"Fate is, indeed, a predictable force. There is nothing so rigid or unyielding as the cogs that grind away life...nor something so pitiless and cruel as Order without Compassion," Illixion the Mad boomed out, an intricate projection imitating his movements in front of Elise, "NOR," did the mad Mage continue, swinging his arms upward and clenching his gnarled digits into seemingly strangely-wrought fists. Elise, momentarily, was transfixed by the similarities of Illixion's fist and the tangle of roots she'd nearly tripped over on entering the small hamlet of Oakheim; though, the continuation of Illixion's ravings would soon shake her. "NOR," came the screaming rasp, seemingly for the third (perhaps fourth, even) time and Elise turned her attention back to the rise and fall of his hands as they clenched and unfurled, "is there something so maddeningly erratic as the machinations of Fate without guidance!" Elise felt as though she had missed something, but did not deign it appropriate to put forth a question; she had learned rather early on that Illixion did not intend for those he harangued to actually communicate with him...instead, it seemed that the oldest Mage in Drasil (perhaps even Kallore, its self) much preferred to have no interaction, leaving his azure astral projection to scream directions and impart whatever bizarre wisdom (and sometimes spew spittle-laden maladies towards those who had roused his ire) he felt appropriate. The Silver Glint had become accustomed to the way of things with the Mad Wizard, when he chose to involve himself with her affairs. With a quiet sigh, she turned and began gathering her cloak from the bed.



Silently, still, she was thankful for the way his mind worked. What she was doing in Oakheim, what would happen henceforth...it had all fallen into place easily. Behind her, the projection coughed; disrupted for a moment. Her ears twitched at the sound of it and she turned to observe. Illixion's stare bored into her, his eyes dark pits, waiting for her full attention; she almost gave an answer, but waited to see how long he expected her mind to wander. For a few seconds, silence lingered, followed by another wracking cough; though Illixion never seemed to close his eyes. With another sharp gesture, he wiped something away from his mouth and then let his fingers prod at his nose and tug at his beard. "But that is what we seek to correct," all of the intensity had bled from him, though his eyes still seemed far-off dots of obsidian, "is it not? All the iniquities brought about by Eldra's Sundering and the following years..." he trailed off, slowly lowering his hands and lacing his knotted fingers. Quietly, the Mage whispered to himself, raising a hand before the projection disintegrated into a momentary whirl of sparkling ether and abruptly faded altogether. The sounds of the Drawback Inn resurged as his visage faded and broke, the day in full swing below; though she did not pay them much mind, several conversations drifted up to her. Without much thought, she placed on her cloak and blade; moving easily to the door.

How predictable is Fate, truly? How far can one follow the streams and rivers of time and see only displaced cycles? At some point, it has to end. Everything ends. Fate isn't your enemy, it's just a tool...used and repaired, when broken. Death is your enemy. Chaos is your rival. There is no room for Fate in a final act that spurns the very notion of its existence.

Fate is very predictable. Fate is stuck in its ways, recycling the same nonsense that it allowed to pass countless years ago. Fate is your tool, in this regard. A tool that will inevitably break, given that enough Chaos is applied to the system. Chaos has its own uses...though it is far less predictable, without Order to scold it back in line.

Elise found herself outside, as though the innards of the inn had never existed, wandering beyond the boundaries of Oakheim; casting a brief glance skyward, listening intently to the world at her back. People spoke in easy tones, though there were a few hushed whispers and the occasional shout. She didn't claim to know them, nor would she claim to envy not knowing them. The faces she had known in Oakheim were seldom seen, these days...their resting places bearing names and specters of the past; no more and no less. Something about the errant thought sent a lance through her, though brief it was. A longing for a time where every shadow hadn't nursed doubt and every passing whisper was not a near-silent accusation of the sins that lingered over her head. Simplicity still found its home in the people of Oakheim. That simplicity...that absence of worry, even from the world outside, gnawed at her in a distant way. All that mattered to most in the hamlet was how the weather and crops seemed to be faring...or when the sun would set. They did not concern themselves with matters best settled at the tip of the blade, or by threat of spell...they need not concern themselves with the strange outsiders that walked within their walls; the hordes of untested 'would-be' and 'will-be' types, stopping in for Ranked Missions or to ogle the Stone of Nine.

She pulled up her hood to drown out the tinge of bitterness that wormed through her thoughts, letting everything fade into the background. The voices became more distant, shrinking behind her with each step. Soon, the Sun only stood before her in small bursts; rays cutting down through the thickening foliage overhead. Whispers became the rustling of leaves with the breath of the breeze, and doubts shrank into shadows half-cast and too unstable to take familiar form. Elise enjoyed the solitude, for a moment...and continued on her way; paying little mind to the parcels she bore for unwary and (most likely) unprepared souls.

Elsewhere, though reasonably close...

