[PF] Labyrinthine - IC I

[Cardea]

Player	Character	Build
RPZip	Beren Cord	Warder / Landsknecht // Vigilante
THEChanger	Radomil d'Lyrandar	Bolt Ace Gunslinger /Storm Sentry // Bard / Storm Captain
Chambers	Tosk Torrn d'Tharashk	Warder // Slayer / Duraak'ash
Athaleon	Variel Sidonus	Harbinger // Wizard
Aldurin	Valora d'Phiarlan	Distorter Cryptic // Artificer
rypt	Sidara Kell	Magus (Eldritch Scion) // Bloodrager (Primalist)

OOC

[Tone]

The rain falls harder in Sharn. Tumbling between towers and darkened windows but far away from locked doors. The earth pulls at the sky, and the sky must answer. The towers are slick with the rain, the streets are landing pads to a small flood, and it all goes down, falling faster and faster as it sails between the vaulted skyscrapers to the cobblestone below. The entire city is a drum, creating the background noise for the funeral of one of its fallen. The Longstairs is a quiet place, a place where Onain kept special watch over. Never a major crime happened here, never a major travesty. In a city of turmoil and upset, in a city of lavish magic and grand politic, Longstairs was a bastion of calm. You can tell as the funeral procession moves through it. Many are gathered to watch, umbrellas and floating discs keeping many people dry, as the body of Onain d'Tharashk is brought to its resting grounds.

The wake was last night. Some of you made it in time, saw the body. Temporary magic made him look like he was pretending, faking. A warm smile was on his face, and his skin looked like it still held his soul. But now, today, everyone is here, everyone is in a carriage or another, and everyone is hit by the rain. When they open the vehicle holding his casket, Beren Cord, Variel Sidonus, Sidara Kell and Wekerin d'Kundarak (by grace of flying magic) carry the wooden tomb on their shoulders to an dirt hole. The cemetery itself is nice enough, as cemeteries go. Hallowed Ground, with buried lodestones of holy power, protect it from grave robbers and necromancers. Expensive, but many people have invested, and the Longstairs honor the dead in their own way. You lower him into the hole, lower him into the ground beneath an ash tree, its tangled and gnarled roots moved by a druid to place the body. Petrila guides Leon, Reik, and Rina to the grave, drop handfuls of dirt, and watch as the body is buried, the casket adding in its own way to the drums of Sharn.

The reception is held at the Abraila Home of the Remembered. The city has obviously donated much of the food in this quiet place, and this wing of two gathering rooms, a kitchen, and a foyer has been paid for, as Petrila says often to others, with tones of somber gratitude. Many city officials are here, along with others of note, some of whom you recognize. Menya d'Cannith of the Darkwood Watch, Lalia and Tasra of House Deneith, Lord Commander Iyan ir'Talan and Iyanna ir'Talan, and no small amount of House Tharashk members. Talk is quiet against the background of drums, the rain silencing murmurs of maneuvering political. Brown carpets, black banners and tablecloth, somber lighting, foods from around Khorvaire, and the knowledge that one of the best now sleeps an eternal sleep.

What are you doing?

[THEChanger]

Radomil hid in the back of the second gathering room, slowly nursing a glass of wine. He had just barely made it in time to see his friend put in the ground - for once, the wind had not been with him as he hurried across the sky. Radomil glanced across the room, praying to whatever gods were listening that none of the Orien would show up at the wake. He wasn't supposed to be anywhere near here after all, not after what happened. But. He owed Onain. He owed Onain for vouching for him all those years ago. He owed Onain for the nights the half-orc had carried him back to the Windstrider. He owed Onain for being a friend, a true friend, and not expecting anything of him.

Radomil reached into the small pouch at his side and fiddled with the gem he had brought with him. Found on an island in the Thunder Sea, he had kept it for many years, not knowing what to do with it. It should fetch a good price, here in Sharn. Radomil was sure Onain had left enough money to keep his wife and children in good health for many years, but Radomil wanted to do something. A small gift, to the family of a good friend.

