Vencrest strutted inside the inn, a smug look spread across his face. The inn was relativley quiet before he entered, but his presence caused the whole room to hush. He walked inside quietly, his shoes thumping against the wooden floors rhythmically. A few people just shrugged, and continued with their drinking, disregarding his presence. Others watched him as he approached a table, and finally, taking a seat at one of the chairs.

He couldn't help but smile. He knew that they weren't scared of him because of his reputation. He was barely known in the outside world. All he had contact with was his family. It wasn't because he was huge. He was actually a normal build, with some muscles. It was because of his race. He stood out as a drow, his skin was a deep grey color, his hair a vibrant white, his eyes, a cold grey. These people feared him because of what he was. Drow's didn't have a good reputation, and were believed to be an evil creature. They were right. He was evil, and wouldn't hesitate to kill anyone who threatened him.

A barmaiden walked nervously to his table. He looked up at her, a smile still spread across his lips. She almost jumped back as he turned, frightened at what he might do. "Uh,... what would you like, sir?" she squeaked. "Just a glass of ale," he said coolly. She jumped back at his words, as if she didn't expect him to say anything. Why were they all so afraid? He wouldn't kill them for no reason. He would kill them if they did anything to upset him, or oppose him, but he wouldn't kill them for no reason.

A minute had passed when the bar maiden returned. She gingerly placed the large glass on the table, and quickly scuttled away. He grabbed it, and took a long drink. He looked up from his glass, only to see the stares of others in the room to quickly avert their gazes. He let out a small laugh, and finished off the ale with an other swig. He slammed his glass on the table, causing a few people in the room to jump. He stood, and walked slowly towards were the bartender stood.

"What can I have fer ya?" he questioned, obviously not as frightened by the drow as everyone else in the room. "A room," Vencrest said. "Ten gold," the bartender said, holding out a grimy hand. Vencrest reached deep in his cloak pocket, and pulled out ten gold coins, and placed it in his hand. The bartender shoved the money somewhere on the counter, and retrieved a key. "Third floor, first door to yer left," he grumbled.

Vencrest snatched the key, and began to head up the stairs. He thought he heard the bar maiden sigh, and several others as well. He let out a small laugh, amused with their foolish ways. He made it to the third floor, and looked out to the first door on his left. There was a small dirty doorway, with a well used key hole. He jammed the key inside, and turned it. The door opened swiftly, releasing a cool burst of air. The room was poorly furnished. There was only a dirty bed, with a matching dirty desk and chair. On the desk was a book titled 'Estolad, A History.' He approached it, and flipped through the pages. It seemed uninteresting.

Vencrest made a high pitched whistle, and flung open the window to his room. In a matter of minutes, a small dragon flew in the room. He was about the size of a small dog, and was a deep shade of red. Its mouth was dripping with blood from a recent kill. He looked out the window in the dark skies, and saw the body of a dead horse not to far away.

He stroked the back of the dragon, and it let out a small gurgling noise. "Grow big and strong Zekbel," he said in a soothing voice. There was a knock on his door. He made shooing motions with his hands, and the dragon quickly scurried under the bed. "Come in," Vencrest said darkly.

It was the bartender, and he had a worried look on his face. "Uh, sir, you need to stop what ever your doing," he said gingerly. "What!," Vencrest shouted, outraged. The bartender pointed to the ground. There were small burning holes in the floor. Vencrest shot a look under the bed, to see smoking holes coming from floor. "Okay, okay, just leave," Vencrest said hurriedly. The man left quickly, not asking what was causing the holes. Zekbel came from under the bed, and placed her head gently on his lap, and continued gurgling.

Curin had travelled for forty weeks to reach Estolad, and time and time again he was grateful for the possession of a horse. Even when the poor beast was thin as a blade of grass for want of rest, and decent feed, it bore at least his packs so that Curin need not. He had promised, more than once, to buy the beast a decent blanket, and a proper feed when they reached civilization. He dealt with the amiable chandler, who looked at the poor beast with a shake of the head, and dished out more than a few pearls of wisdom, to see the horse recover fully, and let Curin take an end of bread for himself. His faith restored in the over-all goodness of the world, and fate in general, Curin stepped outside, to see a dog-sized dragon-hatchling supping the last drop of blood from his late horses neck.

He dropped the horse-feed at the chandlers door, and sighed, dark eyes gleaming beneath a shadowed brow. The creature took a few bites of the neck-flesh with teeth likely sharper than razors, and rooted through the wound until it had ferreted out the heart, which it snapped up, making a bulge in its long neck.

