Where the road leads.

[Under the moon]

Aeshion glanced over her shoulder for the last time as a bend took the grand view of Hydlaa out of her sight. It had felt almost like home for a while, but never quite. She had hoped it could be a new life for her. She had hoped she could find the wondrous flowers she had always read flourished on the first level, and start the flower shop she always dreamed of. She had even hoped she could find a man that would be able to overlook her handicap enough to call her wife. But all three hopes had failed in the end. She found no new life. She found no flowers in the cursed hills. And worst of all, no man looked at her twice after they learned she had no voice. The one man she had taken a liking to never looked her way in the way she wished, and now he was getting married to someone else in a week. For once in her life, Aeshion wished she had a voice, just so she could cry into the wind. But it was never to be. It was time to go home.

With a silent sigh, Aeshion looked around at the others on the road with her. She recognized several of them from the city. Grunn of the City Guard walked next to a scarred Kran she did not know, though oddly, Grunn was not wearing his blue badge or carrying his logbook on its chain. His eyes seemed locked on the path ahead in determination. The older Kran at his side had an almost identical expression.

Then she saw the scrawny menki who was rarely seen this side of the bar in Kada'El's Tavern. Hyuken had always been able to lift her spirits with one of his silly stories, or with his blundering when any pretty woman would smile at him. Right now, he appeared to be turning a map round and round in his hands as if trying to figure out which way was up, then glancing this way and that at the landscape. He even walked backward for a time, though stopped after he tripped for the fifth time. Aeshion hoped he could figure out his bearings before there was more than one road to choose from.

Two more men walked side by side, though did not seem to know one another. One was a middle aged Ylian that would not stand out in a crowd of three, while the other was an older Diaboli who you could not miss in a crowd of a thousand. The Diaboli practically glowed with dignity and self assurance. His grayed hair was pulled back tight to his head and tied in the back with a neat braid. His deep black skin had become dulled in his age, but was still as smooth as the day he was born, just as it was with all their kind. If he was half his age, then Aeshion may have wished to talked to him... that is if she could talk.

Once again she found herself wanting a voice, but this time to swear up a storm. The irony did not escape her, as she knew full well that if she had a voice, she would not want to have it so could curse the lack. She could have almost felt bad for herself if it wasn't for the last man she kept peeking at out of the corner of her eye. This man she knew all too well, or at least of him. Jagk Crawn, the twisted Klyros with a twisted heart. His horrid features and scarred right side repulsed her, though not because it made him so ugly. It repulsed her because she knew that the man was even more horrid on the inside. The man had almost caused her death once, and was part of why she was leaving. She wished he was walking, rather than in his small cart, so that she could outpace him. She could almost feel his one good eye turn her way once in a while. To shake it off, she looked at her last traveling companions.

That made her smile, as it was none other than the Ynnwn girl called Tria, who had helped keep her alive at the hands of... that man. Tria seemed excited as her pack beast lumbered along between her and her Dermorian mother. Aeshion could see where the girl got her tallness from, though she was still all knees and elbows at her age. At least there were a few friends on this journey.

Aeshion looked over her shoulder again, but the city was gone, even though she could still picture it in her mind. Almost home. Closing her eyes to hold in the tears that suddenly tried to form, she turned her head back forward and promised herself to never look back again. Besides, it was still a long and dangerous road to the Lifts. And that was the first step back to her true home.

[steuben]

[/me sighs.

they and you shall be missed. perhaps, the unmentioned fen and yamuel most of all, atleast for me.
well you know where we haunt. drop by from time to time.]

[Proglin]

* Proglin thinks about hosting another tournament as he sees some vaguely familliar silouettes in the distance.

A sudden feeling of ... emptiness arises as he sees the variated company go around the corner.

* Proglin sighs and out of sight, raises his hand as if to wave reluctantly

[My friend... see you soon. promise.]

[Einnol]

Just as darkness begins to fall in Hydlaa, Einnol Feldorm walks up to the door of Kada'El's after a long day of working.  The sack that he carries over his shoulder appears to be nearly empty.  His eyes show slight signs of a disappointing ore haul.  As he enters the doorway, he instinctively glances towards the bar hoping to see the welcoming face of a good friend who always seems to know how to brighten his day, but the bar is unmanned.

Einnol continues over to his usual table and drops the sack to the floor.  He peels his dirty, worn leather work gloves and tosses them into the sack.  After removing his rock pick and hammer from his belt and setting them on the table, he takes another glance around the empty tavern.  The rumble in his stomach reminds him that he hasn't had anything to eat since breakfast.  “Tis only two things that can salvage this day now”, he thinks.

Slipping behind the bar, he grabs a clean mug and fills it up from the keg of dwarven ale.  After setting the full mug on the top of the bar and placing a few tria next to it, he searches the shelves underneath.  He spots the jar that he was looking for, but it appears to be empty ... except for a piece of paper.  Einnol examines the jar for just a moment before taking it from the shelf.  As he removes the lid of the jar, a familiar smell of brine teases his nostrils, a reminder of what the jar once contained.  The enticing smell serves only to increase the hungry grumbling of his stomach.

The Stonebreaker tips the jar upside down, letting the paper fall out.  He then places the jar back on the shelf and picks up the paper.  As he reads the note left behind by the kind, simple-minded barkeep frown lines form on his rugged face.  He reads over the note again, hoping that he misread it the first time.  After what seems like an eternity to him, he sets the note atop the bar next to the fresh mug of ale, he gathers up his gear, swings his sack over his shoulder and shuffles out into the darkness beyond the tavern doorway with his head hung low.

[Marqsaynt]

Marqsaynt, a tall and athletically built diaboli, raises an eyebrow at the cloaked figure sitting across from him in a shadowy corner of Kada El’s. “You’re sure, Pal?” The hood of the cloaked man dips in a single nod.

Marqsaynt glances over at the fireplace as he distractedly spins the holy medallion wrapped around his wrist. He turns back to the dark figure. “When’d she leave?” In a tone so hushed it only comes across as faint murmurs, the figure responds, then with a twisted smirk adds an extra comment. Marqsaynt pulls himself up to his full height and menacingly leans across the table. “Careful Pal, keep saying foolish things like that and you might end up needing to learn sign language yourself.” The cloaked figure’s hand protectively creeps up to his scrawny throat. Settling back in his chair, Marqsaynt takes a long drink of his whisky. “Besides, you’re mistaken. There was only one thing wrong with that girl and that wasn’t it…” With one gulp Marqsaynt drains the rest of his glass. “…She just had lousy taste in love interests.”

Marqsaynt rises to his feet. Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a circle and looks over towards the bar. He hesitates for the briefest moment before he flips the coin to the unfamiliar barkeep. With his trademark nonchalance, Marqsaynt walks out of the tavern and into the waning light of the late afternoon.

A few minutes of wandering lead him to the temple lawn. Something catches his eye. He stops. At his feet is a cluster of mushrooms. Marqsaynt mutters under his breath “Hydlaa and its ugly mushrooms… Just once, I’d like to see this blasted town let a flower bloom.” With a swift kick Marqsaynt sends the largest of the mushroom caps flying through the air, then slowly starts to walk back home. He takes the long way back, through a rough neighborhood, secretly hoping some street rat will be foolish enough to hassle him. He’s in a bad mood and could use someone to take it out on…