[Mkguild] Justice in Vengeance Refrain (4)

[Ryx]

            “That he’s older than the lot of us, and a fare share wiser.  Give 
him his time.”
            “Elvish time and, as you said, human time are seldom in step, master 
Thomas.” Murikeer pointed out sadly.  “How, then, does one of the Cloth come to 
travel with an Elf for the greater extent of his life?  They’re not exactly 
given to following Eli, after all.”
            “Hai, you fellows find a seat!”  Thomas dug a jug from beneath the 
cluttered table nearby and a trio of pewter goblets.  “Just… put the stuff 
wherever.  I’ll find it again in all due time.”  Using the tail of his shirt he 
rubbed the goblets and gazed at them to judge their cleanliness.  “T’is a long 
story, as I would think a worthy mage in the company of Eli’s own might be, 
yes?  Let us enjoy the day and let your worries ebb just a shade in the telling 
of such lengthy tales.” He said, handing each of them a goblet after they had 
cleared books and dust from a couple of chairs and sat down.  “How fares the 
grandness of Metamor, if I might ask?  I sore miss her great libraries.”  
Leaning forward in his chair he poured the contents of the jug, some manner of 
dark wine, into their extended goblets, “And this curse that has touched you?”
            “As you said, stories of some lengthy telling.” Murikeer said and 
took a sip of the wine.  It was rich but not dry, with a mellow sweetness 
reminiscent of raspberries and honey.
~~
            “That is not why you are here, boy.” The wolf growled from his chair 
without moving to rise.  “You’re to serve, not fight!”
            “But, Jadis, it was only sword training!” He protested with a frown 
while he pored over the thick, meaty stew he had been tasked to prepare.  It was 
hardly a challenge; throw a heaping plate of diced meat into the broth and just 
let it simmer all day before adding the few vegetables that he could eat.  The 
wolf would ignore those and hoard the stewed meat for himself.
            “Those kind of swords are not for your clumbsy hands, boy.” Jadis 
snorted into his cup of ale, tall ears backed in irritation.  “You’re for the 
house, like any good slattern, to cook, to clean, mend, and make sure my sword 
is well tended.”  Slamming the cup down on the table beside his chair the wolf 
scratched the fur of his naked crotch.  “You’re worth nothing else.”  I am, I 
am!  Mosha, tell me that I am!
            “Jadis!” He quailed sorrowfully, stricken to his core at the callous 
disregard of his would-be mate, “How can you say such things!?  Have I not 
served you faith-“
            “YES!” Jadis barked as he surged to his paws with a harsh laugh of 
sarcasm, “You serve me as faithfully as the wonton bitch you are!  That is what 
you are for, to serve me, no one else!  You cook my food, clean my house, and 
warm my bed.  Nothing else!  Nothing!” The wolf raged, grinning with those sharp 
teeth as he advanced.  A strong finger tipped with a stout claw poked him 
solidly in the chest and he fell back a pace despite the fact he stood a good 
foot and a half taller than the wolf and out-massed him by almost double.  He 
quailed back until the heat of the cook stove singed his tail and his tall horns 
rattled on the beam over the stove.
            “You can’t mean that Jad-“  This is not me!  Not me!  Mosha, please, 
why do you torture me so?!
            “I do.” The wolf’s roar became a hard growl, “Now finish that stew, 
boy.”  He turned and stalked back toward his chair.  Snatching up the ewer of 
ale he refilled his mug and took a long pull of the thick, frothy liquid.  It 
clung to his muzzle giving him the look of a rabid animal until he wiped it off 
with the back of his arm.  “If it is half palatable tonight I may let you play 
with my sword.  If not, well.” With a toothy grin he shrugged, “I’ll just 
replace you.”
            “Jadis,”
            “Shut up and cook, boy.  Leave your betters some peace.” With that 
Jadis flopped back into his huge chair and stretched his legs across the 
ottoman.  Tears fell into the stew as its sorrowful cook returned to his duties, 
knowing that the wolf was right; he had no worth.  No one would love him.  Like 
Jadis, he was worthy only of being used.
            Nocturna, no, I am worthy.  Worthy!  Why do you not answer, Mosha?
 
            Malger jerked and grabbed at his face with both hands, slamming his 
head back against the wall with a stunning crack that sent him pitching forward 
off the cot he had been sitting on when sleep overtook him.  Falling forward he 
spilled across the floor, scrabbling at the smooth stones with his claws as he 
tried to regain his wits past the pain in his head and the crushing fist 
grasping at his heart.
