---

It is possible the town of Alonso was a city once. It has stone streets, sometimes, and it has towers, sometimes. It spreads out, more than you might expect for a place where eggs and livestock are used more often than metal coins, but the streets are more empty than full. The town is like an old, barnacle-studded shell, whose hermit crab is shriveled and undersized inside the much larger space it inhabits. You can go a whole day, wandering the streets, and not run into a single person. Old stonework underlies abandoned shacks, sheds, thatched roofs, and animal pens.

There are hills at the edges of town. They say witch lives among them.

Don’t worry. Supposedly, it’s a good witch.

It is late autumn, or maybe early summer. If people still remembered what fireflies were like, then they might say that this is firefly weather.

It has been a very long time since anyone saw fireflies light up the Invernish night.

---

Hopkins eyed the pair of Legionnaires who marched past him like green cockatoos. They seemed very proud of their uniforms, which only made their young, barely-bearded faces seem even younger. The Legion had arrived the same day as Hopkins. Their first act was to repaint the aging town hall, while purchasing food for hungry townsfolk. It was rather like a spring fair. Their second act was a public hanging. In some ways, also like a spring fair.

On the margins of town square, Hopkins was waiting patiently in the watery evening shadows, occasionally probing some of the nearby strangers to see if any mercenaries or caravans might be heading towards Prisk, and what their price would be for a plus-one. It was busier than usual today—the Legion had mounted three cages just in front of town hall, and they were attracting a whispering crowd. Two cages had rangy-looking men inside, who shouted at the townsfolk. The third had bony woman with hunched up shoulders, her eyes directed with vicious intensity towards the crowd. Each eye had two irises inside. Though the men made a variety of sounds—sometimes those sounds were even words—the woman said nothing.

Hopkins avoided her gaze.

The central fountain was a dry, sad-looking thing, full of dead leaves, but it had recently had been dressed up with wrinkly wreathes of wildflowers. The People’s Legion must have gathered the flowers outside town. A round-faced man in Legion uniform was serving apple cider.

On the opposite side of the square, apparently unwilling to go near the three cages, even to enter his own office, the Mayor of Alonso was arguing with a pair of older Legionnaires. “…Even so, the townspeople won’t just let you take the hedgewizard. Do you know how many parents owe their children’s lives to…”

A gaggle of older women passed by, muffling the rest of their talk. It looked like the rumors are true, then, Hopkins thought. The Legion was conscripting magicians.

By the fountain: “Join the Legion today! Travel the Tempesta, and build a new tomorrow!” The round-faced Legionnaire’s companion was a weedy man with pleasantly fiery eyes. One or two old men seemed interested in enlisting. The Legionnaire with the round face was describing the many benefits of serving the Legion. While Hopkins caught him make mention of decent pay, he later heard, spoken with brimming pride, “…The pay is mostly in food and board, and the real pay is in the worthwhile work of the Legion. Make a difference, today! Louis has all the necessary paperwork…”

By the cages, another Legionnaire was giving a graphic and dramatic description of the crimes of the people caged up on the town hall steps. The man on the far left was some kind of serial killer, apparently. The Legionnaire was a skilled storyteller; he know when to lower his voice, when to raise his hands, when to pause and let the audience’s minds fill in the shadowy silence: “…We had no idea what we were dealing with, see, no idea this was just a man. Imagine. Three Legionnaires, wandering the ancient Calibad. Our minds were full of walking trees and slavering werewolves, and none were brave enough to think we might see our families again. But still, we persevered…”

With so many townsfolk and travelers brought out into the open, whispering traders and mercenaries seemed to be making their rounds, brokering deals, trading rumors. Most eyes drifted, inevitably, to the three strangers in the cages.

It was all a rather reserved affair. Unlike the excitement of the previous day, a silence seemed to linger around the crowd, and only the Legionnaires raised their voices in any real way. Rain sprinkled in from overhead, between glowing gray-white clouds.

