An Elm Amongst Willows [Nimavel]

[Quenthalus]

The bustle of Imperia was lively and explosive to the woodland eyes of the lone elf. The streets were filled with every walk of life and brazen with outward impressions. Hockers, street criers, urchins, commoners, one people-drawn cart carried by four servants surely had to have been transporting a noble intent on flaunting their power, or maybe one of the near-oligarch aristocrats of the iron-ruled-trade-route merchant class. Maybe it was just somebody moving their things. Comfortable enough to leave it to his imagination, Quenthalus seemed to acquaint his steps to a hip-knifing stride, both arms syncopated to opposite strokes, navigating the garbled crowd with a dancers corporal eloquence. The city flowed to a different rhythm than Syl'rosya altogether, but he could see how the two civilizations could be twins of the same parent-culture. That considered, he was still firm in his belief that Syl'rosya surely had stronger mechanisms for coping with this life and recovering against catastrophe, or at least he -held- to that belief despite the increasingly Aelyrian-like tendencies of the Combine. He could see the elves and their frequent bluring of the elven ideals and the elven race.

Distinctions like that could be dangerous.

He must have appeared alien to some of the denizens, even for an elf, who, in their customary fashion of social pleasantries seldom wore attire to the likes of fen and rush; a threaded torso sleeve made from criss-crossing strips of leather, both supple in movement and required of patience to apply, as if to dress with ceremony when weaving one's self in nearly thirty yards of woad and lagoon green strips. Feather fall steps twisted and knitted him through the throng; gallant and unbroken strides that herald the elfs dutiful approach. There was no mistaking the block-long retreat full with silver trimmings and the quintessential air of something archaic and refined. On a phantom waltz he climbed the entrance, splayed slim digits across the door and ushered on the next threshold. Like healing springs, he felt transported to an age and place where man was but an after thought, and not yet a force to yield to. The beauty was falling from the willow trees, a green kiss, a hundred leaves and just one breeze.

His eyes cut from one part of the tavern to the next, briefly catching the hostess, but dismantling advances with just the slightest glance in the other direction. Obfuscated by the softest of steps --save but the rustle of his warskirt against fallen willow leaves-- he resembled a midnight paragon grown from the cogs of some ancient fallen tree. Wild green dreadlocks were tied back in several knots, clasped by various thongs of leather and cordage. He was everything of the forest and more, a queer co-mingling of aristocracy with all the swagger of a wilder elf.

Decisive down to each step that knifed through the emerald folds of his warskirt, he delivered himself neatly before the barkeep, unflinching, while a chiseled expression regarded the bar's display in search of inspiration. Attempting to make eye contact, he was prepared to reveal the windows into his soul. Strangers and shadows hide their intentions in a multitude of ways. Quenthalus would throw up no such veils.

He has arrived, come from the homeland with the air of their ancestors about him. He seeks news. He would not be here if it were not for the interest of the people. He is of The People.

"Do you have any suggestions, toror?" He said finally.






(A Description of the Whispering Willow can be found here: http://www.playbypost.com/forums/imperi...ng-willow.html )

[Nimavel Mynendil]

Handfuls of gazes witnessed the swagger of the emerald-haired child of Phedos, and those gifted with his transient attention reciprocated with terse nods or flickering glances that subtly acknowledged the elf’s presence. Unbeknownst to the newcomer, however, those who circumspectly observed him were the unacknowledged legislators of Imperia, the authors of an unchecked criminal syndicate responsible for the recent termination of one of the city’s formerly prominent gangs.

They were the Conclave of Shadows.

The air was redolent of Widow’s Rest, a substance generally dissolved over tea to induce sentiments of quasi-transcendent pleasure, and it was also responsible for the gray mist that seemed to wrap about the Whispering Willow’s interior. Perception was limited in the enclosed tavern, and one was normally able to navigate the area only because of the strategically positioned candles dispersed about the room. Nevertheless, the son of Silrosia utilized the availing blazing markers and found his way to the bar counter with little difficultly.

