Missive to Council from Greyslan Amberglass

Storm Season Fourth Quarter Third Day of Horns

I apologize about my tardiness of engaging in regular missives to your honorable offices. I however managed to lose such available materials during the particular heavy storm which as you probably know washed away a good part of the port of Wensley. And given the warnings even words Season of Storm weather, I sought to make my way to the more amenable and drier regions to the south. I will of course be happy to make a full accounting of myself on my return.

Please do not engage any in risky Cold Season high travel. It is likely best no dragonship or gryphons be endangered in such travel to bring me back quickly. I am under the assurance the arbiter El Endande and men of the Southland Marches will come to some equitable arrangement to ensure I am able to return safely, if slowly back to council.

Perhaps it was the shock, the confusion, or a reflex imbued in me from times far more dangerous than this. I cast the subdual again, this time on the Keith and he fell, like the arbiter to the floor. His sword clattered loudly in accompaniment. I stood there a moment, glanced from one prone figure to the other. What had I done? I looked at my bonewood staff, so comfortable now in my hands. I was beginning to get an inkling of what had just happened.

There was a pounding on the halls great doors. I hadn’t remembered them shutting, but shut they were.

“Lord Keith,” a voice called, muffled by the thick wood. ”We heard a cry. Is all well?”

That broke me from my mystification. I quickly made my way over to the Keith, knelt and placed my hand over his mouth, added another spell, another crime to my acts. There was another pounding on the doors.

I finished the spell, then turned my head to the doors.

“We are in meeting, all is well,” I called out in the Keith’s booming voice. “You will not disturb us. Wait and stand guard.”

There were sounds of movement from behind the doors, silence for a moment, then:

“Yes lord,” came the reply. It was followed by blessed quiet.

My attention returned to my staff, my hands. What I had just done, could not have been of my own doing. What I had heard… A glamour! Gwynhafer! I concentrated on my hands. Stared at them, curled them into fists, uncurled. There was something about them. Something not right. A delay, a difference. And my staff, so comfortable in my grip. More comfortable than I had ever remembered experiencing.

Yes, I had been glamoured. And not in order for a blade this time, to be slipped between my ribs. Something much, much worse.

I whispered a cancelling. Nothing. I strengthened it. My hands shook, then glowed, then burned. Then they were mine again. I took my staff in both hands, felt the discomfort again. Yes, now this was right. The aching.

Then I began to bend it. The wood creaked, resisted my efforts. I endured the pain that the act bought. It was going to bend to my will. It was going to bend to my will!

“Now you listen to me,” I demanded as I strained. “You will reveal all your sister did to me, or by the suns and moons I will shatter you now to kindling!”