Finding His Own Path

[Grayson]

About a week had passed since Grayson had left that town in Bern. He wasn't sure of what Sabin and Xavier were doing, but he knew that they would be fine. Sabin could handle himself, despite his brutishness, and Xavier... well he was sure he would find a group that would benefit him. In fact, the two may have been traveling together. The novice archer didn't spend long dwelling on that, however. He had his own life to lead.

Grayson gained some valuable experience along the way. He didn't know where he was going, but he felt that if he were to simply follow a road then he would get someplace. This led to a week that reminded him of the week during his childhood he spent alone. Unsultry characters, harsh weather, and his most dreaded terror, moths. But he felt that he was made stronger by it. No longer would he be conned out of all his money by an "old man down on his luck" and forced to work a few days as a street waste cleaner just so he could have the funds to move on. No longer would be be so terrified of moths. It turned out that they were harmless little fuzzy butterflies. They still made him uneasy, however.

Grayson found himself at the border between Bern and Sacae two days earlier. He had trouble convincing the guards that he wasn't an Ilian spy returning to his homeland with intel. It was quite the hold up, but he was eventually let through. Grayson was glad to have left the country. It was beautiful, but damn if it's people weren't a hassle. Well, except for the tanner he met a week ago.

Now Grayson found himself trotting on top of Mr. Cobblepot across a vast expanse of plains. The mid-summer heat was incredible there and it was humid to boot. Not to mention the winds. With so little to stop or redirect it, the wind on the plains got particularly bad.

Grayson looked up at the darkening sky. He sighed. Yet another thunderstorm. For such a peaceful, gently swaying piece of land, it sure had a knack for attracting storms, it seemed. The novice archer spurred his horse forward to find shelter before the storm hit. But then came wind that near knocked him from his mount. Then rain and hail all at once.

"What in the blazes?!"

That was when he saw it. Like some horrible tendril lowering from the sky, the clouds in the distance reached towards the ground over the small town he just passed. Awe-stricken, he stood motionless as the funnel lowered and grew. The winds became worse and he could see a swirling layer of dirt and debris under the ever growing cone. The sky turned an unsettling green color. Grayson could tell this, this thing was bad news for the town, but he couldn't get up the courage to move. He sat on Mr. Cobblepot, fear holding him stiff. The white steed seemed to do the same. The two watched as the monstrosity began to rip through the innocent village.

[Grayson]

The ground rumbled. Whatever this thing was, it was making the ground rumble! Grayson had never been so scared in his life or empathetic for other people. Watching such a force tear through building like that put a new perspective upon the archer's life. Never before had he seen some so terrifying, but also so awe-inspiring. The cloud cone, he decided to name it, sent pieces of buildings flying. One such went whizzing past his head, nearly relieving him of it. That was enough to get Grayson moving.

"Time to go, Mr. Cobblepot!" he kicked at his horse to get it to move, but the steed was simply frozen. That horrified Grayson even more. Normally, an animal would run from something like that. But his steed was shaken to the point that it just stood there. However, the archer needed to get the two of them out of there before one of them got hit by a stray fork. He kicked and pulled on the bridle, but with no results. Then, a chunk of a house landed not five feet from them. That was enough to startle the horse into moving.

"Glad you could join me!" Grayson shouted as he crouched low in the saddle and urged his horse forward. Mr. Cobblepot sped forward at full gallop and Grayson did his best to steer him around debris. But the more the two ran, the more it seemed that they couldn't escape it and the rain suddenly ended. Looking behind him, Grayson found out why. The cloud cone was following them. Maybe not so much following them, but it was definitely going in the same direction. And it was much faster than a horse.

Grayson yanked the reins to steer his steed off the path the cloud cone was venturing. It became harder and harder to press forward. Lighting struck not even a mile away, deafening the archer for a few moments. Then everything seemed to move more slowly. Mr. Cobblepot was lifted up slightly by the vacuum behind them. The wind threatened to sweep Grayson from his horse. The archer's arms tired from holding on so tightly when a natural force stronger than himself tried to pry him away.

