"Cursed be the ground for our sake. Both thorns and thistles it shall bring forth for us. For out of the ground we were taken, for the dust we are... and to the dust we shall return." -Denzel Washington, The Book of Eli Opening music (since Mahz never wrote a new video code) February 3rd of the year 1026 P.W. It is the cold of winter, but the day in Nepharie is quite seasonably warm. It is fifty degrees and a warm breeze blows through the trees. It is sunny, but there are clouds on the horizon as if a storm is coming. It was noon when the northernmost gates of Capital City opened and the party came in. They were twelve in all, twelve men on horseback clad in scarlet armor, riding in three lines. Nine of them rode with rifles in their hands, resting on their shoulders in decorative fashion. Two in the front had white flags resting on their shoulders, and the rider in the center held nothing. A very large sword hung from his back, and his armor, unlike the others, was black with a red trim. They rode past the tavern, ignoring the brilliant blue dragon on the roof, leaving dust in their wake. Other horses and wagons on the main cobblestone road pulled over to avoid being run down as the powerful horses plowed by and the metal armor clinked robotically. Upon arriving at the castle gates in the middle of the city, the party of twelve stopped and a guard toting a heavy halberd approached on a warhorse. “Who are you blokes then?” he said with hostility in his voice. “We seek audience with the chancellor!” a metallic and decisive voice clanked back. “Well do you have an appointment?” the man asked. “We are the messengers of the mighty Silas Rex, king of Ignion! We require no appointment!” the front soldier squawked. “What in Matrem’s name is Ignion?” the guard replied “I’ve never heard of such a place!” “But one day you shall.” a new voice replied, one less mechanical and more stern and calculated. Two of the soldiers in front parted, and the man in the black armor rode up to the front. He removed his helmet, revealing dark hair combed back and away from his face and distinctly South Nepharie skin, tan and sun-weathered. “My apologies.” the man said kindly “I am King Silas Rex, and I have an audience with the Chancellor in approximately twenty minutes. You may look on the council itinerary yourself if you deem such to be necessary.” “A straight shooter, this one is.” the guard said “Very well, you may pass. Raise the portcullis!” The portcullis was raised up and the party entered, dismounting their horses and leaving them in vacant stables in front of the front gate with the white flags. “Say,” the guard said “What are those...those things you’ve got there?” he pointed to the rifles. “Ah, those!” Silas said politely “Those are cosmetic. I assure you that they are not loaded and have no potential to damage anyone inside.” “Very well.” he said. The party proceeded into the castle’s main hall. About twenty minutes later, the party of men in red entered a circular room atop the tallest tower of the castle, where a panel of senators sat along the walls and Chancellor Feuille rested in a comfortable silver-and-green throne. An official opened a scroll, and began to read loudly to the senators: “All hail Silas Rex, ruler of the kingdom of Ignion and overlord of the Phoenix Mountains.” The man who called himself Silas entered the room with his entourage of soldiers and took a seat in a smaller throne in the center of the meeting room, directly in front of the silver-haired Feuille. “Salutations, good King Silas.” Feuille said with a French accent “We of the council of Nepharie understand that you have a proposition to make of us today, yes?” “Indeed I do, friends.” Silas rose from the chair and took a few steps across the marble floor towards Feuille. “And what, the council asks, does this proposition exactly entail?” one of the gaudy and grey senators spoke up “You were quite vague in your letter.” “Why, senators, I propose a peaceful resolution to a conflict which has yet to be fought.” Silas replied “I propose your total surrender to my military.” There was momentary silence and then laughter from at least half of the senators, Feuille included. Silas stood perfectly still, staring at Feuille as he rolled about in his seat like a child told an inappropriate joke. “Surely,” Feuille said through his laughter “Surely you must be joking.” “I assure you that I am not, Lord Chancellor.” Silas said. He began to pace around the circumference of the room “I have a rather large and powerful military currently camped within your border, a few miles north of the town of Boroden. I, however, am a kind man and I do not wish to see the women and children of this noble empire burn, so I figured that I would extend an olive branch of peace before the walls began to crumble.” Most of the senators had stopped laughing by now, and Feuille looked dumbfounded at the man below as if he were speaking a foreign language. “If this is your true intent, Silas, then you are a total fool.” Feuille said “The Nepharie Republic backs down to no military force, and we have a standing army of over one million two hundred thousand men.” “Then I sincerely hope you have many grave-diggers, Chancellor.” Four guards approached Silas from either side, halberds in hand. “Get him out of here!” Feuille shouted, offended. The guards attempted to lay their hands on Silas, but he shrugged them off and drew his longsword. Before they could attack him, two loud bangs, like thunderbolts, echoed through the room, and the guards fell dead. Silas looked up at Feuille, who was positioned to leap from his chair. But Silas did not attack him, but instead said “So be it.” and, grabbing the sword by the handle, drove it into the floor, shattering the marble. He sheathed the sword and left the tower with a swish of his red cloak, his men trailing behind and the four guards laying dead around the center of the shatter, the blood running from their wounds making rorschach-esque shapes upon the floor. --- “So there I was, running along the wall, my cape ablaze and this really smoking blonde unconscious in my arms, and as I run I start hearing this little snapping noise behind me, right? So I look back and lo and behold the damn guards were shooting crossbows at me! So I say “hell with this man”, chucked her over the side and hauled ass over to the other side. Luckily, she landed in a convenient pile of hay. I have never run that fast in my life!” The long wooden table in the Snorting Dragon was alight with laughter and dappled sunlight filtered into the room through a narrow window. An elven woman, only a seat or so away from the storyteller rolled her eyes. Her expression was plain and obvious. No beating around the bush with this one, it seemed. “That’s bullshit, but I believe it.” She said, “There’s no way your dumbass could’ve hauled itself that fast while carrying some ‘blonde babe’.” she finished, before taking a drink of her mead.. Apollos looked down to the witch with one eyebrow raised and scanned her, stopping at all the appropriate points. “Oh really?” he said playfully “Then how about we test it; get down to your bra and I’ll run across the wall out there.” A young woman with blue skin who said with her hood up elbowed Apollos hard in the bicep. “What?” he said. “I’d rather go full lesbian before that.” she sniped in response, a grin splitting her face. “Doesn’t look like your lady friend appreciates it either… You remind me of a friend of mine. No idea where he is at the moment.” Some of the people at the table seemed to be shocked at the way a woman was speaking to a very wealthy-looking gentleman, but Apollos himself laughed haughtily once more and cracked his neck somewhat cockishly. “Little bit of salt on this one, eh blokes?” Apollos said “I like that about you.” “Eh, it’s better than having your salty surprise.” she replied in response, her grin still large, but no longer from ear to ear like it had been, more so a friendly and close-mouthed kind of smile. The table exploded in laughter, even rising a giggle out of Asher, who seemed to be trying to keep to herself. “So what’s your name? Next one’s on my friend. Fuck gender roles.” she said, taking a few coins out of her satchel. Tucker was shit at managing money, so she had gotten him to give her his money as to not drive himself broke. Apollos acted dramatically taken aback by such a request, and Asher rolled her eyes as he jumped up onto the table and thrusted a sword through the wood. “Do you not know who I am, fair maiden?” Apollos said haughtily “Why, I am the great and wonderful Sir Apollos Dominico Prosperos del Orarius, king of the brigands and lord of the thieves! Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!” “I swear to Matrem if you start singing again…” Asher mumbled, trying not to draw attention to herself. “I’ve seen a man-turned-cow ride a dragon, so not much impresses me anymore. Nice to meet you Apollos. I’m Arya.” she said. “I’d offer a hand but I don’t know where that shit’s been.” Apollos was about to quip when the front door of the old smelly tavern swung open with a loud “BANG!” Standing in the doorway was a large form cloaked in a thick brown travelling cloak. He was massive and hulking, larger than any man in the room, and as he walked towards the bar counter all voices hushed. He sat down on a stool quietly and, hood still up, beckoned for the barkeep with two thick grey fingers. “I’ll have a pint of ale and a one of those porthouse steaks I’ve been hearing about around these parts, please.” he said. The barkeep nervously nodded and shuffled off towards the kitchen as if moving too slowly would prompt the giant to eat him. Before the doors could swing shut, the huge head of a dragon peered through, its blue scales glittering in the sunlight. Its eyes giving the room a once over before they fell on Arya. It crooned and pulled it’s head out before anyone could shout in alarm. It more than likely saw this man entering and chose to use this moment of distraction to do its thing. There was the sound of gust outside, and the whole roof shook slightly, but otherwise remained unnoticed. A blonde, average sized pretty boy carrying a violin, which windblown hair entered the building. A stupid smile on his face and his chest puffed out like he owned the place. “Hey Apollos, is that the blonde you were talking about earlier?” Arya said, reclining back in her chair and crossing her arms under her breast. Effectively breaking the silence. Conversation began once more, and Apollos got up from his seat to size up the newcomer. “Ah, so you must be the fair maiden’s lover.” Apollos said “Allow me to introduce myself. I am-” “His name is Apollos.” Asher said rather loudly, looking over her shoulder at the newcomer “Sir Apollos some-bullshit del Orarius, grand vizier of the guttersluts and prince of the pickpockets.” she said in a mock Spanish accent. Apollos shot her a disapproving raised eyebrow and she rolled her eyes. Arya choked on her mead and Tucker, seeing that he was being spoken to, waltzed over to the table, setting his instrument down next to his partner. The large man at the counter grunted. “Not my l-” Arya was going to say, but was cut off by the bard before she could speak. “Long ass name, compensating for something?” Tucker said, sticking out one of his leather gloved hands. “Name’s Tucker. I’m nothing special.” he said. Apollos shook his hand energetically and directed him to a seat next to him. “Well you certainly must be something to reside with such a lovely and raunchy woman.” Apollos replied. Arya scoffed. “I have him by the balls and by the satchel. Tucker, drink’s on you.” she said, a wicked smile on her face. “Yeah yeah, she-devil. Laugh it up. You’ll be paying me back for it soon enough. I just got done banging a fairfolk chick.” Now it was Asher’s turn to choke on mead. Apollos continued to smile like an idiot. “Why do you say it so confidently?” Apollos asked “What, are you in a contest of some sort?” “What, she didn’t tell you?” Tucker said. “Figures. She doesn’t want to admit she’s losing. We’re longtime friends, traveling from place to place at the moment because she bet me I couldn’t sleep with every race in Tithe by the end of the next solstice.” Arya made no reply instead she stared hard at her mead. She seemed to be muttering a string of curses that would make a sailor blush. At this point, some of the other members of the table left or moved away, leaving the four alone. Apollos was dumbfounded and Asher seemed to be attempting to ignore Tucker, looking down at her glass of port with a stare that could kill. “Dude, look at them.” Tucker said, clapping a hand on Apollos’ shoulder and pointing to the two women with his free hand. “You think they’re having some telekinetic conversation or something?” Asher blushed, but the hood hid it. This new guy was really pissing her off. She sipped at the thick port gingerly, trying not to make it boil. “You never know with womenfolk, my friend!” Apollos replied, putting an arm around Asher “Ah yes, I don’t believe I introduced you two to my dearest sweetheart here. This is the lovely Asher Stormfront.” The man at the counter straightened as if he had been struck by lightning. Oh, why do his words make me melt so? Asher thought. “We were having a conversation about how much of a royal douchebag you were.” Arya said. She looked over to Asher. “Hey Ash, you already heard my name so… did you said her last name was Stormfront?” Arya said, perking up visibly. “Welp, now you’ve done it.” Tucker said, his grin ever present on his face. The man at the counter began to get up and move towards the table like a phantom. “If you are referring to the psychics, then yes.” Asher said. She lowered her hood to show her bluish-violet complexion and black hair. “I was a Stormfront.” --- Winters in Talbor are long and unforgiving. It is thirty degrees (fahrenheit), and a light snow falls through the frigid wind blowing off of the mountains. The sky is black and cloudy as usual, but the sky to the west looks quite clear. The streets of Maceron were crowded and the crowds moved with a frenzy like ants swarming across the ground towards drops of juice. Guards in chain mail waded through the streets, attempting to direct the somewhat frenzied crowds on their way. There was an air of panic in the voices of the passersby as they moved away from the city’s high walls and towards the center where the stone towers of the keep loomed from out of the urban smog. Iro Hesekar stood against the flow of traffic, looking from face to face with interest, as if attempting to figure out what the problem was. His trusty turtle dragon Mitos sat at his side, munching on a wicker basket full of cabbages intently, paying no mind to the crowds fleeing from the city walls. From the nearby gate Iro could hear the grinding clank of a portcullis lowering, punctuated by the slamming of heavy metal doors. The smoke signals all blared, and guards in chain mail marched up and down the tops of the walls, crossbows in their hands. A lull in the crowd appeared, and Iro used it to approach a guard nearby dressed in chain mail with an expensive-looking breastplate. “Excuse me sir.” Iro began “Exactly what is all the fuss about? I don’t see an army.” “Ah, ye haven’t ‘eard?” he said in a thick Olenport accent “ ‘Ey’re up in the hills, siah.” the guard pointed to the hills in the distance, where a column of black smoke lofted into the heavens. It appeared as if there were a firestorm on the horizon, sweeping across the grass and turning everything to black. “Who are they, exactly?” Iro asked. “What, are ye daft, siah?” he said “ ‘At there’s the Red Legion. They’re about fifty miles off, but still the people are terrified of ‘em. Ye must’ve ‘eard what they did to Fort Imperius!” “Something about metal arrows, wasn’t it?” Iro replied. “Aye! They approached the fort from far away and began to fire boulders of metal at the walls. Not one man survived, I tell ye. They emptied the place. Only a single messenger escaped, and with only one leg by the time ‘e got here!” “That sounds dreadful.” Iro said. The guard laughed. “Ah, don’t ye worry about it.” the guard replied “The walls of Maceron are impenetrable! We’re fully locking up the whole damn place to keep ‘em out! It’ll take a lot more than iron boulders to bring down the walls of the impenetrable city, siah!” “Excellent, then.” Iro said “I sure hope you’re right.” --- It is bitterly cold in Juvegol today. A snowstorm is brewing, and the ground is already covered in three inches of snow. It is twenty degrees (fahrenheit) but the wind off of the Frost River makes it feel much colder. Crowds were gathered across the river side of Juvegol as a long row of men in red armor began to take positions across the opposite bank; they stood perfectly still, their rifles on their shoulders and the black slits of their helmets pointing forward; dark, silent, godless. These were not men, but machines, and their blank stares ahead causes people to cringe as if they were being burned. Luke Feng stood close to the edge of the bridge, which luckily was up, scanning the identical faces of the men across the river as others around him did the same. He had never seen so many men in uniform! And what were those strange things on their shoulders? What could they possibly want? As he watched, a soldier on horseback approached the edge of the river and began to shout: “Lower the drawbridge, I say!” he yelled. The crowd parted in two as a large man in steel armor approached the edge. He was a hulking, muscular man with a white beard and a heavy mace hanging at his side. A greathelm rested under his arm, and he stared ahead with a glare that could melt a glacier. “Now why in the name of all of Matrem’s creation would I do that?” Sir Arrond Blount shouted across the river. “We do not wish to harm your people, Sir Arrond. We simply require passage to the Northlands in the name of the Red Legion.” "And who exactly is the Red Legion?" Arrond replied "I've never heard of such a place!" "Our affairs do not concern your people, Sir Arrond." he repeated "We simply require passage to the Northlands in the name of the Red Legion." Nordavind soldiers began to make their way towards the edge of the city, and with their pikes gently assured people that it would be an excellent idea to back away from the edge. As armies converged at either side of the drawbridge, it seemed as if quite the standoff was about to occur. It begins.

