Why of course I do! Wait, what are we talking about?
Starry turned to glare at the person who now interrupted. He didn't have time to be mad before having Marastus Cane burst into the church, raving about someone not following orders. As he stormed out, Starry had little thought of not following him. He turned to the two people he would now leave in the church.
"This is a dangerous city, and a dangerous place for an evoker. And the church is to holy for one to provoke another inside its walls." He said, making his message clear. He pushed his way through myth to follow after the inquisitors.
He took his time to catch up to Crane, Attempting to keep pace beside him with his limp.
"You must lead the Inquisitors around here."

Myth could've growled at the men who just shoved him. He didn't take kindly to disrespect, disregard, dismissing in general, without some kind of reason. The stories his father told him suddenly became hammered in, and he knew that the Church was, indeed, the enemy. They are Relic-hunters, and do not care for the people. The plain disregard of a gathering of three people, whether friends or strangers, is a sign of such.

But he was not here for the Church. He had another agenda, one of which was starting now, from what he could hear. As the second person pushed him aside, he whispered, just loud enough to hopefully catch his ear,
"A dangerous city, maybe. But the second will not ring quite so true."

With that, he turned towards the first person, who was probably sitting in the pew beforehand, and took him in. Based on what he knew from his father and from stories and histories, this man was a mercenary. Or 'sellsword,' as a more literal term. He gave him a smile, and said, "Strange place to meet, yeah? See you around, I'm gonna go see the Coronation."

A moment later, Myth was out the door and heading away from the Hunters, and to the Coronation. With a hand on his swordhilt, and another held out before him as if he were a waiter, he pushed his way through the crowd, using what his father told him. The armor was a sign of a warrior, because it moved relatively quietly and easily, and was meant for combat, not for sneaking.. The sword, a sign of a swordsman, obviously, and of skill, based on the worn leather of the handle. The gauntlets themselves were... eery. They silenced possible retorts or comments.

Soon, he arrived at the gate, and deposited half a dozen gold coins in the guard's hand before he could say a word. The guard, in turn, nodded wordlessly and pointed to a relatively empty section. Many of the wealthier people paid more than the fee to find out the best spots, after all. Another minute, and he was sitting with a good view, opening his second bag of his remaining two pastries. Nibbling on the edge of one, he settled down to wait for the Coronation to start.

Bor found himself seated in quite comfortable conditions. Plush red couch, gilded armrest, nice view of the stage, all because he had paid a few extra gold pieces. Whoever knew that one chunk of the glowing green wood paid this handsomely. He craned his neck to his right and found Derry the Baker conveniently seated beside him.
"H'lo, Borgrund."
"Aye." The woodsman settled himself in his seat. "I overheard snippets of that story you were enthusiastically blabbering on about to your patrons. Apparently, the location of your secret dough ingredient has shifted from the wild mountains of Alber to the treasure trove of the dangerous pirate by the name of Blackblade, who - surprise surprise - he doesn't exist."
"I'm not invincible, Fellhallows! Telling the same story to the customers does wears them out a bit, you know."
"O, how the mighty have fallen."
The two merchants shared a quiet chuckle.
"Oh, by the way, Bor. About that glowing green Mystra wood you sell."
"What about it?" Bor struggled to contain his interest.
"I think I know what it does."
Bor widened his eyes and stiffened. "Go on."
"Well, there have been a few tongues waggin' about Old Man Crimson, one of your regular customers I believe."
Bor slowly nodded. Crimson was an avid buyer of Mystra. Bor often asked what it was good for, but the man simply handed over the money and wouldn't say.
"Well, word is that he goes into his laboratory, plops the wood into a great big cauldron and-"
"Oi, Derry! Get your blabberin' mouth over here! Haven't seen ya in a month, you big bollock."
"Forgive me." Derry abruptly finished his tale and went over to the seat of to an equally fat man garnished in jewels and purple robes. Bor sighed. He was so close.. but he did have to try boiling the wood which Crimsom unsurprisingly advised him to never do. Bor had only found the tree a month ago. He had to know why it fetched a handsome price among.. certain persons. He didn't notice it, but Bor felt something was up. He should've brought his axe. Almost instinctively, his hand strayed to his hunting knife hidden within the folds of his bearskin.

