations and so forth. You would have made a great master of the wilds, a druid, a ranger, a wild warrior.” The puppy whimpered, and the boy cradled it carefully. “They would have called you Aden of the Wolf, if things would have been different.”
The boy smiled, turned and walked away, disappeared between the trees of what looked like Ulam Forest must look like.
The scene faded and a new one appeared. He found himself in a command tent. Outside, an army prepared for a march.
He saw a young man dressed in expensive clothes and a armor so masterfully crafted that it must have cost a fortune. His eyes were calm, bordering on being bored. An elvish noble, an officer. A fine blade at his side.
“I am you,” the man said, “If you had been more courageous and disciplined. Pranzis has fallen, but Llast is equally a nice city. They are afraid of you and your mind here, of you and you ability to make a career in their military. Your patience, discipline, knowledge and ruthlessness have brought you so far. You could have been a general, you know? They would have named strategies after you, and the elvish heritage would have a worthy follower with you. A new house would have been born, outside Voltrex – a new generation of elves. And Briardusk would have been your first victory. They would have called you Captain Aden Delaveth, Expeditionary Forces, First Battalion. You parents would be proud and scheming to get you onto an even bigger stage of power and politics.”
He cracked a sad smile, turned and strode away as only those with too much entanglements in politics do.
And again, the scene shifted as if curtains fell and rose again. A new stage, this time, some back alley in a city. Shady, damp, with dirt and trash everywhere.
He saw a young man dressed in simple clothes. Thin and shy, looking so average that it seemed scary.
“I am you”, the man whispered, “If you had been more courageous. Prantz might be fallen into the hands of a dwarf – but free souls never surrender. You would have made a good spy, Aden. And a good smuggler on the side, because even an elf needs to eat from time to time. An odd arrangement, sure, but this way, everybody profits – and is not sure who you are working for. Somewhat safer this way.” He smiled politely. “But you will never forget, never forgive, and never sell out. There's a line that not even Rael can cross. His head will be yours, and his dominion will be food for the wolves. That is, if you survive that long. Alas, none of this will ever come to pass.”
He man snipped with his fingers and disappeared.
The man and the alley faded. This time, he was shown a room in the Tower Academy in Port Hempstead. Brightly lit, with parchments stacked away in high shelves.
He saw a young man, dressed in simple clothes, with a smile in his face. He had his arm around Breanna, who, dressed in a nice garb, leaned against him while reading a book in her lap.
“I am you,” the man said, “If you had been more talented. Crime rates might have been reduced due to your patience and talent. And who is more fearsome than a spellweaving investigator? And thanks to good relationships with the Angels and the Tower Academy, you're both safe as well as successful. You read a lot, and more than once you have participated in trials against criminals of all colleur. You have a nice house in Port Hempstead, nothing fancy. And a hideout not too far away from the Lake of Glass, where you married.” He smiled.
The scene faded to blackness. There was nothing to be heard, nothing to be seen until the shape of a face emerged, a face barely recognizable from the filaments of shadow and darkness covering one half of it. The other half of the face was scared, and the eyes had the soft and cool gleam of a wolf. Bit by bit, the shape peeled from the shadows that were wrapped around it as if shedding a skin or a shroud.
It was himself, dressed in a rough armor that had seen many fights just like the rest of him.
“You have seen beginnings, possible nows. And now, Aden, you will see what you can be, will be.” His older self smiled. “This is how they will know you, as a good sneak, a not too hesitant fighter – if you let it come to a fight. You will make an excellent scout, and you will hide an army in the heart of another army.” The shape began to change, to shed its skin. “But after Breanna's death and the death of your child, the wolf truly found you.” The shape wore a mask of a strange material, a skull shaped mask with scratches all over it. “You have founded a new path. You are a trader, a craftsman, and a scout, you are and always will be the son of your parents and the friend of your friends. But most of all, you are a warrior be that in the name of mercy, the balance or the greater good. Nobody must or will know the deeds that you do, a hero's fate is not what lies ahead of you. You are shadowy, silent death, but you are not assassin – since ancient times, assassins were a path of elvish culture, power and warfare. Some dangers can only prevented by those who reside well within the grey, the shadows – and might they be shadows themselves, without them, much more tragedy would happen on this world. You howl at dawn and dusk – the Longstrider's shadow fangs are merchants, scouts, rangers, monks – but first and foremost, they are wardens that life by his creed. Use what skills you have. Be silent, be quiet. Protect the pack and the hunting grounds, protect the balance that keeps us all alive. There is a deep wisdom in life and death, in love and hurt. You will understand much of it during your long travels. You will see Ulam and many other wonders, you will endure much and only walk away from it strengthened. They will try to break you, but unleash the beast instead – and they will become prey. And Longstrider be merciful, you will find love again before your life runs out.” Shadows wrapped around the shape like a shroud, and it vanished. Two amber eyes watched him from the darkness, and it were the eyes of a wolf.
“The time of trials, that is what life is. Remember that, my pup.”
Grandfather's voice.
-
His son couldn't find rest again, was awake and crying and screaming. Aden blinked twice, shook of the last strands of his reverie, kissed Breanna softly and got up. She needed the rest and the sleep a whole lot more than him right now.
Hum and sing, pacing back and forth cradling the child. He didn't know that many lullabies, so he made some up while he went. He was sure it wouldn't matter much. As long as the baby heard his voice in a soothing, calming tone...
This is how my father must have felt. I won't make his mistakes, but that means I must know what kind of mistakes he made. An unpleasant thought, one that left him puzzled and pushing memories and things back and forth in his head. His son yawned and fell into reverie again. Or whatever babies did. Aden felt remarkably uneducated and decided to do something about it rather sooner than later. There were other things to consider as well. Such a peaceful face. Breanna saw so much of him in their son, and he saw so much of her in the pup. Gotta protect them both now. Wasn't there a time when I wanted to become, how are they called, a shadowdancer? No matter. I'm a father now.
And he kinda liked it a lot. Little to complain. Things to do. For now, some more rest.
-
Aelyn, Hyreth, Kyreth. None of those names had a ring to it, at least not in his mind. Oh. And he had been kissed by that elvish lass that howled to the Longstrider. She claimed to be a priestess. Aden watched the sand mixture turning into glass. At least there was no lack of ground mountains, even when there was a lack of everything else. Like names for my son. I should read more, but...better things to do. Why turn to books now? Have I gone craven or old?
Later, when he was training with his blades, it hit him that the women could be up to no good. Or get in really bad trouble, with Duchess and her acquaintances around. One false step...it was sure a good thing to see what was on the bottom of this -
That moment sufficed, and the stick he was balancing and hitting with his blades, trying to keep it in the air, hit him over the eyebrow. His fingertips were red and warm when he touched the spot.
I'll remember.
-
-Do let innocents come to harm by your actions or inactions.
-Nobody must know your true intentions outside your pack or your circle.
-Protect your identity. You show your devotion to the Longstrider publicly, but nobody must know of us.
-Information is power. Gather as many as possible. Grow your own network.
-Operate without being noticed whenever possible. We are the shroud that cradles the innocents from the threads that lurk beyond.
-Know your enemies as you know yourself. Identify threats were they arise, and deal with them.
-Maintain pack cohesion.
-Be yourself.
-Be disciplined.
-Try to maintain good relationships with any true ally you can find, however unlikely or uncommon that ally is. We are strong, because we fight together.
