Eternal Call - Chapter 1

She dug fingers into the cool, moist earth uncaring of what creatures might lay beneath the sparsely vegetated turf.  It was the feel she wanted - the connection; some reminder that she was real now and not the shadowed being before.

Images could tell nothing letting the imagination fill in gaps that were not there and without truth.  No, one could close their eyes and feel the texture of the earth after the rain, soft and malleable.  She opened her eyes to look down at the clump of earth she cradled in her hands, thumbs pressing indentations there.  Mearien had returned from long days as only memory of others. 

“Mearien,” a wary voice spoke behind her, “you should dress.  You’ve been too long away from the demands of the flesh to remember the ravages of illness.”

“On the contrary,” she rose easily, letting the earth fall from her loose, long fingers, “I recall too well that feeling, and undesired as it may be, at least I will feel it.”  She walked past the old man, his head held high still for all the crumpling his aged body had perverted his stature.  “Is everything prepared?”

“Yes, though you have grown in height since last you walked the earth.”

“Have I?”  She looked down over her naked form, it seemed as it had always been before.  The slender legs from wide hips, a formed waist, though far from trim, and ample bosom beneath broad shoulders.  Even her raven hair she could see hanging over her shoulders in its thick waves.  “Perhaps the floor is further away than before,” she allowed and walked on into the house. 

Each step was taken with care, to enjoy the change in surface from wood to rug to marble.  Her fingers played upon the walls, the passing furniture and the adornments of both.  “The cottage has not changed much, Perienas.”

He followed her up the steps to her room.  Her room.  The thrill of its location now defined with walls she could no longer ignore.  Upon a simple bed, the cream linen sheets drawn taught over the cushion of down, cotton, and straw, a gown of rusty red.  She lifted it up and pressed it against her body, looking down to her feet and the reveal of her ankles.  “I do think it will serve.”

Drawing the gown over her head, she asked, “Perienas, who called me?”

She heard the shuffling of his feet as he backed from her slightly, “I have not been able to tell.  I felt the tremor, but there was no direction and no accompanying signs.” 

***

Terrell pressed a hand to his aching back, the twinge of the pulled muscle sent agonies through his leg and stomach.  He could not stop, though, as the harvest had to be brought in, and he had none to help him.  No, not now with the battles raging in the west and his sons gone there.  He had the field to tend for his lord’s demands of food for the war bands soon to return.  He prayed nightly for help from the gods, selecting one each night so as not to anger one in particular with pestering. 

Still, no help arrived, and he forced his pain aside to continue gathering the weak yield of his labors.  It had been a struggle to plant even a quarter of the field he used to plant with Gerran and Arden’s help.  The potatoes, squash, and wheat all less than he would have liked.  His own larder and winter storage would be scarce after he paid his tithes. 

One blessing he had, though, that his dear wife had departed two years before and would not suffer with him through this bleak season.  He missed his love, but her illness had been long and cruel, and she was better off in the green meadows and silver halls of the Glittering Fields.  Maybe this year, yes, this year, he would join her there.

But now he needed to reap what little he had sown.  The earth, dry from the days of no rain, gave up the potatoes easily enough, and Terrell wobbled along the row on his knees as geese gave their chorus above, hailing the change of seasons with their sky signs.  He paid them no heed, head bowed to his work.

“Hail, goodman, could you tell me how far off lies the next town or tavern?”  A voice, so soft and gentle spoke just above his head.

Terrell started, mouth agape at the surprising appearance, no sound had this stranger made, and while he tried to think of words, mouth working in silent dismay, he observed the figure before him.  She stood, for all her height and build might send question, her face was definitely female, clothed in darkest blue dress over a crème chemise that peeked from beneath hem, collar, and sleeves.  An instrument rested upon her back, partly concealed by a winter sky blue cloak and the fall of wavy auburn hair.  Her smile beckoned trust and he felt it.  “Pardon, mistress, I was lost in thought and did not hear you.”

