Dellynthelaara gathered all her regalness as she lurched on the edge of her chair -- her seat of power and the would-be throne of the drows -- while pensively rubbing her cheeks. Extending her slender fingers, she took hold of the silver engraved chalice filled with cool herbal infusion offered by her attendant. The liquid slowly flowed through her dry throat, imbibing her with fresh renewed vigour. Unbidden, her thoughts drifted towards the malicious jeers of Arianella of House Vumdryss and the mysterious connection of the one who introduced himself to her as Raknar and now revealed to be the perpetually derelict leader of Sanctum Templars -- Altonarrak.

While carefully sipping on the drink, she discreetly glanced over the chamber of House Vumdryss to assess for Arianella's contempt. But the old crone was too consummate in the art of politics, honed by her age, she only gave a sympathetic nod at Dellynthelaara. At that moment, the young matriarch was certain of one thing; something binds Altonarrak and House Aealaninth; its former Matriarch and her great-grandmother Orrylndra -- by extension herself, and Arianella is taunting her with that secret. She would uncover it. Soon. Before the fated duel ends. She would not bend her knees and kowtow to Arianella.

Feeling slightly overwhelmed, Dellynthelaara drowned the contents of the chalice and slapped the empty cup on the vacant tray of a willing attendant.

"Pass the word to the House Archivist. I need any correspondence, both official and private, of former Matriarch Orrylndra regarding golden eyes. He already knows of one such note. Tell him to further the search within two or three decades around that time," she instructed.

"Every private communication she received. Tell him nothing is off-limits. He is free to avail every resource he needs," she added as an afterthought.

Suppressing the surging anticipation in her heart, she forced herself to cast her gaze at the two duellists below. Patiently, she blew across her cupped palms as she assessed the two combatants. The pair did not speak during the traditional palaver. An attendant scurried away from the eyes of all who gathered, carrying the emblazoned mantle of the General. Bereft of the courtly sign of his station, General Sathry Sosildran gleamed like a beacon amidst a starless stormy night. Dellynthelaara was certain that it was her latent abilities allowing her to see past the mundane material of his armour and peer directly at the enchantments embedded along its pulsing runes. Enchantments stacked upon enchantments. Just as what was expected of the Knight Commander of the Sequestered Conciliators. No expense was spared to keep his honour intact. After all, her virtue was being challenged by the purity of his sword; a brutal and primitive melee to decide the outcome of her race.

Altonarrak showed no discernible demeanour, nor trembling gestures. The old drow simply drew his tattered robes closer and waited. Observing his firmly rooted form closely, Dellynthelaara almost suspected that he was held in place by gilded manacles laced about his ankles. His wrinkled hands buried deep in his hood giving an impression of deep brooding to any who dared to give him a second look. But Dellynthelaara knew better. She knew that was deceptive; a lethargically lying around, with eyes deep shut dragon is still a dragon.

Liberating his two-handed greatsword from the shackles of its sheath, General Sathry Sosildran clenched the handle tightly with a firm grip, lifting the blade skyward. A lambent sheen flowed on the surface of the blade; a pile of arcane sigils stacked on top of one another. Like an ocean without a bottom -- boundless. Dellynthelaara lost count of the number of enchantments applied. One to hide the true length of the blade, one to make it swing faster -- cutting through with no resistance -- to propel the swings. The blade vibrated at a speed discernible to normal eyes, slicing through reinforced adamantine plates with ease.

"Someone give this old codger a weapon," barked General Sathry Sosildran over the sound of still silence reigning the council. His opponent, the vagrant old drow, stood before him, visible unarmed. In the brief, intervening space of time, he wrapped the loose flappy ends of his robs and feet with grime-covered old bandages. And thus challenging the Knight commander in gleaming armour, stood a scarecrow of old bones, flesh and wrinkled skin.

"Fool," came the voice of Arianella loudly when everyone else whispered. No one actually dared to bring forth objections. No doubt her impudent words unnerved most who voiced their complaints against Dellynthelaara but none spoke so freely.

"Do you know why they call me The Wraith of the Tempest Brigade?" asked Altonarrak slowly.

"Tempest Brigade? Never heard of it," replied the General nonchalantly. Yet another obscure question to stale the process was all this farce was about.

"Now tell me, General, in your famed courtesy. Are you audacious enough to face the Wraith alone? Will that pristine armour of yours complement your swordsmanship?" Altonarrak shifted on the toes and heels of his feet -- swaying lightly between one foot and then another. Feeling sufficiently warmed up, he summoned.

And the twin-bladed Scimitar heeded his call, the handle materialised where he extended his hand to clench his fist.

"Allow me to introduce, this is Wraith," he said as he twiddled the twin-bladed scimitar with obvious familiarity, "and I am the Tempest Brigade."

