Disclaimer: Refer to the prologue, people.

Chapter 2: Arbitrary Dates

Angela Saxellianbriskly walked the busy streets of Prontera, the image of Elrodein waving a hand in farewell still in her mind. The young acolyte rushed back to her own home the moment they stepped inside the city, eager for her soft bed. Elrodein isn't exactly alone in life – she still has an elderly aunt left and the acolyte shares the house with her. But to the teen's own admission her aunt isn't too attentive of her. She doesn't seem to care whether she may be gone for days or she doesn't return at all. Not that old lady is a classic vile spinster; Elrodein explains fairly, but only that she doesn't feel anything 'maternal'. She grew up without anyone from her immediate family, and thus heavily invested the affection to her friends. A big part of it was given to Angela - Elrodein saw a sister in her, Angela saw the same.

"My next trip would probably be in Morocc or back in Payon," Elrodein told her casually as they treaded past the merchants stationed by the gates, putting a terse emphasis on 'Payon'. "I might be gone…by tomorrow, or the day after tomorrow."

Angela knew that Morocc isn't anywhere as safe as Prontera. It could be safely said as the exact opposite. If made to choose between the Morocc and Payon, she would definitely choose Payon. At least the hunters are more reputable than the assassins and rogues. She pleaded to the acolyte that if she is ever going to Morocc, she should immediately leave when she gets a bad instinct of the things to come. Knowing the desert city, it could be as well as be true. The knight could've chosen to stop Elrodein altogether, it would be the first thing she would do, yet she knows that once 'adventuring' is already put in the sentence, Elrodein would stop at nothing.

'What a hyperactive holy terror,' she thought to herself, ignoring the urban noise around her. 'If it's me, I would definitely avoid Morocc. I'd rather stay in Payon Cave overnight…'

Afraid to lose her again…so sisterly of you. So touching.

Oh, beautiful, Angela mentally answered back with an exasperated 'tone'. 'I'm madder at the fact you constantly bug me than the malarkey you bore me with.' She tried to maintain focus at her walking. If she continues striding about the streets while psychologically bickering then she could as well walk to the wall. 'Honestly, am I the only one who had the patience to deal with you?'

Oh no…sadly, you're not the first. You're father was an enduring man too, you know-

Right. She had grown used to the mental quarrels she always have. She was once warned that those mental quarrels had sent many of her ancestors to madness, but it seems that they were only victims of their own impatience in dealing with those arguments. Dangerous, yes, she still considers that, but one's own shortcomings could be more dangerous than the sharpest blade…

'With the lack of things to do, it seems you gained more access to my mind. If I could simply just walk back to the army I'd do it, my grand misfortune.' She would readily go against the orcs if that is the only way to hush the 'malevolent' being back to its shaft.

All of your ancestors wished to silence me, yet it only remained a wish. I say the same for you.

'Oh I wish, Zachriel, I do wish…' Angela does appreciate the fact she has saintly patience.

The blonde-haired young man blinked as he gazed at the bleak condition of the city before him. 'By Jupiter, is this former capital of the Moroccan empire?' he thought dubiously, looking carefully at the decrepit sand-colored buildings and trying his best to see any remnants of aesthetic beauty in them. ''Our castle's basement looks considerably better than this!' He quickly corrected himself though. 'My masters' basement, I mean…'

Morocc definitely looked desolate. The splendor once attributed to its stately edifices had faded, its famed wealth all spent to the impractical luxuries of its affluent nobility. Except for a few dignified buildings, Morocc was the picture of poverty. The well-off commoner is a dream of long ago, and in its place was the destitute pauper of the streets. Public discipline and order of any form had vanished and only available to those who could afford them. Instead of guards doing their rounds there are thieves and rogues patrolling the streets for the opportunity of a quick zeny.