            The sorrow was almost too much to bear and it brought him to weep.  
He rolled over onto his back and gasped for breath past the sobs that wrenched 
themselves from his breast.  The cell was night dark and he saw no stars through 
the grate above.  Pale moonlight shone upon the stones, wavering with shadow as 
unseen clouds drifted across the sky he could not see for the roof a short 
distance beyond that grate.  The darkness did nothing to dispel the after-images 
of the sinister old wolf raging at him with mocking laughter.
            I gave him away, Malger remembered, but the sorrow would not release 
his heart.  I gave him to someone better, someone more gentle, someone who would 
care.  But oh, why did it hurt so?  Why would Nocturna not come to him?  What 
had become of the realm of dreams that had ever been his sanctuary from the 
trials and pains of waking life?
~~
            The Cherry blossoms were in full bloom and filled the air with the 
sweet redolence of spring.  In her hands was a simple embroidery that they used 
to help focus their thoughts.  Upon it was an intricate design in slender blue 
thread; a crane upon a shoreline, identical to those being created by the 
sisters of her crèche seated all around in the cherry orchard.  She could hear 
the soft susurrus of voices in her ear while her sisters chanted the Mandala of 
Focus, centering their minds against even the peaceful distractions engendered 
by the sweetness of the cherry blossoms and cool spring air.
            Stroking the blanket across her thighs she looked down at her 
hands.  A frown pulled at the corners of her muzzle at the sight of short black 
fur on slender fingers tipped with polished black claws.  She turned one hand 
over and gazed at the coarse black pads upon her palm and fingertips.  She was 
not supposed to be like that, was she, in the orchard of her crèche?  Gazing 
around she saw that all of her sisters, engrossed in their embroidery, were all 
as human as they should be.
            Why then, was she not?  That question lingered in her mind, 
unspoken, for a time until another distraction entered into the peace of the 
orchard.  The sisters, all girls between the ages of six and twelve at various 
degrees of their training, looked up toward the newcomer and primly placed their 
folded hands upon their laps.  She did as well, sliding them under her 
embroidery to hide their blasphemous wrongness, as she looked toward the 
newcomer and quailed in sudden fear.
            The woman, tall and willowy, radiated an air of quiet menace and 
unspeakable sorrow all at the same time.  She was garbed from head to toe in a 
wrap of the purest mourning white.  Walking sedately through the orchard she 
paid no heed to the trees or the sisters bowing forward on their knees, brows to 
the cool grass, as she passed. Fathomless dark eyes were for her alone and they 
bored through her with frightening power.
            Here was a woman of the Highest Houses, whose whim would be the 
making or breaking of any girl within sight.  The girl bowed forward as well, 
touching her nose to the grass and making sure her tail – tail! – was held low 
out behind her.  “Rise, child.” The woman spoke.
            To her, of that there was no mistake, but she was too terrified to 
move.  Her ears laid back upon her head and she shuddered under the tall, somber 
woman’s regard.  “Yes, child, I speak to you.  Rise.”
            Swallowing the lump in her throat the child shifted back onto her 
knees and then, digging her claw tipped toes into the grass, rose slowly to 
stand before the noble matron.  “Nen’si hai, nen’si asih.” She whispered in a 
quiet voice as she stood with head properly bowed, hands clutched before her 
stomach.  I hear, I obey.
            “I have a task for you, child, a task only you can undertake.” The 
woman’s voice was a smooth contralto, gentle yet somehow bone-achingly powerful; 
it cut straight to her heart as effectively as any task master’s shout.
            “Nen’si hai,” replied the child, dutifully pricking up her ears and 
keeping her wayward tail tucked.  Why did none of the other girls have ears that 
moved?  Or fur, or tails for that matter?
            “A traveler seeks me, but he has become lost.  I wish for you to 
find him for me.”
            “Until my dying breath, noble mistress, I will seek him.”  She 
swallowed slightly and hazarded a question, “How might I know when I have found 
the one you wish me to find?”
            A touch of gentle humor softened the weight of the white-clad 
woman’s words, “You will know.  When you find this traveler, child, I wish you 
to help him find his way again.”  A gentle touch between her ears almost made 
the child fall to her knees but she remained dutifully upright with only a 
slight sideward splaying of her years.  “Bring him to me, child, you will know 
the way.”
