The Prophecy

[Dark Jack]

Clasping his hands over his eyes, Jaelnec stumbled backwards from surprise and pain as an explosion occurred somewhere in the gathering before him, sending out a bright flash that struck the Nightwalker's intolerant eyes like a handful of embers - he knew it was just his imagination, but he even thought he could hear the liquid inside his eyeballs fizzle. The pain was excruciating, but luckily brief, and soon the squire straightened his posture once more and resumed watching events as they unfolded themselves before him. As painful an experience as the flash had been, he had to remind himself that, despite everything, he had been lucky. A brighter flash might have rendered him temporarily - or permanently - blinded.
Still, the gathering seemed to get lively rather quickly this year - it was still only late morning and there were already explosions. More people also kept arriving, making it harder and harder for the Nightwalker to keep track of everything - and as if the sheer numbers were not challenging enough to watch, they also kept moving about, mingling with each other and weaving in and out of crowds. It was not long until Jaelnec had to face reality and accept that it was simply impossible to remain aware of all of these people - for all he knew, the person holding the cure could be in there already. His only chance was to wait for the auction, like everyone else, and then just hope that someone with pure intentions managed to purchase it. And if someone with less than pure intentions obtained it... then Jaelnec would have to make sure that the acclaimed cure found its way to the right hands.

Instead of watching everyone, Jaelnec decided his best chance would be to chose the ones that stood out the most and try to remain vigilant of those, though a concealed danger was usually always greater than an obvious one. His eyes almost instantly went to an armored woman, whose platemail was so shiny that she was practically a beacon amidst all the gray, black and brown that filled the marketplace. She seemed to attract others' attention, too, though Jaelnec suspected that many of the others' stares were because of her remarkably good looks. Jaelnec cocked his head, trying to imagine how old a Nightwalker-woman would be when she looked like this human, and then figure out how much younger a human would be... He ended up around twenty years - same age as himself. He would be lying if he claimed that he did not find her attractive, but he had more pressing matters to attend to. And besides, he was not exactly used to being around the opposite sex. He had not had much chance at such while training with Freagon, since the old knight mercilessly had Jaelnec practice in every free moment he had - and, when an attractive specimen like this woman occurred, Freagon made sure to "conquer" those himself.
What did interest Jaelnec about the woman was the fact that she wore the symbol of Liya, and judging by the overall impression he would say that she was a paladin rather than a priest or cleric (admittedly, the sword, shield and armor sort of gave her away, though he would like to credit the discovery to his deductive skills). A paladin of Liya would be sure to use the cure for good, so Jaelnec quickly added her to his mental list of acceptable recipients. For a moment he considered going to chat with her - just to pass the time until the auction - but he decided against it, since she appeared to be in the middle of a conversation with an elderly scholar.
He also noticed a stall with a lot of activity, even for such a busy day as this - a woman selling scrolls, it seemed. Judging from appearances and the busy gossiping of those around the stall, he guessed that it had been one of her scrolls that had caused the explosion earlier. Unsafe and somewhat amusing, but not quite a serious threat. There was also a true Rune Mage with a Zerulic rune-sword, its size and unique hilt-design causing it to stand out quite a bit, but as remarkable as rune-swords were, Jaelnec had seen Rune Mages before and only noted this one's presence briefly.
What did catch and hold his attention was the man wading about the marketplace dressed only in boots, gauntlets and a loincloth. Not only did the eyes, teeth, claws and the highly unusual feathers give him away as a demonspawn, but he also went about with an unmistakably mischievous grin on his face. Jaelnec actually took a step closer to the crowd, his right hand going to the hilt of his sword, before he changed his mind. It was better to leave the demonspawn alone for the moment, since he did not want to cause a scene or otherwise attract unwanted attention to himself. He wanted to remain a neutral observer for as long as possible, so that when he finally acted it would be unexpected. Besides, the demonspawn was only armed with daggers and did not seem to have strong demonic features, so it was most likely just a random rascal with some minor villainy in mind, and not one of the serious threats like the ones thirsting for violence, death and destruction. He still made mental note of it, though, and cautioned himself to keep an eye on it.

Otherwise things were going surprisingly smoothly, and once Jaelnec stopped straining his mind so fiercely that it nearly gave him a migraine, he actually began to relax as the sun rose above the roofs and warmed him, making the black coat nice and toasty around his body. He even went as far as to hum a merry tune to himself - the melody of the Ballad of Felgon Dragonslayer, one of Freagon's old favorites that he kept humming to himself when they traveled from place to place. He even muttered the chorus quietly to himself when he got to it, and he felt his mood lifting markedly as things continued going far more smoothly than he had expected.
"...on horseback, riding down yet a road..."
Maybe today would work out well after all, the cure be genuine and some honorable person getting it and rescuing the thousands of dying from the Withering. Perhaps his worries had been ungrounded - after all, luck was permitted to be on the side of justice every once in a while... was it not? Or maybe he was just being optimistic.

