It was noon by the time Agamemnon stabled his horse at the siding inside the gate to Tarren's Junction. Shades and the others were still in Tsar with the newly-resurrected Snooks. He'd assisted at the ceremony, and though he'd wanted to stay and talk to his returned friend he knew the dwarf would need a little time to reorient himself - they could talk later. The important thing was he was back, and as near as Agamemnon could tell there were no issues with the return. So for now his focus was on making up for the time he'd lost in meditation with the elves. The long ride back had affording him time to decide how best to approach this situation. It was going to be a very delicate conversation, and he needed to be focused.
That brought him here, to the temple at Tarren's Junction. In his white feathered cloak and polished mithril breastplate he looked radiant when he swung open the brass-bound door to the complex, drawing many looks from the worshippers and the priests who were in the main prayer room. It was a calculated move. He needed to look impressive, and touched by the divine, so as to inspire confidence. Agamemnon made his way straight to the vestry. He walked purposefully and deliberately. An elderly priest, Martoth, made to block his way before recognising the half-orc.
"Father, can you direct me to Marle? I need to speak with her."
The priest looked surprised, but gave him the directions he needed, and passed him into the vestry. Agamemnon made his way directly through the courtyard where he knew she would be. He needed to get this right.
"Marle."
She was seated under a small tree, reading a text, and she started when he called her. She looked up and squinted to make him out against the luminance of the sun. He hoped he looked bright and commanding and holy.
"Agamemnon? I heard you went to the Dales!"
He sat down on a rock near her, smiling in a way he had seen kindly older priests do in other temples. "I did, but I've come back."
Agamemnon had thought long and hard about this conversation. Marle was young, not much more than twenty, but her spiritual power was strong, and her heart was pure - he'd learned in the time he spent in this temple convincing the priests to become more active in their combating of the evils of a resurgent Rappan Athuk. When the Great Downwards had cleared the Hospice - at great personal cost - Marle had felt hope, and had done everything she could to support him in her capacity as a cleric of Sarenrae. Agamemnon needed her clarity and her vigour, but more than anything he needed the strength of purpose that a follower of the god of compassion and patience and love would bring to his fledgeling order of devout warriors. Her divine strength would be as valuable as her own pure heart.
But he knew he needed to be careful. She was young, and she had a place here in Tarren's Junction. The prospect of joining such a dangerous venture as another Righteous March or even a permanent outpost in the deep darkness of the dungeons underneath Mosswood would be intimidating. Not everyone was cut out for a life of such risk, such danger. Agamemnon knew she would be a valuable member of the team he was building, but he needed to make sure she knew that as well. So he had to be very gentle and delicate in how be broached the subject, to be sure that she would hear him out and truly consider the proposition he was about to put to her.
He smiled at her again. "Marle, I -"
"I want to come with you!" she blurted out, taking Agamemnon off guard.
"I ... uh, what?"
"You're going back to your castle, aren't you? I want to go with you. I can help! I'm doing nothing here - nothing at all. They won't let me do anything. My god isn't important any more, they said, I'm too young, I'm too inexperienced they said, the people here just want peace and tranquility. I tried to talk to people, to the people of Tarren's, I tried to get them active, but they don't know what I'm talking about, they don't get it. I know, I know what's down there, I know what happened in the Hospice, your friend, the sorcerer, she died, and it was to save these people, and I don't want to sit here doing nothing while there is so much work to be done to vanquish that darkness in Rappan Athuk. You've got to take me with you, please, let me help!"
She finally stopped talking and sat staring at Agamemnon, her pale skin flushed red as she sucked in air trying to get her breath back.
"Uh ..." Agamemnon just looked at her, and started laughing.
Marle's face creased in anger. "You're not taking me seriously! I'm serious! I can help! Look, I can cast spells, I'm trained in field medicine, and in supporting soldiers, I was even going to join the town guard once but I want to come with you! You're making a difference, and I want -"
Agamemnon tried to stop laughing. "Marle, wait, listen," he said, putting a hand on her shoulder and looking her in the eyes. "Marle, you wonderful, beautiful person. I came here today to ask you to come to Calaelan, to be my chaplain."