Finally, Mr. Cobblepot was knocked over to the side and took Grayson with him. The body of his faithful steed fell on him, crushing his ribs. The archer let out a cry of incredible pain and awaited death as the cloud cone drew ever nearer. He thought of Aaron and his parents. How he would never get to see any of them again. Mr. Cobblepot was dragged along by the wind, taking Grayson with him and causing even more wrenching pain. And just when it seemed that he was going to meet his end, the cone got smaller. It swirled back up into the clouds and the wind stopped. Rain soon began pouring again. Not that it mattered much. Grayson wasn't able to feel the cold drops. Ribs broken and consciousness fading, he consigned to his fate and closed his eyes.

[Grayson]

Grayson awoke to the smell of incense burning and the sound of wind chimes. Slowly, his eyes opened to get a view of a white tarp draped over a wooden pole. A fire cracked to his right, causing the white tarp to be lit with a flickering orange light, and he found that he was laying on his bed roll. The archer went to sit up, but pain shot through his chest, causing him to cringe and fall back. Breathing heavily from the pain that slowly faded, he noticed movement to the side of him.

"I wouldn't move too much. Your wounds are still healing. Being tossed around by a tornado, even if it was a small one, is not something many live through."

Grayson looked around as much as he could without hurting himself. Craning his head, he was able to catch a glimpse of a dark-skinned man, so dark that he was actually difficult to see if not for his white hair. He sat at the opposite end of the fire, tending to a pot hanging over the flames. One other thing the archer noticed was his belongings in one corner laying next to an ornamented wooden staff. It's jewel was brilliant. It reminded him of Xavier's but even more exquisite.

"Where am I? What... where is Mr. Cobblepot?" Grayson wearily inquired.

The man walked over to the staff, taking it from it's resting place, and approached the archer.

"I assume your mean your horse. He is outside. Thankfully, he suffered no injuries. You, on the other hand, are in quite the spot. I need you to sleep more as I tend to your wounds."

The man got close enough for Grayson to see that he was quite old. Possibly even older than his father. The man waved the staff in his hand over Grayson, releasing a wave of tiny glowing orbs that slowly fell onto the archer's body. He was overcome with a feeling of peace and his eyelids felt heavy. Moments later, he once again drifted to sleep.

[Grayson]

Grayson awoke once more to a similar sight. Same tent, same scent, same sounds. He tried to move, judging how much he could move his body before feeling pain, but much to his surprise none came. The archer jumped to his feet, devoid of pain and able to move freely, and felt his chest. He took inventory of anything that might be odd, but it was all there. Every rib seemed completely whole and undamaged. It was miraculous! Just, well, Grayson did not know how long ago, but the last time he was up and about he was sure his own horse destroyed his ribcage! Now it was restored as if it had never happened!

Grayson stepped outside, taking his tunic from a corner of the tent. While slipping it on, he had to stop only halfway through clothing himself. Laid out before the archer at that moment was a horrific sight. The tent he was laying in was set up inside the small village he passed earlier. Not a single building was left standing and he couldn't see anyone amidst the rubble.

"I know it is difficult, but you must press on for them. I will honor their spirits and record their history, but that is all I can do." the voice from earlier echoed from behind him. Grayson turned to respond to the oddly worded statement, but found him with three people he assumed to be the only survivors. They wept and thanked the man who was enrobed in dark vestiments and left to clean up their now literally broken homes. The archer finished putting on his tunic as the man walked to greet him.

"So you are awake. Just in time. I have things to tell you, Grayson. Come." Grayson stepped back for a second as the stranger passed by him. He started moving to follow the man. The two walked through the littered street of the village, a simple loop that spanned not even a mile in diameter.

"I know you have experienced a great ordeal and that your opinion of disaster has changed forever. I... apologize for the abrupt meeting. I would hope that we could have met in happier times, but it was important that I tend to your wounds. It is not yet your time, after all."

Grayson stopped for a second and tried to wrap his head around what was just said.

