Broken Wings – Chapter Two

A vile creature moved amongst the herd of deer with silent, trackless steps. Its long hair was loose across its back, tangled about ears less pointed than its teeth, demonic eyes burning under heavy brows. It was hunched forward, a gait somewhere awkward between the upright posture of an elf, and the four-legged movement of a beast. The deer milled about in restless confusion. The familiar scent of elves nearby was nothing to fear, but beneath that was a sour, unpleasant stench that made them want to panic.
      The creature snarled, wolf-like, listening to the beating of the deer’s hearts. The night was dark, moonless, the creature was hungry. Its eyes glowed red, all the light it needed on such a forsaken night. Grinning, the creature revelled in the innocent beating, and knew that tonight one of those hearts would belong to it.
      A beast watched protectively from the edge of the small herd. A massive wolf paced along the tree line, eyes fixed on the creature stalking amongst the deer. Every line of its beautiful silver body spoke of worry that sunk into the core of its being. A dozen elves were perched in the trees, bows held loosely ready, quivers full of poison-tipped arrows. The forest was silent tonight, the tension of the elves bleeding into the darkness and the birds and crickets lay quiet.
      The restless breeze fell quiet, as if the world itself held its breath. Everything froze, the elves, the wolf, the deer. Hearts beat in unison, thundering in the silence, the silent rhythm of anticipation. Without warning the creature attacked, the deer scattering in every direction. In the centre of the clearing a fallen deer remained, the demon-creature crouched over the prostrate form. Wicked teeth in a distended jaw were buried in the deer’s neck. Hands ending in wicked black talons were thrust between the ribs, blood flowing freely down naked arms. Black claws of misshapen three-toed feet had gutted the deer, roped coils spilt steaming onto the grass. The creature pulled the deer’s rib cage open with a crack, the fur and skin ripping like wet silk.
      The wolf paced sadly, on such a moonless night the lustre of silver had faded from its long luxurious coat. The elves shifted their grip on their bows, fingering the flights of their arrows tensely. The creature lifted the deer’s heart from the mutilated chest cavity, inhaling deeply as one would the bouquet of a fine wine or brandy. As it devoured the heart, the elves drew from their quivers. The massive wolf stopped his pacing, throwing himself at the foot of one of the trees. In the branches above, the Forest Lord nocked a black fletched arrow to his longbow. As the creature finished the heart, the Forest Lord began to draw on the bow.
      With a whispered prayer and perfect aim, the Forest Lord loosed the arrow. The shaft spun wickedly, the bluntened tip striking the creature’s shoulder, piercing but not impaling. The creature clutched at its shoulder, but before it could open its mouth to scream the toxin had stolen its breath, and it slumped to the blood-stained grass. The massive wolf leapt to its feet, in a matter of strides it stood over the creature. Falling to its belly next to the creature, watchful and protective.

* * *

Razakiel had decided to follow the ranger, there was really no consideration to be made. He was lost, and he did not know how long it would take him to find his way out of the forest, assuming there was a way at all. He had watched the elf moving lithely through the trees, as if he knew every trunk, branch, and root by heart. Feeling clumsy and noisy moving behind the graceful elf, he tried to keep up as best he could. Slowly the trees began to change, the trunks grew wider and more generously spaced.
      When the pair passed between the trees and entered the heart of the city, Razakiel was awestruck. Never had he seen anything like it before. He had visited the Shining City of the High Elves far to the east, carved from the bones of the land, filled with stunning white spires and groves of whitewood trees that flowered in the palest shades of pink and purple. He had stayed in the humble villages of the Gray Elves, where they carved and painted every inch of their simple wooden huts. He had lived in the treehouses of the Wood Elves where every limb and branch was bent to their will. None of the sights he had seen could have prepared him for the Wild Elven city.
      They had entered a large glade, ringed by wide trees as old as the bones of the earth, some hundreds of feet around. Wide pointed archways opened within the tree trunks, facing into the clearing, and clean, straight limbs grew in spiralled ramps and stairways to the upper branches. In the west, a pair of doors, currently open wide, had been set into one of these archways. This was the largest of all the trees, and Razakiel could see glints of stained glass within.
      The glade was filled with grass that had never known the touch of the reaper’s scythe, and scattered with pastel-coloured wildflowers. Paths led away between the trees to other parts of the city. Lanterns hung near doors and over walkways, dim like pale candles, unlike the wood elven cities which were brightly lit and filled with sparkling colours.
      There had been no sign, no line or fence to surround or define the elven city. The glade was the centre of the city, hidden elven homes filling the surrounding trees, blending perfectly into the forest.

