Prologue: The Council of Nolwë Osto - Completed

[Guest]

Dasciis Arkandis stared at the city of Nolwë Osto, the great elven bastion of knowledge in Taurë Arda, indeed the whole world of Emoria. He had traveled far to reach this city, and he knew it was still far from over. Whatever happened here, at this great meeting devised by the leaders of Talonia and the surrounding lands, it would only get him started on his mission: finding Torser.

Dasciis had left the city of Spire with a single horse laden with supplies for the journey. The north-west gate slammed shut behind him, and as he turned for what he hoped wouldn’t be his last view of the city, he took in the towering structures and the grand castle of Spire itself, reaching heights that rivaled anything he had ever seen in his travels. The city was well-known not only for its grand, towering architecture, but also for the multitudes of danger that surrounded it.
Traveling over land was impossible for Spireans. The pass through the eastern mountains was hardly a pass anymore. It had been blocked off for generations, infested with monsters rumored to be from the Plane of Shadow itself. The mountains, forming a semi-circle around the kingdom, were home to a semi-sentient breed of mountain troll, with nearly impenetrable skin and the ability to craft enormous weapons and thick armor.
Between those two dangers, the mountain trolls and monsters of shadow, the Spireans had been pushed back from the forests and mountains surrounding Mt. Tinborne, the center of their lands and the location of their last city, Spire. Their colony, remnants of an ancient kingdom from distant lands, collapsed. Spire now relied on imports from surrounding lands, and the reputation and income of the Guild of Hero’s.

Dasciis left the city and followed the river west to the coast. Spire still had a large port city, though there were few who resided there that didn’t actually work on the harbor. The city was a shadow of what had once been. The navy, however, was a sight to behold. With land routes inaccessible, the Spireans turned to the ocean, which they had already conquered. With a fleet composed of several hundred ships, many of them war galleons capable of devastating a coastal city on their own, the Spireans could still travel throughout Emoria, and they could still wield power.
The Guild of Heroes was typically the only military group that made use of the ships. The rest were mainly used for commerce, or for guarding the ships laden with treasure, food, or other precious commodities. As a guild member himself, Dasciis would take command of a ship for a short ride south, to the Jasidin swamplands, home of the mystical sorceresses.

Spire had a truce with the Jasidin’s by matter of necessity. As the nearest port, and the easiest route inland, Spire needed access to the plains just beyond the swamplands, all of which were under the control of the Jasidin sorceresses. While Dasciis didn’t particularly trust them, he was certainly grateful of the peace his own king strived to keep with these people.
There were several problems with passing through Jasidin territory alone, however. The first problem was the swamplands themselves. He would have to stick to pre-established paths, under the scrutiny of the sorceresses and their male counterparts, the Saves. The Saves, despite the mystical nature they shared with the sorceresses, Dasciis could understand. They were they military arm of the Jasidins.
His horse was going to have trouble keeping its footing in the swamps, so Dasciis would be forced to walk alongside it until they were clear of the swamp and out onto the plains. But there he would encounter the next danger: the lycans.
He knew it would be a hard ride through the plains until he reached safety. He had the option of sprinting from encampment to encampment for safety and to rest his horse, or to avoid the sorceresses entirely and hope to outrun the lycans in a single run. Dasciis had decided on the latter, and it was a decision that nearly cost him his life.

Sprinting across the plains at night, neither Dasciis nor his horse saw the hole gaping in front of them. They were focused on the lycans trailing them, and slowly catching up. When Dasciis horse collapsed under him, he threw himself off to the side. The last thing he needed was to have his leg crushed under his mount, unable to move or defend himself from the advancing lycans. He heard the howling of the lycans as they realized Dasciss’ dilemma. Dasciis pulled his sword free, the bronze hilt shining in the moonlight.
The sword was a gift from his father, the previous guildmaster of the Guild of Heroes. He said it came from their homeland, a place forgotten by all but the oldest of Spireans. The hilt was carved with ancient symbols and designs, and the blade was engraved with the elegant form of beast his father called a “dragon.” The scabbard contained the same markings, most of which were carved onto bronze plates set over the black wood of the scabbard. His father had never explained what the symbols and designs, or the words carved onto the blade, meant. Dasciis was certain he would never know. But he did know the blade had served him well over the years, and he could only hope it would do so now.

The lycans came at him in a rush. The first leapt over the incapacitated horse. Dasciis thrust his arm out, burying the blade of the sword into the lycans furry chest up to the hilt. The weight of the dying lycan threw Dasciis off balance, and he nearly lost grip of his sword. As the dead beast hit the ground, Dasciis withdrew the sword and swung it outward, hoping to keep those sneaking up on him from advancing too close. The blade connected with one of the beasts, and it backed off as if it had been stung. The lycans didn’t let up, wouldn’t let him catch his breath and take stock of the situation. Another lunged, and again Dasciis defended. The blade burst into light, a dim bronze-tinted light, as it was seemingly randomly inclined to do. The lycan seemed to shatter from the inside as the blade struck its shoulder, parts of its body exploding outward with blood and chips of bone streaming like thin, high-pressured beams. Dasciis had never figured out how to activate the blade on his own, though he was sure the answer could be found in the designs on the sword.
As the gore hit the lycans surrounding him, the group became more cautious. They, of course, didn’t know that Dasciis didn’t understand how to use the power within his sword. Taking advantage of the opportunity, Dasciis lunged at the nearest lycan, digging the blade into the beast’s chest. The lycan yelped, but was dead as soon as the blade struck its heart. Another lycan burst into flame, surprising Dasciis as much as the beasts surrounding him. And yet another fell to the ground retching, blood pouring from its snout and ears. The rest bounded off into the darkness, the moonlight glinting off of their feral eyes as they glanced backward at the lone Hero.

Dasciis looked off into the distance as well. He thought he saw movement somewhere out in the distance; tall, robed figures that seemed to blend in with the darkness. He was rather surprised. They could have let him die out here, and it wouldn’t have impacted their treaty with Spire. He was sure no one would ever have found his body, and if they ever did it would have been so ravaged by the lycans that the Jasidins wouldn’t have been blamed. He smiled, and bent down to check on his horse. He hadn’t seen the beasts do it, but sometime during the battle they had ripped out the horse’s throat.

Dasciis had resumed the trek on foot, carrying what supplied he could himself. Periodically he thought he spotted someone moving off in the distance, hidden by the mirage of the hot plains. He was glad to have them watching his back, despite how much he distrusted them. Perhaps, he thought to himself, that distrust was something he could mend in time.

The elven guides of Hyarya had led him through the forests bordering the Jasidin plains with Taurë Arda. They told him where to go at the edge of the forests of Hyarya, and left him standing there staring at the city of Nolwë Osto. Dasciis shifted his packs to release the strain on his sore shoulder, and then continued his march forward.
Someone here, he hoped, would know why the guildmaster of the Guild of Heroes had disappeared. Supposedly, many people recently had disappeared. Or kidnapped, as the messenger had put it. Dasciis couldn’t see guildmaster of the Guild of Heroes, the legendary mercenary force of Spire, being kidnapped. But he saw no logical reason for him to have just disappeared. If the answer was here, Dasciis would find it. And then he would find Torser.

[Bird of Hermes]

Ventuex was the first to arrive at the Council. This was for good reason, if not, just for the fact that she had the least space to travel. You see, her position on the world map of Emoria was forever linked to the very place the Ionairus needed to be at the present time. That link just so happened to lie precisely below the chamber that this meeting was supposed to be. It was also the place that she had sworn to a certain person that she would protect.

The Portal.

Yes. Venteux was forever tied to it and it to her. She was the first of the Portal Guardians to come from the Plane of Air and, specifically, from the Ionairus. In fact, her form was that of an Ionairus through and through and it was starkly noted by those who were native to the lands surrounding the Library. While her frame and, in fact, that of all Ionairus, was likened to that of a human of young stature, there were certain particularities of note. First and foremost of these is a pair of feathered appendages very similar to a bird’s wings. These are a slate grey in color and have a slight sheen in natural light. The next thing of note is a minor lapse of coloring in the skin and hair being a pale storm-like hue and silver tone respectively. Of minor note are her strangely purple-tinted eyes, feather-like ears and slightly elongated canines. But, I digress. Most only take note of the wings upon first inspection.

Ventuex gripped her key-staff nervously. Usually, she stood quite still on duty. Most days, she was like a sentinel at her post, barely moving, save for her gaze. However, today was different. Her body, unsure on her feet, swayed. Her lithe form failed at holding her place. The Ionairus paced and another peculiar feature came to face. While she stood tall when still, when moving, she stalked and couched, swayed and moved. All Ionairus had a peculiar quality about their gate, as if it was unnatural for them to walk. In fact, it was; her kind was far more suited for flight.

The woman cooed to herself in Voltalic, the language of her people. It was almost time. She said the words in Common and again in her own tongue. The two voices did not mix. One was high and flowing; the other was low and exact. She carefully straightened her dark purple-grey tunic, her ceremonial waist-cloth, her flowing slacks… everything in its place. She fastened her finger-less gloves, her belt and containers and made sure the bands on her arms and feet were in order.

Ventuex looked into the foggy orb that sat atop her metal staff that served as both spear and key. It was in but a few moments that she would need to head to the chamber for the meeting. She would not only be representing her people, her home, her land… but also those of the Planes of Fire, Water and Earth. She would stand in place of their ambassadors and in place of her own.

The reason that Ventuex now proceeded to the Council of Nolwë Osto was because of the disappearance. That was the only reason. If anyone else had gone missing, she would not be here. But her people had requested that an Ionairus be present. Indeed, it had been an Ionairus who had been taken. The ambassador of the sentient races of the Plane of Air: Dawndeux.

With one last look at the mystic Portal which connected the Eight Planes of Being, Venteux proceeds to the Council and her journey beyond the Portal and her small world begins.

[Kathryn Lacey]

Sailahína Carnil still felt the cold, numbness that had settled into her lithe form when the news had reached her that Handilyë Varyamë had been kidnapped almost one month earlier. Everyone knew it had had to have been a kidnapping, for it had been obvious a great battle had ensued between the major owner of the Great Library of Nolwë and whoever her captor had been.

It was said that no one had been the wiser about the events that had unfolded until half of Handilyë’s home had exploded, damaging the surrounding buildings. By the time the dust had cleared, the Quendë woman had been nowhere to be found, and there hadn’t been a single trace of her attacker aside from the magical residues that had lingered, intermingled with the Library owner’s. The residue had suggested a very dark magick had been used, the likes of which had not been seen in so long that few remembered it. Such a depth of evil was rare within both the Quendi nation of Taurë Arda and the city/state of Nolwë Osto which lay at the nation’s heart.

Outrage within Nolwë Osto had been immediate from both the Quendi and the other races who resided within the city of knowledge. Varyamë had been beloved by all, and she was one of the last Quendë who had direct roots to the nearly extinct Quendi people who had presided in the destroyed territory of Enya.

The stories told that Enya had been destroyed by strange fire creatures dubbed the Rakaurúri though the origins of those creatures were unknown. The other four territories had banded together and had successfully destroyed them, but the damage had been done. Only a handful of Quendi Enya had survived, and their home had been cleared away in a large forest fire. In its place, the city/state of Nolwë Osto had been founded, and people from all over the world had been invited to contribute their knowledge to the Great Library that had been built.

Of course, it had happened so long ago that the Great Library of Nolwë had seemed to always have been there. Ownership had been passed from one hand to the next, but over time, the ownership was shared among groups of people of all races. However, there was always one Quendë at the head, and that person was usually of Quendi Enya descent.

The people of Nolwë Osto hadn’t been the only ones to react. All of Taurë Arda had been in an uproar as soon as they had heard of the kidnapping. Then other news came as knowledge is wont to do in an area that houses knowledge from most of the lands of Emoria – especially from the Northern continent. The Quendë hadn’t been the only one to be kidnapped. Other political figures had been snatched by evil forces. The general consensus was that the Mountains of Night had come back to power, and the Dark Lord who lived there was only now showing his power.

Nolwë Osto’s figureheads had sent word to all other nations of Emoria, begging them to come forth. They must discuss what they must do to both discover what was happening, regain their kidnapped people, and to stop whomever was responsible.

Saila had known the Great Library’s curator well, and they had gotten along swimmingly despite the half-Quendë’s young age. The venerable Handilyë had had a strong hand in helping to train the workers of the Library.

Because of her familiarity with the victim and because of her status within the Library itself, Saila had been summoned to act as one of the ambassadors for the city/state. The four territories of Taurë Arda were sending small groups of their own people to meet at the Council, but that was to be expected.

The half-Quendë maiden was not only known for being a Librarian of Nolwë. She was also known for her prowess with a fighting fan. Handilyë herself had given the girl a great appreciation for the art when she had still been a mere child.

Unlike her Breale mother and her Quendë father, Sailahína had no prowess over magick, so she had had to learn to defend herself however possible. Her parents had been very supportive, and they had helped to pay for her classes before she had snagged a job at the Library as both an archivist and as a scribe which had enabled her to pay for her own defense courses.

Being a scribe was Saila’s greatest pride, even more than being an archivist. Though she would often write until her hands cramped – she was ambidextrous – it was a great pleasure. Her major duty as a scribe was to translate manuscripts into several different languages. Though others complained it was far too tedious, she loved it, and she had even taken writing courses to attempt to make her letters into a beautiful script that was enviable to others. After all, who would want to read a manuscript that appeared to have been written by a chicken scratching the letters with its talons?

However, lately, she found few pleasures in her work. It was unbearable to think that such a strong, wise Quendë could be suffering through any sort of torture. Why had she been kidnapped? Why had anyone been kidnapped? Could it not be seen that this would only unite all of Emoria against a single foe? Who really expected to be able to fight against an entire country?

It took Saila’s gazing at herself dressed in her best garments to break through the numbness that had settled into the pit of her stomach for weeks. She gazed at her robes of a lovely shade of blue, trimmed with silver. The embroidery just above the silver trim had always appealed to her, and the entire ensemble was very becoming. Though young even for one of half-Quendë blood, she appeared to be in the peak of womanhood, and she would remain appearing like this for decades.

Tied to her left wrist by means of a ribbon, her bladed, fighting fan was hidden among the flowing sleeves of her robes. Upon her feet she wore boots of a higher quality than her favorite ones. However, a Council like this was an occasion where people would dress their best, for they were representing their countries. Saila was no exception, but she knew she would be glad when she could finally release her feet from the footwear. They were not exactly comfortable.

Once she finished binding half of her hair at the back of her head with a beautiful, silver pin that was shaped like an elaborate star, she was ready.


Walking through the streets of Nolwë Osto on a sunny day was comparable to nothing else. Even the poorer housing districts were beautiful and elaborate until one traveled to the farming communities on the outskirts where it was more important to build for purpose than for aesthetics.

The city was all golds and silvers with splashes of other colours here and there. However, the beauty of those buildings paled in comparison to the Great Library of Nolwë which stood at the heart of the city/state. It was said to be the most extravagant and elaborate of any building in the entire world. Nations from all over Emoria had not only donated knowledge but had also donated money to have it expanded to fit whatever may be needed. It was a huge spot for tourism, and the money the tourism produce had helped make it as beautiful as it was.