Invari Lashe was not impressed by the Stone of Nine. At least, she was not impressed by its size. When she had heard that the strange monolith had been left behind by Beastkin migrants...she had assumed that it would be something that would tower over her. It did not loom over her as she had envisioned, the Stone of Nine merely looked down on her. Rough hewn stone weathered slightly by the passing years, gray and dull in the midday light. She did well to hide her disappointment, however, still managing to reverently touch the stone (after pushing aside thoughts of height and size) and lower herself, albeit somewhat slowly to a knee before it. The bovine Beastkin looked over the symbol before her...a rudimentary fist, carved deep into the stone; something, if she recalled correctly, that had been inscribed by Granz the Gargantuan. There were others, but Invari paid them about as much mind as the breeze rolling through the secluded glade (which, she realized absently, did not have a name to wear...it was simply the glade that housed the Stone of Nine) or the scattered sunlight that stretched down from above; casting the day in a warmth that would soon become, if she knew her seasons well enough, an autumn chill that persisted through the night.

She did not know about the other forms in her periphery, but she had risen late (from a fitful slumber, nonetheless) and rushed here after a hasty breakfast.

Is it improper to go back to Oakheim after visiting this...rock?

Something about the stone was more mundane than she had hoped, but, reluctantly, she remembered that it wasn't the rock she had come to bear witness to. It was the spirit of adventurers past (or present, truly she didn't quite know what the Stone of Nine was really meant to inspire) and the promise of glory and gold that brought people here for this ritual. Her finger brushed lightly against the surface of the mark left behind by the Gargantuan. She tried to imagine him, but immediately ceased; panic setting in.

What if he wasn't as impressive as I've heard, either? What if ESSIA isn't as grand!? What if there isn't any gold to be made and I came all this way to do work I could've done back home...!

Invari brought her free hand from the ground and slapped herself across the face, with a force that most might reserve for enemies. The rings in her ears hopped with the exertion, but it stilled her mind. The Nine were heroes beyond measure, she told herself, steadying and slowly lowering her knuckles against the sparse grasses that grew around the Stone, and they didn't get their start by whining. I'm in the presence of history...all the presence that's left of some of these folk. I should be more respectful. With a slight external nod, she raised herself, smiling slightly at what remained of Granz the Gargantuan and his fellows, and began making a slow pass around the stone; trying to keep her eyes from drifting.

She spied symbols representing the Protector (a shield, with small rays cast out from its top), the Firebrand (a flame...how unpredictable), the Silver Glint (a small starburst, adjacent to the flame; where others seemed to have taken their place around the Stone), the Opulent Summoner (a meticulously carved circle, bearing hard-to-read runes in its center), and two interlocking stars...which she supposed belonged to the Mage of the group, who she couldn't quite remember the title of. The others did not jar any memories or bring forth any particular knowledge, though they were somewhat strange. A simple set of two parallel lines drew her attention, first, then a diagonal cut that bit deep into the stone. The latter almost made her think that one of the Heroes had not willingly put their mark on the Stone, but, rather had sought to slay one of the others...from the very spot she was standing. Though, it didn't take her long to realize that whoever made the cut would have to be closer; given the length of her arms.

Six out of Nine isn't so bad, right?

...Why, in all of the heavens, did it need to be such a misty morning?!

Freya was absolutely unhappy with the sheer amount of dew that had seeped into her cloak in her rest- too cheap to go into an inn, she paid the price by camping out near the stone of nine, in a small hammock high in a tree. Trained by her time adventuring, she stayed silent as she peeled herself from the netting, resting her bum on the strong branch she'd tied it next to as she brought her cloak into place and fastened it there, quietly taking in her environments as she prepared for the day. Quiet, but over to the right of her, there seemed to be someone at the stone of nine. From her sleepy observations, they were obviously female, not who her package was meant for and... a good candidate for a noble steed. Not because of her beastkin appearance, but because... Well, she was so tall, even compared to the massive stone that towered over her.

Goddamn, I just... Why couldn't I be taller. I mean now I know it's not because of the fact I'm a woman... The hell, maker?

She shook her head before pulling her hair back tightly, fastening it into place with several ties, tied to have to be cut off, from one of her pouches on the belt around her waist. Beside her, still laying in the hammock was her package- it wasn't too big, but man almighty, it was much heavier than it looked. And still, the innkeeper that had hired her to deliver it had wrapped it so carefully! In nice handwriting, The innkeeper- an older woman, who acted too motherly for Freya to be exactly comfortable with- had written the name "Youngest Brother" on it, the ink unsmudged and untouched by any of the weather or events that plagued Freya on her way to deliver the contents to a "small boy, with white hair everywhere, who probably will be pretty grumpy".

After her hair was secured into place, she picked her daggers and the package from the hammock, putting them all into place, with the package in a small sling, resting on her lower back, under her cape, before bringing down the hammock, folding it into a roll that fit in the pouch just below where the package set. With a muted yawn, she got up and began her decent from her perch, moving to the stone to pay her respects to what it stood for, and also, to scout a better spot to wait for the recipient.

