Dawn's cool rays speckle the platforms of Kelethin with millions of leaf-shadows. The last traces of a bitter fog roll away, scattering from the sun. The morning watch patrols the city with a serene manner, occasionally calling out softly to report their surroundings. They walk with the grace of their heritage, crossing the walkways and bridges with the light-footed stride of elves. Inn lights remain mostly dim, their patrons beginning to wake to the scent of breakfast.
The lift entrance to the city moves rarely before mid-morning, and this one is no different. Only one lift rises into the tangle of branch and bridge, and its passengers are few. Among them is cloaked figure clad in a mixture of chain and leather. Even under the bulk of armor, the physique of a lean fighter is visible in his squared shoulders and slender hips. The hood of his cloak is up, obscuring his eyes from inquisitive glances.
He blends into the crowd with ease, though when most of them head for the market and inn districts, he peels away and moves towards the residential area in the heart of Kelethin. Traversing the walkways with an old familiarity, the Fier'Dal skirts guard posts and patrols without appearing to. If he does happen upon a guard, a slight nod and a smile from under the dark green hood seem to dissipate any suspicion.
Despite his apparent relaxation, Renarc struggles to keep his steps even and unhurried, resisting the urge to glance over his shoulder every few minutes. His preoccupation with scanning for guards is broken as his destination comes into view.
Over a century… and yet the place looks nearly the same. Only the flowers in the window-boxes had gone, and the door's once-smooth wooden planks had been weathered by the years. He lowers his head a few feet from the door, taking a slow breath. His hands are trembling, he realizes, watching them through the hair that has fallen in his eyes.
With a soft sigh he takes a coin from his belt and brings it to his lips, then to his heart. Whispering under his breath, he offers a prayer to the dead. Once the warmth of his hand has taken the chill from the metal, he stretches out to press it against the unyielding wooden door, closing his pale green eyes.
They snap open again at a pointedly light pressure on the small of his back. Without turning around he tucks the coin carefully into the crevice of the doorframe. The light pressure becomes a jab, one that he recognizes as a swordpoint. Panic rips through him, and he tries to keep from bolting. Discovered so soon? He should have had more time…
"Pull off the hood, and put your hands behind your head."
Slowly he complies, curling his fingers into his hair in silent anguish. When he refuses to move further, the sword jabs at his back again.
"Turn around."
He turns to face a Fier'Dal in the decorated armor of a general, with three ranks of Faydark's Champions behind him. The man levels his blade at Renarc's throat and raises a brow. With his other hand he beckons a few of his men forward.
"Take his sword."
Within seconds they move to him and slip back among their ranks, his sword in their grubby paws. He twitches.
"Renarc Sari'Kal DinMaethor."
The name is a blow. With an effort Renarc forces himself to remain expressionless. The general frowns disapprovingly and steps forward.
"Sari'Kal…."
The steel-armored leader smirks as the repeated name elicits a flinching response. Softly, almost languid, he continues.
"It's been a long time."
With the speed of a snake he moves, arcing his blade around Renarc's face. Dazed, he raises a hand to his ear and pulls it back red-stained. Pain stings at the tip of his ear… or where the tip of his ear used to be. Renarc can already feel the blood running down his neck and into his shirtsleeve. He returns his pained gaze to the general, who now openly glares.
"That was for a hundred and forty-three years, guar."
He barks a command to the men behind him, spoken too fast for Renarc to catch. They swarm him. Confusion fills his eyes as his knees strike the ground and his wrists drag with the weight of chains.
This isn't how this visit was supposed to end. He came for the hope of absolution--in the chance that years had weathered the pain, the paranoia and hate. For a chance to say goodbye. Did no one remember who he was before? On an impulse he turns his face up, to his captors. So many emotions paint their features-- fear, revolution, disgust, loathing -- all directed at him. And in their minds, he deserves it.
As they force his head to bend and strip him of his remaining weapons, the gilded general crouches down tauntingly to pick up Renarc's disregarded blade. He spins it a few times, eyes fastened on his charge.
Renarc grits his teeth. The sword had carried him through too much to be in the hands of enemies. If he could only get his fingers on the hilt once more… he might be able to free himself. He lunges for it, desperate.
His next registered thought is one of pain as his body crashes full-length to the planks of the platform. Several guards had anticipated the movement and tackled him before he'd come close. Slowly they pull him up and force him to his knees.
The general sneers.
"Guar, shadowknight, whatever you call yourself these days--"
He pauses to casually spin the sword in his hands once, then turns to toss it far over the edge of the platform into the foliage below. With a scowl he wheels back to the horror-stricken Fier'Dal at his feet.
"--you are charged with the abduction and suspected murder of fellow Emerald Warrior Eledara Siarne, which occurred nearly one hundred and forty-three years ago."
