The Playground: Whispers of Taelarys IC

[Lady Serpentine]

8th of Bargenholt
Chaos in the Arena
The Diamond Club Terrace
Liella, Kyranis

Liella began to stir soon after Tarin and his group left with their captive. At first, once she was really awake, she looked around in terror, as this wasn't where she'd been, she couldn't find her Bond-Mate, and her last memory was of being strangled by a zombie. But, when her frantic observations had revealed that she was no longer in the arena, the zombie had been detached, and she didn't appear to be in a coma or hallucinating, she calmed considerably. Though this still left the question of where Kyranis was. She doubted that he'd have left her here willingly, but he clearly wasn't dead. And, for that matter, it wouldn't make much sense for someone to capture him and leave her here.

She got up shakily, and slowly turned in a circle, hoping to spot him. As she did so, she took note of the destruction that had occurred, and wondered what had happened up here.

[Jade_Tarem]

Chapter 2
The Boiling Point

"People, when in desperate straits, lose their sense of fear. If there is no place of refuge, they will stand firm."

- The Art of War (Paraphrase)

10th of Bargenholt, Westbound Central 803 Express, Late Morning

Smoke billowed out and up as Locomotive Engine 803 barreled along at a crisp forty-five miles per hour. Like most of the Central line, the 803 was a combination freight-passenger train. The eastern side of the rail system had been completed first, and as such the railways were laid out in such a way that running specialized trains was much more difficult. Efforts to bring the eastern railroads up to date were ongoing.

Still, the system worked, and that was what was important. The trains may not move quite as quickly, but the supplies got where they needed to go, everything ran quietly and efficiently, and no one complained.

Until today. "So when are we gonna soddin' do it?"

Several respectable-looking people had managed to, with the aid of some extra 'ticket fare,' get a car to themselves. While their clothes were 'nice' by most standards, close inspection would show their long-coats to be worn and patched, their clothes to be secondhand, and whatever accessories they had to be cheap knockoffs of what they appeared to be.

Michael Wainwright leaned back and let Morris's comment brush by him. "Not today we're not. We'll do it as soon as Lira can confirm the troop movements we've heard about."

"Come on, it's a lazy mornin'. No one suspects a thing! We could pull the whole thing off right now!"

"We're not ready. The camp isn't ready. Our all-natural friends certainly aren't ready. And the morning when we do carry out the mission will be just as lazy as this one, I promise." Wainwright waited just long enough that Morris opened his mouth again, before adding. "Besides, you seem to have forgotten that we're going the wrong way."

The others in the car snickered. Morris did too, after a moment. "Yeah, alright. Yeh've got me there. It's just hard waitin', that's all."

"I know it is. For now, though, you should get some rest." Wainwright pulled a pair of darkened glasses down over his eyes and prepared to take a nap.

10th of Bargenholt, Late Morning, The Machinist's Guildhall
Outside Ira Kershwin's Office

Several dozen miles away, it is as busy a morning as ever. The Machinst's Guild is still buzzing with news about what happened at the Arena, with rumors piling on top of those about the mysterious Ikokuan ship and the sudden appearance of the tiny pests - dubbed 'imps' almost ubiquitously now - that had appeared a few days earlier. A small bounty had been posted for anyone who could make a device that could provably and reliably ensnare an imp, but no one had yet collected.

More disturbingly, some distressing reports were coming from outside of Taelarys - rebel elements and other dissenters were growing bolder, attacking lightly defended areas and pillaging what they could. While not crippling to Taelar by any stretch of the imagination, what had been taken amounted to a fair amount of foods, armaments, and other equipment, which meant that the rebellious elements were growing, rather than subsiding.

So far, though, none of it had affected the Guild directly, and it was business as usual. At the far end of the main complex, things are a little bit quieter - but only a little. The Guild's accounting and data processing division is located in the quietest part of the complex, by the request of those working for it. It is through these cleaner, neater halls that a short machinist with a black headband, apron, and gloves moves quickly and cheerfully - a brand new #13 "Big Iron" multitool hanging behind her like a two-handed weapon. A heavy knock sounds on Ira's office door. "Ira? Are yeh in there?" Claye shouts over the din prevalent throughout the Guildhall, even at this far corner of it. "It's me, Claye!"

Plot Ticket - Rebel Attacks

Spoiler

Show

Rebel elements, or else bandit gangs calling themselves rebels, have begun systematically assaulting any Imperial Guard or Blood Guard holdings that are too lightly defended to ward off a sudden and moderately-powerful attack. Rumors of a more comprehensive response from the Empire abound.

[ForzaFiori]

9th of Bargenholt, AoT
The Clockwork Griffin
Noon
Xavier de Forza

Xavier had kept his shop closed for the day. After last night, Xavier figured he needed it. He arose late (for him) at nearly 10 AM to a banging on the door. Opening it, he found a message carrier with his payment from Jameson. A rather large sack of gold, easily enough to make up for closing for a day. Satisfied in the lack of need to perform actual work, it was not long before Xavier found himself in his workshop anyway. He had been experimenting with the new electricity that powered some of the fancier lights in the city (including those in the Griffin, which Xavier is very proud about), convinced that there's a way to weaponize it, and therefor make even more money from. He had nearly succeeded.

He had miniaturized the electric generator several years ago, but found it unusable in most creations due to the need to continuously wind them. A battery helped, but they were even harder to find, and much too large. However, if the point is to rapidly discharge electricity anyway, there is no need to store it. thus was the idea of an electric gun created. That was just over a year ago.

Now he was almost finished. He had managed to put all the parts into a fairly light, easy to carry package. He solved the problem of directing the charge, using two high-strength steel cables attached to small prongs. A crank of the right side allowed the user to re-charge and wind the cables back up, though it took 30 seconds to a minute depending on speed. The difficult part lay in finding a safe but worthwhile charge, and in keeping the electricity from flowing into the user (the cause of several new scars on Xavier's left hand). A rubber grip and handle solved the problem of shocked user, and several months of testing had Xavier where he thought that the gun would work.

He finished putting the case back together with all the parts connected for the first time in several months (shock tests were done with just the generator and a slave). It felt so small, yet so powerful in his hand. It was, if he calculated right, currently capable of knocking out a 300 pound man for almost 5 minutes, not to mention the burns where the prongs hit. Moving back to the shooting range, Xavier impressed even himself (something difficult to do) by his accuracy. He had made a faux-gun for target practice, and it had payed off immensely. Satisfied, he slipped the gun in his pocket before leaving the shop.

Xavier's friendly neighborhood leatherworkers

Xavier wrinkled his nose. A tanner's shop always smells disgusting. Probably the brains and piss used in the leather making process... but that wasn't where Xavier wanted his mind going, seeing as how he was about to buy some of this man's goods. Walking up to the counter, Xavier placed his new TESLA, a sheet of paper, and a small bag of gold on the table. "I need a holster, capable of holding this weapon on my belt. Preferably made of your sturdiest leather. I'm also afraid that you won't be able to keep the weapon here unless I am as well, as it's a prototype. However, I can provide all the dimensions of the outside areas." he says, gesturing at the paper. The man behind the counter examines the paper, the gun, and the money (spending the majority of the time on the latter) before assuring Xavier that it will be ready by the end of the week.

Spoiler

Show

New advantages! Yay!:
Totally Epic Sounding Lightning Apparatus (TESLA) (Common):

Spoiler

Show

Essentially a small pistol built to connect to Xavier's replacement hand, the gun contains a hand spun electromagnet and masses of copper wire, which serve to allow it to generate a large amount of electricity. With the pull of the trigger, a prong connected to the wires by a strong steel cable shoots out of the gun, delivering the charge to whatever it contacts. The cable can then be rewound, preparing the weapon for a second strike, after it has time to charge up (subject to plot tension, definitely longer than it would take to say, reload a small crossbow). The amounts of electricity are not high enough to kill, instead knocking the victim out for around 5 minutes (depending on body mass, where the shock hits you, etc.)

Weapon Expertise (Firearms) (uncommon): From constantly working with the TESLA to get it up and going, Xavier's aim has increased dramatically. Unfortunately, he relies heavily on the iron sights attached to his new toy, meaning the benefits don't extend to crossbows or regular bows.

Wealth (common): an oldie but a goodie, the monies from Jameson and Mikado have made Xavier fairly wealthy, at least until he comes up with another invention.

[DJDeMiko]

10th of Bargenholt: 10:00 am
Lord's Arena: Jameson's Bedroom
Jameson

Ms. Twill stood with Bursop and watched Jameson pacing back and forth across his darkened room. They could hear him muttering to himself, but with the exception of the occasional outburst, his words could not be made out.

The dark room was enough to worry Ms. Twill, even had she not been aware of the full gravity of the situation. Jameson liked his curtains opened, he enjoyed the sunlight and had designed much of his personal space in Lord's Arena to be lit by the sun. To see the curtains closed with only a few lamps lit . . .

Jameson's voice suddenly spiked mid mutter, "Ruined!"

Bursop coughed politely and spoke, "Perhaps my lord would feel better if he rested, I do not believe my lord has slept much since yesterday. The healer did tell my lord that he would need to rest for the healing magic to fully speed his healing."

Jameson waved his arm dismissively at Bursop, Ms. Twill winced as it gave her a better view of the bandages running around his chest and arm. "No time Bursop! Have to think, have to plan if I want to keep this place. Leveraged my god damned fortune to build this place and I'll be damned if I lose it because of a bunch of demons."

Ms. Twill bit her lip for a moment and then spoke, "Lord Jameson . . . why don't we open the curtains then so you can see properly."

He didn't respond.

"Maybe things won't look so bad in the light."

Jameson stopped mid stride and mid mumble, turned his head slightly towards her then took a few large steps towards the window. He reaches out with both arms, grabs the curtains and tears them down, flooding his room with light.

"Is that better Cathy?" he asks with an edge in his voice that actually makes her take a step back. Jameson advances a step closer to her. "Yesterday, a few dozen customers died in the arena." He takes another step towards her and she backs up again in fear. "Half the nobles in the city watched the god damned prince mock me openly." He takes another step forward and Ms. Twill bumps into the wall.

