([color=f26522]Holden d’Alnharte[/color], Port of Artis, Praelium)

[color=f26522][i]Fog. Damned fog.[/i][/color]

Holden dismounted from his borrowed horse, and ran on foot. His instincts screamed to do anything except run towards what was likely an early grave. Where men and women with the ability to twist nature did battle, he would arrive with a bow, a blade, and his mortality. It reminded him of an old saying that spread through the Royal Army like wildfire. 

[color=f26522][i] Arrows fly faster than spells. [/i][/color]

While he wanted to believe it was true, his past experiences proved that it was not always true. And while daggers, arrows and blades alarmed him, none of them sent the hair on the back of his neck on end. Not like that voice did. 

[i][color=f26522] Was it too late to return to Paline? [/color][/i]

He stopped as silhouettes formed in the fog. As the dying light cast a rose-stained light through the air, it offered the sight of a ruined barn. Yet, there was a particular lack of smoke in the air. This was not an On’hinian attack. There would have been plenty of soldiers greeting him by now with the glint of steel. The robed figures only confirmed his suspicions – if nothing else had. 

On’hinians had a specific distaste for magic in any form. They would rather perish than utilize magic in their armies. 

The Exile moved towards a tree and hid. He had to pick his timing just right. Sliding an arrow from his quiver, he peered around the trunk and observed the two. He was too far to make out their conversation, though the way they acted told of the tension. Neither broke the other’s line of sight.

He smirked. 

[color=f26522][i] Maybe one will kill off the other. Would make my job all the more easy. [/i][/color]