** Author's Note: Hello again, everyone. Sorry this has taken awhile to
get up, but with schoolwork (and avoiding schoolwork) and prepping for
auditions and getting ready to pledge the theatre fraternity here. . .
Well, it's been kind of insane. Anyhoo. . . This note is just to inform
those of you who notice this kind of thing that I will no longer be using
the Kaladeshian setting for this story, for a couple of reasons that
should have been obvious to me. I blame lack of sleep. So, if you go back
and re-read this, that's why all the city and country names will be
changed. And Wolf. . . cross your legs. We'll get to Zan when Weylyn's
good and ready for him. LOL. With that out of the way. . . on to the next
adventure. Peace. ~EC **
Weylyn was not in a good mood. That, in fact, may be a bit of an understatement. To start with, the last two days had not been exactly restful. Even if you didn't count the facts that his ship had blown up, he had nearly lost his life, and was forced into a. . . vomitously respectable calling by a half-crazed god, there was still the fact that he had now been subjected to an unbelievably cheerful tide of babblings coming from waist height for almost two solid days.
". . .and then the *squirrels* came and it was all over from there. I like squirrels a lot usually. They're cute and fuzzy but these one's were just MEAN and they had big teeth like *this*. Do you like animals? I do. I'm glad it stopped raining finally. My boots were all wet and I HATE wet boots. Is that a rainbow there? I think rainbows are pretty. I made one once with magic, but it exploded and everyone around me got really mad especially 'cuz it made them all turn different shades of blue or green or. . ."
Weylyn marched on in heroic silence, occasionally muttering a "How wonderful," or an "Mmmhmm. . ." To keep himself occupied, he concentrated on imagining creative ways to get Ellywick to shut up without actually getting himself in trouble with Olidammara.
They had left the coast behind them some time ago, and were now trudging through the cool dappled shadows of a forest path. The bluebottles were humming lazily over the dry brown swaying grasses, and a soft breeze brought the smell of oak trees and fallen leaves and wildflowers dancing around them. Weylyn had cut himself a nice walking staff when they had finally stopped the night before, and he was idly swinging it at the drooping heads of Queen Anne's lace while he watched Ellywick racing around collecting flowers as they walked.
It was all very pleasant indeed, but Weylyn was not a fan of dry land when it came right down to it. . . especially when it came to traveling across it for days on end. He preferred the solid feel of a deck beneath his feet to all this sore-footed marching about. He paused to tease a stone out of his boot. And he wouldn't say no to a hot dinner and a real bed right about now if anyone were to offer. That, however, didn't look too promising. Ellywick had promised him this morning that a town lay less than a day's march ahead of them. The day was growing late now, and though the road was well traveled he saw no other obvious signs of civilization and was beginning to worry that they were in for another night of sleeping in the dubious comfort of the roadside ditch.
He sighed wearily, stretching the stiff muscles in his lean back with a yawn. The sun was beginning its downward path again The buzzing of bluebottles and hornets was slowly giving way to the wine of midges and the soft song of early crickets. Weylyn almost smiled in spite of himself. The quiet song of evening was peacefully settling all around him-cloaking the world in a sleepy hush of. . .
Weylyn paused. Something wasn't right. The quiet of evening seemed to belay his fears, and yet. . . And yet. . . The answer hit him suddenly. It was *too* damn quiet. Ellywick's burbling chatter, the constant buzzing giving him migraines for the past two days, was conspicuously absent. There was no sound but that soft rustling of nature preparing for slumber. The silence was heavy and dead on Weylyn's ears. He felt the small hairs on the back of his neck start to rise.
He peered around cautiously, his hand tightening on the smooth bark of his staff. He swallowed.
"Ellywick?" he called softly. "Ellywick?" The little gnome was no where in sight. Weylyn was alone in the swiftly darkening forest. He turned in a slow circle, his steps as light and wary as a cat's. "Ellywick, I very much doubt that this is the proper time for games." The silence echoed back at him.
All of a sudden, the air was filled with a skull-splitting shriek. Weylyn's heart jumped up through his throat and lodged itself between his ears, as a dark form slammed into his shoulders and knocked him off his feet. He struggled uselessly against the weight pressing him down to the forest loam, but the dark figure was hunched heavily on his shoulders and he could find no leverage. The heady scent of moss and soil invaded his senses as he was forced by the horrible relentless pressure from his unseen attacker deeper into the levels of decaying leaves.
He struggled wildly, but gods above it was no use. He couldn't *move.* The forest floor filled his mouth and his vision and the heavy silence was pressing closer and he couldn't breathe couldn't breathe couldn't breathe. . . He felt an unexpected twinge through his stomach. Whatever this wretched thing was, it had probably already gotten Ellywick. He'd be damned if it was going to get him next. His hair and clothes filled with grit as one final time he gathered his strength to try to shake off the ruthless shadow slowly hugging the life from. . . Hugging?
"Weylyn! There you are! I thought you'd run off from me but I guess it was really me who ran off from you huh? But I saw some daisies and a purple loosestrife and even some lobelia all the way out here and look! Wild strawberries!"
Weylyn paused for a moment, his face still buried in leaf mulch. For a minute, the only sound was the rapid pounding of his heart as his brain tried to convince it to slow down a little and take a breather. Through the layer of soil and plant detritus, came the sound of a soft resigned sigh.
"Ellywick."
Ellywick rolled her eyes and tossed her golden hair over her shoulder, trying to pull the bits of dead leaves out.
"Of course, silly. Who else?"
Weylyn raised his head and turned on his back to face the bubbly little gnome.
"With you around, I'd rather not speculate."
