It wasn't that she minded the weather that much but did it have to be utterly so miserable?

The sudden cloudburst had caught her halfway en route her journey through Campion that forced her hand to take the alternative route deeper into the Elysonne forest where, hopefully, some sort of rest stop could be found. She did not think the detour would inconvenience her that much but the further she rode away from her planned route, the more she questioned herself - was she still in Campion or had she cross some border ages ago. The thought of turning back towards her original route occurred more than once but each time, the thought of spending another night living off dried fruits and sleeping in a makeshift shelter made the decision to detour sounder to her. If the price of having a warm meal and a night's comfortable rest was to ride in this downpour, it all sounded relatively reasonable to her - given that the downpour would soon wear itself out over the land.

However, what she was not expecting was the unpleasant drizzle that took over from the rainstorm. The rotten weather seemed to find all the cracks and crevices in her cloak and travel robe and enabled the awful cold and dampness to emanate through her body, swiftly making any idea of hiding under trees for the time being as undesirable as going out in the weather. At least, the more she rode, there would be that faint distant hope of making it to a rest stop. Elemmire knew she should have known better than to travel so lightly and unprepared but she was out on an errand to find certain texts for research purposes. The only sole reprieve that she got from the miserable weather was the satisfaction of knowing that she had found something and that these texts were wrapped in oilskin in her pack and thus protected from the rain.

The more time she spent in the rain, the more her expectations of warm shelter shrank to just the sheer wish to get out of this dastardly downpour. her eyes narrowed as she thought she saw a flicker of a lantern in the distance jsut as her horse lurched to one side, head bowed low in exhaustion and resignation.

Elemmire quickly dismounted, ignoring the trickle of cold rain funneling in and on to her face from the crest of her hood and the squech of wet mud beneath her boots. her hand clamped around the reins as she tried to half lead the horse and half drag him behind him.

"Come on. " She muttered under her breath, only too keenly aware of the growing dampness and weightiness from the toes of her boots to the hems of her robes and cloak. The horse's initial stubborn refusal melted away under her cajolement and promises but by the time Elemmire found her way to the flickering guard post, she was well nigh drenched to the bone.

Seeing her plight, the guard did little but to point her in the direction of the nearest reststop with a small bow of his head for which Elemmire felt immensely grateful for. Dragging her tired horse behind her, the grey elf came to a stop in the empty courtyard, wondering how long she would have to stand before someone attended to her horse and if she had the strength in her to remain upright for that period of time.

"Hello?" she called, her voice swallowed by a crack of thunder as the rain poured down even heavier than before.

"Anyone there?"

Trone in the mid-morning light seemed warmer and more hopeful than many of the other cities Ilyien had visited. It was all the wood architecture, he decided, which allowed the sun to glide through the place. Stone was more durable; stone was steadier. But polished stone also cast off the light and hurt the eyes. It was more work, Ilyien was certain, to have to rebuild all these wood structures every few decades or so -- but the sun slid almost playfully through the city because of it.

The slaves also found joy in the sight of the city as it nestled between the hills on the opposite side of the river. Some shouted; others laughed. Others just smiled, relieved to know that the end of their ordeal was nearly upon them. As Ilyien threw out his arm to signal the ferryman cross over and take payment for the first load of slaves, he glanced toward Aeotha.

More than once during the journey there and back again, she had proven herself worthy of the assignment. None of the slaves had returned undamaged, but none had died, either. What damage could be fixed by her magic and his alchemic recipe had been; the rest must be left to time and care. Ilyien fervently prayed that the masters of these slaves were kind to them.

"It may be best for you to go with the first of them," Ilyien suggested, as the ferry drew near.

She matched his long strides, this graceful woman with tanned skin and red flame for eyes, this woman whose thoughts were kept behind a wall of unbreakable silence. Her clothing flowed like molten gold, but delicate and lovely. A glance toward her would not have raised the alarm of any strong man. She seemed harmless, but for the presence about her, but for the way the air shifted around her, but for that. Any man who underestimated her, Ilyien now knew, would pay dearly for his mistake.

It seemed that one was soon to do just that.

The plan was his - and it was simple. The lady brought him before Haradan and recommended his skills as a mercenary. But before they arrived in front of the old merchant, he accompanied her to the doorway of her target - the minor lord in service to Haradan himself. She was right to note that his mere presence at her side would draw the attention she wanted. Shine was unconcerned about interference in her plan - apparently most all here in Charisat knew she was not to be trifled with - but Ilyien had no intention of allowing any to stop her or to harm her while she did what she needed to do.

