Rièle approached the little pen slowly and calmly, with the farmer watching from a distance. A sleepy, mouse-brown mare lifted her shaggy head and greeted Rièle with a whicker. An image appeared in Rièle's mind of a small breakfast-sized pile of hay to fill the mare's hungry stomach, but Rièle hardly needed the interpretation of the horse's perked ears and eager expression. She sent a thought in reply relating the presence of food outside the pen this morning, and the mare eagerly walked up to the fence and allowed Rièle to place a halter over her head.

The mare's nose pressed against the back pockets of Rièle's skirt as they walked, checking their contents for cookies or carrots. The cold ground crunched beneath their feet, and the long shadows of the morning contrasted sharply with the bright light of the dawn sun as its beams stretched through the crisp morning air. The mare's nose quickly honed in on the pile of hay next to the fence when they arrived at their destination, and Rièle left the lead tied long so she could graze comfortably.

When Rièle had arrived at the little farm two days ago, the mare had been dead lame. She had been galloped hard by a soldier in his duty, and in his haste to deliver his message he had lamed his mount. The mare wasn't old or frail, but army life had been to hard on her. The farmer, who had been in need of a horse, had agreed to take her in for free, reasoning that the fee of a healer would be less expensive than the purchase of an animal.

Especially a hungry healer in need of a room for the night, Rièle thought sarcastically to herself, chiding her own generosity with her abilities. It mattered little, she knew, as she had no need to spend coin on anything more substantial than meals, or an occasional bed under a roof.

Had the injury to the mare's leg not been so recent, Rièle's small abilities may not have been able to help. She had felt the cracked and weakened structure of the bone, and the torn and swollen muscle surrounding it. For an hour Rièle had crouched at the mare's side, her hands on the injured leg and small invisible tendrils of energetic thought extending towards the horse, directing the mare's body to heal the injury. After this was done she'd placed a poultice on the leg, and allowed the mare to rest overnight.

Rièle now gently removed the wrap from the injured leg, and examined the results. The swelling had reduced substantially, and the mare was eagerly placing weight on the leg to reach her food. Crouching down slowly, Rièle placed her hand on the mare's leg and 'felt' the injury with her mind, as she had the day before. The bone was solid and healing, and the muscle tissue was nearly repaired.

She opened her eyes, and stood. Turning to the farmer, who remained nearby, she smiled. "She'll be fine. She needs another week of rest, at least, and she shouldn't be galloped across country again. But as long as she's not overworked, I think the injury won't reappear."

The farmer nodded, but gave no indication of his approval or disproval of Rièle's work. He was a terse man by nature, Rièle knew, and had worked hard all his life. But he wasn't unkind, and Rièle knew that he treated his animals well.

You will pull the farmer's little wagon, and teach his son to ride, she told the mare, using images through her thoughts. The winters will be cold here, and the work hard, but you will have food and company of the plough horse. Is this a life you want?

The mare sent back little in response, besides a feeling of general contentedness. Rièle sighed, and prepared another poultice.

After instructing the farmer how to change the bandage, Rièle accepted a small payment for her service and left the farm. Her own horse, Jack, was grazing in the fields. She made her way towards his shining black form in the distance, the grasses at her feet swaying in the winds and scratching at her bare calves under her skirt. She flushed a partridge and a jackrabbit as she walked, and watched a Harrier soar low above the fields.

Jack knew she came for him, but was absorbed in consuming as much grass as possible before they left and hence ignored her until she arrived at his side. She stroked his thick black coat, and sent an image of them heading down the road, continuing their travels. Are you ready?

The horse pulled a final mouthful of grass from the ground and raised his head, thrusting his muzzle into Rièle's chest as a proper greeting. Eo'hindarr, she spoke his true name in her mind. 'Jack' was only what his original owners had called him, but horse of the wild; roamer of lands was his true self. She slipped her friend a carrot from her pocket, and placed a leather hackamore over his head.

As quickly as she swung himself onto his back they were off at a canter. Rièle wrapped her fingers in Jack's mane and leaned over his neck, allowing him to run as he pleased. He seemed more interested in playing this morning, however, and he cantered lazily through the fields, kicking his legs and leaping to the side at the sight of imaginary obstacles. When they arrived at the road he slowed to a trot, and Rièle easily sat the smooth gait.

A late spring wind blew across the grasslands, causing the vast stretches of golden meadows to dance in patterns of yellow and gold. Rièle watched the patterns form as the winds intersected, and listened to the cumulative turbulence of tiny grasses colliding with each other, swaying under the larger force.

The gelding stopped, suddenly, and perked his ears in attention. The wind whipped strongly at Rièle's back, sending her scent before her and downwind. Jack's muscles tensed in anticipation, and Rièle brushed her windblown hair from her face and strained her eyes and ears for sound or movement from the rolling hills and swaying grasses up ahead, searching for anything that didn't belong. Unsuccessful, she sent a questioning thought to Jack's mind. What is it?

Uncertainty was his only reply.

Rièle found herself considering that the decision to explore Salquedor alone might have been unwise. She quickly pushed this doubt aside, and re-focused her mind on what lay ahead. She had Jack, after all, and on his back she could likely escape and outrun any bandit should one try to rob her. At least, she thought she could.

Only slightly worried, she urged Jack forward.

Upon ragged wings of rain-cloud, black as ravens, a bitter wind stirred up, and Dunimir shrugged all the more deeply into his cloak. The wheels of his great slow mind had been grinding as steadily as an avalanche upon his current situation; and at length he had come to a resolution. His mind was a thing of timber, and hand-wrought steel, and of brawn; his existence had been a simple one, and had presented him few difficulties; nor had it required of him any guile or cunning. He was a great bulk of a man, and very tall. His skin burnt brown by the wind and harsh sun of the west-coast; and his hands calloused and scarred from the honest labour of his timber-felling kin. His tunic, woven of dark-liquorice wool, strained across his shoulders and chest, hanging down to his knees, as doughty and knotted as the roots of a tree. This was no scholar, but nor was it a man without wisdom. For Dunimirs' kin kept a long tradition of songs, in which the fullness of their learning was retained, though they had no written words or schooling. They were grave, and some of them were grim; but they were free, and abided no wrong-doing, be it to themselves, or free-folk who had chanced to come into the same land. But what they might not possess in guile, they possessed far more in the ancient instinct of Men, who emerged in an Age of fear and doubt, and who survived only because of their hardiness and fortitude.
Thusly Dunimir was aware of something that discomfited him; he looked behind himself again, feeling an unearthly shiver up his spine. If he did not meet someone along this road soon, he would turn away from it, and follow the wind, for it too was running away from the source of fear.

Far overhead, barely a russet speck, Dunimir bent his squinting sight towards a harrier, and he wondered at it, as it banked away and allowed the wind to drive it southward. Dunimirs lips pouted with his grinding consideration, and the haft of Dravalpior, his lesser-axe, groaned in his grip.
There was a queerness at work here. He stood, upright as a pine, and listened, and breathed, with his hair whipping into his face, and his ears straining for a sound.
So it was that a great sable gelding moved lightly into sight, upon which rode a sun-kissed free-maid. And Dunimir bowed his head, hand held over his heart. He could deem her fright and concern; for he was accustomed to folk being taken aback by his glowering appearance and size; somewhat troll-like. But he also knew no anmal had ever feared anything of him, and he held out his hand, in the quiet knowledge that the gelding would come to him.
Dunimir looked up, with his dark eyes, struggling to meet those of such a bright bird as this lady."Lady, do not ride south." The demi-giant said, his brows knitting with concern over his broad and hawklike nose.

He had abandoned his shoes miles before, the soft leather not thin enough for his liking. This was what he had missed about his traveling. The nightmarish environment of Morring the Underdark was not friendly to barefooted travelers, nor was the body-strewn battlefield that haunted his nightmares or the slimy sewers deep beneath a long forgotten temple. It was the feel of grass between his toes, the almost inaudible yet strangely satisfying sound of the scratchy strands crunching under his skin, the earthy, invasive scent he had so long associated with the Yomeniampa forest. The slender Quendi stopped walking, his hands at his sides. Unruly blonde hair moved with the wind, just failing to hide the pointed ears that marked his elven heritage. He had closed his almond-shaped eyes, the other plainly visible sign of his race. He was clothed simply, in baggy black legging tied off at his ankles, woven from the same soft fabric as his black vest. Underneath this he wore a simple white shirt, although he had pushed the sleeves up to further enjoy the feel of the wind on his bare skin. It was this peace he had feared lost in his long journey for more knowledge, this serenity with nature he had so often dreamed of returning to.

Solomon Grundy was not home yet. But he was close.

He breathed in deeply, relishing the taste of the wind and the soil on his palate, smiling slightly. He could almost forget the screams of the wounded, the acidic taste of blood in his teeth, the chill of a presence so evil no mere mortal could contain it. Almost. He opened his eyes, revealing the green pupils so vibrant they could almost put the grasslands to shame. He was a scholar by trade, being hired out by various libraries across the realm to either translate an ancient language or to seek out a famed and ancient tome. Only a year ago one could look at Solomon's face and see only a thirst for more knowledge, the thrill that filled his features at learning the most insignificant fact. He was different now. Marked by too much knowledge, shadowed by his experiences in the war, he carries two bows comfortably on his back, a dozen throwing knives sheathed in various places on his body and a razor-sharp chakram hidden int he small of his back. A full quiver of arrows, some enchanted, the rest simply deadly, bounced against his hip with every step. Finding the peace and beauty in nature was a facet of himself he had feared lost in nightmares. Solomon was glad he had found it again so easily.