Aventine greatly disdains the fact he has to be in the city. Not that he has something to fear – he prides himself for being fearless – but he feels severely irked being preyed upon by covetous stares courtesy of the thieves standing 'innocently' at all corners. He thought that if one of his masters are here, these contemptible people would've either been smoking corpses or halved cadavers, but on the greatest provocation. Glares aren't great aggravations –would he raise hell for a simple envious glare? It was very appealing, but he knows his 'manners'.

"One thief touching me and I'll blast a half of this city to oblivion," he whispered to himself, feeling the greedy glares of the thieves from their corners. He could make out individual flashes of slim metal from obscured angles, illuminating the avaricious expressions of their holders' faces. Maybe he shouldn't have worn such affluent robes – it attracts too much attention. And too much attention means displaying a piece of his temper. But it was the most modest set he could ever find, and he knew it wasn't very convincing.

'Rule number one…' he muttered to himself as a warning. 'Always…be…modest.' And modesty was his worst virtue. Trying to maintain the conceited air to himself, he walked the dusty roads with all the restraint he could ever muster without resorting to bolts and storms. The corners of his mouth were twitched as more and more glares descended upon him. No doubt he looks rich, the thieves thought greedily – the state of the hair was enough indication.

'Rule number two…' He tried to focus his mind on his mission. 'Keep your temper absolutely in check.' Now, patience isn't exactly his forte, but at least it is easier to keep than modesty. People are more annoyed of him than of him annoyed of them, anyway. He could sense that the thieves are quite irked of him, courtesy of the 'superior' atmosphere surrounding him. They bothered not to hide their knives anymore. The only thing needed now is the chance to snatch what could be snatched from him.

The dry desert wind swept across the city, bringing glumness and blinding dust. Aventine wasn't used to these though. As the breeze embraced his slim form, he closed his mahogany eyes as the dust assaulted them-

The chance they were waiting for.

'Zachriel, if you're so eager to have a nice chat with me, we'll have one, okay?'

'Out of bore,' she remarked to herself glumly. 'And resignation.' If 'Zachriel' had driven all the past Saxellians to madness, it has to make a triumph out of Angela. And Angela isn't going to surrender her sanity all too easily. She knows that the best way to deal with Zachriel is to have patience. Loads of it. Somehow she realized that it wasn't so bad after all, or maybe her way of thinking has become twisted to consider it.

'By the way, I'll only do this once in a while,' she told Zachriel warily. It might think she's giving her mind away for showing such gestures of 'friendliness'. 'I'm just wondering why my ancestors all hate you, you know.'

You hate me too, Angela. You only hate me less and in an eccentric way.

The knight couldn't help smiling at the comment. 'It's just I have the guts to face everything and endure the whole while it's front of me.' She already knows a place to spend the whole conversation in peace. Her feet automatically led her to a familiar route. 'A tormenting pleasure for me, maybe. Sometimes it brings me back to earth, you know.'

That's why you're the best Saxellian out of them. You simply lasted.

'Probably inherited that from my father.' A recognizable, glass-paneled door stood before her. Beyond the door she could see a few patrons quietly drinking their bottles and glasses. Some of them were talking, others were alone. It was her favorite haunt whenever she needs a few mild drinks. Liquor is needed when dealing with Zachriel. 'Score that to him.'

The thieves, using their honed agility and sneakiness, quickly slithered towards the vulnerable wizard, their sharp knives ready. The wizard obviously has his guard down – a hand was across his eyes, maybe attempting to clear his sight. Their hungry eyes traveled up and down his length, determining where his purse could be…

'Rule number three…' Aventine felt their presence closing in around him. Reddish-brown eyes opened, showing themselves between the openings of his fingers. The thieves suddenly felt their confidence evaporate as they saw the otherworldly force pulsating in those mahogany irises.

'Thou shalt not hesitate if necessary.'

