Sunday, December 17, 2017
Text Size
Welcome to the home of House Ancora! House Ancora (HA) is a fellowship of online gamers dedicated to promoting cooperation, role-playing, and merriment in company with one another across the varied landscapes of today’s online gaming environment. We firmly believe that friendship transcends any gaming environment and is independent of any specific style, genre, server, or realm.

Book One - The Elven March to Westgale

Written by - Wilhelm Page 22 Book 1

After finishing off the two undead guardsment with the aid of Isuiln, Ardwen and Ithramir, Wilhelm moved to Mavigan's side to see if she was hurt. He was releaved to see nothing worse than a few cuts from flying glass that did not seem to trouble Mavigan. Indeed, he was impressed with how clam she was in the midst of battle. Truly she was her mother's daughter. He saw her move towards the balcony, accompanied by Isuiln, to check on the mysterious benefactor who had leaped out after the assassin. He moved to join Mavigan as Isuiln then leapt out and down to the balcony below to reach the still form of the assassin crumpled in the courtyard. He saw the two courtyard guardsmen move to join him there.

Looking down where Mavigan was gazing he saw what Mavigan had been talking about and chuckled as he saw her benefactor tangled in the ivy below, which had oddly seemed to wrap around him to halt his fall. Then he noticed the freely bleeding thigh wound.

"That wound is going to need serious healing quickly or he will bleed to death." Wilhelm exclaimed, looking pointedly at Mavigan's glowing holy symbol. As he looked up at Mavigan's face Wilhelm's eyes seemed to glow and his visage momentarily altered and in a different, resonant voice he said,

"My Sister Nagarren could save him if you would only let Her in!"

Written by - Archeantus

There she lay, peaceful, serene….unconscious.

All around her were flowers, red, yellow, purple, orange…it was her funeral…

A spark of consciousness flickered and simmered in her mind. Tearing toward the midnight to embrace her, she screamed and kicked and swore, and then she stopped and watched death slowly fade away. She heard footsteps worlds away come near her. Every sound echoed, even the night’s wind that had brought her here.

There was a music in the air she hadn’t heard before. She did not know what it was.

She suddenly opened her eyes, coming back to life.

And then came excruciating pain.

Her head throbbed, blood dripping across her eyes. One eye was shut completely. It hurt immensely to breathe. Her arm felt numb, disjointed, broken. Yet worst of all, her broken heart continued to beat.

Looking up into the stars, the moon she had sought, she broke under the pain and cried. With tears streaming down her face, she gazed up into the blur of the tears, the glow of the weaving moon, and let go of what she was. Her vengeance left her, and floated upon the music of the echoing wind.

Soon more figures appeared around her, some looked on her with disgust, others had justice flashing in their eyes.

She did not care, she cared about nothing. She was the wind now, listing where fate chose.


Deep down in the pit of the dank sewers, melting out of the shadows, a faint smile could be detected from the dark recesses of his hood.

Kishkumen’s dark eyes warmed in pleasure. His master was pleased with his work…

The two left the place below the sewer vent and headed back into the dark tunnels.

Written by - Trinni Shannon

Even as she makes her way back towards Mavigan's room, sounds of the Citadel awakening fill the halls. The alarm bells, true to their purpose, were calling everyone to action. Though a small city, it is an elven city run by elven rangers; the inhabitants do not sit idly when danger is present.

Rounding the corner, fast approaching the buzz of activity surrounding the young Queen's room, Lithwyn quickly takes it all in. Frowning with dismay as she sees Gilraen and Fnynn ministering to the minor cuts and scrapes of some of the men, she looks beyond to where Mavigan stands at the balcony. The bright glow of her holy symbol reaching her eyes, Lithwyn unconciously reaches for Kaia'hanas' symbol between her breasts. Nodding with understanding, she leaves the priestesses to their work.

"Lord Ithramir, more intruders!" Whirling around she notices to whom the guard is refering.

Shaking her head she approaches to explain. "They are not intruders, they are merely serving staff newly arrived." Turning towards the pair, she tilts her head to the side in question. "When did you say you arrived, and I'm sorry but I still did not catch your names. Did you report to the head cook when you came? In these times we cannot afford such a slip to occur."

