"An Ivory Tale, Chapter Four: Poetry, Jokes and Birds" by Toni J Kaukinen

It always pleases the author to see someone choke on one's scalding hot tea and biscuits due to an action or a spoken word on his behalf. Ah, there I was, sitting opposite to the Dondrean king with an extremely smug smile on my face and a cup of good tea in front of me. I had, as the saying goes, come from absolutely nowhere (though in all honesty, I had simply walked up to the table past the chatting bodyguards, to whom I was a familiar face, and promptly sat down regardless of startled looks), and was there the very moment he sipped his tea to wash down a few biscuits. The choking reaction was due to my undoubtedly chipper and sweet "Good morn" and his startled glance up at me.
        "Good Lord, Varus!"
        "I am, or at the least I do like to carouse myself with the thought."
        He lifted his cup and looked at me, clearly having trouble conjuring up the words he wanted to say - or then, and this was a more prominent option, he knew not what to say.
        Yet, finally: "Amanda had a fit over your little stunt."
        "And you?"
        "After she - or, well, the storm had subsided."
        I chuckled.
        He held back his reply for a moment, regarding me in a slightly relieved and contemplative manner. "We were that offending?" he finally asked, and managed with four words to utter an apology that he never knew to be one.
        Instead of answering him with a few words he may or may not have believed to hold true, I opened my satchel and slapped the pages I had written during my absence on the table. "You would too easily brush a direct answer aside, I fear. But, you read well and question only after having formed an opinion, so I shall trust your judgment. So, read."
        He quirked an eyebrow, glanced at the paper and glanced at me. "Was that just a compliment?" Ottaviano asked, with a bit of self-deprecating humour I had come to expect from him on mornings. He was, well, is a much more amiable fellow in the morning for reasons I have yet to comprehend.
        "More of a sign of forgiveness," I replied in an almost non-chalatant manner and eyed the short-haired, bearded man just past his twenty-fifth season. (Yes, this is to please you, Amanda - I acknowledge your victory over his long hair, and in any case, he is showing a bald spot in the back of his head already... and the short hair does look quite good on him, I must admit.)
        He grunted, and did not even bat an eye as I ordered myself a roll with plenty of butter to complement the tea: he as already reading with gusto more suitable for a man about to have his first meal in two days. Occasionally he would frown, occasionally he would chuckle; at times, he would look up at me with askance, then grunt and mumble something as I declined to answer by any other means than a smirk or, even, a grin.
        Finally, after I had downed several cups of tea and his had turned cold, he leaned back, produced his pipe and lit it. "You know," he said and brushed his scalp with his hand, "that bit about the graves was oddly familiar."
        "Oh, it will be more familiar as my work progresses. Will you let me write as I would?" I asked, smiling and warming my hands with the cup.
        He puffed on his pipe and cast a look around him. The terrace on which we sat was watched from the other side of the street, scried from the Academy and, most importantly, scanned by both his bodyguards and I. Not that Ottaviano in actuality needed any protection within his own city. While he was not - in all honesty - the most powerful magicker in Dondrea, he was one of the elite.
        "I don't know. Sure, it's as entertaining as that Sheiko of yours -" I smiled at this "- and quite flashy at times... but I don't know, it's not..."
        "Scholarly enough? Dry enough? Lacks a decent amount of rambling?"
        He regarded me, scratching his chin and grinning lop-sidedly. "You sound as if you're fed up with the historic style."
        "If I were to say..."
        "Yes?"
        "...that I was so utterly bored with it that I felt more attraction toward certain death than writing an analytical, cold and ungainly essay assailing the mystery of the Raddenshaw tomb-city..."
        "...eh?"
        "...I would be making a understatement to rival the one made by..."
        "Raddenshaw tomb-city?"
        I paused and regarded him and his owlish appearance. The curiosity in his eyes was strongly reminiscent of that I am used to see in the eyes of younger Caedaren. "...I see I have your interest, at the very least."
        He smiled broadly and snapped his fingers at the servant girl. "Have some more tea."
        Such was our reconciliation.

~*~

As we dogtrotted through the forest at a steady pace, I spent most of my time attempting to tie together the little strings that hid truth by being there, hiding in plain sight. King Andre, and the Throne of the Iron Kingdom, beastmen and ruins that could have been almost as old as the sea. It made some sense - without the beastmen wearing King Andre's livery, that is. Contesq had snappily told me to keep my thoughts to myself as I - quite politely, I might add - asked for her opinion: what would be, would be, she reasoned... of course, she was right, but I happen to dislike surprises unless they are my doing.
        Still lost in thought, I had bribed a bluebird to take a sketchy message concerning our actions to Ganawade when we had stopped to rest for a moment (a thing one should never do when running long distances). Being somewhat out of breath, tired and - most definitely - stressed, the bird realized she was in the perfect position to ask for any price she wanted. Fortunately for me, she settled for a few strands of hair and was quite thorough in her inquiries concerning the young Master Eye's appearance.
        Contesq had listened to the exchange quietly, refraining from commenting at all, but when I was done with the bird and rose to my feet: "I hadn't thought of that."
        "'Tis not a particularly effective means of communication, nor safe," I told her, walking first, then jogging.
        "At times," she replied a moment later, having caught up with me.
        "Well, yes." And: "You are certain you can keep this up?"
        "Almost. I'll tell you when I feel dizzy." (She would not, of course. A matter of pride, you perceive.)
        Satisfied with the answer and glancing her one more time, I nodded. She had slept very little and though she had fed herself, Contesq was in dire need of sustenance and rest - I resolved to force her to stay behind while I led the Fists to the beastmen. Master Eye Ganawade would be, no doubt, sure to express his discontentment should he hear his precious puppet was about to engage all manner of rapscallions with a group of Fists. Even without that fact, I felt enough responsibility for Contesq and her health.
        And of course, I admit, I was taking the help of the Fists for granted, but I was also taking for granted the fact that I could manipulate the Fistlings into a fit of rage, all the while remaining impeccably courteous in the manner one should be courteous toward individuals who see strenght, wisdom and honour as the respectable basic guidelines of life.
        Other than that, they also respect antiquated coots who can tell (tall and true) tales of their ancestors. It did not hurt, either, that their Grand Elder was a personal acquaintance of mine, and, consequently, the woman I am absolutely dying to introduce to the royals.
        Though mostly certain I would get the assistance I hoped for, there was a problem of sorts. I wanted to be in charge, and that meant that I would have to ask specifically for that... and it would complicate matters, naturally - for all the respect they might feel for me, for all the love they might have for a close friend of their Grand Elder's, they would still have a very difficult time attempting to receive and perform orders given by an outsider.
        This, invariably, meant that even in the case that the word of two hiding councils would have their local Lord and his thanes convinced that the danger was grave and that I had been courteous in coming to ask them for help, thus earning the right to lead a few volunteer thanes into battle, one of the thanes would most likely challenge my right for leadership.
        Politics can be amusing, I told you earlier, but they can also be hazardous to one's health, should one be unfortunate enough to be a politician among people who slay great beasts with their bare (well, gauntlet-clad) hands. Of course, I would love to see a fur-clad Fist at a council meeting, among the people dressed so properly and cleanly.
