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The door to the house flew open as the mighty lycan threw its massive form against it, breaking the lock and splintering the ornately carved wood. It hit the floor in the entryway on all fours, snarling hungrily as armoured canid forms marched inside, rounding the giant wolf as they began searching the house for its occupants. The asymmetrically constructed mansion of Lord Louise Mondiale was a fully staffed nobleman's home, with workers to be found in the kitchen and the gardens of the front yard, all of whom were apprehended by the Lycanthrians -put to the blade if they resisted the capture.

The ground floor consisted of the entryway, with long corridors on the left and right side, both leading to the same destination at the back of the home -the dining hall, between the two corridors resting the ballroom where parties were hosted, with a door to each adjacent room, each broken from its hinges as the Lycanthrians combed the first floor.

The kitchen, resting behind the dining hall, housed a chef and three cooks, one of whom attacked the Lycanthrians with a cleaver. The kitchen tool broke upon the wolf soldier's armour, and the cook went down in a spray of blood as his chest was cut open by the soldier's bardiche. The chef pleaded for their lives as he stood in front of the two female cooks protectively -another soldier slammed a fist into his gut, dropping him to the floor, where two others dragged him out as others seized the females, one of whom suffered a blow to her face when she resisted.

Armour rattled as the soldiers in the lobby ascended the stairs to the second floor, coming to a set of double doors at the top which the two in the lead tackled open the doors, a shriek sounding from the room beyond. They found six avians waiting in the room beyond, all of them lacking wings and their feathers a mix of greens and browns, varying in shade and pattern, with a richly dressed male at the forefront of five females, all in regal dresses and decorated in fine jewellery They stood at the back of the room behind a set of plush sofa chairs, arranged evenly around a triangular table with a golden candelabra glowing with the light of five lit candles.

The soldiers advanced, weapons brandished as they shouted commands to the family, but their words were unheeded, unable to be understood by the avians. The soldiers took this as defiance, and began harrying the six with their weapons, until another voice rose over the rest of them, speaking sharply and with authority as he orders the wolf soldiers aside, parting for the arrival of one who was not alike themselves.

While the soldiers in the room were lupine, this new arrival was vulpine in appearance, sleeker of body with a face of lighter gray, an undertone of white showing on his chin and the front of his neck, and two black-tipped ears pointing through a head of silvery scalp hair. He wore an all-encompassing cloak of violet, concealing his entire body from sight when he stood in the middle of the room -even his feet could not be seen through its veil, exposing only a gold-plated mantle and ornamental pauldrons on his shoulders, a high-rising encircling his neck and leaving only his head visible.

But his eyes were a chilling sight. More serpent or cat-like than vulpine, with narrow retracted pupils barely larger than beads, and coloured crimson that seemed to shine of their own unnatural light as they fixed upon the family of highborn avians before him, standing just outside of the light of the candles on the table.

"Louise Mondiale," the fox spoke in near-perfect common, hiding the accent of his native tongue well behind his fluency in the language. "Nobleman of Avolon. I am Lucien Dalca of Lycanthria, and as of now you are my prisoner. I trust you will comply?"

"We surrender to you, Lord Dalca," the male earth phoenix replied. "We will do as you ask of us, so long as you do not harm my family."

"If you agree to comply, you have my word of honour they shall be spared," promised the vulpine.

"We swear," stated Louise.

"Then please," Dalca gestured to the lounge chairs in the center. "You may seat yourselves. No need to remain standing."

Without a word, the family hastily seated themselves in the chairs. Louise sat with the female in the black dress -his wife, Tasina, who held her hands together over her chest as if in prayer. The eldest of the six, Rosaly -the mother of Tasina, sat wearing a proud, defiant expression on her face beside the terrified second-youngest daughter, who she held securely in her arms -an expression shared by the eldest daughter sitting across from her, who looked more annoyed than frightened of what was happening; as if it was all taking place without her consent and she did not approve, yet like her grandmother she remained silent.

One stood out from the six earth phoenixes of high birth. The youngest daughter, dressed in a blue gown and wearing a golden choker inlaid with emeralds around her neck, surveyed the room frequently as Lycanthrian soldiers took position at each corner, in front of the windows and on either side of the door, six in total, with the fox still standing by the door to relay orders to those outside.

"Father," whispered the youngest. "Why do we not escape? We are earth phoenixes! If we can get out to the grounds-"

"Be quiet, Tsumé!" Louise hissed sharply, cutting off his youngest daughter. "This is not one of your silly games in the woods."

"If we do nothing, we'll be a bargaining chip for them!" Tsumé argued, still keeping her voice low despite knowing the soldiers in the room could likely not understand her. "We cannot just-"

"I said be quiet, child!" Louise cut her off again, louder perhaps than he attended as Dalca turned to look his way at his raised voice.

"Is there a problem?" The fox asked.

"N-No, Lord Dalca. My daughter is merely afraid," Louise answered.

"No, I am not," Tsumé protested, rising to her feet and glaring defiantly at Dalca despite her father's protest. "I do not fear you, Lycanthrian, nor should my family. I'll not be held against my will."

Dalca turned fully to the girl, though his expression remained neutral. "So, you intend to resist, then?" He asked.

"Yes," she returned.

In less than a blink of her eye, Dalca was in front of her, crossing ten paces of the room in a fraction of a second. She felt wind rushing around her before the breath was knocked from her lungs as she was pinned against a wall, the fox's hand -covered in a black leather glove with gold-trimmed fingertips, enclosed around her throat, stopping her from restoring the air forced from her lungs

Tsumé choked a gasp, hands instinctively rising to grab Dalca's wrist, even as her mind reeled at how quickly everything had happened. She stared over his shoulder at the couch where she had been seated before, where even her usually unmovable elder sister Tamara looked back at her in stunned amazement, the rest of her family rising out of their seats in horror, but stopped in their tracks as a ring of bardiches formed around them.

"I only need your father alive, child," Dalca warned her, leaning close to let her peer directly into his blood crimson eyes, feeling an unearthly chill coursing up her back as she stared into those eyes. "I do not require you, nor your mother, grandmother or sisters for my plans. Now, behave yourself..." He flashed a pair of needle-like fangs at her. "Else I learn how a young, virgin phoenix does taste." He added the last word with a very snake-like hiss.

Tsumé could not move, as though paralyzed by the fox's glare. At that moment, she suddenly questioned whether or not this vulpine was a fox at all, or something worse wearing the flesh and fur of one. Before her mind could race to any conclusions she was suddenly moving again and falling upon her sister, coughing hoarsely as she struggled to regain her breath. Tamara pushed her off immediately, while Tasina practically threw herself from her husband's side to that of Tsumé, supporting her as she caught her breath.

"Perhaps, Lord Mondiale," Dalca's voice sounded from the door to the room once more, having returned to exactly where he had been standing before attacking Tsumé, as though he had never moved from that spot to begin with, "you should have spent less time spoiling your daughters with material goods, and more time teaching them the importance of doing as they are told."

"Forgive us, Lord Dalca," Louise pleaded, hands clutched together. "It will not happen again, I swear."

"See that it doesn't," were the fox's last words before he stepped out into the hallway, the two guards on either side of the door closing it behind him as he departed.

When Dalca was gone, Louise turned immediately on Tsumé, a mixed expression of fear and anger showing as he addressed her. "Damn it, girl - when will you grow up?!" He demanded of her. "I told you this is not one of your silly games!"

Tsumé was barely listening to her father, her eyes wide and staring up at the ceiling as she held her neck where Dalca had been grasping her before. He had moved with such unearthly speed, her mind had still not caught up with what her eyes had seen. The speed, the strength, and those horrible, hungry eyes of the vulpine staring back at her. They had stared into her soul, and burned their image indefinitely into her mind; even though the man had left, she could still see them.

"Are you listening to me?!" Louise' shouting finally reached her.

Jolting upright, she realized she was out of breath, and sucked in a deep gulp of air as she held her chest in pain, coughing hoarsely.

"Daughter, are you alright?" Her mother asked, concerned.

"Y-Yes... I'll be fine," she said. "That man... He-"

"Enough!" Louise hissed. "No more out of you, girl. We must be content we have been left with our lives, and wait this out."

Tsumé, finding her courage once again as she heard her father speak, turned on him in disgust. "Wait? Do you think he has any intention of-"

"I said no more out of you!" Louise cut her off.

Despite her terror after facing Dalca, Tsumé's defiance would not let her capitulate to her father's demands. She knew what would happen if they waited; her father might've believed cooperation would ensure their survival, but she did not share that sentiment. She had looked into the eyes of their captor; had seen the intent that lay behind them. There would be no mercy once their usefulness was at an end - he intended to use them as hostages, she was sure, but there was not a doubt in her mind that when that purpose was fulfilled, he would butcher them all.

"I will not be caged," Tsumé declared, rising to her feet and shaking off her adrenaline. "We can all get out of here, easily; there is nothing to stop us."

"Perhaps you haven't noticed a contingent of armed warriors outside?" Her eldest sister, Tasina, stated. "How would we even get past them?"

"We aren't!" Louise interjected. "Both of you, stop talking such nonsense. We cannot resist them - we have no weapons! We must cooperate until the forces of Avolon retake the city."

There was a laugh from one of the guards posted by the door, and when they turned his way they saw him watching them knowingly. He could hear every word of their conversation, they realized, and saw his fingers tapping the side of his bardiche eagerly, as though daring them to make any attempt to escape. His laugh, however, had come after Louise had spoken, as if finding the very idea of an Avolonian counterattack preposterous.

Tsumé knew at that moment that her mind had been made up.

"We won't be rescued," she stated. "We must save ourselves."

