In the ancient days of the world, there was a Great City.

It was a city founded on the principles of law, and the ideals of good. Under the Light, the Great City had created the first bastion of brotherhood, kindness, and generosity. It served as a bulwark against the malevolent forces at work in the world; evil was rampant in Rhy'Din. Far, far more than the good, and just. The Great City was a shining beacon on the hill. The Great City was a shelter in the storm for any who did not wish to live under lawlessness of the age.

The city was well-guarded, and policed of crime. Three organizations worked in unison toward this goal, under the benevolent King and his beautiful, kind-hearted Queen.

The Militia were professional soldiers, hired and trained from among the citizenry to protect the walls of the city. From time to time, they also made sorties and excursions when word reached of robber tribes or demi-human packs of monsters rampaging the countryside around the city.

The Guardians served the Temple of Life, dedicated to the Prime Healer. They protected the Givers -- priests and clerics of the Temple -- from whatever would do them harm. Though some Givers were wiser, and experienced in the wielding of a mace or flail, there were many more who relied solely upon the protection granted by the Guardians. They were Paladins, dedicated to the protection of those who nourished the spiritual needs of the populace.

The Knights of Truth policed the city itself. Paladins, as well, but where the Guardians were the shield, the Knights of Truth were the sword. They rooted out crime and corruption wherever it lay, no matter how dark the hole or deep the crack it infested itself in. None were exempt from the law of the Great City. Nobles and city administrators, right along with the farmers and fishermen, could be called before a magistrate when the Knights of Truth did their work. Once sworn to the Truthbringer, any Knight of Truth could discern when a lie was told -- even if the one doing the telling did not know it to be a lie.

Within the Hall of Truth, there was a great dome. The floor of the dome was crafted from white, polished marble. A colonnade of white stone, expertly cut, led to a raised dias in the center of the room beneath the great dome. Upon the dias was the only real adornment to be had: a huge sunburst, cast and crafted in solid gold, set upon the dias. It represented the burst of Light into the world -- as given by the Great City.

The Dome of Truth held within it a woman, frequently seated in meditation upon the golden sunburst upon the raised dias.

She wore a simple robe, most of the time, and had a ready smile for anyone who came to offer her food or gifts. The gifts were almost always given to the less-fortunate of the citizenry, as well as any food she did not need for her own survival. She held no material things, save only the robe she wore and the clothes beneath. She was an old woman, wrinkled and bent. One might even go so far as to call her a crone.

She had a heart of gold as sure as the sunburst upon which she so commonly sat. Never a word passed her mouth that was not fully true. A kind tongue with a rosy disposition and an aversion of deciet were all fine gifts, to be sure, but she had another gift as well.

She served the Hall of Truth.

She served the King and Queen.

She served the Great City.

She was the Oracle.

The child Garen had a pleasant, carefree life. His mother, Cenn Corlagon, was an apron-wearing goodwife who kept their front walk swept and the proper drapes -- heavier for winter, lighter for summer -- put up. Her dark auburn hair was commonly worn in a braid, and the fine wrinkles of age gave her all the more motherly of an appearance. She was a kind soul, gracious, and a fierce cook. She would often be seen laughing and exchanging gossip with other women, and she was the unofficial Head Mistress of her husband's kitchen.

Garen's father, Davram Corlagon, was a friendly man. Heavyset, though certainly not fat by any stretch of the word, Davram was the nominal owner of the Springrain Inn. Custom was common enough, if never truly heavy, but the inn itself was considerally smaller than most inns of the day. If stacked side-by-side with the Red Dragon, the entire Springrain Inn -- second floor with rentable rooms and all -- would most likely be able to fit inside the Red Dragon's common room with room to spare, and plenty of it. Still, there was something to be said for the cozy atmosphere, and Cenn Corlagon was never far with a plate of sweetcakes for any guests who felt like spending an extra silver or two on top of the normal rates for meals and board.

Garen himself, by the age of twelve, had been working at his father's inn as a stablehand. Mucking stalls, laying feed, and harnessing saddles was never terribly interesting to the boy, though. Oftentimes he'd be seen slacking around the common room, staring in wide-eyed wonder at the adventurers that happened by, and pressing them for stories from their excursions outside the walls of the Great City. One day, while enjoying a cup of mead while the custom was low, Davram Corlagon called his son over.

