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As was the usual he was allowed out of Vrist with a fuss...all wanting to know his business. And as usual he was stone silent...his silence usually earned him a slap or two but it also accomplished his goal of getting out. If he fed them up enough they let him go. Why not just kill him? He was a good warrior and good breeding material, that's why. Though they didn't know about his...preferred class in which he excelled in and had for years.

Long dark winding tunnels lead from the Drow city of Vrist that laid under the surface of Daimos. He walked without help of light, his dark vision easily making it a casual stroll through the park so to speak. Behind him was the clack of little claws but her didn't seem to mind at all. Almost like he was comfortable with the sound. He followed the dark passages that gently sloped upward and then leveled out. At the end of the leveled path was a heavily bared door with guards posted. Males, war fodder should those gates ever be breeched. They only looked at him once as he opened the doors and stepped through.

Only to behold the inside of the Vrist Outpost. Just as dark and uninviting as the rest of the Underdark, one would probably think they never left Vrist. Various classes of Drow lounged around, predominately war fodder males and a few high level priestesses. Also a few Underdark savvy creatures. Each were doing various things but all glanced around with suspicion in their eyes. Trust was an uncommon thing to drow.

"Going out again Sevilin?"

"I intend to hunt Ithil'Quessir." A smirk at that...though the elf questioning him didn't seem to hold the action too highly. Whether he think it useless of time or he was afraid of retaliation, Sevilin couldn't tell. So without further hindrance he pushed out the doors and stepped onto the surface of the Andal plane. Soft grasses grew right up to the doors, but never beyond.

He blinked, tilting his head upward to gaze at the night that had fallen over Andal. The moon hung overhead almost as if to mock him in it's revered brilliance. But his attention turned at the tugging on the long braid of hair he sported on one side. Again he looked comfortable with the action.

A little creature was climbing up the Drow's hair. Black with silver markings, it's body long and low kept. Red eyes matched the red runic mark on it's forehead. The little ferret climbed easily in practiced manner till it was high enough to leap to Sevilin's shoulder where he perched as if it were a natural action. His name was Nym. A familiar of sorts without a really being one. In his mouth he held a little scroll which was taken from him.

The message was written in Drow by a Drow's hand, though he knew no Drow had intended the words from themselves. A message from someone he had become acquainted with in an odd way...had developed a sort of truce with. His reasons for allowing such a thing being only his self benefit. Sightings of a certain Ithil'Quessir royal on the Requias Peninsula gave him an excuse to go topside and perfect his arts which were forbidden to his gender down below in Vrist. Damn matriarchal society. The cold war over the Peninsula wasn't as useless as he'd always thought it to be.

Inthara,
I have for you a request and an opportunity. What you may ask? I request you do a job to a friend and in that request is presented an opportunity for your own benefit. Free, safe, granted passage off the Andal plane and to another to preform this task. Personally I can not tell you how long your services are required, or if you will find favor in the plane. I can tell you that it is in the Underdark, but the Drow societies aren't heavy in their influence. I ask a conference with you this night on Requias.
Silvercrest

Tucking the scroll away in his robes he walked easily across the fields under the cover of darkness to the shores of Daimos. From here one could see the land of Lucana, more specifically the Requias Peninsula. The water was shallow between the two places, only about fifty feet deep. Walking the shoreline he came to a small dock with a boat tied to it. Stepping in and untying it, grabbing the paddle provided he started out across the water.

As silent as a viper and as unnoticeable, the boat parted the clear blue waters as he made his way over the calm glass. Quiet reigned as it had on land...the lands of the drow were always quiet though. None dared to make a sound for fear of their wrath at the annoyance. Yet nearing the opposing shore, the sounds of nocturnal creatures could be heard. Soon enough the bow of the little boat sunk easily into soft shore sand and it's two occupants left it where it landed, heading toward the plateau's that made up the land. An elven carved staircase led up the side of the cliffs and to it's flat top.