The Great Library was only five blocks from her home, and she loved to walk. During the trek, she was mindful to keep her robes off the ground, so they wouldn’t become dirty.

As she rounded the final block, the entirety of the Library came into view. No matter how often she saw the beautiful architecture, she would never grow tired of it. There was always some new detail she would notice no matter how minor. However, today was not the day to stop and look for new things. She had to go straight to the largest room of the Library where the Council would be held.

As usual, the Library was filled with people. It always pleased Saila to see so many people interested in the works that were displayed for public use. Anyone could study in this place, but no one was permitted to take anything from it. They could copy things for their own use, or they could remain in the Library.

It was on the first floor at the back of the building, and before she traversed the space, she nodded to the guides who were positioned to lead outsiders to the room.

There were two doors to it, and a large table with many surrounding chairs had been placed within it for this occasion. As she crossed the threshold of one of the doors – both were open to welcome those who needed to be there – she noticed one familiar face already within the room.

Venteux, the winged woman from the Plane of Air was standing, waiting for the rest. That must mean Saila was right on time. She was familiar with the other, for she had spent time learning the language of the Ionairus, and in turn, the half-Quendë had helped the winged one become more fluent in Common, even teaching tidbits of Quenya – the official language of Taurë Arda and Saila’s first tongue - to her.

“Hello, Venteux. Are you ready for this?” The maiden asked the other in the Common Tongue. They shouldn’t have long to wait for the others.

[Bird of Hermes]

Venteux was only standing in the barren Council Room for a few minutes before another arrived.

“Hello, Venteux."

The voice was familiar. A patient sigh escaped her lips. At least, she would know someone here.

"I suppose so." Each word is said in Common; each term is deliberate and painstakingly pronounced. The Ionairus makes no errors in the pronunciation. It was a phrase she had heard humans use quite often. "You are here on behalf of the Library, I take?" She asks this in the same formal and mindful vein.

The winged woman begins to move around, getting a feel for the place. This was the first time she had ever been admitted into this room before. She moved typically of any Ionairus on her feet. She was stalking and bobbing, not unlike a pigeon. Coming to the edge of the room, she stops and stands straight.

"I wonder how long it will be before the others arrive?" Ventuex checks her hourglass. It had not been more than a quarter of an hour.

Yet, despite the short amount of time, the usually patient guardian had many questions running through her mind. Her feathery ears twitch and her vibrant eyes wander. How many more would come?

[Loki]

Although he never signed on as a sailor, Ja’Dhannar felt at ease on the merchant schooner as it traveled to the northern continent of Talonia. It had taken him a short while for his balance to compensate for the gentle sway caused by the waves crashing against its bow, but the crew of the Jode’s Arrow did not give him a second thought. Then again, Ja’Dhannar was not on the vessel as a crewman or a passenger, rather as a Templer escort. At least that was what any public records stated. It wasn’t uncommon for wealthy merchants to hire some form of protection when venturing to foreign countries for business, especially if there was any significant travelling to be done by land. Such an opportunities provided excellent cover for Shadowfeet and Silencers to travel for international affairs without foregoing their anonymity.

Ja’Dhannar sat in silence on the deck of the ship in a long flowing chasuble of rich ivory and crimson, as was the customary uniform for a Templer. The strong ocean wind caused his locks of golden hair to flail wildly along with his clothing. For the sake of the nautical journey, he opted to forego wearing his armor. To wear heavy steel on open waters is to tempt fate to send one overboard where even the strongest swimmer would only look elegant as they drown.

The Khajiiti reflected on the task that his Listener had bestowed upon him. For years, there have been rumors of unusual Tynir activities, even though there were no more than the usual conflicts at the border. It wasn’t until a month ago that a ravaged scouting party managed to return from their mission with something to report. Ja’Dhannar’s tail flicked at his side as he recalled the news that was brought to his attention.

The Tynir wield steel and have constructed a spire for reasons yet unknown… They are organizing once again; we must assume the worst. The timing seems a little too convenient to be unrelated to the kidnappings. Granted, there is no proof of a connection, but the other nations will surely have trouble dismissing the potential collaboration. I hope that I will be able to gain support from the other nations to dissuade any thoughts of invasion the Tynir may have. The future of Kvatch might very well rely upon it.

It is only a few more days until we pull into port, which will give me some time to prepare before the council convenes.

[Dax]

Spring. Jean de Poitiers loves spring.

It is a symbol of rebirth from the darkness of winter; where the light of day becomes stronger and longer and its heat fills the air. In fact, you could nearly smell the Sanctus Unus rain his love and warmth upon this “reborn” world.

The Sanctus Unus, of course, is the One who presided over everything. He was the Creator, He is the Judge and He is Everlasting. He is the One of worship for the priests of Vatienne, just like Jean, and of the religion of the Sanctus Unus. His followers include the entirety of Vatienne and the once-colony Am, not to mention the scattered worshipers scattered throughout Emoria. They are all watched over by the Papus Gregoire IX of Vatienne, the oldest and by far the most powerful Vatiennien priest alive.

“Messire, nous sommes arrivés,” Sir, we are here said the captain of Jeans escort. About twenty men were riding next to, behind and in front of Jean. What is fascinating is that even when a Vatiennien tries to gather little attention to themselves, their natural, unconscious arrogance always manages to make them “pop-out” of the regular. The twenty men compromised of eighteen Imperial soldiers and two priests of the Sanctus Unus all on their armored, white horses always attracted the look of passer-bys… even if elves cared less, it was still important for Jean to do this. After all, it was his pride that he was taking care of. If you wanted the main source of Jeans pride, however, it was how nineteen small flags of Vatienne were flowing on every soldiers and priests cape… and the gigantic one being wielded by the head of the party. It was no secret that the Vatienniens arrived; anyone outside the city could see them.

This was also not to mention that the actual travel had been a long one. Leaving Vatienne for the ocean was not long, and the short travel across the sea wasn’t so bad either. However, once landed on the mainland, the travels took two days of riding. Now although no Vatiennien would admit it, they were all, including Jean, exhausted.

Jean eventually gave the captain a little nod and got off of his imperial horse. Every Senator of Vatienne got an “Imperial” horse at their swearing-in, for life. They also received an “Imperial” eagle. Jeans brown friend, Carbo, just so happened to be perched on Jeans shoulder, only excessive training and love for his master keeping its sharp and deadly claws from biting into Jeans flesh.

Jean then told his escort in Vadeir, the official language of Vatienne, to find a stable for the horses and that they should try to nestle in an inn… all while not causing too much trouble. Jean added emphasis on the “not causing trouble” part.

Jean now lifted his gaze and saw, for the umpteenth time Nolwë Osto, City of Knowledge. No matter how many times Jean visited this place, may it be on important matters of the state or for simply passing hours in its library, reading on whatever he can, it never got any less beautiful.

Sarcastically taking in a deep breath, much like you would do before jumping into a lake or river, Jean plunged into the streets of the great city.

It was quite easy to find ones way to the Great Library and once Jean had arrived to his destination, he finally got himself in his mindset. The reason for his presence at this center of knowledge engulfed him.

The kidnapping of High Magistrate Arthur Sullivan.

It is thought it happened around 9:26 pm, at the crossing between the Center of Vatienne and its elven district, the Garden. The cardinal of the Sanctus Unus and veteran Imperial Senator was kidnapped during his evening stroll. Evidence consists of traces of dark magic deeply contrasting with the pure light that simply emanates from Vatienne.
High Magistrate Arthur Sullivan, or Sully, like everyone affectionately called him, was a man with great power and influence. He is a high ranking member of the clergy, of the Senate and is a personal friend of the Papus, while being advisor to the Emperor. He was the most charismatic of characters, and the fact that anyone would lay a finger on this gentle, jolly old man without hesitating must be of a dark nature. This means that the belligerents hailed from the Mountains of Night. The Dark lord had risen again.

All of this, of course, was deeply disconcerting, especially for Vatienne. The two nations hated each other. It has always been so and always will be.
Though separated by a sea, the two nations have hated each other for well over two-thousand years, which was the date of their last large-scale conflict: the Third war of Illuria.
A rather violent affair; three massive wars that amounted to all but nothing plague Vatiennes past.

Regardless, Jean finally decided to make way to the spot of the international meeting… if only where that was, exactly. Jean was accustomed to the library but he had never stepped into that one particular room, so far as he can recall. To his luck, or by the tenuous care of his hosts famed elven hospitality, a guide sat plainly in Jeans vision.

The Vatiennien commandeered the guide and followed him throughout the infinite corridors. The architecture, so perfect and elegant, for the first time in his personal history, failed to catch his eyes upon their frivolous beauty. Jean was occupied by more important matters.

Who would be at this meeting? Any enemies of his state? Jean was quite sure that he was going to have to endure the presence of people of questionable likability, but that was international affairs. You never choose who you find or meet, but deal with it and hope no wars come out of it. Jean just hoped that members of Am and their elven neighbors: the Thendári.

Finally, Jean believed he had arrived. Not only was the guide slowing his paste, but two massive wooden doors stood at the entrance to what seemed to be the meeting-room. In fact, it was quite a large room with a handful of chairs sitting all next to a negotiation table. If Jean would take the couple seconds to count the chairs, maybe he could figure the number of people attending the meeting…

However, something caught his eye. Well, more like some people caught his eye.

An Ionairus, Jean knew, which was a being of the elemental plane of Air was most surely here on behalf of that very plane of existence… if not all of the others: in which case this could be very serious indeed. Although Vatienne had friendly relationships with the Ionairus, official meetings between the two nations happened only very rarely. The only reason that Jean recognized this race is because he saw one or two of them walking and flying in Vatienne in the past… and the fact that he had read about them in this very library and at the Prusse College, which was the intellectual center of Vatienne.

There was another person present. This one was an elf. A young elf, by the looks of it, but was probably far older than his 42 years of age who looked vaguely familiar. Elves always seemed very young for their age that could span to the hundreds and thousands of years. She was most probably here on behalf of the people of Taurë Arda.

Both of these women seemed young for the important spot they are to hold, but it didn’t matter to Jean. If they were this young and picked, it means that somewhere somehow they had the skill to back it up. That was enough for this priest. Jean finally walked inside the room. Apparently both of them were talking to each other.

“Hello to the both of you, started Jean with his usual greeting smile, I am Jean de Poitiers, Priestari Senatarum of Vatienne.” Jean said this all while slightly bowing his head, formerly introducing himself.

“I trust that I am one of the first of the many to arrive, asked Jean as he looked around the room. I hope these discussions to encompass as many nations as possible…”

[Gadreille]

It was the first week of Corbina’s release from the Healing Clan’s place of practice, and it was not a good one. She had spent weeks within the confines of the bog houses, the suffocating pressure of moisture inhibiting her from her natural acquisition of fire from the warmth around her.

Or so she blamed.

It was not the water confining her, but the ever present disease that she was attempting to survive. Lycanthropy was a fast moving disease that spreads wildly throughout the body within hours of being infected. Corbina, being a plainswoman, was defending her home from lycan scum when one managed to bite her arm through the open window she was thrusting fireballs through.

Corbina was lucky to be alive, considering that it is a good hour to reach the swamp, and longer to acquire a raft and drift to where the Healing Clan resides. It was the good will of her fellow people that saved her, and saved many before her who become infected by the disease. She had spent many months battling it physically and mentally, and the healers had deemed her as healthy as they could make her. But how healthy was it? Her eyes still glowed red, anger pulsing through her, anger she did not have before the infection. This anger inhibited her from the intricate spellcasting that she once was a master of. Now, only the most basic skills were manageable.

Her only reward was her life, and her strength. She had become stronger, the anger of the disease having woven into her muscles and her senses. But it wasn’t much of a reward, considering she had once been a spellmaster, a Sorceress, a warrior of intellect and skill. Now she was nothing, and she didn’t understand why she couldn’t fully recover like some others. It was something that no sorceress could ever explain, but it was the long standing belief that the strength of the soul had something to do with it. Corbina, now a victim of the disease, no longer agreed with that assumption.

But everyone else did, and upon returning to her village she was met with either fear or skepticism. She was not the sorceress they had once believed her to be, for if she were she would have fully recovered. Corbina did her best to ignore the prejudices but it was clear that she would never be fully accepted back into her old position. And how could she be, with little more mastery over a firebolt than a beginning girl in training?

For the week she did her best to assimilate into her society, struggling with every moment to keep her anger at bay. Anger for what happened. Anger for how they treated her. Anger over her own failure. It was during this week that she was sent to deliver goods to the clan of Prophecy, a job so low that it was reserved for the non-magic and…the inflicted. It was here that she stumbled across the presence of the High Priestess of Prophecy, a woman so mad and so feared that she was mostly hidden away in her home and cared for by those who dared to.

The High Priestess was an elderly woman who was bent with age and the weight of her own madness, starved thin by her servitude to Wee Jas. So it was a surprise to everyone when she burst from the doors of her home, running into the street wildly with her staff aimed at Corbina.

Everything in her body told Corbina to defend herself and to set the woman to flames before the prophet’s staff could touch her, but to try and harm a Prophet was instant death and out of Wee Jas’ eye. A Prophet’s power left them essentially powerless, and so though they were not trusted, they were always heeded and always praised, since they had received the most terrible power that Wee Jas could bless one with.
Corbina bent her head down to take the impact of the staff, which was flying straight toward her head. She thought how odd it was that a woman so old and decrepit as the High Priestess of Prophecy could run so fast, or hold a long staff out straight by the end of it so easily. The staff stopped and hovered in front of Corbina’s face, and it was only then that she realized that the staff had been dragging the High Priestess, not her holding it. It hovered for a moment and then clattered to the floor, and the High priestess along with it.

The High Priestess’ handmaidens rushed out to collect her, but before they toted her away she thrust her hand toward Corbina, her blind eyes seeing her through Wee Jas’ power.

“You must go! A calling has been made, and you must go! It can be no other!”

Corbina was confused, having been ill the past months and knowing of no calling. A crowd had formed around them, the gentle murmur of disbelief quickly being hushed by the sudden unconciousness of the High Priestess. As the handmaidens rushed to pick her up and carry her back to her home, one of the handmaidens told her of a gathering in the East, at the Great Library. Corbina learned that until the present they had been uncertain of who to send, and it was obvious that Corbina was not on the list of nominations. But, a Prophet’s word is the word of Wee Jas, so the next morning Corbina was rushed away with nothing but a sack of supplies and a horse that could outrun lycans. Word was sent to each plains village to protect her through her journey as far as Jasidin lands were, and the horse would go no further than the last village.

As promised, she was relatively safe through Jasidin lands. It was only within the realm of the last village on Jasidin territory that she would run into lycans, and it was not she that the lycans were attacking. A man, presumably from Spire due to his somewhat familiar mode of dress, was thrown from his horse and the beasts were on him within a moment. Those on duty to protect her turned their efforts to protecting the man, their hatred of the lycans blinding any thought of preservation. Corbina stood with them, using her crossbow to take them out from a distance.