Spoiler: OoC

Show

Spending 1500 of my remaining gold to obtain an emerald, which Radomil will attempt to quietly give Petrila before he leaves.

[Chambers]

Tosk

Dressed in all black silk - boots, pants, shirt, vest, and cloak - save for a band of red tied across his right bicep, the half-orc stands next to the fireplace. Slowly sipping from a cup of wine as his clothes dry Tosk watches the others in the room, making mental notes of their reactions, their emotions, to be used against them when he might need an edge over them. He absently reached to his side to rest his hand on his weapon and his fingers twitched when they didn't find it there. Instead he softly rubbed a bronze ring on his hand. Should he need his weaponry it was only a moment away.

Tonight's duel would be fought with words, the weapon of choice for nobles too scared to risk their own blood.

Tosk glanced at the remaining wine in his cup and quaffed it one gulp. Throwing the empty glass into the fire so that it exploded against the stone he strode over the sideboard and filled another. Raising it up he said loudly "A Tharashk lays dead in the ground tonight. Who among you will raise your glass in his name?" He says. "Who will speak his deeds so they may not be forgotten? Who will take up his enemies as your own, hunting them and driving them to the ground?"

[Aldurin]

Valora watched the funeral in the front half of the crowd, dressed to be Afnelle Virashen with a version of her outfit in full black instead of slate blue. She considered earlier to use her patterns to make her normal attire appear as black, but an illusory effect felt inappropriate for the funeral of a man who saw through her identities and didn't change opinion of her. Her patterns were still up to reinforce a physical disguise, still unwilling to reveal her true self to others, but she wanted her identity to be her only lie tonight.

At the reception, Valora drank wine away from the main groups that were discussing. Onain's death had finally begun to sunk in. That youthful dream of becoming an inquisitive had been fueled by tales of his deeds, and with his death came the reminder that being a hero didn't make her invincible. She would die one day as well, and probably not to a peaceful circumstance. After the second glass, she found herself having trouble swallowing at the same time as holding back tears. Not just tears of grief for Onain, but of dread to her own future. The alcohol was peeling away at her emotional barrier that had prevented her from worrying too much, and fears of excoriation from House Phiarlan and succumbing to a complication to the dragonshard fragments in her arms were beginning to run rampant in her mind.

She almost considered rushing out of the reception to have her breakdown in solitude until a Tharashk smashed a glass in the fireplace. The distraction was enough for her to regain some control over herself and step closer to the fireplace. With tears welling up in her eyes, the most she could do was nod in agreement with Tosk.

Spoiler

Show

I'd like to take any cost of the funeral outfit out of the fluff budget, in necessary.
Valora would have taken 10 on the disguise checks for her physical disguise and Altered Appearance illusion, with results of 26 and 36 respectively.

[Athaleon]

Variel made small talk with the others attending the funeral, as he felt was both proper and expected of him. He bore it with practiced ease, though the question ever at the back of his mind was "How?", and he tried subtly to steer conversations towards that end. He took care to offer his condolences to Onain's kin, and though the words may have sounded old-fashioned ("if you need anything at all...") he meant them genuinely. As a half orc made his brash demand, he felt compelled to speak up. Softly, firmly, he replied: "I had done all those things for years. We all grieve for Onain, but we each do it in our own way."

Spoiler

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Ongoing Effects:

[Stance] The Dragon Knows (60' Blindsight)
[Spell] Mage Armor (hour/level)
[Spell] Heightened Awareness (10 mins/level)
[Spell] Overland Flight (10 mins/level)
[Spell] Heroism (10 mins/level)

Spells Prepared:

Level 0:
Detect Magic, Read Magic, Mage Hand, Ghost Sound, Message, Prestidigitation, Detect Poison, Dancing Lights, Open/Close

Level 1:
Mage Armor, Grease, Vanish, Charm Person, Heightened Awareness

Level 2:
Mirror Image, Embrace Destiny, Resist Energy, Protection from Evil (Communal), Glitterdust