"My personal guards were murdered with magic!" He begins walking towards Ms. Twill faster, a look in his eye so dark that she closed her eyes, not wanting to see his face. "I have leveraged my fortune to build this complex. I am ruined if it fails. You will be on the street, I will be on the street. No one will want to come to an Arena where they will be killed and rise from the dead. Who will want to order drinks at a club where people suddenly explode into balls of fire!"

He reaches Twill and grabs her by the shoulders, nearly screaming into her face, the effort opens his wounds and his bandages begin to stain red.

"How will the sunlight help Cathy! How will it save my fortune! How will it reverse this god-hated plague of luck upon my house Cathy!" He lets go of her shoulder and pulls his arm back to strike her. "It doesn't! I am ruined!" He swings his fist, aiming for her face but his hand is caught in mid air by Bursop. Jameson stutters in rage and pulls back but Bursop's grip is strong. "HOW DARE . . . YOU WOULD . . . . YOUR A SLAVE!"

Bursops expression does not change, he knows as well as Jameson that something like this, from a slave, could very well be a ticket to a swift death. Bursop holds his lords gaze for a moment and then tilts his face and flicks his eyes towards Ms. Twill. Jameson turns back to look at her and truly sees her in the light. She is crying, practically sobbing, with her eyes scrunched shut and her fists held tightly by her side not attempting to defend herself.

"My Lord," Bursop says quietly, [COLOR="rgb(255, 140, 0)"]"You are not yourself right now. Lord Jameson is a man who does not lose control, he is a man who always has a plan and stays five steps in front of his enemies. He is also not a man that would strike his assistant. Slaves yes, whores yes, but he would not strike Ms. Twill."[/COLOR]

Jameson, paling, steps backwards and Bursop releases his grip. He takes another few steps back and then walks to his bed and sits heavily. He thinks for a moment and then speaks.

"You are right Bursop, I am not myself. If you would both leave me for a few hours, I will attempt to rest. He looks up to Ms. Twill, "I'm sorry Cathy, I shouldn't have taken that out on you, please accept my apologies and give yourself a months pay as a bonus . . . " He turns to Bursop, Thank you. There is a file located in Ms. Twills PR cabinet with the name "Rumor countering." I have detailed steps we should take in case of a disaster. I had imagined a small fire or people getting sick from the food . . . but you should be able to adapt it. Start taking the steps on it and we will discuss our next moves in a few hours."

[the_druid_droid]

9th of Bargenholt
Morning
Levant Safehouse
Kirin and Cyrus

Only a day after his meeting with Sevran, Kirin found himself in much pleasanter surroundings than any the Grey District had to offer; he had contacted Cyrus and set up a meeting to discuss the unusual nobleman almost immediately after Sevran had disappeared into the Tunnels. Now, the spy sat at a small kitchen table in a cozy little house, drinking a particularly strong blend of Rhetizian coffee. To anyone passing outside, he seemed another peaceful resident preparing to go about his day; but on the inside, questions gnawed at his mind.

Kirin was certain that his superiors would want to know about his interaction with Sevran, as well as the man’s apparent drug connection and claims of nobility. Finding those things out had been important, but still he wondered if he shouldn’t have tried to get more information from the man, or even brought him in for questioning. Although Kirin had rehearsed and re-rehearsed his explanation for acting as he had, the truth was that Sevran’s intensity had frightened him, and there was a good chance that Cyrus wouldn’t understand that if he were forced to admit it.

Just as the spy began reviewing his mental report for the hundredth time, a voice interrupted his silent recitation. “You wanted to see me?”

“Yes, I have some interesting news from the District to report.”

“Alright, but make it quick. I have another meeting in half an hour.”

“Right. Yesterday while I was on assignment, I ran into an unusual man. He caught my attention because he didn’t look like a native of the Grey District, and after initial observation I approached him and managed to start up a conversation.” Here Kirin hesitated; he knew that official policy frowned on making contact with a target so rapidly, but immediate action had felt like the right thing at the time. “At first I thought that he might just be drifting through, but he claimed to be nobility.”

“Not too many nobles go slumming in the Districts for fun.” Cyrus interrupted in a tone he usually reserved for chastising green recruits.

“I know. I didn’t believe him at first, but besides looking out of place, he had a tattoo that strongly resembled House markings, and no sooner did he mention ‘The Dream’, than he produced two doses as proof of his claims about the drug.”

“Not as though the Grey District has a lack of dealers; just because a man has drugs doesn’t mean he’s a noble. What did the tattoo look like?” Cyrus still looked doubtful, but he seemed willing to hear the younger man out.

“It looked like an old glyph. He claimed he was in the Districts because his family was out to kill him; something about a fight over succession within his House.” Kirin’s stomach was starting to twist in knots under the older spy’s gaze.

Almost immediately Cyrus perked up. “Wait...where was this tattoo located?”

“It was on the left side of his face; the hood of his cloak almost covered it, which is why I didn’t notice it at first.”

For a tense moment, Kirin and Cyrus locked eyes as the elder spy sized up his subordinate. “If that’s the case, you’re either lying or a lucky bastard; there’s only a few nobles that would fit that description, and any of them would just as soon gut you as look at you. I don’t suppose you managed to get his name?”

“It didn’t come up.” Kirin cringed internally; he’d been dreading that question.

Cyrus appeared to take the lack of a name in stride. “Well, it shouldn’t be too hard for Revin to sort out the best candidate. You were right to contact me about this; Levant can always use information about intra-House conflict, and there’s a good chance what you found can be used to our advantage. Now get some rest; you did good.”

At his superior’s words, the young spy let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, and finally took a long drink of his coffee.

9th of Bargenholt
Midday
Halls of Truth

Inside a small cell, a the man who had been an assassin hung suspended almost a foot off the ground, his wrists locked tight in iron manacles. Around him, Tarin paced while he examined his new acquisition. “Hmm, your shoulders haven’t dislocated yet. I’m rather impressed.”

“Go to hell! It’ll take more than that to break me.”

At the man’s words, Tarin quickly stepped around to face him, his eyes gleaming with malicious humor. “How charming. You think I’m going to interrogate you.”

“That’s what you do, isn’t it?”

“Yes, interrogations are my business. However, I don’t care to know who you are or who you work for, nor am I personally offended by your attempt on the life of Jameson d’Milverton. No, the reason I brought you here is because you are unconnected; for all intents and purposes, you are dead: just another casualty of a failed assassination attempt.” As he spoke, the Grand Inquisitor traced a hand along wicked-looking implements that lay on a table next to the assassin’s suspended body. “Since you are a dead man, there is nothing to keep me from doing whatever I want with you. So no, this isn’t about interrogation, it isn’t about business; this is about art.”

As Tarin spoke, realization dawned on the man hanging before him, and his expression changed slowly from defiance through disbelief and on toward fear.

“The only question is where to begin.”

[Nefarion Xid]

8th of Bargenholt, Early Afternoon
The Vale, Roxanne's Apothecary

"All right, all right. No tea." Anselme held his hands up defensively before reclining against the dust coated counter. Meanwhile, Roxanne finally managed to right herself and went to help Six off the ground.

"First of all, do you trust me?" Anselme supposed he knew the answer. All the same, he did his best to look earnest as he addressed Raina.

"..." A pause, as the Eladrin woman studied Anselme's face. Did she? He had given her no reason--besides being rather odd--to distrust him...but she did not trust easily. Not any more.

"I don't think you're going to stab me in the back. That's about all you are going to get from me, at this point."

Anselme shrugged knowingly and snapped his fingers in Roxy's direction. She beamed back at him and hurriedly went to sort through the truly ancient looking vials on the cobweb strewn shelves. She begged the pardon of a particularly gruesome looking spider and finally produced a slender golden bottle.

Six, naturally curious had wondered in her direction. She swiftly uncorked the bottle and wafted the concoction under his nose. A barely visible trail of shimmering gold was sucked up into his nostrils.

"Oh, well that's lovely, isn't it? What is that sandalwood?"

"Hardly," Roxanne scoffed. "Call it a truth potion."

"Truth what?" Six blinked twice.

"What age did you lose your virginity?"

"Twenty three HEY!" Six gasped.

Roxanne batted her eyelashes coquettishly and continued, "How did you lose your hand?"

"Didn't read the instructions. Stop that! You topheavy tart!"

"Do you think Anselme is cute?" she purred.

"He's actually quite yum-" he began with a dumb and completely honest smile on his face before shrieking and clapping a hand over his lips.

Snickering quietly to herself, Roxanne left the distressed man to reassess his sexual orientation and handed the potion off to Anselme. He sniffed it dutifully with a wink to Raina; though it's hard to tell with an eye patch.

Raina's eyebrow arched practically to her hairline, watching the antics; she was unsure as to what, exactly, Roxy had in that little bottle. But whatever it was, it seemed to make Six spout the truth without thinking...which meant that, since Anselme had also inhaled it, he would have to be truthful as well.

...Wait.

She wasn't going to be expected to partake in this truth-fest, was she? That would be...extremely annoying.

Anselme set the bottle aside. It was easy to read the look on Raina's face and he smiled dismissively. "Don't worry, you're not on trial here. Care for a warm up question?"

"It's the same question I have been asking, though I suppose it is composed of many parts. So let us start with an easy one. How, exactly, do you all know each other?" Raina glanced at Anselme, then Six; she hadn't seen Roxanne take this "truth potion"...

"Perhaps more pressing: is this maker of potions going to be subjected to the truth serum as well?"

Anselme shut his eyes tight and exhaled sharply, "I sold my voice to her. My singing voice, anyway. Roxanne deals in intangibles."

"And flesh!" snapped Six, pointing to his skeletal (but inexplicably functional) hand.

Roxanne, who had wafted the potion towards her nose, now recapped it and grinned with guilty pleasure. "This is true. I told you I wouldn't have any competition..."

"We've all worked for the same man," Anselme continued, gesturing to his compatriots. "Six didn't recognize me without my... work attire."

"He's a lot prettier than I imagined," consented Six, this time without trying to shut himself up.

