A tall, slender human male stepped away from the rune Doran had carved. His dark eyes and pale skin revealed one who was more accustomed to studying long hours by candlelight rather than swinging a sword. His eyes darted back and forth, always wary, always looking, taking in everything.

Tucked under his blue-black cloak were numerous pouches at his belt and more were placed under his matching robe. A scent of decaying things lingered about him found by those close by.

The gold trim at his sleeves exposed pale hands, with rings sparkling on several fingers. Slung over his shoulder, almost as if it were an afterthought, was a pack large enough to haul around his spell book, and other things.

Leaning on a plain polished maple staff, he looked all around for signs of who had summoned him, and his eyes fell upon the pile of clothing that was once the Young Wood Elf.

With a look of mistrust, he picked up a small scrap of paper clinging to a heap of leather leaf patterned armor. The parchment depicted the glyph that called him and a brief note as to why and offered him a gold ring to aid with the quest.

After retrieving the ring, the Dark Mage knew that if he accepted the expedition it would be his duty to protect the Witch at all cost, as was the job of the one who summoned him.

Elan secured the ring away in one of his many pouches, and turned to examine his new surroundings. It was quite obvious that a battle had just taken place, with a powerful party taking on a pocket of Horde troops. Pulling his cloak close around him to keep out the wind of the storm, he stepped out of the summoning rune, and over the Doran's body without a glance.

The unearthly beauty of the Witch stunned him for a moment, and he opened the fingers of his left hand so that the eye may see as well. From the red-bearded giant of a man, to the elf with the flaming sword, clearly, these were people of some destiny.

Recovering, he stepped up so he was within arm length of the nose of the unicorn, and bowed low with a flourish.

"Milady, it would seem we have been charged with your protection. Our summoning was perhaps timely, as some of your group has been injured. A moment and we will have some protection from the elements for you and yours."

~~~~~~

The horse made no noise as it walked at a non-hurried pace through the streets of the small town. Its black body trailed off to nothing, mere wisps of smoky-grey ether that brushed the ground with the consistency of fog.

Its milky white eyes penetrated the gathering darkness as it maneuvered towards the Butter Churn.

Birds took to wing as it passed, but did not cry out. Dogs ceased their greeting of each other and the night. A stray cat wandering the street suddenly decided its path should lead through a different alley, but not without a wary hiss in the direction of the ghostly animal. And on the horse-spirit walked.

Its rider paid the odd behavior of the animals no mind. Deep blue robes, faint gold thread making patterns in the cloth, the shadow within the hood seemingly infinite. An errant breeze tugged the loose ends of the thick cloth. The two rode down the center of the road, a faint blue glow from the end of the rider's staff lighting their way.

Stopping before the Inn, the ghostly animal sank into the ground, allowing the rider to simply step to one side to dismount. Rising again, the rider reached out and stroked the animal's cheek with long fingers before dismissing the animal with a gesture.

Like dew at dawn, the horse vanished as if it had never been.

Crickets resumed their peeping, and an owl hooted. The figure turned and regarded the Inn, leaning slightly on its staff.

There were some farmers still gathered near the door to the Inn, a final head-shaking as to the gullibility of their friends, pinpoint lit by long clay pipes.

Conversation halted as the rider had approached, such an entrance not easy to ignore. As he continued to regard the Inn, the farmers seemed to suddenly realize just how late it was getting, and how those final evening chores weren't going to get themselves done, dontcha know. If each man glanced sidelong at the rider as they passed, and if one or two of them muttered to themselves, the robed figure paid them no heed. They might as well not have existed at all for the reaction they evoked in the stranger.

After reaching some conclusion and nodding as indicated by the hood dipping, the rider stepped through the doors and into the Butter Churn.

It was as if there was an air of unease surrounding the figure, like the scent of wood smoke lingering long after a campfire is extinguished, or spring thunder beyond the horizon, felt more than heard. The rider was of normal height, but features beyond that and the long-fingered hand were obscured by the many folds of the voluminous robe. There was, barely palpable, a sense of something greater traveling with this stranger, something lurking beyond vision and barely contained. It was almost as if what could be seen with the mortal eye was only part of what this person was.

Conversations close to the figure ceased for a time, those cramped into the room unable to shake the sudden nervous twinge in their bellies. Since this rider was too the only new thing, it only took a glance to equate the two. Through unspoken command the simpler folk in the room stepped aside, not liking this new mistrust, no not at all. They parted for the figure like a stream passing a stone.

Thus the rider's progress across the room was unhindered, and as unhurried as the ghost horse's stride. The end of the staff tapped the floor with each pace.

Arriving at the table with the heroes assembled, the figure paused only a moment before reaching up and throwing back his hood.

"Lord Hule." Elan said quietly, nodding his greeting to the elf. "Might I join your table?"

The man was human, neither young nor old. Since they had last parted, there were new creases in his face, a permanent furrow between his eyebrows and lines marking the corners of a mouth that had not smiled in far too long. His long brown hair, untended previously, was now bound in a curious braid common among northern warriors. Beyond these features, though, were markings no human had borne before.

The man had no ears. There didn't even appear to be openings on the side of his head to allow sound to enter, guided normally there by the spiralling flesh of the lobe.

Fixed in the center of his forehead as if he had sprung from his mother's loins so marked was a blue gemstone. The stone was flawed, the center reflecting a silvery quarter moon with points upturned.

And finally, his eyes. They were blue, to match the shade of the gemstone, but completely. No white, no black, no iris, no pupil. Solid pools of blue swam beneath his lids, and at this distance they could be observed to glow faintly.

He gripped the plain unmarked staff, polished well worn oak while he waited for a reply. He glanced briefly at the rest of the folk assembled at the table, but all of his attention was clearly for Hule.