            “Nen’ae shai, im’nhi sai.” She nodded her head slowly under the 
woman’s touch.  My life to serve you.
            “Abesh non lased’hi, child.”  Serve with grace.  “Now go, find my 
lost one.”
            Bobbing in a smooth curtsy the child looked up as she felt the 
woman’s touch fade but the orchard was empty.  She was alone.
~~
            Murikeer jerked spastically and lashed out against the huntsmen 
closing in from all sides, bloodlust gleaming in their hungry eyes.  He had 
almost escaped but they had found him, cold steel gleaming in their hands.  
Beside him Elvmere gave out a startled cry when one of the skunk mage’s arms 
clobbered him across the muzzle.
            “Murikeer?” the priest clutched at his abused face and rolled away, 
putting some distance between him and the writhing skunk.  “Eli scourge these 
nightmares!” His own sleep had been frighteningly troubled and, had the skunk 
not awakened him with a bruising drub across the face he would have been 
awakened by the fright of his dreams soon enough.  Murikeer kicked off the heavy 
down comforter that made him feel like he was being broiled in his own fur and 
surged out of the bed in a fit of frightened fury.
            “All the gods curse this place.” The skunk growled in the baritone 
voice of his human guise, scrubbing his own face vigorously as he paced the 
room.  “I have had naught but terror whenever I sleep since coming to this 
place!”  He struck his shin against the edge of a table and staggered with a 
pained hiss.  “I haven’t dreamed of the days I was hunted in years.  Years!  
Gods, I still feel that fear to my very core!”
            “Aye.” Elvmere sighed.  He touched his muzzle through the guise of 
his illusion with his fingers to see if anything was more than bruised.  “For me 
it was the plague that struck Abaef some fifteen years ago.  I lived in terror 
of being touched by it for months.”  He sighed and just gave his muzzle a rub to 
quash the lingering throb.  “I did, in the end, but it passed.  Tell me, did you 
hear anyone calling out?”
            “Calling out?”
            “Yes.” Elvmere stretched and untangled the spread enough to slide 
out of the huge bed.  “Throughout it all there was someone calling out.  A 
plaintive voice, as a child seeking their parent.”  Padding to the window he 
pushed open the shutters to let in the cool night air and gaze toward the moon.  
It was a mere sliver above the horizon and the sky was beginning to grow pale 
with coming dawn.  “I could hear it, but not distinctly.  It was a sorrowful 
sound that filled me with this ache of sorrow that was almost as strong as the 
terror of becoming plagued.”
            “We are plagued, Elvmere.” Murikeer threw himself into a chair and 
rubbed his bruised shin.  “This place is a pox.”
            “Aye.  We should ask Malger of it.  He is the dream worshiper among 
us.  Perhaps he will know more.”
            Murikeer chuffed through his nose, “If this be-damned half-elvish 
lord gets around to us anytime within the years of our mortality.”
            “Brother Thomas promised to inquire.”
            Rubbing his muzzle Murikeer then stroked his hands back across his 
head, fingers combing through the false hair on his false head before dropping 
to the arms of the chair in which he sprawled.  “I trust that he will, as the 
Earl’s confidant.  Come, I’m ill of this stifling room and need to feel the 
night air.”  Thrusting himself from his chair he straightened his leggings and 
cast about for his shirt.  In the dark, even with eyes more sensitive in dim 
light than most, the dark fabric blended into the shadows almost completely.  
Elvmere located it folded on the footlocker and handed it over before taking up 
his own.  Both had been laundered and mended by the Earl’s house staff the 
previous day, as had the other clothing they had not been wearing at the time.
            Whatever magic Murikeer used to mask their scents somehow lingered 
long past association with the wearers for no one commented at the musk that had 
to be on those clothes.  Elvmere was well aware of what a raccoon smelled like, 
and skunk; neither of them pleasant in any great strength.  Slipping the shirt 
on he tied the sash about his waist and followed the young mage out of the 
room.  A pair of guards lounging outside the door stood abruptly and snatched up 
their spears.  Unlike Elvmere, who felt as if he had not slept in three days and 
was going forward merely by the force of momentum pulling at his feet, the two 
guards looked very alert.
            “Are ye gents a’aight?” One of the guards rumbled curiously, “Heard 
one o’ ye hollerin’ out a good bit o’ th’ night.”
