A Surprise on the way to Kalban's

Once they get to the top of the cliff, the group can see that there is no ship in sight on the waters below, and all let out a sigh of relief.  They will have a chance to get away from this place before any potential pursuit arrives.

Myridian sits with Avon quietly, making sure that he goes through the contents of his backpack.  Avon is relieved to see that -- despite any other disagreements with his "comrades" -- at least they did not steal his valuables:  his pack is in tact.  The Thief's Candle is still there as is the heavy carved box with the beautiful harp inside.  Myr takes it out and puts it in his hands for a few seconds... that seems to bring some relief to Avon's mental confusion. 

The group pauses at the edge of the woods to rest. Andrew looks into the sky and sees several falcons riding thermals high above.    He wishes there was enough time to resume his conversation with Skaa, the mate-seeking perigrine falcon.

But soon it's time to go, and the harp and other things are packed up again, along with thoughts of trained falcons.

Andrew points out that the walk to Kalban's is about 3-4 hours, and it is late afternoon.  That leaves about 4-5 hours of light left... "Should be no problem," asserts the Druid, cheerful about being above ground once more.

The party sets out with a renewed sense of accomplishment.  It's only been a week since they left Squarento, and **THEY** had managed to find the Prince.  They talk quietly among themselves of spending the reward money, carefully avoiding conversation with the Prince and his "attitude."

They cross the Old Coast Road about an hour after entering the heavily wooded area of the forest.  Quill is eager to see Edge once more, and Andrew feels more and more cheerful about being in the woods.  An hour later, he looks around carefully and alerts the others that they should be careful to stay on the trail he's walking, for this is the area that Kalban has seeded with his traps and protections.

Winding up and back, around this stead of trees, over that rock, goes the trail.  The group skirts a rocky outcrop and comes upon a clearing, as expected.  What is NOT expected, is in the clearing.

A large horse is tied to a tree, and hobbled fore and aft.  In the middle of the clearing stands Kalban, and at his feet is a large person, enmeshed in a mass of webs.

Bracht eyed the elf speculatively. 'Lord High Criminal.' Uttered in mockery it nevertheless must have a grain of truth to it. And who would such an elf be outlaw to but the Duke? King. Whatever. Something in the elf's eyes, however, made his usual flippancy seem grossly inadequate.

"South of here," Bracht heard himself saying, "are people who may need my help. It's a--" he paused. "A quest. Of sorts. I'm not a bounty hunter, nor am I in the employ of the Duke. I told the truth about that. I was trying to avoid the soldiers, and I bedded down here to catch a few hours sleep." He did his best to meet the eyes of the elf with his own. "I swear it by my clan and my honor, I intended no harm to anyone." He blinked, and the moment was past. "At least, not yet, not here in these woods."

Kalban turns at hearing the group's approach.  "Ah, welcome again friends,"  says the slender elf with a smile.  "I have here a stranger, whose motives are unknown to me, wrapped up neatly by my sometime friend Skarne the Pixie."  He continues quickly in elven and then repeats in dwarvish, "You'd be well advised not to speak of your recent adventure, for Skarne says he is a bounty hunter.  He may or may not be --- Skarne is very quick to judge and is often wrong."

Hearing that, Quill quickly grabs Sandros and Veneron, and, knowing that they speak neither elven nor dwarvish, repeats the warning in a soft whisper.  Daggda whispers to the Prince that it would be best if his face were not seen by the man.   Ven smiles at the Ranger and replies in elven, "I know, I know."

Hearing other voices does little to ease Bracht's mind, all things considered. He had blundered, and badly. How skillful of him to lay down 'neath the boughs of safety only to awake a prisoner, wrapped and tied like a calf fated for slaughter. Fah! He was glad there were no clansmen about to see his dishonor.

Tavarak looks at the man then to Kalban. "Well perhaps you could let him go long enough so that we could search him. He should have something on him that would indicate his true intent. What do you say bounty hunter, does that sound fair to you?" The bard grins, "Not that you have any choice in the matter mind you."

It was useless to try and turn his head to place the speaker in view so Bracht didn't even try. "Do you carry that which marks your true intent?" Bracht spit back. "Intent often has very little to do with what one does much less what one carries," the barbarian countered. "For instance, I intend to be free of my bonds and be done with the lot of you one way or another--and a thrice-damned pox on gypsies and fortunes and quests!--but I carry nothing on me to suggest such a thing." Bracht took a deep breath, trying to regain what little control of his temper he still could. "Do what you will. As you say, I appear to have little choice in the matter."

Standing in front of other dwarf, who seems quite happy to hide inconspicuously behind her, Daggda snorts. "You have a knack for understatement, plainsman. Our friend will do as is his wont to do, which includes knowing your true intent." Her usually bright, soft voice is cold and flat. "And everyone carries their intent in their heart, which is not as hard to read as you think."

With a light chuckle, she asks, "Why not tell us what brings you to this wood, so we can decide whether your story matches your intent?" She turns to Tav and winks.

Tavarak grins at the mans response. "Well i do respect someone who can keep their wits about them when things seem bleakest. And fear not oh sticky one, we shall not let the giant spider who spun his web about you, devour you, or your mount for that matter." Tav turns and nods at Daggda, well spoken," The bard ponders the hapless mans situation, wondering if this would make a good tale. The story of a traveller who falls asleep in the woods and wakes up to find that he has been bound by tiny creatures. Tav shakes his head, deciding that such a tale would never be very popular.

