Dart: Umm… Shade?

Shade: What?

Dart: … you do realize that there's a cat on your head, don't you?

Shade: What cat?

Dart: I just said, the one-

Shade: -gritted teeth- I said, what cat?

Dart: Uhh… never mind.

Ugh. I'm starting to feel like Shane these days. We've just started to introduce our kittens to the wonderful outdoors. Unfortunately, whenever they get afraid, or need to be taken somewhere, their first reaction is to scramble up onto my shoulders and use me as their own personal transport. I don't mind, normally, except that one of them has decided to try to box my ear when I do so. Ehh… but they're so cute!

Sorry to everyone who got confused by my explanation of the sword at the beginning of the last chapter; apparently I wasn't clear enough about it. If you still want an explanation, I suggest you go look at the review left by Jonathon Coultas for last chapter; if you haven't seen it already, he formulated a nice short explanation that's to the point. None of my over-elaborating :P Thank you for that, Jonathon!

Side Story 7

Dorian was a bar tender. His father had been one, and his father's father before him. The pub that he owned had been passed down through the family for generations and had a reputation for being cheap and clean, and if the ale was watered down slightly, its low price and ample availability more than made up the difference to the regular customers. The establishment turned a neat profit a smidgen better than the pricier taverns along the waterfront, and so Dorian had seen no reason not to keep the business in the family when his father had passed on some ten years back. It made for a comfortable life, if one didn't mind the late hours, and as long as there were customers, you never lacked news from the mainland.

It was the customers, Dorian thought, wiping down the scarred counter with a damp rag, that really made the job interesting. Not so much how much they drank or paid (though that was definitely of interest too), but sometimes men came in from Rogue, or from the hot desert tracks in Tiberoia's far west. And once in a while, you might even be lucky enough to spot a wingly.

Dorian loved winglies. They were quiet, and tended to keep to themselves, but even still they stood out from the humans around them, marked out from the crowd. It was rare to see a real one nowadays; more often than not their blood had mingled with that of a human, and their hair was more blond than silver or their eyes more brown than red. Still, even these were a refreshing change from the usual group that frequented his tavern. The last time he had seen a wingly had been at least four years previous, and even then it had been but a brief glimpse. For the most part they kept to the mainland, and rarely visited the islands of Illisa bay. Because of this, more often than not they were nothing more than a wistful thought in the back of Dorian's mind, all that remained of a boyhood fascination with the elusive race.

But now… Dorian glanced furtively down the bar toward the couple seated over their drinks at the far end. Two of them in his tavern and neither of them showed any inclination to leave; though they hadn't yet inquired after the price of rooms. The male was a tall fellow, with dark, suntanned skin that made his hair seem even more alarmingly pale by comparison. He was dressed plainly, but his arms were roped with heavy muscle and his shoulders were touched with the telltale remains of scar tissue. A fighter, Dorian surmised, and a rough one at that. He was also on his second tankard of ale, though he seemed to have forgotten about it for the moment, only sipping from it now and then. His focus was on the pale woman seated at his side, eyes intent as he listened to her speak.

The woman, for her part, could hardly have provided a greater contrast to her companion. Pale and slim, her almond shaped eyes and angular features were exotic and touched with an unfamiliar beauty, and though she was shorter than her companion by at least a hand but was nonetheless on the tall side for a woman. She wore a dark silk dress of an unfamiliar cut and she played with the skirt as she talked, pausing now and again to sip from the small glass of brandy that she had ordered. Dorian privately wondered what business such a young woman had drinking such heavy liquor, even if she weren't human, but she seemed to be holding it well enough. Besides, one didn't question paying customers.

Dorian's wife bustled out of the kitchen as a new group of customers came though the door, wiping her hands on her apron and shooting an impatient look over her shoulder at her husband. Automatically he reached under the bar for a fresh set of mugs, pushing the winglies from his mind. 'They might be interesting', he told himself as he opened the tap and began to fill the mug, 'but there're still other customers to look after.' Still, he did glance back over his shoulder one last time before carrying the mugs out to the tables. 'Two of them, huh? Who would've thought?'