A new sound caught his attention, the soft padding of hooves from over the hill catching his attention. Solomon tensed up, one hand drifting to one of the knives on his belt. It took him a moment to realize how hje had reacted to the presence of another and grimaced, moving his hand away from the weapon. Not everyone in Arda meant to kill him. It would take him a long time to rid himself of the paranoia that a fierce battle demanded. He walked towards the sound, sharp elven eyes detecting two figures. Surprisingly, it was the one without a mount who towered into the air, a massive human towering over a girl on a jet-black horse. Solomon walked towards the pair, humming softly to himself, watching them carefully. Just because they weren’t enemies did not mean that they were his friends. His acute hearing caught the huge ranger telling the girl to not ride to the north. Towards Yomeniampa... He frowned slightly, but continued to hum as he approached them, the familiar tune of a child’s nursery rhyme carried to their ears by a gentle breeze. Although Solomon was tall, even for an elf, he still felt dwarfed by the giant male, so large the scholar would have thought he was a half-troll if not for the intelligence that sparkled in the man’s eyes. “Greetings, travelers...” Solomon’s soft voice was both amiable and warm, reflected in the small smile on his thin features. His gait slowed a dozen feet from the pair, green eyes guarded and cautious. The Quendi considered asking what the ranger had meant, but decided against it. He would not tell them the direction he was traveling unless it was necessary.

Rièle marveled at the giant of a man who stood before her, for she had never before seen such a creature. He stood taller than her own height while she sat astride Jack, and possessed a build more alike to a troll, or other creature of the wild, than to a man. Her instincts assayed his stance, and the features of his face, and the response of Jack to his demeanor. The man's frame spoke of massive strength, and Rièle likened him to the age-old tree that had grown behind her house as a child, its roots thicker than the breadth of her leg and delving deep into the earth, supporting a massive, aged tangle of trunk and bark and branch. Each year the winter storms would blow, felling lesser trees, and still it remained, steadfast and ever-present. It would take the might of a god to fell such a tree, she'd thought as a child. It was thus that the might of the stranger was impressed upon her, and her nervousness melted away with the memory.

The stranger held himself calmly, and without hostility. Two axes hung from his belt; well-used, and his enormous hands bore calluses that spoke of his ability to wield them. Rièle had little doubt that the man could crush her with his strength, but her senses also told her that he was as safe to stand beside as the great tree that she remembered. His face was tense with concentration, as though he were deep in thought, yet his eyes were gentle, and kind. Jack, once he'd matched sight to unfamiliar scent, approached the man eagerly, and sniffed his hand. The interaction seemed to calm the horse, for his ears relaxed and he rested, unconcerned about the presence of the giant.

Rièle met the man's eyes with curiosity, for she wondered of what race this stranger was, and from whence he came. He returned her stare, albeit shyly, and spoke not in greeting, but in warning. "Lady, do not ride north."

She smiled in surprise, and laughed a little, but the wind, as if in echo to his words, spilled off the sea to the south with a great crescendo of force, tossing Rièle's hair before her face and gusting with such strength that Jack shifted his weight and locked his knees beneath her. Her smile ceased, and she shivered a little as she looked hard to the north, and felt the pull of the wind and the force of nature, willing her to ride on. She returned her gaze to the stranger, and smiled in a friendly manner. She was a creature of the wild, and her purpose was to walk the land, in spite of wind or warning. "But, good sir," she replied, smiling, "You travel north yourself. Am I so fragile to your eyes that you believe this journey too dangerous for me, and not for you? Rest your worry, for I walk the wilds freely, and I can defend myself when needed," she nodded toward the modest staff strapped to her back. "Rather, tell me of yourself, and your kin, for I have never met such a man as you, and I am overwhelmed by curiosity."

As Rièle spoke, her ears caught the sound of someone humming, growing closer. The simple tune was unfamiliar to her ears, but it was the voice that sparked her mind's attention, for it had a silvery uniqueness and beauty that she had never heard before. She turned, eager to place a face to the pleasant voice she heard, and sighted the fair-haired elf who walked along the road, approaching them. Rièle's jaw nearly dropped at such a fateful happenstance, for she was a creature of curiosity, and had never met an elf before, though she had seen them several times in passing. Her eyes sparkled with delight, and an easy smile grew upon her face.

"Greetings, travelers," the elf said, stopping a short distance away.

"Greetings, friend," Rièle replied, with a shy but friendly smile. She twined her fingers within Jack's mane, and soaked in his sense of simple calm, and self-assurance. "I am Rièle, of Anan Isl, to the east. I travel the lands and walk the wild, and my path brings me here, exploring."

Rattling and whispering amongst the grasses and wild flowers the wind breathed again from the north; and Dunimir hunched his shoulders, almost seeming to flinch, such was the palpable evil coming upon it out of the north. His thoughts, like a tiny child wandering through a vast library wandered through his memory, trying to recall what the sensation reminded him of; but if indeed he held the memory, it was on one of the high shelves far beyond the reach of his simple wiles. He looked back to the lady, who sat upright, smiling in surprise at his words, and even laughed; confident, and carefree; and yet even then, as the winds ill rumour gusted, whipping her hair into her face, she perhaps deemed something of the threat, and her smile faded brows pinching. The great black horse twitched his ears and tensed, a shiver running through both horse and rider. But she shrugged it off, her calm returning, and Dunimir glowered, longing only to turn his back to the wind and run as swiftly as he was able.
"But, good sir," she replied, smiling,"You travel south yourself. Am I so fragile to your eyes that you believe this journey too dangerous for me, and not for you?" Said she.
"Aye lady, I had been going south, but only by chance of the road turning that way. This is as far as I had come, and as far as I would have passed." He frowned, the knitting of his great brow betraying his struggle for a semblance of her eloquence.
"Rest your worry, for I walk the wilds freely, and I can defend myself when needed." She leant forward in the saddle, and nodded toward the quarter-staff strapped to her back.
Dunimir, who had been patting the blacks great muzzle as they spoke, feeling the warm breath upon his great leathery hands, reached forward, and gently touched the lower tip of the staff, snatching his hand back, looking at the lady with a mix of shock and awe on his face. He nodded meekly, filled with deference.
His own people had a manner of instilling things into their tools and weapons: his lesser axe Dravalpiol, had been imbued with a cunning grace, Swan-hewer was its name, given to it because of its elegant neck, and the wing-like sweeping curve of its bearded blade. Though the axe was waist-high on any other man, it was as light in Dunimirs' hands as a kindling-hatchet. The Smith who wrought it for Dunimirs' use had poured an energetic willingness into the blade; and passed it to Dunimir with a warning "This here be a weapon, through and through Amroch. And will bite you as happily as your foeman. I have wrought it so that no sword or spear might better you. Made it eager, and cunning. Listen to the axe, her name is Swan-hewer, but be wary of her, for she longs only to kill."
But what hand or craft had wrought the ladys' staff Dunimir could not begin to imagine. His hand tingled, and the horse whuffed and licked it.
"Rather, tell me of yourself, and your kin, for I have never met such a man as you, and I am overwhelmed by curiosity." Said she. But even as she had spoken, a haunting tune caught their attention,
"Greetings, travelers," Spake the Elda, and Dunimir held his hand over his heart, bowing his head, so that his thick cascading hair fell over his face. He hardly dared to look up; for in his country the Eldar that passed through were terrible, and warlike; and it seemed that those Elves deemed Dunimirs' kin to be of bad blood, or that they were wieldly to do evil things for the Dark Lords of the world. Those Elves had taken it upon themselves to keep Dunimirs Kin subdued, so that they could never quite prosper, but always subsisted through the great strength of their god-given bodies.
Dunimirs eyes glittered with the ancient mistrust of Elves, which he could not conceal, but he did not reveal any greater ill-feeling, as yet; and upon the gusting wind, came the imminent threat anew, so that Dunimir wished to groan and run.
"Greetings, friend," The Lady replied, her kindred clearly having no enmity with the Eldar. "I am Rièle, of Anan Isl, to the east. I travel the lands and walk the wild, and my path brings me here, exploring." She turned her eyes upon Dunimir, who backed away, caught between choices, none of which seemed now to have any savour. He might have turned and ran, right then, but the Elf possessed a shining bow, and many cruel arrows. His eyes chilled Dunimir to the core.
The huge man drew a warding charm in the air between himself and the elf, recalling the feeling of the staff, which had made him feel at peace;
"I give you Amroch to be the name you call me." He said, not wanting to reveal his True-name to the Elf.

The female greeted him with a smile and a warm greeting, her eyes visibly brightening as she stared at him. He felt a slight blush raise to his cheeks from her pleasant reception, a reaction he had not truly expected. To say that the Quendi were well-loved in the area around the Salquedor Grasslands would be a grossly incorrect statement. Elves were often viewed with fear and resentment for their longevity and the strangeness of their features, the pointed ears and lithe figures that made them appear alien in most human cities. Solomon had learned to accept this racism as something he could not change, a force of the world he must accept and accomodate for in his travels. Only once had he come under attack due to his race, and the elf was far from incapable of defending himself. "Lady Rièle of Anan Isl, I hope that I may call you friend as well. My name is Solomon Grundy, a scholar. I, too, am a traveler of the world, although my path shall soon be at an end, at least for a short while." His words were smooth, almost hypnotic. The elf had the voice of a musician but was more devoted to his books than music. A genuine smile blossomed on his thin face at his words, his strong desire to once lay under the dense Yomeniampa canopy reflected in his eyes. He bowed slightly to the woman before turning his attention to the giant whos tood beside her.

Rièle's large companion had turned away from the elf at first sight, a nervous reaction that left Solomon feeling slightly bewildered. As far as he knew, the giant had nor eason to fear him. The scholar would never forget a man that huge, and it was a policy of the elf's to never start an altercation with someone who could tear him in half. The ranger drew a strange symbol in the air before speaking to Solomon, sullenly supplying his own name. "Then, Amroch, it is a pleasure to meet you as well." Solomon's eyes flickered to the weapons that hung from the man's belt, widening slightly. Is he expecting a war...? The elf seriously doubted that he could raise any of the giant's weapons by himself without collapsing, yet Amroch seemed unhindered by their weight. He also bowed to the massive human, thinking about the symbol he had drawn before talking. Although the elf had never specifically studied the inhabitants of this area, he did recall that they tended to be superstitious, despite their simple lifestyle. Or, perhaps more accurately, because of it. He made sure that his hands were loose at his sides, open and inviting. He didn't want to seem threatening, after all. solomon was tired of fighting, of bloodshed. He just wanted to go home.

