They had beaten him to the punch.
When they had actually confronted him, he proved to be unexpectedly easy prey.
And so now he was.
In fact, they had strung him up: chains extended slightly from the chamber ceiling and floor, out long enough to suspend him below, and above them. There wasn’t much to make out: the lighting wasn’t especially strong, but there seemed to be something of a group around him, murmuring amongst themselves, hushed. Likely imprisoned themselves. As far as he was concerned, there was nothing much new here: naked to the waist, his cloaks, coats, vestments, and accoutrements lay, indiscriminate, on a table across from him: the weaponry, the voluminous weapons.
And: he was apparently underground.
Again.
He allowed himself a smile.
A small one.
It wasn’t like he hadn’t been warned.
There had been a dragon. Or, at least, he had been told there was one, as far as the townspeople of the hamlet Selene were concerned. It had been many, many years since the knight’s last real concern, or alarm: there had been the odd poltergeist here, the peculiar witch there, all each posing as something bigger, more nefarious. But nothing like that which he truly was interested in securing, naught that he actually feared.
So, when the alarm was raised in such a way that he became aware of it, he viewed it strangely, a mixture of some parts detached bemusement and genuine trepidation.
For their part, the townsfolk had landed squarely on “trepidation.” When he had arrived, his reputation, such as it was, proceeded him; he alone had traveled the terrain, wandering alone, following lead after false leads, after mistaken identity after woefully transparent local squabble. He alone would deliver them from the hell on earth that had become their every passing fortnight; for hadn’t the dragon, the beast, this demon, required sacrifice with every half-moon? Initially, it had been food, or livestock, or even trinkets. And when those resources had been exhausted, the sacrifice had turned human: the local “princess” had been selected.
And so it was that he found himself here, now: here he was. Surveying them in whole, he was struck by what could only be called ostentatious austerity: the garments were simple, flowing, diaphanous; but the accents, edging and flecked effects were purest gold. This effect continued throughout the people, and he noted it on their headwear as well as their footgear.
Much about this hamlet was similarly striking, distinctive: the buildings, dwellings and hovels rose from the arid surroundings like similarly colored and textured eggs: the rooflines were all domed, spheres; were they intended to reflect the sun’s light or the moon’s visage? Some other, more meaningful symbolism that could only be perceived by viewing from above, at distance? As with so many other of his investigations and inspections, this one also left him with as many questions as answers; but one thing was conclusive: approached collectively, they were all unified in at least one trait.
They were scared.
The instruction had seemed simple enough: at midnight of the next half-moon, the tarragon, the basilisk, the wyvern decreed that the villagers would present their tribute, their offering, their sacrifice: she the fairest, the plus desired maiden, their princess. She would be escorted to the island in the middle of the waterway, left there, and in turn their tormentor would relent. For at least the next month.
Hopefully.
For his part the knight was having none of that. Not that the townsfolk were of a mind to listen to him. Despite his assurances, they were convinced the only possible way to continue with their way of life was acquiescence, placating the Damocles-like presence just off their shores, and live to negotiate another day. Perhaps this would finally be enough, maybe this time, this placation would suffice. Possibly next month would be different.
Perhaps.
In the end, the knight had only been successful in arguing that he should be allowed to escort the fair maiden to her fate, to ensure no ill would fall upon her to spoil the arrangement with their antagonist. It wasn’t much, but it would have to be enough.They were issued a small craft, no larger than a canoe, and with mighty strokes were off on their delivery.
When they reached the shores of the small island in the middle of a humble waterway, the knight indicated to the princess that she should continue to avail herself of the use of the boat, and set off for parts unknown and presumed survival, if not outright freedom. When she initially protested, he unceremoniously wrapped her and her long, curly, raven locks and angular features and pronounced cheekbones within his robes and, splashing to shore himself, set the vessel on a course down canal.
Finding his way into the labyrinth hadn’t been especially difficult, even in the darkness, nor had navigating his way into its center, despite the stench of decay and rot and excess. Indeed, the closer to the middle he walked, the stronger the odor grew, as did the glow reflecting off the vast riches housed within.
And so there they were: the knight, and, a dragon. An actual dragon. A strange kinesthesia to be its presence, facing it, in its lair; at first, he was met with the traditional, nearly stereotypical, impressions: ridged, avian brow crowned reddish-orange serpentine eyes containing feline pupils, and behind…spectacles? The rest of its head, however, was ridged, coned at the top, and seemed scaled, and also reddish-orange, but leather in texture. Hands rested, relaxed, at its sides, ending in three-fingered hands balancing it atop a throne of past tributes; or their remains.
