The sun gathered its faded rays through the dark sky, like arrows soaring in the wind. The camp Theodren was somewhat held captive in was only defended by a palisade wall covering half the camp. The rest was guarded by large grey and smooth boulders, with mountainous formations further upwards.

The wood that held the wall together was hardly sturdy. It would take only around two swings from a battering ram to pierce a hole through it. Not even the gate holding the place guarded could do anymore than keep animals outside it.

One outpost stood at the high rise of the camp, capable of seeing the landscape beyond the woods. Four wooden posts stuck deep in the ground, holding the frame of it together. A ladder filled in the middle, going up into a wooden hatch. Only frail boards attached with rusted nails held anyone standing at the top of it from falling to their death at the cliff edge, leading fifty feet down to its face, opposite the ladder. The outpost itself, however, only stood around ten feet. A thatch roof contained itself at its peak, shading no more than the sun, the one thing people would need most up it.

Below it were the twenty rectangular huts made of thatch roofs and stucco walls, holding up to six members inside, with a stucco chimney and small fireplace below to keep them warm.

Not many enjoyed the experience of overseeing the task in the cold of winter, as there was no good news that could ever come from spotting up it. That, and of course, the winds and instability of it as it was. Icicles did occasionally make a jagged and cold smile on a top row of teeth from the roof of the outpost.

Almar and his armies were all that were willing to care about their desires, so no good news could ever really come from it. With the queen gone, Greymeria a hostage to his bidding, and Paldaron a ruin; what was left to fight for? What news could ever be to their liking?

A pine forest stretched across every corner from his view beyond the camp and mountains behind, as the treeline was certainly taller than the wall. The pine needles were cloaked in white. At every moment the snow fell from the trees, there was always a sense of alertness to all those who noticed.

"You're carrying it too far. Again." The Greymer man stood tall compared to the other, a feeble man wearing no more than a padded shirt and thick tattered clothes for warmth.

Theodren was sitting by a fire at the time, watching a sparring practice reach an abrupt end after the smaller man attempted a forward thrust. Through the reckless attempt, the man completely eliminated his guard. He was parried, then crushed by the weight of a dull Greymer blade. His face fell in the snow and thick ice on the ground, hurting his head and legs.

While humorous, Theodren could only sympathize, for he too had fallen by that man.

"It truly is a pity to see that your only enjoyment comes from defeating those far weaker than you." Theodren said softly, assuming his words could only be heard by himself.

"Had the same been struck on you?" The Greymer man replied in a rugged tone, turning to Theodren. "They made the choice."

"No...rather, it was your choice to leave his body a cripple on the snow, and bother not to lift him back up and make the challenge possible." Theodren walked over to grab the feeble man's hand, holding the man's back with his other hand to try and lift him.

The Greymer man stood awkwardly to again be detained of rank by a foreign foe.

Theodren looked the young man in the eyes, seeing the fear that was only overshadowed by anger and sorrow. It was the same motive keeping him alive, as well.

The man was hardly a man at all. No more than seventeen, he thought. His skin was pale, just as many often looked in the winter, with red on his nose and ears, and a fur winter hat covering his presumably short hair. His cheeks had freckles, and his eyes were hazel, but they looked constantly in sadness, same with his thin eyebrows. His short nose pointed upwards from its tip, and liquid came running down his face in an obnoxious heap, just above his upper lip. It could never be wiped clean without it running down again. He was still breathing hard from the sparring, steam, and all, as well as parched lips.

Theodren gave the man his dull sword again, grabbing the Greymer's for himself. Despite not wearing padding of any sort aside from a hide coat, Theodren positioned himself for another sparring match.

The Greymer, still dumbfounded, slowly walked back to witness the fight, at least five steps back.

In a matter of a second, Theodren thrust his blade at the man, to be parried in response in a rather sloppy manner.

"Again." Theodren smiled, eager to continue, gripping his blade in combat position, angling the handle at the height of his face, with the sharp tip down towards the man's.

The Greymer man thought the whole ordeal was just a way to mock him. After seeing his face change in such a way he thought couldn't be possible in their circumstance, however, he realized Selena was right.

Theodren's perpetual state of sorrow and fury subsided. He began to smile, and his footwork gradually improved through it, as did the other man.

"Two steps back!" He spoke aloud. "Parry! Curve to the left! Thrust!"

In each phrase being acted upon, the man gained control of himself, nearly hitting Theodren.