"...She is a 'dealer of intangibles', but what is she really?" Raina's eyes flickered over to the woman, then back to the men. "What did you trade your singing voice for, Anselme? And presumably you, warlock, you traded your flesh for power..."

Those expressive eyes flickered with the beginnings of suspicion and distrust. Oh, she could believe the words coming from their mouths...but. These people were...very...unsettling.

Six sneezed violently a few times. Ignoring the interruption, Anselme continued coolly, but quickly, "Roxanne has knowledge of the deep magics, of pacts. That's why none of us can speak falsely right now. If you make a deal with her, it is done. You could sell your own name to her. That golden vial there? A man's honesty in a bottle."

He looked pained, as if suffering from a sudden headache that was only slowly subsiding as he spoke.

"...How...how on earth would one learn that sort of...of...witchcraft?" Raina was...distinctly unsettled, now, and it showed in her face. And there was fear there, as well.

She did not like being afraid.

"That's...that's practically...demonic!"

Roxanne touched a dainty hand to her heart, offended. "Non! Diabolique."

Six chuckled, "Oh yeah, demons wish they had that sort of magic!"

Anselme glared crossly in Six's direction before gesturing to Roxanne, "Roxy got her power from Mephistopheles himself."

Roxanne curtsied. There was a reverent look in Six's eyes.

"What on earth is the difference??" The Eladrin backed up until she hit a shelf, pupils so dilated it was near-impossible to see the deep grey of her irises.

"Demon or devil, that power is unholy!"

Six, for once having something poignant to say, wagged a skeletal finger towards Raina. "Power is just power, love. It's how you use it. Sort of like that lovely piece of steel you meant to shove through my hand!"

Anselme hid his bemused grin for a brief moment, before becoming very earnest very quickly. "She saved my daughter's life, Raina. She was very sick when she was an infant... that's why I sold my voice."

Roxanne went to hug Anselme straight away, slipping an arm about his waist and resting her head on his broad shoulder.

"And what did she use your voice for? Do you even know?" Blood, blood and fire and death...Raina's breath was coming quickly, and she clenched her fists at her sides.

"Does one good deed bely another? What person would trade their honesty? What were they hoping to receive in return? Trading your own flesh for power...what else do you deal in?!?"

Roxanne lifted her head and strode towards Raina before Anselme could snap himself from his reverence and stop her. "And remind me what it is you do for a living, ingenue!"

"I rid the Vale of murderers and rapists!" Raina's voice was raised, but she pressed herself into the shelf as Roxanne advanced on her. "I charge a fee to keep prices fair and people safe! And though there are rumors, I am not a thief! I run the Vale and I do what is best for it, and sometimes I pander to ridiculous nobles and make money from it, and sometimes I sell less-than-legal goods that are disapproved of by the sorcerers, or allow them to be sold for a fee! And I remove competition!"

She wasn't evil. She knew full well that she was a criminal, widely-connected enough to avoid the Inquisition. But come now, why would they battle her? She got rid of problems. Murderers and vandals, rapists and thieves and un-sanctioned prostitutes...

"D-don't! Don't come any closer to me!" Death. It stank of charred flesh and bone, and it sounded like screaming. At least her kills were clean. Quick. Hardly felt it. Not...like that. Not mowed down without warning, without defense, demon hell-fire destroying them...!

"We kill demons," Anselme said quietly. The words hung still in the stale air. Roxanne silently acquiesced and stepped away from Raina.

"Y-you can't kill them, they don't die." Raina's breath hitched, and she turned her face away from the group, fighting desperately to control herself.

"They only kill."

"They do. When you fight them here, they only release their host and return the Nether. But, when you kill them there..." There was no humor in Anselme's voice, a rarity.

The glimmer of tears began to appear in Roxanne's sapphire eyes. She stared at Raina knowingly; if she couldn't read the woman's mind, she could certainly feel her pain and fear now. "Cherie..." she whimpered.

"Don't. Just...don't." Raina pressed her palms to her eyes, for a moment, and inhaled slowly; when she looked up again, they were clear, though her voice was strained almost to breaking.

"Sell...whatever you want. Lies, truths, power or theft. Keep it a fair price. I...I'm leaving."

That voice. She could let herself fall into Roxanne's quiet plea, into those tear-filled eyes. There was something nearly-silent inside of her that said Roxanne would understand. Would understand that she was scared, so scared, that the thing that hadn't killed her when it had done away with her people was out there somewhere, was looking for her, that it was only a matter of time. But...no. No. She was Raina Nessiel, she led the Blue Lions. She was not weak. She would not cry. Crying was for children.

"...Good day." She turned on her heel and strode out the door, shoulders stiffly erect and muscles knotted so tight it was a wonder she could move at all.

Anselme followed her out with his eye without turning his head. He wasn't about to stop her. She wouldn't repeat anything she'd learned here and she had a lot to process. For a moment, he wondered if he'd return to her manor to find his effects on the front lawn. Then he remembered he owned nothing except his clothes and shrugged.

Finally, Six broke the silence, exclaiming, "Well! That was fun! Now if you'll excuse me, I think I'd like to go home and slam my willy in the door. OH! I can lie again! When did it wear off?"

"... it's perfume, you idiot," said Roxanne, wiping her eyes with her sleeve.

Anselme lifted his head, squinting his eye incredulously. "It is?"

[The_Snark]

Selected Excerpts from the Writings of the Prognostication Engine

four shipments of grain, three shipments of Lodarian bloodwood, three shipments of whale oil, two crates of plums, one crate exotic perfumes

estimated price of grain on Logiscae 1st: four pennies per pound

visitors to the Machinist's Guild on Bargenholt 9th: 14 (11 tradesmen, one guest, two patrons)
Names: Erian Martel|Aura Tenissky|Ria Sult|Boris Wyrenn|Unkaladna Thoth|Yves Narette|Louka Grenhill|Aiyella Sadire|Roun Uskhardt
Lokapala Kyiv
Brise di Rine|Sovar Tull



ISOLATION OF SIGNIFICANT FACTORS IN CORSAIR ACTIVITY ALONG THE ARUTE ISLES
Weather
33(∑storm∑pirate) - (∑storm∑pirate)
__________________________________________________ _________________ = r
√(33∑stormˆ2 - (∑storm)ˆ2) * √(33∑pirateˆ2 - (∑pirate)ˆ2)


to calculate the derivative of an orange we must reduce it in one dimensionspaceas we cannot eliminate length height or width we must reduce it in time

10th of Bargenholt, Late Morning, The Machinist's Guildhall
Ira Kershwin's Office

Ira's mornings of late were showing a distressing tendency to involve disruptions of the natural order of the world. A death predicted before it happens; a question answered before it was actually asked; in short, output given without the proper input. She wasn't accustomed to this sort of thing. Which was not in and of itself a bad thing, because what Ira was accustomed to was a morning full of checking and cross-checking reports, and auditing, and occasionally (on an exciting day) sending off a few memos politely badgering people about their expense reports. Coming to work without knowing what she was going to encounter was a new and exciting experience.

It wasn't that Ira preferred boredom, exactly; but she had to admit it was a relief to return to the Guild ledgers for a little while, where everything was safe and ordinary and ran exactly as expected. It was reassuring to know that there were parts of her job that she still knew how to do.

Ira licked her finger, turned over a page, and AUGH jumped six inches off her chair and nearly knocked over her inkpot. She fumbled to catch it before it spilled. "AAH! Yes! Er, come in!"

By the time the other machinist had entered the door she had the inkpot settled and was busily adjusting her papers, pretending she hadn't just nearly spoiled a morning's work because a knock on the door had startled her. Ira folded her hands and peered at Claye, then immediately unfolded them to remove her spectacles. Did she have an appointment... no, no, she was sure she would have remembered.

"And how may I help you today, Miss Kilnmyr?"

[Swordslinger]

8th of Bargenholt
Arena
After the Chaos
Amandre

After the demon died the others left one after the other. He did not recover the dagger that was stuck in the demons throat, just as he had not taken any of the throwing knifes he had used in the fight earlier. He considered them tainted, there was no telling what lingering effect demons blood would have upon the weapon. Using one of the clean throwing knifes he had he made a cut upon one of his arm, he lifted his arm above his head hand looked up. Blood fell down upon his face. The wound on his arm was not serious, he knew where to cut. Tearing a part of his clouting off he tied up the wound, the makeshift bandage was hidden under the cloth coving the arm which was still whole. He tore off cloth from his other arm and died it around half his head, covering most of his head. Now it looked like he had a wound to his face that that been bandaged, the real reason was to hide most of his face, making him harder to recognize later. Soon after he finished light from torches appeared in the room, soldiers of the empire had turned up to investigate. They led him out and interrogated him about what had happened there, he told them of the events truthfully and who he worked for. After that they where to busy to take much notice of him and he slipped away at an opportune moment before anyone could arrive to render medical assistance to his nonexistent wound.

8th of Bargenholt
Darran Manor
Evening


He stood outside the manor, leaning to wall. There was no one who could see him standing within the shadow from this angle. He put his focus into the shadows around him, it was like he gained a new sense, a new pair of eyes. Even standing there with his eyes closed he could see that shadows in the area around him, any one of them he could reach. Although he could not see anything about what was in the area around them. As if the whole world had gone dark and the only light he was able to see was the shadows. He “saw” the shadow someplace beneath him, one moment he was standing outside the manor, the next he was in his room in the basement below the building. The whole thing had only taken a few seconds. He took of his torn clothes, washed up, went to bed and entered a restless sleep filled with demons.

[VonDoom]

9th of Bargenholt
Early Morning
The Residence of Tarin Ardalion, the Grand Inquisitor of House Levant

It was the early morning when a messenger appeared with a letter for the Grand Inquisitor, insisting on orders to deliver the letter only directly into his hands and no other.

Spoiler

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OOC: If Musashi wishes to pick up on this opportunity, the servant mentioned can easily be Eiko. I've left it vague and without much of a description for that purpose. So you can easily add in details and play the delivery out if you like.

