[center][h2]The Knights[/h2][/center]
The Knight was on him before he could so much as blink. Tuyev had underestimated the vigilance of the armored men, just as he had underestimated the size of his head when he tried to peer out for a curious look at the newcomers. Now there was a sword to his throat, a knee on his chest, and flecks of spittle on his cheek as this giant roared some question about elves. Certain that he was about to experience a very painful death, Tuyev wished very genuinely that he had the answer.

At least Tuyev had [i]his[/i] answer. No, they were not bandits or elves. They were the King’s men, judging by their prestigious attire and the loathsome colors on that banner.

While he was still stammering out an answer, that blade pressing into the soft underside of his jaw, the Knight’s comrade sauntered up to join the interrogation. His tone was maddeningly playful, almost jovial, but Tuyev could see the hanging flail in the bottom of his vision, and there was no move made to remove the brute pinning him to the earth.

“I didn’t—” The nomad whimpered when he felt the blade bite into his flesh upon the formation of words. “I didn’t [i]do[/i] this. I was—was just l-looking…” 

A third came into view. A silent spectator to his imminent death. [i]Help me[/i], Tuyev pleaded with the universe. [i]Please. What have I done?[/i] How could his existence mean so little to them?

“Yes!” Tuyev broke into a desperate sob, his hands scraping against the rough earth in a vain attempt to back away from the weapon. “Elves! B-burned the place and left! Everyone ran. I… I came back. They left everything behind.”

Produced from his writhing, a silvery object, oblong and curved, protruded from his nomad wrappings. An errant motion from his arm knocked it fully into view. Tuyev apparently regretted this, and despite his predicament, pawed blindly outward to get it back.

“N-not mine!”

It was an elven blunderbuss, recognizable to every man present from their previous encounters with the slender beasts. Floral engravings in the metal made its craftsmanship unmistakable. The wooden handle was iridescent and polished to a glassy shine, seeming to repel every grain of sand. Its flared muzzle was  blackened and warped, indicating to the trained eye that it had misfired. 

Tuyev could have sold it for a handful of silver, perhaps even a gold crown, but he was sure that that elves wouldn’t have left it behind if it was still working.

Captain Serona fell in beside Kolbe to observe the scene, but left its handling to his men. The weapon proved Falkenburg’s observations: this had been the work of elves. The only question was whether they were close enough on the King’s trail to be involved with him. 

“We’ll make camp here tonight,” the Captain rumbled to the scarred soldier. “If anyone else returns: elf or villager,” the nomad received a passive look, “or another pathetic scavenger, we’ll be here to greet them.” An upward motion of his chin bid the two forward Knights to do as they willed. “Find out what this man knows of the attack, and burn that elven garbage.”
[hr]
[center][h2]The Mummers[/h2][/center]
The nose of Lothren’s firearm followed the ghostly movements of a young rattlesnake weaving its way from one dry patch of woody foliage to another. He did not break his focus, not even when Juna climbed up beside him to pitch him a question. No twitch of an eyebrow or shift in his posture indicated that he had so much as noticed her presence.

[i]Clack.[/i]

Nothing happened when he depressed the iron lever, but he lowered the arquebus into his lap with the satisfaction of a gratified gunman. Juna was finally acknowledged in the corner of his eye.

“It draws nearer,” he murmured. “Every sunset brings it one day closer. Squeezes the trigger so [i]slowly[/i], leaving us waiting for the fatal shot. I don’t know when it will come, Juna.” Lothren lost sight of the slithering snake ahead. It had found a new home in some burrow. “And while I grow mad with anticipation, the human king prattles away about [i]singing[/i].”

The elf turned fractionally toward the firelight at his back. So little live appeared to dwell in the old creature when he was not standing upon a stage. The burr in his voice could echo in a village square, taking an audience by force. He composed body and limb with masterful precision, every movement a dance, every step a promise.

A century of life had left only decades in his features, not so much as lightening a single long strand on his brunet head. But here as he rested, Lothren was barely more than a corpse. Every year could be seen to his fellow elf, and then a few more.

“This will end soon.” Lothren’s dark eyes burrowed Juna. “As will ‘Alan’s’ incentive to help us. He is my key to freeing Ularien. While we have him, we have leverage. Do you understand?” It had been weeks. Alonso’s men must have been searching for him, and by now they couldn’t be far. “The king will not remain ours to keep. When that moment comes, remember that a blade on his throat will stay a blade on someone else’s.”

At the fire, Alan pulled off his hooded cap, leaving his sandy hair in a whirled mess. He sniffed through one nostril while he leaned his head forward to scratch the back of his neck. The scent of his own unwashed person wafted into his senses and for a fleeting moment, he ached for a hot bath back at home.

“We don’t even have to go [i]that[/i] far,” he replied to Aust. “It’s not bravery that keeps people from running, it’s stupidity. Everyone believes they’re invincible. That nothing could ever happen to them.” Alan emptied his cup, and then tossed it aside, leaving it to roll in the dirt. He sucked on his teeth for a moment, ignoring an echo of the Knight Captain’s advice in his head. “But something is happening, right this very moment. And Lothren is the only one who’s ever believed me.”

Alan propped himself up on his knees, leaning into the glow of the campfire.

“We can’t be hurting anyone else, it’s not right.” Not that Alan had killed anyone at all. His martial prowess was far lacking, and even when he had attempted to join the fray (if only to help warn villagers to run), a thin hand had held him back. He was left to watch elves burn and frighten villagers, both Viceni and Aretan, herding them westward. “Lothren tells me some people can’t be reasoned with, that they’d sooner die than be chased from their homes. I think he’s wrong. I think he’s just old, and out of patience.”

Looking between Annara and Aust’s face, Alan pretended to be speaking with the characters from the play. It was easier to think of them as heroes rather than violent criminals.

“Promise me no one else gets hurt.” Pain creased his brow. “I can’t bear it. I know what the Ytharien do, but you’re all better than that.”