<html> <body> Metamor Keep: First Day on Patrol by Charles Matthias 3/3 By mid-afternoon the old wagon-trail turned into a more obvious road as the grasses were cleared and they entered cultivated fields again. These fields, more distant from Lorland, were haphazard and maintained by the poorest farmers, clearly bitten through by birds and field mice. Battle sores and the weariness of walking all day long also bit at their muscles. A touch of surliness at the pace Dallar set gripped Elvmere and the others on their annual duty as the afternoon wore on. As they continued north the sun beat down on their backs and they frequently paused in their steps for a few moments to squeeze a quick slurp of water. Elvmere remembered days traveling with Malger and Murikeer where he'd walked more miles, burdened with a pack on his back and equipment for the road on his buckler. But those days were not yet a year gone and the months of Temple life, rigorous as they were, had let some of his old stamina falter. It would return after a few days of the martial life, but for now the return of the familiar pains was not welcome. Prayers and pondering all he'd done already comforted somewhat, but he still found himself pondering more when the ram would allow them another break or better yet a place to camp for the night. He was also disappointed when after a rest long enough only to stiffen his muscles he was moved away from the hawks and paired next to the tokay behind Dallar and the other ram. He was grateful to Jessica for her brief lesson in magic, something he was sure would help when the time came for him to receive proper tutelage at the Temple, but he'd hoped to spend some of his time talking with Weyden and learning more about the hawk's devotion to Dokorath. Now he'd have to wait for another day. There would be other days, but the thought was not as comforting as he'd hoped. Wyaert was in no better shape. The blue-red speckled tokay kept his bright yellow eyes fixed forward along the path, long fingers of one hand wrapped about the hilt of his sword as if he were dragging it behind him. After a few words when they were paired, both settled into silence. Wyaert's eyes flickered only to bare patches of rock as they walked, as if all he wanted to do was to stretch out and bask in the sun's warm rays. Elvmere found himself eyeing grassy patches with much the same thought. The trail followed the river north, but the hills and slope forced them further and further away as the hours slipped past. It was still in sight except for when they cut around the western side of a low ridge or cluster of homes. Farmers did not even pause in their work to watch them troop past, and Elvmere was too absorbed in his own discomfort to notice them either. Elvmere took to drumming his claws across the impression of the Dokorath medallion beneath his tunic, timing the clicks with each of his steps. He tried to recall the few stories he knew about the god of battle. Part of being a warrior was the physical endurance; Dokorath surely understood what Elvmere needed. Between each click of his claws and step of his boots he prayed one word of a simple prayer, and repeated it over and over to focus his mind and heart. Dokorath. I. Trust. In. You. As he continued to repeat the prayer, an image coalesced in his mind of a tall man in a black suit of armor, garbed with a black cape bearing a massive silver sword standing amid a smoky gray fog. His helmet was mounted by two ram horns and only had slits for his eyes and mouth, through which incandescent red and white radiance shimmered. He did not move, but Elvmere knew the deity's gaze lingered upon him. The image remained with him for some minutes, sometimes very clear to his imagination, other times, obscured and only dimly seen. Elvmere, even as he thought on the visage of the god of battle, honor, and valor, was not sure if this was a true vision granted him or if this was merely his imagination bringing to mind what his studies in the Temple archives had told him. He felt both gratitude and a deep sense of his own unworthiness. How much of his life had he denied Dokorath and the rest of the pantheon? He felt a burning shame and lifted the medallion from his tunic to kiss it. The sound of grunting voices up ahead caught his ears and cleared his mind. They could see a good distance in the farmlands of western Lorland, but there were still hills and clefts of rock framing the road. He saw Dallar put his hand on the pommel of his sword and both Elvmere and Wyaert did the same a moment later after putting his medallion back. They did not slacken their pace as the road wound around to the right of a low hill. On the other side of the hill they saw a group of four men grasping at a large boulder in the middle of the field. Two of them were human and dressed as farmers; the third, a dog of some