        Talking to Contesq of these worries would be pointless - I suspected she knew little of the etiquette and society of the wilders, and even if she did, she was in no shape to provide me with help. The Fists would be courteous hosts, of course, and have never said "no" to a plea for help coming from even other Caedaren toward whom they are immediately ill-disposed toward. Much as they are impulsive, prejudiced and quick to judge, they can think before they act - provided they are not in a bad mood.
        I expected a polite welcome, but to receive one, we had to be polite ourselves.
        "We made good time," Contesq said after we had stumbled across the skull of deer nailed into a tree, a sure mark of Fist territory and a warning few understood, unfortunately for their health. The journey had taken us considerably less time than we had expected - instead of a full day's journey and more, it had taken us from midnight to early sundown the next day.
        "I like to think you Eyes of today are lacking in physique," I noted as I helped her sit down. She was very tired, as was I, but I had yet to inform our hosts of our presence at the border of their lands. "You seem to do well, however."
        "Old sod," she mumbled with a glare and uncorked her waterskin, "you've yet to see me in action."
        I chuckled and glanced at the birch tree the skull was nailed to. "I shall take your word for it," I replied as I seated myself on the ground next to a bush of berries. I took one, and it was good: after running for so long, it is good to get one's feet down on the ground again, and for that a bitter and sweet berry is good.
        "You'd better," she muttered and slowly lay down, still mentally several feet off the ground. "I'd forgotten how good it feels after a long run."
        "You've also forgotten how bad you feel the following morning," I predicted and pondered. If Ganawade could get a hold of Visiga, as I had asked him to in my message, and find and stop the Teragonian troops before they made it to the ruins, we would have a day to rest. I certainly was not going to say no to a day and a night of rest.
        Or a bath, I noted as the wind blew from Contesq's direction.
        "That too," she replied and covered her face. "Feel like I might fall asleep."
        "I would rather that you did not. It will make you feel worse when I wake you up," I mumbled and got up slowly and tentatively. I was not entirely spent just yet, and that was good. "There is still some way to go."
        "Yes." She sat up and watched me approach the tree. "What are you doing?"
        "Informing our hosts that we are here. Occupy yourself with something that will keep your eyes open."
        She merely nodded, watching me climb higher and higher slowly and somewhat clumsily, until I was a high enough to regard the treetops. My tree was not the tallest there was nearby, but it sufficed. I took a while to even my breathing, yawned and then took a deep breath. What followed next was an imitation of the yowl of an animal long extinct - and coincidentally, the greeting anyone with any possible dealings with Fists are taught to scream. It is not exactly a guarded secret, but for many it is simply useless to learn. I myself had learned it - surprise - a long time ago, and still prided myself for the ability to scream it louder than any other non-wilder.
        (Tikr has often boasted that he is able to outscream me, but we have never been able to confirm this, as we have never been drunk enough for it. The sound truly is absolutely and utterly horrible. I daresay anyone in the near vicinity would have our skins should we ever try.)
        When I had descended from the tree, there was no sign of Contesq, no matter where I looked. No scent, no sound - the latter was hardly a surprise, of course.
        "Contesq?"
        No answer, at first. But after a second query and a few steps toward a cluster of trees with a dagger ready, she coughed from behind me, and, when I turned, she was blushing and leaning against the tree.
        I quirked an eyebrow and slipped the dagger back into its proper place, in the sheath strapped to my boot. "Oh. Where were you?"
        The Eye shrugged quietly and looked away, smiling coyly - though teasingly. "I don't think a man should ask a woman things like that."
        "Oh." I blinked, then nodded slowly without commenting further for obvious reasons. Long after this I suspected she had been tempting me with all those gestures and sayings for the simple pleasure of having something complain about, even if in a jesting manner. I bit my tongue and hoped she would continue, so I could assail another topic rather than pry into matters that were an absolute taboo to a Caedaren.
        "Please tell me the wilders don't speak like that," Contesq continued and brushed her hair out of her face. "That... sound..."
        "Noise," I mended with a smile of relief masked as a smirk of amusement.
        "Whichever," she winced and sat down, her back against the bole of the tree. "Horrible sound."
        I shrugged and sat down next to her, looking up at the treetops. In the distance, the scream was echoed, signalling that the Fists were asking us to come closer. "'Tis, I know."
        "Do they talk like that as well?" she asked in a not very serious manner.
        This naive question extracted a laugh out of me. "Lacon, no! 'Tis... oh, you should ask the particulars from the wilders. But they converse just as you and I do."
        She said, "Good. I'd get a headache for less." Her serious expression was backstabbed by the frolicking, tired stars in her eyes. They died soon.
        "Oh, I daresay you will be hungover tomorrow morning. 'Tis true that they feast and distill some very potent brew. Come on. We have distance to cover."
        I savoured the look on her face for quite a while as we walked.
        Finally after quite a lengthy while spent in silent walking, we came upon two Fists, looking at us from the top of a moss-covered boulder. These two, both women, were dressed in baggy pants made of rough fabric, stuffed into boots that were strapped and reinforced with bent willow branches. One had a fur vest, under which something that looked like a leather jerkin; the other wore only a leather vest, on which a fur cloak. But they both wore leather gauntlets, reinforced with both hardened leather, willow and even some metal - they were stuffed on the inside to make them soft, I knew. I had examined plenty of them during the years.
        They did not seem to be very hostile, so I and the almost staggering Contesq both made a greeting gesture. They did the same.
        One said, arms akimbo: "Who are you?"
        To which I replied with a serious look on my face: "Varus Sayluna, Bleeder Carenda and sworn of Aiall Prellwaht and her son, Kord Prellwaht. With me comes Contesq Lumbiawe, a blooming Ghost Eye in my command."
        The other nodded, jumped off the boulder, and upon making contact with the ground continued: "Very well. I am Deinell Prellmer, and this is my sister, Fahill Prellmer - we are thanes of Deerlord Aennen. What's your business?"
        Contesq stood silently and stared at the sisters, both standing in front of us now. She was looking quite confused. So I continued: "We come from the hide near Raddenshaw, having inspected the ruins not a day's journey to the east -" the sisters tensed, much to my satisfaction "- and come to the conclusion that we need the Glorious Fists' help. The exact..."
        "Cut the cheese and eat it already," mumbled Fahill. "What's your business?"
        Impatient. I warned you.
        "It is a matter I would discuss with your Lord, but first we would place ourselves under your protection for a while. We have run nonstop from the ruins, so believe you me, it is urgent."
        There was a bit of respect to be seen in their eyes - but there was some curiosity inherent to a Caedaren twinkling in their eyes as well, held back only because of that respect. Fahill and Deinell glanced at each other and squinted, finally shrugging and looking at us. "So you want our hospitality? The girl looks like she could use it."
        Contesq murred. "Please. Yes."
        Silence ensued on the part of the sisters, and I was quick to make my voice heard: "Truthfully, 'thas to do with beastmen running rampant, but there is also much more. Would you take us to your lodges, and inform the good Lord that there is an old man who wants to have a word?"
