"Should I have known the ritual to save Khalin's life would fail," he wondered.

His former teacher had taught him much of the art of magic. Even though he was as yet unable to manipulate the higher circles, he had a firm grasp of their fundamentals. Yet, he had never seen such magic or healing like that Galadrial had performed. What he had recognized was the evil that resided within Khalin's wound. It had been no mere recurring injury, the infliction on the drow definitely looked to be a curse of some form. Yet, the ritual had seemed to be going well at first. He had truly felt the elf would be cured.

"Master Kultanus would know what to do," he thought.

But the warder who had instructed him since he was a mere child had long since moved on to other lands. Having grown weary of a seemingly headless kingdom with its squabbling bureaucracy, the former teacher had left Trinsic. The young paladin did not even know if his former teacher resided in Britannia any more. It was well within his powers to depart the realm.

A shriek broke the silence in the forest. The young man looked up to see a harpy swooping down towards him from its treetop perch. His katana flashed from its sheath, his eyes narrowed. With the creature only a few feet away, the paladin sidestepped right, extended his blade and began to spin his body in a complete circle. He heard the rush of feathers in the space he had occupied a second before. He stopped his spin in the direction he had started, hearing the avian terror's head roll down the small hillock on which he stood. The body collapsed in its place beside him.

"Stupid," he muttered to himself.

He should have sensed the threat far earlier. His thoughts had completely overwhelmed him as he had made his way through the woods. He had let his guard and his senses relax. Master Kultanus would have given him "that look" had he been there to see the ordeal. However, as he sheathed the cleaned blade and moved on, he was yet again consumed with the former night's events.

Melyanna had known it would not work. She had even tried to interrupt the ritual. Could that have had an effect on the outcome? He doubted it. Galadriel had seemed confident that Khalin would be cured up until the near end. And why not? It had seemed to be going so well. Even those who had been assisting along side him, Gwynedd, Melandrith, Alleandra, Glorfindle, had seemed to think it would work. In the end though, Khalin had died as a direct result of the ritual. Had the drow not submitted to it, he would still be alive.

A feeling of failure now overwhelmed the young man. Although he was still a newcomer to the Glade, he felt he had made some friends there. He felt that he had now let down those friends and the others in the community. When one fails, one is Shamed. That was his way, the way of the paladin. "When Shame is gained, Honor is lost," a well-known saying at the Hall in Trinsic. To restore Honor the young man would now have to do all that was within his powers to right the wrong, and he knew of only one place to start.

The young paladin stopped, for that place loomed before him now, a dark structure made of a peculiar dark stone. A tinge of fear in his heart, Caladam opened the rusted, iron doors of the Yew Crypts. The hinges groaned in protest. Deep within was the circle of blood. It was there he might find the answers he sought.

Up ahead, lit dimly by the twin moons, the hooded man saw what he was looking for. The Crypts always cast a sense of dread on the travelers from Yew, and the night chill and the eerie glow did little to quell the man's superstitions. He pulled on the reins and stopped the his horse. The wagon swayed for a moment as the wheels found a comfortable rest in the soft earth. He looked off into the clearing and saw the other person. Stepping over the side, he hopped onto the ground and stepped around the back of his wagon to unfasten his cargo.

"I wasn't sure if ye were going to make it. This is a strange place to meet, especially in such a strange hour." He glanced over his should to look at the other man, and was briefly startled when he saw him standing beside him. A moment was all he needed to regain his composure, though his nerves were quite on edge. "So, if ye'll gimme a hand, I can haul this to yer carriage."

The other man stroked his red beard quietly. "I don't have a carriage."

The hooded man turned to him, perplexed. Ye're not gonnae carry this corpse out of the woods, are ye?"

The other man's face slowly transformed into a sinister grin. "You're right, of course." His hand found its way to the sword hilt. "I'll take yours then."

As part of his schooling, he had been trained to detect the presence of evil. He had sensed something at the circle. Whatever it was though, only a residual impression remained. There was nothing tangible left for him to go on. Caladam shook his head in frustration and began to make his way out of the Yew Crypts. As he did so, his thoughts turned once again to events past.

He distinctly remembered his last visit to the crypts. The dryad Delphianne had been under the influence of an evil druid. Caladam and several others from the Glade, including Khalin, had ended up at the circle of blood where the druid had prepared to perform his dark ritual. The druid had been killed in the confrontation, but that had not been the end of it. From the circle had issued forth a bodiless voice swearing revenge for the group's interference. It was at that point, at the circle that Khalin's wound had opened up again. And so it was there that Caladam had hoped to find something.