* * *

The ranger led Razakiel to the second largest of the ancient trees. The wide archway faced south, and was covered with a curtain of floating silk of pale, shimmering purple. Lifting the silk, the ranger ushered him through, but did not follow. Stunning tapestries decorated the walls, and large plump cushions were scattered casually about the floor. There was a simple throne at the back of the room, flanked by wooden stools and low chairs with high backs.
      Many of the chairs were vacant, the cushions being favoured, but the Forest Lord was seated on his throne, a simple coronet of still-living oak leaves adorning his brow. The Forest Lord raised his hand, silently, and the hall emptied abruptly. Each of the seats to either side of the Forest Lord were filled, until finally, Razakiel stood alone before the Forest Lord and his council.
      Standing in halls so familiar, yet so different, he felt his heart clench with renewed pain. Gauntleted hands balled into fists, he dropped to one knee before the Forest Lord, surrounded by his elven council.
      ”Many years have been born and died since we last had a stranger in our midst,” the Forest Lord began, upon his cheek he wore the familiar hollow diamonds, the tattoo faded by uncounted years. “Few travellers have braved the ruined passes of that which you call the World’s Crown since the Cataclysm of Dragons. Fewer yet have been human.” The Forest Lord watched Razakiel with mask of studied dispassion, waiting to see if the he would speak. Eventually, “your armour is of elven make?”
      ”My armour was a gift from the wood elves of Widuhám, your Grace.” His voice was steady despite the painful pounding in his heart.
      ”I am Delano Renshaw, Forest Lord of the wild elves of Forestom. Stand, Warrior of God and make yourself known in these halls.”
      He stood, “I am Sir Razakiel Lightreaver, Sentinel-Templar of the Church of Hope’s Light; Sentinel-Emissary to Widuhám”
      The Forest Lord’s eyes narrowed slightly, urgent concern cracking his mask of political composure, “Sir Lightreaver,” the Forest Lord quickly recovered, “you have been found trespassing upon our lands. Kindly explain.”
      Explain he did. Hands clenched tightly by his sides, offering only the briefest recount of what happened that beautiful summer day in the wood elf halls. How he had left the lands of the wood elves that very afternoon and begun his journey north. How when he found the fiends he pursued, he would exact upon them a swift and merciful justice they did not deserve.
      The Forest Lord and his council sat in respectful silence. The soft tapestries had absorbed the painful words, and left nothing but ringing emptiness in their wake. Though his story took only minutes to tell, in his heart the moments had stretched into hours until he felt drained and exhausted.
      ”Sir Lightreaver, your cause is noble. Please accept the hospitality of Forestom; I speak for all of the council when I say that I hope you find the satisfaction you seek. If there is any assistance we may offer, we shall not hesitate.” Razakiel bowed and took his leave of the council hall. Even as he turned to exit, he could hear the council speaking in concerned whispers.
      Outside, bow casually leaning against his hip, stood the ranger, rebraiding a section of his long green hair. “I am to take you to lodging and ensure that you are more than comfortable Lord.” Weary to his bones and drained of emotion, the Sentinel-Templar nodded and allowed his guide to lead him up a stairway spiralling around the girth of one of the narrower trees. Each step was formed from a single branch, encouraged to grow where the elves has desired it. No twigs, leaves, or knots showed on the branches, and they were flat on top as if planed down by a master carpenter, but there was no sign of tooling or joins.
      These trees were as ancient as the mountains that formed the bones of the world, they had long since grown tired of growing. They shed the oldest of their leaves in late autumn, and sprouted buds and flowers the following spring, but they had grown no taller in a millennia.
      In primitive beginnings, the elves had made their homes in the canopies of these trees, stringing hammocks between the branches, or curling in crooks were the limbs met the trunk. Yet, magic came as naturally to the first elves as everything else, and with a deft touch, they began to apply the cooperative magiks of the living world. They learnt ways of encouraging the living but never moving trees, they could open hollow tree trunks as huge as a hundred feet across, they brought forth branches where there were none had grown before, they created doors, windows, passages, stairs, bridges, and rooms in the living wood, as seamlessly as the dwarves carved their homes from rock.
      Evenly spaced doorways spiralled around the trunk as they climbed upwards, lanterns glowing softly to the right of each, indicating some sort of inn. Most of the doorways were covered from the inside with heavy woollen drapes. His guide stopped in front of an uncovered doorway set in the trunk and motioned Razakiel inside.
      The room was dominated by a bed in the centre of the far wall. A far cry from the narrow cots of human cities, this bed could easily sleep two if not three, and had been made up with sheets of crisp linen. An armour dummy waited in the corner next to a set of drawers, and a tiny closet sat open, displaying the silk pants and shirt elves wore about their own homes and a lush cotton bathrobe.
      As he dropped his packs heavily on the drawers, his guide excused himself, unhooking the heavy woollen privacy drape, and let it fall across the doorway as he departed. Razakiel stripped off his armour, hanging it from the armour dummy, and threw the light leather under-suit in a pile in the corner. In his shorts he collapsed across the feather-stuffed comforter on the bed, asleep in moments.