Pushing out a chair next to his at the table, Davram raised his voice to call out toward the kitchens were he knew his son was, no doubt getting into Cenn's illya berry pie. "Garen, lad, we should talk. Come on out."

"Coming!" Davram heard his son say, and a few seconds later the door to the kitchens opened and Garen came tromping out. He was a handsome lad, even then, and he had the dark hair prevalent among most male members of the Corlagon family. Only Uncle Jola deviated from the standard, having hair as red as his sister, Lana. Garen dropped into the seat, looking up at his father. "Yes, Da?"

"Son..." Davram started, slowly. He took a deep breath, pausing slightly to wet his throat with another sip of mead before he resumed speaking, "I know the life of an innkeeper isn't in your future. You're always too busy shirking your responsibilities to talk to those outlanders."

"I'm sorry, Da!" Garen said, looking abashed. "I won't do it again, I promise!"

Davram merely waved his hand. "It's alright, lad, it's alright. That's what living in this place is all about. Every man and woman among us is free to make our own decisions in life. I saw today one of those Givers posting an announcement up on the newsboard. Seems they're taking on recruits again over at the Temple of Life."

Garen's eyes popped wide.

"It's not exactly the kind of adventuring those strange outlanders do, of course, but it's also not mucking out stables and tending to goodman's horses, either."

"I could be a Giver? Or a Guardian, Da?"

"Aye, lad. If it's what you want."

His son looked thoughtful for a moment. His smooth brow creased deeply, as he considered. "Would I be able to come visit?"

Davram had to laugh, and he reached over to pat Garen on the shoulder. "I don't see any reason why you shouldn't be able to. You don't have to answer right away, you can--"

The boy spoke up, interrupting his father and nodding quickly. "I'll do it. I want to, Da. I do."

There was a brief pause, and Davram Corlagon nodded his head, slowly. "So be it. Tommorow, I'll leave the inn with your mother and we'll go to the Temple of Life to find out what needs to be done."

Bayle Haldebourne, flanked by Tarowyn Gorgaron, were walking through the corridors of the Hall of Truth. It was a stark place; cold, and unforgiving. Much as the Knights of Truth had become. The populace shied away from them when they walked by, and gave them ample space to continue on. In truth, there had been complaints of brutality at the hands of some of the Knights of Truth -- clearly the work of the foul and beshadowed, to try and appeal to the King that their zeal could somehow be considered 'brutality' -- and already the citizens of the Great City had come to call them Keepers.

It was a preposterous outrage, Haldebourne thought. For as long as the Great City had stood, the Knights of Truth were known as Seekers. Seekers for the Truth. Not Keepers (as in "My brother's...")

Be that as it may, it was soon to be time to pass the mantle of leadership of the Hall of Truth to Seeker Gorgaron. An inspiring officer, popular with the other Seekers, and young enough to live to see the Great City through the darkness that was soon to come.

They strode past the large, gilded doors leading into the Dome of Truth. Sunlight filtered down through the dome on top of the building, and the white marble flooring and colonnade shone like they had just been highly polished. The two men, wrapped in the traditional red of the Knights of Truth, approached the raised dias, whereupon was inlaid the great, golden sunburst.

And the white-robed figure of the Oracle. She was older now, Haldebourne supposed, but she didn't look like she had aged a day. It was hard to look older when you've always known a person to have a wizened, wrinkled face, with hair as white as snow.

"Oracle, I have come to report the results of the council."

"They will do nothing. Still."

Haldebourne smiled. She was the Oracle, after all. "No. They will not."

She looked up. She was ever a beacon of shining happiness and light, but now she looked grim. "Lord Haldebourne, I have foreseen the birth of the second. A girl-child, and born of the earth. It came to me two night's past."

"The second?" Haldebourne asked sharply.

"Yes..."

"Tell me. I must know."

She hesitated, "...My Lord Haldebourne, I can speak only to the High Truthseeker."

