From the Mists of the North - The Drakathos Lands

For three weeks, they sailed. Guided by the light of Kormaragh and the will of Lenoth they sailed the cold, turbulent oceans of the North. Mist enveloped them as they traversed the well practiced path to riches and fortune. The Drakathos, the Dread Prince, the newest, most advanced slave ship of the Morr-Vollak, the Dark Elves quickly approached its first destination. Self declared rightful Lords and Masters of all life under heaven, by virtue of their superiority in blood, spirit and flesh. With the fires of Civil War in their homeland behind them, the black sails of the Slaver Lords approached the north-western coast of Gorgannakh, the Lowly Realms, the lesser races called Adem. Their first destination were the north-western coasts of a piece of land the primitives called Nessic.

The Dread Prince was a new class of slaver ship. A carrack boasting tall fore and aftcastles, four masts and the main decks were covered in a form of canvas tents. Armoured men, kept keen eyes on the quickly approaching dark mass that was the shoreline. Lenoth, the God of the Moon was with them tonight. He secreted himself away from sight, making the detection of even this mighty warship difficult. As it should be, at the forecastle, a lone individual stood, draped in the black and red robes of a Magus. His hair was combed back, revealing his elven ears. By his feet was a silvery glow from an intricately carved circle. In his left hand, he held aloft a staff of dark iron almost sucking in the light of the circle to sate its needs. The young Dark Elf Magus uttered a quick sequence of words as he etched an identical circle into the air, glowing a dull silver where his fingers had traced the ocean breeze. Finished, he reached out to an attendant who held aloft a bleeding heart of a beast.

Taking the bloody organ, the Magus continued his words of power and the very shadows moved at his beck and call. Casting a great shadow over the Slave Ship and the nearby coast. Highlighting the camp fires of the primitive tribe that will be their prey this night. As the spell was completed, the light of the circles began to be absorbed into the beast's heart, before it too shattered in a thousand lights that flashed for but an instance before being consumed by the staff. Behind him, in the main deck below the forecastle, assembled the fourty or so slavers, equiped for war, began boarding their ships. Raising the collar of his cloak, the Magus wrapped a portion of his own shadow to surround his face and made his way towards the landing boats. Not at all out of place, he took his place at the forefront of a small flotilla of six boats. As they hit the sandy shores, just a stonethrow away from the edges of the tribal village, the heavy bolt throwers on the decks of the Dread Prince opened fire. With a slam of his staff, the Magus brought down the shadow that hid the Great Moon Lenoth from sight, revealing his Lunar blessings upon the flat lands that surrounded the tribal village. The bolts on fire, pierced the degenerate tents and in moments, the screams of the women and children, the baying of battlecries filled the night sky.

<Go. Every women and children you capture are yours to enslave! Bind every able bodied men and make them kneel before me, their rightful Lord and Master!>

The slavers did not need a second command. In the same Hivollak, or High Elven, the language of the Dark Elves, they shouted in reply, drowning the orginal command like a whisper before the Northern Winds.

<As you Decree, so shall your Will be done, Dread Lord!>

Today was not to be a good one, Círdan knew from the start. Five days ago he returned to Kaana from Zar Kal, and two days ago he began his journey from Kaana into the rest of the world. Since the moment he left his old home, it felt like Lodhren himself had cursed this journey. Every step brought a new trial, a new test, and a new confrontation. Already he faced three groups of bandits, a pack of wolves, and a thunderstorm with hardly any weapons and no shelter. It was fortunate that the men and the beasts feared magic, lest he may be dead by now. However demoralising the journey may have been, and whatever perils yet remain, the very fact that Círdan had managed to overcome and continue his path was enough of a bolster to the spirit for the young half-elf.

Now his journey brought him across the Anu River, across a small tip of the Sundered Plains, and to the coast of one of the Northern seas. Here, there was a village that made Kaana look like a metropolis. It was a quite simple fishing village comprised of tents and shacks. The people were nice enough, but they lived for the sea. They bathed in salt and devised phrases, sayings, and words that made Círdan's head spin. Still, they provided a rather nice fish soup and offered shelter for the night. It was a gesture that the young halfbreed learned was unwise to decline; and so he stayed with the fisher village for the remainder of the evening and prepared to leave in the morning.

Lodhren curse the decision, as it may have been one of Círdan's unwisest yet.

