The men of southern Arregale were a large lot, and Ohrevain was no exception. He had left the timber camps a few years back for the militia, and his towering solid frame proved to be just as efficient for felling a man as a tree. Most of the conflicts he had seen since signing on with the soldiers under Lord Atthamar were deep in the swamps that skirted the deadly waters of the Sith’Curath. The elven word roughly translated to ‘The Dark Current’ in Arregalen, and made a particularly formidable border between the Pact sworn lands of Farrinfel and the outer most edges of the twisted Dark Wood that lay beyond.

The thick metal disks that hung from his bezainted armor were dull and scarred, but some areas that had been mended with new ‘coins’ caught the light of the torches as he passed, and from far off looked like stars flickering over the parapet. His night watch path was a repeating one, but along its way he’d stop and peer out into the heavy fog thinking of better days.

He often found himself admiring the trees from his high post; sizing up the task that bringing one down would entail; in the end the effort and sweat meant something…not so much though when cutting down a man. He ran his rough hand over the smooth surface of the palisade and smiled to himself. There was satisfaction and pride in an honest day’s work at the timber camps, something they said he’d have even more of while serving his kingdom. But, looking over his handiwork as a soldier, a field of dead and dying gave him very little pleasure. Killing in the name of his liege was killing nonetheless, and he could find no glory in it. He was left an unfeeling husk of a man and regretted ever lifting his axe against another.

The low peal of the church bells broke the early morning silence, and he glanced over at the looming church tower of Saint Ahziar. He counted the strikes…he always counted the strikes. Four low gongs resonated over the township and marked the hour, and the deep booms seemed to hang in the air over Hornsveil, and were carried off over the currents of the river Hyperica as they swept their way southward.

The solace that this towering landmark of the southern Fels gave to the masses was much celebrated, and the story of its founding…legendary. Over the past 600 years, it had many different meanings to those that could hear its call. It beckoned the faithful and chastised the wicked, sang out for weddings and tolled for the deceased. But above all, it was best known for its ‘Call to Arms’, and during times of threat its sound was distinct and commanding. It had heralded the march to Sith Currath during the Fel Wars, and warned of impending siege when the master-less Vuraugh marched on eastern Arregale. So, when its deep vibrato rolled across the countryside three weeks back, the denizens of Hornsveil heeded its warning as they left their homes, and hurried to the safety of the palisades.

Ohrevain had made his way to the gates that first evening when the peasantry began arriving. The bells were still echoing over the township, and anxious eyes and pleading voices reached up to him as he looked over at the throng outside the walls. He recognized many of those faces; they were men and women that worked in the Arbourstandes, and others that would bring their produce and crafts to sell in the square every week. They had milled about nervously just outside the gatehouse until one of the clerics arrived to attend to them. Muttering a quick prayer before joining them outside the pallisade, the priest pushed his way into their numbers, as the large wooden doors closed shut behind him. He looked over every man, woman, and child who had gathered there; his eyes scanned across their worried faces, and he sometimes held one by the hand while pushing their sleeve up to expose the skin beneath. He was searching for any indication of sickness, especially for the telltale signs of ‘The Black Rot’.

Some weeks prior, the clergy of Ahziar had encountered an unknown disease that was spreading like wildfire through the denizens in the southern Fels, especially among those that worked the Arbourstandes deep in the bogs that bordered Hornsveil. A monthly pilgrimage to tend to the religious needs of these remote parishes uncovered many dead and dying, and ‘the Rot’, as it was deemed, was thus far incurable. The towering walls of Hornsveil were meant to be a bastion of defense against the rising tide of infection in the region, but soon became a prison for the infected, as the population within were quarantined by Lord Atthamar when his townsfolk began to fall to the ravages of the debilitating plague.

Approaching hoofbeats from the north echoed out of the Shroud long before the riders could be seen.  Ohrevain kept a close eye on the well-lit roadway that disappeared into heavy mists that surrounded Hornsveil, and for two hundred yards, the flickering torchlight that lined Sever’s Way burned off the thick fog that gathered near the old cobbled path. Three mounted travelers eventually emerged from the murk and the guard horn below at the gatehouse sounded twice while Ohrevain made his way closer to the primitive crenellations to get a better view.

The riders were hailed from the steep palisade, as Ohrevain shouted down to them, “Ho, there wayfarers…turn your mounts from this cursed place. All who enter will remain by decree of Lord Atthamar and the Clergy of Saint Ahziar.!”

Some whispered words between the three horsemen, and then a woman’s voice shouted back in the thick accent of an Arregalen, “Pray tell sir, what has befallen fair Hornsveil?”

The horses snorted nervously and pranced a bit as the parlay continued. ‘We are beset by plague, and a quarantine has been ordered by our liege,” yelled the guardsman as he leaned over the parapet peering at those below. “Leave our lost souls to the Seven Saints!”

“Give us entrance…and we will suffer what you would have of us,” returned the woman. “We beg the audience of Lord Atthamar and the Clergy…mayhaps we can help here.”

(under construction)

From high in the saddle the half-elf was well above the high-stalked ‘Fenis’ plants but the farm house that lay almost beyond sight looked abandoned from here. Nathaeos and Arla had waited patiently along the road side with the horses while Aros disappeared on foot; crossing the dilapidated fence of old twisted saplings, he crept silently through the decaying crops to reappear moments later as quietly as when he had departed.

“The farm house seems deserted” replied the Musdane as he tugged down the black sash that covered his nose and mouth,” we can pass the night here”…

“My sentiments exactly,” agreed the Warmage, “I’m not looking forward to another night in the Felshroud…these night mists make my skin crawl.”  Nathaeos reined his horse lazily onto the dirt path that meandered between two rows of fencing toward the homestead. With a glance back over a fancifully tooled leather pauldron he added, “Let’s eat already!”

Arla and Aros smiled at one another and followed just behind the Mage’s lead. That smile felt good to the both of them…in fact it was the first either could remember since their fateful meeting. The Musdane’s grin spread a bit more as he watched the graceful sway of the half-elf as her horse ambled ahead of his. He was extremely attracted to her, and she reminded him of home and especially of the women of Musdao, overall they shared some similarities with the Sidh.  Arla’s high cheekbones and slightly curved nose weren’t as thin and rigid as an elf’s, but she still had sharp features that, in many ways, resembled the aquiline faces native to his homeland. Not only did she possess a natural beauty beyond many a mere mortal, but her resemblance to the women of his people alone was plenty enough to draw his eye , and he recognized this and savored it for all that it was. And for him… it was home.

Five long days in the saddle had brought them to this place, and their ride was swift and fierce. Luckily their steeds were up for the task; Cyrin’Mor stock were bred for endurance and had a reputation for their tenacious spirit. Even though they showed great resolve during the speedy travel that led them here, the ‘Ghen’caith’s mount seemingly snorted a sigh of relief when its much heavier Outland rider dismounted, while the other two dropped their heads and began to graze.

Weapons were drawn and held at the ready as the trio began to survey their surroundings with cautious eyes; they weren’t prepared to let their guard down…not just yet. Aros stood quietly at the base of the wooden steps that led up to the structure, while Arla and Nathaeos stood just behind…their keen eyes scanning over the rows of crops that seemed to press in on all sides. With the exception of a light breeze rustling through the curtain of Fenis stalks, all was eerily quiet.

The cabin was small and unassuming, and the only visible entrance was a rickety door set beneath a covered porch. Strewn about the dirt yard were pelts on frames, small cages, animal traps, and other hunting implements. The sun was just setting and the gloaming was accompanied by the light mists of early evening. The fog would get thicker as the night drew on, and eventually the land would be under the ‘Shroud’ that the southern Fels had become notorious for.

The Musdane ascended the three steps to the porch and pressed his ear quietly against the door and listened for any sounds from within. His left hand lay lightly against the cool wood of the entrance while his right gripped his short hafted spear.  The ‘Gahdrak’, or Musdanic fighting spear, was a deadly work of art; the ‘head’ was easily seven inches long with razored edges that could either puncture or slash, and the blade was serrated with barbs for making removal a difficult prospect, however, in the hands of an expert it would turn in to a lethal instrument for disemboweling.

Arla first watched the Ghen’caith take the steps almost as quietly as would an elf, but then found her eyes drifting to the strange weapon that he gripped in his hand at the ready. The Musdane were renowned dealers of death when armed with one of their cultural keepsakes, and the spear was almost as fascinating as the even more foreign looking longbow strapped over his back.

Arla tried her best to focus on the here and now, but her mind kept racing back to their last night at Al’Eluwyn. She paused while recalling those events that still had her reeling in disbelief. She remembered their hero’s welcome when returning from the dark maw of the Tomb…Aros had hefted that spear high over head and let out a jubilant war cry that was joined by many of her Clan. While it was anathema to her people, the man steel it was made of was intoxicating to her; its acrid smell still mingled with the blood of its victims, and the sweet scent seemed to linger on the air and had her wishing that it had been her that was pierced with the cold, cruel looking tool.

Her strange tie with the mephitic steels of man had been unknown to many with the exception of those of her Tuath and a few others from Cyrin’Mor, and of course it had been the cause for much rumor while she was a young woman of Anvilborne; often talked about but never believed entirely. And now, five days had passed since the Highpriest revealed her ‘Gift’ or as many of the Sidh now considered it…her curse. Her mind drifted back to that rainy night in the war-tent; the roiling clouds of purificant , the unexpected appearance of a Sidh High Priest…and his revelation that cast her even further from the people that she so wanted to be a part of. This wasn’t the first time she had relived that night, and it certainly wouldn’t be her last…

That final night at the Stone Tombs was spent in isolation, as each of the three companions was deemed infected with the Gloch’Murrah, yet it was still unclear how the disease would ultimately manifest itself in each of the carriers. One thing was certain beyond a doubt…the Dark Dregs had reared its ugly head once again and this time it was more virulent, and less discriminating. The human element that was shared by Arla and Aros had offered no protection whatsoever, and the fear of how wide spread it may be was terrifying.

A council of Elders was called and the group of Tuath Chieftains, respected warriors, and clan soothsayers gathered once again in Cronn’s war tent to discuss options. This time, the majority of the participants sat in a semicircle; some upon exquisite rugs, others atop plush pillows and low decorative wooden stools. Formalities were dispensed with, and then Cronns voice took on a very serious tone, and he leaned forward from his seat and began, “Brothers…as you all know the Gloch’ Murrah has begun its silent march through are ranks.” This statement was followed by nodding heads and other affirmatives that grew into an agitated murmur. The great Cyrin’Mor chief raised a steady hand to bring silence once again, and continued,” Danaan willing we will find those responsible for the poisoning of our people and bring them to justice, and I pray to Luchta that our land is yet unspoiled.”

