Ichaso might have been kind enough to him, but the reception was not shared equally by all in the village of Hickory Crossings. True, most of the people were friendly enough, or at least tolerant, and those that weren't generally behaved as if they had a bad toothache all the time anyway, so the short shrift they gave to the man who they call Gareth was not unique.

Like all rules though, there are exceptions.

Jainen Gaei was a woman who was short even by the standards of Hickory Crossings. Her figure was slim and her shape only passable as feminine, but the thick braid she wore her hair in could have done nothing but declare her as woman. There was a certain degree of tightness at the corners of her eyes, and at the edge of her lips. She was an attractive woman, if not quite pretty, by the man they called Gareth's way of thinking, but she held him in nothing but contempt.

A narrow rope had been tied between two trees and a fringed red-and-green rug draped over it. The slender brunette was flailing away with a bent-wood beater, raising thin clouds of dust-mites that danced in the fading light of the evening sun. Jainen caught sight of the man they called Gareth, and with barely a pause in her rug-beating shot him a look of such frozen malevolence that he sighed.

He had heard the story several times by now, but it never changed. The people of Hickory Crossings were a simple lot; peaceful and honest, with no desire to outright mislead anyone. Oh, there was always going to be times when a word could have been left out here or there, when exaggeration could change the truth in a tale totally, but he had heard his own personal story from so many people that it could be nothing but truth. Or a very elaborate hoax.

He was called Gareth for a reason. Not three days before, a man of similar features (mostly in the hair, he had discovered, though he seemed to share something of the man's build as well) had suffered an accident while he was out on the coast fishing. Details were sketchy -- there were none others there, after all -- but from what the townsfolk could decide upon is that, somehow, that man had fell out of his boat and had been claimed by the sea. When the man they called Gareth washed up onto the rocky coast they had, originally, thought he was that man. It turned out to not be the case, of course, but the rest might as well have been history. The townspeople accepted him, and he had even started becoming fast friends with many -- like old Ichaso al'Baen.

Jainen was not one of those he became fast friends with. As it happened, the man that was claimed by the sea and taken away from the people of Hickory Crossings was, in fact, named Gareth Gaei. And he was, in fact, the husband of Jainen Gaei.

He had tried to approach her, even though it felt wrong of him somehow. He could do naught but show sympathy, but she wanted none of it. Absolutely none of it. It was as if she had personally blamed him for the loss of her husband, and the fact that they had given the man with no memory the name of her lost husband was like salt in a wound freshly made.

The man they called Gareth continued on past the woman who was trying to murder that rug, and made his way back to the inn. Another day of working out in Ichaso's fields had taught him a bit more than he had known yesterday -- apparently, not all of the insects that tried to infest the fields were harmful. Some, like the small black winged insect with the yellow spots on its carapace, was actually quite beneficial to the wheat themselves. He... wasn't... sure exactly how but he did know they helped.

Courteous as he had tried to be, the man they called Gareth kept thinking that something was off. It was almost as if... being nice sat about as well with him as being a farmer. But that didn't make sense.

Did it?

Bojin and Noril Ha'an, cousins or so he thought, were already in the inn when he arrived. He moved over and sat down with them, and already Mistress Kintra was drawing a cup of apple brandy for him. Bojin and Noril were already well into theirs, along with matching meals of roast beef, buttered bread, and a wedge of cheese. Sometimes it seemed Kintra Brie only ever served one meal a day, and by the powers that's what you were going to eat if you ate under her roof.

"So have you asked anyone to come to the dance?" Bojin said. Bojin had a few fields on the southern end of Hickory Crossings. His tobacco crop made more than a tidy handful of silver every season up in Rhy'Din City. His cousin, Noril, raised more pigs than Gareth cared to count, but salted pork seemed to be a staple in Hickory Crossings, and more than half his yield usually was loaded up and sent up to Rhy'Din City for distribution to all of the inns and taverns.

"Master Ha'an, I think I tremble before your mastery of the art of wooing women. I was letting you get your pick, first."

Noril laughed out loud, and lifted his cup of brandy to Gareth in a drinker's salute before taking a sip of it, "You seem to have gotten your Ha'ans mixed up there, Gareth."

"Perhaps. Still, the Midharvest Festival is something I think I'll sit out of. Besides, with my knee the way it is, I'm not even sure I'll cut a fair figure on the dance floor." The man they called Gareth took a drink from the cup of apple brandy Mistress Kintra brought for him. Whatever he used to be in life, there was no mistaking the aching pain he felt in his right leg when he had to walk up and down rows of wheat for hours on end. A quick inspection was all it took to see the broad scar running just south of his knee and find the blame, but how he could still walk at all was an interesting debate. Had he had been a hard man in whatever life he led before? A merchant's guard, perhaps, or a member of a town watch. "Wouldn't want to embarrass any woman I took, you'll understand."

Despite it all, Bojin Ha'an grinned over the rim of his cup. "Say what you want, but I know for a fact that someone is waiting for someone else to ask her."

The Ha'an cousins were nearly the age he was, with no more than two or three years between them. Neither one was married, though Bojin came close once upon a time. The people of Hickory Crossings seem to set great stock in marriage and raising a family -- no doubt due to the farms that kept the village alive. More members in a family meant more hands to work the fields.

And they, like Ichaso, seemed to want to see the man they called Gareth married off and settled down. Even though neither one of them seemed too interested in it themselves.

"We'll see," he gave in at last, "though I still think a woman, right or wrong, will turn your skin to leather before it's time."

Bojin turned a deep shade of red in the cheeks, but his cousin Noril burst out into a fit of laughter as if it was a great joke he had told. In the end, both of the Ha'ans were laughing.

The man they called Gareth smiled grimly and took another sip of brandy, leaning back in his chair to stare out toward one of the windows.


_________________
Gareth
_________________
Bring me down you try
Feel the pain and keep it all in till you die
Without eyes you cannot cry
Who's to blame?

I can't remember... I can't...
Alice in Chains

Inside the inn, the festivities were well underway. The musicians played, the dancers danced, and all around was an atmosphere of merriment. Even Mistress Kintra, who seemed to wear a perpetual frown that bordered on a scowl, was laughing and, once or twice, even dancing with the others when she wasn't in the kitchen preparing more meat pies and tapping casks of brandy.

Not quite so joyous was the man they call Gareth, standing ill-at-ease on the wall with Verina near him. It was difficult to speak, and the awkward silence had him fingering his cup that was still half-filled with brandy. Clearing his throat, he glanced once at Verina before looking away quickly.

"So. Ah..." he started; it was even more awkward than the silence had been. "So. How is your drink, Mistress Fien? Refreshing?"

Verina lifted the glass, holding it between two hands, and sipped at the wine there carefully. She was slow with her consumption, taking mere sips and nothing more. Not that he didn't know why -- a skin full of wine could make anyone into an absolute fool, and to make a fool of one's self would have consequences that lasted in the memory of many for longer than most would like. Not that many others, mostly the younger ones, had a problem with acting like fools. It was a festival, after all.

She was silent for a long moment after he spoke before that quiet voice reemerged. "Yes, I do find it very refreshing. Thank you." for the first time all night she fidgeted. Weight moved in a graceful roll from one foot to the other as she stepped away from the wall. "And the music is festive, don't you think, Mister Gareth?"

"It's a good tone they have, the players," Gareth's free hand rose and he scratched at a spot under his left eye. Every pass of his trimmed fingernail caught against the raised surface of the second facial scar that ran from the bridge of his nose down across his cheek. "And the music is festive enough. Fitting, I think, for Midharvest. Though I will admit I haven't been to many."

