---

Early in the morning, a delivery boy came to Eadoin Kyros' cramped apartment complex and dropped off his mail like every other morning, though in flipping through the mostly garbage mail, a notice informing him that his rent was two months past due, and some flyers advertising goods from the local market, he found an uncharacteristically small square envelope with no postage stamp and completely blank slip out from amongst the larger set of mail.

Opening the small envelope, he found that it was actually merely a single sheet of paper folded quite carefuly in mimicry of an envelope. Careful not to break the small sheet as he unfolded it, he laid it out and read the small writing upon it.

"Business prospects reviewed, found adequate opportunity for employment, would like to hold an interview immediately and in person at residence, post haste. M & B"

After reading the note, Eadoin then quickly ripped the small note into a couple pieces and ate them. He knew enough to know that his new . . . employers? No, comrades may be the better word now, would appreciate his discretion as much as the Tan'Raga did. Though the note itself was very cryptic in its content, Eadoin knew exactly what it meant, Malcador and Berrick had finally found an opportunity to begin their revolution, and they were offering him a chance to come in on it.

He was both excited and a little anxious for it to begin himself, ever since Tyberia's occupation, the Tan'Raga had retreated in on themselves to the underworld as they planned out how to best take advantage of the occupation. Subsequently, most Gat-men were, for the moment, out of work outside of working as personal security for the Bosses themselves or their properties, and those positions were filled pretty quickly. Hence, explaining Eadoin's current situation. He was left an unemployed former Reaver with neither legal nor illegal work to do, and was left to slowly drain his small amount of funds away. Thus, the opportunity to work and actually find purpose again rather than just wasting away under the Asgardian occupation came as a good surprise to him.

He already had his gear ready to go, his mask, rifle, handcannon, and cutlass stowed away inside a large duffle bag full of spare mechanic's clothes and tools to work on Steam-engine tech. Eadoin took a quick look outside his tiny window at the weather outside, almost complete shit with its oil-sleet fog, so he settled on wearing his old Reaver uniform, the official patches long-since removed, it was merely a worn black overcoat and hat. It would have looked almost gentry-like, had it not evidently seen decades of usage and repair.

He threw the coat on, and then the dufflebag full of gear over his shoulder and across his back, adjusting the strap with all of the gear clinking behind him. He really hoped the oil-sleet didn't get into the old bag, but then he'd done the best he could to ensure it wouldn't. He didn't bother locking his door, since there's nothing in his apartment he'd fret over being stolen anyway, and set off on the path towards the noble district.

It took him several hours of trudging through crummy conditions in the streets to get from his apartment in the lower quarters to his destination, most people he came across were downcast despite the new year having only been two days ago, partly on account of the weather, but also likely on account of the occupation. The Asgardian patrols he did come across seemed more concerned about making sure their own gear still worked and didn't get covered in the oil-sleet than anything else. Eadoin wasn't too worried about being stopped right now though, the Asgardians currently were mostly just there for show at the moment. Sure, they wanted to find Malcador, but they already had a public speaker . . . what was his name? In custody for some trumped up charge and set for a show trial to let everyone know who was now running this city, as well as having a fair number of troops just out walking around as a show of strength. They likely weren't out with any purpose besides: "Look tough.", Eadoin had seen the routine a dozen times before as a Reaver and as as a Gat-man when working with gangsters, and a lot of military men who weren't officers often were just better equipped, and legalized gangsters. Eadoin knew this from experience, he was one.

At the end of his hike, he finally found his goal: the manor house which he'd been told to look for should he get the message. He had no idea who owned the manor beyond the obvious fact it was a noble with money, and that said noble was a sympathizer to the cause.

Eadoin walked up to the front door of the manor, and knocked on the well-finished door with his right hand and yelled inside.

"Eadoin Kyros, Steam-mechanic extraordinaire, I've been summoned for a repair job?"

Eadoin's cover-story was only partially bullshit. Sure, he didn't WORK as a Steam-mechanic by trade since he found the daily work involved boring, but he certainly had the skills to pass off as an adequate one. Another handy skill he'd learned from his Reaver days. Gods, he missed the Raven and his old life, but there was no getting that back now. Time to focus on the now, and see why M & B had called him up.

Casimir was so focused that his tongue was sticking out from the corner of his mouth and his hands were growing sweaty from the effort required to keep them from flinching. He just needed to move the damned thing a little bit to the left, only a fraction of an inch, and the blasted radio would finally be tuned. It was an old, sorry bit of machinery, not like those fancy new receivers in posh restaurants and the residences of the rich. Its signal was not amplified, so it had to be listened through a pair of battered headphones, which he had placed around his neck. The object of his attention was a thin, copper wire or a “cat’s whisker” as they called it around here, which was mounted on an adjustable arm, positioned above a small crystal. The whole idea was that the “whisker” had to touch a specific point of the crystal’s surface so that the radio signal could be modulated and heard through the headphones.

