All Journeys Must End. This Man's Was No Different.

[CosmicWhaleShark 2488]

If you were to ask me twenty years ago, how I expected to die, I would have said by the bolt, blade or the noose. If you were to ask me ten years ago, it would have been by the hand of a lich or a shade. If you were to ask me ten days ago, I would have said in my sleep, in years to come. It appears that the first guess, is always right... I hate being right.

Music

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eipkKgTKAN8

Chapter 1.

The old man sat at his comfortable wooden bench, staring down at a newly drawn scroll. He read its contents twice over, making slight adjustments here and there. Giving it crucial thought, obviously. Wearing a frown on his face as he drew from the inkwell. The quill scratched across the furling paper, and the old man cleared his throat. It was quiet. The boy who lived with him was no doubt outside, conversing with the folk on the mountain or honing the skills of swordplay the old man had shown him. looking up as the thud of steps sounded down the stairs. A figure stood before his door, finally clicking the latch open and heading inside.

The guest sat himself down at the table, nodding to the man with the scroll.

"Walehir." The guest said.

"Good afternoon, Ambros. How are you?" Walehir greeted in return.

"Very good, actually." Ambros replied with little enthusiasm.

"Oh? Did something happen or are you just enjoying the day?" Walehir asked with a chuckle.

"Nothing that you can help with, actually." Ambros said flatly. Walehir nodded his head slowly, not thinking of a reply.

"What do I owe this visit to today, Ambros?" Walehir finally asked.

"You owe it to me." Ambros replied without any humor. Walehir gave a brief chuckle, and set the scroll to the side now. Simply saying, "Very well."

Ambros pointed to the scroll, "What is that you have there, Walehir?" he asked.

Walehir tapped the scroll with a single finger, "This contains my last wills and wishes, once I am dead."

"You prepare for death?"

"It would be ignorant not to."

Ambros scoffed and waved his hand as if he never considered it. "I have outlived you eight times over, and never have I considered such a thing." hmm, he actually never considered it.

"I am no wizard." Walehir returned, as of it wasn't already obvious.

Ambros looked to Walehir with a thoughtful gaze for a few moments. Walehir grew restless however.

"What is the reason for your visit today, Ambros?"

Ambros returned in an almost offended tone, "Do I need a reason to visit my friend?"

Walehir gave a half smirk. With a raised brow he commented, "It was my impression you were my better. I never thought you considered me a friend."

Ambros set his hands on the table, stubbornly saying, "If I was your better, then you would accept what I refer to you as."

Walehir grinned now, looking to the wizard with an amused squint. The conversation drew on, and on. But then, once more the conversation came back to immortality. Wizardry specifically.

"Walehir, I will tell you a story. No living person knows of this story, and I do not intend for it to be shared, ever. But I will tell you this story, in return, I expect you to take it to your grave." Ambros finally stated in a foreboding tone.

Walehir nodded his head slowly, not wishing to speak another word. And Ambros began...

No one knows what was said between those two. No one ever will...

Chapter 2.

As soon as the two had finished, the Elven prince, Lucion Sallas burst through Walehir's doors. Carrying himself with the dignity of a dragon in mortal form, he glared at Walehir immediatly, then turned to Ambros.

"Well hello there, you certainly look like a happy visitor..." Walehir addressed Lucion in a sarcastic tone.

"I am looking for the one know as, Walahir." Lucion stated, seeming to ignore Walehir's observation.

Walehir raised his hand in a wave, correcting the Elf. "It's pronounced Wal-ey-heer. Not Wal-a-hir."

Lucion finally seemed to acknowledge the old man. Getting down to business immediatly. "You are charged with the assault upon Mali kind."

Walehir blinked for a moment, then frowned. "Assault? I do not remember assaulting anyone. Could you elaborate?"

Lucion looked down at Walehir, saying in ever the proper manner, "Upon the gates of the mali'aheral district, you were witnessed attacking the mali'ker named Polgrath, and attempted to murder him in the most barbaric manner."

Walehir squinted at Lucion for a moment. Then gave a dark chuckle, "Ah, you mean the illusionist who sent a man to rid of me, invaded and assaulted my mind. The same mali'ker running around your city, beckoning pupils to him, to learn magics that would 'enslave any man'."

Lucion quickly replied, "You are a man, and yet you are not a slave."

Walehir nodded, "Because I defended myself."

Ambros chimed in, giving Lucion a scornful look. "Those were evil magics, the illusionist used."