UNDER THE RED SUN ACT I: THE FALL OF MAN

Father, We talked all night about what we wanted to do. We came to a conclusion we know you nor any of the family will like. We’ve left and we’re not coming back. Not for a while, at least. You may as well call us Omniks now. We love you all. We’re sorry.

- Darsi & Dosi

--- “Smells this.” Darsi shoved the clay bowl full of a newly made incense right into Dosi’s face, with Dosi rearing away and raising his hand to push the offer back. “Wh- no! Not while we’re so close t-… wait, don’t tell me you’re-“ Darsi had already shoved his snout into the bowl. Dosi merely watched as his brother slowly raised his head and took a few soft sniffs. His brow perked up some as his mouth hung agape. “Dun knows… what yah missin’.” He gently sealed up the bowl without so much as glancing at it and set it aside, placing his hands upon his knees, keeping his head raised and eyes closed. A smirk slowly began to etch itself across his face. And he slowly rose from his lowly bonds to Tithe and ascended into a state of sublime euphoria. Dosi shook his head, still watching. “Unbelievable.” He said, “We’re about to reach Capital City and you’re getting high.” “High… as… a clouds…” Darsi responded softly, not turning towards his brother. “You just set yourself up to look like a fool in front of… well, whoever’s there.” Dosi stated, “We walk in and you can’t even say a word right?” Of course, even when he wasn’t under the effects of an incense, Darsi’s Cyclan was a little less than stellar. Dosi had already mastered the language, but Darsi still got some words wrong every now and then. The incenses themselves didn’t help keep his memory intact. He’d only made lists and reminders for the important things; recipes. “Don’t… need… words…” Darsi replied softly and slowly, “Just gots tah… wave… the smells… around…” He slowly leaned back on his hammock, staring up at the ceiling of the tent. Dosi shook his head and turned back, looking at the trail sprawling forward. Off in the distance, he could see the faintest array of rooftops and spires over a low hill. These lands… they were nothing like the sands of Dorakis. Verdant greens with fields of odd plants reaching everywhere, and the trees. They’d heard stories, both of them. Dosi had seen paintings done by travelers, and Goka had regaled the events of many travels to them both. But seeing it for themselves? For the first time? “Incredible…” Dosi remarked under his breath. “WHERES.” Darsi shouted, shooting up and thrusting his head out the frontward leather flap, darting his gaze left and right, “WHAT’S INCREDULOUS.” His eyes were wide and he was breathing frantically. That incense was doing its work, that’s for sure. “Ohhhhh…” He said, looking around at the scenery. “That… be… fulls of… yehhhhh…” Dosi shook his head once again. The twin doraks’ traveling companion, pack mule, bodyguard, and mobile home, Karkada as they called her, scuttled along the stone-laden path arching over the hill. The moment they began to descend, they were met with a sight unlike any in Dorakis – fields upon fields of crops, filled with folks of several races working in them. Houses and huts dotted the borders of the fenced sections, stone pillars reaching up into the air and releasing puffs of smoke. The land, the people, the architecture… nothing like Dorakis. At all. As Karkada trudged along the path, many farmers and walkabouts stopped and stared. Some waved, some retreated into their homes. Of course, no harm was meant at all. Karkada was a peaceful creature, thanks to the brothers’ work. A lone boy peeked his head over a wooden fence and waved to the two Dorak. Dosi hesitantly waved back, and Darsi… well, he just kept looking at everything, wide-eyed. “I can feels me eyes… just… DANCENING…” Darsi said aloud, focusing his gaze on the encroaching northern gates of Capital City. A very, very large archway with lines of folks passing through, with some wagons and caravans to boot. Even from this distance, Dosi could tell it was big enough to let even Karkada pass through, big girl she is. He directed her towards the gates, creating a wide berth amidst the two-flow crowd. Most of them looked up at the two Dorak with a sense of bewilderment. Maybe they had never seen a Gimian Skora before. Whatever the case, the large tent strewn about her shell and tails did well to signal she was non-hostile. That didn’t mean the two would have to explain themselves a bit first, though. “Oi!” Came the voice of one of the armored guards stationed near the gate. “Doraki mount? That thing tame?” A bit of apprehension from Dosi at first, but he looked down at the guard and answered, “Yes, uh… sir. She’s behaved. Won’t cause any trouble. We’re here to barter some.” He was thankful the guards here at least knew of the Dorak and their travelling customs. “First them troop of red metal men with their fancy sticks, now you?” The guard replied, “Day keeps on gettin’ stranger. Ah… never mind it, go on in. No trouble now, hear me?” Dosi had no idea what the guard was on about with “red metal men”, but he wasn’t about to stick around and ask any inane questions. “I hear you.” Dosi said, nodding. He meagerly waved to the guard, who stepped aside to let them pass. Karkada began marching forward once more, with a wide berth granted by the crowd of folks coming and going into the city. Dosi was just awestruck at the multitude of races, all gathered together in one location. Tharnkidae was a fun place to be in Dorakis, and it had its fair share of foreign visitors, but… this was a new, fresh, outside experience. Meanwhile, Darsi was just slowly waving his hands about, flabbergasted by the crowd of folks around the city. A lot of them were eying the giant, twin-tailed scorpion just marching into the street with two scaly mole-men riding atop it with mixed looks of wonder, disdain, joy, and even fear. A Gimian Skora had that effect on foreigners, supposedly. Dosi pulled Karkada into a halt as she neared a peculiar building at the end of the pathway, facing the gate in the distance. Atop it rested a strange, winged, azure… serpentine, creature? Something neither of the brothers had ever seen before. Not even in paintings. From the looks of it, it wasn't trying to kill anyone. Maybe that was normal here, unlike most of the bugs in Dorakis. It just... rested, on the roof of the tavern, eyeing folks. It passed a quick glance at Karkada before turning away. Dosi thought it best to not question the creature's presence, but still... he was apprehensive. He averted his eyes downward. “The… Snorting Dragon?” Dosi muttered, staring at the sign above the doorway. Darsi peeked over his brother’s shoulder and gasped a bit. “Ohhhhhh, I wanna… I wants tah tries an’ eats it.” He said, dazed. His high wasn’t going to wear off anytime soon. “Looks like a tavern.” Dosi said, “Guess it’d be a nice place to start.” He looked around the surrounding area, at all the market stalls and vendors peddling their wares. If the Ruuks were looking to sell some of their stock, this seemed like the perfect location for it. Dosi turned to his brother and looked him in half his four eyes. “Listen to me very carefully.” He said, “I’m going to go in there and ask around for a… tour guide, I guess. Someone who can give us a lay of the place, maybe tell us where we can make a good amount of coin. If the area here doesn’t do such.” “And…” Darsi replied, smirking, “What’s about yah brutha? And ya skora?” “You’re going to stay out here until you’re back on ground level with the rest of us.” Dosi replied, “Then you can come inside after you’ve made sure Karkada is secure.” Truth be told, Karkada was capable of fending off any thieves by herself – giant scorpions aren’t the most approachable creatures. Still though, in a foreign city… best to be safe. “Yesssss, I-… thinks I can do suches a thing and too.” Darsi replied, head wandering. “Goes on then, have yah… what’s…” “Just stay here.” Dosi said, shaking Darsi’s shoulders some. He turned and emerged from the tent, making a leap off of the now nestling Karkada. He turned back to see Darsi looking around some more, waving to random folks. If they were going to set up shop later, he’d have to be clear-headed for it. Dosi gave a wry smile, nonetheless, and headed for the tavern doors.