Muscular, powerful legs sat in a squat, bringing the two-toed feet into sharp relief. The only other thing that could have distracted was its tail, that slapped, agitatedly at the back of the chamber; batlike wings tittered, creating a slight breeze of the humid, sulfur-smelling air.
But then, and quicker than the knight had registered all of this, the dragon’s features seemed to blur, and were replaced by something more human-looking looking in appearance; this time the figure was still reddish orange, but bald, and wearing sunglasses with one lens blue, the other red. Dressed nattily in a black turtleneck and dress pants frame by a white dinner jacket, its hands still featured three fingers which, with a wave, seemed to cause the light to refract and distill, when its features all changed again.
This time, the knight watched an enormous, reddish-orange lion, albeit flawlessly decked out in formal evening attire, replete with white tie and scarf, now perched atop the riches. A long, lush mane flowed and back and over and behind the tuxedo jacket, contrasting the look in front, where the lion’s teeth and fangs were tacky, capped in cheap-looking faux gold. Razor-sharp claws protruded through white gloves worn on the front paws, and spats sat at the ankles of the ones in back. A garish diamond lapel-pin spelled out “DEDWUN,” entirely without taste or style.
And then the transformations began anew, in their order. They were mesmerizing, as was the background effects: thumbnail sized images of various incidents throughout history, some in grayscale, some in sepia, most full colored, played behind him, suspended in mid-air, as if transmitted video, as if this were hundreds of years into their futures. A rainstorm of colors exploded in a kaleidoscope of activity, haloing the entirety of the tableau in a psychedelic aura.
The knight stood, awestruck, unable to react. Fortunately, he was convinced he remained unnoticed.
“So my capistrate associate,” the dragon said, pushing up the spectacles, indicating him. “Are you going to continue to remain, poised there, staring, or have you transported the tariff?”
So much for remaining unnoticed.
“Hey, paladin boy, I’m addressing you, here,” the dragon sneered behind red and blue tinted shades. “Let’s get with the program, time is quite literally money.”
“Tariff,” the knight repeated.
“Yeah, yeah, the princess, or whatever” the dragon replied, diamond-encrusted lapel pin gleaming in concert with the shabbily-capped teeth. “I swear, you humans send the dumbest of the bunch of you for your bi-weekly deliveries.
The dragon caught itself, for a second and smiled.
“Actually, that makes total sense when you stop to consider it.”
“I think you’ll find me to be no common errand boy,” the knight replied and moved to undo the leather strap restraining Balin’sRed Blade of the Strange Hangings in its scabbard. Taking a step towards the treasure pile, the knight braced himself.
“Hold, hold,” said the dragon. “There’s something…unconventional…about your ardor.”
The knight had completely unsheathed his sword and was leaping into action.
“You should definitely continue your analysis,” the knight shouted, and leapt at where the dragon’s various “heads” seemed to situate. His robes caught something of the breeze generated by the winged iteration, and the glint of exposed armor gleamed, despite the unusual light.
“No, no, that’s not it,” the dragon said, almost to itself. With a wave of a three-fingered “hand” the knight found himself suspended, motionless, in mid-leap. Despite mighty struggles against, he couldn’t wrest himself free of the thrall of whatever was holding him.
He couldn’t move at all.
“Look, the deal is, no princess, no town.” The lion exemplar inspected the nails of his left paw. “Rules are rules. I’ve got a reputation to maintain.”
If the knight wanted to reply, he wouldn’t have been able to; his immobility was complete.
“But you…there’s something about you I haven’t sensed, well, since there was the unpleasantness in Jerusalem.”
A three-fingered hand pushed blue- and red-tinted lenses further up its nose.
“That’s it!” the dragon realized. “That’s exactly the energy! You clearly aren’t carrying the vessel, but still…you’ve touched it; no, wait. You possessed it, at one time, didn’t you?”
It stopped again, reassessing his detainee, stroking the fur under a lion’s chin.
“We might be able to make use of one such as yourself,” it said. “What say you, good sir knight? How would you like to broaden your world view? Loosen up that rigid and self-righteous morality that dictates all your thoughts and deeds?
“I can promise you will never be bored.”