The man they call Gareth smiled weakly, and promptly hid behind another sip of his brandy. Having a cup of some kind of drink was always convenient for a great many things. Hiding was one of them.

"I'm... I'm rather surprised no one has asked you to dance yet, Mistress Fien."

There was a bit of laughter at that. It was gentle in its tone -- not mocking, but rather amused. Her head shook just a touch, the braids moving over the fabric between her shoulder blades. A piece or two of hair had found its way loose, and while something like this normally seemed to annoy her, perhaps she was drinking her wine faster than she had initially intended, and did not care.

"I have been asked, it just did not suit me to accept." Verina's eyes turned before her head, as if the skull followed as an afterthought. The light had returned there, that faint glimmer of something as she studied him once more. "If the right man were to ask, though, Mister Gareth, I would not be adverse to attempt it."

She paused long enough to take a sip from her glass. Another thing drinking was good for was timing. Punctuation. Separating thoughts, causing anticipation. "Though, I do not fancy myself the finest of dancers," This time her pause was for the self-effacing smile that pulled her lips up. "Truth be told."

She was not the only one who could give a self-effacing smile. "Perhaps a description of him, then? I'll be sure to keep an eye out for him, and if I see him, I shall let him know directly that you're looking for a dance."

The man they call Gareth shifted slightly, and turned his eyes away from the woman standing at his flank and looked out over the dancers in the middle of the floor. She was pretty, Verina Fien, but not in the same way the younger girls were pretty. Her figure more full, her soft edges hardened just a bit due to age. That kind of dusky look that people who kept farms developed after awhile.

She was like the younger women, but more... matured. Yes. That was a good word for it.

He looked back to her. It felt odd, though. Looking at this woman like she were a woman -- for some reason, that seemed to make sense to him to think of it that way, even though he had no idea what on earth it meant. Something in the back of his mind he couldn't quite put a finger on

"Taller than me, certainly. One that could fill out his jacket." Her head nodded again, eyes keeping up their sparkle. The smile had not yet left her face, and it was the longest she had smiled all night. Her eyes traveled with his to the dancers. "Perhaps a man with a demeanor to match mine. Serious without being glum."

It seemed it was was her turn to hide behind her glass, not yet turning from the dancers. Sure, she was talking to him, standing at his side, but from afar it would be hard to tell she were even acknowledging his presence, the way she stood. "But, Mister Gareth, I do not believe it is your duty to find me a dance partner. My being finicky should not dominate your night." There was a touch of playfulness in her voice, then.

An eyebrow raised towards her hairline where the widows peak was more prominent from the tautness of her braids. "I could ask the same question of you. Why is it you are not dancing?"

"Because..." he started, pausing only long enough for another sip of the brandy. Once done, he released a great rush of air from his lungs, and half-turned to set the nearly-empty cup of brandy down onto a chair behind him. When he came about again, he was already in the process of tugging the bottom hem of his coat down, drawing it tight across his shoulders briefly.

It seemed, to him, that he was filling the coat out rather nicely. Quite satisfactory.

"...Because I have not yet quite worked up enough nerve yet. Or drank quite enough brandy, perhaps. One or the other."

"Mayhaps one is connected to the other?" It came through more of that laughter as she watched him move. "I would urge you to drink another glass, but then I may lose your company."

What? Was she serious, or was she teasing him? It was hard to tell. When women weren't acting crazy, or when they weren't staring down their nose at you, they just positively did not make sense. Oh, yes. Perhaps he was a most confirmed bachelor in his previous life.

There was color forming on her cheeks, too. It did not fade after the laughter, which gave away that it was not a blush, but a flush from the wine. "And for the first time tonight I find myself not caring whose glass is full." Her body turned then towards his, making them perpendicular instead of parallel. The glass was transferred to one hand, the other finally pushing those loose hairs behind one of her ears.

The man they call Gareth took in a deep breath of air.

"Perhaps," he said, taking a step forward. He turned back to face her, clinching his fingers into a fist on his left, and then releasing them just as quickly. "Or perhaps I could stop acting like a boy who's nervous about the prospects of his first kiss, and just ask you to dance." His right hand extended out toward her, palm up, fingers held loosely but in a close formation.

"Mistress Fien... if I could have the pleasure?" And that, he said with the slightest hints of a bow.

"Oh."

Not precisely the answer he was hoping for. Women could be such a bother.

Looking right then left, she rested her glass of wine next to where he had left his. Turning back around, she offered one of her hands to his outstretched one, laying it gently atop for him to grasp. "I believe you may..."

The corners of her lips pulled up and the wrinkles that had just begun to form around her eyes and on her forehead creased with the smile. The lines betrayed that she was a happy woman, one that had smiled enough to create the lines. One foot crossed behind the other in the ghost of a curtsy, "...Master Gareth."

Well. That was done, then. He turned around again, closing his fingers around the back of her hand, and lead her out to the floor. Already a twinge was beginning to rise in his knee, but he ignored it for now. Maybe he could get one good dance out of it, at least, before he had to fall on his face.

There were times that women were not such a bother, too.

_________________
Gareth
_________________
Bring me down you try
Feel the pain and keep it all in till you die
Without eyes you cannot cry
Who's to blame?

I can't remember... I can't...
Alice in Chains

"What's going on?"

The man they call Gareth was standing on the village green. On the porch of the inn stood the mayor, flanked in seats by the village council. Most of the townsfolk stood gathered around in a large semi-circle in the grass, and the man they call Gareth recognized more than a few faces from the outlying farms. He had moved up into the semi-circle, and gave an elbow into the ribs of Noril Ha'an, who almost yelped at the sudden jab and turned crimson under the turned heads of the other villagers of Hickory Crossings when they glanced at him.

"Not much, Gareth," Noril said, still standing abashed, "One of the young Casan boys was caught stealing chickens from Master Garondin's farm up the west road."

"So what's all this about?"

"It's a trial of sorts, I guess you could say. The mayor won't punish someone out of hand without the accuser bein' able to prove it."

"It sounds reasonable enough to me. Why the circus?"

"Because," Noril said, upnodding his chin as if to indicate the gathered crowd, "Crime doesn't happen enough as not here. It's about as big an event as when merchants come through, or traveling entertainers. Like crime, they mostly stick to the big cities up further north."

The man they call Gareth nodded his head wordlessly. There wasn't so much... anticipation, really. It wasn't that. No less so was there any sign of shock, though -- the boy hadn't committed murder, after all, he had made off with a few chickens what didn't belong to him. In the center of the green, under the eyes of the mayor and the village council, stood a young man in country garb that wouldn't mark him out from any of the other people in the village at all. A brown shirt laced up the neck, with a leather vest of the same color slung over his shoulders, comfortable breeches and well-worn boots. His lips looked to be on the verge of a smile, no matter who hunkered his shoulders were. The man they call Gareth recognized the look from somewhere, though. A memory he couldn't quite grasp. The boy had the look of mischief about him, and very likely he would be doing these damn fool stunts for the rest of his life. He might even take off into the adventuring life of a rogue or thief or some-such, perhaps join one of the guilds in the larger cities. Rapscallions like him didn't stay in the quiet country life for long.

