Flight From Ironheart IC

[WhiteKnight777]

Umber

Umber listened. It was, perhaps, one of the things he had never been all that good at. Oh, certainly he was adept at feigning attention - a skill he'd had countless occasions to practice. But the truth was that the one-time Lord of Blood had found precious few people worth listening to. Most of the time, he played both sides of the conversation in his head long before the other party spoke. To be fair, it wasn't that people were stupid - not all of them - it was that they lived such short lives, and he had lived such a long ones. People tended to think in... patterns. Meet enough people, and you began to learn them. It wasn't prophecy or magic - it was simply knowing how people thought.

Certainly some people broke the mold, or had molds so rarely cast that their thoughts were exceptional - but that was just it. They were the exceptions.

Fianna was one of them. He loved her - deeply, truly, completely, and with a terrifying single-mindedness. And one of the reasons for that was her mind. She had always been his councilor, his helpmate, and in this, nothing had changed. He listened to her words with rapt attention, nodding here and there but holding his peace, letting her finish without interruption. When she was done, he turned her words over in his mind for a space before speaking up, his voice low in deference to the ceremony in front of them - there was another pattern, he thought, briefly - he didn't even need to look or really even listen to know what the holy man was saying.

He sighed, a wry smile on his face. "You're right, of course, love. Perhaps the Baron is too close to me for me to percieve his true nature as accurately as I should. Or perhaps I was just blinded by hope, or by greed. But nothing we build with him can last - and if we work with him, if we strengthen him in his aims, we play a very dangerous game. Perhaps it is best if we break cleanly now, if we find our own destiny - and our own cure for your condition. If I have to pull your soul back from the furthest hell, I won't rest-"

He was cut off, suddenly, by the Baron's outraged cry. Umber turned, grinning slowly as the door flew inward and a man he hadn't seen since Ironheart - or had he ever seen this man? He was different somehow - stormed through the door, all fire and righteous rage. He gave Fianna a look, then took his hand in a courtly fashion, stepping up onto the railing and helping her to do the same.

"I don't believe we'll get a better opportunity than this to speak to your flower girl, love." He gave her a wild, devil-may-care grin. "I only wish I had some popped corn. I love a good melodrama." With that, he stepped off the balcony, a simple cantrip slowing their fall. He moved through the sudden chaos below with the simple expedient of pushing people out of the way and leaping over furniture where necessary, as casual as a Sunday stroll with his lady-love gallantly on his arm, until they were in front of the young woman and her... escort? He gave her a polite smile, as if they were not in the middle of an incipient warzone, and gave her a pleseant inclination of his head.

"Afternoon." Umber said casually to Lonna, one hand flicking in a warding gesture that ensured their conversation would not spread beyond the assembled group. "Since it seems we're at a break in the ceremony, I thought I might come and say 'hello.' My lovely lady wishes to have words with you, I think." He cast a glance over at Korram. "And it seems things will probably get uncivil rather shortly. Just as well. The groom seems a repugnant ass. I doubt it would have been a happy marriage."

Even as he spoke, he began another slow weaving - drawing it out, his fingers tracing through the air, trailing little streamers of dusty gray light. This sort of magic wasn't his specialty - but he had plenty of raw material to work with just outside...

[Kasanip]

Isera Harvent

Isera said her goodbye to her father, and took Carlain's news as well. But she told him to go back to sleep and rest, before going asleep herself too.

Isera's dreams were strange that night.
She dreamed that she came home to be greeted by her father with a warm smile and open arms. A teenage Cerise was also there, happy to see her. And they went home together to have dinner. Cerise's mother and father were there, and then the oddities started. Cerise's older brother Carlain came in and stepped up to the table between the two girls, pausing to ruffle Cerise's and Isera's hair mischievously. They cried out at this in unison annoyance, and the family started the meal.

Well, they would have, but suddenly the shambling corpse sat down happily to join them, and then the old woman, and Theresea joined them too. And Isera tried to stand up and shout a warning at this- but she was just a child now, and her father patted her head laughing at her imagination as Isera's mother replaced the witch and the corpse disappeared. Then teen Cerise lifted up Isera and started to walk away from the table with her, closing the door behind with a knock knock.


The knocking at the door caused Isera to wake up suddenly. She had overslept. That was unusual, but considering everything that had happened, maybe not.
She rubbed her eyes sleepily and hid a yawn, throwing on her clothes quickly, though ruffled and not tidily. Then she took a deep breath and prepared herself, opening the door warily just a little. But the voice and person there was a surprise, and also not. And Isera relaxed and opened the door.

"Ah, good morning. It would have been nice to sleep a little longer, but it's good your here." Isera said, welcoming the mage into the room. Then she paused.
"Wait, what did you say?" She asked again.
The word "kiddo" had been applied to her, and absently then, she realized that the oddness was perhaps a joke in slight, and Isera remembered she was still disguised as a teenager.
Disguise.
Disguise.

It had been a long time since she had used the spell- far longer than was safe.
"I guess it's appropriate still." Muttering while fixing her hair into a ponytail, the voice of a disgruntled teenager overshadowing the ruefulness she felt. Carlain at least, she looked over to see if he was awake now.
She hadn't told him they were going back today. She hadn't told ms. Theresea either.

"Are all the preparations made?" She asked.

Assuming yes is the answer, she continued.
"I have to go speak to ms. Theresea, who has been very helpful. Then we'll be ready to leave."

-----

And so Isera went to ms. Theresea's room, and when she answered, would speak to her.
"I'm sorry for the short notice again. But my organization is compromised by these traitors. I have to go back, to help them with the investigation, and to uncover the spies. I am grateful for all of your help in our time together. Thank you for saving me. But I have to go back, so to stop the cultists from their work that could destroy us.
So I want to give you this." She handed a small set of papers to Theresea, which Isera had copied down in the early morning from the work she had.
"I hope it will give you some clues about the cultists in this area, and about Dark Falls. I don't know if we will meet again, but good luck to you." Isera said, giving her real hand for a handshake.

[Gorgondantess]

She drops her face into her palm.
"Your organization, your people, drop the semantics and let's get on with this thing."
She sighs, about to comply with Omicron's ideas, when the second voice comes in.
She digs her claws into her forehead as they talk around her. At first it seems normal enough, but as things go on she digs them deeper... and deeper... until she's practically eviscerating her face. The claws sink through like through a sponge, rending her head with three long gashes.
When the claws come out under her chin, she heals back up, and lashing out, strikes away the chair Quadramus is nearing with the back of her hand. It flies through the air and shatters against the wall.
Getting up, she spits her words out with as much venom as she can muster.
"Why do you humans... always insist on making everything... so... f*cking... complicated?
You presume to come into my village unannounced and uncalled for, and then barge into the middle of a private conversation and act like a welcome guest? At least this one had the decency to wait on my behalf."
(Gesturing at Omicron)
"The only things keeping you alive right now are my curiosity and my truly immeasurable patience. And if you value your life, I advise you sate the former before the latter diminishes entirely."

It wasn't barging in, though, that made her so angry (though it hardly helped). The main thing was throwing yet another complication into this thing.
All she wanted was to be left alone. At this point, the only reason she was even bothering was because the Dusk Wardens would likely come after her once more. Adding yet another organization to deal with only made things worse, even if this organization claimed to want to aid her.
Beyond that, with one glance at this man she could tell that he was just like the Dusk Wardens, but the other side of the coin. Indulging in meaningless pursuits and ritual and complications, as humans are wont to do. Absolutely sickening.

[Pwenet]

Incom Morgan

This was most strange and unnerving.

Sitting in the cabin surrounded by the children hammering away at him with questions Incom found himself wondering what to do. So much of his life was spent fighting, screaming or going insane, being surrounded by this, normalness was awkward to say the least. Hence some of his answers were shorter than others.

“What’s your name?” ”You can call me Incom

“Are you an angel?” ”I certainly hope not.”

“Why aren’t you eating – aren’t you hungry?” ”Not in a long time, thank you though.”

“Where do you come from?” ”I honestly don’t know anymore.”

“Do you carry injured people around often?” ”Not in a long time.”

Part of his mind continued to wander, dwelling at the same spot. The grave in the graveyard with his name. How did his body get there? Was it even there? What would happened if he looked at the mangled corpse that used to be him? Would he suddenly realize he was suppose to be dead and leave for whatever awaited him? Or would it just be like looking at a butchered animal, fit only to be eaten.

Such musing faded as Sara awoke. Clearly disorientated she nevertheless seemed to be healed and accepting of his injury.

”Take it easy Sara. You were hurt badly, I found someone to heal you but even magic has a toll. You should eat and get your strength back up.”

[Lonna]

Pyrene

As the ceremony progressed, Pyrene felt more and more twitchy. Even if the Duke had not been holding tightly to her arm, she was not sure she could have moved, so torn was she between running toward and away from Fianna. She knew she ought to be more concerned about her sister's fate, but just at the moment the strange mental itch caused by her apparent double felt more urgent.

Then Korram appeared dramatically, his missing arm mysteriously restored and his attitude one of utter confidence. Pyrene was surprised by the arm, but truthfully had rather expected to see him crash the wedding. The plentitude of security hadn't phased him when escaping from the Baron's airship, so rescuing a bride would be simplicity itself for him.

As panic gripped the assembled nobility, Pyrene stayed rooted in her seat for a moment, looking around for a secluded corner where she would not be trampled and could work whatever magics she deemed necessary without interruption. Her search was arrested, however, by the sight of Umber and Fianna gently floating down from the balcony.

"Afternoon." Umber said casually to Lonna, one hand flicking in a warding gesture that ensured their conversation would not spread beyond the assembled group. "Since it seems we're at a break in the ceremony, I thought I might come and say 'hello.' My lovely lady wishes to have words with you, I think." He cast a glance over at Korram. "And it seems things will probably get uncivil rather shortly. Just as well. The groom seems a repugnant ass. I doubt it would have been a happy marriage."

Even as he spoke, he began another slow weaving - drawing it out, his fingers tracing through the air, trailing little streamers of dusty gray light.

"Since you found each other and are clearly not attempting to murder one another any more, I would have thought my part finished," said Pyrene cautiously. This was not entirely true - her dreams had continued to show both Umber and Fianna from time to time, so clearly there was some connection - but Pyrene kept the falsehood from her face and voice with the ease of long practice.

[WhiteKnight777]

Umber

Umber gave the false-Fianna a grin that was positively shark-like. "Oh, the story never ends. It just goes on and on and on. Although sometimes I think the author likes to re-use the same tired archetypes from time to time." He said, glancing between the two near-identical women with twinkling eyes. "You know, I just thought of something-" His mouth was covered by Fianna, who cooly raised one eyebrow and shook her head, slowly.

"Ah, yes. Later." He said playfully. Well, that was something, anyway. He turned back to Pyrene. "In any case, I need you to answer some questions." He peered at her neck, leaning forward slightly, casually slipping one hand down, cupping her chin and lifting it a bit for a better look. He grunted. "Mage collar, I suppose? I can assist you, if you like."

[Lonna]

Pyrene

Clearly Umber's mood has been improved by finding my "evil twin," thought Pyrene wryly as Umber joked about re-used archetypes.

You know, I just thought of something-" His mouth was covered by Fianna, who cooly raised one eyebrow and shook her head, slowly.

"Ah, yes. Later." He said playfully. He turned back to Pyrene. "In any case, I need you to answer some questions." He peered at her neck, leaning forward slightly, casually slipping one hand down, cupping her chin and lifting it a bit for a better look. He grunted. "Mage collar, I suppose? I can assist you, if you like."

Pyrene's eyebrows rose in unison with Fianna, but she said nothing. When Umber offered to assist her with the mage collar she gently but firmly pushed his hand down, revealing, if necessary, that her strength was greater than her frame suggested. "Thank you, but the collar is not locked. You may ask your questions, but I will wish to ask my own of you as well," she added, pointedly changing the subject.

[OverWilliam]

~Tare

After shooting Brock something of a look, Tare set about re-dressing with the contents of the parcel. There was no time for modesty, and Tare had never been one to blush anyway, but he made all appropriate haste in pulling off the nondescript, but decidedly servant-class duds borrowed from Ulrich and slipping into the much nicer (and more comfortable) clothes provided. First on went a white, billowy shirt with loose sleeves, sharply tailored cuffs, and a silvery-white cravat that he left half-tied in such a way that said "I can look good without trying" rather than "I have no earthly idea how to tie a cravat." The silk in both was undeniably cheap, but it was silk nonetheless, and it fit Tare perfectly. Over that went a slim, deep red-colored vest, which held the shirt's ample slack tight at his torso, in turn emphasizing the loose sleeves. Tare was surprised to note that the vest tapered perfectly to the lines of his chest. The trousers were dark grey, almost black, and striped with almost invisible lines of lighter grey. The jacket matched, and once again Tare noted an almost uncanny fit-- the shoulders of the jacket matched his own perfectly, and the sleeves ended precisely at his wrists, with just the right amount of room to stretch. True to Brock's word, the right sleeve was just the tiniest amount looser than the left, permitting the stiletto and wrist sheath to lie with perfect comfort beneath it, leaving not the slightest print on the fabric above to betray its presence. Of the provided clothing, only the boots felt like borrowing someone else's clothes-- the rest felt like it had been made for him. There were even a pair of silver cufflinks (the likes of which Tare made a livelihood from filching a decade ago) and a pair of brown leather gloves that slid on like a second skin. Tare was right in the middle of tossing his fingers through his hair and wondering what he'd do with it when he spotted the small strap of leather left at the bottom of the package, stamped with designs like little leaves and vines in fine, silver-leaf impressing. With little ceremony, Tare tied his now carelessly shaggy hair back into a short, sharp ponytail. And thus was the transformation complete.

Finally, Tare slowed down enough to question the incongruously accurate fit of all the clothing. After all, Brock had only been aware of his return for a number of hours-- and it had been even fewer since they'd actually seen each other again. How was it possible that he could appropriate a suit this nice this quickly without even having Tare measured for--

...Oh.

That was a possibility. In fact, the more he thought about it, it was about the only possibility. If there was any person in the city that was... intimately familiar enough with Tare's... measurements... to pull off such a dead-on alteration in only a few hours based purely on memory and guesstimation... it was Her. Tare shifted a bit in his oh-so-comfortable hand-crafted trousers and cleared his throat. The silence was heavy, but not uncomfortable, as they waited to arrive... wherever it was they were going. Tare took the time to familiarize himself with his only weapon, and found that the arm sheath was well-suited to drawing the concealed dagger to the ready with a split second and a flick of the wrist. With a little practice, Tare found that he could draw the dagger with not only reflex bypassing speed, but also with almost complete silence. He was far from a professional-- it still took the use of his other hand to re-conceal the blade back beneath his sleeve, for example, where a professional could likely dual-wield without difficulty-- and the blade was still unfamiliar to him, but general skill in Sleight of Hand (even a month or two out of practice) allowed him to adapt quickly.

"Party time!"

~~~~

As soon as they stepped inside the door, Tare's long latent burglar instincts had a thief-gasm. It had been a long time since he'd wanted to separate someone from their valuables so purely, nor had he likely ever had so strong a desire directed toward so many such valuables in the same place all at once. The sheer variety of small, easily palm-able works of precious metal and gemworked ornamentation was a testament to human creativity all on its own. It took him a moment to begin cordoning the ecstatic corner of his brain back off, more because he didn't want to rather than because he could not, and even as he grudgingly turned his attention back to the real purpose of his attendance he lingered for a few long seconds on a diamond-encrusted bit of metal shaped like a dove and hung from a chain as fine and silvery as the stars themselves before finally, hesitantly, forcing himself to ignore it.

And then something appeared that stomped those instincts cold in a heartbeat. Stepping out from behind a cluster of mingling aristocracy behind which he had been hidden, the man moved with such a complete neutrality of walk, such an uncomplicated and unconcerned force of self, such a lack of anything immediately identifiable as "mortal" that every instinct in Tare's head shrieked alarm and alert at the same time. There was nothing about him that promised danger. Nothing in the way that he sidestepped through the milling crowds or smiled emptily at the Noblesse about him that cause him to stand out against the assembled Vanity around him; Tare quietly began to suspect that had it not been for the stark contrast of the vain 'Powers that be' against which this man's Actual Power cast so chilling a shadow that he may not even have noticed what he did so clearly. And yet it was unmistakable; this man was Dangerous.

His eyes were green, and piercing, and when he spoke, words sliding from behind that smile like something unspeakable moving at the corner of one's eye, Tare found his instincts confirmed several times over. Danger. When he turned his attention from the withering Brock and to Tare himself, Tare felt his body go completely still. There was a certain air of honesty in the bare words that the Baron of Gast spoke to him; an honesty devoid of kindness, but not without cordiality. I know what you are. I know why you're here. Deceive not yourself that I can be deceived. Tare returned the Baron's introduction with a slight nod of his head, just deeper than necessary and just longer than required. Before him stood a predator, and the best way to survive the Predator is not to act like prey. Tare forced his posture to remain relaxed, but the effort caused a tension of its own that he did not try to hide. You are dangerous, and I am aware enough to know it. There was a healthy amount of respect in his posture, in the oh-so-slight movements that he made, though he said nothing; the same respect one gives an open flame or the man holding a dagger to your throat. The way to survive a predator is to stand one's ground, don't break eye contact whatever you do, and only flinch if you want to die. The literal situation here was perhaps not so dire in the immediate term, but the results of this first impression could be far reaching, and with striking similarities to an encounter with a literal predator out in the wild.

Tare did not look away from the Baron until well after his attention returned to Brock, but he did risk a sharp glance toward Brock at the mention of Vincent. When the Escort of four materialized from the crowd, Tare noted that he had been far too intent (out of necessity) on the Baron to spot their presence prior, but still admonished himself for letting them sneak up on him. He acquiesced wordlessly to their non-negotiable hospitality, and let them take himself and Brock to the side room uncontested.

~~~~

Tare listened silently to Brock's venting, sensing that the confession(s) had been building for a long time. Knowing that the Baron had been involved prior to his betrayal and deportment to Ironheart didn't make him any less angry, just less focused on Brock as the object of that anger. Had that man approached me, could I have done any better? He's right-- I wouldn't have agreed to painting daemonic arrays all over the city in Angel blood, and he wouldn't have stood for my insurrection. This way I am alive. It was a hollow reassurance. Tare shook his head. "You weren't taken in by the Vainglory Cache line, Brock, not at first-- you bought into his scheming because, as you say, that's not the kind of man one tells 'no' and lives. If you ever hoped to see the Vainglory Cache it was only after that-- once you realized that this Baron of Ghast is not one to bother with lies or fairytales. It likely wasn't until after my imprisonment that you considered that the promised reward might be on the level anyway, so don't try to plead greed." Tare's tone wasn't accusatory, merely introspective; he was piecing the puzzle together step by step. "And you can't tell me your scheme didn't play into his bigger plan, whether you knew it or not at the time, elsewise you'd be dead. This isn't a business where ambition benefits the employer, only the employee, Brock-- that's why he would never have bought a lame cover story about trying to fetch him a present like a good little lap-dog. At this point, your best shot is to play it like you were interested only in benefiting yourself, because he might believe that-- if he decides, correctly, that you were really attempting to work against him behind his back... Then we really are dead. He may have already reached that conclusion."