There he began his search. The land was sparse with trees and low ground vegetation seemed to be the predominate foliage, mostly hilly and rocky. Then again it was part of Lucana what was one to expect? Though it wasn't just wilderness...everynow and then a small encampment would pop up. Lo and behold, all the beings were Drow in nature. Both the "evil" chaos lusting ones who ventured from Vrist for something or other, and also the Drow that managed themselves away from Vrist, with their lives, to try and follow a different cultural path all their own. Needless to say the former loved to hunt down the latter. Traitors they were often called, these "good" Drow.

Sevilin took his time in his searching...Silvercrest was a strange one. Surface elf with a passion for studies...his main studies being the Drow. Truly intriguing in a respectable way. Cold hearted Drow Sevilin may of been, but that was what he was molded into from birth. Though his ideals differed. He had learned a taste of life without that ever nagging oppression by the females of his race. And had actually come to loathe the ways he once clung to so tightly. He was young then, out trying to prove himself as a killing machine. Instead he fond something that truly he found worthy of his attentions, and that was being a rune mage.

Now, a few centuries later, he was a proficient killing machine and secretly a master rune mage. Did he trust Kieran? Perhaps in the slightest aspect...and only because Kieran has a certain respect for him. Truly an odd acquaintance ship they had. But this request and opportunity...it intrigued him like nothing had before. Ability to leave the plane and possibly never have to come back to the filthy excuse that Vrist, and all of Andal in his opinion, was.

Red eyes side glanced movement at a rock outcropping. Nym on his shoulder chittered and dropped down his clothing to the ground where he slunk across it, body arched and quick in his steps, disappearing behind the rocks. A moment later Silvercrest would step out, Nym on his forearm eating some random thing the elf had given him. He spoiled that creature.

Kieran regarded Sevilin as they always did. Serious looks and a nod to each other. He set the little rune affected ferret down and watched him skitter back to the Drow, climbing back up him and taking his usual perch. Nym was the only thing that he knew Sevilin trusted...and if it wasn't for the creature they probably wouldn't be having this talk right now.

"Well Silvercrest? I don't have all night...what is it that you speak of in this letter you sent me? I have to say...passage off the plane is a very nice bartering chip on your part." Why? Because he was Drow. There were planes gates in Vrist, but only the priestess, who some doubled as rune mages, were allowed near them at all. For a male Drow who preferred his rune mage skills to his other it was like he just inherited a mithril mine.

"Bear with me and listen. I can indeed guarantee you the passage off the plane and you can hold me to my word on it." He cleared his throat a moment. "In the Underdark of another plane, my future son in law-"

"You want me to lend assistance to surface elves? What are they doing in the Underdark...they should learn to stay where knives won't be plunged into then from any side at any time." It was a partial warning to Kieran as well, a blatant statement that he didn't trust him.

"He is not surface born. His name is D'vinn and he is of a Drow branch know as the Tier'Dal. His society is not Llothian, meaning that the matriarchal workings of your kind are not in place an-"

He was cut off again by the Drow's laughter. Harsh, scolding, and mocking as any Drow's was. "Your daughter is marrying a Drow? Dare I say you've gone mad Silvercrest. You expect me to..." help was not the word, he didn't help things, "...provide my skill for some Drow who finds his bed and child bearing fodder in a surface elf?"

Kieran had to try really hard to keep his expression straight. "You'd be surprised how strong us surface elves can be, in every sense of the word." Dealing deals with Drow was never easy, they always had their two cents to put in. "He requests a rune mage...you want nothing of your kin...I'd say it a fine deal."

"Passage off a plane is fine for half the deal but how do you plan on compensating me on the other half? What if I wish to stay there? What if I do agree to give my services?" Oh hell yes he was expecting to be paid or something very close to it. Had to make a living after all...and raiding did get old sometimes and other times it didn't prove fruitful.

Damn. Sevilin had him there...he should of brought that topic up with Malik. "You have to work that deal with D'vinn. It's his want of you, not mine. All I have to urge your compliance is use of a plane gate....or id there something you could want that would make your compliance that much easier?"

