CHAPTER I.
Rite of Passage

‘My children, the rest of the world are your children.  Do not trouble their minds with knowledge and reason.  Let their mythologies be your explanation.  Know their superstitions; and become them.  Raise the scepters of their gods and they shall worship and obey rightly.  This is the legacy I bequeath to thee, o glorious Cireth!’
–Kadaam Nashanti, the Barbarian World.

            Swerving around the trunk of a small evergreen, the young elf paused, wincing slightly as the fir-needles brushed against his cheek.  He listened carefully for the sounds of his pursuers, whose very presence had angered him beyond words.  Enraged, he recalled the words of his elder brother echoing from a day as dark as this one—the last day he saw Ariandi alive.

            ‘This isn’t the end.  A time will come when you will stop running, raise your blade and fight—and when it comes, you will not lay your sword down until what belongs to you is in your hand, and every last grain of Tarligean's soil is free of the gah'raen.'

            The Madrocean invaders closed in on his position; rough men with hardened leather chestplates and stringy dark hair.  In their hands they wielded sword and crossbow, poised for attack.  The elf gritted his teeth, and pushed a golden braid out of his eye with his shoulder.  In his mind, the voice of his stepfather countered his brother’s.

            ‘You are far more valuable to us alive.  We cannot risk you being captured or murdered by bounty hunters.  Do not fight back, just run as far as you can when they come,’ Kethral had warned him.

            ‘Not this time, father,’ he responded in his mind.  He was through running from these invaders in a land he knew belonged to his people.  He drew his twin shortswords, and lunged from behind the tree, directly in front of them.

            “Gah’raen,” he addressed the Madrocean hunters with a snarl.  In their language, he continued. “You have no place here.”

            “Oh look,” the hunter mocked in Madrocean, emulating the young elf’s accent.  “The fairy child thinks he can speak!”  He raised his crossbow to the elf’s chest.

            With a fluid motion, the elf swiped his blade, removing the taller Madrocean’s crossbow wielding hand.  With a roundhouse kick, he removed the other bounty hunter’s crossbow, which loosed its bolt onto the fir trunk behind the elf.

            In clear and precise Imperial Madrocean, the elf continued.  “Foolish outlander thinks he can trample through the Everwood, doing whatever the Hades he pleases.”  His tone shifted from disdainful to commanding.  “You have no place in Tarligean.  You have gone too far.”

            The taller bounty hunter grasped the stump of his right arm, and cried, “Help!”

            The shorter of the two drew his broadsword, and lunged toward the young elf.  The elf blocked the broadsword’s chop with one of his blades.  Attacking from the side, he stabbed the Madrocean’s torso with his other blade.

            “Foolish boy,” his stepfather’s voice echoed from deeper in the wood, breaking up in stressed exasperation.  “Run—idiot!”

            The young elf bowed toward his incapacitated opponents with a mischievous smile, dove beneath a large bush, and sped down the deer trail behind it.  Branches swiped and scourged his face as he ran down the path.  Beyond a tall rock outcropping near a stream, he caught up with his camp.  They ran together as a large group, encumbered by canvas bags full of their belongings.  Behind him, a woman screamed in terrible pain.  When the last of the camp passed the elf, he spied three Madroceans carrying off the body of Kidera, an elder in his clan.  He drew his blades, and approached them swiftly from behind.

            “And where do you think you are taking Lady Kidera,” he demanded.

            The men shouted wildly in Madrocean.  After a moment of mentally translating, he realized they were crying out bounty prices with much enthusiasm.  Ten thousand Imperial Seals, or voidans on the head of every dead or captured member of the rogue Taergeni elven house Tartali; one hundred thousand on the head of any who answered to the name of Tuvitor.

            The elf ran toward the encumbered one, and drop-kicked him in the stomach.  Falling onto his back, the Madrocean dropped Kidera to his side.  The elf’s arms moved side to side as he swiped at the other two foreigners.  His body swayed back and forth as the men took turns at swiping back to him with their broadswords, but with a lucky stab followed by a lucky slash across the larynx, the young elf cut the throat one of the Madroceans, and pierced the heart of another.  A crossbow from the third bounty hunter pressed against the young elf’s neck.

