Lure O' War (The Old Realms)

Glen

Glenavon Reeves

Arguen Garth

Hardir O' Fardor

Lord of Morn Taras

Monarch of Wetull

King beyond the Pale Mountains

Aniculo Rokae

Duath Erin I Menel

Malantur O' Furu

Rhu Fareno

Female of its species

Part II

-The King's feast-

-

Asper

The ruins of Nyomel Port

Torn Earth Canal

West of Marionel River's Delta

Asper saw Kelly trip in her attempt to turn and she let out a scream that chilled his blood. The young woman fell to the old road and rolled on the hard surface to avoid the axe guy. Beskar who had to deal with the other brigands was pushed back as he got attacked from two sides, which left Asper in a precarious position.

The brigand facing him was a Zilan and he'd already knocked down Asmudius. The tagging along in their journey Asmudius, had the stupid idea to probe them on their business when the job was to secure the ancient port until the local guard increased its manpower. Sure it was a bit pointless to guard the port when the old city before it was mostly unsafe or packed with looters, but still… 'You perform the task you got paid for', Asper –a practical man since his days in the arena- thought, and 'nothing more.'

The Zilan swung with his halberd, a nasty weapon to defend against, and ruined the former-gladiator's shield. He had managed to get it off his back whilst defending with the shortsword. Which you can't really. Asper knew how fast a scrap can turn on you. He had also been a former-general of the Chiliad in his past, but in the present he was but a new adventurer with little coin to show for and this was his brand new shield. He cursed, gave a kick to the groaning Asmudius in order to wake him up –another man of many former professions, now dabbling at writing and journalism- and the bleeding down his right ear ex-slaver tried to stand up on shaking knees.

"Humans and Zilan alike! Vile Philistines and grave-robbers tied at the hip!" Asmudius cursed poetically –a vile man himself in his past- whilst Asper took a blow on the shoulder-guard and was tossed on a cracked wall like a ragdoll. Half the wall came down, old stone bricks hitting the ancient pavement or his head, and the Zilan took a step keeping his weapon extended to keep the bruised, now bleeding, but still armed with the shortsword Asper away.

Asper had a couple of better weapons inside the saddlebags.

Even so, it wasn't that they lacked weapons so much, as that they had started a blind fight right at the turn of the road leading to the port, after Asmudius went to probe the first brigands on the contents of their laden cart. You can't be a journalist and a constable at the same time you dabble as an adventurer.

Asper and Beskar didn't have time to warn Asmudius to shut up.

The other three had appeared a moment later and instead of surprising this gang of ruffians, they had gotten surprised instead. Asper had killed one, but then the unprepared for a scrap Kelly had gotten separated from them –now retreating from the axe carrying brigand- and Beskar who had the spear with him was forced to retreat in the narrows, as he'd just gotten out of his hoplite cuirass to swim in the river.

Perhaps a fight had always been inevitable.

"Haryk!" The Zilan with the axe yelled pushing Kelly back down on the street with a boot to the chest. "That's a pretty girl."

"Um. Fine. You've swayed me. The girl for the man I lost. A fair trade, nothing unlawful about it!" Haryk told them in rough common. "Park was a clumsy fool of a human, but he was my clumsy human!"

"Hey! Here's your trade! Suck my oiled cock!" Beskar barked defending against another spear-wielding Zilan and the first of the two humans they had encountered. The latter was bleeding down his left leg but could still swing with his sword and was busy trying to flank the gladiator.

Eh, not the time to aggravate matters brother! Asper thought with a glance at the stumbling from the blow to the head Asmudius.

Even so…

"You touch a hair on Kelly," he warned the Zilan with the axe. "I'll rip your heart out."

"Ha!" The Zilan guffawed. "How about I leave her hair and eat her heart instead?" He probed with a nasty, toothy leer.

God damn it Asmudius! Asper cursed the play-writer, realizing they had found what he'd believed rare at one time -a gang of flesh-eating looters.

Couldn't you pick another mission?

"You had your offer…" Haryk started and Asper clenched his jaw. He reached for a brick to add to his meager arsenal, but the Zilan brigand paused spotting a lone figure walking towards them out of the corner of his eye. "Eroan! Who's that coming up from the port?" He barked and the Zilan with the axe glanced at Kelly, then at his friends fighting with Beskar, before turning his head around to perceive the approaching woman.

For she was a woman.

She wore narrow-style robes, painted white and adorned with golden threads that complemented the hue of her skin beneath a large, yet cheap straw hat. The Kimono-inspired robes featured side openings along her legs, which were draped with delicate strips of white cloth that extended to her hips. As she drew closer, her eyes, which were circled with black paint, stood out against the thick golden paint of her face, and were now even more apparent beneath the brim of her hat. She carried a long staff, scratch that… it was a polearm of sorts, ending in a long blade. A weapon Asper had seen once before.

At least a couple of years back outside Lai Zel-Ka.

Ah.

"What in Abrakas' tentacles are you?" Eroan asked and rested his axe over his right shoulder. "Here's some advice. Turn around and walk back towards the port, I can see your ship."

"He who seeks truth in the abominable squid's dreams," the exotic woman told them in nice Imperial after she came to a stop three meters from Eroan, slowly tapping the street with the butt of her polearm-sword. Her painted black eyes were a very dark green and the also painted gold face skin gleamed in the sun's rays. She looked like a strange doll. "Receives murky answers and stands an ignorant pagan."

"Huh?" Eroan grunted and Asmudius blinked, blood dripping down his neck, then raised an arm recognizing the woman. "What the fuck is she talking about Haryk?"

