Log Date:
	9/21/99

Log Cast:
	StormBearer, Hawthorne (NPC emitted by Thomas), Arandor (NPC emitted
by Thomas), Gaiden (NPC emitted by Thomas), Thomas, Nine-Fingered Rab (NPC
emitted by Faanshi), Pyotr (NPC emitted by Faanshi), Varati warrior (NPC
emitted by Thomas), two Mongrel warriors (NPCs emitted by Thomas and Faanshi)

----------
The journey to the valley is difficult without the winged steeds used for the 
  last visit, but the addition of horses speed it up somewhat. Without 
  StormBearer, however, the valley would have been impossible to find. But the 
  getting here is the easy part. The same route as before is traced, and the 
  same system of caves behind the waterfall is used to descend to the valley 
  floor. The narrow wide path is followed into the forest, where StormBearer 
  insists on stoping for a moment. There, he kneels over a particular grave 
  for a moment before the trek resumes. That is how, now, the band of ten come 
  to be hiking up the path to the Volator's lair.

Assembled from amongst Avalon's most promising warriors, this band of ten 
  represents some of the finest fighting men which the new nation has it in 
  its posession. None amongst the group is green, each having served in 
  numerous campaigns prior to this. Some were soldiers in the Empyre's Velite 
  legions, others were members of mercenary companies, and still a few were in 
  business for themselves. All are mounted and looking down the line of 
  hardened faces, there are a few which are more notable than others. A badly 
  scarred Mongrel warrior named Hawthorne, now in his middling years of 
  life, once served with the Velites, but since the losses suffered at the 
  hands of the Varati army, has deserted the legions. Arandor, once known as 
  the "Ranger of Berden Wood". A Sylvan-Atlantean halfbreed, he was raised on 
  the principals of the Earth Mother and has defended her with his stout bow 
  for much of his thirty winters. Gaiden, the Captain of Avalon's Guard, whose 
  past remains a mystery, but whose martial prowess in mounted combat are 
  nearly unmatched. Lastly, Thomas Murako himself -- the King of Mongrels, 
  riding near the cadre's head, a long-spear held astride his mount, dressed 
  in the stout scale armor. Amongst the "dregs" of society, one would be 
  hard-pressed to find a more skilled band. Several other warriors have also 
  joined the group, younger, and having yet to make a name for themselves. 
  Drawing closer to the gaping maw which holds the aptly named Volator, all 
  are serious and focused intently, eyes alert for any signs of danger as they 
  make their way into the Valley which claimed so many lives.

"Dregs" -- well, that level of society in Haven is certainly an apt 
  description for the roots of the fair-haired Nine-Fingered Rab. Rather 
  younger he is than many in this party, astonishingly fresh-faced compared to 
  the likes of Hawthorne and Gaiden, younger even than the man these warriors 
  all follow. But despite his comparatively tender years, the fair-haired 
  ex-thief has won his place in this hunt on the strength of his almost 
  uncanny rapport with the brace of daggers that are his chosen weapons. Not 
  once has any man of Avalon ever seen Rab miss what he targets with one of 
  his blades, and despite the ring finger missing from his left hand, he is 
  almost as adroit with that one as he is witn his right. Only in grudging 
  deference to the prey of the day has he brought along the second weapon he's 
  learned after hard hours drilling under One-Eye Dremmond: a bow and a quiver 
  full of arrows. Even as he rides, however, Rab's playing one-handedly with 
  one of his blades, twirling it back and forth again through his fingers 
  while he keeps his other hand on his reins. And there's a spark of feral 
  mischief lurking somewhere in his incongruously boyish blue eyes. This, he's 
  decided a long time ago, ought to be fun.

Next to Thomas rides the StormBearer, a herald no more, upon his own night 
  black stallion. Green eyes watch the cave face intently, but ears twitch in 
  anticipation of the sounds of the wakening beast. But the sounds do not 
  come, at least not yet. He is thankful for that at least. The onyx cane he 
  has carried for the past few weeks lies upon his back in place of the lute 
  upon which he first told these people the tale of this beast they now hunt. 
  The expression on his face is one of acceptance, quite odd for one who is in 
  this particular position. Quickwing is high in the sky, circling the 
  mountain and those riding up it. He is still completely crow, and only time 
  will tell if he will later lose some of his avian characteristics.

