inthetapestry: (baby Kevin)
Kevin is sure that what Galadan is saying is very important.

. . . no, really. Honest.

But it's an awfully nice day, and the sun is shining, and . . . hey, look at that butterfly, over there, that's kinda pretty, with the wings, and -

Look, it's just not the kind of day when it's easy to focus on your cousin trying to tell you something about battle tactics, even if your cousin is also your overlord and one of the most dangerous beings on Fionavar.
inthetapestry: (baby Kevin)
When Paul-who-isn't-his-father and Jaelle-who-isn't-his-mother die, Kevin dan Davor of the andain has been around twelve years old for going on twenty-five years.

He doesn't know where to go at first. He has always had a home, before. He stays in the cottage for a month, feeling lonely. He considers seeking out his mother, but he suspects that wouldn't help with the loneliness. So instead, he does the next-best thing to seeking out his father, and goes out to the steppes to find the Dalrei.

Kevin likes the Dalrei, and they like him. Ivor dan Bannor is long dead, but Levon dan Ivor remembers Kevin's father well, and welcomes him in Davor's name. Kevin learns to hunt elkor with reasonable skill - and if he sometimes runs with the elkor as one of them, he makes sure not to do it on days when anyone is hunting.

"This life suits you," says Levon after a year, pleased to be doing well by his old friend's son. "You've been growing."

Kevin looks around fifteen, now. He can ride with the warriors, though he is still more a child than not, and not let to do anything to dangerous. This suits Kevin perfectly well; he has no urge to prove himself. There's no rush. He is andain, and he has time.

He has time, but his friends do not. The boys who learned to hunt elkor along with him grow, and keep growing, and marry, and have children. Kevin stays slim and beardless and likeable and free of responsibility. A few years pass, and he rides with a new crop of youths. Another few years go by. Another set of boys grow up, and Kevin does not. Levon dies, and his son, who once helped Kevin to smuggle a skunk into the shaman's bedroll, succeeds him.

The Dalrei know what Kevin is. They don't question his youth. Kevin doesn't question it either. He is surrounded by people; he enjoys his life, mostly. He doesn't know what more to ask for.

All the same, for reasons he can't name, he finds himself running more with the elkor, these days, than with the hunts.
inthetapestry: (dave)
Dave has been hardly in his apartment these last three days, busy buying presents for his father and brother (inevitably it ends up being ties, but he still spends hours staring hopelessly at different items trying to decide) and wrapping up business in his legal office for the holidays.

He's not been expecting any calls, and he almost doesn't notice the blinking red light on the answering machine as he's finally heading out the door to spend his first Christmas with his family in five years.

But he does notice it, and, groaning, sets down his bags and hits 'play'.

The impatient look vanishes quickly, however, as he listens to the message.

Hi, Dave -- it's Kim. I guess you're out somewhere ... sorry to have missed catching you, and it looks like it's going to be a while yet, as it turns out I'm not coming back to Toronto for the holidays after all. [awkward pause] Things here are going okay, though... I'm getting settled in, at least. It's not like... like it was, or anything, but it's okay.


Anyway I, um, I hope everything's good with you. Talk to you soon, I guess? Take care of yourself. Bye."

He lets the message run out, and then reaches to dial - and then stops himself. Instead, he hangs up the phone and goes trudging off to hunt for the phone book, and the number for US Airlines.
inthetapestry: (dave)
Dave knows by now the way that Kim likes her coffee - strong and black, staple of med students everywhere - and he's got it boiling as he waits for her to show up at the apartment.

The cautious way she sounded on the phone, he thinks it might come in handy.
inthetapestry: (dave)
Dave's been waiting in his apartment, pacing, for a few hours now. Wondering if after all he should have gone.

Though it's not like Sol Laine even knew who he was. And grief - grief is a damn private thing. Not to be shared with strangers.

But still, he was there; he knew what happened. All of what happened, hunt and everything, even more than Kim did. And how the hell could he have let Kim go talk to him by herself, anyways? What kind of friend does that?

And so he paces.
It was quiet, in the Temple, but not like this. That was a quiet of reverence, of hushed tones and quiet steps, the quiet of a large building full of people making an effort to be quiet. This is a quiet of stillness, of soft breeze and water and birds.

