Garthag meanwhile had concentrated to watch over the field and payed less attention to the vengeful efforts of Semri, there was much beauty in this place and it was to be defiled with battle. Or was it battle that made it so beatiful? Whatever the case, Garthag would no longer wish to linger here and thus it meant dealing with the renegade scum...

Or why not the Meiltha as well? All tough history told that they would tear each others to shreds, Garthag might as well help that process by killing them all. After all he held the crystal in his hands yet before he would do anything so destructive, he would investigate. Thus he cast a cloak of invisibility upon himself and headed for the nearest camp.

[Curunir, you planning anything? if not I'm about to incorporate Semri and/or Garthag into something I've got in mind]

"What in all thirteen hells do you think you're doing?" demanded one of the Meiltha warlords, pulling his winged monstrosity over and halting Rano in his flight. "High Meiltha or not, my lady, do not presume to order my men about on a suicide mission to the Renegade camp! If you wish to make yourself useful, help me regroup the left flank before they drown in their own guts!" He gesticulated pointedly towards a division of Meiltha, who were just then engaging in petty warfare of their own.

----------------

"What do you want?"

The soldier, cringing in fear before the suitably infuriated archmage before him, stuttered over his message. "There - there is a mage on the outskirts of camp, m - my lord..."

Flame crackled from Lord Dyrak Darkmantle's palm as the hooded archmage leaned forward across the bloodied altar within the encircling monoliths, his angular face a bare inch away from the cowering soldier's. "At this point, cherished warrior, I have little patience for stupidity."

"R - robed in white... he is qu - quite powerful..."

"Not Renegade?"

The soldier shook his head so hard his black helm rattled.

Dyrak ground his teeth in frustration. "Very well, then. Bring him to me."

----------------

Kendath gratefully took a sip of water. "Alive," he replied dryly once he'd found his voice again. He glanced over at his equipment lying on the ground next to the cot, then at the bandage around his torso. By Merrin's ashen complexion and the spots of blood on her arms and the one intact sleeve of her tunic, he could well posit the source of his salvation. His gaze drifted over to her none too hale bandaged shoulder, and he found himself wincing.

He wanted very much to thank her at that moment - for breathing, for living, for even caring about him at all - but the two alien words stuck in his throat. Instead he lay back and closed his eyes, willing back the last moments before he'd blacked out. "We have to get out of here," he murmured at length. "Later they will ask questions that we can't answer."

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The candle flame, a bright sliver of light in the dimness of the tent, flickered in Merrin's hand. She cupped her fingers around it, where it illuminated her tired expression.

"Aye," she murmured, the breath of her words causing the tiny flame to dance and sputter. There was a pause and then she looked up to meet his eyes. "I don't know where to go. The dragons are wounded...and neither of us escaped unscathed, either." Merrin attempted a smile. "This quest of ours could have had a more auspicious beginning." Her previous exhausted thanks that they were all even alive had diminished, leaving a discouraged mien in its wake.

She shook her head, and this time the attempted grin succeeded. "Look at me, ever-optimistic. I...I'm very glad you're even alive."

And as Merrin bent to set the candle down it struck her suddenly how much she had been afraid of those unfathomable dark eyes shut forever, of standing alone against the extinction of an entire race. A tingle raced down her spine. Why...?

And Merrin didn't know.

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Semri was about to draw her sword on him, what did she care for the Meiltha, they were no concern of hers; Careful Mistress, one wrong move and he’ll n=know you’re not what you seem…and we may need them Cautioned Rano.
“As you wish Commander…but you may be sure the Council shall here of this when this is over.” She replied haughtily, before following him back to the troublemakers on the ground.

(I’m happy to do whatever you want LDM)

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Made by Lembas

(eh... LDM in your latest post were you refering to Garthag?)

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Let him curse my name
On these blood stained pages of misery
Let him call me a tyrant so cruel
Let him curse my name, but remember the truth!

[yep]

"Time... travel?" The Shadower Lord Kvanoes wasn't certain he'd heard correctly when the third-year novice rushed to him with the news. The crimson-tinted runes on his black robes glittered in the flickering torchlight as he snapped his attention up from the tome he'd been studying. The tome was titled Underworld's Litany, written by the greatest of the Shadower's order. Its relevations on their order's dark hallmark was, to state it plainly, quite fascinating to the potent and highly ambitious Kvanoes.

But then again, necromancy itself was boundless in its majesty.

"He lies," hissed the Lord's second-in-command, the dark cleric known only by the pseudonym, the Lich. His rasping voice echoed hollowly in the stone chamber. Everything about him was hollow, really, including his rank as high cleric. In truth the Shadowers disliked the gods. No, not disliked. Loathed.

