The skies over Jeorva shifted restlessly as the white clouds rolled and tumbled against the fading blue sky. The sun still had a good hour of work to do before it would be allowed to start slipping past the horizon to settle in for the night. The streets of Jeorva started to flood with the aroma of dinners being prepared, though the streets were still very much full of merchants and traders selling their wares. A soft breeze tousled the tree branches and the leaves jumped from their places to help signal the coming of winter and shower the passing townsfolk with red, yellow, and orange.

The last few over-achievers from the massive Jeorva Academy on the Northern side of town tricked out the large oak doors and down the stairs into the cobblestone streets. It seemed a regular day in the busy trading town. This would likely be a picturesque scene of a city in a kingdom of peace were it not for the massive orc soldiers that roamed each corner and the green-faced goblins that crept behind the merchant stalls-- no doubt doing their fair share of stealing and extorting.

Occasionally a cry of fear or a desperate apology would ring out from wherever a large misshapen green-gray head and spear emerged from the crowd of humans. It was unnervingly noticeable as those areas seemed to be most eerily quiet. People would duck their head and pray the orc soldiers would take no interest in them. Of course, if they considered you pretty or pathetic enough-- sometimes that wasn't enough. By now, however, harassment was almost as common as breathing.

On one street, one could see a large, dark gray orc grab a young woman by her arm and caress her face. She was obviously trying to jerk herself away, but with a simple lifting of his arm, the orc nearly lifted the maiden completely off the ground. On another street one would notice a young man running amid the crowd, clutching something to his chest and throwing elbows to force himself through. Another man chased him, yelling for someone to stop him. A pair of orc guards snickered to each other as they stood off to the side of the street and enjoyed the show momentarily before continuing on their way.

Poor humans.... A figure shrouded in a grey blue cloak stood cautiously behind a partially opened window that overlooked the city in the attic high above the academy. It creaked loudly as the figure tried to open it a bit further, but a sudden gust of wind sent the wood shutter door crashing open. The sound and light that filled the dusty dark room disturbed a flock of sleeping birds and pixies. The figure held a hand up and took a step back as the group flapped and fluttered past her face and out the window.

"Excuse you," Rowena muttered tersely, brushing a stray feather and some pixie dust from her shoulder. Glancing further out the window, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath, furrowing her brow in concentration. The wind, which was still blowing with great force, blew her hood off, exposing her long pointed ears. She opened her honey gold eyes. The last elementos had entered the city. It was time to meet with them.

"Late...," Rowena said sullenly, glancing at the sun, "Why are they so late...?" She stepped away from the window and strode across the room. As she descended the stairs, she withdrew a small bottle of black powder from her satchel, continuing to mutter to herself.

Brande had set off the very morn he’d awoken.
He’d begun East of the Wisdom Mountains, and walked in the sierra’s shadow for most of the first day, his cloak bound tightly around himself as he’d paced through a whispering rain, wetness on the first breaths of Autumn.
It had been constant, and somewhere further South it was undoubtedly washing away chunks of charcoal from the seared silhouette of Serifina Heights. Shedding another layer of charred skin.
Brande had thrilled to the experience, though: the rainfall threw a sort of pallor over the mountains to his west, and made him feel as though he were walking the spine of some felled behemoth, like a hero of old.
When the first night came, the rainfall sang him to his sleep, as it pattered rhythmically against the knotted branches of a kneeling willow tree that Brande had made into a makeshift tent.
In the night, he’d heard the distant clamour of thunder, out towards The Crimson Sea: he wondered aloud if it were a storm, or a beast, before he’d finally set about sleeping.

The next day was drier, and humid. It was only in the light of the new-born morn that Brande realised his willow, wilting towards the west, was beginning to take on the likeness of rust and amber. Fall was fast on his heels.
He’d shaved and washed in a nearby stream, and moved along with a greater urgency. The landscape was still wet and shifted uneasily beneath his feet in places, particularly when he came into the North proper and began trekking the dirt roads.
He made it to Jeorvo by midday, and rested there for a spell. Brande was a finely bred, but nonetheless penniless, wanderer- hence, those he’d come to know as passing acquaintances had dubbed him The Vagabond Prince- and so made due on the kindness of strangers, particularly when he paid them a kindness in turn.

Jeorvo was a sordid hive of crime and poverty, and in it Brande had stuck out like a sore thumb. In actuality, he was probably the poorest man within the city’s walls: but he also took care of himself, and had learned young to live well off of the land. This, along with his ostentatious cloak and sterling blade, made him an immediate target.
Said blade also made him an immediate threat. Even if he hadn’t lived and breathed the life of a wandering swordsman, Brande wouldn’t have had to worry: when he stumbled upon a tavern owner being shaken down, all he’d had to do was sweep the nearest thug’s ankle with the broad face of his rapier to make them scatter.
In turn, the tavern offered Brande a meagre hot meal and a warm, nameless ale: and with that he was satisfied.
When night fell he made camp west of Jeorva, against the banks of a lake. By late morning, on the third day of his journey, Brande had washed and made his entrance.

Jeorva struck a hidden chord with Brande’s inner aristocrat, a petulant thirteen year old who wanted nothing more than to strut through the town like he was still the last heir of a powerful, dying family.
The Vagabond Prince chuckled to himself at the thought, and scratched absentmindedly at his beard: how the mighty had fallen. But he’d never have been able to appreciate the city’s grandeur as a child, not when ostentatiousness was the norm.
He was lost, for a few moments, in a sort of golden haze as he wandered the city’s streets. His mother had grown up here, his father had once told him: a promising disciple of the sword, with a questionable upbringing and a bad attitude. She’d married much higher than her station, but ultimately never lost the spirit of an urban troublemaker.
He wondered how long ago it was that she’d been bouncing around the alleyways, through the scented mist of cooked food - which to a rolling stone smelled of ambrosia- and autumnal dew.

And yet despite his vicarious nostalgia for the city he’d- until now- never seen, Brande felt somewhat disappointed, because he knew Jeorva wouldn’t be where he fought his perfect fight.
True, the architecture was exquisite- and in places so old it made him homesick for the first time in half a decade- but he’d always pictured the ultimate duel to take place in a space more open, more freeing. Like a plateau in a forest-ridden mountain range, or a field of thematically appropriate flowers.
Perhaps against a wise-cracking, handsome rogue with an eye patch, or a powerful Elven woman with a broadsword in her grip, and all to the operatic score of a howling mountain wind or the raucous applause of cicadas.
When and wherever it was he’d dreamt of it taking place, it wasn’t here. An exciting skirmish, perhaps. A memorable fight, certainly… but not a perfect one.