"Abhorrent idolaters and false gods," Haryk said, sounding mildly amused. "My father had met one of you fanatics in his youth. The sun and its moons kowtow to the Lord of the Heavens. Bah!" he cast a measuring glance at the tensed Asper –now hefting that brick- and then appeared to reassess the situation. Decisions, Asper read the Zilan leader's mind. You still hold advantage, eh? This is a big weapon she carries sure, but can such a small woman wield it? "Less fancy dressed, but painted like Aken used to. Preached a thicker version of whatever Uher's idiots do today. Didn't last long, your kin. Nobody wanted to listen. In the Lord Wyvern's lands," Haryk continued with a purse of his lips. "Only one set of laws matters, even for priests or witches."

"Is this the Lord Wyvern's bidding then?" She asked evenly. "Attacking a woman?"

What did they call themselves?

"The Lord's… eh, you missed the fucking point lass. Right here it is mine," Haryk retorted in a gruff manner and Eroan took a casual step forward to close the distance between them. "And I say, two are better than one. Females leave a nicer flavor to the palate and fetch a darn good price," he admitted and Eroan rushed the Priestess of Light.

Asmudius, still dazed from the blow, ogled his eyes and then rumbled hoarsely, just as the pretending to have given up Asper coiled to leap into action as well with his heart thudding excited.

"Asper," the aspiring journalist and writer had said, sounding a bit perplexed -given the distance and the place from their last encounter with one. The rarity of their kind. "She's one of them plaguin' Nina-Musha."

Yeah, Asper thought and then the strangely named polearm-sword split Eroan in two like he was made out of a giant piece of goat butter. It cut straight down the top of his skull, split the sternum and neatly came out of the groin. It was snatched back by the woman with one arm before the two pieces separated and then came back for another parallel to the ground two-handed swing within that same second. That follow up hack caught the probably already dead Eroan above the right hip and chopped him in two.

Again.

Scratch that.

It was in four pieces.

-

Two weeks later

Morn Taras yard

Night of 22nd to 23rd of Netel Linde 3401 IC

"A FEAST! Let's hear a merry tune!" Folen declared, grasping at the opportunity to use the cracked lute he carried. One of the musicians in his group of shifty thugs Folen had readily produced in the two hours that had passed since Glen's declaration –they worked in his venue so they came experienced and very cheap, tossed him a violin bow and Folen grabbed it with a bit of flash. He then placed it on the strings of the lute and moved it in a sawing motion twice as if he had a viola.

The hairs stood up on Glen's arms at the screeching noise. "Stop that lecherous cretin!" He barked and the palace guards moved in to take the instrument from Folen's hands. With a scowl, the King walked near Laedan and Rama, who were inspecting the damage done to the central stable. The smallest building of the three in that part of the yard.

"The horses are parked to the south," Rama explained to the frowned Glen, who had his mind on Folen and the servants setting up the tables for those attending the feast. Those about to arrive since the news got out and of course the Morn Taras residents already present. "So we saved most of them. Lost six mules, two fillies we wanted to use to crossbreed, and all the Ostriches," Rama added sadly and the tired Laedan pointed at the slightly charred carcasses in the destroyed dens. The place was still smoking and walking in the watery sludge created by the firefighters had ruined Glen's new leather pants. "Plus the one, you killed yourself Caliph."

Shut the fuck up.

Ruffian!

"Hey!" An angry Glen grunted snapping his fingers to focus the bandaged Rama on his words. He wanted to punch him in the face, but Rama's cranium probably couldn't withstand another blow. "That bird was burning already. It was the god's will. Read my lips! The bird was half-dead. Three quarters gone more like. You got all that?"

"Absolutely great Caliph," Rama agreed with a deep bow. "I saw it clearly."

"Good. Spread the word. Warn everyone, I'll not tolerate any falsehoods spilled about my person!"

"Eh, you're overreacting," Laedan mumbled and dropped the carcass he had tried to pull out of the rubble. "Might as well tear it all down Hardir."

"The other birds were killed in the blast?" Glen asked with a glance at the damage about them. Sixty meters away, the servants had brought the tables out, created a square shape with one large table on each side, and even set up the chairs in the top one –nearer to Morn Taras' Keep.

"Nah, the blast wiped out that wall, killed the mules in their dens, but it was a partial collapse initially," Laedan explained. "Then the flames reached the roof, slowly weakened the supports and then everything collapsed fully… about twenty minutes it took tops, but most animals had been suffocated from the fumes by then."

"The birds got poisoned? Damn it," Glen cursed. "Can we use their meat? They expect over two hundred people. Double that given the freeloaders we've amassed over the years!"

"Bah, I'll serve the mules in your place," Laedan snorted. "Voldomir will eat anything!"

"My lord their meat is perfectly fine, but the birds were killed by Raro," Rama expounded and Glen stared at him numbly. "He slipped inside in the chaos and killed them one by one."

"Why?"

"The lion is in a bad mood after losing its mate," Rama replied and the King breathed out a little frustrated.

"Well, we need to find a female Ostrich some-fucking-how. It must be similar to this one or made to look like it," he told them.

"Uh? Whatever for?" Laedan retorted sounding incredulous. "We don't have any birds at all now. Might as well scrap the project Hardir. Who cares about them darn birds? Only those weirdos from Abarat use them."

"The eggs…" Rama tried to say but Laedan cut him off.

"Chicken eggs taste better!" He paused to think about it. "Nothing beats a human liver obviously," the Denmaster added.

Glen reached with a hand and touched the shoulder of the shocked at Laedan's words Rama. He stared in the stable-master's eyes soberly.