“It is my apologies that should be given for interrupting, but I have come further in my travels than I am accustomed, and am unsure of how many more nights spent at the edge of the road will be required of me.” 

There was an easy way about her, and Terrell felt a peaceful smile curve his mouth, and he scrabbled to his feet ignoring the pain to his back, “You’ll find an inn not too far now down that direction.  Be but half days walk.”

She gave a slight bow of her head, “Thank you, goodman.  I wish you a good harvest and pleasant winter.”

He bowed his head and didn’t look up as she walked as softly away as she had arrived, “Thank you, mistress.”

With a higher heart and cheerful tune upon his lips, he worked his fields.


Kiema felt pity for the poor farmer.  He, like so many she had passed along this way, were suffering greatly from the ongoing spats of battles between the invaders and their liege lords.  She had offered him some cheer through a finely woven link, buoying his emotions with a touch so that he might work with joy. 

Her own steps were haunted with a memory tugging behind her, bidding her return to that town so far away.  A memory she should have not made and now cost her in distance from what she had known.  She would not be the first Changling to be caught on the mysteries unreadable souls, but she had given in to it.  Running away from the difficulty seemed like the best idea at the time.  Instead of finding release from the possibility of seeing him day after day in her trade at town celebrations, festivals, and the town Marketplace, she had released herself from everything but him.  She carried his image in her mind, the presence of him touched her dreaming at night, and the memory of all she knew of him, little and great, twisted a fine chord about her heart to make tender cuttings.

What tempering of her skill had she left off to have it shatter so easily?  Fool and twice that to chase after a barred and barricaded heart.  The bridge to his love would open for only one, and she was…thinking about him again. “Find something else to think about, you idiot.”  She scowled, her eyes fading from calm sea-blue to a muddling of brown and green.  There were none around from which to bar and hide her true self.  Not that any would know to read the changes of her eyes, but there had been enough burning of Changlings as demons in the ancient past to impress caution when around those unknown to them.

Kiema’s sister had often worried of this when Kiema was but a child and had not learned control, but now Marinia had the worries of her seven children, a Changling among them, and rarely did she share correspondence with her little sister.  The Circelus, the guild of the Changlings, took little interest in their members doings unless they had need of them.  At this time, Kiema was free to make her way in the world.  The few friends she had received letters explaining her desire to seek a new land and what the horizon could show her.  Most would understand.  One or two would not understand.

A careless breeze, promising a colder night, shook the trees to her right and carried road dust up to her nostrils.  She did not feel a storm upon that breeze, nor smell it beyond the dust now coating her.  She sneezed and brushed at her eyes once again a calm sea-blue.  A push to her step, she would need to reach the inn soon to bargain a room and food that night for playing.  The vihuela tucked against her back, its ebony ribs and spruce sound board making a striking visual opposition, would be a new instrument to this land.  She had not seen one yet in her journeys, and each stop previous, though days behind now, had drawn a fair gathering.

The unexpected snap of a twig to her right drew a glance from her, but she did not hesitate her step.  The voices were barely muffled, “She’s heard us now.  No sense in whispering.”

Peculiar exchange brings Kiema’s attention around to see four figures, perhaps three men and a boy, though one might be a woman as well.  Their attire so utterly uniform in shape and unpredictable in pattern and material, she could discern little other than they were all fair and beautiful.  And that was enough to give Kiema alarm.  Sedlaral.

One gave a bow, “It seems my nephew still must learn to be silent, or all our quarry will be warned.”  He strode confidently up to her, his skin mottled pale and tan like a road beneath sun blocking leaves.

“Your people wander far from their homelands, Sedlaral.”  She needed time to pool her energies and send a call to the Circelus, those alone who would be able to sense her.

“Ah,” another spoke and laughed, “she knows of us.  That is good.  At least her memories have not so easily departed as others.”  Her, perhaps this one a female, eyes gave away nothing.