A much older man stood next to him, waving his arms as if to illustrate what he spoke, but at least he spoke clearly and evenly. Master Garondin had been from Rhy'Din City, he had heard, and retired from the life of a city guardsman to found a farm and raise animals. His eggs were some of the finest to be had in Hickory Crossings, and his wool was second-to-none, but his background in the enforcement of civil law made him both a natural at laying out a case, as well as having noticed something amiss anyway. As the man they call Gareth listened, evidentially the boy had left behind too many clues and tracks that Master Garondin followed, and baited a trap that the little scoundrel fell into head-over-heels.

'Conviction,' such as it was, was a quickly-won thing, and the evidence supported Master Garondin's well-outlined account. The mayor and the village council convened, and the Cason boy was sent to the village herbalist for punishment. In this case, it was to be the strap across his backside, three strokes for every chicken he made off with. It seemed strange to him, his punishment, until he learned that there was a council of women, too, in the village that handled women's affairs. Discipline of the youth was certainly seen as a more matronly thing to do, and Garlana, foul-tempered as she was, was the head of that group. She had a strong arm.

The man they call Gareth did not envy the boy. But perhaps he would learn his lesson. It wasn't likely, but perhaps.

The punishment of having his hide tanned by Garlana's sturdy belt was not a public thing. Humiliation was not the way of Hickory Crossings; once the trial-of-a-sorts had been closed, most of the townsfolk went about their business. Some of them clustered together in smaller groups, though, to discuss the fine weather they'd had this harvest, or to barter for trades. Two kegs of tobacco for a bolt of cloth. Three pigs and one cow for that horse. A bushel of apples for a chicken.

There was absolutely nothing out of the ordinary at all about the rest of the day as the man they call Gareth returned to his present home in one of the rooms of the inn. He had already laid a sturdy stone foundation for what was going to be his new home, and had several other men assisting him, but he made it clear to them that it wasn't a necessity to have up before the end of fall. There had been absolutely nothing at all out of the ordinary about that day.

But that night, the nightmares began.


_________________
Gareth
_________________
Bring me down you try
Feel the pain and keep it all in till you die
Without eyes you cannot cry
Who's to blame?

I can't remember... I can't...
Alice in Chains

The day was hot, as all the days of the summer had been. Hot enough, anyway. Sweat plastered his hair against his brow and the back of his neck, but he wiped the back of his hand across his forehead to push it away. Soon the first crop of wheat would be ready for harvest, according to Ichaso, and that meant that the southern and eastern fields would be reaped. There were some things that required doing first, however.

Seated upon a low boulder outside of the barn -- it was cooler there than inside, thanks to a gentle breeze that moved the air, and went to great lengths to dry the sheen of sweat on his skin -- the man they called Gareth drug a broad stone across the length of one of the scythe blades. It's four companions sat at either side, two sharpened and two not, with the sharpened ones ready to be mounted on the end of their curved handles. Ichaso had told him many things about the harvest, and none of them seemed fun. Life on a farm was very seldom fun, it had turned out.

There was a... tickle ...in the back of his mind. Goosebumps traveled up his bare arms to the rolled-up shirtsleeves pushed near his biceps. Some of the scars on his arm tickled, too, as if unused to feeling gooseflesh. He shuddered once, then resumed his task, his mind roiling. It often did when he did not have something backbreaking to occupy his time. Thoughts of what he might have done before he washed up onto the sandy beach, before he was discovered and taken in by the people of Hickory Crossings.

Idle thoughts for idle moments. Dragging the oiled stone across the blade, he sharpened it to perfection, and paid no mind at all to what else might have been happening elsewhere in the world. It was something easy for him to get lost in, after all.

It seemed... familiar, somehow, the act of sharpening that steel blade.

Meanwhile...

High above the city of Aeshelm, in a tower far from Rhydin, Alysia knelt upon a woven circle of green and silver. The tower?s four windows were flung open to the elements, revealing uninterrupted sheets of heavy rain. Upon her knees was laid Frost Brand, a blade seemingly forged from ice, and her left hand rested upon the sword?s hilt and cross-guard. Tendrils of icy mist curled up around her fingertips and mingled with heady incense smoke. Her right hand hovered over a wooden casket.

"...it will be the sword that keeps Rhilshen alive; the lance, the banner, the charge of the heavy horse and the stubborn digging in of heels to keep your nation united, or to stand against the fury of the Dark Ancient."

Alysia?s grasp tightened around the sword?s hilt as she half-smirked at the remembered words. She let go of a moment of wry regret, emptying her mind of distraction. The slow, even pace of her breath disturbed the coils of bloodspice-smoke and ice-mist that drifted sluggishly around the tower.

A sullen rumble of thunder rattled Rhilshen Fortress. She stared at the curtain of water tumbling from the clouds.

I will see, she thought.

Focused by her will, murky figures began to stir in the sheets of rain. She focused on that movement. The sound of the storm outside became muted and distant. Gradually, the watery planes stilled into a mirror-smooth surface, and the murky figures took on shape and color and resolved into a man?s form.

The man looked tired.

He was clad in natural fibers, coated with a dull sheen of cooled sweat and dust. His hair was black, somewhat recently shorn, and his face bore the traces of recently acquired scars. One eye was covered by a leather patch; the other was brilliant green.

He ran a whetstone against a length of metal, apparently the blade of a scythe.

So . . . he does live, mused Alysia. She stood and paced the circular confines of the tower, holding onto the detached sense of the silent vision, gazing at each window in turn. Where are you, Jodiah. . .

From the southern window of her Tower, Alysia realized that Ayreg was surrounded by grain fields, though she would have been hard-pressed to identify the yellow-gold grains that grew there. There were the shapes of other buildings in the vicinity: an inn; several homes, one partially-constructed; a smithy; a chandler. Unfamiliar faces. Pigs. Sheep. Geese.

Beyond those farms and fields, she saw the familiar spires of Rhydin, shrouded in haze.

Aha. . .

?Khaz!? Alysia snapped, breaking the vision. At her voice, the looming figure of Khaz, a Brikarthan Guardian Troll, stepped from a shadow where he had been waiting. The troll was remarkably silent for his size.

?Mistress,? answered Khaz.

?I want a detachment of legionnaires sent to Dark Lake,? she instructed. ?Now. They are to search every wretched little farming village south of Rhydin until they find Lord Ayreg, and they are not to return without him.?

Khaz paused, then asked, ?Bloodguard??

Alysia brooded, considering the taciturn troll?s suggestion. She considered the ease of scrying this time, and shook her head. Outside, the rain began to slacken. ?No, keep them close,? she muttered. ?We?ll be moving on K?Thayne soon.?


_________________
Gareth
_________________
Bring me down you try
Feel the pain and keep it all in till you die
Without eyes you cannot cry
Who's to blame?

I can't remember... I can't...
Alice in Chains

Old Ichaso had given the man they called Gareth a chore. Really, sometimes he felt like he was more an indentured servant than a hired hand, but oftentimes the two were quite synonymous. Especially with Old Ichaso. Too old now to drive his own plow, he busied himself in his carpentry workshop while leaving the man they called Gareth to the fields and the running-abouts. Today was one such bit of running about.

The trip into the town of Hickory Crossings was unexciting, as it almost always was. Wolves were always a problem but they kept to themselves mostly by daylight, and so the only visitors he had on the road between Ichaso's farm and the town were birds wheeling overhead. By now he could recognize the call of the silver finch, the black swallow, and the long-crest popinjay nearer the coast. Why one was this far inland was something to mull over for a part of the trip to the town, but easily dismissed. They had wings, after all. They could go wherever they bloody well pleased.

