Fantasy SD IC

Hand of fate is moving and the finger points to you
He knocks you to your feet and so what are you gonna do?
Your tongue has frozen now you’ve got something to say
The piper at the gates of dawn is calling you his way.

You watch the world exploding every single night
Dancing in the sun a newborn in the light.
Say goodbye to gravity and say goodbye to death
Hello to eternity and live for every breath.

Your time will come, your time will come
Your time will come, your time will come

The ferryman wants his money you ain’t going to give it back
He can push his own boat as you set up off the track
Nothing you can contemplate will ever be the same
Every second is a new spark, sets the universe aflame.

You watch the world exploding every single night
Dancing in the sun a newborn in the light
Brothers and their fathers joining hands and make a chain
The shadow of the wicker man is rising up again.

Your time will come, your time will come
Your time will come, your time will come

Your time will come, your time will come
Your time will come, your time will come
Your time will come, your time will come
Your time will come, your time will come

-The Wicker Man, by Iron Maiden

******

Forest, outside Reshva
Night


The gloom of the forest concealed all within it, hiding the movements within.

Even on a moonlit knight like this one, the trees blocked out the silver light, leaving only small points of light to show bits of grass and twigs. The gloom gave the impression of complete stillness, cold and empty. Only the rustling of the trees could be heard, drowning out other faint noises that may be heard in the faint symphony of leaves.

The gloom receded as an orange light crept about it, casting flickering shadows of tree’s trunks and thick brush. The torch’s light revealed a path of stamped dirt, trod by many feet.

“What exactly do they expect us to find out here, anyway?”

Marcel turned to look, his grizzled face cracking a smile. “Something. Or nothing, maybe.”

Jean sighed in disgust, his younger and smoother face twisted into a scowl. The chain of their armour rattled rhythmically as they walked, and Jean’s torch reflected off the dulled metal links, painting them orange.

“I hate it when you’re cryptic like that.” He said with a youthful annoyance. “It always sounds like you’re mocking me.”

“Maybe I am.”

“There’s no maybe about it.” The younger laughed, looking out into the woods, and seeing only blackness. “Damn, I wish they’d send out bigger patrols.”

“Scared?” Marcel joked.

Jean spun to him, indignant. “Of course not! It’s my job to be brave where others are afraid.” He calmed. “However, if the rumors are true, then we should be traveling in larger groups.”

“And that’s why we do this: it’s our job.” The man said conclusively, responding to the earlier point. “Besides, rumors are mostly just that: rumors.”

“Then why is the Captain ordering more night patrols?” Jean asked pointedly. “You know what they say: strange figures in the night, weird noises, and you CAN’T deny what Rickerdson said.”

Marcel laughed dismissively. “Rickerdson is a dimwitted old farmer who has fallen off his donkey too many times.” His expression became amused. “Don’t tell me you honestly believe that malarkey about the undead?”

“And why not?” His partner asked indignantly. “Do you think eight guards just up and die on their own, just outside of town?”

“Bandits, probably. Snuck in to cause trouble.”

Jean ignored the dismissal. “You know this was once a province of Morveshann; they’ve build an entire religion out of raisin’ the dead. Don’t they have a temple just outside the east end of town?”

The man nodded, with changed to a shake of the head halfway though. “I’ve talked to a few of the Morvenites; good people, all and all. A few odd ideas, but I’ve never seen a walking corpse in or out of that building.” He batted a fly away. “Besides, Hannigan already questioned them about it; they don’t know anything about it.”

“And he believed them.”

It was more of a statement of disbelief than a question. Marcel shrugged. “From what I know, there’s some kind of a difference between their necromancy and other kinds. I don’t really understand it myself. Hannigan said that it’s probably not them, so we’re backing off on them.”

Jean cursed. “I don’t like it. Playing with the dead…..it’s not natural.”

Marcel looked at his partner. “They’ve been here a long time, Jean. Before this place broke off and joined the Federation. They’ve never stirred up any trouble; I don’t like what they’re doing much either, but they’re members of the community. Remember that one of them was found dead too.”

Jean growled. “I still don’t like it too much. You know my mother died last year; I don’t like the idea of some necropriest raising her up to do laundry -”

“Wait.” The elder guard cut him off, motioning for him to stop. His eyes were fixed on a point on the road in front of him. He grabbed his partner’s hand, guiding the torch forward to illuminate the way.

The light revealed a crumpled shape, lying face-down in the dirt. It appeared naked, stripped of clothing, and its skin uneven and dark at points, as if lacerated. It was not moving.

“Damn.” Jean said, hand the torch to his partner as he drew his shortsword. Marcel stayed back a bit, drawing his own blade; his partner came up to the figure, slowly kneeling down.

As he leaned closer, he could hear laboured breathing from the figure, and his heart quickened with hope. Though his own shadow obscured the body, he could see that it was indeed covered with gaping wounds, ragged and hideous. They did not seem to be bleeding, indicating death. And yet there was still the wheezing of breath, rising about the rustle of the trees.

“Are you alright?” He asked. He immediately felt stupid for doing that, for hesitating with an inane question instead of rolling the man over and trying to patch him up. But there was something about this figure that gave him pause, that stayed his hand. The breathing was constant and strained, but was also rhythmic – measured even, with each breath equal to the last.

He shook away the delay from his mind, and reached forward to turn the figure over. “I said –“

As he began the full, the figure twisted around of its own accord. Even in the darkness of his own shadow, the glassy yellow eyes fixed him with a focused, unrelenting stare, impossibly emaciated face widening its shriveled mouth in a low, unnatural moan.

Jean recoiled from the figure, rising to his feet with his sword in front of him. Marcel heard the chilling noise, and drew his weapon too – as the sound was answered by a series of similar utterances from both sides of the road. The sound of shuffling feet through grass filled his ears as dozens of eyes became visible in the darkness. The moans became louder as the shriveled forms lunged towards him, arms outstretched.

Marcel started forward to help his companion, halting sharply as groaning figure lashed out from the side, its withered hand sending his torch flying off. He thrust his sword into it – the monstrosity grunted in response, pausing only briefly before reaching for his throat, the stench of rot assaulting his eyes.

In desperation, he rammed the sword into the source of the hideous noise, pushing with all his force. It met flesh, and the moan degenerated into a wet gurgle, before staggering backward and off of the blade. A loud thud signaled its fall.

Marcel turned to where Jean was, his foe repelled. He could see nothing in the pitch blackness, but hear the Jean shout in surprise and rage, punctuated by squishing noise of metal piercing flesh, cutting off some of the moaning abruptly. A loud crack pierced the night, and Jean cried out, before a second crack silenced it.

There was a brief pause, save for the moaning. It suddenly became louder, and Marcel got the distinct impression that a collection of grotesque mockeries were now facing their mouths in his direction.

The sound and stench growing steadily with the shuffling of feet, Marcel turned and ran. He was blinded by darkness and deafened by his own heavy, rapid footfalls as he charged blindly away into the night. He could not even hear the moaning over the clatter of his retreat.

Suddenly, road vanished beneath him and was replaced with ditch, and he toppled forward, his face meeting the dirt. His sword clattered off into the gloom, lost to him.

He paused for a moment, stunned by the fall. He could hear the moaning, barely audible; no, it’s just the trees, rustling in the quiet breeze. He couldn’t tell, but no hideous noise approached him.

Then he heard something else.

It was rhythmic, low. It sounded like voices, words, chanting musically in the night. He looked up to the sound, barely moving to make as little noise as possible. His chain chimed slightly, grass made noise as it passed against his shifting bulk. He looked out into the trees, where a beam of light escaped the oppressive canopy of trees.

In the light, he could see figures moving in the darkness. They were naked and…..not quite emaciated, but thin and elongated. They walked slowly, surely, not the shuffle of the beasts before, but deliberate steps. As they passed by, he could hear their voices.

“….serve the Greater End?”

Their voices droned on, emotionless, but with a degree of conviction that suggested some intelligence behind the phrase. They did not turn to him, but walked past; their voices repeating a strange mantra.

“Being God for the Immortality,
Will this serve the Greater End?”

The echoed through the trees as they passed; Marcel could hear the moaning of beasts, coming closer from the direction he came, yet uncertain, undirected, as if blind themselves. The sound was drowned by the mysterious phrase, as the sounds of the monstrous were pushed aside.

“Being God for the Immortality,
Will this serve the Greater End?”

The gloom of the forest concealed all within it, hiding the movements within.

****

Reshva Town Hall
The Next Day

“And so that’s what he told me.”

Mayor Weatherberry held his head in his hands, letting out a long sigh. “Sorneze have mercy. He ran his fingers through his white, receding hair as he looked up and the hard face of Captain of the Watch. “And Jean?”

Captain Hannigan shook his head, his trimmed, grey beard rustling against his collar. “Never found him. We rarely find the corpses, and when we do, it’s always the same; necks and limbs broken and dislocated, almost wretched out of their sockets.” He paused before adding a somber addendum, his cold-blue eyes flashing. “They were probably inflicted after death.”

The mayor shook his head, his green eyes disturbed. He stood, still having to look up at the taller Captain. “Brent, this has to stop. These attacks are getting more and more frequent, and more often closer to town. I’ve heard farmers complaining of strange figures and moaning, livestock going missing…..”

The Captain cut him off. “There’s more. Marcel was panicked when they found him, but he kept going on about one thing; these figures he saw, different than the others. Tall, deliberate he called them.” The man’s harsh face seemed even more worried. “And this one phrase he kept repeating: ‘Being God for the immortality, will this serve the greater end?’”

The mayor nodded. “Aye. That’s disturbing indeed.” He turned, looking out the window over the street. The blacksmith hammered out his days work, while people talked among themselves on their way to the tavern – though they did not seem as cheery as usual. “If there’s something doing this…..”

“Priestess Jamiel suggested that such things are often the world of dabblers – fools with a little knowledge and a lot of powerthirst.”

The mayor nodded. “If that’s the case, we need to find this hedge magician and put a stop to his abomination.”

The Captain shook his head, a hint of helplessness in his scarred face. “I don’t have enough men to mount an excursion. I lost good soldiers to these attacks, and morale is in the manure pile right now.”

