Carnifex's Story Hour (Updated January 20th, "The Union")

[Carnifex]

As the others entered the wizards guild, Ebri caught Sebastion and Melisande's attention.
"I will meet you again here in a while, if you wish. The workings of magic do not interest me, but..." she grinned-- "I believe that I and that bookseller have much to discuss..."

She headed toward the shop Ecurius had mentioned with unfeigned enthusiasm.

* * *

His hopes rose and fell in an awkward dance as Cord overheard the half-conversations of frightened people. Threatening famine, incapable or misunderstood gods, priests that, in an attempt to refresh the land, only worsened the situation. It all sounded familiar, and Cord realized that this pent-up fear was simply the first expression of the corruption he began feeling in the earth months ago. It almost seemed as if another force was actively seeking their destruction, a force to rival the gods. Reaching into his far past, he remembered the legends of the ascendance of mortal gods. Perhaps those they had replaced were not defeated . . .

Cord's thought were interrupted by a gruff voice nearby. He sensed the tension escalate abruptly at the urgent question whispered gratingly into Sebastion's face, interrupting and scattering his thoughts. The question had not been accompanied by a threat, at least, not yet, but Cord remained on his guard, tensing slightly at Wyshira's side. Neither was it his place to interfere, and so Cord waited, judging the situation, judging the newcomer, until the time came for action.

* * *
Striding inside, Burl stood, looking every much the country bumpkin, taking in the richly furnished interior. Had not a clerk, located inside the door, asked about their business, Burl might still be standing there. “Kind Sir, I am new to this guildhouse and would like to inquire where I might be able to purchase a few spell components. I am in need of a few items to return my stock to capacity. Before the clerk could answer, Burl felt a commotion brewing as the hairs on his neck rose. He turned in time to see the strange man come charging through the doors. My god, please don’t tell me I’ve been recognized again! He was looking for some place to run when he heard the man speak, “Are you the younger Cornell?

Taking a large gasp of air, Burl slowly calmed as he turned to see what was transpiring, now that he was not the object of the man’s intentions.

* * *

Wyshira followed the others into the Wizard's Guild, although the leering faces of the stone gargoyles glaring down from above did little to make her feel welcome. Inside it was almost as gloomy: the air was dim and stuffy - even near the door, or so it seemed to the Storm priestess. Austere figures stared out from their gilt-edged portrait frames at her, and a heavy silence seemed to muffle even the sound of her footsteps as she walked across the intricately patterned parquet floor.

She had just decided to tell Burl that she would wait for him outside, when a tall figure clad in red and orange strode in through the entrance. She realized that she had seen him a moment ago exiting the building, and wondered what had brought him back. She got a better look at him as he stopped near her to speak to Sebastian.

She took in the man's ash-gray skin and strangely shifting red hair, and with a jolt of recognition knew that he was a Fire-kin. She'd never seen his kind before, never even really thought much about their existence; but now she instinctively knew his nature as surely as if she could see his heart burning inside his breast.

She stiffened, all of her senses on edge. She was aware that the air around him felt minutely warmer, drier. Faintly, she could detect the scent of smoke drifting away from him. Even the sound of his voice reminded her of the roar of flames, softly though he spoke. She couldn't take her eyes off him. If she had been forced to leave, she would have had to back out the door; she just couldn't bear the thought of exposing her back to him.

Do I really think he is a threat to me? I just don't know.... There is something wrong about him, that's all. Wyshira didn't realize that her opinion was based on prejudice. She simply felt a strong negative reaction to this Fire Genasi that came from deep within her. She stood calmly without a ripple of movement about her, and watched him warily as he conversed with the Huronese mercenary.

* * *

Beginning to wonder if someone had cast a deafness spell on the unsuspecting Burl, Mel shrugged as he once again put off her attempts to probe into his areas of arcane expertise. Not one to give up though, she was formulating yet another question when they approached the Mages' Guild and he began finally to talk of his own accord.

"...I will need to pick up the rarer items such as the earth from a ghoul’s lair or skeleton bones here."

If he had been avoiding her interrogations out of a sense of privacy, then these were not the sort of spell components he really should have mentioned. Instantly it all became clear. The dark robes, the taciturn demeanor--she should have known. After all, she'd worked with sullen, nihilistic necromancers in the Manipulation labs every day. To be fair she had to admit Burl seemed a little different from the exaggeratedly pale, morbid Carthagians of her past experience--none of them would be caught dead (so to speak) with a hedgehog for a familiar. They all had Manipulated bats or spiders which they toted on their shoulders like a badge of nastiness. Burl looked a smidgen healthier than any of them, and if he had been ignoring her questioning because necromancy embarrassed him, it was another point in his favor. In fact, perhaps he had dropped the hint for her benefit, not wishing to speak the word 'necromancy' aloud among the others. Melisande approved. It remained to be seen how discreet he was with his actual corpse magic, however.

Once within the Mages' Guild, she did not have time to make up her mind what she wanted to do before a vision from her past gave her a sudden and horrible shock.

There was no doubt, it was a high-ranking Flame Guildsman. The red and orange robes, his firey hair and ash-dark complexion burned straight into her and caused her heart to skip a beat. With forced casualness she tore her terrified gaze away and turned to the clerk as if it were nothing.

She wanted to manifest her solidarity with Sebastion somehow in case things went as badly as they had for Sandslipper at the Cowardly Dragon, but unless it came down to it she knew she was better off lying low. Not only would a Flame Guildsman happily cash in on a Carthagian deserter, but there was now something in addition to her seven gold pieces burning a hole in her pocket: the Fire Serpent Rod. Something a former owner of the mimir had said floated through her mind unsettlingly.

She stood feeling more desperately blue than ever. To the clerk she attemped a level tone. "Hello. I'd like to purchase some material components. Could you direct me to that department?"

The clerk nodded to Melisande's question, noting her slightly unlevel tone and glancing curiously at for what reason the Flame Guildsman might have reentered the building again. "Certainly madam. I've got a list of substances that the quartermaster stocks here, so just make your requests and I'll see if I can supply them."

Sebastion turned, slowly, fighting for composure as he did so, to face the unorthodox figure.

The flaming appearance was the least thing on his mind, especially when he convinced himself this was just another of those Ge-nasty people,(DM's Note: He means Genasi, but Sebastion isn't keen on magic and magical people much ) like the water-woman from Cord's group. What preyed on his mind, though, through the slow revolution, was the imlication of younger.

This man knew my father, he realised, rather numbly. Was he a mercenary serving with this warlock, or were they enemies?

If he seeks retribution, then I shall at least have the populace on my side: on the other hand, if he acknowledges me as a friend, I might get the same sort of looks that he's getting...

Curiousity, in the end, and the relative guarantee of safety, prompted him to tell the truth.

"I am, sir, yes. Sebastion. I assume you knew my father... by what name are you known? He may have spoken of you." It was an effort for his twitching fingers not to slide to the hilt of his sword as he felt a trickle of sweat emerge from his armpit and run slowly down his ribs.

The red silk mask that covered the lower half of the Guildsman's face meant that it was hard for Sebastion - or indeed any of the others - to gauge the genasi's reaction to the warrior's words. It was strange for the Huronese mercenary, looking into those eyes that glimmered with flickering fire, so unreadable and alien in nature, and that seemed to kindle a memory, a half-though almost surfacing into his conciousness that he couldn't quite catch. Those twinkling eyes, full of fiery energy, swept over the room to take in the others who curiously watched and listened.

"I did know your father, yes. My name is Imellin Daerlen, War Mage of the Flame Guild. I had heard that you might be in this area... well, you are doubtless wondering why I am asking about you, yes?"

Imellin Daerlen was not a name familiar to Sebastion, though the surname was a not uncommon one in Huron.

The man's voice still had that forceful urgency behind it. "A number of things, I have to say." And he stepped closer, to speak more quietly to Sebastion. "Firstly, I would know if you are amenable to aiding me on a certain matter, that may interest you as both a Huronese patriot - if you are anything like your father - and as a mercenary, which I hear is your current vocation." He paused, looking hard at the man. "I wonder how much of your father's valour you have... Secondly, I would put forward a proposal to you over the family estates in Zhatan. Finally, I would point out to you that you carry a Dracoverr sword, so I wouldn't be too obvious about it if you encounter any Dracoverr troopers, since they might take offense at a mere mercenary carrying their equipment."

Sebastion hesitated yet again, staring at the thin strip of exposed face, trying to find some sort of identifiable expression in the curious, flickering eyes.

"Patriotism is too blind for me." he muttered, though he nodded his head at the idea of purely 'mercenary' business. He was always interested, and when this 'sojourn' to the wizard's tower was completed, it would be good to have another commission to move to. Of course, he'd have to judge whether the commission was acceptable, he wasn't just going to be a hired sword for the highest bidder, after all.

"I'd be very interested to hear about employment opportunities, however I am on commission at this particular moment in time. I can't give you an exact estimate of the time, but we've not yet begun. I've received a fee, perhaps if you could give me a brief description, I could better judge which is the cause more worthy?" he offered, lowering his voice.

He wasn't going to ask about the Dracoverr - the word had a strange, almost familiar ring to it - but he wasn't going to admit his ignorance to this stranger who knew a little too much about him to be entirely comfortable with...

The Flame Guildsman was still back there, speaking in low tones to Sebastion. Mel's nerves shrieked. If only she had thought sooner, she could easily have altered her telltale coloration for a short time until the man went away. It was too late now.

Glancing up she noticed the clerk eyeing her, waiting for her answer. She'd been hoping he would send her out of the vestibule so she could go hide. There was only one simple spell component she really needed, but as long as Sebastion and the Flame Guildsman were conversing she needed an excuse to keep her back turned.

"Oh, may I look at your list? There are almost certainly things on it I didn't know I needed." It wouldn't hurt to pull rank, she decided, smiling confidentially to the clerk and leaning close. "Being a sorceress and an alchemist, I often find myself experimenting you see."

It was true--one never knew what sorts of things could be woven into arcane webs. And after the list, if Sebastion still had not rid himself of the Guildsman, she could ask directions to the library.

Cord listened cautiously to the stranger's discussion with Sebastion. Heat seemed to emanate from every pore of the man, and he could detect the smallest hint of smoke, as if smoldering coals were responsible for the grating voice. He was intrigued. He had heard of these elemental progeny, yet had never met one with an ancestor of fire.

Intent on filtering the afternoon sounds of grumbling merchants and pounding feet, Cord almost looked over Wyshira's sudden stiffening. He wondered, briefly, cocking his head to the side to gauge her reaction, then berated himself for not realizing the dilemma sooner. Wyshira had met, if not face-to-face, her opposite. Shuffling the two feet to her side, Cord laid a reassuring hand on her own, patting it softly. He said no words: he was sure that Wyshira understood his action.

