Crispian sat up with a groan, his head swimming. The world tilted for a moment then steadied itself. He held his head in his hands for a few moments, breathing deeply. The tankard and pitchers in the room spoke enough to him of all that had passed the night before, or was it two days ago?


He could barely keep track. His entire body felt like he had been on the frontier for a week, with aches and pains all over the place but not a bruise to be seen. He limped slowly to the chamber pot and managed to use it without incident. He knew he had not been to the frontier, indeed had only been to Camelot in the last few days.


He recalled the Church, seeing Gybryn promoted in the Black Shield, adding the Dragons of Avalon and Children of Light to the Alliance. He also recalled Mirashta taking care of something with Cow Tipping Marauders. He winced, in pain mostly. But what else? This dull ache was with him almost constantly. Why?


He looked over some correspondence, left at the bar downstairs and brought up sometime during the night.


Throdien was dead. A madness possessing him. "Damn her," he whispered as he looked through more. Tinalynth gone from the Covenant...Laraleloth and Kelvyn, also. He groaned at that, for he had much respect for the Covenant.


A report from Jashen about Arcalan. He squinted as he read it, not liking some of the tone. He quaffed some ale and chewed on dried chicken legs as he read, grease smearing the pages.


"Cris-

Have been watching the recruit you wanted watched. Reports of odd meetings and I have added others to observation list as well.

I do not trust her, but have spent much time hunting with. A foul wench that even your Moryan would not want to bandy words with.


Am not convinced that her intent was only bribery. More treachery could be afoot.


Jash"


----


He signed the missive, sealing it with his siglil, and put it into Tannir's hands. "He's in Cornwall, again," was all the young mercenary said to the squire.


Shifting his hauberk, he stepped out of the Tower of the Marsh. Tobyas, Achou, Arcalan and others were there. "We ready to hunt?" he asked plesantly.


Arcalan quirked an eyebrow. "Are you sure you can fight, mercernary?" she quipped, venom dripping from her words.


Jashen checked his temper. He wished things were moving forward with Crispian's curse, or getting rid of it. Then he could have at this Cabalist. "But of course, Arcalan. Are you sure you can cast a spell still?"


"HiYas! Let's go fight!" Achou hopped up and headed off down the road, not allowing much more time for arguing with the cabalist. The little saracen knew it would be a long hunt as it were.

 

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Azi gracefully dismounted her horse in the Marsh, delighting in the soft jingle of her fresh new suit of chain mail. She shifted her sword on her back, adjusted her plain blue cloak, and breathed a deep breath. Even the murky swamp air seemed refreshing after her long retreat, she thought to herself.


As she squished her way along the shore, she thought of the League, and wondered whether they would understand her choice, after knowing her as a wizard for so long. Jashen and his friends had accepted her as a paladin, though he called her by her new name now, which was her old name... Azaeli. "Azi" had been too familiar, he had said to her before she had gone off on retreat, when they had hunted together in the Marsh. Somehow that made her sad, as if she had been two seperate people, and her old self had been forgotten.


But, she thought, Jashen was kind to keep her secret from the League. Mostly, she was lonesome for the old chatter of the guild as they hunted. But more than that, Azaeli was concerned about Crispian. It had been too long since she'd seen him, and she knew that the curse of that wicked woman still tortured him. Maybe her tale of overcoming a curse herself would give him hope. Yes, she thought, it was time to tell Crispian of her choice, and that she had been meant to be a paladin all along.


And so the mud of the Marsh sucked at her boots as she searched for Jashen...

The days of hunting had pulled them ever south, and Jashen found himself not far from the Station at Cornwall, slaying the hunters who preyed on Albions who passed through the area, in addition to other wild prey.


Not often during the hunts had he been far from the Cabalist Arcalan. He found it hard to fathom how Achou could be a light-hearted, fun-loving individual and Arcalan could be so full of festering anger. It concerned him, but her constant running jibes put him on the offensive when near her. And today, he had reached a breaking point.


“Achou, you best keep a close eye on this one,” she had said, leaning back in the grass. “It is in his family to turn to drink.”


Achou had laughed. “I’m no worried. He fun hunting companion and keep Achou plenty safe.” Jashen had been glad for the vote of confidence from Achou, and Phalos had nodded in agreement as well.


“But just look to his brother, who has sunk to such depth. Of course,” she quipped cruelly, “he probably drinks to forget Jashen is his brother.” Her lips twisted into a cruel smile.