Daggda sees Tavarak looking intently on the bound man, doubtless thinking up a new tale for the ale hall. Of course, a sleeping man being bound by giant spiders or elves didn't sound too exciting- unless, of course, you made it a band of DWARVES travelling through the forest that were bound and captured... now that would be a good story, indeed. Maybe pick a lucky number, like 13 dwarves, and then have them make a daring escape with the help of some comical ally, like a halfling...but maybe that was a bit too ridiculous. Daggda decided her skills definitely did not lie in storytelling...

Kalban turns, watching Daggda for a moment, then smiles. "That *would* be a silly tale, friend dwarf. Why, one might even have to pay family to listen to it... you might even call it a Toll Kin Story, eh?"

Then he turns to Tav. "Well, I do see much less risk of setting him loose with a good company of friends nearby." He chants a couplet in elven, which translates roughly to:

"On spell cast, dark or light,
Return to the ether whence you came."

And the webs are gone. Bracht sits up carefully, looking at the group that surrounds him. He looks over his shoulder to see that Mahvros is OK. The elf speaks to the axeman again, "Now then, traveller, you say you are on a quest... that some others are in need of your help. Well.... perhaps they are in need of more help than even you can provide. Pray, tell us of your quest. For either you are telling the truth or you are the most hopelessly clumsy and awkward bounty hunter ever seen: trapped by the very creature you would hunt for bounty."

Prince Geodon sidles away from the group and finds himself standing near Avon. He says quietly, in elven, "Though you'll find no favor with me, I mark that you alone had the good sense to try and kill those orc-filth. For that I give you credit."

Bracht takes a moment to stretch out his arms, then bounds to his feet, ready to fight or flee at a moment's notice. The others tense but make no move toward him. And why should they? They outnumber him greatly, and have weapons--and magic!--at the ready. Humans and elves and...and dwarves. Like the gypsy said.

"No," Bracht murmured, shaking his head. "No, it can't be." He again looks to the motley band before him, his eyes finding the dwarves easily, and noting, too, that his captor is an elf, slender and fragile-looking compared to the barbarian. There is strength in his eyes, however, and Bracht checks himself before taking a step back.

"I, ah..." he trails off with a sigh. "I'm not a bounty hunter. I have been known to track down criminals on occasion, but that's not my profession. I am a mercenary by trade, an adventurer by fate." He glances at the elf, the mage. "I told you true when I said that I'm not hunting anyone. I haven't taken a contract in many days. I had a run-in with a gypsy, and she told me--. Ah, I am looking for a group that travels in darkness--or has done so recently. And they have a prince."

He again looks to the two dwarves. "A prince." The thought that these folk might be the ones the gypsy sent him after is almost too ironic. The gods do indeed have a sense of humor.

"I think I might be looking for you," he says to the group, not having picked out a leader as yet.

Myr laughs out loud, clutching her stomach. "Gypsy eh? Did she give you a "free reading'? And then did she make you pay to continue the conversation?" She grins crookedly and raises one eye, looking like the cat who ate the parakeet. "You know they're all fakes, don't you? They ask you just the right questions to get enough information out of you to make a wild guess. Wait - let me see if I can give you a reading myself." Dramatically, she places her index fingers to her temples, fanning out the rest of her fingers and humming. "I see... I see someone who's name starts with the letter M... someone close to you...." It's obvious she's struggling to keep her giggles in check.

Bracht looks at the elfess with an unreadable expression, saying nothing for a long moment. "My horse is named 'Mahvros'," he said flatly. "Perhaps you have a bit of the Sight yourself."

Sandros chuckles. "Isn't that funny? Amazing how those fortune tellers can do that, eh?" He grins. He remembered how that gypsy woman named Della had been pretty good at telling people what they wanted to hear back at the circus. At least until she told someone something too close to the truth...and it had cost her her life.

"Well, I'd be awful choosy who I told that story to, if I were you. Some people are a bit...superstitious. Might burn ya for a warlock or something." Sandros watches as Myr and Ven wander off to have their own conversation, and he sighs. "Come on, guys...leave the poor guy alone. Seems to me that if he were hunting for someone, he'd have brought more men with him. Safety in numbers and all. Too many dangers out here to come alone, unless you really have no plan other then that given you by some crazy woman who likes to spout gibberish for a living."

Bracht did feel a bit foolish, but by the same token it was unwise to ignore such folk as these people dismissed so readily. While it was rare for Bracht to encounter such as the gypsy woman still he paid them heed. His culture held those with the Sight--the ability to see portents of the future--in high regard. They weren't revered, necessarily, and were often met with nervousness or outright fear, but they were listened to. And, truth be known, Bracht was getting tired of being laughed at. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides as he pulled himself to his full height.

"Gibberish?" he countered, swinging to the man speaking with a challenging gaze. "Then ignore me, and let me go. But first," and here his eyes again took in the dwarves. "Tell me which is the prince."

Kalban, in a low voice that seems to cut thru the evening air, says: "Oh but surely that is a matter of no real mystery. For I am no one but your Prince, if you must have one. Elestrades Kalban Marguelites Fawns'hope d'Mornsdew, Prince of Numrabatthil, Double Star of the Night Sky, Order of the Flaming Sash with Double Constellation." He pauses to smile at the look of astonishment from some of the others... especially his old friend Andrew Grimm, who had no idea of all this. "If you want more titles, just let me know.... there's more, ~if~ I can remember them all." He laughs.

