Knowing one's place.

[cmosier]

The trip had not gone as planned, which was of no surprise to the elf. He still believed that damned Cube cursed. The Hand, Assad Qybox called him, had walked them into an ambush, a mistake which cost the poor wizard his life.

Now, there was trouble. The battle was dragging on. Two of the "Talonasians", as Pom called them, had fallen. The constructs were starting to drop to Qybox's spells, but the spiders were another story. There seemed to be no end to those beast, pouring out of the ground in an endless torrent. To make matters worse, the lead "Talonasian" joined in.

The battle started to turn against the three. Sehron looked down at the Cube and then looked to his friends who were valiantly fighting the creatures but to no avail. The elf sighed, he knew he had to leave them and get the Cube to safety. He couldn't quite remember what "Talona" did, but he remembered it wasn't good. Sehron turned around, and slipped away with the Cube under the cover of shadow. He looked back twice, once when he heard the roar of the large panther suddenly cease, the second when he heard the leader say "Where the hell did they go?".

He made his way back to the Mirakus Post where Qybox had met up with him. Aftter a harsh exchange of words, and Sehron being surrounded by armed guards yet another time in his life, the Cube had found it's way back to safety. The Hand recovered Assad's body and found poor Pom, two breaths away from death. Sehron and Qybox took Pom to the Glade to rest, having to help the wounded gnome walk the entire distance.

The elf thought to himself as he returned to his home at the Sundren Comfort.

This is my lot in life. Qybox and Pom both praised me for my actions. What actions? I ran away, I left my friends to risk there lives while I slipped away to safety. My friends lie to themselves. Yashia, Hano, and Tamryn like to use the word "scout", but that isn't what I am at all. I am a rogue, a sneak, a scoundrel. That is what I know and that is what I am good at. I am fooling myself to believe any different.

Sehron laid down in bed, knowing and accepting his place.

[Leaving Hope]

* A letter written with a slow, deliberate hand is composed on regular, unpretentious parchment. It is delivered to the front desk of the Sundren Comfort Inn for Sehron by a random courier in the dead of night *

One may wonder why the Paladin Hano, your brother in confinement, was not really invited on a mission doomed to failure before it even began. Was it because his presence would alert others to the transportation of the artifact, or was it because he was not deemed disposable by the masterminds of this insidious plot, as you and your colleagues were? I would expect that someone who already considers himself a pawn would recognize the black player's hand at work. I do not fancy myself a white bishop in this game of kings; nay, I am painted dark, as are you.

Surely you have begun to see the machinations; surely you have begun to see that this cube will damn us all; surely you see the Triumvirate and the Hands will imperil us with their carelessness until nothing is left of Sundren but a smoking crater.

Of solutions, I have two. Were you to involve Orlan and the Church of Helm, who has been relatively silent on the matter to date, whose reputation among the people is untarnished, his influence and words for caution may compel the Triumvirate and the Hands to take more caution with a device that may very well be their undoing. The other, I will not divulge, for it is drastic and damning in its own way.

I would write to inquire of your health and recovery, but it is not in me to be concerned.

[cmosier]

Arriving down stairs, Betty stops the elf, "There is a letter for you, sir." Sehron shakes his head, he had asked the old woman several times not to call him sir. He opens and reads the letter.

"What is your game then, monster?" He rolls up the parchment and heads to temple of Helm, the last people he thought he would ever ask for help.