A few calls of his name, and the man they called Gareth lifted his hand to wave at the townsfolk acknowledging him, offering a friendly-enough greeting and pausing for a quick back-and-forth round of questions concerning crops and Ichaso and blighted turnips in the south fields as well as, of all things, a seeming influx of rabid squirrels that many of the locals couldn't explain.

Not that it took much to fight off a rabid squirrel. No epic tales would be wove about that.

In the end he reached his destination, a tile-roofed building of well-worked timbers with an open-wall lean-to built onto the side. A heavy iron chimney extended up through the roof of the house, the tiles carved around the circular shaft, and the large wooden sign over the door marked with the engraving of a cup told him that this was the home of the local pottery savant, Verina Fien. He took a deep breath before pushing open the door, glancing up as he heard the soft tinkle of a bell mounted over the doorway being disturbed by his entrance, but soon his eyes were swung back level to examine the entryway.

The room was dark, not that it had to be, but there was a lack of light in the whole building. There were no windows to let in the sunlight, just a back door that was left ajar to air out the room. The light that did manage to leak in streaked across the room, and left enough illumination for its one occupant to go about her business. To the right were racks, just simple-cut planks of wood laid upon discarded stone. Each rack was filled with earthenware-- pitchers, bowls, plates and cups. Unglazed, they were a pale tan, almost pink. Just beyond those racks were more, these holding the glazed and completed versions of the former. Bright colors were not the norm for the understated Verina, and it was mostly an assortment of greens, blues and browns. The kiln was on and smoking, causing a musty, warm muddy smell in the room. Against the back wall, the brick oven stood with a circular bottom that straightened to a pyramid shape. The cylindrical chimney went through a hole cut in the tile roof, leaving enough space as to not cause a fire, though he could see now that he was inside that it had a thin metal buffer fitted around the chimney to make the fit firm and not allow in air.

There were two archway openings in the ten foot structure, each having a wooden oar-like pole with a wider bottom leaning against it. Verina sat on the left side of the room, just behind a table containing pistils and mortars, small bowls and brushes. There were a few partially-glazed items on the table as well.

The woman was hunched over the pottery wheel. Her back was to the door, and she must not have heard the bell over her own thoughts. Her hair was pulled into a tight bun so that it would not get in her face, she was leaning so close as to almost have her face in the clay. Fingers pressing lightly, she was willing a cylindrical tube of clay to open, to create a hollow middle and become what might be one day a vase. The grooves in the clay stayed steady as her fingers kept an even pressure, being sure not to move too fast. Her skirt was hiked up around her knees to allow for more movement at the kiln. By all appearances, she wasn't expecting any visitors and had let her normally well-structured guard down.

My, but she had lovely legs...

He didn't know much about pottery, but he knew that the pottery wheel was delicate work. The moment was crucial. One wrong breath, one wrong press, and the vase would collapse into a misshapen wad of clay. At the very least, a half-hour of work would be lost. Maybe more. He really didn't know much about pottery.

The man they called Gareth stood there for a moment as if he were poleaxed. He hadn't quite expected it to be really so dark in the potter's shop. In his estimations, most of the craftspeople liked having well-lit areas so that they could see everything perfectly. There seemed a certain degree of... purity, perhaps, in the fact that she created her pieces in more realistic lighting. Perhaps it was done purposefully.

His eye strayed away from the soon-to-be-vase back to her legs. Even with only one, he could still see the fine shadows creasing the kneecap at the top, at the smooth, hairless run down her shaped calf to the top of her stocking before ending with her stout shoes just at the bones in her ankle. Even with as little as he knew of pottery, he did know that what she was doing was delicate work, and she probably would appreciate being interrupted at the moment about the same as if he just strolled over behind her and goosed her.

Before he even really realized it, his right hand rose, bending at the elbow, and he thumbed the back of his right earlobe. He found himself doing that a lot when he was looking at her these days. Or any pretty woman, for that matter. Judging by the shape of it, she shouldn't have that much more work to do before the vase -- or whatever it was -- was finished. He could wait.

It's not like he wasn't enjoying the scenery, anyway.

While there is a sense that causes one to notice when one is being stared at, it often takes at least a little bit of attention to one's surrounding for it to work, and she was utterly engrossed. Fingers pressed down, and the opening grew wider. And then wider still. Her hand was inside the structure to the wrist, and then she stood partially, crouched over the wheel so that then it was almost up to her elbow. One foot moved up and down a little slower on the pedal, and the wheel slowed down. She was biting her bottom lip, eyes narrowed in concentration. A piece of hair had fallen from the bun and into her face. Another moment, another move of her hands and she slowed the wheel to a stop.

Carefully withdrawing her hands, she spun the wheel with the palm of one hand slowly, still half-standing over the workspace. Those same intense eyes that inspected glasses at the festival were now inspecting the vase for any potential flaws, air bubbles or uneven grooves. She spent a minute, maybe more, twisting the wheel before she smiled to herself and dropped back down into the stool. Her skirt fell partway over her knees and obscured part of her leg down to the middle of her calf. Verina took a moment to wipe her hands on a rag at her feet before standing again.

It was then she must have heard his breathing, or maybe she felt his gaze. No matter what it was, she turned her head to look at him standing there watching her. Crimson crept up her neck and colored her ears long before the color touched her face. It took her a moment to summon the polite smile as she looked for a place to clean her hands more.

The skirt was sacrificed as she wiped her palms over her sides. "I... I didn't see you, Master Gareth. Have you been waiting long?"

"Not too long," he said. His voice seemed very well-suited to be soft, but no matter what or how he tried to moderate it, it always had an edge to it. A kind of throaty rasp that sometimes made him sound like an empty snake's husk breaking to dry ribbons over rock. "I didn't want to disturb you, Mistress Fien."

His shoulders rolled once as he settled himself, and took a few steps forward, vibrant green eye rising up along the gentle slope of her neck, over the ridge of her chin toward her own eyes. He suppressed the desire to rub at his earlobe again by gripping his right hand against the edge of a counter.

In that voice of his, like the sound of dead leaves burning, he continued, "Master Ichaso sent me out on an order he placed a week or so ago. Ah... some plates, I believe?"

"Ah, yes, yes, of course," Verina seemed surprised, still, at his appearance, but she was quickly regaining herself. The somewhat pleasant smile she often carried in public replaced itself on her face and she moved past the wheel towards a pair of basins. "If you can find a seat, feel free to take it, Master Gareth. I just need to wash up before I handle your plates."

She reached for a bar of coarse soap and with a dip into a somewhat dirty basin she began to scrub her hands. After a few moments of rubbing on soap, she grabbed a horsehair brush and started the task of getting as much clay as possible off her hands and fingers.

"How does the day find you?" She was never one to often make small talk, but after his watching her work, it might have embarrassed her to have him watch her in silence once more.

"Sweating, as usual. I could make due for a good dip in the river, or even a bath in that copper monstrosity in the bathing room in the inn, but I've more work yet to do out in Ichaso's fields, and then I'll be getting together later with Bojin and Noril and Master Garondin to cut some timber for putting up my own home. The days are long, I fear, but that only means I'm tired enough for a good night's rest. If I don't have to work through the night, as well." He smiled, despite himself, and shifted his weight onto one foot to lean his hip against the face of the counter. "Why do you keep it so dark in here, if I may ask, Mistress Fien?"

Verina had moved on to the other hand now, scrubbing at her nails in vain. She smiled to herself at his answer and nodded when he had finished. At the question, she raised her eyes and looked around her shop once. Perhaps it had been this way for so long, she hadn't even noticed it seemed so dark. "I have good eyes," she said, "and the heat from the kiln is already almost too much to bear. I don't feel the need to add the heat of lamps."