Tare thought for a few moments. "Tell me one thing, and tell the truth-- Did any of the other thieves that got caught with me get sent to Ironheart? Or was I singled out?" Tare's tone was steady, but held a tension that showed how important the answer might be.

~~~~

(The following to come after Brock's answer)

Tare stood, his face a mask. "Well, if sitting here and waiting to be executed is what they plan for us to do, then that's the last thing I plan on trying." Tare pulled the perfectly tailored jacket off and tossed it to the seat beside him, exposing the billowy sleeves of his white shirt and the full red of the vest on top of it. He then set about examining the inside of the room that might serve any benefit at all should things quickly devolve into a fight. "There's a chance, a slim one, that they havn't already decided to murder us. The way I see it, they could have done that without inviting you to a wedding-- but it's not a good sign, by the way, that they gave us a room without a view. We aren't guests to the wedding anymore, even in pretense, if we aren't even allowed to watch the proceedings... so if we aren't guests anymore that means we've become... something else. But the fact that we're here and alive means that there's still something, from their perspective, to be gained. We need to find out what that is, fast, and play it for everything it's worth."

[The_Snark]

Mar

Caroline's barrage of questions made Mar smile a bit; she remembered that from their first meeting. The girl had been more timid... a little more timid... when she first met Mar in the barn, but that had been a surprise in a strange place, while the metal angel—though far more fearsome than Mar would ever look—was in a safe place, watched carefully by Caroline's father and elder brother. Of course she let her curiosity run free.

It was nice not to be the subject of those questions, for once. She wondered if the metal angel—Incom—felt as bewildered as she had. His (its?) face didn't show anything about what it was thinking, and the voice was flat and harsh no matter what it was saying. The words weren't, though. Especially when he was talking to Sara.

Sara, now. That was an odd one. Mar didn't recognize her face, not from her own memories and not from any of the dreams she could remember; but when she wasn't looking right at her Sara felt familiar. And then there were the numbers burned into her forearm: Mar hadn't missed those. Just like her own, only there were more numbers. A cruel father, a protector wrapped in metal... it felt like looking at a distorted reflection of her own life.

She sympathized, of course, but that didn't make it any less eerie, and Mar was not sure she liked eerie things coming right into Jacob's home.

"Stew," she answered the injured girl, ladling a bowl out for her and placing a spoon in her hand. "Here, it's good. Can you eat?" She stood poised to help Sara with the stew, if she needed it.

"I'm Mar." Belatedly she remembered she was supposed to be going by Marion now. She wondered if it was worth bothering; even Jacob had stopped correcting people. "Ah... Marion, that is," she said, cheeks flushed with embarrassment. Silence descended, briefly. There were things Mar wanted to know, but if she started asking them questions they might ask questions in return, and she didn't want to answer those right now. So she stopped, and hoped that Caroline might ask some of them for her.

[Inspectre]

Cathedral City

Archpaladin Zousha

At your news, Rickster’s eyes widen in confusion, and then narrow with suspicion.

“If he wanted our help, we did he attack us? Why did he murder Odlak!?”

Rickster shakes his head and groans as he takes a step forward.

“Ugh, whatever. He spared us, so I suppose I should be grateful. I can see I’m going to need to have someone look at this wound when we get back – it’s pretty deep.”

At this, Katashiko slaps Rickster heartily on the back, causing him to groan and stumble forward again.

“Pah, I’ve seen papercuts worse than that. You’ll be fine. Unless it gets infected . . . then it’s just a slow agonizing death for you.”

Katashiko explains with a grin, as Rickster turns a slight shade of green.

“Let’s . . . let’s just rejoin with the others as you said.” Rickster said, clutching his wounded shoulder as he stumbles to the door. Opening the door, Rickster reveals some sort of rowdy bar, which all three of you quickly press through before getting to the door and finding yourselves somewhere in the slums. To your surprise Old Emma appears around the corner as you get your bearings within the city again.

“So . . . find what you were looking for? And what exactly did you find, if you will pardon an old woman’s curiosity.”

Rickster looks at the old beggar, and then at you in confusion, before simply sighing.

“Friend of yours, I assume?”

In the distance you hear shouts of alarm, spreading the message that the city’s defenders should go on high alert. Katashiko turns towards the sound of the disturbance and growls.

“No time for talk, granny. It seems word of our little visit is spreading fast, and we better get moving faster if we want to get out of here.”

Katashiko starts walking back towards the main gates, only for Old Emma to bar her path.

“You three don’t want to try to get out the same way you got in. They’ll have all the gates out of the city locked down within minutes, if they haven’t already. Fortunately, I have an alternate way out for you.”

“Yeah? And how much is that going to cost us?”

Katashiko grunts, earning a head shake from Emma.

“Nothing. Consider it my discount for heroes.”

“And how exactly are you planning to get us out of the city? I’m not sure I relish the idea of traveling through dark tunnels yet again.”

Rickster says with a frown. This only earns him a confident smile from the old beggar, who straightens up to her full height. And then as she extends her arms out in front of her, she begins to glow with an inner light that quickly grows to be blinding.

“Simple. Take my hand.”

After the glow fades, the old beggar is gone. Standing in her place is an angel with platinum blond hair, and a face that resembles Old Emma, but one lacking wrinkles, yellowed teeth, and the other disfiguring signs of a long hard life on the streets.

“Well, you certainly clean up nice. I suppose you’re an angel too, and that’s why you decided to help us?”

Emma replies with a nod.

“Correct. I was sent to keep an eye on the Council, a difficult task with their awareness of our existence. Nonetheless, I and a few others have done the best we can. Now that you have seen the truth of what is going on here with your own eyes, it is up to you to end this. After I fly you over the walls, you should meet up with the rest of your forces while I will return here to gather more information. If you need to get a message to me, simply contact one of the homeless lurking about outside the gates – nobody pays any attention to the less fortunate, even here. Now wrap your arms around my waist, Hondshioh – I should be able to carry your companions underneath my arms.”

And after you have done as instructed, Emma scoops Katashiko and Rickster up, each under one of her arms. She takes off into the air with a powerful leap, and soon enough you have flown high over the walls, too high for the guards to even notice your escape as they scramble to secure the gates and griffon nests against a more conventional exit. After wishing you the best of luck, Emma departs, perhaps re-entering the city by the same route as you just exited, or simply reverting to her old woman disguise and passing right through the gate the next morning.

After a day of travel, you arrive at the rendezvous point Rickster provides to find a large city of tents waiting. It seems most of the rebellious forces have already gathered here for the great battle. Although skeptical of Katashiko, the guards have heard of you and recognize Rickster on sight. As such, you have no trouble passing into the tent city and soon find yourself standing before the rest of the Grandmasters – such as they are.

Of the Grandmasters present, you recognize only Rickster, Belroar, and Jamkas – the other two are new faces. Apparently Winril retired after the fateful journey into the Heavens to meet Miriam, leaving one of his promising disciples in charge. Norven was killed in an honor duel with one of his fellow paladins who wished to remain with the Council – the Paladins Errant, always a diverse group, appeared to have split down the middle and nearly dissolved into isolated groups after Norven’s death. And of course, Odlak was murdered in front of your eyes by the Reaper, Zariel. Plus Ander, the newly minted Grandmaster of your home monastery of Dawn’s Hope, had been captured.

“Why don’t you tell them the news.” Rickster said glumly, as he sat down and allowed one of the camp medics to finally tend fully to his injury.

Stonefall

The_Snark & Pwenet

At the mention of Incom’s name, Caroline wrinkled her nose.

“Incom? I’ve heard that name before . . . there was a funeral for an Incom weeks ago. Brother Cavil said he was a hero. Are you a hero like him?”

“Caroline!” Jacob admonished, momentarily disrupting the girl’s attention from their guest construct. Unfortunately that just gave Willaim an opening to launch his own verbal salvo.

“I’ve seen metal angels like you sometimes in the village, sir. Are you a GHOST like they are, a servant of the Baron of Gast? Are you going to be in the village for long?”

Sara actually fielded the last question with a slight groan as she shifted positions, sitting up.

“We should really be moving on tomorrow. Thank you for your hospitality tonight.”

Then the Baron’s daughter turns her attention onto Mar.

“Yes, I think I can.”

Sara gratefully accepts the bowl of hot stew from Mar, idly swirling it about with her spoon. As Mar hands the spoon and bowl off to Sara, their hands briefly touch, and an old jolt passes between them.

“Thank you, Marion.”

Sara says, examining Mar curiously. Her eyes are naturally attracted to the brand on Mar’s arm, the damning “2”. Sara raises an eyebrow as she asks the natural question, her voice low so that only Mar (and Incom by dint of superior robot hearing) can hear.

“I recognize that “tattoo” – you might notice I have one myself. I can only imagine what you went through there. How did you escape? I have Incom there to thank for my own – he has saved my life more than once.”

(If the two of you have any questions or interactions you’d like to run with each other/your respective NPCs, now would be the time. As Sara suggested, after this evening meal it’ll be morning again, and y’all will be going on your separate courses once again.)

The Island of Dr(?) Sohssal

Outside the Capital

Kasanip

Theresea looks down at your offered hand for a moment, and then sighs and takes it in a firm handshake.

“And good luck to you as well. It has been some time since I have encountered someone willing to use magic for good. And although I may still feel you naïve in your belief that you can control magic, rather than the other way around, I have grown to respect you. I hope that if we meet again, it will be in pleasant circumstances in a more peaceful time. And if we do not, I wish you a pleasant life.”

And with that, you and the demon hunter part ways. From there, you return to Carlain and Duncan to find that they are both ready to depart. Before you teleport back, however, Duncan takes you aside.

“Carlain told me what happened.”

Duncan began, his face containing none of its usual jovial nature.

“How do you want to handle this? Outing Carlain as a traitor is going to kill his family – in the case of his mother, perhaps literally. She’s not doing well at all these days.”

You remember what Carlain told you of his mother’s illness, the same illness that felled your mother. The at least claimed reason for Carlain to have joined with the warlock cabal in the first place, chasing after a cure.

“Listen, the Council isn’t going to go easy on him, they never do with warlocks, to say nothing of traitors. I’m half-inclined to string him up right here and now, but he *is* still my nephew. If you want, we can try to keep his involvement out of all this, just quietly refuse to mention he helped Cynthia try to kill you. Say he got injured while dealing with her or something. But if we do this, we’re going to have to take it upon ourselves to keep an eye on him – once a warlock, always a warlock as the saying goes. Now if you want, I can take over looking after him and making sure he doesn’t do anything stupid while you continue looking for the rest of these traitors.”

After you have finished deciding Carlain’s fate, Duncan nods and goes to get Carlain. With all of you together, you join hands, Duncan quickly invokes the teleportation magic, and with a stomach-lurching bump, you are suddenly back at your home estate. Although it hadn’t felt like home in quite a while, but maybe after your discussion with your father last night that could change.

“Be seeing you.” Duncan says, departing to allow you to continue your investigation.

(At this point, you can check in with your father or Cherise and her family – she’s in the area as well – or you can go down to the Archives to start doing some digging through old records. Or whatever else you had in mind to do now that you’re back “home”. )

Fishtown, The Fishiest Place on Earth that Never Fished

Gorgondantess

“I apologize for the disruption – indeed, we try to avoid interfering whenever possible.” Quadramus begins, flinching from your sudden outburst but otherwise standing his ground.

“However, I thought it prudent to warn you that the Dusk Wardens are on the move. Already their expeditionary fleet has landed on the shores of this land, and once they have unloaded all supplies and weapons off of their ships, they will begin the hunt. High Warden Augustus is with them as well, apparently.”

“The High Warden!!? He’s leading the effort personally!?” Omnicron blurted out, his jaw actually hanging open for a moment after he spits the words out. Then he seems to shake himself and explains.

“The High Warden is our leader, the highest ideal of our people. Traditionally he manages affairs from within the center of our island fortress. I’ve never really heard of a High Warden joining in on the hunt for an Archdemon, not that there’s been many in recent history. He must be taking this hunt for you very seriously if he’s come in person to lead the assault.”

“Indeed. And his presence here makes for an even larger expeditionary force than usual. It seems likely that they have every intention of making this a quick and brutal campaign.”

Quadramus explains, joining back into the conversation. He winces and frowns, and then continues.

“Which is why I am here. There are far too many Dusk Wardens for you to fight, so I wanted to offer you an alternative. It is an alternative we have provided to your kind many times over the long millennia, although it has not always proved an effective barrier to keep the Dusk Wardens at bay – they are quite thorough.”

Sensing that he was nearing the absolute end of your patience, Quadramus quickly presses on.

“We can seal your essence away inside a container, within which you can slumber away the centuries until the Dusk Wardens forget about you and it’s safe to return. Usually the container is something simple and mundane . . . say, a wooden box, and stored in some backwater village far from civilization where the Dusk Wardens never bother to look. Of course sometimes they still figure it out, leading to more regrettable loss of your unique life. But it is an option, and regrettably the only safe option available to you. I can perform the sealing of your essence away at any time, should that be what you wish. Or I can depart, but I warn you that you will surely be embracing your own death if you do so. The Dusk Wardens are powerful, and I sense that this Augustus has brought his most powerful weapons at his disposal along, the better to crush you quickly. You cannot win against such an overwhelming force, and that force will find you sooner or later, no matter how far you run or where you hide – at least, not without my aid.”

The Capital

The Wedding of Amelia Ashargrin and Cheran Gast

Lonna & WhiteKnight777

Fianna and Umber make their way swiftly over to Pyrene and her escort, the fleeing crowd flowing around them like water around stone. Meanwhile the room descends into chaos as the Baron calls for his hidden assassins to kill Korram, only to have crossbow bolts rain down from the rafters into his own men. A Chimera also appears by the altar, tearing nearby people apart and generally whipping the crowd up into even more of a panicked frenzy. Cheran has the priest complete the wedding, and then throws him and his wife aside to swoop down the length of the room and engage Korram in mortal combat in the hallway outside. (Check Korram’s DM for more exact details.)

While the conversation between Pyrene and the two Lords of Blood continues, Duke Volesin simply sits back and watches. He seems annoyed at this unexpected interruption, but holds his peace, and makes no threatening motion other than to slip his hands into the folds of his cloak.

Although Fianna is aware enough of the conversation to raise an eyebrow and cover Umber’s mouth before he could speak some sort of lewd suggestion, she remains silent. Instead, she simply stares intently at Pyrene, a direct, focused look that seems to bore down into her very soul. And then without a word said, she attacks.

With a feral growl, Fianna lunges forward and grabs her double. One hand clamps down on a fistful of hair, pulling Pyrene’s head back, while the other grabs her by the right arm, holding it down with savage strength. Barring her fangs, Fianna leans down and sinks her teeth into Pyrene’s exposed neck. Caught unprepared for the sudden shift from polite conversation to vicious attack and with the mage collar still firmly in place, Pyrene is unable to mount an effective defense. A few moments later, and the magical weakness imbued into Fianna’s fangs kicks in, leaving Pyrene even more helpless as she slumps down into the pew, just another helpless victim to the vampire. It is very clear that Fianna is caught in a powerful, literal, blood lust and that she does not intend to stop until Pyrene’s veins are completely empty – and perhaps not even then. She ignores any attempts to persuade her to stop, and any physical contact is met with a furious shove back that contains all her strength.

In the end, it is paradoxically the mage collar that saves Pyrene’s life. With it still in place Fianna is forced to work around it, having to settle for rupturing side veins and arteries rather than the carotid. It also prevents her from biting down and tearing out Pyrene’s throat completely, which is clearly her desire from the way her fangs frequently scrape noisily against the metal of the collar.

Of course, the mage collar simply slows Fianna’s assault down. What stops it is Duke Volesin suddenly springing into action. One hand blurs up from out of his cloak, light flashing off the metal suddenly adorning his fingers, as his fist arcs up directly into Fianna’s nose. The impact rocks Fianna’s head back, forcibly tearing her fangs out of Pyrene’s neck at the cost of further increasing the damage. Twin arcs of blood spray through the air – one from Pyrene’s neck, one from Fianna’s nose – as the Lord of Blood tumbles back onto her rear with a surprised cry.

Standing up, Duke Volesin reveals he is not done yet as his other hand emerges from his cloak with some sort of vial. The duke throws the vial to the floor at his feet and it shatters, the contents reacting rapidly and violently with the air to create a billowing cloud of thick choking smoke. The cloud of smoke rapidly spreads to obscure him and Pyrene from sight, and when it fades they are both gone. (Look below for separate DMs picking up from this point.)

Lonna

It should come as no surprise that after a vampire mercilessly savages your throat, you are dying. The exact concept of dying was a surprise to you, as you had come through all those previous dangers to get to this point – and your story ending because your evil twin had a bloody conniption hardly seemed a fitting end. No doubt many others had felt this way before you in their own final moments, and many others would continue to feel so after you were gone.

Although Duke Volesin punching Fianna in the nose stops the immediate threat of having all your blood sucked out of you, it doesn’t stop the rest of your blood from leaking out of your mangled throat, staining your clothing an even darker shade of crimson. The spreading warmth of your own blood across your increasingly cold skin is almost a pleasant sensation, even if what was left of your rational mind was screaming in alarm. You just couldn’t seem to care . . . perhaps if you just closed your eyes and rested for a minute, you were suddenly so tired.

The follow-up to Volesin punching Fianna in the nose manages to jar you slightly back into consciousness, as he throws down some sort of smoke cloud, obscuring your vision. You feel strong hands bodily lifting you up, and Volesin grunt, before you come to rest over someone’s shoulder. Then you are moving, rapidly, and as you exit the smoke cloud you see that you are traveling across the pews, Volesin nimbly stepping from the top of one pew’s back to another. Most of the crowd has already scattered or is attempting to scatter out of the pews, but Volesin still has to dodge more than one cluster of guests still struggling to press out of their seats.

Reaching a cleared area of pews, Volesin suddenly drops down, kneeling out of sight and throwing you down onto the floor in front of him. The impact is hardly pleasant, but it again manages to keep you clinging feebly to consciousness. From within his cloak Volesin draws a dagger, and you dimly wonder if he had saved you just for the pleasure of finishing you off himself. Then he appears to stab himself, only for it to become clear a moment later that he is cutting at his jacket rather than his flesh. He finishes cutting a sleeve free a moment later, and he rips it off and swiftly wraps it around your throat – not tight enough to constrict your ragged breathing nor to effectively stop the bleeding.

He reaches into his cloak and pulls out a vial filled with a thick bluish liquid. He thumbs the cork off and then pours the liquid onto the makeshift scarf/bandage. Where the soaked fabric comes into contact with your wounds, there is an intense burning sensation, and you open your mouth reflexively to scream. Volesin immediately leans down to clamp a hand over your mouth. As he does so, his under tunic shifts, and through that, his damaged jacket and his cloak, you get a glimpse of his skin. Running across his shoulder is a long jagged scar, something that you feel should be important to you but your sluggish mind can’t remember why.

Swiftly the burning sensation fades, replaced by an even weirder feeling as your torn throat begins to knit itself back together. Volesin draws another potion from within his cloak, and holds this vial to your lips after removing his hand. He pours the contents slowly into your mouth, and this potion seems to have a less harsh, but no less welcome, effect as feeling returns to your extremities.

“We can only rest here for another minute, and then we must find a way to get out. I suspected attending the Baron’s wedding would carry risks with it, but I certainly did not anticipate anything of this scale!”

As if in response to the duke’s observation, you hear the chimera shriek in fury once again, followed by a loud crash. Tearing off his other sleeve, the duke wraps this one around your neck as well, although rather than tying it off at your throat he ties both ends to your mage collar, holding it in place.

