Last of the King's Men, Chapter 21

"Have a wonderful day, and thank you for your business!"

The first customer of the day had just left the building, and the diminutive shopkeep stood atop a freshly-painted overturned bucket as he counted the coins in his hand. It was late summer, and his general store had barely been open a week and already business was booming. His jet-black moustache turned up in a smile as he rolled the coins over in his hand- most of the coins he traded were the simple copper and silver discs dutifully printed with Kellorville's symbol, a tree beside a fork in the river, but every so often a handful of copper showed up with something different- something bartered from the rare traveler, or possibly found in the dirt from ages past. He always enjoyed that rare occasion; he even kept a small collection of interesting coins under his bed. At times when money was short, his wife Marilynn always tried to convince him to spend them instead of keeping them hidden away, but Melvar's family always had their little quirks, and collecting things was his.

True, Marilynn's family wasn't very far separated from his. Her great-uncle Forsythe was Melvar's grandfather's nephew on his wife's side, but of course every family links together if you go back far enough. The Halfling community around Kellorville was as tight-knit as any other.

Dropping the coins into the till, Melvar hopped down off his bucket and walked around to the front. People would be bustling by on their ways soon, and why not try and drum up a bit of business while it was there, fresh for the taking? His father had always said that business was in their blood. If there's a coin to be made, there's two coins to be made. And always, always, always make the customer feel respected.

As he stepped out onto the stoop, he waved to the folk as they passed. There goes Obyl, off to sneak a drink before the midday worship service. Melvar grinned as he and the priest caught eyes. And there goes Mother Jerahl, with a gaggle of mismatched kids following her around, the obedient ones listening to her talk while the disobedient ones are forced to carry lumber and grain back to their homestead. "Be sure to stop back here if you need any shears or fishing hooks," the Halfling called. "We've got plenty!"

A few more townsfolk stopped by, bought some supplies. He shared gossip with the Brawns as they came to buy some shears, Marilynn came by with some bread fresh from the baker as well as some horseshoes the blacksmith Grames had finished, and altogether he had a very profitable day. He was sweeping up behind the counter, getting ready to close up at sunset when he heard the shop door slam open.

He looked up with a start, and saw a tall human woman standing there, her stringy hair almost as pale as the skin of her face. Her arms, legs, and neck were gaunt and ashen, but her stomach, swollen with child, stretched her dirty garment almost to the breaking point. She was barefoot, and she stumbled into the building, breathing heavily. Fearing she was going to collapse, he called for Marilynn and grabbed a nearby blanket. Tossing it up around her shoulders, he took her hand and guided her behind the counter into the Mossminders' sitting room. They guided her into one of their larger chairs, kept in case non-Halfling guests came calling, and Marilynn came out with a cup of hot tea and some of the remaining bread.

Her breathing remained fast and heavy after sitting down, and the shopkeep could see that her hair and forehead were damp, meaning she was possibly feverish. Her eyes were half-open, and she would periodically close them tightly then open them partway again. She wrapped the blanket around herself tightly, shivering in spite of it.

"I know you," Melvar said after a few moments. "At least... I think I do. Your name is... Sibbya, right? I remember when you were a child. Years ago. Didn't you live with the Palmer family? Down the river?"

Her jaw was slightly slack, and she stared off into the distance, but after a short while she blinked and nodded. She made a sound like she was trying to speak, but her throat was too dry to make more than a rasp. Marilynn put the tea to her lips, and she drank, but did not try to speak again afterwards.

Melvar ran a hand through his black hair, exchanging glanced with his wife. She shrugged, as unsure of what to do as he was. He cleared his throat, watched as Sibbya took a piece of the bread and slowly ate it, looking as if each movement was painful to attempt.

"Listen, Sibbya... Let me see if I can get someone to fetch the Palmers. Their home isn't too far from here, especially if you walked here from there just now. If there's anything that you need, I'm sure they can-"

He was cut off, however, by a deep scream from Sibbya, who clutched at her very pregnant stomach and leaned forward, doubling over as much as she could. She clenched her teeth, her scream sounding more like a growl, and one hand balled into a fist and struck the table, knocking over her glass of tea.

Melvar hurried to grab a towel, but Marilynn thrust out a hand to stop him.

"Go get Obyl. She's about to have this baby, here, in the back of our shop!"

Melvar's tiny feet thudded against the quickly-darkening town square towards the temple of Melora, where the priest's daughter was shaking out the rugs. She was smiling, but the smile faltered when she saw the hurry that the Halfling was in.

"Beryl, I need your father. Now. Is he in?"

She nodded, seeing the urgency, and ran inside to fetch him. Within moments, the aging priest was rushing out the door, pulling on his cloak and clutching a symbol of his goddess. Without needing an explanation, the two of them ran, Melvar taking two or three steps for each of Obyl's, and soon they reached Sibbya, who was now sitting with her back against a wall, surrounded by whatever cushions and blankets Marilynn could find. The woman's chest was heaving and covered in sweat, and whatever color she almost had earlier that day was gone.

Obyl asked Marilynn for some things- some water, some clean cloths, a sharp knife- and asked Melvar to fetch the strongest, purest alcohol the Rusty Dragon could find. Without question, the shopkeeper excused himself from the building and returned a few moments later with two bottles- one for Obyl, and one for himself. He then stepped outside, closing the door behind him and letting the priest do whatever it was he needed to do. Having a baby born in his shop certainly wasn't on his itinerary for the day, but things could always get worse.

Screams could be heard even from outside the building- mostly Sibbya's, but occasionally Obyl could be heard telling her to push, or stop pushing, or do whatever it is women are supposed to do during childbirth. Melvar and Marilynn had chosen to not have children, and every scream coming from the back of the shop was another reminder of that decision. After what seemed like half the night, Sibbya's scream reached a crescendo- and then stopped suddenly. Melvar stood up and froze in place, listening intently. After a few moments of silence, he opened the door to the shop, and walked cautiously towards the back where Sibbya, Marilynn, and Obyl were.

At first, he saw Marilynn holding a baby in her arms, wrapped in cloths, its tiny newborn eyes darting to and fro. At first, he felt a smile cross his face as the relief of everyone's safety washed over him. But when he caught Marilynn's eyes, his smile vanished and he realized what was wrong. First, the baby wasn't crying, which certainly wasn't the sign of a healthy baby. And then Marilynn stepped out of the way, and he saw Obyl, his hands still covered in Sibbya's blood, praying over her lifeless body.

Melvar walked closer to Marilynn, whose eyes were red and it was clear that she was trying not to cry. Even to Melvar, who had little experience with children of his own race let alone another, the baby looked sick. Its skin was almost as pale as its mother's, and it looked frail and skinny, not the pink pudgy appearance that most babies seemed to have. And, again, the silence of the newborn was unnerving.

Then, Melvar looked into its eyes.

When their eyes met, Melvar felt a dagger pierce directly into his soul. He felt a radiance coming from the baby's pupils- something unnatural was looking at him. He forced himself to look away, unsure if he had imagined it but unwilling to look again to find out.

Obyl finished his prayer, washed his hands, and covered the dead mother's body with a blanket. He stood up and turned to the Halflings, disappointment in his eyes.

"Thank you for your help," he said to them, wiping sweat from his brow. "I'm sorry I wasn't able to save the mother. What did you say her name was?"

"Sibbya," replied Marilynn.

"Sibbya..." repeated Obyl. His eyes squinted, and he stared off for a moment. "You mean-"

He paused. His eyes widened slowly, and he glanced back at the covered mother's body, and then at the baby in the Halfling woman's arms.

"...Well," he began, "That certainly is unfortunate. She was an orphan herself, taken in by one of the town's families years ago until she left on her own. Then that means this daughter of hers is now orphaned as well."

He met eyes with Melvar, and then Marilynn. The two Halflings looked at him, then at each other, and then back at him. Melvar was the first to speak after the pause.

"...No. You can't mean-"

"Melvar, please," said the aging priest. "She's going to need care. Care that would be best given by a well-off mother and father. After all, you don't have any children of your own..."

Marilynn interrupted. "That is by choice, Obyl. We are not prepared for a child of our own, let alone someone else's. How are we supposed to raise a human?"

Obyl sighed, his eyes pleading for reasons Melvar didn't understand. "Look, I'll talk to the town elders and see if something else can be arranged. But, for tonight at least, please consider it. Sibbya came to you for a reason."

The Mossminders looked at each other, and then the sickly-looking baby who still had not uttered a sound, but was sleeping fitfully in Marilynn's arms. They were not happy with this turn of events, but after all, this was a life, albeit a human life, not just something that could be easily discarded. Would the two of them be able to raise a child?

Melvar looked to his wife, looking deep into her eyes. "What do you think, Mare?"

She looked down at the child, and then back at him. Her expression was one of sad resolution.
"I think we have to do what's right."

She turned back to Obyl, whose weathered face was still covered in sweat. "Is there any chance of another solution? Any chance of the fathere turning up or any distant family members?"

He shrugged slightly. "If so, you will be the first ones to know."

Obyl performed a final prayer over the dead mother's body, and left her covered for the time being, making arrangements to have her taken and buried the following day. He thanked the hapless shopkeepers once again for their hospitality, and bid them good night.

After the whirlwind of the day, the two Halflings retired to their bedroom. Yesterday, they were two ordinary people, going about a life that they had chosen for themselves. Today, there was a dead girl in their sitting room and their lives were going to be dictated by a child that they had no desire or need for.

As they sat on their bed, an unnaturally silent baby in tow, and sat and wept together.

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The following few days flew by in a flurry. The two of them were constantly running back and forth, trying to find the right food for this baby, asking other families nearby for advice on taking care of a child, and coping with the fact that another life was now completely dependant on them. They had hoped that Obyl would return with news of a responsible father coming to take his daughter, or another childless family coming to adopt the newborn instead, but with each passing day no such news came.