It's good, she thinks, to be out of the city today. Away from the hundreds of questions, of decisions, of details, of things. She needs the stillness. The time to adjust to the new way of thinking. Or at least to begin to adjust. Everything is changing. Some things are trivial, like the fact that it's still surprising to look down to her hands and see that the her sleeves are blue or green. Others are very serious, as it's even more surprising to wake up in the middle of the night and realize that Paul is there, is sleeping beside her, is staying.

The city is not a good place for reflection. This cottage is.

Jaelle stands in the doorway, her head against the frame, and watches the sunlight on the water, eyes half-closed against the brightness.
"Someone has come," Flidais says, sudden and grim in the stillness of the Anor, "and Galadan is on his way to this place even now."

Jennifer feels herself go pale. Galadan -- and someone else, whose arrival has Brendel and Flidais both tense, who can only be there because of her. And so she insists on coming down with them. If it's a friend, all to the good; if not, as she tells Brendel, then the Anor is no safer than the beach.

But the boy standing there as she leaves the tower cannot be called friend or enemy. And that, of course, was the idea.

Her Wild Hunt. Her random chance. Her son, standing pale and small and offering her a dagger.

"Will you . . . will you take a gift?"

She looks at him, and draws on her memories of Guinevere, proud and commanding and as hard as necessary, queen and abbess, over and over.

"Is it yours to give?" And, though he stumbles back from her tone, and sounds small and frail and young when he protests, she continues, "What are you doing here?"

"I -- she told me. The one with white hair." Kim, of course. "She said you were . . ."

And Guinevere pushes him away, as he calls her mother, as he throws his father's name at her, as he rails at her; because the choice must be his. It must be. For a moment, it seems that he will see that, accept that.

"Finn told me . . . before . . ." he says, "that my mother loved me and made me special."

And oh, it nearly all shatters and collapses then, and she can't stop her own whisper of "Acushla machree" -- my heart's dear one. But she controls it, fiercely. To falter now would destroy it all.

"He was wrong . . . about making you special," she says. "You know that now. Your power comes from Rakoth when your eyes go red. What you have of me is only freedom and the right to choose, to make your own choice between Light and Dark. Nothing more than that."

She hears Kim scream -- she hadn't known she was there -- but the wind is louder, and Darien's bitter cries are loudest of all in her ears.

Then he turns and runs, straight into Pendaran Wood, and the storm breaks over them.

She had been outside by Ysanne's lake when Jaelle and Sharra found her, after Darien had left, bearing Lisen's Light and the dagger Lokdal. There had been a very great deal to tell them, after that.

It had been Sharra who had seen through to the heart, though, who had realized the loneliness in Darien's actions-- How should I go to my father without a gift?, he had cried-- and as soon as she had said it, Kim realized that she was right. And so she had called aloud into the quiet air, telling Darien where his mother was, telling him to go to her--

--and then had begun the race to reach the Anor Lisen themselves, to warn Jennifer. They had gone with Jaelle to the temple, where the red-haired priestess had linked to the circle of the Mormae in Gwen Ystrat and tapped the earthroot, the avarlith, for the power needed to send herself, Kim, and Sharra across the land, to the rocky shore of the ocean by Lisen's Tower.

It hadn't taken very long at all, by any measure of such things, but they had been too late in any case.
*     *     *     *     *

From the edge of Pendaran Wood, white hair blown wild by the gathering storm, Kim watches in horror as Jennifer Lowell stands, tall and proud and golden, and confronts her son, offering nothing of warmth or welcome. As Darien lashes out at her and then flees into the forest, Kim confronts her oldest friend.

"What have you done!" she screams, her words barely heard above the wind's howl and lashing rain. "I sent him to you to keep him from Starkadh, and you drove him away! All he wanted was comfort, Jen!"

"Comfort? Have I comfort to give? Have you?" Kim shuts her mouth as Jennifer-- as Guinevere-- speaks, stern and unyielding. "You had no right to send him here, and you know it! I meant him to be random, to be free, and I will not back away from that-- if we bind him, or try, he is lost to us!"

Oh, Jen. There is no more anger in her, Kim finds, no more fear. Only love and sorrow and now, finally, understanding. Oh, Jen. Oh, love. I hope you're right.

She opens her mouth to say something else, but for the rest of her life, she will never know what it would have been, for--

"Excuse me." Kim looks down at the gnomelike man-- one of the andain, she recognizes through her inner knowledge, even as he gives his name. Flidais. "I take it you are the Seer of Brennin?" At her nod, he continues. "I should tell you that Galadan is very close to this place-- minutes away, at most."