“There, hardly an ideal solution but it should preserve your modesty. I would prefer not to have to carry you out of here. I have a few vials of drugs here that would get you up and walking, at least for a little while, but considering the extent of your injuries I’m not sure that’s wise. If you have any skill with magical healing, now would be the time to put that to use.”

Volesin explains, while shrugging out of the remains of his jacket and balling it up to place underneath your head. You are definitely no longer feeling on the cusp of death, but it’s only a marginal improvement. Your throat still feels like a ragged line of pain, and you can tell in a few places only a thin scab keeps the rest of your lifeblood from bursting forth. You are slowly feeling stronger as the cold recedes from your body, but you likely couldn’t win a physical confrontation with even a small child. None of those compare, however, to how you feel deep down inside, in the inner core of your being.

Your soul has been torn and violated, even more thoroughly than your throat. You can still use magic with roughly the same efficiency as before, but it feels different now. Everything feels different, you slowly realize. Nothing seems immediate or pressing anymore – you feel detached from the events going on around you. You dimly remember hearing similar stories involving those who had just endured a traumatic experience, but instinctively knew that this was somehow different. Truly, you felt empty inside. Dead, and you weren’t sure there was anything that could be done to fix it.

But then the image of Ariella sprang into your mind unbidden, and you turned your head and saw the Countess lying on the floor by the altar, trying to catch her breath. There were still people counting on you to protect them, no matter how you felt! You couldn’t turn your back on them, as deep down you still felt something when you thought of them, even if it was muted compared to previously. And perhaps, by continuing to care about them, you could fare this ember of emotion back into its rightful blaze and feel alive again.

(Pyrene is not quite as bad off as Fianna was, but she is suffering from a similar difficulty in feeling emotions. Obviously it is not quite as bad as Fianna’s condition since she still feels something for Ariella and the Countess (and obviously whoever else she deems important to her, positively or negatively). You are welcome to play this muted sensation of emotion however you like. )

WhiteKnight777

You aren’t sure whether to see to Fianna or chase after the fleeing Pyrene and her surprisingly capable escort. Although, considering Fianna’s bizarre and unexpected attack on Pyrene, figuring out the reason for her behavior seemed more pressing. Pyrene was nearly dead judging by how badly torn her throat was, and you had already dealt with one extremely capable assassin.

As you move to help Fianna up and repair her broken nose, she sits back up and manages to get onto her knees before stopping. She looks around blankly and then reaches up to gingerly touch her broken nose, blood slowly running out her nostrils to mingle with the blood smeared all over her lips and chin. She says a few magical words and runs her fingers over her nose, repairing the damage immediately, although she seems . . . confused as to how this happened. Shaking her head and wiping the blood off her face with the back of her hand, she looks up at you in blind confusion.

“Love . . . what just happened?”

As an example that you are no longer in a peaceful area, the chimera shrieks in fury as it takes to the skies again, only to be met by the Baron’s metal son in mid-air. He grapples with it, and then throws it back down to the floor, sending it crashing down onto several nearby pews and causing them to explode into splinters.

Dorizzit

As the doors crash open, you stride into the chamber, all eyes on you. You pause a moment to savor the attention, and then deliver your statement. Everyone watches you in breathless silence, anxious to see you will do next. All except the Baron, who snorts dismissively and turns back to face the front.

“Predictable. KILL HIM!”

As one, a dozen members of the crowd suddenly stand up and turn to face you, drawing daggers secreted within their elegant clothes. No doubt other Hands within the rafters were training crossbows on you, or they would be if Katarina and Argan hadn’t already taken care of them. And before these twelve revealed Hands could carry out the Baron’s orders, all Hells breaks loose.

It begins with a crossbow bolt whistling down from the rafters, aimed not at you but the Baron. Halfway to its intended destination, it connects with a magical shield that briefly flares to life before shattering, the ring of runes painted onto the floor around the Baron’s pew bursting into flame. The crossbow continues to fly true, and time seems to slow as the Baron slowly turns towards this new threat. Too slowly, and for a moment you feel disappointment at the thought the bolt might actually find the Baron’s flesh. Then a blond-haired woman wearing a black dress with matching scarf, seated in the pew behind the Baron, reaches out almost casually and snags the bolt in mid-air, less than a foot from the Baron’s neck. Then all eyes are not on you, but up at the rafters.

“Argan!” The Baron hisses, and then time speeds back up as chaos continues to erupt. A second crossbow bolt flies down from the rafters, aimed not at the Baron but at one of the Hands preparing to attack you. With his back to the approaching bolt, the Hand does not see it coming, and takes the bolt square in the back. As he collapses without a sound, a shriek of pure rage echoes throughout the chamber as the acolytes up by the altar go flying in all directions.

Standing in the midst of this new chaos is a chimera – undoubtedly Lunara – which shrieks in mad fury again before snatching two unfortunate acolytes up and hurling them at the two nearest Hands, slamming them down onto the floor, briefly out of the fight. A chorus of screams ripples through the crowd at the sight of this murderous beast, and in response the snake head whips forward, spewing a stream of poisonous acid at the Baron. Again the Baron is protected, as the massive armored form of Celestran appears, taking the stream directly across his chest with minimal effect, his armor plating repairing itself as fast the acidic saliva can corrode it. The Baron’s son then retaliates with a barrage from his wing cannons, hitting nothing but the organ beneath Lunara as she spreads her wings and takes to the air. The organ explodes in a hail of burning splinters and a final, tonal wail as Lunara crashes back down onto the floor a short distance away. Her lion head lashes out, biting down onto one of the fallen Hands as he tries to rise. She gives the man a quick shake as she crushes his chest with her fangs, and then hurls his broken body into the crowd. This is finally too much for the Baron’s assembled guests, and they surge to their feet and begin surging forth to find the exit – any exit – from the sudden madness that has turned this ceremony of promised love into a battlefield.

Meanwhile at the altar, Cheran snatches the priest up by the collar, lifting him up into the air with one hand before he can crawl away.

“FINISH IT!”

He bellows into the priest’s face, and the man weakly nods.

“I . . . I now pronounce you man and wife!”

The priest cries out, and Cheran dismissively tosses him across the altar and down onto the floor on the other side.

“Good. The kissing part can wait. I have an overly brave idiot to kill first!”

He declares, roughly shoving Countess Amelia Gast away from him. Predictably the shackles locked around her ankles trip her up, and she falls, nearly dashing her head against the altar but managing to twist away at the last moment to land painfully on her side. Dazed, she lies where she has fallen, while Cheran whirls around and takes flight. He rockets over the crowd still struggling to figure out where to go to get away from this nightmare, and crashes into you, propelling you backwards out through the double doors and back into the hallway.

“So good to see you Korram! I’m thrilled to see you here at my wedding!”

He shouts, before throwing you back into a nearby wall. The stone cracks from the impact, leaving a slight indent in the wall after you fall back down onto the floor. Before such an impact could have shattered your spine at worst and cracked a few ribs at least. Now, you barely even feel it, your body immediately shifting back into place and repairing itself, a pleasant rush of raw power and rage flowing through you. Cheran lands in front of you, smiling confidently as he stretches and cracks his knuckles.

“Getting to stomp your pathetic, old wrinkly ass into the ground one last time before I kill you was the perfect gift. And in return for your thoughtfulness, I promise I’ll make it quick. After all, I have a honeymoon to go on!”

Completely taken in by the thought that you were still the weak, crippled, human Korram of old, Cheran strides forward confidently, not even bothering to adopt a defensive stance and leaving himself wide open.

(Now I want a good unclean fight here boys, with plenty of unsportsmanlike blows and taunting! )

OverWilliam

At your question, Brock scratches his chin thoughtfully.

“Y’know, now that you mention it, you were the only one that got sent to Ironheart. The rest of the group got split up and sent to various other prisons – not that there were many of them left with Ironheart around. I always figured the Baron knew we were friends, or at least pretended to be, and was trying to send a message. Either that, or he could only justify for you to be sent there, since you were the “ringleader”. If it makes you feel any better, the rest of the crew is gone. Accidents or isolated incidents of prison violence – it sounds exactly like what you’re thinking. But you were “spared”, right? Ha . . . I wonder if the Baron was expecting you or if he was just as surprised as I was when you showed up on our doorstep!”

Despite your grim situation, Brock manages a smile as this, although it just as quickly fades.

“Anyway, I suspect that we both have an upcoming meeting with a lot of sharp metal instruments until the Baron is convinced he knows the truth. Don’t think there’s any way out of it, either – the Baron’s suspicions are up now, and he’s not going to stop until he’s absolutely sure he’s gotten to the bottom of it. This demon paintings business, whatever it is, is very important to him and he’s not going to let anyone or anything jeopardize it. As for what I was going to tell him if he discovered this angel-buying business, well . . . I couldn’t tell him the truth now could I? Anything coming out of my mouth at that point would likely have been put to the test, so the only real way to survive was not letting the Baron find out I was behind it. Now it seems he has figured that part out already, and so we’re completely screwed.”

Brock sighs heavily, and looks down at his hands in defeat.

Looking around the room, you find Brock’s analysis not completely inaccurate. It was an interior room, with no windows or exits save for the single, now locked, door. There was not even a fireplace in the room, leaving you to wonder just how cold it got inside this room in the winter. There was some furniture of course, namely the simple wooden table and chairs set that you and Brock were currently sitting at.

A large bookshelf dominated one wall, containing a wide range of thick books. Not surprisingly, all of them seem to be of a religious bent, and thus were thick leather-bound tomes. Unfortunately you can tell just from looking that none of them are wired to some sort of secret door. The possibility exists that one of the books does contain a secret compartment containing a weapon, tool, or valuable of some sort.

In another corner of the room is a small meditation stand. Seated on a large wooden stand is a fairly hefty stone statue of a woman – Miriam, you presume? An array of candles sit in front of the statue, many of them lit and helping to provide the room with light. The rest of the room is lighted by a simple iron lantern hanging over the table from a hook. Theoretically, you could probably pick the statue up and use it as a makeshift battering ram to knock the locked door down – it was only a thin wooden interior door after all . . . but that would be about as subtle as it sounds.

Finally, there was what appeared to be a small writing desk in one of the corners nearest to the bookshelf. A quick inspection revealed all the standard accruements you would expect a writing desk to have – quills, vials of ink, wax for making seals, etc. You also find a letter opener, which could be used in an emergency as a weapon – assuming you could strike an unarmored spot. You also see what could be best described as a metal comb – likely used to store pages in a separated format or some sort. You also found a godsend – some sort of paper sorter with thin metal tines. Tines which you could break off and then use as terribly crude lockpicks.

Also next to the writing desk was a large wooden box, although you had no idea what to do with that. Maybe stick it on your head and hide inside it as you moved down the hallway, so the guards wouldn’t see you? What an idiotic idea that was! But . . . pulling the box apart might give you access to some nails, if you could pry them out of the wood they were embedded in. Now those might be useful.

You could contemplating what sort of approach to take when you hear a loud commotion, even through the thick stone walls – some sort of bestial shrieking and a whole lot of people screaming. A minute later, you hear someone charging down the hallway outside and yelling at the assembled guards just outside.

“Korram is here and he brought friends! You are needed immediately in the main worship chamber!”

“I will stay and guard these two. The rest of you – GO!”

One of your escorts shouted back, and his voice is followed by an even louder human stampede as a group of men charge back up the hallway. It would seem that you have only one guard right outside now – that was certainly convenient. If you still couldn’t faintly hear the screaming coming from the stone wall opposite the door, you would think it a little too convenient. But if there wasn’t some sort of test by the Baron to see what you would do now, then this was likely your best and only chance to get out of here. You’d have to buy this Korram fellow a drink if you ever met him.

[WhiteKnight777]

Umber

Umber picked Fianna up, holding her close as the chaos swirled around them. He spoke into her ear, and quickly at that.

"You attacked the young girl - quite suddenly, and seemingly without thought... I have a suspicion. I think it might have to do with the link in your souls - perhaps the void within you aches to be filled, and it naturally calls you to consume that most likely to do the filling. It fits the evidence, anyway - and if it's a cure, I'm more than willing to give it a go. But we'll have to find her again first. Meanwhile..." He gave her a devil-may-care smile. "I think we need a bit more chaos, eh love?"

Umber hadn't survived all his battles by being the strongest of the Lords, or even the most potent in terms of magic. He was well-trained, his skills honed by millenia of practice - but skill didn't save a many all the time. Eventually, someone got lucky. A blade in the back at the right time, a shot at just the right angle, catching you with your trousers down, drunk or in bed or asleep, or tangled up with almond-eyed twins beneath a summer sky... He shook his head - no time for reminiscing now. But Umber didn't survive on skill alone. Mostly, he cheated. As he did now.

There was a low roar from outside - bone-deep thing even throatier than the chimera's - the results of the spell he had been weaving while he spoke with Pyrene. Windows along that side of the chapel shattered, and dirt poured inwards. Grave dirt. Filled with bones and stones and bits of rotted coffin and rotted meat. It rose, a single living thing, assuming a stumpy humanoid shape. Its face was planted firmly in the middle of its torso, its eyes were skulls outlined in flickering black flame. Two narrow slits served for nostrils, and its mouth was a wide, lipless gash across the entirety of its lower body, filled with jagged rocks and long shards of bone. Its massive arms were similarly tipped with claws of sharpened bone or rock, and they swung this way and that with terrible, feverish strength, killing indiscriminately. The thing was an elemental spirit of earth - but a dark and dangerous one. Umber hadn't taken the time or trouble to bind the thing - he'd simply let it loose. And now, fed on long-dead corpses and fragments of buried souls and buried secrets, it was a creature of raw destruction, purposeless and wild. Fortunately, it was about as far from them as possible, and seemed occupied for the moment.

He turned back to Fianna. "For now, I think it's time we were leaving. Now, how can we hinder the Baron before we do..." His grin parted in a smile as he saw the blushing bride, bound and gasping by the altar. He ran forward towards her, at the same time sending out a flicker of will with delicate, practiced ease, sending her flying through the air and out of the carnage - and neatly into Umber's arms. He threw her casually over his shoulder and offered his hand to Fianna. "The girl Pyrene seemed to have some attachment to this girl, and the Baron had an interest in her as well - although I wouldn't mind killing that brute of a son to ensure the collapse of this marriage. Either way, we'd best get out of here, post-haste."

[Archpaladin Zousha]

Hondshioh

Hondshioh looks to the assembled Grandmasters and hangs his head.

"I suppose I should get the worst news out of the way. Ander has been captured by the enemy, and Odlak was slain during our retreat from the Reliquary. Before he threw himself at the Councillors, Ander passed his leadership to me. As of now, I am the one directing this effort in Ander's name."

Hondshioh lets that statement sink in, and then continues.

"Both our infiltrations of the Reliquary were successful, and we have learned much. Some of it, none of us would ever want to hear, but it must be heard if we are to pursue this course with both eyes open. Our deepest fears have been confirmed. The Council is utilizing the imprisoned demons of the Reliquary, along with strange magic given to them by the Baron of Ghast, to corrupt captured angels to be their slaves, a plan they call "Project Angelus." We do not yet know the full extent of the plans of the Council's allies, but it's clear that they're nothing more than pawns of the true enemy, the Speaker, an angel named Morganna.

She is leading the Project as a means of striking back at the Valkyrie. According to Morganna, Miriam ordered us, her paladins, to crusade against Hell all for a lie. That the fallen angel we'd been sent there to rescue was never there at all, and it was all Miriam's petty way of punishing mankind for sins committed long ago by those who are now long dead. Morganna's feelings of guilt at being a part of this have caused her to create this plan, allying with this Baron who apparently wishes the Gods themselves ill.

Fortunately, we have two allies within the City. The first is a member of Morganna's inner circle: The Reaper, Zariel. He is the one who slew Odlak, so it did not appear to the Speaker that he let us escape when he was sent to kill us. In exchange for aiding our escape then and aiding our fight now by spying on the Speaker, he has asked that when the battle is over, Morganna is not to be judged by us, or Miriam, but to be handed over to him, for reasons he has kept to himself. Our second ally is an angel who aided us in infiltrating the Reliquary, though we were not aware of her true nature until she flew us out of the City. I only know her as Emma.

I understand if none of you wish to follow me. I am an untested youth, armed only with the skills I was taught, my faith in what is right and good and the natural talents of my bloodline. But Ander placed his trust in me, and for his sake I will not abandon this cause, nor will I give up on him until I have broken him free of the Council's imprisonment, or have eyewitness proof of his death at their hands. I understand if you do not believe what I have just told you. That the goddess who gave us all the power to defend against evil in her name has been accused of being a petulant, pathetic creature who would allow the souls of those who are most loyal to her to burn as a means of punishing our entire race. That the Council is so far gone that they have sided with the Gods' greatest enemies so they can gain petty revenge for what they perceive as the Gods' crimes. I do not believe it. I cannot believe it. I do not know if Morganna spoke the truth or if the madness her guilt has inspired in her has blinded her. But I have faith in the Valkyrie, and as long as I have breath in my body, I will stand and fight to end this blight on our Church and our Goddess' name. Will you stand with me?!"

[Dorizzit]

Korram Alstan

Korram smiles widely in satisfaction at the uproar his arrival causes. He doesn't rise to the Baron's dismissal, instead simply smiling and halting his approach. He calmly looks around as the assassins mixed into the crowd rise up to greet him. The Hands were supposed to be highly trained and intelligent; Korram is almost surprised they don't realize something is wrong when he doesn't even try to fight them. His allies kill some, but they were no threat to Korram, not now. Instead, he focuses on the assassination attempt. The Baron is protected, unsurprisingly, but the forces arrayed against him are powerful as well. It could go either way, except that Korram is there. His presence changes everything. He will crush the Baron. He is unstoppable.

Korram is about to spring into action when Cheran makes his presence felt, forcing the priest to finish the ceremony before hurling himself towards Korram. Korram shifts targets; Cheran was almost as good as the Baron himself, and has proven his arrogance and cruelty time and again. He has had it coming for some time, and Korram is finally in a position to deliver. Rapidly cycling through possible counters to Cheran's charge, Korram decides to play the helpless hero for a little while longer and braces for impact.

When it comes, the assault is worse than Korram had feared and the results far better than he had dared to hope. As he is hurled into the wall, Korram feels his spine break and ribs shatter, fragments of bone grinding painfully within his flesh. As soon as the wounds are inflicted, however, Korram can already feel them mending themselves as he sinks to the ground. In seconds, Korram is fighting fit once more. Cheran, suspecting nothing, approaches confidently. Korram shifts subtly as Cheran approaches, trying to get into the ideal position for his next move. As the Baron's son stands less than a foot away, Korram blurs into motion. He rolls onto his upper back, then plants his hand on the ground and pushes off, rocketing both of his legs into his opponent's groin.

The look on Cheran's face makes every broken bone worth it.

Hardly the one to let an opponent go, Korram presses the advantage, leaping to his feet and unleashing a barrage of strikes against Cheran. Although his opponent still holds a (now much smaller) edge in strength and speed, Korram uses Cheran's pain and confusion to take control of the fight, landing numerous heavy if superficial blows without receiving even single hit in return.