Tyrell ducked out of the way as the guards came past. He had to be sure to avoid them, they knew him. Or at least some of them did and his disappearance after finding a ring and the fact that his skin had gone far paler. That was enough to get him hunted down without him actually having to worry about anything else. He did however hear part of the conversation and that this was the home of the supposed researcher on relics. If anyone could recognise his ring as a relic from afar, or even notice that his skin was no longer simply flesh and was instead composed of a marble like substance. He waited until the man barged into his home and began shouting, as he did that he moved towards the wooden door and placed his hand on it. Concentrating heat on his hand he stood there for several seconds till the door caught fire and after he quickly ran off in the opposite direction, unfortunately someone saw him and one of the Guards ran after him "Evoker".

He just swore to himself. He just had to set fire in an attempt to keep himself secret and now he was being chased by guards.

The strange man seized his shoulder, planting his hand directly on his armlet. Kareth was petrified with dread: How could he tell? Was it a bulge of the sleeve? Is he an evoker himself? Or has he somehow been trained to sense evokers? He frantically thought. The man released Kareth and started to leave, pausing to give him some parting words. "They say that relics are as tied to each other as they are to their masters. Many scholars in the north believe that Evokers are destined to cross paths. Do you believe that?" Before Kareth could respond, a procession of bustling priests blew through the chapel. Once they passed, the mystery man said, "This is a dangerous city, and a dangerous place for an evoker. And the church is to holy for one to provoke another inside its walls," before following the procession.

Kareth let out a relieved breath, and noticed his hand had unconsciously gripped his sword. He relaxed his hand and waited a minute before leaving the chapel. I'll never be able to return here. Who the hell was that man? He figured it would be better to return to the tavern and retrieve his arms and armor. It certainly seemed like anti-evoker sentiment might be brewing within the city, a sentiment he didn't want to meet unprepared.

"We don't have time for this," Itani muttered with a hint of annoyance. Taking the warrant from her belt, she unfurled and shoved it towards the raging Artemis at her feet. "Your research. Names of Evokers, Relics, anything. The Constabulary needs to know. The king-to-be is a busy man. He can't investigate everything on his own, as I'm sure you understand."
Itani watched the scholar as he fumbled with his belongings, lingering for a moment on a flash of metal around his neck. If her hunch was correct--
"Or, you could accompany me to the Constabulary. I believe it could use someone of your... talents. You'll be allowed to continue your research with the resources at the Constabulary's disposal, and I'm sure you'll be compensated for this little scuffle."
If Itani could get him to work for the Constabulary, he'd be a useful source of information. Might make her job easier, and that was nothing to object to.

Artemis had quickly cooled off, reason taking the place of anger. He put the papers he had collected on a table and picked up the book he had brought home with him.

"Here," he said, pushing it into the woman's hands. "That's what you came for. Copies of my research into the objects we call Relics. There are no names in there, I research what they are, not who uses them." He briefly toyed with the idea of going with them, the rescorces at their disposal was quite the carrot to dangle, but ultimately decided against it. "As for your offer, I'm afraid I have to decline at the moment. Perhaps if you came back after the coronation I'll have had some time to consider it. And maybe without your full contingent."

Prince Aral Otharion V
The Palace of Kings

In Othea, the traditional attire of a prince during his coronation ceremony was an unadorned crimson robe. It represented the blood spilled by royals of the past in service to their people, and the blood that each king would in turn be willing to spill in service to the ideals of their kingdom and the protection of its citizens. If any ornamentation was added, then it would typically be the silver shield of the Royal Banner embroidered on the chest or back of the cloth, but despite the gaudiness of Othean style, Aral was a prince of surprisingly simple taste. So in keeping with that, his crimson coronation robe remained entirely unadorned. Even the people decorated the streets with the bright red of the kingdom, but since dyes were often too expensive for the common folk it was roses and other flowers that adorned shutters and balconies along every street.

The cheers of the commoners assaulted Aral in waves as the sedan chair upon which he was seated made its way through the gates to the outer city. Bearing the sedan chair were four immaculate Knights of Othea in their gleaming polished armor, visors down. They moved at a regal and dignified pace under the applause of the people, carrying their charge almost as if they were unburdened by the weight of what was clearly authentic plate armor. The entire coronation would be performed by the Knights of Othea, of which each King was an honorary member. It was the sacred duty they had been charged with after their founding, as a safeguard against corruption each King would train under the Knights of Othea and learn their chivalrous ideals. The prince himself had been undergoing this training since his boyhood, and was addressed by the other knights as Sir Aral.