Now there was something that was worth listening to. "Suppose...this deal goes sour on me...and I wish to leave that plane, but to not come back here. I need somewhere to go and I need the tools to do so." He smirked at Kieran's raised eyebrow...oh yeah Kieran knew what he was going to ask for. "I know you've plans hopped. I want gate components and I also want a few access crests to other planes. Either I have those or no deal at all.

Hm...Sevilin was making sure he got what he wanted did he? Kieran considered for a moment...he knew one Drow could bring about the downfall of a plane if determined enough...especially one refined in runic arts that nobody else could comprehend or manipulate. But to him, the streak in Sevilin spoke not of planes conquest but more of simple isolation from his culture. Even if he went about plane dominating, he'd grow bored of it. "Deal Inthara. I'll get you what you want."

A smirk from the Drow as he leaned against his staff pole-arm combination, the other hand idly reaching up to his shoulder to scratch at Nym. "Good dealings are so pleasurable to have, are they not?" He liked irritating Kieran to no end. "Tell me...when can I expect demands to be met and to depart this wretched place?"

"Give me three days time. Also know that where you go, time is two days behind the flow of Andal."

"What is time to those in the Underdark but a moment spent not doing something to further yourself?" True enough, many paid little attention to time in the Underdark, save if they had an agendas to keep. Grasping his weapon in both hands, he smirked at Kieran. "Now...I'm feeling merciful...I'll give you a ten second head start...just to make things interesting." No, he wasn't kidding about hunting Kieran at all. Someone had to chase the blasted elf back to his own. Runes lit up along the staff pole-arm.

Kieran smirked once...then pivoted on his boot heel and took off like no tomorrow. He had no doubt that if Sevilin ever caught him, he'd be in a whole mess of trouble. But all he had to do was outrun the drow and the range of his runes. A fitting end to a well done meeting he supposed.

For any unweary person, this journal entry reflects my obsesiveness with one of my old characters, it was written about a year ago to reflect his inner turmoil or something. It doesn't matter anymore, but it still some decent daydreaming.

My eyes grew heavy, my limbs stiff, my breathing rhythmic. Then, I was lost to the world...

I have always feared sleep, for in my dreams my past comes alive. To close my eyes is to invite death, to fall into my memories is to invite pain, to sleep once more is my eternal suffering.

But, as I gave all that was left of my energy to a friend, I found myself unable to resist the lull of sleep no longer. My spirit was finished fighting the temptation, and the ground began to claim my body. The sweet bliss that is sleep is not a gift for me, forever have my dreams been nothing more than my memories of the day before, a continuation of my torture. The horror that is my mind is never ending, the horror that is my past is over powering, but amongst these sheets I found none of those terrors in my dream.

I stood alone in my prison, amongst the brimstone and mythril bars, not a sound beyond me was herd, not the cries of my innocent friend, or the laughter of my devilish tormentors...

Alone at last, away from the pain, away from the suffering, away from my failure...

My failure? Perhaps my eternal unrest is nothing more than my guilt for failing my closest friend in our escape. Perhaps my dreams will not let me rest because I do not think I deserve any. My will is an extension of my deepest regrets, my sorrow is a burden that I carry, not because I wish not to let go, but there is little else in my past.

I have been alive for 105 years, but I am 222 years old. How is that possible, how does that effect my mind, my capacity to dream or to slumber peacefully?

An answer not so difficult to find, as my mind from before my birth was most foully stolen from my spirit, erased never to return. The memories belong to someone else, anyway.

Am I glade that I can not remember the origins of my body, how I became to be hated by my enemy, how I was brought to this earth??

That is a very difficult question to answer. I fear that I am him, and not myself, and to know those memories would make me more of him, and less of me, and to become nothing more than a false elf.

I fear my dreams for a great many reasons, they bring me much unrest and distaste, and fill my soul with guilt... An incredible guilt...