"You know, Cheran, I think I've finally got life figured out. You know what the worst thing you can do is? Succeed. The moment of your success is always the moment that life just screws you. I was having one of the best days of my life before my wife was taken. I had just won the closest thing to a victory I ever had against the False Baron when they found me. Back in Ironheart, the Patrician thought he had won right before we killed him. And look at you! Here, it's your wedding day. I even brought you a gift, my...how did you put it? Ah yes, my 'pathetic, old, wrinkly ass' to 'stomp' again. But, I didn't bring anything for the Countess...hm...ah, I know. I think I've got a pretty good idea of what she'd like. I think..."

He punctuates his mocking tirade with a powerful uppercut. Cheran, however, has been recovering the whole time, and finally lashes back with a solid attack, hurling Korram off his feet with the strength the blow. Korram flips in the air and lands, catlike, but settles into a more defensive stance. He wasn't going to get another chance like the one he had just taken advantage of. Still, he manages to finish his speech before Cheran can do anything else, a tone of menace creeping into his voice above the previous grim mockery.

"...I'll make her a widow."

[Pwenet]

Incom Morgan

“Incom? I’ve heard that name before . . . there was a funeral for an Incom weeks ago. Brother Cavil said he was a hero. Are you a hero like him?”

A Hero. He was thought of as a Hero. Evidently not a well renowned one but a hero nethertheless. It was strange to hear those words applied to him, or rather, his corpse. The ever-growing feeling of wrongness spread throughout him but he pushed it aside. Now was not the time to indulge in self-remorse.

”No, I’m just a man, or was, once upon a time.”

By that point Sara was exchanging words with Mar. Part of him found it odd the name that Sara used to describe Mar, making her wings seem more like a glowing hint as to what she was. If she is what Incom believes, the Baron was more powerful than he thought previously.

Yet he knew that mattered little. The Baron has ruined his life, any chance of true and lasting happiness that he may have once had. Little slivers like Sara were tainted all the same. Deep within Incom knew that once Sara was safe, once her mission was complete he would go hunting the Baron. He would probably be destroyed but it was something he needed to do, almost as if it was his destiny.

Focusing in on the conversation Incom waits for Mar’s answer to the questions posed by Sara.

[OverWilliam]

~Tare

Brock's whimpering filtered through to Tare's awareness like a kind of high-pitched, indefinite warble. If pressured he likely could have pulled together some disconnected memories of what the vague gist of Brock's despondent moanings were, but at the moment it hardly seemed important. He ran a finger across the spines of the collected tomes, most religious, but every so often one of more practical interest catching his eye for half a second before being discarded as useless to the current situation. Tare's attention came to a full halt after passing over one title... "The Hitchhiker's Guide to..." What? He raised one eyebrow, intrigued. 'Hitchhiker', what's that, some kind of horse-and-carriage term? Tare shrugged and turned to more pressing matters, concluding that the bookshelf held nothing of use.

The improvised tools found on the writing desk were of much more interest (or, items that might in a pinch be improvised into improvised tools). Tare pocketed the comb and paper separator, then also palmed a few vials of ink, after making careful check that their wax-sealed corks were securely in place. It could be hard to predict how such things might come in handy.

After considering the box and the potential for nails for a moment, Tare discarded that as well as being impractical and unlikely to provide real benefit anyway. Considering the nails, Tare caught himself in the middle of an ironic thought-- specifically, wishing that he could have a few of the Silver Needles he'd taken on Hell with to now wade into conflict in a Church!

At that moment, the commotion outside burst audibly through the walls of their room. Tare moved quietly over to the locked door and listened through it, clearly catching the change of guard and making the snap-decision that now, if at all, was the time to Act. He thought quickly about trying to force the lock, but decided that something a little more... unexpected would serve him better. Placing his palm on the door's latch, as close as he could estimate to where the tongue of the lock connected to the opposing door, Tare called up the connection to his Power and narrowed his focus as tightly as he could think to. He focused his thoughts on the lightning that he'd summoned earlier, tightened it, sharpened it, and pushed it into the tiniest pinprick just beneath the surface of the skin on his palm. He let the focus build until it felt like he could draw it no tighter, took a slow breath, and loosed the bowstring in his mind.

With a bang like the crack of a giant's whip, the noise and light came and went in an instant. Tare felt the energy snap out of his raised palm and slice into the wood and metal beneath it. The light was so intense that it seemed to flash through the wood around his hand, the wall itself seeming to become momentarily luminescent. Yet, at the same time, it was not intense enough to blind, nor was the noise loud enough to stun. On this side of the door, anyway.

Tare pulled his hand quickly away from the door and the sudden heat that threatened to burn the skin of his palm. He looked down in pleasant surprise-- Did it work?? --at the smoking and still-glowing gash in the metal of the lock, barely a millimeter thick and almost two inches tall, that should have severed cleanly through the bolt holding the door closed. Tare glanced at Brock, for only a second, before flicking his Stiletto free from its hidden sheath and aiming a heavy boot at the hopefully-weakened door...

((I'm intending this to be a dual-function thingie-- a) fry the door lock and let us out, and b) act as a HELLA magical flash bomb to fiercely blind and stun whoever it is on the other side of the door. Whether Tare is yet skilled enough to pull off something that specific, failed entirely, or did something different by accident (like a single-point death laser needle that proceeds in a perfectly straight line instantly piercing through miles of earth and flesh alike until it veers away from the ground and forever into space due to the curvature of the earth-- that'd be awesome) is up to you. ))

[Gorgondantess]

"Absolutely not. Not only would that involve being debilitated for a potential millennium, but it would also mean putting myself in your kind's hands. You wouldn't put your life in the hands of a group of children, would you? Well, the sentiment is the same. No, I'll risk the Dusk Wardens.
But... once all is well and done... and assuming I am still among you..." She winces, wary of the idea of such an oblivion, "...I would be amenable to a trade of knowledge. I'm sure we both have information the other would value."
She nods her head, pensive, thinking.
"Now begone. We may meet again, once my fate has been decided."

Once he's well enough gone, she turns to the remaining two. "The way I see it, there are two pertinent options open to me: fight or flight. If these Dusk Wardens are so numerous- and each trained from birth for the sole purpose of killing me... well, one flake of snow is no threat whatsoever, but an avalanche may claim many lives. I do not believe I could fight them all. My, ah, predecessors, attempted to do so... and to my knowledge, they all failed.
And as for flight? Well, that is an option. I may be able to elude them for years- I am, after all, highly maneuverable, and have no need for rest. But I think it would simply be delaying the inevitable: their oracles have proven able to find me no matter my actions or location.
Neither action should prove particularly successful. As such, it would be best to take a third option. The bear, when it attacks, is not dissuaded by charging at it, nor running- both of these things will only make it come on harder- but by simply staying where you are."
She nods at Omicron. "You have said that there is some doubt in your organization. Well, it seems that's all we have to work with, so that is what we will do. We stay put and let them come, and when they arrive here we welcome them with open arms, and hope they are not implicitly aware of my actions since their attack."
She transforms into a more and more humanoid form, becoming a young woman with the same facial features as ever. She keeps the wings, though, and with her sharp, regal features looks for all the world like an angel with an altered colour palette.
She turns to Maurice and Omicron, respectively. "Well? You know more of humans than I- indeed, likely more than most humans- and you know the most about the Dusk Wardens of anyone willing to indulge the information to me. What say you, either of you?"
***
Excepting that the plan is shot down, she heads out into the village to speak to the town leaders. "We are expecting some guests. Many, many guests... hundreds, even. Guests like the one we are housing now. They are called the Dusk Wardens and they are to be welcomed with a white flag and open arms, despite any hostility they may exude. Put away the arms and armor: for now, we are a peaceful place. And prepare to greet them... however you humans do."

[Iethloc]

Sohssal

”I really don't think Miriam would just leave me alone. She wouldn't come personally, but some crony of hers would come for me if I didn't do something about it. I also doubt they would ever accept me, either. So by my reckoning, I could never remain neutral in this conflict,” Sohssal said.

Then he turned to Shanks.

”However, I did develop a spell that should give the recipient immunity to the plague if they weren't already infected. But it'd take more than just you and a few women to keep the human race alive. I'll have to discuss humanity's repopulation with the Baron later,” he said.

Hearing Roger's defiance, he sighed heavily and flexed his incorporeal hands; the beginnings of a spell.

”Well, Roger. We both know I can't let you hang around if you're going to be against this. I certainly could not have gotten this far without you, so I'll let you pick where on the other side of the world I will I send you...and you can take some supplies. Don't worry, your body should hold together for quite some time. I'll give you a few minutes to prepare,” he explained. Sending Roger away would take a significant portion of his remaining energy, but now he had a lab, and a few functioning spires. The flow of energy, at least, was enough to cheer Sohssal up.

When that was out of the way Sohssal would excuse himself to go rest in the closed-off portion of his lab. After recharging, he began the final stages of testing. With time quickly running out (plus the fact “acquiring” too many subjects would draw suspicion), he only let the disease run through a handful of generations, and of course made sure his “vaccine” spell functioned properly. Victims of the transformation would be dissected to make sure the disease was thorough.

[Lonna]

Pyrene the Half-Souled

As Duke Volesin applied magical first-aid, Pyrene quickly became aware that her wounds went far beyond mere torn flesh and spilled blood. Her very soul was crippled, something that was supposed to be impossible, at least according everything the priests had ever told her. She could not even feel her usual resentment for their preaching. In point of fact, her lack of emotional response was concerning - and the fact that it was merely concerning, not frightening, was problematic as well. Nevertheless, Pyrene was somewhat reassured by the fact that the sight of her first friend and the thought of her sister both provoked a positive emotional response, albeit a muted one.

Taking Volesin's suggestion, Pyrene mentally shoved some magic at her torn throat to accellerate the healing process for herself as she had done for others while she assessed the situation. Clearly chaos had descended while she was bleeding to death - assassins, rebels, and the occassional guard fought each other heedless of anyone else. If one counted Cheran - and a throb of anger told Pyrene that normally she certainly did - no less than three monsters also wreaked havok on the church and its occupants. Unfortunately, they also blocked the most obvious exits.

Bending down, Pyrene summoned the fire she had used to entertain herself in Volesin's mansion, shaping it with practiced strokes into a ferret of living flame and whispering instructions as it formed. It raced off, weaving through the crowd and scorching anyone unfortunate enough step on it as it approached its goal. Speeding across the open space where Korram and Cheran fought, it leapt onto Cheran, winding around and through his wings and clothing. The living flame sparked small fires everywhere it touched, before finally diving at Cheran's missing eye as if to drill through the eyepatch and into his skull.

Not waiting to see Cheran's reaction to the sudden assault, Pyrene looked back at Duke Volesin. "If that does not clear a path for us to leave, what shall we do?" The long scar on his shoulder showed through the rips where he had removed strips of his fancy clothes to bandage her throat, and once again she felt that it should mean something...

The breath caught painfully in her throat as she realized why the scar seemed so familiar. For the first time she was grateful for the emotional distance that, along with her years of practice, allowed her to keep the sudden surge of anger - the strongest emotion she had felt since Fianna's attack - from showing in her face. This was the man who's bloodlust and rage so many years ago had separated her from her only family and set her on the path that ultimately lead to Ironheart. And he had Ariella.

[Inspectre]

The Capital

The Wedding of Amelia Ashargrin and Cheran Gast

Lonna

While you expend magical healing to finish sealing the wounds on your throat, you take a look around. The whole chamber seems to have been thrown into chaos, particularly after Umber’s monster appears – you assume it’s Umber or Fianna’s, given you doubted the Baron would make something like that to assault his own guests. Speaking of Umber, you catch sight of him lifting the Countess up onto his shoulder, apparently planning to make off with the crashed wedding’s bride. You aren’t really sure what to do about that, although you feel a slight stirring of concern at the Countess’s fate.

There was also another feeling crawling around in your empty soul – rage and hate towards Cheran. Deciding now was the best time to give the groom his present, you summon a ferret made of pure fire and send it after him. It weaves its way through the crowd rapidly and without concern for anyone’s wellbeing, singing legs and crawling up peoples’ backs in order to get closer to the fight out in the hallway between Cheran and Korram. You find that you don’t feel the least bit of pity or remorse for anyone injured by the fire ferret’s mad dash. You still aren’t sure whether that’s a bad thing or whether this sudden lack of emotion was a blessing in disguise.

Turning to ask a question to Duke Volesin, you catch sight of the long scar running across his shoulder, and suddenly you remember. Your mind is cast back to that horrible night, the night of your mother’s death, and the masked man who killed her . . . and who borne a scar just like Volesin’s. It might not be him, but the very idea that it could be, and that the man who killed your mother had Ariella sent an icy jolt of worry through your veins. And underneath that, just barely able to be sensed with your muted emotional outlook, was rage. You might have been sorely tempted to lash out and try to kill Volesin on the spot if you had your full range of emotions present. As it is, you are (barely) able to curtain that emotional response in favor of waiting. Volesin was, after all, still useful in getting you out of here. If Volesin knew that you knew who he was, he gave no sign of it.

“Well.” Volesin grunts, preoccupied with assembling what appeared to be a crossbow from disparate parts secreted in his cloak.

“The good nobility of this land have turned into sheep in the face of danger, and they’re just going to run about getting in the way until they’re all dead or safely away from this place. Trying to get out ahead of them would be . . . difficult. Which is why we will need to look for alternate escape routes. Take for example that balcony up there – it appears to be clear.”

Carefully grabbing his cloak, Volesin pulls a section apart, revealing a long thin strand of wire woven into the cloth. He carefully removes the coil, and attaches it to the bolt in the crossbow.

“With any luck, I can hit a surface that the bolt will anchor itself into nicely. If not . . .”

Volesin gave a sharp tug on the wire, which somehow triggered a switch on the bolt, causing the head to split apart into a grappling hook.

“We hope there’s something for it to grab onto up there anyway. Unless, of course, you can grow wings and fly . . .”

As you watch, the previously empty balcony suddenly becomes occupied as Seraph carries Rose up onto the balcony. Volesin favors you with a slight grin.

“Shall we see how my daughter and son-in-law are enjoying the wedding?”

As Volesin prepares to fire, you look back towards the Countess. Umber has put her down again, and seems to be dealing with Fianna who is having some sort of emotional breakdown. Given her previous lack of emotions, this seems quite bizarre, and you would have to be an idiot not to figure it out immediately. Fianna, Evil Twin, and Emotion Thief. Going back over to deal with them for the Countess seemed risky, given Fianna’s previous attempt on your life – which was interrupted – who knew how she would react now in her current distress. On the other hand, after you get up on the balcony with Volesin, it seems unlikely that you will be able to get back down there and help her.

WhiteKnight777

At your explanation, Fianna raises an eyebrow.

“I suppose that is possible. I felt something from her, to be sure. Perhaps that was what it was then . . . home, of a sort.”

Deciding that now was a good time to leave, or at least go on a girl hunt, you unleash the spell you had been building since the wedding’s start. Immediately the stained glass windows along the far side of the worship area shatter as dirt and bones pour in. Shortly thereafter, they flow together to form your construct, which promptly begins wreaking havoc. As the biggest thing in the room, it promptly draws most of the attention.

Already sharply corralled by each other and the fights breaking out at the major exits, the crowd surges ineffectively to get away from the newcomer. Those who are unlucky enough to have started right next to it swiftly die, their bodies smashes into the floor or sent flying through the air. Those with enough distance to survive the initial attack have just enough time to futilely try to press further into the swirl of panicked people before they die as well. It quickly becomes easy to spot the Baron’s agents because they are the only ones not feverishly trying to get away.

One man raises a crossbow in defiance of the immense golem before him, snapping up a perfectly-aimed shot that strikes your ill-mannered pet in one of its eyes, shattering the skull there. The fire contained within the skull erupts as its casing shatters, but continues to provide the golem with sight all the same. It does also understandably pisses the golem off, and so it takes the time to snatch up the man in one claw, and grind him between its stony fingers, separating him into disparate pieces to rain back down on the floor.

Against this new threat the rest of the Baron’s family mobilizes, the tan and white-winged sons springing up into the air before swooping down at it. The tan-winged son hangs back, apparently analyzing his foe, while the white-winged one simply wades into direct combat with it. Impressively, he seems to have a strength to match the golem’s own, and the speed to dodge its clumsy blows before striking it with enough force to send it stumbling back. The black-winged son does not join the fight, curiously enough. Instead he gently picks a woman – his own wife, you presume – up into his arms and flies up to the balcony that you had just vacated. The fight sharply turns against your golem when the Baron’s own wife becomes involved.

She quickly reveals herself to be a mage of considerable talent, summoning shadowy chains to bind your golem while striking it with lances of brilliant holy light. As your creature was a construct and not undead, even if it contained the bodies of the dead, these attacks were not especially effective, but it was an impressive display from the Baron’s wife nonetheless. Such a mix of necromancy and divine magics you had not seen in hundreds of years, not since the death priests of the southern isles. It seemed the Baron had surrounded himself with highly competent people after all – which made you suspect he would not especially feel your absence.

Speaking of the Baron, immediately after the construct appears, he looks sharply in your direction. No doubt most of his other guests, these simpering, panicking, idiots were incapable of such a feat, which meant you were immediately the prime suspect. With his family off dealing with your pet, the Baron starts to move towards you, accompanied by a handful of his Hands, including the woman who had just snared the crossbow bolt meant for him.

Unfortunately for the Baron, the swirling ends of the crowd are in his way, and it would be improper for the host to strike his guests. Oh, you could see that he wanted to underneath that forced smile. A smile which he forces even wider as he points at you, points over his shoulder at the golem, and then slides a finger across his throat. The meaning is clear – get rid of your pet.

Unfortunately for you, there are other concerns to be had at the moment. Not the bride, certainly – she expresses her desire not to accompany you with many a blow to your back with her bound hands, the bouquet caught there breaking apart to throw petals down behind you. And oh, this brought back the memories of past weddings – you are really starting to have fun now! However, Fianna clearly isn’t, as she suddenly collapses to her knees and violently vomits, Pyrene’s blood spewing from her mouth. The heaving doesn’t seem to ever stop, until eventually even the faint trickle of blood coming out of Fianna’s mouth slows to a stop.

“What . . . what is . . .” Fianna groans as she struggles to push herself back up, only to fall back to her knees. As suddenly as she began to vomit, she now begins to scream, long drawn out wails of agony. There is something about them, an unearthly haunting quality perhaps, that makes you suspect the cause of Fianna’s pain is not physical. You reach down and touch her, preparing to render aid, when her mood suddenly switches again. At your touch she leaps up to her feet, nearly slamming into you. As you step back she whirls to face you, her face a mask of fury.

Pulling her hand back, she delivers a hellacious slap to your face which you are unable to block, having your arms full with the bride and completely not expecting your apparently now-insane love to slap you. As you stumble back from the blow, Fianna chases after you, continuing to strike wildly at you. These later blows are much less effective, both because you are prepared to deflect them now, and because Fianna doesn’t seem interested in striking effectively so much as just wanting to hit something. Eventually she stumbles and collapses, falling forward.