"To be honest, I happened to hear part of your conversation when walking by, and my curiosity got the best of me. You see, my path leads to the north, and I plan on following it to the finish..." Solomon paused, slightly surprised at his own openness. Perhaps being so close to his homeland had loosened his lips. The familiar pull of the cool wind, the soft whisper of the grass, the rich scent of dirt that filled his nostrils all screamed of the forest, of the quaint city suspended high above the ground, of the warm embrace that would greet him upon his return. Solomon's hand went to his chest, lightly touching the small pendant that hung there, promising himself it wouldn't be very much longer. "I am not so weak as to be defenseless, but I would much prefer a peaceful end to my trek..." He looked at Rièle first, then to Amroch, gauging their reaction to his words.

Rièle watched as the stranger reached forward to lay a finger on her quarterstaff. He only touched it for a moment, and then withdrew his hand quickly with an expression of shock upon his face. Rièle wondered at this, for the weapon was a simple staff, carved for her from a branch by the friend who had taught her how to wield it. But the stranger must have sensed something more, because his expression was one of humble deference, and he did not challenge her claim that she could keep herself from harm.

As the elf approached and returned her greeting, Rièle was at first so enchanted by his speech that she didn't notice the reaction of her companion. Instead she noticed that the elf seemed to blush at her words, and she found this strange, for why should a creature of such wisdom and long-life be flattered by the words of a human? But, she reasoned, that as she had little knowledge of elves, her preconceptions about them might be completely incorrect. Still, he returned her greeting, and named himself Solomon Grundy.

Rièle then turned back to her other companion, hoping he would introduce himself as well, and was shocked to find him backing away from the elf, as if in fear. She returned her glance to the elf, wondering if she had missed some enmity between the two, but sensed no hostility from him. What reason, then, could a giant of such strength and power have to fear the elf-kind? The man drew a strange symbol in the air before him, and spoke with a guarded tongue. "I give you Amroch to be the name you call me."

The elf was naught but kind and gentle in his reply, and Rièle appreciated the subtle and unthreatening way in which he held himself, so as not to frighten Amroch. He did, however, also seem intimidated by the giant, for he looked at his weapons warily, and maintained a guarded distance. Rièle felt herself in a strange position, for though she was under no threat from either man, she wondered whether it was appropriate or necessary to reassure their obvious discomfort with each other.

Rièle then sensed something strange close by, and she sat up straight, her eyes alert to any movement on the horizon. Jack sensed the presence as well, and his alertness mimicked hers. Rièle scanned the terrain thoroughly, but no motion betrayed the presence that she felt. A strange scent, however, filled the air, and Rièle felt menacing eyes upon her back. Jack became nervous, and danced beneath her, and sent thoughts of danger to her mind. His instincts were driving him to flee, and Rièle used her connection with him, mental and physical, to try to calm his restlessness. Still his rapidly beating heart passed its fear into her own, and she knew something was terribly wrong.

"Perhaps it would be best if we were away from here," Rièle suggested, the nervousness in her voice apparent. Sweat was beading down her face, and she twined her fingers tightly into Jack's mane, anticipating what was coming. She glanced at her companions, wondering if they all could safely move away before this threat descended upon them.

But the warning had come too late, for before they could react the sound of barking, angry dogs resounded across the plains. The beasts emerged not a hundred yards away, the uneven terrain having hidden their approach. They came from both the east and west, and Rièle knew instinctively that the men who commanded the dogs would be coming at them from the north and south, as men could approach more quickly from a distance on the road.

Jack went into a panic, rearing and bucking, and fighting Rièle's hold on his reins. She tried to reason with him, but he was not a fighter, and he knew he must flee or be ripped to shreds by the jaws of the attacking dogs. Rièle knew she had a choice. She could escape, all she had to do was lean into Jack's neck, cling to his mane, and tell him to run. But she'd leave Amroch and Solomon Grundy alone, afraid of each other, and facing an oncoming assault of men and dogs with only two to fight instead of three. She knew she could help them, for she was an able fighter, but she would risk much in doing so.

With half a thought of resigned consent, Rièle swung quickly down from Jack's back and sent a thought to his mind, to run. He hesitated but a moment before heading to the north, and smartly veering off the road to avoid the oncoming attack. Rièle unstrapped the staff that hung across her back, and it rested easily in her callused hands. "You are not each others' enemy," she said to her two companions, with a confident voice. She hoped vaguely that her words and presence might help them work together against the common foe, despite their trepidation of each other. She would have said more, assuring them that they had nothing to fear from each other, and that by working together they had a better chance of succeeding against a larger force. But she had no time for further reassurances, for as soon as her last words were spoken, the dogs were upon them.

Rièle did not use her weapon, instead, she focused her mind. She meant to address all of the pack at once, but found a garbled rage of hate, and anger, and desire to tear human flesh consuming their simple minds. The dogs, however, were insecure in their anger, for their hate was based in fear of the pain caused by their master. As saddened as this made her, it was to her advantage.

"Hold!" she sent a mental command to the two dogs who were about to leap upon her, augmenting her thought with the images and feelings of fear and deference that the dogs held for their master. They froze, snarling, their white teeth bared and eager to strike. "Down!" she told them, and though the dogs' minds were divided between obedience and attack their fear was greater than their desire to kill, and they lay down at the side of the road.

She turned and did the same with a third dog who had turned upon her, but there were still two dogs attacking Solomon, and four leaping upon poor Amroch. Deciding based purely on numbers, she sent her command to two of the dogs that the giant was attempting to fend off with his great axe.

Her effort was for naught, however. As the dogs withdrew, Rièle realized that she and her companions were now surrounded by men. These foes were gladiators, servants and property to slavers, and all of them were seasoned fighters. A command was shouted nearby, and all of the dogs ceased their attacking and trotted obediently behind the gathering horses, growling menacingly at the gladiators as they passed. The animals had served their purpose, they had prevented the three companions from fleeing until the men could approach and capture them. Rièle trembled slightly as she regarded their enemies, for ten warriors surrounded them, each holding and axe, club, or sword. The slavemasters sat astride their horses behind them, longbows in their hands, not intended for their quarry but to ensure the obedience of their property. Should the gladiators disobey orders, or try to flee, they would be shot.

Rièle sent out a net of awareness, a physical sense that had been taught to her that allowed her to sense attacks within a short distance. She immediately sensed a tumult of activity and danger behind them, and instinctively hit the ground, rolling into the wall of attacking gladiators and placing herself in danger of the nearest man's club. As she dodged to the side and moved to stand, a loud explosion of ignited powder sounded behind her, and a great net fell upon her two comrades, and where she had stood just moments before. The gladiators then attacked.

The bulk of the man who stood before her towered high above her head, and Rièle used the momentum from the next blow she blocked to propel herself backwards to a distance more suited to her weapon. The swings of the warrior's club were slow, but dangerous, and his feet moved quickly and steadily, matching her own maneuvers with ease. Rièle knew that the man was alive because he was an able fighter, and the threat of his very life stood behind his success. But he also expected little of her abilities, and she used this to her advantage, bluntly blocking and parrying his attacks until she found an opening.

The gladiator swung his club to her right, and she ducked below it. Using her own staff for balance she continued leaning downward, and swung her leg up in a kick that required impressive flexibility. Her foot collided directly with his shoulder, dislocating his right arm. The club fell from his hand, and Rièle stood and swung her staff against his temple, knocking him unconscious.

She quickly looked around, preparing to defend against the next attack, but other gladiators had been sent against her.

Rièle marveled at their stupidity. But thoughts racing through her head led her to consider that the slaves had likely been commanded to subdue Solomon and Amroch. She had been on horseback when they'd approached, and they had likely expected her to escape. Smiling wryly, she approached the nearest foe from behind and swung her staff at the back of his head, knocking him unconscious as well.

A crossbow bolt as thick as her finger sailed through the air just inches past her head. Rièle spun and looked upon the slavemasters, who had clearly decided she was a nuisance, for they were readying another bolt to kill her. It appeared she was worth little to them, for they were clearly trying to capture the others alive.

All the more reason to win, she thought to herself, as she moved to place the fighting gladiators in between herself and the slavemasters, and did her best to help Amroch and Grundy.

