Disclaimer: See previous Chapters.

Chapter Twenty: Southaven

"Don't worry so much Tarry." he smiled gently and touched his rough hand to her soft cheek. He leaned in close, and she could see the growing smile-lines etched into his kind face all around his mouth. Soon his lips pressed against her forehead and a sense of tranquility flowed through her. It seemed to start at his lips and spread down her spine. One vertebra at a time.

The moment he pulled back from her, the feeling of calm flittered away like the autumn leaves upon the breeze. Back to reality it seemed. She once more opened her sapphire eyes to gaze back into his. Worry still knit her brow, and her shoulders had slouched themselves under the weight of the thoughts in her mind. "George, I am afraid of what could happen to you. To both of you." her eyes briefly looked down to the nearly nine year old boy who stood at her husband's side. Her eldest son, Michael.

"Tarralyn," his voice had firmness to it, through it retained its kindness. He only kept a stern tone to get her attention back on him. When his wife's eyes returned to his, George Cypher could not help but smile. His wife was beautiful, even now as she started to get the aging lines that came with worry and happiness. She was as beautiful now as she was the day that they had married years before. He caressed her cheek once more, lovingly before laying a second sweet kiss, this time upon her lips.

Both boys stuck their tongue out in disgust. Michael stood at his father's side, while his younger brother, Richard, stood at their mother's. Michael often wondered why his brother didn't look like him or his father, but never thought too much of it. It was clear that he looked like their mother. Richard had blue eyes, much like their mother's, and yet different. His hair was lighter than his father's, brother's, or mother's. His locks were a dirty blond instead, but considering neither boy knew the grandparents from either side, it could not be written off that it was a trait from further back in their family line. Tarralyn knew better, but she would never say.

The woman pulled back from her husband once more, yet she did not move so far. She stood close and rested her forehead against George's gently. "I'm just afraid. I know the dangers that the Midlands bring. Just… promise me that you will be careful. Promise me that both of you will return to us safely?"

In his wife's eyes George Cypher could see the pain and worry. He could see her soul practically screaming for them not to leave. But, he knew the way and was not blindly leading himself and his child into danger. Yes, the Midlands could potentially be dangerous, but than again so could any land. So could Westland, even if Hartland itself was fairly safe. There were still those unscrupulous men and women that would do anything for coin of silver or gold. There was no such thing as a utopian society after all. He ran the backs of his fingers over her pale cheek yet again, slowly and tenderly to assuage whatever fears that she still held. He knew the road, he knew the way through King's Port Pass. He knew the way into the Midlands. Yes, it was dangerous and one could potentially find themselves in the Underworld if they were not careful, but George was confident in his own ability to navigate the twisting and winding road. Even the Narrows. Even with their son with him. "Of course I will bring us both home safely."

Michael was just that year and a little older than his brother Richard. George had decided (after much begging and pleading from the boy), that Michael was old enough to accompany him on his journey; they would be merely going to different peoples in the Midlands, different markets, and trading for goods that could not be found in Westland. Tools, exotic plants, things of that nature. All in all it would be a safe trip; it was only the passage between lands that was at all any danger. Richard was only seven years old, but soon enough he would be given the chance to go with his father through the Boundary as well, at least if he chose to.

Richard was interested in the stories that his father told him of the other side; he was smart too. George had always brought toys for his two boys, but only Michael showed any full interest. Richard would play because his brother wanted to play with him, but the nearly blond little boy found more joy in books. Granted, he was young and could barely read himself, he loved his studies than the toys brought home. So George had learned to bring a toy or toy weapon for Michael, and a book for Richard. Usually they were books of Faerie Tales, but it pleased the little boy no matter what the book was. Richard had learned to read with one of the books that George had returned with. By the time George returned from his next trip, Richard was reading competently (with the help of his mother of course). But though he was interested in the stories and legends that came out of the Midlands, he never expressed any interest in going. He, unlike Michael, did not bother and bug and beg his father to be allowed to go with him. He seemed happy enough, at least at the age of seven, to remain at home with Tarralyn and his friend Zedd.

He sighed but smiled gently. "Hunny, you know that Michael is safe with me."

Tarralyn's eyes widened slightly; she had not meant to imply that their child was not safe with his father, only that the quest itself was dangerous. That there were things out in the Midlands that could in fact bring harm to a boy who had never seen them before. That there were things in the pass in the Boundary that were lethal. But she could only nod her head gently. "I know George. I know. I just want you both to be careful. I love you."

He smiled tenderly in return. "I love you too Tarry." he turned his eyes down the boy who stood at his side. "Michael, say goodbye to your mother and brother and let's be on our way."

Michael stepped forward and hugged Tarralyn around her waist. "Bye Mama. I love you."

Tarralyn had to smile softly. She hugged him back and wrapped him in her pallid arms briefly. "I love you too Michael, and I'll see you soon. Have fun, and be careful."

Michael pulled back from her and smiling up at her, "I will Mama.", he turned his attention next to the quiet boy who stood beside his mother. His younger brother. "Bye Richard. See you soon."

"Bye bye Michael.", Richard reached out and hugged his brother tightly for a long moment. Even if it caught the other boy of guard.

It wasn't long before Michael was hugging his little brother in return. "Take good care of Mama, alright?"