Phaedris, a Sidh Vei of Alodor’tuath, rose from her seat drawing everyone’s attention and added, “Our scouts followed the trail of the defilers south east along the tributary, where they made for the Paelior Crossing at HighPass. They avoided the Man Troops mustering on the banks there, and appeared to have struck south. Regretfully, their trail ended there, lost among the tracks from passing soldiers.”

Again the chatter of the group began. Shouts condemning the Arregalens, others refusing to believe they were somehow involved, and still others simply trying to bring calm to the room once again.

While Emisar Urdric cautioned against an untempered response borne on the back of an unproven notion, one fueled by anger and resent, Phaedris took her place once again atop the stool where she had been seated, but not before sneering. “Whether they were involved or not Lord Urdric, they are here, well within our borders, and the pact of Farrinfel has been breached…is that not enough?”

The Emisar, with all his noble carriage and inherent bearing, looked down on her as if to say silence yourself savage Vei, but was careful to not speak the words and just narrowed his eyes at her insolence.

Phaedris came to her feet again in a flash, and gave Urdric a start as she spoke between clenched teeth, “…and Lord of Elysium, what would you have of us? Shall we simply wait for those camped above us to swarm over our camp…will it even end there? What of those troops mustering at the border?” She shook her head in disgust and spat. “I suppose it would require an incursion into the inner realms before the High Lords would turn an eye toward lands beyond the Eternal Twilight…hasn’t history has taught us this, thus far?”

The growing rift between the two groups present at the council, those of the inner realm from those of the outer, was fueled by an age old quarrel that hailed back to the days of the ‘Seeding of the Gloch’Murrah’. The impudence and utter disrespect that Phaedris peppered the Emisar with, was shared by others present in the war tent, but the volatile disagreement was quickly diffused by others less obsessed with the shadowy past that still haunted many of the Silvani Sidh. Eventually, the angry Vei was encouraged by another older and wiser than her to avoid drawing all present into a bitter conflict that would only serve as a distraction from matters more important.

The Alodor highscout was one of four Vei’s, or females, present at the council but their dress was anything but feminine. For Phaedris, the light wardress of a reconnoiter was a free moving, versatile cuirboille armor with pauldrons and greaves of elven lamellar. It had been cured with black and deep green dyes and bore much of the same tribal adornment that could be found on the armor of the ‘Vol’, or males, of the clan. To the eyes of a Cyrin’Mor it declared not only genealogy, political and social alliances, but also religious devotions and personal accomplishments. The natural trinkets, boons, and fetishes that hung from her armor were impressive and numerous; they were for the eyes of whoever would cross her on the battlefield…a warning to some, and a declaration to others.

The disparity between the tribesmen of Cyrin’Mor and the Emmisarati from the inner realms was striking. Cronn Teranath and many of the other clan elders wore cuirboille armor heavily tooled with knotwork design, and some warriors boasted capes, and cowls, and other items  of clothing made from the practical Yul’vo; a fibrous plant that was broken down into a malleable and very usable material similar to cloth, but one impermeable to moisture, durable, and oddly more comfortable. The faces and exposed skin of these stern looking Cyrin’Mor Sidh were covered in tribal war paint; intricate lines and fierce war patterns transformed their already intense features into a visage of savagery. And in contrast, Scattered among the tribesmen were members of Urdric’s entourage with a more eclectic assortment of clothing styles and materials; all less practical, but without a doubt, attire more fitting for someone of considerable means and social standing. Most of their wardrobe still adhered to the more traditional colors of greens and browns; a testament to their filial connection to nature and the life she provided them, but were fashioned from fine silks and rich cottons with borders edged in finely spun gold and silver. Their clothing was typical of those high elves found traveling beyond the inner realms…what less could be expected than to proudly display the accoutrements of high society. Further separating them from their ‘lessers’,  garments sporting more regal colors like the deep red cape that the Emisar had hanging loosely over his shoulders were shared by many in his party.  Dashing as it was, it was sorely out of place in a war camp. The long draping folds of the mantle, that was pinned to his breast plate by decorative brooches, trailed behind him slightly, and in the field had become wet and muddy at the edges. This was merely a nuisance and was easily corrected at a moment’s whim; a simple clap of the hands and he could hold his arms out while attendants would quickly replace the sullied one with another. However, important events were underway, and he had rushed to the council without thinking of etiquette or appearance.  Wet and dirty, the cape lost some of its luster, and others in his group had begun to shed more and more of their pomp and were beginning to look a bit like their outer realm cousins.

Just beyond the central chamber of the tent stood Arlaharen, Aros, and Nathaeos. They watched the proceedings from a smoke laden foyer surrounded by purifying sconces. The pungent fumes billowed forth from large hollowed out black gourds that stood upon silver wrought legs. The hot steam made all of their eyes water, and the strong scent burned their nostrils and set their skin afire with an awful itch. Arla and Nathaeos, with their keen elven sense, could overhear all that was taking place, but the Ghen’caith was reduced to reading the mimes of the participants as they gestured wildly, slammed  fists on  tables, or nodded a head in agreement or shook it in protest.

While engrossed in what had ultimately become a heated debate, the main curtained entrance of the War chamber was disturbed by two acolytes that appeared.  The hoods of their cowls shadowed their faces, and they cast their eyes downward while opening the chambers heavy hide curtains revealing a large litter borne on the backs of other robed figures.

The vehicle was adorned with the rare crysilum vines and was gilded in silver and brass. The small bulbs that grew along the length of the crysilum gave off an iridescent glow that faded considerably when the litter entered the room already bathed in the warm light of a fire. Atop the noble carrier was the Cyrin’Mor High Priest; one of the Sanctus Morbii. His long willowy body was completely integrated with the Morbilis vines that also hung about the litter, and where the natural limbs and digits ended and the vines began was anyone’s guess. Long tendrils snaked out from his head and back like a flowing crown of hair with a thick mane, and intersected with even larger lines of Crysanthalum vines; some that seemed to suspend the figure in a mesh of writhing appendages.

When the throne-bearers lowered his palanquin to the floor, his body easily lifted from it, and seemed to hover over the snaking mass of tendrils that slithered just beneath him. From a vantage that towered over all others present , he slowly surveyed the room and its occupants with pupiless eyes.  The warriors of Cyrin’Mor and those of Elysium lowered to a knee, while the soothsayers went prostate before the religious icon. The Ghen’caith knew that he was in the presence of someone or something great, so when he saw those around him bowing in reverence he likewise dropped to a knee in respect.

The Sanctus Morbii’s words echoed throughout the room, and even though it seemed that his mouth opened only just enough for a whisper to escape, the impact that each sound carried bore through every person present at that council. “Arise sons and daughters of Danaan….and children of Adamnus”

The priest made his way easily into the center of the group that was beginning to stand, and focused his gaze down upon Chief Teranath.  In a self-effacing gesture Cronn removed his sword, held it by it’s blade and offered the handle to the Morbii.

As the Chief began to kneel once more he stated,“ I am not fit to lead in your presence…Now, there is One much greater than I who should rightly deliver us from our enemies.”

The Morbii’s body gently lowered on the thick vines, and seemed to hover there just above Cronn’s lowered face. From an outstretched hand, a ’finger’ snaked out and came to rest just under the Chief’s chin. He gently raised Cronn’s face to meet his own.

“Chief Teranath, there IS one here greater than yourself who can deliver us from our enemies,” the priest chided, “but it is not I.” His white eyes looked across the room toward the smoky foyer with its three occupants, and smiled.

“Arlaharen Valphior, daughter of Sidh and Man…Child of two worlds,” he said as he gazed at her through the veil of smoke. “Not only have you been granted freedom from the Sidh affliction to the Man ore, but it has taken you as its own. In a place that many of our kind would consider abhorrent and loathsome you were reborn a child of iron, and now that you have matured as both Vei and Woman, its touch has become that of a lovers caress…has it not?” The Sanctus Morbii made his way purposefully toward the chamber where Arla stood, and the other Elders followed quietly in his wake.

She could feel the eyes of everyone in the room on her, even those of her companions, and Arla felt more of an outcast than ever before. Memories of her childhood came racing back in a swell of stifled emotion, and she did her best to hold back the tears; his words had stung deeply, yet rung true. Many events throughout Arla’s life she had chosen to repress…they had been locked away in some dark corner of her mind, but now they had surfaced in a rush almost bringing her to her knees. Her body trembled slightly as she reached up to wipe away a tear, and as quickly as the feelings had surged forth, they had ebbed away. Composure returned and the proud bearing of a Valnor’tuath warrior replaced the brief glimpse of that frightened child that she once was, and will in many ways still be, until her life comes to what every end fate had in store for her.

“Yes,” Arla said stoically, “Its true…but, a lover’s embrace I wouldn’t call it, although it does bring me great pleasure.” She met eyes with each member of the council and read what she could of their expressions; the reactions were varied, but many were tainted with fear and distrust…and some even with disgust. With the empathic sight of the Sidh the feelings of those in the room that stood closest to the purificant chamber washed over her and made her heart drop. Emotions were worn readily on one’s sleeve for all to see unless care was taken to conceal them, but there were no deceptions there in the Yurt.

The Morbii’s words were soft and calming as he spoke to her, “Come now child, there are those here who are still non-believers. Let them see what the Gods, or some twist of fate has given you…” With that he gestured to the Ghen’caith to step forward.

Arlaharens’s eyes welled up with tears as she grasped the spear of her companion and lowered the point. She whispered to herself as much as to him, “Fear not. I knew this time would come, and I welcome it as readily as I would a kind smile from those gathered here. They despise everything that I am.”

Aros’  eyes widened as he realized what was happening, and he let out a gasping,”No!” But it was too late. Arla had already moved forward onto its serrated edge and while grasping the carved shaft of the Gha’drak she slid it further into her abdomen. Many believed that the short moans that escaped from her parted lips were ones of pain, but she and the Morbii knew better…to them, they were the moans of ecstasy…

“Arla…Arla!” The whispered words were urgent and seemed to snap her back to the cabin and her companions. She rested a hand on the railing of the stairs as she steadied herself; she felt weak and nauseous from reliving yet again the events that took place that fateful night. Nathaeos stood just a step above her on the porch of the cabin and had a hand on her shoulder. He squeezed it softly before turning toward the door and making his way in.

