Although she could not see the setting sun, the crimson sky told Gael
that it was sinking below the horizon.
     It felt as if the sun had chosen to set upon her chest, such was the
weight upon her heart.	Gael sat there, pondering these unfamiliar emotions
which filled her being.  Ever since her family had been cruelly murdered in
cold blood, she had buried these feelings far in the back of her mind,
never allowing herself to dwell on that painful event.	Never allowing
herself to accept what had happened.
     Her entire life had been stolen from her in the course of a half an
hour.  But with the fortitude of a young child, she had bounced back and
lent herself to the study of the lore of Poseidon.  Yet, it had been an
empty effort.  She had never truly embraced Poseidon with her heart -- he
and his temple had served as a means of not having to face her loss.  In
time, the destruction of her village had been locked away in the back of
her mind and she had gone about the necessary rituals and devotions to her
god.  However, she had felt no elation or emotion in doing so: her will and
vigor of life had been stolen from her on that day rogue orcs had massacred
her village.
     She had gone about her ways with only half a heart until the day of
her abduction by the drow and her subsequent liberation by Hawn and
Dwarkin.  When she had learned of Hawn's having lost his entire family, it
had awoke within her a sympathy for the elf.  Gael understood how great was
his loss.  She knew firsthand what it felt like to have everyone you loved
brutally murdered.
     However, whereas she had simply continued on with her life, giving
herself wholly to the will of Poseidon, living a life without any real
drive, Hawn had set for himself a seemingly impossible task, willing to
sacrifice his life in vengeance for the evil committed by the drow.  This
had brought out something within her.  A spark of drive had returned to her
life.  She had wanted to help him in his quest, knowing what he was
experiencing.  She wanted to help him to find some way of recovering his
will to live.
     But she had still not accepted the loss of her family.  She had turned
away from their death and absorbed herself in the temple of Poseidon.  Hawn
had turned from the deaths of his family and set himself on a path of
revenge.  Not until she had gazed into the horrible eyes of the scarecrow
had she finally accepted that her family was dead.  Murdered.
     And now she could think of nothing but that day when they had been
brutally slain, cut down as they worked or tried to defend the village.
The orcs had first slain those who fought back, and then turned upon the
rest: the old, the weak, the young.  She had only barely escaped, the last
sight of her village being of her grandmother running, waving her arms, her
clothing aflame.
     The images pressed in upon Gael.  It was as if she was once again a
child of six, back in her village.  She could not bear to close her eyes as
she would see her family struck down by orcs who laughed coarsely as they
went about their horrid work.  Sounds of the dying filled her ears, and she
had to force herself to not choke upon the greasy smell of burning flesh.
     "What is this that fills your eyes with sights of another time and
place."
     Gael started back to from her revere to find Hawn before her, staring
down into her eyes.
     "I knocked and there was no response," explained the elf.	"Dwarkin
tells me that you are troubled by something of which you will not speak."
     "Memories, memories I had thought to be long forgotten.  Memories I
would rather never recall."
     "I have found that the memories you most want to forget are the ones
that are the least possible to forget.	What memories could be so harrowing
that they overwhelm your senses so?"
     Gael was silent, wondering if she should tell Hawn of her problems.
Finally, she said, "I know not what evil forces were embodied within
those enchanted scarecrows, but they broke down barriers in my mind,
barriers which blocked out the worst experience of my life.  When I was
six, a band of orcs murdered my family and razed my village."
     Hawn's expression remained unchanged, except for a slighted raised
eyebrow.  When he displayed no other reaction, she demanded angrily, "How
can you just stand there like that?"
     "What would you have of me?" countered Hawn flatly.  "Condolences?
Grief?	Sorrow?  Do not expect sympathy from me.  I have no such emotions
left to me.  The drow saw to that when they destroyed my entire House.	I
have nothing left for myself, let alone another.  You have lived fifteen
years since your family was slain.  Obviously you held a greater resistance
to the grief you suffered, a noticeable trait of your race."
     "My race?"  Gael rose from her seat, surprised and angered that Hawn
would say this to her.	"Are you saying that just because I am human, I
feel nothing at the death of my family?"
