Excelsius sat within the serene cloister of the monastary, the inner sanctum of Ordo Procinctus. It was here, in this isolated part of the Black Mountains, that the friar took refuge from the turmoil and conflict of the world. The eden-like garden of the cloister had a manicured, yet wild, nature. Protected from the chill winds that blew down from the north, from Snowdonia, this courtyard was indeed a precious resting place.


Excelsius thumbed a rosary as he slowly walked in meditation. He stopped near a small granite monument, beset with the likeness of a kind old friar. He closed his eyes in prayer, and after a time serenely opened them to read the inscription once again:


"AVGVSTVS PROCINCTVS

SI VIS PACEM PARA BELLVM"


As Excelsius stood in contemplation, an old crooked friar ambled toward him, clutching a note and steadying himself with stout cane. With nary a word, the old friar lifted the sealed note towards Excelsius.


"Thank thee, Venerable Friar Derwin," Excelsius whispered as he bowed slightly to receive the note. The old friar smiled and turned, and shuffled away.


Excelsius placed the note in the folds of his robe. He would finish his meditations and look upon it in time.


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Back at his small cottage within the hillside forest, Excelsius sat down in his favorite chair, leather straps creaking as he adjusted and found a comfortable position. He pulled the note from his robe sleeve and looked upon it.


It was sealed with a crimson wax emblem resembling a rampant lion. It was simply addressed, "Excelsius of the Irregulars". He recognized the seal as that of the Order of the Red Lions and wondered what these men wanted with him.


He broke the seal and read the note.


His thoughts turned to the early history of the Irregulars, which he had studied at length from guild documents. During a dark time in the Boar's past, when no royal house would touch the militia of commoners, Arguyle stood by Bowar and the Irregulars. He placed his reputation and title on the line for the small guild back then.


"And I will stand with Arguyle now," the friar whispered in determination to himself, "I must send word t' the Irregulars immediately."


He snuffed out the candle and gathered his travelling gear.

A wave of shrill laughter, and Azaeli's quill tip skidded from the illuminated page of the prayerbook she had been scripting. Images flashed before her: Crispian holding Jashen, her mother's sword glinting in the guild hall, Crispian smacking papers from Jashen's hand, a signet ring being slapped onto the table... So D'vena had gotten them to fight after all, Azi thought, and she had been the cause.


Azi drew a slow, shakey breath and looked down at the ruined page. She could write Crispian a letter, explaining that it hadn't been Jashen's fault.. She took up the quill and a fresh sheet of parchment. Shrill cackling rang out, and Azi realized it was not in her head this time, it was her own mouth that the horrid sounds came from.


Sighing and fighting back tears, she collected the parchment and writing tools and tapped on her chamber door. A large monk opened it a crack, and she shoved the materials into his arms. He looked confused, and a bit wary, but Azaeli ignored that.


"Take these, don't let me have them again, even if I ask and seem in my right mind." She wasn't about to allow D'vena any means at all to reach out to the outside world.

Jashen stormed from the hall and made his way to the Guild of Shadows. He was trembling in rage and anger. So intent was he on his destination, that he nearly collided with an elder cleric walking while reading from his book of prayer.


"Pardon, sir," the young mercenary automatically said and prepared to move on his way.


"Well, nephew! You can knock me down, but hardly move off with only a pardon!" his Uncle Camlin said mildy. The old man's face was kindly, and Mirashta said he looked much as Jasper had when she knew him.


"Sorry, Uncle," he replied moodily, "my mind was elsewhere. I am in a bit of hurry, you see." He started off again but was stayed by a hand on his shoulder.


"ou are trouble, Jashen." Camlin fixed his gaze on Jashen. "Allow me to advise you on this concern."


Jashen hesitated, then fell into step next to his Uncle. "I have quit my post in the League." His words were quiet, so as not to carry. "And am going to quit the Mercenaries."


Camlin pulled him into a near by doorway. "ou're WHAT?" he gasped. "Son, you have a fine talent with the blades and there are few who can use two as fine as you. Lord Wynter has been praising that for ages!"


"Uncle, calm, please. I intend to become an infiltrator." He paused, watching the old man intently. It was a good thing they had run into each other, he reflected, for once Camlin had been a fighter, and well skilled, but gave it up for the Church.


The older man look at him closely, then raised his right had. "May the Almighty bless you in this endeavor, my son, and watch over you always." His hand came down to rest on Jashen head for a moment. Then he withdrew it and smiled.


"When you have time, I would like to visit at length, Jashen. I have tales to share with you." A small smile played on his lips. Camlin knew that Mirashta had not shared much about their parents.