-Perfect your training, and follow all sorts of paths.
-When you decide to fight, fight with all of your body and spirit. Do not chose to fight out of a whim.
-Be careful when showing mercy.
-When fighting, do not use techniques that prolong suffering.
-Failure is not an option.
He read it twice before he burned it, making sure it was gone completely. A good start. A bit to pretentious, but he was getting there. He was finding it. But am I cut out for shadow operations? Do I have what it takes?
He got up and returned to make bread to feed the hungry. The dough was ready now.
-
It took some time until all was unpacked, sorted, stored away. Quite some time, actually. When he left Hlint, he noticed how much he had grown to like the place. But the house was too small, they had lived there long – and Kyreth needed a room on his own, eventually. Apart from a little bit more security.
He searched the house room by room, and asked Breanna to look into wards and things. It was time to put locks here and there, some traps, hide stuff in the house that was hard to find – just in case someone had to hide some notes, or a special item. He took his time to study the landscape, too, which was a great thing to do. A little walk, taking Kyreth with him: carefully carrying him with that wrapped cloth thing Breanna showed him. Listening to him babble and chuckle, talking to him. Studying the landscape, where and how he could go with his family if things went bad, and where he should place caches. Where he could train, and who was living around him.
And it was great to spend time with his son. And to give his love some space to breathe for a few hours.
And later, he would think about how to support the Wolfswood Rangers and Jil. He could try and encourage other rangers and elves to help – Argus, Pixim, Elyees, maybe Cord. Maybe find among the younger humans those that would not mind to leave their home and who where called to the wilds. It would be easier if he had less skill in stealth and more in people and asking for the Longstrider's blessings. Just gotta work with what you have, pup. He chuckled at the thought. Kyreth cheered.
-
For now he was free of it, as far as possible at least – he felt as if the scent and marks of the wilderness had become to be a part of his skin and hair. Being part of a city wasn't that much different, change your clothes, how you walk, how you look around. Take different things with you, things that belong to a civilized place. He had dressed into a common elvish craftsman’s garb this morning, one he had tailored for himself a while back. It was not as fine as the clothes he had made for more official guild business, not as human.
A sunny day. He had opened both doors of the barn and all the windows he could find, watched the small dots of dust dancing like fuzzy golden snowflakes in the border between light and shadow. Farmers and their sons drove carts with hay home, women were chatting in the backyards and gardens while hanging clothes out to dry. But the signs were there, the...odd sounds and melodies that always seem to mark the desperate attempt to cling on to a normal life. The effects of the war seemed to be in every crack in the cobblestones, the slow and subtle decay of the houses that nobody bothered to fix because souls were missing, hands distracted with creating weapons, armor, plans of attack. There was still war, still rebuilding, still bleeding as well. They are leading them into a perpetual war for domination – good against evil, one faction over another, for money, love, ideology, revenge. Maybe soon, measured in the years of the elves, there would be a fight for survival to mark the turning of ages. Maybe there was some truth in the whispers that there was a cycle to everything, a circle that always would spin and eventually close before expanding once more. Guesses and possibilities – I hope that you aren't working on anything like that, my love. Insight can mean farsight.
Fletching arrows was similar to shooting a bow – even if he never would have all the powers that Jil or Sehky had, in the end, it was about killing prey. It was the result that hold importance, the how and why one was trying to get to it. Those things determined if one was wise, intelligent, empathic, caring, good, or cruel, cynic, brutal and evil.
He knew what his path should look like, and he knew what he could do so far.
“No, that's not for eating!”
He carefully took the piece of oak from Kyreth's hands. If he wasn't screaming or sleeping, the little rascal tried to grab, squeeze, poke or eat everything. Aden chuckled when his son made a face, causing his son to laugh and babble. When he wasn't dozing, it was hard to get any work done at all, and Aden decided that it was once more time to give Breanna some space for her own work and projects. He supposes that Midnight as well enjoyed the time she didn't need have the baby around when she was close to her mistress. Smoothing arrow shafts was a work that left enough time and attention for taking care of Kyreth.
We do so little for our children, and yet, so much. Will you ever see the trees and plains and mountains of Voltrex? Or just pain and bloodshed?
There was no way to make sure. Like the spider, he could weave a web to keep his loved ones safe, and like the gecko he could eat spiders. Wasn't there a legend about a secretive group of people who kept the old enemy at bay and avoided all kinds of misery and wars by doing their work in secret, by spreading lies and truths and safe people as well as assassinate them? There was a legend of human origin about that as well. The millions of dead during the Dark Ages, the millions that died now – all of them sons and daughters of somebody, all of them brothers and sisters. And still they insisted to keep up their art of war, the assaults, the moving in formations. Humans reproduced faster than elves, a fact that once had led an elvish general lead to say: “We deliver the weapons, you deliver the ammunition.” The cherry on the top of the cynicism cake.
What he needed was either to find or to found an order of spies, hunters, assassins, craftsmen, bards, scholars, spellweavers, thieves, common farmers, traders, rangers and swordsmen who owed allegiance to nobody but all, whose task was to ensure the surival and well-being of the all-pack. But what exactly was the all-pack, and how to root the order so deep that it would not fall into corruption, elitism and decay withing the first eight centuries of its existence? How to organize, structure, finance and equip such an order, how to train them? Maybe by selection and testing of possible recruits. There were so many ways, and more might have been tested in the past.
Let's just focus on the arrows for now.
Kyreth babbled while poking around in the small heap of saw dust and found it very interesting, while his father watched with careful eyes that the boy didn't injured or hurt himself. Jil would join the Wolfswood Rangers eventually, and was already part of the War Council. And maybe he should visit Lance in Hilm once in a while, too. There was Andrew, trying to deal with various issues at once. There was the Angel's Guild, and there were Daniel who was always busy and trying to get something to change for the better within the confines of the law. He never truly met Steel, tho, and there were other people he needed to study and talk with as well. Experienced, old people. And a lot of new people as well, younger ones, in a sense – lacking all the years of misery and war that the others already piled up. There was Elyees, Argus, Cord, Devarian, Ty, Charlie, Kat.
Something to think about. For now, he would make hunting bows. And then there was the issue of the children that lived on the street, just like he had been, once. They needed a perspective, or the local thieves, bandits and armies would have a lot of new meat to waste.
-
A crude, simple crafted arrow, made of an ornamented but weathered hickory branch and old, half torn raven feathers, is left in the den of the Longstrider on Dregar. The tip is made of a dark flint, and upon closer inspection, the ornaments on the shaft reveal themselves to be elvish writing.
What does the Wolf, protecting its pack,
know of the path of shadows and claw -
What can the Wolf, protecting the all-pack,
teach me about the hunt
So I can protect my pack, the balance and the dominion
of mortal and immortal alike?
Life true, and find happiness in the laughter and growing strength of the children you feed and protect.
Aside the arrow, a sturdy dagger, a bunch of bronze arrowheads as well as salt in small leader pouches, a few potions and conserved food is placed.