Lucion waved his hand in dismissal. "Irrelevant. Any Mali's life is worth ten thousand of your insignificant Valah lives."

Walehir brushed off the insult. Giving a sharp retort, "If such is indeed the case. Then I have ensured that a million of my own lives have been saved, in healing your people."

Lucion clenched his fist, nearly spitting out his words. "So then you feel 'entitled' to take a life when you please?"

Walehir calmly replied, "Do you feel entitled to be healed by divines that you scorn and slander, despite witnessing their power?"

"Answer my initial question, Valah." Lucion growled.

"I do not take a life, rather I allow one to pass along now and then. A cleric is not only a healer. We deal with magical threats, as well."

Ambros once more added in, "Walehir is not the one you should be addressing."

Lucion sighed and turned to Ambros now, insulting the wise wizard.

"You dare to talk to your master like this?" Ambros asked with a tense tone.

"You are not my master now. Simply another one of the people that I govern in this nation."

"I could destroy you with essentially a snap of my fingers. I think that makes me your master in more ways than one."

Lucion looked between the two, finally deciding to speak to Walehir. "I expect you to accept the punishments of a crime you willingly confess."

Walehir shook his head, "I wish to speak to a neutral party of such matters. Not you. Perhaps Bravepaw."

Lucion growled and jabbed a pointed finger in his direction, "You will pay, insignificant Valah." and with that, he swept out of the room. The door banging behind him.

Ambros and Walehir stared at eachother after. Ignorant of the danger he put himself in, Walehir laughed heartily. "He was... Fun."

Ambros shrugged, they talked for a moment more, before Ambros bid his friend farewell.

Chapter 3.

Another knock came. It was Des, the bard, this time. Accompanied by his puppet, Poppet.

"Des! Hello there, friend. How have you been?" Walehir asked, in as warm a greeting as possible.

Des gave a half smile back, Poppet occupied with a carrot. The two gave warm conversation, speaking of Des' efforts to establish a caravan to aid travelers and outlying settlements. Walehir inquired of Des' well-being afterwards.

"Have you made enough money for food, with your stories?"

Des shook his head slowly, "No one wishes to hear them. I cannot blame anyone, they're always in such a rush."

Walehir nodded, "I still have a batch of potatoes, I will prepare some for you travels."

Des nodded in humble gratitude, and watched as Walehir prepared a burlap sack for him to take.

"Thank you, Walehir."

"They are still raw, but if you can manage a fire, they will be fit for eating."

Des nodded once more, "I must be going, work to do still."

"Of course, Des. Next time, I will look forward to hearing a story of yours."

Des smiled once more and nodded his head in agreement. "I shall do so. Farewell, Walehir."

"Be safe, Des."

As night fell, Walehir turned to his bed. A peaceful night. It would be his last...

Chapter 4.

Morning came, and Walehir finally left his home. Stretching his back, he groaned as his joints popped and his muscles loosened.

"Come out! Nowhere to hide now!" a strange voice shouted, echoing across the mountainside. Walehir peered down the stairs, seeing a masked figure approach.

"Who are you?" Walehir asked. The man did not respond however. He simply pointed to his mask, and shook his head. Walehir raised a bit of an annoyed brow, asking once more, "Who are you?"

"Awfully clever..." the masked man replied. His voice was distorted, but a familiar accent lingered with his words... It couldn't be.

"...Take off your mask." Walehir commanded.

Rather than obeying however, the masked man spread his arms wide."Hiding amongst the Elves. Takin' a new name. The Elves were the ones to sell you out though."

Walehir's own mask was beginning to crumble. Areon Baldwin was a fool to think he could hide. Realization slowly crept into his face.

The masked man chuckled beneath his shroud."How's Gregory?" he asked ominously.

And just like that, everything went to ruin. A decade of rebuilding, repenting, remaking himself into Walehir. All ruined. Areon Baldwin had resurfaced. He knew what this day would bring. The man finally revealed his true face, taking off the mask. Bran Volsung stood before him.

Giving a wicked snicker, he said, "Been a while."

Areon looked at him for a few moments, "You've grown."

"Per'aps..."

"What are you doing here, Bran?" Areon asked with a tense tone. Trying his best to feign a calm.

"To talk." he simply said.

Areon looked up and down the stairs for just a moment. No shouting of orders, no red flashes of cloth, no cranking sounds of crossbows. Not yet, at least. He would be safer inside.

"Outside is no place to catch up then. Come, you may talk in my home." he offered. Turning back already to his door. Bran followed after him.