            The other guard grunted and drew his helmet on.  “More like both of 
ye’s.  An yer no alone.”
            “Not?” Murikeer asked.  He paced down the hallway like someone with 
purpose though he had no idea where he wanted to go save away from that room, 
its heavy down comforter and its closed shutters.
            “Aye, no.  Been a lotta screamin’ an hollerin’ about toni’.” The 
first guard paced alongside Elvmere while his cohort followed a few paces 
behind.  “If ye stan’ ou’ on th’ balcony ye can be hearin’ ‘em.”
            “Bloody chorus o’ the damned.” Quipped the one following along 
behind.  His chain rattled and the butt of his spear thunked on the wood with 
each pace with a sound that made Elvmere’s hackles ripple.  To him it sounded 
like the gavel of an angry judge.  “Last ni’ too, but no so bad as this.”
            “And you two sleep during the day?” Elvmere asked.  Murikeer had 
outpaced them by a good dozen strides.
            “Aye as ‘at.”
            “Any bad dreams?”
            “No so much.” The guard pacing him looked down at him as they 
walked, “But tell th’ tru’t I bein’ almos’ afraid ta be takin’ me sleep t’day.” 
He poked his spearpoint toward the end of the corridor where Murikeer stood 
waiting on them.  “No wit all ‘at screamin’ inna dark like.  Givin’ me th’ 
shillies.”  They passed a door to someone’s bedchamber and heard from within the 
sound of muffled anguish.  A mournful cry for someone’s mam whispered through 
the heavy wood prompting Elvmere to trace a sign of the tree upon his brow and 
breast.  The guard grunted with a nod and did the same despite the amulet of 
Kammoloth he wore around his neck.  After the archavist Thomas’ revelation that 
Followers were, albeit grudgingly, accepted Elvmere felt less restrained in 
showing his own faith. “Damn unsettlin’.” The man sighed.
            “Because of the attack on Woodton?” Elvmere asked.  They reached the 
intersection and found Murikeer crouched petting a rather affectionate cat.  
When they came to him the cat gave a purring meow before moving to wend itself 
around the legs of a guard.  The man knelt briefly to stroke the cat’s head.
            “That be when things began, aye, but seems t’ me a lot o’ anguish 
over a single attack.” Offered the first guard who merely glanced at the cat.  
“But then has been peace here a right long time, then that.”  He shrugged and 
followed Murikeer through a door down one of the side halls out into the night.  
“Years o’ peace, then out o’ the blue a village is slaughtered.”  Canting his 
head back the man looked up at the waxing moon.  “No just a raid, outright 
wanton slaughter.  An’ them that went the ruins said nothing was took.”  He 
looked across at Elvmere with a frown on his face.  The moonlight left his eyes 
deep in shadow giving him the look of a cadaver.  “No plunder, just death.”
            “Such would unsettle even the most hardened of hearts.” Elvmere 
replied wanly.  There were no words of condolence he could offer that felt could 
even begin to encompass the loss.  He recalled Deep Springs and the senseless 
carnage he saw there.
            “Someone wishes war.” Murikeer growled irritably.  He shook himself 
and took a deep breath of the cool night air.  There was a taste of rain to it 
but the clouds were still relatively sparse.  Perhaps the dawn would bring 
rain.  “Such needless slaughter could only be a goad to force Sathmore into 
rising up in response, igniting a war between kingdoms for some unknowable 
goal.”
            “People always profit by the chaos.” Pointed out one of the guards.  
“To wha’ end, though?” he asked as they stood in a small ancillary courtyard 
behind the kitchens and smithy.  “Sathmore and the Midlands’ve been at peace, 
fer th’ mos’ part, fer generations.  Only big wars I be knowin’ of were 
squabblin’ provinces o’ Pyralia.”
            “I cannot say.” Elvmere sighed with a shrug.  The smell of charcoal 
and iron from the smithy mingled strangely with the smell of bread from the 
kitchens and the underlying stink of compost in a way that was strangely 
comforting in its familiarity to Elvmere.  Wherever he went in the many years of 
his life the smell of human settlements were always the same; pleasant and 
noisome in equal measure.  “War for the sake of nothing more than war itself 
seems terribly senseless.”