None of these men came here with any illusions about what they might be facing 
  and it would certainly be a lie if one were to say that a gnawing fear 
  didn't lurk in the breasts of a few. All have faced death before, yet, not 
  one can ever boast of having ridden forth to destroy a beast which seems 
  conjured of legend itself. This is a foe with which none of them are very 
  familiar. To kill a man, one must pierce his mortal flesh and if done in the 
  proper fashion, he will drop. Yet, the Volator has been boasted to be a 
  fearsome creature which has already laid waste to a complete population of 
  people. Sylvans no less, the most magical of Aether's races. Yet, they have 
  borne with them mighty weapons of war which are best designed to fight those 
  of an avian build. Long spears, magna pilums, designed to stab at the sky or 
  from the sky, are so large they need to be broken into two parts in order to 
  be carried on backs. Heavy shields that are of Varati design, angled so that 
  they best reflect blows from above and sturdy bows that take a *strong* man 
  to pull, crafted of bone and fitting with a firm, fresh string. Wicked 
  arrows whose heads have been carved of a blackened metal and fletched with 
  feathers which cause them to spin slightly in flight and this increase the 
  damage upon impact and give a deeper penetration. Like a death march, the 
  line of warriors makes their way up towards their fateful destination. It is 
  then, that Thomas urges his mount forward, passing one man to catch up with 
  the Sylvan guide. Looking towards StormBearer and asks quietly, "How long 
  till we reach the cave?"

A death march, aye -- and despite the dark glitter of his eye and the curl of 
  his expressive mouth, Rab has for once held back on the verbal barbs he can 
  levy as deftly as his blades, out of an awareness that if the older men in 
  the party are prepared to look death in the face on this ride, he can hardly 
  do any less. Bearing the biggest shield and bow his comparatively slight 
  frame can handle -- and in this, too, he's been mercilessly drilled by 
  Dremmond -- the young bladesman is as finely outfitted as any in the party. 
  And yet... "Master Tom's being awfully dreary about all of this, don't you 
  think?" he murmurs sidelong to the warrior riding beside him, who shoots him 
  a frigid glance and points out stiffly, "Boy, d'you need remindin' none of 
  us might be comin' back from this?" But Rab merely gives an airy toss of his 
  sandy head, a bizarrely carefree gesture in the face of the possibility that 
  ten men -- himself included -- may all be about to die. "Ach, well," he 
  answers brightly, "since we don't _know_, what's the point of worrying, hey? 
  I do just hope Master Tom's made out his will..."
Okay, so Rab's _mostly_ held back on the verbal barbs.

StormBearer pulls his green gaze away from the ominous mouth of the Volator's 
  lair to look at Thomas as he speaks quietly. "Not long. The trail gets 
  easier just here, I believe." And he is, of course, right. Soon all the 
  pebbles and rocks which previously marked the surface are gone from the way 
  of the 'trail' which is being followed, Still the whisps of smoke trail from 
  the upper edge of the hole in the mountain. probably because this is where 
  they had rolled down from over the ages. 

Just before the band reaches the giant hole, when tensions are the highest, a 
  mighty scream rings out in the air, causing one of the younger warriors to 
  jump a bit. It is not the scream of one in pain or fear, but the scream of 
  an enraged beast. Seems our friend the Volator has awoken. As the company 
  quickens forward so as to trap it, the best soon comes into view. The cave 
  is not incredibly deep, only just enough so to make room for the nest which 
  is in it. Amidst this nest are the Volator itself and two eggs, both 
  crushed. Seems there will be no more Volators. The beast begins to stand 
  upon its talons, which are a bit small for something its size, but still 
  adequate. In form it resembles an eagle, but its size is at least thrice 
  that. Smoke rises from its beak, and the white feathers that coat it are 
  beginning to take on a reddish tint.