Andrew (the only other full elf in the group) does recognize some of the honorifics -- something from long ago tales of fantasy ... or so he had thought. Tavarak is stunned --- the bard recognizes not only the honorifics, but also that they are military awards from the Great War (also called the Dark War) between the elves, dwarves and gold and white dragons on one side, and the orcs, goblins, black dragons and other servants of Silindur on the other. A war that ended over 700 years ago!! He looks anew at the simple elven wizard who calls himself "Kalban Nightwalker" -- for "Elestrades d'Mornsdew" is also a name he knows from the Greater Ballade of the Dark War. The quatrain, as he learned it -- for there are over 150 verses and each bard seems to know a slightly different version -- tells of a magical combat between d'Mornsdew and a Greater Black Dragon. In the Ballade, both wizard and dragon disappear into the magical ether.

Kalban returns his gaze to Bracht, and waves his hand in an elaborate, courtly bow. "One genuine elven prince, at your service. But don't tell anyone... I'm a wanted man! ... Are you here to rescue me from being caught by the bounty hunters then?" His laugh is even louder this time.

Ven watches the scene with Bracht unfold impatiently. He's hungry again and trail fair doesn't sound appealing when he knows he's but scant steps from their Elven friend's home. Not to mention that he's tired from the long walk. He looks around the surroundings and finds a fallen log that looks suitable for sitting.

He approaches Myr. "Myr, would you mind joining me on that fine log over there. I have a wizardly question to ask and I'm pretty sure that you have some knowledge to share, if you don't mind." Once seated, Ven reviews the spells he knows for finding and enhancing a familiar. Checking to see that he's gotten everything right. "You see, I haven't tried these spells yet, but if we lay over here for a day or two, I thought I might use the time constructively." Eventually, the conversation wanders on to other aspects of the art. Every now and then, Ven glances up, but the group is still gathered around the barbarian.

Myr eagerly joins Ven; glad for the excuse to chatter on a bit, especially about magic. Familiars are obviously one of her favorite subjects, and she sits little Flybreath on her knee as if including him in the conversation while she talks on and on about his many fine traits.

A Fireside Chat

Tavarak looks at the man then to Kalban. "Well perhaps you could let him go long enough so that we could search him. He should have something on him that would indicate his true intent. What do you say bounty hunter, does that sound fair to you?" The bard grins, "Not that you have any choice in the matter mind you."

It was useless to try and turn his head to place the speaker in view so Bracht didn't even try. "Do you carry that which marks your true intent?" Bracht spit back. "Intent often has very little to do with what one does much less what one carries," the barbarian countered. "For instance, I intend to be free of my bonds and be done with the lot of you one way or another--and a thrice-damned pox on gypsies and fortunes and quests!--but I carry nothing on me to suggest such a thing." Bracht took a deep breath, trying to regain what little control of his temper he still could. "Do what you will. As you say, I appear to have little choice in the matter."

Standing in front of other dwarf, who seems quite happy to hide inconspicuously behind her, Daggda snorts. "You have a knack for understatement, plainsman. Our friend will do as is his wont to do, which includes knowing your true intent." Her usually bright, soft voice is cold and flat. "And everyone carries their intent in their heart, which is not as hard to read as you think."   With a light chuckle, she asks, "Why not tell us what brings you to this wood, so we can decide whether your story matches your intent?" She turns to Tav and winks.

Tavarak grins at the mans response. "Well i do respect someone who can keep their wits about them when things seem bleakest. And fear not oh sticky one, we shall not let the giant spider who spun his web about you, devour you, or your mount for that matter." Tav turns and nods at Daggda, well spoken," The bard ponders the hapless mans situation, wondering if this would make a good tale. The story of a traveller who falls asleep in the woods and wakes up to find that he has been bound by tiny creatures. Tav shakes his head, deciding that such a tale would never be very popular.

Daggda sees Tavarak looking intently on the bound man, doubtless thinking up a new tale for the ale hall. Of course, a sleeping man being bound by giant spiders or elves didn't sound too exciting- unless, of course, you made it a band of DWARVES travelling through the forest that were bound and captured... now that would be a good story, indeed. Maybe pick a lucky number, like 13 dwarves, and then have them make a daring escape with the help of some comical ally, like a halfling...but maybe that was a bit too ridiculous. Daggda decided her skills definitely did not lie in storytelling...

Kalban turns, watching Daggda for a moment, then smiles.  "That *would* be a silly tale, friend dwarf.  Why, one might even have to pay family to listen to it... you might even call it a Toll Kin Story, eh?"

Then he turns to Tav.  "Well, I do see much less risk of setting him  loose with a good company of friends nearby."
He chants a couplet in elven, which translates roughly to:

     "On spell cast, dark or light,
       Return to the ether whence you came."

And the webs are gone.

Bracht sits up carefully, looking at the group that surrounds him.  He looks over his shoulder to see that Mahvros is OK.

The elf speaks to the axeman again,  "Now then, traveller, you say you are on a quest... that some others are in need of your help.  Well.... perhaps they are in need of  more help than even you can provide.  Pray, tell us of your quest.  For either you are telling the truth or you are the most hopelessly clumsy and awkward bounty hunter ever seen:  trapped by the very creature you would hunt for bounty."