The letter begins with a very formal greeting, employing the proper form one would when addressing a man such as Tarin in writing; the writ is very clean, yet stylized. It appears as if a brush had been used to apply the ink in very precise strokes that make the message appear quite beautiful.


I would like to extend my apologies for not recognizing your person at the gathering the day before. We only passed each other briefly, yet perhaps you recall my own person, as I am quite convinced I was the only man of Ikokuan origin in the Diamond Club Terrace. As you are no doubt aware I, as well as some others bold enough not to seek immediate flight, went after the heretically transformed creature the subject of the event had become and struck it down. As you surely also have already confirmed, the creature's claws and teeth appeared to have a transforming, or perhaps infecting, property; you may rest assured that none of us were actually harmed in the process of ending the thread d'Lupil presented and thus face no danger of becoming the very thing we have slain.

Unfamiliar as I yet am with local culture and the propriety of such things, I should recommend that the Arena be closed and quarantined for the immediate future and that a thorough exorcism is performed before any thoughts as to opening it for further business are entertained.

In the same vein, I ask that you come visit me at the former Manor d'Lupil at your earliest convenience. I have made a discovery which I believe you should examine personally, possibly with a detail of your men of whatever number you deem appropriate. While it is an urgent matter, I would ask your discretion, as surely the populace is already panicked enough by the happenings of yesterday that we need alarm them no further.

Sincerely,


At the bottom of the letter is what can only be the man's signature, but looks more like a strange set of symbols or runes than anything else. It is, in fact, Mikado's full name and title in Ikokuan symbol-letters, something easily guessed with the basest of knowledge about his nation of origin.

[Jade_Tarem]

10th of Bargenholt, Late Morning, Ira Kershwin's Office

Claye strides in cheerfully, hesitating for a moment when she sees the stacks of expense reports - the short mechanic was notoriously bad about turning them in on time, and realized at that moment that hers were late again.

Deciding not to comment on it, Claye sits in one of the guest chairs in the office and hauls a small writing pad out from her largest belt pouch. "Ah've been lookin' fer a certain rogue homunculus in my spare time, and Ah came up with a couple of questions fer someone with your special talents." She taps the pad. "Ah've worked out the approximate monthly supplies required to keep a homunculus operational - now, fer day-to-day operations yeh jus' need combustible materials an' water, but fer longer periods yeh've got t' find some additional maintenance materials - lubricants, spare parts, an' the like. They're still all fairly easy to come by - that was one of the design specifications - but I was wonderin' how yeh'd go about procurin' 'em if yeh couldn't show your face in any legitimate shop." Claye leans back. "Black marketeers ain't gonna carry stuff like that - the market for it is basically one guy with no money, right? And stealin' it or salvagin' it secondhand is goin' to wear him out eventually - plus it ain't a steady supply source. Add that to the fact that he can't spend too much time outside the seedier parts of the city an' I was hoping that you or that machine of yours could recommend a lead."

10th of Bargenholt, Approaching Midnight, The Boilerworks

The Guildhall Boilerworks were one of the most dangerous places in Taelarys. Constructed entirely for efficiency and output, little care had been given to working conditions or safety features, and the Boilerworks were often among the first things cited by those touting the evils of technology. This was ironic because the Boilerworks functioned precisely as intended, providing steam power and plenty of it to whatever contraptions were properly connected to the output, many floors up. Fortunately, they did not require constant supervision - monthly maintenance was sufficient to keep the titanic machinery running, and the massive cast-iron structures were nearly immune to damage from anything short of siege equipment.

The room itself was enormous, easily three stories tall and running under almost the entire area of the Guildhall. Naturally, supports had been put in place to stabilize the structure above it, and those supports were likewise close to invincible. Two years ago, unknown dissidents had set off a powerful explosion near several of the supports. Not only did it go unnoticed amidst the general ambient noise, but the only evidence of it was some charring on the main pillars that was later scrubbed off.

Catwalks and scaffolding abounded, and thin safety railings were the only concession made to the well being of anyone inside. The whole area was intensely hot and frequently hovered near 100% humidity. Any loss of balance or footing that was not caught by the railings resulted in either a long drop, or a short drop onto a surface hot enough to ignite clothing by touch.

All of the heat-resistant materials, coupled with its isolation, made it the ideal place for practice.

Even before the Lord's Arena had turned into a murder circus, Claye had been determined to get her edge back. The events of the 8th had done nothing to change her mind. She knew that she was getting stronger magically, although with no new materials to study she was stuck playing with fire, but to improve on the combat skills that she'd picked up along the way, Claye needed something else.

A sparring partner.

A heavy clank announced that her opponent had arrived. "Good to see you again, Miss Kilnmyr. I see you've got your tools with you this time. A recent windfall from the Arena, perhaps?"

"Ah don't operate like that, an' you know it. Ah bought all this with earnings from a legitimate contract." Claye, once again in her battle mage outfit, pulled the #13 from her back and held it in one hand.

"More's the pity. You could get ahead in life much faster by seizing every advantage." The Guildmaster smiled. She wore the same heavy clothing that she did for every occasion, despite the heat - Mirrim Pathric didn't seem to feel it at all. "This world will break you yet, Claye."

"Cripes, who turned your key the wrong way today?" Claye smacked the Big Iron against the railing, and it made an extremely satisfying *CLANG* - as it was 1.2 meters of durium-coated steel, she expected nothing less.

Pathric didn't rise to the bait. "You're the one who's all wound up here, Claye. What say we do something about that?"

"Suits me!"

Pathric was rumored to suffer from constant pain. It was rumored that she had trouble getting around, struggled to control her experimental limbs, and was in general quite sickly. This was all, as far as Claye could tell, a lie. The Guild Master's first move was to jump clear off the catwalk and disappear over one of the giant boilers. Claye grimaced - those artificial limbs could take a lot more heat than any human set of feet, and it allowed Mirrim to get away with running around on surfaces that would kill normal people. Her clothes were, of course, flame retardant.

Claye knew that she was probably still being watched, even through the gloom. The Guildmaster's hit-and-run tactics had given her a serious edge last time, but now Claye had a counter. The mechanic couldn't resist crowing out loud. "Fortunately - ah say fortunately, Ah keep this around fer just such an occasion." She pulled a small device from her belt - the same one Ghedim had toyed with briefly when he'd entered her shop - and pushed a small button before throwing it into the air and averting her eyes.

A blinding flash lit up the Boilerworks for a moment, and when it was over Claye immediately darted toward the nearest corner of the catwalk, leaping over it and rolling between to obscenely large pumps. The two women began to stalk each other. Her legs are made of metal, how hard can it be...?

The pair had, months before, agreed that their sparring sessions in the Boilerworks could feature any tactics, devices, magics, martial arts, or dirty tricks that they felt comfortable bringing. It was a dangerous city, and they knew that attempting to enforce a 'fair' fight would be pointless anyway, so they decided to approach each of these monthly get-togethers like an actual fight.

Several minutes passed as Claye moved quietly about the arena. Eventually she saw something move through the gloom. Not quite foolish enough to open fire on it indiscriminately, she crept closer. Eventually she heard a noise over the machinery.

*tick* *tick* *tick* *tick* *tick* ... *pause* ... *tick* *tick* *tick* *tick* *tick* *tick* *tick* ... *pause* ... *tick* *tick* *tick*

Claye frowned. It wasn't any kind of timer. It almost sounded like some kind of tiny creature, crawling on a metal surface. Looking up, she peered into the steamy darkness and finally saw the tiny thing - a small machine of some kind that really was crawling on the boiler. The Guild Master had zillions of those things, although Claye could never figure out what they did. Looking closer, she could see a small cable running from its back, that likely led back to...

Claye channeled her power and fired off the strongest blast of magic she could, flames exploding upward and outward in a blast that could have killed several men. Her intuition proved correct - Pathric had opted to leap over her little toy and come down at Claye, and with nothing to grab, she jumped straight into the blast. Her organic arm, however, was holding something in front of her that Claye hadn't seen her walk in with - a huge piece of sheet metal, which the Guild Master ditched after the arcane fire had dissipated.

The taller woman landed with a loud *CLONG* and immediately charged Claye - there was no sense in keeping her distance when the shorter mechanic could shoot fire, after all. Claye fell back, using the Big Iron to deflect attacks - never to block them, since experience had taught her that Pathric's artificial limbs were strong enough to pulverize her if she tried it. Their flurry of blows came to an end when Claye saw her opening and ducked under Mirrim's kick, sweeping the taller woman's remaining leg out from under her. Bringing the Big Iron up and over, she swung downward - only to have the tool twist in midair and smack right into Pathric's arm instead of coming level with her head. The downed woman dropped the tool and rolled to her feet with astonishing speed, grabbing Claye by the throat and lifting her off the ground. "End?"

"End." Claye choked out. This was indeed checkmate - the bionic limb was more than strong enough to crush her windpipe.

The Guild Master dropped Claye without hesitation. Claye rubbed her throat and looked at her multitool. "Magnetism, huh? That's a new one."

"Well, you never came at me with a steel weapon before." Mirrim replied, reasonably. "That was much closer this time, and it's not just the tools - your magic is getting stronger too."

"That's good t' hear." Claye collected her Big Iron and swayed on her feet - combat in the Boilerworks had a tendency to drain one's energy quickly. "Same time next month?"

"Of course."

[DJDeMiko]

10th of Bargenholt: 4:00 pm
Lord's Arena: Jameson's Office
Jameson

Jameson appeared as a different person to Ms. Twill. They had both managed a nap and Jameson had bathed and dressed. He greeted her with his old smile, a radiant toothy affair that seemed to suggest he knew a great joke and that he wanted to share it with her. His rage seemed forgotten, his attack on her forgotten.

"Ms. Twill," Jameson says, "Glad to see you are rested."

"Yes sir . . . you as well." She sounded unsure but continued. "I have an update from your source about the investigation. They will let us open the blade, knife and dagger tomorrow morning, they say their is no taint there . . ."

"And the Arena? When can I open it up again, if I have an chance of surviving this we need to open again quickly."

