Death's End IC II

[PersonMan]

Elara stumbles, falling to her knees as the blade strikes her side. Already weakened from the shock of seeing Merrelis, unmoving in a pool of her own blood, the impact drives her forward and she barely catches herself, hands pale and shaking as she stares at them. Forced out of her almost trance-like state, Elara turns to look at the scroll, shivering as she sees her own blood seep into the parchment. Shifting, sitting on her knees, she pushes it away from the crimson pool with one shaking hand, barely registering what her assailant was doing or saying. Closing her eyes, her hands curl up into fists and the mage grits her teeth as she forces herself up from the floor, an odd feeling filling her limbs that makes it difficult to stand. Something inside her says that it's more than shock, that this woman's blade had to be poisoned or this gnome used some kind of magic to keep her from moving.

Standing, Elara looks once at Annas, tears already rolling down her face, a grim mask of concentration. Not sparing her more than a glance, the mage moves to the bed - her walk growing more smooth and even as she shakes off the lead in her legs. Internally, the attentive part of her mind realizes that the soft noises that should be coming to her ears aren't. The sound of her boots on the wood, the sounds of pain and exertion that should be passing her lips with each pulse of pain that comes from her wound. Elara doesn't notice it enough to devote any of her attention to the lack of sound, though, her focus entirely on the unmoving Merrelis. How did things take this kind of turn? Why had this happened to her and not to someone else, who she'd just met?

Standing above Merrelis, Elara softly touches her cheek, a mad hope filling her; that she had somehow survived, clinging to life, despite her wound. But as she feels the merchant's skin, that last hope is shattered. Looking again to Annas, just enough to be sure that the pale gnome isn't going to attack her again, she lowers herself to her knees beside the bed, resting her head on the mattress. Although she can't hear her own words, Elara begins to recite a prayer she knows all too well.


Necrovian, greatest of arbiters, Final Judge of all life,
grant this most worthy of souls a merciful trial,
bring her to the reward after a life of great virtue,
and aid her passing, come too soon and too sudden.


If her voice could be heard, it would have shaken during the last few words. As it always did. Elara spends another moment in silence at the side of the bed, before standing and going to the scroll on the floor. It feels sick to attend to a piece of writing when the body of her friend lies just feet from her, but the mage is possessed by a worry that reading it later could bring even more pain. What if Annas decided to kill Merrelis' family, as well, if Elara didn't do something? Gritting her teeth against the pain of her wound, the sick feeling surging in her stomach and the dizziness that assails her after standing, she opens the scroll with still-shaking hands and reads.

[3SecondCultist]

Elara: Annas stands by the window and watches you silently. There is no expression on her face - if anything, her features are a kind of void now. Eyes of pure black follow your every movement, but the rest of her is incredibly still. Her blade is still gripped in her hand, the blade coated with your own blood. At this angle, you can also see the hilt of a second blade over her shoulder. The gnome listens to your prayer over Merrelis' body, nodding her head sagely as if to commend you for your respect for the dead. But she says nothing. Instead, she begins to back away towards the window, and in a moment she is gone. A few wisps of shadow follow her out into the night, but soon they disappear as well.

While Merrelis is cool to your touch, somehow the parchment in your hand is even colder. It emanates a kind of active chill where Annas touched it. When you unfold it, the first things you see is the insignia of a six-fingered hand grasping a skull. Each digit ends in a nasty looking claw, the talons digging into bone. Beneath the grim header, you see flowing script written in the common tongue.

To the Honored Applicant:

You have been approved! If you are reading this, then you are now the newest candidate for membership into the Six from Shadow. Let me be the first to offer my welcome and congratulations. As a member of the Six, you will be feared and respected across the continent. You will never want for wealth or renown again. Make no mistake: this is a once in a lifetime opportunity.

Of course, nothing is ever that easy. You see, normally our recruitment process is quite streamlined. The way it works is that when we lose one of our own, we go looking for an additional member. But in Onyx, there are simply too many choices! Therefore, my companions and I are each submitting a candidate. In order to settle which of our proposed choices is the best fit for us, we will be devising a series of tests in order to match up your talents with those of the current members. I must say that I am incredibly eager to see what it is you can do - I trust my allies to deliver these letters to the right people.

For the time being, stay put. I would advise you not to leave the city, at least until you have heard our terms. Rest assured, if you try to flee we will know, and suitable consequences will follow. We begin tomorrow at noon, in Heroes' Plaza.