Then, there is the fear that the other psions will feel my pain, will be filled with the sound of Rakka's screams, the sound of the beasts grunts, and my own destructive self. A cry of utter pain... I can not force that upon any one's mind, I will gladly send my self to Corellon's city before I ever let my emotions hurt another. The blood on my hands accumulates daily, but I shall not let my self-pity and guilt prevent me from protecting my new home. I will not be a tool for their despair, but an instrument of their survival. My life is forfeit should it ever be required.

My life, my own, mine... False as I might be in birth, true I must be in this false life, or forever shall I be a lie.

My eyes are still heavy, my soul sings within the darkness that is my mind, and I shall know peace, until I awaken from my slumber, and find my enemies have multiplied.

Aella's Bane

[Because artists can have more fun than those who can't draw: 2234 words]

Aella watched the waves break on the bow of the ship, her thoughts twirled over recent events. Meilikki was taken away from her while she was watching over Warren abord this ship, and in response she tried to find alternatives to search for her. The one person she believed that would search for Meilikki to no end, walk off into the wilds of the Dark, and rarely was seen by anyone other than that General who seemed to take charge after his disappearence. The Integrity was left alone, which made Aella feel more responisble for looking for Meilikki.

One thing lead to another, she found a tip, and then was subdued by the missing leader. Tarathiel had not been very happy with her abandonment of the ship, abandonment of her duty. In truth, she felt that Tarathiel had betrayed her, had betrayed Meilikki, had betrayed the principle of love. But then, it happened. She had one of those wierd heart to heart talks that Tarathiel generally reserved for Meilikki.

Tarathiel loved Meilikki so much, that he would simply kill her to protect her from pain. To the drow, that seemed like the only way to express his feelings for her, the only way he could love her. Death was not something that Tarathiel feeared, or at least he portrayed himself as not fearing it.

Onyx chased after Aella when she was called back to the ship. He was cornered by Tarathiel and the two commanding elves, and spoke of not judging books by their cover. Aella believed that his heart was probably in the right place, but she was not certain that she could sympathise with that. Tarathiel's face blurred out the memory of Onyx's sincerity, the drow's body pressed the winged vah out of her mind. Their skin so close to the same ebony shade, their violent disposition stunningly similar. The wilderness behind their eyes... Aella's connections between the Captain and Onyx surprissed her. How could two people behave so differently, but bare many of the same traits.

A sudden call from behind her brought her out of her contemplations. Tarathiel was standing beside Celeste, and looking straight at her. He didn't seem to be angry, nor did his wild soul cling tightly to his features. The drow watched her with those large red-purple eyes, like a man who cared for her, yet Aella did not trust that thought. IF he really cared for her, he would kill her. Taratheil did say himself, that he wanted her to live, but in his pesimistic 'I don't want you to die.'

Aella approached the captain, and looked into his face, and could feel many of her emotions swirling about her mind. Her hatred of her own weakness, her anger and regret of Meilikki's capture, the shame of her failure to duty, and the many other horror that traced her steps from her birth to now. Her dispondent mood was not lost on the captain, or was it. She could not decide. OVer his shoulder, Malik's home, where the Oracle now resided, was clearly cut out in the distance, the glow of the fortress eminating over the fields and reflecting off the stalagmites and stalagatites.

"We'll go see her soon. But first, we have some things to deal with." The drow said, Celeste sighed.

Celeste's reaction to the captain brought Aella's attention to her. She noticed that the elf wore an even drearier expression than normal. "Could we hurry this along?" Aella replied, her voice more venomus than she would have liked.

"Oh, a large group of ORks are very interested in Meilikki's new home. We can't keep it that way."

Aella turned her attention towards Tarathiel, and frowned, "You usually don't come to us for this type of thing."

"They are on a boat." HE replied, "A very well prepared boat."

"So, after the orcs are gone, I can go visit Meilikki." Aella said.

Tarathiel held up a bag, and gave it a small jingle. THe sound of stones cliicking gently passed Aella's ears. "I need someone to deliever these."