“I don’t need my gift or my memories to know your dark hearts.”  Kiema pushed out the rope, a twining of all her emotions so far more powerful than the threads she often used to coax the emotions of others or read them.

“Stop her, Jsiels, she is calling!” 

Sharp pain to her head.  A graying of her vision into a void of darkness.  She did not feel nor hear the crushing twang of the vihuela smashed beneath her body.

***

“Gah,” Welles groaned as he rolled over, the sun so bright on his eyes.  The light dismayed him as did the feeling of grit and pebble beneath him.  He wondered if he had fallen asleep in his clothes, but as he flickered his eyes open, he realized that he lacked clothing entirely.  “What…?”

Suddenly quite awake, he sat bolt upright to stare in dismay at his nakedness in the noon brightened alleyway.  The sudden surge to sitting sent a wave of nausea and the pang of a headache through his brain.  “Flaming arrows,” he cursed and gripped his head, rolling to his side then trying to get to his knees, “what did I do?”

The memory of the night before was broken like a shattered window at best.  Images of the inn came and went like the tide of the ocean.  He made it to his feet with help of the nearby wall.  He looked at his surroundings once more and narrowed his eyes on the grinning girl perched on a stack of empty crates, “Wren, damn you, don’t you think you could have covered me?”

She hopped off the stacks nimbly, short brunette curls bouncing, “Oh, Welles, should I cover up such a work of art?” An impish grin as she came up to him and kissed him teasingly, then whispered, “You really should lay off the gambling, particularly with that gang.  They don’t take cheaters lightly.”

Welles could not keep his body from reacting as any man’s would from such a kiss from a lover.  Wren noticed as well, and clucked her tongue, “I didn’t think you had it in you after such a night.”  She walked back to her pack on the crates and took out a simple tunic and trews.

“You inspire me,” he grinned and walked up behind her, wrapped his arms about her waist and drew her close against him.  “Did you get what we came to this rotting town for?”  He reached for the clothes and pulled them on.

She looked exasperated with him, “Don’t I always?  Of course.  It’s safely tucked away to gather up on our way out of here.”

He grabbed her wrist and drew her close once again, hands roaming over her lithe and curvy body, “Tucked away is it?”

Wren laughed and kissed his cheek, “Not on me, my love.”  Then a kiss to his other cheek, “Come on.  We still have to get you some new boots and pick up your weapons at the smithy.”

“Don’t I get some reward for putting on a good show last night?  Got the lads talking and kept them busy.  Surely it’s worth some of our time.”  He followed her from the alley grousing.

“They’ll be missing their piece soon enough, and I’m not one for getting caught,” she called over her shoulder as they turned down the street towards the smithy at the far west edge of town.

“Too late.”  Welles muttered as the constable and his men approached from both ends of the street.

Wren sighed, hung her head, then looked skyward, “Best start praying to the gods for help.”

***

The Changling lay so still.  Too still.  Had Jsiels killed her?

“I have not killed her, if that is what are thinking while you study her so closely, Iselan.”  Jsiels nudged him as he passed by.  “If you would study more, you would know that.  Can you not feel her in the air, the space she takes, the vibration of her spirit?”  A dark grin broke upon Jsiels’s face, “Makes one hungry, does it not?”

“You are revolting, Jsiels, and would become what people think we are.”

“Cannibals?  Murderers?  Of that kind, yes, I would say we should become that.  They are tainted beings.”  He sent a kick to the Changling’s head that brought a groan.

Iselan jumped to his feet and shoved Jsiels back, “Stop.”

Dagger drawn, Jsiels rose threateningly to his feet, but before he could make his attack, Uerila returned, and snapped at her brothers, “Stop it both of you, particularly you, Jsiels.  You influence my son too much already, and you should not damage our goods.  She is of use to us alive, not dead.”

“What is one more or less?”  Jsiels grinned mercilessly as he sheathed his dagger with a harsh click.