If there was a way to shrink and not be noticed, Burl had not learned that magic, so he could only keep his back from the man speaking to Cornell. As he could not hear the conversation, Burl busied himself with the clerk collecting his components and paying for the items. Fortunately, the clerk had seen it all and was not a bit surprised at his requests. A quick glance at Wyshira told him that she was as worried as he was but then Cord approached her, taking her hand. A quick tingling rose in him at the sight, but he didn’t have time to ponder what it meant. Burl wished only that the masked man would leave.

The ashen-skinned genasi tilted his head to one side, scrutinising the Huronese mercenary carefully. "Suffice to say for the time being, that I am seeking those willing to aid me as agents in uncovering the purpose behind an act of sabotage against the Flame Guild."

Behind them, the clerk was able to acquire for Burl and Melisande a number of the cheap spell components they needed. The Naserian man kept on glancing over at the conversation between the Guildsman and the mercenary though.

"Someone harbours ill intent towards the Guild," the fiery wizard continued, "and my investigations are still ongoing, though thus far they have led me here. Anyway, I should be on my way, but if you should perhaps wish to discuss anything further, feel free to do so. I will either be at the lodgings provided for me here, the Khaya Dragon inn in the River Ward, or performing some diplomatic duties for the Guild in the Tarravus royal court. Good day to you, master Cornell. I hope you at least consider my words, it would be a great benefit to have your aid."

With that, the Guildsman left, rejoining his guards at the bottom of the steps and departing back into town.

Wyshira let out her breath slowly. She hadn't even really been aware that she was holding it until after the Fire-kin left the guildhall. She noticed then too that Cord had taken her hand and was patting it soothingly. She smiled and squeezed his hand in return.

"I'm all right," she said softly. "Thank you Cord."

She wondered briefly if Sebastian would be joining them on the mission to the wizard's tower in the Sarokean mountains, or if he would go off to work for the Fire-kin. She looked at the mercenary to see if he would give any indication of his decision. Then she turned to Burl.

"If you're going to be a while here, I think I'll wait outside in the sunlight." She looked askance at the dimly-lit rooms beyond the clerk's desk before heading back out the door to the street.

Packing away her new spell components in her pockets and belt pouches, Mel waited until Mr. Creepy Flame Guildsman was long gone before approaching Sebastion.

"What was that all about?" she asked, trying to sound neutrally curious. "Is your family associated with the Flame Guild?" In the vast hall she kept her voice a tone below the echo threshold, having noted the all-too-interested glances of the Mages' Guild clerk.

Why did she have such a painful knot in the pit of her gut? All it meant was that Sebastion Cornell, the chauvinistic and distant mercenary whose convenient blade had been at their disposal during their journeys up to now, was going to have choose what sort of company he kept; and with the addition of more mercenaries she thought the present company had a good chance of being preferred. So why this feeling of betrayal, simply because he'd spoken civilly to a potential enemy of hers? If her tone of voice was casual, her intense regard may have belied the importance of the question to her. Her hand strayed entirely unconsciously to the inner pocket where the Fire Serpent Rod rested safely--for the time being.

Sebastion nodded, once, as the Fire Mage turned and left, and waited, his thoughts racing for a moment. Slowly, he turned, to see the array of different eyes watching him carefully, the suspicion implicit.

Some of them he could understand, the enmity between the locals and the Flame Guild should be palpable, but from those with whom he had travelled?

It's not as though I've had dealings with them, he thought, staring back. I don't know that they've done anything wrong - I don't know what that war was all about anyway... He knew my father though, well enough to recognise me. And I'm not about to apologise for who my father is!

Setting his jaw against the implicit criticism he watched them turn away to their various intents, and let his breath out slowly, caught by surprise suddenly when Melisande appeared at his arm with a question.

"My father served in the army - it is not impossible that he served alongside the Flame Guild... he never mentioned it though. He didn't like to talk about those times..." Why did he feel defensive asking about it. "Do you have the Meme... Mimo... that skull thing? I've a few questions I'd like to see if it can help me with?"

He wasn't, however, about to ask them in front of her, or indeed the others. Judging him already, simply because someone had known his father. Times changed - the Flame Guild was held in high esteem in other places, and at least they didn't mess about with that magical nature worrying that his father disapproved of so much... like that two -headed toad for instance.

Perhaps it would be worth finding out a little more about this mission for the Flame Guild. He wanted to do more than just fight, he wanted to fight for something - not just money, or some curious warlock's avarice - not that he was entirely certain he'd been told all there was to know there, either, of course....

 

[Horacio]

Great update, as usual

 

[Carnifex]

When Burl was ready, Wyshira led the way outside, calling to the rest of the party to catch up later. With Cord on one side and Burl on the other, the oddly matched threesome walked quickly to the door, ducking back outside into the fresh air and sunshine, two with distinctly unique versions of relief, and the third hardly noticing the transformation from darkness into light. The quiet, cobblestone street was just as they left it: a few city guardsmen, shining in their breastplates, paced in the cool shade of ornamental trees; fleet-footed messenger boys hurried into and out of the various shops and businesses scattered around the dominant guildhall. Down the street was another imposing stone presence: the Temple of Grummand.

"I don't have the mimir; Ebri does. She always manages to sneak off for soup, doesn't she?" Mel struck up a stride alongside Sebastion as they followed the others out of the Mages' Guild, headed for where she had no idea, but it mattered little now that her meager gold supply had been further reduced.

Sneak off for soup? he mouthed the thought silently behind her back as she moved away, adding it to the list of things he had to quiz the mimir about. 'Dracoverr', 'Imellin Daerlen', 'Sneak off for soup'.... and 'Cornell'. He didn't like that he tagged that last one on, and he stared at the fifth raised finger for some time as they walked before Princess Blue piped up once more.

"Listen, Mr Cornell, I don't think it would be a good idea to associate with his sort. The Flame Guild is known to work not only for Huron but also for Carthagia, and I have no idea if there's a bounty on me but I don't want to find out from the likes of him. And also," she added in a half-whisper, blinking as they stepped out into sunlight again, "we are carrying an artifact the Flame Guild would kill for, according to the mimir. I hope you don't intend to fraternize with them any longer." She ended on this slightly snotty note, flipping her deep blue hair and frowning.

Sebastion felt it was more than a little unfair for her to be dictating to him who he should or shouldn't talk to because she was a runaway, but he didn't argue. Other, more fundamental worries were troubling his mind. He simply nodded and followed, fingering the sword in his hands. The Dracoverr sword... it is my father's sword, nothing more.

He did not, however, the way her pocketing the Fire Serpent Rod had turned into us having an artifact the Flame Guild might want back....

As the band crossed the cobbled street to approach the Temple of the Unyielding Stone, they could not help but notice a 'Wanted' poster that had been crudely pasted up on not just one building, but several; the posters hadn't been there when they'd gone into the Guildhouse. Scrawled on each one was the following:

WANTED, DEAD OR ALIVE:

'Iron Sky Thunder Hawk'

Gnoll Criminal, Murderer and Robber

For the Murders of a number of travellers on the Heterric Road from Merlihr across the Sarokean mountains to Killanon, and the robbery of their belongings.

The Cambden family offer a reward for his head, attached to his body or not, of 2,000 pieces of gold, and a further 1,000 pieces of gold for the return of the body and heirlooms of Marcus Cambden, Slain by Iron Sky.

Underneath this was an incredibly lifelike image of the head of a gnoll, a distinctive pattern of swirling tattooes around a thunderbolt decorating his face; an old gnoll too, if the gray fur was any mark. The picture had probably been created so accurately through magical means of replication.

Iron Sky may claim to be the 'Grand Master of the Knights of the Thorn' as a disguise, beseeching hapless travellers to help him before leading them into ambushes. Do not believe this dangerous criminal! His reign of Terror must be brought to an End.

There was no sign of whoever had put up the posters.

Maybe it was just his growing paranoia, but Burl sneaked a quick look around before approaching the Wanted poster. With a short sigh of relief, he found it was for a gnoll and not himself. With all that has happened to me, I am becoming very paranoid. I realize that in the great scheme of things, I am not that important, but it is my skin and now those around me that is in danger, therefore, I cannot afford to let down my guard. But, as a newly converted mercenary, I do think that we have come to the right area for work. Burl tapped his finger on the poster, putting to memory the details in case they should confront the object of the poster.

Cord sensed the looming, permanent building of smooth stone, seeking to envelop him in cool, embracing arms. His steps naturally drew him toward the temple, though he may not have realized it consciously. It was not until they neared the steps that he realized he had been steering Wyshira with the lightest of touches with one hand; Burl had followed Wyshira.

Burl spoke as they approached the temple. "Good, I will follow the two of you. It should make an interesting side trip." To himself he added, And it will get me off the street where I won't be so noticeable. Turning to Cord, he said, "You know Cord, I never could understand why others looked forward to days like this. When I lived in the forest under the huge oaks, the sun hardly ever broached the ground. Couple that with all the time I spent studying in my mentor's library, I never appreciated a day like this. One day was like every other when you spend it in front of created light." Burl had to admit that it was truly a beautiful day, but then taking a quick look at Wyshira, just maybe it was the company he was keeping.

Cord did not see the quick look, but he heard the sudden, almost imperceptible creak of the neck, the momentarily tightening of Burl's muscles. He brought no attention to the action, though he wondered about it as they ascended the stairs.

Within the temple the air was cool but still. A few small apertures allowed for enough light to enter that torches were not required for illumination, but it lacked the kind of grand stained glass windows of the Cathedrals of the faith of Ishrak. Instead a low ceiling of raw stone hung over the place, the walls decorated with brightly coloured murals painted onto the hewn, unrefined rock that had been stacked up to form the structure.

Wyshira and Burl were shocked to see that, it appeared, the clergy here were growing stalagmites and stalagtites, as bizarre a concept as it seemed. Around the place were scattered pools of water, water apparently pumped up above them and then allowed to drizzle down through the rock. It must have been heavy in minerals for the process was acting in the same manner as that in caverns, creating the conical calceous growths. To Cord this was a familiar practise, though rarer to see in human lands than the dwarven temples due to the time and patience it took to grow a full stalagmite which could then be broken off and consectrated before being used to found a new shrine.

The low chamber hummed with the faint blur of quiet voices talking and the slow drip of moisture from the ceiling. Far at the back two great burnished metal thaumineered pumps hissed and slowly revolved to pumo the water up to the celing spots above the pools. The altar at that end currently hosted a small group of worshippers at service, a cleric garbed in sand-coloured robes anointing them; a handful of men, some being farmers and some of other vocations, along with a couple of dwarves.

The dwarven population in human cities was always low to non-existent, even in the larger settlements like this. Even a thousand years after the wars of the gods, most races were hardly populous, and it was only now that finally the dwarves populations were increasing enough to begin to push back down below the mountains from their undersurface cities, to try and reclaim from the ruins and caverns some of their former glory. With that kind of opportunity available, there was little reason for most dwarves to emigrate to human lands, even with the demand for their craft skills. Most such dwarves were outcasts, wanderers or had their own private reasons for their travels.

As such, outside the Sarokean mountain range dwarves were not common, hence the low number here at worship.

