Completed Burned

[Eren'thiel Xyrdithas]

Dariu entered in, freely. So far so good, it seemed that as far as they were concerned, he was on their side – or at least still useful. Honestly, he didn’t really know himself. It was her who had sent for him after all. As he entered the grand hall, he stifled the inner turmoil inside of him. He had little time but could at least use some information to his favor. Or perhaps all of it.

“Yes, they're quite distressed with your…” his eyes fell to the pile of corpses, “…party. Desperate even, they think I'm here to get your demands.”

He looked to Alyssa. There was a tremendous terror that followed after her beauty, hidden behind the visage of noble elegance. She moved without fault, a surety to her that discouraged him. She'd kill him, without so much as an inkling of reconsideration. It was as though he were staring into the maw of his very own abyss – just itching for his misstep.

Fuck it

“I'm told Garron is to be along shortly, to what end I wasn't told. But there’s more.” He almost sighed, “its Duresh…”

But even as the words began to come out, he knew. Behind her, doors to the kitchen beyond swung open.

There they are.

~*~*~*~​

Erën kept vigilant as Duresh interrogated Theo. He was disheartened as his lack of information, and even a little surprised. He imagined that Elan would have associated with the likes of this man.

How the blazes could she stand it?

Perhaps his opinion of her had been too high, or perhaps she was just a rarity. Then again there was Duresh – but who knew what his story was.

His time spent in Vel Anir had certainly been an enlightening one: it operated so unlike his own home. But then, they had the Shoraes, which he understood changed a great many things. Many places operated very differently.

Duresh dealt with the man which satisfied him, the needless killing of these poor fools would only hurt their cause. He followed him, sliding into the kitchen and silently closing the door behind them. He was not quite as proficient as Duresh in the ways of concealment; his footfalls were quieter, his movements smoother. But now, as the drew close to the door leading into the grand hall, he knew that it was now time to be a little more aggressive.

“This is as good as its going to get,” Duresh said to him.

He nodded, peering out the window for a moment to gather their surroundings. With one hand he grasped his stolen sword, and with the other he placed his hand on the door.

“You get to Alyssa,” he said.

Though he trusted Duresh, he knew he was injured. Erën would go first to take most of the attention. He pushed open the door and bolted through, drawing a second sword and charging forth.

 

[Duresh]

Erën went out the door first. Good, in those seconds of Erën announcing his presence and engaging the men in the grand hall Duresh had time to will himself to become Invisible inside the kitchen, and his body faded from sight. He could have attempted to get at Alyssa without using his gift, but with the hard throb of the coagulant in his leg he deemed it too risky, perhaps even too risky if he was in perfect health. No chances. This was their shot, and they could not miss.

And as Erën gathered all of the attention of the men and fought and bought time, Duresh moved as silently as he could. Careful to avoid men repositioning now that they had a foe to fight and an employer to protect. He waved past one rushing past him to gather in the growing mob around Erën awaiting their opportunity for a quick and unseen and decisive blow to end him.

Alyssa and turned from the man she was talking to, shouting, "Wait! Wait! Halt at--"

And Duresh grabbed her and held the falchion close to her neck and uncloaked himself, appearing as if from nowhere with her in his grasp. He moved and dragged her with him such that his back was to a wall. He said sternly, "Tell your men to stand down. Do it now."

"Duresh?" The surprise only momentary. She called to her men, "Stand down! Stand down, I say!"

Confusion. Uncertainty. Doubtful glances cast back and forth among those immediately in Erën's vicinity and among those up on the second floor and aiming crossbows over the balustrade.

Again, Alyssa said, "I said stand down!"

Reluctance, of course. Perhaps in this moment of heightened violence and alarm it stemmed more from their own instincts of self-preservation than the prospect of coin. But soon they relented, wary looks to Erën or Duresh or Alyssa and they sheathed or laid down their weapons.

Duresh adjusted his grip on Alyssa. Secured her more tightly. Said, "I going to ask--"

Alyssa paid him no attention. She called to Erën. "You! I know you!" A tone akin to one seeing a long-lost friend. An excitement at odds with her current predicament.

"Alyssa. I'm not--"

Still she spoke to Erën. "Yes, of course. You were at the Battle of the Blades. I know it. I remember your face. Your name. Erën, correct? I was there in the Square Embassy when you volunteered. Yes. I know you!"

 

[Eren'thiel Xyrdithas]

Erën burst through the door, taking great strides to propel him into the middle of the room quickly. Quickly a half a dozen mercs surrounded him, and he engaged them. He ducked and lunged, leapt and twirled, a flurry of steel shrouded by a whirling blue cloak falling upon his foes. Three moved upon him at once, and he leapt into the air with a great push to put himself outside the group. More circled around behind, and now he had nearly all of them trained on him.

Archers from the upper level struggled to get a shot, wary to pierce their own. Despite this, the numbers proved effective against him. He was stayed, circling around fending off strikes. The crowd encroached, and he worried. If he didn’t call upon the Tear now then-

"Wait! Wait! Halt at--"

His immediate foe hesitated. Erën struck him with a might kick and whirled around to block an attack. The held there for a moment, unsure of how to proceed. The circle of men around him laxed a bit. He pushed back the man he wrestled with but did not move forward to attack. Instead he only brought himself to the middle of the group and spun around to see each of his attackers – his swords clinking against the ends of each of theirs as he did.

"I said stand down!"