The presence of the Volator causes the horses to 'spook' almost immediately. 
  The mounts sense the very /real/ fear that they are the main course for an 
  avian predator like this. Its huge talons could no doubt scoop up a draft 
  horse whole for a tasty treat. As the beast lets loose its roar, all of the 
  warriors struggle to keep their steeds in line and stop them from simply 
  bolting. Arandor grabs the reigns of his horse tighter and is the first one 
  to spot the emergance of the avian terror from the cave mouth, pointing and 
  shouting loudly so that all can hear, "HAIL! THE BEAST HATH COME!" 

All heads turn immediately to behold the spectacular marvel that is the 
  Volator -- one of Aether's rare legendary beasts, they are the progenitors 
  of the feared wyvrens and griffins. Yet, these animals are untamed and even 
  more wild. They possess magic and that is evidenced by the air around this 
  creature, rippling with heat and electricity; they are creatures of the 
  elements, one part Aether and one part real. Thomas' horse struggles to 
  bolt, but his firm hand holds the animal in place, and even that man is 
  amazed at the sight, muttering, "Merciful Lares, what a monster." But there 
  is no time to spare and the Mongrel turns to look at the others, "Ready your 
  weapons! Hurry. We cannot allow it to escape and be airborne!" In almost an 
  instant, he dismounts his steed and strips off the long spear and bow which 
  are fastened into the saddle. 

Others do the same, withdrawing swords, notching arrows. Arandor looks towards 
  Gaiden and shouts, "Do you have the oil?" 

Gaiden, the only man who is still mounted, answers, hefting a sack in his 
  hand, "Aye. I'm off.." 

The Ranger shouts behind him, "... be swift Captain!" 

"Do not miss your mark, Arandor!" the Guard Captain calls out as he urges his 
  mount straight towards the Volator. Already, one of the younger warriors has 
  a small piece of wood burning and is lighting a flame arrow that rests in the 
  halfbreed's bow. 

As Arandor takes aim, he smiles a touch and mutters, "I never do."

"The curtain is up," mutters Rab to himself as he scrambles off his horse. 
  "The bards strike their first chords," he goes on as he teams up with the 
  burly man with whom he'd just been conversing. While the other nocks his 
  first arrow to his mighty bow, the bladesman seizes his shield and prepares 
  to provide cover for both himself and his partner. And he mutters direly 
  over the top of that hefty shield, eyes sparking with a black glee, "Bring 
  on the dancing girls."

And the dancing girls do come, but of course, by dancing girls I do mean bolts 
  of lightning. Even as the echos of the bird's mighty shriek rend the air in 
  the cave, flashes of light and electricity fly across the distance between 
  the avian and the troop. Luckily for them, however, lightning is a very hard 
  thing to aim, and there is nothing to draw it to them as there might be in a 
  storm. None of the three bolts hit anyone, although bits of rock are 
  propelled from where they did hit, causing scratches, a bruise or two, and a 
  good amount of distraction. The bird manages to get to its feet, and wings 
  partly unfold in a agressive gesture as it attempts to hop forward.

The arcs of electricity flash through the air, splitting molecules with 
  thunderous cracks and fierce heat. At their emergence, most of the men dive 
  for cover behind the numerous rocks and crags which make up the area before 
  the Volator's lair. Despite this display, Gaiden charges his horse forward, 
  like he was riding into the very gates of death itself, his brow set and 
  mouth opened in a mighty war-cry. This man has a well-trained mount, not 
  easily turned by the sounds of battle or the smell of death. Apparently, it's 
  one of the *only* horses out there that's in such condition, for most of the 
  others have scattered. Riding to a dangerously close proximity, the Guard 
  Captain hurls the pouch in his hands towards the feet of the avian beast and 
  then reaches for another, guiding his steed with the hand he has free. A 
  second satchel smashes a dark-looking liquid at the feet of the monster. 
  Meanwhile, Arandor levels the bow and flaming arrow at the Volator and waits 
  for just a moment. It is then that the mounted Mongrel turns on his horse 
  and shouts the signal, "NOW!!!" And with the twang of a bowstring, the fire 
  arrow is sent soaring through the air towards the wetspots that were just 
  made on the ground. Impact is nearly instantaneous and the fluid is 
  instantly on fire in a rush of heat and flame. Hawthorne, wedged between a 
  rock, watches the ignition and raises his bow, "Now we attack!" Thomas and 
  the others rise as well, ready to charge the thing as it is driven back into 
  the mouth of the cave by the fire and choked by the smoke. 