The fight didn't last long, the lycans quickly scared off by the magnificant bursts of energy eminating from the man's sword. After the battle was over, he acknowledged their help and then quickly moved on, attempting to leave lycan territory as fast as possible. Corbina stayed in the village that night, returning the horse to the stables and bunking in the stable loft until morning. The next day, she would continued on foot. The man who she saw the night before had had more than a night’s gain on her, but her unusual strength had given her a faster stride, and even without the horse she found that she was catching up to him. She had no desire for company, and so veered off the path so she could bypass him, but her senses told her that he knew she was out there. In truth, it was more than a lack of desire for company. She felt filthy, unworthy of company. The healers had told her that she could not infect anyone, but the damage was done. She was alone, a lone wolf…what irony. A diseased wolf is exactly what she had become. Is that not what a lycan is?

[Kalon Ordona II]

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________


The Quendi inn brought back a heady flood of memories. It was not the specific inn itself that persuaded the thendári woman's involuntary breath, but the feeling of a dwelling in Nolwë. The sounds of the city faded as the door slowly closed behind her, taking the bright sunlight with it. The north-facing inn had not yet received its fair share of sunlight through the glass windows, and though there was plenty to see by, there was not nearly as much as in the direction of dawn. Tatyana breathed deep the scents of her indoor surroundings. All places had their own flavor to them: stones cut from different mountains, wood hewn from different trees, flowers plucked from different meadows and gardens. The stones, the wood, the flowers, the carpets, the books, all of it carried subtleties in the atmosphere that made it unique from any other place in Emoria.

“Thendári,” said a smiling voice. Tatyana looked toward the sound, seeing a female elf who must have just come in through the doorway behind the reception counter. “How may I help you?” she asked in a common tongue.
Tatyana responded kindly in Quenya. “I'm looking for my brother. I was told he was staying here.”
“The paladin?”
Tatyana was conscious of the slight weight her own isildin armor. She half expected the white metal to glint even brighter from the swell of pride she felt for her brother as she nodded her affirmative. The woman directed her toward the stairwell; the room would be on the third floor. A smiling Tatyana nodded her thanks and began the ascent.

As she climbed the steps a soft, smooth melody drifted down. Tatyana recognized the style and sound of her brother's ocarina. Up the stairs and along the carpeted stone hallway, Tatyana stepped softly so as not to disturb her brother's music. It was beautiful, haunting, a sad melody full of long, minor notes. Closer to its source, Tatyana stepped into an elegant study, with the north wall open to a large balcony. The stone floor was covered by an exquisitely woven maroon rug with a wide teal border; designs in pink and light blue thread depicted vines, leaves and flowers. Tatyana crept closer, all sounds of movement muffled by the thick carpet. Darkwood shelves full of books lined the wall on her left. Potted plants decorated every corner. The sun outside lit a bright and cheerful morning. The domes and spires of the Great Library shone in the distance. All this splendor somehow made the cooing song all the more sorrowful.

The clear notes emanated from the balcony. There he was, sitting on a bench with his back to the thick column of the double archway. All she could see was the glow of isildin plates under the morning sun and an armored boot stretched out on the stones. Tatyana waited at the edge of the carpet and listened to the song, allowing her emotions to be swayed by the slow, lilting melody. When the song came to an end and silence reigned, it was several moments before Tatyana regained her previous euphoric mood. Her clear voice broke the silence. “Why so sorrowful a song on so beautiful a morning?”

“Tatyana!” Recognizing her voice, the figure smoothly rose and looked behind, into the room of the inn. The sunrise lit one half of the green tunic and bright armor of the thendári paladin, whose face was a picture of delight, in complete contrast to the moments-past melody. Well into his third Cycle, his hair was darkening, whereas Tatyana's, nearing the end of her sixteenth, was turning back to white. Like most thendári his eyes were blue, but such a vigor of youth was in them that Tatyana could discern no trace yet of world weariness. He had an aura of conviction about him that rubbed off on most anyone who came in contact with it.

Tatyana thought he looked as heroic as his deeds. More than anyone she had ever met, he carried the light of Alos in his heart. A certain wistfulness crept into her smile as she reverted into her native tongue. “It's good to see you, Chälan.”


__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________


Whenever he saw his paladin sister, Chälan felt the weight of his isildin armor as if it were steel. His heart raced in admiration of how much she had accomplished. More than six times his age, Tatyana had become a paladin just after her first Cycle. Almost because of her alone, the Irrdánë clan was one of the most respected among the Paladins of Aendrel.

Unable to express all the positive emotions he felt at once, the inflections canceled out and his voice in the thendári tongue remained steady. “I didn't know you were coming. Have the others arrived yet?”

Tatyana nodded. “They'll be on their way to the Great Library soon. When will the council begin? I hear it is set for today, since all who were called have already been sighted.”
“It waits only for everyone to be present. The Quendi have doubtless calculated the times of everyone's arrival and are preparing as we speak.”

“Anatar Aeryán was the senior paladin with your group, correct?”
Chälan smiled a nod. “He is there already. He should be among the first to arrive at the secret room where the council will be held. I suspect the Ionairus guardian will be there before anyone, if only because she is a portal guardian.”
“You've met her before?”
He shook his head. “No, but I've heard tell.” The Paladins of Aendrel were adept at learning and keeping secrets. By the same token, only those of influence who knew and kept secrets of their own were aware of the paladins' purpose and value.

Tatyana stepped closer, her boots clicking softly on the stone floor near the balcony. “Is it the recent kidnappings that persuaded your song to sadness?”
Chälan nodded slightly several times, as if to himself, his mood growing somber. “The Shadow has struck a terrible blow. Morgarath's arm has grown longer than even we had dared to imagine. When I think of what the victims might be suffering at this moment, and to what possible purpose... This age of peace has made us weak.”
Tatyana answered quickly, as she too had thought long and hard about the recent events. “We received no warning from Alos. If even he has caught unawares, there was nothing we could have done.” Her eyes betrayed, however, that she felt the same, that the paladins had grown careless.
An awkward moment of silent contemplation overcame them.

The Paladins of Aendrel, stationed in many places throughout Emoria and dealing in high circles of influence, were among the first to learn of the kidnappings. Frantic investigations had taken place even before Nolwë Osto delivered the summons of the council. During the meeting, the paladins would have much to reveal about all they had seen or deduced concerning the works of Shadow. Many would likely not even be aware that Morgarath was behind it all. That the Thendári had assumed this from the start in no way diminished the truth and gravity of it when they were proven right.

“Come,” said Chälan, “we'll do no good standing here all morning. Shall we see if the others are ready?”
Tatyana smiled and gathered him into an embrace, the plates of their armor clinking together. Slightly taller than she, Chälan could see the top of her head where her light gold hair was turning white. A metal clasp held her hair together below her shoulders, and another gathered it all into a metal tip far below. “It really is good to see you, Chälan,” she said as they separated.
Chälan smiled, a touch bashful. “It's good to see you, too.”

It had been nearly five years since he had last seen Tatyana, and many times that since he had last walked the forests of Aendrel. He missed both, but the presence of one appeased the longing for the other. And there was the cause of Light to be at. Chälan felt a thrill of anticipation. He was more pleased than he could express that Tatyana would be with him for such a time as this.

[Gabe]

-3 days prior to the meeting-

Nilus sensed that he was nearing the edge of Taurë Arda. The journey from Idona wasn't especially far, but Nilus was generally unfamiliar with the place the Quendi called home. Since his assignment wasn't an aggressive action, Nilus traveled not with an army, but a single companion. While her presence in the first place wasn't planned, certain circumstances warranted a last second 'tagging-along' that Nilus simply couldn't refuse.

Captain Tratant had recently disappeared, leaving his small army headless during a contract near Traemador. While the Drenata weren't at ends with the Ayre anymore, suspicions arose about a possible rouge cell trying to instigate the fires of war again. Others with a more 'big picture' state of mind rationalized that due to the somewhat simultaneous kidnappings of other dignitaries across Emoria, a bigger power was to blame. Tratant's disappearance was unusual, however. He did not hold political power, nor did his army possess the great influence that it did years ago. King Arrington IV was going to ignore the incident altogether when intelligence channels reported the similar disappearances. Nilus had only recently sworn his allegiance to carry out his King's will, and quickly jumped at the opportunity to represent Idona during the large council meeting in Taurë Arda. When Nilus found out that Captain Tratant had a daughter, he insisted that she accompany him on the trip.

The two made the journey on horseback, keeping a somewhat rigorous pace. Nilus stayed ahead of his companion, only stopping for meals, rest, and the occasional lesson on scouting techniques that Nilus happily threw in at his leisure. On this particular afternoon, he decided to impart some wisdom on Naomi of Tratant before they wouldn't be able to see the sun anymore. He waved back to her, signaling a stop. After a short stretch break, he began the lesson.

"Your father taught me this himself," he began. He handed Naomi a small black cloth, which she looked at quizzically.
"Tie that around your head, then spin until you're too dizzy to stand up." he said assertively. Naomi obeyed, having given up on asking questions at this point. Most of Nilus' lessons didn't make sense until the closing statements, and even then sometimes there was nothing logical the girl could glean from them.

After several rotations, the blindfolded girl staggered and fell on her bottom, stirring the dust around her. She took the blindfold off, being careful not to get it tangled in her mottled black hair. Seeing that she was clearly disoriented, Nilus spoke again,
"Now then, tell me which way we were traveling, and before you ask...no, you can't see my compass this time."
Naomi pursed her lips in frustration. She stood up, dusting off the leather armor she meticulously constructed herself, and looked in each direction before giving up.
"I know it was southwest, but you only showed me how to use the stars to find my way, and it's not dark enough yet." she said softly. Her former lifestyle had not been conducive to traveling long distances, but she wanted to find her father.

She turned back towards Nilus, who had pierced the earth with his shortsword. The blade stood straight up, casting a shadow about 2 feet long. At the very tip of the shadow, Nilus placed a pebble.
"Now, we wait a few moments!" Nilus said, pride in his voice. "Your father will be proud to see that his daughter is a proper scout, especially at your age. Most of my own forward-observers are older than me. It's difficult to direct an army from beyond eyesight, and it's as important for scouts to be skilled in orienteering as it is for them to be fighters."

Nilus' memory snapped back to an embarrassing defeat at the hands of a Tynir general 4 years ago. His own scouts had gotten careless, and led Nilus' main force right into the open arms of an ambush. At the time, Nilus was still inexperienced with leading men into battle. After revising his own tactics, Nilus hoped to avoid a similar incident in the future.

"What does age have to do with it?" Naomi protested. "I bet if everyone learned how to be a scout at my age we'd be even better by the time we came of age." While the girl made a valid point, she misunderstood the value of rotating warriors through the several fighting positions in an Ayren army.

"Because, at 16 plenty of warriors still don't have the fortitude to rely on themselves when an entire army's safety is at stake." Nilus replied in the same matter-of-fact tone he had given before. "Now, watch carefully." he said, turning back to the shadow of his sword. The shadow had shifted several inches. Just as before, Nilus placed a pebble at the very tip of the shadow. He then freed the blade from the earth and drew a perfectly straight line between the two pebbles.

"Tell me Naomi, which way does the sun go?" he asked sarcastically. In a mundane and slightly impatient voice, Naomi replied,
"It rises in the east, and sets in the west. Can I assume that line you drew with the pebbles has something to do with it?"

Nilus smiled as he sheathed the sword on his hip. His approval was apparent in his voice as he continued the lesson.
"Very good! Now since the sun sets in the west, that means the shadows move to the east. By using the two pebbles, I was able to draw a line that runs east to west. From this line, I can make another line like this," he said, scratching a perpendicular line in the dirt with his boot. "...and now I have north and south. The rest is easy. We know that we must go southwest, and now we have a compass made from dirt and shadows."

Naomi was genuinely impressed, but still upset about being spun around when it certainly wasn't necessary to begin with.
"Amazing," she said "can we go now?"

Having been satisfied by the day's lesson, Nilus mounted his horse and replied,
"Of course, but from here on, you're leading the way." He couldn't help but make the most of the trip. Behind the smile he feared the worst for his old Captain. If it came to the worst of circumstances, Nilus would return the old favor and gift his army to Naomi, then resign command and serve under her himself.

-day of the meeting-

Nolwë Osto, the city of knowledge. It was Nilus' first time in the city. It was nothing like Idona. It was warm, bright, and the people all had an exotic air about them, as if they knew they resided in what could possibly be the fairest city in Emoria.
Nilus paid to have the horses boarded for the night and rented a room at an expensive inn near the library. He wished that he and Naomi had brought some nicer clothes for the council meeting, but the supplies they had managed to bring for the journey pushed the limits of what their horses could effectively carry. Nilus left his scythe and bow in the rented room; carrying such weapons so openly had already turned a few heads in the city streets, and bringing them to the council chamber seemed like a bad idea. He settled with keeping his shortsword secured to his hip.

Before the two made their way to the library for the meeting, Naomi insisted on purchasing a bolt of silk from a clothier. While Nilus had a loose sense of dressing for occasion, Naomi's second family taught her the ways of crafting formal garments. Within an hour, she turned the plain square of cloth into a semi-formal cape for Nilus to wear over his left shoulder. A small metal clasp held it to the upper right corner of his breastplate, with the majority of the material hanging across his back and ending near his hip. Nilus hardly saw the point in trying to adorn himself at this point, but the girl was certainly talented with a needle and thread. For herself, she fashioned a simple cloak and hood, which reached the back of her knees in length and sat slightly to her left, hiding her own blade, which was identical to Nilus' in construction.

After ridding their armor of the grime inherent with travel, the two young Ayrens made their way into the library, where they were guided to the council chamber. A few of the other dignitaries had already gathered. Both were shocked to see that they had arrived somewhat early, but tried to make their entrance to the room as subtle as possible. This was the first time that Idona had convened with the rest of the world. Needless to say, they were both visibly nervous. In an attempt to take initiative and ease Naomi's nerves, Nilus spoke first.

"Good morning. My name is Nilus of Izic, and this is Naomi of Tratant." he said, gesturing as politely as he could manage. Naomi courteously bowed, slightly spreading her arms and nodding her head. Without pause, Nilus continued, "We represent Idona for this council meeting and hope to exchange wisdom with everyone who is able to attend."

[Gadreille]

Corbina had walked long and far to reach her destination. She had followed the coast to bipass dangerous territory, and then caught the eastern road that went through Forya and eventually to Nolwë Osto. She walked slowly for two purposes: to avoid the man ahead of her, and to not give off any obvious indications that she had become infected. She did not know what the outsider's view of lycanthropy was, but she doubted it was any more positive than her own.

Eventually the forests revealed a beautiful structure, which was none other than the Great Library of Nolwë. Corbina's gaze lifted in awe, for she had never seen anything greater than the haphazard structures that made up the docks of Spire, or the bungalows and cottages of her own lands. Her awe soon changed to caution as her eyes caught movement of some people in the distance.

She had been briefly warned by her own clan's Priestess of the views of many people of Emoria toward the Jasidin. "The Jasidin," she explained, "are the like the prophets to us. They are mistrusted. You will find no friends here, and friends are not your purpose. Wee Jas has demanded that you find out what the great meetings purpose is, though why she chose you I do not understand. Go there, learn, and send messages back. We will instruct you further when you learn more."

