Hey everybody!

This shall be the thread the Fellowship of Atopos itself shall be written in.

Be sure to look at the rules, the map and the planning thread before you start.

Let the adventure begin!

Coordinates: @ 18,F - The Dragon's Landing Inn

He pushed the now cold oats and sugar away from him and looked out the window from his place at the table. The sun had turned the evening sky beautiful shades of red that danced off of the few clouds overhead. It was like magic itself, the man thought absent-mindedly. He had seen a bit of magic in his time - everything from whimsical amusements in the King's Court to fire and ice spraying from the hands of the blue-cloaked wizard. And then of course, there was a different sort altogether... something dark and more like a black nature than magic itself.

He bit is bottom lip in thought, turning his attention back to the few people eating dinner around him, huddled over their meals in attempt to block out everyone around them from their lives, as well as to keep themselves hidden within their own, he imagined.

A serving girl brought his ale and he thanked her without looking up, passing the silver coin with a falcon imprint to her hands. She was harmless, he told himself. Yet one could never be too careful. Not when there were dead.

The man smiled to himself in bitterness.

Only a few weeks ago he was a head councilman in the Crusader Court, privy to the life of King Rhoen and his family, adviser and trusted friend to everything that entered into the life of the Monarch, public or private. He drank some of the bitter ale then, setting the mug back to the table as he pondered all that had changed from that life. For as long as he could remember, King Rhoen was almost a god in the Crusader country, and the wars and battles he had fought had spread his fame and glory throughout the land of Atopos as well. The man chuckled and took another sip of the ale. From the time he was in university, the name of Rhoen was one they had all looked up to and admired, and all of his classmates had competed vigorously for the job title of Head Councilman. Only one could have it, and in the end, it was him who won it. And that, ironically, is why he was here today, on the run.

Rhoen was nothing less that a saint to the Crusaders. Before taking over from his father the kingdom was inefficient and corrupt. Constantly pillaged by the Vikings and Forestman, constantly manipulated by the decent but wily Black Knights. It was Rhoen that built up the Crusaders - a mobile army ready to meet any sudden, unexpected Viking assault, or the most stealthy Forestman raid. It was Rhoen who had uprooted the Black Monarch's influences and spies from the Crusader government. A move so bold that it caused a war between The Black Knights and the Crusaders itself - but when the Black Monarch admitted defeat, the name Rhoen was known by all, and the Crusader Kingdom became a image of power and wealth in Atopos. "Surely such a man was from the heavens himself", they had all said...

The man fought tears that suddenly welled up, and took a long drink of ale. The hood of his cloak dropped further over his face, and the light of the inn lessened as the sun lowered further below the horizon.

Governing lands, fighting wars, managing an empire... it all takes its toll on a king's mind - he had seen it first hand, as the head councilor. It was in the twilight of his years then, when Rhoen finally saw death coming, that the legend cracked and began to shatter. Perhaps he had believed the praises of the peasants themselves when they called him a savior. Perhaps he thought it was reality. Foolish man! We are but mortals! Rhoen got sick more often, and ever slower in his actions, and with death and the shattering of immortality, he began to fear death.

The man looked at his ale mug absent-mindedly for a moment. He had often wondered why the king had feared death so much - perhaps it was just a fear of death itself, or an unwillingness to leave his people behind. Most likely, it was for his immortal soul, because of the various deeds that are required of a King during his reign. When you sentence one man to die, or kill another in battle, it stays with you as long as the glory does, and perhaps longer, although hidden perhaps, through the years.

With this fear Rhoen and his head councilor began to travel. Searching out sages and alchemists, mystics and magicians with strange potions and enormous libraries. Many were scams, some were not, the councilman remembered. He preferred the scams. They were much less frightening. They traveled Atopos then, seeking advice and stories from different persons. It was in the end that they had begun hearing of the cold and cryptic myths of the Vikings from the north.

The spirit Kryym, who lives somewhere in the viking lands, was said to be the force that could help him. It was no secret who Kryym was, even to the King and the councilor... all knew Kryym was a sinister spirit in nature. But Rhoen would not have it... despite the many myths and tragedies, the man who believed he was a god still believed he could control the spirit.

And so the dark day came... Rhoen made a pact with Kryym through cutting out... The councilman stopped.

He couldn't bear to remember it... he looked suspiciously around the now-dark inn... as if someone could read his thoughts and might race to his table screaming "ah-ha!" before bashing his brains out. But the bar was quite still, and he took another drink.

So Rhoen made the deal with Kryym - finally becoming the god his people thought he was... gaining his immortality and whatever powers seem fitting and in return with the promises to Kryym of...

The door to the Inn opened and a figure walked into the pub. The councilman stiffened and looked over to the door in fear, before hurriedly looking back. His nerves were shot. He was constantly paranoid now - on the run, a man thought to be dead. The councilman shuddered.

Soon after the pact had been done, they found a viking named Jarl had found out about the pact, and Rhoen had been driven into a frenzy. Kill the viking at all costs. He sent armies after the man - the crusaders sailed and marched all around Atopos in search of him... but he wasn't found. It only drove the king more mad, and soon he was looking at the councilman with red in his eyes. Those eyes... they went hollow and black with time. The councilman saw only death in them now, and he saw his own death coming because of the secret that only he and a viking named Jarl knew. The king was never in the castle now, but in the icy tower to the north, barely Crusader country at all - made long ago in a different time by a different, long lost people. It was only used by the Crusaders when on an expedition north. And yet that is where the king spent all of his days now, huddled behind ice and solitude. And with death in his eyes...

The councilman faked his death then, to buy some time to escape the kingdom and create a fellowship of men - heroes... perhaps that was asking too much. But a fellowship of men that would find their way into the cold castle and save the king from his curse with Kryym - most likely by killing him.

And so he had gone to the land of the Black Falcons. The land with enormous trading ports that brought people in from around the world - men from all backgrounds that would take on any quest you gave them, for the right price. He had advertised the quest in every underground channel he knew - all those interested were told to come to the inn tonight.

The Dragon's Landing Inn, it was called. Owned by a former knight from the Black Knights Kingdom, it was a melting pot of travelers, adventurers, thieves, cowards and heroes. This was the most cliche of places to meet, to be sure, but that is exactly what would protect him from the prying eyes of anyone interested in finding him.

The councilman could only wait now... to see who would come to the Dragon's Landing Inn... perhaps no one. But if no one came, then the Crusaders, and perhaps Atopos, would feel doom.

@ 18,F - The Dragon's Landing Inn

Storn entered the Dragon's Landing Inn right as the sun was beginning to set, having slept the entire day. He saw the man he was to talk to immediately, it was the old man in the blue cloak, with his hood raised over his head. The old fool had literally jumped out of his seat when Storn had entered, and his hasty recovery spoke only of panic.

Storn looked around the rest of the bar. What was the old man so afraid of? He saw few other people here, so it must be something else - perhaps the reason for this job that the old man was advertising. He looked to the man nearest him, chewing on a beef rib with all the savagry of a dog - the juices squirting out of the meat and running down the man's chin with each bite.

Storn felt his stomach rumble and looked past the bar into the kitchen in a controlled longing he had grown used to by now. He couldn't afford to eat, only be hungry, it seemed.

He needed this job, not only for glory, but for food. He hadn't eaten a good meal in several days. Why did the old man have to have them all meet here? So he could smell the food of real men and watch the beef and breads being carried around to different tables under his nose?

Storn set his chin in annoyance and moved to the old man's table. The man was deep in thought, staring at his ale mug with a frown. He sat down and waited for the man to notice him. When the old cloaked man did finally see him, he jumped again, almost spilling his ale mug. Storn rolled his eyes.

"I hope you won't be coming with us, old-fellow" he smiled, sincerely hoping this man would not be slowing them down.

The old man glanced both ways quickly, then lowered his breath. He was definatley not used to this sort of thing.

"Are you here for the... the job I have?" Storn yawned and sat back. He felt suddenly comforatable with this old man, and perhaps a bit powerful.

"Yes, I am... so how about you tell me what's going on?"

The old man sat back, and Storn could tell he was measuring him.

"Not yet... I want to tell this story only once, and so we must wait until all are here. Storn sat forward.

"When will that be?"

"I don't know... I don't know how many will come." Storn sat back again, a bit concerned. This was by far the most unprofessional employer he had ever run into. He clearly had no idea how to handle jobs like this, or the people who such jobs attracted.

"Very well, I'll wait. But you'll have to buy me a meal for the time I spend here." The old man stopped, and then nodded.

"Waitress - a leg of beef here!"

F-18

Daegal Bredesson was lost. The city loomed all around him, each street more confusing then the last. Walking in the shadow of these great buildings, he felt as insignificant as a child’s toy. Hundreds of strange faces surrounded him, on every different street, disorienting him further. At times, he wished he had stayed in the north. The Viking had spent his whole life up there. The ways of these southerners were strange and disturbing to him.

The Viking had wandered around the city since noon, searching vainly for the inn. He had become lost and was now angry and frustrated. He wanted to lash out at something, but thought better of it. He was already attracting too much attention from the city guard as it was. Out on the open road, a kindly traveller had advised him to change his garb; Vikings were not well loved amongst the southerners it seemed. He had dismissed him with a laugh; he had already left too much of his old life behind.

