By this time, S'Ren and S'Rra were acquiring reputations as learned practitioners of the alchemical art. They knew their services would be in demand; indeed, they knew that their services might even be commandeered. For in their many journeys the Sk'ra Mur couple had much opportunity to observe the less pleasant side of Elanthian nature, as has been told before.
Therefore the alchemists made plans against such eventualities, should they come to pass. And fortunate it was that they did so, for it was not long before their plans, their love and resolve would be severely tested.
It happened as they entered the rugged domain of Faturthir III. This monarch, heir to the once-prosperous Altib Soldain, had lost much of his wealth and land in futile battles waged against his neighbors. Faturthir was a violent warrior; so were others of his time, and before, and since. He differed from most in this respect: he did it poorly. A terrible strategist who executed his generals, overtaxed his people and betrayed his friends, Faturthir yet had one redeeming feature. He saw a good thing when it appeared on his doorstep. And when two good things appeared in the shapes of S'Ren and S'Rra, his eyes glistened, and he sent out a small, elite band of rangers to secure captives.
All was done as ordered. Under cover of darkness the lovers were taken and separated, then each brought to a separate dungeon within Castle Soldain. There, Faturthir III paid them independent visits.
Is my lover alive? he was asked. Yes, he replied. -But only as long as you do as you are told. What do you wish? he was asked. To convert this scrapmetal into gold, he smiled, pointing at a huge pile of rusted weapons, armor and building materials. It cannot be done! he was told. It shall, he said calmly, or your lover will be impaled upon a spear before my drawbridge as you are cast out, minus your hands. You have 30 days. When finished, I shall give you the greatest gift I can find.
Then Faturthir was handed a list of supplies and asked to procure them most urgently. And he smiled, and nodded. Thus did Faturthir play upon the love of S'Ren and S'Rra for one another, knowing that what they feared not for themselves they feared for that they most loved.
At the end of 29 days the dungeons glowed beneath their shut doors with unearthly lights, and powerful bewitchments were heard from within. At the end of 30 days the doors were thrown open, and each dungeon stood revealed, laden from top to bottom (and they were very high-ceilinged dungeons, too) with all manner of golden wealth. There were coins, and bracelets; anklets and chains. Golden statuary stared from the corners, and golden necklaces dropped like snakes from the rafters.
Without a word Faturthir reentered his throne room and summoned the two S'kra Mur thence. You have fulfilled your part of the bargain, he declared solemnly to the overjoyed couple. Now I shall fulfill mine: the greatest gift I can give you is your freedom. Go, and never return to my kingdom again! Alchemists are dogs, and I have been lenient thus far, but my patience shall not last. Then S'Ren and S'Rra bowed low, and left swiftly, so swiftly, it seemed, that alchemical means must have been employed.
But the story does not end there. For Faturthir called forth all his guards, and had them move the two piles of gold into a gigantic Treasure Chamber created especially to house his new, enormous wealth. -However, as the two mounds of gold touched, a muffled explosion occurred, and a cloud of heavy, noxious smoke arose.
When it cleared, the gold was gone-- and in its place was a pile of fresh yak dung as large as the two golden hordes had been, filling the Treasure Chamber to overflowing.
King Faturthir roared and demanded its removal, but yak dung is notoriously slippery; and the Treasure Chamber stood at the farthest end of a long castle corridor that lay past the throne room, the dining hall and the royal bedchambers. Another two weeks were to elapse between removing it and scrubbing away the smell...though wind of this got to the Aldibian people, first. Faturthir's reputation was never the same after that, and the tyrant became a laughingstock who was shot from his throne through a noose in less than 3 subsequent years.