"Tsumé-!" Louise began to berate her again, but she ignored him, backing away from her family to get closer to the window.

The two armoured wolves watched her closely, the one who had laughed losing his smug grin as he saw where her path was taking her. Suspicious, they hefted their long axes and started across the room, moving closer to her.

"Tsumé! Stop, whatever you are doing, stop now!" Louise pleaded. "They will kill you!"

"They will try," Tsumé retorted, her glare meeting the eyes of the wolves. "Father... I'll be back with help, I promise."

"Tsumé!" Louise shouted again, then turned to the wolves, rising to his feet and holding up his hands. "Please, she is just a girl! Don't-"

"Tikho!" One of them snapped, bludgeoning Louise across the face with the butt of his bardiche. "Your voice irritates, w?kling!" He berated the nobleman, speaking in a broken tongue.

"_Stoy!"_The other shouted as Tsumé spun and ran at the window, lowering his bardiche in pursuit.

Having heard the commotion, the blurred visage of Dalca appeared at the door once again before he raced across the room, trying to intercept Tsumé but she had too much of a head start. She smashed through the window, ignoring the bite of glass in her skin; Dalca reached out to grab her, catching the hem of her dress with clawed fingers, but the fabric tore easily and the girl plunged head-first toward the grass below.

But when she hit it, she did not crash; the ground opened up as she approached, as if welcoming her. Into the open soil beneath the grass she plunged, vanishing into darkness with a furious Dalca staring after her, the torn strip of cloth from her dress swaying in his hand.

With a huff of annoyance, Dalca dropped the cloth and turned from the window, casting a glare at Louise. "You had your chance," he stated, coldly. "If you cannot control your child, I must do it for you."

He gave the earth phoenix no chance to reply before he stormed out of the room, his encompassing cloak trailing in the draft of his brisk walk as the guards returned to their positions, watching the nobleman and his family with greater scrutiny now.