            Capturing a glimpse of the necklace draped over the elf’s collarbone; a symbol comprised of a knot tied around a silver square, he paused in recognition.
“Interesting little pendant,” sneered the bounty hunter.  “I suggest you drop your little blades and surrender.”
Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth as his body twitched in a final moment of surprised agony.  Behind the bounty hunter, Kidera stood up, swaying dizzily.  She was critically maimed, bleeding from her abdomen.  Glossy eyed, she pushed the arrow she pulled from her own body into the mercenary’s heart.

            Sheathing his blades with shaky hands, the elf spoke up.  “You almost captured quite the bounty; for I am Daecrynn Tuvitor, and whatever you had gained in your adventures, you don’t get to carry it with you to Verduhn.”

            Having left the Madroceans behind, he carried Kidera up the trail for what seemed a long distance; beneath the ever-present shadow of the high forest canopy.  His legs burned, and his arms felt raw on the inside from fatigue, as he spied a differing shade of brown from the foliage in the distance—the color of the clan’s large canvas tents.  Kidera breathed sporadically, coughing and gurgling up blood with baneful frequency.  The bandages Daecrynn had wrapped around her were completely soaked through.

            Daecrynn sighed sadly, remembering the many times Kidera had taken care of him as he grew up.  He held onto her tightly as he slid off the trail down a cliff-side into the camp along the shores of the river.  Kethral’s tent was already erected, and the camp’s soldiers were already in a position of guard.  He carried her into Kethral’s tent and laid her gently on the five elk-hides sewn together into a rug at the center of the tent.

            Kethral walked into the main area of the tent from behind a woolen partition that separated his private quarters.  He frowned in anguish as he glanced at Kidera.  She stared upwards idly, her gaze growing pale and distant.

            “She saved me,” Daecrynn whispered, the wells of his eyes on the brink of overflow.
Kethral dropped to a knee beside Kidera, and he looked into her eyes.  Gently, he clasped her right hand before speaking.  “Kidera, can you hear me?”

            Kidera returned to the fringes of consciousness, her eyes locking onto Kethral's.  “He is ready.  His spirit glows; it's ready.”

            Kethral nodded somberly as he placed her hand on her chest.  He looked to Daecrynn and back to Kidera as her eyes closed.  Her body relaxed as her spirit was released.  He closed her eyes with his left hand, his right hand over his heart.

            Daecrynn couldn't hold back the weight of his tears any longer.  They streaked down his cheeks.  He clenched his fists, and grimaced tightly.  “Why?  You didn't need to die to save me,” Daecrynn cried woefully.

            “Don’t be a fool!” Kethral exclaimed.  “She was already dying.  I saw her when the humans captured her.  Saving your life took the vanity from her death and allowed her to be buried with dignity.  She will be at peace now.”

            Kethral gazed upward, placing his hands over his heart.  Daecrynn stared back down at his aunt, his tears unabated.  Kethral uttered an ancient chant of passing. 

            “From stardust these vessels sculpted, from starlight our souls ignited; may this soul again illuminate, to reflect the light of Rhia'li.  Life to life, may you be born anew.”

            After a period of woeful silence, Kethral spoke again.  “Gather your things.  Prepare to travel alone.  Tonight, we talk.”

            Kethral wiped a tear from his cheek, and stood up.  He pushed the tent-flap aside and walked out, as a younger girl with long braided hair and a somewhat chubby face pushed him aside to enter.  The child spied Daecrynn standing over Kidera, and she gasped.  Sealing her eyes in disbelief, she darted behind the woolen partition.

            “Chesreya!” Daecrynn cried.

            As he stepped over to the partition, she sobbed.  “How can they keep doing this?  Why don't they leave us alone?”

            “Kidera outlived the hunters,” Daecrynn said gravely.

            “They still killed her!   She's still dead!”  she shouted in anguish.

            “They will pay.  Those Madrocean pigs that put the bounty on us will pay.  I swear it,” Daecrynn pledged bitterly.

            “A—a bounty?”  Chesreya asked between tears.

            “Yes.  A large one, Chesei,” Daecrynn revealed.  “The highest one being on us three.”

            An infant in a cradle cried.

            “Chesreya stood up, and approached the cradle, lifting an infant out of it.  She rocked him back and forth.”

            “It's okay Treilan.  Your big brother killed those bad men,” Chesreya cried softly.

            “Not without Kidera's help,” Daecrynn corrected.

            Daecrynn and auntie Kidera killed those bad men,” Chesreya wept.