Other clerics of the same garb wandered, attending to their duties or watering the stalagmites with cans of water laden with extra minerals to promote flourishing growth. Most moved with slow, measured fashion, not in any seeming hurry. Moving amongst them, one stood out, a man in heavy gray cloak and sturdy gray clothes of the kind a traveller might make, though obviously a dedicate because of the emblem of Grumand he had tattooed over his face. Passive eyes wandered the temple in faint curiosity, occasionally focusing on a stalagmite as he stopped to give an acolyte a few words of encouragement or advice about how to best grow a stalagmite and achieve a pleasing array of mineral-caused colours over its surface.

It was like stepping onto another plane, Mel thought--from the busy, bright streets of Naseria's capitol into the hushed murmuring of slow water on cool stone, the quiet prayers and infintely patient movements of Grumand's faithful. Of course, she had heard plenty on the subject of Grumand from her teachers of theology in Carthagia, just as she had heard about Immar, Naskha and others. Only now she was discovering them in their own temples, with their truly faithful. There was more to Grumand than lumpy, inert granite after all. For Mel discovering religions was like opening a chest full of gnome-made toys from Kerr, each brilliantly crafted and full of clever, wonderful surprises. Still, her blue heart held a special place for the trickster sorcerer Naskha and His tattooed Cerulean priests.

Soothed by the geological patience of Grumand's temple, she once again found herself trying to make up for being sour by sugaring it over. "Of course, Sebastion, I trust you. I know you wouldn't do anything to put us in danger. It's just that he was making me nervous, the fire guy, and I--I think you should stick with us for now. It would be nice." This time she ended with a sweet, and really actually sincere, smile.

Once within the coolness of the temple, Sebastion's shoulder relaxed a little, and the hunch left his back, even if the craggy eyebrows did still knot close together, almost hiding the deep blue eyes. Even then, within that sanctuary, she wouldn't leave it alone, and he realised he would have to say something to her... "Huron isn't Carthagia. You may have heard things about the Fire Mages, I don't know of, but I haven't. They seem no better nor worse than any other warlocks or witches to me. My father fought alongside them, probably, and I trust his judgement." Do I? What do I really know about those days? Where did he get this sword? Was he one of these 'Dracoverr'? He shook his head slighlty, looked at her and continued.

"You may have gone native now that we're here, but I'm not so sure. I've two job offers here, it seems: pander to some warlock noble's avarice, or look into the treachery threatening to undermine one of the long-term allies of my homeland? I'm not commited to either, yet, but I'd not mind learning a little more. Might be I take up the job hunting down the gnoll posted up on the walls outside when all's said and done. I'll try and do the right thing, and I'm glad you appreciate that, but I'll try and be sure I know what that is first."

He couldn't, however, find anything to counter the assertion that it would be nice if he travelled with them. She was a witch, and a blue one at that, but he would feel strange without them now, they had been travelling together for so long.

Though it probably would have been wiser to let it go, Melisande could not control her irritation, especially since she knew Sebastion's jibe was on the mark--they had not (she had not, in embarrassing fact) investigated Lord Ecurius any further than his handsome smile and lavish table spread before agreeing to the quest, and no one knew exactly what they were serving or whether it was 'right'. On the other hand, fire-spouting war mages who served aggressive military powers such as Carthagia certainly weren't the 'right' people to serve either, to her way of thinking.

And who knew about the gnolls? They had massacred her countrymen before her eyes, and nearly finished her off as well, but if the crucified fleshtearer was what she thought it was, they had a good reason. Perhaps there were good gnolls and bad gnolls, just like people; but wasn't it better to reserve judgment until things were clear?

What was galling was that she had not reserved judgment. She had plunged right in without a second thought, like the nitwit her mother always accused her of being. Yet Melisande trusted Lord Ecurius--he was a Naserian noble, a sorcerer and a Truth-Seeker. Not to mention that smile.

"First of all, he's not a warlock, he's a sorcerer. There's a difference. Second, the Truth-Seekers are not avaricious, they're curious. There's also a difference. Now I'm all for a little healthy skepticism, but certain things are evident from the start. I might as well make it clear to you right now: I don't know much about the Flame Guild, but I do know a bit about Carthagia, and if you choose 'learn a little more' about that man and his quest it's without me."

Sebastion was about to snap back at her as she turned to stalk away, nose in the air like the spoilt princess she obviously thought she was, when common sense stayed his mouth. I see, he can be 'curious, not avaricious', but I can't. If he's curious, why doesn't he go look? Avarice wants someone to bring it to you.... He thought, hard, at her departing back, as he looked around the temple. It wouldn't do to shout in here, and anyway he wasn't prepared to argue with her about the nature of warlocks and wizards and sorcerors and what the differences might be. Chances are if he tried to explain light infantry and skirmishers to her she'd be lost, so fair seemed fair.

He'd heard the stories, of course, about the Carthagian warmongers, and the Flame Guild, but then he'd also heard tales about the Huron, and he knew his father would never have been a part of such things... would he? Preconceptions would get him nowhere, he realised - feeling a little guilty about considering whether to include his impressions of his father in that bracket - and if he wanted to know what the Fire Genasi truly wanted he would have to go and hear the man's claims.

Without Melisande, it appeared, he realised, as he trailed his hand over a nearby stalactite gently. He didn't understand why that bothered him.....

Sebastion's silence among the gentle dripping of stalagtites rang loud and clear in Mel's ears. Too late, she realized he probably could not care less whether she intended to accompany him on his mercenary quests, and might even be enjoying the irony of relief at her promised absence.

It was then that something her mother had said--which Mel had ignored at the time--came to mind. The Carthagian minerologist's strong fingers had been firmly braiding her daughter's blue hair, pulling it back from her temples and knotting it for the voyage, while her mouth went on loosing a steady stream of imperatives at the girl, who kept patting her toad nervously.

"...And don't let being a sorceress in Naseria go to your head. The only thing worse than a nitwit is a snotty nitwit. Don't do any kind of magic until you're over the border and even then, keep it discreet. And don't talk to strange men."

It was at least the tenth time she'd said that. Mel had a strong recollection of having rolled her eyes, something she only dared when her back was turned to her mother. (She was sure there was a great deal a Reduce spell could do to quell the opportunistic lusts of bandits and brigands; that wasn't what was worrying her.) Amusingly, however, she had obeyed that particular injunction, associating almost exclusively with strange women; the only man among them was much more normal even than herself, and so it hardly seemed fair to call him a 'strange man'.

As for the rest, well, she could only admit she had let herself slip. For a moment she thought she sensed Pierre being smug, and gave him a not ungentle pinch in his pocket. Luckily in the semi-darkness of the Temple of Grumand the deep blue flush in her cheeks would not be too visible.

Once inside, Burl was astonished at the scene. The entire temple gave the impression of a underground cavern. The multicolored stalagmites and stalactites were awe inspiring. Remembering back to the trip on the boat, he assumed that the pumps were a thaumineered item such as the one that had propelled them up river. Slowly moving around the two metal monsters, Burl allowed Spike to slip his small head and front legs out of his home, Well Spike, what do you think of this? I am becoming more interested in these contraptions. I only wish we had more time to make detailed drawings and notes. We should probably go find the others. What do you want to bet that Wyshira has found her way into these waters.

While the stuffy, stale air of the wizard's guild had weighed heavily on her, here the sharp scent of earth and stone lifted Wyshira's spirits. This place reminded her of the secret grottos she'd explored at home in the mountains.

And what a discovery! They were using water to nurture and grow beautiful rock formations. The steady drip and trickle that echoed all around her was like music, and she felt herself calmed after the tension of encountering the Fire-kin. She couldn't resist dipping her fingers in a pool of milky, mineral laden water.

She let Cord lead the way, but kept one hand on his elbow in case she needed to guide him around some obstacle. As always, he needed little guidance; he seemed to sense things around him as well as, or better, than she could see them. She bowed respectfully to the brown-robed clerics as she met them, then she noticed the one robed in gray. She guessed he was the high priest, and whispered a description of him to Cord.

As Cord stepped into the temple, he found himself stumbling for the first time in months, possibly years. Wyshira gently held his arm, lifting him to his feet once again. The familiar surroundings, assailing his mind with memories of home and the monastery, had caught him off balance. Cord had not expected to be transported decades back in time to the dwarven caves beneath the Sarokean surface.

The disciple of the sea and the patron of the earth leaned on one another for support as they wandered among pools of gathering water and columns of wrought stalagmites with undisguised awe. He steered her away from the towers of calcified rock as he sensed them drawing nearer; Wyshira guided him around the shallow ponds if he approached to closely. For several moments, the pair allowed themselves to relax in the comfort of stone and water.

The soft, deep murmurings within the temple-cavern echoed off hewn walls. Cord recognized the litanies, taught within the Grummand monastery, and was surprised to hear the voices of dwarves, as well. He had not heard the voice of his kin in years. His latest wanderings had brought him deeper into human lands, and now he found that he had sorely missed the accompaniment of those like-minded. He was about to approach one of the few when Wyshira leaned to one side, and began to describe one that could only be the local priest, administering to the acolytes. He let her descriptions of gray robes and tattoos pass: color and art held little meaning for him. But by connecting his demeanor to the form wandering from one to another within the temple, he agreed with her conclusion. Cord began to approach the man.

Perhaps such a one with close ties with Grummand might also sense the corruption with the earth. Perhaps he has a better understanding on my own uneasiness. Still holding onto Wyshira, he turned to face her, nodding in the direction of the priest. "I have a question to ask him," he said softly. "Would you like to join me?"

Cord approached silently and waited for the elder priest to finish his advice before speaking. He dipped his head toward the priest and enacted the traditional gestures of a meeting between two Grummand patrons. It included deliberate, slow movements of the hands and head, bringing forth visions of stalwart mountains and rolling hills. In a moment, the greeting was over.

"I am called Cord," he said, introducing himself. "I have traveled over much of the Drakkath recently, and have felt a growing uneasiness. It has waxed and waned these past months, and I am afraid that it will soon strengthen again. I seem to feel a similar sense when contacting Grummand, though I am not one of his chosen clerics, but a recluse, wandering monk. Perhaps you could enlighten one such as I?"

The gray-robed man turned from the rock formation he was examining to Cord, a curious and kindly expression on his face as he greeted him. "Good day, master Cord. I am Unyielding One Agarth, myself recently arrived at this temple; I have travelled from the caverns of Carthagia, and am on my way to a conclave of my order in the Sarokean mountains." Now that those with sight looked closer, past the facial tattoo, this man did have a Carthagian cast to his face. "We meet to discuss this very problem you speak of."

"You are blind, yes? Yet you move as if you had sight... Perhaps it is because you are of the faithful and with the loss of your sight your other senses have strengthened, and with your dwarven lineage too, perhaps that is why you sense what we do." He sighed. "I wish I could grant you the enlightenment you seek. We believe there to be some source of corruption in the Drakkath, something of a nature we do not know, and the Unyielding Ones hope in our conclave to find some answers. There are many... troubling rumours I have heard. We have started to receive reports from the dwarfs who once again venture into the ruins of their old domains, about great numbers of beasts coagulating beneath the surface of the world like bile in the arteries of the earth. Perhaps it is nothing, but perhaps it is more than nothing... we cannot yet know."

