The blues and purples of dusk basked over the Iyr. Many continued about their day, as though it was a typical day, but when Adam arrived at the layer with the large building in the middle, he could see hundreds of Iyrmen all waiting. They were gathered around the temple, a sea of people covered in their blankets. From the women, to the men, to the children, each wore the blankets of their clan, their people, all but Sonarot, who wore her typical attire of furs.

Adam wondered why it was these particular folk that came to guide Jurot home. Were they distant family? Those that were always at the funerals of their own kin? Those that swore to never leave the Iyr and so remained to welcome their kin home?

There was a single body, covered by a white sheet, which currently lay ahead of the unlit pyre. Sonarot was brought to it by another, a man that looked very similar to Iromin, and she sat down beside the body. She stared at the sheet for a long moment, her eyes filled with a certainty. Even from the outline, she knew the body. She reached out with a confident hand, and then pulled the sheet aside to reveal the familiar form of Jurot. He was pale from head to toe, the slashes from the bears lining his body, though he held the same body as those of the Iyrmen, strong and wide. He wore what appeared to be the fighting clothes, but otherwise was nude.

“Our son, our brother, he is lost,” Iromin said, his voice still like ash, yet it managed to carry throughout the area. “We have sent another brother and sister to find him, to bring him home, may they have found him in peace. Jurot’s flesh has returned, thanks to those of Paul and his ilk, but the soul has yet to come.”

Iromin reached into his blanket, withdrawing a small branch. The small branch was snow-white, a single silver leaf peeked out from the branch. He released the leaf into the pyre and in an instant , the pyre sparked into an inferno. The heat blast through the air, causing Adam to wince as he shielded himself with his arm, but then his body felt the comfort in the heat and he dropped his arm.

“Gale has answered our calls,” Ironmin said, staring at the flames for a moment. He reached out his arms, raising them as though welcoming the flames. “Perhaps it is today that Surot will return as well, to join his son, to the plains of the world beyond. Yet, Jurot still needs to be guided back to the Iyr, so that he may continue his journey in peace.”

Iromin turned and then motioned a hand behind him to beckon a man forward. The man had short white-blonde hair, blue eyes, and he was built like a mountain.

Robert. Unarmoured, no longer accompanied by his greatsword.

“We have one who will attempt to bring Jurot home, Robert, who has chosen to take no banner. He represents no family, instead he has come to settle a feud, as is the old rite. Yet, he has chosen to fight, with the honour of an Iyrman, to bring Jurot home.”

Then the humming began. Low, soft, as though a whisper in the wind. Adam looked about to see the waves of Iyrmen humming together. Some began to sing, those nearest the flames, in a language that was foreign to him.

Iromin withdrew another small stick, this one covered in some powder at the tip. He swung it across the flames, causing the stick to light instantly, before the air began to fill with a sweet smell, an earthly smell, a smell of the Iyr.

"By sight, he will be guided.” Iromin waved the incense stick. “By smell, he will be guided. By sound, he will be guided."

"You must beat the unsigned," Turot whispered, "elf who does not dream. Jurot will not return otherwise." His eyes were firm in his belief, though Adam was unsure if that was true.

"Then you'd better sing loudly, boy who dreams of carrots and two mothers. Jurot will not return otherwise." Adam’s eyes were far more playful, though they quickly became serious seeing the look in Turot’s eyes.

Turot stood, as tall as the boy could, his eyes holding within them the gaze of an older, more wizened man. Serious, and ready to do his part in this ceremony.

It seems in the Iyr, boys become men quite young, for they are surrounded by death and stories, and those that are true men and women, from an early age.

"Patterned after the Rot family, wearing Jurot's own diamonds, in the same blues of his mother and father, comes the half-man, half-fey. Adam has been chosen, by Sonarot herself, to guide her son home. Adam, who had been there in Jurot's last moments living, will guide him home. With the sight of battle, the sounds of battle, the sounds of family, and the smell of home, we will guide him home."

Turot reached up expectantly at Adam. Adam took off his blanket and then handed it to the little boy with the disposition of a young man. He stepped forth, revealing himself to all. The light of the flames licked at his skin, revealing the half-elf's designs, the blue diamond crown, the blue circle, and of course a body chiselled from marble.

"Oh damn," came a voice from the crowd. "If I was sixty years younger, I'd have eaten the pair of you." It was Joitin, who had clapped at the sight of both men. Even Robert's skin grew a little peachy at the old woman's words though the rest of the Iyr wasn't being swept up by her antics. Adam cleared his throat as he stepped forward, standing nearly bare opposite Robert.

The pair sized one another up, as though wondering what this new situation would bring. Robert and Adam, their eyes were so different now. Adam could see within Robert not a hint of pride, for in this fight, it was not about their feud. Perhaps it had been, but stood opposite these flames, hearing the hums of a people mourning, and being swept up by the rite, this was something beyond their mortal feud.

