Carrington almost immediately opened the door. He was almost obviously waiting.


"I swear to God Asylyn if you call me young one more time, I'm going to slap you upside your damned elven face."


Carrington looked like he hadn't slept in days...his mood was almost definately effected...he was a wreck.


"No, are you going to give me the damned news or are you going to stand there looking pointy?"

 

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Ayslyn raised an eyebrow and stepped past him and into the hall. "I doubt that is an oath he would appreciate," he chuckled softly. "The news is this. You are going to talk to Arguyle and try to work this out."

 

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(("I'm going to slap you upside your damned elven face." Try it and I turn you into a brit-ka-bob /bump))

((WhooHoo! Best Bodyguard Ever Thankee Tay ))

 

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Carrington, stressed and sleep-deprived started at the ranger with an extremely annoyed look on his face.


"...."


Carrington shut the door behind Asylyn, then turned to face him. After a moment of silence...


"Well NO BLOODY SHITE I'm going to try an' work it out! STILL I have recieved no word from him! Nothing! Does he not care that I'm trying to contact him! Does he think that I WANT this to go on and on until we're dead?!"


Carrington seethed. He looked to the ground, closed his eyes and took a deep breath.


"Look Asylyn...you don't want this personal bloodshed anymore than I. An' he should know that I can barely go outside to have a breath of fresh air without his blood assassins screaming "land or death!" And he expects me to make contact with HIM!?"


Carrington folded his arms and lowered his gaze at Asylyn.


"ou're a friend of his aye? Has he gotten to you to? Go ahead! Draw your blade Asylyn! See if you can take my life! In the name of NOTHING!"


Carrington seethed and glared at the ranger...an emotional wreck.

 

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A dark mercenary lingered near the woods of Howth, but her features were unrecognizable as a highlander. No, her hair was spiked outward in the common celt look, and she'd painted her face blue with the markings of a local clan.


She'd been listening to the stories on the wind and in the taverns as she searched for news of her lost brother. It seemed things raged white hot between Albion and Hibernia at the moment, and who was to blame?


Carrington of course. Carrington Whitethorne.


"Damn farking pretty boy cleric needs his head remo'ed from his bleeding arse. Mucking up e'erything fer his own desires.. AGAIN."


She spit and began to polish her blades.


"Little prick,.. mayhaps I'll pay him a visit," Moryan muttered a few more foul oaths as she disappeared into the shadows.

Arguyle thought long on the words Secaran had said. He read and re-read the missive from Ayslyn. He was torn on what path to take. Carrington had been like a son to him. Albeit a son who had betrayed him and torn his heart from his chest.


One thing was certain, if Carrington did not give up his quest to kill the King then Arguyle would be forced to hound the man to the end of his days.

(TAMS! )


/bump!

 

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Ayslyn didn't respond right away. "Lad, I am more than a thousand years older than you. Had I wished you dead, you would aready be so, and none of the people in this fine house would have been able to stop me. Now, what I am interested in at the moment is protecting my friends, which, despite severely trying my patience, you are counted amongst.


Now, you apparently have some silly notion of assassinating Constantine. If this is true, you Will discard it right now. Killing him will do no good, and cause a great deal of harm. Next, I have arranged a meeting between you and Arguyle, where we will all sit down, and Civily talk, and hopefully resolve this little vendetta that you both appear to be engaged in. Until then, he has called off his assassins. You will get some rest, so that you will, hopefully, be a bit calmer when we meet."

 

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The young Saracen scout stood just outside the entrance to the portal keep of Albion in the battleground of Thidranki. Close by his side stood his companion, the assassin Kheslyn. The scout’s days in this place were quickly drawing to a close and he was none-to-happy about it. There were so many enemies who needed killing, along with the traitor. It seemed the one who fancied himself the pretty boy of Hibernia had fled to the deepest reaches of the tree peoples. He had not been seen in days. Only his lady assassin bodyguard had been spotted, and the scout had taken great pains to fire arrows into her spine.


But that was what he always did. Killing the Hibernians had become a welcome passion for him. Trolls and the folk of Midgard be one thing, but the leaf peoples he had come to hate. The norse are large and easy targets. But the elfs with their pointy ears and tiny little rat-like lurikeens had come to be his hated foes. And there were so many of them. They seemed to breed like yard cats, except cats serve useful purposes. Hibernians are good for nothing but bodkin targets.


He thought of recent nights of siege at the central keep. He had stood long hours at the battlements firing at the evil little minions as they scampered below the keep walls. Here he would see a celt sitting, one true arrow and the foe would die. There he would see one healing another, and careful aim would send the both of them to deaths well earned. He found killing them utterly to his liking. And even when their mindless horde managed to beat down the doors and kill the last of the Albion defenders… he was happy.


He had killed them more than they he. He had bested each one he wished. Carrington had proven more talk, and show than action. But then, that is the way it is with some folks. They talk and brandish arms and cavort about on the battlefields. Yet in the end they are dead and he is alive.


The god of truth speaks for the cause of Albion. And he says traitors and wee-folk must die.

 

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