WESSERIUS “Daniel,” Wesserius voice was soft, but it didn’t need to be anything more. His entire army stood in dead silence, glassy eyes locked upon the gates a few miles before them. They were at the top of a hill within the valley. They had to go down the hill. Then through the valley. Then they would reach the gates. Then through those. Then they would be in Talbor. Daniel approached, unable to keep himself from shaking just a bit. He was familiar with the general, he had no reason to personally fear the general, he had committed no sins against him nor done anything to incur his wrath. But he shook just a bit. “Yes sire?” “What,” Wesserius mused, “Do you think about all this?” Daniel hated these sorts of questions, because there was no right answer, and it was really an awful drop if he were to be forcibly thrown off the hill. Wesserius sat atop a rock, easily spotted by any Talborian scouts with looking glasses. He didn’t seem to care. The general’s greying hair was cropped relatively short, a messy, unkempt mane that reflected his messy, unkempt style of doing things rather nicely. Within a few feet of him, the temperature picked up ever so slightly-and if one caught the general in the edges of his vision, the shimmering of a mirage made things ever so murky. “Well, sir, I see no easy way through this valley.” “True,” Wesserius said. His left hand was quite unlike his right-whereas his right hand was flesh and bone, his left was…something else. His entire left forearm was blackened, horrifically scarred, and at the wrist a strange blend of steel and wood and stone functioned as a hand. He moved it with noticeably more difficulty, but white fire danced along his fingertips, begging to be set free. Wesserius watched it as one would watch a lover dance. “But, there is always a way. No matter how difficult. How would you suggest we go about attacking?” Daniel took a few moments to think over a response-Wesserius was a patient man, and he preferred intellectual thought to knee-jerk instincts. Behind them, the vast majority of Wesserius’ army stood stock still, hands slapped flat against the sides, no armor or weapons slowing them down. Regular people. Humans, orcs, elves. Idly staring ahead. Mindless. Pawns, bishops, king. Daniel finally said, “Well, sir, I would wait until nightfall, and then try and send some forces around the sides of the mountain, take out their scouts…maybe…” His voice trailed off. Wesserius waited until Daniel admitted, “I don’t know sir.” “Tsk tsk. Well, fortunately, I do.” Wesserius stood up and whistled. A single man stepped forward, sluggishly moving up behind the general. “Take thirty of you. Begin marching through the valley. Single file, horizontal. Do you see that rock right there?” A grunt of affirmation. “Excellent.” Wesserius whistled again and another man stepped up. “I want you to get…” Wesserius closed his eyes and did a few silent calculations, lips moving. “Three hundred and three. Three hundred and three knives. Distribute one to every thirtieth person.” Daniel did not fully understand where they were going with this. He remained silent. “Gentlemen!” Wesserius said energetically, nimbly getting up on top of the rock. A century and a half, but the elf still had it. “I will not waste my time giving you a rallying speech, for you will most assuredly be dead within an hour. You thirty.” The thirty men responded by way of monosyllabic groans. “You are going to march down the hill. Into the valley. I want you to take your time. I want you to avoid doing anything that might startle the enemy, I don’t want you making any loud noises, I don’t want you doing any silly chants. Savvy?” Groans. “I thought as much. Now when you get parallel with that rock, I want you to take this knife,” Wesserius took a blade from the crates of knives that were being brought forward by the drones, “And I want you to slit your throat with it. Then the next man in line will take it and do the same. You will continue this down the line until you all are dead. Questions?” Daniel remained very silent. “You will repeat this five times, a different group heading out every fifteen minutes. But the sixth time, we are going to mix things up! Gentlemen, your group has one hour and fifteen minutes. You are to find as many branches, as many disposable pieces of wood, so on and so forth, that you can. You will not receive a knife.” Wesserius handed the leader of their line a wineskin of oil and a blazing torch. “You will proceed down the line, but you will instead immolate yourselves. I want you to remain still and quiet as this happens. Savvy?” Silence. “Good. You will repeat this cycle until we get to the thousandth man, at which point I will evaluate our progress and decide what to do next. Carry on.” The men began to march out, solemnly and impassively, the Red Legion’s spell bidding them onwards. Inside, they were probably screaming and weeping. Try not to think about it too much. “Daniel,” Wesserius said, resuming his seat on the rock. “Please go and tell our soldiers to ready for battle. Assuming the wind holds, we’ll attack in about eight hours.” “…what, um, is the plan of attack, sir?” “Sunset. Sun will be in their eyes. Smoke will rise. Lower visibility. Make things difficult for their scouts in the mountains. Move ahead. Send more of the drones, en masse. They provide cover for the siege engines. Rams focus on the gates. Artillery will need time to bring down the gates. Construct catapults when you’re in the valley. Not before. Impossible to traverse the hill. Load the catapults with the drones. Live. Burning. Get them over the gates. Will occupy archers and generally make a mess of things. Did I leave anything out?” “…no sir.” “Good.” Wesserius leaned back, drawing out a pipe. He cupped his left hand around the end and it bust into flame, a fire that would consume the pipe whole in a matter of seconds. With a miniscule effort of will, the flame died down to something manageable, but occasionally, when Wesserius wasn’t watching, it seemed to try and burst up again. Daniel turned to leave, a bit paler than normal. “Daniel, wait, before you go. Another question.” “…ask away, sir.” “What do you think stars are?” Daniel was even less sure of how to proceed with this. “Um…I…the legends say they…” “I don’t care about the legends Daniel. I want to know what you think.” “….they’re…suns? Just…further away?” Wesserius raised an eyebrow. “Hmm. That would make sense, wouldn’t it. I have my own theory, would you care to hear it?” “…yes sir, I’d love to.” “I think stars are just worlds. Other planets. Out there in the void. Worlds that someone made kindling of and set to burn." Wesserius stood up, white flame beginning to course down his prosthesis. "Come, Daniel. We have a world before us. Let us set it to burn. Let us make a star." "...yes sir." CALDER A minotaur sat in the snow. Little white specks clung to his nose and around his eyes and horns and generally settled on his black furry head and white fleshy shoulders. He didn't seem perturbed. By the crystalline river sat Calder, a minotaur who, in another realm, would've made a killing off the royalties to his autobiography. But in this one, his autobiography was still a work in progress, and still very terse. It was the very object which he was working on at the moment-a leather-bound journal, worn and for the most part, empty. A small ribbon fluttered in the winter wind, yanked every which way. Frequently, it flopped across the page, well in the path of where Calder would be writing. This didn't seem to faze him-in fact, the minotaur sat staring at the blank line, an uninked quill held firmly in his hand. He had not written a word. He had been sitting by the riverbank for fifteen minutes. Juvegol was quiet. Juvegol was serene. It was slightly chilly, Calder supposed, but a little chill never hut anyone. In fact, it made Calder feel almost alive-and given that Calder embraced every facet of every hour of every day, this was saying something. Calder snorted, scuffing some of the snow out of his nose and, after folding up his journal to prevent the pages from getting wet, shook his head, sending a small blizzard of flurries down onto the ground around him. He opened it back up. Calder was not a gifted wordsmith-he was not blessed with an eloquent vocabulary, he was not gifted with years of schooling. Most times, it took Calder a considerable while to legibly and correctly write a single line. For this reason, Calder's diary was simply an anthology of sentences. The day. The most important thing. That was his entry for each day. Calder dipped his quill in the inkwell, eyes following the serpentine coursing of the water. Pretty. Perhaps he would take a bath once he had finished reflecting on his day. February 3rd. Juvegol. There is a pretty river. Calder lifted his quill to write the next word, having taken a full minute to etch the line above, when something interrupted him. While our minotaur was far from sagacious, he was certainly not the sort to be annoyed very easily-slavery and being interrupted during his quiet times were really the only surefire ways to enrage Calder, and it would seem that the Red Legion was doing both. A group had begun to assemble on the far shore of the river, armed and beared for war. It was about the only way Calder could tell-he looked upon their faces and saw none of the bloodlust or battlefrenzy or berserker rage that was common amongst warriors. These did not seem warriors. Their clothes were not full with muscle and their hair was not long from campaign. Their faces were blank and their eyes were empty. These did not seem natural. They were some unnatural aberration, an error that Mother Nature forgot to fix. Fortunately, her dear son Calder was there to fix things for him. February 3rd. Juvegol. There is a pretty river. Blank people. It is time. Calder closed his journal calmly and fastened it back with the strap, making sure his precious recordings were safe. To most, the minotaur's journal would be comical in and of itself-a minotaur, recording his thoughts and feelings? But, just as with his sketches and poetry, Calder held it very close to his heart. He tucked it within his rucksack, then he stood up. Hmm. The trees around him kept Calder a bit obscured from the Juvegol side of the riverbank-they were slavers, the Halderlocks, and Calder had no love lost for those who would take another life and put it beneath chain. Had they come for him, Calder would have thrown their spines into the river. However, he did not want to fight if he didn't have to (especially because the river was very pretty, and as a rule, Calder did not like to get blood all over pretty things), but it would seem that he had to. Calder rose to his full height, years of training and warring rousing from their slumber in the form of taut muscle, stretched across his arms and calves and chest. Calder rolled his neck, began to limber his body with deliberate, careful movements. A fairy had once taught him these stretches. He had never heard of a minotaur stretching but the fairy had been nice and he didn't want to be rude so he tried and it was fun so he kept doing it. Calder knelt and began to put on his armor, a strange assembly of bone and steel and chain that was cannibalized from the many who had fallen before Calder's blade. As he latched himself into his piecemeal protection, Calder began to talk quietly, his bass rumbling drowned out by the river. "Hello Mother," Calder spoke, speaking to...whoever was listening. Calder believed in a higher power. He was not sure what. He knew there was one but he didn't know what. He asked sometimes for forgiveness for not knowing. He hoped the Higher Power understood that Calder was faithful but just not smart enough to know sometimes. He called it Mother and also apologized in case it was a boy. "I think these people will fight soon. Please help me make well of the time I have left." The white-fur-streak and the black-flesh-scar both burned for a moment, a callous, sinister reminder that the old curse was coming, snaking its way up to its heart, and that no blade or fist would stop it. Run. Calder. Run all you wish. What will your last diary entry say? It will say I did my best and that I was happy. "If I fall today let me fall with honor." Calder paused, trying to remember if there was anything else he forgot about. "Oh! And also please watch for my brothers in the mines. I will try and help them if I can." Anything else? Hm. Calder paused for perhaps a full minute, simply thinking, trying to remember. Was there something else? Probably not. "Okay. I think that is it. I love you. May this fight bring me to you or to Sylvia." Calder picked up Sylvia, a blade which, quite bluntly, was a nasty motherfucker of a sword, and slung it over his shoulder with casual ease. He had gathered his things. He had readied for battle. Calder walked out from the grove at ease with himself, a sort of strange dichotomy welling up within him-there was the hunger and the fury for battle, to test his strength against these armies and see if he would emerge victorious, but there was also the calm. He was not afraid. He already had looked death in the eye and made his piece. These men would not scare him because no men could. Calder was happy. Calder was free. He was the river and the eddy. He was the blank lines and the ink in the diary. He was the- "Bird!" Calder exclaimed happily, spotting a songbird fluttering overhead. He didn't see many up north. Too cold for the little ones. Calder whistled and it flapped over, landing on his horns. It tweeted at him. "Hello little brother. You should go. It will be bad here soon." It chirped merrily and did as it was bid. "Birdy," Calder said, watching it fly. Very pretty. There were lots of pretty things. Most people did not watch for them. Calder walked and moved over to the drawbridge. A few of the guards rather nervously glanced at the shadow-casting behemoth that had lumbered up. Attention was split between Calder and the army across the water. "...what do you want, minotaur?" Some of the condescension was lost on Calder, who was fairly condescending towards himself on general principle. "Why are those people here?" Calder rumbled. "We don't know." Calder paused, thinking things over. There were some nervous glances. A few questioned if he had fallen asleep standing up. "I'm a good fighter," Calder said somewhat modestly. "If they are bad people, I can fight them." "They are indeed. Very bad people. Extremely bad." Extremely. Hm. "You have slaves. Why should I care?" A few more nervous glances. "If I help fight will you let them go?" Calder asked. "Of course." Calder frowned, thinking things over. It was worth it. There lots of them but he did not see death in them. They would be easily broken. "Okay. Please do not..." Calder paused, remembering the word. "Betray me. It makes me sad when that happens." Calder walked up to the drawbridge, sitting down with his legs folded at it. He laid Sylvia across his lap and took a few deep breaths. There was no rush. The Legion would get there whenever they did. So Calder watched the river course by, entirely oblivious to the very uneasy glances being thrown around him, or cautious whispers. They said they would let the slaves go, so Calder was willing to do this. It would be okay. There would be fighting but Calder would win. He always did. "Okay," Calder said. "I am ready. Are you going to let the bridge down or do you need me to swim?"

Tári Númenessë was warm and cozy when she awoke in her private bedchambers in the keep of Juvegol, the heavy furs and thick woolen sheets cradling her tiny body as she lay atop the overly large bed that took up close to an entire wall by itself. Yawning long and quietly she remained in the depths of her sheets as she wiggled around on the bed, trying to locate a bottle of wine or whoever it was that she had spent the night tearing down social boundaries with, whichever came first really. At the moment she was partial towards the wine so that she could suppress the first echoing pains of the hangover that was making itself known the more she woke up. Halfway through her strange squirming turn Tári spied the culprit behind her growing head pain, an empty bottle of vintage wine sitting atop a dresser alongside a solitary glass. Both were devoid of even a single drop of fermented headache remedy and Tári let out a tired, anguished mewl at this realization. "I do believe that we are now under siege." Sikarthis casually remarked from his position at the narrow window set into the southern wall of the room. Still half asleep and with a hangover ready to start kicking at the back of her eyes Tári awkwardly performed a series of rolls and inchworm-esque maneuvers until she could spear him with a look that demanded attention and assistance, preferably in the form of a temple massage and some godsdamned liquor. He was seated at the foot of the windowsill on a cushion and reading what appeared to be one of the books from her own private collection. He was also entirely naked but that was irrelevant considering she was too under all those sheets. Some mornings, after the Glacial Knight had left her bed and was dressing for the day, Tári would catch herself marveling at the way the light played off his frosty skin. Today, with the hangover and his apparent disregard for what the words 'private collection' meant, was not one of those morning. "Mh bhk" she half mumbled half moaned from within her textile cocoon. Sikarthis stopped turning the page he was reading and turned his head slightly to regard her with a mildly confused look. "Come again?" his voice was deep and carried with it the chill of Glaces itself. "'s mh dmd bhk sd" Tári's second try was about as effective as the first. With a sigh laden with irritation Sikarthis set his book aside and extracted himself from his cushion, his head nearly brushing a hanging candelabra as he rose to his full height. In six steps he was at the bedside and after a few moments of struggling the Glacial Knight managed to pull Tári out from the prison of sheets and furs that she had built around herself. She was wide awake by the time he slid two chilly hands under her and lifted her into the air, suspending her there several feet from the ground. "Honestly," Sikarthis grunted as he avoided her flailing limbs, "if you're going to make me get up just to hear what you have to say the least you can do is cease this inexplicable wriggling of yours." "I said its my fucking book you glorified popsicle! Now put me down you know full well how cold you aaAARRRRRG QUIT THAT!" He had apparently taken offense to being compared to a frozen treat and had opted to relocating her to his shoulders, her thighs on either side of his neck as she was perched up there She hated being manhandled this way and he knew it. Unfortunately with her current hangover and disadvantageous position she was in no position to struggle as Sikarthis went about collecting his clothes that were strewn about the floor of the room. She was about to berate him for taking his sweet time of it when his first words to her from earlier finally got through. "Did you say we're under siege?" "Seems to be the case." He responded, swatting a hand in the direction of the window before he returned to pulling on a pair of trousers. The fact that he could do so with her on his shoulders was a testament to his balance. "I borrowed your spyglass for a bit and I can't say I recognize the uniforms nor their arms. From what I can gather they want the bridge up and your man Blout down there is refusing them, a wise move but likely to cause some trouble. Ah, one moment." In a single fluid motion he reached up and removed Tári from his shoulders, tossing her onto the bed and back to her warm sheets where she quickly sought shelter once again. She glared at him much like a hissing cat before turning her attention to finding her own clothes. "Don't expect me to warm your bed anytime soon after that. My thighs feel like I've been sliding down a pole made of ice." She half expected him to take the bait there and make some witty comment about their activities during the night so she could brain him with something but as per usual Sikarthis failed to deliver on that account. Disappointed but warming up once more, Tári shuffled over to one of her wardrobes and began the process of dressing, furs and blankets still draped over her small shoulders. Sikarthis failed to try and steal a glance at her backside even once she noticed and only assisted her in tying up the back of the dress she slipped on after she asked him to. A true gentlemen, she thought to herself sarcastically. Their relationship was a strange one to be sure, equal parts dislike and respect making up the foundation while manipulation, one-upping, and off-and-on sexual tension were the seasoning. She had been Ambassador to Glaces for only a few months in truth and the two knew little about one another outside of what they had shared in idle conversation or the rare moments of honesty that occurred some nights when Tári lay flush with a burning inner heat alongside his cold, frosty body. He was condescending, blunt and difficult to gauge at the best of times and an absolute headache to deal with at the worst, yet the moment they had to discuss political relations between their two respective nations he was all business, switching off the parts of him that would make negotiating a pointless endeavor. Something about that irritated Tári who had never managed to totally remove certain biases or her emotions from the political games she played. She often wondered if she might one day fully break down the icy shell that Sikarthis presented to others but in the end she knew that was little more than a childish fantasy. Once the two of them were dressed they made their way down to the kitchens to steal a basket full of food (and in Tári's case a bottle of wine) and began the long walk that would take them to Blount and this strange army sitting on the opposite side of the river. The majority of the city was constructed of timber and thatch, both easily acquired or purchased in Haderlock and both well suited to keeping the cold out. Sikarthis had remarked that the city structures looked like muddy huts upon first visiting but Tári had marked that down to his need to point out that everything in Glaces was 'better'. To Tári who had grown up when the city was being erected though, the simple constructions were warm and welcoming. Certainly more so than the stone and timber embassy in Glaces where Tári spent much of her time these days. Even with all the seams tightly packed and walls six feet thick lined with furs there were days where the chill would find the smallest crack and ruin a perfectly good nap. Most of the people Sikarthis and Tári passed on their way towards the drawbridge were heading in the same direction so by the time the two diplomats arrived they were not surprised to find a growing crowd of bodies pressing against a line of soldiers and guardsmen, all trying to keep as many citizens away from the bridge and the action that was going on there. Tári had no trouble navigating through the crowd on her own, weaving past legs and through bodies with catlike grace until she had slipped past even the soldiers themselves. Sikarthis had slightly more trouble but even here in the capital of Haderlock the sight of a Glacial Knight was enough to make most people move out of the way, if not out of respect then out of healthy caution. He was however stopped by the soldiers until Tári brought to their attention who he was and his diplomatic status inside of the city. Guardsmen aren't paid to think so they didn't bother to argue, moving just enough to allow the frosty warrior to pass. When they found Blount they were also greeted with the sight of a rather large Minotaur sitting down before the foot of the bridge doing gods knew what.They paid it little attention. "Blout," Tári addressed the significantly taller human once she was close enough, her voice laced with enough honey to attract a den of bears, "would you be so kind as to fill me in on why there is an army sitting opposite of us? Or better yet, why I had to find out about their arrival by looking out my own window instead of receiving a report from our watch posts?" In truth Tári was not the Head diplomat for the capital nor was she necessarily in charge of handling any diplomacy with military forces outside of Glaces. She was however one of the few experienced diplomats currently in the city and apparently the first on the scene so in her mind that put her somewhere above the king and right below the gods in terms of the 'need to know' ladder.