"What do you wish to speak of, Bran?", Areon asked.

"We'll talk, and then we'll fight. To the death." Bran said calmly. Looking to Areon with an unwavering gaze.

"Why do you say this, Bran?" Areon asked, looking to him in disbelief.

"We 'ave a score ta settle..."

"What score is this?"

"You left me to die, all those years ago and left me to be healed by a Dark Elf!" Bran shouted.

"Bran... That was decades ago." Areon said in an almost annoyed tone.

"I told you I would never forgive you, cleric." Bran returned with venom in his words.

Areon gave a small sigh, "It appears you have not grown then. Regardless, I am sorry."

Bran went to move the bench in front of Areon's door. Barring any escape, for either of them...

Areon made no move to stop him.

Bran glared at Areon for a moment, then relaxed himself. Finally he asked, “Do ye know about wot ‘appened to Brunhylde? Woi she became wot she is?”

Areon's attention was held, he stared at Bran with a cautious gaze. Slowly, he nodded.

“Then ye understand that that it wasn’t ‘er fault, ja?” Bran asked once more.

"I loved her more than you would know, Bran. I tried helping her, I did..." Areon said, barely getting the last two words out.

Bran looked to Areon for another few moments, then brushed his coat back, revealing the pommel to his blade. Areon shook his head slowly, and held his hand up for pause.

"The man you hunted for, is not the man who stands before you now, Bran." Areon said, in an attempt for reason.

Bran simply shook his head, "You will die in his place then, prepare yourself."

A bold statement, coming from a swordsman. Under normal circumstances, telling Areon to prepare himself, was a foolish move. Areon was only one incantation away from amassing spectral chains and crushing Bran to death with their hold. However something stopped the old man from destroying Bran right there and then... Perhaps it was arrogance, where he felt he could defeat Bran with sword and staff. Perhaps it was conviction, refusing to kill a mortal with what are pure magics. Perhaps it was love, showing mercy to very few of the remaining Volsung heirs. Perhaps it was respect, thinking Bran deserved to die by his own arm's swing, than by magic. No one will ever know, for certain.

Chapter 5.

Areon stared at Bran, whilst his aura gathered around him. He did not have the intent to kill, after all. Areon had not even drawn his sword yet, all he had was his staff, and his magics. Areon's energies flowed towards the oaken staff, whipping and crackling along the deep grooves of the carved branch. Bran charged, giving a shout, and Areon pointed his staff to him...

A flash of magnificent light filled the room, flowing from Areon's staff. Bran was blinded, yet still he persisted, swinging in every which direction. How foolish, Areon thought. Angered by the fact that Bran, essentially, just threw his life away. He sent a sharp jab towards his chest, with the oak staff. Bran stumbled backwards from the blow. Just then, a bash was heard at Areon's door. He could hear the shouts for Bran, as the men outside kicked at the barricaded entrance. More White Roses.

Areon looked back to Bran, whilst he was still recovering and asked, "Insurance?"

Bran shook his head, rubbing at his eyes. "I came 'ere early..."

Areon nodded in understanding, and prepared his staff again, seeing Bran was now recovering. Considering the White Roses outside, Areon also had the sense to finally draw his sword. An aged blade of silver, chipped and unpolished. Unsurprisingly, Bran charged again. Areon caught the blow with his crude blade, sending a jab towards Bran's head this time with his staff. Bran was reckless. Areon simply had to alternate which hand to block with, and he would be done. Blood gushed from Bran's brow now, and once more he stumbled backwards. Areon amassed his magics once more, sending them in a violent swirl to his staff.

Bran, frustrated, charged yet again. Areon wasted no time in blinding the man. Little did he know however, that a mage was amongst the Roses outside. The flash most certainly was seen outside. Adeon, a skilled pyromancer, wasted no time in trying to save his comrade, Bran. More shouts were heard up above, the rest of the White Rose company was arriving...

By the time the whole company had stumbled upon Areon's home, Adeon had prepared his spell. He pointed towards Areon's doors, and sent a fireball flying towards it. The doors gave no resistance, shattering and even throwing the bench in pieces any which way. Areon looked to the door now, seeing Bran was still occupied. A flood of red and white, with the unmistakable clink of armor came roaring in. Six in total, all armed with crossbows. By the bolt, blade or the noose... Bran seemed just as aware of the situation as Areon, and actually caught him by surprise as he charged half blind. Areon was backed into a corner now, fighting for his life. Bran swung, and swung, and Areon could only hold his own with blocks or parries. Never wasting time to get a hit in, yet.