        Fahill, having once again tensed upon hearing the word 'beastmen', sniffed the air and grunted. "You know what he'll do to you if you don't have important things to say."
        "If you don't, expect a good whacking," Deinell aided with a smirk and nodded northwestward hesitantly.
        They were not nearly as bad as my lads.
        I would have loved to extract a few more twitches from them with a question or two, but alas, I had Contesq to worry about and guide to their den.
        "Terse people," she whispered to me and chuckled.
        "Chasing your own tail, Contesq?"
        "Shut up, old man."

        Describing a den, I admit, is never an easy task. They are all different from each other either dramatically or then insignificantly - but even the smallest of details can make a difference to a Caedaren. While it is true that we do not often include doors in our architecture, we do recognize their usefulness. In a hide absolutely nobody knows of, doors are not needed - a heavy curtain is enough privacy for a Caedaren. But the protective value of a sturdy metal or oak door is not to be underestimated - a den so close to civilization may have high stone walls and stone gates that are only opened by gatekeepers. They also insulate well (with the exception of metal and stone, of course), which is a must in the northern territories we hail from - we do use doors.
        Furthermore, the designs of houses are another thing. We prefer the free feeling open spaces provide: consider, that one can usually tell if a door is open in a house, especially that of the room you are in. Even if there is external noise of no kind to give away the lack of a barrier, the air flow will bring scents and can be heard. Consider, then, how it is to have a roofless building? It must have an outlandish ring to it, but a Caedaren will want at least some sort of hole in the roof, chimney or opening, to be able to sustain a large fire. We hunt large and small game (or no game at all, depending on what the situation of the fauna is), after all. Hides often have no roofs at all, for the reason that there is no need for shelter from the rain and the snow - the heating and lighting of the den is managed by the orbs, regardless.
        But what always manages to confuse even the Caedaren who has witnessed many a den and hide, is a wilders' den. While most dens consist of living, moulded trees and/or stone, the wilders' lodges are stone and log buildings and cabins very much like the hamlets of the humans' are. That, and hammocks that hang high and low in the trees, bridges that cross between large boulders most likely pushed to the location and more bridges high up in the trees. The bridges are nothing new, but the design of the lodges is strangely familiar, yet so strange to us who have never lived the primal life.
        The beastmen, some travelling scholars postulate, are part of the reason. The culture of the primals is very much akin to ours, but with a stronger underlined animistic and animalistic feel to it - which is to say, of course, that even though all Caedaren believe that there is a soul for everything (for example, the Fingers with their elemental magicks work with the spirit essence of the elements, Tikr once explained), the Fists and Souls revere the spirits more than the rest of us do. Likewise affected has been architecture, then: the beastmen are very good craftsmen and builders, and one does not have to be an enlightened intellectual to know exactly how much the nobles will toil with the commoner. Though from personal experience I might add that with Fists one can never be certain: I myself postulate that the Fists and their commoner Caedaren might have simply found some of the beastmen's solutions ingenious.
        "...but why, oh why do they have to build so big," whimpered Contesq upon laying eyes on the bridge that took us to the den, and then the den's inner fortress itself.
        "I take it you have not taken a look down," I said dryly and glanced downward at the moat.
        She copied the gesture and groaned. "Oh, for the love of..."
        "Lacon," said Fahill and snorted. "Pick up your jaws, a'ight?"
        The moat was not horribly, horribly deep - it was horribly, horribly filthy and full of 'examples' and scavengers. A cultured culinary choice, I am sure. How they had managed the moat without help from others, I could not imagine.
        The grounds on which the den was built on were several feet higher than the ground on which we stood in front of the bridge, I noted. Also, there were no trees close to the den - inside the den I could see trees, especially one grand fir tree that towered above the birches her and there. And in the fir I could see a patio, and on it, people standing watch. A bird lifted off one's shoulder. That and the walls of boulders that had been perhaps lifted from the moat, that had been the ground where there was now a moat. It was a hill that had been turned into a fortress, and it certainly was not a small fortress.
        "Do I need to repeat my sister?" asked Deinell, the more diplomatic of the two, but still impatient and sullen.
        I broke into a smile that may have annoyed them more than pleased them, then led Contesq forward over the oak bridge, my hand on her shoulder.
        Fahill produced a pleased grunt and followed after her sister.
        I would describe the lodges better, but there is little need. They were either all stone with a wooden roof or all wood with a wooden roof - most with a pelt covering the doorway. There were the occasional buildings with doors, especially the large, decorated building next to the temple. It was the Great Lodge, with its massive doors and many animal skulls nailed and strapped above those doors.
        This den was a miniature city with streets and alleys - and in the middle of nowhere (as dens often are). On the way, we attracted many curious looks: the commoners standing on guard watched us go, bowing their heads to the two Fists before doing so.
        What must have doubtless had an impact on Contesq were the cubs, kits and hatchlings of the beastkin. The reason beastmen are said to have so much Father in them is the manner in which they receive their form, say the Caedaren scholars. (And I concur, for several reasons. It is more than obvious.) For example, though a beastman with a cat's eyes, nose and ears might breed with another of the same kind, the child may well have canine features; the child of a woman with a bear's features and enormous size may give birth to triplets of children with a mouse's, a sparrow's and a lizard's features.
        But these are the normal, stabler ones, whereas the more chaotic ones (that Fists are normally forced to beat into a bloody pulp the chaotics have no hope of ever recovering from despite great strength and stamine) have mixed features, and can be nightmarish in appearance.
        But the kits! Adorable little creatures with ears that can be described only as fluffy, and large, bright round eyes, maybe whiskers, possibly strangely coloured hair...
        ...and sharp little dagger-like teeth, if one is a fool and sticks one's hand too close to an overly playful, excited little hoodwinker who happens to be in the mood to taste as well as smell.
        "Huh," said Contesq as a bunch of kits scurried past us like a gust of giggles, ribbons and hems, "feels spooky."
        "Backward, you mean," I told her and glanced at Deinell. "No, 'tis perfectly normal."
        She smiled at the little ones and shook her head. "Just because Visiga told me I should expect something like--"
        "Visiga?" Fahill stirred and looked at us suddenly. "Oh, right, ought to remember..." The Fist smirked hugely. "You're Sniffles, aren't you?"
        Sniffles? I bit my lower lip to keep from chortling. Contesq's reaction was much more profound, however: her eyes widened and her mouth opened and closed a few times.
        Deinell pursed her lips and favoured me with an inquisitive, laughing glance. She too had troubles keeping her expression unamused.
        "He told you?" Contesq croaked and clenched her teeth, brow twitching. "What else has he told you?"
        "What is there to tell?" I blurted out before I could stop myself from saying something a more reasonable man would have omitted, thus earning a glare from a slighted Contesq and two amused looks from two amused Fists. They seemed to find it uproarious that she was so very serious about her partner discussing their lovelife. (To Fists, bragging is important. Remember that, should you one day meet them - it is also worthy to note that they are so sullen toward magickers for being both powerful and weak, and vice versa.)
