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CHAPTER XXI: The Weathered Oak Totters

42 Flamestar 1011,

The Age of Night

9 Days until the Night of the Moon

Hidden Enclave of the Great Drümmarg Wood

Somewhere on the Northernmost Peninsula

The Kingdom of Drümmarg (Sovereign Territory)

The tall, great trees of the Drümmarg creaked and swayed in the eerie wind, and a few leaves began to fall, out of season. However, it was the first reminder that there would be a season after the Flamestar, when it would give way to the haunting blue Havenstar. Due to its latitudinal position, and high elevation, the country of Drümmarg was significantly cooler than its neighbors, aside from the frozen wastes of Ishra to the north.

In the center of this section of woods, near the northern coast, a circular clearing carved out from the trees stood silent and waiting. Stumps and logs had been transformed into makeshift benches and tables, creating a natural amphitheater in the forest's heart.

From the southwest, a band of len emerged, marching at a brisk pace. Their attire was distinctive - bandanas wrapped around their heads, sashes tied around their waists, and sabres hanging from their hips. The wear and tear on their clothes and the tattoos that adorned their skin hinted at lives spent at sea. Their countenances and body language were both weary.

Among them, a middle-aged len commanded attention. His tricorn hat sat atop a visage marked by experience, his eyes reflecting a depth of resolve and untold stories. By his side, a slender wolen matched his stride, her attire a blend of practicality and grace - a white blouse paired with leather armor. The weapon at her hip was unusual, compact yet formidable, a tool of precision and power.

Their approach to the meeting place was measured. The wolen and the captain shared a glance, fleeting yet laden with unspoken understanding, a shared history that needed no words.

As they took their seats on the logs and stones, the atmosphere shifted subtly. One len stepped forward, unrolling a banner with care that belied its age. The azure fabric unfurled to reveal the emblem of a lost kingdom, a flag that once flew proudly over the southern maritime nation. It was now reduced to a memory, and invoked no glory, only pity and shame.

Servants, emerging from the clearing's northern side, began to serve drinks in foaming horns, a gesture of hospitality in a setting that seemed far removed from the comforts of a court or castle. The gathering, with the disgraced flag of the Kingdom of Arlia as their backdrop, settled into an uneasy solemness.

From the northwest, another procession emerged into the enclave. They advanced in single file, their steps precise and intentional. Their attire, rich with gold and the clarity of white, reflected their deep-rooted traditions and solemn purpose. The rustling of their fine garments harmonized with the wood's soft sounds. Each movement they made was deliberate, adding to the reverence of their march. Leading the procession was a flag carrier, who bore the white and gold banner of the Dominion of Ishra.

The Herald, a figure of authority and purpose, was astride a wooly elk, a creature as majestic as it was rare. This elk, towering above the usual stature of its kind, bore a dense, shaggy coat that rippled with each movement. Its fur was rife with earthy tones, and provided camouflage in the northern tundra but here, it made the elk stand out, a testament to its exotic origins.

The wooly elk's antlers were a spectacle in themselves, sprawling like ancient, gnarled branches towards the sky. They were not just impressive in size but also intricately patterned, each ridge and groove suggesting the animal's age and battles fought. The creature moved with a grace that belied its size, its hooves making soft thuds on the ground, a rhythmic complement to the solemn procession. The Ishrans bore weapons and other utilities which were ostensibly made of their horns.

Beside the Herald, a bannerman paralleled his path. The flags he carried were bold and vibrant, adorned with the symbols of the Temple of Yol. They fluttered in the breeze, their colors a sharp contrast against the dense backdrop of the Drümmarg. The presence of these flags not only signified religious allegiance but also served as a moving beacon, guiding and unifying the procession in their shared purpose.

The duo, the Herald and the bannerman exemplified power, faith, and traditions that the Ishrans held dear. They viewed themselves as self-appointed spiritual leaders of Etria. Together, they forged a striking image, a blend of both the exotic and the revered, as they made their way through the forest.

The Ishrans, known for their piety and self-righteousness, walked with a sense of gravity. Despite their serene appearance, a nervous energy surrounded them. They carried an arrogance, and seemed unafraid of any onlookers, that is, the Fioran empire, viewing themselves as separate and unthreatened. Their tribal robes, known for comfort in all conditions, were not just practical but also a symbol of their identity.

As they moved through the forest, their presence was a silent statement of their beliefs and way of life – a life now facing the challenge of external threats. The procession, with its banners and solemnity, was a display of their refusal to acknowledge the change that was encroaching upon their world.