The knight, still suspended in mid-air, remained motionless, still saying nothing in response.
“Come on, come on, cat got your tongue?” The dragon’s appearance shifted again. “Oh, of course, in a manner of parlance, indeed it had.”
Another wave of a red-orange, scaled leathery “hand,” and the knight was lowered to the ground. All of this gave the knight pause: his immediate instinct was to, again, attempt a full-on, frontal attack, but there was nothing to recommend it, nothing to suggest anything had changed, rendering this option as absurd as it was futile.
He of course would not accept the dragon’s “offer.” Which could hardly be imagined to be legitimate: even if what the dragon had said was true – and who would trust the word of one such as that – why would the dragon wish to align itself with power derived from that source, energy such as that?
Why indeed?
“Are you serious?” the knight spoke, finally. “This offer of yours, presuming its legitimate, why would I say yes if you’re as impressed with that which has been entrusted to me?
“Why would I need you, then?”
“Why indeed, errand boy?” the dragon had gone through a full cycle during the knight’s deliberations and subsequent response. Red- and blue-tinted glasses leaned in closer at the knight, and feline eyes peered over him, hard. “Let’s keep in mind that you are, shall we say, subordinate here.
“Especially here.
“So, I’ll caution you to mind your manners,” the lion’s head twitched, noticeably agitated.
The knight’s words had touched a nerve; perhaps this was the breach in the armor he would need.
“Come now, ‘Dedwun,’ or whatever it is you’re called,” the knight did not spare the acid. “Out with it. You’ve proposed an offer, a merger, call it what you will; obviously there is something to be gained for yourself.
“I fail to see my benefit here.”
Dedwun settled himself between twitches. Lion’s head morphed back into spectacled, more-traditional “dragon.”
“You ‘fail to see?’” the dragon repeated. “You fail to see?
“Let us inaugurate the enumeration of the attestation by commencing with ‘you get to continue living.’ How does that resonate?”
The knight folded his arms in front of him, although he maintained a defensive posture with his red blade.
“And?” he said, pointedly.
“And?” the red- and blue-lenses were back, as well as the rest of the bald pate, double-breasted suit, all of it. “I’ll additionally remind you that you came to me. You came here, looking for…something.
“Ask yourself why, then. Why are you even here, now?
“What did you expect to find here, errand boy?”
“I expected to stop you from the sacrifices,” the knight said, evenly. “I expected there would be no more tribute, no more…tariffs.”
“Enough,” the lion’s head spat. “You should have struck when you had the opportunity.
“It would have been quicker, and, more merciful,” the dragon continued. “Although, in retrospect, I’m glad you didn’t.
“I’ll enjoy witnessing your long, protracted suffering.”
The dragon again waved a scaled, three-fingered hand, and presently unearthly irons were about the knight, sickly aglow with a supernatural ardor; he was only momentarily aware of any of this before losing consciousness.
As he drifted off, he thought he heard a woman’s voice.
“My sisters,” the voice said. “Now we shall truly see, the game is afoot.”
When the knight awoke, he had been strung up, in those chains that extended from chamber ceiling and floor. But he wasn’t alone. That surprised him. The lighting, such as it was, wasn’t especially strong, but there seemed to be something of a haze at the other end of the chamber. Beyond that, there was nothing much new here at all: naked to the waist, his cloaks, coats, vestments and accoutrements lay, indiscriminate, on a table across from him: the weaponry, the voluminous weapons.
And: he was apparently still underground.
The knight more closely regarded the haze at the far end of the chamber. It glowed, bright and then dull, ebb and flow, not quite enough to fully illuminate the area, but it was better than nothing: the knight could make out shapes, silhouettes; nondescript.
There was more barracking, an amorphous, distorted apparition; a stir, subdued, hazy. More glow, greater, now blue, then yellow, then silver, as well as others: almond, cyan, more. low. For all of it, all the knight knew was that he was here, in chains, again; somewhere dark, and damp. And his boots had been taken.
How odd.
“Have you a name?”
The knight paused, unsure that he had actually heard the voice.
“Have you a name?”
He could make out shapes, silhouettes, assigning them to the voice he had heard.
“Who?” he asked.
The blur cavorted as it responded. More color shifts, now burnt orange, forest green.
“Your name, good knight.”
“Call me Sir Georges.”
