It was a long, surreal walk back to Skaltun in the pre-dawn, though only staying up long enough to scrape the damned priest's runes off him. His chambers were comfortable, if perhaps a bit overly rich with the wealth he'd not known as a young man – baubles for the barbarian, the haughty Daran Pureblood aristocracy would quip behind their hands with a smirk, but he could take it or leave it. Even so, he had servants and the like to see to his needs, and one of those woke him with the summons; one of the others called the Guardians to their hall to meet for the first time.

Guardianship's burdens were already showing – he no longer walked through the city on his own, but with a small group of Daran youths serving as lictors; guards, couriers, body servants to a Guardian, for they were not unattended in public. They would call out the approach of the Guardian to an establishment or home and knock upon the doors with their staves to demand entry. It was all ceremonial, but Kanros didn't think these young scions of Pureblood families were likely to be worth much as bodyguards...and so he didn't get into the mindset of thinking of them as such. They were terribly serious, wearing the short tunics, bright green in hue, of their station, left bare legged so they could run and fetch or carry whatever was commanded of them, and in that sense they were a useful service to have. They were also terribly scared – some of their own died when the last Guardians were massacred. These clearly knew that – the pallor of their faces said much for their own apprehension.

His attire, however, was out of tradition – he wore a breastplate of lamellar, with its engraved ravens, for luck, upon the shoulder pauldrons and carried Vindurfang, as worn and old as the blade was, in a sheath that was newer than the blade, and decorated with gold and gems. Riffraff tended to carry much wealth on them, and the barbarian had always been disreputable enough to carry on doing so. He wore his hair, pride, joy and namesake that it was in staying jet black through the years, though his eyes had wrinkles around them now, unbound to his shoulders, held back only by a braided leather headband that he'd brought with him from all those years ago -- adorn himself he might (and some might whisper out of his hearing, like a slattern) he never did see the need to change that. He did wear the emerald green of a guardian, though as the scarf around his neck, to prevent chafing by his breastplate. Green was fertility, food and prosperity. It was the ancient color symbolic of the Guardians, a reminder of their duty of stewardship.

There was still a pall on the street that Kanros could discern, less people out and about even in the daylight. Crossing the Guardian's Circle, the center of town, toward the Hall of Guardians, an edifice that stood directly opposite the temple of Udrau on its hill, he saw little commerce. In most days, there'd be a throng here conducting business agreements in the sight of Udrau and the Guardians, along with the hired witnesses to make ratification of contracts legal, but today the place was silent and the commerce hushed.

Trade was the lifeblood of Dara, the source of its revival. If people were too scared to make money, they had a crisis indeed...

The hall itself was simple to enter; two stout doors thrown open to signify that the Guardians were indeed actually in session in their Hall, petition-able by those that got past the lictors at the door. It was a bad security arrangement, for determined enough assassins could come through and kill the Guardians by overpowering the lictors, youths like the ones surrounding him, easily. Tradition forbade private guards, to keep the Guardians from becoming insulated by too much security as they conducted the business of the City – the warning was apparent; to occupy power in this place, you had to conduct your business behind one set of doors, guarded by youths who were not likely to fight off a determined mob very well, though they could sound an alarm and call for help. But if one was unpopular, who would come? That kept the system healthy, in a sense. A Guardian ruled for life, but law forbade them from being able to surround themselves with guards of their choosing, like a king, in the places where the Guardians made their decisions and carried out their duties. It left the public servant at the mercy of his public.

It was a system that prevailed for centuries, if not millennia. It was why many nobles declined the honor of being a Guardian. Something came through and killed the last bunch of Guardians, but it was a mystery – no one took credit and stood for election, as tyrant-killers had in the past, and no one was sure who did it. The rumors were fell, of some beast of shadow and flame, and there were scorch marks to prove it around the frame of the doors.

Kanros strode through as his lictors announced to the hall his presence. Inside, more scorches along the wall, though there were servants scrubbing it. The place was pleasantly shaded in the dark, built of stout marble with cracks here and there. It was a simple chamber, round in shape with a dome overhead, pierced with only a little light and lit by torch. It was simple and elegant, with simple chairs for the Guardians, rather than thrones of any sort. There were rows of benches for advisers and others that they would speak to, if they cared to summon such an audience or allow one, but it was, at the essence, a system very like a village's council of elders, but with more money at stake and certainly more danger.

Anu was there again, along with the others, his one-time comrades. A few of them were still friends, others were like strangers to him. It was Anu who kept the laws, who saw to the rituals, minor in nature, of opening and closing a session. But he did not offer opinions on how to govern. He merely recorded the proceedings. When he saw Kanros, he thought he detected a cocked eyebrow for a moment -- apparently word of what old Sig had done to Kanros, what passed for a blessing among his people's gods, was on the tongues of others in the city. But the moment was gone, and Kanros was glad enough of that and the fact that he'd taken time when returning to his home to thoroughly scrub off the runes with soap and pumice. Kanros didn't like word getting around that he'd been taken unawares like that; it might give others an idea.

“Guardians," the old priest intoned, with a rapping of his staff upon the floor of the chamber, "the session opens now. May Udrau watch and favor. May you rule well.” Darans; they were suckers for ceremonial observations. Spending so much day dancing and gesturing for the Gods seemed like a luxury to Kanros, who grew up in a simpler place with simpler traditions. And, remembering the arm of Sig around his neck, rather more painful ones.

Kanros, once the short prayer was over, settled on the chair he picked for himself, mindful of his sword belt, and perched forward a bit; the lictors had arrayed their chairs in a circle so they could speak to each other and there were no summons or petitions for the day, not for a first and not with the city so scared to set foot inside the Hall of the Guardians – a glance at the Lictors, Pureblood youth for the most part, showed that they too were fearful. Alas, they were stuck until the Guardians were done and there was much to discuss. Kanros stood first, daring to be so bold as to speak first and break the awkward silence.

“First order of business,” Kanros articulated carefully, wary of the people here now, “Who killed our predecessors and why? If we do not learn more, we are simply not doing our appointed duty. Also, if they killed the last Guardians, it's safe to say they might decide to remove us as well, and I don't intend to go down in a pile of green robes.” He smiled with that crooked, inappropriate smile he oft-times cracked, to the dismay of more staid sorts, as he pointed to the blood that wasn't quite washed out of the stones in places, where their predecessors had been slain, “And undoubtedly, there are some outside of Dara, not to mention within, who will take advantage of that. This is when they will start striking the Great Spice Road.”

The vision flashed through his mind, but he avoided speaking of it. Kanros was a brave man, but that was something else. It was easier, in a sense, to go through the more mortal concerns, things tangible and easily addressed. Perhaps his hesitancy showed for a moment, but then his discipline reasserted itself and the posture and expression of a swaggering bravo took hold once more.

A fog of fear had descended over the entire city, the cold tendrils of despair and darkness worming their way into the hearts and mind of Daran citizens. His walk to the bathhouse in the early morning had been unusually quiet, fires were burning low and the rafters firmly shut as he’d wound his way from his home, to his prized establishment and daily morning haunt. The companionship of the pureblood lictors was rather unwelcome but a part of the new responsibility that he had undertaken. The ceremony was fresh in his mind but still mystifying, there’d been talk of ancient myths and modern legends but Landar had dismissed it as naught but religious pomp. These youths around him were like rabbits, jumping at every shadow and glaring wildly around. Landar’s mind toyed with the possibility of whether the lictors were more afraid of whatever had slain the last guardians or that they were now stuck with guarding the Blood Rider. He had passed his cold, grey gaze over to the one nearest to him, a happy-faced boy with chestnut brown hair and eyes that seemed to take delight in any little matter of the world. When their gazes met, the boy had let out a slight involuntary shudder and averted his own, bringing a wry smirk dancing across Landar’s thin lips. Guarded by rabbits indeed.

The bathhouse had been more than welcome, not only did it have true guards posted to it, veteran mercenaries who were either too old for frontline battle or too sick of war, but the warm waters and massaging hands would do wonders for his aching shoulder. He left the lictors in the lobby of the bathhouse, silencing one with a dismissive hand when he’d tried to protest about the break in tradition. He needed to clear his mind and remedy his body; soon the new Guardians would be called into action and from what he’d heard through his many ears they’d need to be ready. As he padded almost silently through the grand building, passing his eyes over the wondrous marble and gold construction with an eye that had seen its opulence many times before.