The baby, whom the Mossminders had come to call Mirlena (after Marilynn's grandmother), was much easier to take care of than the couple had expected, but she was still a great deal of work. Her sickly appearance had warmed up a bit over the first few days, and at times her pale skin seemed to have a faint warm glow when the light hit her just right. Although she was quiet, and cried rarely, the town square was full of the sound of her wailing when she was hungry or needed cleaning. If there was one thing that made all of the other families jealous, however, it was the fact that from the first day Mirlena never had trouble sleeping through the night.

A few days after the child's unfortunate arrival, Melvar closed the shop early and took a walk down the road South of town. After some time, he reached the Palmer homestead, and he could smell the aroma of beef stew being cooked over the hearth. As he got close to the building, though, he noticed off towards one side of the building a freshly-turned mound of packed dirt with a stone marker at the head.

Two short knocks on the tall door, and after a few moments the homeowner, a middle-aged human farmer, opened it. His tired expression lifted slightly when he saw the small man at his door, and after exchanging pleasantries he invited Melvar in for supper.

After the meal, Melvar tried to bring up the topic he had come to discuss. "So, Michael" he began. "I noticed the fresh grave out front. Was that her? Sibbya?"

Michael sat back in his chair, his face a mask of years of fatigue. "That's her," he said shortly.
"I'm sure you heard that she had a baby," said Melvar, trying to gauge the human's attitude. "A girl."

Michael nodded. "I heard. I heard you're keeping her. You're a good man to do such a thing. If Amanda and I knew what we were getting ourselves into eighteen years ago, I can't say I'd have agreed to take her in. And not just having another child around- we'd already had two of our own- but the rest of it. The strange things."

Melvar raised an eyebrow. "Pardon me? The 'strange things'? What sort of things?"

Michael stood up and walked out to the window. "Ah, I don't even know how to describe it. That girl always had something... strange about her. Everyone could tell. When she left on her own, a few years back, well, to be perfectly honest, I was glad to be rid of her. I know that might make me sound like a terrible father, but I can't deny what I felt."

The halfling followed the farmer to the window. Even from his short viewpoint, he could see Sibbya's grave from where he stood.

"You said she left," Melvar began. "Do you know where she went? Did she live with someone else from town?"

Michael shook his head, letting out a sigh. "No, I don't. She said something about living 'where her mother lived' and I didn't bother to ask. I saw her around town every now and then, but every time I did, it was like I had forgotten who she was, and by the time I remembered her she was gone."

Melvar stared out at the dusk sky, wondering, like the Palmers, just what he had gotten himself into.

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The following years passed by surprisingly smooth, with a few interesting events. Mirlena grew up quickly, walking and doing things for herself much faster than the local families forecast. She didn't speak, however, until she was three years old, despite the Mossminders' best efforts to teach her- one morning, Marilynn was trying to get her to go outside and play with some of the other children, but the child just pursed her lips and shook her head. Using what she reserved for dire circumstances, Marilynn spoke the girl's full name- Mirlena Welcome Mossminder- and told her to do as she was told, when the girl spoke for the first time in her life.

"My name," she shouted, "is Sibbya!"

Marilynn stood, stunned, mouth agape, and watched as her adopted daughter stormed off into their bedroom and crouched down in the corner, out of view. The Mossminders had a talk later that evening, and tried getting Sibbya to talk further, but the only thing that could get her to speak was calling her by her given name, which prompted her to repeat that her name was, in fact, Sibbya.

Melvar was flabbergasted. How could she have even known that name? Of course it was possible that she had overheard someone in town saying it, but what did this mean that she was calling herself by her mother's name? It was true that, by this point, she certainly resembled her mother- white skin from barely going out in the sun, pale hair, rail-thin form, and grey eyes that pierced directly to the soul- but that was just family resemblance. She was just a normal human child, going through a strange phase.

But then, the "strange things" began to happen.

First, it was in the dead of winter. One of the townsfolk, a woman named Aramyth, became very ill. Nobody- not Obyl, not the town apothecary, not anyone- could figure out what to do. But one morning, Mirlena- or, rather, Sibbya, and she insisted on being called- woke up Melvar early in the morning, before dawn, and told him, "Aramyth needs me. Please take me to her."

Melvar, humoring the girl, threw on his warmest clothing, helped the girl to do the same, and led her down the road to the temple of Melora. On the way there, something caught his eye- he wasn't quite sure what- but he couldn't help glancing back over his shoulder into the trees across from the river as they passed the mill. Once in the temple, Sibbya walked through to the infirmary, without so much as a word to Obyl or his daughter Beryl, and crossed straight to the bed where Aramyth, a half-elven woman looking a day away from death's doorstep, lay covered in blankets. Sibbya, barely tall enough to reach the edge of the bed, took the half-elf's hand in hers. She whispered something close to Aramyth's side, and Melvar could have sworn he saw a flash of light, and suddenly Aramyth fell into a fit of coughing so severe Obyl ushered the little girl away, asking Beryl to fetch some water.

Melvar scolded Sibbya quietly as they walked away from the temple, telling her not to waste everyone's time with her silly games, especially a sick person. But he had barely gotten through the first sentence when he heard a woman calling after him- he stopped in his tracks and turned around to see none other than Aramyth, barefoot and wrapped in a blanket, standing outside on the frozen ground, her expression one of complete wonder. She walked up to Sibbya, fell down to her knees, and thanked her.

"You cured me, young girl. How in all the world did you do that?"

Sibbya simply buried her face in the shoulder of Melvar's tiny coat and hid behind him, embarrassed. She peeked out every moment or two as Aramyth looked at her.

Word spread quickly that Sibbya had some sort of strange power. Suddenly, everyone everywhere was trying to catch a glimpse of her. Melvar certainly didn't mind, as it led to plenty of business at the shop, but Marilynn- who had previously tried her hardest to get Sibbya to go out and get some sun and make some friends- now had to keep her in the house as much as possible. The few times she was outside for more than a short while, townsfolk- even grown men and women- would try their best to yank out a lock of her hair or, on one occasion, try to "accidentally" scratch her in hopes of catching a drop of her blood. Melvar heard someone at the Rusty Dragon talk about how the word on the street was that swallowing one of her fingernails could cure a fever, among other, less savory superstitions.

Other children were possibly worse. The Mossminders had considered sending her to school, but most of the children that she had encountered teased her, at best, or threw rocks at her, at worst. Some called her a witch, some called her a monster, but most just ran away from her. In the end, Marilynn had to devote her time to teaching the girl whenever she could. Any hope for a normal childhood for the girl was lost.

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As the years passed, more strange things happened, some beneficial, some harmful, but as she got older, the rest of the town seemed to lose interest in her. By the time she was ten, she was taller than the Mossminders, and she was more distant than ever. One day, Melvar woke up early to get the shop ready, and she was gone. He looked all around their home, at some of the businesses around town, and she was nowhere. Ever since the town took such a morbid interest in her as a child, she had never spent more than a morning away from her parents, but the entire day passed by without any sign of her. Out of options, he and Marilynn began going from door to door- her on the South side of town and he on the North side- asking everyone if they had seen her. After a dozen houses with no luck, Melvar passed by an old dilapidated farmhouse quite a distance from town. He had seen it before over the years, but he had just assumed it was abandoned and never thought anything of it. On a whim, he walked closer to it, hoping that she hadn't somehow wandered away and gotten lost or hurt in the old structure, when he nearly tripped over a rock lying in a row, covered in weeds and overgrown plants. Kicking gently at the rock, he noticed it was a row of gravestones, dating back years, if not decades. It wasn't uncommon for people to have family cemeteries on their property, but for some reason he felt the urge to glance at the stones. The third one in the row had a name that caught Melvar's eye. After scraping off a layer of dirt and some dried weeds, he saw the name.

Sibbya.

It couldn't be. Judging by the dates, this gravestone was almost thirty years old! He looked at the rest of the stones- they were for the Telenar family. Melvar thought about it, and the last of the Telenars, an only son named Jared who had never wed, died at least fifteen years ago. To confirm this, Melvar found Jared's gravestone, the last on the line.

Then it hit him. When Sibbya- that is, the Sibbya who had given birth and died in Melvar's shop- was adopted by the Palmers, she was an orphan. What were the odds that her mother's name was Sibbya, and she had died giving birth as well?

The halfling shopkeep ran as fast as his short legs would take him. He ran straight through town, his destination being the temple of Melora, and if no answers could be found there, the Palmers after that. When the temple came into view, however, something caught his eye and he skidded to a halt. There, down the road from the temple, visible even from the very shop he had owned for ten years now, was a short, squat building. It was remarkable only in the fact that it looked so plan that Melvar was certain he had never actually noticed it in his life. He had probably walked past this building a thousand times, if not more, and never given it a second glance. Who lived there? Why did he notice it now and never before? He had his suspicions, of course, each wilder than the one before it.

"Only one way to find out," he muttered to himself.

He knocked on the door, not quite sure who he was expecting to answer. A few breaths after knocking, he felt like he should just turn around and go home and forget whatever it was that he came for. But he waited.

Then the door opened. Behind it was Sibbya- Mirlena Welcome Mossminder- exactly as she had appeared the day before she went missing. She looked at Melvar, who stood a great deal shorter than her by now, and blinked.

"Sibbya," he began, unsure exactly of what to say. "We've been worried sick about you."

She nodded. "I know," she said quietly. "I'm sorry. But I'm home now."

Melvar sputtered a bit, furrowing his bushy black brow. "Nonsense. Your home is with Marilynn and me."

She shook her head. "This is my home. It was my mother's and now it's my home."

He couldn't believe what he was hearing. This little girl, whom he had looked after for years, was telling him that she was ready to live on her own? In a house that she... that she found?

But what was perhaps even more unbelievable was his reaction. He felt himself nodding. He felt himself understanding. This was how it was meant to be. She was home, and she was safe. He'd have to explain it to Marilynn, but she would understand. He held out his arms. She embraced him, and then he let go.