“Saint George it is,” the voice repeated, mis-committing the alias to memory. The knight smiled again at this: despite any knowledge of the figure strung up here, whoever that was remained ignorant of how to properly address him.
The knight’s ruminations were interrupted by the rattle of iron and the scraping of stone. A brightness grew, and against the overwhelming darkness of the rest of the chamber, appeared to be much harsher than the knight would have expected. Still, without the freedom to shield his eyes, he found himself squinting, attempting to discern who, or what, was before him.
He would see this “dragon,” again?
He didn’t have to wait long for his response. The glare waned, and the figure that had been gesturing to him was now standing directly in front of him: truly a vision, and one of unalloyed allure, purely appealing, basely carnal. Long, dark, curls blew in the breeze of a wind that should not have existed this far below surface, and piercing eyes gazed through him. Whatever accoutrements adorned her were, obviously, essentially afterthought.
She continued to gesture towards him.
“Um, hello?” the knight stammered. “What’s…”
The woman stopped gesturing a moment.
“What’s your name then?” the knight asked.
The woman continued her gesture, and the brightness grew again. With a sharp jostle, the knight found he was released from the chains, and somehow knew that if he so desired, the woman before him would return his embrace.
Still, he stopped.
“Your name, mademoiselle?” he repeated. “What is it?”
A smile radiated, beaming, across her face. The woman raised a single finger to her lips, and with a slight nod, was gone.
The glare of the brightness in front of him remained, and he found he was again bound in the irons as before.
“We are not to interfere with the matters of man,” Patience said, far away from the proceedings, albeit still witness to them.
“Yet we clearly are involved,” Persistence said.
“Excuse me?” Presence asked.
“Nothing, sister,” Prudence replied.
The shine, that radiance, grew again, and where the woman had stood, now appeared the chalice, the grail, as it had so long ago. He had hoped he had sent it home, or at least, hidden from mortal view for all time. Yet here it was, in front of him, as it had before. As he began to shield his eyes in respect, he noted where the Cup, the vessel, changed appearance to that of a crown; that of the king, the one true ruler of all men.
And, just as before, with the woman, the brightness grew, again. Another sharp jostle, again as before, and the knight found he was again released from the chains; and somehow, again, as with the woman, he knew that if he so desired, the crown would be his, and his alone, to don.
Again, he stopped.
“Hello?” he called out. “Anyone? Anyone at all? What have you done with Arzhuur, our one true king, he who would unite us all? Is this not his crown?
“Answer me, wherever, whoever you are,” the knight was becoming less patient.
“Now,” he commanded.
And again, the radiance grew to envelop the entire area, and the crown, and then chalice, blurred and faded into the light. When the glare dimmed yet again, the knight was back in the irons as he had been throughout the proceedings, but he found them strangely weaker.
What witchcraft was at work, here?
“See?” Providence asked. “I told you. It is as has been foretold.”
“No one likes ‘I told you so,’ Sister,” Parsimony sneered. “But, yes, all is as you say.
“He is the one.”
“Indeed,” Prudence agreed.
This time when the light, the damned bright light, finally receded, the knight found himself transported, dangling from the edge of a precipice, presumably high above wherever it was that he had been. To his side, he recognized the princess, from before; where had she been? how was it that she was here, now? So much about all of this didn’t make sense.
In front of them stood the dragon, Dedwun, in all three of its instances, simultaneously.
“Ah,” they said. “You’re back. Good. Good seeing you again, Sir Knight.
“So. Here we are, it’s come to this, all that,” they continued. “Here’s the deal: You, or her. We need a sacrifice, we must have tribute, and you’ve made it clear that you’re going to continue to be difficult about this.
So, then, fine,” they said. “You’re so consumed with concern for her wellbeing, then, you can volunteer to take her place as substitute.
“Or not,” they finished. “The choice is yours.”
The knight did not hesitate.
“It is no choice at all,” he replied. “And I will yet find a way to slay you.”
The dragon began to laugh, but abruptly stopped when the knight released his grip from the precipice’s edge. Falling, he gracefully turned to draw his sword, only to remember he wasn’t wearing it.
Still, he did not fall.
Suspended in mid-air, he looked around to find the princess fade from view, as did the all-encompassing glow. As the light receded, he found he was standing on the stone floor of the dragon’s chamber, from before. “Dedwun,” if that was in fact its name, lay dead on the stone across from him, its vast piles of riches fading from view as the dragon’s remains began to dissipate. Quickly, the knight found himself to be alone, and the room empty, devoid of any trace of anything that had transpired.