She frowned and shook her head, "Your source says no, he said it took all of his favors to get what he has and that he won't be able to speed the rest of it up."

Jameson frowns. "Damn him, let him know that this only cancels half his debt. What about the Diamond club."

"Good news and bad sir," she says and looks to a small sheet of paper in her hand. "We have actually had 7 new applicants today . . . bizarrely, they actually seemed excited at the prospect of being members of the club that Prince was almost killed in."

"Almost killed? He stood there watching as those men . . ." Jameson frowns and his right hand raised involuntarily to his wounded shoulder. "He was never in danger and had he wanted to, he wouldn't have even needed his guards help to kill all of them."

Ms. Twill coughs. "That was Bursop's idea sir, your file suggested using counter roomers to make a disaster sound exciting, he has discreetly using a few contacts to suggest the Prince was stabbed and almost died. It seems that some have believed it."

Jameson smile returns. "Twice in one day, the man shows that I didn't pay a tenth of his worth when I bought him."

[BladeofObliviom]

5th of Bargenholt
Afternoon
The City of Brightsteel

Breeze wafted pleasantly by the inn as the covert meetings took place inside.

We cannot afford to continue supporting the Northern Raiders! If it becomes too obvious, Taelar might bring its full might down upon us!

Don't be a fool. You know that Taelar's Sorcerous Houses have been trying to shut us down for years! If they aren't brought down, we WILL lose our livelihoods!

Gentlemen, relax. Continue the shipments, but let Taelarys actually get a few. If they are convinced of our loyalty, they will suspect that the raiders are being supplied by one of their many other enemies. Relax, and watch as Taelarys falls...


Plot Ticket: Rebel Alliance

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The City of Brightsteel is entrenched in a conspiracy to aid various rebel groups in bringing down Taelarys. The mayor and the owners of the two primary mining companies are selling Brightsteel for very cheap prices to rebel groups, while simultaneously cutting off most of the supply to Taelarys. This is resulting in Brightsteel being priced in an absolutely exorbitant manner, with even some Noble houses unable to afford it.

Simultaneously, the Sorcerous Houses are somewhat pleased that Brightsteel is harder to come by these days, as it was previously an important check upon the power of the Sorcerers.

Finally, any Sorcerers fighting the rebellion are becoming more and more useless as Rebel Forces gain access to Brightsteel Armor and Weaponry.

Story Element: The City of Brightsteel:

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Brightsteel is a City to the Southeast of Taelarys, and named for its primary export. It is the only major source of Brightsteel in the Empire of Taelar, and one of very few in the world. As such, it is very large for a mining town.

Story Element: Brightsteel:

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Brightsteel is an exceedingly rare metal, mined from special deposits supposedly touched by the gods themselves. It is similar to normal iron with a very slight luminescence, which is where its name comes from. It is prized for one quality alone: While too rare to make actual armor out of, a sheen of Brightsteel on top of actual armor has potent antimagic properties. While it is possible to break through the field with sufficient magical ability, it poses a significant hindrance to Sorcerers and Warlocks.

[the_druid_droid]

9th of Bargenholt
1PM
House Levant

The iron door leading to the Halls of Truth clanged shut behind Tarin, cutting off a low wail that had risen from somewhere deeper in the complex. Fishing out his pocket watch, the Inquisitor checked the time, then strode up the stairs and out into the main courtyard of House Levant.

Early spring sun was shining out over the grounds, glinting off the inlaid silver traceries of a waiting carriage, and a gentle wind rustled the trees in a nearby garden. Heedless of the familiar scenery, Tarin opened the door and silently climbed into the carriage which jolted off a moment later; as the driver steered his horses down the winding path leading from the cul-de-sac by the Tower out toward the city proper, the Inquisitor steepled his hands in thought.

“What do we know about Tatsudoshi-no-Mikado?”

Revin was the first to volunteer information. “Well, he arrived in Taelarys recently, on the ship from Ikoku. By all accounts, he came out looking half-starved, but there’s no dobut he’s rich, and instead of being stuck on that ship under the watchful eye of Customs, he’s out and moving around the city.”

“You think he has connections?”

“That, or immense personal charm; the dock patrols have gotten strict lately. As you already know, he acquired d’Lupil’s old house before the man was halfway to prison. That drew a lot of attention, good and bad, from the other nobles, but it’s possible he wanted it that way. Also, I don’t know if you saw him fighting in the Club, but he definitely knows how to wield a sword; given his background, I’d bet he trained as a martial artist.”

“Any chance he’s a cultist?” A wry smile played on Tarin’s lips at the suggestion.

Maxis, looking for an opportunity to show off his knowledge of the Crimson Cult, piped up. “That’s unlikely, sir. The wisest course of action for a cultist during the execution would have been to stay out of sight; his attendance at the event, along with his status as a newcomer seem to run counter to the idea that he would be a supporter.”

“Maxis?” The Grand Inquisitor’s eyes flicked toward the blonde-haired noble. “I was kidding. But noted, thank you.” The trace of a blush was visible on the junior Inquisitor’s face, who looked vaguely like a boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “Now, is there any other news to go over before we arrive?”

“You might be interested to know that one of my men ran into Sevran d’Morn the other day.” Revin didn’t glance up, trying to hide his obvious amusement at Maxis’ fumble.

Tarin’s eyebrow raised a fraction. “And he’s still in one piece? You should promote him.”

“Believe me, I know he did a good job. He didn’t get the man’s name directly, but Sevran is the only noble that matches his description. According to his report, he’s been hiding out in the Grey District because his siblings are trying to bump him off.”

“What else is new in House d’Morn? Still, they say that he might be the most level-headed of the bunch. I almost think I’d like to meet him; he’d certainly be more entertaining than the usual stuffy nobles - no offense, Maxis.” Tarin grinned wider as his subordinate dipped his head.

Before the Grand Inquisitor could ask anything else, the carriage began to slow, and his attention was diverted by the sight of the approaching mansion. Although some scaffolding was visible along the side of the house, and signs of the decadent noble’s neglect were apparent here and there, it was difficult to argue that d’Lupil had once possessed excellent taste. Mikado had very likely gotten the best deal in town when he’d purchased it, provided the little surprise that was the occasion of Tarin’s visit wasn’t so bad as it sounded.

Moments later, the carriage rolled to a stop, and the horses nickered softly as the passengers filed out and began to head up the flagstone path toward the door. The group was quite a sight; the Inquisitors were clad in their long formal cloaks, which billowed behind them as they walked, and Marcos marched beside them, encased head to foot in his heavy black armor. As if on cue, they stopped together before the door to Mikado’s new home, and Tarin’s thin hand reached out to heft the bronze knocker.

[The_Snark]

10th of Bargenholt, Late Morning, the Machinist's Guildhall
Ira Kershwin's Office

"Ah." Ira brightened. Logistical issues! She could do that. "Yes, that's a promising tack. I know most of the suppliers in the city, so I should be able to tell you who has what the Crusader needs and who doesn't. I'll contact them to ask if anyone's been suffering from unexplained property losses recently."

Ira drummed her fingers on the desk, thinking. "Of course, it's possible he has somebody to buy them for him—someone who can show their face without making a fuss, I mean. If I were made of bronze I'd probably pay somebody to run errands in public for me. That's going to be a bit more difficult to find; I can cross-check the list of guild purchases against recent sales, but asking for a list of sales is rather irregular. And quite a lot of our members don't have up-to-date reports filed."

She frowned. "Maybe it would be easier to just ask the manufacturers if they've had any new regular customers in the past few months."

[Kasanip]

8th of Bargenholt
A certain doctor
Evening
Eris

The pout and expression on Eris' face was large and annoyed. Going to a doctor was always the same experience. The faint scar on her back was a problem for them. Always the question if it was a burn. The smarter ones might recognize it as a Ostrim seal. But there was a problem of unfortunate accidents at their place soon after. Fire was very good at eating things. She wanted to incinerate the Prince at that meeting. He reminded her too much of the Emperor 200 years ago. But she was injured too. Really she hadn't been this hurt in about 30 years or so. Probably during that last war...

The actual problem was they expected her to be a child, and treated her like one. The nurses always gasped in horror at the wound, or tried to comfort her. They always asked problem questions, or complimented her unusual white hair.
So today it was the same. She was sitting as patiently as she could with an arm held out (helpfully held by a nurse) while they wrapped a bandage over her shoulder. The bruises on her chest she could survive, if they didn't keep checking to see if she had broken bones.

Fortunately she didn't have it. But the nurses and doctor always repeated she should find another job or location.
"I'm under contract." She always replied. It was true, but the nurses probably had a wrong idea.
They finished with the bandage and then held out the medicine for her to drink.
Even in 200 years, Eris was a child about this though. But she thought she couldn't be blamed. Since she had drank a similar alchemical medicine that was to cure age. And that had given her this life, and all of the good things and problems it had. She didn't need some healing medicine.

And it tasted so bitter.

Despite her protests though, the nurses chided she had to endure it. At least this was finished.
The servant dress was ruined of course with blood, but that was Jameson's concern, not hers. Later Eris would change to her own clothes again. And then get some sleep. She escaped from the doctor in a dark mood.

She walked in the hallway in a dark mood to the garden area. But fate had a different plan. Entering the garden, there was a certain noble she remembered from the arena incident. This one was the Ostrim one. This one the Prince had hit. Eris tried to hide her frown.

"Good evening, sorcerer." She tiredly greeted.

[Lady Serpentine]

8th of Bargenholt
A certain doctor
Evening
Eris, Kyranis, Liella

Who was this girl? She must know him, somehow, for he certainly wasn't wearing house colors. Though she did look familiar, now that he thought of it... That was it. She was a servant at the arena. The one who'd avoided him, or seemed to. But that was reasonable enough; when there was a prince with an ill-temper to serve, a simple sorcerer was unlikely to rate consideration. And then, of course, the various disasters had started, and she was hardly going to serve drinks amidst that, was she?

After the brief pause while he thought all this, he spoke, his voice pained. Which probably had something to do with the odd angle his shoulder was at, and the obvious bruises on his jaw.