     "You are human.  You live for a very short time, and must experience
death far more often than elves.  Because of that, the death of another
does not affect you as greatly as it does an elf.  We live many times
longer than humans, and as such must deal with death only on rare
occasions.  I do not have the resistance to the feelings invoked by death
that humans have had the fortune of developing."
     "How dare you say that I feel nothing over the death of my family!
Damn you!  It destroyed everything I had, everything I was.  How can you
say..."
     "I said no such thing.  I merely stated that however great your grief
might be, for an elf, it is far greater.  Your life was destroyed.  Six
years of life.	My life was destroyed.	One hundred eighty summers of
growth and love annihilated in a single evening.  It is a matter of
perspective."
     Gael realized what he said rung of truth, but she still could not see
how there could be varying degrees of loss in such matters.  When someone
you love with all of your heart dies, it still strikes deep into your
heart, no matter how long you have known them.
     "Still, even if all of my family were slain, it is not so with you."
When Hawn did not appear to catch her meaning, she added, "Graynyr still
lives."
     Hawn suddenly appeared as if here were going to explode in a fury.
"Graynyr is not of my family," he growled.
     Gael was confused.  "I thought that he was your nephew," she pointed
out, remembering a fragment of their argument the other evening.
     "Graynyr is the son of my sister, that does not make him my nephew.
He is not of my family."
     "You're speaking in riddles.  If he is the son of your sister, then he
must be your nephew."
     "You know nothing of this matter.  Do not speak of it," Hawn warned
her.
     "How can I know anything of it?" blow up Gael.  "No one will tell me
about it!"
     The pain in Hawn's eyes grew.  He spoke in a low, anguished tone.
"Graynyr is the son of my sister Carina.  Against all the wisdom of the
Elders of our House, she still chose to love a human, fleeing to another
land to live with her beloved.	For that love she paid a most grievous
price: she was forced to watch her beloved grow old and wither before her
eyes whilst she remained in the fullness of her life, aging little at all.
Life is very precious to elves, especially the life of our loved-ones.	It
is our greatest treasure.
     "Carina had to watch the life of her beloved fade before her eyes.
For a human, it would be like watching your child grow up and die of old
age in a matter of years.  The pain of seeing that happen to the one she
loved with all of her heart was so great that Carina took her own life when
his ended."
     "Then you hate Graynyr because he reminds you of what your sister
did?" asked Gael incredulously, unable to believe an elf would do such a
thing.
     "No!" shouted Hawn, unable to accept that.  "Elves love life.  No elf
can take his own life.	It is not our way.  Graynyr symbolizes something
that should never happen to an elf.  That is why that are so few elf/human
crossbreeds in the world.  And he reminds us of the most appalling thing an
elf can do: commit suicide."
     "Then you blame him for something his mother did because she was in
love?  You turn your pain of what his mother did into anger at him?"
     Not of a mood to listen to these words, and possibly because they rung
all too true in his ears, Hawn stormed out of the room.

			      -- 10/18/6067 --

     Hawn turned the brooch over in his hands.	It was of excellent
craftsmanship -- possibly made by dwarven or even elven hands -- a golden
pin set with rubies.  Its most pronounced feature, however, was how its
magical powers coursed under Hawn's fingers.  Due to his skill at magic, he
could feel the magic in the pin as a tingling sensation of energy waiting
to be released.
     Dwarkin, whilst searching through Roarshahk's notes when Hawn was
still unconscious, had found this enchanted brooch.  Papers with it
contained instructions on its use, including its power to transport people
over great distances.  A number of other enchanted items had been
discovered in the castle.  Aside from several they had deemed useful, the
remainder -- along with the treasures of the castle -- had been placed in
one of the towers.  Hawn had then worked a number of magicks to protect
them from any who might seek to plunder the castle should they learn it to
be abandoned.
     Hawn looked up at the other three who stood ready for the
transference, for Dwarkin had left that morning on the griffon.  But
Dwarkin had been loath to leave his friend, knowing the danger Hawn's own
emotions presented to him.  As such, Dwarkin had approached Gael ere he had
departed, asking of her to stay with Hawn and do all she might to prevent
him from again descending into another state of deep melancholy, knowing
that she was best suited to understand what might be running through Hawn's
mind.