- Oberon


Lirian: Throughout your tale, Sylvia is silent. The more you say, the quieter she becomes, until there is little left of her at all, and the words coming out of your mouth are the only thing that is real. But eventually the words stop coming, and she has time to get a word in edgewise. "That was more of a tale than I was expecting, to be honest. It's just that you were a bit tight-lipped before, and I thought you might want to shy away from any substantiate answers. I'm glad that you did not. If you don't think your story is at all interesting, then you clearly haven't spent enough time in places like Onyx. Other than the local festivities, nothing exciting ever happens around here." You do not get the sense that Sylvia picked up on your dancing around the truth, but it is hard to get a read on what she is thinking right now either.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to distract you. I know you have readings you need to get back to. I just felt as though you were somebody I could talk to, you know? And your story... it's pretty incredible. I was actually wondering about the book you mentioned. How did you find it, and how did you lose it?"

[Sen isSaqqara]

Lirian shakes her head casually, maintaining her relaxed pose while gently petting Frost.
"It's not a problem. I read quickly, so I can afford to spend some time talking to a new friend. I got the book on a dungeon run we signed up for, hidden with some other loot. I didn't have long to work with it, because all that stuff at Dawnharrow happened shortly after. The area I'd left the book in was one of those consumed by the pale fire."

[PersonMan]

Elara nearly drops the letter in horror and disgust. That was what this was about? This was what Merrelis had died for? Killed for no good reason, while a letter was delivered to tell her about some group she didn't want to join. Gritting her teeth against the surge of nausea that hits her, the mage stumbles towards the door. Already, plans are forming in her mind. Tonight she could recover in the Painted House. Tomorrow she would leave in the morning, go through the alleys until she found a way out of the city. On the way Elara could disguise herself as best she could, or just leave the city invisible to avoid trackers. Then she would run. Head north, get out of Onyx and never come back. Alright, maybe I could come back. But not for a few years at least. These people are insane. Not caring that she's stepping in her own blood, she pushes forwards, reaching the door far slower than she had when leaving before. Things had changed so much since then. If I had just...been here. Then maybe Merrelis wouldn't have died. Elara can't stop herself from thinking, her thoughts spiraling outwards, grief and pain tearing their way through her mind while fear carves another. Suitable consequences? They'll kill all of Merrelis' family, one by one. If they murdered her in cold blood to deliver a letter, they'll do even worse to everyone I've met here if I run.

Opening the door, shaking from shock, fear, pain and a sickness in her stomach that gets worse each passing second, Elara stumbles out into the hall. Her gaze goes down the stairs, down to the common room. Had it only been a minute ago that she came up the stairs? Yet in that brief timeframe everything had changed. No longer was she carefree, looking forward to the immediate future and the pleasures it promised. No, now she was sick with pain and grief, stumbling across the hallway and leaving a thin crimson trail behind her. Her thoughts were on Merrelis, in a way. On her death, how pointless it was and how she was still being forced to go and deal with these people. True, it sounded like she would have a choice when she met them at the Square. But in reality, Elara simply couldn't trust a group who thought that killing someone was an acceptable thing to do while delivering a letter. They could have just given it to Merrelis to give to her, the most this gained them was that she read it a few minutes earlier.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, her pace still far behind her normal walking speed, Elara looks around the room. Her vision is blurred by her tears, her perspective warped by what had happened upstairs. The formerly warming, happy scene she had wanted to paint was now hollow. All joy was sucked out of it. The people, familiar faces despite being entirely unknown to her before, were now distant and cut off. Two people remained for her to go to. To seek some kind of help from, to try and begin to understand the insanity that had just cut its way into her life. Naberys and Myr. So it's those two who Elara turns to as she enters the room fully, blood soaking the cloth around where Annas' blade had entered her body. The third one, the stranger next to the healer she had met on the street, may as well be in the Pillars as far as the mage is concerned.

"Merrelis...they murdered her. For no reason," Elara says, quiet voice full of grief and pain. The letter, blood seeping into the places where her bloodied fingers grasped it, clutched in one hand without regard for the wrinkling it caused.

[gallagher]

At the start, Ben begins to hurry about, at first following some of the others but then breaking off on his own, and does so for the first few minutes of his alloted time to hide. After venturing out far enough for Ben to feel comfortable, he begins to look for a method to get some higher ground with a good hiding spot. I need to find a spot where I can hide from most normal view while still being able to keep an eye out for the seekers... And hopefully gives me some method to duck down out of sight when they come looking... Ben thinks to himself

Spoiler

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I want to save up some time to hide well which might take some climbing, so if this takes more than 5 minutes let me know. In the OoC thread, can you remind me what the dimensions of forgers row are?

