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Message: <blockquote data-quote="Isida Kep'Tukari" data-source="post: 1401580" data-attributes="member: 4441">*Torr and Ralam, you wait just a bit for your awaited "disturbance" and are rewarded by a flood of guardsmen leaving the watch hall.  Walking toward the place a minute later you hear a passerby grumble that "the damn fools are rioting in the markets again," as he leaves your quarry's building.*[OOC:  If you want to cast any spells or activate any magic items before you go in, please do and indicate it in your next post.]*Entering in, you see that most of the rooms are quite empty, though a skeleton crew of guards man the entrace to the jail, as well as the front room.  Sweeping through, acting as if you're on a mission, you penetrate deep into the hall of the Watch, to the door you were both told held the captain.  A group of four, dressed in heavier studded leather along with the elaborate tabards of those trained to handle crowds, accompanied by two dressed in the robes of the Mage's Guild school with the sashes of those sworn to public service leave the captain's office, a look of grim determination on their faces.  Waiting until they leave, Ralam walks up to the two guards flanking the door.*"Dispatches for the captain," he says smartly, throwing a quick salute.  One of them sighs, obviously this has been a long day."Go along then," he says, opening the door.*Ralam, inside you see a somewhat worn though still erect and powerful older man, wearing armor and his uniform of office.  His badges are prominantly displayed, showing his rank and honors.  His skin is somewhat weathered and his hair shows a touch of gray in his dark brown locks.  His hat is set aside and a helm sits on a stand within an arm's reach.  A ledger lies on the desk along with a quill that glows faintly.  The captain sets aside a lens that pulses with an inner light as you enter, quickly wrapping it in silk.*"Report," he says briskly, clearly having no patience for pleasentries right now.*Torr, you wait without, listening to make sure Ralam has had no difficulties.  Hearing nothing untoward, you groan and double over, moaning as if you're dying.  The two other guards bend over in concern.*"What's wrong?  Haldor, go get the healer," one says, as the other turns to go.*Inside the captain's office, the older man stiffens at the sounds of Torr's "agony."*"What is that?" he asks abruptly, racing to the door.*As soon as his back is turned, Ralam twists and sinks his blade into the captain's back, drawing a matching cry of true pain from the man's throat.  But the old man isn't dead yet, though by the looks of it it won't be long.  He grasps the dagger at his waist and tries to strike back at you, though his thrust is feeble and doesn't penetrate your armor.  Blood gushes out of the wound in his back as his face goes ashen.**Aekir, Ssessarina nods at your assessment.*"True rumors.  The king sends out his knights to champion the poor and oppressed.  The church of Hoar is simply an excuse for guards that do not know any better.  The Hoarites are only men and women, dwarves, halflings, elves, gnomes, and genasi.  The knights are not any of these.  We have reason to believe they are some kind of celestial or another kind of other-planar spirit that the king has bound to his service.  Because of this, they are hard to track, difficult to confront, and where and when they will strike and why is nigh impossible to predict," she says with a touch of almost professional admiration."Aye, terribly difficult to deal with someone if you don't know where they roost eh?  The Butterfly has called us here because we're the best.  These knights are rather unsporting...  And there are more of them all the time.  It's enough to put me in a sour mood, and hard to keep one's spirits up if you can't provide some entertainment for fear they'll crash the party.  Oh, so sorry, where are my manners, I'm Cedric Adornmap Jugglemaster, the pale fellow over there calls himself The Ghost, and the pretty little one over there on the couch is Melody.  Prickles is the one on my shoulder," the gnome says in a jovial tone.*Aekir, you recognize the name of the Jugglemaster.  He's known as an entertainer for certain gnome families of wealth and means.  He's also a strange assassin that prefers to have his victims laugh themselves to death.  Despite his happy manner and disarming appearance, he is as cold-blooded as any member of this company, and with far unhealthier habits than most.**Melody's name brings no recognition, though she tosses her glorious head of hair and rolls over on her stomach so she can flutter her wings, stirring her heavy perfume around the room.  She continues to gaze at you with guileless eyes.  The Ghost looks at you once, and nods, offering no words.*"The Butterfly wishes all of us to start to hunt the Knights.  