"We will see you around, then," he heard himself say. "You always have a home with us."

She nodded, and closed the door. He turned around, and walked leisurely back to his shop. Once there, he began cleaning up, and before long Marilynn returned. She looked tired, and she looked like she had been crying, but she looked into Melvar's eyes and the two of them knew.

"She's safe," the shopkeeper's wife said. "She's safe, right?"

The shopkeep nodded. They embraced, and they wept together.

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Now, several years later, Melvar sat in his Halfling-sized chair with a cup of tea for himself and for his guest. The Tiefling sipped it sweetly, listening intently and hanging on every word.

"And to be perfectly honest, Mr. Thorn, today was the first time since that day that I've even thought of Sibbya in quite a long time. About two years ago, she stopped by to purchase something. I can't remember what, though I doubt it matters. It's as if I, along with the rest of the town, forgot about her."

The red-skinned man nodded, taking another long drink from his mug. "And you say you thought of her today," he said. "Is there anything that might have reminded you of her?"

Mr. Mossminder shook his head, squinting his eyes slightly. "I don't think so. Just the matter of what's happened over the last few days... I had the thought, 'I wonder if Sibbya is safe,' and then it all came flooding back to me."

"And," said Harrow, "what exactly is it that you want me to do? Is there any reason to suspect anything is wrong with her?"

"Well, that's just it," said the Halfling. "I haven't seen her in a very long time. And... that's not all."

The knight raised his eyebrows, not wanting to interrupt.

"You see," he continued, "as far as I can tell, the last woman named Sibbya became pregnant and then died during childbirth when she was eighteen years old. The previous mother, also named Sibbya, died giving birth when she was aged eighteen years old as well."

Harrow gave an understanding nod. "And let me guess... she's eighteen years old."

Melvar nodded.

"Well," said the Tiefling, "what makes you think that something is wrong? It seems the last time she became pregnant, she went off on her own and found a new family. If this is indeed part of some sort of cycle, then why should this be any different?"

The Halfling looked Harrow in the eyes, and Harrow could see how deep his worry ran.

"Please, sir. Trust me. I have a bad feeling about this. I think something has happened to her."

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"Thank you for sharing this with me, sir," said Harrow after Melvar had finished. "Allow me to gather my companions and return tonight. They may have questions of their own."

They shook hands, and the Tiefling went off on his way towards the Rusty Dragon. The shopkeep watched him go, fighting off the worries that plagued him. He didn't just think something was wrong. He knew it.

Last of the King's Men, Chapter 20

Harrow Thorn walked down the streets of Kellorville smiling, waving to every townsperson he passed, stopping to greet and shake the hand of each one that allowed him. All around town the people seemed to be going about their productive lives- the sound of birds chirping was easily drowned out by the whining of the saws up at the mill, the pungent odor wafted from the tannery with each zephyr of wind, and fishermen readied their boats up at the dock. The bright morning sun had dried up the puddles remaining from the previous day's storm, and a fine layer of dust had caked the bottom of the tactician's boots. He greeted priestess Beryl with a friendly embrace, and commended her on the beauty of the tangles of green intertwined in every brick of goddess Melora's temple. As he spoke with her, he caught the eye of Eban Jakobs, one arm in a sling, the other dragging a broom across the floor. Harrow waved a greeting to him as well, and the handyman gingerly gestured in response with his injured arm.

Harrow remembered, of course, the previous few days' events. After ending the murderous lives of the three witches lying in wait for the villagers to arrive, not to mention their Orc thralls, the Horselords of Lograd, with rescued captive Tamarin Needlecrafter in tow, explored the underground complex in search of an exit. Soon finding a cave opening carved by the nearby river, they hurried to meet Eban and Lorik Ostedler before they got too close to the trap that had awaited them. Rounding the hill, they came across a massive crowd- close to every man, woman, and child of Kellorville- scrambling about in a panic. Three appeared dead; one of which- to Harrow's great relief- turned out to be the fourth witch that Tamarin had spoken of. It seemed their operation was ended, though he still remembered the cryptic remark made by a dying Orc thrall- the creature spoke of a "Dark One" who was responsible for the Orc scourge returning to the world.

Obviously the ravings of a madman, Harrow once again reasoned.

One of the supposed dead was Eban Jakobs himself, the self-appointed leader of the mass of villagers, though he was alive, albeit badly wounded. The other was a blackscale dragonborn that Beryl referred to as Lorender, who had apparently died in an attempt to save his fellow townsfolk from being slaughtered by this witch. According to Beryl, the crowd had been moving along, almost to their destination, when suddenly this woman appeared in front of them. Nobody was quite sure what had happened, because moments later, Eban was thrown from the path, and Lorender's sword was drawn, but before he was able to stop her, Lythia struck him dead with some kind of magic. She appeared ready to continue her attack, but Eban managed to kill her with Lorender's sword before collapsing himself.

The Horselords helped Ostedler to get the crowd under control, and despite the mass confusion as to what was going on, they were able to herd everyone back to their homes- though it was well into the night before they had returned. Knowing that the last thing he wanted was for the town to panic further, Harrow took it upon himself to walk around to each and every home, knock on each and every door, introduce himself, assure each townsfolk that everything was under control, and inform them that there would be a celebration the following evening in the Rusty Dragon to commemorate the safe exodus and return of each citizen of Kellorville. Nobody seemed to understand what had happened let alone why there was going to be a celebration for it, but it was all part of his plan- as long as he treated each person like their personal safety was important to him, and as long as they each felt like what had happened was somehow a success for their town, then each person would be less likely to panic and cause a riot. As long as they thought there was something to celebrate, it didn't matter what they were celebrating. And besides- nobody was going to turn down a free celebration.

He hadn't finished going round to each and every house until the morning sun had risen, but it was what he had to do to prevent unrest. Artemis had asked if any of the Horselords should help, or Ostedler, but Harrow had to do it himself- he had to make himself visible to every citizen of Kellorville. The more citizens that knew him, the more citizens that would some day be sympathetic to his cause. Exhausted, weary, still nursing wounds from the previous day's fights, he and the rest of the knights met with Eban in the morning, and were given the greatest reward he could have asked for: A house. Not just a house, but a base. A base from which they could, over time, plan their strike against the false-king Galmod.

The lodge gifted to them was, to put it bluntly, a heap of trash that had somehow not fallen over into the river and been swept away. But that did not mean that Harrow didn't love it. Sure, many things needed to be fixed. Many many. And not just fixed, either. Finished. As if someone began additions to the building and then quit as soon as he was finished hammering the first nail. But it was still better than anything he had expected. Besides- Artemis needed something to keep him busy while they weren't training.

The first evening after Kellorville's exodus, the Horselords met at the Rusty Dragon, as Harrow had told everyone to do. He was expecting a few dozen people, assuming the rest would be too shaken from the experience to want to leave their homes. Instead, to his surprise, close to three hundred people- almost the entire town's population- arrived at the inn to try and cast off the previous few days' fears. Harrow made a few speeches, played his lute for the crowds, and did his best to help everyone relax. Grett had to dip into the town's winter supply of ale in order to keep the festivities going, but afterwards, people could be heard saying that it was the best celebration they'd had in years.

The next morning, the Horselords awoke before dawn, got their gear together, and slipped out of town as quietly as possible. Once they had reached the forest to the East, they waited. The sun broke over the horizon, just barely visible through the trees, and they waited more. Artemis was afraid that something had gone wrong, but Harrow silenced him.

Just when it seemed the boy's fears might be realized, the knights heard the thunderous sound of far-off hooves. Off in the distance, five horses could be seen, weaving through the trees, their breath creating clouds of mist in the morning chill. The steeds came to an abrupt stop and bowed down before their masters, each still carrying the gear they were entrusted with two days previous. Grash and Ra'uf were certainly pleased to have their holy symbols and weapons back, and even Jannah seemed in better spirits knowing that her four-legged companion was safe. Harrow noted that his gelding, Firebrand, had a wound on its right flank- a remnant of a run-in with something unwelcome in the forest. But these steeds were the strongest in all the world, and could take care of themselves.

After making arrangements with the town's stables to house their horses until the knights could build a stable of their own, Harrow began once again making rounds to each homestead, greeting the townspeople and making sure they were safe. He did the same the following day, despite a torrential downpour. Each time, more people smiled. More people greeted him. The ones that greeted him previously were a bit warmer this time. A little attention surely goes a long way.

This morning wasn't any different. After finishing up at the temple of Melora, he continued around, greeting everyone he could. Every so often, he'd make notes in his journal- keeping track of who the movers and shakers were in town, how many family members their had, the general size of their property, and so on. All the while, as he greeted everyone to make them feel appreciated, he was learning who the important people were. He was learning just how much pull each person had, just in case he ever needed a favor. Just like a game, he was figuring out how all of the pieces moved and how he could use that to his advantage.

After finishing his rounds, Harrow had one main goal on his agenda today. He wasn't looking forward to it, but it had to be done. He arrived at the Rusty Dragon, still early in the day, and rapped on the bar. After a short while, Grett hobbled out, tying an apron around his waist.

"Greetings, my good man," began Harrow. "Wonderful morning to you. I trust business is doing well?"

Grett smiled, nodding. "Indeed it is. Meat won't be ready for a short while, but can I get you some of yesterday's bread until then?"

Harrow held up a hand. "I'm here on business, actually. Is Mr. Ostedler in his office?"

The barkeep nodded again. "Yes he is. Up the stairs, first door on the right. Knock if it's locked."

Harrow tapped on the counter once more, and began up the stairs. Reaching the mayor's office, he knocked on the door. Hearing the half-elf's voice welcome him from inside, the tiefling entered, seeing the familiar office appointed as usual.

"Harrow," said Ostedler, a bit surprised. "I wasn't expecting you. Can I help you?"

Harrow nodded. "I hope you can. May I have a seat?"

"By all means."