"Ey, Ma'am," She spoke up sharply as she rounded the stone, coming p beside the large woman quietly. "You seen a short guy with lots'a white hair anywhere near here?" She stopped a respectable distance from the woman, turning her head slightly to look at the stone. "Jus' figured I'd ask before I get up close an' personal with some history, an' before you get goin' to wherever you're goin'." She shrugged, shutting her eyes as a toothy smirk crossed her lips. "Alsa'," She cringed as her accent butchered the word, opening an eye to glance back at the woman and observe. "All that golden metal- b'careful. Lotsa shit-thieves 'round these parts. I say shit-thieves, 'cause they don't know what's valuable an' are stupid enough to try and fuck with packages." She opened both eyes, trying to avoid looking at the woman's large chest. "They'll take your shit b'fore you even know it, an' totally don't care where or who you are. I got hit in a church a while back thaddaways, even." Wiping the smirk from her face completely, she noded back, away from town. "I figured I'd give ya' a heads up, since I could see your armor for miles an' you aren't exactly keepin an eye behind you." She turned her eyes back to the stone as she fell silent, taking in the marks from the nine and the calmness of the hallowed ground around it.

Oakheim. Traveling along the adjacent highway that precariously bordered the overtaxed city, perhaps considered out of place this time of year, was a slow, deliberate glint. This glint sparkled in the sunlight like a migrating burst of flame, flickering with an enticing brilliance that struck the eye of every rogue and bandit within half a league. The sun, shining in the distance, was casting its rays not upon a great traveling fortune, but upon a mess of bushy white fur.

Of course, any good highwayman with a head on his shoulders and a brain in his skull - which was the majority of them if you were speaking purely biologically - was aware that this was not the right time of year for commodity traders to travel along this road. This was, so to speak, the off-season for skullduggery. Most of their quarterly income was carefully coerced from a select few low-key individuals in order to tide the bandits over until the profitable months. Attracting too much attention during the meantime was akin to committing suicide. Only timely and ordinary robbers were tolerated in these parts, as there were a few too many headstrong justice nuts among the young and inexperienced adventuring populace. Make too much of a ruckus and you'll most certainly wake the hornet's nest called Oakheim.

So common sense dictated that this was not a target worth pursuing, only, it was just too much of an easy mark. A single teen, traveling almost tragically slow, as if a leper, was making his way down the highway without escort. The pack on his shoulders bulged with supplies and possible gains, as if he were screaming for their attentions. In his hand was a simple wooden staff, with no sign of sheathe on his waist. Every few minutes the young man would stop and travel off the road, setting aside his pack and foraging through the local flora. It was such a delicious meal that a few of the smarter bandits avoided this boy as if he really were a leper. They'd been in this business far too long not to smell a trap. This was not so true for the younger, wide-eyed predators prowling the roads.

"Look'it dis boys, a baby foun' its way ou'side, go home to yer ma and suck 'er tit fer a few more years 'fore you step foot on our road, baby."

It wasn't really that funny, but bawling laughter soon echoed from the group of seven, twenty-something-year-old men. Bulging muscles, unclean faces, tattered clothes. Yup, these were definitely bandits, and fairly desperate ones too judging by the quality of their accoutrement. Only, Youngest Brother didn't seem perturbed in the slightest. What kind of thief announced themselves so blatantly? This young man was a beastkin, with senses far more acute than an average human. His ears were sharp and his nose was even sharper, actively tracking the trundling footsteps of these oafish offenders for quite a few passing minutes. Maybe these men didn't notice it themselves, but how could the experienced bandit scouts possibly not notice from their bird's-eye perches along the length of the road? The young man had slowed his pace some time ago. His back was covered by the geography, and his front was cluttered with foliage. These idiots were already densely packed into a group, with no way to flank or ambush their query. Failures, the lot of them... nothing but stupid brutes desperate for an easy bit of coin.

"Three seconds," the teen said, a sudden autumn gale lifting the hair over his golden eyes. A red glint, traced with green flecks, was already glowing within.

"Wha' was tha' baby?" one of the men asked, hand reaching for jagged, hip-belted machete at his waist.

The others had already followed suit, not a single flicker of regret showing in their eyes regarding the thought of cutting down a person that could only be called a child.

"Two... one..." Youngest Brother didn't drag his words out, three seconds passing by in an overbearingly precise measurement.

"Alrigh' tha's the las-"

Glowing eyes flickered with arcane implication, connecting the young man's very soul to gentle, throbbing breath of the world. Thin lips parted unhesitantly, tongue twisting in an intricate, perpetual motion. This oration was not some sort of incantation, but a meditation, restraining the effect of magical throes on the mind of the practitioner. It was incomplete in the extreme, but no less the results of a year's worth of effort and experimentation. Each syllable uttered seemed to move in tandem with the rhythm of the nearby magical energies.