Level 3:
Haste, Slow, Pellet Blast, Heroism

Level 4:
Dimension Door, Monstrous Physique II, Emergency Force Sphere, Greater Invisibility

Level 5:
Monstrous Physique III, Wall of Stone, Dominate Person

Level 6:
Flesh to Stone, Greater Dispel Magic

[rypt]

Sidara

Sidara sat sullen and alone at a small table beside a window. She did not care that her hair and her cloak were wet. It suited her mood. Onain had been like a father to her, yet no one came to console her as they did Leon, Reik and Rina. Sidara envied them for that, and at the same time, hated herself for that envy. As she gazed distantly at the rainy skybridges outside, her expression an unapproachable mix of sorrow and self-loathing, Sidara wondered if Onain would have been proud of the woman she had made of herself. She wanted to believe that the answer to that question was yes, but she could not know. Now, she would never know.

At the sound of a half-orc's booming voice, Sidara turned away from the window, her harsh, inhuman eyes surveying a scene that was as alien to her now as the Demon Wastes had been nearly a decade prior. Tosk's mention of Onain's enemies brought to Sidara's mind the scenes of Karrhig vision, and the one question that had occupied more of her thoughts over the past week than any other -- how did Onain die? This was a question that could be answered, and as she observed others responding to the Tharashk's appeal, Sidara resolved herself to answer it.

[RPZip]

Beren Cord

Beren stood in the corner, nursing his seventh cigarette of the day. He'd tried to dress up for the funeral, he really had, but his essential shabbiness clung to him like a cloak, casting its pall over the fine suit he'd bought for the occasion. Beren didn't so much clean up as clean down. He'd said what needed to be said to Petrila, the words as hollow and meaningless as they always were, and now he waited. Waiting for something to happen. Trying to ignore the memories that clawed at him, the way the casket had felt when he'd lowered it into the ground.

The sharp crack of exploding glass pulls him forcefully out of his reminiscing, instincts making him pull in towards himself before recognizing the source. The man was angry, channeling it into his words as he raised his glass high. Anger. He could work with that. Onain had never been one to wallow in depression when there was something to be done. A good example to follow.

Beren pinched the tip of his cigarette out with his gloved hand, sliding the still-smoldering remnants into an inner pocket before stepping forward to join the gathering group. He plucked a glass from the waiting table and raised it high, looking the half-orc in the eye before taking a long pull. "To Onain d'Thrask. Long may his name be remembered, and to Dolurrh with his enemies."

[Cardea]

"A good Tharashk lays dead, brother," calls out a human male, a dragonmark plain across his neck. "You and I no better than the grass and dirt, but he was a good man. I am Hurnain d'Tharashk. Onain d'Tharashk saved me from the fighting pits, tracked down my captors, and brought them before the final shuffle off. I worked for him until his last dying breath. And now that he's gone, I'll have to find a new line of work in the morning. But until then I'm with you, brother. To Onain." He finishes up his cup in one drink, approaching the outspoken half-orc, hand out for a shake.

Talk in the room picks up, some of it directed towards the vocal Tharashk, but some more excited talk about Onain. The time he fell thirty floors to chase after a kidnapper, only surviving because he stole the criminal's feather token. The time he fought a raging Warforged Juggernaut, winning by luring it in front of a lightning rail. The time he sailed a small air skiffer through the side openings of an airship while being chased by ten mercenaries working for the smuggling ring he was investigating. More and more stories come forward, and the room seems a little less sour, a little less empty of the man's presence.

Spoiler: Linguistics: DC 15

Show

Hurnain d'Tharashk has an accent resembling those from the Lhazaar Principalities.

Spoiler: Perception: DC 22

Show

As talk begins to pick up, you notice that a new attendant at the funeral has shown up without any commotion. A warforged wearing a soaked overcoat, a hat atop his head, his frame clearly visible underneath the damp garment. He's looking around the room at the attendants, and you'd swear he was looking for something.