"Good evening to you, as well. I'm glad you made it out alive. I -"

He broke off suddenly. The woman next to him, probably his Bond-Mate, who he was half-supporting and half being supported by, had chosen that moment to offer Eris a smile, and what might have been an attempt at a greeting, though she stopped almost instantly, wincing, at which Kyranis gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze, looking at her with concern. Though, strangely, unlike the concern most members of a Sorcerous House would have shown for one which was purely of the type that might be seen for a rare and expensive animal, there was actual warmth in his gaze; it seemed that he really did care for the woman.

((OOC: If they wouldn't just be arriving, let me know, and I'll fix the part about his voice and their injuries.))

[TheDarkDM]

8th of Bargenholt
The Aftermath
The Lord's Arena

Crawling from the hole in the bloody Arena stand, Ghedim took a moment to brush the cobwebs of the tunnel from his stained finery. As he did so, he noticed wisps of acrid steam beginning to rise from his blood-soaked gloves. Tearing them from his hands with a grunt of disgust, he tossed the disintegrating leather back into the darkness.

"Good to see you're still taking pains in your appearance. If you abandoned your vanity, we'd be in real trouble."

Turning, Ghedim spared Azlian a wry smile while straightening his cravat.

"Well of course. I couldn't sweep a lovely maiden off her feet looking like a farmer, now could I?"

As Azlian chuckled, the two Rhetizians linked arms and sauntered out of the arena, seemingly oblivious of the piles of bodies surrounding them.

10th of Bargenholt
Early Morning
The Homes of Heroes

Two days after the debacle at the arena, a knock came at the doors of Eiko, Mikado, Claye, Anselme, and Amandre. Before any could respond, a letter was slipped beneath the crack, the messenger disappearing into the morning mist. Written on heavy parchment, the letters were sealed with the deep purple seal of Rhetiz, the wax cracking with a crisp snap.

Dear Sir,

You are cordially invited to a celebration of Rhetizian culture and art at the Rhetizian Embassy two days hence. Your heroism and skill have greatly impressed the Lord al Rastrim and Lady al Sudel, and they wish to confer a place of honor upon you this special night.

10th of Bargenholt
Midnight
Far in the Western Sea

Silence. It spread over the the rolling ocean like a thick blanket, stifling the whispers of the deep and the mournful wail of the sky. It was an unnatural stillness, a stillness that defied all logic amid the season of storms and sudden gales, and yet it's heart was unremarkable, a patch of water scarcely a hundred miles from the shore of the Empire. For hours the silence hung, as clouds drifted into the quiet night and were transfixed, until all the world was as a painting in a dusty gallery.

And then a spark.

The space of a breath was all it took, for night to become day as a pillar of infernal light burst from the depths. The whirling flames coiled around each other, crimson and black and purple piercing the vault of heaven and exploding into a second sun. The still clouds became a maelstrom, drawn inexorably into the flames, igniting into a blanket of falling stars as the sea bent under the weight of it. The shockwave spread outwards with a scream, a wild beast tearing through the night, annihilating all other sound in its path. As it hit the shore, seaside villages exploded into flames, sedentary animals went mad with rage, and the sick, the young, and the old felt their lives torn from them. And then, as quickly as it had come, the flame guttered out, leaving a glowing stain upon the sky visible from Taelarys and beyond.

Deep in the citadel of the Mechanists Guild, the Prognostication Engine sprang to life, its gears whirling furiously until they glowed red hot. Electrum ribbon flew smoking from its feed slot, carrying mad gibberish.

Unkown Input...
Error...
Errorr...
Errrr...

WARNING. WARNING. WARNING. UNKNOWN INPUT. REDIRECT QUERY. OVERFLOW. OVERFLOW. OVERFL-

It comes. Night travels at its heels. The blood of the world burns. All shall die in its wake. Repent. Repent. Repent.

It comes. It comes. It comes. He comes. Comes. Comes. Comes. ComesComesComesCOMESCOMESCOMESCOMESREPENT

Plot Ticket

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For a week after the strange event in the West, magic across the world will be affected in strange ways. Healing, divination, and defensive magics are all impeded, while offensive, illusory, or compulsion magics are all empowered. No one knows the cause of these changes, and after a week they will fade into memory.

[Swordslinger]

10th of Bargenholt
Morning
Darran Manor
Amandre

Amandre knocked on the heavy oak door and almost immediately it opened to allow him entrance to the office of Banyn d’Darran who was sitting in front of his desk while his son was sitting in a chair by the wall while drinking from a glass of wine. “This came for you today” Banyn pointed toward the desk, the only thing that lay on the desk was a parchment letter with a broken seal. Banyn picked it up and gave it to Amandre “Read it”. Amandre looked on the letter and begun to read but quickly ran into problems “co..cord..i..” Banyn made a sigh and snapped the letter back and read it out loud. “Do you understand how important this is? Rhetizian nobility will be attending, a superb opportunity make contacts within Rhetiz. Peros will be accompanying you and take care of that part, just you do your best to make a good impression of yourself“. A snort came from the corner of the room “He could not fool anyone into thinking he was a normal human being, there is not enough time to train him even in the bare minimum of social etiquette.” Banyn made a heavy sigh “Hopefully he won’t need to have any longer conversations”

Amandre left the office, somehow he felt very tired even if it was early in the day.

[Kasanip]

8th of Bargenholt
A certain doctor
Evening
Eris, Kyranis, Liella

Eris looked suspicious, until she saw Kyranis turn to his Bond-Mate. Eris sighed and touched her face with a hand.
"Thank you." She responded strangely. It was pleasant surprise for the greeting.

"Aren't you a sorcerer of House Ostrim?" She asked calmly, but with a little curiosity and false boring.
"And you must be... His wife?" Eris asked the woman politely. She had a different thought of who the woman was. But she would wait to hear the sorcerer explain.

It was a troubling feeling when Eris looked at them. It made her irritated. Or something different. She didn't know.
She stepped out of the way.
"I'm sure we can talk after you see the doctor." She suggested. "I'll wait in the garden."

It would be a good chance for her to remember.

[Lady Serpentine]

8th of Bargenholt
A certain doctor
Evening
Eris, Kyranis, Liella

When Eris spoke to the woman, she simply shook her head slightly, and indicated her throat, which was badly bruised, as though someone had grabbed her from behind and tried to strangle her.

The sorcerer nodded gratefully, and started to move past her, saying "You're welcome. And I think that would be easiest for everyone."

((Does the doctor have magic available?))
(Answered.)

When they entered the room, the pair were quickly attended to, a nurse scurrying off for chairs, which they gratefully sat on when she returned, looking like just another pair of people injured in the fight, not necessarily even knowing each other. Though an observant person might have noticed that their first action upon taking their seats had been to slide the chairs closer, until the pieces of furniture were touching, in fact, and that the Sorcerer and his companion had remained in contact for the entire process, save when Kyranis momentarily released his Bond-Mate's hand, as one of the doctors popped his shoulder back into the proper place. The doctors, of course, and most especially the one currently observing Liella's neck, having just completed his inspection of the Sorcerer's jaw, were quite observant, but they were focused on the injuries the pair had sustained. As well, even had they caught it, there wasn't necessarily anything odd about that; they had no real clue who either of them were, save that Kyranis was a Sorcerer of House Ostrim, and Liella could easily have been his wife, a sister (though there wasn't much resemblance if that were the case), or simply a close friend.

"Fast healing for you, I think; that could swell up and kill you if not dealt with in a reasonably timely fashion. Or it might not, but there's no sense in taking chances."

The man turned to the sorcerer, saying "As for you, I believe that slow healing should be sufficient. Though naturally both of these are dependent on you each having sufficient money. It will cost -"

"Send the bill to House Ostrim. They will pay it. Now heal her!"

The healer murmured a word to start the healing of Kyranis's jaw as he began to turn back to Liella, bisibly paling at the order; while he was, naturally enough for one who had to do magic in public, a member of a Sorcerous House, he was of the lowest rank, though quite good at what he did, as evidenced by the fact that at a muttered phrase, the Bonded's throat, while still sore, was no longer bruised, and she could speak without terrible pain.

The two stood, and, still lightly holding each others hands, walked out into the garden.

[Nefarion Xid]

10th of Bargenholt
Early Morning
Fortress of the Rose: Anselme's Bedroom

It wasn't rightly known if the man ever truly slept. On some nights he'd stroll in just before dawn and precede to cheerily make breakfast for everyone (using Raina's provisions, of course). Other times his bedroom door was locked until mid afternoon, but when he did emerge, he was as pleasant and jovial as ever. He always looked and felt like a man who'd had too much champagne the night before only to wake up to a curious amalgamation of euphoria and a hangover. It was entirely possible Anselme was a wretched drunk and that his good humor and charm were only the misinterpreted attempts assail everyone and everything and that, the only thing he hated more than himself was the world.

Unfortunately, no one had ever smelled liquor on his breath and that sort of conjecture was a brief and not entirely serious attempt to justify why any man could be so bloody likeable.

Anselme was a man who kept his darkness to himself, neatly crumpled up and shoved under the bed like a proper gentlemen. If he were drunk, he'd never let anyone know just how drunk he really was. And when he truly didn't have the strength of character to face the world, he, like a proper gentlemen, shut himself in his chambers so as not to affect anyone else with his loathing.

He'd awoken some hours prior. Both eyes had shot open and the haze of sleep as gone before he next blinked. It was the mind's way of telling you, that's enough of that, wake up so you can pay attention. Rising from bed he turned instinctively towards the west (though, he couldn't have told you what direction it was) and watched and listened. For hours he stood frozen, bare feet planted on the cold stone floor, aching and numb. Sweat beaded on his brow. The pores on his neck stung, itchy and clammy, draped beneath his unbound burnt gold hair. Rivulets of perspiration flowed freely down his naked back. Silent, vigilant and terrified, he stood watching the nondescript spot on his wall until the first dim light of dawn seeped under his tightly drawing curtains.