The knight took a seat in front of Lorik's desk. He paused, trying to gather his words, an unusual action for the fast-spoken tiefling. Once his inner monologue was sufficient, he placed a hand on the desk.

"Mister mayor- Lorik, if I may- I wish to make myself completely plain to you. It has undoubtedly been on your mind where we came from, and what our business is here in Kellorville. I wish to dispel any doubt as to our intention by being honest with you."

Ostedler raised his head a bit, his eyes fixed on Harrow. "Go on," he said in reply.

"As I have told you, my name is Sir Harrow Thorn. I am a knight in the service of King Adorn Marethal the fourth of Lograd, as are my companions Sir Ra'uf Roras, Sir Grash Vesuvix, and Lady Jannah. The boy, Artemis Redsleeves is simply a straggler we picked up along the way that I have taken as my squire."

He paused once again, this time waiting for the hammer that, eventually, did not fall. He hadn't meant to throw on all of that rhetoric at the end- he had meant to simply state his country of origin and leave it at that, but in his haste to get it over with he subconsciously added the rest to try and get his listener to gloss over the uncomfortable details.

"Go on," repeated Ostedler.

Harrow blinked. Not at all the reaction he had expected. "Allow me to ask... are you... familiar with the nation of Lograd?"

Ostedler shook his head gently. "The name sounds familiar, but I am afraid I cannot place it. I take it that is important to understand this story?"

Harrow swallowed silently, taking another moment to gather his thoughts. "Very well. I'll take this back just a bit further. We come from Lograd, a land very far East. Considered by many to be the most powerful nation in the world. Our king, Adorn Marethal the fourth, is responsible for the extermination of the Orc race over thirty years ago." He waited once again for recognition to dawn on the half-elf's face, but none occurred.

"You will have to forgive me," said Ostedler, "but we receive very little contact with any other nations. Or even towns, for that matter. We have records of Orcs dating back before this extermination you speak of, and none in any recent years, so I suppose your story adds up. However, did I not hear that you and your kinsmen killed a group of Orcs just a few days ago?"

Harrow took a deep breath. This was not going as easily as he had planned at all, and the mayor's confusion was justified. He had hoped to simply be in and out, but it seemed this was going to take a while. He cleared his throat, and spoke quickly to keep from boring the confused half-elf.

"Yes, well, that's... sort of what I wanted to talk to you about. Alright, I'm starting over again. Over thirty years ago, our king traveled across the land, exterminating the Orc race as we know it. About three years ago, word reached Lograd Castle that somehow, Orcs were alive, attacking our nation. The king sent his elite guard, the famed Horselords of Lograd, to investigate and end this threat to royal lands. After a long search, we discovered that, in fact, the Orc scourge had returned, and they were responsible for the attacks."

Ostedler nodded to show he was following.

"However," continued Harrow, "while the Horselords were away from the castle, a traitor to the throne named Galmod Qerum, the true king's foremost adviser, took the opportunity to stage a coup. He killed the king, took his place, and declared the faithful Horselords to be heretics and conspirators against the throne. Upon hearing this, half of our number made an attempt on the traitor-king's life. Although we do not know the details, we know that this attempt was unsuccessful. After this, the remaining of us were exiled, and our families brutally murdered."

"My gods," said the mayor, his eyes growing wide. "I... I am so sorry to hear of this. I had no idea."

Harrow nodded solemnly, continuing. "The rest of us accepted our exile, but for many, many months we found ourselves constantly on the run from squads of Galmod's men, hunting us like dogs through the land. We traveled, for the better part of three years, looking for somewhere we could live in peace. Every settlement in which we sought refuge, at best, chased us away. Our only option was to leave the nation, traveling as far into previously uncharted territories as we could. It was that search that led us here to your town."

"And so you came here, seeking refuge from a nation- using your own words, believed to be the most powerful nation in the world," said Ostedler. His eyes were narrowing on the tiefling, and he was leaning forward. "Tell me, Harrow. Where does this put my town? Where do we stand? Do we need fear an army of knights coming to kill me and burn down every building in my town looking for you? You said yourself that every other town chased you away, or worse. Why should I not do the same?"

Harrow's expression was grim. He had nothing to say in his defense. "I decided it would be better to tell you now than to be a drain on your town's resources first. I apologize. It was never our intent to hurt anyone from this town."

Ostedler balled one of his hands into a fist, held it, and then relaxed it, exhaling deeply. "No. No, you did not. I know that you did not. When you first arrived here, you saved us from a threat that would have come whether you were here to stop it or not. And, even then, you refused payment for our defense. I've been watching you, Harrow. I can see how much you're trying to help raise morale among my people. Even if you have put my town in danger, you have already saved it from a fate just as bad."

"I am relieved you see it that way, mayor," Harrow replied. "I do apologize for not telling you sooner. But please understand, we believed that you-"

"Would have you away the moment you got here. Yes, yes, I know. And it is for that reason that I want you, and the rest of your comrades, to keep this between us and us alone. I want nobody else to know about you and your origins unless I give you permission. Do you understand? I highly doubt the rest of my town would be as understanding."

Harrow nodded. "I agree wholeheartedly." He held out his hand, to which Ostedler returned a blank stare. Harrow returned his hand to his side, unshaken by the standoffish exchange. "If I may make some requests, mister mayor."

Ostedler leaned back in his chair. "Go on."

"It is very important to me, as well as I'm sure to you, that this town be kept safe. As of right now, this town has no defenses, natural or otherwise, that I or my people have noticed. Is there any sort of town militia that can be put into action if the need be?"

The mayor shook his head. "There was an attempt to create one many years ago, but I am afraid the only result of that is the building you are currently inhabiting."

Harrow nodded. "Very well. With your permission, I will take it upon myself and my companions to try to organize one. I would appreciate your cooperation and aid once we are able to garner enough support."

"Good luck trying. You have my permission."

Ostedler stood up, and this time held his hand out to Harrow, who took it after only a moment's hesitation. "I am sure you understand my attitude. I do appreciate your coming forth. I cannot say I would have done the same in your position."

After exiting the Rusty Dragon, Harrow wiped his brow. It was considerably warmer than when he had entered, and by now it was already after noon. By now, Artemis and Grash would be well into repairing the roof. Jannah, ever the self-imposed wallflower, would be continuing to scout the areas around town for possible threats and defensible advantages and disadvantages. Ra'uf would be off ogling women and... whatever else he does with his time. Harrow took out his journal, and, checking some notes, walked over to Melvar's Provisions, the general store, to pick up some supplies.

Walking up to the building, Harrow noticed the mustachioed halfling owner standing in the door way, broom in hand, staring off into the distance as if frozen mid-sweep. When Harrow reached him, he looked at the still-staring halfling, then turned and looked back towards where he came, trying to see what it was the short man was staring at. He then turned towards Melvar again, and cleared his throat softly.

The halfling jumped, dropping the broom and almost falling back. "Oh!" he said. "Forgive me, sir. I was just- nothing. Please, come in, come in!"

He gestured Harrow into the store, and finished up sweeping the doorway, although occasionally pausing. After gathering up what he needed, Harrow set the supplies on the counter, taking out some silver slugs for payment. Melvar made his way to the counter, and when counting the total cost, Harrow could tell he was preoccupied with something.

"Mr. Mossminder, if I may," the tiefling began.  "Is there something troubling you?"

The halfling paused, and then shook his head. "No, no. Just a little tired, that's all. Quite a storm last night, eh?"

Harrow paid for his merchandise, and was about to leave, but he leaned back down towards the diminutive shopkeep.

"Please, sir. If there's anything I can do to help, I would be happy to."

The halfling thought for a moment, then took a deep breath. "I suppose there is something..."

--------------------------------------------------------------------

"Thank you for sharing this with me, sir," said Harrow after Melvar had finished. "Allow me to gather my companions and return tonight. They may have questions of their own."

Stepping back out into the hot midday sun, Harrow walked back to the Rusty Dragon, where Ra'uf had been eating lunch the last few days. Seeing him seated with a young man, he greeted the both of them and turned to the mage. "Ra'uf, if you may, we need your help. Someone in town has a job for us, and I think you're going to want to hear about this."

Leaving with his elder companion, they followed the path around the mill towards the lodge. Looking up at the roof still in mid-repair, Harrow noticed that Artemis was nowhere to be seen, despite his strict orders that morning.

"Good," he said to himself. "It's about time he started sneaking out to have fun. I should probably reprimand him when he gets back. Don't want him doing this all the time, after all."

Opening the back door to the lodge, he walked into the common room to find Grash rearranging the furniture.

"Grash," said Harrow. "Come with me. We've got some business to attend to."

Grash stopped what he was doing, dusted his hands off, and followed the tiefling. "Business of what nature?" he asked as the three of them were walking down the path back towards town.

"Missing person," said Harrow. "Apparently some woman named Sibbya has disappeared."

Last of the King's Men, Chapter 19

The day was beautiful. Perfect, even.

Too beautiful, thought Artemis. Too beautiful to be stuck up here, fixing the roof.

He had awoken just before dawn, as he had the two previous days, by the red-skinned Sir Harrow, who was far more awake than the hour merited. It had been more than two years since he had slept in a real bed, made for a real person to get real sleep. It had been more than two years since he could truly rest, and stop glancing over his shoulder for whatever danger may be coming. And, to his understanding, it had been even longer for any of the other knights. Why couldn't they just stay in bed and get some much-deserved rest?

"Because," said Sir Harrow. "The day we stop being alert is the day we get blindsided. A knight never rests, never stops watching. If you aren't ready for that, maybe you aren't cut out to be a knight."

Artemis had heard these words before. In fact, they had this argument on a fairly regular basis. Perhaps it was one of Artemis' failings; then again, perhaps that was Sir Harrow's way of telling Artemis that he was tired, too, and that he wished he could relax. But life experiences had taught him the danger of relaxing.