"The beasts are gathering upon the surface, as well, Unyielding One," Cord said, bowing in homage to the cleric. "Just recently, the Solanthar Templars turned away an encroaching werewolf coven in Akbar. The stench of the corruption had nearly overwhelmed my senses, but faded after the menace was defeated. I knew, however, that the single lycanthrope pack could not be responsible for the sense of wrongness permeating the entire Drakkath region. It remained too strong, too enveloping . . ." his voice trailed as he recalled the nauseous feeling of only a few weeks ago, and the smallest hint of it yet remaining.

Clasping one hand tightly, the pressure returning him to the present, Cord returned his attention to the priest. "I once called the Sarokean's my home," he said, almost wistfully, "and I wish to do all that I may to rid the land of this unseen threat. I have experienced the corruption firsthand, in one instance. Perhaps I may be of some help to this conclave."

The priest nodded. "Indeed, no lone werewolf pack would cause such a malaise of the earth as this. As for your offer of help... If you come to the conclave to reiterate that, then perhaps the Unyielding Ones shall take you up on it. The official time of the conclave is in two months, and since it will be taking place in the Cathedral of Stone doubtless many normal clergy of Grumand will attend as well. " He snorted. "No doubt the priests will be using it as an opportunity for the forging of new alliances and other such church politiking. If you do choose to attend, your presence will not be turned away."

Approaching Cord and the 'Unyielding One' Melisande pretended to take an interest in their conversation--anything to soothe the burning impression of Sebastion's mockery behind her back. After a few moments she did a sort of mental double-take and interjected suddenly, "The caverns of Carthagia? I didn't know there were--oh, excuse me, did I interrupt?--I didn't know there were conclaves of Grumand in Carthagia. The clergy of Toran wouldn't hold with it. Not that it upsets me. I'm just intrigued. Who else lives within the mountains that the Carthagians don't know about?"

At Melisandes surprised exclamation, the man's eyes twinkled with slight mischief. "Oh, the Toranites know we are there, but what are they going to do about it? Carthagia is riddled with mines, and the miners prefer to have a Grumandic blessing on the place before they start work to ward of cave-ins and suchlike; and, well, when the Toranites complain about us, we make sure that cave-ins do happen - such is well within our power. For the most part, they leave us well alone."

"And as for what else lies beneath Carthagia, all I can say is - a great deal. Subterranean tribes of creatures that never see the light, and strange ruins which we assume are the remnants of the civilisation that once inhabited Carthagia, though it was gone already when Toran led us there. Discontents and brigands, all sorts of manners of beasts and abberations; some from the Manipulator labs and others created by the chemical waste the labs pump out into the earth."

...And that's not all, Melisande added mentally as the Unyielding One inventoried assorted horrors lying under the mountains of her homeland. There are also aasimar-- This thought was cut short by the sudden realization that she did not actually know that that was what her father had been. Maybe she was just a freak after all. The dark color of humiliation left her cheeks, leaving her pale with something worse.

Not particularly wanting anyone to discover that she had been conceived in a Carthagian biohazard waste dump, she just nodded to the priest, swallowed hard, and tried to think about something else.

Abruptly she turned to the other oddly-hued woman in her entourage, perhaps seeking solace in companionship. "What about you, Wyshira? Are you going to the temple of Ishrak after this? I'd love to come along and learn more about it."

Wyshira had been listening to Cord's conversation with Agarth, the Unyeilding One, with half her attention, and watching Burl examine the thaumineered pumps at the back of the chamber with the other half. Her ears perked up when Melisande mentioned the Toranites, but she said nothing.

Then the talkative blue girl asked if she was going to the Temple of Ishrak next. The soft light reflecting off a still pool sent ghostly ripples udulating over the surface of the low ceiling and the faces of the two young women. Wyshira smiled.

"Would you really like to learn more about the Storm Lady? The truth is, I've visited few of her Temples myself. I was raised in a small shrine in the mountains. I served there, with my mother and my sister, until just recently really. In comparison, the Temples I've seen in my travels have been magnificent!"

Wyshira turned and gave the Unyielding One a respectful nod, then waited to see if Cord was ready to go on.

Lost in thought and study of the thaumineered pumps, Burl almost missed seeing the others readying themselves to leave. Taking a quick last look and making sure he hadn’t left anything behind, Burl hurried to join the others as they departed for the Temple of Ishrak.

Cord nodded silently in response, memorizing the details of time and location of the Unyielding Ones' conclave. If his experience with the werewolves was unique, his presence might prove useful at the meeting. If it was not unique, perhaps he could learn more of the "malaise," as the cleric called the cancer Cord sensed deep in the earth.

As the Unyielding One turned to his duty, Cord nodded to Wyshira, motioning to show that he was ready. "This place," he said, breathing deeply as they wound through the stalactites toward the entrance, "is like returning to the womb. It has been too long since I have visited Grumand in his home."

He wondered if Wyshira's reaction to her patron diety would be the same as his own. "Let us visit Ishrak, as well," he said, holding out his arm as they left the temple.

Sebastion began to feel somewhat out of place, stood beside the stalactite wondering why anyone would want to be here. The place was cramped and damp, the constant dripping of water irritated. Stepping closer to the others he sought to drown out the sounds with conversation, arriving in time to hear about the various 'guests' living in - and beneath - Carthagia.

Are you going to the temple of Ishrak after this? I'd love to come along and learn more about it. The question wasn't directed at him, but he felt himself tensing at the call, wondering what this 'temple' would be like.

More temples? How did I get caught up with all these God-botherers? That does it... I'm going to check out this Flame-Guildsman later. At least one of us will have gained something useful from the day..."

Slipping into place at the rear of the group - where he could see attacks from the front, and was first in line for attacks from the rear - Sebastion followed watchfully as they set off to the next God-botherers complex, an expression of forced patience on his face.

 

[Horacio]

Wow, another double update... I'm being very spoiled, thanks, Carnifex!

 

[Carnifex]

Thanks for the complements Horacio I think I'll wait till tomorrow for some more updates; I've yet to cover just what happened to Ebri, Kale and Wolf, the three who have split off from the main group (and Kale of course has fallen into misadventures ).

 

[Horacio]

Thanks for the complements Horacio

They are well deserved

 

[Carnifex]

The Unyielding One answered Cord's questions as best he could; to reach the conclave wouldn't take more than a week or two due to well-maintained roads leading there.

The way to the temple was winding, but pleasant. Wyshira caught occasional glimpses of the river in the distance, and quickened her pace; she nearly dragged Cord along in her hurry to see the water and find the Temple of Ishrak.

She chatted with Melisande, telling her a little about her childhood spent assisting her mother in the shrine by the mountain stream. It was apparent to anyone watching her that the priestess became more animated and lively the nearer to the river she got.

"Devotion to Ishrak is in my blood, I guess," she confided as the small, homey-looking temple came into sight. "I didn't even know there were other gods and goddesses in this world until one day, when I was about eight winters old, I met a boy from the village who worshipped Grummand. (His father worked in the mines.) I found out much later that my own father worships Immar." She paused for a moment, suddenly seeming to notice something. "Which reminds me..... What has become of your other companion? Ebri... is that her name? Will she be able to find us again?"

Burl quietly followed the strange group down the meandering street. He was taking in the different sights and sounds of yet another neighborhood. Reflecting, he thought about the many new places he had seen since he left his quiet home in the woods. One thing was giving him some small problems. Never in his life had he heard so much talk about religion, nor had he ever visited so many different places of worship. It seemed everyone had their favorite place to find comfort and each was either more grand than the next, or in some cases more weird. Life was much simpler at home. All he and Raymond had were a small statue set off in a corner where they occasionally would pray. On special days, they would move it out, place it on a flat rock overlooking the stream that ran close by and relax and meditate.

"She always seems to," Mel sniffed, giving a shrug. She wasn't the suspicious sort, but it did seem odd that Ebri Zol always disappeared every time they came to a large settlement. Probably nursing a bad habit, she surmised, although in her youth and naïveté she could only imagine what sort of bad habit it might be. Those necromancers she used to work with at the labs would sneak out to sniff solvents every chance they got, but Ebri didn't have the red-eyed, runny-nosed, hazy look of an ether addict. Neither was she quite the sort to frequent houses (whatever those were; her mother had warned her not to lodge in one even in a hailstorm, and to be careful of people who did), or to be prone to gambling. Maybe it was just soup after all. Although they had all stuffed themselves at Lord Ecurius' table...

The band slowly made its way to the temple of Ishrak, through narrow, winding roads between houses that crowded over the street. They found it down by the river in a part of the city away from the bustle of the markets and main streets; the small building was built on the banks of the river that meandered through the capital. Whitewashed and simply constructed, it sat in the middle of a small, lush garden full of little streams and brooks; inside it was more akin to the shrine of Wyshira's homeland than the grand Cathedrals of the faith. A simple altar, some small stained-glass windows, a donation bowl and suchlike, as a couple of initiates performed their duties and a handful of worshippers took part in prayer.

"I don't want you to be mad at me, Wyshira, but do you know what they call Ishrak in Carthagia? They don't approve of other gods, you know." She leaned close to whisper the unflattering word in the priestess' ear.

"I'm beginning to think there's an awful lot of religious propaganda circulating on Toran's behalf. It's been quite a shock to discover the truth. What a lovely little temple! Is it all right if Pierre takes a dip in the garden pools? And if I follow you inside and eavesdrop?"

The amphibian wasn't waiting for permission, however. He bounded from his snug but dry pocket and blobbed his way to the nearest brook. Vicariously, Melisande felt a cool wash of relief as he plunged into the running waters, and realized she understood maybe a small part of what was making Wyshira so vibrant as she approached the temple of her goddess. She smiled, gesturing for the priestess to lead on.

At Melisande's whispered word, Wyshira stopped and stood very still, a look of shock crossing over her blue-tinted face. The more I hear about Carthagia, the less I like what I hear, she thought.

Out loud, she said, "Well, my mother never had much that was nice to say about Toran, if I remember right. And my own dealings with his clerics have been less than pleasant."

Of course, there had just been the one time that she'd encountered any Toranite priests. And this was the second time today that she had been reminded of it. The first time had been earlier in the Temple of Grummand when Melisande - Melisande again - had brought up the clergy of Toran.

Maybe she was being reminded for a reason. She really had been letting her guard down today, especially here in the city. She glanced nervously around for a sight of Burl. He had lagged behind a bit what with the way she had hurried ahead toward the river; Sebastian was even further behind though, keeping a sort of rear guard. She almost expected to see a horde of black-mailed and spiked zealots descend on them from out of the shadows.

She wished she knew where Kale was. There was one particular Toranite that had it in for him, she suddenly recalled. Why did he have to go off on his own?

