Well, codename Azan been busy ain't he? And I've been siting here on my lazy arse posting others good work and giving them the credit... Probably should get around to writing the rest of The Riftkeeper.

Hopefully there'll be an advance with these two strories... I will never abandon Riftkeeper, its too much fun, but again I'm not sure I could do it... Quickly.

My friend owns everything here apart from anything that came out of a D&D sourcebook. I own the account.

Speaking of Azan, he got another message for you.

A new update. Same as before, review and be harsh/kind as you will. I'll likely be updating once every week, but don't hold me to that. Thanks for taking an interest- Azan

Ooo a promise...

Enjoy.

Chapter 2: Consequences

I awoke to the hard beat of horse hooves thumping on the ground and the soft ruffle of the mount's snorts ruffling its nostrils. I rubbed my neck, and felt a soft bandage there- thank Riadenal for that. The wounds I had were large and deep, and I was thankful I had survived at all, let alone be rescued.
"You're awake." said the person riding the horse, whose face I could not see. Long, brown hair whipped about behind him, lashing the space in front of me.

"Who are you?" I demanded, putting on a confident tone. In truth, my throat was extremely sore and I was sore all over.

"Your rescuer." he replied. "I guess I could say that you owe me."

"You haven't answered my question."

He twisted in the saddle, the leather armour he was wearing squeaking with the stretch. "Marcus. You?"
"Lúthiena." I whispered. "Lúthiena Míriel."

"A pleasure to speak to you, Lúthiena." said Marcus, turning forwards again.

A Human? In the woods? Wow…. I never expected them to be so… well, normal. my mind thought, debating several ways of action. Marcus interrupted me.

"I'm not your foe, Lúthiena," he said, almost to himself. "I am not a bad man…. I earn my keep, I save some innocents from the Puppetmaster, and all I get in return is distrust….. You do know Burden is now at war with Delfayre?"
Burden. The Lost Country. Home of all manner of evil souls, striving for their master's evil gains. Delfayre, my home and the land of the Elves, lies right next to it. It was only a matter of time before they had attacked us… but it had been so sudden, for an army consisting of undead.

"And how did you rescue me?"

"Cut 'em all down with my little toenail, sister." he said, and paused. I raised my eyebrows.

"God, you Elves are as stale as a two year old hunk of bread. It's a joke, Ears. Deal with it."

It was strange. His humour had suddenly erupted out of nowhere, leading me to be suspicious of him.

"Are you hiding something?" I said, quite harshly.

He halted the horse next to a clump of grass and it dumped its head to feed.

"An inn's nearby." he muttered, attaching his sword to his belt. "And we need to find an apothecary for your wound."
"Why not a priest?"

He began laughing. "I'd rather trust someone who has a way with humans than a way with 'Gods'."
I frowned at this comment. Clearly the man was a faithless bastard. Truly, he was quite attractive in my eyes, but his attitude and behaviour towards the Gods was truly despicable.

The sun had just set, and Marcus led his horse by the reins to the inn he had mentioned, tethering the horse tightly to a fence post. He gave me a small smile and walked in. I stared back at the horse, which was eating clumps of grass again. At the side of the horse Marcus had put my real armour, my half-plate, greaves and boots, and Oath, who glowed dimly in the bag.

How did he get my belongings from my room? I wondered, almost aloud.

I shook my head. He has offered you hospitality. Be grateful. Steeling myself, I dragged my hood over my ears and long silver hair and walked inside.

I was greeted by a torrent of warmth, the smell of alcohol, and expensive perfumes and spices. It seemed that Marcus knew his inns, and I wasn't going to question his taste. I suppose it's better to be amongst a rich crowd than a crowd with bad breath, disease and a habit of drinking too much.

Marcus dragged himself up onto a seat and asked the barman for two beers and a room. I got a closer look at the man who was my supposed saviour. His small, wistful beard and aura of confidence stood out in the crowd- whether it was wanted or unwanted. Still at his side was the ornate sword, possibly of army origin. I guessed that he must have been a looter or a bandit who had taken pity on the pretty Elven woman. Either way, he was my saviour- and I had to be appreciative of his act, no matter how despicable he may have been.

As I sat on the bar stool, the barman (a short, cheerful Dwarf) handed me a flagon of beer. I smiled weakly, as I never accept beer: I find the stuff absolutely disgusting. I drank to keep Marcus pleased, who had bought it for me, after all.

"There's a healer working to the south, an old friend of mine. He should be able to fix you up." said Marcus, sipping his beer.

"But it's only a few flesh wounds," I said, and then paused. "There's something else wrong. Tell me."

Marcus said nothing, and then drunk a large amount of beer. "Trust me, Lúthiena, you will not like the news I will give you."

"Tell me." I said, harshly now. "My children and my husband are dead, and whatever revenge I can give will please me no end. If this knowledge harms my quest to avenge, then there will be hell to pay."

Marcus sighed and turned to me. He tried to feel a wisp of my long hair, just visible underneath my crimson hood, but I batted his hand away in annoyance.

"You have…. Lost some of your strength, Lúthiena. To the Death Rot."