The two glared levelly at each other for a few minutes, Weylyn propped on his elbows and Ellywick sitting on his stomach. The silence hung heavily between the two contesting wills. Minutes passed quietly. Slowly and deliberately, Ellywick leaned forward and somberly tucked a flower behind Weylyn's ear. She exploded into giggles. "This one's for you," she said. "It's a primrose. They're really rare this late in summer. There. You look a proper gentleman now."
Weylyn looked to the heavens dramatically. "A proper gentleman who is going to be spending tonight in a ditch. Lovely. Where is this town you spoke so confidently about this morning, O dearest Ellywick?" He got up slowly, dumping Ellywick onto the path and dusting the soil off of himself. "I'm going to pray that it wasn't a glittery figment of your frilly imagination."
Ellywick rolled her eyes and scrambled acrobatically up Weylyn's back until she was perched cockily on his shoulders. "Chh. . . No need to be so grumpy, Weylyn. It's right over the next hill there. Can't you see the lantern lights glowing?"
He squinted ahead. Now that she mentioned it, there *did* seem to be a soft, almost indistinguishable light coming from over the next rise. Ah. Civilization at last. The faint squealing of discontent pigs came floating towards them on the soft air. How charming.
Weylyn reached up to untie the scarlet band holding his hair back. Shifting Ellywick's weight around, he managed to wrap the fabric around his arm enough to suitably cover his tattoo, at least until he could purchase a new shirt. He smiled to himself grimly. No point in leaving *that* particular mark out in the open. Bounty hunters could be right bastards, and he didn't care *how* far he was from the sea-there was no point in taking stupid chances.
Ellywick hadn't noticed, and kept up her bright commentary on the bright gold of the dying sky, the sweet smell of the evening, fuzzy animals, and how much she'd like to braid Weylyn's "pretty black hair", as he marched wearily towards the faint gleam over the horizon.
* * * * * * *
* *
The sun was still hanging low in the sky, and the town gates had not yet closed for the coming night. Weylyn and Ellywick entered gratefully, working their footsore way down the rutted streets and past the suspicious stares of the townsfolk.
Weylyn knelt down to Ellywick's level after she had jumped lightly from his shoulders, and attempted to restrain her from running off to explore all the interesting sights of the little city.
"Ellywick. Ellywick! Try to concentrate for two moments please. Stop. . . Stop it." He struggled to maintain his grip on the hopelessly excited gnome as she bounced around. "Stop staring at people!" he hissed. He grabbed her by both shoulders and looked at her sternly. "Listen. I need to try and purchase some supplies before the shops close for the evening. YOU need to go and get some rooms for us. Ask around for the best inn in this wretched little town, and please *try* not to get distracted by anything shiny." He placed a hand over her mouth to stifle her attempt at outraged denial. "Just do it. Here." He reached over and carefully unhooked the black leather armband around his left bicep, grimacing slightly. It was a fine piece of craftsmanship: good quality leather with the silhouette of a wolf tooled expertly into the surface, studded with silver and with tiny emeralds set in place of the wolf's eyes. He sighed softly with regret. "This should more than cover the cost." He stood up and gave her a swat on the rear. "Quick now, O mighty wizard. And remember what I said about shiny things!"
Weylyn laughed as Ellywick stomped off-glowering darkly and rubbing her behind.
Some time later, Weylyn pushed open the stout oak door of The Tipsy Dragon, feeling much more suitably dressed. The black breeches and long leather boots he kept, but he had acquired a fine linen shirt that flared very satisfactorily from the shoulders and a high quality woolen cloak of a deep moss green that the sales lady had assured him really brought out his eyes. He ran his hands subconsciously over the plain but fine material, slowly scanning the loud and oily lit common room for signs of his companion.
The common room was packed and it was difficult to find the tiny figure of Ellywick. Weylyn pursed his lips in slight irritation. No, she wasn't there that he could see. Just the usual rabble of locals and passing merchants and adventurers that gather in any large alehouse you'd find on the road. He glanced with interest around the room, noting a pack of one, two. . . thirteen dwarves sitting in one corner hunched greedily over a soiled map, two hairy barbarians making impressed noises over each other's tattoos, and an obviously inebriated wizard using complex incantations to subtly tie his comatose companions bootlaces together. Trying to maneuver past the jostling patrons and loaded tables, Weylyn felt himself back into something that was obviously covered in chain maille.
"Pardon me sirrrrr. . .errr. . ." His voice trailed off as he turned and found himself staring into the rather impressive bosoms of a rather pissed off woman in black. She gripped at the hilt of her falchion and gave him a haughty stare before turning back to her heated argument with the dark haired elf sitting across from her. Next to the elf, a young human woman sat plunking idly at a lute, occasionally rolling her eyes at whatever the scary woman was saying and swapping jokes with the armored knight next to her. At least, Weylyn *thought* they might be jokes; he couldn't understand a word the knight was saying. He shrugged. *Foreigners probably.*
Weylyn shook his head. This was hopeless. He stumbled over to a table near the wall and sat down. Ellywick would find him eventually if she didn't get trampled in this mob. A harried looking serving girl took his order, and he sat back in the rough chair, nursing the foamy mug of ale. He closed his eyes and rubbed them tiredly.
They snapped open suddenly as a flapping feathery mass careened into Weylyn's skull. The mass of feathers resolved itself into the shape of a crow, which caught its balance finally and perched contentedly on Weylyn's head, ruffling its feathers. Weylyn looked up to see two beady little black eyes staring into his. He snarled and took a swipe at the bird.
"Oh piss off to hell, you stupid little bastard."
