This bit about Merrin's past roused him from his fatigued stupor. Kendath leaned back to regard her, struck suddenly by how akin she seemed to a girl, chatting about her brother and her da who'd never seen the world. A girl. A wry smile teased the ends of his lips. Wasn't she one still? How old was she... twenty... nineteen? But her clear blue eyes, tinted gold with flickering candlelight, told a different story. Not a girl - a woman. She'd seen and suffered enough for a woman twice her age.

And yet... He could still recall a time, an eternity ago it seemed, when he looked into those eyes and saw not the world, but the unblemished innocence that'd enfuriated him for so long.

Curse it, I'm doing it again when I know I can't. Why am I such a masochist? He leaned back farther, until his back brushed the wall. Hands on his knees, he looked at the floor, then at her, then back at the floor. She had a brother. That shouldn't surprise him. They'd stumbled together through a dozen suicidal endeavors, and he'd never thought to ask her. "You're from... that village... Riversmeet? Is your family there still?"

_________________

Merrin nodded, wrapping her arms around her knees where she sat. "Aye. Mama and Da and Jayen will be, at least. T'mor will go back, I think - and the twins and Rhie are too little still to go anywhere." A little shrug, and a smile. "I think I make a better dragonrider than housewife. If they knew, though..."

She trailed off. If they knew. Jayen would go half mad with worry...Mama and Da, too. The twins would be thrilled and say they'd known all along, but it wasn't worth it. The way they would look at her...she wouldn't be Merrin anymore. Even the expression in T'mor's eyes told her that, and he knew hardly anything but that she was exhausted and worn from some ordeal. She'd be some ethereal Chosen of the Gods. Was it possible, to return and become just Merrin Tanner again, nobody except the daughter of Daevydd Tanner who had dreamed of being a dragonrider?

Merrin leaned back against the wall, idly watching a candle flicker for a moment. Then she looked up, a touch tentatively, at Kendath. As always, she couldn't tell from his expression what he thought at all. Was he surprised to find her as ordinary a peasant girl as she was? Somehow she didn't think that was it - Kendath, after all, was no highborn noble either. Then what was he thinking?

She abandoned the attempt to figure out. "Kendath...if T'mor asks...I don't want him to know. Who...who I am, now. Or what's happened." Gods, why could she not tell even a fraction of what he was thinking from his face? "I'm not...ashamed...it's just...he won't think of me - I won't be Merrin anymore. Not the Merrin he knows."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

T'mor's perplexed expression told the answer before he said it. "Merrin," he repeated, looking warily at Garthag. "Aye...I know her. She's my sister."

He stooped to halt Kiril with a hand. She was - with reason, he thought - putting as much distance between herself and the mage as fast as possible. "Hey, there," he said, attempting a soothing sort of tone (it never worked with Rhie, but you never knew). "He's not going to hurt you."

She gave him a penetrating look. "You're Merrin's brother."

"Right. That's me." He turned his attention back to said mage. "I've seen her. Can't say I think she'd be very happy to see you."

_________________

Jhoran couldn't help but smile inwardly at Merrin's worries. It wasn't a humour-filled smile, though. Change was inevitable, and quite frequently it was difficult and challenging, yet it still always seemed possible to postpone it.

May you be successful, Merrin Dragonrider, he thought remorsefully. The many changes that had occurred in his own life had had a tendency to come hard and fast, without leaving much time to recover his balance. Merrin and Kendath had certainly seen changes recently, and looked to be handling them well.

Well, that is something of a relative statement, Jhoran thought as he looked them over--skin only showed in small sections between the myriad of bandages that each of them now had. His arm was now set properly, and with a better splint than the one he had hastily made back on the island. Fighting would be more difficult now, but he had fought with only one good arm before--it was simply that now he had more considerably more injuries than just one bad arm.

They were alive, though. That was the important thing. They were alive, and recovering to face more challenges and changes. One change they had all faced--back when he had first seen them, Jhoran had noticed that Kendath and Merrin were bereft of their dragons. Now he was in the same grouping. A larger change probably hadn't come since his father died and passed on the family legacy to him.

