"Little can be done now," Shayle said remorsefully, her voice sullen and soft. She stood in the middle of a circle of Shadowdancers, adorned with a ceremonial robe that depicted the ending stages of life. She had created it herself as a young girl, but she hoped she would never have to wear it; she hoped in vain. On a black marble table was the quiet form of Druken, his eyes closed and wearing a simplistic black robe. High overhead, a full moon shined its light mockingly onto the clearing within the Glomdoring forest. Shayle stood with her back to the seemingly sleeping Druken, her mood dampened by the funeral procession. She couldn't look at him, seeing a great friend who was never going to open his eyes and greet her with a smile. Her heart felt heavy, breaking and shattering its hardened resolve. This needs to be done, Shayle. Be strong, she thought to herself, spotting Shamarah amongst those gathered. She had never seen a grown man cry, but that ended when Shamarah carried Druken and placed him on the table. His eyes were still bloodshot. She turned away and finally looked down at Druken's peaceful face, the wound upon his neck carefully covered with a black scarf. She thanked Xenthos for his foresight, knowing she would have lost her composure if she had seen the reason for Druken's death.

As if innately mourning, the forest about the funeral procession was eerily quiet; not a single crow was heard giving its screeching call, the wind was still and silent, and the trees themselves seemed to be bowing before the memories of the past and adding their silent tears to the ground. The only sound was the haunting melody of a small group of Harbringer bards standing off to the side, their voices burning through the silent air like fire through a forest of paper. Shayle listened for a moment to the melody, adding a small amount of Night into the song to create a stillness about the gathered Shadowdancers. The mixture of Night and the bardic power would have been breathtaking in any other situation, but now, it only added to the dreary funeral. It is time, she thought to herself, taking a deep breath and slowly exhaling it into the crisp air.

"As the time...," she started to speak, but a rustle within the nearby leaves and the brilliance of a glowing light caught her words quickly and carelessly. Shayle turned and glared at whoever it was that would have been foolish enough to trespass on this moment. To her bewilderment, she saw two Celestians standing with their heads bowed. She knew one by the name of Catarin but the other, however, she was not able to identify.

"We are sorry to interrupt, Queen of the Night," Catarin whispered softly, her presence causing a mutter of disapproval from the Shadowdancers that circled Shayle. "We do not mean to be disrespectful.” Shayle nodded curtly and looked to the other Celestian beside Catarin, a younger version of the woman though not as war-hardened. Her face was soft, almost opaque in its translucence, not to mention she was much younger than Catarin. However, there was something different about her. Someone seemed wrong, as if she had lost faith or purpose like a mad man gone sane. Catarin noticed Shayle's inquisitive expression and smiled slightly. “This is my daughter, Metea.” Shayle nodded her head once in greeting to the younger woman, who simply stared at the ground as her hands cupped themselves together.

“Why do you interrupt us, Catarin?” she asked, letting her eyes catch Catarin's and forcing a pinpoint amount of Night into her words to quell any lie that might have flown like a bat from the woman's mouth. “If you wish to discuss politics or anything for that matter, now is not the time.”

“I'm afraid not, Queen of the Night. We have come here to help,” Catarin said, her eyes going beyond Shayle to look at Druken's form on the stone table. Shayle watched her for a moment, not sure as to what she was entailing.

“Help us? I'm afraid there is nothing you can do.”

“No,” another voice spoke abruptly, Metea walking passed Shayle confidently and purposefully to stand beside the table. Shayle's hand quickly went to an athame that hung from the belt about her waist. A hand gently grasped the hand upon the dagger, and Shayle looked to find Catarin next to her with an expression of resolve written upon her face. She opened her mouth again to object and to command them both to leave at once, but she saw Metea place a hand atop of Druken's forehead and her words caught themselves in her throat.

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Murphy stood with his hands folded in the arms of the black robe he wore, standing off to the side of the Shadowdancers nearby. He was moderately surprised to see Metea and Catarin impede on the funeral, though he was there in hopes they would come. A messenger had hurriedly burst through the study doors of his personal home, the man haggard and out of breath. Upon being threatened to have no breath in his body, the man quickly released the reports of Catarin and Metea leaving New Celest just a few moments ago. Murphy had smiled at the news, causing the messenger's eyes to grow large with worry. He did not waste time getting himself ready. With those women, it won't take long , he said to himself, his mind going over how he would end the life of the woman named Metea. He had his wyvern brought to the front door, and without a farewell to the bedazzled and confused messenger who saw him out, he took to the skies without a backwards glance. Murphy headed south of Magnagora, two massive hammers strapped to his side and quivering as if possessed by the souls he had slain prior. They're going to the funeral of that shadowdancer? He watched them enter the forest, and soon, after he had tied his wyvern within the southern parts of the Glomdoring forest, so did he. He quickly pulled a cloak about himself, black as night save for the small specks of dried blood that littered its hem and arms. He had never had them removed, always preferring to have the blood of those he had killed near him. So, what exactly are you planning to do, my dears? Just going to give your last respects? Why is that so unbelievable? Murphy thought, his hands coming to fold themselves up into the arms as he stepped out into the clearing and saw Shayle watching the dead body of a man on top of a stone table. Murphy had to control a bout of laughter, quickly biting down on his tongue to keep it from escaping into the quiet funeral procession.