If it is possible for a look of pained consternation to cross a bird's face, this is exactly what happened. The crow seemed to struggle with itself for a moment, but apparently lost its inner battle as it screeched:
"Bastard! Bastardbastardbastard! Ahhhhh. . . shit." It flopped onto the table and stared up at Weylyn reproachfully. "Now look what you made me say." It sighed. "I'm going to get it for this one." The crow flapped awkwardly off, and Weylyn sat at the table blinking. Had he really just been cussed out by a bird? He took a suspicious look at the mug of ale in front of him and subtly pushed it aside.
Weylyn started as Ellywick abruptly materialized and plunked herself down beside him.
"Big crowd isn't it?" she said. "I almost got stepped on! Twice! And that scary lady in the chain maille didn't even *apologize*!" She snorted with indignation.
Weylyn grunted noncommittally, not really listening to the gripes of his companion. His attention was drawn instead to the slight commotion beginning at the bar. The buxom innkeeper was arguing loudly with one of the strangest men Weylyn had ever seen.
The man's sharp features and light build clicked "elf" in Weylyn's brain, but there was also something distinctly "un-elven" about him. And yet. . .there was no visible trace of the human ancestry that would label him a half-blood. His coloring was also odd. His skin was a dusky charcoal color that contrasted sharply with his long white hair done up neatly in dozens of braids. He was impeccably dressed in what were undeniably rich silks, satins and leathers and one of the oddest cloaks Weylyn had ever clapped eyes on, and was leaning insolently against the dingy soiled counter with a distinct air of open disgust. He was surrounded by five or six dirty men dressed in blacks and dark greens. There was a distinct air of trouble about their hooded faces, though they stood silent as stone, letting their leader speak. His replies to the shouts of the landlady were quiet and deliberate, but seemed to have no affect on the irate woman.
"I've told yew twenny times if I've told yew once! I runs a respectable establishment here, and your brutes will kindly keep their 'ands off my girls. If you can't get that into their thick skulls, you can escort yerselfs out."
A nearby customer, far into his cups, lurched unsteadily to his feet, placing himself between the elf and the landlady.
"You heard Mistress Bimble," he slurred. "I'll show you gentlemen out." He raised his hand and placed it forcefully on the elf's shoulder.
With the tiniest of perceptible nods from his dark leader, one of the thugs slammed a meaty fist straight into the face of the drunk. The man's head snapped back with a sickening crack and he slumped bonelessly to the floor, dark blood spilling from his ruined nose. There was a horrible split second of silence. And then with a sudden roar, the bar broke into a battlefield as a mass of the patrons surged against the thugs and their strange leader.
The muffled groans, shouts and sounds of breaking glass rang through the air mixed in with the outraged screams of the landlady. Weylyn lifted up his mug just in time to stop the contents from spilling everywhere as a large hairy man was thrown bodily into his table, splitting it in half. Ellywick gave a frightened squeak, and Weylyn turned to her with a sardonic grin.
"I rather believe that this establishment has lost its charm for me." He ducked swiftly as a rogue bottle came flying through the air and smashed into the wall behind his head. "Perhaps we had best find more gentile quarters, my lady."
Ellywick crinkled up her nose at him. "Weylyn, stop blowing hot air and GET US OUT OF HERE!"
Rolling his eyes, Weylyn grabbed Ellywick and roughly threw her over a shoulder. "As my lady commands," he said. "And you had best see you don't get anything on my new cloak while you're up there."
Like a participant in a bizarre and bloody game of tag, Weylyn danced his way across the seemingly endless floor of the common room, dodging flying fists, flying bottles, and a few flying insults that made him reach up to cover Ellywick's ears. Ducking away from a murderously swung chair leg, Weylyn laughed loudly. . .and ran straight into the barrel chest of the largest of the dark elf's thugs.
The hulking thug gave a deep animal growl and backhanded Weylyn harshly, knocking him to the floor. Ellywick rolled off of his shoulders with a muffled shriek, and Weylyn quickly lost sight of her as she was swallowed up by the jostling crowd. Wiping the blood from his split lip gingerly, he rose shakily to his feet and turned to face his much larger opponent, choking back the white fury inside of him.
"I'm terribly sorry, my dear sir, but I seem to have misplaced my lady friend, and she'll think me terribly rude if I don't manage to find her. So, if you'll excuse me. . ."
The man smiled a black-toothed grin at Weylyn and hefted a club menacingly. "Oh, you ain't going nowheres, me pretty man. You gone and nearly knocked me over. Spilled half me wine down me new jerkin." He reached forward and grabbed Weylyn by the front of his shirt, his sour breath inches from Weylyn's face. "I don't take kindly to such bad manners, pretty man."
Weylyn raised an eyebrow at him coolly. "Steady on, friend. This is a new shirt."
"Pity you'll be getting blood all over it then, eh?" The hulking thug twisted his fingers into Weylyn's shirt, and with a loud curse, threw him a good twenty feet into a pile of chairs.
Weylyn let out a gasp at a sharp pain slicing through his side, but did his best to ignore it and scrambled again to his feet. With a roar of rage still audible over the clamor of men brawling, the thug rushed at Weylyn, pinning his arms to his side in a crushing bear hug. White spots danced before Weylyn's eyes as the man slowly squeezed the life out of him. He clenched his jaw and fought seemingly uselessly back against the unstoppable pressure of the man's enormous arms.
The man laughed stupidly into Weylyn's ear. "Goodbye me pretty man. I'll be sure to give your regards to your little lady friend. Don't worry; I'll finds her for you."