Richard pulled back with a grin and nodded his head frantically. "I promise I will.", he turned to his father and hugged him tightly as well. "Bye Daddy."

George smiled and picked Richard up quickly. He hugged him tightly against himself. "Goodbye Richard. Have fun with your studies while we're gone."

The little boy's smile was contagious, "I will!"

The man set his child down gently again, before giving his wife one last embraces. He pulled Tarralyn close against his breast and rubbed her back lovingly with his hand. "We're going to be fine. You'll see."

Tarralyn breathed a sigh of relief. She wrapped her arms around his neck gently and tugged him closer. She cuddled as far into his embrace as she could before whispering into his ear. "I know you are. I love you."

"I love you too Tarralyn. With all my heart.", George pulled back away from her and quickly brushed his lips once more over hers. But as soon as the kiss was laid, he had pulled back and turned with Michael. Heading off towards the eastern horizon.

Tarralyn stood back with Richard. Her hand was gently on his right shoulder, holding her son against her right side. They were waiting for the chance to wave at the other two family members that were retreating. They lifted their hands and waved as the father and son turned around once more to wave.

And Michael and George were gone. It would be at least two months before the pair returned to Westland.

OoO.

His feet hurt so much. When he had begged to go with his father to the Midlands, Michael had not thought that they would have to be walking so much. At the moment he wanted nothing more than to turn around and go back to warmth of the Inn that they had left the night before. But there was no turning back now. They were already into King's Port Pass, and they would be walking straight for another two days. Stopping their progress was not an option. There were too many Underworld creatures that could capture a grown man when he was resting, yet alone a child. Grippers were a threat at all times; if they caught a hold of you, you were as good as dead. Or at the very least you would have to hack from yourself the very limb that they had attached to. His father had warned him about the Grippers, but stupidly he had not believed him. That was until he saw through the murky green light of the Boundary walls a Gripper that had caught a small fox (at least that was what he thought it was, he couldn't be entirely sure due to the distance) and was feasting horribly on it. He had shivered deeply disturbed to himself as he followed behind his father, holding his hand to keep safe.

But Michael knew that there were other things in the Boundary than just Grippers, even if George had not told his son as such. In the distance he heard howling, loud and melancholy. It was not unlike the wolves that prowled the Hartland woods, and yet it was much more unnerving. Their calls were long and sorrow filled. They chilled the child down to his very core.

George had not told his child about the Heart Hounds. He saw no need to scare the boy when the prospect of actually seeing one of the Keeper's dogs was very slim. Should the boy catch sight of one through the Boundary walls, then he would explain it. Until that time, he did not see there being a benefit to scaring his young companion with the truth. The Heart Hounds were larger than any other wolf, with a pelt the length and general colour of a deer's. Their fangs were two inches longer than the normal wolf and averaged at five inches long. But they had the massive head to match. Most of all though, George dreaded telling his child why they were called Heart Hounds. He did not wish to tell his child that when they took humans (and most likely other creatures), that the Heart Hounds went straight for the chest. They would rip out your heart, and while it was still beating they would devour it. It was their meal. The rest off you would be picked clean by the other scavengers, such as the Grippers and whatever foul beast roamed these woods.

The howling came once again; it travelled over the horizon from within the Boundary. The magic of the barrier, which Michael thought would subdue the call, only magnified it. He shivered deeply, but in so doing he came too close the wall on either side of the path. Immediately the sickly green light of the Underworld illuminated him as his father. George pulled his son closer to his back. He did not want to have to explain to his wife that their son had brushed against the Boundary and had been pulled in by the dark spirits that lurked inside. He had promised that they would both come home safely. But Michael clung close to his father. "Papa?"

"Yes Michael?", George's voice came from above him. Still, despite their current location and their pace to make their way through the winding pass, his tone was kind.

Michael was looking all around, back and forth from the left to the right and back again. He was trying to see through the Boundary to see what animal was making the howling. Yet he couldn't see any such beast. "What is making that howling?"

George thought for a brief moment, before he came to the easiest conclusion. "Wolves Michael."

Michael looked up at the back of his father's head as he held his hand with both of his own. "But they don't sound like regular wolves."

"No, they don't do they? It's just the magic of the Boundary, son. There's nothing to fear about the howling.", he hated himself for saying that, but he did not want to scare his son so badly that he could not continue. Not when he knew the chances of them encountering the Heart Hounds was rare. Heart Hounds would not come after a man and his child for no reason; they had to be unleashed upon them. They had to have orders from either the Keeper, or one of his Banelings. George knew that much, and knew that neither he or Michael would be of enough interest to either. So, other than perhaps a scare from seeing a hound take down a dear or other animal, Michael would be safe just as he had promised Tarralyn.

Michael whimpered, but he nodded. Walking on in silence for some time. He was so tired already, and his feet ached. He lost track of how long they had been walking, but he knew it was getting late into the night. He couldn't even see the moon shining down through the green light of the Boundary any more. It had to have been at least Midnight now, and yet they had to keep moving. Two days and two nights constantly moving it would take to reach the other side. Michael was already feeling the pull of sleep even though they were only partially into their first night travelling through the Boundary between Westland and the Midlands. He was so tired that he had started to stumble every once in a while. George tried to keep his son balanced, but he knew that there wasn't going to be much luck. If worse came to worse he would carry the boy if he absolutely had to, he just prayed that the child would awake before they reached the Narrows if that situation came to pass.