"Hail, children of Yol, be thou at peace." The Herald said in an ancient liturgy, who began to make a sign of blessing. The rest of their party did the same. "We have come from the Alabaster Cathedral, The House of Yol, your Alakatedral, on orders of His Holiness, the Domoss. He looks upon the strife of this land and the infighting of Yoline brothers with great sorrow."

Ümgrimm hocked and spit loudly, causing a raucous laughter from his company.

In the gathering, there was one stone seat, far larger than the others, carved from the rocks. There, a near-giant of a len sat. He was nearly one and a half times the size of an average len. He sported a deep grey beard with braids and adorned with sanded, oiled wood rings and clips, with tribal markings. He sported several scars and was scowling. He reclined in the seat, while his servants, both scantily clad len and wolen, attended to him, pouring drinks into his gourd which he finished quickly, slurping, with runoff trickling down his unwashed beard.

The giant raised his hand, and a young wolen stepped forward, covered in furs and animal skins. She opened her mouth and spoke in broken Arlian.

"King Ümgrimm, he wánt to know, what languáge it is we will speak, no?"

The tricorn hat Arlian stepped forward and nodded. "We would desiré to cóntinúe to speak in our mothér tongue, yes?"

The gathering turned toward the white and gold assembly, who trotted forward with banner in hand. In perfect Arlian he spoke. "Ishra áccepts zes terms."

"Where are the delegátes from Rajar?" The Arlians asked.

The Drü servant looked back to the giant len, who nodded while gnawing on the last scraps of meat on a bone.

"We will wait no longér" The servant said. "King Ümgrimm grows weary of defendíng zerr lands, and zerr tardinéss constánt."

"So be it." The Arlians replied. "You summóned zes meetíng, we Arliéns, free, have answéred your call."

His servant turned to Ümgrimm, who stroked his beard, unimpressed.

Momentarily, the clearing welcomed a new assembly of len. This group, draped in luxurious and exotic fabrics, their breastplates catching the Flamestar's light, exuded a sense of nobility and mystique. They arrived atop a line of immaculate horses, each animal strong, majestic, and groomed to perfection. Their presence added an air of grandeur to the meeting. With practiced grace, they dismounted. One by one, they respectfully removed their headcoverings, revealing their faces to the gathered assembly. They bowed deeply, a gesture of respect and acknowledgement to those present, their elegant attire fluttering gently in the wind. The atmosphere subtly shifted with their arrival, adding a layer of solemnity and expectation to the unfolding discussion.

"Hail." The Hamyir leader spoke in old Fioran, a language that was rehearsed at Nur court for generations. "We are ze Hamyir, ze defenders of the Holy and True Sultanate of Nur and Yol's beoble. We cometh before thee, and bear glad tidings to thee. We cometh with gifts of sbices and herbs, from ze throne of His Majesty Sultan Fazil II."

Ümgrimm clicked his tongue twice in his mouth. "No filth-tongue here, grubbo'" he barked back with his carrying, bassy voice, in spotty Fioran. "Traitors an' jackals lissen''"

The Drü wolen turned to the Hamyir who spoke and corrected him in Arlian. "King Ümgrimm and the delegatión have decidéd to continúe the conversatión en Arlién."

The Nur smirked, and bowed, switching to the less comfortable Arlian. "Our bést... we will do."

When he rose, he motioned over to an adjutant, who was already hard at work, unpacking their horses and cargo, revealing barrels and pouches, vials and tinctures, and passed them to the Drü, who took them, and examined them.

"Blease áccept zes gifts of em... medicínes and súpplies... fór the effórt of war."

Some materials passed upward to Ümgrimm, who opened some, and sniffed them. He raised his eyebrows and passed them on to his attendants, returning to his refreshments, ostensibly unimpressed.

"Are zes all?" Ümgrimm interjected. "Where are the Horselén?"

The Hamyir bowed. "With régret, we have come to offér the Horse, but no len."

Ümgrimm blinked, and licked his lips. He glared at the Nur. "You should best make your leave, then."

"We are gratefúl to you and your people for 'arboríng us, tradíng with us," The Arlian Captain challenged. "But, with all réspect, king great Ümgrimm, it is not a choice that you báttle the traitórs. You are in a war of existénce. If you need more aid, so be it... but to demánd tríbute from us... We have given much, and given your 'istory... you once fought alóngzide ze traitórs, ágainst us! WE should pér'aps démand tríbute."

Ümgrimm scowled at them, but the Captain stood august and resolute.