To avoid injury, Theodren gently kicked him on the legs, making him slip on the ice, with snow to take in some of his impact. A small crowd laughed in response.

The man grew furious, but Theodren lifted him up again.

"To any man who thinks they could've done better; face me now, or I shall wait until my body freezes over in laughter at your cowardice!" Theodren stood up again, looking all around him with a determined and demanding stare.

The crowd went silent, returning to their business and murmuring to each other in the distance.

The young man looked to Theodren, bewildered by the unexpected turn of events in his favor.

"Why?" He asked, "I don't know you, yet you defend me?"

Theodren looked down to him to listen, but his face changed.

"W-what's wrong?" They asked.

"N-nothing." Theodren turned away, walking off. "Don't act like this means anything. You still need to prove yourself."

"I-I will." They cautiously came closer, standing behind his back.

Theodren sighed, walking back to his tent.

"Whatever, kid."

By the time he returned to his tent, however, sounds of galloping came crashing towards the camp, of snow flinging in the air, and then a muffled silence against the palisade gate. The soldiers expected a signal from the outpost, but there was none.

In response, everyone ran to arm themselves. Theodren looked in all directions to see if anything would suffice, but there was nothing. He gripped his dull blade.

They were horses, armed by rebel soldiers just like them, but a third of which had no mount to call their own.

Everyone gathered to them, all in panic, murmuring to each other. Theodren scratched his head, looking at the kid he fought, who looked back equally puzzled.

"No supplies? Surely you must've gone off with something!" A voice said.

One face came in front of the rest, dismounting. They threw off their bloodstained helmet, taking many long and dramatic strides on foot to the leader's tent.

Ignoring the commotion around him, Theodren quickly followed. He was already a captive. What more could they do to him?

In many abrupt, quick, and heavy breaths; the commander tried his hardest to mutter the slightest of words.

"The fresh ones.. they fell... An ambush!"

Selena remained silent, it seemed, and Theodren began to feel worried they caught on to the reality that he was eavesdropping.

"Others..others followed. All captured by them."

Selena still had not said anything in response, as if even that was something she couldn't wrap her head around.

"Call in Adrian. Much as it may pain me, there's a chance I'll have to send him along with Theodren on the next mission." She scratched her head shortly after, still shaken up.

Theodren was content with the idea. This would be a chance for him to escape and try and search for Zoran.

Unsurprisingly, he lost his sense of stealth with the information in mind, and Selena quickly noticed his presence.

"Come in, please. We need to talk." Selena stated in a rather authoritative manner, making him hide rather awkwardly.

Although he is increasingly hesitant and open to leaving, he enters the tent.

There was a short pause with Theodren, almost avoiding eye contact as he sat in the seat opposite of her.

By then, his golden blonde hair was a mess, laying like a blanket over his backside and ears, with bangs dangling down his face completely uneven. His unkempt beard almost entirely changed his appearance, making him look ten years older than he was.

Although his rags from prior were nonexistent, his cloak of wool and elk hide didn't make him look anymore worthy of royal swagger.

There were a few holes in his clothing, and they smelled funny; like damp leaves and a hint of smoke.

Steam came pouring out of his mouth, same as her, as no room aside from the meeting hall inside the mountain cave, to which Theodren attempted to escape from first, provided much warmth.

"You haven't taken my advice, have you?" She asked with a blank look, empty of emotion.

She was crossing her arms at the occurrence. Her brightly colored hasel eyes gave a look of innocence, but at the same time...dominance.... Her forehead said the same, very straightforward and sophisticated, as was her position as she sat there.

She held an upright posture, looking Theodren directly in the eyes. She wore well-kept light brown hair. The locks were held up in a pony's tail and bangs down on each side of her face, perfectly neat and balanced. There was a clear undeniable divide in each of their understandings of what should be classified as "neat."

Her clothes were of superior nature as well, and his guess was that she herself repaired any damage to it. It was a homemade boiled leather suit of armor laminated with fine and unique intricacy. There stood animals known as symbols of courage and intelligence proudly displayed equally on each side of her chest and shoulders. It looked to had been a project she worked on for at least a month.

Theodren was still hesitant to reply.

She gave a slightly impatient look, then continued.

"I suppose I can't expect everything from you."

Theodren was starting to rise from his seat to leave, but her words stopped him.

"And how fare your brother when he finds out you've spent months searching for him, to abandon the people you love, and abandon what you fought for all along?" Theodren's eyes widened, his stance positioned to leave was held in place, "Will he smile and be grateful? Or will his smile fade the moment you explain how you found him?"