Yet any answers that might have still been there had eluded him. Exiting the crypts, he wondered where to go next. Perhaps one of the residents back in Tel'Ruid would have news or advice. He had heard of preparations for an attempt to bring Khalin back to life.

Caladam stopped dead in his tracks. Something seemed out of place. With growing unease, the paladin began to survey his surroundings. The night had become very windy. Tall trees swayed above him and moonlight danced wildly on the forest floor below. The rustling leaves blew throughout the wood, sounding much like a rushing stream. He suspected that a storm was approaching from the sea. Scanning the area Caladam noticed a strange shape lying on the ground near the crypts. It had not been there when he had arrived earlier the previous day. Cautiously, he approached the form, his hand on the hilt of his blade.

It was a body. However, something was amiss. The corpse did not seem quite right. Caladam extended his index finger intoning, "In Bet Lor." A marble-sized sphere of light sparked forth and hovered a few inches above his finger. Bathed in the soft yellow glow, the corpse looked very wrong indeed. It seemed like it had been a man, a man that had been dead for some time. The skin had grown shriveled and black. It had drawn tight around the face and the eyes had sunken, leaving little but a dark grinning skull. The corpse's clothes were in good condition however, showing no signs of decomposition. Caladam reached down to feel the fabric. He stopped suddenly, bringing his hand up in front of his face. There was blood, fresh blood on his fingers. He looked down noticing that a pool of it had collected on the ground beside the corpse. It was wet and slick, evidence of a wound that had been inflicted but minutes before. Caladam frowned. Something was very wrong here.

He began to scan the area around the body. After a few moments of searching, he noticed wagon tracks near the corpse. The direction of the hoof prints indicated that the wagon had come from the east, the direction of Tel'Ruid. Further inspection revealed a spot where the wagon had stopped. The tracks were deeper and there were several hoof prints grouped together where the horse had apparently stamped a few times, perhaps in impatience or agitation. From the footprints leading away from the wagon tracks, and from the look of the corpse's soles, Caladam surmised that the dead man had been the handler of the wagon. However, he had certainly not been so after the wagon had departed. The paladin shook his head. He had expected to find evidence of another person. However, his search revealed nothing that pointed to such.

The young man frowned again. He had made it his principal goal to do whatever he could to see Khalin restored. He did not have time for this. An impasse had presented itself. This caused him to recall a lesson his former teacher had taught him concerning such situations. "Trust your instincts. Overlook nothing. The paths to your objectives will be fraught with obstacles, distractions, and hidden opportunities. In time you will learn to discern the three from each other." Caladam raised his head and looked to the east, the direction of Tel'Ruid from which he had come. This was not the life he had envisioned as a child, hearing and studying the exploits and adventures of Trinsic's finest examples of paladin hood. Those days of happiness seemed like so long ago.

Letting out a deep, exhausted sigh, the young man lifted his finger, blowing at the sparkle of light dancing above, thus extinguishing the cantrip. With a turn he began walking. Through the pale, silver light of the twin moons, Caladam made his way south by southeast, following the tracks that the wagon had left behind. A fierce wind blew at his back, forcing him to walk at a faster pace. Yes, a storm was approaching, driving him forward to discover what awaited.

Caladam moved quickly now. The tracks left behind by the wagon had all but vanished in the drenched earth. Fortunately, the storm had approached from the north, driving its way south, the general direction in which he traveled. This had eased his progress somewhat, yet he was still a victim in the tempest's wake. Leaves and branches whipped by him. His body bore cuts and bruises from the flying debris. More than once he had actually been picked up off the ground by the gales and hurled several feet before landing again or finding purchase on one of the many branches. A deep gash ran down the length of his arm where he had been thrown against one of the mighty yews. The paladin had quickly wrapped a bandage around the injury and moved on. He would have to find shelter very soon if he wished to survive.

Caladam had an idea of where the tracks would end, and he was not far now. Up ahead the forest cleared. A collection of three small buildings lay beyond, surrounded by a black iron fence. He ran now from the woods to the front of the Yew Cemetery. A wagon sat in front of the entrance. Nearby, the gates hung open, swaying back and forth violently in the relentless winds. Passing the wagon Caladam noticed a dead horse still harnessed to it. The carcass was sunken and ruined, much like the man's body he had discovered back at the catacombs. With no time to spare, the paladin now dashed to the central mausoleum, throwing open the iron doors. He gazed up once before entering the building. Far to the north he saw the center of the storm, a huge dome shaped bulge of black hanging down from the clouds, poised menacingly over the land. Countless streaks of red lightning surged in and out of the protuberance, like veins pulsing through a dark heart. Without a second look, he quickly walked into the building and shut the doors behind him.