Louise hid his face in his hands as his wife moved to his side, comforting him as he wept. "Oh, Tsumé, what have you done?" He whispered, certain that his poor child would be dead before he ever saw her again.

~~~~~

Pavan's eyes clenched as he struggled to adjust to the light beaming over him, the rays of the sun breaking his slumber and prompting him to sit up, shielding his eyes with his hand. Grains of sand fell away from his wings as he rose, and he gave himself a shake as the chill of the morning crept over him, sending grains of sand scattering about.

He blinked away the grogginess in his eyes, and started to get his bearings, taking in his surroundings. He was lying on a beach, the waves of the sea rolling over the shoreline at his feet occasionally brushing over them, and he lifted his gaze to look out to sea only to turn it away again when the morning light blinded him. Behind him was forest, a with signs of logger activity evident by tree stumps felled by tools and not by natural causes.

Suddenly, Pavan remembered where he was. He had seen the city in the night on his approach to the mainland, but he had been so exhausted that he didn't reach the city proper; the last thing he remembered, he was gliding awkwardly toward the shore, and collapsed when he hit the beach. He turned his gaze north, and there it was - closer than he had dared to hope.

Albion, the city of the cliffs. Standing at the very northern tip of one of the longest known mountain ranges in the region and built along many plateau's overlooking the ocean -some natural, others carved out by tool, magic or elemental assistance.

From where he sat, Pavan could not see much past the outer walls, which ran along the outer edges of the plateau upon which the city rested, but over the crown-like crenellations of the wall, he could see the Duke's Palace, resting at the highest point of the city -though it was his first time coming to Albion, the architectural similarities to High Eyrie's brass-capped towers was unmistakable.

He had made it... against all odds, flying for an entire night blind and alone, he had found Albion.

"Over here!"

Pavan started at the sound of the voice, his hand instinctively moving to his sword, but pausing when he found the source of the voice. Four avians in uniform, wearing the royal blue tabards of Albion, hastened toward him. They were unarmed, except for sabers hanging at their belts, none of which were drawn as they surely recognized his uniform as easily as he had theirs. The one at the lead wore a decorative hat, with a horsetail crest trailing as he approached.

The leader - a red kite with an orange beak, studied Pavan carefully as he approached, seeing his black uniform and the markings on his shoulders. "An Avolon Scout!" He said in recognition, lowering himself to one knee beside Pavan. "Are you alright, son?" He asked.

"Y-Yes," Pavan replied in a hoarse whisper, only realizing then how dry his throat was.

"Here," the kite bade, producing a canteen from a holster on his belt and removing the stopper before offering it to Pavan.

The wind phoenix accepted it graciously, taking a long drink from the contents. He nearly choked as he hydrated himself but managed not to spill any of the water when he coughed. Returning the flask to its owner, he gave a nod to him.

"My thanks," he said.

"You are welcome," the kite replied. "We saw you lying on the beach from the walls. You must've only just awoken before we arrived. Are you hurt?"

"No... just exhausted," replied Pavan. "I came here from Avolon, to..." He jerked as it all came back to him. "The city. It's under attack!" He exclaimed. "Lycanthria has blockaded the island, trapping the navy inside. Their army got inside the walls somehow!"

"Did he say Lycanthria?" One of the guards asked.

"Get him up - we must take him to the captain!" The leader ordered. "Easy with him!" He added as two of the avians took Pavan by his arms and hoisted him to his feet.

"The duke... I was asked to meet with the duke," Pavan pleaded.

"I haven't the authority to get you an audience," the lead stated. "But our captain will know who does. We'll get you to her at once."

"Please do so quickly - there may not be much time. I've already lost a day," replied Pavan, rubbing his arm impatiently.

"Did you... fly, all the way across the channel?" The leader asked, looking at Pavan in disbelief.

"I did."

"How did you make it all the way here? Most avians who take such a journey must train for years to even attempt such a thing." One of the other guards asked.

"Let us just say I fly quite fast," replied Pavan.

The guards exchanged curious looks as the lead asked his next question. "And who was it who sent you - your Scoutmaster? Your division captain?"

"Prince Avogadro Lo'raven, and Corporal-" Pavan paused, about to say more when the four guards halted dead in their tracks and looked at him skeptically.

"The Prince himself? He sent you?" The kite asked.

"He did. I understand it is hard to believe - I will explain everything," Pavan promised.

Sensing the urgency in his voice, the lead did not wait long to consider his words, nodding in approval and resuming their march to the city at a faster pace. They ascended the stairs leading up to the main gate, which opened just enough to give them access, though through the gate, Pavan nearly felt as though he had stepped indoors again, were it not for the open sky above him. Through the gates was a long corridor, stretching from one end of the city to the other. High walls lined with sentries loomed to either side, many of whom Pavan could see carrying crossbows. He noted two bridges arched over the trench, one just after the gate they had entered through, another at halfway to the opposite end.

They carried on down the corridor, which the guard sergeant explained to Pavan was called the siege trench. In the event an enemy army were to breach the gates, the corridor was designed to keep that army enclosed within the trench, and rendered easy pickings for the archers or riflemen above. The bridges could then be used as a place for anti-siege equipment; oil pots and cannons would be set up upon them to whittle away the enemy forces until they abandoned the siege.

'I kind of wish I was born here instead of Avolon. This place is way more fortified.'

Still he was frustrated by how long it was taking. He understood protocol and proper procedure - one could hardly expect to be taken before the duke upon request. But every time he considered this, he remembered that Volcan and Avory were in hiding, and his home was under siege. The thought of it made the feathers on his wings stand on end as the two limbs twitched and shifted.

He was certain the guards could feel his agitation, but none of them spoke a word about it. In time, they reached the end of the corridor, passing through one of the smaller gates within the trench to enter the city proper. They did not venture far past the inside gate before coming to a guard house, where one of the troupe stayed with Pavan while the others went out to search for their commanding officer.

The wait was long. Pavan's agitation only increased as he sat in the chair, wringing his hands and twitching his wings all the more. He eventually had to stand up and start to pace about the room anxiously.

"Must you do that?" The guard left to watch him asked, growing irritated by the Wind Phoenix's behavior.

"Yes, I must," Pavan returned. "My best friend is holed up trying to guard the prince, my home is under attack, and all I can do is sit here and wait. I find it quite maddening."

"Patience, scout. You shall have your hearing as soon as the captain comes back," the guard reasoned.

But he was ignored, and Pavan continued pacing around the room to the guard's growing chagrin.

Fortunately for the guard, it did not last much longer; the door to the guardhouse opened, and in walked an avian with black-feathered features and beady eyes - a corvidae, like Avogadro, but he saw hints of blue around her chest above the collar of her tabard, which Pavan could see was well-worn, and had been stitched with the emblems of a ranking officer on the shoulders. Her blue tabard decorated with gold buttons and the hat she wore had a longer horsetail crest hanging behind her head, swaying as she walked.

The officer's eyes found his, and Pavan snapped to attention, saluting her.

"Your name, Scout?" The magpie asked, her voice firm and direct.

"Pavan Stevenson, Private 1st Class of the Avolon Scout Regiment, sir," Pavan returned.

"Captain Lexis Rou, Albion Defense Forces Seventh Division," the magpie introduced herself. "I'm told you bring news of Avolon. My sergeant filled me in on a few details, but I'd like to hear your side in full. Tell me what's happening?"

"I was sent here by Prince Avogadro Lo'Raven, son of King Christopher," Pavan explained.

He saw her eyes furrow. "The Prince himself? Is he not within the protection of the King's Guard, or the palace?"

"The Palace was no longer safe," Pavan explained. "He was hiding at Garibaldi's Rise, guarded by Corporal Volcan MacAingeal of Avolon Security Forces 1st Division."

"A_MacAingeal_?" She echoed in disbelief. "Why would the prince be in the presence of one of those barbarians?"

"He is not a barbarian!" Pavan returned defensively as he shot to his feet, but at Captain Rou's glare, he quickly collected himself and saluted her. "Ma'am, I apologize. But I have already wasted too much time; I have to see the Duke immediately - I have to tell him what is happening."

"I cannot simply walk you to the palace like that," she stated. "Without proof of your claims, I must go through the proper channels - audiences with the Duke must be taken to the Commander, and-"

"Ma'am, time is of the essence," Pavan dared to interrupt her. "And I have proof." He reached into his pocket, producing the golden signet ring marked with the Prince's initial, showing it to her. "See this? The Prince handed this to me before I escaped Avolon - he said to show it to the Duke."

The Captain's eyes widened, and she stepped closer to Pavan, leaning forward to look at the ring, studying it. She held out her hand for it, and Pavan dropped it into her palm, letting her examine it. She turned it over in her hands, as if studying it for forgery, but soon she lowered it, handing it back to Pavan before she turned away from him, a hand on her chin as she reconsidered Pavan's words.

Soon, she turned to the other guard. "I must go to the Palace and request an emergency audience with the duke. Bring him bread and water and when he has eaten, bring him there at once."

"Yes, ma'am," the guard returned.

Pavan, feeling reinvigorated after enjoying some buttered bread and salmon jerky, was all to eager to be heading to the Duke's palace when the guard led him outside to take him there, but before they could even take flight to start heading that way, four regally dressed avians descended from above, landing in the street gracefully and starting toward the two.

"The Duke's Guard," the Albion guard stated, stunned.

The four new arrivals wore royal blue tabards like the standard Albion guard, but theirs were longer - reaching halfway to the knee below the belt and had the addition of white lace trimming at the edges, and emblazoned with the emblem of an upturned lance, gold in colour, over a white rose - the sigil of the house of Duke Bayeux. They were form-fitting with tight belts around their waists and worn over red, long-sleeved shirts and matching, baggy hose, and black boots.

Pavan had always imagined the Duke's guard to be like the King's on Avolon; armoured like knights and carrying heavy shields, halberds and carbines, but these four avians could have almost for noblemen in the sheer regalia of their attire. Long sabers carried in ornate scabbards hung from the left side of their belts, and pistols similar to those carried by Avolon officers on the right in leather holsters.

"We are here to escort the scout to the hall of Duke Eustace Bayeux," one of the men declared.

_'Looks like the duke is taking me seriously,'_thought Pavan.

Without questioning the turn of events, Pavan stepped forward to join the four newcomers, nodding to them. The formed a cross-rank around him, spreading their wings in perfect unison before they jumped and began to ascend, beating their wings hard to ascend but not losing a hint of their posture.

Pavan waited until they spread out enough to make room for him before also taking flight, and saw the one in front beckon him to follow before starting forward, heading toward the palace sitting at Albion's highest elevation, overlooking the great city below.

The Duke's palace was, as Pavan had previously witnessed, of similar architecture to High Eyrie, possessing the same bronze-cap to its towers, but unlike High Eyrie, which had a hexagonal outer wall with six towers, The Duke's palace had a squad outer wall and four towers, two tall at the back, against the face of the cliff, and two short, wider bastions at the front, with only one gatehouse granting access to the inner estate.

The Palace itself was smaller and far less regal than High Eyrie but was still beautiful to behold, with its white stone structure and a high-rising central tower over the main entrance. The main body of the house was four stories, with an added two for the tower, and every corner sported a flag bearing the house sigil, waving gently in the steady breeze passing over the cliffs. The roof tiles of the chateau were brassy in colour, likely to avoid standing out over the bronze-capped towers of the outer wall.

The guards did not fly directly over the wall, prompting Pavan to descend with them as they glided down toward the main gate. Pavan noted dozens of sentries patrolling the parapets, all of them armed with rifles, and six more standing two lines outside the gatehouse to either side of the raised portcullis, hands behind their backs and standing with statuesque stillness.

When they landed, the row of guards did not even turn their heads to acknowledge them as they made a cross formation around Pavan, and began to march toward the gate with him in tow, making long, stiff-legged steps as they advanced. Pavan fell into step with them as much as he could, following them through the gatehouse and on toward the palace, passing between the flower gardens until they reached the ornate double doors.

"Anything I should keep in mind when I meet the Duke?" Pavan asked the guards.

None of them answered him.

Pavan swallowed nervously, but kept his attention forward as they led him to the chateau. At the foot of the stairs to the building, he saw two posterns, both occupied by two more guards - as statuesque as the ones outside the gates until the group got close. In perfect sync, the two guards turned, facing the inside of the paved walk, and moved to stand in the path of the column, turning to face the leader in front of Pavan. The column came to so abrupt a halt that Pavan nearly ran into the back of the leader.

"Identification," one of them demanded.

"Devinaux, bringing the Avolon Scout as ordered by his excellency, Duke Eustace Bayeux," the leader replied.

"Proceed," the second of the palace guard returned as they both turned away and stepped back to their posterns, allowing the column to continue forward.

They ascended the stairs to the palace doors, and the guards broke formation. The leader held the door open for Pavan and gestured for him to enter, looking down his beak at the scout. "Take the left when you enter, and down three doors on the right. Knock twice. The Duke waits for you," he instructed. "Make haste."

"Th-Thank you," Pavan replied nervously.

He was entering the house of the duke of Albion... suddenly the gravity of that moment was becoming quite palpable to the Wind Phoenix. He nearly jumped into the ceiling as the door slammed shut behind him, his wings flaring out as if to repel an attack.

"Calm yourself, you bloody pigeon!" He berated himself, shaking his head. "It's just the duke... the duke of the second... most powerful city... in the land... and a relative to... to the P-Prince. The Prince who sent you here for help. You must see this through!" He thumped his fist hard against his chest, letting out a huff from the force of the blow.

Taking in a deep breath in an effort to steady himself, he started a stiff-legged walk down the corridor on his left, as the guard had told him to. He counted the doors he passed until he reached the third door, and approached it with his hand raised.

Two knocks, and within seconds the doors opened inward. He stepped through them, and watched them be closed by two more of the regally dressed guardsmen, who returned to their standing positions as he stepped inside.

'The duke keeps a lot of guards,'_Pavan thought to himself. _'Did king Christopher have this many? Hard to imagine an assassin ever getting near him_with so many watching eyes.'_

He turned to look ahead again, and felt his throat constricting as his breath caught. He was in the audience hall, a wide open with white tiled floors and matching brick walls, large windows in the ceiling letting in natural light to illuminate the room, and ahead of him, atop a three-step stone dais sat the Duke, reclined comfortably in his marble throne.

Above him hung the banner of Albion, the golden lance catching the light of the sun streaming in to shine brighter still on its royal blue background. To his left, another of the regally dressed guards, but this one stood with sword drawn, point-down and resting on the floor, with their hand gripping it by the pommel to keep it from falling over. Unlike the other guards, this one wore a plumed, tricorn-style hat; Pavan could only guess at the importance of this person. Perhaps the personal bodyguard to the Duke.

Pavan had expected the Duke to be a raven, knowing he was related to the Lo'Raven family by a few generations, and in the Duke he certainly saw evidence of his corvidae lineage, but the hooked beak suggested that a bird of prey species had been added to the bloodline. He seemed to be a cross between a raven and a hawk, with the intimidating furrowed brow to match and black feathers with an undertone of red around his chin. His attire was splendid, with a long orange and gold tunic, black hose and a black cloak that lay pressed beneath him on the throne.

Pavan had to force himself to approach the dais, taking that time to remember his proper etiquette as he reached the base of the steps. He fell then to one knee, laying his arm across his chest and lowering his head in a deep bow.

"Welcome to Albion, scout of Avolon," the Duke, in a voice so deep it made him sound far older than he looked. "I am told you carry grim tidings of our sister city in the north. I bid you rise, and share your news with me."

Pavan did not rise immediately, reaching into his pocket to produce Avogadro's ring as he straightened his posture, holding the ring aloft to let it catch the light as he showed it. "I bring you the ring of Avogadro Lo'Raven, Prince of Avolon," Pavan spoke, summon all of his courage to allow him to speak coherently. "Given to me by his own hand, so that I might..." he choked on his words slightly, but collected himself before continuing. "That I might beg your assistance on his behalf."

The Duke made a motion with his hand, and his guard picked up his sword, holding it backhand as he descended the dais toward Pavan. He held his hand out for the ring; Pavan gingerly placed it in the guard's palm, watching him inspect it before taking it back to the Duke and placing it in his outstretched hand with a bow of his head.

Duke Eustace held the ring between two fingers, studying it carefully. His dark brown eyes soon narrowed, and he clenched it in his fist as he looked at Pavan again. "Speak, scout. I wish to know everything."

Pavan spent the better part of the next hour explaining what was happening in Avolon, from all that he knew about the Lycanthrians who were invading the city, to his meeting the Prince at Garibaldi's Rise, protected by Corporal MacAingeal. The Duke showed less reaction to the name of a MacAingeal being mentioned than Captain Rou had, though Pavan still caught a shift in his demeanour, which eased as he told him about the blockade and their failed attempt to fly over it.

Duke Eustace sank back in his chair as the words sank in, his hand falling over his chest as if to still his beating heart as he considered what he heard. "King Christopher... dear cousin, murdered? In his own bedchamber?" He asked, shaking his head as though in denial. "An army inside the city, the royal fleet cornered? It seems impossible."

The duke slapped a hand against the arm of his throne, his brow contorting into a scowl before he shot to his feet. He turned on his guard then, his words clear and authoritative as he gave the order. "Send for General Cloutier immediately; tell him I wish to see him in the war room and have my other appointments today postponed. This cannot wait."

"Yes, your excellency," the guard returned with a bow before he turned and strode toward a door leading out of the hall off to the right.

As the guard departed, the Duke rounded on Pavan then, giving him a reassuring glance. "Albion shall never abandon her island neighbour. On my honour as duke, the Prince's call for aid shall be answered," he promised, stepping closer to Pavan until he stood before him, letting the scout see just how tall Duke Eustace was - a full head higher than the wind phoenix.

Eustace slapped a hand on his shoulder. "You have earned a rest, scout, and a medal for your courage - I will personally recommend that to your captain when I get to Avolon."

"You... you go yourself, excellency?" Pavan asked.

"Of course. Avogadro is my second cousin - he is family. I do not know what to make of him being under the care of a MacAingeal, but at least I know he is safe. I will personally see that he stays that way, by my own hand," he stated firmly, and patted Pavan's shoulder twice as he looked across the hall to the guards at the door. "One of you, escort Scout..." He paused, and looked at the wind phoenix. "Your name, boy?"

"P-Pavan. Stevenson, my liege," Pavan replied nervously.

"Escort Private Stevenson to the barracks; give him a bed in a private room and all the rest he requires. He has earned it."

"Yes, your excellency," one of the guards replied, coming to stand by Pavan as the wind phoenix approached the door, which the second guard pulled open to allow him to exit.

Pavan turned down the corridor, looking back over his shoulder to watch as the Duke strode through the same side door his bodyguard had exited through before. He was not watching where he was going, and collided with a dark-feathered figure in a blue attire standing outside the door, causing him to stumble and fall into the arms of the guard behind him.

"M-My apologies," he started to say, but once more felt the words die off in his throat, especially when he felt the guard behind him go rigid, as though as surprised as him to see the figure standing before him.

Pavan stared back into a pair of eyes of deep amber, resting at the root of a long gray beak, and an all-too familiar face staring back at him in shock, with black feathers and highly distinctive highlights and undertones, exactly like those of...

"P-Prince Avogadro?"