A part of Curin was angry, angry as hell. A part of him had given up being upset, and wondered what strange turn of his fate had required for this to happen. When the hatchling dragon had taken to wing, Curin watched it go, marking the Inn where it had gone, and went over to say a last goodbye to the dead horse. He laid the blanket over it, and looked up at the darkening sky: no stars, and only a cloud-shrouded rag of the moon.

Inside the Inn Curin noticed something of an uncomfortable buzz, that the patrons were jumpy, positively flinching as he walked in. He ordered an ale, as fine and dark brew as he could possibly have ever looked forward to. The barman, a slightly strained expression on his face, kept eyeing the ceiling. Curin looked up over his shoulder, and saw why. A smoldering spot of char was blossoming in the timber there. The dragon. Curin shadowed the barman, and concealed himself in a doorway.

"Uh, sir, you need to stop what ever your doing," The barman said gingerly, and was barked at by as beautiful and frightful a voice as Curin had ever heard. "Okay, okay, just leave," The voice softened a little.

Once the barman had gone Curin knocked on the door, and leant against the wall opposite it. He was not a big man, but he was a ranger, and had the lean, extremely hardened look of that life. Everything he wore he had made himself, from the pelts of creatures he had caught, or fibres he had hand-spun. His hair was dark, because it was still dirty, but beneath it had hints of dark copper. His dark eyes would glitter from above his thick beard. But he was not a threatening man. People warmed to him quickly, the smallest guestures of his hands communicated that he was a man that wanted to live, and was content to let others live just however they pleased. But he wanted to have a word to the owner of the dragon, not least of all to have a proper look at the amazing thing, but to see if there was any chance of getting any compensation, not that he would insist. Anyone that could make a room full of people that jumpy, was probably not someone to make arguments with.

He knocked again, and waited, a patient and calming smile on his face.

Juste sat there in a chair at a table isolated in a corner. Nobody sat at his table and he was most pleased that way even though his facial expressions did not give any thought of that. A drink sat in front of him, a simple ale but it fit his mood. Bland, a bit bitter, silent, and cold. He picked the drink up by the handle and took a sip out of it, the bitter taste made him feel nothing more then what he felt every day. He leaned back in the chair and propped his feet up on a chair opposite of him and closed his eyes, concentrating on knowledge of the Belmont Whip.

The calm chatter of the other patrons continued on until a figure walked in through the door to the inn. The calm peace was broken as the room fell as silent as a grave. a few mutters here and there but nothing more then that for a short while. The peace-breaker was a tall grey drow who slowly approached the bar. A bar Maiden approached, so obviously frightened by this man. "Uh,... what would you like, sir?" she squeaked with a silent, very frightened voice. "Just a glass of ale." he said calmly with a slight hint of arrogance in his voice. The maiden jumped back as if the man made a move to do harm to her. He did not harm her in any way nor did he make a move to do so.

A moment later the maiden returned with the ale, she seemed gingery but it was obvious to Juste that she was still very frightened about the man’s presence. The man took the ale as the bar maid hurried off. He took a long drink out of it and then peered out over the glass. In Juste’s opinion he was overly cocky about this fear stricken into most of the patrons. He gave out a chuckle a downed the ale in another swallow, slamming it on the table afterwards. He seemed slightly insane but did not upset Juste in any manner other then annoyance.

He left his table and walked over to the barkeeper who asked him what he wanted. "What can I have fer ya?" the barkeep questioned, obviously not as frightened by the drow as everyone else in the room. "A room" the tall grey man said. "Ten gold." the bartender responded holding out his hand. The drow reached deep in his cloak pocket, and pulled out ten gold coins, and placed it in the barkeep’s hand. The bartender shoved the money somewhere on the counter, and retrieved a key. "Third floor, first door to yer left." he grumbled. The Drow headed upstairs and another man entered.

Juste paid no attention to the man but instead turned his attention to the slowly forming, burning holes in the ceiling which the barkeep obviously noticed and became very annoyed by it. He headed upstairs. After a while Juste listened for the voices upstairs. "Uh, sir, you need to stop what ever your doing." the barkeeps voice wrong out gingerly. "What!" the drow shouted with an evil tone, outraged. "Okay, okay, just leave." The Drow said hurriedly.

The man that had entered after the Drow went upstairs for some reason that didn’t matter to Juste who ignored what was happening upstairs and continued with his drink. He hoped that he could have a day of peace, to gether information of the Belmont Whip’s whereabouts but that now seemed highly unlikely.

