Chapter Three: Encounter

A gentle breeze danced through the forest and made the trees sing. Typothanas never grew weary of hearing their song. The elf ventured west, further west than he had ever been. He realized as he stopped in his tracks that one more step would be the furthest he had ever been from home. He knew this because of the mammoth tree with purple leaves before him. It was the same tree he had fallen out of so many years ago, when attempting to climb to the top. In his heart he smiled, but his face remained stoic and stone.

He veered left, around the tree and he saw an outlook that both scared and excited him. Fiero was setting in the west, casting a sunset on the Eastern Plains. It cast an amber glow on the entire forest, every tree, flower and creature. He stopped again and looked back at the magnificent forest, thick with tall trees, their roots protruding out of the ground like gnarled tentacles. Brilliant flowers were in bloom, accenting the green leaves and brown trees with vibrant colors of blue, violet, pink, yellow and white. It smelled floral and citrusy, ripe with fruit and bloom in the spring.

He loved his home, but something in his heart yearned for more. It was more specific than something, if only curiosity. He wanted to know why and what and how. Maybe it was his thirst for knowledge, maybe it was boredom. More than likely, Typothanas would find out what it was
he was looking for when it was right before his eyes.

The real deciding factor in taking his trip had been the map. He had found a map, dated decades back, but recent enough to be considered a reliable source of information. It was a map of the continent of Azur’nth.

The forest had been easy enough to locate. It was in the eastern part of the land, stretching from the Eastern Plains to the sea. It was a miniscule part of the continent. Typothanas had always seen the forest as a huge, expansive realm—it was his whole world. Seeing the map had been a rude awakening to how diminutive his world was—and just how he was. Azur’nth was smallest of continents in the world of Espiria. The world was a vast domain offering who knew how much more knowledge than the forest! Typothanas was not satisfied with folk tales from elf lords who had not seen the outside world in centuries. He needed to witness and experience and, most importantly, learn for himself.

So here he was, at the edge of his whole world, about to embark into the great beyond, a journey of a lifetime when a human came rampaging into the forest as if he was a bat flying free from the Abyss.

Typothanas strung his bow and readied an arrow almost reflexively. It was an unwritten law that men did not enter the forest; both races knew this. He had the human in his sights and was ready to fire when two spiky, black blurs crashed through the forest only seconds after him. Typothanas was learned in the subject of Azur’nthian wildlife and though he had never seen one he recognized the creatures immediately.

Bandersnatches were strong, fast and hard to kill. As an elf, Typothanas was generally opposed to killing, as he had a reverence for all life, but in this case, a sentient being was in mortal danger of a beast, and his life was worth protecting, even at the cost of the other. For him to have the capability to help this human, though he was breaking the laws by entering the forest, to do nothing would be a far worse crime.

This was not a very promising start to his voyage but he ran to catch the human. The bandersnatches had him cornered in a nook surrounded by gigantic, gnarly trees. He had no escape and no choice but to stand and fight.

Typothanas winced as the larger bandersnatch lunged, jaws open at the human. He dodged to the left, twirling his body and slashing his sword through the air. He caught the creature in the mouth, slicing through its cheek. It screeched in pain and slashed wildly but the human was skillfully parrying each blow.

The smaller one stood upright and tried to work its way behind him. This was Typothanas’s chance; he nocked an arrow, took careful aim and fired. He hit his mark, wounding the creature in the shoulder. He had nocked and fired another arrow before the creature had time to react to being struck with the first one.

Typothanas glanced at the human and their eyes met for a moment, only for a moment because the battle raged on. He advanced on the smaller bandersnatch, firing arrows rhythmically. Some arrows hit tender flesh but most glanced off of the black, spiky bone-armor protecting the bandersnatch’s body.

One thing was certain: he had diverted its attention off of the human and onto himself. The creature sprinted full-speed at Typothanas, attempting to charge into him. He ran to the right and jump-kicked off of a tree with all of his might; his nimble body sailed through the air. He used his legs and free arm to ascend and was perched in a high branch in a matter of seconds.
The bewildered bandersnatch, looking like a tailor’s pin cushion, howled in frustration as it scanned the treetops for Typothanas. He nocked his last remaining arrow and took careful aim, for he had to make this one count. He aimed for the throat, downward, hoping to hit as many organs as possible so that the shot would be lethal. The second the bandersnatch caught sight of him and he released the arrow. It went down the creature’s throat; it was as if it had swallowed it.

