Shadow of the West

[Orofaniel]

Evrathol noticed a sudden interest in Tarkan's eyes. It was as if they were lit up. Tarkan looked upon him with great excitement and curiosity. Then his face expression changed; Tarkan suddenly looked anxiously at him, he was probably wondering whether the elf was going to continue and tell him about his concerns regarding his mother and the Banquet or if Evrathol would hold his silence. Evrathol however sat quietly, not knowing exactly what to say or where exactly to begin. Pelin looked questioned at the Priest and not Evrathol, which would have been expected. Pelin sighed a little, just to show the Priest that he was still present.

"Pelin, my friend, please leave us for a moment, will you?" Tarkan asked the man, however he didn’t take his eyes of Evrathol. Pelin nodded quickly; but he didn’t see insulted or angry. Pelin had eaten well and drank enough, and he was more than willing to do what the Priest wished. "It's been a pleasure, sir," he gestured at Evrahol. Evrathol replied quickly; "The pleasure was all mine.” With that, Pelin parted from them. Tarkan and Evrathol were now left alone. Tarkan had by now gotten up from his seat on the divan. His paces were long and it didn’t take him ling to reach the door. He closed it quickly; he was most eager to get back to his seat, or so it seemed. He then found his way back to the divan and seated. This time he didn’t seem as comfortable as he had done before.

"Now," Tarkan began. "It's only you and I, Evrathol," he continued. "I did get the impression that you wanted to speak with me...alone..?" Tarkan then said. Evrathol knew Tarkan was pointing to the event where he had asked Pelin to leave them. "Well, yes," Evrathol replied after a short pause.

"First, will you let me apologise for my very rude behaviour towards you last evening?" Evrathol asked, quietly, but with a certain sternness in his voice. "What is this you speak of?" Tarkan then replied, looking very much surprised. Evrathol didn't know for certain if Tarkan pretended to be untouched by yesterday's events or if Evrathol had been exaggerating. Perhaps he had. By looking at Tarkan - his eyes- he seemed sincere, but the Priest might be fooling him. Oh, what a dreadful thought. Why would a Priest try to fool him?

"Well, I was a bit short with you last night. I may have been a bit arrogant and restricted - and now I'm here to ask for your forgiveness..." Evrathol continued. His voice was, as always, full of self confidence, but somehow, Evrathol seemed blunt. Maybe he was. Maybe the Priest wouldn't notice.

"Don't be silly, my friend," the Priest said, while smirking. Evrathol said naught; and there was a short moment with silence. "Let's hear what you really wanted to talk to me about...shall we?" the Priest suggested eagerly. Evrathol hesitated. Was he going to share his concerns with Tarkan? A Priest he hardly knew? Well, they knew each other well enough to speak in civil conversations in public as well as in private. But the topic Evrathol was about to share seemed like foolish thing to bring up. However, Evrathol knew it was too late to turn now and that the Priest wouldn't let him go just like that.

"I'm worried....or, not worried, maybe just curious," Evrathol began slowly. "As you probably know, my mother spends quite some time in the temple...with The High Priestess," Evrathol continued. He noticed that the Priest's eyes lit up of curiosity and excitement as Evrathol mentioned the High Priestess. "That I know," Trakan then let out. "Well, I'm not quite sure, but I do feel that The High Priestess has....a great...." Evrathol then said. He was looking for a words; the correct word. "Impact," Evrathol then said after a moment. "I think The Priestess has a great impact on my mother Arlomë. I'm not of the opinion that The Priestess is untrustworthy and uncivilized. I'm just not quite sure that this 'impact' she has on my mother is good for her...." Evrathol then concluded. Tarkan listened very carefully without any interruptions. But now as Evrathol had finished, Tarkan cleared his throat; "Are you inquiring that The Priestess is somehow using your mother to achieve....something?" The Priest asked suspiciously. "No," Evarathol replied quickly. "I'm not inquiring anything except for that I'm not certain that the relationship between the two of them is as it should be...." Evrathol knew how odd it might sound for the listener, any listener for that matter. He took a grape from the dish and swallowed it without even tasting the bitter sweet taste of it.

"When I arrived earlier, they were both in a heavy debate, but both were silenced as I entered the county yard. As for eavesdropping; no I'm not the kind, but I must be honest and say that I did hear some talk of the Emissary...." Evrathol spoke quickly, not taking a single breath. "I see..." Tarkan nodded and before he could say anything Evrathol was at his feet.