A tiny flame of rage shot up behind Weylyn's eyes. Summoning the last scraps of his strength, he slammed his head forward, smashing his forehead into the bridge of his attacker's nose. The big man moaned and dropped Weylyn, staggering backwards and clutching at his face. Weylyn leaped forward and landed a swift spinning kick to the man's chest, knocking him to the ground. He crouched low and silently retrieved the dagger from his boot.
Before he could make his move, the thug rolled over onto his knees and caught Weylyn across the jaw with a pewter mug. Sooner than he could pick himself up again, the thug was on him, grasping Weylyn by his long black hair and forcing his face into the floor littered with dirt, ash, and broken glass. Gritting his teeth, Weylyn tore himself out of the man's grip and, flipping over onto his back, plunged his dagger beneath the surprised thug's ribs in one smooth movement.
Jerking his knife free, Weylyn pulled himself wearily out from under the bulk of the man's corpse. His eyes darted around the room, but the majority of the fighting had broken up. The mysterious elf and the remainder of his followers had disappeared, leaving a group of sheepish looking townsfolk nursing blackened eyes and bloody noses and handing the tight lipped landlady silver coins.
Weylyn's eyes widened and he scanned the room again urgently, and then once more almost frantically. Ellywick was nowhere to be seen. He started pacing around the decimated common room, searching under overturned tables and broken chairs. No Ellywick. Behind the counter and under the staircase that led to the bedrooms. No sign of a golden haired little gnome. *What do you care?"* snapped the rational portion of his mind. *You're well rid of her. She slowed you down and did nothing but give you a two day headache. Don't you turn soft on me now Weylyn Blackwolf.* He bit his lip, looking to the half open door and the clear road beyond. He shook his head, lifting a hand to tuck a loose strand of hair behind his ear. *Well rid of her... * His fingers were pricked softly by something, and he gazed down in surprise at the flower he had found still tucked shyly back there. He rolled the stem reflectively between his fingertips, breathing in the scent of green and the tiny heart shaped petals. After a moment, he gave an exasperated sigh, told the rational portion of his mind exactly where it could go stick itself, and started to work his way back to the innkeeper.
"Gnome?" she sputtered. "No, I ain't seen no gnomes. Nor no halflings nor no pixies or any such weird little folk. You mayhap haven't noticed, but I've got a few bigger problems to see to, if you take my meaning sir." She waved a half-empty bottle of port at him menacingly. "And if you think that *I'm* going to be the one that's cleaning that there body off the floor, you've got another thing coming, young fell. . ."
Weylyn spun away before she could finish her rant and paced towards the half open door, stepping out into the cool, starlit night. Breathing the crisp air in slowly, he glanced around, up one side of the road and then the other. His keen eyes peered into the darkness of the still night and the dim alleyways, searching for a glimpse of golden hair. Nothing. Nothing.
"Ellywick?" he called, trying to keep the concern out of his voice. "Ellywick? I'm getting really tired of this. It's been a rough week and you're not making it any easier on me. Ellyw-"
His call was cut off abruptly as he felt an invisible force wrap around his neck and jerk him backwards. Struggling to his feet, he strained his eyes into the dark alley where he had been pulled, searching for his attacker.
He growled softly. "Show yourself, coward. I've precious little to steal, but if you seek a swift death, I may be able to help you there."
A low chuckle drifted towards him in answer, and quick as lightening a clawed hand shot out and took Weylyn around the throat in a vice grip. Out of the blackness, Weylyn made out a pair of cold eyes set deep in a charcoal face.
"My, my. . . aren't we the little spitfire." The elf dug his claws in deeper, bringing pinpricks of red to Weylyn's throat. He leaned forward to whisper liquidly in Weylyn's ear. "I saw what you did to my minion, half-blood, and believe me, I am not smiling on it." His grip tightened. "I have hired these men for a very specific purpose. They are very good at it, and they are not cheap. You are lucky I don't skin you alive right now. I still might. However," he grinned, and the oily lamplight glinted off the hint of fangs. "I think I'll let you off easily this time, as you have inadvertently provided me with what I was looking for, despite all that."
The dark elf stepped back. A few yards behind him, in the darkness, Weylyn could just make out the lurking figures of the dark elf's minions. Struggling wildly in the strong grip of one of the thugs was a very frightened Ellywick, her eyes huge above the strip of dirty cloth gagging her.
Weylyn let out a snarl of rage and leaped for the ruffian holding Ellywick. The elf, however, only laughed and raised his hand, releasing a crack of energy that sent Weylyn flying backwards. Through his hazy vision, Weylyn saw the elf laugh wildly and spread the fringes of his cloak wide. But they were no longer part of a cloak. They were wings. Huge black wings that beat at the air and sent the refuse of the alleyway spinning into Weylyn's slumped form. *Gods be good. . . I should have realized. Some bastard freak of a Drow. * He staggered slowly to his feet, bracing himself against the crumbling brick of the alley wall. *Oh shit. . .*
The elf creature rose into the air, smiling down on Weylyn condescendingly.
"So long, my dirt encrusted little street rat. Thank you ever so much for the lovely gift. I promise to treat her as befits a gentleman of my standing." He laughed coldly.
Weylyn shook his head, trying desperately to clear away the haze. "That's sea rat to you," spat Weylyn "You half-bred excuse for an elf. Tell me, black blood, have your priestesses grown so tired of their spiders that they've started playing with bats?" He lunged for the elf creature as he started to rise above Weylyn's reach.