Aella's face light up, she would finally be able to see Meilikki since she got back from the cluches of that basterdly lich. Then, the half elf realized one slight flaw with this plan, "Who will be my escort?" She secretly hoped it would be Tarathiel, that would brighten up Meilikki's mood no matter how much torture she endured.

"I haven't decided." Replied the cocky elf. He turned his attention to Celeste, "You really don't have a problem with destroying some orks do you?" The elf shruged, and walked to the helm of the ship. The drow turned back to Aella, "This fight will not be so difficult." He smiled, rahter gently.

A few hours passed, when the enemy ship appeared of the starboard side of the elfish warship Integrity. It was a galleon, a heavy vessel probably strong enought to beach itself into the Triumverate fortress. Tarathiel didn't seem to care much, he did not look perplexed or worried whatsoever.

Aella was in the nest, watching out over the seas. She could barely make out the forms that moved about the ship, but her keen half-elvish eyes could at least distinguish the ship from other objects. As the gap between the two boats lessened, Aella could see the sailors more clearly. They were between six and seven feet tall she guess, about three evels thick across the shoulders. THese brutes looked like they meant business. She cluched her staff, and breathed lightly. She was not a complete vertren after all. The crew beneth her prepared for the fight, Elric climbed up into the nest with Aella, many quivers of arrow came along with him. He kindly told her to return to the deck, as she would be a better asset where she could use all of her abilities to their fulliest. The elf smiled kindly at her, as he placed the quivers along the wall of the nest, and on hooks placed up there for that specific purpose.

Once she was back on the deck, Aella noticed that Celeste was holding her hand out in front of her, staring into the reaches of space. Before she could ask what was happening, a volley of fireballs errupted from the flank of the ship, and stormed towards the eneny vessel. Tarathiel seemed to be plaesed by that, and when he noticed Aella's mild confusion, he simply said, "Only one elvish wizard did that barrage." The half elf shrugged, she really did not have anything to compare that too, so it was simply an unexpected event anyway.

A few minutes passed, and the battle was in full. The enemy seemed to be able to launch its own barraiges against the Integrity. The ships slowly drew closer together, firing various contraptions against one another, the smaller elfish ship taking a tremendous beating, while the larger ship seemed to dominate the firefight. The drow didn't seemed to be too concernered. When the galley was adjascent to the Integrity, Taratheil took out his whistle, and gave it a short blow. The opposite side of the galley suddently rose on an awkward angle, as Lavi leaped from the water knocking the ship astray.

Aella didn't know how to feel in this fight, it seemed more surreal than the invasion of Dimitri's castle, and her slaying of that flithy king. The half elf felt her hands grow slightly heavy. That was justice. The king had brought it upon himself. He deserved it. Her mind whirled in these repetative thoughts until Tarathiel roughly pushed her aside, as a large orkish axe cleaved where she was standing just a moment before.

"Wake up, Aella." The drow said as he cover her body with his own, arrows skidding about the boat and bouncing off his armour.

Aella looked up at Tarathiel and realized that she had been drawn away from the present and into her own emotional turmoil. She had abandoned her duty again, because she was so unbalanced by-

Aella lifted her stafe, and conjuored a small typhoon to knock the arrows away from her and Tarathiel. The later was able to gain some footing from her spell, and brought his swords to bare on any enemy who came too close. Glance upwards, Aella could see a rain of arrows from Elric in the crows nest. The battle was fierce, many dead bodies pileld on the smaller ship, mostly ork but a few from the crew.

Aella turned her thoughts to this moment, and pushed aside all her feelings and passions. Her fighting style did not emphasise rage or anger, but required her to contemplate her moves. It must have been hours, or days. Time seemed to be hastened. The bow of the Integrity sudden felt the over wighted rush of a small horde of orcs, each one intent on claiming the lives of the crew. Aella rushed over to suport that flank, but found that Tarathiel was dealing with the situation almost as quickly as it formed, she became little more than one of the extras watching a champion destroy the enemy. Tarathiel's skills truly were beyond her own. But she coudl still help the ship, just not here with Tarathiel. She turned her attention to where she could do the most damage with her skills. A plan came to mind. She coudld probably destroy the enemy vessel faster from the stern of the Integrity.