The Mayer’s head made the same movement of desperation. “I know. I need you here, in case of any more attacks. Has the Baron been notified?”

The Captain nodded. “He has, but he’s stretched thin as well. Most if not all of our standing military has been sent to the border, by order of the Assembly.”

The mayor sighed in annoyance. “There hasn’t been an uprising in years, and Morveshann hasn’t made a move to retake its old lands since Agonistolio declared war on them.” He voice became full of anger. “Bandits are becoming harder to disperse, and now this problem with the walking dead…..”

He calmed, trailing off, as he turned back to the window, leaning on the window frame. There was a long silence.

“Send the word out, any way you can. This is a mercenary job; we need all the arms and minds we can get to both fight this back, and to search for its source. Don’t mention that it’s undead, we don’t need a panic on our hands.”

“I’ve heard the rumours myself.” The Captain replied. “Everyone already knows. Marcel was very loud about the undead, and people aren’t ignorant what a zombie is.”

“That’s exactly why we can’t officially announce it.” The Mayor said, resolution in his voice. “People here are mostly tradesmen and farmers, but they know what a necromancer is – and what the Morvenites believe. All it takes is a public accusation and we could have a riot on our hands.” He turned back from the window, looking at the Captain. “They’re members of the community – hell, my son’s married to one of them, you know that. All you have to mention is that we need mercenaries to deal with repeated attacks – the rumour mill will draw in the rest.”

The Captain nodded. “Of course, sir. Right away.” He turned to leave.

“Brent.”

The Captain stopped in his tracks. “Sir?”

“There’s one more thing.” He said, his voice weary. “I received a letter from the Assembly Office; apparently, Morveshann has requested to send a one of their priests to town, to investigate the instances of necromancy.”

The Captain was startled. “How did they know?” The captain asked with disbelief.

The mayor’s head shook from side to side. “Word can travel fast, and by ways we may not have known were possible. According to the letter, he’s a scholar here to study the phenomena more closely, and help to devise a possible solution.”

“’Phenomena?’” The Captain said, with mocking emphasis. “That’s the word they used, isn’t it? Is that all they think of this is? A curiosity?”

“It’s their way, Brent. This is their territory.” He didn’t turn from the window. “According to the letter, he should be arriving soon. He’ll have the proper papers for a minor emissary, though no immunity.”

“They went ahead and allowed it.”

“Yes.” The mayor affirmed. “Members of the Assembly want to make sure that undead problem doesn’t get out of hand again; and rightly so, if you remember your history.”

“The Hundred.” The Captain nodded. “I see. Well, if I see him, I’ll give him the same consideration as I give any of the other mercenaries.”

“Agreed.” The mayor said finally. The Captain waited a moment for anything else, and, meeting only silence, turned and strode from the room.

The Mayor stood in the window, looking over his quiet, threatened town.

****

Some Time Later

A notice, placed up on the Town Notice Board, reads thusly:

Scrawled beneath the notice, carved into the board with a shaky hand, is a single phrase. The letters are uneven and hurried, and part of the statement has been carved though the paper, tearing the lower edge of the notice.

It says only this:

New Sonleoi province of Cattan, inner city of it’s capital, Elvaire

“I still think that it is foolishness to have such an open door policy!” The man insisted, shaking his head, “At least half of the people coming in have to be spies, and the other half will talk for a few gold coins!”

“Be calm Ark,” Said the cloaked woman in front of him quietly, “Do we have anything to hide?”

“Some of them will be assassins looking for you I have no doubt,” The man countered, “what do you say to that?”

The woman gave a cool laugh, which reminded Ark of bells, “I have faith in my gift Ark, if I am to die, I will give you proper notice, but that will not come for a while.”

“Very well my lady.” Ark said grudgingly, turning his back to the cloaked woman, “But that won’t stop me from trying to hunt them down. Prophet or not, it’s still only common sense.”

“Of course.” Answered the prophet, “then again, you’d do it even if I denied that, wouldn’t you?” Ark gave a somewhat sheepish shrug, “You really can see what’s going to happen, with everyone.”

It was her turn to shrug this time, “That wasn’t a prophecy, that’s just part of what I know of your personality.” Though the hood concealed the prophet’s eyes, but a dazzling smile danced on her lips. “Your stubbornness makes you rather predictable sometimes you know.”

Ark turned rather red, not knowing what to say about that. The prophet just shook her head and motioned for him to go. “Don’t stand around being shy. You’ve got a nation to run. Go on!”

Elvaire

The blue clad warrior slugged the man across the table, left her money for the drinks she had bought the man, and left.

“This is going no where.” Ilus lamented, looking around the streets. No one knew anything about her! Either that, or everyone who did was keeping their mouths shut tight!

Ilus’ search simply yielded the same information over and over. No one knew where the prophet was from, or even what she actually looked like in full light! By all reports, she had simply appeared one day, talked with the local lord (Named Ark), Then the lord and prophet had made a speech together, the prophet had proven her powers to some people, and suddenly the entire province goes into open revolt!

Ilus wasn’t a fan of politics, but she knew that things didn’t move that fast. There was barely a three day time span between her coming to town and the revolt, then 2 weeks later she murdered two fully equipped Morrshavven legions with nothing but local troops and her ability to ‘see the future!”

Then, suddenly, after two weeks of frenzied activity, she retreated to her own dwelling, relying on Ark to handle the government and the overall situation. Thus, taking over the country and completely changing its course in the world without even changing rulers!

Why, Who, how… No one could tell her ANY of it! But I really don’t have a choice. I have questions that need answering, and she’s the only person who might know anything about it.

Well, nothing else for it.[\I] Ilus seethed, picking a random direction and heading off. Perhaps someone on the west side of town might know something! After all, that was closer to The Prophet's residence.

OOC: Small note. Theme song for thisbe the track 'Davy Jones' from the PoTC: Dead Man's Chest soundtrack.

Location: Unknown.

Where have my dreams led me to? What unearthly realm does my plagued mind now roam?

The thought rang out across the hallway of the cathedral; echoing through its empty chambers and corridors. They were interrupted mere seconds later by the echoing of a metal foot falling heavily on that of marble. The cathedral itself was similar to any other; with rows upon rows of seats arranged facing towards the altar at one end. But even as Rodrick Bedecia looked at the ornate windows and the paintings on the ceiling, he knew that it was all fake…all unreal – just as how his thought had rung out aloud, despite him not having moved his lips once.

The Knight’s eyes were sunken in deeply, as if lacking any significant sleep for a number of days. They were visible despite the fact that the visor on his helmet was down. Has his helmet been completely off, though, one could see that his face had a short moustache, along with the stubble of a slowly growing beard. His shoulders were hunched slightly, and his gait was staggered, as if unable to carry the heavy weight of the full body armor; which was even odder considering the expression on his face held behind them a great strength unlike any other. On the back of the armor lay the symbol of Bedecia; a sword and a staff crossed over together on top of a glacier; indicative of the frost knight’s previous heritage. There was toughness to the Knight that nobody could deny; yet even now that toughness seemed to be in the calling.

Why must they return here…to this place…to these memories that do not belong to me?

He asked once more, to nobody in particular. Rodrick hated these dreams…these nightmares that had driven him to the edge of insanity for almost two decades. They came in such frequency and occurrence that he pretty knew it when he was having one, and that he was once more.

And yet, still, I have no control.

No control…nothing. There was nothing in this place…nothing in these weird dream that Rodrick knew or was familiar with. None of the people he met, none of the individuals he saw were familiar to him…yet, they were somehow intricately connected. He couldn’t explain how or why, but he just knew they were. He sighed once more, as he walked down the rows of chairs and benches. There was something unusual about the dream this time, however…something different.

He was alone. Looking up towards the Altar, Rodrick noticed that the traditional symbols that should have been there were missing…and instead, upon the platform was a large organ instrument; with pipes that reached all the way up to the extremely high ceiling. The keys were all dusty, while cobwebs filled the holes. The chair had been discarded to one side, and appeared broken.

It was then that Rodrick recognized the place. Walking through the rows and towards the Altar, the familiarity hit him like a brick…this was a church, one in Angonistollio. He had passed by here once…only taken a peek inside, but never really entered it or talked to the priests. Another connection…another mystery to bother his mind.

That was when something caught his attention. A soft music began to play through the church; the soft tones amplified significantly as it echoed off the walls and large expanse. The tones weren’t from an instrument though – it was more artificial in nature, like as if it was coming from a small clockwork mechanism or something similar. This was something new…something different than the other dreams. The music was soft…gentle, as it were. It had a sad tone to it, however, one that struck Rodrick him as particularly odd. He didn’t know why it was odd…but it just felt that way. Looking around for the source, he followed the music back to its source, moving back past the rows he had passed just moments ago. Finally, stopping at one row, he found the source of the music: a locket.

The locket was small and thin. Made in a locket shape, it was a steel grey in color, yet shone with a brilliance that, by all rights, should only be present on gold. An intricate design was imprinted onto the locket’s cover. The design had a sun to one corner, a moon to the other, the world on another, and finally a skull on the last. Each one had a slightly different tinge to it, relating to the nature of the object. The sun was yellow, the moon white, the Earth blue and the skull red. The locket was attached to a golden chain that seemed to be extremely pure and brilliant.

Rodrick’s blood froze as he looked at it. He knew this object, which had haunted each and every dream without fail. People and places would come and go, but this one thing remained unchanging in every way…at least, till now. Rodrick knew…knew that if he opened it, or tried to guess at what was inside, this dream would end, and he could finally awake.

But something held him back, stopping him…it was as if a part of him wanted to remain in the dream. As if some story needed to be told – an important one that he needed to listen to. Torn between his desire to stay and to escape, Rodrick stood there for a long moment, before sighing. Letting himself go, he shuffled into the row as best he could in the armor, while making sure not to fall. Taking a seat on the chair, Rodrick looked at the locket for a full second, before slowly and carefully picking it up. His gloves did nothing to block the cold chill he got from touching it. The metal was so cold, for a moment his fingers felt numb, before he shifted his hand and held it from the chain instead.

And what mysteries do you hold, little locket? What secrets lay within you, that disturb me on so many nights? Why do you, like him, torment me so much?