But who would have expected anything less of an elf?

Poised behind the three-sided barricade that constituted the bar was an ancient elf –and he was indeed ancient. His flowing locks, whitened by the touch of time, fell past his slender shoulders and ended against his backside. His eyes were dark and inexpressive, but they radiated a wisdom born from untold centuries of existence. On this particular evening he wore a silken shirt woven of the blackest shade, its obsidian collar straightened and without crease. The elf’s pants were of a similar hue and they had been tailored to fit his slender physique like a baggy layer of skin.

As the son of Clan Corranyr situated at the bar, the ancient barkeep regarded him with a perfunctory stare, and his curiosity was masked behind an immaculate countenance that revealed nothing at all. Terminating his efforts to sanitize one of the empty glasses that had been deposited upon the bar, the old elf approached the newcomer, resting his withered hands casually upon the edge of the counter.

“The Mor’loki.”

The bartender replied, reaching beneath the counter to procure an elegantly designed bottle contained within some unseen cabinet. The bottle itself was black and subsequently projected a dark shade upon its contents. Most evident, however, was the artfully sculpted dragon that wrapped about the base of the bottle and spiraled upwards until its scaly head ended beneath the quark.

“Our specialty wine.”

The ancient elf explained as he set an empty glass before the Silrosian and dispensed a small amount of liquor into it. Sliding the glass forward with slender digits, the bartender imparted a single nod, bidding the emerald-haired newcomer to indulge himself.
“On the house.”

[Quenthalus]

Violin eyes played a thoughtful dirge to the proffered bottle and flute. Entrenched in the ambiance of an elven oath, he remained his dutiful poise, even with the careful handling of the bottle; which he took up in both hands lovingly, a slender digit tracing the length of the dragon from its tail, along the wing, and up to the clasping maw with elegant tine motif neck. "I have come a long way to take dark elixirs within me." He gave a deliberate, searching glance into the barkeeps eyes. "No doubt, I won't be disappointed here." He said, then laughed to himself, in that quiet, isolated, and empty sort of way. Uncorking the bottle, snaring azure orbs that had remained fixed upon the elder whenever their eyes met, silently bayed him stay, for when they broke gazes it was so Quenthalus could search out a second wine flute.

"It is my first time in Imperia," said the adopted kith of Clan Corranyr, with all the chilled distance of the winter past.

"Will you join me in a toast-- a toast to 'Never Forgetting'? The softest of those heart strings snapped, feeling his chest catch two, then three rapid breaths when he finished his request. Drawn taut toward the heaven, it seemed as if Telath were slipping away, and a green memory faded into a mist-filled corridor of uncertainty. He still missed Wisteria, but the exterior portrayal emanating from him now was that of an ambiguous conviction. Unflinching before the elder, he seemed immediately at home, obliged to the exchanges and explorations of an elvish encounter. His cousin and quest were not disregarded, they were merely a canvas upon which new possibilities would be painted. It was the intuitive inclination common for symptoms of wanderlust.

It was awfully cloudy in here, he thought.

[Nimavel Mynendil]

Dark colorless eyes appraised the son of Clan Corranyr, briefly committing the youth’s image to memory with a single, cursory glance. Despite the undeterminable centuries of his existence, the bartender never forgot a face; he had never seen this elf before. The ancient one, as he was oftentimes referred to in some societal circles, opted for silence as the emerald-haired elf indulged in the complimentary wine.

A subtle nod conveyed the bartender’s acceptance to participate in the cordial gesture, and he procured a pristine glass from one of the shelves behind him, poising it in front of the younger elf to be filled. When the Mor’loki inhabited his glass, the ancient elf extended it to tap against the youth’s in a resounding cling.

“To never forgetting…”

The bartender reiterated. His voice, deep and authoritative, was like that from a grave. His shadowy gaze glimmered momentarily as he tilted his head back to imbibe the liquor which he consumed in a single gulp. Elegantly returning the empty glass to a standstill atop the counter, the ancient elf instinctively wiped the residue of wine from his lips with the back of his hand.