He breathed fully at last and vigorously scratched his scalp and back. Sweeping his cold, wet hair back he went to the draped mirror on his desk. Cautiously, he eclipsed his right eye with his fingers and drew off the black cloth covering the looking glass. For several moments he sat hunched over the desk, staring into the mirror with half his face covered. At last he summoned up the courage to part his fingers.

"Letter for you, Anselme," said the quiet voice belonging to Bradford in the corridor, meant to politely state that, if Anselme were awake, there was a letter for him.

Still not quite himself, Anselme went to the door and threw it open, still holding his hand over his eye. It was the only part of him that was covered. Bradford, having not expected any reply, was crouched down and in the act of slipping the purple sealed parchment beneath the door when it flew open. He shielded both his eyes and recoiled instantly.

"Yes, well... come to breakfast in an hour and I'll have some sort of snide comment for you then," sighed Anselme sleepily before retrieving the letter from the floor and snapping the door shut.

[DJDeMiko]

10th of Bargenholt: 6:00 pm
Lord's Arena: Jameson's Office
Jameson

Jameson looked up from his paperwork as the Ralcious entered the room. The Wendingo was dressed . . . somewhat. He wore pants and boots, though the boots did seem to be some sort of soft animal hide, a shirt and a vest. Not exactly current style, but Jameson figured it might be hard to clothe a man his size.

"I really could have used you," Jameson says politely and with only a hint of annoyance in his voice.

Ralcious seems to have a struggle with himself, Jameson can tell he is normally a man of few words.

"Mah family had teh be seen to," he says with an accent so thick it is hard to understand. "It was part of meh contract with yeh . . . Sir." He struggled on the word Sir but seemed to have made his peace with the arrangements.

Jameson shrugs, "Very true. Your family is settling in well then? Your son is healthy and strong?

Ralcious nods and then pauses as if considering the answer. Instead he changes the subject. His voice rumbles deeply, "I am not yer slave? Mah family . . . we are not slaves? You expect meh teh fight for yeh, to put mah life on the line, teh do as yeh say, but we are not slaves?"

Jameson stands up, standing he is almost as tall as Ralcious sitting, "Ralcious, I am your employer, not your owner. I have freed your family, freed you and you have signed a contract. You are now contractually obligated to stay in my employ until you have paid off the debt I incurred while purchasing the three of you. I showed you the contracts, your contract to me is the exact cost I paid. You entered the contract of your freewill. You have no shackles, no bars, you will go to bed with your wife and see your son. You could even run away, though I would try to track you down. Call it what you wish, but legally you are a free man."

Ralcious considers this for some time while Jameson waits patiently. Jameson hides his fear, for this is the moment of truth, his plans for his new force of guards hinged on this man's religious considerations. The Wendingo believe that being caged, being a slave, is a fate worse than death. That it stole there souls.

Ralcious finally nods and says "Then I am not yer slave. My people, we dunnuh have contracts, but weh have promises. My father once promised to serve the leader of clan MacGlamis. My father was a fierce man, no slave. A promise isnah being bound like a slave. I shall serve yeh until my promise is over, I shall serve yeh as free man."

Jameson smiles and is about to speak when Ralcious interupts, "Yer not a good man, I dunno think yer a bad one either, but yer not good. I know what yeh did and why yeh did it. But I owe yeh, I have only been in this city fer a few months and I know that I would have ent up dead, my wife a forced prostitute and my son dead in a factory, all slaves, my line woulda ended with our family dead without souls to move on. I owe yeh and I'll serve yeh faithfully."

Jameson nods happily and says, "Good, good and in that case I have a first mission for you, its one I think you will enjoy. I have been having an associate find the rest of your Clan. I plan to make the same bargain with them that I made with you and I want you to help me convince them . . ."

[Xondoure]

8th of Bargenholt
The Lord’s Arena

Among the lords and ladies gathered to witness the death of a traitor like so many vultures hovered around a dying animal, Malharus ir Tramontae made little impression. His shaved head and dark robes marked him as a magic user but there were many more such here that it made no noticeable increase. If anyone were to take any notice at all it was that instead of a bond mate a young slave stood waiting at his masters side eyes absorbing the flashing colors and quiet roar of high society with dangerously intelligent eyes.

The Fights Begin

Dolen watched with wide eyes as the condemned noble cut a bloody path through his opponents. He could almost feel the last cries of the dead as they rang out over the arena. This was not battle, but slaughter. And memories of a different man were screaming at him. This was not the same gutless noble who had been so easily accosted by the inquisitor’s. That man would barely have lasted the second round. Who or whatever was fighting in the arena was something else entirely, and something about its gleeful destruction of the living set him on edge.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I regret to inform you that there is a small, but very real fire in the direction of the kitchen. Should be under control quite quickly, but until it is, we," he gestured to himself in the royal sense, "Would appreciate your cooperation in temporarily vacating the premises in an orderly fashion. This is only a safety precaution and we do appreciate your cooperation in this matter!"

As chaos began to seep into the stands Malharus' eyes turned dark with anger.

"We are leaving. But you are to remain. Watch closely and tell me all that occurs."

The sorcerer made his way to the strange man in the eyepatch calling for the nobles to evacuate, his slave following behind him. But where they had stood a presence still remained, hovering on the frantic energy of the arena.

The fifteenth round was about to begin when suddenly the words of the prince rang out as clear as if he was standing next to him, "My countrymen," he said causing an audible hush to fall through the arena. "On behalf of our emperor, I offer a new bounty to any man woman or slave who enters the arena, 100 sovereigns to the person who kills Davis, weapons have been made available to you."

With a sudden momentum only greed could coaxe out of men’s hearts hundreds poured into the ring hoping to taste the rewards of gold. They were met instead with the chastisement of iron. Still they pressed on, and as the bodies rose the number of newly slain began to slow. Thrusts and slashes which managed to pierce through the wall of death and into the form of D’lupil.

A last spear makes it past the line, and then the arena exploded. Bodies falling like raindrops onto the battlefield as the dust swirled up in strange and insidious shapes. Where the condemned had been a moment before now stood a gaping hole and all around it the dead were rising to turn against the living.

As chaos intruded the hearts of those still there filled with fear and blood lust until it drowned all else out. It was as if all of the doors had been flung wide open, all it had to do was step inside.

A noble woman watches with disgust as the events unfold around her. Moving from her seat she makes her way towards the closest guardsman. “Excuse me sir, but this cannot be considered safe!”

“Anyone who chooses to enter the ring accepts the risk of injury or death madam.”

“I’m not talking about them, I’m talking about us. Why it looks as though any criminal could just up and climb into the nobles section and-” Whatever she had been about to say was cut short by a piercing scream as the guard appeared to dry up and collapse against the wall before her eyes. His expression trapped in a look of mild surprise turned to horror by cold dead skin and sunken eyeless pits. Rattled with shock the young woman staggers out towards the evacuation line trying to balance herself against a sudden wave of dizziness.

Elsewhere another noble drew a dagger he had kept concealed under his garb. He glanced nervously at his companions once before locating his target. Trying to keep their movements hidden they moved with grim determination towards lord Jameson D’Milverton.

Unfortunately for these attempted assassins fate had other intentions. The noble looked back only to find to of his compatriots lying on the ground behind him. As soon as he had turned his attention back to his target he was met with screams of pain as two more of his fellow conspirators fell, pulling at needle like daggers as their blood began to pour over the steps.

Still it would be enough. D’Milverton had been cast out of the protection of the blood guard all they had to do was reach him and- Click.

KABLAM

As the compressor explodes, bit of metal are fired at high speeds in the direction of the highly unfortunate noble assassin. The metal comes screaming past, tearing into the flesh of those around him.

The assassin is slammed into the ground by the force of the explosion. He lifts himself up, shocked to be in one piece. Gripping his dagger tightly he races onwards. Jameson would learn in his last moments as life fled his body what it was to betray the brethren of the dark god.

Still misfortune plagued them. He was twenty feet away when the air exploded around the only other conspirator to survive the blast. His screams carrying across the chaos with pain only those who have been eaten by fire can truly comprehend. He was ten feet away now, so focused on these last critical seconds he barely noticed the clashing blades of the Black Hand and another member of the attempt an arms length away, or the sudden redirection of force towards D’Milverton’s serving girl. All that mattered was the dark god’s retribution. Leaping towards his target time seemed to slow.

“For the Crimson Eye!”

He felt the rush of victory as his blade moved with unerring purpose towards Jameson’s throat.

Staggering away the assassin turned his blade towards a member of Jameson’s staff but seemed unable to aim the blade as it spun off far to the side. Cursing he reached for another dagger.

"You fool!" the uninjured guard yells. "He isn't dead yet, we need him dead!"

The assassin shakes his head. Not dead? But surely he could not survive a cut across his windpipe. How could he not be dead? The assassin staggered forward trying to clear his thoughts as they began to split and dance around him. With creeping horror he remembered the sudden hesitation that had held him paralyzed sending the blade haphazardly into the shoulder of the man he meant to kill. “No, no I can’t have failed. The cost was too great.”

The assassin was saved from all further agonizing on the subject by a sword pommel to the head sending him swiftly into unconsciousness. Maxis d’Selmont sheathed his blade with a small grin on his face. Yet another gift for the grand inquisitor.

As the chaos began to subside Maxis watched the young serving girl Eris with curious eyes. He had seen her light that oil with magic of that he was sure. And it followed that the other acts of flame had also been her doing. And yet such magic seemed well beyond the abilities of a child. Such talent could be very dangerous in the wrong hands. Or very useful in the right ones.

Maxis’ musing come to an end with the sudden interruption of a young sorcerer o house Ostrim who seemed to be under the impression that Jameson had hired the people who had tried to kill him.

"You have killed a friend, and nearly done the same to another. You will face the judgment of Ostrim for your crimes. Unless the emperor takes you first, for aiding Davis."

"Do not presume to speak for the Emperor, sorcerer.”

Before the sorceror could respond, the prince brought his hand around in a whistling backhand. It was a lazy motion, almost bored, and delivered by a normal man would have left him with no more than ringing ears. But the arm behind the blow was of divine stock, and when it made contact it launched the sorcerer off his feet As his bond mate fell away, the sorceror flew through the air trailing blood and spittle, only to land against a pillar with the sickening pop of a dislocated shoulder. But Darston had already turned his attention away.