"I must be going," Evrathol then said. He knew he had been in the temple too long, and his father was probably anxious too see him. "Thank you for everything, and farewell," Evrathol said, waving his good byes to the Priest. "All so soon?" Tarkan then said, while his face expression fell. "I'm afraid so," Evrathol muttered. "Well, at least let me look into....it. Your concerns, I mean," Tarkan then muttered. "That is what I hoped for. Thank you," Evrathol then answered politely, smiling.

Taking his leave, Tarkan was left alone in the room. Evrathol went through the door, meeting Pelin just outside. "Farewell Pelin," Evrathol said quickly. "Sir," he said, bowing humbly.

[Amanaduial the archer]

The midday bells rang through the capital city, chiming duskily from both ends, calling for a break to labours as the sun reached it's peak. Outside, for those in the fields, it was necessary for a break of an hour or two: when the sky god held the sun at it's very highest point, his glory spread far and beat down strongly on those who worked at Rhais' earth.

Did that mean the gods were in opposition? Zamara let the idle thought slip into her mind as her eyes drifted up to the face of the earth goddess above her where she knelt. It was an question without an answer, and thus Zamara let it rest: her goddess did not answer all her questions at her every whim, and it was best that way. She was closer to Rhais than anyone else in the city, but what would the goddess be if there was not still some seperation between them.

Zamara hummed softly to herself as she rose, a melancholy melody - a sung prayer to the goddess, a plainsong chant that would be sung this evening by the acolytes. The words slipped slowly from her lips, surrounding her as she stood in front of the goddess' statue, her hands, still patterned with henna, held together in front of her, her dark eyes half closed. She drew the chant to an end, sighed contentedly, and turned around to see two men standing at the top of the long central aisle between the pillars. They wore agricultural clothing, but still looked nervous, twisting their hats between their hands. One man looked to be in his mid years, the other, a taller, gangly individual, maybe a year or two younger than Zamara herself. As she approached, both men bowed in the form of the Temple, showing themselves to be familiar with Rhais - but by their nervousness, and the fact Zamara did not recognise them, she guessed they were from outside the city walls.

"May Rhais bless your fields and families," she murmured, her hands stretched to them. The older man rose at this, and the younger man followed suit hesitantly, as if not sure he was doing the right thing. Zamara smiled and nodded her head to both of them. "Good morrow, sirs. The Temple is free to worship in."

The younger man looked slightly panic-stricken, but the older man took charge quickly, his ruddy face serious. "It isn't for worship that we come today, High Priestess. We came...well, to speak to yourself, if it isn't too much trouble.

Zamara motioned for him to continue, and the farmer continued hastily. "My name is Farron, and this is Hastif, my nephew. We..well, we appear to have something of a situation at Hastif's father's farm. There is..." he seemed lost for words and the younger man butted in.

"A demon!" he whispered fiercely, reverently.

There was a pause, then Farron gave an irritated sigh, glaring at the younger. "Yes, yes, alright, thankyou Hastif." Having quelled his nephew, Farron returned his gaze to Zamara. "Unfortunately, High Priestess, that it one of the conclusions some of us have come to. It seems to be some kind of earth creature, but what sort we have no idea - none of us have seen the like before, not even the village elders. We are in no way saying it is demonic, as you might say-"

"Speak for yourself, Uncle, you han't seen the critter!" Hastif burst out again, then seemed to remember the High Priestess and redenned sharply. "S-sorry, High Priestess," he stammered, focusing his gaze on her ruby medallion. "I...well, me and my brothers saw the creature a few nights ago, having heard some sort of creaking noises across the farm. Isn't a creature around that makes such a noise, far as we know!"

"What does this 'creature' look like?"

"Look like...hrm." Hastif paused. "It's about...well, somewhat taller than myself, High Priestess, somewhat taller indeed - say three feet taller - but then, it did seem to be sort of...stooping. As for girth, I'd say 'tis a good two feet wide all around as well."

Zamara's eyes widened at the size of the creature, but something about the farmer's phrasing caught her attention. "'All around', you say. What do you mean?"

"Well, that's the thing, Priestess - strange thing it is, seems to be pretty much round. It was hunched in a corner, likesay, somewhat stooping. It's skin, or fur, or covering, is rough and dark brown, sorta dappled like, but that may have just been the torchlight. And the strangest thing about it..." Hastif leant forward fearfully, conspiratorially. "It...it seems to be almost entirely covered in leaves! Attached to it's body! And from in them, there are these two, glowing eyes....And these creaking noises..."