“For what purpose does a dignified son of Phedos come to this God-forsaken city?”

The bartender asked, and as he did so he casually wiped his recently utilized glass with a blemished bar rag.

Meanwhile, poised at the rail of the overhead balcony but concealed by the dense fog suspended lazily in the air, a shadow-clad figure watched the son of Corranyr with evident interest.

[Quenthalus]

Swallowing, he breathed deeply and sat the glass down quietly before him. His gestures were only a little more exaggerated than normal, as if performed for his host, deliberate, as opposed to being carried out for simple utility and function. Quenthalus betrayed a stance that was far too alert for the customary frivolities of common elvish exchanges. In a romantic tone best set for final songs and forlorn expressions on cliffsides Quenthalus calmly answered, "I have come to..." --meet with my cousin, a guest here, and see how he fares before returning home shortly.--- but he struggled to say it, and then in a queer change of thought, decided he talked and contemplated enough; had conveyed and -delivered- enough conjecture and thought, messages and sentiments. He would reconnect with his cousin, if, then when it was appropriate. But something in his blood told him this was greater than Clan Corranyr's inquiry. Their interest only seemed to be invested in a specific individual, Hylhia`narael, and what, from this campaign, he might be able to recover for the plundered and pillaged elfhome. He knew his cousin only desired his company in Imperia to dechiper what he could about his lover, Ariadne from Quenthalus, her present confident around the clan keep. The priorities of home struck him as skewed, compelling him to suddenly find his own role in this unfolding of things in Imperia. He couldn't deny the quiet excitement that gripped at him, and indeed, awakened something that had been slumbering uninterrupted by dismal brightenings and restless passings.
He reached down to procure his flute, then sipped his wine again, finishing it with an expression of simple satisfaction etched across his face. "I have come to Imperia in hopes of bringing a taste of the forest to this place, but what could I hope to do here, when you fine kindred have invested enough strength to carve out your silver garden in the corner of aeternia? To what end until this place remembers that before there was an Imperia there was an Elven Confederation that eclipsed the northwestern coast from here to Paxia?" He hid his own surprise at the words coming out of his mouth.

[Nimavel Mynendil]

Recognition shone sharply in the ancient elf’s gray eyes as Quenthalus revealed his purpose for sojourning to Imperia. Pausing languidly to return the recently cleansed glass to the shelf behind him, the bartender purposely turned away to disguise his astonishment. So this was the cousin, he silently mused to himself. With his back exposed to the emerald-haired elf and his heavily contoured visage out of sight, the ancient Silrosian spared a single, quick glance skyward to the balcony which was now vacant.

The silhouette had disappeared.

“Welcome to the Whispering Willow. You’ve been expected.”

The ancient elf cryptically responded, and before the son of Clan Corranyr could decipher the seemingly nonsensical reply, the bartender maneuvered to the far end of the counter where he tended to another of the tavern’s patrons.

“The garden is growing still, selen…”

From behind Quenthalus came a voice, melodious in nature and woven by the congeniality of Phedos himself. If the son of Clan Corranyr opted to turn, he would be graced by the presence of an elf of awe-inspiring qualities. Emerald hair, much like Quenthalus’s own, flowed freely from the elf’s head, framing a remarkably unblemished face and painted like the color of the moon. His eyes, wisdom-filled pupils flecked with green, settled unwaveringly upon Quenthalus with an air of latent loathing.

This was Hylhia`narael, eldest son of Clan Corranyr.

“And the time for the Confederation’s return is imminent.”

He whispered as he came to stand against the counter beside his cousin. Although slender, Hylhia was noticeably muscular and trim even beneath the obsidian surcoat lined with jade that he wore. One of his elongated ears, the left, was decorated with a silver earring fastened into his cartilage.

“I trust that your trip was well?”

He asked, even though it was more of a statement than anything else.