And that is all she knew. She didn't even know where the council was, and grudgingly admitted she would have to ask for direction. She pulled her lilac cloak up over her head, so her eyes would be less noticable, and then approached the nearest person, asking for direction. She was guided to the council chamber, where a man and a woman were announcing their arrival. Corbina walked in after them, perhaps too swiftly, but she was nervous in company. The many faces looked up at her in expectation of her announcement.

"Corbina Obscurrace of Jasidin Swamplands." Her accent was thick compared to the voices that spoke before her, making her feel even more alienated than she already was. She remained standing, unsure what proper protocol of a council was.

Wee Jas, why me?

[Guest]

Dasciis took his time as he entered the great city of Nolwë Osto. The took was quite a bit different from Spire. While Spire was majestic in its own form, it was more a form of necessity than an elegant practice of the arts. Nolwë Osto obviously took pride in its grand structures, most of which were gold and silver, sporadically interrupted with a variety of colors that somehow seemed less random here than it would have in his own city.

As he reached the Great Library, he stood and stared in awe. This was his first visit to the city, as traveling Heroes didn't have much to offer in peace cities like Nolwë Osto. So this was his first real view of the Great Library, the hub of all culture and history in Emoria. An elven guide was waiting for him at the entrance, and, nodding, he let the elf take him through the winding corridors of the library. The elf slightly bowed his head to Dasciis as they reached a heavy wooden door, and then turned and left. Dasciis placed a gauntleted hand on the heavy door and gave it a push.

The door swung open easily, and his view was filled with a small group of people standing around a central table.

The group halted their conversation momentarily as Dasciis entered the room, swiveling their heads to get a glance at the newest member of the meeting. He thought he saw a look of recognition in the male Ayren's eye, but he couldn't be sure. He knew the Vatienne priest would recognize his armor as well, but he couldn't be sure about the others. He had contemplated coming to the meeting without his armor, but then decided the best way to get his answers would be to have some degree of authority. While he didn't directly have authority over any of the members of this meeting, surely they would recognize a strong and capable leader of the Guild of Heroes when they saw one.

"I am Dasciis Arkandis, of the Guild of Heroes of Spire. I will assume this isn't everyone?"

Dasciis did not really know what to expect from the people of Emoria. He knew some would show up to the meeting, but he knew that other nations wouldn't desire to be in such close contact with potential enemies.

[Blackrock]

The thick white blanket of winter was slowly melting away, here and there small patches of grass had begun to take over the domain of snow. It was Nedel, the seventh day of the week and now was the time for feasting. The sun was slowly taking cover behind the snowy mountains, towering many feet above the landscape. In the village the sound of music and laughter could be heard, the chief source being the biggest building. Fanrin's Hall, the home of the chieftain. And even though Fanrin had long since joined his ancestors on the fortress that is the Moon, his kin still ruled from this ancient building. Pleasant warmth, inviting lights and a delicious smell of roast were radiating from within.

Upon entry, one would first notice the permanent inhabitants - many trophies arranged on the walls, both to the left and to the right. Heads of boar and bear, antlers of deer and moose, perched on branches long dead eagles and hawks. And in the center of it all, the head of a mighty beast. Fanrin's prize. A great bear, a beast of legend, which was beaten with bare hands. These signs of the past had always been, even the oldest of elders could not say for certain when some of the trophies came to be.

The other inhabitants were far less dead and much more noisy. Below the silent beasts, on two long benches stood a multitude of people. To the left - women, young and old; to the right - men, some bloodied, others still little more than children. And, like the trophies, in the center stood the mightiest. Below the head of the great bear, was a throne of wood and iron. To its left, a smaller throne stood, slender and lithe like a woman's figure; to its right - an even smaller seat. A table was laid before these three places of honour. Behind them, a large fireplace roared and filled the hall with the pleasant smell of burning timber.

The feasting carried on, as it always did, for a time - the skalds told tales of old and sung forgotten songs, the ale was frothy and the meat tender and juicy. But, again as always, a silence began to make its way into the hall. For tonight was special, it was Nedel, but it was also the last day of the month. And it was a time for paying respect. The table in front of the throne was removed, the songs stopped and breaths were held in anticipation. From amidst the benches, men stood. Men who were dressed differently than those around them. And one by one, they all came to kneel before the throne. Before the man.

This man was Perun, son of Slavin and here he was lord. Mighty and tall, even without the help of his throne, he towered above most. His icy blue eyes pierced the men who came to offer their signs of allegiance. First came a youth, some twenty winters old, clad in wolf skins. He was the second son of Tinwyn of the Tooth, their tribe lived deep in the forest and made a living from gathering wolf pelts. And that was their tribute, many fine pelts were offered - black and grey and white and all were spotless. Perun gave him a nod, he was pleased. Then came one clad in heavy skins, for he came down from the mountains. It was Hrodig, brother to Hrondor, of the mountain. To Ina, Perun's wife, he offered a necklace of valuable stones. To Pirin, Perun's son, a sword with an elaborate hilt, inlaid with the same precious materials was given. And lastly, a heavy chest with the very same stones was laid at Perun's feet. Next came a giant of a man, who dwarfed even the mighty chief. This was Ran the Axe, the best warrior of the river clan. They were warriors without peer and were once the most powerful in the region...until Perun came to power. Ran's knees were stiff and did not bend easily, but before the Kinslayer all knelt. Two twin axes were offered, masterfully crafted and polished until a mirror-like reflection had been achieved.

This continued for a while, others came and offered tributes. All stood proud and independent once and had been shattered by Perun's ideas. He had those in abundance, having lived abroad for a long while. And in the end, hunter and warrior, smith and woodcutter, landworker and earth-digger, all of them bowed to him. And while the old chief knew that this was only one small part of Arbia, he hoped that his son would one day continue his legacy. When the pile of tributes stood high and no more men came forward, Perun stood up and lifted his hands. A silence hung about the hall, now was the critical moment. The Chieftain's voice carried over the hall:

"The tributes offered, Voin is my witness, are enough. Let the rites be set aside, the time for feasting is again upon us. Eat and drink and be merry! Enjoy the hospitality of Perun, son of Slavin!"

Praises were heard and the music and shouts and laughs made their way back into the hall. The gifts were taken to the Chieftain's quarters, on the second level of the building. Ina kept the necklace and Pirin, a lad of twelve, had kept the sword. Perun smiled as he looked at his son, he would grow strong and proud, like his forefathers. He was quick of wit and strong of hand, but he needed schooling. What common knowledge the Chieftain had would not be enough, the boy needed proper education. Something which his father could never afford. One of these days, he would have to be sent somewhere. On one of the ships out of Water Town, maybe, to go visit those strange people who dwelt beyond the Great Rift. And what of the other lands? There was choice enough and endless opportunities...

His musings were interrupted when the doors were swung open. The chilly night air entered the hall and men turned around, weapon hilts in hand, to look on the one who dared disturb them. It was a man, worn and tired from his journey, by all accounts. He muttered something about an urgent message and knelt before Perun. The host welcomed him and ordered for food and drink to be provided for the weary news-bringer. The man said that he came from the Subor and brought their decision. Eyebrows were raised, for the ancient gathering was held during the summer. Perun, however, knew of this urgent meeting, the cause - rumours brought from merchants and travellers. He did not go there himself, the Chieftain was not one to trouble himself with rumours. And yet the calling came and he had to answer, for the sake of his son, for the sake of his tribe, for the sake of his country.

That is how it began.

Perun reflected this as he looked upon the walls of the Library. It had been so long ago since he last set foot here. And the journey had definitely been less stressful then. After reading his "orders", Perun was quick to set up arrangements. On the morrow he was already ready to depart. He left the tribe in the care of his son, telling him that it was time for him to know what it is to rule over men. Ina would help the boy, she was a keen-witted and proud woman. In addition, Kendar, his loyal servant and trusted friend would advise the young chief in matters of war and combat. With him, Perun took two men. Rilan, one of the most promising warriors of this generation and Vitosh, Ina's younger brother.

The three had made good progress as they traveled westward towards the Beli Mountains. But that did not last. They spent the next week traversing the treacherous mountain passes, in a constant battle with the cold and snow. Perun's two companions had never traveled so far west, as far as they were concerned (the chief suspected) - any moment the end of the world would be seen. And yet they put on brave faces and persevered. When the rock yielded and made way for grass, they all marveled. Perun, for he had not seen this sight in many a year and the two others, for they had never seen it at all. Fields of green as far as the eye could see, with barely a tree to dot the landscape.

They journeyed to a small town at the foot of the Beli Mountains. It was maintained by traders, mostly out of Vatienne, and provided a rest for those who dared to brave the mountains. The three Arbians acquired horses from there (Perun had determined that the swiftest way through would be on foot). And what horses! Not the stocky, short horses with their shaggy fur, which were bred for endurance. No, these were true horses, like the ones Perun had known so long ago. For himself the chief took a stallion, mighty and proud; while the others settled for the more peaceful geldings. His tribesmen clumsily saddled the animals and rode on. Arbians were many things, warriors and hunters, woodcutters and craftsmen, but seldom riders. Perun struggled in the beginning, but then it all came back to him. After all, he had spent a great part of his life in a saddle, commanding men and swinging sword and shield. In a land as distant as memory....

He realized that riding, much like swimming or walking, was nigh on impossible to forget. Once you got the gyst of it, the small details and tricks came back quickly. Before the day was done, it was as if the Chieftain had never left the saddle. His companions did not fare so good, but they too managed to perform well enough. The thick furs were put aside and leathers used in their place, for the cold was a stranger in these lands. So it seemed to the dour Arbians. They encountered little else of note on their journey, apart from the stray traveler here and there. No bandits attacked them, nothing at all. That was owed to their stature, no doubt. For all three of them were tall and broad of shoulder, with fair hair and clear blue eyes. Perun's hair was darker than that of his companions, but the two bright sockets of his face marked him as a true Arbian. With their cloaks and armour and swords, they looked like some heroes or princes out of the tales.

And now here they were, in front of the great building. The three of them all looked at its splendour and marveled, the chief because it brought back memories and the others because they saw it for the first time. The three moved side by side, Perun in the middle, to his right Vitosh and to the left Rilan. He noticed that his tribesmen had, mirroring their leader, trimmed their beards and shortened their hair. Perun noted to himself that they looked like a lord's party from one of those faraway kingdoms he had visited. He, the lord, to his right the knight and to the left - the squire hoisting his liege's banner. And indeed, the young Rilan held the tribe's banner firmly in his hands. Coats of arms were not something seen in Arbia, but Perun had decided that having one would add further prestige to the tribe. And so, a black bear's head stood on a field of white. The banners flew high both in Belin and now here, in the center of knowledge.

Perun dismounted from his horse with the grace of a seasoned rider. During their journey he had calmed the black beast's wild nature and now he was a stout companion. He stroked his head gently, with a gloved hand and looked at his companions.

"Here we are, my friends. Is it what you expected?"

"It is a wonder, just as you spoke, great one." - replied Rilan

"It is as if the tales you told by the fire came to life." - added Vitosh

Perun nodded, he was pleased. His hardened face seldom betrayed a smile, but those who knew him, would know that a nod was a welcome sign.

"What would you have us do?" - asked the young warrior

"Watch. And listen. Many come to this place, both from near and far. An opportunity to learn must be treasured. Remember that." - replied the Chieftain

The two others promised to learn as much as they could, not for his sake, as Perun pointed, but for theirs. Theirs and their children's. He then told them to seek out shelter for the horses and warm beds for themselves. After the meeting was done he would find them. After they parted ways, Perun entered the library, as he had once done. It had been fifteen winters or more since he had last set foot here. A boy had entered, a boy had left. But now, a man, with the responsibility of tribe and family, stepped through the great doors. The Arbian had spent many a day in these halls of gathered wisdom and knowledge, peering over maps or dusty tomes. Where the fabled gathering was to take place, however, he knew not. Luckily, guides had been placed and he was quick to strike up a conversation. He used the language of the Quendi stiffly to utter a greeting. Even all those winters ago, when the fire of youth burned in his veins, he knew that a rough being like him could never hope to master the language of these delicate people. He explained the same now, this time in Common, as he was led towards his goal.

As Perun was left at the corridor leading to the chamber, the guide mentioned that some of the other representatives had already arrived, after which he departed. The Chieftain was not vain, no Arbian could allow themselves to be. And yet, he took a moment to look at his appearance. His black cloak was firmly fastened around his shoulders, the armour underneath was plain but polished to a shine. His beard was well-trimmed and his hair combed. It was sufficient. Without further ado, he took the final steps, with an assured stride and entered the room.

It was, as he had expected, an interesting site. There was one of the Quendi, from her robes, he supposed she was working the Library. She also reminded him of someone, from before...but it had been so long ago. Could he be certain? There was also a winged woman, he had heard, or rather, read of these beings in this very place. There was also a Vatienne priest or perhaps senator, based on the man's robes, their likes Perun had seen many a time. And again, he had a feeling that the person's features were somewhat familiar. But he payed it no mind for the time being. A woman in a lilac cloak was present, he reckoned she was one of the Jasidin that dwelt in the swamplands. A bulky man, clad in blue armour stood amongst them. After some time sifting through his memories, Perun recalled that the man's symbols marked him as one of the Guild of Heroes. There were some others, but he could not draw any conclusions from their garb or how they held themselves. Perun painfully realized that, while he may be all-knowing back home, out here in the true world he was merely a layman. He set that thought aside and spoke, his deep voice booming:

"Greetings. I am Perun, son of Slavin, Chieftain of Belin. I represent the people of Arbia, who live beyond the mountains, to the north and west of Talonia, in isolation. Our people have understood that we can no longer stay behind our walls of ice and snow. That is why I have come to this gathering." - he paused, letting the words sink in - "To listen and learn and to offer the support of the Arbian people."

[Guest]

Most of the world had begun to ease free of the icy grip of winter and in most of the world the sun would shine upon the land again, bringing with it the warmth so loved by the creatures of the light. But there were places where light never shined, where the darkness yet reined and had reined for millennia uncounted. Dark storms gathered over the very citadel of darkness.

A smooth pillar of living black stone jutted forth from the top of the tallest mountain in existence. This tower had been there since before even the oldest of the mortal races now living had been born, for many it was simply a myth, the home of a being so terrible that his name was rarely invoked save as a threat to scare unruly children. Few still believed the legends and even those who of the elves and others who lived long who had witnessed the Illuric wars preferred to think the being who had made this place home was gone.

But all those who thought him gone were wrong, a dark form stood outlined against the sky upon the heights of the Darktower. A being who despite his not so impressive stature exuded power and a dread presence. A being that was anathma to life, to hope, to all save his own creations. A shadowed face turned to stare out at the world and from beneath the thick cowled robe a pair of burning yellow eyes glowed. Eyes that laughed at the world with a sinister dark humor that was beyond what mortals could truly comprehend. The Being looked once in each direction and in each place a circle of darkness appeared in the air.

