I've tried my best to make the important characters in this story, the power players if you like, my own. I don't remember the rationale I had at first, when I decided to do this. But now it's become something of a challenge, I think.

The important lore characters are a lot of fun, and I'll definitely bring them up on stage, so to speak, when and if I return to this yarn I've spun. But for now, in this realm, I'm keeping things personal. I wouldn't ever claim that a story based on a longstanding franchise is "original," but the characters here, heroes and villains, are mine.

They're all my children, and I love them very much.

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It was nearly a month before Kin regained consciousness, and even longer before he remembered enough language to communicate. They kept him nourished with nectar and fruit juices and, later, moved on to broths when he finally regained strength enough to indulge in them. It was clear, at least to Anathala and Olrec, that the poor boy hadn't had proper nourishment for a long time; a far sight longer than he'd had the plague.

During this waiting period, it took a good number of days, even weeks, before the small company was able to admit to themselves that they'd done it. They'd managed the impossible. The touch of undeath was no longer strong enough to sap Kin's strength, and his sleep was now restorative instead of mere stasis. Anathala, a mother and nurturer at heart, soon lost any reservations she'd once had about healing him; his bright green eyes no longer filled her with anything but hope.

When they were open, it meant he had enough energy to wake.

It meant that he was on the mend.

She would smile at him, and wipe his hair from his brow, and whisper soothingly despite the fact that Kin clearly had no idea what she was saying. Big Olrec suspected, though he didn't say anything, that she was indulging in nostalgia; it had been long and longer since she'd ever permitted herself to treat either of her own children this way, to dote on them, and it was all too obvious that she took quite a lot of delight and satisfaction from pampering the little blood elf.

Sythius, for his part, was beside himself with relief. The way his mind worked didn't permit him to gloat, but he did attribute at least some of the mission's success to his own exploits. Such that he allowed his mother and sister, and Kayli, to compliment him, and he would grin his toothy grin whenever they did.

He was so happy, so caught up in euphoria and satisfaction, that he had no idea how to handle it when the assassin showed up.

At least, he assumed she was an assassin. Truth be told, they none of them knew whether or not the gnome with the white hair and the red mask over her face was much of anything professional, but the curved blades she carried on her hips were no trinkets.

She appeared in the dead of night, while they were all sleeping. All except Sythius, who was keeping watch so that Kin wouldn't miss anything he might need. He was no healer, but Sythius understood that the boy still needed help, a lot of it, and he was determined to give it.

The gnome had the tip of one sword against Kin's throat before the druid ever noticed anything was out of place; he had sensed her, certainly, but he'd allowed himself to believe she was just another regular; a pilgrim walking the groves of Remulos, as so many were. When she cleared her throat and gestured with her eyes to the blade she held just under Kin's chin, he simply stared.

His amber eyes glowed like stupefied lamps.

"My, my, my," said the gnome, voice muffled by her mask. "Have you been busy. You've managed to pull a straight-up miracle out of your collective arse, haven't you?"

Sythius growled low in his throat; not so much out of anger, yet, but sheer confusion. He did not find the words to ask who, or even what she was; he'd never seen a gnome before. He merely clenched his fists and stared at her.

"Someone very powerful has taken an interest in you, Sythius of the Claw, O Exiled Lord of the North. Quite the reputation you've managed to garner for yourself, in so short a time. You're an impressive mess, you know that?"

Sythius growled again.

"Do you know how words work, druid? Can you work that oversized head of yours to make speech?" She was mocking him, of course, but Sythius had never been one to indulge in such things. He was guileless in many ways, and tended to answer any and all questions as if they were earnest.

Even if they clearly weren't.

"I can," he said, softly. "You want me to talk? I will talk. Set the sword aside. Unless, of course, you don't want your arms to work anymore."

The gnome laughed, but there was more than a little trepidation in her eyes when Sythius rose to his full height. Fates, he was big. "It's cruel," she said, "what you've been putting this little thing through. Do you know that? So many people, smarter than you, older than you, told you it's impossible to save him. But you just wouldn't hear it. Stubborn. Audacious. I think I like that, Sythius Sil'nathin. I think I like it a great deal. But still . . . cruel."

"You have no understanding of my cruelty," Sythius rumbled, "and if you do not set that thing aside, I will show you just how ignorant you are."