When he reached the baths, the delightful smells of rose and lavender wafted into his nose, caressing his senses but his eyes betrayed the sense of delight and momentary break from the harsh events of the real world. There were fewer people than usual present, those that were here huddled in groups around the area with personal guards brought alongside themselves. This was a sign of great concern for Landar as his clients had usually felt safe enough within the bathhouse to leave their guards behind but it seemed the entire city was turning into rabbits. A few of the guard’s hands nervously strayed to their weapons when Landar removed his knife belt, his prowess with the knife was rather well known along with his infamous reputation. His bath attendants were somewhat more relaxed, some of them were trained agents and his source of information; many perceived the beautiful women in the room as naught more than objects of decoration and as such talked freely around them. The others there were really just there for decoration and for company for the noblemen in the water, many of whom had wives and mistresses already. While not every girl here gave pleasure, they were free to do so of their own choice, the presence of them was quite a boon to the whole attraction of the place.

Before he reached his clothes, the mistress of the bathhouse, an older woman of 35 summers, strode up to him with a well-balanced stride and a lithe grace that seemed to defy her humanity. She was still an attractive woman but far more serious than most of the carefree girls under her control and she radiated an aura that made even the most confident man pause. Lalliana was his top agent, while she gathered little intelligence these days, she kept the rest on task and managed much of the information network for Landar, leaving him far more time for his leisure. “Landar” her steely voice said “I’ve heard around the city about the deaths of the Guardians. One of the soldiers who found them was loosened with drinks and company in one of our taverns. He spoke of horrors the like of which he’d never seen; like they’d be mauled by savage creatures that could wield fire. Now I’m no superstitious fool but from the state of the city, is that possible? I know you’ve witnessed it before, but could it truly occur again?”

Landar sighed as he collected his rampant thoughts and memories regarding those blasted catacombs and formulated some sort of coherent answer. “Charred and mauled, how I hoped I’d never hear or see anything of the like again.” His somewhat cryptic and aloof answer gave the woman pause, but knowing Landar and the experiences he’d had she knew best to leave him to answer better of his own accord. Landar had told her of the catacombs one night after they’d consumed many jugs of wine to celebrate the removal and utter destruction of a politician who’d sought to drive him out of the city. Apparently finding a dark occult in the basement caused a great decrease in one’s own political and physical life expectancy, not that the body would ever be identified. “Dara was targeted once before” he elaborated as his head dropped, before continuing with “with the man who did that no longer imprisoned well it’s certainly possible. Given that all the new Guardians fought in those catacombs I’d say it’s nearly a certainty that the occult has something to do with it.” He shook his head as he finished, his eyes noticing the complete lack of emotion that was so customary for Lalliana albeit for one small instance he though he saw a flash of fear in her eyes. He spoke freely in her presence as she was the one person he trusted and no-one would be foolish enough to try and eavesdrop on the two of them, not since one attendant had been a little too ambitious a few years ago.

“In that case, I’ll focus on gathering information about those with any potential ties to the occult, even if they’re just rumours. I’ll make sure the girl is well compensated for her work and that the guard is well taken care of, seeing that is enough the ruin a man.” The little comment on the end would seem a barb to many but in truth, Lalliana merely stated the truth. She knew what’d happened to those who’d been in the catacombs and had gone the deepest in Landar’s mind of anyone alive.

She passed a small parchment which Landar knew would contain the detailed report, before she turned on her heel, interrupted by Landar’s response. “Collate the information on the various economic and military leaders too; an assassination like this is likely to follow by an attack of some sort. We need to be ready.” A curt nod was his reply and he was almost left with his thoughts before a bath attendant broke his attention. A cute little thing, she was one of the youngest and most nervous of his staff. She knew little of the man, only of the reputation and the atrocities that he’d been responsible for.

“Sorry to bother you my lord, but the lictors out the front have received word that the Guardians have been called to meet.” She curtsied and left, Landar thanked her as she left but still noticed how the hands had trembled and shook in his presence but the eyes had wandered. It was almost funny how he was perceived by many young girls; there were attracted by his looks, his wealth and his power but horrified by his reputation. Yet they still tried to woo him, some with a modicum of success but it was never anything serious.

A sigh of frustration fled his lips as he rose from the bench, strapping his knife belt on again, the soft leather easily moving through his hands in a much practiced manner. He’d be stuck with that cold ache of pain in his shoulder for the meeting now, it wasn’t a major source of discomfort but irritating enough that he’d prefer to be rid of it. The ache originated from a dagger that’d been thrust into there when he’d fought an assassin who’d been sent by a vengeful nobleman who’d taken poorly to having his family butchered and enslaved by the Lightning Company. When they’d ambushed his army some months later, his death had not been swift and even a few of the hardened killers of the Lightning had been sickened by his death. Landar never felt remorse for what he’d done, maybe regret for most merely saw him as a monster now; the sins he’d committed did far outweigh the good. Not a man for melancholy, the admission of that the first time had surprised him but Lalliana had always been a good probe for information and that is the top reason he’d first brought her over with him to Dara. A former prostitute turned assassin, she’d not been as bloodthirsty as enjoying the kill but enjoyed the challenge of it all.

He shook the thoughts of such matters from his head and turned back to the plans of the present; the first meeting of the guardians would be interesting to say the least. To see all those great personalities come back together especially under the influence of recent events. It said enough about the pallor of desperation about the place that they’d elected some of their own monsters; if anything there were more than willing to fight fire with fire. A city where the Blood Rider, the Raven and the Pale Avenger could take office was a thought almost worth laughing at were it not a measure of the potential for the occult to inspire fear.

The journey to the Hall of Guardians was uneventful and quick, the bathhouse had been built close to the seat of power in the city for obvious reasons albeit the streets being as empty as they were hastened the journey even more. This was probably a relief for the stout lictor who’d been commanded to carry the few jugs of spiced wine that Landar had requested for the meeting, while not heavy in their own right, the boy looked more portly than powerful. All in all, being a former fighting man the state of his ‘guards’ was saddening, they were unprepared for combat and he’d likely be able to kill them all without a scratch but that was a reminder of the responsibility they’d undertaken. It was a frustrating but effective tradition and Landar wholly respected how a simple ruling like that had kept the many Guardians in check over the years.

He’d been one of the first to arrive to the hall, taking note of the spartan décor of the place and making a silent understanding of why so many of the past Guardians had enjoyed the pleasures of his bathhouse so much. Leaving the lictors, except ordering the stoutly one to place the jugs on the table first, at the entrance of the hall, he withdrew the small parchment and taking in the notes left for him in Lalliana’s neat, functional writing. Casting his eyes over the hall, he placed each body where they’d been found; the noted fighters had been killed first, the others caught as they ran away. Whatever had killed them were hunters, they’d removed their biggest threat and worked their way down. Ignoring the servant furiously cleaning, he investigated one of the untouched scorch marks, the scent and texture of the ash reminded him of the catacombs but there was nothing truly conclusive. A slight tinge of anger boiled in him to match the pain in his shoulder but he shrugged it off, he’d need someone with a little more occult knowledge than himself to decide on the true nature of the assassination.

He poured himself a small amount of the wine into a chalice and sipped on it, the wait not being long before the others were gathered, albeit in silence as they took note of each other and their changes. It was almost amusing how a group that’d been through so much together could be put off by the simple thought of having to discuss the issues of what had happened. He watched emotionlessly as Anu went through his religious motions, it was surely to no point other than the holding of traditions, although religion did have a handy knack of keeping the classes under strict ruling. Kanros was the first to break the silence, the Raven almost befitting his name swooping on the opportunity to be the Herald of Death. He thoughtfully considered the man’s words before offering his own thoughts to the group.
“I think we’ve all heard the circumstances of their death and if not, have a simple look around. That reminds me of only one thing I’ve experienced in my life but my knowledge is not of the occult and I’ll defer to our resident masters. As for the why? To me any major political assassination like this will be followed by some major action of diplomacy or war; given the present company being elected I think the diplomatic avenue is senseless. I personally see an attack following this and we sure make sure the city is ready both economically and militarily.” He was sure to keep his voice flat and emotionless the entire time, it would do no-one but their enemies any good to have the first meeting erupting into conflict. He took another sip from the wine, enjoying how the spices exploded into tastes across his tongue along with the powerful taste of the grapes, as his grey eyes awaited the next one to speak.

Leytan:
I walk slowly, enjoying the still cool air upon my skin. Soon enough, this empty street will fill with the bustle of trade, people spending so much time exchanging so much for so little. My pureblood students form my retinue, underneath their green lictor robes, they carry bolas and daggers, well trained Wolf Hunters. When I was announced that I was to be a Guardian, my pureblood students fought, figuratively, and, in one case, literally, to become my lictors. And, through their pressure, all of my lictors are my students. I wonder how many of my former companions lictors are my students? Ah well, I do not wish to challenge their loyalty's. Let it not come to that. I pause suddenly, and a student bumps into my from behind, unaware of the change. "Yzil," I ask one, "How many cats do you count in this area?" Yzil, the young man that bumped into me, steps to my side, now aware, and looks about him. "I.. I don't know, Master."
I nod my head slowly, and the youth visibly deflates, disappointed with himself. I laugh, a brief chuckle that raises his head and makes him smile himself. "Look, to the alley, the rooftop, the gutter, and next to the broken cart." I point out each cat in the area. Many of the students gasp with surprise as they become aware of something that hadn't existed there to them before. I resume walking, and this time, Yzil keeps up.