Easier said than done, as even the tiniest vibration or movement could disturb the signal. It was a process that required a lot of patience and steady hands, which was why he had been loath to do it in the first place. Still, he had promised Mrs Hassett that he’d see to it and Casimir Volk was not a man to go back on his word. Especially when the woman’s goodwill was all that kept him from sleeping in the gutter. He was out of roots and out of work, so he made himself useful by repairing whatever was needed around the tenement in exchange for a small, cramped room on the second floor.

Some of the radio’s wires had come off due to age and he had already replaced those, believing that most of the work was done. The tuning process, however, had taken the majority of his time. Carefully, he nudged the “whisker” and was greeted by static, followed by voices. It worked! He slammed his hand on the table in a misguided act of celebration, realising a moment too late that this would cause the bloody wire to shift.

And just like that, the signal was gone. At this point he was too frustrated to shout or curse, so he stood up slowly and moved away from the infernal machine, hand pressed to his forehead. His room was big enough to hold a bed, two small tables, a rickety chair, a coat hanger suspended from a rusty nail and an indeterminate number of papers scattered throughout the rotting, wooden floor. All in all, considering his situation, Casimir couldn’t complain.

He’d placed the radio on the smaller table, while the one next to it contained the pieces of a clock he had taken apart. One hundred and twenty-seven pieces to be exact, carefully laid out and arranged on the wooden surface. Now this had taken him a lot longer than the radio, he’d laboured on it for the past week. He thought he heard Mrs Hassett calling from downstairs, but decided to disregard it. With luck, she might think he was asleep.

At any rate, Casimir still couldn’t determine what was wrong with the clock. It was masterfully-crafted and he couldn’t understand how his landlady had managed to acquire such an expensive piece. He leaned in and picked up a delicate spring, which was slightly bent out of a shape. Maybe this was the culprit?

“MISTER VOLK!”

Sighing, Casimir looked up. How did the old hag expect him to fix anything if she kept pestering him every five minutes?!

Only then did he actually focus on the sunlight coming through the small window above his bed. He looked at the candle near the radio and realised it had burnt out long ago. Damn it, was it morning again?

He quickly slipped into a clean shirt, put his worn coat on and made his way downstairs. Mrs Hasset was in her usual place, sipping tea in her rocking chair, which stood next to a round table in the middle of the common room like some throne. She was an old lady, in her sixties or maybe even seventies, but Casimir had never dared to ask. Tough, stubborn and spry for her age, she was well-regarded in the entire neighbourhood. Her husband had been a doctor and had treated people for free, settling for whatever they could provide – food, clothes or simple thanks. From what Casimir had heard, the man had passed away a couple of years ago, but his memory was very much alive. Even the local toughs looked out for his widowed wife and made sure nobody disturbed her.

For her part, Mrs Hassett was quite the character. She was known for being kind and charging fair rent, but she had the overbearing desire to always have things her way. Oh and of course, she believed she always knew what the best course of action was, even if she was completely unfamiliar with the subject. Casimir had been with her for about a month now, but every interaction with her had been a…experience.

“Good morning, Mrs Hassett.”

“Mister Volk, are you deaf or have you no manners? I’ve been calling for the past ten minutes!”

“Apologies, but it can’t have been ten minutes, I heard you just now.”

“Well, I would know for certain how much time had passed if I had my clock here. Something which, by the way, you promised to fix last week.”

Casimir suppressed the urge to sigh, he felt like he was in front of a firing line.

“Mrs Hassett, I’m working as fast as I can, but it’s a complicated contraption.”

The old woman tsked, shaking her head. “Ah, youth these days…Never mind that, a wee lad came through here and said he had a message for you.” She produced a parchment, cleverly folded like an envelope.

Doing his best not to show his excitement, Casimir carefully took the paper and, walking to the window, read through it. There was not much to read, actually, save for a single sentence:

“Business prospects reviewed, found adequate opportunity for employment, would like to hold an interview immediately and in person at residence, post haste. M & B"

He’d never met “M” or “B” in person, but he had a good idea of who they were. The woman he had contacted, after doing some digging on local insurgents, had told him to wait for just such a message. Casimir had been doubtful that this so-called Resistance was actually more than whispers, but the letter in his hand told a different story.

“Will you take some tea, Mister Volk?”

“I’m sorry, Mrs Hassett, but I must go. It’s about a job!”

She looked at him as if he had just admitted to murder, but Casimir was too busy running up the stairs to notice. By habit, he burnt the letter first, then took his knives and lockpicks – he didn’t think he would need them at this point, but it never hurt to be prepared. Plus, he didn’t want Mrs Hassett snooping through his things while he was gone.

Less than five minutes after he had read the message, Casimir was already rushing out of the tenement’s door and onto the sleety street.

---

Whenever he found himself in a rich neighbourhood, Casimir couldn’t help but remember how many estates he had broken into. When normal people looked at such mansions, they’d usually imagine luxury, gardens, ballrooms and parties. Casimir, on the other hand, thought of safes, vaults, cabinets – dirty secrets hiding under the affluent sheen. Though customs varied from place to place, rich people were all the same.

