[Kransha]

“You have an answer to my question, High Priestess?”

Morgôs Elrigon felt as if he had been waiting hours for Zamara to answer, in reality, he had no idea how long it had been since he posed his question, for the passage of time seemed warped. Outside, the ominous day had turned into a monumental storm, rain beating on the marble roof of the temple like ironclad stones beating against supple huts in the wilderness. Thunder clapped furiously, summoning a whirlwind to whistle noisily as each clap stirred up the other members of the cosmic audience to stir into a cacophonous standing ovation. Lightning forks jutted across the sky and, though Morgôs could not see those bolts through the temple ceiling, he sensed their livid movements throughout the heavens. On sky and on earth, something was wrong. Whatever gods existed beyond the sphere of mortal understanding were very, very angry.

Even though it had taken some time for any response to come, the High Priestess still hesitated before her reply came. “Not at this time, no.” She said at last, but was subdued. Morgôs, looking at her with a mixture of interest, annoyance, and sudden concern realized that she knew, just as he did, that something was terribly wrong in the world. She, though, did not wince painfully as he did when each roll of thunder boomed, and the elf’s frame was continually racked with half-convulsions as the storm grew worse. His ears felt a searing heat and he tried to hide the many lances of pain that had suddenly begun to spin in his head and lurch in his stomach, but he could no longer appear intimidating. Still, he felt he owed the High Priestess something for all the shadowy memories she had forced him to relive.

The two of them had now entered a broad hallway that led from the courtyard back into the main room of the temple and antechamber, one lined with elegant statues of Rhais in several poses, or of former religious figures (all smaller than the great statue in the main room). Here, as they stopped before one looming piece of statuary, Morgôs spoke darkly. “You would pursue me with questions of such a personal nature for no reason?” He said, his demeanor falsely calm, but Zamara, still looking away, shook her head weakly, which surprised the General. “No; not for no reason. I have one, but think it best if it remains my own. I will ask no more.” She was very subdued, so much that Morgôs was confused by her change of attitude and altered state. Feeling as if her own nature had infected him, he baited her again.

“What, no more persistence?” He said, a grim laugh coming from him, “You have chased me this far, will you chase no further. I hope I have not finally eluded the huntress of Rhais.” Zamara looked at him then, and he stopped, his mouth still half open. In her eyes, he saw a look of detachment. The storm was drawing her attention, and perhaps some prayer. Quietly, she said, “General, please, no more of this.” And turned away, looking to the other side of the hall. Morgôs’ look soured again.

“Your god is displeased, I see, and is venting her anger on us through rain.” He gestured to the roof, though naught could be seen through it, “Perhaps it is I who is angering her. I will not occupy any more of your precious time.” He said this spitefully, but kept his voice down. The Elf had to admit, he felt strange, almost sick. He ached all over, and his mood was so erratic even he could not predict his next actions. Trying to bottle up the cavalcade of feelings flowing in and out, he also turned and began to head down the hall.

“I am sorry you are so offended.” Zamara’s voice, apologetic but still detached, stopped him. The General wanted to leave, he was desperate to, and he knew that saying another word might doom him, but he could not move. His legs were not his anymore and, though his eyes still saw, they saw not for him, but for another being. The mighty elf of great and terrible power could not push himself down the hall. Though his soul screamed for him to be silent, he spoke again. “Nay,” he said, “I am not offended by you or your audacity.” He drifted off, as if into an eerie dream, “It is something else that gnaws at me.”

“And what is that?”

Morgôs was just about done, he had meant to bait her, but he had forgotten that he might be successful. Now, this new thing that had possessed him kept him here against his will. The conversation had tired him out so much that he felt as if he would go to sleep when he arrived at home and slumber for days. He would certainly postpone his lesson with Siamak, indeed, for the rain outside was of a kind that he had never heard before in temperate Pashtia, and the storm was not auspicious for riding or travel of any kind. The weary General of Pashtia resolved to answer swiftly and head back to his estate to rest; he sorely needed some moments of tranquility after the level of intensity he had poured into his talks with Zamara. If only he could get out of this forsaken temple. His last nerve wavering unsteadily, ready to snap, Morgôs turned back to Zamara with an icy look and opened his mouth to speak.