The mounted Mongrel doesn't fare so well, however, for as he turns to retreat, 
  a mighty talon lashes out to cut his steed out from beneath him, nearly 
  gutting the horse from stem to stern. With a shout of defeat, Gaiden falls 
  from his horse and hits the ground HARD, just beyond the periphery of the 
  roaring inferno. 

Thomas, seeing this, turns his attention towards the stricken warrior, shouting, 
  "Gaiden!" His efforts redoubled, the Mongrel leader's eyes look nearly 
  berserk as he charges with his spear, "CHARGE!!!" And he does just that, 
  running forward with weapon pointed outward.

King Tommy has said it, so mote it be, up for Avalon and all that! Rab and the 
  big brawny form of Pyotr beside him surge forward in response to Murako's 
  bellow. The far more massive of the pair, Pyotr whips out the spear he's 
  brought in addition to his bow; Rab, in the meantime, far more physically 
  suited to guarding his big friend's back, front, and flanks (wherever that 
  beast is most likely to harm him first), braces his shield on his left arm, 
  ready to whip it into place at the slightest sign of danger coming their 
  way. His right hand, though, is already bearing Wasp, the first of his 
  daggers. Not as if a knife's going to do much against the monster that is 
  the Volator -- but hey, maybe Tyche will touch him with her right hand and 
  he'll get a clear shot at the overgrown chicken's eye!

In the midst of the horse splitting and flaming-arrow-flinging, StormBearer is 
  curiously absent. He's nowhere to be seen. And QuickWing is, at the moment, 
  unable to help because of the aura of fire which seems to be coming off the 
  Volator's talons. As the steed piercing talon comes down to the ground, it 
  is revealed to be not only a striking blow, but the begining of the bird's 
  advance. The talons may take a bit of scalding at the expense of the fire, 
  the rest of him is for the most part fireproof. Arrows fly into its body, 
  but for the most part they are ineffective. None hit the head, and she is 
  simply too large to be hurt seriously by the insignificant in comparison 
  arrows. The pilums, however, are more of a threat. Her mouth opens to shriek 
  again, but instead of sound comes a burst of fire which rips at the 
  soldiers' shields.

Despite the obvious threat, the proud warriors charge into the fray with 
  weapons and attitudes barred. The huge bird is a fierce opponent, spitting 
  fire and lighting at all who would dare to oppose it, yet, a zealous rage 
  drives these men's hafts as they lunge towards the Volator with mighty cries 
  of war. Arandor in the rear continues to pelt the beast with arrows, not 
  missing once, yet, they are like pins in the side of the mighty creature and 
  thus the Ranger must aim his shots more carefully to try and hit the most 
  vulnerable areas -- beneath the wings at the joints and in the head. 
  Meanwhile, the other soliders charge forward, led by Thomas and Hawthorne. 
  Yet, the movement is still-birthed as a roar of flame gushes forth from the 
  monster's maw and flows across them all like a wave. Unfortunately, one of 
  the younger soldiers on the end takes it full on, having not had the benefit 
  of his shield being raised at the moment. He screams like the dickens as his 
  body is consumed by the intense heat of the magic-driven inferno, clothes 
  quickly immolating and flesh crisping. He stumbles around for a moment --
  and it's over before the others can even get to him. A moment later he's 
  lying in a wasted stump upon the earth, smoking. 