She told herself that she was just being jumpy and forced herself to smile at Mel. "Pierre is more than welcome to enjoy himself in the pool. I wish I could join him!"

A crazy idea entered her head just then: What if this strange blue girl is some kind of Carthagian spy?

As soon as she thought it, she realized how ridiculous it was. She truly liked Mel, and had been hoping that the two of them would become fast friends. She smiled again reassuringly, and laughed, ostensibly at the two-headed frog. She hoped that none of what she had just been thinking had shown on her face.

"We can all go inside; I just need to check in, and of course make an offering."

Wyshira felt almost instantly more secure once she was off the street. The soft blue-green light pouring in through the colored glass was calming, as was the quiet murmuring of prayers all around. She went to speak to the initiates about meeting with one of their superiors. It didn't take long to attract the attention of an initiate, a young man in turquoise garb who scrutinised Wyshira carefully, obviously intrigued by the genasi's strange features. He soon came back with the ranking priest of the chapel.

What surprised Wyshira was that the cleric wasn't a human; rather, the delicate features and slightly pointed ears of the middle-aged woman hinted at elven ancestry in her blood. Introducing herself as Mileene Shamelock, the priestess nodded respectfully to the genasi. "Greetings, fellow priestess, and welcome to our humble chapel. What can I aid you with?"

The place was well-ventilated, as was typical of Ishrak's worship centers. Drafts of moisture-laden air laced with the sweet scent of burning incense tickled her nose, reminding Wyshira even more of home. She acknowledged the half-elven priestess' greeting with a slight, graceful bow, and offered one of her own in turn.

"Greetings to you also, Mileene. I am Wyshira of Cryosia. My companions and I have travelled far, and it has been some time since I've been to one of our Lady's temples."

Keeping her tone friendly but formal, she told the priestess about some of the things she had faced on her journey, like sea devils and werewolves. And she passed along what news she'd picked up along the way that might be useful to the temple clergy. She explained that she was staying outside of town at the estate of Ecurius Tarravas, but would soon be leaving for the Sarokean mountains. It was her duty of course to check in whenever she could; there was always the chance that she could perform some small service for the Church, like carrying a message, or just providing information and news.

"I'd also like to purchase some of the Lady's healing waters. There are many dangers on the road and in the mountains, and I like to be prepared."

Mel ended up hanging back at the entrance of the temple of Ishrak after all. She thought it was an amusing anecdote, but the look on Wyshira's face when she'd told the priestess Toran's theologians' point of view on her goddess had sobered Mel somewhat. Maybe it was a bit of a faux pas?

Standing back with Burl while he let his own familiar have a romp in the gardens, she watched the little ball of spines trundle off. Surreptitiously, she eyed his face, deciding quickly that he was definitely not like the necromancers she had known. There was even a little ruddy color in his cheeks, unhidden by white makeup, and what's more he lacked the purple circles under his eyes and the body piercings.

"Maybe we should check with Lord Ecurius. If he has a few instruments and ingredients we could use the kitchen, and working together we may be able to get something done before it's time to go.

"The only problem is that I don't have much money. I'll go with you to the alchemist's but I'm afraid I won't be of much help financially.

"Let's stop in quick while Wyshira--uh, worships. There was a place up the road that looked decent."

Tugging on Burl's sleeve she urged him out of the gardens, telling Sebastion, "Just a quick trip to the alchemist's. We'll be right back. Watch Pierre for me?"

Sebastion had been trailing the group, eyes wary, wondering just how many temples there could be in a city like this. Religion had never really paid much of a place in his life - he had been brought up at something of a frontier, bred to look out for himself. Faith was something that needed to be earned, not simply given away blindly, and the waste of time and energy that went into the larger cathedrals and chapels confused him completely.

However, this smaller display of belief was more to his liking - obvious, without being overstated - and he felt a brief smile tug at his lips as they approached. Resolving himself to remaining outside, hoping for a few moments of solitude, he was somewhat disappointed when Burl and Melisande chose to remain as well.

Settling himself against a stone, he revelled for a moment in the abundance of nature; being from a small village he had played most of his childhood in the peace of open spaces, and if this place was closed in, it still carried with it the feel of the rills and tarns of the hills.

When Melisande spoke to him, it caught him by surprise a little, and he looked about in a confused fashion for a moment.

"Pierre?" he asked, rising quickly, switching his sword to the other hand as he pushed away from the rock. "The frog? If you insist on treating me like a hired hand, then I'll least choose the assignments. If you're heading to this shop, I'll come with you. Your frog can fend for himself for a little while..."

He wondered for a moment if his irritation had shown through in his speech. Bodyguard a frog, indeed.

He hoped so.

About to head to the rock outcropping that he had planned to stakeout for a bit of a rest, Burl turned to listen to Mel’s proposition. “That’s probably a good suggestion. Even if we don’t have time to make my salve, it takes a couple of days to solidify, at least we will have the ingredients for when we do have the time.” Burl wasn’t surprised when Mel asked Sebastion to keep an eye on her frog, but he was a bit taken back at the look that was flashed by him at the request. He had thought that the soldier was used to acquiescing to her requests and learned a bit about the man at that moment. Trying to keep the peace, he spoke, “Give me a moment to let Wyshira know where we are headed and ask her to keep an Spike and Pierre. We shouldn’t take to long.” To Sebastion he added, “It will be a pleasure to have you along on our side trip.” To himself he added, I only hope she doesn’t ask him to carry our purchases.

Decidedly, Sebastion Cornell was obstinate about seeing things wrong side up, Melisande thought. Lord Ecurius a warlock? Pierre a frog? What was the matter with this mercenary anyway? Next thing he would start refusing to carry her purchases. "He's a toad. And I'm so sorry but I can't pay you for escorting us to the alchemist's. I was only asking a favor."

Why did he keep making her act like a petulant little girl? It was mortifying. Maybe if she changed the subject while Burl, who surprised her with his diplomacy, went into the temple.

She got hold of her tone of voice and lowered it to something less strident. "You see, Sebastion," she began confidentially, taking his arm, "an arcanist's familiar is more than just a toad or a hedgehog we keep around for company. Pierre is in my mind. He's part of me. And he's much, much smarter than your average toad, even given two heads. If anything were to happen to Pierre it would be like cutting off one of my limbs."

In her sincere smile there was no suspicion that anyone might wish this on her.

"But you're right. I'm sure he's safe here. Let's go."

Sebastion's jaw clenched as she turned on him, more concerned about her bloody frog than her own empty blue head.

It's got two flaming heads, he thought to himself, as Burl wisely gained a little space from the discussion. It's not really a frog or a toad. And what's the bloody difference between the two anyway?

"I don't want paying to escort you. Something happening to Pierre might be like having a limb cut off, I don't know, but going out there, where people don't like Car... people from your country, and certainly are going to pay attention to someone your colour, is asking to have one of your actual limbs cut off. That's why I'm going with you." So saying, he stood fully, gesturing rather sarcastically for her to lead the way.

Walking over to where Wyshira and the priest were talking, Burl waited for them to acknowledge his presence before telling her where they were headed and asking for her to watch out for the familiars.
As the three left the temple, Burl let Spike know where he was headed and to stick to Wyshira.

Cord was more than slightly unnerved as Wyshira held him fast, winding her way through confining streets to the temple of her faith. Few times in his life he had walked faster than a patient saunter; he could not recall a time he had moved faster than on his way to the temple of Ishrak. He remained silent, intent on his surroundings, and trusting that Wyshira would steer him from any obstacles that might surprise him. Yet his trust in her surprised him, as well. It had been quite some time since he had relied on another for his senses.

Upon reaching the temple, he began to understand the reason for her haste, especially considering her heritage, devotion, and even temperament. The bubbling of creeks and the slow meander of a nearby river, along with splashes on rocks and the smallest hint of trickling water, merged into a musical song that Cord found enchanting.

He introduced himself to the priestess of Ishrak, as well, but decided to explore the temple alone as Wyshira began to speak with her. He returned to a walking pace far more comfortable to his senses and easily avoided the small number of initiates in the small, unconfining shrine. He stepped outside, breathing in the damp smell of flora and soil. He let his bare feet sink into the loam, and even reached down into one of the creeks to allow the cool water rush through his fingers. Kneeling only for a moment, before his back began to protest, he picked up a couple of rounded pebbles from the rocky bottom, relishing the feeling of the stones tumbling in his hand beneath the water. His youth had been spent in underground caves, his adulthood in cramped cities, and although he preferred the comfort of Grumand's temple, the experience of rushing water in the open air was one he dared not miss.

Straightening with a grunt, he overheard pieces of the heated conversation between Melisande and Sebastion as they slowly walked out of range, accompanied by Burl. He suppressed a deep chuckle, following his same route to the temple entrance to find Wyshira.

DM's Note: Wyshira exchanged news with Mileene, without going into too much detail about the other members of the party. She then set about Gathering Information, encouraging the priestess to tell her about Ecurius, Truthseekers in general, Wind Hawks, the Sarokean Mts, or any Flame Guild or Fire genasi activity in the area.

The priestess listened quietly to Wyshira's tales of travel, sad-faced at the news of such dark happenings as the genasi had encountered. When questioned, Mileene answered with careful thought and deliberation.

"I know little of Lord Ecurius; it's a name I hear rarely, he is not someone who becomes heavily involved in the day-to-day affairs of Tarravus. A member of the royal family and a Truthseeker who has estates outside the city, but beyond that I can tell you little."

"As for the Truthseekers in general, again, there is little I can tell you beyond the common knowledge and the rumours surrounding them. They are a society of Naserian sorcerers, incredibly elitist and exclusive in whom they allow into their ranks, who allegedly..." she shrugged bemusedly, "seek truths. They claim to seek to acquire knowledge for its own sake, in the pursuit of an enlightenment of sorts. Things I can tell you for certain is that they are very powerful and very wealthy, and they possess a large number of histories, prophecies, ancient artefacts and suchlike, hidden away safely. Some say they possess the one true history of the world, untainted by the blurring that time has on stories passed on by word of mouth; though I find that unlikely. Others say they seek a particular, undefined 'truth' amidst all the knowledge of the world that will grant them the power of the gods. As I said, hearsay and rumour."

"The Wind Hawks are the Order who have their headquarters - the Air Tower, you can't have missed it - here in the capital. They're like the other Orders - elite troops trained in spellcraft and swordcraft both. The Windhawks hold as their military dogma the importance of mobility; if you've seen the great paddocks down the valley, that's where the horses that supply them with cavalry are kept. Their Grand Master is Wind Lord Severin; he's getting on in years but I still wouldn't recommend crossing swords with him. They've got close ties with House Tarravus, and they are our strongest protectors."

"The Sarokean mountains? They're the range that runs north-south along Naseria's eastern border, seperates us from the Drakkath. You came across them from the Drakkath, so you've seen a bit of the mountains already, but I'll tell you what I can. They're a wide swath of dangerous lands; the dwarves have some presence in the north but even there it's basically wilderness. It trails off to the south at the south-eastern corner of Naseria where the lands of House Merlihr meet the wild Drakkath. You'll find al sorts of beasts there; giants, orcs, gnolls... The Iron Hawks have their fortress in the foothills of the Sarokeans."