She stared at him. "You ... you did?"
He nodded. "I need you, Marle." He clapped her on the shoulder. "You are exactly the person we need. Any doubts I may have had about your joining us in our endeavour have been well and truly vanquished by your passion."
"So ... you'll take me?" Agamemnon had never seen anyone look so delighted.
"I would be honoured if you would agree to come with me. How soon can you leave?"
"Now! I mean ... um ... see, I'm already, sort of, packed. Like ... well, I was going to go to Calaelan to offer my services anyway ..."
Agamemnon stared at Marle and burst out laughing again.
Survival
Drusilla looked at her reflection in the still pond. She looked old - older than she was. She didn't normally notice, but she did today. It was her eyes - they looked tired. She sighed. She'd adapted. She didn't doubt she'd done the right thing, but she was the last of her order, the last remaining druid in this forest - what did that say about her? That she was better than the others? Wolves adapted and became dogs. Was that survival? Becoming something other than you are? The priest made a good point: better to die as what you are than to live as a hateful, corrupted creature. Drusilla had seen the mutated rats from down in the caverns, she'd seen dire wolves with poison dripping from their oversized fangs. Was that survival? Was it really? How could you claim to have survived if you had changed so much that you no longer retained your inner nature? All things would eventually pass, that was the way of the world. Was it human arrogance to think it better to die as you are than to survive as something less?
Ripples across the surface of the pond broke her reverie as one of the wolves came down to the edge to drink. The moonlight flickered in the disturbed water, bathing her face in the white reflected glare. She would keep on. She had survived, and she would continue to survive.
The wolves were on point, their ears pricked, when she heard a cry in the distance. Making their way stealthily up the brook they reached the clearing. This was where Drusilla had found the priest several days earlier. The cry came again, and she looked. There, on the boulder overlooking the water, stood a roc. It was a juvenile, barely as large as the wolves, and albino white, its feathers as pale as the moonlight, its beak and talons tinged pink. Rocs were not native to the Mosswood, but Drusilla remembered there was a fiendish crow resident in these parts for many years until the people at Calaelan drove him off. He'd been a threat to the wolves and the larger animals of the forest, but had found more sport further north where there were cattle, horses and other domesticated beasts. The druid moved closer, cautiously. This bird appeared to be a natural creature, there was nothing fiendish or magical about him. She watched it shuffle around, at which point she noticed the arrow jutting from its breast. It looked like it had been there for some time; the bird must have flown here and taken shelter in the forest as the last of its strength gave out and it could no longer fly, hoping the forest would provide sanctuary.
Drusilla brought her hands out and spoke gentle words, calming the creature as she approached it. The wolves sat in guard around the clearing, their eyes keenly hunting for any intruders. The roc was still agitated, so she channeled the tenderness of a wolf for her pups and let the radiance of nature wash over the bird until it settled, content that she was not a threat to it.
As she worked to extract the arrow and tend the wound she remembered Agamemnon. He had sat in this same spot, draped in a cloak of white feathers, hoping the forest would help him, just as the roc had hoped. He'd carried the mark of Darach-Albith - a birthmark in the shape of a bow - on his breast, just as this bird carried an arrow in its.
Drusilla thought.
When the roc was healed and settled down to rest she called silently to one of the wolves, who padded up to her.
"We will need an escort," she said to him. "The forest has a gift for the people in the castle. Can you arrange it?"
The wolf whined a yes and went to talk to the pack. Drusilla stared at her face in the pond and thought.
Ripples across the surface of the pond broke her reverie as one of the wolves came down to the edge to drink. The moonlight flickered in the disturbed water, bathing her face in the white reflected glare. She would keep on. She had survived, and she would continue to survive.