Clutching and clawing wildly at its throat the creature fell to the ground, gasping desperately for air. Typothanas spun and jumped to the ground, catching hold of a branch on the way down to slow his descent, falling gracefully like a petal from a wilting rose.

Reaching for his rapiers at his belt, Typothanas rushed the other bandersnatch who was still clawing frantically at the human. The human had a bloodied arm and side from where the creature had successfully slashed him. Surprisingly, he was holding the bandersnatch at bay with his swordplay.

Typothanas seized the opportunity to strike while the bandersnatch’s back was turned. He stabbed meticulously at the creature’s backside, each blow penetrating flesh and sinew. Without warning, the creature’s hind leg kicked a rapier out of his hand, and whirling, backhanded him in the face. The blow lifted Typothanas off of his feet and sent his body spiraling through the air and smashing against a tree.

The wind was knocked out of him and he saw stars for a moment. Between twirling through the air and hitting the ground he had dropped his second rapier. Looking up, the creature was advancing on him and he forced himself back into a state of intense concentration.

“Etrac,” he uttered.

The trees above him, as if coming to life at his command, bent over and suddenly began to wrap themselves around the creature’s arms, as the roots of the tree began to entangle its feet.
The creature leaned forward, its jaws open wide. Typothanas was back against the trunk, his face turned to the side to keep from having it bit off. He could feel the sticky, hot breath of the creature as it inched closer and closer. He fought the urge to gag as the smell of raw, bloody meat entered his nostrils.

He did not dare to move. The tree’s snare would only hold it for so long. He was stuck like a mouse in the clutches of a cat.

Typothanas heard the human start to speak in a low, chant-like tone, and he risked a glance past the creature. The human had his gaze fixed on the bandersnatch, his hands in front of him like he was holding an imaginary ball. Suddenly, a bright, orange and yellow flame erupted to life in his hands.

The creature turned around when this happened, no doubt feeling the same intense heat from the flame that Typothanas was feeling. It began to screech in a way unlike before: this was a cry of fear and of panic. The human, thrusting his hands forward, hurled the ball of fire at the bandersnatch; the result was explosive. The creature was utterly consumed by the flames, reduced to a smoldering pile of ash in a matter of seconds.

He looked over at the human, who appeared to be completely exhausted. His step wavered and he looked as if he would fall over.

“Sorry, mate. Haven’t done that in a while,” he stumbled and Typothanas caught him. He was heavy. He helped the man lean against the tree for rest. He was sweaty and out of breath.
Typothanas looked the human over. He could not help but stare, for his curiosity; he had never seen a human before. He had seen plenty of portraits of humans in history books and in the art galleries in different communes. They were always portrayed as short, stocky, hairy, pink creatures with rosy cheeks and yellow teeth. Typothanas had always found their appearance to be rather unattractive.

Typothanas wrinkled his nose when the pungent smell of the human’s perspiration wafted into his nostrils. It was a salty, vinegary smell and when it mingled with the unwashed cloth and leather that he was wearing, it evolved rapidly from a scent to a stench. His skin was a fleshy color and it looked to be soft and squishy. What more, there was black hair protruding from the skin on this creatures arms and face. At further scrutiny, while looking through a tear in the man’s leggings and shirt he discovered the same was true about his legs and chest. The degree of body hair was either greatly exaggerated in the paintings he had seen, or this human male was still young.

He was shorter and wider than Typothanas. He had broad shoulders and a muscular build. Typothanas was not one to succumb to intimidation, but he could take one look at this human male and see that he was exceptionally strong. His arms filled out the sleeves of his shirt, and his chest swelled prominently from underneath. His neck was thick and even his forearms were swollen with strength.

His dark hair was cut very short, as if it had been cut with a razor recently. He had a large, masculine forehead, and thick, dark, eyebrows above two small, almond-shaped eyes, a round nose, very pronounced, but it was a favorable shape and contour for his face. His ears were oval-shaped and small. There was not even the slightest hint of a point about them. His lips were small and thin, his chin prominent and round. There was also hair growing on the man’s neck, chin, cheeks and upper lip. Elves had long sung away hair to grow anywhere on their bodies save for their heads and eyebrows. He could not recall what humans called the hair on their face. Perhaps there was more than one name for it.