"What? How... how do you know me? How the hell do you know when my 'time' is?"

The stranger stopped and turned to face Grayson. His weathered features made more apparent as the archer got a good look at his face.

"Ah. I suppose you do deserve to know at least that much. I am called Hartun. I am an archivist. I record the lives of and honor the spirits of the newly deceased. It just so happens that I am assigned to your family, among others. While it is not normally my duty to take interest on the life of a person before their passing, your destiny has intrigued me. As well as the destiny of those you have met recently."

Grayson had trouble understanding what was going on. He stumbled back a few steps.

"What are you talking about? Archivist? My destiny?! What are you getting at?"

"I understand this can be difficult to take in. Perhaps I should show you."

Hartun held out his hand and a gigantic tome materialized in it. He held out his other had and a dark wooden staff appeared. The man showed the book to Grayson, showing some blank pages, and tapped his staff on the ground. The sky darkened despite the lack of any cloud in the sky and the breeze that swept across the ruins completely stopped. A violet wave emanated from the spot the staff struck followed by a very uneasy feeling, almost like Grayson was floating, but he looked to find he was still standing firmly on the ground. A bright light shone to either side of them and the archer shielded his eyes from it. It soon dulled and left a collection of wisps hovering in the air, the sound of heavy breathing echoing all around them accompanied by a low hum. Hartun took his hand from the staff, leaving standing erect on it's tip, and thrust his hand out. He pulled his hand close and stretched it to one side, his arm crossing his body, and then swiped it to the other side, a streak of violet light following his motion. The wisps were drawn to his hand and swirled around it. Hartun held out his tome and pressed his hand against it. Another bright light flashed across the pages and what was once blank was now filled with writing. The sound subsided and the sky returned to it's pale morning state.

Hartun waved his hand and the staff transformed into lavender smoke that was carried off by the breeze that had just then returned. He thrust the book into Grayson's arms.

"Read."

The dumbfounded archer looked through the newly written pages. The language was foreign to him, but he understood what it meant. Vital information on people that had died the day before in the town, every aspect of their lives and a vivid description of their deaths. There was even an infant listed. Grayson's eyes widened as he was compelled to look at a certain part of the book. He flipped to a page. "Grayson Albert Pintel", it read. He scanned the pages detailing his entire life up to that point, but there was more beyond it. However, before he could get a glimpse at what was written, the book closed and turned into the same smoke the staff became.

"I apologize, but I cannot allow you to read further than that. Common folk are not to know their destiny. Even though destiny is not exactly set in stone, but a possibility of what one may achieve. However, knowing your life's potential could keep you from doing the one thing that leads you to it."

Grayson understood and nodded, silent. He was still thinking over what this all meant.

"So you send souls to the afterlife and record their lives as well?"

Hartun shook his head.

"No. I do not ferry souls to their resting place. I am only a humble servant. My job is simply to record."

"Oh. Well why tell me all this? As a... a common person, aren't I supposed to not even know you exist or something?"

"Not at all. Of course, not many know of us, but we are not so secretive as to avoid contact. I have shown myself to you because your destiny is rather intriguing to me and you made a mistake in the past. A mistake that will keep you from your true potential if you do not rectify this error."

"Oh. Well tell me what it is, please!"

Hartun cleared his throat.

"It is what transpired a tenday ago. Letting Aaron Winsett leave, alone. You were supposed to follow him for your true path begins in Etruria in his company. I would normally allow you to follow your own path, but your case is especially important to me, Grayson." Hartun placed his hands on Grayson's shoulders, "In order to realize your destiny, you must find him. Your path along the way and after is up to you, but he is an important component."

[Grayson]

Grayson wasn't sure of what to make of the news Hartun just gave him. Find Aaron? Sure, he hoped he would see him again someday, but actually chase after him? It seemed utterly contradictory to the archer's earlier behavior in Bern. However, there was something about this man that made Grayson want to comply with his advice. Maybe it was the show he put on earlier or maybe it was Grayson's own desire to see his friend again, but something gave the archer a calming feeling that what he said was true.

