-- 9/26/6067 --

     The fishing village was an unexpected but welcome sight for Hawn and
Gael.  They came around an angle in the beach to find perhaps two score
dwellings around a large building.  Though the building must have been the
town hall, it had more of the looks of an inn.	The village resided in a
protective cove pierced by a long pier for the small fishing boats and a
brace of medium-sized vessels.
     It appeared that most of the men were out for the day to check traps
and bring in their catches.  A few older anglers remained on the pier,
repairing nets and reliving glorious catches from the olden days that put
to shame anything the younger generation of fishermen could bring in in
their nets.  Aged eyes now paused in their recollections of days gone by to
watch the two strangers approaching the village along the white sands of
the beach.
     Hawn and Gael neared the small fishing hamlet in higher spirits than
they had been in since before they had come across the lighthouse two days
past.  In hopes of finding comfortable beds, fresh food, and news of where
they were, the two quickened their steps towards the small village.
     Some of the local dogs set to half-heartedly barking at the strangers
for a bit before returning to their canine business.  Wives stopped what
they were doing long enough to gather their rugrats in the folds of their
skirts and watch the unusual pair stride past before resuming their work
and considering what gossip they might invent about the two.
     A faded sign bearing the image of a beached whale hung over the front
door to the inn at the center of the village.  The inn was perhaps the
oldest building in town -- easily older than its proprietor, an ancient
salt sitting in a chair next to the bar inside.  He sat there with aged
eyes blind to all around him, unable to see the present, but gazing fondly
upon his glorious past.  His chair was to him a throne of sorts.  From
there he kept watch over his "ship," as well as sitting under the wood
carving of a buxom mermaid from the bow of his old ship.
     The old salt cocked his head at the sound of the two travelers
entering the front door.  Listening to the unfamiliar footsteps, he called
out in a cracked voice, "I welcome ye to the Beached Whale.  We get few
enough strangers hereabouts.  I be Garig.  Ye be want'n a cabin fer
t'night, no?"
     "Actually, we would prefer two separate rooms.  If there are any spare
rooms," replied Hawn.
     "Spare rooms?  Why, there always be plenty o' spare rooms here.
Seldom be there more'n a coupla rooms in use at a time.  Heh heh, if ye
know what I mean, young'n."
     "That'll be a gold for the night," spoke a youth who had entered from
the back.  "Your rooms are up the stairs, the first two on the left.  The
evening meal won't be ready for another couple of hours yet."
     "I could use a bath," interjected Gael.  Fingering her not-quite whole
dress, she continued, "Would there be someplace around here that I might
obtain some traveling clothes?"  The young man gave her directions to one
seamstress who might be able to accommodate her.
     "Tell me, Garig, what do you know of a lighthouse several days travel
to the north of here?" inquired Hawn.
     "Lighthouse?  Lighthouse?  Ye wouldn't mean the ol' lighthouse at the
mouth of the river, would ye?  They say it be haunted by ol' Hadrith, they
do.  Say he appears during fierce storms.  Ye did nay see 'im, did ye?  Bet
'e sent ye pack'n into t'night, 'e did, di'n't 'e?  Heh heh."
     "You know of Hadrith and the Sea Wolf?"
     "The Sea Wolf?" echoed the old man, becoming suddenly serious.  "Ye've
heard of the Sea Wolf?	Ye met ol' Hadrith?"
     "Yes, he appeared to us and took control of my companion's body during
that storm two nights ago."
     "So t'ol' stories be true.  They say if he can light the beacon, then
he may finally rest in peace.  Did 'e light the beacon?" asked the old
sailor eagerly.
     "I know not if it stayed lit, but he did kindle the fire.  Shortly
thereafter we were attacked by some of the living dead.  I think they might
have been of the crew of the Sea Wolf."
     "Fight off the crew, did ye?  What of the cap'n, ol' Red Zahshik?  A
big dark feller 'e was."
     "That does sound like the leader... at least, before he turned into an
animated skeleton and I had to kill him."
     "Ye killed Red Zahshik?  Oi, ye must be a great fighter ta kill a
cruel one like him.  Called 'im the Red caus'n all t'folk 'e killed in cold
blood.	Heh.  Sailed under 'im once, I did.  Jumped ship at t'first port.
Heh, heh.  Got meself on a whaler, I did.  Ah, them were the days."  Garig
fell back into his chair, lost once more in his memories.  Seeing that the
old man was finished, Hawn went to his room to clean up.