Rodrick sighed as the mechanism playing the music reached its end, and the tones began to fade out. He reached out with his other hand, moving to touch the locket and try opening it when, suddenly, the entire cathedral shook as the organ came to life, emitting a thunderous note that deafened him.

It continued to play; the music issuing forth going in a similar vein and tones as the Locket. Rodrick’s head shot up, looking to find who was playing it. Something had changed from when he had seen it last; the Organ itself was completely new now, the dust having disappeared from the piano keys, and the cobwebs completely cleaned up. The Chair had been mysteriously repaired and replaced; and a shadow now sat in front of the organ, playing it. Its hands moved so fast they seemed like a blur, yet they managed to play a symphony that was so moving that Rodrick couldn’t help but be mesmerized by it.

But before he could think of saying anything, or doing anything for that matter; the entire cathedral shook once more…and then continued to shake as the windows rattled and the walls started to crumble. Seats were upturned as the music suddenly increased in pitch and intensity, moving the entire church even more. It began to spin suddenly, as the walls collapsed outwards and the windows shattered. The roof flew off, revealing a giant tornado surrounding the entire structure as it was sucked upwards. The tornado spun the entire base around, sucking up the rest of the seats, along with the pillars and everything save for the bench that Rodrick was sitting on, and the piano. It was unusual in the sense that this was like no normal tornado Rodrick had seen – it was completely white on the inside…as if instead of picking up dust, it had picked up snow and ice. They were located right in its eye, the winds whirling and moving all around them as spiraled upwards, fighting to reach the black sky above.

The wind was deafening…but nothing was louder than the music that continued to play at the person’s behest; the notes and tones matching that of the Locket’s rising and falling in intensity and sadness as it continued to play. Looking up, Rodrick saw the oddest thing: ravens were flying across the tornado and around it. They numbered in the hundreds…no thousands. They spiraled downwards towards the remains of the cathedral, forming a black cloud that began to grow larger and larger. Their loud caws rang out with the wind, but again, neither came close to the music.

The music began to wind down, reaching towards the end of its climax – and the Ravens followed, suddenly disappearing from Rodrick’s view – as if they had never been there. The sun shone through the eye, forcing him to look away…and then, suddenly, the wind died down. Looking up, Rodrick realized that the tornado had vanished, as mysteriously as it had appeared.

He looked back towards the Organ…only to find that it, along with the shadow, had completely vanished as well. This was surprising, especially considering the shadow usually stayed until the end of these dreams…another oddity in the entire thing.

The mechanical notes struck out again; but this time there was no echo, as the walls of the Cathedral had gone. Looking down, Rodrick looked at the locket, studying it for a brief moment. But there wasn’t anything he hadn’t seen before. But there was something else that he hadn’t noticed. Carved in the floor in between Rodrick’s feet, were two words. It looked more like the wood had just…disappeared in the shape of the letters; but the message they delivered was clear enough…clear enough that it sent a shiver up his spine.

Find Me.

Rodrick read the words once more, just to be sure. His mind reeled back at this…finally…finally was the end to all this coming soon? Perhaps it was, perhaps it wasn’t…there was no way to really tell. He considered the words carefully. Find who? The locket? The figure? who?

The mystery apperantly wasn’t going to made clear, as the music began to fade once more, and with it, the world around Rodrick began to fade as well till, finally, it reached nothing but blackness, leaving him once more into the land of bliss, and peaceful sleep.

IC:

*Reshva, As Dragur walked through the streets, he got no small amount of funny looks, due to his apparel: a heavy cloak, which seemed out of place in broad daylight. He didn't mind much though. In the week or so since he'd left the Priest, he'd gotten used to being stared at. At least they weren't screaming in terror and summoning priests to exorcise him.

Mentally, he wondered what he was doing here. Yeah, it was interesting, and sure it wasn't much of a detour, but still, this may not have been the best. Suddenly, Dragur tripped, and his cloak flew off him, revealing his partially decayed and clearly undead self to the world.*

Dragur: "Oh, crud."

City gates, Reshva

"It feels damn good to be back to civilisation," Julian Danvers opined as he walked through the gates in quite good spirits. "Good food, fine beer, and hopefully a willing whore or two."

"Fornicating with loose women is a sin," his companion replied primly, smoothing out her own travel-worn garments.

"If I hear those words pass your lips once more," Danvers shot back, "I will leave you here and to hell with the money." He'd heard the rumours that the enlisted men passed about, sordid tales of just what the rituals conducted by the priestesses of Lileathon entailed, and he was starting to suspect one of two things: either the rumour mill was wrong, or 'it doesn't count between Sisters,' because this particular example had an adamantine vow of chastity, and was about as straightlaced as they came anyway.

"Fine - it's your eternal soul," Miku said, not entirely without regret; Lileathon preached trying to turn those living a life of sin aside from it, but if they wouldn't listen, it was ultimately their own lookout. "I should find the local healers and see if I can help them."

"Not before we find somewhere to stay for the night," Danvers contradicted her, "and don't start do-gooding, we'll be here all night."

The argument settled, after a fashion, the priestess and mercenary forged ahead, trying to find an inn that was neither shabby nor overly expensive.

Elvaire, Just outside the Merchant district, The Drunken Elf Tavern

John was in full swing with one of his stories, this one was about a huge battle where he had created a large meteor that had crashed down on the ork forces killing there leaders and mages. He was a bit taller than he actually was, but it was all a lie anyway.

"And with a great woomph my rock from the heavens crushed their lead asault and their leaders with it." He said waving his arms and a girl brought him another drink, "This left the vunerable to a decicive cavalry charge from the battered gates, which compleated the route."

He jestured to the illusion and the orks in full flight, being run down by the persuing knights.

"And thats how I helped the deffenders of Kara Za Kara two thousand years ago." He ended with a bow, "They later did fall though to a dwarven attack force that undermined their walls, but thats a tale for another night."

He grined and accepted the prase, a girl under each arm.

`Ths is what I live for` he thought to himself, `Girls and adventure, even if it is fake adventure.`

Elvaire, Merchant district

A faint smile played across Bo Chun Jiang's lips as he wandered the streets in the western half of the merchant district. She was here, just as had been promised to him all those years ago. The memory of the white clad woman, telling him of the coming of the prophet in the western nations had been indelibly burned into his memory as the last thing he saw with his eyes, and just as promised, the prophet had come.

During his stay in the beggars quarter he had heard many things about the prophet, all mostly hearsay and rumours and he doubted the truth in any of it; She could fly, had the wings of an angel, was ageless, had beauty such that it could paralyse a man merely by looking upon it... all invariably untrue. The only things he had heard with a ring of truth to them were the fourth and fith hand accounts of the battle, which by all accounts was a glorious victory against insurmountable odds, lending a fair bit of credence to the prophet's abilities. And of course the accounts of the prophet's activities, which after a frenetic bout culminating in the seccession of this provice from Morshavven had died down to nearly nothing.

But now he was moving up to the more respectable areas of the city, and it seemed that people here kept their mouths shut a little more. Talk was sparse, and credible information even more so. Hoever, he'd managed to glean the approximate whereabouts of the prophet's residence, and was in the process of making his way over there now.
It was a bit of a gamble, but he hoped he might be enough of a curiousity to gain an audience with the prophet, and in doing so perhaps gain the purpose which his life had up to this point, lacked.

Reshva

Olphena happily chewed away at the turkey leg in her hand as she walked through town, a low purr escaping from her throat as the tender meat nearly melted in her mouth. The werecat happily chewed away as she walked along, a perfectly normal human girl by all appearances. Eyes like shimmering water flicked from the turkey leg to her list. Lets see.. some of these ingredients were rare, but they were definite possibilities in her mission.. of course rare also meant expensive, and the Guild's allowance was only really enough to keep her in food and lodging.

Which would be why she stopped to check the town notice board and found the announcement regarding the undead attacks. She perked up almost immediately. Undead eh? That seemed like an easy enough job.. and best of all Undead weren't particularly renowned for this tendency to carry silver weaponry, so all the better for her. She checked the notice on who to contact and happily scarfed down the rest of the meat on the turkey leg, skipping off down the road and dropping the bone as she went.. not noticing the oddly dressed man in the cloak whom the bone landed in front of as she set off to get paid.

Morshavven/Sonleoi Border, Near the town of Reshva

A lone figure walked along the road during a dark night. The person was covered in a cloak and armed to the teeth with a pair of extemely sharp swords and countless knives and shurikens. The man moved silently, heading to the town named Reshva. The nameless man, no, assassin, only known as Hunter, headed toward Reshva after he heard that undead creatures were appearing there.

Hunter, as he was known to others, knew that fighting undead creatures like zombies are not the work for simple guardsmens, especially the large amount of them currently reported.

Hunter dealt with the undead before, in his past, before he became a assassin... He wasnt about to start remembering his past now, perheps in time....

Hunter spotted them a few seconds later, a group of 3 undead moving uncoordinately, he drew his sword and snuck up behind them, then attacked, slashing 1 of the undead in the neck, slicing the head clean off it, then struck at the others, cutting off their heads as well, after that was done he cleaned his swords then headed toward Reshva again.

About an hour later he got to the towns gates, he entered the town but before just before he heraded to the towns notice boards he saw 2 other people who were clearly outsiders and noticed that one of them was a mercenary by the looks of it and the other was a healer, he catagalized them in his mind then headed to the towns notice boards to see whats been happening, after reading the notice board he went to Captain Brent to know exactly what the situation is.

Mandar had just finished with the reason he had come to Reshva-an old man who knew quite a bit about the relationships between the magical elements. As he was passing by the town hall, a notice caught his eye. "Let's see, Martial Bent-no, Magical Comprehension-I suppose if all they need is knowledge, not power, Inquiring Mentality-that's me. One and a half for three-I think I'll check it out." He looked at the notice again. "There's a reward too-even better"

20 Miles off Reshval

Harlan

With a journey worth a day's time after them, the two mounted men looked down from the slopes of the northern hill lands of the Elwald, and for the first time saw the mighty river in all its tremendous size. Originating from three different arms, the Blue, the Green and the Red Fork, the Elwald was among the largest streams of the land, so Harlan had been told. It was the largest one he had ever seen, so much was certain.
Harlan and his fellow traveller, a rough man in his ending fourties, named Jarvis „Blackeye“ for the scarred dark hollow where once his left eye had been, looked down the winding road towards the shores of the river. This was not the Queensroad, and yet it was full of people. Common folk, singers, sellswords on horseback and on foot, fishermen, beggars, merchants and their carts full of gods, they all ventured towards the river, towards the great flat-bottomed oared ferry that went back and forth across the Elwald.