It had taken him about an hour to reach this part of town. He had been here only once before, when he had scouted out the location of the estate he was now travelling to. For such a huge city the streets seemed almost deserted, he’d only come across a handful of people and most of them had been Asgardian soldiers. Casimir found that funny, if only these grunts knew that a wanted fugitive from Beakhaven was within an arm’s reach…He was practically a walking promotion, but they’d have to catch him first.

The depressing silence engulfing the district was only broken by the crunching of his boots on the oily sleet. Apparently, this is what passed for snow around here. The relative quiet made it easy to discern a shout coming from a nearby estate. Casimir glanced in that direction and realised that this was the place he had been summoned to.

A lone figure stood in front of the manor’s door, well-set and carrying a large duffle bag slung over his shoulder. He looked like a mechanic, but Casimir doubted the estate’s owner would call for repairmen and would-be rebels at the same time of day. The man said something about steam and repair jobs, so with the practiced ease of a professional, Casimir strolled up to the manor just as the butler was opening the door.

“Blazes, there you are!” he exclaimed at his colleague. “I thought we’d agreed to meet at the square?!” he pointed back in the direction from which he’d came. Not wasting any time, he continued, turning towards the butler “So, we’re here. What exactly is the problem? Come on, we’re busy folk – let’s get to it!”

Eadoin looked over at his "acquaintance" briefly up and down as the man approached in and inserted himself into his ruse. Must be another prospect like him, seeking "employment". The man didn't look Tyberian, but nor was he from far afield like the Asgardians or Reichlanders or other more strange races and peoples he met during his time as a Reaver, he placed him as likely another Free City resident. Likely was caught here when the Asgardians invaded like so many others, as the army now highly regulated travel in and out of the city since the battle lines and new Asgardian/Free East border were not too far off.

By the man's savviness Eadoin silently guessed that he must be an opportunist like himself, albeit much more verbose and more of a con man than him. He was curious to see who the man really was and what he had to offer.

So after the brief thoughts and internal examination he merely looked back over at the Butler and awaited to be led inside.

Elijah Quaid

Peering over the streets and looking at the oil-sleet as it came from the sky, Elijah scrunched his nose in disgust. He was used to weather like this back in Midgar, but it didn't mean he had to like it. His little loft room was only lightly decorated, with little more than a bed, a few chairs, and a table with a map of the city over it. It wasn't really his room as much as it was the Revolution's. Kaidan and his group of rebels had set up Elijah as soon as he had arrived in the city- at first it was to see if they could hold him prisoner to use against his father- An Asgardian invasion, magically razed safehouse, and several broken bones later, the Revolutionaries decided he might be more useful contributing his knowledge to their cause. While technically an outsider and an Asgardian to boot, Elijah had earned the trust of Kaidan's right hand Berrick, and for many, that was good enough.

The past few weeks they had been laying low, as they had been focusing on building safehouses and securing secret routes rather than perform raids on Asgardian targets- as a result, Elijah wasn't needed for as many of these operations. Thus, Elijah had spent the better part of the last few days sitting in the loft, grumpily leering at passerbys on the streets below, and writing out more detailed specs on Asgardian unit tactics and gear, and how to overcome them using unconventional tactics and equipment. If some of the other revolutionaries didn't like him, they at least liked what he brought to the table- information, and potent manaweaving- there were scant few amongst the revolutionaries, and none could keep up with him.

He wasn't the only one confined to loft, some of the other revolutionaries had been stuck in the safehouse with him- too much movement caused the Asgard patrols to notice more. Some three other revolutionaries lounged around the room, one sleeping, the other two playing cards. There were a few more downstairs on the ground level, working as a pair of watchmakers, for appearances' sake.

The relative silence of the loft was broken by the sudden banging of boots on wooden steps as a man sprung upstairs, startling the loft's population, and drawing more than one firearm in his direction. Disarming themselves as they recognized the man as one of their runners, the courier breathed a sigh of relief and handed the letter over to Elijah.

"Your eyes only, kid." the courier said with a pant, shooting a pointed look at the other rebels. Elijah nodded as he ripped open the letter and quickly scanned its contents.

"So? What's the job? What're we going to do?"

"Well, I'm going to an undisclosed location. You guys can wait here until I'm back." Elijah said calmly as he stood up and grabbed his battlecoat. Gracefully pulling the coat on, Elijah picked up an ivory sword hilt from the table and slipped it into his belt. Without another word, he quickly went downstairs and left the building.

Pulling his hood over his head, Elijah walked down the street with confidence, the magic treating on his coat repelling the oil-sleet as he walked by. The coat had long since had any insignia on it removed, and while still clearly of high quality and rarity, was not so out of place in Tyberia's more expensive neighborhoods, which incidentally was where Elijah was headed.

As he approached the address given to him, he saw two men standing in front of the door, speaking to the butler. They said that they were here for a repair job, but their manner of dress- at least to Elijah marked them immediately as those who involved themselves on the opposite side of the law- not unlike most of the other revolutionaries. Well, at least he had the right place.