Momentarily dumping the bride off your shoulder and back onto the floor – with your apologies, of course – you leap forward and manage to catch her. She crumples into your arms, her anger once again replaced by sorrow as she sobs openly, occasionally reaching up to weakly pound your chest. She frantically mutters to herself, her words garbled with tears but some still discernible.

“Our baby . . . we murdered our . . . oh Fate . . . why!? Marialta . . . how could . . . so alone . . .”

And then just as suddenly, the sorrow fades as well. Or Fianna merely shoves it aside to bring a new emotion to the forefront. Twisting around in your arms to face you, Fianna plants her lips against yours, in what was undoubtedly a passionate kiss. You aren’t sure what exactly is happening to your love, but it certainly seems as if she has remembered her passion for you. Things only get better as she whispers into your ear after the kiss, her voice taking on a seductive tone.

“Let’s find somewhere quiet. I need you. Right now.”

That being said, the middle of a warzone between the Baron’s men and a variety of monsters wasn’t exactly the best place to become . . . distracted. That was part of the fun of playing in the middle of warzones, of course – but not when someone capable of being a threat is nearby and already displeased with you. You are sure there were a number of private rooms nearby if you could exit this chamber – and although being a church probably lacked a number of amenities, you could probably make do. There was also the question of what to do about the bride – you could just leave her here, now that you had other things to do besides bait out Fianna’s twin. But given the alternatives, she might be happy to come along and join in as well.

Dorizzit

Theme Music!

Looking at you with more than a little surprise, Cheran absently rubs his jaw and chuckles. His confidence returns quickly however, as his eyes narrow and he settles back into a defensive stance of his own.

“Well, somebody is in a funny mood today! *You* are going to kill *me*? Ha, do you have any idea how many people have said that to me!? There’s only one way this is going to end Korram, the same way it’s always ended – with me pushing your teeth down your throat until you choke to death on them!”

Lunging forward, Cheran brings his right foot up in a snap kick towards your own jaw – no doubt the start of the aforementioned teeth-pushing. You duck under the blow easily, noting as you do that the blow was a little off aim. Cheran still has an eyepatch over the eye Katrina had nearly dug out with a spoon – you’d have thought he’d have regenerated that by now. Although he seems fairly used to his lack of depth perception by now, it’s still clearly having a slight effect on his fighting ability. You’re unsure how much of an advantage it will give you as the fight goes on, or how to best exploit it, but you’ll take whatever nails you can get to seal Cheran’s coffin.

Growling, Cheran switches feet and delivers another snap kick with his left as soon as his right is back down on the floor. This one is a bit more on target, forcing you to twist aside to deflect the force of the blow. Twist aside, right into the path of his right foot as he lashes out with it again, using his wings to keep from falling with both legs out in front of him. Dirty cheater freak.

This last kick hits you directly in the chest, propelling you back into the wall again, although thankfully not hard enough to crack stone this time. Which is good, as it means you don’t have to spend time recovering, and instead can dodge away as Cheran swoops towards you. His fist crashes into the stone where your head was a moment before, hard enough to splinter the first layer of stone and send it tumbling down to the floor in chunks. Chunks which Cheran catches as they fall, hurling them after you as you dance back, trying to gain some distance on him.

You manage to avoid or deflect the worst of the flying debris, although a few of the smaller bits hit hard enough to sting painfully. Cheran follows after the cloud of tossed debris, hounding you mercilessly and forcing you back down the hallway.

Shuffling forward, Cheran feints with his legs again but instead delivers a slow overhead punch which you barely manage to block in time. Displaying his blinding speed, Cheran lashes out with his other hand, snagging hold of your extended arm by the wrist. Holding your arm still, he spins around and twists inside your guard, shoving his wings into your chest and face. Pulling his previously blocked arm back away from your trapped limb, he jabs the elbow of that arm back behind him several times, ramming it into your side and stomach. He follows this up by blindly throwing his head back into your face, causing a familiar coppery taste to enter your mouth after the impact. Releasing his grip on your arm, Cheran flexes his wings, using them to push you stumbling back away from him. He finishes with a backwards kick that strikes you square in the chest and sends you flying several yards back through the air before crashing down onto the floor and sliding another few feet.

“You don’t scare me Korram.”

Cheran announces as he turns back to face you, resuming his previous cocky stance. Although you do note that he approaches your prone form a bit slower than he did the last time.

“You’re just a broken old man looking for a grave. That’s why you couldn’t stop my father from taking your wife. It’s why you have failed time and again to stop him. And it’s why after I’m done here, I’m going to go find your whore daughter – I assume she’s here somewhere – and make her squeal like the sow she is!”

With a mighty leap, Cheran takes to the air again. He rises up, and then swoops down towards you, presumably to deliver some sort of stomp. The reassuring presence of Purifier hisses in your mind as your minor injuries reseal.

Perhaps now would be a good time to regenerate our limb and reveal the true extent of our power? Or shall we bait this odious wretch further into overconfidence?

OverWilliam

Having collected what few items caught your interest within the room, you turn your attention to exiting it. With only one guard present, even a confident one, this was your best and possibly only chance to escape before the Baron enacted all the horrible plans Brock was voicing throughout your search.

Summoning a bolt of light and heat, you slice through the lock and give the guard on the other side a little surprise. You hear a shout of surprise from the other side of the door, which was what you had hoped to hear. Almost immediately thereafter, you hear a second shout, followed by a musical crash – that was not so expected! But you didn’t have time to ponder this bizarre series of noises as a second, quieter musical crash followed the first. Drawing your hidden stiletto, you put a boot to the door and kick it open, sending the freed door sweeping back on its hinges out into the hallway. As the doorway swings open, it reveals a most bizarre scene.

The guard is out there in the hallway, blinded but with his weapon drawn and looking surprisingly ready for a fight despite his disorientation. In fact, he is currently engaged in a fight already, with . . . a troubadour!? Well, a man dressed as a troubadour at least, as while the man was dressed in the bright and vibrant clothes of a troubadour, the way he was blindly swinging his lute in front of him like a club was certainly not something a musician would do.

As you watch the scene before you, the troubadour drunkenly steps forward and swings his already damaged lute around, striking nothing but the wall a good foot from the guard’s head. With a final musical crash, the lute breaks completely, snapping off to leave just the long neck of the instrument in the troubador’s hand. Without a sound, the guard lunges forward to plunge his dagger into the troubador’s exposed armpit.

The guard does make a sound, something of a high-pitched grunt, as the troubadour, seemingly expecting this attempt on his life, brings his foot up to greet the guard, stopping the lunge short as the troubador’s foot meets the guard’s privates. Twirling the broken neck of his instrument in his hand, the troubadour delivers a strike to the elbow of the guard’s outstretched arm, and then the wrist, slapping the blade out of the guard’s hand.

As the weapon tumbles out of his grasp, the guard growls and lunges forward again, this time delivering a kick of his own to the troubador’s chest, sending the man sprawling. His vision starting to clear, the guard leaps up into the air, preparing to land in a stomp on the troubadour, who just barely manages to roll aside in time. As soon as the guard lands, the troubadour swings his own legs around, wrapping them around the guard’s and pulling him down onto the floor. The two grapple there for a moment, the guard delivering several sharp punishing blows to the troubadour that he somehow shrugs off. Then the troubadour gets a grip on the man’s head, and with a cry of “Sorry, buddy!” dashes the guard’s head repeatedly against the floor until he goes slack.

With a pained grunt and a chuckle, the troubadour shoves the guard away and pushes himself back up onto his feet. He smiles at you, blinking his eyes rapidly in an attempt to clear his vision faster.

“Well, that certainly was a timely distraction Jacqueline, although you might want to work on that one a bit more. Fighting a blind guy while being blind yourself isn’t exactly what I would call fun.”

Then the man’s vision finally clears, and he sees you and Brock are not, in fact, this “Jacqueline” of his. His previous smile immediately turns into a dark scowl.

“You aren’t Jacqueline.”

He says simply, apparently feeling the need to state the obvious.

“You aren’t exactly my type either.”

Brock replies after joining you at the door, his jovial mood returning now that freedom seems to be a (however slim) possibility.

The troubadour gives a growl of frustration as he turns away and looks back down the hallway.

“When I saw this locked and guarded room, I figured that was where they were stashing her. I take it you two *******s haven’t seen her? Long red hair, prickly disposition, face you’ll never forget after seeing it once?”

Brock shoots you a glance and a little shrug as if to say “Should we lie to this guy?”. Before you can decide whether to answer truthfully or lie to get on the crazy troubador’s good side, a loud chorus of screams starts up through the wall. This batch is even louder than the first, and accompanied by several loud thumps that you can feel through the floor as well as hear. Something big was going on in the main worship chamber, where the wedding was presumably being held. At this, the troubadour starts walking down the hallway again, towards the worship area.

“Sounds like trouble, and my Jacqueline is probably right in the middle of it.”

The troubadour grunts, grimacing as he walks and rubbing his side where the guard had struck him. The man stops to look back.

“The name’s Wulfric Termann, by the way. You two are welcome to come along if you want. Can’t say if it’ll be more or less dangerous than trying to make a break for it out the front door. But you don’t seem to be friends of the Baron, so maybe you’d like the chance to help spit in his eye. Or not. Maybe that’s where we’re different.”

And with that, Wulfric the not-troubador continues walking down the hallway, towards the main worship area and the epicenter of whatever was going on. He seemed capable enough, but you weren’t sure anything short of the gods Themselves could stop the Baron, based on your initial impression of the man. If you didn’t want to follow Wulfric, you remembered the way back to the front door well enough, although that seemed likely to be . . . busy, at the moment. Other than waiting here, the only third option seemed to be wandering through the cathedral, trying to find the back door or other way out.

Fishtown, The Fishiest Place on Earth that Never Fished

Gorgondantess

“Hmph. As you wish. The loss of your uniqueness is regrettable, but perhaps inevitable given the efficiency of the Dusk Wardens. Good day.”

Quadramus gestures, and suddenly blinks out of existence. More human magic, no doubt. You wonder if he had simply made himself invisible, had reappeared somewhere else far from here, or had literally willed himself out of existence. The last one seemed unlikely, given what you’ve encountered in humans so far.

At your plan, Omnicron frowns but slowly nods.

“Presenting yourself as an innocent being will go a long way towards challenging our held view of Archdemons as monsters that must be destroyed. Violence in this case will only confirm the need for more violence in return. However . . . if Augustus is officially leading this expedition, it means they are coming to fight. They will not be pleased to find they have lugged all of our weapons to combat you across the ocean all for nothing. On the other hand, Augustus’s word is law amongst our people. If you could somehow convince him to spare you . . . well, it would go a long way towards preserving yourself at least.”

Maurice also seems concerned about this course of action, but is quicker to nod than Omnicron.

“I am glad that you are at least willing to try negotiating. It will not be easy – in my experience humans find it difficult to accept challenges to their most deeply held beliefs. From everything Omnicron has said, the Dusk Wardens are fanatical in their belief that killing you is the right thing to do. Some might readily accept that their outlook is wrong, but most will be resistant to changing their opinion. They might try to provoke you, so that when you attack them in response they feel their original opinion is justified. Others might attack you anyway, refusing to even look at the truth. It will get worse before it gets better.”

Maurice concludes with a sigh.

“Might I suggest we have a backup plan? It should take the expeditionary force a week or more to arrive here from their landing point. We could, I dunno, dig an escape tunnel or something. That way should they prove aggressive we can still retreat rather than fighting to the death. Should it come to battle, do you have any other allies you could call upon? Or is this small village all of your friends in the entire world?”

Omnicron asks, staring out the doorway into the street.

After the meeting, you approach your chief servants, informing them to prepare for guests, an entire army in fact. As you command, it is done, and the entire village makes ready to welcome the Dusk Wardens. As it turns out, you don’t have long to wait.

************

Several days later, people from the outlying farms surrounding your chosen town come running. They give panicked cries about some sort of monster heading this way, but by the time they get here you can already see it for yourself. On the horizon is a giant humanoid figure walking in your general direction. It does not directly walk towards town, but starts and stops several times before finding its way. Then, apparently having a lock on your position, it proceeds in a direct line towards town. The figure does not quite walk upright, but frequently slumps to propel itself forward by its elongated arms as well. It moves without care for what is underfoot, and you see at least one farm house smashed beneath one of its massive heels. As it grows closer, the ground begins to shake with each step that it takes, eventually quaking continuously as the creature draws near.

Once it is just outside the outskirts of the town, it stops, and you finally get a good solid look at the creature at rest. It is a vaguely human form, ridiculously upscaled to be larger than the three times the biggest building in town. Much like your own forms in battle however, only the vague outline of a human remains. Its arms are elongated and bulging, covered in knobby protrusions and ending in thick, massive claws. Its legs are bent like those of a grasshopper, leaving you to believe that it could leap great distances if it so chose. It is also covered in armor plates, heavy iron things that seem to have little rhyme or reason to their placement. And, just barely visible from your current location, you can see humans riding on the creature, hanging from its limbs and standing on specially constructed platforms embedded into its body.

(Much like you offered a video to suggest how the spirit’s armor formed around it, I offer you a video to vaguely describe what I’m ripping off now. Suffice to say, it’s a bit more disgusting and considerably more primitive than what is shown in the video.)

The thing stands towering over your town for a moment, and then it opens its armored mouth, filling the air with a noise that sounds like a thousand rocks scraping together.

Citizens of this tiny village! We mean you no harm, but we have come seeking the beast we know as the Archdemon! Present it to us immediately, and no harm shall come to any of you!

(As a note, despite the impressive entrance, the Dusk Wardens are willing to come down off their shiny toy and speak with you, rather than immediately fighting. As always, the Spirit is welcome to choose to react differently in the face of their arrival. )

The Island of Dr(?) Sohssal

Iethloc

At your comment about the continuation of the human race, Shanks quirks an eyebrow.

“I dunno Cap’n, repopulating the human race by my lonesome doesn’t sound all that bad to me.”

At your refusal to abandon the plague, Roger slumps and sighs.

“Very well Sohssal. Anywhere is fine, really – I’m not exactly familiar with the far side of the world. Some place isolated perhaps, where I can be alone and meditate on recent events for a while.”

It doesn’t take you too long to find a suitable place – although you weren’t particularly familiar with the geography on the far side of the world either, Roger’s request wasn’t exactly hard to fulfill. You deposit him in the middle of a mountainous forest, far from any signs of civilization (although you assume humans of some sort aren’t *that* far away, cockroaches of the humanoid world as they are).

After sending Roger away, you rest for a short while to recharge your energies and then return to work. Now working with actual test subjects, you are able to make the last few corrections necessary to perfect the disease. Although time was short, you manage enough tests to be reasonably sure that the plague will behave to specifications. It is possible that a rare few individuals might prove immune to the disease’s ravages, or able to combat its effects with divine magic.

Unfortunately that was going to be a problem with any disease, and you didn’t have time to toy around with it to make it impervious to such things. Still, the fiendish energies the disease channeled should make divine magic a difficult cure, and once in the final stage of transformation nothing could reverse the process – the human was after all now a full-fledged demonic being.

You even managed to get the disease to trigger the victim’s adrenal glands, setting them into a permanent “flight or fight” mode once fully transformed. Given their mindlessness and demonic nature, that meant the option of choice will always be “fight”, and it should ensure the transformed are sufficiently aggressive in spreading the disease to their former fellow humans.

The only thing left to test, then, was a full actual deployment outside of laboratory conditions. Of course, that carried with it the risk of accidentally letting the disease loose on the world, where one escaped victim could taint the water supply of the kingdom and unintentionally turn the whole world into crazed, enraged human-demon hybrids. You aren’t sure what the Baron exactly planned to do with this plague once you gave it to him, but you doubted he would appreciate it if the plague ran wild before he was ready.

On the other hand, he would almost certainly want a demonstration of this disease and its effects. Perhaps he even already had a test site in mind. Whether you tested the plague in the field before or after contacting him again, it seemed likely you would need to have it ready for dispersal.

(We can go with Sohssal field-testing the plague himself, or contacting the Baron again first to inform him the plague is ready. Whichever you prefer. For Science. You monster! )

Stonefall

The_Snark & Pwenet

(If need be, we’ll go back and continue this discussion. But for now, onward!)

As dinner came to an end so too did the conversation. From there the family cleaned up and made ready for bed. Sara of course remained by the fire, although she seemed to be growing stronger by the hour and insisted she did not need such a choice sleeping place. Even so, the decision had already been made, and Sara stayed where she was, Incom remaining as well. Jacob shooed Caroline and William to bed, and shortly thereafter retired as well. Mar hesitantly went to bed then as well, going back into her guest room. The night passed without further incident.

(See below for separate DMs)

The_Snark

After dinner is finished and everything put away, the family retires back to their rooms for sleep. Although you were still curious about this strange, special girl and her armored companion, sleep called to you as well. Eventually, you obeyed its siren call, and collapsed into your bed in the family’s guest room. You were immediately asleep, and once again dreaming. This dream, having been seen before as flashes of memory, is eerily familiar to you.

Marisiel the Protector is once more taking wing to do her job as humanity’s guardian. But this time you cannot wonder if you are out of your depth. Too late, you have come to Vailon, one of the handful of secret shelters you and the other angels have arranged for humanity. Sheltered on an island just off the mainland coast, you had thought it would be safe for humanity to grow and recover from lifetimes of abuse beneath fiendish rule. But somehow the forces of the Hells had found this one shelter and now swarmed around it.

Thankfully none of the greater fiends were present, the self-styled Lords of the Hells now that their god and master was gone, imprisoned beneath the earth. Even so, you found yourself hard-pressed by swarms of lesser demons and devils who flew up to greet you with jeers and threats. Creatures which would have normally cowered before your might, as a single archangel was more than a match for an entire legion of fiends. Even a weary archangel such as yourself, capable of only fighting half-heartedly after centuries of pointless fighting and failure.

No, something was wrong here. Not just with the fiends’ jubilant mood, nor the burning city below, or the blood-red sky above. There was something fundamentally . . . wrong with the entire city now, as if the city itself had become tainted by the Hells. And perhaps it had, for you smelled the foul magic being worked below you, growing stronger by the minute. Near the center . . . there! Atop the highest tower of the castle!

Plowing through the latest swarm of fiends who had flown up to welcome you, you streak across the bloody sky directly towards the tower. Nothing can stand in your way as you race towards the center of this disturbance, the air growing considerably fouler the closer you get. Once again, you arrive too late.

As you near the tower, you catch sight of two figures battling below, magic flashing rapidly between them. And then one is hurled to the tower’s edge, narrowly clinging to the stone battlements to keep from falling the long way down to the ground. Before you can swoop down and assist this person, an earthquake rocks the tower, pitching it at a slight angle and hurling the woman to her death. For a moment you consider swooping downward to catch her – you had managed such a feat before – but the distance was too great. The tragedy takes a bizarre turn as you recognize the falling woman – Pyria, in the guise of Vailon’s queen! No wonder fiends were swarming the city, if Titania’s foul spawn still breathed after all these centuries!