The Mage muttered a few low words and his hand began to radiate a soft light as he entered the first room and lit it up with an iridescent glow. He glanced back briefly at Arla as she stood still just outside the structure and gave her a worried look. The half-elf’s eyes looked tired and her face was flushed “She’s been troubled ever since we left the Tombs,” he thought. That night was odd for him too, but he was no stranger to the mystical. “She must come to terms with what is, or it will destroy her.”

Inside, Aros had already made his way to an old wooden table at the center of the room and had begun rifling through the pages of a weathered journal that he found lying there. The table itself was cluttered with old dishes that reeked from the decaying food that had been left there for weeks, if not longer. His eyes were drawn away from the diary as he looked toward the sudden flash of light that emitted from the Mage’s high held hand.  Almost the entire room was now bathed in the ethereal light, and he nodded in satisfaction at the unexpected source.

Behind the Mage, Arla had just stepped into the doorway with bow in hand. Her silhouette seemed surreal there in the evening mist. As she stepped in and closed the door, he slid the book toward Nathaeos and peered to the only other doorway in the room; one that led further into the interior.

The Musdane walked quietly to the door and stood motionless in front of it. The only noise that he could hear over his own breathing was the creak of Arla’s bow being drawn. He pushed the door lightly, and it swung easily inward; opening to a dimly lit room beyond. What light there was filtered in through the edges of a shuttered window, so he narrowed his eyes and searched the darkness for any hint of danger.

Nathaeos followed in the scouts wake with a hand held high. The radiance from his spell emitted a soft white luminance that spilled through the large gaps in the wall boards of the back room as he approached. This served to bathe the interior of the backroom with an eerie light and moving shadows that partly revealed some of the contents of a workshop. As Aros scanned across the space, the hair on the nape of his neck began to rise. A sudden chill rushed over him as he realized that there was movement in the corner closest to him. He swung his spear up, but not in time. A crouching figure lunged forward from the darkness and he felt its clammy touch as he staggered back.

The Musdane fell backwards onto the floor with his spear still in hand, but the figure that collapsed on top of him was just as large and pinned his weapon to the ground as it wildly grasped at him. At first, it appeared to be a man but when the hood of its cowl fell back and its stare met that of Aros, it let out a long and unearthly screech that filled the room…revealing itself for something far different..something sinister.  Aros’ eyes widened as a large chunk of his assailants face sloughed off revealing a writhing mass of black tentacles that dripped an oily ichor. He struggled to free himself, but the hands of the creature held him in a powerful grip.

Slimy tentacles that grew from rotting holes at the wrists and arms of his attacker snaked their way around him. Aros’ mouth was agape in horror, but no sound came forth, and he twisted his face away from the putrid creature as a tentacled mouth bit down on his neck.

The first arrow had been loosed, and embedded deep into the Dreg beast, and the second was quick to follow. Arla was reaching for a third arrow when the Warmage unleashed a powerful blast. With a quick series of gestures from his free hand, he had swept his arm out toward the struggling beast and uttered a single word. The power that accompanied each of its three syllables was deafening, “An-Nal-Drouc!” The first two blasts billowed the creature’s cowl back almost tearing it free, while the third lifted the beast from Aros, and violently dashed it against the wall. The creatures grip had not been broken, and it had managed to drag the Musdane with it and they lay together in a crumpled heap, both stunned by the explosive burst that had sent them sailing.

The tentacles from one hand of the Dreg Beast had been severed when it refused to let go, but its left hand still held the Musdane in its grip along with his spear. Even in a daze, Aros had managed to get his feet under him, but was forced to crouch on unsteady legs as tried to tug his arm free from his likewise stunned attacker. With a third arrow from Arla, one placed squarely in the center of the Dreg beast’s skull, it let go of the Musdane and began to convulse on the floor in a growing black pool of reeking filth.

The three gathered around the vile creature and wondered at what it was. The beast was still now, and Nathaeos held aloft a glowing hand to better examine it. Not even the War Mage, with all his scholarly learning, could say exactly what they were looking at. In Elysium, he had spent years pouring over tomes, manuscripts, and scrolls while studying to be part of the Gathering, but he had never crossed something such as this. It was obviously infected by the Gloch’Murrah, but it had mutated into something hideous.

While standing over the corpse, Aros gently pulled down the leather gorget at his neck, and probed the bleeding gash that the beast had left . “Tentacles or not, they still bite,” he groaned.

Arla examined her companions wound more closely and opened a leather pouch at her belt, and pulled forth some ground herbs wrapped in a cloth. “This should help mend it quickly,” she said as she placed the fine particles onto the tear, “and it should hinder any infection.”

Nathaeos cast a nervous look at his friends while saying, “Arla…Aros, Let’s leave while we still can. This place is cursed and I’d rather take my chances out in the FelShroud! ” As he turned to face the exit, he caught sight of two figures shambling along just outside the grimy windows that overlooked the porch. At first he froze in place, but then quickly crouched and gestured for the others to do the same. He drew his rapier and stared up at the two obscure shadows outside the cabin; They had stopped moving and loomed no more than a few feet beyond the window. Nathaeos glanced toward the door that likely was the only way into or out of the lodge and realized that even though it was shut, it had not been bolted. He came to his feet and made a mad dash to secure it as one of the figures on the porch suddenly lurched toward the same threshold.

The other figure, just outside the dirty window, stumbled forward pressing a human face against the filthy panes, and peered in. He stared blankly for a moment and then came the ungodly shriek. With the mouth open, it revealed a crowded maw of feelers that squirmed against the glass, leaving trails of black slime in the dust and grime.

Before Nathaeos could throw the whole of his weight against the door, it had already begun to open as the beast was coming through. When the heavy wooden portal slammed hard against the Dregs limb, the oily black appendages growing from it lashed about while the creature let out a hellish screech. The cry was long and piercing, and as the arm was pulled free, the door slammed shut and was quickly bolted. Nathaeos pressed his back hard against the rough wood of the portal and looked wide-eyed at his companions. His breathing came in ragged gasps as he tried to conquer the fear that was quickly consuming him.

“I think there are but two,” came Arla’s steady voice over the chilling shrieks that filled the predusk.

“Only two you say?” the War Mage replied sarcastically over the hellish racket. The nervous sweat across his brow glistened in the glow of his spell, and he wiped at it with a free hand, while staring in disbelief at the half-elf’s unruffled demeanor.

Somehow the screams seemed to have no end, and rolled on like a demonic choir. However, when the window overlooking the porch shattered, the horrible shrieks took on a chilling chatter that clicked and wavered as the first Dreg began to crawl through the casement. The Musdane was upon the beast in a flash and slammed the ‘Ghadrak’ deep into its chest and propelled it backwards, sending it reeling through the opening from whence it came…along with the spear still imbedded in it. As the dreg beast lay there upon the porch, lashing feelers crawled out of the wound and snaked their way up the shaft of the weapon while the creature struggled to stand once more.

The remaining Dreg began its unwavering entrance through the same jagged window, and Aros took a few steps backwards while reaching for his bow. He removed the weapon slung over his shoulder in one fluid motion and stared fearlessly at the hideous abomination that slithered through. To his human eyes, it reminded him of the Sanctus Morbii with all its writhing appendages, but to say so would have been blasphemy.

Arla loosed two arrows that sunk neatly into the squirming mass that covered the beast’s chest and abdomen. They stuck there and were quickly covered by the blackness. The Dreg’s expression never changed, and seemed to look on mockingly. Its face retained much of its humanity, but the vacant stare and dark drool were unsettling nonetheless.

“Step away Ghen’caith…Step away!” shouted Nathaeos as he began to utter a low incantation. The fear still crackled in his voice, but he steeled himself against it as he focused all his energies. The words were primal and foreign…even to Arla. They were not spoken in Silvani Sidh, but instead in the ancient tongue of Uluah’nestru an elven language that harkened back to the first age of Sidhdom… the dialect of the Sidh Mage.

His hands rose above his head, and made a series of somatic gestures, and when he spoke the final words his hands came together. The effects were stunning. The air around the Mage began to crackle and coalesce with charged particles, and as he began to step forward toward the Dreg beast, the tendrils of electricity that danced about him, reached out and touched objects on the walls and table.  Hanging pictures began to sway to and fro, and the utensils and pottery vibrated lightly against the wooden surface they rested on. The smell of sulfur rose in the air as electrons were ripped from atoms while the sparks danced from his feet with every step.

The fetid smell of the creature was quickly swallowed up in the charged ether that emanated from the War Mage as he advanced. The Dreg ambled into the crackling haze, and the first flashes of light began to engulf it as it hissed and burned at the skin of its victim. The creature screeched and withdrew toward the window, but Nathaeos pressed on.

Aros has since joined Arla at the far side of the room as they both watched in awe. The beast had fallen to the floor while the black tendrils tried desperately to recoil into their host as the electricity seared across them. The Mage stood over his victim, holding a hand towards it…helping to direct the energy as it leapt from his finger tips onto the seizing creature. The ragged clothing, and then the body, erupted into flames and the room quickly filled with the miasma of burning flesh and putrid organic corruption.

Arla tore her eyes away from the horrific scene and made for the door. After struggling a bit with the bolt, she threw it open and disappeared from view. Aros and Nathaeos saw her form seconds later through the haze of the rising smoke by the window. Nathaeos had already stepped away from the burning corpse as the floorboards caught fire, and the flames began to lick at the old dry wall timbers…They were in a veritable tinderbox. One final glance toward the window before escaping and they saw Arla standing behind the injured Dreg on the porch as it tried to crawl through the window yet again. Her elven rapier parted its head from its body in one clean stroke, and the decapitated skull dropped through the casement, into the rising flames that were beginning to engulf the north side of the house…

…Along the road to Hornsveil, three figures on horseback quietly made their way south, deeper into the Fels. Behind them the night sky was ablaze as a homestead was being quickly devoured by a growing inferno, and the rows of rotting crops that encircled it were adding fuel the fire. Not one of them bothered to look back at the destruction. They knew what dark things had crept there, and they were comfortable knowing that fire would be the saving grace for those poor souls that had suffered the touch of the Gloch’Murrah. As unlikely a group as they were; Man, Sidh, and Half-Sidh, they still shared some sense of accomplishment…of unity. Salvation had come by their hands, and purification by the flame that they wielded…that small plot of land would be pure once again and the dark stain erased. Now, it was more certain that ever that the trio’s paths were undeniably crossed, and that their battle against the dark brethren of Kototh had only just begun…

From the bodies of the unsuspecting warriors that were murdered in and around the site it seemed clear that they were attacked by beasts infected with the virulent Gloch’Murrah; an ancient plague that swept across Khaelis’Vahl millenia ago almost eradicating the five kingdoms of Sidh. The disease ate away at all things Elder, especially those with a filial connection to the Wood. The Man-Tribes were spared this horrible sickening of the soul that brought the Sidh nation to its proverbial knees, but it was believed that this was only the case because the insidious Dah’rothi had worse things in store for the sons of Adamnus.