Before he could say anything he was interrupted by a sound that chilled him to the bone…

He barely had time to look up as the statue standing atop the pedestal beside him emitted a horrific creaking sound and toppled from its hold on the mount, staggering forward like a living being, its shadow engulfing both elf and priestess. Without time to think, Morgôs threw himself forward, ramming into the completely bewildered High Priestess, and thrust himself and her a good distance away, skidding to a stop on the tiles. As Morgôs felt the cold floor shoved up beneath him, it shook, and an explosion of dust burst above and below him. Everything happened in an instant and, before the Elf knew what was happening, the earth had been rattled, and a terrific thunder clap from above sounded.

Without actually considering his actions, Morgôs jumped to his feet, looking around frantically. He waved his arms to clear the dust, coughing and wheezing as it filled his lungs. His keen eyes moved to the site of the fallen statue’s foundation involuntarily, and he saw another dark sight. Behind the crumbled pedestal, a shadowy figure stood, it’s back hunched. In the smog, Morgôs could barely make out the figure’s silhouette, and he batted the waves of dust aside, hurrying towards it. As he neared it, it became clearer, taking real shape – mannish shape. It was a black-clad thing, hunched over at a pivotal position behind the statue’s ruined form. This man must have sawed at the statue’s foundation, for it was far too sturdy to fall over on its own. Blinking the debris from his red-rimmed eyes, Morgôs tried to focus on the figure in the mist, his legs carrying him towards it at a great speed. Without even trying, he leapt over the great slabs of broken marble and alabaster, but slowed suddenly as he saw a pale gleam, a shaft of light burst from the figure and stream through the curtain of settling dust, heading straight for him.

He did not feel the shaft of light pierce him when it did, he only saw it. As his vision finally became clear, and the dust fell to the floor in heaps around him, the shaft took shape – it was a dagger, embedded in the flesh of his upper left arm. The area was numb, as was all of his body, and as the crimson blood flooded from the wound, he felt no loss of life blood in his arm. He felt nothing at all. The General did not see his own hand move to the dagger in his arm and yank it out with cold efficiency. He did not realize his legs were moving, or that he was gripping the dagger’s bloodstained metal hilt firmly in his fist. He did not feel his legs push up and send him into a mad lunge at the figure behind the pedestal. No thought or sight or smell or feeling of any kind ran through him as the Elven General flew through the air and landed, the dagger coated with his own blood turned down, atop the dark figure. As the shadowy silhouette rushed up to meet him, he saw only blackness, and felt no more…

…Morgôs’ eyes opened and became his again several seconds later, and he found himself leaning against the broken pedestal, liquid gules seeping between his open lips. Pain was real again, as was his body and soul. He was again in possession of himself. He felt as if he should be relieved, but, with his form his own, he felt all the pain he had not felt before, and was overwhelmed by a terrific explosion of agony, radiating from his wound to the rest of him. He shuddered, and drifted down the pedestal until he was half-sitting, half-lying on the floor, staring blankly forward.

On the floor, several feet away, lay the dark figure, though he was no longer dark in appearance. His ragged cloak and black attire had been stripped away, torn to ribbons, revealing a mortal man beneath the layers of cloth concealment. The man lay on his back in a pool of his own blood, many great wounds in his chest and a long gash through his neck. His upper half had been rendered totally bare by a struggle and the wounds in him so deep that they reached through his whole form and out the other side of him. Morgôs grimaced at the sight, and looked fearfully at his own hand, that which held the dagger, only to see what he’d expected: The dagger, his hand, and almost all of his arm was soaked with wet crimson, and not his own.

His eyes, vision now very blurred, turned back upon the body. He saw nothing noticeable about the man, no special features, save one. On his bare arm was a symbol, tattooed into the willing flesh there. It was a black sun, rimmed with knife-points that surrounded the sun like its rays. All this was encompassed in a mystical lozenge. Morgos recognized the symbol. It was the device of a coven of assassins whom he had dealt with before, but not for over a century. He had never expected to see their kind again, for they hailed from the one place he thought would dare not send hired assassins to kill the people who were now their allies.

“Alanzia.” He whispered, through another river of blood, and slumped into unconsciousness.