[Quenthalus]

Seeing his cousin lifted on his normal eloquent gusto, he smiled, fighting the laughter borne from this immediate social illusion, just so he could say, "Assured cousin." Grinning as he canted his gaze toward his eldest extended relative. "The weather: marvelous. The people: splendid. You just don't find visceral reality like that anymore." There was a blue-streak of friendly candor, but patterns in behavior should be common enough for relatives and friends of Quenthalus to see that dismissive and aloof tone in his voice. He felt like an interlopper amidst the clan of Corranyr, and yet there was an unconditional loyalty that bound them together. Returning from that amused place in the corner of his mind, Quenthalus smiled and gently touched his cousins arm before gesturing toward the glass of wine he'd recently finished. The dragon esconced bottle still remained.

"I hope you have been well." He genuinely wanted to ask how his cousin was. He wanted to know if his heart had withstood the troubled times; had found solace in a chaotic place. But neither of them understood the freedom of letting go, yet. Mortality, needs, and attachments still clung to the both of them in ways that the spirit could not relate, preventing them from making a reuinion, which is still possible, that much more difficult. Like life, he loved his cousin, but it saddened him that he couldn't find much to say off the top of his head. Everything spoken seemed forced, conjured or contrived.

He despised being trite.

"Why is this wine favored among the house wines?"

[Nimavel Mynendil]

Hylhia’s movements were refined, much more so than when Quenthalus had last seen him. The eldest son of Clan Corranyr was armed with a predator’s grace and a mask of concentration that monitored each and every one of his expressions before they even surfaced. His complexion was unblemished, his demeanor of the highest hubris, but most importantly, he was dignified. He was a Silrosian elf.

“I miss the forest.”

Quenthalus’s cousin admitted in reply to the query. Punctuating his terse reply with a shrug, he retrieved the bottle of Mor’loki from his cousin’s hands and poured some of the potent liquid into a cup he had been cradling earlier in the evening; he similarly refilled Quenthalus’s as well.

“Even the air here is of lesser quality…”

And unworthy of the space in my lungs, the arrogant elf thought to himself. Sighing deeply in a rare lapse of emotional control, the elf glanced to the bottle of wine and then to his cousin.

“That one dates back to 9348..”

Hylhia explained as if the connotation was evident. 9348: the ascension of King Moonstone.

A sudden and awkward silence descended upon the two cousins, one that was born from the familial tension that existed between them. It was one that never should have been in the presence of family, but distance and social relationships had ways of rendering the unfortunate.

“How is Ariadne?”

There it was, the true reason for their extant acquaintanceship.

[Quenthalus]

She had become one of his best friends. When his heart stormed she quelled the tempest, or if his mind ailed itself in cords around certain displeasures, Ariadne understood the subtle ways of untying such knots out of dwelling. She was a glorious elf maiden and a kindred spirit to those that opened their hearts to her. He wasn't in love with her, but any elf could be. He merely hated concealing what came easy to him, and what was so difficult for his cousin to attain.

"She is doing her best to find spirit in your absence. Your brother sends his regards, as does Master Fae`nyor. Taur'wenya is doing well, continuing to practice in sword play. He hopes to join you, or to join the Combine forces and restore ... well, he misses you." He hated mentioning things since the shifting of powers and the change of heart in the Combine. Hate infiltrated much in the day to day affairs of elven politics. Quenthalus didn't know if it was for better or for worse. It made rebuilding difficult.

He wanted to help, but he had to side-step somehow-- without being impolite-- and still, the balance of his involvement could not be decided by himself, not yet. The paradox was that in giving just a little to his cousin, he might be able to stave off the short dismisal commonly forthcoming from such an elf as Hylhia`narael. "Ariadne was wood working a few brightenings before I had left. She went with one of Lunistice's little one's. Nhoun. They found beautiful pieces of sequoia and birch to work with. I'm not sure what she was planning to make with it." He tried to fill the air with a vision of spring that wasn't so far off. Sipping from the wine, he added, "...they found one of your old practice swords. I think that was the reviving spark in Taur'wenya," he laughed, thinking that his younger cousin was surely jaded at times, but they all had good reason, Taur'wenya approached venting with a zeal however, but when Ariadne caught Taur'wenya at his lowest, it must have been a conspiracy of the universe that she had Hylhia'narael's practice blade to give him.