"Where are the Rajarí? If they really felt that you were keepíng the Fioráns at bay, they would be 'ere." The Captain continued.

In the clearing, the Ishrans and the Nur stood uneasily examining each other. The Ishrans, their expressions stern, eyed the Nur with a mix of suspicion and wariness. Their gazes lingered, scrutinizing every detail, from the Nur's desert attire to their subtle body language. There was clear distrust between them.

"What réport do you send to our Domóss? The Katedrál does not have time nor resources to waste with... such cómpány questionáble." The Ishran herald interjected. He spoke of the Nur, who stuck up their noses at the comment. "His majesty hóly and the Councíl of Cranes have questións about your... treatmént of prisonérs."

"We have heard things troublíng," The Ishran herald continued. "We hear that the Fioran ven have been leadíng more and more troops in báttle, and..."

The Herald continued to pace.

"That you are capturíng them and keepíng them in cáges. Most intrigúing is, we heard that a venlórd has been slain."

"What is it to the likes of you? What care you for the ven?" Ümgrimm interjected, grinning. "You've heard now, you know we killed one. Máybe we killed many more? Máybe not. Either way, I like cóllecting them."

"It is true." A foreign voice interjected in Fioran, causing a stir.

Ümgrimm suddenly picked up his axe from his side, and sat up in his stone chair.

"Oi!" He yelled back, in kind. "Who there!"

Emerging from the shadows was a tall, hooded figure. He removed his covering to reveal his tri-pointed ears and pristine skin. It was a ven-lord. Belzon Grazzli.

Ümgrimm let out a blood-curdling roar and began to beat his chest. Noticing that there was an univited guest, the Nur, Ishrans, and Free Arlians all drew their weapons.

Belzon raised both his hands and tried to calm the tensions.

"Wait!" He bellowed back. "Please, be patient with me, old friend!"

"Friend!?" Ümgrimm stepped down from his chair, and flexed his muscles. He marched with haste, seemingly shaking the ground with every gargantuan step he took.

"You, friend?!" The great king yelled, pointing his axe horizontally at Belzon. He was beginning to pace in a circle. "TEN YEARS! TEN YEARS you bring war to Drü. After fight with YOU!"

"I... I know, I'm sorry," Belzon said, still pleading.

"Who are you?" The Arlian captain asked in Fioran. He and his party became very guarded.

"I am... I was... Governor Belzon Grazzli of Fiora."

"Oh?" The captain said, and quickly spit. Several of his len puffed their chests out and put their hands on their weapons. "Is that right. What do you want, Fioran snake?"

"I want to help." Grazzli pleaded. "I have critical information to convey to you,"

"Not another word," The captain yelled, waving over to the Drü warriors. "Throw him in with the others you've taken,"

"Please." Belzon pleaded. "I promise you, my intelligence is good, and will prove quite useful in your stratagem."

Ümgrimm was huffing and puffing, and after a moment, he let out a loud roar, calling forth his pathfinders, who moved to bind him.

The great king of tree-dwellers, towering and muscular, his war paints vivid even in the dimming light, beat his chest. The various attendants, particularly the Drü, moved swiftly to seize Belzon. As they advanced, the air grew rife with the possibility of a conflict with the venlord.

Belzon, seizing the momentary reprieve, straightened up in surrender for the Drü who approached him, rope in hand. His eyes scanned the crowd, looking for any sign of empathy or understanding. He knew that this might be his last chance to sway the opinions of those gathered, to turn the tide in his favor.

"Please, hear me," He pleaded, as they moved to bind him.

There was murmuring, as Belzon braced himself, feeling his wrists tighten as the pathefinders bound him.

Ümgrimm spat, and taunted Belzon with a grotesque tongue gesture, pointing to the trees around him. "Forest ours. Fiorans die. More. More. Ven now too. Ven starve, jail. Rot."

"Please, King Ümgrimm. Let's hear what he has to say." The Arlian representative interjected. "Please, wise king."

The king grunted and Belzon gave a subtle nod of thanks. He turned his attention to the Nur and spoke.

"These Nur have promised you horses, but no riders, because by this time, the legions have already entered the Holy City."

There were audible expressions of concern and murmurs that broke out among them all. Ümgrimm's countenance grew heavy, as he glared at the Nur delegation, who talked among themselves.

"Zis is not true," The Nur representative challenged. "Our Hamyir are with ze Sultan. Nabirah will always be ours,"

"Your Sultan requested help in rounding up tomb thieves and plunderers. By now, your Hamyir have split and are chaising mirages in the desert. They will do nothing." Belzon sighed, with a hand gesture. "If you try to resist now, you will only invite more legions. Sultan Al-Amin fell right into the Venrex's trap."