His white blonde hair softly fluttered in a nonexistent wind, removing the hand covering his face to reveal a confident, mischievous grin. The thieves resumed their attacks – not to simply rob him, but to finish him as well. That was the last thought they had in mind, for instantly sheets of lightning simultaneously struck down from the thin air around the mysterious wizard, coursing freely through the thieves' bodies. A chorus of grisly screams emanated from dying mouths, shouting their agony to the searing desert air. But the citizens are too numb to care – they have enough worrying for themselves, and they don't want to get involved into another guild confrontation, which is mostly the scenario when someone screams. The cries slowly faded into nothingness. Into silence. A moment later, deep-fried bodies collapsed lifelessly on the Morocc sands.

"Lucky bastards…" Aventine murmured to himself, casting one final look at the heavily burnt corpses. "I suppose it was too painless." Simply too painless.

He was about to leave when he thought heard something behind him. No, not thought. There is definitely something behind him. The sound of a whimper.

"I missed a pathetic fool like that?" he commented exasperatingly, sharply turning around to face whoever was fortunate enough to be unnoticed. He let out a snort when he saw it was only another thief, obviously younger than the burnt ones before him, cringing behind a worn-out barrel. The wizard's eyebrows rose as he noticed the terrified and pleading look in her eyes. It was quite familiar to him. Oh yes, those were the same expressions people have at the very last quarter-second of their lives. Scared. Terrified. Begging. Aventine is used to it though, and he perfectly knows what to do when dealing with those emotions.

"I-I…I'm not one of them!" she squeaked incoherently, her whole being shaking with fear.

"I didn't…I didn't t-tried…to r-rob you…"

She winced when the blonde wizard stepped forward, a condemnatory look in his fair face.

"P-please…y-you…h-have t-to believe m-me…"

He was barely a meter away now, standing tall over her frightened form. His face read with blankness. Tears streamed out of the thief's imploring eyes. This man easily killed half-a-dozen men without even raising a hand to do so. He could easily kill her with a glare.

"I-I s-swear…I-I w-won't tell…a-anybody!"

The unknown wizard crouched in front of the trembling thief, emotionless and silent. She quailed at the sight of his innocent-looking face and assertive mahogany eyes. A hand gently touched her cheek. A touch as gentle as that of a lover. She jumped back nonetheless, feeling her back colliding with the hard wall. He smiled soothingly at her.

"Aren't you cute?"

The thief felt the temperature inside her rise with emotion. She was safe. This wizard spared her. He isn't that bad after all. Maybe he likes me, she thought, slipping into dreamy reveries. Maybe she looks like his girlfriend. And he is so good-looking too. The cool reddish-brown eyes glimmered serenely, almost kindly. The handsome smile remained in his face as she felt the temperature rise higher. And higher. And higher-

Until she realized that it wasn't due to the emotions anymore.

Her eyes widened in shock and trepidation as she realized, too late, that…

I'm on fire.

She began to scream. Screaming the searing pain out. Screaming as the fire rapidly consumed her slim form, starting from her feet and spreading to her whole body. The wizard still wore the damn smile as he withdrew his hand from her now burning cheek. It was hot. Too hot. Hotter than hottest moment Morocc ever had. It was as hot as hell. And its ruler was now grinning at her with some sort of malevolent pleasure. He was no angel of mercy, she thought bitterly as the pain ravaged her like hell itself. An angel of death.

"You're cute, yes, but not cute enough to be spared."

Aventine stood up, chuckling softly. He lazily snapped his fingers as he turned to leave. The flames immediately disintegrated into nihility. A severely burnt body slumped sideward into the sand, crumbling into ashes.

'Rule number five: Never leave any survivors.'

Angela's favorite drink was actually the Pronteran specialty infamously known as the 'Holy Water'. All of Prontera's bars have a large supply of this, for most of the citizens of the capital patronize the drink better than the other ones. It was said that the one who concocted the fine drink was an abstinent priest who had a passion for wine growing.

'Abstinent priests and grapes…tell me, Zachriel, could irony be that great? It is even in urban legends.'

This world is full of it, as you may have known.

'Oh of course I do know. I and Eroldine is an epitome of the concept, if that's what you're planning to shove to my incredibly guilty conscience, as you may call it.'