The hands were dipped in the basin once more and she went back to scrubbing with the brush. "I must apologize that your break from the fields cannot be in a cooler place, Master Gareth. Do you require a glass of water? It may not still be cold, but it should serve its purpose well enough, I think." With one last dip in the basin, she inspected her hands, and while they were not completely clean, she had deemed then fit for the task. Verina claimed a clean towel off the wall and dried her hands.

So. It had been purposeful. Just not in the way he had imagined.

Really, looking at it, it made perfect sense. With the fire blazing in the kiln combined with the heat from the summer sun, it's not a wonder she didn't have a bevy of lamps or candles burning. The faint sheen of clean perspiration accented her face in the beams of sunlight coming from the opened door, and the same door provided a quite refreshing breeze, too.

"Kind of you, Mistress Fien," he said, making a small, polite bow, "but make it a small one, please. Ichaso tells me too much water is just as bad as too little, and more than enough to wet the throat when working in the sun is too much."

There was a shelf near the basins and Verina turned to it, then. Her fingers trailed over the mugs there, each flawed in one way or another-- outcasts. Chips, air bubbles baked into the clay, misshapen mouths or partial handles. It seemed a showcase for all her mistakes. The least defective cup, one with a simple chip in the delicate leafprint glaze, was chosen and, moving to where a slightly misshapen pitcher stood, she filled it with a couple of mouthfuls of water. It was a few steps across the small room before she held it out to him, holding it still with both hands.

"Here you are, Master Gareth." There was a ghost of a smile as she raised her head to meet his eyes. Well, his eye and his patch, at any rate.

His ear positively itched.

"My thanks, Mistress Fien." Reaching with his hand, his right hand so that it kept occupied with this new task, he accepted the cup from her by gripping it beneath the base, and offered another short bow.

And, after a moment and two silent sips -- the water was not exactly cool, no, but it might as well have been sent from the Gods for as dry as his throat felt -- he spoke again, "Ichaso gave me a purse of coin. What does he owe for the order?"

Leaving him with the glass, she turned to start preparing the order for him. Carefully, the set of plates was set into a crate. Verina lifted a sack and poured some sawdust in the crate with the plates, presumably so that they wouldn't break on their trip back to the farm. Lowering the sack she turned towards him again. "If I'm not mistaken," she said, "we agreed on three silver marks and four coppers."

A pause in her speech, and her eyes ticked up and then back towards him. "Yes, I do believe that's right."

With a faint nod, he pulled the purse from his belt -- there were surprisingly few cutpurses and thieves in Hickory Crossings; those that were, were little more than mischievous young scamps who prefer a switching for stealing off with some goodwife's pie cooling on a window sill than the strap for stealing actual coin -- and counted the money out. Only a single golden coin sat inside the leather purse, and the size of it indicated it was to have been another mark.

Three silver coins glinted in the sunlight, and four more did not glint at all as he lifted them out one by one and set them into her awaiting hand. "Thank you again, Mistress Fien."

He even managed a smile, wolf's-grin as it looked. He was not a soft man.

Verina smiled back at him before placing the coins in the purse she wore around her own waist. She bowed her head in respect. "You are very welcome, Master Gareth. The crate is ready for you, when you are ready to take it." Her smile turned up more on one side than the other, in her best impersonation of sly or coy. "Though, if you are in search of a longer rest from the fields, I won't chase you out of my shop." She had already turned to a table where some cups needed glazing, however.

"Sadly," he said, taking one final sip from the water before setting it onto the counter he had found such solace with, "I must depart. Farmer's hours do not give over much time for company, however pleasant the company is, when the sun is still up." A few steps made, and within seconds he had hefted up the create of plates, and heard the gentle rustling of sawdust within. It's a good thing he had brought that cart and mule. He didn't look forward to an attempt at carrying this thing back to the farm. Turning, he walked over toward the door and bumped it with his hip, pushing it open an inch or four before pausing.

He glanced back to her, and tilted his head curiously, "Though... perhaps tomorrow, if it pleases you, Mistress Fien, we could go riding together. Ichaso showed me a fine trail through the western wood, and I think things will be finished soon then out at the farm. I've been doing most of the hard work today."

Having turned her eyes to the work set before her as he made to leave, she was completely unprepared for his parting words. Eyes rose first, and then her body turned so that she was facing where he was at the threshold.

"Tomorrow?" She looked around the workshop at what was completed and what was not and then her lips turned up in a gentle smile. "I believe I would like that, Master Gareth. It's been a long time since I've taken the time to explore the wood."

"Tommorow it is, then. I'll be here with horses... perhaps an hour or two after midday, if it pleases you." Another short bow, though it was more awkward with the load carried about in his arms, "until then, Mistress Fien." And, turning, the man they called Gareth continued on through the door and toward where the stocky mule was waiting tethered to the cart harness.


_________________
Gareth
_________________
Bring me down you try
Feel the pain and keep it all in till you die
Without eyes you cannot cry
Who's to blame?

I can't remember... I can't...
Alice in Chains

The temperature had been downright hot when they first set out from Rhilshen. Little more than half-way down the continent in their mad quest, it had started to turn into more autumnal weather, though the further south they rode the more the fall seemed to be abated. This far south, Davlon doubted that the place had any kind of true winter at all. Just boggy perhaps, and wet. It was cool enough he supposed, but he still had to pull his kerchief from his bracer from time to time to wipe sweat away from his face. Wearing steel armor in full view of the sun always made a man sweat.

The sound of horse hooves on well-trod dirt paths was a comforting sound to Legion-Lieutenant Davlon al'Caer. The only sound more comforting to him was the ringing noise that horseshoes made on paving stones. He had spoken about it before; it was not a concept equally shared amongst horsemen, but a great many found the rhythmic clop of hooves to be very soothing. There were no paving stones here, though, so the road would have to do. Now if only it would sooth away the aches he had gotten from spending the past several weeks in the saddle.

"Should be soon, I think" the Bannerman to his left said. The trail winded through thick forest up the length of a river that only barely qualified as being called one. Wide enough, but not very deep, he could turn his horses at need and flee across if it became required. So far, not very much that he had encountered in this land seemed to require it.

"Unfurl the standard, Koda," Davlon said, tightening his grip upon the reins. Their armor had been polished until it very nearly glowed in the sunlight, and the banner would help grease their way into the hamlet of Hickory Crossings. Poor country folk were always impressed by suits of armor and banners.

Without a word, the Bannerman pulled the leather sheath off the flagstaff, and settled the end of it into his stirrup, tying the sheath to the pommel of his saddle. There was a good breeze that rolled through the forest trail. Good enough to cause the banner to extend out its full length and drift behind the Bannerman. The standard of his Company, a triangular-shaped banner, tapering off to a point after the hoist, bearing a gauntleted fist on a field of blue, with the sinuous form of a green serpent wrapped around the wrist. It's shape marked his as a mounted regiment; Companies of Foot would have a square-shaped banner.

"A pity we didn't bring any Mynwans with us, Lieutenant," Koda said, peering up at the banner. It settled down over his shoulder, drifting up occasionally when the breeze stirred it again, and only lifting out once with a solid gust of wind, "their... weapons are very impressive."