From the circles came pictures, vision from the night. To the north formed the image of the ancient library that even the being who stood before the portals could not see within. And also less prominent he saw his minion, the one he had sent to allay the fears of those he would destroy. To the south was another tower, smaller but still to one who knew to look a twin to the one up which he stood. The Tynir were making progress, which was not only good but necessary, things were being set in motion once more. From the east and west only oceans could be seen, but a glimpse of something perhaps ships upon the waves could be noticed in the pounding surf. The circles of darkness vanished consumed in the deeper blackness of the night that fell within the mountains, and a chilling laughter echoed from the top of the tower.

In the gathering gloom below creatures whose ancestors may once have been men moved to whips and shrieks of strange shadowed beings who showed none of their features or even a single piece of flesh to the air. Those they commanded whimpered in fear at the sound and the darkclad figures bowed their heads in reverence at it.

The being who stood upon the peak of the tower turned from the sky slowly, it had seen enough. It descended into the tower itself. Tortured screams and shrieks echoed ceaselessly up from the bowels of the tower, where the prisoners and those who had failed him were tortured and punishment was dealt out for failure. The stairwell was dark and smelled with a faint sooty odor of burnt flesh and bone, that wafted from the depths. The being seemed to take pleasure at the horrid smells and the sense of smile came forth from his shadowed face. "It is my time at last, this time these fools will fall and I will rule all, none can stand before me now." A voice that was surprising elegant and smooth from such horrid being.

But it was not the need for a peptalk that had lead the Darklord to descend. No it was something else. Old pleasures died hard and he would enjoy breaking those his forces had kidnapped. Starting with the fool from Vatienne. The kingdom that beleived him to truly be dead. He would enjoy this. The light in his eyes flared brighter at the thought of the torment he would cause when this knowledge was revealed. He descended all the way to the bowels of the tower into the prison.

He follwed the screams that seemed to be the most full of defiance and light to find the man his children had abducted from the nation that had fought him so hard so long ago. He did not know who he had captured nor did he truly care, it was the act of the revelation that would prove so deliciously pleasant. He came to the man who he sought, the man was strapped to a wrack and a creature from a nightmare of hell stood with a lash behind him and beat him mercilessly. The Darklord took a moment to savor the pain of the man before stepping forward and picking him up with a vise like grip.

His yellow eyes an inch from the mans face he spoke in a voice that could make many of the strongest men collapse in terror. "Do you know who I am?" He asked with menace full in his voice.

The man looked at him and stammered in terror, "iiiitt, caaan, can't be. You caan't still bee a, alive yo-youu were destroyed."

"But here I stand, you mortals always assume that just because you can't survive something nothing can." His hands closed tighter upon the man's throat and the man gasped. "Speak my name, DO IT"

The man whimpered in pain and gasped it out as if spitting. "Morgarath"

Morgarath nodded and his face changed drastically, the horror faded and though his face was still shadowed it seemed almost human, almost charming. "Now that wasn't so hard was it" he relaxed his grip on the man's throat and as he collapsed to the ground unconscious turned to leave.

"Strap him onto the rack again, I will return in a day or so, then we will see wether these vatienne still have what is needed to create anew." The nightmarish creature returned to it's work with the whip as Morgarath slowly walked away, tomorrow he would confront the others. Everything was going as planned, the world would know his glory none would be able to stop him this time.

[Dax]

The second after Jean had walked inside the room, a whirl of activity followed. A seemingly endless stream of people filed into the meeting room.
“Well, at least they aren’t late…” Jean whimpered to himself.

He turned as the first newcomer that arrived. Well, the first two newcomers he should say; a man and a girl. The man’s name seemed to be Nilus of Izic, Jean never heard of it, and the girls’ was Naomi of Tratant. The girls name sounded familiar… although if he wasn’t mistaken, the last time he heard it, it was a man’s name, not a girls. The most important thing, however, is that he had no problem with those from Idona, nor did his nation, so he accorded them a welcoming smile.

Before he could greet them, however, another entered. And this one did not invoke the same feelings as the Idoniens. A sorceress from those blasted swamplands entered.
“Disgusting... The room feels darker already,” Jean couldn’t help but let slip. But he honestly didn’t care if the sorceress heard him… in fact; maybe he wanted her to…

The woman mumbled some sort of introduction in a thick and frankly new-to-him accent. At least he will have learned something from this enemy of his.
The woman had said her name was Corbina Obscuracce. Jean simply could not help but let loose a small chuckle that he choked immediately.

“Obscuracce, how perfectly fitting,” said Jean, now studying Corbina with his sharp, brown eyes. His gaze brought him to look at her eyes. They were red. For a split second, Jean couldn’t turn away, simply not believing what he had seen. He then quickly turned away, all while giving the sorceress a dirty smirk.

He didn’t know if Corbina noticed the Vatienniens’ optical incursion, but regardless of if she did or not, he could feel that if it came to him working with her, it wouldnt end nicely.
“A lycan in the library; meeting with all of these foreign dignitaries. Now that is disgusting.”
All Jean left her was a sharp look, letting her know that he was watching her.

The next one to enter was refreshingly… normal. And friendly. A member of the Guild of Heroes from Spire, to be exact. Daciis Arkandis was his name. Jean could recognize that armor from a mile away. Jean also addressed this one a smile. The Guild of Heroes was present at the great battle at the foot of the Dark Tower and for most of the third Illurian war that preceded it, and he valued them, even if they were mercenaries, as friends he and his nation could rely upon. Jean was about to walk over and shake his hand, before a man walked in the room.

This man was bearded and had a distinct air to him.

An Arbian.

Jean was ecstatic; he was quite fond of the Arbians, for he had met one back in the day. The Arbian even worked in the Imperial Army and was a dear friend to Jean until he left Vatienne, never to return. The Vatiennien had no idea where that one man now lived, but he made his mark on the young Jean and gave him the most positive of views of the Arbians. Jean probably, hopefully, did the same for his opinion of Vatienniens.

The man who stood in the middle of Jeans view finally spoke. Jean nearly had a heart attack. This man was the Chieftain of one of the tribes, Belin, he said, but that’s not what hit him. He said his name was Perun… was it possible? It must be, only the Perun he knew could have claimed to represent the entire Arbian people... and Perun isn’t exactly the most common of name. And yet, Jean wasn’t sure. He would have to observe the man. So Jean left him with yet another of his welcoming smiles.

Jean suddenly felt a wave of fatigue. Those chairs sitting around the massive table looked welcoming. As Jean turned to face the table, he jumped in surprise. He then mentally cursed and wondered how in the world he could have missed this person.

Before him stood a Paladin of Aendrel. These paladins were his real allies, they were practically family. This one, he knew, was the senior paladin stationed at this library. These paladins were literally everywhere, so it was no surprise that Jean saw one here. However, where there was one, there was a’plenty. The Vatiennien braced to see at least 10 of them in this room. Well, the more of them, the more that Corbina figure would be easier to keep in check.

Jean, before heading to the chairs around the table, walked over to the paladin.
“It’s nice to see a friendly face here. Do you know if anyone of my Frères Distant will be coming to this meeting? I forgot to check in with them before I left home,” questioned Jean.

He knew he could ask the paladin because the three countries, Vatienne, Am and Aendrel, shared a bond soo close that no other countries could gloat to have the same. They shared the most interesting of histories and are all very intertwined. Not to mention Aendrel borders Am.

His Frères Distant being, of course, the inhabitants of Am, a colony that once belonged to Vatienne but had claimed independence. These thoughts always made Jean shutter. He couldn’t care less as to the reason why Am claimed independence, but it still always rung a touch of nostalgia knowing that Am and Vatienne aren’t all under the same banner.
What’s done is done; Jean always had to repeat to himself, simply to calm himself.

Vatienniens in generally called all those from Am as the Frères Distant, meant Distant Brothers in Vadeir. It was simply some sort of familiarity that always just stuck between the two nations.

Jean then moved to one of the chairs at the far end of them room, facing the door so he could have a view of those entering. Not to mention a good view of every other seat for once the meeting will start. As Jean sat down, he looked at the paladin and, with a gesture, invited him to sit next to him, or at least make himself comfortable. He felt a little chatty today.

[Gadreille]

Corbina was left standing among the group, who seemed to either be standing in silence or talking amongst themselves. Quite a few people were already present, and more had entered in behind her. She was distracted by the figure that she had met on the edge of the plains, the Spiran soldier whom she had saved. She wondered if he knew who she was.

The distractions of the room had muffled her senses. The foreign smells of many different people infiltrated her nose, overpowering her olfactory senses like a strong parfum. The low murmur of whispers pounded her ears, making it difficult to hear one over the other. One sound did stand out, a harsh cackle of a laugh from a white-robed man across the way. Her eyes, nose and ears all zoned in on him, and she heard him say "Obscurrace, how perfectly fitting." She stared at him, unsure of who he was but sure that he was not a friend. There were no friends in here.

He looked back at her and stood frozen for a moment. He must have seen underneath her cloak, for she was familiar with the reception of her glowing red eyes. Eventually, he turned away from her and muttered “A lycan in the library; meeting with all of these foreign dignitaries. Now that is disgusting.”

If she had hackles, they would have raised in anger. As it was, the hairs on the back of her neck stood up and her arms clenched tight, her only tool to battle the anger that boiled within. Her blood screamed "Kill him, now!" But what would it do but prove his statement true?

She swallowed her anger and forced herself to ignore the man. It was just as she let go of her anger that she realized who he was: A Priest of Vatienne. No wonder he had jumped down her throat. He was part of a sickly man's race, a race that believed in the power of testosterone but not the magic of the world. He was just an ignorant fool like the rest of them.

Her track record was not going so well, having already made an enemy with only her presence. She took a breath and realized that High Priestess was wrong. If she were to survive here, she'd have to make a friend. It seemed like the best place to start was close to home: The Spiran.

She shuffled over to where he stood, and muttered, "Good to see you made it in one piece," over his shoulder, hoping that she could catch his attention without making a scene.

[Buzzwulf]

“You are going to do something for me.”

The dark lord was not known for his small talk, something Saint had learned quickly in his service. You paid attention when he spoke to you. You really couldn’t help it, something about his speech seemed to just glide into your ears and replace whatever was already there. If you didn’t pay attention, it was your head. Nobody wanted to be made example of, least of all Saint.

“I am yours, my lord. What would you ask of me?”

He liked that sort of thing too.

Saint had become the hand of the dark lord through hard work. He hadn’t backstabbed, as some of subordinates had, but simply been better than them in every way, avoiding the traps they threw in his path and working to be the best he could. It was a bit like being the best of the worst, but Saint had worked for it, and it was his. Almost all of his little assignments had put both his life and morality on the line. His life had escaped those trials intact. Of course, he’d also done things he knew he would have to answer for some day, but he was quickly learning not to care. And best of all, everything he had done had been worth it. He wasn’t sure how, but Lairelosse had never been doing better. She was able to stay in the present most of the time, and she’d stopped talking to people who weren’t there.

This was the first time an assignment had taken him into Quendi territory, though. Even though he enjoyed getting out of the mountains whenever possible, Saint was still worried about Laira. She was so helpless, and nobody truly watched her while he was gone. He had asked the human woman that his lord seemed so infatuated with recently, but she had obviously had worries of her own. At least the beasts of the mountains had the intelligence, or at least the instinct to not attack the small band. As the riders began to feed their mounts and prepare for the last day of travel, Saint’s mind wandered back to the goodbye he had had with his sister.

“You’re right here, sister. This is where you need to be.”

The words, an old ritual that Saint had come to trust, brought some focus to Lairelosse’s vacant eyes. He wondered briefly where and when she had been, but knew that he couldn’t even comprehend what her existence must be like. Recognition flashed into her eyes, and she suddenly stopped seeing the past as she brought her attentions to the present and her gaze fixed o him.

“But what about the horses? Surely we won’t be able to carry enough feed to last us all the way to the mountains, even if we did have enough!”

“Sister,” Saint intoned “what year do you think this is?”

“Oh, of course. Your skin! I should have figured that out. Fionu, I jumped mid-conversation again. You were just telling me that we needed to leave Nolwe Osto. Excuse me. What news do you bring.”

Pain flooded Saints thoughts as he realized that she had been more lost than he had thought. She had been getting better! “I need to go back. My Lord has ordered me to return to the city as a diplomat.”

“Is this the first time or the second?”

“The first, Laira. What second time?”

“It’s not for you to know yet. You’ll find out when you need to, and if I tell you now it’ll only muddle things up. Now you’re supposed to comfort me before you leave, big brother!”

Many of his conversations with his sister went this way, and saint chuckled nearly silently as he thought about how simultaneously tough and fragile his sister seemed to be. Even though her life was hard, she always seemed to have her same fatalistic sense of humor. At least, he thought it was humor. He’d never really been able to tell, though that was part of what made it funny.

As he rounded the final bend in the trail, the city of Nolwe Osto rose up through the trees and took his breath away once again. It had been far too long since he’d come here, and he’d forgotten of its beauty. Saint was struck by how exactly he remembered it, and for a moment the twenty years since he had left seemed to evaporate and he was staring at it for the first time again. It was as though he had never left for a moment. The entire city was a marvel of architecture, and sunlight dripped and ran almost like a liquid across the curves and spires of the Quendi capital. Saint allowed himself a second longer to stare, and even heard a gasp from the horseman next to him as he was forces to ram the tinted spectacles he wore up his nose. He was slightly too late; his eyes had already begun to water, but the sight had been worth the meaningless tears. He had always loved sunlight, and now he was denied even that. Admittedly the mutations had been a blessing at times, but he wished he could still look upon some things in the golden light of the sun.

Saint and his five riders came into the city easily and without being hassled, even with their strange appearance. He remembered that nolwe Osto had always been neutral ground, but he was surprised at the lack of even a stare that lasted just a little too long. Admittedly his guards were human, and he had his hood up, but he knew that the traveling party looked like they had something to hide. As his human companions found stabling and feed for their mounts, Saint walked slowly and carefully to the entrance of the library, leaving his horse to his companions. The magnificent building needed no guards, and he felt dirty as he laid his shadowtouched hand on the ornate entryway he had gone through so many times before. Then, throwing back the hood of his cloak, he strode boldly inside. He threw open the doors of the small room in the back, remembering perfectly the layout of the place he had once worked.

Quickly glancing around the room, he quickly took stock of those that had arrived. Of the human countries, it seemed that Spire, Jasidin, Vatienne, Idonia, and Arbia had made an appearance. Some of the others, Saint wasn’t too sure of, but he assumed that they all had legitimate reasons for being here. His stomach did a small flip as he noticed a Quendi representative, Sailahína, and hoped fervently that she wouldn’t recognize him, but he put on a brave face and began his prepared speech.

“Hello to all of you, and fortune to your nations. You may call me Saint, and I am the representative from the Mountains of Night.”

[Bird of Hermes]

Over the past few minutes, the whole room had been filled with representatives from countless nations.

Venteux scanned the Council Room. Her eyes never stop darting. Her senses do not stop gathering data. Her form doesn't stop moving. The Ionairus's curiosity was apparent, a trait she could not seem to hide. Not many took direct note of Venteux either. The woman saw no one else she knew personally. Some names came to her feathered ears and rang with familiarity while others were albeit foreign.