[Ashgan]

The land was still covered in darkness when Zacharias woke; the night had not been kind to him, and dreams of a life gone by haunted him like a vengeful ghost. He did not make another attempt at sleeping, he knew that it would be in vain. Instead, he had chosen to sit on a flat rock which poked out of the cliff’s overgrown face just above the entrance to a small cavern reachable by ground, staring at the starlit sky above the rust colored crowns of the forest. What went through his mind was his alone to know, and hours slowly went by as the moon descended beneath the horizon. There was something magical in nature, something that deeply moved and fascinated Zacharias like a child is entranced by its grandfather’s tales. No, he would never get tired of observing and appreciating the works of Gaia.

Eventually, the sun began to show through the gnarled branches and withering leaves, casting the first rays of light into the misty, autumn grasped forest. Squinted, crimson eyes watched as dawn unfolded, waking up the world for yet another day of untold wonders and unspeakable terrors alike, for as much as he admired the world, he knew that it was not a flawless place, and bliss could turn to grief all too easily. Before he was given a chance to fall into thought once more, the nickering of a horse, coming from the cave below, caught Zacharias’s attention. He remained seated for a short moment before he finally stood up and carefully descended the moist rocks down to the ground. Dropping down the last few feet, Zacharias landed on a mossy surface covered in crunchy, dead leaves in shades from brown to orange. Inside the cave, which was only partly illuminated by the morning sun, there was a dead campfire, now merely black ashes, with a dark brown horse lying next to it, its body covered by a grayed wool blanket.

“I hope you slept better than me, old friend,” Zacharias rhetorically told his horse as he entered the low cavern.

He took the blanket off the horse, which was now rising to its hooves, and rolled it up into a compact bundle which he fastened with a leather strap. After this, he put it into the bag which hung by the horse’s side and in which he stored all the practical things one could need on a travel. Then his eyes darted across the cave to a wall where his armor was carefully laid down. Sitting down next to it, he put on part after part until he was fully clad in his blackened leather armor. It made him look dangerous, and that kept people at bay, which was good.

Moments later, a dark wanderer trudged knee-deep in fallen leaves, next to an unsaddled horse with only a bag hanging by its side, through the forest and towards a small settlement whose rising smoke pillars could be seen past the thicket of branches and leaves ahead. They called it Borstown; a particularly human and particularly ugly name, Zacharias found. Humans were crude beings in comparison to Deigan, they were so unrefined and juvenile in contrast to the elegance and wisdom that was prevalent within Deigan society. Of course, the poor things could not be blamed for their condition, by the time a Deigan becomes adult, a human is already considering his approaching death. Perhaps this childlike behavior did have a certain charm to it in its own way.

The closer he got to the village, the stronger its smell, the smell of civilization, overshadowed the scent of nature and the forest. Simultaneously, the density of the trees began to lighten and the thicket began to break up; here and there, he could now see mere stumps where trees had once stood, and rough trodden paths were carved out into the moldy leaf-covered ground. Houses were now visible ahead, or at least that which humans referred to by the term. In truth, the village was nothing more than a gathering of ugly square habitations built from rough hewn stone, wood and hay, structures that a true Deigan would not even construct for their cattle. Winding cobble paths ran in between the hideous houses, all leading up to a central plaza where this famed black market was meant to find place on that day. Just at the forest’s edge, Zacharias turned to his horse and stroked its head while speaking to it.

“Stay here; the city is no place for you. I will call you when I get back.”

The horse followed Zacharias for two, three steps before halting and watching him go; then, as Zacharias disappeared within the bowels of Borstown, it galloped into the wilds again, becoming one with nature until the true Deigan would have need of it again.

Zacharias blended into the crowd seamlessly; he had never seen so many shady fellows at once, so many people that looked not worthy of a goblin’s trust. Thugs, murderers, brigands and cut-throats, as well as smugglers, swindlers and frauds were amassed here, and though Zacharias thought little of their kind, he could not deny the ease with which he could integrate himself into their crowd. Superficially, he was not so different to their kind: he too was an outcast, and killed for bare coin. But he did so with honor.

Honor… what did that even mean? Was he truly any different to them?