sort, was dressed as a soldier. The fourth was large with heavy dark gray skin and a wide-mouthed head with small ears dressed in black. As they neared, Elvmere felt his chest tighten and the fur on the back of his neck and tail bristle. The black-clad creature was a Patildor priest. Dallar waved to the men and called out. “Good afternoon! Do you need any help?” The gray-skinned priest lifted his large head and waved back with stubby fingers. “Good afternoon, and aye! A few extra strong backs should get this boulder rolling. Can you spare a few minutes to help?” “Aye, we can.” He then turned and waved toward the rest of their patrol before starting into the field. Sedric followed at his side, and Elvmere and Wyaert did the same a moment later when they caught up. Elvmere lifted his hand from the pommel of his sword and pressed it atop the Dokorath medal. The other three men disappeared from his sight; his eyes fixed on the large priest. When they were halfway across the field his eyes focused enough he was able to recognize what sort of animal this priest had become. It had been a very long time since he had seen a hippopotamus; they were native to the rivers near Eavey in Sonngefilde and though they looked peaceful they were often times more dangerous than the alligators. The shape of a hippopotamus melded with a man was comical, jovial, and unsettling all at once. Knowing this was a priest made it all the stranger. Elvmere kept behind Dallar and Sedric as they tracked through the grassy field filled with rocks and divots. It did not seem they had used this part of the land in years. Nor, if they were only beginning to clear the field now, would they use it this year. The time for turning the earth and sowing was a month or two ago. Perhaps they intended it for sheep or cattle? The boulder was the only one in the field and must have rolled down from the distant mountains a long time ago. It was wider than all four men standing abreast but only a few hands taller than the hippo. All four were trying to push it toward the road, though what they hoped to do with it there Elvmere couldn't imagine. Dallar and Sedric reached it first with the raccoon and tokay close behind. The hippo priest heaved with his shoulder, thick lips split open with huge teeth visible between them. “Where do you want this, Father?” Those large jaws opened wide as did Elvmere's eyes on seeing four tusk-like teeth within. He could not recall having ever seen larger teeth or a larger mouth on any of the Keepers he'd ever met. Yet despite having a mouth large enough for Elvmere to fit his head and shoulders inside, the priest's manner was affable and the rumbling chuckle beneath his words almost set him at ease. “Oh, anywhere along the side of the road will do, Captain. We'll break it apart to start a new wall next week.” “Larssen! Tamsin! Get over here and help us move this stone. Sedric, Wyaert, I want you on the sides. Elvmere, can you slide in beneath Father?” “Purvis,” the hippo added, lifting one arm so the raccoon could squeeze beneath him. “Come, son, every paw will help.” Elvmere chuffed at being called 'son' and had to brush down his neck fur with one hand. He offered another quick prayer to Dokorath for strength, brought the medallion to his snout for another kiss, then crouched lower and slid beneath the hippo's bulk. He put his hands against the large stone, digging his claws into the hard earth thrust through by grass patched with wildflowers and little stones. Dallar heaved his shoulder into the stone on the other side, and for a moment Elvmere was trapped between the stone and three animal men, with only a few shafts of light peering through. He could hear Dallar shouting to Sedric, Wyaert, and the others, and the grunting of the men as they shoved, as well as his own breath as he pushed, the stone digging against the sensitive skin on his palms and fingers. He felt the dirt underneath his feet crumble and his toes and heels sank into the loam. And then he felt a jolt through his arms as the boulder lurched away. Elvmere almost fell onto his snout, but the thought of the hippo priest also falling made him leap forward, a beastly chitter rattling across his tongue and teeth. The boulder rolled, and it carried his paws up with it, until he reached down lower and pushed more. Huge tracts of earth were ripped apart with each turn, and his feet dragged through the earth, including through a few patches muddier than the rest. He could feel the grime clinging to his fur and burrowing between his claws. His heart beat faster, ever mindful of the huge stone before him and the weighty hippo ever one moment away from collapsing on top of him. Yet he felt excitement and a firm determination to keep as close to the stone as he could, and a kindled flame in his chest. His strength alone was not enough, but together with the