Every time they had this argument, Artemis was reminded of his dream- to become a knight. To become a noble. To some day live in peace with a family and a legacy to pass on. Was he any closer to this goal? Was he ever going to become a knight?

Of course I am, he thought. We've finally found somewhere we can live, somewhere we can regroup. Make a plan. Maybe get some help. As far as becoming a knight, I just need to be more patient.

The last two days had been spent fixing up this old house that Eban Jakobs gifted them. It was amazing to have a house, a home, but there was a lot of work to be done. First they cleared out the common room, salvaging what could be used for scrap and discarding the rest. The room was dominated by what was probably once a ferocious bear, poised on its hind legs and in the middle of a fearsome roar, but it was so fallen apart that it had to be thrown away. Sir Harrow said he had a plan for something to replace it, but wouldn't explain any further.

After the common room, they fixed up the barracks, which meant that each of them would have their own bed- as in, the non-rollable kind- and there were plenty more to spare, in case they ever recruited more members to their cause. It really began to sank in to Artemis' mind- they wouldn't be sleeping on the ground anymore. No more folding up tents every single morning. No more living at the mercy of the wind and the rain.

Well, the rain ended up being a problem. It had rained rather fiercely the second night in the new home, and rain poured through numerous holes in the roof, in every room. And so, this morning, Sir Harrow's assignment for Artemis and Grash was to replace any damaged boards in the roof.

The morning was cold and clear- leading to a beautiful, cloudless midday. Artemis and Grash began by using spare clapboards left over from some of the previous occupant's abandoned endeavors, but by noon Grash had to leave to go find more materials. Artemis was left up on the roof, his face dripping with sweat from the clear day's heat. He wasn't tired- he had been put through so much grueling work over the last two years, not to mention the countless days of menial labor in the hot sun and bitter cold when he lived with the Keverses, but it had been a long time since he felt like his work was pointless. No, not pointless- of course the lodge needed a roof. But he just wished he could be enjoying the day. It was the third day in what felt like a lifetime that he wasn't wearing his armor from sunrise to sunset- Jannah was the only one who still felt the need- under a beautiful sun shining off the crystal clear stream on one side of the building, and the cool refreshing pond on the other. Speaking of the pond...

Artemis heard a noise, like yelling. No, it wasn't yelling- it was laughing. He had been watching the town from his high vantage point with half of his attention all morning, and people went to and fro, going about their business- but this caught his eye. There was a group of boys, six or seven of them, roughly his age, running across town square. They raced over the bridge by the mill, past the tannery, towards the pond to the North. All the while, they were laughing, telling jokes, and rejoicing in the fact that they had dodged their chores this beautiful day.

Artemis sat and stared. He had never known anyone his own age other than the Keverse's bratty son Orin, and certainly nobody he could have run and joked and played with. He let out a sigh as he stared at the group have fun, wishing more than anything else he could be one of them, instead of the squire fixing a roof while running from a king that wanted to kill him.

Artemis heard a deep voice clear its throat nearby, and he nearly jumped off the roof in surprise. He looked towards the ladder, and Grash was visible from the waist up, a pile of boards resting on the edge of the roof. From where he was positioned, he had likely seen Artemis watch what was unfolding.

"I remember what it was like to be young," the dragonborn said with a playful tone, staring off at the boys taking off their shirts at the edge of the water. "It certainly would have been a shame to miss out on such an opportunity on a day like this." He began to climb back down the ladder. As he disappeared from view, he added, "I'd think up a good excuse to tell Harrow if I were you."

A huge grin spread across Artemis' face, and he slid himself down to the edge of the roof, and climbed halfway down the ladder. Jumping down the rest of the way, he took off towards the pond, laughing all the way.

-----------------------------

The group of boys had stripped down to just their underclothes, and were taking turns climbing an old tree at the water's edge. One of the branches reached out across the pond, and someone had tied a long rope to it. From the right position, if one was athletic enough, they could jump out over the water, grab the rope, and swing a good distance further before releasing, making quite an impressive splash. If one wasn't coordinated enough, or clumsy, or failed to grasp the timing, it could be dangerous.

As Artemis approached, the rest of the boys stopped what they were doing and looked at him in silence, unsure of what to do or how to act. Two were already floating in the water, one stood up in the tree, and the others stood in a line at the tree's base. Artemis, easily the biggest one there, simply kicked off his boots, took off his red-sleeved shirt, and stepped in front of the line. He began climbing the tree, and the boy already up there stepped aside, holding onto one of the other branches to remain stable. Artemis got to the top, looked out at the old rope dangling above the water, pressed his heels against the tree, and leapt. He grabbed onto the rope at the last moment, swinging further than any of the others, and let go. He hit the water with a massive splash, bigger than anyone else, and when he surfaced, they were all cheering for him.

When he came back to the edge of the pond, they all crowded around him, wanting to meet him, wanting to talk to him. The oldest of them, a lean sandy-haired boy, pushed the others out of the way and held his hand out, smiling. "We heard you killed a dragon," he said. "My name's Falric."

Artemis smiled back, shaking his hand firmly. "I'm Artemis. Artemis Redsleeves. And yeah, I guess I did."

"Welcome to Kellorville, Artemis."

The group of them spent the majority of the remaining daylight playing in the pond, telling stories, splashing about, and cracking jokes. All of them wanted to know everything about Artemis- where he was from, how he met the rest of the knights, how he learned to fight so well, what it was like traveling with Jannah, what her likes and dislikes were, and so on- things Artemis began to assume were standard talk among boys his age. He tried to answer the questions the best he could, but certain details- like where they were from, and why they were there- were a little hard to answer, since the rest of the Horselords hadn't yet decided what to do with that information.

At about sundown, they were all lounging on the side of the pond when another boy ran up from the edge of the river.

"Guys!" he yelled. "I just heard a bunch of the girls went across to the treehouses! I say we go join 'em!"

The rest of the boys cheered in approval, but Artemis didn't understand.

"The treehouses? Where's that?"

Falric grinned, grabbed something from his discarded clothing, and began running. "Follow me!"

They ran to the river near town square, where a black-haired dwarf sat near a rowboat, a fishing rod in hand, his stubby feet dangling into the water.

"Hey, Buren! Did the girls cross over to the treehouses a little while ago?"

The dwarf nodded his head, chewing on a long piece of grass.

"That they did. I'm assuming you boys are up to some mischief?"

"You know it," replied Falric. "Can you take us?"

Buren looked off into the setting sun, which was casting pink and orange shadows across the town. "I don't know. It's getting late. Do you have something for me?"

Falric grinned and held out a round, shiny stone. "I found that one in the stream this morning. I thought you might like it."

The dwarf looked it over, and whatever it was must have been satisfactory, because he stuck the end of his fishing rod into a small gap in the dock's boards, put the stone into his pocket, and stood up on his short legs. He hopped into his rowboat, grabbed the oars, and looked back at the boys. "Are you coming or not?"

The rest of the boys clapped hands together, and ran to the boat. Artemis, Falric, and whoever else could fit sat in the boat, and the rest of the boys hopped back into the water, holding onto the sides of the boat to help them across. The river was slow enough to let them cross easily, but fast enough that an unprepared swimmer could be swept away.

After a short while, they arrived at the other side of the Kellor river. Artemis could see a few wooden structures, about the size of a shed or small hut, built in the thick wall of trees bordering the water. They could hear high-pitched voices, and lots of giggling, coming from one of the structures, and in the dim dusk light, it looked like the occupants had lit a few candles inside.

"Nobody knows who built these treehouses," began Falric, "but they've been here as long as anyone can remember. Sometimes all of us will come here and play games, or just get away from our parents." Everyone climbed onto the shore on the West side of the river, and Buren gave a wave as he began rowing back home. "The cabins all have candles inside. When we're done here, we just use one to signal Buren and he'll come back and get us."

"What was that thing you gave him?" asked Artemis as they walked through the trees to the nearest treehouse. Falric went first, climbing a set of boards nailed into the tree's wide trunk. "Just a shiny rock," Falric called down behind him. "He's always liked rocks. All you have to do to get a ride from him is give him a rock that looks nice."

The boards led up through the floor of the wooden room above them. Inside, there were wooden benches, some small tables, shelves and storage containers- and it appeared that care was taken by everyone who used the house to stock it with simple comforts- blankets, pillows, canteens for water, sets of dice, and so on. The walls each bore a wide window that let air blow through the structure, and some of the last rays of the setting sun could still be seen shining through the trees. The ceiling was just low enough that Artemis had to stoop slightly to move around.

"What do you guys do up here?"

Falric grabbed a few of the canteens and tossed one to him, sitting down on a bench. Opening it up, he took a swig. "Play games, have fun, talk about girls. You know, that kind of stuff."

Artemis nodded, still new to all of this. He opened up his canteen for a drink, and realized that it was filled with alcohol, not water. Cheap, watery alcohol, but alcohol nonetheless. Glancing out the window, he could see a slightly larger treehouse slightly farther up the shore, and beyond that was the treehouse where candles were lit and they could see and hear people moving through the dim light.

"Those are girls over there," Artemis asked, taking another drink. "Why don't we go over there?"

The rest of the boys laughed, and made vulgar comments in response. Falric, yelling at the rest of them to settle down, explained, "It's the rule. The men have this side, and the girls have that side. We aren't allowed on each other's sides. If we signal to them first, we can all go to the one in the middle."

Artemis raised an eyebrow. "Who made these rules? And who's enforcing them?"

Falric shrugged. "I don't know. That's just how we've always done it."

"Well," said Artemis, "how do we signal them?"

One of the boys walked up with lit candle, holding it up in the window. Placing his hand in front of it to block the light, he moved his hand back and forth, making some sort of a pattern. After a few moments, the girls' chatter stopped, and soon a light could be seen in their window, echoing the same pattern. The rest of the boys, seeing this, cheered. Artemis, however, was still a little lost.

