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Dearest Readers, as the poet Rumi said – "The candles are many, but the light is one."
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﴾ THE HIDDEN SWORD ﴿
Book Three: Meeting of Fires | Chapter 60: A Candle Lit…
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"What is that?"
Only a creature of excessively lofty yet unearned sense of self-esteem could speak with such haughtiness.
Xan drew back his hands from the book in front of him and looked up. Before his desk stood a human male, dressed not in the monochromatic robe of an Avowed, but in the typical brazen finery and imperious expression of N'Tel'Quess nobility.
Xan glanced around, if perhaps, hopefully, it had been another who had spoken. Scattered among the desks in the necessarium were several visitors. Some quietly read alone, while others were in hushed consultation with a monk. None appeared likely to concern themselves with the affairs of a lone elf faltering about like a blindfolded fawn in a swamp.
"This?" Xan said, gesturing to the tome. "It is The Prophecies of–"
"No, not the book," the man huffed irritably and pointed at the teu'kerym sheathed in an unadorned leather casing at the waist. "I meant your weapon."
"This?" Xan unconsciously placed a protective palm at the hilt as if the moonblade might leap out of the scabbard to express its own indignance. "It is an ordinary sword, nothing more."
Certainly, it wouldn't do to go about announcing to the rest of the realms how he was carting along a relic blessed by the Seldarine. Well, only an artifact intended ages ago for the selection of the worthiest Tel'Quessir to rule a kingdom purposed as a fragment of Arvandor in the Prime Material plane. Indeed, just an ordinary sword.
"If so, then how come the guards let you keep yours when they so rudely confiscated mine at the gate? Surely my family's magical golden bejeweled flamberge is more important and costly than yours."
No doubt, a family heirloom stolen by his ancestors from a decaying crypt belonging to an equally vainglorious highborn clan, Xan supposed with a twitch of his brow.
"It is because they permitted it at my request, upon the veracity of his character on whose integrity and peerage I stake my own repute," interjected an elderly man in dark gray robes who stepped in between them. He cast a welcoming smile at Xan but leveled a forbidding gaze at the other.
"Of course, Master Gorion," the nobleman said, suddenly flustered. "I meant no disrespect towards a fellow seeker of knowledge." He nodded at the sage and hurried away, not even sparing another glance at Xan.
"I would also ask you to pardon him for his brownnosed ignorance. His family sent him all the way from Marsember. Banking on their merchant gold and our stock of learning to help mold him into an administrator equipped to climb the ranks in the High Guilds of Suzail," the older man said as he pulled another chair and sat across the elf. "But in spite of himself, the boy means well although naively proud and too eager."
Of course, aiming for knowledge without the humility. Xan raised a skeptical brow. "Then Candlekeep is not where he should obtain his education."
Gorion chuckled. "Yes, I did consider recommending kitchen and garden work as electives in his curriculum but then, I would be accused of alienating a generous donor and worse - contributing to the destruction of the established social order." The last was said with a sly wink.
Xan quirked a lip and resumed skimming over the tome. "And yet, I must thank you for the exceptional handling in my case."
The Gatewarden had been adamant in temporarily impounding the moonblade despite his protests and having passed the identity and intent verification of their lie-discerning spells. But by an unexpected stroke of fortuity, Gorion happened to be there and in conference with the Keeper of the Portal. Noting the frustrating proceedings, the sage had graciously intervened. With nothing more than his words and vouching for the elf's character, Gorion convinced the Gatewarden to allow Xan to retain his moonblade for the entire duration of his stay.
Xan regarded the other with awe. How deeply was this man so respected that others would bend the rules for him? No hint of enchantment nor overt methods of persuasion even tinted his speech at the time. Curiously, his manner of advocating for Xan's predicament seemed to stem more from empathy, as if borne from genuine experience with the teu'kerym than from passing knowledge of elven customs.
"Truth be told, obliging you proved more to be for our benefit. Otherwise, our dear herbalist would've been deprived of the chance to see the rumored second edition of Horticulture and Harpies with his very eyes," Gorion said affably.
Ah yes, the tome he had brought with him for the tribute and entry fee. Nothing more than one of the innumerable books gathering dust in his personal library. A childhood present from someone who assumed Xan would likewise follow in the family enterprise and might need updated instructions for spellcraft to fend off the rare swarm of harpies that could befoul a vineyard. Though in their experience, it wasn't actually harpies which brought the most frequent trouble. Rather, it was libidinous youthful truants getting frolicsome among the grapes. As proven either way, the methods discussed in the book worked equally well against both harpies and horny elves.