The murmuring intensified.

"What sayin', ven?" Ümgrimm commanded.

"The empire has already spread south, and they will soon have more funds, more conscripts, and will flood this forest with everything at their disposal. Nur magic, even. To counter whatever it is you've been using to hold your lines."

Ümgrimm beat his chest, and his warriors began to stomp their feet, spears, and clang their shields.

"Come!" The old king said, getting in Belzon's face. "Ten years, Grazzli. Not afraid, no one."

"You do not understand, old friend." The ven-lord lamented. "There are things in motion... powers at play. You will not be able to resist much longer."

Ümgrimm's face furled. "Oh now it is?"

He turned toward his representatives and barked orders in Drümmargian. "Give the order. Seal them all in. Do not let any see the light of day."

Belzon winced slightly, dug deep into his psyche and summoned the best he could of the language. "...Ümgrimm, my lord. Please... that will not stop this."

Ümgrimm rushed over, and picked Belzon up by the collar, hoisting him in the air with ease. "Oh? You? Speak Drü now, ven?"

Through the escalating tension, a voice pierced the atmosphere. From among the onlookers, another figure stepped forward, commanding attention with his distinct presence. Sporting a horned mask with tribal markings and helmet, wrapped in a cloak that seemed to blend with the forest shadows, he exuded an aura of quiet authority. His voice, though calm, carried a weight that halted the soldiers in their tracks.

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"Stop," words echoed with an intensity that resonated throughout the clearing, understood by all. "Listen to what he has to say."

There was a bright light behind the figure, and the entire gathering recoiled.

"I am called Nael," He spoke in his cold voice, which sounded like running water in a hollow basin. "I am tasked to protect these woods."

Everyone heard the message in their own language, thrusting the gathering into an uneasy silence, their eyes shifting from Belzon to Nael. The hunter's intervention, unexpected and decisive, added a new layer to the unfolding drama. The Drü warriors, their hands still on their weapons, hesitated, looking to Ümgrimm for guidance. The giant king, his breathing still heavy with rage, paused, his gaze fixed on the hunter, assessing this new development. He raised his axe and began to question the hunter.

"Why then, have we never seen you?" Ümgrimm said in his native tongue, testing the hunter. "I am the only protector of these trees."

The two stared at one another, and the king twirled his hand-axe.

"Because I have stayed in the shadows, under your trees, in the dark." He said, replying in kind. "For times and a time, I was sent to stay silent and observe... Yet some time ago, I was given the cause from my superiors to defend you against the advancing Ven-wraiths. I have done so, alongside you, unbeknownst to you."

There was an uneasy silence, before the stranger spoke again. "I smote the ven-lord in battle. The first confirmed in a milennia."

Immediately, the Ishrans started to fall to their knees, and genuflect. Nael made a hand signal to express his dislike of this. "Please do not do this," Nael commanded, as he marched closer to the king.

"Put him down, King Ümgrimm." Nael interceded. "Be calm, and listen."

Ümgrimm tried with all his might to retain his rage, breathing harshly through his nostrils, but eventually relented, dropping the venlord.

Belzon took a moment, and rose to his feet, his robe now sullied with dirt, pebbles, and leaves. When he rose to his feet, he stood eye-to-eye with the hunter, who did not touch him, nor stay long in his presence.

"You, you're not Drü." Ümgrimm questioned

"I am not." Nael responded. "I am of the Veyná."

The Ishrans and Nur representatives shuddered at the declaration, each beginning to tremble. Some Nur began to remove their sandals and bow.

"Since when have your kind cared for us, for any of us? You hide your faces, you do not dine at our tables," Ümgrimm continued. "You let these ven grow, like moss on the rocks. You let them take the salt-breathers. You let them come here. I thought the Veyná were our sworn-brothers against the ven-beasts?"

"...Yes, we are forever natural, mortal enemies to the ven." Nael spoke, and then abruptly switched to Arlian. "And we do care for Lyban-kind... But there are rules. Praise Yol, that these are not natural times. These are times prophetic. And thus Yol sends us to intervene. A shield that breaks the darkness. A shelter from the Nine Winds."

The gathering's murmuring returned and intensified, still hearing every word Nael spoke in their own languages.