All of the scenery seemed to blend together as Aral was paraded through the city, but eventually they reached the massive edifice which was the Royal Otharion Theatre. The populace had already been cleared from his path, and the guards saluted as he was carried in to the entrance. It was there that the sedan chair was lowered to the ground and Aral stepped forward on his own feet. The civilians had all entered through the sides of the stadium, where stairs led to the seats above, but the honor guard that had carried him continued to flank him as he walked through the Arena Entrance which was in the middle of the structure and led directly to its center. As soon as he stepped out of the short tunnel and into the sunlight, the roar of the crowd became deafening. Hundreds threw roses and bouquets of other flowers down into the packed sand of the arena as he walked forward. The young prince nervously raised a hand, eliciting more approval from the crowd.

Before him was the great stage, and on it stood the most renowned of Othea's knights. At their head, with the Rose Crown beside him was Grand Master Estyn. The honor guard halted at the base of the steps, for Aral this is where the real ceremony began. So far it had just been traveling, but now binding words would be spoken and all the power of a kingdom would be invested in him. His word would become law, and he was not sure he was wise enough for such a burden. Even his father, a brilliant leader, had made mistakes. Even his father had his detractors. What would they think of such a young prince rising to the throne? He would be considered a child until he proved otherwise, and once he walked up these steps he would all of that would be final. He would begin a journey on which there was no turning back. Seeming to understand his hesitation, Master Estyn gave him a reassuring nod.

Swallowing his fear, Aral began his solemn ascent up the steps that would lead to his fate. A tyrant? A hero? Beloved? Feared? Or perhaps worse, perhaps he would be a mockery, a shame to his kingdom and his father. This was not the time for such thoughts, however, so he mustered what will he could to dispel them as he reached the top. Following Janir's instructions to the letter, as soon as he was befor Estyn he knelt. The audience fell to a hushed murmur to hear Estyn's intonations, and the beginning of a sacred rite.

"With the power invested in me by blood and merit I now administer to you, Aral Otharion the Fifth, the royal oaths as passed down from generation to generation by the First King, Isar Otharion the Second, before an audience of your peers. Do you vow before these witnesses that all oaths you shall take this will be binding in this life and the next?" Estyn's voice was a thunderous baritone which rolled across the acoustically designed theatre with ease. The prince, without looking up, responded.

"I do."

"Do you swear to govern the free peoples of the Kingdom of Othea according to the laws set forth in the Knighthood's Articles of Man as being moral and just? And to not infringe upon those laws excepting in times of war and other defined threat to the safety of our nation as a whole?"

"I do."

"Do you swear to defend the sovereignty of your people against attack? Whether by enemies from without, or those from within? And to treat those who would usurp us as enemies to the Crown and Kingdom?"

"By the blood of my ancestors, and the blood of my people I do."

"Then as the Grand Master of the Knights of Othea, I annoint thee Aral Otharion the Fifth as King of All Othea, Warden of the Eastern Mountains, and Lord of Amaryth. May your reign virtuously forever, in life or deed," As he finished the final piece of the ritual, Estyn lowered the jeweled crown on to Aral's head. Once the crown had been placed upon his brow, Aral began to rise as all of the present Knights knelt. Each one beginning with Estyn and ending with Aral's honor guard swore their fealty to their new king. It was a long and solemn process, but finally the bulk of the ceremony was over and it was time for the new King to address his people for the first time.

King Aral Otharion turned to face the crowd with the crowd upon his head, and for Sitara who sat farther back his words were lost amidst the applause despite the famed acoustics of the theatre. Well, she thought. It's a surprise they could contain themselves this long, people never seem to know when to shut up. It had been an interesting experience for her nonetheless. Not something she was likely to see again, considering how young that boy appeared. He was pretty too. She was almost convince that he was prettier than she was, but of course that was impossible. As she began to stand up, the crowd fell to silence once again and she realized this wasn't quite the end of the event. They had mentioned entertainment, and sitting back down she waited to see exactly what that might be.