The sun had begun to set, casting a warm red glow over everything. Once he came to a suitable opening between two buildings, Daegal stopped to admire it. Even after being exposed to the immense wealth and beauty of southern civilisation for several months, he still found nature to be more beautiful. These people could keep their riches and his clansmen could keep their plunder. He had all he needed already.

His stomach rumbling, Daegal made one last attempt to look for the inn. The last red rays of the sun had fallen on a sign, the “Dragon’s Landing Inn,” this was the place. His stomach rumbling again, the Viking set off at once. He glanced at the sun again, red was a colour sacred to his people, and was it an omen?

As he entered, an old man in a blue cloak recoiled at the sight of him. Conveniently enough, that was the man he was looking for. As he strode over, the man’s eyes widened in horror. His companion, a young man with barely a hair on his head regarded him with suspicion.

“I am here for the job.” He boomed, the old man deflated at once.

“Please, take a seat.” Said the old man.

The Viking plunked himself down in the seat closest to the door. “I am Daegal Bredesson, I have come for your job.”

The old man nodded, “when more arrive, I shall tell both of you everything.”

Daegal shifted his gaze to the old man’s odd-looking companion. “Name’s Storn.” He said amiably, tearing into a hunk of beef.

The Viking looked at the number of coins in his pouch, then turned to his employer. “Old man, if you will have me, I must have meat.”

The old man sighed, “very well.”

Location: F-18

Benito was tired. Riding bareback wasn't very comfortable. Hopefully, he would reach the town in time for the story telling at the Dragon's Landing Inn... that was always enjoyable. He smiled to himself, thinking of all the old gaffers who told their yarns week after week to a captivated audience. Most of them were retired soldiers who recalled tales of valor and bravery, slightly edited to make it more interesting, of course. He wasn't visiting the town to humor himself, though, he had to meet someone there.

As the sun rested behind the mountains, he could make out the lights of the town in front of him. He was close.

The trip had taken longer than he had expected. Most towns would shut their gates soon, and he would miss his appointment. Approaching the town gate, he was confronted by the guards: "Who goes there?" "A tired traveler, I'm here to stay at the Dragon’s Landing Inn." Saying so, he produced a few coins. "The Landing, eh? You're a bit late, but I'll let you pass." The guard greedily accepted the bribe and opened the gate. "Enjoy your stay..." He chuckled.

Handing his horse to the stable boy, he walked inside. The Dragon’s Landing Inn was full as predicted...the story telling was just winding up. Seating himself at a booth, he listened to the snippets of the story while gazing into the fire. "Can I get you something, sweet? He looked up. Standing there was a girl of a some 17-18 years old. "Yes, I'll have the barley soup with a loaf of bread, some meat, and a pint of your best ale." She finished scribbling on her parchment, smiled, and walked off.

"So there we were, corned against the wall, surrounded by 100s of enemy troops. It looked as if we were finished." Benito smiled as he listened to the gaffers recounting the story. Would he end up like these old men when he got that age? Nah...he had always imagined dying in the service of humanity, not rotting in some small hamlet. Looking around, he saw someone familiar: it was the man he was supposed to meet, the old fellow with the jumpy nerves. Sitting next to him was a sizeable brute with an odd look on his face. When the brute moved, he could see a viking sitting next to him. The Job. It was a suggestion from a friend who described some sort of a quest with money involved. Needing some easy money, Benito had traveled 30 miles from the next town over to inquire about the job.

He approached the table and sat down. The skittish geezer started and looked quizically at him. "Sorry to interrupt your conversation, but I think you're the one I'm supposed to talk to. The job?" The old man grunted. "I'll explain when they all get here." What an unpleasant crew "Let me know when 'they' arrive. I'll be over there." Benito pointed to his seat in the corner.



To be continued....

@ F-18

"What fools!" Malaer murmured to no one in particular, "These soldiers have nothing better to do but hunt me down?" Usually traveling through forests, she was now on some plains. With no cover, she was an easy target. She couldn't find any patch of trees nearby. The closest to her was the opposite way of the port, which is where she had come from.

The price on her head was such a large sum, that any poor man to kill her would become noble. Almost everyone was after her, even the Forestmen! But people in the west didn't know about the bounty, so she hoped to be safe there. The Vikings were the ones chasing her now, as they thought of this as sport. They followed the ship she was on, and started chasing her by foot. Luckily, the Vikings are usually built with low endurance, speed, and ranged attacks. So once she got some room... she was better off.

Finally she was coming to something to hide her location. "Trees!" She yelped in joy. She climbed up the first tree she saw. How nimble she was! She gracefully jumped and swung on branches, from tree to tree. She could travel through trees faster than most horses could run. Athleticism really helped her now.

Finally she came out of the forest to something that looked like a city. "Praise Ayyalel!" she screamed. The guards looked at her like she was crazy. She walked up to the gate. "Hey you!" The guard spoke," No outsiders allowed in!" Malaer felt like piercing both of them with her beautiful, but sharp nails. She walked back to the forest, only to come out to a wall with no security. She scaled the wall, and jumped down to the streets.

She was right next to what looked to be a tavern. "Praise Ayyalel," she said again, but this time to herself. She walked inside. A group of oddities were at a table. What looked to be the eldest one, called her over. "Please sit down," the elder said. Malaer knew she didn't want to, but she was dead tired, and needed to take a seat to build up a little strength.

"Well?" She said impatiently,"Why'd you call me over here?"..... She pulled her hood off of her head, and the whole inn took notice. She had forgotten that none of these men had probably ever seen an elf before, let alone a Night Elf. Her pointed ears and dark skin, made certain that attention was drawn toward her.

F-18


Fall was coming to an end, and signs of winter began to appear. Trees that were once clothed in colorful leaves appeared barren and cold, their beauty stripped away. There were no trees here, though. Nothing of elegance lined these streets, just the tall, dark buildings that seemed to have to no end. Owen Saline trudged along those wind-swept roads, and the dark buildings towered over him, taunting him, daring him to try to escape their reach. He wanted to run, to rid himself of the walls, but the veteran in him knew better than that. If he were to panic, the buildings would swallow him up, and he would find himself lost in the twisting streets of the great city. He tried to think about something else as he pushed on... How long had he been walking? He couldn't remember. However long it had been, it felt like longer. His whole body ached, and his stomach complained of its emptiness, even his mind felt weary.

The sun was beginning to go down, leaving a pale red glow where it penetrated through the tall structures. Owen had been a soldier far too long to not know the dangers of being alone after sunset, especially in a place like this. The Dragon's Landing Inn was his destination point, and he felt he could never arrive too soon. He shoved his cold hands deeper into his cloak, and continued to move his tired body forward.

The sky was dark when Owen stumbled through the door of The Dragon's Landing. He had never even seen the inn before now, but it felt like he was returning home from a long journey. He stood just inside the threshold for a minute, panting and rubbing the palms of his hands together. The warmth of the building felt wonderful, and the smell of roasting meat made his mouth water. Looking around at the occupants of the inn, he noticed a group of three misfits at a table that he felt sure were the ones he should make contact with.

“Are you the councilman?”, he asked to no one in particular as he approached their table.

“Aye”, replied a man dressed in a blue cloak. “Are you here... for the job?” he asked quietly, making no attempt at hiding his disappointment as he looked at Owen's grey hair and large stomach.

“I am.” Owen answered, and when his employer made no further comment, he asked “What exactly are we going to be doing?”

The councilman frowned. “I want to tell this story only once, so you will have to wait for everyone to arrive.” Owen could tell from his tone of voice that it wasn't the first time he had said this.

Owen shrugged, “I need to get something to eat anyway.”

F-18

Rowena really did hate the Dragon’s Landing Inn. She hated the stench of alcohol and sweat coming from the drunken swines at the tables. She hated being ordered around by that fat cow in the kitchens. She hated the silly giggles and stupid seductive winks of her fellow barmaids. But most of all she disdained the owner, her accursed father.

She could have been in the hands of some young and handsome aristocrat by now. She was young, and beautiful. Or she would be, weren’t it for all the filth that she never got time to wash away, or the bruises that her father caused her in his drunkenness.

She sighed deeply and caressed her aching arm as she closed the door behind the latest visitor, an aged man who had nearly crushed her as he strode past, barely noticing her at all. Her father had already drunken himself to sleep. This would be a long night…

At that moment a knock on the door and a muffled voice awakened her from her bitter thoughts. She turned around and put her hand on the handle. Sighing deeply she opened the door slightly and peered into the darkness outside.

“The Dragon’s Landing Inn?”

“Oh… yes.”

She opened the door and backed away, not wanting to be squashed by yet another rude man.

“I give thee my humble thanks, lady fair,
For letting me in on a night like this.
Nature ain’t ever a gracious miss,
So I surrender myself to thy care.”

Never before had Rowena heard such a voice. Clear like a spring in the mountains of the north? Powerful like the inevitable waves of the sea? Metaphors had never been her field of expertise though. Blushing she backed away into a shadow so as not to reveal too much of her filthy appearance to the enigmatic stranger. She was even more taken aback as he came into full view in the light.

There was something distinctly alien about his features. Maybe it was the high cheek-bones, maybe the pale skin, maybe the dark eyes, or possibly the neatly washed jet-black hair that fell in waves about his shoulders. He smiled weakly and bowed gently as he entered.

“I am searching for Rowan, and hopefully that would lead me to some food and a warm hearth.”

Rowena nodded slightly, backing away further as he strode in.