     So now at Hawn's direction, they stood in a tight group since he did
not know how far the brooch's power would reach.  Holding the brooch in his
palm, he focused his magic on it, directing its powers to transport them to
the island of Baharri.
     For a moment, a sheen of shimmering silver surrounded them,
accompanied by a disorienting weightless sensation, all of which quickly
faded.	They found themselves on a large hillock overlooking the sea, lit
by the sun high in the sky.  Many tiny dots of land dotted the horizon,
along with numerous sails.  A cold briny breeze blew in from the Araquay
Ocean, a breeze enlivened by the cries of sea birds.
     Still holding the brooch in his hand, Hawn could feel the power of the
brooch had been greatly depleted.  It would certainly not be able to
transport them like that many times before its power was fully exhausted.
Yet at least it had placed them where they might purchase other means of
transportation.
     Shielding his eyes as he gazed down the beach, Graynyr said, "There
looks to be a city in the distance."
     "Dorelli," supplied Hawn.	"I had the brooch transport us a distance
north of the city that we would not need worry about being overseen at our
arrival."
     "A wise precaution," observed Evrin.
     "We had best be off, then," remarked Graynyr.  "That way we should
reach Dorelli by midafternoon."

     The Sleeping Dragon -- a tavern bordering on the less reputable part
of Dorelli -- was nearly empty when the four entered.  A lone serving wench
leaned against the stained bar, watching a group of traders gathered near
the fire and a dwarf who sat in a corner staring morosely into his mug of
ale.
     Four travel-garbed figures -- three elves and a woman -- entered the
tavern and took seats at a table off to one side.  The serving wench,
Lalana, strode over to the table.  "Good day, folks.  What might ye be
wantin'?" she asked.
     "Wine and cheese," responded the tallest elf, taller than any other
elf that Lalana had ever seen, not that she had seen all that many.  They
were seldom seen on the Scattered Islands.
     When the wench left, Evrin said, "So, how do we go about finding this
'Seer of Baharri?'"
     "We'll need a guide, obviously," replied Hawn.  "The question is where
to find one."
     "How about someplace to stay for the night?" suggested Gael, glancing
around the tavern with some disdain.  "I don't relish the idea of spending
the night here."
     "Allow me," offered Graynyr, as he eyed the wench returning with a
tray.
     As Lalana set out mugs of wine, the tall elf spoke again.	"Tell me,
are there any respectable inns nearby?"
     "We rent out rooms, sir elf," Lalana suggested hopefully, noticing as
she said so that the other two elves glared none too happily at the first.
But that did not matter to her, as she knew the manager would be glad for
some extra money.
     The tall one held up a gold coin so it gleamed in what little sunlight
managed to stream in through the grimy windows.  "I asked about respectable
inns."  He rolled the coin across the warped table towards Lalana.  It
never reached the edge.
     "Well, sirah, you'd be wanting the Inn of the Three Nymphs.  Three
blocks that way," she added, jerking her thumb in the direction opposite
that of the ocean before moving off.  Spike the manager, she thought,
fingering the gold, knowing it was more than he would ever give her if the
elves had taken a room here.
     Several dwarves tramped into the tavern and bearded up to the bar --
owing to their short stature -- to purchase some casks of mead.  One of the
dwarves noticed the dwarf slouched in the corner and said "Darg" in a
contemptuous tone.  The lone dwarf looked up a moment before returning his
gaze to his contemplation of his mug.  The other dwarves turned towards him
and began calling out things to him in their dwarven tongue.
     "What is going on?" asked Gael, trying to decipher the dwarves
actions.
     Graynyr waved her to silence, furrowing his brow as he strived to
understand the dwarves.  After a couple of minutes, the dwarves left with
their casks, grumbling into their beards.  The dwarf in the corner remained
where he was, unmoved.
     "Did you understand what they were saying?" Evrin asked of the half-
elf.
     "Some of it," replied Graynyr in a low voice.  "They seem to be
referring to something he had once done.  There was some manner of mishap.
Something about numerous deaths for which he is at fault.  A tunnel
collapse.  I could not understand all that they said: it has been some time
since I have spoken Chakuska, the dwarven language.
     "But if they blame him for some mining accident, then it would fit
that he is a social outcast:  for a dwarf to make some grave mistake in his
work is unacceptable to them.  He would be cast out for the remainder of
his life."
