Caradoc

Twilight sets slowly over the northern mountains.  The cloudy night was cool, but not frigid, summer was here.  The crimson glow of sunset ignited the low hanging clouds with a cascade of warm color.  Reds, oranges and yellows, blending to set the sky aflame.

It tickled a little.  The rivulet of blood found its way down the most sensitive part of his spine.  He would arch away from it, but he was shackled, and it would cause excruciating pain to do so.  He was amazed to find he could still notice such sensations. He'd forgotten there were feelings other than pain...

A fluttering light pulled him to conciousness, teasing his heavy eyelids open a bit.  He couldn't focus, he felt drunk.  A figure swam into focus, a woman.  She slowly stepped toward him, menace in her step. As she stepped forward, the soft glow of the torch bathed her face in warm light, setting off her skin tone and calling her features into sharp contrast. 

... Kemena?

He faded into blackness again. He must have been bleary from the beating, there was no way he could've seen a familiar face... could he?

The dim light makes him squint. His head pounds, but thats the least of his worries.  He winces as the large, pale hyperborean drags him up the stairs, but he makes no noise. He won't give them that satisfaction.  This last bout of torture... it was bad. He cant remember much about it, except that they finally got him to scream.  He curses himself silently as his jailor throws him into his cell once more, locking and barring the door.  The darkness covers him like a blanket, caressing him like a lover.  The darkness is his friend.  The light means pain, the dark means rest.  He likes the dark....

NO!

A fist sized stone drops in the market area of Old Tarentia.  Wrapped around it, and tied off with a leather cord, is a note. It is written in neat Vanir runes, in a nearly archaic form.  This note reads:

"To whomever may find this, I ask a task...

                 The task I request, is that this note be delivered to Moki or Aryanna of Anx Ma'at, Kemena of Invicta, Wulfran of King's Guard, or Lluna of Keeper's of the Ways.  "

The second part of the note, is sealed, the bottom half folded up and sealed with melted wax. When opened, it reads:

Moki, Ary, Kem, Wulf, and Lluna...

The blonde woman angrily swept the mugs off the table, not caring if they were half-full.  She was sitting in the Green Man tavern, on a break from Stygia.   Her hands shook, and she reached down and picked up the note she had written, a note apologizing to everyone for taking her own life. 

She scrunched it up.  Fortunately, Caradoc had noticed the knife she was playing with and had taken it off her, and she had no way to carry through on her note.  She put her head in both hands, and let silent tears roll down her face. 

The woman had begun to identify with those she tried to help.  Now at rock bottom, she felt alone. 

The light in the tavern was dim compared the bright light of Tarantia’s early afternoon sunshine. The air was a little smokey from the fires and smelled of stale ale with some more unpleasant undertones. The Green Man wasn’t crowded at this time of day, but there was still a healthy group in for a midday meal and pint of ale or goblet of wine.

The red headed Cimmerian paused briefly at the door as his eyes adjusted to the dimness. He felt more than saw the mug come sailing at by his head and felt it graze his ear as it flew past.

“Yer aim’s off a bit today, Moki.”

“Faek ye, Old Man.”

Kyzafi sat in the fort library the day after the wedding scribing in his journal. It was a small building with many unpacked boxes. He had taken it upon himself to try and organize things, but he knew others used the library as well. Tomes of Mitra were undoubtedly left by Tereska. The room smelled of coffee and cinnamon which he had brought back from Khemi. They were some of the luxuries he had missed from his youth. Perhaps he could introduce the northmen to coffee?

His thoughts were wondering as he tried to write. His discipline and focus were waning recently. It was unlike him to let his mind wander to far. Shelaith had been a hardened task master, but also distilled great wisdom into him. The old mage would sit for hours focused on deciphering some tablet or watching water fall down a leaf. Perhaps that was the source of the old man’s power?

She huddled in the corner of her hut, clinging to the furs still warm
from her sleep. Her father had woke when he smelled the smoke, and was clamoring around retreiving his blades. She saw murder in his eyes by the red light that flickered through the seams in the walls of her home. The man she grew up loving as her guardian, provider,
 and mentor, stepped into the doorway, and she watched him cut down, the blood spraying onto her face and the wall behind her in an arc that was beautiful, in a grisly sort of way.

She saw the face of her father's killer, his red hair glinting in the faint light, which reflected the evil sheen in his yellow eyes. He closed the flap and took off his helmet, loosening his belt...

-Nine months later-