I return from the ceremony to my School, wishing to attend to some business before leaving again to go to the meeting.
I am tallying the totals for this weeks ledgers when I hear a gentle knock a the door, "Enter, please."
Bryla steps in, a girl, no, a young woman, wearing Cxinatroan garb, out of place in this sandstone place of high ceilings and mild winters, but, then again, I wear the same. "Uncle Leytan, you cannot hide yourself forever from your new duties." I sigh, look down at the ledgers, and close them. I place the quill off to the side. Standing up, I am embraced suddenly by Bryla. When did she become as tall as me? I remember her still as an infant. "Uncle, I am scared for you." I hug her back, tears pricking at my eyes, "Bryla, you have no need to be afraid. We have faced worse than a room of dead men. Whatever came for the previous Guardians cannot work against me."
She steps back, brushing furiously at her eyes, gaze downcast, "I am not.. I am not fit to run this school. I am not a Master."
I embrace her again, roughly, this time, and let her go quickly, "You will not need to be a Master for a long time yet, silly girl. You can't be rid of me that fast!" She smiles feebly, and then nods. "Now, I am going to the meeting. You know what today's lesson plans will be, continue working the first years on their bola throwing, they seem to like it. Second and Third year, have them run laps for half the day, give them an hour rest, and then keep running them. Fourth year is to be given another day of preparation for the competition. Fifth years will help with the First years."
I put on my new hat, my only indication of being a Guardian, an olive green hat with a wide brim. Bryla found it in the market yesterday. It's not the most authoritative garb, though I trust the Master's blue to do that. I step out of the door of my office, collect the pureblood students, and set out.

I arrive in the Hall sometime after most of the others arrive. I nod politely to my colleagues, and sit crosslegged in the chair I am offered, accepting a mug of water and a pastry, and then closing my eyes and meditating, ignoring all outside stimulus, bringing myself into awareness only once the meeting starts. I listen calmly as Kanros speaks, nodding my head to what he says. Landar then speaks, and I have to wonder if he is as concerned about the welfare of the City or if he worries about his own profits. Hmf. He does speak of the Occult, and I suppose this is my cue.
I unravel myself from my chair, and stand gracefully, surveying the people before me. Strange to think, that 20 years ago, I would have died for these people. Now, I think, many of them would wish me dead.
"Fellow Guardians," I begin, "In my travels, I have seen much and learned of much, and, just as I have come to learn of the mystery's of magic, I have learned of the extent peoples will go to blame worldly problems onto otherworldly actions. Before we leap to the conclusion that this... Murder, was the actions of something occult, let us consider other possibility's first. Perhaps a savage beast, led by it's handler, was let into this room? Lions and bears would leave behind such damage like this." I look around the room. Some of the lictors are calmed by hearing such propositions. They would like to think that magic is make-believe. If that soothes their troubled nerves, I will allow it. And this will serve as a way to understand better how my peers feel about Magic.

Ephraim's ritual had been simple. In his own culture, such a blessing would have been a matter performed by the presiding arch-curate, an elder chosen for having the most powerful connection to the spirits of the wild. However, the Far North was too far after all, and Ephraim hadn't even tried to contact his tribe to convince the arch-curate to travel hundreds of miles to Dara. As such, the Pale Avenger had been content to have Anu perform the ritual that made him a Guardian. As expected, it involved a lot of chanting and fragrant incense. Ephraim didn't understand a word of it.

The vision that had followed brought back unbidden memories, images of Melazus that Ephraim figured he had forgotten years ago. The darkness, the strange imagery on the walls and the pillars... nothing he wanted to remember at all. In the shadows, he could see things lurking and circling him; he could hear their guttural panting and growling. A maniacal laugh echoed through the catacombs, and the hairs on Ephraim's neck stood on end. Cyrabassis's laugh. Staring into the shadows, Ephraim noticed something bright was casting his own shadow in front of him. Whirling around, Ephraim saw one of the murals change, and he heard a word in a language he had not spoken for close to 30 years; something that translated to "Opened" or "Unlocked". With a flash of light, he suddenly came to on the floor of the Great House of Silence. Ephraim had rushed to his feet and unsheathed both of his rhyming swords, almost attacking the old Anu, but the fear and surprise in the old man's eyes stopped him. Frustrated and confused, Ephraim put the swords away and apologized, explaining he had received a vision of things he had never wished to see again. Anu nodded slowly and sagely.

---

The lictors annoyed him to no end. The human children and adolescents were so small he was unable to see them if they got in his way, and Ephraim found himself having to look down occasionally to make sure he wasn't about to trample one of his lictors. He could tell that they feared him; his height, his outlandish appearance and the twin rhyming swords strapped to his waist were responsible for that. Not to mention his reputation.

So now he was a Guardian after all, a station he had silently craved for years. Being a Guardian greatly expanded his political influence and put him above the magistrates he had relied on previously to fund his work as the Pale Avenger. To mark himself as a Guardian, he had wrapped an olive-green sash around his waist. Today, he wasn't wearing his usual red, but old white robes woven by his own people; one of the few possessions he brought with him from the Far North. Olive-green and red wasn't a particularly appealing combination, after all.

Climbing the steps of the Hall of the Guardians, Ephraim's jaw clenched and he ground his teeth. The thought of being in a room with the likes of Alaric and Leytan unsettled him greatly. When one of the lictors brushed gently against Ephraim, he spat out a curse and scolded the Pureblood child; fear bright in his eyes, the boy withdrew several feet and kept his distance. Too consumed by his own internal struggle, Ephraim paid him no further mind.

When he stepped into the Hall, many of his former comrades were already there, like Kanros and Landar. Without speaking a word or even acknowledging the other Guardians, Ephraim strode to one of the chairs and sat down, busying himself with cleaning his rhyming swords, his gaze turned downwards. His lictors, unsure of what to do, positioned themselves by Ephraim's flank or sat themselves down on the bench behind him.

Ephraim didn't look up until Anu began the opening ceremony. Leaving his rhyming swords crossed in front of him on the table, a statement of his hostility, he leaned back in his chair and looked around the room at the other Guardians for the first time. Kanros, ever the leader, was the first to speak. Predictably, he was concerned with the mundane consequences of the murder of the previous Guardians, like what would happen to the Great Spice Road; something that Ephraim couldn't possibly care less about.

Landar followed. He, at the very least, touched on the subject of the occult but skimmed over it. Ephraim had always known that Landar wasn't involved with the occult much and this was confirmed once more. Wise man, to keep his nose so far out of it, Ephraim thought to himself. Alas, Landar also spoke of mundane matters, like a military assault on the city. Ephraim almost let out a chuckle but maintained his composure. What use would a military attack on Dara have if their enemy could already slay Guardians without impunity, inside the city walls?

And then Leytan. Thrice-damned Leytan and his insatiable curiosity, his heretical interest in the occult. Ephraim sneered as Leytan spoke of his knowledge of the mysteries of magic. I should kill him where he stands, Ephraim thought, fingering the hilt of one of his rhyming swords. But it was what Leytan said afterwards that caused him to break out into mirthless laughter; a high, cold sound that caused Ephraim's lictors (and many of the other Purebloods in the room) to shift uncomfortably.

Smoothing his robes, Ephraim stood up, hunched over the table, leaning on his knuckles. "A lion? A bear? Leytan, Leytan, for someone who calls himself Master you lack sheer common sense. The Hall of the Guardians is situated in the middle of the city. For anyone to smuggle a bear into the Hall a lot of blind eyes would have to be turned. And don't get me wrong, I know that wild animals can be ferocious and dangerous, but have you seen the scorch marks? If there is one thing all animals fear, it's fire. The kind of damage wrought by the fire in this Hall is incompatible with a wild animal tearing our beloved Guardians to shreds simultaneously. Even a bear would have been cowed by such heat and light. Thirdly, do you really believe the lictors and Guardians themselves would have been overwhelmed by a wild animal, or even a group of them? We faced far worse in Melazus, Leytan, and all of us are still alive... for better or for worse."

Ephraim let the last few words he spoke hang in the air for a few seconds before continuing. "The only reason I have not killed you sooner, Leytan, is that we were comrades once. I have spent more than a decade hunting down anyone who dabbles in the occult in Dara. I have seen aspiring witches and wizards attempt all manner of sorcery. I believe that, so far, all of them have failed. Nothing I have seen reminds me of Melazus, until now. I was in the Hall of the Guardians less than two hours after the attack. The air was heavy with the smell of cooked flesh; bodies littered the place, scorched to a crisp or ripped to shreds, sometimes both. It reminded me of only one thing -- all I could see in my mind's eye was those catacombs. They say smell is the sense most powerfully associated with memory, and I believe this to be true. It was the smell of sorcery, of that I am sure."

