Loosing yet another shaft from his suddenly righteous 'Oath-bow', Arowe howls in a fury that surprises himself, as the arrowhead, shaft and flight pass harmlessly through, the already badly injured Sir Briefadel's heart, as if he were already a ghost!
Unlike the sinisterly intelligent rapier; Arogon Feybane, that had sought to influence Arowe to act out its own rampantly anti-Fey agenda, the magical bow seems to have just exponentially amplified his own anger toward the vile Human Knight.
Leaning precariously over the ledge, literally holding on by his fingernails to the metaphorical skin of Dulcetta’s stone teeth, the Elven Archer howls again as the ethereal trio of Knight, Witch and Nightmare horse, pass through the illusionary veil surrounding the tower and out of his sight. In apoplectic frustration as much as anything, Arowe clamps his jaw shut, releases his tenuous grip and falls toward where he last saw the heavily armoured Fortu disappear into the inky darkness below.
Despite his rage, Arowe safely assumes that, if the fierce updraft could support his weightier, heavily armoured friend, it’ll comfortably cushion his fall. He’s instantly proven correct; a little too correct however. The upward blast rips up at his pink, silk shirt and chaff’s his delicate Elven skin but he barely begins to drop at all! Fortu seemed to be falling at about half of gravity's natural rate, Arowe’s falling at only about half of that!
Finally though, the finely boned Elf descends through the top layer of darkness, but Arowe realises that he won’t finish up at the same place as the ex-Gladiator. The tower had already rotated several degrees before he’d dropped after his Human travelling companion.
Eventually, landing lightly on his feet, Arowe strikes one of his remaining stowed Sun-rods and the warm, orange light pushes the darkness back a little. The blackness surrounding him is more like a thick fog, but his acute Elven eyes still enable him to see, perhaps ten feet ahead.
Calling out to Fortu confirms his initial assessment; this sight and sound dampening black mist is not remotely natural.
Now, alone in the dark, with no audience to impress, Arowe's mind begins to drift. In his eagerness to seek out adventure, he’d skipped past any possible humdrum encounters with the normally dull Humans. His High-born, High-Elf Father had warned him against getting too involved in the short-term matters of the short-lived Humans, so he'd skirted the cities, even the famed capital; Cottis, with its elaborate and towering architecture said to rival that of the Dwarven citadels, and aimed straight for the Feylands at the western border of Stowan.
As an educated Elf, Arowe had heard of Lord Urdurel of course. He would be an old man now, but only by Human standards. As an Elf child, Arowe had loved hearing the exciting tales of daring heroics and epic battles during the Human's early reign. Approximately fifty years ago though, things suddenly changed. The military expansion stopped and instead, an enforced peace fell across the conquered kingdoms. There was, he remembers, a short resurgence of bloody violence but it only lasted a few years and it was mostly targeted towards his own people. Interestingly, after which, the injured King Urdurel laid down his sword and gave up his crown, returning his conquered lands to their (confused but grateful) surviving heirs.
During his journey through the hundred-and-sixty-mile span of Stowan however, there was one aspect of the erstwhile kingdom, that had captured his attention. The whole realm seemed to frown upon the use of magic and, though Witchcraft and Sorcery were permitted, its practitioners were closely monitored and heavily restricted.
As he yells out for the unresponsive Fortu again in the darkness, Arowe is still surprised by the obvious ire still apparent in his voice. He’s never, in all his long life, felt this angry before and the fact that he’s now unable to act upon it, burns at his Elven soul!
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