“That would be my father, sir. But…”

“… too much ale again?”

Rowena cleared her throat and nodded.

“So, what can I do for you, sir?”

“You could provide me with a place by the fire and some food, dear lady. And if I feel like it, I might sing a song or two. Savvy?”

“Oh…” now she remembered, “you’re that bard that my father invited.”

“Aye, that would be me.”

“I’ll go fix some dinner for you then, and you could just find yourself a seat in the meantime, mr…?”

“Jêltieht.”

“Yea… what?”

“Just call me Blackbird.”

“Right… Blackbird.”

And with that Rowena sped away into the kitchens. Jêltieht shrugged sadly to himself and entered the tavern proper. It was quite a quiet place. No wonder he wanted some entertainment, he thought to himself as he made his way towards the hearth. As he passed one of the tables he heard a muffled squeal. Smiling slightly he stopped and glanced at the table. A hooded person was gazing down into the table surrounded by three more or less brutal looking men.

“Can I help you, sir?”

“I don’t think so”, one of them grumbled with a nasty look at Jêltieht.

“Oh, I was referring to your companion”, Jêltieht replied in a disturbingly sweet voice. He had only caught a glance of the hooded man’s face, but he was sure he recognized it. “He seemed to have some problems with his throat.”

“Mind your own business, stranger.”

“Oh, why such an attitude?” Jêltieht took himself a seat by their table. They fidgeted nervously but none of them made any sound. The one who had addressed Jêltieht before, a blonde man who seemed to be a Viking by his accent, gave him an ugly look and turned away.

After a few minutes of awkward silence Rowena came in with three plates of food which she placed before Jêltieht, the Viking and an elderly man at the viking’s side.

“Hey, I’m not paying for him too”, the hooded man suddenly burst out. Rowena just shrugged her shoulders and walked away, but Jêltieht couldn’t help smiling smugly. He had caught another glance of the mans face this time, and now he was sure. It was as he had expected.

“So, how was Hades, Cardic?”

The hooded man squealed once again and leaned closer to Jêltieht. “Please lower your voice”, he hissed.

The other three cast confused glances at each other, Jêltieht and Cardic.

“Cardic… wasn’t that the late advisor of King Rhoen?” the elderly man asked with a curious look at Cardic.

“Maybe it’s time for your story now, old-fellow”, the third man asked irritably.

“Maybe it’s time for this Wolf to present himself, says I”, the Viking snarled.

Jêltieht smirked and nodded to the Viking. “Most impressive, Viking. I sure hope you won’t let the prejudices of your people decide your actions.”

“’A wolf, is a wolf, is a wolf’, they say at home”, the Viking answered, “on the other hand, I have put that behind me. Daegal.” He reached out his hand to Jêltieht who shook it and nodded gently.

“Jê… Blackbird.”

“Weren’t you a wolf?” the elderly man asked with an amused smile.

“It would make for quite a dull life if all of us were called Wolf, don’t you think?”

“Right you are”, he chuckled, but then he turned back to Cardic. “I thought you were dead?”

“Maybe that would have been the easiest solution, but the easiest solution is seldom the best.”

“And how do you know this… Blackbird?”

“I believe he performed at King Rhoen’s Court a few years ago…”

“And since then it seems you have gotten yourself into some interesting circumstances”, Jêltieht smiled. “Care to enlighten us?”

(this post was meant to organise everything so far)

F-18 Dragon’s Landing Inn

Cardic looked around uneasily, expecting an ambush; his plan to assemble a fellowship of warriors seemed to be working. Working better then he dared to hope. Licking his lips, he motioned for them to come closer as he prepared for his speech. He surveyed the five faces looking at him. The first three who joined him, the thief named Storn; the viking Daegal, the crusader soldier named Owen. Looming behind them was that female night elf, he couldn’t recall why he asked her to join them, he must have gotten a good feeling about her. Staring most intently at him was the Bard who now called himself Blackbird.

“Now I suppose you’re all wondering what I have called you here for…”

F-18 Dragon’s Landing Inn

Storn sat smiling at the old man in blue as he told his story, eyes ever-shifting among the different travelers and past them, to the door of the inn. It wasn't because he was happy or found anything amusing per say, indeed, with every new twist and plot turn the story took, Storn felt the hair on the back of his neck raise a bit more.

One one hand, this was the chance he had been looking for ever since he had woken up with blood on his face and bulls in his memory. On the other, the prospect of the black evil he might face with these travelers - all full of ego and unafraid of him in the least seemed quite intimidating. He would stay distant, he decided, as he looked over their faces amidst the old man's story. Many of them were veterans, he guessed, of many wars and adventures much like this.

They seemed stoic to the tragic deaths and demonic influences that the man Cardic spoke of over quivering lips, with only the Blackbird fellow showing anything like a grin similiar to Storns. The Viking's meaty fist sat curled up on the table as if to bash in the face of anyone who dared interrupt, and through the shadows of the inn he saw the eerie eyes of the night elf.

Storn pushed his plate of eaten meat away from him and set his attention back to his employer's story.

He would be taking this job, he decided. It was the opportunity for regained honor that he had been searching for.

F-18 Dragon’s Landing Inn

It was with a shiver that Cardic relayed the last of the details of his story to the adventurers. He had relived the experience in his thoughts and tortured dreams for months, it seemed, as the horrors of it relentlessly crashed against his resolve and his nerve.

But he would not be dissuaded. He would send these travelers out. He would take down the evil monster that had once been his king and bring honor back to the throne of the Crusaders.

As he finished his story, he looked to the men around him, waiting for a response from someone. He found none over the hushed crowd. Some of them seemed deep in thought, others, like the man Blackbird, seemed to find something humorous about the entire affair. Cardic felt his chest knot as he saw that familiar, almost mocking face, and cast his gaze to the others.

The viking, a mountainous man among them all at the table, shifted suddenly in his chair. Cardic was terrified of the man and drew back into his seat a bit as the thief Storn sat up and was the first to speak.

"Tell us what you want us to do old man - ghost stories are for old men to children." Cardic scowled and brought his hand to his chin.

"Could these misfits possibly do what would be required of him? Perhaps they would rather just cut his throat and take his purse - he was to be dead anyway, wasn't he? How very convenient..." He pushed the thoughts out of his mind. Now was not the time for such worries and concerns. Now was the time for action. He had been over the plan in his thoughts many times, and he cleared his throat now to present them.

"I will not be traveling with you, of course. I am old and slow, and supposed to be dead anyway. Many in Atopos have seen my face before through my travels and visits with the King. If anyone were to notice me as easily as our bard friend had, the entire fellowship would be compromised". He noticed the older crusader raise his eyebrows in skepticism here, and pounced.

"Yes, that is the word I used - Fellowship! For surely that is what you must be! You are one unit - one body - you must look out for one another - protect one another! Who can say which of you will be the one most needed to destroy the relic!"

"But why don't you just tell us what this relic is!" Hissed the elf. Cardic cringed.

"Quiet! Be quiet! You never know what is listening and watching here!" The elf seemed to roll her eyes, but Cardic went on, turning his gaze to the heavily tattooed man in front of him. "Why was he grinning as well?"

"You will need each other, I am sure, before you succeed in your task. No, I don't know what you will face..." Cardic waved off the gestures of the elf again "...but I know that the closer you get, the more likely you are to be noticed. And I know that what you are facing is a human, but backed by something sinister that I cannot profess to understand. It is not of this world."

"Finding out what this force is made of is exactly what I plan to do, however. There are great libraries in Falcross Castle, east of here, and I have connections that run deep with the court of the Black Falcon."

"I will meet you again, in Bulgoda, the realm of the Black Monarch." Cardic looked to the Vikings nodding head. "Yes, all of you know it well, of course. You will travel from here tomorrow morning, before the cock crows and the prying eyes of others are able to take notice of so odd an assortment as this. It will be dark in the morning, and you'll need to travel slowly in the black morning sky and wet dew. Take no rest until you pass the Silver River and reach the edge of the Crow Mountains."

"I will meet you all in Fallach, the first town in Bulgoda." Now Cardic pulled out a map of the city Fallach and pushed it to the center of the table. He had no idea who would take it, but he could not fail to stress it's importance.

"This map will lead you to the home of a close ally of mine. Follow the instructions on the map and when challenged at the door, say one word; 'Noci'. Do not forget..." The man Storn looked annoyed...

"Noc-"

"Quiet fool!" Cardic scowled again at the young, bald-shaven man. He would be a liability, perhaps... but let the Fellowship weed out the winners and losers...

"I need to tell you something else..." Cardic leaned forward now, and felt the hood of his cloak fall further down his forhead. I may have been followed here!"

Benito was amused. The story sounded as crazy as the old man he had come to know as Cardic. What the hell, it was money and adventure; the two things he longed for.

"I'm in." Benito smiled grimly as he took the map and folded it into his pocket. "Whether or not I like the idea of a fellowship with a rag-tag band of scoundrels, it sounds intriguing." He had only added the last part to make Cardic feel better.

F-18


Owen breathed deeply, and tried to collect his thoughts. He had seen and heard many things in his life, but the story Cardic told was like nothing before... like something an elderly man would make up for the entertainment of his grandchildren. Owen found himself hoping that this was the case, that this was just an elaborate fake, but one look at the councilman told him otherwise. Cardic's face was very pale, and his voice strained and quivered as he spoke.