Aella ran across the vessel, avoiding fights where she could. She wanted to reserve her power for her attack. She smiled softly. When she reached the rear most part of the ship, the fighting at the other end was so intense her eyes could not follow Tarathiel's movements or keep track of which limb belonged to which orc. She didn't allow herself to be distracted for too long, she could trust that Tarathiel would kill ever ork that boarded this ship. She held her staff before her, and concetrated all of the energy she could spare into it, and then released a blast of energy so strong it burst through the hall of the galleon. It faded several metres into the ship, but the damage was significant enough to allow water to pour in. Aella was quite pleased with herself for being so useful. SHe looked about, and realized that it would take a few minutes for that ship to sink, so she concentrated her efforts on defending the ship.

Celeste was at the helm, defending the driver from enemies with various magical attacks. Aella decided that she should join up there, as magical energies could be depleted, and when that happened Celeste might be in a bind. The half elf walked the few feet to join up with the captain of the Integrity, who's only acknowledgement was a subtle smile towards Aella. Aella accepted that, and turned her attention imediately to the problems at hand. The orks were not as thick on this end of the ship, as most were bording by Tarathiel. Aella did not understand why until she noticed that Elric's attacks were focused more towards the stren of the ship. Many orks did try to board on this end, they just never made it very far between the ships. She felt somewhat relieved, yet some how, underestimated.

Out of the corner of her eye, she spoted trouble. One of the few orcs to make the jump across, leveled a crossbow at Celeste, and fired. Aella steped in the path, and felt a sharp p***k in her back, but not much more. She turned and rushed him, bashing him quite effectively with her staff. The ork fell over, and her arm seemed to be falling with it, but it never reached the ground. The danger of her wound started to drag at her mind. Her breathes became laboured, and she could barely keep her feet beneath her own body. Aella decided that she was overreacting, it was just her mind trying to prevent her from partaking in the fight, it was her excuse to leave this duty, her excuse to run away to Meilikki where she could be safe in the blind woman's arms.

She gazed outwards, her vision was shakening like the boat when set against he current, or resting in a harbour. She flet her body growing increasingly heavy. The mast of the enemy ship dipped below her line of sight, but she could not tell if she fell over, if it sank beneath the sea. Her body was heavy, so very heavy. Her eyes felt heavy, Aella felt very cold. A black skinned man appeared before her, the ebony as dark as the night sky behind him, his hair contrasted with the skin, making his eyes shine.

"Aella?" The voice said, very distant from her mind.

Aella fell forward, arms wrapped gently about her, but she could nto feel them. She tried to speak, she tried to call out, she tried to say something. But nothing came, her eyes felt heavy, the only thing she could look at were the re-purple orbs.. Lavender orbs... Ambre orbs. Suddenly, she felt very alone. Who was holding her?

"Aella, its me. Your Captain." The voice spoke again.

Aella tried to turn her head upwards, but could not manage it. She desperately wanted to ask who he was, but she could not speak. Her eyes closed.

Not all creatures born, were meant to be. Some are from the mixing of various parent races, creating a new offspring that carries the genes from both. When a kelf is born, he carries with him a deeper understanding of life, than had his mother given birth to her own kind. His mind would connect to hers when she was asleep, he would learn from her dreams, and interpret the world. He could sense her emotions, her excitements, he wants and desires, he could understand her language, her thoughts, and most of all, her soul. He was not simply born, but given life. He was not simply a child from her flesh, but a child of her mind and soul as well.

With that in mind, the elfish blood would dominate over the child's physical being. The felinistic features of the mother could be noted in the tail,ears, and eyes but the rest would take from the father. Elves are born from the blood of a god, and as such they carry with it a dominace over other species, especially those born from the will of a god. Thus the kelves of Nelphean and Bastet of Nightblade, have the pretense of claws but the build of an elf.