The brown-robed novice shook his head so hard it seemed his neck would simply snap off. "No! Never lies!" He shoved the scrying bowl into the Shadower Lord's eager hands.

Kvanoes stared into the shimmering waters of the bowl for a long while, at the blurred apparitions of Garthag and Semri. "Time travel," he murmured, a grin spreading across his angular features. "Friends," he began - to which the others in the room chortled. In the Shadower realm, one was very likely to find oneself poisoned in bed by none other than "friends." Unperturbed, his grin only broadened. "Friends, I believe it is time to reveal the fruition of our meticulously laid plans."

"The dragons," the Lich surmised, with a sound that rang more of cough than laugh.

Kvanoes obliged the dark cleric with an indulgent nod. "Preferrably, the lack thereof."

-----------

No words came to him at that moment, so Kendath could only manage a small nod as he lay back once more. "You need rest," he said, nodding at her wounded arm and shoulder. For reasons unknown, his newfound tricklings of conscience wouldn't let him leave it at that. He blinked a couple of times before continuing quietly, "I am... thankful..."

He fell silent, lacking the heart to express himself further. These emotions were so alien, and sometimes he found himself wishing he could retreat back to his old alter ego - the inhuman assassin, feeling nothing, killing first and asking questions later. But each time he retreated to examine himself, he decided that he would not - could not - return to that cold shell that embodied the inner turmoil of the man he once was.

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Garthag stepped before the Meiltha commander with a slight smirk upon his face, the first expression was still the same, proud and menacing as the Meiltha wanted to appear. Time apparently would not change the Meiltha yet it was no wonder that it did not because of the stubborness of their whole order. Garthag made a small bow.

"I am honoured for you to meet me on such a short notice, I believe a man of your rank has... other matters to attend to...."

He said with a confident smile, the crystal was safe in his pocket and they would not dare to touch a mage of his presence.

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Let him curse my name
On these blood stained pages of misery
Let him call me a tyrant so cruel
Let him curse my name, but remember the truth!

Merrin was silent. Rest - sleep - was not something she wanted, no matter that her limbs were heavy with fatigue and a yawn felt perpetually forthcoming. Even now, on closing her eyes vivid, recent memories - blue fire and terror at her limbs being suddenly unresponsive, with the cries of a child in the distance - deluged Merrin. She shuddered involuntarily, and with an effort pushed the thoughts away.

She gave a faint shrug, along with a wince at the resulting twinge in her shoulder. "Thankful for what?"

This sounded bitter, so Merrin hastened to explain it. "It was due to your quick thinking we're all even alive. Thanks, I think, is owed to you more by far." Much as she had disliked it, hated it even, captivity by the Meiltha had been all but necessary and had they resisted they all, dragons and humans alike, would have died. Merrin smiled. "So you have my thanks in due turn."

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To state it simply, Dyrak Darkmantle appeared unimpressed as he appraised the white-robed mage before him. In truth he was suitably cautious. Being one of the top ranked in Meiltha archmages himself, he recognized power when he saw it. Nonetheless he was not overtly concerned. The stranger stood in a Meiltha horde, surrounded by both Dyrak and other puissant mages of their order.

"I believe a wizard such as you lurking about the outskirts of camp would arouse a certain bit of... suspicion," he said, raising an eyebrow.

------------

Kendath nodded again but could manage no reply as fatigue overcame him once more. The last thought he recalled before losing consciousness entirely was how ironic it all seemed... the irony of life...

He wasn't certain intially what'd jolted him awake, but it became apparent a moment later when Gyre's urgent voice calling his name echoed in his half-waking state. Shaking his head to clear the grogginess, he sent out a mind wave of his own. You all right?

Fine. The Renegade healers know their work. A tremulous pause. You made the right choice.

You doubted me. Not a question, but a flat statement. At length he shrugged and tested his lax muscles. The magical salve had performed miraculously; the pain in his stomach was now but a shadow of what it once was. Dizziness assaulted him when he sat up, but that was trivial. Through the partially open tent flap he could see the still dark skies, and surmised that it was an hour or so before dawn. The wounded were all asleep on their cots, as were the two healers that'd dozed off in their seats.

Kendath stood and donned his equipment. It occurred to him as he swept on his blood-stained cloak that he needed a bath, but he brushed the thought away for later. He looked across the way at Merrin, whom despite her valiant efforts to stay awake had succumbed to exhaustion in the end. She lay now upon her cot, murmuring fitfully in her sleep, her blanket in disarray and her hair falling over her face. He moved over to shake her awake.

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"Such as?"