There's no need to shove it to your mind. It's always there.

'…Forever there, in fact.'

I always wondered why you never searched for her.

Angela looked scornful as she sipped from her glass. Nevertheless her patience lingered. 'My fault, I admit. I thought she would come back…'

And you eventually forgot her.

Forgot her? Eroldine was beyond unforgettable. 'I didn't. I did try to search for her-'

But why you never found her?

'Because she never made herself to be found. It's that simple.' Simple? Right. Damn it, here comes the headaches.

Oh well, you have point. You did found her again.

The knight chose not to answer. The headaches could only get worse. And the last thing she needs is a bar full of pierced customers. Maybe tolerating Zachriel was a bad idea after all.

I seemed to hit the spot. I'm incredibly sorry for that.

'What entered my head to talk with misery condensed, bent on controlling others through their own sadness?' she asked herself as though it was the worst idea she had ever conceived. 'Maybe Zes was right. I am crazy.' The familiar drawling voice of a certain blacksmith ran through her mind for the fifty-third time already. The knight's face fell as she recalled the precise words. Franzes Arvelaine meant well – very well, in fact – but the words were stingingly true.

"…First you refuse day offs then you go tramping around Rune-Midgard with a suicidal tendency. You are crazy, hands down. And you know what? You need a boyfriend."

Boyfriends? She could impale them sooner. Like Eleris said, the saints of Prontera church have to come alive first.

'I'm going insane. I need someone to talk to other than some deranged thing of the past.'

"Lady Angela Saxellian of the Pronteran Army?"

Bingo.

Aventine found himself facing a plain wooden door set in a modestly-sized square building characteristic of Morocc. He genuinely hoped that he isn't mistaken this time. The last house owner was an old man who visibly had a hangover, and abruptly slammed the door shut at his face. The wizard dearly wished to wreck his house with soul strikes, but he knew that he already staged enough show earlier.

He politely knocked on the door. Four seconds passed in silence. He rapped the door until his fist became sore. Ten seconds flew away in stillness. He sighed deeply.

"I'm so sick of this." He said aloud, his hair rising mildly. His mahogany eyes shimmered in a mystical glimmer as he intoned the arcane words of a spell. Almost at the very moment he started white orbs of energy materialized around him and furiously sped towards the target. He could always pay the property damage.

As expected, the flimsy material succumbed to the force of the spell. The wood splintered and fell apart with a lot of cracking and crashing, completely demolished. Aventine smirked grimly and he promptly entered the house as though he did nothing more than knocking civilly.

"I know you'll be my cursed visitor for the day."

Yelthran Sarazen was sitting casually on a comfortable-looking chair, reading a particularly thick book entitled 'Milestones in Magic Volume 3'. He was slightly older than Aventine with long grayish hair and dark gray eyes behind stylish eyeglasses. The blonde wizard smiled at the remark, calmly approaching the man with an impish look in his eyes. "My hindsight warned me so…" He never mind property damages anyway.

"I can't believe you ditched your nice house in Juno for this." He commented lazily, looking around at the 'humble' abode. It basically looked like a bare sand-colored box with all the basics of a house and heavily packed with books of all kinds. "So your family did drop you out."

"Nah, it's not about family crap," the sage said carelessly, flipping the yellowed pages of the book he was reading. Aventine picked a tattered book from the tottering pile stacked high on the table besides Yelthran. "More like an overzealous fiancée."

The wizard laughed loudly at the answer as he languidly flicked through the dog-eared pages of his book. "Well, I always thought that Zelthrina Zelzah Oriphel was the dishonor of their clan."

"You bet." Yelthran replied drearily, closing the bulky tome with one hand. "She practically hounded me like some manic dog, and her parents became terrified of her behavior. They cancelled the wedding, but Zelthrina was fanatical. So I left Juno without her knowledge and went here. She doesn't have the guts to go here, so I know I'm safe. I liked her sister though…she was simply amazing for a girl. I saw her fight once…mind you, I was astounded."