Strangely, he found himself still bound by the irons that had restrained him until now, though they seemed lighter than ever. Indeed, they, too, began to fade from sight as well: more than forged iron and steel; they were made of something far more debilitating.
Temptation.
He had definitively faced down doubt and uncertainty, those many centuries ago, on a trail somewhere east of Rome. But this, now, was something altogether different.
Albeit with the same intended result.
“St. Georges” stood, surveying his surroundings. How was he going to get out of here?
A bluish, glowing haze appeared in a corner opposite, interrupting his deliberation. It was joined by more: sunflower-yellow, static gray, greens, golds, crimsons, pinks, purples; all aside the blue, but not contacting it. All cones differing in hue, appearance and sound, the hazes all articulated simultaneously, coalescing into nine figures: hooded, and possessing similar features, but differing in size and shape.
“Good sir knight,” the first in line began. She was all Providence: fair complected, with hair the color of fresh cranberries, pulled back in a neat bun anchored at the base of her head. Her eyes sat atop high, gaunt cheekbones, and tended to convey calm, a sense of comfort, of care. Her aura was pink, and it had been her voice he had heard earlier, as he was lapsing into unconsciousness.
“Most loyal paladin,” another, entirely Prudence, continued. She was youthful in countenance, with down, cowled eyes behind rose-colored glasses, and a high collar emphasizing her conventionality, and all was a vision of ginger: scarlet hair, long and draped over shoulders also clothed in crimson, with skirts and coats that led down to cardinal boots, framed by, yes, a red aura.
“Warrior priest,” the woman to her left, a study in Patience, said. A vision in silver, she was radiant and glimmer, shimmering but not glaring. Her steely eyes reflected a serene, calm, reserve, one that carried throughout the rest of her coats and smart trousers and boots, all into lines that seemed to flow throughout her as if liquid.
“You have undergone our battery of tests,” the looming Presence said. She hung over the membership, tall and portentous, and her hues were dark; indeed, light seemed to just end within her. Not so much, though, as one wouldn’t be able to note the crisp, tailored edges, corners, creases and seams to her immaculately appointed suit. Even her shoes came to a fine point.
“Hubris, Confidence, and, now, Temptation,” a voice within the deep, yellow hues of Pandemonia said. Hers wasn’t an especially vibrant golden glow, but more of an anemic hominy; and while she wasn’t especially radiant -- her gowns seemed to just hang -- she did exude a relentlessness that suited her office.
“And passed them all,” the emerald and clover of Potential said. She was evergreen, forever possibility, and her scarves and robes were forever enchanting. The crisp smell of pine extended the glamour, and her eyes twinkled as if made of springtime.
“Well,” autumnal Parsimony corrected. “Not all. He had a little trouble, initially, with hubris.” She was all the colors of the burnt orange harvest, the glow of embers, and smelled of cinnamon. Her hair looked to be made of straw, coarse, jagged edged, and of varying layers.
“Indeed, however, that was eventually corrected, in the catacombs,” cyans and electric blues of Process said. “Continue, sister.” She hummed and buzzed as she spoke, her eyes and lips and nostrils electric as if circuitry themselves, her coats betraying an almost militaristic formality, adorned with apelets, large buttons and intricate fringe work. But all in varying shades of blues.
“You have proven yourself worthy,” the chestnut and bister ofPersistence said. Relentless as the earth itself, her wear was all fictile, hard dark granite: Reserved jacket framed high, fastened collars and long, buttoned sleeves. Conservative, but only to a point, as dull, scuffed toes peered out from under traditionalist skirts, suggestively.
“And, so, in recognition, are free,” Providence continued.
“Excuse me,” interrupted the knight. “You know me? Who are you?”
The glowing figures all turned to each other, in consideration.
“We are the sisters,” Prudence initiated their response.
“The Nein Faytes,” Patience continued.
“The Pandoria,” Presence extended the reply.
“Neither benign nor malign,” Pandemonia added.
“And definitely not dragon, or dragons,” Potential said.
“We are Beginning, Middle, and End,” Process summed.
The knight’s jaw clenched. He had heard the stories about them; but they were legends, fairy tales told to amuse or frighten children.
How could this be?
“Collectively, we conspired,” Persistence furthered.