Xan cleared his throat. "But you are aware I didn't request an audience with you so we could deliberate on the virtues of alchemical monster-repellant."
"I am aware," Gorion replied. "You petitioned to be accommodated by someone with in-depth knowledge of Alaundo's prophecies."
"While it should not be surprising for a protector of the People to venture so far from their homeland for the sake of duty," Gorion continued with a hint of irony as he absently pulled the open book to himself. "However, why would one travel so great a distance to merely sate a curiosity for some N'Tel'Quess whose words have little to do with elvenkind?"
Xan folded his hands. Were a sun elf sitting in his place now, the proud Ar'Tel'Quess would rant through an entire month denying that the People have any use for the knowledge possessed by the lesser races.
Fortunately, Xan happened to be a moon elf and one who preferred to be journeying back to Evereska before the end of the tenday.
"I shall be forthright with you," he said. "I've been visited thrice by a dream which I fear is of a prophetic but not benevolent nature. If Sehanine Moonbow in her wisdom will not reveal its meaning to me, then perhaps I cannot be faulted in seeking counsel from those who aren't bound by the silence of the Seldarine."
"And thus, you wish to confirm if any of Alaundo's oracles corresponds with your vision."
Well, one could also hope otherwise, given the human seer's unnerving accuracy. He told Gorion of the awful nightmare without sparing any of the horrific elements. Throughout his retelling, the old man listened without interrupting, brows knitting with gravity. When Xan came to the mention of the symbol and the beast, the sage's lips pursed into a tight frown, his wrinkled hand trembled and almost curled into a fist.
"I know Alaundo's verses by heart but except for the mention of the dead god's sigil, I find none of those to have been cited by the Seer," Gorion said. "We could instead try and interpret each aspect relative to what we already know of the Dread Lord."
The sage went on to theorize how since many lives have been claimed in the name of the Lord of Murder over the greater millennia, the elven woman could represent those of the elves who fell to the Bhaalists' daggers. Gorion speculated on how the manner of her slaying might be a mirror of the sacrifice of innocent lives to fuel the evil deity's worship. What of the monsters in the distance answering the creature's call? Perhaps, other wicked forces, mortal and divine, echoing and joining in the cruelty of violent death.
Xan listened, neither disagreeing nor convinced. After all, what did Bhaal's depraved laudations have to do with an elf like him in the first place? Undeniably the death of any of the People in the hands of such vile murderers was heinous. But surely the task of investigating the crime should fall to the senior Greycloaks, those already proven in the field and more than adequately capable of bringing the perpetrators to justice. No, there must be something more to the meaning of the vision.
"On the other hand, prophecies are not always to be taken literally. As an example, a decade ago, the sighting of dragons dancing midflight above the Thunder Peaks were construed to be the nine black doves quoted in one of the verses," Gorion said.
The sage explained how mentions of creatures ordinary or magical may be interpreted as symbols for kingdoms and specific personalities based on their attributes or coat of arms. Colors and objects mentioned might denote clues to either physical and incorporeal qualities. Bewilderingly, permutations of the prophecies' meanings are infinite and cannot be verified until an analogous event had actually materialized. Regardless, it would still be up to the interpreter to infer from the details and weigh their significance.
Details and their importance, then. Xan raised a finger. "I forgot to mention a few things, not that they're of any consequence. I confess that I could never recall her exact words nor the timbre of her voice, and most unfortunately - not even her face. But from her demeanor, the woman in my vision struck me as quite young, not even a century in age. Tall and sturdily framed for a female of my People, hair like copper, could neither speak nor understand a word of elvish. And-," he said, pausing, unsure if the final point mattered at all. "- Complained of being hungry as if it were the most important thing in the world."
At those words, all color drained from Gorion's face. For a moment, his entire frame seemed to waver, about to faint. But as if he had heard nothing more than a trivial detail, the old man visibly steeled himself and forced a tight smile.
How curious. Xan repressed the urge to narrow his eyes and betray his observance, choosing instead to feign a casual glance at the shelves around them.
"You-," Gorion whispered, breathless with barely concealed distress. "You- are certain your dream could be a foretelling of the future?"