"Oh, I've heard them for m'self as well, Priestess," Farron butted in, shuddering. Strangest noises you ever did hear, and echoing for a mile around - like a barn creaking under terrible weight, like a huge tree about to be pulled down... Horrible."

"Worse some nights than others - some nights it's loud, and quite...horrible. But other nights it is...softer, like; quiet, so's you would hardly hear it, like it could let you drift off to sleep; almost like...almost like a sort of singing, Priestess," Hastif finished thoughtfully, his earnest eyes finding Zamara's.

Farron rolled his eyes again. "Bleedin' singing...'moment ago you were saying it was a demon, nephew! But please, Priestess: have ye any idea what it is?"

Zamara narrowed her eyes and shook her head slowly. "I'm not sure, Farron. Where is it that this creature is?"

"Some miles outside the capital, Priestess: Zatrin-a-Rhais?"

Zamara nodded: the village was well known to her. "I will come this afternoon: I have some business at the palace with Queen Bekah, but afterwards, I shall come, and try to identify what manner of being this is."

Both farmers nodded, grateful smiles coming onto their ruddy faces as they ducked their heads, twisting their hats again. "Thank you, High Priestess, thank you indeed. We'll...we'll be ready for you."

Zamara nodded. "Blessings of Rhais upon you, gentlemen, and a safe journey home."

Still murmuring their thanks, the pair ducked and bowed their way down the aisle and hurried out of the door, leaving Zamara to watch them go, her expression thoughtful. Truth be told, she had no idea what this creature could be: covered in leaves, round in girth, stooping and creaking, with glowing red eyes.... She frowned. Sounded like rural jiggery-pokery exaggeration to her. But her curiousity was piqued - she would go, most certainly, but not alone.

Turning around, she saw Tayfar at the top of the steps, dusting the feet of the goddess very busily. She regarded the acolyte's back with raised eyebrows for a few seconds: the girl had heard everything, she had no doubt. Devoted acolyte she may have been, but she was also an extraordinarily good eavesdropper. Ignoring this, she decided to leave the girl in suspense by ignoring the issue. "Tayfar, come, I need to prepare to go to the palace: my cloak and staff are in my quarters."

Tayfar scurried away with a silent nod and Zamara looked up thoughtfully at Rhais' face again, a questioning smile on her dark, handsome features. "What do you have in store, Goddess?" she murmured, softly.

[Bêthberry]

Apprehension worked on Bekah's thoughts like a dog worrying a bone. All the careful balancing of her life seemed about to collapse, a house of cards after all. At least, that is what she feared as she watched the heat of noon shimmer over the rooftops and buildings from her balcony. She sat at her small desk, writing and rewriting.

My beloved Brother-Monarch,

How pleased my husband and I were to hear of the birth of your child and the safe delivery of your wife. It augurs well that your blood and mine will flow like the life-giving river through time.

What news have you heard of the outside world or are you too ...

She gave up, drumming the desk with her quill and watching the small splatters of ink. Then she began again.

My Lord Faroz,

In the festivities of welcoming this Emissary of the Lord Annatar, we have not considered announching his arrival to our other alliances. Will you grant me permisison to write to Alanzia and ...

This, too, she soon gave up. These were the second and third attempts she had made to address this thought. Should her brother be told of this visitor? Was this suitable only for Pashtian discussion? Could she raise the point with Faroz and not be thought false to her Pastian role? Surely the nomadic tribes will have seen the Emissary's party travel across the land and with them news flew faster than vultures over a carcass. She rose and brought her oil lamp to her desk, setting it down carefully on her desk. Its scent of jasmine filled the room and might perhaps mask the odour of the burning paper. Bekah held each paper, twisted like a taper, over the flame, until each caught and then turned each upright, moving the papers back and forth slightly, watching the flames sway until only ashes were left, falling into the lamp itself. She jerked her hand, as she was too slow with dropping the last taper and the smallest flicker of its final flame touched her nail and singed it. As she sucked upon her finger, cooling the burn with her tongue and saliva, she could taste the ash and melted nail. Strangely, she knew the taste. Old, stale walnuts soaked in brine, with crushed wormwood. Or was she imagining it? How could it ressemble the burnt offerings from victory rituals of her long ago childhood in Alanzia?