Prince Geodon sidles away from the group and finds himself standing near Avon.  He says quietly, in elven, "Though you'll find no favor with me, I mark that you alone had the good sense to try and kill those orc-filth.  For that I give you credit."

Bracht takes a moment to stretch out his arms, then bounds to his feet, ready to fight or flee at a moment's notice. The others tense but make no move toward him. And why should they? They outnumber him greatly, and have weapons--and magic!--at the ready. Humans and elves and...and dwarves. Like the gypsy said. "No," Bracht murmured, shaking his head. "No, it can't be."

He again looks to the motley band before him, his eyes finding the dwarves easily, and noting, too, that his captor is an elf, slender and fragile-looking compared to the barbarian. There is strength in his eyes, however, and Bracht checks himself before taking a step back. "I, ah..." he trails off with a sigh. "I'm not a bounty hunter. I have been known to track down criminals on occasion, but that's not my profession. I am a mercenary by trade, an adventurer by fate." He glances at the elf, the mage.

"I told you true when I said that I'm not hunting anyone. I haven't taken a contract in many days. I had a run-in with a gypsy, and she told me--. Ah, I am looking for a group that travels in darkness--or has done so recently. And they have a prince." He again looks to the two dwarves. "A prince." The thought that these folk might be the ones the gypsy sent him after is almost too ironic. The gods do indeed have a sense of humor.

"I think I might be looking for you," he says to the group, not having picked out a leader as yet.

Myr laughs out loud, clutching her stomach.  "Gypsy eh?  Did she give you a "free reading'?  And then did she make you pay to continue the conversation?"  She grins crookedly and raises one eye, looking like the cat who ate the parakeet.
 
"You know they're all fakes, don't you?  They ask you just the right questions to get enough information out of you to make a wild guess.  Wait - let me see if I can give you a reading myself."
 
Dramatically, she places her index fingers to her temples, fanning out the rest of her fingers and humming.  "I see... I see someone who's name starts with the letter M... someone close to you...."  It's obvious she's struggling to keep her giggles in check.
   
Bracht looks at the elfess with an unreadable expression, saying nothing for a long moment.  "My horse is named 'Mahvros'," he said flatly.  "Perhaps you have a bit of the Sight yourself."
 
Sandros chuckles.  "Isn't that funny?  Amazing how those fortune tellers can do that, eh?"  He grins.  He remembered how that gypsy woman named Della had been pretty good at telling people what they wanted to hear back at the circus.  At least until she told someone something too close to the truth...and it had cost her her life.

"Well, I'd be awful choosy who I told that story to, if I were you.  Some people are a bit...superstitious.  Might burn ya for a warlock or something."  Sandros watches as Myr and Ven wander off to have their own conversation, and he sighs.  "Come on, guys...leave the poor guy alone.  Seems to me that if he were hunting for someone, he'd have brought more men with him.  Safety in numbers and all.  Too many dangers out here to come alone, unless you really have no plan other then that given you by some crazy woman who likes to spout gibberish for a living." 

Bracht did feel a bit foolish, but by the same token it was unwise to ignore such folk as these people dismissed so readily.  While it was rare for Bracht to encounter such as the gypsy woman still he paid them heed.  His culture held those with the Sight--the ability to see portents of the future--in high regard.  They weren't revered, necessarily, and were often met with nervousness or outright fear, but they were listened to.  And, truth be known, Bracht was getting tired of being laughed at.  His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides as he pulled himself to his full height.
 
"Gibberish?" he countered, swinging to the man speaking with a challenging gaze.  "Then ignore me, and let me go.  But first," and here his eyes again took in the dwarves.  "Tell me which is the prince."

Kalban, in a low voice that seems to cut thru the evening air, says: "Oh but surely that is a matter of no real mystery.  For I am no one but your Prince, if you must have one.  Elestrades Kalban Marguelites Fawns'hope d'Mornsdew, Prince of Numrabatthil, Double Star of the Night Sky, Order of the Flaming Sash with Double Constellation."  He pauses to smile at the look of astonishment from some of the others... especially his old friend Andrew Grimm, who had no idea of all this.  "If you want more titles, just let me know.... there's more, ~if~ I can remember them all."  He laughs.

Andrew (the only other full elf in the group) does recognize some of the honorifics -- something from long ago tales of fantasy ... or so he had thought.  Tavarak is stunned --- the bard recognizes not only the honorifics, but also that they are military awards from the Great War (also called the Dark War) between the elves, dwarves and gold and white dragons on one side, and the orcs, goblins, black dragons and other servants of Silindur on the other.  A war that ended over 700 years ago!!  He looks anew at the simple elven wizard who calls himself "Kalban Nightwalker" -- for "Elestrades d'Mornsdew" is also a name he knows from the Greater Ballade of the Dark War.  The quatrain, as he learned it -- for there are over 150 verses and each bard seems to know a slightly different version -- tells of a magical combat between d'Mornsdew and a Greater Black Dragon.  In the Ballade, both wizard and dragon disappear into the magical ether.

Kalban returns his gaze to Bracht, and waves his hand in an elaborate, courtly bow.  "One genuine elven prince, at your service.  But don't tell anyone... I'm a wanted man! ... Are you here to rescue me from being caught by the bounty hunters then?"  His laugh is even louder this time.