[Athaleon]

Variel shared one of his own stories of Onain, careful to choose one not related to their investigation to Allorith d'Phiarlan.

As he was wrapping up his anecdote he spied the warforged that had just come in from the rain, and made his way over. "Is there someone you're looking for?" he asked in a genial tone.

Spoiler

Show

Variel succeeds at both checks even on a roll of 1.

[rypt]

Sidara

Ever at odds with her own emotions, grief was far less familiar to Sidara than anger. Anger had become a source of strength for her, but grief, well, grief felt more like weakness. Her own instincts, Karrhig's vision, and the voice that haunted her dreams told Sidara that Onain's death was part of something larger, something she needed to face at her best. This was no time for weakness.

A knot rose in Sidara's throat as Hurnain spoke, but she swallowed it. Tears welled in her eyes, but she wiped them dry. She knew what it was to have been saved by Onain, to have owed him a debt beyond repayment. She knew what it was to aspire to Onain's selflessness, and she knew what it was to fall short. She tightened her jaw and steeled herself. This was no time for weakness.

As others continued to share their stories of Onain's deeds, Sidara shifted in her seat. She could feel her patience waning. To recount all of Onain's triumphs and daring acts would take days. She wanted answers, or at the very least, she wanted to know that she wasn't the only one with questions.

[Chambers]

Tosk

"To Onain." Tosk returns Hurnain's handshake, firm but careful not to crush it. "Tosk Torrn d'Tharashk." He says. "What sort of work did you do for him? I know some fellows always in need of a good swordhand. Few jobs will compare with fighting besides him, it's true...but if you still have the fight in you..." He says and lets the offer hang.

[Aldurin]

Valora resumed her silence away from the crowd after a few moments, still struggling to keep her emotions in check as she finished her glass of wine and turned her attention on the warforged that had just arrived. The movement had caught her eye, and she needed something else to focus on besides her own fears.

[Cardea]

Hurnain squeezes back, smiling an honest man's smile. "I was his repairs man. If it was too extensive for a simple patch job, or when he ran outta the scrolls I gave him, I worked my weaving and bound the metals back right and proper." He takes out a small plate of metal from a vest pocket, holding it aloft. Dark gray, with traces of silver. He focused, before smiling, and the silver began to glow slightly with a hum. "Others couldn't get a hang of the webbing and weaving in the magic of his arm, but I'm a clever man, and a clever man knows his tricks." He holds out the plate to you. "Same metal as his arm. From me to you. Not much good it'll do me now. I don't have a mind to sell the rest off."

At a closer distance, Variel notices a few smaller details. The warforged's right eye is composite, with three pupils circling in the socket, focusing on the aged wizard. The jaw is segmented, letting it move more fluidly as he speaks, revealing a row of adamantine teeth that would otherwise be concealed behind a closed mouth. He nods, but uses a hand to motion for quieter tones. "Yes, but no business while the wake is still happening. Onain deserves that much. If you can stick around when others have left, Mr. Sidonus, it would help expedite my work. Do you know many of the other guests here? I already know the Tosk boy there, and the young Radomil, but three of these names elude me."

[Athaleon]

Variel lowered his voice accordingly, and nodded. "No business here, agreed. But before I start naming names, I would ask you what your work is, sir."

Spoiler

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Sense Motive: (1d20+18)[24]

[Cardea]

The warforged nods, pulling back a sleeve. On his arm is a carved symbol of an Inquisitive, a tracing of silver on mithril plating. "I'm in the business of finding people, Mr. Sidonus, though today isn't my lucky day. On a bit of an unlucky streak. Pulling up with one hand full of fury and the other full of dirt. Looking for two people who're only known by aliases, and a person who hasn't been to Sharn in a long, long time, so no one knows what she looks like anymore."

Spoiler: Variel: Sense Motive

Show

Telling the patterns and intentions of people is something more out of habit than something out of training when someone gets to your old age, but even so, reading the intentions of someone made of metal and wood has always been hard. The construct seems on edge, however, like a fox unsure if he's looking at is a rabbit or a wolf.