It was becoming increasingly apparent that these kidnappings were wide spread. Almost every major nation was here and every continent was covered. Who else would show later? Who else would not attend? Who else's kidnapping had yet to be noticed?

These questions would have to be answered when the meeting starts, which, by her hour glass, would be any moment now.

The chatter and banter that was just beginning to start amongst the leaders was cut short. The short introductions, whispered comments and questioning greetings all seem to grow silent. A man entered and, at his words, Venteux stopped her movements.

“Hello to all of you, and fortune to your nations. You may call me Saint, and I am the representative from the Mountains of Night.”

So, the Shadow Plane was here.

Venteux held her staff close as she eyed the newcomer. She did not recognize his race nor his name. That did not so much matter. The Plane of Shadow and the Mountains of Night were sworn enemies of the Elemental Planes.

What could the people of that accursed plane need at this meeting?

Venteux gritted her pointed teeth and the feathers on her wings stood straight as she cursed under her breath in Votalic.

[Dax]

While Jean sat in his chair and waited for his paladin friend to join him, or not, the Vatiennien decided to, once again, study those present at this meeting.

Instinctively, Jean looked at Corbina, the swampland woman. He noticed the intensity the sorceress looked at him with earlier when she heard the remark he had made on her behalf. Which was just as well.

He concealed what would have been a smile. The clenched fist obviously meant that she wanted to hurt the priest in a very real way. The only reason that she hadn’t was because we were in a room with a lot of people. Well, that seemed the most likely reason anyway.

‘By all means,’ said Jean in his own head with a sarcastic tone, ‘please, do not let this company bother you and come get me. Your death will do the world a favor. With one less darkness in the world, there will be one more light to replace it!’

Jean watched as she moved to go speak to the one in the guild of Heroes.
‘Of course,’ thought Jean, ‘I forgot those two nations were allies…’

It mattered little. In the end, the Light will prevail and no matter how many allies the Darkness will have, it will be smit down and obliterated.

‘Speaking of the devil,’ thought Jean.

Jeans hand started to shake uncontrollably all of a sudden. “Merde,” swore Jean, trying to conceal his weakness. Unfortunately, Jean had been diagnosed with a disease common with Sildari men when they reach their forties. It is called the Imperials disease because of the sheer number of Senators and Emperors themselves who have contracted it.

Jean immediately put his hand under his cape, hoping no one had noticed the trembling. The thing, however, with his trembling is that it only occurred in moments of great emotional stress or something similar. And this moment was something of an emotional stress.

The reason was that something that evoked in him pure and intense hatred walked into the room at that very moment. He had also noticed the Ionairus snap to attention after the entrance of this being.

Jeans eyes homed in on him, and he forgot about everything else. He wondered what the hell he would be doing here. It’s not like anyone present was friendly, or as if they had no idea as to what he and his folk had done. Well, Jean did. He would keep that certain bit of information for himself until the actual meeting will start.

“Hello to all of you, and fortune to your nations. You may call me Saint, and I am the representative from the Mountains of Night.”

The words were like poison to Jean. They were the words of his most hated enemy, the object of his nightmares, the receiver of his wrath: a delegate of the Mountains of Night.

This was also not to mention of his extremely ironic name: Saint. That elf has probably done extremely nightmarish things. He didn’t know what was the deal with people and their names. Some fitted perfectly, others clashed rather strikingly.

Jean calmly stood up, keeping his penetrating eyes on the representative of not only the nations that he held much hatred because of past grievances, but because Jean was certain that they were responsible for the kidnapping of Mgs. Sullivan.

“How dare you show your face here and represent your filthy people amongst a respectable bunch.”

Astonishingly, Jean even included Corbina amongst the respectable bunch, knowing that the Mountains of Night was the real enemy. Jean was also somehow able to completely conceal the hatred in his voice, leaving way to a cold, harsh and severe tone to be heard by those who listened.

Jean Poitiers intensely waited the elf’s answer.

[Guest]

"Good to see you made it out in one piece."

Dasciis was rather surprised to realize that the sorceress was addressing him. He wasn't sure if she had been among those that had rescued him out in the Jasidin plains, but he certainly didn't expect her to admit to it.

"That was you, then?" Dasciis asked.
Before the sorceress could answer, the door opened again. In strode a proud looking being, elf-like as far as Dasciis could tell, but with skin a shade of blue he had never seen before. The elf-thing, Dasciis could think of no better name for him, scanned the room quickly as he entered. Dasciis could tell that the elf-thing was taking in everything it saw, every detail, every presence.

“Hello to all of you, and fortune to your nations. You may call me Saint, and I am the representative from the Mountains of Night.”
The priest of Vatienne stood up abruptly, his eyes seemingly reflecting fire, a pure hatred for the emissary the Mountains of Night. Dasciis had to admit that he could understand why.

“How dare you show your face here and represent your filthy people amongst a respectable bunch.” The priest did well in hiding the anger and disgust from his voice that was so plainly obvious in his manner, but Dasciis feared that the situation would become unmanageable quickly.

"Keep your friends close to you, priest of Vatienne, and your enemies closer. Perhaps it is a blessing to have our mutual enemy so close at hand?"

[Buzzwulf]

Saint’s appearance seemed to have caused more than a little stir. Old allies began to whisper to each other, and his skin certainly attracted more than a little attention, not to mention a quick curse in Voltaic from the corner. Saint was entirely unsurprised, though he had hoped that the delegates sent might be slightly more professional, or at least hold their disgust in check. Still, nobody seemed openly hostile except-

“How dare you how your face and represent your filthy people here amongst a respectable bunch?” The priest stood up as he spoke, the condemning words flowing from his mouth like cold water dashing Saint in the face. Surely they were not words of diplomacy, but no one seemed eager to ask him to still his tongue.

Saint could barely suppress the smile that came unbidden to his lips as he noticed how the Vatienne priest shook as he spoke. He had called it “The Noble’s Curse” when he had been a physician, and he knew how both debilitating and incurable it was. Obviously the priest’s hatred was felt deeply, judging by the way he had quickly stuffed his shaking hands within his cloak, but Saint’s trained eyes missed nothing. He filed the information away quickly for later, and went back to the task at hand.

Squaring his stance, Saint pulled the tinted spectacles from his face and placed them into one of the many pockets of his cloak. Anyone watching closely- or everyone in the room, at this point- would be able to see the large amount of knifes belted against the leather jerkin he wore under the cloak. As he bared his unnaturally sharpened teeth, he began to speak, unsuccessful in keeping the venom he felt from his voice.

“Know this before you condemn. Our citizens are as human as you, and bleed as you do. They work hard every day of their lives to be free of the Morgarath of faerie tales. They live in constant fear of not only the beasts and dark forces that dwell in the mountains, but also of invasion from some misguided country seeking vengeance for past offences. I rode here with such men. You may speak of ancient enmities, but I know that one of the men I traveled with is a tailor, seeking protection in caravan to come to Nolwe Osto and sell his wares. of the remaining, two are stablers, one makes candles, and the last makes soap. And yet, when asked, all of them were willing to drop their duties and come here to protect their families from the unjust invasion you would surely decide upon. That is why I am here: to protect all of us from needless losses. Do not stand and accuse us of evil that not a one of us has seen in our lifetime.”

“As for you,” Saint said as he turned to the Vatienne priest “I could probably call you out for that insult, from the heart though it was. In the future, in interactions between our two countries, I respectfully ask that you hold your opinions in check and speak for Vatienne herself. She is well known for her diplomacy, yes?”

That ought to shut them up for a moment, Saint thought as he allowed the fire in his temper to smolder out. It had served its purpose, and it was now up to the delegates in the room to re-evaluate their opinion of the shadow realms. Saint hoped to avoid unnecessary conflict before the meeting had even begun.

[Loki]

Ja’Dhannar had arrived in Nolwë Osto the morning before the meeting was to take place. Since the caravan had made it safely within the city walls, a majority of the armed escorts would disband for the next few days, after which they would reconvene and depart for Kvatch once more. Such was the way of the Khajiiti merchant and the Templer that escorted them.

Now that he was free from his faux duties, Ja’Dhannar began preparing for his appearance at the council. He managed to find a small inn located away from the heavily traveled areas and checked into a room under his birth name of Ra'Sava. All Khajiiti agents in the covert sector are given an alias with which they address one another to further maintain their anonymity. Once he had moved his belongings into the room, Ja’Dhannar proceeded to close the blinds, lock the door, and scour the room for any ways prying eyes could observe him. Once he finished that routine, the Khajiiti donned his Shadowfoot uniform, making sure his face was adequately masked while under the guise of his Blend technique as an extra precaution.

Finally, he was prepared to attend the meeting as a proxy to the Listener of Kvatch. Ja’Dhannar left the inn and traveled casually to the great library under the veil of his Blend ability. Under normal circumstances, he would have caught the attention of nearly everybody within line of sight; anybody who is unfamiliar with Khajiiti culture would likely to have shouted ‘Assassin!’ upon witnessing him, and for good reason, while those who were familiar would have done their best to avoid attracting his attention, which was also for good reason. Ja’Dhannar’s aptitude for hiding in plain sight lived up to the rumors that professed the capabilities of the Listener and accompanying Silencers. Even though he moved through the streets in broad daylight while wearing such unnerving attire while passing hundreds of observers, not one took notice to him.

An unusual being preceded him into Taurë Arda by several yards. Ja’Dhannar heeded his instincts and made sure to keep his distance from the other, as though the odd blue tone to his skin was not peculiar enough, but the Khajiiti could sense a dark aura about him. Instead of walking into the meeting hall after him, Ja’Dhannar stood along the wall on the outside of the doorway and listened as Saint introduced himself.

So, the rumors of activity within the Mountains of Night hold some truth to them as we had expected. It is unlikely that the Tynir would receive resources from anywhere else without passing through Kvatch. Yet another unlikely coincidence…

Ja’Dhannar waited a moment for the hostilities to subside slightly before lowering his veil and entering the room.

“Greetingsss,” He began as his hoarse Khajiiti tongue struggled with the Common language while bowing his head slightly, “I am Ja’Dhannar; Silencer of Torval, proxy to the Listener, and representative of Kvatch.”

The Khajiiti stood at the doorway for a moment to observe the others in the room, taking note of weapons, escape routes, potential weaknesses, and possible threats as was a his habit. Once he was satisfied by his preliminary inspections and had given time for his introduction to be received, Ja’Dhannar proceeded to a chair along the table where his back would be facing a solid wall and where he had clear view of all who entered and exited the doorway.

[Kalon Ordona II]

It was a mysterious attribute of the thendári paladins that they blended so well into the background despite their bright white and gold armor. Perhaps it was the stillness. Thendári are infinitely patient. Whatever the reason, few seemed to take note of the nine paladins standing near the wall in silent observation.

Anatar Aeryán, the tenth paladin currently in the room--or first of ten, depending on how one looked at things--stood as still as his fellows but closer to the meeting table, arms crossed across his breastplate, almost blending into the furniture. Only his eyes had moved when the Vatiennien greeted him (though he may have offered more if several others had not chosen that moment to enter). Over 5,000 years old, Anatar was not only the senior paladin currently stationed in Nolwë, but also one of the first Thendári ever to join the ranks of Aendrel's paladins. In his mind, the petty tensions arising in this room were barely significant, scarcely noticeable for their relative brevity. He dismissed the dark-skinned elf as either a fool or a liar, though he thought grimly that having a representative of the Mountains of Night present at the meeting might complicate matters. Arms still crossed, eyes taking in every subtlety of movement and detail, Anatar wondered how the dark one might respond when the paladins revealed what they knew.


__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________


Chälan and Tatyana arrived at the library with Alder Echelan, one of the seven paladins stationed at Nolwë. Apparently these three were the last of the thirteen paladins currently present in Nolwë Osto to make their way to the library. The paladins had been to the secret room before; they needed no guide. The other five that came with Tatyana had already let themselves into the council meeting room, no doubt taking the time to get reacquainted with those in Anatar Aeryán's company.

"Who are the others stationed here?" asked Tatyana (besides Anatar, Chälan and Alder).
Chälan answered, "Tharan Irrissan, Nendra Telden, Áirdan Deltéra, and Serena Haruthen."
"Who came with you, Tatyana?" Alder wondered.
"Talus Aeryán," Tatyana replied, earning a grunt from the thoughtful Alder, "Edrian Nuldar, Tariss Chedhëna, Shenhra Chëiden, and Rannund Sehril."

They communed softly in the thendári tongue as they made their way through exquisite halls and corridors. It was impossible to tire of the Great Library, so rich in culture, so magnificent in appearance, so breathtaking in scope. It comprised materials from every corner of Emoria, records dating back before its construction several millennia ago, works of literature and poetry, tales from almost every land and civilization, even expositional and instructional materials covering a near limitless variety of subjects. It was entirely possible to become lost in such a place. If not for the Quendi's well-developed ordering system, the library would be a trackless warehouse of undiscoverable knowledge. The arcane system of symbols and numbers decorated every shelf.

But the library was more than just books and scrolls, though rooms and areas full of these were endless. Historical displays were set up here and there, and there were rooms used for any number of other purposes. Through and around all these the three paladins went, their boots softly clicking different tones depending on the different floorings. Eventually they arrived at a pair of ornate double doors, which was the entrance to the room reserved for the council meeting. After a moment of composure and final comments between themselves, the three thendári paladins made ready to enter the council.

[Dax]

Jean listened to the elf’s…speech. It reminded him of a brainwashed servant. Although the elf was right in one part: Jean shouldn’t be mad at the poor saps who had no idea what they were getting into by being in the presence of this elf.

As his many years of a Vatiennien priest, Jean has seen a many and has felt a many. The darkness emanating from the elf was one of the nastiest things he had ever encountered, and Jean was positive that it was by far not the darkest aura in the world. That only frightened him.

Before speaking, Jean noticed that his shaking was getting progressively better, so he took out his hand that was still slightly shaking from his cloak and just rested it on the table. Small, somewhat severe spasms occurred periodically, as if just to remind Jean that he was a sickly man.

Jean rolled his tongue several times. He gave a quick look at all those he considered his allies: the paladins (all of them), the hero from Spire, the Arbian… he even shot a look at the sorceress Corbina.

He noticed that one of the elusive Khajiiti had entered the room and introduced himself. He addressed a quick nod the single being that was probably most dangerous in this council room.

He finished looking at everyone before setting his eyes on the Quendi elf that was, in almost certainty, the one who was going to take charge from moment to another. He addressed to her one of those sighs, mixed with an innocent look and shaking of the head and shoulders, sprinkled with a slightly exaggerated smile of despair before turning his attention to the dark elf.

In all of Jeans years in politics, it wasn’t the first time he had found himself in a pointy predicament. It wasn’t the verbal that the Senator priest was afraid of, but the physical that this elf could potentially lash out that particularly unnerved him. And his nerves must have heard him…

His shakings started to kick up a bit.

“Well,” started Jean, his eyes not focusing on anything and aimlessly jumping from item to item., “that was a very nice speech you had there. Now, tell me,” continued Jean, his eyes now on the elf, “how long did you practice and recite it in front of your mirror and your dark leader?”

Jean simply assumed the leader part. Jeans voice remained oddly cool and severe as it was before. Voice amounted to barely anything in a discussion like this…. unless it shows a weakness.