"Dream on." Aventine remarked as his brow creased in reading. "Ever since her engagement got cancelled, the Lady Zelzah Oriphel of your dreams vowed never to marry." He closed the book so hastily that a few pages were flattened in folds. "You're asking the impossible."

"Dreaming is free, as they say," Yelthran stood from his seat to return the Milestones in Magic Volume 3 at its proper shelf. "What brings you here anyway, Aventine Darkhaven?"

Aventine snorted and smiled sarcastically. "By hell, if you're only going to say 'Aventine Darkhaven' with substandard tones, then you're better off with 'Arvin Stria' before I fry you."

Yelthran chuckled heartily at the 'threat'. "Always touchy for Darkhaven matters, aren't we? Fine, Arvin Stria. My apologies." He faced the young wizard, leaning on the shelf full of books, visibly untroubled. Aventine could be a little petulant concerning his 'formal name'. "Back to square one then – what are you here for?"

Aventine's cross voice mostly vanished, although a trace of it remained, stiffening his tone for a bit. "Simple. The books."

"Ah well…which one?" Yelthran always had the habit of borrowing books from the Darkhaven library back in Juno. Before he left Juno to hide from his 'overzealous fiancée', he loaned another batch of books from them.

"Although I would like it to be all, I obviously cannot heave it all back to Juno." Aventine said coolly. "So…I'm going to get the books specially requested by Mistress Khallian, namely: Milestones in Magic Volumes 4 and 5 and The Noble History of the City of Wisdom 32nd Edition."

"By Jupiter, she's not tired of history yet?" the sage sighed as he scanned the titles of the books lined on the bookshelf behind him.

"She already memorized the history of Juno, half of Rune-Midgard's history, all of the Prontera Kingdom's history, and has the most comprehensive set of books concerning the history of Glastheim. It isn't much, you now, knowing that her mentor Sir Feren basically knows it all…"

"At least that means she hasn't changed. Is she still the girl whom I had a crush years ago?"

Aventine grinned mischievously. "Of course."

Angela stared at the wizard besides her for a moment. He had messy brown hair and unusually sad green eyes, with fetching features and a slim form. He somehow looked familiar, but all the while he was sitting besides her, she never noticed him until he spoke up.

"That would be me, yes." She replied, trying to hide her uncertainty over the man's identity.

"It's me, Lady Saxellian…" he said softly, almost mournfully. The knight could feel his sadness from those familiar green eyes…green eyes that definitely belonged to someone she knew. "It's me, Trevis Yuehn."

Recollection swiftly ran past the green-haired knight's mind. Trevis Yuehn, one of the most outstanding spell casters of Geffen and the son of the Royal Governor of the city, Zenin Yuehn. A timid and introspective person, Angela had the opportunity to go to adventures with him during her swordsman days while he was still a mage. They were only together for a brief time, since Trevis stayed in Geffen when his father became a governor while Angela continued her escapades with Eleris, Raian, Franzes and Fiel. During the whole time they were together, the green-haired warrior knew that even though Trevis is mostly quiet to the point of near-muteness, he is practically cool and amiable, and once he is in a good talk he never stops chatting until he runs out of air.

"Oh…Trevis…" Angela said, putting down the empty glass of Pronteran wine. "It's been a while." Angela, on the other hand, is a near-mute herself unless forced upon in a talk. "How come…you're out of Geffen?"

Trevis debated within himself. His father forbade him to tell what is happening in Geffen. If the word spreads before the insurgents have Trevis, then they would kill him and his whole family, for they would be assuming that they told it to ask for help. On the other hand, Trevis would really need someone to talk with – someone to pour out all his miseries. He barely had any friends, and most of them are in Geffen. Angela Saxellian was his only friend, or more modestly 'acquaintance', outside the city of magic.