There was a pause at the stone and wood gates of the great merchant's fortress. A pause only, for when the guards saw that it was Shine who had approached, she was allowed through without hesitation. Healers were precious things, especially in the desert deeps, but Ilyien had not expected to encounter so little resistance in her company. He glanced to her quickly and caught a smirk that lived and died on her lips in a matter of a second. Difficult to keep one's mouth in a straight line after that. She had some fire in her, and the phoenix admired her for it.

The direction was hers to set. He walked at her side, silent, allowing her will to be his own -- for now.

Ilyien did not wake the priestess when the moon reached its zenith. He did not wake her when the sun broke the horizon. The slaves had fallen asleep huddled so closely to her that it would have been impossible to rouse only Aeotha, even with a word, to say nothing about the possibility of Aeotha extracting herself without waking any of them in the process. And Ilyien knew just what their reaction would be if any of them woke with a strange man towering over them. They had enough reason to distrust every man in the Outer Realms. He had no desire to fill their minds with panic.

Across the campsite, the bound trio took turns staying awake all night. It was a reasonable plan. Wait until their captor succumbed to sleep, then find a way free of their bonds and their arrest. Ilyien had not slept the night before. It was dangerous to remain sitting. He paced the campsite instead, far enough away that his footsteps would not disturb the girls, close enough that he still had a clear view of the huddle of brigands. In the hour before sunrise, they finally gave up their plan. It was too late now.

At daybreak, Ilyien rubbed his eyes with the gloved fingers of his left hand, then drew his sword with his right. One by one, he marched each of the thieves into the forest to see to their crude human needs. They were not quiet about it. When the chore was done, the girls were awake. Best to get an early start, but he would not have begrudged them another hour of sleep. Breakfast was made of the last of the bread and dried meat he had in his saddlebag. There was still food left in the dead men's possessions, and that would serve on the trip back to Trone -- but later. The night had afforded him plenty of opportunity to go through what the dead men left behind and salvage those things that could be useful. They were packed, now, in the saddlebags he would tie onto his horse.

"You will lead," he finally said to Aeotha, once breakfast was served. "If you recall the way back." It was likely that she did. She'd proved herself to be a capable traveler.

For a moment he didn't know where he was. For a moment he didn't even know his own name. In that moment you could entertain all sorts of illusions. A smell of sulfur in the air. Maybe he was a scientist, an alchemist of note, reputed to be the most honorable and trustworthy of all creatures. Then a tonic, the absent stench of healing herbs processed in water and oil. A healer, then? When the blank man opened his eyes onto the world he could be all sorts of things. He could be everything that he was meant to be in his dreams. And that moment was both rallying point and secret shame. He could never tell anyone about it. He'd still remember it, and think of it, and wonder at what could have been. When a pair of eyes finally opened it wasn't a blank man who took in the world. It was Skandra Tyullis the murderer, Skandra Tyullis the bastard, who killed his friends at least as often as his enemies. Somewhere in there he could imagine a decent person. Just that so far, the decent person hadn't reared his head.

( He must have been beautiful. )

How long ago had he met Shantar Tyullis? It seemed like longer than he cared to count. And in all that time he'd never let his grandfather down. No matter what the odds against him or how hard it was to come through Skandra had managed it, somehow. This time couldn't be any different. It wouldn't be any different. If those weapons were proliferated, if they became popular and known, there would be no way to stem the flow of blood that would roll across the world. Alchemy was still an infant science. Weapons made by alchemy weren't trusted generally. Those in power believed in the divine, not in the stigma of an art that anyone - no matter their station - could learn. But if one could believe, and he believed in unjust ideals, then the army he commanded would have no equal in all the world. It was about more than that, wasn't it? He was parroting the words Shantar had spoken to him but there wasn't any heart in it. Not really. What he wanted, what he believed, was right in front of him. It was there to be taken. All he had to do was reach out and seize it.

He could have.