Ephraim's rant over, he glared at Leytan and then let his gaze sweep with the room, daring anyone to disagree with him.

Within the walls of the Verdant Manor, one could almost be mistaken in thinking that the world outside had not just been turned brutally upside down. Here, one could still here the soft cascade of water falling from the strategically placed fountains around the large, sociable gardens that wound their way leisurely up to the soft, curving stone face of the manor. One could still promenade aimlessly through the carefully arranged flower garden, or take a picnic under the shade of a great (imported) oak tree. The gardens, however, were empty of anyone but a lonely gardener tending the hedgerows, and Nasharia gazed out at them longingly through the window. Behind her sat a gaggle of noblewomen around a cast iron table.

The table was draped with a teal tablecloth, and upon it sat a curious brass instrument that one of more cultured manners would recognise as a teapot used for pouring the slightly bitter but highly invigorating nettle tea that Nasharia had made popular amongst the upper classes of Dara - originally a hill tribe delicacy, The Green Woman had taken some pleasure in introducing it as a natural and healthy alternative to other beverages to the often haughty social elite of the city. The chatter at the table was not as excitable nor joyous as usual, and a few of the women were clutching handkerchiefs and periodically dabbing their eyes.

The attack on the Guardians had been brutal, and it had taken with them some of the sons of these women, who had been serving as was required. The ladies had all flocked to Nasharia like frightened hens as soon as the news broke, coming to her with a thousand questions that she could not truly answer. After that, they had kept returning nearly every day, the herbalist and magistrate having unwittingly found herself at the centre of a sort of impromptu support group. Not that Nasharia was complaining - it would do good to keep the women under a watchful eye; they were not as politically adept as many of their husbands, and if one of them was to know something of import about what had truly happened to the guardians, then surely their grief would be as good a social lubricant as any other.

Alas, nothing had as of yet been revealed that would give Nasharia a clue as to the circumstances of the Guardians' demise, and she had been largely unsurprised when she was given the opportunity to fill one of their still warm and blood-soaked seats. In a way it was extraordinarily sad; she had expected one day to be offered the seat of a Guardian, but not under such brutal circumstances, and Nasharia had made friends amongst the slain Guardians and had began to cultivate them to her pleasure. Their deaths represented the waste of years of hard work.

.."-and Lataia's son too... he was such a good boy, and so strong," The chubbiest of the women was saying morbidly, shaking her head sadly. Nasharia remembered her to be called Jalia of Karinas, and knew from experience that she thought Lataia of Ryr's son Kalid was 'an oaf of the highest degree', and had refused the hand of her daughter Maera to him on the basis of his having too large a nose. Nasharia nodded pleasantly.

"We must focus on the rebuild now, my ladies. I trust you are all aware of my new appointment," The Green Woman said seriously. The ladies all nodded in careful unison and a quiet chorus of approval sounded for a moment; "the only lady... no better candidate... represents the interests,". Nasharia raised a hand to silence them. "Pleasure, my ladies, you shall make me blush. I want to assure you all that I shall do my utmost to represent the Daran spirit amongst my new fellows,"

"You shall need to," Quipped the eldest of the women, a tall, hawk-like woman with silver hair called Araine of Haskaji. "Amongst the vigilantes, halflings, barbarians..." She gave a short chuckle, and the other women all joined the derisive laughter.

Nasharia was in the middle of thinking of a reply when there was a knock on the door. One of her stewards entered, bowed deeply, and then spoke: "Madam, there is a meeting of the Guardians about to come to session. They request your immediate presence,"

She let out a sigh as if to indicate that it was a chore to attend to the matters of state rather than the idle chatting of the women, but inside she was secretly delighted to be shaking off these newly found sycophants. "Very well, my ladies, I must beg your leave. Please stay as long as you will like - my servants will provide you with whatever you should desire," She said apologetically, smoothing down her robe, and then left briskly.

Outside of the door she met her newly appointed lictors. Many of them were just adolescents, and Nasharia knew many by name and by family - she made a mental note to send all of the families gifts of some sort. She must keep those families on her side; it would only take one bribe to have one of her 'loyal' guardians slip a knife between her ribs. Nasharia purposefully eschewed her usual carriage in order to walk to the chambers of the Guardians - it was both a symbol of apparent defiance to whomever had slain her predecessors and also an opportunity for her new public to see their newest Guardian.

It was fortuitous that the official colouration of the Guardians was green, for Nasharia's wardrobe consisted almost exclusively of the colour, and on this day she had opted for a regal green robe that wrapped thrice around her waist, over her breast and then looped over her shoulder. It was somewhat restrictive, but relatively functional. The robe was trimmed with golden lace and studded at both wrists by shimmering rubies. Her hair was worn up in an elaborate style, held in place by several golden broaches studded with small emeralds. She had erred on the side of austerity, and wore no more jewellery apart from the beaten golden bracelet that she had been given all those years ago by her mother.

The streets were quiet, and as Nasharia made her progress through them she worried for the state of trade. It would, surely, be the second most important issue at the Guardians' table. Those who passed her progressing entourage seemed to pause for a moment, examining her critically, or else hurried past with heads low, keen to avoid the new authorities or - the thought struck Nasharia with a short pang of fear - scared to associate with them for fear of incurring the wrath of that or whom which had so brutalised their predecessors.

The ceremony that had enshrined Nasharia as a guardian had, at times, felt more a human sacrifice, the generally incomprehensible blessings of Anu and the unfamiliar rituals having dragged on for what felt like days at a time. At the end, a shaman from the hills had stepped up - barefoot, dressed in ragged robes with a circlet of sandstone around his aged and sun-spotted head, he had blessed Nasharia in the voice of her ancestors, sprinkling sand over her bowed hand and burning acrid smelling desert herbs - all of which, Nasharia reminded herself proudly, she had been able to identify This too seemed to drag on for an age, the old man relating the story of the great emerald city's demise as what felt to be a cautionary tale, but somewhere in the long and droning confines of his speech, Nasharia had felt the cold tendrils of something other reaching for her. It was the first time that she had been reminded of that fateful fight, the way that the icy tendrils of cold magic had wound their way like blood in water to find her, and the way that the damaged bracelet at her wrist had blazed with hot fire. She shook of the hard memories with a barely visible shudder.

The hall of the Guardians finally loomed into view, its great edifice marred by the black scorches that, like Dara's whole demeanour, reminded Nasharia of why exactly it was that she found herself at the city's helm. Leaving her retainers behind with kind words and grateful smiles that made more than one of them blush boyishly, she entered, sweeping past the servants and giving nary a glance to the general state of disrepair.

Nasharia took a seat, gazing around at her new co-rulers, all of whom she remembered and some of whom she had worked with for years. There was The Raven - as rough and as barbarous as he seemed, Nasharia was fully aware of Kanros' capabilities as a diplomat and, indeed, as a potential politician. There was The Blood Rider, too, who Nasharia had known as a trade partner and also a dealer of valuable information over the years. She was especially mindful of him and the ten thousand eyes that he employed to keep an eye on the city's inhabitants. Leytan, too, was present - a good friend to Nasharia for many years, she nonetheless worried that the monk was not the governing sort.

At first, The Green Woman listened placidly and calmly to the discussions taking place, making mental notes of what was said and nodding ever so slightly when she heard something that resonated with her. She had no intention of being one of the first to talk, in fact, but when Ephraim had spoken she seized the tense atmosphere to interject some words of her own. The chamber could not be allowed to explode into violent disagreement in the first minutes of its opening, after all.

When she spoke, it was stern but not unkind, and measured carefully. "My fellows. Kanros speaks justly - our first order of business must be to discover what it was that murdered our predecessors, and why. But in the meantime we must not let this city fall into chaos and disrepute; there is a tension in the air, even within this chamber, and if trade begins to falter and goods stop making their way through these streets I fear it could turn to outright panic and rioting,"

"Ephraim is right, of course, on one account; this was no corporeal beast. Between us we must have over fifty thousand paid eyes in every corner of this city," She said, casting a brief and playful glance at Landar. "It would seem correct to surmise that which caused these brutal scenes was not so natural as a beast," Nasharia paused, pursing her lips thoughtfully for a moment.

"But I must urge temperance, my fellows, on matters of the occult. We are all, I am sure, aware that we have differing opinions on matters of magic and its so-called outlets, but I cannot stand by and let this council descend into petty arguments and - moreover - death threats," She said, her voice becoming more steely, shaking her head disapprovingly at Ephraim. "We must stand together, for we all know that if we do not, then this city shall not stay together either, and we could meet the same fate as our predecessors in a matter of weeks. Our first priority is to maintain the stability of this city,"

"That does not involve starting a moral panic," She concluded, once again looking to Ephraim.

