Syrune shivered. Disbelief and horror knotted in the androgynous mage’s stomach. Words stuck at the throat as if choked by an invisible arm. At the distance, only Colby maintained his innocence by chasing bugs behind rocks.

“Be assured, I do not intend to harm Serinimae. It is evident that Serinimae is held and Archivist Renarion knows about her whereabouts but he cannot assist in an official capacity,” I dusted the back of my breeches and clapped my hands to attract the attention of all.

“I believe the Sapiarchs share the same sentiment as Archivist Renorion. They are both definitely shackled under some oath no doubt,” I explained.

“Agreed with your assessment. I have reached a similar conclusion and hence did not pursue requesting Archivist for further help. It is impossible for high-elves to break this oath,” added Syrune.

“Ever heard of an old alchemy saying, cure poison with poison?” My sturdy leather boots crunched the dry debris as I closed the distance.

“You are using an oath to break another oath,” exclaimed Therrin with a grimace.

“We will procure ourselves a corpse from the city’s morgue. Mangle or burn it a bit to make it difficult to identify and let it lie around in some prominent alley,” I highlighted the plan.

“But a corpse disappearing from the morgue and another discovered in the alley around the same time?,” questioned Syrune, “I am sure the Justiciars would notice and call it a sick perverse joke.”

“Not before we spread rumours that it is Serinimae corpse. Therrin here,” I motioned towards the halfling, “with a few well-bought and free mugs of ale, rumours will spread faster than truth.”

“And the City guards and Justiciars will be forced to investigate Serinimae’s whereabouts. Doing the meticulous job for us,” Therrin grinned with mad glee.

“Two paths branch here and both favourable to us. Either the organisation holding Serinimae would officially issue a statement declaring that Serinimae is well. Or Either Renorian or the college would willingly reveal Serinimae’s situation under the pretext of aiding a murder investigation,” My stiff shoulders made a cracking noise as I stretched them, “Both the paths, beneficial to us. Finally, we will know the identity of our mysterious adversary.”

“Do we rescue this Serinimae?” Therrin vocalised his thoughts.

“We do not. The way Archivist Renorian described it, Serinimae is definitely not at risk of physical or emotional threat. I believe the intention was to draw attention to either her research or her current company.” I concluded.

“Then what is the point in all this farce?” A hint of defiance spiced the halflings words.

“So that while we go to Arlond, you will know who to throw false leads to,” Fresh air filled my lungs as I inhaled deeply and prepared for the inevitable question from Syrune.

The mage had a hard dark squint and gears fell in place in the scholar’s mind.

“I take it that, that you are committed to seeing this till the end. Octant Laboratory is where our search leads then,” The clear voice of the mage cut through the breeze, “which begs the question, how did you know about my master’s laboratory in Arlond?”

My face remained expressionless while my mind ran like a prized racehorse, choosing and eliminating various options to placate the suspicious mage.

“In case you failed to notice,” my words calm issued without stammering, “your master is ancient, even by elven standards. It should come as no surprise that many people knew about the Octant Laboratory.”

“True,” the look of disbelief still hung around Syrune like a dark cloud, “the Octant Laboratory of Vangere in Arlond was no secret but what was not well known, even among his peers, was that Octant Laboratory was no Laboratory. It was the seat of his private library, a repertoire of his research records.”

“A mere coincidence, nothing else. You are scared at shadows, Syrune,” My voice steeled with an act of feigned courage, “giving them monstrous forms. If our adversary were confiscating Vangere’s works, it stands to reason that Arlond, with its legend, would have been spared for the last. So Arlond is where we should search first.”

Syrune considered my words for a moment, dark emerald eyes flickered between the halfling and me. Trepidations held the scholar in its grasp for a brief moment before the scholar settled on the given explanation as plausible.

A tenebrous cloak wrapped around my body, blending into the dimly illuminated surrounding with feline grace. Sounds from hardened footsteps reverberated through the mud-stained alley. The diminutive form of Therrin Proudwick strode cautiously further leading the silhouettes of three robust figures. A huge sack passed between them, circumspectly held.

I engaged the strange company. Therrin handled himself with professional conduct and responded with a slight nod of his head. As the distance between us narrowed, the rogue uttered in a low voice.

“The corpse is in the sack and vitriol is in the flask, just as you requested. We could not find an ideal match but she is the closest to the requirement you suggested,” declared the rogue without wasting a moment.