            Daecrynn's mother entered.  She had a lithe build, regal features, dark hair with a golden cast, and deep green eyes.  She was clothed in a violet dress embroidered with starred patterns.  From her ears dangled two long golden earrings.

            Daecrynn turned to his mother, staring at her with a gaze of disbelief.  She returned his gaze, expressing a reserved confirmation.  Daecrynn turned away as he realized the time had come.  He stood, glanced back at Chesreya in sorrow, and stepped behind the partition sectioning off his quarters from the rest of the tent.  He paused as he realized that his belongings had been strewn about in a ramshackle series of piles by whatever elf was responsible for his possessions during the confused flight from the last campsite.  After pausing momentarily to take a quick inventory of what was left, he filled his larger satchel with a few basic needs.  He wanted to travel light and survive by his means.  He fitted his scabbards with a pair of j'haene, a thin-bladed shortsword with a long handle.  He picked out an olive green cape and hood that would blend well into either woodland or field, should he need camouflage.  Daecrynn strapped a simple rune-etched shortbow to his back, which he had crafted of dark walnut the previous summer.  He gathered some other miscellaneous survival gear, and carefully arranged it in his satchel.  Finally, he hoisted it over his shoulder and stepped out of the tent.

            By the time his boots touched earth, the sun had already dropped below the horizon across river from the encampment.  He walked down a short trail to the southern end of the camp.  Waiting at the base of the incline, Kethral gazed thoughtfully at the passing waters of the river.

            “The mystic Isendriel once said that upon death, we Taergeni can see the spiritual world as if it were as solid and real as this one,” Kethral said, staring up to where the evening star's light began to pierce through the blue.

            “What does that mean?” Daecrynn asked.

            “I'm not exactly sure,” Kethral paused.  “Your older brother was the last Kestiel, the last High King.  He was the elder son of Meldehan, as you were the younger.  You are the last survivor of the Kestiel's Line, Daecrynn.  And you have made it clear that you can no longer run away, that your very being is poised to fight back.  You are ready to represent your line.”

            “Perhaps this is what the Madroceans are afraid of,” Daecrynn responded, pausing briefly.  “The bounty on my head is up to one hundred thousand voidans.”
“If by chance you were to recover the sword of the first Kestiel,” Kethral pondered.   “Oro'quiel.  The Madroceans would have far more to fear, for sure.”
“What makes you think Thetali's sword still exists?” Daecrynn inquired.

            “The only sword like it—Xendros—was lost to us when your brother was slain on the battlefield of Cassadina.  If the Madroceans had taken it, then our only hope would lie in Oro'quiel,” Kethral explained.
“And where exactly would I look for Oro'quiel,” Daecrynn asked with incredulity.

            “You could begin your search wherever it was that Asutel Thetali was last seen.  The tales of his last battle all point to his disappearance in the area of Witches Peak, where he fought the six Ghost Dragons.  They, like Thetali and his sword haven't been seen since,” Kethral replied.

            “Over nine centuries ago.”

            “A friend of the family confided in me two nights ago that Oro'quiel is out there somewhere, just waiting for the right person to find it.”

            “What friend?  The only strangers I've seen this last week were the gah'raen.”

            “You haven't met her yet.  I would be quite surprised if you never did however,” Kethral replied.  “Your quest of passage is to retrieve Oro'quiel.  Upon finding it, your destiny will unfold.”

            “This is like some sort of sick joke,” Daecrynn protested with a scowl.  “There is no way I am going to find that sword!”

            “I would not jest tastelessly in light of Kidera's passing over,” Kethral replied quietly, shaking his head.
In resignation, Daecrynn bit his lip and sighed, “You are right.  You would not.”

            “My son, I believe in you.  In my heart I know you will be a lord of Tarligean likened unto your true father,” Kethral said.

            “I barely remember him,” Daecrynn lamented.

            “And I am unable to forget him, especially after seeing you stand up to those bounty hunters today.  He would be proud of you,” Kethral reflected.

            “So I'm supposed to go find Oro'quiel.  You wish me to push the mountains of Tarngor over Cardalia while I am at it?” Daecrynn muttered.

            “Believe in yourself, Daecrynn.  Believe in yourself as I do.  I know in my spirit that you shall not only find Oro'quiel, but you will unite this land in ways unprecedented since Asutel the Great wielded that sword.  Now go,” Kethral instructed.

            “I thank you for raising and caring for me.  As esteemed as my father was, I will forever remember you as my father.  I will do my best,” Daecrynn resigned.

