Sometime, in the early hours of the night, Shawnrik noticed a soft sound that reverberated through the wall. After concentrating on the sound for a long while, it finally clicked: it was the sound of someone crying. Once he realized what the sound was, he began to focus on where it was coming from, then trying to make out who it was. Shawnrik found that if he concentrated hard enough, he could make out several voices. The barely suppressed whimpers of children mingled with the quiet sobs of women who have come to know despair. It was then, listening to the cries of an unknown number of women and children, that something changed in Shawnrik’s thoughts. Eventually, he found himself lulled to sleep by the haunting sounds. The next time the lithe assassin came into his dreams, Shawnrik wrapped his hands around the man’s throat. The Dracair pulled his dagger and stabbed him over and over again, but Shawnrik held on. Even as he felt the poison coursing through his body, he refused to let go, one thought driving him onward before he awoke. You will die before me!


    “Bad dream, lad?” Dunnagan asked, sitting against the stone wall of their cell opposite Shawnrik.


    “Yes and no,” Shawnrik replied. “Last night I heard crying—it was more than one person. They are being held to the northwest of us, I think.”


    “Last night when I tried to fall asleep, I dreamt of our scaly friend, standing at the front of the cell and taunting me. Not able to sleep with his eyes boring into me whenever I closed my eyes, I listened to the sounds around us. That was when I noticed the crying. I listened to it until I felt I could hear each individual voice’s anguish, and sometime during that, I fell asleep. I once again dreamt of our dracair captor...” He flexed his powerful young hands “... but this time, I wrapped my hands around his throat. He kept stabbing me, and I could feel the poison coursing through my veins, but still I held on.”


    “Good lad.” Dunnagan smiled up at his young friend. “You’d have made a good dwarf.” Hearing Ashur snicker in the corner, Dunnagan turned to his old friend. “Oh, don’t worry, lad, ye’d have made a good dwarf too.” Looking back to Shawnrik, he added in whisper loud enough to be heard by Ashur, “His head is certainly thick enough.” This broke a lot of the tension that had been building in the cell and allowed them to truly laugh for the first time since the day they were captured. As if their laughter had been a cue for his entrance, the dracair assassin opened the outer door to their holding area and began to move towards the trio.


    “It seems the overgrown snake does not like to hear us laughing,” Ashur said loudly, and with more joviality than Shawnrik thought he himself would have been able to muster.


    “Aye lad, it’s a failing of the Dracair as a whole. They only seem ta get their kicks when they’re bein’ sneaky or slaughterin’ somethin’ weaker than themselves.” Dunnagan tried to stifle his laughter as their captor moved closer to their cell. It was still apparent in his voice, however, when he said, “Oh, ‘allo scaly.”


    “You three seem to think this is a pleasant experience,” the assassin hissed through gritted teeth. They were teeth the likes of which Shawnrik had only seen on carnivores, all pointy and made for tearing. “I am called Tallion. If that is too difficult for your feeble tongues, you will refer to me as Dracairei.”


    “It’s the name that the Dracair call their assassin branch of the family tree. The warriors are referred to as Dracani, and the dreadnaughts are Magnus Dracani.”


    “You know much for a soft skin. By what are you called?”


    “My mother named me David,” Ashur replied.


    “Ah yes, but that is not what I asked. We have heard you refer to the large young one as Shawn, and the dwarf you called Dunn. However, we have yet to garner your name.”


    “Well Tallion, sir, you can call me whatever you like. I’ve been called just about everything in the book. Everything from milord to you son of a bitch. You take your pick. Though, I wouldn’t recommend referring to my mother in such a context. The last fellow who did that isn’t much of a talker anymore,” Ashur said, his confident smile firmly in place.


    “No, I do not think that we will do that. I suppose that would make your dwarf friend Dunnagan Stormhammer?”


    “Aye Tallion, that I be,” Dunnagan said, his tone as threatening as Ashur’s posture.


    “Criminals?” Shawnrik asked, no need to hide his incredulity.


    “It’s their twisted sense of self,” Ashur said. “There are always two sides of an argument. To them, we are criminals. To the Protectorate, we are heroes. It’s all a matter of perception. I suppose that they consider most of their craven butchers heroes. I, however, have never killed any women or children.”


    “Ah. Well then, I suppose that would make me a criminal in training, yet to be charged with a crime.” Shawnrik grinned, and Dunnagan snorted in appreciation.