"The rules of the Iyr state that a weapon will be provided," the old Iyrman said. "Which weapon would you like?" he asked, facing Robert first.

"I can use any weapon you give me, but a greatsword will be best."

Iromin nodded and then turned to Adam. "What of you?"

"I can use any weapon as well, but Jurot knows me best with a longsword in hand, so I ask for a longsword."

Iromin nodded and then reached into the flames, as though he was reaching into a bag. His face was still, relaxed, like the water of a sea unmoving. The flames leapt up and encircled his arms, covering them up until he was shoulder deep within it. He pulled back from the flames, picking up the flames in his hands, the flames crackling and sparkling. Iromin narrowed his eyes and then clenched his fists, willing the flames into a pair of blades, one longer than the other.

Undoubtedly they were a greatsword and a longsword, made of something Adam was unfamiliar with. He knew they were something strange, not by the rusted colour, not by the sheen that they possessed, not even because they seemed to be made out of wood, though like wood that was mined from the earth, but because they were weapons of something beyond himself. These were made only for him, only for Robert, and for the sole purpose of bringing back a lost soul.

Iromin stepped between them and planted the blades into the ground, before stepping back. He then motioned with his hands, waiting for them to take their blades.

The pair stepped forward cautiously, gripping the handle of their new blades, and pulled them out. It was effortless, like pulling out a hot knife out of butter. Adam held the blade tightly, and the blade gave in to him. This blade was not a blade made by mortal hands. It wasn’t even a blade that was made to last, it was a blade that had been made for this moment, for the Adam that existed today, for the Adam that wanted to bring Jurot back.

The singing Iyrmen grew a little louder as the pair squared off with one another. Adam had wanted to spy Paul and Alten, just to see if they were watching, but there was no point. The unforgettable sound of a mother mourning assaulted him from behind, and Adam dared not to look behind him. He had the strength to fight now, the resolve to do what he could, and if he turned now he knew he'd lose it.

"You know the rules," Iromin said. "We watch you, we of the Iyr. Men, and women, and children. We watch you, as Gale watches the forest. Do not dishonour the rite."

With that, Adam heard some movement behind him. The mournful song began to play as someone carried a body and then tossed it into the flames beside them. In an instant he was made to dust, not by the flames, but by the gods who were watching.

"And so it begins," Iromin said, "the Reclamation of Jurot."

Battle Order
D20 - 1 = 2 (3)
Adam attacks second.

Robert stepped forward, greatsword in hand. Yet it seemed he did not wish to fight, for in the moment that he stepped forward to strike, his eyes fell across another sight, and in that instant his blade lost its momentum. The pair clashed, and Adam deflected the first blow, though Robert quickly regained himself and the second blow came much harder. Adam’s arm shook with effort as he parried the blow, feeling the ache begin in his arms.

HP: 114 -> 107

Adam gripped his blade tightly, but then loosened the grip ever so slightly. He didn't want to be rigid, like the earth underneath him, he wanted to flow through the air, like the flames beside him that raged onward, urging him to fight.

Attack
D20 + 8 = 15 (7)
Hit!
1D6 + 7 = 12 (5)
12 damage!

Attack
D20 + 8 = 17 (9)
Hit!
1D6 + 7 = 9 (2)
9 damage!

Like a tiger bounding forth, Adam came upon Robert with heavy blows. The champion, no longer protected by the mass of metal, deflected them as best as he could, though he stepped backwards from the terrible force that Adam reined upon him. Those strong arms shuddered as Robert tried to defend himself.

Yet Robert managed to gather himself, and catching a moment, he stepped forward with blade in hand. Adam heard Jurot’s name from behind, causing him to pause for a moment as the little boy’s voice reached his ears. Turot sang loud and clear, causing Adam to catch the greatsword awkwardly with his own blade, his muscles screaming with effort. He ducked under a second blow, however, stepping aside to catch Robert unprepared.

HP: 107 -> 94

Attack
D20 + 8 = 10 (2)
Hit!
1D6 + 7 = 13 (6)
13 damage!

Attack
D20 + 8 = 9 (1)
Critical miss!

Quick Save
D20 - 1 = 3 (4)

Adam barely managed to clatter his blade against Robert's blade, causing the man to step back, though his second thrust had been ill-timed.

Adam stumbled forward, towards the mass of flames, his sword leading him inside. The songs did not stop, but all he could hear was the crackling of flame. The piercing pain flood through his body, a torrent of pain that cascaded through his very core. The flames covered his body in their entirety, and it wasn't like Iromin who had reached forward into them, coming out unscathed, for the flames assaulted Adam.