"You may do what you want with the ven you have captured. Starve them out, smite them all, that is your right. But, I stalked the ven-lord you call Grazzli the moment he set foot in Drümmarg." Nael said. "And, he came alone. Under darkness. Under great pains with great sacrifice. He speaks the truth to you, tree-King."

The murmuring intensified. Ümgrimm's face was still scrunched, his large, bony brow pronounced.

"Why your mind changin', mm?" Ümgrimm suddenly challenged Belzon in his shoddy Fioran. "Now, why Grazzli?"

"Because, I was naïve about a great deal of things," Belzon said, regretfully. "And reality, the best teacher, had to instruct me."

The gathering was perplexed at his words. The Arlians seemed the most moved.

"A ven dreamer," Belzon mused, smirking. "I know now. That cannot be. While I don't believe I am the first to waltz outside the walls of my people's culture, and I pray I am not the last. But... no one changes the heartless ven. I was a fool to try. A fool to trust Venzio Darsádo. He is not who he says he is."

Belzon held his face in shame, demonstrating his mastery in overcoming the stone-faced inability of Venganzi to show emotion.

"Of course, I believed we were the natural leaders of this world. I believed that, with the Venrex's success, his path to the throne... I thought we shared a vision. One crown, many peoples. Equality. Justice. A new world order where Lyban, Venganzi, and Chimera lived together in relative harmony."

Ever so slightly, Belzon staggered.

"I see it now for what it is." He spoke, then straightening himself and deepening his vocal chords. "A Second Venganzi Empire."

The murmuring intensified again.

"What sayin you, Grazzli?" Ümgrimm said, himself trying to marinate in his words. "Why you true comin' here."

"I came to this summit in hopes of making an alliance amongst you, gentlelen," He spoke. "We have no choice, and little time. We must join together... or face the wrath of whatever is festering under Fiora."

The murmuring grew chaotic.

Ümgrimm shifted to Nael. "You."

"Get out of my forest." He demanded, then turning to Belzon. "You leave, now. You no leave? You die. Cage. There you die. With Ven brothers."

Nael didn't move an inch, simply stared Ümgrimm down.

"Where were you, when our boys were slaughtered?" Ümgrimm continued at Nael belligerently, returning to his native tongue. "Where were you when we piled their bodies toward your Lumenaris, Vey? Hmm?"

"I told you. I have been here. Sent by the watchers to protect you. I have blended in with your ranks and quickened your warriors in the struggle," Nael defended himself. "I am sorry I could not provide further assistance. Our ways, though strange to you, are purposefully limited."

"You say this now." Ümgrimm continued. "But we have never seen you, nor heard of you. How do we not know you are not a ven-lord, masquerading as Veyná?"

"You don't find it strange that you've held out ten years against this force? With their weapons?" Nael argued. "We've been blended in among you. Fighting along side you. We've been here the whole time. Healing the forest with our magic, so they cannot advance."

"I don't believe you," Ümgrimm said, confidently. "We are Drü. We are the fiercest warriors in the world."

Nael shook his head, disappointed.

"To reject the hand of the Veyná..." Nael pleaded. "Be careful. We will honor you, but will not return, great tree-king."

Ümgrimm pointed behind the tall vey. "Out. I am the protector of this forest."

"...You're making a mistake, Ümgrimm." Nael urged.

"OUT I SAID!" Ümgrimm thundered.

Slowly, but surely, Nael bowed low as the crowd stirred. The Drü began to gather their belongings and leave.

Grazzli, took a bit of haste and gravitated toward Nael, who began to walk out of the enclave. He caught up to the vey and spoke.

"I hope you have a lot more of those arrows." Belzon said.

Nael perked up, resting his hand on his sheathed blade, and chuckled. "A ven-lord such as yourself encourages his mortal-enemy? You are as strange and peculiar as I have heard, Ven Grazzli. Hail."

"...the prime of our kind have reborn." Grazzli continued.

Nael's head snapped up, his eyes behind his mask, piercing Belzon with a steeled gaze. "Truly?" he asked, his voice a whisper yet carrying the weight of centuries of history, centuries of conflict.

"Truly," Belzon affirmed, his voice steady despite the gravity of his revelation. "...in the shadows of the caverns of the underworld, they commune with... Umbraneth."

At the mention of Umbraneth, a collective gasp rippled through the Ishrans and Nur. Their bodies recoiled as if struck, and their hands moved in swift, almost frantic gestures, tracing symbols of protection and faith upon themselves. The air grew thick with fear, a shiver running through the crowd.

"Hear me now," Belzon cried. "I have reason to believe... that the Venrex will soon be succeeded."