farmers and his patrol the boulder rolled like a pebble tossed by a child. Elvmere chuffed a harsh laugh between breaths. “Larssen! Tamsin! Slow it down!” Dallar's shout was loud even over the grunting animal noises and grinding stones. Elvmere stopped pushing at the stone, only moving forward to keep up with it and keep his paws against it. The granite and muck clinging to it slowed with each passing step. Elvmere felt the hulking shape press closer against his back and so he pressed closer to the stone. Grime splattered against his legs and chest, and he even felt some flick against his whiskers and cheeks. The raccoon narrowed his eyes and hissed in a strange satisfaction. And then just as abruptly as the boulder began to move it stopped with a heavy thunk. Elvmere smashed against the surface, snout turning to the side to keep from bruising his nose. The hippo backed off and Elvmere was grateful the brute didn't crush him into a raccoon-fur pulp. The priest let out a booming laugh. “Ah, thank you, Captain! Thank you all! Son, are you all right?” Elvmere pushed off the boulder and blinked as the light flooded his eyes. He felt the mud dripping in clumps off his tunic and breeches. He waved his hands back and forth to get the filth free and then clawed at his cheeks to straightened out his fur. It didn't do much good. “Just muddy is all.” The raccoon turned partway to offer the hippo a toothy scowl, before stepping out of the large ditch gouged out by the boulder's passage to find his friends. He flicked his tail from side to side and was grateful at least one part of him wasn't a gunk-smeared wreck. The farmers and the dog soldier also had a bit of mud on them up to their chests, while Dallar, Sedric, Wyaert, and Tamsin only had it on their legs. Larssen was the only one who appeared to have avoided the mess. Tamsin lifted his snout in a boisterous laugh on seeing the raccoon. Wyaert, who'd been brushing the mud from his breeches, stared with wide yellow eyes at Elvmere for several seconds before resuming his own cleansing. “Let me help you, son,” Purvis offered, stretching out a meaty hand to brush the mud off of the raccoon's chest. Elvmere felt his tail fur bristle again and he shook his head, “No need. I can manage.” Dallar's ears lifted in surprise and Elvmere felt chagrin realizing how he'd bitten each word. In more measured tones, he added, “I didn't know there was another Patildor priest in Metamor.” The hippos short ears flicked around toward the raccoon, hand outstretched with his offer to clean the mud from the raccoon's tunic. If he had noticed the anger in Elvmere's voice he gave no sign of it. “What a marvelous home you have, son. 'Twas a shame only Father Hough could enjoy these wonders. I was happily assigned here a few months ago. Are you from the Keep?” “Aye, Father,” Dallar replied, waving Elvmere back. “On patrol in Lorland for a few days. We may cross paths again. For now, is there any other help we can offer you and your friends?” The hippo lowered his arm as the raccoon stepped away, snorted upward through his nostrils, and then smiled in his affable way. “Nay, good Captain, we can manage the rest here. You are far from Lorland here and going the wrong way I fear! I will be offering Liturgy at the ninth bell tomorrow morning; you and your men are welcome; I would be honored to bless you and your men.” Elvmere pulled the Dokorath medallion from his tunic and pressed it to his snout as he backed away. Dallar bleated, “We will not be near your parish tomorrow morning so we will not be joining you. And most of my men are Lothanasi, including two acolytes of Temple, but thank you for the offer, Father. Larssen, if you, Maud, and Van would care for a blessing, you may do so now. We'll be waiting for you.” “And I,” Wyaert the tokay announced. He stepped toward the hippo which gave Elvmere the excuse to step further away around the boulder. “I have heard many good things about you, Father, from my fellows of Bradanes.” “Ah, you were of Bradanes as well? Terrible what you have suffered. I will gladly give you my blessing, young man.” The hippo lifted one hand over the lizard's head to trace the familiar yew. Elvmere walked back onto the road and bent over to brush the mud off his trousers. He ended up smearing it across the few clean spots instead. “Ach! I'm a mess.” Tamsin patted him on the shoulder. “You should keep wiping, I think you missed a spot there.” The raccoon hissed and straightened before he made himself fit for nothing better than being chucked into the river. He probably should do it himself; it wasn't far away. “We're bound to get filthy on patrol anyway.” “On your first day of patrol no less! I'm surprised the large one back there didn't crush you.” “Indeed!” Tamsin stepped closer and flicked a bit of mud from the raccoon's shoulder. “Do not much care for Patildor