It was with an unhealthy amount of trepidation that Jhoran looked forward to the time when the reality of his loss would set in. He had been shielded from it so far by his captivity and the subsequent trials and escapade on the island. If events settled down now, he could see naught but one large obstacle of grief in his near future. Mourn he would, but he wasn't certain that allowing his situation to set in would not make him more deficient in in the upcoming days--after all, with Vryngaard gone, there would be many more trials in the near future.

_________________

Merrin`s brother? Garthag thought with a quirk smile on his face, this could get interesting very fast, but then again the man might as well be lying. Yet then again the girl might have somewhat confirmed it, for him to go after her was a clear sign they were already somehow connected and somehow the man didn`t seem like a liar. Of course anyone could lie, but then again what reason would a simple man like that have to lie about being someone`s sister. This brother of Merrin`s... seemed very protective, he was not a fool yet hardly a genius of any sorts, just very plain apparently.

"Come now, no need to be hostile towards me, I am Merrin`s friend and I have helped her through a lot of rough times. She should be thankful for my `guidance` and not allow her family to insult dear friends like me. Yet apparently being a mage clearly creates a illusion of horror and disgust for a simple man like you, no? And what you witnessed feeds that fire I suspect, but if you shall not help me, then I will help myself and go find her.

Of course I would be very delighted, if you changed your mind and decided not to wave that sword at me."

Garthag said with a remarkably calm tone, but in the back of his mind he had already pondered of disappearing into thin air and jumping as far away as fast as possible. Yet that might fall trough should the man start blindly to wave his sword about, one way or the other, this was going to become a lot of fun on the long run.

_________________

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!

Adeila silently listened to the conversation between the two as she began cleaning out the pots and bowls that had been used. Not that she was eavesdropping, of course - she wouldn't have dreamed of it. But they were talking in perfectly normal voices, and the room wasn't that large, and she was just the slightest bit curious. They were an interesting assortment, her new guests. A mystery, to be certain.

The one young man - the one who the broken arm - seemed rather nice, but detached. He wasn't going to any great lengths to converse with the others, though he may have simply not felt up to it. Perhaps he was merely traveling with them out of convenience, rather than any sort of reliance. At any rate, he was nice enough, and certainly well-mannered. The poor man was likely just exhausted from his travels.

The other two, however....They were close, that much was evident. Whatever circumstances had brought them to her door, the pair had clearly been through much together. They possessed a bond that could only be forged through time and trials, through hardship and struggles. And yet...there was a degree of tension between them, though not from any sort of enmity. Ah, there it was. A look between the two, likely not noticed by either, that spoke volumes. There was more than companionship between the two, whether it was acknowledged or not. There was the tiniest of sparks - faint, but unmistakable - that required only the smallest amount of kindling to ignite.

Adeila smiled faintly as she finished drying the dishes and began putting them away, but continued to observe in silence.

The girl, Merrin....There was something very special about her that Adeila couldn't quite identify. And she was young...so young. She couldn't have yet been past her twentieth year, yet she had a presence about her - a sort of glow that permeated the air around her, yet couldn't be seen. All three were blessed, that much was evident, but the girl in particular. Adeila made a mental note to inquire further when her patients were better rested.

"I won't pretend to know what has happened," she commented unobtrusively as she moved over to check on the three once more. "But it is my experience that we are only as different as we consider ourselves to be. If you expect to be treated differently, then you will. If you believe that nothing has changed, then nothing has. Others often perceive us as we perceive ourselves."

Adeila opened up one of the cabinets that was located next to the cots and pulled out several blankets and pillows. "Now, dears, you're all positively exhausted, and don't you even try to deny it. I've patched you up well enough, but it won't do an ounce of good if you collapse from exhaustion. I have a sleeping draught, should any desire - or require - it. Again, please do tell me if you require even the slightest thing. Even something so miniscule as needing your pillow fluffed....Svit, come here and leave the poor man alone, for once." She motioned, and Svit immediately jumped up to climb onto her shoulder once more. "And let me know if this little imp comes to pester you during the night. He can be quite enthusiastic about his new friends at times."