-
He hadn't felt like this for a long time – by counts of cycles and years, he was young, yet, he felt time tearing and tugging on him as if he was some flag dangling from a pole. His name engraved into stone plates, he found it insulting, together with the songs and all that kind of stuff. His path, his part in it had been little more than tossing potions and dying again and again. He was a scout. He knew nothing of how to be a big hero, nothing of the mysteries of this world, because nobody ever told him what others knew. He was shocked at their inefficiency as well as about his own. He felt his time being used up, as if it was already over. Hiding was worth nothing. It made him angry. Angry that he couldn't protect Breanna, angry that he wasted his time like this, when there were so many big heroes ready to solve all the troubles in the world. As if! Sometimes, he just felt like choking the pits out of them. Always the puppy, always. He was sick of it. Sick of joining causes like that one, joining the Wolfswood Rangers. His practice was going nowhere, he was hitting a invisible wall. And if the time came, he wouldn't be able to protect anybody. It made him sick to his stomache, but he just let the wind tear at his clothes and walked on. No skills with the bow or the weave. Nothing at all to present to the world. No good life. The life of a drifter, at best, street urchin. If things continued like that, he wouldn't be around at all to teach his son how to hunt.
He hadn't felt like this for a long time – not since Prantz fell. Not since Briardusk fell. Not since he – he knew what, he saw the picture, but it was white. He saw his dead parents, but it meant nothing to him. Just something that had happened. It was his fault or maybe not. Path of the Claw, Kyreth, Breanna. Betterment of the world, one step at a time. The Angels, his plans. Protecting the pack, striking hard and true or promoting goals quietly the elvish way. Nothing ever worked out. The wind was cold, it cut his skin even here near the trees. He barely felt it anymore. Didn't let him feel, just walk on. Scouts. Oh, by the Longstrider that didn't find him. He just longed to be home, hug Breanna, play with Kyreth. Small chance. He was so far away from them, … All fight was beaten out of him, but nevermind. The best thing he got was advice and condescending behavior. Wolfswood Ranger alright. He was an unworthy puppy, barking like a puppy, behaving like a puppy, thinking like a puppy.
He stood still, close to a tree, and listened.
Just the wind, cold and merciless in these parts, around the leafless branches. He leaned his head against the tree, and looked over the landscape. Cold, harsh. A song. A song he could dance to, yes. Dissonance, from nearby creatures. A wolf and a raven, fighting over a carcass out in the snow. It appeared surreal, and Aden kept watching. He once tried to learn the language of animals, and the best he got … He kept watching. He was no ranger, no thief, no spy, no scout. He was no shadowdancer, no good husband, no crafter, no trader and no scholar. And his time was almost up, the Soulmother and her capricious behavior cost him dearly again and again. True sight! Ha! Spellweavers, knowledge types...
And everybody was trying to be a pit-blessed hero, some real big number. And he didn't quite knew what he wanted anymore, felt dry, old. Gone, almost. His name, engraved. It was just as much unreal, and it filled him with rage in a sense that he felt empty. Gone. Irrelevant, bullied. If you are good at stabbing people, this world was great. If you had some great mystical power, this world was also great. Now he needed a new name, if he still wanted to be able to go places more or less undetected and unobserved.
-
He made Kyreth a few toys - and maybe Midnight too, they both seemed vexed by the wooden ball that rattled in a funny manner when pushed and rolled about - and it was a joy to sit with them outside, or inside when it rained and play with them. Midnight was mostly lazy but couldn't help to occasionally nudge the toys. Aden was always a little worried she might see Kyreth as a little toy as well, but Breanna had her well under control so far. When she had enough of Kyreth and the noise he made, she retreated to the barn and spend her hours lying on the beams under the roof. When he was home, there was little time to do something because either Breanna needed his help or Kyreth wanted to be entertained. Sometimes, he found a little bit of free, unoccupied time to advance his own projects. There were letters to be written, and six or more branches of oak, carefully selected, rested well hidden in his small workshop. There were arrows to be made, things to hunt, things to give back to the forest, to nature and to Folian.
And eventually, we will rise again.
-
Who would have thought -
He sat in the garden of his civilised stone den, making notes and wondering if it would be a good idea to get in touch with a certain councilwoman of Lor. Past the garden, where those lazy afternoon shades lingered around the young bushes and trees he had planted, the human settlement was as labourous and active as ever. More gardens now, tho. People that grew their one food more and more, unable to rely on farms. Bartering was getting more and more important - and not a single druid around, helping and teaching. At least, not one he had noticed.
No matter how often wisdom sneaks up on you, some fools just stay fools.
He wasn't one for those arguments - he had enough of it during the Destroyer's Curse, enough with those elves from Voltrex, and enough now. There was a fine line between talking wisely in riddles and wanting to teach, and being a fatalistic elitist with the nose so high that the rain could drown you. There was some ground in between, and he wasn't quite sure where to put Freckled Owl. Maybe he had to meet more druids; most likely, that was it. On the other hand - why did he had the feeling that they were always so narrow-minded on certain things? Everything had its downsides. Maybe it was because they didn't bother to look at other walks of life much, at other forms of community. And he found that weird.
Of course, in the end, nobdy was perfect and entitled to own personal failures. For Aden, elves were a bit different in that regard. Longer lifespan, different culture - which he seemed to somehow have missed during ... when he should have learned it - different kind of body, sight sleep - all that kind of stuff. Some elves had different ideas that he came to not like (mostly it had to do with an elvish supremacy idea - what would life be without grumpy dwarves and their beverages, halflings and their sport of stealing pie - the best kind of sport ever invented - and human can-build-that attitute.)
He wasn't there to teach, not now - just to learn and to observe. To train. Experience. Walk down the path and see what happens. Right now, he could not find any motivation whatsoever to help anybody, there were enough heroes around to get the job done. Sure, they needed the meat that could be put on the line, fodder for the frontlines and all the things that better be done by expendable people.
Aden stretched his long legs and frowned on Kyreth curling up next to Midnight. On the other hand, that might just be less dangerous and more comfortable than it looked. Somebody kissed him on his neck, and he turned around and smiled back at his wife.
Actually, I should be smart and quit this stuff, enjoy this time of happiness...
Breanna would be against it. It was dangerous to quit -- not only because it made idle, lazy and weak, unable to protect one's pack. And the whole rest who needed to be kept at their toes from time to time. On the other hand, if nobody gave a dime about him or his opinion - sure he wasn't the only one with that problem - but why should he care overtly much and not simply go ahead with a "Well, it's your problem now" attitude.
Because it's what we do, and what we are, wolf. You owe it to me, to your mate, your pup and your own bloodline - even if you seem not to care at all about the latter.
The Greymane would say that - well, if he could, but why would the Longstrider talk to him anyway?
He'd always be the pup - unless he found some elusive circile of people who could teach him, and so far, they either were way too good in hiding or there simply was none. No matter how much he trained and endured and tortured himself -
Sure, there were always too few people bothering with the more menial tasks - gathering and analysing information, running errants, getting supplies. Non-hero stuff. Boring, mostly. Somebody had to do it, sure, and get no thanks for it. Like doing the laundry. Just ... more elaborated.
Yeah. I am stuck big time.
And there were no mentors (all those higher-ups were terribly busy all the time), no elvish old and wise mentors, no nothing. Well. Too weak for that.
Next up: T'oleflor. Bridges. Heroes in Lor. Interesting couple. Would be interesting to meet. Talk with Master Storold as well. Hm. Story time. Evening in the house. Let's plan that, and a meeting for new ranger recruits. Easy things, quick things first when I can do them.
"Breanna, what do you think of inviting Storold and a few others over..."
And here I go again...
-
Existance was a delicate balance between things, a balance only reached by a few. He tried to split up his time between travelling and family, between work and relaxing with his family, but somehow never found the perfect balance.