She sat back upon her cushions and lay still, eyes closed, listening to the cicadas chirp and wondering if the other tiny noises she heard were other insects. It was not yet time for her ritual bath. Why were she and Faroz always limited to formal public interviews of courtly business? Could she not seek him in private, as he had come twice now in one day? Never before had the Queen entered the King's private quarters. Would she be admitted? Would Faroz's guards accept such an unusual act?

She rose, changing her tunic to lilac and covering her head and body with her outer garment of purple, her rajiba, the cloak denoting regal stature and masking her privacy by leaving only her eyes seen. Leaving her private bedchamber, she sought Homay and explainded her intent. Homay only looked at her closely, and said nothing. Without so much as a notice of her guards, Bekah left her room by her private door and wandered the short passage way to the King's rooms.

Bekah strode with deliberation, each step marking a soft soosh-soosh of her leather sandals upon the corridor's cool stone. Her feet were cold, a contrast to the slight burn on her hand. The guards looked up and stood to attention, saluting her with the royal address of "Majesty."

"These are days of much deliberation. We have court business and foreign affairs and matters of the private affairs of the Royal Children. I would speak with his Majesty about our daughter's marriage." She spoke with assurance and command, her manner suggesting such a request was normal rather than unusual. The guards bows and demurred to her, opening the door with an announcement, "The Queen wishes to seek an audience with his Majesty. She attends upon him now"

With those words, Bekah walked over the threshold she had never before crossed and into the private quarters of her husband. It was a world, a view, a life she had not expected to see, unlike what she had imagined Faroz would prefer. But such thoughts she put away as she sought him out, running through her mind the words she would say to him. Thinking of what she wanted to say, she at first did not realise that she was looking around for him, that he was not there to greet her. Then it dawned upon her. He was absent. She searched his balcony, peered behind the curtains of his deeply curtained bed, looked into his closets. Khamul was not here. She finally found her voice, "Majesty, Majesty, My lord Faroz."

She called not to him, but in a voice which she knew the guards whould hear. They arrived momentarily.

"The King is not here. You have missent me. Tell me where I may find him." The two guards rushed forwards, searching the rooms as she had done. Then an alarm went out.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

“I think you misunderstand me Princess,” the Emissary replied. “I blame myself. I come from a land in which we have known war and strife for far too long, and it has coloured our view of the world. The peace that you in Pashtia have enjoyed for almost a generation now is but newly established in our realms, and as a result my Lord and his people are ever wary of new conflict. There is no specific threat that we fear, nor do we perceive any such to be directed at you. Perhaps it might help if I explain somewhat of our more recent history…?” The Prince and Princess seemed interested in what Ashnaz would have to say on this matter, and even Faroz, who had heard much of that the day before, became intrigued by the possibility of new revelations.

Ashnaz asked if he might be seated before settling himself upon his cushions. He took a moment in arranging his robes about him. Faroz seized the opportunity to move further into the room. As he passed by his daughter he saw her shiver and glance about, and for a sliver of time Faroz was afraid that she might be able to see him, but as she glanced in his direction her eyes were fixed upon nothingness. Faroz indulged in another smile. He slipped by her and stood by a window where he could enjoy the sun, but its light and heat passed through him, leaving him chilled. Siamak turned toward the window, as though noticing the dimming of the light and his face took on an expression of faint alarm. Faroz followed his son’s eyes and noticed for the first time that in the full light of Rae’s glory he was casting a very faint shadow, like that which might be found beneath a thorn-bush upon a moonless but starry night. Siamak moved toward the window to investigate, but Faroz stepped aside into the shade once more.

“Is there something wrong Prince Siamak?” Ashnaz called out.

Siamak shook his head slowly, although is face still bore a thoughtful expression. “No, Emissary. I only thought I saw…nothing.”

“Well then,” the Westerner began, “to give you in brief the tale of my people…” He then began a narrative in which he retailed the story of the Lord Annatar, of how he had, alone among the Men of the West, sought out the friendship of the Elves, offering to teach them how to craft things of great worth. He told them of the wars between the Elves and Dwarves – a strange race of stunted men who lived beneath tall mountains and hoarded their wealth – and of how these wars had decimated the realms of both. An estrangement had grown between the Elves and the Lord Annatar, and then there had been invaders from the East and North, and hordes of monsters which he called orks emerged from their maggot holes to harry all. “As you can see,” he concluded, “there has been no end of conflict in my Lord’s realms, and all of it between races that could live in peace if only there could be understanding between them. Division and disunity have been the downfall of the West. At one time, in the distant past, there was but One who ruled all: the god Melkor. In his time there was neither war nor strife, nor any conflict between peoples. But then strangers from across the Western Sea came, bringing with them war and destruction.”