The morning came too soon Adelaide thought as she dragged herself out of bed to the unmistakable sound of Volak screeching for food. The vulture was on a fast track to becoming a rather troublesome guest at The Smiling Goose Inn with his consistent disobedience and constant squawking. It might not be so bad if other guests didn't think of him as just an eyesore and instead saw his stray feathers and beady, curious black eyes as a compliment to his handsome personality as Adelaide did. Adelaide, on the other hand, was always grateful for his presence, after-all she was only here because the bird was and there's never been an easier way to convince father to let her accompany him on trips than to offer to keep the awkwardly large and energetic travel companion in check. Adelaide couldn't complain about the inn itself; despite being under father's house arrest her stay here had been rather enjoyable. Last night her and Ciara devoured a delicious oxen roasted in honey, served with garlic bread and the raspberry wine was to die for! The journey from Alma Castle had been much longer than the girls had anticipated and rather than just buying food along the way father instead insisted that there was something to be learnt and that preparation is the key to every journey - something Adelaide already knew to some degree. After enduring almost a full day without substance the pair couldn't wait to gorge down the meal after being seated by a polite young man at one of twelve polished oak tables that gave audience to a marvellous stone fireplace and a fancy looking bar which nicely decorated the lobby. The living rooms weren't too shabby either, Ciara declared that she didn't like the bright drapery and bedcovers but Adelaide thought they added some much needed colour to Maceron and welcomed the theme. 'SQUAAAAAAWWKK!!' 'Can you please shut that little bastard up!?' Ciara moaned as she pulled the striking orange pillow over her head. Okay. Maybe they are a little bright Adelaide reconsidered as she rubbed the sleep from her eyes and got up to open the large panelled window that overlooked the narrow, colourless streets of Macaron. 'Ciara!! Don't call him that!' She protested, snapping out of her thought. As she did so Volak let out another long and deafening squawk before scurrying across the room, cascading clumsily into the dresser and awkwardly wrestling his way out of the recently opened window. 'See! How is he not a little bastard?' Ciara asked, eventually getting up too. Adelaide just couldn't help but to laugh at the crack he'd left in the window on his way out and began reading a note that father had left. 'He knows exactly what he's doing...' her sister continued, 'Father goes missing for two days and he starts flailing around breaking things as if he can't just sit still, and we KNOW he can... What's it say?' Questioned Ciara, changing the subject as soon as she noticed Adelaide pick up the note. 'Long or short?' Adelaide replied when she finished reading the message. 'Short.' Came the response, almost before Adelaide had finished speaking. 'Don't leave the inn, don't talk to anyone 'til I get back, the usual.' Adelaide answered, watching in awe as Volak circled majestically above the city. Sometimes, very rarely, but sometimes, she envied that bird and this was one of those times; as he soared freely above so effortlessly Adelaide couldn't deny the vulture had a personality of it's own, Volak eventually swooped down low and out of sight, to wherever he wants to go. 'Let's go shopping!' Ciara announced out of the blue as she stood up readily, it didn't take her long to get herself looking presentable but from the quick do Adelaide knew that her sister wasn't intending on impressing anyone today. She also couldn't help but notice the devilish look in her sister's otherwise innocent, blue eyes. Adelaide knew that look, a look reserved for mischief. 'Did you not hear what I just said?' Adelaide didn't want to stay inside either but rules were rules and they were there to be followed 'Father said that we're not to leave and we're not supposed to spea...' But before she could finish her protests Adelaide found herself being dragged out of the bedroom, hurried quickly through the lobby with a few sharp shoves and out of the gigantic dark green door of the Smiling Goose onto the bustling streets and into the tide of people sweeping through them. As she wrestled through the dense crowd to keep up with her almost possessed sister Adelaide heard a familiar soft voice shout out from a short distance ahead 'You don't ALWAYS do what he asks, do you?!'

It had been a while since Tooth had really traveled the lands like he was now. The sea and waves had been his life and love for a long time. They were the roots of his very being. Since the day he had been a fletchling swirming out of the mud to reach the sea the salt water had always dominated his life. In being a man of the ocean, he had grown accustomed to trade and commerce centers throughout the land. Most around the coastal regions, but not all. The capital was, for lack of better wording, by far the best place to start his trek of finding himself and exploring. He ought to have strengthened his land legs by now anyways. As he walked he took not of the shadows that fell against his large frame, as well as those from the buildings and threes. It couldn't be long past noon by now. At latest two in the afternoon. The sun was at it's peak and he couldnt help but relish the warmth that the sun provided him. It was uncharacteristically warm this day. It was the winter solstice still which was odd, but he wasn't complaining. As he walked he readjusted his backpack. It was heavy. Full of the metal armor he wore so often. For comefort's sake he wore his tanned leather and hood for the time being, to save himself the discomfort. As he walked however, he couldn't help but notice a tavern that seemed to be garnering the attention of... well, things that one doesn't usually see. The first and foremost was the huge arachnid like creature, the size of a small house. Built like a scorpion, complete with the stinger (two of them, in fact) and all. The creature had a hut on it's back, with smoke rising from it and had an odd smell. This aroused mild worry in the reptilian man, but it was quickly doused. The other was a huge sapphire blue dragon, perched on the roof and watching the passerbies traverse the streets. How no one was reacting to such a l creature meant one of two things. Either it's owner was a regular here, or that those in the city were all blind. Tooth had never been one for alcohol. The beverage never did much for him. He always seemed to react badly to it. He knew from experience this time would be no different. However, his curioustiy was not gone. He pulled down his hood, allowing his well taken care of ashen and red feathers to be displayed, and opened the door to the Tavern, and only just was able to side step running into a smaller mole like man. "Oh, excuse me." He said. His voice was flat, but his were sincere. He continued forwards, to the bar. He took one of the stools and set down his pack next to it, and ordered a water. A few of the men at the bar gave him an odd look, but he ignored them. Knowing better than to return their gaze. Instead he turned to the conversation at hand. The one with the bard and the witch and the hooded girl and the... Oh, oh my. His attentive eyes landed upon Apollos. The scar he had given him long ago still ugly and ever present. The reminder to the pirate that, should he ever attempt what he did again, that the job would be finished. His blue eyes narrowed, scanning over the halfling, and he pulled up his hood with his free hand, and directed his gaze somewhat downward, hading his eyes from sight. The last thing he wanted to incite was a bar brawl, or create a bad name for himself right off the bat. He would regret it. His age was getting to him these days and he doubted he would be able to come out of such a skirmish unscathed. He turned his attention ever so slightly back to the mole-man from moments before. He was slowly scanning the interior of the tavern with his quadruple array of eyes. He was dressed in a mismatch of leather garbs and belts with some forms of... bug shells, wrapped around separate points. His overall appearance... Tooth thought for a moment. He was a... Dorak, wasn't he? The folks from the desert in the east? Yeah, that was it. The Dorak slowly weaved his way through the array of tables dotting the tavern floor. He caught a few glances from some patrons but nothing more. Apollos and his three "friends" certainly weren't paying him any mind. He looked... confused. Lost, even, like this was his first time being in a tavern at all. He slowly made his way to the bar, and Tooth turned his head away. The Dorak paused for a moment, running his two large fingers along the surface of the counter. After a moment, the bartender approached him. "Get you anything?" He quickly turned to the bartender, holding his response. "I, uh..." He said in a low, somewhat accented voice, "Sorry, do you... have... any... bugs?" "Bugs?" The bartender replied, "M'my 'earing you right?" "Do you..." The Dorak replid, genuinely worried, "Not serve... bugs?" The bartender gave the Dorak a raised eyebrow and a scowl. "Maybe you ought to clear your head, mate. You ain't talkin' right." The bartender turned and left the Dorak at the counter, a look of confusion and embarrasment etched across his long, scaly, lightly scarred snout. He rubbed his three-fingered hand on two of his eyes and shook his head, looking pretty bewildered. He slowly propped himself up on the stool next to Tooth, as if just now realizing what such furniture was meant for. "First time at a tavern?" Tooth questioned, not turning to face the Dorak, but still asking. He didn't turn from watching Apollos out of the corner of his eye. He didn't trust him, not for a second. The Dorak turned his head slightly, locking two of his eyes on the old Saurian. He slowly nodded his head and replied, "Yes. I'll admit, I'm... sort of confused." "Aye. My first time was interesting. Nearly killed a few men in a fight. It wasn't a good place. Much shadier than this one." Tooth replied. His eyes darting to the Dorak's for a moment before turning back to watch Apollos. "Although, entering a bar with a giant scorpion and a dragon on the roof certainly means an interesting first experience..." He trailed off at this point, and for a moment he seemed like he was finished before he stuck his huge hand out for the Dorak to shake. "In Nepharie, those who meet for the first time shake hands. Where I come from, we bow to one another." he said, and continued onway. "Tooth-In-The-Sea is my name, but many just call me Tooth. It is a pleasure to meet you. And you are...?" he finished, leaving an empty blank for the Dorak to fill in the air. He grabbed his hand and gave it a firm, mannered shake. "Dosi Ru-..." He said before interrupting himself. "Just Dosi now, actually." He paused for a moment after they separated their hands before saying, "That, uh, giant scorpion you mentioned? Was it on fire by any chance?" "Alas, I know not. But it was leaking smoke, and had an odd aroma in the air around it." Tooth replied. "Why, might I ask?" Dosi sighed some. "_{Well I guess he's watching himself, at least...} That was my traveling companion out there, her name's Karkada. My brother Darsi was more than likely submitting himself to some... herbal incenses, within our tent." He turned his head for a moment before muttering under his breath, "_{As long as nothing's actually on fire, they're fine.}" Tooth said nothing to this, his eyes seemed blank- as if deep in thought. He brought his glass over to his maw and took a drink, downing the water in one lap. "What, uh..." Dosi suddenly began to ask, "What are you, exactly?" "I'm a Saurian, in the common tongue." Tooth replied. He held out his arm to display his black, white, and red feathers for the Dorak. "Reptilan and bird like for me. We hail fromt he tropical islands far down south." he said. "I'd imagine it's much different than your home, yes?" A bit of a smirk was returned from Dosi. "Dorakis isn't what others would call normal, I'd wager." "I can tell. No one who comes from a normal place comes into a bar asking for bugs." "Well, that's all there is back home." Dosi replied, "Bugs, bigger than... well, most things. This whole city is only a little larger than a Varaka Bertis. You'd call it a "mountain beetle" in Cyclan, I believe." He ran his eyes around the room again, and he folded his hands together as well. "Goka, my... aunt, I think's the word, she told me the insects outside of Dorakis are smaller than a Dorak's foot. Was hoping that wasn't true, but... is it?" "The biggest ones I've seen on the mainland are beetles no bigger than your first. The smallest... no larger a grain of sand." he said. "Where the hell your giants come from, I have no clue." "I met a walkabout in Tharnkidae, this city on the western border of Dorakis... he said it has something to do with the... air, I think? It's more... bountiful, if I'm remembering right. Said it's why the bugs are so big and the Dorak are so lively." He scoffed ever so slightly and said, "Don't know if that's the truth or if he was just crazy." "I think it's... You know what, I wont even ask." he said. "You're new around here, yes? I'm wandering the lands some at the moment, since I have yet to really set foot on the main land like this in a very long time. If you wish, I could show you the way. Like... a tour guide of sorts." Dosi turned and gave the Saurian a raised brow and a mouth agape, as if Tooth had just up and answered the Dorak's internal prayers. He nodded and said, "I think me and Darsi would like that very much." Tooth was silent at this, but the ends of his lips curled up in a small smile.

