Honor's Claw

     Alduin, belongings in arms, shuffled over to the table where J'layah and
Mea Culpa sat. Then the smell hit him. He had a very sensitive nose, and the
smell comming from the steaming tankard on table was quite sharp. He veered
away at the last second and seated himself nearby. The tavern was a hive of
activity, with Elfiran whipping up the cooks into a frenzy and the other
heroes going through their routines. The small man felt smaller. He quietly
went through his bag, organizing the clothes, parchement tubes, inks and
pens.
     "We will leaving within the hour."
     The announcement jolted Alduin from his shell. *An hour? In that case, I
have time to capture this moment,* he thought.
     With deft touch, he whipped out a long sheet of parchement from its
protective leather tube and spread it out on the table. Out came the inkpot
and quill, and Alduin dor Lammoth was comfortably the Master Scribe of 
Kineschel unu Lammoth. His pen tasted the ink once, then was set to the fine
paper.

     K'tarin walked quietly into his room, being the one next to his charge's.
He gave a cursory inspection, finding no articles left behind by his once-
companions. They had not meant to return. He sighed deeply at his mistake in
befriending them.
     With quick efficiency, he soon had his gear packed in military fashion;
not one strap or cord out of place, every article folded, stacked, or rolled
like a perfect jigsaw puzzle. He had left one bit of grey cloth out, and now
used it to clean his axe and rub down his armor. Below, he could hear the
hurried bustle of the kitchen and common room, but up here, he was the picture
of calm, as if he had all time in which to clean his weapon and armor. In
truth, his hands were with easy efficiency.
     He took no thought of S'talin or Shomshar. They had betrayed him, and
their time was drawing near. It was that simple. The core of a Werre is
honour, and a Werre brooked no breach of honour in those around him.
     As the bustle below reached its climax, he stopped his polishing and
finished his packing. He reached under his breast plate and drew out a red-
stained talon medalion, 4 inches long and razor tipped. It was just as it was
when it was pulled from its owner, the tendons knotted to form the loop. He
felt its warmth in his palm and imagined the trace of magika caught up within
it. Carefully, he drew a drop of blood from his palm.
     "Honour will be served," he whispered, and said a short prayer.
     A few minutes later, he was sitting beside Alduin in the common room as
Elfiran was coming through the ironwood kitchen doors loaded down with packs
of foodstuffs.

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Alduin dor Lammoth