„Gods,“ Blackeye snarled, „you could almost think there was a tourney about to take place 'ere.“ Stroking his beard he leaned back in the saddle and rested his hand on the hilt of his short sword. His face was weathered, his hair a fierce red with strains of grey. His light skin made the burnmark in his face stand out even more. Beneath an old and scarred suit of armour made of boiled leather and copper rivets he wore a soft green tunic and linnen pants. A large battleaxe with a long blade and a dangerous spike on its backside rested on the man's back.
„Aye, now that'd be a coincidence,“ Harlan replied with the same sarcastic tune in his deep baritone voice. Of course, there was a tourney there. That was the whole purpose of their journey, he thought while turning in his saddle, looking at his mule and the road behind them, where a group of monks came marching and chanting praises to the seven faces of God.

Harlan's mount was a fox, a fine red coldblooded warhorse from good stables in Fairmarket. It was considerably larger than Blackeye's greyish mare, but that was not the reason Harlan Stone towered above him and everybody else on the Ferry Road. Standing just two inches short of seven foot, the huge warhorse just seemed to fit to him as smaller horses did fit to men of a more common size. Even without armour, the young man weighed almost twentytwo stone. With armour, maybe sixty pounds more.
Harlan Stone could feel the views of those passing by, and could almost sense them turning their gaze away when they feared he looked at them. His head and face were clean shaven. A long scar, shining in an angry red in the midday's sun, ran from his left cheek over his throat to his right side, ending just beneath the ears on both sides. Three small polished steel rings pierced every ear, blinking in the bright light. Harlan wore a knee-long shirt of mail. The rest of his armour clanged and banged in an unsteady rythm with every step of the mule that was bound to Blackeye's mare. As weapons Harlan carried both, a worn broadsword and a bastard sword with a blade almost four feet long. Neither were enchanted, but both were of exquisite quality steel.

He stood up in his stirrups and gazed down the slopes at the small borough where the ferry over the Trident docked, a good mile away from where they stood now.
„C'mon, old crow,“ he spat out, patting his horse on the sides while adressing Blackeye.
„We better move on. I want a decent bed for the night, and I don't want to be late so that I'll have to barter with 'ome bloody merchant over it.“
He pulled at the reins and pushed his heels into his mount's sides, sending the horse into a well-paced trot, rushing past the marching folk. Jarvis Blackeye followed him down towards the river's shore and the ferry.
„Ya know, if the tourney turns out to be a waste of time and effort, we could still move a bit farther down the road on the other shore,“ the older man reminded him. „I still got the leaflet from that merchant about trouble in what was the name? Reshval? Yeah, Reshval. They promise good payment for sellswords, it says.“
„Or so you told me,“ Harlan grunted. „Well try the tourney first. Trouble usually doesn't vanish over night.“


Blackeye

It was already way past the third afternoon hour when they had finally reached the town. The ferry past the Elwald had been cramped to the edges with folk and animals. They had waited almost an hour amidst peasants, merchants, sellswords, hedge knights and noble lords and ladies with their entourage. When their turn had come, the flat-bottomed ferry had almost capsized - twice. A knight had been thrown off his mount and nearly drowned in his armour before strong hands pulled him back onboard where he promised each and every of his rescuers a silver coin – when he had won the tourney.
Others were not so lucky and had to make it back to the shores. Those who could not swim drowned fast, while the people on the ferry gasped and yelled. Those who could swim had to fight hard against the muddy brown floods of the Elwald while the „Two-headed Seacow“ continued to the southern shore and the nearby town. Jarvis had been glad to leave the boat, and he had sensed his horse feeling the same.

They had left the river harbour then, his master's massive and grim features carving a path through the crowd for them, and had passed through a gatehouse whose purpose seemed to be ceremonial at best: the town had no city walls.
A banner high above, showing a two-headed horse on a ground of green and wavy green, fluttered in the mild breeze that went down with the Elwald.

The town itself, just like the road, was bursting with people from all over the lands. Merchants and riders from the Red Marshes, their skin darkended by the sun passed by artists and firespitters from the Riverlands. Bannermen and common folk from the Green Reaches made way for fierce sellswords from the Stormy Shores. Steelbrothers, looking as if they had just jumped off their longboat, drank and laughed with a scholar and his acolythes from the North. It had taken Jarvis some time to find an inn, but it had only needed his master's appearance and a few bellowed phrases to convince a travelling merchant to give up his room.

Harlan Stone stayed in his room. He would be working on his blades with whetstone and oil. Sometimes, that was all he ever seemed to do, Blackeye thought.
Leaving the tavern again to buy some provisions and to get a look at the tourney fields, his grim and rough features opened him the way through the town's crowded streets often enough.
Greltwood was a fair sized settlement that did not show its wealth to everyone at the first glance.
Jarvis „Blackeye“ had been here before, half a life ago. Or, in another life. Both were right, in some way, he thought. The faces had changed, naturally, the town had grown a bit, but not much. Many shops were still at the same place. In the town's center, past the busy and crammed marketplace, a temple stood high and shining, its dome mirroring the afternoon sunlight, coloured windows reflecting the rays of sunshine in all the aspects of the rainbow. The air was full of birds. Crows, waiting to steal from the others, pidgeons cramping the roofs above the marketplace, seagulls circling above the river harbour, waiting the catch the spoils of the fishermen. The place was just bursting with life. Two hundred neat houses with white walls and red brick roofs, some thousand inhabitants of the town and maybe thrice that number in travellers made the place resemble and ant hill.

Above it all, on the southernmost flank of the soft hill the town was built upon, stood the keep of the town's Lord, a strong square house made of granite, three stories high that melded into a high roundtower, another twenty or so yards in height, all surrounded by a large round bailey of red and yellow stone, decorated with marble statures on granite pillars. Blackeye had no interest in the keep, only in the gold that his master hoped the tourney at the Leafy Meadows would flush into his pockets.

The Meadows had gotten their name from the red and chestnut coloured leaves the wind had carried there from the crescent shaped ironwood forest the first lords of river town had planted, back in the time of the Ancient Men. Today, there were few ironwood trees left, if any. Farmland, ripe with corn and vegetables, had cut away the old woods for centuries, and today small towns and lively boroughs ranged as far as the eye could see. Only the name had prevailed: the Leafy Meadows.
Jarvis Blackeye marched past the town's tower keep, past the houses of merchants and artisans, until he suddenly found himself on the edge of the Meadows. A sea of colours, coming from all the shapes of the rainbow, almost took him aback. This was not the first tourney Blackeye would witness, the gods knew that much. Still, the long summer seemed to have made these events grow bigger than he could remember.

There were literally hundreds of banners, but after he had coped with the first surprise, he no longer gave them any attention. The bannerman of Harlan Stone was here for but one reason. It took his good eye not long to find his destination. A small man of his age, with a hooked nose, thinning gray hair and a boney face, clad in fine green and bronze linnen and accompagnied by two guards in the colours of the town's lord, sat behind a table on the edge of the Meadows, quills and ink and a thick book in front of him. By the look of it, the two men-at-arms seemed to be just as bored as the horses in the pen behind them. When he stepped forward, the clerk glance up at him and snorted.
„Begone, this is no beggars' and brigants' gathering! Noble lords from all the King's lands have come here to combat for honour, this is no place for sellswords.“
Blackeye glanced over the man's head, looking at all the banners there, wondering how many of them might even have a House of which they called themselves „Lord“. There may have been some to ride here to fight for glory and for the honour to be remembered in songs, yet Jarvis Blackeye had carried a blade of his own long enough to know that even those so noble men were as much attracted by the honour as the were by the prospect of winning two and a half thousand golden Dragons.
„I am neither beggar nor brigant,“ Blackeye responded stifly, his voice as hard as steel. „I come here to enter the man I serve into the lists.“
The clerk looked at him with a mixed of boredom and disgust.
„Another Hedge Knight?“ he rose an eyebrow ande yawned.
Jarvis drew his breath.
„My master is a knight. He has come here on the word of his noble father, Sir Damian Coldwater. And trust me, he does not take it lightly to be called Hedge Knight or beggar,“ he declared sharply, clear and plain to hear for everybody in the vicinity.
„He goes by the name of Harlan Stone.“
„A bastard name, like many another,“ the clerk replied with a scolding voice, shrugging.
Blackeye kept his temper. Other men might have demanded such an insult to be payed for with blood. He knew the hot-blooded men from the Marshes for certain would have. But Harlan Stone was a bastard, and confessed so quite openly. There was no insult in something his master was indeed proud of.
„Oh, is it? Some also call him the „Ogre of the Vale“, you know,“ he continued with the hint of a cold smile.
If the clerk had recognize him by that name, he showed it not. But Jarvis Blackeye saw the guards jumping back to attention, the younger one of them, a boy of maybe seventeen, paling. It seemed some of the stories had gotten around after all. He could not hide a half-smile.