He left the tent just as she was asking the last question. He bumped his left shoulder against Adrian's, and they gave a quick set of negative facial expressions as they parted ways to tent and camp.
_______________________________________

The Capitol of Lorlyn stood half abandoned, though the few people that remained were prosperous. Despite the cold, the snow, the fear of a broken country; peasants worked in the town with the abandoned tools and materials. The snow was cleared out of the streets, and candles were kept in lanterns outside the buildings.

A few walked among the streets. There was hardly a crowd as he went on. Some looked to him blankly or with a glare. His armor at that time was a symbol of the enemy. He didn't know that, of course, as he believed the whole Drakon ordeal was a secret occurrence.

Why would Almar brag to the people about killing those who protected them? What would he gain?

Those were often questions he would ask as each stare became a tedious and uncomfortable reminder of who he was to them.

It was winter evening then, and people were beginning to set away what they were doing. Some sang among each other to comfort in the predicament, and others told greatly exaggerated stories to groups of restless children.

Carrion was finishing his last stroll through before he departed. Those who were missing were all he could think about, as well as the sword awaiting its wielder to overcome Almar.

There was... nothing.... He grew hungry and impatient, and while searching through his pocket to find money to trade for food, he realized he had left it attached to his horse. He couldn't afford to allow it to remain in a stable, so he kept it tied to a post in an abandoned side of the city.

He took a long breath, then attempted to retrace his steps to his horse.

When he reached where he thought the horse would remain, footsteps of slow galloping curved away from him towards the street. The horse was supposed to remain between two houses and nearby an abandoned crate of horse feed (which he so cleverly praised himself for finding). Neither the lead nor the horse were present anymore.

"Oh, how dastardly! Not only will I starve, I'm going to be stuck here the rest of winter!"

He punched the wall of the home to his left. His hand grew sore immediately after, and he angered even more.

"Hell to it!" He fell to his knees in a state of panic and abrupt sadness on the snow-covered alleyway. He was an isolated man with no one to turn to his side, and only then did he give in to that reality, a feat few could manage for so long.

He grabbed his forehead, though over his voice and odd noises, loud footsteps stomped through the thick snow of the unkempt streets in front of him.

His facial expression changed. Despite his knowledge in the mentoring of common sense, he discarded his own; forgetting to grip on to his blade when looking off to find out what the noise even was.

He got up from his spot, alert, but still attempting to hold back his emotional instability, but he was not very successful. Standing in place, he glanced in every direction ahead of him without movement, hoping to catch what the noise was.

More footsteps crumbled in the snow, but that time rather, from behind him.

In an attempt to unsheathe his blade, he was pummeled to the ground, submerged deep within the thick snow. His sword was thrown out of his hand, banging against the side of a nearby wall.

There stood a being around the same height as him. The cut revealed a tear in its cloth. It had scales, and its hands contained claws. The face was covered by a steel emotionless face mask, and its entire body was protected by a black gambeson cloak.

Carrion gave a nervous smile as he returned to his feet.

In an attempt to maneuver as he had years prior, he ducked from its punches and tried to grab his sword as it charged to him.

It crushed his sword with its foot, bending it, thus making the blade incapable of slashing. It was his prized weapon and only weapon.

Drakonian steel was more resistant to bending and breaking than any other, so to see it bend was something unheard of.

In a last resort to which he thought he could never allow himself to consider; he ran off in the opposite direction, toward where the original sounds came from.

In the process of meeting freedom, he met a fine introduction of a cloth with a strange scent rubbed against his nose, leaving his lightheaded in mere seconds of departing. Just as quickly as he ran, so quickly did he fall.

There stood a man: white hair, blue eyes, pale skin, strange white armor with intricate designs all over like an art piece.

The man held Carrion in his arms. Just before he passed out completely, however, he noticed a blurry glimpse of the being he fought. It was morphing into something far more fierce.

Although he desired to know what would become of the mysterious being, his eyes escaped him, and only darkness continued the path ahead.
_______________________________________

Five steps across the entrance room to the left, and there sat a fireplace and many lit candles on tables; stone brick walls, and in chandeliers. Five steps right, and there stood that same hairy Greymer man clothed with a towel, his hide armor drying on a rack only a few feet behind him.

Sven paced back and forth, not only through movement but also through breathing. He was trying to calm himself down, thinking of what he could say to the crowd.

He quickly came up with an idea: a written speech!