"I confess to seeing nothing within the vision itself to imply as such. But -," Xan mumbled, suddenly uneasy with his own hesitance. "I have a sense as if there's something I could do to help. Everything else plays out beyond my control, but in every iteration, I'm still in possession of my faculties and my choices."
For after the first instance, he had tried to alter the order of spells if perhaps casting nothing but acid on the chains right from the start might weaken them enough for the summons to break through. In the third time, he checked if a succession of unlocking cantrips might work on the shackles before trying the acid spells and the summons. Yet regardless of whichever arrangement of approach, all were in vain.
"I cannot explain why, but somehow, I feel there's a way to avert the succeeding events. It escapes me how, but all I know is that I must do something, anything, even if it is ultimately futile."
"Then if it is in your power to help in preventing the disaster, you will do all you can to stop it?"
"Yes, I will because what else am I supposed to-," Xan replied impatiently, then paused, startled by the question. "I beg your pardon. What did you mean by that?"
Something akin to hope flickered in the old man's cloudy eyes. "You believe the gods burdened you with a charge they will not reveal to you. But what if the vision came not from them?"
An even more disturbing possibility. "I considered the likelihood of precognition. After all, preternatural awareness is generally inherent to the Tel'Quessir, in varying degrees. Besides, it is no contrariety to assume that for some, this might even extend to the realm of occasional clairvoyance."
And given his catastrophic luck, it might be the case for himself, Xan rued.
Gorion smiled. "What if you perceive the vision as more than just a warning, but as an exhortation to action? You said it yourself – even in the midst of a despairing circumstance you still felt capable of choices. Isn't then the presence of agency a cause for hope?"
Choices? Agency? Hope? Academically, the framework made sense, but his learnings and observations of others proved only the hollowness of delusional aspirations.
Xan stared at the old man in front of him, though the other suddenly became more preoccupied with sifting through the book. Gorion's erudite demeanor so rightly conciliated him here among the quietness and tedium of Candlekeep. Yet something about the sage spoke of having lived a life of more than just books and scholarly pursuits.
Yet now, up close and despite his projection of authority, Gorion seemed – drained. More than the evident infirmities of old age, an unseen heaviness cast its pall upon his brow. Weary. Worn down. Weighted. There lingered traces of what might have once been a hale and hearty soul – bony shoulders and back still straight, a sprightly rasp in his voice. But these were nothing more than effort expended for the sake of appearances.
In a way, Gorion reminded him of Cathfaen. Except his own mentor will remain ageless apart from the telltale streaks of silver in his dark hair even until the day he would heed the call of Arvandor. In contrast, Gorion carried himself like a weathered crag of stone, hair white as the hoary frost but in a winter no longer returning to the youth of spring. For indeed, what manner of storms from long ago could have carved the lines and creases on his face?
A bespectacled and fair-haired young man bearing an armful of books approached their table. He coughed apologetically at the interruption and whispered something in the sage's ears.
"My thanks for your relaying the First Reader's message to me, Brother Karan," Gorion said with a smile and a kindly pat on the other's arm. He turned to Xan with a nod. "My regrets in cutting short our discussion, but unexpected administrative matters in the scriptorium require my attention at the moment."
Gorion rose from his seat and bowed. "It was an honor and pleasure to have had this discourse with you, Lord Cerlynradh. May The Binder ever shed the light of knowledge upon your steps."
The sage had already turned away and was walking towards the door but the Avowed stayed behind, gaping at Xan as if seeing an apparition made flesh.
"Forgive my impertinence, Goodsir, but it was you who brought in a copy of the second edition of Horticulture and Harpies! How are you related to the author, Amadona Cerlynradh?"
Xan squirmed in his seat. "She is my father's sister."
An adventurer but foremost an herbalist, Amadona had been exploring the forests surrounding Elturel to study its flora when she was ambushed by a trio of harpies. Fortunately, innate elven resistance to this monster's magically hypnotic song enabled her to easily dispose of the creatures. However, Xan suspected his aunt's success was due more to her raging dislike for all forms of singing after having been jilted by a skald a decade earlier.
The incident spurred Amadona to write a manual for warding crops against harpies, which were known to resort to vegetation when no meat could be found to sate their carnivorous appetites. Both as a tribute for Candlekeep and a contingency, Xan had brought the book with him in the remote possibility of encountering a harpy once his boat neared Elturel along the Chionthar. For not only was the tome inscribed with runes and spells specific to battling the winged menace while shielding any surrounding plant life, but it was also heavy enough to bash in someone's skull.