It had all gone smooth then. The boy had muttered something into the clerk's ear, the man had subsequently paled as well, and Jarvis had his master's name inscribed on the list and even got a friendly farewell. The sun was already starting to sink behind the horizon when he started to make his way back to the inn. Laden with black bread, salted sausages and hard cheese, as well as with oil and needle and flints and half a dozen other things that might be useful on their way back home to the Moat, Blackeye turned around another corner of one the town's narrow streets – and almost bumped into three men with yellow cloaks showing twining red-and-green snakes.
Paege men, the gods be cursed!
„I'll be damned if that's not the bastard's weasel!“ the one in the middle, a stocky man with a red, pockmarked face and teeth as yellow as horsepiss yelled, crossing his arms before his chest.
„All leatherfaced and shit. Shame the leather's got a burnmark.“
„Look boys, shitface 'ere's become his house maid,“ the one to the right roared with laughter, an older man with a fat belly, carrying a broadsword.
„Where's yer skirt then, ya old pissbucket?“ the one on the left, a tall boy of maybe sixteen leaning on a spear cackle in a high-pitched voice. They all burst in laughter.
All three wore shirts of mail over boiled leather and iron skull caps with nose guards.
„The dirty swamp man, he is,“ the fat one laughed, poking a finger at Blackeye's chest.
„Nah, Belkar. He's no swamp man. He's a swamp rat. A scrawny rat among slimy frogs.“ The boy raised his horseface high, sniffing as if there was some foul smell in the air.
Jarvis dubbed them Pockface, Fatbeard and Longshanks.
„Eh, not saying anything? Got the words stuck in ya throat, or what?“ Pockface lashed out and threw half the things Jarvis had carried to the dusty ground.
„Don't forget, he thinks he's better than us three simple lads. After all, he's Jarvis „Fastblade“.“ Fatbeard drew out the name mockingly, crossing his arms over his fat belly.
„Oh wait, I'm wrong. Yer no longer „Fastblade“, I forgot. Beg me pardons, m'lord,“ the fat one imitated a bow, laughing hard.
„Tell us, what happened to ya eye again, 'eh?“ Longshanks squieked, leaning on his spear.
„I heard it had something to do with his whore and her piss,“ Pockface said. „No wonder she burned that well.“
„Your lord must love that swamp so much then, considering how eager he is to take away my master's keep from him,“ Jarvis repeated flatly with a mocking half-smile, but inside his rage was burning. The King's peace must not be broken, he reminded himself. „The frog-lord and his frogmen. Or should I call ya lot the swamp bitches instead?“
Pockface's face darkened, and he spat out.
„Oh, look boys, old shitface 'ere's trying to insult our dear lord. Whuddaya think, 'eh? How about we give the old rat something to think about, eh?“
„Maybe a second black eye,“ Longshanks chimed in, cackling.
Jarvis stiffened, his left foot reaching back to find a more solid stance.
A gloved fist shot forward. The punch came not unexpected, but the Paege's man-at-arms was a good twenty years younger than Jarvis, and heavier built. Blackeye stumbled back, bumping into the wall behind. His jaws ached, and he could feel something warm dropping from his mouth. He pulled himself forward again, stubborn as he had always been.
Laughing, Pockface took another swing at him, but this time, Jarvis yanked back, grabbed the ugly man's stretched arm – and pulled as hard as he could. He heard the shoulder joint cracking free, heard the man's muffled squeal and heard the dull „gong“ it made as the soldier's head met the lower wall of the half-timbered house behind Jarvis. Fatbeard tried to yank his blade from his sheath. Blackeye rushed forward, his knee striking up right between the man's legs. The man's fist came up even though his face turned red from pain. Blackeye ducked instinctively. The wooden end of Longshanks' iron-tipped spear hammered over his head, and the blow hit the other man instead, sending him into the dust with his arms swirling like a windmill.
Longshanks was surprised, and he was clearly the youngest of the lot, but the boy took no chances. He fiercely pulled his spear back into position, grabbed it with both hands and went after Jarvis Blackeye, and this time with the pointy end.
This time, Blackeye drew his blade, moving swift and agile like a cat.
With a slick, almost effortless blow the old man's short sword, an old blade glimmering dangerously of oil and hours of care with a whetstone, raced upwards and hacked of the iron head of the spear. The teardrop-shaped blade dropped to the ground with a 'clang'. Longshanks drove the spear at him again, trying to knock the older man out by a direct hit on the head, but the boy's blows seemed more and more clumsy to Jarvis, now that he as rattling off the rust from his limbs.
Jarvis danced aside, first left, then right, then left again. He ducked, grabbed a stone in his left fist, shot up again and brought his own blade up as well. When the next attack came, he parried it, pushing the staff aside, leaping forward along its side. In the brink of a moment, he had closed in on the young man. His left glove smashed into the Paege's man's face with a 'crack', shattering the man's nose and knocking out some teeth. He spat blood and some white pieces before he went down on his knees. Blackeye felt like hitting him again, but thought the better of it. Rage seldomly gave good advice. Without so much as a word he sheathed his sword, picked up his things from the dusty road and headed for the inn, the frightened and admiring looks of the townsfolk following him.


Half an hour later, he and his master were back on the road again. Where three Paege men were, more would undoubtely be. There was no need to pick a fight that you could only loose. It was just a shame Harlan could not fight in the tourney - it would have been good money.
„So, Reshval it is?“
„Aye, Reshval it is,“ Harlan nodded.

Outside of Elvaire
Angel von Richtenstaff sneezed as she sat on the cart carrying her and her companions to the capital. It was one of those typical dusty and dirty horse drawn ones that peasants were always milling about, but it was a more comfortable then walking. It was becoming a choir for her to keep her priestess’s robes clean and she had to keep up a good appearance for the flock.

“I still don’t get why we should sent out this end of the world to find out some information about some witch who managed to give the necromancers a black eye.” she said in annoyed voice. At first the trip seemed to be something that would turn out to be challenging and fun. So far it had been dusty, dirty and dull and her companions made her teeth grind. It had been even less fun when she was told by Alran that they were not allowed to pick any fights with the heathens and the heretics. Which to her seemed to defeat the purpose of leaving the country, but orders were orders so she gritted her teeth at every flammable temple to a pagan god and goddess she saw, and looked the other way every time she saw witches and shamans posing as a priests and priestess as if they could claim that title without being the true servants of God. Her companions were also a bit irritating to her as well.

You had for instance her official church escort, Father Arlan Vermel who happened to be one of the softest Order members she had run across and a source of major irritation. Why for instance he looked shocked when she told him matter of factly that she turned in her own sister for dabbling in the dark arts. She got the feeling he probably had yet to even be part of an auto de fe in official role. Well he stuck with her when they returned back home she would see that would changed.

Then you had Cassidrie verDyvslare who seemed to come from a family with a big shadow over her head and was one of the most mercenary minded people she had ever meet in her limited contact with her. The Bishop of Wryms however was involved in getting to travel with them and the Bishop had a lot of pull within Solomon. Thus Cassidrie made up the other member of their small party.

Angela sighed loudly and said peeved voice, “I can’t see why we have to go all the way out to here to check up on some witch that roused up the peasants against the necromancers.”

“That is no ordinary witch Angela, she managed to defeat if the stories are half way to believed two legions of troops and create an independent state out of the empire. Something of great power is occurring there.”

“Unholy power no doubt.” Angela toyed with her staff and looked up at Arlan and said with a grin, “But if this witch turns out to be something worth a threat, I still say we should be ready to show them what the power of righteousness looks like.” she turned to Cassidire and said, “And if that happens, I’ll even allow you to loot the ashes.”

Her eyes were frozen with a fanatic’s gleam and her smile was one of a predator before it would devour prey.

Arlan only put his hand on his head and mumbled, “Heaven help us all.”

Agonistolio
Episcopate of Wryms
Some Time Before Silence’s Post

The golden dome of the Cathedral of Wryms stretched up higher then anything she had ever seen in a building. It made her, and all others under its glaze, dwarfs under a brilliant sky. The columns reaching up were giants, the high alter down the long walkway a fortress distant and great. But Cassidrie did not linger long, being unused to the grander of the Cathedral-city, before being ushered into a stairs, then a hall, and into the room of the Bishop Causerie. Cassidrie knelt, and recalled how she had been summoned- the Abbot of the School summoning her and presenting the episcopate order- and how strange it had been. Cassidrie had not expected such a thing; not since fulfilling her duty to the School in serving in its contingent to Prince Luis’s war, but nevertheless here it was.

“Your Grace.” Bishop Causerie smiled and nodded, his white hair shaking slightly as he dipped his head, at her and gestured for her to stand. She did so. He had changed since he was the Abbot at the School, the School and Monastery where her family had managed to enroll her at, but the forcefulness of his character still remained with him as it did before.

“My Daughter, Maria[1],”

“Cassidrie, Your Grace please.” He sighed and nodded again, but mostly to himself.

“Very well. You’ve ended your enrollment at Basterncomb, as the Abbot reports. Yes, I keep track of all the promising young candidates from those days. You’ll take... tea? Ah, of course.” Causerie waved at his aide standing at the door and the man disappeared. The incense and the moldy smell of old books, which lined the shelves of the room preserved some times ancient, dominated the room. She took the opening in his conversation to look at the room, and how small it was.

“Do you not warrant a bigger study?”

“Peh. Material matters not- the books have enough space, and I have my desk. That is enough. And here is the tea.” The aide stet the tray down and shortly disappeared. The door shut, and then the heavy bolt snapped shut when Causerie raised a hand. Cassidrie felt the subtle taste in her mouth at the power being used- minor compared to the glowing beacon the Bishop was. “What will you do now?” She had little prospect of employment, taking service with a noble house, that she deemed worthy to her. The concept of selling out to the merchants of the cities and the northern ports did not appeal- Carousan pride at least.

“People always need to buy swords.”

“Sellswording, you mean.” The Bishop smiled like he knew a secret. “Your service is over with us as well as your training, I know. But there is one more thing, my Daughter, I can offer you.” Sitting in the hard wooden chair Cassidrie had expected nothing else: She drank her tea and waited for him to go on. “There are matters brewing beyond Agonistolio that We hold of interest, and the old ways of contacting our… friends in other lands are becoming more dangerous… ”

“Your spies.[2]” She stated flatly and put the dish down.

“Therefore I would like you to act as an courier for a few items for me as a agent in the service of the Episcopate[3] of Wryms.” Causerie went on not commenting on her flat statement and stopped leaving the words hanging in the air. The Bishop produced a parcel, and a leather folio sealed with a non-descript stamp, and held it out to her. The red ribbon tied around it shown out in the study- and illuminated a choice and a path. After a moment she reached out and took it. He smiled, the joy clearly visible on his open grandfatherly face.