"A long, unbelievable story…"

Aventine Darkhaven naturally hated reading, but because of his will to become a wizard and his Mistress Khallian's preaching about the profits of reading a thick book, he endured the 'despicable ordeal of the books'. So far, he had read enough of them to fill a complete bookshelf, plus a few ones at the very top. But he knows that it was nothing compared to his masters. Mistress Khallian had finished half of their family library's books – she had been reading them ever since she learned how to discern a 'U' from a 'V'. Master Aneldis only read the books in his own room, which could be said quite a lot. All the other Darkhavens have 'reading' as part of their hobbies as though it was part of the Darkhaven bloodline. Only the imperturbable Master Rived openly professed that reading isn't a part of him, which is convincing since he is a lord knight.

'How come Mistress Khallian could endure reading books this thick?' he murmured to himself, pulling the strap of his backpack. 'I would've died midway.' Milestones in Magic Volume 4 was about two inches thick, while Volume 5 is twice the chunkiness. Both books pale in comparison with the Noble History of the City of Wisdom 32nd Edition - it was as thick as the distance between his little finger and thumb, fully extended.

'Better get a Priest to warp me to Juno before I die heaving this collection of moth-eaten papers.' The wizard thought in annoyance, weaving his way through the filthy narrow alleyways. 'That puts me to another problem. Priests don't stay in a place like this.' The thought of going to Prontera was the only option, but it seemed to be terribly arduous. He isn't blessed with a resilient body – quite the opposite, really. 'I'll die along the way. Oh joy.' With the fierce Moroccan sun high above him, it doesn't seem he would survive the trek through the Sograt. Damn it, why did he forget packing a butterfly wing? He feels superbly uncomfortable buying here – if there are still merchants in this kind of place.

"Won't heaven smile upon me and give me a good-looking priestess?" he said aloud as an expression of annoyance, puffing noisily at the weight of the three books. He swears that when he gets home he'll sleep for an entire day and refuse all the books laid out by Mistress Khallian. "Hell, I want to fry something." Whenever he gets to feel annoyance, he wants to blast it all out with a good magic spree. Back in Juno, he could freely do it in one of the training rooms at his whims, but in a populated place he is quite cautious of it. After all, rule number one says 'Always be modest'.

'Modesty, modesty, modesty…be damned, damn it.' He whispered, turning sharply at a street corner.

It turns out that his prayers were answered.

Angela gaped at the conclusion of the wizard's story. "Are they serious? Those people senseless!" she muttered intensely, trying to keep her feverish voice down. The news of Geffen planning a revolt might cause useless alarm. After all, wizards are capable. "Of course, the Pronteran army won't let them be…but it would be a massacre if most of the Geffenians are for it!"

Trevis looked more despondent than ever. "I know, Jelan…it's nothing but madness! But Mheian Halraence wants independence from Prontera. They felt severely shamed ever since they surrendered to Pronteran might without a fight. Phaestos Elerentt only wanted Geffen to be safe…even with the spells the wizards are bound to get skewered somehow, since shields and armor are present for the army, and those bolts would only bounce away-"

"Well, many of those armor and shields were made by the Arvelaine family, so everything is bound to deflect." Angela said, recalling the distant past. The Arvelaine clan of alchemists and blacksmiths are known for their steeply priced yet finely made products. The clan maintained close relations with the army for a long time, forging the knights' armor and weapons and supplies of potions. The 'outrageously priced masterpieces' were worth it though, for they never falter in their jobs and rarely need repairs, often outlasting their owners. But it wasn't like that now. With Cire Arvelaine being the current clan patriarch, the relationship between the Arvelaines and the army became strained, although the reasons are still not clearly known. There are rumors though, that it was because Cire raised the prices of the clan wares, and the army objected with the extreme increase…

"That's why Elerentt chose to surrender. Even if they rain down spells from afar, knights would still be able to reach them and gut them, thanks to the Arvelaine stuff. But now…the Arvelaines aren't closely allied with the army anymore and they rarely forge items for them. Halraence knew it would be to their advantage. The Arvelaine clan creates the highest quality forged items and with the army wielding weapons and armor of considerably lower quality those would give in easier to their magic. They could seriously wipe the army out…you cannot really say who is going to get massacred."