Mouth hanging agape and almost forgetting to breath Andrew stares at his long time friend with a mix of wonder and shock. All these years taunting and teasing, all the flirting with Aami and such Andrew can only shake his head and smile back at Kalban as he reveals some of his titles.

Wondering what else there might be about his friend he doesn't know Andrew has been caught totally unaware by these revelations. Kalban's age alone, not too mention the knowledge a great wizard from the age of the Dark war would have .... These thoughts and a million more race through Andrews mind. It is ALL he can do not to stammer out a million questions.

Still absorbing all this information Andrew simply looks between the plainsman and "the prince" wondering what effect this new information might do to the situation. Ready to react to any hostility Andrew waits on the plainsman's action.

Sandros, having no clue that the "Prince" is actually being serious, smiles widely. "Oh yes! And me...I'm Sandros Bloodworth Sarcopholus Squeegie Junior, the Speaker with Mules, Dancer with No Clothes On, Soon to be Undead if I Don't Hurry and Find the Lizard Woman, Annoying as Hell to Those I Wish to Annoy (and Some Besides), Prince of Human- land that No One Has Ever Heard of Before!" He bows low.

"So that's at least two of us that are royals...hope that doesn't make things too difficult for ya." Sandros' eyes glitter with amusement,  and he raises his gaze back to look at Bracht. "Seriously, though...If you're looking for someone to hang out with, we're a decent bunch. At least MOST of us are..." He gives Avon a dirty look. "Join the fun. Ya just never know what might happen with this crowd."

"Oh...and if you're thinking to find one of us that's the leader, good luck.  We ain't figured it out yet, either."  He chuckles.
 
Quill, who much like Andrew is quite stunned by the elf's revelations, closes her mouth long enough to scowl at Sandros' antics.  Sandros pokes her teasingly in the shoulder with his finger, grinning a crooked smile, and is rewarded by a sharp whack to the back of his head with Quill's knuckles.  "Ignore Mr. Song and Dance, here.  He gets a little goofy sometimes..."
 
At Sandros' introduction, Ven breaks into giggles.  "Speaker with mules . . . oh, that's very good indeed."
 
Throughout the regaling of titles Bracht's frown deepens to a fierce scowl.  He crosses his arms in front of him to avoid hitting anyone.  That just wouldn't do--at least until he had his axe in hand.  Mahvros whickered softly, reminding his master that he was still there and still hobbled.  Bracht could sympathize.
 
"You," he said directly to Sandros.  "Are an idiot."  He waved a hand, encompassing the others present.  "Your friends don't seem to be mocking the elf.  His claims may very well be legitimate.  I wasn't looking for someone to 'hang out with', as you put it."  He hawked and spat.  "And prince though he may be, I was speaking to the dwarves.  Is it not true you were recently in darkness?  Was there a battle at night, perhaps, or mayhap you went underground?  The gypsy woman spoke with the ring of truth and I'll not be mocked for following her words."

Sandros is not insulted at all.  "Well, yes, we sorta knew that all along.  At least I didn't get myself tied to the ground by a leprechaun or whatever.

The barbarian's warhorse seems to speak.  "Yeah.. That WAS kind of comical... All those webs !!"

Ven laughs even harder.

Tavarak is truly impressed by Kalbans credentials. Somewhere in the back of his mind the artisan in him screams at the potential opportunities of such a story. The telling of events long since lost has a certain appeal to him. Yet still another part of him understands that some stories are best left to the imagination.

Tav seems to ponders the overall situation for a half second, looking at the barbarian intently, before turning to his companions, "It wouldn't be wise to taunt the fates in matters such as this, people tend to mock that which they do not fully understand" Moving to stand infront of the barbarian and folding his arms the bard looks into the plainsman's eyes "Well perhaps you are telling the truth and perhaps you are not. It makes no never-mind to me, but none the less you have found us. So what do you intend to do now?"
 
"Now?"  Bracht looked around him.  It was obvious he was very proud, as the 'barbarians' of Helegorn tend to be, and his fur had been ruffled. "I had thought I would be needed, that perhaps there was some quest or adventure that I might find and earn myself and my clan glory and honor, and hopefully some coin along the way.  Fighting evil, perhaps, or rescuing those in dire need.  This, though," he trailed off, looking disgusted, though whether at the group before him or himself was anyone's guess.  "Assuming you still don't intend to hold me against my will, I intend to get my axe, get on my horse, ride back to Squarento and smack that gypsy woman in the face for sending on a fool's errand."

"Oh I think you should invinte him to join.  He's perfect for your little group," murmurs the Dwarven Prince to Daggda in the language of the dwarves. "Confused, uncooperative, incompetent, disrespectful... just perfect."  Then he takes a stride forward and switches to common.  He addresses the barbarian with a sigh.  "Perhaps the gypsy chose just the *right* kind of errand to send you on ... ~I~ am the Prince of Dwarves you seem to seek.  But I have some bad news for you.  Now that you know who I am, I must insist that you must not leave this company until I am back in Squarento.  I am afraid that you are now among this august group of *ahem* bodyguards or rescuers or what-have-you.  Anything else would be too dangerous.  I'll see that you are paid.... but I DO insist you not leave."