( Any time he wanted. )

Night descended on the Deagian Wood, dimming the brightness of the autumn leaves that had now stretched over his head - their heads - every day for the better part of a week now. If the Precept of Tyr was accurate in his projection, they had only a few more miles to go before they found who they were looking for. But Ilyien had driven a hard pace, and despite the quietness of the elven maid seated behind him on his horse, her exhaustion was radiating from her in waves he could not easily ignore. Honesty would also have the phoenix admit - if only to himself - that he was near as exhausted as she. Time was the enemy now, and weary or no, there was no choice but to move forward if they were to have any hope of catching the band of men ahead.

A few more miles. Only that. And after they had their quarry in their sites, and after they had found the property stolen from the citizens of Trone, and after the thieves were securely bound, then they would be free to rest. Only then. But with the night and proximity of their goal, it would no longer do to ride. When the sound of the nearby brook was loud enough to assure that they were close enough, Ilyien finally drew his horse out of its gait and dismounted. The legs of his human form protested mightily - as did the back, the shoulders - but Ilyien listened only closely enough to determine if any true damage had been done. None had, he decided, and continued stiffly on. After passing the reins of the horse over the low-hanging tree branch they'd stopped under, he reached up for the elven maiden - Aeotha, she said her name was - and took her by the waist to the ground with a casual and easy motion. He did not release her until he was certain she wouldn't fall.

"We'll walk the rest of the way," he explained. "It will be quieter and we will have a better chance for surprise." But even in the gloaming, he could not ignore her expression at the news. For not the first time, he was reminded why his traveling was done alone. With a frown, he looked westward, then turned back to his horse. "After some rest," he finally amended, unwinding the reins from the tree branch now and setting the horse free to forage for what he could find. The promise of water nearby sent the great beast off in that direction, and Ilyien did not stop him.

There was a part of him, limping along the packed-dirt path, which didn't believe the towers of smoke rising from that camp. He knew it was real. Some part of him hoped it was not. Vicious red lights streaked up through the center of those columns, heinous and honest, giving lie to the hopes he had for the survival of someone - anyone. Skandra tugged his sword into place, out of his way, and limped faster. Against the midnight sky those pillars of smoke and fire seemed god-like. Destroyers of worlds and dreams. Exactly how he'd always imagined the gods to be. And if the grim stare on his face was not enough to cow the gods then Ilyien's equally vicious mask ought to do the trick. He couldn't believe it. He didn't know why he couldn't believe it. There was nothing at all particularly unbelievable about it. A tug of his hat. A jerk of his coat. When they arrived at the gates to the campground nothing prepared him for what he would see. Those pillars belong to the fires of the dead and their worldly possessions. Washed clean by consuming fire as though ash was the only measure of its presence that creatures of conscience could allow.

( Creatures of conscience. )

He led her on his arm, as was proper, from the tavern and into the noonday dust of Charisat. This Shine seemed somewhat bemused by the offer of his arm, as if it were a rare thing. Ilyien realized, belatedly, that it must be in a place such as this. Strange that he had not considered it before; but it did not change the rightness of its doing. Despite her bemusement, she carried herself the way a lady in high court would - lightly, carefully, with grace that made her movements seem as if she were moving through the air without touching the ground. He wondered what her life had been before she came here. He wondered why she felt drawn to this place at all. The money, perhaps. The money must be substantial. But there was more in her, he sensed, than the desire to become prosperous.

Prosperous was what she was, however, from the looks of her apothecary. The free-standing building she led him to was relatively large by comparison to the other Charisat huts he'd seen. While it did not rival Haradan's home, it was more than respectable for a person who was not a part of the merchant's graced circle. Or was she? He could not dismiss the possibility, as much as he would have liked.

When he entered, his eyes did not adjust from the outside light; it was nearly just as bright and very nearly as hot as the outdoors were. A quick inspection of the main room told him the reason. On the north and south walls, a series of twin mirrors aligned themselves across the room. Before each mirror was some form of light - candelabra, lamps, dishes of open flame in oil - all at varying heights. The overall affect was to banish nearly all shadow from the room. It would make sense that a healer's business be well-lit, but even by those standards, this was extreme. The heat was reminiscent of his home in Ylric. Home. A word that had lost nearly all meaning. Here in this... cozy place, filled with fire and light, it brought to him nearly-forgotten memories of a more peaceful time. The twinge was unexpected.