Michael's eyes were starting to droop as he kept moving behind his father. He found that his footsteps were almost automatic; he moved robotically because he was so tired. His eyes fluttered, breaking up the image before him and George every once and a while. He caught glimpses of squirrels through the light, and other animals, but his exhaustion was becoming so great that he couldn't care any less. Until he caught sight of the large shadow looming through the Boundary wall maybe quarter of a mile away. Due to the twists and turns of the path, though the shadow was on the path ahead of them, Michael was viewing it through the wall of the Boundary to his right.

The boy perked up and woke up when he saw the shadow. "Papa.", he tugged on George's sleeve gently to get his father's attention. When his father turned to look down while they steadily made their way forward through the winding and twisting route, Michael pointed towards the shadow. It was moving as well as they were. It was coming towards them. Michael held his breath, afraid of what horrible monster it might be.

Truth be told. George did not feel much better. Not many people knew of the Pass, he could think of only five that did. Four of those six were his immediate family: Zedd, Tarralyn, Michael, and Richard. He of course knew of it, and that made five. The last person that was at all aware of the pass (to his knowledge) was Adie. The Bone Lady. The sorceress who made her home on the very edge of the Boundary and at the entrance of the Pass. Perhaps the Inn Keeper knew of it, but that still only equalled seven people. And that was seven people from his side of the Boundary. Seven people from Westland. He had heard of none from the side of the Midlands that was aware of this pass. It was only on a few rare maps, and most of the average people thought the Boundary was utterly impenetrable. He himself had been one of those until he had met Zedd and his daughter Tarralyn. He shook his head clearing those old thoughts.

He didn't like seeing the shadow of another person on the path of King's Port Pass. It unnerved him greatly. He could think of no one on the other side that would know of the Pass. The person, be it man or woman, could be a threat. And he was travelling with his young son. Oh spirits! Why had he agreed to let Michael tag along?

George kept moving on, keeping Michael safe behind him as he held his hand. Yet he was still utterly unnerved. The thought of any one coming towards them made him feel slightly ill to his stomach with worry. But, truth be told the other traveller could be thinking the exact same thing except concerning the sighting of George Cypher. Still, it was an uneasy way that they made towards each other.

Michael held his breath, but he was greatly curious, when there was only one last twist in the road before they would meet the other person. Since the figure could be seen growing closer and closer for the last many minutes, he had come to the conclusion, based on the proportions, that the other was in fact a man. A fairly tall and broadly built man. Than again, it very well could be the trick of the wavering light of the Boundary wall that made him think such. It could, he supposed, in truth be a woman.

But as both parties came around the last twist, Michael's suspicions were concreted. It was a man, tall, if only a little taller than his own father, and dressed in a black cloak whose hood was pulled up over his hair. The shadow of it shielded his face, yet the brilliant emerald glow of the Underworld shone down from the Boundary wall and illuminated the lower half of the man's face. But both companies had come to an impasse.

George Cypher had to know where the man was coming from, and how he knew of the pass. "Sir?"

The man, who seemed to be looking briefly down at Michael, turned his shadowed face back towards father of the child. Though he did not answer, his silence and the stare that George was sure he was receiving from the man, were acknowledgement enough.

Already around them the Grippers were starting to take notice of them. They had seen them, now that they had stopped moving. Before long they would be coming out to claim their victims, so George knew he had to make this short. He still was trying to be friendly. "I didn't think many people knew of this pass.", he laughed it off slightly, though he was still unnerved. Though, it could have been because he could see nothing but a shadow and no face beneath the raised hood. "How did you come to find it?"

The man in the black hood remained eerily silent for a long moment. Michael shivered, it bothered him. He also saw the Grippers moving ever closer. He knew well enough that they had to keep moving. And yet the man seemed to be completely unconcerned by the Underworld beasts that were approaching. Finally he lifted a hand and lowered his hood down. The soft wool immediately hugged itself around his neck and laid in a sea of soft folds. The man underneath was young, and handsome. His hair was long, longer than George's by a great deal, and yet not as long as Zedd's, Michael noticed. His eyes seemed to be blue, but that was common enough. He head a short clipped goatee and moustache. Looking at him, Michael couldn't help but stare. There was something familiar about him, but he couldn't put his finger on what it might be.

Darken Rahl took a moment before he answered. He casually ruffled out his hair, though the Grippers tried to come closer. He merely turned and looked down at them. They started to withdraw away from the D'Haran King and the father and son that stood with him.

George raised a brow slightly. Unsettled by that little revelation, but he kept it to himself. Perhaps the stupid things saw something else in the Boundary around them. But than again, with a quick glance around George confirmed his fears. There was nothing else around. At least nothing that he could see.

"I found the pass on a map. Since I have really nothing better to do, I thought that I might walk it and see Westland.", Darken spoke with ever the same arrogant touch. Yet the words came with a strange accent; they fit funny in his mouth. He had learned the common tongue of the Three Territories, yes. But the last time he had actually spoken it was when Tarralyn had been in his care. Since then he had been speaking D'Haran, as it was the tongue of his Kingdom, and High D'Haran when speaking with his Generals in private, or the Mord'Sith. The highest ranking of soldiers, and the Mord'Sith alone knew the language of the D'Haran Royals. He spoke High D'Haran only when giving secret orders. But it still affected the way he pronounced the common tongue words.