"The Sarokeans are a huge place; I can't really tell you much more about them generally, and I don't have a specific enough knowledge to be able to give you finer details. Except, I know there is a large temple to Ishrak - if you head east from Tarravus and slightly south. Clerics from there occasionally pass through here. They say it's in the foothills, not really deep into the mountains. If you're heading back into the Sarokeans and your path takes you in the vicinity, you might want to visit it; apparently they have one of the real teeth of Jormungand there in the reliquary."

"The Flame Guild? I don't know much of them. A band of mercenary wizards from the South, aren't they? As for fire genasi, I've never seen one myself."

"Now, on the matter of potions; I can give you our entire stock of healing curatives for one hundred gold pieces. That's 3 potions full - I don't often make them, we don't have an intensive need for them. I'm sorry I have to ask for a donation at all from a fellow priestess but we're just a small temple and aren't exactly as wealthy as the faith in the east. You talk of grand cathedrals along the coast of Cryosia, but sadly we lack the following here in the west of the Middle Kingdoms to build such edifices."

Sitting and talking quietly with a fellow priestess was a rare pleasure; time seemed to fly by for Wyshira as she and Mileene chatted about this and that.

"The Wind Hawks are rather impressive in their feathered cloaks," the water genasi admitted with a shy smile. "I wondered if the Temple had any dealings with them."

Mileene smiled at Wyshira's comments. "Oh, no, the Wind Hawks are far beyond my station. I may officially hold the post of the highest ranking clergy of Ishrak in the city, but that hardly means much," she gestured around her to take in the small size of the chapel, "and I only get invited to official functions out of politeness rather than any need to consult me. The Wind Hawks may follow the teachings of Air but I fear that sadly, Ishrak's own guidances hold no place in their training. They're military, and closer to Naskha than the Storm Lady. Yet still I am thankful for their presence; I have no fear of the capital ever falling to enemy hands with them here. No finer cavalry force in the world!" the woman added patriotically.

Mileene's mention of the Temple of Ishrak in the Sarokean Mountains elicited an exclamation of awe from Wyshira.

"A tooth of Jormungand! That is something I would very much like to see. But I don't know yet in which direction we'll be travelling."

She was grateful for the healing waters. "Of course I understand that you must charge for them. I was raised in a small temple much like this one, and my mother's potions were a major source of income for us.

"Thank you for everything, Mileene. If there is anything that I can do for you or the Temple, please let me know.

"Now please excuse me while I take a few moments for meditation. Thank you again, and good-bye."

Mileene bade her farewell. "And... if you do find yourself passing through the area I mentioned, well, if you could just pass on my greetings to the high priest there? It would be nice to try and establish stronger ties with that temple, to perhaps increase our influence here by association."

All through their conversation, the music of the water had been calling to her. To Wyshira, the sound was the eternal voice of the goddess murmuring secrets untold. Left alone, she closed her eyes and lost herself in listening.

But duty called to her also. It wasn't long before thoughts of the crew intruded on her meditation. Finally, she bid a silent and reluctant farewell to the little temple and went looking for the others.

* * *

The alchemists was pungent indeed with the smells of chemicals on the air; the shelves stacked as much with tomes and treatises on chemistry as it was on actual products; an array of vials, beakers, glassware and strange liquids.

The alchemist himself was not a pretty sight - surely not beyond thirty but his vocation had aged him. Patches of hair had fallen out, his skin was pale and blotchy, and the tall man had a racking cough. Nonetheless, he tried his best to be cheery and pleasant as the potential customers filed in.

"Welcome to... [cough] Archibald's purveyor of chymicals and chymistry [cough]." He smiled as pleasantly as he could. "What can I help you with? Oh..." he laid eyes on Melisande. "Your Ladyship, how can my establishment be of use to you? Are you perhaps, er, looking for an alchemical substance to return you to normal colour? I'm sure that daedrothwort or shadowbane might be of use?" It seemed that he thought her a sorceress, and one who had been the victim of an unfortunate magical accident at that.

"Oh, I've already tried both," Melisande confided, not approaching the sickly alchemist more than necessary, but appreciating his concern. "Daedrothwort made my skin turn a sort of lime green for two days."

With a helpless shrug she turned to Burl. "If we don't have time to whip up some balms for this trip, maybe we can afford a few cheap and effective products such as acid." Digging out the meager remainder of her fortune she displayed this apologetically so that Burl would know how much, or how little, they were working with.

Answering her, he said, “We could probably use some, but first, I would like pick up a half dozen jars and the ingredients to brew my salve. Also, I would like to look around a bit and see if there is anything that catches my eye.” Noticing her meager number of coins, Burl continued, “I don’t have much money myself, but I will try to share what I have after I make my purchases.”

Moving to the counter, Burl gives the proprietor the list of ingredients that he requires. Just before the man turns to fill his order, Burl has a thought. Lowering his voice so as not to be heard, “By chance, would you be interested in a potion that I came across. It would probably require a very special customer to use it, but it is probably worth a good amount to the right person.”

DM's Note: Burl was carrying a potion of Cause Disease - yes, Cause Disease - he acquired back when he raided a temple of the disease god Kevayek...

The alchemist engaged in earnest but discreet discussion as he gathered various jars and chemicals for Burl's salves,though all it sounded like was a quiet banter. Once he had ascertained just what Burl was selling, he seemed interested enough, though not giving details for what purposes he would wish to buy it; he offered the necromancer two hundred pieces for gold for it, which would be passed discreetly under the counter in a small bag, of course.

Burl entered into a quiet, but animated conversation as he pointed to different items, and dickered over their prices, all the while negotiating for the potion. Burl had hoped to pick up enough to make six jars of his healing salve, but that would be dependent upon the apothecary’s price. While the old man finished gathering the items, Burl slipped the vial from his bag while packing away the items. Pulling his pouch out to pay, he passed the vial and accepted the 200 gold, which he quickly hid on his person.

As he turned to leave, Burl couldn’t believe his good fortune. He had never fully decided what he was going to do with the potion and the opportunity to sell couldn’t be passed.

“Mel, I almost forgot that you wanted to acquire some items. Let’s see what we can do about getting them. You can always pay me back later.”

Sebastion wasn't entirely surprised, following his comments, that Melisande practically ignored him for the duration of their short journey, though he felt a little disgruntled that the other warlock had seen fit to ignore him.

Birds of a feather.... he told himself, as they arrived at the destination. The acrid stench, and the apparent condition of the host, encouraged Sebastion that neither of his charges were in any apparent danger, and he settled comfortably against the wall outside, watching the world wander past, and taking some time to breathe deeply, and not have to worry about who was going to treat him as a servant next.

* * *

After her discussion with Mileene, and her meditation, Wyshira and Cord made their way the short distance to the alchemists; easily discernible by Sebastion leaning languidly against the wall outside.

* * *

The alchemist wandered amongst the shelves, picking off this jar and that, a pinch of that powder, three vials of this strangely blue-green liquid, coughing and sniffing as he went about it. For the six salves Burl wanted to make, once all the ingredients had been collected to his satisfaction, the man put a price of one hundred gold pieces; cheaper by far than buying the final-made salves from an alchemist with skill enough to make them (which this poor soul did not) but of course with the hassle and chance of having to put the substance together yourself, as Burl had previously found out.

"And for your Ladyship?"

There was another thing Melisande's mother kept warning her about: never accept gifts from strange men. And certainly not, she added to herself, strange necromancers. Yet although she had not eavesdropped on the whispered (and wheezed) negotiations, she couldn't help but notice a goodly quantity of gold changing hands in Burl's direction, and if he was prepared to spend some of it for her (and indirectly for the whole expedition's well-being), then it would be rude, wouldn't it, to refuse.

"Well... I could do with a vial or two of acid and some lamp oil." She looked closely at Burl, wondering whether he was the sort to expect to be paid back with interest. "It's very generous of you. I'll pay you back as soon as Lord Ecurius gives us our--our--did I say Lord Ecurius? Ha ha, I meant Lord--Lord--the other one, who's paying us."

It was a clumsy attempt at discretion, but her heart was in the right place. "Is that all right?"

“You will probably find acid here, but I haven’t seen any lamp oil.” answered Burl to Mel’s request.
“I’m sure that I can trust you for the loan. I’ll just wait over by the door until you have made your choice.” Burl walked to the door where he was browsing among some used equipment and a few containers of mundane ingredients when he heard a voice that he wasn’t expecting….Wyshira.

* * *

Before making their way to the alchemist's, Cord paused for a moment to listen to the animal sounds within the garden. Two had been left behind by their respective magic-users and after a moment or two of searching, Wyshira was holding Melisande's toad and Cord had Burl's hedgehog. Within moments of leaving the temple they located the alchemist lab: Wyshira by sight, Cord by scent.

Cord nodded to the form of Sebastion just outside the door before stepping in. The mercenary soldier was, with little doubt, still fuming. Cord allowed him the luxury.

The sudden mixture of pungent odors and acrid tangs within the store completely blocked the majority of his senses. Not blind, but a grayish haze had descended over his mind. It was a difficult lesson to learn, how easily his connection to the world could be obscured. Travelling from farm to homestead, sleeping in the outdoors, and rarely venturing into the cities had left him in control for the majority of the past few decades. Not until recently did he discover the tenuousness of his senses, times where his blindness seemed to be almost . . . a handicap.

Reserving such thoughts to ponder another time, Cord turned to Burl, and relinquishing the eager familiar, its twitching nose searching for its master's scent. "Have no fear, my friend," Cord said, "your animal has been kept safe."

Turning slightly to the other in the room, Melisande, Cord opened his hands and smiled. "Have you two found what you desire?"

DM's Note: There was a bit of complication here because in fact there had been no mention of anyone picking up the familiars but Cord cunningly did a little backtracking when he posted...

Melisande was able to easily pick up a couple of vials of acid from the alchemist, borrowing some twenty gold pieces from Burl to pay for the transaction; unfortunately Archibald didn't stock any lamp oil, so the sorceress had to go without.

* * *

Outside and in the streets of the capital, the day now growing late and soon to be the time when the small band would have to return to their patron's estates once more, Burl had to stifle a sudden shock.

Burl.

Tewlcroghen's voice seemed to reverberate within his mind. A surreptitious glance about revealed the others had apparently not heard it though.

Good, the amulet works; I can communicate to you. I have a simple favour to ask of you.

I am sending to you a bird; a carrier hawk that should soon arrive over the next day or two. All I need you to do is to write down the current average market prices of grain and iron ore in the Tarravus markets and send the list back to me by the hawk. It will help us in predicting economic changes here in Iril.

And that was it. Soon after, the evening growing more full, the band made their way back to the estate of their patron perched high on the side of the verdant valley.

