Seventh Companion

We’re standing in quicksand if we don’t get him back soon. " Shivana whispered coolly, her auburn hair trickling down her shoulders. "Besides, this was can’t happen with much success without him. Let's just hope we aren't too late."

She turned and looked at Kian, her hair dancing in the cool breeze. Beneath a simple hunting cloak, she wore a loose fitting gray tunic, concealing the intricate and glossy elven armor fastened to her body. Strapped to her back, a sleek, white bow, made of the finest Aschina wood, glistened in the moonlight. An array of throwing daggers hung from her belt along with two elven made long knives. Even in the dim of the forests, the knives gleamed brilliantly. Held loosely in her hand was a long thin blade, much longer than the knives about her waist, yet nearly as light.

"Alright, but I still think it's suicide. So what's the plan? Charge in, swords drawn?" Kian stood up from his crouching position, ignoring the War Shrike perched upon his shoulder, its sleek, black feathers speckled with golden flakes, its talons gripping the thick leather tunic of which it rested, black eyes darting to and fro, and observed the massive camp before him, sprawling nearly a mile in every direction.

"No one could do that and stand a chance; although," Shivana smirked at him, "you would probably be the more successful of the two of us." Kian glared at her, then looked away.

She was right, of course, though Kian would never openly admit to it. The youthful elf slowly paced towards the edge of the clearing. His long, flowing cloak surrounded him as he walked. The black, interlocking armor he wore, similar to that of his companion, glistened in the low light. Overlapping sheets of metal forged in the shape of tree leaves covered his arms, combining the unique flexibility of traditional elvish armor with the strength and sturdiness of dragon scales.

His sword, mystical even in its appearance, hung loosely at his side. The handle, made with the soft skin of tree imps, had long since molded and fitted to his hand, similar to that of a leather glove. The word "Blackrazor" was etched in fine elvish writing on the pommel, revealing the sword’s true name. Below, the most extravagant piece of the sword, the blade, crackled with deep-rooted magic. Even in the pale moonlight, the blade was a black so deep, it was rumored to have blinded men looking too deep into its shimmering surface.

"We stand a much better chance if we distract them, spread our numbers, make them believe we are an army instead of a handful."

"Quite an ingenious plan." Kian mumbled under his breath. Drawing his sword, he motioned toward where Cort and Dal stood. "We’ll split in two groups, Cort, Dal, you two flank from the northern side of the camp, rake their lines on my signal. Shivana, Rusten, and I will head off the southern front and work along the eastern front; we meet in the Tethir Forest at dawn. Auren, find him, meet us by sunrise."

Auren’s silver-gray cat eyes glimmered momentarily from the darkness as a tall, shadowy figure detached itself from the surrounding darkness, only to vanish again down the rocky slopes in silence, followed quickly by Gloon.

As Cort and Dal made their way along the northern ridge of the camp, Dal drew a long, thin arrow from his quiver and pressed it to his long bow.