The wonder of Altonarrak's summoned blade dissipated from the audience within moments notice as the old drow tapped the edge of his weapon on the ground, covering it with centuries-old rust. Reddish brown layers peeled off the weapon like scabs of dead skin from a leper and desecrated the polished floor of the exquisite hall.

Altonarrak's remarkable weapon was, to the end, unremarkable as Altonarrak himself.

With silence as their medium of communication, both duellists acknowledged -- an unspoken exchange of agreement -- and the duel began.

General Sathry Sosildran rushed forward and swung his greatsword like a battering ram upon the outstretched arms; the multitude of enchantments thrusting him forward with increasing momentum.

Altonarrak himself stood rooted to the place, unassuming and blurring. Like a mysterious force compelling a thousand rebellious afterimages in the rain to convene at a single spot. Flickering like flames consuming logs. Like phantoms seemingly born out of thin air and bound to his corporeal form.

With graceful agility betraying his age and with no unnecessary movement in his steps, Altonarrak spun, narrowly avoiding the overhead swing of his charging opponent. Having seized control of the initial attack, he deflected Sathry Sosildran's sweep with a fluid gesture, snapped it backwards, reversing it into position. Taking the force from the swing and with remarkable finesse, Altonarrak delivered a thunderous kick driving the powerful General stumbling forward, nearly falling. Swaying gently to an erratic trajectory, the nimble-footed old drow moved out of the General's reach before striking, attacking, turning back around the armoured opponent a full circle with surprising celerity.

The blades clashing clanged, stinging the ears, forcing uncomfortable rhythms to rend the eardrums of anyone unfortunate enough to linger close to the duellists. None spoke. All eyes, Matriarchs, Civil officials, Military officers, and one, intently witnessed the exchange of different strikes in quick sequence. Only an oblivious fool would deny the skill manifested by the two individuals of indomitable prowess and years of practice, graced with the most desirable traits of the drows available.

Slowly dancing around, the old drow returned his own long-rediscovered pride and thrill of the moment. He waded in quickly with another salvo of swings, seemingly prepared for any sudden attack, shifting weight forward and side-stepping out of range before counterattacking once more. Despite the flurry of strikes rained upon, the armoured General cocooned inside his prized shell could only be described as fleetingly staggered at best. Eventually, weary of his hulking metal-encased opponent shrugging his maelstrom of slashes, Altonarrak blinked placing sufficient distance from the stern General before preparing himself.

General Sathry Sosildran turned sharply. Hidden behind his visor, worry etched on the General's well-reputed feature as he stumbled to catch himself from losing balance. Rushing with the momentum of an enraged minotaur accentuated by the arcane enchantments in his sabatons, he covered the distance with blinding swiftness. But for all his desperate actions, the speed failed him to stop the frail old beggar from completing his spell.

Dark tendrils rose from where Altonarrak directed his gaze. Surging on the precious border between the ethereal and corporeal, the tendrils writhed transforming the grounds the General stalked into a serpentine bower. Seething with malicious tenacity, they lashed at the armoured knight, in a futile attempt to hinder his progress. For as soon as the smallest touch was made, silvery wisps of incandescent smoke rose, dissipating the tendrils.

General Sathry Sosildran met with another salvo of wild blows delivered through fast rerouting movements. Despite his advantage with veteran swordsmanship aided by the multitude of enchantments, his opponent's agility and dexterity belonged to a different league -- far removed from the mere mortal realms. For every swing was evaded and countered with eight different strikes originating from impossible angles; never twice from the same spot.

Tracing wide lucent arcs of rapid progress, Altonarrak's attacks splashed backwards around the General's stalwart stature -- inflicting nasty yet superficial dents in his armour. Very cautiously, desperately holding on to the last shroud of sanity, General Sathry Sosildran appraisingly scanned the erratic motion exhibited by the frail figure of his target. With several decades of uninterrupted training and discipline under his belt, the legendary Swordmaster twisted to meet the sting of the curved blade approaching swift and merciless. Altonarrak deftly struck from the General's blind spot with a quick narrow swing. His targeted swipe met an invincible wall of dark steel defense as the General countered, forcing Altonarrak to withdraw, disengaging and finally rolling away, widening the distance between himself and the General.

With the grace of a leaping panther, Altonnarrak reversed his course away from the charging General. Commanding eldritch powers to his beckoning, the old drow defied the usual advantage to come in swiping hard on the metal-encased enemy by releasing dazzling brilliant cerulean blue lightning from his fingertips. Nonetheless, the near impeccably executed arcane attack fizzled, racing along a pulsing lattice of protective sigil, only to harmlessly distribute itself to the carved stone floor.

Undeterred, Altonarrak stooped low. His old gnarly fingers, extended wide like the web of stalking predatory spider, touched the floor. In response, an unnatural chill permeated the space. A thin translucent layer of hoarfrost leached out from the old drow, covering the grounds.