BARTLEBY AND SHIN - MACERON --------------------------------- "Fuck you..." Echoed the voice of a whiny slightly high pitched male, a hint of disdain and annoyance radiated from his speech, as if the male was completely and utterly exhausted and aggravated. ... "Mreow...!" Echoed back an animals voice... Currently on route toward the city of Maceron, Two out of place travelers headed in the direction of the large, square shaped piece of ominous landmass slowly, the one in front being what appeared to be a tall six foot human lord named Bartleby, supporting slightly dirty Caucasian white skin and green eyes, a lack of sleep showed through the dark bags which hung under them. The male had a set of ginger swept back hair and a soul patch beard and was gifted with a meek and pathetic skinny, non athletic build and with all this, is also missing a single front tooth, garbed in a set of jet black nobleman shoes, and a set of black scale skin leggings wrapped with jet black belts. Supporting a white frilled shirt, a blue and gold trimmed noblemans vest, a golden cravat and a jet black cloak. To top it all off, the noble wears an eccentric jet black musketeer styled hat, with a blue feather lodged at the side in the most over the top fashion. Behind the tall, out of place nobleman stood that which could only be described as horror incarnate. The deep pitched meows of a cat, continuously echoed behind the ears of the noble, as trailing him appeared to be a morbidly obese Siamese cat, supporting glistening blue eyes and a tubby, fat smile plastered on its greedy slobbering face, as it waddled behind Bartleby nonchalantly. The cold winds nothing for the felines mass of blubber which made it look incredibly out of place, a wonder the cat still lived and even more wondrous was how it could even move in the first place! The greedy eyes of the cat gazed back up to Bartleby once more, before it meowed once again, causing the noble to stop and turn around to his frustrating flabby feline. "No fuck you, Shin...! It's because of you that we're even IN this mess..!" whimpered the annoyed Noble, his eyes gazing into the bottomless eyes of the cat, his arms spread out at either side, currently walking backwards toward Maceron while the cat continued moving forward. "If it wasn't for you, We would have... MONEY! Yes shin, actual money! Money we would have! You know what Money is used for. don't you, fatass?!" "Mreow...!" spoke the fat cat. Bartleby's expression then twisted into a mix between angry, sad and destroyed all at the same time, finding it hard to control his gestures as he began to express his mix of emotions by pointing and almost flailing about madly toward the cat. "NO! IT'S NOT FOR FEEDING YOU ALL THE TIME! Why is it you think everyone is here to feed your fat ass?!" He shouted, years of living with the cat gave Bartleby the ability to know what the cat was thinking, it's not that Bartlby was intelligent, it was simply because shin was not, and in shins mind, there was only two things that mattered, Food and food. The nobles eccentric array of movements and speech did nothing but make the cat tilt its head in confusion, finding the display at the most just simply odd. "Meoww....!" The cat replied, causing the nobleman to quickly turn away and begin to quickly walk ahead, groaning in displeasure, and placing his hands to his face, screaming into them in complete frustration. "Why? The reason why is because other people need to eat too! Food is for everyone, we all need to eat, you know! It's not just so you can stuff your fat flabby fricking face with food fucking forever...!" Bartleby whimpered. "And because of you, we're now currently... ALMOST EMPTY?!" Bartleby expressed complete horrific surprise as he checked his coinpurse, his eyes quickly turning back to his feline companion in shock and terror, lifting out only an amount of 40 Reon within, thje remaining of his wealth, shaking the coin purse frantically. "When?! How?! You! Where?!" He blubbered in a panicky fashion, pointing to the coin purse and the cat, his eyes wide in shock. "You! We had money... We had money that was important to us! It bought us important things...!" "Meow...!" "My clothes are important! And so is food..." "Meow?" "FOR ME, NOT FOR YOU!" "Meow..." Bartleby grimaced and stopped talking, deciding to to waste his time speaking to his black hole in a cats body and make it to Maceron as quickly as possible so they could try to find some way to reverse the effects of his horrible luck, from a rich and successful connning businessman to a poor eccentric liar with a fatass tied to him like a ball and chain, the two eventually made it toward the gate of Maceron, with the guards on the palisades gazing toward the two odd visitors. The nobleman speaking loudly back at his cat when they reached the gate. "From now on shin, from this day forward... You are going on a diet..." The cat stopped meowing, as the sound of his light tapping paws ceased, causing Bartleby to raise his eyebrows curiously and turn around, finding his cat several meters away sitting down, giving Bartleby a neutral expression as it simply refused to move, causing the nobleman's lips to quiver in resentment. "No you fucking don't...!" "Meow" The cat stuck its tongue out lazily and simply sat in the middle of the road, Bartleby having to hurriedly rush over and attempt to push the cat, but its heavy fat weight proved to be too much as he could hardly budge the cat, as if it had just attached to the ground like a coupling, giving a low hiss, which slowly and threatening got louder the more the nobleman pushed the cat, causing him to stop pushing and clench his fists, building up an outrage within, he slowly calmed himself down and knelt in front of the cat, speaking in a pleading tone of voice. "Please... Work with me? If you go on a diet, you can eat as much food as you like... No matter how long! Infinite amounts of food, as tall as dragons and as big as castles! You can have as much as you want, forever and ever until you-" Bartleby's voice was interrupted by the grotesque, gagging of his cat, as a thick, mucus coated furball expelled like the speed of a bullet from the cats gaping mouth straight into Bartleby's face with a wet and powerful smack, causing him to grunt from the sheer force of the impact, which caused the guards at the gates to laugh in unison, which embarrassed the nobleman further as he wiped the hairball from his face and lowered his head in a defeated manner. "Fine... no diet" "meow!" Happily echoed the cat, as it stood on its four fat legs again and walked behind him toward the city, the nobleman standing up and heading toward the gate of Maceron as well, hiding his face, the guard at the gate just laughing and waving him off to go inside, not even able to talk from what he had just witnessed, Bartleby giving his cat a angry frown, as it gripped to his leg and slowly dragged its huge fat frame up his meek, thin body, the fat cat literally climbing onto the poor souls back, like a ton weight, making him walk toward the huge crowd with a defeated expression. "Why me..."

Honoria

In one of the inn’s dark recesses sat a quiet woman draped in a long grey hooded robe. The old dirty wool did not make a fancy piece of clothing, but it served well enough to keep her hidden in the room’s dim light. Upon arriving in Nepharie, Honoria had been left feeling vulnerable amongst the open sea of fields; there were no thick forests to hide her trail or to shelter her from the wind. Worse still, the damaged shade came across far more people than she was used to and the men all seemed to stare at her in the same fashion as the Red Legion scum not so long ago. With some reluctance she brought the robe off a travelling merchant and had worn it ever since. “…I have never run that fast in my life!” boomed a voice from a table not too far away, and it was followed by a chorus of laughter. Honoria tiredly rubbed her eyes as she felt the onset of a headache. She was not used to the sheer chaos of noise that emanated from a city, let alone from the nearby group in the dainty tavern. She was struggling to eavesdrop on as many people as she could, desperate to hear to whispers about the Red Legion. In the few days that she had been staying there she had been told a few rumours, but she learned the hard way that asking every soul that came through the door was a waste of time; instead she merely sat alone with open ears. “How can people live like this?” she muttered quietly under her breath as she took a bite of the bread in front of her. Before a couple of days ago she had never eaten the stuff, and she found it to be rather dry and tasteless. She sat perplexed for a moment and wondered if it tasted much different to the small wooden table that it had been sitting on - not that she was willing to find the answer to that question. She could smell the rich aromas of other dishes around the room and she contemplated ordering something else, but knew that their menu lacked dishes with no meat. She was completely vegan, although her belly and nose seemed to want to argue otherwise. “Ey, lady!” called a burly man from a nearby doorway, “Could you, erm, sort ya fella out? I need to change some barrels!” Honoria simply nodded in response before her black smoky eyes became diluted with swirls of red. Colubra, her Shadow-Snake, had been granted lodging in the Tavern’s basement. Whilst the Landlord had been initially against letting a giant snake into the building, they had quickly realised that it was the perfect solution to the giant rat problem. Still, many of the bar staff understandably wouldn’t go near the thing unless Honoria did her little magic trick to control it. “Thanks” said the bartender before making his way down. He grimaced as he entered the dank basement to find more rat entrails strewn over the place, but at least Colubra (whose eyes now also had swirls of red) was curled up in the far off corner. The man didn’t understand how a snake, who supposedly ate most things whole, could somehow be such a disastrously messy eater. Back upstairs, although Honoria was unable to tell, a few new faces walked into the tavern and a few people begun to mutter their anxiety at the presence of a dragon and a giant scorpion.

Kuruk

Dark emotions filled the stone streets of Maceron, its people fleeting around in fear of the coming fight. There was perhaps a singular smile amidst the chaos, and it rested upon Kuruk’s menacing face. “We crush little men!” laughed the giant Centaur as he slapped a nearby guard on the back. The young guard simply crumbled under the brute’s hand which caused him to laugh even louder. “Argh! I fucking love a good fight!” he beamed loud enough for all nearby to hear. Most people simply blocked out the hulk and his exclamations in their attempts at getting to safety, but it he seemed to be frightening the nearby guards. Well, him or impending Red Legion forces. “Why can’t we fight now?!” he shouted at a nearby commander, but the man simply waved Kuruk away. Kuruk began to get impatient and hyper, like a young child on Christmas Eve, and so found himself cantering up and down the busy streets in anticipation. “Come on Daisy, around the big horse man thing” muttered a small old man off to Kuruk’s side. The centaur turned to find a feeble old elven farmer slowly guiding a fat dairy cow. The farmer looked up at the giant to find him giving his precious cow a strange grin. “Erm… can I- er- help you sir?” mumbled the farmer rather nervously. The farmer was short, even for an elf, and he removed his flat cap to show respect. “How much for this pretty little thing?” Kuruk drooled as he lovingly stroked the cow’s face. Daisy seemed oblivious to the situation and let out an offensive gust of wind. “Ooo! That sound’s healthy!” he chuckled, “I bet she’ll be a lot of fun!” The farmer was confused for a moment, but then he realised what a male horse man might want with a female cow. “What? No! She’s not for sale!” cried the farmer, mortified by the situation. “Oh come on! You can have her back afterwards…” Kuruk replied as he slid his hand along the cow to her hide. “No! Leave Daisy alone!” whelped the farmer. “He’s trying to have it off with my cow! Someone help!” he begun to scream when he realised the Centaur was no longer paying him any attention. The street was packed with people, including guards, so surely someone nearby could save the farmer and his poor Daisy.

Morag-Nog "Sorry, Ma'am, but we cannot take that job...." The thin human man in leather armor, stated. Getting a stern glare from the gigantic Morag-Nog. The orcess whom was sitting across from him. He brushed a strand of his dirty blond hair and placed his drink back on the table. Hearing the news, Morag-Nog didn't lose her composure. Not one bit. She took a sip of her drink, wine, while keeping her eyes on the table. One table of many in this dark tavern that was lit up by the fireplace on the other side of the room. Expensive wine, but it tastes better than the moonshine these people call. She stopped. "I thought you and your group were a reputable team of mercenaries. I am offering top dollar for this job." She said to the mercenary calmly as possible. Because getting angry won't solve anything. Nor does she intend on letting her inner-irritation slip. The man leaned back into his chair, and both his hands behind his head. Good. He didn't put his feet on the table. Otherwise Morag-Nog would have considered cutting them off. "But, this job's suicide. No one can fight the Red Legion and walk away from it." Morag-Nog placed her cup on the table. Responding in a matter-of-fact tone, "Then don't fight them..." Her eyes came up from the table and to the mercenary. "All I'm asking you to do is get some weapons from the Red Legion. I didn't say fight-" "I said forget about it." The man interrupted her. He pushed his chair out from underneath the table. "An Orc like yourself would break the gun before you got to use it anyway." The bastard had to make one snide comment before he walked off. Morag-Nog didn't even look. She merely sighed and got off the chair. The loud tap of her cane hitting the wooden floor would have echoed if it wasn't drowned out. Her stride was more of a limp, her weight was on one side. She pushed open with her shoulder. She was immediately assaulted by the cold winter winds of Maceron. She took a step in the streets before closing the door behind her. Ugh! That's the fourth Mercenary group she went to. They all said no. What does she have to do to get some competent mercenaries to get her some of their guns? Why was everyone so afraid of the Red Legion they won't take a simple mission against them? Morag-Nog realized that it's something she can't pay someone to do. A mission she'll have to go on herself... Which is easier said than done. But, Morag-Nog stopped. Leaning on her cane. Something was odd here. The crowds were hectic... panicked, as if they seen a ghost. Morag-Nog furrowed her brows as she looked closer. She looked up and saw smoke in the distance. If it's who she thinks it is... Someone must have an answer to this.

To a passerby looking into the training courtyard, one might be surprised to find the young Feuille engaging in what appeared at first glance to be a set of push ups. Only after a bit of examination would one find him not going about it the way one should, instead holding the upper position, sweat beading off of his brow as he clenched his muscles in concentration, trying his best not to fall. About a meter away, in the same position, was a southern Nepharian, calmly staring at the ground in a complete opposite demeanor to the boy. The exercise in question was plancha retenida, designed to gain total control over one's muscles, learn that patience is key, and most importantly, to become more in tune with your body. Because of its importance, Tanzanno could often find himself able to hold the position up to four hours at a time. The boy, on the other hand, was barely managing ten minutes. Tanzanno always found himself amused at the vigor and shear cockiness that young men often exhibited. As if swordplay was just simply bashing each other with sticks, only to find themselves baffled at being beaten by old Tanz. The young ones in Orarius knew better from the constant beatings he had given them. But the son of the Councilor? The boy in question had no idea what he would be getting into. A letter sent by pigeon to Tanzanno had required his presence in The Capital. Not being one to deny such a request, he had saddled up onto a courser, ridden the many leagues, and finally arrived after a few weeks of travel only to be socked up to train yet another child. Not that Tanzanno was complaining, but it would have been nice to do something different for once. Still, Tanzanno, even with his infinite pool of patience, often disliked the children of noblemen. Feuille especially, being the Chancellor of the entire country. Children under men of such power had a tendency to behave like stuck up brats. Thankfully, Tanzanno had been given complete permission to whip the boy up into shape, and that he intended to do. His first steps were to test the endurance and dexterity of the boy, both of which were seemingly lacking. So many of them just wanted to get right into the midst of whacking each other over the head, but what good is holding a sword if you can't swing in for hours at a time? In his deep thought, Tanzanno looked back to the incident that had occurred earlier that day as he stared into the warm stone. It was an incident that smelled of disaster and chaos. Having been standing in a corner, listening to the procedures and meetings that took place in the Council, a certain group arrived that seemingly only wished to cause trouble. Ignion, it was a strange word that fell harshly on the tongue. Even more harsh was their demand that Nepharie surrender completely to the brigands. The whole ordeal ended in four brave soldiers dead, struck down by what could only have been described as the domination of thunder. Tanzanno's hands had dropped to his two weapons, but it was all over as soon as it began, leaving behind only widows. A loud buckling of limbs and a thud on the cobble ground interrupted his train of thought, and Tanzanno stood up with a slight sigh. The Feuille boy had managed a total of ten minutes, twenty two seconds. Compared to his own record, it was pitiable at best, but he had only gained such a feat through practice and more practice upon said practice. "Well, you made it longer than I expected... its a start at least." His slight praise was met with a moan of dread. "Now, twenty laps around the courtyard. Come on, boy, do try and keep up with an old man!"