The wolves were on point, their ears pricked, when she heard a cry in the distance. Making their way stealthily up the brook they reached the clearing. This was where Drusilla had found the priest several days earlier. The cry came again, and she looked. There, on the boulder overlooking the water, stood a roc. It was a juvenile, barely as large as the wolves, and albino white, its feathers as pale as the moonlight, its beak and talons tinged pink. Rocs were not native to the Mosswood, but Drusilla remembered there was a fiendish crow resident in these parts for many years until the people at Calaelan drove him off. He'd been a threat to the wolves and the larger animals of the forest, but had found more sport further north where there were cattle, horses and other domesticated beasts. The druid moved closer, cautiously. This bird appeared to be a natural creature, there was nothing fiendish or magical about him. She watched it shuffle around, at which point she noticed the arrow jutting from its breast. It looked like it had been there for some time; the bird must have flown here and taken shelter in the forest as the last of its strength gave out and it could no longer fly, hoping the forest would provide sanctuary.
Drusilla brought her hands out and spoke gentle words, calming the creature as she approached it. The wolves sat in guard around the clearing, their eyes keenly hunting for any intruders. The roc was still agitated, so she channeled the tenderness of a wolf for her pups and let the radiance of nature wash over the bird until it settled, content that she was not a threat to it.
As she worked to extract the arrow and tend the wound she remembered Agamemnon. He had sat in this same spot, draped in a cloak of white feathers, hoping the forest would help him, just as the roc had hoped. He'd carried the mark of Darach-Albith - a birthmark in the shape of a bow - on his breast, just as this bird carried an arrow in its.
Drusilla thought.
When the roc was healed and settled down to rest she called silently to one of the wolves, who padded up to her.
"We will need an escort," she said to him. "The forest has a gift for the people in the castle. Can you arrange it?"
The wolf whined a yes and went to talk to the pack. Drusilla stared at her face in the pond and thought.
Tianfialu-miraoih
Agamemnon and Drusilla walked through the trees of the Mosswood. It was early morning; Agamemnon had arrived shortly before dawn. He hadn't expected to find her so soon - he'd just wanted to watch the sun rise and feel the warmth of the sun's rays begin to awaken the forest around him. He'd never realised how much he'd grown to love simply being back in the Green Wold. He'd always respected nature, but he'd never really enjoyed it before. A wolf padded silently between the trees across from him, stopped to look at him. He had the distinct impression he'd only seen the wolf because the wolf wanted to be seen.
Drusilla had found him sitting on a boulder overlooking a brook. He'd been laughing at how thoroughly elven he'd become. He'd had no idea she was there until she'd spoke to him, and greeted him in the elven way. He'd smiled at her, told her this spot was beautiful. She was clearly uncertain what he was doing there.
"I'm Agamemnon," he'd said. "Tal eishama dreihuig mi cafiaou."
Drusilla had nodded. "Yes, it is. Very beautiful. You're from the Dales?"
"I am from Calaelan."
"Then you are welcome here. This place has much to offer."
"I am glad to hear it," he'd said, "because there is something I very much hope it will offer."
She'd looked at him quizzically. "And what is that?"
"You."
~~~~~
"The crow druid fought," she said thoughtfully and quietly, "and he is dead and the crows are dead. The bear druid fought and he is dead and the bears are dead. The wolf druid adapted and became part of the new balance, and she survived, and the wolves survived."
Several of those wolves were keeping pace with them as the pair wended their way along the banks of the small brook and talked.
"I fought," he told her. The conversation was like this: statements, then long silences as they watched birds hopping through the canopy and heard insects start as they passed.
"You look like you've fought," she said eventually. "Did you survive?"
He had to think about that one. "Tianfialu-miraoih." It was an elven word which meant to greatly benefit from an undeserved gift. In elven culture those with great fortune, great wisdom, great age would sometimes gift something to those who had wronged them, and the gratitude and introspection this gift engendered would lead a person to a greater understanding of themselves, letting them grow to be a better person. It was the best, most accurate word Agamemnon had to describe what had happened to him. "The Father was very ... patient. And very forgiving."
They walked for a while more before he spoke. Agamemnon's voice was calm as he told her: "I went into Rappan Athuk, the great dark place, and I fought. I fought with anger. I was angry - angry at Orcus, angry with those who allowed him to rise again. I was angry, and I fought them with anger, I wanted to kill them, I wanted to destroy them. I wanted to defend my friends by killing their enemies. I hated them, the enemies we fought, I hated them for being in our way, I hated them for hurting us, I hated them for being them. And that nearly took me, it nearly turned me to darkness, I nearly fell into the darkness of Rappan Athuk."