Typothanas was able to see all kinds of freckles, scars, blemishes, and even small wrinkles around his eyes. He knew that humans did not practice nature magic and did not sing over themselves to alter their appearance as elves did. Even if the elves would divulge how to use the magic, and the humans became capable of using it, it would be futile. Their lifetimes, from what Typothanas had studied would only allow for them to see a few changes. At first, Typothanas was repulsed by the ugliness of the human male’s imperfections, but as he studied the scars further he became curious about them. The faint appearance of wrinkles on the man’s forehead and in the corners of his eyes gave his face character that Typothanas had never seen in an elven face.

He wielded a long, straight sword that was sharp on both sides. It was very crude and plain, the hilt was made of wood with simple brass fittings. His clothes were simple too: black shin-high boots, brown leather breeches, and a white linen shirt with a green vest over it. He wore fingerless leather gloves that looked more like the gloves of an archer than that of a swordsman.

“Are you a mage?” Typothanas blurted in Avrælin, “you performed magic. Does that not make you a mage?” he asked curiously. The human male did not look like what Typothanas had imagined of a mage. That much was for sure. Still, he had performed a powerful spell to kill the bandersnatch.

The human looked as if he had no idea what Typothanas was saying.

“Do ye speak Common, Elflord?” he asked. Typothanas sighed, forgetting himself. The human’s vocal chords made a strange sound. It did not resound or reverberate like the voice of an elf. It was flat and simple and not as deep as that of elven males.

“Yes. I speak Common. I am no elflord, though,” Typothanas replied indignantly, but he had not meant to. Ignorant people were a pet peeve of Typothanas’s. Then again, I am just as ignorant of his ways as he is of mine, he thought, scolding himself for being so judgmental.

“I’m Damiar,” the man said, extending his right hand forward. He held it there and looked at Typothanas as if he expected the same. Jutting his hand forward, he held it out like Damiar’s.

“I am called Typothanas Tremiralan,” he had done the greeting ritual just as Damiar had and still, he looked at him puzzled. Suddenly, Damiar seized Typothanas’s hand firmly and shook it up and then down. Repulsed that the man had touched him without so much as asking permission, Typothanas tugged his hand away.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Typo…Typotha…sorry what was your name again?”

“Typothanas,” he replied, disappointed that Damiar found it difficult to pronounce his name.

“Typothanas…I’ll remember that. And no, I am not a mage, to answer your question,” Damiar said, with a little laugh.

“You understand Avrælin?”

“No, just a few words. Ye use the same word as we do for mage, but I believe ye pronounce it mah-zee, yes?”

“Magi,” Typothanas corrected.

“I also recognized the word gamayre, the real word for magic, so I figured that was what you were asking,” he laughed again, a belly laugh, loud and genuine. Typothanas did not laugh often, especially when he saw no humor in a situation. Damiar seemed to laugh at a whim.

“Humans are not allowed in the forest,” Typothanas pointed out sternly.

“I know. Sorry, mate. I had little choice in the matter. Those bandersnatches chased me here. Craziest thing! Their pup, or cub, or whatever ye call their young ones, attacked my horse. I killed the mongrel and its parents decided they wanted vengeance,” he chuckled.

“Where are you travelling to, Damiar?”

“That is my affair,” he replied.

“Did ye study Common or do all elves speak it as well as you?” Damiar asked, changing the subject. He stopped and Typothanas walked alongside him. Typothanas was flattered, he felt his knowledge of Common limited but Damiar seemed to think he spoke well.

“Most elves think it a waste of time to learn the languages of other races.”

“But not you?”

“Obviously,” Typothanas could not help his snide remarks and sarcasm.

“I guess what I meant to ask was why,” Damiar snickered.

“I am intrigued by other races and cultures. I have always wanted to travel and see these things for myself. I thought it prudent to learn the language of Common first since most races, save for elves, speak it.”

“Well your studies paid off; ye speak Common beautifully, Typothanas. Where are ye travelling to? It has been a long while since an elf has graced us with his presence,” Damiar inquired.

“That is my affair,” Typothanas joked, mimicking Damiar only moments before.

“Very well, then. I travel to Wehtag, a lake town northwest of here,” Damiar replied.

“I too, go north, to Effedeyo,” Typothanas said.

“We’ll be going the same direction for a while. Wehtag is just southwest from Effedeyo. We could travel together if you would like,” Damiar offered. He seemed trustworthy and friendly enough.

“I would like that,” Typothanas replied simply.

“Besides, it’ll be good to have you around to protect me from anymore bandersnatch attacks,” Damiar said with a laugh. Typothanas frowned. “That was a joke,” Damiar added.

Typothanas could not help but crack a smile. Travelling with Damiar would be an enjoyable experience, he decided.