"I... I guess that's possible." Grayson looked up at the cloudless sky, "But I made a really big scene back there about not following him. Aaron told us to stay and I stayed. If I go find him then I'll look like a hypocrite."

The archivist sighed.

"I understand your reluctance, but if you want to become what you are meant to be, then you must find him. Disguise your true intentions. Upon finding him, just feign ignorance and say you are simply crossing paths with him if his opinion of you is that important. You are one who is not well-versed in the lay of the land. It would be simple to say that you did not know where you were going."

Grayson couldn't help but feel a little hurt by the comment about his ignorance of the world, but he knew it to be true. The archer was about to respond when Hartun spoke again.

However. I would advise you to not seek him out until you have attained a competent level of expertise with your bow. I am to understand that you wish to learn mounted archery?"

Grayson nodded. Hartun, again, was right. Grayson hadn't planned on seeing Aaron again until he was at least a capable archer, anyway.

"Well, then. I can direct you to where you can meet some people who will give you proper experience. They will not directly teach you, but for you, learning from a master is not in your path anyway."

Grayson nodded again, his hair shaking in his face. Hold on. Shaking in his face? Grayson quickly went to touch his pompadour to find that it wasn't there. His hair had been down all that time! The archer excused himself and rushed to the tent, looking desperately for his pomade. To his dismay, he found none of the sort.

"No! My hair! My beautiful hair!" Grayson shouted. Hartun walked into the tent and placed a hand on the saddened archer's shoulder.

"This is something I will have more difficulty understanding. However, I am sympathetic to your distress. When I gathered your belongings in the field, I found none of your hair product. I apologize."

Grayson would have normally screamed at Hartun for losing his pomade, but this time was different. He accepted the apology. After all, he could buy some more at the next town. It was odd. He wasn't used to being this forgiving about something like his hair.

"Um... It's alright, Hartun. I'll just... I'll just buy some more."

"How surprising. Perhaps you are maturing faster that anticipated? I will have to log this in-" Hartun stopped for a second, as if someone interrupted to whisper in his ear, "One of my wards has been triggered. A band of ruffians approaches to ransack the remains of the town. I had hoped to send you on your way before this inevitable situation began, but it seems I am too late. If you wish to hide in the tent, I can keep it from being seen." Hartun offered.

Grayson stood up and pulled his bow and quiver from the corner and threw on his cloak.

"No. I will defend these people with you. After all. I have a great destiny ahead of me, right?" Grayson responded with his usual smirk.

[Grayson]

Hartun was surprised by Grayson's willingness to fight. A smile creeped it's way into his visage, something Grayson hadn't seen the old man do yet, and he began to laugh hysterically. The archer was confused and a little wounded by his sudden uproarious laughter.

"I'm not that bad! I was able to kill a couple bandits not two weeks ago!"

Hartun held up a hand as he was bent over in laughter and slowly calmed himself.

"No... it's not... it's not that. It was just unexpected. You acquired quite a fire when I was busy with other things, it seems." the archivist finally composed himself again, "Very well, then! Mount your steed and follow me!"

Hartun walked off, a tome and a staff materializing in his hands. Grayson finished securing his belt and headed out to where Mr. Cobblepot was tied. He untied his white stallion's bridle and hoisted himself into the saddle.

"Ready for some action, Mr. Cobblepot? We're going to defend this town with everything we've got!"

The archer rode to Hartun and peered into the distance. To his shock and dismay, what he thought would be a few bandits was actually a full fledged horde. Grayson wasn't able to count them accurately, but he guessed maybe fourty or so bandits were on their way to the ruined town. Grayson gulped loudly from nerves and looked down at Hartun.

"How, in the blazes, are we supposed to fight that?!" The novice archer asked, voice shaking from panic.

"Like this."

Hartun raised his staff, a different one made of white wood with an amethyst gem at the top, and shouted in a voice that seemed like it could carry for miles.