As the crowds began to die down and the number of people fleeing from the walls decreased from a river to a trickle, Iro stepped out of the alley and began to walk towards the city walls. Mitos clumsily waddled after him, still chewing a head of cabbage with his thick molars. The dragon was a notoriously messy eater, leaving a trail fragments behind him as he lumbered on, trying to avoid the people still moving towards the castle. The guards were dressed in slate grey long-sleeved hauberks, the tassets of which came down to their knees, with slits in the front and back for mobility. Over this they wore steel spaulders and surcoats split down the middle royal blue and gold. They wore high leather boots on their feet and on their heads rested steel horsemen’s pots, some with face masks and some without. They carried tall steel halberds, but some of them now held longbows or crossbows. Blue capes with the Talbor coat of arms on them (a ram’s head) in gold denoted the officers, most of whom rode horses and carried swords. Iro approached one of the officers who sat on the ground and began to speak with him; “Excuse me sir,” he said “but I am a priest of Matrem. Is there any way which I can assist you and your men?” “What? We don’t need no help from you do-gooder fairies!” the captain barked at him “We’ll be perfectly fine without your arrogant faggotry. Now begone!” Rage filled up in Iro, but he dared not to strike the man. Not only would it be against his oaths, but this man had superior numbers on his side, and stories of what humans did to fairfolk criminals. He turned away and began to walk away towards the castle when another voice called out: “Aye there! Don’t treat a possible asset with such cruelty, you knave!” Coming down the street was a Knight of the Ram on horseback. He was a sight to behold, his steel plate armor decorated with gold and his fluted armet helmet resting under his arm, its golden ram horns catching the light attractively. A blue-and-gold cape cascaded down his back and flowed behind him as his warhorse, decorated in plate armor and a red-and-gold caparisun, trotted swiftly down the street and stopped a few feet from the guardsman. The knight’s face was pale and grave-looking, with a thick dark mustache and long wavy brown hair. A silver medallion in the shape of a shield hung around his neck. A bejeweled heavy cavalry sabre hung from his belt, and a blue kiteshield with a golden ram visage was strapped to his left arm. There was a crossbow on his back. “Ah! Goodday, Sir Caldwell!” the guardsman said apologetically “Are they sending an attack?” “Aye, sergeant.” Sir Caldwell replied “We are going to attempt to flank the Red Legion men and attack their artillery. The scouts say that they are toting around massive iron cylinders which fire great balls of iron at fortifications. As for you, my good sir,” Caldwell now turned to Iro “I sincerely apologize for this knave’s offensive comments to you. While the guards may not believe that they need your assistance, I know that the men and women at the hospital would say otherwise. We have many wounded men from battles with the Red Legion, and a spot of cholera has infected some of the water supply in the southeastern portion of the city. You may find use of your talents there.” A trumpet blew nearby, and several more knights joined Sir Caldwell with their helmets on. A few carried lances or swords, but most of them toted crossbows. “I must be on my way, gentlemen.” Sir Caldwell said, donning his helmet and causing his horse to rear up “I shall return, noble subjects!” With that, Sir Caldwell rode off towards the city gates, which opened as he and his men rode through. Iro walked off, the large turtle lumbering behind him, and the head guardsman mounted his horse and walked off to where archers were filing up the stairs to the top of the walls. Iro wasn't quite sure where the hospital was, and so he approached an orc woman with a limp who was walking down the street (ie Morag). "Excuse me, madam." he said "Do you know where the city's hospital is located?" --- <-(Clickable) After the guardsman and the priest were gone, one of the other guards, one with a face mask and dust cloth obscuring his identity, slipped into an alleyway, leaving his halberd leaning against a wall. He walked slowly and cautiously, his right hand moving towards his belt every time he heard a loud noise. He weaved his way through the streets and dark alleyways until he came upon a sturdy-looking wooden door and knocked three times. The door was opened from the inside, and he entered a small square room with a trapdoor in the middle of it. Standing just inside of the door were two men dressed exactly as he was, and two torches near where they stood lit the room dimly. The guard opened the trapdoor and descended a ladder into a dank cellar with walls of stone. The cellar was square in shape, with a pool of water in the middle and torches along the walls. Nitre and moss clung to the walls, and against the far walls sat barrels of wine, covered in dust and cracked with age. It was obvious that no one had been down there for quite some time. At the other end of the room, against the wall, another ladder ascended to somewhere else. Four guardsmen, clothed exactly as the first one was, sat around the room. Two of them appeared to be sleeping on mats of straw on the floor, and two larger men sat with rifles on their knees, obviously security guards. The first guardsman walked up to the pool of water and, removing his helmet, gently stuck his face into it, disturbing the water as little as possible. The water began to glow violet, and back in General Wesserius’ camp a crystal ball began to glow. “The army of Talbor is sending its Knights of the Ram to attack our artillery!” the spy said “Be prepared!”

The city of Maceron came into view as a man clad in dark robes crested the hill, leading a horse by the reins and carrying a tall wooden staff in his right hand. The blue-skinned individual stopped on the hill and looked out below him toward the city with smoke issuing from its center while simultaneously gathering his robes closer to himself in the cold air. Empty road was all that lay between him and the city now; good thing too, as he was running low on road rations. With a slight tug, the young Ogre pulled the horse along down the hill and down the last stretch of road toward his destination once more. After the trio began their descent, it was a short walk to the city. When he came to the gates, Heoron found them closing up and the guards laughing hysterically over something or other. In the midst of their laughing, the guards waved Heoron on. Confused, he nodded and walked through the gates. ”I wonder what has them so indisposed,” Heoron thought to himself as he entered the industrial gem of a city. ”Perhaps it has something to do with the man in black with the cat. I saw him pass through the gates before us,” a different voice answered within Heoron’s mind. On the outside Heoron appeared to be walking along and minding his own business, but in reality he was communicating telepathically with the floating blue orb of fire located between the two slopes at the top of his staff. Heoron directed his gaze to the man in question, watching as he made his way down the street with an obese Siamese cat clinging to his shoulders. ”That man’s no bigger than a twig. That cat’s going to snap him in half.” A short chuckle entered Heoron’s mind from the Will-o-Wisp as the young Ogre continued on his way down the street through the bustling crowds. After he managed to navigate through the crowd to the stable, Heoron scanned the scene and only now noticed the second column of smoke rising in the distance amongst the snow falling from the dark clouds overhead. From that and the crowd bustling around him frantically, Heoron pieced together that the city was preparing for some sort of attack. After paying to stable his horse, he turned to find a guard to find out if his conclusion was correct when he heard the tail end of a conversation nearby between a guard and a Fairfolk man. “... iron boulders to bring down the walls of the impenetrable city, siah,” the guard spoke over the den caused by the crowd. “Excellent, then. I sure hope you’re right,” the Fairfolk man replied. Heoron started toward the pair when he heard a commotion down the street. When he looked, he saw a centaur patting the hindquarters of cow. Shaking his head to clear it of that image and what it could possibly mean, the young mage turned back toward the pair, but they had vanished when he had his back turned toward the centaur and the cow. Heoron looked around before noticing a trail of lettuce and began following it before Ithenul spoke up. "Heoron, look over there. Down the alley to your left." The Ogre followed the direction and redirected his gaze toward the alley. A guard wearing a mask and dust cloth to obscure his face broke away from the crowd and slipped into the alley, laying his halberd down and looking as though he did not want to be followed. "How strange. As a guard he should be heading in a direction to help, and he looks like he doesn't want to be followed especially wearing a mask like that. Let's find out why." After the Will-o-Wisp agreed, Heoron slipped through the crowd and into the alley, adopting a lighter step so the man would be none the wiser that he was being followed. When he saw the guard heading toward a door, Heoron entered his mind and brought forth the feeling of loneliness he had felt at Wilem's passing and cast an illusion about himself, a dark purple cloud swirling around the length of his body briefly before dispersing. As the guard stepped through the door, Heoron watched from right behind him unseen thanks to his illusion masking him as a stretch of wall.

A needle. A needle in the shoulder. Burrowing, deeper and deeper. The soldier's vision quickly reinstates itself as he pries his eyes open, grunting in pain. A low yell as the needle scrapes against a bone, and suddenly, it retreats. The soldier hangs his head, breathing heavily. He feels his hands and feet bound by chains. He feels the splintered wooden chair pressing into his back. There is the faintest light from a lantern, seated on the rocky floor below. He slowly looks up at the figure conducting this cruelty. Regal garbs lead upward to a head lost in the darkness of the room, save for two enormous, blank white eyes. Peering through his own. "Name." The figure says with a stern, muffled voice. The soldier hesitated, but soon enough, he cracked. "Daron..." He said through short breaths, "Daronais... Wellant..." "Role." The figure says. "Go to hell..." The soldier replies halfheartedly. The figure raises his hand and drives the needle through Daronais's other shoulder. He yells in agony, attempting to kick his feet and writhe free of his binds. All of his attempts are fruitless. Eventually he yields, and the needle is slowly removed. "Wess-... Wesserius..." He mutters, "I am... one of Wesserius'... reconnaissance agents..." "Which places you upon a higher echelon than his troops. I stole you away while you crept upon Alscae in the night. Near the Tartarus mountain range." The torturer says, "You have value." "He doesn't value any of us..." Daronais snapped back. "Of course he doesn't." Sounded the figure, "You're nothing but tools to him. To me, however, you are flesh. Life. Sentience. And that's well enough to aid me in my pursuits." He leaned in closer to Daronais, revealing his horrid visage - dark, matted feathers, and a pointed beak. "You will tell me what you know of Wesserius's plans. Where he is going. What he intends to do. Everything. You have two excuses. If you lie to me... the needle will tear the flesh again. Twice more beyond that... and you will regret your answers." "I don't know anything..." Daronais says to him. The torturer promptly raises his needle and pushes it between the soldier's lips, scraping the roof of his mouth before violently waving it out of his teeth. Daronais gags, spitting a bit of blood on the rock floor beneath his chair. He picks at the wound with his tongue as his captor wipes the blood off of the needle. "Lies..." He says, "Will only bring you closer and closer to the brink of the alternative method. You do not desire such. I know this. And many before you have as well." He paced around Daronais, holding the needle near his head. "Many nights. Many encampments. Many men lost in the dark. Few returned, writhing in their sleep, spilling horrid things from between their bruised lips." A cold, gloved hand rests itself upon Daronais's shoulder. He feels the needle at his cheek. And the faintest of whispers in his ear... "_{Do you know who I am.}" "_The..." Daronais whispers back, "_{The Lord... the Lord of Owls...}" The needle leaves his cheek. "The Red Legion speaks little of me." The Lord of Owls says to him, "I am but chatter and gossip among your lessers. A rumor. A joke, even. Especially to one such as Wesserius, so... devoid of concern. But he's sloppy... leaving a still-scorching trail..." The needle is once again set before Daronais's face. "You have used one of your two excuses. Lie to me twice more... and you will know true fear." "It's the truth, I swear..." He replies, cringing, "The General... Wesserius, he, he never even delegates his charts or plans to us, he just... makes everything up as he goes along!" His answer was met with a slash across his forehead, which began to bleed rather profusely for such a small cut. "You've no exuses left. One more lie..." He gently placed his upon the soldier's shoulder and raised the needle to his eye. "South!" Daronais said through quick breaths and sweat. "South! South, he's... I heard him say he was moving south, that's it, I swear..." The needle retreats. "There's not much shortly south of Ignion worth burning." The Lord of Owls says, "The Wilderness... all mysteries and folklore. I know what he truly wishes to burn. People. Establishments. Civilization." He looks down at Daronais with those horrible eyes again. "He's headed for Maceron." The soldier does not respond, but merely hangs his head in shame, knowing he's outlived his usefulness by now. "Just... kill me..." He mutters, "You got what you want, just..." "No." The needle raises under Daronais's chin, cutting him as the Lord of Owls meets his gaze. "I will send you back to him." He says, "I will have you tell him what you experienced here. You will tell him the Lord of Owls is real, and that I am coming for him. He will know fear that breaks down his wall of arrogance. And this time, so they have cause to listen to what they would normally denounce as inane babble..." He pulls a contraption from within his cloak and swiftly clamps it down on Daronais's head. Bars and wires shift and spread, firmly grasping his cranium and pulling his eyelids apart. He sees a differnent needle now... a red one... inch further and further towards his eye. "You will be marked." There are screams. But no one hears them. No one who cares.

Morag-Nog Through the chaos, screaming citizens, and Red Legion panic, Morag-Nog got picked ou. Morag-Nog stopped, and placed her cane on the ground. Before turning towards Iro, and giving him a glance from the side. Grinning impishly. Must be her lucky day. Though, her reputation must precede her. The talented Morag-Nog walking through the streets of this city of fools? Someonemust be stopping to help her. Or taking what little money she has on her. With everything going crazy, he must think the crippled orc would make easy picking. Morag-Nog kept one hand near the dagger on her hip. Close enough for her to draw it and poke his eye out. Well, he's in for a surprise. The man, he appeared human, an attractive human. But Morag-Nog felt he wasn't fully human. That skin... she didn't spend enough time around the other races to tell. Morag-Nog could tell he was a warrior. His build, his weapons, the way he carried himself. It was too obvious. She spent too much time around his type. Long before she became the inventor that she spent decades becoming. Hmph. She sneered. Any fool can carry a sword, but this man could be helpful to her. He was on a mission, and Morag-Nog felt that she could figure out what is going on. She pulled that hand away. She turned towards Iro, with her cane offering support all the way. "I may know where it is," Morag-Nog answered calmly, taking a step towards Iro. "But I need you to answer a question for me first..." She nodded, and slowly turned towards the raging crowds of people. "What is going on? Is the city under attack?"