Drusilla nodded. "I know of that darkness. Grief leads many to that darkness." Her eyes were shadowed as she thought.
"I was fortunate. Darach-Albith saw what I was doing, he saw the danger I was in, and he called me back, and he showed me that you don't fight to destroy that which you hate, you fight to save that which you love."
"Crow tried to do that. Bear tried to do that."
"I don't know the crow druid. I don't know the bear druid. But I know that if Orcus rises again, there will be no crows, no bears, no wolves, no druids, no trees, no gods, just Orcus and his corruption and his emptiness and his hate and his anger. All the things that make this life worth living will be gone. I love my friends, I love these trees, I love my little raven friend here, and I love you because you dedicate your life to something so beautiful."
Neither of them spoke again for some time. Agamemnon enjoyed being in this place. When next Drusilla spoke it was descending into dusk. The first glimmers of the brightest stars were just appearing in the mauve sky as they entered a clearing.
"What do you want from the forest?"
"I want the forest to be the forest. I want the people I love to learn what the forest is. I want them to fight with hope and with happiness and with love to defend the things they love, to honour the gifts of nature and to protect those who cannot protect themselves. I want them to have pure hearts."
"I don't know if the forest can offer you what you want."
Agamemnon nodded. He put his hand on Drusilla's shoulder and looked her in the eyes. "I trust the forest's judgement. It is wise. It is better to die with love in your heart than to prevail with hate. But it is better still to ensure that love survives.
"Think about it. If you will help us fight, come and see me. We stand a better chance of success with your insight and your guidance and your sacrifice and your love."
Drusilla examined the trees, and then examined the cleric. "The tianfialu-miraoih of the forest."
"Yes," he said. "We are going into a very, very dark place. The forest would make us better."
Drusilla considered. Agamemnon knew what he was asking of the druid, knew a little of what her experiences had taught her, but he sincerely needed her guidance. He had fallen once already; if he was to take on the responsibility of preparing others to face the darkness that had nearly claimed him he needed stars to guide him, pure hearts shimmering in the darkness to light the way. The fletcher and the blacksmith were as important to an army's victory as the soldiers; his Tian Tu Lan needed to be tempered in pure water if it was to be unbreakable and there was no purer water than that he found in the brook that meandered through the Mosswood.
The moon was just showing a sliver of light in the dark sky when Drusilla returned. Agamemnon hadn't even noticed her going - he'd been resting in the bough of a tree, watching hazel-doves settle down to nest.
"You should come with me," she said. "Spend the night with me. There are things this forest offers which you should see. Beautiful things. Ti eisham meioh ti."
Agamemnon nodded and went with her. "To eishamy moihe."
Drusilla had found him sitting on a boulder overlooking a brook. He'd been laughing at how thoroughly elven he'd become. He'd had no idea she was there until she'd spoke to him, and greeted him in the elven way. He'd smiled at her, told her this spot was beautiful. She was clearly uncertain what he was doing there.
"I'm Agamemnon," he'd said. "Tal eishama dreihuig mi cafiaou."
Drusilla had nodded. "Yes, it is. Very beautiful. You're from the Dales?"
"I am from Calaelan."
"Then you are welcome here. This place has much to offer."
"I am glad to hear it," he'd said, "because there is something I very much hope it will offer."
She'd looked at him quizzically. "And what is that?"
"You."
~~~~~
"The crow druid fought," she said thoughtfully and quietly, "and he is dead and the crows are dead. The bear druid fought and he is dead and the bears are dead. The wolf druid adapted and became part of the new balance, and she survived, and the wolves survived."
Several of those wolves were keeping pace with them as the pair wended their way along the banks of the small brook and talked.
"I fought," he told her. The conversation was like this: statements, then long silences as they watched birds hopping through the canopy and heard insects start as they passed.
"You look like you've fought," she said eventually. "Did you survive?"