[Chambers]

Tosk

"Same metal as his arm..." Tosk says, momentarily speechless as he realizes what he's holding. He leans in close and whispers, his eyes wide and alert. "Are you saying that you're able to work dragonshards as though they were metal? That's..." Incredibly dangerous in the wrong hands. "...incredible."

He leans back and pockets the strange metal without another look to avoid drawing attention. "Hurnain, I have another piece of strangeness that has eluded my investigations, but for someone of your caliber it should prove to be no more than an interesting problem." He says. "I don't have it on me, but please promise me that you'll stay in town long enough to visit my boat. I would take it as a favor..." He says and looks around at the gathered nobility with a slight face of distrust. "And as he trusted you, that is vouchsafe enough for me that you will keep this between ourselves."

[Aldurin]

When Valora overhears the conversation between Hurnain and Tosk then notices them go quiet as Tosk whispers something along the lines of surprise, she decides it's finally time to get a quote on new arms should worst come to worst. She approaches Hurnain, politely waiting for him to finish his conversation with Tosk before speaking. "Greetings, I'm Afnelle Virashen. I overheard that you did work on Onain's arm, which is enough knowledge to trust you with a question." She hesitates, then pulls back the sleeve on one of her arms, revealing the faint scars from the dragonshard explosion. "When I dealt with that alchemical bombing attempt a few years back, sabotaging the airship had complications. Both of my forearms now have dragonshards embedded in them, and while the condition is currently stable I may have to seek amputation if a latent complication suddenly arises from it. What would my best options for new arms be if money isn't the primary limitation?"

[rypt]

Sidara

In search of someone with the answers she needs, Sidara rises from her seat and begins to work her way through the crowd. She isn't exactly hostile as she navigates the pockets of quiet conversation, but neither is she particularly discreet. Her patience is nearing its limits, and she offers no apologies for the elbows or shoulders that are battered in her passing. None of the faces in this room are familiar to her, but that shouldn't come as much of a surprise. Before Sidara was Ghaash'kala, she was an academy dropout, and before she was an academy dropout, she was an orphaned street rat. She never belonged in this element of society before, and she does not belong in it now.

The next room over has even less to offer her, as the farther she gets from the fireplace and Onain's outspoken Tharashk kin, the less people seem to be invested in the purpose of their gathering. Here, she can hear discussions shift from commiserating to networking; less consolation and more negotiation. With no mind for plots or schemes, Sidara can hardly stomach the notion that political games are being played at the funeral of the man she loved like a father. Feeling anger and frustration flush her cheeks, she recognizes that it's time for some fresh air.

She turns and heads for the door, passing a sodden warforged and a fragile old man on her way out.

[Athaleon]

It's Lord Sidonus Variel would have said under other circumstances, but not here, not now, and not to this Warforged. He raised an eyebrow at the insignia, but waited for Sidara to pass them before he spoke again, still in a genial tone. "Well, now. I have a notion that if I didn't tell you, you'd find out for yourself sooner or later. Nevertheless, as I've no idea what your business is with them: Any friend of the late Onain d'Tharashk is a friend of mine, and I must therefore respect their privacy." Variel stood aside and made an inviting gesture as he continued, "Pardon me, I've detained you at the door long enough. I will stay after the wake to hear you out."

Spoiler

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Just in case, has Variel heard of a Warforged Inquisitive matching this description?

Knowledge (Local): (1d20+26)[30]

[Cardea]

"Like metal? No, I work them like crystal. Working them like metal makes them act like children - volatile and messy, and not wantin' to be in the place they be in. And aye, I don't plan on leavin' for a good month, not until I sell off my other stock. Quiet as a frog's hair, I'll be." He turns his attention to the newcomer to the conversation. He looks at Valora up and down, with a look of pity and concern. "Lass, if you can't afford medical attention to get it out, I don't think you have the means to afford arms made of this stuff. You don't pay for this by the pound, you pay for this for the risk of craftsmanship, which costs a whole lot more than surgery."