Elijah calmly and easily walked up to the door, walking past both men and the butler without a word to either. No sense making up fake shop talk if they all knew why they were here. Walking into the dining room, where Kaidan, Oscar, Ada, and the prominent nobleman Lyle sat. Nodding respectfully to Oscar and Kaidan, and cautiously to Ada, Elijah took a seat at the opposite end of the table, where four chairs had been arranged for him, and he assumed, three others.

Casimir calmly looked between the butler and the man standing at his side, deciding to say nothing further. Some might grow uncomfortable at the stretching silence, but he was used to much more stressful situations. His eyes darted to the right as a thin, stately man, dressed in rich clothing leisurely walked right past the butler and into the residence as if he owned the place. Maybe he was the owner? Highly unlikely, Casimir thought, as the man standing at the door would have at least greeted his master if that were the case.

Whoever the owner of the estate was, it was clear that he hadn’t given his butler instructions on who to expect, as the man kept hesitating. True, only a few moments had passed and two strangers did just show up on his door unannounced, but since his master was hosting these so-called revolutionaries Casimir had expected him to act somewhat swifter. He didn’t mind standing in the cold and the sleet - well maybe a little bit - but the paranoia drilled into him back in Beakhaven was starting to gnaw at him.

Two men, obviously not from this neighbourhood, awkwardly standing in front of a manor, while a third one just walked in? Considering the almost empty streets, a patrol could see them from a mile off, not to mention any nosy neighbours who might be peeking out from the nearby windows even now. Was the butler even aware of what was about to happen in this estate? No, they couldn’t be that careless…he hoped.

He willed himself not to fidget or move from his spot until invited inside, but every second out in the open seemed to last an eternity…

Eadoin glanced over at the man who walked by without a care to the Butler, it was obvious the Butler hadn't been strictly informed as to who to expect by now, leaving both Eadoin and the fellow next to him standing like a couple spare pricks at the doorstep.

Eadoin sighed and and muttered under his breath:

"Fuck it then . . ."

He then followed after the younger man, calmly pushing past the Butler. He couldn't help but think he'd seen that young man somewhere before, but couldn't place him. They'd never met personally, he knew that much, his features just looked strangely familiar.

Either way, Eadoin followed the path up through the wealthy manor house, and into the dining room where he stopped in the thresh hold and looked over at everyone. Most of them he didn't recognize, save Malcador simply by his face matching the wanted posters he'd seen previously. He then simply leaned himself up against the wall near the table, and removed his pack, leaning it next to him.

"Eadoin Kyros, here about the job offer."

After the other man walked in, Casimir shrugged and gave the butler a disarming smile.

“Well, I tried to be inconspicuous.” He then walked past him and into the richly-adorned estate, but stopped as he remembered something. “By the way, I’m serious about the repairs – if you ever need something fixed, I’m your man!”

Casimir wasn’t familiar with the layout of the mansion, but the voices he heard served as a good indicator as to where the meeting would take place. He began walking in that direction, surveying the lavish interior as he did so. Whoever lived here was, without a doubt, quite wealthy. He’d seen bigger and wealthier houses in the past, but compared to the matchbox Mrs Hassett called an “apartment” it seemed like a palace to him.

He wondered why the owner was even involved in this conspiracy. People who were well-off usually didn’t take part in burgeoning rebellions, let alone use their estates as a base of operations. Revolution was something that normally appealed to the poorer classes of society, hunger and poverty were good motivators – back in Beakhaven the Patrician had always kept a close watch on the poor quarters of the city exactly for that reason. Still, the Zephyr’s drive for dominance didn’t discriminate between the rich and poor, plus the members of Tyberia’s elite probably didn’t take too kindly to their Free City being conquered by Asgard.

Lost in such thoughts, he almost failed to notice that he was in the dining room. The two men he had encountered at the entrance were here, one seated and the other leaning against the wall. In addition, there were four other people – one of them was clearly the owner, judging by his lavish attire. Next to him were seated a woman and two other men, Casimir was certain that the one with the glasses was the infamous Kaidan Malcador, whose wanted poster decorated every street corner and notice board. So, he must be “M”, while “B” was probably the man sitting next to him.

“Casimir Volk, at your service.“ He gave them a polite bow, then added. “You might want to instruct the poor man at the door next time, I believe he was rather…taken aback by our arrival.”

With that out of the way, he nonchalantly moved to take a seat opposite his hosts, choosing for himself the outermost chair.

VRAROK ADALSTEUNE

Duur Kharag, in the Deep Roads of the Ivuldiruuk

“Vrarok! Vrarok, look out behind ya!”

A voice cried out in the creeping dark as a large black shape exploded from the rock, accompanied by the hellish squeal of an angered beast, and then the sudden symphony of gunfire.

“Vrarok ya fool! Move out the way!”

The young dwarf turned to the wicked form of a ratoskr approaching fast, charging toward the group. Another moved in front of him, the sheen of his mithril axe caught as firelight hit it. The axe connected, but so did something else, there were screams, and finally a crushing thud.