* * *

He was woken by the sounds of furtive movement in the doorway. Instantly alert, he opened one eye and scanned the room. A young elven maid had nudged the drape aside just a crack to see that he was still sleeping, ingloriously spread-eagled on the covered in his undergarments. Balancing a heavy urn of water and a large bowl, she was caught in a moment of indecision, to finish her task or wait until later. He rose slowly and felt a pang of guilt as the girl squeaked in surprise, nearly dropping the urn. Crossing the room, acutely uncomfortable in his underwear, he took the basin and set it on the bed out of the way. Taking the water-filled urn from her, he smiled kindly, trying to reassure her.
      ”Thank you,” he told her in Elvish. Unlike the tall wood elves and their even taller high and grey elven cousins, the girl before him is about a foot shorter than him. Though still tall by human standards, he finds her lack of height curious. Her hair was long, wound into a single thick braid, pale brown like the coat of a deer.
      She curtsied, “if you are hungry e’lord, I can bring you something to eat.” He realised that his stomach had begun to growl.
      ”That would be wonderful, thank you again.” She curtsied a second time and hurried away. Razakiel moved his packs to the floor and set the basin on the dresser. The water in the urn was warm, heated for him to wash, and he is thankful for not having to wash in icy waters for a change. About to drop his shorts to the floor, Razakiel paused, worried that the young maiden could return at any moment, he is already uncomfortable at having been caught in this state of undress.
      The memory of young Shael came to the front of his mind, and he wondered what the elven child was doing now. Smiling, he remembered the orphan standing guard at his door, rapier proudly at his hip.
      He had never understood why the young orphan had grown so attached to him. His arrival at Widuhám was many moons after the death of the boy’s mother at the hands of a apothep. The devil had been stalking the outskirts of the elven community for several weeks, mutilating deer and other small animals. Shael’s mother had been the first elven victim, but not the last.
      Razakiel had brought the small unit of Sentinel-Champions to the elven community at the behest of the Warrior-Priests of Widuhám, who had called on the Sentinel church for assistance. With the help of the wood elf marksmen they had scoured the forest. On the sixth night, they finally flushed out the apothep and destroyed the devil. He clearly remembered the wide-eyed youth watching him across the clearing when they returned victorious. There had been a celebration, elven wine flowing as freely as the music and dancing. Every time he looked about, Shael had crept closer, until the youth was tugging at his shirt sleeve.
      One of the Elders had noticed as Razakiel knelt to speak to the youngster, and came over to introduce the pair. The longer he stayed with the wood elves, the more attached he had become to Shael. Closing his eyes, a pang of guilt stabbed his heart as he remembered the day he left. His blind rage had left him insensitive and cold, he sat Shael down and told him he was leaving. Knees suddenly weak, he sank onto the bed, Shael had bravely accepted that another person he loved was leaving him, asking only if Razakiel would ever return. Ashamed, he buried his face in his hands. His life seemed to be defined by one unfulfilled promise after another. It was time to make right, no matter the cost.
      With a heavy sigh he stood again, and went back to the basin on the dresser. Blessedly, the water still held its warmth, and Razakiel took the sponge and began to wash, furtively glancing around before letting his shorts fall to the floor and kicking them aside. He touched the pendant below the hollow of his throat, a glossy black stone, it’s glassy surface marred by tiny pock marks. The fragment of meteor was shaped into a perfect disc, another circle cut within, off-centre. A chain of shimmering white gold had been threaded through the hole. He unclasped the fastening and placed the holy symbol on the dresser, the irregular surface catching the light.
      When he was clean, he returned the pendant about his neck before turning to the cupboard and putting on a cotton robe, tying it firmly closed. He opened his packs and began sifting through the few clothes he could afford to carry. As he feared, there was nothing clean, and he berated himself for not camping by the river and taking the rest of the day to wash.