        Deinell coughed. "Fahill, why don't you take Lord Sayluna to our good chief and see that the servants are informed of two extra mouths? I'll see that... Lady Lumbiawe gets a place to rest."
        Even among the rusty swords, there are usually some that are less rusty than the others, it would seem: Deinell had just saved us a ranting Contesq, and everything was still proceeding smoothly. Fahill mumbled something under her breath sullenly and grunted a "follow me", which I obeyed. We all went past the doors, opened by the lower-ranked Fists with spears in hand, and went separate ways after this.
        Before I lost sight of Contesq, I signalled to her, "No worries. Rest and feel safe."
        She replied with something I could not make out, as she was both exhausted and enraged. Ah, the temper of a young Caedaren - ever so amusing, attractive and bothersome. Purchase one, the rest are included in the deal!
        "Stop twitching," Fahill muttered and looked at me, focusing on my tattoo. "What's that mean?"
        "This?" I queried, pointing at my left brow. "Naught but foolery. I was but a kit, and I was drunk."
        She chuckled. "It's cute. Maybe you'll tell me how it happened at the feast tonight or tomorrow."
        "Well, should I find myself awake, I shall do just that," I nodded tiredly and inhaled the smell of pine floating inside the building. "I do like telling stories, but I fear I shall make more of a clown out of myself than a hearty hero."
        "I like stories. I'll hold you to that."
        In case you did not see it, she expressed interest in me, and that I had the damnedest time getting rid of her.
        (Yes, Amanda, it is perfectly normal for a young Caedaren woman to express interest in a handsome old scoundrel of good breeding. You humans have your fair share of opportunistic beauties marrying old coots with a bad heart.
        And no, Ottaviano, I am not insinuating that you have a bad heart, merely that you have a condition with your brain.)
        After two more doorways in this surprisingly well-furnished, tastefully decorated lodge, we came upon another doorway. This one was quite grand, with the head of a deer carved into the double doors.
        "I am to assume there are no guards for a reason?" I queried from my guide.
        "Lord Aennen doesn't need bodyguards."
        "Oh. He must save a lot of squirrel hides that way."
        She gave me a look that suggested I had best not get on her bad side, and stopped in front of a particularly adorned door. I could have tipped my hat at the craftsman. "Wait a moment."
        Fahill knocked on the door, slipped in and left me to my own devices for a moment. I felt rather blank at that very moment, examining my finger nails and combing my hair with my fingers - I felt very, very dirty, meaning that I desperately wanted a bath. A long, hot bath. The thought led to me wondering, briefly, exactly how and where did this den get its water and food; there were no farmable trees to farm anywhere in the vicinity, which was good, as the den was close to civilization. It also gave me another card to draw from my sleeve; I made a mental memo to see if I could enlist a few Bleeders (who would very likely complain about being assigned here, especially those who had been Souls) to help keep unwanted visitors away.
        Fahill exited the room, giving me a look that had me wondering whether I was an unwelcome guest myself or not. "Go on. I'll be waiting here."
        I shrugged and entered the hall, careful not to step on her shadow.
        At this point I admit: I am a first-rate, prejudiced piece of antique furniture (with a dashingly appropriate fashion sense), and I admit this for a good reason. I expected the Deer Lord to be a brute with a thick sturdy neck (for a Caedaren) and less brains than a ram who has had his head cooked for a meal. But how did reality slip a poisoned needle past my nigh impenetrable veil of steel and leather?
        I shall tell.
        Upon entering, I was confronted by a view I shall never forget. In front of a chair and a fireplace, head turned my way, stood a Caedaren that was about the same size I was, both in width and height. He wore a curious piece of headgear, which covered a good part of the top of his tattooed head; also, from this headwear sprouted deer antlers. A cowl hid his face below the eyes. He also appeared to be wearing a piece of thick leather armour of sorts in addition to the baggy pants and same reinforced gauntlets and boots the sisters wore.
        In a room only lit by the blaze of a fireplace, this green eyed man gave me the impression of a preying demon of sorts. Not that the lighting mattered, because I saw well in any case, but I suspected this was a conscious choice: the beastmen, save for some, do not see as well in the dark. They prefer to smell, the majority of them.
        With the door closed, we examined each other for a moment in dead silence, as if attempting to discern more than the basic first impression. I resolved to not be the one breaking the silence, and recognizing this, he nodded cordially enough. "A, Carenda Varus," he said, very much in the manner I had spoken my first words to Contesq, "have a seat. Mead?"
        I took a few tentative steps, then continued toward the other seat in front of the fireplace, turned half toward the fireplace and half toward the other seat. "Thank you, but the seat alone will be satisfactory. I have the most unfortunate habit of falling asleep whenever I consume a fair dose of the prime stuff in this state."
        He made a sound and seated himself only after I had done so - I found this to be a good sign. "Alright," said the Deerlord in a quiet, no-nonsense fashion and examined me, "then you should maybe tell me what this is about. Not often I see a Carenda." He took a goblet from the small table between us and drank, lifting his cowl enough to allow this. I looked at the fire while he did this, considering it polite.
        A while of warming up, enjoying the fire and building my thoughts later I pinched my lower lip and turned my eyes to regard him. He was young, I noted finally. Very young, or then he was a half-breed of some sort - the Fists didn't bother, as long as there was even a speck of Caedaren in their youths. (Hands, naturally, protested, being the fanatical religious twits, up to the point where I had to point out that some of their shiniest examples were half-breeds: you know whom I speak of, Otto. I mentioned her earlier.)
        "Well, young Lord," I said with a smile and thought I saw a smile grow under that partially transparent cowl of his, "'twill be a longish tale, but I shall summarize as I best can."
        At his contemplative nod, I began. "Over a week ago I came to visit a hide for the sake of the rumours that had been circulating among councils everywhere, concerning the Iron Throne's desire for 'outside assistance' to help them rid of some pesky vagabonds.
        "I was very surprised upon arriving, that there was a highly distinguished guest related by blood to the Thronegod himself..."
        "I'll cut in here," he said. "How is this related to beastmen, if at all?"
        I admit I had the momentary suspicion that he was about to throw me out, but he did not come across as a coiled snake ready to spring into action. So I indulged him: "Those vagabonds are, in reality, beastmen in a human mien."
        He tilted his head to the side and frowned, which was a welcome change to his so far rather expressionless eyes and brow. Convinced, he put down his goblet and pulled his chair a bit closer to mine. "Alright. Care to explain further then?"
        Interpreting that as a 'my apologies for interrupting you,' I further pleased him by doing as he wished. "Of course. This person, to wit Princess Eliandra herself, wished for the council to aid her - I am sure you are aware of the ruins a good day's journey eastward? Even the local woodland rangers refuse to go thither, which I suppose you also know.
        "Regardless of this, the local council uttered suspicions that suggested the true reason for the Iron Throne's need for us is the schism between King Andre of Turneau and the Throne, as the council already knew from the reports sent to them by the hide near your den that the bandits were wearing King Andre's livery." I paused; he wanted to speak.