“And, correct me if I am wrong, but did you just threaten me? In here? Now, my people may be known for its arrogant…” Jean paused, seemingly to ponder at what he was to say before going on: “tendencies, but never have we been threatened so, well, plainly.”

Jean stopped, seemingly finished, but then he snapped his fingers (with the hand that wasn’t trembling) and rolled his eyes with considerable exaggeration.

“No wait, I lied,” said Jean with a large amount of sarcasm. “The Tynir went to the point of literally kicking my countries diplomats from their land at sword point. That was the worst threat we ever got. Oh, and let me try to remember why… oh yes, it was because they were getting dangerously armed and supplied for god knows what.” Jean liked where this was going.

“And, uh, let me remember where they were getting those supplies from…” Jean rolled his eyes again, and gave the elf a small smile. “Ah yes, I remember. The Mountains of Night.”

That right there was classic rhetoric that Senators liked to use at the Assembly. Everything said mostly based on assumptions made from realities, all while not giving the other person a chance to react for maximum damage. It was all for psychological effect.

“So please,” said Jean, his voice practically begging and his eyes inclined forward, “do not try to sell us that stuff about the Mountains of Night being a peace loving and honest country. Me and the other members of the Coalition of old know exactly what your country really is, and know for a fact that it has not changed much.”

Jean looked like he was finished, but he wasn’t quite done yet. He loved poking at diplomats in general, but it was the first time he met one from the Mountains of Night and he relished it.

Jean now put both of his hands behind his back, his hand shaking only moderately, and leaned forward as if to put accent on his following words.

“And one last thing, sir,” said Jean, leaning only slightly forward again, just to say that he was slanted, “I have been working for my country for a very long time and I have brought it through diplomatic crisis’on my own more than once. I have worked for four Emperors and two Papus’ already now and I have seen eye-to-eye with them all. You are right that my country is known for its diplomacy, but that’s because of me. So I think that whenever I speak, it is also Vatienne who opens her mouth.”

Jean feigned to sit down, but before doing so, he looked up at the elf. “Besides, it will surely come as to now surprise to you that, how long has it been, 2000 years, we still have not forgotten. We still have not forgiven.”

Jean sat down and crossed his legs. “That is all I have to say on the matter,” concluded Jean, doing the most aggravating and arrogant motion you can do in diplomacy: he waved his hand as if to dismiss the conversation. Jean knew that it was easy to get offended when one did this movement, but he hoped that the elf would soon realize that Jean always waves his hand, regardless of friend or foe. Or he might not.

[Blackrock]

With his hands folded behind his back, Perun watched the meeting in silence. He soon noticed the quiet paladins, in their splendid armour, but could not be certain who they were or whence they came from. He noted the arrival of other dignitaries, but he could scarcely recognize any of them. The one named Saint, however, brought back a flood of memories. Not because of the person, but of the nation he was sent to represent. The Chieftain was not familiar with the Mountains of Night overmuch. He knew that their lord was the enemy of all creation, or so the texts he had read said or implied. Perun had battled dark creatures during skirmishes on Illuria, back when he was barely a man, but more than that he knew not.

The Arbian's left hand touched the hilt of his sword, for the briefest of moments. In his youth, he would no doubt have unsheathed the blade and raised his sword-arm in the defense of the "good people of the land". But he was neither a child, nor a fool any longer. Age had tempered his nature. So he was content to merely stay quiet and observe. And, in observing, he hoped that he would learn. For there was much that he needed to know, to understand. These were old nations, with long histories, with feuds and friendships that had lasted for many a year. Amidst them, Perun felt like a babe. But he was a wise man and he knew that when one's knowledge was lacking, the best course of action was silence.

He glanced through the room and his gaze once more fell on the representative of Vatienne. Based on his manner and the way he held himself, it really could be the Jean he once knew. The stalwart friend and companion of old. Then again, most senators and priests were haughty and demanding, so it might not be anything at all. The had seated himself, probably anxious for the talks to begin, or, perhaps, trying to give them a false sense of comfort? There was no way to know for certain, not yet.

Without further ado, the Arbians took a few quick strides towards the table. He seated himself in one of the chairs at the end, so he could have a good look at everyone attending. Perun adopted the "Lord's face" as his son jokingly called it. It seemed as if the life was drained from him, he assumed a natural position both of body and expression, the rugged face revealed little. This was the way he dealt with others when great matters were to be discussed. Needless to say, many disliked seeing it, for it meant that the situation was serious. He placed his hands on the table before him and awaited.

[Kalon Ordona II]

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________


When Chälan entered the room, the first thing he looked for, the first thing he saw, was Anatar's all-revealing gaze locked with Chälan's own. From it Chälan gathered everything he needed to know about the situation and his according instructions: tension, caution, prudence. Chälan might otherwise have been ill prepared for the sudden sight and aura of the dark-skinned elf before him. Instantly alert, Chälan could feel Tatyana and Alder respond by tensing behind him, yet none of the three showed any sign. Chälan led the way past the dark elf's back, past the large blue-armored warrior and the woman standing near him, and around the table. Alder kept moving to stand with the other nine paladins against the wall. The Irrdánë siblings moved to stand on either side of Anatar Aeryán, Chälan on his right and Tatyana on his left, where they adopted the stone-still posture of their superior. The three were standing near their respective seats, positioned to remain standing until the meeting would begin.

Chälan shifted his focus to the top of his head, taking everything within his field of vision all at once, so that he avoided a shifty-eyed manner that would have lessened the paladins' image before the gathered emissaries. The re-focused gaze was a trick learned from the zen knights of Äm; the paladins of Aendrel had been quick to adopt and master the technique. Through this altered, all-encompassing gaze, Chälan took stock of all who were present. A Jasidin Sorceress; the blue-armored warrior--a Hero of Spire; the mysterious blue-skinned elf with the disturbing aura, still standing near the door; the Vatiennien priest sitting a few seats to Chälan's right, glaring at the dark elf; an Arbian lord, probably the Kinslayer himself, all the way at one end of the table; the expected Ionairus guarding the secret way to the portal; the silent librarian seated next to the Ionairus. It took another moment for Chälan to notice who he thought must be a Shadowfoot from Kvatch. Chälan was aware, too, of the ten paladins behind him.

Tensions in the room were already high, and the meeting hadn't even started yet. The last attendees ought to arrive soon, Chälan thought. It would be interesting to see how things have developed so far.

[Kathryn Lacey]

Sailahína Carnil smiled and nodded to Venteux. “Yes. I am honored to have been chosen. Are you also representing the Library, or has something happened in your homeland?” There was a bit of worry coating her tone as she made her inquiry. The Perquendë – half-Quendë - was fond of the winged woman, and she didn’t want her to have to suffer as Saila suffered at the knowledge of Handilyë Varyamë’s kidnapping. Of course, Varyamë had known a great deal of people within the city/state, so Venteux was likely to have met the woman. Perhaps she was also representing Nolwë Osto.

Due to her Quendi heritage, Saila’s voice had a musical, flowing quality to it that was known to place others at ease. “The others should arrive soon. We may be a little early, but we won’t begin until almost every nation is represented.” Today was a day when the Common Tongue would be used for all purposes. If someone could not speak the Common Tongue, the half-Quendë would take it upon her to translate if she knew the language unless representatives brought their own translators with them who would be preferred.

It wasn’t too much longer before a Thendári Paladin entered, and Saila greeted him warmly and offered her name and status. It would soon be proven that he wouldn’t be the only one of that nation to come. It was always interesting to converse with the people of that culture. It was so different from how she lived her own life. Besides, they were the only immortals of whom she was aware. They were virtual warehouses of stored and remembered information.

When a man clothed in silver entered the room, the scribe moved her gaze toward him. She immediately recognized him as one who had come often to the Great Library in search of knowledge. She had had many friendly yet heated debates with him. He graciously introduced himself as the representative from Vatienne. She was fluent in Vadier, the official language of that nation. If he said something in his native tongue, she would understand it, and he knew it.

“Welcome back to Nolwë Osto, Monsieur de Poitier. Not all nations sent letters to let us know they would arrive, but it is hoped that more than simply those nations will be represented. This is the largest room in the Great Library or Nolwë, and it should be at least half filled with those who have announced their intentions to come.”

Soon, a pair in armor and silk entered: a man and a young woman. They announced their nation and their hopes. “Well met to both of you. We share the same hopes. I am Sailahína Carnil, and I will be representing Nolwë Osto in this Council.” She knew she would have to state her name many times, but as a scribe, she had to rewrite the same things over and over. She was used to it, and she didn’t mind. Sharing knowledge was her job, and it wouldn’t do to only tell some and not all who she was.

The next to enter was a woman who seemed a little socially awkward. In her years, she had known many who were this way. There were people who buried themselves in scrolls and books, caring nothing at all for the others who visited the library. Though she was very career oriented, she still made it a point to know social graces. Her Quendë father would have been very disappointed in her otherwise.

Quendi were known for being very couth for the most part. The most uncouth of the Quendi were likely to be the Quendi Hyarya. They were very tribal in many aspects, and it was common knowledge that the other three territories didn’t quite approve of their ways though they still acknowledged them as cousins.

Her attention returned to the woman in the cloak when she began to speak. Her accent was thick, but Saila found an appeal in it. She had learned that the native tongue of the Jasidin was dying and only a few phrases remained, but the Perquendë hadn’t really spent the time she would have liked to have spent studying what pieces of the language still existed. Perhaps, if things went well with the Council, she could speak with Corbina privately about such matters. In the mean time, the maiden introduced herself and her position, and she welcomed the sorceress as warmly as anyone else.

However, a negative reaction seemed to come from the man of Vatienne at this newcomer’s presence. Though her vision was not what it had been in her younger years, her ears were still fantastic. When he allowed his unfriendly words to leave his lips, Saila shot him a warning glare that he seemed to not have noticed. It was very rude to bring such negativity to a peaceful meeting. While she was aware that not all nations had peace between them, this was the place where such feelings should be held in check.

She felt a ripple flow through the room. It was unlikely many would have noticed it, but she was highly tuned to the Library of Nolwë, and she had felt that ripple in the past. Her eyes gazed over the group who had assembled so far, mainly studying de Poitier and Obscuracce, for the ripple had seemed to happen after the man’s cruel words.

The Library was highly defensive. It was not sentient or even semi-sentient like the Trees of Taurë Arda, but the ancient magick set in place was made to preserve both the Library and those within it. If the Library’s magick sensed hostility that would erupt into violence, it would drop a barrier – one which was invisible to the untrained eye – on all sides of the one who would attack until they calmed. It would permit them to only move toward an exit of the Library and to no other location. Magick could not permeate the barrier, and weapons would find themselves glancing off it as if it were a wall.

Saila had seen the effects of this barrier a few times, and she had also felt the ripple of the Library’s magick anticipating the need to use this barrier. However, in this instance, the ripple was all the half-Quendë felt, and that relieved her.

People seemed to begin flooding into the room after that occurrence. A Hero of Spire was among them, and she welcomed him all the same, announcing herself in response. It was wonderful to see such armor closely. She hadn’t met many of his lot in the past, and the armor was quite a treat to the eyes of one who hungered for knowledge of all aspects of the universe.

It wasn’t long after this that a familiar looking man entered the room. At first, Saila could think of no reason why he should be familiar, but she had never forgotten a face, and she didn’t intend to forget today. After scanning her memory banks for a moment, a kind smile lifted the corners of her lips. It was then that he announced that he truly was the man she had known briefly almost fifteen years ago.

Perun had aged in a way that the half-Quendë had not, but it was still the same man. It was possible that he would not easily recall her face, for she had been fitted with spectacles about two years after he had left. It was suspected that all of the close studying of text had lightly damaged her eyes, but that was no reason to discontinue the work she loved. She would not stop until her sight was completely lost to her, but that was an unlikely event.

“Welcome back to the Great Library, Perun.” She said softly, hoping it wasn’t too bold of her to have used his given name. “Perhaps you will not recall, but I am Sailahína. I helped you with your studies when you came here many years ago. It is good to see that you are representing your people today.”

It was while she was speaking her welcome to Perun that another entered the room, grasping her attention. She had never seen skin of such a colour before that point, but something about the creature’s face seemed familiar. It was when he spoke that she knew why, and her sapphire eyes widened, and her mouth fell slack for a moment. Though his physical appearance may have changed, his voice had not. Her mentor, Fionu Arqueno, stood before her looking smug and… changed.

Surely he would recognize her, for she had not really changed in the time of his absence. What had happened to him? He had left so unexpectedly all of those years ago, only to return as one who seemed lost to the light. He had become dark. He had become a… Moriquendë. How was this possible?

Saila found herself without speech. How could she approach him with welcome when he had returned to his former home so changed? Was he even the same person? She wondered how much of himself he had retained, for he had not retained his name. Now, he called himself “Saint.” How had he been given such a strange name that lacked the beauty of his Quendë-given one? Why was he representing such an accursed land as the Mountains of Night? Had he become an aimo – saint – in their eyes? Had he committed the terrible deeds that would lead them to worship him in such a fashion?

She felt the ripple once more, but it was stronger this time. It tore her from her thoughts, allowing her to rearrange her features into something less shocked, and placing her on edge. Despite Fionu’s change in loyalties, he had been her friend and mentor in the past. She felt she could get to the bottom of this if only she had the chance. The Library would not permit anyone to harm him or vice-versa, but it wouldn’t bode well if all hostilities were geared toward him all the time. She would be hard pressed to find a point when she could speak to him privately if eyes watched his every move, anticipating something foul.

The Priest spoke rudely once more, but this time it was almost understandable. Those of the Mountains of Night had not really been invited to this Council. However, the invitation was well known to be open to everyone in the event that a nation was forgotten or the written invitation was lost in transition. Even the dark ones could not be denied access to this Council. It was just deeply hoped they would not arrive.

Perhaps this was a blessing in disguise? The man of Spire had a good point, and it was good to see that Fionu was still alive, even if he had defected to a darker calling. Then the Moriquendë spoke, and Saila resisted the temptation of a smile. This man, though he may call himself by another name, was still the man she had once known. He was still intelligent, and the way he “politely” gave the Priest of Vatienne a verbal slap was very much his style.

Saila was successful in keeping the smile from her face at her amusement, for this was still a serious thing. Having a delegate of the Mountains of Night would make things incredibly tense. She knew she would have to try to maintain order, or things could fall apart very quickly.

“As a delegate of Nolwë Osto, I welcome you to this Council, Saint.” She said his chosen name very deliberately, a hint to him - if he chose to grasp it - that she knew him by another name.

It was a relief when another entered shortly after that, drawing at least a little attention from the darkest of emissaries. He spoke in accented Common that Saila correctly guessed to be an accent of Kvatch. She had quite a knack for languages and pegging them to their proper nation, but she was not fluent in whatever language it was that Ja’Dhannar must have known best.

Saila had ignored the Priest’s obnoxious sigh that was so blatantly directed toward her. After all, his double-standard of it being perfectly okay to make snide comments to others, but when they lashed back, it was suddenly time for someone else to take control of the situation was quite immature. She had thought that Saint had done a good enough job of defending himself, and she had thought that would be the end of it. Of course, she hadn’t anticipated de Poitier’s pride not allowing another to have the last word.