For the next ten minutes or so Dorian was kept occupied with the steady flow of work, pouring drinks and collecting coins. As he returned behind the counter to broach a fresh keg he happened to find himself within earshot of the two, who were still talking quietly as they lingered over the last of their cups. Feeling a tad guilty, Dorian found himself listening in as he hunted around for a mallet and knocked a new tap into the bung of the barrel with a few well-practiced movements.

"…Are you sure about this? It could just have been a coincidence, you know."

"Not likely." Out of the corner of his eye, Dorian saw the male wingly swirl the last of his ale in the bottom of his mug, staring at the dwindling supply of amber liquid remorsefully. "There were only two that he didn't recover in the first place. Everyone we've talked to have said that there were at least three involved in the fight. Which means-"

"He had to have been involved somehow." The woman pushed her drink away. "Do you want the rest of that? The flavor's a bit off for some reason. So, assuming it was him, what do we do now?"

The male shrugged, polishing off the last of his own drink setting the empty glass off to one side. "Ask around at the inns, find out if anyone's seen him. Check in with the Harbor Master and find out what ships left taking what passengers. If all else fails, we'll just find out where Ayrel is and hang around to wait for a bit. Whatever he's up to, he never goes too long without taking a crack at her. Either way, we should find out something of what's going on sooner or later." He reached for the cup of brandy, sipped it, and made a face. "You're right, this does taste a bit funny." Then he raised his voice. "Hey, Barkeep!"

Dorian jumped, almost dropping his mallet in surprise. Recovering himself quickly, he hurried over, wiping his hands on his apron. "Yes, sir?" He asked, though he already knew the complaint was coming.

Surprisingly, though, the wingly didn't mention it. "You rent rooms here, don't you?"

Dorian nodded, his heart rising a little. They were inquiring?

"Oh good. Maybe you can help us then. We're looking for a friend of ours who passed through town a few weeks back. You wouldn't have seen him, would you? Bit shorter than me, blond, probably wearing a big oilskin coat. He'd have been armed with a sword, too."

Dorian shifted his weight uncomfortably, trying to think. Both of them were watching him now, their scarlet eyes intent. It was really quite nerve racking, Dorian thought as he cleared his throat to speak.

"Blond? Armed with a sword…" He shook his head apologetically. I'm sorry sir, but we see all sorts in here. The sword narrows it down a bit, but even then…" He spread his hands helplessly. "Is there any way that you can be more specific?"

They thought about it for a moment. Then the woman spoke up. "His hair's usually a real mess. He usually just uses a bandana to keep it out of the way. There's a bit of a scar on his left cheek too, isn't there?" She looked at her friend for confirmation. "Yes. It's just small, but it's still pretty noticeable."

Something in the new detail tugged at Dorian's memory. He frowned, not wanting to rush the memory. "Is there anything else?"

"He's got blue eyes," the male replied, a bit lamely, as though he doubted it would help much. "Very clear, blue eyes."

The man sat on the stool with his head cradled lightly in his hands. Dorian set a mug of mulled wine on the bar before him, swiping idly at a stick patch on the countertop with his rag. "It's getting late, friend. You should look into finding a room for the night before they all fill up; otherwise you'll have nowhere to sleep but the streets. Rooms are scarce this time of year."

The man accepted the cup and sipped the steaming wine without lifting his head. "That's okay. I don't feel all that much like sleeping anyway." He took another drink, longer this time. "Are there any taverns around here open straight through the night?"

"Down on the waterfront, maybe," Dorian suggested a bit dubiously, "but if you plan on drinking heavy, I'd avoid them. Cutpurses tend to lurk by the doorways, and if you're not careful, some of the bolder ones wouldn't object to braining you with a cudgel before they rob you."

He chuckled and lifted his head slightly. His face was weary and sunk in shadows cast by the honey-gold lamplight, but his eyes were alert, showing none of the fatigue he must have felt. "I'll keep that in mind, mister. I think I'll head down there all the same, though. I need to find a ship willing to take passengers to Doneau within the next day or so, otherwise I'll be in trouble with my employer."