“One more or less is more or less trouble for us.  We have been given our orders, and I will not be facing Pelin alone when he wonders why his prize is droolingly senseless.”  She leaned over the Changling and pushed away the auburn hair.  “You are lucky she will recover from that kick, Jsiels, or I would be less one brother.  Pray that you do not err in such a way again, and ask for help to divert you from the path you are on now.”

“Pray?  Me?”  Jsiels laughed harsh and loud into the cavern of trees where they camped that night.  It was a dense copse of pine and ash.  They required no fire to see by or to warm them.  “I have no need for such wastes of breath.  Prayers have never helped any of our kin before.”

“I would not be so sure of that, Jsiels.  I have often prayed for the patience not to kill you, and see, you are still alive.”  Uerila sat next to the Changling and watched the woman begin to shiver.  “I think we will need to create a fire.”

“Is that wise mother?  So close to town?”  Young Etion asked from his seat by his uncle Jsiels.

“There is little choice in the matter.  We will have a chilled body to carry back to our Pelin if not.”

Iselan also worried of the village watch, but more so of the Changling.  “Body heat would serve and keep us from any of the watchmen’s view.”

Jsiels spat, “You have caught an illness, Iselan, of fancy for this creature?  You always did favor the odd ones.”

“Do shut up,” Uerila snapped.  “It is a wise choice, and I will serve that heat.  You two will keep your distance.  I doubt I will be infected by her tricks as either of you.”  And she rolled to take place at the Changling’s back.  Etion gazed in wonderment, admiring how close his mother dared to get to the creature, and Jsiels just snarled more and stalked off, in the wondering silence of their people, to keep watch.

Iselan watched the Changling until she shivered no more, then let sleep take him before Jsiels roused him for his turn at watch.

Sunlight would be hard pressed to reach in the forest in its late year weakened state.  Iselan roused the sleepers gently in the grey shadows of morning hours.  Uerila stayed his hand when he reached to rouse the Changling, “I’ll be taking care of her, Iselan.  Pack up.  We will break our fast while on our feet.”

He looked to the Changling once more, and saw dark irises flecked with red.  Demon eyes.  He stepped back and set to work briskly. 

“Do as your told, Changling, and you will not be harmed,” Uerila warned.

“I am already harmed in my taking,” the Changling spoke in such a voice as to be gentle and strong at the same time.  “And my name is Kiema, you need not fear using it.”

“Then, Kiema, do as your told and no more harm will come to you.”  Jsiels snarled as he passed by.

“Is it entirely possible for you to speak without sounding like a dog?”  Kiema said rising easily and making no motion of flight.

The Changling, Kiema’s, boldness struck all of them dumb briefly, even Jsiels.  Uerila was the first to actually smile, “It would seem we have chosen a fearless Changling.  See, Jsiels, not all of them are spineless twittering fools.”

“So, to which way are we headed?”

The entirely graceful way she moved and spoke, as if she had not just been kidnapped, undid Iselan. “Changling, I do not think you are fully aware of our purpose.  I think the blow to your head has done more damage than we thought.”

“You are correct, I am not fully aware of your purpose, but I do know that you and your companions have need to take me somewhere for some reason.  That should I fight you on that, my life is most likely forfeit, and as I have little other purpose right now, I might as well see what awaits me in the end.  Even if it is my death.”

“You sound a little too cheerful for that ending,” Uerila said.

And what if I am?  Kiema looked at the lady’s face, smiling all the while.  What of life did she have left to do?  She had gained her place in her guild as far as she wanted to go.  She had no family to live for.  She had a talent and skill, that while it could always be perfected, was at a superior level.  Perhaps her time had come, like a star that flares across the sky briefly.  Yes, there had been a poem she read that followed that line of thought.  The brief and bright flames, burning white hot and temporary.  Death was an unknown and ultimately unavoidable.  Why not disperse of this mortality while it was of worth and not crumpled like a worn piece of paper, too often written and stripped of its symbols to be written upon again.