"Meh-bah-meh-meh-bah-meh-bah-meh-meh-bah-"

FWOOSH~ FWOOM!

A rapidly expanding burst of scorched air rippled through the trees, unsettling a flock of resting birds. Clouds of avian activity erupted into the sky, quickly evacuating their perches in fear of the sudden concussive force. Autumn leaves, only lightly browning, fell to the ground in waves, nestling about the unmoving boots of the young beastkin. Another glint flashed through the hillside, once again alerting the keen eyes of the bandit lookouts. Only, this glint wasn't white. It wasn't even gold. It was red, and the hazy furor contained within spurred even the bloodthirsty hot-blooded bandits to shiver in fear at the sight of it. The same thought passed through the minds of each and every one of these cowardly men. Thank the gods that wasn't me. For the rest of the day, the highway presented no more temptation to these thieves or their tired eyes.

Picking up his body-engulfing pack and mounting it on his shoulders, the boy once again resumed his plodding journey. It wasn't that this Youngest Brother didn't want to travel any faster, but it was simply impossible for him. His feet couldn't grip the earth like a normal person, and he often wondered if it was because the earth was jealous of him. How could it not be? So deep was his connection to Sun and Sky that there was nothing that grew on the surface of this world that could withstand his destructive force. At least, nothing untouched by the hands of men. A precisely positioned boot steps over a sizable pile of smoking white ash, the grim dust scattering amidst the encroaching wind. It was in stark contrast to the cracked-dry blackened soil that occupied an area seven strides in diameter where the bandits once stood.

No sign of the men remained in this world, and in a year's time, there would be no way to know they had ever existed. Mother nature would soon reclaim this land with her renewed vigor, the foliage thicker even than before. After all, it wasn't as if Youngest Brother had failed to leave it a suitable fertilizer. Perhaps these bandits might have been immortalized in the mind of the beaskin youth, the pale, gaunt visages of the seven haunting his nightmares for years to come. Only, Youngest Brother had already long since forgetten this incident. Had he mercilessly ended a group of lives without batting an eye? As far as this boy was concerned, all he had done was spread a bit of dust along the side of a road.

All that occupied the mind of this traveler was his destination, and every step along the way was carefully purveyed with the same appraising pair of golden eyes. Not a single pebble was missed in his observations, but at the same time, not a single pebble was remembered either.

"Stone of Nine... you'd think they could have sprung for nine stones..." Youngest Brother would think some time later, his slight form finally crossing the horizon of this ceremonial site.

Not to mention, there were people here. People... how annoying. Was it like this every day? Sure, this was supposed to be an important place of pilgrimage, but Youngest Brother was under the illusion that this was the least likely time for traveling adventurer-wannabes to head in this direction. He'd even taken the scenic route in order to time his arrival precisely to the least crowded hour of the day. Yet, here were spectators all the same. A scowl was already spreading across the young man's face, and a flicker of red light was quietly subdued behind the cowl of white he called his hair.

Dylante raised the glass to his lips and took a large swig of the ale. He grimaced as the deep brown liquid hit his tongue and ran down his throat. It tasted like pulped tree bark and bogwater. The Drawstring’s innkeeper advertised to have the “best ale in all the border villages”. Sad thing was, he was probably right; this was probably the best ale Dylante had had in a while. With no land to grow barley, the elves could only make wine from their fruit trees and wine never sat well with him. Taking another agonizing gulp, he faced the bartender/innkeeper/owner Edagan who was inanely polishing a beer mug with a filthy rag.

“So Edagan, my good man, any news from the borderlands?” he hiccupped as the airy ale sprang back up.

Edagan furrowed his brow as he pondered, setting the mug down, “Well now, there are a couple o’ things,” he mused, “firstly, one o’ them young farm hands was in ere not too long ago sayin’ that some weird lookin’ kids was makin’ their way up the Southern Road, from the Circle o’ Nine. All alone ‘nd looking to head to Essia”
Dylante’s ears peaked, “Kids? Coming from the Nine and the South?” That’s very strange, thought Dylante. Most people who travelled from there were these would-be “adventurer” types. Idiots who thought that adventuring was something you could privatise. The thoughts of travelling to Essia were tempting though. It was cleaner, tidier and a lot better in terms of inns. Its ale was just as horrible though.

“Aye, that ‘e are, so the yung un said.” Edagan’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Come ere tho, ‘ome girl is stayin’ ere in the up-there rooms. Phink she’s ‘eading up there too. ‘Ery weird, this one, one o’ them beast-things. Looks familiar too…. Oh, she jus’ leff there ‘ow!”, gesturing to the door.

Dylante turned to see the wispy ends of a cloak disappear out the door as it closed shut. Dylante figured she’d be back soon. What with the distance between here and Essia, and given the time of day, she wouldn’t make the next rest stop.

He took a final gulp of ale and croaked hoarsely, “Anything else?”