---

Outside, the walkway that curves around the tower is shielded by an awning, the rain falling just outside it. Sky skiffs and barges and carriages pass by, their passengers blissfully unaware of the ceremony taking place just behind Sidara as she closes the door behind her. Blocking the pathway, leaning up against the tower walls, is the funeral director, smoking. He turns to Sidara, and takes out a cigarette to the woman. "You know, usually I can block out and be professional my work. It hits me hard too."

[THEChanger]

Radomil watched as the d'Tharashk warrior drew more and more stories to him, and he smiled softly. The stories about Onain brought a little bit of warmth to his chest, that the wine had been unable to. He could feel something of his friend still in the room, still watching over the city and family he held so dear. Funerals, Radomil had decided, were not an occasion he liked. But wakes were. Radomil's own voice joined the stories - in particular, Radomil enjoyed the story of how Onain won the title of Best Darts Player in Sharn from who else but Radomil himself.

Spoiler: OoC

Show

A Perform check, to see how well Radomil tells his story.

(1d20+1)[5]

It was shortly thereafter that Radomil saw the Warforged by the door, just as the Warforged spotted him. A shiver went down the captain's spine, and he made his excuses to the two young half-orcs he had been entertaining. It was time to go. The Forged was looking for him. He made his way towards Petrila, and bowed low. "I am very glad to have made it in time to see Onain off. I'm sure you've had enough of condolences and words for one evening, but if there is anything you should need, please, do not hesitate to call upon me." He removed the gem, and pressed it into her hand. As he did, Radomil pulled her close. "Forgive me. Do you know of another way out, besides the front door? A shiny friend is seeking me out, and I would like to have my presence here an unnoticed one."

[rypt]

Sidara

Sidara didn't step outside for company. At the sight of the man blocking the walkway, she stops, turns around and immediately realizes that all that's behind her is the door she's just closed. Pressing her eyes shut, she exhales a deep, volatile breath before turning reluctantly, almost defeatedly, to join the man against the tower wall. She accepts his cigarette without a word, lighting it with a spark of magic. Rather than pressing it to her lips, she holds it out before her eyes, staring at the burning flame for a time long enough for the man to wonder if she's forgotten his presence. The tension in her shoulders slowly lessens, and when at last she takes a drag from the cigarette, she tilts her back and exhales the smoke towards the sky.

"Did you know him?" she asks, staring out at the passing coaches, her voice quiet, cold, weary.

[Cardea]

Petrila looks at Radomil with a look of shock as her fingers wrap around the gem, and even more when she realizes what it is. "Th-there's an employee entrance, but, shiny friend? Do you mean Inquisitive Starbrandy?"

The Inquisitive nods his head to Sidonus, and moves further into the room, taking his hat off. Many a Warforged ornament their heads with magical items, or decorative pieces, an almost ritualistic practice that is universally shared. Rare are ones who wear full helmets outside of the War. But atop his head is a smattering of jagged scars, places where the metal was broken, pieced together, and forged anew. Many is the novice magewright or Artificer who could repair it without seams, which makes the metal scarring all the more distinct. He makes his way across the room, approaching Tosk Torrn d'Tharashk. "Mr. Torrn. I came in late for your speech, I apologize. And again I do. I must ask that you stay after the reception is over."