* * *

There was a polite knock and Razakiel dropped his soiled clothes to the bed in a pile and went to the privacy curtain. Pulling it aside, there stood the young maiden with a platter of food and two small jugs on a tray. He clutched at the front of the robe, though he knew it was securely closed. Regardless, he felt a faint heat in his cheeks, he had no underwear on.
      He smiled and forced himself to let go of the robe, reaching out to take the platter the girl had brought. She handed him the platter, but brought the two jugs inside herself. Placing the jugs on the dresser, she picked up the basin. For the first time, he noticed that there was a slightly darker round piece of wood set into the floor near the dresser. The maiden lifted the piece of wood to reveal a wide-mouthed hole in the floor into which she drained the basin. Setting the basin back on the dresser, she indicated to the pile of dirty clothes on the bed. “May I take your dirty laundry, Sir?” Razakiel nodded and she gathered the clothes together in the basin and, balancing the basin on top of the almost-empty urn, disappeared again.
      Alone once more, he settled himself on the bed with the platter. There was a selection of ripe forest fruits, a generous piece of cheese, and a large hunk of bread still warm from the oven. On the side of the platter, there were small crocks containing yogurt, honey, and butter. He slipped his knife from his boot and tore the bread apart, buttering it generously and eating ravenously.
      When the platter was clean, he felt too full and cursed himself for being greedy. Setting the platter on the dresser, Razakiel turned his attention to the two jugs. One appeared to be filled with a rich dark wine, the other he picked up the other and sniffed suspiciously before taking a sip. It was cold water, refreshing and clean, and he drained the lot greedily.
      Settling himself cross-legged on the floor, rearranging the robe around him, he unpacked his bags, individually examining each item before placing it on the floor. One of his waterproof salt vials had cracked, and he put it aside to throw away. At the bottom of the bag he found a forgotten pair of shorts and gratefully tugged them on, feeling infinitely more comfortable.
      He methodically repacked everything, dropping the broken vial on the platter and taking the lounging suit from the cupboard. The coarse silk was grey and highlighted the stormy colour of his eyes perfectly. Surprisingly, it fit well. During the years Razakiel had stayed with the wood elves, no matter how many times their best tailors measured him, their clothes always seemed to be made for someone far more slender than himself. Feeling cramped in his room after his time in the forest, he stepped out onto the stairway and looked out over the elven city.
      To one side of the door was a curved brass peg, and he tucked the drape behind it. There was no railing, so he leaned against the doorway, watching the elven city move around him. It seemed that you could get anywhere within the city without touching the ground, and the lushly-grassed forest floor was almost solely populated by children playing. The wood elves preferred to tend beautiful walkways of river stones or carefully trimmed grass between the trees they lived and worked within, but here the ground was lushly carpeted in wildflowers and rich grass, mostly unsullied by a single footstep.
      The young elven maid hurried up the stairs to him, eyes demurely on the ground, “e’lord, the council wishes your presence if you are willing.”
      ”Of course,” he paused, “however I have nothing suitable to wear.”
      She gestured towards him vaguely, “what you wear will be fine Sir.”
      Razakiel nodded, “then if you could kindly indicate the way, I shall see them immediately.”