~~~~~

The howling forced Avogadro from his sleep, waking with a start and brandishing his sword, eyes taking in the room around him expecting to find an intruder. His amber eyes scanned ever corner of the small room, blinking several times before he registered where he was. The chamber was plain, the only source of light being a single window above his bed through which tiny beams of sunlight passed through the seams of the shutters.

The bed he sat on was unfamiliar to him. It was harder than the one he had slept on for most of his life, making him acutely aware of a dull ache on his left side from the stiff boards under him, the straw-filled mattress doing little to cushion him. For a moment he didn't remember where he was, his mind still realigning itself from between the realm of dreams and the present.

As he collected himself, he finally remembered where he was. Taking a few deep breaths, the raven set aside his sword, leaning it against the wall beside his bed as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes, then remained where he was, folding his arms across his lap as he thought back to the dream.

Three nights... Had it really been so short a time since he had been forced to leave his home? First into hiding in the barracks of the Kings' Guard, then into the farthest ends of his kingdom in the all but deserted Garibaldi's Rise, where he had come face to face with his parent's murderer - a face that continued to haunt him in the night, bringing him to habitually sleep with his sword beside him. First he would see her as he knew her - as ambassador Asya Boleslav, a fair and amicable female, dare he even say beautiful as canids went, and blessed of a unique eye colour, red like the purest ruby.

But beneath that mask of kindness and diplomacy, lay a monster. Asya had been an assassin, sent by the Tsar of Lycanthria to murder the royal family of Avolon, and she had nearly succeeded thanks to her beastly Lycan form, unrecognized and unchallenged even by the King's Guard. In the end, it had taken the mighty powers of a Phoenix to destroy her when she had come for Avogadro a second time, protecting Avogadro from sharing the fate of his late mother and father, though the act had nearly cost that phoenix his life.

As the terror rocked him, Avogadro felt warmth coursing through him, like an embrace from someone he couldn't see, but was there. He let out a relieved sigh, savouring the warmth as it comforted him, driving the chill of fear and grief that weighed his heart...

Three hard knocks on the door to his room brought Avogadro back to the present again, the ethereal presence disappearing as suddenly as it had appeared. He shook his head briskly and looked up in alarm, hastily grabbing his sword and returning it to its scabbard before moving it to the floor and turning his attention back to the door, clearing his throat.

"Come in," he called.

The door opened, and a scarlet form ducked through the door, tucking in its wings to fit through the door as they stepped inside. Standing up straight, Avogadro was greeted by the sight of a red avian, tall and lithe in form but her bare arms were tight with corded muscle. She wore a long dress with a plaid sash wrapped across her chest, from shoulder to hip, and her eyes were green as opposed to the blue of the MacAingeal clan she had married into.

The phoenix female's eyes narrowed as she saw him, and he felt uncomfortable meeting her gaze; he knew she was trying to hide it but the disdain this female felt for him was nearly palpable to him. Avogadro was quite experienced at gauging the hidden meanings behind someone's face; 'a friendly face could be an enemy's mask' one of his instructors had taught him. Under her arm was a pile of clothes Avogadro recognized were his.

"Yoo're waukin', ah see," she said, her words nearly broken by her thick accent muddling her words in Merchant's tongue. "Ah troost th' bed wasnae tay stoaner fur yer soft 'ide."

Lady Berget was one of the first of the MacAingeal clan that Avogadro had met after arriving in their lands. She was the wife of Lord Boswell MacAingeal, and therefore second only to him in authority over the clan; her word was his word, and his word was law. Knowing this made Avogadro choose his words carefully around her, wary of the consequences if he made her angry - especially when he was in her house.

"N-Not at all, lady Berget," Avogadro returned quickly. "It was fine. My sincerest thank you for your hospitality."

"Thenk mah 'usban, ye wee sparraw," Berget returned dismissively. "He was th' one'oo lit ye bide, an' only coz ye saved Volcan when ye cam to us."

After Volcan's near death fighting Asya Boleslav, Avogadro had been forced to make a rapid decision. Dragging Volcan to a hiding place in a farmer's field, he flew as fast as he could to the MacAingeal lands; he didn't know why he had chosen there of all places, and not simply gone to the garrison of the south harbour or sought an regiment of the security forces. Perhaps in his mind, he had known only they could save him from his grievous wounds, as they would know how to treat him better than Avolon's physicians would.

Sure enough Avogadro was intercepted nearly the very moment he had flown over the wall to the MacAingeal lands - more of a flood barrier than an actual defensive wall. After nearly being knocked out of midair by a sentry, he had hastily explained his reasons for coming. The sentry had to find someone who could speak Avolonian in order to understand what Avogadro was saying, but once they knew one of their own was in danger, there had been no debate. Five phoenixes flew Grand Harvest Island, found Volcan and brought him back to their homeland.

"How is he?" Avogadro asked. "Did he make it through the night?"

Berget's face softened then, the distaste leaving her features before she answered. "He did," she said simply. "Healers waur wi' heem aw night, makin' sure he didne slip away. Hangin' by a threid he was, when uir lads got heem to us."

Avogadro breathed a long sigh of relief. "He'll live then. That is good to hear," he said.

Berget stepped forward and dropped the folded clothes she carried atop the blanket still lain across his lap. "Git yerself dressed; mah 'usban wants tae see ye in the great hall."

Avogadro lifted his head. "Lord Boswell? He wishes to see me?" He asked.

"Ur ye tryin' tae echo me? Git yer crease movin'!" She said harshly to the raven before she turned to leave, closing the door roughly behind her.

Avogadro sighed again, this time in exasperation as he reached for the clothes Berget left for him, lifting the first piece to study it. A crimson and black tartan kilt, with a yellow pinstripe - not so unlike the colours of the people who wore them. He looked at the kilt with confusion; he'd seen the MacAingeal wearing it, and knew that one piece was supposed to hang from the shoulder. Among the items he found a bronze-clad brooch, which he easily guessed the purpose of when he remembered the shoulder piece from which the kilt hung.

He rose from bed, and put the kilt on, tossing the long length of cloth over his shoulder after pulling the rest up to cover his upper legs. He felt awkward wearing such an item; to him it felt almost like he was wearing a woman's skirt, but he made a note in his mind to keep that comment to himself as he fumbled with the shoulder strap behind his back.

After another moment of fumbling with the shoulder piece he soon realized there was no hope of reaching it; it was too short to go all the way to his hip where he thought he needed to secure it. He started to wonder if perhaps Lady Berget had misjudged his size, until he found another piece of the kilt he hadn't noticed before; a flap of cloth that he lifted and found that it reached the piece over his shoulder well - except the awkward angle made him understand he was wearing the kilt backwards, and that he was supposed to put the shirt that had come with it on first, not the kilt.

With a little more trial and error, he finally felt like he was wearing the clothes the proper way, securing the shoulder piece with the brooch and making another adjustment before he looked himself over, testing his arms and wings. He noticed a slight pressure on the joint of one of his wings, and he wondered briefly how the MacAingeal flew with a piece of cloth over one of their wings without it chafing.

Lastly, he picked up his sword, but stopped when he realized that he had nothing to hang the blade from; the kilt had not come with a belt, and there was nothing to loop the sword's carrier from. With a huff, he decided he had to go without it. 'Maybe for the better,' he thought, not wanting to give his gracious hosts the wrong impression.

Not that he believed he would need it, here in MacAingeal Castle. The mighty fortress of the patron clan was as solid as it was vast, designed with the intent to survive the passage of time and favouring practicality over beauty. While it paled in comparison to High Eyrie in size, the thick walls he knew were between him and the outside made him feel just as safe as he had in the palace.