As if on cue, Merrin yawned jaw-crackingly. It came with the realization that she was more exhausted than she'd ever been in her life. Vaguely she wondered when she'd last slept in a bed, and gave up the effort to recollect. She glanced up at Adeila, whose arms were full of blankets and pillows. Perhaps it was unfair to keep T'mor in the dark? But she had to cringe at how Mama and Da would worry. Could she still be Merrin to them? Not the Chosen of the Gods, endowed with unbelievable powers unseen for centuries? For a moment she tried to think of it, but another yawn drove the thoughts from her mind. Sleeping draught indeed.

"I don't think I'm going to need help sleeping," she said wryly, reaching thankfully for the offered bedding. Gods, it looked rapturously comfortable.

Several candles had been blown out, and the only light outside was the stars, and Merrin could feel consciousness slipping away the moment her head touched the pillow. She took a breath, spoke a silent prayer against the nightmares that had pervaded her sleep of late, and closed her eyes.

It was very dimly, on the edge of consciousness, that she heard the door creak slightly as it opened. Then footsteps. Then someone, apologetically, "Adeila, I know they need sleep, but there's a mage outside who says he knows Merrin."

Kiril's voice piped in. "They're not friends. He said they were friends."

Mage, thought Merrin sleepily. How strange...I don't know any -

And she shot bolt upright, color already draining from her face., and half-stumbled in rising to her feet. "T'mor - Garthag - Kiril, are you all right? - gods, no, we're not friends with him." She pulled Kiril to her, ignoring the haze of fatigue that made her quite unsteady on her feet. T'mor caught her when she stumbled, dizzy. "Merrin, it's...fine. You need sleep."

"Did he hurt you?" Merrin was asking anxiously, holding Kiril to her. She looked up at T'mor, eyes large in her pale face. "Garthag. It is Garthag, isn't it?"

He nodded, hesitantly. Merrin was nearly tempted to curse.

_________________

Adeila calmly slid a supportive arm around Merrin's thin shoulders and gently - but purposefully - led the young woman back over to her cot. "Rest dear," she whispered soothingly. "You are safe here. Your greatest concern should be getting well, which you cannot do until you sleep. I will call for you if I need your help, hmm?"

Once she was certain that Merrin wasn't planning on jumping up the moment her back was turned, Adeila went back to the door. "I will turn no one away. All who require aid are welcome here," she said, ostensibly addressing T'mor, though the words were obviously intended for the mage standing some distance behind him. "However, his 'friends' are my patients, and I will allow nothing to disrupt their recovery. If he wishes to visit with them, then he is to be nothing less than a perfect gentleman, and he mustn't delay their rest for too long. Does he understand that, dear?"

Without waiting for a proper response, Adeila extended an inviting hand toward the young girl - Kiril, she'd heard her called. "Come here, sweet, hmm?" she offered softly. "I've still some broth left over, and I certainly can't eat it on my own. Would you be willing to help me? I'm fairly certain I still have some sweets stashed somewhere for afters, and you can meet my little helper, if you like. He's rather fond of little girls."

Jhoran stood up quickly at Merrin's reaction, and instantly regretted it, as his vision blacked out and he swayed. Holding still momentarily, the blackness passed, and he laid his hand on the pommel of his scimitar, his eyes darting around. A mage? One who provoked this reaction in Merrin? Whatever the situation, it couldn't be good.

Unfortunately, there were few things in the room that could be put to easy use with only one hand should this mage prove to be any serious threat. However, with Merrin, T'mor, Adeila, and Kiril, whatever threat this man posed should be able to be handled.

"Who is this mage?" Jhoran asked Merrin, walking over to stand somewhat between her and the doorway. "Is he likely to cause trouble?"

