The Middle
"Wow, this is quite a collection" Aenion said to me with a bit of awe in his slanted, half-elven eye. I nodded my concurrence as I took in the vast assortment of weapons decorating the short hall. I saw a bastard sword with some flecks of rust on it, a spear made of ash wood, a hand carved bow, two long swords crossed over each other, one shimmering faintly, the other seemed to suck the rooms light into its blade. I saw an immense claymore, with a dull gray blade. Upon closer inspection, I realized the blade was the polished bone of some massive creature.
"Who is this guy? Why all the weapons? Some of these are like nothing I have ever seen before, others look similar to the first sword I received as a child." I wondered aloud to my companion. We could easily be mistaken for twins, although Aen is several years my elder, and of no relation known to either of us.
"My guildmaster calls him 'Shadowalker', my father called him 'Weapons Master'. The later would explain the wide assortment, a sort of showing off of skill, I suppose. The former would explain the blade of bone and that dark long sword that hurts my eyes to look at. But still, many of these are in sorry condi --"
Aenion fell silent as the door at one end of the short hall opened. Out strode a grizzled half-elf, a long sword glinted at his waist, another over his left shoulder. He carried a finely carved bow and quiver strapped carefully to his pack carried over his shoulders. He wore a great cloak, the same color of green as his eyes over a suit of armor that looked like small strands of metal woven together.
My companion's mouth fell open as recognition dawned, I managed to keep my wits about me and nod to the legendary half-elf of my home village. He glanced at me and frowned, disturbing his neatly arranged, gray streaked beard. He walked past us and out the door at the other end, his green cloak billowing behind him, metal strands gleaming beneath.
The door closed behind him with a hollow thud. Aen whirled towards me, "Do you know who that was?" he asked excitedly. Of course I did, everyone in my village knew Darby Trickshot: Master fletcher, an exceptional shot and a tracker to boot. I started to speak in response when I saw the man we came to see. His tall frame seemed magnified through the open door, with the short table between him and us. Everything about him was black. He had dark bushy eyebrows over eyes of onyx, both emphasized by the jet-black hair and goatee that covered his face. He wore black velvet robes that bespoke his rank; the silver trim exemplified his accompanying wealth. The left breast of his velvet robe was adorned with a small silver embroidering a star with three points. I started as I realized he had been staring at the two of us the entire time. His lifted his left arm and motioned us forwards.
Aenion bowed his head sheepishly and made his way towards the towering human, his leather armor creaking softly. I followed my elder, my sword slapping my thigh and the ridge of my drum digging into my back through my soft pack. I stumbled as I walked through the door: there in the corner was a standing pile of bones, arranged as if to pretend the fallen warrior was still alive. The room was completely unadorned, the lone high window bare, the table and chairs very simple, there was nothing to focus on accept the imposing man and the eerie bones of which I had still not perceived how it remained upright.
He held out his left arm and spoke a single word, in a low monotone, "Orders." Aenion and I both handed him our folded sheets of parchment. He glanced at them, then motioned for us to sit; I slung my pack from my shoulders, my sword from my waist and sat. Aenion unstrapped his shield, sword and pack and took his seat on the other side of the door He folded his hands behind his back and patiently waited for us to settle down.
He took another look at the parchment in his hand and turned only his head towards my friend and companion, "Why have you joined us, paladin?" he said without emotion. Only the words and not the inflection belied that he had spoken a question.
"H-how did you know I a-am a P-paladin?" Aen stammered.
"You reek of arrogance and goodness," he said in his odd, emotionless voice. "Do not make me repeat my commands, pious one."
"Y-yes sir. My village was burned by raiders, sir, I've come to do my part," he regained his composure and started to speak quickly, in his excited way. "I'm not a Paladin yet, sir, I am training in the hopes of becoming one, someday soon, I hope."
There was no reaction on the dark ones face at all, Aen could have told him it was raining outside, the look on his face would have would not have been any different, I don't think. "Very well. Expect hard, swift training, paladin." The flat, emotionless eyes turned towards me, chilling me. "Why are you here, Lolanan, shouldn't you be at home, playing for your daddy in front of the fire?" His voice had no inflection, but I almost felt like he was mocking me. The heat rose in my cheeks, but I quickly quelled it.
I returned his gaze, and in my calmest voice, "I watched my family burn in the same fire." His dark countenance was still devoid of emotion, but he did not speak for a moment. Aenion shifted uncomfortably in his stiff chair.
"You have the air of a poet, have you written anything about your family's death?" I slowly nodded, confused. "Play for me," he said as he sat in his char. I was now accustomed to his smooth tone, but I got the feeling I had just been issued an order, one that couldn't be denied. Aen glanced at me nervously as I reached down and untied the straps on my pack and carefully lifted out my precious hand-made drum. I cleared my throat and began tapping softly on my drum, a slow rhythm. I started humming quietly, a happy tune. Then I started my poem, quietly reciting in a singsong voice the good times my family and I enjoyed together. Slowly I increased my rhythm, my tone becoming angry. I described the brutal attack, vicious slayings and the final, destructive blaze that destroyed my family, as I watched nearby, helpless and frightened. My pounding on the drum grew to a crescendo, then stopped. My tune turned sad, slow, and without rhythm. I spoke softly of the destroyed buildings, ruined lives and massacred folk.
I stopped singing then, for I have written but one poem, a song of my whole life, so far, it has a beginning, but no end. Aenion sat quietly in his chair; he had heard this tune before, even if it is a little different each time. The officer looked at me for a moment, with his blank eyes, he neither moved nor spoke, but he looked distant to me. After a moment, he leaned forward and started writing on a fresh piece of parchment with his quill. He scribed for a few scant moments, then he carefully folded the parchment, rubbed his thumb on a piece of burnt wood, and pressed his thumb on the seem of the letter. Aenion and I nearly fell out of our chairs in shock when he turned to the erect bones and handed it the note. It was alive!, but dead at the same time. The fleshless hand accepted the note from him as he whispered a few words to the pile of bones. Then he turned to us, "Follow Kabaner, he will take you where you need to go."
The pile of bones shook and rattled as it turned and walked out the door, moving faster than I thought possible, for a dead man, I guess. Aen and I scrambled to gather our stuff and chase after the shambling skeleton, out of the gaze of the cold man, past the odd rack of various weapons, and out the same door Darby Trickshot had exited while we stood and gaped.