"You sound funny.", Michael, ever the child, was terribly blunt.

Darken's lips pursed and his brows knit while his eyes widened, looking down at the child with outright shock and anger.

"Michael!", George could only gasp in shock as he looked down at his son. "You don't say things like that!", he quickly lifted his eyes and face back to the dark haired man in front of him. "Sir I apologize."

Darken continued to glare harshly down at the boy for many long moments. But, after a time, his gaze softened and he smiled. He laughed, almost forcedly. "Don't worry about it. I have a young daughter at home. She does much the same with people she does not know.", but his eyes turned cold once again and his voice turned harsh (even if it sounded odd to the boy), "But children should learn their manners, else their fathers might fulfill their right to cut out their tongues."

George flinched slightly, shocked at the cruel statement. But, in a way, he supposed that the other man was right. Perhaps he had not meant literally removing the tongue, but instead not allowing the child to talk until they had learned their manners. Yes, perhaps.

Clearly Rahl had meant the very words that he had spoke, as he had spoken them.

Michael shuddered and looked up at the dark haired man with eyes full of fear. "I'm sorry Sir."

Darken smirked a little, it was a wicked little expression. "Don't worry. I am not your father.", he turned his face back to George, whom he had to glance down upon ever so slightly. "Where abouts in Westland does this pass emerge?", better to know where the hell he was in farmland than to just wander aimlessly.

George looked into Darken's eyes a moment; his own irises flashing back and forth between the D'Haran King's wintry ones. He had no way of knowing who, or what, Darken was. All he knew was that this man made him uncomfortable. And if telling him where the Pass emerged so that they might on their way all the faster alleviated that feeling, than he would tell him. "It comes out just outside of Southaven. It's about a half day's walk from the Boundary to the village"

Darken nodded a moment, as he lifted his right hand. He ran the fleshy pad of his middle finger over his bottom lip as he thought, drinking in the information offered to him. "Mmm alright…. Thank…", it was difficult for him to say it, but he knew it had to be said. "Thank …. You."

George smiled gently, trying to get the uneasiness to pass. "You're welcome. Anything I need to know about the way towards the Midlands?"

"Hmm?", Darken lowered his hand as his eyes shifted. Turning their gaze to that of the man that stood before him with his son. "Oh. Yes, there are Heart Hounds on the prowl. They don't seem to be following orders, and just hunting at random. Watch out for your son."

George Cypher paled completely. Heart Hounds. Everything that he had not wanted to tell his child about. Everything that he had hoped would not happen. Why, oh why, Creator, was this happening?

Darken was quickly over his minor daze. "Anyway. Good evening.", he nodded his head towards George and lifted his hands, gripping the sides of his hood. He lifted it high once more and covered himself again in the dark shadows that the deathly light of the Underworld cast. He easily stepped around the man and the child who seemed frozen in place.

Michael was terrified for two reasons. The first was that the man had threatened (at least it seemed so), to cut his tongue out. And he had seen the flash of blade on the dark haired man's belt along with another strange rod-like weapon. He would not have put it passed the man either. Yet there as still something so familiar about him. The second reason was because said man had mentioned something called Heart Hounds. He knew that those sounds had not been just wolves. The shiver ran down his spine quickly. "Papa? What are Heart Hounds?"

George turned his eyes down upon the young boy as they continued to stand still on the path. Around them the Grippers were starting to amass once more. They would need to get moving before the vile little creatures managed to get a hold of one of them, or the other. They could not risk the pain and the horror that would come with that. Yet Heart Hounds were no better.

His father sighed and ruffled out his own greying hair for a moment. "Well… they are like wolves, but they are bigger. Heart Hounds are the servants of the Keeper. They, like all other Underworld creatures, live in the Boundary."

That was bad enough to hear. Anything that was the servant of the Keeper could not be at all good. But what disturbed him even more was their name. "Why are they called HEART Hounds?"

George stared at him for a moment. He wondered if he should tell the boy. But the realization that the child would learn either way was soon in his mind. Rather the boy learn by his words, than by seeing a Hound take him, George, to his death. But he still sighed, it was a horrible thing to tell anyone, yet alone a child. "Because they go straight for the heart. That is how they kill. The heart is their meal."

Michael shuddered violently. Suddenly he no longer wanted to see the Midlands. He just wanted to go home and hide in his safe bed.

OoO.

Southaven. The last major stop when travelling south in Westland. Whatever lay further to the south of the town before reaching the shores of the sea was entirely unimportant. Likely, the other villages were little more than a few houses settled together against the rain and the winds. But Southaven was located half a day's walk from the edge of the Boundary, and seemed to be a hub for the ramshackle: both men and building.

Southaven was a brooding and roosting place for all those that claimed a less than honest life. It was a haven for the criminal element; thieves and rebels alike took their refuge within it's boarders. The town itself was not much to write home about; the buildings were all decrepit and bare of all colour. Whether the paint had been stripped away by years of exposure to the elements, or if they had ever at all been painted, one could not tell. There were those that had tin sheeting that repaired the gaping holes in the roofs, and in the rain they hummed like a steady drumbeat. In the center of town, sitting along the old crooked road, were two pathetic and seemingly decaying buildings. They seemed the lean and bend in accordance to each other, as though they were pieces of the same broken object. Two puzzle pieced laid out before each other. The first of the two buildings was a supply store, full of grains, feed for whatever animals the peoples might own and raise, as well as all the gear one would need for travelling. The other building which lay beside the first sported a crudely crafted sign marking it as an Inn. But beyond the sign the building bore no name; no fanciful moniker such as The Flying Buffoon, or the like. The supply store and the inn were owned by the same man, the Inn Keeper.