Exiting his room, Avogadro stepped out into the corridor. Taking a moment to get his bearings and remember the way to the great hall, he made his way to the stairs and descended to the lower level, emerging into a corridor that mirrored the one above except for the double doors sitting before him at the bottom of the stairs.

He approached the doors, pushing them open slowly to step inside, where he then entered the main hall of the keep. The lord's hall, as he would call its like in Avolon, was a long room with a high ceiling supported by pillars and decorated with gold-plated braziers by each pillar, bringing light to the room with their golden fires.

A throne to rival to that of the King of Avolon's sat against the wall on the far end of the room, made mostly of stone with plated gold arm rests. The backrest stood higher than the head of the phoenix who sat in the throne, forming a semicircular arch above the seated lord of the MacAingeal clan, sitting relaxed in his seat with his mighty claymore beside him, point-down against the floor with a hand hand hung lazily over the crossguard.

Boswell MacAingeal was a fearsome sight to behold, even at his most passive. He was a giant of an avian, easily a head taller than Avogadro and boasting a body thick with corded muscles that would not look out of place on a miner or a blacksmith. His sky blue eyes - a trait of the MacAingeal - were filled with the wisdom of one who had lived many lifetimes, and the scars along his arms added to this; old wounds of enemies who had managed to score a strike on the mighty phoenix. Avogadro wondered how many of those scars were from the same person - particularly the clan patriarch's remorseless nemesis, Njall of the Red Winter...

Boswell's voice, deep and not as thick in the accent as his wife's had been, boomed across the hall to the raven standing in the doorway. "Approach, m'lad. Let me welcome ye personally tae mah castle," he bade, beckoning Avogadro closer with his free hand.

Though it was his second time meeting Boswell MacAingeal in recent weeks, Avogadro still had to fight his apprehension as he crossed the hall toward the phoenix patriarch. He didn't fear the man, not in the sense that he thought he would do him harm, but Avogadro's deepest instincts were all telling him how easily the elder phoenix _could_do just that if he were so inclined. Still, he held his courage until he stood a few paces from the throne and lowered himself to one knee, bowing his head.

"Good day to you, Lord MacAingeal," he said.

"Rise, laddie. ye ur mah guest, not mah subject," Boswell bade him, watching as Avogadro rose to his feet again. "I 'ope ye slept well. "

"Quite well," Avogadro returned, nodding. "I cannot thank you enough for your hospitality, allowing me to stay here."

"Ah, but yer city faces some mirk times," stated Boswell. "You're fortunate ye were able tae make it 'ere, but ye have mah word I'll keep ye safe until you're able tae return 'ome."

"Whenever that may be," said Avogadro with a hopeless shake of his head, unable to think of what was happening back in Avolon; the scenes that came to mind seemed more akin to something that might've come from a nightmare, and not a fate he would savour seeing made a reality. "My city... what will become of it?"

"Old as I am, laddie, not e'vn I can say fer certain," replied Boswell. "Not e'vn I saw th' comin' o' those ships surrounding' yer kingdom. Mayhaps, it's time ye fill me in on whit exactly is happenin' over there. Is it Njall again?"

"No, Lord MacAingeal; this attack is not the doing of the Jarl of Ragnaross," replied Avogadro. "This the work of someone far more notorious; Tsar Dobrillo Sergeyev, the ruler of Lycanthria."

"Lycanthria," Boswell repeated the word with obvious disgust, looking like he wanted to spit at the very sound of it.

"You know if it?" Avogadro asked.

"I knowin th' 'people' it keeps, " replied Boswell, uttering the word 'people' loosely, as though the term did not apply to the party involved. "I've faced th' like ay them afair."

"The like of them?" Avogadro echoed, not understanding. But it immediately clicked, and he looked squarely at the elder phoenix. "The Lycanthropes? Those beasts they turn into; you've seen them before?"

"They arenae only found in Lycanthria, laddie," replied Boswell. "Whit ye saw in Avolon was nae a spell or a trick, but a supernatural affliction; a curse born of evil power. it doesnae just affect wolves, either; there be many other primal beast forms like those ye saw."

"Others..." Avogadro said breathlessly, horrified by the implications. He had thought the primal reversion of the Lycantrians to be specific to them, but from what he heard from Boswell, other creatures - other people, were capable of similar, equally horrifying transformations.

"Volcan fought one, didne?" Boswell asked suddenly.

Avogadro snapped back to attention. "Y-Yes, Lord MacAingeal. He was fighting to protect me," he replied.

"Seem tae git yerself into trouble a lot, dornt ye?" Boswell asked, wearing a wry smirk as he leaned forward in his chair. "First Njall's brat, an then a feckin' lycanthrope!" He threw back his head and laughed. "Ah think Volcan's in fer a life ay adventure just by keepin' ye close; ye seem tae attract trouble like th' stable attracts flies!"

Boswell's smile faded when he saw the crease on Avogradro's brow and the pained look that appeared on his face. He noted the raven's shift in posture, hunching forward and his hands tightening into fists at his sides as his breathing came in long, audible inhalations and sharp exhales.

"Lord MacAingeal," Avogadro began with the strain clear in his voice as he fought to retain his composure. "This is no joking matter. The Lycanthrians got into my city, and the same beastwoman who tried to kill me also murdered my parents. I heard my mother fire her gun... but never heard her cry out for help. I watched the King's Guard who went to protect her tossed aside like children's toys... I was moments from hell, and that horror still haunts me every second I breath on borrowed time."

Boswell jolted as Avogadro spoke those words, knowing immediately that he had crossed an unseen line. The elder phoenix's expression soured as Boswell leaned forward in his chair and bowed his head, speaking slow and with effort to make his words clear and understood. "Laddie... I apologize sincerely; I did not know."

Avogadro collected himself, hesitantly bowing his head in acceptance to Boswell's apology. "There's... no way you could have," he said.

"Kin' Christopher was a fine leader, worth ay mah respect," Boswell went on. "Mah heart grieves fer yer loss, boy. I wish I could offer more at this moment." He sat straight up again, leaning back in his seat before he rose and moved to stand before the raven. "Donner wi' me, laddie; let's git some sun in th' courtyard, and ye can tell me everythin'."

By the time Avogadro had finished recounting the tale of events as they had transpired - from the moment he had awoken to the gunshot that he later learned had been fired by his mother, their walk had taken them up to the outer walls of MacAingeal Castle, and made a fill circumnavigation of the parapets by the time he reached the part where Volcan had collapsed. From there, Boswell knew what happened and spent the next moment piecing together everything he had heard, a hand clenching into a tight fist and the other around the grip of his sword, carried inverted at his side.

"Assassins," he said with clear disdain. "Th' hands of a coward... I am glad Volcan was thar tae protect ye from this - whit ye call her; Asya?"

"Yes. But of course she turned out to be a Lycanthrope as well. She very nearly ripped both of us apart but Volcan managed to trap her and set fire to the whole tower," explained Avogadro. "If she survived_that_, dare I say it she may very well be invincible."

"Nothing's invincible, lad," Boswell assured him. "But there do certainly exist beings an' monsters tha' damn well don't know when tae drop dead."

"You said you've faced her like before. Did you manage to kill them?" Avogadro asked.

"First time I fought one, I ran it through; I thought it was down fur good but th' wound I left in its chest closed up an' it was all over me again. Gae me a mingin' bite in th' thigh," he looked down at his left leg in reminiscence. "Fortunately me wife was there tae pull it off me, an' it ran in tae th' woods."

"Lady Berget was there?" Avogadro asked.

Boswell shook his head. "Nay, me last guidwife, Reilynn. This was over five hunder years ago. Berget doesnae fight but Reilynn, she _lived_for it." He shook his head. "Second o' those beasties I fought was about thee hunder years later while I was off on th' mainland; this'un' body was cat-like. moved like damned speedin' falcon it did, an' a cyclone of claws an' teeth. That one, I _did_kill."

"How?" Avogadro asked, perhaps more eager than he wanted to sound at the idea of killing.

"Naethin' can survive without its heed, nae matter how evil it is," replied Boswell, making a throat-slicing motion with his free hand. "Th' body dies wi' th' heed gone, an' I've yet to encounter anythin' ur anyone tae prove otherwise."

Avogadro nodded, understanding the logic and somewhat berating himself for not thinking of it before; it seemed such an obvious answer. But then, a thought occurred to him, and he looked at Boswell again.

"But they heal so quickly," he said. "And their hides are so tough they seem to possess a natural armour."

"Onie armour will break wi' enough force," Boswell returned, shrugging as if it didn't matter.

"Not all of us are blessed with supernatural strength, Lord MacAingeal," Avory pointed out matter-of-factly, trying not to make his statement sound derisive.

Boswell paused at that, one side of his face scrunching with a light scowl as he stared ahead. "Oh aye," he agreed. "Well in 'at case, laddie, it may be best to outfit yer men wi' heavier arms than ye give 'em. Those wee sabers willnae do bugger all."

"What would you suggest?"

"A heavy axe will do th' job, but you'll 'ave to pin them down if ye want to lain a clean blow," he explained. "I do not know what kin' ay armaments ye 'ave back home, but if ye 'ave anythin' 'at might hinder th' movement of th' beasts, to expose them fer th' few seconds it'd take to make th' kill, eh'd swatch into it."

"Would nets work? Or could we pin them against a wall with our spears?"

"Creatures like 'at don't fear a spear," answered Boswell, . "But ye might be onto somethin' wi' th' idea of nets. Th' nets would 'ave to be weighted, but tangle 'em up enough, th' beasties will be an easy kill." He nodded to Avory for the simple but effective idea.