"Now that you all of have gathered here to witness my coronation, I would like to invite those warriors among you to come forward and, for the entertainment of others and your own reward, participate in the first Royal Spectator's Tournament!" the King said, his eyes passing among the crowd seeking weapons. "This tournament shall be a Grand Melee, the combatants will do battle until they yield or are incapacitated but not dead. The winner shall have an opportunity to enter the employ of the Knights of Othea, or receive a sizable reward of 1,000 Gold Isurns. Are there any who would volunteer? Perhaps you there, m'lady, with the glaive?" he said, pointing at Sitara whose weapon stuck out rather obviously. With a smirk, she stood. The best kinda entertainment, the kind she could participate in. Now she just had to see if anyone else was interested in this "Spectator's Tournament."

Kareth arrived at the tavern he was staying at and found it mostly deserted. He wondered for a moment but remembered. “Damn! The coronation is today!” Kareth didn't want to miss the event; it wasn't every day a new king was crowned, it didn't matter that he wasn't his king. The stressful situation at the church made him completely forget the coronation was today. He put on his chainmail vest, then his breastplate, gauntlets and greaves before strapping his second shortsword to his belt, his shield to his back and took his spear in his hands. Grabbing his helmet, he headed towards the coronation, hoping not to miss it.

Unfortunately, he missed most of it. He cursed under his breath when the crowd roared at the naming of the new King. After the cacophony died down, the new King introduced the Spectator Tournament, and Kareth's lips curled. A thousand gold coins could set him up for years. He started pushing his way through the crowd and towards the tourney grounds.

Truly, the parade leading up to the Theatre was in full pomp and glamor, but Bor had just barely managed to keep himself awake during the vows. Bla bla promise to bla bla bla free kingdoms bla bla bla blood of my ancestors bla bla. Bor had no idea these occasions could be deathly boring at times. The only thing that managed to get a decent reaction from the crowd was the climaxing crowning - a symbolic yet practical gesture that generated what could be the most ear-straining roar Bor had ever heard, perhaps even louder than the fearsome roar of the first bear that Bor had ever faced at age fifteen. Bor softly clapped with the crowd. Bla bla bla Spectator's Tournament bla bla bla Melee bla bla...
Tournament?
"Borgrund. Oi." Bor turned and Derry was in his seat as he should've been. The only difference was that a servant was by his side, holding an axe and shield. His axe and shield.
"Knew you'd like it, mate. Now go out there and cleave through some city-dweller arse."
Bor was barely able to contain his excitement. It had been a long, long time since he had done battle against men, not trees. A thousand gold coins would be a change of pace. Pumping his fist in the air, he triumphantly shouted "I, Borgrund Thomas Fellhallows of the Darretu Tribe am content to spar with anyone on the grand stage of his majesty!"
Bor then proceeded to wade his way through the crowds of commoners and to the dirt srena where the fighting would be taking place.

Thora crawled deeper and deeper into the shadows as the chamber beneath her filled out more and more. She did not like crowds. No she did not. But of course her Thirst liked it. 'Ironic.' she'd have thought, except that was a word she didn't know. She hated herself at times. Why was all this happening to her? She did not pay attention to what was being said even after the hall filled. She had to work too hard to restrain the Thirst to do that.

She could feel how the bridled power was stretching her essence, making her less and less human. She hated it. She loved it. Even so, when the hall began to empty and darken after some roaring applause for some reason she did not know, she found her grasp on resistance slipping. She quickly tried to find new holds on it. She could not let it go here. It was too dangerous! The last thing she remembered before the Thirst consumed all thought, was herself slowly crawling down from her hidden spot.

Murmuring softly under his breath, Myth told himself, "I believe I would would to volunteer," and then stood. He moved through the crowd with a determination, for winning would mean the possibility of the first stage of becoming a Blademaster would be finished: the finding and owing allegiance to a King or Queen that supports Relics, Evokers, and their use, and does not kill them all.

Myth threaded his way through people as he never did before, already going into a sort of combat-mode, as he stepped down to the dirt of the arena, a black-clad hand on each of the end of his swords. He already knew what he'd do: Start out with a sword in his right hand, and use his gauntlet or sword to deflect sword or axe blades, and later on, he would switch to using both his swords.

Yeong-An, Lord of Ubondat, descendant of San-Geob, first grade weapon master and representative of High Saeng Jok Lu was not pleased. Yeong-An was a lean, tall man with black hair and green eyes. He was one of the youngest Saeng Da-Hyun had ever seen, only being twenty five years old and he had lived his life surrounded by servants and with more money than he could ever spent. Since he and his companions were here on a peaceful mission, the alleged descendant of the god of coin and trade seemed like a logical addition to the fellowship despite his young age. and lack of experience Although the official religion was now that of the Order of Idris, customs tend to take a long time to be forgotten.