Upon the wind came another sickening rush of the same mounting fear Dunimir had long sensed, and he could see, now, that the horse and rider, Rièle, were sensing it strongly too.
Dunimir suppressed a groan, as his entire body began to sweat; looking to the Elf, to see if he had sensed anything yet. It appeared he had not, which was a surprise to the gigantic wood-cutter. The Elves he had seen were grim and warlike, and sensed danger almost as if they had foreseen it; whereas this Elf looked quiet and thoughtful, reading Dunimirs' aloofness, and subtly appealing to him to have no fear."Lady Rièle of Anan Isl, I hope that I may call you friend as well. My name is Solomon Grundy, a scholar." said he, and Dunimirs' brows pinched. With the slow-grind of a glacier his mind weighed and measured the Elfs' exquisite voice. His head dipped a little, his eyes turning to the ground, as if weighed down with his thoughts. Dunimir could recall no such humility, and kindness from an Elf. "I, too, am a traveler of the world," said Solomon Grundy, "although my path shall soon be at an end..." The Elfs' eyes shadowed, as if recalling some terror that he longed to put behind him, and Dunimir perceived it, the slightly drawn and pained eyes of a reluctant-warrior, fresh from the horrors of melee combat."...at least for a short while. Amroch, it is a pleasure to meet you as well." Solomon Grundy embraced Dunimir with his eyes; and in them the wood-cutter saw none of the arrogance he had associated with the Eldar. "To be honest," said Solomon, further confirming that this was not the kind of Elf that Dunimir had learned to respect through fear, "I happened to hear part of your conversation when walking by, and my curiosity got the best of me. You see, my path leads to the north, and I plan on following it to the finish... I am not so weak as to be defenseless, but I would much prefer a peaceful end to my trek..."
"Solomon Grundy." Dunimir uttered the name slowly, the hulking wood-cutters' voice more like a thing from some gigantic musical instrument, the yawning rumble of the double-bass; or some giant among wood-wind-horns, a voice of black-stoned mountains, and shadowed armies of pine-trees, a voice of quiet thankless labour. A slow smile formed on Dunimirs' heavy features, but the smile withered before it had time to take root, or for Dunimir to make good of his revelationary feelings the Elf had gently brought to life within him.
"Slavers!" Dunimirs' roared, in horror, his sweating body filled with the living lightening of his battle-rage. The greater axe Beldaclaur, its haft as thick as a smaller mans' arm seemed to materialize in his hands, flexing and groaning in his grip as if it was but a twig.
The shavers hounds having laid eyes on their prey came howling madly from all sides, and Dunimir was glad, now, that he had not run earlier. For he would have gone, alone and with no hope, into the clutches of one of these packs no matter which direction he went. With companions in arms, Dunimir, and the others, had a fighting chance.
Without a word Dunimir assigned himself as Grundys' defender. The archer was their only advantage against the bands of gladiators closing in from every side."Do not fear their arrows Grundy, nor their swords. They mean to take us alive! It will be the clubs and nets for us! Do not let them! If they take us, it will be a long, drawn out death for the sport of an audience. Death, now, here, and in freedom would be better! You keep those arrows coming, and I will take care of what else comes!"
A seasoned hunter, Dunimir knew the ministrations of hounds, and seen mighty elks brought down as if their speed and strength was nothing. He eyed the hounds with all of this in mind. As the hounds closed in, Dunimir hurriedly bound his arms in his spare clothes and cloak, wrapping any piece of flesh the hounds would attack. Their onslaught was like a flood.

The combination of Rièle's respect and Amroch's strange reaction made the elf wary, keeping himself distanced from the two. There was something wrong here. A brisk wind washed over the motley trio, a sudden chill that did nothing to soothe the Quendi's already taught nerves. His discomfort was mirrored in the others, Rièle murmuring a suggestion that they should flee, while Amroch was still watching him with a slow, deliberate gaze. Solomon knew that it was not a lack of intelligence that accounted for the ranger's pace, but instead a caution few people could maintain, a need to examine the situation from every angle before opening his mouth and speaking. Solomon tried to reassure the giant with his expression, making sure to keep any of his own paranoia and fear from his expression. However, it was flash of movement from Rièle that caused Solomon to start, immediately crouching to center his mass. One hand went to his belt, fingers curling around the pommel of one of his many throwing daggers, the smooth hilt crafted to fit his hand. She deftly slid off of her horse, the black mount immediately charging away from the three of them. Solomon muttered a bitter curse for ignoring his surroundings, for letting the other wanderers to distract him. The grasslands were not a dangerous area, but they were not safe either.

Solomon tore the dagger out of its sheath as the attack dogs crested the nearest hill, each beast running towards them with alarming speed, teeth bared in a ferocious grin, spittle flying from their mouths. Solomon drew back, moving closer to Rièle and Amroch, green eyes flitting between the attacking hounds. Two of the blurred shapes split off, running straight towards the elf. Quickly assessing the situation, Solomon dropped down, placing all of his weight on his left foot. As the faster dog leaped he lashed out, spinning with all of the force his lithe frame could muster. With a loud CRACK his bare right foot connected with the hound's lunging muzzle, sending the fierce creature flying to one side. Solomon cried out, falling out of his amateur fighting stance, barely rolling fast enough to avoid the other animal's strike. His lower leg throbbed, tendrils of pain lancing up his limb to dull his senses. He quickly rose, making sure to mainly stay off of the injured joint, trying to focus on the danger instead of the pain. The hound he had kicked was laying on its side, whimpering softly. Yet it soon regained its senses, snarling viciously as it retreated. The others had ran off, responding to the call of their masters.

Solomon almost groaned as he laid eyes on the men surrounding them, their weapons glinting sully in the sun. I just wanted to go home... He hefted the dagger in his left hand, gently shrugging so that his shortbow slid off of his shoulder and into his open right hand. The elf did not need Amroch to tell him who these men were. The gladiators had the defeated stare of men who had long ago lost any reason to live, the blank expression of a mortal whose spirit had been crushed. Even more sickening was the greed that shined in their owner's eyes, the pure avarice that would lead a man to inflict such cruelty on anyone. Solomon's fingers tightened on his weapons, feeling his emotions begin to rise, anger slowly bubbling its way into the calm he usually emitted. The now-familiar bloodlust, the constant thirst for battle, drifted on the edge of his mind, its appetite barely sated from the encounter with the dog. It thirsted for more, always more. The odds were bad, but Solomon felt comfort knowing that he had two allies in this battle, two who would not surrender their freedom to these monsters.

When Solomon saw Rièle dash away from the protection he and Amroch offered he was surprised, to say the least. Surprise turned to understanding and shock as he focused, sharp ears picking up the serpent-like hiss of burning powder. With a deafening boom the powder ignited, launching a slaver's most dangerous weapon at the Quendi and the giant. Solomon drew closer to the massive ranger, wincing as the heavy net slammed into the two of them. He almost fell, his injured right ankle buckling for a moment, but his allies' strong back caught him, allowing the elf to once more gain his composure. He nodded as Amroch spoke, immediately accepting the man's plan as the best option at the moment. Thankfully, the sheer bulk of his ally had forced the net to settle more loosely than usual, the elf relatively unhindered by its presence. He immediately set to work on the nearest ropes, gripping the thick strands with the same hand that held the dagger. Although he was not an expert at using these weapons, Solomon took good care of each blade, always keeping their edges sharp. The dagger easily cut through the rope, allowing the archer even more freedom of movement. As the gladiators closed in he worked furiously, severing enough of the webbing to allow him to move his arms freely. Once that was done he stepped slightly away from Amroch, eyes burning with a light that appeared foreign on the scholarly Quendi's thin features.

Excitement.

He threw the dagger quickly, registering no disappointment as the closest gladiator deflected the small blade with his club. The dagger had served its purpose, earning him more time. His hand was a blur now, almost too fast to follow, fingers plunging into his quiver. He drew one of his arrows, nocking the projectile on his bowstring in one smooth movement. He continued the action, pulling the string back with his right hand, fingers grasping the arrow's fletching lightly enough he could release it in an instant. The steel arrowhead glinted in the sunlight, the shaft perfectly straight, a deadly weapon in even an inexperienced archer's hands. And Solomon was far from inexperienced. Green eyes flickered between the gladiators, the group that had approached him halting nervously. They watched the elf warily as he shifted the bow, cycling between targeting each of them, attempting to keep as many as possible at a distance. The elf saw the indecision in their eyes as they looked between his arrow and their masters on horseback, who had withdrawn their own distance weapons. The slaves were caught in the range of both sides, and neither was likely to spare them. Solomon smiled slightly, knowing that he could use their fear of their masters to advantage, if he was careful.

"Fear not, Amroch. I have plenty of arrows." The elf's tone was determined, with only the slightest hint of nervousness. He was not confident. Confidence is the enemy of any warrior. He had learned that in the war, when confidence had caused many of his allies to willingly charge to their death. Solomon Grundy was simply prepared.

Rièle's attempt to rejoin her comrades failed, as one of the gladiators turned and engaged her. He drove her away from Amroch and Grundy, aggressively attacking with his broadsword, the fierce rage and fear in his eyes showing he was intent on taking her life. Rièle could do little more than defend against him, for he was skilled and powerful, and she brought her wooden staff up to meet his metal sword at impossible speeds to preserve her life. She found herself giving ground in order to keep her pace, but when she tried to press forward and attack she was only driven back farther. The net of awareness and reflexes she'd been taught by the Liraden saved her, but she was not so skilled that she could attack against such force.

Her senses then detected a danger to her left, and she looked to find that her own battle had moved out into the open and the Masters has a clear shot at her, should they choose to take it. The other seven gladiators were descending upon Amroch and Grundy, intently afraid of the arrows of their Masters pointed at their backs, and of Grundy's arrows pointed at their chests. They had only one choice, and Rièle winced inwardly as she knew what was coming.

They attacked, en masse, with a loud cry of battle, and closed the ten paces between themselves and their quarry with as much speed as they had. Rièle's own defenses kept her too distracted to gather more than a gist of what happened, but she knew that once the gladiators who had survived the charge closed in, Grundy's arrows would have much less of an effect. Both Amroch and Grundy were still confined beneath the net, and Rièle wondered whether Amroch was even able to swing his mighty axe, and feared the two would quickly be defeated by the larger numbers attacking them. She had little idea what to do, for she had only ever fought one-on-one, and could not fathom a means of helping her comrades.

But the danger she had sensed was not the attack of the gladiators, and Rièle soon realized what the Masters were planning. She saw out of the corner of her eye a shortbow and darts, and knew they must intend to drug and capture the two under the net. Rièle knew that, if even one of them was hit, they would stand almost no chance of escaping.

