Alrighty, so sue me 'cos I'm lazy. This was actually written several days ago, but I'm just now getting around to posting it.

It had been four days and nights since one of the pages wearing a name badge from the Red Dragon appeared in the dungeons of Rhilshen Fortress, apparently having used the shadow portal to reach Rhilshen. Shaken from his trip, and somewhat dirty as well, the young man declared that he had a message for one Alysia Skye from one Jodiah Ayreg.

Alysia Skye herself was, at this exact moment, staying at the Manor on Dark Lake. Elsewhere in Rhy'Din, the night after he first sent the page on his little assignment, Ayreg had actually spoken with Alysia very briefly at the Red Dragon while he was having one of his monumental meals, but that didn't matter. The message would be awaiting her upon her return to Rhilshen.

Message delivered, the young man escaped back through the portal gratefully, and made his way back to the Red Dragon. The pages there seemed to quail whenever Ayreg had anything to say to them lately.

Mostly since he kept sending them on some crusade such as this one.

As all correspondence penned by Jodiah go, the script is smooth and flowing, the mark of an educated hand, though this one was written on far more stable ground and with far more familiar instruments. There wasn't a single ink blotch anywhere to be found, if you can believe it.

Alysia,

By the time you recieve this, I should be making ready to depart Rhy'Din. I'm not entirely sure what all has happened in the past month, but my period of convalescence is over. I grow weary and impatient with nothing to do but rot, and would see action once again.

There is a storm coming to Rhilshen, and I intend to be there when the rain falls to stir the flood.

I will need your aid now, Alysia, and what we have previously spoken about concerning certain magics regarding mortal age. I intend to go through it, now. The circumstances surrounding Garen Corlagon have deemed it necessary. Reports concerning my death that night, as was reported in that pathetic excuse for a privvy rag, the Oracle, have been greatly exagerrated.

I remember you telling me that you require three days of fasting. Tonight there has been signs posted in regards to a soiree over someone's naming day coming soon, and I had a mind to crash it even though I wasn't personally invited. It may be the last time I get to see some people before I take up a more permanent residence in Rhilshen, if that room you made available for me is still available.

When I leave the party, I'll be bringing Harpy and what's left of my posessions in the Red Dragon and coming through the shadow gate at the Dark Lake Manor. Everything else of mine should have been moved to Taiva, under the watchful eyes of Dulmor. You were right about him, by the by; he is most capable, though he spends my money on the rennovations of the wineyard like he expects silver crowns to appear alongside the grapes amongst the leaves.

I will be in the Fortress soon, most likely a day or two past this long-expected party which is set to occur later this week. I look forward to seeing you again - Rhilshen is the only place that an old warhorse like me can make a difference.

Respectfully,

J. Ayreg

It was not magically sealed in any way, and no doubt Javan had already read it (as befitting the Master of Assassins, to ensure it was not some kind of magical trap) before it took up residence on a desk somewhere, awaiting the Emperess' hand to lift it and read.

Several days pass.

He was running late. Ayreg never liked to run late. In this particular case, he was several days overdue now when compared to the approximate date he had written on the correspondence that he directed the young page from the Red Dragon Inn to deliver to Alysia Skye. Still, there were things that needed doing - his armor had been hopefully destroyed beyond repair, even by the talented hands of the skillful gnomes at the Dragon's Breath. In the end, his once-prized clockwork platemail was broken down, bits and bobs salvaged from it, and the remainder sold for scrap.

His new armor was unimpressive, but functional. Simple plates of burnished steel, without the benefit of lacquer nor the appearance of engraved skulls or bones as he had on the clockwork armor, interlocking one over the other upon leather padding and mail backing. It would turn a blade and it would withstand clubs and it would repel arrows, but his was no longer the terrifying visage he had enjoyed previously when wearing his full battle dress.

The breastplate was worn, as well as the pauldrons and vambraces. Greaves, boots, bracers, and gauntlets had been stowed for the time being, and the long-sleeved black shirt, supply black leather breeches, and sturdy riding boots offset the polished plate-and-mail, and everything was capped by a deep black cape, trimmed in red, and embroidered upon with the eight-pointed star-and-serpent of the Skye clan.

Another garment liberated from Alaric's wardrobe, no doubt.

The trip away from the Red Dragon was an uneventful one, which was fortunate since he did not wish to appear before Alysia wearing dirt and blood.

The void-black coat of the shadow mare, finally given the name of Harpy, reflected no light as he brought the fine animal to a relaxed canter on the way out to the manor at Dark Lake. It was not a long trip, per se, as far as such things went, but it did take almost two hours at the pace he chose.

The shadow gate was standing there, dutifully, right where it always had been. He took another look over his shoulder at the landscape of Rhy'Din before spurring the mare forward toward the shadow gate. The horse was nervous - he knew this by the soft whicker it made - but she was a fearless animal in every regard. For himself, he was not nervous. Anxious, perhaps, but not nervous. Hard lines and sharp angles, masked in the wear of age and battlescars, made up his stoic countenance. His gray hair had been drawn back, bound by a simple brown leather cord, and left to hang in a loose tail.

The concept of taking the horse in through the dungeons of the Fortress was an amusing thought, though. Jodiah Ayreg often found humor in the oddest of places.

His appearance there in Rhilshen was without fanfare, but neither did it go unnoticed. Some moments later, flowing in with liquid-smooth grace and moving as if one entity, the crimson-haired Shel and Willow appeared before Alysia Skye.

At first, they spoke simultaneously, "Lord Ayreg has returned to the Fortress."