"My Lord," Rama said respectfully, coming about.

"Oh, for crying out loud, this Cofol is about to suck your cock!" Laedan snapped in disgust. "And folk pretend I'm the weird one!"

"I need an Ostrich with tits," the grimacing Glen told Rama and Laedan guffawed.

"Good grief. Vindicated before my spit dried out. Haha!"

"Laedan," Glen warned. "Keep in mind you are still under parole. Your crimes fresh in mind."

"What about your crimes?" Laedan retorted and shook his head. "Eh, fuck it. I was making a jest about how weird you normal folk are. By the way, your fool needs to find an Ostrich merchant and twist his arm to make him give up a female of good age. They are indeed valuable for their eggs for whatever reason. They taste like mud. As I said, folk are weird."

Glen breathed out in frustration.

"I'll find an Ostrich Caliph," Rama reassured him.

"This slant-eyed motherfucker gives me cocksucker vibes," Laedan insisted, despite Glen's austere glare. "Alright, fine. I'm going up the keep to wait for the wyvern," the Denmaster declared.

"Get the kitchen staff here to help you carry the meat," Glen ordered Rama. "Discreetly, but keep it away from my table. Anyone asks, tell him the King wants a big cut of pork, preferably bacon."

After another half an hour of giving instructions to the personnel on how to keep the cost of the event down, Glen went to sit on the big chair prepared for him. His attempt at cost-saving futile, as the guards on the southwest gate tower could see the row of lights heading up the road towards Morn Taras from the city. Despite the hour dragging late, a feast was a continuous affair and the word spread out quickly to the citizens.

The king almost made it to the table, but spot Ziba-Ra sitting there and turned around, walked five meters towards another group saw Ivasaar talking with Memphes, and yet again pivoted away wanting to have a quiet moment. He found Atju preparing refreshments –the kitchen wouldn't bring out any food for a while- and went to have a goblet of wine, but a strong arm grabbed his shoulders, span him around and he found himself engulfed in Troy's broad chest.

"Hey there! Good ole Lord Wyvern!" Troy guffawed, soaked in sweat and oil, his breath smelling of cheap wine. "Get in. Embrace the hug. I heard you returned, but then everyone had thought the same two days prior," Troy continued whilst a scowling Glen pushed him away. "And we got that dude over there. Heard he rode Memphes for ten hours straight, but hey, you know what I think?" I don't care? Gods. This is going to be embarrassing! "You want to brag, do it in front of everyone! Huh?" Troy yelled loud enough for Ivasaar to hear him, nailing the Zilan with a challenging stare.

"Fuck's say man, he's a guest!"

"That's what I'm saying fool."

"Are you serious? Enough with this plaguing intimacy!" Glen griped. "Ah, and you should put a blasted jacket on! Wear a chiton to cover your balls at the very least! My daughter might look down from her window!"

"Don't worry about it. This is a gladiator's under skirt. No more fabric than this is needed! And what's this about a jacket? In this heat? Know that I just sprinted up the incline from the barracks. Nine kilometers. No stops!" Troy revealed with a fierce grin and took Glen's filled goblet. Lifted it to his face and glugged down its contents greedily. "Ah. Now that's some good shit milord," he said with a thunderous burp, then snatched the bottle from the gawking Atju's hands to refill his goblet. "You should have some also. What's with the long face?"

Glen signaled for Atju to find him another goblet. "Well, you know how kings have bigger problems than commoners?"

"That so? Ditch the throne, be a commoner! Tell you what, let's go back down the hill," Troy jested and finished the second helping as fast as he'd disposed of the first one. Seeing Glen's sour face he sighed. "Like what?"

"Having another…" Glen started and stopped to push the stooping towards him Troy away. "Step back. You smell like a drunk horse without the fur."

"Look at this," Troy said and snapped his arm in a muscle building pose. The biceps bulging out as he span around slowly for the bystanders. "Everything shaved. Lard burned to the bone. No furry stuff," he continued whilst Glen rolled his eyes at his silliness. "Front, back, cock and balls. Right Atju? Wanna see more? You look interested mate!" Troy asked the slave and Atju blinked unsure as he'd been caught staring.

"Leave him alone," Glen grunted and tasted his wine, at the same time noticing Fikumin arriving with Phinariel and Rimeros. The other dwarf escorting them. Theron Stone brows something. The two Zilan towering over the two glowering dwarves.

"Listen, I wanted to talk to you about Ziba," Troy started and Glen puffed out.

"I have to speak with Fikumin," Glen grimaced. "Go ahead."

"She asked again for permission to leave Morn Taras."

Come on woman! Glen cursed with a glare at the sitting Ziba-Ra. "I'm working on it. Ahm… she can't… Troy, Jelin is in shambles right now and Lesia too far away. I can't protect her out there mate."

"I could."

Glen sighed and stared in his square-jawed sweaty face. "Troy she might be young still, but Ziba has a child to worry about. The life she seeks… trust me, is too-boring for you. Man, Lesia is like a more sanitized Regia. Lorians that like Uher are the worst."

"Life is not boring near her," Troy said and glugged down his third goblet in five minutes.

"Just take the bottle," Glen urged him. "Atju shall open another."

"Your feast is boring Lord Wyvern," Troy declared looking about him.

"The feast hasn't started yet and you are drunk," Glen retorted. "We'll have some music, someone will think of some game or other."

"Games!" Troy decided and looked at him intently. "You can start the games right here!"

"Troy, I'm not funding… Listen mate, there's no way people will find interest in the arena like they do back in the Peninsula. It's a different culture."