The young half-elf woke in the middle of the night to a chill that penetrated to the cores of his bones. He sat bolt-upright and covered in a sheen of cold sweat. Something was amiss, something he sensed in his sleep. He reached into his cloak and removed his wand. He looked down to it, remembering how it is he came to possess such a creation.

"Paavok." he whispered, his voice penetrating through cracks in the wood and starting a reaction in the wand's very being. It gave a soft light and grew, elongating first slowly, then with increasing swiftness into a staff. The wood wrapped around itself as it grew, giving a natural, intricate appearance to the marvel. The small amethyst that sat at the base of the staff rose to the top of the staff and growing as it absorbed the natural magics around them - and so the transformation was complete. Once the transformation of his tool and weapon was complete, Círdan came out of the tent the fishermen had set up for him to see what made his blood seem to stand still. What he saw was astonishing.

Those of which he believed to be in hiding or dead sailed for the shoreline, and they were approaching quickly. It was a strain to see them in the unnatural darkness, but he knew that vague shape of a ship from his books. That was not all, however. There were dark magics at work in this small bit of the world, and to say the air made him uneasy was an understatement. The survivalist of his mind told him to run or take shelter while the curious part deemed he stay and see how this played out. Curiosity won over, and Círdan got his answer to what magic was at work here when the ships landed.

Flaming spears flew out from the ship, and in a rush of energy the clouds and darkness dissipated to reveal the means of which the gods had cursed the young halfbreed this time. One of the firey bolts soared right for him, which he sidestepped and cast a silent, rudimentary ward to dispose of the flame. He didn't know what to do, but some chivalrous part of the lad's mind told him to at least try to save the people here. That's when the shouting started. He recognised it as a form of Elvish, and he could piece together what was said.

"Slavers." he growled in his thoughts. He brought to mind what may do good in this situation and decided a different kind of cover would work to his advantage while these Morr-Vollak were still nearer the edge of the coast. He raised his staff and willed the imbued gem to charge itself with the energy of the fires. Each one nearby went out, lending its light to the magical stone atop the transfigured wood, and then Círdan released the words.

"XYNA PAAVOK ORAI!" he shouted against the calls of war and terror, his gem going dim them releasing the energy as the simple change of fire to pure light flashed like a star from the gem, aimed directly toward the oncoming Dark Elves. It was a crude spell, but it allowed for a temporary cover; a trick that Círdan learned in the same book that he learned their name. He shouted out to the residents of the village, "Leave, now! Abandon your belongings! If you have wounded, there is no use! 'Tis your life or none so GO!" and with that he started pushing some of the people of the fisher village toward the South, toward some kind of possible sanctuary, away from death or slavery

As the raiders charged forward up the beach, the Magus stopped for a moment as he heard an incantation. His very self was surrounded by unnatural shadows, so when the bright star descended upon the forty odd men, he himself had a moment to whip up his cloak to shield his vision. The screams of agony and curses echoed along the beach. The Magus allowed his eyes to adjust, but to no avail.

If this were a unit of the warriors of Morr-Gannakh, the Lordly Realm, he may have helped them. If this were the units of the finest men at the Dread King’s disposal, he would have egged them on. They would have lowered the visors of their helms and shut their eyes at the first instance of an incantation. These were corsairs, brigands, lowlifes. Slaver fleets were lead by the nobility for wealth and glory, but those who they brought with them to do the slaving were these wretched denizens of the lowest castes.

It was not his place to ease their pain. It was not his place to ensure they could enslave as many as possible. It was his place, however, to counter the practitioners of their primitive arcane sciences.

Closing his eyes, he freed his hands and planted his staff into the sands. At the same time, his right index finger glowed a dull silvery light as he began to speak the words of power. A circle was etched upon the sands and a similar form appeared before him as he whispered the phrase.

<I, a Lord of Lenoth hereby summon.>

Thrice he impaled the circle making an equilateral triangle, Thrice he connected the dots to complete the circle. Thrice he repeated. Each triangle he drew, a different angle from each other.

<Into the night we were driven. Into the darkness we were embraced. Nine Houses. Nine Crowns. Nine Gods.>

Quickly, the Magus reached out and touched the shadow of a raider in the moonlight, the magical flash of light having dimmed. The Staff impaled the centre of the circle in the sand and his outstretched hand pierced the circle in the air.