Karan's eyes widened with scholastic excitement. He laid down his books and pulled out a chair. Xan caught a glimpse of the titles on the spines – all were publications on herbal remedies for urarthritis.
"Oh, how fortuitous," the Avowed chirped. "I still need to wait for the translator to be done with the copy, but perhaps I could interview you about the revisions and-"
"Brother Karan," hissed another monk by the door, a man with a sour face and pencil-thin mustache. "If you are done pestering the Seekers in the necessarium, might you be so kind as to tend to your seriously ill patient in the infirmary now?"
Karan winced. "Yes, Brother Nador, I shall." He cupped a mouth and whispered conspiratorially at Xan. "It is only one of our periodic visitors and nothing serious. Though Nador makes it sound like a life-threatening emergency whenever Lord Quibblestumps is having another gout attack. I advised the old gentleman to ease on the three-offal casserole at the Inn every single time but what can one do against such relentless gourmandizing?"
Karan gathered his books once more, bowed at Xan, and hurriedly shuffled through the door. The elf sighed and reached over to pull back to him the tome of Alaundo's sayings. His eyes fell upon the open page where Gorion had stopped.
"The Lord of Murder shall perish, but in his doom he shall spawn a score of mortal progeny. Chaos will be sown from their passage," Xan mouthed the words written therein.
He ran a finger across the letters and furrowed his brows. For a moment and in the soft glow of the magelights, the lines crept across the pale parchment like a thin but deep wound, the ink bleeding into tiny sinister veins.
Exhaling, Xan rubbed his eyes and closed the book.
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"Breakfast is rrready!"
With the same enthusiasm as an orc smashing its shield against an enemy's ribs, the serving girl slammed down the tray before him. Crockery and cutlery tinkled in united protest while the poached eggs jiggled in their bowl like brains being whiplashed by a concussion.
"Enjoy, Goodsir Elf!" she hailed in a jestingly pompous tone, and in an equally feigned show of courtesy, exaggeratedly bowed and tiptoed away from his table.
Xan winced. Too loud and cheery in the morning, the young woman's voice blasted through his senses like the glaringly obvious roseate streaks in her auburn hair. Busying herself with the mop, her off-tune whistling echoed in dissonant shrills around the presently empty common room of the Candlekeep Inn.
He pinched the bridge of his nose and regarded the intimidating spread before him. Bacon heavily marbled with fat, boiled cockles harvested from the nearby sea and splashed with lemon juice and vinegar, fried mushrooms and tomatoes, poached eggs seasoned with sesame and poppy seeds, oat cakes topped with honey and raisins accompanied by a small pot of berry confiture, smoked kipper, and a pair of blood sausages.
A doomed man's last meal before execution at high noon. He queasily rubbed at his throat. At least they were considerate enough to provide a crock of butter and a small basket of bread. Hopefully, made with flour adequately fine and won't ravage his gentle stomach.
Warily he reached into the basket. A small squeak of protest issued from the loaves.
Xan peered into the hamper, then raised a hand. "Excuse me."
The serving girl spun like a whirlwind and streaked towards him from across the common room, mop in hand. "Yeah, what ya need now?"
Xan held up the basket.
"There's a rat in my bread." He gave it a second look. "And it's pink."
"Huh?" the girl mumbled, eyes widening at the sight of a button nose and whiskers twitching beneath the croissant. With a shriek, she seized the rat and clasped the oddly rosy creature close to her chest.
"Baron P.! How could you?" she scolded and glared down at the rat in her arms. "Naughty naughty mousey! I thought I told you not to go napping in the guests' bread baskets."
"Baron- P.-," Xan echoed dryly, not in the tone of a question.
The girl continued to cradle the rodent as if it weren't the most unhygienic thing in the world.
"Baron P. - it's short for his whole name- Lord Baron Pinkerton, Most Fabulous Prince of the Sparkliest Kingdom of Pinklandia!" she proclaimed while showering a hail of imagined celebratory confetti from one hand. In imaginary pink, for certain.
Ah, a royal rodent. Xan made a wry face. "How majestic."