Their physical growth would not be as slow as an elf, nor as quick as a cat. They would mature much the same as an elf may, being so intuned with the world prior to birth. But, since they have within their blood the will to stand, the wantoness to survive, and the need to be free, they tend to have an almost humanesk rate of growth.

Within five years, the kelf could behave as a human child may. By their tenth birthday, they would be as keen as an adultlessent. By their sixteenth birthday, they yearn for the respect an adult might recieve. They have grown to the extent that they will, and have shown the qualities of their souls and the preferences of their lives.

A hint within each child would be the mother. A desire for what the mother desired in life, or a subtle hint of sublime joy from that which the mother sought most.

Given the father, they would need to be tought. How to relate to a person they never knew in birth, nor felt the keen sensation of a connection until they felt the warmth of his flesh for the first time. He would have to be careful with them, for they would be imposed to the mother. Any hint of animosity would have them fearing or rejecting him. Thus the father must be warm and loving, or forever lose his child.

Of Nelphean and Bastet's children, the one who most desired to be like the mother was the second son, Drizzt. Cloe and Mankah each seemed to be more distant from wanting to be as the mother, with Mankah wishing to be exactly like the father. Cloe, on the other hand, was born with a gift that only an uncle (perhaps two), could understand fully.

From birth, Drizzt seemed the most open to exploration, Mankah reluctant and rather much a father's child. Cloe never cared much for anthing beyond being cuddled by everyone she meet. As they grew older, Drizzt found himself the most often at the end of two ravenous Vah's exploits, where his sibblings seemed most often spared. Mankah began picking and destroying locks in the catacombs, and Cloe learned that she liked to bake cookies. Some more time passed, and the children learned of adulthood. Cloe felt that she could not sleep well at night, as her mind was full of mixed emotions and terrible memories (none of which she personally had). Mankah would learn magic for hours, and fence with his uncles and father for days. Drizzt was keen on the wilderness, and desired to see the greatest forests known to him (in a land his Uncles called 'Advoneria'). His desire soon lead to him seeking that place, and returning far older than when he had left (Earth days pass far slower than a day on Advoneria). He came home after what he had thought been a hundred years, not expecting to see much of his old life only to discover that nothing had changed save the position of the sun.

Soon we shall learn of what a kelf and an elf may produce.

Cyrus joined the largest Tent, as he was a special guest within the garrison. His strange looks and strange behaviour made him vulnerable to a gerat many evils, such as over working and being over worked. His simpleton-like mannerism quickly earned him a reputation of being rather soft. His weapon was never seen used or even held. His armour became rather scruffy as the town did not have the means to keep it polished to its shimmering shine. But, he seemed genuinly happy living as a farmer. His outlandish guestures and questions were very awestriking to the local garrison to the point where he often took the centre stage simply because everyone knew he had something interesting to say.

The way he compared everything to the army caused some tension, but often it was meet with laughter and jest. Cyrus discovered that he misconcieved the ages, and the children were not parasites seeking to destroy the tentmates, but a means of replenishing the ranks. Growing children much the same way you grow the fields. Cyrus was relieved to discover he was wrong. He confessed his intention to kill them all to save the tentmates from destruction, which caused a weary eye to fall upon him.

As enjoyable as Cyrus' time with the garrison was, he truly felt a sense of enriching pleasure from the company of the daughter of the Prefect. She was named after a flower. She was betrothed to the second Prefect's son, and was the sibling to the first Optio. She liked to tend to the flowers and vegtibles that grew in a small courtyard near the largest house. She was always smiling, and always cheerful. Her eyes held within them the grace and gentle nature of the billions of stars on a clear summer's night. Cyrus found himself so engrossed in her and her pressence, that he would often make a point to be near her.

This aroused jealousy in her perspective husband, who grew uneasy with rage each day. A poisonous asp he was to Cyrus, and coincidently the one who hit the soldier with a shovel. He would often boast of how he defeated the soldier, and puff out his chest each time he could. Cyrus did not seem to care or mind, as he was used to such treatment from the officers in the army. The Optio's actions and attitude seemed to create a rift in his relationship with the beautiful girl, and that rift seemed to be filling with the warmth and kindness of Cyrus. This offended the officer greatly.