He had made his own training dummy, a strange looking contraption, practised dodging, parrying, evading. At day, at night, blindfolded. Learned, slowly, to extend his senses. First without any help, then with his encircling belt, with his eyes closed.
Continued practising to play with other people's perception and senses.
Continued to dreamwalk. And he couldn't await to see Kyreth take his first steps.
Ever since he first started climbing, walking, jumping, he had dreamt of a strange place. It seldomly had the same shape, appearance, smell. In his early youth, these dreams had been dreams of freedom. Running free. Islands floating in the air, one only had to dare to jump from one island, from one tree to another. Cross the gap, see the clouds move below, slowly, gracefully. Sometimes, the ruins were old. Human, dwarf, mostly elvish. Memories drifted like mist, touchable and yet not, faint images of what had been. But it always was running. Moving. Being free, not restricted by matter or other things. It was always him, alone, like a shadow clad in a twirled shroud of mist. His dreams were strange. Sometimes, he dreamt of being a wolf, a wolf that could run and move everywhere, any surface. Jump from one wall to the next, float, glide. There was always a strange music in the air, well, not music. Something similar, but not quite. When he grew older, he noticed that he was not alone here in this strange place. Sometimes, he was hunted, sometimes, he was the hunter -- it was a game of tag, very elaborate, had more to do with style, with insight into how to move, to dance with the wind and the leaves and the stones and the shadows. He seldomly visited this place in nightmares, only once, when his home fell and death struck. He carried two orbs covered in twirling mist through the place, as if to show them something, this place, and to bring them to where all threads met, there he placed them between the roots of a strange tree guarded by a wolf, an owl, a falcon and a bear. He thought it had been the souls of his parents, being showed their sons world, a very strange and not quite elvish world.
And he moved on. He guarded the place, never told anyone, not even Breanna. The real world was much more ... complicated. But what his mind learned in these strange dreams, what happened when his mind relaxed and he slipped into riverie -- sometimes, his muscles remembered. There was a grace in moving, in being on the move. In being strong and hard and enduring; and in hunting and killing as well. Even now he dreamt these dreams, sometimes. It required practise, technique.
Filcillnya anira laaco.
-
Far from home, grass his pillow
a ranger rests his head.
Far has he come, much has he seen,
much less reported back.
In snow and ice, in the black of night,
he walked on, never left the track
Unknown, no medal ever adorns his chest
the things he does are secret and hidden.
Far from home, shrouded in shadow,
a ranger watches in silence
Long were his stalks, far has he gone,
much more remains undone.
Aden slowly rested his hand on the young man's arm, pushing him down gently and motioning to him to be silent. This was always the hardest part of the hunt: to wait for the right, and the exactly right moment, and then strike. Covered in mud, soaked to the bones, cold as ice, muscles cramping it was a time when your body was reduced to a miserable wreck, and the only way to survive was to live in one's mind, find that balance. Focus. Don't think. Rely on instinct. It was something Aden learned too early in his life, and Arden as well. The human was young, a boy almost. But he was a quick learner.
They waited for exactly the right time, exactly the right spot, and raised their short, camouflaged bows in unison; grey, miserable, unkempt faces in the shade of soggy hoods colored like the trees and brush covering the rangers. Arrows hissed, found their target, leaving it bolting. One last rattling breath, red life flowing into the muddy leaves. Old, broken pawns relaxing as the old bear's spirit was eased and drifted into Greymane's hunting ground. Maybe one day, maybe tomorrow, a shaman would call upon the essence of the bear, asking it for help or guidance. And without a broken, weak body the bear would regain its pride and strength. Aden felt no sorrow or remorse, they gave the old one peace and eased his pain; and in return the old one gave them meat, fur and bones. Bears did not pass on knowledge to pubs, at least not these male bears. Some said it was cruel to hunt down a creature like that, but Aden had known before Briardusk that death could be a release. It eased the spirit. And so he took and carried home a part of the bear. He had been there, at the path of the bear, in the right place at the right time, to cut the strand that still bound the old one to its broken body, and he cut it. A lesson well learned, earlier on.
Arden, the young orphan from Mariner's Hold was very quiet when he cooked the bear afterwards. Given that the boy was always quiet, Aden took it as a sign. Maybe they should have left him in camp, but with Bjoern's broken leg they missed one bow. And everybody fights, stalks, hunts, and does their part. No exceptions. Not even for the young, new and weak ones. Not out here, not in the Wolfswood Rangers. Well, Arden wasn't a member of the pack by now, not officially. They had found him on one of the muddy roads leading inland from the harbor city, and took him into their custody. Aden had been quiet, "organizes" the boy a bow and a shortsword. Didn't hand them over to him - that was not his task. When the boy would be ready, they would give them to him. The bow the boy used on the hunt today was only a loan, and he had to hand it back once they were back at Camp. The dagger, however, was his - every ranger had one. It was an everyday tool, something one had to be trained with and accustomed to carry around and care about. Aden remembered his early days, they hadn't been much different.
"What's on your mind, Ard?"
The young man continued to carefully add salt to the meat. Salt Aden had carried in his pack back to the Wolfswood. It was one of the most valuable resources here, salt was nearly a luxus commodity. Let the Hempstead richfolk import pepper all they like, he thought, let them revell in the abundance if that's all they can do. Carefully, he glued the feathers to the arrow shaft, with all that rain it was much harder than expected. Hopefully, they would stick once they were dry. Aden was mostly worried about the shafts bending once they dried from the rain, but if - if! - Bjoern had found real dry wood, that would not be much of a problem at all. Maybe the glue and the string would fail, instead. Lots of maybes, these days.
"There's a storm coming."
Aden nodded. "A bad one, but ain't it always?" The boy just shrugged in response and continued his work. He had a lot to learn. "Do you need these bones for those pipes of yours?"
"Yeah."
Monosillabic conversations. Bjoern tended to the fire. Smokeless as possible. You could smell them, but this deep in the woods, they should be safe. This was the ranger's home territory, but Aden still meditated uneasily and didn't quite dream as he was used to. Saw vague shadow spectres, usually, he dreamt in color. Humans slept much longer, deeper as well. So it was him who would do the lonely watches, knowing that the other elves in the rangers did the same. Knowing that somewhere out there were all kinds of things he didn't know but could very easily kill him. And then there were the things that he knew and still could kill him. They kept enough arrows ready and their blades sharp. Aden used what skills he picked up from the Angel's and did what he could. The problem was time. And resources.
"Don't you have a home? I heard somebody say as much."
Breath condensed grey in front of their mask-covered faces. Maybe the boys had heart things about the elvish prince or whatever others tried to mock him with. Aden remembered Freckled Owl and his words of who he was and what he should do to prove himself worthy. The druid still seemed much of hermit to him, and he still not quite liked nor understood him.
"Ranger's don't have a home, if they have, it's with their pack. So it's here and there, Arden." Maybe the Pack wasn't the best place to grow up. Maybe. For some, it was just the right place, if they survived the harsh place. The boy fiddled with the bones, uneasy, tense, restless. It took him four days to make the pipes, two more to sew the bag. And that was only because they had some spare leather.