HP: 94 -> 86

Adam's breath came to him ragged as Robert waited for him to emerge from the flames, and yet…

Adam remained. The flames continued to assault him, their heat providing no comfort. These were the flames that had taken Jurot away, they had accepted his friend with their warm embrace. In these flames, Jurot would know the way back. Adam turned to face Robert, still consumed by flames. He did not step out.

HP: 86 -> 79

Robert's eyes grew wide, his blade became loose within his grip. He waited for Adam to come out, leaving enough space for the half-elf to step forward.

Adam remained within the flames for a moment longer. The warmth, though not comforting, had steeled his resolve. His fighting clothes had protected him a little from the heat, though the rest of his body had become red, blistering from the flames licking at his skin, like a thousand hot needles that poked and prod.

HP: 79 -> 76

Adam stepped forward, blade in hand. He came, like an unwanted shadow, towards the champion. He had done so once before, when he marched straight for Alten, regardless of the consequences. Robert’s blade was shaking slightly, though he swung wildly towards the half elf. The blade cut across Adam’s chest and shoulder, the blood sweeping across the blue paint, like an army of sanguine. Even shaking with terror, the man was able to strike the clumsy half-elf, who stumbled forward with his own longsword ready to strike.

HP: 76 -> 53

Attack
D20 + 8 = 27 (19)
Hit!
1D6 + 7 = 13 (6)
13 damage!

D20 + 8 = 10 (2)
Hit!
1D6 + 7 = 12 (5)
12 damage!

Adam roared, not with pain, but with the roar of a man seemingly lost. He drove his blade harshly into Robert, hacking away wildly. This was their second bout, though the stakes of this were much harsher than the first. This was a bout to bring Jurot home, and yet it was also a duel Adam wished for his friend to be watching.

Behind him the singing continued, the mournful mother calling her son home, the mighty lungs of a little boy, making sure his cousin knew where to go, for there was a stranger fighting to bring him home.

Robert stumbled back, blade still in hand. The pair were on their last legs, that much was clear. Yet Robert did not falter, not this time. He too, was fighting for a matter more than his own design. He swung his blade harshly, and though Adam managed to catch it, his body shuddered under the impact of the mighty blow. The second swing had met with Adam's shoulder, causing even more blood to gush out, though the half-elf did not wince.

HP: 53 -> 37

Adam did not step back, for behind him were the flames, Sonarot, and Turot. There were many more of course, but they were not on Adam's mind. Ahead of him was Robert, but it was not Robert he stepped towards.

"Jurot!" Adam exclaimed, blade swinging wildly. “Are you watching?” The voice echoed through the Iyr, cascading off the hill walls, and continuing on.

Attack
D20 + 8 = 17 (9)
Hit!
1D6 + 7 = 12 (5)
12 damage!

D20 + 8 = 11 (3)
Hit!
1D6 + 7 = 9 (2)
9 damage!

Adam stepped forward, guiding his foreign blade true. Once more their blades clashed, but this time only one blade remained in hand. The greatsword flew across towards the flames, being consumed by the fire whence they came. Adam forced his sword into Robert's shoulder. Robert grunted and then slumped. He reached up to grab the longsword in his shoulder and he looked up, for once the pair stared into one another’s eyes.

Adam wanted to say it, but he couldn’t. Not now, not like this. Robert nodded once, understanding the sentiment well enough, though he did not reply. He slumped against the blade in his shoulder.

The flames grew hotter, blasting Adam with the heat. He fell across the earth on his side, his blade slipping from his hand. A blink later and the blade disappeared. Robert had fallen across the half-elf, his chest rising and falling, no longer conscious.

The flames had turned white now, and the singing grew louder. Adam turned to see Sonarot looking at the flames, her voice quiet. All the voices were quiet, save one. There, red in the face, was the tiny form of Turot. He was staring at the white flames, the dark eyes that were so typical of the Iyrmen, now gone as they reflected only the flames. The boy was shaking as he sang, making sure that his voice reached Jurot and the pair sent to guide him home.

Adam had not known what the Iyrmen had sung, for their language was in an old tongue, a tongue left for rites. Yet he could gather the gist of the feeling, and now the words had changed, acknowledging the white flames.

Jurot, who had missed the first duel, had come to see the second. Yet Sonarot remained singing as all the others began to fall silent, one by one, until only two voices remained. The quiet mourning of a wife, and the hoarse voice of a boy, who had dreamt of carrots, two mothers, and an uncle still lost.

"We welcome you, Jurot." Iromin stared into the flames, which had now grown back to their yellows, oranges and reds.

Then Iromin stepped forward towards Adam, the flames illuminating the old man's face. He looked like a younger man, here in the darkness of dusk. He reached out a hand, placing it on Adam's shoulder, which had stopped bleeding some time ago.

"You have brought Jurot home," he said. "Thank you."

Adam nodded, unable to say anything more. What else was there to say? The guilt that Adam had possessed had decreased, it hadn't gone entirely, and though it would have been quite the British thing to put it in the past, he could not do so.