     Several other locals were in the common room of the Beached Whale when
Hawn came back downstairs.  He ordered a glass of wine and found a seat
away from the other patrons.  Gael appeared sometime later dressed in more
appropriate travelling garb.  They ate dinner in silence while the locals
watched the fair maiden and the elf out of the corners of their eyes.
     The front door to the inn was unexpectedly hurled open, crashing
against the wall and splintering the wood around the hinges.  Hawn jumped
to his feet with his short sword in his hand, his chair clattering to the
floor behind him.  He cast his eyes about the room to catch a glimpse of
what might have forced open the door.  The table between Hawn and the door
shattered, the pieces swirling through the common room.
     Hawn realized in a flash what was happening.  Leaping over a table to
land next to the fireplace, he kicked ashes and cinders into the air in all
directions -- trying not to notice how scorched his feet were becoming--
until some of them began swirling in a circle.	He quickly cast a bolt of
sorcerous energy the cyclone of ash.  An inhuman wail shook the common
room.  Hawn swung at the fading cone, only to fall back as bright light
exploded around the cyclone revealing a form outlined in light that only
vaguely resembled a bipedal creature.  Hawn slashed with his sword and felt
the magicked blade bite into something far less solid and distinct than
flesh.	A gust of air lifted him from his feet and tossed him against the
far wall.  He fell to the floor and lay still.
     The creature advanced towards where Hawn lay.  The elf clung
desperately to the last dimness of consciousness and climbed groggily to
his feet, holding his sword between himself and the glowing creature.  When
it was close enough, he cut into its not quite solid form again and again,
feeling high winds ripping at his flesh.  He finally forced the creature
back with a flurry of blows until an explosion of wind cast him against the
wall for a second time.
     What looked like blue sky appeared around the glowing form as it
shrank, as if receding into the distance.  Then the splotch of blue shrank
and faded from view.  The final gale plunged the common room into darkness
as it guttered the torches and the fireplace.  Gael's lone voice could be
heard chanting in the darkness, and then a brilliant light sprang into
being, radiating from a beam in the ceiling, illuminating the entire common
room.
     The patrons had all fled when the creature had made its dramatic
appearance.  Besides Hawn and Gael, only Garig and his helper remained.
Garig sat in his chair cackling gleefully while his apprentice cowered
behind the bar.  Gael righted a chair and then helped Hawn into it.
     Looking up at the glowing beam, Hawn asked of Gael, "The light
surrounding that creature...  Was that your doing?"
     "Yes, it was.  But I had no idea it would affect you as it did.  I'm
sorry," she apologized, her face showing both concern and discouragement.
     "Then I thank you, as without your help I would not have been able to
see that creature."
     "Whoo-eee," exclaimed Garig, hobbling over in their direction.  "We
ain't haid no good rows in here since... since that barbarian and those
three bugbears.  Hee, hee, hee."
     "What manner of demon was that?" considered Gael.
     "That was no demon," replied Hawn.  "It was an air elemental, I should
think.	Most likely sent to hunt me down.  I believe the drow are upset
with my plans."  A twisted grin crossed his lips.  To old Garig, he said,
"I'm sorry about all of the damage.  As it is my fault, I shall willingly
pay for the repairs."
     "Oh posh.  Think nut'n of it.  You just brought a li'l excitement into
an old swashbuckler's life.  Hee, hee.  Why, I remember a time..."