            “There is a goal to it, Elvmere.  I know not what, or for whose 
gain, but there is always a goal to war.” Murikeer replied. Turning to one of 
the guards he tilted his head slightly, “Tell me, sir.  Are we under arrest?”
            The man cocked a brow for a moment and shook his head, “No, lad.”
            “Then why has the Earl assigned us guards to escort us about day and 
night?”
            The guard chuckled warmly, “He didn’t, lad, th’ seneschal did.  
After Woodton everyone be on edge.  An’ yer mysterious travelin’ folk, so we was 
‘appy t’ volunteer.  Ye’ve got news o’ the world beyond.  We dunna get many 
visitors.”
            “And, I would assume, to prevent us from attempting to liberate our 
master.” Murikeer shrugged.  They wandered between the buildings into the main 
courtyard wandering aimlessly.
            “Aye, as such.”
            “Good morning, lads.” A voice reached them from a pair of dark forms 
lounging on chairs in the moon shadow of the main house.  “Tren, John.”
            “Archivist.  Yer up uncommon early.”
            Thomas snorted irritably, “Care to watch my beloved die but once, my 
fellows.  Come, have a seat and enjoy the dawn.  T’is better than dreaming, of 
late.”  When they stepped out of the moonlight and into the shadows Murikeer 
found that the second person seated at Thomas’ side was the Earl himself.
            “Good morning, sire.” The young mage offered with a bow.  “As the 
good Thomas has said, the night has not proven especially restful.  I thought I 
might clear my head with some cool air.”
            Earl Tathim nodded leisurely and saluted with a cup held in one 
hand.  “Be at ease, young man.  Thomas has spoken to me at some length about 
you.  He holds you in some good regard.”
            “As we do him, sire.” Elvmere smiled genially, “He is quite well 
read, and wise.”
            Again Tathim nodded, “And he has invited you to sit, so rather than 
strain his old bones looking up at you, feel free.  He and I are most well 
traveled, and have had chance to visit the libraries of Metamor some decades 
ago.  It pleases me to know it still stands.”
            “It does, indeed, sire.   We suffered a grievous attack this past 
Yule, in which I lost my eye avenging the death of one I loved.” Murikeer 
settled into one of the hard wooden chairs and leaned back after carefully 
settling his tail around to one side.  He nodded concordance to Thomas’ recent 
statement about the loss of his own love at some point.  “But we survived it and 
rebuild.”
            “T’is all we can do, ere there is anything left to rebuild.” Tathim 
sighed and sipped from his cup, “Ach, forgive my sharp tongue, lads.  The 
nightmares that followed the sacking of Woodton, and the responsibilities of my 
office that came of it, weigh heavily on me.”
            “Accepted, sire.”
            “Tathim, boys, Tathim.  Out here in the dark hours of morning we are 
all men at ease.”  He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, rolling 
the cup between his palms.  “Tell me of this master of yours.  From his manner 
he does not seem the man his actions painted him to be.  Likewise his skill with 
the blade, to have gone alone against an entire caravan worth of fighters and 
emerged alive, is considerable.  More than I would expect of a mere troubadour.”
            Murikeer nodded and smiled thanks when Thomas handed him a wooden 
cup.  The contents proved to be nothing more innocuous than cold brewed tea 
sweetened with maple.  “Like you he was well traveled for many a year.  He 
picked up all manner of skills.  Rather than have us risk our journeys alone he 
agreed to escort us, and take us on as pupils, when we left Metamor.”
            “Is he as cursed as you?”
            Murikeer blinked and shot a glance at Thomas who beamed like a 
triumphant fool and winked back at him over the rim of his pewter mug.  “He 
is.”  He reached up to his amulet but Tathim waved a hand dismissively.
            “Thomas, ever the spriteful old spy that he is, told me what he 
discovered through the priestess’ high windows.  I do not need further proof.  
Truth be told the idea of it rather raises the hairs on the back of my neck.  
You’re brave sorts, and uncommonly skilled, to leave the shelter of others 
likewise touched where acceptance is the rule of normality.”
            “We learn that some wild un-truths have been spread about us in the 
past years.” Murikeer sighed with a nod, dropping his hand.
            “Perhaps disgruntled merchants too harried for time to reap the 
profits that Metamor offers have chosen to limit competition by spreading lies.” 
Elvmere hazarded after taking a swallow of his own tea.
            “That would not surprise me.” Tathim grunted.  “Your master claimed 
justice against those he slew.  What do you know of it?  He tells me that you, 
lad, have some understanding of his actions.”