Darken kept his hood high as he walked along the footpath from the Boundary to Southaven. It was likely a craggy branch-off from Hawker's Trail. But it was cold, the air here was much heavier than it had been in D'Hara. In D'Hara there had still be summer conditions; yet here, just north of the sea in Westland, the air was cold. It was dense. By the looks of the trees the fall had already come. The sky was dark, ranging between tones of gray and black. The clouds were full of rain, and did not think twice for letting it fall.

Since he had emerged from King's Port Pass it had been the same; the rain had fallen at a steady pace all day. The entire sky as far as he could see, horizon to horizon, was a mottled mass of gray and black. It looked to be a fairly solid sky; a rain that would last for the entire day and most of the night. And such it had. He had finally emerged from the Boundary come nine o'clock the morning after he had encountered George and Michael Cypher in the last (or in their case the beginning stages) of the breach in the wall. He had taken his time walking towards the town; Southaven he knew would obviously be still standing no matter what time he might enter it.

He had been right. The sun had set and the night had risen hours passed. The rain was still pouring just as heavily as it had when he emerged into the unguarded territory of Westland that morning. By now his black woollen cloak was heavily saturated with the pouring rain. He felt, and looked, as though he had been tossed into the Drun River. Under his hood, his hair lay flat against his head, and stuck to the sides of his face. The water ran out of it just as it fell from the sky. His cotton skirt clung to his breast as tightly as it could go without being as a second skin. Without being as the Mord'Sith leathers had been against his figure. The suede of his breeches had been all but ruined by the water that had driven against him as he walked. The hides would be forever blotched now. Not that he cared. The boots too would need to be treated with Neatsfoot oil to keep them soft and supple, else the rain and the mud that he had walked through would ruin it and stiffen the leather. But that could be bought in Southaven he supposed. He shuddered slightly to himself as he pulled the sopping wet mantle closer against his body, trying to trap and keep any warmth that he could.

Southaven slowly came into sight; but what it was on the horizon was a sad, gray, little town where few lights were flickering. Even at this time of the night. Though he kept no sort of watch on his person, nor could he read the stars and the moon through the clouds enshrouding the sky, Darken did not suppose that it was later than ten o'clock in the evening. He knew he had been walking long, but he had been keeping a less than quick pace. The sun, he knew, had set roughly around eight o'clock, and by the feel of it, it had been roughly two hours hence.

The road was less road than it was mud. It was thick where the wheels of carts drawn by heavy Shire Horses had carved their way through the earth and cut long trenches. The consistency of the earth was closer to a cream soup than it was a compacted walking surface. It further stained the hidden King's boots. Glancing down, Darken lifted his booted foot as he bent his knee. Holding himself in just such a way that he could view the bottom of his foot without falling over to the right side. He sighed angrily and muttered a few choice High D'Haran words. He hated the poor people. No such mud and filth would be allowed in D'Hara, never. He had ordered that when the rain poured so foully that the people of the villages through saw dust or gravel or some other such component into the roads so that it may hold. Just in case he felt the sudden need to visit them. But than again, he hardly left the Peoples Palace for all the work he was doing. In a way this should have been considered a vacation of sorts, yet all it did was anger him further and keep him in a constant state of bitterness as opposed to relaxing him. Perhaps when he reached Hartland (where he had last seen the Tracer Cloud before all this rain had set in) he could relax. Oh yes, perhaps once he had found Tarralyn and had once again been in her bed he would be relaxed. Though he somewhat doubted that even a Mord'Sith could alleviate the frustration and anger that coursed through his body along with his blood. He doubted very much that he would ever truly feel warm again. It seemed as though ice crystals had in fact formed in his blood and they flowed along keeping the chill in his body. He had never been this cold, not even when he had travelled to give grain stores to the people of D'Hara the winter before he himself had been made into a male Mord'Sith. Not even during the breaking where he hung naked before the Mord'Sith. Nothing had made him so cold as his journey from the Peoples Palace west here to Westland. It would be a miracle if he ever properly felt his extremities again.

Darken shuddered further with the cold as he made his way through the open gates of the miserable little town. Southaven was no better, even if it had been in the sunlight, than the rest of the weather that had surrounded him all day. In fact, even if he had been warm and in the best of spirits, gaily skipping away with a song on his breath, as he travelled the sight of the town would have drained all cheer from his being. All it did now, was further the feeling of resentment that the woman he was hunting would ever have left the Peoples Palace in the first place. He did not know what the fuel for her selfish act was, but he knew that it was causing him this discomfort. This feeling of wretched coldness that even magic could not banish. He somehow doubted that even the inn that awaited down the street with it's flickering lamps could turn the chill in his bones away. He felt that it was with him now forever for sure. Briefly he considered lifting the ban on the use of fire in his Kingdom, if only so that the other people, both Nobel and Serf alike, would never have to feel this desolate feeling ever again. But that was a small sliver of the man he used to be shining through, and it didn't last long. What should he care if there were other people cold and freezing to death? Only he, the King, mattered. If he was comfortable than it didn't matter what the serfs were feeling. As for the Nobles, truly most of them lived within the walls of the marble city that was the Peoples Palace.