Shouts were heard outside, the screams of women, and the barks of orders as the White Rose set a perimeter. Areon would smack himself in the head, if he could, for putting himself in such a dreadful position. Backed into a corner, facing Bran to the death. If he won, then he would face the crossbows to the death. It wasn't hard to guess who would win the second face off. Areon was now enraged, so hard he worked for this new life. And it was being taken away, by the very people who forced him to take on this new life. It would only end when Areon was dead. He drove his blade in a jab towards Bran now. Bran stepped away, looking to Areon with a bit of surprise, seeing the blade now pointed at him.

Areon shouted with a furious roar, "Stop this madness!"

Bran quickly recovered, and pointed his blade back to Areon, shouting in turn, "You die!"

Once more, they were locked into furious combat...

Bran gave yet another, overhead swing downwards. Areon, caught the blade with his oaken staff this time. He sent his crude blade in an upward stab towards Bran. Bran took the blade to his midsection, and looked to him in shock now. Areon had went for a killing blow. Bran's face seemed to illustrate his inner rage very well. He gave a furious swing across Areon's side. That's new, Areon thought, as he raised his blade to defend himself. Areon felt the incredible force of the blow, but that was not the only thing he felt...

Areon's blade shattered under Bran's own. Uncontested, Bran's blow slid across Areon's side, iron biting flesh. All Areon could do was gasp in pain. Bran's own wound was taking its toll, and the two were left gravely injured. Bran stumbled back, involuntarily. His blood was leaving his body too quickly.

The thick thwack of a spring was heard, and the heavy woosh of a bolt flying through the air. Finally, the thud, as it blew through Areon's flesh, bone, and muscle. Embedding itself heavily, within his chest. Areon stared down at it, just staring, as he dropped to his knees from the pain. He wrapped his hand around the fletching, and tried his earnest to pull the bolt out. His aura wrapped around him, in readiness to heal the wound. But it was too deeply stuck. Areon did not have the strength, or the tolerance to pull it out himself. Areon was going to die.

Chapter 6.

Slumping into the corner of the room, Areon choked and struggled for breath, and life. Using what was left of his magics, he sealed off the feeling to his chest, to alleviate the pain. Adeon now wandered over to Areon.

Bran was being dragged away, to be treated, shouting all the while "No! Mine must be the final blow!"

Areon looked up to Adeon, and with a dazed droop in his voice, he said, "Hello again..."

Adeon kneeled down besides Areon, whispering to him. "You should have run farther away... Cut off all ties."

Areon looked to him with a detached smile, whispering back, "Ah, but I did... You all are very... Unforgiving."

Adeon smirked back at Areon, "I have never forgiven anyone."

Areon shook his head, "There was a time when you did... A shame... I had to die... Before we could... Catch up."

Just then, Areon coughed. Blood spattered out of his mouth, on his chin and chest. He urgently spoke, "Adeon, I have a son... Please... Tell the Elf, Elorna... To take care of him..."

Adeon nodded and said, "I shall."

Thomas stepped up besides Adeon, resting a hand on his shoulder. "Adeon, finish this." he said. Before backing away to watch. Adeon drew his blade, and let it hover over Areon's heart.

Areon simply shook his head, he said weakly, "Allow me to do one thing in peace, Adeon. I will die on my own."

Adeon silently nodded, and sheathed his blade. Walking away without even saying farewell. Thomas turned around as well and shouted. "Areon Baldwin is dead!"

Adeon, as if to clarify, also shouted, "Walehir is dead!"

Areon slumped his head against the chest besides him. Clinging to his last moments as dearly as he could. He closed his eyes, and silently prayed. Outside he could hear the cheers, the wails, and everything in between. He receded within himself. Everything grew cold...

Bran, having been tended to, approached Areon once more. He kneeled down besides the dying man, giving a small prayer himself.

"Vitad bòt, atlaga illr yfir rúm.
Spjòt falr andi hugr eyrr leikr.
Fljòtliga seidr hestr bitr jotunn,
Springa geisl gryttr lètta hreyfa, Areon Baldwin."

Bran took the oaken staff, that Areon once wielded, and used it to aid himself in walking. He ordered a squire to carry Areon down onto the beach. They buried him in the sand, and made a quick headstone. Saying a few words, and then leaving to rejoin the other Roses. Areon's life, had ended.

Chapter 7.

Areon was trapped in a frozen, black, wasteland. He walked aimlessly, unable to even see his hand in front of him. Finally, a light appeared up above, and the whole world shifted. He screamed in terror as he fell towards the light, shutting his eyes in a petty attempt to protect himself...