The Drow's lips twisted, and he growled softly, dangerously, his eyes black slits in the moonlight. "Now really, one would think you had learned your lesson the first time. I think I just may have to enjoy this." Once more he let fly a savage burst of power that caught Weylyn square in the chest, lifting him up and slamming him into the alley wall with a sickening crunch. Weylyn gave a soft, barely audible cry, and slid bonelessly to the earth. Ellywick, by this time, had shaken loose from her gag and was screaming his name, but the blackness had already taken him- far, far away from the pain and her cries and the dark lonely alleyway.
Weylyn was not in a good mood. That, in fact, may be a bit of an understatement. To start with, the last two days had not been exactly restful. Even if you didn't count the facts that his ship had blown up, he had nearly lost his life, and was forced into a. . . vomitously respectable calling by a half-crazed god, there was still the fact that he had now been subjected to an unbelievably cheerful tide of babblings coming from waist height for almost two solid days.
". . .and then the *squirrels* came and it was all over from there. I like squirrels a lot usually. They're cute and fuzzy but these one's were just MEAN and they had big teeth like *this*. Do you like animals? I do. I'm glad it stopped raining finally. My boots were all wet and I HATE wet boots. Is that a rainbow there? I think rainbows are pretty. I made one once with magic, but it exploded and everyone around me got really mad especially 'cuz it made them all turn different shades of blue or green or. . ."
Weylyn marched on in heroic silence, occasionally muttering a "How wonderful," or an "Mmmhmm. . ." To keep himself occupied, he concentrated on imagining creative ways to get Ellywick to shut up without actually getting himself in trouble with Olidammara.
They had left the coast behind them some time ago, and were now trudging through the cool dappled shadows of a forest path. The bluebottles were humming lazily over the dry brown swaying grasses, and a soft breeze brought the smell of oak trees and fallen leaves and wildflowers dancing around them. Weylyn had cut himself a nice walking staff when they had finally stopped the night before, and he was idly swinging it at the drooping heads of Queen Anne's lace while he watched Ellywick racing around collecting flowers as they walked.
It was all very pleasant indeed, but Weylyn was not a fan of dry land when it came right down to it. . . especially when it came to traveling across it for days on end. He preferred the solid feel of a deck beneath his feet to all this sore-footed marching about. He paused to tease a stone out of his boot. And he wouldn't say no to a hot dinner and a real bed right about now if anyone were to offer. That, however, didn't look too promising. Ellywick had promised him this morning that a town lay less than a day's march ahead of them. The day was growing late now, and though the road was well traveled he saw no other obvious signs of civilization and was beginning to worry that they were in for another night of sleeping in the dubious comfort of the roadside ditch.
He sighed wearily, stretching the stiff muscles in his lean back with a yawn. The sun was beginning its downward path again The buzzing of bluebottles and hornets was slowly giving way to the wine of midges and the soft song of early crickets. Weylyn almost smiled in spite of himself. The quiet song of evening was peacefully settling all around him-cloaking the world in a sleepy hush of. . .
Weylyn paused. Something wasn't right. The quiet of evening seemed to belay his fears, and yet. . . And yet. . . The answer hit him suddenly. It was *too* damn quiet. Ellywick's burbling chatter, the constant buzzing giving him migraines for the past two days, was conspicuously absent. There was no sound but that soft rustling of nature preparing for slumber. The silence was heavy and dead on Weylyn's ears. He felt the small hairs on the back of his neck start to rise.
He peered around cautiously, his hand tightening on the smooth bark of his staff. He swallowed.
"Ellywick?" he called softly. "Ellywick?" The little gnome was no where in sight. Weylyn was alone in the swiftly darkening forest. He turned in a slow circle, his steps as light and wary as a cat's. "Ellywick, I very much doubt that this is the proper time for games." The silence echoed back at him.
All of a sudden, the air was filled with a skull-splitting shriek. Weylyn's heart jumped up through his throat and lodged itself between his ears, as a dark form slammed into his shoulders and knocked him off his feet. He struggled uselessly against the weight pressing him down to the forest loam, but the dark figure was hunched heavily on his shoulders and he could find no leverage. The heady scent of moss and soil invaded his senses as he was forced by the horrible relentless pressure from his unseen attacker deeper into the levels of decaying leaves.
He struggled wildly, but gods above it was no use. He couldn't *move.* The forest floor filled his mouth and his vision and the heavy silence was pressing closer and he couldn't breathe couldn't breathe couldn't breathe. . . He felt an unexpected twinge through his stomach. Whatever this wretched thing was, it had probably already gotten Ellywick. He'd be damned if it was going to get him next. His hair and clothes filled with grit as one final time he gathered his strength to try to shake off the ruthless shadow slowly hugging the life from. . . Hugging?
"Weylyn! There you are! I thought you'd run off from me but I guess it was really me who ran off from you huh? But I saw some daisies and a purple loosestrife and even some lobelia all the way out here and look! Wild strawberries!"
Weylyn paused for a moment, his face still buried in leaf mulch. For a minute, the only sound was the rapid pounding of his heart as his brain tried to convince it to slow down a little and take a breather. Through the layer of soil and plant detritus, came the sound of a soft resigned sigh.
"Ellywick."
Ellywick rolled her eyes and tossed her golden hair over her shoulder, trying to pull the bits of dead leaves out.
"Of course, silly. Who else?"
Weylyn raised his head and turned on his back to face the bubbly little gnome.
"With you around, I'd rather not speculate."
The two glared levelly at each other for a few minutes, Weylyn propped on his elbows and Ellywick sitting on his stomach. The silence hung heavily between the two contesting wills. Minutes passed quietly. Slowly and deliberately, Ellywick leaned forward and somberly tucked a flower behind Weylyn's ear. She exploded into giggles. "This one's for you," she said. "It's a primrose. They're really rare this late in summer. There. You look a proper gentleman now."