@Oddsbod

---

Forbhin grumbled as his mount walked through the ramshackle town of Alonso, sheltering himself from the rain with a torn burlap sack. How did he end up here? Roaming through the dying carcass of a city, on a lame mule, his only shelter from the mournful rain being a rotting old sack. That he had to steal in the first place. Apparently his habits of disloyalty had finally come back to bite him, as none of the wealthier nobles in other lands hired him. However they figured out that he'd always turn tail and run when he actually had to protect them was lost to him.

He heard muffled voices around the corner. He dismounted, and peeked around the corner. What he saw was the town square's fountain, with two Legionnaires standing in front of it, one of them shouting.

The fountain was withered and dying. It wasn't ejecting any water, but that wasn't really an issue, seeing the pouring rain. It was covered in flowers, as if some fool actually bothered making the pitiful thing looking like anything less than obsolete and crumbling. The legionnaire shouted, "Join the Legion today! Travel the Tempesta, and build a new tomorrow!... The pay is mostly in food and board, and the real pay is the worthwhile work of the Legion. Make a difference, today! Louis has all the necessary paperwork..."

Forbhin rubbed his whiskered chin. It didn't sound like anything worthwhile, but if he were to join the Legion again, he could probably get work from the big wigs again! They'd probably be sending mercenaries just to find him! He mounted his mule, and trotted it over to the Legionnaires, clearing his throat as he approached them.

"Good day! I couldn't help but overhear that you were recruiting soldiers? If so, I would very much like to offer my services." Forbhin boasted.

It was a familiar song. Ansi had heard it in his youth, although the words were different then. Most things were different in Quishan.

Join the Legion today! Be part of something greater than yourself! See the world! Meet new cultures! Sail the seas!, and so on and so forth. No matter the faction, it was always a similar assembly of words, attempting to entice impressionable and able-bodied youth from the comfort and security of their homes. And inexplicably, successfully. More than enough young men and women answered that call, and left everything they knew to gamble their lives for some intrepid adventure.

Once the Legion or the Company or the Army or the Coalition or whatever tiresome incarnation roved through villages and cities, they always left the populations behind them a little lessened. One way or another.

Every body of force, every corps, needed more bodies.

Case in point, there was one hanging from a rope just now.

Normally at this hour, Ansi would be sleeping and awaiting the arrival of the dreaded nightfall to strap on his quiver and earn his keep. Unfortunately with all the commotion about Alonso now, sleep was impossible. Instead, he decided to capitalize on the Legion’s offering of meals to the town’s locals—which, he supposed, he was one. At least for now.

There was nothing to indicate that accepting food from the People’s Legion meant accepting conscription, so what was the harm? He was hungry and free food was rare. It was a lot easier to fill a bowl with soup than it was to perch by the river and catch his dinner.

With his bow strapped on his back and over his chest, which seemed like a good idea to have just in case, Ansi leaned innocuously against a pollarded tree, sipping broth from a wooden bowl. Nearby a Legionnaire was spinning some sort of yarn about a mad killer. The man being a natural storyteller immediately led Ansi to assume the tale was entirely falsified. Up in the cages like animals, the prisoners were likely awaiting their turn on the rope. Ansi guessed they were probably nothing more than vagrants, driven mad by the nightly efertide or something sinister. Pitiable, but probably beyond help.

The mage-eyed woman unnerved him, however. There was no telling what she could do, even in this state. And if she did it, he’d best be out of harm’s way.

Still, Ansi listened. In the tall tale might lie grains of truth explaining the true origins of their prisoners. More importantly, therein might lie the true nature of the People’s Legion—was it really a force of good or just another meat grinder? If the Legion had simply rounded up a handful of raggedy humans just to make a show of them, then perhaps Ansi might need to plan on leaving town much sooner.

Meanwhile, some moron by the fountain was already taking the bait. Ansi never understood how these public spectacles could always churn up a foolish froth out of idle townsfolk. Perhaps they were simply desperate to know that there was more world beyond their measly homes, and thought that a companionable armed force would protect them against the ever-hungry nocturne.

It wouldn't.