"In Flam"

The dusty torches lining the walls of the mausoleum suddenly ignited, bathing the room in a flickering glow. Caladam listened to the low, muffled roar of the tumult outside. He patted the thick marble walls of the building; they should serve as more than adequate shelter from the storm. With a turn he began to survey his new surroundings. The room was small, spanning about six meters in length and width. A thin layer of dust covered the floor and the two sarcophagi that had been placed side by side against the west wall. On top of one of the sarcophagi lay the body of Khalin Wael. His form was naked, save for a white loincloth. Caladam walked up to inspect the drow. The tell tale wound on his leg had been sewn shut. A strange black filament had been used to make the suture. A long cut had also been made, starting from the neck and running down to mid abdomen. The same black filament had been used to neatly bind the incision back together.

Caladam shook his head, "At least you are still in one piece, friend. I wasn't about to go out there to look for more of you."

He removed the cloak from his back and draped it over the dead elf. With a sigh Caladam leaned his back against the adjoining sarcophagus, and slid himself down to the ground. It had been nearly three days since he had last slept. Dark rings underlined his eyes. He removed the soaked bandage from his arm, inspecting the deep gash there. Next, he prepared a fresh bandage with blood clotting and healing herbs, applying it with a grimace. The wound would scar, but he did not feel any permanent damage to the muscle. However, he knew full well that he would be unable to use his sword for some time. While pondering his next move, Caladam drifted off to sleep.

Outside the storm raged on...

He awoke with a start. All sense of time and orientation had been lost. One lonely torch still burned in the mausoleum. Caladam rose slowly, letting out a low moan. He stood, stretching his weary muscles and joints. A dull ache had set in throughout his entire body. While he slept a patchwork of bruises had also appeared across the majority of his exterior. He looked over at the covered form of Khalin still lying on top of the sarcophagus then moved over towards the entrance. He put an ear to the doors. All sounded quiet outside. The storm seemed to have passed. He slowly opened the iron doors, and stepped outside into a sunlit morning.

His jaw dropped and his eyes widened as he began to take in his surroundings. The Deep Forest had been decimated. Several trees had toppled under the force of the winds. Those that remained standing had fared little better. Their trunks were battered and their branches devoid of leaves. Debris littered the ground along with the occasional body of some unfortunate forest creature. Caladam began to wonder how widespread the disaster had been. He would have to make his way into the township of Yew to find out what he could.

The paladin turned now and looked back into the mausoleum, rubbing his chin. He would have to do something about Khalin. Walking back into the structure, he picked up the body and placed it down behind the far sarcophagus, hiding it from view of the entrance. It was not much, but Empath Abbey was over an hour's walk away, maybe two with a heavy burden, and he was in no shape to carry the body that far.

Exiting the building and closing the doors behind him, Caladam made his way out of the cemetery. Empath Abbey was a large, solid structure. Many would have sought shelter there. Maybe someone would know something about the cataclysm. Also, it was at the abbey that he had last stabled his mare, Valoria. He would need her for the long trip to Tel'Ruid. The young man would be traveling back to the Glade with substantially more than he had left with, in hand and in himself.

He hated that name. He had always hated that name. Early on in his career, Rupert Scrimple had tried giving himself nicknames — "Deuce", "Sly", "The Drake" — but none of them ever seemed to stick. He'd even tried some of the more embarrassing ones — "Mouse" and "Weasel" came to mind. But no. The only thing folks ever remembered him as was "Scrimple." And how he hated that name.

Scrimple looked up at the serving maid. His first instinct was to ignore her, but a glance at her face showed she was at least moderately sincere in her concern... and goodwill was not a commodity he could afford to squander. "It's not like him, Brenda. Vernon just doesn't vanish like this."

The serving maid shifted her hips consciously and overtly. She had other tables to attend to, but she could afford to stay for a few moments longer. But she wanted to make it clear that he realized that. "Well, where was he off to?"

"He said he had business north. Yew, I think." Scrimple stirred his porridge absently. "He borrowed some money so he could get a horse and wagon, and then he left."

"Just like that? No other word?" Brenda glanced over her shoulder to make sure that none of the other patrons were becoming impatient at their tables.

"He said he'd be able to pay me back when he returned." He pushed the porridge towards the center of the table. It was becoming cold and thick anyway. "Maybe I should go through his things... try to find out where he went..."

Near the back of the tavern, the barkeep shouted to Brenda. She turned to the thief. "You do that Scrimple. See what you can find."

Scrimple nodded slowly as she walked away. He pushed himself back, getting up out of his seat and tossing a gold coin onto the table. Then, without another word, he made his way out and into the streets of Britain.