[h3][center] ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Hamelyn Jaegar ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ [/center][/h3] 

[center] * * * * Nice Ring To It, Blacksmith’s Tent * * * * [/center]

[I]”What are we doing here?”[/I] Hamelyn contemplated in a somber silence, the dancing flames of the stone built forge reflected in his eye. [I]”This apotheosis… this great evil… evil only to those who do not understand? A greater good, perhaps? Why? Death begets death. Death is brought unto us by our stubborn hand.”[/I] The hyland stalker’s eyes quivered in their sockets, seemingly unable to focus on one particular point before him yet most definitely trying to focus on some particular event in front of him shrouded by the murky depths of the river of time. [i]”We fight to survive… We fight against a force to survive against a nightmare that exists only as a fiction of our own design. For what is evil but manifestation of what mortals -believe- to be against their best interest.[/I] Hamelyn’s eyes widened, his brow furrowed. Still deep in thought his chest heaved in a sigh of relief. [I]”Even the concept of good, is a mortal fiction.”[/I]

[B]”Sir,”[/B] stammered the nervous voice of a young apprentice, [B]”Sir, are you okay?”[/B] Brelin Dougal stammered with an outstretched hand as if afraid to make physical contact with the warrior. [B]”Sir…?[/B]

[color=darkolivegreen][B]”Huh... wh-what?”[/B][/color] Furiously the warrior’s eyes fluttered as his mind was brought back to the present. [color=darkolivegreen][B]”What is it Brelin?[/B][/color] 

With two hands the young man held out an axe. Unconventional from the typical material used on the hilts of weapons. Where on other weapons there may be leather, the handle here was ribbed and wrapped in abrasive black wire. The wooden shaft was made smooth and tempered by magical flame to promote durability and prevent fracture even under great pressure. The blade itself was designed as if the cresting wave of an ocean. Said to have been honed by the very hand of Michael, the cutting edge lined with runes of rumored to be of an unknown origin. Sharpened and honed over many years, decades beyond decades and yet the blade itself never having been replaced. 

[B]”Your axe sir. Master Nevon has completed the task in which you have charged him with. Such a simple task the master would bother you for but a few coppers?”[/B]

Hamelyn reached out with his behemoth sized hand, some might compare it to a frying pan. Grabbing the weapon by the wooden haft he examine the blade. It gleamed in the light of the nearby forge. The light shone along the freshly sharpened blade like a single drop of dew caressing the slender edge of a blade of grass on an early spring morning. Perfectly weighed, it balanced from knob to eye the man’s wrist never faltered as he twisted the axe around to bring to the freshly honed blade to his eye for a better examination. There was not a crack, not a chip - not even a single dent or divot. While the blade had never truly lost the appearance of perfection, it had certainly regained something Hamelyn believed it had lost. 

[color=darkolivegreen][b]”For your master.”[/b][/color] Hamelyn dropped a single silver piece into the apprentices hand. [color=darkolivegreen][b]“Even dedication and loyalty should be repaid.”[/b][/color] 

As Brelin, the blacksmith’s apprentice and Hamelyn, the northern native parted ways both were pleased with their transaction. But for very different reasons. Brelin had been with -the Moving- since its inception. He had been with his master since its inception. He had spent every waking hour working on weapons and armor for those soldiers who were in desperate need of perfection. While his work had been rewarding and compensation was delivered daily in the form of room and board. But to be given even two copper coins as a reward for his dedication and service was typically unspoken of. 

For Hamelyn is was much more simplistic. He had his favored weapon back in one piece. But more importantly, he found a smith that could be trusted to handle the items that he had placed trust in for so many years. 

[center] * * * * The Second Feather, A Shop of Less Conventional Wares * * * * [/center]

	With the back of his hand, Hamelyn pushed aside the leather flap that signified the opening in the tents construction. As the leather was pushed aside the warrior was overcome by the scent of patchouli and sandalwood. A scent so staggering that the man turned away covered his nose and mouth, his lungs tightening with convulsion as a wracking cough overtook his strong composure. 

	[B]“The arcane arts are not by your design.”[/B] A strange voice cooed in a tone both high pitched and most certainly through the nose. [B]”Yet, you still breach my seals. You must be sure of what you are looking for? Only those who know of what they seek find my wares with ease.”[/B]

	Pulling his hand away, Hamelyn eyes were drawn immediately to the dark red spatter pattern on his leather gloves. How much longer would it be? The temperature was still above freezing. The light rain had not yet turned to sleet. The water gathering at his feet not yet turned to ice. Yet, his affliction - this frost lung had always been worse as the years went on. But these last few years beyond his third decade of life, the condition had truly taken its toll. 

	[color=darkolivegreen][b]“Hello…”[/b][/color] Hamelyn called out confused. [color=darkolivegreen][b]“I thought this might be the place to find exactly what I’m looking for.”[/b][/color] 

	He scanned from the tent from one side to the other. From left to right there were many shelves. Each stack holding a plethora of objects some identifiable to his mind ignorant of the components many magic users require but most were not. He was unable to draw out exactly where he should have been looking for the items in which he seeked. He took a few steps forward, enough to allow the flap of the tent to fall shut, swaying in the wind but keeping the cold breeze at bay as the heat from the interior torchlight began to build once again. He walked along the exterior of the aisles peering down each one only to find no one. 

