The Chosen

[Faye]

To me, my art is all that matters.
And my art depends on my blades.
And my blades depend on me,
the wielder.
Faervel Thalanir.

His name remains impossible in mine own tongue, and one does have to sing in the tongue of the Fair Wings to pronounce it fully. Ser Huien, Ser Huien.

One has heard little of Hoar in one's lifetime. A God of powers marred by darkness, though His heart stands fair. It is true to say He and mine own Lady have little in common. A Dame of a different cloak, a Dame of beauty, not bloodshed, though still we did spar together. The glamours in the Arena are for show, yes, though the phantom pain hurts as true as his poison! That cursed spider, one shall use it not again, not even for practice. It is a good job Velkia was there, mine own blessings did little good. The day fell to night, and the night to day once more. Mayhaps we pushed him too far.

One does foresee great things, though one is no Seer. A Knight of the highest regard, a Knight of the songs, of the stories of my youth. Youth which does fall away so fast. Shining armour mayhaps, a steed of valour, and a promise.

An Oath, next time. He has all but sworn unto me.

[The first foe.]
[Strike when the iron is hot!]
[An artist of a different brush.]

[Faye]

Two tendays of sorrow, this, my only light piercing through. Well, mayhaps things are not as dire as one implies, but mine own being is shadowed over by the presence of evil in that city. Must get out. Cannot stay here any longer, fire and death and ritual circles...One can wield the sword of peace and the sword of righteous battle, but when is the time to slash through a Devil, and when is the time to charm a mad Gnomish Golemancer? One knows not. Time with Alair may help, and the Gods know Brother Pneuma is wiser than one by decades. Though mayhaps they still do not know, and the question shall lie unanswered, peaked at the tip of mine own tongue.

A venture to the Cordorian Crypts, a Priestess, a Knight, a relic-hunter and a Kelemvorite. Those of the Cult almost breached their self-imposed prison, standing before the gates leading to Cordor. We ended that, but of course, though they should not roam so far.

After much dallying and looking about, searching for aged runes or uncovered marvels, even speaking of olives, we reached the fated pit, the bridge of which grants no passage. We began clearing out the tainted pools of undead: one can stay the hand of the weaker-boned easily enough, and hurried back up.

Mayhaps it was folly to send Ser Huein over that bridge, though he must learn to test his reflexes, to step into danger without fear. He fell. Twicefold. Though made a fine attempt. Lost in the fray of the dark pools and the deep walls, we were separated! Fate curse one, indeed.

After a while of splashing and shouting, one almost swore. He must have escaped, there is no mortal man who would survive that scent, the uncanny cultist stench of the dead rotten. Climbing up that ladder, weak as the minds of the risen-fallen, one made haste to the city, where, to mine own surprise, stood Ser Huein.

A recent purchase of axes and a time inside the Arena, and one does think he shall fare better next time.

Then came the Army.
Suddenly, my ink has all but dried.

[Introductions, simple things, really.]
[Ancient finds.]
[The fallen Knight!]
[Double-axes, and a wink.]