"As soon as life allows, Uncle," Jashen promised as he rushed off toward the Guild of Shadows, feeling much better about himself and his new mission.

 

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Kelvyn slumped off his horse at Snowdonia Fortress. Kelvyn's body was tired. The constant war on Midgard and Hibernia was beginning to take a toll on him as conscriptions for his scouting and assassin services were coming in at a faster rate than he could keep up. He thought back to the days when life seemed much simpler. He envied his younger brother Ader, hunting in the plains. He missed those days.


He flipped the young stable master a gold piece. "Nothing happens to this horse, understand boy!", Kelvyn ordered. "Aye M'Lord", the young stable master repsonded.


Kelvyn stepped out of the menacing fortress into the bitter Snowdonia air and shivered. Kelvyn smelled the frigid air around him. He only knew Tannir from his friendship with the young Crispian, but he intended on finding him. Crispian had offered him payment, but he coulnd't take money from his friend. He thought back to his conversation with Crispian. "If any are with him and should not see the rising of a new sun, I would understand.” Crspian had said. Kelvyn grinned. He planned on collecting payment nonetheless.


Kelvyn leapt down the hill at full speed and entered the wilderness of Snowdonia. Off in the distance, he heard a faint shrill laughter. If only Kelvyn knew what waited for him and what her plan for him was.

D'Vena laughed her cruel laugh, for it had been too easy. The young infiltrator, Acermar, had fallen to her control with barely a thrust of thought. Certainly, relaxing her efforts on that wench of a paladin was unfortunate, but she could always come back to her later.


Her eyes gazed outward with a glassy glaze as she exerted her controls over the newest toy, this Acermar. Tannir, the puplike fledgling that followed young Crispian aroud, was before him, tied securely. She moved her hand as if drawing a blade and was pleased when Acermar complied with her command. Tannir's eyes grew wide in fear and she could taste it. Yes, she thought, see your death coming.


Her hideous laughter split from Acermar's mouth and filled the air, causing his three companions to shudder. Their employer had not been himself this day, and they too grew fearful. So much the better, D'Vena thought, so much the better.


As Acermar poised over Tannir, D'Vena noticed the great level of resemblence to Crispian and Jashen. Why, this boy could almost be a brother to them! She stayed Acermar's hand and sent a new thought to him.


"Bring this boy to me," she sent strongly, a compulsion more than a suggestion. Her last blond-toy had died in her fit of anger, but this would be a happy substitute.


Acermar lowered his blade. "We leave soon," he said to his three mates. His hand caressed Tannir's face tenderly as a cruel smile crept over his lips, to mirror the smile of D'Vena.

Tobyas sat back in the small room the church had lent him. The chapel was in the Shadowed quarter, and a bit run down, which suited his purposes fine.


He reviewed all that he had learned from the myriad of sources that one with a background like his could tap. Now, the reviewed them all. The list was short, but led to a few conclusions.


The first, and foremost, was that Pompin’s assault was not in D’Vena’s style at all. She preferred discredit through political means. That had a long track record with him. She never, or rarely in the past, had directly assaulted anyone. So, Pompin did not fit with how she normally proceeded. Additionally, her household were either in hiding somewhere or accounted for. It seemed unlikely that she would suddenly appear within the precincts of Camelot and act in a fashion sure to draw attention to her.


Second, and no less concerning, was that Arcalan was up to something, but it seemed to have no direct connection to Crispian other than her own political workings. That could possibly be dealt with, and Tobyas thought he could see how. It was also evident, from who had been seen where and when, that there was a connection between Arcalan and Ceowyr that had nothing to do with spiritual guidance. That last bit he filed away for future reference.


Taking parchment from a drawer, he began to write. His hand was much better than many would have thought, considering he had been a prostitute at the time many had met him, or at least shortly before.


Arcalan,


We must meet at sometime to speak to each other. I know that you have your own ends for which you are working, and you cannot deny that. However, the damage you could do to the League, and to others, is substantial, as is the wrath you would bring upon yourself, and those you work for and with.


I seek to find a middle-road where both can possibly exist.


Tobyas Drakeward

Cleric of the Church

Sargent, St. Crispin’s League


He folded and sealed the letter, entrusting it to an acolyte to deliver to the Shadow Guild for when Arcalan next came. He would wait his time and keep his eyes out.


There was a different game being played here than D”Vena’s own.

The light of the Falls seemed to ebb and flow unlike the light of the mortal world. It's eerie purple shadows crept behind pillars and stairs carved out of the raw rock, long before mankind had ever existed.

The sounds that eminated from unseen things filled people with dread... a long grinding screech or a faint whisper could be equally menacing in here.

