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neither drink nor food. The central furnace, lit to keep the cold at bay, was not fired this night. The mildness of the spring night and the press of patrons made it morethan warm within the Travelers’ Inn. He glanced up to the three levels above, noting the faces of those staying, peering curiously over the balcony.
    He looked to the faces of the men and women that surrounded him in a sympathetic manner. As he listened to their laughing, he could see the bonds that united them in love and friendship. He basked in the warmth that originated from the pleasure the townspeople got from each other’s company. In human form, he had long ago discovered that he was susceptible to such mortal emotions.
    Right now, he was feeling a certain degree of pride in these people. Through the smiling faces, he could discern the vigour of the nation, a fire that burned in their souls that would never allow them to surrender totally to someone who attempted to enslave their lands. In one section of the room, he watched a group of men that laughed and joked with one another. In another, he noted some of the women, though typically fiercely independent, cling onto their menfolk. There was an honesty to these people, unlike those of the Roz’eli Empire where guile and deceit seemed to be a way of life.
    He caught a few of the single women casting him adoring glances. He smiled to himself. Maybe later, he thought.
    A presence touched him then. It was one of power and strength. It was nowhere near the kind of power that he wielded yet for a mortal he possessed some Gifts that only the gods should have. He saw him then standing next to the doorway, staring at him with cold grey and unafraid eyes. The stranger’s eyes narrowed as he attempted to perceive the truth. In a room full of people, he seemed to stand alone, his back tight against the rear wall. Those around him instinctively allowed him space.
    He was a tall for a Kel’akh man and, unlike most of them, his dark hair was kept short and his face was clean-shaven. Where the people of Kel’akh bore coloured tattoos, the stranger’s markings were of a faded black, denoting a great loss. His mind reached out and he could hear the name “Meuric” whisper out to him. He touched the newcomer’s mind with that of his own. Fresh visions littered his thoughts.
    He saw this Meuric walking amongst the ruins of a large castle that had long since been forgotten. The locals of that area had named it Burg Ay’deen because no other name was known, but the storyteller knew the truth. One time, aeons ago, it was known as the Keep of the Western Warden, the most westerly of theConclave’s citadels. In his mind’s eye, he watched as Meuric knelt and touched the ground. He could feel the powerful magick that still coursed through the land. It was this energy that gave the people of western Kel’akh their green eyes.
    He stood then to stare at the surrounding majestic ring of mountains known as Beorg Moi’ra. Of course, he had known instantly where exactly Meuric had been without the need to divine it. He had helped with the creation of that particular castle some five thousand years earlier.
    As always, more out of habit than anything else, he gazed out into the mortal’s future. He was always strangely fascinated by the course that some of their lives would take. Attributes of every god and goddess he may have, but even the storyteller had restrictions. In the case of seeing the destiny of men, he could merely see two paths of life before him. Only the goddess Fari, daughter of the entity Taim, could see all of the possible directions in a person’s life. It boggled the storyteller’s mind to conceive of it.
    In one possible future, he saw Meuric leading a charge of a small band of warriors against an overwhelming enemy with only thoughts of revenge and death filling his mind. In the background, he could see the town of Ay’den, the