There is a sudden roaring in her ears, even as she sees a shudder run through Jennifer, who has gone bone-white beside her. On Jen's other side, Kim notices, Brendel of the lios alfar takes a step closer, as if to guard. Kim knows why. He won't let her be taken again. Neither will I-- I can't, we can't, there has to be something--

Flidais is still speaking to her, and although they have so little time, still it takes a moment for her to make sense of his words. "I can be of aid, I believe. I can divert him from this place, if I go fast enough. Or I could do nothing, as the andain usually do. Or, if I choose, I could go to Galadan, and tell him exactly who just left the glade, and who is here."

As Brendel explodes in fury, as the others react all around her, Kim stands very still, and her disconcertingly clear gaze locks with Flidais's. Something is happening here, she feels it, something almost beyond fathoming-- she can almost see the shape of it, can almost--

"What do you want?"

The wizened andain smiles, tenderly. "Only one thing. A small thing, the last. It is the only riddle left-- I know all the other answers, save this. Save only the name. The summoning name of the Warrior."

"No," Kim says, and as Flidais's jaw drops, "No. I swore him an oath when he came, that I would keep it secret, and I will not break it."

"You must!" Flidais moans, his hands twisting together in desperate, frantic pleading. "You must! The Weaver and all the gods know I will never tell, but I must know! It is the last thing, Seer, the very last, the wish of my heart!"

Kim looks up at the sky, into the storm, away from the helpless yearning in his face. There are no stars now, not here, but she can almost see them as they had been over Glastonbury Tor the night Arthur had answered her call. So many stars, falling through the sky and through his eyes as well, falling and falling as he himself was brought once more to earth by the weight of her summons and his curse, of so many long weary years of war. She looks back toward earth again herself now, here, and catches Jennifer's gaze.

Jennifer, who is Guinevere.

And who says, softly but clear enough to be heard, "Give it to him. Even so is the name handed down; it is part of the long doom. Broken oaths and grief lie at the heart of it, Kim. I'm sorry."

I'm sorry, too.

And so Kim nods, and after taking Flidais aside and charging him to guard both the name and the secret of Darien's existence and their presence at the Anor, does yet another thing she had once thought she would never do. When it is over, with her promise now forsworn, she walks back to rejoin the others as Flidais departs with all speed.

She doesn't want to speak to any of them about it, not even Jen, and so Kim looks out to sea-- and it's there that she sees the ship being driven helplessly before the storm, into the bay.

Paul had known from the first rising of the wind, and the first glimpse of the dark cloud that is now blotting out the sky, what was coming.

They have fought the storm for as long as they could; after that, they tried to run with it. They all know now that it will not be enough. Paul and Diarmuid are clinging to a rope lashed to the mainmast. Other sailors, around the ship, are doing the same thing. Many are praying, but Paul of all people knows that prayer will do little. This is not a natural storm, nor does it belong to any of the gods that Paul knows, can deal with, can on occasion master.

This storm is the Weaver's, and it falls upon Arthur Pendragon, who is standing, with Coll, at the front of the ship, attempting to guide it to safety.

Arthur and Coll; and then a third. Lancelot grapples his way to their side, and the three men stand in a tight not, gripping the tiller together, guiding the ship into the bay of the Anor Lisen -

- and onto the jagged rocks that guard its entrance.

They are moving so fast that none of them have even seen the shore, let alone the rocks, between the blinding sheets of rain. There is no time to cry out a warning, no time for anything.

It could be that Paul hears ravens. It could simply be his own intuition; afterwards, he will never be shore, but in that moment as the
hits he lets go of the rope and cries out in his voice of thunder, in Mornir's voice, "

Everything falls apart. Masts, sides, deck, all crack like twigs under the combined force of the storm and the rocks.

But in the second before the
collapses around them, they are all, each and every one aboard that ship, catapulted over the sides.

As he cartwheels in the air, flying, however briefly, for the first time in his life, Paul hears a voice in his mind:
I will pay for this, and pay, and be made to pay again, before the weaving of time is done. But I owe you, brother - the sea stars are shining in a certain place again because you bound me to your aid. This is not binding; this is a gift. Remember me!

Each and every man lands safely in the astoundingly calm waters of the sheltered bay of Anor Lisen.