He had to think about that one. "Tianfialu-miraoih." It was an elven word which meant to greatly benefit from an undeserved gift. In elven culture those with great fortune, great wisdom, great age would sometimes gift something to those who had wronged them, and the gratitude and introspection this gift engendered would lead a person to a greater understanding of themselves, letting them grow to be a better person. It was the best, most accurate word Agamemnon had to describe what had happened to him. "The Father was very ... patient. And very forgiving."
They walked for a while more before he spoke. Agamemnon's voice was calm as he told her: "I went into Rappan Athuk, the great dark place, and I fought. I fought with anger. I was angry - angry at Orcus, angry with those who allowed him to rise again. I was angry, and I fought them with anger, I wanted to kill them, I wanted to destroy them. I wanted to defend my friends by killing their enemies. I hated them, the enemies we fought, I hated them for being in our way, I hated them for hurting us, I hated them for being them. And that nearly took me, it nearly turned me to darkness, I nearly fell into the darkness of Rappan Athuk."
Drusilla nodded. "I know of that darkness. Grief leads many to that darkness." Her eyes were shadowed as she thought.
"I was fortunate. Darach-Albith saw what I was doing, he saw the danger I was in, and he called me back, and he showed me that you don't fight to destroy that which you hate, you fight to save that which you love."
"Crow tried to do that. Bear tried to do that."
"I don't know the crow druid. I don't know the bear druid. But I know that if Orcus rises again, there will be no crows, no bears, no wolves, no druids, no trees, no gods, just Orcus and his corruption and his emptiness and his hate and his anger. All the things that make this life worth living will be gone. I love my friends, I love these trees, I love my little raven friend here, and I love you because you dedicate your life to something so beautiful."
Neither of them spoke again for some time. Agamemnon enjoyed being in this place. When next Drusilla spoke it was descending into dusk. The first glimmers of the brightest stars were just appearing in the mauve sky as they entered a clearing.
"What do you want from the forest?"
"I want the forest to be the forest. I want the people I love to learn what the forest is. I want them to fight with hope and with happiness and with love to defend the things they love, to honour the gifts of nature and to protect those who cannot protect themselves. I want them to have pure hearts."
"I don't know if the forest can offer you what you want."
Agamemnon nodded. He put his hand on Drusilla's shoulder and looked her in the eyes. "I trust the forest's judgement. It is wise. It is better to die with love in your heart than to prevail with hate. But it is better still to ensure that love survives.
"Think about it. If you will help us fight, come and see me. We stand a better chance of success with your insight and your guidance and your sacrifice and your love."
Drusilla examined the trees, and then examined the cleric. "The tianfialu-miraoih of the forest."
"Yes," he said. "We are going into a very, very dark place. The forest would make us better."
Drusilla considered. Agamemnon knew what he was asking of the druid, knew a little of what her experiences had taught her, but he sincerely needed her guidance. He had fallen once already; if he was to take on the responsibility of preparing others to face the darkness that had nearly claimed him he needed stars to guide him, pure hearts shimmering in the darkness to light the way. The fletcher and the blacksmith were as important to an army's victory as the soldiers; his Tian Tu Lan needed to be tempered in pure water if it was to be unbreakable and there was no purer water than that he found in the brook that meandered through the Mosswood.
The moon was just showing a sliver of light in the dark sky when Drusilla returned. Agamemnon hadn't even noticed her going - he'd been resting in the bough of a tree, watching hazel-doves settle down to nest.
"You should come with me," she said. "Spend the night with me. There are things this forest offers which you should see. Beautiful things. Ti eisham meioh ti."
Agamemnon nodded and went with her. "To eishamy moihe."
The Pure Hearts of Calaelan
Agamemnon sat atop one of Calaelan's towers, looking out towards the forest. It was strange; all his life he'd been in and out of wilderness areas and he'd never really felt an attachment to them, but now, sitting in a castle at the heart of a burgeoning town he felt the call of the green. He looked up at the sky. No moon tonight, so it was dark and he could see the constellations clearly picked out as pinpricks of shimmering light. He saw Fayar Nocht, the great Bow of the Elf Father, cresting the forest, the arrow literally pointing towards the trees. Agamemnon knew it wasn't a sign, but it was still a good idea. Tomorrow he would visit Drusilla.