The beasts that killed the unfortunate protectors of the tombs were feared to be carriers of the filthy disease and were no doubt Cu’Sidhe, or Elfbanes… as a number of their thick spines were found lodged in the victims; the long, needle-like quills dripped the black Gloch’Murrah and reeked of corruption, and the wounds that they rent in their prey likewise leaked the dark viscous fluid.

Cronn Teranath, leader of the largest Tuath to muster at the site, was accorded the right to command per Elder Law, and had decreed that the human and the half-sidh were to enter Al’eluwyn to rout the foulness that lurked its hallowed corridors. His assumption was that the Gloch’Murrah posed less risk to them even though truly he knew very little of the ancient plague, or its workings; he had decided that the human blood they had coursing through their veins would be their safeguard.  One thing was certain however…Defilers of the holy site had inevitably been trapped inside the tomb following a cave-in that left their only exit impassable. The vile evil that skulked deep inside Al’eluwyn needed to be disposed of, and quickly…and if luck was on their side unanswered questions might come to light, and a pending war with an age old ally might be avoided. That Ally, the kingdom of Arregale, was already mustering on the rim of the basin that overlooked the Stone Tombs preparing for what seemed to be an inevitable war. Events over the last few weeks had quickly spiraled out of control as the two groups entered into a vendetta fueled conflict…one that owed its inception to an encroachment into the Outer Holdings of Cyrin’Mor, and the desecration of a Sidh holy site.  The rash response from those most offended, Aefalar’Tuath, set in motion a series of strikes and counterstrikes along the border of the Pactsworn lands of Farrinfel, and as the body count rose so did the ire of all those involved…and now both groups were hurtling headlong down the path toward war. However, if something were to be uncovered within the tomb that could point towards Man innocence in these matters, the drums of war might be silenced.

In the immense entrance chamber, Aros and Arlaharen had purified themselves with holy water from a large basin held in the arms of a vine covered statue of the Elder god, Donel (Prince of the Elf Sidh, Lord of Magics, the Dark Rider, Patron and Protector of Champions, the Brooding King, Son of Fivarra, and Lord of War).

The semi animate vines that covered the floor of the cavern and wound their way up the dark monolithic figure, writhed about menacingly, but allowed the anointed trespassers to continue on. The barbed lengths of creepers withdrew from the path of the two heroes as they left the towering statue behind, but just as quickly snaked back over the trail that took them through the tendrils leaving no trace of their passing.

Searching the catacombs was a slow process and the torch lit the corridors and undeniably announced their presence, and acted as a beacon in the otherwise pitch black that they wandered deeper into. The cool, stone walls were covered along their lengths with relief carvings that depicted events that predated the lives of the two adventurers; the images seemed alien and portrayed the lives of past heroes, magnificent battles, and other events both wondrous and terrifying. They continued ever further into Al’eluwyn only pausing to ponder an image that caught the eye, or to quietly listen for any sounds that they could make out as they searched the many winding corridors.

Eventually the echoing footfalls of something stirring in the thick darkness beyond the torchlight caused them to hold for a moment as they listened closely for some sign as from whence it came. Arlaharen had already drawn and notched an arrow in her woodsung bow; a gift from her father that was an item of nobility and prestige among the Sidh. As she drew back the string and felt the weight of the bow’s pull, her empathic sense had already sent a rush of adrenaline through her…one fed by the cold hatred of something lunging forward from the darkness…something filled with bloodthirsty menace. She spun about and loosed the arrow at a lurching shadow before it covered the short distance that separated them. The arrow sunk deep into its shoulder, and then the beast was quickly upon Aros, tearing at his leather armor, and snapping its long, tooth-lined jaws close to his face. The canine like creature had the Musdane pressed up against a rough wall and was clawing for purchase, so the warrior could do little more than wrap an arm around the Cu’sidhe as he began to rain down a flurry of powerful blows upon the snarling hound’s head and neck. The creature had its hackles raised and it’s spiny quills were rigid under the thick, tensed muscles that covered its neck and shoulders, and even as the blows from the Musdane rocked it to its core, the deadly barbed tips of the bristling mane punctured leather, clothing and skin. The fierce struggle from the shaking beast sent some of the spines flying, and it twisted violently as it tried to free itself from the solid grip of the prey suddenly turned predator.   Arlaharen stepped forward and fired a second shot, and the precisely placed arrow sunk in deep behind a forelimb and punctured the heart, but not before its skull had been hammered into a bloody broken mess. As the body of the large hound went limp, Aros let it slide to the floor in a crumpled heap. The wounds on the beast leaked the oily blackness that they had expected them to, and the ichor streamed out of its gaping mouth, and pooled beneath its shattered head. Aros picked up the torch that had fallen during the struggle and held it over the body to better see it for what it was. The beast was undeniably infected, and had other wounds along its body that looked like deep, decaying holes that seemed to writhe with a life of their own. Within the sunken pockets of the lesions were black oily tendrils that moved about like a mass of maggots and seemed to fill the corpse with a sinister corruption that lay just beneath the surface of its host. As the last breath of the hound escaped in a final heaving sigh, the darkness that snaked within the Cu’sidhe gave a sudden shudder and went limp.

They continued their search of the inner tomb, and there were other Cu’Sidhe hidden in the darkness, but the fearless duo pushed on and battled the dark hounds that lay in waiting along the narrow twisting corridors. Three more hounds fell before their hail of arrows and, eventually their trek in the darkness brought them to the prayer chamber of Epona. They could see the room as they approached, and it glowed lightly under the flickering flames of purifying sconces that hung from the walls. In the center of the long room was an intricate life-size marble statue of a Fay Horse. The proud carriage of the seventeen hand effigy dominated the room, and the painted murals that lined the walls depicted scenes of the Sidh riding into battle atop the magnificent beasts. Beyond the shrine were the remains of a massive door scattered across the floor. Sections of the entrance way that led to the lower tombs were still clinging to the bent hinges, and it appeared to have been burst outward from the inside.

As Aros approached the gaping doorway, the torch light revealed a wide stairwell dropping into the depths. With a single glance at his Half-Sidh companion they both began the steep descent, and prepared for the worst that they could imagine. The door that had been sundered was immense and the force to shatter it would have been tremendous. Both had heard horrible tales concerning creatures of Kototh, and where Cu’sidhe were found, often more sinister things would be lurking; The hounds were the dark companions of Kototh’s chosen, and it was feared that they might come face to face with something  horrible enough to turn a courageous man into a trembling coward.

The descent seemed endless, and the only sounds were their echoing footfalls as they carefully made their way deeper into the Stone Tombs. The torch lit the stairwell, and reflected off the smooth stone walls that were slick with moisture. Their trek deeper into Al’eluwyn finally brought them to the mouth of the lower chambers where heroes of old were laid to rest. As they reached the last steps, they could see light emanating from somewhere within the central chamber.

The high ceiling of the tomb rose up under massive arches and disappeared from sight beyond the torchlight. At the center of the room was a short stone dais that surrounded a calm pool, and in the shadowy room it’s surface resembled polished black marble. Rising up from the center of the pool, set upon a narrow altar, was the tomb of the exalted Rhylis Highbrow; the resting place of the mythical Rilynndari hero known for his stalwart defense of the Silvani during the Seeding of the Gloch’Muraah . The decorative cover stone for the sarcophagus was cracked along its center, and was laid off to the side, half resting in the water…this was the site of desecration where the distrust between neighbors had begun. It was believed that Man had dared to touch the holy site of one of the Sidhes most respected champions, and had taken from it what could not be replaced. Items of  ‘Passing’ tied to Rhylis were stolen and a piece of his tomb’s cover was missing…one that had ancient scripture bordering an intricately rendered fresco depicting scenes from some of the martyred ‘Highbrow’s’ final days.

As the two took in the shadowed scene laid out before them, their eyes were quickly drawn to the far side of the chamber where the walls of one of the many resting corridors began to flicker from an unseen light source. A figure emerged from the distant hall under the bathing light of a lantern and both groups locked eyes for a moment across the cavernous room. Suddenly the figure made a dash westward toward a rough, irregular section of wall where a recent collapse had left a gaping hole in the chamber. He made quick work of the precarious debris-strewn floor, and just before he disappeared from view, Arlaharen raised her bow and loosed an arrow at the trail of robes that raced for the safety of the distant tunnel. The trespasser slipped from view but his voice could be heard bellowing across the inner tomb, and no sooner had his echoing  shouts in the tongue of Kototh subsided, than a snarling black furred beast darted from the darkness toward Arla and Aros…

The Musdane, stepping forward into low offensive crouch, pulled forth a short hafted spear that lay across his back . The spears shaft was short coupled, but was well balanced like a large javelin , and Aros readied it for a powerful throw.  Even as he drew the weapon back and took careful aim at the scampering beast that raced toward them, another figure was quietly approaching from the rear; it carefully descended the same steps that Arla and Aros had, and gave warning of his arrival in the lilting tongue of the Silvani.

Natheos, a minion and protector in the service of Emmisar Urdric, had recently found himself displaced from every comfort he had come to know during his apprenticeship in the ‘Gathering’. As an Invoker in this coveted society of Warmages, he knew the day would come when he would accompany a member from the Court of Emmisars into the ‘uncivilized’ lands that lie beyond Elysium. However, nothing could have prepared him for what was quickly becoming a rather dangerous prospect indeed.

Not the looming possibility of war with the iron bearing men from Arregale, nor the dangers of doing battle with beasts of Kototh seemed to rattle him, however the fear that the Gloch’Murrah could be a viable threat to his people once again was terrifying.

Now, he was creeping through a desecrated tomb that was a suspected cesspool of the infectious, Gloch’Murrah. Natheos knew the dangers that he faced by entering the Tombs, but the Emmisar had ordered him to give aid to those that struck off into the dark, twisting maze of corridors and chambers in search of the defilers.