The very idea that this tale even had the chance of being true sent a shiver through the guard's core. The large fire in the inn warmed his skin, but bones felt chilled. The darkness they would supposedly face terrified him, yet he found the story strangely intriguing.

He cautiously look around at the others seated around the table. Both the bard and the young one were grinning... why? It puzzled Owen. They probably think it's a joke, he thought. The others appeared solemn and calm, and he prayed his face looked as grave as theirs'.

"I'm in." Exclaimed a man seated across from Owen, breaking the thick silence. The quickness with which he had made his mind slightly worried Owen. Was Cadic suspecting them all to decide so soon? There were appealing aspects of this journey for certain, but the darkness that was spoken of still latched itself to the front of Owen's mind. He had no reason or desire to simply return to his home, but was going on a dangerous journey really what he wanted? ... If only he wasn't so tired! Maybe then he could think straighter...

He wiped his brow with the back of his hand and looked around the table again. He decided that he would wait to see what the others thought before making a decision.

Benito stood and walked over to the counter. At first, he had thought the old man's tale amusing, but he was slightly unnerved at the silence that had followed. What was up with these guys? Couldn't they see that Cardic's story of doom and gloom was just like all the other stories told in the inn; blown out of proportion? He looked back over his shoulder. A few of the men at the table were smiling, but the rest of them looked very contemplative, as if waiting for the others to decide. The man who had been sitting across from him, Owen, he looked as if he had seen a ghost. Couldn't a man that old take a scary story? Or perhaps his age gave him reason to take it seriously? That thought made Benito a bit nervous. Was Cardic actually telling the truth? Did all those things really happen? If they were true then....

"Can I help you, sir?" Benito looked up. The man behind the counter. "Yes, I need a room for the night...I'll be leaving...in the morning." Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the correct payment and slid it over the wooden surface. "Are you alright, sir? Your hand is shaking." Benito stared at his hand. Shaking? Shaking? He was shaking? Benito Petrelli had faced many things in his life, from dragons to ungreatful women, but never had he wavered. He had always faced danger with that same cockiness, that same amusement he had at the table. What was different about this adventure? "I'm fine." He quickly pulled his hand back and stuck it in his pocket. "Would you like a companion? She'll help whatever is ailing you." Only scum resorted to that. He was far from being scum "No thanks, I won't be needing anything except a bed." With that, Benito turned, and followed the servant who led him to his room.

A heavy silence fell upon the company as Benito left. Most of them were eyeing Cardic suspiciously, worriedly, or both. Jêltieht leaned back in his chair and continued smiling though. A smile was the most effective defensive mechanism that there is, he had learnt that much.

Wasn’t this what you had left behind you? a soft voice spoke in the back of his head. He shrugged slowly to himself and contemplated the ceiling above. There were cobwebs in all four of the corners. Poor girl, he thought to himself.

“Hey, you, what are you grinning at?”

Jêltieht wasn’t sure who had spoken, but since all of them were gazing at him it didn’t really matter. He shrugged slowly and stood up.

“Oh well, gentlemen, it has been a long evening. Time to go to bed…”

“But what about the fellowship?” Cardic hissed.

Jêltieht shrugged his shoulders and grinned at the old man. “My home lies to the north, and detours make for some interesting stories, eh?”

And with those words he span around and walked away, with a little too fast steps. He could hear them muttering behind his back.

So, gotten yourself entangled again? the soft voice giggled.

Oh, cut it, will you!

F-18

Malaer wasn't too thrilled with the whole quest idea. She thought the story was funny actually. She put her hood back up so nobody could see that she was laughing at the story. She thought that it just summed up the rest of her life, though nobody else knew of the horrors. She still stood by the table, seeing that everyone else was a little afraid. They don't even no what pain is.

Malaer declared, "I will go."

Only one had accepted before her, and he had left the table. The others didn't seem too anxious to answer so she thought she'd best try to give them quiet to think. After a while, she got tired of waiting.

"You know what?" Malear spoke, "You are all a bunch of cowards!"

"I can't bare being around you anymore!" Malaer yelled, though not loud enough to be heard by any of the other tables, unless they were eavesdropping.

"You will find me outside the city in the morning. I am going to prepare for the coming journey."

So she left as she said. She threw open the door, and the whole tavern took notice. On her way out she slammed it shut, and she was gone.

F-18


Owen watched in silence as the elf stormed out, then spat at her trail after she was gone. “Disgusting.” he hissed. He was aware of elves' sense of superiority, but this was pushing it too far. How dare she? There was a blind intensity burning inside him, and he did nothing to put it out. To hell with waiting! He thought, rising with a vigor almost too much for his stiff legs.

“I'm in.” he said, staring down the remaining occupants of the table, as if daring them to challenge his decision.

A wave of contrition overtook him for second, but he pushed it quickly to the back of his mind. He was in, and he would not allow himself to turn back now.

“Evening,” he muttered, and hobbled off to his long-awaited bed.

F-18 Dragon’s Landing Inn

Daegal listened to the old man’s story in silence. A chill swept through him as he stared at the contents of his tankard. He knew the evil Cardic spoke of, it had ruined his own life. He would go on this quest, only then could he save his clan. This meeting was fated.

“I will go and see it through. You have my word.” He replied gruffly.

“…Thank you.” Sighed the old man.

Daegal watched as four of the six at the table walked away. Something was wrong, he scratched the stubble on his chin in consternation. Then it hit home. He leaped to his feet, “you said you were followed?”

Cardic nodded, “yes! A man in a black cloak. I couldn’t see his face, but I know he was after me.”

Daegal nodded, a hand straying to his axe. “Where is the wretch now?”

“I last saw him out in the alley.” The old man’s eyes were wide as saucers.

“Aye then. I’ll deal with him.” As he walked past, he yanked Storn to his feet by his collar.

“Hey! What’s the big idea!?” He yelped, breaking free.

“We’re going out to the alley.” Replied Daegal, in a tone that couldn’t be argued with.

“Couldn’t we have gotten three or four of the others?” Storn asked.

“We’re already out the door.” Said Daegal, booting it open.

Storn sighed, “fine.” He reached for a dagger.

F-18 The Alley outside of the Dragon’s Landing Inn

When neither of them moved then, the Viking grabbed him again, and Storn struggled in vain against the enormous fist grasping his vest. He dragged him out of the Inn and into the alley between the Dragon's Landing and the next building. The building next door was tall and made of fieldstone. Storn felt his temper boil.

"The image of a fearless warrior he had worked so hard to project in front of them all was suddenly shattered by this man who thought he was his father!

Bitterness and anger towards the viking boiled and Storn saw only red - "He was a fighter! A lethal shadow among men! And this enormous man thought he could just treat him like a child or a dog! Who did he think he was!"

"Let me GO viking!" He raised his curved dagger menacingly, but it wasn't necessary - Daegal effortlessly tossed him against the wall of the tall stone building, and Storn hit with a thud, barley missing a pile of wooden crates piled in front of him. He was in a rage.

"Bastard of a -" but he stopped short then.

The moon was bright and powerful this night, and it shown on the powerful shourlders and arms of the viking, with his axe suddenly raised and tense, in a way that projected the Nordic gods themselves.

But there was something else than awe to distract Storn. Something in the viking's eyes... Storn had seen the look many, many times since his arrival into Falcross Castle. It was the look of a man who saw... something... and the primal, animal instinct that that man is ready to unleash. Storn pulled out both daggers now and crouched low behind the wooden crates, ready to pounce like a scavenger. At what, he knew not.

Deagal stood strong and tense still... every muscle knotting as he clutched the strong ax... and then he cried out - or roared perhaps, bringing his ax quickly back into a small arc and bringing it forward.

What happened next was almost too fast for Storn to see.

Something dark blurred into view from the alley behind the crates, smashing into Deagal and hitting him square in the chest. Storn flinched at the dull thud he heard upon impact as he saw sharp objects raising from the black cloak on the vikings chest, reaching up to his face.

But the viking pulled at it with it's other arm now, slamming it hard from him to the stone floor of the alley. The black cloak was on it's feet in an instant, crouching and looking up directly, suddenly to face Storn, only feet away.

Storn froze in terror.

He would remember, many years from now, the cowardice of that moment. Much worse than the failure and disgrace against the bulls who attacked his village back home in Leonius, this time he was like rock, the daggers in his hand useless and dull.

The being withing the cloak was unseen, but dull crimson beads glimmered dimly from withing the shadows of the cloak in that instant.

The viking, thankfully, was not phased as Storn had been and in the next moment he kicked the cloak hard, sending it against the same wall he had sent Storn into, but much harder.

A grinding screech, such as metal on rock, erupted from the black cloak and upon hitting the earth from the wall it raced away from them, down the alley. Storn watched it go, hopping to empty crates of ale and then struggling to the reach the top of the Dragon's Landing roof.

"After him boy!"

Whatever Storn feared more, he wasn't sure, but at the moment the grinding teeth and blazing eyes of the viking were over him, so in the next moment he was pouncing down the alley, one dagger clutched in his teeth, as it so often was when he was on a raid.

He could catch this thing, perhaps, and the thought terrified him.

But this was his as natural to him as breathing - running in the city alleys in the pitch of night, and he felt a familiar surge of confidence rise within him.

The black cloak reached the roof of the Inn and Storn saw it's dull red beads within glare at him again, measuring him perhaps, before it turned away suddenly and ran down the roof, jumping to another building next door.