The door of the inn creaked dangerously as Darken laid his palm upon its center and eased it open. It swung lopsidedly in to the left as he laid the barest pressure against the aged timbers. The door revealed a dark and grimy inn that was bathed in a yellow, urine-stained, light that flickered from the few candles strewn about the interior. His eyes burned slightly under the hood at the taste of proper light that they were then staved of. But, by the looks of the inn, he did not want to see more of it.

The Southaven inn was full of seedy looking customers as Darken glanced about. His cold blue eyes were shielded away from the world by the black hood of the cloak; the tails of the fabric he had twisted and tossed about his bare throat to keep whatever warmth he could retain. It was early autumn, but it felt like the midst of a deep winter to him. Water dripped from the wool as he stepped into the inn deliberately slow.

Eyes lifted from their tankards of ale and mead in order to turn towards the stranger that had just entered their midst. And a stranger he was, dressed in a black cloak. No one wore black, black was the sign of Death. For all they knew he was a messenger of the Nameless One. A shiver ran down a few spines, but whether it was from the thought of why he might be donning a black cloak, or the draft that his entrance had brought sweeping through the Inn they did not know. Others looked upon him with contempt, thinking him to be a lawman of sorts. And in truth, of sorts, that was what he was. He was a King in his land, the highest authority their beyond the reach of the Mother Confessor on her throne in Aydindril. But none here could know that. Other men merely murmured to themselves and their companions that strangers were not welcome in Southaven. And yet they did nothing more than whisper to themselves. They were not going to be foolish enough to tell the newcomer such things. They might have been criminals, and hardened ones, but they knew better than to bring too much attention to themselves.

Darken raised a wet, sun kissed, hand from the folds of the wet wool and lowered his hood slowly as he looked around. He met the eyes of every man and crumbling woman that saw fit to stare at him. Each in their turn cowered and looked away from the wintry eyes of the D'Haran King.

The Inn keeper stood behind the counter at the bar. His head was shaved, as though to hide the fact that he was balding. But nothing made the state of his scalp all the more obvious, whether he realized it or not. Bill was a good man, but making his home in Southaven made many think ill of him. They assumed him to be yet another crook in a town full of minor villains. Bill looked on towards the man who stood currently with his back to him. He was leisurely wiping clean a dirty glass tankard that had been left on the counter haphazardly by a drunkard that had wandered out not long before. Bill was a tall and stout man, who wore an awfully stained apron. It surely could never have been made of any white material, but must have always been a slight gray tone. Either way, it was horribly marked with all manner of things. Ranging from what appeared to be blood to candle wax, ale, and red wine. And any matter of things in between. His heavy black beard and the hair upon his arms was a stark contrast to his bald head and his horrid apron.

Bill kept cleaning the glass tankard in his slow and uninterested way. Though, beneath the expression of ennui, the man's mine was ticking loudly; the gears were turning. He had caught the brief sight of the dagger hiding, and the agiel when his newest patron walked through the doors. After a moment he cleared his throat and took a breath. "How can I help you, sir?"

Darken was leaning back against the counter; his hands were clasped to the right of himself, and his right elbow was resting on the countertop. His form was standing diagonally, and braced by one bent knee, and his elbow upon the tabletop. He turned his eyes back to the right first; the icy irises moving to look at what little of the Inn Keeper that he could see from his place. It gave his features a nasty evil appearance in the brief moment before he turned his head to match his eyes. Darken looked back over his shoulder at the man for a very long moment. He remained silent the entire time, as people slowly started to return to the conversations, and arguments that they had been having before he entered the filthy little tavern. Finally lifted his arm from the counter and raised himself up as he turned his body to face toward the balding man. "I require a meal, and a room for the night."

Bill nodded gently as he set the tankard down. "Of course sir, if I could just get a name from yeh-", with the forthcoming reaction, one would have thought that his words had been a crime.

Darken's blue eyes narrowed harshly as he glared into Bill's brown eyes. "A name? Why would you need my name?"

Bill shook his head, trying to defuse the situation. "No no sir, you've got my meaning all wrong. I don't need a name, you are welcome to not give me one. However I am only asking so that I may better serve you, sir. So that only you may answer when I call for you. That's all."

The unfeeling blue eyes were still upon Bill (who was trying to act as though it did not bother him in the least). Darken was still wary of the question. He had managed to slip through the Midlands without being questioned as to his name. He did not think that it would be important at all. But than again, the people of the Midlands were so vast and varied that most people were ignored in totality. Westland was not as such. The people of Westland were lesser in number and in origins, and nearly everyone knew each other, or had at least heard the names in passing. Darken had never taken this side of the Third Territory into consideration. But than again only a week before the D'Haran King did not think that he would have to travel into Westland to find the woman he sought. He had thought that she would be in the Midlands. But, than again, Darken had never heard the news that the Boundary between the Midlands and Westland had been raised. He was unaware of it for as long as it had existed. He knew of the one between D'Hara and the central Territory, but he had never thought one existed further to the west. He knew the Boundary in D'Hara had been raised to contain his father. To contain him like some sort of animal, and it ignited his anger every time he thought on it. One day he would bring them crashing down. Then the Great Wizard (whatever his name had been [Darken could not, for the life of him, remember the name of the Wizard that had murdered his father and so scarred him himself]) would see the power that had bred and multiplied behind the cage that he had raised against it. Then the old bastard would run in terror. Then there would be retribution for the crimes committed in the Great War against him. And then people would see who was truly great and good. He, Darken Rahl, not some pathetic excuse for a Wizard. Not some now decrepit old man. But Darken shook his head. He supposed he had better give the Inn Keeper a name of sorts. If it kept the man quiet. He cleared his throat a little, "Darren. Darren Wolf."