It was becoming increasingly apparent that Shades was going to call a third Righteous March. Rappan Athuk wasn't a dungeon, it was a country, a nation of evil, with its own cities and towns, its own road network, its own farms and civilians, and you did not conquer a nation with an army of eight people and a castle which, although it was in much better repair than when he had last seen it, was still but one castle. They needed an army.
Mort was doing a good job on that front, ensuring the antique, fledgeling nation of Mosswood had a standing army, at least enough to slow any invaders who mistook the place for a soft target. And with the political situation as Shades had described it, Mosswood would be protected long enough for it to find its feet and develop its strength. Which was great, but that did not address the real issue, which was Orcus.
Agamemnon was a student of history. He knew about the previous Marches. He knew their strengths, and their weaknesses. He knew that at the core of any successful crusade had to be a righteous will, a drive to act out the will of the divine. Arcanists sought power and were easily corrupted, mercenaries sought coin and were not committed, and soldiers, valorous and skilled though they may be, would retreat before overwhelming odds unless they were presented a very compelling reason not to. The devout, however ... the devout would march into the very gates of hell if the divine were on their side, and assaulting Orcus at the heart of his kingdom would involve a very long march into a very terrible hell.
Not that the religious were beyond corruption. Agamemnon knew that well - if your motivations were not pure, if your heart was not clear, the devout could fall just as far as anyone. Just like he nearly had, before Darach-Albith had called him back from Rappan Athuk and sat him down and given him a chance to realise the simple fact that if you fight with anger you become anger, and if you fight with love you become love.
Agamemnon had spoken to Shades, and Shades had agreed. Tomorrow he would forge his own Tian Tu Lan, his own unbreakable sword, the devout backbone of the inevitable Third Righteous March - the Pure Hearts of Calaelan. He would invite clerics and priests, holy warriors, paladins, divine protectors of the forests and the wild places, and the devout to come to Calaelan, to be trained in what to expect in the darkness of Rappan Athuk, to be skilled in facing this overwhelmingly evil foe, but most importantly to have their hearts fortified with love so as to stave off the corrupting influence of the god of power and death and destruction.
And it would start with the forests of Mosswood, with the pure heart of Drusilla.
It was becoming increasingly apparent that Shades was going to call a third Righteous March. Rappan Athuk wasn't a dungeon, it was a country, a nation of evil, with its own cities and towns, its own road network, its own farms and civilians, and you did not conquer a nation with an army of eight people and a castle which, although it was in much better repair than when he had last seen it, was still but one castle. They needed an army.
Mort was doing a good job on that front, ensuring the antique, fledgeling nation of Mosswood had a standing army, at least enough to slow any invaders who mistook the place for a soft target. And with the political situation as Shades had described it, Mosswood would be protected long enough for it to find its feet and develop its strength. Which was great, but that did not address the real issue, which was Orcus.
Agamemnon was a student of history. He knew about the previous Marches. He knew their strengths, and their weaknesses. He knew that at the core of any successful crusade had to be a righteous will, a drive to act out the will of the divine. Arcanists sought power and were easily corrupted, mercenaries sought coin and were not committed, and soldiers, valorous and skilled though they may be, would retreat before overwhelming odds unless they were presented a very compelling reason not to. The devout, however ... the devout would march into the very gates of hell if the divine were on their side, and assaulting Orcus at the heart of his kingdom would involve a very long march into a very terrible hell.
Not that the religious were beyond corruption. Agamemnon knew that well - if your motivations were not pure, if your heart was not clear, the devout could fall just as far as anyone. Just like he nearly had, before Darach-Albith had called him back from Rappan Athuk and sat him down and given him a chance to realise the simple fact that if you fight with anger you become anger, and if you fight with love you become love.