priests, eh?” “I... It's been a while since I have seen any. I have not always been treated well at their hands.” Elvmere took a deep breath, claws tracing the contours of the circle and arrow Dokorath claimed for his own. He offered a prayer for strength and another to Samekkh for understanding. Tamsin nodded and snorted, casting a glance at the hippo before turning back to Elvmere with a bright laugh in his eyes. “Perhaps you can tell me about it later. Time to go; Dallar's coming.” Elvmere put his medallion back beneath his tunic where it rested comfortably against his chest. He rested his palm on the pommel of his sword and dug the claws of his other hand against his side and the mud clinging to him. Dallar nodded once to him as the ram rejoined the road and without a word Elvmere fell in behind him next to the now beaming Wyaert; Elvmere refused to look at the lizard. ---------- For more minutes than Elvmere could count they continued on the road, most of the rest of the patrol laughing about the experience. Wyaert was silent for which Elvmere was grateful. Apart from the growing discomfort of the sticky and hardening mud caking most of his clothes and exposed fur, he found it difficult to focus on anything be it the fields and farms surrounding them, the sound of the other soldiers in their patrol following him, or even the thoughts darting about his mind. A sullen disquiet filled him. He wished he could walk beside Tamsin. The tapir and fellow acolyte was his friend. Wyaert was a stranger to him and only here because of Metamor's annual levy. He wasn't sure what he could say to Tamsin, but it was a lot more than he wished to admit to the Patildor lizard. Elvmere was not even sure what he dared admit to himself. The mere sight of a Patildor priest had set him on edge. The Patildor... the Ecclesia. For so long he'd been part of them, even rising to the rank of Bishop, a Bishop who'd been confidant of the Patriarch and thought by many to be the next Patriarch. He well remembered the horrible night in the rain-soaked fields south of Lorland when the Sondecki slaughtered the Patriarch's camp including his mentor and friend for over a dozen years. Elvmere covered the surge of anger by scratching at the mud on his tunic, rubbing his fingers and claws against the impression where the medallion lay. It had not been Eli who'd cried out a warning to him but his Lady. She had come to him and told him precisely what to do to save himself. The blow had cracked his ribs, but the Curse of Metamor had healed him, and given him the mask his Lady had presented to him a few nights before. I was always meant to be a raccoon. I was always meant to be Elvmere. He trudged ahead, lowering his hand to wrap about his sword hilt. The road had widened from a pair of ruts in the ground to a hard-packed avenue two wagons could ride abreast. They passed farms clustered together and filled by thatch-roofed homes with wooden walls. His ears turned at the sounds of horses and donkeys at work in the fields as well as the crank of wheels. There were even a few wagons filled with bales of hay, casks of foodstuffs, or barrels of wine heading south toward the bridge to Lorland. Elvmere barely saw them. Both times he'd ventured south from Metamor they'd skirted Lorland on their way. The first time he'd been Vinsah, and the second time he'd only begrudgingly accepted his real name. Vinsah had not been a bad man, nor was it a bad name. But he felt an idiot as he thought on both of those journeys. The first time his Lady had warned him not to leave Metamor; she'd even appeared in Akabaieth's dreams to ask him to leave Elvmere behind. Why had he been such a fool? He'd trusted his own judgment and sought to flee her. In the end he returned to Metamor anyway. At least he'd learned to trust his Lady and when she bid him leave Metamor six months later he did so. But it took the wisdom of Malger and Murikeer to keep him alive and to convince him to take a new name. Only the name Elvmere could suffice. Elvmere ground his fangs together for a moment and kept on walking. Wyaert did not seem to notice. His name and his past journeys through Lorland were not what had inflamed him nor what kept his heart seething. Even the Dokorath medallion throbbed in his chest fur. It was the hippopotamus. The Patildor priest. He'd known from the first moment he set foot in the Lothanasi temple to serve the gods as an acolyte six months ago he would one day see Patildor priests again. He still thought fondly on Father Hough from time to time and hoped the boy was managing well enough. Nor had he forgotten how the Questioners spirited him away from Yesulam when evil men from Bishop Jothay came to kill him. But he would never forget the hammer blows. Excommunicated. Cast out. His yew shattered. The Bishops approving and in his miserable recollection, chanting