Pyres rests comfortably down in the grass. The warm sun beats down on his face. At first he enjoys the sensation, the heat is pleasant after a cool night. But after a minute or so he gets over the pleasant feeling and the bright light in his eyes begins to annoy him. He tries to close his eyes tighter but it doesn't seem to help. Without opening his eyes he searches the ground for something to cover his face with. The first thing he touched was his sword.

Its more out of habit then caution that he carries it around. His father left him when he was very young. His only memories of him are practicing with the sword. He was never very good at it, but even so he would practice for hours every day. The adults who watched him would laugh and cheer him on or scold him and say he wasn't old enough to use a sword. Regardless, he wasn't taken seriously. Although he indeed was young, he was very serious. His father was amazing with the sword, he would move so fast and accurately that Pyres could barely even see his movements. His father was his role model and Pyres would like nothing better than to fight alongside him. Pyre's father was the only one who took him seriously. "If you can hit me once, I'll take you with me" his father told him. Pyres tried day after day to land even a single blow on his father. Each day he failed. Despite this, he would continue to try, never holding back or even considering admitting defeat. Each day he'd train and become stronger, each day he'd fail yet again. This cycle continued until the day his father left.

It was without any notice at all. Pyres woke up one morning and his father wasn't there. At first he suspected it was a joke, or that he was just called away with little notice, but as the years went by his hopes faded. His father didn't come back. Even so he continued to train. Pyres knew he wasn't dead, his father was too strong to be dead. He had abandoned him, after all they had gone through. He has continued to carry around the sword to this day so that if he ever did meet his father again, he would fight him and win. The sword was well made, it was light and sharp despite the years of use. It had broken several times, and was reforged an equal amount of times. This sword meant a lot to him. Yet, as he soon discovered, it could not shield his eyes from the sun.

He continued his search to no avail. Defeated, he stood up and stretched. He looked to friends and said, "Well, I'm bored, please tell me this isn't all we're going to do today."

Arhaedielle sighed as she walked through the streets of the great city. Leaving the forest this morning had not been her idea, and she was not happy about it. True it was necessary for for those of the grove near Fenn to actually enter the city from time to time, but she was here for other reasons.

She sighed again, looking over her shoulder at the wooded lands beyond the city. Even this far she could feel the complex rhythms of the forest and she longed to be among them, to let herself be enveloped by them, become one with them. She could feel the rhythms of the land beneath the city as well, but covered in the roads and buildings they were drowned out by those of the forest.

She glided gracefully through the city, side stepping its' denizens as she passed. She stood out among them. Arhaedielle was tall and lithe of figure, moving with a feral grace. She had spent over a century living among the trees and her body had long ago achieved the preternatural agility necessary to survive the wild. She had the creamy pale skin and finely chiseled features of the elven people, her people. Luminous green eyes intently took in her surroundings, glowing slightly with their own light, like emeralds set in sculpted marble. Long thickly wavy hair, black as the darkest midnight, fell to her waist. Small silvery white beads held in place with tiny sparse braids twinkled in her obsidian locks like stars in the night sky. She wore tightly fitting dark browns, hiding and revealing the tribal tatoos that decorated her body.

She ignored the few stares as she passed through the crowds of cityfolk, suspecting they were more for the shining scimitar at her side than the feral elf that wore it, Fenn was nothing if not diverse. Ofcourse it was not the scimitar that made her dangerous. She had the gift of shapeshifting, a power rare among the druids, a power that would only grow. She would master it or it would consume her, even now she could feel the feral spirit of the great panther fighting to roam free. And so she had been sent out of the grove with one task, tame the the wild spirit raging within.

Randall sat cross-legged beneath the thick boughs of a mighty oak tree, his back resting against the powerful trunk. His eyes were closed, and his breathing was calm and regular, mandatory for his morning meditation. It was basking in the glory of nature like this that he found the most solace in his life, and thus, was the perfect time for him to think on matters pertaining to himself, his friends, and the world as a whole.

Laying across his lap was his gnarled elm staff that he used for both walking and self-defense. He was by no means a sturdy fellow, but bulling in his childhood had taught him that a staff slam to the head of a would-be thug was often enough to send them scurrying. It was the best he could do without truly harming others, anyway. His real power lay within the study of the arcane, those strange symbols and mystical threads that lay entwined within the ether. By understanding them, by touching and tying them into forms he required, Randall was able to create things that normal folk could not. Or, at least things that seemed to exist.