It is a miracle, Kim knows, even as silent tears begin to fall. Beyond the curve of the bay the storm rages still, but where the swimmers are the water is like glass, and the rain that falls from the overcast sky is soft. A miracle, no question, and perhaps later there will be time to be thankful for it.

But not now, for there are three of them after all, and Kim can find no space past the anguish in her heart to do anything but watch as Lancelot du Lac reaches the shore, Cavall at his side. His hair is dark, as are his eyes, and in his arms he bears the unconscious body of Arthur Pendragon.

There are five of them on the beach, but four remain still, Kim among them, while Jennifer moves slowly forward through the gentle rain to meet the two men that she has loved and who have loved her in return, the three of them, through so many lives, in so many worlds.

For the children, and for love.
The island is rocky and bare of vegetation; the castle that sits atop of it begrimed and smeared.

(The isle was once green, and the castle once shone. Arthur says this, and Paul knows it to be true, but it has little to do with the present.)

There are no guards. Soulmonger had been guard enough.

Loren and Matt go one way; Paul goes another, with Arthur and Diarmuid and Diarmuid's forty men, though he does not know what his role will be in this particular battle. It is very cold in the castle. Even Paul feels it - it is the cold of death, and Mornir cannot protect him from it here.

Even Diarmuid seems subdued.

They have come to a branching in the corridor when they see the svart alfar. It has time to see them, and time to open its mouth, but nothing else - six arrows stop the scream before it can burgeon, and Paul dives to catch the flask he had been carrying before it can hit the ground and sound the alarm.

His reflexes, honed by basketball in another world, are quick enough; he catches it, and hands it to Diarmuid, who opens it. It turns out to be South Keep wine. Diarmuid, predictably, takes a drink. Equally predictably, no one else does, but they all feel their spirits lift.

It lasts them until they reach the opening out onto the huge lower chamber, and they see the Cauldron - black, green, coated with grime.

The cauldron, and the hundreds of svart alfar behind it.

Svart alfar, lending their strength to Metran the mage. Dying as they are drained - and, with the cauldron, being brought, again and again, to life.

Paul looks at the mage who had made the winter that Kevin had died to end, and tries to keep control, in the face of the strongest loathing he has ever felt in his life.

And behind him, he hears Diarmuid snarl, "We can't do it."

Loren told the men his plan when they were still on Prydwen. To break the Cauldron, they must force Metran to lower the shield he set around it. The plan was for the South Keep men to attack the svarts in Metran's company, and convince him to use the power of the shield as a weapon against the men, while Loren and Matt slipped nearer to the Cauldron.

Unfortunately, the svarts -- every one of them -- are behind Metran's shield. The men of Brennin have no leverage at all. Unless, that is, someone tempting offers himself up as bait for Metran to attack.

Arthur, crouched on the floor outside the hall with Paul and Diarmuid, raises himself a little on his arms. "I think this may be what Kim brought me for, he whispers. "I never see the end, in any case." He slides himself closer to the great, scarred gray dog, scratches the dog's neck. "I know you would come with me," says Arthur, his voice almost too low to hear, "but you will be needed yet in Fionavar, great heart. There may yet come a day when we need not part."

Arthur touches Diarmuid's shoulder, then Paul's. "Weaver grant you rest," whispers Diarmuid, and turns his face away, blinking, but Paul gives Arthur his hands to clasp.

"What shall I say?" Paul asks. "If I have the chance?"

Arthur knows what Paul is asking, of course. Guinevere, who is called Jennifer in this world and time. He shakes his head. "She knows already everything that could be told."

Paul nods. Arthur releases his hands, draws his sword in the corridor and steps alone into the hall.

Metran and the svarts don't even look up from their work until Arthur cries out, "Slave of the Dark, hear me!"

Behind the safety of his shield, Metran looks up, unafraid. "I intend to hear you," he says tranquilly. "Before you die you will tell me who you are and how you came here."

"Speak not lightly of dying in this place," says Arthur. "You are among the great of all the worlds here, and they can be awakened. As for my name, know that I am Arthur Pendragon, son of Uther, King of Britain. I am the Warrior Condemned, summoned here to battle you, and I cannot die." All of this is true, except for the last claim, which is true enough in its own way; Arthur may die, but he will be reawakened again, over and over and over. It is part of the curse laid on him.

The svart alfar gibber in panic, but Metran says, "Our books of lore tell a different tale."