"Noble citizens of Eldershire! Rise and defend your homes! Give one last stand in the name of the lives you gave, your families, and the honor of the town you were so unfairly robbed of! I ask you to rise! And stand united one last time!"

A silent wind swept across the ruins of the town. Suddenly, shafts of violet light shot up from the debris. Too many to count. The shafts stretched and morphed until they slowly began to resemble people. Hartun raised his tome and the pages fluttered, sending out orbs of pale lavender that raced to the etherial bodies. Once bonded with the orbs, the vaguely humanoid blobs landed, "feet" firmly planted on the ground, and shifted from violet to a deep black in color. Grayson couldn't believe what he was seeing, but it didn't make it any less real. Another wave of Hartun's staff and the phantoms marched into formation. A small army easily the size of the bandit force, if not larger, now stood in front of the two.

"I... I guess that works."

Grayson fit an arrow and aimed at one bandit, remembering his target practice in the clearing a tenday before and all the practice he had done on his journey alone. He noticed several of the phantoms taking aim with "bows" of their own as well. Another booming command came from Hartun.

"FIRE!"

Grayson let the arrow fly, as did his spectral counterparts. The arrows arced and fell, hitting their marks and some of the bandits fell from their horses. Grayson wasn't sure which one was his, he'd never been in a battle like that before, but he felt good about the result.

"SHIELDS!" came another order from the summoner. The front line of the phantasmal army raised their tower shields and rushed in to meet the bandit force. Grayson sat in awe of the sight, but quickly came to his senses and rushed to fit another arrow. The battle was met and he wasn't about to slack off.

[Grayson]

The clear skies seemed a bit less bright as the battle raged forward. Grayson wondered why so many of the bandits showed up for a simple raid of a ruined town. There was more happening here, but he didn't have time to ponder it. A small axe came flying out of the crowd of bandits and phantoms, just missing Grayson's shoulder. The archer pulled back on his bow string, arrow fitted, and fired in the direction it flew from. He watched as the arrow sunk into the side of a bandit and he readied another. Aiming once more at the man who staggered back from the arrow in his ribs, he fired again. This time, landing the arrow in his neck. The bandit fell and, though Grayson was aiming for the man's head, he was satisfied with the result.

The ghosts, were they ghosts? Grayson had never seen a ghost so he had no real frame of reference. They fought bravely. It helped that each time one was cut, the blades simply passed through them with nary a few moments of hesitation from the spectral soldier. Of course, it seemed to be that the phantoms retained the combat experience of the villagers who's memories they obtained. As such, they mainly stood to be distractions or shields rather than an actual force of might. Grayson peered over at Hartun who was busy giving orders to his minions and batting away bandits with pitch black magic. The archer was bewildered by this man's abilities and he knew he had to ask him about them when it was all over. Assuming they were to survive.

While Grayson was busy admiring the sights, however, a lone arrow sank deep into his arm. Grayson let out a cry of pain and nearly dropped his bow. The archer snapped the arrow shaft, twinging in pain from the arrowhead stuck in his arm. Looking into the distance, he spied three mounted archers. Their attire resembled that of the nomads he had been told about. Grayson's eyes widened as he looked down at the fray. They were all wearing similar attire.

"Sacaean natives? But I thought..." Grayson wasn't able to continue his thought as the riders continued to fire volleys at him, whooping and circling around. One wore a wolf skin atop his head and also carried a blade. The novice archer assumed this man was the leader fired an arrow directly at him. To his dismay, the wolf-headed man simply knocked the arrow away and drew his sword. The other two riders followed the ranger as he galloped towards Grayson. The archer panicked and kicked at Mr. Cobblepot's sides with his spurs. The white steed burst forth, trampling some would-be assailants in it's path.

"No! No no no no nooooo!" Grayson yelled out as arrows flew past his head. The bastards were shooting while riding at full gallop! The archer figured he should learn how to do that if he managed to live through the battle.