Looking shocked, Bayle Haldebourn's jaw worked furiously as he attempted to find words. He was a hard man, and quite accustomed to having people jump when he said toad. "I am the High Truthseeker, Oracle!"

Tarowyn Gorgaron spoke, his chin lifted a bit. "With due respects to you, Lord Haldebourne, it is no longer your responsibility. You have abdicated the post."

Fury and outrage echoed across the older man's face. His lips curled into a deep, frowning sneer, and he instantly reached to his side to grab at a sword that was not there. He turned almost red from the anger bubbling inside of him, and Tarowyn Gorgaron set a hand onto his shoulder.

"Be calm, Lord Haldebourne. You were a fine and great leader to the Knights of Truth, and we will be lessened by your departure. You have served the Great City well, devoting your life to the cause of the Truthbringer, and the spreading of his word."

Suddenly, Tarowyn Gorgaron's voice took an edge to it. He was not a soft man, either -- very few in the Knights of Truth were soft. "But now your time has ended, Lord Haldebourne. Take to your estates, and enjoy the life of peace and retirement with your wife. To not do so would bring dishonor to all of the Seekers. Was it not your word to the King, and the leaders of the City, that you would resign from your post? Go now, Bayle Haldebourne, and do not sully the Knights of Truth with a lie about you stepping down."

In the end, he had to have two Seekers come and physically remove Lord Haldebourne. They would keep their mouths shut, though; he knew them well, and they would sooner die before bringing dishonor to the Hall of Truth in such a vulgar way. When all was said and done, High Truthseeker Tarowyn Gorgaron moved back to the raised dias whereupon sat the white-haired Oracle. He kneeled, placing one hand flat to the white marble flooring. Lifting his head, he leaned forward intently.

"Now.. tell me of this vision, Oracle, that I might alert the King."

The militia assembled, armed, and marched. The Confluxes wherein the elementals grew into the mortal plane were well-known to those of the Great City, and many of the elementals had even helped build the strong, thick, high walls that protected it. Army though they may be, the Lord-Captain of the militia did not ride forth as a conquerer. Five hundred armsmen at his back (a sizable force, given the only real threats were demi-human tribes of orcs, gnolls, goblins, and the occasional pack of bandits) was enough to deter any threat, and to give him a great deal of leverage power when he did arrive at the Conflux of Earth.

Elementals were not well known for their oracular ability, nor of what little they had in the way of sentience being intelligable.

"We seek out an Elemental of earth, creature. Created a fortnight past. The Oracle has said vile things will become of its existance, and we have been charged with seeking it out."

"What you seek is of the earth." replied the elemental that the Lord-Captain had chosen to speak with. They had no true leader -- nearly any of them would have the exact same knowledge and authority over the others. It's part of what made Elementals such tempting targets for binding to powerful sorcerers and magi.

"Yes. Yes, it is. Will you take me to it?"

"What you seek is of the earth, though not from the earth. What you seek, you will not find."

"You would hide it from us, creature? Explain yourself!" Even as he said the words, though, the Lord-Captain wished he could take them back. He was growing as paranoid and hostile as Bayle Haldebourne did, and how Tarowyn Gorgaron acted now. Only Broemere Du'Leran and the King seemed to be the rocks of stability he had known them to be all his life.

"Cannot hide what does not have. You seek the air."

"We seek one of earth, not air. Please, creature, listen to reason. An earth elemental created some two weeks past. The Oracle has foreseen it."

"Then one is mistaken. The Oracle, or yourself."

"The Oracle does not make mistakes, and she does not tell a lie."

"Then it is in you the mistake lies. No creature of the earth has risen from this Conflux in the indicated time."

The Lord-Captain of the militia, one of the four high seats of the Great City, narrowed his eyes and clinched his fists in frustration. It was going ot take some time to find answers here, and he would not simply annihilate them all.

__________

Two weeks earlier, before the militia assembled and marched, there was a farm outside the city. Growing season had been long past, and the fields were simply barren meadows of mud, made in such a way by a recent storm that came in and blew out in less than two hours.