((Sorry if the gender of my dragon is a little confusing. I have officially decided he is a Boy! :yes: As for the post, I'm sorry if its bad, school starts tomorrow, and I'm a little nervous :/ ))

Vencrest rested himself on the dirty bed of the small room, calmed by stroking the dragon, who's head rested on his lap. He let out a small gasp of pain, and looked down to see the source. His dragon had been leaking lava, yet again, and a small bit had seeped onto his clothing. It had been small enough to harden rapidly, not burning a hole, but was still hot enough to cause searing pain in his leg. Vencrest stood, and grabbed hold of his dragons head, ready to perform a technique to stop this leaking, a technique he had learned in a book.

Once he grabbed the head, Zekbel immediately began to thrash about, discomforted about the position Vencrest was putting him in. Vencrest muttered soothing words in Drow, and began to gently stroke the dragons back. The dragon stopped thrashing about, and his body fell limp, showing Vencrest that he would be comfortable with the procedure. Vencrest lifted the dragons head up, and left his head in the air for about a minute. After the minute expired, he released Zekbel's head, and laid on the bed again, Zekbel returning to put his head on Vencrest's lap.

Vencrest continued to stoke him, and began to relax. According to the book he had read, Zekbel would not drool lava for another hour or so, giving him a chance to relax. His thoughts of relaxation were quickly shot down, for there was a knocking at the door to his room. Vencrest let out a deep sigh, and stood up, and Zekbel flew off his lap, and scurried under the bed. Vencrest opened the wooden door quickly, causing the hinges to squeak, and it to slam into the wall.

"WHAT NOW!," he bellowed, in a crisp, clean voice, which rang to the stairs bellow. A feminine scream rang out, obviously the bar maiden who had been so scared of him before. He fell back into the doorway, startled to see it was not the bartender, but rather, a man dressed in animal pelts. "Oh, hello," Vencrest said smoothly, "I did not realize that it was you. If the bartender sent you, you might as well go back downstairs, and tell him the problem is taken care of. And if he wants to pursue the matter, he might as well consider himself a dead man." Vencrest made an evil smile and added ", I can show you whats causing those holes if you like. And if you want, I can show more things that you probably never seen before. Dark things, that aren't natural, that aren't what normal people are used to seeing."

Curin raised his eyebrows, still leaning against the wall opposite the door, as it burst open, and a fierce-looking drow, still a youth he deemed, cut the air with a "WHAT NOW!". Below, the jumpy barmaid gave a stifled scream. "Oh, hello," The Drow said smoothly, smooth as the knife that slits the throat, "I did not realize that it was you."

Curin shifted his weight uncomfortably at that. Had the Drow expected him? He felt a bead of sweat, that had not existed a half a second later, run down between his shoulder blades. The battle-calm that had so often saved Curins' life came over him. He became acutely aware of himself, and all the surrounded him. Downstairs the wooden groan of chairs being rapidly evacuated, the sound of booted feet making a hasty exit. The scolding tone of the barman berating the maid. He smelt the fresh blood coming from the Drows' room, and smelt the clean earthy scents of his furs. And the voice of his mind asked a frightful question: Had the Drow sent its hatchling to kill the horse deliberately?

The Drows' voice spoke again, like a man's own guilty conscience, that speaks quietly, but hurts you inside, like prodding a bruise. "If the bartender sent you, you might as well go back downstairs, and tell him the problem is taken care of. And if he wants to pursue the matter, he might as well consider himself a dead man." The Drow said on. Curin watched the Drows body language carefully, trying to read him, trying to see if this was all a ruse, or a riddle, or if things were just as they seemed: a tired Drow wanting to be left alone, and a tired ranger, that should probably have never come up those steps. The seconds were as spacious as hours as Curins' battle-calm reached its height. He was afraid, he knew that, probably the wisest thing when dealing with an elf that was born to evil. He didn't mind that the Drow could likely sense his fear, but Curin was determined to master the fear. To be courageous, and sensible. To win the Drows' respect.

Curin tilted his head minutely, not wanting the shift of his eyes to be noticed, casting an eye into the room behind, where he took stock of the dragon hatchling. Still wordless, he returned his attention to the dark-aligned elf, who had come closer, a sardonic expression painted across a face so lovely, and so menacing: Curin would struggle to describe it afterwards, meeting a Drow: 'They're still elves, the Drow,' He would try to explain to people that asked him. 'And while every drop of loveliness is gone out of them, none of the majesty has. There's horror, mixed with beauty. Like a torture weapon crafted from mithril. You have to meet one, and if you do, be sure to keep your wits with you, or you'll give them the excuse they need to kill you before you know what you've done.'