That, however, was ultimately escaping the truth of life, though.  That there were times of sorrow with little to battle its darkness over the day.  If she played into that hand, dying for little purpose and willingly, she only damaged that which the body protected and carried.  She knew better, and felt some remorse in her flighty reaction to the idea.  There would be no use in following that path of thought again, and by way of distraction, since her instrument she had discovered was gone, she opened herself to study her captors as they all walked deeper into the forestland.

She could feel their uncertainty, the hatred from Jsiels, and the curiosity from Iselan.  Etien was too much a jumble of emotions from his changing and maturing body to have much a thought on her beyond a tumultuous combination of what his uncles felt.  Uerila was a stone wall.  She could sense nothing of her feelings except when she looked at her son.  Then, only then, Kiema would feel a filament of fearful love spring outwards from the lady like the snap of a whip, then gone. 

The Sedlaral seemed reluctant to speak on any topic with her, but if she was correct in her observations, they were carrying on lengthy conversations with each other through signals and looks.  When they finally stopped for a late day meal, they bound her wrists and ankles tightly.  The well woven rope was of a blend unfamiliar to her.  Its fibers would change from green to brown as she twisted it about in the filtered light.  Even with the bindings Jsiels took it upon himself to eat just next to her, his foot stamping on the loop of rope between her feet with the obvious desire to cause her pain.  “Jsiels, is it not?”  She separated herself from the discomfort the rope was causing her ankles.  He did not respond, so she continued, “I am not fond of having my ankles broken, but if you so desire to carry me where it is you like to go, you are more than welcome to without having to cause me pain.”

“Jsiels, stop,” Uerila scowled, “Or I will make you carry her.”

Jsiels gave a good stomp to the rope but then removed his foot and himself from her presence.  Iselan warily approached with some bread and half an apple and offered them to her.  She took them with a grateful smile, then watched him walk away.  The other half of the apple in his hand.  There was one she might be able to touch.

***

Perienas lit the brazier centered in the workings room.  Its coals of peat and ash catching the whisper of flame from his flint and steel.  Glowing golden orange as the burning spread.  The old caretaker, dutiful servant of the Brethren upon the earth shuffled to one of the many casings that lined the room.  Glass and wood held the tools of his craft and service.  The latch turned to release vapors of mingled herbs, blended together for purpose and with pure intent.  Untainted by unknown hands, he grew and created everything himself for this cabinet, just as other caretakers did for their cabinets around the room.  A pinch of the blended herbs sprinkled upon his palm.  He returned to the brazier and creaked his body down to kneel at the west side of its brass curve.  His palms together above the heat, he rubbed them back and forth against each other as the herbs mingled with the moisture of his hands before falling upon the increasing heat of the coals.  His hands then rested upon his robe concealed legs and he sent his thought out to trace the call.  Mearien would need the source to fulfill the need.  His mind focused upon that away from all else.

***

Wren paced the jail cell around Welles sitting in the middle of the floor meditating.  He could sense her agitation and it, somewhat ashamedly, amused him.  Still, he had to go deeper into his thoughts, letting outward stimulus fall away into vapors.  Inside the unlimited space of his soul he could search for an answer.  The light of the day slipping between the bars of the cell window trained his mind and warmed his back.  Away from the stone floor and musty pallets of straw, the waste – human and other – in the corners, and the pacing of his lover, he drew into the respite of self.

That was, until Wren kicked his leg some unknown moments later.  “Wake up.  They’re coming.”  She hissed at him.  He opened his eyes and brushed dark strands of hair back, and stood to greet them.  Them being the local magistrate and three guards.  It was a shame, Welles reflected in the moment that the guards unlocked the door, that they had to die.  Wren would accept nothing less, and while it would leave this town unapproachable for at least a few decades, they had time to spare with their new trinket in hand.