A light breeze ruffled his open green tunic and tussled his light brown hair, which he always kept swept back over his ears. As it shifted in the wind, his eyes flew open, shattering his state of focus, and his hand flew up to readjust it. Carefully smoothing it out, he shrouded his ears. His Elven ears. A slight frown crossed his face, and he looked over to ensure Pyres hadn’t noticed his somewhat obsessive reaction.

He bore no resentment to Elves themselves, but he possessed only half of the blood lineage of an Elven woman. His other heritage half was from a man he never knew. His mother had been raped, and he was the end product. She had died during childbirth, and Randall had been given to an orphanage, where he lived until the age of fifteen, when he was adopted by a hermetic magician named Ardis Vale, who desired him as his apprentice. Randall never knew why he was selected, but he was thankful to be out of that place. All his childhood, he’d been picked on by the other boys and girls living in that orphanage, often striking his slightly pointed ears, or blacking his gently slanted eyes, making fun of him for his heritage. Randall Krie, half-human, half-elven. That childhood had forged a grim, cynical fellow who spent much of his growing up studying within a grand library, and doing whatever tasks that Ardis had assigned him. Thirty-five years later, he’d set out, leaving that hall of knowledge after the passing of his master. It was time to find out what this world held for him.

Now disrupted from his meditation, Randall shifted about, reaching beside him to his long brown ‘robe’, which was essentially a long coat with a lot of pockets, and withdrew a ripe green apple, and took a crunchy bite from it. Savouring the taste, he looked out at Fenn as the sun crested the horizon. Beside him, Pyres complained about the onset of boredom, and climbed to his feet. Randall looked up, his grey eyes squinting in the sunlight.

“Got any ideas?” He inquired, not moving from his spot on the ground, though he did reach beneath his coat to withdraw a wide-brimmed brown hat, matching his coat. Placing it atop his head, he lowered it slightly to block the sun. “I have no reason to remain here, if there is somewhere you’d rather go.”

Though he wouldn’t admit it, Randall had become somewhat dependent on the swordsman for protection, constantly fearing that somebody might spot his pointed ears, and attempt to strike him out of spite or distaste. At least having Pyres around was enough to deter that, or so he’d firmly come to believe.

Continuing through the crowds of the city streets Arhaedielle made her way through its southern exit. She had not been in the city long, only a few days, but she already felt the need for the open air. As she passed from the city walls and roads she breathed deeply of the clear air, it was good to take in. Wild rhythms drummed through her, pulsing through her heart, through her blood. Pulsing with every breath. She relished this, the wild ecstasy of the land.

Arhaedielle made her way up a hill just south of Fenn, stopping and sitting at the foot of a small tree, things just did not grow like they did in the grove. She looked over at the others relaxing underneath the offered shade of the trees, nodded and returned her gaze to the expanse of wilderness beyond the city.


((OCC: Sorry misread the first post, thought we were starting in the city. Hope this fixes that.)

Resting on the hill the world is serens at the moment. Suddenly, you hear a loud crack to the north. Looking in that direction, you see trees falling in the forest, along with large pillars of smoke rising, indicating a fire rising up from the forest. On the wind, the smell of burning wood can be smelt clearly. In a matter of seconds, an identifiable path can be seen through the forest.

Soon, along with the thudding of trees crashing down, the sound of screams can be barely heard from the city. Very faint, yet the fact that you can hear them from how far you are is a feat in itself. Some people can be seen coming from the city, moving at a considerable pace, seeming to be fleeing something.

In your mind, you can tell something is wrong, as the world is not how it should be. Your city is in chaos, anarchy, panic...destruction. Why is this happening? Maybe it's worth investigating...then again, maybe not.

One of the faster people was already at the hill while you were looking in awe. The man, a venerable human in simple white robes, looking to be of the monastic order of the city, says to you:

"Flee my brothers! Lord Borghen has caused a revolt! His army has already plowed through the forest and the northern gate, completely catching us unaware! I saw him head towards the castle! One can only hope the Princess Hilda and King Armon are alright... follow me, we will travel to the remote city of Altair. We had that plan in place in case anything uncontrolable happened...this seems fit."