Storn was on the roof of the Inn soon after, and the pursuit was on.

He heard the screaming of the viking behind him, strong, but fading... it didn't matter what he said now, or however urgent it might be, or whatever warning it might hold.

He was on a mission now, and the shame of his recent failure to this cloaked thing made him all the more determined to catch him. His confidence bursting, the two shadows raced from roof to roof bathed in blinding white light and the blackest of building shadows.

Storn lost the black cloak in the shadows once, but found the eyes, and the two went on.

He was gaining ground, slowly, if he reached out his hand, he might be able to grab that cloak... but he needed to be close enough to slice the curve of his blade through that cloak...

Suddenly he noticed that the fiend was moving quicker now. Storn looked up and saw why - a large street separated the roof they now raced across and the roof that his prey was looking to leap to. He couldn't slow down now.

They jumped almost instantaneously, and Storn saw the tattered shadow in front of him, almost floating in the moonlight, leaping the wide street and hitting the roof across the way. But Storn had not made it. Or not quite.

He hit the edge of the roof hard. Desperately, he reached out and grasped the black cloak as he began to slide off the edge. It was a rich, thick velvet, but moist and almost slimy to the touch.

Storn grasped tighter then, "He couldn't let go!" But the red eyes flashed around to him again, and with them a set of curved, clawed hands that raked his arm, biting deep into the flesh.

Storn screamed and felt his hand unclench, his body falling away from the nightmare above.

The cuts burned as if seared by red-hot iron, and Storn felt himself black-out as he fell.

Daegal came dashing around the house only moments after Storn had fallen. He saw a faint shadow disappearing beyond a roof top but he put it out of his mind and kneeled before the unconscious Storn. Murmuring prayers he started caressing Storn’s wounds.

Claws?

A low melodious whistle broke his concentration and he looked up at the sound. One of the windows on the second floor of the inn was open, and revealed the shape of Jêltieht, who sat perched there like a vigilant bird of prey.

“What are you up to?” Daegal snarled.

Jêltieht shrugged his shoulders and with a graceful leap he was down on the ground beside Daegal. The Viking shrugged his head in disbelief but then he muttered something unintelligible top himself and turned back to Storn’s maimed body. Jêltieht kneeled beside him.

“I don’t think you can do anything about those wounds, my friend”, he whispered.

“No, but the gods can help me”, Daegal answered irritably.

“I could guess that much from your prayers. But these wounds would demand a very powerful cleric…”

Daegal sighed deeply and turned away from Storn. “What do you want?”

“I saw it.”

Storn eyed him suspiciously. “Uhuh?”

“It was one of the Fire-Daemons of your home.”

“Shapeshifter?”

Jêltieht nodded gravely.

“Did you see its human shape.”

Jêltieht nodded once again. “Go get that night elf. I think she could be of help now. In the meantime I will try to wake this poor fellow up. Those wounds look painful, but they are hardly lethal.”

Daegal didn’t let go of Jêltieht’s gaze. “And?”

Jêltieht produced an axe from the shadows of his cloak. “We’ll go hunting.”

Daegal hesitantly walked away, not letting Jêltieht out of his sight until he had to turn around the corner of the inn. As the Viking disappeared Jêltieht buried his face in his hands.

Why do you care?

He hissed lowly and tried to regain his focus. He wiped a single tear away and shivering slightly he leaned closer to Storn. He slapped him twice over the cheek.

“The break is over, I’m afraid.”

F-18

Daegal thundered into the inn, his mind racing. A fire-daemon, here. He shoved his way past surprised patrons and bounded up the stairs of the inn. He needed to find the night elf, her abilities would be needed tonight. He had to round up the others as well, they would need the manpower. The viking found himself in a hallway, a half dozen different doors to either side. He was brutal to and to the point, he began booting open doors.

“What in the name of the gods are you doing?” Someone growled.

Daegal turned to see Owen approaching, his hands gripped tight around his spear. “Where did you go?” He barked.

“Looking for a chamber pot, I needed to do some thinking.” Grunted Owen.

“Cardic’s been followed by a fire-daemon, it wounded Storn. We gotta kill it before it get’s away.” Daegal huffed.

“A what? I haven’t even decided if I’m go…” Not waiting for a reply, Daegal moved on.

He booted open a door to Benito’s room. The man stumbled out of bed, a throwing dagger in hand. “What the…” He mouthed.

Daegal quickly retold everything he told Owen. Benito got a gleam in his eyes, “Give me a minute.”

Not waiting for the other two, Daegal strode into the common room. A worried Cardic was their to meet him. “What’s going on?” He asked, fear plain on his face.

“We’ve got a problem. Do you know where the elf is?” Cardic shook his head.

Daegal again booted the front door open, to the ire of the inn keep. Daegal glanced at the dizzyingly tall buildings surrounding him. How am I gonna find an elf and a fire-daemon in this?

F-18

Malaer was outside the city walls as she said earlier to those humans. She wasn't welcome in the city, and she knew the safest place was in the forest. She collected some stones and wood to make some extra arrows. Of course, she had to find an old enough tree to sleep on. If the tree didn't have enough girth, the limbs would collapse.

Her body felt numb. The uneasy pain of the thoughts in her head almost made her lose balance. She just couldn't stop thinking about it. It wouldn't go away.

Eventually she started to think of her soon to be companions. They were all male, they were all human. She began to wonder if they could handle this journey. Did they have any ability to use magic? How much endurance did they have? Could they keep up with the pace she wanted to move at? Could they fight...?

She didn't know if she believed that the Crusader aligned members would turn against their own leader. She was uncomfortable around all Crusader aligned people though. Her past had led her to hate them, yet these two characters around her didn't even know. She also questioned the presence of Daegal. Vikings weren't exactly her friends either.

Even then, she knew she would have to deal with being around them, and she knew that her impression on them wasn't that great either. Sleep soon overcame her...

F-18 - Streets of Faeon (the name of the city)

Storn blinked the white glow away from his eyes and stared at the dark silhouette hovering over his head, slapping him gently, but firmly.

He sat up quickly then, the image of the two dull, red eyes glowing back at him, flashes of the chase flickering through his mind all in a moment.

He looked over to the man next to him, and saw it was the bard.

"When had he arrived? Or... was this the fiend in disguise?"

Storn backed away then, grasping after the curved dagger that he had dropped somewhere in his fall. He clenched it hard in his fist, and felt his arm flare up in a burning, deep pain.

"Argh!"

"Easy friend" the bard eased. "You've had yourself a nice little walk tonight, now haven't you?" A crooked grin creased his face, somewhat shadowed in the night.

Storn looked instictively down to his arm and saw three deep, ragged cuts from his elbow to his wrist. They zig-zagged over his tatoo of the queen of spades - a mark from the first unsuccessful "job" he had performed here in the kingdom of the Black Falcon. He had gotten that inked on his arm - his strong arm - so he would never forget his past failures.

Storn saw something odd then, and looked closer. Despite the depth of the cuts, there was no blood - and a greenish hue outlined each gash. He squinted at the Bard then, sitting close and still looking very concerned.

"Who are you, bard? And what's wrong with my arm?"

“Good eve to you too”, Jêltieht grinned. “And I think you ought to thank your viking friend, not this humble wanderer.”

“What do you mean?”

“He seems to be an initiate in the divine arts of healing. I’m glad to have him by my side.”

Storn shot another glance at the greenish wounds. “So, where is he now?”

Jêltieht shrugged his shoulders absent-mindedly. “Gone off to get us some companions I hope.”

“Companions?”

“You weren’t going to let that daemon escape, were you?”

Storn snarled and sat up, grimacing from the pain. “How are we going to find it?”

“Oh”, Jêltieht winked cheekily, “leave that to me, and I’ll leave the killing part to you.”

Storn sighed deeply. “Oh well… gonna help me up then, coward?”

“If you say so.”

And with those words Jêltieht grabbed hold of Storn’s arm and pulled him up. Storn bit his lip and let out a tiny moan of pain. Then he gave Jêlteiht an ugly look and cursed lowly to himself.

“You never answered my first question, bard.”

“Who I am?”

“Mhm.”

“What you do not know, will not hurt you. I’m a wandering bard. Let that be enough for now.”

Storn noted a sudden seriousness in Jêltieht’s voice that he didn’t recognize, and let him have his way.

“And who are you, friend?”

F-18


Owen was so exhausted, yet Cardic's story seemed to haunt his entire being. He cursed Cardic and the blasted story for depriving him of his much desired sleep, and sat up. There was so much crowding his tired mind, and he felt overwhelmed and helpless. He needed to think, to move around, to get his blood circulating again. He threw off the covers and stood up, wrapping himself in his cloak as the cold air swiftly greeted him. There was a small table in one corner of the room with a basin of water on it, and Owen rubbed his eyes and stumbled over to it. He splashed the icy water across his face, which made him feel colder than he already did, but it also made him feel awake. He grabbed his spear which had been leaning against the wall, in immediate reach of his bed. He told himself he was acting like a paranoid child, but took it with him anyway as he shuffled out to the chamber to relieve himself.

He was returning to his room when the whole inn seemed to explode with noise. Someone or something was slamming open the doors of the rooms. Fear swept over Owen, and he gripped his spear nervously, slowly approaching the dark figure, only the realize it was the viking. “What in the name of the gods are you doing?” Owen demanded.