They all climbed down the tree, and ran to the one in the center, where the trunk had two ladders, one on each side. The boys climbed up their side first to enter a similar treehouse, but it was furnished much more comfortably- the floor was covered in a woven rug, the benches were all covered in soft fabric, and the windows had shutters that could be latched shut. They all sat down and waited, most of them getting giddy and excited, waiting for the girls to arrive. Artemis felt strange- he was nervous. He had never spent any appreciable amount of time in the presence of a girl his age. He didn't know if he should be excited, or scared. He didn't know what to do- he certainly didn't feel like he could tell any of the rest of the boys about it.

After a few minutes, a girl with a head of curly brown hair popped up through the hole in the floor, followed by another girl, and another, and so on. Before long, the treehouse was full of people- all Artemis' age, all happy, all excited. Everyone was talking to one another, everyone was laughing, everyone was flirting, everyone was having a great time. Falric introduced almost all of the girls to Artemis, who just smiled and said greetings each time. He wasn't sure if they were interested in him, if they wanted to talk to him, if they cared about him at all- his head was swimming with everything that was happening. After a while, he began to feel uncomfortable. He tapped Falric on the shoulder- just as he was bragging to a group of the girls about a fish he had caught the day before- and told him he was heading back to town, and then climbed back down before he got a response. When he reached the edge of the river, it was already dark. He didn't have a candle to signal Buren, so he just waded out into the flowing water and swam across. Once on the other side, he walked back to the pond to retrieve his shirt and boots.

Glancing up at the knights' lodge, Artemis didn't see any lights in the windows. He was reminded of how he had left his chores behind, and knew that Sir Harrow was going to be upset. And if he was going to be upset, he might as well take a little walk by himself and clear his head first.

Feeling the night's chill coming on, he pulled his shirt back on, and held his boots at his side as he walked around to town square barefoot. Most of the businesses appeared closed for the night, but Artemis figured he'd head to the tavern and see if any of his companions were there. He rounded the corner rather quickly, and almost bumped right into someone.

A girl, almost his age, stopped abruptly in front of him. Their eyes met, and instantly Artemis was frozen in place. Her eyes were the purest blue, her hair golden, her lips red as ruby, her skin fair- only slightly darkened by the sun. Her slender form was so beautiful, so perfect, that she almost seemed to radiate light in the moonlit square. She wore a simple peasant's dress, and held a small bundle of lumber in her arms, almost dropping them as she started.

Artemis felt a thousand lifetimes pass in this one moment, lost in her blue eyes. Blue like the ocean he'd dreamed of but never seen.

He was vaguely aware of his mouth trying to form the word "Sorry", but nothing came out. He stood, affixed in place, and she stood looking up at him. As suddenly as they met, another figure stepped into view- a tall man, skin rough and worn by years in the sun, came around the corner and, seeing the two of them, split them apart with a thrust of his arm. He put his hand on the young girl's shoulder, wordlessly guiding her around Artemis so they could continue on their way. Suddenly feeling the mobility coming back into his body, he turned around, watching the two of them disappear into the darkness. In a moment, they were gone- it was difficult to see in the dark after seeing something- someone- so radiant.

After his mind processed what had just happened, he stumbled back slightly, catching the breath that he just now realized he had lost. He had heard tales of "angels", messengers sent by gods to deliver decrees and save the weak from captivity. These "angels" were described as being beautiful beyond comparison, able to captivate and enthrall anyone who sees them and hears them speak.

Did I just meet an angel?

He clumsily turned back around and continued towards the tavern, still lost in his thoughts, when he heard someone call his name. He looked up, and a familiar red-scaled dragonborn was standing outside the general store. Walking up, Artemis tried to speak, but his mouth just moved up and down a few times.

Grash, oblivious or indifferent regarding Artemis' inarticulacy, gestured for Artemis to follow him into the store.

"It's about time you returned, Artemis. Come on it. We have to get you up to speed. We've been given a quest."

Writing, Day 365

Well! Would you look at that!

It's been one year since I started this blog. To be honest, I had expected that I would be further along than I am, but I'm not going to beat myself up over that. This last year has been a wild one- lots of things going on in my life, lots of things going on in the world, lots of imaginary things going on in all of the fictional worlds out there.

I just wanted to say thank you to you- whoever you are that's reading this out there. Simply having people reading what I have to write is more than I can ask for. So thank you from the bottom of my heart.

Have a great year! I hope your next year is as good as my last year!

-Gabriel Kleinert

Last of the King's Men, Chapter 18

"Well, someone's in a hurry to leave work early, I see."

The dark-haired young man wiped a matte of sweat from his brow with his sleeve before grasping hold of another large container of grain. The ceramic cask slipped ever-so-slightly in his grip as he hefted it, but his knee quickly rose to meet the cask's bottom. After a momentary adjustment of balance, he carried the container to the other side of the mill.

Once dropping off the last cask, the man bent over slightly to catch his breath, crooking his lips to one side to blow a few strands of his long hair out of his face. Unsure of what to say in response, he simply nodded, and in an awkward jolt he started hurrying across the floor to grab the broom. Old and worn, it leaned against the wall, where a long black burn mark stained one side of the large wooden building. Without a word, the young man began sweeping the chaff and sawdust from the floor, making sure to get under the tables and in the corners.

"You sure are being quiet today. Let me guess- you're going to visit Mara, aren't you? Don't worry, I won't tell her father."

A grin spread across the speaker's face, a face aging and worn not unlike the broom. She wore comfortable clothes that had seen their share of sunny days and storms, and her hair was held back with a faded purple headband. She patted the young man on the shoulder, and then strode across the room to her office near the front door.

"Just make sure you're back before sunrise. Henry is going to be out sick again," she said, closing the door behind her.

"Will do, Sharyna," he yelled back, pulling off his apron as he swept the last of the sawdust into a basket set low in the floor. He grabbed his cloak and glanced out the window, where the sun shone bright, leaving cascading beams crossing the room. The sun wasn't yet at its highest, and that meant he was right on schedule.

Bounding out the door, he slipped one hand gingerly into a hidden pocket inside the cloak, and, feeling around for a moment, let a look of relief spread across his face. His feet didn't stop moving, however, and he practically ran across town square towards the Rusty Dragon. A few people waved as he passed, and although he waved back, his mind was inside the tavern.

He burst through the door a bit more forcefully than he meant to, and once his eyes had adjusted to the light, he straightened his stature, and casually took a seat, glancing around the room nervously. One free hand hovered over the pocket of his cloak, as if protecting whatever was inside. As he shifted in his seat, he pretended that he was staring at a cobweb in the corner, but his attention was on one thing- one person- in particular.

Seated at the far end of the room was and old man, by himself, a large plate of braised eel set before him, and a long staff leaning against his chair. He wore a shabby brown cloak with a dull red gem set in the clasp, and his short grey beard was visible poking out from under his hood. He took his time eating the eel, savoring every bite as if he had been waiting for it his entire life.

The young man sat, watching him with a sort of reverence and awe. Glancing around the room, nobody seemed to be paying the old figure much attention, aside from the barkeep occasionally hobbling by with another flagon of ale or some more food to refill his plate. In fact, whether it was intentional or not, nobody had taken a seat anywhere near the old man.

Taking a deep breath, the young man stood, his hand unconsciously sliding into his pocket and holding its contents securely, and approached the old figure's table. He sat down awkwardly, and, after one more glance around the room, he spoke in a hushed tone.

"Excuse me, sir... You are... Rauf, correct?"

The old man looked at him with stern eyes that reflected years of unimaginable sorrow. He slowly finished chewing a bite of eel, swallowed, and then reached for his flagon. He took a long, deep drink, and set the mug down firmly on the weathered wooden surface.

"Indeed I am. Although it's pronounced 'Ra-oof'. But I suppose you were close enough. And who might you be, my good man?"

The young man jerked his hand toward the elder, who met it with a firm shake. "My name is Stanner, sir. Stanner Jerahl. I... work up at the mill."

Ra'uf nodded, a slight look of recognition on his face. "Ah, yes. You were the one who stopped the fire just a few days ago. Good job, son. I sure hope you got a pay raise for that." He rose his flagon with a grin, and took another long drink.

Stanner blushed slightly, shrugging, knowing that he didn't get a pay raise. But that wasn't what he came here to talk about. He scooted his chair closer to the table ever-so-slightly, and once again lowered his voice, as if afraid of listening ears.

"Sir, I had a question... something I wanted to talk to you about. I'm incredibly sorry if I offend you by this, but I don't mean to accuse anything, I just wanted to- I mean, I heard some people talking about..." He glanced around the room once more, and leaned in close. "...I heard people say that you use... Magic."

Ra'uf, who had leaned in to hear the whispered words, let out a hearty laugh and followed it up with another savored bite of food. After taking his time chewing, he nodded.

"Young man- Stanner. The people you heard from are correct. I am many things, not the least of which is a practitioner of arcane magic."

He took another draw from his flagon, which, from the sound of it hitting the table, was nearly empty. Stanner sat there, staring at the old man, staring at the table, staring at the ground. The silence held for a few moments, during which Ra'uf stared back, as if expecting his visitor to follow up with additional questions. Not hearing any, he continued to enjoy more of the braised eel.

Stanner was at a loss. He wasn't quite sure where he expected the conversation to go. He had intended to ask the man about magic, and, assuming he confirmed the rumors, then he would proceed to... what, exactly? The young man's mind had gone blank. He should have planned this out better.

After quite a long silence, Ra'uf broke the ice by moving his near-empty plate away, and fiddled with something at his side. He then pulled a book, not much larger than a man's hand but full of more pages than any book Stanner had ever seen, and set it down on the table. It was bound in stiff leather, with golden supports at each corner, and it had a simple latch holding it shut. The front of the tome had a large symbol- possibly a crest- burned into the leather.

After setting the book on the table, however, Ra'uf folded his hands over it.

"Tell me a little about yourself, Stanner."