He did not recall having met any mages since he had first met Kendath and Merrin, so it seemed that whoever this man was, it stemmed from earlier, or from the time between Jhoran's first meeting of the duo and his unkindly rendezvous with them on the island.

_________________

"He's -" began Merrin, and broke off. She took an unsteady breath. It wasn't possible to sum up what Garthag was in one answer, given their doubtful history with him and the confusion that seemed to trail in his wake. Instead she just nodded, face drawn and anxious. "Aye, he's likely to cause trouble."

Kiril solemnly surveyed Adeila for a moment. T'mor detached the girl and gave her an encouraging push in the right direction. "Go on, you'll like Svit." He couldn't help but note that it was near as impossible to tell what Kiril was thinking as it was to read the thoughts of Merrin's deadpan companion. Kendath? Aye, that was his name.

Merrin, on the other hand...gods, she was white as a sheet still. T'mor found his feelings for the mage waiting outside continuing to be decidedly negative.

_________________

[Okay. (Have no fear i am not returning) I just wondered if the first post needed to be updated or you wanted the title chnaged to something more appropriate?]

_________________

Made by Lembas

Garthag allowed Merrin and the others to have a moment of peace before sluggishly wandering into the cot. Modesty was not something that fit Garthag`s expensive tastes, despite the coldness of his northern abode it had been a much better place in many ways. The rather suspicious and unfriendly faces that turned to greet him were no surprise, they hated him, but didn`t have a real excuse to act upon it. Whether they wished to admit it or not, thus far he had only helped them in some sense at least. Garthag made a mocking, overly exaggerate, bow towards them after entering.

"Ah good to see my `friends` alive and well..." Garthag said before glancing at Merrin and Kendath, who had obviously seen better days. Garthag let out a subtle chuckle and shook his head. "Forgive me, but judging by your condition my words were incorrect... you must have been lucky to have survived your ordeal with those two abominations of the sea."

Garthag said with calm mockery in his tone, but his eyes slowing turned to examine the reaction of T´mor. Mainly to see whether the man would defend his sister, no doubt he was a simple man and had no clue about he magnitude of things. So many times before Garthag had seen the same thing in the men of the north, savages or just poor fools, who never had any idea of whom they were dealing with. Not until they bled, burned or froze to death or whatever imaginative ways Garthag could have conjured up to kill them.

_________________

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!

(I love the way i'm totally ignored in this thread)

_________________

Made by Lembas

[I don't think Curunir has a preference. Er. How about change the title back to Star Crystal ~ Dragon RP? I was used to seeing it that way ]

Captain Kale - er, pardon, Warlord Kale - was not pleased. All right, admit it. So circumstances could be worse, as his dragon incessantly reminded him. They could have assigned him patrol duty. Armageddon, as the optimists had already dubbed the battle at Vryngard, could have been lost. He and his Meiltha assassins could have been caught in the Renegade fortress, and Commander Thorone could have evaded that dagger in his neck, and Warlord Kale would have remained, forever and dolefully, Captain Kale.

All right, so circumstances had taken a brighter turn since he'd lost the Star Crystal to that thrice-cursed traitor and his uppity Chosen One. Still, though, that was no excuse for where he was now.

"I'm wet," his dragon informed him.

"Repeat that, please. I never heard you the first ten times."

The crimson female - Bloodcrest - received the sarcasm with a snort, but continued anyway, "I'm wet. It's raining. It's dark. The sun won't rise for another hour. We're going to crash into an island and drown." She accompanied this with a violent lash of her tail that, if not for the saddle straps, would have sent her rider rocketing straight up, then straight down into the ocean.

No doubt her intent, he sighed, seizing hold of the reins, and entertained himself with fantasies of his blade meeting a certain scaled neck. Over their telepathic link, he said cheerfully, "Don't be idiotic. Or shall I relay your comments to the High General?" That should shut her up for the next hour or two. Tightening the saddle straps just in case, he settled back and resumed his exciting mission of squinting into the drizzle.