Gesturing to the guard, she continues, "He will take you back towards the kitchens. Thank you for the concern but you truly have no business near here this night. We have men and women who are more than capable."

Eyeing the young guard, obviously shaken up by the unexpected comotion, she places a hand on his arm. "Please escort these people back, they are new to our home and our ways. There should be staff at work in the kitchens even now."

With obvious relief, the guard bows low. "Yes, my Lady, right away. You can be sure they will make it there safely! I will not fail you. It is my duty and I am happy to perform it. You have nothing to worry about. I am the best man for the job, you can count on me."

Holding up a hand to quiet his nervous ramblings, Lithwyn smiles reassuringly, nods, and gestures he be on his way.

Assured that the situation is under control, at least within Mavigan's chambers, Lithwyn rushes off to her personal quarters. Striding down the hall, her anger building with each step, she barely notices the guards running to and fro or the shouts from outside in the gardens. Reaching her room, she closes the door behind her and deftly begins to untangle herself from the thick folds of the dinner gown. In a ruffle of fabric, the soft sound of leather binding coming open, the dress is draped over a waiting chair. Moving towards her closet, pale skin shining in the moonlight, she quickly steps into her light leather armor. Fingers nimbly latching here, tying there, she is armored in moments. Reaching into the darkness of her closet, a simple robe is removed and quickly filled as Lithwyn steps into it. Grabbing daggers, bow, and quiver, she emerges from the room and quickly walks out to the courtyard.

Using a tapered wooden stick, simply decorated, she pulls her hair up into a tight twist as she crosses the square yard. Face set with determination, she joins the search.

Enter my home will you? Assault my guest will you? You think elven are so easy to fool, so easy to manipulate. We may be cut off out here, but we are far from weak.

Anger building at the audacity, she cries out, "I'narr en gothrim glinuva nuin I'anor!*" and the men and women around her call out in agreement.

Written by - Teran

Teran grimaced as he was caught awkwardly by the vines. He felt the flesh around his wound tear more and gray/black blood splashed out freely, flowing down his leg and dripping into the courtyard. The distance to the ground was not so great from where he hung, he decided he could easily land unharmed if he needed to.

The Assassin slashed at the vines holding him with his daggers and felt their hold on him loosen. When he was confident he could free himself from their hold with another cut or two he closed his eyes and began to concentrate.

The blood flow immediatly slows, a river becoming a stream or less, however he concentration is broken, as he senses someone approaching from above. He looks up, expecting a guard, perhaps to finish him off while apparently trapped but it was no guard.

“Lle anta amin tu?” she asks.

Though the language was not his own, Teran understood everything she said, and though he could have responded in kind he chose to use the more common human language.

"I thank you for your hospitable offer Mavigan, however I think I will be fine." He says in his soft but firm voice using a tongue common to her kingdom.

He cut the last vines holding him and fell away even as he uttered his last word to her.

He landed hard but managed to keep his feet under him, startling any guards near him. He took a few steps leaving bloody footprints in his wake before he could walk no further. He slumped ainst the wall and slid to the ground, his unusually colored blood pooling around his leg wound.

He watched guards and soldiers surround him with his placid gray eyes, waiting for whatever might come.

Written by - Ariana

Mavigan started a bit as her hero responded in the common tongue. As she watched him slash his way free from the vines and drop to the ground she noticed that her initial impression of him had been incorrect. His ears did not possess the prominent point attributed to her elven kin. In fact, as the moonlight more clearly illuminated him, she thought he looked human. She frowned. She was certain, however, that humans did not shed black blood. Deciding her eyes deceived her, she attributed the blackness of his blood to the faint moonlight.

As she stared at him, she heard Wilhelm’s voice beside her. “That wound is going to need serious healing quickly or he will bleed to death.” His statement caused her frown to deepen. No, having him bleed to death wouldn’t do.

As the though passed through her mind, she felt a chill wind beside her, and then felt a responding wind inside of her. Surprised, she looked over at Wilhelm only to see him lighting up the night with a divine glow. His voice, as he spoke to her had a deep resonance that made the stone precipice upon which she stood tremble. Wilhelm’s eyes glowed, and he spoke in a voice that was not his own –

”My Sister Nagarren could save him if you would only let Her in!”