"Doubtless," replies Arthur. "But before you run to them, know this: I command you now to quit this place, or I shall go down and wake the dead to drive you into the sea!"

Metran's eyes begin to waver, and he comes slowly from behind the high table. (He is still, of course, behind his shield.) "It is told that you can be killed. Over and over, you have been killed. I will offer your head before the throne in Starkadh!" He raises his hand.

Arthur waits, proud and silent, for the blow to come.

It never comes. Metran laughs, brutally, and calls out to Loren, who, with Matt, has just crept into the hall.

This is what I need, he had told them, and without complaint, every one of the men who had sailed to Cader Sedat had prepared to give up their lives, just to give him the chance to stop Metran.

None of them had, in the end. None of

Loren Silvercloak kneels on the stone beside the lifeless body of Matt Soren, amid the outflung fragments of the Cauldron-- a thousand, thousand fragments, shattered like a heart.

Like his heart, come to that.

He hadn't wanted to risk it, at first. Even though they had come so far and done so much, Loren hadn't thought it would be possible to break Metran's shield, backed by all the power stolen from the Cauldron of Khath Meigol-- much less the Cauldron itself, and the winter with it. It had been Matt who had stopped him, urgently insisting that if they did not at least try then it would be worse than if they had never sailed at all.

For what have we lived, if not for this? Stand by me, as I have by you, and together there is nothing that can prevail against us.

He can still feel the weight of the Whitebranch in his hand -- the staff of Amairgen, first of the mages. He can still feel the sweet, dizzying song of the power as it poured through him, the pure, wild, glorious joy in the knowledge that allowed him to direct it, even in such cause.

And it hadn't been enough. Not until Matt, with all the strength of his indomitable will, had commanded, had demanded, and Loren had done. He had reached deep into his friend, his source, for the uttermost, killing strength that had pierced the shield and destroyed the Cauldron-- and in so doing, consumed Matt's life.

Now, still kneeling beside him, Loren looks down upon the face of his oldest and dearest friend, and there sees something almost unimaginable-- a smile, true and bright and peaceful, the smile of one who has at last found his heart's desire.

Of all those in the world, he is the only one who knows why it is there, the only one left who both remembers and understands, and Loren -- Silvercloak still, even if no longer a mage now, not without Matt -- he finds that this, finally, is too much. Loren casts his cloak over his face, hiding himself from the sight of the others, and grieves silently, alone.


Apr. 16th, 2007 08:09 pm
Amairgen's ship arrives the day before the battle, and there they are all met, at last, and for what may be the last.

Andarien. The plain in front of Starkadh.

There are not enough of them, and, barring a miracle, they will lose. This is something of which they are all very well aware.

Diarmuid dan Ailell dies that evening, when he takes the challenge meant for Arthur Pendragon, and goes forth to defend Jennifer's honor. He is the first casualty.

The next day there are many, many more.
"You had better leave me."

He says it, and he means it, even though part of him desperately wishes he did not.

But she told him he carried Dun Maura within himself, and here and now, on Maidaladan, with his body marked by the boar, he can feel the truth of it. This is what he has been searching for all those long nights, with all those warm, beloved bodies. This--tonight--is the last time he will lose himself in the act of love.

The bells are ringing as he saddles his horse, and he knows full well what comes after, for all the priestesses abroad tonight, for the men they will come to.

For himself.

Oh, Abba

He turns his horse to the east, and rides out.


He rides out, and up, through drifts of snow, though the path itself is not difficult. He could almost become lost in the quiet inside himself, that deep, dark quiet that leads him ever onward.

But then a shadow moves to his left, and he is aware of himself again, of how alone and weaponless he is on this brightly lit night.

It is no wolf that shadows him, but only a dog, scarred and grey and grave. And oh, but Kevin feels his heart go out to it, even here, on this night of all nights.

"Will you lead me there?"

Kevin is afraid, oh how he is afraid, but something in the face of the grey dog steels his will, and, fear or not, following Cavall, he rides on.


The dog stops before a cave, more a fissure, really, and Kevin can feel himself tremble, though his hands barely shake at all.

Oh, Abba

He breathes deep of the sweet, cold winter air, and swings down off his horse, patting its warm side gently before turning it back toward Gwen Ystrat, toward life and warmth and home.

"Go now," he says, and it does. He watches it for a time, watches its warmth leave him behind, alone and cold, and then he turns back toward the cave.

"Well, here goes."