They lowered their weapons. Erën motioned for them to drop them. Even more reluctance, but they did. He began to usher them aside and away from the discarded arms – wordlessly, and peacefully. As the backed away he looked to Alyssa through narrow eyes, measuring her. Yes, he did recognize her – though only now realized who she was. He remembered…

“That’s Alyssa Crentor,” Elan said, “And they’re associated with the Banicks… and I told you about them already. One of the seven houses…”​

Yes, Elan had been much help to him in understanding the current state of affairs in Vel Anir as well as he did. He looked to Duresh with an inquisitive look on his face. He wasn’t sure what her angle was here, perhaps some attempt to garner his sympathy before Duresh dealt with her? Perhaps a plea to dispatch him in order to clear his name. Regardless, his loyalty in this matter was concrete.

“Yes, I was there…” there was a quietness to him, a solemn shadow cast over his face for a fleeting breath, “… I fought at the Blades. And as thanks, he and I have been labeled murderers.” His tone now firm, he nodded toward Duresh, indicating perhaps it best she regard the one whose sword was to her.

~*~*~*~​

Dariu moved to intercept Erën. He began to draw his sword, and then he saw it. To him, he appeared as little more than a faint wisp furling through the air – but he knew. It was Duresh.

He made a choice.

He decided that the Crentor ship was sinking, and judging by the pile of bodies at the center of the room he figured it was going down fast. And that was likely why the Banicks were on their way. Between that and the fact none seemingly suspected that he had not been employed by Horus… perhaps he even had been. Who the hell knew anymore. But maybe it was time for other employment.

He was slow to act on Duresh's presence, putting on a lateness in detecting him. As the order came out he too lowered his weapon, hoping he'd made the best decision.

 

[Duresh]

"And I am sorry for that," Alyssa said, speaking with haste and a gathering intensity. "Truly, Erën, I am. I don't know how it happened but the mistake has been made and there is nothing I can do about it and I am sorry."

She breathed quickly. Turned her head as much as Duresh would allow. Looked back at the half-orc with disdain. "Between the two of you, there's only one murderer here."

Duresh gave Alyssa a rough shake. Held the falchion steady against her throat and touched her chin with the flat of the blade. "Quiet. Answer our questions and I will let you live. Resist and I will kill y--"

"THEN DO IT!"

Duresh didn't betray the surprise on his face. Perhaps in his eyes to a degree which escaped his control, but otherwise not outwardly. This a stark difference to the men about the grand hall. The doubt of their future prospects evident on their faces. Glances to their fellows, confirmations of shared concerns therein. They stood their ground, warily, but they stood, as if there might perhaps be some sliver of chance left of coming out of this ordeal with their coin and their lives.

Alyssa looked back to Erën, mostly with her eyes as her head was kept locked in place. "You were there on that damnable island, Erën. You were there...as was my son." The mix of anger and sorrow flaring her nostrils. Her eyes beseeching. "My bastard son, but my flesh and blood boy. He was doing his mandated time in the Guard, and I couldn't stop him from going. Horus and the rest of my so-called family wouldn't allow it. And he...he died on that beach. As soon as his boots touched the sand. Shot dead. My boy. Shot dead!"

Alyssa's face scrunched with pain. Duresh had been applying acute pressure to a particular point on her body with his grasping hand while she was talking, a bloodless attempt to gain control of her, yet it did little to nothing. She was possessed of a mindset that rendered her immune to his normal techniques of interrogation and persuasion. There wasn't much else he could do.

And Alyssa's eyes closed for a moment and she called out and still she gathered the resolve to keep talking to Erën. "You were there, Erën. Surely you lost someone among the Auxiliaries. Someone you cared for like a brother. Like a son, perhaps. You know. You know! I know that you know!"

Duresh dug his hand harder into the pressure point on her body. Alyssa outright screamed. Breathed hard after. And she said, "Garron Banick masterminded all of it! All of it! And do you know who kidnapped little Kristen Pirian? That innocent little girl? Who's hand started everything?"

"Alyssa. Listen to me."

Duresh gave her another rough shake. Pressing into the pressure point as hard as he could now. Alyssa's eyes glazed over with excruciating agony and yet still she persisted. She yelled, "Do you know, Erën? Do you know!?"

"Alyssa."

"It was D--!"

Duresh slit her throat. Did it without even thinking, the movement a reflex of muscle instead of considered thought. Twin ropes of arterial blood shot out from the deep and gaping wound in her stretched neck, her head just barely attached to the rest of her body. Air escaping her lungs made the blood visibly bubble inside the cavernous wound of her neck. The love for her son drained down from the wound and stained her dress and her jewelry and the tide of it slowly turned her chest crimson as the heart that contained it struggled and pumped its last.

Duresh dropped her, and her body hit the floor with a dull, sickening thud. Deathly spasms in her arms and legs, her head tilted at an unnatural and hideous angle. Wide, open eyes obliquely staring past Erën.

Now the surprise, shock even, on Duresh's face. As if he himself couldn't believe what he had just done.

Nobody moved.

 

[Eren'thiel Xyrdithas]

Smoke rolled past him, speckled with orange flecks of burning debris twirling away in the wind. The sun began to sink, painting the sky with hues of pink and orange. He turned to leave, but hesitated. He looked back. Blank eyes peering up, just past him. The burns. The blood. He pocketed the flask and knelt, reaching out to lower her eyelids.

“Rest now, Elan the Brave. May Nykios welcome you home...”



Erën froze.

They all froze.

Silence.

Erën looked at Alyssa's corpse, his mind raced. Why was she saying these things? What was she saying? Why does it matter? Who was it… Now he couldn't know. But then it hit him – Christoph…

“Why don't you tell him who Artur Meng is, Duresh.”​

His eyes shot to Duresh – an uncertainty evident therein. He knew Artur…he knew Horus, hell Alyssa called him by name… and who knew what all else.

“Can’t you see its over?” he said.

“They're associated with the Banicks…” Elan had told him.​

Could it be?