        "I know," Aennen said and squinted thoughtfully, yet lazily. "A lad of yours, Visiga, I think, was sent here by his Arenda."
        So, Ybarian did have some intelligence in his head, even if he lacked certain abilities any leader should not be without. "And he told you."
        "Shortly, yes. We spent a great deal of time trying to guess what's going on, but then figured it wasn't within our... jurisdiction."
        "You were correct. But no longer."
        "But how did you come to know that the bandits are rogue beasts, Carenda?"
        "If you permit, I would first point out that there exists a reason the council said 'no' to it at first."
        At last! There was a curious tilt to his head. "The Chumsare, yes, but you seem to have gotten past it. How did you manage?"
        "Well, 'twas a dose of twisting and turning, serpentining and a bit of simple charm. I did not offer any military aid: I merely said to her that I could have a look into it and perhaps guide her frightened soldiers down the right path."
        "And you did this, because...?"
        The question was good, I admit, and this was the first time I stopped to think about it with determined severity. Before he asked anything or said anything more, I lifted my hand to keep him silent... and then I thought. I had done it, I realized then, because I was in the need of action and the whole matter had me curious.
        I had stormed off and dwelved into something because of a paranoid curiosity growing inside my head, dragging me deeper and deeper into a strange picture I had yet to stop to regard analytically with time? Most peculiar - and utterly crazy.
        Conclusion: I was young again. If you do not believe me, take me to the courts - I had not done such a thing for a... very-long-time-I-cannot-be-bothered-to-clearly-define. Craving adventure? Join Varus! He shall lead you on a merry romp to nowhere, thither and then hither again - only, hither will be a stop before a burial, after which you shall head for the Heavens.
        "I was curious," I replied, and received a nod. "Furthermore, I had a... what do you call it? Hunch." (It was far from the truth and it was not, but if I am going to be a senile old fool, I may as well pretend to be a wise senile old fool. And not a word, Ottaviano. Not one word!)
        To my relief, he only nodded.
        "But, I shall continue. The council, as you may well have guessed, was not exactly excited, but they agreed that 'twas allowable and that they would let me do it, were I to give them a report of my discoveries.
        "I travelled, finding my way to the Raddenshaw hide. The local Master Eye is an old acquaintance of mine, you perceive, and not only did I want to have a chat with his underling, I also wanted to have a look at this Arenda there have been mumbles about."
        He nodded. "Hunter Visiga said there were was something fishy about his character."
        "And when drunk?"
        "I won't say," he smiled - or so it seemed. "Drunkard's oath." (I supposed it meant that whatever these people said whilst drunk, they only meant it when they were drunk.)
        "Well, regardless. The Arenda is now on his way to Clearspring with his own demotion letter and the order to compensate Master Eye Raeneil for supplying the local Bleeders with better equipment. I am sure Hunter-in-Charge Visiga has informed you of his minimalistic approach."
        "Something about the man not asking for supplies when there was a possible threat to the hide, yes," said the Lord of the Fists. He had a peculiar tranquillity to him, along with a face I wager would have made him a rich man were he a gambler. He did not scoff at anything I said, criticize or attempt to convince me of the superiority of the wilders. This is what mature Fists are like, I have been led to believe.
        "Not a dire mistake, I admit, but that along with the rest of his weaknesses did not impress me overly much," I said and shifted my position. "To continue my recollection, however, after Master Raeneil gave me the rights to order bloomer Lumbiawe - the young lady who accompanied me -, we set off to inspect the ruins as I had promised." I paused. "What do you know of the ruins, if you do not mind the question?"
        He chuckled and fingered his horns. "I don't mind, Carenda. We know that it's been there for a long time. What the shamen tell me is unintelligible, and doesn't tell a damn. That it's a place of death and spirits is obvious, but that it's place of ancient death and spirits is just stretching the truth."
        "Have you ever--"
        "Been there? No, but I've been close enough. We steer clear of the place: it belongs to the spirits... but if there's an enemy to teach a lesson, I'll consider it."
        I sniffed the air and nodded. "The young bloomer and I were far from amused by the happenings, but even more so: I do not know if you know, but Ghost Eyes see through illusions." (No, I do not pass on trade secrets to anyone but my own lads, and only then if I have made them understand that we are to keep that knowledge secret to use it effectively.) "Yet, we saw..."
        "'We?'"
        "I was an Eye before I joined the Moon Guard and reformed it with the other Carendas," I said. I was getting rather bored of informing everyone I was a legal turncoat.
        "Oh. Go on."
        "We saw only humans, with a strange quality to them, but at that time I suspected 'twas because of the place. Lumbiawe also informed me that there was a shaman or sorcerer, but I only heard this after I had, with intentions to borrow he--... his clothes, taken the life of a sleeping guard on picket duty and noticed that his wolf pelt cloak was not entirely a cloak."
        He was biting his lower lip, first annoyed, then amused (simply imagine what a Fist will think when one almost informs him of one's intentions to steal a woman's clothes and sneak into an enemy camp) and finally, contemplative. "What did... he look like?"
        "Large. Wolf ears, eyes and coat where there ought to have been a braid. Reeked. In other words, not unlike the fair folk of yours here."
        A few blinks later, Aennen grunted and turned to stare at the fire. "Thank you," he said, but in reply to what, I could not tell. "How many were there?" asked the Deer Lord.
        "As to that, hard to say. Close to forty, I think."
        "And you say that there are His Majesty's cowards headed that way?"
        "Well, yes. Just halfway to here I sent word to Master Raeneil to stop them and tell them to wait for our sign."
        The news made him quirk his eyebrows. "Oh, good." He turned his head toward the door and bellowed, "Fahill-thane! Fetch a messenger!"
        Twitching and growling mentally at the noise (which actually made me uncomfortable on a physical level), I looked at him, waiting for an explanation. He sipped from his goblet instead, and I suspect he knew I was annoyed.
        "This is to say," I said, "that you are going to...?"
        "Personally. This is the sort of thing."
        I cursed and laid waste to the room in my mind, but kept my countenance as cool and polite as ever. "Very good. Will you wait for at least one night, so that I might rest?"
        "Ha! We will wait for two if we want, by Lacon! If you send Master Raeneil another message, telling him to delay them as long as possible and in any way necessary..."
        I chuckled in spite of my botched plan - at least the Fists were being commanded by a Fist that could and would listen to reason, and perhaps show a 'sneaky streak.' "I see what your spear is aimed at. Very well, we will do just that," I said.
        And I note, that no matter how sorely I felt the want to tell him my lads would just as gladly slip some 'special mushrooms' into the humans' food, I knew he might have taken me for a coward should I have said so.
        We wrote the letter, drank to the plan, and then he had Fahill lead me to my room. Unfortunately, I was tired enough and too aware of how close sleep was to care for discussion, which resulted in terse and empty replies to Fahill's questions.
        After Fahill left, I fell asleep with my clothes on and dreamt of little wolf-headed faeries nibbling on my ankle.

        When I woke up, I was lying on my back on the mattress and Contesq was staring down at me, shining like an angel. This, of course, was because of the sunlight hitting her squarely from the window. She had wrapped a blanket around herself, and was smiling faintly.