<The Lords of Lenoth hereby summon the mount that serve.>

The shadow of the Dark Elf Raider bristled as if boiled, taking a different shape of its own, a part of it was thrown out before the raider’s shadow returned to normal, but at the foot of the Magus now appeared a large disk-like apparition of shadow and darkness on spindly legs.

Walking upon this creature, the Magus raised his staff in the general direction of the light. Still trying to rid himself of his retina being scorched, he knew he had it better than the rest. He was a practitioner of what these primitives would call Dark Magic. Shadows and Darkness, their manipulation was his domain.

The beast of burden, if it could called as such, elongated, lengthened and stretched beyond the component of its mass, holding aloft its creator and master, over the beach, beyond the mound that marked the end of the sands, over the tents and houses half burned, and the figure, encased in his own shadow, looked down upon the now panic-ridden primitives scurrying beneath his feet.

The beast lowered the Magus to about three meters (ten feet) above the ground, its “legs, having caught up, holding the master aloft. Like a wave, the Magus watched as the slaves-to-be, fled avoiding him and the as of yet uncertainly substantial beast, their rags and their young and old, the only luggage in their possessions. The Magus ignored them, letting them pass, unhindered. Their destiny was clear: death in the wilds or death in chains. The raiders had followed behind their Lord. The first of their kind were reaching the end of the beach. The bolt throwers had resumed their bombardment, using their Magus’ beast as a guide.

Most chased after the villagers. Some fell behind and looted the emptied village for supplies and riches. The weakest and slowest were caught up to first. There was no violence beyond what was necessary. A damaged slave was spoiled merchandise. Their value decreased.

The Magus spotted a young primitive with a staff, leading the largest clump of slaves off away from the settlement. Unsure whether this was indeed the one who had used the arcane arts against them, the Dark Elf made a nod towards the youth, and the beast complied. The Dark Shadow descended upon the group, creating a panic. Several split off from the main group, away from the beast. But the beast made no move against them. Its eyes, and those of the Magus, were directed only to the youth. In a heavily accented baritone voice, a with a nearly angelic feel to the tone of voice, the Magus lowered himself from his height, placing his right palm over his heart, before revealing it empty to the young man with a peculiar staff. The language he used was in the common tongue most spoken by the slaves taken from Nessic.

“Are you the Primitive that wields the Arcane Sciences of the Elves?”

His mind was wrapt in its own realm. Círdan, usually more discrete about his magic and descent, was letting the notion of heroism get the better of his judgment. He was by no standards or delusions a hero but the base premise was to help these people, who were caught by surprise, escape slavery. He felt that shiver down his spine of whomever that spellcaster was from the ship, but he had little time to heed the warning signals. He felt a spike in oncoming danger, and right as that flutter of instinct hit him there was a tall horse before him, cutting off his path and that of the group of villagers.

"Valom zen Vinnae!" he gasped, his mind having regressed to his time in the Mages College where he was required to speak solely in the language of the Divine Elves as part of his studies. He slid under the steed since his momentum was too great to stop, and he quickly found his footing facing the dismounted man and his hair, normally carefully positioned to cover the points of his ears, askew and not at all concealing.
To see one of the Morr-Vollak in person was indeed both wondrous and frightening. His stature did not fit his frame and it made him look stretched, and the paleness of his skin combined to nearly make this man look dead. The gesture of greeting was unexpected for Círdan, given the circumstances, yet he politely bowed in return to the motion. Even if the possibility existed to be at each other's throats, there always seemed to be an undertanding between mages and elves, no matter what version, mix, or status. The question now presented was somewhat insulting, but Cír knew the habits of these Elves and their inborn sense of superiority.

"'Tis not polite to refer to another individual as "primitive"," Círdan started, but then he nodded as he said, "but aye, 'tis I who cast the spell." his hand ran down one of the curves of his staff, and unbeknownst to the wielder, the gem atop it began to absorb more of the natural magics that always permeated any area and the soft inner light began to swirl and flicker like fire. The young half-elf then looked once over the entirety of the Dark Elf before him and asked a question of his own:

"Why is it you and yours have deemed it fit to terrorise so? 'Tis not a common ocurrence for those of the Morr-Vollak to appear in this realm, after all." the question was more out of curiosity than anything else. He'd done what he wanted -- at least half the village had escaped into the wilds and the slavers were too busy catching stragglers or raiding homes to lay chase for very far.