"Where did the order come from? The Crentors or the Banicks?" Dureshed demanded…​

Back to Alyssa. Her eyes. That same empty stare.

Dariu, the puppet of the Crentors – yes Erën had heard them speak - he moved forward, tempting the elf’s awareness amid his obvious despair. It was a mistake.

Rage boiled through Erën, and his blood ran hot. He swung his sword at Dariu with a loud shout. The man recoiled but the sword caught him, slicing across the right side of his face - drawing blood and destroying his eye. He screamed out in agony as he fell to his knees as he nursed his grievous wound.

The Anirian sword was dropped by the wayside and loosed was the gemstone blade. It crackled as it came forth as magic and light coursed through it into him and shone through his eyes. He glared out at the mercenaries, daring them to attempt for their weapons. The sword rose and was pointed toward them, humming, and crackling with power.

“I’ll kill you all…” he uttered; his voice heavy with shame.

Trudging ahead, leaving her behind.​

He turned his head, slowly and deliberately. His brows brought together, his lip stiff, and snarl pasted blatantly across his face.

“Duresh...are you why she was taken? Are you why she died?” Why we went to that damn beach in the first place, and now even this too… Could it all revolve around him?

But while Kristen Pirian had been kidnapped yes, she also returned from the island.

No - Erën was referring to another.

 

[Duresh]

The hired men closest to Erën backed away when he slashed Dariu and brandished his weapon at them. Their hands were raised, all the fight gone from them. None of them tried for their weapons. Murmurs from a few:

"Easy now, elf. Easy..."

"Don't owe anybody here no loyalty anymore."

"Shit, this ain't our fight now."

Duresh stood looking down at Alyssa's corpse. The messy sprays of blood across the floor and the pooling of what remained by her body. The hilt of the falchion in his hand. He'd done it without thinking. Reflex. It was as if Garron himself had acted through his hand, Duresh's own intent pushed neatly aside. Another problem. Dealt with. Just one more problem in a long line of problems.

All at once the totality of all the years he'd spent in Vel Anir hit him. The stark memory of leaving his mother in Alliria, up to this moment here, Alyssa Crentor dead at his feet, and that great gulf of time connecting the two. All those years chasing a fantasy. A vain hope. That perhaps, if only he worked and tried hard enough, he could make things right. Bring his father home. Earn his love. Unite the family.

Yes. He was suited for this Anirian world. This violent, dirty work. But he need not have chosen it. He had allowed himself to slip so far down. Away from what truly mattered.

Duresh looked from the falchion in his hand to Erën, the elf's question hanging in the air. To hold onto the weapon was to stay in father's world. He would kill Erën, the hired men, the guards outside, anyone and everyone that it was deemed necessary to kill, and yet still there would be more to kill, on and on without end until Duresh himself was dead.

He tossed the weapon aside. Metal clattering on the floor.

And he resolved then and there to never pick one up again.

Duresh looked Erën in the eyes. Said firmly, "Yes. I am responsible. I kidnapped Kristen Pirian. I did it on the order of the Crentor family who in turn received their order from the Banicks." A pause. "I did it because I am a fool, and I have been a fool for a long time."

He did not seek death, no. Duresh knew he might not make it out of the Estate, let alone Vel Anir, alive. But he no longer wished to live under the strings of his father. Under the chains that he himself had shackled to his own wrists and ankles at his father's behest.

Now, at last, he was free from the prison of his own making.

 

[Eren'thiel Xyrdithas]

So. It was all far more nefarious than he initially believed.

His head snapped back to the mercenaries, and he motioned with the tip of his sword toward Dariu.

“All of you but him, leave.”

They could turn themselves in, try to run, he didn't care what.

After they'd departed, he glared down at the man who looked back at him with a fearful stare – hand still cupped over his ruined eye. Erën turned away from him, seemingly sparing him.

He approached Duresh, the aura of magic around him wisped away into nothing, and the light in his eye faded.

That absent stare, empty…lifeless. He'd seen it far too often.

Even in the eyes of his own daughter.

​

He paused, and looked Duresh plainly in the eye. His anger subsided, and instead something else came over him. It was not pity, no. Rather he understood. For it was by his own misplaced determinations, his own foolishness, even that most precious to him had perished…

Just like he had done on the island.

Just like Duresh had done.

He lifted his chin to the half-orc, “It is a terrible thing, to be an instrument for such abominable schemes. But I cannot blame you for the death of my friend. I can hardly even blame these Banicks…” he stepped back, and breathed a long breath.

As he looked down at the pooling mess near them, he uttered solemnly, “for by my own actions has even my own blood perished. Just as it was on that island Duresh…” he looked up at him, his face long, “... perhaps you can be blamed for a great many things. But in my own foolishness I allowed her to die. She did not earn to die a pawn in the tasteless games of these… fiends. No, she was one cut from finer cloth, worthy of remembrance:

“And her name, was Elan.”

 

[Duresh]

The mercenaries all knew the situation, the cordon at the front of the Estate by the guard force. They were not all in it together, the mercenaries, only a loose band. Most decided to leave through the front entrance, thinking themselves likely to strike up a deal with whoever commanded the guards there; some left through the back, doubting the prospect of a deal and opting instead to chance the back wall and attempt escape without being noticed.

None picked up the weapons they had dropped. None decided to steal anything of value on the way out. A common thought among them, whether they left through the front or through the back: to get out cleanly, without making things worse for themselves.

* * * * *​

As liberating as it was to admit his guilt, his part in the Battle of the Blades, Duresh reckoned that it would be his end. His weapon cast aside, a slim chance of elusion at best, and the emotional investment Erën had in the Battle, the moral affront of the kidnapping, and the woman he lost.