“Aye, one las’ thing alri. This courier fella dropped a bundle in to be sen’ to the capi’al but refused ta listen tat this ere weren’ no messenger station. He just dropped a bag o’ gold an stormed off!” Edagan shook his head as he produced both items in question. “You wouldn’ fancy takin’ em on with ya, would ya Dylan?”

“I’m shocked you even have to ask!” Dylante took the package and turned it over in his hands. The name read “Youngest Brother”. No address or description. He shrugged and slid it in his satchel. He was about to take the gold bag when the innkeeper’s hand slapped on the bag, reached in and took out 3 gold pieces, “Oi, what’s that for?!” shouted Dylante, a few heads in the inn turning.

“Two ‘re fur my finder’s fee and this is for the ale” snorted Edagan.

Dylante shook his head, protesting loudly “That gold is worth at least two pints of ale!”

“So you’d like another?”

Dylante grimaced again, the idea of having to go through that again made him shake his head violently. When he focused back on Edagan, his face had grown worried and was looking behind Dylante. Before he could turn, a large hand clasped his shoulder and gripped painfully tight.

“I thought I told you not to come in here again”, a voice that rasped like stones being dragged across glass growled at him. That voice belonged to one Gumnal Loit, a man that did not enjoy Dylante’s good-natured jokes at all.

Dylante spun around, a strange smirk on his face “No Gumnal, you said ‘I never want to see you in here again’, word for word and, as you weren’t in here when I came in, figured that that was OK then.”

A puzzled look grew on Gumnal’s face before his brain caught up with what Dylante had actually said. He snarled, “What did I say about those stupid jokes?!”

Dylante couldn’t help himself “Well, I’m sure you laugh at them once you understand them.”
----------------------------------------------------
Dylante’s brain was wired differently than most people. Most people at that moment would have been thinking ‘Oh crap, I’m being thrown through a window’. But Dylante, at that moment, was thinking ‘Awh crap, Edagan is going to make me pay to fix this’.

Seconds later, Dylante lay in a crumpled heap, covered in glass and wood chips, groaning in pain. Well, at least that’s the end of it, he thought foggily; Gumnal is too easily distracted by ale to come finish me off. He raised himself to his feet where he was greeted by a wheezing town guard.

“What’s going on ere then?” he grunted at Dylante.

“Oh nothing officer,” he groaned in pain, “just had a bit of a disagreement with the window.” He looked around him at the mess and brushed some glass off his shoulder, “It appears it won.”

He turned to leave the grumbling guard only to be faced with a curious cat staring oddly at him, as if he had never seen a man fly through a window before. She was about his age, although with beastkin, it was hard to tell some times. Soft blues eyes affixed his copper disks, slitting in what could be suspicion. He stood back, melodramatically spreading his arms as he announced himself.

“Greetings, weary traveller! I am Dylante Error! Hunter extraordinaire, artist among bards, puckish rogue….”

He bowed gingerly, keeping his eyes affixed with hers, “And your own personal guide North.”

After a long time, Yandle was feeling rather happy. It was the kind of hearty happiness that come from having a well-cooked meal after a morning of exercise. After several months out in the wilderness eking out a living on charred meat and boiled vegetables, the food from the Oakenhiem inn made him almost squeal with joy. The matronly cook was a kind lady who made sure that he filled all the way to his throat after he made the mistake of complimenting her cooking.

He remembered her say something along the lines of "Oh dear me, If only the other travellers were as nice as you m'boy...". So here he was back out on the road, several stones heavier and all round happier. After all there was nothing better than good walk after a stomach full of food. Yandle, however, was not walking without purpose there was something he had to see. It was a well-known stop for most rookie adventurers making their way towards Essia. The Stone of Nine, a monument to the greatest of adventurers and heroes. After all how many could claim to have defeated a deity?

Finally, he reached the clearing where the stones lay, along with several men and women from all walks. Unsurprising, it was good luck to begin one's adventuring. The stones themselves had what might be termed a rough aesthetic, but it appealed to Yandle’s heart. He recognized them to be a symbol that like the stones before they were all waiting to become chiseled into the heroes the stones stood for. He also wondered how hard it would be to lift the thing. He had heard pulling large stones on one's back was good training. He really wanted to give it a try but managed to contain himself.

Last time he did something like that, a horde of villagers chased him for three days. Three days without food, water or sleep. He couldn't even fight back or else he’d become a criminal. Yandle sighed and went back to staring intensely at the stone. He wasn’t sure if there was some ritual involved with the stone, so he hoped to observe someone doing something.

“Hmm, there has to be a large rock I can pull somewhere in this place?”

Ma'am? Invari was shocked to hear such pleasantries, a brief dropping of her smile revealing this before it settled easily back into its place; some genuine pleasure at the idea of being referred to by such a pleasant title...though it wasn't long before she grasped that the girl before her was merely being courteous...something rather rare for the Beastkin to experience, let alone be the direct object of. She allowed her smile to widen, showing teeth as blunt and large as tombstones (comparitively, of course) and shook her head quietly, taking her hand away from the Stone of Nine...somewhat embarassed about how she'd been gently pawing at it.

