[Kransha]

The training exercises did not go well, as Morgôs had expected. Wet-behind-the-ears lads, weighted down by dress uniforms and blades too heavy for their undeveloped muscles, did not an army make. Only a few seasoned veterans lingered quietly in the armies of Pashtia, and they seemed content to use their lengthy résumés to gain ranks by leaps and bounds, until they were all captains with cushy political assignments. The Elven officers and enlistees, the only ones that Morgôs deeply trusted besides his lieutenants, seemed far more comfortable in other units, segregated from the mortal men. For this prejudicial nature, Morgôs was further embittered against his own people. If they could not overcome the racial barrier, how could they expect the mortals to do their part and balance the equation?

Disregarding all this with a metaphoric wave of his hand, Morgôs returned his thoughts to riding. A glint lit his eye as the neat tiled road gave wave to reveal his an arching path which led, past a forested wall into his front garden and his estate, which lay spread out like a beauteous valley before him.

The house of Morgôs Elrigon was the largest estate belonging to a non-noble in all of Kanak. It had first been a smaller guard post, near the palace, but Faroz’ great-grandfather had had it renovated and expanded for Morgôs’ use, and turned it into a lavish villa to honor him for his achievements. Its size did not comfort Morgôs, or bring him joy, but it accommodated his hobbies; one of which he wished to practice. Steadily, he hitched up his horse outside, rather than in the stable on the villa’s western side, and rushed, a little too eagerly, into the structure. He hurried through it, his feet barely touching the marble floor and colorful carpeting as he traversed the complex halls until he had reached a delicate stairwell, where he descended to the place he most desired to be rapidly.

His library was, as a matter of fact, the part of Morgôs’ home which he most loved, and spent most of his time in. He would often become consumed by it, in a sense, and be so involved in reading, writing, translating, and drawing that he would remain cooped up in the archival vault for hours on end. Every once in a while, he might even spend full days inside, and correspond with his lieutenants via messenger. His wife would often show concern about his addicted habits, though his son was always oddly unaffected. It was a huge room, in comparison to most of the villa’s cells, with a vaulted roof and the look of an endless catacomb, with the peculiar musk of dry papyrus permeating the air within. It was lined, apparently, with veritable pews; narrow paths that stemmed from the single colonnade that led through the center of the room. The multiple rows were flanked by bookshelves that sprung up to the high ceiling, all brimming with books and parchment stuffed haphazardly into every orifice available.

All in the span of a minute he had reached the room, and now he knew not what to do in it. The world slowed to a calmer pace as he lost track of the speed or slowness of time. Slowly, he meandered down each row of books and shelves until he came to a quiet, secluded little cell at the end of one row, where several desks and tables sat, strewn with papers. Very slowly, as if undergoing some delicate operation, Morgos swung his cumbersome armor into an aged wooden chair, worn away and discolored by time. With tender, hesitant fingers, the general reached onto the desk and picked up the one book that was there. Feeling tranquility, he moved his gauntleted hand over the embossed leather covering, bound with iron like some impregnable tome, and began to pry it open, feeling the weak but faithful pages of vellum, two hundred or more, within. This contained, surprisingly, something he hated, but something that gave him comfort to do, for it was an addiction which bound him to this place.

Here was the true root of his obsession, his habitual solitary nature in the library. He studied a great many things, but all his studies strove towards one goal; to make a discovery, one that he had always felt he needed to make. The past of Morgôs Elrigon was not the happiest history, which was why he dwelled upon it in excess. Morgôs was an ancient elf indeed and had lived far longer than most others. In reality, he himself did not know his own age, as he had not kept exact track, but he knew he had been fully grown at the time of the building of Kanak by the first primitive Pashtian monarchs, which had been a little over 2000 years ago. He had some veiled memories of times before that, but not had stood the test of time, which was why he always copied the contents of every dream, petty vision, and flash of memory he had into journals of mad lore. Avarin History books gave him much information, pages forged by Elves before his first memories and passed to him, or rather, gathered by him together into this compendium of knowledge he possessed. But still, he could not find links to the one vague memory which most haunted his dreams – and dominated his nightmares.

Suddenly, Morgôs snapped himself from his contemplation, instead, for a change, of someone else doing it for him. He had to locate his wife, and his son as well. It was not often that he flew about in such a mad gait, flitting hither and thither with no purpose, and he feared his dear Arlomë might have become concerned. She was not in the house, which was odd, considering Bekah’s retinue (or most of it) had been dismissed today because of the ruckus involving the Emissary. There were only a few places which Arlomë frequented – that he knew of – and the palace was where she spent much of her time, even in off hours. With a prickling brow and a grave look about him, Morgôs hurled the dusty volume onto the desk he’d taken it from, where it landed with a thump and hastened out of the library and back to where he’d bound his horse, at a conveniently located hitching post that jutted from the southerly veranda. Without delay, he headed to the palace, which was not far.