“Well, not conspired,” Parsimony interrupted, her gowns beginning to billow, slightly. “Perhaps ‘colluded.’ Machinated?”
“Please continue, sister,” Process said, with a sigh.
“We lured you here,” Persistence said.
“Baiting our snare with irresistible bait,” Providence added. “That of the seduction of atonement, of penance, of recompense.”
“Wait,” the knight interrupted again. “All of this? All the dragon’s evil? It was the lot of you, waiting for me, to test me? How could I serve any such as that?”
There was a pause.
“Good sir knight,” Prudence began again. “That creature was not our doing.”
“No,” Patience continued. “For we are not to interfere in the ways of man.”
“Our exchange here notwithstanding,” Parsimony interrupted.
Her sisters turned to her with stares. Patience continued.
“That beast merely provided the opportunity for us to test your mettle,” she said.
“And you have impressed us, exceedingly,” Presence added.
“The day is coming where we will need an emissary here, on this plane,” Pandemonia said.
“You have proven yourself worthy,” Persistence said.
“And, so, in recognition, are free,” Providence continued.
“Until such time as we have need for you,” Potential said.
“Yes,” Presence added. “Until then, fair thee well, most favored benefactor.”
“Go with grace, our champion,” Presence said.
“We shall be in touch,” Patience warned.
“Most good Galaad,” Providence said, a twinkle in her salmon-shaded eye.
It sounded like valediction, and it was: The Pandoria turned in unison, and the chamber filled with light, blinding, warm, comforting. Reflexively, the knight raised his forearm to his brow, shielding his eyes; it still wasn’t enough, and he caught himself squeezing his eyes closed, hard.
Upon realizing this he opened them, only to realize everything seemed to have been reset: he was no longer underground, or even on the island. Standing in the hamlet’s center, the routine of day-in, day-out had resumed. Oddly, life had accelerated, somehow: the townspeople no longer seemed to recognize him, nor fear a great unknown threat across the nearby waterways.
He looked around, closer. Their appearance was entirely off from where it was, earlier: now the men and the women were heavily adorned with ostentatious headwear affecting flamboyant plumage; but the men with their canes displayed smart coats and sagging trousers; the women with their parasols and petticoats and bustles. Despite the difference, there was something familiar about this.
Indeed, the architecture reminded him of the old country, of France, with its heavily shuttered adornments, odd angles and peaks, and grand stairs all leading up to tall doorways. The streets were abuzz with activity despite the mud caking the bricked roadways, and murmured with several different tongues. The air hung heavy with humidity and the smell of spice, strong coffee, sulfur, and dank mustiness of the nearby waters.
Where was this place? And, really, when? How long had hebeen underground, after all?
What of any of this had really happened?
“Monsieur,” a female voice asked.
The knight turned.
“Pardon, Frere,” she continued. “I did not recognize your office from behind.”
She lowered her hood, and long, curly, raven locks cascaded over her shoulders and shell earrings swayed in the wind. He saw her, with her angular features and pronounced cheekbones; for a moment, he was entranced by their exotic allure.
“Can I be of service,” she asked. “I’m sorry, but you appear to be lost.”
“Not at all, mademoiselle,” the knight said. “But one question, s’il vous plait?”
“Of course,” she said.
“The name of this town?”
“Ah,” she smiled. “You are lost.
His eyes met hers.
“This is Orleans Nouvelle,” she said. “And you are?”
“Call me Father Domisolus.”
“Oui,” she said. “And I am Marie.
“Come,” she turned, leading him away. “I have an intuition about les gens; I can already tell we have much to discuss.”
Balin’s Red Blade of the Strange Hangings hummed sympathetically. The knight now called Father Domisolus joined her, now in the shadow of an inconspicuous, albeit grandly-spired, church; the knight-cum-priest was struck by its inauspicious visage, neither the largest nor the smallest of such churches in view.
“Mademoiselle Marie,” he began. “This church, what is its name?”
“St. Dagobert de Longuory Parish, Frere,” Marie responded.
Then, aside.
“As you will eventually become most acquainted.”
The two crossed, and were out into the bustle of the Rue Esplanade.
Eventually, he would exceed all of the Nein’s expectations, and all under their unforgiving gaze.
Eventually, he would indeed become their champion, the one true knight of the Pandoria, and assume the mantle of their avatar, and further involve them in the matters of man.
Eventually, they would all meet, again.