"Not the arena games. Something different," Troy argued passionately. "But the people are the same everywhere Lord Wyvern," the former champion continued. "They do it on Jelin already. They flock to see men fighting it out with sword and shield. Adrenalin pumping, people screaming, blood and sand."

"You are describing the gladiator games mate," Glen interrupted him.

"No," Troy argued. "Okay fine. So what? You don't have slaves here!"

"Sure," Glen yielded. "Why would normal people risk their lives on the sands? Coin? There are easier ways to get coin my friend."

"Glory."

"That's overrated," Glen countered and tapped his shoulder once. "Behave and don't fight anyone."

"Bah," Troy grunted and jumped on the table across Ziba-Ra.

"Are you drunk yet?" She asked him before he'd the chance to speak.

"Just about," Troy told her hoarsely. "But you can help me get sober."

Oh, boy, Glen thought shaking his head and marched near Fikumin to greet the Lord Shield.

"Fiku, Phina," Glen started with a big smile, happy to see them again. "I heard the good news. Stone for Brows," he greeted the bearded dwarf next to Fikumin, carrying the big double axe.

"Gravelbrow," Theron growled, voice coming out a deep rumble out of a box filled with… well, gravel. He has a lot of voice for such a short person fer sure, Glen thought.

And look at that nose.

Good grief!

"Monikers are a type of endearment for the good Monarch," Phina interjected with a smile.

Why are you so clever? And turning cuter with every season… Glen wondered examining the all-grown up Zilan female. Then he noticed Fikumin's disapproving stare and mimicked his expression. "Rimeros… ehem, I'd like a word. Let's give the Lord Shield the time to seat himself," he added all-serious and Fikumin snorted.

Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

"You need to address the second wyvern," Fikumin grunted.

"We are all over it friend," Glen deadpanned with a knowing glance at Rimeros, who despite taken unawares nodded in a believable manner.

"Absolutely, Lord Shield," Rimeros lied. "The King is appraised on the matter already. He stands fully aware."

"A'right. What the fuck is going on?" Glen asked Rimeros the moment Fikumin was out of earshot. "This motherfucker up and ambushed—"

"Is a Zilan," Rimeros cut him off pointing at his long ears. Ah. "We perhaps can speak near the stables?" He offered before his eyes spotted the damage to the buildings.

"I have a better idea," Glen said and whistled for Folen to notice them. "Play a tune!"

"A grey moon, Hardir?" Folen asked jumping up from his stool. He was speaking with the small group of musicians' right in the middle of the four large tables.

"A tune!" Glen barked to be heard over the noise of the gathering crowd and signed for Rimeros to follow him away from the royal table.

"Lord Garth," Rimeros said after Folen's band started scratching their instruments, much to the annoyance of those arriving or already present. "We didn't have a better alternative. An Aniculo Rokae can cause a lot of trouble. They are afforded honors in order to avoid just that."

"Alright. What do we do going forward?" Glen grunted.

"You need to involve him in the decisions, and auspiciously he doesn't give the impression he's about to create problems. Ivasaar appears to be homesick and a solid Imperial," Rimeros explained. "But he could. In the old days, Aniculo Rokae fought each other over land and riches. For power and control, until the Elderbloods decided to elevate Ninthalor to the throne. Since then the Aniculo Rokae serve the King of Wetull, work with him. It stopped the violence and enabled our ancestors to move forward."

"Now it makes more sense, but it is still uncomfortable," Glen decided. "Who was involved in this decision?"

"This happened well before my time," Rimeros replied. "The Sibyl Sintoriela brought it to the Council, but it was partially Kallister's idea. The Coven agreed it was the best option and the throne assumed the responsibility of keeping the wyvern-riders at bay."

"You are talking about events that happened before the First Era," Glen murmured with a grimace at the ruckus the musicians produced.

"That is correct. We don't want a return to those times. Whilst many disagreed with giving full power to a King, the alternative was chaos," Rimeros revealed and Glen nodded in agreement.

"I've heard some of the names before," he told the Castellan. "This Kallister, Sintoriela obviously is Lith's grandmother, where they all from the Six Peaks Island chain?"

"Probably. We are talking about very old history Hardir. Kallister historically lived at the edge of the Witch's Dagger Peninsula though. Nobody can tell you whether he was an islander or not. I don't even know whether his tower stands still, but it was a ruin when I was a kid. Sintoriela must have left the isles very young to study near the great wizard, but when she discovered Nesande's Garden she returned to the old ways, walking a different path than him. The Coven remained island bound for the most part under Galadriel. Goras and Elauthin followed Sintoriela's lead at the beginning since Ninthalor owed her everything, then Edlenn, but they eventually broke with the rest of the witches completely after the King's murder."

Glen signed for him to continue. "Here's your chance. Usually, I skip history lessons, but I may need to get a crash course tonight, be prepared to combat any shenanigans."

It wasn't a matter of if something happened, but when it would.

"Very well then," Rimeros said with a sigh. "There was a split already since the old days between the teachings of Kallister, who favored exploration and clashed with the traditionalists of the Coven. Raza Sapthan they called him, the Wizard Traveler, for he ventured far beyond Wetull's shores in search of knowledge. Sintoriela, while she started as his pupil, looked to walk down the more trotted paths. All this is history I've learned from texts without standing a witness. Few remain that had known Kallister personally -if anyone, or even Sintoriela, who was lost some time after he did, during the first or second century of Ninthalor's reign."

"They clashed?" Glen asked and Rimeros shrugged his shoulders.

"Even the rumors are old by now Hardir," the advisor admitted.