But that didn’t mean there’d be no fight at all. It didn’t take an experienced swordsman to spot the menacing orcs roaming the otherwise idyllic city centre, breezing through the shades of Autumn like plumes of smoke through a countryside.
So Brande hovered his hand expectantly over Esmeralda’s pommel as he walked, and stewed in his own bias.
His mother had once told him that no race was born bad, but he’d yet to meet an orc he liked, and it didn’t take long for him to find another to take issue with.

It was moving steadily into late noon, an hour before dusk, when Brande began to home in on the academy, and found himself promptly caught up in another debacle all together.
Coming down a narrower street, he stumbled upon an orc, grey like slate and much bigger than even himself- who stood at 6’4” but felt 5”10 in its presence- and a young woman snared within its unsavoury grip.
He cast a glance around: indifference, if anything. Self-preservation at the cost of others.
“Well now, that just won’t do, will it?”
Then there was the shifting of leather, the fluttering of his cloak and a tell-tale flash of white and silver: rapier drawn, Brande closed the distance…
But he didn’t strike. That was where Brande drew the definitive line between a killer- like an orc- and a duellist- like an Ashbell.
A duellist got no pleasure from an easy kill.

He fell into stance, and pressed the tip of his blade into the back of the orc’s neck, lightly.
“I don’t think the lady wants to dance, amico,” he greeted, calmly, tilting his head sideways so as to look at said lady from beneath the orc’s raised arm, “But is it alright if I cut in?", he asked her, "I won’t be long.”

_{All foreign language has been translated from the native Periseti and placed in brackets for convenience.}

"{By god, I don't believe it!} Bronze Lion {has broken this man in half!! We have a condemnation, folks! Son of My Right Hand, corrupter of wives, has been executed!}"

Leon Alabaster stood triumphant over his opponent's corpse. The amazed cries of Minty Doukas, the Fight Pits' most famous announcer, rocketed around the sandstone walls of the Fight Pits, inciting a riotous applause from the audience.

Leon Alabaster shook himself from the haze of his daydreams and focused on the task at hand. The hardy horse he had loaned worked its way into the stables of the Winnowing Cloud, a public house just inside of Jeorva. The innkeeper, a portly man with a gently concerned face, gladly gave Leon a spot in the common room for a modest price.

Leon didn't quite understand why he was going to Jeorva, but he was always in the mood for prophetic visions. Perhaps Jeorva saw the light and moved from public hangings to the fair and equitable system the enlightened people of Periset used? Leon hoped so. He always saw foreign executioners as needlessly grim individuals who didn't get enough exercise. Maybe making their job entail fighting criminals to the death would help them in that regard.

The sights that greeted Leon as he passed Jeorva's gates and rode down the streets certainly didn't prove or disprove his assumptions. No crying barkers, no flying banners, no crowds of hissing spectators flocking to the glorious sights and sounds of righteous slaughter. Indeed, it seemed Jeorva was as barbaric and banal as it ever was.

Stifling his mild disappointment, Leon briefly entertained the thought of simply going to sleep. However, he realized that he had offered a promise to the caravan master. He would need to help the caravan he rode in on ply its wares. In particular, he would need to help carry cargo to and from the caravan's chosen marketplace. On the whole, Leon considered it a fair deal. Flipping a grubby coin to the innkeeper for his horse's safety, Leon headed out the door and down the street. The marketplace was just a few blocks down, and Leon knew exactly where his cohorts were. Perhaps when he finished, he would look into just what could have given him cause to move to Jeorva.

It had taken Jorak longer than he wished to leave home, but ultimately he woke two days later since the dreams had began with preparations to leave the town complete. The hardest part had been to convince his parents that he was not on a fool’s task, which had been difficult when the dreams had clearly said to reveal nothing. The vagueness of his request had hampered his attempts, but his continued convictions had bore fruit the previous night.

As the night’s guards turned in for the morning, he took one last look at the flickering torches atop the wall before he ventured into the fog that shrouded Lorcrove. The heavy fog was enough to muffle the noises from his surroundings and though he headed away from the forest haunted by monsters and creatures, Jorak swept his head back and forth for any sign of danger. It took several hours of quick march for the fog to begin to recede and the mountains he had followed to be revealed. As wisps of mist rolled off him, unable to cling any longer, he sighed in relief at the warmer air around him.

With mountains to both sides of him, a quick check of the map confirmed that if Jorak were to cut through those directly in front then he would end up maybe a day’s march from Jerova. With the sun long out of sight thanks to the large landforms around him though, he decided to simply make camp for the moment and wait until tomorrow for the treacherous climb. With a bundle of firewood he had gathered from the forest since broke away from the treeline he settled down for the night.

The next day saw Jorak navigating in between two mountains through whatever paths he could find. The two landforms met about a quarter of the way up thankfully, meaning that he didn’t have to contend with the sheer cliffs that became present the higher one climbed. It was still a rather long journey, but he reached the other side just shortly after noon. From this high up he could see, far off in the distance, the shimmering waters of the lake Jeorva sat next to. The city was indistinct at this range, but it was easy to tell that Lorcrove didn’t even hold a candle to it in comparison. With a determined huff, he began to make his way back down to the ground.

With the sun beginning its descent to the horizon by the time he stepped onto the plains once more, Jorak decided to nonetheless push onwards. From what the map indicated it would be another few hours if he were to make a beeline towards the city. Not too bad and the chance at an actual bed to sleep in was more than enough for him to tough it up and keep up the pace.

Despite nightfall, Jorak’s eyesight remained almost as keen as ever and his pace slowed as he neared the city. Torches flickered within, moving about with the guards that carried them, and he could see several at the gate. His eyes narrowed further at the greyskins that manned their positions there. So it was true…

He spent more than a few minutes considering his options. The walls didn’t look too easy to scale even if the patrols that manned them seem awfully lacking. The front gate was also a bust given it was unlikely he would get through without some fuss or scene of sort. With a reluctant sigh it seemed that his best choice would be to simply spend the night outside the city walls and enter when there was more traffic during the daylight.