“In a province of the Unholy Empire, Elvaire is the center of the rebellion it seems,” That country she knew well enough- its vile undead stench filled the worries of her native province. “There has arisen a new heathen movement. The rabble defeated the Morshevven soldiers sent to suppress the rebellion, as well severed the main way we keep in contact for… more delicate matters with the faithful there. Ferceizaro, here,” He pulled something from the desk as the bolt on the door snapped open for his aid to enter. “Well explain the route more carefully. This bank draft will cover all the possible expenses along the way and will serve as the retainer for the mission.” As the Bishop signed the draft, Cassidrie felt the tingle of magic as he signed it with his own Seal and his power. “Go and do the work of God, My Daughter.” Cassidrie stood, and began to prostrate herself. “Oh, by the way…”



[1] Church Name
[2] Everybody has spies.
[3] The area of jurisdiction of a bishop

Reshva:
Tant leaned back in his chair and let out a contented yawn, he was fairly drunk and rather enjoying it. One good thing about being a healer was you could purge alcohol from your body as easily as any other poison, a couple enchantments before he hit the sack and he’d be good as new in the morning. That thought reminded him of a key point though he hadn’t actually secured a place to sleep for the night. With that in mind he headed out of the tavern after, saying goodbye to his temporary drinking buddies, and went off to search for a decent inn.

He arrived in town early in the morning following rumors there was plenty of work to be had and had been happy when they proved true. He’d patched up a broken leg on a farmer and beat off an infection in a local smith that had managed to put a nail through his thumb, and then with the slight amount of tender he’d gained from that he’d gone off to a local tavern and spent the bulk of it. He checked his coin pouch and found he probably had enough for maybe 2 or 3 days at a decent inn. This drew a frown; his last big payday had been almost 2 months ago he needed to get a decent steady gig for awhile to replenish his funds. He had an expense account from his order, but being a bunch of stiff priest it didn’t take include money to cover things like decent food and lodging, beer, never mind the occasional whore so he was normally forced to make some extra on the side to support these habits.

As he pondered this he came across the town notice board and the rather large pronouncement stuck prominently in the middle of it calling for mercenaries,”Hmm I’m thinking that might be a sign…” He commented aloud as he read it, “Ah what the hell it’s been awhile since I had a bit of excitement.” Healers were damn near always welcomed with open arms in any merc company and tended to be valued enough to be protected and kept out of the thick of things. He’d most likely just be asked to keep the guys with more brawn that brains patched up in between fights for awhile and then be on his way when whatever it was they’d be dealing with was out of the way. Should be a reasonably easy job with decent pay, but all this was for later for now he needed to find somewhere to sleep.

He noted a decent looking Inn across the street looked clean, but not so fancy as to be overpriced and half walked half stumbled toward it.

Please allow me to introduce myself
I'm a man of wealth and taste
I've been around for a long, long year
Stole many a man's soul and faith

And I was 'round when Jesus Christ
Had his moment of doubt and pain
Made damn sure that Pilate
Washed his hands and sealed his fate

Pleased to meet you
Hope you guess my name
But what's puzzling you
Is the nature of my game

I stuck around St. Petersburg
When I saw it was a time for a change
Killed the czar and his ministers
Anastasia screamed in vain

-Sympathy For the Devil, Rolling Stones



---------------------------------------------------------------

Griffin Keep, South-West Agonistolio Near the Border

The sun was beginning to rise above the aging stone walls of Griffin Keep, one of the nation's far out outposts and it's first line of defense against any invader who dared to assault their sacred land.

Griffin Keep was garrisoned by a small knight order, who had nonetheless a reputation of being one of the vigilant and couragous fighters in the land. Their reputation had given them the priviledge of safeguarding the keep, and according to many rumours, one of the great orders would make a alliance with them. Some speculated it would be Denovi, but most guessed it to be Thelgast, as they seeking for warriors, not holy men. Nonetheless, the order was stilled ruled by an archbishop that did not seek war, though the younger in the order was petitioning for his removal as they believed that in these times, somebody not with the clergy should lead them.

Edwin Morric had been in the service of the order for nearly fifty years. First as a common footman, before promoted to sergeant and than losing the rank because of a defeat that was blamed upon him. Now, at the age of sixty-two, Morric was the groundkeeper and his task was to keep the courtyard nice and clean, as far stone and dirt could be kept clean. Although some of the soldiers treated him like dirt, most of the garrison respected Morric and often heard to his advice from his lifetime of serving under the knight order. The Archbishop also called for him sometimes, but only to have someone who could remember the old times to be with him.

Still, Morric was complacent in his role in life and would have happily continued it.

Until the moment when the doors to the balcony of the Archbishop's chambers, just when Morric was sweeping the ground beneath it, were kicked open with a bang and a shadow fell down from the balcony and impacted on the courtyard, accompnied by shards of glass that shattered when they fell upon the ground. Shielding his eyes from the fragments with his left arm, Morric jumped backwards. Than, slowly he removed the arm from his sight and as his eyes saw what lied there before him.

No, this can't be, not him. Not the Archbishop.

Another shadow moved from the upper corner of his eye, and if he just fell out of the sky, a man landed on the very-dead looking body of the Archbishop. The man had a dagger in his hand, and without hurrying or even hesitation, he ducked and wiped the blood off the dagger before slipping it into his sleeve. Than, without even noticing that he was standing on the dead leader of an entire knight order, the man turned around to Morric and nodded.

"Top of the morning to you sir. Nice weather, ain't it?"

Morric could only stare at the man, who very was likely was responsible for the death of a person, a very important religious at that. And the bastard wasn't even affected by it at all. Morric would rather have that the man was laughing like a maniac, than behave like it had been nonething.

"No desire for talking, i understand that. Nonething is worth talking these days anyway. It's all about who's banging who and who's killing who and that all of nonsense. But, i must be going. Farewell good sir."

And with a casual walk, the man stepped of the dead Archbishop and than just strolled to the main gate, leaving behind a stumped Morric. In the main building behind them, voices began to shout orders and armour-clad feet began to move.

Well, time to get going Devlin, or do you want to explain the Guild why a entire garrison died, while there was a contract for just one.

But when he was making his way towards the main gate, while trying to think of a way to get someone open it, it began to open by itself. Devlin didn't question the miracle and began to sprint towards the opening gap. He was almost there, when suddenly from the other side, an entire host of horse riders became riding in. They halted as soon as they saw the indivual before them. By the colours and insignia of their robes and armour, black and red with the head of a wild boar, Devlin concluded that the newcomers were of Thelgast.

Definatly not good.

The odd clothing and the visible arsenal worn by the person, and the fact that a archbishop was lying in a pool of his own blood only a few yards away, acculamted a single conclusion.

"ASSASSIN!" The apparent leader of the Thelgast party hissed and drew his sword, while giving his horse the neccesary kicks to make it speed forward to Devlin, with his men following his example.

Devlin wisely turned around and decided that leaving through the backdoor would be better, but than a group of orange-green coloured soldiers came out of the main building. The looks they gave Devlin upon seeing him, gave the clear statement that they were not pleased with him killing their archbishop.

"There is the fiend! Kill him!"

"Oh bugger."

Devlin was now getting enclosed by angry soldiers from left and right, and his options for escape were shrinking like a comet. Than he noticed the large wooden crane set against the keep's wall, holding a massive ballista high above in the air. The assassin sprinted forward, with the Thelgast horsemen and the keep guards in close pursuit. When they almost caught up with him, literaly at a sword's length, Devlin jumped up and snatched the thick rope that tied down to keep the ballista up in the air. One of the Thelgast soldiers came in close, and swung his sword at Devlin. But the assassin proved to be quicker, by taking out a sword that was almost to short to be called an sword and too straight aswell, and hacked through the thick rope in one quick swing.

Gravity did the rest.

Like a arrow, Devlin suddenly was hauled into the air by the rope that was no longer tied, and was releasing the counter-weight. The counter-weight happend to be a very large and very heavy ballista that now was coming down hard. And the Thelgast soldiers and the keepguards happend to be directly beneath it. With loud yells of panic, the men jumped away but for the overly daring Thelgast horseman, it was too late as he was instantly crushed by at least a ton of wood and metal.

Meanwhile Devlin had reached the top of the crane while still holding on to the rope, and now with only the moving weight of the assassin, the crane began to swing in circles, making Devlin a bit dizzy. Below, the soldiers had regrouped and hated the assassin more than ever.

"Would somebody fuckin shoot him!"
"Open fire!"

The men equipped with bows and crossbows, began to release their bolts and arrows upon the rapid circling form of Devlin, who was uncomfortable with the sensation of being high up in the air while deadly projectiles were strafing him. With a big swing, the assassin let go of the rope and with a sommersault, landed on the nearest part of the wall. Devlin began to ran along the wall to the nearest guard tower and try to find if there's a way out of there, but guards were already coming out of the guard tower in front of him. And there were reinforcements coming in from the otherside aswell.

Devlin looked to the right, and to the left, and than to the right again. Than he shrugged his shoulders, turned around and leapt from the parapet. Than after several seconds of falling, Devlin landed with a loud splash in the deep moat surrounding the keep. With a couple of strong strokes, he made it to the moat's bank and climbed up on dry land.

"Fire! Kill that bastard!"

The shouts from the guards upon the wall announced a barrage of arrows that landed all around Devlin, who sprinted towards the treeline of the forest that surrounded the keep. With the single expection of a graze on his right shoulder, Devlin reached the treeline unharmed. While still wet from his dive into the keep's moat, Devlin whistled and after a few moments, a dark skinned horse with black manes appeared from the trees. Devlin walked over to the creature, gave it some friendly strokes on his head, and than jumped on it's saddle. Than Devlin gave it a small nudge on it's behind, and the horse began to gallop through the trees at a high speed, instinctively knowing which direction his human rider wanted to go.

As Devlin made distance between him and the keep where he completed his latest contract and now on his way to complete it and recieve payment, he began to softly wishper a old soldier's song, from ages ago.