Waiting in the camp meant making things, repairing things, and drill, lots and lots of drill that was supposed to beat you until you were completely wet, muddy, cold, sore, and miserable - or, just in the comfort zone of what real stalks would look like. They trained day, night, rain, sunshine, no matter what. This was the way of the Wolfswood. It was actually relaxing, you didn't have to worry about food and fire wood and a place to sleep every day while on the move. By now, Aden sure know that he wasn't a son of the woods or anything else a druid might find nice, if anything, he was the son of dirt, mud, cold, pain, blood, sweat, hunger, feat and the stalk. The hermit could be a hermit and say that it's wrong to steal metal from the bones of the world, or that cities are a curruption - them druids had all those wonderous abilities that enabled them to be quite high-brow about those who had not. Aden didn't care. Teach your pups, fill your ranks. Train. Fight. Learn. Surivive. Metal was better than stone in most cases - unless one was a real wizz in creating stone tools and weapons - and the nature, well. Long debates about nature and what was the nature of wolves, what was balanced and what wasn't. Wolves had teeth, scent, claws, fur, honed instincts and reflexes. Humans, elves and such were a little more...gifted in the thinking-part. Making tools, improvising, learning and improving was their nature, and how they spread above the world just proof how good and successful a predator they were. All in all, very natural. And neither side, Aden knew, was in possession of the truth. It was far more complex than that. Like music, a symphony, unseen and unheard, with its own history, its own passed masters and charlatans. But still, it was music, individual to each ear, different to each interpretation. That was something that made him smile often, just a little piece of insight he found rather valuable. Something to hold on to. And build on.
Dancing with blades. Fighting, raw, qick, graceful and utterly brutal. That's how it was taught. Arden was better in it than him by now, Aden was more about the grace, it flowed in his blood. Quick, focused applications of aggression and violence. Sometimes like a pointy stick, sometimes like a scapel. But never like a club or dull knife. Unlike the others, he lacked the strength in his muscles and used what reflexes, agility and body control he had to compensate for it. It worked rather well, but sometimes he still had to pull splinters from his skin, tend to small cuts and bruises.
It took the boy some days, but one evening, he was done, fitting the pieces together like a great puzzle. And for the first time, the bagpipe squealed, hummed, lamented at nightfall in the camp. Too loud, maybe, but most of the rangers came to scold, and then to listen to what the boy could coax out of this outlandish appearatus made from bone and leather. Aden smiled and honed the nicks out of his blades, making sure the enchantment glyphs were ready to invoke their power.
And Arden, the boy with the messy hair, played and played songs as if from a different plane, or a different land at least. Somewhere with green hills, somewhere where one would always be lonely.
Aden had seen the landscape before, but couldn't really remember, but he smiled. It would be good if the boy survived, maybe. Improve the ranger's morale, adding one talented musician to them. Maybe he could send the boy to Andrew, if that vagabond ever was around in his own tavern. Maybe. Out there, in the rainy, soggy forrest were lots of creatures that wanted to kill him and the other rangers. Some of them had dark skin, eyes like burning coal and weaved nets darker than nightdark silk.
If it wasn't for the feeling and its behavior, the thread between his fingers could have been made of his son's or his wive's hair, dark, with a slight midnight blue hue to it, if one held it into the light just right...
"What're you doing there?"
Aden looked up and saw Arden looking at the thread in his hands which had been weaving itself between his fingers.
"Meditating."
"Yeah. An elven thing?"
"An elven thing."
No need to explain to the young one what he had been thinking or meditating about. He let the thread loop slip back into its original form carelessly. Another lesson, there: no matter how good you were at weaving the thread loop between your fingers, in the end, it would always be a loop and remain a loop. A valuable lesson.
"I've heard there's trouble back at home..."
"Voltrex is not my home."
There was a lot of this talk recently, sometimes it was a faint whisper, sometimes it was spoken aloud, and rarely was it ever directed to him or other elves. With food shortages and all the other things going on, it was hard to close that can of worms. Elves, go back home - harsh, ignorant racism he learned to get used to very early in his life. Let them open and close their mouths, emitting strange sounds. If they didn't shut up or got respectless, the kind of people that are only impressed by strength and even reinforced in their believes in such cases..
The boy tried to be apologetic, no matter. Aden had a hard time feeling home here, or anywhere. They all died so quick, so fast. They had a hard time to adapt to him, how he did things, although it wasn't as bad here as some other places. The debacle with the whole Destroyer's curse, his role in so many wars, relief efforts. Things to do, places to go, sights to see. There was a lot of good work to do, and usually, what he did was of pretty small scope, irrelevant, sometimes hindered, sometimes ignored by the typical hero folk. Going to Voltrex. He wasn't going to Voltrex and die there at the hands of the Old Enemy or endure his fellow elves. That'd be more pointless than spending hours here, living up to some ideal. They needed to recruit people, teach people, gather resources and rebuild something that was lost long ago, something that had sense amidst all this nonsense the world spew up day in day out.
On the other hand, it was impossible to achieve. Focus on the prey, not on the moon. Try to see things as they are, not as they should be. He send the boy away, to see if there was some work to be done elsewhere.
For the first time since long, he thought that it'd been better to study what his parents wanted to teach him, become all high and mighty and so narrow minded that not even a mouse would find a way to run along there. It'd have saved him a lot of all this conundrum.
Additionally, magics, proper education, riches, and a quick death if he messed it up. How beautiful. And he could be a complete annoying snob. That'd been nice.
At night, he slipped out, climbed a tree and stood watch in his way: jumped, moved, slowly, like a shadow. Nearly missed a tree branch or two, if it had been a little darker -
Yes. His way. A stalker in the night, silent observer, scout. Protector, walking unseen. A hunter by day, craftsman, mercenary, trader. There was something deeply mundane and mysterious about it, a face unseen by many yet known by too many. He should think more, act less on impulse.
That night, he stood watch. If the other guards noted him - he was sure of it, and at the same time, maybe he was wrong about that...
-
The days and weeks after the Shortstrider had left, he was even more quiet than usual. Both the famine and its effects caused some heated arguments among the rangers, and while Aden was more on the side of the moderate opinions, he was often silent or reminding them that discord would weaken the pack. It was a problem, of course, but it's implication were complicated. Some said it was a sort of rebalancing, then again, of what? If the balance implied that the druids themselves had to go so a equilibrium could be reached again, then what?
He sent himself to Mariner's Hold with the acceptance of his superiors, and quietly observed, trying to find those worthy of teaching the ways of the Rangers, observed them, protected them from the shadows against the quarrels. That was all he could do for now.
Prepare against the storm to come.
-
The whole thing with Mariner's Hold and the famine was getting worse, on the other hand, this was nothing. His experiences when following Charlie and trying to protect people mostly from their own actions had not exactly put him into high hopes. He still didn't get how druids could be so cold to wish the dead of hundreds of creatures in the name of the balance when teaching was just a bit harder, but he could see their frustration and thus, their point.
Which did not stop him from doing something, tho. Remaining hidden or in disguise he tried time and time again to find, observe and protect the city dwellers, provide them with a shred of hope, insight, food. Andrew was doing his thing, as he always was, but if he didn't start to bring all possibly allies to the table, he would fail. And so would the rulers and all the others. It did not matter. If they could not communicate and were swept away by the riots, uprisings, the violence caused by the famine because they all acted like caged animals too stupid to use their intelligence and compassion, well, what could he do about it? In the end, maybe it was the survival of the fittest, at least, for the time begin.
