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[Xana]

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Gathering up her few meager belongings, Xana felt a great sadness as she looked around the place she had made home for the last year. Within minutes of sipping from the powerful potion given her by the medicine man when she had broken her foot, the sadness abated somewhat. There were so many loose ends in her life, so many things she needed to pursue; there were too many unanswered questions and too much angst built up in her to stay. Though she had no idea where she would wind up, this seemed to be the only option that made any kind of sense. Certainly, she had enough personal wealth from the years of hard work, saving, and self denial, that finding her way should be of no serious concern.

The gypsy brought the bottle to her lips and finished the bitter potion. Every moment brought a sense of warmth and calm that she seemed unable to obtain on her own. It never occurred to Xana that some of the problems she perceived in recent months may have had something to do with the 'medicines' she was drinking on a regular basis despite her wounds having been long healed.

Xana's mind wandered, jumping from subject to subject. She thought of her lost sister, who seemed to have made quite a place for herself among the dark city of Umbra. She thought of what she supposed was her brother-in-law. He was rugged, fearsome, even handsome in a dangerous way. This thought reminded her of the invitation the man gave to get to know her family, the child Shalcross, make amends with his wife. Sitting on the edge of the bed beside her satchel, Xana wondered if her lifelong pursuit of the good and the righteous was in vain. Perhaps, she and her twin weren't so different after all? What really was the definition of good, or evil, for that matter?

The charms in her hair jingled as she shook her head in confusion. "I have to do this," she whispered to the empty room. Perhaps it was the drug, perhaps it was the gypsy need to travel, perhaps it was something altogether different. Xana stood, disregarding the empty bottle on the floor beside the bed. She clutched her satchel went to the teleporter.

On her way out of the house, she scrawled a hasty message on the message board.

Roger, perhaps the gods will see fit to reunite us. Then again, perhaps not.

Before she could change her mind, she bolted from the house and summoned her steed. The wind rushed through her hair as she spurred the beast on at an unmerciful pace.
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An artist is a creature driven by demons ~Faulkner

[Roger de Clare]

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Roger de Clare returned home after fighting in the rift at Moonglow. He soon found that Xana was not home, but she often went for a ride on her horse or went hunting.

He went upstairs and accidentally kicked a bottle that sat on the floor. Curious, he picked it up and sniffed it. He wrinkled his nose at the bitter scent. He recognized it as the smell of the medicine the doctor had left. Surely she had used it all up long ago and yet here was another empty bottle.

Evening came. Night came. Morning came, but not Xana.

Roger finally checked the message board. A bitter cold engulfed him. He felt the blood leave his face. "She's gone!" he exclaimed. "What have I done?"

...

A couple of days passed. Days Roger spent wondering what to do or where to look. He'd ridden by Umbra and Sanctus and Moonglow and Poet's and all over the forest. He never thought to check with Merrique for she and Xana had long been estranged.

To pass his days more quickly, Roger rode out to hunt, but even the rift provided little relief to his black despair because too many others were there to share the burden of battle.

It had been long since he hunted an ancient wyrm, but it suited his mood exactly. He little cared if he killed it or it killed him.

[Xana]

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With a barely contained scream, Xana woke from the nightmare and looked around in confusion. Her leg was aching, her head throbbing, and her stomach was rolling in her belly. It took a few moments to realize where she was.

Eventually her mind sent her the message that she was in Minoc, the place of her birth. The problem was, she didn't really remember coming to Minoc. How she came to be sleeping on this rancid cot in this tattered tent was beyond her imagining.

Fortunately--or unfortunately--her pack was there beside her, and inside she found the glass bottle swaddled in soft fabric to keep it safe. With a shaking hand, she pulled the potion out and uncapped it. The contents quickly drained, she fell back onto the cot without regard to anything that should have caused her concern. Soon enough the sleep, however drugged, returned.

She did not hear herself cry out during the dreams that came next, did not hear the feeble murmuring of the name that issued from her mouth.

"Roger!"
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An artist is a creature driven by demons ~Faulkner