On the day that he had been invited by Jok Lu, the High Saeng, to join a mission to a faraway land in search of allies in a war against Oragos, he had gladly accepted. Traveling, smashing some skulls, meeting new people. This all had sounded so good. Little had Yeong-An known that his mission could be so boring. They had been staying at this petty Kingdom for a few weeks now, but with the death of the king (apparently in this culture that was a big deal and Yeong had spent quite some time figuring out why) the king-to-be seemed to be too busy to receive him them. Dung Suk and Mongkut didn't seem to mind, they were enjoying themselves in this exotic city but Yeong-An had soon grown bored.

At the moment, he and Mongkut were sitting on an especially comfortable row of seats. Dung Suk hadn't appeared yet which was remarkable since he was the eldest and (self-proclaimed) most responsible one of them. Yeong sighed as he continued cleaning his nails with his dagger. The words that were being said didn't really interest him. He wasn't that good at speaking Othean anyway and it seemed like Mongkut was paying enough attention to inform him about the details later. The only moment that sparked his interest was when the new king, a kid with a pretty face who seemed to be even younger than Yeong, proclaimed something after which some warriors came forth out of the audience. "Amatsu's hands, what did the King-Boy say, Saeng Mongkut?" Yeong asked. His interest had been awakened and his eyes had begun to light up. Mongkut was barely able to hide the disgust he felt, looking at the Saeng who hadn't even bothered to learn the local language and was solely interested in a fight. Many others had deemed Yeong-An unworthy when he first ascended to power and only his skills as a warrior and his ties to Jok Lu kept Mongkut from killing the younger man right here and now. Besides, it surely wouldn't leave a good impression if the king's first impression of the Da-Hyuni would be of savages killing one another during his coronation. With a deep sigh, Mongkut answered. "The new KING has proclaimed that all warriors worthy enough will now be holding a tournament. Also, you know very well that we shouldn't mention the old gods anymore. And besides that, you should try and learn to have some respect for those in a higher position than yourself, SAENG Yeong-An." He added, pronouncing Saeng in a especially mocking tone. But Yeong-An didn't pay attention to details such as intonation and theology. He grasped his twin swords and began struggling free from the heavy ceremonial robes, exposing his armor underneath. He also left most of his jewelry behind after which he began to walk to the arena's centre. "I'm going. Tell them Saeng Yeong-Hualinh-An, Lord of Ubondat, descendant of San-Geob, first grade weapon master and representative of High Saeng Jok Lu is going to compete in their little contest." Mongkut shook his head. If Dung Suk would've beeen here instead of sleeping off his debauch, the boy wouldn't have dared to compete without permission. "They don't fight until death Saeng Yeong. Please do try not to hurt any of them too badly.."

After he had finished his prayer, Marcus watched as the prince entered the arena. He noticed that the young man didn't have the face of a warrior nor was he build like one. His bright red hair did stick out and matched his crimson robe. Another detail that struck Marcus was that the prince was extremely beautiful. As time passed, Marcus watched the ceremony with increasing interest. The coronation rite was so different from the ones in Da-Hyun.

After a while, the king had completed his interesting vows and the crowd roared as the knights promised fealty to their new king. Marcus couldn't help but join the frenzied crowd in their yelling and applause. After they had all sworn fealty, the crowd soon fell silent. "Now that you all of have gathered here to witness my coronation, I would like to invite those warriors among you to come forward and, for the entertainment of others and your own reward, participate in the first Royal Spectator's Tournament!" Marcus didn't really feel like participating in a fight, risk injuries and discovery, just to entertain others. The king's next words however, made Marcus start to doubt.

"This tournament shall be a Grand Melee, the combatants will do battle until they yield or are incapacitated butnot dead. The winner shall have an opportunity to enter the employ of the Knights of Othea, or receive a sizable reward of 1,000 Gold Isurns." Being knighted really didn't interest him, but Marcus could surely use 1,000 gold.. But still, what would he do with the luggage he was still carrying and more importantly, he wasn't wearing any armor... As more and more combatants came forth, Marcus was still in doubt, weighing pros against cons. A loud voice with a heavy foreign accent made him forget about his dilemma for a moment.