“Where did you go?” the viking barked. The question confused Owen, and slowly answered “Looking for a chamber pot, I needed to do some thinking.” it was the truth, yet he felt slightly ashamed of himself in front the large man.

“Cardic’s been followed by a fire-daemon, it wounded Storn. We gotta kill it before it get’s away.” The Viking huffed.

“A what? I haven’t even decided if I’m going yet!” The words seemed to tumble out of Owen's mouth before he thought about what he was saying. Why on earth had he said that? He was going, but his fear of Daegal had intimidated him into saying something foolish. The viking didn't hear him or didn't care, and rushed on past Owen to the next rooms. Owen stood in the hall for a moment, cursing every inch of his imbecilic self, then rushed down the hallway, and out onto the frigid street.

F-18

Daris arrived in the inn around noon. He had been there so long, that the barmaids and patrons had nearly forgotten that he was there. He found a small table in the corner, near the stairs. He waited patiently like any who knew that there was money to be made. His deep blue eyes scanned the room for opportunity and he tried to visualize what the night would bring. After a long while, boredom had set in and the bottle he drank from grew light. It was his second, and the expensive, dark liquid had begun to affect his mind. He’d been watching the old, blue cloaked man for a while and after watching him shift between nervousness and self pity, determined that this was the man that would bring his mark. He’d also been contemplating on which of the young ladies in the inn’s employ would be a suitable comfort later in the evening. An ill-minded smirk crossed his face as he contemplated this and he took another pull from the bottle. He sat back further in his chair, becoming numb to the happenings of the inn as more and more entered. The old man was joined by a young man, then a Viking. Neither was of his interest. Next came a tall, long dark haired man. Daris had to squint for a moment before determining that he was not what he was looking for either. Two others joined the table, a dark elf, it seemed, and a battle weary looking man. Doubt began to set in until the final “guest” arrived. Daris perked up slightly and let the following events unravel. A story and bold proclamations. He heard the name “Blackbird”, and the rest was meaningless to him.

“Sure, a lengthy quest with a bunch of vagabonds” he mused to himself. “Might even be fun“. He brought back the bottle for another long drink. He watched as two of them retreated to the upstairs, the dark elf storm out, and the veteran make his way for the stairs as well. That left the old man at the table with two others. Daris quietly slipped outside unnoticed and headed for the nearest ally. He needed some fresh air, time to think, and to relieve his “mind”. He steadied his feet and wandered off into the dark. Time had slipped by and before he knew it, a commotion was invading his thoughts. A yell, a thud, and the Viking’s gruff voice could be heard. He rounded the corner and saw the Viking bound off back toward the inn. A muffled conversation ensued. The younger man with tattoos was being helped off the ground by the one called Blackbird.

“What you do not know, will not hurt you. I’m a wandering bard. Let that be enough for now.”

Storn noted a sudden seriousness in Jêltieht’s voice that he didn’t recognize, and let him have his way.

“And who are you, friend?”

“Well, look what we ‘ave ‘ere” said Daris. “Ah didn’t fink you’d ‘wander’ into ma paf so soon”.

The two men looked quizzically at one another then back to this intruder with swagger compliments of the bottle he carried. The bard’s eyes narrowed for a second, then resumed a mask of confusion.

“Whatever do you mean, good man?”

Daris wiped his mouth with the back of his hand after another pull, and a flash of steel produced a short sword.

“What d’ you say that we make a little quest to see a certain baron, mate” he said.

But something was wrong. His mind began to spin. This wasn’t his second bottle, indeed it was his third….and it tasted different, stronger than his last. Before the bard could answer, he retracted his offer to buy more time. Bards like to talk, he thought. He put his sword away, nearly skewering himself.

“Or you could give me a reason ta forget I even seen ya?”

Jêltieht’s mind was racing. What bloody baron?

“How many bottles would that take?” he answered the unknown drunkard to win himself some time.

The mercenary let out a roaring laughter and winked at the perplexed Jêltieht. “I can take loads, bloody bard.”

Jêltieht shot a glance at the man’s bottle. Falconian Cognac? What utter idiot of a bounty hunter would drink that before collecting his prize? Or a foreigner of course…

“You’re not from around here, are you?”

“Nay, and neither are ya.”

“Correct. So who are you?”
“Name’s Daris. Should be enough for ya.”

“Oh, pleased to meet you then, Daris. I am Blackbird, but I guess you already knew. So, who is this baron?”

All the while Storn stayed silent behind Jêltieht. He pulled out a dagger and bided his time, not sure of which one of them he should slay.

“Egrain of Fallach. Don’ya remember ‘im?”

“The one who shared bed with his own sister?”

Jêltieht couldn’t help letting a smile pass his features. Maybe I shouldn’t have sung a ballad about it…

“Did not!”

“Oh, of course he did. Does it matter to you anyway?”

Daris swaggered slightly. “’e ‘ad loads of money.”

“A common trait of barons, yes.”

“So, why shouldn’t I kill ya, bard?”

Jêltieht shrugged his shoulders. “Oh, I don’t know. But as it stands, Fallach happens to be on our way.”

“Mhm?”

“So why don’t you just join our merry band of brave adventurers? That way you don’t have to carry me. And when we get to Fallach you can decide. Either you continue with us, or decide to bring me in, and if so, I’ll slit your throat. Savvy?”

Daris looked at Jêltieht for a long time, contemplating his words. He cursed that third bottle to himself.

“One thing, mate.”

“Yes?”

“If I decide to bring ya in, I’ll slit your froat.”

“We’ll see who’s the fastest.”

F-18 Streets of Faeon

Daegal emerged into the street, with Owen trailing behind him. “So…what’s a fire-daemon?” Blurted Owen.

Daegal glanced at him, “I’m not sure. It is a creature from the northern most regions of Atopos. My people tell many stories of them, each one more queer then the last. The only real facts we have are that they can shape shift and they can be killed with mortal weapons. I’ve been lead to believe they’re spawn from Hell itself. ”

“Gods, what’s one of them doing down here?” Gasped Owen, gripping his spear tightly.

“My only guess is that Cardic’s story is correct.”

Turning a corner, Daegal spied Blackbird and Storn, a stranger with them. Daegal regarded the stranger suspiciously, he had seen him at the tavern. “Who are you?” He grunted.

The new comer half-stumbled to face him. “Name’s Daris. I’ve decided to be joinin’ ye, at least as far as Fallach.”

There was a chill in the air, not for the first time Daegal regretted shaving his beard. “We don’t need a drunkard.”

“We can find a use for him.” Said Blackbird, a smile on his lips.

“Fine then.” Replied Daegal. “I couldn’t find the elf, she’s probably left the city by now.”

Blackbird sighed, “once Benito gets here we’ll set out. There are enough of us here to hunt the daemon, but I’d rather not take any chances.”

Benito tossed and turned in his sleep. His dreams weren't pleasant...they had never been. Sometimes he envisioned friends he had lost, their spirits coming back to haunt him in his dreams. Now matter how tired he had been, he never looked forward to sleep.

BAM!! Benito erupted our of his sleep. Grabbing his knives he lunged for the door. "What the...?" Relax, its the viking.

“Cardic’s been followed by a fire-daemon, we followed it and it wounded Storn. Get dressed, we have to kill it before it gets away.” Daegal was obviously in a hurry.

Fire-daemon? From what he had heard they were shape-shifters.. evil beings that could not be killed by mortal weapons. Cardic's story was all too true. 'Wounded Storn'? This meant war. That bastard is going down.

"Give me a minute."

Benito quickly armed himself, and left the room. So much for sleep.

Rushing through the crowd of drunks, he exited the inn. Where had they gone? He had only to look at his feet. There, on the cobblestones, were the footprints belonging to his companions. Following them a short distance, he came upon the scene. Jêltieht sat on the ground, with Storn nearby, clutching his wound. The poor bastard . Daegal looked up, a grim expression on his face. "You've gotten here quickly." Benito didn't respond.

F-18 Streets of Faeon

A heavy silence descended upon the group, with its members sizing up each other. It was broken before long by a snort from Dranis though.

“An’ what’s up now anyway?”

Jêltieht gave him a quick smirk. “Hunting daemons.”

“Oh… that seems like a good idea”, Daris scoffed.

“Probably not, but that’s what I’ll be doing and if you want to keep check on me…”

“Right then.”

“And one more thing, dear Daris, if you want to bring me in alive for your fat reward, I suggest you place yourself between myself and said daemon.”

With those words Jêltieht set off in an unexpectedly fast pace. Daris followed, growling unintelligibly to himself. The others didn’t move though and Daegal caught Storn’s gaze.

“What was that about?”

Storn shrugged his shoulders and let out a grim chuckle. “I dunno. The bloody bard’ probably demented. But he’s growing on me.”

And with that the four followed Jêltieht and Daris through the dwindling streets of Faeon.

F-18 Streets of Faeon

Storn walked with the rest of the group through the shadows and highlights of Faeon's night streets. He had no idea where they were going or how they were going to find that shrouded terror that could be anywhere now, moving like ink on ink over paper - impossible to detect where one started and the other ended. So to was it with this thing and the shadows of the buildings surrounding them.

"Well, there was one difference" Storn thought to himself. "Those dull crimson beads beneath the hood".