“I heard somewhat of this last night, Emissary,” Gjeelea put in. “These strangers from across the Sea were Elves, you said?”

“Aye, but not such Elves as you know here. These folk had been across the ocean to dwell with a mighty race of giants who gave them knowledge that is not fit for people of this world to possess. Having given them this knowledge and taught them how to make magical items of terrible power, these giants allowed the Elves – hardly Elves any longer in their pride – to return to Middle-earth. But those wars are long since over. For many years after their conclusion there was great enmity between all the peoples of the West, but my Lord Annatar has sought ever to mend these wounds, and to work for a time of peace like that enjoyed under the God Melkor.”

“You mean, your King seeks to unite all peoples under a single rule?” Siamak cried.

“No, no, my Prince! Those days are now long gone. Should there ever arise a King worthy of the role, then we can only hope that he would be chosen by the people of their own will, but until that time, we can make peace in the only way we can: through friendships, and alliances. This is why I am here. To ask for the alliance of Pashtia so that we can begin to spread this vision of universal accord throughout all the lands and not just the West!”

Gjeelea picked up an apricot and took an idle bite from it as she asked, “And what of Alanzia? Are they to be included in your new order?”

This caught the attention of Faroz. He had begun to wonder this himself, but had been reluctant to ask his friend for fear of the answer. If they were not to form alliance with Alanzia as well, that would present difficulties to the delicate balance between the two powers. If the Lord Annatar was to offer Alanzia an alliance, then would that included another Ring for its King? Faroz did not relish the idea of a rival monarch with the same power as he himself now enjoyed… “We can only hope,” Ashnaz replied, “that in time all nations will be united in peace. But as you yourself have said it is a mighty step we have made in approaching even a single realm so far from our own. My Lord wishes to see how things will fare with Pashtia.” It was a cunning answer, one that let them know that for the time being, Pashtia had been singled out, but it contained the slightest hint of a threat as well – if the Lord Annatar could not find alliance here, he might be willing to seek it with Alanzia.

Clamouring of feet and the clash of arms in the corridors drew their attention, and even as they began to wonder what was happening the guards rushed into the room crying out, “The King is missing, Majesties! You must come with us!”

Gjeelea and Siamak sprang to their feet with cries of alarm, demanding to be told more and why they must leave the apartment. “The Queen has ordered that the royal family be taken to a safe place until the King can be found. She fears that there is ill work afoot!” The guard who spoke could not hide the very quick glance that he shot toward the Emissary.

Faroz cursed. He knew instantly how the alarm had been raised: someone had come to his apartments to seek him out and found him gone – but who? There were few who were allowed access to his chambers, and none who would enter unless he had sent for them. The guards would never have permitted anyone to pass, on pain of their lives, except perhaps… The answer flashed into his mind at once. Bekah. Only she would be allowed to enter his rooms by the guards. She had come to seek him out. After all these years, why would she have chosen this particular time? He was furious with his wife, and had he been with her at that moment he might even have struck her for her impudence.

Faroz was shocked that the idea had come to him at all, and horrified at how…satisfying…it had seemed to him.

The clamour was growing and the King could hear panic growing in all the rooms of the Palace and spreading like an out of control contagion. He had but a few minutes in which to act before the situation would get completely out of control. He moved toward the door, intending to slip out, remove the Ring, and then re-enter. But as he neared the exit, the guards rushed forward to escort the Prince and Princess from the room, and one of them nearly collided with him. Faroz fell away from them and hit a wall, and a few eyes turned toward the sound. More guards arrived, making access to the door even more difficult. Through the window, Faroz could see riders pounding along the roadway from the Palace and he knew that within moments the news of his disappearance would hit the City. He no longer had any time, and reaching for the Ring he prepared to remove it despite the crowd.