Agamemnon had spoken to Shades, and Shades had agreed. Tomorrow he would forge his own Tian Tu Lan, his own unbreakable sword, the devout backbone of the inevitable Third Righteous March - the Pure Hearts of Calaelan. He would invite clerics and priests, holy warriors, paladins, divine protectors of the forests and the wild places, and the devout to come to Calaelan, to be trained in what to expect in the darkness of Rappan Athuk, to be skilled in facing this overwhelmingly evil foe, but most importantly to have their hearts fortified with love so as to stave off the corrupting influence of the god of power and death and destruction.
And it would start with the forests of Mosswood, with the pure heart of Drusilla.
Elfwood Interlude
Agamemnon looked up from his book when he sensed a presence at the doorway to his room. The rooms in Rinto'eirehn, the elven hermitage buried deep in the secluded Green Wold, had no doors, and noone knocked; you just learned to be aware of your fellow students.
"Tamaril."
"I'm sorry to disturb you, ai'danna."
Agamemnon shook his head. "It was a boring book anyway. Some fantasy about the Thorisians engaging in a generation-long war with dragons. Its historicity is at best highly suspect."
"Human generations, or dragon generations sir?"
Agamemnon laughed. "A good question and one I wish the author had thought of himself. And please don't call me sir. I am your colleague."
"You are ai'danna."
"Whatever that means." Agamemnon subconsciously rubbed the patch on his chest where lay the holy symbol of Darach-Albith, the Elf Father, a birthmark which had thrown his life into chaos and ultimately led him here, to the contemplative life of an elven student. He sighed. "Anyway, what can I do for you Tamaril?"
"Sir, we ... we received news."
Agamemnon sat up, dropping his book on the table. "What news?" He knew what news. He knew he would eventually hear this news. He had asked the chaplain to bring him any news pertaining to the Great Downwards, as soon as they had it.
"The champion of Dwerfater sir ..."
Agamemnon said nothing for a moment. He stood and walked to the window behind his elaborately carved and shaped desk. He watched outside as the occasional leaf detached from a tree and glided through the sunlight to the soft green ground. He cleared his throat. "How?"
"An anti-paladin. A great force of evil."
Agamemnon nodded. "And was it destroyed?"
"Reports suggest it was, sir, yes."
"It's probably best if you leave me at this point, Tamaril."
The young elf nodded nervously and quickly departed the room, leaving Agamemnon staring out the window. Some time passed and Agamemnon found his mace in his hand, its heavy weight dragging him down, dragging him on. The mace was above him now, and he'd turned to face the desk, holding the weapon aloft ready to bring it crashing down, destroying the beautiful craftsmanship, sending delicate objet d'art and research notes and books across the room. It was dark now. When had that happened? He looked back to the window and saw his face reflected in the black pane. His face was contorted in ... nothing. Odd. He was angry, wasn't he? Snooks was dead, taken by the evil of Rappan Athuk. Being angry was what Agamemnon did, it was the thing that had defined him since his childhood being raised by a human woman in a town that hated him, being angry was what made him an orc when he was Grazh Ulkesh of the Red Hands, being angry was what kept him and his friends alive in Rappan Athuk, being angry was what defined his relationship with Darach-Albith. So where was his anger now?
He put the mace down on the desk and sat facing the window. He thought of Snooks. What did he feel? He felt ... sad. Sad that he wouldn't see his friend again. He felt ... happy because he'd had the chance to know him at all. He laughed remembering the dwarf tripping over an unseen bit of masonry and then claiming he was examining it for signs of a secret door, his dwarven pride injured. He felt proud that Snooks had died facing off against the overwhelming forces of evil, exactly as he would have wanted.
When the sun came up Agamemnon looked at the tiny pot sitting on his windowsill. When he had arrived here he had been given a seed to tend, an Elfwood seed. Elfwood wasn't what the elves called it of course, but Agamemnon wasn't an elf, so he called it Elfwood. Elfwood seeds were miniscule, but they grew over hundreds of years to be some of the biggest, most robust, most significant trees in the forest. But when you planted an Elfwood seed it sat there, in the ground, and would not germinate, not until it felt like it. It might take hours, it might take years; noone knew what caused an Elfwood seed to sprout. Elfwood was the most stubborn plant. Agamemnon smiled at the tiny green shoot that had finally pushed its way up into the sunlight.
