Arine

Continued from: http://aoc.rp-haven.com/story/neverlin/war_family_reunion_part_i

"Seize her!"

It was the signal.

Voices in her head competed for Dawn’s attention as she wavered, steeped in the serious moral dilemma Neverlin placed her in.  It felt like a blanket smothered her thoughts, suffocating them before reaching the surface.  She turned to face the Invictan, as if seeing her would help Dawn reach a decision.  It only complicated the matter.  Kemena was slim, her ample bosom concealed under a modest homespun dress.  The embroidered neckline of her white gown revealed the Lady's graceful neck. Dawn thought Kemena stood as a statue of righteousness, an epitome of mankind. She sighed, while Wardawn was hardly a stranger to violence, Kemena's aura of sincerity contrasted sharply with Neverlin's clever sophistries

She swallowed hard, wishing she was back in Pollopont.

Continued from:

WAR: Neverlin's Terms.  http://aoc.rp-haven.com/story/neverlin/war_neverlin039_s_terms

and

WAR: Grave Digging: http://aoc.rp-haven.com/story/neverlin/war_grave_digging

 Neverlin seldom asked favors....

Wardawn reflected as she tethered *Beauty, her majestic warhorse to a palm.  As her strong hands carefully looped the reins around the trunk, she pondered why the strange tree leaned at an awkward angle so close to the ground.  She surmised the palm probably blew over during a dust storm while young, continuing to grow outward in an elegant arch thereafter.  Why did she choose this strange tree from among a crowd of perfectly normal appearing ones?  Perhaps she just fancied the oddities of life, oddities like her friend Neverlin.  Giving the rope a final tug and letting out a satisfied sigh, Dawn cleared her mind of the peculiar thoughts.
 

(Continued from WAR: Neverlin's Terms.  http://aoc.rp-haven.com/story/neverlin/war_neverlin039_s_terms)

Neverlin paid no attention to the warm blood threatening to spill over the tops of his fashionable single-strap sandals.

 Instead, the Necromancer devoted his focus on the heavy leather tome he clutched in both hands.  Immersing himself in the monotonous text, he scrutinized every word, silently searching for a single name.  Torches lining the stone walls of the Mitran temple sputtered in protest as a gust of wind swept through the cold chamber.  The shift in light momentarily illuminated a corpse sprawled face down before him on the white marble steps.  Her visage was a mask of desperation; her stiff hands still clinging to Neverlin’s calf.  As the evening wore on, the dead Mitran Priestess’s brilliant azure robe slowly turned a shade of dark plum as a currant of blood seeped from the slash across her throat.