The crowds murmuring had reached a crescendo. Belzon adjusted his voice to cope.

"...And when he is... there will be peace... whether that be through diplomacy and a rightful Lyban king... or an onslaught that has not been seen in these woods for a millenia. The choice is ours to make, lords."

The Drü began to let out resounding laughs at the comment as they continued to pack their camp up.

"We help you. Years ago. You? Traitor. Liar. You kill. Take. You ghost stories no botherin' us Drü," Ümgrimm declared, his voice booming and dismissive, cutting through the rising panic. His massive frame remained unyielding, a fortress.

"I said, Alliance gonna be none," Ümgrimm reiterated. "You see? "

He clicked his tongue on his teeth.

"You no welcome now. All you, eh? Wantin', keepin', self, all you, eh? Pass Forest? Ok. You pay. No Pay? You Die or work for Drü."

As his heavy words dissipated, he and his countrylen disappeared among the trees without a sound, like faded whispers.

Nael nodded, a sense of resolve settling over him. "I will get word to our covens," he stated, the tone of his voice leaving no room for doubt. "You have confirmed what we have seen, what we have felt. We must operate quickly. I pray we meet again."

Without another word, Nael bowed slightly, a graceful gesture to the venlord that seemed out of place in the heavy atmosphere, even to those uninitiated with the history of the races. Then, like a shadow melting into the darkness, he turned and vanished into the dense forest, his departure as silent and enigmatic as his arrival." The Dominion will carry this information back to Niskau." The Ishran herald said, now unnerved. "I must apologize and ask for more time."

"You-don't-have-any-time!" Belzon urged. "Forget the Drü, you must unite all free-peoples, and organize. You will be destroyed by the horrors already being unleashed under your feet. This entire continent will be swallowed in chains of gloomy darkness!"

"Ishra cannot be conquered, lost one." The Herald spoke, snootily. "The mountains, the trees, the snows, they will take the soul of any army that marches north."

"Don't make my mistake," Belzon pleaded. "Don't do this to yourselves. No one is above reproach."

The Ishrans traced symbols over themselves, already beginning to file out, returning to their boats.

Seeing that the Ishrans were departing, the Arlians began to pack their things. The Nur were already nearly gone, had been making quick progress on their way back to their vessels.

"We have heard you." The captain in the tricorn hat spoke. "Our countrymen have taken to our true home, to the seas. I will find them and speak with them. The path to destroying Fiora and liberating Arlia lives on. We will never surrender."

There was whooping and cheering from their side. The Arlians folded their banner back up, and made back for the shore.

As the gathering began to break apart, and the young Arlian wolen came up to Belzon. She had flawless, dark, silky hair, which curled at the fray. She had porcelain skin and several beauty marks on her face, and was well endowed, and athletic in her build. She reminded him so strongly of Síbela, and the thought brought a momentary smile to her face.

"I recognize you, Magister Grazzli." She said, in Fioran.

She smiled at him, and kissed him on his cheek.

"To who's such Arlian beauty do I owe the pleasure?" He replied. "Your Fioran is perfect..."

"It's not important. Not now. You don't know me. Not anymore. But me and my family... we knew you. I recognize you, and I know you're tellin' the truth. You really pulled the rug from out-under the Venrex here today, and sacrificed everything to do it. I can feel it. It's the same feeling we are all harborin', us Arlians. I see it in your eyes. You are hidin' a great burden, and you mean what you say. Having gone through what we have gone through the last ten years... it's unmistakable to us."

Belzon nodded gracefully in acknowledgement of her sufferings.

"I have never met a ven like you, Lord Grazzli. I'd say you have a good heart... but, if it's true you ven don't have one..." She said, as the leather and metal on her body ruffled and clinked. She removed one of her belts. With care, the Arlian wolen extended her hand, revealing the weapon with a subtle flourish. “I want you to have this,” she said, her voice carrying a weight of sincerity.

Belzon took the weapon, his fingers tracing over its contours. “A flintlock... is it? Experimental...” His eyes widened, not just at the gift but also at the intricate craftsmanship before him. The silver metal gleamed under the dim light, the wooden stock smooth and polished, betraying no hint of its deadly purpose.

He looked up at her, curiosity piqued. "And how did you get this, darling? This is our technology,” His tone mixed wonder with intrigue, the venlord momentarily forgetting his predicament in the presence of such a finely wrought artifact.