So another night was spent just an arm's reach from the comforts of a bed and warmth in general. This close to the city he didn't want to risk a fire that might draw the attention of some guards who found curiosity stronger than laziness. Even after the sun rose, traffic was fairly light and it wasn't until a few hours after first light that there was a steady stream of people from and into the city. Hefting his pack, destroying the traces of his stay, and making sure his weapons weren't easily visible, Jorak finally made to enter Jeorva.

Rather than make his way immediately towards the Academy that sat in the north of the town, he wandered the market at first. It was quite something when that area alone could have matched Lorcrove in size, and there were probably several times the population in market goers. The awe held him momentarily before aromas and tantalizing scents urged Jorak forward to discover something new to eat. It had been a few days since he last had an actual cooked meal, and though rations were fine and dandy, they obviously didn't quite match up.

With a watchful eye, he managed to steer clear of the orc guards roaming the city streets. Just as he might have been easy to see among the crowd, it also made seeing the weapons they carried simple. A subtle turn here against the flow of the crowd and he was down another street. It took a lot longer than it would have to make his way to the Academy, but shortly after noon he stood at the bottom of the steps before the grand building. He watched the people that came in and out for a moment before he shrugged and began to walk up, ignoring the fact that he didn't quite fit in.

He didn't step through the oaken doors but instead took a spot off to the side of the massive Academy beneath the shade. Though he dug into his meal ravenously, and boy was the thick broth filled bread delicious, Jorak also kept an eye out for those who came and went from the Academy. He didn't expect to find answers to the dreams that easily, but it couldn't hurt to watch for those that didn't seem to belong. As he licked his fingers stained with broth, he sighed in contentment and settled in for his first of who knew how many shifts.

He returned to his "post", dinner in hand, just in time to catch someone who very much did not fit in begin the climb up the stairs to the Academy. In no hurry, he watched as she climbed the stairs with an almost vicious posture and disappear behind the heavy oaken doors. With a shrug, he followed upwards but turned to the side once again and took up his position again. Maybe it was usual to have a few odd visitors to the institute in search of the wealth of knowledge its attendees might have to offer. Certainly that was a reasonable belief to have, but his gut told Jorak otherwise.

Congratulations!

You have been nominated and are cordially invited to join us for dinner at the enclosed location so we may discuss your eligibility.

Please understand that this is a private invitation. It is of the utmost importance regarding your own safety that you not share this information with anyone.

The Blue Sight

P.S. Wear the scarf.

The words on the wealthy cream parchment were written in a deep blue colored ink. A parcel tied with a blue ribbon contained a fine blue scarf with a gold insignia matching the one at the top of the note. The symbol resembled the head of a panther with blue sapphire eyes. A smaller note containing the time and address was carefully pinned to the fabric-- a location in the richer part of Jeorvo.

Who had delivered it and exactly why were, as of now, a mystery. Perhaps it was delivered by mistake?

Regardless of it's origin, the decision to attend is made.

A young boy from the village handed the note and parcel to Elise Callan while she was at the academy library. The little whelp couldn't remember the appearance of the stranger who'd paid him to hand it to her, though. He scampered off gleefully gripping the gold piece he'd been given in both hands, his task complete.

A man in a fine blue suit stood before the abode of Sir Isaac Dorovich, holding the parcel and note out to him with delicate grace. "I'm sorry, sir. That information is confidential," he nodded apologetically when asked about the sender, "Now, if you'll excuse me." He bowed politely before returning to the horse drawn carriage from whence he came.

The note and parcel lay on the pillow of James Terna, placed there by his father. Some child from the village had dropped it off, saying some lady paid him to deliver it. Of course, upon reading the note, any suspicions of it being from a secret admirer seemed to dissipate.

That was two weeks ago.

With the night of promise at hand, the address lead to a mansion on the outskirts of the wealthy district of Jeorvo. The mansion is on a very large estate-- gated and well guarded, to boot. A large fountain and beautiful garden welcome visitors to the massive oak doors, which are attended by two doormen in blue vests, the same shade as the scarves. It becomes immediately apparent that quite a few other people were 'nominated'.

Past the doors is an elegant waiting room, or perhaps a lounge. Several different people wait and gather there, some wearing the scarves proudly around their neck while others hold theirs timidly, as if it were a deceased child and they were tragically searching for it's owner. Overall, there seem to be close to one hundred nominees, all from numerous different backgrounds. Some butlers in vests identical to the doormen walk casually throughout the crowd, offering fine hors d'oeuvres and drinks.

The room itself is simply decorated for such a large room. Some chairs and couches with blue fabric cushions are placed throughout the room along with a few tall plants in expensive blue vases. Aside from one massive painting of the same panther symbol on the note, the walls are adorned with several debonair mirrors of varying shapes and sizes. The panther looms over the gathering of nominees with it's cool sapphire eyes, just above the large oak doors at the end of the room.

The orc's head had been bent over slightly as he made a face that was perhaps meant to be a smile at the maiden he held like a large rag doll in his arm. The orc's long, pointed ears seemed to twitch as the sharp tip of Brande's sword touched him. The orc straightened up and the thick gray skin on the back of his neck pressed harmlessly into the sword's point for a moment before he turned his head. A pair of large, yellow eyes with black irises stared down at Brande-- more confused than angry.

"This yours?" The orc asked, turning to face Brande and effortlessly dragging the woman through the air as she yelped. A second, slightly smaller orc came into view then-- a more greenish tinge to his skin and a flat, smashed looking nose.

"Girl is rude. Wastes food," he said clucked gruffly. It then became apparent that the orc had what appeared to be a large, rotten tomato sliding down the front of his shiny metal armor. Once upon a time, it would have been laughable to consider the image of an orc in such fine suit-- especially with a food all over it. But the past 60 years had been good to their race-- so good that it would be more appropriate to gasp at the tomato rather than laugh.

The orc "smiled" back at the woman, stroking his chin with a large, meaty gray hand, "Want be Varfu's bed woman to say sorry?"

"No!" the woman's eyes filled with horror and her eyes, with tears, "I'm sorry, Varfu! It won't happen again!" She seemed to be in her late teens with long auburn hair and a pretty, pointed face. A sling shot lay at her dangling feet, making the painted picture of her red-handed guilt all the clearer. She screamed yet another foolhardy 'please' and the gap in the crowd seemed to widen. This was not a situation that many people were interested in being involved with.