His arm flared up anew with a deep, burning pain and Storn tried to casually grasp it with his left hand - controlling his face against the cringes of pain that traced themselves out on his face.

He looked out of the corner of his eye to see if anyone spotted this sign of weakness... hopefully not. All seemed set and stone-faced, except the forestman, that is... they were looking ahead through the darkness at the bard leading them along, with a speed that suggested he knew where he was going.

Storn dropped his hand away from the wound and grasped a dagger in his right hand - testing his grip against the pain of his wounds.

He didn't like this situation. He didn't know if like these people... he had adventured with many men older than him, of course. But this was the first time that he was with men who had seen more and could do more than he could. Storn gritted his teeth.

He had gone on countless raids with adventurers - slinked past guards, stolen gems, and outshone them all. But now... now he was a boy again... nothing more.

He looked to the Viking who had healed his green slashes on his arm. The man looked on the verge of utter rage - although Storn knew not why. Part of Storn liked this viking - always authorative and sure - the man had saved him twice now - once in the alley against the Daemon, and once against the scarlet stripes on his arm now.

Storn felt a mixture of admiration and annoyance at it all. He didn't like being the one who needed to be rescued. And anyway - wasn't the viking the reason he had been put into that position? Storn furrowed his brow.

And then there was the bard - always full of surprises - he knew not what to think of the man - in the face of adversary - that grin... Storn grinned to himself. You had to respect a man who laughed at -

Everyone had stopped suddenly. At what, Storn didn't know. The bard was ahead of them now - perhaps 10 feet in the street shadows - one armed raised above his head in a gesture for them all to hold.

"Was someone coming? Perhaps another surprise guest to their party - it seemed they were drawing all the misfits of the Atopos this night..."

Storn put the dagger from his sore arm into his mouth and slinked into the shadows to the side of the group.

A moment later, however, the bard was moving again, and the group with them. Storn stood in the shadows, watching them move. For a moment he thought of leaving them behind. But then jogged to catch up to the group.

F-18

A deathly stillness clutched the city. The fellowship of six moved along at a brisk pace, down wide luxurious avenues and dark winding side streets. Even with five skilled allies backing him up, Daegal’s unease only grew. This city with its great structures still disturbed him, he felt like an animal trapped in a cage. His heart ached for his homeland, with its primeval pine forests and bley hills. He half wished he had stayed there, the evil he had fled in the first place had followed him here, and now he had no choice but to confront it on a field not of his choosing.

The fellowship continued on for a lengthy period of time. Clinging to the shadows, with only the dimmest light from street lanterns to guide their way. The streets were deserted except for the occasional patrol of Black Falcons, they avoided those. As the night grew late, everyone but Blackbird started to feel drowsy. Soon Daegal found himself struggling to put one foot forward. Soon, they came to a small, deserted plaza before an abandoned temple. A crumbling, overgrown compound, with a leaning tower emerging out of it’s midst. Daegal was jolted out of his stupor when Blackbird raised a hand.

The pitiful few hairs left on the viking’s chin stood on end. “Have you found it?” He asked.

“It may have found us.” Whispered Blackbird.

The other members of the fellowship sluggishly drew their weapons wordlessly. Storn, who was bringing up the rear had to stifle a wide yawn, he froze. Daegal stared at him and then stared at where he was staring. Upon the tallest tower of the temple stood the fire-daemon. A tattered black cloak with two blood red beads. The thing glided backwards, vanishing into the darkness of the temple.

Daegal stared at the tower in horror, every dread moment of his childhood coming back to him. The temple’s tower was creepy enough, that thing in it made it worse. He could imagine it, gliding down the winding stairs, it cloak billowing in the wind that wasn’t there, coming for them.

“Let’s get it!” Someone growled.

Benito booted open the doors of the temple, the rotting wood gave no resistance. Owen and Daris lurched after them, the strange drowsiness still afflicting them. Sensing something terribly wrong, Daegal followed.

F-18

As the four men charged into the temple Jêltieht backed off a few steps. Storn – knife in hand – stopped as well and glared at the bard.

“What are you up to, Blackbird?”

“If I go in the front lines I’ll just end up killed”, Jêltieht grinned, “and in your state, you could just as well stay here.”

“And what bloody good would that do?”

Jêltieht shrugged and cut him off with a wave of his hand.

“Why this rush?” he sighed to himself.

“You know something.” It was not a question. Storn closed in on Jêltieht.

“As a matter of fact I do.”

“And?” Storn was positively growling. There were merely inches between their faces now.

“It fears the dark.”

“What?” Storn nearly dropped his dagger.

“It’s a bloody fire-daemon. Darkness is its anathema.”

Storn looked up at the brightly shining moon above. “Great night then”, he sighed.

Jêltieht muttered lowly and looked at the looming tower. One by one the windows were lit by a dim flame. Storn noticed it too and faced the bard.

“What do we do?”

The light spread like wildfire. In moments the whole temple would shine brightly.

Jêltieht pulled forth his harp and struck a low chord. As the tone ebbed out a shroud of darkness fell upon the pair. Jêltieht continued his mournful tune and nodded to Storn.

“You are a good climber right? We’ll strike from behind.”

F-18 Temple interior

Daris followed the two crusaders into the old temple. A hunt was on, and he was willing to play. He shook off the effects of the dark drink and adjusted his eyes to the overwhelming darkness.

The Viking was close behind them and stopped short of slamming into Owen. Benito and Owen had their blades drawn. They crept forward toward a set of stairs that twisted up into the darkness. A dim light shone down from the top of the stairs. Daegal followed closely with a nervousness about him. He took note of the crumbling stonework and the light that appeared to get brighter above them. After a few steps he caught Daris out of the corner of his eye. “Daris” he tried to shout, but it was barely above a whisper. The other two paid no mind and continued ahead. Daegal breathed deeply and the uneasiness in his chest continued to rise as he ascended.

The half-elf’s eyes adjusted quicker than the others. He had spotted an archway to the left and remained still while the others continued on. Sword in his right hand, bottle in his left, he waited to see what they would do. The tall dark haired human seemed bold if not foolish. He must have some skill though, since he was not exactly young….nor did he have scars of one that was inept. The veteran Owen seemed like he had something to prove. Daris didn’t know what to make of this man. He seemed determined at one minute and scared stiff the next. The Viking was equally puzzling. He tried to hide his heritage, yet displayed every bit of it with his actions. Something had unnerved this man, yet he seemed the strongest of them all. Daris turned and slipped through the archway as he heard Daegal call out to him.

“What was he doing?” he thought to himself. “Don’t get too close to them. Besides, they probably think you’re a worthless drunk” “Yea, let em fink that” he said aloud. He tilted his head back and brought the bottle to his lips for another drink when something caught his attention. Moonlight snuck through the cracks in a wall and glittered off of something in the corner. Daris walked forward to examine it. He tilted his head to the side and squinted in the low light. A creaking sound became a splintering sound as the floor gave way beneath him. He landed hard with dust, debris, and dark liquid covering his body. “Bloody hell” he groaned. Light shone down on him from the gaping hole above. He propped himself on his right elbow. His left hand still held the bottle neck tightly. When he rose to his feet, he noticed the difference in the weight of the bottle. “Ahhh, come on!” he yelled as he noticed that the rest of the bottle lay shattered on the ground. It was dark and colder down here, and the others probably hadn’t heard the commotion. “Great” he muttered. “That ole Blackbird will find me here and have a right laugh. E’ll prob-lee ave a smirk on is face too….an I won’t even see it because it’s so bloody dark down here” he fumed. He let his eyes adjust a bit and then saw a ladder to his right. Part of him wanted to explore this lower level, but alone in the dark with more eminent danger above got the better of him. He climbed a few rungs and felt the wooden door above with his blade. He pushed up with his fist and entered into the room that he had just fallen from. The shiny thing was a door ring for the trap door he just passed through. He dusted himself off and looked at the door. “What the hell use are you?” he spat. “I got a big hole right here” he nodded toward the opening in the floor. Stepping carefully, he avoided the hole and other weak floorboards and came out into the room where they had entered the temple. They were gone now. “I better go tell em bout that big hole” he said to himself. He headed for the steps. “A fire-something” he thought. That’s what they were chasing. “Ah wonder if them bone-heads thought to bring any water wiff them? Bet that ole Blackbird didn’t even fink of that. Ah well, no time for that now” He hurried up the stairs, full of himself.

F-18 Temple exterior

Storn turned away from the bard with anger and admiration both swirling within him and battling each other at the same time. The bard was full of secrets, it seemed, and yet there was no question as to his skill and knowledge.

Still... just because he was helpful now... a man this skillful and knowledgeable - he knew too many people and too much about magic - could easily and quickly make a powerful enemy. Storn would watch him closely, he decided.

"I'll suppose you'll want ME to go first in our little back-door attack!" Again, he was not asking the bard questions. There was no answer and Storn knew the Blackbird was offering only his grin again. He spat and pulled from his waist belt the short rope and hook that had so often been used in times like these.

There was a time when the rope had been new and stiff, the hook freshly cut and shaped from a blacksmith forge. Now they were both black - the rope with age, the hook painted to ward of errant moonlight rays or torch lit walls. It was amazing how a small flash of light could ruin a night job, Storn remembered quickly.

He took the hook and crept to the temple exterior. The familiar grip of fear hit him, and he could shake it free completely, as he usually could. This was not, afterall a mere theft in the night, but instead a hunting of the supernatural.