Searching around the room, he grabbed an unused journal. It was dusty and ripped, but well enough.

Steffen remained silent as Sven continued to keep him quiet as he thought to himself.

He set the book on a table, grabbing an iron-cast tong next to the fire place; grabbing a piece of charcoal, allowing it to cool outside the entrance in the wind and snow.
The coal lost its red flowing flare in only a blink as he set it outside; for the heat had lost its authority in the burned wood's flesh.

Struggling at first, he began to write.

After at least a page was done, the charcoal broke apart.

He did the same thing again...and again.... Only until he finished the product did he finally realize that Steffen held a feather ink pen the entire time.

"Why didn't you tell me!" Sven pounded on the table.

The remaining mess of charcoal dust hastening to the floor, fearing his rage.

"Ye told me to stay quiet." Steffen raised his hands above his shoulders as an outward bodily remark, looking oblivious.

Sven, still aggravated, took the paper and walked towards the room once more.

The crowd did not turn his direction as he entered, for by then, they lost a care to wait for his audience.

He stood in the same place as prior, trying to clear his throat in an attempt to shut them up, but nothing seemed to work. Sweat seeped through his thick clothing, profusely; though against his acknowledgment at first.

Behind him, a voice began shouting.

"Hala yari, cledo eh daru!" Steffen shouted to the crowd.

The room fell to nothing. No sound came out the moment after. Sven couldn't translate what he said completely, though he believed it had something to do with their mothers.

Sven, realizing his circumstance, quickly got the paper out and began.

The crackling of the many fires, the wind banging against the entrance room door, and deep, highly intolerably scented breathing coming from those near him; the introduction was anything but welcoming.

"Before you does not stand a king...."

At that statement, many stood up to leave, as the whole meeting was simply to hear what he had to say at the start of it, expecting hope to spring up from him, their last chosen.

"Before you does not stand a general, or even an admiral." Sven hesitated to say. The crowd made humor of it, however, which kept the crowd at ease for a moment. They began laughing in their drunken state, speaking assumed offensive remarks in their original tongue, and blatantly slandering Sven. That only further weakened his stance.

"For whom speaks to you now is someone like you, who knows not what can be done about this conflict!" Sven spoke up, though basically throwing his words at a wall through each attempt to sound sophisticated.

"Ye waste our time blabbering about the obvious. Speak of what we came for." The member of the crowd that called out Sven prior, in a respectful manner, had replied as though his past words were for nothing.

With an abrupt pause, Sven returned to his paper, legs shaking.

"I was taken out of this land, just as you were cast out of yours.... This same evil, the Darkcloaks and who they follow; we can't just allow them to dominate the land that once belonged to us!" He spoke each word slowly, to try and sink the message into their minds, if anything.

The crowd grew in commotion at that thought, some supporting, but mostly against. It was really hard to tell, in actuality. The noises were all over the place, and each of their faces looked in separate directions, physically and mentally. Jagged grins, raised eyebrows. Some even drank an unending fill of ale, ignoring everything he was saying as they talked among themselves.

"And what do ya expect us to do about it? We got nothing left to fight for. Our homes are gone, and our folk killed for our acts of treason. Why do ya steal away our time with what cannot be stopped?" An old man replied.

He was tall, a long braided grey beard with a poorly refined mustache. His cheek bones could not have been unnoticed, for they stuck out beyond his already defined beard. Wrinkles on his cheeks, a nose that fell as though it dripped down his face. It is divided into three rivers, the center being the largest; with long grey hair. His eyebrows gave off a serious look, which to him seemed perpetual.

That man was only seen beyond the dim lighting of the crowded room by one thing. He was the only elderly man.

Sven quickly returned to his paper, scanning to find a reasonable reply to ease the tension.

"My family had lived on in your hearts for generations past. Lorlyn never took Greymeria in the last war because Raeden wouldn't surrender. This was our land, our home!" Sven grew used to the whole speech. His fear had subsided, which he believed impossible until that moment.

He was running down to the last page, and he still hadn't convinced them, though many did fall silent in attention.

"I've much to learn, I see that now... Guide me through it, and I shall train my heart to gain your respect and lead you to an end greater than all before us!" Steffen tapped Sven on the shoulder.

Sven was desperate at that point, heated in the moment without even realizing.

Steffen slowly led Sven out of the room, towards the snow from the outside.

"It an't gonna get much better than that. Their sense of reason be beyond them, now."

Sven began brooding in the snow. Steffen sat beside him with not a single movement.