* * *

The scattered cushions and low chairs had been replaced by a long oval table, the Forest Lord seated at the head, his council arranged along one long side to his left. The casual air of the day before had given way to the sombre feel of the more formal setting. The Forest Lord stood as Razakiel entered, and indicated to the seat opposite, closest to the door. “Please be seated Sentinel-Templar.” Taking the offered seat at the foot of the table, he waited in silence.
      A heavy tapestry moved, as if in a breeze, and a young elf appeared, holding the heavy cloth aside. Five aged elves, each so ancient that their hair had faded to pale pastel shades of their original colours, lines upon their faces, entered and gracefully took the empty seats opposite the council members, his shoulders tensing at this unexpected development.
      The closest of the Elders turned in his seat, “Sentinel-Templar, we are to understand that you come to us from a church of Sentinels?”
      ”Yes, your Grace,” he responded quietly.
      ”Forgive us, Sentinel-Templar, for the years have been many,” the Elder paused, perhaps searching for the words he wanted. Frowning slightly, Razakiel wondered what the Elders wanted with him. “Little changes for us here, with the turning of the years,” the Elder continued, “but this tends not to be so for the humans.”
      Another of the aged elves picked up where his associate left off, “we trust that Grand High Sentinel IronFalcon left the church in good hands when he passed.”
      Deeply confused, he cast his mind back, IronFalcon had been Grand High Sentinel over two centuries ago, long before the current Grand High Sentinel had taken up the mantle. He fingered the finely crafted bone scroll case anxiously, before unhooking it and placing it on the table before him. The Forest Lord’s eyes fell to the scroll case, “Your blessed writ?”
      Razakiel nodded, and slipped the valuable document from the case, sliding it across the table towards the group. The writ was scribed on thick vellum, the delicate grained skin stronger and harder wearing than paper or parchment.
      The closest Elder partially rose, leaning across to take the scroll. He read the long scroll quickly before passing it to the next Elder. Razakiel waited in impatient silence until they had all read the scroll and the final member of the Forest Lord’s council passed it back to him.
      The first Elder spoke again, “thank you Sentinel-Templar.” Razakiel rolled the scroll tightly and slipped it back within the scroll case, watching warily as some sort of silent agreement passed between the Forest Lord and the Elders. “We have within our community an issue of great concern to us, an issue of great concern to you.” Intrigued, he waited for the Elder to continue. When the Elder began to explain, his voice was husky, as if his throat was filled with dust.
      ”Every few years we gather a group of hunters who travel to the snowy reaches in the north-east to hunt leqeshy, what you call a mammoth. One year, the party were attacked by a tengluk. While the party was able to fight the devil off, many were badly injured and the party immediately returned home.
      “One of the members of the hunting party was heavily pregnant at the time. Though the child was carried to full term and was born healthy, the mother died from her wounds. The child was raised by her aunt,” Razakiel thought he saw a flash of uncharacteristic emotion from the Forest Lord on this word.
      ”To our dismay, everything was not as it seemed. She was still very young when she began complaining of unusual pains and ailments that only occurred during the dark periods of the new moon. Several months later she began manifesting physical evidence of a fiendish heritage. To our distress, she was almost normal during most of the month, but each new moon she acted as if demonically possessed, and bore no recollection of her actions during those nights.”
      Razakiel frowned deeply, “you did not destroy her?”
      ”You must understand,” The Elder continued, giving the Forest Lord a sideways glance, but the leader was completely composed, “our society cannot afford to dispose of her children so carelessly. While we hold hope that she can be saved, we will try to control her symptoms, we will search for a cure.”
      He grit his teeth, “she is a half-fiend, her blood is tainted.” The Elder nodded patiently, as if explaining to a stubborn child, and the Sentinel-Templar’s blood rose. Just like every elf Razakiel had dealt with before, he knew exactly what was going through the Elder’s mind, that he was impatient, too prone to making snap decisions. Perhaps living for five hundred years really could give you a new perspective, but it was a perspective he was never going live to see.