"Hear that brave Boys, and let us go,
Or else we shall be prest you know;
Then list and enter into Pay,
And o'er the Hills and far away;
Over the Hills, and far away"

Reshva

John Xantus made an intriguing figure at the back of the tavern. Reading glasses perched on his nose, the normally gregarious cavalier had wasted no time making his way to the corner of the commons room and monopolizing a table with spreads of parchements, each covered in scrawled notes. Many of them were only vaguely relevent to the job he was looking into, but it never hurt to cast himself as a professional. Steady, even puffs emerged from the mostly-finished cigar held in his lips.

"Not exactly my kind of job," he acknowledged to himself. "Looks like night work against sneaky bastards, not up a gunner's alley at all." Plus there was the vanishment of a full squad of town guards...any group that could do that would probably be well beyond his abilities unless he ambushed them in broad daylight. From the looks of things, that was a distinct impossibility.

Still, he had decided to go with the job knowing full well the disadvantages arrayed against him. The phrases 'considerable payment' and 'state coffers' chimed nicely for those of professions similar to his, and a fair number of them were bound to be made of stern stuff. Hunting (or being hunted by) what was even money to be undead at night was not a prospect he would relish doing alone. Sure that meant less money for each, but mercenaries were pragmatic people. You do it alone, odds are you'll neither earn the gold nor get the oppertunity to spend it. Cooperation would definitely be for the best, as long as they all could pull their weight...and a decade of his work had given John Xantus a pretty good eye for those who wouldn't cut it.

Plus he had a bit of a secret weapon most gunners couldn't claim...a fire-inclined little fairy currently giggling like a noblegirl while dunking herself in a tankard of ale in the far corner behind John. While her magic wasn't much for blowing holes in folks, setting fabrics and hairs alight was a task well within Huao's capabilities. A shot in the dark became a lot easier when one was given a nice, bright target to aim for. It's very distracting to the enemy too, but John supposed he would feel the same way if his beard was on fire. Another pleasant bonus was that her eyes and ears were far keener than his own. Granted he couldn't understand a word she said, but one didn't always need to share a language to convey the message of 'hey, there's an ugly sonofabitch sneaking up on you!' A set of advantages that more than made up for the occaisonal headaches she dealt him, and those were far from the only uses for her.

"That's my ale she's in, too." With a small shrug, he tossed the cigar stub into a spit can and bit the end off another. Huao seemed to notice him fumbling for a match and flittered out of the tankard, one-piece short dress dripping from the alchohol. Smiling benignly, she ignited her forefinger and touched it to the tip of it, bringing the cigar to life. It also brought the ale she had been enjoying to life, the fire instantly spreading to the rest of her body. She giggled again and flittered out the window, no doubt looking for some other mischief to get in. Xantus sighed and smiled slightly, lost in thought...then quickly snapped out of it, attempting to swat down the fire growing on the parchment she had perched on. A half dozen slams of his palm was enough to prevent it from spreading, though the first half of his copy of the notice was gone.

"Office of the Town Guards," John repeated from memory, quickly gathering his things. "Better head there before I forget."

On the road to Elvaire

Corduroy stepped off to the side of the road as the cart sped by. He was ready to admonish the driver for pushing the horses a little too recklessly, until he noticed the sigil of of the Church on the cloak of one of the passengers. It wasn't a good idea to cross the Church, especially for one of Corduroy's persuasion. He could feel the anger coming from one of the passengers in particular, and he didn't feel like pushing his luck.

He reshifted the weight of his pack, and continued on his way. He had spent the journey perusing through his notes and references of ancient religions, but could not find any references to this self-styled Prophet. Not that he actually doubted the entity's existence, for he had long ago learned how to divine the difference between a rumor and truth, but rather it's origin and motivations.

He knew that it was dangerous work, but he believed that learning of this Prophet would better help to ensure the survival of his Order. After all, he he had been sent out to spread the word, and his word was Knowledge. Through knowledge of the world, one was better able to know oneself, which was the true source of power.

At last, Corduoy reached the western gates of the city. He had been travelling for many days, and wished only to rest before seeking out the Prophet. He had no money, and what possessions he had would be of no value to anyone in the city. He had slept in alleys before, while in hiding with his Order, but he was getting a little too old for that sort of thing. And most people wouldn't have taken in a half-orc even if he could pay.

However, maybe someone was feeling a little generous.

Corduroy quieted his thoughts and opened his mind. He wandered among the denizens of the street, seeking a mind that would take pity on him. Studying the minds and feelings of others was much like picking shapes out of the clouds. Nothing is clear and everyone was open to their own inteperetation.

And, of course, it's all in your head.

Corduroy actually chuckled to himself a bit.

He could feel fear, uncertainty, and excitement among the crowd. Not suprising. There was very little compassion or hope, something that Corduroy had expected, but was still disappointed by. And entire world seemed lost within it's own life.

Then, Corduroy was startled. Not by what he did feel, but by what he didn't. Coming towards him was an emptiness, someone that appeared to have no essence. Like a deep pit in the Verve.

He focused himself, attempting to pick out this anomaly. Whomever it was, it interested him. Enough to put off sleep for a while.

Then he saw her, a young girl with green-blue eyes emptier than a solar eclipse, dressed in blue and carrying a wicked-looking sword. She felt cold, in more ways than one.

He decided to follow her.

Reshva

Rodrick Bedecia looked at the sign in front of him, paying only half an attention to it. Even as he read it, half his mind was elsewhere; still thinking of last night's dream, and the odd locket.

Find me. the words had been clear as day, yet Rodrick still had no clue.

Find me? Find who? And how? he thought, giving out a loud sigh. Looking back at the sign, Rodrick put the thoughts out of his mind for now. He would have to get to finding it soon...but he'd need ideas on where to start first. Concentrating on the sign, he re-read it again, this time to it's entirety. Stroking the stubble of his beard, Rodrick just read it again.

"The Barony of Krustovia, eh?" He remembered them. The Bedecia family had been on good relations with the Krustovia barony for years; and even after the disaster, they had been the first ones to come to Rodrick's aid - something which he was pretty grateful for. Sighing once more, Rodrick nodded to himself. He'd do this for the barony at no cost...besides, an undead rising was a curious fact in and of itself, not to mention the last sentence written underneath the

Perhaps...perhaps this may be the clue? He thought to himself. Perhaps it was...perhaps it wasnt. There was only one real way to find out. Nodding to himself, he checked the name of the Captain again - Brent Harringon. It seemed a bit familiar...perhaps he had met the captain during his last trek through his village? Rodrick remembered it had been one of the first few he had visited nearly twenty years ago, just after...

Dont think of it. He warned himself. Rodrick couldn't afford to be entangled in those memories again...especially not here, especially not now. Burying the thoughts away, he moved away from the notice board and towards where he remembered the townsgaurd building was.

That was when someone trip out of the corner of his eye. His head turned to get a better view by instinct, and it was then he noticed that the person who had fallen was actually a zombie.

Rodrick whirled to face the zombie, moving quickly towards it's position to get a better view. With one swift move, Bedecia's Hammer was out of it's place on the right holster of his belt, the giant mace-like hammer now set firmly in his right hand. With the other, he withdrew the triangular shield off his back, bringing it up to protect his body from any assault. Moving cautiously forward, he got the zombie's attention as he was just two feet away, who just seemed to raise his hands and shout something...it tried to shout it too fast, causing the speech to slur.

Frowning, Bedecia paused. He recognized the toungue...it Morvien...a sub-set used closer to teh Sonleoi borders, but Morvien nonetheless. He had heard the rumours; and the fact that the morvien were probably not involved in the undead rising...still, to find one of their undead here was unusual.

Rodrick raised two fingers, and spoke back in the same toungue. He needed to see how intelligent this zombie was; if only to guage how smart it would be when or if it fought him. In the same tongue, Rodrick spoke just a few words. "How many fingers?"

"Two" the zombie replied.

Rodrick raised four now. "How many?" He asked again.

"Four." the zombie replied once more. It was a rudimentary test, but it was enough to narrow down what kind of undead zombies usually were. But then, it continued to talk; this time slower. "Dont hurt me! I belonged to the Necromancer named Strigul! I am free of his bonds!"

It was then that Rodrick's features grew into a small smile.

"Strigul? You were his undead? The same undead, in particular, who was chased around the Priests estate by a mob and priest for what, 5 hours?"

Rodrick had of course, heard of that story. Everyone in Reshwa and the nearby villages had heard of it as drunkards and towns gaurdsmen made fun of the mob and preist that couldn't even hunt down one lone zombie. It was something of a passing joke; one which the town would hardly ever live down. Placing the hammer back on his belt, Rodrick kept his shield up, though, and reached down with one hand.

The zombie nodded his accent, and Rodrick laughed.

"Safe to say, I've heard of your story. Here, let me help you up." He reached down with one hand to aid the zombie, unsure if he'd take it, or bite his hand off. Still, some risks were worth taking.

Reshva

After meeting with the Captain Hunter agreed to help the town for free since Hunter has more then enough money from his assasinations, he walked into a pretty plain and not too fancy tavern and sat down in a dark corner whatching the occupants and listening to the conversations.

Reshva’s Forest
Lilica woke up from a nap she was having against the tree she sat down by. She notice that Gwen was sitting on a rock polishing her blade with a dirty rag and looking like she was deep in thought. The former soldier had been a constant companion since they meet after Gwen had helped her escape from that one dreadful castle months ago. When it had been found out that Lilica had lost her memory, Gwen for some reason offered to help her regain it and show her the world.

Lilica stretched her arms and yawned and said, “Oh what a dreadful nightmare.”

Gwen looked up from her blade and said, “Another one?”

“Yea. I wish they meant something. Its all nothing but a jumble of strange visions and sounds. Oh well.” Lilica got up from the ground, her white gown immaculately as clean as always, despite being grounded into the fresh grass and dirty that was by the tree.
“So where to now, Gwen?”

Gwen got up from the rock she was sitting at as well, and said, “Well according to that sign we past a couple of hours ago, the city of Reshva is just further down the road.”

Lilica fell in beside the armored figure and said, “Oh what is in that city?”

Gwen frowned a bit and said, “I heard they are having problems with the undead.”

Lilica went quiet, her first memories of her new life were some unpleasant ones regarding the undead. “Well I suppose any zombies we run across shouldn’t be too much a problem for us to handle while we are in the town. Right?”

“Shouldn’t be.”