They nearly did crash into the island. One instant, a gray wasteland of rain and tossing waves. The next, a volcano stabbing out of the mist like an ebony fang. Had Bloodcrest been a millisecond too late in veering upward, they no doubt would have splattered into the craggy face and dropped like dead weights into the sea. She banked almost vertically, the volcano's cinder cone slope whooshing under her belly, and rushed headlong into the roiling clouds. The wind hurled her back down until she found an equilibrium in hovering a hundred feet above the island.

"Lieutenant Quas wants to know if you survived that," said Bloodcrest, after a moment's communication with the dragons behind her.

In no good humor, Kale returned, "Invite him to try it and see."

"Really?"

"Ah dammit, Crest. No, don't say that. Give him the all's well. Interesting isle we've got here. Get our navigator to check the charts. The ship may have anchored here."

A pause, during which she relayed the message to the other Meiltha dragons and their riders. At last she replied, "Uncharted. But it can't be off course by more than a few miles." Another pause, after which she continued, her voice electric with excitement, "Talon just sent out the call. Captain Tonar has been located on the island. Affirmative to land?"

The four Meiltha dragons and their riders did just that, groping through the gray mist and spiraling down onto a promontory overlooking the surf. Despite the rain, it didn't take long for Captain Tonar to find them. A couple days on an uncharted island had only augmented Tonar's ability to sprint. And wave his arms. And yell at the top of his lungs.

Kale slid down from his dragon's back but commanded his men to stand at ready. Something was very wrong. Where were Tonar's men? What about the ship? Not to mention the island itself... He couldn't place the sensation, but the stone beneath him seemed to breathe, even moan. Not a practical observation, and definitely not something he'd care to include in his briefing for the High General. Nevertheless, he couldn't repress a shudder, even as he seized Tonar's shoulders and gave his fellow officer a hard shake. Cursed heavens, was the man trembling? Judging from military conferences alone, he'd never thought much of Tonar's tenacity, but the first law they teach in command school is to never - under any circumstances - display fear.

Captain Tonar was terrified out of his mind.

"The island, the island!" he gasped, clutching at Kale's arms. "It lives! They killed them! Killed them all! Vultures, tentacles, dragon... beautiful women..." His eyes rolled in their sockets. He slumped, and only then did Kale notice blood mingling with rain on his torn armor.

"Who's 'they'?" Kale demanded. "Killed who? Your crew? Your men? Where's your ship? Thirteen hells, man, what happened?"

Scarlet eyes narrowed to slits, Bloodcrest gazed intently at the injured captain. "Ask him about the dragon," she pressed, with a glance at her rider. "Ask him. Quickly."

Kale shoved his face close, to be heard over the howling wind and breakers. "The dragon, Tonar. What about the dragon?"

Tonar coughed, spewed forth blood and spittle. His eyes met Kale's, and his lips twisted upward in a grin. "Sea dragon. Took crew. Took ship. Nothing left. Nothing... but there was fire. White fire. Beautiful. Ugly. Hated." He closed his eyes. His breath came in gasps. "Then... she took that... took that too...."

White fire... His mind flashed back to the Armageddon at Vryngard. They had led the girl to High General Ironlegs's tent. They had said she was crucial, a critical fulcrum in the balance. Then, afterwards, the High General had cursed her, cursed the gods and their white fire... Heartbeat catching in his throat, he gave Tonar another shake. "Took it? What do you mean, the dragon 'took it'? Is the white fire gone? Gone forever? What - "

Tonar's grin faded. "A bargain, she said... Then the tentacles... the tentacles gone. Then she took them... away... to land..."

Kale and Bloodcrest exchanged significant looks. The latter lowered her head and inquired, very softly, "The sea dragon. Did she return here, to the island?"