    “Well then, we will have to let you rot here for a short while until we figure out what to do with you.” As Tallion turned to leave, Shawnrik knew that they had gotten to the assassin. The first tell was that the man was no longer moving silently, his claws making a quiet clatter as they connected with the stone beneath his feet. The second was the slamming outer door to their holding area.


    “Well, we know we aren’t talking to whoever is in charge around here yet,” Ashur sighed.


    “We do?” Shawnrik asked, wondering how his mentor had come to that realization.


    “Yes, of course. The Dracair have insatiable egos, Dracairei being the worst of the lot on that front. He would not have said we so much if he was the one in charge. By including himself as someone who could make decisions, he was overstating his own importance. It will be interesting to find out who is running the show. This is quite the operation, I think.”


    “Aye,” Dunnagan agreed.


    “For now though, we might as well train.” Ashur said, looking around the small, cave-like cell.


    “Train?” Shawnrik asked.


    “Yes, train. Just because we are cooped up in here doesn’t mean we should let ourselves deteriorate. Pull that large rock out of the corner there, Shawnrik. It looks like it weighs quite a bit.”


    “What do you think they’re doing?” Za’erath whispered.


    “My guess is looking for people like us, brother.” Za’kereth smirked as his twin glared at him.


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    </a> Having read as many books as he could find on the subject of the Dracair, Victor thought he would be ready when he saw his first Magnus Dracani— he was wrong. The creature below had to be at least eleven feet tall, its size making the two large dracani warriors seem tiny in comparison. From the books he had read, Victor figured that the Magnus Dracani would look more like a young wingless dragon, but what sat at the bottom of the hill could not be described so easily.


    “That thing is a monster,” Victor whispered.


    “That it is, me lil friend,” Sergeant McDowell whispered back. Victor wondered for a moment how the dwarf could be so sneaky with hair that red.


    “The first time I saw one, I nearly ran away,” Corporal Jameson whispered as they began to back their way off the hill to discuss their next move.


    “Are we going to attack?” Victor asked quietly.


    “Yes,” Nim replied. “I think we are in a good spot for it, too. Elandria, do you think you can hit one of them from here?”


    “If not, I can get it close enough to get their attention at least.”


    “Where are ya aiming?” Drake, the group’s primary scout, asked.


    “Ye’ gonna shoot, Elly? Or ya just stand there lookin’ at the scenery?” Rundig, whom the squad affectionately referred to as the walking armory because of the amount of weaponry he carried around, was obviously ready for the engagement to come. Victor also thought that he had heard the dwarf say that she would hit the wrong eye, so hurrying her into making her shot was in his best interest.


    “Shut it, Rundig,” Elandria said as she moved to the top of the hill, in full view of the patrol below should they happen to look in their direction. In one smooth motion, she withdrew an arrow from her quiver, nocked it, drew back, and shot.


    “I’ll be a bearded gnome,” Rundig said as he handed a small pouch to the Cleric Bredwin. “Nice shot, lass.”


    “As if shot by the hand of Ragnós himself,” Bredwin stated. No hint of the brogue that Victor had begun to associate with dwarves was apparent as the cleric spoke.


    </a> Out of the corner of his eye, Victor thought he saw Nim move in from behind the white Dracani and stab the beast in the neck, but it had happened so quickly that Victor wasn’t sure it had really occurred. The creature faltered shortly thereafter, giving Sergeant McDowell time to set up the kill. The fiery haired dwarf used the back of his axe to hit the Dracani’s knee, which caused it to lose its footing, and then shortly thereafter its head. The Dracani’s head emitted a shrill cry before it hit the ground, sending a shiver down Victor’s spine.


    “McDowell, Jameson, get down here and help me turn him over,” the grey elf priest said, post-battle being one of the few times he was allowed to order people around.


    “This is bad; dracair claw wounds don’t heal with magic as well as other wounds. It is almost as bad as poison. I can stop the bleeding, but the wound is going to have to heal at a near natural rate.” No one said anything about the fact that they all already knew that information, because a helpful note of caution was always accepted, and even expected, amongst companions. “I need your help, Bredwin,” he said, looking up at the blond-haired dwarf on the top of the small cliff.


    “Right,” the cleric said, as he ran to his packs and grabbed a small satchel. Moments later, he leapt down to assist the priest.


    “Brave lad,” Victor heard Bredwin mutter as he began picking out herbs for the poultice they would use on the battlesorcerer’s wounds.