With a slight flick of his wrist, Therrin signalled his newfound compatriots. The corpse was dumped unceremoniously on the alley. A pale face of an elven woman lay motionlessly on the ground. The smell of Vitriol and fetid organic decay assaulted the nostrils as the vile contents of the flask mangled the pale elven face, rendering it beyond recognition.

Without any further deliberation, our paltry group dispersed as enigmatically as we converged.

Two days of cooped up in a small dingy room in a seedy corner of Sarenthill later, the Syrune showed up at the agreed alehouse. Therrin surveyed the alehouse before the allotted time of our meeting, a cautionary move on the rogues part but one nevertheless welcomed.

Bright light danced in the mage’s emerald green eyes. A candour expression of apprehension painted on the scholar's face.

“Renorian revealed to the city guards before the Justiciars could get to him,” the mage’s voice lowered to a whisper. Lips contorted with the knowledge of the words behind, “we now have the name of our mysterious opponent, The Order of Latent Divinity.”

My forehead furrowed. A flash raced through my memory in a desperate last moment attempt to recall information pertaining to The Order of Latent Divinity. The most militant order of the high-elven paladins. The one that emphasised the apotheosis of the high-elves openly. Embraced the concept and practised it publically. Among all the orders, it has to be that one. Nothing is ever simple.

“There is more,” continued the mage, “Lenthaniel, came forward. The news that his mentor might have perished shook the poor elf more than we thought.”

My eyes darted around the alehouse and finally, an acknowledging glare was exchanged between the rogue and myself.

Ignorant of the unspoken exchange that passed, Syrune continued, “Not all her research materials and notes were confiscated. They were only interested in a certain aspect of her work. The manifestation of extraplanar bloodlines.”

Therrin completed his casual walk around the alehouse and hopped on a chair next to the mage.

“Manifestations of extraplanar bloodlines?” repeated the rogue. A hint of ignorance hovered in his question.

“To explain, it is sort of a mystery how they manifest and in what way. For example, elemental bloodlines manifest very often and are fairly predictable. Children usually inherit the affinity of their parents. Not the same with aasimar or tiefling. Tieflings lie dormant for generations before manifesting and even more suppressed is the aasimar blood,” articulated the Mage.

“The existing theory is that the bloodlines manifest in response to external demands. Almost as if the bloodlines themselves share a collective consciousness. They choose to manifest in times of need. Our resident scholar can correct me,“ I volunteered.

“That is one of the most accepted theories, though what exactly constitutes as a need, is poorly understood. Bear in mind, not all aasimars are the same. Some stronger than the rest,” Syrune explained to the rogue.

“I would propose the following plan,” declared the rogue with cold determination colouring his hazel eyes, “I would accompany you till Asterlund.”

The halfling has been keen on escaping Sarenthill, trying to put as much distance between him and his pursuers.

“Asterlund?” bewilderment clouded the mage’s voice, “it is a bit out of the way but the request could be accommodated”

The scholar’s clear eyes danced while the mind worked harder.

“Reason?” I asked.

“The local lord is organising a festival tourney, this time of the year. A spring festival tradition in Asterlund. But the festival is not our cover, it is the competitions. Usually a knight’s tournament, archery competitions, strong man wrestling. mud sport, that sort of thing. Attracts all sorts, not uncommon for minor regional lords and mercenaries to recruit winners. That would be your cover.”

His pudgy fingers interlocked across the table. More a sign of confidence than assertiveness.

“Syrune, do you have anything against what Therrin proposed?” I pestered the ruminating mage.

“My opinion, we should go with it. We could restock at Asterlund. Have an old acquaintance to call upon. More importantly, we need to leave fast. The Order of Latent Divinity has sent their Paladin Champion, commander of their forces for damage control. The faster we move the better,” added the mage.

“This is grave news,” I suppressed my annoyance from spilling, “but not bad. This went better than anticipated. We not only have a name but also know who to watch out for. Who is their Paladin Champion?”

“Mirnovian Zelaphiel Ellandor,” utter Syrune and silence settled over our table.

“Zelaphiel?” I repeated with a hard cynical squint.

“Yes, you guessed right, Aasimar,” shrugged the scholar.

This is progressing great. Just great. An aasimar with high-elven birth. Whoever this paladin champion is, he would have the arrogance of a noble with an extra pair of coin-purse.