Ashnaz stepped forward and spoke to the guards in a commanding tone that stilled them all. “Hold!” he cried. “Have you lost your senses? You are in the presence of your Prince and Princess, do not think to drag them from the room! Stand back, and let them proceed with you in dignity!” The guards looked upon his noble face and something in his eyes quelled them. In silence they fell away from the door. Ashnaz immediately stepped before the Prince and Princess, blocking their way, and bowing low said, “I am sorry to hear of this. If there is any aid that I or my men can lend you, we will of course do so!”

Faroz seized the chance that his friend had given him and rushed from the room. As he moved out the door he glanced back. Ashnaz had ceased to speak and was standing behind Gjeelea and Siamak and for a second it seemed as though he was looking directly into Faroz’s eyes. The idea thrilled the King. The corridors of the Palace were now full of people rushing to and fro, and it was difficult for the King to find a quiet corner. He finally found a place to be alone in a small passageway reserved for the passage of servants and he immediately removed the Ring. The instant he slipped it away beneath his robes a kitchen maid appeared from around the corner and stopped dead, her eyes growing wide with shock. She turned about as though to flee, but Faroz stayed her with a command. “What is happening in my Palace?” he demanded fiercely. “Have my people gone mad?”

The maid looked as though she would drop dead from the fear of being spoken to directly by her King. Doing her best to curtsey she stammered out, “The King is missing! Or, rather sir – Majesty! – they all thought you were missing. The alarm has gone out and the guards are tearing the Palace apart! Cook will be so angry at the mess they’ve made in the kitchen…”

“Silence,” he commanded, not roughly but it was enough to send the poor girl past the brink of tears. “Run along back to the kitchen now and tell cook that I shall send him whatever aid he needs in clearing up the mess. Now go.”

Crying now with relief the girl ran past him and disappeared into a small door. Faroz left the passageway and went to find his wife so that he could put an end to this madness.

[Kransha]

The training exercises did not go well, as Morgôs had expected. Wet-behind-the-ears lads, weighted down by dress uniforms and blades too heavy for their undeveloped muscles, did not an army make. Only a few seasoned veterans lingered quietly in the armies of Pashtia, and they seemed content to use their lengthy résumés to gain ranks by leaps and bounds, until they were all captains with cushy political assignments. The Elven officers and enlistees, the only ones that Morgôs deeply trusted besides his lieutenants, seemed far more comfortable in other units, segregated from the mortal men. For this prejudicial nature, Morgôs was further embittered against his own people. If they could not overcome the racial barrier, how could they expect the mortals to do their part and balance the equation?

Disregarding all this with a metaphoric wave of his hand, Morgôs returned his thoughts to riding. A glint lit his eye as the neat tiled road gave wave to reveal his an arching path which led, past a forested wall into his front garden and his estate, which lay spread out like a beauteous valley before him.

The house of Morgôs Elrigon was the largest estate belonging to a non-noble in all of Kanak. It had first been a smaller guard post, near the palace, but Faroz’ great-grandfather had had it renovated and expanded for Morgôs’ use, and turned it into a lavish villa to honor him for his achievements. Its size did not comfort Morgôs, or bring him joy, but it accommodated his hobbies; one of which he wished to practice. Steadily, he hitched up his horse outside, rather than in the stable on the villa’s western side, and rushed, a little too eagerly, into the structure. He hurried through it, his feet barely touching the marble floor and colorful carpeting as he traversed the complex halls until he had reached a delicate stairwell, where he descended to the place he most desired to be rapidly.

His library was, as a matter of fact, the part of Morgôs’ home which he most loved, and spent most of his time in. He would often become consumed by it, in a sense, and be so involved in reading, writing, translating, and drawing that he would remain cooped up in the archival vault for hours on end. Every once in a while, he might even spend full days inside, and correspond with his lieutenants via messenger. His wife would often show concern about his addicted habits, though his son was always oddly unaffected. It was a huge room, in comparison to most of the villa’s cells, with a vaulted roof and the look of an endless catacomb, with the peculiar musk of dry papyrus permeating the air within. It was lined, apparently, with veritable pews; narrow paths that stemmed from the single colonnade that led through the center of the room. The multiple rows were flanked by bookshelves that sprung up to the high ceiling, all brimming with books and parchment stuffed haphazardly into every orifice available.