* * *

            That night, Daecrynn made camp atop a hill situated between four smaller redwoods.  He wrapped himself in his bedroll and cape, and pulled it over his head.  Restlessly, his mind fought its way to sleep, as the images of the day's events repeated in his thoughts.
Morning came too quickly.  He awakened to the chorus of hundreds of birds chirping in the forest canopy above him.  His first thought was identical to his last when he slipped out of consciousness the night before.  He was certain he would die; lost in the mountains trying to find a fabled sword that probably found its way into a dragon's hoard—if it existed in the first place.  The chorus of the songbirds prompted Daecrynn's internal song to take to a marching rhythm.  It felt like a good rhythm to travel by.  He hummed as he ate his morning mush.

            “Kethral's finally gone mad,” Daecrynn uttered as he hastily shoved his bedroll into his rucksack.
Weaving between high reaching redwood and icania trees, he played a merry march on his flute as he strode down a southern trail.  Around the Taisladi Hills, a rolling forested land at the southern edge of the Tuitari Everwood, he made his passage, avoiding the old Nali River Highway and its annoyingly frequent Madrocean Imperial patrols.  At the northern edge of the plains beyond the hill, he traveled far.  He hoped to reach sight of the Tarngor Mountains, whose windswept northernmost slopes included the dreaded mountain called Witches Peak.  He skirted the southern edge of the forest, avoiding the heavily populated Namakiera region, as that territory was firmly under the control of the Madrocean Empire.

            At a circle of oak trees on the plain, he stopped to rest.  The midday sun was beginning to waver, moving west.  He sipped water from his flask, and glared bitterly toward the south.  A butterfly landed on his nose, breaking his resentful focus.  He
sneezed, and looked around.  In the corner of his eyes, but never in direct sight, he saw blurred light forms around him.

            “Whatever it was that made Kethral go mad is hitting me now,” Daecrynn chuckled.  “Lya must have put the wrong kind of mushrooms in the kri'ayolas last night.”

            “You're not mad yet,” a playful voice declared from behind.

            “What in the?”  Daecrynn turned around, swiftly drawing both of his blades.

            “Seek and you will not see,” the voice sung, before breaking into melodious laughter.

            “Mozay faerie!” Daecrynn exclaimed in astonishment.

            In a tone mocking the style of a twisted carnival hawker, the invisible faerie declared, “And for this insightful approximation of the nature of my being, friend—you win a prize!”

            Daecrynn awakened, tilting his head toward the sun that tracked farther west.  He had no memory of falling asleep.

            “She put the wrong mushrooms in the kri'ayolas,” Daecrynn deduced.  “This is crazy.”
Daecrynn hoisted himself back onto his feet.  He lifted his pack, and slung it over his shoulder with his bow and quiver.  The blades he had drawn were laid on the ground, gleaming in the sunbeams that passed through the leaves of oak.  The swords were pointed oddly, clearly toward a white stone just outside of the circle of trees.  He snatched his blades from the ground, and sheathed them.  He gazed suspiciously toward the stone outside the circle.  Carefully he walked toward and spied an inscription, freshly etched into the stone.

            'And your prize is a magic sword!  To collect your prize, seek out the eagle and follow his flight.  You will be near when you meet an old man who is not a man.'

            In the distance, an eagle’s shrill call pierced the gentle wind.  Daecrynn’s eyes widened as he looked to the sky.  Overhead, an eagle circled above the ring of trees.  The eagle called again as it altered its course, soaring to the southwest.  He paused, questioning the reality of the situation.  Resigned to the idea that he had lost his mind and might as well run with it, he trudged down the plains to follow the raptor’s flight path.  Without ceasing, he followed the eagle into the early evening as the half-moon had risen.  A gentle mist obscured the distant hills west to Fidralinia.  A peachy glow over the far clouds in the southeast betrayed the bright lights of the distant Namakiera.  Overhead, the stars gently jittered against the fixed void behind it.  Following the occasional cry of the eagle, he passed the dusty old Caeoldei Road.  It branched off from the Nali Road in the east, and was once a well-traveled trade route between the hierarchy capital of Andriel, and the city of Namakiera.

            As the moon obscured itself behind the east hills, the eagle’s cry was heard no more.  Not wanting to get lost as fatigue was setting in, Daecrynn chose to rest here.  He dropped his satchel and opened it.  He looked in every direction, searching for any signs of lantern or torchlight.   He tugged his bedroll out of his rucksack and laid it out.