Mavigan took a step back from him, suddenly unnerved. Her skin had gone completely creepy crawly again, and her mind simply refused to acknowledge what must be true. She was much too frightened to enter this unknown territory. Instead, she convinced herself that Wilhelm was being spooky in order to frighten her, and her eyes narrowed in anger.

“Look you,” she shouted, “I would heal him if I could, but I can’t as you well know!” She took another step back from him, and winced slightly as a stray piece of glass ground into her foot. Not willing to back off from a fight, she unconsciously assumed a defensive position and lifted one finger to poke it repeatedly in his chest.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with you, Wilhelm, but you can cut out with the funny voices and shit. It’s creepy!”

A flutter of movement in her peripheral vision caused her to turn her head. Down in the courtyard, the guards were surrounding her hero, who was slumped against the wall eyeing them warily. When one of them reached for him, an expression of grim determination on his face, her attention completely diverted from Wilhelm.

“Keep your grubby hands off him!” she screamed. Without a thought to her own safety, she hurled herself over the balcony and grabbed hold of the trellis. She quickly climbed down with only minor slippage, and then proceeded to elbow her way through the guards towards the fallen man. There was a loud ripping sound as she tore off a long strip of her now ruined shift and proceeded to bind his leg wound, muttering curses that made several of the guards blush as she did so.

When she was finished, she sat beside him and proceeded to dig a piece of glass out of her foot, her red blood appearing as dark as that of the stranger's in the deep night. As she did so, she inquired with more than a tinge of sarcasm, “Don’t need help, huh?”

Written by - Wilhelm

The Presence chuckled and then the light faded from Wilhelm's eyes and his visage returned to normal. Wilhelm blinked twice and then took a deep breath. Full possession was always unnerving, even though he knew that the Avatar state invited such a possibility. "She doesn't like being pushed," he thought to the Presence within and heard an answering mental laugh as Himself withdrew.

Since matters seemed to be in hand for the moment, Wilhelm released the Avatar state, feeling the fatigue that always followed such a strain. His channels would be on fire for hours from the overload. The glowing aura faded out now that he had ceased the battle chant, although his hammer and shield continued to shine. Turning to face the others, he pointed down to the courtyard.

"We will need the healers down in the courtyard now, as the two combattants are both injured and we need some answers from them. The Queen has some cuts to be attended to as well."

Wilhelm smiled as he remembered Mavigan's swift actions. He knew she was an excellent climber and had not been worried. Indeed, he was glad to see her unnatural silence broken by such a burst of energy and action. She was safe enough for now with Isuiln and the other guards assembling below.

Wilhelm came back into the room and moved to kneel by the two sundered bodies of the guards, making sure they were truly dead this time. He then noticed that each had an unusual ring with a glowing red stone. To his inner sight they shown with dark magic. He wrapped his silk tabard around his right hand and carefully worked the two rings off, then took out his coin purse, emptied the contents into the belt pouch, and used the point of his eating dagger to place the two rings into the purse.

He then moved to Ithramir and gave him the pouch, showing him the rings inside, and said "These are likely the cause of the Undeath spell. Perhaps a mage can use them to trace back to the Necromancer that enchanted them, who may still be in the area."

Written by - Turin Wallace

Ithramir had watched the events silently. He knew the guards below would have everything under control, but raised an eye when Mavigan shouted orders to his troops. As he began to walk away, Wilhelm stopped him and showed him the rings, saying,

"These are likely the cause of the Undeath spell. Perhaps a mage can use them to trace back to the Necromancer that enchanted them, who may still be in the area."

Looking at them a long moment, Ithramir slightly bows his head and says,

"Yes, we should see what a mage has to say regarding these things. I will be unable to find out anything this night, however, you should hold on to them and visit Resini, our mage in the Scholar's Tower. He should have the answers you seek."

Handing the rings back into Wilhelm's care, he moves quickly down to the courtyard and begins assessing the scene. Walking with a purpose, he strides over to Lithwyn and says,

"Take the girl into the lower dungeons. Heal her enough so that she can stay awake to talk. If she doesn't talk, then make her talk by any means necessary. Just don't kill her before I get there."

