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The eastern winds blew cold and wet in late autumn. The upper city, decorated with the villas of countless noble families, usually fared badly during this season of storms. Near the very pinnacle of the mount, the seawinds were fierce. The air was ever damp and salt seemed to creep into everything. True, the mount rose above the ever-present fog that shrouded the lower city in the dark months, but one never escaped the salty wind... or that bone-numbing chill that no cloak ever truly dispelled.
On this evening on the mount the wind wound itself through the gaunt and denuded trees of a cobbled hilltop avenue. Its icy breath plucked many a dangling leaf as it pitched and gusted through gardens and fences, low walls and frosted windows. Unconcerned by the handful of cloaked figures hurrying home to warm hearths, it stumbled through an open window and into the amber light of dying embers. In this gathering gloom sat a well-dressed and rather beautiful woman. Half-lit by the warm glow of a large fireplace, she cut a striking figure. Her features were of the finest Gundian stock: black, almost violet hair, framed a delicate face of the smoothest alabaster. A hint of silver had begun to appear at her temples. Her eyes had the almond shape of the old blood, unmarred by any hint of southern stock. Her profile was delicate, yet strongly chiseled with a graceful neck whose origins were lost in the folds of a rich, blue gown. Yet for all her beauty she was not young and the firelight was not kind to the deepening lines that wove through her face. Hand anyone bothered to look beyond her and the fading hearth, they would have seen a magnificently appointed dining hall. An expanse of ice blue marble lay around her, and in the darkness beyond sat an oaken dinner table fit for a bishop. The walls of this place held many tapestries, now but faintly discernible. The lady herself sat languidly in a high-backed chair, a goblet in her delicate hands. Her mind was in many places and on many things on this night and, in truth, she was brooding. Damn seawind! She thought, as she cast a brief glance at a nearby window. She smirked. Even with all that I am, that blasted wind still bites. And it brings a hint of winter. First snows should be on us in a week or two...Her mind lingered for brief moments on half-forgotten winters and the snowy hills of her youth, before a crackle of flame snapped her back, snow and youth forgotten. A week or two should be enough, then. Fineas carefully masses in the north, awaiting our signal and the Fist will soon be sent on a hunting expedition. That leaves the priests of Oan in their broken basilica and... and... one or two loose ends. Etrigan's presence would have put me more at ease, blast him! Those mercenaries are able, even if sometimes rough around the edges; such a mobile force would have been useful during the first few days, striking if rebellion reeled its ugly head. But such is the scheme of things; and I know, above all others, what Etrigan is walking into. And the elves... She mused again, thinking of Riatha, elven captain of Etrigan's unlikely band and smiled. They will help nicely, Riatha's Queen and her court. Mutually beneficial... my flanks protected and her legitimacy assured. And if the old legends are true, that old witch is sitting on a treasure trove. A little friendship might go a long way towards access to the Wraithwood and its secrets. Ahh... but that is still far off. First, the city must be taken, the security and vitality of the North assured. "The Sundered Empire stirs..." she jumped as she realized it had been she who had spoken, the hollow echo magnifying her voice. I'm becoming a dottering old woman, mumbling in the shadows! What of Gund, then? A land broken and at war with itself, an empire in name only. But rumors tell of rumors and all whispers know one tale: a mad Emperor on a cursed throne has called forth creatures from the very pits of Acheron and set them loose. And Gund is re-building itself... on an infernal dream of war and conquest. What dark powers wander unknown through the cities of the Crescent, watching and learning for their infernal masters? Infernal! Hah! If those creatures are infernal then what am I? "What am I?" she murmured again, her distant gaze lost in the flames. "My Lady." A dull, monotone voice reverberated in the air above her. "My Lady." "Speak." She replied to the air, her gaze still focused on the flames. "News from Fineas, my Lady. His forces await your commands. Scouts have dutifully been sent to the Citadel with news of an orc horde to the west. Your captured specimens are very convincing. His spies expect the news to be circulated through the city tomorrow. He further warns he can only remain in his current state of readiness and concealment for an additional two weeks. Beyond that, he would have to forage or obtain supplies and thus reveal himself. On a last note, he respectfully reminds my Lady that the first snows are due in less than a month, perhaps less." First snows All hinges on those snows. If we strike too soon, we risk an even battle with the Fist. If we strike too late, the city cannot be taken. Ahh what I would give to have the druids of old! But we must make do. "Convey to Fineas my satisfaction. I expect the Fist will mobilize within a week. All proceeds as planned. The weather is in hand. Continue as ordered." "Yes, my Lady." The voice paused as though contemplating and proceeded. "My Lady, Lysander of Blackthorn should arrive within the hour. Shall I prepare the dining hall?" "No. My study will suffice. A light meal. And secure the manor for the evening. I want no uninvited guests." She threw her remaining wine into the fire and rose abruptly. "And I'd imagine there will be many runners from various quarters of the city tomorrow. Entertain them as needed; I will compose replies in the evening." "Yes, my Lady. All shall be arranged." Swiftly crossing the darkened hall, she barely heard these last words. She had enough presence of mind to absently wave her hand in satisfaction, knowing the servant would understand this as dismissal. She was smiling smugly as she opened oaken doors and slipped silently into a hallway. There was much to do yet and the night was young. * * * Ah! Her mind reeled with every inhalation of the crisp desert night. Ah! Sharp, cold tendrils infused her lungs and filled her veins with purpose. Ahh! Above her, a sea of stars drifted on the crystal vault of the western heavens. She could see Old Man Rone and the luminous Trail of Pearls, the Three Men and even Skysearcher. And to the south what was it the dwarves called that one? The Arm! I'd almost forgotten! She spent long minutes studying the stars, remembering the old stories and enjoying herself immensely. The night air was refreshing in a way she had not expected and Lysander seemed oblivious as he carefully traced his symbols on the ground of the mesa nearby. After some time, invigorated, she spun around and walked over to him. "How different the air, no? I've been in that salty city so long, I'd forgotten what it was like out here." She instantly regretted telling the old bastard so much, realizing she had been wearing a foolish grin as she spoke. The old man merely paused and raised his bald head, looking positively annoyed. Twinkling eyes of emerald focused on her in the soft silver light of his staff. "Is this a vacation for you, then, Evelyn?" His voice was acid. "We are slightly pressed for time, I would think." He dropped his gaze and hunched back to the earth. "It will take you some while to cleanse your mind for the work ahead, no?" The bastard was smiling wickedly as he picked up a small brass brush and set back to his work. Furious, she spun and stalked back to the edge of the mesa. Old fool! No one scolds me like a schoolgirl! We'll just see what happens tonight. Watch yourself, you old bastard! Her face still contorted by her sudden range, she sat on the cold clay, spreading her robe about and crossing her legs beneath her. Away and below, the mesa wall dropped several hundred feet into the night. Somewhere out there the desert crawled with life and Sidinnar slumbered. She began to prepare herself. Not long after she entered her trance, the old man's gaze drifted over her back. I'm watching more than myself, you insolent bitch. His lip rose to a silent snarl and, for less than an instant, his ancient eyes shone a sickly green. |