Weylyn looked to the heavens dramatically. "A proper gentleman who is going to be spending tonight in a ditch. Lovely. Where is this town you spoke so confidently about this morning, O dearest Ellywick?" He got up slowly, dumping Ellywick onto the path and dusting the soil off of himself. "I'm going to pray that it wasn't a glittery figment of your frilly imagination."
Ellywick rolled her eyes and scrambled acrobatically up Weylyn's back until she was perched cockily on his shoulders. "Chh. . . No need to be so grumpy, Weylyn. It's right over the next hill there. Can't you see the lantern lights glowing?"
He squinted ahead. Now that she mentioned it, there *did* seem to be a soft, almost indistinguishable light coming from over the next rise. Ah. Civilization at last. The faint squealing of discontent pigs came floating towards them on the soft air. How charming.
Weylyn reached up to untie the scarlet band holding his hair back. Shifting Ellywick's weight around, he managed to wrap the fabric around his arm enough to suitably cover his tattoo, at least until he could purchase a new shirt. He smiled to himself grimly. No point in leaving *that* particular mark out in the open. Bounty hunters could be right bastards, and he didn't care *how* far he was from the sea-there was no point in taking stupid chances.
Ellywick hadn't noticed, and kept up her bright commentary on the bright gold of the dying sky, the sweet smell of the evening, fuzzy animals, and how much she'd like to braid Weylyn's "pretty black hair", as he marched wearily towards the faint gleam over the horizon.
* * * * * * *
* *
The sun was still hanging low in the sky, and the town gates had not yet closed for the coming night. Weylyn and Ellywick entered gratefully, working their footsore way down the rutted streets and past the suspicious stares of the townsfolk.
Weylyn knelt down to Ellywick's level after she had jumped lightly from his shoulders, and attempted to restrain her from running off to explore all the interesting sights of the little city.
"Ellywick. Ellywick! Try to concentrate for two moments please. Stop. . . Stop it." He struggled to maintain his grip on the hopelessly excited gnome as she bounced around. "Stop staring at people!" he hissed. He grabbed her by both shoulders and looked at her sternly. "Listen. I need to try and purchase some supplies before the shops close for the evening. YOU need to go and get some rooms for us. Ask around for the best inn in this wretched little town, and please *try* not to get distracted by anything shiny." He placed a hand over her mouth to stifle her attempt at outraged denial. "Just do it. Here." He reached over and carefully unhooked the black leather armband around his left bicep, grimacing slightly. It was a fine piece of craftsmanship: good quality leather with the silhouette of a wolf tooled expertly into the surface, studded with silver and with tiny emeralds set in place of the wolf's eyes. He sighed softly with regret. "This should more than cover the cost." He stood up and gave her a swat on the rear. "Quick now, O mighty wizard. And remember what I said about shiny things!"
Weylyn laughed as Ellywick stomped off-glowering darkly and rubbing her behind.
Some time later, Weylyn pushed open the stout oak door of The Tipsy Dragon, feeling much more suitably dressed. The black breeches and long leather boots he kept, but he had acquired a fine linen shirt that flared very satisfactorily from the shoulders and a high quality woolen cloak of a deep moss green that the sales lady had assured him really brought out his eyes. He ran his hands subconsciously over the plain but fine material, slowly scanning the loud and oily lit common room for signs of his companion.
The common room was packed and it was difficult to find the tiny figure of Ellywick. Weylyn pursed his lips in slight irritation. No, she wasn't there that he could see. Just the usual rabble of locals and passing merchants and adventurers that gather in any large alehouse you'd find on the road. He glanced with interest around the room, noting a pack of one, two. . . thirteen dwarves sitting in one corner hunched greedily over a soiled map, two hairy barbarians making impressed noises over each other's tattoos, and an obviously inebriated wizard using complex incantations to subtly tie his comatose companions bootlaces together. Trying to maneuver past the jostling patrons and loaded tables, Weylyn felt himself back into something that was obviously covered in chain maille.
"Pardon me sirrrrr. . .errr. . ." His voice trailed off as he turned and found himself staring into the rather impressive bosoms of a rather pissed off woman in black. She gripped at the hilt of her falchion and gave him a haughty stare before turning back to her heated argument with the dark haired elf sitting across from her. Next to the elf, a young human woman sat plunking idly at a lute, occasionally rolling her eyes at whatever the scary woman was saying and swapping jokes with the armored knight next to her. At least, Weylyn *thought* they might be jokes; he couldn't understand a word the knight was saying. He shrugged. *Foreigners probably.*
Weylyn shook his head. This was hopeless. He stumbled over to a table near the wall and sat down. Ellywick would find him eventually if she didn't get trampled in this mob. A harried looking serving girl took his order, and he sat back in the rough chair, nursing the foamy mug of ale. He closed his eyes and rubbed them tiredly.
They snapped open suddenly as a flapping feathery mass careened into Weylyn's skull. The mass of feathers resolved itself into the shape of a crow, which caught its balance finally and perched contentedly on Weylyn's head, ruffling its feathers. Weylyn looked up to see two beady little black eyes staring into his. He snarled and took a swipe at the bird.
"Oh piss off to hell, you stupid little bastard."
If it is possible for a look of pained consternation to cross a bird's face, this is exactly what happened. The crow seemed to struggle with itself for a moment, but apparently lost its inner battle as it screeched:
"Bastard! Bastardbastardbastard! Ahhhhh. . . shit." It flopped onto the table and stared up at Weylyn reproachfully. "Now look what you made me say." It sighed. "I'm going to get it for this one." The crow flapped awkwardly off, and Weylyn sat at the table blinking. Had he really just been cussed out by a bird? He took a suspicious look at the mug of ale in front of him and subtly pushed it aside.