        It was far from an unpleasant awakening, and I very much understood her charm that moment.  
        "You were smiling," she said drowsily and sniffled, reminding me of her moniker. "Must have been a good dream."
        With a light-headed and utterly brainless smile, I stretched and sat up. "I was nailing something fluffy to a tree. What time is it?"
        "You've just barely missed breakfast," she said and smirked. "I got you something, though." She brandished a bit of cheese and two slabs bread.
        "You fair celestial! But no wine?" I asked, accepting the food eagerly.
        "Wine, here?" Contesq gave a snort and sat down on the chair. "Nah. I've water, if that's enough for you."
        "Please," I said, already ripping into the bread. She was quiet and looked tired while I ate with silent gratitude.
        "How do you feel?" I finally asked, having finished the bread and nibbling on the cheese.
        "You were right, my legs hurt. Plus, I think I'm ill." I bit my tongue, but she noticed it in time. Instead of smashing me around, she smirked. "Sniffle."
        I grinned and shook my head. "Likely. How on earth did you acquire a name such as that?"
        "Mmm, no," she smiled and shook her head. "You'll have to ask Visiga."
        I snorted. "Ask some one much too loyal? I would rather not order him into telling me."
        "So thoughtful," she teased and rose to her feet with a wince. For my part, I could not stop myself from making an amused sound and rolling my eyes - she was totally out of control, and most likely enjoying it. But when a woman like Contesq discovers one is unwilling to order someone around meaninglessly merely because one can, she will be testing her possibilities and restrictions.
        "Oh, I am," I mumbled and stood up as well, wincing and inhaling sharply when the tenseness in my limbs turned into a mild, not unpleasing sensation one often has the morning after an extended exercise of any kind. "How do you like it?" I asked, moving next to her to look out the window.
        "Here? Pretty swell. It's more relaxed than I've been led to believe."
        "Pah! I tell my lads Ghost Eyes are too curious for their own good and that they pry about matters they should not," I said.
        "Such as?"
        "Well," I said, "such as, breaking into museums, treasuries, bandit outposts - or bathhouses."
        "Bath...! Varus!"
        "Trust an old Eye, will you?"
        She shook her head and smirked toothily. "Oh, that's right. I don't think I've heard the story of you changing factions."
        I brushed it aside with a wave of the hand. "A tiresome happenstance. But now that we are discussing factions, ranks, orders and such," I said and sat on the edge of the bed, rummaging through my many pockets to locate my tobacco, "I wish to discuss something related."
        She blinked, raised an eyebrow as she looked at me and then squinted with a fire burning behind her eyes. "You sound like you're ready to apologize for something."
        "Oh, well said," I half-admitted and watched her.
        Contesq crossed her arms in front of her chest.
        "You would not happen to know any sorcery, perchance? I could use a gentle flame," I said to her as I filled my pipe.
        "Cut the cheese and eat it."
        "I see you have been talking to Fahill."
        "Please," she said icily.
        I sighed. "You, my dear, are a true spoilsport if I ever saw one. Of course, so am I," I said and frowned at my finger. "I have an order for you, and before you ask me to continue, I shall give it. You are to rest and recover, which plainly put means that you will not be coming along with me. When you have recovered, you will return to the hide."
        She frowned and pursed her lips. Almost immediately she looked down at her feet, shook her head and walked back to the chair. "Yes, Carenda," she said dejectedly and a bit angrily.
        I refrained from saying anything until I had lit my pipe - with a little sorcery, admitted. When I did, I felt my neck. "My head is still above my shoulders."
        "It'll stay there," she replied and looked at me wearily. "Do you mind telling me why, though?"
        "I do mind, but I have no reason to hide the reasons. Firstly, you are in no condition to do any fighting at all, you admitted that yourself. Secondly, Ganawade will not appreciate me sending one of his lackeys into danger when she is not capable of handling it. And lastly, two of my lackeys prefer you alive." I smiled at my pipe. "Is that sufficient?"
        She had tensed when I mentioned Ganawade, which of course might have been a tactical and strategic error in a certain fashion. However, why should it matter? She inquired, I supplied her with the answers I saw best to provide. (Yes, that means I intentionally left some things unsaid. They mattered little.) "Enough, yes," she said quietly and half-smiled. "I still want to be there."
        "Such is life, I was told when I was young."
        She forfeited - there was little she could say that would make me change my mind, but she knew she could stop my impossibly childish retorts the moment she abandoned the hope of participating. "Well, I'll live with it then. Father."
        I stared at her incredulously and snorted a short laugh. "Go get some rest, dear sneak, but make sure you are woken up well before the feast."
        "Oh, too late for that," she said and scratched her chin. "It's in a while."
        I pondered. And pondered again. "Oh. They are... leaving tonight?"
        "What? No, just getting really drunk and holding a few contests. A bit of poetry... have you heard their poetry?" she asked with a smirk.
        "I have," I sighed. Fist and beastman poetry was somewhat pragmatic - it rhymed for the most part, but was simplistic. Certainly some of them used structures, but none used the kind Voices employed - the kind that required days of work for the simple reason that one's brain had the curious tendency to sprain itself repeatedly after the first rhymes had been made.
        All in all, I preferred the more passionate and simplified Fist poetry. It was something one could improvise when trying to woo a buxom young Fist, unlike the 'civilized' poetry that had you desperately searching for something that would rhyme with 'door hinge.'
        "What's it like? Visiga never told me. But I never asked."
        "I thought you knew? Well. You will see at the feast," I said, sighed and stood up, puffing on my pipe. I ached all over, and Contesq's sadistic smile turned into a wince not unlike mine as she stood up again. "But for now, let us go find something to do. Maybe some food."
        "What, before the feast? Isn't that rude?"
        "I consider it ruder to not wake me up for breakfast."

        I had, of course, been out of luck and was now staring at brew I did not under any circumstances want to down before I had digested for at least fifteen minutes. Everybody had been preparing the feast that we now sat at, to the left of the Deerlord. The baker, a rather sour young Caedaren, had simply told me off, and the rest of my options had been just as unable to co-operate.
        "Stop moping," Deinell told me and smiled at her sister on the other side.
        "He's like that," Contesq agreed and prodded at the big mug. It was dark and warm, the brew - and much stronger than any Caedaren would usually be able to handle. But strangely enough, if there was a Caedaren that could outdrink a human, it was a Fist. Nobody knew exactly why, but I personally suspected it was part of their magick - the very same that was granted by the ritualistically made tattoos (all of which had a specific story behind them) and their boots and gauntlets. It was a very personal link the Fists have with their magick - when I had personally been given one for closer inspection, I did not suddenly become ridiculously strong. But who knows? Maybe it has more to do with the fact that the Fists have been drinking powerful concoctions for almost as long as anyone can remember.
        This in mind, I glanced at Contesq. "I would not test that if I were you."
        Deinell grinned as Contesq looked at both her and I. "Why not?" she asked.
        "Because 'tis... how shall I put it? Prime stuff. As strong as any human brew," though they certainly boasted that it was much stronger.