The second orc said something in their native language and Varfu nodded. "10 gold pieces or--" he reached his free arm behind his back and drew a large battle axe, "Zanna loses throwing arm. Varfu offers this deal for mercy. Up to you, human man."

---

"Young lady!" a gray-haired old man in a somewhat tattered brown suit was stomping down the hallway towards Elspeth, his wrinkly lips pursed with discontent, "You're making a damnable mess of the entrance hall, you ignorant child!" The mans voice carried through the spacious halls.

His finger trembled almost as badly as his toad croak of a voice as he pointed his finger down one of the hallways, "You march yourself right to the janitors closet and clean up this mess. And you can expect I'll be speaking to the Dean about this! Don't think I won't contact your parents either!"

---

"Move it!"

"Watch where you're going!"

"Hey!"

The cries of discontent drew more and more near until it was too late for Raine to realize she was standing directly in the escape path of a boy clutching a strange unmarked bag. The two tumbled to the marketplace floor-- everything happened very quickly then.

The boy kneeling before her with one hand on his head and one hand still gripping the bag and supporting his weight had disheveled auburn hair and sharp features. He seemed to be not much older than Raine. His green eyes flashed with anger for a moment before filling with urgent fear.

"Stop that kid! He's a thief!" a man's voice yelled in the close distance.

"Quick!" he whispered sharply, "Under here! Please!" He dove beneath a curtained market stall, motioning for her to follow. He held out his free hand with the intent of pulling her behind the curtain as quickly as possible.

"Help! Thief!" the voice called, drawing dangerously near.

It was apparent that the slightest hesitation would result in it being to late. If she was going to move-- she had to do it fast and she had to do it now.

Elise sat in her chair for a few moments more, watching as the little boy skipped off with his treasure, smirking slightly to herself. It has been a combination of seeing just how someone could be, even with the battles going on, and amused interest in the cleverness of the chosen messenger. Of course she could chose to leave the letter unopened, putting the package into an unused corner and letting it collect dust, but the scholar in her was far too curious to let it go. She pivoted her torso to face the parcel and examined it's elegant nature, wrapped carefully in plain beige paper and tied off with a royal blue ribbon. It spoke of class and yet of secrets and made it easy to pass off as nothing, forcing Elise to open the first letter. Her eyes scanned over it slowly, raising an eyebrow. 'Eligibility?' she asked herself for a moment. It was true, her likely fame as a blade master was growing, but getting secret invitations was new to her.

Deciding not to judge it too much, she unwrapped the box and found an equally royal blue scarf with a unique symbol on it's face; a black panther with sapphire eyes - were these people obsessed with the color blue? A small note distracted her thoughts, causing her to reach inside and unfold it, revealing the exact location of her meeting. She recognized the address as somewhere in the richer parts of Jeorvo and pursed her lips for a moment. She dearly hoped this wasn't going to be some political game.

Two weeks passed, in which Elise spent part of her time keeping to her studies while the other half was spent traveling and staying comfortable early at a nearby inn until the appointed day. When it finally came, she confidently walked towards the gates of the large estate, noting some others had been slowly pouring in as well, thanking the guards for the entry. Her first thought though had been that they were indeed obsessed with the color blue. The guards wore it, parts of the mansion were blue, and if that weren't enough, as she was let inside there were blue cushions, blue vases, a blue (abit giant) panther head with blue eyes - blue and more blue. Elise could only smiled and let out a tiny chuckle, amused by the thought that maybe it was a secret organization bent on erasing red from the world.

Regardless of the obvious color theme, it was incredibly fancy, and the message had brought forth all types of people. Scholars, swordsmen, archers, fighters, alchemists, or really any occupation you could think of that might be useful in some sort of adventure. Some seemed confident in the same way Elise was, wearing the scarf as an accessory while others half-tucked them into pockets and held them with worried looks and glances. It made her wonder what sort of invitation this really was and her fear of a political angle was slowly dying down - no, this was more like some sort of expedition, but for what was beyond her understanding, especially when she felt the battles for the kingdoms was a tad more important than delving into some ancient ruin.

What did she know though? Very little and she needed to wait it out to truly get a sense of what was going on. So shifting her blade, tied to her hip, she decided to take a comfortable seat at one of the couches. The blade master opted for simple people watching, seeing as there was little else to do until the large oak doors opened and revealed their host and what they intended with all of them.

THE MOST THRILLING CAPTURE OF THE CENTURY!!!

Leon Alabaster's muscles glistened like polished ceramic in the sun as he prised open a barrel of sweet-smelling figs. In the cool shade of the caravan master's swiftly-erected stall, a team of merchants, teamsters, and record keepers struggled to keep up with the thrumming demands of their customers. Seeing that there was no new cargo to unload, Leon took a brief rest. He wiped the sweat from his bushy beetlebrows and rotated his shoulderblades, releasing a cathartic crack.

"[You have performed a satisfactory job this day, Sufficiently Helpful Alabaster,] said the caravan master, grinning from ear to ear. ["It would be the least I am able to do if you were to take a small Respite Inspired By The Popular Saint Helspeth. Please, at my urging, partake of your Aftermath of the Great War of Fortress Made of Red Rock.]"

Leon chortled vigorously at the caravan master's clever joke, and graciously shook him by the left shoulder. "[Thank you, Owner of the party with which I had spent the past number of weeks. I will leave now and return in half of an hour. However, I must request that you do not reprimand me for taking longer than that span, whether due to my own foolishness or not!]" Whistling a jaunty tune, Leon Alabaster began making his way through the market in search of something to do.

As if by some grace of God, Leon found his heart's desire almost immediately.
"Stop that kid! He's a thief!" cried a man just a few yards down along the stalls. Leon broke into a brisk jog, and very nearly tackled the crier in his enthusiasm.

"Where is the thief?" said Leon. "I am an agent of justice!"

As it turned out, the thief had not made it far. The prospective evildoer had, after purloining this man's goods, ran a short distance down the stalls, tackled some woman, ducked under a briefly-unoccupied market stall, and dragged the woman down with him. The sheer spectacle of it caught the eye of many a curious market-dweller, and the culprit's current hiding place was clear as day. This may just be the thing Leon needed to prove the superiority of Periset's justice system.