"Impressive, yes, and limited, Bannerman. The Legion will be marching soon, if it hasn't already, and we're not expected to meet with any combat in our own mission. All the Mynwans, and all of their fancy toys, needed to be retained with the rest of the Legion," Davlon shook his head. This was a conversation they had before. Once he had seen the first... what were they called again? Oh, right. Blasters. Once Koda had seen a blaster demonstration that almost completely destroyed a training dummy from fifty paces, and the grinning man in the strange armor that wielded the weapon said that was an easy shot at such a short range, he had become infatuated with them. Pity that Koda could not join the Shooters, not being a native of Mynw. Davlon would have signed the transfer orders himself to make the Bannerman finally close his teeth about wanting to use one of those black things that stood nearly as tall as a man did.

Claws of the Dragon, but the things looked downright awkward to wield, as far as Davlon al'Caer was concerned. As well carry a cudgel sized for a mountain troll around with you.

"How much longer, Legionnaire?" But even as he asked, Davlon saw that the trees were thinning, and coming to an end. Buildings sprouted up of a sudden as the forest ended quite abruptly. The trees here were copsed together where there were trees at all, and the well-packed dirt road led down the slope of a gentle hill into a sprawling township. There was no wall around it - not even a respectable fence, except around pastures where sheep and cows grazed lazily on what sod still existed. A few fodder silos stood attached to barns, though, likely to feed the animals through the winter. The closest man to them, a gnarled, aging fellow with long white hair leaned up from over the grinding stone where he had been sharpening a hatchet, and he regarded the armored soldiers of the Empire with a raised eyebrow. Spitting through a gap in his teeth, he bent again to continue his work.

Davlon's hand wanted to drift toward the hilt of his sword. Still, despite the man's open insult to him, it had been expected. Not all countryfolk were cowed by the sight of soldiers, even if they could be killed as easily as kittens in a sack by the soldiers that they insulted. Really, he supposed, most of the people this far in the country just wanted to live their lives without interference from thrones and rulers, and saw armsmen as a thing that might disrupt that freedom. Well, if he had accepted sword thrusts in the name of duty, he could accept insults. And all of the men in his Company had better accept them, too.

Shouts rose first from a group of children who were darting across the road up ahead across what must have passed as central square in the tiny town, though in truth it seemed to him to be little more than a grassy patch of earth. Davlon lifted a gauntleted fist, and halting orders rose from the Bannermen behind him down the line. The column came to an almost dead stop within a heartbeat. Disciplined men, one and all. Sarik and Ayreg had demanded as much when they answered the call.

"My name is Legion-Lieutenant Davlon al'Caer," he called, turning his head around to address the townspeople, who had started to approach with wary stares. They kept their distance, though, except for some of the children, but even they were pulled back by protective mothers when they didn't run themselves, "I wish to speak to the mayor of this village."

If that was the right word. Not all of the little villages used the same terminology for something that was very much the same. In this case, though, a round-faced man, his bulk squeezed into a leather vest that threatened to pop its buttons, stepped forward.

He was a hard-eyed man though, despite his bulk, with thick, bushy mustaches that nearly hid his entire upper lip. "Ced Ledry, Lieutenant. I be the mayor. What business do you have in Hickory Crossings today, if I might be so bold as to ask?"

Davlon opened his mouth to answer the man, when one of the Legionnaires in the column lifted a gauntleted hand to point, "Burn me, it's him!"

Davlon al'Caer's head whipped around from the mayor. First to the Legionnaire who had spoke, and then following the point of his gauntleted hand. Other heads turned, too. People that were to the left of that pointing finger looked to their right, as did people on the right looked left. The only person that didn't look somewhere else out of nothing but sheer human nature was the man at the other end of the finger, separated from the Legionnaire by a fifty pace space of grass.

He was an average-sized man, if only for Hickory Crossings. Men further north, in Rhy'Din City, would've outstood him by almost a foot on average. They were a freakishly tall lot, with a few exceptions. Clean shaved, with short black hair that stood in erratic spikes atop his head, he had the look of a man who had been working from sunup to sundown. Sweat glistened on his face and made his hair look soiled and greasy. The fact that he needed a good barber could account for part of that, too. Whoever had cut his hair last must've used a knife instead of a proper pair of scissors. A black patch hewn from leather covered his right eye, but those scars were unique and telling. So was his build; average, but broad in the chest and the shoulders. His arms and shoulders, visible in the work vest he wore with no shirt beneath, were both heavily muscled. There might have been straw clinging to his clothes, but that was the build of a blacksmith if he had ever seen one.

Al'Caer reined his mount around and heeled the dun forward across the green. The townspeople inched back away from his approach, but not that man. Also telling.

Bending, he plucked the likeness he had been given from his saddlebag and lifted it, holding it to flank the man's face. It was made before his quarry's disappearance, and while the man in the image had long hair, there was no mistaking the vividly green eyes -- well, eye now -- and the facial scars.

Funny. Davlon never would've thought Lord Ayreg would ever wear anything except that fancy red coat. Or be anywhere without that dark elf heeling him like a shadow. To see him now dressed as a farmer was... interesting.

Lowering the likeness to his saddle's pommel, he rolled his shoulders back beneath the armor strapped onto his coat, and lifted his face. Gauntleted hands pulled at the strap under his chin to loosening and free it, before he doffed his helmet and set it on his hip under his arm.

"My Lord Ayreg..." he said.

"Oh!"

The man they called Gareth squinted. The sun was a fingernail's edge of light over the treeline beyond the manor, but it was a fingernail's edge of light directly in his face. Since it was a dark orange, though, it didn't obstruct his vision too badly.

The man who had shouted was a round-faced man with a strangely-cut beard that left his top lip bare. His beard was powdered, too, of all things, and the outfit he wore would've made a court fool weep for the shame of wearing it. His coat might've been made of silk, but it was a bright, vivid green slashed with a bright, vivid red. His large legs strained the seams on the the tight red breeches he wore, striped down the outside with a bold yellow, and tucked into turned-down boots. Leather by the look of them, but the leather had been dyed yellow, too. All told, he was a pain to look at. Embroidered on the left breast of his coat was some kind of rearing gray lion on a red square that broke the slashings of green and red.

Fat fingers spread wide with his hands, and the round man walked carefully down the stone steps leading from the walk. "Oh, my Lord, it is you! It is! The Dragon's blessings for your safe return! We've been so worried about you, we have, my Lord!"

We? The man they called Gareth rubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand. It wasn't just that this man was a horror to behold ? he was, though ? but they had spent four days and nights in the saddle in getting to here. That man, Lieutenant al'Caer, had said this place was called Taiva, and it was a good place to stop and rest the horses for a day before making the rest of the trip to some dark lake and then on to Rhilshen. How, exactly, that was to be done he didn't know. Not unless they were going to swim there.

The round man continued, folding his hands in front of his great bulk. Two chins bounced as he spoke, "My Lord's rooms have been kept exactly as he left them, in anticipation of your return. I will confess, though it shames me terribly, that some amongst the staff had started to whisper that my Lord might not be returning. I am pleased to see that is not the case, my Lord."

He bowed. He actually bowed. And low, too, bending nearly double until the man they called Gareth could almost hear the buttons on the front of the man's coat straining.

"Yes," was all that he said, glancing over his shoulder to al'Caer, who had gotten off of his mount and was handing the reins over to a stableman. More were streaming out through a tall fence, and when a breeze picked up he could smell the telltale signature of a stable nearby. Possibly through that gate. "I'm hungry, man, and would like a bed. Is that possible tonight?"

The large man blinked, and dry-washed his hands nervously. "My... Lord?"