Avogadro allowed himself a hopeful smile then, feeling some confidence returning to him as he considered the idea further for a moment, and then looked at Boswell again. "Lord MacAingeal, do you happen to know how long Volcan will be bedridden in his current state?"

Boswell considered the question for a moment, bringing his sword in front of him and placing it point down as he leaned on, it fingers tapping. "Our healers ur givin' heem everythin' we can," he said. "Those willin' ur sharin' essence wi' heem, an' we're administerin' every healin' remedy we 'ave. He'll be down for a time yet - a few days, maybe." He tilted his head as he regarded Avogadro again. "Why'd ye ask?"

"Well we have to go back to Avolon, of course," replied Avogadro. "They still need us there. My people need me."

"An' why'd ye need Volcan fer that?" Boswell asked.

The question caught Avogadro off guard, his confusion apparent as he blinked at Lord MacAingeal. "Well... because he's a soldier of Avolon. Surely he'd-" But then he stopped, understanding Boswell's meaning even before he said it outright.

"There is naethin' stoppin' ye from goin' back now." the phoenix stated. "I'd see ye to the gate meself if ye wanted."

There was no real way to know when Volcan would awaken from his comatose state. More to the point, when he did... would he even want to go back to Avolon? Aside from a dedication to duty that Avogadro was convinced Volcan possessed, there wasn't much stopping him from simply staying where he was. Or, from being commanded to; Volcan was born in Avolon, but by blood he was MacAingeal.

This was his home, and would the thought of being labelled a deserter truly bother him? Avogadro shook that last thought from his mind. No, he thought; Volcan wouldn't desert. He was loyal, and passionate; he would never turn his back on the home he already had for one he could.

But then... the phoenix had been a victim of prejudice; Avogadro had seen it first hand, seeing how past grievances - even ones before Volcan's lifetime had haunted him in Avolon, when a member of the Royal Engineering Corps had attacked Volcan in public, for simply suspecting Volcan had caused a fire in the Hawkton area of Avolon - a fire Volcan had been present at, but to _save_lives, which he had.

A mother and her daughter had been trapped in a burning building, and Volcan had entered the burning structure to get them out. The risk had been less for him than it would have for an ordinary avian. He had saved the two without even considering the consequences of acting against standing orders, and one of their kin had attacked him on a baseless accusation that _he_had started the fire - their only justification being because he was a MacAingeal, a 'barbarian' by their standards.

That recollection briefly left Avogadro wondering if Volcan really would go back to Avolon. But he recalled another instance, when the same choice was made readily available to him; after he had battled the son of Njall of the Red Winter - an ice phoenix, who's name Avogadro still didn't know but who's face he remembered vividly; he had seen the avian of the north lands face-to-face. Volcan could have gone home with his clan patriarch, who had personally saved him from death's clutches that day.

In fact, nothing was truly keeping Volcan in Avolon; he could have left anytime he wanted. His mother certainly was tied to the place as an ambassador, but Volcan could come home to the MacAingeal lands without consequence or reservation; he could have received a discharge from the Avolon Security Forces and simply left. But he never did... and Avogadro had to believe there was a reason for that.

Firmly, Avogadro answered Boswell's question. "I happen to believe he will_want_ to," he said. "But, that decision is ultimately his alone to make, isn't it?"

Boswell raised a brow at the Prince's bold statement, and for a moment Avogadro expected the MacAingeal patriarch to respond angrily. But no words came from the ancient phoenix, only a slight smirk.

"With your permission, I'd like to stay," Avogadro continued, turning to face Boswell fully. "Until Volcan is healed, I would like to remain here. When I have heard his decision, I will return to Avolon - with, or without him, as he chooses."

"Ye may," replied Boswell, without giving the question much thought. "Th' castle will be open to ye - within reason, a' course; won't be lettin' ye scan our defenses, and you're free to walk about the grounds outside the wall. If ye want ta do some combat trainin', there ur sparrin' matches every hour at th' field just outside th' castle." He pointed over the parapets to where he meant. "My youngest son an' daughter will be there 'round this time."

"Is there a duelling instructor there I might speak with?" Avogadro asked.

"Wi'that wee sticker o' yers?" Boswell asked. "Ain't a blade like 'at tae be found here. Learn tae barnie from us, ye use a _real_blade. My son will fin' ye somethin'."

Before Avogadro could speak again, Boswell spread his wings and leapt from the wall, the massive limbs catching the wind and carrying the phoenix away, turning his course back to the keep and disappearing behind the highest tower of the castle.

With a grunt of disapproval, Avogadro turned and continued walking along the wall, stepping aside for a sentry coming from the other direction, unsure what he wanted to do first. He wasn't sure he wanted to do any combat training, but he knew little about what else there was to find here in the MacAingeal lands. Everything he knew about the place, he knew only from books and the questionable accounts of envoys who had been sent in the past - many envoys of whom never remained long, or were remained near to the castle.

With nothing else coming to mind, he spread his wings and climbed over the parapet, falling into a glide before aligning himself to proper flight, and searching for the training field Boswell had mentioned. Fortunately, it was easy to locate once the ringing of steel on steel found his ears; following it, he rounded the castle's outer wall, until he found a gathering of warriors sparring within an area seemingly set aside solely for combat practice.

Fenced off from the main road leading to the castle, Avogadro saw several young phoenixes - at least he assumed they were young, honing their swordsmanship in casual sparring, with what he could only assume were veteran warriors watching over the partners crossing swords. Off to the side, safely away from the melee combatants, he saw javelineers hurling spears at wooden targets - he found it peculiar not to see archers at practice, but then he recalled that on a record he had read about previous wars with the MacAingeal, one historian had mentioned that they had never seen one of their warriors wielding a bow, crossbow, or even using artillery.

'Technology may well be the only advantage we ever had over them,' he thought as he flew lower, descending toward the edge of the training field.

As the ground neared, he reared back and put his legs forward, letting his wings catch the air to slow his descent and soften his landing before he carried on into the field. A few combatants glanced his way, some stares lingering longer than others before they were quickly brought back to attention by their supervisors or sparring partners. No one watched him for long, yet... he felt distinctly uncomfortable whenever one of them did, feeling a distinct air of what he could only understand as contempt...

Instinct was telling him to turn and leave, and the flashing steel of the MacAingeal's warriors seemed to encourage this decision, but reminding himself that he wanted to earn the respect of the MacAingeal - especially after he became King, to hopefully improve relations with the MacAingeal. They were a culture that respected strength, that much he knew; this could be his first chance to gain that respect.

Especially if he wanted their help...

"Prince Avogadro?"

Hearing his name, he turned to the voice, and saw a face he recognized looking back, coming closer to him. "Oh, hello!" He said, trying to sound pleased to see the phoenix who approached him. "Um... My apologies; I seem to have forgotten your name?" He asked.

"Emrys," the phoenix replied. "Emrys MacAingeal, youngest son of Boisel."

Fortunately for Avogadro, Emrys' accent was not as thick as his father's, making him much easier to understand while he spoke in the merchant's tongue. "Of course," Avogadro returned. "I want to express again my gratitude for your trust when we first met."

"Of course," Emrys replied, nodding respecfully.

Emrys had been the first of the peninsula's phoenixes that Avogadro had met when he had violated their borders. Though the phoenix was imposing - cutting a taller figure than even Volcan with tighter muscles, he had been willing to hear out the at the time, frantic Avogadro's plight and leap into action upon learning that his cousin was in danger.

Emrys looked no older than Volcan, but with the slowed aging of a fire phoenix Avogadro knew that he could likely be years if not decades older than him. He had a kind face, sharing the usual sky blue eyes of his clan, with smooth, sleek features - almost falcon-like, with a narrow beak and large eyes. Like all of his people, he was dominantly red, and in his current attire Avogadro could see no yellow highlights on his body, but the red hue of his feathers was brighter than any other MacAingeal or fire phoenix Avogadro had met so far. Over his shoulder, a broad axe sat passively, blade facing the ground behind his shoulder.

Appearing beside him, however, was someone who did not look as fond of Avogadro's presence as Emrys. A phoenix female, barely taller than Avogadro, leered suspiciously at him. Despite her petiteness - at least compared to her sibling, the female was muscular, with strong arms and a tightly packed midriff that Avogadro could see, as she wore only a chest wrap and a tartan skirt, instead of the long kilt of her brother or father. Slung through the loop at her belt was an axe akin to her brother's, but only one-handed and accompanied by a dirk that hung on her opposite hip. The red of her feathers was deeper than Emrys, and in contrast to him her golden highlights seemed to cover the entire front of her torso, stopping only halfway around to her back.

"This is the Prince of Avolon?" She asked, her accent slightly thicker than her brother's but still clear enough to understand her words. "He don't look so impressive."

"Manners, Meredith. The Prince is our guest," Emrys scolded her. "Please, forgive my sister. She shares our mother's suspicious nature."

"Lady Berget, I presume?" Avogadro asked.

Emrys nodded. "Aye, yes."

Avogadro nodded. "I understand; I am, by all accounts, an intruder to these lands." He said. "But I have been given permission to remain. I would like to see Volcan reach his full recovery, before I would leave him."

"You consider yourself his friend?" Meredith asked, laying a hand on her hip as she regarded the raven.

Avogadro considered the question for a moment, suspecting the female was trying to bait him. "I do," he decided to answer plainly. "He defended me, and helped me through a..." He couldn't stop his frown as he recounted the past days. "...A difficult time. But yes; I do consider him my friend."