Weylyn started as Ellywick abruptly materialized and plunked herself down beside him.
"Big crowd isn't it?" she said. "I almost got stepped on! Twice! And that scary lady in the chain maille didn't even *apologize*!" She snorted with indignation.
Weylyn grunted noncommittally, not really listening to the gripes of his companion. His attention was drawn instead to the slight commotion beginning at the bar. The buxom innkeeper was arguing loudly with one of the strangest men Weylyn had ever seen.
The man's sharp features and light build clicked "elf" in Weylyn's brain, but there was also something distinctly "un-elven" about him. And yet. . .there was no visible trace of the human ancestry that would label him a half-blood. His coloring was also odd. His skin was a dusky charcoal color that contrasted sharply with his long white hair done up neatly in dozens of braids. He was impeccably dressed in what were undeniably rich silks, satins and leathers and one of the oddest cloaks Weylyn had ever clapped eyes on, and was leaning insolently against the dingy soiled counter with a distinct air of open disgust. He was surrounded by five or six dirty men dressed in blacks and dark greens. There was a distinct air of trouble about their hooded faces, though they stood silent as stone, letting their leader speak. His replies to the shouts of the landlady were quiet and deliberate, but seemed to have no affect on the irate woman.
"I've told yew twenny times if I've told yew once! I runs a respectable establishment here, and your brutes will kindly keep their 'ands off my girls. If you can't get that into their thick skulls, you can escort yerselfs out."
A nearby customer, far into his cups, lurched unsteadily to his feet, placing himself between the elf and the landlady.
"You heard Mistress Bimble," he slurred. "I'll show you gentlemen out." He raised his hand and placed it forcefully on the elf's shoulder.
With the tiniest of perceptible nods from his dark leader, one of the thugs slammed a meaty fist straight into the face of the drunk. The man's head snapped back with a sickening crack and he slumped bonelessly to the floor, dark blood spilling from his ruined nose. There was a horrible split second of silence. And then with a sudden roar, the bar broke into a battlefield as a mass of the patrons surged against the thugs and their strange leader.
The muffled groans, shouts and sounds of breaking glass rang through the air mixed in with the outraged screams of the landlady. Weylyn lifted up his mug just in time to stop the contents from spilling everywhere as a large hairy man was thrown bodily into his table, splitting it in half. Ellywick gave a frightened squeak, and Weylyn turned to her with a sardonic grin.
"I rather believe that this establishment has lost its charm for me." He ducked swiftly as a rogue bottle came flying through the air and smashed into the wall behind his head. "Perhaps we had best find more gentile quarters, my lady."
Ellywick crinkled up her nose at him. "Weylyn, stop blowing hot air and GET US OUT OF HERE!"
Rolling his eyes, Weylyn grabbed Ellywick and roughly threw her over a shoulder. "As my lady commands," he said. "And you had best see you don't get anything on my new cloak while you're up there."
Like a participant in a bizarre and bloody game of tag, Weylyn danced his way across the seemingly endless floor of the common room, dodging flying fists, flying bottles, and a few flying insults that made him reach up to cover Ellywick's ears. Ducking away from a murderously swung chair leg, Weylyn laughed loudly. . .and ran straight into the barrel chest of the largest of the dark elf's thugs.
The hulking thug gave a deep animal growl and backhanded Weylyn harshly, knocking him to the floor. Ellywick rolled off of his shoulders with a muffled shriek, and Weylyn quickly lost sight of her as she was swallowed up by the jostling crowd. Wiping the blood from his split lip gingerly, he rose shakily to his feet and turned to face his much larger opponent, choking back the white fury inside of him.
"I'm terribly sorry, my dear sir, but I seem to have misplaced my lady friend, and she'll think me terribly rude if I don't manage to find her. So, if you'll excuse me. . ."
The man smiled a black-toothed grin at Weylyn and hefted a club menacingly. "Oh, you ain't going nowheres, me pretty man. You gone and nearly knocked me over. Spilled half me wine down me new jerkin." He reached forward and grabbed Weylyn by the front of his shirt, his sour breath inches from Weylyn's face. "I don't take kindly to such bad manners, pretty man."
Weylyn raised an eyebrow at him coolly. "Steady on, friend. This is a new shirt."
"Pity you'll be getting blood all over it then, eh?" The hulking thug twisted his fingers into Weylyn's shirt, and with a loud curse, threw him a good twenty feet into a pile of chairs.
Weylyn let out a gasp at a sharp pain slicing through his side, but did his best to ignore it and scrambled again to his feet. With a roar of rage still audible over the clamor of men brawling, the thug rushed at Weylyn, pinning his arms to his side in a crushing bear hug. White spots danced before Weylyn's eyes as the man slowly squeezed the life out of him. He clenched his jaw and fought seemingly uselessly back against the unstoppable pressure of the man's enormous arms.
The man laughed stupidly into Weylyn's ear. "Goodbye me pretty man. I'll be sure to give your regards to your little lady friend. Don't worry; I'll finds her for you."
A tiny flame of rage shot up behind Weylyn's eyes. Summoning the last scraps of his strength, he slammed his head forward, smashing his forehead into the bridge of his attacker's nose. The big man moaned and dropped Weylyn, staggering backwards and clutching at his face. Weylyn leaped forward and landed a swift spinning kick to the man's chest, knocking him to the ground. He crouched low and silently retrieved the dagger from his boot.