Good stuff! Haljon thought after downing half a flagon of wine in a single gulp. Very good stuff! Of course, he would prefer something a bit more stout - as he dreaded the reunion with his former companions - but this particular vintage would have no issues giving him the slight buzz he desired; provided, of course, he had several flagons of the stuff. Just enough to numb him somewhat, and for it to be clear he had been drinking. Nothing wrong with that, right?

Apparently his lictors disagreed, as Haljon swiftly concluded after a quick glance at them. Little more than boys, he held no misconceptions of their worth in a fight; why, he was almost certain he could handle the majority of them with nothing more than his fists! Disgraceful as it was, he supposed it was meant to be that way. Nothing kept a would-be despot more humble than the ever present threat of death-by-angry-mob. Haljon chuckled to himself. Not that it particularly mattered in this case. Despite tradition Cyrus, his second-in-command, had insisted on sending a patrol of Khavi ahead of Haljon's little procession, just to be safe.

Haljon fingered the green sash wrapped about his left bicep. It still felt surreal. Him, a guardian? What lunatic had decided that was a good idea? He struggled to remember the ritual which had made it official, but failed miserably. All he recalled was a blurry haze of events and that it had required much pomp and ceremony, as it was held in the parade ground of the Khavi barracks. He had been drinking of course, which is why he remembered so little. Ah, but the ale was particularly fine...

He entertained such thoughts for a little while before returning to the present. They were in front of the Hall of Guardians, and the boyish lictors looked up at him expectantly; some in open scorn, others in silent amusement. He ignored both and walked inside, his heavy steps sending small quakes through the ground. As he entered he paused, gazing over his assembled former comrades. A neutral nod towards Kanros, a bitter sigh and shake-of-the-head at Erwun, narrowed-eyes for Leytan and Ephraim, and murmured greetings for the rest; this is how he greeted them. It seemed anticlimatic in a way, after so long, but Haljon had never been one for drama or showmanship. He walked towards a seat near the back - purposefully stumbling a bit on the way, the damned liqour getting the best of him of course - and sat down heavily, immediately reaching for the spiced wine. After a few large gulps, he concluded it was excellent, and helped himself to more whilst the others talked. At Ephraim's retort to Leytan's suggestion of bears, he could not help himself, and let out a booming laugh that shook dust down from the ceilings. He waited for Nasharia to finish, admiring her poise and the little hints of her figure that shone through her conservative dress, before rising to his feet to give his own thoughts on the matter.

"I have ordered patrols tripled and for all Khavi to be on the highest alert status. I have two dozen of my best men investigating any witness accounts and potential clues pertaining to the most hein-hein.." He paused, frowning, then plowed onwards. "Heinous of murders on our once-beloved guardians." Haljon frowned again, displaying his distaste for the flowery words. He grunted, evidently deciding to dispense with such speech with his next sentence. "The main issue, as I see it, is maintaining an image of stability and security. Both of which have been severely compromised in the public eye." He paused, waiting for this to sink in, then moved on. "There are currently around five thousand men in the Khavi. I propose doubling that, and perhaps supplementing my Khavi with some of Kanros' blackgu- mercenaries." He raised a bushy eyebrow, searching the faces of his audience. He had been careful to slur some of his words in his speech and now he looked for what they would react most strongly to; his speech, or his conduct. That would reveal a great many things to him, a great many useful things.

He sat heavily, and helped himself again to the wine. It really was quite good.

Kanros nodded as he took in the conversations, but responded first and most quickly to Haljon, "I am not calling men together yet in great numbers, because that gets expensive and we have the coffers to consider, but I can quickly put some men under contract for defending the city's territory outside the walls and keeping order on the Great Spice Road." Much of Kanros' education under the Prince of Killers, Jalal, had been in the finance and logistics of a campaign, how to stretch the gold, how to pay little and drive a hard contract for fighting men eager to fight for plunder rather than take the wage; poor and hungry fought better, greed and the sight of loot made a man fight hard when he was paid only enough to engage him but not enough to make him averse to risk.

"Patrols on the roads, using outposts put in after the war with Selander but then left empty -- let mercenaries turn them habitable for us in the process of working out of these posts," which would save them money to do it themselves, "Two month contract, option to extend upon a need that I will determine with you other Guardians. Bounty for raiders. Bonus for bringing down anyone breaking the contract to raid. Set it high enough to make one think twice -- they'll look at the gain of the raid and how much the men hunting them will be paid and hopefully we'll never have to pay it, but keep them watching each other for signs of treachery and looking for raiders rather than trying to figure out how to profit off the caravans." He didn't bother to mention that most of the captains in this city knew that to attack Daran trade on the Great Spice Road invited a terrible sort of vengeance -- it wasn't merely a fight in the field. The bounties would go out in other places as well. They'd be knifed somewhere or poisoned.

"At least, that all makes sense to me. However, Commander Haljon, I do not think we need mercenaries on the streets. The men I use are ill suited to garrison duty, will want more for it and that will cause dissension with the Khavi. I would rather recruit new Khavi than risk having two sets of guards brawling each other in the streets."

"As to..." he exhaled explosively, "Melazus and those that died before us. Let's assume it's not a wild beast," Kanros said, after a heavy moment of having to debate with himself to say anything at all, "and perhaps, let's instead go right to the heart of it. This reeks of the sorcerer, just as Melazus. The Guardians at the time looked for goats, not truth. We have to learn how he escaped and where he escaped to. We have to find Cyrabassis."

He could remember the fight, because he'd squared off against the thing Pykas had become; in that fight, Vindurfang came alive as it never had before, suddenly it felt almost as if the blade had a hunger for the fight. He also remembered the beasts they fought; Pykas' royal guards were turned into some sort of monstrous combination of lizard and ape, fur and scales and fangs with weapons, secreting something from a gland, spitting it at them while it was on fire. He remembered the spidery, sing-song chant of Cyrabassis as it all happened, scratching at the darker corners of his memory. A shudder came to him as he tried to visualize things from a place he didn't want to visualize before he himself beckoning a lictor for wine. It was poured and Kanros took several gulps of it. It didn't particularly help, but the moments it took to pour, take and drink gave him time to collect himself; gibbering would not help Dara and it would not save their skins, when you came right down to it. It was one of the real secrets in life; if you could master yourself, then you could master your undertakings.

Once steadied by it, master of himself once more, he glanced to the Blood Rider with a wry smile, "I would wager, though I don't usually consider it wise to do it with you, that we are gathering information in the city, even as the Khavi ask questions. Ephraim might well be the best to root it out, but quietly and carefully." What Kanros didn't mention, or particularly care about, was the methods his colleagues would use. Blades, powders, guile...it had to be done.

Dara knew when it chose these people, some of them more successful at covering up the ambiguities of their past than others, that they were picking the dangerous ones -- and the bloody ones.

"I would also wager that the next wagons going out will have eyes and ears as well," he added to the Green Lady, with a glance to the only woman in the room, "Because I think we need to know if any of Pykas' old generals are doing anything new and interesting," though he didn't have to explain 'interesting.' Incense, sacrifices, orgies -- alright, not necessarily, unless in snake costumes or some similarly ridiculous attire -- and other signs of the occult, "including boom prices." Because if provisions were being bought up by mercenaries and cities with armies, it tended to mean they were preparing for conflict.

Leytan:

I'm pleased to see Nashaira, I hadn't had the opportunity to speak with her before this, and I'm heartened further when she defends me against the poor soul Ephraim. Indeed, I'll have to be careful with what I say around him.. He is most likely one of the best fighters still among us. Unlike that gin rag Halijon. And the fool proposes using thugs to act as guards for the city streets? It's like asking the fox to guard the hen house.
"At least, that all makes sense to me. However, Commander Haljon, I do not think we need mercenaries on the streets. The men I use are ill suited to garrison duty, will want more for it and that will cause dissension with the Khavi. I would rather recruit new Khavi than risk having two sets of guards brawling each other in the streets."
I wait until the Raven finishes, and stand again, pausing only to take a small sip of my water. That's a brew I doubt Haljon has had in a very long while.
"Now, if I may offer my services, perhaps some of my older students will be of great use? They are all trained in non-lethal combat, they know when to use words instead of fists, and most of them have been raised in this city, so they know how to respect the culture. Many of these traits would be lacking in recruiting more sell-swords. Additionally, they won't need to be paid like a sell-sword, since they wouldn't be doing this for the money. And we could put the money saved towards better use." I nod my head curtly at Kanros, and sit once more.
One of my students leans towards me and asks me a question, and I answer softly, writing on a small slip of paper, handing it back to him, which he takes and runs out of the hall to deliver.

While Nasharia spoke, Ephraim sat back down, his face still contorted into a scowl, but his temper diminished by her words. He let the others speak for a while on the matters that he had no experience with or influence in.