The others, though singed, stare in horror for a moment, then redouble their 
  efforts, driving forward with spears and swords, discarding their bows to the 
  winds in favor of doing more damage. Murako is the first to reach the 
  Volator, shoving his pilum forward with a great heave and a cry of battle. 
  Hawthorne soon joins him and slashes at the beast's exposed flank with his 
  blade. Gaiden meanwhile, struggles to escape the talons of the beast, rising 
  to his feet just in time to be swatted aside with a might sweep of its wing 
  and sent flailing back against a rock where he impacts with startling force 
  destined to shatter bones. The flames at the front of the creature continue 
  to burn hot and heavy, creating an oily black smoke which marks the dark 
  fluid as greek oil.

"Down, you great ox!" Leave the bellowing to Murako, Gaiden, Hawthorne, and 
  the Ranger; Rab's style is far more to hiss, which is how he delivers his 
  urgent injunction to Pyotr as he brings up the shield in front of them both, 
  just in time. And just afterwards, Rab's baby-blue gaze flashes sideways to 
  take in the immolation of their unfortunate compatriot -- and forward again 
  to take in the slamming of Gaiden against that boulder. And then, a surge of 
  decision. Rab thrusts the shield at Pyotr so that his big friend need not go 
  overly exposed. That accomplished, the fair-haired young bladesman abruptly 
  breaks ranks, agilely throwing himself into a low roll along the ground that 
  carries him to the charred body of the one who's fallen, under the arrows of 
  the Ranger, under the smoke beginning to churn thickly through the air. Rab 
  is not particularly fond of having to wear gauntlets -- they get in the way 
  of his aim, as far as he's concerned -- but when one is trying to swipe the 
  shield of a man who's been burned to a cinder, protection for one's palms 
  _is_ a boon.

The smoke is more of a hindrance to the great bird than the fire causing it. 
  It's used to the thin grey smoke it generates on his own, but this oily 
  black smoke is a completely different story. Lightning arcs off the avian's 
  beak as Hawthorne's strike hits home, and in a fit of pained rage, it leaps 
  forwards with wings outspread, straight at the ranks of charging men. Talons 
  flash wildly as now flaming wings thrash wildly to beat out the soldiers 
  like one might to a stinging insect. It is no longer aiming its strikes, 
  the smoke makes that futile. Instead it relies on the sheer ferocity of its 
  attacks to keep its edge.

The battle is thick and furious, and even these brave men find the going tough 
  as nails. Thomas narrowly misses getting his guts torn open by the flashing 
  talons of the Volator, stepping sideways but losing his balance and 
  stumbling backwards against a hardened rock. His pilum struck home and now 
  juts out of the bird's breast like a toothpick in a huge piece of meat. 
  Hawthorne cries aloud as one of the lighting arcs catches his sword on an 
  upstroke and sends volts through his body that hurl the wizened warrior back 
  ten feet and send him sprawling against the ground -- still for a moment. 
  These guys are the some of the best and they are simply getting devasted by 
  this thing to the best of their efforts. 

Another of the warriors next to Murako stabs forward with his spear and 
  impales the avian monster beneath its wing, shoving upward with all his force 
  and a great shout. Yet, he is not as fortunate as Murako and the beast leans 
  to the side a bit, raising a foot to merely CRUSH the hapless Mongrel beneath 
  its massive weight. The sickening crunch of bone and skull as the man's 
  scream is cut deftly short and he dies. 

A Varati next to him growls and continues to slash at the beast, doing all in 
  his power to merely stay out of the way of its strikes. Thomas meanwhile, 
  trades the spear for the gladius which he holds in his sheath, drawing the 
  weapon and preparing to assault anew. Arandor growls in frustration as his 
  arrows fail to dent this thing and hurls the bow aside, drawing a spear and 
  running into the thick of the battle with a great cry in the tongue of the 
  Sylvans.