Kane Bounevialle

@Fat Boy Kyle @The_written_John

The winter day was bitter and harsh, but not even a snowflake would fall over the city – not that it would be called as such. With the steel workers slaving away in the factories, and the smoke of coal fires billowing up into the sky, any and all snow would either melt in its heat and rain down as acid water, or take in its impurities and fall gently down black as the smoke itself, as though it were simply ash. It was curious in its symbolism. Talbor had a beautiful countryside. Its fields and mountains were wonders to behold, yet here, in the city, it was filth inside and out. Centered around industry. There was a time that Kane could see the beauty in the town, but the ignorance that had once blinded him to the truth has since faded, enacted by the catalysts that were all around him. The poor in the streets. The sick in their beds. The rioting at the steps, and the sinful in hiding; he had saw most but not all before three months ago, but finding the final jigsaw piece allowed him to put the whole picture together. Maceron really was filth. If by anything other than its government, there was hope for restoring the country to the way it used to be. Full of pride and innovation, making its riches off the plentiful resources that had surrounded them. The Ferdinand monarchy, however, was the blockade that halted Talbor's recovery. For as long as they remained in control – as long as they allowed their people to suffer – there would be no healing Talbor. Kane sighed heavily as his post near the statue of Draco Ferdinand in central Maceron. Such introspective monologuing and depression was exhausting. And distracting. He looked up at the statue next to which he posted himself. What a shame that the artists couldn't capture the serpentine eyes that he brandished, or his forked tongue. A pair of footsteps and clatter of armor approached him from the side, and Kane turned to face a friendly face at the sound of a man clearing his voice. It was Oscar. “How're you doing, cap'?” He said with a smile. Rosy cheeks almost as red as his curly hair was quite a peculiar sight to behold of a man decked in some of the heaviest armor in the guard. Most guards had to share a uniform, but as G-2, they did at least have the perks in wearing and using what they excelled in. Kane just met him with a gentle smile. “I am doing fine. Thank you.” Oscar appeared to pick up on his solemn mood, and went to take his mind off Draco Ferdinand. “So, you know how you had me posted by the front gate, right?” “Yes?” Kane replied as he narrowed his brows. “Right, right – before you get upset about that, I got Alexander covering for me. So like I was saying. Just before the front gate, there was this noble-looking fellow, right? Obviously not from around here, probably from Nepharie or something. He was an absolute goon. He was talking to a cat and everything. But no, listen, not just talking to the cat, but he was angry. A full blown argument.” Kane raised a suspicious eyebrow in response. “That sounds... fictitious.” “Look, I know that, I know. But it happened. He's probably not right in the head or something... but that's not all! This cat, you see – perfect timing, I kid you not – projectile vomited all over his face. A whole big spiel, a big rant – just dismissed in the most perfect way possible. By a cat. I don't know if I'll ever be able to beat that.” “I don't think I can believe all that.” Kane said, sounding slightly unamused. “Okay, well, just trust me. I let him in and he should be walking around town. I don't think you'll be able to miss him.” “Oh. So, assuming this isn't another joke of yours, we now have a crazy person roaming Maceron?” Oscar only shrugged. “No crazier than the lot we already have. Really, he might be a few ingots short of a beam, but I believe he's harmless. Not like... the kind of people already here, you know?” Oscar managed to crack a smile out of Kane, but it was one more solemn. A smile of pity for the city's sake. “You're right about that. I'll give you that one.” The two of them walked away from the city square, turning their backs to the statue of king Draco Ferdinand. As the two walked down the brick-layed streets – an unfamiliar viewpoint, as they had always rode on their horses inside of town back when they were knights – they acknowledged the expressions of the people they walked past. Once they were full of awe and respect, and admiration. They still wore those faces even now, but they were impure expressions. They now also bore pity in their faces, and sympathy. Once great Knights of the Ram reduced to guardsmen. The common idea of thinking that being a guard even remotely amounted to anything resembling a knight was borderline heresy. Disrespectful. And to reduce a knight to “simple” guardsmen, the common folk felt, was to add insult to injury. And perhaps to some knights, that'd be the case. Not for G-2. True knights served the common folk, were honorable, and abide by the code of chivalry. Nobility had nothing to do with that, and even as guardsmen, they were greater knights than even Sir Rudolph Fallon. At least G-2 served the people for the people's sake. All five of them shared this sentiment. They had become brothers since they shared a bottle of Bounevialle wine one night, and since then, that bond had not even wavered. Kane looked up at the sky to see another black cloud. Not one from inside the city, but further off. Red Legion. To keep Kane's regiment within the walls was an insult to their skills. Ferdinand probably wants an eye to be kept on the regiment, to be sure they didn't run off and perhaps return with an army. He could still take advantage of this though. Garnering the support of the local citizens. That's what was most crucial. The rest could wait. The peculiar sounds of squealing and mooing echoed out further down the road. Kane and Oscar looked at each other, puzzled, and hurried their pace. Moving around the corner, they saw the cause for commotion. A large, burly centaur – likely the one that they saw marching through the gates earlier today. “Oh come on! You can have her back afterwards...” His heavy voice droned. A small elven farmer was nearby and mortified. “No! Leave Daisy alone! He's trying to have it off with my cow! Someone help!” "This is so wrong..." Oscar muttered. Another young man in armor came marching in to his rescue. It was John, from Kane's own regiment. “Hey!” He shouted at the centaur. Of course it was him. Nobody outside of G-2 would have bothered to help. “John!” Kane called out to him. He and Oscar approached the scene as well. With the centaur trying get frisky with a cow, a distressed elf, and three-fifths of the esteemed G-2 regiment present, the alleyway was starting to gather quite a bit of attention. Kane was perceptive of this and the forming crowd. If he could get through this without instigating a fight, that'd be ideal. John looked over to see his captain, and gave him a nervous smile. Kane simply nodded to him in praise and looked up at the tall centaur to handle this matter himself. Oscar stood next to him with his arms crossed. “What seems to be the problem here?” Kane interjected, his forceful voice projecting over the background noise and carrying through the air. He damn well knew what the problem was; it was a tagged cow belonging to the farmer, and the centaur couldn't get a hold of his fetishes. This was protocol, however. “He's having his way with my Daisy!” The old elf cried. “Get him to stop! T-this... this isn't right!” Kane nodded and looked up at the centaur. He was mostly unfazed, but he was worried about the possibility of such a large creature getting angry and having a fight break out in this busy street. “Sir?” Kane said in his address to the centaur. “If this is indeed the case, then I cannot permit you to continue this behavior. If you back away from... Daisy, now, there won't be any issues. I'm sure you'll find plenty of undomesticated cows out in the countryside.”

“According to the guards, there is an army outside of the gate.” Iro said “They are called The Red Legion. I have heard of them before. They’re an army operating out of a kingdom known as Ignion in the Wilderness. They’ve been attacking colonies and burning them to the ground. No one knows what happens to the survivors. They apparently are using some strange magical weapons as well, like crossbow-like weapons which fire slugs of metal and machines that shoot burning boulders of iron.” Mitos, however, had no interest whatsoever with boulders of iron or burning colonies. Mitos was hungry; Mitos was always hungry; and when Mitos was hungry, the sole sensory reception which he cared about was his nose. He smelled a scent from nearby and, as Iro spoke, began to waddle off towards the smell of freshly-smoked sausage. He began to waddle down a narrow alley, bumping into wooden crates and knocking over barrels as he wandered, his eyes closed and his nose in the air. He came to the end of the alley, where he smelled some kind of person. They smelled quite familiar, like the trees at home, and one of the blue glowy-thingies was with them. Mitos liked the blue glowy thingies; they made the berries on trees grow faster so that Mitos could eat them and they were always so nice. Maybe the person and the glowy thingy could tell him where the food was. Mitos walked up to the person, who seemed to be trying to blend in for some silly reason, and nudged their leg with his gargantuan head, hoping to get their attention. “So, where are you guys headed?” Apollos asked. The four travellers were now arranged differently, with Arya and Tucker sitting across the empty table from Apollos and Asher. Tucker had his arm lazily slung around Arya’s shoulders, and with his free hand he haphazardly played a simple tune on a flute. Asher winced every time he hit a high note, and stared at the flute with resentment. “Oh, uh…” Arya began motioning her hands awkwardly in an attempt to convey whatever she was thinking. “It’s funny you ask that, see, as Tucker said about our quest. The problem is we… accidently burned our map. We managed to find the capital out of sheer dumb luck. If we hadn’t flipped the coin fifteen times at every fork in the road we came across we’d probably be in the north lands or in the middle of the woods right about now.” she said, a whimsical grin on her face at the situation they were in. Tucker’s lips tugged upwards, but he didn’t stop playing, rather he removed his arm from the elf’s shoulders and began to actually play seriously with both hands. He was good. Very good. “Exactly how did you manage to do that?” Apollos asked, smiling. The man was approaching closer from behind Asher. That sound, the high-pitched droning of the flute, it maddened her. "Uh, lets say that I didn't feed someone enough and she got pissy." Tucker said, cutting his song to answer Apollos' question. "Why do you ask? Planning on coming along for the adventure?" By this point Arya's face was being cradled in her hands, propped up by her elbows on the wooden table. She could deal with Tucker, but two men of similar caliber? She was tempted to off herself right there. Before anyone else could speak up, however, a low growling voice came from behind Asher, startling her. “Excuse me,” the large hooded figure said “Did you say that your name was Stormfront?” Asher turned around and gasped; it was him! She had heard rumors that her father had sent another man to come and find her, but now she knew these rumors to be true. She locked eyes with Apollos, who pulled his sword from where it stuck in the table and cracked his neck loudly. “Who’s asking?” Apollos snapped back. "And now we're drawing weapons. Brilliant." Tucker said, leaning back in his seat and turning around to watch the spectacle. Arya's eyebrow shot up, and her lips tugged into a small smile. She turned around to enjoy the show as well, after all she had front row seats. The man in the hooded cloak, however, did not seem to be interested in fighting. As Apollos moved to swing his sword at him, the man grabbed him by the wrist, wrenched the sword from his hand, and shoved it back into the table. The man’s hood fell down, revealing a distinctly Orcish face and long black dreadlocks streaked with grey. “So this is the who you replaced my Kjed with?” Bjorn Svero said, hoisting Apollos in the air by his arm and appraising him as if he were a large fish “Shameful.” “Bjorn!” Asher’s terror was replaced with elation as Bjorn dropped Apollos and embraced her warmly. A moment or two later, Asher’s elation turned into concern, and she looked up from the embrace with confusion in her eyes. “Why did you come and find me? Is something rotten in Ensom?” “No, but there is something rotten in Tithe.” Bjorn said “I’ve come up north to investigate a dangerous group of men known as the Red Legion. It is said that they fight with weapons more powerful than any others in Tithe, and have vowed to burn all magic to the ground.” "Well, while this goes down, I'm going to go outside and make sure someone doesn't get upset at the noise." Tucker said, promptly standing up. "Good, I'll make sure no one dies. Tell Cali we're all good."Arya replied curtly with a nod of her head. As Tucker walked towards the door, there was a shout of surprise and some kind of reptilian roar that made Apollos’ hair stand up on the back of his neck. He knew that roar. It was the roar of a… “Dragon!” a man called from outside. Immediately the bar was drenched in chaos. Apollos grabbed his sword from where it was stuck in the table and, shoving several people out of the way, sprinted towards the door. “I’ll take care of it!” he shouted “Or my name isn’t Apollos Dominico Claudio del-” the rest was cut off as he exited the building. "Fuckin' shit." Tucker said, racing out the door only a few moments before Apollos did. Cali was on the roof, and he didn't want to bring her down to the ground where everyone could take a swing at her. Dragon scales or not. He looked to his right, seeing the horse stalls (which were barren of horses) and to his left, where... A scorpion around the size of a small house rested comfortably. He didn't have time for this shit. Apollos had run out the door by now and Tucker took the horse's route, sprinting towards it's wall and planted his foot on the wall, taking a solid step upwards. This gained him enough height to pull himself onto the roof of the horse stalls. He jumped from the stall to the roof of the tavern, quite nearly falling off as he landed on the steeper incline, and was snatched up by his own dragon as soon as he stood to his full height, at as speed almost too fast to be properly registered. Apollos was taking the long route, attempting to scale the side of the building. He didn’t know what the mad bard was trying to do, but he certainly wasn’t going to let another dragon get away. Arya, at this point had fought her way out of the tavern, and used the hook end of her staff to grab Apollos' ankle and pull him onto the ground. "Wait." she said. Arya held Apollos as staff-point for a few more moments before pulling it back to herself. "There is more to this than you think." As if it was a theatrical performance, several powerful gusts of wind began kicking up dust and pebbles. Some of the men who had grabbed their weapons and come outside the tavern had to steady themselves against the beats. A huge shape blocked out the sun for a moment, before it landed about sixty feet away from Apollos and the tavern. A large and brilliant scaly and feathery blue creature. The sheen to it's scales and horns meaning it was very well taken care of. It had two huge wings, which folded neatly on its flanks, and two huge and muscled back legs that put the creature at, at least ten feet tall. Each tipped with four taloned toes. It had a long neck and a large three foot head, with two large horns coming out of the back of it's cranium. It's whole body was balanced out by a large and thick tail which was tipped in the signature arrowhead that nearly all dragons had. A wyvern. Upon it's back was a saddle, and on the saddle sat the bard. "This is who I didn't feed enough, by the way." Tucker proclaimed to Apollos. "Cali, these people won’t harm you if you don't harm them, that a deal?" Tucker said, leaning forward and patting the back of the dragon's neck. The beast rumbled, but made no sudden moves, seemingly intent on watching the few humans before it. Bjorn and Asher exited the building and Apollos struggled to his feet, swords in both hands. He was about to attack when he realized that this was no normal dragon, but a domestic one, the kind he had only heard legends about. “You’re a dragon rider!?” Apollos shouted. "I'm nothing special." Tucker said firmly. He patted the Wyvern's neck, which lowered itself somewhat as Tucker slid off it's side. "She could probably leave at any time. She's the special one. I'm just a bard lucky enough to call her my friend." He continued. "But I guess technically you could call me a rider, yes."