The Drows' hypnotisingly sweet and wicked face glittered with a smile. His gray eyes bored into Curins' with the calm and confidence of a cobra as it dances before its prey, then strikes when it knows all chance of a struggle have passed. Curin perceived, even if the Drow was in its youth, it was still likely thousands of years old, certainly old enough that all of Curins' forbears -to the extent of his peoples' memory- had lived and died in the mean time. "I can show you what's causing those holes if you like. And if you want, I can show more things that you probably never seen before. Dark things, that aren't natural, that aren't what normal people are used to seeing." The normal shadow of the hallway seemed to grow thick, and to holds its' breath, like a wolf coiling itself for the pounce. Despite the well tended furs that Curin wore, his blood ran chill, and he felt his sweat turn cold upon his palms.

Curin dropped his gaze, rubbing the back of his neck with a hand, aware that the Drow was probably weaving its' webs of fear over him. "I'm already somewhat acquainted with the plasma Dragon hatchling" Curin said, painfully aware of how harsh, and lacking any of the music that the Drows' voice inherently possessed, "if that's what you're alluding to, master; or my horse is. Was that is... My late horse. If you take my meaning." Curin held up his hands, in a calming expression. "Now I haven't come to make trouble with you, my good sir. But I have to wonder if it was merely an accident, or if you have some reason to send the hatchling. In which case, I figure I couldn't get far away from you before you caught up with me. So I thought I may as well come right on up. And there's this: I did want to lay eyes on the owner of whoever owned the hatchling, even if its choice of prey was just an accident. Just so I knew: good or evil? Man or woman, pardon the expression. Was it an accident, or was it done deliberately? That horse saved my life a number of times." Curin looked into the Drows' eyes, looking for that spark of intelligence and recognition between free creatures that meant neither any harm. "I felt I owed it to the horse." Curin lifted his head, clenching his teeth, looking at the Drow down the length of his nose, and pulling a hand through his beard. He frowned honestly, and rolled his shoulders, something between a stretch and a shrug. He met the Drows' eyes. "I expect you'd understand. You've got the look of one who understands beasts."

((Your posts are excellent Curin. I love how you describe the voice in such great detail!))

Vencrest stood in the doorway, ready to listen carefully to what the man had begun to say. His eyes gleamed with a pale shine, and despite there pale grey color, they seemed to pierce the soul, looking through every aspect of life, only seeing people for what they were truly. He quietly listened to him. "I'm already somewhat acquainted with the plasma Dragon hatchling," he said in a gruff voice. His voice was much unlike his own. His voice sounded rough, and jagged, unlike Vencrest's smooth, chilling voice. "Ff that's what you're alluding to, master; or my horse is. Was that is... My late horse. If you take my meaning," he added, raising his hands in the air.

"Now I haven't come to make trouble with you, my good sir. But I have to wonder if it was merely an accident, or if you have some reason to send the hatchling. In which case, I figure I couldn't get far away from you before you caught up with me. So I thought I may as well come right on up. And there's this: I did want to lay eyes on the owner of whoever owned the hatchling, even if its choice of prey was just an accident. Just so I knew: good or evil? Man or woman, pardon the expression. Was it an accident, or was it done deliberately? That horse saved my life a number of times." Vencrest smiled, his eyes began to sparkle with intensity, which was quite uncommon for him, for his outlook on the world was quite bleak. He loved the chance to talk to some one with intelligence. I felt I owed it to the horse." He clenched his teeth, obviously upset over the death of the horse. He ran his hand through his beard and added "I expect you'd understand. You've got the look of one who understands beasts."

He then looked directly into Vencrest's deep grey eyes. Vencrest made a smile, and let out a small laugh, which would send a chill down an average persons spine. Almost no one made eye contact with him, and Vencrest never backed down, and constantly stared into a persons eyes, searching for a weakness. A normal person's eyes darted around, refusing to look into his cold grey eyes. This man looked right in his eyes, the colors clashing, his soft brown almost illuminating Vencrests dull grey eyes.

"Yes, you indeed are some one I would like to talk to later. My name is Vencrest Kianthis. As for the horse, I'm sorry, but I have to let nature have its course. And you are correct, I do love beasts, and I can relate, but I relate in the more unnatural side of beasts. There are many in the world who want to make friends with horses and squirrels and deer, but were are those who want to care for the hatchlings who don't have a home, and the skeletal horses who don't have any masters to guide them."

He began to raise his voice, yet it still seemed soft, and cool. " I'm sorry my friend, but the horse had to die. Unlike others, I realize Death is natural, that it will happen, and all mortals will die eventually. That horse died, so he became the food for my dragon. I didn't specifically pick that horse, I let my dragon loose to fetch some food, and unfortunately your horse was his victim. I hope you can understand this aspect of Nature, and you aren't like so many others who hate the unnatural, like this little dragon here." As if on command, the small dragon crawled from under the bed, and crawled onto the desk, and gave a small high pitched roar. Vencrest let out a laugh, and added politely, "come on in, and close the door behind you." Vencrest walked inside, and sat at the chair to the desk, glancing over the cover of the book placed on it, awaiting the entrance of the man.