Crunch, scream, death. Looking quite put out, Rab comes up from his deft 
  stealing of his first dead comrade's shield (the poor fellow certainly won't 
  need it anymore), and almost... pouts at the unmistakable sound of bones 
  crushing beneath the foot of their foe. "That's two," he murmurs warningly, 
  to no one in particular. Perhaps he's talking to the beast itself? With 
  Nine-Fingered Rab, one never can tell. While the bigger and brawnier members 
  of the party taking care of the charge-at-the-monster-swords-upraised side 
  of things, the bladesman opts to do what he does best. All of this pesky 
  smoke being another deterrent to his aim, he half-darts, half-dances across 
  the singed earth, looking for _just_ the right outcropping of rock to give 
  him a slightly higher point from which to aim. It wouldn't do to hit King 
  Tommy in the back with Wasp or Slicer or Stinger, after all.

For the bird, that's quite enough bone crunching and associated violent 
  activities. Plus, once outside, she can toss lots 'o flames(tm) at the 
  helpless warriors. Well, maybe not so helpless, since the Volator is 
  begginning to look like a pincushion. With a mighty leap and screech, the 
  bird launches over the heads of a few warriors. The warrior at the back, 
  however is none too lucky. The bird's flaming tail catches him squarely on 
  the head, and the extra hot flames quickly incinerate his hair and burns his 
  face. The avian monstrosity is at the cave mouth, and in another leap, she 
  is outside the cave and in the air. Her wings spread and beat at the air, 
  but the work here is not done. After flapping away for a few moments, it 
  turns and begins a descent back.

As the beast leaps into the air, those men who still have the strength to 
  strike at it, do so. Two warriors and Thomas using their blades to the best 
  of their ability, cutting and slashing till they duel with the talons alone. 
  The sudden uprush of air catches the Varati warrior off guard and sends him 
  sprawling back into the flames that even now still burn hotly on the ground. 
  Landing in the firey goop, he screams as the stuff seems to stick to his 
  clothing and armor, threatening to roast him alive. He stands up and starts 
  to run, his arms flailing about, back all aflame. 

Murako slashes with his weapon and sinks the blade into the belly of the 
  Volator, all the way to the hilt before it takes flight, but in return for 
  his efforts, receives a mighty slash with the avian's claw that tears into 
  his cheek and splits his armor assunder with the sound of raining metal. 
  He's sent sprawling back where he impacts his head against a rock and looks 
  like he might not be coming back around anytime soon. 

Arandor reaches the monster just in time to see it rising into the air again 
  and waves his blade, missing entirely and shouting various obscenities. 
  Begining to search for a bow, the halfbreed finds one there on the ground, 
  and scoops it up. Notching an arrow, he curses again, "Foulest beast! Have 
  at thee and I shall assuredly condemn thee to the blackest hell!" 

Hawthorne still lies on the ground, but the movement of his arm implies that 
  he's still alive at least. All said and done, of the group that charged this 
  fearsome being, only three remain standing in any sort of combatable 
  condition.

Ah, lookee there, the overgrown chicken can fly. How very courteous of it, 
  too, to give Rab a clear shot of its eye and throat. "Go give it a kiss, my 
  darlings," he murmurs then, grinning impishly. He tosses aside the shield -- 
  and in a blur of motion of both his hands, sends two daggers arcing up to 
  meet the Volator as it attempts to make its descent. Nine-Fingered Rab buys 
  and steals only the finest in knives; these, Wasp and Slicer, are impeccably 
  balanced and go singing into the smoke-heavy air as if they'd sprouted wings 
  themselves. Slicer goes skittering across the creature's throat -- but Wasp 
  sinks home dead in the center of the Volator's eye, burying itself well up 
  to the hilt in that mighty orb.