“It is nice to see our lowly cousins have not abandoned all trappings of civilization.”

The Magus waved the beast away. Seemingly satisfied, it dissipated into black mist, before the mist itself was absorbed by the Dark Iron staff. The Dark Elf looked amused that some of the residual energy fluttered towards the other Elf’s staff. Clearly, the art and tradition of creating a focus for the practitioners of the sciences had not been forgotten.

To the questioning of them slaving here, however, was met not by an expression of anger, but that of surprise. As the closest shores from the Lordly Realm, many coasts along Nessic should have been used to the occasional slaver raids. Perhaps this Elf was not from the coasts.

“Oh, do not concern yourself with the plight of the lesser races. We do not take your kind as slaves. We take them as servants. These…others…let us say, shall not have such liberties.”

Two of the raiders came running to the pair. They seemed winded but came to a quick halt three arms-length away from the Magus.

<Dread Lord. Many have gotten away but we managed to catch two dozen or so new slaves.>

Without turning his back the Cirdan, the Magus nodded and asked:

<How many of them will be of use.>

The pair looked to each other and answered ten.

<It is a start. Assemble them on the deck. Take this Low-Elf with you.>

“I, Valerius, Magus of Morr-Gannakh, invite you to my ship, Low-Elf. I can use another servant who knows the lay of the land.”

Without awaiting a reply, Valerius walked between the two raiders, who came up to Cirdan and prepared to gently, but forcefully, take the magician to their black ship. The village burned once again, this time, uncontrolled. What the Slavers could not take with them, they killed and burned. A little over two dozen men and women of the community, many of them children or too slow to escape, were in chains being whipped towards the boats. Smaller livestock were being carted off and the larger ones had been shot with crossbow bolts. The fishing boats were taken to ferry the slaves off to the Drakathos, the ones not needed were burned where they were stored. Fishing nets were ruined and scattered to the wind. The survivors who escaped would have nothing left in these lands.

To be invited, then to be assaulted by nothing more than servants, riled up some reaction in his Elven blood. He understood their entire conversation even if it took some context fill-in. It allowed Círdan some level of moral anger against these who tallied the report of sentients as though they were simple objects -- logs to the pile. As they approached, the young halfbreed first attempted tohalt them with the universal palm-out gesture. When that didn't work, he sighed.

"'Tis time for slaughter, then. Xyna." he stated simply before stating the commanding word and redirected some of the encroaching flame to engulf the two slavers attempting to take him captive, "It is, after all, impolite to arrest one with an invitation." he instructed the two whilst they ran about screaming in what really must have been horrible pain. Burning had a tendency to be that way. He lifted up his staff and strode through the flaming tents, a small ward keeping the licking fire from touching his very flammable clothing. Soon he caught up to Valerius and strode alongside the man as a blatant sign of strong will and refusal to be considered "lesser". Cír's knowledge of these elves gave him the insight to be wary of what he said and did and also allowed him to know his limits. Commonly, his current action would be amusingly irksome at most. Then he spoke.

"'Tis a habit of the Welvyr to take such a cavalier attitude toward your guests. You of all Elves should know this." he spoke with his learned vocabulary as opposed to his colloquial. It was nearly a game he was playing in his head to see if he could worm his way into a status even slightly above peon. If not, the halfbreed would take his leave in the most civil way possible. It was, after all, his decision to come with the elder Elf, not that of two minions.

Valerius appeared shocked at the immolation of two of his crew, and he gestured slightly with his right index finger a separate circle, this time, it was a series of squares within a circle and he spoke naught but words of soothing.

<Temper your wrath, Jaggath.>

The flames subsided and died, or more specifically, it was consumed by the Staff held aloft by the Magus himself. The speed and hastened words of command had taken its toll, however, and the flames licked and burned the left forearm and hand of the young Valerius.

“I understand that you are not familiar with our ways. But we do not take random pleasure in the death of fellow people. Even if they are of the lowest castes.”

Walking over to the two slavers, Valerius checked their conditions. They were badly burned and their skins were disfigured, but with proper treatment they would live. In constant pain, perhaps, but they would live.

<Get going before the Primitive get the wrong idea and finish the job he started.>

They slowly picked themselves up and in visible pain, they limped their way back to the shores. Somehow, it was apparent that it would probably have been merciful to let them die, but the Magus did not seem overly concerned with his, nor of Cirdan’s actions.