And the one-syllable response that resulted was enough to make Kale straighten, his next course of action resolved. Forgoing shouting over the storm, he opened telepathy with Talon, Lieutenant Quas's dragon: "Inform your rider that the captain here is to be his charge. Make him comfortable. If he coughs up anything else valuable, update me immediately." He broadened the channel to reach every dragon. "Rest of you, come with me. We've a sea dragon to catch."

-----

"They're close."

The statement, artfully painted with the slightest streak of self-assurance, the slightest brush of boredom, bounced off the naked stone walls, echoing with enough persistence to make him hurl. Not that his shriveled stomach would have returned anything. It'd been a couple millennia since he'd actually eaten, but nonetheless the figure of speech sounded compatible with his current state of mind.

So petty. So arrogant. These archmages, figureheads of the Shadower cult. Oh, they were competent enough when it came to summoning undead monstrosities or subduing rebellious subordinates. But when it came to power... They thought themselves powerful, feared, in command. Their lives were ephemeral, coming and going like the moon-turns. Their dominions rose and fell like tides, one after the other. They knew nothing - nothing - of true power. None among the Shadowers did. Save for one.

It was this thought that lent grace to the Lich's bow. It was this thought that tamed his voice, so bold in spellcasting, into its customary rasp of humiliation: "Of course, my lord. Yes, they are close." A moment's silence, during which the Lich examined his so-called superior from under the darkness of his black hood. The Shadower Lord noticed him looking and readily met his gaze. Held his gaze. The Lich broke it first, with a bow and another sibilant rasp, "Come look."

The runes on his velvet robes shimmering in the torchlight, the Shadower Lord ascended the steps fronting the scrying pool and peered inside. "I see it. A fishing village of little consequence." His eyes narrowed. "Ah, but there it is. Not far from the village - that is the tomb?"

"The white city is Thyrault. Empty ruins, nothing more," the Lich elucidated, sweeping his gaunt fingers above the wavering image in the pool. "But that... Yes, that is the tomb. The Tomb of Four Winds, they call it. Many a mortal hero rests within its catacombs."

The Shadower Lord frowned. "This surprises me. They have come far. Too far. Who helped them?"

Now it was the Lich's turn to narrow his eyes, though the expression was lost within the shadows of his hood. He knew the answer to that inquiry - suspected it, more accurately. Through the ages, though, he'd found most of his suspicions to be true. This was not to say that he felt inclined to share his thoughts. "Need you ask who, my lord?" he ventured mildly. "After all, we have many enemies. What matters now is where they're going." His voice lowered, gliding like silk. "And how to stop them." He paused - the parody of scrupling. "We have... friends... in Thyrault, do we not?"

The Shadower Lord blinked innocently back at him. "I wouldn't care to follow your line of reasoning. It is, after all, a tomb."

To be a Shadower is to embrace terror - blood rites, eviscerations, summonings from the netherplane. Yet many in the cult swore that the most terrifying sight they'd thus far witnessed has been the Lich's grin. And yes, then and there, the Lich felt the need to express exactly that.

-----

Daybreak entered the healing ward most insistently. It prodded through the window, somehow managed to probe its way through the tangle of vines, and extended its teasing fingers across the clean coverlets of Kendath's bed right to his eyelids themselves.

Those eyelids didn't feel like opening. No. I want to sleep. Let me sleep... was all his groggy mind registered, as he rolled over on the cot and buried his face in the pillow. Was the sunlight poking him? But no, that can't be possible. Sunlight can't poke people. Still, he was finding it harder and harder to ignore the incessant taps on his shoulder. Then, sunlight decided to walk up his neck and lick him on the cheek.

That was the last straw. Figuratively speaking.

His eyes snapped open. His hand slapped the thing on his neck. A scurry of small claws, a lash of a scaled tail, and next instant, a very offended Svit was flicking its tongue and staring him down. It was quite good at that, too. Grumbling under his breath, Kendath sat up - or tried to, before the bandages around his chest constricted and forced him back down. He grumbled harder. And tried harder to sit up. At length, the bandages compromised by letting him prop himself up on his elbows.