			      -- 9/28/6067 --

     The roar of the waves breaking on the rocks below could be heard
throughout the Temple of Poseidon.  The temple had been planned so that the
sound of the waves crashing on the shoreline below the temple would resound
throughout the complex like the voice of the god himself.  Gael now led
Hawn through the echoing corridors to the chambers of the High Priest.
Gael had declined an escort, that she might not have to answer any more
questions than were necessary more times that she could help, knowing full
well that there would be enough questions from the High Priest to answer.
     High Priest Belophor called out for them to enter in response to
Gael's tapping on his door.  Gael and Hawn entered the chamber to stand in
front of Belophor's desk and await his attention.  Belophor glanced up from
the scroll before him and froze, eyes going wide in surprise.  He rose and
came around the desk to happily clasp Gael by the shoulders.
     "Thank Poseidon that you have finally been returned to us.  Where have
you been this past fortnight?  None of our divinations have been able to
locate you or determine your fate.  We had feared that you had fallen prey
to enemies of the temple."
     "I did.  I was abducted by elves and..."
     Glancing sharply at Hawn, his eyes flashing, the High Priest
interrupted, echoing, "Elves?"
     "Dark elves.  Hawn here saved me from being sacrificed to their demon
goddess, Lolth."
     "Perchance you had best start at the beginning," prompted Belophor.
So Gael proceeded to give a slightly embellished description of her capture
and subsequent liberation.
     "And you have no idea as to the reason you specifically were to be
sacrificed?" inquired the High Priest when Gael had finished her recount.
     "Although I have tried, there is no reason which comes to my mind for
me to be worth the effort they employed to capture me."
     "Well, then, this shall require a great deal of thought," stated
Belophor.  Turning to Hawn, he added, "If you have no lodgings in the city
as of yet, good sir, I should be honored to provide you with shelter for
the evening."
     "I have no wish to be of any trouble," spoke Hawn for the first time
since entering the chamber.  In truth, he had no desire to stay in this
place, preferring to be alone with his morbid thoughts.
     "It would be no trouble at all, and is the least we can for the favor
you have rendered to us."

			      -- 10/5/6067 --

     It is a trait of elvenkind that among all of the humanoid races, they
require less sleep than many.  For the most part, their sleep is short and
deep, filled with many dreams and recollections of their past, perhaps that
they might reexperience the joys of their lengthy lives.  However, Hawn had
been avoiding sleep, for it brought to him memories of that ill night when
he had moved from room to room, finding each member of his House lying
dead, bathed in their own blood.  Such dreams disturbed him to the bone,
driving him to stay awake and stare out of the window of his room for many
hours on end, looking neither forwards nor backwards, trying not to think
or recall those painful memories.
     To these ends, he had visited several apothecaries, investing his
limited funds in potions to stave off sleep and thought, that he might
neither recall those painful experiences nor dwell upon the consequences of
them.  But one of the side-effects of these potions was to remove his will
to live and the desire to eat.	He merely sat by his window and gazed
blankly at the horizon.
     Because of this, he was wasting away.  He was growing weary from a
deficiency of sleep, growing thin from a lack of food, his mind growing
numb from absence of thought, the perception of his surroundings growing
dull as they were reduced to little more than vague buzzings at the edge of
his narrowing awareness.