“Apologies, Primitive. But it appears we must enlighten you to the virtues of tempered reactions. There will be no need to worry. Given time, you will be a valuable asset to the Morr-Vollak.”

Walking once again, towards the shores, Valerius did not seem to care if Cirdan followed or not. Ten men had been captured in the raid. They were fortunate that Valerius, not any other raider, had caught them. The Magus had better plans than to sell them to slavery.

Círdan had to admit that his curiosity for these people was great. There was every opportunity to leave these Elves. Every opportunity to turn and run, or even walk, away from this event and leave it behind unless the two parties should encounter one-another again. There was something within him, though, pushing Círdan to follow the elder, and to see what could be learned. If it was some part of his Elvish side seeking knowledge of what his ancestors were and what he could become or if it was simple scholarly interest, the young halfblood knew not. He only knew that escape was not on the forefront of his mind.

Círdan remained silent through Valerius' small lecture. The claim of him to be primitive may have ben insulting, but Círdan saw that there may have been some truth in one form or another. Soon enough, the half-elf found himself on the boarding plank of Valerius' ship and sliding over to the prow to look out over the countryside from this perspective. This would indeed be an interesting journey, however it played out in the end.

As the landing boats left the shores of Adem once again, Valerius' boat was one of the last to lead. The two heavily burned men worked just as hard as the others, rowing the boat and mooring the lines. Holding the smaller vessel secure while their passengers disembarked to the main deck. As the Magus appeared on deck, the entire crew nodded in acknowledgement and none stopped him or his guest from walking up to the Aftcastle.

Some of them took the wounded pair to the lower decks to be tended to. As the last boat was hauled onto deck to be tied in place, the captain barked orders for the ship to set sail. They would sail first straight away from the coastline, to reach beyond the horizon before daybreak. But in the meantime, the ten men, mostly human from the looks of them, were bound and their heads forced down in subservience by slavers.

"You have been taken as slaves of the Morr-Vollak. Your true and rightful masters. You and your kind are hereby given an opportunity to serve those who you were always meant to serve. Your will is forfeit. There is no greater pleasure in this world. Revel in the service to your Lords."

The crying of children, the fear of the women, all could be palpable in the thick atmosphere and there was sincere pleasure in enjoying the scene from the Slavers. The Magus himself appeared uncaring.

"You can submit yourselves to this fate. You will be transported to the Morr-Gannakh. You will be sold to your new masters and you will serve.

Or...you can submit yourself to me, your Wills are forfeit and remain in these lands as my servants, where you will be the foundation of a new order of Adem."

The men looked to each other and of the ten or so men, six of them nodded, a subtle movement that was not missed by the slavers. They were allowed to stand, but still in chains.

<Clothe them in the trappings of slaves befitting my posession.>

The Elf Valerius addressed here was not like the other slavers. For one, he did not wear armour or any obvious gears of war. Secondly, he had fair skin but not ghostly like his Lord, and his hair was a golden colour. His eyes were not dark and they were not so acustomed to the gloom. An actual elf from the mainland, he had been a servant, taken from Adem, and brought into service of the Royal House of Morr-Naheron.

<As you decree, Dread Lord. So shall your will be done.>

Satisfied, Valerius turned to the captain.

<The rest of the beasts are yours, Slaver. You will land at the preset target tomorrow night.>

The slaver captain nodded once and with this, the Magus turned to Cirdan.

"Come. You must have questions to ask. The Captain's quarters has been put for me to use. We shall speak there away from these low-lives."

The captain's quarters had the standard mood. A hammock was gently folded away to the side and a grand view of the shoreline could be spied from the glass windows at the back. A wall where the wheel connected to the rudder divided the outer quarters with the inner one. The inner quarter had the panoramic view, sofas with cushions along the side that doubled as chests to store belongings in, and a table was set up with a prepared meal. A second one was being set up by a Dark Elf who appeared more a butcher than a chef.

The ship cook bowed low as he left the quarters, and Valerius himself took two wine glasses and poured a generous portion of red wine to the pair. Seating himself at one side of the table with the cold meal, he gestured for Cirdan to sit at the seat readied with the warm fare. A roasted chicken, with some salted cold cuts. Hard bread designed for long journeys and other such preserved food were the main.