Leon wasted no time with theatrics or nonchalance. Quickly making his way to Raine and the boy's hiding place, Leon strategically aimed a blow at the stall's flimsy wooden slate. With a loud splitting noise, the table fell in on itself, bringing the stall's restrictive curtain down with it. With any luck, the thief and his unfortunate hostage would be too busy untangling themselves to escape. Leon swiftly thrusted his hands downward, aiming to grab both Raine and the thief by whatever he could grasp.

A solid knock came at the door. A knock with purpose, yet respectful at the same time. It was a noise that was percussive, yet unintrusive. Truly, whoever was behind the knock hailed from the higher parts of society. All this Sir Isaac took in within an instant, and in that instant he found himself slightly flustered.

After all, that day was his scheduled day off: a day of relaxing from all the responsibilities he held, from his ventures, and from worries of the future. He was standing at his stove stirring a stew of fresh vegetables and red meat, packed with delicious herbs and spices. A book sat nearby, illustrating the recipe. In the living room another book sat on the table beside Sir Isaac's favorite chair, this one a fantasy novel detailing a girl's trip through a strange world.

Sir Isaac, not expecting company, least of all from one so high in society, rushed through his recent memory in a controlled panic, searching for why there might be someone at the door. Drawing a blank, he set the ladle down in a bowl beside the book and composed himself for anything before answering the door.

The well-dressed man in blue proffered the note and package to Sir Isaac with dignity and grace, further convincing Sir Isaac of the man's high standing - or that he worked for one of such standing. He daintily accepted both, before finally asking, "Might I inquire as to the source of this note and gift?"

"I'm sorry, sir. That information is confidential," he nodded apologetically toward Sir Isaac.

"There's no need to apologize. I can understand a man valuing his privacy." Sir Isaac smiled warmly.

The man then bowed politely. "Now, if you'll excuse me." Sir Isaac watched as the man returned to a carriage and gave a warm wave as he rode away, then returned to the stove with the letter. His food was cooking, and he could read as he stirred.

---

People walked up to the mansion where Sir Isaac sat, enjoying a glass of water. He had expected there to be only a score of attendees at the most, but here there were almost five times that. Why had the sender even bothered with the request for secrecy? Any one of the attendees could easily have been stalked here. However, Sir Isaac let the thought perish, as it was not his problem to deal with.

No, his problem was putting on a show to appeal to whomever was the organizer of this affair. They were apparently in high standing, and getting on their good side would be a huge step towards Sir Isaac's goals. It had been a long while since he had last played the social game, and he could only hope that his skills had not decayed over the years.

Petra could barely sleep due to the anticipation of the journey on the morrow. She tossed and turned all night until finally deciding to set off for Jeorva in the wee hours of the morning. She walked in the brisk early hours with the breeze blowing the loose strands of her light brown hair in all different directions. She glanced at the small cottages in her hometown of Deidremere and said a silent goodbye to everyone sleeping soundly, unaware of Petra’s departure. Soon they would wake up and begin harvesting for the day and head down into the mines to begin the long day underground. By then, Petra would be halfway to Jeorva and beginning her new life.

She wasn't entirely sure what to expect in this new chapter of her life. All she knew is that she needed to get to the academy. She would have left immediately after she felt the initial pull except she had no idea how she was going to explain her absence to her supervisor, Xavier. He would have asked too many questions and she would never be able to explain herself without disregarding the warning in her dream. She decided it would be best to leave in the still of the night while everyone slept to avoid any suspicion and unwanted questions.

As the day grew brighter, Jeorva began to become clearer in the distance. Petra could hardly suppress her anticipation to see this exotic new city. Unable to with hold her excitement, she bolted for the front gates only to slow to a jog when noticing the giant orcs guarding the entrance to the city. She had heard about the orc soldiers that roamed the city but was slightly unprepared for their gruesome demeanor.

"State your business, foreigner.” the larger orc growled.

“I am traveling from Deidremere to come and buy materials to create carts for the mines.” Petra's confident voice did not waver as she told her bold face lie. Her stone wall face gave no sign of the fearsome pounding of her heart.

“Enter” The orc stated carelessly, waving Petra forward.

As Petra took her first steps into Jeorva, she could feel the shift in the atmosphere as she left behind her world of solid earth and stone, for that of a bustling city.

Ten measly pieces of gold for clemency.
"“If only you’d offered us that deal all those years ago, beast. We’d have lined your pockets nicely.”
Brande smiled tightly, and settled into a less confrontational pose despite himself. He lowered his sword, but didn’t sheath it: at the first sign of a strike, Brande would have this orc’s left eye.
Still, he tried to give off the air of a sociable, sportive negotiator, but it was clear in his laboured expressions that his fighter’s muscle ached to be used. His jaw was clenched, his eyes were hardening like frost over glass.
Deep within, the metaphorical flame had been lit: the fire elementos felt his mouth dry as though it were filled with buds of cotton.

He knew it would only be a matter of striking a match, and he could tear both these behemoths down: but the ensuing commotion would be devastating to his mission, and would likely kill more people than it saved.
He breathed in – he breathed out. And he heard his father’s voice.
”What good is a quick sword in a slow witted man’s hands? Think, boy, think.”
And he was right: Brande needed to think. Today wasn’t worth the fight, it would only prolong his march towards his perfect duel.

It took an instant for Brande to quell the fire in his belly, after that. He smiled a little wider, a little thinner. Not sincere, but polite, respectful.
“Ten gold pieces, huh?”
He instinctively let his subservient hand slide into his pocket, an echo of a behaviour, something he’d seen his father do whenever it came time to pay his way.
Nothing. Brande was a penniless vagrant, and the hordes that had stolen his life from him hadn’t even had the decency to leave him a coin purse. Brande was flat out, perhaps irreparably broke… but his tastes were still rich.
He took his hand from his pocket, and reached into his messenger’s bag instead.
“I’m afraid I don’t have the fare, my man,” he admitted, his voice soft, regulated, accented faintly by the inflections of his father, the familial inheritance from a land far away. One might even have thought it friendly, were it not for the tense context.
“But I can offer you a good time that’s worth more, and will kick less, if you think yourself a man of refinement.”

