“Perhaps,” Gideon began, looking across the fire to Adan’Karth, “we could try talking to the tree?”
The king raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps you need rest, Gideon.”
“I agree,” Inara said pointedly, taking a seat beside Vighon. “But he isn’t wrong,” she added in a softer tone and without meeting her old master’s gaze.
Vighon found the Drake across the fire. “You can speak to trees?” he asked incredulously.
“The trees of this world are just as alive as you or I, good king,” Adan’Karth explained. “Though I fear their voices will fade soon.”
“Why?” Inara questioned.
“Magic has long been a part of Verda’s nature, just like the wind and the tides. Without it, much of this world will pale to shadows in the twilight.”
Again, Adan’s words cut through the group and lowered morale, though he only lived to speak the truth and it could not be held against him. Asher was, in fact, rather proud of the Drake. He was the only one among his kin who was doing something to save the realm. And he had stayed by the ranger’s side day and night, enduring Asher’s every habit and bad attitude.
“If there is any hope,” the Drake continued, “it may lie in the tree itself. I will gladly reach out to it, but I must pass through this doorway; my people can glean a lot from touch.”
“I can testify to that,” Asher muttered, recalling his first visit to Ikirith, before the war.
“I will take you,” Gideon volunteered.
“I will come as well,” Kassian interjected.
Gideon appeared reluctant. “We don’t know what’s over there. It might be safer to keep our numbers down.”
Vighon raised a hand. “I want Kassian to go,” he said, raising a few eyebrows - the Keeper’s included. Since he wasn’t going to give his reasons for the edict - nor did he have to - Gideon simply bowed his head. Kassian did the same, though his was more of a thanks than a sign of respect.
“Urgent as this may be,” Reyna spoke up, “might I suggest a night of rest for all.”
“I’m not going to argue with that,” Gideon replied, obviously exhausted.
“I would see to some of the wounded,” Adan declared, rising from his seat.
“I will assist you,” Galanör offered. “My magic should be put to good use.”
Reyna reached out and touched the elven ranger’s arm. “Make sure you rest.”
Asher patted Avandriell’s neck, rousing her before he stood up. He didn’t want to sit around. Being still felt wrong, even if he wasn’t in a position to do anything.
“I will speak with Doran,” he repeated. Turning to leave, the ranger hesitated, aware that he was in the presence of the king. Vighon flicked his head, encouraging him to depart the group with a silent dismissal.
Asher cast his eyes over Inara and Gideon. The old master was watching her, though it seemed the Guardian was determined not to look at him. The ranger wasn’t one for getting in the middle of things when it came to the emotions of others but, of all those around the fire, Inara and Gideon were The Rebellion’s - if not the realm’s - greatest hope. And though they might not need to be in harmony, they at least needed to agree on the same strategy.
This was not the time or place, however, to call out either of them. He had other business to attend to.
With Avandriell close by his side, the pair made their way across the camp. They weaved between dwarves huddled around fires and elves sharing out food. Every Centaur that crossed their path bowed to Avandriell. Though the night was getting on, the camp was far from quiet; the still air disturbed by the cries of so many wounded. Asher could see frustrated Keepers and elves alike as they struggled to enact their healing spells; a notoriously difficult magic to perform.
The ranger hardened himself to it all, well accustomed to the consequences of war. Avandriell, however, was not so versed in the reality of battle for there was only so much she could take on from her mother’s memories. Asher had expected her to absorb his emotions on the matter but her individualism, it seemed, was a new development in her growth. More than once, the young dragon paused to look at an elf or a dwarf in pain.
Her heartache and desire to help made him stop and crouch down. “They’re in good hands,” he assured her, though he didn’t know how much she truly understood. “There is one, however, who does need our help.”
Avandriell looked at him, her golden eyes wider than normal. Even if she didn’t know what he was saying, she could interpret his feelings and she trusted no one more than Asher. Together, they finished their journey across the camp and broke away, to the south.
Doran was easy to find, sitting on a lone boulder with a cloud of smoke rising from his mouth. He was still wearing all of his armour, though Asher and Avandriell could have discerned that by smell alone. Andaljor rested upright against the boulder, its steel stained with detritus. Also resting beside the weary dwarf was his trusted mount, Pig. The animal snored into the night, weary itself judging by the injuries crossing its hide.
“That Warhog is as stubborn as you,” Asher remarked. “I’m starting to wonder if it will outlive us all.”
The dwarf glanced to his left, taking in the pair. “I’m happy for ye, lad,” he said, oblivious to the ranger’s comments. “Ye deserve a companion as fierce as yerself,” he muttered.
Asher remained beside the boulder as Avandriell pounced on some insect in front of the dwarf. Doran got a better view of her now and allowed his eye to wander over her rather than scout the southern plains. He didn’t display the look of wonder and amazement as everyone else did when seeing the young dragon, but dwarves weren’t known for their appreciation of the natural world.
“Her name is Avandriell,” Asher told him.
“A fine name,” Doran complimented.
