The 16th of Kythorn, Year of the Staff

A strange message

Lorathon walked the path away from the Druid's grove. He was going over in his mind what he would say to Coren's father, a meeting he was dreading, considering his history with Coren. They had always been at odds, and tales of their contention were almost legendary, although there was always an undercurrent of respect between them in ragards to their prowess. Suddenly a noise caused his head to snap up, making his hand dart toward his sword.

The young messenger before him gave a startled yelp of dismay and Lorathon suddenly found himself in a stance, his body turned to offer only his profile, allowing him to use a draw-cut that could spilt his attackers knee or lop off his head with equal ease. He broke out in a cold sweat, not realizing that he was so lost in his own thoughts that he really could have hurt the poor boy by reflex alone. He slid the half-drawn blade back into its sheath and eased his hands out to his sides, apologizing.

After a bit of coaxing, the boy regained his composure and Lorathon gave him a winning smile as he tousled the boys hair. The boy handed him a folded parchment sealed with a blob of wax with no mark upon it and he gave the boy three gold peices.

Marveling at the exorbitant tip, the boy thanked him and quickly sped off the way he came while Lorathon opened the message.

"By the fountains at noon." Was all it said.

A Message recieved

It was some hours after the party at Hawksong manor; Lorathon was in his rooms hurriedly packing. Next to his cloak on the table was the letter he had received earlier outside the druids grove. His eyes paused over it briefly before snatching up his glass-steel dagger and settling it in place on his belt. His father was the only one he had allowed to see the note. He still couldn’t believe it, after Lohrderon read the letter he told him the daggers origins. It had come from ancient Eaerlann where his family began. It was the key to finding…

There was a soft rap at the door before it swung open silently to reveal a tall figure in a deep crimson cloak. The lamplight avoided the face as the figure stepped into the room. Lorathon looked as the hood fell to reveal his sister Phaelorna. Her hair fell about her shoulders in a glowing cascade of molten silver, and her penetrating grey eyes were the hard pearly luster of freshly polished steel. As she had entered, she threw her cloak over her shoulder revealing a rare marvel of Elven craft; Elven full plate armour, masterfully and intricately crafted it was as if its owner wore a second skin. The pommel of her bastard sword, Darkbane, sat above her shoulder and Lorathon felt its presence despite its being sheathed.

“Ready little brother? The tall woman asked, arching an eyebrow.

“Yes”, he replied, hoping he had included everything in his note to Selenne. He had apologized at his abrupt departure, assuring her that his mission, though secret, would ultimately serve her cause and gods willing, they would meet again someday.

Phaelorna turned toward the door, cloak swirling about her. Her armour made no sound as she moved and at the threshold she paused, “Father knows?”

Lorathon nodded, she had been very explicit on that point, that father knew but no one else. Phaelorna turned once again and strode through the door pulling up her hood as she went. Going over in his mind the items and instructions he had been given by his father, Lorathon turned and looked at his room one last time as he had before setting off to find Selenne and her companions, said a prayer, and left.

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