Spot: (1d20+3)[12]

[Togo]

Myr's eyes bulge at the gyrating messanger, and he takes a step back as the bizarre contortions come near him. As the conclusion of what he's seeing finally dawns on him, his face goes still, as if carved in stone. He plucks the document from outstretched fingers. Slowly unfolding the letter, he leans against the chimney breast, where the twisted gnomish brickwork stretches up into the cealing, carrying the heat and blown cinders up, away, out into the cold night air.

He's still reading when Elara comes down the stairs, blood on her hands and welling from her side, and in the shock of her wide white eyes.

[Ajadea]

Calia decides to hold on to her cloak. Its enchantments are not something she wants to lose. It goes against common courtesy, but so does showing up in elven maille, a sword hanging from her belt, instead of in a dress or robe carrying some sort of appropriate gift. Besides, the headmaster had more or less sprung this request on her. Even so, she tucks the festival mask into her bag and tries to fix up her hair as she walks. She doesn't bother paying attention to where the valet is. She knows Maryn Hall well enough, has run through these halls countless times. She could find her way from the gates to the dining hall in her sleep.

[3SecondCultist]

Arran: As much as the hobgoblin tries to outshoot you, the next rounds are largely yours. It seems as though most of the other competition has given up, many of the archers eying your prowess with some envy. The small crowd has grown, even as your attention has largely been fixed on your target. The dummies have been so filled with arrows that a few volunteers have replaced them with largely undamaged ones. These new straw figures come to bear the marks of countless arrows, as you and your rival both begin your rounds anew. After a time, however, he unstrings his bow and walks over to you. Gone are the fires of pride from his eyes, and he offers his hand in graceful defeat. He doesn't say anything, but nods to the festival staff to signify his withdrawal. There is a smattering of applause, although a few callous calls seem to indicate that there are those who thought he gave up too early. The robed woman walks up to meet you.

"Well, I suppose the victory is yours! If you choose, you will advance to the final round, which will begin tomorrow afternoon. I'm sorry, what was your name again?"


Calia: The valet seems a bit annoyed at your dismissing his services, but he says nothing. Instead, he follows you to the dining hall. As you cross over the portal and down the stairs, you are met with a rush of old memories. Most of the time, students aren't actually allowed to eat in Maryn Hall, but the food here was always much nicer than the apprentices' mess over at Kar Hall, and the table settings much more elegant. And just like that, all of the days and nights spent at the di Kerastin Academy begin to trickle back. Up ahead, you can see the high table of the headmaster. Landry Folkor sits alone, a small banquet of food at his fingertips. You don't remember him being much of an eater, though. He seems to be waiting for you.

"Ah, Calia! I had heard you were back in Onyx, and I sought to make some arrangements. How are you, my dear? I hope you have been keeping well? Sit, have something to eat. I've been up for a while in order to make you some extra food."

Almost immediately, you know that something is extremely wrong. Folkor might have tolerated your presence at the Academy, but he has never been this nice to you before. As headmaster, he made a point of hounding you whenever possible. The more you think about it, the stranger this whole scenario seems. The kitchens of Maryn Hall usually close just after dinner, and it makes no sense for someone like Landry Folkor to receive you in a dining hall instead of his private office. And Folkor has never, to your knowledge, been skilled at cooking. When you turn to look for the valet, you see that he is gone. The doors to the dining hall have all been closed, leaving you alone with the gnome and a few burgeoning plates of food.

"Now, what food would you like to start? I'm starving."


Elara, Myr: The inn is deathly quiet. Naberys and those few patrons that remain watch the stranger's fit with unmasked terror. The dwarf at the bar has drawn an axe from his belt, and the elf has put down his book in favor of a murmured incantation. They make no move on the stranger, but they seem prepared to strike if he does anything. The changeling, for his part, continues to grin in your direction. Otherwise he does not move, the madness in his eyes fixed upon yours. He waits for you to read the letter, which unfolds to your touch. The delicate script is belied by the tone in which it is written.

To the Honored Applicant:

You have been approved! If you are reading this, then you are now the newest candidate for membership into the Six from Shadow. Let me be the first to offer my welcome and congratulations. As a member of the Six, you will be feared and respected across the continent. You will never want for wealth or renown again. Make no mistake: this is a once in a lifetime opportunity.