Bill stared at him a long moment, looking him over. But he, unlike a Confessor, could see no sign of untruth in Darken Rahl's face. And even if he had been able to see such an expression on any other man, he would not be able to read it from Rahl. Darken had had the training of a Mord'Sith. A training that left him void of all emotion but sudden psychosis and rage. Void of the ability to show any other emotion. Oh how Tarralyn would been horrified to see what had become of her lover. The proprietor simply nodded. "Strong name, strong family I imagine, no?", he glanced up towards Darken's face as he poured ale into the nearly clean tankard that he had set down once again upon the countertop.

Darken, or rather Darren, had glanced down toward the glass container while the man spoke. His nostril curled up and the corners of his mouth turned down a little as he furrowed his brows and looked on disgust. It was rather clear that the glass was still filthy from the last patron that had drank from it. He wouldn't have been entirely surprised if that man had also vomited back into the mug before passing out and being tossed out into the street. He thought he passed an unconscious man (or two…or five), in the muddy streets of Southaven. But his eyes lifted once more as he swiftly felt Bill's eyes upon his face. He steeled his expression and looked on a little indignantly. "What makes you say that?"

Bill shrugged lightly as he found a steel plate under the counter. "No real reason.", he turned and handed the plate to a woman servant who had been walking passed. She was filthy, covered in soot, cooking oil stains, and her hair was fraying down out from under the dirty white scarf she wore to keep it back, yet she was pretty enough. Darken smirked to himself when he saw her. She merely nodded to Bill and turned back the way she had come, taking the plate into the kitchen. To get a meal for the newest patron. Darken couldn't help but continue to smirk ever so slightly as he watched her walk away from the corner of his eye. She might prove to be a meal, of sorts, herself. Bill turned back to him once more as he wiped his hands off on the stained apron he wore. "Just that you're named for a strong animal."

"Mmm.", Darken made no real answer. He didn't quite know how to react to that. His name may not have truly been Wolf, but Rahl meant exactly the same thing as the other. He was already named for the wolf. He decided to shrug it off as he lifted the glass tankard (pushing back the disgust that he held), and brought it to his lips. He took a long draught of the dark golden liquid. It was strong, and burned slightly, but it was not unpleasant. Strong, perhaps, for someone more used to (and suited for) wine, but it warmed him against the cold that had entered his bones. It spread like a wave from his throat and down through all his body. Maybe he could ignore the soiled glass if it continued to warm him up the way it was.

Bill had noticed his lack of response, and his curiosity won out. His eyes flashed down to the soaking wet man's right thigh as he sat on a high stool. The blood leather holster attached to a tri-belt that was riveted into a softer black leather belt fastened around his waist was fairly obvious. But the weapon held in it was the real oddity. A blood red leather rod, about a foot or a foot and a half long, with a brass chain hanging from what appeared to be the handle. He was not stupid, the Boundary had gone up when he was a young boy, but he had been in the Midlands before that. He knew what the weapon was; it was an agiel. The symbol of D'Hara's most frightening force. The Mord'Sith: women trained in torture that could break a man and drive him to completely insanity in the matter of days. The Mord'Sith were answerable to only one man, their Master. The Master. The King of their dark and evil Kingdom. Darken Rahl. Bill had heard stories drift in through the Boundary of the horror that the King of that Realm had unleashed upon the little town of Brennidon. He shuddered slightly. Darren here had to be a brave and strong man if he wore an agiel. "And then there's that.", his eyes lingered upon the leather weapon on Darken's thigh.

Darken followed his eyes a moment and raised his brow slightly. But then his eyes narrowed. "And just what do you mean?"

Bill looked up, his brown eyes once again met the arctic eyes the man sitting across from him. He stared back as long as he could without blinking. "That, Sir, is an agiel. Only the Mord'Sith carry those. You must be fierce and brave if you managed to get one. Or else you're their Master, the King of D'Hara hidden away in the clothes of a serf.", Bill chuckled good-naturedly.

Darken only stared back darkly, in utter silence. But, after a long moment, he forced out laughter. Yet it suddenly stopped once again. "No. I took it from one of them.", he casually lifted his tankard once again and took another long swig from its depths.

Bill was intrigued. He crossed his arms a little and put them down on the other side of the counter. He leaned so he could listen to Darren, and look at him more properly. "Do you mind if I ask how?"