"My, it was near the southern Restwood edge that she found it, far past the Nluolian holdings. There is a peaceful spring there. The brightening before I left Ariadne took Taur'wenya there, and she told me it may have calmed something inside him." He quieted a moment, gifting any memories he could, and giving his cousin that subtle moment to savior the taste of a living instant trapped by longing, as if it were the finest of wine. Then as if to keep it comical and light, he finished the telling with, "He still seemed terse the brightening I left, but I was surprised to see him there at all." He lifted his eye brows and chuckled, leaning back to finish the wine. With a deft swipe of his lips he settled the empty flute and assessed his cousins still eyes. He searched the windows of a mirrored pane for some time before he spoke.

"What has been happening here?"

[Nimavel Mynendil]

Emerald hair swirled about slender shoulders as the formidable elf lord turned away from his younger cousin. Even as Quenthalus provided answers for questions unasked, Hylhia`narael’s thoughts were of his precious wife, Ariadne, the only woman who truly understood him. Hylhia’s bond with the elfin maiden was not forged by political necessity as many Silrosian marriages oftentimes were, but rather with genuine affection. Love, it was a strange concept to Quenthalus’s cousin, but it was nevertheless one that the sinister son of Clan Corranyr always associated with his dear Ariadne.

“Taur'wenya will make a fine warrior one brightening…with the proper guidance of course.”

Nursing the rim of his uplifted goblet with pale lips, Hylhia sipped several times before returning the drink to the table. His eyes, the color of the forest, stared absentmindedly at the claws of the ornate dragon wrapping around the bottle of Mor’loki. Despite his seeming self-absorption, the elf lord was paying more attention to Quenthalus than his apathetic demeanor portrayed.

His slender digits, the ones wrapped about the base of the wine glass, twitched slightly as his cousin shared of Taur’wenya’s ambition to contribute to the Combine. Contribute. Taur’wenya could not even begin to fathom the true definition of that word. The dedication. The bloodshed. The sacrifice. Hylhia’s brother was young, too young and naïve to grasp the magnitude of his impetuous desire. Resisting the urge to shake his head, Quenthalus’s cousin imbibed another mouthful of wine. Taur’wenya would learn in time.

For the first time since their reunion, Hylhia’s jade-colored eyes softened as Quenthalus relayed the story of Ariadne gifting Taur’wenya with his practice blade, a weapon that Hylhia had not personally wielded in patterns. It was not difficult to imagine his younger brother’s excitement upon receiving the sword, that token of manhood. And dear Ariadne, how much pain must have afflicted her in parting with such an intrinsic item.

Hylhia sighed. He longed for home, but there was work to be done here in Imperia, work that needed to be done.

The elf lord did not respond when Quenthalus finished; he only nodded and continued to stare into the vacant goblet set in front of him. Whether or not Hylhia had been listening, Quenthalus could not possibly know, but the dissipation of the elf lord’s previously stern disposition suggested that news of Ariadne’s well-being had mitigated some of his earlier bitterness –and it had. Rarely was the eldest son of Fae`nyor Corranyr seen without that spectral visage of his along with that sinister nature that his enemies perceived seconds before they died. For now, though, he almost seemed relaxed –almost.

“Revolution in the making, selen…”

Hylhia cryptically began, and he turned his head slightly to meet his cousin’s gaze.