Of course, nothing is ever that easy. You see, normally our recruitment process is quite streamlined. The way it works is that when we lose one of our own, we go looking for an additional member. But in Onyx, there are simply too many choices! Therefore, my companions and I are each submitting a candidate. In order to settle which of our proposed choices is the best fit for us, we will be devising a series of tests in order to match up your talents with those of the current members. I must say that I am incredibly eager to see what it is you can do - I trust my allies to deliver these letters to the right people.

For the time being, stay put. I would advise you not to leave the city, at least until you have heard our terms. Rest assured, if you try to flee we will know, and suitable consequences will follow. We begin tomorrow at noon, in Heroes' Plaza.

- Oberon

By the time you are done reading, the changeling's grin has faded. In its place is a kind of concentration, an iron tremor that betrays the frenetic spirit beneath. Whatever fit this creature has endured, you can see that it holds some vestige of its own identity beneath. Its long, pale fingers tremble with excitement, as it moves its arm to point towards you wordlessly. It takes no notice of Elara as she comes down the stairs, opting to take that moment to turn and head towards the open door. The light of the moon illuminates the street beyond, where you can see a living shadow waiting in silence. But the changeling pauses on the threshold. Every person in the bar seems to be holding their breath, waiting to see what will happen next. Only then do you hear the changeling's voice, a surprisingly soft growl.

"Lightning does not strike in the same place twice."

Without another word, the stranger begins to walk away. The other figure is not far behind, trailing wisps of darkness in her wake. Together, they round the corner and are gone from your sight.


Lirian: Sylvia nods slowly, accepting your story for what it is. She looks you in the eyes, and you see then that she knows you aren't telling her everything. However, she does not press you for any further answers. "Well it must have been quite a tome, to send you all the way down here to Onyx. I should like to read it someday." Getting up and dusting off her robes, the librarian looks around one more time. "Is there anything else you need? You've certainly given this old lady a lot to think about, and I would like to stay and talk more, but I really don't want to disturb you if you want some quiet space to yourself. I know how noisy the road can be."

[esorscher]

"Arran's my name, and it looks like Archery is my game," Arran says, smiling proudly. "What time and where should I arrive for the final round. Oh, and what's the prize again?" Assuming she answers satisfactorily, Arran chases after the hobgoblin.

"You shot well," Arran says. "My name is Arran. Yours?"

[Sen isSaqqara]

"I'll likely just stay the night here, and read. I've got quite a bit to work though, even just with this stack." Lirian moves a protesting Frost to the desk, and stands to face Syl. "Will you be sticking around?"

[Ajadea]

Calia's guild instincts kick in at once, far too late. Everything about this scenario is wrong. Headmaster Folkor would receive any other guest at his personal office, which wasn't even in Maryn Hall in the first place. The kitchens would not set out food so late for a praetor, let alone someone like her. They might for the headmaster, but if she remembered correctly, he was more the sort to forgo meals than to need midnight snacks. And she had hardly been someone Landry Folkor would take notice of, except to hound her about her miserable lack of ability and as time went on, deliberate shirking of her studies. The dining hall is very large and far, far, too empty. She looks to the door on instinct, only to see that it has closed.

Common courtesy kicks in when her adventuring training fails and flees, and she bows respectfully. A curtsy looked somewhat odd without a skirt, as she had found. "Headmaster Folkor. It is a pleasure to see you again." She takes the seat set out for her, and tries not to eye the food too much. It is certainly the strangest part of this, though admittedly not by much. "I... must admit, this is somewhat unexpected," she says. She helps herself to small portions of cold chicken and steamed vegetables seasoned with fish sauce, more for something to do with her hands than anything else. She does not eat the food, though in truth she is somewhat tempted to do so. "How have you been?" she asks instead.

[3SecondCultist]

Arran: The robed woman informs you that the final cash prize is 1000 gold marks, enough to set someone up for quite a while. She walks off, still followed by contest enthusiasts ready to try and beat your precedent. However, Windfarben remains at your side as you move to follow the hobgoblin. You see him headed in a general northerly direction, head held high. It only takes you a block to catch up with him. He stops when he sees you approach, expression guarded. He seems to think that you are here to gloat. When you ask him his name, he actually seems at a bit of a loss. The first sounds that emerge from the archer's mouth are stammers, nothing like the confident way he walks and shoots.