"Hartun! A little helelelelelp!" The novice archer shouted at the archivist. Hartun looked up and saw Grayson fleeing from the mounted bandits. He was unable to do much as he was busy fighting his own battle, but managed to conjure a hasty darkness spell. Grayson was startled as the area around him went completely black. Then he was suddenly able to see again. Looking behind him, he noticed the blackness was conjured in one spot and the tribesmen just so happened to still be in it. Grayson took advantage of the momentary blindness they were experiencing and steered Mr. Cobblepot to flank them. When the nomads left the blackness, he was already behind them.

Recalling his days learning horseback tricks, Grayson gave a hand gesture to Mr. Cobblepot, hoping he would remember it. Taking advantage of the element of surprise, he leapt from his mount and kicked one of the archers in the back of his head. The nomad slipped from his horse and Grayson landed safely on top of it, albeit an incredible pain in his groin from the landing. To his delight, however, it seemed that his horse had remembered the hand signal and was galloping next to Grayson on the Sacaean horse. The archer swung one leg over into the stirrups of his horse's saddle and grabbed the reins of both steeds, standing in between the two horses.

The two Sacaeans that were left finally noticed what happened, but Grayson had already directed his mounts to the other archer. Grayson pulled his foot out of the stirrup belonging to the nomad horse and gave it a kick to send it galloping directly at his target. He gave a triumphant chuckle as the steed collided into the archer's mount, knocking him from his horse. With another swing of his leg, Grayson was back on Mr. Cobblepot. Now it was just him and the wolf headed one.

[Grayson]

Grayson had a feeling he was far outmatched by the Sacaean now pursuing him. The man had a presence about him and he could easily fight while riding, a skill Grayson had not yet figured out. A look behind him revealed that the man was pulling out his bow. With a kick, the archer urged Mr. Cobblebot to gallop faster.

"Sorry, old friend, but we need to get out of this alive! Remember the slalom posts?" he wasn't sure why he was asking his horse if he remembered an obstacle the two used to run through years ago, but he really didn't have time to feel silly as an arrow grazed the top of his head.

"I really hope you do!" Grayson pulled the reins to one side and directed his horse to make a forty five degree turn. Then he quickly pulled them to the opposite side to send Mr. Cobblepot in the other direction. He continued this, making a zig zag pattern. The unusual pattern in which he rode made it difficult for the man behind him to line up a shot and he put his bow away, drawing his blade once more. A battle cry rang out from behind Grayson and he could feel the Sacaean gaining on him. However, the entire time he was being pursued, the novice archer was leading the raider into a trap.

The wolf-headed man galloped along side Grayson and Mr. Cobblepot, swinging at the archer. Grayson did all he could to dodge the swipes. His arm began to slow as the arrowhead still inside it ripped up the muscles and tendons with every movement. Grayson was able to ignore the pain until that point, but no longer. What would have been the final blow to the novice archer, however, was stopped in mid swing as the raider, who was so focused on slaying Grayson, barreled headlong into the crowd of bandits. His horse trampled most of what was left and eventually fell over, sending the leader to the ground with it.

Grayson slowed his steed as he got farther away from the battle. Arm now not responding, he steered his horse with one arm to face it once more. The bandits were strewn about. What was left of them was being quickly handled by Hartun and his army of... whatever those things were. Breathing heavy, Grayson slumped over onto his horse's neck.

"Good... good job, Mr. Cobblepot."

Several minutes passed with Grayson watching the remainder of the bandits retreat. the leader attempted to pull himself up, but it seemed his leg was broken by the fall. Grayson gingerly dismounted his steed and led him over to Hartun who had restrained the wolf-headed man.

"This is their leader, apparently. I have no record of him, however."

The leader spat at Grayson.

"Filthy Lycian pig!"

Grayson wiped the spit from his tunic and knelt down, twinging from the pain in his arm. He tried to remember everything his father taught him of noble relations with one's enemy.

"What is your name?"

"Garndus the Wolf! Proud warrior of the Yaventuri tribe! What do you call yourself, trickster?"