He stood upon the sands now, breathing heavily, whipping his head in every direction. A beach? Yes, it was a beach. Looking up, he saw the mountains. He was still in Malinor. But how? Finally he looked to his own body, transparent, and the bolt still within him. A spirit? Impossible...

Looking behind him, he saw the headstone... As he read the name... It all came back to him. He had been killed... How could he forget?

Hearing the sounds of soft crying, he turned to see Elorna approaching the grave. She covered her mouth with her hand. Her eyes sorrowed and exhausted from crying. She kneeled besides the headstone, and punched at the sand, "Damn them!"

Areon stepped back, he wanted to wave and ask her what was wrong. But it was obvious. In his frustration, his aura sparked slightly. It caught the attention of Elorna, and she looked to the winds in terror...

Areon looked at her, perplexed for a few moments. It was almost as if she could see him. Not now, obviously. His aura... Of course.

Areon tried his best to keep her there, so he could focus on communicating across the plains. He had to tell her, he had to make sure...

Finally, he amassed his aura, so that it flowed around his spectral form, outlining it in a nearly terrifying way.

"Elorna, can you hear me...?"

Elorna looked at the strange image before her, before finally saying, "W-Walehir... Are y-you...? Please say you're alright!"

Areon smiled in triumph, but as he lost concentration just slightly, the plains began to pull at him again. He didn't have much time...

"Elorna... This is... Difficult to maintain... I do not have much time... Adeon made contact with you?"

Elorna looked to the sands, in confusion. "I think... It's blurry."

"It seems... Ergh... They did not read my last will then... Elorna, this will... Be difficult... What I ask..."

Elorna nodded silently.

"Burn my body... It is of no use to me..."

Elorna shook her head, to herself it seemed, "There is... No other way... You could live?"

Areon smirked at her, and his image flickered once again. "No... Elorna... It is time for me to finally die..."

Elorna remained silent, looking to Areon still.

"I'll have you know, I did not die with any drink in me..."

Elorna finally laughed, then a sob caught at her throat, and her eyes began to tear again.

"Elorna... One more thing... I beg of you... Please take care of Gregory..."

She gave a nod, and began to softly sob. "I will try."

Areon looked to her sorrowfully, but a great weight left him. He felt ready now, there was not much time left. "Do not weep for me, dear... I am on my way, to finally see my patrons... My loved ones... More are in the Seven Skies, than here..."

His image began to flicker once more. It could not be helped. "It is time for me to go... My loved ones are waiting... Elorna, I cannot thank you enough, for everything..."

He gave a ghostly smile, and the whisps of his aura began to form into tiny orbs of light. Crackling away, and no longer retaining the shape of a man.

"V-Van'ayla... Wale... Areon..."

"Van'ayla, my favorite Elf."

And with that, he passed on. His son was safe, he had said his farewells. He was ready to begin his next journey, to the Seven Skies. The orbs beamed to the stars. Leaving Elorna alone on the beach, in silence.

[Sagwort 833]

*Ambros wanders about the beach before stumbling across the newly placed headstone, yet to be withered by the salty sea or over taken by greedy mosses*

Yet another head of stone

Nor the last, I would assume

Very few will moan or groan

Never seeing winter’s bloom

A man who only lived for half

The things he still had yet to do

Perhaps he had found true craft

Or has let his conscience subdue

He muddled deeply in the past

He tried to look into futures

Living with a broken mast

He tried to heal with spider sutures

A man of god, helping others

Yet shattered like a crystal glass

He strayed away from his brothers

His life was torn by his lass

But perhaps I have spoken wrong

Perhaps in his final days did he

Find the peace he always needed

His immortal life at last seeded

[Urahra 5777]

The moment of Brunhylde Volsung's death was not as pretty or tragic as her sometime lover's. Ripped to pieces by furious Frost Witches and then frozen forever inside an iceberg, Brunhylde Volsung's body was locked away forever, never to be buried, never to be restored. The curse of the Frost Witch, placed upon her by a devious creature at the very beginning of her life, sensed that its host was at last rendered unworthy and seemed to deep from her as rain seeps beneath a closed window. All that was left in the iceberg were Brunhylde's human remains - the corpse of a twenty five year old woman, blonde and blue eyed and hopeful, but yet full of despair. So full of despair.