His words only added to her growing irritation of this judgmental man. She had spent her life learning about things from all over the world, and she had spent decades helping others from all parts to obtain that same knowledge. She had heard the Vatienne were arrogant, and she had witnessed how pompous many of them had been in the past, but she was absolutely sick of it.

“Monsieur de Poitier, I heard no threat in the man’s words. I heard only his asking you politely to quiet your accusations, but you have not heeded this request. I understand how… uncomfortable it must be to have a nation here that is enemy to yours, but we must try to be civil to everyone who enters this room.” Her voice was stern as she spoke, but the musical quality true to those of her kind never left it. “This is neither the time nor the place for such discrimination. If you would be silent but for a moment, we may be able to learn from this turn of events.

“He never said the Mountains of Night were peace loving. He only said they contain hard workers.” What she neglected to say was, If you believe that when you speak, Vatienne also ‘opens her mouth,’ you are giving your country a very bad image. Saila also wondered how it was that he had managed to become a diplomat when he couldn’t manage to keep his bad feelings to himself. Weren’t politics about trying to make others feel well and contented for self-gain? He would gain nothing if he continued to slander others this way.

“There are still a few more nations who are unrepresented. Do you think we can wait a little while for their ambassadors to arrive?"

As a trio of Thendári entered the room, another ripple moved through the room, but it was much smaller than the previous one, and nothing came of it as nothing had come of the other ones. “Welcome to the Council of Nolwë Osto. I am Sailahína Carnil, and I am the representative for this city/state. I am glad to see that the Thendári are well represented.” Her voice was noticeably warmer than it had been when speaking to Jean and for good reason. She hoped they would introduce themselves, but she had respected their silence for this long. If they were waiting until the absolute last minute to voice their names – if they did this at all – that was their prerogative. She simply contained an expansive curiosity for all things.

Shortly after she had welcomed the Thendári, sixteen Quendë entered the meeting room. By the differences in their modes of dress, it was obvious that all of them were from the Four Territories of Taurë Arda. The four Quendi Hyarya were garbed in their best furs and leathers. The four Quendi Undu bore fine armor combined of both metal and of leather. The four Quendi Forya wore clothing of fine embroidered cloth and leather. The final four were the Inga Quendi who had dressed in beautiful jewel-embroidered silks. It seemed as if they had all waited to gather and enter the meeting together. Their contrasts were obvious in both clothing and in physical colouring, but they showed that Taurë Arda was a united front, something that none would be able to ignore.

“Welcome to the Great Library of Nolwë. We are pleased to see that the representatives of Taurë Arda have arrived.” She said with great sincerity.

They began to introduce themselves. The three females of Hyarya were Alassantë, Eruannë, and Nárë with the sole male among them calling himself Námnes. The two Undu females were Mandë and Poldórië while the two males being Calarindo and Eruner. Among the Quendi Forya were two females – Mótië and Onónë – and two males – Arto and Nuró. The final four Quendi Inga were three men named Alyu, Estelo, and Tirion and one woman named Nuriel. All of their ages were indistinguishable though it could be guessed that they had all been around for at couple of centuries at least.

[Bird of Hermes]

The Ionairus nodded.

“Yes. The ambassador of my people, Dawndeux, has gone missing. It was three days ago.” She looks worried, but tries to hide it.

“Because of my proximity, the Ancient Council decided I should represent them – all of them.” She can no longer hide her feelings.

“The ambassadors of the Nations of Fire and Water have gone into hiding. Earth has even mobilized the Sentinels.” She sighed. “I am their only representative.”

-----

Venteux noticed that the room was quite full now. People had truly come from all parts of the land. Names are noted as they are given and places are remembered for later use.

She noted that most of the people present were human, or, at least, they appeared to be. There were some present from the nature-folk; she was still getting used to calling them ‘elves’ as she had been told countless times. There were also a few that had animal-like features that she did not know what they were called. And then there was the shadowy one. It was hard to stifle the questions.

The voice of the librarian reminded her that the meeting was to begin soon. It was almost time.

[Dax]

“He never said the Mountains of Night were peace loving. He only said they contain hard workers.”

Those words resonated in Jeans head and his eyes widened in disbelief when this Saila pronounced them. Foolish girl, do you not realize that that is saying absolutely nothing good about the country and that it’s merely an empty statement? Do you hear yourself talk? He never said that his nation was peace-loving because they’re NOT! They’re warmongers! If that was an attempt to defend that dark elf, it was in vein.

Jean was simply boiling on the inside. It dealt him a serious blow. He knew the librarian would react, but not that way.

The Quendë librarian coming to the defence of a diplomat from the Mountains of Night was like a harpoon to the chest for Jean. Never in a million years Jean thought someone would actually defend a Mountain of Night diplomat from a Vatiennien one. What was worse was that the Quendi were Vatienne’s closest military ally during the Third Illurian war that opposed the Mountains of Night. Oh how times have changed.

This time, Jeans hand started shaking violently out of pure emotion. The priest hid it under his cloak once more. Had the Quendë heard nothing of what the Mountains of Night were involved in? Did she not comprehend what this meant? Jean hated it when people of the general populace thought they knew better than those who are actually professionals.

As he thought about how he had just got ‘put in his place’ by a librarian, he finally realized why she, out of all the elves in this great city of theirs, was chosen to bear as ambassador.

In fact, the more Jean stared at Saila, the more he realized how foolish he had been. Jean knew this elf! The Vatiennien had to resist the urge to smack himself across the face for failing to recognize her sooner. It must have been when she opened her mouth to speak to him in that harsh, severe tone that did it. It was soo much easier to recognize someone by voice than by face for the aging priest. Especially when the only time you hear that person speak is in an arguement.

Jean had met Saila, well bumped into was more like it, on his numerous visits of the city and library. Those chance meetings always devolved into the most heated sort of discussions or debates, simply as that. The worst part was that, most of the time, both of them were right... or wrong. She was somewhat of his intellectual rival.

Regardless, now Jean knew why he had been soo feverishly put back in his place. She must have relished the moment, Jean knew for sure as everything that he would have. One thing was for sure: the Senator had to get her back, somtime. He wasn't soo sure if a meeting like this was the best of places, but Jean was to do it before he left the elven city.

Back to reality, Jean replayed the entire little arguement scenario in his mind. And as he sat there motionless, he found something. Something very discreet that he would have never thought of in this way had it been for his 'rival’s' reaction.

But the more Jean thought, the more it became obvious. Well, in his eyes at least.

Saila somehow knew the dark-skinned one, Saint, at one point before in history. This, of course was all judging by the Saila’s initial reaction to Saint: wide open, amazed eyes. They probably used to be old lovers or friends of some sort. That is the only way to explain it. Then again, she simply might have wanted diplomatic peace during the meeting...

One thing was for certain, if Saint wasn’t always evil and had been corrupted, he could be redeemed and as a priest of Vatienne Jean was to make sure he was going to at least try... something.

Jean is notorious for his emotional outbursts. Many times he screwed things up because of a surge of anger or other. Over the years, he learned to control that urge (somewhat) but he would always have it resurface at one point or another. In fact, Jean has heard many times comments from his colleagues and fellow Senators: “If it weren’t for your impossible temper, you would already be Emperor by now!”

Jean let the librarian’s words flow on his back like de l’eau de roche. This Saint would benefit from the immunity that offered that status of an evil nation trying to fix its past sins in a nice way for now. Besides, Jean didn’t mind getting verbally assaulted by a civilian nearly as much as by a diplomat or other politician. Jean was somewhat used to civilian mewling. Jean knew that this bunch of people were probably from another profession. However, he knew they had some sort of intelligent information to share.

Jeans intention shifted back to Saint. His eyes set upon him. This time, the hate was concealed and replaced with curiosity. Who is this guy? He wasnt sure to pity or hate the elf. Either he was totally certain and stupid enough to believe that his country could be taking a turn for the best, or he was just a good deceiver. Jean was betting on the latter.

Jean hated the Mountains of Night, as did every single Vatiennien. Saint was lucky Jean had not lashed out instead of simply speaking to him. To Jean, that was considered a victory for self-control. The wars and atrocities left their mark and will probably never be repelled until one nation is destroyed.

It mattered little, however, what everyone thought about the Mountains of Night now. What Jean had to unveil about the Mountains of Night will destroy every last drop of forgiveness or understanding attributed to them. Hopefully, even the librarian will see it his way and would stop floating in the clouds.

The vatiennien finally looked that the horde of elves that walked in earlier. Jean didn't bother counting them because he knew that they were 16, all representing different parts of the Quendi civilization and Jean could recite all of them right here, right now.

Jean was probably arrogant and very prideful, but he was smart and well-read and considered extremely, if not too knowledgable for his own good and was known to be on par and even surpass the majority of elves on general knowledge.

Well, what do you expect from someone who spends his vacations and free-time in this very library, getting to know the librarians and devouring every book. He hoped everyone will be able to see that, and not think he is just a loud-mouth sent here to step on toes. He wasn't sent here just because he was handsome. Well, he hoped not.

The vatiennien priest nodded and smiled to each and every elf who had entered. Good, the more elves in this room, the better I will feel. Not only will it put that dark elf in an uncmfortable situation, but Sildari are always more comfortable with elves than other humans.

Jeans eyes finally shifted over to, and rested on the Quendë. He gave her a sort of look that meant ‘sorry’. He just hoped that she understood that he was sorry at her, not the dark elf. He then smiled and crossed his now stable hand over the table and leaned forward: intently waiting for the meeting to begin.

[Kalon Ordona II]

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________


Tatyana inhaled as deeply as she could without appearing to move a muscle. Like Anatar, she too had her arms crossed below the isildin plate that covered her chest. She knew she should be concentrating on the others in the room, and indeed she had already taken quick stock of all present and had deduced almost at once everything that had already transpired, but in truth her mind was still dwelling on the flood of memory that had been upon her ever since she entered the city. The memories were more impressions and feelings than details. It was a good thing her brother Chälan knew well the layout of the Great Library, for example; she would have felt embarrassed to have needed a Quendë to guide them to the council. But she did well remember the tranquil yet busy atmosphere of all Taurë Arda, and she took pleasure in the sensations both prompting and resulting from these memories.

Most if not all thendári paladins knew how to re-focus their gaze, seeing everything at once, so that their eyes remained still. Tatyana was more interested in her surroundings than those present within them. This was probably one of the largest meeting rooms in the Great Library. The central, rectangular table was large enough to seat more than a hundred. Tatyana didn't bother to count the seats exactly, but she guessed there would be 144. Quendi, she knew, had a special affinity for the number 12 in the same way Thendári did for the number 13. The room had no windows, but a number of skylights were placed to cast light along the center of the large table. Lamps along the walls lit thick hanging tapestries and large potted trees. The thick carpet was a calming blue and green. The ceiling curved low, designed for bad acoustics; the tapestries and carpet, too, were meant to mute sound. The chairs were dark-varnished mahogany, interlaced with silver and engraved with gold. The straight backs swept up, inward and outward and back, ending in a point like a slender leaf.

The table itself was the centerpiece of the room. The table's border matched the chairs, but its rectangular top surface was nothing less than a masterpiece. Four kinds of marble were arranged in such a seamless, masterful, minutely detailed pattern that they appeared to have been woven together like cloth. More than that, the very patterns found in each tiny piece of the marble flowed perfectly into its adjoining pieces. Further still, these natural dark and light veins had been arranged to form images of trees, leaves, flowers, clouds--indubitably a work spanning decades. If it were not for the polished shine, and if it had been seen outside of elven lands, Tatyana would not have believed what her eyes told her. This table must have been made so that, just as the four elven nations were as one, all who met in this room would be influenced toward harmony and the greater good. Tatyana could not have been more proud of her elven kin.

And as fate would have it, just as these thoughts were passing through Tatyana's mind, into the council room came a delegation of sixteen Quendi, the four nations of Taurë Arda represented by four elves each. Tatyana allowed her eyes to smile in greeting to each of them.


__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________


Chälan had been busy trying to deduce what had transpired so far in the meeting room. The Arbian at the end of the table had probably said little or nothing, judging by his polite, patient, observant posture. Two quiet Idonians sat nearby. The Spiran and the sorceress still stood near the door, close to the wall, as if hesitant to join in. Vatienne was no friend to the swamplanders, though the Spirans shared with the Jasidin a symbiotic relationship. Surely the Vatiennien elder's black mood was the result of the dark-skinned elf by the door: his aura was unmistakeably similar to the Shadow. As for the stealthy one sitting more or less across from the librarian, Chälan knew less about Kvatch than he would have liked at that moment. That one, too, like the Arbian and the Idonians, seemed to be simply observing, so Chälan guessed that he'd been one of the later arrivals. Why hadn't the Quendi arrived yet?

Just then, as if on cue, a delegation of sixteen Quendi entered the meeting room. By their differing garb, obviously the four groups each represented one of the four separate nations of Taurë Arda. Chälan relaxed his features and allowed a smile to cross his face. Quendi and Thendári had grown close again in recent years; paladins were by no means the only Thendári in Taurë Arda. As each Quendë introduced himself and the delegation was welcomed by the librarian, Chälan searched in his mind for any memories that might be attached to some of the delegates. There were a few, but more were of the four respective lands themselves. Their forests were nothing like the pristine, unending woods of Aendrel, the Thendári thought--likely with a touch of bias--but their park-like hills, vales, streams and cities all held a unique and wondrous kind of charm. Each of the four nations were different, and yet they had so much in common. Perhaps the Thendári had been wrong to think that elvenkind would stagnate under centralized government. And yet, on the other hand, behold the Thendári: so close and yet so far from their elven kin, and now the separated peoples were joining together once more, growing because of it. Which was truth? Could it be both?

Chälan turned his thoughts away from that oft-trod mental path, refocusing his mind instead on the present moment, on greeting his elf friends and observing the developing events of the council's prologue.

[Gadreille]

It was only when the room calmed down that Corbina felt safe enough to sit down. The friction in the room had her nerves on edge, and she wasn't sure she could contain herself. The people here were containing their own monsters, a purely metaphorical representation of their own angers and prejudices. But her anger was real, a true affliction of the blood. Mental power could only do so much for her. She stayed by the door so that she may escape of the anger of the room escalated to a brawl, but it seemed that, whether it be a power beyond or the will of the people in the room, things were finally able to calm down.

So she took a seat, in one of the empty chairs nearer the exit, and prayed to Wee Jas that she had the strength to finish this. One thing that kept her sane was all of the information she was recieving, even before the council had begun. It was in the conversations, accusations, even what was being said between the lines of those who were conversing or arguing with one another. She learned of connections that many of these people had, and whats worse, she began to realize that in at least a few of these countries, important people had gone missing. She wasn't sure if that was the topic of the council, but she had a feeling that it was a part of it. All of this she noted mentally, to be recorded later and sent back to High Priestess. Once her job was over, she prayed that Priestess would let her return...

but in the back of her mind, she wondered if she was not sent out here in hopes that she would perish and no longer be a burden to the Jasidin tribe.

[Sponsored content]