black hole of despair, the very image our elven artists look to when trying to capture the mood of our society this last millenia.”
Cyrus halted and Odellan walked another pace before stopping. Cyrus’s eyes narrowed at the elf. “Some of that was funny, and I can’t decide how I feel about that.”
Odellan raised an eyebrow. “Only some of it? I was trying to keep a playful tone throughout.”
“The ‘Cyrus the Unbroken’ bit was a tad grim; otherwise you succeeded.”
“Ah, that,” Odellan said, looking back at him. “It seems there’s a story that goes along with it, though I’ve yet to hear it told the same way twice.”
“And the rumors about the reason I’m as black in the mood as an elvish artisan? Are those told the same twice, or do the details vary with the telling?”
Odellan cast his eyes down. “Those seem to be almost the same every time. A dashing young warrior, a rising star in the Sanctuary firmament, casts his eyes upon an elven paladin of legend, spills the secrets of his soul to her, and receives naught but anguish for his reward.” Odellan tilted his head, his expression pained. “It would be hard for even the most accomplished embellisher of stories to mistake a tale so plain as that one.”
“That’s never stopped rumormongers from trying.”
“As you can tell, the broad strokes of that one convey all the important bits,” Odellan said. “Whether anything else happened, we all get the gist.” Cyrus caught a flicker of something behind the elf’s eyes, some pain within. “Heartbreak is no great joy for any of us, but no one will disturb you if you don’t wish to talk about it—”
“I don’t,” Cyrus said, resuming his walk. “It’s nothing personal, but my … adversities are my own.”
“Well, that would make it personal, wouldn’t it? Still, I understand completely.” The elf gave Cyrus a curt nod. “And I shan’t bring it up again.” Odellan hesitated. “Save but to say that if ever a day comes when you wish to discuss it … I am the soul of discretion.”
Cyrus felt the muscles in his body tense and then relax, the full effect of Odellan’s offer running through his mind. “It’s kind of you, Odellan. I doubt that day will come, but I appreciate the offer.”
“A kindness I fear is all too small a repayment for those you’ve done for me.” Odellan’s silver boots had begun to collect small clumps of wet sand, and the shine on the top of his metal-encased feet was not nearly so polished as his breastplate. “After all, you saved my life and the lives of countless of my people in Termina and then brought me from exile to a place where I can do some small good, I hope.”
“More than small, I would think,” Cyrus said as they passed the embers of the fire he had slept beside. The sun had risen in the western sky and was hanging high above the sea, day in full and glorious bloom.
The smell of roasted pig was in the air, and Cyrus could see Martaina Proelius next to a boar that looked to be fairly intact, and the ranger gave him a smile as he approached. “Hungry?” she asked.
“Indeed I am,” he said, his voice suddenly scratchy. “How’s the boar?”
“Oh, he’s dead,” she said, taking a knife from her belt and carving a slice from the haunch. “But tasty. It’s nice to see you seeking the company of others again, sir, even if it is only for a meal.”
“Well … not only for a meal,” he said, eliciting a wider grin from the ranger. He took a bite of the meat she had given him. “That is good.” He shifted the meat around on his tongue, tasted the curious flavor of something beyond meat and fat. “There are spices in this.”
Martaina grinned with obvious pleasure. “I found some familiar plants over the berm; it made seasoning these beasts all the sweeter.”
“Well done,” Cyrus told her, beginning to turn away. “Well done indeed.”
“General,” she said, causing him to turn back. “Remember that
Cyrus halted and Odellan walked another pace before stopping. Cyrus’s eyes narrowed at the elf. “Some of that was funny, and I can’t decide how I feel about that.”
Odellan raised an eyebrow. “Only some of it? I was trying to keep a playful tone throughout.”
“The ‘Cyrus the Unbroken’ bit was a tad grim; otherwise you succeeded.”
“Ah, that,” Odellan said, looking back at him. “It seems there’s a story that goes along with it, though I’ve yet to hear it told the same way twice.”
“And the rumors about the reason I’m as black in the mood as an elvish artisan? Are those told the same twice, or do the details vary with the telling?”
Odellan cast his eyes down. “Those seem to be almost the same every time. A dashing young warrior, a rising star in the Sanctuary firmament, casts his eyes upon an elven paladin of legend, spills the secrets of his soul to her, and receives naught but anguish for his reward.” Odellan tilted his head, his expression pained. “It would be hard for even the most accomplished embellisher of stories to mistake a tale so plain as that one.”
“That’s never stopped rumormongers from trying.”
“As you can tell, the broad strokes of that one convey all the important bits,” Odellan said. “Whether anything else happened, we all get the gist.” Cyrus caught a flicker of something behind the elf’s eyes, some pain within. “Heartbreak is no great joy for any of us, but no one will disturb you if you don’t wish to talk about it—”
“I don’t,” Cyrus said, resuming his walk. “It’s nothing personal, but my … adversities are my own.”
“Well, that would make it personal, wouldn’t it? Still, I understand completely.” The elf gave Cyrus a curt nod. “And I shan’t bring it up again.” Odellan hesitated. “Save but to say that if ever a day comes when you wish to discuss it … I am the soul of discretion.”
Cyrus felt the muscles in his body tense and then relax, the full effect of Odellan’s offer running through his mind. “It’s kind of you, Odellan. I doubt that day will come, but I appreciate the offer.”
“A kindness I fear is all too small a repayment for those you’ve done for me.” Odellan’s silver boots had begun to collect small clumps of wet sand, and the shine on the top of his metal-encased feet was not nearly so polished as his breastplate. “After all, you saved my life and the lives of countless of my people in Termina and then brought me from exile to a place where I can do some small good, I hope.”
“More than small, I would think,” Cyrus said as they passed the embers of the fire he had slept beside. The sun had risen in the western sky and was hanging high above the sea, day in full and glorious bloom.
The smell of roasted pig was in the air, and Cyrus could see Martaina Proelius next to a boar that looked to be fairly intact, and the ranger gave him a smile as he approached. “Hungry?” she asked.
“Indeed I am,” he said, his voice suddenly scratchy. “How’s the boar?”
“Oh, he’s dead,” she said, taking a knife from her belt and carving a slice from the haunch. “But tasty. It’s nice to see you seeking the company of others again, sir, even if it is only for a meal.”
“Well … not only for a meal,” he said, eliciting a wider grin from the ranger. He took a bite of the meat she had given him. “That is good.” He shifted the meat around on his tongue, tasted the curious flavor of something beyond meat and fat. “There are spices in this.”
Martaina grinned with obvious pleasure. “I found some familiar plants over the berm; it made seasoning these beasts all the sweeter.”
“Well done,” Cyrus told her, beginning to turn away. “Well done indeed.”
“General,” she said, causing him to turn back. “Remember that
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