"Saeng Yeong-Hualinh-An from the great eastern nation of Da-Hyun, Lord of Ubondat, first grade weapon master and representative of High Saeng Jok Lu would be honored to take part in the grand melee." One of the Da-Hyunin Marcus had spotted earlier, had come forward, clad in armor made out of metal that appeared to be silver. He carried ceremonial twin swords that still showed signs of daily use and battle. Marcus clenched his hand around Sang Min and his muscles tensed. Hate flamed in his eyes once more. Wasn't this the perfect opportunity that the gods had provided for him to spill the blood of his former countrymen, the murderers of his father? But what about armor and his stuff, the voice of reason whispered. Marcus rose from his seat, pulled his hood further down below his eyes, making sure his entire face was covered as he walked down the stairs to the middle of the arena. He left his bags by his seat, taking only Sang-Min and a blade that wasn't quite a knife nor a sword. He didn't think anyone would try and steal his well-worn bag and if a thief tried to steal his bow, he'd be easy enough to spot.

Tyrell was running towards the crowd. Bloody guards, he enjoyed it more when he was chasing the perp. Though crowds worked better for him than they did for the people chasing him. He jumped over a railing down into the crowd and immediately slowed down but kept moving. Once he was far enough away from where he landed he merely looked up at the King as he gave his little speech, that was when he heard the guard behind him. "Have fun with this." Shortly before he was pushed down into the arena.He looked back at the guard waiting for him, and the much bigger burly contenders. This would end badly if they took a blade to his arm as his natural instincts would come to play, the relic would harden his skin and he'd look like a living statue and that would be incredibly bad for business.

He drew his sword and looked at the other contenders. "So, when do we get started?" This was really bad. Didn't help that it was a dirt was dried out. He had had some success with manipulating mud and dirt but not enough to make a difference in a fight, and he couldn't really heat it up without making it obvious. Even if he channeled the heat into his sword someone would see. No, this was going to have to be a box standard fight. No powers, until it came to a last resort which was highly likely looking at his competitors.

As Myth broke through the crowd, including a great deal of others at the same time, he began taking in his opponents. Many appeared to be the sellsword or mercenary; another appeared to be a foreigner. Taking a closer look, and whom he had called to, he remembered details of the nation, but not the name nor the culture. They were another of the Church of Idris's servants, some more that would kill anyone in possession of a Relic. He took in others who possessed something that didn't quite fit, just as his black gauntlets didn't match his blue-steel armor and eagle-emblazoned chestplate. The Eagle was a symbol of the Blademaster's power: Until he was a Blademaster himself, he would wear his father's. His symbol would more than likely be that of a sword of lightning.

Pushing the thoughts aside, he came to a stop as everyone else did, in more or less of a line a certain distance from the crowd, and a certain distance from the King. Stepping forward, Myth raised his voice, shoving down his anxiety and nervous tension into a deep hole, and called out after a flourished bow, "Your Majesty! Greetings from an Apprentice Blademaster, for my father is the current Blademaster! Should my father be correct, you will know the title, and know why I am here! However, I have a question that I'm sure others in this crowd would like to know, Your Majesty! I hope you can forgive me for my break in... Royal etiquette and protocol, for I know not of it. I would ask if those of us in possession of Relics may use these Relics with non-lethal force in the Tournament, provided we are ready to accept any consequences that comes with revealing our powers in this dangerous time for the Relic-using kind. I am now finished, Your Majesty, and I would ask if I may have an audience in the foreseeable future concerning the Blademaster and Relic business. Ah... Thank you for your time, Your Majesty."Then he gave another bow.

Then Myth Dragon stepped back into the crowd of participants, who now stepped away from him and gave him a circle that both the audience and the King could see straight through. Very silently, very slowly, he let out a very deep breath of tension.

Somewhere in the densely forested foothills east of Amaryth, two days earlier.

“The army is tunneling beneath the mountains as we speak. Will you be in place to do your job, Weaver?” The strangely uniformed man said, clearly a bit impatient. “Patience, commander. You will have your darkness. If your army is in place, then I will provide your distraction. No one will see your army coming. The Kalesian Empire will soon rule this region, have no fear, Commander.”