Meredith did not seem convinced, but Avogadro saw Emrys brightening at the idea, smiling lightly at Avogadro as he answered his skeptical younger sister. "So, what brings you here to our training ground?" Emrys asked.

"Well, the obvious I suppose," replied Avogadro. "I had hoped to hone my skills while I stay here. Though, I fear my style of combat is not practiced here."

"What do you do?" Emrys asked.

"I... am trained in the art of duelling. More for sport and self-defense than proper combat," answered Avogadro.

"Have you ever trained with any kind of combat blades?" Emrys asked.

"I sparred with a marine once using a cutlass." The prince offered with a shrug. "Only the one time, though."

"We can work with that. Wait there; I'll be back in a moment," Emrys replied as he thrust his axe into the soil by his feet and took flight, leaving Avogadro alone with Meredith.

"Where is he going?" Avogadro asked, looking at the female curiously.

"The armoury, probably," she replied, shrugging.

"What for?"

"To find ye a better sword, obviously!" She returned, throwing out her arm in a gesture to suggest the answer should have been obvious. "If you want to practice with us, ye'll need a blade, won't ye?"

"I have my-" Avogadro started to say, but paused as he remembered the last time he had drawn his sword. In a fit of anger, he had actually drawn his blade on Volcan, and the phoenix had effortlessly bent his old sword - a blade forged by the royal blacksmith who was a smith of no small skill - with his bare hands. Stronger than it looks, he had been about to say, but MacAingeal hands were stronger still...

"Very well," he agreed.

Adjusting to using the new sword provided for him proved difficult for Avogadro over the passing days; being accustomed to duelling he was more familiar with swords designed primarily for thrusting and parrying, but the blades the MacAingeal kept were heavier and designed to be more variant in their use. At first he struggled to time his parries to his opponent's strikes, and his retaliatory strikes were sluggish and easily read by the two MacAingeal warriors.

Despite only learning how outclassed he was, Emrys was supportive and encouraged the prince to train with them again. Reluctantly, Avogadro agreed, and it became part of his new morning routine for the duration of his stay.

Over the course of the week, Avogadro trained every day with Emrys, spending the first hour before breakfast honing his swordplay to adjust to the new, heavier blade he had been given. Though it was difficult at first, the prince of Avolon was soon finding ways to refine his technique to suit the heavier sword; the Colichemarde he once carried had been primarily a thrusting weapon, with little cutting ability due its small size, but a MacAingeal arming sword was able to do both and was thrice as heavy.

Eventually, the practice was starting to pay off; he was learning to parry as effectively as he had with his old sword, and though some of his strikes - using a dulled sword of course so as to reduce the risk of injury - were still slower than he wanted them to but they were catching up. He was growing more accustomed to the weight of the sword, but still needed to incorporate slashes into his technique.

Of course, training was not the only thing he did during his stay, as Avogadro knew he had an opportunity to study the phoenixes who called this place home. Boswell had given him the freedom to move about as he saw fit - aside from the castle's defenses. Studying their ways of life over the days made a good distraction; a way for him to pass the time and explore many curiosities he'd had about their kind.

One of the first and most surprising things he learned was that the MacAingeal - despite being the dominant power of the land, were not the only family of phoenixes who lived on the peninsula. Along with them were other clans, such as the McAodhaigan, the MacTiridh, the MacNiocalsan, and more, all of them named after their founding fathers - some of whom were still their current leaders. The MacAingeal were the ruling power, being the largest and oldest of the clans as well as the owners of the lone castle on the peninsula.

Every clan was given a section of the land to call their own, and included on these lands were sacred burial grounds where they laid to rest their dead, marked by stone shrines bearing the sigils of the ruling clan carved into them and atop the shrines were braziers where offerings of the dead were to be placed. Each week - on different days for each clan, people gathered at the shrines, bringing offerings to place in the braziers, and as the heads of the clan recited what Avogadro assumed were prayers to their ancestors, the offerings were then burned, and the clan remained until the fires of their offerings went out.

Avogadro was, as Boswell's personal guest, invited to attend the sermons at the MacAingeal family shrine that week. He was not expected to pray as the MacAingeal were; only to observe, to bear witness to their spiritual practices and listen as one by one, the clan - in what could only be practised timing, recited the names of revered ancestors passed. Among those in attendance were Lord Boswell himself, Lady Berget, Boswell's eleven children across his multiple marriages, and those from his past and current wife's sides who integrated into his clan upon their marriage.

Boswell had the most names to recount during the sermon, but one stood out to Avogadro; 'Aingeal'. He had heard the name before, when a phoenix by that name was mentioned during his studies of history; 'Aingeal the Blazing' he was called, the namesake of the MacAingeal clan and a legendary warrior by all accounts. Yet, not openly violent; it had been him who had advocated for peace with the early Avolonians, before the kingdom became what it was today, and maintained that peace up until his apparent death.

'I have heard phoenixes can rise from their own ashes and live again, even after death,' he pondered curiously. 'Yet, clearly this is now entirely true. Else, why would the MacAingeal be so reverent of the ones who lived before them? Clearly at some point they did_die and did not return; could this saying be mere myth?_'

The use of a forge played a prevalent role in the life of every MacAingeal, regardless of their main profession. Every farmer forged their own plow, every lumberjack their own axe, and every warrior their own weapons - even a fisherman made the hooks for his lines by his own hands. Every house in the MacAingeal area of the peninsula had its own forge, filling the air with a perpetual scene of burning coal and hot steel, which Avogadro had become accustomed to rather quickly. He even learned during one of his training days with Emrys that the castle had its own forges; even Boswell had one, at the top of the main tower where he also lived, where the young MacAingeal commented his father had been spending a lot of his spare time as of late, even taking his meals there.

"Even I don't know what he's working on," Emrys admitted in the same conversation.

Perhaps his most startling, and simultaneously most wonderful discovery came during one of his sparring matches with Emrys, with a very unusual specimen entering the training field as the raven practiced his strikes against Emrys. Seeing the new arrival though, Avogadro motioned for a brief pause to their training and Emrys lowered his wooden training axe.

"Who is that?" Avogadro asked, pointing out the avian, easy to spot for how he stood out from everyone else around him.

The phoenix was male, as far as he could tell, but his body - rather than the common red of the others on the field, he was dominantly a deep, red-brown colour from head to toe. However, what made him stand out from the others were the fiery lines that seemed to spread randomly across his body, as though his own veins were ablaze beneath his skin, creating a whole confusing network of burning, symmetrical bright lines stretching across his body, as though his entire body was the aftermath of a volcanoes eruption, letting rivers of lava trail down it's slope.

Emrys turned to Avogadro after seeing the avian. "That is Kivituli," he replied.

"He looks so... different from the rest of you," Avogadro stated.

"That is common for Hybrids," explained Emrys. "Kivituli is not a Fire Phoenix like I am; he is a Magma Phoenix, born of parents of two separate elements. In his case, a fire phoenix mother and an earth phoenix father. He is also the only one of his kind here," Emrys added hastily at the end.

"The only one?" Avogadro repeated. "Meaning there are no other magma phoenixes here?"

Emrys shook his head. "Reproduction for phoenixes of the same element is already rare," he explained. "For cross species that can produce hybrids, it is even more so; he is the first magma phoenix born to the clan in seven hundred years."

"You phoenixes live for hundreds if not thousands of years," Avogadro remarked. "Doesn't that mean there could be another?"

"There was," replied Emrys. "According to my father, the last Magma Phoenix born to the clan died in an accident; he was a sentry, but the tower he was posted in collapsed and he couldn't get out in time. He perished when the rubble buried him alive."

"You could not bring him back?" Avogadro asked, unable to pass up the opportunity to get an answer to his earlier questions about the legends of phoenixes being able to resurrect themselves. "I thought phoenixes could return to life?"

Emrys shifted uncomfortably at that topic, clearly not wanting to answer it. "Well... yes... we can, under certain conditions," he replied. "I'd rather not explain it in greater detail; it is a closely guarded secret, you see."

"I understand," replied Avogadro. "But if 'conditions' are involved, I take it in this scenario, those could not be met?"

Emrys nodded. "To revive one of us requires certain conduits, and in the case of a Magma Phoenix, no such one for their kind can be found here," he explained without divulging too much.

'So powerful... yet beneath the surface, as frail as any one of us,' thought Avogadro, feeling humbled - and maybe slightly disappointed. Yet, his gaze drifted toward the castle, seeing through the walls of the mighty stronghold with his mind to the still comatose young phoenix he knew lay within, the one who had nearly died from grievous wounds that would have claimed even the strongest avians of legend... and had nearly claimed him.

Again he felt that comforting presence again, like the embrace of a loved one he could not see or feel, yet it was there all of the same. He shut his eyes, savouring the sensation, reaching up with a hand to lay across his chest as though feeling for the hand he could sense, but could only feel the cotton tartan shirt he wore under his shoulder-hung kilt. In the back of his mind, he could almost hear a voice speaking to him, as if calling to him from some far off place, but the words were too quiet for him to really make out.

It was a voice he knew well though, and their presence comforted him, like a vivid memory of better days. The voice that was always there and that only he could hear - even if not clearly. So long as he could sense it, he knew he was never truly alone; that someone out there who felt what he did, and sent him their love when he needed it most...

"Avogadro?"

The Prince started as he heard his name being called, turning immediately to Emrys and seeing the phoenix eyeing him curiously. "Are you alright?" He asked. "You seem distant."

"Y-Yes, I'm fine," Avogadro assured him, raising his practice sword again. "Please, let us continue. Although, before we do," he added hastily. "Do you mind if I ask you something about the clan? Something that might be somewhat sensitive," he said with honesty.