* * *

The demon-creature was unconscious, shackles holding it spread-eagled across a large slab of unworked dark marble. Faint lanterns were spaced around the clearing, hanging artfully from tree branches. A chain lay across the creature’s neck, holding its head against the stone, its throat bruised. Razakiel averted his eyes, for the creature was naked. Noticing, an elf tossed a light blanket across the creature, hiding the shrivelled breasts and exposed crotch.
      Someone had bandaged strips of linen about the creature’s ankles and wrists, the uneven twists of fabric leaving the impression that they had been wrapped hurriedly. Kneeling by the stone, he touched the creature’s leg gently, turning the limb slightly. At the edges of the linen wrappings the leg was burned, the flesh blistered and angry red. He gently lifted the edge of the bandage, but the burn did not extend beneath the linen. It seemed as though the linen had not been placed there to cover the burns. Touching the manacle, the metal was icy under his fingers, colder than the chilly marble.
      Razakiel spoke quietly to the Elder beside him, “cold-iron?” The Elder nodded and he continued, “you said a tengluk did this? Demons are not vulnerable to cold-iron, but these shackles appear to have burnt her.”
      ”I cannot explain that Sentinel-Templar, we discovered her aversion to the metal entirely by accident. She was training with a ranger wielding a dagger of cold-iron, a failed parry resulted in the flat of the blade pressed against her back,” he paused, “it burnt her quite badly.”
      Razakiel remained thoughtfully silent. The fey, creatures of the natural world such as dryads and nymphs, and creatures of celestial origin were weak to cold-iron. The dwarves had discovered the rare veins of dark metal that melted at such low temperatures it had to be placed over pots of boiling water.
      Cold-iron that was placed directly over hot coals would ‘burn’, becoming brittle and riddled with sooty imperfections. The ore could not be brought near heated forges, melting at little more than the temperature of boiled water, and liquid cold iron had a nasty habit of ‘curdling’ if heated too frequently or too long. It was a difficult metal to work, the temperature range at which cold-iron remained malleable was very small, and the metal was tougher than steel once it had been tempered. Neither did it take well to repeated heating and cooling, quickly becoming warped and no longer melting smoothly under the application of heat.
      Razakiel brushed a stray strand of greasy hair off the creature’s face. Her elven features were marred by a jaw distended with razor sharp teeth, her nose ugly and squashed. There was a low growl behind him as he touched the creature’s face. When he turned, he found himself almost nose to nose with a massive silver wolf. Trapped between the creature and the wolf, it was a cramped and uncomfortable position.
      ”Leave him be Lyari,” instructed a soft elven voice. The wolf backed down, watching Razakiel suspiciously, dark green eyes radiating with intelligence. As he stood the elf spoke again, “he’s a little protective, please forgive him.”
      ”Who are you?”
      ”Thornshade,” the elf stated flatly, without elaborating. Beneath his left eye, two hollow diamonds were half-hidden by a long bang of purple-black hair. “Lyari here,” he pet the massive wolf, “is Aura’s companion.”
      ”Aura? That is her name?” Thornshade buried his fingers in the wolf’s luxurious mane and nodded his assent. Turning back to the Elder, Razakiel spoke again “I sense no evil in this creature.”
      ”We would not have tolerated an evil presence in our forests, elven or otherwise,” the Elder answered coldly.