"Me... uh... my name be Borrus Ar'Kant. Most... name me Borrus Brightbow. Bad at common tongue." He seems to shuffle in place, embarrassed of having you hear him try and fail at the most basic of social interactions. This hobgoblin seems more than willing to try on your behalf, though. "Sorry. I... work at talking. Not so long... six months. Is okay?"


Ben: You manage to break free of the other contestants, and soon find yourself largely alone on the dark streets of Forger's Row. As you look for high ground, you manage to climb to the top of a two-story warehouse, which offers you a good view of the surrounding streets. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see movement as two figures slip between the dying torchlight of an empty street corner. But your gaze takes in the shape of most of the quarter. From up high, Forger's Row is characterized by the glow of the fires above all else. The forges are quiet at this time of night, but there remains an aura of charcoal and soot that lies heavy on the air. Your gaze traces the edges of the gates through which you and Calia passed not long ago, the avenues that lead back to Old Town. Looking north, you can also see the outer walls of Onyx, married to a small legion of ragged torches. Beyond, there is only the darkness of the Necropolis. The city of the dead receives no visitors, and you get the sense that Kalyk has enforced the boundaries of the contest rather wisely.

Up here, there is only the softness of the wind to accompany you. As your sharp eyes look for places to hide, you can make out a small hatch in the roof of the warehouse not ten feet away. Judging by the dust across its wooden surface and the lack of any lock, this entrance hasn't been used in a long time.


Calia: "Oh, I've never been better." Folkor's features split into a wide grin, which is once again strangely uncharacteristic of the gnome headmaster. He is the first to take a bite of a nearby plate of roast pheasant, separating cuts of the dark meat from the light and putting the choice sections on his plate. Other than the vegetables and cold cuts you have already piled onto your plate, you can see a side of glazed Siaran boar, along with a few casks of summer wine from the coast of Nenda. With a haphazard wave of a sterling silver fork, Folkor invites you to partake in the meal.

"You know, you are quite a hard woman to track down, Miss Simore. It took me quite some time to find you. Based on my initial observations, I assumed you were from around these parts, but when I got to Onyx, I could not find any local enterprises that had seen your business. I almost lost hope, and then I thought to myself: someone as well versed as you are, you had to have some kind of academic background. And here we are at last." As he speaks, you can hear the character of his voice change. The shape and timbre drops from that of a gnome to something... different. There is a clipped, accented quality to the words you hear now, as though spoken by someone who has learned the common tongue from an ancient book. And when he talks now, the words are accompanied by a faint scraping sound. Folkor's eyes gleam in the darkness. And yet, they are no longer Folkor's eyes. The gnome's features are gone, replaced by an ornate mask of burnished gold. Shaking the glamer from your eyes, you see the figure in front of you for who he really is. The first thing to capture your attention is the weave of the black coat that this stranger wears: a raised silk brocade finer than anything worn by anyone at the Academy. It gathers around his ankles. Beneath, he wears a buttoned shirt of midnight blue with black trousers, a simultaneous display of elegance and ostentation. A massive red jewel hangs around the stranger's throat, and seems to glow with an inner light. A pair of immaculate black leather gloves cover up his long, thin fingers. In fact, nowhere can you see any sign of this figure's skin. The only clue as to this stranger's identity are the intense, orange eyes staring at you through the slits of the mask.

"It is truly a pleasure to make your acquaintance. You may call me Oberon."


Lirian: "I expect so. I have a few errands to run, and some items to deliver, but I'll be back here before too long." Sylvia leans over and puts a small metal pin on the desk beside you. "If you have need of any assistance from the library staff, just hang this from the railing over there. It will emit a signal that should summon one of the custodians fairly quickly. We normally reserve its use for more experienced visitors, but I trust you not to abuse the power I'm giving you." The older woman breaks out into a carefree smile, as she gathers up her robes and moves away into the stacks, leaving you with a pile of old books and scrolls. On the desk, Frost stretches out on top of the books, his furry mass obscuring the texts of your study.

[Sen isSaqqara]

Lirian laughs quietly to herself at the idea of abusing the pin. And yet, it beckons...
"I won't. I'll see you around, then!" She sits back down, and turns to her books. Retrieving the first from beneath Frost, (and giving him a quick scratch behind the ears for his trouble,) she sets in to her reading.

[gallagher]

As he creeps slowly toward the hatch in the thatched roof, Ben keeps low so that he is difficult to see from the street, but stands tall enough taht his eyes can still get a good view of the surroundings. He carefully tests the stability of the roof as he makes his way to the hatch, and opens it as slowly quietly as possible to see what is inside before deciding if he wishes to hide there.