Vallena Polatei and her husband, Jermyn, were expecting another child. Their fifth! It would be a glorious time, and a day for cavorting all over the small town they lived at nearby, outside the walls of the Great City to the east. The midwife had told Jermyn, though, that something was wrong. The baby had not turned properly. She issued orders in a flurry, chaos erupting around the birthing room as Jermyn was brought in to keep his wife calm.

A knife. Blood. Water. A rag.

In the end, a tiny baby girl had begun to screech her protest to the world of sunlight to her father, wiggling even as she had been wrapped in her swaddling. Her skin was dark, very nearly a light brown like everyone else in their family (a heritage passed down from the mother's side), and her hair was like the others as well -- deep, dark brown. The midwife, crying, pulled the sheet off the floor and wrapped it up around Vallena Polatei's face.

"I am sorry, Master Polatei," she said, trying to be strong for him and his family. "You and your boys should not have to go through this without a woman as strong as your wife was. Have you any thought as to what to name the girl?"

"Adrianna..." he said, slowly, as if in shock. He craddled the girl to his chest. What sort of life would she have, motherless, with only a father and four older brothers to teach her to be a woman? "...after her grandmother."

OMG, an update!

Jermyn Polatei's wagon had been drawn to a stop. It had taken several days longer than he expected - indeed, even several more days longer than he had guessed and had told Kell - to reach the city. Rests were frequent, and he had to reshoe Stell twice, trying to find the exact angle she needed. Still, the ol' gal was going to be needing to be put to pasture soon. Jermyn didn't look forward to it. Horses, after all, were expensive.

Unless you were the Ayreg family.

Lord Jacyn Ayreg, ostensibly, was the second most powerful man in the city, second only to the king himself. There were rumors, of course, that the only reason he wasn't king, is because he didn't wish to be king.

"I'm sorry, man, but you're going to have to have more proof than your own word to get inside. We're a bit wary of strangers here now, given the hostilities from the demi-humans lately."

"Well... I think I actually have the order itself, if that will do?"

"Signed by the lady?"

"Yes, captain."

The man in the burnished breastplate frowned, lifting a hand to idly flick at the dangling knot of rank hanging from his shoulder pauldron. "I'm a lieutenant, not a captain. Let's see this document."

Turning, Jermyn dug around in the back of the cart, tearing through the box he kept all of the recent orders in. Hopefully, he wouldn't have left it behind. He's done that from time to time, but without it this time, he--

Ah, good, here it is.

He turned, handing it back to the lieutenant with a simple smile. The guardsman peered at the document, eying it warily, scanning it with hard, hard eyes. He was a man accustomed to battle. Most of the men in the Great City were. One did not simply have peace at this time of the world. One had to earn it.

"That's the lady's signature. And the Ayreg seal. Alright, then. One barrel?"

"Yes, lieutenant."

"Carry on, sir."

Through the open portcullis, Jermyn Polatei angled his wagon - and ol' Stell - into the Ayreg compound. With walls nearly half the height of the Great City's surrounding walls itself, and about half as thick, it was a fortress unto itself. Second only in size to the royal palace, of course. Stell was brought to a halt, and a young stablehand in white livery with a green slash from right shoulder to left hip came out to hold her reins. She wouldn't need stabled, of course, but nobody wanted a horse running around all over creation, right?

"Over there, man," shouted a guardsman, lifting his spear to point toward a small servant's entry into the kitchens. "They can take your delivery there, and you can accept payment there, too."

A thing that was done quickly. Jermyn stood, hands folded patiently in front of him, while one of the Ayreg family clerks counted out a number of coins on the scales. So far, it was up to one gold mark, with several silver marks. The going rate of icepeppers was extraordinarily high, which is why Kell didn't anticipate there would be a good demand for them this season. Most of the major icepepper crops up in the northern provinces, on the outlying stretches of the domain that the Great City can afford to defend, were eradicated.

Nobody knows by whom or what, yet, but the Regent of the North was investigating the affair.

"I will take it from here," said a decidedly feminine voice, lilted in a strange outlander accent that was somehow a cross between a dulcet purr and a dangerous, contralto rumble. "You may return to your accountings, Gerald."