Dorian hesitated. His memory for faces wasn't the best, but he was fairly sure that that man fit the wingly's description. He cleared his throat, acutely aware that their eyes were still on him. "Well… there was one man in here a few weeks ago. I'm not sure where he was staying, but he mentioned that he was looking for a ship to take him to Doneau."

The man exchanged glances with the woman. "The timing would be right," he said, a bit needlessly. "Was there anyone else with him?"

Dorian shook his head. "Not at the time, but it sounded as though he was looking for a ship that would take more than one passenger.

"That explains a couple of things," the man muttered, half to himself. Draining what was left of the brandy, he set the glass back on the countertop and pushed it toward Dorian. "I guess we got lucky right off, then." He dropped a few coins on the counter and got to his feet, picking up his cloak from where he had draped it across the back of the stool. "I'd say we're about done here then, huh?"

The woman nodded, getting to her feet as well. "Thank you, Sir. You've been of great help to us."

Dorian watched them go, his eyes dogging their every footstep until they pushed open the heavy oak door and disappeared into the darkness outside. As the door swung shut, however, he exhaled sharply, wondering when it was that he had begun to hold his breath.

Later, as he began to usher the last of the late-night customers from the taproom while his wife cleaned the mess from the tables and floor, Dorian reflected on the conversation he had had with the pair. For all of his dreaming, all of the tales he'd heard, the winglies had seemed surprisingly normal. No teleporting. No mystical, mysterious words. For all of how they acted, they could have been any human couple sitting enjoying a night at the bar, drinking beer and brandy for Soa's sake. He shook his head, baffled by it all. And yet, at the same time…

So absorbed in his thoughts did he become that he hardly noticed his own wife waving her fingers in his face until she jabbed him in the nose.

"Look, there you go again, off with your head in the clouds. I was askin' you a question, Dorian. Don't you go ignoring me, now. Were those winglies I saw in here earlier?"

Jostled out of his thoughts, Dorian blinked at her owlishly and repeated, "Winglies? Yes, I suppose they were at that."

"Ah, that would explain it then." Dorian's wife spoke with a particular accent, a thick brogue that reminded him of lonely hilltops and mountain peaks. "They do strange things to your head, so I've heard. Fuddle your wits if you're around them too long." She shook her head, still muttering to herself. "Strange creatures, them winglies."

Normally Dorian would have ignored her; she knew dozens of old wives' tales, and would recite them accordingly whenever she had the opportunity. Now though, he could only stop and wonder, remembering the intensity of their crimson eyes.

"Aye, strange creatures," he repeated softly.

o

They were back.

Slone half-fell out of his cot, the damp, sweat-stinking sheets still twisted around his naked body. Kicking them free, he lurched to his feet and staggered back a step or two, eyes wild in the absolute darkness of his room. Fumbling for a match, he found one, struck it and touched the burning head to the stump of a candle, melted to the bedside table in a pool of its own congealed wax .The flame stuttered, then caught the blackened wick, burning low but still giving off a feeble light. With shaking hands, Slone blew out the match and let it fall smoking to the floor where he crushed it under his bare heel. It stung, even through the thick calluses, but he only gritted his teeth, welcoming the pain. Pain meant that he was awake, awake in his own reality. The creatures, those places did not exist here; it was all nothing more than a memory.

An incredibly vivid, haunting memory…

Slone closed his eyes tightly and grasped his head, trying to chase away the memories. But the after-images painted themselves on the insides of his eyelids like the playthings of some perverted artist, and he opened them again almost immediately, knowing he would find no rest that way. Reaching for a heavy clay jar on the far side of the table, he picked it up and shook it, hearing the thick liquid slosh about inside. Knocking out the stopper that sealed it shut, he lifted it to his lips and drank

The mixture was bitter and tasted as foul as it smelled, but Slone gulped it down greedily. The healer from whom he had bought it had warned him against taking more than a few sips a day, but since the dreams had begun to return he found that it took greater and greater amounts to hold them at bay. Even now, as he drained the last of the vicious-tasting drug from the jar, he knew it was a useless effort. Soon it wouldn't matter how much of the stuff he took; the dreams would be back a strongly before, and he would begin to slip.

