Daeron woke up after a restful night’s sleep, ready to run a hundred miles to find the one called Polonius. He ate what breakfast he could make, and dressed for a long journey, which he was sure of. He walked the long corridors of the fortress; even having come to this place as long as he had, he could still admire the architecture. He past several tapestries depicting the epic history of Mythron before he turned down the main hall to the door. At the door he reached for the handle but hesitated, hovering his hand above the latch. He took a deep breath and opened the door; just outside the door was the soldier’s corpse, a sickening sight, but as much as he wanted, or rather needed to, Daeron hadn’t the time to dispose of it. Stepping around the soldier, he continues on his way. It was a cool day, the breeze rustling the leaves of the canopy above Daeron as he jogged in his silent, elvish manner that barely leaves a dent in the verdure of the forest floor.
Daeron followed the trail of the Rainosian scout till noon, when he decided it was a good time to stop for a quick lunch of way bread which he washed down with a few thirsty swigs of October ale. He sat contently for a moment, then rose to his feet and resumed his hunt. With the trail telling a thousand words more than anyone could ever say about this scout, Daeron felt as though he knew the man. “He has a heavy left foot,” Daeron observed in a mutter, ”He eats jerky of some sort, and licorice is fresh on the air, no doubt staples among his provisions. For a scout, he’s a rather clumsy fellow; Why, look at all these broken branches, or those smashed mushrooms… what’s this then?” his voice trailed to silence and he stopped as he came to a cliff. Make no mistake, there being a cliff wasn’t his lone reason. There in the dale just below him lay a Rainosian camp. It was situated in a clearing at least a mile in diameter bordered by the crescent made by the cliffs. He saw so much of the beautiful forest, razed to make war machines. The officer’s tents stood at the foot of the cliff and Daeron, concealing himself in some bushes, listened as best as he could to their conversations.
“So,” an officer started, ”D’you hear about the Coldragon-XIV?”
“Yeah, isn’t it being obsoleted?” a second asked.
Then a third, more familiar voice of Polonius said, “It’s about time too. Say, how's you're hand doing, Jim?...”
The chatter continued endlessly. Suddenly, a twig snapped behind him; Daeron turned to see a man dismount his horse and walk down a path a few yards to his right. The path descended in the form of a staircase and looked much like dwarven stonework.
The man wore a black cloak underneath which he wore a brown shirt with a wolf insignia, and black pants with leather knee pads. A guard ran briskly to him. Unfortunately, they were too far for Daeron to make anything out, but soon their conversation was over, they saluted, though the traveler was more carelessly casual in this action as he made his way to the officer’s tents where he was greeted by a figure who can only be described as a warlord. He wore an ornate helmet and dark armor highlighted by his vibrant red cape.
“How now, Welsir?” The warlord greeted. The man looked exasperated at this simple greeting.
“General, you’ll be pleased to know that Carthal is now ripe for the taking! Enough of the guards are willing to cooperate, after being bribed handsomely I should add, and the gates will open at dawn five days hence.”
“Well done Welsir. You are sure everything is in place?” He asked absently, as he drew a dagger from his boot.
“If I weren’t, would I stand before you with such a report, Sir?”
“True as this may be, I can’t have you betraying me at the last moment, can I Welsir?” He began dangerously fiddling with his dagger.
Welsir’s face drained of color. “W-why would you think I would betray you? Have I not been loyal these past months even when you were still in Rainos?” He gulped uncomfortably.
“Tis very well that you were too. But, alas, my use of you is spent. Leave me now, and don’t return.” Welsir didn’t need much convincing to flee from the General’s presence.
“Welsir, wait!” The General started, almost wistfully. “I forgot to pay you your due.”
Welsir turned around and screamed in surprise, but his scream turned into a gut-wrenching gurgle as the General’s dagger lodged deep in his throat. Daeron inched from the cliff side and cautiously went on his way, he had to warn Carthal of this impending danger. As he ran thoughts flooded his mind and memories of past experiences in Carthal were surfaced. Thoughts that he tried his best to forget. So he ran all the faster. Back at the Rainosian camp, the General summoned two soldiers to his side. ”Go now and clean up the mess in front of my tent, Welsir got sloppy.” The two soldiers hurried to do their master’s bidding.
General Baidraung was as cruel as maelstrom and as unforgiving as a storm at sea. He had earned his position quelling people’s rebellions in Rainos, often leaving no survivors. He was a dark heart who wanted to rule completely, burning and killing his way in all directions until he was absolute ruler of all he surveyed. Tyrant! Baidraung loved the sound of that word… Tyrant!