Before he could make his move, the thug rolled over onto his knees and caught Weylyn across the jaw with a pewter mug. Sooner than he could pick himself up again, the thug was on him, grasping Weylyn by his long black hair and forcing his face into the floor littered with dirt, ash, and broken glass. Gritting his teeth, Weylyn tore himself out of the man's grip and, flipping over onto his back, plunged his dagger beneath the surprised thug's ribs in one smooth movement.
Jerking his knife free, Weylyn pulled himself wearily out from under the bulk of the man's corpse. His eyes darted around the room, but the majority of the fighting had broken up. The mysterious elf and the remainder of his followers had disappeared, leaving a group of sheepish looking townsfolk nursing blackened eyes and bloody noses and handing the tight lipped landlady silver coins.
Weylyn's eyes widened and he scanned the room again urgently, and then once more almost frantically. Ellywick was nowhere to be seen. He started pacing around the decimated common room, searching under overturned tables and broken chairs. No Ellywick. Behind the counter and under the staircase that led to the bedrooms. No sign of a golden haired little gnome. *What do you care?"* snapped the rational portion of his mind. *You're well rid of her. She slowed you down and did nothing but give you a two day headache. Don't you turn soft on me now Weylyn Blackwolf.* He bit his lip, looking to the half open door and the clear road beyond. He shook his head, lifting a hand to tuck a loose strand of hair behind his ear. *Well rid of her... * His fingers were pricked softly by something, and he gazed down in surprise at the flower he had found still tucked shyly back there. He rolled the stem reflectively between his fingertips, breathing in the scent of green and the tiny heart shaped petals. After a moment, he gave an exasperated sigh, told the rational portion of his mind exactly where it could go stick itself, and started to work his way back to the innkeeper.
"Gnome?" she sputtered. "No, I ain't seen no gnomes. Nor no halflings nor no pixies or any such weird little folk. You mayhap haven't noticed, but I've got a few bigger problems to see to, if you take my meaning sir." She waved a half-empty bottle of port at him menacingly. "And if you think that *I'm* going to be the one that's cleaning that there body off the floor, you've got another thing coming, young fell. . ."
Weylyn spun away before she could finish her rant and paced towards the half open door, stepping out into the cool, starlit night. Breathing the crisp air in slowly, he glanced around, up one side of the road and then the other. His keen eyes peered into the darkness of the still night and the dim alleyways, searching for a glimpse of golden hair. Nothing. Nothing.
"Ellywick?" he called, trying to keep the concern out of his voice. "Ellywick? I'm getting really tired of this. It's been a rough week and you're not making it any easier on me. Ellyw-"
His call was cut off abruptly as he felt an invisible force wrap around his neck and jerk him backwards. Struggling to his feet, he strained his eyes into the dark alley where he had been pulled, searching for his attacker.
He growled softly. "Show yourself, coward. I've precious little to steal, but if you seek a swift death, I may be able to help you there."
A low chuckle drifted towards him in answer, and quick as lightening a clawed hand shot out and took Weylyn around the throat in a vice grip. Out of the blackness, Weylyn made out a pair of cold eyes set deep in a charcoal face.
"My, my. . . aren't we the little spitfire." The elf dug his claws in deeper, bringing pinpricks of red to Weylyn's throat. He leaned forward to whisper liquidly in Weylyn's ear. "I saw what you did to my minion, half-blood, and believe me, I am not smiling on it." His grip tightened. "I have hired these men for a very specific purpose. They are very good at it, and they are not cheap. You are lucky I don't skin you alive right now. I still might. However," he grinned, and the oily lamplight glinted off the hint of fangs. "I think I'll let you off easily this time, as you have inadvertently provided me with what I was looking for, despite all that."
The dark elf stepped back. A few yards behind him, in the darkness, Weylyn could just make out the lurking figures of the dark elf's minions. Struggling wildly in the strong grip of one of the thugs was a very frightened Ellywick, her eyes huge above the strip of dirty cloth gagging her.
Weylyn let out a snarl of rage and leaped for the ruffian holding Ellywick. The elf, however, only laughed and raised his hand, releasing a crack of energy that sent Weylyn flying backwards. Through his hazy vision, Weylyn saw the elf laugh wildly and spread the fringes of his cloak wide. But they were no longer part of a cloak. They were wings. Huge black wings that beat at the air and sent the refuse of the alleyway spinning into Weylyn's slumped form. *Gods be good. . . I should have realized. Some bastard freak of a Drow. * He staggered slowly to his feet, bracing himself against the crumbling brick of the alley wall. *Oh shit. . .*
The elf creature rose into the air, smiling down on Weylyn condescendingly.
"So long, my dirt encrusted little street rat. Thank you ever so much for the lovely gift. I promise to treat her as befits a gentleman of my standing." He laughed coldly.
Weylyn shook his head, trying desperately to clear away the haze. "That's sea rat to you," spat Weylyn "You half-bred excuse for an elf. Tell me, black blood, have your priestesses grown so tired of their spiders that they've started playing with bats?" He lunged for the elf creature as he started to rise above Weylyn's reach.
The Drow's lips twisted, and he growled softly, dangerously, his eyes black slits in the moonlight. "Now really, one would think you had learned your lesson the first time. I think I just may have to enjoy this." Once more he let fly a savage burst of power that caught Weylyn square in the chest, lifting him up and slamming him into the alley wall with a sickening crunch. Weylyn gave a soft, barely audible cry, and slid bonelessly to the earth. Ellywick, by this time, had shaken loose from her gag and was screaming his name, but the blackness had already taken him- far, far away from the pain and her cries and the dark lonely alleyway.