Yserien Stagheart - Black Moon

[Obsidian Sea]

They had never left. Nor had he.

A torn black banner has drifted down on cold currents from the mountains, finally to be hooked upon the roof of the Ranger's cabin which marks the place where the Pilgrim's Road turns to Pilgrim's Rest. To Gabrel Myllar and others from the Warscouts who have had the opportunity to regard the banner, it is of a faction heretofore unheeded by Impiltur's military. Journeying up the gradient to reach Songhall, it is a fateful dusk that affords Yserien Stagheart the opportunity to look upon the banner as Gabrel Myllar struggles with the stiffness of his left leg to pry it from the slate roof of the Ranger's cabin. Upon pitch black, white warpaint forms the shape of teeth, and the meal they sink into is a heart.

Fierce had the snow been when it forced the Moon Elf from pursuing his quarry, driving him by necessity to seek survival in the warmth of odd human settlements. Down the mountainside and into Outentown had he come. But thankfully for the men and women of Impiltur, the Orcs from Elventree had not styled their actions similarly. Taking stock of the direction and ferocity with which the wind blew, and making his estimates as only a Ranger can be trusted best to make them, Yserien must surmise that his foe yet makes a bed somewhere in the mountains. Could it be that deep in the heart of winter the tribe had died from the scarcity of things? Or does the ominous counterpart sit more firmly in the strange heart of the Elven warrior: that the Orcs had weathered the snowstorm from the safety of its heart, somewhere in the deepest gorges of the Earthfasts?

And regardless, shall not his oath compel him to know at last of his quarry's fate? If so, then it is a simple question first and foremost which the Elf must answer to himself. Shall we rally allies for the hunt? Or go alone?

[Khaela Mensha Khaine]

For months now, the hunter from beyond the mountains had searched the region tirelessly. Vlasta, Filur, Songhall, the Laviguer and Royal roads; all of these he had scouted, back and forth he'd roamed without so much as a shred of evidence that the orcs had even passed. But now, at last, the truth had been revealed - a truth that he had feared, and yet secretly hoped for, all along.

The beasts he hunted lingered in the mountains, perhaps ere his search had begun. He had to believe that they still lived, that they had survived on their wits and will, as he had. The frost had been fierce and bitter, true, but no more so than they. Yserien did not linger by the cabin, shying away from Gabrel and those he did not know nor trust. Instead, he fled from the place as swiftly as he could and picked his way back South. His feet touched stone, grass and dirt, he darted up hills and waded across streams and eventually found his way back to the city of Sarshel.

He looked for his only true friend inside those walls of stone, Merney Valroc, but of him he could find no sign. That failed, he instead looks for the potential friend he had found in Artemis D'Assanthe.

[Khaela Mensha Khaine]

And so the deed is done.

I have spent some nights now pondering whether events should have transpired differently, I have hidden myself away in solace and silence. If I could return to that crucial point just before the battle, where I could pass over the wild emotions that churned my stomach, would I have taken my time and studied my foe? Could I have, after I had led my companions over lofty peaks, beyond treacherous terrain and into the biting cold?

Perhaps I would, but what - if anything - would have changed? It is not a question I can answer, no matter how relentlessly I wrack my mind. What remains is a sense of guilt and, ultimately, failure. The relic of my ancestry is lost, a large portion of forest now needlessly turned to ash. 'tis a guilt I will wear for years, I know, lest I can at least find the sword.

Their chieftain dead, the tribe scattered to the four corners. If he had not the sword, then it had passed from the dirty hands of the tribe. I had expected them to keep it as a trophy - perhaps they had used it for trade. Another impossible question to answer, only adding to my frustrations and feelings of failure.

So here I remain, a prisoner of this foreign land for which I have no love; a flightless bird dragging itself along a road with no end in sight. I will not return in shame, I will not fail my family, my sister, my niece. I cannot disgrace the Seldarine by leaving such a blessed heirloom in the filthy hands of our oldest enemies.

But where now do I continue my quest? What path is left in this land of Men?

Tilting his chin, the elf cast his gaze down the mountains, where Vlasta slumbered under the watchful eyes of Sehanine Moonbow. Those pale eyes lingered there only briefly before returning to the kindling, and he poked at the kindling with the point of his shortsword to stoke the flames anew, the fire hungrily consuming the dry wood. The world was painted with the deep blue of night and the vivid orange of fire. No sound could be heard even to his keen ears but the soft crackle of burning wood, the gentle breeze caressing the greenery and the infrequent chittering of insects.

Settling the sword down on the grass at his side, he let out a gentle sigh and leaned back on his elbows. He looked up. The clouds had parted, the stars glimmered brightly and he blinked at them in turn.