A Parliament of Owls
The Fenghuang pass over the citadel of Peringath, the plains of Iskol, and pass into the Felhind woods with swiftness and majesty. A nearly intangible, warm glitter passes off their wings as they travel, making it appear as though they were bolts of fire. They travel up and over trees till they near the peak of the Wellik Mountains. The two giant aviaries land on a steep emerald hill, littered with massive stones. Keatoph and Ophni dismount and move to stand on the rocks.
It is a mystery to Keatoph how these stones found their home on this hill instead of tumbling down to the earth below. All the same, he is grateful that they provide a level place for them to stand.
“I have never seen the Fenghuang before,” the young warrior admits to his elvish comrade. He looks at the birds. “They are beautiful.”
“Yes,” Ophni agrees, “they are the King of birds, and the composition of all birds into one.”
“That description sounds frightening,” our young warrior remarks, “and yet, they are beautiful.”
“Yes,” Ophni affirms again.
“You sound as if you were as surprised by their rescuing us as I am.”
“Well,” she pauses, still gazing at the creatures. They crane their necks to look back at the heroes. “I am. The cry for aid I sent out through my stave was for help in general. I did not expect the Lords of the birds to make a personal visit. In elf legend, they usually only have dealings with well established royalty.”
“Huh,” Keatoph answers.
Both Fenghuang pause the conversation by screeching loudly in unison. It echoes across the mountain. The pine trees in view begin to rustle around them.
After a moment, groups of owls begin to pass into view. They glide to the rocks surrounding Keatoph and Opni. Along with them, an old man with a staff comes, limping his way out to the adventurers. His hair is longest at his beard. His satchel has twigs sticking out of it. His clothes are reminiscent of the old arcane order.
“Greetings, Keatoph,” he smiles wide, his cheeks nearly closing his eyes. He sits down using one of the rocks near them as a chair. “Who is your friend?”
“I’m sorry,” the young warrior answers hesitantly. “Do I know you?”
“No. I suppose not,” he reasons with a frown. “But I know you,” he adds, smiling again. “My name is Iglee