"Comes with practice," said T'mor, shrugging. He indicated the short rapier Merrin held. "Think that'd be too heavy for you? I'm making one for a lord's daughter in Darkmoon Bay, she's about your size." He tossed another one at Kendath. "You use a falchion? Would've guessed scimitar, myself. That's for a lieutenant in Baste."

Merrin unsheathed it, taking hold of the hilt. It was balanced differently than her saber, and a touch heavier than she could have skillfully maneuvered. "Maybe a little," she said, returning it. T'mor appraised her thoughtfully. "Mind if I look at yours?"

She gave him the saber, noticing its weight compared to the rapier. He tossed it up and down, handed it back, then raised an eyebrow at Kendath. "Have you sparred with her? You always could move fast," he added, directed at Merrin, "but you must be nearly lightning to use that. It's like a feather."

"Not remotely," retorted Merrin. "I don't win all the time, anyway." She could tell, however casual his movements, that he was not a little curious at meeting Kendath. T'mor was perceptive enough to know when direct questions wouldn't endear him particularly. It was a little intriguing to watch them - so incongruent, her bluntly cheerful brother with ever-deadpan Kendath. Even the way they spoke - T'mor with his evident peasant's accent, and Kendath's speech that she couldn't quite pin down.

T'mor turned to cast a critical eye over the heating forge. "Almost done, there." He nodded at Kendath's belt with its daggers. "Quite the collection you have."

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Kendath shrugged but didn't bother responding, busy as he was with examining the scimitar. It was an impressive weapon, longer and thicker than the ones of Meiltha make. T'mor had added his own clever twist to it - a smooth curve in the other direction, where the blade tapered off. Almost reminiscent of a serrated edge, but cleaner and more graceful. He held it against the ground to test the strength of its blade, then balanced it and executed a few test maneuvers. It slid smoothly through the air, with the agility of a smaller weapon. The only detriments Kendath found were the sapphires winking on its hilt - too eye-catching, though that could distract an enemy as well. Ostentatious, this lieutenant in Baste.

"Nice," he commented, tossing the scimitar back. He glanced around for any daggers but could find few diminutive enough to function as projectiles, and concluded that T'mor must sell only to the Renegades. The discrimination cut half his profits, but it wasn't surprising. T'mor was, after all, Merrin's brother. Kendath sauntered over a rack on the far wall and pretended to examine a row of the gleaming lances that Renegade dragonriders favored so much. All the while, he appraised the blacksmith in the corner of his eye. "I take it you're not bad with a sword yourself."

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"I like to think so," returned T'mor, a touch flippantly. He indicated a large weapon on the opposite wall. "That one's mine. Made it before I left home."

Merrin went to examine it, noting instantly that her saber was like to a toothpick in comparison. T'mor was burly enough to use a greatsword and then some, which was quite an accurate description for his weapon. "I've decided," she said, turning around. "I refuse to spar with you, ever."

He merely quirked an eyebrow at her and went back to the forge. "You might surprise me."

"Or you might accidentally decapitate me," retorted Merrin.

"Never. Jayen would kill me. He seems to think you're breakable."

"He would," muttered Merrin, with a glance at Kendath. She couldn't begin to guess what he was thinking, as always.

T'mor evidently couldn't either. "Explicate upon my sister's skill with a blade," he offered dryly. "She seems reluctant and I'm quite curious."

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"The only way she'd let you decapitate her is if she decided to spare your dignity," Kendath replied dryly, with a glance at Merrin, then at the enormous weapon propped against the far wall. Merrin and T'mor. Cat and ox. The latter's weapon would crush the former's sabre like an axe splinters a sapling. He couldn't think of a more interesting duel, though it was certainly one he'd like to see. He crossed his arms over his chest cocked an eyebrow at Merrin. "You aren't scared, are you?"

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"Of course not," responded Merrin instantly, a touch indignant. She wasn't, quite, though she certainly had cause to be. T'mor's greatsword was only a little shorter than she was. She glanced across at Kendath - the only way she'd let you decapitate her was if she decided to spare your dignity. Spare T'mor's dignity?