Garthag said and hmped, he gazed around at the faces of the Meiltha surrounding him. They did not seem like an order, they seemed like a power hungry mob and everyone was ready to trample each others in their feet, if it saved them. Garthag did not give Dyrak time to answer before he started to answer his question.

"My presence certainly creates suspicions and makes you all wonder, how on earth did a white robe get in here? Is he of the renegade or someone else?... well I am a renegade as certainly as white robes always represent good..." He said dryly and gazed around again just to check wether Semri had appeared somewhere.

"I was actually looking for a friend of mine... or perhaps should I say friends..."

_________________

Let him curse my name
On these blood stained pages of misery
Let him call me a tyrant so cruel
Let him curse my name, but remember the truth!

The knife blade glittered. Merrin lay helpless, unable to move her pinioned limbs, and the mage's deep-set, icily cold eyes pierced her very being. No Kendath came - no sudden quake shook the ground, giving her time to escape - and terror and utter despair gripped her with irreversible finality.

Merrin shot upright as the knife descended, breathing hard and groping for something, anything, to defend herself. Her vision cleared in an instant and there was the tent above, Kendath standing over her. It had been a dream - only a dream. But still fear wormed its way through Merrin's resolve.

"Oh," she said to break the silence, her voice horribly breathless and uncertain. "I...it was only a dream."

Merrin rose and pulled her cloak around her. "We...we should go, then?"

_________________

Kendath pressed a finger to his lips to indicate that they should keep their voices low. He crept past the still beds, towards the lone guard at the far end of the tent - kept there not as a danger lookout, but to help hold thrashing wounded down through a procedure. The guard's head nodded onto his chest, a clear sign of his dissolute vigilance.

Silently, lethally as a viper poised to strike, Kendath stalked up behind the guard with his dagger in hand. Up came the dagger, a streak of silver. Clapping a hand over the man's mouth, he placed the glittering blade at the exposed throat. Emitting a muffled shout, the guard woke and predictably went for his sword, only to be rebuked by the dagger drawing a thin line of blood across his vulnerable neck. "Not a sound," Kendath hissed in his victim's ear. "I ask you one harmless question: Where are we?"

The guard emphatically shook his head.

With a growl of exasperation he nodded towards the quill and vellum on a nearby table. "Write it."

The guard picked up the quill and hastily scrawled something that resembled northwest Plains of Despair, south of River Amren.

Satisfied, Kendath nodded. Then, with a deft flip of his dagger that freed his thumb and forefinger, he found the pressure point on the man's neck. The guard went down cold. Kendath caught him before he hit the ground, lowering him down carefully as to not provoke noise. Dead men invoked vengeance and justice. Unconscious men simply invoked speculation, especially with the Renegade councils harboring more important matters at hand.

_________________

"You couldn't have just asked?" hissed Merrin reproachfully in an undertone after Kendath as they departed, having paused to slip a coin into the unfortunate man's pocket. A silent apology of sorts.

They emerged into the pre-dawn camp, a quiet assembly of tents and dead campfires, heaps of ash and half-burnt chunks of stunted wood. The Plains of Despair, concluded Merrin, were rather devoid of much that would be useful to an army. Nevertheless she found herself wistfully wishing she could stay. The Renegades here were not apathetic descendants of their fathful ancestors, like many were back home. These people knew their gods to be real, knew that they did not follow some tradition passed down from their fathers before them. Many of Merrin's generation remained Renegade only out of a desire not to be considered Meiltha.

Good morning. Wyvern's voice in her mind was clear, no trace of the panicked rush of adrenaline she'd felt in him yesterday. Merrin squared her shoulders. If he could retain an air of optimistic hope for the future, she could too, despite her misgivings and nightmares of events past.

And the same to you. You're all right, then?

These healers know their trade. There was a pause. Merrin could feel her dragon's air of questioning concern. He knew her too well to not perceive that she was discouraged, afraid. With an effort she put the thoughts from her mind, berating herself for her uncertainty.

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......

I'm not having much inspiration for a character right now. I just read through the whole RPG, and I'm still drawing a blank. However, by tonight I'll have a bio, hopefully.

Which era would you guys like him to be in? From the past or the future/present?

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(Oh hello Aerandir, wow you read the entire thing...thats *cheaks* 53 pages...??? i never thoght we'd keep it goining this long. Thankyou guys, i know its not finished, but its been fantastic RPing with you so far, you guys rock. It would probebly be easier if you were from the present/future Aeran, the past seems to be pretty complecated right now, but i'v still got two carries in the future who you can interact with. But Welcome anyways)

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Made by Lembas

Thanks, Anduril. I think I'd like my character to be a renegade, so....a little bit more info on what is going to happen with the "horde of Meiltha" would be useful--it'd give me some ideas for a way to slip him into the plot.

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