He looked to the cold winds down the hill they went up from prior. It didn't phase him, then, as his desire for change was finally attached to him. He punched the snow in anger.
_______________________________________

Another cup, another tray, and another bowl of well seasoned warm soup was rested upon Valora's bedside. Steam was rising from the bowl, and the scent hid itself inside that same heat as it was rising in front of her.

That same Eyru girl, who Valora eventually grew more tolerable of over the days, was about to witness some of the only dialogue Valora was willing to permit.

"You. What is your name?" She asked weakly, though she tried to hide that fact into a muffled voice rather than to let it roam freely.

The girl was hesitant to reply. It had been so long since she made any noise at all, so the whole occurrence caused her to sway in her step, a heart beat skipped.

"I...I can give you that much, miss. The name's Ayda. An't got a last name, though." The girl took a few walks back and forth, tending to the packed dust on the floor.

"Why do you help him?" Valora tried to conjure in question but was left on deaf ears. The girl continued tending to her chores.

"M'lady, I am just here for me own livin'. An't a want to sniff in me master's chambers." The girl's facial expression changed from a slightly cheerful grin to a grin of sadness or worry, and she took five steps further from her, towards the room window.

The blade Aran had left in her room was still guarding that window. While there were plenty of candles to light the room, it remained partially dim at every point of the day.

"He is keeping me here against my will. Do you understand this?" Valora's voice was rugged at that point, as though she were bound to the voice of both man and woman.

Her body was undeniably fragile, but she tried to make as much movement as she could. Simply tapping her skin would cause her pain. Blinking would turn to soreness, stretching like pulling a muscle.

She took a sip from her bowl and continued, "I only wanted to help people. Now look at me? I've become the very thing I've fought to destroy. This is no home of mine. What remains of my true home is scattered in ruin, many miles north of here."

The girl continued to silence herself from communicating back.

"Ayda, was it?" Valora asked, though left still in silence. Winds outside started to hit that same window, startling both of them for a moment. The wooden pole from Ayda's broom banged slightly on the polished marble floors. "I want to help you. I see you work day after day.... You never truly smile... and know little happiness...."

The girl started to sweep faster, collecting the dust in the air. Despite the dim lighting, the dust was well seen, making it difficult for either of them to breathe fully. Valora tried her best to avoid it, hiding her mouth under the warm, clean, professionally designed blanket.

The girl made a hard growl from frustration.

"All I know about you, miss, is that you's sick. Even if you's want freedom, an't no one here who could help that." The Eyru girl finally admitted.

"But you see, Ayda? You can be that help. You're the only one I feel safe with here. Everyone else follows his orders, but I can see in your eyes something different." Ayda held the broom in place, remaining silent, though rather than facing her, she looked towards the wall. "You remain here by fear. You believe you'll never find a better place."

There was a long pause. Neither made movement. Valora continued staring at the girl. While her soup continued to cool, the steam and herb scent had risen in the air, blinding her with mixed emotions. She hungered, though, for more than one thing.

"W-why, do you know this?" Ayda took a few steps back. She dropped the broom to the floor, hesitating her attention and glancing to the entry door.

"Because I was once you, Ayda, standing here against my will; holding no real purpose in the world. I was bound by expectation, just as you are now." Valora attempted to get out of bed, putting the tray aside and trying to balance herself with her hands and waist. "Set me free, and I promise you I will repay you in full. My father's honesty remains just as true as mine. Though, unlike his, it isn't hidden away by false hope and gestures."

She lost her balance yet again, but that time, the Eyru girl caught her, holding her as though they were in an embrace, mother and daughter.

Ayda set her back down on the bed, putting the tray on her lap, and put the bowl and spoon in her hands.

"Eat." The girl said quickly. She picked up her broom and dust and left immediately after, footsteps echoing in the distance at a fast pace.
_______________________________________

"Men." The scout commander said, preparing an expected motivational speech before Theodren and the other riders headed off into the morning light. "Our brothers and sisters have fallen in the same dream we hope to become the future. We shant let their names be forgotten with time, for the longer we wait here, the further we divide from that dream."

Everyone else was silent at that remark, and with the horses making grunts as they sat still mounted, the impatience to continue on was at the center of their minds.

They all stood at the gate entrance just as they returned only a day before, and some people were still sleeping in the tents as he spoke out.

"Ride at my lead!" The commander led his men downhill through the forest trail.

At a moderate pace, they went down the mountain slope towards the valley below: Almar's domain, the rest of Faulon.