As the guards circled and the magistrate began his intonation of charges, a feeble attempt at a fair trial they had not attended, Welles wrapped the chain connecting the braces on his wrists around the throat of the nearest guard as he kicked out a fatal blow to the neck of the opposite guard.  Wren sprung upon the other guard, knocking him back against the wall.  As Welles felt the life crack free from the broken neck of his guard, he unwrapped the chains and faced Wren’s foe.  “Look to the magistrate,” he growled, and Wren turned to attack the Magistrate with kicks and punches to a man stunned by the activity.

The last guard now wary would be a harder opponent, jabbing his dirk with precision, Welles grew tired of the exchange of taunts and rushed the man, block the dirk away from a lethal stab and into a graze against his ribs.  The guard was not as fortunate with Welles’s hands about his throat, crushing the windpipe swiftly and a twist to break the neck.

Wren ran to him to unlock his shackles after her own had been discarded.  Apparently the key had been hidden upon the person of the magistrate, now laying rumpled in a corner of the cell, blood drooling from his mouth.  “What did you do?”  Welles asked eyeing the man.

“I think I broke a rib and it punctured his insides.”  She grinned up at him with fiendish delight.  “Pretty good, eh?”

“You are an alarmingly unwell woman, Wren.”  Welles shook his head at her glee, but with the shackles free, they did not tarry to argue, rushing from the jail with swift caution.  Each turn around a corner, dusky shadows created by the bright sunlight of midday did little to conceal them.  A breeze carrying the chill of the snow season crept under his light clothing and tensed the muscles underneath.  Wren shivered momentarily behind him.  He could feel the tremble of her body, but when he looked over his shoulder her bright eyes were scanning the scene.

They made it to the edge of town by skirting around buildings and hiding beside wagons.  “I’ll need my weapons.”  He maneuvered around a haphazard pile of barrels outside the tanner’s shop and searched for a good way to get to the smith.

“We will wait until night.  I’ll get them-”

“All of them?  You can’t carry them all, Wren, plus my armor?” a skeptical glance over his shoulder before he dashed across to a wall of the smithy.  She followed quickly after, but did not argue the point.  He watched the mastersmith and his apprentice working diligently at the fires and anvil, his own weapons and armor held in surety in a chest along the far wall.  He was not going to get in there without being noticed.  “I will wait here until nightfall.”  The position was secure enough behind crates and barrels in a corner of two outside walls.

“While you wait, our trinket lays buried a mile north here,” she pouted and sat down beside him.

“Then go after it, Wren.  I’ll meet you there after I get my things.”

“Want me to just sit there to be nabbed in the dark by who knows what creatures just so you can get your gods forsaken armor and sword?”  Her voice was kept low by sheer effort it seemed.  Then he saw the change in her mind and tactic.  She was rubbing up next to him, “Besides, you’ve not been yet rewarded for the part you played last night, and I’m much more interested in the sword you carry with you always than that hunk of metal.”  Her hand moved down his thigh.

He pushed her off, “Wren, you can’t afford for me to give up that sword you seem to not care about.”  She was a good lay and a helpful thief, but her mind was a box of snares and traps he had so far avoided.  He had his uses for her, as she had of him; the tumbles in bed were just extras.  “You go on and dig up the trinket.”  He nudged her that way again, until she scowled and ran out north of the town, taking her steps to the trees as quick as she could.

He settled back against the wall to wait.  He looked at his hands, the faint signs of blood wiped away in his movements.  Some had ended up on his clothes.  He would need to replace those, again, as well.  It could only be hoped that this trinket was well worth it, and actually did what it was supposed to do.

Suspend life.  Oh that he could slow down Time’s pursuit of him.  There was much to do, and at his age, not much time left.  Not unless he could keep age at bay long enough.  The trinket, the tiny links of its forging into small bracelets, these created the trio of Erien Chains.  They could keep its wearer suspended.  At least, that is the story.  He and Wren had hunted it together since they learned it was on the move from one temple to another.  Now it was in their grasp.