“Good.” As the Commander departed, he muttered beneath his breath “If it had been up to me, you would have been in chains.” In his mind, the only good Evoker was a chained evoker. And there was that guard who ran away along with one of the suspected relics. He wanted that one back where he belonged. In fact, that had been the final straw he used to convince the empress, may she live forever, to invade this pitiful realm. The only institution worthy of any respect here was that church, but even they had the wrong ideas about evokers. Evokers should be used, not killed.

Just before he stepped into his tent, he saw that the Weaver was leaving on foot, heading straight for their first target, the city of Amaryth. The shadows around the Weaver were just a bit denser than elsewhere. Not enough to be noticed by the untrained eye, but as a commander in the Imperial Kalesian army, his eyes were very much trained.

Inside Amaryth, present day.

Slavómir smiled to himself. He had found the perfect spot. Excellent view, but still concealed. Reaching within himself to the core of his power, he smiled. At first, nothing appeared to be happening. But then, over the span of several minutes, the light everywhere began to dim. It took a full quarter hour before he was done. Though it was the middle of the day during late summer, it now looked like it was in the middle of the darkest night of winter. No one would see the commander’s army marching out of the tunnels in the hills and to the city. Nothing could stop it. Nothing.

He had seen the armies for himself. Thousands of the Empress’ best trained infantry companies. Heavily armored Kalbeasts by the scores. Mauler cavalry by the hundreds. He did not care much about the policies of the Empire, but they paid well and at least they did not kill his kind on sight.

Elsewhere in Amaryth

Thora did not understand what was happening as the light dimmed. At first she had thought it was night falling at last. She had often lost track of time, so that could have been it, but once she reached the doors and saw how people were panicking, how the torches being lit gave off less light than they should, she realized it had to be something else. She did not know what, but if it meant less of the painful sun, she approved of it. As such, she decided to head out and away from the building, intent upon figuring out what was happening. She just hoped the Thirst would let her.

The vagabond had been passing by Artemis' wrecked house when he overheard him giving away relic information. This is perfect! he thought to himself. He had been looking for an expert on relics for quite a while, and this man seemed to just be giving away information. He stood nearby, looking him over. He had a feeling anyone with that much information on relics had to posses or know someone who possessed a relic. Starry knew first hand how relics changed people. And someone that invested in relics couldn't resist the idea of being an evoker themselves. Hopefully he would know subtlety and not be someone so obvious to discuss relics in front of the church.
He stood behind the inquisitors in a way that Artemis could still see him. He held his hand out from under his cloak, making a small stone float in his hand to demonstrate his relic to artemis, trying to get his attention subtly, raising a finger to his mouth, (Or the cloth covering his mouth, rather.) making a silent motion, attempting to get the point across that he wished to talk to him.

Artemis glanced past the soldiers at the man behind them, noticing what he was doing.

"Now, if you'll excuse me miss, I have some cleaning up to do and what looks like some business to discus, so if you would be so kind?" He ushered them all out the door and down the street before waving the man inside. Closing the door, he set about straightening the room.

"Aren't many who can do things like that," he remarked, as if he was talking about nothing more impressive than an acrobat's routine. "I assume you have a reason to want my attention then?" He finished bundling a stack of papers and paused, looking his visitor over in earnest.

"Before you ask anything, I have a question of my own." He said, eyes glinting with anticipation, "What is it you have? What can it do?"

The Vagabond smiled as he let himself in. He assisted the man in picking up some of the papers as he spoke.
"Not very many, no. I am a lucky exception." He Briefly looked outside to make sure no one was overhearing their conversation, nodding as Artemis talked.
"I do apologize if i restrain my information, as the city we are in does not take kindly to men like us." He was weary of telling him what his relic was, but he decided to show him its power. He bent the laws of gravity within the room, allowing stacks of paper to begin to float up, but keeping himself and the man on the floor.
"The power of gravity is at my command within my range." He stepped closer to Artemis. "You posses a relic, i assume? If we are showing our cards now we must trust each other..."

Artemis looked around a bit nervously. "Mine isn't nearly as impressive as yours." He said, "But..."

He paused as he examined the man in front of him carefully, then turned in a circle and scanned the room.

"I can be certain that we are completely alone," He said at last, turning back to his guest, "Besides the spider taking residence in the upper right corner and the fly it is about to consume. I'm also certain that your relic is whatever you have bundled in that cloth." He fingered the amulet around his neck pensively. "My Third Eye gives me the ability to see the energy given off by living beings and certain objects."