            This is the longest, strangest dream I can remember.  Perhaps tomorrow, I will awaken in camp.  Perhaps it will again be time to run.

            Morning came suddenly, as an eagle’s shrill cry woke him.  Daecrynn rolled in from his side and onto his back, and looked up to the circling bird of prey.
“Right, the sword,” Daecrynn muttered between yawns.
The eagle cried again.

            “So it’s not a dream,” Daecrynn whispered.

            Swiftly, he took some dried salmon out of his satchel.  He stuffed his bedroll into the sack, eating the cured fish.  He washed it down with mead from his water flask.  Looking up, he spied the eagle coasting to the south.  He hiked up the ridge of a rolling hill.
In less than an hour, Daecrynn was able to see the peaks of the Tarngor Mountains poking through the daylight haze.  His pace picked up, as the mountains grew clearer.  By midday, he found a battered old dwarven road that had not seen maintenance for centuries.  The brick was dusty, cracked and broken.
As he approached the foothills leading into the Tarngor range, he stopped and rested beneath a Terestel tree.
Terestels were a blue citrus fruit, almost like a sweet blue grapefruit.  When peeled, a red pulpy fruit was revealed beneath its glossy blue shell and spongy skin layer beneath it.

            Daecrynn climbed up the tree, and tossed seven terestels to the ground.  He then jumped out of the tree, landing on his feet.  As he began to peel the fruit, he heard a voice.

            “There you are, lad.  I’ve been trying to find you,” a tired old man’s voice said.

            Daecrynn looked up, and spied an elderly man in a white gown, standing on the grass by the roadside.

            “Find me?” Daecrynn repeated.

            “You’re the son of Meldehan, correct?” the old man asked.

            “My father was Meldehan the Brave,” Daecrynn said hesitantly.  “You’re not a bounty hunter are you?”

            “No, no, no,” the man affirmed.  “What you are looking for is very close.  You see that mountain in the southwest?” the old man asked, as he raised his staff to point at a mountain with twin peaks situated like horns.  “No trail goes up there.  You will have to hike very carefully.  It will take you until mid-afternoon to reach it.”

            “How would you know what I am looking for?” Daecrynn asked.  “And who are you anyways?”
“I am called Isendriel.  I have been called Trufan, Zendreili, or mmm—many other names that have either lost all meaning or have yet gained none,” Isendriel uttered, trailing off.  He pulled his long, stringy, gray hair behind his ears to reveal the clearly pointed ears of an elf.  “You would be surprised what an elf my age might know.  Then again, you might not actually be surprised if you knew my age.  I will stay out of your way now.”  He waved his hand in dismissal.  “Go on, find your sword.”

            Daecrynn looked toward Witches Peak thoughtfully, then turned back toward Isendriel.  The old man had vanished.

            “Isendriel come back!”

            He looked in all directions.  Still surrounded by the terestel fruits he had tossed from the tree moments before, he looked up the tree.  He sought the eagle, but it was nowhere to be found.  He looked to the mountain.  There were two peaks, called the Horns of the Witch, and two deep caves with wide entrances visible even as far down into the foothills as where he stood.

            The eyes of the witch.

            He was far from any of his homes and all alone in the desolate borderlands.  He was famished.  He focused on the terestel fruit, and peeled it.  Greedily he ate the wedges of the fruit that he had peeled from its bulk, staring toward the mountain that held the key to his rite of passage.  He stuffed the rest of his fruit into his rucksack.

            “Mid-afternoon eh?”  Daecrynn said to himself lowly.  “That’s assuming I actually sleep tonight.”

            He hoisted his pack over his shoulder, and trudged to the mountains up and over the foothills.  Night fell fast, but the moon rose quickly, and cast enough silver light to guide his way over the hills.
Vast constellations blanketed the night sky, with a silvery trail of distant stars tearing across the heavens.  The egg-shaped moon was one day closer to full.  He gazed at the moon as he walked up the ridge, the incline growing steeper as he hiked.  He could see the mountains, valleys, craters and plains on the moon, as it was much closer to the Earth in that age.  He peered forward as he hummed the words to a drinking song from the camp that he had called home.  As the shadow of the moon fell from behind the mountain, the face of the peak shifted from nebulously ominous to downright sinister.  He spied a dim light emanating from one of the caves as he approached.  It was almost like a fire, but without the flicker.  Over-fatigued and wary, he stopped at the base of a willow tree.  He tore his bedroll out of his sack, and tossed it onto the ground.  The moment he was snug beneath the cover, he fell asleep.