Kanros proposed that Ephraim be the one to root out more information about the sorcery that had occurred in the Hall of the Guardians, and Ephraim had replied with a curt nod. Of course, he had already begun his investigation immediately after the attack, but it would do well to have the consent of the rest of the Guardians to continue the investigation without fear of reprisal. Quietly, of course, but Ephraim drove a hard bargain until he got the truth out of people.

Ignoring the current conversation about who the Guardians should hire to increase the capacity of the city guard, Ephraim cleared his throat and turned his attention to Landar. "I agree with Kanros; I would very much like to investigate the events that transpired here. My own network is respectable, but not nearly as extensive as yours. Will you grant me access to your informants so I may have the greatest amount of resources available to me?"

He hated asking (for anything, really) but it was necessary. And, Ephraim thought to himself, it would actually be good not to be total enemies with everyone else. He still didn't know what to do about Leytan and Alaric, but he would let that matter rest until a later time.

With even greater reluctance, he turned to Haljon. "With your permission, of course," Ephraim said, smiling wryly.

Erwun stood over the autopsy table, dressed in a leather smock that had several stains from suspicious sources, scalpel in hand. The corpses in question were those of the former Guardians. One of the former defenders of Dara, he seemed to be sliced open by a wild animal. The only difference was that the wounds were burned, as if run over a pit of coals. It was something that could only have come from one source. Back when Haljon abandoned hi- when he was separated from the group, he saw things, things that no one else saw. Not even Ephraim. Catching his breath, Erwun took a few seconds to focus, and then went back to his work.

---

The only remaining Calfrace backed away from the autopsy table, and looked over the corpses. He had sewed and cleaned up the mangled bodies, his skill evident in the fact that they were suitable for an open casket wake. Pulling on his coat, the Undertaker readied his equipment. Due to the violent death of the former Guardians, Erwun should be ready for anything. Besides, he had a few enemies on the streets, and even if they didn't try and get to him in the daytime, there were still quite a few dark alleyways. Everything fit under or in the pockets of his coat, except for his crossbow. That had to hang off the holster at his hip, the only visible weapon.

Stepping out into the daylight, the cobble of the Yamiss district was swept immaculately, as always. To the left, a lonely elf wandered a remembrance garden, flowers in full bloom. To the right, the Calfrace Mausoleum stood tall, a marble and granite testament to death. However, none of this was of his concern, this morning. Avoiding conversation in the streets as much as possible, Erwun arrived early to the meeting, and waited in the corner, where the shadows concealed him, for the most part. If someone looked, they would see him, but it would prevent unwanted attention from coming to him. He listened, disinterested, until the very end, when they chose a course of action.

"I'll get in touch with my network. See what they know. I don't really care what you all do about it, as long as you do something." Sticking around to hear their plans, Erwun leaned against a wall, arms crossed.

“I hate this.” Alaric mumbled, leaning against the wall. Two fingers holding back three fingers of window curtain lent him a view of the street outside. A group of a half dozen boys, all of them in long tunics and wearing no pants, stood on the deck of his curio. Four of them stood in serious vigilance, staring predatorily over the streets while one of the others cracked his knuckles and the last withdrew a spindly a finger from his hawk-like nose, admiring the catch. Alaric dropped the curtains and threw his back against the wall in a fine display of melodrama. His sigh seemed much longer than a man of his stature could emit and he emphasized it by slowly dragging his hand from his side to his temples, rubbing them slowly.
Across the room at a table, between bookshelves, a grey skinned woman covered in jagged black tattoos and storm cloud colored hair grunted. Inch and half long tusks, engraved with intricate knots, jutted from her angular jaw. Those with a more open mind would say that she was rather good looking, for an orc, but no one ever said that about orcs. She sat at a small table rolling bones in a cup, occasionally shaking her head.
“You don’t like much.” She grumbled, flipping the cup on the table and revealing the fall. The orc spat on the ground and scooped the bones back into the cup. She started shaking them again in search of whatever answers she needed. Alaric strode across the room and plopped down at a table not so far away. He reached out to the center of the table and snagged a nail puzzle from it; two nails bent into small loops and interconnected together via those loops. It was a simple puzzle, and by placing the nails so that they mirrored each other and making the same movements at the same time the puzzle was easily solved, pulling the two knots apart. The second part of the puzzle was putting it back together, which was something Alaric hadn’t quite managed yet. Moments later a light metallic clanking came ringing from the library as the Halfling casually tossed the two nails over his shoulder, knowing he’d find the again the next time he stepped on them.
“Those boys outside said you needed to meet with the others.” The orc offered, flipping the bones again. She gave an unsatisfied grunt and scooped them up. Alaric scoffed and pulled a leather tome from a side table without even looking at it. Flipping it open he skimmed until he was about halfway through, then abruptly jammed his thin finger into the book, muttering to himself.
“I never asked for this.” He moved his finger through the text never staying on a page longer that a few seconds, seemingly he just wanted something to do with his hands. He set the book down with a dull thump. “How did you not know any of this coming? You’re supposed to be a seer.” He pulled off his spectacles and stared at the orc woman. She gave an unconcerned shrug and rolled again.
“They don’t mention everything, the bones that is. Others mention everything, but very little of everything is important and no one should worry about the unimportant. She rolled again, but before she revealed them she scooped the dice back up. Alaric looked at her incredulously.

“What does that even mean?” He snapped back, nimbly hopping from the chair. He began to pace around the room, the clatter on the bones in the cup being the only sound therein. He was clearly agitated. He had been since he had completed his ceremony. Anu had lit the incense and said the ancient words that Alaric actually did have some passing knowledge of, but the chant was actually quite boring. Invoking Udrau’s blessing and protection. During the second part Alaric was taken to a meeting hall where he was sat at a table practically groaning under the weight of the feast in from of him. A dozen other halflings remained silent around the table until a holy man of Yon, the Halfling god, blessed the meal. The rest of the ceremony involved eating, drinking, singing, dancing, and all sorts of other activities with the other halflings. Needless to say, his ceremony went a lot smoother than what he’d heard about Kanros’s.

Alaric didn’t give a damn if the people thought he should be a guardian, he had little interest in doing so. Not only was he utterly positive he’d make a terrible governor, there was the fact that he had do it in a room of people that knew him as a fraud. The new Guardians had been chosen for being heroes, and everyone who fought Cyrabassis that day knew that Alaric was no hero.
“I’m definitely not going with all those boys. They don’t wear pants, Gretch! I’ll have front row seats to things not meant to be seen!” After he finished what he was saying Alaric went quite. He had in fact seen things not meant to be seen, twenty years ago, in Melazus. And now they were back. Only the silence of the room brought him back from his reverie. The clatter of bones had ceased and Gretch was staring over them, uncannily still.
“Then don’t go with them,” she murmured, her greasy storm cloud colored hair hanging in front of her tattooed face as she studied the bones in front of her, “But regardless of how you get there, you must still go.”
“Is that what the bones say?”
“No.”
“Oh fine.”

Alaric slipped through a first floor window and landed on the soft soil below. He furtively glanced about for any errant lictors roaming the grounds and after he deemed the coast clear, Alaric darted through the eccentrically decorated garden of his Tealeaf’s Curio. He passed little statues of red hatted gnomes holding shovels, a fountain in which a massive disembodied marble head of some lost king or some such eternally wept, and a tall, eerily thin sculpture of a creature made of bone and wood, reaching towards the stars with long appendages ending in vicious claws. He leapt onto a vine covered wall and scurried up it, pausing at the top to give his residence/business an appreciative glance. It was no palatial estate, but it was a large building. Its architecture had no semblance of consistency, as wings and rooms were added haphazardly and built by different laborers. One room would be rectangular and supported by pillars while the one adjacent was rounded and supported by arches. One wing’s roof would be flat and contain an exotic garden, while one of the other wings spiraled into a slender pointed tower. It was an eyesore to most, but Alaric believed it was his duty to stick in the craw of the hoity-toity aristocracy, and he enjoyed supporting the rumors of him being some sort of half-man warlock.

Alaric scrambled back down the other side of the wall and brushed dust from loose linen pants. He wore a billowy linen shirt as well, and a brown vest, cinched against his body. A green cloak draped over his shoulders and a gray bowler hat, cocked a little to the front and side, crowned his head. He wore nothing on his feet, as Halflings are wont to do.