A distant crash from within the temple reach Storn's ears as he stood next to the walls now. Something... (perhaps wood?) had split or been shattered... things were happening within... there was little time now if they were to be helpful at all.

Storn scanned the temple's tower, looking for anything in the white light of the moon that might make a good home for his hook. A small gargoyle glared back at him from above, it's stone eyes and tongue looking both to be growling and choking at him at the same time. The hook passed through the night and looped around the stone creatures neck a few times before a distant clank told Storn that it had hooked onto the creature.

The hairs on the back of Storn's neck stood up then - they would climb.

He raised his arms to the rope and saw briefly the crimson wounds from the thing that had attacked him in front of his face. With his luck, the beast was probably waiting up there for him, claws eager and ready to slash up the other arm.

"Ok bard - let's go!"

F-18 Temple Interior

The others are gone, Daegal realised with a start. He could have sworn his three companions were right behind him. Were there three companions? He rubbed his temple, he would worry about that later, right now he had a task to complete. Turning his attention back to his front, he saw his other two companions pass through a great pair of oaken doors. Grunting in irritation, he gave chase, he should have been the one in the lead! He was the one who was at war with the Daemon’s master, he was the one who had a reason to die.

The three found themselves at the entrance to the temple’s main chamber. A great rectangular room, before them loomed a barren altar, dozens of empty pews lined the walls. A hundred candles flickered dimly, barely driving back the lingering darkness. Daegal could feel it in here, not the Fire-Daemon, something else. It seemed to him that it emanated from the altar. A dust covered block, the grim remainder of past glories. Judging by the cobwebs, the three of them were the first to enter here in centuries.

Then it appeared, the Fire-Daemon glided out of an alcove to loom before them. Daegal blinked, were he not so tired he might have been more excited. “Get ‘em lads!”

The Daemon stared at them sightlessly, in the light, it was nothing more then a brown cloak. Daegal had trouble believing it was anything more, with a roar he swung his axe at it. The cloak swirled over it, Daegal’s wrists were caught in an iron grip. The thing effortlessly threw him against a wall, knocking the breath out of him. Spitting out blood, he struggled to his feet.

F-18 Temple Interior

Taking hold of his axe, Daegal prepared to launch himself back into the fight. A thought taking him, he decided to hang back for a moment. With a hiss, the daemon produced a glowing sword from it’s billowing folds. The blade seemed as thin and lithe as a blade of grass, yet looked sharper then any normal sword.

Benito strode to meet it, a blade in each hand. Owen came at his side, brandishing his spear. Quick as lightning, Benito threw a dagger. It passed through the cloak and clattered onto the floor behind it. “Was it supposed to do that?” Grunted Owen.

“Bah! Let’s see how it fares against elven steel!” Benito took his sword in both hands and charged.

In seconds he was on the retreat, the daemon glided towards him, it’s sword faster then lightning. Owen thrust his spear at it, the daemon swatted it out of his hands resumed it’s advance on Benito. Cursing, Owen drew his sword and leapt back in. The two of them together were soon exhausted and tiring rapidly, the daemon showed no sign of fatigue at all. Time was running out.

Leaning against a pew, Daegal withdrew an object from his cloak. A polished white rod, plain and unadorned. “Damn, this had better work!”

The rod began to glow with an unearthly blue light. Immediately, all sense of drowsyness faded, and was replaced with new energy. All aches and pains vanished, his senses sharpened, all the taint had been cleansed. Rising to his full height, Daegal charged.

F-18


Owen blindly stumbled through the darkness, silent and terrified, the presence of the unseen horror churning through his mind. He felt as if any moment he would feel those awful claws clinging to his back and ripping his flesh apart.

He suddenly realized that he was standing next Daegal, the viking. How long had they been next to each other? Owen couldn't remember. The mix of fear and exhaustion was clouding his head, and his thoughts came slowly and blurred. Just knowing he wasn't alone was comforting though, and a small surge of energy surged up inside him. Taking a glance over his shoulder, he realized someone else was behind him. The latest one to join group, he thought, but wasn't quite sure. Owen wondered if the man was still drunk, and felt slightly envious.

The threesome slowly entered the main chamber of the building; a large rectangular room, lined with pews, and headed by a large barren alter. Many lighted candles were scattered through the room, pushing back the thick blackness. Owen was relieved at being able to see again, feeling slightly better about facing the inhuman foe, knowing he would be able to see it.

“Get ‘em lads!” The Viking flatly grunted. Owen looked up to see a cape of rags, hovering in front of them, suddenly not as frightening. The Viking let out a startling war cry and charged the Daemon, axe in hand. The cloak quickly spread itself around him, and the next thing Owen knew Daegal sat crumpled against the far wall.

The Viking rose up with a great effort, but didn't attack again right away. Owen saw Benito step towards the Daemon with daggers drawn, and he forced himself to advance with also. Benito let one dagger fly at the hovering cloak, but it harmlessly passed through it.

“Was that supposed to happen?” Owen asked bitterly, not expecting an answer.

Benito muttered something, dropped his remaining dagger, and drew his sword. The Daemon now had it's own weapon drawn, and it easily repelled Benito's attacks. Owen desperately thrust his spear at the Daemon, only to have it knocked from his aching hands. He drew his sword and attacked again, knowing that it was no use. Even if his weapons could hurt the Daemon, he was too weary to go on much longer; his whole body ached with exhaustion. He barely noticed when he sword was knocked from his hand, and he quickly found himself on his back on the cold stone floor. He despairingly realized he may never rise again.

F-18 Temple Interior


Daris’s pride rose as he ascended the steps, but in an instant a cold chill ran down his spine. He quickly turned his head to the darkness below and focused his eyes on the alcove which he had come from. An uneasy feeling rose like a vapor to reach around his throat. He had disturbed something in this ancient temple. It was abandoned for a reason. Everything was gone from him, his pride, his drunken dullness, and his arrogance, all of it. A clarity which he hadn’t felt in months washed over him. He had to warn the others. He turned his head and raced up the stairs to a doorway where he heard the commotion. He watched as one by one his comrades’ attacks were thwarted. “Bloody hell!” he muttered to himself. Something was not right. Daris had experienced many things in the past, and something here was familiar. “Magic” he thought to himself. “The fire daemon must be using some sort of magic.” He saw Owen have his sword knocked aside then have his feet taken out from under him. The daemon’s eyes grew brighter. Someone was about to die. Which target would it chose. The answer became obvious to Daris as he reached for something at his side.
“Hey mate, you weren’t forgettin bout me were you?” The distraction had worked. The fire daemon locked onto this new adversary. It spread out its cloak and glided to converge on him. With lightning speed, Daris produced…….a waterskin. He squeezed it with force and the contents found its mark. A hiss and a howl of pain emanated from the creature as it flung up its arms to cover its face. The pause gave Daris a chance to act again. He planted his boot into the chest of the fiend which found solid purchase and knocked the creature back hard. He drew his sword and prepared for an attack. His jaw set, he looked over at Daegal. “We’ve got to get outta here, up all of you”. He refocused his mind on the daemon. “I wonder where the hell Skorn and Blackbird are?” he thought to himself.

At that moment all the lights went out. Daris let out a yelp of surprise and bumped into one of his companions, most likely Daegal, by the foreign curse that he hissed back at the mercenary. Daris thought he could hear a low mournful melody from outside but all of a sudden an ear-splitting shriek deafened everything else and the three men were thrown backwards and covered their ears in pain.

As soon as it had started, it ended, and ears ringing, Daris tried to get back on his feet. He was sure he could hear a song now, and something else. A drum? No, footsteps. Rapidly running footsteps. With his elven sight he tried to pierce through the inky blackness and vaguely he spotted a blurry shape, darting towards a hunched figure.

Metal tore through cloth, and perhaps flesh. There was another deafening cry, and the hunched figure suddenly came in his direction. Daris shouted out a warning and braced himself for the hit. He heard shouts from all directions. There were clanks of metal against metal. Metal tearing through flesh. Shrieks of agony.

Then everything was still. Still and completely silent but for the mournful tune. Daris felt a drowsiness coming over him but he shrugged his head violently and tried to regain his focus.

“You can cut that blasted singing now, Blackbird”, a voice shouted. Storn?

The singing ended abruptly and a clear voice answered from above, as cocky as ever: “Oh, never thank me. I’m just a poor bard.”

With those words light re-entered the chamber. Daris found himself staring right into the grim face of Storn, a bloodied dagger in each hand. At his side were the other three, Owen with his spear broken and the haft covered in the same orange-tinted blood.

“Where’s the daemon?” Daris asked eagerly.

“Back in Muspelheim I presume”, Jêltieht shouted from a windowsill above. Storn nodded gravely.

“Good one, Owen”, he said to the aging Crusader who just blinked confusedly back at him.

“Oh, yes, of course” he added after a while, a smile spreading out upon his face, “no bloody Daemons can rival the strength of a true Crusader.”

At that moment the feeling of unease came back to Daris and he glanced at the murky doorway behind his back. A chill ran down his spine and he turned to Jêltieht.

“Care to throw down a rope, bard?” he shouted.

“I suppose”, the bard answered slyly, pulling up a rope, “but I do think the stairs would be easier for you.”

“This is no time for jokes”, Daris snarled.

“What’s wrong?” Daegal asked, catching Daris eye.

“I don’t want to know.”