All in the span of a minute he had reached the room, and now he knew not what to do in it. The world slowed to a calmer pace as he lost track of the speed or slowness of time. Slowly, he meandered down each row of books and shelves until he came to a quiet, secluded little cell at the end of one row, where several desks and tables sat, strewn with papers. Very slowly, as if undergoing some delicate operation, Morgos swung his cumbersome armor into an aged wooden chair, worn away and discolored by time. With tender, hesitant fingers, the general reached onto the desk and picked up the one book that was there. Feeling tranquility, he moved his gauntleted hand over the embossed leather covering, bound with iron like some impregnable tome, and began to pry it open, feeling the weak but faithful pages of vellum, two hundred or more, within. This contained, surprisingly, something he hated, but something that gave him comfort to do, for it was an addiction which bound him to this place.

Here was the true root of his obsession, his habitual solitary nature in the library. He studied a great many things, but all his studies strove towards one goal; to make a discovery, one that he had always felt he needed to make. The past of Morgôs Elrigon was not the happiest history, which was why he dwelled upon it in excess. Morgôs was an ancient elf indeed and had lived far longer than most others. In reality, he himself did not know his own age, as he had not kept exact track, but he knew he had been fully grown at the time of the building of Kanak by the first primitive Pashtian monarchs, which had been a little over 2000 years ago. He had some veiled memories of times before that, but not had stood the test of time, which was why he always copied the contents of every dream, petty vision, and flash of memory he had into journals of mad lore. Avarin History books gave him much information, pages forged by Elves before his first memories and passed to him, or rather, gathered by him together into this compendium of knowledge he possessed. But still, he could not find links to the one vague memory which most haunted his dreams – and dominated his nightmares.

Suddenly, Morgôs snapped himself from his contemplation, instead, for a change, of someone else doing it for him. He had to locate his wife, and his son as well. It was not often that he flew about in such a mad gait, flitting hither and thither with no purpose, and he feared his dear Arlomë might have become concerned. She was not in the house, which was odd, considering Bekah’s retinue (or most of it) had been dismissed today because of the ruckus involving the Emissary. There were only a few places which Arlomë frequented – that he knew of – and the palace was where she spent much of her time, even in off hours. With a prickling brow and a grave look about him, Morgôs hurled the dusty volume onto the desk he’d taken it from, where it landed with a thump and hastened out of the library and back to where he’d bound his horse, at a conveniently located hitching post that jutted from the southerly veranda. Without delay, he headed to the palace, which was not far.

[Imladris]

A tense awkward feeling descended upon the room shortly after the Emissary left the chambers. Arshalous drained the rest of the chilled tea in one gulp and glanced at Korak. There was a small attempt at conversation, but Arshalous was not in the mood for talking. Neither, apparently, was anybody else. She wished impulsively that she could just fall asleep like her aunt and avoid things like this.

She should just stand up and go, she told herself...but she wasn't sure if that would be considered rude by the king...and she did not want to do that. Thankfully the king himself took the innitiative and excused himself. Arshalous and Hababa bowed and went to find their mounts.

As Arshalous was swinging herself in her saddle, Korak stumped out of the castle, an absurd puppy grin on his face. It irked her that he was happy...but of course the foolish always were happy because they were not burdened by serious thoughts. She herself was still a bit ruffled that she had to help with the silly temple, but she could not help feeling pleased with building in and of itself. Besides matters of finance, the king and herself (Korak, of course, had taken no interest) had touched upon the appearance of the temple. Marbled supporting pillars, mosaic floors that told of the god's deeds...it indeed would be lovely. Pity that Rae was not more deserving.

The thought of Rae reminded her of the Emissary and she smiled to herself. That had been the gleam of light with the visit. He was intelligent, willing to learn...it was a pity that he worshipped this...Melkor, who was much like Rae. Yet who would want to worship a destructive god that was like Rae? Unless...unless his might was greater than Rae's -- maybe his might had a nobleness that Rae lacked. She would like to ask the Emissary about this new god.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Wearing a light veil over her head against the heat of the sun, Zamara walked slowly through the city, almost alone in the streets: the workers had hurried home, or to shelter's at their workplaces, to rest for the hour around midday when it was too hot to work. As the High Priestess made her way through the streets, she noted that although empty, they did not seem deserted. After all, children did not heed the fiesta at midday - another adult rule to be disregarded, a chance to be free to do what they would while their parents and tutors were otherwise occupied. The children of the nobles, of course, remained inside, stifled by the heat and their studies; but outside, for a while, the urchins ruled.