Geodon turns and speaks a few words to Kalban in a tongue no one else seems to understand.  Tavarak the Bard catches a few words that match something in an old song he does not truly understand -- something about 'elven alliance' --.  It is a beautiful song, that he learned by rote the Olde Tongue having something to do with star crossed lovers of ancient times.  At least, that is what Tav's best guess is, at the few words he picks up from Geodon.

Kalban nods curtly toward Geodon, but remains at ease, smiling and leaning against a nearby tree.  "Or you could always stay here in the woods with me ... and Skarne."

Daggda, who has a choice few words in her mouth to retort, finds the Prince is already speaking in some strange gibberish to Kalban, and thinks better of it. Instead, she turns to face Bracht. "Well met, Bracht. I am-" she pauses, looking at the giggling Veneron and Sandros and the suddenly-loquacious horse egging him on. Mocking Kalban and his titles was unacceptable...some of the names she recognized from her studies under Teiwaz the Elder. Still, she did not want give the comedians any more fuel.

"I am Daggda Trueforger. My axe is yours." She raises her arm palm out in greeting and quickly drops it to her side.
"Prince Geodon has honored you with his request, and it so happens that our goals are the same for now. You wish to return to Squarento to wring the neck of your gypsy fortuneteller, and we wish to return the Prince to Squarento. I am most interested in hearing how you got from Squarento to here unopposed. Many of us were... detained by the Duke's forces. Tell me, has that belderak marched on Squarento?" Daggda looks up sternly at the tall horseman, but her tone is friendly, for a dwarf. "Perhaps you can tell me as we make our camp..."

Tavarak grins at the plainsman, "Not so fast, there is undoubtedly the opportunity to find that which you seek. As for holding you against your will? Well that is strictly up to Lord Kalban of course, after all only a fool would throw back a fish he didn't catch. And we still need to rid the area of some maurading vermin if I'm not mistaken." Looking at the rest of the companions "And I do believe we could use a man of his considerable girth, could we not?"

Tav watches as the two princes exchange words, wondering is the dwarf is calling in debts long past forged in battle. "Lord Kalban perhaps you know of someplace secure where we can go and make some plans?"

Smiling at the bard's circumlocution, Kalban replies: "Yes, I know a very comfortable clearing near here where we can pass some time without being disturbed.  And he leads the party to a small glade, dappled in the fading sunlight, one side is sheltered by the rocky overhang of a hill.  "We can camp here.  It would be quite safe ... except from pxies." He laughs, turning his smile to Bracht.  "And I would suggest that ~you~ accept Prince Geodon's gracious invitation to remain with his company  He is a hard man if crossed. ...  I know how you plainsmen enjoy sport... why not ask if the Prince would help you practice your combat skill."  His eyes are alight with amusement as he continues, " Only be sure to tell him that you ask for a practice combat."

The bard attempts to isolate Kalban out of earshot from the rest of the group. "Lord Kalban, i would seek your counsel on matters of magic if you will hear my questions." waiting for a response before continuing "Quill carries a sword, one which she has let me handle. It is truly amazing, the raw power contained in the blade. You mentioned when we first met that you knew the latest wielder of the weapon, I was wondering if you knew anything of background of the blade? I've seen the damage it does, which is nothing short of truly amazing. That is it magic is beyond question. It  seems to bond with the wielder, is there any mal effects from the bonding? Is Quill in danger of being consumed, for lack of a better term, by the weapon? Was it created for a specific purpose?" Tav ponders the response before going on. "On a different mater, I have the learned certain magic spells, but feel that i am ready to reach beyond that which i know. The war which you spoke of earlier, i believe,  was eventually won with the use of magic. I would be honoured if you would tutor me in the art of spellcasting.

"Lord Kalban is it ?  I prefer to be just the plain Kalban I have been for so many years now.  It fits me comfortably like an old suit of clothes.  And I spoke of no war ... just some old, meaningless titles that my uncle the king once handed out like party favors."  He pauses considering Tav's requests.  "The sword of which you speak is indeed familiar to me... Dragon's Claw was elven-forged in days when dragons were young, and was wielded for long years by my cousin, Auriella.  After I learned of her death from you a few days ago, I sent word to her half-brother who happened to be in Squarento.  Ev'n now, he awaits your return to my home so that he may learn the fate of his sister.  And, " he continues with a broad smile and a nod in Avon's direction, "if there is some ransom that may pry the harp away from your comrade." 

"No, your friend is in no danger from the sword.  It is old. Very old."  Tav reflects on what very old must mean to an elf who fought in a war 700 years ago.  "And in all that time, it has never harmed it's wielder.  On the other hand, " he chuckles softly, "in all that time, it has never been used for an evil purpose... so who knows?"

There is a period of quiet as the elf walks on toward the clearing.  "So, you would learn more of magic, eh?  You have been in my home, and you know there is no laboratory there nor a magical library.  What I could teach in a short time is simple enough, yet I judge that there may be a spell or two that I might know that you do not."  There's that smile again.   "But everything has a price, and friend or not, that price must be paid.  My price is not an easy one.  I will teach what you may learn of magic but I ask that one from your company -- it need not be you -- who knows the details of Lady Auriella's fate to go with Lord Amaryss and talk to her family.  He will be taking my wife and child to the Isle of View ... a place of safety in these dangerous times.  I will not be here to protect them, and cannot bear to leave them in peril.  Think on it, for it is not an easy thing I ask."