He reported back to the Rangers what he had seen. Protect the pack, yes. This one. But he also protected his family and all the other people, they were his pack too. Most living things were. It was a delicate job to prevent clashes between them, it required disguise, lies, stealth, nimble fingers and a quick mind as well as a large dose of wisdom.
He would protect his hunting and roaming grounds – while this plane might still dissolve in war over dwindling resources and power, he could at least try to stall it, to change it. No matter the ultimate fate of this plane, people had to prove their worth of being here, being alive and having the gifts they once got for free. He would to, what he do best, even if people like Daniel didn't like to see it. He remembered to talk with the old Rofireinite as well as with Connor, wherever he was. Matters of planes, traveling, philosophy and such. One step after another, but at least he saw the trail clearly now in front of him. Wolves always stepped into the track made by the leading wolf in the snow. And so, Aden would follow the Graymane and his wisdom to their common task, their hunt, their stalk. Maybe the tune, the realization he once had in a city that was now gray with stone, the fusion of nature and the philosophy of the Balance with the technocratic, the philosophy behind the cities, maybe that held turth. Certainly, it was just one of many possible outcomes, and he was no seer. He could manipulate the threads however, even if many thought that such was foolish, dangerous, downright sinful because it required the usage of stealth, deceit, misguidance, lies – sometimes, it was more merciful than other options. It was one of those days that he missed having a possibility to meet Ozlo, or the T'oleflor or others. Well. Maybe later.
-
He missed home, lazy afternoons, playing with the little rascal, watching Breanna lost in a book, Kyreth curled up asleep next to Midnight. So many precious memories.
It was cold, rain in his face, cold tendrils ending in dripping from his chin and jaw. He was many things, had many skins, but that was just how it was. Life was hard and unforgiving at times, but he felt a new confidence growing. Silently, he observed before returning to the camp and reporting. Many, many things to do. The Longstrider understood. Once this was over, it was time for a long, long break.
He had shared some of the information he had, but not all. There were things that he need to think about, whether or not it was wise to tell Gala of Duchess' current whereabouts. He didn't want to loose leverage, as well, and he has to move Breanna out of the line of fire first, should he plan to do that. She considered her a "friend" of sorts, something he couldn't quite understand.
Either way, he had doubts that it would all work out. He somehow didn't quite trust Vorlich, but he knew he could count on Ziggs, Tralek, Andrew and Gala. Argos and his daughter, who had quite some courage, he knew he could trust simply for the fact that they followed the Great Leader. Not with everything, but with most. If he could mesh some of the various efforts together, well, that would be terrific and some hard word work.
He couldn't reach the bridge alone, and the people here needed Charlie, Kat, Andrew, Jil and so on. He couldn't go alone, either, but maybe it was a question of necessity instead of ability.
-
The wood was dry by now, those of the branches which did not show tell-tale signs of cracks or twists rested on his working table. They would become sturdy, simple bows, lacking most of the artistic refinement that for example Sehky's bow had. He was fine with that. The display of craftsmanship would be that they were always there and ready to use, able to take a lot of punishment. Not everything, but a lot. During his travels he had been able to study various bow designs in use, and the display cases and chests of the Angel's Guild proved to be most interesting. He would test each of the bows thoroughly before beginning the long way to enchant them, to prove that his design was practical. They would see a lot of training usage, after all.
When he held the first bow in his hands, strung ready for a few test shots, he wondered if it really would be that easy. Maybe I should do the whole training myself. The Rangers won't waste their time with teaching them how to read and write, or the ways of the city.
He tried to find words, names, verbs to describe what he was doing and how. He couldn't explain it, properly. He couldn't even convince himself, or describe the intuitive way to hold and use a bow. Grumbling, he noticed the bad quality of the old string he used, coming apart slowly. Wax. Enchantment. Different quality, maybe. Wasn't dry enough. If I even can't describe the simple things, how to teach the hard things? Well, at least they'll have bows. If they would be up to the task was a whole different matter. He needed armor too, or at least raw hide and how to make it. He should train that, too. But I can't leave everything to the others. Jil might be a better teacher than I am, but can she put up with twelve recruits? We might need more than that, and she has other task as well.
After his fingers became numb stumps from the arrows he fletched, he found himself pondering over a sheet of parchment, drawing a line from top to bottom. On one side, he wrote physical training and on the other mental training. During his training, he had been exposed to these two aspects as well.
Physical training | Mental training |
Endurance & Strength | Discipline & mental strength |
Agility & Coordination | Tactics & Strategy |
Survival & Weapon Drill | Traditions & Knowledge |
Interestingly enough, everybody seems to use the same pattern in training, from the Pack to the followers of Toran. He should talk with Elly or another disciple of healing to find out how to train certain things safely, of course. Maybe that would reduce the amount of accidents that caused a paralyzing delay during the training.
Then again …
When he found himself writing too much, noting down training schedules, he tossed the notes away and instead returned to play with his son. That was way more educating and also inspiring than those dry words on parchment. The enchanting of the bow could wait, boxes of red feathered arrows and the right quantities of enchantment oil at the ready and stored away safely.
-
~ Creed ~
The folds of realities are my hunting grounds, and this is my pack. I keep the balance of my hunting grounds in order, so that it does not fall apart. To that end, I am free to do as I see fit as a follower of the Great Hunter Folian S'pae. I am silent, unobtrusive and wise in the choice of path and method to keep the hunting ground and its inhabitants, prey and hunters alike, safe from destruction that always lingers.
-
Maybe he should have had the smile of his son in his mind, or the embrace of his beloved Breanna on a sunny day in Blackfort, white linen swaying in the warm breeze. Maybe.
But he didn't.
There just was no time for it.
The damage to the ship was extensive, the ghouls and drakes had destroyed a large amount of rigging, pulleys, woodwork, tools and so forth. The sails were nothing but torn rags, covered in thin layers of ice. The collision with the iceberg left the vessel in an even sorrier state, but still, the captain and his crew pressed on, insisting that they could make it back to shore. There were many repairs to be made, and they were lacking everything as usual. It was one thing to improvise around lacking materials on land, it was another to be stuck on a ship.
Between guard shifts on deck and downtime in the wet and damp and cold below deck, there wasn't much time at all. He didn't trust Nym nor Jay, and for good reason. Not sure how the others could find sleep in such conditions, but they did. Maybe they were so exhausted that they just didn't care anymore. And he felt that he had to protect them, even if he was coming down with a cold or worse. He wasn't so bothered about that. They had Elly on board. That was at least something. He was beginning to feel sick and wanted to get something done before he had to rest.
These are harsh lands. I wonder if it would make sense to train pups here, since Erilyn is not that far off. His mind wandered back to the various conflicts on Alindor. Sagewald and Tau'ren, The Sun Kingdom. Morholt. The Wolfswood was the green, beating heart of the continent, and possible the key to its strength. He had heard of the doings of queen Mirikel, and maybe that was something he should see to be copied. He had history to delve into once this was over, mysteries and official business.
He could hear the water rage and slosh around them, deep, dark and cold; death that land dwellers could not truly understand. He had hoped to hear the songs of sea mammals reverberating through the ships hull, making their calls audible to the traveler's ear. But there only was silence, the mammals had traveled north or were silent in fear of hungry predators this time of the year.
He looked at the others and their doing, realizing that they were locked up in a nutshell, driven by ambitions, the desire to help, greed or whatever else. Maybe they saw the mystery and the wonder around them, looking at the world with amazement. Maybe they saw the danger and the many challenges around them, looking at the world with suspicion and doubt. He wanted to do both, no matter the challenge that came with it.