Setting the jar on the floor, he slowly sat back down on the edge of the cot, ignoring the acrid scent of stale sweat that hung in a heavy miasma over the stained sheets. The whole room stank; it was a windowless hole beneath his lord's stables, away from the quarters of the servants or the other guards. He held the only key, so he had no fears of any of the stable hands stumbling accidentally into the mess. Not that there was much of anything for an unwanted visitor to find; the room's furnishings were as spartan as his belongings, consisting of a cot, a table, and a small chest he kept pushed back into a corner. His weapon, a short spear topped with a curved, two-foot blade was propped up beside it, while the steel-plated jacket and conical helm that served as both his armor and livery lay piled in a jumbled heap at its base. No, no danger in that. The only evidence to his impending madness had been the drug in the jar, and now that too was gone, nothing more than an unpleasant aftertaste on his tongue.

Madness. Was that really what these dreams were driving him to? Sitting with his head in his hands, he watched the flame dance low on the candle stub out of the corner of his eye. Before the drugs, it had been difficult to keep his true memories separate from those of the dreams. He found himself thinking of places with strange names he had never heard of, looking over his shoulder for an enemy he knew could not exist. But what disturbed him the most were the memories of… of lording. He could find no other way to describe it; knowing that others were subject to his whims, that he would bring swift death from the skies to those who opposed him…Lording was definitely the word. And yet, in the darkest dreams there was one who stood over even he, commanding his obedience even as he struggled to repress him; to control his genius like a dog on a leash…

Slone exhaled sharply and forced himself to sit upright, recognizing the danger signs. Even now, the memories stalked him, looking for a way to merge with his own. Dawn was still hours away, yet he shrank back from the prospect of sleep. He briefly considered hunting down the apothecary again and purchasing another jar of the medicine, but he dismissed the idea almost immediately. The drug would do more harm than good soon, and after purchasing the last jar he doubted that he had the coin to pay the apothecary again. Yet each time he closed his eyes, each time the foreign memories began to intrude, his options became slimmer and slimmer…

There was still one option open to him, however. Slone hunched over again as the idea occurred to him, staring at the candle without actually seeing. He had heard that the Moon Child had the power to cure, though few people could afford the offering many of the priests and temple attendants insisted they pay before they would allow them to come close enough to her to plead for treatment. The temples of Mille Seasu were corrupt in many aspects, he knew, but the Child herself was still pure. If he could see her…

Abruptly he rose from the cot, retrieving his clothing from where he had tossed it over the trunk before he had went to bed some hours earlier. Pulling on his trousers hurriedly, he groped about for his shirt while his mind worked at a feverish pace, trying to make sense of this new idea. There was no guarantees that the child would even be in the city, and it was almost a certainty that even if she were, no self-respecting priest would allow him to pay his respects to her at this hour of the night, but even so…

Grabbing his cloak, he left his room, locking the door tightly behind him and went upstairs into the darkened stable. Still turning his options over in his mind, he led his own mount out of its stall and slipped on its bridle before leading it out into the night. Anxious to leave, he climbed on bareback and left the courtyard at a walk, looking back over his shoulder from time to time at the impressive manor on the hill behind him. It was only a short ride to Furni, and even bareback, Slone was confidant that he could elude any enterprising thief who might be lurking beside the road along the way. He was not scheduled for escort until later that morning in any case, so he had time enough to make the trip without worry of being discovered.

As far as the offering to be made… he glanced back over his shoulder again, admiring how the manor bathed itself in the moonlight. There were all sorts of offerings to be proposed, if only he could find out for sure what it was that they wanted. Then again, when one was captain of the guard for Nicolas Myr Alphine, all sorts of doors could be opened.

You just had to know the price.

.- Honestly, I can't keep track of time any more. Someone needs to glue a little calender to my head or something. In other news?

SLONE XD I've had to wait too darn long to get him into this story. Keep an eye on him; if it wasn't horribly obvious already, he's going to become a rather pivitol part of the story over the next few chapters. He won't actually have a real POV segment- any part of the story dealing with him is going to be in more or less the same format as above- third person, in italics.

Thank you to The Sharra, who made a suggestion about a year ago regarding reincarnations; this became a very big part of his character. I owe you one :P