She immediately returned her full attention to the attacker before her, fear for her life driving her to find a way past him. His patterns were not predictable, but she was becoming more and more familiar with his fighting style. She could detect no opening in the motions of his blade, but she did conceive a way to free herself from his attacks, at least temporarily. Waiting for the opportune moment, she parried with her staff and moved to kick with her leg in an instance that seemed poorly-timed. Her kick connected hard with his wist as his sword swung down, and because of the impact his intended strike cut into her leg at a shallow angle. The gladiator then hesitated, for his wrist was clearly injured, and Rièle tested the gamble that she would be able to run on her injured leg.

Pain and fire exploded from the wound, but the muscle did not seize nor give way beneath her. Rièle ignored the sensation and sprinted to the other battle, watching in horror and anticipation as the Masters drew their bows. "Grundy, the Masters! Look out!" she shouted shrilly. In the instant that remained she leapt into the air and kicked one of the gladiators fighting Amroch with her good leg. Landing poorly, she found herself between Amroch and the Masters as the arrows were fired.

Four darts came at them. One flew wide, away from the net, and two sailed over Rièle's head; whether they hit or no she did not see. The fourth she attempted to block with her staff, and failed. It struck her shoulder, penetrating deep within her flesh.

Don't give up, she told herself. You still have moments. If Grundy and Amroch were not hit, we stand a chance. She wished for an axe or dagger that she might cut the net away from them, but she had only her staff. As she moved to stand and face her enemies the pain in her leg screamed into her mind, and her vision blurred. Her mental barriers fell momentarily, and she sensed the presence of the dogs and horses behind her.

The dogs... she thought, suddenly realizing that there was something she could do to help. Instinct rose within her, and she sent out a mental shout of terror so loud that even the Master's horses shied and reared. Attack! she told the dogs, providing a feeling of primitive rage and an image of the dogs' Masters.

How she managed to find the focus to connect with all of the dogs she was not sure. But their baying rang instantaneously in her ears with the echo of her mental scream. They descended upon the Masters, snarling and leaping upon them, intent on tearing flesh from bone. Rièle turned her head to see what was happening... and realized that she could no longer see, her vision now only able to show her a bright indistinguishable blur of green and white.

What poison?.... she thought, a fog quickly expanding inside her mind. Unknowingly she fell to her knees, as she struggled to cling to consciousness and the net of awareness that she held around her. But her net was fading, so that she was only vaguely able to detect the approach of her enemy. By the time he stood before her, she had forgotten where she was, and cared little for any thought besides sleep.

Dunimir looked down at his hand which held the flexing haft of the greater axe Beldaclaur -every bit as thick as a grown mans' arm, almost forgetting the hounds that bounded towards them whose chestnut jowls were flecked with foaming spittle; he almost forgot himself, for he suddenly felt very still, and very calm. What strange fate is it, that the only time I can think clearly, and with ease, is in the midst of battle? the giant wood-cutter wondered, and hald-distractedly, he raised the axe, and with a back-handed swipe of the twin-bladed MIghty-Splendour, clove the skull of the first hound in halves.
The second and third hounds crashed upon the wood-cutter, whose great shadow loomed over the elf defensively, his great hands and arms fending the hounds back, so the Eldar could fire as many arrows as he might. This elf is different to the others; no haughty battle-song, no grim revelry in the Kill. he mused, and brought the base of the haft down against the spine of another hound so that there was a sickening noise, and it slumped, dead at his feet.
Then it was Dunimir sensed something akin to the sense of evil that had warned him of the slavers' approach; only it was no evil-as such. Dunimir had no word for the force, only he knew that he sensed it, and it made him feel cold. But if Dunimir shivered, to the Hounds, it must have been dreadful indeed, for they suddenly cowered, their eyes turned fearfully to the she-warrior, Rièle.
She has a Weildy-Will, Dunimir marvelled, seeing -now- why she was not afraid of him or anyone is her lone travels. but she does not feel like a witch. Dunimir frowned at his own thoughts as the gladiators closed in, their eyes lingering on Dunimirs arms, which were already thick to the elbows with blood and gore, none of which was his own. The haft of Beldaclaur audibly groaned and creaked in his grasp. One for each finger and thumb. Dunimir counted them, in the custom of his Kin. Even the hulking wood-cutter, dour as he might be, flinched mightily at the sound of the bale-thunder; but perceived the intention of the slavers before all hope was lost. he leap up to meet the net, trying to grasp as much of it in his arms, and gather it to his chest as he could; landing heavily, and with an agonised groan as the weight of it bore down upon him. But though he shook and strained, Dunimir stood, like a beleaguered rock amidst an ocean-storm, and in the darkness beneath the net, a brightness glittered, and Dunimir laughed, for soon, the knife of the elf had cut the net grievously, so that by the Elfs' speed, and Dunimirs raw strength, the net tore asunder, and fell to the ground at their feet.
But even then Grundy proved and reproved his worth; sending the knife shrieking through the air at the bravest of the gladiators, who deflected it, but whose resolve was shaken, so that he held back like the others.
The Will-Wielder, Rièle, contended with the gladiator who had singled them out, and at the cost of a gash to the leg, bested him. And she rushed to the fray, even as the much larger men attacked, en masse, with a loud cry of battle.
Dunimir simply side-stepped the first sword-thrust intended for him; collecting the arm, by the wrist, in the razor-sharp V where the axe-head was mounted to the haft. With a grisly tug downwards, the gladiators arm fell to the ground, sword still held in the amputated hand. Before the gladiator could scream, the merciless wood-cutter had taken the gladiators' face with his spare hand, his fingers gouging into his eyes and mouth, using the helmed skull like a rude club. Beldaclaur bit under the ribs of the man whose jaw received the crushing blow of the helm; Rièle broke the attack of the next assailant, her voice rang out over the battle-call "Grundy, the Masters! Look out!" she shouted shrilly. And the Gladiator fell at her feet; but something happened; she halted, as if the effort of breath had become too much. What devilry? Dunimir had barely begun to wonder, before he perceived the Weilding of her Will more mightily than before; so that she hounds she had bailed up, were driven into a craze, attacking their own masters, whose mounts also went into a fit of panic, throwing some, and refusing to come to reign for any others. Arrows whistled, and Dunimir stalked, whither so ever he willed, and Gladiators either fled or fell.
Soon, it seemed, or perhaps a lifetime had allayed, Dunimir dragged his gory hand across his brow, as he stooped to the side of stricken Rièle. Already he felt the phenomenal lucidity falling away from him; so that he looked helplessly to the Elf, straining even to find words for his feeling of distress. "Master Grundy, bright knife in the shadow; I told you my name was Amroch, Horse-stride, and truly it is- and I will prove it to you. But my name is properly Dunimir, and I may be grim, and queer, and from a strange land; but I am true, and all my Kin are true. Lead me to your home, if you deem your folk will permit me Master Grundy. The lady, I found this." he held up the bolt for the wiser-being to see. A devil-sting, Master. She needs medicine. Lead me, I will run behind you."

A shrill cry from Rièle caught the Quendi's attention, drawing his green eyes to the figures on horseback in the moment their projectiles were released. He tracked them with his eyes, his mind racing to predict their trajectory. He whipped his head to one side, one of the darts shooting past his face with mere inches to spare. The other three darts posed no threat, as one had flown awry, another had flown above Amroch's head, and the last had sunk into Rièle's shoulder. The girl staggered, but still managed to stay upright, her mind focused elsewhere. Solomon watched as the animals turned on their masters, the hounds baring and snapping at human ankles, the horses threatening to throw their riders off. The elf found his attention brought back to himself as Rièle crumpled, t he gladiators taking her fall as their sign to advance. The first that pounced towards the elf found out how difficult it was to run with an arrow shaft straight through the knee, his charge turning into an awkward fall accompanied by a grunt of pain. The scholar did not stop there, his cold stare flickering to the next opponent. The slave faltered for an instant, frozen by the almond-shaped eyes. The first arrow found a gap in the armor protecting his shin, splintering the bone. Solomon's hand flickered to his waist, but he withdrew a knife instead of an arrow, expertly tossing the small blade into the hollow of the warrior's neck. His breath bubbled grotesquely as pink dribble seeped from his lips, both hands attempting to stem the torrential flow from his severed jugular. Solomon smiled grimly as he drew another arrow, the massive ranger's presence giving him the moments he needed to prepare for his next tactic.

"Hey, you!" The scholar shouted out at the men at the crest of the hill, the heels of their boots dark with the blood of their own hunting dogs, forced to kick them to the ground due to Rièle's meddling. Only one of them looked up, the rest drawing more darts to shoot at the pair in the grassland. Solomon raised the arrow to his cheek, placing the shaft tot he line and expertly drawing his weapon. The entire arrow had been dyed a dark blue hue, shimmering in the sunlight. But its color paled in comparison to the sparkling sapphire arrowhead that seemed to produce its own light, capturing the essence of the sun and holding it as a crackling ball of power in its depths. With a soft sigh, the Quendi released the arrow, feeling the soft fletching caress his cheek one last time as it shot across the field. Instants after leaving the bow the arrowhead seemed to explode with power, the lightning contained within turning the weapon into a thick beam of enchanted power. Solomon's lips curled into a thin smile.

"Unleash the storms."

The arrow struck the slave-master in the middle of his chest, its momentum carrying deep into his torso. The crackling electricity spread out from the shaft, searing into his flesh, cooking him under his makeshift armor. The man's scream was long and terrible, mixed with the nauseating scent of melting flesh. The force of the enchanted arrow tore him from the saddle, allowing his mount to pound off into the grasslands, running away from the heat and pain. His body his the ground with a meaty thud, rolling to a halt next to one of the other horses. This mount neighed wildly, throwing itself back and forcing its rider to join the corpse on the ground. The other owners panicked, wildly pulling at their reigns, leading their horses away from the ambush gone horribly wrong. The Quendi stared at the smoking corpse for a moment, contemplating the sickening feeling of pleasure he found in the morbid sight, wondering exactly when his normal reverence for departed souls had abandoned him. Perhaps it was seeing what they turned these men into. Empty shells, slaves. They deserve this. Ignoring the part of himself that scoffed at this elementary logic, Solomon returned to the task at hand, his whistling arrows proving the perfect accompaniment to Amroch's raw power.