“DURMAR!”

---

“Wake up, fool! You’ll wake half the district!” a familiar voice cut through the fog of his haunted slumber. A sudden cold deluge splashed across his face, instantly shocking the dwarf and bringing him to. He sat up immediately, rivulets of water slid from his forehead and collected on his shirt. Another dwarf stood over him with her arms crossed and her dim blue eyes furrowed in annoyance. Her expression eased as he woke. “The tunnels again?”

He rubbed his eyes before regarding her. He smiled in relief. Miriam was one of the few friends he had in Tyberia, one who had put up with his troublesome antics since he arrived in the city and first came in contact with the Legion of Lead. She worked for one of the organisation’s prized financiers, a connection that led to her meeting the wayward dwarven noble. Many of the dwarves he knew had some kind of connection with the Legion. Vrarok nodded, “Aye lass, the tunnels.”

“Did you take the poultice before you slept?”

He shook his head slowly, avoiding her eyes. The poultice, a mix of herbs and a very potent drug, was supposed to help him sleep better and suppress his nightmares. While time had eased the scars he earned deep in the Ivuldiruuk, and his thoughts avoided the subject altogether, the nightmares continued to plague him.

Miriam sighed, and strode over to the kitchen, her shock of fiery hair bound in one singular tail. She and Vrarok were vastly different. While he was raised in one of the dwarven strongholds of the Free East, she had been treated to a human upbringing. Orphaned as a child, the widow of a wealthy merchant adopted her and raised her as if she were a wealthy human of Tyberia. The thick accent, questionable phonology and mannerisms shared by Vrarok and other mountain-dwarves were lost on Miriam, who maintained posture and eloquence at all times.

“Hati delivered a message for you, Vrarok. From Alaric. It seemed urgent, I don’t think he’s happy.”

“I ‘aven’t done anythin’ wrong for that cunt to be un’appy.”

“You are kidding, right? You disobeyed his orders.”

“’e wanted information, I got information.”

“You killed three imperial soldiers!” she snapped in a hush tone.

“Shit ‘appens love, leave it alone yeah?”

Her scowl had almost burned through her face and seemed to glower at him from behind her head. She was right, though. While he did find what Alaric wanted, three Asgardians had to die. Two were necessary casualties, the other was… a lack of foresight on the old dwarf’s part.

“Alaric has enough information on you to have you arrested four times over.”

“I’ll blast a neat lil’ hole between his legs ‘fore ‘e does anythin’, don’t ye worry,” he giggled. The thought of killing that up-jumped cunt from the streets would make him very happy. Alaric was new to the management of the Legion of Lead, a street rat favoured by the former Magnar-Legionnaire Grim’dan. He was the only human that the late dwarf really trusted, but Vrarok loathed him. Since he took over, more humans – more vermin from the streets – had been inducted in the organisation, while its dwarven members were being isolated or relegated to the mundane duties of the Legion. Though Vrarok was never truly a member in the traditional sense, he took pride in his association with Grim’dan and his legionnaires, and seeing a friend’s work dismantled by an overworlder made him sick to his dwarf stomach.

“Hurry up, Vrarok.”

“Yeah, yeah, hold ye britches.”

Vrarok did as he was told. Miriam had done a lot for him, a lot more than she needed to, and a lot more than he had ever done for her, the best he could do was listen to her and do his best to keep her out of his dealings. He washed his face with a damp cloth and slung the jade cloak over his shoulders. He made his way to an old, grey stone building. They called this ‘the Workshop’, the base of operations for the Legion of Lead, but it made for a decent blacksmith.

A pair of dwarves were hard at work at the smithy, their beards slick with sleet. It comprised of an expertly built chimney of stone, tendrils of smoke rose from its spout as a bright, orange glow seemed to grow dimmer as he walked by. One of the dwarves was hard at work on one of the anvils, hammering a sword that’s blade glowered with heat. He nodded at them, “good day fer it lads.”

One of them scoffed at his mockery. Vrarok smirked and continued on inside the Workshop. The foyer was the most pristine part of the joint – finely woven carpet lining wall-to-wall, a chandelier of cyan crystals that twinkled and shimmied in the light, a line of oak chairs with velvet-skinned cushions in formation against the wall and a long desk. Behind that desk sat Ysondra of Cragenstead. A crone of a woman, with a violet silk bandana to mask her balding head and scrutinising grey eyes, she had always been in the employ of the Legion of Lead as a receptionist: the wizened, blunt face of the Workshop.

“Ysondre, ravishin’ as ever lass,” the dwarf made his way over to the desk. The usual annoyance painted on her face grew increasingly vexed as he mispronounced her name.

“I presume that you’re here for your letter,” she said matter-of-factly, withdrawing an envelope from her drawer.

“Letter? I was told Alaric wanted me.”

“Asked for you, but no. A letter.”

Ysondra placed the letter on the desk, lips pursed as tightly as ever. Vrarok took it and opened it. There was only an address, and an initial. An initial he knew all too well in his recent dealings.