He followed the trail that Aros and Alra had left…one of hound corpses and their own blood, and eventually joined the two deep within the lower tomb, in a dank chamber amid shouts and snarls. Before Natheos had begun the deep descent that brought him to where he now stood, he had knelt briefly at the fay horse Effigy and whispered a short prayer. The calm that washed over him while he prayed in the shrine of Epona still seemed to embolden him here in the depths of the tomb and he couldn’t help but wonder if the goddess had heard his humble prayer.

The unexpected approach from the rear gave her a start, but Arla threw a quick glance over her shoulder when she heard the Silvanic words at her back…they told her to fear not, and held a promise of aid. She caught a brief look of the distinct black and red robes of an Emmisarati covered in the intricately tooled cuirboille harness of a Warmage. The Silvanis eyes were shadowed under the ornate crest of an invoker of the highest order….a member of  ‘The Gathering’, and even though young he was likely a power to be reckoned with.

Arla snapped back around to prepare for the charging beast just in time to see the Ghen’caith launch his spear at the Cu’Sidh. The snarling advance was cut short as the projectile sunk deep into the dark hounds chest. As it crumpled to the ground the momentum carried it onward another ten feet to stop just inches from Aros. He hardly missed a step as he sprung out of his stance, dislodged his weapon with a swift twist and jerk of the wrist, and sprinted forward in pursuit of the figure that had raced out of sight just a moment before.

Arla and Nathaeos followed suit and the three gathered at the edge of the gaping  hole in the wall where their quarry had escaped to. They all stared a moment over the flickering torchlight, and exchanged curt nods in place of words. Nathaeos moved forward taking the lead, and could make out a low chant emanating from the dark tunnel just before he rounded its corner. There was a spell-caster lying in wait somewhere down that partially collapsed corridor, and as the hidden defiler drew mana to himself from the immediate surroundings, the distinct cold emptiness it left behind was enough to put the Warmage on his guard. Nathaeos began to whisper under his breath a quick invocation as he rounded the corner in hopes of catching sight of his target before the mana was fully drawn to him. The Silvani’s hands went through a series of precise, yet simple motions as he drew them close together, and sparks began to dance and crackle across the tips of his fingers as he molded the mana into a pulsing, throbbing mass of charged energy. The manifestation of crackling light coalesced in between his palms, and the bright energy seemed to drip from his hands as he continued to work the malleable force into something that he could release.

As he stepped into the mouth of the cavern, his keen Silvani eyes were quickly drawn to their target. The robed figure was partially hidden behind a rocky bend in the natural cavern some thirty feet from Nathaeos. His one visible arm and hand worked wildly as he muttered a low guttural incantation of his own, and his eyes briefly met with those of the Warmage just as the surge of energy leapt from the Silvanis fingertips. The blast of searing lightning was intense and engulfed its target in a blast that sent him reeling. The defiler collapsed to the cavern floor in a smoldering, crumpled heap; his bare limbs were scorched, and torn sections of his robes had ignited.

Arlaharen and Aros entered the tunnel  just as Nathaeos was crouching down beside the smoking corpse; The charged air reeked of burnt flesh and smoldering cloth, and the pungent smell was quickly filling the narrow space.

“He’s Arregalan,” said Nathaeos as he looked up at his two new companions, “…odd though, that he spoke Kotothi.”

Arla raised an eyebrow and added,” As I feared…this only complicates matters. The suspicions that Man was involved in the desecration of Al’eluwyn cannot be denied. War is upon us…”

“Something far worse is upon us Arla,” worried Aros, as he used his spear to part the robes of the dead ever so slightly to reveal the black sores that lay beneath,”May the seven saints protect us…”

Nathaeos scrambled away from the infected defiler, and quickly looked for any sign of the infectious fluid on his hands or clothing.” Man has never known the touch of the Dark Dregs. How did HE come to be infected?”

The three companions looked at each other in quiet disbelief, and as the Warmage rose to his feet he cast a disgusted look at the dead man that lay on the cavern floor, “I’m not touching that filthy thing again!”

“Leave it to me,”insisted the Musdane, as he began to carefully rifle through the singed corpse’s belongings,” If Man can be infected with this disease of yours, then I’ve already likely been tainted by those damned hounds!”

A thorough search of the smoking corpse uncovered a belt pouch and an interesting necklace made from rolled leather and bone. A quick tug to free the necklace, and then Aros held it up in the torchlight for the others to see. “What do you make of this?”

Arla had seen its make before. The black bone was actually antler from deer indigenous to the Curran’Deinne forest, and the intricately carved charm that hung from it had the look and craftsmanship of trinkets, jewelry, and ornaments hailing from Hornsveil, an Arbourstande in the southernmost reaches of FarrinFel. A local artisan from that pallisaded village crafted the works of art,  and occasionally they would find their way to Anvilborne in the packs of a trader or on a merchant boat bound for all points north along the river Hyperica.

The necklace dangling from Aros’ hand had one important characteristic however, and this was not lost on quick examination. Arla spent most of her formative years in Anvilborne, and she knew that the carved stag that adorned the piece of jewelry was a religious icon that was often reserved for the Clerics of Ahziar. North of the Sea of Merchants, this Order had only one church; a single bastion of defense used in the Fells during the War of the Breech…Their church and bell tower lay in Hornsveil.

As Arla began to explain to her companions about the necklace’s origin her voice was drowned out by a hideous noise that emanated from deeper in the passage. It began as a low throaty growl, but at its crescendo, became a chilling roar that made the hair on the nape of her neck stand up. The inhuman sound was long and fierce and for a moment the three companions were frozen in place.

The Musdane was first to break the silence,” Make ready….looks like the worst is yet to come.” Tossing the necklace to Arla, Aros narrowed his eyes and moved away from the body. With spear in hand and at the ready, he began to steal further into the catacomb.

Arla and Nathaeos followed closely, and the Musdanes’s smoking torch lit the passage ahead of them. As they made their way along its length they couldn’t help but notice that the rough walls were heavily scored by what appeared to have been enormous claws. The natural corridor was the remains of a narrow seep that filtered water from the tombs southeast toward the river below. The tunnel had been hastily excavated by some beast to allow access to Al’eluwyn, and parts of the wall and ceiling had collapsed leaving debris in the wet path that descended even deeper into the hillside.  Traces of blood, skin, and fur were left behind where the beast scraped and clawed its way through passages that proved to be too narrow.

The descent was steep and precarious, but the trio pushed on nonetheless; some morbid curiosity crept up from the dark recesses of their minds pulling them onward to seek out the horror that lay in the dank depths of Al’eluwyn.  As they descended deeper into the tunnel the sounds from below became more horrible and unsettling. The resounding groans, growls and heavy breathing of some unimaginable creature were periodically swallowed up by a deafening  roar that would stop the trio in their tracks for a moment as they reconsidered the possibilities. Every tight corner in the catacombs was taken with bated breath, and Aros’ arms and brow were slick with beads of sweat. He couldn’t help but give in to the occasional chill that ran the length of his spine. Even though he steeled himself to face the unknown horror that lay ahead, he still had little control of the involuntary and random trembling that rolled over his body, through his arms, and into his hands. It was anticipation of the inevitable. It was fear in its basest form…and it left every fiber in him tense and ready to leap at the first hint of danger. The adrenaline raced through his body, and sent his blood pounding through him like a raging river; his heart felt as if it would leap from his very chest, and his muscles spasmed and twitched under his taunt skin. He hoped his companions couldn’t see his body protest every advancing footfall; and he hoped that he wasn’t alone in his fear of the unknown beast that lay in waiting somewhere in the pitchblack ahead.

The Musdane wasn’t alone in the dread that he felt. In fact, that same numbing terror seemed to plague the two that followed in his wake. Arla and Nathaeos had some comfort knowing that the Musdanic mercenary was leading the way, but nevertheless, pushing closer to the monstrous sounds made it seem like they were marching into the pits of Hell itself.

The water in the lowermost tunnels was coursing along in small ‘rivulets’ and ‘seeps’ that all flowed from other even narrower tunnels and converged into the ankle deep stream that continued winding it’s way south east. The sloping grade that they were forced to negotiate with great care earlier, was now fairly level and direct. Labored breathing of that which they hunted still echoed off the catacomb walls , but the natural acoustics here were a bit more subdued.

One last bend in the tunnel and the Musdane came face to face with the beast that they had been searching for. The hulking figure was hunched over in the low cavern, and its large form was only partly bathed in the torchlight. It eyes were squinted against the harsh flames that danced atop the thick, tar-soaked piece of wood, and it held an enormous clawed hand up to shield itself from the illumination. The face was humanoid in structure, but was hideous to look upon, and its body, although bipedal, was a massive frame covered in thick, coarse muscle. This was one of the filthy creations of Kototh…an undeniable eater of Man.

The Ogre seemed to search the air as it craned its head and neck upward while inhaling long and deep through flared nostrils. Snaking back and forth slightly it made quick work of the scent it was looking for. Its lips drew back in a horrible snarl and the beasts teeth were bared and snapping. A low, throaty growl welled up from some deep, dark place within it just before it sprang….

The leap should have brought it to within striking distance of the wide eyed Ghen’caith, but it was cut short as it jerked in mid air and crashed to the cavern floor. Behind it a shower of debris rained down into the tunnel and the Ogre howled in excruciating pain. The scrambling creature appeared to be desperately trying  to free its leg from the collapsed tunnel that lay behind it. Its limb was buried under a cave-in of rocks and boulders that was now fully visible as the light flooded over and behind the prone ogre, revealing the cause for his thrashing struggle. A victim of his own handiwork…weeks had passed since the beast had been trapped here. As the group of defilers had made their escape down the same tunnel that gave them access to the holy site the tunnel caved in killing a number of the trespassers and half burying the beast that had excavated their passage.  Until now, he had survived off of the corpses of his human masters. As the Ogre lurched forward once again, large gashes along its torso and limbs were visible; caked with blood, filth, and infection they were a testament to the time the beast had spent trapped here in a tomb of earth and granite.

The Musdane hesitated only briefly before tossing his torch to the cavern floor and rushing forward to embed his spear in the chest of the creature, and his companions began to take actions of their own…hoping to kill the wounded beast before it could gather itself up again. Arrows sailed across the short cave and sunk into the Ogres shoulder and neck and its howl of pain quickly turned to a fierce roar of anger. The warmage’s chant rose over the din and his hands began to glow and crackle with the raw energy that he conjured, and he leaned slightly forward over braced legs preparing for the surge that was inevitable. The dark cavern was bathed in an eerie iridescent light for a brief moment just before the bolt of searing energy was discharged. A second, lesser blast of charged air rippled back across the mages clothing and his hair lifted up and away from the crown of his head revealing a foreboding countenance… one of unforgiving hatred. This beast was, of course, one of the vile creations of Kototh… a bane against all things Sidh.

