[760] – Y03.060 – Ever Green III

[760] – Y03.060 – Ever Green III

“I am Elyanor,” the half elf introduced herself, feeling the young Iyrman’s grip against her forearm.

Jurot nodded, still holding her forearm, squeezing it firmly, though not painfully, before he let go. He remained standing, his eyes glaring into hers. Since she had not stated her title, it either meant she was on duty as her role secretly, or she was instead here casually.

“Do we have business?” Elyanor asked, smiling politely towards him, but wondering why he was acting so strange.

Jurot remained glaring down at her for a long while. “I wish to speak with you, Elyanor of the Sansant family.

Elyanor smiled, her fae beauty almost glowing. “What need does an Iyrman have of me.”

“I wish to speak with you.”

“Do I have need to speak with you?”

“It is your choice to make.”

“I am in the middle of a conversation with such great companions,” the half elf replied, smirking slightly towards Jurot.

“I am sorry, Marak the White, Rowan the Squire, I have business with Lady Sansant,” Jurot said.

Marak the White, an Aswadian with near black skin and dark green eyes, eyed up the Iyrman. His thick hair was stark white, parted at the centre. “You know of my name, but you are so rude?” His voice was light with humour, though his eyes held a particular viciousness within them.

“Don’t start trouble with the Iyrman,” Rowan replied, though he stared at the young Iyrman who had managed to recognise him. He was an older man, into his seventies, and his name had begun to fade. His hair was thin, though fell down to his shoulders, and his thick beard covered his face. He was the second oldest there, though Elyanor was a half elf so still seemed quite young.

“I am sorry,” Jurot said, his eyes firmly fixed on Marak’s.

Marak’s eyes glanced to the side for a moment, to a smiling Aswadian who had stepped forward. The older man stood, reaching out to shake Dunes’ forearm, the pair slipping into Aswadian as they greeted one another.

“Peace with you, nephew.”

“Peace be with you, uncle,” Dunes replied, shaking the older man’s forearm.

“You are from Black Mountain?”

“I thank the Lady for the grace.” Dunes smiled. “I was taught by Kal Samra, Kal Kamira’s daughter.” ‘Adam, how did you manage this?’

“You were trained by sister Kamira’s daughter?” Marak replied, his brows raised in shock. He patted the young man’s shoulder eagerly. “Lady Arya blesses us to meet, nephew. Come, sit with us.”

Dunes chuckled lightly, sitting beside the Aswadian man. Marak the White’s nickname referred to his white hair, which had gained when he was a young man.

“Sir Rowan, this is my nephew, Dunes,” Marak said.

Sir Rowan, understanding that the term nephew didn’t mean the term for a blood relative, bowed his head, reaching out to shake the young man’s arm. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dunes.”

“You as well, Sir Rowan,” Dunes replied, also knowing the tale of the man known as Sir Rowan.

“How do you know each other?” Sir Rowan asked.

“My sister, Kamira, her daughter trained him.”

“I see,” Sir Rowan replied, surprised to hear of the connection between the pair. Of all the people in the land, he had just so happened to meet an Aswadian who had a connection to him? He supposed it made some sense, as members of the various orders were free to travel across the lands, unlike many of the commonfolk.

Dunes smiled. Marak had trained alongside Kal Kamira by their mentor, Yaya the Brave. Marak was not an official member of the order, Yaya had trained him as a reward for his family saving the older man’s life, but hadn’t been inducted into the order formally.

“You do have quite the grandfather,” Elyanor said, her voice low. She had grown up hearing tales of that terrifyingly vicious dragon, a dragon crazy enough to cause trouble even with many of the greatest dragons in the neighbouring Aswadasad, even the likes of the Princess of the Red Desert.

“Is your grandfather well?” Sir Rowan asked.

“He is well,” Jurot replied.

“I’m sick and tired about hearing that old man,” Adam finally said, patting Jurot’s back. “Why are you talking about him when you’ve killed a dragon too?”

“It was not like Forgryn.”

“It was a blue dragon too, wasn’t it?” Adam replied.

“It was-,”

“Anyway, let’s leave them in peace,” Adam said. “Just because your old man was so strong, it doesn’t mean you can intrude on them.”

“This young man is so smart,” Marak said, eyeing up the armour Adam wore. “You wear puthral?”

“That’s right,” Adam said, partly shocked by someone calling him smart. He wasn’t sure how he felt about it.

“You are Iyrman?” Marak asked, noting Adam had yet to take off his helmet.

“No, I’m not, but I am Jurot’s brother,” Adam replied, patting Jurot on his back. “It’s so terrible being the brother of such a strong, famous brother like mine, I’m constantly overshadowed.”

Jaygak coughed from nearby, trying to keep herself from laughing, before noting Marak’s eyes falling to her with recognition, noting her tattoo. She stepped forward quickly, shaking the old man’s forearm. “It is an honour to meet you, Marak, I am Jaygak.”

“You are related to Flame Brand?”

“She is my grandaunt,” Jaygak said. “My grandfather, Tangak, who fell against Forgryn, was her brother.”

“It can only be Forgryn who could kill a man like your grandfather,” Marak said, shaking the young woman’s forearm, noting how she was also steel rank, just like Jurot, yet the pair were still so young. “You are all so strong?”

Jaygak smiled politely. “I am not quite as strong as Jurot or Adam, but I am capable. I’m smarter than Adam, though.”

Adam huffed quietly, before noting Jaygak’s look. He hadn’t seen the look in a long while, a look which told Adam he should stop before he got into trouble. ‘I should try to get out of this situation.’

“Come on, Jurot, let’s get out of here,” Adam said. “It was a pleasure to meet you all, especially you, Lady Sansant.”

Jurot sighed, and Jaygak smiled even wider, realising even she couldn’t rein in Adam’s stupidity.

“Especially me?” Elyanor asked, eyeing up the fellow in the puthral armour who had yet to take off his helmet. Iyrmen. A young man in puthral who was no Iyrman. His familiarity with the Sansant family.

“Ah, well, you see-,” Adam began, before noting the way she was staring at him. The knowing look in her eyes. The smile which crept along her face. A chill ran through him as he fell silent.

Jurot remained standing tall and firm, his eyes focused on Elyanor. He realised she hadn’t come for Adam, but that had changed now that she recognised him. Even Marak and Rowan had grown silent, feeling the intensity in the air. Vandal, who had been patiently listening, not wanting to interrupt the legends talking, could feel it.

Elyanor’s eyes soaked in Adam’s sight, before she finally looked towards Jurot. She smiled, now understanding why the young man wanted to speak with him. She smiled wider, before speaking in a tongue which only few here knew, that which was so musical to the ears.

“You can inform that brother of yours I have not come for you.”

Adam blinked, realising how rude she was being by being so curt while speaking the fae tongue, yet he still felt the chill deep within him. “Okay.”

I apologise for missing a few chapters, I had a virus that my software, White Blood Cells, were unable to contain.