The gesture pained him, raking his fingers along his bag’s meagre contents until he felt the rough texture of a lovingly folded, golden-brown leaf.
Cured for years on some foreign, sunny shore, and hand-wrapped by delicate, tanned fingers. As thick as wide bottle necks, and packed densely.
Brande withdrew two cigars, two of five. They were the closest he’d ever gotten to an inheritance, unnoticed by the marauders who ransacked his home, in the drawer of the burnt husk that was once his father’s desk. He’d smoked one each anniversary of the fire- it had seemed ironic but appropriate- but soon he would be out.
He wasn’t sure how much they were worth: only that the quality of the tobacco alone made ten gold pieces seem like pittance to a discerning smoker.
“I’ll even throw one in for your friend over there,” he offered, holding both of them up, “What do you say, amico, let bygones be bygones?”
"Or give me the excuse to light a match."

Audra breathed in deeply, relishing the fresh air that . She had been walking for several hours now, and the sun was just coming up over the tree-line. She had been walking ever since she had woken after her strange dream where she had heard the whispers carried on the wind:

"Jeorva.... Meet us in Jeorva, human...."

"Make haste.... Tell no one...."

"Please.... the Academy...."

"Quietly.... Quickly...."

"Come... to Jeorva...."

Never in her life had words pierced her soul so strongly. She couldn't explain what it meant or where it had come from, but she knew when she had woken immediately after the dream that she had to follow the dream's instructions. The pull towards the city gnawed at her like an intense and insatiable hunger and, after another hour of laying in bed, she decided that sleep had fled for good, despite the night still being young. She dressed quickly, grabbed her satchel, and went outside, hoping to walk and clear her head. Audra was deeply lost in her thoughts when she realized suddenly she was several hours down the road to Jeorva. It had almost felt like the early morning breeze had guided her.
Initially a little uncertain, Audra's fears soon gave way to a growing sense of excitement as she decided that then was as good a time as any to carry out what she had been planning for weeks: to run away from her childhood home and seek the purpose and recognition she had always sought for. She had packed her satchel several nights before with things and supplies that she would take with her, just in case. Audra thought that the night of her 17th birthday would be as fitting a night as any, but had still been debating it in her mind before last nigh. Her dream, however, had changed everything. And now here she was! Out on the open road with the wind in her hair on the way to Jeorva!
Her two day journey seemed to pass quickly with her mounting excitement. She felt a twinge of guilt at leaving without telling her family and felt uncertain as to how they felt at her sudden absence. She had originally planned to leave a note with an explanation of her departure, but had been so caught up in her dream that she had forgotten to do so. Regardless, Audra couldn't help but love the pounding of adventure in her heart as she walked farther and farther from what she knew.

She was free at last.

But Audra's sense of freedom quivered a little once she reached the city as she now had to ponder what to do next. She had traveled several times with her brothers to bring their fruit to market, but had never ventured here on her own, and she began to feel uncertain. She was not about to be defeated, however. Lifting her head proudly and clutching her satchel, Audra went looking for the marketplace, which would at least be a familiar place to start. Perhaps she could talk to some of her family's business associates and get pointed in the right way to the Academy, as the dream had stated. However, as she wandered, she came upon what could only be the Academy itself. A few individuals who had apparently decided to stay late filed out, and Audra was considering what to do next as she watched a young woman walk cautiously inside. Her attire was certainly not of the kind that was found in the city, which only became more evident as an older man began to reprimand her for dirtying the floor. He talked to her as a student, but she didn't quite seem to look like one.
Audra creeped closer slowly, listening for what the young lady would say next, wondering what she was to do next in order to follow her dream.

The note was terse, despite its flowery language, language that James had been forced to have his mother read to him. It was that or sit around trying to puzzle out the syllables on his own for hours, and he had other things to do besides staring at an note seemingly intentionally worded to be difficult to read, and with even more obnoxious penmanship. Thankfully, it included nothing unnecessary--nor, in James' opinion, a lot of things that were necessary, like what exactly he was nominated for. Under normal circumstances he would never have followed it, assuming it was a prank or some other manner of hoax, but... He had to admit it sparked his curiosity, especially given the expensive scarf packaged with it. Awful length to go to just to prank the mayor's son.

Packing was quick, especially with the somewhat surprising help of his mother. For once, Mary Terna was firmly in favor of his wandering--likely because she hoped he'd find some opportunity in Jeorvo and not spend all of his life in Drediemere. All of his equipment was put neatly in his pack, his clothes folded carefully and a few days rations packed inside them. His mother was insistent that he wear his chain under his clothing, and he yielded to her experience.

The road to Jeorvo was long, perilous, and James had never been farther than to Jeorva. His hand was constantly kept on his sword's pommel, and when he slept it was with one eye open. The perils of man aside, jaguars sometimes lurked in these woods...

***

Thankfully, his trip passed mostly without incident. He didn't cook with a fire, and while cold rations were very far from comforting food, the lack of light and smell served to make his passage quiet and discrete. Most bandits were evaded by dodging off of the road, or ignoring them entirely. A lone man, obviously armed and wearing utilitarian instead of luxurious clothing was evidently held to be too difficult a mark for the potential payout.

Now, his steps had brought him to the front door of the address indicated on his note. He wrapped his scarf around his neck, feeling desperately out of place as he mounted the steps and walked into the lounge. He'd stored his gear nearby, under the eye of a trusted old friend of his mother's who thought that James was only visiting to see the sites of the big city.

Even without his backpack, his rough clothing and relaxed stance immediately marked him as someone not used to formal situations--and while his lips and face were unreadable, his eyes were glancing around rapidly with something approaching wonder and astonishment.

On a street in Jeorva...

"Shh!" the boy whispered sharply in response to Raine's question, "It's-- ugh-- it's not what you think, okay?" His green eyes looked at her pleadingly before wandering, lost in concentration. His breathing grew shallow as he listened intently. The street was very crowded this time of day. He felt fairly certain his perpetrator didn't see him fall and hide, but he needed to be sure.

"--agent of justice!"

The deep, foreign accented voice that rose above the crowd was definitely not that of an orc-- though orcs could hardly be referred to as 'agents of justice'.

The boy's eyebrows knit together in confusion, "What the...."

For the second time that day, everything happened very quickly and all at once for Raine. The thunderous sound of splitting wood rang out just above her head as a pair of hands shoved her backwards and out of the way. The boy's cry of alarm was barely audible over the sound as he pushed her and the table came crashing down on his head. The table cloth collapsed in on itself, revealing Raine and leaving the boy face down beneath the rubble. The small bag had fallen out of his hands and now laid beside Raine's leg-- visible to her, but not Leon.