He started packing his books. Within an hour he had left Rinto'eirehn and by the end of the day he had passed the borders of the Green Wold. He didn't leave a note. The elves of the hermitage knew exactly where the ai'danna, the champion of Darach-Albith, had gone.
What they didn't know was that for the first time in his life Agamemnon was genuinely, sincerely happy.
"Tamaril."
"I'm sorry to disturb you, ai'danna."
Agamemnon shook his head. "It was a boring book anyway. Some fantasy about the Thorisians engaging in a generation-long war with dragons. Its historicity is at best highly suspect."
"Human generations, or dragon generations sir?"
Agamemnon laughed. "A good question and one I wish the author had thought of himself. And please don't call me sir. I am your colleague."
"You are ai'danna."
"Whatever that means." Agamemnon subconsciously rubbed the patch on his chest where lay the holy symbol of Darach-Albith, the Elf Father, a birthmark which had thrown his life into chaos and ultimately led him here, to the contemplative life of an elven student. He sighed. "Anyway, what can I do for you Tamaril?"
"Sir, we ... we received news."
Agamemnon sat up, dropping his book on the table. "What news?" He knew what news. He knew he would eventually hear this news. He had asked the chaplain to bring him any news pertaining to the Great Downwards, as soon as they had it.
"The champion of Dwerfater sir ..."
Agamemnon said nothing for a moment. He stood and walked to the window behind his elaborately carved and shaped desk. He watched outside as the occasional leaf detached from a tree and glided through the sunlight to the soft green ground. He cleared his throat. "How?"
"An anti-paladin. A great force of evil."
Agamemnon nodded. "And was it destroyed?"
"Reports suggest it was, sir, yes."
"It's probably best if you leave me at this point, Tamaril."
The young elf nodded nervously and quickly departed the room, leaving Agamemnon staring out the window. Some time passed and Agamemnon found his mace in his hand, its heavy weight dragging him down, dragging him on. The mace was above him now, and he'd turned to face the desk, holding the weapon aloft ready to bring it crashing down, destroying the beautiful craftsmanship, sending delicate objet d'art and research notes and books across the room. It was dark now. When had that happened? He looked back to the window and saw his face reflected in the black pane. His face was contorted in ... nothing. Odd. He was angry, wasn't he? Snooks was dead, taken by the evil of Rappan Athuk. Being angry was what Agamemnon did, it was the thing that had defined him since his childhood being raised by a human woman in a town that hated him, being angry was what made him an orc when he was Grazh Ulkesh of the Red Hands, being angry was what kept him and his friends alive in Rappan Athuk, being angry was what defined his relationship with Darach-Albith. So where was his anger now?
He put the mace down on the desk and sat facing the window. He thought of Snooks. What did he feel? He felt ... sad. Sad that he wouldn't see his friend again. He felt ... happy because he'd had the chance to know him at all. He laughed remembering the dwarf tripping over an unseen bit of masonry and then claiming he was examining it for signs of a secret door, his dwarven pride injured. He felt proud that Snooks had died facing off against the overwhelming forces of evil, exactly as he would have wanted.
When the sun came up Agamemnon looked at the tiny pot sitting on his windowsill. When he had arrived here he had been given a seed to tend, an Elfwood seed. Elfwood wasn't what the elves called it of course, but Agamemnon wasn't an elf, so he called it Elfwood. Elfwood seeds were miniscule, but they grew over hundreds of years to be some of the biggest, most robust, most significant trees in the forest. But when you planted an Elfwood seed it sat there, in the ground, and would not germinate, not until it felt like it. It might take hours, it might take years; noone knew what caused an Elfwood seed to sprout. Elfwood was the most stubborn plant. Agamemnon smiled at the tiny green shoot that had finally pushed its way up into the sunlight.
He started packing his books. Within an hour he had left Rinto'eirehn and by the end of the day he had passed the borders of the Green Wold. He didn't leave a note. The elves of the hermitage knew exactly where the ai'danna, the champion of Darach-Albith, had gone.
What they didn't know was that for the first time in his life Agamemnon was genuinely, sincerely happy.
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