At almost the same moment the Ogre heaved forward, and tore its limb free from the rubble just missing the full impact of the electrical charge that streaked its way across the cavern. He fell forward, and the searing energy scorched across its thick back, lifting the skin off of its body like peeling old parchment from an ancient grimoire.  The meat underneath the hellish burn raised up in bubbling protest, and the ogre howled out in pain. Scrambling forward, it lashed out a clawed hand at Aros and scored deep gouges along his cuirboille breastplate sending the Musdane reeling across the cavern. The warrior struck the rocky wall and slumped down to the floor gasping for air with a hand clutched to his chest. The Ogre gained momentum and despite two more arrows striking home,one to the throat, and the other to the abdomen, the beast pressed on.

Nathaeos was drawing mana to himself once again, and the bluish glow began to pulse between his gesturing hands as he manifested it into another mass of crackling energy…but the effort came a moment too late. The hulking beast was upon him before the bolt was released, and instead only a bright flash accompanied the impact…and the light was quickly swallowed up by the shadow that seem to engulf the warmage.

The mage could feel the heat of his own blood intermingled with the steamy rancid breath of his attacker as the beast’s jagged teeth snapped close to his face while it claws tore long rents in his war harness. He could do little more than brace himself to avoid being crushed under the sheer weight of the Ogre, and as he felt the sturdy straps of armor snapping like dry twigs and the thick cuirboille tearing away like paper he feared the end was near.

From the rear, Arla sprang forward and drew the string of her woodsung bow to her cheek as she closed on the beast. Her eyes narrowed and followed along the shaft of her arrow as she took careful aim. When loosed, it flew true and buried itself deep into its target, and there was little left to see of the arrow but the three feathered fletching protruding from the Ogres neck. The beast gave a gurgling bellow and turned to face this new threat. From behind the half-elf, the Musdane had since gathered his wits, as well as his air, and hurled his spear in unison with another of Arlas arrows… both made their mark and the bloodied Ogre collapsed in a heap.

And when the echoes from their struggle in the dark tunnels below the Stone Tombs faded to nothing more than soft whispers, they knew their task was at an end. Al’eluwyn was clear of defilers, and now priests of Cyrin’Mor could purify, and begin to pick up the shattered pieces of the Holy Site. News of the return of the Gloch’Murrah would no doubt set the Sidh Tribes into a panic as well it should, and now it seemed that Man would likewise have reason to fear. The infection known as the ‘Dark Dregs’ had returned, and with a vengeance.

Arlaharen reached to the necklace that was dangling from her neck; the one they had taken from the infected trespasser in the burial tomb above, and stared at it in quiet contemplation. Her eyes slowly slipped away from it and focused on her two companions standing in the flickering torchlight over the bleeding corpse of the Ogre. The black viscous fluid that seeped from it wounds was testament enough of the seriousness of their predicament; they were likely all infected by now and the corruption that pumped through their veins would be their undoing if a cure wasn’t found in time , and time wasn’t on their side.

“Nuulwei,”, proclaimed Arla with some great pride. This was not only a word for friend in Sidh, but in the Elder tongue it was a term of endearment between Clans Brothers, and a warriors oath to honor a bond of service. It meant all of these things between the three unlikely companions that had been thrust together in these strange circumstances; now they would be brothers in life and perhaps also in death.

So, the three companions spent some time in those lower catacombs, tending wounds and reflecting on what could have been if their prey hadn’t been weak with infection and delirious from starvation…they decided they would be better served to prepare for another such encounter… they promised not make the same mistakes twice.

Smoke from a firepit at the center of the tent rose gingerly upward to filter out through ringed holes in the ceiling. Those present stood still in the smoke and listened as Cronn put to words what many of them were fearful of even contemplating. The dead brave lay stretched out on a pallet and had wounds on the arms and chest that leaked a thick, oily substance that ran down his sides and soaked into the burial cloth beneath him; The black viscous fluid reeked of death and permeated the air with its vile corruption.

With the sound of the rain gently falling on the tent the war leader began, “Gather close Sons of Danaan and listen as our Mother weeps for our lost souls. It appears that the Seeding is upon us again, and the Gloch’Murrah will begin to devour us anew.”

The wind picked up slightly and the flaps of the tent gently rolled in the early morning breeze; dawn was still hours off, but the wind seemed to herald its arrival. The mention of the ancient plague of the Gloch’Murrah caused the warriors to shift nervously as they glanced at a corpse that seemed to be infected with the ancient disease.

Cronn met the eyes of Arlaharen, and then fixed on the Ghen’caith and continued,”The Tombs have been desecrated, and we now know that infected Cu’Sidhe have been seen lurking its corridors. Those that stole from the tomb gained entrance to Al’eluwyn through an open seep in the rockface that borders the river. That entrance has since collapsed and it is likely that some of the defilers remain trapped within the Tombs…”

Suspended over the body of the brave from Aefalar were incense burners from which a heavy bluish smoke rolled forth. The purificant hung heavy about the corpse and spilled over to the floor eventually dissipating; the scent however was pungent and didn’t disappear as easily. Without one of the anointed druids present to examine the dead, the degree of danger was uncertain, so the protective herbs were a necessary precaution. Cronn approached the body through the haze and carefully picked up a long, black thistle-like object in his leather gloved hand and returned to the men gathered at the center of the war tent.

As he held it up for all to see he began, “This quill from a Cu’sidhe was found lodged in Cerimond’s body. He died of other injuries, may Danaan protect his soul, but look closely at the tip of the spine.”

With that he gestured at the point, as well as at the base of the long dart-like needle. From both ends of the quill dripped a black ichor. “This substance appears to be the dark matter of the Gloch’Murrah, the same putrid filth that Cerimond has dripping from his wounds.” Cronn paused while the group pondered this, and then continued,”and as odd as it seems…from the infected injuries on our fallen brethren, it appears the beast that killed him was a carrier of that disease.”

In ancient Sidh texts the virulent plague was often referred to as an insidious creation of the Dah’rothi; these twisted creatures of the UnderDark conjured forth the physical manifestation of pure evil and hatred and then corrupted it further with archaic alchemy. The result was a filthy rot that spread like a cancer across the face of Khaelis’Vahl, devouring the True Wood and all those with a filial connection to it. Some say the Gloch ‘Murrah sprang forth from the venomous heart of Kototh himself, and that his utter disdain for the Sidh sickened their enclaves and his jealousy of their purported perfection bore down upon them a dark elder affliction like none other.

The war would have been lost if not for the efforts of the Fel’Isendar Tuath. The selfless leaders of this group of warriors refused Ascension to the divine ranks of the Alfar and choose to stay on Khaelis’Vahl and wage war against the advancing Kotothi Horde. The original five male and two female transcendent’s  drew to them a large group of the faithful and held the advancing enemy at the river of the Sith’Currath. Those seven members of the ‘Chosen’ hailed from different enclaves but were drawn together by circumstance and formed the foundation of a Tuath of Stalwart Defenders that claimed the Fell lands as their own. They served Luchta unquestioningly….They lived to serve so that others of their kind might know freedom from the dark touch of a disease that was destroying the Wood.

But, in the end, none of this mattered… Sidh Edict had been written, and what was put to pen by the High Council was Law; irrevocable and eternal.  A warrior found suitable by ‘The Choosing’ was duty-bound, and would serve in the celestial ranks of the Alfar; This was a most prostegious Honor that could not be refused.

And this is exactly what The Transcendents had done. They disgraced their Enclaves by refusing the Alfaric ‘Enlightened Path’  that they had been chosen for, and those that mustered to their side were deemed equally accursed. According to Sidh Edict, all of the Fel’Isendari, and their descendants were forever to be shunned by the  Silvani. For the Highborn in Elysium, the pivotal role that the Fallen Alfar played to repel the invaders and to end the spread of the Goch’Murrah could not exonerate them from the shame they bore down on their people before the ever-watchful eyes of their Gods; the end could not justify the means.

To the outer tribes of the Silvani , however, the Fel’Isendari were quietly revered as Martyrs and Saviors of elf-kind, and to this day the descendants of the survivors live on in the Southern Fells…venerated by those that know their story. The Silvani that lived beyond the Inner Wood of Elysium knew firsthand the evils that mustered at their borders, and were well aware of the heroic resistance that was being staged deep in the Fell-lands. The cost was much greater than loss of life for those of Isendar…it saddled them with a blight on their souls that would endure until the last of their line ceased to exist.

The tribe known as the ‘Plague-Bearers’ and ‘the Accursed’ have become a recluse people… avoiding contact with the outside world, and keeping their affliction hidden from prying eyes.  In their stand against the Kotothi Horde they willing took on the mantle of the Gloch’Murrah, and even as the disease took its toll they continued to war against their eternal enemy. Of all those afflicted the Fel’Isendari were by far the most steadfast in opposition. The debilitating disease had been carefully cultivated by the insidious Dah’rothi until it had become a  strain capable of eradicating the Sidh, destroying the True Wood, and twisting the world into the dark vision that Kototh had for it. Much of the Curran’deinne south of the Sith’Currath had fallen to the pestilent dark plague, and the tribes that dwelled there had suffered a slow death. In the end though, the disease was conquered and the horde was beaten back to the dark corners of the twisted forest from whence it came.

Now…it seemed as though the ancient sickness had found a new life, and once again periled the lives of those it was made to destroy.

The Chieftain locked eyes once again with the Half-Sidhe and the Ghen’Caith and began to explain in deliberate words what was to be expected of them. ‘ Arla, once more you will have the opportunity to prove your worth to the Rilynndari. You have shown that not all of our traits have been sired upon you, so who better to meet the plague carriers than yourself? Man never suffered from the touch of the Gloch’Murrah, and Danaan willing, your human blood will be your protector.’

‘And you…Ghen’Caith,’ said Cronn as he leveled a stern look at Aros,’you’ve come to us at a difficult time with your brethren gathering at our borders preparing to wage war on us. You asked for amnesty….so this will be its price. Go with Arlaharen now,  into the tombs and we shall honor any past pacts you have struck with Sidhe-kind.’