the words in time to the blows with the Patriarch. Corrupt men worshiping only their own power. Many of them he had called friend for years. Once clad in fur he had become the pariah. Is not this a grief even to death? But a companion and a friend shall be turned to an enemy. Elvmere ground his fangs together. He had served the Patildor for decades, first as an altar server as a boy, then a priest for much of his life, and finally a Bishop, traveling in the inner circle of the Patriarch himself. Whispers and rumors abounded through his ears for the last few years when Akabaieth passed on to his eternal reward it would be Vinsah elevated as Yahshua's vicar. The bitter anger softened in sorrow at the memory of his kind and patient mentor. Akabaieth, whose own thoughts had guided and comforted Elvmere in his hour of need, had ever been reserved and quiet in managing the Ecclesia's hierarchy. So much of what the raccoon had read in his journals had never been voiced before, thoughts the dead man had likely seen as too difficult for the Bishops. Elvmere, reading those journals, living for a short time at Metamor as a raccoon, and traveling with Malger and Murikeer, had his eyes opened to many things he'd never considered before. Akabaieth already had made his peace with them, and by the time Elvmere had arrived in Yesulam he had accepted them as well. And for these things he was cast out. Akabaieth had seen it in sorrow. He had mused upon the Lothanasi, a people he had once zealously persecuted, attempting to convert them with sword and suffering, and had granted the gods a place. They were real and it was not wrong to belong to them. And Elvmere was meant to belong to them; Akabaieth had in some way seen it too. He pressed his hand on his tunic, rubbing his claws along the edges of the medallion beneath. The Patildor were wrong about magic being evil. They knew it too with their multiple carved out exceptions for the Sondeckis and some of the other Southern mage clans. The Lothanasi had no such inhibitions about magic; his friend Tamsin was receiving instruction in its usage and soon he would as well. Jessica's lesson was but the first step of many he would take; the gods willing he would craft spells one day. And if they were wrong about this, what else were they wrong about? What else had Elvmere been wrong about? Were they wrong about Eli and Yahshua too? Elvmere recalled what he'd read in the archives, of the ancient goddess of the arts Sakkan swearing fealty to Kammoloth. For a moment he burned with a desire to see those proud Bishops falling on their knees before Raven in honor of Kammoloth and the Pantheon. He ground his fangs together and tightened his grip on the medallion. These thoughts were not like him. This anger was not who he wanted to be. Elvmere had to think clearly and see truth for what it was. Emotions could help, but they were not the arbiter of truth. And in truth, the Bishops had not kindled this anger, but the smiling face of the hippopotamus priest and how he'd called Elvmere 'son'. This Purvis may be a kindly man, may in fact be genuine in his desire to help and to use what the curses gave him to help, but he was still the face of those Bishops here in Metamor. A smile before a hammer. Just as the hammer had crushed his yew, the hippo had almost crushed his body against the boulder. Dark eyes cast toward the lizard, and his ears backed. The tokay hissed out through his fangs the melody of a Patildor hymn! Think clearly! Anger only darkens everything! Elvmere narrowed his eyes, focused on breathing in and out, stepping one foot before the other, and brought to mind the prayers he'd learned from his beautiful Nylene on his voyage home and of the many more he'd learned as an acolyte. He repeated them one by one, slowly and at length, beseeching Samekkh for wisdom, Dokorath for courage, Velena for love for his friends and enemies, Akkala for mending the bitterness in his heart, Artela for sure senses on the patrol, Yajiit for warmth in the night, Dvalin for good weather, Wvelkim for safe passage upon the waters, and Kammoloth for humility to listen and learn. His heart burned, but he still prayed and still walked. And ignored the Patildor lizard. ---------- They reached the crossroads to Ellingham in the west and Lyme Regis in the east by late afternoon. An old stone bridge spanned the river and there they stopped long enough for Tamsin, Larssen, and Dallar to throw a surprised and mud-smeared raccoon into the cold water and then drag him back out again a hundred paces downstream. Elvmere dripped from clothes and fur for another hour as they continued their patrol northward, leaving the main road behind and trekking once more along wagon tracks and footpaths beaten through the grass and brush. The unexpected soaking actually improved his mood and he was soon laughing about