Stanner sat, his eyes fixed on the book. His eyes traced every edge of it; every wrinkle in the binding; every one of the numerous pieces of paper, feather, or cloth keeping a place in the uncountable pages of its contents. With great force he managed to look up at the old man, who stared straight at him, genuinely interested in what he had to say.

"Me? You want to know about me?"

Ra'uf nodded.

"Well," he began, "I don't really know what there is to tell. Like I said, my name is Stanner... and I work at the mill..." He watched Ra'uf smile and nod patiently. "I grew up here in town, of course. I came from a big family- well, I guess you could call it a family. Back around when I was little, about twenty or so years ago, there was a disease that came through here. A lot of people died, including my parents, and I was taken in by a woman we all called Mother Jerahl. I wasn't the only one- she had adopted a bunch of kids like me. Gave us all a home, gave us food, shelter- taught us how to be good people, you know? Well, anyway, she died a little while back. By that point, though, I was already working at the mill, and so I was able to support myself. Since then, I guess I just... work. I go to work, I come home... That's... basically it."

Ra'uf stroked his beard, nodding as he listened. "Is there anything else," he said with a grin, "or is that all there is to Stanner Jerahl?"

Stanner chuckled, shrugging awkwardly. "I don't know. I guess not. It's not exactly a secret around here, but... I'm in love with Mara Brawn. She and I have been friends since we were kids, but... she still lives with her parents, who're all business and serious and everything. I'm hoping to some day save up enough money to... I don't know, buy a farm or something. I just want something stable so I can feel proud of myself, and so her father will be proud of me. Did that come out sounding as pathetic as I feel like it did?"

Ra'uf clapped him on the shoulder, letting out another hearty laugh. "Don't worry. That sounds perfectly sensible to me. I am assuming that's why you've decided that you want to learn magic."

Stanner's eyes went wide. He jerked his head around, his eyes darting around the room. Nobody seemed to react, or even be paying attention. Although he didn't mean to, his voice came out in a hiss.

"Keep your voice down! I can't let anyone know that I... I-I mean, not that there's anything wrong with... It's just..."

The old man's grin didn't go away. "Relax. I apologize- I may be bringing too much levity to the situation. I understand that many of the people here still view magic as a sort of dark, evil force. The land I come from was that way, long ago. But it seems that you do not share that view. Am I correct in my previous assumption?"

The young man took a couple deep breaths, and spoke in a normal tone, although still quiet. "Yes, sir. You're right. To be honest, I... I don't really know what I want to do with my life. But one thing I do know for sure- I want to learn. Mother Jerahl had some old religious texts, and once I could read, I read them front to back over and over. They talked about chosen disciples healing the sick, raining heavenly fire down on their enemies, and changing the world itself... for the better, and for the worse. I've always been fascinated by the idea of it, but all anyone has ever said about it was that it was evil, or it didn't exist. When all of this stuff started happening with Eban, everyone- well, you saw how they reacted. I've talked to people who still think we should burn him on a stake."

Ra'uf nodded, his grin having faded away. "Yes, I know. For all of time people have feared what they don't understand, and magic is certainly something few people understand. Even I am still discovering mysteries in my own discipline... but I want you to understand something. Learning magic is not easy. Learning magic is not fast. Learning magic is not something that you can pick up overnight, nor is it something that is easy to walk away from. Some people have the talent for it, and some people do not. I want you to take some time and be certain this is something you want."

Stanner smiled, his hand once again idly thumbing his pocket. "Trust me. I've thought this over long and hard. I want to learn." He paused, then looked up at Ra'uf. "I do have one question about it, though. If you don't mind."

The old man nodded patiently.

"I was wondering," he began, "if you could tell me about... Familiars."

Ra'uf took a breath, gazing off into the distance for a moment. "Well," he said, "a familiar is an animal to which a mage has a deep, personal, magical connection. Often one of the first rituals a spellcaster learns to perform, bonding one's self to a familiar grants various magical benefits as you progress in ability, but- if you ask me- the most important part of bonding to a familiar is the bond itself. It creates a link between you that can only be broken by death. It gives you a friend, one that has a part of your own soul (and it in you), that will always be there for you to provide you support. Although it may be limited in intelligence, your familiar is a companion that will always understand how you feel."

Stanner smiled as Ra'uf spoke, listening to him, fascinated. The way he used words like "mage" and "ritual" and "spellcaster"- and when he began referring to the spellcaster as "you" made him feel like this was something that he could really do. The more he thought about it, the more right this all felt.

He reached into his inner pocket gently, and, after a moment, pulled out a small brown creature. He placed it onto the table, and the creature- a rat- quickly began trying to scurry back into his hands, onto his sleeve, looking for somewhere dark it could hide. After fidgeting with the rodent to get it to stop squirming, Stanner held up the brown rat, which had a splotch of white fur on the top of its head. It sat, breathing nervously, waiting for an opportunity to hide in its owner's pocket once more.

"This is Starbrow," he said, massaging the rat's neck and back softly. "I've had her for a couple years now. When I first heard about what a familiar was, she was the first thing that sprang to mind. I... I don't know what I'm really getting at, but I just wanted to show her to you, and see... what you think, I guess?"

Ra'uf held out a hand to the rat, who stayed perfectly motionless, aside from her breathing, in Stanner's grip. Seeing no change in behavior, Ra'uf caressed the white splotch on her head, and smiled.

"Well, of course it will depend on whether you have the talent for it or not... but if you do, I think she would make a suitable familiar," said the old man.

Stanner, pleased, gave in and put Starbrow back in his pocket, where she curled up and settled down. Afterwards, he looked back to Ra'uf. "Sir, do you... have a familiar?"

Ra'uf shook his head, placing a hand on his staff. "As you will need to learn, there are many different disciplines when it comes to magic. Many different schools, many different varieties. Many different opinions. Many different rules. Some magic is the same as others but with a different appearance, some spells may look identical and act identical, but at their core are wholly different and incompatible. During my magical training, I learned to form a bond with a magical object rather than a magical creature. This staff was given to me by my church upon induction into the priesthood of the Raven Queen, and it is with this staff that I have formed my bond. It is different than the bond with a familiar, but similar. Do not worry," he began, seeing a change in Stanner's expression. "I am still versed in the familiar bonding ritual. When the time comes, I will have no difficulty teaching it to you. When the time comes."

Ra'uf winked at him. He smiled back, once again taking great pleasure in the way Ra'uf spoke. When the time comes, he had said. Stanner felt like this was truly something that could happen.

The old man glanced at his plate, where a few bites of eel still sat, now getting cold. "We will need," he began, "to figure out when we will begin. For the time being, allow me and my companions to continue to become acclimated to the area, and then you and I can decide when we have time. I trust you are not difficult to find?"

Stanner smiled widely, feeling a great sense of excitement. He was about to speak when the door to the Rusty Dragon opened, and in walked the tiefling- Ra'uf's companion.

"Speak of the devil," said the old man, gesturing for his friend to join him. The tiefling did not join them, however. He approached the table, nodded an informal greeting to Stanner, and looked at Ra'uf with a serious glance.

"Ra'uf, if you may, we need your help. Someone in town has a job for us, and I think you're going to want to hear about this."

He nodded, grabbed the last few bites of eel with his hands, and shoved them into his mouth. His mouth full, he spoke something unintelligible to Stanner, grinned, shook his hand once more (with greasy fingers, no less) and walked off.

Stanner sat in the tavern for a little while longer, by himself, imagining all that the future could have in store for him. He didn't know what was going to happen, but he knew it would be something he could be proud of.

"Come on, Starbrow," he said, patting his pocket gently. "Let's go see if Mara's done with her chores."

Last of the King's Men, Chapter 17

Their shadows were growing long as the people of Kellorville marched North, away from their town. Their possessions were piled high, their livestock following close behind, they left behind their homes. Eban Jakobs led them, away from destruction, towards their destinies.

Rallying the people and getting them to leave behind their homesteads went much smoother than Eban had expected. At the town meeting this morning, many of the townsfolk accused Eban of being a witch, of being a lunatic, or even being responsible for the calamities that had befallen them- but after the dragon attack, when he stood up and took charge, promising his people a safe place where they could escape danger, nearly all of them pledged their alliegance to him. A fair few, like the grumpy old tanner Labgum, simply laughed in Eban's face and said he'd keep on working until the end of the world if that's what it took. But most followed Eban with zealous enthusiasm.

Clearly, they had seen the truth in his eyes after those strange visitors slew the beast that dark forces had sent. They heard the sincerity in his voice as he pleaded with them all to trust in him and his visions. But he, Eban Jakobs, the Savior of Kellorville, knew that he wasn't the only one to thank- through every step of the journey, his eyes were transfixed forward, towards the horizon, towards his love Lythia.

It felt like an eternity ago that he met her, that he had been able to hold her, to kiss her, to tell her that he loved her. How could anyone understand the kind of unstoppable feelings that he felt when the two of them, two souls so perfect and pure, joined together like theirs? Once he found her, everyone would know that they were safe.

But... she was dead. The thought lingered in the back of the tinkerer's mind like an itch. She had appeared to him as a specter, because she was dead. Only... she couldn't be dead. She was under some sort of a curse, some sort of dark magic binding her to him. And she called him, Eban Jakobs, to save her. That's... that's what she was doing, right?

Eban's mind tried to wrap its head around his interpretation of his memory, his scalp feeling just a bit too tight for his head, when a heavy hand clapped down on his shoulder. The handyman looked to his side to see a familiar face- a tall, broad-shouldered dragonkin man with scales black as night. He had a sword taller than Eban himself strapped to his back, and wore a serious expression on his face.

Eban shook the difficult thoughts from his head as he greeted his old friend Lorender. The dragonkin nodded in greeting, and the two walked on ahead. Not much further, Eban explained, until they reached their destination. And then they would all be safe.