In the early hours of morning, long before the sun began rise, the Ghen’caith and the Half-Sidh left the cover of the yurt and headed for the towering dark maw of the tombs entrance. A light rain had blown in over the Curran’Deinne, and its steady fall through the trees caused a rustle that filled the canyon. As the duo passed an enormous stone cenotaph of an elven warrior standing proud over the clearing beneath it, they looked up to meet its stern gaze. Its ominous eyes seemed to judge their approach, and there, at its base, a number of Silvani warriors waited for their arrival. Well wishes were made along with a Silvani prayer or two, and Aros was handed a tar covered torch that threw off embers that were carried away on the wind.  They continued on alone and were dwarfed by the monolithic cavern entrance as they passed under its domed ceiling. As they trekked ever deeper into the Stone Tomb eventually even their silhouettes that danced off the massive cavern walls under the flickering torch light disappeared from view. They appeared to have been swallowed up by the darkness…but those gathered outside the tomb knew that even darker things lied beyond the mouth to Al’eluwyn…

The elves knew this was the protestations of the Wood; The power of the deity Luchta was personified in every branch, and every root of the inner forest. As ‘Shaper of the Wood’, and ‘Keeper of the Forest’ she led the intrepid men astray…the land gently swayed under her like a sleeping child on a mother’s bosom; it heaved here, and dropped there, and changed as subtly as did the trees that bent and twisted to her whim to open ways for the Company to pass…always diverting them from their true destination.

Despite all that the Wood did in quiet desperation, the men always traveled onward. Mercaius, the obvious leader, was an adept tracker, a tireless hunter, and a deadly foe and he knew that all was not as it seemed. His men were visibly agitated by an anxiety that they couldn’t put to words, but their nervous glances were a sound testament that they also felt something of the impending doom that hung heavy in the air. Mercaius, on the other hand, was a veteran arch militant, and had seen more than his fair share of war… in all its mundane and mystical forms. He  paid close attention to every sign the forest offered at his Company’s passing…every angry protest.  Sometimes, each advance that brought them closer would be accompanied by a sudden breeze that would fill the Wood like a troubled sigh, and while camped, the trees themselves seemed to whisper threats to him as the branches and underbrush rustled under the strong evening winds.

As they broke camp on the third morn, Mercaius began to absently fidget with a unique amulet that swung from his neck on a thick silver chain.  This item was a black, long clawed finger wrapped in decorative silver twine and hung heavily from an ornate cap that was fixed at its base. The dessicated charm was much more than a mere twisted fetish. A spoil of war, it was taken from a Dark Priest during the Heresy Wars in Deivasha. During those four bloody years in the Empirical Lands of the south, the oathbound Company under the command of captain Mercaius found themselves serving as mercenaries to aid the Empress Miazasiel (The Ashen Demoness of Vuuldroom, The Scorched Witch, The dormant flame, The branding Iron of Sammael, Mistress of Opals, Summoner of the Choking Bile, The Burning Visage, and Soulless Whisper, Her whose name should not be spoken)

While serving in that crusade to stamp out insurrectionists, the Cerravaen company found their swords in the employ of the Empress and waged war on her behalf under the dark skies of the volcanic region known as  Dhar’coa; the southernmost land of this particular empire. Battling on the sooty plains that lay before the towering volcanic ranges that stretched as far as the eye could see they battled under skies of ash and cinder, and pushed the heretical enemy back to the threshold of the realm that they had spilled forth from. During that campaign, the ruthless Mercaius came face to face with a Highpriest of the Black Heresy and pitted sword against sorcery in an infamous duel that ended with the High Huntsmen disemboweling his adversary while his men routed the enemy troops. As the tale goes, while the Priest bled out onto the battle field, he raised a hand eastward toward the distant lights of the temple of Temos and prayed to be avenged. With two swift strokes of the sword, the fingers of the outstretched hand were severed and the head quickly followed. Mercaius took one of those digits as a keepsake, and the Empress decreed that it be ensorcelled as a gift to match the accolades the High Huntsman deserved for his participation during the Heresy Wars.

Now, the trinket that Mercaius carries with him always, retains a small bit of life from its former owner. Acting as an eldritch compass, when it is placed in the palm of the hand it always unerringly points to Temos.

With that amulet at his disposal the third days trek was more direct. The compass served its purpose well and the final leg of the journey was swift and uneventful, and as the forth night began to fall on the Wood they could see the lights of a distant site, and so it was decided to set camp and erect tents. The captain dismounted, passed his reins to a soldier, and set off for the War Tent with his two officers falling in step beside him. He rested a hand on his sword’s hilt as he walked, and thought of days long past. There was a time when his sword was sworn to a Warlord from the Waste of Cerravae, but now he was free from his life debt to choose what path he would. And yet, here he continued in the only profession he knew…to lead men and to wage war.

As he swept the curtained entrance of the tent aside, he realized that a group of petty officers had already begun to assemble inside to discuss what events were about to unfold. He cracked a slight smile, and realized he was where he was always meant to be…in front of men, but behind a sword.

In the shelter of the multi-chambered war tent, the gathered warriors debated what course of action would be best for the impending advance. Twice, Morcaius was summoned from his council in order to receive updates from returning scouts, and once he made his way to the edge of the encampment to peer down on some distant lights in the valley below. Two thick lenses bound in a tube of rugged leather acted as an eyepiece that magnified the scene that lay stretched out beneath him. The firelights of a distant camp reflected off of a  massive cenotaph that marked the center of a Silvani enclave or tomb…there was no doubt that it was hallowed ground and Sidh resistance would likely be fierce and unwavering.

Under the two smaller moons, Eboraiius and Fain, enough light shone down over the valley to make visible a number of large tents and horse pens, as well as figures milling about. Morcaius scanned the camp below for quite some time and brooded over the difficult decisions that needed to be made before daybreak. Eventually, his quiet contemplation was broken when distant shouts from the thick forest southeast of camp rang out. Perimeter scouts were signaling of an approach, and with that, the site erupted into a whirlwind of activity as soldiers mustered to defend the encampment. Armor was donned and arms were readied as the men quickly headed to their respective posts…and even as the horns bellowed their baritone call to arms, the ranks were already assembled and awaiting orders…a true testament to the experience of this particular group of battle-hardened men. Morcaius left his perch atop the high crag overlooking what most certainly would be center-stage for the conflict to come, and hurried back to the interior of camp, all the while barking orders to his men as they waited eagerly for their beloved leader to drive them to yet another victory.

Meanwhile….

On the southern rise leading out of the Valley of the Stone Tombs, four Silvani warriors negotiated the steep tree lined face. The scouting party was led by an unlikely sort; a female archer that stood as tall as the men that accompanied her, and her features and build were a remarkable combination of the best that both Man and Sidhe could offer.

Arlaharen was the child of a rising leader among the clans in Enclave Rilynndar, but her mother was of human descent. As the product of an unsanctioned union she was marked an abomination and hunted by the people of her father. Her mother spirited her away to the distant township of Anvilborne, and there, hidden under the smoky skies of the forge town, she found sanctuary and avoided an otherwise certain death .

Anvilborne was a place of  Mansteel; mephitic ferrous metals that caused the Iron Ills in the Sidhe. The Silvani considered it a cursed place and avoided it like the plague. Smoky forges spewed forth their ore-laced poisons, and the dark sooty cloud that hung low over the smoke stacks and chimneys reeked of the ferrous stench of Man.  The pursuit had been broken, and Arlaharen was left to succumb to the ‘sickening’ that surely should have cut her life short. Despite the circumstances, she grew strong and when she reached the age of 25, the ‘age of naming’, she was free from the Sidh Edict that had her marked for death…she was free to search out her father and to take on the mantel of a true Rilynndari warrior.

Four years had passed since she made that difficult journey into the Curran’Deinne. Anvilborne had served its purpose, and at her mothers deathbed she swore to bring a message of eternal love from wife to husband. A week following her mothers passing Arlaharen was found wandering in the DeepWood by warriors from Rilynndar, was reunited with her father, and accepted into Enclave society. She chose to remain close to the father she never knew, and quickly learned the ways of the Silvani, never quenching her thirst for the endless Forbidden Sidh Lore that she now had at her beck and call.

Taking up her rightful family name, Valphior, she eventually gained acceptance by all in Valnor’Tuath. Her fathers kinsmen are now her kinsmen also, and they treat her as one of their own, and consider her proven on fronts both martial and spiritual. To Valnor’Tuath, Arlaharen is unmistakeably Sidh.

Unfortunately, beyond her close kinsmen she remains under the scrutinizing watch of the Formal Enclave. Tests and challenges she will face from those who remain skeptical perhaps will last well into the final  years of her short Half-Sidhe life and she may never know true acceptance.

One such trial found her negotiating a dangerously steep slope heading for a large enemy encampment with only three warriors at her back….

The scouts slipped easily through the underbrush and left few signs of their passage. Their black and green warpaint broke up the lines of their faces and each was unique in design and composition. The darkness was interrupted some by the moonlight that penetrated through the sparse trees, but still they pushed forward and made the steep climb at an amazing pace.

Near midnight, as they reached the crest, the terrain leveled off and the forest quickly turned to closer trees and thicker canopies. Behind them they could see the distant lights in the valley and ahead only deeper wood. The scouting party maintained a deliberate pace that brought them quickly yet quietly into enemy held territory, and within the hour they could see signs of occupation. Flickering torchlight drew the Silvanis close to a perimeter outpost, and they waited for a moment in the underbrush for their eyes to adjust to the sharp light that flickered in the small clearing. Three of the invaders were rugged westerners, however their Jazeraint Scale was a mixture of Arregalen design with  Empirical influence…armor that no doubt had seen foreign battlefields. Each warriors armor was different in some fashion or another, but the intricate tooling that adorned the cuirass’ was of Deivasha origin, and gave the warriors an exotic appearance.