“Very well, let me salvage and clean as many of these arrows as possible from this one, and then I will meet you at your camp,” Typothanas offered.

“Sounds good, mate. See you there.”

________________________________________________________________
Damiar rhythmically strummed on his lyre as he travelled on. Earlier they had a discussion about the historical significance of their chance encounter. In hundreds of years the humans and Azur’nthian elves had not been in face-to-face contact. Damiar was the first man to see an elf, and Typothanas was the first elf to see a man in almost an age. Both of them had just begun a journey of discovery. Typothanas was seeking to discover the world outside of his forest and Damiar was on a quest for self-discovery. Damiar was glad to find that they had something in common, and was already recognizing a kindred spirit in the elf.

He could not help but to stare and admire the elf’s strange appearance. It was as if he was a creature from a different world. His unnatural height gave him a commanding presence despite his petite frame. His skin was the color of pearl and did not have a single imperfection or scar on it. Only his lips and the palms of his hands had a slightly different hue. It reminded Damiar of marble that had been smoothed and polished. He wore a mane of silky, shoulder-length, midnight-colored hair that was in shocking, stark contrast to his strikingly white skin. Save for the hair on his head and eyebrows, there was not another shred of hair on his body that Damiar could see. Despite Typothanas’s delicate features, they did not seem to be dainty or feminine. There was still an air of strength and masculinity about him.

Damiar noted that the elf’s clothing was of the finest quality. His leather jerkin was the deepest shade of green he had ever seen and it was smooth and seamless. It came past his waste and was fastened with a belt of brown, braided leather. His shirt was spun from fine elven silk and dyed to a rich brown to compliment the green jerkin. He wore brown cotton leggings that were tucked into boots that came up to his knees. The boots were made of darkened brown leather, and strung with even darker laces. At the top were two straps and buckles to fasten the boots into place. The toes of the boots were pointed, unlike the fashion of boots that humans wore which were typically round.

It was difficult to keep himself from being entranced by Typothanas’s voice. It was smooth and hypnotic, deep and alluring. It sounded as if he were speaking with two or even three sets of vocal chords simultaneously. It seemed when he was speaking as if he were singing in the richest bass voice that anyone had ever heard. He was eager to hear the elf’s singing voice.

“Though the road has been hard, and the journey long, still my heart leads me on,” Damiar sang as he strummed his lyre.

“To the land far away, o’re mountains and sea, onward my heart leads me home.

“I’m coming home, I’m coming home, over the mountains, my heart leads me home. I’m coming home, I’m coming home, down through the valley, onward my heart leads me home.”

“That is a beautiful melody. Did you write it?” Typothanas asked admirably.

“No, it’s an old chours that soldiers used to sing when they marched home victorious from war,” he smiled.

“Were you a soldier?”

“No,” he replied without hesitation.

“Where did you learn your swordplay?”

“I am self-taught; any skill I possess I have attained through endless hours of rigorous practice,” he replied.

“It is quite impressive,” Typothanas said admiringly.

“Thank ye,” he replied, swelling with pride at the compliment.

“What about magic? I thought magic was rare, only taught to the most promising pupils by the Sages Circle.”

“In most cases ye are correct. I am a little different. I travel all over and I have acquired some skills here and there in my youth.”

“You are still young. How can you say your youth?”

“I am of age and have been for three years now,” Damiar shot back angrily, “how old are ye, elf?”

“Eighty-two,” he said gingerly. Damiar’s eyes widened and his mouth fell open.

“You jest! Ye don’t look a day over twenty-five!”

“Elves age much differently than men. We live to be millennia old,” Typothanas explained. He had heard elves were long-lived but he would never have realized by how much.

“So by elven standards ye’re still very young as well,” Damiar half-asked-half-stated.

“Considering how long my lifetime will be, one could say that I was relatively young,” Typothanas replied.

“What I would do in a life time were I able to live that long!” he pondered aloud.

“It is probably a good thing that men are so short-lived,” Typothanas frowned, “you are very quick to start wars, especially with each other.”

“Ye make us sound like savages,” he said indignantly.

“No other race has had as many wars within their own race as humans; none come close,” Typothanas added.

“How would you know something like that?” Damiar asked. He had meant for his tone to be one of neutral curiosity, but it came across indignantly.

“I have read every volume of human history that we elves have in our possession,” Typothanas replied. He did not seem to be offended by Damiar’s tone. Aside from the few moments of hostility when they first met, Typothanas did not seem to use inflection and emotion in his voice the way humans did.

