[h2]The Ytharien[/h2]
“Be careful, Annara,” Lothren cautioned as he lowered himself carefully into the corner of the cell. Shade, at last. Though imprisoned, this stone cell offered the first dose of cool air he’d felt in what seemed like an era. Water, he hoped, was soon to follow. Every word scraped his throat. “You know as well as I the humans here may think a simple prayer to be witchery.”

While Juna and the friendly refugee traded words through the bars, Lothren tenderly arranged his broken arm in his lap, clasping one hand in the other. He knew little of complicated humanoid anatomy, but from what he could tell, the arm had shattered well above the elbow. Yet here, his hand down to the fingertips had swelled and turned violet. Beyond the pain, he couldn’t feel anything anymore. Not even the cool stone.

Lothren lifted his head and traded a worried look with Aust before Juna’s question pulled his attention.

“[i]Escape[/i]?” he recited the elvish word. He continued the rest of his thought in Aretan Common. “I wonder, what would you have done back there, at the gate, had I said nothing? Fought for freedom? Killed a few guards protecting their city? Been killed? Even if you succeeded and fled, where would you go, Juna? Areta is hardly a verdant paradise.”

Enough Ytharien had died today of his failed leadership. After surviving by the skin of their teeth, it would have been senseless to die here, at the Greenbank Baron’s shady doorstep.

“I saw you fight that beast,” Lothren carried on, initially ignoring the refugee’s questions. He was half delirious from thirst and pain, and his voice came in dry, breathy gasps. “You were beautiful, Juna. Your hair like cornsilk, eyes like,” he paused to smile, “like home. I’ll get you out of here, sister, I promise you.”

Finally, Lothren acknowledged the human. He was inquisitive, a mark of intelligence. By the look of his tanned complexion and light hair, he appear to be native Viceni stock, but humans were known for interbreeding. He was the first of the humans to approach the elves respectfully and ask their motives, instead of hurling the nearest rock.

Perhaps he was foolish for following the prisoners into the keep’s prison yard, but perhaps his curiosity was all he had left. His home was gone.

“We did have a motive,” Lothren told him from his shady corner. “I know, stranger, what tunneled through your lands and sank your nation. I know what those creatures were, and what they wanted. I know that the only reason you and your remaining countrymen still live is because me and my Ytharien risked ourselves to herd you to safety across the river. Furthermore.”

The elf shifted in his spot as he stretched out one leg after the other, settling in for what could be hours.

“I know that, beyond the gratitude your lot owe us for saving your lives,” which had been so [i]profusely[/i] shown so far, “that the information I hold is the only thing that makes any of us worth keeping alive. Forgive me if I do not share it with you quite yet. I will tell you this: the Aretan king is here within the city. He must be. He was present this morning at your country’s downfall.”

Lothren turned and regarded Annara with a fatherly gaze. With his good arm, he lifted a piece of her hair to get a better look at her headwound.

“If your good will toward us is true,” the elf added, “would you fetch my compatriots and I some water from the trough across the yard?”
[hr]
[h2]The Knights[/h2]
“Blood magic?” Alonso felt his lip curl. Ordinary arcana was dangerous enough, but what Marcus described was utterly heinous. Even terrifying. All too much for a travel-weary King to comprehend in the state he was. Alonso’s mind was on his waiting bath, a fresh set of clothes, and a soft bed. “Saints alive. Yes, send for the Inquisitor. By the King’s order.”

Still, no word of the creatures or from what infernal pit they had spawned. 

“Captain, you’ve not said a word. Have you anything to add?”

Summoned to life, Amon swiveled his head back and forth as he gathered his bearings, as if having forgotten where he was. Disheartening Alonso, the Captain appeared ill prepared to join the discussion. 

“N-no…” Serona stated, uselessly. He held his ribs as he spoke. He hadn’t eaten a thing, just taken a few sips from his goblet. “Forgive me, my liege. I had… family, there.”

“Ah…” The King felt his eyes lower. “I am sorry.”

Exhausted, Alonso sank back into his seat, resting his brow in the palm of his hand. His head was pounding and his limbs felt wooden and weak. To stave off the sensation, the King picked up a piece of bread and dipped it the salted, meaty juices of the rushed banquet the House had provided. The weight of Alonso’s crown, even when worn, was growing heavy. Every soul in the room waited to hear what he would think, and there wasn’t a single magistrate in sight to help him organize his thoughts, or decide what should be done. 

 “The elven band,” the King began to illuminate, after swallowing his bite, “was called the Ytharien. Ythari, wolves, in their language. But they traveled as the Mummers of Merry Andrew.” All of them were dead. The name sounded perverse now. “Actors. Raiders. Indeed you are right mage, their leader did know something of the swallowed villages. He spoke of antlions, great monsters from the south, but mentioned that their behavior was odd. As if they were being directed. If he still lived, we could…”

Alonso leaned in his chair as two armed militiamen came unannounced into the dining hall. Were this the castle at home, the interruption would have outraged the older lords and magistrates, but the Anquis Keep was decidedly less rigid. Almost refreshing.

“My Lady.” Nervous looks were spared in the mystery noble’s direction, but Alonso was patiently silent. “We have apprehended elves at the gate. They could be our raiders. They await your attention in the prison yard. I have already called for the inquisitor.”

[i]The Ytharien?[/i] The King rose to his feet again, forcing his chair to stutter loudly behind him.

“How serendipitous.” Alonso waved an arm at Captain Serona. When the Knight Captain proved unattentive, the King furled his brow and deferred to Gawain instead. “Castagher. You were with the elves. I know you are hurt and weary, but I want you to see if these are the elves who raided Muon Pond. See to it the Inquisitor is brought here. Mage—”

It was rather a challenge to know what to do with an ungoverned mage. He was the King’s guest, but in a sense he was also a prisoner. Once false move would be his undoing, despite his value to his remaining countrymen. The Viceni were now endangered.

“I’d like you to stay close to Sir Gawain. I cannot have you roaming free. Kolbe.” Despite looking worse for wear, Sir Linus was the most able Knight among his injured brothers. The King needed an escort. “With me. Lady Anquis, before we resume our grim business, I would like to meet with your father.”