After wading through the people with relative ease for a while, a woman in shining armor forced herself into Zacharias’s sight and tore him from his thoughts. She was a paladin no doubt, or at least some kind of warrior who represented the forces of good, that much was clear. She must be mad or at least half insane to come to a place such as this in that attire, that much was clear as well. Regardless, she was not his business, and he turned away from her again.

The market place was bustling with activity already; some of the stalls were already filled with goods and buyers flocked to each of them, a mystic’s scroll shop being particularly successful, and as Zacharias observed this, the fine smell of burned flesh came to his nostrils. He looked around, but could not find the source of it; perhaps the remains of a recent accident, if accidents were possible in Borstown that day?

Alas, it was still early, and the man with the supposed cure for the Withering, a sickness that has caused so much agony – also to him – would likely take his time before revealing himself. All that Zacharias could do now was waiting, wait for a miracle, wait for a catastrophe, wait for whatever fate had in store for him. And so he sunk against a nearby stone wall with his back, crossing his arms and observing the market with his red eyes, hidden in the darkness beneath his black hood.

[Ezrath]

Ez'rath had heard the whispers. and shouts, of the man claiming to have the cure to the withering. Even tried to find him. But came up short. That's how he ended up in the pub. Now, on this search, Ez was more successful. After speaking to several stall owners, one eventually pointed him to the only Lisa found in the village. Ez'rath found himself now standing outside of the woman's house. Lisa Raines, a human. And she apparently wasn't home.

Ez'rath knocked at the door once more, and again recieved no answer. Not wanting to leave the dead man's bag out amongst these thieves and other riff-raff, he picked the lock. Inside it was a very simple. He didn't dare venture further than the doorway. He simply placed the package on a table next to the door, and left.

He headed back to the marketplace, then found a roof with a good view of the marketplace. He stood there now, in the shadow of a chimney, looking for any interesting characters that stood out. Amongst the numerous riff-raff, there were several other that stood out. A Paladin of Liya, undoubtedly waiting for the cure. She was a stark contrast to most of the others around. A... demonspawn, perhaps? Although he had Deigan features also. He blended in well with the crowd, but stood out to Ez'rath. There was another demonspawn, seemingly an old man, next to the Paladin. An Ascended Deigan, and a True Deigan, who seemed to want to avoid attention. Quite an interesting mix for a place like Borstown.

[mew77]

Lethe closed shop early today. She had made enough rodlin to pay the rent for the day and then some. She could hear her father now, mages are not meant to squander their powers for wealth, there is so much more to be gained that is more valuable than simply enough coin. She disagreed, wealth was not an end in itself, but rather a means to an end.
She gathered her wares as well as her personal items all the while humming to herself. Today’s events would make a nice entry in her journal. She relied on her journal to keep track of events. Most people could easlity remember events happening years ago, she was different. She could hardly remember events of the previous day. Back in the Zerul Library, she was an oddity, an embarrassment to her family and the guild of arcane magi. Arcane magic required a gifted and precise memory. She had neither. Despite this, she studied written rune magic with her father and spent time developing her skills. Over time she grew powerful, and when she turned 18, she decided to leave. It was impulsive, but her curiosity had not been satisfied by the library. She wanted to see the world. And so she set out on foot to travel the world and document her travels. So far the plan was going well, minus a few casualties along the way, like her new “friend” today.

After closing shop and gathering her belongings, she ran to the auction area. A large crowd was already gathering. People of all sorts stood in the noonday sun, waiting for the developer of the cure. While Lethe wished to believe that the cure was genuine, she still felt strongly that it was nothing more than a publicity stunt, similar to her accidental stunt today. Although a part of her wished the cure was genuine.
She had seen the effects of the withering firsthand, her fellows back in the library only had the written records to peruse. It was a blight upon the world and needed to be stopped. The best even the mages could do was to attempt to contain the spread of the disease. If the cure is genuine, it should be distributed throughout the populated areas as soon as possible, not wait to be sold to the highest bidder for personal use.

“Was it really that obvious those were her spell tags?”, she thought as she finished packing up her storefront. She had spoken to other experienced mages about this before. Some of the conversations were recorded as best she could for further review. They spoke of how most arcane mages relied on memory for such cantrips. Everyone’s memory was fallible, so the effects of such cantrips were not always predictable. Her spell tags were a replacement for her poor memory, but as a result the effects of spell tags were predictable, unlike the cantrips of more typical mages. Each tag of the same type, written the same way would produce the same result. This was their primary selling point. Arcane mages want precision and predictability, and when their own memory could not provide that sort of precision, they turned to spell tags which are as precise and predictable as they come. Despite this, no other mages she met ever used a similar system. They didn’t have memory trouble like she did.