"All right," she acquiesced with a shrug, turning to grin at him. Her stomach chose that moment to voice a complaint and Merrin recalled that they'd left breakfast cooking, and simultaneously that she was ravenous. There was a loud hiss of water on metal and T'mor's head had disappeared in a cloud of steam.

"Excellent," he said brightly, emerging. "Later, then?"

Merrin nodded, then said "Aye," when she realized he couldn't see her. They left him putting the finishing touched on a broadsword. Merrin glanced at Kendath as they wove through the cluster of houses, avoiding a cart and donkey here and there and exchanging 'good morning's with anyone who offered one. "If he accidentally leaves me missing an important limb, it's your fault, you know."

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"That's what healers are for," Kendath replied, with an insouciant shrug. They passed a market square smelling of fish and freshly baked bread, and his stomach rumbled, putting to mind the breakfast they hadn't eaten yet. Grimacing, he couldn't help but imagine Adeila's reaction, should they ever let slip Merrin's sparring appointment. Renegade dragonriders didn't admit nitwits into their ranks, but T'mor could compensate for skill by brawn alone. Hopefully, he was adept enough to avoid decapitating his own sister, who also happened to be Chosen of the gods. Such an action would cause a few problems.

He glanced sidelong at her and wondered how much she was willing to reveal about her past. Such discussion had somehow become taboo, though he hadn't done much to discourage that notion. "Will you tell him? T'mor and... them. Your family." He coughed. "About the gods and... you."

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Merrin was silent, either pondering or wrestling with the question. T'mor's reaction had been, admittedly, not what she'd expected and a pleasant surprise, but he was T'mor - who'd never worried for her, and was in fact more confident of her abilities than she was herself, in his own matter-of-fact way. "Eventually," she responded after the pause. "T'mor...knows. I told him, but I think he can see it, too. I don't...I'm not the same Merrin I was five years ago." She laughed, ruefully. "I'm not the same Merrin I was two months ago."

Two months ago she'd been a low-ranking dragonrider of no wealth or status, just Merrin Dragonrider who was the little peasant girl with pretentions to greatness. She shrugged, trying to banish the wistfulness in her voice and make her tone purely conversational. "He'll tell Jayen. Jayen would get it out of him whether he did or no." Glancing up at him, she grinned a little. Kendath and Jayen. Interesting introduction that could prove. "Jayen's always been a little...protective. I think...I think I'd rather tell mama and da myself."

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Jayen. A little protective. Kendath stifled a groan. How many older brothers did Merrin have? T'mor had been intimidating enough. From the way they'd interacted, Merrin was clearly the precious, protected one in the family. Kendath recalled the naive but infuriatingly stubborn girl he'd encountered two months ago. She'd lived a sheltered life, but she'd dealt with recent events exceedingly well.

The door to Adeila's ward was already ajar when they reached it, but he rapped on it anyway. No response. Trying to recall if there were any swinging bundles hanging near the door, he warily pushed it open. A series of chirps almost had him scuttling back outside in full retreat, but a second look told him that Svit was perched harmlessly on a table in the middle of the room. It flicked its tongue at the large plate of scrambled eggs sitting next to it.

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Merrin held out a hand to him and Svit promptly climbed up her arm to perch on her shoulder, claws hooked onto her tunic. He flicked his tongue out, impishly, in Kendath's direction. "Stop it," said Merrin, half scolding and half laughing. He remained planted on her shoulder, tail flicking back and forth like a pendulum.

Kiril yawned, sitting up, and blinked sleepily. Svit made a flying leap from Merrin's shoulder and poked his snout inquisitively at Kiril's hands. "No," she said, pulling them away with the ghost of a grin that Merrin hadn't seen in a long time. "Nothing for you."

"I'm sure he's eaten already," said Merrin, and went to put a plate into Kiril's hands. "Your turn."