"Sorry," she paused for a moment, cupping one of her hands over the other and looking down (not on the human, but directly at the ground), "I can't think of seeing anyone like that...at least, not recently." Invari searched her memory as words issued from the diminutive one before her. Anger, unfounded and impetuous, flared in her for a moment; though she did her best to keep the smile on her face, it faltered briefly, her brows furrowing before she could fight off the urge. "People have tried," she said almost-easily, swallowing quietly to override the discomforting thought of losing her most precious imitation metals, "but you're right...a lot of 'em just don't believe me when I tell 'em that these aren't worth a fly's fart...let alone what they look like they're worth. Telling them my name and my story don't help a whole lot, either..." she trailed off, for a moment, casting a glance skyward, "because most people...er...make that all people, have no idea who in the hells I am." Invari rolled the thought of being attacked in a church over in her mind...a sour purse on her lips before she bit down on the lower one, gently. "It's sad what people have come to, if what you said is true. My ma always told me that one of the best places to find refuge was a church...'Maybe not the best for salvation...that comes from within, but the temple-tenders and altar-bound are some of the nicest people you'll ever meet.'," she paused, scratching at her head, rustling her ears and lightly running a finger along the rings there, "...it's terrible to think that bandits, brigands or outright bastards would take advantage of something like that." The bovine Beastkin felt an overwhelming urge to apologize for the ne'er-do-wells that had accosted the traveler before her, but stuffed it down; remembering the bits of advice she'd heard about being too forthcoming or trusting with anyone on the road.

"Thanks for the warning," she cast a glance behind her, at the tree-line, just to make a show of taking the woman's advice, "this armor is really precious to me...my name is Invari, it's nice to meet you! Uh..." She was suddenly excited, meeting the human's gaze for the first time since their conversation had begun; though her eyes did show a small amount of trepidation...perhaps confusion. Her voice was louder than she'd intended, a near-boom that echoed through rustling leaves and the gentle breeze. Her face colored reflexively, as she finally took note of the others that had come to view the Stone. "Wh-what's your name?" She folded her hands again, though, this time, she let them rest against her left hip, finally regaining her conversational sensibilities.

Elsewhere, but STILL relatively close by.

Elise laughed, perhaps too loudly, though to most it would still sound musical. She lifted a hand to cover her mouth, tears welling in the corners of her eyes. For a long moment, she didn't stop; giggling to herself as the man introduced and lauded himself in the same breath. She had to give it to him, the man had spirit; reminding her, in a distant way, about some of her old friends.

"Had I want or need of a guide, Mister Error, I would certainly spare the coin for one so lively as yourself," she cast a quick glance over his form, noting small cuts and the like wounds; much expected from being tossed forcefully through a window, "unfortunately, for you, I have no such need, today." The Silver Glint thought for a moment, taking a few easy steps around the man and cast her gaze down the relatively short path that lead to the Stone of Nine; making no effort to shield herself from observation. "I know exactly where I intend to head and, from there on out, I assure you that I am more than capable of handling my own affairs." Her ears twitched, lightly, at the distant sound of rushing flames and what seemed suspiciously like a scream-cut-short. Perhaps all was not so peaceful in Oakheim, this day. Though distant, she did believe that someone had used their magic to thwart...someone. The details weren't terribly relevant to her, but the ACT was; given that she could detect the faint scent of seared flesh and burning hair, even from this distance. Thankfully, her curiosity could be sated; given that the source of the noise and scent seemed to come from along the path she wished to tread.

"However, Dylante," Elise opted for the less formal approach, relaxing a little and turning to face him, again, her icy eyes possessed of a tiny twinkle of mischief, "I could use someone to accompany me on my small pilgrimage to the Stone of Nine." She patted a bag hidden under her cloak lovingly. "It's about time I left another offering for the Heroes..." adjusting her hood, she continued, "though everyone knows that the Heroes don't often stop by to gather the trinkets or tokens left behind for them. Usually bandits or the desperate tend to sneak out there at night and take whatever appears most appealing." Elise dug around in a pocket, briefly, producing a wooden disk, inlaid with a golden Essian Mare and tossed it deftly to the 'guide'. "I would most appreciate the company on the walk. Though, I may ask more of you by the time we reach our destination." She had already resumed walking, stepping gingerly onto the right path and allowing her fluid stride to carry her forward; not much minding whether or not the man chose to follow her. If he turned away, that was fine, perhaps the window could be more easily paid for, that way. If he did, mister Dylante Error would get to witness an interesting twist of Fate.