With a slight half-aborted gesture to the dog, to Cavall, Kevin walks into the dark and does not return.


He hears the sound of wings.

A bird cries.

He keeps walking.

Something flutters behind him.

He flinches, but moves onward, palms dry despite his fear, despite the dampness of the walls.

Something flutters behind him, some creature of this deepest dark.

He ducks, for a moment only a creature of instinct and primal terror.

When he looks up again, panic momentarily calmed, there is a light.

"Bright your hair and bright your blood."

He spins, turning toward the old woman he didn't even see, milky-eyed with cataracts and dressed in a torn and soiled gown that might have once been white.

Kevin bows, deep and true, to the guardian of the threshold in this place.

They speak, and he does not remember it. The formalities trip off his tongue, falling like stones into the silence here.

"Fool!" She cries, in answer to his questions, all unkowning, and Foolfoolfoolfool he walls echo back.

"Do you think I am alive?"

That word, too, reverberates in the chamber, in the air, in Kevin's heart.

Oh, Abba

It is time, now. The crone points a needle at his chest, at his heart, poised to kill if he answers wrongly. Some do, when they come here. The fear is terrible, the knowing--well. Kevin's shoulders want to bow, his back to break, under the knowing.

"Bright your hair and bright your blood,
Yellow and red for the Mother.
Give me your name, Beloved,
Your true name, and no other."

He could say 'Kevin Laine!' and it would be true. But the son of Sol Laine knows what the real answer is, what it has always been, even back in Canada.


He would have thought it to be a cry of despair, the last wrenching words of a broken man, beaten down by fate, by destiny, by what he carries within himself. Instead he feels strength fill him, and feels the first whisper of a gentle breeze against his face.

"Pass," the crone says, "Pass."

And he does.

There is an altar in the inner chamber, a hearth, jagged and made for drawing blood. Blood-price is the oldest price, the woman's price.

The Mother's price.

He lays his head down, cheek cut and bleeding on the jagged rocks. It drips into the bowl, and even as his eyes slip closed he hears a high, ululating, exulting wail behind him. There is joy and sorrow both in the sound.

He knows it well.

The crone, who now is old but no longer hideous, terrible now in her beauty and her grief, her warm, sweet power that will sweep over him and burn him alive.

He welcomes it.

"There is a wish in my heart."

She laughs, knowing the wish, accepting it, accepting him, hands slipping of her clothing, pulling his away from his skin.

Oh, oh this is fire, this is desire, this is the deepest heart of Kevin Laine, the heart he never even knew, and <i>oh</i> he is lost.

"Liadon," she whispers, and then, "Kevin," and then again, "oh come!"

The storm gathers, the power gathers, and they are there, together, united as one, suspended above the chasm.

And then she cries out, one final time, his voice lifting to join hers as they--

--as he--

--as Liadon (Kevin)--

Oh, Abba


There is silence.


Sol Laine wakes, the sound of his son's voice calling his name echoing in his ears.

Oh, Abba

He doesn't move for a long time, breathing in and out, listening to the silence.

"Oh, Kevin," he says.

"Oh, my boy."

But he does not weep.

He can't. Some wounds are too deep for tears.


Feb. 26th, 2007 03:02 pm
Character Perspectives:
Kim Ford
Diarmuid dan Ailell
Arthur Pendragon

NPCs Possible:

Loren Silvercloak
Shalhassan of Cathal
Sharra of Cathal
Gereint of the Dalrei
Aileron dan Ailell
Dave Martynuik

And Kevin Laine.  (Oh, Kevin.)

Please post a ficlet with your character's (or NPC's) take on the situation in the comments of this post.  On the evening of March 21, I (or someone else, if anyone wants) will compile them into a single entry (an example of the style to be used can be seen here) and will post to the bar.

Deadline:  March 21st, 2007


Character Perspectives Possible:
* Kim Ford
* Paul Schafer
* Jaelle
* Arthur Pendragon
* Galadan (meanwhile, elsewhere...?)

NPCs possible:
* Aileron dan Ailell
* Loren Silvercloak (see canon introspective for example?)
* Shalhassan of Cathal
* Matt Soren?

Please post a ficlet with your character's take on the situation in the comments of this post.  On the evening of March 1, I (or someone else, if anyone wants) will compile them into a single entry (an example of the style to be used can be seen here) and will post to the bar.

Deadline:  March 1st, 2007





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