"Eat. Those barbarians no doubt gave you poor substitutes for food. While this is all we can do for you on such short notice and long voyages, it is the least I can do for a Pri...no, you said you found this term insulting. Hmm...Lower Elf."

A part of his psyche gnawed that slavery was wrong, that there was no good intention or ulterior motive worthy of making another sentient completely and uttery subservient to yourself. Still, the majority of his mind desired to experience this to see what life was like on another front. Little did Círdan know that the reason for his heightened curiosity into a world a tier above his own was because of that seemingly-insignificant gem atop his staff. Powers were at work within that the halfbreed was completely unaware of.

With a little thought of how difficult it was to maneuver in a ship whilst carrying a staff, Círdan willed it to return to wand state and it was so. He tucked the wand away in his cloak pocket just before Valerius had addressed him. With a polite nod, Círdan followed the elder Elf to the Captain's cabin. He took a few moments to look out the grand window only to be shortly thereafter called to the table by Valerius. Círdan took his place at the table, and once the other's statements allowed the halfblood to eat without waiting for the other to begin, he took a few bites of his food.

Honestly, Valerius was correct in his assumption. Villager food was never quite appetizing, and the food in the Mages College was hardly better. Comparatively, this was fine dining at its best. He tried his best to keep up a civil appearance and not simply wolf down the food as though it were his first meal in weeks. After the initial rampage of eating was clear of his mind, Círdan remembered where he was and ran through the mill of questions in his mind. None of them really seemed appropriate, wise, or helpful. Lost in a sea of things he could possibly say but shouldn't say, Círdan went with the best one that floated to the surface of his sea of thought:

"What next, then?" he asked rather simply as he took a sip of wine, then choked on it slightly. The flavour was good, but the young half-elf had forgotten that alcohol never really made it on his drinks list. In the village everything was water and in the mage college everything was tea.

A quiet chuckle escaped Valerius' most hospitable features as he himself enjoyed what was probably his hard earned meal. Like most of the Scions of the Great Houses, a hard day's work was a pittance compared to what normal people suffered through. This was not a matter of shame nor pride to the Magus. He simply knew this as fact and considered it the natural state of the world. It was his place to rule, theirs to labour. It would have been inappropriate for the lesser castes to rule as he did, and it would definitely been against protocol for him to labour with his fellow "kin".

The lesser Elves were often taken in slaver raids of the Morr-Vollak. It was more often than not, accidental, though there were some ambitious slaver captains who sought natural Elven lands to the East of the great delta. Standard cost-benefit analysis was enough to tell that such efforts were not only wasted, but dangerous. Elves, even if they were primitive and lowly compared to the majesty of the Lords of Elves of Morr-Gannakh, were more than a match if properly lead, against such low castes such as slavers. So most were random picks from coastal villages of men, and most were just unfortunate enough to be caught up in the middle of a raid. Once found out, of course, they were treated completely differently to the confusion of their new prey. Instances existed where slave uprisings mistakenly believed their villages were targeted because of Elven traitors.

Nonetheless, they were acknowledged as servants, not slaves, and they were taught all that they could possibly need for their new life ahead of them. This one, however, was different. For one, the one who had “captured” him was not a slaver, Valerius had no intention of returning to Morr-Gannakh anytime soon. The Dread Prince would of course, make their rounds after dropping him off and depending on who had taken the Iron Crown at home, they may wish they had never obeyed the disgraced son of Morr-Lenoth and Morr-Naheron.

For now, they seriously believed he was a Prince on his personal expedition for unknown artefacts in the mainland that no slaver raid could reach. The torment these slavers would endure upon their return…it was most unfortunate he could not witness their very spirit crushed at the realisation they had been tricked.

Valerius was gingerly working his way slowly through the cold cuts. Unlike Cirdan’s meal, the Magus went on a relatively poorer food, most likely due to the fact that it was prepared ahead of his return. Even then, it was a simple matter of cold chicken breasts, some salted ham, and an assortment of pickled vegetables intentionally designed to keep. The bread was the same, hard substance that seemed designed more as a weapon than as a food source, though Valerius seemed unaffected by its hard nature, simply drinking it down with wine.

“What next you say? Well, that is for you to decide. I personally cannot fathom for what reason you willingly boarded a slave ship. But this ship shall continue to raid the lands of men until the cargo bay is full of the beasts. I will take my leave of the fine crew in the next village, where I shall head inland. I do know, however, why I invited you.”