“There are more of us and we are not so condensed as elves dwelling in the forest or dwarves underground. It creates for more diversity and disagreement,” Damiar said, finding himself defending his race, though he knew better than most the true nature of men. Men were savages, doing horrible things to each other for the most trivial of reasons.
Even doing it in the name of a god to justify their actions…

“True as this may be, it would not surprise me if there were a war between men going on right now,” he replied with biting cynicism in his voice.

“Actually, there is,” he confessed ashamedly. Typothanas looked at him as if to make sure he was not jesting.

“Tell me more,” Typothanas demanded, intrigued. Damiar began to unfold the details about Sanctus Dei, their place in society and authority, and of the Ysaht, their isolation and lifestyle. He tried to present only the facts but he snuck his opinion in every now and then without meaning to. Typothanas’s great pointed ears seem to drink in every word.

“Your king allows the Church to do this?” Typothanas inquired, his tone had a slight bit of disbelief leaking through.

“Unfortunately, yes. Bringing an uncivilized people to the Light sounds noble if you say it like that, but as usual, there is always more to the story with Sanctus Dei,” Damiar could not contain his bitter contempt from seeping out into his voice.

“Do you know something more? Do you know why the Church is really crusading against the Ysaht?” Typothanas asked.

“Well, no. I know they are looking for some sort of resource, and it is exclusively and abundantly found in the Ysaht desert,” he answered.

“What is it? Gold? Diamonds?” Typothanas asked.

“It is something different—a source of magic or power or something. I only know what they call it,” he confessed.

“The Church?” Typothanas questioned.

“No, the Ysaht. They call it et Vidal-agh.”

“What does it mean? Do you know?”

“It translates in Common as the life spring.”

“Do you know what it is supposed to be?” Typothanas asked.

“No. I know that the Ysaht are trying desperately to protect it, and since Sanctus Dei has started their crusade they’ve been looking for it tirelessly.”

“How do you know all of these details?” Typothanas asked.

“People talk. I’m from all over the place and I do well to listen to people in taverns as they talk,” Damiar replied.

“Some of this information is first-hand, detailed information. Either you, or someone you know has been there in the midst of this,” Typothanas pointed out.

“Strangest thing…I found this journal here,” Damiar reached into his pouch and pulled out the leather-bound book. “It is a first-hand account from a soldier in the Sanctus Dei army. He was studying to be a Luminari but was taken as a prisoner of war escorting a member of the clergy.”

“You found it?” Typothanas inquired suspiciously, “journals are personal things; usually people keep them close.”

“I thought the same thing! Strangely enough, it was stuffed in between the mattress of my bed at the inn by the Vernadi,” he explained.

“What is the Vernadi?” Typothanas asked.

“It’s the city-state where the Sanctus Dei headquarters is located,” he replied.

“And a Luminari—what is that?” Typothanas asked.

“For lack of a better description, a Luminari is a holy soldier. He or she devotes their entire life to learning the way of the Light and to Yaru’s teachings.”

“Like a cleric?” Typothanas queried.

“Yes and no. Luminari study the same healing artes and holy magic that clerics do, or at least remedially. Luminari are warriors though—the most powerful in our land, bringers of Light, justice and goodness. They’re rivaled only by Darinu, which have not been seen in years,” Damiar explained.

“You sound like you admire these Luminari,” Typothanas observed.

“Everyone does. Luminari are heroes,” Damiar explained.

“And a Darinu is…?” Typothanas asked.
“A servant to Havaeltr: god of Shadow and Void. They are like the Luminari except they practice dark artes and black magic,” Damiar explained.

“You seem to know a great deal concerning the Church and its affair, Damiar,” Typothanas replied slyly.

“I only know because I’ve been to too many taverns and have a wonderful habit of listening in on conversations I am not necessarily included in,” Damiar snickered.

“So you have said. Is anyone doing anything to oppose the crusade?”

“There are some protestors, mostly people who live in Effedeyo, but it isn’t enough to change anything. Lady Farrina Snowchild is open about her disagreement with the Church’s actions, but unless she had some evidence against them it will do no good,” Damiar said with a shrug.

“Farrina? That is the woman I am going to meet in Effedeyo. Is she very important in your culture?”

“She’s the king’s chief advisor and Ambassador of Foreign Affairs. While she has no real authority she is extremely well-known, well-liked and influential in the kingdom,” Damiar said as he narrowed his gaze at Typothanas.

“Perhaps this journal could be used to expose the Church’s crusade for this life spring. I could deliver it to her for you,” Typothanas offered.