"It is! Bestest title for the noblest and cleverest and bravest rat in all the Keep!" The girl held up the creature like a precious prize then pulled it close to her face. "Look here, you. I know I'm a little late with your breakfast, but promise me you'll stay out of sight and I'll bring you some marzipan later. Deal?"
The pink rat squeaked its agreement. Evidently satisfied, the girl heaved the rodent with all the delicacy of an orc tossing a rock in a bog. It sailed and chittered through the air and landed deftly on the wooden floor. A farewell squeak, and Baron Pinkerton scampered away towards the curtained door by the counter.
"Did the rat just head straight for the kitchen?" Xan sputtered.
The girl huffed dismissively and pulled a chair to sit across him, leaning the mop against the edge of the table. With the nonchalance of an uninvited guest, she pinched an oatcake and proceeded to slather one side with berry jam.
"Oh, don't worry 'bout it," she mumbled between bites and chews. "I clean and bathe him a lot and he's careful not to scatter any crumbs." She narrowed her eyes towards the empty tables. "Unlike some folks who eat like they're in a pigsty!"
Xan raised a brow at the shower of oatcake crumbs and blobs of jelly now gracing the once immaculate tablecloth.
"And besides, Baron Pinkerton doesn't really get into the pastries that much anymore because I've told him not to. But I wonder why today? Maybe he's taken a fancy to you?"
None could even begin to fathom what goes on in the mind of a rodent. And Xan wasn't about to start with such an unhinged endeavor.
"Oh, I know," the girl exclaimed, a hand mussing up her own bobbed hair in excitement. "It's because you're an elf, and you remind him of her."
"I beg your pardon?"
And with that, the serving girl animatedly recounted how years ago, the rats residing in the granary had been marked for extermination by a certain Mister Reevor who oversaw the facility. Eventually, all the rodents were dealt with, except for Baron Pinkerton who eluded every attempt at capture and termination.
"So cranky o'l Reevor wanted him gone and told Irse to do it."
"Irse?"
"Yeah, Irse, my oldest friend. Like me she grew up in this place, but she came here as a wee baby, unlike me being one walking sprout already when I got here. She used to live here but not anymore, not after a long while. Did I mention she's an elf like you?"
She paused and stared as if seeing something on Xan's face. With a triumphant leer, she pointed the jam-coated butterknife at him. "Oh ho ho, so now you're really interested because I said she's a girl elf, hmm? Ha-hah!"
No, what she mistook for interest in his expression was actually horror. Pure unbridled horror at the thought of an elven child being reared by humans.
"So anyway," the girl continued as if the idea wasn't the most terrible thing in the world. "Reevor told Irse – dun' care how you get rid o' that critter. Stab 'im, trap 'im, smash 'im, poison 'im. Just be gettin' it done. What an awful, awful, heartless dwarf!"
Indeed, dwarves. Trust an erkatam not to mince words and methods no matter how crude, so long as they were deemed effective. Xan found himself nodding in empathy.
Blissfully ignorant of pest-borne diseases and the complexities of inventory storage and management, the children had begged Reevor to take pity on the creature. Little wonder that their quest had been in vain.
"But by Ohgma's smarts and Tymora's luck, Irse had a plan and it worked."
Well then, the elven girl must have recalled her true nature as a Tel'Quess, opening her heart and spirit to enable communication with the creature, and convince it of the long-term benefits of vacating the granary. Not so dissimilar from how Evereskans interacted with the wildlife of their home –whether by whistling a birdsong to ask a sparrow to carry messages or clicking their request at a passing woodland critter.
"She said we could make it look like Baron Pinkerton's crawled up to the Big Cheese in the Sky. Put something in the bait to knock his lights out, show Reevor - Hey look, we got him, you happy? Then toss the little guy off into the woods where he ought to be free and dandy. Since Irse's always helping out in the apothecary, she used her spare key and we both snucked in to swipe some sleeping powder from the medicine cabinet."
Of course, expect everyone to always resort to the inelegant and likely illegal option, Xan concluded.
"Like I said, it worked buuuuttt-," the girl said and interrupted herself with a giggle.
"Let me guess – you ended up pilfering permanent pink dye instead of the sleeping draught."
"Yeah! We filched a bottle of magical pink dye instead of the sleep potion! It didn't have the o'l skull and crossbones on its label so we thought it was all right," the serving girl said, but sputtered and blinked at Xan. "Wait, how'd you know? You a mind reader or something?"