But Erën did not try to kill him. Yet. Even if his words alluded otherwise, the possibility remained. A confession of Erën's own, and Duresh regarded him. He did not know the extent of the likeness Erën saw between them, but see it Erën did. They both had walked paths misguided.

And then he said her name: Elan.

Duresh closed his eyes and his lips became a thin line. He lowered and turned his head. He knew how vulnerable it made him; he didn't care. All up until now Duresh had been uncertain of Elan's fate. He did not know if she had volunteered for the Battle, and if she had volunteered if she survived. The intervening time between that early morning back at the Silver and Steel with her and here now in the Crentor Estate all a terrible mystery as to whether she was alive or dead.

"I tried to warn her," he said. "I failed in that as well."

He looked up. "Elan was my friend too."

His work had not before affected him. Given him pause nor arrested his thoughts with remorse. It did now.

A loud call from the outside, the voice muted by the front doors of the manor: "Duresh. This is Garron Banick. I know what you have done. Come out. Let us talk."

The stoic coolness, the silent confidence that defined Duresh, drained from his face.

* * * * *​

Garron Banick had come.

He had with him two master Dreadlords loyal to the House of Banick, eight veteran troops of former Guardsmen that were his personal bodyguards--armed and armored to the utmost--and the majority of the city guards that had gathered outside the front of the Estate.

Garron entered through the gates with this force, standing in the courtyard surrounded by his large cohort, fully intent on putting a stop to Alyssa's childish games right then and there. A surprising development when the hired men started to file out through the front doors of the Crentor manor, unarmed and with their hands up in surrender. Garron bid on of them forward, and one of his elite troops took the mercenary to Garron. He asked the mercenary what was happening inside, and the mercenary told him. Alyssa was dead, and the hired men wanted to make a deal. Garron asked who killed her.

Duresh. Who also had an accomplice.

Garron made no outward reaction to this. He told the mercenary to inform his fellows that, yes, a deal could be reached. Go outside the walls of the Estate and sit down inside the cordon of guards out front and they will be dealt with in short order. First, the Crentor manor.

So Garron called out, "Duresh. This is Garron Banick. I know what you have done. Come out. Let us talk."

And waited, the waning of the evening above his head and the last light of the day dimming Vel Anir.

 

[Eren'thiel Xyrdithas]

“I tried to warn her…”

He looked to Duresh.

“Elan was my friend too.”

A shadow fell across his face, and he breathed. It was unfortunate, and strange. Like some unseen force had bound their fates together in this twisted turn of events.

“I'm s-"

The shouting from outside caught his attention, and his eyes shot to the door. Then he looked to Duresh again, eyes darting to his tossed aside falchion. The look on the orc's face perturbed him – an unusual discomfort evident with the lord's arrival.

He had two options. He could slay Duresh now unarmed as he was, kill Dariu too, vanish into the alleys and attempt to escape – but then his task would not yet be done. He was still wanted for a crime he did not commit. And as far as he was concerned so too was Duresh.

Whether out of compassion or personal necessity – either applied here – he chose not to kill him. Duresh had earned his respect. To throw down his arms, confess his evil and offer himself to Erën’s judgement as he had…

No. Arethil needed more of that honesty. Orc-blood or no.

He whirled the plainer sword around, and offered its hilt to Duresh. It was a fine blade, slim and slightly curved. It was not as wondrous to gaze upon as the other sword, but beautifully crafted of elven steel all the same.

“We're not done here, Duresh.” He motioned for him to take the offered sword, “perhaps this would suit your hands better.”

~*~*~*~​

Dariu knelt there, hand over his face. Through his fingers with his remaining eye he watched the two. He would not dare tempt the elf's anger again – but couldn’t help but wonder why the hell he'd been kept here.

 

[Duresh]

The thin whistle of the turning blade in the silent manor. Duresh looked to it, the sword offered to him by Erën. A faraway gaze, like that of a forlorn man staring down a path whose end he knew all too well and yet the enticement to walk down it remained, however faint.

A slow and sure shaking of head. Back and forth. "I will not need it."

His own falchion. Erën's sword. Any weapon. All were gateways back into father's world. The world whose evil dwelled far too comfortably within him, whose malice he wore as easily as a cloak in winter, whose apathy disconnected him from the mighty heartbeat of Arethil herself.

Mother had been right all along, as so very often she was. This was not the place for him. Yet in his indulgence of fantasy he had come to this land of men and murder, seeking something that was never there to be sought. He should have listened to her.

I'm sorry.

Duresh swallowed. Breathed a steady breath out through his nose. Said, "I will not fight...but I must confront him."

His tongue, gliding along the back of his teeth inside his mouth.

"Garron Banick is my father. I, his bastard son. I will say what I have to say, and then I will leave Vel Anir once and for all."

 

[Eren'thiel Xyrdithas]

He was never a terribly expressive sort with little else than a perpetual frown pasted across his face. But Duresh's proclamation indeed shocked him. His mouth nearly dropped even.

He lowered his arm, whirling the blade around once more then guided it to rest.

“I see.”

His head turned to one side, glancing to Dariu. His expression was also one of surprise.

“And what now of us, Duresh. Will… Garron allow us to leave?”

Dariu chuckled behind them, “we'll be lucky if any one of us gets out of this alive, elf… least of all you.”

Erën ignored him, “will he allow you to leave?”

Erën could get himself out of this yet, he'd been in tougher spots than this. But that was not wholly his goal now. Not only did he wish to see Duresh live through this – he was perhaps the only orc he had ever enjoyed working with – but also he had found something else he had a great use for – and extracting it was an interest to him.

 

[Duresh]

Duresh thought about the question. Considered it from every angle that he could conceive, visibly so as his eyes slowly wandered in the contemplation.

After the moment, he said heavily, "I don't know."

