Her seat had grown old, she thought. Her fingers traced the fine etchings on the dark wood, straight from the forest when it was made. She saw the small moonstones set into the arms and top. But the Great Seat was wearing, its arms showed varnish peeled away, and fading. Easing herself down, Taralphiel looked out at her house. Furnished with wood from the forest, dark and light, with light and beautiful draperies from the village weavers, the low ceilings were supported by thin columns, with detailed carvings at the top of the patron creature. Their slender beaks held gossamer-like curtains that trailed to the ground of the open end of the house that had no walls, and peered out onto the sea after the cliff. This end was a large open area that was elevated from the rest of the house that went under the shade of the forest. Three small steps lead down to the many rooms of the long place of refuge.
Taralphiel listened, and could hear the whisperings and laughter of little children. Her eyes narrowed, and a weary smile crept onto her face. ‘Our house is full of children dear heart, the house you helped to build’ she murmured. This refuge was a labor of love. The first people who came here with Taralphiel, including Havlor, were craftsmen and builders. They sought to build a place that would stand the test of the ages, and be something to wonder at. They had succeeded. Taralphiel drew her memory back to watching them slave over the edge of the cliffside, lifting the beams into place. And she remembered the contented smile on her husband as he helped. ‘Yes, I wish you could be here, to see all the beauty that has come from this place, to have seen your children, and to see your granddaughter’
A man rushed in through the hallways and struggled to the seat of the Lady of the House. ‘Milady, they’re here again, they’re at the Southern Confines!!’ he was trying to breathe, and his face was stained with blood and dirt. His sword had seen much torment. She closed her eyes and gripped at the arms of her chair. ‘We can do nothing.’ She whispered. The mans eyes grew wide and he went pale ‘Nothing, Milady?’ ‘Laurel is not here’ she straightened ‘Havlor is wounded, how many more do we have?’ ‘Maybe a dozen ma’am’ he said shaking. Taralphiel reached down beside her chair. From it came her sword, unnamed, but never forgotten by those who saw it. The dark hilt gave no light and the grip curled over at the top. Between the hilt and the blade was a moonstone of exceeding pale brilliance. The blade was white and bright, and sang lamentation. The man stepped back. ‘B-but milady!’
‘Keep a messenger aside’ she said darkly ‘If he comes to me then I know that I will have to come to fight alongside you, I will not run’ The man left in a flurry, leaving Taralphiel standing there, alone, set as stone.
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