Already one man was dead, swaying in the breeze at the end of a morosely creaking rope. One thing was certain, if only for the caged wretches: more death was soon to follow.

Alonso, a tired, dreary little down who was but a shadow of its former self. It was a tiny, sleepy, quiet little down, with its town square being the center of activity. Activity was a generous term, rather the town square was the largest cluster of stone buildings that still stood inhabited and had the safest open space for what little trade there was to take place. Standing at the foot of the square, a few doors away from the Town Hall was the Black Boar Tavern.

Judging by the size of the tavern, it must have, at one point been a bustling center for drink and laughter, a big two story building with plenty of sleeping space in the rooms above, and an ample sized room on the main floor to support a large bar and several tables of customers, with a hearth at the end to provide warmth and light to the building. Though as of late, the tavern, like much of the town, had fallen into a state of disuse and squalor. Tables and chairs sat empty, some stacked on top of each other to be put away and just left there. Fewer than a dozen souls sat inside the tavern, the vast majority of them being members of the Legion who had the resources and time to lounge around drinking shoddy ale.

On the small porch outside the tavern, little more than a bit of wood flooring and a pair of stools under a wooden overhang, sat Odran, sheltered from the rain as he observed the antics of the Legion in Alonso. His cloaked form rocked gently on a stool, leather rucksack sitting at his side, and a wide brimmed hat of shoddy leather shading his eyes from view. In front of his foot sat an empty bowl, once filled with soup handed out by the Legion, while his hands clutched at a well worn, but well crafted cittern, his fingers strumming idly and softly played a simple tune as he watched them from afar.

They shouted and gestured and offered a chance at greatness and a full belly as they attempted to entice people of the sad little town to join their ranks. While Odran had no doubt that they'd be able to claim some men and women from this town, most of the spirits in this town were too broken to be of any particular use to any armed force. The majority of this town were just tired souls meandering around until they eventually passed on.

Odran had no bone to pick with the Legion, and wasn't too keen on attracting the attention of men who were actively seeking for mages to either murder or conscript. It was probably time to move on from Alonso all the same. He'd only been here about a few weeks, but it was plain to see there was little more for him here. Maybe he'd find a caravan that didn't hate mages- or maybe he found one that hated him but found magic useful enough to bring him along.

Almari had been travelling through human civilization for some time now. Long enough, she would have thought, to become used to the places and people in the Tempesta. However, that was not entirely the case. In the underground city of Evenwell, others had occasionally said that she and her family were strange, almost like the humans that came to trade with the city every now and then. They had not meant it as a compliment. Almari had nothing against humans, but having lived among them for almost a year now, she didn’t see how her family had been anything like them. It was the little things in the Tempesta that always seemed off to her. That, and she seemed incapable of adjusting to cities where life carried on under the sunlight. She missed the underground cities of the Gestalted mountains, where the efertide wasn’t nearly as bad as it was in these open environments. She did not enjoy the harsh daylight, especially given her profession. She’d certainly had to be more careful of how she moved from place to place, and when.

Even so, she found ways to ply her trade.That aspect of her life had not changed much since she’d left Gestalt. Every city had precious items that could be taken and sold for profit. There was not much difference between the elven and human fences she had dealt with. Stolen goods were stolen goods. Though as of late she was having difficulty finding anything worth stealing.

Almari frowned, pulling her hood down further against the light rain as she walked down a narrow street of Alonso, heading for the town square. She had been in the hamlet for nearly a week, against her intentions. The caravan of traders she’d been travelling with were supposed to have continued past this place, but had discovered some sort of problem with their supplies, or perhaps their contracts, that had them turning back the way they came. And so despite wanting to head for a larger city, she found herself stranded here, unable to return with them. She preferred large cities with ample wealth and large crowds she could lose herself in, not backwater places like this. But...

Almari was a thief, and most often a jewel thief in particular. She considered herself a good thief, even a great one.She had an eye for quality items and an ability to move around unnoticed. But even she made mistakes, very occasionally, like the kind that had city guards keeping an eye out for anyone matching her description. She sighed. That situation would calm down eventually, but for now, her last city was not the best place to be. So here she was, with dwindling supplies and a current lack of options. She would have considered doing more legal work, temporarily. But there wasn’t an abundance of opportunities for an elf with warped eyes.