The woman’s eyes held a glint of pride, a smile playing on her lips. “It was not easy to come by. You Fiorans have kept a tight lid on them,” she began, her voice tinged with a hint of mystery. “But, let’s just say, I have my ways. Picked it up back in Rajar. It cost a fortune, a sizeable part of my family’s lost wealth.”

Belzon turned the flintlock over in his hands again, appreciating its balance and the way it sat comfortably in his grip. “They took everything from you,” he murmured, his respect for her deepening. "I... am sorry."

“Are you? You are the strangest ven I have ever met” she replied, her gaze steady and unflinching. “But maybe the mooncalf in the mask was right. This...” she gestured at the flintlock, “is more than a weapon. It’s a symbol of defiance, a declaration that we will not yield. I had fantasies that I would put it to the Venrex's head, and well... you know.”

"Did you now?" He said. "Are you sure that you don't want to tell me how I might know you?"

She merely smiled. "Where will you go now?" She asked.

"I... thought I would head North, and if they would take a ven like me, I would seek refuge with the rest of the wretched in the Alakatedral. I realize now, based upon this gathering... that I cannot do that. I need to buy you all more time. I return to Fioranz."

"No," She shook her head and smiled, and began to walk away.

"So I take it you believe the rumors about this?" He asked. "Is that why you bought it, madame?"

"That it can kill a ven?" She smirked, at Belzon's unafraid candor. "I believed... that it might be able to. At the time... that was all I needed to know. Now? I'm not sure what I believe."

Belzon smiled.

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Within the hour, when the gathering had finally concluded, Belzon found himself alone. He made his way into the woods, trying in all his power to remain hidden as he headed toward the Fioran lines in the south. He knew that the Oak-king would take him prisoner without hesitation if he were caught, now. He did not relish the idea of being stripped naked, huddled together with other ven, left to starve. The dense forest provided cover, a thick canopy and underbrush serving as his shield. He hovered quietly; his movement was silent.

Deeper into the forest, the environment seemed to change subtly. The trees, tall and imposing, stood densely packed, their branches obscuring much of the sky. The path ahead was narrow and winding, barely visible among the roots and fallen leaves. The sounds of the forest, from the rustling of leaves to the occasional snap of a twig underfoot, filled the air around him. These sounds, along with the faint rustling of animals hidden in the underbrush, reminded him of the strange life that thrived in these woods.

Twilight deepened as the Flamestar gave its last rays, casting long shadows that danced with the gentle sway of the trees. Belzon's Venganzi eyes darted from one darkened recess to another. He was alone, yet the feeling of being watched, of eyes lingering just beyond sight, just pricked at the edge of his consciousness.

He paused, his tri-pointed ears straining to catch any sound beyond the natural chorus of the forest. A twig snapped, a subtle disruption in the nocturnal symphony, and he tensed.

The rustle of leaves, so gentle it could have been mistaken for a breeze, caught his attention. He turned, squinting into the dimness. For a moment, there was nothing, then a shadow moved, a form too deliberate to be a creature of the woods.

His mind quickened, a surge of awareness fueling him. He pivoted, aligning his body to face the stalker, the flintlock raised in a steady hand.

"Come out." Belzon challenged.

In a swift motion, the figure lunged forward, emerging from the shadows like a specter. Belzon's instincts kicked in; he reached for the flintlock, but the figure was too quick, too close. Instead, he reached for his sheathed dagger, and tried to draw it in a slashing movement. With a deft move, the shadowy assailant struck Belzon's wrist, knocking the weapon from his grasp. It clattered to the forest floor, its thumping sound of disturbed soils pulsing through the woods.

Belzon, momentarily disarmed, reacted instinctively. His body coiled, ready to strike or defend. His attacker was shrouded in a dark cloak, their features obscured, but their stance was confident, poised – a predator.

The struggle was silent but fierce. Belzon lunged, his fists aiming for where he guessed his opponent's face might be. The figure deftly sidestepped, fluid and calculated. Belzon felt a hand grip his arm, twisting it behind his back with surprising strength. He winced, the pain sharp and sudden.

With his free arm, Belzon tried to reach for his assailant, but they were always just out of reach. His breath grew ragged, his efforts more desperate. The figure's cloak fluttered with each evasion, a wraith playing with its prey.

Belzon's attacker pushed him forward, using his momentum against him. He stumbled, catching himself on a tree trunk. His heart pounded in his chest, the realization dawning that he was outmatched. He rose to his feet and found himself immediately subdued, locked in the attacker's strong grasp.