Damiar looked at the ratty book and thought for a moment. He had never liked the war and what a wonderful and anonymous way to contribute to the cause of putting it to an end. The Church of Sanctus Dei would not be able to trace the journal to him. He could ask Typothanas to be quiet about it. They would look for the bloke who wrote it if anything—a ghost hunt at best. Plus, Typothanas was an elf, seemingly disconnected from the entire situation. He would have diplomatic immunity and protection while he was in Azur’nth. He was the best person to do it.

“By all means! It will shed some light on the way the Ysaht people live. Sanctus Dei tries to make them out to be less-than-human. If anyone can turn this around, it’s her!” Damiar handed the journal over to the elf.

“May I read it?” Typothanas requested.

“It does not belong to me; I read it. I guess ye would haft find the man who wrote it, if he’s still alive and ask him,” Damiar said with a nod. It was supposed to be in jest, but Typothanas clearly thought, by the look on his face, that Damiar expected him to track the man down to ask permission to read it.

“Go ahead and read it. It will give ye insight into human culture and current events in the world of men,” he insisted.

“Thank you, Damiar,” Typothanas said, touching his fingers first to his lips and then to his heart. It seemed to be a gesture of gratitude.

“Typothanas I should warn ye that ye should be careful delivering that. Making enemies with Sanctus Dei is not something I would recommend. They have been known to be cunning and forceful to anyone who opposes them,” he warned, hoping he was not going to put his new elven friend in danger.

“Even after what you have told me, I am not afraid of them. If what you tell me about their crusade is true then they are doing wrong and must be stopped. I am sure I will be safe. I am an elf and have diplomatic immunity here. Also, Lady Snowchild will be the one taking action. I am just delivering a piece of information,” Typothanas said, as he stuffed the journal into his satchel.
“I pray you are right, friend,” Damiar replied grimly. There was a long moment of awkward silence between them. Damiar did not feel like talking anymore. Thinking about Sanctus Dei and the crusade had put him in a little bit of a bad mood.

“How far do you think we are from the crossroads?” Typothanas inquired, breaking the silence and changing the subject.

Damiar thought, doing some mental math. Were they on horseback, it would have only taken a few days or so, but being on foot was slowing them down considerably. The first town between the Vernadi and Wehtag was a place called Narbshire and it was a little out of the way, further east than they needed to go, near the bend of the Narblan River. Still, they would be able to buy horses and get some additional supplies. Damiar opened his coin purse. He had leftover coin from his last dealing in the Vernadi, not nearly enough to buy another horse, let alone two.

“At this rate, we won’t get there for another three weeks or a month, but we have another option,” Damiar started, looking to see if Typothanas was interested.

“What option would that be?”

“There is a town due east of here, near the river bend called Narbshire. We would likely be able to find horses there.”

“That seems to be the better course of action,” Typothanas responded simply, not aware of the money situation or of the unsavory kind of town Narbshire could be. It was known to be a breeding ground for thieves and criminals. It was the southernmost town in Azur’nthian jurisdiction, save for Saint Oloran but that was Sanctus Dei’s territory. Few soldiers were stationed in Narbshire and the ones who were usually became party to all the carousing and debauchery that the town was so infamous for.

Damiar did his best to convey the dangers awaiting two travelers, strangers to a town like that, with a purse full of coins.

“We have your sword and my bow if the situation arises,” he shrugged the idea of danger away nonchalantly.

Damiar showed Typothanas his coin purse, and while it was not sparse, he could not afford a horse. Typothanas frowned and studied the coins as he pulled out a small, green, leather pouch as well, opened it, and pulled out a fistful of golden coins.

“Lady Snowchild said in one of her letters that I would need gold to pay for things here. Elves have no use for gold, save for decoration,” Typothanas poured the coins in Damiar’s hands whose mouth was agape with shock. What meant so little to Typothanas was a small fortune in the world of men.

“Typothanas! This is a hefty sum of money! Before we get to Narbshire ye need to put it in more than one place and be sure to only get it out if ye haft to,” Damiar cautioned him.

“Will it buy a horse?” Typothanas asked, concerned.

“It will buy four horses and a carriage if you so desired,” Damiar smiled.

“A carriage? Well we certainly will not need one of those!” Typothanas replied affirmatively. Damiar gave him a puzzled look. Maybe he had a bad experience with a carriage? Who could know?

“So, to Narbshire?” Damiar asked.

“To Narbshire,” Typothanas affirmed, nodding in agreement.