Emrys gave a slight tilt of his head. "I suppose you can ask," he said. "Whether or not you will receive an answer though depends largely on the question."

"Of course," replied the prince before clearing his throat. "It is about the namesake the clan; Aingeal. Who was he?"

Emrys perked up at that. "Aingeal was the first patriarch of the clan," he replied. "And, my father's elder brother."

Avogadro nodded; he had guessed as much that Aingeal was related to Boswell in some way or another. "I understand from the ancestral sermons he is, sadly, no longer with us," he said, being sure to remain respectful as he spoke of a figure who was, by all accounts, the most revered figure in the clan's history. "How long has he been gone?"

"Over two thousand years," replied Emrys.

"Was that when the clan took on his name?" Avogadro pressed further.

Emrys shook his head. "Before we became known as 'MacAingeal' we were known as the 'Ceàrdach'," he explained. "We carried that name for hundreds of years - four or five hundred, if I am not mistaken, before my father changed the clan's name."

"What made him decide to do that?" Avogadro asked.

"As the merchant's tongue became more prevalent among the peoples of both the peninsula and those on the mainland with whom we maintain ties, the use of our spoken dialect became less frequent," Emrys explained. "Pronunciation of the clan name became difficult. But, my father took inspiration from one of the other clans who share this land with us; they changed the name of their clan to something easier to pronounce in the common dialect, these being the MacNiocalsan, naming themselves after their own first patriarch."

"So Lord Boswell was following their example," Avogadro reasoned, nodding in approval. "He chose a name that was easier to say and honoured his brother at the same time."

Emrys nodded. "Yes," he said. "Some of the elders still refer to themselves by our old name, but the younger generations like myself have accepted the moniker of 'MacAingeal'. It's much easier to say than 'Emrys de chlann Ceàrdach, mac an athar Boisel." His accent became more pronounced with the shift in dialect, and barely discernible through its gutteral words of the peninsula's inhabitants.

Avogadro blinked. "Translated to common, what does that mean?"

"In short, 'Emrys of the Ceàrdach, son of the father Boisel'," he explained. "The Niocalsan took the word for 'son', which was 'mac', and then used his ancestor's name, and my father did the same. Essentially all of us call ourselves 'Sons of Aingeal'."

Avogadro nodded in understanding. "Giving the family a name to honour the one who started it all, and traditionally honouring those who have come and gone by reciting their names across the generations," he said in admiration. He then turned and nodded to Emrys. "Thank you for indulging me, Emrys. I think I'm beginning to better understand the MacAingeal."

Emrys nodded back to him. "I am glad to be of help," he said with a kind smile before he shifted his posture, lifting his training axe again. "Now, if I have indulged your curiosity, shall we start again?" He asked.

Avogadro sighed and nodded, widening his stance as he prepared himself to resume their practice session, lifting his dull practice blade again. "We shall."

Howling...

He could still hear her cries as the tower burned, the raging inferno that climbed the tower from the ground level, consuming it in a massive fire still did not stop her. Volcan watched helplessly as the black form erupted from the falling, blackened timbers and smoke-coloured stone of the tower and soared at him as though carried on the wings of a demon.

Massive paws seized his neck, tackling him to the ground, and he could only watch in horror as the smouldering, bubbling flesh of Asya's face, back in her anthropian form, glared down at him, still burning and yet those red eyes remained untouched to glare into his soul with sadistic glee. Her screams had stopped, replaced only by a monstrous grin as she drew back her hand, still wearing the shape of her lycan form, and drove her gigantic claws into his chest.

He could do little more than scream in pain as she started to carve him open, and began to pull him apart piece by piece...

Volcan almost screamed when he woke up, sitting up so abruptly in bed that the figure sitting beside him tumbled out of their chair with a cry of fright, landing on the floor in a tangle of feathers and bandages that she had been removing from her patient, now that his wounds had closed. Frantically, Volcan took in the room around him, expecting to see himself surrounded by hostile forces - to be a prisoner of the enemy... yet there was no one else in the room - no one besides the blurred figure that had been beside his bed and now ran to the door, calling out into the hallway in a familiar language; one that, through the fog in his mind, he couldn't translate properly.

Suddenly he swooned and his vision blurred, dizziness causing him to fall back onto the pillow where his head had been resting before. He panted for breath, trying to alleviate the dizziness until he was finally able to see properly again. He rolled his eyes to take in his surroundings once more, this time seeing them for what they were as he regained his senses, trying to gauge where he was and if he was in any danger.

The walls were chiselled stone, stacked and mortared to create a solid structure with wooden, arched supports to help keep the ceiling aloft. In the room he slept, there was no window, and the bed he sat on was, as opposed to being straw-filled like he was accustomed to, was cushioned only by multiple layers of wool - the same material of the blanket that lay draped across his body, yet was still much harder than his bed in Avolon, making him acutely aware of a sore back, though thankfully extra padding had been placed between his wings to reduce the pressure on his wing-joints.

The stonework was similar to that of Garibaldi's Rise, but the bricks were larger and grainy to the touch he found, reaching over to the wall next to his bed to rub a hand against it. "Definitely not in the tower... my fight with Asya was no dream..." he looked at the rather unappealing stonework. "And this can't possibly be High Eyrie, unless I'm in the dungeon..." he added.

Then, as he looked toward the door to the hallway, he saw a face peeking in at him; an avianic face, but one that stood out to him - particularly the crimson features and sky blue eyes that he knew all too well. _'Wait... who is that?'_He asked in his mind, sitting up slightly and squinting his eyes to get a better look at the female who stared at him.

Once again the female shouted down the hallway before turning her attention to Volcan yet again, re-entering the room and walking up to stand beside his bed and lower herself to one knee. "A bheil thu gu math?" She asked.

Volcan jerked, realizing his suspicions had been correct. The female had just spoken perfectly the language of his people - a language in which he was somewhat rusty, but understood that the female was asking if he was well. He cleared his throat, speaking in return one of the few words of his homeland's language he knew. _"Tha,"_he said - the word for 'yes'.

She put her hands together and smiled. "Sgoinneil! Tha eagal oirnn gum faodadh tu a dhol còmhla ris na sinnsearan!" She said excitedly.

"Join... the ancestors?" He repeated in common, and then it clicked. 'I remember now... I collapsed, just as Avogadro and I tried to flee from the ruins of Garibaldi's Rise... But then, how did I get here? Avogadro could not have carried me.' He turned to the female again, a fearful look in his eyes as he asked her, "Càit a bheil... char-... char-...?" He cursed. "Dammit, what was the word for friend?"

"Charaid?" The female said, seemingly catching on to what he had been trying to say.

"Yes! I mean, 'tha!'" He replied. "Fithich! Charaid! A bheil egu math?"

"He's fine, lad," a familiar voice boomed from the hallway. "Nae need tae keep butcherin' our folk tongue wi' questions."

Volcan and the female both stiffened, almost simultaneously, at the sound of the voice, and turned to the door again to see none other than the clan patriach himself entering the room. The female spun on her knees and bowed her head, uttering a greeting to Boswell. The elder phoenix motioned for her to rise, and then cocked his head toward the door; she bowed again, and turned to Volcan to give him a nod before she turned and left the room, shutting the door behind her.

Boswell seated himself in the chair that the phoenix female before him had occupied, laying his arms across his knees as he regarded Volcan. "How'd ye feel?"

"Tired... but, sounds like I'm lucky to be alive, if I understood her correctly," replied Volcan, scooting himself back to the headboard of the bed - only to pull himself partially free of the blankets he was under, and realize he was completely naked except for a wrap worn around his lower abdomen, giving him only the most minute of decency and causing him to instinctively pull up the blanket to be modest before he leaned back against the headboard.

"Indeed y'are," replied Boswell. "Ye were barely clingin' tae life when Emrys brought ye 'ere. Ya woke for a spell, and we were able to feed ya some soft food, but then ya collapsed again."

Volcan had no memory of waking in that room at any other time, and he shuddered at the thought, knowing he must've been barely conscious even then. "I thought for sure I was soon to join our ancestors in the afterlife," he said darkly, his gaze lowering to stare at his knees. Then, he lifted his arms to look at them, and then lowered his gaze again to look down at himself, turning his head aside to see past his beak.

"But... I'm healed?" He asked. "How long have I...?"

"A few days," Boswell replied. "This would be the sixth, to be exact."

'Six days?!' Volcan practically screamed the question in his mind, shocked to find out he had been comatose for such a long time.

Boswell, apparently not noticing the younger phoenix's distressed expression, suddenly let out a light laugh. "I tell ye boy, if give ye anymore of my elemental essence to keep ye alive, ye'll have taken more years off me life than anyone I've ever fought has!" He practically boasted. "But that's jist a sign yer comin' up a damn fine warrior, one worthy of the clan!" He added as he clapped a hand on Volcan's shoulder.

Volcan cringed at the slap of his uncle's powerful hand, reaching up with his opposite hand to rub his shoulder as he regarded his uncle. "I hardly think that's something to be proud of, being brought so close to death twice."

"Bah! Ye'll understand some day," he said. "Now, I'll have some food brought up to ye, so ye can eat properly - the essense that Sala lass was donatin' to ya won't last too long. Afterwards, get a little more rest, then we can let that friend o' yers know ye've woken."

Volcan didn't even need to ask who Boswell was referring to. He answered his uncle with a slow nod, and leaned back against the headboard again while he waited for the meal to be brought to him.

"One thing is certain... I did not imagine my first visit to Castle MacAingeal to go this way," he made a slight jest, trying to lighten his mood as he rested his eyes again...