Spoiler

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Hide: (1d20+20)[24]
Move Silently: (1d20+9)[12]
Spot: (1d20+4)[5]

[Ajadea]

Calia's utensils hit the edge of her plate just a touch too hard the moment 'Landry' starts speaking again. The clattering sound echoes in the emptiness of the hall, not doing nearly enough to fill it. By the time Oberon has revealed himself, she is on her feet. "What have you done to the headmaster?" she demands, power flaring around her, demanding the other recognize it. "Where is he!" Perhaps a touch too late, she realizes that it may not be wise or especially effective to threaten potentially powerful illusionists. But there is no taking back her words, so she fixes him with the sternest glare she can manage instead and imagines in herself the strength and majesty of a dragon of old.

Spoiler

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Not wise, but very in character unfortunately.

Intimidate - (1d20+8)[16] (includes +2 from Presence Aura)
EDIT: and it's probably all too apparent on her face that she's realized exactly how stupid she's being by threatening this guy.

[3SecondCultist]

Calia: Oberon sets down his own knife and fork gently, the silverware barely making a sound against the polished porcelain. By contrast, you can hear the scraping noise even more clearly now. Whatever it is, the sound seems to originate behind this strange figure's mask. Oberon seems to be taking his time - not the response one aims for when trying to intimidate somebody. "I apologize for taking such liberties. Let me begin by assuring you that your headmaster is being kept safe, and will return to his post tomorrow morning perfectly sound of mind and body. I am not one for leaving corpses behind if I can avoid it." He regards you coolly, the eyes behind the mask unwavering.

"But I'm afraid that there is only one terror at this table, Miss Simore." Even as he plays with the food on his plate, you feel a chill enter your soul uninvited, a worm of nebulous darkness that moves to play with the fabric of your mind. It sees you watching, and bares its teeth, and grins.

"Now, if we are done playing games... I have a proposition I would very much like you to hear."

[Ajadea]

Calia refuses to flinch or cower, holding herself up through sheer bloody-mindedness and little else. In her mind, a dragon scrapes out the black worm and devours it whole. Its fire is hers, blazing eternally, and its rage is hers, for she cannot trust this man. "That's not what I've heard of you and your friends," she says sharply. The Six from Shadow! A band of murderers, known all too well for leaving death in their wake. Serving the Imperials, they said here in Onyx. In Arva, she had heard whispers that they served the Republic itself, as if the praetors would ever stoop so low. And some said they served none at all but their own power-lust. And there was an awful lot of power hiding behind that infuriating golden mask. She almost wishes she still had hers on. But she has nothing to hide behind so she does not hide. "Speak your proposition, if you must."

[3SecondCultist]

Calia: "It's quite simple, really. My team is currently missing a place on our roster. I would like to put your name forward as my candidate to fill that particular void." Oberon is quite still, and you get the sense that he is watching to see how you will react to all of this. The fact that you remain resolute despite his magic seems to have impressed him somewhat, as he makes no comment of the failed assault. "Normally, our recruitment methods are a bit more utilitarian. Given the season, however, I asked myself why not make a game out of it? That's what the Festival of Lights is all about anyhow: contests of prowess. I want to see what you can really do, Miss Simore."

Oberon leans back in the chair for a moment before getting up, as if stretching muscles that have long since lain dormant. At his full height, he is still only a few inches taller than yourself. His frame has far more in common with that of an elf than of a gnome. He takes a moment to methodically pace the length of the table before turning back to face you. "I am not going to lie to you. Your selection for membership into the Six is hardly random. There are... certain parties who want me to keep tabs on you and yours. They want what you know, and are not afraid to hurt you to get it. What I am about to offer is a trade, not a theft." Reaching slowly for his left hand, Oberon removes one of the leather gloves. He places his naked hand down on the table, palm facing downward. The revealed skin is a surprisingly orange hue, definitively not human. What really grabs your attention, though, is the scar emblazoned on the back of Oberon's hand: it is identical to the one that Senn carried in her natural form.

"If you can best all of the other contestants and join the Six from Shadow, I will tell you everything I know about my employer and their cause. And if you lose, you will tell me everything you know about the Starstone."