"Who would know more?" Glen probed watching Ivasaar tell a story of Mistland under the sound of Folen's band of thugs. "The witches?"

"Not all witches. The Sibyls sure. But Ena is gone and so is Galadriel, who was young then and Sintoriela's best pupil. Edlenn who had the knowledge from her mother was killed obviously according to rumors."

"Not rumors," Glen murmured. "I get the sense we only take one side's words here. What about Kallister's school of thought?" He probed and Rimeros grimaced.

"Tinyssos? He had a bad reputation, shunned from the rest. Also long dead," Rimeros replied. "The fool poisoned himself with something."

I bet it was Saereg. There's a disturbing thought. "What about Dudrina?" The grim-faced Glen asked.

"Curu Nulema?" Rimeros grimaced and then glanced at the arriving visitors. Morn Taras was lit up with hundreds of lightstone torches, posts illuminating the path from central gates to the yard and the feast's tables. "Kallister with tits," Rimeros said and Glen raised his brows. "She was as controversial as he'd been."

"People that knew her speak differently," Glen noted.

"Hah. Who claims to know of Dudrina? Few of those that had the pleasure are still around and they'll probably not talk about it," Rimeros smiled before sobering up. "Hardir. Dudrina barely left Coal Isle. She wasn't social or sought after unless you lacked partners for an orgy and were in a bind. Mori might sing her praises, but if it was Unor you talked with, then remember that the respected Hoplite is still a Coal Isle native. I'd like this comment to stay between us."

I would too, in yer stead. Unor is sculpted like Troy, only meaner.

"I've been to Coal Isle the previous week," Glen revealed and Rimeros gulped down nervously.

"I thought Hardir had gone after the witch," he said visibly surprised. "You found survivors?"

"You can at least pretend to be pleased Rimeros. Be less of a dick. More than five thousand made it, less than ten," Glen replied and raised his goblet to sip some wine. "Seventy percent of them Mori but plenty of Silivren from Altariel made it across. Ylyndar amongst them."

"Lord Vengen's Ylyndar?"

"The same. He made sure to note the fact," Glen retorted. "His father didn't make it."

"I see. Silivren is not a polite term Hardir. We are Zilan," Rimeros noted stiffly as it was visible it had bothered him.

"And Mori aren't?" Glen deadpanned.

"You'll find some folk who might adhere to the notion."

I can see one right in front of me!

"Not in my court, they won't," a sober Glen warned him and Rimeros bowed his head.

"Hardir's words are extremely clear," the experienced court advisor and official replied.

"Good," Glen retorted tauntingly. "Would Dudrina know?" He asked remembering Valydra's cryptic words about her quest.

"I have no idea what Dudrina knew," Rimeros admitted still discomforted with what Glen had told him. "Whilst she was very young at the time and Tinyssos pupil, there is a rumor Kallister favored her above any of his disciples. Disciple is a loose term, nobody knows how he run things and the extent of their relation."

"Are you saying they were fucking? He was old as shit and not very pleasant as a character," Glen probed a little amused.

"My Lord," Rimeros said with a grimace of distaste. "It is rumored Dudrina bedded Lord Ayas, the Isles Imperial Rangers commander, whilst rolling in the hay with his daughter, the witch Scalanis. The latter not very surprising as Scalanis only slept with females. Other rumors speak of her and Lord Onas, plus several other prominent or completely unknown characters. Not all of her partners were upstanding citizens or even humanoids for crying out loud! She had a complete disregard of common ethos or any societal barriers. I wouldn't put it past her."

"Wait. Scalanis didn't favor the occasional girthy phallus?" Glen probed, trying to keep the conversation respectable.

Rimeros blinked. Then he snorted. "Hah. Goodness me. Of course not. I mean yes… in a sense, but not in flesh Hardir." Uh? "She's credited with fashioning her own. Some of her creations many considered unnatural in size or shape." Aha! "Several of her… more sought after models are still circulating today unfortunately."

Jinx has one fer sure! As big as my arm. Ha!

Eh, it's pretty disturbing shite that's true.

Glen stood back with a frown.

Well then, this also creates a bit of a peculiarity. If the cunt-enthusiast Scalanis didn't sleep with men at all, how in Luthos fake phallus did she pop out that cretin Galater? He wondered.

Mayhap, she didn't? Could it be this dandy lying fool has another… mother?

Hmm.

Eh, it doesn't concern me, I suppose, the King decided and had some more of his flavorful personal wine. We nailed this batch, Glen thought smacking his lips and watched the servants start bringing the first plates from the kitchen.

"Is that the… bird?" He asked Rimeros and the advisor furrowed his brows.

"My lord? Ehm, you'll serve chicken?"

"Never mind," Glen replied, remembering Rimeros didn't know about the accident that was about to enrich their menu and keep the cost as low as possible for the Kingdom's coffers. The King's purse was tied to the Kingdom's, so the matter was important, absent all other considerations and there were many with the darn dead Ostriches. "Let's talk with the others and pretend we are having a good time."

Three lutes and an old violin were awkwardly playing that evening, as there were no notable bands in town at that time, and Garth had unexpectedly requested this feast. The Monarch had spent nearly two years seldom seen in public or even welcoming visitors into his presence. However, he was not inactive; for he traveled to aid the Three Sisters in their fight and personally at times supervised the restoration efforts across the vast yet devastated empire.

By late summer, Garth made his way back to Abarat and Nesande's Garden, initiating the reconstruction of that section of Wetull as well.