Wren’s use for the Erien Chain was petty thief thinking, and Welles let her indulge in the thoughts of living luxuriously for centuries off the prizes she stole from others.  He, no, he had better uses for the Erien Chain.  Centuries he would not need, and he consoled his conscious by repeatedly confirming that he would give back the chain once his task was fulfilled.  He needed time to set the bait and trap for the Sedlaral.  They were demons with their motley flesh and dispassionate lust for killing.  His home they had destroyed.  His wife and children murdered with the rest of the village while he was at war.

He clenched his eyes shut against the memory of the news, of the view of his home in rotting ash and ruin.  Fists gripped tight his knees until he reached deep inside and shut away the feelings again, locked safely away from now.  He would need that anger later.  But now he needed patience, stillness, and the darkness to regain his armaments.

Time was fluid while in meditation and when he rose from that state of peace, he could feel the coolness of dusk about him and the grey purple sky of nearing night was seen above.  Unfortunately, the clanging of metal was also to be heard from the smithy at his back.  Welles sighed and thought out matters at hand while he waited for the smith to close up shop. 

Once he had his belongings, he would make his way to meet with Wren, provided she was still there and had not decided to take off on her own, selling two of the chains for profit and keeping the other.  He would not put anything beyond her scope, and with that idea, pondered how he would feel if he needed to track her down and kill her.  She would be hard to find, but he had found her once before, when he had been part of the mercenary crew hired to track down a thief accosting merchants and wealthy townspeople two years back.  He could find her again.  There were signs she left behind in her tracks that she did not even consider.  That was most likely due to her unpredictable bouts with sanity.

Of course, once he found her, he would have to kill her without hesitation.  A broken neck would do well enough.  She knew how her body tempted him all too much, and he could not give her the opportunity to use that advantage. 

However, if he was lucky, she would be waiting as they intended, and he could use her still to support him as he wandered the country in search of clues to defeating the Sedlaral.  There was still too much to know.  It had been eight years now, and the Sedlaral had gone into hiding.  He could thank the Changlings for that.  The race of empaths had done their best to work with the Sedlaral.  Arbitrations, peace offerings, instructions, ambassadors, it had all been tried. 

How clear Welles remembered those days.  Months of peace as negotiations flew, then weeks of suffering when the Sedlaral would seep out like plagues to dispose of those living in their way like so much refuse.  But when the Sedlaral chose to attack the Changlings, the great people rose up and showed the power of their gifts.  Madness swept through the demon Sedlaral like wildfire.  Kin turned upon kin, and as the stories go, the Sedlaral’s blood thirst was quenched with the deaths of their own people.

Welles had joined with others in the triumph, toasting Changlings, there numbers lessened through the ravages of war, at each inn and tavern.  Such were the days after.  Welles had tried to start life as a farmer once more.  He tried to settle in the village, but his heart foundered at the trying.  A mercenary band passed through his village, and he joined to swing his sword once more.  This time it was for pay.  There had been lean years, but then the Sedlaral rose once more, and he had plenty of coin in his pocket and desire in his heart to slaughter the thousands renewed.

Only demons could breed so quickly as that.  Only a few years, and they were again furies upon the land.  The mercenary band took up the hunt for Wren as a side job on the way to the latest field of battle.  He had found her, to her surprise, in the hayloft of the abandoned farm house just a few miles out of town.  In a weakness born of years of denying natural lusts, he gave into her wiles, and she told him of the Erien Chains.  That was when he had signed his pact with Fate.  He would wear that chain and live long enough to find the heart of the Sedlaral and destroy it.

The clang of metal had stopped.  No sounds of movement could he hear from the smithy.  Welles crept about the end of the wall to the open expanse of the workshop.  Embers glowed bright from the kiln and hearth, lighting his way to the chest.  He tried to walk as silently as he could, careful of tools lying near edges, until he reached the chest and tugged upon the lock. 

He had not thought he would be so lucky as to find the chest unlocked, but it did no harm in checking.  Sure enough, the lock held fast.  He reached for a nearby file and began to work at the tumblers of the lock.  It would take time he could barely afford, but the soft snick of the lock releasing was soon heard.