When all of the gladiators were either dead on the ground or hidden in the grasslands, Solomon and Amroch both returned to their fallen comrade. "Rièle..." The elf's soft voice was kind and warm, even if it she was unable to hear it. He crouched next to her, letting the ranger speak first. "Master Grundy, bright knife in the shadow; I told you my name was Amroch, Horse-stride, and truly it is- and I will prove it to you. But my name is properly Dunimir, and I may be grim, and queer, and from a strange land; but I am true, and all my Kin are true. Lead me to your home, if you deem your folk will permit me Master Grundy. The lady, I found this." The massive human lifted the small dart for inspection, and the elf hissed when he saw the sparkle of poison on the barbed tip, mixed with the girl's blood. "A devil-sting, Master. She needs medicine. Lead me, I will run behind you."

Solomon nodded, quickly rising. As he spoke he walked to the fallen gladiators, sharp eyes flickering between the bodies. "Make her as comfortable as possible, and I shall lead you to the Yomeniampa groves. There are no slavers there." he bent here and there, retrieving blood-soaked arrows, absentmindedly wiping the missiles on the black fabric of his pants before placing them in a separate pouch of his quiver. He also retrieved the two throwing knives, not taking the time to clean the blades, thrusting them into their sheathes. "Kerianseray is well-versed in herb-lore, and her kindness is the strongest healing magic I have ever felt. Rièle will be safe in her arms..." Just as I wish to be... Solomon pulled another arrow from a prone body and looked behind him, at the place where the cruel owners had watched. The man he had knocked from the horse was beginning to stir, groaning from the impact. Solomon placed the arrow to the string, feeling the slick blood on his thin fingers, sighting down the shaft to guarantee his aim was sure. "We must hurry." He turned away as the arrow lodged itself into the man's left shoulder, pinning him to the ground. The elf ignored the cry of pain, his face a grim mask as he placed the bow back over his shoulder. If the slaver's comrades returned first, he would be fine. His left arm would never work properly again, but he would survive. But deep in his mind, the scholar hoped it was one of the beaten, abused gladiators who found the man. For irony's sake.

"Follow me, Dunimir Amroch..." The elf waited for the giant to gently heft Rièle's limp body, a moment of kindness showing through the Quendi's fixed features. The shadows that had plagued him ever since leaving his forest homeland had returned to mark his face, shadowing his eyes. With the nimbleness and speed of his race Solomon Grundy started to run, his bare feet whispering softly as they passed through the grass, his green eyes constantly scanning the surroundings for any more unexpected guests. He clutched a throwing knife in each hand, the blades in a reverse grip so the edge hovered along his forearm, ready to be thrown at the slightest sign of danger.

The slavers had intended to capture their quarry, not kill them, and hence the poison on the dart that struck Rièle had not been a lethal one. However, because the slavers had planned to drug a giant, or an elf, they had prepared a dosage much too high for a slim human girl. Rièle's heartbeat slowed, and she soon developed a fever, and as the day wore on she passed in and out of consciousness and sleep.

Her dreams were fitful, and as filled with poison as her blood. She dreamt herself in the hands of the slavers, alone and terrified, sitting in cold and darkness. The minds of the animals caged beside her were trapped and frightened, and she felt like one of them. Unfamiliar voices spoke nearby, and she could see shapes moving in the shadows around her. She reached out to the minds of the animals, looking for some sense of peace, or hope, but found instead an unfamiliar sense of rage, and feral chaos; almost devoid of sanity.

Touching such a mind, brushing up against it with her own, terrified Rièle. She withdrew her thoughts, placing walls around them, that none of those other minds around her may touch her own again. She tried to sleep, but only found that she passed into a world where her leg and shoulder burned like fire, and the light from the sun hurt her eyes such that she could not see, and she felt cold and chilled despite the warmth of the afternoon sun.

Throughout both worlds was the notable absence of Jack. She wondered what had become of him, and whether he'd escaped the hounds, and the slavers. She had not sensed his presence when she'd reached out with her mind, and knew that he was nowhere near. In panic and distress she used her mind to call to him, as she had learned, for his mind was now so familiar to hers that she could find him on the other side of the world, amongst a sea of horses. But, in her delirium, she could not know whether she reached him, for she could not tell the dream world from the real one. Hence she dared to give up hope, believing he was dead, or somehow far beyond her reach.

Jack, in truth, was waiting for her call, steadfast and loyal as he had ever been. He felt her mind's touch, and followed it's direction, eager to be reunited with his master. Hence, hours after their departure from the battle, a black gelding came cantering along the road behind Amroch and Grundy. At fifty paces he halted abruptly, and took in their unfamiliar scents, and that of his master, and paced uncertainly. He wanted to go forward, but did not trust the smells he did not know, without Rièle's thoughts and presence to reassure him. Hence he followed along behind the three companions, refusing any attempts of approach, and was not at all inclined to let Grundy sit astride him, or Amroch to come close enough to place Rièle across his back.

Rièle's state did not change for Jack's presence, and she remained in her fitful sleep, sweat beading down her forehead from the fever. As night fell and the surrounding air cooled she became lucid for a time, and though she had no appetite she accepted some water from a skin. "I'm sorry," she said, holding her head dizzily, "I'll be fine. Just need... a little rest." She was frustrated with herself for being so weak, and wanted to do her part, but she could not stand, and soon she slipped back into a hazy sleep.

During the night she cried out several times. Once was for Jack, and the gelding pricked his ears, but remained at a distance from Amroch and Grundy. Most of her words were incomprehensible, but it was clear she thought she was someplace that she wasn't. She remembered her home, growing up, the details of her house so clear and vibrant that it was real to her. She was surprised, at first, for she believed she was truly there, and had no idea how she'd managed such a journey. The house was empty, and she called out for her mother, and her brothers, but they were nowhere to be found. The clink-clink of her father's smithy next door rang in her ears, and she headed for the shop, opening the door and feeling the heat of the coals from the fire....

But the door opened into Ms. Ezra's kitchen, and suddenly the most wonderful smells of cooking filled her nostrils. The table was set, but the room was empty, and the front door opened onto the pastures outside. She stepped onto the landing, and watched the horses frolic and canter in the fields. She looked for Jack, but there wasn't a black steed among them; in fact, she didn't recognize one. Slowly she walked towards the barn, barefoot in the fresh spring grass, until she heard an old woman's singing coming from inside the grain room. She stepped into the shade of the building, and opened the door to the little side room...

And found herself staring into the morning sunlight, her head jostling against Amroch's great shoulder. A thirst burned her tongue, and her head felt like it was on fire. The pain in her leg and shoulder were still there, and she moaned a little at the pain, and at the unpleasant light that shone into her eyes.

Gradually, the environment the elf and his large companion traversed began to change. The first sign was a slight incline of the plain, some scattered signs of denser vegetation. The elf sniffed the air and smiled slightly, despite the situation he found himself in. The thick, loamy scent of a true forest filled his nostrils, the almost overpowering smell of his homeland. The elf quickened his pace, bare feet whispering through the grass, his speed allowing him to leave the human slightly behind. The ground inclined upwards slightly, the final indication that he was truly home. Few beings noticed the fact on their first visit, but where the Salquedor Grasslands met the deep forests of the elven people there was a slight rise, a hill that surrounded the forest, forcing any would-be invaders to descend a hill when entering the woods, leaving them easy targets for the hawk-eyed archers hidden in the leafy boughs. Solomon Grundy crested the hill, his green eyes bursting with life as he gazed down on his home once more, reveling in the serenity that enveloped his shadowed mind. He slipped the throwing knives back into their sheathes, knowing he would no longer need them. No slavers would dare tread this close to the borders of Yomenïampa without an army behind them.

As Dunimir crested the hill Solomon slid down the slope, bare feet sure on the soft dirt. Everything about his surroundings seemed familiar and peaceful, tranquility accomplished without effort, something he had feared lost in his travels. He had witnessed much darkness, much pain and disorder. Fire and shadows had been his companions, not the soft sunlight and whistling wind of his home. The terrain seemed to transform immediately, the scattered clumps of bushes and trees joining together until they abruptly thrust upwards from the rich earth, huge trunks pushing into the sky, a thick canopy caressing his thin face with its shade. He held up both hands, wiggling his fingers to show he was unarmed, and called out in his native language of Quendi. "Greetings, forest brothers." He was answered by a chorus of voices as elves seemed to spring out of everywhere, their dark clothing designed perfectly for blending in with the lush environment. Solomon walked among them, reaching out to familiar faces, exchanging handshakes, a smile in his eyes that he carefully kept off of his face. Like any skilled archer, he had often volunteered for the sacred duty of guarding Yomenïampa's border, and he recognized all of the members save a few of the youngest elves.

"Grundy, you have been missed." The oldest elf present came forward, clasping the scholar's hand in a tight welcome. The ranger was a rarity in the forest-dwelling city, his hair a dull, lackluster black. Yet his eyes were a piercing blue, and a smile came easily to the weathered face. "The children seem to be having too easy of a time terrorizing their newest teacher. I hope you remain here long enough to place the hellions back in their place."

"Me too Gilthas, me too..." Solomon traded a rare grin with the archer before indicating the pair following him. "Slavers. They hit the little one with poison. We need a healer." His comment was met with a curt nod and a quick order shouting out in the elvish tongue. Two of the forest guard darted nimbly out of the trees, passing Dunimir to ascend the ridge, sharp elven eyes surveying the grasslands for any sign of vengeful pursuers. Solomon jogged back to the large ranger, switching back to the common tongue of Arda. "Come quickly, Dunimir Amroch. We must get her to a healer immediately. We shall have an escort..." The elf paused, remembering the giant's initial reaction to seeing him on the plains. He had held the Quendi in both fear and respect, but his paranoia had been great. Would the human feel uncomfortable here, in the treetop city? Solomon sighed internally. It can't be helped. Rièle needs aid immediately. I can ask him about his reservations later...