Picking up his wine glass with his thin, spindly fingers, Valerius walked over to the map case, and withdrew a single map of the coastlines of Nessic. It was a detailed map of the coasts, revealing the locations of villages, past and present. But it had not a single speck of information on the realms of men.

“I am in need of a guide, someone who can tell me…what noble houses control what realms within this region the barbarians call Nessic. I had intended for those men to tell me the details needed, but if you know, then it is far better to seek an Elf’s expertise than that of those Apes.

You are not my servant; you have no obligation to me. But that can change, if I deem the need to otherwise. Naturally, if you are not to be my servant, the Captain can always use an extra Elf Servant to present to his customers back at Morr-Gannakh.”

The tone of voice indicated this was no threat. Valerius for the most part appeared to be speaking matter of factly, as if predicting that the sun would set tomorrow. To the Magus, it appeared as if everything had logical procedures. Certain decisions lead to another. A string of logic, only a Dark Elf would understand.

Cirdan mulled over the words spoken by the Dark Elf that sat across the table. The way he picked at his food suggested he was troubled, but this was not the case. Rather, the Half-Elf was considering the many facets lurking within this situation. He had come about for a fascination of other elf species than the one that he had been raised by.

After a long instance of heavy thought, Cirdan looked around him at his surroundings. The rate at which he was thinking surprised him, and the thoughts at the back of his mind hoped his host had a fair deal of patience. It took minutes for Cirdan to stop thinking and resume eating. After the gnaw of hunger ceased to pull and tear at his stomach, he spoke to what may be less a master and more of a business partner.

"Sir," he addressed Valerius, "If I may make a suggestion," he continued tentatively, "I understand your motivations and perspective. You wish to be the one Master of this region - or quite possibly the known world - to which there can be no equal." he paused for a moment to consider his next words.

"Perhaps, since you are foreign to this land, I could be of more use as a scout and adviser than a total servant." he made the suggestion in such a way that, in his mind, he came across as not diminishing the intelligence of this proud individual but as pointing out a better use of an individual. There was an influence within the halfbreed that urged him to to submit to a life of servitude but to remain as free as possible while still keeping contact with this Elf before him. Cirdan had no explanation to its origin, but it was affecting the way he thought and spoke to a degree that was alien to his tongue.

The Dark Elf waited. He gingerly went through his meal as if the conversation they had just shared was of no real consequence. Indeed, to the young Magus, it was truly a conversation of no consequence, he would get his scout and guide one way or another. He had read extensively in the libraries of Morr-Gannakh. What little had been salvaged from the ancient tomes of Dhunkarrak. His life had been lead to lead and to rule the lesser races as well as his own.

So when the Half Elf proposed to serve him, but not serve him, Valerius almost lost his grip on his glass. Smiling to himself more for his unforgivable lack of composure, he looked back at the Half Elf to see he was serious. Nodding to the knowledge that the Elf was indeed serious, he wiped the smile from his face as he nodded.

"Very well. Lower Elf. Your distinction is noted. For now, you will be my guest aboard this ship. Once we reach land, you may propose your status in my party then."

Draining the last of the wine, he rang a bell to let the servants know he had finished. The human villagers, recently enslaved arrived with their wives and children. Dressed in simple attire, they nonetheless were an improvement from their original clothes or the scraps of cloth afforded to them as slaves. For one, they were made of fine silk and wool. They assembled for inspection, six men, five women, three boys and four girls of varying age. At the end stood the Elf servant from before.

<You have done well, Servant. They will serve me quite well in the time to come. Have you determined their skills?>

<Yes, Dread Lord, the men are mostly fishermen by trade but they each have a skill on land. They will be of great use. The women are all domestic animals and so shall attend to your needs on that front. The offspring can be bred and shaped into whatever you so desire.>

<Train the boys in the art of war. See if you can teach the men as well if they have the time. Teach the girls to read and write, to become good housekeepers. This here is my new household. If the children prove capable and loyal, give them their freedom from slavery and make them enter my service as servants.>

Turning away from his slaves, he returned his gaze on the Half Elf.

"Make use of these quarters as if they are your own. I will be in the outer chamber if you need anything. Now, rest. The night is aging quickly and you would do well to sleep before the Unconquered One awakens."