Watching her, Merrin made a mental note to ask T'mor what had happened last night. It was hard to tell outwardly - Kiril was nearly as difficult to read, now, as Kendath. She gave him the next one and sat down by Kiril to eat her own, eying Jhoran, who was apparently still dead to the world. Likely Garthag and Adeila were still in the other room. She couldn't help but feel less than friendly sentiments toward Garthag's return, particularly regarding a certain bargain. Merrin forced the thought from her mind. Tomorrow she could worry about it.

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Adeila didn't reply, instead beginning put away her supplies. Chosen of the gods. She could have guessed, simply from the aura that surrounded the young woman. Whatever the nature of this company, they were clearly favored. She would have to inquire further when they were more fully healed.

Suddenly, there were voices again in the main room. "They've returned," she announced serenely, wiping her hands on her robes. "There is breakfast waiting, should you desire it." She opened the door, only to pause halfway through and smile sweetly in Garthag's direction. "And you needn't worry; nearly all of Svit's victims have survived."

Adeila entered the main room to find all save Jhoran partaking of the meal eagerly. Putting on a pot of tea and taking a small portion of the food for herself, she settled down to observe her patients - in particular, Kiril. She had spoken very little with the young girl the night before (in favor of allowing the poor dear to rest), but the child was quite obviously grieving. There was a look in the girl's eyes that was far too old for one so small. She would inquire about that later, as well. No sense in disturbing them now.

"In favor of maintaining the peace," she commented lightly with a glance in Merrin and Kendath's direction, "I am going to assume that your little excursion a moment ago had nothing to do with effectively invalidating all of last night's efforts to keep you in one piece."

Kiril swirled the eggs around her plate with a fork eyed Merrin, as though afraid to take the first bite. But once she'd stuffed a forkful into her mouth, she dove into the rest ravenously, stopping halfway through the plate only to announce, "These are almost as good as the ones Mama used to make."

There was something about that statement - perhaps its softness, or the matter-of-fact way she uttered it - that silenced everyone at the table. Kendath glanced sharply at her, trying to discern...? What? Her expression betrayed nothing, and what little he knew of children told him that such an expression did not belong on a little girl's face. Suddenly he wanted to say something - anything - but what could he say? Sorry your parents died. Hope you feel better. Words had hardly affected him, that seventeen years ago, and his loss was nothing compared to hers. He cleared his throat and stared at his own eggs, which had lost their flavor.

At length he pushed the platter away and leaned back. Tilting his head at Adeila, he shattered the silence first. "We don't have money, and I won't be in your debt - not out of the kindness of my heart, but because I hate traps sprung on me later. What can we do?"

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"If you have to ask, you can afford it," Adeila replied airily, rising to gather up empty dishes. Honestly, why was everyone always so concerned with payment? It was such a trivial matter, in her mind. "You can afford nothing, and so I cannot, in good conscience, charge you anything more than that. If you truly desire to do something for me in return, then rest. Let yourself heal and make my job easier. I ask nothing more."

Going over to Jhoran's cot, she gently shook him awake. "I would ordinarily let you sleep, dear, but your eggs are getting cold, and Svit is eyeing them most eagerly. If you wish to eat anything at all, you may want to do so quickly. He rarely shows self-restraint for this long."

Once she was reasonably sure that Jhoran was rousing, Adeila went back to the table to sit down. Taking a placid sip of tea, she looked across the table at Merrin. "Your mage friend tells me that you are chosen by the gods. For what purpose, may I ask?"

Caught off guard, Merrin involuntarily felt her gaze stray in Kendath's direction. She knew what he would say - they'd known Adeila less than a day, and though she had been very kind and Merrin would swear she was not allied with their enemies, there was no way to be sure...

Looking up hesitantly, she met Adeila's eyes over the cup of tea. Hang pragmatism, she found herself thinking fiercely. Let them call me naive. Merrin took a breath. "Whatever they will," she found herself replying, and looked down to toy with the cup in her fingers, not knowing how to continue. "You know of the struggle for power between Renegade and Meiltha," she managed, after a pause. The words came slowly. "The balance...could be tipping. Vryngard's fallen. The Renegades have no further stronghold." Even as she said it, Merrin wondered if she'd quite grasped the enormity of the task before her. Putting the cup down, she looked at Adeila. For a moment Merrin felt far older than her nineteen years. "I need to tip it back. Keep it back."