     "That's horrible," complained Gael.  "If it was an accident, how can
he be at fault?"
     "That I don't know," responded Graynyr.  "But dwarves take their work
extremely seriously.  There can be no room for mistakes.  It is utterly
unforgivable to them."
     "Do they not allow for atonement?" she inquired.  She had never known
any dwarves, having lived in Arinius since the death of her family.
Dwarves preferred to keep their own company.
     "Only by completing another project with perfectly no mishaps would
they even have a chance of being accepted.  But no one would want to hire a
dwarf who is known for mistakes.  And no dwarf would want to work with one
known for mistakes.  It is a vicious circle that none have seen fit to
correct."
     "How came you to know so much of dwarven customs?" asked Hawn.
     Graynyr turned a bitter eye on Hawn, replying, "Having been cast out
of both my parent races, I have sought to learn what I might of the other
races of the world, to learn if all are so callous and close-minded...
Unfortunately, the answer is all too often 'Yes.'"  Hawn looked away,
perhaps to control his anger, perhaps for some other reason.
     "I wonder if there is anything that could be done to help him?"
considered Gael.
     "Yes," he replied, pushing himself away from the table.  He crossed
the room to where the dwarf was seated.  "Do you mind it I sit here, sir
dwarf?" he inquired in passably fluent dwarven.
     The dwarf turned him a blank look, remaining silent, perhaps expecting
another round of insults in his native tongue.
     Graynyr took a seat across from the dwarf.  "Would you be interested
in doing some work for us?"
     A dried and empty voice replied: "Why do you ask me?  You no doubt
heard what the others said of me."
     "We recently acquired possession of an old keep of dwarven
construction."  That was true enough, since by right of conquest it now
belonged to them since they had defeated Roarshahk.  "Therefore, it would
only be reasonable to have a dwarf examine the premises for the prospect of
restoring the abused portions of the keep, as well as to finish much of the
construction which appears to never have been completed.  You appear to
have no other jobs at the moment, so I decided to ask you."
     "I am considered to be an inept craftsman," replied the dwarf, his
eyes sinking back to his ale.  He had been expecting insults, but this was
even greater torment.
     "Oh, come now, all dwarves are master craftsman.  Your race is too
meticulous to be otherwise," enthused Graynyr.
     "I once neglected my duties: a score of good dwarves died because of
that.  No one can forgive me for that, least of all myself."
     Graynyr hated it when someone started to believe what was said about
them.  He would rather have died than accept what elves said about him and
his past.
     In an even voice, the half-elf replied, "We all make mistakes, and
when we do we deserve a second chance to prove ourselves still capable.
Here is your chance to prove yourself.	Are you not in the least
interested?"  Why did that sound so hollow to his ears?  He only hoped the
dwarf would not think the same thing.
     "You would trust me to do this?  Even after what I have told you and
what you have heard from the others?"  He was beginning the believe that
Graynyr was being honest in this proposal.
     "Completely," replied the half-elf with absolute honesty, sensing
victory.
     "Then I shall accept your offer," said the dwarf, sitting up, life
returning to his face.	"Tell me, then, what keep is it that you would have
me examine?"
     "I believe it is known as Skellig Keep."  The records of the keep had
been in poor condition, owning to having been stored in a room in the damp
dungeons of the keep, so Graynyr was not certain if he had read them
correctly.
     "Skellig Keep?" considered the dwarf, running through his dwarven
memory for knowledge of that name.  "It was built by Onas Skel some three
centuries past.  From what little I know of his work, many have considered
him to be insane, his work a twisted caricature of the true dwarven spirit.
And, I have heard tell that the keep is said to be haunted.  I know not if
I could work upon such a keep."
     "We have banished what spirits there were, and it will offer you the
challenge of instilling the keep with the true dwarven touch it so greatly
deserves."
     A great distance filled the dwarf's eyes as he considered this, his
chance to prove himself once more a valued member of dwarven society.  And
to repair Skellig Keep in the true dwarven way would be highly noteworthy
to his people.	"Then it is agreed," he said, "I shall repair this keep for
you."
     "Agreed," stated Graynyr, taking the dwarf's gnarled hand, pleased to
be able to help a fellow outcast.