Svit chirped amicably and launched itself onto a bundle of herbs hanging from the ceiling. Tired of watching the lizard, Kendath contented himself with looking around the room. Mistake. Two and a half seconds later, something smelling suspiciously of leaves came swinging around to whack him in the face. With a stifled yelp, he smacked right back down onto his pillow. He glared up just in time to see a chirping Svit curled around the herb bundle, still swinging like a pendulum. It cocked its head at him curiously.

Round One over. Lizard wins.

"Will you let me at least look around?" he protested, with the air of a toddler in desperate negotiation with his mother.

Svit uttered a succession of trills that sounded, oddly enough, like laughter, before leaping down from its perch and scampering away.

"My thanks," Kendath muttered, propping himself up for the second time.

For the second time, the bundle hanging from the ceiling - still swinging - came around and smacked him in the face. His pillow was glad to receive him.

Round Two over. Assassin gives up.

Cursing quietly, Kendath rolled over and angled his head to get a view of the room. A gleam of copper-tinted hair told him Merrin still slumbered on the cot opposite his. Soft snoring beyond her indicated Jhoran or perhaps Kiril. And across the aisle, a flash of white... Garthag. Thickly, he recalled the mage's entrance in the night. They'd been too tired to deal with him then. What could they have said? Sorry, Garthag, but we really don't like you, so we decided to leave you on the island. No hard feelings.

This certainly wasn't the last time that thinking had made his head hurt. One logical remedy remained. Kendath decided to go back to sleep.

_________________

Merrin yawned and rolled over for the third or fourth time, reveling in the drowsy state between sleeping and waking. Sunlight, flooding past the brightly colored bits of glass hung in the windows, speckled her white coverlet with jewel-bright pinpoints of light. Half awake, she watched them flicker a while, and raised herself on her elbows to see who else was awake.

No stirring as far as she could see, except perhaps Svit investigating something near the fireplace. Kendath was entirely obscured by blanket, Jhoran obviously still asleep, Kiril curled into a ball...oh. Garthag.

Drowsily contented mood gone, Merrin stared at his unmoving form for a moment. At least he wasn't awake. Sighing inwardly, she turned to sit on the edge of the bed, feet on the floor. After trying to identify the foreign sensation that pervaded her limbs, she realized with a start that it wasn't quite energy - but the weariness that had weighed on her oppressively during their whole misadventure on the island was receding rapidly.

Somewhat cheered by this, she got up to pull on her clean tunic and breeches, which had dried by the fire. Still nobody had stirred, and she couldn't quite blame them. She tugged Kiril's blanket up further, wondered belatedly if there was a reason no part of Kendath was visible, and after a moment of coaxing her second boot out of Svit's mouth, slipped outside and shut the door.

The morning was brilliant, as indicated by the rays of sun spilling through the windows previously - but far more so once she was outside. Merrin sat down on the steps, boots abandoned at the door, and propped her chin on her hand. The sea was a glittering expanse of green hemmed in a semicircle by beach, which extended further into gently rolling foothills tinted vibrant green.

Wondering - but only momentarily - if Adeila would be very annoyed with her, Merrin cast a glance back at the door and stood up. A short walk across green and she was on the sand, which was damp under her feet.

"Adeila's going to kill you," someone whispered very close to her ear, and Merrin whipped around, surprised.

"Don't sneak," she said reproachfully to T'mor. "I'm only walking."

He shrugged, half-smiling. "Your lookout. What are you doing up, anyway? It's early still. You were tired enough last night."

Merrin shrugged in return. "I told you. Walking."

He gave her a sidelong glance, and sat down on the brink of the grass and sand to lean back and regard her. "That's about as much of an answer as I have for everything else about you, lately." When she was silent, he continued. "You're exhausted, you've got about as many bandages as you have body parts...Merrin..."

She'd turned to walk away, avoiding his eyes. It wasn't quite that she wanted to be left alone...loneliness, in the last little while, had been something she felt keenly, and if anything his companionship was welcome. But need she really tell him?