Ruminating while walking required her full concentration, which explained how she walked right into a conversation between a paladin and an old sage. She looked at them curiously. “All part of the plan”, she thought.

[Autumn Leaf]

The stench of avarice reached William's nose as he turned 'round. A man stood there, who had been examining his blade closely, obviously wondering how much it was worth. William frowned at the man, who grinned widely in anticipation of gathering a group to beat William into submission and stealing the blade. An ambition never to be realized. This man's lion heart was nurtured by drunken rage and watered with the blood of those who he had killed for the metal in their pockets. This man would burn. William could smell it on him. Could feel it. He would burn, never be released from the infinite pain William would inflict on him if he came near him again.

The man, upon the realization that he was in much better shape then the Ascended Deigan who stood before him, even if he was drunken and scarred, groaned and swung at William with his left arm. It struck William across the face, and he stumbled back, grunting. William stood back straight up and crossed his arms as a small crowd began to congregate. William would not let himself be so easily drawn to attention so early. He stepped forward moved his hand across his cowl and gripped the hilt of his sword. He didn't need it, he realized, and it would only create more of a spectacle. The glow that the hilt began to eminate gloriously swiftly died before reaching it's full potential as William took another step forward, grabbed the man tight by his arm and whispered.

The man saw a demon before him then. A monster, a beast. The Deigan became a phoenix of death in his eyes, a being of infinite unimaginable terror. The crowd became his minions, beasts of the underworld. Fear filled the drunk, and he screeched as he turned to run. William released his arm. The drunk ran. And ran. Would have ran all the way to the Provinces if he had not died of exhaustion by the time he was passing through Gilmah. By that time, though, William would be well on his journey. This new destiny he had come here not to find, but to stumble upon purposefully.

The auction was to begin. And William was interested. He turned as the small group who had been examining his little display dispersed, no longer interested, and terribly frightened of what had just happened. Frightened of what they couldn't understand unless they could feel the fear that William could instill. William's now vigilent eyes darted around the market, and the crowd. The crowd now accumulating in a specific area near the center of the market, and one could only assume this was where this lie was to be presented. And now the figures who would believe this lie where presented to him. The most interesting being the Paladin. The woman who would be raped and murdered in a town and place such as this if not for her commanding presence, and gloriously glowing armor that symbolized her allegiance to Light. William pulled his cowl back over his head, but he could not remove the obvious glimmer of his runeblade's sheathe, that he didn't really need. He would throw it away if it didn't mean what it did to him.

Then there was an old sage speaking with her. A man of unknown origin, a man unafraid to speak. A man who William did not know, a man who William did not seem to understand. He stood differently, acted differently then a weary old sage. He was astute. He spoke to the Paladin with such confidence in his own tongue that one would think he could challenge her in combat. And William was envious of this confidence. To let yourself be seen so easily, and purposefully. Surely he knew standing beside the woman drew attention to him as well, and attention in this place was rarely a thing one wanted.

Mage. He could feel another presence, tingling against his skin. Not too powerful, not too weak. Different. Young. And he was glad another mage shared presence in the place. Even if they where of difference race or age, mages always had the one thing in common. Magic. Understanding and love for it. And he believed he could count on any mage he came across as long as he gave them the respect he wished for in return. He did not see who the mage was, but he knew one was there. He decided to ignore this presence, whose name was Lethe, a name he would soon learn.

He then felt a second presence. This one was not human. This one was different. Danger arrived in his mind, and manifested itself as a humanoid form in blackened leather armor. He could not make out the face of the man, but he could feel it. Feel the energy pressing against him, and feeling his own magic pressing back. He would let the man be for now, but he would wish to approach Danger at a later time. After this fake auction.

[Nougat]

Heh! Theodore liked this paladin. She was truthful to the point of blunt and forthright in her words. He'd known of too many in the past that merely enjoyed the prestige that their profession brought, but those were also the ones whose lack of faith offer a surprisingly painful death for how swift it generally was. He felt a sort of respect for this one, standing out as plain as day with all of the scoundrels knowing what and who she was. How could they not? His eyes sparkled with a youthful mischief as he again remembered an older time and a friend he knew that she reminded him of, then smiled with a chuckle at how easy it was for an old man to fall into memory so easily.

His hand on the opposite side of the paladin snaked out and plucked the wallet of some ponce of a nobleman with an obnoxious amount of feathers in his fluffy hat and slid the pouch into his sleeve with hardly a notable movement at all. His hand again rested on the staff with the other with a glance up to Annabelle, noting her aptitude for reverie of her own. Ah, perhaps youngster wasn't such an apt descriptor as he thought. Or, to some at the very least. Youngster by his definition was anyone who wasn't expected to sit by a fire and tell stories to those in the local tavern.