Lilica gave a vibrant carefree smile and said, “Then we have nothing to worry about! Reshva ho!”

Ilus only caught a glimpse of the man, but suddenly, she had a lead to follow. That man's eyes were empty, much like her own. It might have just been blindness, she only saw him for a second, his hat hid them most of the time. But at the moment, she had no better leads to follow, so why not?

As things go, when you are intent on following someone else, you are rarely looking for others who might be doing the same to you. Thus, for the time being, Corduroy went unnoticed. Any premonitions Ilus may have gotten were quickly blotted out by her concentration on her own target.

She was no professional, but she knew well enough how to blend in with a crowd while following someone at a distance. Her target bobbed and weaved through the crowd, whether by accident of design was impossible to say, but her eyes managed to follow him where ever he went.

After a few minutes, Ilus was convinced she knew the man's destination. She wasn't quite sure how she knew, but she was positive that this man was heading for the prophet's residence. It seemed silly of course, the prophet only accepted Ark as a visitor, although there were rumors of her sneaking out at night to speak to seemingly random people.

Probably just rumors, granted, but that didn't stop a large host of gaurds from gaurding her rather humble home, day and night, stonewalling requests, redirecting papers to Ark, and, (so the rumors said) gaurding her from near constant assasin attacks.

I can't wool gather at the moment, I think I can approach him here. Ilus thought, as the man passed through an alley, somewhat more rarely traveled due to the fact that it was generally a back door to a bar, a place where drunks got dropped.

The sword gives me a bad feeling, but that might be nothing, it's now or never. Now, Ilus had before been told she lacked subtlety in approaching situations like these, and she never denied. Still, it could be a problem sometimes.

"Hey!" She called, trotting up next to the man. He turned with plenty of distance between them, giving Ilus the impression that the man had known he was being followed, but she had a lot of odd feelings these days. "Excuse me, but do you have the same eyes as me?" She asked point blank. No preamble, no introduction.

Outside of Elvaire

As Angela stared out into the land beyond the cart, Arlan sat across from her reading his book. He chuckled inwardly as he saw Angela cast yet another glance at the tome held in one hand, thumb holding the pages apart. The priestess was quite interested in seeing what was written inside, and he took secret pleasure in keeping that from her. He knew his very presense here as her escort was an irritant, so he figured the mystery of the book was just another layer of annoyance.

Also across from him was Lady Cassidrie, a dragoon in the service of the Bishop of Wyrms. He had actually met her before this trip, some few months ago when he came across her and a group of others at a town plagued by death and the undead. He knew enough about her to know that, had he not insisted Angela keep her usual inquisition to a minimum, there might have been trouble.

He was not certain there still wouldn't be trouble. Especially with the woman beside him.

He cast a quick, scanning glance at the woman named Novieri. She was a peculiar woman, this one, with hair that looked less like hair and more like something...different. And she had no concept of God, which he could tell by the twitching of her brow that Angela had not taken kindly too. He applauded the priestesses ability to keep herself under control, but he wondered just how long it would last.

Fortunately that was a worry for another time as the town came into view. The cart stopped in front of an inn, an inspiringly named one called The Angel's Arms.

"Ladies, if you will excuse me," he said, placing the book back in the pouch at his side and climbing out, "I will inquire about room and board-"

He was cut off as Cassidrie got out as well. She saw his look and waved him on. "I'll be back Arlan, don't worry. Just remember, seperate rooms." She leaned in and whispered. "Away from her, if you please."

Inner Arlan chuckled while his calm exterior nodded.

"Of course, my lady," he responded with a bow. When he entered, there wasn't much for him to do. The innkeep was a God-fearing man who had great faith in the Church. He said that they all could stay for half price, with free evening meals if they stayed an extended period. Arlan smiled at the man and gave him God's blessing, promising the man to tell Angela about his great deed.

**********
"A table my good man!" Angela cried as she entered the inn moments later. The innkeep perked up at her presence. "A table of light and warmth to let us bask in the Lords' work! We have God's own justice to discuss, and we must not be sullied by trifles such as discomfort while we do so!"

Arlan had already taken a seat, of course, at the exact table he knew she was going to request. And he was reading.

Left hand, side pocket
Right arm, akimbo and relaxed
Head up, gaze steady-
Now you're ready so you
Stroll in, survey them-
Your world, they're all invited guests.
Feel out how to play them
And remember this-
You're giving them what they want

- Give Them What They Want, Dirty Rotten Scoundrels.

Reshva

Tsargatha of the Laughing Mask stood in front of the Town Notice Board, arms folded across his chest as he as he studied the message which had recently been posted there. It was a simple enough advertisement; a call for assistance by the Town Officials in dealing with a recent series of attacks that had been plaguing the surrounding countryside, with a reward to be given to any whose assistance proved valuable.

A sustantial reward, if the poster's claims were to be believed.

This in-and-of-itself was enough to pique the doppelganger's interest. He was reasonably fond of money - he required a fair amount of it to live as he preferred. What really intrigued him however, were the words carved into the message board, directly beneath the official notice.

Oh now that is interesting, he thought, a mischeivious smile creeping across the handsome features he had chosen for this identity. The undead had always fascinated Tsargatha - the perplexing and enigmatic nature of their existence made for such a delectable mystery, and he did so love mysteries. Fitting, given that he himself was one. More importantly though, where there were undead, there was usually a necromancer or two lurking about, and that was an opportunity the doppelganger simply could NOT pass up. He hadn't spoken with a necromancer - vulger or otherwise - since the incident in Vernoi, and he could hardly consider THAT a productive meeting.

Cheeky bugger, he thought, remembering the altercation. Thanks to Tsargatha, that crusty old bastard was now exploring the mysteries of death first hand. Not that he hadn't had it coming.

As he stood there, he noticed strangely-dressed young woman approach the Notice Board with interest. She was gnawing almost animal-like on a leg of roast turkey. She leaned forward, inspecting the notice with child-like curiosity. After studying it for a moment, she straightened, practically inhaled the rest of her meal, and promptly skipped-off in the direction of the Office of the Town Guard. The doppelganger's eyes followed her as she went, and he cocked an eyebrow. If that little smidge had ambitions of solving the mystery and claiming the reward, she was either immensely powerful, utterly insane, or the most tragically naieve human being in the world... or any combination thereof.

Oh well, he thought. Can't have a child beating me to the punch, now can I? I am playing a mercenary after all.

With that, 'Mathias Brynn' turned sharply and, cloak billowing almost theatrically behind him, began walking briskly towards the Office of the Town Guard.

Cattan
Inside Elvaire

Elvaire was strange- provincial but at the same time utterly different from the only city she knew. Prince Luis’s Seat was not a city proper, but rather a large castle town. The City of Wryms which housed the great Cathedral was far different. Larger, she thought but that might have been because of the Cathedral itself dominating the northern part of the city, and far more filled with merchants and tradesmen. But her memories of it were jaded with natural Agonistolion arrogance and Elvaire hadn’t been important… until now.

Discarding the heavy travel cloak, she halfway considered discarding the surcoat (her plain one) and going without it but after a moment decided to keep. It was only a light surcoat, more for hiding the gear beneath it then to display house colours or give that extra layer of protection, plain without her families coat-of-arms. The parcel under her surcoat with the folio strapped too it, tied with a strong piece of string, nary rustled as she switched.

Leaving Angela and Father Varmel at the Inn they managed to find, no matter what could be said for them all the inns in the city were doing fine work that day, Cassidrie set off to explore the Three-Squares Market (that’s what she thought the farmer had called it) and perhaps find the Fitting House that Anthony Ferceizaro vowed was where the contact would be at. Leaving the Zealot alone was not a hard choice- even if it was irresponsible.

Feeling eyes on her back, Cassidrie lingered at a fruit sellers stand and examined the goods before moving on before the seller could turn his attention away from another customer. Turning about to go to a different stand behind the sellers, which would make her look as one with a rapidly changing mind rather then on trying to see behind her, she caught a glimpse of the source of her irritation: two militiamen, wearing ill-used livery, loitering at the door to a cobblers looking in her rough direction. Ignoring them she went on about the search in the market, and tried to watch out for more of them. Her face couldn’t be known in this part of the world, and nor her armour, and if they wanted her it would be for a mundane reason.

Wandering about, observing the manners of travelers and strangers in the city, Cassidrie managed to attract about a dozen boys of various merchants swearing to present the finest clothes, the finest wine, or (with some hesitation from one boy) the finest swords and metalwork in the city. Amused by the last boy, who must have decided on her as a target thanks to the hilt of her sword sticking out behind her back between it and the cape, she wandered over with him and walked amoung the various offered goods.

“Looking for a blade, Mi’lady?” Asked the ironsmith, shoving his hands into a bucket of water, the sweat from his exertions at the forge still on his arms and face. “Or perhaps a good knife or a new spearhead.” He said flatly, not totally expecting anything nor writing it off.

“Would you have the skill to repair a iron circlet?” Cassidrie murmured, feeling the edge of an example blade for a one-and-a half sword, trying to bait the ironsmith’s pride.

“Skill! Peh! That’s journaymans work! I make fine blades here, two for the Captain of the Watch, a knife for the Lordship himself and countless blades for warriors across the world! To offer work like that is more suited for a starving guildless ironworker,” He snorted. “Still, my boy needs the practice. Let me see this circlet- if even to see foreign work,” Smiling slightly Cassidrie produced it, still dented and chipped from the half-blow of the great orc of Teufuancs Ferry, and the ironsmith let out a low breath. “By the Prophet that is good work,” He sat down at the bench at the back of the public room. “Boy, go get my tools. This should not be left to the unskilled”

“You’ll do the work now?”

“Why not? How did you come to abuse this masterwork so? It must have half-way killed you from such a blow…”

“It almost did, and perhaps you could tell me where to find the Fitting House of Carlous Ferion.” She asked causally. The blacksmith grunted.

“That I shall do for free. This will cost you a sliver when complete, come back in a half day or tomorrow at noon. I shall send the boy to show you the way- it does not happen to be fair.”

The sun rose further in the sky, people milled, and two militiamen mingling with the crowd followed a stranger and the ironsmith’s boy down the street.