A month later, the King and his Wyvern journeyed to Coal Isle to dismantle centuries of prejudice and entrenched hostility, paving the way for the Mori to return to Wetull's fold. What the Great Garth had done for the strays of my village, he also achieved for our dark-skinned brethren. Without a second thought, but because he could. Had Garth had done nothing else, just for this very act, we should all hold his memory dear for all times.

Garth's journey back to Goras coincided with the arrival of another Aniculo Rokae just days prior. Sir Ivasaar and his wyvern Rikkusa had come from the distant Mistland's shores and the ancestral lands of the Issir. Banished for centuries by circumstances away from the fatherland Ivasaar brought an undiluted sentiment back to court. A sense of pride and remembrance, only augmented when the Sorceress arrived not a day later. Ivasaar challenged the more cautious Garth just by being present. Politics and later retellings of the stories aside, they never stood against each other in my presence.

You couldn't fault Arguen Garth or turn on him because for all his lack in manners, the crazy excesses and the minor scandals, the Monarch delivered in all the core issues of Zilan society. To live in Taras those years was to taste true freedom in a realm where no one is ever free. To question the greatness of someone that was presented with ancient ruins, forgotten memories and dangers left to fester for millennia, before been asked to fashion an empire out of the mess is ludicrous. Especially when the King had to wrestle a fragile realm from the brink of destruction, and all this with horrendous personal cost. Garth truly pulled most of us now living in this realm, 'out of the plaguin' gutter', as he would have said.

That night after many months, the citizens of Taras had the chance to gaze at the elusive Arguen Garth inside a friendly setting, for the first time since his first spouse had perished. Wyverns danced over our heads in the dark skies, a mediocre troubadour made the best he could, which was just enough for this humble lyricist, who didn't know how to read or spell a few seasons back, to ask permission to recite the fabled 'Song of Dawn' in the Monarch's presence.

If you dare ask for things Gods shall listen, the old texts say, and offer inspiration for more -even to lowly strays. More verses, hopefully well-received, and more famous visitors, the latter not always definitive pleasurable, but everyone present immediately realized this was really the dawn of a new chapter not yet written.

A Solitude's End and the Moon's Return.

"A toast!" Theron Gravelbrow boomed standing up on his chair, literally, although you wouldn't know it as one could see just the dwarf's large head and a touch of thick neck under the beard. A ton of beard and that gigantic red nose. It was so big and red, especially since Theron had come out of Troy's school of table manners and excessive drinking, Glen had to ogle his eyes to the point of tearing in order to widen his field of vision so as to include the rest of the barking dwarf. Thankfully, the rest of the Zilan present, found the dwarf's manners amusing for the most part. "To Sir Ivasaar O' Elauthin and his Wyvern! The Folk welcome a new ally back!"

"Enough Theron," Fikumin grunted dragging the dwarf's sleeve to get him down. "Leave this for later."

"Gratitude, valued Folk representative," Ivasaar said standing up and Glen eyed him a little annoyed. Mostly because he couldn't keep his hands away from Memphes and being in a generally great mood. One would think this fool hasn't had a proper dinner in like ever, Glen thought. Which might even be accurate come to think of it, given what they serve in Coal Isle!

As for Mistland's culinary peculiarities, the Monarch had no idea. The guests, and they were a lot of them by now –deep into the night, cheered the Aniculo Rokae's response. Folen's quartet of horror attempted a grand closing after the Zilan's words but it was mercifully drown out in the noise and voices of the other guests. Speaking of guests, more freeloaders passed through the gates each hour, less as the time grew late, but Rimeros had assured him –although his words had the opposite effect on the frowned Monarch- more would arrive come morning.

Glen wanted to finish up and take the long road to his quarters –fuck you Voron- but couldn't leave apparently. So he reached to chew some more crispy bacon with melted cheese and slices of tomatoes, when Phinariel stood up under Fikumin's urging –the dwarf looking extra proud for his much younger Zilan spouse- and the noise slowed down. The young Zilan female, clad in a lovely blue dress with white stripes, walked to the center of the feast near the musicians' stand –if one wanted to call them that- to face the Monarch's table. Where the more important guests were seated.

"Is she going to dance?" Troy wondered, dispelling the notion of important guests and what not. Glen rolled his eyes and Ziba-Ra whispered in the gladiator's ears.

"Don't embarrass her," Ziba told the frowning Troy.

"How am I—?" Troy protested but got interrupted.

"Scribe Phinariel," Rimeros said getting up to prevent the inebriated gladiator from causing a scene.

"I'd like to recite the 'Song of Dawn'," Phina said and Rimeros nodded along which forced Glen to nod away as well despite having no idea what it was, her voice cracking for a moment, whilst a murmur came from the older Zilan present.

More like a taunt.

"Does she even know the words?" Some old crone asked.

"This aren't proper Imperial she speaks," another added, one of the hostel owners.

"Go ahead," Glen boomed, channeling Theron, who slammed his fist on the table with enthusiasm for some reason.

Folen stood up to make a music introduction with the violin, but one of his friends grabbed the instrument from his hands. Glen clenched his fists expecting the worst, but the thug-looking Zilan actually stroke a series of soft notes, seeped in melancholy and then Phina's melodic voice started humming.

A lute accompanying her pauses, giving an epic tone to her performance.

'In rather decent Imperial' Rimeros commented sitting down but the mesmerized Glen thought she sounded divine.

"Music is magic Hardir," Paeris said from the furthest edge of their table. He was seated next to Lithoniela as they had arrived together. The Hoplite Saevelos standing over the gloomy Princess like a guard dog. Ah, Lith is the soul of the feast per usual, Glen thought. "And its loss is felt keenly," Paeris added knowingly.

Loss tends to do that smartarse.