his bedraggled state with the other soldiers. The afternoon sun warmed him and with so few trees in the western reaches of Lorland he was able to keep himself in its brilliant rays until evening when the sun fell behind a swath of low clouds creeping over the Dragon mountains. All of them, levies and soldiers alike, were showing weariness in little ways. Everyone's steps were a little slower and they took short breaks more often. Elvmere winced at the soreness in his legs and shoulders and gasped in relief every time he could sling the pack off his back. Myrwyn spent most of his time perched on the supply horse stretching and preening his wings. Sedric groaned and made pathetic bleating noises from time to time. Wyaert looked lethargic the moment the sun hid behind the clouds and kept fiddling with an amulet he otherwise kept hidden beneath his tunic. Tamsin and the soldiers gave no outward sign of their exhaustion, but Elvmere recognized their slowness and the sullen drooping of their eyes having seen it many times in Malger and Murikeer before. Dallar turned them westward away from the river as the day began to wane. The foot path meandered through mostly fallow fields and pastures up through rising hills. Small pines pock-marked the land, nestled in clefts and among rocks where the hills folded over. Up ahead the grasses surrendered to the edge of a dark wood filled with grown pines, beech, alder, and oak. Everyone grew quiet, trudging along, eyes wary and tired. Elvmere's clothes were still damp in places and stank of the river, and with the sun behind the clouds and soon the mountains a slight chill crept into his fur and skin despite the general warmth of the Summer evening. He wished the sun had been able to warm his front as well as his back, but he thanked Yajiit all the same for what sun he received. The day was nearly spent by the time they reached the wood. Already twilight gloom covered the eastern mountains and the clouds began spreading across the valley to the south, promising a cool night and perhaps even a midnight sprinkle. They paused only long enough on entering the woods for Dallar to reorder them one last time, remind them to keep watch for signs of poachers, and assurances they would be breaking for camp in another two candlemarks. Elvmere found himself up front with the ram once again. The ram gestured to various bushes and trees and bits of dirt and rock all about. The foot path had all but disappeared to the raccoon's eyes and even though he saw better in the twilight gloom than he did in full daylight, he had only the vaguest of notions what the ram meant with each gesture. He found his mood souring from the exhaustion and the dampness in his chest which seemed colder with every step. When ground descended into a small dell with a stream trickling through, Dallar flashed a signal Elvmere didn't recognize to the soldiers behind them, and then stepped off the path along the stream, waving the raccoon to follow. The brush was thick and Elvmere kept bumping into clinging branches. Dallar's hooves sunk into the ground along the stream, leaving a trail even Elvmere could see; his boots did the same, though the broken stems left in his wake were just as telling. After a minute of following the stream, presumably for clues to the poachers, Dallar turned around and fixed Elvmere with a hard stare. The raccoon averted his gaze, looking around for some evidence of the poachers. All he could see were the tracks they were leaving and he chittered to himself in annoyance, tail flicking back and forth and fingers working over his tunic and and sword hilt. “I, uh, am not sure what I'm looking for, Sir.” Dallar crossed his arms and shook his head, his voice low. “There's nothing here, Acolyte. You've been out of sorts since we helped the priest. Have you calmed yourself down?” Elvmere chuffed, his tail pulling up around his legs. “I... you could tell?” “I've been a patrol captain and a gaoler. I have seen all manner of beasts in anger.” The flare in his heart made him tighten his claws into his palms. Just thinking of the hippo made him burn inside. He thought of Nylene and her hands brushing through the fur of his chest and back and managed to relax. “Aye, I am calm.” Dallar rolled his tongue along his teeth as he stared at the raccoon. “Is it the Patildor you do not like, or merely their priests?” Elvmere hunched his shoulders. How could he answer the questions without revealing who he'd once been, something he was forbidden to do? Lies offended Samekkh and they were dishonorable to Dokorath. He sighed. “I don't think it is all Patildor priests. I... I know what it is to serve the gods. During my travels... I encountered many who did terrible things. I saw those things again when I saw the hippopotamus.” He tried to say the priest's name, but bile filled him. He closed his jaws before