No one knows how long it was, from when Cyrus first appeared to when he left. But the time between those two points were filled with much love, affection, and learning to be one with the earth. Cyrus grew very fond of the sleepy little town, so very fond.

The soldiers marched across the land, much as they always had. But instead of simply passing through the town as they normally had for many years, they formed lines, and held out their weapons. The local garrison did not hesiate to form their own lines and make a rucus before the long, and thick lines of soldiers. Cyrus' blank faced expressed his inability to comprehend the actual actions. Hindsight would have him change sides, and die alongside the garrison he loved, but in his youth he was not so able minded.

The two armies clashed, and the local garrison proved no equal to the surreal enemy soldiers. Hits that would fell an ox had no effect on the soldiers, and in turn, any minor attack seemed rather devistating on the side of the peasents. The battle must have lasted fifteen minutes, before every single defender was dead. Cyrus was near the centre of the file, in the front row. He slew many of the villagers himself, including the Prefect and Optio serving him. He walked through the weak lines, not thinking much about it. He body was a weapon, and it certainly did not require commands to wage war with others. He was the first to reach the end of the defender's block. He stood there and watched the garrison. The woman and children were all huddled about the windows, watching in disbelief as their men and older yougths died by the score.

Cyrus tilted his head, and watched them carefully as he had always done in the past. Soon, he was joined by the rest of his cohort. THe lines likewise were at a loss. They were told to kill the rebels, they assumed the rebels were the enemy soldiers. Thus, the women and rest of the folk were allowed to live. The Prefect gathered the lines together and marched back to the barracks, but Cyrus found his feet glued to the ground. As his commrades in arms faded into the distance, the woman folk and children rushed from their huts and into the open where their loved ones lay slain.

Only one villager did not run to the field. She stopped at Cyrus, and fell into his bloodied armour, kicking and screaming. Cyrus had killed her family, and her friends. Cyrus had destroyed her way of life. Cyrus was evil.

Cyrus could not comprehend what was going through the girl's mind. He stood there for a long time. Eventually, the girl fell to the ground, and slumbered uneasily. Cyrus lifted her easily, and took her to her room. He lay her on the straw bed, and watched her sleep. When she awoke, he was still there, standing over her.

"Why?" She asked, "Why did you kill them?"

"I was ordered to by my Lord." Cyrus replied, thinking the question stupid and without merrit.

"Why did you not say no?" She asked, her eyes filling with tears.

"Why would I say no to my Lord?" Cyrus replied. "I do everything my Lord tells me, even serve only other Lords."

"You murdered them... You merdered them all..." The woman broke into tears.

"I fought for my Lord, and they fought against him. They lost. They died." Simple, and containing all the logic of his kin, Cyrus explained the situation to the girl.

"War..."

"It was war."

"I hate War, I hate Warriors, I hate you." Exclaimed the girl emphatically. "I will kill you. Go away." She pushed Cyrus towards the door. "Go.. I don't want to see you anymore. I want to kill you. I want to be your murderer. I want to be the war that ends you."

Cyrus felt something wierd in the back of his throat. Something that tingled and streched towards his hips. It spread from their to his limbs, eventually stopping in his chest, where it seemed to 'hurt' the most. Cyrus turned his back on the girl, and did as she requested. He walked down the road towards his barracks, and upon reaching the halfway point, he turned on a right angle and walked that direction instead. He could no longer serve his Lord. He could no longer trust his Lord, or respect his Lord, or love his Lord. Cyrus had to move away, very far away. To a place and time where he would not be a stepping stone in the wars of the gods, but merely a tool for war for the Farmers. Oh, how Cyrus yearned to return to the simple times that were not long ago, but would become infinately in his past. He would never be able to escape wars, he would never be able to settle and grow life. He could never return to the simple life he wanted, nor could he escape the ghost of that event which haunted him.