All of the elves but three blended back into the surrounding foliage, returning to their posts. One of those remaining was Gilthas, the dark-haired leader of this section of the guard. He spoke in the common tongue, understandable despite his thick accent, tending to stretch the vowels of the language to give it the almost musical qualities of the Quendi language. "Lauranalian is near. We shall go to her dwelling." The three elves led the way to a wooden ramp ascending into the trees themselves. Graceful pathways soared between massive tree trunks, the curved wood looking like an addition to the beauty of nature, not a distraction from it. Some trees had been shaped so that large bulges protruded from the trunk, openings revealing these places as dwellings. Other buildings had been built between the trees, suspended only by the paths connecting them. Elves walked calmly along the curving walkways, a rare human or dwarf seen here and there. Their escort led them to one of the buildings integrated into the tree itself, on e thick bough wrapping around the home in a loving embrace. The doorway was held open by an elderly elf, her face lined with age. Long, gray hair framed her features, several shades darker than the loose, white robe draped over her slight frame. Her eyes were as white as her garment, the milky color of a gaze that had long ago lost its sight. Solomon smiled as he saw her; Lauranalian had healed him once after a minor injury he had earned while diving to catch a falling infant. He was very fond of the old, blind Quendi, and only had respect for her healing prowess.

"Here, here, set the child here..." The ancient elf's voice radiated warmth and kindness, even if neither Rièle nor Dunimir could speak the flowery language of the Quendi. She indicated a bed directly inside the door intended for situations such as this. Solomon slipped through the entryway easily, hoping that the massive ranger would be able to do the same. The curved opening was not meant to accommodate someone of Amroch's size, yet the miniature giant should be able to squeeze through. The healer rolled up her sleeves, tying them up at her shoulders so they would not impede her work. A bowl of water and several herbs had already been placed on a small table beside the bed, as well as a thick towel. Her withered hands began to glow internally, illuminating the small dwelling with bright light. "No visitor to this city shall die under my watch..."

In the anguishing mid-throat a stone of concern and anxiety lodged itself where it could neither be swallowed, nor spat up. The behemoth human was as far from comfortable as he could possibly be, wracked with the shaking of the step-down from battle-rage, and far from the safe halls of allies, far from the aid to which the elf would lead them; and -with a trace of shame- Dunimir bodily held a living woman in his hands, and could not deny the stir of his blood regardless of the situation of of his horror in himself at the reality.
Throught out that great run his hands memories every last nuance of rib and shoulder; without looking his hands knew the shape of neck and skull, his fingers -to gently open the mouth to drink- the softness of full lips, the scent of breath.
Throughout the dark vigil of the night Dunimir sat upright, and held the seemingly tiny frame of Riele against his chest, bodily wrapping her in his own warmth, his arms wrapped completely around her, to quell the shaking fits. At these times he cooed to her, and doused her brow in the precious water from his own bottle, and tried to lessen the damage her own throes would do to herself -with no regard for the cost of a flailed elbow to his own ribs or lip.
In Dunimirs' mind he played out, and replayed the events of the affray, such as he could recall them; and though the details were blurred he knew that Riele had fought bravely, and cunningly, and with absolutely no regard for her own safety in trying to manoeuvre the opportunity for their victory. Thusly every drip of precious water he allowed to spill down her brow, as opposed to his frightfully parched throat, was paid for beyond any hope of compensation.
The night passed, with it the worst of Rieles poisoned-fits. But Dunimir knew better than to believe the poison had run its' course. More likely it had merely outlasted her strength, so that she could no longer fight and flail against it as it seeped deeper in, and burned away her life. Tireless as their Kindred was crafted at the beginning of time, the elf ran ahead, and Dunimir, heavy but resolute as a horse -true to his name- rolled onwards with a foam of his exertion drying in the widening cracks of his lips. But in the elfs gathering excitement and speed, Dunimir perceived that they must be drawing near, and he poured the strength he had ssumed was long spent, into the last hill rearing gently but painfully before them.
At the crest of the barely perceptible hill, Dunimir beheld the Elf-Forest in it's simmering perilousness. Wordlessly he allowed the elf to lead him into the utmost web of the eldritch city, and were it not for the bravery the elf had expended in saving even Dunimirs worthless life, Dunimir could never had endured the deepening horror of being led into that place, the very home and source of innumerable generations of his Kins thralldom.
Grundy -Dunimir marked it with a vast rush of gratitude- seemed to perceive his terrors of walking into the elf-city. The elfs eyes were never far from him, measuring and weighing his resolve, and his strength. Thusly Riele was brought into the care of a sorceress, and Dunimir was relieved of his ward. He was brought such food and drink as the healer would permit him to take, and he bowed to her judgement, -though the portions size -let alone the description of the provender only served to ignite such a suffering of an appetite that Dunimir could not find sleep, but neither could he do more than pace outside the sorceress residence.

Later, Rièle recalled little of her journey to Yomenïampa, save for a cloud of confused thought and images that were either too bright or too dark to discern. But a feeling had been left imparted upon her; a stone of strength and comfort from he who had held her, and cared for her, and comforted her in her anguish. Such strength had passed to her in a glow of warmth and light, and she had drunk it in, taking solace in his presence and his warmth, and her suffering was eased.

As Amroch carried her beneath the trees of the forest of the elves Rièle sensed the presence of an outside force falling upon her. A blanket placed itself between her body and her mind, and she awoke and looked upon upon the canopy, and saw a beauty of which she could could not have dreamed, or described. The forest sang, her ears could hear the tune and the words, and though she could not understand their meaning her heart felt a sense of peace, and she soaked in a scene of beauty that could only have been painted by the hands of the gods themselves.

Her half-open eyes looked groggily upon the city and its people as she was carried into the treetops, and Rièle noticed a growing tension in the massive arms that held her as more and more elves appeared around them. Her heart went out to Amroch, for she knew that she would recover, and that the magic of this place had already begun to heal her. Yet she had not the strength to comfort him, for all had been spent in fighting the poison within her, and her hand could not move to grasp his in solace, nor her head that she might meet his eyes and show him her resolve.

As they passed under the doorway of the dwelling in the tree, and Amroch placed her in the care of the old, blind elf, the blanket that Rièle felt upon her mind quieted her conscious thoughts, and she slid into a peaceful sleep.

Rièle knew not how long she slept, but she rested soundly, allowing her body to heal with the aid of kind Lauranialian. When she awoke she felt her waning strength, and struggled to push herself upright in her bed, but knew that the taint of the poison had gone and she that needed only food and rest to rebuild what she had had.

The old Quendi spoke to Rièle softly in the common tongue, and Rièle humbly allowed her to poke and prod at her, checking her injuries and ensuring she was healing properly. The pain in her shoulder had gone completely, and Rièle marveled at the healing ability of the woman. She moved her arm in circles at the woman's direction, testing the muscles of the shoulder for pain and soreness. There was none. The woman replaced the bandage, for a small wound still remained. The gash on her leg was more serious, and though Lauranialian had sewn it shut Rièle walked with a limp, and could not flex her leg as she could before. The Quendi insisted that with the proper care it would heal quickly, and encouraged Rièle to walk as much as her strength allowed, to ease the stiffness.

Lauranialian then gave Rièle a fresh set of clothes to cover her nakedness, and food to ease her hunger. The fare was plain, but nutritious, and Rièle felt revived and strong. She was eager to go outside, for despite the wonder of the elves and the immense gratitude she felt towards the blind Quendi, two things were notably missing from her side. One her gifts allowed her to feel, and his presence was not far away, but the condition of the other was unknown to her.

"Lauranialian," she asked softly, "Is Amroch still here, in the city?"

The old woman smiled, and her face bore a knowing and mischievous look. "He is outside, young one, and waits for you." The expression of the woman seemed troubled as she answered, however, and Rièle was suddenly eager to see to her companion. She leaned forward and took the woman's hands, and placed a kiss upon her wrinkled cheek. "Thank you, Lauranialian. I will not forget your kindness."

Rièle allowed the old woman to help her to the door, and she emerged from the dwelling holding onto the doorframe to steady herself. The brightness of the outdoors startled her eyes, and she placed her hand above them to shield them from the sun. Looking along the pathways that wove amongst the trees, she sought dear Amroch, who had carried her to this place.

The old Quendi's words were true, for Rièle found Amroch pacing outside, his poor form emanating signs of distress. He looked thin, and bedraggled, as though he had not slept nor eaten. Rièle felt a sense of guilt for her part in his suffering, though she also knew that some of it must be due to his trepidation of the elves. She sought his eyes, and when he at last looked up from his pacing she found that they were two deep pools of gray, as the ocean in a storm, at once sad and deep with thought.

Rièle went to him, slowly and carefully, and when she finally closed the distance between them reached outward for his arm to steady herself. As he gently allowed her to hold his forearm she looked upwards into his eyes, communicating such gratitude as words did not exist to speak.

Amroch seemed to take some comfort from her presence, and Rièle smiled with gladness to know he was all right. "Amroch," she said, foregoing all discussion of what had passed for the pleasant, peaceful thoughts of the present. "Would you be so kind as to help me? I need to reach the ground, but I do not know the way, and I fear it is far too great a distance for me to walk alone."

Thus she took Amroch's arm, and he led her along the pathways of the elves to the stairs they had ascended when they had arrived. Rièle walked slowly and stiffly, and leaned upon her friend for aid, but felt her muscles regaining more of their flexibility as she used them.

At length they reached the forest floor, and Rièle directed them a short ways to the south, at the outside of the city. There they waited, and Rièle sent her thoughts outward, until a black gelding came trotting through the trees to greet them.

