"Summon the Ingendi commander here, Xylon," a high-ranking Avian official instructs, his bright blue wings shining in the ill light of the room.
Xylon sighs. He knows that he must do as he is told. His is a role of complacency. However, he can not bear to think that Gabrion will actually want to kill the commander to win the war. They never were fair, these tactics of theirs. Eventually, however, he nods. He turns towards the table in the middle of the stone room and mutters a simple enough chant, waving his hands in articulate fashions, focusing and channeling his magic and energies to select the desired body and drag him to the Avian stronghold. Deep in the back of his mind, Xylon feels pity for the commander, for he had many times seen the fate that awaits him.
As the commander begins to materialize in the room, Xylon shuffles towards the door. He suppresses a shudder as best as he can as Gabrion approaches the confused, disoriented man. The official draws his weapon, a sword-topped short staff that had been hanging between his blue wings, and walks towards the commander.
"It all ends here," Gabrion snarls, approaching the quavering man.
Gabrion spreads his blue wings out far and wide, pulling back with his weapon to strike at the man. Suddenly, however, Xylon feels the great disorder in their world. Killing commanders of other armies to win is unjust, and unbearable. Silently, Xylon takes his ornate, silver staff, given to him at birth to mark him as crippled, and hurls it at Gabrion. It slices neatly through Gabrion's right wing, spattering deep, red blood throughout the room.
Gabrion, severely dazed, slumps to the floor, amazed at having been attacked in the fortress. Xylon wrenches his staff from its resting place, cursing himself for attacking anything, and helps the Ingendi commander to his feet.
"You must leave quickly," Xylon says, cleaning up the mess his attack had made of the room. "Leave before they suspect. I will have to think of something to tell them. Wingsspeed, sir." He pushes the Ingendi man out of the room, sighing as the man rushes down the hall, out of sight. Soon, footsteps approach the room. Xylon knows what is in store for him.
"Xylon, you have commited a grave crime. Gabrion will never again be able to fly," Harkon, the Justice of the High Council intones.
"He will make do; he never flew much anyway," is Xylon's practiced, nonchalant reply. The crowd that has gathered both inside and outside the court chamber begins to mutter disapprovingly. Cripples like Xylon, and now Gabrion, have very few rights in Avian society, but Gabrion had been a very prestigeous official. They would have to insist that the High Council appoint someone to his former position. Xylon leans on his staff, taking comfort in its familiar grip, and turns to glare at them. In a moment, the mutterings subside.
Clearing his throat, Harkon organizes a stack of papers before fixing Xylon with a similar stare of his large, black, whiteless eyes that are commonplace with Avians. "Those are dangerous words for a Cripple," he warns.
"A Crippled Caller," Xylon points out, knowing his duties as a Caller can get him an upper hand. That was one reason why he agreed to become a Caller and drag selected souls of commanders to the chambers of the fortress so that they could be killed and then the Avians could overtake their armies. Callers are too important and too rare among the community to be executed. Furthermore, almost all Callers can Release, or send elsewhere, themselves. Thus, an execution, with the Caller aware of its imminence, would be a total failure.
"Yes, but of course you understand my position. You must be dead to us."
"I understand and accept this. I can not - will not - be able to live in our lands and keep my sanity. My soul aches every time I realize that, as a Caller, I cause another's death. Nestling I may seem, Crippled I may be, but it was my choice, and I accept the consequences."
"Very well, then," Harkon sighs. "I hereby exile you from our lands. As per our laws, you have one month to settle your accounts and leave our territories. After that month, your image will be circulated. Do you accept this sentence?"
Xylon nods solemnly. As soon as he has done this, strong hands grip his flightless wings. They pull him out of the room, pushing him through the unruly crowd. Had he not already been Crippled, Xylon would have lost his wings. However, he can keep them and their dead, useless weight, for he had never once flown with them, and their absence would not cause grief to spout forth in him.
When they reach the door to the street, the hands leave Xylon's wings. In their places, two strong guards appear. They will remain certain that Xylon is not plotting anything, spying, nor conspiring. They escort him to his home, and guard his door. Until he manages to leave, Xylon is under house arrest.
The end of the month approaches, and Xylon is packed, his few belongings that he charishes most are placed into a sack. This sack and some food is all that Xylon is allowed to take with him when he crosses the borders. He knows that the journey will drain him considerably; he will not be able to make a conscious Call for at least a week, even though Calling is like second nature to him.
Xylon sets out to leave at dawn. The sooner he can leave the country, the better. He decided a bit ago to travel to the south. The land of the Ingendi would not welcome an Avian, but who knew? The commander could have lived.
With a mildly less-than-heavy heart, Xylon chants the flight spell. He, unlike other Avians, has the strength of will to allow for wingless flight. However, magic, chants, and will-power are very draining for him. After all, the Avians had long ago been bred to be killers, not impotent, Crippled mages.
The final weeks passed with little advent. Soon, the Southern Border was in sight, and now, Xylon is at it, trying to negotiate his way in with one of the border guards. A mass of other soldiers are swarming the sides of the gate, happy for a change in the mundane.
"You don't understand! I'm trying to leave the country! I'm in exile for-"
"We don't care about yer problems, birdy! Go back to yer nest! We've got no use fer yer kind here!" the border guard chuckles. He is thoroughly enjoying the popularity he is gaining among the other soldiers.
"Please. If you let me explain, I-"
"We don't need yer expelernations! Fly away, birdy!"
"But-" Xylon is cut short when a tuberous vegetable flies towards him. Nearly instinctively, Xylon ducks as his mind reaches for someone to Call, despite the tax it demands on his health. He does not chant, for he is unaware that he is doing it. However, the back of his mind screams for but one person to come to his aid. In an eyeblink, the Ingendi commander he had saved is between both sides of the gate, and then he gets hit in the face by a cabbage.
"What is the meaning of this?" Commander Keppin demands, wiping slawed cabbage from his face and his freshly pressed, dark green uniform. He looks around, taking in the angry crowd before resting his gaze on Xylon.
Something about the bird-man rings familiarity through his mind. His build is frail, his height slightly above average, his hair a grayish silver, his eyes the classic whiteless pupils. The breeze kicks up, and the bird-man's loose, black robes flutter in them. Then, catching his breath, the bird-man leans his whole weight upon the ornate, silver staff in his hands, and his gray wings droop in exhaustion.
"You! I know you!" he exclaims happily. "You're the one who dragged me to the Avian stronghold and then saved my life!"
The bird-man blushes modestly, and the crowd of soldiers begins to mutter. "It seemed proper at the time," he manages.
"Indeed! Lucky for me you did not Release me after you'd saved me. I gained much valuable information while I was escaping." He beams with pride and extends his right hand. "I don't believe we've met formally. My name is Keppin. I am the leader of the troops here in North Ingend. I owe you everything."
The bird-man takes Keppin's arm, rather than his hand. Surprisingly, his grip is strong, or is that merely because Keppin is unaccustomed to having his arm shaken right below the elbow joint? "Xylon. You owe me little enough." He pauses to release his grip on Keppin's arm, and resumes, again leaning on his staff. "I ... have been exiled for my actions. I was wondering if -"
"You may stay here, as my guest, until you are recovered. Come with me. Elpos, let him pass."
Reluctantly, the border guard steps aside, allowing Xylon to pass. Xylon picks up his sack and follows Keppin into North Ingend. Inwardly, he is thanking the Powers That Be for his luck. This leg of his journey is over, and he is safe.
Background from an e-mail, source not cited.