For a moment Angela thought of her best friend, Franzes Arvelaine. Franzes is a phenomenal forger, even for an Arvelaine. 'She's an Arvelaine…' she pondered for a second before reality hit her. 'But…she doesn't forge anymore….and even if she does, it would be too late. Geffen is ready to explode just about anytime…'

'Arvin Stria' often earned a lot of glares and stares simply at how he seems to walk around and talk about. People often get to notice his airy attitude before anything else. He has a nonchalant look upon him – his chaotic white blond hair disciplined through a 'decent style', red-brown eyes that gleam with an unusual kind of mischief, and good-looking fine features for a face. It usually hides his prowess in magic and leads his all too numerous opponents into thinking that he is all yapping and no skills, which normally delivers them to roasting deaths.

Which isn't much different to what happened just now.

"That was quick," he said brightly, surveying his magnum opus of ashes and broken ice fragments. "Okay priestess, you're obviously safe now."

The pink-haired priestess looked distressingly at the remains of the former thieves 'cornering' her. Her equally colored pink eyes then glared harshly at the blond wizard. "Safe? You killed them, wizard! This is a deplorable act!"

"Hey, they were about to kill you!" Aventine reasoned impatiently, stamping a foot and sending a few of the ashes billowing upward. The alley was getting too suffocating for the wizard. "What should I do, sweet-talk them from it?"

"You shouldn't have killed them!"

"There is no other way, miss priestess." Man, how could someone let their ethics come first before their lives?

"There are many other ways, mister wizard-"

"Oh yes, but they would be so incredibly time-consuming, one of us would have a dagger sticking out of our necks!"

The priestess only glowered indignantly at Aventine. Aventine simply glared back. The wizard realized that she's not the answer to his prayers – another problem, in fact. He's beginning to have headaches dealing with her.

"The law would get you, wizard-"

Aventine rolled his eyes in sarcasm. "Since when did Morocc have laws and law enforcers?"

"The Army is here, murderer! They would surely get you and throw you to wherever hades you deserve to get thrown!"

The blond wizard sighed deeply and ran a hand through his hair. "Oh well…I would only get thrown if somebody gets to act the canary…"

"What's taking that rabble-rouser so long?"

Khallian Darkhaven restlessly paced between the bookshelves of their family library, throwing angry glances to no one in particular.

"In Morocc, where else? That guy's a loyalist, he won't disobey," came the calm reply. "I suggest you simply follow him to wherever he is right now and give him a butterfly wing."

"He'll simply buy them from some merchant," Khallian answered, finally stopping and leaning at a bookstand. "But knowing how impractical Aventine is…and Morocc's no good place for business, so I doubt that merchants would be a common sight."

"That's it. Before he could find one he's dead. And by the way, isn't rabble-rouser such a rough term?"

The scarlet-haired high wizard rolled her eyes. "Fine, so it was violent. But even though that city is a breeding ground of hoodlums, it's still a wide place. What am I going to do, find a needle in a sand dune?"

"Yfel's here, so use him. Properly."

A small brownish-black creature jumped out from behind the other bookshelves, wielding a diminutive pitchfork and sporting small bat wings at its back. It looked extremely cuddly, with its dot-like white eyes and falcate mouth.

"Oh thank you very much, but what could a deviruchi do?"

A book sharply snapped close. "Khal, Yfel practically knows each and every one of us except you and he's friends with your retainer; he's going to sense Arvin even if he's seven feet under the sand."

"Then it means you're coming too."

"Nah. I thought you want to bond with my pet. It won't be friendly with anybody with me around, since it's a bit too busy trying to look cute and impress me."

Khallian was incredulous with the answer. "Zes, you're pet's going to torment me! Let the bonding be set for another day."

