[Kransha]

Even riding a horse was strenuous to Morgôs these days. Cantering on horseback was not as easy as it appeared, and the stern haunches, proud and upheld, of the General’s steed continued to jut out sharply as it trod the road, throwing Morgôs’ weak legs up and down violently. His stomach felt unusual, but not so much that the pain denoted sickness, merely profuse weariness and lack of exercise. He felt dreadfully pathetic, leaning again the ironclad mane of the animal and breathing hard when he had once been able to ride a horse back and forth for hours, dodging enemy warriors and their brazen weaponry. What had he been reduced to?

This ride was not helping his situation. The strain did re-accustom him to pain and conditioned him into his former state of desensitization, but he was weak and pale, less strong than he had been. Luckily, there were few people on the street to see his degenerate state, since ominous storm clouds were brewing, swirling above and preparing to rain down on the city of Kanak. Morgôs thanked his lucky stars for this and continued, his own unsteady swaying and rocking forcing the horse he rode on to sway from side to side and meander unstably. The General, though, was slowly recovering his familiar technique, and managed to keep the horse reined in as he moved down the road. Before him, the road widened, and the roofline of houses grew higher until the tall, shimmering stone of the Temple of Rhais loomed, arching over him. It glowed with great, powerful light, but its beauty was dimmed by the clouded sky.

Morgôs was not religious, not at all, but spiritual enlightenment was something that could be very settling, even if it was not really enlightenment, in the literal sense. Morgôs was not a praying Elf, he did not consult religious texts or seek communication with higher beings. He was content to live and be well-off in most regards, just as he was. Today, though, was abnormal. He could think of few things that might grant him peace and lift him from his stupor. He did not plan to perform any weird rituals or strange rites to appease gods of whose existence he was unsure of, but he did plan to relax and find some tranquility, for he knew the temple promoted meditation of the sort, though most was meant to offer prayer to the Goddess. Morgôs was willing to offer prayer – he was willing to do anything that it took to shake his soul’s sickness from him.

The General stables his horse at one of the public hitching posts outside, Morgôs proceeded up the wide steps of the Temple and into it, only to meet two familiar faces as he approached the statue of Rhais. Speaking there, was none other than Prince Siamak and the High Priestess Zamara. Morgôs had expected to see Zamara, as she did spend most of her time here, but not Siamak. Perhaps he was a regular worshipper, but, from what Morgôs had learned of Siamak from his teaching sessions, the Prince was not immensely religious. The Elf admitted that the surprise was pleasant, rather than unpleasant, and walked towards the two, addressing the Prince. Both noticed him as he spoke.

“Prince Siamak, good morning.”

Siamak smiled, though there was little feeling in the look. He obviously had something on his mind. He did, however, reply, “And to you, General.” and nodded his stately head accordingly. Morgôs did not give the meeting further thought and turned back towards the statue, but the intoning voice of Zamara stopped him with his foot nearly in mid-air. “General,” she said, her voice sounding as if it had been laden with false bemusement, “I have not seen you at this temple before. What brings you to the Temple of Rhais?”

Morgôs noticed an immediate trend in his meetings with the Priestess. She was tactful, but possessed of mortal curiosity and wit, the kind that few people in Pashtia held. It was an admirable quality, but one that irked him greatly. Turning his head and upper body, without fully turning to face her, he spoke soberly. “My mind is not at ease this day, and no place is better than this for settlement.”

Zamara’s lip curled in a subtle grin. “I did not know you were an advocate of Rhais.” Morgôs knew this was a baiting question, since most Avari in the realm worshipped Rhais, since the worship of her was based in their own old ways, and the answer was somewhat obvious, but he indulged her, turning his body towards her. “I, like most of my kinsmen,” he quietly said, “am an advocate of the Goddess. But, I do not pray to her.” He was about to turn again when the High Priestess stabbed with another question.

“You are here for meditation, then?” She questioned.

He spun a little faster this time, his voice very meagerly hostile. “I am here for peace, High Priestess.” He informed her, with masking serenity, “The only thing I pray for is that I shall find it.” He turned again, but a second voice, less prompt than the first, intoned to halt him in his tracks – that of Prince Siamak. “General,” said the Prince, seemingly unaware of the ill mood of the General, “perhaps today is an appropriate time for one of your lessons.” He sounded polite and unobtrusive, and Morgôs did not dare voice his annoyance or hostility to the youthful prince who, to his knowledge, had only good intentions in mind.

“Yes, certainly.” He replied, bowing his head, “Join me outside after you have finished speaking to the Priestess. We will conduct today’s lesson outside.” Finally, he turned and, with a spring in his step to put distance between himself and further questions.