The fourth watchman stood half a head over his comrades, was paler, and had aquiline features native to lands that lay along the southern shores of the Sea of Merchants. His lighter armor was simple leather war dress made of cuirbouille. The tassets that would typically hang from the waist of a soldier from the Northern Kingdoms was replaced by a war skirt native to the south, and his leather helm was banded with straps and bore bridge and side guards. Unlike his companions with their bulky crossbows, this one preferred the longbow and had one in hand, and strapped to his back was a short hafted fighting spear…he had the classic look of a warrior from Musdao in every sense of the word…

Aros was indeed a Musdanic borderscout that signed on with Mercaius’ mercenary corp in order to see the world beyond his homeland. In Musdao, trouble was brewing on the border between his country and Sarpanth in the east, and a cult movement of dark origin was seeping into Musdanic society and changing the religious landscape forever. Difficult times in his homeland were growing worse by the day, and the hierarchy chose to turn a blind eye, as long as they received bribes, blood money, and promises of power beyond their wildest imaginations. So, Aros traded his homeland for the ranks of a Mercenary Corp, and was entering his second year of service in the company known as ‘Victor’s March’  Among his new comrades he had quickly gained notoriety as a deadly archer and merciless spearmen…two traits that many Musdanic warriors historically covet as cultural talents and ancestral gifts. The infantry force served briefly in the wilds near Seraqevo, and then traveled on to Arregale’s borderlands to serve Lord Ceres of House Merinev. The terms of Duty had the company bound for 1 year; routing the criminal element out of the Pactsworn lands of FarrinFel, and hunting rogue militants operating beyond the southern banks of the River Hyperica. But in the wake of a number of deadly attacks against Ferrinfel Arbourstandes, Victor’s March had been summoned to Fort Galamir for a briefing, and now they marched west into the InnerWood to hunt the Silvani responsible for it. War seemed just on the horizon and Aros, a young man with close ties to the Sidh, was torn between duty and friendship. The pacts he struck with the Silvani in his own land, had him feeling honor bound to their distant relatives here in the northern kingdoms…even if he had never before met them. The affinity he shared with the Sidh was strong, and he hoped that a conflict between his Company and the Silvani could be avoided if at all possible.

As the soldiers talked in low voices, and kept watch on the dark forest east of camp, Arlaharen led the way for the Silvani scouts to penetrate deeper into the enemy line to see what preparations and precautions were being taken at the ‘Man-Camp’. As the warrioress of Valnor’Tuath struck silently off, skirting the occupied clearing,it became clear that the other Rilynndari had very different plans on their mind. The three scouts that had accompanied her thus far were from Aefalar’Tuath, and had a hatred they could not contain. Two weeks back, when the Stone Tombs were defiled, a group of young braves were murdered there, and all of them belonged to Aefalar. The vengeful trio spread out as they crept closer to the clearing, and just as Arla glanced back over her shoulder to search out her missing comrades, their deadly hail of arrows had been loosed at the unsuspecting enemy.

The veteran soldiers responded quickly to the ambush and returned fire with heavy crossbows as the men scattered to the cover of nearby trees. One soldier had fallen, but his weapon was quickly retrieved by the closest soldier, and likewise was fired into the obscure treeline from whence the attack came. The second volley of Silvani arrows tore through the underbrush, as the humans focused on reloading their weapons. The skirmish was violent but shortlived as a shout from Arlaharen sang out…a lilting ‘Cease Fire!’ in the tongue of the Sidhe. One soldier lay dead and a clansman of Aefalar’Tuath was lanced through the leg with a massive bolt from a heavy footmans crossbow.  Aros had brought his weapon to bear but upon hearing the Silvani female and understanding the weighty command of her words, he yelled to his men to hold.

Arla stepped from the dark cover of the trees and the two exchanged stares as well as words…in Arregalen his thick Musdanic accent rolled and clicked over the foreign syllables causing each word to sound raw and vulgar, but when he began in the Sidh tongue, what came forth was surprisingly clear and correct. ‘This war is not mine to wage…I ask for asylum’, said Aros in near perfect elven…it wasn’t Silvani, but the core dialect was similar. An agreement to break from the clearing and tend to the wounded was struck, and the two groups disappeared from view behind distrustful glares.

The soldiers had gathered themselves and their things and headed back to the camp with their dead comrade, and the arrows lodged in their armor were a testament to their deadly encounter with the Silvani. And in the opposite direction, the elves, along with Aros, helped their injured down the steep slope in the direction of Al’eluwyn…few words were exchanged between the half-elf and the Musdane, but they both shared an uncertainty of how events would play out once they arrived at the Stone Tombs. The forbidden knowledge of the Sidh that each had gained through their connections with the Elder Race left them both nervous about the reception that Aros would receive from the Rilynndari warriors gathered in the canyon below. Aros eventually shrugged these worries off, stood proud and tall, and strode like a man certain that Destiny would deal with him justly…even though this naive confidence could prove to be his undoing….

They stalked through the underbrush of Curran’Deinne like a herd of blind cattle. They tried to be quiet mind you, but every footfall was followed by the snapping of dry brush and the crackling of leaves and lose stone. The men from Arregale were well armed and had the look of veteran soldiers about them, and the company of men was easily a hundred strong, but they moved like warriors…not with the stealth that they needed at a time like this. Their organized and deliberate push was that of a highly trained fighting corp, and their arrival was heralded by the light clamor of armor and the forest’s ostensible protests as the men made their way through her…but what they lacked in graceful stealth they made up for in dangerous determination.

The forward scouts were armored in bezainted leather; a light, mobile war dress much quieter than the armor worn by their heavier counterparts.  These competent woodsmen that walked point seemed sure of the task they had been set with….to track the devils that had razed three logging camps in Farrinfel. From survivor accounts they knew exactly who their quarry was, and all the more reason to be wary and ready.

“The Silvani had swarmed the camps like spectres riding on the back of the morning mist,”one of the foresters claimed, “and they laid waste to the buildings and killed the men as they fled for the roadways that led west out of the forest.”

A half dozen scouts blazed a trail ahead of the main force and slipped through the tight brush and tangled branches looking to divert the company from difficult terrain or to direct them onto game trails, open glades and other unobstructed paths leading toward the interior of the forest.

The main body of the Company was a mixture of archers and swordsmen. The majority of these were armored in jazeraint scale, scarred and dull from past conflicts. Their wardress lacked any common design or military regalia with the exception of a black and red sash that they wore fixed over their right shoulders; this company had the look and feel of  a mercenary group in the employ of Lord Ceres and would likely prove to be more competent and deadly than the typical men-at-arms or Irregulars that would follow in their wake over the coming weeks.

The commander and two of his finest wore brigadine, and instead of skull caps like the other troops, they had slung-back helms that rested low on the brow. The sweeping crests were reinforced with metal strips across the crown, and boasted red dyed tails that hung heavily over the back. The three, sat high above their men and concentrated on the troop movement up ahead. From high in the saddle, they silently directed their troops, and with a simple hand gesture the ranks would advance forward with deliberate intent.

As the Men from Arregale continued deeper into the Wood, the Silvani watched on…. Some of the elves were mere yards from the soldiers, but were no more visible than the other forest creatures that lay still and hidden from the searching eyes of those that passed through Curran’Deinne. The Silvani measured the passing ranks, and waited patiently for the company to clear the light glade that they were in.

The alkaline stink of their sweat rolling down the steel of their armor was almost unbearable. The acrid scent hung in the air and filled the Wood with a ferrous stench that wafted along with the morning breeze…it was the unmistakable scent of man. The Silvani, or all Sidh for that matter, despised the metals of man… it made their skin crawl, and those cut by it suffered a burning pain something akin to a hot poker being used to cauterize a gaping wound.

The heavy mist that hung over the glade, seemed to gather around the boles of the trees and likewise draped the Sidh warriors in its wet embrace. Droplets of water gathered in their hair, and dripped down their faces as they stood motionless and seemingly invisible to the humans as the mercenary company passed through their ranks. All the while, the unsuspecting Arregalens were unaware that death was a mere arms length or two away.

Every droplet that coursed over elven lips brought the acidic taste that lingered in the damp misty air, and the Sidh endured this, as well as the fact that the sanctimonious intruders were well on there way to inner realms of Curran’Deinne deemed inviolable. An encroachment of this caliber would break treaties, and bring these neighboring nations to the brink of war…the sacrosanct holy sites were held in the highest regard among the Silvani, and a desecration of one would bring the full wrath of  Elysium down on the kingdom that would dare to commit such a crime.

Moments after the invaders moved beyond the mist shrouded glade, the Silvani began to emerge from their cover. Like ghostly apparitions they appeared from the fog and began to gather quietly alongside a clouded rivulet that had been disturbed by the passing ranks. Their lithe forms were covered in elven leathers that bore the knotwork design native to their enclave, and their high, decorative pauldrons were a telltale sign that they were warriors from the southern clans of Cyrin’Mor. The tribal markings that adorned their faces and bodies seemed more akin to one of the Man-tribes of Khaelis-Vahl rather than their civilized neighbors from Arregale, and the designs painted across the serious faces of the Sidh in the glade were those characteristic of war.

At the center of the gathered warriors was a much taller figure dressed in elven lamellar who bore one of the highly prized woodsung bows often reserved for the elven highborn. His noble carriage set him apart from the warrior caste that mustered around him, and his penetrating gaze scrutinized those present.

Following a quick glance eastward in the direction that the invaders had disappeared , he began in a low, calculated voice…,”Clansmen of Cyrin’Mor, these are troubled times we are in. The Arregalens are on the march, and likely will penetrate your borders in a few days time….This is an unacceptable breech of the Pact between our nations.

The painted warriors shifted nervously at the thought of outsiders entering the Sidh realms uninvited.

“Their current trek will bring them to the Stone Tombs of Al’eluwyn,” said a fierce looking brave with whorls of green and black war paint across his brow and cheeks,”will we have the blessing of the High Council to declare war if the Tombs are disturbed yet again?”

A week ago, Emmisar Urdric of the Lesser House of Illin’Aeris was serving as an agent for the Silvani High Council in Elysium, and now at the behest of those greater than he, his courtly robes were traded for lamellar armor and he left behind the high walls of the capitol for the shrouded Outlands that bordered the PactSworn lands of Farrinfel. Rumors had reached Elysium that the clans of Cyrin’Mor were mustering in the south, and that their chieftains were ready to declare war against their human neighbors from Arregale. Urdric was sent to quell the unrest and to investigate the wild accusations that the age old pacts between Arregale and the Silvani were broken and beyond repair. The High Council was intuitive enough to realize that the claims of  treacherous murder and the desecration of a holy site in Cyrin’Mor were going to require much more tact than some silver tongued charm to address properly, and Urdic, being the Militant that he was, proved the perfect choice for such an endeavor.

He looked over each of the painted warriors in that misty glade, and realized that they waited anxiously for answers or at least his blessing on behalf of the Council. he chose his words carefully…

“If the invaders enter the Stand at Rilynndar then Elysium will be by your side when the drums of war begin,” he proclaimed, “…Until that time is upon us, show restraint.”

The clansmen seemed to ease some knowing that the High Council would back them in an effort to repel the invaders, and they followed the lead of the Emmisar as he crouched down to the sandy bank that bordered the shallow brook. There in the misty glade Urdric began to trace out a plan to shadow the Arregalens as they journeyed deeper into areas of the Wood deemed sacred, and when each warrior was clear of his role in this effort the group quietly dispersed and faded into the thick underbrush as easily as they had appeared.