Elise spoke to herself, though aloud, "Oakheim has changed much, in recent years...given the troubles of the outside world," she folded her arms across her chest, "though not so much as places like Essia, or Tri-King's Castle, or even somewhere so sequestered as Stonebrook. It seems that the legacy left by the Nine Heroes has drawn an interesting crowd to this place," she turned and shot a glance back at Dylante, "and I suppose you're one of those among this 'interesting crowd'."

"Well, damn," Freya breathed in a strange lovechild between a sigh and a laugh, "Well, if y'see 'im, don't tell him I'm lookin' for 'im. Th'inn-keeper told me to surprise him. Just mayb' send'im this way; I gotta loiter 'round here til I see him. Lady said 'e was slow, so I'm pretty sure I got here before 'im. But, Like... Jus'incase, y'know?" She shrugged, deciding to lean on the rock- careful to not lean on the carvings- so she could look at the beastkin without straining her neck. Invari's grinning confused her quietly- there wasn't much of anything Freya felt she'd done to warrant anything like that, besides not stealing stuff. Raised in an area where beastkin were valued for their strength and how helpful they were to agriculture, she'd learned to treat them for respect- and, though she was well-wandered, she had no idea how rare that was, exactly, and figured that most people wouldn't "be stupid".

"Yup. Shit-thieves are pretty much just made from shit. Dun' care 'bout who y'are, dun care 'bout what y'got... They just take it. Fuckin' insult to the art of thievin'..." She shook her head, puckering her mouth to the side in almost a disgusted sneer. "Treat 'em like rabid' animals. They wanna act like 'em, they better not be surprised when they get intimate with yer weapons. Usually, they ain't, too. 'S almos' like they expect it, 'er somethin'." She continued to make her face, before letting it fade slowly. " If'it helps," She glanced up to meet the woman's eyes, "Th'usually don't know shit b'sides that they gotta take shit. I don' e'en think they know what a church is, let alone why they shouldn' fight in one. S'maybe, they're just... Stupid, 'n too fucked t'care?" She shrugged, before turning her eyes up to peek at the sky.

"Yea'... Churches are great. One of em, down south an' closer to where I came from, e'en gave me clothes an' food. Th' big church guy- Father... Shit, I think 'e was Father Graeme- an'e'ways, 'e gave me the cloak off 'is back." She fell silent for a bit, before catching a snicker before it left her mouth, causing it to trip around in her soft palette. "Oh, Goddess, I remember when some'a 'is monks got in a tousle b'fore I left- he whomp'd their asses so hard-" She let another toothy smirk rip, laughing a bit quietly to herself at her memory. "Long story short- don' fuck w'church-folk. You'll get wrecked."

Catching her attention sneaking back to her memories, she almost let it go- that is, until she was thanked. "Neh? Daah, it ain't anythin'. If e'ryone is aware, takin' stuff gets more fun- an', makes shitty thieves go away. Happened back home, an' look where I am now." She laughed at her own joke, bowing her head and raising a hand to cover her lips. "I'm Freya- Er, Freya Holton. Nice t'meet ya. But, yeah, naah, I get the armor thing. 'S like me an' m'knives an' cloak." She gave the lady a goofy breed of a shit-eating grin, trying her best not to laugh at the volume whiplash Invari gave.

As she was about to speak, she noted a slow moving kid, hair white and everywhere, and as he grew closer, a pissy disposition. "Oh, damn," She breathed, getting off the stone and moving to look the kid over. "Oh, sweet shards, I found 'im," She spoke with laughter in her voice, giddy to get rid of the heavy burden she was carrying on his behalf. "You're Youngest Brother, If'n I'm not mistakin'," She reached her hands behind and under her cloak, drawing out the process of handing over the package slightly. "This's fer you, from a few towns away." She handed the package over, stretching at the new lightness of being without the package, then stuck out her hand, expecting a tip. "I was told that this was pretty impor'int t'ya, so I kept it super, double, ultra safe. Didn't e'en get water on it, e'en though it was pretty hard to keep under m'cloak." Slightly curious as to what the package was, she peeked an eye at him, having shut her eyes and tilted her head as she bragged about her delivery skills. "I e'en got mugged, an' that thing made it through without any scratches."

Who was Youngest Brother? That was a question that few people sought to ask, and a question with an elusive kind of resolution that made it difficult to even approach, let alone answer. Simply put, Youngest Brother was a private person through and through, and found no sense of worth in sharing the details of his life with others. It was for this reason that, while he didn't necessarily dislike others, he tended to treat strangers as a peeve rather than a person. As he listened the the simple-minded country yokel blatantly reveal her knowledge and disposition towards the art of thievery, his sensitive ears twitched visibly under the white mop. When she approached him, claiming to have something of his previous purchase with her, the young beastkin's mind started reeling from the implications. There was no reason to give this girl the benefit of the doubt, setting aside her forthright disposition that seemed almost diametrically opposed to the occupation of a rogue, and the scowl on Youngest Brother's face was almost terrifying to behold. There was a clear hint of something untoward glimmering about his rectangular pupils.