The Lady Talana Ayreg was... quite often a woman that defied categorization. Her image was youthful, as it had nearly always been. Nobody can ever remember her looking any younger, and Jacyn Ayreg had continued to age normally. Her features were sharp, though, with high cheekbones that could cut, and a tapered, too-sharp jaw, gave the impression that her head was almost heart-shaped. A simple tiara was typically worn, glittering in silver to hide within the brilliantly silver tones of her hair.

Talana Ayreg was an exceedingly beautiful woman. There were rumors, of course, that she was a child-bride. Others said she was a vampire. Others said she was a half-elf, while others kept her as being some kind of bastardized half-breed of a demi-human. Whatever the truth of the affair was, neither Jacyn nor Talana herself had ever come out and publicly denied or confirmed any of the rumors at all. She was shrewd and cunning, he was insightful, powerful, and potent of spirit.

And, to be more specific, both were dedicated to the causes and ideals espoused by the Great City. They did not always take the course of action that was deemed what might be considered right, or good, or true from time to time, no, but the prospect of good and evil were more than arbitrary lists of morals and ethics.

Carefully, Talana resumed counting the coins, keeping her vividly green, sparkling eyes leveled on the counterbalance. "Hello again, Jermyn."

"Mi'lady."

"How are your sons?"

"They are well, mi'lady. Kell used to speak often of you, when I brought him last time I delivered icepeppers for you."

"Ah, yes. Dear Kell. He must be quite the strapping man, now, yes?"

"He makes me proud. Would make his mother proud, too."

"Ah... yes," she said, turning her eyes up once to glance at the farmer. Her lips curled in an almost imperceptible little smile. "My condolences are continued, even now, Master Polatei, for the loss of your wife. She was a beautiful woman."

"My thanks, mi'lady."

She turned back to the coins, counting them out again. He was not so uneducated on the ways of banking, though. She had already counted more than enough coins out - indeed, almost double the price - and then, with the sly removal of a crown, back down to less than half of the going rate, only to count back up again. She was... stalling.

"It must be hard on your farm. Without a woman."

"We have Adrianna. And she's a hellcat, too, I'll tell you."

"Yes... your wife's last."

Nothing else was said for several minutes. He blinked, growing a bit more awkward every few seconds that she kept her strangely unblinking, vivid, inhuman eyes pointed at him.

"Yes, mi'lady," Jermyn shifted his weight from one foot to the other, "her last."

Seemingly satisfied at last, Talana Ayreg turned away from the coin-counting scales, twisting her body to more fully face him. She was small, he could see, but there were very subtle things. Lines in her skin that could be seen through the mesh between opaque pieces of fabric in her dress, near her elbow, her shoulders, her collar bones. It reminded him of the way the muscles creased the skin in his horses. Talana might have been small, but there was strength in her compact size.

"Thank you... for taking care of my needs, Master Polatei."

He shifted again, glancing back over toward the door. "M'pleasure, Lady Ayreg. Icepeppers don't get great demand this season, what with all the--"

"Shh..." she had said, placing a too-warm fingertip against his weathered lips. She had moved while he was examining the exit, plotting his escape, and had, in that one series of steps, made an escape absolutely impossible. "I have other needs, Master Polatei."

Lifting his hand, Jermyn wrapped his calloused fingers around Talana's slender wrist, pulling her hand down and away from his face. "Mi'lady, please. You are married!"

"Yes."

Before he could say another word, Talana's hands closed into fists near the collars of his shirt, and pulled him roughly down into a kiss. Jermyn Polatei had been farming and working the earth for all of his life; he couldn't quite pull a tree root by itself without some oxen, but he was a strong, strong man. This woman shouldn't have been able to manhandle him like so.

She was aggressive, and demanding. And, yet, so gentle, and so entirely wholesome. It was wrong to lay with another man's wife, but she made it seem so right.

Resistance did not last much longer.

The events that transpire next are written out in the following thread...

And the Cradle Will Fall

...Just ignore any contiunity mistakes between what's been established in And the Cradle Will Fall and Signs and Portents, compared to Reflections of What Was. I'm not as uber as making sure my story stays straight the whole way through. :D