Zamara paused in the shade of a house, watching a group of three small children as they played out some complex game. One child, a scruffy, sharp eyed girl of about nine, dropped two dice into a circle drawn in the dirt, and, along with the two other girls she was playing with, she watched eagerly for the result. Apparently it was a good result for the first girl, for she gave a whoop and clapped her hands together, grinning, as the other two turned to face each other, their hands on their knees. They whispered a few words, their high voices rising in volume until they ended with a shriek, threw up their hands, and pelted away in opposite directions, away from the circle. The girl who had dropped the dice, still seated, covered her eyes, and began to count loudly.

Zamara, unnoticed and unheeded, smiled to herself. How much simpler the world would be if run by children. A city of innocents. But even here, she noted, there were politics: between the girl's fingers, the High Priestess noted a slither of white as the girl turned her head. She was peeking. Zamara raised her eyebrows and couldn't help her smile turning to a grin, her white teeth peeking out themselves from her dark lips. The seeker, apparently noting that she was being watched, that she had been caught cheating, whirled around quickly, her hands coming off her eyes, and her eyes settled suspiciously on Zamara. The High Priestess held them impassively, then nodded solemnly to the girl. With surprising solemnity herself, the latter replied in turn, then, without a second glance at Zamara, she covered her eyes again and resumed counting. Then, with a sudden triumphant yell and without further ado, she sprang to her feet and ran away, calling out after her companions, seeking them, her bare feet slapping against the dusty cobbles. Yes, Zamara thought to herself, looking after her young friend under the veil. I could deal with a city of children.

The street lay empty now, and Zamara moved on, the clicking of the metal at the base of her staff the only sound, the sudden darts of light through her medallion as it swung on her chest the only sudden movements. As Zamara walked, she thought to herself. She had much to talk to the Queen about, and she had been frankly relieved when Tarkan had declined the offer of joining them to discuss the furnishings for the Temple: it would be easier to talk with the Queen alone. Not that Zamara wished Tarkan ill, far from it - but she was not sure Tarkan would say the same. The way he had acted last night had showed that, the way he had assumed the title of 'High Priest' rather than denying.

Zamara childed herself inwardly, pausing as the street widened into a large, cobbled courtyard, centred by a fountain whose water fell gently, idly, onto itself and around itself, it's playful sounds at odds to the serious thoughts of it's observer. Petty things, petty things...such things were not meant to be the essence of worshipping the gods, they were not meant to get in the way. But... the young woman's brow creased slightly and the lines deeped around her mouth as she watched the fountain fiercely. But they do get in the way.

She sighed, loosening her suddenly tight grip on the staff and moving on. Plans for the Temple to Rae troubled her: she knew not what this new building would hold in store for her. Whether, in fact, it would hold anything in store for her. How many times the power balance between the deities of Pashtia had changed she knew not, but Rhais had been 'superior' for many years - what would happen when that changed? Ritual, tradition, worship - were they to change also? Zamara worried.

And, of course, the Emissary. The young woman smiled ruefully to herself. Of course. One could not forget him when talking to Bekah - not even if she tried. What were his preferences in all of this? It was hard to say...who were the gods of the West? Zamar felt suddenly hopelessly ignorant - she had absolutely no idea. Did they even have gods? Surely every sentient being felt the need to pay heed to something that had created them, that sustained them, that laid them eventually to rest - surely even these blue eyed, pale haired men from those war-torn lands would feel the prescence of Rae and Rhais in some way?Zamara's eyes narrowed subconciously. She was still not sure she fully trusted this Emissary. The more she knew, the better.

And Siamak. He, also, makes a rather intriguing topic of conversatin.

Zamara smiled to herself thoughtfully. Yes, indeed; the young prince was a very intriguing topic...

Having arrived at the palace, Zamara climbed the steps smoothly, lowering her veil to be like a veil across her arms. She knocked on the door with the tip of her staff three times and waited for a few seconds - an unusual wait in a palace full of attendants. Eventually a flustered young man wrenched open the door, his eyes widening as he noted Zamara, her medallion and her robes in quick succession. He bowed briefly, and showed her in. "I come to see Her Majesty the Queen," Zamara requested. The man opened his mouth as if to say something else, then bit his lip and nodded stiffly

"As you say, High Priestess," he murmured respectfully. "I shall notify the Queen of your arrival." Nodding yet again, the young man excused himself (rather hastily, Zamara thought, puzzledly), leaving Zamara alone in an antechamber to wait.