“That is enough out of you, woman,” Jashen hissed. “I’ll have you not speak about my brother so again.” His anger was high, a vessel pounding in his forehead and his light coloring not hiding how his face flushed with blood.


“Then perhaps you should learn to respect your betters, boy,” she snapped back, eyes flashing anger.


“You’d have to be my better first,” he spat back at her. “My brother fights foes akin to your kind, casters who loose evil upon the world. He is a stronger person than you can hope to ever become!”


Her eyes narrowed. “Be careful, young mercenary, for curses may run in your family.” Her eyebrows danced in anger even as her eyes flashed.


Tobyas looked up from the breviary upon his lap. “Should such a thing happen to Jashen, I’ll be aware of it,” he said, his voice a calm tenor amid the hissing comments tossed about.


“Then you can care for him when he is so beset, and keep an eye out,” Arcalan through at Tobyas. The young cleric’s expression changed not the least little bit.


“Of course, I’ll know the source as well, Arcalan, and actions will be taken,” he said just as calmly as he started. More would have followed, no doubt, had a Cornwall Leader and two hunters not chosen that moment to spring from the tree line and attack.


Even in the heat of battle, harsh looks flew back and forth between the group, although neither blow nor lethal spell landed on any but the foe.

 

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Azaeli picked her way out of the mud to find more solid ground. It had been a weary search, and the sun had set more than an hour ago. She resigned herself to give up for the night, and headed south toward Cornwall's Inn. She winced at the thought of the tavern's smokey stench and stinking crowd, but it was too late to ride back home to Camelot, and her legs ached from her struggle with the mud.


She kept off of the road, hoping the wet grass would clear some of the muck from her boots as she walked. Then, toward the treeline, she heard a faint bickering, and the clash of battle. A familiar voice called out, Jashen's voice. She smiled to herself and made her way over.

((Copied from the St. Crispin's League Guild Forms with some time-line additions))


The Hunt in Cornwall had ended near the catacombs, with the members splitting up. Jashen and Achou headed to Caer Witrin, while Arcalan and Ceowyr both expressed need to return to Camelot, as did Phalos.


The trip to Witrin was nerve-wracking for Jashen, for he hated letting the Cabalist Arcalan out of his sight for longer than was needed. Upon arrival, he sent word to Allanon, a fellow mercenary and a Seneschal of the Leauge, to keep an eye out for Arcalan, and to deploy other eyes. The Infiltrators of the League would be busy for as long as she was in town.

--------


Pompin the Crier was a happy man. Several ales and a lot of flirting with that wench from the tower had put him in cheerful spirits this night as he walked back towards the gate, and the chill in the night air did little to spoil his mood. He whistled to himself as was his want to do (for Pompin had narrowly missed a calling as a minstrel) and walked briskly yet somewhat erratically through the streets of Camelot. A mounting pressure on his bladder told him he'd not make it home in time to relieve it, so Pompin staggered a little into an alley way and began to fumble with his breeches.

His world exploded into a wall of utter darkness, with strange impossible colours zigzagging and bursting before his eyes. Then the pain caught up with him. The back of his head had just been hit with what he presumed was a Trollhammer, and his face had split upon the wall of "The Stone" tavern, leaving a bloody gash across his cheek and a nose mashed into an unrecognisable shape. His cry was a whimper, his mouth filled with blood and bits of his teeth.

Pompin tried to spin round and face his attacker, but his vision was blurred from the impact. He spun enough to catch sight of what was no doubt a troll. It's massive fist caught him in the belly, sending the contents of his stomach burning up through his throat, and knocking the wind out of him. He fairly bounced off the wall again and slumped to the street, the blueish grey mountain in front of him swimming in his vision. He knew he was a dead man, and his brain filled suddenly with wondering how a troll got inside Camelot, and if that wench from the tower would cry for him. He pondered briefly if he'd have had a better life in Humberton or Lethantis, but realised he'd been happy in Cotswald. Fifty trivial and silly thoughts seemed to echo in his head as he faced death head on. The stone fist was raised once more and he realised it wasn't a troll at all.. it was a simulacrum, a Cabalist's Golem...