As Leon made to grab whomever he could, he would find, upon managing to get a hold of the boy's arm, that he was quite limp under the tablecloth. Evidently, he'd caught the end of Leon's table shattering blow and it had rendered him completely unconscious.

The sound of huffing and puffing grew louder as the boy's victim of thievery neared. He was an older looking man with peppered gray and black hair and a clean shaven face. He had soft brown eyes and wore a dark green robe, tied at his very generously sized waist.

"Did-- did you catch him, my good sir?" he gasped, still trying to catch his breath, "I-- I can't thank you enough. That boy has-- has stolen from me in the past. He's a menace. Hang on to 'im. He's a slippery one. Give-- give me a moment to fetch those good for-- good for nothing guards, won't you?"

The man's hand gripped at his chest with every breath. He was obviously not in the greatest of health. He made to cross the street to tell the two orc guards who had been chuckling at the spectacle that the thief had been caught.

The orcs were supposed to maintain order in the towns, but they tended to be very... choosy. If they did not feel like pursuing a thief that had wronged someone other than a fellow orc, they would often let it slide. It wasn't uncommon for people to take the law into their own hands. Vigilantes and mercenaries were kept plenty busy with the poor excuse for a law system that had been prevalent for the past 60 years. The only rules anyone really needed to know where 'don't anger the orcs' and 'don't get caught'.

---

On another street in Jeorva...

The smaller orc stepped forward to investigate Brande's offering. He took the cigars from Brande's hand and squinted at them with feigned discernment. Orcs would just as soon smoke a piece of cow dung rolled in paper than know a quality cigar when they saw one. Not that this was common knowledge.

"Are they good, brother?" Varfu grunted impatiently, holding the maiden-- Zanna-- a bit higher and slightly shifting the grip on his axe. Zanna looked hopeful, despite Varfu's impatience.

"Th-those are very expensive cigars!" she gasped, evidently noticing the value, "W-worth a lot of money, Shuzug!" Unfortunately, her plea fell on uncaring ears. The orc's squashed nose wrinkled as he smelled the cigars briefly. As he did so, his black pupils fell on Brande's sword. With a greedy twinkle in his eye he pointed a grimy green finger towards Esmeralda.

"Cigars for Zanna's arm," he smiled sickeningly, his words were much more articulated than Varfu, "The sword for Zanna going home tonight. This is the third time she has thrown food at Varfu."

He shrugged as he turned towards her, "Zanna is trying to make Varfu mad. Varfu and Shuzug do not know why, but we must teach Zanna to stop. Varfu thinks Zanna is nice looking and Varfu has been without pleasure for many weeks. Two cigars will not pay for ALL the trouble Zanna has caused Varfu." He gripped the side of the girl's dress and gave it a light tug to further illustrate his point.

The maiden seemed horrified as 'Shuzug' suggested that Brande trade his sword for her freedom. She could not deny that she had thrown food at Varfu. The evidence against her was strong enough as it was. She merely looked at Brande pleadingly with her sharp green eyes.

Varfu chuckled with amusement, "Shuzug is very fair. These are the terms, human man."

---

At the Academy...

The cranky professor grunted in response to Elspeth. As she hurriedly took off in the direction of the janitor's closet, the old man placed his hands on his hips and his gaze followed her still-muddy footprints. He shook his head and made a sour face, as if he was smelling something fowl. He watching her move all the way down the hall-- apparently intent on making sure she retrieved the mop and bucket as ordered. When he noticed her pass the janitor's closet, he grunted again, more loudly.

He startled hobbling after her, muttering angrily under his breath, "Of all the dunder-headed... clod-brained... pribbling...."

Luckily for Elspeth, his following pace was much slower than hers. As she neared the top of the stairs, however, the old man switched from a slow hobble to a quickly paced hop and stagger, trying to catch up with her.

Blocking Elspeth's ascent as she reached the first step was a young woman in a long, blue-grey cloak. Her honey-colored eyes fell on Elspeth for a moment before falling on the old man that was slowly but surely closing in behind her. Without a word, she passed by Elspeth and approached him.

---

Rowena looked at the human woman at the bottom of the stairs, furrowing her brow for a moment. This was one of them. One of the elementos. But... which one? Saevel had said they had no way of marking which elementos was which. She would have to figure that out later.

She inwardly sighed as she noticed Professor Augustine hobble-hopping after the dark haired woman, looking quite determined and out of breath. She immediately walked towards him. Rowena couldn't expect the others to gather here safely with this nosy human nipping at their heels.

To Elspeth, the Professor, and anyone else who may be watching, Rowena currently looked like a regular human woman-- her facial tattoos and ears were concealed with the magic powder that Saevel had given her. She knew she had to use it sparingly, but with the academy still being occupied, she couldn't risk running into anyone. She was glad she had taken the cautious route after seeing Augustine. During her time waiting at the academy for the past several days, she had overheard his name and seen what a terrible nuisance he was.

She had also picked up on the fact that he was incredibly senile and often mistook fellow professors for students. She had no doubt in her mind that this was case here.

"Professor Augustine!" Rowena exclaimed, "I've been looking everywhere for you!"
The professor stopped and stared at her with impatient frustration, "Young lady, I'm afraid now is not the--"
"The Dean is looking for you, sir! He said it was incredibly urgent!"
"Wh-- the Dean? Now?"

"Yes! I've been searching for you for over twenty minutes!" Rowena softly placed an encouraging hand on his elbow and began to turn him back down the hall, "The Dean told me it was very VERY important, sir! He's waiting for you in his office!"
"W-well I--"
"Please hurry!"

With that, the man was sent hobble-hopping back down the hallway with a look of confused worry on his face.

"Now...," Rowena said softly. She felt quite proud of her wit in getting the old man to leave so quickly. Turning to face Elspeth she kept her voice low, "Did you say you were looking for someone?"

Oh. It was on.

Brande considered himself an honourable swordsman, and lived his life by the swordsman’s code: take no innocent life, show no ill-will in victory, uphold the weak and undo the wicked - the standard, soldier-with-no-country spiel.
He didn’t believe in sneak attacks, or unnecessary deaths. And although he might once have been young and foolish, wandering had tempered his spirit to the point he no longer saw his sword as a tool of vengeance, so much as it was the chisel with which he had shaped himself.
But nobody. Nobody laid their hands on his blade.
Orcs had taken everything else from him. They’d never take this.