"Excuse me a moment," Ilyien said, once he had opened the door for her. Leaving the strange woman in her apothecary, Ilyien quietly but quickly made a circuit around the perimeter of the building. There seemed nothing out of the ordinary - no visible prying eyes or eager ears - but it was not necessarily true that there still weren't any. He also checked the outside of the building, noting windows, exits, and the like. Their voices should not carry - and even if they did, the wind from the desert was picking up. It felt as if there would be a storm soon.

When he returned again, he closed the door carefully, and with a questioning glance for permission beforehand, also dropped the bar across it. "You feel the storm coming," he said. It was more a question than a comment... but a question he was certain he could answer already.

There was something about the night's air that made him think of the past. Maybe it was the way it felt on his neck. Or maybe it was just the thrill of doing what he'd started his life doing. The skills of a thief diminished over time unless they were practiced with constant vigilance. He didn't. There was enough talent left for the basics, and his footsteps were light. He could still deal seconds as well as any card shark. Quick hands, was what they called it. Climbing onto a ledge without being seen and then breaking a window without being heard? Well, that was taxing his skills to their limit. Skandra didn't think Ilyien could manage it, even if he could, so with a roguish smile and a piece of parchment that was never unfolded Skandra had talked their way into the house of the great Lord Thalas as winemen. Ilyien drew the cart, Skandra kept the manifest and with a minimum of fuss they were in. The guards were much too busy to follow a pair of wine-delivering men into the deep places of the manor. So it happened that when they arrived in the wine cellar, they were alone.

It was starting out slow, but at least they were inside.

( For now. )

The air in Charisat was hard, gritty, and hotter than the sun's rays themselves. Ilyien took one deep, appreciative breath and let it warm his chest. It was almost like home, save for the stench of the city. Almost like Ylric, though his city was far south of here. Troicent, however, was very close. And that was the reason why he was here to begin with.

For near 30 years, now, the mining town of Charisat was held in relative stability by a human merchant who went by the name of Haradan - an elderly man whose mind was hard and sharp as the diamonds that he first sought here at the base of the Theron Mountains. Haradan was neither a good nor honorable man, but he did one thing that Ilyien and his kin were grateful for: he held Charisat to himself with an iron will. For the last 30 years, no traders from Charisat were authorized to enter or leave without his express permission - and no expansion was planned past the western side of the mountains. This meant that the phoenix city of Troicent, secreted away on the eastern side of the Theron Mountains, never had cause to defend itself against foreign invaders. As far as the people of Charisat - and their merchants - knew, there was nothing past the eastern reaches of the mining town.

The Guard had trailed a band of men from Stardriel forest eastward across the Din Lyore Desert. In the hottest parts of the day, when men could not endure the harshness of the sun, Ilyien used his nature to travel farther than they ever could have done during the same time. So when he arrived in Charisat, it was a good day and a half before the men behind him. The tavern where he now sat was littered with drunkards and the hard and hollow women who took their money in exchange for pleasure. Ilyien sat against the wall some distance from the doorway, head down above his nearly-untouched stein of ale. For appearances' sake, he seemed lost in thought. The reality was far different.

Bits and pieces of conversation buzzed around him. So far, he had gathered that Haradan was well aware of the band of men who approached - and he was aware as well that they meant to unseat the old merchant and take Charisat for their own. There would be a war here in this city, and although the phoenix was loathed to take any side in the battle, it was his Praetor's mind that it was better to know the demon in power than to gamble on another who wished that power.

The trick, however, was finding a way of inserting himself into the services of this Haradan without irrevocably binding himself to the man in the bonds that the merchant was so fond of using - slavery. There was no reason that Ilyien yet had found that could be used as a method by which he could gain the merchant's trust. And he needed that in. Desperately. And soon.

It wasn't a celebration or a gathering of good, decent persons. That was the first thing Skandra noticed as his eyes toured the gathering for which they'd just finished performing. Across the wide clearing there was a platform erected for the occasion, but not for the use of the menagerie. He could still hear the tiger's roar from his solo performance as he juggled eggs, between the tamer and the killer, ostensibly too drunk to know what he'd stumbled into. That had been a thing for memories. And Flora watching the whole time with her hands clapping gleefully. He wasn't sure how many had been cheering the beast and how many had been cheering the tamer, with whatever scant few were left for the hapless drunk so impressed with his single talent. He wasn't sure which one Flora had been cheering. Skandra mopped the sweat from his brow with a sleeve and cursed his lack of a hat. Regional styles weren't important. Stand-out features were. The hat rested in the wagon he shared with Ilyien. So did his sensible clothing. Outfitted in a short coat with flaring sleeves of many colors, Skandra felt every part the fool he'd been playing.