Throwing an icy glare over at Mavigan, Ithramir storms over and yanks Teran from her arms and shoves him into the wall so their eyes can meet. The moment would have been silent, save for Mavigan's bratty and filthy tongue hurling obscenities at him, but it mattered not. The two just looked at each other, until Ithramir broke their silence,

"I have yet to decide your fate, assassin, though I don't know you personally your look certainly bears the mark of someone who's deeds are well known. Very well known, in fact."

Calling a group of guards over, and still being assailed by Mavigan, Ithramir impatiently says,

"Take this one to the lockhouse until further notice. He is not to be harmed."

Physically restraining Mavigan, Ithramir waits until the assassin and guards are gone before losing his last ounce of patience. Whirling around, rage surpassing her own in his eyes, Ithramir not-so-gently bounces her off of and pins her to the wall closest to them. Still possessed of some form of decency he doesn't yell for all to hear, but forcefully enough says,

"And you, if you ever order my guards around again, you will find yourself bound and gagged as a present for Beridane. I truly don't care if you dislike me, hate me all you wish, but you will learn respect. Let me remind you that you are queen of nothing at the moment, Beridane wants you dead, and the only things standing between you and him is your small band and our army."

Releasing his iron grip, he isn't foolish enough to turn his back on her as he takes a step away, but he just as quickly says,

"As I ordered, he won't be least not yet. Your hero may not be who you think him to be..."

Seeing a guard walk by, Ithramir calls him over and asks him to watch her as he walks away, giving the guard orders to shoot her if she so much as touches her daggers or lunges at him. Ithramir's mood is now foul, as he makes his way to the dungeons, ready to extract some info from the female assassin with Lithwyn's help.

Written by - Archeantus

The elven guards took her away. Handling her by her arms, she bit back the pain. Her head swam in a whirlwind of confusion and clarity. She watched blood drip down from her forehead to the stone ground passing below. Tears intermingled with her blood. She could not walk, they dragged her impatiently. She knew what was coming, but did not know how far she would guard the information she had. She had no reason give them what they wanted, nor did she care what they did to her to get it.

With each step the guards took, her mind and wits came slowly back to her. She had desired death, had mentally relinquished her life. Her life as she knew it, the reason she lived was now over. She felt as though she were dreaming, everything seemed unreal. The pain, the throbbing in her head reminded her it was real and her life now hung on a thread. On their terms. She hated that thought. It sickened her. She would die, but not by their hands. Her sharp will seemed to slowly drift to the surface allowing her to think, to evaluate, to plan.

It was then she recalled the one that had sent her here. His presence felt near. His colossal will towered over her, leaving her in his shadow. He would kill her the moment he saw her. She realized now that no matter what she did or whom she found herself with she would finally end. This comforted her, but enraged her, her life was not in her possession, she had lost it when she flew through that stained glass window. She had to steal it back.

Soon the guards stopped before a great wooden door. The air was damp; there were sconces that glowed with flame in the darkness of the elven dungeon.

There was a tall elven woman that walked beside the guards who occasionally looked at her. She had a stern, divided look to her. Jasmine felt a sense of awe in her, much like she felt when she had looked upon the human queen.

Deity, she realized. What have the Gods to do with me?

The tears stopped finally.

She was dragged through the entrance into a long corridor, torches blazed in the darkness, and the large wooden door boomed shut behind them.

Written by - Ariana

After many minutes of painful probing, Mavigan finally located the last shard of glass and yanked it out of her foot. She stared at the bleeding wound for a brief minute before taking a handful of her shift and wiping the blood away.

It had been relatively quiet for a few moments; the man beside her said nothing and the guards merely eyed her as if she were some sort of curiosity in a freak show. Mavigan mentally acknowledged that to them, she probably was a freak – a person who showed some Elven characteristics but was obviously not Elven.

The silence was quickly shattered, however, when the bane of her existence appeared. Before she could register the events clearly, the man beside her was jerked up and slammed into the wall. Mavigan leapt to her feet, a torrent of obscenity and insults flowing from her mouth. How DARE he?! This man had saved her life when all of his Elven troops, who were supposedly the best warriors around could not. This stranger, whose name she did not even know, had made a genuine effort at protecting her when Ithramir’s heavily armored troops had done nothing but stand around like window dressing!