Even so, the woman lying crushed on the ground far below seemed quite dead, which was certainly not the end you would have expected for the infamous princess of Phaedra. Regardless, your duty to eliminate the abomination had not faded, and so you would need to go down there and make certain she was finished. Right after you dealt with the second person atop the tower, still standing at the edge and looking down at the crumpled ruin of Pyria. Even from where you are, you can tell that this man was the true center of the evil being perpetrated here.

You land lightly near the center of the tower, behind the man and ready to bring his evil to an end. Somehow, despite his preoccupation with staring down at Pyria’s body, he senses you and slowly turns. You don’t recognize the man, his body by this point a mass of bleeding wounds and burns. But the glowing red crystal implanted in his chest, right where his heart should be, certainly looked familiar. And when you looked into his soul, you saw someone you immediately recognized.

No, it couldn’t be! . . .

“Hello Marisial.”

Istomilo said, his lips pulling back into a grim smile.

“It’s been a while.”

Pwenet

Having no need to sleep, you remain alert and on-guard throughout the night. Thankfully, your readiness proves to be not needed, as nothing more comes to harass you. Sara, however, does seem to be haunted in her sleep, moaning and tossing and turning all night. You are unsure how to help her, as waking her up didn’t seem a particularly good cure for her need to rest. Very dimly, you remember your own childhood, and your mother occasionally singing you to sleep.

But you can’t remember the words, and couldn’t see how a deep rumbling voice whispering songs to her would help Sara sleep any easier. It seems there are some things you just can’t protect Sara from, but the failure cuts deeply anyway. Just like any parent raising a child, you suppose, and you know that deep down you are starting to regard Sara as your own daughter.

Which brings you to the next set of painful memories – Isabella had wanted children, and you would have given them to her – a nice big happy family. But the Baron had stolen her away, twisted her and filled her with his own freakish progeny, while condemning you to a life of endless torture. Why!? And did the reasons even matter after so many years? The Baron would pay for what he has done regardless, and before your soul is condemned to whatever oblivion awaits it after its current shell is shattered, you would take your own shot at him.

Just before dawn threatens to begin chasing the night away, Sara stirs, and then awakens. She looks around a moment, and then seems to steel herself as she pushes herself up into a sitting position, and from there stands up. She walks shakily over to you as you pull yourself out of your angry reminisce and also stand.

“We should leave Incom. I’m strong enough to travel again, and we shouldn’t stay here any longer. My father will be sending more people after us, and I don’t want to bring any trouble to these people . . . certainly not Mar, who’s already suffered enough. If we leave now before they wake up, we won’t have to argue with them.”

Sara looks around the small room, and then back at her blankets.

“We need to go up into the mountains now. That’s where Miriam wants me to go. But it’s going to be cold up there . . . do you think they’ll mind if we borrow their blankets? Hopefully we can return them on our way back . . . on our way to stop my father . . .”

At this thought, Sara hangs her head, clearly not relishing the idea. Despite all her firsthand knowledge of the Baron’s evil, she is still reluctant to fight her own father. You aren’t sure whether to admire her loyalty or despise it.

Cathedral City

Archpaladin Zousha

For a moment the assembled Grandmasters are silent, and then Belroar grunts and moves to stand beside you.

“Feh, everything that mad angel’s told you is probably true lad. But I like what the Council and this Morganna are doing even less. Seems it’s up to us to stop them, so that’s what we’re gonna do. Ander put you in charge, and that’s good enough for me.”

The dwarf veteran growls, looking at the other Grandmasters with a challenging glare. Rickster coughs, wheezing a little as the medic finishes her examination of his wound, and begins channeling healing magic into it.

“Well – guh – far be it from me to object. I wasn’t sure war was the correct answer to the Council’s treachery. At least, not until I saw what they were doing down below the Reliquary. Now, you can count on the Wings of Righteousness to fly under your banner.”

With two Grandmasters already willing to stand beside you, the others are quick to pledge their loyalty as well, and it seems as if you will have no challenge to your authority. With the matter of Ander’s successor settled, attention turns to the battle ahead. Everyone gathers around a detailed map of the area surrounding the capital, and denotes important objectives and units with little wooden figurines.

Here, you were a bit out of your depth – you had some classes on military tactics as part of your training, but those were for small-scale units. No one had expected a trainee to somehow rise into the position of effective Lord General over the course of days. Not even Ander had accomplished such a feat, although you are sure a meteoric fall awaits to match your rise if you make too grave a mistake. As such, you mostly listen as Belroar and Jamkas argue over whether the left flank of the formation should be anchored with dwarves or cavalry.

The planning meeting is interrupted when a paladin steps into the tent.

“Excuse me sirs, but we have a situation on the camp outskirts. One of our patrols caught a man approaching the camp alone. He appears to be a Church loyalist, but was carrying a white flag and said he was merely a messenger who wished to speak with whoever was in charge in Ander’s absence.”

“Pah, we’re got nothing to talk with them about! We should just take this “loyalist” and lock him up, give us one less of them to deal with when the fighting starts.”

Belroar growled, pounding on the table to emphasize his point.

“While he’s under a flag of truce? That doesn’t seem particularly honorable, Belroar.”

Jamkas admonished, earning himself a glare from the dwarf.

“Yeah? And what if he’s an assassin posing as a messenger? It’s not as if the Council has been playing aboveboard the whole time, either. I’ve just about had enough of this whole mess! Give me a demon to bury my axe into any day . . .”

As the new leader, all eyes turn to you.

“Sir? Should I inform the men to escort the messenger here, lock him up, or send him away?”

[WhiteKnight777]

Umber

The chaos his little unbound monstrosity was causing was beyond even Umber's expectations. The spell was designed to feed off the necrotic energies of a boneyard - really a clever bit of magical artifice. It was like planting a seed - the more fertile the ground, the more death-essence was soaked into the earth, the stronger the creature would become. As an added bonus, it required only a moderate expenditure of power on his part. Taking advantage of the terrain had always been one of Umber's specialties.

Still, even though he'd only used one significant working today, he was mindful to husband his power. He felt excellent - exalted, even - but he was still testing the limits of his reborn strength, and even now he was not quite what he had once been. He would need to be careful. While the Baron's family danced with his pet, he gave the Baron himself a whimsical smile, his eyes glittering merrily as the swirl and panic kept them apart.

Fianna's reaction was even more surprising than the effectiveness of the graveborn construct. He whirled to face her when the blows began, rocking back on his heels as her hands struck at him over and over. And then the storm of weeping, and then...

And then she kissed him.

Oh my.

It was an involuntary thing. Just after she spoke those purring words in his ear. One arm wrapped around her, filled with sudden, terrible strength, and there were honest tears in his eyes. Not because of her sudden ardor - though that was most pleseant. No. It was because she was alive again. She had a part of herself back. He would discover how it had been donce soon enough, but for now, he reveled in the feel of her in his arms again, lithe and strong and ferociously lovely, burning with that inner incandescence that he had fallen in love with all those millenia ago. For the moment, she was again the woman for whom he had carried a torch that shamed time itself.

He pulled her to his lips and kissed her, tipping her chin up slightly as he lunged in, meeting her mouth with his. His free hand moved up, fingers twining in her hair, and his body pressed to hers as if made for it.

Heaven has love without end, and Hell is possessed of depthless lust. For all Umber cared, they could go bugger each other to the end of time. He had Fianna again. It was all he ever really needed.

For one insane, perverse moment, he wanted to take her in his arms like a bridegroom and carry her to the altar and let the world go away for a little while. He'd always had odd tastes like that. But the moment passed, and what passed for sanity in a millenia-old monster returned. He doubted the intensity of her ardor would last too long - she seemed to be caught in a deluge of emotion, and they needed to get to safety. If she still felt the same later... well, that was all to the good. But for now, they needed to live. He kissed her again, and whispered quietly in her ear. "Yes... somewhere a little quieter, love. I don't fancy letting the Baron watch. Even if it would be fun to defile his son's wedding even more."

He kept Fianna's hand in his own, and leaned down to pick up the baroness. Once, he might have hauled her up by the scruff of her neck like a wayward kitten. Now... well, it took a little more effort. As he heaved her onto his shoulder, forced to expend a bit more magic to give himself a temporary surge of strength, he hissed in her ear. "I am going to get you out of here. We will discuss the rest later. Unless you'd rather stay and meet your bridegroom. Assuming he survives."

So saying, Umber looked around for a means of egress. A demon-steed would be difficult to conjure here - thrice-damned hallowed ground. He looked around, then smiled at the obvious solution. He murmured a word, and gave a grunt of effort - a more difficult spell, but an elegant solution. He ran up to the nearest wall - just beneath the balcony, in point of fact, and murmured a string of words. For a moment, nothing happened - and then the stone groaned a low, tortured sound and began to part, opening into a small doorway leading out of the cathedral. Fianna and the lady in tow, he began to run, focused on keeping ahead of the mob that would no doubt jam through the new means of egress like sheep to the slaughter.

[Archpaladin Zousha]

Hondshioh

"Bring him here. If it does turn out to be an assassin, we should be able to handle him if he tries anything. I won't give the Church more ammunition to paint us as traitors who've turned our backs on our oaths and codes."

[Dorizzit]

Korram the Purifier

Korram manages to give a good accounting of himself even without his arm, holding his own against Cheran and managing to get in his own strikes. Cheran, however, still possesses a host of superhuman powers, and isn't pretending to be crippled. It is only a matter of time until he proves his dominance, and Korram is quickly put on the defensive. After a punishing grapple, Korram is sent flying, landing painfully on his back. As the Baron's son speaks, Korram spits out a glob of blood to the side, and feigns being unable to rise due to an injury. No more waiting. It's time. When Cheran finishes his taunt, Korram smiles, but keeps his face turned towards the ground so that his opponent cannot see it.

"That's funny."

Korram pushes himself up to his feet as Cheran tries to stomp him. Lightning fast, he regenerates his right arm, then sidesteps and wraps both limbs around Cheran's leg. Before Cheran can grasp the situation, Korram spins and hurls him into a nearby wall. Following through, Korram lands a vicious kick on Cheran's side, impacting him hard enough to send him rolling away. Korram pursues no further, and Cheran quickly rises.

"Because, correct me if I'm wrong, but the last time you two fought she scooped your eye out, right? And she was a prisoner back then. Tell me, how's life without depth perception treating you?"

Cheran rushes Korram, and there is a quick exchange of blows. This time, better prepared, Cheran gains the upper hand. Catching the side of Korram's head, Cheran slams him into a wall. Pulling him away, the Baron's son tries to put out Korram's eye with the grasping hand's thumb, perhaps trying his hand at irony. Korram manages to wrench Cheran's hand away just in time, then knees him in the stomach and breaks away.

"You said you're not afraid of me? Then why are you being more careful around me now? Does it stop being fun when I can fight back? You're pretty brave against people who aren't a threat to you. Actually, no, let me rephrase that. You're an arrogant, stupid, pathetic bully. You know something? I think you've threatened my daughter every single time we've met. Does that make you feel like a big man?"

Cheran and Korram close and resume their battle. The fight quickly becomes a stalemate, with neither combatant able to gain an advantage over the other. Only a few hits are landed on both sides; Korram and Cheran are fighting defensively, testing the extent of the other's abilities. Finally, Cheran overextends himself and Korram grabs his arm. In a rapid motion, Korram heaves Cheran over his shoulder and slams him into the ground before once again backing off to allow him to recuperate.

"You said you're not afraid of me? Then I'm sure as hell not afraid of you. I know fear. I watched my wife be taken from me, and I knew fear every night for years as I wondered about her fate. I saw my daughter, a child, held captive by your father's soldiers, and that sight still haunts my nightmares. I was tortured and powerless for eight years in Ironheart, the failed revolutionary everyone took out their frustrations on. I stood face to face with the Herald of Azguloth and I was powerless against him. I've had things to be afraid of, and you aren't one of them."

This time, Korram charges Cheran. In the quick exchange of blows, he forces Cheran onto the defensive before punching him from his blindside and landing a snap kick across the face that sends his opponent stumbling backwards. Korram allows him to stand before continuing.

"I'm not even going full out. You've probably figured that out by now, haven't you. Thing is, I've still got one more card left to play. You know the old expression, you can't teach an old dog new tricks? Maybe it's true. But...maybe...just maybe...you can teach them to remember old ones."

Korram pulls his arms back, and they begin to glow brightly. He then thrusts them forward, releasing a blast of fire powerful enough to hurl even Cheran off his feet and cause a large explosion. Out of the smoke left in his inferno's wake, Korram strides confidently, flames surrounding his hands and forearms.

"You are right about one thing, however. I'm a failure. A complete and utter failure. Every task and every responsibility placed before me, I have failed. Everything I touch turns to ash. And you know what? I can live with that. If I destroy everything around me, then I'll bring you all down with me. You, your brothers, your father, his friends, his allies, his plans...I'll burn it all to the ground. I have the power. I have the will. With every failure, I grow stronger. Even if I was no threat to your father's plans, he still knew my name eight years after I had been captured. Even after all the torture in Ironheart, the only thing those idiots accomplished was to make me immune to pain. I sent the Herald of Azguloth running with his tail between his ugly, malformed legs."

Korram smirks confidently.

"And even after that, he was still better looking than you."

Korram continues to stride forward.

"You're not afraid of me? Why should that matter to me? You're too stupid to know what to be afraid of. Your only skill is cruelty. Congratulations. I saw dozens of whore sons in Ironheart who were just as bad as you. You're a mean son of a b****, but that's all you are. Anyone can see it. It's all you've got so you cling to it, but that hasn't gotten you any respect. What's worse, Cheran? The disdain? Or the pity?"

With a moment of concentration, Korram sprouts two wings of flame from his back. He takes to the air, hovering a few feet above the ground. Instead of acting as the limbs they mimic, his wings release powerful jets of flame to keep him aloft, scorching the floor below him. After taking a few seconds to get used to his new-found flight, Korram rockets towards Cheran, the flames on his hands blazing brighter in the process.

[Lonna]

Pryene the Logical

Given the option between helping Amelia and escaping with her mother's killer, Pyrene was understandably hesitant. Despite her distaste for the man, staying with Duke Volesin was her best chance to escape. It was also not to be discounted that he had Ariella in his power. On the other hand, Amelia was one of only a handful of people with whom she still felt an emotional connection. Despite the very real danger that Fianna would attack her again, Pyrene was reluctant to leave the Countess in this melee. After all, at least half the combatants had no way of knowing that Amelia was an unwilling participant in the event and might attack her to spite the Baron.

Then Umber solved the issue by picking up the Countess again and making for a new exit that had suddenly opened directly beneath the balcony. Satisfied that Amelia was (for the moment at least) safe in Umber's far more experienced hands, Pyrene decided to stick with Volesin. Directing a thread of magic into her limbs, she increased her already inhuman strength and speed and shot her companion a challenging look.

"Meet you there," she said, then took off running and leapt for the balcony. She had underestimated how much enhanced her body was, and her grasping hands met air as her waist hit the balcony's railing. Fortunately she managed to grab on before she fell back and scrambled over the rail to safety. It wasn't the most elegant landing, but it would do.

[Gorgondantess]

She nods back at Maurice. "I understand all this. Frankly, I don't particularly expect this course of action to be successful.
No, I have no allies. No hidden resources. I simply am what I am... and if that's not enough, well, I'm afraid nothing will be.
As for an escape tunnel..." She practically giggles. "You forget what I am. I have no need for an escape tunnel: I can simply become the earth itself and... go into the ground."
She muses a moment.
"Though, if you'd prefer one for your own safety, that could be easily enough arranged."
"...That said... when they arrive... I would have your aid in, ah, assuaging them. Your words may carry more leverage than mine... Though I fear if you told them the whole truth of my activities to date it would do more harm than good."
She's hardly ashamed of her actions (all the blood she's shed), but realizes that it would hardly help her case. Really, she seems more ashamed of asking Maurice for help.
For the most part, she uses her time directing the village for their welcome, making sure they have enough food and amenities to feed a small army.

She cringes with distaste at the massive beast. It was as inhuman as she would get... but whenever she transformed, she made sure her form was at least elegant. This thing was just a monster.
As soon as they arrive, she deftly climbs up the church, standing on the slope of the steeple, holding herself out with one arm. Sucking in matter, she lets out a voice as loud as the monster, but clear and succinct.
"There should be no need for all that. Here I am! But please, come down from your mount, and welcome to my village! You'll find we have fish and bread and drink aplenty for the lot of you."

[Iethloc]

Sohssal

(I do what I must, because I can )

Figuring he had very little time left, Sohssal returned to his usual scrying pool and again set out to contact the Baron. Not having received a faster method, he tried the same thing as last time. He hesitated for a moment before he initiated the scrying. Working with the men responsible for his imprisonment...it was almost more than he could stand in order to guarantee his survival. Almost.

Sohssal did not really care whether Arlan or the Baron himself answered. If the former, he would have his message relayed. If the latter, he would speak these words directly. ”The experiments have been successful, and the contagion is now ready for a field test. I should note in advance this disease is waterborne, so the test area should be chosen carefully,” he said.

[OverWilliam]

~Tare

Tare stood in half-stunned shock as he watched this new bizarreness unfold before him. A few times he almost voiced a polite interjection, just because he wasn't sure what else to do, but each time a particularly meaty impact made him grimace with empathetic concern and mutter beneath his breath, "Ouch..." When the deed was finally done, Tare remained for a while longer caught in indecision for what to say, so he simply said nothing and continued observing the oddity of the man who had just appeared out of nowhere. When the Troubador said his name was Wulfric, Tare almost said, 'Of course it is-- what else would it be??'

Tare watched the man continue down the hallway, leaving him alone with Brock for a moment to contemplate their next course of action. Tare blinked a few times, seeming to come to terms with something, then turned abruptly to Brock. "....Well, I'll be honest. I'm tempted to follow that guy just... Because." Brock, who had been similarly silent to that point, immediately voiced complaint. "Wha-- Tare! You can't be serious, he's heading TOWARD--" Tare interrupted, "Brock, relax. I'm not going to spite you for dragging me along on this thing by making absolutely sure that you wind up dead (and me with you)-- I said I was going to keep you alive, and I'm going to. I just... have an instinct that pops up every now and then in times like this. Call it a Flair for the Unorthodox. There's really no way to guarantee that either way will be safe... Besides, I want to know what is so significant that it could disrupt a High-Society Event like this-- I bet whatever-it-is is giving our friend the Baron a migraine headache, and anything that can do that is something I would like to know a thing or two about. Maybe there's even something we can do covertly to make it worse." Tare flashed Brock a wink and then headed down the hallway after Wulfric, not feeling anywhere near as confident as he tried to sound-- but after all, fake something long and well enough and it starts becoming the truth.

Tare glanced down at the crumpled body as they passed it and realized, soberly, that he was glad that the Troubador had been there... not that his hands were unbloodied thusfar, but that didn't keep him from feeling vaguely grateful for not having to add another notch to his conscience...

[The_Snark]

Mar

Mar instinctively glanced upwards to see if Jacob and the others were watching. They weren't.