* * *

In the next update I'll set about charting Kale and Ebri's ventures of the day

 

[Carnifex]

Kale wouldn't, as it turned out, manage to make it back to the estate by dinner time. Opting instead to take care of a few pressing items on his agenda, he fitted his newly repaired shirt, with a grunt and wordless nod to the stout sweaty dwarven smith.

The air began to cool about the twilight city, though that wasn't the only part of the atmosphere that seemed to change. All about him, life in the city reacted to the setting sun. Merchant commerce tapered to a close as shops boarded up for the night. Recreating townfolk made for the streets, as well as all the other working... businessmen for whom the night was their office.

Gone with the sun was Kale's open, 'leasurely' demeanor, replaced in its stead with a subdued, unreadable manner. Known from frozen Cryosia to arid Huron, the sign of the streetwise was the only trait revealed by the lone mercenary, or anyone else who thrived after dark.

Resisting the urge to pull up his cloakhood, Kale opted to retain his peripheral vision, taking all his surroundings, a honed instinct. It was little more than absent reflex, his body observing the city while his mind wandered.

Cord- what a oddball. What'd he say, I was like a son looking for Wolf's approval? Pfshh! he scoffed, before stopping short. Mmm. Damn. Frustration marked... recognition. Whatever.

Rounding a corner to a darker side of town, he pondered nonetheless about motivations, influences... everyone seemed to have them, to his peril. Yet he never had any of his own, none that he would admit. Undeniably, the young mercenary was at some kind of disadvantage. Or was it that he hadn't fallen into that common, timeless human pitfall?

Up ahead, a carriage stopped and emerged a Naserian Officer, respendant in Royal Colors. His medals glinted in the subdued lamplight- what was he doing in a place like this? At the side of the road, a huge club bouncer locked eyes in recognition, pulling open the large wooden door behind him.

Blue cloak whirling as he turned, the Naserian lifted his veteran hand to recieve a fair clasp: a guiding hand for his fair lady. Exiting with a smile, a beautiful woman in a luxurious active eveningdress. With a smile and light steps, the pair entered the underground restaurant.

Bloody hell, Kale cursed as he tripped over his own feet. Can't even walk down the street.

The Tarravus boroughs took a little getting used to, but it wasn't long before travel-worn boots found their destination. A few double-tongued exchanges, and Kale entered a shop of a different sort. Walking beyond a solid oak door with its tiny peephole, he sidestepped the huge crossbow contraption to enter a small, dark basement. Dirty steps and low ceiling, the mercenary watched his head, watched his step, watched his back.

Musty air and dusty crates parted before him to reveal a clutch of smoke-ringed men, playing a low-paced and profanity-riddled game of cards.

"Marty, if you pull that shi*t again I swear to god..."

"What? What? You're just upset you're losing your nooky money... again. Heh," the gap-toothed punk smiled. "What, Horish, that's been about three weeks without any ah, ah, ah"

A growling pounce by the one who must have been Horish arced across the table upon the gyrating loud-mouth. Chips and cards flew in all directions, the entire scene threatening to dissolve into total chaos.

"Mmmpkmm!" Kale cleared his throat.

At the sound of the newcomer, the knot of punks untied to reveal a quartet of rough, suspicious characters.

"Aren't you a bit far from the town gate? What the hell do you want?"

"Well, if it was a good laugh, I'd already be headed out the door."

"Ha!"

"You better shut your mouth, if you want to walk out that door at all!"

"Shut up yourself! You'd be one to talk about bein' quiet..."

"Thank you, Horish. Now, if we all get untangled, you may bet able to make that 'nooky money' after all."

And so to a chorus of laughs and growls began a late-night barter for the sort of items not available at the local general store.

 

[Carnifex]

Kale's inquiries were subtly slipped into the game, eventually drawing the responses he wanted from the gathered assemble of four.

"Something that slow's 'em, eh? Dulls their reflexes, something like that?"

"Sittik maybe? That bites into a mans reflexes, makes people all clumsy and suchlike - and it happens I might know where to get a dose or two from, close at hand, if someone were, eh, willing to pay the kind of money, you know..."

Things about the card table were going about the way Kale expected, though the price for the drought he sought was higher than he'd hoped. Trading grunts and ribs, a little gold exchanged hands as the dingy cards did the same.

Negotiations had moved on to Kale asking after corrosive acids, but then things changed.

Down the steps into the small basement, more feet tapped the stacato pattern on the stone to announce a newcomer. Tall and lean, clad in robes suited to a merchant and carrying himself with an air of confidence, the sharp-featured man took in the appearance of Kale in this basement with some shock.

"Who is he," he snapped, "and what is he doing here? And more to the point, do you have what I asked for?" The man stepped closer, peering closer at Kale.

One of the men had shrugged and reached for a package, obviously what the newcomer was demanding, but then the merchant seemed to realise something as he looked closely at Kale and choked in shock, spluttering for a few moments before regaining his composure.

He pushed his heavy cloak away to free up his hands. "The whelp with that Blade, eh? Here to spy on me?"

Fiery arcane magic surged up his arms and lit his hands with incandescence as arcane energies suddenly began to stir the air into swirling breezes. As the merchant's eyes glowed with arcane fury, the other occupants of the basement backed off in alarm, sending chairs clattering across the floor as they stood up quickly in their alarm. "What the - "

Kale rolled his eyes. Inside, he cursed his forgetfulness at not re-covering his swordhilt. While still in Corinthia, he had fashioned a reasonable diguise, but sometime during the crew's lycanthope adventure, the disguise had somehow come loose. No use wondering about it now.

What was a wonder, was how every mage felt that the world revolved around him. That's what the man was, a bloody vain mage, channeling energy and flowing with flame-power. The man's glowing eyes were a disconcerting image that threatened fear's affliction nearly as quickly as Kale could quell the fear's flames in his heart.

He knew. He knew about the blade- and whoever was behind it. Likely, he also knew much more, and he wouldn't be satisfied with any of the mercenary's truthful 'I know nothing' responses.

So instead, in the midst of arcane flames, Kale bid his bluff while all the other gamblers fled the table.

It was quite possible Kale knew only the first thing about the kind of trouble he was dealing with, but as he stood there, hidden and enigmatic, he found the foundation he needed, at the base of his lie. He'd survived the flaming inferno of an infested wolf-house. He'd weathered the siege of an entire werewolf coven, beating at least their Master, and his grievous magic. He'd seen pain, blood, loss, death... and victory. Anxieties and worries skittered about his thoughts, but his eyes and his manner spoke volumes of what he'd truly seen... fought... and survived.

"I don't care about you, or your bloody package... and my Blade is the least of your worries." Amazed at the calm in his voice, experience spoke from deep inside. The mercenary was still young, he'd seen so little of the world. Powers and forces he didn't even know dwelled in places he hadn't even seen. For him, there was a lot of danger in the uncertainty, but the same could be said for a startled mage, in a confined place, facing an unknown, Blade-wielding foe.

At Kale's brave announcement, the man faltered for a moment as if confused by the mercenary's words, before understanding dawned on his face. "You think I'm talking about your sword, don't you, you ignorant little cretin," he sneered, his face harshly illuminated by the arcane energies playing over his arms. "Idiot youth, killing you'll be a kindness if you're as much of a fool as you appear to be."

And the room erupted in flames.

The man's sudden wave of a hand and arcane syllable had been too fast for Kale to use his little smoke-making trick, too fast for the mercenary to even escape the immolating brunt of the fireball that fiercely gnawed with tongues of flame at the occupants of the room. The gamblers scattered, trying to escape from the wreathes of smoke and fire that licked up over the furnishings and their own clothes, while the mage just seemed to stand there and accept the inferno raging over him and burning at his clothes. Within moments the heat had died down again, leaving all the occupants of the room badly scorched.

Kale's flesh felt as if it was still on fire where the magical flames had raged across it, wisps of smoke drifting around him from the barrage of heat, and to make things worse it looked like the spellcaster - who although burned was still quite acceptably capable of battle - was preparing to hurl more in Kale's direction...

For a moment, Kale didn't know where he had gone wrong, but realization crashed in on him in wave after cruel wave.

Fool, it was true, and the firey mage must have delighted in seeing the mercenary's eyes go wide in horror and disbelief. Instinctively throwing up in a hand in futile defence, Kale felt the rush and roar, and incredible pain.

What madman would call fire on himself? Kale begged to know. Off balance, surprised, and devoid of advantage, he wondered numbly how he could have allowed himself to fall into such fate.

Wisps of smoke lifted from flash-burned funiture all about the room. Bystandards were rightfully scared into retreat, while Kale and the fire mage stood directly in their midst. Desperate injured eyes met a gaze crackling with arcane energy.

In a hanging moment, willpower scraped back control of a reluctant body, and Kale bolted for all he was worth. Retreat. Damn. And the only thing he had to say was, "Shushurek"

DM's Note: Shushurek is the command word for Kale's magic ring.

Shushurek.

The air shimmered with energy, wierd sensations playing over Kale's skin for a moment before... all was dark.

There was an angry cry from his attacker, and through the dark, Kale made a move for the door. One hand tugged a bag of caltrops free which scattered, tinging as they skittered across the floor to cover his escape route.

The merchant was trying to guage his position by hearing, it seemed, deprived as the man was of the targeting facility of sight. A few more muttered words as Kale was almost out of the door and then a hiss of magic just past the mercenary's ear. Whatever the spell had been, Kale had been fortunate.

He emerged from the globe of darkness, bursting forth to lope up the stairs, the passage still heavy with smoke and fumes, and then he was out into the late evening light of the street...

To be faced with two very surprised men, clad in heavy leather armour. They had just been running over from a nearby coach, a functional carriage drawn by two horses, the flash and crackle of the fireball alerting them that something was wrong, and with their blades drawn they were still too shocked at coming literally face-to-face with Kale that they took some few moments to act.

From down the stairs, within the gloom, there was a crunch as someone stepped on caltrops, followed by a howl of pain. The merchant's cry tailed off into curses, and a yell of "Get the bastard! Kaelos, Garus, can you hear me? Stop him!"

These must be the mage's lackeys.

Kale dove forwards past the two men who sought to block his path; already they were struggling to pull blades from sheathes and lash out at the mercenary, but his fleetness of foot and edge in already being in full flight kept them off balance. Even so, one steel sword caught him as he passed, a wild swing that through chance more than skill struck true, digging a red line down his arm though it was not deep. Before they could do any more the shadow-wreathed man was round the corner and merged with darkness.

Kale settled well into the shadows before removing his black ring. Shadows and ancient magic, indeed: the unknown powers had saved him this night. Silent and watching, the young mercenary waited, bow in hand, in overwatch of the mage's carriage. No doubt, the man knew they had reached town before the band themselves had. Burned and vulnerable, Kale wanted to know why.