Arcalan was being punished. No matter how many minions she safely dispatched, soon something went wrong and she had to suffer the pain these demons were capable of dishing out. Many times she had been aided by the Holy men of Albion, friars and Clerics and Paladins, raising her back from the dead and healing her broken body.

She feasted on the pain, swallowed it down in bitter gulps, glad her master was being this lenient. Worst of all each time she began afresh thinking her punishment had run it's course... building up some energy only to be dashed down when she least expected it. Hope was the greatest torture she could endure down here.


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Finally she realised her own attonement was not enough. Enlisting the willing and generous help of Rhizzia and Ronal of the League, and master Bromton, she was able to gain access to the deeper areas. With her she brought Drae Loresinger, and Dwiader and Sissil of the Dragons of Avalon Guild. All came down - oblivious to being human sacrifices. Arcalan entreated them to help her, citing her great misfortune of late. Their hearts were warm and open, and they accepted the task of aiding her.

Shrill screams rent the foul air, and the band of brave men and women cut through an seemingly endless stream of Dreamhaness and Lilispawns, in order to crave a path to their goal.

Now deep in the tunnels of Darkness Falls, they came upon the most demented Necyomancers. Now hardly human, these people gibbered demented obscenities through clentched teeth, willing themsevles deeper into madness in exchange for power. Near at hand the essence shredders lay prowling.

The Shredders could tear a soul apart as easily as they could tear flesh. Many who fell into their gaping maw did not live to see the bindstone, but were instead utterly rent, irreperably lost to the beasts of Hell.

Now Arcalan knew she must feed her companions to them, that the Master might spare her further anguish. She bided her time, awaiting another group to depart the area, and seek safety further up. She gained the confidence of her companions by picking and choosing the best enemies from down here, ever mindful of the low growling of the Essence Shredders. Soon enough she was ready...

"If we capture but one shredder we can kill it" she purred "Think what a great deed that would be!" She stroked their ego, fueled their confidence in themselves. "We can manage it.. and even if more came, I can root them to the spot while you kill one" She turned to the powerful Cleric beside her "Besides, Rhizzia can call back our souls should we die, she'll be granted that power in this of all places" she swept in the enormous hall with a wave of her arm.

Murmurs of agreement came like music to her ears. They had fallen for the bait. The Master no doubt watched her.. she would be spared the eternal agony of being shredded, in return for the pain of these valient souls. Tough choice, she smirked to herself.


"I am ready" bellowed the faithful paladin Bromton, and the trusting Dwiader looked upon Arcalan with a mixture of fear and trust. He would prove himself in her eyes, he knew there could be no backing down in front of her. Arcalan briefly wondered if Dwiader could be spared, but dismissed the thought as sentimental foolishness. No one came before herself, that was the first rule.

The air swirled with magic as the spell hit the essence shredder. It ceased it's blind lumbering in the pit and began to charge towards it's prey. With a cry of horror the group saw a second detatch itself from the shadows and run to join the feast.

Arcalan stepped forward and prepared to be cut down -

"For Albion!" she moaned as the needlelike teeth closed on her leg, but in her mind she screamed "For my Master! Take them, and let this sacrifice appease your wrath!"


As she fell to the floor, life draining away, she caught sight of the brilliant robes of a wizard, and the shining aura of a paladin runnign towards them. Her mind barely grasped the the problem they would pose as the darkness snuffed out her life.

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When she awoke she was lying in a makeshift camp in a safe conrer of the Falls. She shuddered horribly, and knew that these wounds would take much longer to heal. Her companions were likewise around her, having been saved by the intervention of Ain and Hypnos, who fate had had pass them at the crucial moment.

The sacrifice had been stopped, and Arcalan felt miserable. Her body ached with it's beatings, and her powers were very weak after the shredders had begun their work on her. She cursed the Darkness.

While all the companions seemed to be overjoyed at their escape from oblivion, and happy to tend their wounds, Arcalan could not share their fraternal comforting. Even the tender hand of Dwiader resting on her shoulder was soon shook off. Their warm friendship burned her ...ate at the pit of her stomach and filled her with endless self-pity. How could they shrug off such a threat simply with a communal ale and a kind look to each other?! How could they extend such to her.. HER, who had betrayed them thus? Stupid wretched fools! She loathed them right now, and desired to be one of them more than anything else in the world. The conflicting emotions clawed at her, until tears ran down her cheeks and she sook with sobbing like a child.

A comforting arm was placed around her, and a blanket upon her. And she passed into a deep sleep.

The door to Azi's cell opened suddenly. From outside she heard, "Thank you, Brother." A tall monk stepped into the cell. His hood was draw low over his face, and all she could see was a strong chin, and a pair of lips that seemed well used to smiling.