The peaceful day suddenly turned grim. The city he lived his life in was now being threatened. He could not turn a blind eye and run. "Flee?" He says with disbelief, " You cannot seriously mean that. Save our lives when other's could be saved." Pyres gathers his sword and shield from the grass. As he sheathes his sword and slings the shield onto his back he looks to the man, "Don't worry about the Princess and the King, I'll kill Borghen before he can do any harm to them."

Arhaedielle strode through the grass, approaching the hill and sitting down beside Randall and Pyres in the pleasant morning breeze. They exchanged nods of greeting, and sat in the calming atmosphere, overlooking the city. For the moment, all seemed perfectly at peace. But perhaps that thought was meant to be shattered.

Something surged through the forest towards the city, catching Randall’s attention sharply. It rapidly made its way into the city, and his keen ears – perhaps the only thing he liked about his Elven heritage, picked up the sounds oof screams. People began fleeing the city, and making their way towards the trio on the hilltop. An alert was passed on, regarding a revolt targeting the Princess and the King.

While Pyres jumped up and dashed down the hill towards Fenn, Randall leapt to his feet, a hand to his head to keep his hat in place! “Pyres!” He shouted, but the swordsman was already gone. “Damn!”

While Randall would have preferred to retreat to Altair in safety, he couldn’t leave Pyres alone to rush headlong into danger. He looked down to Arhaedielle, and offered her his hand. “That fool! He didn’t even stop to think!” His eyes flashed with disapproval at the warrior’s impatience, but he couldn’t find himself able to get angry at him. He simply wished to do what he knew was right. Were he more capable in such confrontations, Randall would have done the same thing. Now, he had no choice. “We must help him!”

As he pulled on his coat and rapidly collected his things, making sure his precious grimoire was tucked into the deep pocket, Randall couldn’t help but think one thing, the one major fact that was troubling him more than the revolt itself; what had toppled those trees so quickly as it moved towards the city? Was it a force of men? Surely they had something more powerful at their disposal, and as he rushed towards the chaos of Fenn in pursuit of Pyres, he tried arduously to think of what that might have been, and what was the basis of this revolt.

In a great voice, the monk says:

"You foolish human! I'm truly sorry, but I must do this... it's for your own good. After all: Those of the prophecy may not die foolishly!"

Suddenly, with the speed of legend, the man charges after Pyres. Catching up easily, his fist comes down hard on the top of his head. However, at the last possible second, the monk opens his hand, making the blow much less lethal, but still dropping Pyres unconscious. (Pyres: Hit. 46 subdual.)

Picking Pyres and all his gear up, surprising for a man of that age, he runs back up the hill, meeting both Randall and Arhaedielle before they make it even a quarter of the way down.

"Quickly! We must go. I will carry this man until we are into the southern city of Bree. It is not far. We must hurry though, lest those brigands give chase. Or are you all as foolhardy as he?"

Pyres does nothing (cause hes unconsious)

The half-elf gawked at the sudden speed and power of the elderly man as he dashed forth and KO’d Pyres in one blow, hauling him back up the hill. At his challenge, Randall spread his hands and shook his head. Pyres was a LOT tougher than he was!

“I guess we’re going your way…” He muttered, taking a last look a the city before turning away, pulling his coat around him and following along with the elderly fellow.

“Bree, huh?” Randall turned the thought over. He’d never been there before, but he knew roughly where the city was located, having see its position on a map a number of times during his studies. As he’d been told, it wasn’t that far away, but if somebody was hot in chase of the fleeing citizens…well, he didn’t want to be caught in their path, that’s for sure! All his belongings secured on his person, the half-elf picked up his pace a little bit, trying to keep up with the unbelievable speed this old man possessed. One thing continually repeated itself in his head, though. Those of the prophecy the man had said before he ran down Pyres. Was it to them he referred to? Randall furrowed his brow beneath the cover of his hat. Just who was this guy, anyway?

As the first of the trees came crashing down Arhaedielle spun to face the forest. Rage and sorrow flooded her, nearly blinded her, the elf had lived her whole life amongst those trees, they had become her brothers and sisters. Holding back a growl she closed her eyes and turned away, she could not bear the desecration of her sylvan home. These humans respected nothing, only power. How many of the forest had died because of their thirst for power? There was no alternative, the tree killers must die, all of them.