        "Then why did they serve me some?" Contesq asked and eyed Deinell suspiciously.
        "It's a joke," she replied. "Most of our guests can't hold their booze, but damned if they don't try to drink that all because they think we'll be insulted otherwise."
        Contesq looked at me for consultance. I just nodded grimly and resumed moping about my empty stomach. I have a tendency of becoming very insufferable if things get ugly or displeasing for me. (Yes, I am aware of the fact that you are aware of this fact.)
        "Can you handle it?" Contesq asked suddenly, and as she was honouring with her stare, I assumed she was talking to me.
        "Not at the moment," I said a bit sharply and shrugged in a more docile manner. "Do not challenge me to a drinking contest - but look, to your left there is an alluring young Fist..."
        Deinell smiled with half-lidded eyes and purred.
        "And hear, she purrs as well," I added.
        Contesq rolled her eyes. "Well, you've all but recited a poem at her."
        Oh no, I thought, as Contesq looked first at Deinell and then at me. Next Deinell looked at me - and to make matters worse on an even larger scale, the Deerlord himself looked at me with an arched eyebrow.
        For a moment it appeared as if an unspoken invitation or suggestion hung in the air, one that implied that I should perhaps formulate one on the spot. But at that very moment, the feast began, signalled by the servants cutting slabs of meat off the large auroch that had been roasting for a long enough time to make the whole while of idle chattering at he tables a veritable torture for me. A young beastkin girl swiftly delivered the plate to the Deer Lord, who almost ritualistically accepted the plate with a bow of his head. She curtsied neatly, backing five steps before turning to hurry back to the auroch.
        More slabs were being cut as he stood up and announced with a voice that carried: "Feast today, battle tomorrow! Drink and eat, for the next feast you enjoy may not be in this guise." Aennen raised his mug, a large one carved out of the bone of some creature I thought I was better off never crossing paths with. "But bah! Live today, die some other day - drink up!"
        A multitude of howls reverberated through the early afternoon - that, and the sound of mugs being knocked against each other and the tables. Under the great fir tree - the local Pact Tree, though the pacts uttered here were the more pragmatic kind - were two bonfires and in two u-shaped groups of tables, the smaller one within the larger one. At the middle in the inner group of the tables, we were being served first - 'we' being Deinell, Contesq, I on the left side, Lord Aennen in the middle, and two thanes between him and Fahill in the far right.
        "So," Contesq said as she eyed the food in front of us as if she was already digesting them with her mere sight, "who are going?"
        "Where?" asked Deinell after a mouthful of meat. "The battle? Whoever our Lord decides to take with him."
        I glanced at Aennen, who stared forward quietly and chewed on some meat. Just as I was about to look away wearing a frown, he met my gaze in a docile manner.
        Oh bother, I decided.
        "Oh," said Contesq and nodded. "Alright."
        "Why?" the Deerlord asked with his pleasing voice and locked eyes with Contesq.
        Contesq, recognizing that he was nowhere near his rank, averted her eyes and instead eyed her food. "Simply curious, good Lord Fist."
        I cleared my throat and looked at Aennen again. "As am I, but I am also of the opinion that Contesq is both too ill and too tired to be allowed anywhere near the ruins. One does not take wounded thanes to a battle."
        Aennen furrowed his brows contemplatively, joining his fingers. "Agreed. But nothing's stopping her from following us only to watch."
        "You are not afraid she will slow us down?"
        "Bah!" said Deinell, at whom Contesq turned an expectant look. "If she gets slow, we'll carry her."
        Aennen nodded.
        A moment of teeth-grinding later, I glanced at the Deerlord. I had very little to say about it anymore - either Contesq had conspired this with someone (likely Deinell, I mused) or it was mere coincidence.
        The natural thing would have been to claim superiority over Contesq, granted to me by her own Master Eye, but the Fists would not have had any of it - which was even more natural, truth to be told. In actuality I was hoping Contesq would stick around Deinell and Fahill, who, if not anything else, would indubitably keep a close eye on her whenever I could not spare an extra one.
        Also, I was quite peeved with Contesq doing a trick like this, but I decided not to let it hamper my judgment. If she desired to partake so badly that she would manipulate our hosts into 'persuading me to change my mind,' so to speak, then it was fine: young ones will not learn from their mistakes if they are not allowed to perform certain stupidities.
        "Well, that is settled," I began with my eyes on Aennen. "Out of curiosity and professional interest, who have you chosen to accompany us, and how many?"
        "Everyone at this table and a pair of others."
        I glanced at Fahill and Deinell. "Well, then I would very much like to know those two on your right side. I suppose the Prellmer sisters are qualified?"
        "Of course they are," Aennen snorted and glanced to his right where the three others - namely, one beastman, a Caedaren and Fahill - were sitting. "But the real reason is that they were the ones that met you first, and such is destiny. You are linked now."
        If I wanted to be preached at, I knew where I needed to be - in a temple, or in front of a zealous Fist.
        "But. These two are Trill and Manjarr," he spoke to me, without ever pleading for their attention. As I cannot exactly recall how he introduced me to them, I will relate to you what I was told of them and what I discerned with mine eyes.
        Trill was a beastwoman, though the she hardly looked it. Her eyes were the intelligent eyes of a dog, and her mane reminded me of a particular long-haired, red-and-brown and white breed, but that was that. Superficially, apart from the eyes and the mane of her, she seemed very human or Caedaren - one never could say. The hair looked silky, and she seemed to be long-limbed and strong. Aennen indicated that she was skilled with the sword, which struck me as somewhat curious.
        But my unspoken question was answered when he explained some things about Manjarr. He was not tattooed, but bore a few scars. And before I had even the inkling of a suspicion concerning his mostly green and partially blue clothes, I was informed that he was a Finger. A Finger, in the middle of nowhere among Fists. But it answered the question of the moat and where they found their water from, as well as how they likely tended their trees. The most unsettling matter about him was that he had personally trained Trill in the use of the sword, which of course might have meant that this middle-aged Caedaren had seen a fair share of action before joining the Fists.
        Regardless, I was pleased to have a strong companion - especially if it was a magicker that could use a blade, which, in itself, was something of an improbability. (Amanda, please, make certain that he understood this subtle hint when he comes back from where'er the fool slinked off to?)
        The feast actually proceeded rather quietly after that, apart from a little fight that Fahill went and mediated with a small number of punches... and up to the point, where it was suggested that I pronounce a poem.
        "A poem?" I said, exasperated. "Why?"
        "Because you almost suggested it yourself," grinned Contesq and grabbed my arm. "Come on. It was as good as a promise."
        I felt tempted to point out that she perceived it that way, and that in her mind, any other way would be false.
        "Besides," purred Deinell in that certain fashion, "I'd appreciate it."
        And on top of it all, I had Aennen study me with great curiosity - probably to see if I could beat him at his own game, considering how smug and confident he seemed on the outside.
        Other than that - Deinell's purrs, Contesq's eagerness to see if I was any good and the Deerlord's quiet amusement and slight arrogance (as is fitting for a noble) -, Fahill was expressing some curiosity as well, I noticed. Trill and Manjarr were, politely, feigning ignorance.
