Autumn mornings in Simanel bit against the skin with hard, cold teeth. There was a wasp struggling along with sporadic fluttering until it curled up on an old wood rail and died. No one around was going to put it out of its misery. Agrippa sipped at hot tea -- the sort of garbage he'd only brew for himself -- and sat on a bench, chipping away at the mud on his boots from the day before. The old wood porch creaked when the wind passed it, but that was the charm of the barracks. They were worn and old, the way a home should have been, and you admired them when the light wasn't quite in the sky. When day came, the barracks looked like a damned shack no matter how many people got assigned to clean it. But now, when he was still half awake, there wasn't any place Agrippa would prefer.

There weren't very many Riders up. Not everyone believed in beating the sun into consciousness. For his part, Agrippa never woke late unless he was sick or dying -- the time to be out of bed was made clear by his father's belt when he was a boy. He always grabbed his boots and took them out to the porch when the sun wasn't quite over the soft rise of eastern hills, when he could still see his breath on the air.

( Yesterday had been rough in all the worst ways... )

Maeglin's residence was a boiling sea of madness. Elves in heavy armor and pikes were scrambling into ten-deep formations before hustling off to points unknown. Well, in fariness, he knew. Baila had given him a detailed report of the arrangements for the defense. Ilúvatar was certain that he'd been listening intently. Their colors were strange bedfellows, indeed. Some of Maeglin's soldiers and some of Guyther's soldiers and some of Ilúvatar's own Thunderbolts. Their ranks were swelling every day. If you were able-bodied and had a mind to defend Terestai, you were enlisting in the Thunderbolts and taking your lumps among all of the other fresh recruits. Baila had established quite a system for funneling and testing recruits, so that by the time Ilúvatar was aware of them, their participation was almost certain. Truly irreplaceable, that Captain of his, and he would never be able to Baila so until one of them was certainly going to die.

( It would be a long wait, he hoped. )

He didn't like all of this. Not one bit.

The room was cramped and composed, stoic in the face of danger with its brown hues. Every onerous creak of planks beneath their feet reassured him. Yes, they were protected. Yes, they were safe. Skandra did not think to check himself for injuries. Any more than he thought to check himself for fleas, he supposed. If that thing - whatever it was - had wanted Skandra dead, he would be dead. Such darkness as he never could have imagined. Infinite and black. He did not know what it could be, or why it would choose this moment to strike, but he had a few ideas. Later. There was one table, arranged in the middle of the room, with a chair on either side. A map of Terestai was unfurled on this dusty, faded thing with untreated surfaces. This map was pinned down by every weapon Skandra Tyullis currently had in his possession.

( You didn't go to war with a list of names, after all. )

The walk into Faustben's capital was the hardest one she'd had to endure for a very long time. Those men guarding the entrance to the city itself knew her by sight but neither saluted. She didn't know if she were a Captain any longer but she felt naked without her uniform as she strode towards the castle with Onainat only a few steps behind her. It wasn't nearly as cold as the pass to get here and Onainat had shed a few of those jackets she'd been wearing. But kept the hat firmly on her head. There was only a light dusting here in the main capital. Eventually everything would be snowed in and men would push and shovel the snow around so that people could walk freely to and from places. Still everything was iced down. Icicles hung from shop signs and from rooftops. And the castle loomed in the distance with a fresh coating of snow on its higher towers.

( It looked like a picture. )

The knife's blade dragged across his scalp. Every hiss, every snap of hair, was another reminder of what he did and did not do. Did and did not value. There was a mirror in his chamber to trouble his mind. There was a way to see the serpent's slit that ran down the front of his face. As much a battle standard as any banner had been, that scar, still livid and red despite the time that had passed. Talon swept the knife into the bowl, rinsing it free of hair, then returned it to its duty. All the while his eyes burned into his own reflection. How strange it must have been to see those tattoos for the first time. Eragos had always been a hard man, harder than their own father, but beneath that lay anger and pride - also in greater measure than Valos. His brother thought of himself as inferior to his parents, but he'd surpassed them in every way possible. Except, perhaps, for one. He took Vaili's idea of honor and applied it to the world around him. He proselytized about the virtues of defending the weak. Yet he did not see where that path ultimately led.