	[B]”Are you looking for me?”[/B] The strange congested squeak inquired followed by a swift swoosh and a loud ting of something smacking the hulking hyland stalker in the shin. [B]“If I were a lesser man I might be offended.”[/B] The small man chuckled before his body slowly levitated from the floor, a burst of wind exploding from beneath his boots. “Then again...I’m no man either. A gnome no less. Not too many of my kind in these parts. Or out in the open as of recent months. Little purpose could we serve against the Apotheoses now.”

	The gnome rambled on. Confessing about troubles against the growing evil barreling down on them like a clumsy charging bull. Hamelyn was more confused now than he had been before he entered the strange tent. 

 	[color=darkolivegreen][b]”I need powdered horn of the Ibex, Mister…”[/b][/color] The hulking warrior blurted out saving himself from the ramblings of the obviously crazy being. 

	[B]”Nobblenot…”[/B] the gnome’s nasal consumed voice interjected, [B]“Just Nobblenot, no mister.”[/B]

	The strange gnome moved swiftly, the wind exploding beneath his feet. A cloud of dust swirled up from the dirt floor. The jars rattling on their shelves. The shelves themselves swayed in the breeze as the abrupt wind escaped beneath the thick flaps of the tent. The little being had disappeared. 

	[b]”Nobblenot knows exactly what you’re looking for.”[/b]

	[color=darkolivegreen][b]”I can only offer but a few pieces.”[/b][/color]

	With an outstretched hand Nobblenot came forward holding a jar. It was a glass flask perhaps only a few inches high and a conical shape that was sealed off with a cork stopper. The contents of the flask, which were clearly visible through the glass were an off-white almost grey color. The powder was quite fine, not a single chunk or large splinter would be found. These were quite typical attributes of any alleged arcane component. 

	In the other hand the gnome held seven silver pieces, [b]”You’ll find your satchel considerably lighter.”[/B]

	Fondling his coin purse Hamelyn found himself bewildered at how accurate the gnome  had been. [color=darkolivegreen][b]”Wh-how-when did you?”[/b][/color]

	The warrior’s confusion was met with a fading chuckle as the gnome disappeared from sight. But it was not as though he disappeared around the corner of a shelving unit although it would be totally expected as the gnomes are a very busy and strange races. Instead, in Hamelyn’s confusion he may have only taken his eyes off of the gnome for but a second and he was just gone. Nobblenot had disappeared from sight and there had not been any sign of his whereabouts. 

	When it came to the archaic arcane arts Hamelyn was something more than a blundering idiot. Little did he understand the workings of sorcerers and wizards, or even the tribal mystics that were revered as priceless. But standing there rather dazed and confused with a flask in hand and a strangely light pouch on his waist he couldn’t help but contemplate. If someone of such tiny stature was capable of tricks and feats so spectacular how could they not so simply contain the Apotheoses? What made it so difficult? Hamelyn knew of their power. He knew of their methods. He knew of their threat. But the physically mundane and predictable could not be a threat to this amazing feat of magical prowess. 

	[I]”What am I missing…”[/I] Hamelyn wondered.

[center] * * * * The Moving, The Front Gate * * * * [/center]

	The front gate was less of a gate and more of just an opening in the haphazardly strewn together fence line constructed of wood log barriers and trenches easily six feet deep and just about as far across. While guards were regularly posted at this opening, as well as along the fence line the main forces were deep within the confines of the camp huddled amongst the mass of tents and open workshops. It happened to be the typical war time moving huddled together in the colder temperatures before moving further north. 

	As Hamelyn approached the wide opening he heard the sounds of combat. The screams of battle. The clash of iron as blades were turned away and armor took blows that had broken through defenses, failed to be pushed back. Although the iron still clamoured in the open air, the metallic scent came from the blood spilt. 

A band of rapscallions attempting to invade the camp. A small collection of warriors who were recently introduced by Szazah. Blades were swept horizontally, while warriors shimmied, ducked, and dodged to maneuver themselves around the debilitating blows. The warriors weapons clashed, their shields clamoured and the armor they wore took the brunt of the damage as was not only expected but most certainly preferred. 

Hamelyn would not participate. Not in this battle. He couldn’t. While his hand trembled, tightening around the haft of his freshly sharpened battle axe - it was not fear that prevented him from joining the fray but apprehension.

What others present were not privy to had been what exactly had happened during the time Szazah and Hamlyn had spent in the prison under the control of the Apotheoses being tortured for information and brainwashed to prevent retribution, revenge, or revolt. Perhaps they were correct? Maybe it was not the great evils that had been released but the greater good that had been imprisoned under the guise of being evil? The Apotheoses had always proclaimed they were paving the way for sanctuary, for a utopian dream to be realized. That while this road may have to be paved in destruction as others argue to the contrary, what the Apotheoses represents is the true and righteous path. 

Maybe, they were right? 
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