            “Aye, milord – er, Tathim.” Murikeer swirled the tea about in his 
cup, gazing into the dark liquid as if seeking some sort of truth.  “The one I 
loved, the one I lost in the attack this past Yule and in whose name I lost an 
eye, was captured by the man and his stalwarts.  I think it was some four or 
five years past, before I came to know what she became after our master helped 
her come to terms with what they did.”  He looked up and met the Earl’s eyes.  
They seemed to shine with a golden luminescence in the moonlit dark.  “What they 
did was… were atrocities I feel lacking to describe.  She was beaten nigh unto 
death and raped, repeatedly and violently, over the duration of the fortnight 
she was their captive.  Others were there, captured and chained and left to 
undergo the curse for the man’s profits.”
            “Her strength must have been worthy of ballads.”
            “Aye, I would say.  I saw her in battle, when I lived far north of 
Metamor.  She aided me in destroying the engines of war being fielded by an 
enemy of Metamor.”
            “Aided you?  Alone?”
            “The two of us, aye.  I am a mage, sire.  With judicious use of 
magic and stealth I was able to strike against them in a moment of awkward 
vulnerability.  As a result they were all destroyed, and a goodly portion of the 
escort with them.”
            “A tale worthy of telling, if you’ve the time.”
            “What of our master, though?  Tathim, I would offer you what tales 
you may desire, but the fate of our injured companion is paramount.”
            “He is well, if as harried by dark dreams as any of us.  I inquired 
if he needed the attentions of my healers and he refused.  Once day has come I 
will allow you to see him as you wish.  He is morose over his situation, and 
eats little we offer from mine own tables.”
            “The fight took much from him, and his injuries were many and, if 
not individually mortal, the plentitude of them is certainly a burden.” Elvmere 
replied softly.
            “Agreed, I have been in similar condition a few times.  Only my fey 
blood has seen me through a good many scrapes.”
            “Ach!” Thomas crowed with a laugh, “That fey blood and a good hand 
at your side.”
            “Aye as much, my old friend.” Tathim smiled at his aged companion 
with a salute of his cup before he drained it.  “As for your master, Earl 
Motense of Fendshill will be here in two days’ time to bear his witness of his 
attack on the caravan, as will a witness for Duke Thargood.  Until then I can do 
little but deal with the results of the sacking of Woodton.  The Lothanasa hin 
Caris tells me you were familiar with an arrow recovered from the slain?”
            “Yes, sire.” Elvmere sighed sadly, “We saw much the same in a 
village similarly attacked some three weeks journey to the north.  They are 
unique to the Knights of the Ecclasia, specifically those attached to the 
Questioners of the Church.”
            Tathim sighed heavily and stared into his cup, “I sent out a 
messenger pigeon when I learned of the attack, and received word back just after 
dark this night.  Eight remote settlements along the mountains bordering the 
midlands and Sathmore have all suffered the same violent end in the past month, 
discounting Woodton which brings the total to nine.  All were sacked and razed 
with few, often no, survivors.  Evidence left behind always bears the mark of 
the Yesbearn.”
            “Nine!” Elvmere exclaimed, aghast.
            “Sathmore issued a writ to marshal all levies without delay.  That 
was also a part of the message that was returned to me.” Tathim informed them 
flatly.  “I’ve little to raise, but –“ he sighed and tossed back the remainder 
of his tea.  “I will be sending riders to my vassalages in the morn to marshal 
what little I am able.  Sathmore readies for war, lads.  By rights, as a males 
capable of wielding a sword I am required to conscript you.  The fact that one 
of you is a mage only strengthens that claim.”
            “Sire!?” Elvmere gaped and almost dropped his cup but Tathim merely 
waved his fingers slightly.
            “I shan’t, no.” He set the cup down on the small table before them 
and Thomas leaned forward to refill it. “After decades living among men I have 
left the pride of my lineage long behind.  I am but a humble man wishing to live 
out his centuries in peace, not war.  I would not wish to impress you into 
another pointless war.”  Taking his cup when Thomas handed it to him he took 
another drink.  “It seems that humankind seek only to slaughter itself.”
            “You’re not so far from human yourself, friend.” Thomas offered 
humorously, “You’ve got some fire mixed into that cold elvish stuff, yourself.”


      

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