"Don't you have any faith in Yfel's virtuousness?" The deviruchi scurried towards a cozy armchair where a young woman with long brown hair in a ponytail was reading a few age-old documents.

"Of course I do, as much as I have faith in Rived turning into a priest."

"Well then, good luck trying to find your loyal retainer in the sands of Sograt."

Khallian knew that Franzes was trying to help and to make mischief all at the same time. She just doesn't have the energy to argue with her. "FranzesCecil Arvelaine, you are so doomed after this." She watched as the deviruchi jumped to her friend's lap, making soft high-pitched sounds. A hand stroked the creature's head affectionately, the metal trimmings of her vambrace catching the sunlight streaming through the large, delicately framed windows.

"Don't worry, buddy. Your library's not going to be wrecked or anything."

"If you do, my father's the one who's going to skin you anyhow. Where's Fiel, by the way? I need his warp."

"Check the chapel or the guestroom…I'm pretty sure he's there." She whispered something to her pet. The deviruchi leaped cutely from her lap and hurried towards the wizard. The latter nearly jumped back when she saw the creature running towards her. She has never been in good terms with Yfel, naming it 'Franzes' demon', and her patience grows considerably short when coping with it. "Could you also say to him that I've found out new braids to try out on his hair?"

"Honestly Zes, I pity Fiel for he has to bear with your 'hairstyling' antics. What are you reading about anyway?"

"Oh come on, I'm only playing with his hair. It's so beautiful, I grow envious of it. Quit invading about my hobbies now, and find the saintly priest."

"Since when did the Arvelaines started to command Darkhavens about?" Khallian grumbled audibly, marching towards the heavily adorned oak door, the deviruchi sparing the walk by grabbing onto her cloak and letting itself to be dragged instead.

"Just now, Khal. And don't compare me with those money-orientated idiots."

"At least I'm sure that you're not money-orientated, but I don't know about the 'idiot' part." Khallian said sincerely, opening the heavy door.

"Khallian Darkhaven, you're going to find out the answer after this."

The door fully swung open and the scarlet-haired wizard treaded outside, still unmindful of the slight weight by her cloak due to the deviruchi clinging to it. "Am I so afraid, seriously! By the way, Aventine Darkhaven is not a retainer, but a member of our clan, got it? I'm going, Zes. Bye for the meantime." The heavy wooden structure closed with a creaking noise. 'Why does my cloak feel a little bit too heavy anyway?'

Franzes Arvelaine smiled at her friend's last words. She reflected on the fact that Khallian would have to bear with her pet deviruchi. Amusing, but she feels incredibly lethargic for the meantime, having sifted through numerous weaponry-related books. The blacksmith knew it was quite surprising for someone like her, who hasn't forged for years...

'Better not to think about all sorts of things…' she said to herself, stretching her limbs and yawning widely. She feels the incredible need for something to drink, preferably Aldebaran whiskey, but she reminded herself this isn't her house in the first place to make too much demands. 'I feel like seeing Fiel…I'd better check him out. He could've fallen asleep in the chapel. What a saint.'

Franzes slid from her squashy seat and stood up, her pale and shapely form bathed in the citrine light of the chandeliers. Her auburn hair was tied in a way that it looks like she has short hair with jagged edges that curve outwards. She has an unusual, unpredictable air around her, her every move cool and unrestrained. Her eyes were the most strange, however – it wasn't solidly pigmented like other people, but rather tinted with three colors: red, blue and violet. All three seemed to melt harmoniously in her irises as one looks into them, enthralling and mysterious.

'I wish the others are here though…I'd really love to kid the hell out of Jelan…'

Notes from AiZhen: Fine, so most of you guys already think I'm dead or have forgotten since I didn't update soon enough. No, I'm still alive, although barely. I typed the first part of this chapter with a stuffy nose, while the second part was made with me finally finishing the cursed extemporaneous speech (I hate 2 minute time limits!) and after a good bout of fever. I also typed this without any internet connection for weeks or what…so I can't properly answer reviews yet, but thank you all!

Chao!