“Life here is unlike life in the forest. It is not sheltered, it is not forgiving. There is no room for error…”

The shadow of a menacing grin appeared on one side of the elf lord’s lips, though it never blossomed into anything more. As soon as the subtle contortion appeared it dissipated milliseconds later. It was not unknown in Clan Corranyr that Hylhia had been tasked with investigating the events surrounding Silrosia’s invasion from the pirates. The eldest son of Fae`nyor’s entire life had been tailored to fulfill the role that he had been assigned, and he had more than risen to the occasion. He had joined with others like himself, others who would and could guarantee the subsistence of Silrosia for centuries to come –that and glory unlike any Elfhame had ever seen since the rise of Prince Moonstone.

“What has Uncle told you so far?”

He asked, suddenly showing some interest in Quenthalus’s own well-being.

[Quenthalus]

He took in the rapture of unfriendly environs; observing the impermenance and fear of death that surrounded the city, the people, and how they searched for themselves through suffering. It was a peculiar function of their level of reality. Hyalhia'narael had managed in Imperia remarkably well, a notion that unsettled Quenthalus some, but he supressed it with unflinching expressions and silent accord given to his cousin. It wasn't necessary for them to digress in to the details of what it all meant to think the way everyone was thinking within the elfhame. He saw the same complexities of life in this matter of Imperia as he saw in the intricacies of a hawthorne leaf. He was looking for the instance where he could play his part in all these unfolding processes, but he was patient and tactful with his approach. Every act must count, he believed.
"Apart from acquiring any new information about your endeavors, relaying word to him, and providing whatever aid I can, I only know that since the fall of House Mithania, our Clan swims in the turmoil of restructure. I understand that the clan is divided between pursuing a new avenue of life and prosperity somewhere amidst the rising powers of the Combine, while your father and some of the elder members desire to lend effort in redeeming our lost House. Many of House Mithania's retainers, loyalists, and the clans who once served them have been scattered. Our honor gives us strength but weakens us. In the eyes of greater Houses we declare our sense of loyalty, but without result, it is a sacrificial statement, owning up to nothing more than sadness. The Clan is lost until it can move in the direction of its purest desire." This, indeed was made from Quenthalus' interpretations and deductions. Master Fae'nyor could not have shared so much, but few of the clan members dismissed the keen attention and perceptive nature of their kith, Quenthalus. He was a retired teacher; study was his form. But he wasn't ready to press his cousin for insight and opinion on the matter. Hylhia'narael would offer it if the conditions were socially safe enough. Quenthalus still felt a stranger, and no doubt expected his cousin to be even further away in feelings of connectedness.
"I feel unsure as to why he chose me to come here, but I have always felt as a strange omen since I stepped into the estate." It was a bold statement, but the fathoms of space between them could not hide honesty, no matter how estranged and chilly it presented itself. It was helpful though, to create the detached neutrality between them. Quenthalus used that to disclose that his intentions would be to serve their clans greater good, and not interfere otherwise. In his heart, he was fine with that tribute, for his eyes ever searched for an individuals road. In a paradox, he believed he would find that road through helping others.

[Nimavel Mynendil]

“It’s purest desire…?”

A crooked grin flashed across Hylhia`narael’s lips as he reiterated Quenthalus’s words, the likes of which were shortly accompanied by a sinister chuckle. His tone did not drip with mockery, but incredulity. Indeed, while the Houses of the Syl’rosyan Combine campaigned for social promotion, the soldiers of Syl’rosya, the true authors of elfin history, waged their war here in Imperia.

For a fleeting moment Hylhia forgot of his adoration for the forest. Yes, he longed for the luscious soils of Elfhame beneath his feet, but even then he tired of the rigmarole that so often plagued the elven community. It was true that Imperia disgusted him to the core of his bitter heart, but so too did the politics that prevented the elves from expanding to newfound levels of glory. While they bickered and debated over menial issues, others were fast gaining territory and influence.

“There is more to life than the conceited shells we live in…”

Hylhia cryptically began, batting several strands of emerald from his green eyes as he looked away from his cousin. It was uncertain whether the elf lord was referring to Clan Corranyr or Silrosia as a whole, but it was self-evident that the current statuses of both disconcerted him. Hylhia loved his people and the forests as much as the next elf, but he had always felt that his brethren were too shortsighted and their ambitions limited in scope.