* * *

The next night, the Forest Lord and his elven council gathered in the small clearing where the creature was chained. They unlocked the shackles with a thick and oddly shaped key and placed them back into a strong, padded wooden box. Razakiel stood between Thornshade and an elven Elder at the tree line, the tension in the air palpable. There was only the barest glimpse of the star-filled sky between the overhanging trees, the lanterns extinguished, thick and inky shadows filling the small glade. Slowly, the thin arc of the reborn moon rose high enough to shine onto the rock.
      The creature jolted as if struck by lightning as the silver light reached her, a faint breeze blowing in the tree tops like a dark omen. Slowly the wind picked up, moaning mournfully between the trunks, as before his eyes, the creature seemed to turn to dirty grey dust, and the wind grew into raging squalls to blow her away. Razakiel threw an arm up to protect his face as the wind threw the dust into the air, then tore it away into the night.
      Yet, unconscious against the rock in the pale silver light, an elf remained. Gone were the wicked claws and heavy knuckles; gone were the misshapen talons; her delicate jaw and shapely red lips now closed over teeth that no longer viciously shred her gums. The dirty, stringy hair that was splayed against the rock had given way to liquid waves like strands of white gold. The only mark on her porcelain skin was the tattoo of the Druids over her right eye.
      She stirred and Lyari stepped to her and nuzzled lovingly against her cheek. Waking, she threw her arms around the wolf’s massive neck, burying her face in the thick silver mane without opening her eyes. The elves around Razakiel melted silently into the trees, leaving only himself and Thornshade in the clearing. Thornshade knelt at Aura’s side and touched her hair with a gentle hand, his dark locks falling in straight, shimmering sheets, contrasting starkly with her angelic curls. She turned to Thornshade, opening her eyes slowly, and Razakiel was struck by the wrenching sadness contained within.
      ”It happened again didn’t it?” Thornshade nodded, clearly pained as her eyes filled with tears. Lyari licked her cheek tenderly as the ranger stroked her hair, putting a supporting arm around her and helping her sit up.
      ”It’s all right Aura, we will find a way to free you, I swear.” Razakiel turned away, frowning, and walked back to his room. Lowering himself heavily onto the bed, his mind turned over slowly, confusion making his thoughts difficult to process, like handling a tub full of molasses. The Blessed Writ demanded that he destroy the fiendish influence within her, but the blind destruction of this elf, he could not condone. He was no Paladin, and as he considered the delicateness of his situation he was glad for that fact. The strict regime of Paladin’s Laws would have forced his hand, her death would have been his only option.
      He did not believe he could have come this far as a Paladin. Had the elven Elders found him to be so, he imagined they would have turned him back to the forest, to wander until madness or hunger took him. If he had been lucky, perhaps they might have delivered him to the southern face of the forest that he might survive his journey home.
      Still, he must uphold what is right, and the path was not clear. The church was out of reach, he could not turn to anyone for advice. He snorted to himself as he imagined the Table of Priest-Templars in deep discussion over the matter. They always were too prone to talking, if it weren’t for Sentinel-Templars like himself, nothing would ever get done, only talked about.
      Rolling onto his side, shifting the pillow under his head he thought of his sister. If only she could have been here, she would have known what to do. She had the kindest heart, she would have been able to approach that elven girl, said a few kind words. He sighed, saddened, knowing that his sister would have done anything to save that elf; death was simply not the right path.
      ”Why?” He asked the air, as if expecting an answer, restlessly rolling onto his back to stare at the shadows hiding beneath the ceiling. His world seemed so much emptier without her. Of course, no answer would be forthcoming, and there was only silence about him. As the night slipped away, he fell asleep.

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