A mighty shriek rends the air upon itself as the well balanced and deadly 
  (against smaller foes) dagger slices into the eye of the massive beast. 
  And instead of the normal fire coming from the mouth, some of it comes from 
  the slice on the neck. But it continues in, its course already set. Another 
  shriek rends the air then, though now it is not from the Volator. A half 
  human form dives out of the sky like a bomb dropped from the bay of a bomber 
  aircraft. QuickWing. The crow graisha's talon-like fingers dig into the right 
  wing of the larger avian, pulling its course downward, but not away from 
  the cave. No, another action does that. As the burnt figure of QuickWing 
  spirals towards the ground after losing his hold, another form falls from 
  the sky, this one without wings. StormBearer's cloak flaps in the wind 
  behind him as he drops from the cliff face above. The cane he had carried 
  with him is revealed to have been hiding a sword, and as he lands squarely 
  upon the Volator's neck, the force of the fall drives the blade into the 
  skull of the mighty avian. Both bird and sylvan descend towards the forest 
  below, flames still leaping and devouring flesh as they go.

The creature is far beyond the reach of their weapons now -- the men on the 
  ground. Arandor looses another volley into the beast's flaming form as it 
  dives, but the others can just stare in horror as the Volator comes under 
  fierce assult from both the Sylvan man and his graisha ally. It's a 
  spectacular sight to behold, these brave souls attacking the avian in 
  mid-flight, fire and lighting spewing from its maw and multiple wounds. Like 
  a glorious beast of legend, it screams downwards at some insane speed. 
  Thomas' eyes flutter open just in time to see StormBearer leap upon the head 
  of the monster and thrust his sword home. Though the pain in his chest must 
  be incredible and his wounds deep indeed, he struggles to get up and scream 
  into the air, "STORMBEARER!!" But, his words fall on deaf ears and soon 
  enough, he can barely muster the strength to stand, his frame falling back 
  heavily against the rock, hand gripping the spot where his lifeblood now 
  seeps out onto the ground.

Even Rab's generally unflappable dark wit is shaken by the sight of the 
  Sylvan's valiant attack -- and its unmistakable result. His hands now empty, 
  blue eyes gone wide in his youthful visage and betraying a startlement he so 
  rarely demonstrates to his fellow warriors, the fair-haired, black-clad 
  knifesman comes scrambling down off his perch on the rocks. And he keeps 
  moving, pelting off in the direction the creature has shot down. "Well, come 
  _on_ then," he calls almost peevishly to the nearest man still standing, 
  trusting the other to keep watch on those who aren't. If that beast is still 
  alive -- and more importantly, if StormBearer -- _well_, thinks Rab in a 
  rush, _let's not journey there yet, shall we?_

But all that is down there, should Rab find the right spot, is a pile of 
  melted bones, fleathers, flesh, and the onyx handled sword, still pushed 
  through the skull of the avian. It won't be hard to find either, since the 
  trees around the place are chared and knocked over.

It is utter chaos up top. Of the ten who came to the lair of the Volator, only 
  three remain standing: Rab, Arandor, and one other Mongrel warrior who is 
  now accompanying the Nine-Fingered one down towards the remains of the great 
  beast. Hawthorne is slowly getting to his feet, his breast-plate singed and 
  fused together, hand holding his head and looking well, like a guy who just 
  got hit with lightning. Gaiden lies slumped against the rock and in bad 
  shape. He hasn't moved since the bird hit him in that spot -- his proud horse 
  torn apart and dead. All the others are beyond help -- the poor Varati 
  warrior so badly burned that he merely lies there on the ground, screeching 
  and smoking. Thomas himself looks like he's in great pain, Arandor moving to 
  his side, "Thomas. Are you all right?" Proud as always, the Mongrel leader 
  nods to the halfbreed, "I will live, Arandor. See to Gaiden, he looks badly 
  injured. And, help me to my feet, I must see if StormBearer has survived." 
  And soon, Murako is struggling to his feet, using a discarded weapon as a 
  makeshift crutch. Nodding that he's okay, he looks towards the Guard Captain 
  and soon, the Ranger scurries off to tend to his wounds. "Hawthorne?" Thomas 
  looks over his shoulder, only to get an answer from the worn warrior, "..I'm 
  find, Thomas. I've seen worse than this." Striding forward the tall man 
  surveys all the dead and shakes his head sadly, but says nothing, not until 
  he spies Rab ahead near the smoking section of trees. "Rab," he calls out, 
  coughing with a wince as he does, "How are StormBearer and QuickWing? Do they 
  live?"