any spilled. Dallar let him stew in silence for more seconds than he dared count. The ram's gaze penetrated and the raccoon, filled with shame, could not meet them. He looked down at the hoof and boot prints in the soft earth, the trickle of water in the stream as it burbled over rocks and roots, tearing away at the soil on its way toward the river. He fiddled with the Dokorath medallion at his neck. The scents of Tamsin and the others in their patrol grew stronger in the air. The ram broke the silence when they could hear the muffled bleat of Sedric through the trees. Dallar's voice was firm, a commander's voice. “You don't have to see Patildor while in the Temple. Hate them all you want then. Like you I grew up in this valley. I am Lothanasi and faithful to the Light. But half my men are Patildor and they are fine soldiers and very good men; they are my friends. And now they are your brothers in arms... and sisters. You will keep your anger in check and you will come to their aid without hesitation. I am not going to repeat this. Do you understand?” Elvmere nodded. His behavior was not his alone, it reflected on the Temple and Lothanasa Raven and Priestess Merai. His gritted his fangs and nodded again, saying, “I understand, Captain. I will not let my anger at the Patildor get the better of me again.” And if he did, he knew there'd be months of serving in the Dove room and stinking of poop in his future. He could already seen Raven's stern lupine glare, Merai's disappointed eyes, Celine's trust broken, and Weiland's constant reprimands. He knew the lectures of how rage was the domain of Revonos and the destruction it always caused. Oh Dokorath help me control my anger. Help me be a good brother in arms. I offer you all my training and all my service. Grant me this, Dokorath! Dallar waited several more seconds before nodding. “Good. Now, let's rejoin our friends. It is almost time to make camp.” The ram offered him a firm grin and patted him on the shoulder. Elvmere forced a smile for his commanding officer as they walked back along the stream. ---------- They selected a level stretch of forest for their camp and cleared some of the brush in the center to make a fire began as the long day finally dwindled to twilight. Even the experienced soldiers appeared worn out from the long hours trekking from Metamor and across Lorland. While Dallar and Maud kindled a fire Larssen cleared the nearby trees of dead branches for fuel and the rest pitched camp. Tamsin and Elvmere had their lean-to steady a few minutes after retrieving the supplies from their packs. The tapir grinned and grunted in approval. “Great work! Now let's get this canvas secured and we can relax. Long day, eh?” “Aye,” Elvmere agreed, offering his friend a toothy grin, “and it's not quite over yet”. The heavy pack he'd carried along with the boots he'd worn were already sitting atop his blanket. His grateful toes stretched through the moss and dried leaves. He desperately wanted to shift to a more feral form and meditate on Artela and the wonders of her forests, but the weight of the sword still buckled to his side reminded him he was not here for himself but for Metamor. He had to keep his promise to Dokorath. “Not quite,” Tamsin stretched his arms and shoulders, before handing the raccoon one end of the broad canvas. It was thin and would serve only to keep rain and most of the wind off while they slept. It was not unusual for many Summer nights to feature gentle rains and after his journeys with Malger and Murikeer he knew how miserable it was to sleep in the rain. Elvmere took his end and between them they stretched it out across the beams of wood they'd built. He used a pair of hooked nails and threaded them through the loops at the corners, pushing them into the ground with his hands until they could go no further. He gave each a whack with one of his boots for good measure. When he stood, he saw Tamsin nodding his head in approval and wiping his hands. “Ah, good, good. Should be warm and dry tonight. Let's get a line stretched out near the fire and hang your clothes to dry.” Elvmere nodded and undid the buckler over his shoulder, easing it and the sword down to the ground so he could remove his tunic. “I'm not taking the breeches off until later. But I do want this shirt off.” Tamsin laughed, a comforting sound, as he undid the lacing of his tunic and shimmied free. The medallion bounced against his chest and his gray fur shimmered in the dance of firelight. A few minutes later and they secured a line of rope between two trees passing near enough to the fire to warm their wet clothes. Elvmere draped his tunic across the line and sighed. On the other side of the fire he could see Wyaert and Sedric working on their lean-to with Van standing cross-armed giving them directions. The hawks were showing Myrwyn how to spread a small