From his hiding place, burns stinging and with the new pain of the sword strike, Kale could hear what came afterwards. Muttered curses and grunts of pain as the mage struggled up the stairs, his lackeys running to aid him up but being waved off with irritated expletives. "Where is that idiot? Didn't you stop him? Gah, you fools! Now he'll go back and tell the Blade agent what happened here, and before we know it they'll be breathing down the cell's neck again." The merchant hobbled over to his carriage and sourly sat down on the mounting step, the wooden structure creaking as he rested his frame on it.

Kale settled his breathing and took to memorizing the man's face, demeanor, cohorts, carriage. The 'merchant man' had dealings that ran deep, none of them would likely prove very beneficial to a certain freelance mercenary and his tattoo-bearing custodian. It was critical that the mercenary somehow regain the initiative against the trio, although how he could was a mystery entirely.

He burned and hurt all over- and the glancing slice to his shoulder was hurting well enough in its own right. Listening to the men, he undrew his bow long enough to bring a small vial to his lips. The dark quietness of the streets were a cold treason to Kale's time of need. Dusty streets and dark shadows, so often a haven and place of business, were now just an brick-built urban wasteland. C'mon boys, head home so we can start the hunt... he thought, anxious to end his erratic retreat.

"I caught him with me blade, sir, and..."

"So? You still didn't manage to stop him, did you, so what does it matter?"

"What I was trying to say, sir, is that the injury's left a blood trail. We can follow him. Find out where he and the Blade are lairing." Kale nearly coughed on the last of his potion. Healing waters flowed into his body, but for how he felt, he may as well have swallowed bile. The hunt was on, alright, but he was still the prey. Crouching behind a woodshake corner, he suddenly felt way too close to the carriage and the three men.

A low chuckle sounded, the mage catching on. "How very well noted indeed. Yes, an excellent idea, and one I can improve on a little too. What we need is a good tracker." Arcane words flitted through the air, and then with a magical crackle and a faint ashen smell on the air, a spell drew something new onto the street.

What we need is for you to die, the young mercenary thought optimistically as he regained his aim. He was too slow on the uptake, however, and the mage's mysterious words were loosed before a certain silver arrow.

"Is it a good idea to do that on the street, sir?" one of the lackeys asked worriedly.

"The risk is outweighed by the benefits." The spellcaster had made his belief in that maxim clear when he fireballed at point blank range earlier.

The mage spoke again, now in a sinister, sibilant tongue that was answered by a low, growling bark. The sound of paws pattering over cobbles headed towards Kale, following the trail of blood.

"We'll follow it, see where it leads us... wait! It smells him! He's still close!"

In another heartbeat, Kale had his target- what was that? Hound's footfalls, a dog's bark, but no animal to be seen. Another bloody mage trick, Kale thought as his disdain for the art continued to grow. Looking out to the dimlit area, Kale moved his aim from the mage's enticing throat to the strange sounds, where he carefully imagined the approach of an invisible dog. Every step along the larger cobble road was a dreadful toll in Kale's ears.

An arrow launched -

-and the race was on.

The potion had alleviated some of the pain of the burns and at least stopped the blood flow from the blade wound, but the mercenary was finding it altogether too little particularly improve the situation for him. He could feel the flaring pain along his arms as he pulled the bow-strong back, letting an arrow fly towards the location of the invisible creature as best he could pinpoint it; the missile skittered along the cobbles without striking anything.

Pounding his body to obey, Kale made to sprint for the next corner, regretting that his caltrops had already been used, albeit successfully. Instead the resourceful light fighter reached for the tindertwig-smokestick he'd planned to use so recently. The street's expanses called to him as he yearned and pulled for the next intersection.

Keeping in mind the way he had come, a desperate mind clung to what little he knew of the city. Somewhere, there had to be an advantage. But for the moment, he occupied his mind pushing for more speed, and looking for some way onto the rooftops.

The smell of ash and coals grew stronger and before he could make it off the starting block to sprint away the summoned thing was on him; he heard jaws clacking and biting at him as he desperately tried to fend off something he couldn't see. It must have been about the size of a large attack dog but beyond that he couldn't tell any more, as the other three at the scene were able now to make out where the mercenary had hidden himself.

As Kale tried to run from the creature, he felt jaws lock onto his leg and yank hard, trying to pull him down, but he managed to kick free to the sound of angry snarls from his attacker and fled as fast as he could, fumbling for the tindersmoke. The two lackeys were closing fast, the mage hobbling along far behind at a much slower pace, while the invisible beast...

Was still snapping at his heels, growling and barking. Again, he felt jaws on his leg, the monster trying to trip him and bring him down, but again he managed to pull free, his attempts to countertrip sadly not succeeding. He was outpacing the men at least, as he dropped the tindersmoke which began to belt out smog, but the damned invisible beast was keeping up on his trail...

And this time, as he moved to continue fleeing, the beast found purchase and pulled Kale off his feet. Suddenly the fetid breath of the thing was right next to him, blowing over his face, along with a rising growl. He could just about see the two men approaching, through the veil of smoke, sweaty and carefully looking around for him.

Under protest by all sorts of unknown emotions, the desperate mercenary flailed and ran as best he could. Training and tricks didn't prepare him for the invisible beast, and he was at a marked disadvantage while scrabbling for an escape. Dropping smoke and digging his boots into the dark cobbled road, Kale could have expected to escape the armsmen easilly, if not for the growlings and swipes from his unseen foe.

It seemed for ages that Kale was fighting and evading, always on the brink, always one step from disaster. And then, he fell. Unseen jaws finding purchase on his pantleg, there was no way the young mercenary could keep himself up. Pivoting and falling to the alley street, he wondered absently if it was the end.

The pain of impact broke him out of his musings, however. Burnt skin abraded rubbed, the pain at least a partwelcome reminder that he was indeed, still alive. Steps away, two swordsmen sought him out carefully, practiced steps and careful eyes guiding their way to target. And an unworldly stench told Kale that the other grim hunter was very close, indeed.

In an instant, lazy gray smoke exploded to cover the scene, almost like a polite veil to conceal his doom. Cloak bunched on his side, skin charred, pants chewed, mail bloody, eyes desperate- it was a charity to be unseen. There in the cruel face of defeat, the world granted him one honorable concession.

An honorable death? Honorable defeat? Gasping for breath on the cold-cobble street, Kale couldn't say that honor was anything that he pursued. And defeat? That was not even part of the question.

Clumsy enough to be tripped by his foe, the mercenary still found deft hands to sweep up his cloak, pulling his brooch-pin free. Sweeping the fabric up and over the fetid breath of his adversary, he struck out with the stilletto-like pin, stabbing down to hold the blindfold fast. Turnabout is fair play, eh, you bastard?

Kale felt jaws puncture the skin of one of his arms and blood flowed freely as he swept the cloak round, wrapping it round the head of his attacker asit let go of his arm again. He tried to pin it on, but the invisible beast was thrashing and trying to break free; he tried another stab, but the pain and fatigue of all the struggles and injuries of this night was really beginning to tell and he just couldn't get the cloak secured. Seeing the men approaching through the smoke now, getting too close for comfort, he was forced to resort to fleeing once again, leaving behind him the bizarre image of a cloak thrashing about in mid-air.

Pretty quickly it had freed itself again, and though he had gotten some small head start Kale knew the chase was on in earnest once more.

Staggering at top speed, dragging his bloody-burned body down the street, the night's chase was certainly taking its toll on the lone mercenary. Clutching his torn arm as he ran, Kale wondered absently why he hadn't chosen to be a merchant, after all.

Breaths came in desperate gulps as he drew his rope and grapnel. Coulda been in Iril right now, pulling in griploads of gold... his mind thought with a cruelly ironic light. Why did he ever choose this way, to be cut down in the street, presumably grilled for all he knew before being quietly eliminated? Bouncing his way around the corner, Kale let fly his grapnel, clawing his way up rope and wall fiercely enough to draw blood from his fingertips.

He counseled his body for calm, for endurance, but it was all in vain. Reaching for the rooftops, his bloody body must have reeked of fear. C'mon, get it together, he thought in a scramble, hoping at least for one last vein of professionalism in face of his enemies.

Better yet, just get on the damn roof- worry about manners later.

There was a clunk as the grapnel caught a hold on the roof, and with a surge of weary pain Kale clambered up it to the relative safety of the slate rooftop above. At last he could pause for a few moments of rest.

Down below the two guards jogged up, along with a low growling that must have signalled the beast that had been tracking him. They wandered over to where the beast was - they seemed able to see it, as if it was only invisible for Kale - and peered at the spot where he had begun climbing.

"Look here - blood spots. He must have climbed up the wall. By Gilamesh, we're never going to catch him now. There's no way I'm climbing up there and scrambling over rooftops after him. 'Sides, guards might be here soon, or worse."

Kale their words with relief, allowing himself to relax just a bit. Waiting for the men to depart a few feet away, he quickly and quietly made away. His intact shirstsleeve had become an improvised bandage, and with the repair, there was no part of his body that was not bruised battered, burned, or bloodied. What was worse, he had no cloak to hide his sorry state.

The wounded man had very little energy to spare thought for anything but getting himself to safety. However, as he made his paining roundabout way through the streets, he chafed even more that he didn't put a scratch on any of the men who had attacked him that night. Walking smoothly and learning slowly by pains which movements he shouldn't make, the dark deserted streets provided a needed isolation.

As the cool evening wind blew against his charred skin, Kale knew that survival in part had to be success. He pulled away from the encounter armed with descriptions, vague motives, and possibly connections. The thought of this as 'victory,' however, chided him like a cruel joke.

Kaelos, Garus, I'm coming for you, and your fire slinging master, too, the mercenary thought, with a good amount of bile in his attitude. 'By Gilamesh...' But such personal attachments to the night's events were unnecessary. At least that was the conclusion he came to, too exhausted to put action to thought in any case. Maybe in the morning he could make some sense out of all this.

In a few blocks, the fire of his anger had already died down. Anything important about the men he'd encountered went far beyond any personal vendettas, and Kale had no energy left for his ego to hold score.

After many roundabouts and sliptails, Kale snuck his way into a certain horsestable, recovering his mount in the market district. It was a gripping pain, settling an old horseblanket on his shoulders to conceal his wounds. The merciful fortune was that quiet movement was practiced instinct to the man, with no extra energy needed for his discretion. In a few moments, his 'flavor of the week' horse was bridled, saddled, and ready. With all he could muster, he spoke an even "Thanks," to the waking stable boy, tossing a couple coppers as spurred his mount free of the stuffy wood building.

The desire burned in his heart, to head straight back to bath and bed, but it would still be a long time before his mount was stabled once again. Braced against the abrasive jarring of his trotting horse, Kale gritted his teeth for what seemed like eternity, looping cutoffs among the dales and hills for miles before turning to meet the Tavarus Estate.

"Please let me know when Wolf or Wyshira return," he said simply to the gate guard, whose expression Kale couldn't describe, even if he wasn't half-gone exhausted.

The battered mercenary had no memory of what happened next.

 

[Broccli_Head]

oh yes! Kale's first encounter with the Gilgamees. This leads to a lot of stuff later!

How soon until you catch up ?