Curin looked into the Drows' eyes, looking for a connection between them, to see if there was any empathy between a mortal man, and a Drow. Curin knew little of the Drow, save that when the Elves took the great migration, there was a contingent of them that were not called by the Valar of Aman; but who passed into alignment with the Dark Lord. As the Elves that resided in Eldamar were illumined, and empowerd with the Light of the Valar, and of Aman itself, and grew mighty in the lore and craft of the Valar, so the Drow were brought into the depth of the wisdom and craft of the Dark Lord, he that had been Melchior, a Valar himself, called The Mighty.

Even as the darkness of the hallway congealed, like blood, so that Curin realised if he did not win the Drows' respect, he would soon be dead, he looked for a communion between them. If the Drow attacked, Curin realised he had come to a decision, he would not even offer any resistance. He wasn't sure if that notion had been implanted in his mind, a dark craft of the Drows', perhaps, or if it was his own imagination suggesting the only honorable thing to do if you have blundered into the company of one of the Elder Races, without the proper wisdom to treat with them.

He just held the Drows' eyes. The link was as slight, and delicate as a single thread of a spider web. But it was there. The Drow perceived Curins' emotion of loss for the horse, and understood that Curin felt responsible, and honoured the beast. That was all that was needed. They might never become friends, and certainly never equals, but at least the Drow could relate to Curin on the level of their shared affinity with beasts. He perceived compassion in the Drows' eyes.

The Drow smiled, a terrible beauty lighting his face like warmthless moonlight upon the blade of a dagger, and laughed: a haunting sound that struck notes in Curins' soul of the fear in the dark when he was a tiny child. The fear of being unable to see, and being alone. A fear which he knew none of the Quendi ever felt.

At length the Drow spoke. "Yes, you indeed are some one I would like to talk to later." The Drow had completed his test of Curin, for the moment, and Curin felt as if the weight of a mountain had been removed from his shoulders, or as if the hand that had been steadily squeezing his fretful heart released its death-grip. "My name is Vencrest Kianthis. As for the horse, I'm sorry, but I have to let nature have its course." The Drow spoke with a clinical honesty as Curin had seen a surgeon do of a man in his death throes, whom the surgeon had been struggling to the extent of his strength to deliver from death, but once what would be was no longer avoidable, the surgeon was capable of withdrawing the emotional attachment from the man, even as he thrashed through his final agony. "And you are correct, I do love beasts, and I can relate, but I relate in the more unnatural side of beasts."

Curin watched Vencrests' face change, for his expression turned inflective, and that even though he was speaking to Curin, it was as if Vencrest was speaking to all beings not of the Drow-kind. There was an unfathomable pain and sadness in that voice filled with more music, menace, and subtlety that a choir of humans' could conjure. "There are many in the world who want to make friends with horses and squirrels and deer, but where are those who want to care for the hatchlings who don't have a home, and the skeletal horses who don't have any masters to guide them." Now Curin saw an insight into the perspective of those who live on the other side of the light, who are appalled at those, such as human-kind, who have no concern for the fates of the creatures they deem to be unholy, or outright evil; who in fact are incapable of nothing but hatred, mistrust, and violence in their dealings with them. He perceived a depth of care and concern for these creatures that beggared any feelings he might have had for his own horse.

" I'm sorry my friend, but the horse had to die. Vencrest lifted his eyes, that were still filled with age old thoughts and sadnesses, his words reasonable, but not emotional, for Curin deemed that the Drow-kind did not often comfort one another with wanton emotion, but with steadfast oaths, and actual physical support. "Unlike others, I realize Death is natural, that it will happen, and all mortals will die eventually. That horse died, so he became the food for my dragon. I didn't specifically pick that horse, I let my dragon loose to fetch some food, and unfortunately your horse was his victim. I hope you can understand this aspect of Nature, and you aren't like so many others who hate the unnatural, like this little dragon here."

At this the hatchling emerged, and Curin marveled that it should appear at the mere mention of it. Perhaps the hatchling and the Drow already shared some form of bond, or he had begun to teach the hatchling the rudiments of speech. The dragons hide was as red as fallen pine-needles, or fresh-polished copper. Its legs and spine already notably muscular, certainly enough to bring down a horse; but its belly and neck were still soft, the belly swollen with fresh-eaten meat. It moved with the frightful sudden speed of a spider, which can be moving at full speed one instant, and yet suddenly, creepily, completely stop the next second, as if it had never ever moved. It moved as if weightless, scaling the desk, where, almost comically it reared up and tilting back its head, it roared.