The thumping feet pulled her attention from retribution. Eyes opening and body turning she faced the approaching old man, in white robes he stood out from the sea of panicked citizens. Reaching the hilltop he spoke quickly with a sense of great urgency,

"Flee my brothers! Lord Borghen has caused a revolt! His army has already plowed through the forest and the northern gate, completely catching us unaware! I saw him head towards the castle! One can only hope the Princess Hilda and King Armon are alright... follow me, we will travel to the remote city of Altair. We had that plan in place in case anything uncontrolable happened...this seems fit."

The elfwoman's eyes narrowed, so it was Borghen who had orchestrated the tree killing, then it was Borghen who would die. Not today, not tomorrow, but one day she would descend upon him with all the fury of nature.

The larger of the two men reacted quickly, full of bravado. The would be hero seemed to think he alone would stop the whole revolt. Shaking her head she sighed, she wanted Borghen dead as much as he, but they needed a plan, years of planning preferably. Humans always reacted so quickly. To her surprise the aging human reacted, swiftly and surely, knocking the younger man out. It was not his sudden formidability that spun in her mind, but rather his words. Foolish Human, The Prophecy, Foolish Human, The Prophecy, The Prophecy. Her luminous green eyes narrowed at the elderly man, he was not what he seemed. She did not trust that.

She stepped forward, next to the half elf, and spoke in cool melodious tones, "You speak of a prophecy, what prophecy?" She stood and waited his response, green elven eyes watching the strange old man.

"Years ago, after I had just entered the monastic guild, a odd man walked in. His hair was whiter than snow, his eyes gold like a cat's. He was shaking, and blubbering to himself. Suddenly, he collapsed. Elders rushed to him, and I listened close by. Then, the man was filled with divine light, and spoke the following:

In ages of dark, light will shine,
In ages of power, it shall be mine.

Though they know not they be the four,
And they shall guard us evermore.

The corrupt know their hearts are black,
Those with pure hearts never crack.

The time will come to hunt the man,
And after that, to live again.

On the day of turmoil, they be away,
So that no harm may come to they.

Seperated they are, three and one,
If that they stay, then our world is done.

Not once but twice for them to win,
The threat lives on in the fires of Shrin.

Remember this, to the word.
If it is forgotten, their rests not a bird.
The man shudders visibly, then resumes speaking.

"After this, that old chaps head simply rolled off his shoulders. Not cut, no blood. Merely rolled off. However, for the time now, that is not important. Let us begin our travel to Bree. Unless you've any other concerns. If not, just say, and I shall lead."

The elf listened to the old man intently. Prophecies were always written in riddles and she would have to think on it for a time. She did not fully trust this man, she didn't trust any city dwellers really. Regardless he opposed Borghen the tree killer, as long as they shared that goal she would join him, for a time at least.

Speaking softly she nodded to the man, "I have none for now. Lead the way."

"Alright, onward we go." The man walks away from the city, grunting as he shifts Pyres unconscious body. "Young one's these days. Always carry so much..."

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Out of context: Nothing incredibly interesting happens here. You travel along the low roads, often narrowly missing patrols. Around dusk, you arrive in the city of Bree.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Coming up on the city gates of Bree, the man walks up to the gates, and knocks carefully on the gates. Suddenly, a small opening slides open, only a pair of eyes visible. The person to whom the eyes belong say something which is indistinguishable, then the venerable man says, "Water Lily."

The gatesman opens the gates enough for you to enter. The venerable man, now breathing rather heavy after a days travel of carrying Pyres, walks to the nearest Inn. He says to you, "Here is a place you can rest. I cannot travel further with you, but from here, Altair is easy enough to get too. You should continue there, it is safer than here." Looking at Randall and Arhaedielle, he asks "Is there any final questions you posess?"

Eldarwen had been on the move all day running and hiding every since the Duke;s forces and attack the forest cutting and burning. She had done what she could firing from cover at the scouts and patrols to stop them but she had eventually attracted unwanted attention from the many patrols. She set out for the closest town of any size, which was Bree, to carry word of the overthrow in the city. The citizens had not expected such an attack and were unprepared to deal with the invasion.

Eldarwen planned carry the news to Bree then move on. Coming to the shut gates, she knock and waited until someone came. If they would not let her in so be it but at least she could warn them.

"I have news from the capital."