Erën had ignored him, but the familiar injured man was correct. They would be lucky to get out of this alive. If Garron had come then he would not have come without a force he deemed to be overwhelming against whatever opposition he would face. And the truth of the matter was, Duresh did not know his father. He'd only secondhand information, small gleaned details, and his own assumptions. He did not know if there was anything he could say that would convince Garron not to have them all killed, if Garron had such in mind. And while Duresh remained ultimately unsure, he had his years of knowledge gained by working in Vel Anir, working in the dirt and in the dark for the Crentors and the Banicks, to reinforce his dread.

But there was, perhaps, one thing Duresh could do.

He gestured his head down to the injured man, said to Erën, "Help me out with him." And he took out a pair of pre-tied horsehair cuffs from his belt--careful not to touch any of the throwing knives still present. He worked to restrain the man's hands. A scrap torn from Duresh's cloak, an impromptu bandage for the man's eye to hold back the bleeding and the man's protesting. Another scrap torn from his cloak, this time tied roughly about the man's mouth: a gag.

Favoring his wounded leg some, Duresh stood.

"No matter what happens, I thank you for everything you have done tonight, Erën."

And he made his way to the front doors of the manor.

* * * * *​

One of the front doors opened slowly. Hands became visible first. Then his arms. Then Duresh carefully stepped out and onto the porch and stopped there, facing down all the men assembled in the courtyard.

Six of the elite guards were lined up. They had deadly, masterwork crossbows aimed at the doors, and now, after Duresh had emerged, at him. The two Dreadlords stood interspersed among those lined up elites, their hands crackling with raw arcane power, ready to be unleashed on a moment's notice. The city guardsmen all stood behind them, all facing the manor, spread unevenly throughout the courtyard, a handful of them and the other two elites near Garron himself.

A moment of stillness.

And Duresh spoke. "I did everything. I killed Artur Meng. I killed Alyssa Crentor. I killed everyone in there. This is my resignation."

He swallowed his fear. Kept his hands raised.

"Father. I'm going home."

 

[Eren'thiel Xyrdithas]

While it was not the answer he was looking for, it was certainly an honest one. Erën could live, or die, with that.

He helped Duresh bind Dariu, and wrap his wound. While the man at first protested, a gentle reminder from the elf encouraged his cooperation. He gave no further trouble, though was hesitant to be gagged. Of course no choice was offered.

As Duresh made for the door Erën moved to follow with a guiding hand upon Dariu's shoulder, whom he shoved along rather gently. He stayed his idle resentment for now, best to be as benign as possible now.

"No matter what happens, I thank you for everything you have done tonight, Erën."

Eil o, thol, he thought as he watched Duresh step through the door first.

And you, friend.​

And then they followed him to face all those men, the Dreadlords, and yes the man himself: Garron Banick. The thought of an attempt at assassinating him crossed his mind, vengeance in the name of Elan.

The Order would never concur, and already he felt the stir of uneasiness swell from the Shoraes. He set it aside - resigning himself to share in Duresh's fate, to whatever end was before them. There was far more honor in that.

They stepped through the door.

Indeed, the force before them was a formidable one, with the likes of which he would think twice about crossing. One Dreadlord was bad enough, but several – paired with the numbers of Garron’s elite entourage… Whatever hope he had now rested solely on what feelings the head of House Banick had for his half orc, bastard son.

Duresh

 

[Duresh]

"Kill him."

There was no way in which Garron Banick could let that stand. The naked truth of it, Duresh openly calling him 'father' in the presence of his men and the guards and especially the Dreadlords. He couldn't risk the word getting out, the heinous rumors, the loss of class and stature. He didn't know the full story of what happened with Alyssa and Artur and and Murran and Balduin nor did he care at this point. Crentor would fall and its ashes would be washed away in the rains of time, like other minor noble houses throughout Vel Anir's history.

Now, he needed only to distance himself from what Duresh had said. And so Garron scoffed in a manner of bewildered amusement, as if what Duresh had said was pure nonsense and he was clearly mad. This, followed swiftly by his order, sternly said. Garron did not know about Duresh's accomplice or why he kept a hostage but neither mattered. They were in the line of fire. Acceptable casualties, made moreso by the accomplice being an elf.

It was time for this business to be done with.

* * * * *​

Duresh suspected that it would end this way. Whatever faint, fledgling hope he harbored that it would not was immediately smothered as soon as his father spoke.

His muscles already tensed, Duresh turned on the balls of his feet and dashed back into the manor as the crossbow bolts pelted the door and the outside wall. He didn't look back, and he didn't know in that lightning-quick moment if Erën had escaped--

A burst of raw, many-limbed arcane energy tore through the manor, crackling like a storm, blowing apart walls and paintings and the balcony in the grand hall and exploding the curving staircase into a spray of debris and incinerating half of the hanging chandelier hanging high from the ceiling and causing it to sway violently and the chain to snap and the chandelier to come crashing down to the once immaculate and smooth floor.

Duresh stumbled as ruin and debris from multiple directions smacked into him, threatening to fell his balance. Another thick burst of arcane energy, the beam and its wild, sizzling appendages to his left this time, burning and melting and shattering the walls there. A god-awful groaning all throughout the manor, deep reverberations Duresh could feel in his chest and in his throat and ringing inside his skull; the manor was set to collapse in on itself.

Duresh sprinted. Shouldered open the kitchen door he and Erën had come through earlier. He wanted to look back, to see if Erën was there or not. But with the snapping of wood and crunch of glass and rumble of brick and marble and the almighty bellow of the manor in its death throes, Duresh feared that he had no time.

He was right.