Curling up in his cloak he slipped into trance, hoping to hear the sound of the ocean in his trance, adding it to his symphony. A new tune. A new complex pattern to be studied and understood, a new patch of cloth to be sewn into the shroud. He hoped the others could find sleep. They would need all the strength they had on the rest of this journey.
-
The Ranger's Knife
“WHAT DOES IT MEAN TO BE A RANGER? DO YOU KNOW IT, PUP?”
The ranger loomed over the young boy, staring at him with his good eye. Aden could see the boy's thin arms trembling, trying to push himself up from the ground once more. Just once more. He knew it all to well, especially Berik's voice. Or rather, aggressive yell.
“DO YOU THINK I LET ANYONE JOIN MY BELOVED PACK? YOU'RE NOT EVEN A WOLF, YOU'RE A DOMESTICATED DOG PUPPY! IS THAT ALL YOU GOT?!”
Aden grinned a bit to himself. He hadn't expected that kind of treatment when he came here, and neither did the young vagabond. Berik was thorough. Every pup who made it this far would make it through this phase of training. It was just a question of how long it took and how much flesh got caught on the hurdle. And it always did - the veteran of the Northern Watch knew what he was doing. And when a pup was ready to face the next phase of ranger training.
“GET ON YOUR PAWS, HURRY UP, DO I LOOK LIKE AN ELF TO YOU?! GET MOVING! GET MOVING! RANGERS DON'T DALLY!”
Aden supposed that the yelling and the exhaustion were the worst part. Then came the bruises, the sore muscles, the constant lack of food and water. And sleep. That was especially dangerous. Every pup was looked after, of course, but they all had to go through it at least once. It was how it was.
When the pups slumped into the barracks, Aden just finished repairing a few pieces of furniture. There were only three pups – Arden the piper, Jane and Jeff. They looked after each other by now.
“Why does he have to be so mean all the time?”, Jeff demanded to know. Aden had the feeling that he might be the one that would try and run away. It happened before, usually with grizzly results. Arden sighed, rubbing his forehead. “Because if we don't get it now, then we'll get us or our friends killed later, I think.”
Aden didn't say anything, but left them something to eat. They made it so far. A few more ordeals and they would get their knife as a reward. Sure, nothing special, but to a pup, it meant so much. It means that others deem your worthy enough now to take some responsibility, pup – you're old enough to have your own fang.
Aden would forget these words quite so easily. The blade was on his belt even now and had followed him on his travels. It wasn't much, really – just a very sturdy hunting knife, the kind made almost everywhere, a common sight all over Layonara. The kind the rangers gave their new pups once they passed their first trials were nothing special either, in the end they were a bit of metal thoroughly forged into a sturdy, reliable, straight-edged cutting tool. But to a ranger, it was something important. It means you were deemed capable and responsible enough to have your own fang, your own tool – you could hunt, carve, fight, craft with it. Aden knew what Berik would tell them:
“To an outsider, this is a simple, straight-edged hunting knife. To a ranger, it is the third most useful tool you have. You can use it to hunt and skin and cook animals, improvise a spear, craft yourself a simple bow. You can make a fire and build simple shelters with it. You must learn to understand how to use it like your own hand. If you lose it, you're in deep trouble because you are down to your body and your mind to defend you and keep you alive and fed. So do not lose it, understood?”
And then they would go on a far stalk, leaving the camp behind much further than they ever did before. Still territory regularly patrolled, but dangerous as well for the unwary. Together with more experienced rangers and scouts, they would make their first stalk and put all their skills to the test, hone them, improve them, make them stronger until some where absorbed into instinct.
-
His love sat in front of the fireplace, their son in her arms. He could not hear what she was saying, but the drowsy look on Kyreth's face as well as the smile on her lips seemed to tell that she was telling him a bedtime story. Outside, at the window, between the trees, a huge wolf tilted his head, studying them both, the strands of shadows that seemed to make up his fur blending with the falling twilight. It seemed to look directly at him, and past him. On the horizon, dark clouds accumulated into an ominous black wall on the sky. Storm was coming. The wolf looked at Breanna through the windows as she tucked Kyreth in bed, a gentle and warm expression on her face. Sadness and worry mixed in her eyes when she kissed his forehead, and then went to check the warding spells.
Thunder rumbled in the distance, and cold wind swept over the land.
He saw Jil on one of her stalks, saw her moving shrouded in Al'Noth and silence. He could smell her, even see the fine strands of elegantly woven energy flowing about her and her gear. She seemed in a hurry, on her way to somewhere, following a trail. The wolf vanished into the shadows once more without attracting her attention, glad to know that she took that path – and not the other.
He could see Lance and Ell standing on a balcony overlooking a busy plaza, she had her hand on his sides and rested her head against his shoulder, red hair swaying in the breeze. Life carried on as usual while dusk fell red over Hilm Castle. Flickering with the shadows of a bleached and battleworn flag, a huge wolf stood on the roof of the gate, studying the activities in the city and the couple with his watchful glance. The assassin under his paws made wet sounds and died.
He could see a caravan stopping at a bridge the rain had swept away. Angry shouts were exchanged from men in glistening oiled coats as they began to turn their carts around. The wolf didn't move at all, watching them, smelling the sharp scent of metal despite the bolts of cloth and bricks. It had taken some time gnawing at the wooden supports before they were weak enough to be swept away by the torrent rushing down from the mountains. It would cost the weapon smugglers six days of detour, and by the time they reached the settlement, the idealistic young lieutenant would be back from his holiday and at his post again.
Before the trance began to fade, he could see three of the wolves moving silently through the forest as if looking for something or somebody very methodically. One stopped in his stride, turned his head and looked directly at him. The ranger could feel the harmony and serenity these creatures radiated, like a force old and strong as the bones of the earth -
“Wake up. There's something moving outside the camp.”
Aden blinked and rubbed his face, then reached for his bow next to his backpack and nodded. A howl echoed through the silent, foggy Wolfswood outside, and it was a haunting sound. But to Aden, it sounded like a calling, or a warning. Maybe it was both. He couldn't identify the pack, or, for that matter, where it came from exactly. He looked around, staring into the fog between the trees for a moment, then looked at Arden.
“What?”, the boy whispered, “heard something?”
Aden shook his head.
-
When he returned, he was indeed different. The druidess was gone, but he found her tracks and her small camp. She seemed startled and worried when he came back.
“Greyrider” Aden said, “Will continue his watch.” He studied the ageless young face of the druid, the expression in her eyes, and gave her a small, shy but tired smile. “Mind if I join your camp for some rest before I travel south?”
She shook her head, and that night, he was too tried to remember his trance-faces when he woke. He had never seen a more beautiful sunrise and just sat there smiling, sharing a meal with her, feeling the touch of the light. It was bright, yes, but he adjusted quickly. She didn't ask him to stay or pleaded that he won't go. She knew he had to, and that he would be back for with reports and knowledge. He gave her a hug and thanked her for the guidance and the acorn before slowly walking away, melting into the twilight only an autumn dawn could cast between the trees.
The pack is bigger than each of us, and if we must lay down our life or comfort in order to protect it, then we will find strength in the Longstrider to do so.