He smirked at Ysondra and left, making his way towards the most expensive districts of Tyberia. After an hour and a half, his little legs began to ache slightly. He cursed his old body, but continued, finding the stately manor just as a human entered its ornate doors. The dwarf strolled over to the still open doors with an air of casual reverence.

“Vrarok Adalsteune, blah blah blah,” he chuckled as he walked in, he was never good at pleasantries. Then again, dwarven nobility and politics never demanded pleasantries – only action. “Up there then, yeah?” He regarded the Butler with a wry smile. “Hope ye got some beer or somethin’, ‘tis colder than a nun’s fanny out there! Phew, look at this place!” the dwarf took in the sight of the foyer with wide eyes. He hadn’t been so awed by something since he first arrived in Tyberia. With a slow pace, he made his way around, bobbing his head into all kinds of doorways before he discovered the dining room, and the lovely cast of characters in it.

There were elves.

He swallowed.

But then he spotted a tray, and on it, liquid. A plum-coloured liquid. It wasn’t beer, but it’d do. He strode over and took the bottle, bringing it over to the long dining table and taking whichever seat he desired. He took one long scull of the sweet alcohol and tried to hide his grimace. He forced a smile.

“Vrarok Adalsteune, only dwarf in this room, at ye service.”

Eadoin hadn't really moved his body, only his head as the fellow he had been with, Casimir, entered along with the Dwarf Vrarok both entered. He listened to Kaidan Malcador's speech while leaning against the wall, his arms crossed and silently thinking over the information being presented.

Jailbreaks were not Eadoin's speciality, but then whose were they necessarily? If this man Powell was valuable to Malcador and the Resistance, then by hell or high water, they'd bust him out of jail. Hopefully without tripping any alarms or notifying the Asgardians, but obviously getting this guy out alive was the priority.

Before he thought any further, he then decided that it was best not to go in depth on the plans for Mr. Powell's jailbreak until he'd gotten a read on who he'd be working with along with their other contacts.

In terms of Kaidan's upper echelons, the ones that least concerned him were Kaidan's second Oscar Berrick and the stunning Selene. Berrick struck Eadoin as something akin to a solid and true foot soldier of the movement, likely why he was so close to Kaidan. You didn't get into a position that close in such a partnership with such a man unless you had went through a great deal to earn his trust. He'd have to ask how he knew Kaidan at some point.

Selene, even though Kaidan had told them the least about her, didn't frighten or worry Eadoin. He suspected she may have Tan'Raga ties of some discreption, for they were the ones he knew who knew everything worth knowing in Tyberia, and charging for the privilege of knowing. If they didn't know something, they were either working towards knowing it, or had judged such information to have no value to them. Eadoin was comfortable with the Tan'Raga, since they were his former employers, and selfish and opportunistic as they were, most of them were not too unpleasant to work for despite public hysteria around organized crime. If she wasn't attached to them, then he wasn't sure what to make think of her though . . .

He didn't like how nervous the Accountant Lyle was, the nobleman's demeanour reminded him of that of several different snitches he'd been given the mark by the Tan'Raga on different occasions prior to the occupation. Though at the same time, he was likely nervous from being left out of the loop. If Kaidan was as savvy as Eadoin suspected, and Lyle was meant as one of their clean frontmen, then it would behoove Kaidan not to have told him much. The problem with that being that someone with a strict and regimented schedule or lifestyle such as an accountant or noble could become flabbergasted at unexpected turns of events. At this stage, it was likely the latter, but all the same he made a mental note to keep an eye on the man in the future . . . and to currently make use of his liquor cabinet.

Thus, leaving his pack against the wall, Eadoin strode over to a tall cabinet of various liqours all neatly arranged with glasses and a small lid-covered bucket of ice with ice tongs laid out for a person to set themselves up with a drink. He spoke to the room as he browsed the selection.

"Well, you heard the man, let's get acquainted. Though before I get to introducing myself, I think everyone, myself included, who is currently out of the loop here would like to know what exactly a young man with features I cannot help but notice resemble those of a now even more well-known General and occupier, is here?"

Eadoin ended this question by looking directly over at the seated young man who had stepped past him and the Casimir fellow at the door.

Elijah sat and listened calmly as Kaidan explained what they were doing here, his eyes occasionally flitting around the room to take stock in who else they had reigned in with him. Two of them were human, one was a dwarf. Dwarves, Elijah had no particular issue with- it was true, their races had long standing animosity with each other, but Elijah had rarely interacted with dwarves outside of his experiences in the military academy, and everyone in the academy held themselves with some sort of professionalism. He had no particular love for them, but no hate for them either.

Of the humans, the one who introduced himself as Casimir was the least notable- perhaps out of design. He wore plain clothes, spoke in a somewhat bright demeanor, and appeared for all intents and purposes, completely forgettable. In this time and age- and with this particular profession however, being forgettable was by no means a bad thing. It meant that they were harder to pick out from the crowd, and thus, survived longer.