He wishes to know their habits, what circumstances summon them, and how they work.  Most importantly he wishes their numbers thinned before they are directed to go after more prominant people than petty thugs and cutpurses.  There are those that know more than they say.  He has already brought some here to be his eyes," Ssessarina continues, gesturing to Cedric and Melody, "While the rest of us are here to be his hands.  You are the last to be brought here, but the last that he considered to be worthy to be one of his hunters.  What do you say?"*Though Ssessarina's words are those of invitation, you know you've already be committed to this course.  What she's really asking is your questions about this job and the others.  Throughout the others' speech, the Black Butterfly, if it is indeed him, remains quiet and nearly motionless.**Loviana, the slightly bored priest at the temple that handled your request looks to be a bit young, and still somewhat distracted by pleasures of the flesh instead of the spirit.  Though not all priests of Heironeous are required to be chaste (indeed, some are even required to marry), younger priests are usually kept separate from the female acolytes to reduce the distractions.  This young man must have been deemed to be particularly responsible to have been put in charge of the volunteer work.**At Honor's Shield, your supervisor is a pinched older woman called Felsadora Jasawen.  The Jasawen family is one of noble blood, and by a comment or two made by her and some of the other laybrothers and sisters, you piece together that she was an older daughter ordered into religious service as a show of family piety.  She was not suited for the priesthood, that was evident, and thusly was put into service at the charity house.  Lacking both the privilages of noble blood and the power of the priesthood, she quickly began to gather her power where she could.**Though she is hard on you, to the point where you are sure those of lesser stature and will would have gone home crying, when you do not shirk from tending the sick poor, she gives you a grudging "good."  Another of the volunteers, a middle-aged, motherly laysister in cream-colored robes, gives you a faint smile as Felsadora finally leaves you to your tasks.*"Don't get discouraged dear.  Lady Felsadora tends to be hard on those with pretty faces.  We get many laybrothers and sisters as second, third, and later noble sons and daughters that get forced into religious service.  They aren't forbidden from marrying, and so we end up sometimes getting other volunteers that aren't looking to help the poor, but to hunt for a noble spouse.  Her Ladyship knows most of their tricks, and that most of them won't have the will to tend to all the tasks we have to do around here for more than a few days, so she likes to test their mettle.  You didn't shirk, so she'll be a bit easier on you," she says kindly.  "I'm Miriam by the way, Miriam Gettlestad."*You make your rounds with the motherly woman, mopping the brows of those with fever, changing sheets, cleaning nightpots, bandaging wounds, and bathing the bodies of the sick poor.  The miasma of pain in here is astonishing.  You see pain here in all its forms, from starvation, beating, accidents, sickness, and neglect.  It's a queer and heady brew.**It's heady enough that you almost miss Orshallan's entrance.  Perhaps because you expected more of a fanfair, but the High Righteousness of the Invincible enters with only two acolytes in tow, with only a modest amount of gold trim on his robes.  Lady Felsadora takes him to see some of the sickest, so that he might impart the strength of his god to them.  Not surprisingly, you also contrive to be there.  When Orshallan bends over the body of a young boy with a wasting sickness, he calls for aid in raising the boy up so that he might be able to heal him better.  His own acolytes go to tend their own duties in different wards, and you take up the burden, helped along by Lady Felsadora's quick barking order.*"Go tend to his High Righteousness, and by all the gods, be demure!  He does not need to be distracted, so show nothing but respect and care," she warns, chivvying you along.  *As you raise the boy up, Orshallan looks up briefly from his examination to offer you a word of thanks.  The words die on his tongue as he locks gazes with you, his expression one of complete astonishment.  Quickly he returns to his task, imparting healing to the boy.  As you put the boy back in his bed and tuck him in, the High Priest follows you subtlely with his eyes.  As you walk away, he gestures for you to stay.*"You are new to the Shield, are you not?  I try to make of point of knowing all of the volunteer's names," he says gently, giving you a small bow.  "I am Orshallan."*Though his gaze holds nothing of lust, he does seem much more interested in your answer than one of his rank should be.*</blockquote>

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