"Um," Glen agreed, not that he cared about the former bard's opinion –Elderborn or not, and focused his attention on the humming with high drawn out notes Phina. She was radiating, as if the scribe's inner talent fused her words and lit up every syllable.

Sing O' Muse, so the past's greatest heroes be remembered

Of the Towering Quiceran and Nuala, the Lissome

Let thy tongue roll O' Goddess, so our heart's desire be tempered

Of Ninthalor, the Brazen and the Insolent Baltoris

Hum tenderly O' Garden's Mistress, of past's splendor surrendered

Of Moon's sacred daughter thrice blessed and thrice cursed

Let thy tongue whisper O' Divinity, allow a caress tenderly entered

Of Master Elas, the Wise and the Great Anfalon, the Sentinel of the egress

Still standing guard at your Realm

As the young scribe reached the finale, minutes later, the struggling to keep the large feast area illuminated lightstone torches they had set up, were offered an unexpected assistance. A ball of bright light danced over the arranged at the tables guests and stopped over the singing Phinariel's head. The weightless ball of light, no bigger than a watermelon, focused on the young scribe, giving Phinariel an ethereal quality.

Everyone present gasped, very impressed by the spectacle and exploded in a thunderous applaud when the deeply-moved Phina finished with a sharp curtsy.

"I'd like the caring King's permission to write a song for the Third Era. Allow me the honor to recount the times of Hardir O' Fardor," a flushed Phinariel announced looking at the mirthful Monarch, when the ruckus applaud finally subsided.

A grinning Glen stood up and clapped with enthusiasm, forcing everyone to respond yet again with loud cheers directed at the blushing scribe, none more thunderous than her husband. The two dwarves almost cracked the royal table banging their fists with roaring fanaticism.

"You have it, Lady Phina…riel," Glen stumbled through his words not to rob Phina of her moment and then sat down exhausted amidst the deafening overreactions of the Zilan present mostly. The Monarch sipped at his wine and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, paused a tad perturbed for the roaring guests unending cheers and focused his eyes at the central point of the feast's square again, where Phina had been just moments afore.

Lith's eyes at the other edge of the table next to Paeris opened wide in concern and several of those Zilan officials sitting at the other tables stood up astounded.

The sounds of delirium, and the borderline almost violent reactions of most of the other bystanders –not everyone had found a chair at the tables and had gathered around those sitting with servants struggling to keep up with the demand- started registering for the perturbed Monarch. Soletha stepped near the covered in a sheer net veil figure that had taken Phina's spot, under the strange levitating ball of light and tagging at its edges with nimble fingers pulled it away.

The ball of light should have given her away.

For a moment Glen envisioned a downright nude Aelrindel might sprout out under the veil, but apparently she had enough garments on not to cause a riot. Oh well. The nervous Sorceress was simply dressed in a short white tunic –too short by human standards… eh, sans the Cofol slave-girls, and the Zilan girls habitually turned naughty after hours, so there were plenty of long legs showing already- her very long hair soaked and curling at the edges as if she had just gotten out of a bath barrel. The sorceress held a pair of sandals in her hand for some reason.

Or the plaguing painted toes!

Come on my dude!

"Cydonia Cazan's lost hallowed splendor returned," Soletha announced more relieved than pompous in her tone and she looked half-a-century younger all of a sudden, Soren's giant smiling head appearing above the two females. "A Nesande's Priestess and the Moon of Niel-Dan. Our Aelrindel O' Edlenn, a Coven's Sibyl, asks the King's permission to join the feast. Given our status, we request an escort."

Ha! You guys milk this status angle a lot, Glen thought and caught out of the corner of his right eye the eager Ivasaar shooting upright alike a well-oiled coil, pushing his chair back.

"Lovely sorceress, you don't have to burden the Monarch—" the Aniculo Rokae declared with enthusiasm just about ready to shoulder the heavy task, but never got the chance to finish.

"This Monarch stands widowed," Glen interrupted him austerely and grabbed the chair Rimeros was sitting on. The experienced advisor amongst other titles, leaped from the king's side without a second thought, immediately showcasing his uncanny ability to read the room.

Yard.

Feast's premises.

"So thus, I volunteer per the court's ancient tradition, to entertain the Moon of Dan," Glen added ceremoniously and Aelrindel's face mellowed at the cultured response, whilst Ivasaar sat back down with a grimace of disappointment. The sorceress walked towards the wearing a dignified expression Monarch, naked feet navigating the yard's gravel bravely and the light following her as if caught with an invisible thread, no more than three or four meters over her luscious and very wet head.

Extra moisture and soap scent aside, it hurt Glen's eyes, her light, but he kept his mouth shut until she collapsed in the chair next to him with a soft groan. Given he had able space to maneuver, Glen angled his own chair towards her a bit, because resting on a straight back seat wearing a tiny skirt makes stuff ride high, as Troy had showcased to everyone earlier much to the king's discomfort.

Of course circumstances differ, depending on the person.

"I ruined my only sandals and probably cut my feet on your gravel," Aelrindel griped in a whisper, whilst getting comfortable next to the Monarch. Immediately after crossing her legs to keep some modicum of decorum. Futile, as Glen's trained eyes could scour all-terrains in all directions. "Your yard is far too big for a walk."

"You got the legs for it," Glen deadpanned and she shifted on her seat, her hand running the length of the top leg as if to loosen the muscles. She had a series of intricate tattoos that started at her ankles, resembling sentences written in Zilan hieroglyphs, and disappeared between her thighs. Others black in color, some in red and blue, painted on alabaster skin.

