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[Ceinwyn ab'Arawn]

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Wind, biting and cold. It bit at her ears and nose. She welcomed it. Her eyes tearing as the windy torrents tried to dry them with its onslaught. The exposed skin of her fingers burned from the chill. It felt almost as if she was alive again. It had been so long since she had last embraced the below zero temperatures she had trained herself to endure. This reunion reinforced her resolve. Umbra thrived. The blackness of it was alive. The legacy was almost secure. Out of nothing would come something great.

Pausing for a moment, she gazed back the way she had come. Her tracks were already taken by the wind and snow. She looked around her at the mountains ringing the sleepy valley. So much reminded her of Caina. But she would walk there no more. These mountains were north of Luna. She had walked here before, long ago. She had thought to settle in this reclusive icy vale. She had eventually taken control of Umbra and relocated to better oversee and reinforce her position as Matriarch.

Snapping out of the reverie that such strolls often brought to her, she saw what appeared to be a ruin in the distance ahead. She advanced on it with mild curiosity.

No doubt some long abandoned dwelling...

But the closer she came to it, the less it resembled someone's home. No, in fact it looked as if it had once served as a place of torture. She gazed at the familiar tools of pain, shambled and aged, yet not unknown to her.

Within the broken remains of the walls, there was shelter from the wind. As it whistled against the crypt-like confines, Ceinwyn casually picked her way about the desolate place.

From room to room, there were wall carvings that left no doubt that the place had been the center of many an evil act. Some of the wall carvings were surprisingly familiar, she had seen these very carvings in Khaldun. Five robed figures, a mass of slaves in chains. Armies facing armies. And in the center of it all, Khal Ankur. The Madman, the Prophet of Darkness. The man with two purposes. One, to rule over all of the lost lands, and probably the world. The other, to give blood and lives to the Harrower.

A sound from the floor below brought Ceinwyn from her study of the carving. She looked to the stairs, half crumbling. Though from age or weather, or some other catastrophe, she did not know. She walked to the top of them and stepped carefully, making her way to the bottom. This area of the crypt was surprisingly intact.

She looked around the room, noting that it had apparently been used for more torture, though there were no devices in this room. Simple shackles attached to the walls, some bearing their former occupants, now jangling bones. An ornate doorway with no actual door led her into another room.

This room slightly resembled the room of the tentacles of the Harrower in Khaldun dungeon. Indeed, there was even a pit in the floor, full of what could only be blood. The air was strong with the odor of it. Only it seemed vacant. There was no tentacle here.

On second inspection, she noted that the place had been cleaned out. Whoever had lived here had taken everything when he or she left. No books, no clothes, no scrap of anything left, other than those wall carvings.

She made her way up to the ground level of the dungeon. Just as she was about to step free of the dilapidated building, she paused. She felt a pulling in her awareness, an urge to go back down into the crypt. She had forgotten something.

But I left nothing...

Her common sense told her that she had not left anything behind.. what would she have left...? She had her sword at her hip, her pack on her back. She closed her eyes and stood there, aura searching the ruins. The upper floors were clear of any sign of life, but as soon as she reached the lowest level, she sensed it. An underlying blackened aura.

I was so absorbed I didn't catch that.. I'll have to be more careful in the future.

She made her way back down to the lowest level, eager to satisfy her curiosity. She pulled her sword out half way to the source of the power.

No need to let myself end up like the old adage

Once more she stepped through that decorated doorway, into the room of the pit. Glancing about, ready to kill, she swept the room. There was nothing there. Her eyes fell to the pool of blood.

Unless...

She knelt on one foot with her sword in her fist and she stabbed her hand into the blood quickly. She waved it about, searching through the pool of red fluid. Something slid against her hand. She closed her fingers to grab it, but it slipped away too quickly. Cursing, she swept the pool furiously, acquisition ruling her drive. Blood spilled over the sides from the force of her actions, bathing the floor in liquid redness.

Then, from the center of the pool, it broke the surface. It rose straight up, a lone strand of something larger and more menacing. She waited for the rest of it to appear, fully expecting either the rest of the tentacles that adorned the wall carvings of this place, or the Harrower, itself. But none were forthcoming.

The lone sentinel-like tentacle rose to its full height and stayed there, seeming to stare at her. She waited, face to face, (if it had one it was probably facing her) sword in hand. But, it made no threatening display. Instead it slowly came toward her, and waited in front of her.

Cein, having no idea what it wanted, just stood there, waiting. Finally, she gave up and reached her hand out to pat its head.

"Well, I guess I'll be seein..... What the hell?!"

She looked down, the tentacle was wrapping around her leg, but it didn't seem to be trying to drag her into the pool. It was almost as if it wanted to come with her, the way small kids behave when they don't want someone to leave.

"Take me with you"

"Take you with me? Why should I?"

"I can show you many things.. I can give you power"

Sold.

"Perhaps I might temporarily take you up on that offer..."

She gently uncoiled it from her leg and slipped it into her pack. She was no fool, though. She would keep it behind glass until she better understood it. Things that promised power so rarely made good on their promises. But the nature of this was too unusual to pass up. Amid her collection of the odd and strange, it would fit in perfectly.

She recalled home to Umbra, so deep in thought that she didn't pay attention to the whispered promises of power and death it made to her.