"Brother," she nodded in greeting to him. He smiled broadly, confirming her earlier speculation. She was sitting in the only chair in the small cell, and he waved at her to stay as he took a seat on the edge of her bed. She could sense that D'vena's attentions were elsewhere.


"Good evening Child," he said. He sounded Avalonian. He certainly had the build, tall and thin. "I have been told that you have been facing some very trying times. Would you care to talk about it."


She wasn't certain why, but she felt that she could trust this monk. Haltingly she began to tell him about Crispian's troubles, the book, and what had happened with Jashen. She held back on Tobyas, and some of the harsher truths about the curse. Likewise she couldn't bring herself to talk about D'vena.


The monk nodded slowly as she unfolded the tale. He smiled sympathetically. "Remember lass, The Lord is your shepard. You need know no fear. The gods never give us a task that they know we can not succeed." She almost missed the plural on god. She looked up at the monk. He smiled again at her as he stood to leave. "ou have been a vessel of divinity, and yet, it was your own strength that allowed you to break Corrath's hold on you and break the New King's curse. It is that strength that shall help you prevail against D'vena. Look within and look to your faith."


"Who are you?" she asked.


"A friend of any that walk in the light." The door shut behind him, but he quickly reappeared in the window to her cell. His hand lightly resting on it. That was when she noticed the ring. The band was platinum, and the willow done in emeralds, but it was the twin of the one she had seen Crispian wearing. "By the by," he said, looking in at her, "The dress is safe. Enjoy it." He stepped away from the door.


She leapt up to look for him, calling out, "Wait!" but he was already gone.

 

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Azi lowered herself back into the chair. She had watched the sun's light spill into the small window and move across the floor all afternoon. She sighed softly. That had been her only entertainment aside from praying and listening to D'vena's madness, which seemed to have trailed off somewhere...


She shook her head, trying to remember the name that had been signed on the letter that had come with the dress that the monk, no, the elf, had mentioned. No matter, she thought, too mentally exhausted to even care. Well, his were kind words, though a little naive. The light grew gray and dim, and the abbey bells rang out to signal mass. Her door opened cautiously and a young monk bowed in at her.


"Come to prayer, milady?" His frightened tone caused Azi's heart to ache with shame. She knew that rumors must be flying by now, rumors of her bribed entry to the abbey and the wicked cackling and howling that emanated from her guarded and locked door. The monk flinched as she rose and nodded, clasping her prayer beads in her hands before her.


In the small chapel, among the stares and whispers of monks and sisters and postulates, Azi pulled her veil over her face and bowed her head modestly in prayer. She clung to the elf's words and prayed fervently for guidance.


A grin stretched her lips, and she reached to her side for a blade that wasn't there. Tannir's young and frightened face flashed before her, and as quickly as it had come, it was gone. She heard D'vena's commands to someone else and sucked in a breath as if she had felt a blow from the glacier giant himself.


Suddenly, the answer came to her. Her heart was racing, but she remained silent. She thought deep into herself, pushing herself toward the evil, instead of away from it. After awhile, a familiar room opened up before her, the room that she had been teleported to when she had opened the book. The room where D'vena had worked her evil witchery. Azi's heart thudded, her pulse raced with a jolt of power.


She forced her thoughts even closer to the evil, closer to D'vena. She had been right when she told Jashen that D'vena had been too hasty. It was as if Azi herself were standing in D'vena's place. Azaeli pushed harder still, resolving to test her new discovery. With all of her will, she moved her hand to her forehead and crossed herself, and yelped with triumph when she saw D'vena's hand make the same exact motions.

Despite the fact that he worked at an open table, few approached the Seneschal of the West that morning. His look was stormy and combative. He was making notes on a scroll and seemed very absorbed. About mid-morning, a man did approach him and begin a conservation in hushed tones.


“Lord, you have one in your number who troubles me,” the man said as he sat opposite Crispian. He was Saracen, but tall for a moor. His clothing was expensive and well-tailored. “You have this Arcalan woman whom has taken refuge in your numbers. She is…unsavory.” He paused.


“She’s ours,’ Crispian said flatly, not even looking up from his work.


“But, your Lordship, she is…vexing to some of good faith.”


Setting his quill down calmly, Crispian looked at the man with such ice it would have stopped a charging Tangler horde. “And she is ours. The League giveth not it’s pledge lightly, good sir. I will have no ill spoken against one of ours by any who is not of us. Are we clear?” His tone was flat and frigid. “We have accepted any burden she brings as our own, and rightly do I consider her Sister to me, as do all others.” He managed such brutal coldness in his voice that the Saracen paled, rising mid-way through and bowing. His departure followed on Crispian’s move back to his work.

 

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