There was a life she could have lived. Maybe if she hadn't been cursed, she could have met Areon again. She could have really fallen in love with him, like a woman was supposed to, instead of faking it for years to manipulate him. She could have given him the children he wanted. They could have been happy, perhaps. The White Rose would never have bothered a small town cleric. It was only because he had aided her, even loved her, that they sought to end him. Deep down , in Brunhylde's human soul, she felt guilty for the ugly mess she'd made of Areon's life. For the motherless child she had left behind in his care. But the curse had made her insane. She couldn't fight the coldness within her. It stopped her from loving.

Now they were both dead. Now, that promise, the life they might have lived if things had only been different, was dead too.

A cold, northern wind swept across the beach where Areon's headstone lay. For a moment, if one squinted their eyes just right, they might see the figure of a long haired woman standing beside the grave. A trick of the eyes, of course. Not the spirit of a tortured human woman, unable to rest or move on. Not the spirit of a creature who committed evil and must now suffer for it in the afterlife, alone.

If there was a ghost, though, she would have mourned. Mourned for the love her ice heart never let her feel. Mourned for the life she never got to live.

[Agith 224]

Young Cir'dian tilts his head, adjusting his hold on the pup in hand as he spies a new gravestone on the coast. He makes his way over to it, looking down to the stone as he tilts his head. He walks away, stepping to his house, and plucks a small bouqet of roses, before making his way back to the stone, and laying them down before the grave with a sigh. Cir'dian turns to his pup.

"Why do the valah die?" he states simply, looking back to the grave.

"I liked Mr. Walehir... He was nice. But...I suppose it was his time? He was old."

Cir'dian sits down before the grave, leaning forwards and patting it with a weak smile.

"Maybe Bfigyr isn't the name for you, little pup... How about - well how about we give Walehir one last respect? Would you like to be named that instead?" he says to the pup.

The pup simply curls up in his lap, silent and uncaring.

"Yeah... Perhaps it is...We'll ask papa." Cir'dian replies, before slowly pulling to his feet again, and wandering back to the house, the small red wolf pup trailing behind him, having to run to catch up.

[Augor 142]

Gregory Baldwin opened the small gate, and entered the yard where his father's body lay. He neared the corpse, now bandaged and ready for his ceremonies to rid him of his mortal body. He blinked slowly as he looked over the body that had once been his father's. The young boy proceeded to walk to the chair facing his father's corpse, and he sat, remembering, and trying to understand who his father was and what he meant to everyone.

His father had expected to die too soon, and had prepared Gregory for this, yet even so, Gregory suddenly felt alone. His one true friend had left, his teacher, his trainer, his father, all the same man. Gregory stood, and knelt on the grass next to the corpse that was his father, the empty shell of a man that he had once known, and spoke.

"Father, I know you were ready for this, and tried to help me be ready, yet I feel so unprepared. I never got to know you well enough as the man you were, and now I never will. Yet, I know you are with the ones you love now, my mother and all of your old allies and friends. I wish you didn't have to leave, but thank you, for being the man you were. I will miss you, father."

Gregory Baldwin took the meaning of those words this time, his father would never be there. His father would never return, all the stories and memories lost with him. Gregory Baldwin covered his face with his hands, and cried.

[Sultan 3953]

Late at night, Godfrey sits at his desk a Alfred brings a cup up tea to him and places it on the table he turns ''Thank you Alfred, I shall stay up and read these papers you may go to sleep'' Alfred bows ''As you command sire'' and takes his leave'' Godfrey slowly starts to open the firsts letter, as he reads the content ''So his finally dead hmpf, and he thought he could assassinate me.. he looks to the paper once again and says, so he dies now all that remains is his Master and pupil.'' he gives a smirk as he places the paper down.

[Stag 3231]

After the passing of the cleric Iatrilemar feels a grave aura about him. As the days pass thoughts of what will happen to him begin to cluster in his mind. Within the coming days the sickness returns to him. Nightmares plague his sleep and fatigue makes moving near impossible for him. More often than not he is seen staring blankly into space, as if something has taken hold of him.

He recalls his sessions with Walehir where he would have wards cast on him. He didn't quite understand in what way Walehir was helping him but after the sessions he felt completely fine for up to a week.

Now Iatrilmar's condition worsens by the day, and he has been seen crying more often than not.

Many have visited him in the infirmary and tried to diagnose his condition. Many have failed. They can only offer him soft comfort as he slowly but constantly deteriorates. One fact is known. If Iatrilemar cannot find another cleric to take the place of Walehir then his fate is dismal.

"Why... Walehir... I need your help."