“Milverton, if you have the privilege to host another of the Empire's events, I hope you are able to provide less disappointing entertainment."

Down below those who dared to enter the hole begin to emerge one by one: tired but glad to be alive. The first above the surface is a Machinist. Klynmir a voice in his head remembers. The last of an old line, another chimes in.

Following behind her is the foreigner. His blade scorched and crumbling. His form appears frail and yet the thief remembered watching him move. That man was no stranger to battle.

He was followed by a Tengu who seemed to be under his employ. The thief recognized the bird-woman vaguely, but it was hard to forget such strange creatures.

A second machinist, Xavier D’Forza stumbled out of the hole, looking perhaps a bit more relieved at being alive than the others.

Another man walked out, bandaged heavily making his appearance hard to discern.

The last to exit was perhaps the most shocking. As the Rhetizian ambassador lifted himself up gracefully before discarding his blood stained gloves and swept up another Rhetizian noble as he left. No other man but Ghedim al Rastrim the thief thought to himself.

He remained for a while helping those who needed it and pocketing from those who could afford it before making his leave. Nothing else had stirred, and the cats would be waiting for their scraps.

8th of Bargenholt
Evening
Tower of Tramontae

“Will the inquisitor remember?”

“No. His memory is clouded, he will not discuss it with the Black Hand.”

“So Levant does not know?”

“This one does not think they do. Unless the grand inquisitor took notice himself, but his own struggle kept him otherwise engaged. He is aware there was magic, but this one does not think he knows the source.”

Malharus looked pleased.

“A white haired little girl who burned two men alive working at a gambling hole. Whoever she is, her power alone makes her valuable. Watch her closely, and tell me all you find. Something about this Eris seems all to familiar.”

[Erik Vale]

The Northen Edges of Mair Kan
A Small Cavern

Early Morning

The Ritual was complete, and a sound, much like a small explosion, sounded all over Tellares, the sound of the occasional magic experiment that produces those with magic in thier blood. Before the Day was out, the Sorcerous houses would be buzzing with news of a new sorcerous bloodline, Cat'l'lth thought.

'It wil be a while until We can perform the ritual again, but this proves it. This will be able to boost our own powers significantly. We will need him for the repeat though, just to make certain.'

'I agree brother. The next days afternoon atleast...'

Late Afternoon
'Why me, of all people why me. We're going to need to crush this rebellion now... My heaad...'

Alex was unaware that he was speeking aloud as he made best of his escape, his leather armour badly damaged holding a makeshift club, as he ran from the forest, each step more of a limp then a jog. Were any sorcerers around, they would be able to smell the magic eminating from him, a residue from the arcane magics. However, the only ones nearby were asleep or unconcious, and he had as much skill with magic as a deaf bat had at flight.

Plot Ticket

Spoiler

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New Sourcerous Bloodline, Alex's branch of the Greyhand Bloodline. Also introducing character into the game.

Story Ellements

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Creation of the ‘Greyhand’ Noble House:
A minor noble house that lives near the border of human settlement. A small house that works as warriors and mercenaries for the most part, that maintains it position by skilled use of force and trading, often of goods gained from warfare. Unlike most minor noble houses, the Greyhand has now affiliations, and isn’t actually an underling, being more a noble house. The Greyhand house trace their lineage to a great warrior, who received the land as a reward, it is said.

Creation of the ‘Greyhand Helki’:
A Martial Art’s style focusing on defence, Using blunt weaponry such as Spear’s, Staves and Unarmed Attacks. Used to defend oneself while crippling the opponent, lessening his ability to fight, until the martial artist is ready to land a killing blow. Practitioners of this art are hard to beat in a stand up fight, or in small numbers, due to the defensiveness of the art, as well as the crippling nature of its attacks.

Cat’l’lth Adrea:
Cat’l’lth is a rouge magician, and rather experimental, knowing many spells, most of a combat nature. Is part of a group of 5 wizards, however the other 4know very little, and look to him for guidance.

Stormwalker Bandits:
A Relitively powerful group of Rebels, lacking in armor but having many well armed members. Their leader is a disgraced and disowned nobleman, his liutenants being skilled wariors that were once his guards. The Leader is Amon Stormwalker, and they also have 5 wizards in thier group (See Cat'l'lth)

The Border lands:
The Border Lands a group of almost independent (almost in that it is comprised almost entirely of petty noblemen and is largely ignored ) city states along the south eastern edge of the empire, covering the area from the south eastern edges of Mair Kan on the eastern side of Telares, to the mid central area) It has a high crime rate, with much banditry and infighting, while the noblemen in the other areas perform their shadow war, in the borderlands they are almost in a constant state of city war, and just because they can, the land is a maze of alliances and betrayals no one really takes care of keeping track of. However they will come together under common goals, and should it be necessary they will fight as a large disciplined (If somewhat fractious) Army, with all its soldiers trained by constant warfare, and well able to do things as smaller detachments most other armies couldn’t. For the most part the terrain is rolling hills.

[daelrog]

10th of Bargenholt
Exentia Street
Noon

"Uh huh? Anything else?"

"Certainly M'Lord, but that's all this humble seller knows..." The old man gave a wink, signifying he wanted a bribe for any more rumors surrounding the debacle at the arena. 'Debacle' seemed the best choice of word to Sevran. Either that or 'load of rubbish'.

Sevran waved the offer away. "As much as I am trying to try to give a damn, I just can't seem to bring myself to."

While the man tried to figure out what Sevran had just said, the noble snatched an apple from the seller's stand, and without bothering to hide the deed, began to eat it as he walked away without paying. Sevran hadn't had a drink since he left the Grey District, and was more sober than he had been in over a year. He hated the feeling. The old man wanted to say something to Sevran, but knew better of it.

"Another day of licking the noble's boots..." The old man mumbled in frustration

[Kasanip]

8th of Bargenholt
A certain doctor, Garden
Evening
Eris, Kyranis, Liella

When Kyranis and Liella return to the garden, Eris is sitting looking idly at a fountain. It is a statue, of a famous person who made this hospital a long time ago. When Eris notices Kyranis, she stands up, and looks closely at him, like she is studying. When she looks at Liella, a frown appears quickly on her face, and then disappears.

"It's been a long time since I have met a House Ostrim sorcerer like this." She said. "But it's also unusual to have a fight in the arena and annoy a prince." Eris shrugs and walks around the statue. She touches it's shoulder and rests against it.

"My name is Eris." She said, remembering. "Nice to meet you." She waits for them to answer. And then changes subject very quickly.


"Tell me. What is your relationship with her?" Eris asked, pointing at Liella. Maybe it is the question of a naive child, but Eris has a serious look on her face too.

[Lady Serpentine]

8th of Bargenholt
A certain doctor, Garden
Evening
Eris, Kyranis, Liella

He nods, saying "And mine is Kyranis. It's nice to meet you, as well."


His companion opted for a more taciturn approach to a response, likely due to the lingering pain.

"Liella."

And then Eris changes the subject, which Kyranis finds curious, but not especially so, as there are many possibilities for an answer. The seriousness is slightly stranger, but can easily be attributed to what she saw earlier.

"She's my Bond-Mate. Since you seem to have some familiarity with the Sorcerous Houses, I take it you're aware of what that means?"

[Kasanip]

8th of Bargenholt
A certain doctor, Garden
Evening
Eris, Kyranis, Liella

"Nice to meet you."

Kyranis. Eris remembered seeing the name on the list Jameson had given to her for research. He was being honest, and that made Eris happy.

"Yes. A Bond-Mate is a slave bound to a summoner at young age. Then they are companions, friends, toys, or other...things for the sorcerer." Eris said with a sideways look at Liella.
"I was curious because sorcerers do not often concern with their Bond-Mate. Yet it seems...you are close." Eris said.

Holding hands. She silently thought with annoyance.

Eris shook her head. "Excuse my rudeness. It is a good thing to see a sorcerer close with his Bond-Mate. May I ask as to what the current situation of House Ostrim is? I know I look like a servant, but..." Eris looked away with a little embarrassment. Some secrets to trade for secrets, it was a dangerous game. But Kyranis seemed not a bad person.

"Well, I'm in contract to the Lord Di Milverton. I am not a slave or servant. Well, not born a servant."

[Lady Serpentine]

8th of Bargenholt
A certain doctor, Garden
Evening
Eris, Kyranis, Liella

He shook his head when she apologized, his slight smile twisting into a frown.

"No apology is needed; it's quite true that far too many mages seem to regard their Bond-Mate in a manner similar to a prize horse. As for the information, that would depend. What use would you make of it?"

As a former Ostrim, Eris might notice a conversation being held on a different level, the fingers of the pair twitching and dancing rapidly.

"Be careful. There's something off about her."

"What can I do that I'm not already? Certainly, she speaks like she's had quite a bit of experience with sorcerers, but for all we know, she may be the illegitimate child of one, or a pair. It would certainly explain her interest in House Ostrim."

[Kasanip]

8th of Bargenholt
A certain doctor
Evening
Eris, Kyranis, Liella

Eris looked at the dancing fingers coolly. All languages change over time. And it's been about 200 years. So while she recognizes it is language, there is no understanding of the message.

But seeing it confirms indeed they are Ostrim. Eris smiles and makes a most earnest face. This was the most dangerous part maybe. But she was confident if they disappointed her, then injured here in the garden, she could still defeat them. Bond-Mates didn't have magic after-all, so it would only be Kyranis, who was injured like her.

"It is my intention to hopefully enter the academy and reclaim my birthright as a sorcerer of Ostrim." Eris said. She raised a finger and stepped away from the statue.

"I would entreat greatly for a recommendation from you, Kyranis." She opened her arms. "I know it is a big favor to ask of course. I'm willing to make it beneficial for you as well."

She looked at Liella again. Then, turning, Eris went to sit on the bench and rest her shoulder. It ached."Of course you're suspicious, aren't you?" She asked with amusement.