He had heard of the man's death. Odd as it might have seemed, he had to congratulate the killer whole-heartedly. It wasn't easy to kill someone without being seen. Furthermore, it wasn't easy killing them in their own home. I will have to find out who did it after I kill these two worthless bitches . When Metea and Catarin appeared from the other side of the clearing, he could barely control himself. The look on Metea's face was priceless, as if she had lost her own soul. Don't worry, my dear. I'll put you out of your misery , he thought snidely, lowering a hand to the battle hammer that hung on his left hip. Murphy grinned triumphantly as the girl came almost into arm's length of where he stood , putting a hand on top of the corpse's forehead. His temples pounded with excitement, the call of the kill rising from somewhere in the nether regions of his stomach to pound repeatedly at his chest like a drum. With a forward step, he pulled his war hammers out from their hiding places and flung them over his head. Catarin and Shayle both started at the sight of his face, contorted into a mixture of rage and blood lust. A force brought itself about his feet, holding him to the spot. Enraged, Murphy looked down to find the earth boiling up passed his boots and onto his legs. Metea didn't appear to notice his sudden appearance. Her eyes were closed and her head was bowed. He roared defiantly, trying to tear his feet loose of the hissing vines and soil that held him as a prisoner.

A stern silence filled the air about Metea, her eyes slowly opening to look down at Druken's face. Murphy watched her turned her face to look at him, watched as she held up a hand and put it against his chest, and watched, while screaming, as something that felt like burning water poured out from her hand and onto his robes. His screaming caught in his throat, finding himself unable to turn away from Metea's intense glare. His arms would not obey his mind's command to crush the Celestian, trembling in fear as he saw something he had never seen before in her dark, tumultuous eyes. She leaned forward and pressed her lips against his ear, her breath hot against his skin. “Feel as I feel, Murphy. Feel as I feel.” His mind reeled at the hatred that roared to life in her voice. A moment passed, and from the night sky, a large shadow blotted out the sneering moon overhead. Is if called, two large talon legs cupped themselves around his upheld arms and dragged Murphy into the air. As the wyvern bore him away from the Glomdoring forest, his eyes could not tear themselves away from Metea's burning stare until both the forest and she were well out of sight.

Very compelling story! I really do like it so far.

Especially the part where Shamarah cries for Druken.

Thanks for the input. I have to admit, this chapter was harder than heck to write. I rewrote it nine different times, with several different endings. This seemed the more plausible one out of the other nine chapters. I half wanted/half didn't want to kill Murphy off, but I thought of a good ending that would better fit his character. Plus, I wanted Metea to be given a chance to show him the damage he had done to her. While I'm probably going to resurrect Druken in the later chapters (I'm only writing 20 chapters in total), I'm going to leave the mystery of his death up for a bit longer. I think I've explored Shayle's character to the furthest, so I believe in the next two or three chapters, I'm going to have her receive a revelation of some sorts to open a new doorway for her. As for Catarin, I really like this particular character for the simple fact that she is multi-versatile in a literary sense. Its hard for a writer to kill any particular character off because we always think of a new ending for them after the fact. So once a character is dead, we have to make sure they stay dead. I just ran into the same problem with a LIT class I'm teaching this summer at MSU. One of my students was having a really hard time letting a certain character she had worked with go. I felt bad for her because I know how it feels, but at the same time, being a writer means you have to work with different characters in different perspectives and situations.

Working with high-fantasy characters, especially with Lusternian characters, is a major feat in and of itself. We all love our characters and believe the way they see things is how they really are. No one wants their characters to sudden up and die for good. However, that's not how high-fantasy or fiction works. There is death and death is a tool meant to either emotionally move the reader or cause a turning point in the plot line/story. Plus, I don't want to start receiving emails from an angry mob of Lusternian players, asking why I killed their character off. :/

I won't mind being killed off. Or show up for a cameo. I can be that random shop person that repeatedly asks, 'Vials! Necklaces, beautiful necklaces for such a pretty lady! Get your axe here, can't be a blood thirsty dwarf with an axe!'

I like the way your portray murphy, love the hammers.

Well, I have to say kudos to you for writing this stuff I'd personally like to see a Seren character or two appear, though.

Oh, and a scene where Lowe is caught in the naughty, naughty act of worshipping Morgfyre and Charune's cracked horn.

The Serens are coming up next in the following chapters. Though I'm going to have to keep this PG 13.

the story is so great....any chance of me appearing there?