Sighing, she rose with a terse smile. "Two thousand years is a long time. The struggle needs to end."

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(if you wonder why the long post?.... well I was bored)

"And which struggle might that be?"

Garthag asked as he emerged from the doorway of the room in, which he had spent sometime chatting with Adeila. Garthag in his casual sluggish manner wandered to the table, but kept his eyes nailed at anyone, who dared to turn their eyes to face him.

"End to the struggle between the renegades and the meiltha or were you perhaps referring to our `other friends`? You spoke as, if ending this struggle might bring some kind of peace, but have you not been taught anything about history? Where one struggle ends, another begins, names are inconsequential because there are always those, who struggle against each others. Meiltha against Renegade, evil against good or however you wish to label the sides of various conflicts that have taken place during the course of time.

It is the nature of all beings when they face adversity, which I find remarkably amusing considering that was it not your dearly beloved gods that shaped this world to what it is?"

Garthag explained with an amused tone as he passed them by and stepped to the door, placing his hand against it, but not pushing the door open. He enjoyed pointing out these little ironies in life and especially those that concerned these gods, who had supposedly chosen Merrin. He gazed back with a rather calm face that for once didn`t show his typical mock or cynicism.

"But if we didn`t struggle, we would never achieve our goals or desires in life. Alas no struggle is in vain... I am going for a walk, which I am sure you all appreciate as the air of this cot shall be cleansed of my oppressive presence."

Without another word he pushed the door open and entered into the fresh air, he needed a quiet moment for now and perhaps a small chat with someone he had only met briefly. Also wandering around the close by village might not hurt at all, it had been a while since he had caused a little shock in a small community. Nothing violent tough, but usually seeing mages made most villagers suspicious, even frightened and Garthag enjoyed knowing that his presence made people more than uncomfortable. He quietly made his way towards the village and quietly inspected it`s life from afar, but as he drew closer he could remember the remains of a similar little village buried beneath a thick blanket of snow.

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The wind had been unusually calm that day and the snow had been allowed to rest upon the ground instead of being swept around by the cold winds of the north. Even if the wind had been strong the villagers might have been out doing their daily shores, they were a tough and persistent people, who didn`t like to be told how to live. A group of hunters returned to the village along with their prey, children played around as usual whilst the coals of the smithies furnace burned hot red. One figure on the main street stood out the most, a skinny figure wearing dark, loose, robe like clothing and a gray cloak. There was no beard on his face, his hair were pony tailed in a common fashion in order to stop them from disturbing him in his work and his eyes were sharp, steel gray like his cloak. He casually greeted the occasional familiar faces and even a few more unknown people from the village.

He was quite famous in the little community in fact, a person of note, who had been recognized for his talents. At a young age many had acted suspiciously towards him due to his odd nature, but that had worn off as he had taken a place as the apprentice of a local sage. Local wizard might have been the correct term, but people like to refer the man as a sage more than wizard because they only asked for knowledge from him instead of magics. This young man however had been fascinated by the arts he heard of and had been willing to do almost anything in order to gain such knowledge, to gain such recognition. Around that time when he had been 16, Garthag had been recognized by his master, his family and the village as a genius of some sort. He had never actually wanted that, but was glad, the only thing he had ever wanted at that point in life was not feel useless anymore. To be able to act for the good of the village and his family instead of being the stumbling little brat, who couldn`t even watch after his two little sisters.