Xan crooked his lip in remembered discomfort. One eventually develops an affinity for predicting disasters after having existed for a hundred and ninety-five years in the company of certain older siblings who apparently have never outgrown their twentieth summer.
Fortunately, the colorant proved harmless to the rodent despite ingestion, and the children managed to immediately snare and capture it. Unfortunately, as advised by some wise and sympathetic adult, a perpetually pink rat might stand little chance in the wild, what with being more easily spotted by predators. But fortunately again, some magically gifted and sympathetic adult had the practicality to simply install non-fatal wards in the storehouses, similar to the ones in operation in the Great Library.
"So you see, everything worked out all right. Problem solved, pink and peasy!"
Indeed, a quandary settled – the elven child successful in saving the creature's life from certain doom, the dwarf content with his pest-free granary, this human girl happy to have gained a pet in a conspicuous hue. Not that anyone considered it a problem to allow a rat to have free reign in the inn kitchen.
But as for this other child, the elven one-
"I am curious. What happened to your friend, the elf? Why is she no longer residing in the Keep?"
And much like the old sage, something suddenly deflated the girl's demeanor. But unlike Gorion, she didn't bother to conceal the pensiveness in her eyes.
"Well, you see, Irse was-"
"Imoen! Ye scamp," hollered the balding innkeeper peering through the kitchen door. "I knew I be hearing the sound of idling again. Get back to swabbing the floors. How else am I to keep this hotel as clean as -"
"- a clean inn!" Imoen interjected hastily with a suspiciously mortified glance at Xan before the man could finish his rant. "Well, back to slavin' and scrubbin', I guess."
She grabbed the mop and zipped past the tables, towards a far corner where a bucket had lain abandoned. There, Imoen resumed her chore, grinning innocently at the portly innkeeper, but sullenly muttering to herself as soon as the owner returned to the kitchen.
Xan morosely plucked a croissant from the basket. A relief to his senses this renewed silence might be, but the obstructed quest for information proved quite disappointing. About to tear a piece from the bread, he paused and glanced to the side.
There upon the floor, Baron Pinkerton had returned. Standing on his hind legs, nose twitching expectantly in the air for a tribute.
Against his better judgment, he tossed the entire pastry at the rodent's feet. Baron Pinkerton clutched the gifted meal and squeaked a magnanimous acceptance of the offering. It then dragged the croissant until both bread and rodent disappeared through the door.
With a shrug of his shoulders, Xan turned to glance at the window which offered him an unimpeded view of the Court of Air. Bathed in the light of the recently risen sun, the wide cobblestone courtyard lay empty at this hour. Most of the visitors still slept in the inn or those outside were yet to be granted entry by the Gatewarden. Meanwhile, the Avowed were still breaking their fast in the refectory or offering morning prayers at the chapel in the Inner Ward.
So far, the monks here were all human with an occasional individual bearing minute traces of elvish ancestry, though the excessive dilution rendered them imperceptible now in the eyes of N'Tel'Quess.
Once more, the curious puzzle of the former elven resident returned to gnaw at his mind. She would most certainly have been orphaned with the tragedy having occurred far from any elven community. But whoever brought her in this place surely meant well but was unaware of the disastrous consequences of a Tel'Quessir being cut-off from the People. Though based on the serving girl's account, this elf might still be quite young. There yet remained the opportunity to rectify a grave mistake.
Both the outer gate and the Emerald Door of the Inner Ward opened at the same time, and a handful of visitors strolled through the courtyard, met halfway by some monks. Xan eyed them with middling interest but found himself furrowing his brows.
Somehow and unbidden, he imagined an elven lady among their number. Had this one stayed and continued her life here, then she would have become one of the Avowed. Arrayed in the same austere robes yet possessing of the instinctive elegance and grace inherent to the People. If someone recurrently tasked to assist the herbalist in the apothecary, then most likely having a scholarly disposition, slight in frame and delicately wan from devoting herself to the academic sphere instead of rugged outdoor pursuits. Perhaps, occasionally swayed by her human friend's boisterous ways given her youth, but inherently reserved, poised, and serene in her own manners. Perchance a Teu'Tel'Quess like himself, a castaway and lonely spirit gliding through the squalid mire of this realm but ever drawn to the clarion beauty of the moon and starlight.
With a deep sigh, Xan turned away from the window and commenced poking forlornly at his own regal breakfast.
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