EPILOGUE

"What did you say your name was, again?"

"Naris," the hooded traveler lied.

"Well, Naris." the silver-haired man who had named himself Alfwaer said to her. "You are rather... sturdy looking... for a sorceror."

It was true.  Naris was strongly built for a human female, if rather plain looking.  She was, in fact, downright nondescript- brown haired and brown eyed, garbed in dun colored robes and cloak.  The only thing that stuck out about her was the finely wrought silver pin tucked into her hair, just barely visible beneath the sorceror's low slung hood.

"I thought your kind were supposed to be more... charismatic."

The speaker's smugness was starting to wear on her.  She wondered whether she might simply incinerate him where he sat.

A woman who looked nearly identical to the dark robed man, right down to the same obnoxious silvery white hair, leaned forward.  The sorceror could feel the chill in the woman's aura right through the stifling heat of the inn's common room.

"You must forgive my brother," she said.  "We mean no disrespect to you, Naris.  As an adventuring troupe we must take care for whom we take into our company.  You see, on our last excursion, our arcane caster  proved himself entirely unequal to the task at hand."

"And so now you need a replacement," the sorceror supplied. "or, rather, you need an upgrade."

"Precisely," the woman replied.

Naris smiled ruefully.  She spread her hands out flat on the wooden table before her, then remained motionless.  Flames limned the sorceror's eyes as the light in the room seemed to shrink and the shadows grow and deepen.  The scent of ozone hung heavy in the air, with an acrid promise of mayhem following close behind.

"Charismatic enough for you?"

The woman smiled ruefully in return.  The sorceror leaned back and the warming light of the common room carefully crept back from hiding.

"An upgrade, indeed.  What say you all?"

The group's burly warrior, who had heretofore remained silent, answered first.

"Bjor Olafssun votes yes."

"Alfwaer Alarik votes yes," the slayer added shortly thereafter.

The cold woman went last.

"Solvi Alarik votes yes."

"Welcome to the Esoteric Order of-" the young oracle's hand instantly touched her brother's forearm, cutting him off before he could complete his salutation.

"-the White Wolf," the silver-haired woman smoothly interjected, her pale eyes never leaving the disguised half-orc.

We are all liars here, Naaruz the Witherer mused silently to herself, then said "Wonderful.  When do we get started?"


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Constable Dreng watched as the skiff slowly approached the main dock of Hannsport.  The sailing vessel anchored offshore bore the royal pennons of the kings of Viborg.

The king had sent an ambassador.

All the members of the village council waited on the docks.  All except the half-orc archer, who had returned to the forested mountains to pay his debt to the Spirit of the Woode.  Most of the villagers had gathered further down the dock to see the spectacle.

Dreng watched as the members of the delegate exited the skiff and assembled on the broad pier.  The one who would be the ambassador moved through the group to the front, her embroidered hood preventing the southern guardsman from seeing her face.

She stepped before Lord Donaghast, and each bowed slightly in unison.

"I am Sir Donaghast, Lord of Hannsport and paladin of St. Cambrace the Redeemer," he began in the formal tradition.  "I welcome you to our lands and offer you our hospitality."

The tall woman drew back her hood.

"I am N'Diaye Dreng, Countess of Isunda and paladin of the Radiant Orb," she replied.  "I come to you as envoy of our sovereign, his grace Sigfrid, the Fourth of his Name, King of Viborg and Lord of all the North.  In his name, we accept your hospitality."

The warriors clasped arms and a great cheer went up from all who had gathered.

Only Mamadou Dreng held back.  He had not known that his sister had come to the north.  He had no idea why she would have left her place at the Chancel of the Radiant Orb.  She was also now a countess in these lands, as well as a trusted enough advisor to the king that she served as his ambassador in this place.  She also still wore the armor of a servant of the sacred flame.

As he considered these things, N'Diaye's inscrutable gaze fell on him.  He knew the look, and did not like what it implied.  He would speak to Lord Donaghast privately as soon as the opportunity arose.

N'Diaye Dreng

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Josie took one last look back at the village before she departed.  She knew she would not need to return to Hannsport for many a season, if at all.  The land had finally passed from the cursed bloodline of the Kells, as it should have long, long ago.

With the death of Davin Kell, both of her parents were now interred in the sacred soil of the hawthorn grove.  She hoped that her mother, Lady Genevieve, would once again be her father's saving grace, this time into eternity.

With no further ties binding her to this land, she weighed her options.  She could literally go anywhere she pleased.

"North it is," she said aloud to herself after a moment of further reflection, humming her favorite saga as she headed off down the trail.

Josie Nightingale

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Moghash stood once again in the central clearing at the edge of the woode.  It was the first time he had returned since the defeat of the Splintered Skull.  He had felt the call, and he had come to fulfill his oath.  As he waited, he could feel the presence of the Spirit of the Woode fill the open space around the central pool.

It is mete and right that you have answered the call, Arvae'nath of the Valinesti. Today you shall fulfill your obligation.

 In payment of your debt to this one, you will replenish the line of your forebears.  Although the line is nearly spent after so many great losses, the results of this day shall set the elves of your clan back on to the path of prosperity.

Moghash took a moment to consider what the spirit meant.  How was such a thing even possible with an insubstantial spirit, he wondered?

Not in the way he thought, as it happened.  In time, the fruit of their union would come to take up the ancestral bow of the Valinesti, and lead them into the future for many years to come.

The Heir of the Valinesti

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Emune the Fey ran her finger disapprovingly across the dusty lid of a stone sarcophagus slab.  Humans were so morbid when it came to their dead.

Emune the Fey

“And why are we down here, Naissa?”

“I am curious, lover,” the young woman answered, unhelpfully.

Naissa Mirian

“I don’t think Abbie March would appreciate your nosing around in her family’s crypts.”

“I am not nosing around,” the wizard indignantly replied. “I am merely investigating. When Jhessa March came down here, she raised an army of the unliving.  I am concerned that some remnant of the negative energies she drew upon may still linger about.  You see,--”

As Naissa droned on about some obscure arcane theory or another, the words all bleeding incomprehensibly together, Emune drew her slender, curved blade from its sheath.  She inspected the weapon’s edge as closely as she could, desperately trying to stave off an overwhelming wave of boredom.  When that failed, she resorted to staring at the walls, in the hope that somehow it would help...

“What’s this, then?” the drow-blooded woman remarked suddenly.  A slight crease in the nearest wall had caught her sharp elven eyes.  Gesturing to the spot, Naissa moved across the crypt to inspect Emune's discovery.

Naissa pressed in on the sconce, and a concealed panel in the stone wall slowly slid open, revealing a most unusual sight.