The last human dressed like a mechanic and had with him a large bag of tools, though Elijah didn't doubt for one second that the tools in his bag were not the same tool used for vehicle repair. He wore a black longcoat, and though it had seen years of use, Elijah could spy frayed stitching where a patch used to be sewn. He very much appeared to be additional muscle to their operation, though Elijah could detect a hidden craftiness to the man's eyes.

Kaidan explained to them their task- to free Leon Powell, notable Tyberian public figure and well loved by the general populace. Such a man would serve as an ideal figurehead for their operation, and would serve to further rally the distraught Tyberians to their cause. Would it be enough to stop the might of the Asgardian military? That was a question for the future. With little more than the orders to get to know each other, Kaidan left, leaving Oscar to oversee the four operatives they had brought together.

Elijah leveled Oscar a look, to which Oscar sighed and nodded apologetically, both of them preferred dealing with regular rank-and-file men with no outstanding qualities and controllable personalities, but in a revolution, they took what they could get. Elijah wasn't really in the position to complain either- after all, he had signed up for this.

"Well, you heard the man, let's get acquainted. Though before I get to introducing myself, I think everyone, myself included, who is currently out of the loop here would like to know what exactly a young man with features I cannot help but notice resemble those of a now even more well-known General and occupier, is here?"

At this, Elijah leveled another look at Oscar, to which Oscar gave a confused shrug. The group- or at least the man Eadoin, must have been relatively new. Elijah turned to the man and nodded.

"Yes," he replied in an even, calm voice. "My name is Elijah Quaid, son of Ephraim Quaid, High General of the Asgardian 5th Legion; tactician and strategist for the Tyberian Revolution. Kaidan takes care of the overall strategy and direction of the resistance, while Oscar and myself manage day to day combat tactics and strategy."

"Now that my role has been established, it should be no surprise that I am quite intrigued to know what you bring to the table, Mr. Kyros. You carry yourself with a confidence that could only be gained from a life behind a trigger, however I gather you're more than some Tyberian militiaman with dreams of grandeur or an above average survival rate- because let's face it, who are we kidding?"

Elijah had no particular love for the Tyberian militia- they had put off fighting off the Asgardians until the very last minute, and when they finally decided to make a stand against Asgard, the Asgardians were already upon them, and they were quickly routed and disarmed. While a few found their way into the Tyberian revolutionaries- such as Oscar, the vast majority of them were content to have admitted surrender and to even march alongside Asgard soldiers as an auxiliary force to ensure 'peace and safety' within the city.

"No Mr. Kyros, you have the look of someone more... rugged. Mercenary company perhaps?"

Eadoin raised his eyebrows slightly in a manner of impressed surprise. So the young elf, not a man, was truly the son of the Asgardian General occupying the city. He wasn't surprised that nobody had notified him beforehand, such a high profile person was not someone to parade around to every Tom and Harry who could tip off Daddy Quaid with the hopes of a reward for returning his son. He was surprised that the General had not made the search for Elijah more public, perhaps he was embarrassed that his own son was publicly defying him and shaming his otherwise stellar reputation and wanted to keep the whole affair as low-key as possible. Or maybe he didn't want anyone, say the Tan'Raga, getting an interest in Elijah and using him as leverage. After all, an ace is no good to anyone in a game of poker unless they understand its value.

Though the bigger reason for Eadoin's surprise was Elijah's keen eyes and guess. He replied as he turned back to the liqour cabinet and returned to his browsing.

"Very good, Eli. Yes, I was formerly a member of The Reavers in Black, a Tyberian Mercenary Company led by Godric Jackdaw aboard his airship, Raven. Ah, something to suit the occasion. Eadoin paused briefly as he settled on his choice, a Tyberian-branded Apple Whiskey, "Glenmorag", he had no idea what the distillery's status was in terms of workers, but they were known for their tasty and flavorful liquor. Bar Tenders in the more classier pubs liked it for mixes as much as straight drinks, and it was a favourite of his when he could afford it. Eadoin lifted the glass plug on the bottle and smelled it, smiling at the familiar aroma and began pouring out four glasses, before stopping mid-work and fixing four more for a total of eight, placing a couple cubes of ice in the glasses before pouring the whiskey over them. He talked as he worked.

"You may be more familiar with The Reavers as having a reputation as pirates, since that is what most nations and companies branded us as when we weren't in their employ, if they ever figured out it was us stealing their ships and goods to resell elsewhere, and not merely think we were deserters from another nation's army. We regularly changed flags and patches to keep up appearances. All in all, very harrowing work or very boring work depending on the day."

Having poured out the eight glasses, he resealed the bottle and placed it back in its place on the cabinet and multiple glasses between the fingers in each hand, he walked back to the round table, leaving only one filled glass by the cabinet. He glanced over at the others at the opposite end of the table, but kept his focus on Elijah.