Darken stared back before his lips twisted into an evil little smirk. Clearly the man was not going to leave him be to have his peace and quiet and his thoughts. He might as well humour the man and give him what he wanted. He could embellish it all he wanted, the man would never know the difference. And if one day he ever realised who he had truly been talking to, he no one would ever believe him. And it wasn't like they would now. Very few here in Westland knew what a Mord'Sith even was, or an agiel for that matter. They did not know why such a thing should be feared. It looked only like a club of sorts to their eyes. But than again, what was wrong with telling them the very truth? "I was taken out of bed and away from my lover. There were some pointless orders about capturing me, I still don't really know why to this day."

Bill shrugged a little, "I guess that D'Haran bastard has to entertain himself somehow. I bet he enjoys it, if you know what I mean.", he winked slightly.

Darken growled lowly, and bared his teeth, but he quickly forced himself to brush it aside. Fine. Whatever this man wanted to think, what was the point in arguing. So he figured he might as well play along, "Ha. Yeah. But I heard even he had to face the Mord'Sith training. Anyway. I was taken from my bed, from my home, and carted away. For three weeks they beat me and tortured me while the cart clattered along the road to the Temple. When I got there, they cut my hair from me, saying I wasn't fit to wear it that long. Every day for seven months they tortured me. They were trying to train me."

His eyes had gone wide. "Seven months! By the spirits! How on earth did you last?"

"Hmm? Oh… I partitioned my mind. I just let them have a small part of my mind, and retained the rest so that I couldn't be broken. It's rather hard to explain."

Bill was frowning slightly. "I think I get what you mean. You protected yourself while answering to them."

"Mmm… essentially yes. Anyway, after seven months when they thought I was broken they had me kill a young girl that had I known. I did it, so that they would let me rest. Rest was a reward you see, if you did not do as they ask and earn it, than it was forbidden. So I thought that if I acted as though I was broken I might at least get a day of solitude from it. Solitude which is something often denied me wherever I find myself.", he emphasised the last statement, hoping Bill would understand that he did not in fact want to even talk to this man. But it seemed to go over the Inn Keeper's head entirely. So Darken merely took a breath and continued. "So while I was resting I broke loose and I ran. Bloody hard it was. And well, my Mistress, Evelyn, and her bitches caught me the next day. They dragged me back to their temple and started all over again. Eventually Evelyn did succeed, in a way. I've never been the same since. I lashed back at her, and killed her. I took her agiel; it only works for someone that it has been used against.", Darken looked down to his right thigh an easily put his hand upon the grip of the weapon, and though it brought him pain unimaginable, both physical and mental, the look never crossed his face beyond a slight dilation of his pupils. He tugged it loose of the holster and turned it over in his fingers, till the handle faced Bill. "Do you want to hold it?"

Bill's brown eyes widened and he jumped back slightly. His gaze was locked upon the weapon in the man's hand. He could hear the pain that it would bring. The bloody thing was singing. Singing! His stare returned back to Darren's eyes. "No!"

Darken continued to look at him calmly. His pupils were still dilated, but he showed no other reaction. The weapon had stopped singing now that the end most meant for the infliction of pain was held in his bare hand. "I promise you it will not, cannot harm you. You have to be touched with cruelty and wickedness behind the intention with it before it can harm you any more. To you right now it is nothing more than wood and leather, with a core bound to the King of D'Hara. Yet to me it is as holding a white hot brand which boils my blood and burns my flesh."

Bill looked down to the weapon once more. He wondered how the man could bare to hold it. "How… how can you stand to touch it if they did all that to you? If you kept yourself sane and turned against them? How can you hold something that reminds you of them?"

Darken continued to look back at Bill as he turned the agiel in his hand once more so that he was holding the butt of it. He turned it easily and slid it back into its place upon his thigh. "Because they didn't just torture me. They trained me to take pain. They trained me to be male Mord'Sith."

Bill shuddered violently. But the tension was broken when the pretty servant woman returned. She set the plate down for Darken gently. She bowed her head and held out her skirts in a quick curtsey. She had no way of knowing what she had interrupted. "I hope you enjoy your meal sir.", smiling gently she turned back to Bill for any more instructions. The Inn Keeper merely shook his head signalling she was free for the night. His eyes, however, caught the enflamed blood red welt upon Darken's palm as he lifted the fork from the counter. He shuddered.

Darken ate as much of the food as he could, without eating the slab of beef that was on the plate. Even the thought of it made him shudder, but he kept it to himself. The night was clearly getting late by the time he had finished. Bill was still at the counter, but was now organizing bottles more or less. He was waiting for Darken to finish the food, if he was waiting for anything. Most of the other drunkards had either passed out, gone to their rooms, or gone to their shabby, pathetic, little houses. Yet out of the corner of his eye he spotted the woman servant. She was watching him, trying to be discreet, as she cleaned tables for the evening. He smiled slightly, "Perhaps she will be a better meal than this rot that I've been eating.", he thought to himself.

Bill noticed that he had stopped eating, and took the plate silently. He knew now better than to question Darren any further. The man carried an agiel, and clearly did not do so just for appearance sake. He knew how to wield it. The thought was terrifying to say the least. He glanced to the meat left behind, but shrugged it off. It could be given to the dogs. But as he stepped into the back of the inn, he turned to look over his shoulder. "Sergine!"

The servant woman looked up from mopping up a table when she heard her name. "Yes Bill?"

"Show Darren to his room, will you?", Bill left the moment he finished his orders for the woman.

Sergine started to blush a little.

Darken could only smirk to himself.