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[B]Hayden Peak
The Territory of Byrn[/B]

There's something inconceivably cryptic of the arctic embrace. To the unacclimated it proved to be a force of egregious debilitation; it assaulted the senses and vitiated the spirit. It was treacherous and thorough; nothing assayed the conviction of a man with similar surety like time spent in the tundras of Byrn. Though for those with an enduring quality, a tranquility, lost to most, could be found on the snow-capped palisades and powdered dunes. A stillness undetectable to civilized consideration lie just beyond the bitter winds that howled with deafening audibility. Aelana smiled, because to her nothing could be heard but a symphony of life and complacency.

Indeed, she was a woman of station; something of a known figure among the ranks of the many militias who assumed the Whitewood banner as either their own or the protectorate it afforded them. At birth she was the indigenity of the wild and despite an entire lifetime of cultivation, there was a discernible beckoning felt from the spirit of the land. She always felt removed from the societal strata of Whitewood and the political intrigue that governed its very inner workings; unable to become as intimately involved as Ghandall. Tthen again, juxtaposed to his distinguishments and indomitable fervor, she was vapidly saturnine. Not to be dreaded however, there was a place for everyone and a demand for those as ancillary as her.

The winds were uncharacteristically reposeful on this morning; a young sun rose lazily in the horizon illuminating the land below with an arrangement of soft oranges and reds. It was still, almost picturesque. Came to the eye as intentionally gentle as if designed by some Afonian artisan. Aelana sharply inhaled as she hoisted herself up and away from the fire she was tending. "Commendable," she offered flatly, freeing her gear from the storm that had usurped her camp from the night before. "I was aware that men from your land were particularly lively and sturdy but even I must admit myself surprised by your standing." She collected some snow into a handful and threw it at him mindlessly. "I thought surely [i]she[/i] would seize you, if you hadn't bled out by now. Though honestly, that might've been a more favorable fate for you."

Some distance away, bound at the extremities and neck by rope to the hearty trunks of three oaks, remained the assassin who had unsuccessfully attempted to impede Aelana's excursion. While effective in slowing her down the current predicament he haplessly initiated was met with dire regret and proved to be little more than an annoyance for the Templar. By some stroke of luck the elements had preserved his life; the lacerations to his chest and the twisted flesh of his neck separated by the serrated edge of an arrow had ceased issuing blood. His rugged brown eyes had abandoned the tone of naked confusion they fostered in the early night and now had frozen over into a cold, deceitfully blank gaze that, to some extent, betrayed the death that lingered just behind them. He was slowly losing his lease on life but a certain residual defiance could be observed.

Distressed and enervated, he followed Aelana spitefully wish his vision. "You've no idea, do you? Oh, you unfortunate girl; your naivety will surely bring you peril."

Aelana turned and walked purposefully closer to the man regarding him inquisitively. He had held his silence for nearly two days, warding off every single attempt at conversation with a dismissive nod of his head. The seared blades she applied to his chest and hours of concussive coercion were surprisingly ineffective. Shamefully so. "A cryptic tongue is as good as no tongue at all," she snapped. "Choose your words wisely assassin."

A harsh and ineffectual laugh broke the silence. "I'm on the verge of death woman, do you think I fear what fate awaits me on the other side. This instance, while uncomfortable, offers nothing more than the reassurance in knowing our cause is just. You humans have grown demented with power; your attrition on our kind is an assault on the very Rift itself."

"Incredible," she turned around and resumed collecting her belongings. Even she found herself at odds with the current ambitions of the Nightshade; a fervidity that lacked any justification and supported reasoning as misguided and unsubstantiated as the religion they clung to. The Templars were regarded with similar scrutiny but had gained faint favor for distinguishing themselves as a safeguard for humanity against the atrocities magical creatures committed and not some unjust prosecutors. However, not all shared that observation and many dismissed any notion that painted them as any less treacherous than the Nightshade. 

"You must be hopelessly witless if you thought yourself merited enough to attempt the life of a Templar for nothing more than a sentiment of misplaced retribution. You're affront has rewarded you with nothing but misfortune and self-wrought peril," she remarked callously. "Ask yourself with your remaining breath if it was really worth it."

"I suppose not," his head slumped down to the ground and issued a defeated sigh.

Aelana wasn't nearly as barbarous as her appeal designated. Sure, she might not have operated on the nearly noble pretension of being a sentinel for humans that most other Templars assumed; but she wasn't entirely without benign inclinations. She possessed a constructed apathy that owed itself to years of necessary adaptation; reactions to a life of disadvantage and expectation and bereft of the graces of mercy most were privy to. There wasn't much room for compassion as a Templar, even more so, for any individual who found themselves in the precarious position of being Ghandall's most invested prize-dog. 

"I'll leave you to your fate, whatever that might be. Hopefully the winds will take you before the carrion rob you of your flesh," she said coldly speaking of the birds-of-prey encircling the ill-fated man from above.

The land in it's complacency was suddenly perturbed by Aelana's shrill whistle. It was oddly melodious and carried itself on the currents of wind for a number of leagues. Her stallion was a sprightly creature; incapable of remaining by the camp and stricken with such a profound sense of wanderlust than even she knew how to manage. When in Whitewood, he would vanish for days on end yet sure enough when she beckoned him he would come. Faithful. Far off in the distance, the tree line broke and from it a black mare galloped forth; it's sinewy body rippling as it cut through the snow in ragged procession. It's movements weren't exactly laborious but certainly not as sure-footed as a creature acclimated to the frothy dunes of this terrain. Aelana suddenly released her grip on her belongings and grabbed the hilt of her long sword with murderous intent. Her horse didn't move like that; he was young and his gait resoundingly sure. His legs would have pressed through the snow, unhindered, in fluid strides. As if to reaffirm her acknowledgement; at random points in the distant woods the trees seemed to separate themselves and sanction a number of other horses to pass through. The leading horse wasn't just galloping towards her, he was mounting an assault. 

"Tell me," came the voice of the man, surprisingly hearty and reassured, "how privy are you really to the matter of fate." Aelana spun around and stared in utter disbelief. The man, now liberated of his bonds, stood with purpose and a particularly dreadful confidence. Leering at her from behind him was some beastly creature; it's horned crest bobbed with each one of its jagged breaths. It stepped out from behind him and snarled with contempt; there was an unmistakable human quality to its regard for her, perhaps a little too intelligent to be a product of a natural disposition. 'I'd wager not too privy," the man retorted with malicious content.