The Drow laughed at his familiar, and the depth of affection in his laughter was heart-wrenching. Curin was deeply intrigued, and inspired. He had never dreamed that in his life he might ever meet one of the Drow, save for meeting one whose sword was placed expertly between his ribs into his heart, on the field of battle. He had never imagined he might be welcomed in conversation with one.

The room of the Inn was very basic, the coverlet bearing as much dirt as the ground outside, and a plain desk, perhaps arguably cleaner, crammed unhappily into the corner. "come on in, and close the door behind you." The Drow sat at the desk, and glanced briefly at a book placed on it, and looked up expectantly.

Curin went inside, and closed the door as he was told. He dropped his cloak in the corner behind the door, and raised his eyebrows askingly, if he was permitted to sit on the end of the bed. He wanted to hold out his hand for the hatchling to smell, but knew not if that was an invitation to have it bitten off cleanly.

"Master Vencrest. I am Curin Neiruthaun, at your service." Curin lifted his chin, tossing it at the book in askance of what the title might be, and what the topic might be within. "I have come through solitude, and military service; through fire and water. I have been wealthy, and frightfully poor. I will not mourn the horse for the sake of owning a horse. It is enough that you care in the least that it lived, with no design for its death."

Outside the last sliver of the moon glittered upon the horizon. It would be a long dark night, and a late dawn. Curin decided he would allow a few days rest, since he had to acquire a new horse. The Temple of Threnody, the Goddess of Balance, was still far away. But it had been there through-out the Ages, and wold wait a little longer for him. He mused, his eyes falling to his dirty hands, that it was a strange chance to meet the Drow at this period of his life when many of his questions about what is right and what is wrong, and what is merely point of view were still only half formed in his mind. For a long time Curin had sought to learn the councils of the Lady of Life, and was on that path; but he was also drawn to learn all that he could of Balance, and even to reconcile himself with the principles of Chaos.

The days in which he could blindly out rule any form of wisdom were gone. He was open to everything, for now. All he wanted was to see and to hear as much as he could, and when he heard the calling of his Master, he would know it when he heard it. But the years leading up to that night had been long and hard, or they felt like that at that moment. He had passed through moments of bright hope, and bitterest despair. He had been wounded to the brink of death, and had lost everything he owned.

Far away was a woman, awaiting his return so that they could be married. Waiting for him in Neiruthaun, in his valley home, whence he could not bring himself to return.

Curin dragged a hand over his face, now aware of how very weary he felt. Stifling a yawn he rubbed at an eye with the heel of his hand. "Are you also a scholar master Vencrest?"He enquired.

Vencrest's and the mans gazes continued lock, as he waited patently to what the man had to say. "Master Vencrest. I am Curin Neiruthaun, at your service." Vencrest nodded, politely, showing that he was acknologing at what Curin had said. He continued to listen. "I have come through solitude, and military service; through fire and water. I have been wealthy, and frightfully poor. I will not mourn the horse for the sake of owning a horse. It is enough that you care in the least that it lived, with no design for its death."

He let out a small smile, barely showing in the corners of his lips. "Are you also a scholar master Vencrest?" Curin said suddenly. Vencrest looked at him, only now seeing the look of tiredness in the mans deep brown eyes. Vencrest had only now even realized his own tiredness. He had been up this night, and the moon was high in the sky. He let out a loud yawn, not caring if it sounded rude and obnoxious.

Vencrest smiled again, thinking he had smiled more tonight than he had in his whole life. "I'm flattered you might consider my a scholar master Curin. I'm not, sadly, but I am knowlagable. I have spent years in a library, and I know much on several topics, but mainly about abyssal creatures, as you might have figured." Vencrest motioned towards his dragon, which stared at Curin, red eyes unwavering. Vencrest ran his hand down the dragons back and added ", You can pet him if you like. I have some advice if you decide to. Trust in yourself, yes I know it sounds cheesy, but he will detect fear and uncertainty in your hand, and seize the opportunity to make a meal out of it."

Vencrest let out a loud burst of laughter, like he had done so many times before. His laugh was cold, and icy, almost as if he had practiced, even though he had not, it came to him naturally. He was naturally good at intimidating people, and he did often, to get the better things in life. "If you like," Vencrest said, sighing ", I'll show you another dark creature." Vencrest looked in Curin's eyes again, his own grey ones, lighting with unusual intensity.