Trickster... Grayson rather liked that title. He smiled as best as he could under the amount of pain he was feeling.

"I am Grayson Pintel... former heir to the noble Pintel family of Pherae."

"Hah! A noble! What is a rich brat like you doing on these plains? Let alone defending a forsaken village?"

grayson sighed and shook his head.

"Rich I am not, plainsman. I am just a normal, humble man who wishes to see that the belongings of these poor, deceased townspeople are protected while I am here."

"Why protect them? They no longer live so they no longer belong to them!"

"Perhaps you may be right in a physical sense, but if you were to die right now and I took your wolf hat, would you mind at all?"

"My warrior's headdress is mine and mine alone! I killed the wolf! I took his pelt! I... oh..."

A look of sudden realization washed over the nomad's face.

"See? These townspeople had everything taken from them and it was no fault of their own. The least we can do is protect what they left behind."

Hartun smiled, but never took his eyes from Garndus.

"Let him go, Hartun. He won't bother this town any longer."

The archivist nodded and released the bonds he kept the Sacaean in. However, Garndus did not leave. Nor did he wish to stay with them. He picked up his blade and swung at Grayson. Though, before he could take the archer's life, his head popped like an over ripe melon. The blood and brain spattered Grayson looked up in shock at Hartun who's hand was outstretched with a violet glow. that was enough to make the archer light headed and then eventually collapse. He once again slipped out of the conscious world.

[Grayson]

Grayson awoke once more to the sight of the tent set up in Eldershire. He half expected to still be unable to move his arm, but it was completely unharmed. He scoffed. He felt a little silly now that he had thought that Hartun wasn't going to fix whatever happened to be wrong with him. It seemed the old man was obsessed with keeping him alive. The archer looked over his shoulder to see his savior tending to the same pot he was tending to last time. An odd smell filled the tent, perhaps from whatever was brewing in the pot. Grayson laid back down on the bedroll.

"Was it his time?"

Hartun looked up from his cooking, a quizzical look upon his face.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean the raider leader. Was it his time?" Grayson raised his hands and made gestures with his index and middle fingers when he said the word "time".

"I do not know. But he would have likely killed you if I did not intervene."

"You didn't have to kill the man. Perhaps there was something we could have done? Something I could have said?"

Hartun ladeled some of the stew in his pot into a bowl and walked to Grayson. The archer sat up and took the bowl, looking at the strange stew in his lap. It was bubbling and a dark purple color.

"I mean... there had to be some way to- what is this?" Grayson abruptly changed the subject.

"Something that will give you energy for your journey. Eat." The archivist motioned at the bowl in Grayson's hands and went back to the pot to serve himself some of the stew. Grayson stared the meal down for a while, unsure if he should eat it. Hartun wouldn't feed him anything bad, would he? The archer slowly picked up a spoonful of the stuff and put it in his mouth. At that instant, his mouth felt like it was on fire. The stew tasted like nothing he had ever tasted, but not in a good way. The archer spat it out, coughing from the taste and the spice.

"What... what's in that?! It's revolting!"

Hartun sighed and turned to face Grayson.

"Potatoes, various spices, fermented lizard meat, cream-" Grayson stopped the druid in the middle of his list.

"Fermented lizard meat? No wonder it tastes rotten!"

"You don't care for it? This stew is a favorite in my home."

Grayson looked at Hartun. His home. He wondered where that could have been.

"Where is that, exactly? Your home, I mean. I don't mean to draw attention to it, but I've never met one with skin as dark as yours."

Hartun leaned back in the chair he sat in. He took a spoonful of the stew and chewed it for a moment before swallowing and responding.

"I cannot tell you. For I was banished. Long ago. It is law for those banished to never speak of the place we call home."

"Now I just want to know even more." Grayson replied. He attempted again to eat the stew, but to no avail, "I'm sorry. I can't eat this. You wouldn't happen to have some bread or a nice roast, would you?"

"I suppose it is something to get used to. I do have a loaf of bread and some lizard jerky."