[Ajadea]

The illuminated crescent. On the hand of a member of the Six. The same symbol burning in effigy a thousand thousand times over all across Onyx at this very moment. The same mark borne by Senn, who had almost destroyed Valeria with her own ambitions. Senn, who had been powerful and cunning and charming enough to convince the entire guild to follow her. Senn, who had been seeking the Starstone, and very nearly found it. Senn, who they had slain in the ice fields. And six becomes five, so they seek to raise up another to fill the hole left in their ranks.... Not servants of the republic, but of a far more insidious master. "I am sorry for your loss," she says, an empty platitude to fill the empty silence, and cover up her momentary hesitation. The Six can and will hurt people. She knows this. She needs to get out of here, unharmed, and she doubts he's going to take no for an answer. "So... you have many candidates here?"

[esorscher]

"Nice to meet you, Borrus Brightbow," Arran says, shaking the hobgoblin's hand. "What sort of work do you do? Ever work as a hireling, a mercenary?"

[3SecondCultist]

Arran: Borrus takes your hand once more, and this time his grin is less uncertain. "I... work before. As muscle, I strong. Get... much gold. Fight in battle against enemies of Republic." As if to demonstrate his point, the hobgoblin flexes his enormous arms. However, he pauses as he gets a good look at Windfarben. His eyes go wide as he sees your warhorse floating above the cobblestone. "That is... your horse, Arin?"


Ben: Your furtive movements go unnoticed, but you find yourself so preoccupied with finding a good position to hide that your vision is impeded somewhat. The roof tiles are quite sturdy beneath your feet. At first, they make a small creaking noise, but your light step mitigates most of that. You find the hatch unlocked, a small cloud of liberated dust moving around your fingers as you grab the lid and slowly open it. The first thing you see is a ladder, extending down the ground level. Your gnomish vision makes out a few details of the warehouse below - mostly crates, with a large loading station and a few empty carriages - but you also see a small closed off section of wall more than sixty feet to your right. Almost immediately, you are struck by the smell: a stale damp that speaks of prolonged neglect. This warehouse has clearly been abandoned for some time.


Calia: Oberon takes a moment to find his seat again. Pushing his plate aside, he rests his hands on the table across from you. He seems to thrive in the silence that lives before and after your response. For a little while, the only sound you hear is the scraping from behind his mask as he takes unhurried breaths. And then the scraping gets louder as he begins to talk again. "You don't ever need to apologize to me. Senn did what she had to, just like you did." There is no levity when Oberon speaks, and yet his voice is oddly tender. His bright eyes seem to hold you in place, as if commanding an unseen force. And yet, you do not sense magical effects on you, no lingering glamers or enchantments. This is a being who does not need magic to impel those around him. "Each of the current members will have chosen a candidate to represent their choice for entry into the Six. There are four others across this city. I expect you will be meeting them soon. Written in the other invitations is a summons of sorts, which I suppose I will need to repeat here." He pauses, regarding you one more time. Although you can't see his face, you get the sense that he is smiling.

Come to Heroes' Plaza tomorrow, at noon. There, we will gather the candidates together and outline the terms of our contest. I would tell you not to leave Onyx, but I get the impression that you know better than to try. You only realize after a moment that Oberon is not speaking out loud.

[esorscher]

Arran nods proudly. "Yes, she's mine. Windfarben is her name. Do you have a job now? Are you looking for one? How much do you charge?"

[PersonMan]

"Y-you got one, too?" Elara's voice trembles as she speaks, sorrow saturating each word. A deeper fear grips her, but at the same time a sense of relief blossoms in her. It wasn't much, but knowing that the man had to stick with her now made her feel better. This ordeal was already bad enough without her having to go through it all without anyone's help. The ones she most trusted in Onyx were precisely the ones she didn't want to go to now, out of fear of bringing the same fate upon them as had come down on Merrelis. He wasn't someone she knew well. He wasn't a trusted friend. He was just someone nice and beautiful that she had met earlier. But now they were in the same nightmare, even if he didn't know the grief that had just been brought upon her by these maniacs.

"D-did they kill anyone else?" The mage's question comes quietly, as Elara looks about the room again, looking for anything she may have missed in her teary-eyed daze as she first came down the stairs. Things were somewhat less surreal to her, although everything remained cold and hard compared to the welcoming warmth that had been in the room before.

[Togo]

Myr nods gravely. At least I assume it is the same. A join or die invitation for noon tomorrow. They killed your friend, just to make a point?

He scans the room while he speaks, as if trying to discern the intent behind every wary face. Or maybe he just didn't want to look into her eyes when he asked that.

My messenger just left, He says distantly, casually, still searching the room with narrowed eyes. Had a friend waiting for him in the street. You want us to go after him? He turns, looking at her intently, belying the softness of his voice. Or would you rather take care of things here?