Aden smiled a little, jumping from stone to stone to cross a small river. He never would have guessed that it would turn out the way it did. He didn't feel pity for Greyrider's fate, only tremendous respect. The man had walked on the path of the T'eoleflor and carried a big evil to one of their places, destroying it along with the place there. And when he came back, he sealed himself in into darkness, all alone, to protect the pack from HER. Aden didn't want to think about HER. He couldn't, quite. She was but a dark, lurking thing, darkness and void. She was Greyrider's responsibility, and the old man didn't want him to help carry.
If he was Andrew, he would write a song about the Greyrider and his lone watch.
Here I am standing, darkness all around,
thinking of the past, the air is cold as ice
I encase us in silent walls of stone.
She! Void and darkness, child of my own creation
She! Bane of my own creation
Oh, but I have to guard and watch,
I have to remember the paths and places I saw so long ago
Now there is but silence and darkness
While dreams and memories fade away
It was a story he should share with the bard, a song even. He couldn't fathom how many wolves walked a similar path in ages past, but he would try to remember each of them in the memory of Greyrider.
Light and shadows danced over the forest floor; over yesterday's leaves, hopes and dreams and warmth of springs and summers long gone crumbling, becoming earth to nourish a new generation. New hopes and dreams.
“You already have it inside you, it's just a matter of unleashing it if you will. Of controlling it. It's all of grasping and controlling it, really.”
A week in the darkness with the eternal guardian showed him how much he already knew, and how little he knew about himself. Everything had been there, he just wasn't sure how to put it together. A week in the darkness, listing to the mans mad ramblings, nearly completely blind, had showed him how little he knew of himself. Or of his dreams. They seemed to follow him, those pictures from his trances. They meant something. It really happened, they were real, the shadow wolves. A dream, sent from the Longstrider himself, maybe to search and pick up a legacy and tradition, to seek for them, find their track or at least where they went. A sobering, uplifting feeling. These were the first few steps on the long road ahead of him, maybe the path for the rest of his life, but at least for now.
When he left the forest days later, he could have sworn that somebody was watching him, and when he turned around he thought he saw something, for a brief moment, moving in the shadows of the trees. Something large, with the shape of a wolf and old eyes the color of amber. He frowned, and it was gone, the shadows silent and empty. Just a trick of his mind. But there was something new, something that gave him a deep feeling of purpose, a goal. And security.
-
“Daddy, daddy!”
Kyreth stumbled, tumbled through the light underbrush towards where his father, clenching his left hand into a fist, balancing himself throught the maze of fallen branches, logs and small bushes. “Guess what me found - ” The boy smirked. His father would never guess what he had found!
Aden turned around with a smile, balancing the collected resin on the piece of bark. His son sniffed, and tilted his head a bit. He knows something's wrong, Aden thought. It was almost impossible to hide something from him, he must have gotten that from his mother.
“A stone.”
Kyreth chuckled and opened his fist, grinning proudly. Usually, he brought back some seashells or other small things when they were at the shore. They had made Breanna a small necklace even, seashells and small stones and the like.
It was a stone again, and Aden carefully placed the bark with the resin on the ground to take a closer look at the find. The stone was of a dark orange color and almost as large as his fingertip. “What's it?”
He carefully turned the stone in his son's palm and smiled. “It's amber. Resin that turned into stone a long, long time ago.” Kyreth turned it between his fingers.
“Mommy or I can polish it for you, then you'll see.”
The boy nodded. “What will it look like?”
“The color of our eyes.”
He carefully wrapped the resin in fallen pine needles before putting them into his bag while Kyreth studied the stone.
“So it's forest frozen in past.”
Aden nodded. The sentence reminded him of Galathea, something she said about the color of the eyes of his and his son's – but that was all past now, deep past.
Brea was waiting for them with supper, and Kyreth proudly showed her the amber. She smiled, silently, ruffled his hair and gave him a kiss on the cheek. But the way she looked at her husband made clear that she clearly sensed that something was wrong, something troubling him. “Let's eat. I'll polish it later.”
He had made the fire not very far from home – there could have been better places, far away from the city. At least nobody was bothering him this time with regulations, rules, taxes, fines and fees, the state with its vultures and ticks.
And this was how he remembered, with a rite he learned from the Wolfswood itself. Flames and sparks rose into the starlit nightsky, and it was cold. How cold was the void, how long the road a soul had to travel, and which challenges to overcome?
The resin burned bright, sweet scent of the woods rising high in smoke swirls – up and away into the sky, where this and the spirit world mixed.
“Travel safe, Galathea, from this world to the next through all the realms in between. May your soul find its true resting place, far from the troubles of this world. Inspire us, lead us and so watch over us, until we no longer remember you and your deeds.”
Breanna took his hand and Kyreth's. So they stood, shoulder to shoulder, watching the stars, until there were nothing but embers left and even those had died out.
“Let's go home.”
But he couldn't help to look over his shoulder, for a moment. At the outcrop, next to where the fire had been, something seemed to peel out of the darkness, the silhouette of a large wolf, like caught starlight and filaments of shadows.
“Love?”
He turned his head to Breanna, and smiled weakly. It would be best not to tell his wife, but maybe he should eventually. Seeing ghosts wasn't exactly sign of good mental health.
“It's nothing.”
“Daddy?”
Kyreth was calm, thoughtful, not just sleepy. He could sense it, the difference, and he had a strange feeling about it. He grabbed his father's hand and won't let go.
“Are there ghosts?”
Aden nodded, and Kyreth bit his lip. “Good ones and bad ones, or just bad ones?” Aden tilted his head a bit, studying his son. “Both. Maybe there are spirits, souls that protect us.” He hugged his son, who reached for the necklace around his father's neck, the entangled amulet of silver, topaz, gold and the symbol of the Longstrider. “You daddy will always protect you and mommy, even if you do not see him, or he is not there.” Kyreth nodded. “I'll protect mommy too.”
Aden smiled, because he believed it in all the nativity. Never underestimate children. For a moment, he thought of hiding his family somewhere safe, to hide them from the world, and now then ever, having his son in his arms, this desire for a safe den was stronger than ever.
“Will you protect me when you are gone from this world?”
Aden nodded, feeling the pang and ice deep down inside. “I will. I promise.” Kyreth smiled and changed the subject suddenly. “Tell me a story, daddy.”
The ranger smiled and begun, not noticing his wife standing behind them in the door frame, watching silently, pale and beautiful, and with a worried but yet happy small smile on her face.
She hugged him, when her son finally felt asleep, and her closeness and the feeling of her lips on his neck let the ranger's hair stand on end.
“We missed you so much.”
Her head rested on his shoulder, he could feel her adoration for both her rascals. “You seem restless. Come. Tell me all about it.”
She hugged him closely, and he got up, slowly.
“Do you want me to repair it?” She pointed at the leather armor that hung in his closet. He shook his head and hugged her. “No. It's good like it is. Gala gave it to me.” She understood, warpped his arms around him and then finally, the tears came.
She woke him, later that night. It was cold, dawn was still hours away.
“You're talking in your reverie, my love.” Her eyes studied him, worried, adoringly. “What happened? You never told me much about your grandfather.”
All his muscles seemed to ache, and the ice inside was slowly thawing. “I've been tested, by the Longstrider. And I passed. For now.” She kissed him.
“Rest. Things will be much clearer then. Stay a while. Let me help you.” She paused. “Please?”
He wrapped his arms around her, and she smiled. “I will. No need to ask me for it.”