by Meesha Meserole

Created on: June 02, 2008

Lindra Parelle looked up expectantly as a gust of frigid air swept a few loose curls from her bun. The common room was half-occupied with farmers and merchants, and a quiet murmur filled the air. Some men ceased their talk as they, too, looked at the new arrivals.

Two men, tall and dark with travel-stained cloaks, had already entered and were standing on either side of the still-open door. Two more men, of the same appearance as the first two, were waiting outside as a richly dressed woman glided into the warm inn.

As the woman, who was tall herself but hooded, looked around at her surroundings, Lindra was already in front of her, bowing and welcoming her latest customer.

"My Lady, it is a pleasure to have you at the Dancing Flame this winter night. How may I serve you best?"

A voice, as cold as the breeze its owner had arrived with, came from the depths of the hood.

"I wish a room. The finest you have. And a meal. I wish to eat alone."

Lindra bowed again, a smile on her plump face. "I will send Anlea to show you to your room. I myself will see to the preparation of the solitary dining area. If I may show you to the dining room when it is ready?"

The voice was frosty, but softer than before. "That will be well. I trust the food will be adequate?"

Lindra nodded. "My cooks are exceptional. They will work their hardest to ensure you are pleased with the results. Now, if you'll excuse me, I will send Anlea."

The woman nodded her head in a dismissal, and Lindra bowed her way back to the kitchen. On her way, she noticed the men hadn't stirred a bit since entering. They stood rigid, solid as stone, and unblinking. Each man stared straight ahead, emotionless and lifeless. Lindra shivered, and it wasn't from the cold.

*

Rendara woke suddenly in a cold sweat, gasping for air. She glanced out the window and saw snowflakes illuminated by the moon; she hadn't even slept an hour. She knew what had wakened her, and knew she needed to act swiftly.

Rising from her bed, she ran a brush through her long, silvery hair. She drew a robe around her thin frame, then swung a cloak over her shoulders. She had no time to dress properly, and she knew that nothing could repair her reputation anyway.

As Rendara ran, ghostlike, down the empty streets, her exposed fingers gleamed in the moonlight, pale and slender. She knew where she was headed, knew as surely as if someone had told her-which, she thought to herself, someone had. Her visions were sent to her, she knew, though from whom she couldn't say.

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