"Annabelle Silversmith is the name. I am just a lady coming out of retirement as a Paladin of Liya. The nobles and peasantry alike named me the Banisher of evil. Your kind labeled me a cold-blooded murderer.” Aaah, that made some sense. He'd heard the name some years back and from the descriptions of her talent at her own particular art of hunting evil, he was glad he had left that life. Still, the same descriptions failed to mention the addition of 'Silversmith' as well as do a fair lack of justice to the fairness her face still held. A hand left its resting place to give his bearded chin a good scratch. Banisher of evil seemed a little more proper as he of all demonspawn could hardly deny the terrible things his brethren had done. He couldn't blame her for seeking them out, despite the little voice in the back of his head, crying for his attention and her death on top of the piles of others that it demanded. She continued to speak, offering him a second to push the voices away for now."I am but rendering my elders a favour, traveling and recruiting the young and eager to join our benevolent order in these troubled times. I stumbled upon this ruckus by accident, wise old sage."

“Mm? Lady Annabelle, I would be a fool of a wise old sage if I felt that many in the similar predicament as I weren't deserving of the mercifully clean death you no doubt offered, even without dancing about the rhetoric about the relativity of morals, which you and I both know is as true as a prostitute who promises fidelity. Forgive the crudeness.” He offered her a cheeky grin and slight tilt of his head. As a creature born steeped in evil, he knew a lie when he heard one. Still, he didn't care to press it quite yet. He turned back up to face her with curiosity lining his wrinkled features. “And they sent a fine ambassador.”

[xbriannova]

"Mm? Lady Annabelle, I would be a fool of a wise old sage if I felt that many in the similar predicament as I weren't deserving of the mercifully clean death you no doubt offered, even without dancing about the rhetoric about the relativity of morals, which you and I both know is as true as a prostitute who promises fidelity. Forgive the crudeness.” The wise old Demonspawn was a rare oddity indeed. He was a rather tame and kind one, and that was not the end of it- He actually believes in the goodness of her cause. Her smile faded somewhat however, upon hearing of it. There were times that the work she and her peers do were not as righteous as it seemed, testing her faith in Liya and what the Spirit represent. Many believed outright, such as this wise man, that the order of the Paladin of Liya stands for everything that was right and good, but they had not yet seen the full detail of the work and requirement that follows a Paladin of Liya.

While Annabelle refrains whenever she could from killing Demonspawn who had yet to be overwhelmed by their blood curse, her fellow Paladins of Liya weren't as selective- Some of the more fanatical zealots would hunt Demonspawn down even before they break away from the innocence of childhood. Hence the reason why she would perform her duties alone, or with a select few who shares the same sentiments.

There were times however, that she could not avoid 'purging evil' in the guises of children or Demonspawn who were still far from bowing down to their evil mother- Her first few patrols yielded such an incident, as she had to follow the lead of a Knight-Paladin, reason being she was new and untested. Along with many others, they uncovered a den of rebellious Demonspawn. As if an entire night of blood and the horrors of war wasn't enough, Annabelle, along with a few others, those who were notably young and new to the order of Paladins, were ordered to dispose of the second generation Demonspawn- the children of the rebels.

Several volunteered to kill more than the rest. Annabelle and the few others drew lots- The longest would earn the taker less of the burden, and Liya smiled upon her in this game, but Annabelle would still had to take an innocent life. The rest of the story seemed too surreal, it might have been a dream. While the rest prepared to slit the young throats assigned to them, Annabelle took hers into one of the rooms in the Demonspawn den.

Offering a cup of water with a drip of sleeping potion from her pouch, Annabelle wanted to make it easy and painless for the little one. Understanding what was going to happen, the little Demonspawn- A girl not even past 9 years of age, took it, and upon finishing up, asked a question that made it so much more difficult for the young Paladin, "Will the Wanderer send me to heaven?" It wasn't a question easily answered. It was one best left to the Gods and Spirits.

"I believe he will." Annabelle replied, putting all her faith into the goodness of the world- The child was blameless, innocent and pure even if she was Demonspawn. Still, it was a grey area to her- The girl however, believed every word she said- believing the Paladin to be good, else she would have done the same as the her peers did with the others. It took the girl a few minutes before falling asleep, as if taking in her last fill of the world and air- Annabelle sung to her as she was falling to her final sleep, and when the girl was deep into it, she unsheathed her longsword, the same as she was holding presently, and severed the Demonspawn girl's windpipe and artery...