((OOC: you can say you pet the dragon, and you can say what the dragon does ^_^ ))

The Drow looked intently at Curin, perhaps weighing up the manner in which he might answer. Curin felt like a chicken caught in the coop by a fox. There was something calculating in the gaze, and though the faint doubt that the Drow might still mean him terrible harm, and was even now wrapping his enchantment over him, Curin was indeed bewitched. He would endure any kind of terrible danger under that spell. Regardless of how tired he might feel.

Curin was so weary he could barely hold up his head, but he was fueled by a queer limp strength. He felt as if he could barely lift his arms, and yet he could walk the length of the world, a strange fever strength, which he didn't trust, but could not resist.

Then even the Drow yawned, out loud, and with relish. Then he smiled, the glitter of ice, "I'm flattered you might consider my a scholar master Curin. I'm not, sadly, but I am knowledgeable." The Drows' expression darkened, and his sight turned into his memory, perhaps recalling something terrible, or lonely. "I have spent years in a library, and I know much on several topics, but mainly about abyssal creatures..." Vencrests eyes suddenly rekindled, returning to the present time and place. "...as you might have figured."

Curin smiled weakly, dragging a hand across his bearded face, and scrubbing at an irritable eye. The dragon eyed him unblinkingly with scarlet eyes, its' thoughts unreadable. Curin marveled at its eyes, whose lenses swirled like oil upon water. Curin wondered if it could see into his flesh, if it was hungrily eyeing up his warm beating heart; he saw a powerful vision of the creature rooting into his chest cavity, his hands fumbling weakly to stop it, until it had seized his heart in its fangs, and torn it free of his body. He shuddered. The dragons' eyes shifted their focus, though still fixed on him. Perhaps it could perceive his thoughts. Perhaps the queer spell he was under was all of the dragons doing. He shivered, and shook himself.

The Drows' frightful moon-pale eyes glittered at him in calm and lovely face, absently stroking the dragons back. [color-black]"You can pet him if you like."[/color] Vencrest looked down at his own hand, petting the dragon as if to show how safe it was, but there was a wickedness in his smile. "I have some advice if you decide to. Trust in yourself, yes I know it sounds cheesy, but he will detect fear and uncertainty in your hand, and seize the opportunity to make a meal out of it." Curin was gripped with a sudden violent revulsion, he wanted to strike the Drow, to smack the sneer from his face, put out the eery flame in the intent gray eyes.

The Drow laughed, with indulged wicked relish, the sound of it not musical, though it was filled eerily enchanting notes, but with a warmthless fluidity. Like icy fog off a mountainside. Curin felt as if he had never been warm in his entire life. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. All memory of light and sunshine in the sunny glades of the woods was as distant and unreachable as the starts. Then the Drow leant nearer, "If you like," said he "I'll show you another dark creature."

A part of Curin wanted to politely decline; a greater part wished he had a keen dagger at hand, to cut the evil creatures' throat right now, and put an end to his queer evil ways; but the largest part of all was entirely wrapped up. Curin nodded, his vision swimming, and all his life draining away from recollection; but he stood, and would follow where ever he was led.

((Its all right to assume your following me, right? Also I'm kinda tired, so sorry if it's not to good.))

Vencrest continued to stare at the humans brown eyes, and visibly could see the tiredness in his face. Vencrest was tired, but he could wait, for he had far more important matters now. He had a chance, to terrify a mortal, possible kill, or even taint. His opportunities were endless with the mortal life. It was short, and easily changed. He was the sculptor, and this mortals life was a lump of clay, just waiting to be molded into what he wanted, or simply obliterated. The man had looked at the dragon, fear in his eyes, and he gazed into Zekbels eyes. Zekbel had deep red eyes, which almost looked misty. Much like his master, he rarely broke eye contact, to frighten those around him.

Curin stood, drowsy, as if he wanted to follow Vencrest. Vencrest kept his smirk on, and stood as well. With a twinkle in his eye, he said ", You realize that these 'dark things' are indeed strange and dark things. There is no turning back now, or else I'll have to kill you." Vencrest began to walk, as if his threat to the mans life wasn't a big deal. To Vencrest, it didn't have any significance, but he know that others took it personal. He didn't care, for if any threatened him, they would have to face a dragon as well.

He began to head out the room, and down the hallway. He approached the stairs, and proceeded down. He reached the main floor, were the bar stood, and looked about, scanning the patrons for any threats. Many of them looked frightened, and some looked at him with a look of disgust. He did not care, for he knew he was better than them, all of them. The barmaiden, who had been so frightened of him earlier, stood in a corner, holding a glass in front of her mouth, as if it were to protect her. After standing for a few seconds, he continued out towards the door. As he walked past the bartender, he said, without stopping ", that room is still mine. I'll will be coming back, and I will use it the whole night, so do not give it to ANY one else.)