---

The man nods solemnly, then points to his ears. "Parents are Aereni. Grew up around the bodies they prepared. It might seem grim to others, but its respectful. Lot of people dismiss the body once the soul is gone. So when I moved here for work, I made my own practice and... well here we are." He takes out a long drag from his cigarette, breathing the smoke out through his teeth with a lost expression. "Onain used my funeral parlor whenever he lost someone on the job. A partner, a friend, someone he failed to save. They put all his glories on the front page, but as time went on, they put more and more of his victories in the back obituaries, mere mentions that so and so was lost, with the investigation coming to an end thanks to Inquisitive Onain. He paid for everyone he lost. No family ever paid so much as a half-crown if it was something he was working on. I knew Onain worked hard, but... between you and me? I never knew how much. Calluses and scars are one thing. You learn what hurt a man in his life, and what he worked for. Skin of his feet were like stone, which tells me long hours on his feet. I've dressed soldiers for their last march, and his were tougher. Muscles that showed signs of aging, but signs of stress to show he worked to counteract it. Some alchemical, some medicinal, most through exercise. The city is going to feel the loss soon, I guarantee. What about you? How'd you know Onain?"

[Aldurin]

Valora begins to consider a comeback out of offense to Hurnain's response, but hold's her tongue when she remembers that her offense comes out of the payroll and resources of her artifice profession, which must remain a secret. "Nevermind, then." She curtly replies, turning away to engage with someone else. The gall of him to talk down to me like that! I'll just learn to build my own better prosthetic arms that'll make his work look like rotting wood in comparison.

She notices the warforged's continued presence, and decides to start conversation with him. "You weren't here for the funeral, and I get the sense you're at the reception for business reasons, given your behavior. Is it Inquisitive business, perhaps?" As she looks at Starbrandy she struggles against staring at his scars, which make her want to hold him down until she can properly repair his head.

[Athaleon]

Variel's curiosity was piqued but, good manners to one side, he knew better than to press an Inquisitive for information. He returned to sharing anecdotes and offering condolences to pass the time until the wake was over.

[Chambers]

Tosk

The half-orc narrowed his eyes at the warforged. "I'm going to assume this is the first time you've interrupted two Tharashks in conversation..." He pauses to look over the odd scars on the machine. "...or perhaps that's how you've earned those scars you bear." He nods at the elf's questions and follows her gaze to the warforgeds head. Tosk makes no effort to hide his own stare. "Why wait til after? If you have questions for me, ask them now."

[Cardea]

"No, Mr. Torrn, I earned them working with one, so don't attempt to goad me at the his own funeral, when I'm still doing work for him." The warforged says, his composite eye turning to Valora, before his head follows. "Your arms. This must make you Miss Virashen. I'm going to ask that you remain behind as well."

[Athaleon]

Variel turned back to the conversation around the newly arrived Warforged, and tried to reassure Tosk. "Presumably these questions are not for all and sundry to overhear," he said quietly, "so let's avoid drawing undue attention. I, for one, intend to stay and hear him out. After all, this does concern the mutual friend we have all come to mourn—I can think of no other connection between myself and the rest of you," he concluded.

[rypt]

Sidara

Another long stretch of silence. Another long pull on her cigarette. It is not easy for Sidara to listen to the man describe the signs of Onain's suffering. She needs a moment to compose herself as much as she needs a moment to consider how to concisely answer his question.

"Onain saved my life," she says joylessly, watching as the cloud of smoke she's just exhaled drifts out into the rain. "He gave me a second chance, and when I squandered it, he was there to help me pick up the pieces and try again. That was almost ten years ago. I guess I waited too long to thank him." She turns to the funeral director for the first time, and if he had not noticed them before, there's no mistaking them now. Sidara's eyes are not the eyes of a human or an elf or an orc. They are otherwordly, and yet, to a man who has made a business of death, the pain behind them is all too familiar. "Onain was the closest thing I had to a father. I need you to tell me how he died."

[Cardea]

The director takes a long drag from his cigarette, breathing it out through his nose as he sighs silently. "Inquisitive Starbrandy, the warforged who just walked in, will have more. I only know about what happened with the body, none of the circumstances surrounding it." He barely finishes the sentence before he inhales sharply, and his breathing is heavier, more controlled. "His scars were opened up, his real arm was crushed, and attempts were made to sever his artificial one. But he was dropped from one of the towers. Spine, legs, back of the head were shattered on impact. I had to put his body on a brace. Inquisitive Starbrandy most likely has an autopsy report, if there was anything more."