Veritas leaned his head low, and touched the tip of his long nose to the ground. Softly, his voice rumbled and reverberated off the cavernous ceilings lost in the murky depths overhead. It was an ancient language he spoke, one forgotten in the world of sun and birds and the smell of salt sea on the air. This was the language of Draconis. "Thank you brothers," Veritas rumbled, his shimmering ruby scales fluttering slightly at the words, "For coming such great distances. Long has it been since a Council of Elders has stood. I was humbled when Couragis appeared here three full turnings ago and informed me I was being called to hold a Council. What business comes before us?" A young, enormous Ice Wyrm, his scales so white they seemed to shine in the darkness beneath the mountain. He was strong, and his blue eyes blazed with intensity as he bowed his head to speak. The muscles along his neck rippled, as if straining to hold his head low, "Brothers, I am the youngest here, by far. But there are changes that have come to the world of men. You have felt it, I know. Something has stirred the winds of Fate, and change is strong in the air." Many of the others nodded, and the young Wyrm continued, "I fear the Necromancer has returned. The forces of Light are gathering, as are his. When it comes, we will have to choose." The Wyrm stepped back, never having given his name. He was young, then. Veritas looked around at the gatherd Dragons and Wyrms. Each had seen at least three thousand turnings, and most had seen many times that many. Veritas had stopped counting himself Ages ago, but he was sure some still tried to keep track. Perhaps it would amuse them when his bones were laid to rest in the Moonless Lake to see who could come close to his count. But that was for them to worry about and wonder. Veritas bowed his head low, "It is a decision each must make for themself," He said softly, and every head nodded, "And that means they must all be made aware. Then the choice is forced on them, for not choosing is, in its nature, a choice; ignorance, however, is not." A monk suddenly turned the corner of one of the stalagmite and stalactite riddled tunnels and found himself in the great, cavernous Council chamber. The poor monk froze, his face drawn in an odd mix of terror and disbelief. One of the large Ancient Wyrms at the back growled a rough curse at him to void his foul blatter on his own doorstep. The gruff Elder even punctuated his words with a quick gout of red flame. The monk promptly shrieked, and fled screaming back the way he'd come. "Some things," Veritas said with a chuckle, "Like Monks, never change. These humans built their city here with our help. Some of them trusted us once. Perhaps they can again...." A few of the heads were nodding this time, though not as many as Veritas would have wanted. The young, proud Wyrm in the corner simply stared, his eyes hard and cold. Most of the Elders began to leave in small groups, their heads held close together, sharing thoughts. With fewer members in a conversation, most Dragons had dispensed with words long ago and communicated mind to mind. It was quicker, and afforded far fewer misunderstandings and disputes. They would talk about what had been said here tonight, in great detail, and at great length. Eventually, hopefully, another Council would stand, and the matter could be discussed farther, but perhaps not. Dragons never do anything rashly, or suddenly. They are deliberate and thoughtful in every decision, every action. And, as often as not, they are careful not to take any action, or make any decision at all. As Veritas had said, the choice not to act was, in itself, a choice. And it was one the Council of Elders had learned to exercise when needed. Veritas listened as the lonesome sound of the wind whispered through the now empty caverns and tunnels. The wind constantly whispered through this labrynth, but it was never felt. It was, instead, a dim memory of what once was. The touch of the sunlight on ones' scales, and the taste of a fresh, salty fish in ones' jaws. And, above all, the rush of the wind over ones' wings. Veritas closed his eyes, breathed as deeply as he could, and roared his anguish to drown out the noise.
Zeddar let his voice taper out..... so.............very................ slowly. The common room at the Siren's Call was dead silent. Not even breath stirred for the space of a heartbeat and a half. Then, somewhere in the crowd, a tankard began thumping on a thick, rough-hewn table. Quickly, it was joined by another, and then three more. Before long, the rafters were practically rattling with the thunder of tankards, glasses, daggers, casks, kegs, and damn near everything else not bolted down was rattled against whatever was. Zeddar stood, and with a dramatic flourish and a bow, waved his feathered cap and his patchwork cloak to carefully reveal his lute and his harp cases. At once, a loud cry went out for the Tambourine. Zeddar grinned, and reached deep behind his cloak, and, with yeat another flourish and a flash of lightening, brought out a shining silver tambourine. The crowd literally erupted. Zeddar began tapping out a gypsy rhythm against his leg, and broke into a roguish ballad about a tinker and gambler who both fell in love with a thief. There were cards, blood, and a great deal of rum involved, and everyone ended up laughint until tears stained their cheeks. When Zeddar was done, everyone was so thoroughly drunk on the music as much as the ale and whatever else, that few even noticed when he quietly slipped off stage and over to the bar. That was the key to show business. Always leave them wanting just a little bit more. Zedd knew many who could tell just when to cut a crowd. Like hooking a fish just a hair too strong, and not knowing when to cut the loss of the net and let it go. Oftentimes, when that happened, you ended up with a very angry Sea Serpent taking chunks out of your boat. Zedd took the complimentary mug of ale with a smile and a wink. He flipped a fat, round silver coin toward the bar tender, and was taken aback when a stranger stepped up smoothly and snatched it out of the air. The man smiled, and passed the bartender three gold coins to make up for it, and turned back to Zedd. "I am Dorian Andrael," He said, significantly, "And I think we should talk." Zedd's eyes narrowed, "Quick hands." Dorian squinted a bit, "I suppose. I used to do a bit of juggling." Zeddar nodded absently, "So did I. Then I found that jugglers also have nimble fingers. Best not to leave a purse laying about. You know, I once had a juggler snatch a mark out of my hand and I didn't even know it until I went to put the cursed coin in my pocket?" Dorian started to chuckle, but something in Zeddar's eyes stopped him. Dorian looked down, and slowly, carefully opened his fingers. For a moment, all he could do was stare at the very fat, very round, very platinum coin he was holding. By the time his eyes came back up, Zeddar and his patched cloak were gone.