He would kindly have given them the clothes from his back, to spare a young woman so severe a punishment for so meagre a crime. Nay, he would have taken a beating in her place, were it an option. Not for some ill-held sense of chivalry, but so another needn't suffer as he already had.
But the moment ‘Shuzug’ laid eyes on Esmeralda, any swordsman’s code became foreign to him.
He met Zanna’s green eyes, and held her stare for a moment: the collected calmness of his own grey irises seemed to dissipate before her. No longer were they cool and still, pebble-like in their docility. Now they smouldered like fresh ash, as the fire in his belly grew.
He exhaled, sharply. And smiled crookedly.

One sharp movement, a metallic uppercut which tore through the air with such sudden speed it was almost soundless: in an instant, Brande had Esmeralda’s tip pressing into the flesh of Shuzug’s throat, right beneath his chin. Not quite hard enough to pierce the orc’s flesh, but hard enough to make an indent where it sat, and no doubt make breathing very, very uncomfortable.
He hadn’t run him through, yet… but that was a simple mistake to fix.
"If you so much as try to think about moving, I’ll spot the migraine brewing on your face and cut your throat out like I’m gutting a fish," he recited, accent thick, tongue fast. He’d heard his father say it once, perhaps it had been the very night Serafina Heights burned.
His eyes darted to the other orc, Varfu, but his sword-hand didn’t waver.
"You make an interesting suggestion, but here’s my counter," he began anew, expression calm, but eyes alight, "You drop the lady, nice and slow, otherwise your friend might just get his wish. Because he’ll get my sword, alright. Right through his jugular and up into his brain stem. Understood?”"

"Nobody needs to die here, not today. I hope you're smarter than your cousin over here," Brande thought to himself, pushing Esmeralda's tip in further, mutely, to illustrate his point.

In Jeorvo...

There seemed a substantial division between the attendees of this soiree. In fact, it was almost a perfect split. Half of the guests seemed in their element, and walked with the air of old, old money. They wore their scarves as one might have worn their medals, and chatted, even laughed, with perfect strangers, like a ruling elite, willing themselves ignorant of the fact most of Jeorvo starved outside of this manor’s grounds.
The other half didn’t seem so natural, by comparison. Beneath the watchful azure eyes of the panther, they seemed to shift uneasily, as though they were there by mistake, as though they were doing something very wrong by being present. Their scarves seemed to make their constitutions falter, as if they carried a great weight: many wore clashing clothes, of a decidedly less sophisticated design.

Of these groups, the woman who approached Elise Callan belonged, quite clearly, to the former. She was a small woman all of alabaster, with high cheek bones and eyes which sank into darkened rings. Her lips were thin, and pale. Her nose was small, and her body lithe and svelte. She was the result of high breeding, that much was obvious. Features like hers rarely came from anything but noble cousins marrying one another, trying to keep the wealth within the family.
And she wore her scarf as if to emphasise that fact, in a rosette knot, wrapped tightly around her slender, delicate neck.
And yet, despite the clear influence of wealth, she dressed quite disconcertingly: in what once might have been an ostentatious lace bridal gown, before she’d worn it into raggedness. Bits of decorative lace hung from it like wilted weeds, and portions were torn or else thinned to the point of being transparent, particularly on her back.
But despite it, she carried herself with an inherent regal air, as she stood over Elise from the side of the couch.
She smiled down at her, her pale lips curled into a small, polite greeting. And it might have been convincing, too, if it weren’t for the sharp, pale blue of her eyes, like still water frozen deep. They flickered with the sort of disdain the nobility reserved for people who rose above their stations.
“Good evening,” she greeted, in a voice that was small and soft. Her accent was a strange one, laced with too many foreign influences to count, but certainly not native to any region of Coake.
“My name is Akelda Serkan,” she began, extending her hand politely downwards, with such delicacy that it looked as though she expected they would courtesy to one-another, “And I do not believe I know yours, but you must be a very formidable warrior to be here,” she said, in such a way that seemed to wordlessly imply ”because you are clearly not here on any other merits.”

Likewise, the man who came to greet Sir Isaac Dorovich was clearly also of rich blood, but of a different and less sickly breed. Whereas there was little doubt Akelda’s parents had shared a last name before their wedding night, this gentleman’s skin was a healthy tan, and his hazel eyes were alight with an intimate appreciation of all things decadent. His family weren't gentry, they were wealthy through trade.
He was just an inch or two short of Isaac’s stature, but what he lacked in height, he made up for in indulgent style: his ever so slightly portly figure was wrapped in an exquisitely tailored white suit, so very clean and bright it seemed almost to throw shadows at the outfits of others, making them seem dull by comparison. He walked with a cane, a dark hardwood staff crowned with the ivory likeness of a bowing crow, scrimshawed to the tiniest detail.
His hair was blackened- he was very clearly fighting the onset of grey- and combed back, and his features were soft, and doughy. He looked friendly, and spoke in warm, familiar tones as he closed the distance between himself and Sir Isaac.
“Ahh, thank goodness, another man of clear sophistication! How are you doing, chap?”, he offered the hand which didn’t clutch his cane with a sportive air. It became clear he’d probably made his money through social currency, networking.
“Antionis, Antionis Agrippa! I’m in the book trade!”, he’d added, as he’d extended his grip, “Tell me about yourself, my man!”

Fate might have been kindest to James Terna, though. He wasn’t so much approached, as he did happen upon his conversational partner. She was a woman not late out of her teens, but labour had aged her a little. She wore her mousy hair in a functional ponytail, and glanced up from the wall she’d taken to leaning against just in time to spot James’ wonderment.
She wasn’t dressed particularly sophisticatedly, either: a set of old denim overalls and a button down shirt. She wasn’t wearing her scarf. She’d been staring down at it with a sort of anxious scepticism, like she suspected it would, at any moment, leap at her and choke her like a serpent.
When she spoke to him, her voice was deeper than one might’ve expected, coarser: “It’s a sight, alright. What’s your story? Country boy, or do you just not get out much?”, she’d asked, perhaps a little more rudely than she’d intended.