The sister grew silent, but Shel continued to speak, a lazy smile tugging at his lips, "He is in the stables, for the moment, browbeating the Master Keeper on proper care for his horse."

Then, as if flowing smoothly off the end of her brother's words, Willow continued on, "Though we suspect he will go to his quarters next to leave his belongings and wash the dust of his journey off. He can be found there."

As one, the sibling Bloodsingers spoke again, "Unless you wish to wait for him to present himself to you."

With a dull thud, the saddlebags were dropped to the ground. Once out of the dungeon (still a humorous concept to his mind), Harpy had been taken to be stabled, and Jodiah Ayreg went first to the quarters provided for him by the Emperess. His mind, ever a churning clockwork of gears and cranks and metal, thought over the current events in Rhy'Din and Rhilshen. Rhy'Din was... well, Rhy'Din. Things never truly seemed to change there when he was younger, and now? Now they have changed entirely.

People hated each other, yes, that much hadn't changed. Oh, a few could find solace within a few others, but in general it was nothing but angst between individuals or, perhaps, small clusters of individuals. Where were the wars? Where were the feuds, the bitter rivalries, and conflicts that shaped the Rhy'Din of old in a conflagration of blood and fire?

Rhy'Din... had gotten tame. What a horrifying thought.

Rhilshen, however, was not so tame. And, if he did not miss his guess, would grow to be considerably less tame sometime in the very near future. That was where he was going to go next - to see Alysia. He needed to inquire about the state of affairs since he's been gone. The information he gathered for her, basic as it was, no doubt should have pointed her strait to K?Thayne as a fireball just waiting to flow from a mage's fingers.

Perhaps she could handle things quietly with well-placed assassinations and politcial manueverings. A show of force to keep the quibbling provinces in line might head everything off and, so long as she kept that force, keep them very firmly under her stylish elven boot.

On the other hand, there could be civil war.

He was, indeed, still in his room touching up the burnish on his breastplate when he heard a knock at the door. The plate was removed, for the moment, though he still had the vambraces strapped on over his shoulders and upper arms, and the breastplate was laid out across the table he was bent over, rubbing vigorously at the metal cuirass where he found small scuffs and patches of dirt-dust and other miniscule debris from the road to the manor at Dark Lake. When not actively engaged in battle, even an old warhorse like Ayreg appreciated looking snappy in whatever it was he wore.

If it called for it, of course. The high-collared red coat? The plate-and-mail? These would be kept looking as sharp as possible, but even he slummed it from time to time in his leather vest and chain undershirt. One didn't have to dress up to enjoy a gulp of swill, after all.

He leaned up from the table, wiping the back of his hand over his forehead quickly. I am getting old, he thought, if even polishing a suit of armor makes me sweat.

His voice was much the same as ever it was, though. Rough and calloused; low without being soft. A file scraping long and slow over an exposed length of bone, flaking away bits and pieces to the ground beneath.

"Enter."

And, then, he resumed cleaning his armor. Idly, he wondered where his pipe was at.

Alysia Skye's entrance was caught in the corner of his eye. Suitably, he straightened his posture and turned around toward her. Shoulders rolled back, spine straight -- this man had a keen sense of propriety, did he not?

?Are you sure you wouldn't rather retire to a life of quiet contemplation at Taiva??

Time for propriety to go out the window. Jodiah Ayreg's head tilted just a bit, then shook. Half-turning away from her, he folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the edge of the sturdy table that his armor was laid out upon.

"I'll retire when I'm dead, Alysia. I think you, of all people, should know and appreciate that fact."

Turning his head, the gray-haired warrior looked out the window into the city of Rhilshen sprawling out beneath the Temple-turned-Fortress. He stared hard, those vividly green, nearly-inhuman eyes watching for... something. Perhaps only he knew exactly what.

"No. Taiva is in good hands with Master Dulmor. My place is where the conflict sparks. Know this, though, Alysia..."

He turned his eyes back to her, then.

"Rhilshen will descend rapidly into the fire. Wether civil war or another Twilight War, or both, remains to be seen. It can be avoided, perhaps, but I only hope your skill in political maneuverings and knife-work are up to the challenge. Otherwise?"

Rising up off the edge of the table, his arms drop again to his sides. Swordbelt was lifted, and Ayreg's hand wrapped around the custom-made Flaydskin grip wrapped 'round the hilt. In a singular motion, he drew the weapon out from its scabbard, and held it up between them, almost in the posture of one duelist saluting another. Faint wisps of mist rose off the cold, icy blade, vanishing into the air.

"...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. Not the dagger in the night, or the poison in the plate of his followers. And for that?"

Jodiah Ayreg swept his arm off to the side, turned his wrist, and slid the Frostbrand effortlessly back into its scabbard.

"For that, I'll need every ounce of health and youth that I can. For that, I'll need you."

The priestess watched Ayreg, noting the carefully disguised and grim stiffness in his movements as he turned toward the open window. As he spoke of the need for someone to watch his back, distant movement and flashes of color outside caught her eye: the surrounding city of Rhilshen was festively adorned with banners colored to match the vibrant reds and golds of dying sylvan raiment. She half-smiled at the bitter symmetry, nodded as the death knight turned to face her.

"If it requires three days of fasting, then I'll take Harpy back into Rhy'Din, and busy myself with that task. I'll return on the third day, and then... then we can get down to the business of securing your nation," Ayreg said. "Is this agreeable to you, Alysia?"

"That is agreeable," answered the Priestess. She pressed her fingertips together, offering him a formal bow and a grave smile. "Three days, Jodiah. You'll find me in my tower, upon your return."