“And they sent a fine ambassador.” Theodore's voice rang out from nowhere as Annabelle was crying from having taken a young life away. Returning back to reality, she realised that the old Demonspawn had yet to finish conversing with her. He was looking into her silver eyes, as if trying to read her mind- No, an elderly man such as he would not require such a power to understand other beings. Looking straight back at him, Annabelle forced a smile, made easy to execute as she forced the horrible thoughts out of her, and concentrated on the present- She was speaking to a wonderful Demonspawn who doesn't require her righteous might yet, and a cure for the Withering was to be displayed soon.

"I thank you for your kind words, wise man." Annabelle replied, this time her smile effortless, and bowed her head slightly and briefly as a form of mutual respect, one that gave honour yet maintains her own, "Do stay out of trouble, or I will be forced to take action against you. I hope we understand each other- I mean no offense. Now, if you'd excuse me..." With that, Annabelle turned to face the stage, she returned her attention to the matter at hand- She had been distracted for long enough, and distraction is a very dangerous thing.

[AM Oneechan]

Thelos was never a patient being. It was just not in his nature to be so. This gathering of seemingly random people was getting bigger by the second and the air was thick with curious anticipation. How in the name of the demons was their not an uproar of impatience yet? How could everyone just stand around, albeit whispering silently to one another, and act as if it was not bothering them at all that the cure had yet to be revealed. He wanted to scream and stomp his feet like a child deprived of their wishes, but he knew that probably would bring too much attention to him. No matter how much he loved attention, since it was easy to bring chaos to a place where all he had to do was grin and promise death to anyone who did not run immediately, he doubted it would be good to do so in a place like this.

He swept his gaze around the lot, searching for something that would entertain him until this cure was to be revealed. He saw the uprising of a fight, where a man socked another, presumably male, ascended deigan in the face. He never could quite tell with these creatures that half of his heritage came from. They all looked pretty androgynous in his eyes. The fight never happened, when the deigan simply said something to the other man, and he ran away in fear. Thelos smiled a little at the absolutely terrified expression the man wore. Fear was good. Fear was inner chaos.

He let his eyes wander once more, since that little display only succeeded in making his dark desires scream for more, more chaos and fear. His gaze was caught by the bright armor of a servant of Liya and he shuddered a little, involuntarily drawing his lips back in an instinctive sneer, even though the chance she would turn her head to him and notice was well below once percent. He knew those who followed Liya had no intention of letting him live if they spotted him. Every and single of of them he had run into so far, which, granted, was only three, had tried to take his life and most definitely would have succeeded had he not darted out of there like a goblin chasing a shiny arrow.

He quickly drew his gaze away from the woman with slight fear waking in the depths of his chaotic mind, though the feeling was insignificant that he paid it no heed. His attention was not caught by anything that invoked even the slightest bit of interest in his mind, even when he noticed a rather confused and lost looking woman totter around in the crowds. He let a silent sigh escape him and returned his attention in front of him, running a hand over his feathers carefully, checking to feel if any of them were broken of ruffled. Even if he enjoyed chaos and destruction, he was still very proud of his silver mane.

[Dark Jack]

The sun had reached its highest point in the sky by the time that the activity at the same time as the activity at the marketplace reached its climax, and even apart from the crowd as he was Jaelnec could easily hear the impatient mumblings of those waiting for the arrival of the cure. Over the last hour or so, two humans had arrived with the telltale gray marks upon their skin telling of the ravages of the Withering, and a single Melenian female with large bald spots that remarkably enough were the same shade of gray as the Withering when seen with humans, deigan or penin. People wisely stayed at a several feet's distance from the plague-victims, yet Jaelnec knew that the tension would soon be so strong that no one would even care if they ended up rubbing elbows with a diseased. Equal measures of hope and madness were lit in people's eyes, and Jaelnec experienced that his own anticipation of the arrival of the cure was slowly turning into worry. Most of the people at the market had come solely because of the cure, and the anxiety filled the atmosphere to the point where it was almost unbearable, and the first stray fights hinting at a future massive pandemonium. Jaelnec imagined the crowd before him as a pile of twigs, already dry to the point of spontaneously combusting from being left on its own, suffering the wear of the world, only to be poured over with lamp-oil in the shape of promises of a means to end the torments they had undergone for the past decade. A single spark, and these people would doubtlessly turn on each other, and likely their fury would spread until Borstown was completely engulfed in violence and destruction. And there was a demonspawn in there.