The manor had begun to implode even before Duresh reached the exit in the kitchen leading to the rear courtyard and the garden and the servants' quarters. He only just pushed his through the door and got a few paces from the manor before a great and vicious cloud of dust swallowed him up from behind. The rush of wind from the collapsing structure and an awkward step sent Duresh tumbling down to his hands and knees in the rear courtyard, the dust so thick that he couldn't see his own hands on the ground.

And he did not yet know that he had a crossbow bolt in his back, its bloodied steel bolthead poking out through his abdomen.

 

[Eren'thiel Xyrdithas]

It was all incredibly fast, escalating to a critical point in little more than a breath. He abandoned all strategy, most every thought and instead operated now only by instinct. Instincts honed and refined over many, many years. Duresh hurried past him. So, he leapt backward, leaving Dariu to his own devices to evade the coming onslaught.

A shame.

A single foot touched down and he leapt towards the hall opposite of Duresh, and then bound down it with long strides. The building splintered and broke in his wake, and the dreadlords’ ferocious attack snapped and bit at his heels. He came to a sharp corner, whirling around with a jump to propel himself off the adjacent wall down the hallway with a great leap. He beheld the destruction for a moment as he turned, and then straight forward down the hallway.

It offered him a straight shot to an exit at the far end, at the opposite side of the rear as the kitchen. He burst through the door with a mighty slam and he leapt from there with all he could muster, and with the aid of the blasts behind him he was sent sailing several meters from the structure, rolling to a slamming halt against base of the estate’s wall.

He coughed and spat. The wind was taken from him, and he gasped a deep gasp before the cloud of dust enveloped him. Without having fully recovered, he scrambled to a crouch. He’d been shaken, but he’d been able to maintain his bearings well. He was near to rear court.

A look up. With his magic he could leap over this wall, and he could flee now.

But… no he could not.

His eyes cast back into the dust, hopeless as it was. He took a step and found that something didn’t quite feel right – like bones grinding together in his hip, and it pained him. So instead he limped forward, and as quietly yet loudly as he could he called out as he drew closer into the courtyard.

“Duresh…Duresh!”

 

[Duresh]

Duresh...Duresh!

Erën's voice. Calling out through the thick haze of dust and over the loud coughing and retching of the mercenaries--they who apparently had not yet devised a means to scale the wall--elsewhere in the brown fog and throughout the rear courtyard of the estate.

Duresh pushed himself up to his two feet. Walking felt strange, but he ignored it. He walked toward the call of his name, to the elf who had aided him throughout this dire evening.

And he found him. Nearly bumped into him, such was the poor visibility even as the dust cloud was dispersing in the Anirian air.

"Erën," he said. "We need to get up and over that wall. This our win--"

Duresh, trying to pull his grappling hook off of the back of his belt, found that he couldn't. That it seemed stuck on something.

"--dow."

He looked down. Saw the bolthead sticking out of his abdomen. And as if merely observing it was the necessary spark, pain burst up and down his body from the wound. From his guts. He let out a long and staggered groan, and delicately reached down to touch the bolthead. He clamped his fingers to the metal. Pulled slowly. Pulled enough of the shaft through to break off the bolthead.

Duresh tried. Failed. His hand already slick with blood. His knees weak and his body burning with agony from the inside.

 

[Eren'thiel Xyrdithas]

Ah…

And there he was, through the thick he’d found Duresh. It was a wonder either of them had made it out of that. But it was not over yet.

Erën was a powerful warrior, but despite the powers at his disposal he was no match for all that bore down on them, even with Duresh’s help. And now he’d been injured, enough to slow him considerably in combat, magic of no.

He concurred; it was time to leave –

Blast.

Erën saw Duresh’s wound and winced at the sight of him pull at it.

“Wait,” he urged. If he were to remove it quite yet, with the wounds he’d already sustained, the orc was likely to bleed out in no time. Erën could not heal him as would likely be best, but there was something he could do – but they needed to get away first.

With Duresh and Erën in the state they were in, there was no going over this wall.

The Dreadlords had had their fun, now it was his turn.

He stepped between Duresh and the wall, “stay back,” was the only warning he gave. He paid no heed to the nearby mercenaries, said it loud enough they could hear.

He grasped once more his sword and unsheathed it, and then as before it shone brightly blue. Then it crackled, like lightning wrapping and entwining itself around the blade, and buzzing sharply at its tip. He pointed it toward the wall and in the blink of an eye a bright flash sprang forth with a terrible sound, and the wall was blown asunder. Debris deflected in all direction but was forced away from Erën and Duresh by yet another light, like a shimmering glass wall stood up before them.

His hand snapped back and grabbed Duresh’s arm. There was no time to speak. He rushed forward, the wall of light shattering around them, and then through the cloud of dust that was all of what remained of the wall that once stood just there. But as he pulled the orc along, he was not ignorant – he knew Duresh’s pain, the arrow stuck through him, constricting him and grinding against torn flesh. That thought, paired with his own damaged hip and what felt likely to be more, kept his pace a forgiving one.

As they entered into the narrow street behind, Erën conjured a final spell. The Nightshade appeared, rising up from all around them and billowing through the alley, into the rear courtyard through the wall's fresh cavity, and everywhere else it could creep to nearby. A dark fog to mask their escape - but it would last only so long.

They needed to move.

 

[Duresh]

Erën had his way of securing their escape from the confines of the manor walls. And Duresh, with one arm in Erën's guiding grasp and the hand of his other arm pressed to the wound in his abdomen, limped forward. His previous wound and the coagulant salve he'd used did him no favors. Though his legs themselves were perfectly fine, each step seemed to rearrange a vicious bundle of knives inside of his gut, and his face was a constant smear of pain.