            When he finally awakened, it was high noon. 

            Daecrynn’s head crept out of his woolen sleeping-sack.  The bright midday sun struck his face, pulling him from the fringes of sleep to complete wakefulness.  Still beneath the blanket, he tilted his head to the side and looked directly at Witches’ Peak.

            “Time grows short, and the guardian weary,” a whispering voice said.

            Quickly, he kicked the woolen blanket off and jammed it into his satchel without rolling or folding it.  He slung the bag over his back, and marched intently toward the mountain.

            He walked along a ravine, as a creek below him cut through the Tarngor Mountains.  He remembered seeing the light from the cave beneath the left peak the night before, and observed a passable ridge that led upward to it.  With the daylight covering the land, he could see as far northwest as Fidralinia and as far east as Namakiera.  The air was still.  The grasses of the hills below gave way to barren rock and dust.  After a brisk and dusty hike across the barren slope, he climbed onto some rocks, and hoisted himself onto a ledge.  He carefully treaded along the ledge, barely wide enough for one elf to cross.

            By mid-afternoon, he reached the cave entrance.

            Daecrynn unsheathed one of his blades, and wielded it in a stabbing stance.  He crept into the cave.  Walking gently as to not make a sound, he snuck along the shadow of the cave’s wall.  He tiptoed toward a light coming from within the cave, around a curve.  At the edge of the bend, he looked carefully toward the source of light.  A glass case containing a sword rested upon a green velvet pillow with a white and golden fringe.  The weapon had a long, lustrous moonsilver blade.  Its blue steel hilt contained a shimmering deep-blue crystal.  The strange jewel sat the heart of the sword’s guard.  The pommel was silvery-gold, and shaped like a teardrop; separated from the black leather-bound grip by a silvery band.

            A peculiar figure holding a shiny onyx-black rod was leaning against the wall beside the case.  The creature was not quite human, with dark charcoal gray wings, long silky jet-black hair, and eyes that glowed eldritch green.  Daecrynn slid toward the prize.  He noted the eight-pointed star etched into the glass, as the jewel of the sword shimmered in the ambient light.  He recognized the symbol as the Ki’ronyx—the crest of the nation of Tarligean past.  He unlatched the chest and opened it just enough to ease the sword from its pillow and out of the case.  He grasped his own blade when he saw the creature turn and glare at him.

            “Put that back…now, little one!” the winged creature snarled lowly. 

            Daecrynn ducked swiftly as the creature aimed its rod and fired a strange beam of green light toward him.  The emerald ray struck the cave wall behind him.  The elf rolled out of the room, stood, and swiftly ran around a curve and out the cave entrance, stopping abruptly at the ledge.  From behind, a blast of green light singed his long blonde hair.  Looking down the ledge, he imagined that he might survive a slide down to the foothill below.  The sword’s strange guardian would be far less merciful.

            Daecrynn stepped off the edge, and slid down the incline.  His cape, trousers, and shirt were torn and scuffed on the loose jagged rock.  His elbows and arms were heavily scraped, cut and bruised.  He ploughed into a thorny savra’nei bush atop the foothill at the base of the mountain.  His quiver was torn, arrows strewn about the face of the precipice.  Above him, the winged creature looked down, shrugged and turned away.  Casually, the creature strode back into the cave.

            Daecrynn waited shortly, staring up at the cave entrance while hidden in the bushes.  There was no sign of the guardian.  Carefully, he slid between the two closely situated savra’nei bushes where his fall from the ledge had ended.

            Quickly, he gathered the few of his belongings that made it to the mountain’s base, and placed them into his tattered canvas rucksack.  His bow was situated against a rock uphill by a few feet.  Daecrynn was unable to strap it to his back, as his bow-strap had broken in the fall.  After regaining his bearing and wiping off some of the more profound scrapes and gashes with the remnant of his cape, his attention focused on the sword Oro’quiel that he had clutched tightly in the descent.  His eyes fixated on the light reflected from the Kri’isen jewel embedded in its hilt.  All of Daecrynn’s fear left him, as his spirit was imbued with purpose.  He had a sense of calm like he had never known before. 

            He had found what he was looking for.