Avon's mood isn't getting any better. He knew the sword was special the moment he laid eyes on it. But now all of a sudden it's no longer his sword. Just as it's no longer his bow or his bracers. Wasn't he the one that risked his life for that of another. Just look at what it brings him. They killed the only one he ever truly loved, or at least the one of which he thought would be the only one he was ever going to love. They took his treasures, elven treasures that rightfully belonged to him. They signed his dead warrant by letting those orcs go. And here he is, listening to all this talk. Suddenly he is surrounded by 'special' people. Slowly his minds drifts away, dark clouds form behind his eyes, the coldness fills him once more.

... no stars and from the the darkness a hooded figure appears. A tall slender figure dressed in brownish gray rags. Slowly the figure walks towards him and stands before him. It slaps him in the face. Not hard, but the pain stings his right cheek. He can't see a face under the hood, but from the ink black hole words can be heard. "Avon! Kerr Avon!", the voice is low and dark. The voice continues but the words can not be heard, all he can hear is low sounds that resemble words. And as he watches past the hooded figure he can see the moon, cold and clear, bathing the world in its silver, magical light. Mist swirls through dead, leafless trees. He suddenly becomes aware of the damp coldness surrounding him. His feet sink in the watery mud, and as he ...

The hatred fills his body with energy. His time will come, and when it comes he will take care of all these bastards. When it comes he will take care of every single one who ever dared to oppose him. His hands are balled into fists, his knuckles turn white. But suddenly his possure relaxes, his attention turns towards the conversation aain the moment he hears his name. "A ransom you say?" he inquires interested, "but of course, my noble friend." His words sound ironic, even sarcastic. "Everything and every one has its price, or don't they?" clearly this question is not to be answered. "But it is not gold or silver that can get you this harp", he continues. "For this harp I want something special, my elven comrade. If you are who you say you are, surely you must have something worth trading." Avon's eyes light up with a greedy fire "I want something special. I want true elven artifact, magical and all, something from our history. I want something that bonds me to my people, to my past, heritage. I want to be part." His voice trembles, his eyes are looking past Kalban, past the surroundings, they stare into the endless nothingness. His hands are no longer fists.

Kalban to Avon:
"It may well be, friend, that Lord Amaryss, the Lady's brother, may have something -- or he may not.   It is not I who seek to ransom the harp, tho I would be pleased to find it in the hands of her family once again.  You are of elven heritage... perhaps if you speak of your past, your heritage to Lord Amaryss, he may have some insight for you.  I have lived here, away from elves for the most part, for many, many years.  I do not know of your ancestors --- or probably not, at least --- not unless they were here on the mainland in the past century or two." 

He leans back against a tree, and makes a soundless whistle to the darkening sky.  Soon a bat comes swooping out of the darkness and lands on a tree branch overhead.  He stares at it for a moment, when he looks away, the bat takes off into the evening sky once more.

As the evening wears on, Kalban pulls a paper out of his pouch, unfolds it and passes it first to Andrew and then to the others.  It is, of course, another copy of the WANTED poster that Bracht has.

The others had various reactions as they read the announcements.  Each was startled to see a price on the head of their friends Kalban and Aami,  and  were even more shocked to see Crystal described "as a half-breed abomination."

Andrew’s reaction, however, was the strongest.  The idea of a bounty on pixies was ridiculous.  No one would ever catch a pixie unless he wanted to be caught.  But a price on the head of  an Arch Druid!  Unthinkable!  When he studied with his teacher back those long decades ago, he had been told of Arch Druids.  There were only a few of them on the whole continent.  The nearest one did indeed have his home Grove in Clover Downs.  But this was not just “an” Arch Druid.  His master, had spoken of Druid Featherbrain as “THE” Arch Druid. 

This idiot Duke was not just a racist, not just a rapist and murderer.  He was a madman to be taking on Arch Druid Featherbrain, for in doing so he names as an enemy every Druid.  Either mad or he must have very powerful allies.  That was a frightening idea.

His mind drifted for a few minutes, dealing with the frightening idea of someone who felt confident enough to take on Arch Druid Featherbrain and all who honor Najela.  Finally his mind came back to the WANTED poster, and Andrew told the others some of what he knew about pixies.

Andrew had met one of the pixies some years ago, when he was traveling down in the southern end of the Melfan peninsula.  He was extraordinary: as quiet as a could drifting by.  Andrew had woken in the middle of the night, and found the pixie sitting by his fire, looking at him with a curious expression.   He spoke common with a soft lilt.  They exchanged recipes for rabbit stew of all things.  The Druid could not imagine what this quiet, peaceful and reclusive people might have done to arouse the hatred of the Duke.

Qoxi  (KOH-shee) is the Queen of the Pixies.  She is sometimes found in Melfis, and sometimes elsewhere.

Pixies are about 10” tall, but otherwise seem to have “normal” human bodies.  They are usually seen in pairs or as single individuals. No one really knows how pixies travel from place to place, how many of them there are, or where or how they live.  These long-lived forest-dwellers are creatures of flesh and blood and magic.  They are almost impossible to find; unless they want to find you, you will never see one.

Farmers, woodsmen and shepherds will often leave little packages of sweet treats, which pixies love, to gain their favor, since one who crosses their kind will find himself with “bad luck” endlessly.  Somehow, these gifts seem always to be found.