( Ruin. )

From the beginning, he knew that he would not sleep. Eyeless Serpent had been discovered dead inside of his tent. Sleeping Tiger had been nowhere and thus he could not be asked. Therefore Eragos had been left with the somewhat thankless task of assuring his new hosts that no one had done anything to the man. It could have been the fellow who'd fetched the tea. Yet he could also not be found. Eragos had been in military encampments before. The odds that one man could disappear in them was small. The odds that two could disappear and one could die in the same camp were nearly nonexistent. Such was life. He'd left them to their search and gathered his wits about him by retreating into the cool evening air.

( Even here, he could find no answers. )

There was no other choice in Eithne's mind. Eragos would not be willing or ready to kill the last remaining member of his family. His brother was all that was left, and Eithne was inclined to think that this fact would keep Eragos from turning his blade on his brother. He might be able to start the fight, but he would not be able to finish it. Eithne didn't want to see what would happen if Eragos did find that nerve. Would the curse he thought followed him everywhere cover what was left of his soul and make it impossible for him to breath? Would killing his brother end him? She did not want to ask those questions or find the answers to them. Telling the others that she was going to smoke and check on her horse was an easy enough excuse. A believable lie. Eithne hadn't had a cigarette in hours, and her horse did need tending to just as theirs did. But they were still back in that tent talking.

( She'd heard enough to know where to go. )

There was one good thing about the journey from Chlen to Faustben, there were a great many outposts to stop at and plenty of wine to be consumed. It wasn't that the drink could erase their sadness, but it kept them from thinking of it too much. At least, it did for Vedette. She wondered now if that was all there was left. The name she'd taken up in the human world was the one she chose to give out, the one she chose to be called by. No one said Iluq the way Koe had, and now he could no longer say it. Perhaps in time she would feel alright with someone calling her that again, but Onainat seemed to understand. They took turns riding Red, though Vedette knew it would have been far easier to leave the beast tending a field somewhere and flying the rest of the way... neither could leave him.

Red was as much Koe's friend as he'd been Koe's horse, and neither of them would abandon him even if the Horse might have wanted it. Instead they reached that last outpost before they would have to venture up into the mountains toward Faustben's capital. There Vedette had retrieved a good amount of her credits in the country, the money was used to buy Onainat some warmer clothes, and Vedette a new riding cloak. She did not need a good thick jacket, or three, like Onainat did. But a nice cloak was the only thing she'd need in the mountains. She refilled her quiver with arrows and restrung her bow over a dinner of far too much warm stew. Once they left the outpost there was little in the way of warm meals unless Vedette lit a fire and she was never eager to.

( Onainat was more than willing to start a fire every time they stopped. )

Fiaethe spent what time she had outdoors. Perhaps she should have double checked her own work instead, or harassed someone for not doing their job fast enough, but while Lord Ilúvatar was in captivity she had not left the halls of Maeglin's residence. Not even for a brief visit to one of the gardens. If Fiaethe was going to be trapped in a siege with everyone else, she wanted to enjoy the sun for a day. And she wanted to do so without being followed.

This wish was far more challenging to fulfill than when she first arrived here. Back then, Fiaethe was less known and did not hold the kind regard of the staff. Now the household's eyes knew her and had concerned themselves with her safety. Fiaethe could not find it in her heart to spurn what worry was shown to her -- after all, no amount of inner steel disguised that if not for divine intervention, she would be dead. And while just Lord Ilúvatar's presence here made it infinitely safer to be out in the open, Fiaethe knew risk still walked wherever she did.