Lorender glanced back towards the masses behind, and leaned in slightly, his lizard-like mouth speaking barely over a whisper. He got right to the point: He told Eban that he didn't quite understand what they were doing. He quickly added that he means no disrespect- he understands that there may be danger in the town's future, but he asked how Eban expects to protect them from what fate comes close.

Eban raised his chin, keeping his face forward and his stride even. Lythia, his beloved, has granted him the power to see the future. Her spirit inspired him, granted him power- divine, it may even be- to lead them to a promised land where they will be safe. He didn't know what this promised land would be like, but his beloved had never steered him wrong.

Lorender took a deep breath and thought for a moment. He told Eban that the two of them had known each other for a long time, since they were both children. The dragonkin of Kellorville mostly kept to themselves, but every time the town held an important meeting, their representatives were present. Lorender said that his father told him when he was very young that although everyone had their own ways and customs, and scaled ones may never fully agree with humans and other fleshlings, community was the most important thing that a being had. If you lose your sense of community, if you go looking for fights, if you sever ties with those around you, eventually you will have no community. A lone dragonborn, his father would say, is nothing.

Eban smiled, and raised his hand high to pat his companion on the shoulder. He told Lorender that he understood the meaning of the story. Whether he believed in Eban's prophecies or not, all would be made clear soon. He valued Lorender as a friend, and would always.

Just as the sun reached the horizon, Eban could see the hills up ahead. He knew that their destination lay up on top of the tallest one; soon they would be there. Eban turned around to face the throngs of people behind him, to call out a reassuring message. But as he began to spoke, the skies above them suddenly grew dark. For a brief moment, the handyman wondered if he had misjudged the sun's position, for it was in an instant dark as night, and a cold wind blew. He heard some people gasp, and he heard a commanding, but familiar, voice.

Eban, what is the meaning of this?

He heard the voice both in his head, as well as thundering from the heavens. He whipped back around to face the hill ahead of them, and there in the road stood the beautiful slender form of Lythia, her raven hair blowing in the wind, her perfect white dress remaining oddly still. Her features were illuminated with an unearthly radiance, and all sound of nature was halted.

Eban was struck speechless at the sight of her. He fell to his knees, half from shock and half out of reverence, and opened his arms to her. The love of his life, the wonderful soul that was inexorably bound to his, was once again alive, before him. The nights spend pining for her were not for naught; his hopes and dreams were true. He wanted to wrap his arms around her, he wanted to praise her, he wanted to thank her for her sibylous visions, he wanted to share his joy and elation with the rest of the town. This, after all, meant that he had done exactly as he professed that he would. The town would now truly be safe.

But then he looked her in the eyes. Her expression was one twisted with fury, with disbelief. He began to sputter, to try and ask what was wrong, but she didn't give him the chance.

You have failed me, Eban.

She walked towards him with unnatural grace, her unexplained glow making her beautiful features seem more and more pronounced. He had never seen her like this. He managed to spit out a few words, but nothing that could be called a sentence.

You were given instruction to lead Kellorville to safety.

I did, I did, he managed to utter. I lead them, just as you told me.

You fool. You poor, pathetic fool. While you were wallowing in that cesspool, agents of evil from the East arrived. You guided them straight to our special place, and they have slain my sisters. You have failed me, Eban Jakobs. You have failed me, and for it, you and your people shall pay. I will kill you all right here, right now.

He sat on his knees, his eyes bulging, his mouth agape. He was paralyzed; what was happening? What sort of a mad confusion is this? Lythia's body rose slightly off the ground, and her outstretched hands began to glow and crackle with magical energy. Suddenly something big and heavy pushed Eban onto his side, and looking up, he saw Lorender's brave form, sword drawn, standing in a defiant stance before the unearthly woman.

He challenged her, telling her that if she was to harm anyone from Kellorville, he would gladly lay down his life for the chance to stop her.

No, no, Eban stammered, pulling himself to his feet. This can't be. This has to be a mistake. This is a misunderstanding. Lythia could never harm anyone- she's leading us to safety!

You poor fool. To think I let you love me.

A blast of crackling electricity shot from her hand, grabbing Eban and wracking his body with unimaginable pain. His body went rigid, unable to cry out, unable to think, and he felt a heavy thud as he was thrown to the ground off the path. He heard women scream, men yell, and the ground began to thunder with townsfolk trying to run in every direction. He began to stir, and he blinked, opening his eyes for what felt like the first time. He looked around, taking in his surroundings like he had never seen them before.

"Eban! Eban, are you alright?"

He looked up, and it was the priestess Beryl. She helped him to his feet, and his body ached all over. He could still feel the pain throughout his body, and he tasted iron in his mouth.

"Beryl," he said, "what's happening? What have I-"

He saw Lorender, wielding his massive broadsword, preparing to charge at-

"-Lythia?"

He saw this woman standing before him. He remembered meeting her, he remembered falling in love with her, but... how could this have been? He felt like that couldn't have been him. That couldn't have been real. The haze was gone from his mind, and he saw her visage, terrifying and inhuman, glowing with a dark presence, readying to kill anyone who threatened her.

Lorender charged at her, his sword at the ready, shouting a battle cry in his native tongue. He swung the deadly weapon at the woman, who easily twisted through space and dodged the blow. The dragonborn was thrown off balance, but he quickly turned around to ready another charge.

Lythia raised a hand, and shot a bolt of power straight through his black scaled chest. The light in his eyes went dark, and he fell to his knees, and then flat onto his face. His sword fell to the ground at his side with a dull clang.

Eban crept forward, tears beginning to fall down his face. He neared his fallen friend, one hand outstretched towards his body.

"Why, Lythia?" he asked. "Why are you doing this?"

She flicked a hand dismissively in his general direction, turning to face the crowd of villagers that were trying desperately to flee.

"I will deal with you later, fool. My master was to have your people as little more than stock, but now he will have to settle for their corpses instead."

Moving away from him, she held both hands together, building up her energy for one massive shot. Eban wrapped his arms around the dragonborn's lifeless body, and saw the sword laying there beside him. The sword that was passed down from Lorender's father.

Lythia held out her hands, chanting to gather as much power as she could muster. The energy was welling up inside her, getting ready to burst.

With a scream, Eban grabbed onto Lorender's sword, and threw all of his might behind the massive weapon. It pierced Lythia through the stomach, to the hilt. She stared down at the blade protruding from her torso, and her mouth began to move involuntarily. The energy in her arms began to dissipate, and her form began to warm and skew in the light of the setting sun. Eban held onto the handle of the sword, watching her transform from the beautiful maiden he once loved into a shriveled, filthy crone. She fell to the ground in a crumpled heap, and spoke once more.

"M-my... my l-love..."

Eban fell to the ground beside her, beside his friend, the pain in his body growing too much. He turned North, to cast one more gaze on the hill that he had been yearning for, and off in the distance, beyond the hill, he saw a group of people, battered and bruised. The knights had returned.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was dawn. Eban hadn't slept at all- he had simply sat on his cot in the temple of Melora, his body in bandages, staring out the window. From where he was sitting, he had a perfect view of his home across the pond- it pained him to look at it, since it reminded him of how he had loved her. But every time he tried to look away, he wondered which was worse- the pain of knowing that her love wasn't real, or the pain of the loneliness he now felt.

Shortly after the sun rose, Beryl entered the infirmary, coming to check on his wounds before starting her daily rounds. Eban asked a favor of her, and a short while later, she returned from the tavern with the five knights. They all looked to be in worse condition than him, but they looked like they were used to it. Along with them came Ostedler, though he stayed close to the door.

"Hello again," Eban said, trying to sound more cheerful than he felt, smiling to the priestess who stood by. "Thank you for coming. I sent Beryl to fetch you because I... I wanted to apologize. All of this is my fault- I was weak, and that... that... thing... took advantage of me."

Harrow, the tiefling, nodded. "Love blinds even the strongest of us. I don't think it is we you need to apologize to, however."

Whether he had meant to, the tiefling's words wounded Eban more than he could know. "Yes," he continued, "you're right. I... will be honest and say that I don't know exactly how I'm ever going to face the rest of the town again." He cast a glance at Ostedler, who didn't return it. "But... that's not what I wanted you here for. I wanted to apologize, and... to thank you. If it weren't for you, all of us would have been killed, or worse."

Once again, the tiefling spoke, though the others nodded their heads in agreement. "It was our duty to defend, and we carried it out. It is my hope that we can continue to be of service to you and your town."

"Yes," replied Eban, "that's what I'm getting at. You said that you didn't want money in exchange for helping. I will honor that, but I wanted to offer you something else... You see, I live in a house up on the hill across the pond. It's in need of quite a bit of work, something that I'm not exactly... proud of..." He scratched his head, shifting in his seat. "Anyway, it pains me too much to go back there. Lythia was only a part of my life for a short while, but... the pain of losing her, or being manipulated by her- I just can't bear it. As long as it's alright with Lorik, if you want it, it's yours."

The knights all glanced at each other, each of them hiding an expression of surprise and excitement. They turned to look at Ostedler, who took a deep breath. "As long as dragon attacks and evil witches don't follow you everywhere you go, Kellorville would be happy to have you as residents. Assuming you're staying for an extended period of time, that is."

Harrow extended a hand to Ostedler, who shook it with a smile. He then turned back to Eban, who did the same. The red dragonkin, Grash, spoke up.

"But... if you are leaving your home, where will you stay?"

Eban looked up at Beryl, and then back. "As I said, I have somewhat of a debt to repay to the people of this town. I spoke with Beryl about staying here, at the temple of Melora, once I've recovered. I can try to help out, and possibly be a boon to the town instead of a curse."

After they had finished talking, the knights left with Ostedler to take care of any arrangements they needed. Beryl gave Eban some medicine to take, and he laid back down on his cot. As he started feeling drowsy, he sat up once again, to take one last look at his home. He would never return to it. Maybe some day the pain would subside.

"Good bye, my love."

He laid back down, and wept quietly until he slept.