“If only you would open your eyes. Perhaps this is the reason that Uncle sent you here.”

An apathetic shrug punctuated Hylhia’s suggestion, and he did not seem fazed by Quenthalus’s honesty. Quenthalus was naïve, rightfully so considering the sheltered life provided by Elfhame, but the sons of Corranyr were anything but weak. Even Hylhia, the eldest son of Fae'nyor, could not gauge his father’s intentions for Quenthalus, but he was aware of the elder elf’s clandestine, ulterior motives. Was this not the reason that Hylhia had been stationed in this Phedos-forsaken city known as Imperia?

“The clan, cousin, will subsist so long as Syl’rosya survives, and to ensure the latter’s survival, we must eliminate those who would eliminate us…even if it means becoming like our enemies themselves.”

Menacing green eyes returned to Quenthalus’s own, searching the younger elf’s stare for indications that he understood what his older cousin was speaking about. Indeed, Hylhia was beginning to fathom the purpose of Quenthalus’s visit now, one that Master Fae’nyor had likely withheld from innocent Quenthalus.

Yes, Hylhia was quite aware of that purest desire that Quenthalus had earlier alluded to, the desire of any sentient being, the desire to survive…

[Quenthalus]

To many of these cryptic sentiments he found himself nodding, inclined or compelled, he couldn't tell, but there was a sense behind the words of his cousin, though its origins and intentions eluded him. Still, he felt lost, as if he were swimming in the worlds and dreams of others, but his eyes remained fixed to the few remaining instances of solid ground. He had to force himself to remember what his cousin looked like when he smiled; when he saw Ariadne. The frequent grimace-- and he wasn't even a full loyalist of House Mithania, yet he looked and lived as the oathed ones-- where did his saddness come from, that it was so deep?

Asking that same question, he suddenly felt a hypocrite for the surrender he had given to his emotions and grieving. Wisteria's death had, at times, turned him into a thing outside of himself and only the dearest of friends could reconcile the prominent weakness in their estranged cousin. He bled from the heart for his lost love, a lover they could never fully come to understand, as she hailed from the Restwood tribes of wilder elves in the south; Daer'on. Her death was a force that seemed to subdue his rationale. He had grown numb to the feeling of being armed, and at times felt eager and still hoping against an attack during all this travel. He had yet to come to terms with a creeping shadow inside.

"I am to help gather information of use for the Clan." Things were becoming clearer, however.

[Quenthalus]

OOC: It double posted. I swear. It wasn't me.

[Nimavel Mynendil]

The elf lord’s head inclined in tacit approval along with a wave of emerald locks which momentarily fell in front of his verdant, almond-shaped eyes. Meeting his cousin’s gaze for a scruple, Hylhia sighed and then drained the remaining contents of his wine, setting the empty glass on the counter.

At that precise moment a pair of silhouettes emerged from behind Quenthalus, their willowy frames assuming elfin forms. Accoutered in knee-length trench coats and elfin long swords fixed to their hips, they flanked Quenthalus’s shoulders, silently and like spectral creatures summoned for mere show. Their visages, both traditionally pale, were grimly set and they spared their leader cursory nods.

Hylhia’s gaze flickered back to Quenthalus.

“You will learn to do more than that, selen.”

He clarified, chuckling gloomily as his index finger and thumb encircled the rounded tip of his chin. Despite the presence of the two other elves, Hylhia’s attention was wholly focused upon his cousin whom he continued to regard with his sinister green eyes, eyes that projected more than his words ever could.

“I must warn you, though, that should you choose to agree to this task that the clan has ascribed to you then there is no turning back…”

Allowing his words to linger ominously for several seconds, he patiently awaited his cousin’s answer. A shadow of a grin nearly appeared along the corners of his lips as one last thought surfaced to the elf lord’s mind. His lips parted as if to articulate, but he opted to withhold it from Quenthalus. The young elf was not stupid.