The dark fog conjured by Erën would be a great boon. Several of the surrendered mercenaries had caught on and filtered out from the blasted hole in the wall and through the dark fog themselves. And Duresh knew generally how this search would play out: intense at first, but waning quickly. Feverish digging through the rubble of the Crentor Estate to find his body, for proof that the deed was done. Word, at the same time, being passed along to guards and military (chiefly those loyal to House Banick and their associated Houses) of the criminal orc and elf. But, in the worst case scenario if Duresh and Erën could not outrun the speed of the alert for their arrest spreading to the guard forces currently unaware in the city and--more importantly--at the gates, the fervor would die down soon enough if it so came to pass that they were forced to wait.

Such was the nature of Vel Anir and the bloody shadows of its political violence and intrigue: there was always another enemy, another threat. And in the rising menace these might present to Garron and his kindred Banicks, and with the relative silence/inactivity of Duresh and Erën, they would be all too eager to assume that they had been vaporized by the Dreadlords and to thus consider the matter resolved and forever done with. One less thing to worry about.

But Duresh needed to stabilize his wound, or none of it would matter. The coagulating salve was supremely dangerous for a through-and-through wound, while at the same time mostly ineffective. Even if he was careful and didn't through heinous accident get the salve deep in the wound, where it would harden his insides, the salve would only stop external bleeding--which, granted, was better than nothing.

Duresh hobbled along with Erën's guidance. Felt his blood running down the pants of his upper thighs now. And he pushed on.

"I will need...somewhere," he said, "to treat the wound. Soon."

Knowing that his assessment of how Garron would handle the situation could possibly prove incorrect, that he may immediately send guards on a search even through the dust and debris of the manor's collapse and the dark magical fog, Duresh added, "Leave me, if you must."

 

[Eren'thiel Xyrdithas]

All while they moved as quickly as they could away from the remains of the Crentor Estate, Erën did more than simply guide Duresh along as he fled. No, for truly there was very little safety he could lead him to – at least that he really knew of. He had only a few ideas, none of which truly appealed. But there was one thing he had hoped for.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They were with him. Always. The collective he shared was only but a thought away, like a doorway with no lock. Even as he turned them down a narrow side street, he moved through the door. He was there, through the door and immersed in the song of his people, but he was also on the streets of Vel Anir with Duresh in tow.

It was only a natural state to him.

“Te’leis…Aidathin…”

The names drifted from him, and to him words came.

“Yes, First,”

“Are you near?”

“We are within the city’s walls…”

And he saw what they saw. They sat, side by side, hooded and robed as many a traveler through here, atop a carriage. He remembered from them the dark purple coverings of the cart, as well as the symbol across its rear. He could see where they were, and he recognized it. They were still some distance away.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~​

He slowed as easily as he could, and with a sharp turn booted in the nearest door. It was an unsightly dwelling from the outside, and equally so within, being dark and cramped. To his delight, there was no one inside. Hopefully some drunkard who’d passed out to be tossed behind a tavern somewhere for the night. Hopefully.

He ushered Duresh in and then swiftly closed the door. He harnessed the aura of his magic in his hand to illuminate the dwelling until he found a candle and lit it.

“I’ll not be leaving you this night,” he said as he searched for something to bandage him, “shortly… there will be others near to us that we can escape with – or at least somewhere better to hide. One of them can help you with that…” he found some bedding that seemed to be clean, took it and tore at it as he brought it to Duresh.

He reached to help Duresh with the arrow, hesitating for his approval.

“We should be quick…I don’t know how safe we are here my friend… the bandages will only do so much, but so much should be all we need.”

 

[Duresh]

Into the dwelling. The fading light of evening and the dark fog and the whole of Vel Anir shut out with the closing of the door. Here a small refuge, even as the muted sounds of the city and the distant mercenaries and ever more distant guards served as reminders not to become too comfortable. Too complacent.

Duresh stumbled over to a nearby chair in the dwelling's main room once the candle was lit. Groaned as he sat down. Winced. The small noises hardly betrayed the white-hot pain in his gut.

Erën had a plan, somehow. Others that he knew of, apparently, to call upon for aid. One of them a healer, apothecary, medicine man or some such by the sound of it. And that was good. Now in the relative calm inside the dwelling came a reinvigorated urgency to live. To escape. To return to Alliria and see his mother and follow her guidance to the tribal orcish life. What he should have done.

We should be quick.

Duresh nodded, his expression pressed together in pain. Erën's hand lingered by the protruding bolthead, and Duresh said, "Do it."

Duresh grabbed a fistful of his own cloak and aimed to stuff it into his mouth, to have something to bite down on once Erën pulled the bolt free. Duresh bit down on the cloth for a short moment, removed it from his mouth, and said, "And Erën? I am sorry. For Elan. The things I've done. All of it." A pause, and he added, in the manner of a confessional, "I needed someone to hear me say it."

Duresh shoved the fistful of of his cloak into his mouth. Closed his eyes. Readied himself.

 

[Eren'thiel Xyrdithas]

Death. Such a strange, and harsh symptom of life.

To him, most of the people living in this city were hardly more than children and yet he – gods willing – would outlast each of them another three times over or more before he was done. Perhaps that had been the difference. He’d outlived so many now…

He wished to spare more words, but instead only replied with a solemn nod for now. Then, he stepped close enough for his arm to be able to reach, and he gently grasped the bolt.

Snap!​

With the bolt-head removed he pulled the remainder back out from the entry-point as painlessly as possible. He grabbed a wad of fabric and pushed it onto the back side of the wound and began to wrap a longer length around him. A second wad for the other end, and then he wound it as tightly as he could, trying to do so without constricting him too much.

Tying a knot where Duresh would be able to reach, he finished and backed away. He reached for some remaining cloth, wiping the blood from his hands with it.