( ... )

Sleeping in a tree wasn't his first choice of accommodations after a trek through the Din Lyore, but the closer he and Orchid came to Astarii, the more they ran across people who seemed content to leave the country alone. They saw entire merchant caravans turn around and head back east. That was about the time he sold their horses. Being on foot was slower, but also made it easier to travel unseen along the road. Word on the forested trails was that there was an army marching on Terestai, that there had been a battle for power in Ceranarad and anyone with sense (or something to lose) would head to either Stardriel or the northern forests until the battle cleared. Thalion had thought to visit one of Astarii's cities before he and Orchid had gotten this close. Now staying away from the more populated areas seemed like a better idea and a tree seemed more welcoming than any inn.

( Can't risk getting run through... )

The gypsies left them at the border. Onainat had thanked them in the way family might, embracing them and kissing their cheeks. After they were gone, she helped Iluq strap all of their belongings to Red. Her father's body, tied to a make-shift cart and covered in linen, was to be pulled by Onainat's own hands. She insisted on this. She was not as strong in her human form as Iluq and her palms were not used to the roughness of wood, but it felt right to pull the cart through the trees alone. No sound carried in the forest but that of the birds sitting in the branches and the wind.

Onainat never believed in marking her childhood home. The forest floor, abandoned trails, the fingers of afternoon sun raking through the trees: these things were stronger than any ink or engraving. If the gods gave her nothing but her fingers, she could feel her way. This was the first patch of the world she'd loved. It wasn't just that her father was from here. It was the presence of this forest, of where their home once stood. It was as if a place could be a living, breathing character in her life. One that never moved or judged but existed so vividly that it stuck sweetly to the insides of her heart.

The walk through the trees seemed long to Onainat. Lost in thought, she did not keep track of where she was until the soft crunch of leaves beneath her boots gave way to waist-high grass. Onainat looked up as she waded into a sea she'd missed. Green waves of grass rippled outward in the shadow of the mountains. At the other end of the field, near a crooked old plum tree, was the remnants of a poorly constructed wall.

"We're here," she said to Iluq. She looked over her shoulder. "If you go look for the materials you will need for a marker, I will..."

She trailed off, walking a little farther before setting down the cart and ignoring the shiver that moved through her muscles from the effort.

( I will take care of things here. )

They walked in relative silence.

Endless staircases presented themselves, square-cut stone forming steps leading them higher and higher into the tower. Those they passed were white trimmed in gold, perfect images of the temple and of its inhabitants. More than any other time in his life Skandra was aware of what a fraud he was. And yet there was something more honest in what he was doing. No pretense. Only the knowledge that he was not, in fact, the keeper of knowledge. He laid claim to no ancient secrets and pretended no divine knowledge. Only a whisper and a hope, for a world that needed more than he could give. It was a very priestly feeling. Or at least, what he imagined the priesthood would be like. Did that make him a paladin? Was he the same as those sword-strapped loners with their angry eyes and their hard hearts? Only the lady beside him gave him any faith that it was not so.

( And that, barely enough. )

To slip into the world of nightmares was an easy task, if one put one's whole mind to it. Fell had never seen a people that could dream as this, the ageless sleep, where all was as one's mind ordered it. It was easy to think that they could have controlled these dreams, if they'd tried, and yet their minds were so weak that they dared not try. Fell had witnessed countless empires with something unique about them. Yet it was always this shared unreality that drew him back. Had Ao known, when the first was done, or had he - as with so many other things - simply followed his impulses without regard for the result? If so, it made this strange dreamscape even more interesting and not less. To be the construct of a being of near-limitless power was one thing. To be the result of unforeseen chaos was quite another. Fell found the distinction important, at least.

( What they saw was rarely what was intended. )

Gallien Arbus swung his horse 'round, enjoying that snap and hiss of leather as gloves writhed against the reins. His boots dug into the stirrups. His coat, long and lined with wool, rasped against the flanks of the beast. If you were going to cut a dashing figure, this was one way to do it. Someone was calling to him from the cattle pens. This was the sort of thing you could expect if you were a landowner. He'd saved his wages after twenty-five years in the king's army, saved them to buy acres upon acres of the most beautiful land that Tyrus had to offer. There were gentle hills to the north of him and wide plains to the south. After all this time it was his. You could spend hours traveling a land by horseback and not know it as well as you knew it on that first night, wandering from tree to tree with a bottle of wine in your hand. The only thing that could have made it better was a pipe.