"I served 8 years in The Reavers, then 2 as a Gat Man for the Tan'Raga here after Commander Jackdaw checked us out of the Mercenary game. We had spied a couple of your Zephyrs, nothing to boast of since we were many leagues off, but they'd terrified half of the hardened crew aboard as much as the revitalized Asgardian Navy that came shortly after them. So, we cut our losses rather than be drafted into what we guessed, correctly, was going to be a fool's errand in facing down Asgard if they made a move for Tyberia."

Eadoin then walked along the table and placed glasses down as he went along, ice cubes clinking against the glasses. One by Vrarok, one by Oscar, one by Selene, one Lyle, and then one by Elijah as he stopped and looked down at the elf, nearing the end of his speech.

"Many others might call us cowards, or traitors to our countrymen, but then only fools fight battles they know they cannot win, and many of those fools lie dead or broken as we speak. For myself, I'm out of employment with the Tan'Raga, and never really have found a liking for a slow and forgettable life after my stay with The Reavers, living as we did out in the open sky rewires your head, I guess. Besides, where am I gonna go when my best skills involve killing men from behind a gun, piloting ships, and keeping steam engines operating while still offering that same feeling? Asgard? The world'll burn before I do that."

Eadoin then looked over at Casimir, and walking past Elijah's seat, put the second last glass by the man before Eadoin returned to his original position by his bag, his own glass in his right hand. He just took a small sip from his drink and sighed contently at the smooth apple-infused taste.

"That's my story anyway. Or at least, most that's worth knowing here, and I've talked more than I usually care to. I mostly hope I pegged you all right for drinks."

He then glanced over at Casimir and Vrarok.

"So, what of you two? My mechanic accomplice, and stout fellow?"

Casimir nodded with a smile at the offered glass, then raised it in a silent toast towards the others and took a sip. He had listened to the conversation around him, but with only half an ear at best. As much as he didn’t want to admit it, he felt thrilled. It had been a long time since he’d gone on a mission like this, after his flight from Beakhaven he’d promised himself never to get involved in subterfuge again…and yet, here he was. Not only that, but he was already planning the whole thing in his head – the tunnel would provide a solid entry-point, after which they’d have to move quickly to find this Leon fellow; they said it was a shoddy prison, so defences would be light, what about guards? How much would Asgard spare for such a prison? Well, there had to be one guard per floor – at least! – plus a head gaoler to whom they reported. All in all that meant…damn, how many floors were there again?

He was jerked back to the present when Eadoin, the “steam-mechanic”, directed a question to him. Casimir appraised the man briefly before answering, sizing him up. So, a reaver and a mercenary, with ties to the local criminal underworld to boot. Not surprising that he had given the butler such a ridiculous explanation, but then again, his kind were the sort to gain entry with guns, not words. Still, Casimir wasn’t naïve enough to believe in a bloodless revolution – rough men like Mr. Kyros would be needed.

“Me?” Casimir retorted, giving a shrug. “Oh, my story is nowhere near as exciting as yours, I’m afraid. I’m a foreigner here, arrived just before Asgard did.”

He swirled the drink slowly, watching the amber-coloured liquid slushing inside. Truth be told, he had a dislike for hard liquor - while many people enjoyed the burning sensation it left in one’s throat and mouth, Casimir did not. Still, he knew how easily it loosened all manner of tongues, so he played along, taking another sip.

“And before that,” he continued, “I lived in Beakhaven. Ever heard of it? It’s a Free City a couple of hundred miles north of here. Well, it used to be a Free City until Asgard showed up. Since you’ve already got a taste of what that’s like, I’ll spare you the details. Suffice to say, I had to leave and eventually ended up here. ” He sighed, placing the glass back on the table in front of him. “Guess bad luck, in the form of a warmongering empire, has a habit of following me around.”

There was little else to be said of his time after Beakhaven and what he’d done for a living before leaving was not something his new companions needed to know just yet. He used the momentarily lull in the conversation to survey the rest of the room’s occupants. The dwarf seemed somewhat uncouth, but his manner showed that he wasn’t one to put stock in such things. Kaidan’s people seemed dependable, though an uncomfortable feeling passed through him when the charming woman returned his gaze with a slight smile. Casimir broke eye contact quickly and glanced toward the nobleman, Lyle, who was starring somewhat indignantly as Eadoin helped himself to his liquor cabinet.

The graceful man, or elf rather, he’d seen at the door earlier was apparently some big shot’s son. Casimir wasn’t familiar with the name, but the way they spoke of it indicated that it was infamous among Tyberians. Whatever the case, an Asgardian general’s son getting tangled with a bunch of ragtag rebels? What had possessed the young man to do such a thing? Truth be told, Casimir wasn’t certain he’d be willing to ditch everything such a position entailed to go off and join some revolution in a faraway land. Ah well, people always had their reasons…

“Anyway, I assume that what you’re asking here relates to our skills. After all, if we’re going to work together, we’ll need to know where our strengths lie. Myself, I prefer a…subtler approach, but I’ve been in a fight or two. Let’s just say that this won’t be the first time I’m going somewhere I’m not supposed to.”

Having said that, Casimir leaned back in his chair, his thoughts already returning to the prison they were supposed to break into.