[PersonMan]

"Merrelis...I-I'm not even...I don't..." Elara wavers, the deeply buried thought that perhaps Merrelis had felt more for her than she had for the merchant surfacing. It added another twist to the already gut-wrenching sorrow that was crushing her insides in its icy grip. "We...we have to stop them. But...not now. I-I think I'm hurt," the mage lifts one hand, by now covered in dried and liquid blood, into the light to look at it. Briefly, she's mesmerized by the intricate lines of her palm, turned crimson by her lifeblood. As a droplet of the sanguine fluid goes down her arm, Elara's gaze follows it, coming down to the bloody trail that she had left because of her wound. The pain, covered by shock, grief and determination, begins to pulse with more strength, causing the mage to wince.

"I-I'm definitely injured," she says.

[3SecondCultist]

Elara, Myr: Naberys takes in the sight of Elara and her wound, but not before sending dwarf and the elf head out into the street. It seems as though she heard what you said about not going after either figure, as she warns them not to go after either of the assailants but instead call the guard. Nobody here seems suspicious: if anything, there is an overriding atmosphere of shock throughout the Painted House. The gnome innkeeper moves over to Elara with a bowl of warm water, cloth, and some stitches to clean and bind the wound.

"Here, let me have a look at that. I'm sure it's not - " She stops, as if only now taking in the sound of Merrelis' name. Her brow furrows slightly, uncomprehending. The full horror sinks in before too long, though. Her eyes widen, and with trembling fingers she puts down everything on a nearby table. The older gnome's mouth forms a small 'o', and she begins to breathe deeply. You can both tell that she is forcing herself to remain calm, as she wraps both her arms around Elara's waist and pulls her into a gentle hug.

"They... they killed her? I am so sorry, my dear... if there is anything I can do to help..."

[Ajadea]

Calia nods grimly. "Tomorrow, at noon. I will be there. Now get out of my head." What else can she say to the man? She heads for the door without looking back. The food on her plate is untouched. She ignores the valet as before, and heads back towards the plaza to meet up with Arran. She doubts Kalyk would appreciate her interrupting the contest, and Lirian was still occupied by her research. She can only hope Ben hasn't done anything frightfully stupid in the meantime.

[3SecondCultist]

Calia: Oberon inclines his head into a slow nod at your apparent acquiescence. The lines around his eyes as you get up to leave disappear. There is a palpable chill around the figure seated at the head of the table now, one that was not there before. But Oberon does not get up, and does not try to stop you from leaving. Instead, a lazy wave of his hand signals the valet on the other side of the door to let you pass out into the hallway and beyond. As you head back down towards the exit, however, you hear one last thought echo through the seams of your mind.

You really ought to work on those manners, Miss Simore.

As you arrive back at the entrance hall, you can see that most of the lamps are burning low. It is past midnight now, and they rarely burn this long in any case. However Oberon did manage to infiltrate Maryn Hall, it seems as though many of the staff are on his payroll. You are met once more by the carriage driver, who greets you with a private smile and a tip of his hat. There doesn't seem to be any indication on his part that he is working for a member of the Six from Shadow. He and offers you a ride anywhere in the city, free of charge.

[gallagher]

This is perfect, if they have the ability to find me by smell, the dankness of this warehouse should help mask my scent.... Ben keeps the hatch leading into the warehouse open in case he needs to jump inside, but does not immediately enter. I must save my light-creating spell until i absolutely need it, Ben thinks. Instead, Ben looks for an area on the roof where he can stay low and difficult to see while giving him a vantage point over the street.

Spoiler

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hide: (1d20+20)[28]
move silently: (1d20+9)[24]
spot: (1d20+4)[6]

[Togo]

Myr casts one longing look at the door, then relaxes. He gently lifts a fallen stool from the floor and places it upright.

Come on, sit down, let's have a look at you. His soft voice breaks the quiet. Can we have a hot drink of some kind? Tea, steep, soup, whatever's on the fire. He doesn't look up, as if the idea that someone wouldn't volunteer to fetch one hasn't even crossed his mind.

He reaches out his hand once more, and lays it lightly on her arm. There's a faint blue glow, almost invisible in the bustle and firelight, and then her wounds begin to close. After a moment or two, he stops.

I wish I'd... He shakes his head. Are you still hurt? He pokes tentatively at her blood stained clothing. I'm afraid the twelve aren't likely to save your dress.