"Nice trick," snarled the mirthful General.

"Admirable enchantments you have stacked on your armours but is friction one of them? From the swiftness you displayed, I take it that you have friction-reducing enchantments," replied Altonarrak with the contorted mirth of banter between old friends.

With a firm resolution hand, reversing the grip on the handle, the General struck the ground, sharp end first, like a massive comet striking from above. Bone-crunching, palatte-shattering vibrations spread. Hundreds of angry cracks wracked through toppling the thin layer of hoarfrost. Sharp rocks forming crags shot through the pristinely polished stone floor. Gravel exploded outwards as a satisfied smile glanced behind his visor.

Contented with his marvellous display of might, he boasted, "Not my armour, but my blade is engraved with sonic enchantments."

Sensing his undeniable victory close at hand, General Sathry Sosildran rushed whirling his blade. In four sweeping swings cut from opposite sides -- all aiming to annihilate the fragile old fool -- the General forced Altonarrak on the defensive; to retreat in haste. In a burst of grim exuberance, Altonarrak raised the twin-bladed scimitar. The lucent surface of the fast-spinning blades made an awe-inspiring disc of halo above his head.

The few moments were permanently etched in the eyes of all who gathered at the council. Their eyes widened as a dramatic sequence of events followed. General Sathry Sosildran slammed into Altonarrak. The twin-bladed scimitar, spinning and knocked out of his hands, flew to bury half blade deep into the ground. And the metal boot of General Sathry pinning the old drow beneath, his greatsword raised tip faced close to the struggling old drow's heart.

A gentle and hesitant nudge broke Dellynthelaara's hypnotised eyes from the scene below. Yoking her irritation at being disturbed at the crucial decisive moment, she turned to face her attendant standing helplessly with fear plastered all over.

"The House Archivist urged that you should be informed immediately," saying that, the attendant thrust a folded parchment in her hands.

Quickly glancing over the contents, Dellynthelaara found it to be correspondence from a former disgraced physician of her house, who incurring the wrath of Orrylndra, Matriarch at that time and was found dead in her sleep. Dellynthelaara knew what that meant.

The letter began as a formal record; fairly mundane in the opening and Dellynthelaara found herself more intrigued as she read through. Her eyes widened as she proceed and eventually stood transfixed at the particularly marked sentence.

Altonarrak raised his hands towards the towering armoured hulk standing over him. At his actions, the oppressive pressure that he felt on his chest increased. Behind the visor, General Sathry Sosildran gave a grating laugh.

"If you are thinking of summoning your blade through me, let me inform you, there are measures in place," he said.

Despite nothing concealed under his tattered robes, Altonarrak retained secrets. Tricks!

"Who said anything about forming the Wraith through your armour?" he laughed.

The Wraith appeared in the gap between the General's feet. With a flick of his wrist, Altonarrak twisted the twin-bladed scimitar, tripping the boisterous General. With a quick leap, Altonarrak pounced on his target, yanking the helmet from the General's head and with a precision rivalling a surgeon's scalpel, the Wraith slashed a clean cut across General Sathry Sosildran's exposed neck.

Dellynthelaara blocked the multitude of sounds that threatened to overwhelm her; the din from the private chambers of other Noble Houses, the clamour of the Sequestered Conciliators. She ignored all. Her attention, singularly fixated on the old drow standing before her. She felt a strong surge of emotions rush through her, like a giant tidal wave submerging all other sentiments. She allowed herself to bask in the silent comfort of Altonarrak's presence. Deep within her soul was nurtured a seed of warmth for the old drow.

Adjusting the folds of her robe in a manner that fit her position, her voice flowed with a hue of steel, as expected of a monarch.

"Altonarrak, The Wraith of the Tempest Brigade, I hereby proclaim you as my Champion and the First Blade of House Aealaninth."

Beside Dellynthelaara, Celerim stood silent and grim while his knuckles paled as he clenched tightly on the handle of The Sentinel.

But Dellynthelaara paid no heed as she ushered her retinue away from her chambers -- including Celerim -- demanding privacy for the Matriarch and her Champion.

Ensured that they were truly alone, she threw herself, with her arms wide open, at him. Her hands wrapped around his neck as she kissed his cheeks. Altonarrak's old callous hands, slowly embraced Dellynthelaara, stroking her back in waves of comfort.

"Also, I would expect every member of my House to be presentable and clean-shaven," she said with the commanding note of a queen.

Seeing him grin pranking at her, she added, "Besides, it itches when I kiss your cheeks."

Her mind still struggled to process what she read. It delivered simple answers and gave birth to more questions. The whispers of the single sentence still echoed vigorously inside her.

"Princess Rylonvirah did not inherit the Golden Eyes."