So much happened now that Jaelnec could not even keep track of the individuals he had pointed out earlier, as there were simply too many distractions. The chaotic atmosphere was constantly rising, soon to the point where Jaelnec suspected that a single word could cause the tension to finally explode. Jaelnec turned away, unable to keep watching - he was deeply tired in both mind and soul. Not only had he been vainly trying to keep track of events as a hundred different things occurred all at the same place and time, but in the back of his mind he had been excited and hopeful of the cure as well. Add to that the fact that he had not had much sleep because of it being unnatural for Nightwalkers to sleep at night, and the incessant nightmares, and the squire ended up feeling his head spinning, dizziness overwhelming him to the point where it made him nauseous. It was all too much, and he tried to comfort himself that even the best man could be weakened by stress every now and then - but he was a newly named Squire of the Will, and only twenty years old. To him, failure really did not seem like an option. He could not let himself be confused now, of all times, when he felt that the time for the auction had nearly arrived...
Rubbing his forehead with the thumb of his left hand, Jaelnec struggled to fight back the vertigo and straighten his posture once more, though his head still throbbed and his stomach kept churning. The good mood from earlier had been wiped from existence, and the very thought of humming a tune seemed preposterous. He kept his eyes closed, not daring to open them, let alone turn back to the crowd while it still required all of his concentration just to keep himself from swaying on his feet. Nearly two minutes passed before he felt confident enough to try to open them once more, to see if the sight of the world would crush the frail stability he had brought to his mind.

The realization of his mistake came as a mental slap to the face. Though his mind did not feel overwhelmed by the return of the world into his vision, the shock of what he saw still stabbed at his soul like a serrated blade. At first he reacted with wonder, not understanding why he saw people in front of him when he knew that the wooden platform - and the crowd - were directly behind him. There were not a lot of people, only four men standing a few feet apart, as if guarding the street leading away from the town square in which they stood. His second reaction was fear, as he realized that all four of these men were armed and armored, their posture hinted clearly to militaristic training, and that they were all gazing over the area vigilantly, as if to ensure that no one detached themselves from the crowd.
And then, finally, Jaelnec felt everything else - surprise, fear, faintness, queasiness - blown away by the blazing hatred and rage that rose from the deepest pits of his soul, as he recognized the tabards they all wore outside their armor - scarlet, decorated with the icon of a sword crossed with a flail: the crest of the Crusader's Guild.
His right hand darted to his sword once more, loosening the blade an inch from its scabbard, revealing a glimmer of silver in the space between sheath and guard. Why did he have to find these violent, demon-worshipping fanatics here and now, of all times and places? For ten long years he had traveled with Freagon, always hoping that they would run into crusaders so that he could claim at least some measure of vengeance, but they never had - likely because Freagon had carefully avoided them to prevent Jaelnec from doing something he was going to regret later. And now, when Freagon was there no longer and Jaelnec a squire of great skill and prowess, did he find them. Nothing could stop him now. Except...
He turned back towards the crowd, which had apparently not noticed the arrival of these dangerous humans. There were only four of them - Jaelnec could easily beat them. But a different part of him told him that if he engaged the crusaders now that could be the spark that ignited the tension of the crowd, and if something was to happen now, any chance of obtaining the cure would be erased. He could not warn the people, either, or the result would be the same. Besides, there were only four crusaders, and if something were to happen, there were three other streets that lead away from the market and out of Borstown...
Jaelnec froze, his heart skipping a beat and his eyes widening with disbelief. The next street leading away from the market was blocked by another four crusaders, and as he looked around he realized that all of them were blocked, each by four armed men wearing scarlet tabards. Even a small alley that lead behind the inn and would have provided a good escape-route had been occupied by two crusaders, one of which wore an excessively heavy-looking gilded platemail, complete with helmet that covered the entire head, a scarlet cape and the insignia of the Guild engraved directly into the front of the cuirass, and with a fearsome claymore on his back. If Jaelnec recalled correctly, that was the uniform of a Goldheart Templar - the Paladins of Hazzergash serving the Crusader's Guild.