As Andrew told of his encounter with pixies and what little he knew of their kind, Myridian remembered the spite filled-words of the woman who had held her captive during so much of her early life.  The harridan had railed and cursed at pixies.  Every time one of her brews had been spoiled, every time she had no food, every time something broke in the home, she invented new ways to catch and torture a pixie.  She swore she would roast them, or cut their fingers off with a rusty knife, or smash their skulls under a brick.  But of course, she had to catch one first, and that she had never been able to do …. much to her frustration. 

Oh she had tried.  Complicated contraptions with sweet meats for bait.  And the next morning the treat would be gone and the trap untouched.  When the sweet had been poisoned, it was never even touched.  Myr had loved those mornings, because of the frustration they gave the old witch, and she had come to dread the beating she received afterwards as the hag vented her anger on the helpless girl.


And what is this about hexapumas? Andrew wondered.  This is his wilderness, how can it be that there are hexapumas nearby and he not know it?  Of course, the animals were telepathic.  As he thought about it, it would be easy for a telepath to avoid anyone he wanted to avoid.  He had learned of hexapumas, of course, during his studies of animal kind, and he told the others some of the lore of hexapumas.

Bracht joined in the conversation when it came around to hexapumas.  The horsemen of the clans had more than book-learning when it came to dealing with the 'pumas.

But neither Axeman nor Druid had ever seen one.

No one had ever seen a hexapuma before, except Sandros.  He broke the silence around the campfire with his recollection of a hexapuma.  Years ago, when he was a young boy traveling with the circus, the menagerie had, for a while, contained a young male ‘puma.  The beast  was lethargic and miserable, and the young Sandros had been fascinated with the exotic cat.  Over time, Sandros had taken to bringing extra fresh meat to the animal, and had a series of daydreams about setting him free.  Years later, he came to understand that these were not daydreams, but telepathic communications from the hexapuma.

One day a fellow who looked like a magician came and offered the owner a large sum of gold for the ‘puma.  When the time had come for the wizard to take the ‘puma, they had offered to give him the cage as well, but he just laughed and opened the door.  The large cat had just slowly stood and walked forward.  He sat with his rear and midlegs, and stared at the wizard for several minutes.  Then the wizard came to Sandros and thanked him for having given the extra food to the large cat.  Sandros wondered how he learned of the extra food, and was embarrassed and was trying to think of something to say, when he noticed the unusual golden eyes of the wizard.  Instead of normal round pupils, or a vertical oval like a cat’s, his pupils were almost like a diamond shape with an extension from each of the corners  or maybe a 4-pointed star.

Veneron gasped, for he had seen a drawing of a creature with eyes like that.  “Sandros,” he whispered hoarsely, “I think you were talking to a dragon!  The old mage I studied with had a book.  I was looking in it one day, when I wasn't supposed to be, actually.  Anyway, there was this whole chapter on dragons.  They have eyes that match their color: red dragons have red eyes and gold have golden eyes and so on  but the book said they could always be recognized by the unusual shape of the pupils of their eyes.  This was important, said the book, because dragons had long ago learned the secrets of shape-shifting magic, and could change themselves into any other body -- but the unusual shape of the pupils of their eyes always stayed the same.  Although in the next section it said that an individual dragon could change into only one particular animal:  if he decided, for example, to thoroughly learn how to become a man, he could never shape-shift into any other creature.   --- Ever since that day, I have looked at peoples’ eyes, trying to find a dragon.”  He laughed.  “Never did see one, though.”

Avon’s heart flipped over in his chest as he listened to Veneron’s words.  Back in the tavern where he grew up, he had an encounter with a fellow with strange bronze eyes… eyes that looked very much like those Sandros and Ven had talked about.  The man was a small fellow, very old and stringy in appearance.  But Avon had always remembered that his eyes were very young and alert for such an old man.  They had that strange diamond shape with stretched out corners.  He had wanted to bring his pet ferret into the tavern, and there was a rule against that sort of thing.  The ferret had strange eyes too, Avon remembered:  the palest of pale blue, almost white, with tiny little dark spots in the center that had stared at him as if it knew that he wanted to keep the animal out.  Avon had been very full of himself that night: young and cocky, aggressive in that way that young men can be when they are most unsure of themselves.  He had pushed and jostled the old man until both he and his ferret were outside the tavern.  His heart skipped a beat at the thought that he might have been “bullying” a dragon  or maybe even two of them !!


Bubbles Featherbrain was an important person, at least so said the ballad that Tavarak had learned.  He had assumed that the name was a joke, and that the tale involving him was one a story of long-ago, a flight of fancy.  The Bard thought for a moment and then told the story to his companions, singing the melody in a clear tenor that was clear and true, if not gifted in quality.

The ballad told of a mighty woodsman who was only three feet tall.  How he had single-handedly replanted whole forests after a great war between wizards had burned all to smoking ashes.  How he had flown on the back of a mighty eagle from place to place tending the new trees for a decade, and going to the castle of each of the two wizards demanding  and getting!  supplies and magics from them for the project.

He had dismissed the tale as a story for children… a little halfling who extorted mighty wizards, flying on eagle’s wings.  But a halfling who was an Arch Druid could certainly have made the story true.  As he looked up into the star-filled night, he thought of other tales he had not credited:  of men who changed into dragons.  Considering what Veneron had said, perhaps they were really tales of dragons who had taken the form of men.