The young man that had led Sonarot, picked Robert up and then motioned his head to Adam. Adam’s role here was done, he had brought Jurot home. The pair stepped aside, allowing Iromin and Paul to step forward. Paul doffed his blanket, letting the plain black blanket fall onto the floor to reveal himself in his armour, his trusty blade at his side.

Iromin removed his blanket, the blanket of his family, and revealed his near bare form. He wore fighting clothes, also pure black, and at his side was his blade of bone and metal. It glowed a dull white.

“And so,” said the younger version of Iromin, who was no doubt a child or grandchild of the leader, “a feud must be dealt with.” He raised his hands and then looked about the group who had stopped singing. “Surot will be welcomed home.”

Adam’s eyes snapped to the pair as they prepared themselves against one another. Adam turned to Sonarot, who was still singing. He turned to look at Turot, still singing, growing pale with effort. He turned to Mirot finally, who had begun singing, and then to Gorot, who held onto his son’s shoulders, though was silent.

“Is Paul about to die?” Adam asked as he leaned towards her.

“No,” Gorot replied, “this is not that kind of feud. Paul always fights Iromin when he returns with the body.”

“Why?”

“The same reason you fought for Jurot,” he said. “Guilt.”

Adam looked back at the pair of men, who were ready to face one another. Paul had summoned the flames on his sword, Iromin allowing him such a favour, before the pair finally advanced towards one another. Though Paul’s face had taken a friendly, humorous glow during their journey, now it was serious and sad. The flames revealed his true emotions, in a way that was not natural. Adam wondered what his face had looked like.

Then it began. A flurry of blade, fire, and rage. The pair were a storm, with Iromin as red as rage, his face twisted in a visage of anger. Paul stepped forward, towards a fight he had no chance of winning, but that wasn’t what he was here for. He was here to earn forgiveness by spilling his blood.

Paul’s arms shook as he met each blow, with the half naked man ahead of him advancing on the armoured Vice-Master, Paul stepped back with each passing moment. Even as Paul’s blade, flames still flickering in the air, met with the blade of bone and metal, he could not find a moment to advance himself. Paul’s arms shook, as though his own bones had been made of glass and each blow was shattering him.

The pair were a storm together, dancing the dance of death. Paul, though skilled with his blade as it sang against the steel-bone blade of his opponent, was unable to make any headway throughout the bout. The Iyrman, with his pulsing white blade of bone-metal, managed to chip away at Paul until he was left a stumbling mess, for all the Iyr to see. Iromin’s eyes were blank-white, filled with nothing but rage. Any civility the man once held was gone as he bore down the entire rage of the Iyr against Paul, whose blade was being swept aside with each strike from the mighty Iyrman.

Paul’s blade caught Iromin’s, but the flaming blade was forced aside before Iromin struck Paul against the shoulder. He then swung his blade until it met Paul’s neck. Paul’s chest rose and fell harshly, his eyes glazed over as he dropped backwards. He was panting for air, trying to swallow as much of the precious oxygen he could find.

Iromin turned to face the flames, which remained their warm colours. He waited for a long moment, expectantly, before he sheathed his blade aside and then turned to face his people. He was still fresh, a man more than able to fight again if he needed to.

“So it is done,” he said as the flames then disappeared, taking with them the wood, the ash, the body. Nothing remained. Iromin turned to face Sonarot, who had grown silent once the flames had gone. The entirely of the Iyr had grown silent when the flames disappeared.

Sonarot held her stomach, meeting the leader’s gaze, before she bowed her head at him. “It is done,” she said.

The people began to disperse, though Adam remained with the Rot family, as they did not make a move. Adam stood their awkwardly, watching as Paul finally came to, sitting up with a hand over his knee. He looked at Adam and winked at him, a small smile on his face, though he looked aside to where the flames once were and his smile disappeared. This was not the first time he had seen such a sight, and it wouldn’t be the last.

“It is time,” Sonarot said, her breath beginning to grow rapid. She was wincing with pain as she tried to control her breath.

“Time for what?” Adam asked.

Iromin threw a glance their way. “It is time,” he said, which had caused many others to move into action.

Adam’s eyes grew wide in alarm, wondering what the people were up to. Many others began to surround Sonarot as blankets were brought for her.

Paul stepped beside Adam. “Oh, it’s time,” Paul said, his face curious.

“Time?” Adam asked.

Sonarot gasped and then reached out for Mirot’s hand, who held onto her sister. Gorot picked up Turot, who was nodding off to sleep, the events having drained him to a near husk.

Paul just smiled as a group of other Iyrmen arrived, bringing hot water as Sonarot lay there, spreading her legs.

“Oh,” Adam said, his face growing pale, a cold sweat appearing on his head. “It’s time.”