This was dangerous, far too dangerous! Jaelnec was confident in his own abilities, but not even he expected that he would fare well against eighteen skilled opponents, with a claymore-wielding Favored One amongst their numbers. But through his panic, the Nightwalker still came to the conclusion that something was missing. The Guild was good, but not that good. The eighteen crusaders would be massacred if they assaulted the crowd now - they crowd greatly outnumbered them, and even if they targeted only the non-humans, the crusaders would most likely end up obliterated. What were their plan? To turn the humans - the majority of the crowd - against the non-humans? No, not even the Guild would be so confident as to count entirely on being able to sway others to their side to achieve victory. Something was wrong, so very, very wrong, and Jaelnec felt the blood pounding in his ears and behind his eyes with the fear of the unknown. He had to figure out their plan! He had to stop them! But how?
Just then, as if conjured forth by Jaelnec's thoughts, did something move over by the platform. At the worst conceivable time, two forms - a large tarke and a dreary-eyed hulking brute of a piaan-addicted Melenian, which was almost as tall as the giant barbarian - stepped up there, clearly acting as bodyguards. The crowd pushed closer and tighter, struggling to get as near to the platform as possible as a third form took its place between its two brawny protectors.
The enormity of the penin's guardians made it appear even smaller than usual, though it was rather average-sized for its race. But what caught Jaelnec's eye was not as much its size or species as it was the scarlet robe it wore, and the ruby-pendant in a golden chain hanging from its stubby neck, with the symbol of Hazzergash on it. By the Spirits...

"The auction is about to begin!" the tarke bellowed to the crowd, its voice echoing across the marketplace, instantly followed by eager shouting from the crowd - some already calling out outrageous bids, others pleading or demanding for the cure to be given to them. "The generous seller, Gisin-gereh, wishes that everyone come a little closer as he reveals the cure for the Withering."
As the majority of the crowd readily complied, gathering even closer around the platform, the little penin man, whose name was apparently Gisin, drew out a container from his robes: a canister of glass, containing what Jaelnec estimated to be a gallon of dark-red liquid that seemed to radiate a soft glow.
Instantly images flashed through Jaelnec's mind of last time he had seen a liquid like that - the exact same color and glow, but in a small vial, not nearly as much as the penin held in its bone-clad hands. It was years ago, and Jaelnec recalled that Freagon thrown the vial at a solid steel-door, and as the glass had shattered, the ensuing explosion had ripped the door off its hinges.
"Liquid Fire!" Jaelnec gasped, instinctively moving backwards a step. "So that's their plan! By the Spirits, the crusaders are going to blow everyone here to bits!" And it was already too late to stop them - over a hundred people were gathered tightly around the platform, those too eager for the cure or unaware of the true properties of the liquid preventing those that recognized the alchemical Liquid Fire from escaping. The Guild's trap had been revealed - and now it was too late for Jaelnec to stop it.

[Ezrath]

Ez'rath also watched as the crowd became more and more restless, waiting for the cure. As he watched, a flash of reflected light brought his attention to another figure, which he hadn't noticed before. A Knight of the Will, by the looks of him. As he watched, the Knight's expression became almost panicked, and his body language said the same.

He followed the Knight's line of vision to the platform, as the man announced that the auction was about to begin, and he held out a vial. The vial held a liquid that gave off a slight glow. A liquid he was familiar with. Liquid fire. Devilishly hard to make, but devilishly destructive. He follows this mans eyes now, and watched as members of the Crusader's Guild stepped into the crowd. Ez'rath's eyes widened as he understood. That was why the Knight was panicked.

Ez'rath quickly strung his bow as the man began speaking, waving the vial about. He brought is bow up and nocked an arrow, drawing it back in a well-rehearsed movement.

I have to time it right, He thought. That thing hits the platform, everyone in the square will be decimated.

He took aim. Everything seemed to go into slow motion. There was a slight breeze coming in from the North-East. Ez'rath drew back more to compensate, and angled his shot slightly. The man's eyes smiled now, knowing what he was going to do. As the vial began to pass in front of his body, Ez'rath fired. The man fell, an arrow through the spine, and the vial fell to his chest and rolled off, towards the front of the crowd.

All hell broke loose.

His movement drew the attention of several Crusader's. They began to push through the crowd, not caring who they stepped on. The crowd though, was a force to be reckoned with. Men were fighting to protect their families, dying as they attempted to fight the Crusaders with their bare fists. Those affected by the Withering now cried, their hope smashed to pieces. Women ran. Thieves took the opportunity to cut purses and pickpocket in the chaos. An arrow flew by Ez'rath's head.

This is getting to be old, He thought.

He jumped down from the roof, landing on all fours, but bounding out of the way of an axe-wielding Crusader, the first to make it through the crowd to him. The axe slammed into the cobble-stones at their feet, and before he had a chance to pull it out, Ez'rath's dagger went through his throat, covering the ground and the wall behind him in blood, the smell of iron wafting through the air.

He turned as a sword sliced through the air where he had been. Startled, he began to attack when a hand grasped his wrist, and another picked him up by the throat, crushing his windpipe.