As a matter of fact, the sorceress had a lot of smaller tattoos visible on her arms and shoulders, he hadn't noticed before.

Glen never favored tattoos, but he liked hers instinctively. You would be hard pressed to find anything not to like on the sorceress, with her face standing out.

"You think?" Aelrindel asked, pretending to be shy.

"I'm sure," Glen retorted hoarsely and Atju tapped the table to interrupt them. Glen had forgotten they were in public for a moment.

"Shall we serve the main course, great Caliph?" Atju asked.

Good man. "Let us feast!" Glen declared raising his goblet amidst a litany of cheers and a torrent of gossip. "Eat and enjoy."

"I'm famished," Aelrindel said with a chuckle and reached for one of the covered plates in front of the Monarch. "Is that… chicken?" She asked taking a piece of pale roast and bringing it to her mouth. The mouth opened, white canines closed on the meat and then the mouth closed, puffy lips sucking at the juices.

Glen gulped down at the sound of her ravenous sloppy chewing.

"It's quite… hard," the sorceress noticed in between chomps. Like a stone plinth. "Rough and leathery," Aelrindel continued oblivious of the King's discomfort. Glen changed position on the chair to accommodate the extra material in his pants. "Doesn't taste like chicken?" Eh? What is she… oh, shite! "What is this roast, loyal slave?" She asked the standing by the Monarch and watching her mesmerized Atju.

"Well, it's a big bird we—"

Shut up you fool!

"Big, as in a great beast of burden, is what he means. Commonly known as a mule," Glen intervened afore Atju could blurt out the shocking truth to the Ostrich-loving witch.

"Surely not?" Aelrindel frowned cutely. "Is it a Jelin plate? I haven't eaten mule before…It sounds so vulgar Reeves. Still—"

"Leave it," Glen offered tapping at the table until he found his unfinished plate. "Have some cold bacon instead."

Aelrindel furrowed her painted brows and dropped the Ostrich meat down. "Is there…" she asked casually with a pause to make sure no one was listening to them. Almost all other tables were glued on their interaction, whispering with each other, not to miss a word.

Well… that's awkward.

"Any fresh meat around?" The sorceress asked with a strained puff at the scrutiny.

"Atju?" Glen asked.

"Well, we have plenty of this beast of burden meat—"

"Something else," Glen cut him off with a toothy grin.

"You know, I could make them turn blind," the sorceress offered noticing his interest.

"The pig's bloody liver, Milord Caliph?" Atju chanced.

"Yes. Yes! Bring it in its juices," Glen replied and turned to the querying witch. "Let's not to do anything violent to the Monarch's audience," he suggested instead taking the safer road of patience and Aelrindel burst out laughing, a raw honest sound, finding humor where there was none.

"As you wish," the sorceress teased and reached for Rimeros' half-empty goblet of wine, under Glen's appreciative eyes.

Just like that, he thought. The door cracks wide open.

No fanfare and no elaborate schemes needed.

Well… maybe a bit of that.

Having said that, nothing is more difficult to figure out, than the female of one's species.

Luthos, I'm watching your creepy arse.

Tread carefully ye short-limbed motherfucker!

-

Ask… and the gods shall listen. We all did. Those who loved the King. We prayed for the lonely Monarch to find happiness once again. Someone worthy to stand beside him. Strong enough, as important. Equally powerful. No one can stand on his own and not all people can feel one's gaping void.

Yet, some can. They can heal or assist in paving the way for the next adventure. These remarkable lives shine with intensity, love a lot, and are fated to experience only a handful of genuine moments of joy.

An hour before dawn broke on the 24th, the King's closest companion arrived quite late to the feast for her usual character. She had her reasons. Many, but only one of those reasons held significance for the King. Though I might be wrong about this detail.

It's a tale for another time.

That evening, this chronicler, softly bathed in the sorcerer's soothing glow and her healing light, began to hear those initial verses in her yound mind, and with these same verses fittingly, this prologue comes to a close.

Sing O' Muse, so our heroes in history's calends be entered

The Third Era's legends thus escape Lethe's grim embrace

Let thy tongue roll O' Goddess, so Garth & 'majestic' Uvrycres' shadow also courteously rendered

Along fabled Shaelor & Gilvaris 'the old', Edor & Qaitess 'the fast', 'Brazen' Ninthalor & Turlas 'the gold'

Don't stop sweet enchantress until all the Aniculo Rokae names are thus justly tended

From Elenaril, who was Calamer's lover & Nenderu 'the green', Baltoris & Ovinet 'the red', who was the Onyx Wyvern's mother, to the well-traveled Ivasaar & his brave Rikkusa who never yielded…

Events recorded in the first moon of fall, the year of the Imperial Calendar 3401, in the Third Era, three years into Arguen Garth's reign, and seven in the times of Hardir O' Fardor

by

Phinariel O' Glorfalc,

'The Boorish Poet'

Jarlinde of all the Folk,

Mistress of Glorfalc, Warden of Rodos Gondobar & the Nor Maze Peaks of the Far North.

Former Royal Scribe, Advisor & permanent member of the Queen's Council,

in Moon's Return*

(Prologue – The King's Feast)

Entered into the royal library with a royal decree in 210 NC,

Circa 3416 IC (3rd Era)

*Lady Phinariel's lengthy manuscripts and poems were gathered in five hefty tomes named -King's Anabasis, A Monarch's Solitude, the Moon's return, Desolation and Apotheosis (the latter known as the King's Heritors) also contained several songs and a long lament inspired by the ancient hymn the Song of Dawn, an earlier Zilan epic psalm, the shrewd poet fell in love with from first read.