"I ran away," she said quietly. She was glad Sara had thought to keep her voice low; maybe she understood a little about what this was like. Then again, maybe not, because if she really understood she wouldn't be asking. It was not that she wanted to keep secrets. Jacob and William and Caroline knew where she was from already, and they seemed to understand... well, Jacob and William seemed to understand, at least... that she didn't want to talk about it. Or think about it. Or hear anybody else talking about it. Every time someone mentioned Ironheart, it reminded her that she came from someplace else, made her feel that this place was not her home. And she so wanted it to be. Mar had hardly ever asked the world for anything: not back home with Daddy, not in her dreams as Caroline the elder, not in her dreams as the angel Marisiel. It felt very unfair that now, when she asked for something very small, that the world didn't seem to want to give it to her.

Still. There was no need to take that out on Sara. "I had help, too," she went on, softening her voice so she didn't sound so curt. She glanced at the metal angel Incom, and once again wondered at how curiously similar their protectors were in form. "It doesn't matter anymore. We're not there. It's behind us."

Sara understood, or at least was too tired to ask any more questions, and soon the meal was done. Jacob ushered his children off to bed—she was glad of the way he could be gruff with strangers, for a change—and she escaped eagerly into her room. It wasn't that she disliked Sara. She just didn't want to be reminded of her other home.

Sleep took her quickly, but brought little rest.


Tired. Marisiel could hardly remember a time when she had not been tired, when each flap of her wings had not produced an ache in her muscles. Weariness was etched deep in her bones. It didn't stop her; she was an archangel of Miriam, and neither pain nor fear nor weariness could keep her from her duty. But she still felt them.

Somewhere above her, her home stretched out in a timeless sprawl, beautiful and ever-so-distant. She had not returned to Heaven in all the years since Phaedra fell. Even a brief visit would mean weeks, months, or years away from the mortal world, and she couldn't afford to be gone for that long. Azguloth's demons still held the land even after all these years, and the remnants of humanity lived like hunted animals, running and hiding and dying in lonely remote places. A day she spent elsewhere might be the day that a band of survivors was caught in the open and, because she was not there to find and protect them, killed.

So she flew, though her wings ached, and her sword felt heavy in her hand, and she longed for a sense of meaning to the endless searching and fighting, some reassurance that the humans she saved one day would not be found again and butchered a day after she left. Her sisters had built sanctuaries in remote places, and that had given her some faith that her battle—their battle—wasn't hopeless.

But now Vallon burned. Marisiel flew through the smoke of the city, heedless of the demons below hurling insults and spears, ignoring those that rose to meet her on leathery wings. She could spend all day slaying the lesser demons, and still the city would burn. She needed to get to the heart of it, which pulsed like a wound in the world.

As she alighted on the tower, she thought that Pyria might have been the center of all this, her maimed soul having finally shown its true colors. But no; she was defeated, and the sickly pall over the city had not lifted in the slightest. It was the other one, then, who she must face.

Then he spoke. A shock of recognition ran through her.

"Istomilo?" she said. "How are you alive? I thought you were gone forever, after I—"

Guilt, strong and bitter like seawater. The words caught in her throat.

[Inspectre]

Cathedral City

Archpaladin Zousha

Belroar growls something under his breath, but the other Grandmasters nod in agreement, and the guard swiftly goes off to bring back the messenger. The man looks around nervously at the assembled figures, and then reaches into his pack. He immediately freezes as everyone reaches for a weapon . . . just in case.

“Uhh . . . I j-just have . . . communication crystal. I-I was s-s-supposed to give it to you.”

The man says, reaching deeper into his pack, although much more slowly now. Everyone present relaxes as he does indeed pull out a standard communication crystal and set it down onto the table. Most of those present tense up again as the crystal swirls to reveal the face of Exarch Adamus Crane.

“Hello, Miriam’s lap dogs.” Crane begins with a sneer.

“Go to the Hells, Crane! Save us the trouble of sending you there!” Belroar shouts, pulling out his weapon and looking ready to smash the crystal immediately. Crane smiles at him in response.

“Hello to you too, Belroar. I’m afraid I don’t really have time to trade insults with you today, however. I have come to discuss business with your new Lord General.”

“I’m not sure we have anything left to discuss with you, Crane.” Jamkas says, joining in on the mood of disapproval radiating through the tent now.

“On the contrary! I am contacting you to offer our surrender.” Crane says, and immediately the assembled Grandmasters break into loud, angry shouting. The tiny image of the fallen Exarch raises his hands for silence, but it is only minutes later that calm returns to the command tent.

“Now, this is not an unconditional surrender.” Crane continues when he finally can be heard again.

“I want to avoid a date with the chopping block, and I’m pretty sure most of the remaining Exarches feel likewise. Now I’m sure you don’t like this agreement already, with the way Ander has filled your heads with talk of “cleansing the Church” – preferably with the blood of every last one of us. But Ander isn’t in charge anymore, and so I was hoping I could talk some sense into you. Fine, you’ve already won, and soon enough you’ll be back in control of the Church. Morganna is more than happy to celebrate your victory with one big final dramatic battle that will result in all of us being dead and quite a few on your side as well. I was hoping we could skip the death part entirely.”

“Of course you are. Coward!” Belroar grunts, prompting Crane to roll his eyes.

“Listen, I’m trying to do you idiots a favor here. Believe it or not, but a corrupt Church isn’t the only thing on Miriam’s mind these days, and sooner or later She’s going to send you in to clean another mess up. But if you decide “purging all the heretics” is the only thing you care about, you aren’t going to have many paladins left by the end of this to carry out Her Holy Will, or whatever. Morganna intends to fight you to the death, but if there’s something in it for me other than a swift death, I’m willing to rally the other Exarchs together to remove her from power. And then I’ll negotiate a surrender – everyone will stand down peacefully, and allow you to take control of the Church, just as you’ve wanted. You’ll win, and without a single death. Afterwards, you can do whatever you want – except that me, and I suppose the other Exarchs so they’ll go along with it, are let go to live out our miserable lives somewhere else in exile. I’ll want your word on this, of course. And if you have any information that would help me oust Morganna, well, that would be helpful too – after all, it’s important that I succeed for this deal to work. So what do you say, Lord General?”

“Don’t trust a single word this snake has rasped at you, lad.” Belroar growls, slamming a fist on the table for emphasis, causing the communication crystal to jump up into the air, momentarily scrambling Crane’s face. “He’ll bite you in the heel has soon as you’ve turned your back!”

“He does have a point about the lives saved by a peaceful end, rather than a bloody battle. And isn’t the whole point of this conflict to remove them all from power?” Rickster asks with a raised eyebrow. He also turns to whisper in your ear.

“I don’t think Morganna has told the Council about her true nature. That may be enough to swing the other Exarches against her, even without all the convoluted, horrible things she’s done since founding the Church.”

From within the communication crystal, Crane shouts out at everyone.

“Hey! I’m not talking to any of you! I am asking the Lord General what he thinks! Or have you all decided to lead your own little orders separately now!? So . . . what’s it going to be, Lord General? Are we going to have peace, or a bloody end to this war?”

Stonefall

The_Snark


“After you murdered me and shattered my soul into a thousand pieces?”

Istomilo hisses, finishing your thought when you could not manage the words. Then the former seneschal of Phaedra laughs, a bitter, grating sound.

“Yes, I imagine this reunion is quite the surprise for you. It’s somewhat of a surprise for me as well, although I should have expected as much! Who else would the Valkyrie send to spit in my face at the moment of my triumph?!”

Istomilo sweeps a hand out over the burning city while looking at you with a manic grin. His face settles back into its previous glower a moment later.

“But you want to know the how of my survival. Fair enough. I will give you an honest answer in return for one to a question of my own.”

A nauseating wave of power races out from Istomilo, and he groans in pain, nearly falling to his knees before managing to right himself. His voice is laced with pain as he steadies himself and continues to speak.

“I don’t think we’ll have much time to catch up with each other, I’m afraid. The ritual is nearly complete. So to answer your question succinctly, the fragments of my soul fell into a summoning rift just before Phaedra’s destruction. They were swept away and scattered, cast all over the Hells. They were kept that way for a long time, but eventually a devil lord figured out what they were and had them brought together. It took him awhile, but eventually he figured out how to fuse the pieces back together.”

Reaching into his gaping chest wound, Istomilo pulls out his soul crystal, holding it up for you to see between thumb and forefinger. The crystal itself still has that same malevolent red glow, but it is now pitted and notched, covered in a network of hairline fractures.

“They never found all the pieces, or so they claim. But it is enough, enough for Istomilo to live again! Live again as a slave, just another pawn to use in their petty games against each other!”

Istomilo coughs, hacking up a wad of blood which he spits onto the tower at his feet.

“But I’ve proven to be useful, and now I shall buy my freedom with one last great trick!”

Again, Istomilo waves his hand out over the city.

“I’m going to make Vallon, capital of the human resistance, disappear! Plunged into the Hells for all eternity, as an example to all the world that the fiends shall rule, forever!”

Istomilo snorts and sneers at you.

“Of course you’ve come to stop me, or at least try. But first you’re going to answer my question. *Why*? Why are you here, Marisiel? Do you really hate me so much that you would deny me this one chance at freedom? Or is it your “duty” that compels you to be here?”

Istomilo glares at you and shakes his head.

“It was that very same “duty” that damned us all to this existence of endless torment in the first place, so why would you be here seeking to stop it? No, Miriam has turned Her back on humanity. If anything, you should be helping the fiends – you certainly weren’t hesitant to do that before now! So why are you here, Marisiel? I thought duty was the only thing that ever mattered to you!”

The Island of Dr(?) Sohssal

Iethloc

(Who knows? Maybe Miriam will go from wanting you dead to just wanting you gone. )

As before, you encounter a barrier upon attempting to scry on the Baron’s airship, followed by someone countering the scry attempt. A few moments later, and an ephemeral Arlan is standing in front of you. He is immediately all business.

“Stand by to speak with the Baron.” He says, and then his image wavers into indecipherable squiggles before re-solidifying into an image of the Baron. He seems even more displeased than usual, although you sense that you have nothing to do with that.

“Ah, Sohssal. So you have finally completed your plague? Or are you contacting me to request additional resources?”

The Baron listens intently as you describe your need for a test site, and quickly comes back with an answer. A little too quickly perhaps, given you had just provided him with the specifics of your disease.

“I have the perfect test site in mind, Sohssal. There is an isolated village near the mountains of my Barony. One of the few villages that the elves didn’t burn to the ground on their march through, actually. It is a little close to Ironheart, but I assure you there is nothing to fear. The prison has been permanently closed – the kingdom will have to find a new place to lock away its undesirables. Arlan will provide you with teleportation coordinates to a spot just outside town – you can meet him and a few other observers I’ve chosen there. Once the plague has been released and its results recorded we can discuss the exact terms of our alliance. I did have one question – have you developed some form of cure or vaccine? It may be prudent to test the effectiveness of those as well. Best of luck.”

And once finished speaking, the Baron’s image wavers to be replaced with that of Arlan.

“So, here are the teleportation coordinates for the test site. Evidently it’s a small mining/logging village by the name of Stonefall. Please bring along enough of the plague to contaminate the village, along with some extra so we can begin production of our own. Obviously enough of the cure or vaccine to protect five people, as well as any you’d like to use as part of the test, and a sample so we can begin production of our own. And finally, you may want to bring along whatever supplies from your lab you deem necessary, as I believe the Baron will want you to visit his airship immediately following the conclusion of the test.”

With a gesture, the ephemeral Arlan conjures up a series of ephemeral numbers beside his head – coordinates for this town you were able to infect.

“Any further questions? Will you need time to prepare or should we set out to meet you at Stonefall immediately?”

Fishtown, The Fishiest Place on Earth that Never Fished

Gorgondantess

At your offer of constructing an escape tunnel for her, Maurice smiles.

“Well, assuming you do not prune my wings again, they should be flight ready by the time our guests arrive. I can simply fly away should they prove hostile, or once again adopt the guise of a human to melt into the crowd of your followers. However . . . these people will not escape so easily. While they have turned their backs on the Valkyrie to follow you . . . they are still my responsibility to protect. And unable to assault you, the Dusk Wardens may choose to settle for slaughtering those who chose to worship you. Indeed, they may even view it as “cleansing the blasphemers”. As their god, as it were, you have a responsibility to see to their well-being as well.”

At your request for her aid, Maurice nods and smiles.

“Of course. I must admit I am pleasantly surprised at your willingness to ask for help, and that you would trust me with such an important task. Are you, perhaps, considering the discussion we had earlier, about trust engendering trust?”

**********************

Now that the Dusk Wardens have arrived, you show no hesitation in showing yourself. The big lummox they were riding around on would probably kick apart every building in town with ease, if it came to that. The beast is quick to respond to your greeting.

Come to the edge of town so that we may talk face to face, Beast! We will consider your offer of hospitality in the meantime!

At the edge of town, the massive monster, for lack of a better word, kneels down, planting its knees and forearms into the ground. It hangs its head and seems to fall into a sleep, while the dark ants crawling about it and within it begin to clamber down its limbs to the ground. Theoretically now would be a good time to attack while they are preparing to speak with you rather than fight. However, you had no idea of their pet’s capabilities, and it may not be nearly as vulnerable as it appears. Attacking them now after opening talks with the Dusk Wardens would also likely put an immediate end to any chance of talking your way out of this.

The thought does occur to you that they are intending on luring you into the same sort of trap you had just considered. However, you quickly dismiss the idea – why would they bother with such artifice when they clearly had enough power to level the village to begin with? Perhaps they feared your power as well, and wanted to catch you off-guard, but they at least did not start with hostilities immediately. You had little choice but to take them at their word if you wanted to find a peaceful resolution. If they wanted you dead, it had already been determined that eventually they would succeed. Might as well get it over with, although you had no intention of going quietly or alone if violence was the only way this could end.

On your way through the village, Maurice comes to walk beside you down the street. She lays a reassuring hand on your shoulder and nods, and then focuses her attention on the monster looming ahead of you, waiting. Omnicron also joins you just before you hit the edge of town, gaping up and blinking in awe at the immense creature before him. He also wrinkles his nose in disgust as your party nears the creature – a thick miasma of rot and decay surrounds it. It’s not particularly foul to you – decay was merely a part of nature after all – but Omnicron and even Maurice to a lesser extent find the odor unpleasant. The Dusk Wardens similarly don’t seem to be affected by the smell, although you note more than one human has scraps of cloth shoved into his nostrils.

As the Dusk Wardens descend down from their monstrosity, they form up into orderly ranks in front of it. There’s at least fifty of them lined up by the time you get there, all with a belt of those damn stone knives slung across their chests, although a total count may be closer to a hundred – a good number of Dusk Wardens remain aboard the creature, manning siege-level weapon emplacements and keeping them trained in your general direction.

A man stands in front of the assembled ranks of Dusk Wardens, and his plain cloak seems adorned with symbols of leadership. He greets you with a curt nod as you reach the assembled group.

“That will be far enough. The High Warden will speak with you shortly.”

The man gives you a glare of distaste, and then turns back to his men, preforming some sort of rapid inspection. All of the men are apparently to his satisfaction as he does not correct any of them, nor did it seem that he intended to find anything wrong, but he did it anyway. Humans . . . they did the most indecipherable things sometimes.

Shortly after your arrival, several more Dusk Wardens carefully make their way down from their pet, being lowered from above on a platform. They seem to be escorting a young woman – an older teenager by your reckoning. The girl is clad in a most peculiar dress – a thick mesh of barbed wire that does little to conceal her modesty or protect her from the elements, but cuts into her flesh with every movement she makes. At your side, Omnicron tenses, and seems sorely tempted to break ranks with you and dash across the field.

“That’s my sister!” He mutters, holding his ground – for now.

The decorated Dusk Warden meets Omnicron’s sister and her escorts as their platform touches the ground, and leads them over to in front of you.

“Confirm.” The man orders, and one of the escorts grabs a trailing piece of wire, the only part conveniently not covered in barbs, and pulls. Immediately the unpleasant meshwork Omnicron’s sister is wearing tightens, cutting her open in several places. The girl merely grunts, apparently used to this sort of treatment by now, and stares intently at you. After only a moment she screams and writhes, injuring herself further as she stumbles back away from you.

“The Darkness! The all-consuming Darkness!” She shrieks, while her escorts attempt to get her back under control. One of them force feeds her some kind of liquid, and she goes limp a moment later, allowing them to carry her away.

From above, the monster rumbles, its voice no longer booming but still carrying that unpleasant grating sound.

That is enough, Nu. I never doubted we were indeed standing before the Archdemon itself. Greetings.

A series of iron plates mounted on the creature’s chest suddenly slide apart, revealing a gaping cavity beyond. From that hole a young man emerges, carried forth by a long stringy mass of mucus. The mucus rapidly extends down towards the ground, carrying the man and allowing him to nimbly drop down the final few feet. You are somewhat surprised to see that Augustus the High Warden, leader of the Dusk Wardens and their greatest warrior, is a child. A teenager, likely younger than Omnicron’s sister!

“As I was saying, Archdemon. Greetings. I am the High Warden, Augustus.”

The boy says as he moves to stand beside Nu, the glorified drill sergeant.

“While I appreciate your offer of hospitality, I am not sure I understand the intention behind it. You must, after all, be aware that we have come here to kill you. Although we have only the history books to tell us, well, I would naturally expect in such a situation that your welcome would be . . . considerably less friendly. Why then have you decided to act differently?”

The Capital

The Wedding of Amelia Ashargrin and Cheran Gast

Lonna

With a magically enhanced leap, you manage to reach the balcony and scramble up onto it. You find Rose and Seraph waiting for you, both of them looking up with surprise as you come over the railing, although they relax when they see that it is only you. Seraph returns to looking down at the ongoing chaos below, while Rose looks at you with growing concern.

“Pyrene – what happened to your throat!?”

Rose asks, touching her own throat as she gazes at the makeshift bandages still wrapped around your neck. A moment later a crossbow bolt whistles past your ear to bury itself into a thick wooden beam. The wire connected to it is pulled taut a moment later, and somehow the bolt holds fast as Duke Volesin drags himself up onto the balcony behind you. He gives a self-conscious smile as he pushes himself up to his feet and dusts himself off.

“Daughter. Seraph. It is good to see that you are both unharmed by this calamity.”

“Sir.” Seraph replies with a curt nod, while Rose moves to embrace her father.

“I’m so glad you are safe! But what happened to Pyrene!? She certainly didn’t look like this before the ceremony!”

“I am afraid she was assaulted by another of the Baron’s guests. A vampire, judging by the woman’s penchant for blood.”

Volesin joins Seraph looking down at the chaos below and shakes his head.

“In any event, the vampire and her companion have escaped, and I should like to do the same before any more would-be assassins show up. I assume the Baron has his own escape path already secured? One he hasn’t informed his guests about?”

Here Seraph finally says more than two words.

“Yes, one of the back passages leading to an inner courtyard has been kept clear. There should be an air carriage waiting. I was hoping to convince Rose to go while I stayed to deal with the assassins – as my Father no doubt expects.”

Seraph shoots a glance at Rose and sighs.

“Your escort would be welcome, as perhaps it would convince her to actually go. Rose isn’t dealing with this attack very well.”