"Merrin." He still sat there, looking after her.

Slowly and almost against her will, Merrin turned around. There was a pause in which she looked at him - looked at him sitting there, exactly how she'd left him but for several feet of height and considerably broader shoulders - and wondered how different she must look. Tired, he'd said. She took a breath and walked back to sit down beside him. The silence dragged on, almost as if prompting her.

Eventually, Merrin let her breath out in a sigh. "T'mor...you have to promise, promise me mama and da won't know, not until I tell them." she felt the question and answered it before he asked. "You can tell Jayen. He won't let you rest till he knows anyway."

The sea glittered there, an expanse of green reaching beyond them into the uncluttered horizon. Merrin closed her eyes. Start. Just tell him. Just tell him...

How? How could she say T'mor, I am the Chosen of the Gods? How could she make him understand...or could he see? The magnitude of it all stretched past even the expanse of ocean before them. How could she begin to contain it?

Somehow - even Merrin wasn't sure what she did - she stumbled through the beginning, with the Star Crystal. It got fractionally easier past the druids, past the Cloud Crystal, past their return to Vryngard. Back in time...through Shadowers, the Lost Battle, Elves, an incompetent dwarf mage. Then forward. Forward, into a dark tunnel that seemed streaked with tears in Merrin's memory. She faltered and stopped, realizing those same tears were welling in her eyes, spilling over.

T'mor awkwardly put an arm around her shoulders. Merrin swallowed, tried to choke back the tears, but they refused to comply. "He's dead," she said, feeling her voice tremble. "I miss him every time I see a dragon, every time I think of Vryngard...I can't even see Svit without wanting him back."

Beyond there, every word was a battle. Merrin managed to stumble confusedly through the siege of Vryngard, past the Seeress - she skipped Fyldwar and Amarinth entirely - and ground to a halt on the island, gulping for breath.

There was a very long silence. "So," said T'mor, after what seemed an age. He coughed. "I suppose the Chosen of the Gods wouldn't like some breakfast?"

Merrin promptly burst into tears again.

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(Sure, whatever you guys want. Its your RP now after all)

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Made by Lembas

This time, daybreak decided to knock him over the head.

Kendath woke to a dull ringing in his temples, as though the flat of an enemy's blade had whacked him between his eyes. His first sensation was panic - if that was an enemy's blade, why was he on his back? His second sensation was... drowning? Because he couldn't breathe, and the briny tang of the ocean was pervading his nostrils, and still he couldn't figure out why he was facing upwards but somehow unable to right himself.

It took ten seconds of logical reasoning to conclude that 1) his tunic, still smelling faintly of seawater, was thrown over his face, 2) said tunic was entangled in his boot, which had knocked him on the head, and 3) Svit was responsible. The last realization didn't benefit his complexion. Face now reminiscent of a beet, he tossed off his tunic with a curse and attempted to sit up. He succeeded on his third try - his first try having failed upon recalling the herb bundle dangled above his head, and his second try thwarted by a terrifying series of chirps beside his window.

His glare could have melted ice. "You're bloody amusing, you know that?"

Svit ceased its chirping and cocked its head. And you're bloody dim-witted, you know that?

The glare intensified threefold. "So why take advantage of me? Go ruin someone else's morning."

But you're so amusing.

Kendath opened his mouth. Then let it hang open. He was having a heated argument with a lizard. A lizard. Everyone knows that lizards can't talk. He was going mad. Must have overslept himself...

Svit smiled, chirped twice, and scampered behind a potted plant.

Kendath hastily glanced around to see if anyone was watching. No one was. Merrin's bed was empty. Jhoran and Garthag were still fast asleep. Kiril was stirring, but hopefully she had a big enough imagination to not judge him for talking to a lizard. "This is ridiculous. I am not going mad," he said aloud, in disgust. He shrugged on his tunic and swung his legs over the side of his cot. He stared at the wall for a moment, and was forced to add as an afterthought, "And I am not dim-witted."

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