No one payed Alaric any attention as made his way to the hall. Dressed as any Halfling would and with no entourage of noble purebloods scurrying about and flashing their dreaded thighs, his status as a Guardian was largely overlooked, and Alaric was fine with that. He’d spent his whole life being overlooked, literally and figuratively. He passed by the lictors and entered the hall, his eyes immediately drawn to the scorch marks and deep gouges on the walls. His heart began to hammer when he saw them. Alaric knew what kinds of things could do this. Trying to keep his composure, the Halfling strode into the room without pomp nodding to the other guardians who cared to look at him. He noticed a chair that was quite obviously meant for him; tall and much more narrow than the others. He appreciated the gesture as he tried to recall if there had ever been a Halfling guardian. Dismissing the thought he climbed into the chair and peered around to his fellow guardians. How long had it been since they had all been together?

After Anu opened the session, Alaric remained inattentive, his eyes darting to and from the walls and floor, thinking about the monstrosities of Melazus.

“…Cyrabassis.”

Kanros’s mention of the name snapped Alaric from his waking nightmare. He slipped his hand into his vest and pulled a pipe and an envelope stuffed with some sweet smelling dried leaf from pocket. He snapped up a lit candle at his side and started puffing on the pipe with determination. As much as he wanted to get to the bottom of this, working with some of these people would prove difficult. Kanros had always been a good man, and his heart lay with the city. Landar was a different matter entirely. Alaric held no warm feelings toward the Blood Rider, whose methods had always seemed extreme to him. Perhaps the years had tempered his blood lust, but Alaric doubted that was the case. Leytan and Alaric floated in similar circles these days, but the monk’s demeanor was unnerving to Alaric. For a soul that was so unsure before, he positively beamed asuredness and tranquility, two things Alaric was devoid of. Then there was Ephraim. The elf, much like Landar, was simply too bloody for Alaric’s taste, and his persecution of witches and hedge-wizards, some of which Alaric had personally known, was too much to bare. Alaric wouldn’t say he hated Ephraim, but he very much disliked the elf. Nasharia seemed a gentle woman, but Alaric knew that she possessed a very dangerous mind and strong ambitions. Out of all the people in the Hall of Guardians, Nasharia was the only one Alaric would have said fit the title of Guardian, in a classic sense. He wouldn’t mind working with the woman, but he certainly didn’t trust her. Haljon seemed to have let himself go since the old days, and the man slobbering drunk, which was publicly known. Still, he did command an impressive force and the city could use it. Alaric had barely noticed Erwun, lurking in the dark. Erwun, his old friend, taciturn as ever. Alaric almost looked forward to the reunion.

Taking a long draw from the pipe and blowing the smoke through his nose, Alaric piped up.
“It must be some kind of inter-dimensional travel that brought the beasts of Melazus back, and there are traces of the aether that are left behind. Perhaps finding these traces could lead us to Cyrabassis, or at least to wherever these nightmares come from. If I could be allowed to take readings here I may be able to provide some clue as to what was summoned.” The Halfling puffed again, the thick smoke starting to group into tendrils that drifted eerily across his ruddy face. He looked at his fellow guardians intently for a moment, purposely not looking in the direction of Ephraim, whom he could already hear objecting to his investigation.

Leytan’s comments about a bear were almost laughable were it not for the gravity of the situation, the previous rulers of the city had been massacred and the man was going to suggested wild animals? Under the table Landar’s hand clenched for a for a brief few second as the dull ache in his should torturously flared before it dissipated completely, tempting him with the potential of a painless existence. Ephraim had been the next to speak, mercifully slapping the suggestion of the man away but the man’s tact was not on the level of his hatred of the occult. He almost felt the mood of the room darken; there was no need for hostility in their first meeting as it could forge the path of much of their future interactions. Landar considered interjecting but thoughtfully bit his words, Ephraim was right, Leytan was a fool and pushing the issue any further would only deepen the issues.

The question over the occult was a driving concern for Landar, his mind ran strong with thoughts of the occult as if witnessing this scene had burst a dam of buried and repressed memories. His mind swam with thoughts of those creatures, the horrendous noises they’d made and how hard they’d been to kill. He’d always thought they should’ve put a knife in the dark sorcerer to ensure that they’d never have to face such evils again but the more moral members of the group had refused to kill an unarmed prisoner. Some of those had been too petrified to even fight the creatures of darkness but thought they deserved the right to choose; it had been a grave mistake on their part to let him live. Still, Landar was sure he had a knife destined for Cyrbassis’ skull and he’d be sure to seal that foul man’s path to damnation.

Nasharia’s interjection had been most welcome, it’d dissipated much of the tension in the room and her light yet reprimanding tone had been exactly what the room had needed. Furthermore beyond playing the peacemaker, she’d furthered the discussion and focused the goals to be intended; a true politician who he found himself more and more pleased about having backer her both with information and by other means. He allowed a light grin play across his lips when she passed her gaze over to him, nodding curtly as he decoded the words to mean your network. He found he nodded with her final reprimand, glad that someone had found the tactful way of broaching the need for peace and co-operation, not conflict on the council. When Haljon spoke after Nasharia, the room seemed to pass over on his words as naught but a blabbering drunk but Landar’s informants had raised the fact that he oft acts more inebriated then he actually is, a dangerous man that pulls off hiding behind a cloak of clouded judgement. He rather predictably, suggested his own soldiers take the fore for patrolling the city, an act that would no doubt see him paid more out of the city coffers.

Kanros once again seized control of the conversation, providing both logic and a plan; almost daring other to try and disagree with him. The matter of mercenary contracts was a curiosity for Landar as the Lightning Company had never been at peace; their pay had been mostly drawn from battle and bonuses were from loot but to run the company in the peacetime must go close to ruining almost mercenary captain. He made a mental note to have Lalliana organise information about mercenary company contracts brought forward in order to compare against what Kanros had been proposing, it never hurt to consider all the facts before a full agreement. He cocked his head when he saw the Raven’s mood completely change, given his last words were about Cyrabassis so he was no doubt remembering some foul thing from that blasted place. He raised his own chalice of wine as the Raven looked at him and yet another discussed the matter of information. The salute bordered on mocking, not about gathering the information because everyone here knew Landar would be but just to say I saw that .

The monk once again spoke, mercifully backing away from the idiocy of his previous students to propose his own students act as city guards which wasn’t a half bad idea. They’d be free and more than likely inspire more protection from the rumours of the occult than a fully armoured barbarian with an axe. After all the common folk turned to their gods and priests whenever they saw the signs of the occult; it was a pitiful sight but the majority of people lacked the strength to rely on themselves in this world. Contemplating the man’s organisation for a moment, he reminisced on how difficult it’d been to get an informant inside the organisation; people had a way of being infuriatingly sensitive towards an order of monks and those that had no belief would never had made it past Leytan’s judgement. Yet everyone had their vice and he’d been able to find although the challenge of finding Leytan’s weakness was tantalising. Landar felt confident on how to twist everyone on the council except Leytan; save of course for threatening his students which was an unfortunately crude option. Landar had always preferred the use of the carrot as opposed to the stick, tempting someone into your service was always far more exhilarating and using than forcing them.

Ephraim once again spoke, agreeing with Kanros but just as Landar’s mind began to wander, he saw Ephraim’s gaze turn upon him and request for use of his informants. Landar pursed his lips and was about to answer when the Undertaker instead interjected offering the use of his network, an offer that Landar took a sip to hide the grin that threatened to burst across his lips; instead satisfying himself with another draught of the delightful vintage that he’d brought along. Peace over pride for these meeting Landar had decided and he now decided that he might have to save this vintage for more personal use in the future, it was even more delightful than what the first cask he’d had a year back had promised. The interjection of the Halfling Alaric broke Landar’s intention to respond after the monk had finished but having the thoughts of another occult learned would be useful; it can’t hurt to hedge one’s bets after all.

Taking the halfling’s finish as his cue to start offering his thoughts once again, Landar leaned forward and placed his cup somewhat carefully down and cupped his hands before he began “ Firstly I stand behind Nasharia’s assertion that we must stand united else we fall alone. This hall cannot become a place of argument and threats else we’ll achieve naught but harm this city. Towards the use of mercenaries, I think that Kanros knows the best way to manage contracts and I personally believe we should focus on patrols and scouts in order to bridge the gap between our information networks.” He said with a gesture around the table, before he continued with “But I think Nasharia and I should be able to organise some sort of organised information network in other cities. For guarding the city streets, I think Leytan’s disciples would prove the most useful even if it’s just in a propaganda sense; we construct a shield of the faith for the common folk. Plus I’m sure they can handle any night time robber or vagabond who might prowl the streets.” The last line brought out a wry smirk on his face; one of his agents who’d tried to infiltrate the order still complained about the bruises they’d been able to inflict in training.

“Towards our occult investigation, I think multiple view points will be a good option, if any of you didn’t know Alaric has dabbled with the occult here and there, some might even say a séance could be to die for. Having an experimenter and a hunter both offer their opinions would prove quite useful in my personal opinion. I can offer the use of the information of my network and assist tracking down any witnesses but my informants have proven to be somewhat lacking in information so far.” While the last part wasn’t entirely true, Landar did still need to protect his network somewhat and would it really hurt either of them to think that they were investigating a witness rather than an informant and a witness?