Rab's slim black-clad figure had skidded to a halt not far from the avian's 
  smoking remains; now, as he hears the hoarse call of Murako behind him and 
  turns to find his leader hobbling in his direction, the younger man makes no 
  vocal reply. His glib tongue has failed him. With stricken eyes, Rab only 
  steps quietly aside, gesturing with his four-fingered left hand to what is 
  left of the Volator and the man who struck the final blow to kill it -- so 
  that Thomas can see for himself.

Thomas struggles closer to the remains, his nose wrinkling with the acrid, 
  sharp smell of burned flesh. It's then that he lays eyes upon the mass of 
  flesh and weapon -- the sole remains of his friend, StormBearer. The Mongrel 
  just stares for a long moment, his eyes seeming to reflect a certain sadness 
  that is only now striking him. Wounded and broken, he looks towards Rab and 
  closes his eyes. "He didn't make it." There is a weight in that which seems 
  to slam home the reality of this. StormBearer is dead. Then, flashing his 
  gaze open, he struggles forward to that spot amid the Volator's remains, 
  tearing off a bit of his clothing to grasp at the onyx handled blade which 
  lies amid the morass of charred gore. Drawing the weapon forth with a 
  sickening sound, he examines its length, almost pensively, before gazing 
  around at the now silent lands that once belonged to the long-dead people.
  "Maybe this was how he wanted it, Rab. To meet his end combating that thing 
  which took his whole world away?" Focusing a darkened, pained gaze on the 
  Nine-Fingered one and the other Mongrel warrior, the weapon slides to his 
  side, " We must ensure that none shall ever forget that sacrifice he has 
  made." And then, more softly, "It was a good death, you know? Now, he will 
  sleep with those he loved most, and this land will know peace." Exhaling 
  once, he points towards the ruins of the adventuring party, "Both of you go 
  see to the rest of the wounded? I would like a moment alone."

"Aye, Murako," comes the murmured reply from the bigger of the two lingering 
  Mongrels, who slips quietly away to rejoin the others. 

As for Nine-Fingered Rab, a young man who has spent much of his twenty-two 
  years in a seemingly endless graceful dance with Aidoneus himself, he lingers 
  a moment longer. So often his quicksilver tongue can be taken for a 
  nonchalance that can get him killed, an arrogance that speaks of just a 
  little bit of madness. But when Thomas Murako's eyes meet his, the 
  bladesman's gaze holds an all too clear understanding. Rab nods, just 
  once... and then turns noiselessly to melt like a shadow into the lingering 
  pall of smoke.

Bending down towards the ground, Thomas' eyes come to a rest upon the blade as 
  he speaks soft enough that perhaps only the dead could hear him. His eyes 
  are bleary with sadness and a sense of loss that seems to reflect in his 
  tone, "In a way I envy you, my friend. You have died the death I sometimes 
  dream of. A death that has meaning and purpose -- a death you believed in. 
  Your son will want to know what happened here today, and I shall tell him 
  with pride that his father was a hero. He will be welcomed among us, and I 
  give you my word that the boy shall be well cared for." Gripping the pommel 
  a bit tigher, his eyes close again, lips pursing, "You were a good man, 
  Conner. One of the finest I have ever known. Now rest in peace, and let this 
  world trouble you no more." And with that, the Mongrel painfully rises to 
  his feet, still holding his chest. Now, he holds the onyx blade in his grasp 
  -- the sole remanants of the sacrifice that was made here today and a 
  vengeance that was years in the making. Over the Fertile Valley, a quiet has 
  settled as the restless spirits of the Sylvan people, so thirsting for 
  revenge from lives cut short, return to their silent, morbid slumbers. Soon, 
  a cool breeze blows from the highlands and brings with it a fresh scent that 
  removes the smoke and strench of death and if one dared to listen close 
  enough, the sound of rejoicing could be heard echoing on the winds which 
  blow through the trees. Rest in peace, StormBearer. Rest in peace.

[Fini.]