In a final, desperate move, Belzon spun, attempting to throw his assailant off balance. But the figure anticipated the move, stepping back to turn fully, facing them at last -- and in a quick jolt, the attacker impaled Belzon with something in his chest.

They stood mere inches apart, Belzon, panting, stared into the concealed face of his opponent, trying to discern any feature, any hint of identity. It was then, he heard the assailant's voice. He looked down to see that he was bleeding, a sight he had never seen before. His blood was silver, with a strange orangish-red in its thickest parts. He looked to see what he had been struck with, to realize that it was a broken arrow.

"Tsk." The attacker sucked at his teeth. "I always took you for a frail ven, but a ven nonetheless. I had no idea your kind were this weak."

The figure removed his black cloak, revealing his blonde hair and chiseled face. "I suppose you could have fallen weak... but this arrow felled one of your kin in this forest already. Why not make it two-for-two? Hmm?"

Belzon's eyelids grew heavy as he beheld his attacker. "Is that you, Officer Critz?"

"Captain Critz, Grand Marshal." Roszenstan corrected him. "Thank you for the promotion, by the way. That was very generous of you, Grazzli. Whatever you did to push the old red bag out, you couldn't have done us all a better favor. You could not have put Fiora's armies into better hands."

Belzon was speechless, his eyes up, scanning the treeline.

"If you won't serve willingly, you will serve, unwillingly. They have a whole trove of delights planned, you know. Starting with this Yol-forsaken forest."

Belzon blinked slowly, and exhaled through his narrow nostrils deeply.

"Critz. I implore you. Leave their service at once. Save your life." Belzon pleaded.

"Oh boo, Governor Grazzli. Hic! Boo!" Roszenstan said, hiccuping. "But it's... so much fun!"

"Fun? Have you lost your mind, Critz?" Belzon replied, concerned. "Serving the void of Umbraneth is fun to you?"

"It is now. Umbraneth. Ooh." He mused. "What a discovery that was. Am I right? What a night that was, let me tell you. Had to take a few down to reconcile that one."

"I can smell the alcohol on your breath now," Belzon charged him.

"Can you?" Roszenstan replied. Still restraining the venlord, he twisted his captive's head toward him, reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a flask, and began to dump it on his prisoner's face. "Fancy yourself a drink?"

Belzon's eyes and nostrils burned. He spat and spat, trying to expel the pungent liquid as best he could.

"You know, I always thought that Yol stuff was just the worst. My hypocrite father, forcing my mother to the cloth, and I into the Temple for prayers, every week's end. But, we were the mighty House of Critz, you see. I eventually matured, and accepted it for what it was, a myth. Then completely abandoned it when I found out my father was, in fact a liar, a traitor, and an adulterer. But what do you know, it turns out, it all seems to be a little more true than maybe we would have liked, eh, Grazzli?"

Belzon said nothing. "If it is true, you will be consumed in its foul winds for all eternity."

"Is it winds? Or is it flames? I can never get it right. What does your ven-scum tradition hold? Please, educate me."

Belzon closed his eyes calmly.

"Oh, I suppose I'll ask you later. You'll find out before me." Rosz said.

As it became clear the Belzon would not cooperate, Roszenstan threw him to the ground, and with a heavy boot, stomped his back, pinning him to the ground.

CLICK! Belzon's eyes widened as he realized what the sound was. It was the flintlock. He lost it in the struggle. Roszenstan's cold grin spread across his face, and he sighed in satisfaction.

"You know, House Critz were famed ven hunters," He said. "I grew up with tales of my forebearers. As a lenning, I played in the front yard with Dary, pretending that I was one of them. As I grew into a len, those fantasies have never left me. I have been dying... dying to find out how to destroy your kind."

Belzon clutched at the grass, as he breathed deeply.

"...Lycía... your daughter... she is so beautiful." He muttered, just under his breath.

Rosz leaned in, trying to hear what he said. "Oh... do you now pray for the lady Síbela?"

There was a palpable silence before Rosz spoke again. "I should mention that you'll be seeing her, soon enough. After my len are done with her,"

He licked his lips momentarily before reaching back in, pressing the flintlock to his head.

"I must say, Governor. You are filled with surprises, you know? Where did you get this?"

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A loud sound like a crackling of thunder shattered the stillness, reverberating through the woods. Birds, startled from their roosts, took flight in a flurry of wings and musical cries. They were nothing but black speckled silhouettes in the dying, golden rays of the Flamestar.

AND THUS, THE TIMES OF THE SEVEN PILGRIMS CAME TO AN END, AND GAVE WAY TO THE DAYS OF REVELATION.