Most importantly, the stranger had saved her. She was honor-bound to return the favor! And yet, Ithramir, with all of his speeches about honor and respect, did not understand.

He eventually lost his patience, as she knew he would, and slammed her against the wall, just as she had predicted. The back of her head smacked painfully against the stone wall, and for a moment she went cross-eyed. Unable to focus on his face as he leaned into her, she listened to his little speech…

"And you, if you ever order my guards around again, you will find yourself bound and gagged as a present for Beridane. I truly don't care if you dislike me, hate me all you wish, but you will learn respect. Let me remind you that you are queen of nothing at the moment, Beridane wants you dead, and the only things standing between you and him is your small band and our army.”

Her heart filled with rage at his words, and the rage gave her the strength to remain standing when he dropped her. She felt like her emotion was something tangible, churning inside her, demanding release. The wind began sweep through the courtyard with an angry force, despite it having been a calm, quiet night. And as the rage inside her rose in a crescendo, so too did the wind until the trees groaned, and the guards struggled to remain upright.

Respect?! What right did he, or any other Elf have to speak to her of respect? She remembered with vivid clarity how her Mother was ostracized for marrying a human. Each look of disgust she ever received from members of her so called Elven family returned to her mind in quick succession. They punished her Mother for obeying the call of the Goddess; they punished her and her sister for being born. Her blood was tainted. She was less than perfect because she carried the blood of her Father as well as the blood of her Mother.

And here her persecutor stood, telling her she needed to learn respect?

In the blink of eye, the rest of his words came to her, and suddenly she understood. He wasn’t here to protect her. He was here to protect his Elven interests. She, as an individual, meant less to him than nothing. She truly was nothing but a pawn to be used to achieve other people’s ambition. To satisfy their requirements, she had only to breathe. She didn’t have to have a mind or soul. She didn’t have to be whole.

With this new understanding came the realization that no one took her seriously. Not Ithramir, not Beridane, not Wilhelm, not Alaric, not her would be assassin, not Tinorb, not Nagarren. Each perceived her as powerless. As if she had to depend on them in order to achieve any greatness. As if she had no qualities or skills that she could call her own. As if she was only a reflection of their desire.

When she spoke, her voice was cold, and did not betray the tornado she felt inside. Despite the churning of the restless wind, Ithramir could hear her clearly. “I do respect you, Cousin,” she ground out. “I pay you the same sort of respect you, and the rest of my elven family, paid my mother.”

She was pleased to see his back stiffen, but he didn’t turn around. Instead he issued an order.

“Shoot her if she so much as touches her daggers or lunges at me.”

The statement caused Mavigan to smile. If he would willingly hand her over to Beridane, he would just as easily kill her. Perfect. She would have her answer.

She turned that cold smile on the guard who now had his bow raised and aimed at her. She was amused to note he had trouble keeping the aim straight in the face of the turbulent wind. Her hair and shift blew wildly in the wind, as she said clearly, “If you intend to shoot me, I suggest you aim to kill.”

She then turned and took several running steps towards Ithramir. Only one thought fueled her actions.

She was no one’s pawn.

Written by - Ardwen

Ithramir seemed . . . distracted. He ignored Ardwen's question, and he even seemed to have his attention diverted from the rings Wilhelm pulled from the two undead guard's corpses. Curious, Ardwen decided to follow Ithramir down into the courtyard. It seemed to be the center of action after all; there was no reason not to be there.

Staying a fair distance behind Ithramir, Ardwen noted that Mavigan had bound the wound her mysterious savior had suffered during his escape attempt. Mavigan was dabbing a wound on her foot with a piece of cloth, most likely from her already torn shift. Stopping at the arched entrance to the courtyard, sword still unsheathed, Ardwen paused to get a better grip on the situation.

Ithramir restrained the assassin, and Ardwen could hear him mentioning something about the assassin's deeds being well known. The guards fettered the assassin and began dragging him out of the courtyard. Ardwen stepped aside to let them pass, and turned himself to leave: apparently the action was over here.

Something made him stop though, and that was the foul language coming out of Mavigan's mouth. Shaking his head Ardwen sighed, "She is . . . human after all. I'm sure Ithramir will take it well enough." Turning to take one last look down the hallway past the opening to the courtyard, Ardwen found his prediction to be direly wrong.