"Do it, Seneschal," Lieutenant Davlon al'Caer said as he strode up, doffing his steel-backed gauntlets and tucking them under his belt. "He's the Lord Ayreg, alright. Well? Hop!"

The fat man jerked, very nearly coming to a hop in truth before he made his bows and started backing away. "It will be done. My Lords, I'll send someone to take you to the dining room, and I'll have cooks woken straight away. My Lord's beds will be awaiting him, as well as a hot bath for when my Lord is finished with his meal."

The man they called Gareth blinked, shaking his head. What kind of foolishness was this? He looked to al'Caer, who was also shaking his head. "Dulmor is his name, Lord Ayreg. Your man, though really I suppose I should say he's the Emperess' man. He's been managing Tavia almost as long as Tavia has existed in Rhy'Din. This is the territory of Rhilshen, now, one of two patches of land sovereign to Rhilshen within Rhy'Din's borders. The other is known simply as the Manor at Dark Lake, and is the retreat of the Emperess herself. This one ? this is your estate, as a matter of fact."

His estate? Turning his head, the man they called Gareth peered in the dimming light past the copse of trees flanking the left side of the house. Beyond them was cleared land, followed by rows and rows of what appeared to be large bushes, and an enormous barn or warehouse. He'd never seen one before, but he'd be willing to wager his one good eye that it was a vineyard for grapes to make wine. An orchard would be trees, not bushes, and a garden wouldn't be laid out with such precise lines. That made sense.

"Flaming bunch of toad-eating fools," the man they called Gareth muttered, giving his working vest a quick jerk before trudging up the stone steps. Lieutenant Davlon al'Caer strode at his back while the rest of his Company - he had learned that's what they were called - started to unfold very compact tents from carrying cases pulled out of packs, and unrolling sleeping pallets to billet on.

* * * *

The meal was very good, though, and he dined with al'Caer who kept explaining things to him with patient tones. Not too patient as to be insulting, but in an almost understanding way. It was almost as if the man believed that he were some kind of fool noble!

Licking his lips clean, and then wiping his chin with a small, thin white towel that had been brought for him, that man - Dulmor, the Seneschal - came again, bowing and spreading his hands awkwardly.

"If my Lord is finished, perhaps my Lord would like to have his bath, now? I have already sent for my Lord's washwater to be delivered to my Lord's rooms, and, if my Lord will permit me, perhaps I will look into my Lord's wardrobe to lay him out something to put on in the morning when he wakes? My Lord would not like to look like a raggamuffin when my Lord reaches the Emperess tommorow, if my Lord will forgive me for saying so."

If he said that one more time, the man they called Gareth was going to box his ears. It was the same way during the meal, too, every few minutes that fat man poking his head in to inquire if my Lord needed more wine, or if my Lord would like to taste a pastry baked earlier today. By the fourth time he poked his head in, the man they called Gareth very nearly shouted at him to get out, but he had stayed out until he seemed to magically know they were finished eating. Really, the man must be very good at his duty.

"Might as well," the man they called Gareth muttered when al'Caer said nothing. Though he would surely take umbrage at that man picking him out anything to wear. He could see it now, suddenly dressed up like a damn goosed fool on a feastday, looking the proper fop in a pair of golden pantaloons or some-such. Hmpf. He'd have none of that, and thank you very much.

"As you say, my Lord," the fat man said, bowing again, gesturing with his hand back toward the entry hall, and the large staircase there, "If it pleases my Lord to follow me?"

"Your Emperess better be worth it, al'Caer. I still had another field to harvest when you came in and scooped me up," the man they called Gareth muttered again while Dulmor left.

The Lieutenant grinned, rising up out of his own chair, "I suppose you'll find out when you see her, my Lord. I'm going to go take one of the guest rooms upstairs, if you have no objection?" He paused here, inviting the man they called Gareth to make such an objection. When he offered none, al'Caer's bootheels clicked together softly and he made a short bow. "Sleep well then, my Lord. Tomorrow, we'll be back in Rhilshen where we belong."

"So you say, Lieutenant," the man they called Gareth shook his head, following after Dulmor. For a man that large, he surely moved with a certain degree of speed. He was half-way up those stairs already, but he refused to run to catch him up. "So you say."

_________________
Gareth
_________________
Bring me down you try
Feel the pain and keep it all in till you die
Without eyes you cannot cry
Who's to blame?

I can't remember... I can't...
Alice in Chains

Silk.

It was soft, silk was, and hard to come by in Hickory Crossings. He had only seen one person who ever wore silk, and she only had a single, simple dress with only a few threadbare pieces of embroidery. As simple and plain as it was, however, that dress cost more money than a horse would have there, given the cost of transporting it. Maybe silk grew on trees further north -- well, south now, given the location of Tavia compared to Hickory Crossings. It had been a hard four day's ride - but in the little town it was not so easily obtained.

And just now, he had been staring at a wardrobe full of the stuff. The man they called Gareth had become quite accustomed to the feel of stout woolens, even in the summer heat, and now he had faced down a closet full of silk and linen shirts.

Straightening the sleeves around his arms, and then thep cuffs around his wrist, he grudgingly admitted that it was cool and airy compared to woolens, and even the best-made woolens caused the wearer to itch when worn for too long. It was also comfortable, the silk sliding over his body smoothly, not gripping any of his many and varied scars, not hanging on anything, and not bunching up. It hung down as perfectly as if he had weights suspended to the shirt hems beneath the black trousers that Dulmor had laid out for him.

The trousers themselves were a finely-crafted pair made from thick linen. Smooth and devoid of wrinkles, in no small part thanks to Dulmor's hand with a hot-iron, the black was rich and deep, showing no signs at all of fading, and were offset with wrist-thick bars of yellow down the outside of either leg. The more he fingered at the bars, though, the less he thought they were simple threadwork, and the more it's feel and dark, brilliant color seemed to imply that it was actual thread-of-gold. If that were the case, given how thick those stripes were down either leg, the amount of gold in the trousers themselves would've bought a farm down in Hickory Crossings, and a herd of goats beside.

Dulmor had seemed absolutely scandalized that he had woke up in the morning. Worse, those pleas that my Lord should have his rest, that my Lord had just spent a hard few days riding; they seemed like arguments that the man made almost every day. But living amongst the people of Hickory Crossings had made him learn to live by farmer's hours, so he had been up and out of bed before dawn. Finally, just to appease the fat man, he had crawled back in bed and spend a few good hours staring up at the ceiling. Once sunlight was actually streaming in through the thin red curtains covering the windows he got back out of bed, and this time Dulmor seemed more amenable to it. Turns out, he had spent the better part of the night before while he himself slept blacking his boots, of all things. He doubted very much that the man ever actually slept the past night. Even the turn-downs were polished.

"If my Lord will permit me," Dulmor said with a lifted chin as he withdrew out of the wardrobe holding what appeared to be a red coat, "it is wonderful to have my Lord back. While my Lord was gone, I took the liberty of having my Lord's coats let out a bit in the shoulders and around the neck. My Lord filled out a bit more, if it's not too bold to say, once he reattained his vigor."

"What do you mean, Dulmor?" he asked wearily, finally giving over fussing with his cuff.

Eye-wrenching still as he was the night before, Dulmor moved with surprising spryness for a man his size. Around to the man they called Gareth's side, he held the coat up for him to thrust his arm into the sleeve, then the other, lifting the coat up to guide and settle it onto his shoulders. The man they called Gareth felt the fat man's hands brush over his shoulders as if to sweep away imaginary dust, then came back around to his front and began buttoning it up the right side of his chest.

