Ryn’ntar Toro’eth sped through the trees with the speed, dexterity and silence of one of the great cats of the mountains. He never slowed, not even when the trail went straight up. Ryn’ntar used the trees as a second road, when the trail was blocked, and jumped from branch to branch easily and without fault. His finely toned and worked human body was able to accomplish feats of strength the Du’ellofar would never be able to. The elves had trained a human, had developed and molded his mind and body to the highest of elven standards and then, forced him to go higher.
Becoming Du’ellofar was as hard as anything on earth. Each night, a human only got five hours of rest, before Serban, or another elf would smash a stick against the side of you’re head until you were fully awake. Entire days were devoted to a single task. Sometimes, the Du’ellofar would use an entire night to train the Ranger in the ways of the mind. The Dance of The Sword was a secret and none but the elves teaching it and the Ranger knew of it’s existence, it made the elves and Rangers the most deadly foes on earth, with the sword.
It was five minutes early, when Toro’eth came to the clearing. He already heard the approaching party. They were making enough noise to raise the dead. The big ‘Saxone’ was making the most noise by far, boasting about his fighting prowess.
Toro’eth smiled, thinking back across the miles and times to a very sad memory for the young ranger. The Saxone’s bragging had woken a memory thought lost. Hugo Gutter had supposedly been a great knight of the King’s army at one point in his life. He was a fat man now, heavy drinking replacing hard work and dedication. He owned the tavern in Haunts and was above all else, an incessant braggart. Many nights, Ryn’ntar had heard his father laugh at the man. Sure enough, when the goblins had attacked, they had not found him leading a charge, but instead cowering under the bar in his tavern, clutching prayer beads in his hands, as vailantly as he supposedly clutched a sword.
Ryn’ntar was sitting happily on a branch of a large pine tree, when the group finally entered the clearing. He sat on the branch for a long moment, without making a sound. Before he rolled off the branch and dropped a full fifteen feet to the ground, landing on his feet, still silent.
“It is a long road to Therin, we must start now and continue through the night.” Ryn’ntar motioned with his arm in a follow me gesture and sat off into the trees at a fast walk.
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The proud ship cut through the waters of the I’tchmando river. At the helm a tall dark man held onto the wheel, piloting his ship through the water with no trouble at all.
Silvar It’cham Vatta’s thoughts were many miles to the north, with a beautiful woman, the love of his life. All about his boat, Silvar’s crew bustled about, keeping the sails headed north, towards her. Her long golden locks made his heartbeat quicken, at just the thought. Her heart shaped face and sapphire eyes winked in his mind, calling to him. He smiled, his white teeth showing in the early morning.
Each time he was called to castle Eff’ngham he felt this way, she was there waiting in the backrooms for him. She loved him, he knew and one day, somehow they would be together in more then these guilty frolics away from all else. One day, Marie Dun Eff’ngham would find a way to be with him and him alone.