Something about Seraph’s words triggers your mind, and you suddenly notice all the little details. Rose’s hands shaking uncontrollably, the shrill note in her voice as she asked what happened to you, the way she kept one hand on her father even after they parted from their embrace. It seemed Rose Volesin-Gast was having a panic attack.

“Just a case of nerves!” Rose exclaimed with a weak smile, maintaining her grip on her father while pulling her cape around herself with her free hand.

“I-it’ll fade. I just need a few more minutes.”

At this Volesin frowns and moves towards the stairway at the back of the balcony, dragging Rose with him.

“It is not safe here, dear. We don’t have a few minutes to spare for the sake of your nerves! There might be another attack at any moment!”

Judging by the sudden buckling of Rose’s knees, causing her to stumble into her father, this news was the opposite of helpful. Nor was it helpful when Volesin turned around with a growl, grabbing Rose by the shoulders to shake her.

“Do I need to carry you, girl!? Because that is what I will do if I must!”

Rose cringes back away from her father but nods. She definitely does not look any more excited about the idea of fleeing from the relatively calm balcony, however.

“S-sorry! I am sorry, father, but –“

For a moment it looked as if Volesin might actually hit his own daughter, but instead he settles for jabbing a finger into her face.

“I certainly don’t remember raising any cowards! Get ahold of yourself!”

Seraph takes a step forward and seems poised to say something, but then seems to think better of it as he glances over his shoulder. He doesn’t like what he sees, whatever it is.

“I need to go. Please get my wife to safety.”

He says, stepping up onto the railing of the balcony. And then he hops off, soaring away and leaving you alone with the remainder of the Volesin family. One of whom seems eager to leave immediately, and the other who has no desire to go anywhere due to some sort of panic attack.

WhiteKnight777

At your smile, the Baron’s eyes narrow, and you see him begin to work a spell under his breath. Having more than a passing familiarity with magic, you are able to identify the invocation as a communication spell. Not a threat to your immediate well-being then, but definitely not the sort of thing that bores well for your future if you didn’t leave now.

Deciding now was indeed a good time to bid adieu, you throw the new Countess Gast over one shoulder and wrap your other arm around Fianna. Fianna sniffles as you begin to make your way to the nearest wall, snugging back into the crook of your arm with a weak smile. Even the Countess seems to relax after you explain your immediate intentions regarding her, although she mutters something behind her gag, the words muffled beyond all recognition.

You are just preparing to leave when your intuition to make good your escape proves accurate. From some dark corner of the chamber flits a shadow, which shifts into a bolt of black lightning – a rapidly flying raven, in actuality – to shoot across the room and then transform again into a dark panther right above the chimera. Shiakti has joined the fight.

The panther mangles the chimera’s wings, and then leaps clear as the beast’s body shifts and twists unnaturally, sprouting several tentacles that lash about, grabbing and crushing anything in reach. Impressively, the creature’s wounds immediately begin to reseal, and it roars only louder as several Hands fire bolts into its side, staring incredulously at their weapons as they have no effect.

“Alive! Take it alive!” The Baron shouts as an aside, momentarily pausing in his communication spell.

From the rafters, another pair of bolts swoop down, one bolt catching a Hand in the shoulder while the woman in the black dress at the Baron’s side neatly deflects a second bolt aimed at him. As one, the remaining Hands turn their attention up to the rafters, losing a fusillade of bolts up into the darkness. With an angry howl, Shiakti shifts back into a raven and flies up into the rafters, no doubt intent on bringing swift death to the would-be assassins lurking there.

This leaves Celestan to continue harassing the chimera-thing, ineffectively firing another salvo from his wing cannons as it dances aside yet again. Thankfully, the rest of the Baron’s spawn continue to be distracted with their own affairs or your construct. Unfortunately, while useful while it lasted, your construct does not have much time left.

At the front of the main worship area, above the altar, the immense stained glass window shatters inward as an armored form crashes through it. The newcomer lands in a three-point stance, and then stands with a bestial howl before charging towards your construct. You recognize the arms and armor, you remember the howl, and despite his features being distorted by his lycanthrope form, you identify the man. Alexander Ross has returned.

Bounding over the wreckage of the pews, Ross rolls underneath a clumsy swipe from your construct, its blow slowed by the ephemeral chains wrapped around it. Spinning his warhammer around, Ross drives the spike-tipped shaft of the weapon into the stomach of your creature, and then uses the embedded weapon to swing himself up onto its shoulder. From there, it’s a single scrambling leap to the top of its head, where Ross pulls out another iron spike and jams it down into the construct’s stubby head. Using that spike as a place to hold onto with one hand, Ross then drops down to the small of the creature’s back, where it can’t reach him no matter how it flails its elongated arms. From there, it’s a simple matter for Ross to use his brute strength to punch a hole in the construct’s back, and insert some sort of brilliantly glowing object before leaping clear. The end result is less impressive than expected – rather than an explosion, the object simply releases some sort of divine counter-magic from inside the construct, unraveling the magic and causing it to collapse into a pile of lifeless grave dirt once more. As Ross dusts himself off and retrieves his warhammer from the mess, you are yet again reminded why you hate him.

Regardless, your construct had served its purpose, and its destruction was no particular cause for concern. Pressing a hand against the wall beneath the balcony, you twist the reality of it and shove the stone aside, creating a new exit out of the chamber. Stepping through, you find yourself in a long hallway, which evidentially runs the entire length of the worship area. For the moment, the surrounding area is clear, although down at the end of the hallway you note that it intersects with the hallway directly outside the worship chamber’s main exit. That intersection becomes occupied a moment later as Cheran and Korram fight their way into sight, with some sort of strange living flame shaped like a ferret running up after them.

At the sight of the two of them, the Countess growls some sort of curse, and begins energetically striking your back again. Should she catch your attention, she inclines her head towards the ongoing brawl and makes stabbing motions with her by-now completely shredded bouquet. Before you can consider her request, you hear the Baron’s voice come hissing from your other side. Turning, you find that your other path down this hallway is blocked by a translucent image of the Baron, and he doesn’t look amused in the least.

“Umber, out of respect for your intelligence I’m only going to ask this once. What the Hells do you think you’re doing? Because it appears to me that you are assaulting my guests and kidnapping my son’s bride. That hardly sounds like something an ally would do, but I refuse to believe that you are stupid enough to make me an enemy. So explain yourself, Umber. Now!”

Dorizzit

Theme Music

Cheran is caught off-guard by your sudden regeneration, although he still manages to give a good accounting of himself in the rapid exchange of blows that follows. When you summon fire to cover your arms, however, Cheran gives his first indication of concern.

“****!” He growls, raising his forearms to block the fireball you send racing his way. It does about as well as one would expect someone’s limbs to do against an explosion, and Cheran is thrown backward down the hallway. As Cheran rolls back up to his feet, brushing himself off, you stride confidently through the smoke and ruin to deliver another punishing blow to his ego. In the war of words at least, you are pulling clearly ahead. After cracking his neck with a grimace, Cheran pulls his lips back further into a grinning death’s head smile.

“So you’ve gone crawling back to finding strength in others, Korram? That’s fine, I’ve already proven I can take you in a straight-up fight. At least now you’ll get to go down in a blaze of glory instead of a sad, pathetic gurgle!”

Cheran rises up from the floor to meet your charge in mid-air, his wings beating powerfully as they propel him into you. Although you have negated his advantage of flight, Cheran swiftly proves to be more familiar with fighting in mid-air than you. After your initial clash in mid-air where Cheran delivers a solid body blow and you scorch a black line across his shoulder, he wedges a leg between the two of you and shoves you back with a kick. From then on, he takes full advantage of the superior mobility flight brings to attack you from all angles. One moment he’d be on the same level as you exchanging punches - the next he’d be directly above you, spearing his legs downward at your face.

Although Cheran delivers several brutal blows that would likely have killed you several times over if you had just been a man, you recover rapidly from each one as Purifier’s power continues to flow into you. You also manage to land more than one punishing blow of your own to Cheran despite his rapid maneuvering, and even those blows that fail to connect still burn whatever is used to block them. Only by dodging is Cheran fully able to avoid harm, something that he seems to do more by accident than design. As usual, Cheran simply brutes through it, allowing your blows to land in favor of landing one of his own, and trusting in his regeneration to stave off death. For now his faith is justified as his skin seals itself as fast as you can sear and crack it, although that cannot last forever. His previously beautiful suit is the first casualty, reduced to smeared soot and burnt tatters.

Finally the punk gets lucky, kicking your arm away as you swing up at him. Cheran immediately presses his advantage, swooping down to grab you about the waist, and then diving down towards the floor while shoving you down in front of him. He bodyslams you into the floor hard enough to crack stone and then stands up to tower over you. He delivers a kick to your jaw that leaves you seeing stars, and then stomps down on your chest as you try to rise.

“Hah! Y’know Korram, you might be right about me. But I’m not afraid to admit to what I am. I’m happy with just the way I am. But you – always reaching, always striving. You’re just some pathetic dirt farmer from a nobody town!”

As if to illustrate his point, Cheran stomps down on your chest again, the floor creaking its protest in tune with your aching ribcage.

“And yet you try to reach far above your station. You think you’re going to bring down my father and everyone else with him? Hah, and they say I have a big ego! That’s why you’ve failed all along, Korram. And that’s why you’re not going to believe it, right up to the very last second, when I crush your skull between my hands!”

Cheran bends down to make a grab for your head again, but is interrupted when a small blaze of fire, shaped like a ferret, races out from a nearby hallway and dashes up to him from behind. It leaps up onto his legs and begins cutting a circuitous path up his body, burning everything it touches. With a panicked curse Cheran backs away from you, slapping wildly at himself in an attempt to snag hold of the darting creature.

Where did that come from? I did not summon it! Huh!? This resonance . . . no, impossible – Pyra?

While Purifier expresses his confusion at this sudden arrival, you watch with glee as the fire ferret finally reaches Cheran’s shoulder, using it as a springboard to leap upwards at his eyepatch. Ironically, it is the very eyepatch that may well have saved Cheran’s life, as the ferret seems intent on boring into his eye and from there into his brain but must momentarily pause as the eyepatch burns away. This gives Cheran just enough time to snatch it up in one hand and pull it off of his face. Screaming with a mixture of pain and rage, Cheran crushes the ferret, grinding it into disparate flicks of flame between his fingers. The flicks burn out quickly, leaving Cheran’s palm empty but seriously burned. The half of his face where the ferret paused is also badly burned, and the remains of the eyepatch falls away to reveal Cheran’s wounded eye – a milky-white orb that is just beginning to clear. Although the fiery trail the ferret burned up his body is now gone, Cheran’s wounded hand and face remain injured, either too badly burned to heal quickly or his regeneration is beginning to fail. Either way, he is distracted, both by his injuries and by staring murderously back down the hallway, following with his eye the scorched line that the ferret left in the carpet.

“I’m going to boil that bitch ALIVE!”

Cheran screams, for the moment apparently forgetting you were here. That was a grave mistake.

OverWilliam

Trailing after Wulfric, you follow him and Brock follows you down the hallway. Displaying a level of familiarity with the place, Wulfric turns right at the first intersection without pause, and then pulls open the second door on the right. Following him into the room beyond, you find yourself in a dressing room.

“Acolytes get dressed in this room, and powder their noses or whatever they do right before going out to help the priest. Which means . . . this door here should get us out into the main worship chamber.”

Wulfric explains as he walks towards the door on the opposite side of the room. You half expected him to kick it open and then go charging out into whatever madness was occurring on the other side, like some sort of fairy tale hero. Instead he merely cracks the door open and peers cautiously through. With the door open, you can clearly hear the screams of panic from the other side now, intertwined with the furious shrieks of some unearthly beast.

Risking it, you move to stand behind Wulfric, tip-toe in order to see over his shoulder. Beyond, the worship area is in shambles. The Baron’s guests are blindly fleeing towards the main doors at the back of the room, crushing anything and anyone that gets underfoot. They appear to be fleeing from some sort of tri-headed, winged beast that is flailing around in the middle of a bunch of pews off to one side, smashing anything nearby in its rage. There is also a suspiciously large mound of dirt in the middle of a bunch of broken pews across the aisle, surrounded by several winged men. Meanwhile, the Baron is standing up by the altar with a small entourage of surrounding cloaked figures, less than thirty feet away, and looking thoroughly unhappy.

As you watch the scene unfold before you, you catch sight of a beautiful woman in a scandalous dress suddenly stand up from a bunch of deserted pews near the back of the room. She breaks into a run, moving at impossible speed as she makes for a nearby balcony, running along the tops of the pews. With a powerful leap, she jumps up at the balcony, ungainly crashing into the railing before managing to pull herself up. She is joined by an elderly man a minute later who takes the more “sensible” route of shooting a crossbow bolt into a nearby beam and hauling himself up via an attached wire.

“That’s Jacqueline!”

Wulfric growls in a muted whisper, apparently conscious of his surroundings enough to realize shouting with the Baron nearby was a bad idea. That doesn’t stop him from slapping a hand against the door frame in frustration before whirling away from the door, leaving it ajar.

“Come on, I know where the stairs leading up to that balcony are!”

And at just that moment, the Baron turns his head and looks directly at you. Your eyes lock onto each other, and a slight smile flickers across the Baron’s face as he inclines his head towards you. Then the moment passes, and the Baron gestures, two cloaked figures breaking off from his protective entourage to make their way towards you. Before they can get there, however, a new participant enters the madness playing out before you.

From the darkness of the rafters above, a man comes falling down to the floor in a drop that would surely kill him. Just before he impacts against the floor and makes a mess, a line that was attached to him pulls momentarily taut before retracting, dragging him back up into the air. Then gravity takes over again, and he’s falling once more, although this time at a less dangerous height. At the bottom of this second bounce, the man twists and detaches himself from the line, summersaulting the remaining few feet down and landing smoothly. As soon as he is down he is moving, running towards your very door!

As he goes, the man snaps off a final shot with the crossbow in his arms before throwing it away in favor of drawing a pair of knives from beneath his cloak. The bolt speeds towards the Baron, only to be intercepted and snatched down in mid-air by the woman standing in front of the Baron, the only one of his agents dressed in fine clothing and not concealed by a long cowl. The man seems to have been expecting this, and flings his daggers as soon as they enter his hands, reaching into his cloak to draw more and release them as he continues to run towards the dressing room and by extension you. He does not throw the daggers towards the Baron as you would expect, however, but rather at the two agents approaching you, driving them back under a hail of hurled blades. As this newcomer nears the door, you see a dark shape streak down from the rafters with an unearthly roar of its own. As soon as it reaches the floor the darkness resolves itself into an immense black cat which also immediately breaks into a run for the door.

“Start running if you want to live!”

The newcomer gasps as he reaches the door, finally catching sight of you just before shouldering his way into the room and continuing to run for the opposite door, back the way you had come. The panther looms near as it closes the distance to the room you are all in at a horrifyingly fast pace.

[Archpaladin Zousha]

Hondshioh

"If I were to let you and the Exarchs go, what's to stop you from gathering an army in exile and coming to cleanse the new "heretics?" Or simply turning on us when were out alone after the alleged surrender. You clearly don't have the tone of a man seeking mercy. You call us lap dogs and insult us when your own life may well hinge on your words. If there's one thing this Crusade has taught me, it's that I can trust no one but myself and the Gods. You are neither. Why should I trust someone like you, Crane? You made it clear from the beginning that you have nothing but contempt for us paladins, and it's clear that even when your life hands in the balance you don't feel the need to show any respect."

[Gorgondantess]

At your offer of constructing an escape tunnel for her, Maurice smiles.

“Well, assuming you do not prune my wings again, they should be flight ready by the time our guests arrive. I can simply fly away should they prove hostile, or once again adopt the guise of a human to melt into the crowd of your followers. However . . . these people will not escape so easily. While they have turned their backs on the Valkyrie to follow you . . . they are still my responsibility to protect. And unable to assault you, the Dusk Wardens may choose to settle for slaughtering those who chose to worship you. Indeed, they may even view it as “cleansing the blasphemers”. As their god, as it were, you have a responsibility to see to their well-being as well.”

She sighs. "I don't want responsibility for these people. They were given a choice to follow me, and nothing is stopping them from denouncing me now. If they draw the ire of the Dusk Wardens, then that will be on their own heads."

At your request for her aid, Maurice nods and smiles.

“Of course. I must admit I am pleasantly surprised at your willingness to ask for help, and that you would trust me with such an important task. Are you, perhaps, considering the discussion we had earlier, about trust engendering trust?”

She smiles herself. "Perhaps."
In actuality, she was hardly considering that at all. But Maurice didn't need to know that.

On your way through the village, Maurice comes to walk beside you down the street. She lays a reassuring hand on your shoulder and nods, and then focuses her attention on the monster looming ahead of you, waiting.

Initially, she starts at the very human form of contact... but then relaxes. It was Maurice, so it was okay.

You are somewhat surprised to see that Augustus the High Warden, leader of the Dusk Wardens and their greatest warrior, is a child. A teenager, likely younger than Omnicron’s sister!

She's really not that nonplussed, though, in the end. She placed little stock in age as a means of determining such things as competence.

“As I was saying, Archdemon. Greetings. I am the High Warden, Augustus.”

The boy says as he moves to stand beside Nu, the glorified drill sergeant.

“While I appreciate your offer of hospitality, I am not sure I understand the intention behind it. You must, after all, be aware that we have come here to kill you. Although we have only the history books to tell us, well, I would naturally expect in such a situation that your welcome would be . . . considerably less friendly. Why then have you decided to act differently?”

While she was not considering Maurice's words on trust before, she was now. Initially, she intended to play the innocent martyr... but now, she decided to go for a more straightforward approach. She'd not pander to these people: better that, if they decide to try to kill her, it be for what she really is, than for a meek facade.
"Before this all began, I was far more interested in studying the movements of a particular species of salmon than in any humans- especially your organization. That was, of course, until I found myself full of those nasty knives of yours, quite unprovoked. Indeed, I'd approached the first of your men who showed himself intent on a chat. Naturally, after the fight ensued and I'd slaughtered the lot of them, I was hell bent on killing the rest of you. I'd imagine that this is why you've always received such unfriendly welcomes in the past: preemptive attacks of the like."
She gestures to Omicron, smiling wryly.
"I suggest you thank this man. If not for him, you'd have received similar.
No, he convinced me that simply killing the lot of you would be fruitless and a waste of time, not to mention life. Perhaps including my own. Now, I'd like to revert to my original stance towards you and your people."
She awkwardly extends a hand, unused to the gesture but willing to go through with it for the sake of diplomacy. She nods.
"Welcome to my village. I will say that you stand on my territory now. Any offense against me or my allies will be dealt with regardless of your rank your organization, as any other. I believe in justice, and your people have already tried me quite enough without recompense. You have been warned... but until then, please. I'd like things to be amicable between us.
In the meantime, you know who I am and where I am. You have no need for the diviner anymore. I'd ask that you release her to her brother."
She wouldn't let them walk all over her. If they couldn't respect such fairness, she had doubts they could respect any sort of attitude whatsoever.