( There was not so far to ride, now. )

"I'll grow tits when they add rooms for us," im insisted.

"Let's hope it doesn't come to that," Sharaf replied diplomatically.

"It already has, boy!"

"Well, I won't hold you to the tit thing," Sharaf tried again.

"Ha!" was the response.

In contrast to the grand and open spaces of the temple below, the offices of qa Yvutha Pharath were quite small. There was only one jolly fellow there at the moment, an elder tracker who could not move without the use of a cane and would probably not see a city outside of Urt Ivis again so long as he drew breath. His name was im in any case, and im was not one who spent a great deal of time mourning the loss of a prisoner. There were no rooms for spare here, not when they were all being used to store the belongings of other trackers out in the desert, so the best that im could offer was a pair of empty cells.

( He laughed, as though it were some grand joke. )

It was a good, square room with wooden beams across the ceiling. Ulbarich knew it instantly for what it was. A room in the castle proper. He could not recall how he had come to be here, or how he had come to be dressed in the linen trousers of a patient. Those were the first details he noticed. Castle. Trousers. He was lying atop a bed, and he could not move his left arm. The right arm answered his call. The right arm rubbed viciously at his eyes to clear them of what must have been day after day of endless rest and sleep. The left arm was bandaged heavily, and rested inside of a sling. So that was why he could not move it. Something must have happened. He could not have said what.

( His face was rough. )

One thing you could always expect and respect about the Elves was their sense of grandeur. The White Tower was impossibly tall by any standard, reaching far higher into the sky than it had any right to, and imposing its will on the surrounding landscape. By Skandra's estimation there was no building in all of Terestai that equalled even half of its height. Out of respect for Elemmírë's history as a priestess he didn't point out that the White Tower was a massively phallic symbol, and that it ought to be razed to the ground in favor of something less terribly ostentatious, but he was thinking it all the same. What impressed as you approached the entrance to the tower was not the tower itself, however. It was the walk that got you there. Skandra had seen images of power and money, things that were built as much because someone wanted to make a statement as because someone needed to project their dominance. This one took the cake from all of them while it was beating them to a bloody pulp.

( Marble was the word of the day. )

All three of them sat on a thin plain bench, shoulder to shoulder, looking out at the tent before them through a curtain. It was an uncomfortable way to sit. The fabric had been visible when Eithne asked Faxril where they were wanted, but Vera had no idea he'd kept two armed guards behind here. Her brother explained, in the simplest way he could, that he rarely trusted anyone. Mages in Trone had been paid enough to make a fabric that seemed sheer on one side and solid on the other. Faxril asked them to sit and let the two guards stand in front of them, just in case.

( It was an uncomfortable way to sit. )

Rain was driving hard against the burlap surface of the tent. Here, as in the other tent, one barely felt the wind that shook the poles. Eragos was surprised at the sudden difference - humid rain, cooler than summer but not quite comfortable, gave way to an almost frosty interior. How such a thing was accomplished Eragos did not know, and was not sure that he wanted to know. What concerned him was not the temperature of the place, but what lay beyond the immediate. Upon entering they were greeted by a rectangular foyer, composed entirely of silk screens surrounded by wooden frames. There were two torches - bronze bowls filled with wood which burned brightly in the dimness, casting light upon the screens that blocked shadows from the receiving area. And in this area a soldier waited, stripping his gloves from his hands with great impatience. He wore the uniform of Faxril's men, but his head was not shaved clean, and there was no helmet on his person. He bowed when Eragos entered, and Eragos returned the bow.

( This was a strange way to keep a prisoner. )