canvas between branches so they could sleep dry in a perch above the camp. Larssen and Maud, with the fire crackling, were sorting their food to cook. Dallar started working on his lean-to, ears lifted, eyes ever scanning the trees around them. The pack horses grazed flowers and weeds, relieved to be free of their burdens. “Two weeks of this... I miss the evening sacrifice.” Elvmere was almost surprised at his own words. He'd been a Lothanasi acolyte for six months now. Other than the nights he'd been assigned guard duty at the Temple entrance, he had always taken part in the sacred ritual spilling of dove blood upon the altar. The Patildor did not believe in animal sacrifices. Yet now they were a part of him too; he had cared for and cleaned up after the birds for three months, and even though he had a wider range of duties, he still had to tend them at least once a week. His own prayers and devotion was joined to the sacrifice; he belonged to the Pantheon. He had to live up to them. “Aye, I know but we'll have time to pray at least. We can start by thanking Dvalin for the good weather and Yajiit for the warm sun and this warm fire.” “And asking Dvalin to give us good weather tonight and tomorrow too,” Elvmere replied. “Is this what your life was like before you were injured?” Tamsin nodded and stretched his legs out. “Aye, mostly. Builds good muscles at least.” “Will you ever go back to it?” The tapir seemed to stare beyond the forest for a second. “If anyone else in my unit had survived, probably. Bonds of blood are strong, Elvmere. You'll understand if we have to fight. I think you'll do fine. I doubt Captain Dallar will have us practice any more tonight, but tomorrow definitely.” Elvmere rubbed at one of his bruises and then stretched. “Good. I need it. I'm sure this won't be my last patrol. So, what do we do now?” “See what the Captain wants us to do.” Dallar, after inspecting their lean-to, had them finish setting up his own and then had them set one up for Larssen and Maud. Elvmere enjoyed the simple work. It settled his mind and heart and cheered him. Even his sore muscles felt good at the activity. The Dokorath medallion leaded forward whenever he did, then bounced against his chest fur when he straightened. When they finished Dallar allowed them to relax by the fire while Maud and the giraffe cooked up sausages. Elvmere stretched his toes and reclined, claws of one hand drawing through his tail fur, the other rubbing over the medallion. Tamsin elected to check on the birds and so for a short time the raccoon was left alone. He stared into the flames and did as Tamsin suggested, offering a prayer of thanks to Yajiit for the fire and the warm sun they'd enjoyed. He followed it with a prayer to Dvalin thanking him for the good weather and beseeching him to keep it good on the morrow. As his body relaxed he found his mind wandering across the many things he'd done since rising early in the Temple. He chittered a laugh as he remembered zooming down the line from the watchtower, and at being tossed into the river by his friends. He felt a bit of pride at the way he'd comported himself when checking in with the Lorland city guard and in how he'd sent Sedric sprawling in battle. He wondered in awe at the lesson Jessica had tried to teach him and pondered whether he would ever be able to cast any magic. And he felt a simmering disquiet at the memory of the smiling hippo priest and Dallar's stern warning. I don't really hate the Patildor, do I? No. No I don't. Just... they've hurt me. The Bishops lied, schemed, and destroyed my faith and would have killed me too. Wyaert hasn't. Dokorath wants me to treat him as a brother in arms. Kammoloth must surely want me to show him the Light. Elvmere lifted the medallion and stared down his snout at it. The fire burned behind it, giving it a bronze brilliance. This was real and its teachings a sure guide in his life. He'd been given a new life at Metamor in both body, age, and mind by the curses and his Lady. It was time to stop being ashamed of it. He would serve the true gods of the Lothanasi. For now it meant he would serve with arms in Artela's land. Perhaps he would unlock secret mystic arts within himself. His nostrils swelled and his chest filled with warmth and excitement at the thought. Elvmere chittered, kissed the medallion and set it back upon his chest. He let his eyes narrow as one hand wrapped itself about the hilt of his sword. His ears heard all his companions did, from the sizzling of the delectable sausages, to the laughter of Tamsin and Van helping poor Wyaert and Sedric fix their lean-to. And in his mind he sought beyond himself for the magic the black hawk promised was there. Two weeks was a long time. Only the gods knew what he would find. ---------- May He bless you and keep you in His grace and love, Charles Matthias </body> </html>