Pompin tried to scream out murder, but the most that emerged was a rather gurgling screech. The fist flew towards him, seemingly time slowed down to a crawl as the massive inexorable fist that would end his life loomed large. A second passed and Pompin realised the fist had stopped an inch or two from his face. He'd been spared! His brain immediately sobered up and ran through a list of who this beating could be from. Who had he upset? The Guild of Shadows? Perhaps he'd find out now. A figure appeared behind the golem.. a woman. She'd explain. The blue-grey stone stone giant stood back a little, and light flared aroung the womans's hands. Maybe the spell was to heal? To capture? To...

Red mist swirled above Pompin's head and he realised that he had not been spared at all.

Arcalan held the Soul Gem she and Ceowyr had taken from a Moor Boogey in her hands and cast the Essence Consumption spell on the bleeding mass that was Pompin. With care she focused the last of his lifeforce into the crystal, sucking his soul into an eternal prison.

Pompin screamed. regardless of his wounded body, regardless of how little fight was left in him, the tortured howl of Pompin the Crier ripped through the night as body and soul were forcibly torn apart.

Inside "The Stone" Tavern Ceowyr heard the scream. Everyone leapt up, and one or two of the guards drew weapons and rushed out of the door. The alley was deserted save for the mangled form of Pompin. Arcalan was some distance away and moving through a tunnel beneath the city that would lead to the Guild of Shadows, clutching the now Glowing Soul Gem tightly in her fist, and bursting with excitement and success.

Ceowyr pushed his way forward in the crowd around Pompin.

"I'm a Cleric, let me past" he declared trying to see where Pompin lay. A guard went to stop him then withdrew his hand.

"Hey there, you're one of master kel's boys aren't you? I served in Swanton for a spell a few years back, and we was friends. Can you heal this here fella?" He gestured to Pompin's corpse.

"THe Lord does not always grant the boon of life again, for his ways are infinitie and Divine" said Ceowyr piously "But we shall see"

Ceowyr gestured in prayer and supplication, and chanted low under his breath. Those who knew the exact meaning of those words he chanted would have paled in terror, but no member of the Clergy was here to interpret, and all eyes were focused on poor Pompin, or searching the area for his attacker.

With a dazzling burst of light Pompin was restored to life, shakey and feeble, but clinging to life nonetheless. "Merciful Heavens, praise be to the Lord our God for this restoration of the precious gift of life!"

People cheered and a few quick prayers of thanks were sent heavenward.

"Pompin?" asked a guard "Who did this? Who attacked you?"

Pompin looked up bleary eyed and weak as a kitten "Sa.. say.." he stuttered "Saint Crispin..." he all but passed unconcious.

The guard eyed Ceowyr with alarm. "What does he mean?" the guard asked "A member of Saint Crispin's attacked him? Or did he just recognise your emblem" he said pointing to Ceowyr's League symbol.

"I know not, but you'll get no more from this man tonight" said Ceowyr lifting the unconscious Pompin in his arms "He needs rest and recouperation, for he's not a warrior, and is not used to this sickness"

The guard nodded sullenly "When he comes round inform us good Cleric"

"I shall that" and Ceowyr passed out of the crowd with his burden. He took him to a small room out in Cotswald, that Pompin called home, and laid him upon the bed. A shadow in the corner moved to reveal itself as Arcalan, lurking in the dark. She lit a candle and carried it to the bedside.

Pompin's eyes fluttered open and a voice emerged from his lips, a voice that sounded like two men speaking... one Pompin, the other a richer, deeper voice, full of arrogance and gloating. "Excellent" it said.

"Welcome Master" said Arcalan, with a curtsey "Glory and Approbation to thy name"

"Welcome Master" chimed in Ceowyr "We are your servants, and await your command"

"ou have done well" said the twin voice "go now and get me sustenanace. I have much to do"

Arcalan produced a pendant "I have already begun Master" and she backed out of the room, curtseying as she left. Ceowyr stayed a little longer, to tend to the body of Pompin and it's new inhabitant.

______________________________________________________


Somewhere in Llyn Barfog Oaklief and his wife Mirashta shuddered in unison. Something was very wrong...

 

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/thinks Crispian has been taking writing lessions from Azi


/shudder


/bump

(most of that was Toorc's not mine)

 

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<rubs her goosebumps>

/shameless bump


'cause I got a star!

ooc


I don't know if anyone has said this lately, or perhaps they have, but damn, man...keep it coming. It is great that threads like this can always be seen on the first page of the VN Boards everytime I check it in the morning.


Heck, if I was half the writer as you and Azi...


Cheers!


-Winterborne