More lizards. Wonderful, Grayson thought. But he was incredibly hungry and he was pretty much out of rations so he gracefully accepted it. It wasn't too bad. It tasted alright and the bread was good. The two sat in silence for a while while they ate. Grayson decided to speak up to break the silence.

"So the raiders. Did you..."

"Yes. I recorded their lives. It is my job, after all." Hartun responded before Grayson could finish.

"Good. And those... things you made. What were they?"

The archivist finished his bowl of stew and poured himself another.

"We call them Shells. Empty bodies made of concentrated essence that serve as hosts for one's memories. Once the recorded memories of a person are infused within the Shell, I am able to command it with a simple word. Naturally, the memories dictate the combat ability of the shell." Hartun ate a spoonful fo the stew, "They are very effective on battlefields once the freshly dead are recorded. It is almost as if the soldiers the opposing army killed had risen again, but that time could not be killed. That is why only archivists are taught how to cast the spell. In the wrong hands, it could cause horrible atrocities."

Grayson sat in awe of what Hartun just said. He knew little of magic and, until that day, had only seen the magic done by Aaron, Gabriel, and Jade. The arche rhad no clue that thing sliek that were possible.

"So any mage could do it, but you restrict it to only people like you?"

"Not at all. Only those who are deeply connected to the elder forces and masters of the dark arts can even dream to conjure this spell. My magic is not that of a just nature. However, we archivists do just things with it."

"Wow..." Grayson finished his food and then thought aloud, "I kind fo wish i picked up magic instead of archery, now."

Hartun jumped at the thought.

"No! You must stay to your path and your path includes the bow. Besides, you lack the mental fortitude to practice magic. Especially the kind I deal in."

Grayson chuckled a bit.

"Relax, Hartun! I was only pondering. I would never give up my current style. I'm too involved with it, now."

"Good." said Hartun, looking and sounding deeply relieved, "Well. I suppose you should prepare for your trip. You have much ahead of you."

"I suppose I should." Grayson stood and peered at the corner with his things. Was he ready to just leave this man behind with so many things unanswered? He assumed that Hartun wouldn't tell him what he wanted to know, however. Plus, Grayson had a feeling that he would not be seeing the last of him. The archer went to take his things and step outside the tent.

[Grayson]

Fully clothed and packed, Grayson stood looking at the ruined town he just protected. It was a good feeling. He quite enjoyed defending what would otherwise mean nothing to him. The novice archer decided that he would, form then on, do his best to champion those less fortunate than him. His youth growing up in his family's manor taught him nothing of the world. He had a glimpse of how poorer people lived as a boy, but nothing more. He had no clue something could just take away everything you have in an instant. But he witnessed it happen and then he defended what little was left alongside those who lost it. Well, not literally alongside them, but he liked to think that a person's memories are a large portion of what they are. And the memories of the fallen townspeople fought for their shattered home. Grayson was proud to stand and fight and prouder still of how he stood up for them against the nomad leader.

Hartun walked up behind Grayson and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"Are you ready?" came the man's deep tone. Grayson turned around and nodded.

"Um... thanks for what you did. Saving my life, protecting the town, saving my life again. I wish you could come with me. It's lonely with only me and Mr. Cobblepot out there."

Hartun sighed and responded with a fatherly tone.

"Alas, I cannot. I have much work to do in other places. Though I will direct you to the people I mentioned earlier. They will soon reach a shrine on the plains and I wish for you to meet them there. One of them you know already. I believe he goes by the name of Wyatt."

Grayson remembered Wyatt from his journeys in Bern. He wasn't very well acquainted with him, however. The two said their goodbyes after Hartun marked Grayson's map and gave him directions. The novice archer mounted his steed and trotted off, trying not to look back. He may have been an adult, but Grayson was still a child at heart. And willingly leaving Hartun was difficult. However, after a few minutes he couldn't fight the urge to look back and swung his head around to find that the tent and it's resident were gone. A bittersweet smile displayed itself on Grayson's face as he turned back at rode on into the plains.

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