Ithramir had Mavigan pinned against one of the courtyard walls, he was too far to hear what was said, but it wouldn't have mattered as Ithramir was keeping his voice and tone guarded in an effort to just speak to Mavigan. Releasing her, Ithramir begins to walk away.

Then the real trouble started. A strong wind began to blow; the wind seemed to come from everywhere at once and was increasing in intensity with every passing moment. Mavigan stood within the churning wind, her hair and shift tossing wildly in its current.

The trees moaned in the increasing gale, and it appeared the guards had trouble standing. Clad in heavy armor and used to physical resistance, Ardwen found the attempt much easier, but it still did not settle his unrest at how the quiet night air had turned into such turmoil. Mavigan then spoke in a voice as cold as the biting wind itself, "I do respect you, Cousin. I pay you the same sort of respect you, and the rest of my elven family, paid my mother.”

Those words hit home to Ardwen, pushing at the borders of his mind. There was a simple truth in them that brought back troubling thoughts; thoughts he would have rather left buried. What had he been doing with his life lately? What . . . what would they think of him now?

It was not the wind that then made Ardwen shudder; it was something more sublime than any gust of air. He stood there, as if stricken dumb as Ithramir gave the order to a passing guard to shoot Mavigan if she made a move for him or her daggers. He stood there as Mavigan taunted the guard, telling him if he was going to shoot that he'd best aim to kill. He stood there as she began to run at Ithramir.

He stood there as the wind billowed his cloak and tossed his hair . . . this witch's wind which was as chaotic and as troubling as were the thoughts that ran through his shattered mind.

Written by - Agmund

Bringing the horse to a halt before the stables common, his body twists as he dismounts, dull black boots stepping lightly to the ground as he leads the horse within. A soft hum erupts from his lips as he slips inside the stable and prods the old brown mare into a stall. Lifting the aged leather saddlebags from the horses back, he slings it over one shoulder. His hands seemingly blending in with the leather of the bags, worn and tanned from the sun, his travels and age more than apparent in the lines.

A faint smile curls upon his lips as he sees the stable boy. “She’s a tired old lass, so give her plenty of oats and if you have any she enjoys sugar cubes, but mind you… not to give her too much,” his feet carrying him towards the boy as he speaks. Stopping in front of him, he briefly inspects the lad as he replies with a somewhat furtive “Yes… sir.”

“I am Father Agmund, and by what name are you called young fellow?” he asks inquisitively. “Tomas,” the boy merely whispers out. “Tomas, a pleasure to meet you, word of your name and deeds proceeds you,” the old priest looks at him with amazement, his hands and body becoming animated as he tosses them up and out. “In the farthest of lands and the most dangerous of treks,” his tall body folds at the waist as he leans down with a gleeful look “it is whispered that by far you are the greatest keeper of horses, the most prominent procurer of oats, and the finest hand with a horse brush in any realm known to man.”

The boy quickly covers his mouth to keep from laughing, which causes the old priest to burst out into his own laughter. His long braided beard sliding side to side on his thin frame as he leans back with glee. “Now I of course understand that with such a reputation you demand a high price,” his hand disappears into a small pouch resting just behind the handle of his flail “so it is my hope that this simple priest can afford the services of such a Grand Stable Master as yourself!” Settling his hand upon the two remaining coppers he tugs them free and drops them into the boys open hand. “By your leave,” the priest bows low, drawing more laughter from the boy “I am off too see what trouble I can get myself into.”

Written by - Teran

Teran stared into Ithramir's eyes with an unblinking gaze. He listened to what the man said without even the slightest reaction. The guards began to escort him to the lockhouse, however before they made it out of the courtyard Mavigan's wind started. All eyes were on her as she charged after Ithramir and with that as a distraction Teran prepared to break free of his guards and tackle the nearest bowman.

Written by - Turin Wallace

Ithramir heard her words, he even heard her footsteps lightly falling on the stone walkway as she charged toward him. He felt the divine wind whipping about him, he waited as he heard the guard being tackled, her footsteps even closer now. Looking up as the stormclouds gathered, blocking the moon, he hears the pit-pat of her feet echoing louder.