Everything about the human named Freya Holton was, in an instant, burned into Youngest Brother's mind as he finally put her in his mental eye. From the crooked nose to the almost invisible freckle on her left knuckle, he sifted through this girl's person at a frightening pace and tuned out everything else. Short, but cocky, with an unwarranted swagger in her step. Blisters on the hands implied a two-weapon fighting approach. Weapons carried a faint scent of blood, heavy with oil... an amateur cleaning job. Scuffs on the armor imply a period of good use, but lack of actual damage seemed to indicate high agility. In other words, a novice, but not an undangerous one. At this range the advantage was already hers, unless he used his magic without mediation, but that would put him dangerously close to his berserk state. Chances were high that multiple nearby bystanders would perish as well. That was no good in a popular site like this. Discussion was the only option.

As if no time at all had passed between Freya's last word and Youngest Brother's next, the goat boy spoke quickly and clearly, his stone-like voice clashing starkly with the screwed-up expression on his face.

"Do they give out tips to scavengers, these days, Miss Freya Holton?" he asked, sternly eying the beckoning nature of her hand before continuing, "Seeing as I didn't requisition a delivery, the chances that you're trying to scam me is high, are they not? Ask yourself, now. Would you accept an unrequested package from a total stranger, no less at a location you weren't expecting it? You won't find this Youngest Brother to be such an easy mark."

Features relaxing a bit, Youngest Brother tilted his head in what could almost be described as a cute gesture, but it certainly didn't suit him in the slightest. Although he was trying to play off this situation as straightforwardly as possible, in his heart Youngest Brother wasn't nearly as calm. While he could certainly accept the existence of a strange coincidence or two, there was still a lingering doubt that clawed at his sense of security. He knew what that package was the minute the human girl had lugged it out, and was secretly stunned by it's sudden appearance. That was garbage, to be sure, but incriminating garbage nonetheless. It was the proof of his magical powers, something that Youngest Brother was unwilling to share with anyone but fools and corpses. If others, certain others, found out there was such a powerful weapon at their disposal, it would no doubt attract a heap of unwanted attention. The chances that this girl had already discovered this fact, even if she hadn't shown it, was more than enough reason for Youngest Brother to want to remove her. Only, that wasn't an option at the moment.

Instead, he decided to attack her verbally. The angrier he made her, the easier it would be to discern her true intentions.

That ear-grating monotone once again sounded, "I suggest you leave that - package - here and forget about extorting any kind of monetary reward from me this day. If you're willing to drop this matter, I don't see any reason to implicate you further, no doubt you don't want to make any more of a fool of yourself."

Youngest Brother took a slow step forward, his own short stature discernibly equal to the girl in front of him, but he was clearly making himself out to be bigger than the latter. There was a sort of lofty arrogance oozing from his facial expression and body language that even a simpleton could spot. It was almost painful to watch just how much he was looking down on the little human, as if she were a particularly feisty ant that had crawled across his path. With a simple shrug of his shoulders, Youngest Brother's massive pack fell to the ground with a resounding thud, and that malevolent sparkle in the beastkin's eye seemed to stare daggers.

"If she attacks, good. If she yields, better. If she snaps? Perfect..." Youngest Brother's thin, furry hand gripped the head of knotted black-wood walking stick, his whole body clearly poised to defend himself.

@Bad Weather

Unfortunately, Yandle’s search for a suitable pullable rock was not successful. “Okenhiem is has a very pitiful supply of usable large rocks” he thought. It was quite surprising, usually finding a rock wasn’t really that difficult. One could just walk for a few minutes and lo and behold there’d be a suitably sized rock, but that wasn’t the case in this place.

He decided that it wasn’t really worth spending so much time mulling over something like rocks. Still he was kind of bored, in fact very bored. Usually he would be training or something like that, or even have a job to do. Jobs in Oakenhiem were few, since there were so many adventurers just crammed into the place. As for training, he had already completed an entire morning of it. He knew what happened if he over did it, Yandle had learned this the hard way.

As he looked around he spotted a man hunched over near a tree. It was kind of curious, there seemed to be nothing particularly wrong with him. Yet he seemed almost near tears for some reason. Having nothing better to do Yandle decided to go in and help the fellow out. As he walked closer he got a better feel of the man. On the basis of his clothing, he seemed well of, like the city folk that occasionally made their way through the country. He didn’t appear to be a warrior at least, not the physical kind. In fact, the man seemed to be kind of weak, that with the teary expression made seem more like a damsel in distress.

Yandle shrugged and called out to the fellow with a wave, “ Hullo friend, why so sad?” he said.
On reaching the individual, he squatted down. “As I was saying, why are you so sad? It’s a good day, and the forest airs fresh!” he said, trying his best to sound cheery somehow.

“Ah yes, My names Yandle… forgot to mention” he said. “ So tell me a little about yerself, and maybe I can figure outta way to help you”