Garthag approached a modest house at the end of the street and entered without knocking as his hands were full of all kinds of supplies, that his master required for his alchemical experimentations. Alchemy had been one of the first arts his master had taught him, even before magic, in order for him to learn patience and precision. Without those two factors, no one could ever make a proper mage or so his master claimed. Garthag placed the supplies quietly on the table near the dark fireplace and gazed around at his masters working space. If his master ever had more than the money required to buy supplies and food, he might have considered getting someone to clean up his mess for a fee. Yet then again he had found someone to do it for him ever since Garthag had entered his tutelage.

"One must take responsibility and clean up his own mess, but when he has no responsibility to take he should strive to solve the problems of others."

Garthag hmhed and started cleaning the room, it was no glamorous, but he was content that he was even allowed to enter his masters house without warning these days or practice the arts on his own. He was no longer worthless, he was something and the more the responsibility he gained the less of a slave he was to his own helplessness. Whilst cleaning the room Garthag could hear the quiet, rasping breathing of his master from the other room, which made his quietly smirk. Yet his smirk faded as picked up the very last book laying around, it was a dark covered book with copper colored symbols. Various pages had been torn from the book for an unexplainable reason, but obviously the book seemed to be of greater value than Garthag could imagine. By glancing at a page he could tell what the book was about and he slammed it shut before placing it quickly into a nearby shelf as, if it were cursed. Garthag stared at the dark covered book for a short while before turning to his own humble, red covered spell book and began re memorizing the spells written on it`s pages.

He didn`t want to look towards the book again, he knew better than anything to avoid necromancy and conjuring demons, but that very same book dealt with those arts even tough his master had forbade them. Then why was he even in possession of such an item? Curiosity? Or could he have picked it along with him in his younger days and thought that it was better in his care than anyone else's as it could no doubt cause immeasurable harm. Whatever the old wizards reasons, they surely were good, but as of late the old man had started to forget things. Misplacing such an item was not something Garthag thought favorable and it was best that no villager got a hold of it or even saw it for that matter. Sooner or later, Garthag knew he would have to deal with that book...

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Once a village like this had recognized him and looked up to him, but now as Garthag walked trough this village he was feared and shunned, suspicion was their watchword when dealing with mages. No doubt T`mor had also passed along the word about the not-so-friendly-mage, that had was visiting Adeila and advised the villagers to be cautious. Of course Garthag could have been just lying to himself, surely mages were treated with suspicion, but how many could imagine him to be some sort of a monster? Perhaps a few... but did that really matter, he had not cared for anyone or anything except himself for a long time.

Garthag stopped by the smithy and for a quick moment he looked at T`mor at work as his profession had seemed almost predictable when compared to his character. Unyielding yet subtle and caring in his own harsh way, that had been the impression he had gained from their encounter and his acting towards Kiril. Yet almost as soon as he had arrived Garthag was gone and made his way to the cot of Adeila, but didn`t bother to enter. Instead he simply sat down against a nearby tree and rested for a while, he needed not to bother Adeila or her patients any further. It had been interesting, but he felt that there was a line he would have crossed with a few words and there would have been a reaction from Kendath. Most likely in the form of a dagger, effective, but so predictable. There was no reason to beat the already beaten anymore even tough Garthag enjoyed it, but it didn`t serve a purpose anymore unlike before when he had tried to adjust the way his companions thought.

For once didn`t bother to be a manipulating *beep*, who knew how to get on everyone`s nerves.

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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!

(darn double post...)

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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!

Adeila didn't speak for a moment, stirring her tea absently as she considered. "I know of the struggle," she said at length. "There was a time when some dwelling in this village would never have known that there was a war raging around us, save in stories told by the occasional traveler. But that was some time ago, and the conflict has since brought many to my door, both Renegade and not. I agree wholeheartedly; two thousand years of suffering is quite enough." To end a conflict so deep-rooted and complex seemed an impossibly large task for a group so small...but then, the gods had made far stranger choices.

She finished the rest of her tea in silence before suddenly looking back up at the pair. "I have spent my entire life here in this village," she said with an expression that was almost childlike in its eagerness. "I used to adore the stories told by travelers, but we have had very few in the past two decades. That is how you may pay me, should you wish it - tell me stories. I want to know everything about the outside world."