Just before she get's close enough to do her work, a crackling sound comes from Ithramir, and he is consumed with flames. His eyes were glowing white hot, his hair brilliant red, his armor steaming and radiating with heat. The courtyard is ablaze with light, the earthly avatar of Avandor confronting the budding avatar of Nagarren.

Deftly, she lunges at him, an awful boom is heard in the courtyard and her daggers fail to pierce the barrier of his armor. A small bit of the divine caused the small explosion, as her attack was somewhat augmented by her innate magical skill. The force was enough to knock her down, yet Ithramir was unfazed and moved toward her, his now white eyes focusing on his target. Kicking her daggers away, he pulls his longsword out and holds it to her neck.

With a voice not entirely his own, the mortal mixed with the divine, it says,

"Mavigan Brelonna, daughter of men and elves, earthly avatar of Nagarren, do not challenge those that hold you safe. Your will may be strong, but you lack refinement. Your will makes you feel safe, but it is your greatest downfall. Your enemy does not lay in these walls points the flaming blade towards the gates they lay out there. My avatar Ithramir goes to battle to protect our dying people, he is harsh, but with reason. We will not allow Ithramir to fall, at least not from your blades, for his fate has already been cast ages ago, when the world was young. Further, I and Kaia'hanas call Nagarren friend. Remember this."

Ithramir's eyes close, his glowing hair fades, his armor quits steaming, returning him to his normal self. Looking down at her, his eyes still registering a heated anger, he manages to say,

"For the record, the only elves who cursed your mother for marrying a human were those from Alyatol. Your family and the elves here were on very good terms. Do your research more properly the next time."

Removing himself before his anger releases the energy of the elven god of war, he manages to look back and say,

"You earn no respect by being a brat, and an ingrate, even if you are Nagarren's avatar. You want me to treat you like an adult, as a Priestess of Nagarren, then carry yourself as one. I would be most impressed if you could do this..."

Walking past his guards, the anger still fresh on his face, he storms off into the dungeons to see what Lithwyn has learned, if anything.

Written by - Kiradia Afirewen

A calling... pain... rage. The ancient power, twisted by rage and pain. Blossoming down a dark path. The ley lines wound around the distant beating heart; black as sable. “Nargarren, protect the child from herself. I am almost there.”

Her revere was broken by a deep voice to her left, “Lass! Get back to da livin'. Yer goin' ta get your horse caught in them vines!” The deep voice belonged to a dwarf called Diosr. A military representative of the dwarven kingdom with one thousand stout dwarven ax infantry and two hundred dwarven crossbowmen.

“What? Oh,” the Priestess of Nargarren looked up with her eyes open, a faint afterglow in her eyes from the effects of connecting with her Goddess, “I am sorry Diosr, but there is much happening that is hidden from my eyes. I must see, we must move quicker.”

She looked above her at the gathering clouds before turning back to Diosr.

Diosr looked on the Priestess with sadness, being a religious warrior (though not a warrior of any specific God or Goddess) he wasn't one to gainsay the words of a Priestess.

“I'm sorry Priestess Alulael, but we wont be makin' it to the Queen today. Tomorrow morning at the best.”

Nodding Alulael turned and started to ride forward again. She was at the front of the long line of dwarven warriors and a-top her horse she had a commanding view of the forest around her. Still, it was not enough for her to see the elves suddenly sprout out of the forest floor like weeds. Their bows were rased level to her heart and head and the rest of the dwarves around her. Alulael and the dwarves behind her near jumped with suprise.

“Who stands before us and wishes to enter?” A male elf stepped forward as he spoke.

Stepping forward Alulael rested her right hand on the top of her staff which hanged on the side of her horse.

“I am Alulael,” she forgoed her title, not wanting anyone to know what she was yet, “with me is Commander Diosr with one thousand ax infantry and two hundred dwarf crossbowmen. We come to pledge our support to the true Queen of the human kindgom and to fight against the Orcs, we hear they are amassing for another attack soon.”

Nodding the elf had his men lower their bows, “You may stay with our camp tonight, we will send riders to tell the fortress of your arival so that they may make room. Is this agreeable?”

Diosr nodded his head and the two armies began to set up camp. While this went on two riders on fast horses sped their way to the fortress in the distance.

Restore Default Settings