( And every part the drunk. )

From the moment the tent flap closed behind him Skandra was forced to wonder if he'd made a mistake. Ilyien had been biddable enough, once he'd been assured that there would not actually be any dresses involved - a lie that Skandra was still not sure he could transform into the truth - and he'd come without too much complaining. Only now here they were, waiting on her attendance. Skandra could never feel at ease asking someone for a favor. Especially since he knew that favor was going to be a pinch for her. You didn't show up in a friend's place of business and ask to put that business in a bind for the sake of your own goals. He was going to have to play this very carefully. Only she would know that he was playing it carefully. So he had to come up with a reason that he was playing it carefully, and a believable one. She always did know when he was lying, even if he wished she couldn't. One of the things he hated most about her. There were a lot of things he hated about her. You could see it in her eyes. The way she looked at you. The way a bird would look at a worm.

( Thoughtful. )

The ride cross-country had not been the most pleasant experience of his life. Half the reason he walked so often, to so many places, was that horses did suit him as a mode of transportation. Riding was not the problem. Feeding them was. Horses were voracious animals and prone to much overeating, which of course was half the problem. The other half of the problem was travel subjected to the whims and exhaustion of a creature that could not communicate. The last thing Skandra wanted was a woman that couldn't talk, and that was essentially what stolen horses were. They couldn't complain about their exhaustion while you worked, so they instead made strange noises and fell off the road with a gasp of tiredness that nothing could resolve. Skandra had been faced with that problem once again, only this time he had an arrogant ass of a knight to deal with as well. Vacations were all well and good, but...

( ...he was starting to think he'd prefer the cell. )

Sitting there in his cell, with only his own annoyingly morbid thoughts for company, Skandra wondered what his gallows was going to look like. Hopefully they'd roll out every gilded rope in their possession. No expense spared to the comfort of the accused or the entertainment of the wicked who came to watch a man die. There would be a crowd, of that he was certain, and most of them - who loved their liege lord only because experience had not yet taught them to do otherwise - would be cheering the death of the one person who'd ever tried to help them in their lives. How it had come to this, Skandra could not rightly say. What he could say was that when he woke up he was promptly put back to sleep by a very polite and yet hauntingly violent fellow who liked to punch people in their broken nose until the pain forced them to pass out. Not a very civilized place, the Free Cities, and he was dismayed to add that it had only just improved since his first visit. If they'd caught him the last time, they would have just executed him and let that be that.

It should have figured. Shantar had sent him here to stop someone from taking advantage of the people in an outlying area of the Free Cities. That, and the old man was convinced that this fellow had dealings with Gershul, though as usual Shantar was very shy about giving any kind of evidence or proof to support his claim. Skandra believed that the proof existed. He was just tired of having the proof denied to him. Although, in a day's time that wasn't going to be a problem for him. The rows of cells with their cramped and narrow passageways proved to be as much of a death sentence as the word of a lord, or the hatred of a magistrate. A clove rolled with pages from the copy of The Path of Fire which every cell was furnished with and the spare flecks of tobacco in his pocket tasted as grim as death, and he had to pass it down the row to get the other inmates to light it on a torch - but at least it was something.

( Not exactly, a lot, or anything. )

Skandra adjusted his glove with a glowering eye toward the short hills around him. Someone had been tracking him for the better part of a day and a half. Tracking him and refusing to be thrown off by one false trail after another. Across a swamp and through Feinharad. Now they were in Astarii, on the Black Deer Plains, and the fellow still hadn't lost a step. Whoever he was, Skandra had decided, he didn't work for Lord Thalas or his council of idiots, morons, vagabonds and other ne'er-do-wells. Skandra had been on many raids precisely like this one, over the last four months, and every time it would end the same way. Thalas sent someone after. Skandra killed them, and gave them a decent bury in whatever godsforsaken place they finally encountered one another. And a week later, maybe two if the weather wasn't very good, Skandra would return and do it all over again. This time he hadn't sent the usual two-bit mercenary with his tin hat and his broad challenges. This time he'd sent a professional. That might have worried someone else.

( Fortunately for Skandra, professionals usually weren't true believers. )