And that is when things started happening that Ephraim had been afraid of for years; they wanted to use magic to fight magic. That damned fool Alaric proposed a reading, an idea Landar didn't even seem to be opposed to. Ephraim was glad for the man's consent to assistance, but surely he was smarter than this? A séance being to die for?

"Yes, let the halfling experiment with magic and let's see what happens, shall we? Do you honestly think that's a good idea, Landar? Or have we all already forgotten how it ruined Cyrabassis? There is absolutely no telling what might happen if we let Alaric have his way here."

Speaking directly to the halfling, Ephraim continued. "I don't even trust you. You didn't lift a finger inside Melazus, and now you're... what, a wizard? You went from a coward to an occultist brave enough to tamper with magic that kills men twice your size? How do I know you're not merely trying to discover how to duplicate whatever magic was performed here?"

While talking, Ephraim's voice had grown steadily sharper and more accusatory, and his right hand had seized one of his rhyming swords, with which he was now pointing directly at Alaric's chest from across the table. "I won't have it."

Nasharia listened carefully, watching everyone in the room carefully rather than contributing much herself after her initial placation. She was pleased to see that she had been able to redirect the order of things back to the important business at hand, but the tension in the atmosphere built continuously as the contentious issue of magic was discussed at some length. Each of the men around the table had something of worth to contribute to the running of the city, she believed, even if that contribution was a the sort of passion that she was accustomed to redirect toward her own means.

The discussion of the occult was obviously stirring memories in many of the Guardians, not least Nasharia, whose spine tingled coldly as she remembered the swirling maelstrom of magical energy that had pressed on all sides of her mind on that dark day all those years ago. She also remembered the hot flashes of fury; the way she attacked like a madwoman, blood saturating her green robes until they hung like limp lengths of rain-soaked cloth on a drying line. She remembered the way that the battered bracelet that still encircled her wrist had flamed up with a yellowish glow, and how, at the edge of her mind, she had heard a foul, dark whispering in an unknown language and then, as the tide of the battle had turned, a chorus of approval from her ancestors.

They were uncomfortable memories, and they were duly suppressed - it would not do for someone whose life revolved around the impassionate pragmatism of the politician to be so affected by the passionate throes of her early life. That was done; her parents had been avenged. Her allegiance was to Dara now - for it was within these crumbling walls that the ex-poisoner and herbalist had been able to find status, fame and gold. More than any of the others around the table, Nasharia's status was inextricably entwined with the city's own systems of social class and government.

As the tension in the room mounted, Nasharia stood carefully, once again ready to diffuse the situation in any way possible. She first looked to Kanros, who had addressed her about surveillance far beyond Dara's reach. "My next caravans will be despatched with orders to observe the local gossip and goings on along their trade routes. If there is any such whisper of an increase in occult activity along the major trade routes, then we will know of it within a matter of weeks,"

"I shall, naturally, also keep a close eye on things within the city's magistrate and amongst its more highborn denizens... a task with which I shall, I am sure, find collusion with our resident brothel-keeper," She continued, with a light-hearted nod to Landar. He was turning out to be as politically competent as Nasharia had both hoped and dreaded.

The Green Woman had been considering Haljon carefully since his interjection. It was not considered very good form to drink to excess at the slightest provocation - especially on state business, and doubly especially when the matters at stake were so essential to the continued existence of the city and (Nasharia remembered with a pang of apprehension) the continued lives of everyone around this table. Nonetheless, it was entirely possible that the watch commander had become complacent with the pencil pushing lifestyle of the leader, and had indulged in all manner of hedonist extravagances in the interceding years between their time together. Nasharia chose to believe that this was a minor blip, or else some manner of ruse, for in her dealings with the city's government she had not heard many whisperings of Haljon being a particularly incompetent commander. "I must vouch for Leytan. I know his students to be of sound mind and of a disciplined temperament - and I think their deployment would do much to allow us to continue with a conducive investigation without the unwelcome possibility of exciting the attentions of the lower orders too much,"

She paused contemplatively for a moment, tapping her chin with a bejewelled finger. The emerald hairpiece that held her elaborate style in place glittered hungrily. "If I may also make another pragmatic suggestion," She finally said, peering around at the assembled. "We should put out an official account of the deaths of our predecessors - perhaps that there was a gas lamp explosion of some sort, or something equally mundane. I would daresay that it would not fool a great deal of people, but an official account would at the very least dissuade some attentions; particularly from foreign states who may look to the sudden death of our entire ruling body as an opportunity of some sort or another,"

"Furthermore, I also believe that we must make a public show. Some sort of open parade or other such event, in order to show the people of Dara that the Guardians are still an extant force with a strong backbone," She finished optimistically, hoping that the others would see the need for this petty political posturing. Presently, the tensions at the table ignited, and she turned to Ephraim somewhat sharply.
"My friend, it is my intention to work with all assembled at this table with equal respect. I cannot, however, sit by while you threaten your fellow so physically. Put the sword away, before this situation turns bloody. They are still scrubbing the remnants of our predecessors off of the walls as we speak - I need not remind you of the precarious fragility of all of our existences?" Nasharia fired somewhat sharply, her eyes narrowing as she reeled on Ephraim. She was, of course, taking something of a gamble in confronting the situation at the table with so much vigour, but she hoped that it would be her who could easily disperse any tensions. "Personal attacks must not occur here - verbal or otherwise,"

She folded her arms over her dress, sighing slightly. "We must all do our part in whatever field we are experienced in. I do not agree with the methods of some of those here at this table, but I recognise their worth," Continued the lady, eyeing Ephraim pointedly. "I hope that all of us can do the same,"

Leytan
The moment Ephraim began to speak again, I braced myself for conflict. When he drew the blade, my hand was hidden, clutching a leather bola to fling at him if he lunged forwards. I almost sort of relished the opportunity, these were all men of action here, and trying to speak to men of action with niceties isn't how it is done, at least, that's not how it is done well.
Yet Nasharia spoke, I felt the room calm. She was clearly the one meant to lead us, the only woman in a room full of boys.
Knowing how I am unliked by the coarser members of the council, when I speak again, it is carefully,
"Master Calfrace.. I am aware that you are an imminent undertaker here, so perhaps you could announce for us the plausible cause of death to claim is what happened. Your words will lend not only the authority vested in you as a Guardian, but also you would be acknowledged as an authority in these dealings."
I don't know where Calfrace stands with me- he has been one of those who didn't come out of that place whole.. The opposite of me, in fact, but I'm aware that enlightenment graces only a few. So coming to him for advice, and acknowledging his superiority in this instance, should either make him hate me less, or he'll think more warmly of me. Either outcome is a win, I suppose.
It is at this time that my student returns, his breathe slightly short as he clutches the slip of parchment to his chest.
Handing it to me, I casually unfurl it, scanning the inventory like list. Rolling it up, I hand it back to him.
"Guardians, I am able to offer the services of 80 of my students, these are my final year students or recent graduates, and are the ones currently unemployed, or would be willing to leave their current occupation and instead help the city."
I can actually call for about 200 students fitting this description, but I decide that if I only offer 80, they'll either accept, and I've made them underestimate me, or they ask for more, in which case I can 'scrounge around' for students willing to help their old Master.

Alaric took the backhanded compliment from Landar with an abrupt exhalation of acrid smoke, but it was good to know that at least someone here showed support for his research, despite their now decade old squabble. Perhaps the old dog wasn’t quite as intolerable as he’d once been. His attention was drawn away by Ephraim’s outburst.

Alaric had a very distinct understanding of Ephraim’s dangerousness. The elf was well disciplined and deadly with his dual swords. Still, Ephraim had reacted like a lazy fish sucking up a baited hook. It seemed he acted from his heart rather his head and Elves were notoriously passionate creatures, after all. Alaric popped the pipe stem from his mouth and performed a mock battle from his chair, parrying and thrusting across the table toward his adversary with the smoking instrument. He was scared in Melazus, and it would not do to be scared at the first meeting of the former heroes. Though it also would not do to provoke a killer, and his good sense returned as Alaric bit down on the pipe stem.

Leytan spoke up, addressing the issue of his manpower. Alaric had very little interest in these matters. Between the monks, the mercenaries, the vigilantes, and the damned witch hunters, Alaric was quite positive that the streets were safe. At least for him, Halflings didn’t garner much interest on the street and evasion was one of his specialties.

With witch hunters on his mind Alaric addressed Ephraim. “There really is no need for violence, Ephraim. I won’t be joining pacts with demons, I’m simply using modern technology to pick up traces of the esoteric elements between the planes. If a creature not of this world comes into it, traces of the aether must remain. By finding these clues we can learn more about the creatures and spells that populated this room.” He proposed.