Woman of Sorrows-The Black-Veiled Woman

Peacekeeping

"There is report of the Rasonphel and Bordea divides moving south. It would appear they plan to, or otherwise will, meet in battle within three night, my lady. Is there anything you wish to do to counter this?" Tarre asked as he walked through the inn's door, drenched from the thunderstorm outside

"Bloodthirsty wretches! Why must they bring hell down upon each other? They know not their true enemy lurks in the dark and feeds on their war against humanity!" Chalandra exclaimed, angry by the divides' actions, "Too many years they have been warring. I have warned them, I have warned them all, yet they disregard my word. My work is to protect them, but I cannot protect them from themselves! All they want is this fanciful treasure, not caring about the world they live on. Do they not know what war against each other leads to?"

"My lady, what action, if any, do you wish to take?" Tarre asked, trying to calm his mistress' nerves.

"We will meet them in battle. Since they will not be reasoned with, we will give them the taste of iron and their own blood. There is nothing else to be done. It is better they should fall to ruin and their bodies lay in still sleep then they should corrupt the generation and the people I am charged to protect," she replied.

"We, my lady?" Tarre verified as usually, Chalandra went alone, "Am I to accompany you?"

"Yes, yes Tarre, I believe you are ready, do you not?" she asked.

"There is no greater honor than to stand by your side in battle. I believe the blessing that your training has been has well prepared me for war," he replied.

"Good," she nodded, "We leave at daybreak, whether it be rain or sun. Be ready and get some sleep."

"Goodnight, my lady," Tarre said, half bowing as he departed for his quarters within the inn.

Now alone, Chalandra finished her meal and watched as the rain slowly trickled down the windowpane. Though she kept it from Tarre, as he would likely not understand, her heart pounded. Somewhere, she could feel Thane's call as she watched the thunderstorm. Had he known of her breath, had he known she was still alive, he would have torn heaven and earth apart looking for her. There was nothing that would stop him, nothing. Yet he still believed her dead but in his dreams. He could dream of her, in a beautiful and peaceful manner. Yet her dreams only ever showed his pain. The pain he suffered because of her absence. Slowly, matching the delicate raindrop that rolled down the glass, a tear trickled down her cheek. If only he knew she was alive. Yet, for his own good, he could not.

Before dawn the following morning, haunted by dreams of Thane and his pain, Chalandra rose from her fitful sleep. The rain had cleared now, but the air was heavy with the moisture from the dew. It was cool, almost cold in her room. The bare wood floor was equally chilled beneath her feet, sending a brief, half-hearted shiver through her body. Sighing deeply, bringing the crisp air through her lungs, she prepared for the day ahead.

From the wardrobe of the inn she retrieved the only item she had place in its care; her black cloak and garments. Casting aside her nightclothes, she pulled on the tight riding pants, followed by the black tank. Finally, she donned her long-sleeved black shirt, loose across her body, tight in the sleeves with leather bowstring guards. Sitting back down on her bed, causing a loud squeak to fill the otherwise silent room, she grabbed her boots. Slowly, she laced them up, making sure they were tight enough to survive the long ride she faced. Before leaving her room to meet up with Tarre, she grabbed her black cloak and veil, ready to conceal herself with the dark of night and the shadow of day. Momentarily, she turned back and retrieved her weapons, girting them tight to her body. Her array of knives she carried throughout her body, her sword at her side, and her bow and quiver on her back.

As she walked down the hallway, her boots barely made a sound. If she cared to try, she could pass completely silent, but it did not matter if she made noise. Finding his room, she quietly knocked on his door, trying to prevent waking those around him. A moment later, he appeared in the doorway, already dressed and ready to leave.

"Good morning," he greeted, his face as expressionless as ever.

"Good morning Tarre," she replied. "Are you hungry?"

"That I am not. I would, however, be happy to sit with you as take a morning meal."

"No, I am fine. I do not have the stomach for food at the time being," she answered honestly, "Come then, we have a long ride ahead."

Together, they left the inn, leaving the night's board on the counter as they went. Outside, Chalandra whistled for her horse. Her stallion greeted her with a hearty nicker, the tickle of his breath down the back of her neck letting her know when he arrived.

Briefly, she greeted her stallion with a fond pat on the nose. Then, she quickly bridled him and swung onto his back. Tarre, upon finding his smaller horse, did likewise. Together, they turned to the place of their next battle. Chalandra, accustomed to leading, urged her stallion on and let him leap ahead of Tarre's horse, springing immediately into a gallop.

They rode all day. The rain subsided by midday, meaning they were drenched to the bone. When finally they neared the site that evening, their clothes had begun to dry. However, much to their surprise, the site of the presumed "battle" was nothing more than a deep ravine. The sloping walls, lush with grass, lead to a very narrow valley at the bottom, yet the entire site itself was less than a thousand feet across. For a first battle for her apprentice, this place would do quite well. She could simply post him up on the far side, laden with boulders, and she could do the knife work herself whilst he picked men off from above. This clearly was not to be a battle, but rather a skirmish.

As they expected, the men came just after dark. It was clear that Tarre had been a bit misinformed, for the men were there for nothing other than a negotiation until one of the Rasonphel commanders knifed a Bordea soldier. She waited, she stayed her hand, permitting her young student to get a few shots in. But he made a grave mistake. He had stepped out too soon, forgetting that although they had the cover of night, he could be seen against the grey of the boulders. Having taken an arrow to the shoulder and a gash to his pride, she stepped in and finished off the men, leaving their lifeless bodies to stiffen and their blood to pour out upon the grass.

She tended his wound and nursed his pride. Though she was never one to flatter a man nor comfort a person in hopes of restoring their ego, he had tried his hardest. He had only just taken up the Dendä craft after having studied it for years, so while she expected much, she did not expect perfection. That night, he had asked her of her death, and her past, for the first time. Her death, she had told him of, but her life, not yet. There was much he did not need to know of these last few years. Much she was not proud of, for though she would never admit to it, she already felt herself changing. She was not the same woman she once was.