     For Dwarkin, the mission to carry the news of the coming drow invasion
to the nearby elven Houses had been a fortnight fraught with tedium.  The
elders and elflords of the various Houses he had visited had been loath to
start the Kinslayer Wars anew.	Yet with the potential of a drow invasion,
they had little choice in the matter.  The validity of the letters and
other documents recovered from the drow guardpost had been proven by elven
mages, and with the evil words of these papers, preparations had been made.
     Considering he had had the heart to venture into the underrealm in
search of this information in the first place, Dwarkin Shea was charged
with collecting more information about the drow.  This journey would
inevitably require a second trip into the underrealm, one of greater
magnitude than the first, in other to find the motive behind the drow's
attacks, if there was indeed one beyond pure vengeance and malevolence.
     But now, to return and find his friend wasting away, the druid had to
put the dark elves out of his mind.  Never in his brief five centuries of
life had Dwarkin encountered an elf whose vigor of life had faded away so
completely.  Ordinarily, elves were filled with the joys of living,
spending their time cherishing the experience of life.	As such, he was
appalled to see Hawn in such a state, thin and lifeless, as if a mere
thought would be enough to brush the young elf from existence as he sat
staring vacuously out into space.
     All attempts to reach Hawn failed; requests, pleas, threats -- all
were to no avail.  He could be gotten neither to eat nor acknowledge the
presence of others, as if his mind had perished and his body had not yet
take note of the fact.
     Not until Dwarkin, in exasperation, said, "How can you exact from the
drow the price of your loss and cast upon them the vengeance you so eagerly
desired when you sit there thus?" did Hawn finally react.  His eyes slowly
and with difficulty focused upon Dwarkin.
     Hoarsely, the tormented elf croaked through dry, parched lips, "What
can you know of the pain I feel?  Of the loss I now know at the cost of the
deaths of my family?  Two hundred elves dead.  My entire family.  Everyone
I have ever loved.  How can you know the feeling of that?"
     "I almost cannot.  But that is not the point.  How can you just
surrender to this loss of will to live?  If for no other reason, when last
we met you wished to continue on in life to kill as many drow as you might
before your life was lost to you.  Now, you would simply sit and allow your
life to fade without any fight at all."
     "What's the use of it?  If I kill one or a dozen or a hundred, I shall
still end up dead and the drow will still be there.  It is useless -- an
effort without value.  I cannot hope to destroy an entire race."
     "But you can help the light elves.  We have been empowered by the
House elders to discover why the drow seek to restart the Kinslayer Wars,
and to do all in our power to prevent another House from being massacred."
     "What might two elves do against all of the drow?" asked Hawn emptily,
knowing now the futility of such.
     "But we are not alone.  I have found others who desire to assist in
whatever we might endeavor: Evrin of House Moonaria, as well as your
nephew, Graynyr."
     Hawn shot out of his seat in rage, looking as if he would strike down
Dwarkin, but wavered in his weakened state, finally falling back weakly,
saying with feeble rage, "Do not name that bastard in my presence!"
     "Hawn," soothed Dwarkin, "you may hate what Graynyr symbolizes, but he
is not at fault for his origins.  He exists because of love...	But at
least you show some emotion.  Use it.  If nothing else, at least cling to
your hate to live on until you again see the beauties of life."  Dwarkin
loathed the idea of a life based on hatred.  But if it were the only one
that could inspire Hawn to retain his desire to live...
     "There is no beauty in life... only concealed ugliness."
     "Do not be that way.  There is much we have to do, and we need you,
Hawn."
     "Begone, and let me die in peace."
     Sadness filled Dwarkin's heart.  He hated the thought of what he must
do.  But do it he must.  "Then fine, die like this.  Shame the memory of
your family.  Die as an enfeebled coward.  Do nothing to honor the memories
of those who loved you.  Your father, Telenor.	Mryandra, your beautiful
mother.  Lassarin, Melinder, Nyzandra..."
     "Blast you..." interrupted Hawn.  "Be silent and do not remind me of
those..."
     "...Yar'ralith," continued Dwarkin, feeling as nearly as much pain as
Hawn at what he was doing, "your sister Ni'aleen..."
     "Be silent, I say!" yelled Hawn as loudly as he could.  The pain of
his loss returned to his heart, the memory of those he loved, the memory of
looking down upon their bodies twisted in the throws of death.
     "...Ni'aleen, sweet, young Ni'aleen..."
     Hawn forced himself to his feet once again.  Pain and rage burned
hotly in his eyes.  He backhanded Dwarkin across the cheek.  Dwarkin made
no move to block or avoid the blow, knowing full well that he deserved it.
     "Damn you, then, I shall help you," allowed Hawn in a low, anguished
voice.
     Dwarkin could only hope that Hawn's feelings towards life would change
in time, and that he would live long enough for them to change.