"When..." he hesitated, as if not exactly sure how to explain it. Or perhaps like he were looking at a man who just asked why water was wet, "the Emperess restored my Lord's youth to him, of course. Or so my Lord explained it to me after it was done."

Images came back to him then. Images he had seen in his dreams, images of a man who looked well into his middle years. Images of a man with gray hair, with bright green eyes. He battered the image away.

Reaching around under his arms, Dulmor looped a thick leather belt around his waist and drew it together in the front, aligning a heavy buckle into place and closing it. Glancing down, the man they called Gareth saw that the buckle itself appeared to be worked with a lacquered-red eight-pointed star, with a writhing green serpent in the center. Dulmor brushed more imaginary dust off his coat, and the man they called Gareth turned and examined himself in the tall stand-mirror that the man had placed in front of him earlier when he started dressing. At first, the man they called Gareth tried to send him away, but Dulmor was adamant about his duties, and dolorous at the prospect of not attending him himself. In the end, he acceded.

Curiously, the belt itself had attachments onto the left side. A curving sling of black leather that connected the belt in two places by golden clips, one just to the left of the buckle and another in the center of his back, with another strip of leather connected by golden clips in the center directly over his hip. It was a strange attachment, but for some reason he felt it was most likely a sword-belt. Only, of course, without a sword and scabbard to attach it to. Lacking that, the thing felt - and probably looked - ludicrous.

The bold, brilliantly-red coat was made of the same thick linen that the trousers were made of. Golden shoulder-boards and tassels fed into thread-of-gold loopwork over and under the left arm, and might've made it awkward to attempt to lift that arm much higher than his head. Then again, it seemed a coat more suited to being seen in than trying to work a scythe. Crossed swords, in much more slender thread-of-gold crawled their way up either sleeve, and the wrist-cuffs were trimmed with thread-of-gold as well. The breast of the coat was double-layered so that none of the buttons traveling down the right side of his chest were visible from the outside, except for the uppermost just under his collar bone. That one was connected by a toggle to a thin, ropy golden braid that stretched up to his left shoulder in a lazy arc, disappearing underneath the shoulder-board.

The man they called Gareth stared at the image of himself in the mirror. At the image of the man in his dreams.

"My Lord is the very image of the day he left," Dulmor's voice almost surprised him, and he turned around to face the round man.

"Are the soldiers ready to go yet, Dulmor?" he asked.

The Seneschal nodded, jowls compressing into a second chin briefly, "They are, my Lord, and awaiting my Lord's pleasure."

"Best not to keep them waiting long. Lead on, man."

Dry-washing his hands, Dulmor looked... hesitant, at first. He made his way toward the door, but turned around again when his fingers touched the handle. "Forgive me, my Lord, but will my Lord's... er... lady-friend be returning, as well?"

The look that the man they called Gareth gave to him was one of obvious confusion, and so the man went on, "I... I cannot remember her name, my Lord. A dark elf, with a thick white braid and a.. er.. forgive me, my Lord, a vituperative demeanor."

The man they called Gareth stared for the second time in as many minutes. "Dark elf" would certainly describe the woman in his dreams - one of them, anyway, though he had since learned that the white woman with the white hair was the Emperess when conversing with Lieutenant al'Caer - but the long, thick braid was enough to finish it. Almost enough.

"And does she have yellow eyes, Dulmor?"

"She does, my Lord," he replied without hesitation, "As haunting as any wolf, if I may say so. I ask only because Mistress Adena has reported that she has gathered up a supply of... er... some kind of herb that she requested. Mistress Adena snorted when I asked her what they were, though, and stalked off muttering to herself. Something about 'the foolish young,' my Lord, but I couldn't quite make it out."

The man they called Gareth shook his head, and flexed his knee. The cooler the weather got, the more his right knee seemed to ache. There was a scar there, too, a large one that sat directly atop his kneecap.

"Nothing for it now, Dulmor. Though... if I see her, I will pass along the message." The man nodded as if he thought the man they called Gareth would do just that, even though he had no bloody idea who she bloody well was. My lady-friend?

Following the Seneschal out of the room, the man they called Gareth made his way down the stairs and out of the manor of Tavia. He was met by Lieutenant al'Caer, dressed in his armor again, and a horse was saddled and readied for him.

Reining the horse around, he glanced over his shoulder up at the building one last time, then heeled the black gelding forward, horseshoes ringing on paving stones until they ended just short of the massive iron gates set into a stone wall perhaps ten feet high. Davlon al'Caer fell in at his flank without a word, and in a long, sinuous line two abreast, the mounted column of Legionnaires followed behind.

They rode northeast.

_________________
Gareth
_________________
Bring me down you try
Feel the pain and keep it all in till you die
Without eyes you cannot cry
Who's to blame?

I can't remember... I can't...
Alice in Chains

The trip to the Emperess' manor on Dark Lake took most of the day. They stopped by a stream once to rest and water the horses before continuing on, eating their midday meal in the saddle. Al'Caer didn't have much, at least much in the way of good food, but what he had he shared without a single hesitation. A small piece of dried cheese, a somewhat larger heel of bread that seemed flecked with raisins of all things, and a bit of stringy, dried goat's meat. The search, apparently, had taken longer than expected, and they had dared not return to Rhilshen without their quarry. After their military rations ran out, they had to reach into their own pockets -- al'Caer seemed doubtful if he and his men would be reimbursed -- to buy a few dozen loaves of bread, some wheels of cheese, and four goats. Not much, considering how many mouths that the Company had to feed, but their rations were small and they had it to do. If this was the fare they had been living off of for almost two months now, then it wasn't a wonder why most of the men seemed a bit too lean for soldiers.

There were two more men standing guard at the spot that al'Caer led them to. They wore identical armor to the men in Davlon's Company, except that their bracers were stripped with red instead of blue. They looked to be considerably more well-fed than al'Caer's men were, too, their faces full, but hard. Al'Caer exchanged salutes with the men when they arrived, gauntleted fist banging against breastplate.

"We're going to take the horses in through.. that?" The man they called Gareth said doubtfully, eying the... the shadowgate. It seemed a fitting name, really. A silver arch hung in the air, containing a velvety blackness that roiled and writhed as if trying to escape out of the silvery bonds. Every few seconds, a piece of the black pushed out in a space about the size of his fist, then receded back into the gate. It was dark through the portal, yes, but there was... movement on the other side. As if he could just make out figures on the far end of wherever the portal lead to.

To Rhilshen, he thought, and to whatever future it is that these people want me to live under.

"They're accustomed to the sight of horses now in the dungeons, Lord Ayreg," Davlon al'Caer said at his side, patting his horse on the nose when it nudged against his shoulder, "And besides, the stables aren't too far of a walk from there. The Emperess thought it a fine joke for the portal from Rhy'Din to come into the dungeons. The first sight that guests of the Fortress would see."

The man they called Gareth merely shook his head in wonder.

"Well, we're not getting anything done standing around here, then," he said, walking forward. He had already steeled himself for this step. A single step between the world he had known, and the world he had forgotten. The man they called Gareth even made a brave show of not hesitating any before he went in, though he felt as if he should loosen the collar of his fancy red coat.

Darkness consumed him.

It felt... cold.


_________________
Gareth
_________________
Bring me down you try
Feel the pain and keep it all in till you die
Without eyes you cannot cry
Who's to blame?

I can't remember... I can't...
Alice in Chains