"Just how much do you know about the original jakkrel do you know, Aieneya?" He queried as they walked along the wall.

She made a slight shrug as she walked, looking up at him, "I did not bother to study him much because I was not expecting to be assigned to the care of someone like him." She paused a moment before continuing, "No offense meant to you, of course."

He let the silence be his answer.

"Jakkrel himself came into this world nearly two thousand years ago, yet lived barely a hundred." He tried to decide how to continue, "He was born in a small town on a small island, and no one quite knew what to do with him. He himself decided it would be best to sell himself out as a mercenary, for if he died it would be loss to none. He was sold between masters, yet eventually was tried and killed for treason, of all things. It is said that his eyes were happy at finally being released from his torture. From then on, to be a Jakkrel is to risk one's life in every mission. Lack of wings is optional."

"What a sad existance," the Kyylari responded.

They walked in silence from then on, following the wall and turning inside followed a dirt path through an overgrown section of the palace's garden, being attacked by rough branches and flashy leaves on all sides. Within moments, two heavy wooden doors stood in front of them. Kheshrik reached out and lifted the heavy handle and pushed his shoulder against its face. The door opened.