He pressed his muzzle into Rièle's chest, and exhaled his breath against her, allowing her to scratch his neck and under his throat where he liked it most. They remained there for some time, greeting and playing with each other, and Jack felt content enough again to allow Amroch to stroke him and share in his enjoyment of the moment.

Rièle began to grow tired, and she told Jack to rest and graze at the forest's edge, and that she rejoin him soon. He trotted off contentedly, hungry for his dinner, and Rièle allowed Amroch to lead her back to the elven city. They ascended the stairs much more slowly than they had come down, and Rièle struggled to climb such a height even with Amroch's help. Amroch, she knew, would have carried her again, but she would have none of it - stubborn and willful as she was, she was eager to regain her strength and insisted upon climbing the stairs herself.

She was exhausted when they reached the top, and her leg pained her a bit more than perhaps it should have. But all was well, and as it seemed Grundy was spending time with his wife and family Rièle bid Amroch lead her to the house that he had been given to sleep in. It was small, only one room, and clearly reserved for guests. A large meal had been laid out in their absence, and they ate heartily and quietly. Rièle then observed the fatigue of her friend, and recalled her own. She knew that Amroch was more at ease in her presence, and so she remained in the little house instead of returning to Lauranialian's, and curled up upon a simple straw mat near the foot of the enormous bed that was actually of a size to fit the Edain. She was as comfortable there as a goddess upon a feathered mattress, and was asleep in moments.

Solomon watched as Amroch left the small hut, the ranger’s shoulders tight with tension. The scholar bit his lip softly, wondering what was appropriate in this situation. The human’s discomfort with the elves would be apparent even to one who had not travelled with the giant male, as Grundy had. And many elves in the forest haven had a grudge against humans, mainly due to the racism they encountered outside of their native city. Yet he stayed in the wooden house for a while longer, knowing that Gilthas would prevent any trouble from happening, and listened to Lauranialian’s instructions. He soaked the bandages in the warm water as she laid her hands on the female’s shoulder, milky eyes staring intently at the wound. Solomon watched in wonder as the glow in her hands brightened, making the skin appear translucent. The wrinkles and knotted veins of age seemed to fade, leaving the healer with smooth skin, her dainty fingers untouched by time. The healing magic wrapped itself around Rièle’s injury, seeping into the flesh until her skin glowed as well, banishing the poison as it stimulated new growth, invoking strength and durability that the body could not accomplish on its own. Despite his lack of arcane talent, or more specifically, the obsession required to master that obscure art, the workings of magic and spells intrigued him. So distracted was he by the ancient elf’s powers that he did not notice Gilthas’ entrance until the black-haired man touched his shoulder, drawing the scholar out of his reverent trance. The captain of the forest Guard leaned down, whispering in Sindarin to Solomon. [“Mi shor shi tholi caesi, Mylas. Tysti orodi. Shi cali taraes sai porer.” [Translation: She will be fine here, Scholar. Come outside. We have matters to discuss.] The Quendi nodded, standing and letting the other elf’s strong hand guide him to the wooden platform outside.

Gilthas glanced at the hulking form of Amroch for a moment before continuing. “Shi cali mael ei kyr or sai thol si malaes kyr. Sher sar’m byr aistysal.” [Translation: We have sent a group out to find the slaver group. But that's not important.] A mischevious glint entered the captain’s eye, and he reached out to ruffle Solomon’s feathery hair as if he were a child, not a colleague. Before he could offer a protest, Gilthas continued, a broad grin on his face. “Shar air, or thol, air sar Tadael Kerianseray shor thae ti eiloli ais Ai pai byr mael o sai caes aistaedoraelia. Mi tadi mesi sar eir os si Thysaer Kes caern sar ialaer o shaesi peil, o car shaeraes cesia…” [Translation: What is, old friend, is that Maiden Kerianseray will flay me alive if I do not send you to her immediately. She made sure that all of the Forest Guard knew that unless you were dying, you had better hurry...] Before he was even finished speaking Solomon had left at a sprint, his face split in a wide, ecstatic grin, laughter bubbling out of the usually solemn Quendi as he dashed away. Gilthas snorted, shaking his head. He turned towards the giant ranger, staring at him appraisingly. He had meant to ask Solomon about Amroch, but the scholar had left too quickly. The man’s nervous pacing could not be allowed to continue, however. Gilthas spoke the common language with confidence, his accent flavored with the musicality native to the elvish tongue. “You will have to excuse Solomon’s behavior, sir. He has been gone from Yomenïampa for a long time, and I am sure he has been missing Maiden Kerianseray’s presence the entire time. If you wish, I can prepare you food and drink, and perhaps even a place to stay until your friend has healed completely…” Gilthas bowed politely to the ranger, his hands extended at his sides in a welcoming gesture. “Lauranialian is one of our most skilled healers. She will take care of her, I promise…”



Solomon pounded through the forest canopy, his bare feet slapping on the sun-soaked wood in a steady rhythm as he traversed the familiar weave of branches, bridges, and ropes that spread across the forest canopy. His green eyes were bright with pure joy as he waved back the greetings shouted out as he moved past. He did not stop, or even slow his gait. The nightmares and horrors of the brutal war on the surface of the moon had left his features, leaving him unburdened, emphatic emotions radiating from his face. His travels forgotten for the moment, he skid to a halt outside of a small dwelling bored into the trunk of a giant tree, no different from those surrounding it. But Solomon gazed at the doorway as if it were a grand gate leading to an immaculate palace, and raised a hand to knock on it almost reverently. He almost immediately leapt up, firmly grasping a leafy bough and hauling upwards, swinging his slight frame around so he was straddling the branch and looking down. The door opened a crack at first, an exasperated sigh sounding from the opening. “Tolael, ais o eisi val ei val eindral…” [Translation: Children, if you are playing a prank again...] The doorway opened completely, revealing a portrait of otherworldly beauty that almost made Solomon lose his grip on the overhanging branch. His eyes were the dark green of forest shadows; hers were the bright, piercing hue of an emerald caught in the sun, sparkling with warmth, appearing as if they could dull the pain of any plausible malady. Her skin was smooth and pale, the perfect hue of fresh cream, with a radiant blush of vitality coloring her cheeks. Hair cascaded from her head, framing perfectly formed features, a golden river that smelled of honey and the freshly picked flowers twined in the silky strands. She wore a simple white dress that did nothing to distract from her innate perfection, but also did nothing to augment it. And in Solomon’s opinion, she did not need it. She carried a metal frying pan, looking left and right for the perpetrator who had disturbed her.

Stifling a laugh, the scholar leapt down as if he were a child, landing behind her softly and wrapping his arms around her waist. Before she could voice any protest he pulled her close, pressing his chest against her back, lips softly brushing the back of her neck. Her voice caught in her throat, a shudder passing down her spine. Solomon reached out, gently prying the pan from her slack fingers, his breath making her hair flutter. “Ai cydi o pai byr tol tia val, Tadael Kerianseray…” [Translation: I hope you do not mind my prank, Maiden Kerianseray] He felt her collapse against him, yielding to his firm embrace, eyes tearing from happiness. Her voice was rife with emotion when she spoke, almost a year of tension and fear finally abated by his return.

“On Solomon, o thyr… shar syl o mai jhyl sai vaeres sai ti?” [Translation: Oh Solomon, you fool… what took you so long to return to me?]

He spun her around, folding her into his arms once more. Like him she was an orphan, although her past was known. Her parents had fallen to a group of slavers, and a kindly old half-elf named Thareaselian had adopted the young elven girl. Similarly, Thareas had found Solomon wandering the forest, had cared for the Quendi’s injuries and christened him with a name from an old child’s rhyme. But Thareas’s human blood refused to let him stay in one place for too long, and eventually Solomon and Kerian had been left to care for each other. Raised as if they were siblings, there was now a deeper connection there, one that neither would ever mention, but neither could they deny its presence, nor its strength. Solomon leaned down, resting his forehead on hers, their green eyes almost mirror images. “Ai’t shas, paesaer Kerianseray. Ai cali toraer o kaeria…” [Translation: I’m back, dearest Kerianseray. I have missed you greatly…] They embraced again, and it was a long time before the pair let each other go.



Hours later, Solomon and Kerian walked together, their fingers intertwined, reveling in the beauty of the forest. Or more specifically, Kerian watched the surroundings while Solomon stole glances at her, still amazed by her seeming perfection. She was the epitome of beauty, a model that no painter of sculptor could ever do justice to, a face that could launch a thousand ships and more. He had worried that others had been bewitched by her in his absence, but she guaranteed that no one had imposed on her. After a delicious dinner he had asked if she would accompany him back to Lauranialian’s hut to check on his companions, and Kerian had gladly agreed. Having received the location of their new dwelling from the elderly healer, Solomon grinned slightly when he saw Amroch’s broad frame outside of one of the wooden houses, and called out warmly. “Greetings, Dunimir Amroch! I hope I find you well.” He led Kerian towards the ranger, a warm expression on his face. Still exuberant from his return, the scholar’s eyes glowed with a happiness that had been lacking before, a sense of completion expressed in the carefree manner he stood within the forest. “How is she? Is Rièle better?” He glanced inside the window, seeing the woman’s frame curled up on a comfortable bed, a blanket spread over her body. Kerianseray smiled gently at the ranger, bowing in a cautious manner. Solomon had told her about the giant’s uneasiness around the elves, and the hand she offered to him was calm, her voice full of inviting warmth and compassion. “Greetings, Amroch. I thank you for protecting this foolish Mylas. You are truly a wonderful man. My name is Kerianseray, although you might find it easier to pronounce it as Kerian.” Her voice was musical in nature, as soft and gentle as the melody of a master flautist. Solomon’s eyes flickered back, gauging Dunimir’s reaction, before he returned his attention to the sleeping Rièle.