“I too am sorry, Duresh… I was there, and I… should have been a better man-at-arms.” He looked away, remembering the feelings that drove him to that beach.

He’d feared for the child – a plight from since the loss of his own. Their suffering was an ultimate afront to him.

“But I am without doubt that her place is now within the hall of the gods. Her bravery, and just cause is evidence to me of this.”

Still, he couldn’t help feeling hurt by her loss. She was a warrior, the same as he, ready to heed the call of battle and to her own demise she did so. But it had occurred to him through her death and been pressed firmly upon his mind, that they all may as well be children to his eyes.

For it always was in one's ultimate end, that their eyes, rich or poor, free or bond, old or young, they always looked back at him the same.

 

[Duresh]

Duresh bit down on the wadded cloth of his cloak. Restraining himself mightily from crying out, even as the whole of his body beneath his neck seemed to be putting pressure on his throat.

There was a kind of purity, a sense of cyclical rightness, in enduring pain for having caused it. This he had known subconsciously all throughout his years of work in Vel Anir. All the wounds he suffered were received without an unspoken gratitude; for while his body endured varying degrees of agony, his mind was always at peace.

Yes, it was easy for him to hurt. To kill. And it was equally easy to accept the same done to him if it happened. He was both the wolf and the lamb.

And, perhaps, in leaving Vel Anir behind he could endeavor to start anew. Find a life that suited him, but also brought with it a satisfaction that he never did find here.

Duresh let the wadded cloth fall from his mouth. Took a long moment to catch his breath and wipe the beads of sweat from his brow. He nodded in wordless agreement with everything Erën said of Elan.

"And what of you, Erën?" Duresh asked. "Why did you come to this forsaken city?"

 

[Eren'thiel Xyrdithas]

Erën looked at Duresh, his mouth curled unpleasantly, and he thought for a moment.

“The world grows darker; with every day it seems. I fear that we all may soon face a threat… far greater than the likes of these Banicks, or even the likes seen in the times of the Elven Wars – as you would likely call them.” He could go on, but digressed instead, “I had hoped to find allies in Vel Anir, some who see the same as we do, some who would answer the call when it comes. But it seems old flames still burn hot...”

He sighed, images of his home flashed through his mind, “I’ve seen the touch of these shadows, and it is dark indeed. But it seems I’ll find no kindred in Vel Anir now, and from here I will return to my home in the eastern Falwoods.”

“First.”

“Hm?”

“We draw near, but I fear time will be short.”

“We may need a distraction… the Tear weighs upon me now, and their numbers too great.”

He felt Aidathin’s consideration, and that he would take up this task when the time came.​

“But,” he gave an almost smile to Duresh, “perhaps the journey was not in vain.” He extended his hand to the orc, an offer of help from his seat, “an honorable soul is hard to come by. I am fortunate to have met you Duresh.”

 

[Duresh]

Duresh listened to what Erën had to say, and, though his expression remained the same (if tainted by twitches from the stings of pain in his gut), he found Erën's answer to be genuinely...unexpected.

Apocalyptic. No short of it. And a curious use of we, suggesting that there were others who felt the same as he did. Of the world growing darker, of feeling "the touch of these shadows," Duresh could not say one way or the other. What he knew for a fact was that there were, indeed, dark places in the world. Certain homes. Certain alleyways. Places innocuous enough before someone like Duresh came there and did his work. Perhaps they brightened and became innocent again in time after he left and the blood was cleaned. Perhaps they did not.

All he knew was that he wanted nothing more than to get back to Alliria. To see his mother again and apologize for his wayward judgment.

Duresh took Erën's hand. Stood, placing most of his weight on his uninjured side.

"I have not been an honorable soul for many years," he said. "But perhaps there is time yet for me to be worthy of such an accolade."

He shared in his eyes the gratitude he felt for the elf in his heart. Said, "I am glad you saw fit to grant me a second chance at life."

A light dizzy spell swirled above his head. Drifted down into his skull. Duresh fought against it, kept standing under his own power. Just a while longer, and his wounds could be tended and they could escape. Just a while longer.

"Neither of us gained what we sought here," Duresh said, thinking back on his time. On that brief, horrible interaction with Garron Banick himself moments ago. "Though it is my hope the both of us will leave this city as better men."

 

[Eren'thiel Xyrdithas]

Yes. Yes that was maybe why he'd embarked. To become better.

He often thought the gods worked mysteriously in their guidance, in ways often misunderstood or simply unnoticed: beyond comprehension. But this time... no it seemed to him quite obvious.

Neither of them found what the sought, but perhaps they'd found what they needed.

"I hope you are right, Duresh. We should leave..." his voice trailed off, as though something snatched his attention away.

Something amiss...

Both now seeing the need to act... Banick's men drawing near... Shouting outside. And a crash, followed by the sound of magic rushing by. The carriage left unattended, but tied several blocks down.

"First. We have drawn their attention, but there are a few stragglers... I will find you soon." Te'leis knew she could not leave Duresh unattended for long.

There was no other way.​

So be it.

"Two blocks down, tied near the edge of an alley. A carriage with two horses..." quickly he described the carriage as he hustled toward some clothes hanging behind a near-closed door, looking for something to cover Duresh.

It only now just struck him how odd this seemed, how devoted he was to helping this orc, or rather half orc as he'd come to understand. But he felt a kindred spirit in him, a lost soul among the many found.

He swung the door open and...

...there, knelt down and shivering with fear in the corner behind a few hanging long coats and cloaks, was a young boy, no a young man just shy of adulthood he wagered. Fearful eyes peered up at him from the dark closet.

He'd heard everything.

Erën stood there in shock, his hand slowly reaching for his sword. He hesitated.

"Please," the young man's voice trembled and cracked, "please don't hurt me."