        I would be lying, of course, if I said that I detest attention at situations such as this.
        Sighing, I wracked my brains for a moment and took a swig. I refused to stand up, however, or even let Aennen silence the rest of those caught up in the feast. "You had best repay me with your obedience, Contesq," I grumbled, cleared my throat and twisted my head a bit to the side.

        "I see no spots, just fluffy lots
        Of cats that love to play and purr.
        They're rather cute, but that's all moot
        When cleaning up their errant fur."

        A silence ensued, but eventually, seeing that I was feeding myself and having a drink, they merely chuckled. They found it amusing - that was good.
        "A bit off the topic," said Deinell.
        "Maybe," agreed Contesq, but she had a frown on her face - the young Eye had paid attention to a few details she later asked me about. "But awfully cute," she added.
        Deinell agreed with a nod. "Needs a little polishing."
        "Not that there's anything wrong with it," hurried Contesq when I was about to protest.
        (Aennen deigned it best to smoke his long pipe with a smile hidden under his cowl, as far as I could tell.)
        "Quick set of wits, you have there," said Deinell and grinned. "I like you, Bleeding Lord. Thank you kindly."
        "Well," I replied and finished my meal. "Maybe you will then, in gratitude, wake me up to break my fast to-morrow in the morn."
        "I don't see why not," Deinell said and sipped her brew. "Now, you were saying to my sister the other day, about that tattoo of yours...?"
        Oh bother, another thing forgotten! Contesq looked up with kindled curiosity and Aennen watched the other way, listening in spite of that. Fahill craned her neck on the other side of the table, as if something had caught here interest.
        "Oh. Well, 'tis a short spiel," I said and rubbed my tattoo, my eyes on my mug. "'Twas back in the day when we still had northern territory: I was a mere kit, as I believe I said, and something of an oddity among my family. My family, as you are not aware of my background, are traditionally either Hands, Hearts, politicians or merchants."
        "Hard to believe," mumbled Contesq.
        "I detect irony, young woman, and you will come to see some in my story. But before I allow that to make me lose the thread, I will continue.
        "Now, I had just began to tear myself away from an overly protective mother and a father that always pushed me toward the Hearts and their Sun Guard - I was to add to the family's honour, you see, bah! It happened to be so that even my siblings tried to convince me of this, and, quite annoyed with their slave-mentality, my river flooded. I had been trained by my father's 'thanes', just as my other siblings had been, to handle a sword, dance and act in accordance to etiquette.
        "I collected my personal effects and left to travel to my uncle's, who was to accept me into training according to my father... but instead, I took a deliberate wrong turn and travelled for a month in disguise, avoiding places where Hearts and Hands might lurk until I was certain I had reached a place where none could identify me.
        "And then I joined the Eyes."
        "You mean to say you were a backstabbing, plotting schemer even waaaaaaaaaaaay back then?" asked Contesq.
        I blinked at her. "Yes. But a moment longer, Contesq. Now. The actual date of when I woke up tattooed I cannot say, but I knew I had been drinking very much and that my Master gave me the task of washing statues for the next weeks. I had accomplices, but they are not all that significant.
        "The end."
        Deinell chuckled. "Washing statues, why?"
        "It's not a laughing matter," replied Contesq with a wince. "All those doves and pigeons..."
        "Oh. That."
        I said, "Yes, that. Just because doves are sacred animals does not in any way mean that they will express their gratitude in a clean manner."
        Aennen was holding back a mighty guffaw. "Excuse me, Carenda... but you say you were to join the Hearts, but you instead joined the Bleeders?"
        "It took a few... hundred seasons. Oh, more than a few."
        "Exactly how old were you again?" asked Contesq with a sharp, humouristic edge to her voice.
        "Old enough to know it all but young enough to show you young dolts your rightful place."
        We had plenty of laughs after that, much to my surprise. But in the end, I stood, excused myself and headed back to my quarters, unfollowed and totally alone. Contesq was having too much fun with Deinell, and even the Deerlord himself had become conversational. Manjarr too joined the conversation with a few raunchy jests after Trill had taken her leave - although I feared he had taken a liking to the pretty, clueless and smart (and paradoxical) Contesq.
        For my part, it was the way I preferred it. As long as I was left alone, I cared little... unless I of course somehow felt a personal duty of some sort.
        Although, admittedly, Deinell looked quite lovely. But so did Contesq, and quite frankly, I had troubles larger in my life than a woman would have solved.
        I do know how to use a frying pan, damn it.

~*~

"Touching," said Amanda with a smile as I finished my tea.
        "Oh," said I and smiled my gratitude. "That would be strange of me."
        "Strange?" she asked and poured me more tea. We were sitting in the room right in the middle of the Dondrean caste, the one equipped with the large glass dome that kept the room warm even in winters. Hereabouts the winters are temperate and warm enough, and the greenhouse garden Ottaviano had converted from an observatory made it even more enjoyable. The plants thrived.
        "Or, well. Yes and no. I have an erratic mind, at least," I chuckled and smiled at the offered cup. Amanda could be a very, very lovely person if she put some effort into it. But her temper tantrums along with her sharp intellect, which sometimes surprised her husband when there was a situation that demanded ingenious approaches, made her fierce as well. Not that she possessed any capabilities in combat whatsoever - she preferred words, written, read and spoken.
        "Well, that would be hardly anything new. That's what has you constantly jumping from an important sentence to something almost unimportant?"
        "Hardly anything new," I echoed and shrugged non-chalatantly. "But strangely, I still seem to be able to introduce everyone essential to the story."
        "I don't doubt that," Amanda smiled and picked up a pastry. "But that erratic mind of yours..."
        "Yes?"
        "It's your strength and weakness. You constantly tell us you are more than decent at improvisation."
        "Well, 'tis true. 'Thas been my choice weapon for... oh, here I am, reminiscing something just as I have concluded the previous chain of remembrance."
        She smirked. "Poor Varus. Have a pastry - it will make it all better. That poem was a bit unlike you, by the way."
        I accepted her offer with a smile. "'Twas a whimsical creation... I actually cheated a bit."
        "Oh?"
        "'Twas not entirely original."
        "Oh. Alright." She gave me enough time to chew on my pastry. "Would you mind composing a real piece of your own poetry for me, then?"
        I barked a healthy guffaw at that. "If it pleases you, I might as well please you. But not yet."
        Idly, I wondered how long I would continue writing this all. And the reason I write this down is simply to note two things: that I had forgiven both Ottaviano and Amanda - when all is said and done, they are not unworthy friends.
        Although you require a reminder of sorts at times. Of everything.
        "You know," she said after she had picked up the pages, "Ottaviano will want to hear about the tomb-city."
        I contemplated that. "True, but he will have to wait. 'Twould have been sheer folly to ignore the happenings in the den."
        "Oh, no doubt. And my thirst for drama has been satiated, at least."
        "Which would be the most important bit?"
        "Right on the nail. More tea?"
        "Please."