@Maxx @Leonerdo ------------------------------ "ACHOO!" Bartleby suddenly let out of violent sneeze as the noble proceeded down the clustered streets of Maceron, shivering, the man heavily began to rub his arms and look around him, noticing the gates behind him were now completely locked down, there was smoke and ash all around and it was colder than ever before, Bartleby couldn't help but let out another whiny groan, while at the same time, his hand as if possessed quickly and without thought swiped under a market stall, snatching what appeared to be a cold, slightly frozen apple from the stall, in the chaos nobody was able even to see the deft hands of the lordly coward, and despite his cowardly nature, his addiction to "acquiring" goods that were not his own acted purely on his own instinct, a trait of his kleptomania. Bartleby took a heavy bite out of the apple and slowly chewed on its distasteful flavor, grimacing with each bite he regretfully savored, speaking with his mouth full of the chewed up mush, looking to his right to speak to the boulder that loomed over his shoulder, as heavy as a large rock, years of treatment helping Bartleby persevere its weight, and luckily having not crushed him into a fine paste. "Yer' Know...! Shumtimsh, I carnt herp but wanner... Ish somefin off about thish shity?" He asked questionably to the fat boulder, the gelatinous mass of fur and cat simply replied with a droll and uninterested meow, and quickly snatched the apple with its fangs and engulfed the half the remaining apple with a single snatch, before the feline reared its head back and with a putrid gag, vomited the apple onto the stone cold streets of Maceron, hissing at it for its disgusting taste, Bartleby raising an eyebrow at his companion before swallowing the half of apple he had been chewing for an unreasonably long amount of time, speaking up to his cat with a hint of sarcasm, while continuing to casually head down the street, sliding odd trinkets and little odds and ends into his pockets, with the people around him none the wiser as his hands slithered and snatched snake like their odds and ends from their pockets, like a phantom. "Oh wow! Disgusting apple that has been lying in a market stall for god knows how long tastes bad? Golly gee, shin, I'm glad you solved the mystery of that one! What's the next on the agenda, shin? You going to tell me that licking your own ass tastes like it? B- because if you are, you might be in for a shocker, but I can already guess that would be the case!" The rotund ball of lard simply let out a couple of meows, which made Bartleby grimace, twirling a small necklace around his index finger casually, his other hand laid upon his hat, as he fixated it upon his head, making sure it wouldn't fall off. "Oh right, there was no honey. Of course, put anything on honey and its edible to you...! Gods forbid, I drenched you in honey, you'd eat yourself! Come right up, one and all to the the self devouring cat for only fifty Reon Look at his work, Ye mighty and DESPAIR!" He spoke in a ham like way, pointing to shin with annoyance, deciding to look at his cat for a reaction only to find it planting its tongue against his cheek, attempting to lick away the taste of the apple which caused Bartleby to give off an odd yelp of surprise, his hand pushing against the fat boulders face of blubber, pushing it away from him. "BANYEH?! Q-quit it you lardaceous little limp-dick louse!, I don't need to taste like possibly rotten apple, and fat cat at the same time! Uggh, I need a damn bath... Preferably a nice hot one, without the smoke and ash and, wait, why is everything smoking?" For the first time, Bartleby decided to actually look at the expressions of the people around him, as many were hurrying along and were afraid, and guards were in their heavy numbers leading them away, much more that would be needed for a street, it's not as if they were preparing for... "Oh god their preparing for an attack" Bartleby squeaked with a high pitched sissy like voice, his face losing some of its colouring, and his hands began to quiver, the man letting out a light, small chuckle, his voice quivering each time, speaking up again only with a whimpier, and almost mute tone of voice. "O- oh f- f- fu- fu- fucking c- c- c- come on...!" Bartleby expressed cowardly, looking to shin with anger and depression. "your fault" He bitterly spoke "Meow" Bluntly retorted the boulder of fat. "Shutup" Rebuked Bartleby. Bartleby then quickly proceeded to walk, hastily pushing past people as he walked on, muttering to himself while he tried to go forward as quickly as possible, saying something new every time he moved past an individual in the crowd in a panicked yet polite and nice tone, despite some of his words. "Excuse me, fuck off, pardon me, one sec', stop moving, stand aside, thank you, screw you...!" He then heard the voice of the screaming farmer and the centaur, hearing what each of them had to say, he opened his mouth in horror to what the centaur was claiming to want to do, and in a panic, he held his hands up to his chest and spoke. "Oh hell no...!" Bartleby heading on away from the crowd and when it soon died down, he decided approaching where Iro and Morag were a few minutes or so later, only to hear Iro speak up. “According to the guards, there is an army outside of the gate. They are called The Red Legion. I have heard of them before. They’re an army operating out of a kingdom known as Ignion in the Wilderness. They’ve been attacking colonies and burning them to the ground. No one knows what happens to the survivors. They apparently are using some strange magical weapons as well, like crossbow-like weapons which fire slugs of metal and machines that shoot burning boulders of iron.” What Iro said made his stomach twist and yet oddly sooth, when he heard of the weapons used, technology was always a profitable business and it peaked his curiousity, walking up to both Morag and Iro hesitantly, his presence easily spotted by his companions huge body atop of his back. "Y- you said there's an army approaching? The Red Legion? W- well that's uh... So... You guys are going to ... kill them all right? It'll be like a poem, you rush in, beat them all and, I won't have to actually have to fight or anything will I? It's just... because if i'm honest with you, I like the sound of that, well I don't but I these weapons your speaking of... Crossbow like? Slugs of metal? Well, if I could help in anyway, please, let me be of assistance...! I think I could really help you out...!" Bartleby coughed and stood proudly and decided to speak up and swallow his cowardess, he needed money and he needed to look past his cowardness, atleast for now, he wanted these weapons and thus, he spoke. "Bartleby Sterling, at your service! Ignore the boulder, if there's anything I can do to help with say, negotiations or such, think I could be of any help? I think you'll find my talents very appreciative, along with my many fighting and sneaking skills! How about it?" Bartleby then began to think to himself. - "Oh god, please let them buy into this, I want those weapons... all I have to do is get close enough, snatch some of them and sell them... couldn't be any harder than that... r- right?"-

Wizzlebee de LaShtüp

@Maxx @UrbanEvolution

“So, you see, the strength potion really is tricky. Shave off some of the keratin from the bear's claw, take the barley milk you've been soaking the poppy seeds in, and mix it in with the egg yolk – that's reason why I can't drink most strength potions, you see, I'm allergic to eggs – and finally, whisk in that, uh, jelly. Yeah, that. It smells because you have to let it sit and ferment for a while.” Wizzlebee was in middle of showing a young tyke the process of developing a strength potion, and it was safe to say, he probably wasn't being entirely honest about the ingredients. The egg yolk was only partially true, while in reality, it had been sat in a metal bowl of orcish adrenal glands, the neurons of which Wizzlebee had enflared and excited with some light magic via electrical pulses. The secretions were incredibly high in testosterone. As for the jelly? An outright lie. It was the emulsified blood of a centaur. “Then it's just a big process of heating the mixture and then cooling it. The end product is something of a runny jelly, but it is extremely potent! Especially for a young'n like you, just take sips at a time. One small sip a day and it'll bolster your growth!” The kid just gave the weird old gnome a toothy and rosy-cheeked grin from ear to ear. “Thanks mister! I bet Blake won't make fun of me anymore!” “Uh oh...” The alchemist mumbled as he watched the child march out of his shop. Now that he thought about it, didn't poppy-seed infused barley milk, aged alcoholic jelly, bear claw, and a yolk act as something of an anesthetic? Something like a drunken stupor, where jelly immediately intoxicates the drinker, the milk numbed the body, and the yolk and claw just gave the body enough energy to remain conscious. Really, it was an excellent poison if you wanted to dispose of somebody without actually harming or killing them. They could see and think and everything, they just couldn't walk or move or speak. It rivaled paralytics in effectiveness, but lacked the neuronal damage that it often caused. “Hey!” A feeble and croaky voice shouted out from beneath the floorboards. Wizzlebee bent over and looked through a little hole that was in the planks. There, below the deck, stood his skeletal father with his hands on his hips. “If you're done selling fake drugs to children, I'm gonna need your muscle down here!” “Shh! Shh! Keep quiet!” Wizzlebee insisted frantically as he saw potential customers lingering just outside the shop's door. “And what do you mean muscles, pappy? I'm a hundred and sixty and covered in wrinkles!” “I don't HAVE muscles!” “You also don't have vocal chords! Make it work!” “I swear to--” “Shh! Just keep it down!” The swung wide open again. He saw only a handsome young man hurrying inside. He wasn't exactly interesting in any of the stock, per se, more along the lines of “soiled pants and unadulterated terror as he ran balls to the wall”. The gnome looked at him curiously. “What's the matter, Bonny?” The young man, for a moment, looked at Wizzlebee incomprehensibly; almost offended. He then shook his head and peered out the window before finally spitting out, “...dragon!” “What?!” Wizzlebee cried incredulously. “What?!” Echoed the voice downstairs. Immediately, Wizzlebee rushed over to the door and poked his head out the door. Just before looking up, he saw a great shadow being cast over the ground. Looking up, he just saw a silhouette of a giant flying beast circling overhead, against the sunny blue sky. Wizzlebee squealed in terror and retreated back inside, slamming the door, and bracing it with his body. A dragon?! He hasn't seen or heard of dragons since the stories of the hundred-year war back in Ostracus! How evildoers would fly down from the sky on their devil-steeds, scorching the land and troops with searing fire! Stories about how the dragon riders tamed the beasts through torture and dominance, and asserted their will over the most fearsome creatures of Tithe. Stories how, even without their dragons, the riders themselves were nearly as deadly and unforgiving. This was of course the war propaganda that had been perpetuated, and even to this day, still is perpetuated among the Ostracus gnomes. His father, Bartleby de LaShtüp, would perhaps have greater reason to fear dragons than Wizzlebee did. The old man was probably alive for it, after all. If not, then his father. Wizzlebee has long since come to terms that Ostracus was an estranged nation that was considered an outsider among the the current collection of countries... but he still could not forget the stories. Perhaps sixty years of condition within those Ostracian walls were enough to instill and maintain the fear of dragons. Not... that it was... hard to be afraid of dragons. Any sensible man or gnome would be afraid of dragons! The riders? Well, any aspiring rider must have a death wish or something. On the other hand... this was an amazing opportunity. How often did Wizzlebee have access to dragon scales? Hair? Teeth or claws? Skin off the tongue? Blood? Oh goodness, the potions he could make! The discoveries! Perhaps he could find a cure for the magical disease that one strange minotaur man had. That would just be fantastic. Given people's fear of dragons, who knew how they would react? Some might even try to... kill it. That itself meant a huge supply of resources and ingredients, or... instead... “Fufufufu...” Oh... man, oh, man. Wouldn't his necromancy love to get its hands on that? It would probably take a while. He's never worked on something so... big before. But he wouldn't outright kill it, no. Gods, how could one even kill a dragon? Yeah, Wizzlebee had a store full of potions and poisons, but no. No, no, no, no, no. Wizzlebee wouldn't get anywhere near that. Too risky, too scary. Let someone else deal with that. “I'll be right baa-aack!” Wizzlebee called out. “O-okaaay...!” The voice downstairs whimpered back. The gnome stepped outside the door and looked back up overhead. It was gone. He felt his heart drop. Hearing the conversation nearby, much thanks to some man yelling out “you're a dragon rider?!” - why that person felt the need to point out the obvious was none of the gnome's concern, all Wizzlebee could wonder was why a dragon rider was flying around the city like that scaring people. Dragons were frightening! Still, there was something compelling about the beast. Never having before seen one, Wizzlebee couldn't help but inch closer and closer at the sight of it. “Oh boy, oh boy...” Three quarters of his concern was his fear of the dragon. The remaining quarter is that the people who surrounded it, they themselves, also seemed dangerous and not particularly friendly. Save the one carrying a lute, but sitting on top of the dragon didn't help his amiability.

Honoria

When the nervous barman finally finished in the basement Honoria let go of Colubra’s reigns and found herself looking back through her own eyes. The Inn was still dark and clustered as it had been moments ago, and the tasteless bread still sat half-eaten on the small wonky wooden table in front of her. She had half expected someone to approach her while she was vulnerable, but knew that if anyone was silly enough to touch her that she would snap out of her link and that her trusty companion would no doubt quickly come to her aid. And if there’s one thing you don’t want to do, it’s piss off a giant shadow-snake. “Bjorn!” exclaimed one of the girls from the nearby table. ‘Still making lots of noise then’ thought Honoria as she looked towards the group again. There was a large Orc with them now and he seemed to be holding one of the human men in the air… which tugged the edge of her lips upwards. Honoria listened in intrigued, hoping that the newcomer would crush the little annoying man but was left feeling disappointed when he instead dropped him and proceeded to hug the girl. ‘What a let-down.’ “No, but there is something rotten in Tithe. I’ve come up north to investigate a dangerous group of men known as the Red Legion. It is said that they fight with weapons more powerful than any others in Tithe, and have vowed to burn all magic to the ground.” Red Legion. Burn all magic to the ground. The words stuck in Honoria’s head and her traumatic memories viciously resurfaced, throwing off her concentration. She could feel the burning chains around her, she could smell the gunpowder, taste the blood, hear the laughter… and see Young Bark being burnt to the ground. She violently shook her head and wiped the tears from her eyes, but looked up to find that the group had left the inn. “Fuck!” she hissed, before jumping from her chair and chasing them out of the building. She barged an unfortunate patron onto the ground as she sprinted across the room, and found herself blinded as she escaped the dark tavern and was hit in the face by the now unfamiliar light of day. “Argh!” she moaned, covering her eyes with her hands. “Where’s the Orc! Tell me of the Legion!” she demanded, unable to yet see the scene she’d walked into (let alone the Dragon).

Kuruk

@Leonerdo

Despite the farmers pleas, Kuruk continued to harass the innocent cow and was getting more excited by the second. He seemed to notice a few people showing signs of disgust (and in some strange cases, intrigue) but it only served to amuse him further. ‘They must see how powerful I am. They admire me’ he thought to himself, rather deluded. He would have turned the strange spectacle into something much more disgusting then and there were it not for the sudden interruption. “Hey!” came a shout from a nearby knight. Kuruk turned to him and scoffed, seeing that the man looked a bit nervous. “What seems to be the problem here?” interjected another voice from his flank before he could respond. Kuruk turned again to see another couple of knights approaching, both of which looked a bit more confident than the first. He could tell instantly which of them was in charge – it had to be the strong looking one in the fancy shining armour. It was a standard of armour that Kuruk could only dream of acquiring, thanks to the prejudice and high costs of making custom centaur armour. “He's having his way with my Daisy! Get him to stop! T-this... this isn't right!” begged the little elf man again, which seemed to prompt the knights to move closer. Kuruk noticed this and suddenly felt his heart beat begin to speed up. He didn’t like being cornered. “Sir?” said the knight in the big fancy armour. “If this is indeed the case, then I cannot permit you to continue this behavior. If you back away from... Daisy, now, there won't be any issues. I'm sure you'll find plenty of undomesticated cows out in the countryside.” The knights edged ever closer as they said this, oblivious to the effect it might have on the short-fused beast. Kuruk snarled in response and stomped his front hooves heavily on the ground. It was the kind of pathetic act you’d expect to see a kid to do during a tantrum, but when performed by a giant 7ft centaur it was somewhat more intense and threatening. He straightened his back and pumped out his large chest before letting out his booming but coarse voice, “So you say that I can’t fight yet?! Now you’re saying that I can’t fuck either?!” If people nearby weren’t watching the show before then they certainly were now. In fact there seemed to be a small semi-circle of people forming around them, much to the annoyance of many people that were still struggling to fight their way to safer locations. “Perhaps I should get some new armour?!” he barked at Kane with a sinister smile, clearly referring to the shiny shiny. He hadn’t yet reached for the large steal Warhammer slung across his back, but Kuruk was certainly prepared to if the Knights tried to make a move. Meanwhile the elf crept away to the other side of his cow. “L-L-Let’s go Daisy” whispered the elf before frantically trying to pull the cow away, hoping to use the diversion to escape. “Moooooo!” moaned Daisy stubbornly, refusing to move. “Not now Daisy!” he whimpered.