Vencrest opened the wooden door and headed outside, a crisp wind following. It was chilly out, just like he liked it. He took a deep breath of the fresh air, filling his lungs with its icy winds. He continued, not looking back, caring little if Curin was following or no. He did care, but he didn't want to show any sign of weakness to a mortal being. He stopped just outside the bar, about fifty feet away. It took about a minute to get there, but he didn't speak a word.

Vencrest let out a high pitched whistle, like a normal person would call a normal horse. But he wasn't a normal person, and he wasn't calling a normal horse. A dot appeared from the edge of the forest. Vencrest could see that it was his skeletal horse, but it appeared only to be a speck in the horizon. After about thirty seconds, its visage was visible, his skeletal bones gleaming in the moonlight. In another thirty seconds, his horse was next to him, his bones shining, gently pawing the ground with a slight neighing. He had a saddle, and a bit in bridle, for Vencrest to ride.

"I would like to greet you to Nekula, my steed," Vencrest said, stroking the steed with his hand.

Curin perceived a decision in the Drows eyes. It was a calculation such as he saw in the eyes of his foes upon the field of battle, when they have weighed you up, and decided they can defeat you.

Something primordially stubborn and unwavering awoke in Curins' mind and heart at that, such as it did within battle; for had he ever been defeated yet?

Curin turned to the dragon, still uneasy beneath its unblinking stare. But rising up in the face of that fear he reached out a hand, and ran it across the hatchlings' jaw, seeking out a tender pice of flesh with his fingers, and scratching it, as if the thing was no more than a cat. "There you are my little friend." He cooed, focusing on the tender spot until the beast closed its' eyes with relish. Curin marvelled at the thing, each scale overlapping the root of the ones beneath it. Already the scales looked as if they were flakes of glass, but were likely unimaginably harder. He wondered at how they might look upon maturity. This was in fact his first encounter with a dragon. "I wonder, my little friend, when I am long dead, and the sons of my sons are walking the world, if you would know they were my descendants, and if you would remember me?" Curin felt a sudden flush of admiration for the hatchling, realising how very rare and precious itwas. It was a living treasure, its every scale a valuable gem, its very life the beginning of something that would stretch into the unfathomable ages.

Curin stood then, seeing that Vencrest had risen. He wondered what the Drow thought of him making the dragon so happy. If there was any jealousy, or if the Drow might actually admire that he faced his fear of the beast. The Drows' expression was the, now familiar, sardonnic smirk, as if he meant Curin every imaginable ill, which Curin believed to be untrue. But Vencrest, Curin deemed, was indeed a youth, and was possibly still new to contact with mortals, as was as swept up by his power over them, as Curin was allowing himself to be. He said "You realize that these 'dark things' are indeed strange and dark things. There is no turning back now, or else I'll have to kill you." Curin only smiled in a small way, as he always had to that foe-man upon the battlefield, and nodded his head. Vencrest swept off, and Curin followed him.

They swept through the common room once more, Vencrest barking sharply at the proprietor, and they were outside.

Curin looked overhead, where the dome of the stars was shining, and was himself. The good air was in his lungs, and all traces of weariness were cast out. Vencrest moved on wordlessly, and Curin allowed him. He had decided not to follow him anymore. But he had met his first Drow, and indeed his first dragon. Before he set off, though, Curin waited to see what manner of thing Vencrest was about to summon. The Drow emitted a high pitched whistle, as if hailing a dog, for a long while Curin could see nothing in the darkness, but at length he heard the trammel of hooves, and an undead steed sidled up to the out-held hand of its master. Curin had seen enough. "I would like to greet you to Nekula, my steed," Vencrest said, stroking the steed with his hand.

But Curin had already walked away on unfaltering feet. "Hail Master Vencrest!" He cried aloud. "I am glad we have met, and I wish you all the finest things as you carry out your journey. If we meet again, I will greet you as a friend. Goodbye for now!"

As he went Curin mused over the things he had learned. For he would hesitate, now, before he considered any evil thing his enemy. It seemed, now, that evil had its own fair share of the world, and its own rightful place in the circle of life. He marveled that he could still picture the grimly beautiful face of the Drow in his minds' eye. He supposed he would never forget Vencrest, and truly hoped that if they ever met, the Drow would accept that they could be friends. But for now Curin wanted to get away from people. The wild called him, he wanted a good fire, and stars overhead, and the sound of crickets in his ears as he went. The Temple, he supposed, would wait for him to make his way on foot.