Luthain sat in the Siren's Call, a fresh ale in front of him. The kegs were down in the cellar, deep beneath the Inn itself. There was a small spring there that welled up from some deep root of the mountains. The water was cold and crystal clear here and the natural stone walls of the cellar kept it cold constantly. And that made the ales last longer and stay fresher. There was a thin film of condensation on Luthain's mug, and he stared as a trickle of water ran down to join the ring already on the table. As he watched the others file out of the Tavern, the Watchman caught his eye and started to take a step towards him. Luthain held up his mug, though, and shook his head slightly. This was one adventure he wouldn't be going on. They were riding to the aid of a man of Skara. Luthain still had too much of the blood of Brae beating in his heart to ride to the aide of Skara. Some wounds, no matter how deeply buried, never fully heal. The Watchman frowned, but he didn't have time to investigate, and soon the party was gone. Oddly enough, not long after the last hoof beats faded into the woods, a new patron for the nigh came sauntering in. Dorian Andrael looked every bit the irasscible and inscrutible gypsy that he was. He smiled at all the right people, and shook all the right hands. One of the waitresses on staff winked at him and asked if he would be singing this evening. Dorian gave them his most winsome smile in return, and bowed low, addressing the room, "My ladies, I would never rule a thing out that might brign a smile to your lovely faces." With a flourish, he stood and spun to the bar, "And you gents are more than welcome to listen as well, I suppose," He said, and the few remaining customers rewarded him with a hearty laugh. Dorian spoted Luthain and walked over. He dropped into an empty seat without preamble and without invitation. "Not going out looking for someone's head to split with your axe?" Dorian asked, a twinkle in his eyes. "You not going out to hypnotize house wives, steal children, and patch a few kettles?" Luthain grumbled in return, "I hear you gypsy folk are good at that." "Oh, there's lots of stuff," Dorian said with a grin, making a dagger appear in each hand suddenly, "That they say us Folk are good at." Dorian spun the two daggers around in each hand a few times, just to prove that he could, and then they disappeared as quickly as they had appeared. "So why aren't you going?" Dorian persisted. "It's personal," Luthain growled back, but Dorian only waited. Finally, Luthain took a long drink of his ale, and slammed the mug back down on the table, "Skara betrayed us. They raided our villages, burned our homes, and torched our fields. They destroyed Brae, utterly......and all of this after claiming to be our brothers and living in peace for more than two thousand years." Dorian nodded, "Yes, I know all abourt that.... but as I recall, Brae declared war on Skara and wiped them out. The only thing that's left of either of them is the little island outpost that now serves as their tombstone. But, all things considered, Brae did technically win the war, so why are you still angry? I mean, this all happened three full Ages ago anyway." Luthain just shook his head and looked like he wanted to spit, "You wouldn't understand." Dorian shrugged, "Perhaps not, but then again....I am a gypsy." Luthain snorted and couldn't help but laugh at that. In spite of himself, he found that he like Dorian Andrael. He wasn't all together certain that he could trust the merchant.....or spy.......or whatever he was. Still, he was interesting to talk to. "Looks like things are coming together," Dorian said, and Luthain nodded, "How many more must come before we are ready?" Luthain shrugged this time, "I don't know," He said honestly, "Some are obvious.... The Sword of Justice, for instance..... not hard to interpret that. We need a Knight of Justice who knows how to wield a sword. Some are more uncertain..... Like the Lantern. Who can we find that will serve as the lantern? What will a lantern do? Why is a lantern needed in the first place? These are all questions the ancient texts never deigned to mention." Dorian nodded, "Well, you can't blame them, I suppose. The monks back then were really not that good. Most of them had been destroyed by the most recent trouble with this same issue, so they can be cut some measure of slack. There is another wizard that knows of these things.... I've been tracking him for a while, but it seems he's shaken me like a slow lizardman." Luthain snorted again, "You sound surprised. All those nights in cities sleeping on feathered beds with actual pillows.... it's making you soft." Dorian looked genuinely insulted, "What makes you think I don't bring a pillow when I'm out on the road?" Luthain laughed so suddenly he almost spit ale everywhere. When he'd regained his voice he asked, "Is this wizard anyone I know?" Dorian smiled, "You should," He replied, "He's the one that's been up on stage for the past three nights telling tales about dragons and singing about gypsy women." Luthain's eyes went wide, "So you mean that myth about the dragon council he told was true? What Age was it in? How long ago did it happen?" Dorian grunted, "About two weeks ago," He answered. Again Luthain almost spit ale, "Two WEEKS?! How can you be sure?" Suddenly there was a dagger in Dorian's hand again, and he began absently flipping it into the air and catching it. There was a long, tense silence before Dorian finally said, "Because I was there, albiet briefly. But, more importantly, Zeddar was there too. And he wasn't just there. He was standing next to the Eldest, Veritas himself."