Almari reached the town square in an unhurried manner. This was the most activity she’d yet seen in Alonso, though it still wasn’t much. There was an excessive number of Legionnaires wandering about, free food, and even a hanging for added entertainment. She eyed the cages curiously, looking with interest at the mage in the last cage. Almari walked over to a young woman looking the same way and asked her about the prisoners.

“Haven’t you been listening?” the woman responded. “Apparently that one-” she pointed at the man in question, “-is a murderer, and the Legionnaire just there was saying that- oh!” The woman had turned to look at her, and was apparently surprised to be speaking to an elf. Almari’s people didn’t seem to be abundant in this area, to be sure. Almari looked the woman over, noting her simple clothing and cheap jewelry. Her necklace appeared to be a braid of colored threads. Worthless.

Almari smiled at her. “Thanks,” she muttered, moving further into the square, wanting to hear the rest of what the legionnaires were saying. Perhaps she could also find out if any caravans would be travelling soon. Hopefully if there were any they wouldn’t try to charge her some ridiculous fee. Almari mentally counted and recounted the number of coins she had left in her pockets. It was not an ideal number. She sighed once more.

“I really need to get out of this town.”

"Madam, I think you're missing the point of my profession."

"You're paid t' carry things from one person to another. How is this any different?"

Rogafi Levilse reminded himself that this was marginally better than having to deal with another farmer accusing him of being a thief with nicer shoes. "I carry letters. Missives. Messages. Parcels, if they're under a certain weight and can fit into my bag. This-" He tapped the box the village woman had laid in front of him with his foot. "This is not a parcel. This is a box of turnips."

"I ain't asking you to take it to bloody Islington. Gracille Wren, she lives at the edge of the river, she's expecting me to bring these around by noon, but I ain't got the time," the woman said. "I'll give ya three fresh eggs, and if you ask nice, I'm sure Gracille'll let you pick out one of the runtier turnips."

"I'm sorry, but that's not the sort of work that I'm looking for," Rogafi said. He hated turnips, anyway.

The villager snorted and spat on Rogafi's boot. "Bloody outsiders," she grumbled, picking up her crate. "Don't appreciate good work."

Rogafi hadn't been expecting much when he'd set up his sign in the village square. It was a worn parchment he'd stuck to the wall, written with lettering large enough to be seen from a distance. "COURIER FOR HIRE - BOUND FOR MEDIOLANN, BY WAY OF ALONSO, ISLINGTON, MIRANDA, EVENPARCH, ISLAY. UTMOST CONFIDENSHIALITY, UTMOST SECURITY. REASONABUL RATES." Alonso was a small, intermediary stop, a place to spend a few days recuperating and resupplying before setting off again. It wasn't a place to find new deliveries. Still, there wasn't anything better to do.

He looked around the town square again. He always liked to be aware of his surroundings, and the area was busy enough that there was always something new going on. The mayor was still arguing with the legionnaires, that hadn't changed. The old mage-eyed woman in the cage was still making him think of his grandmother, so he didn't spend too long looking at her. There was a cloaked woman meandering through the crowd, and that caught Rogafi's attention for a few minutes. Most of the townsfolk were walking with direction, with certainty in their destination, but the way this woman was looking around -

'Searching for something?'

Rogafi looked away when the woman's gaze turned towards him. He kept watching the square. It looked like the Legion recruiter had hooked a fresh fish, a bearded man on a mule. Rogafi had already filed finding Legion work away under 'last resort'; the militia would have the budget and the need to have messages delivered, but the rumors that they were recruiting magicians gave Rogafi gooseflesh. He didn't have mage-eyes, but still...

"Courier for hire, courier for hire!" he called out, hoping to grab attention that his sign clearly wasn't. "Reasonable rates, totally safe! Bound for Mediolann as soon as the weather turns! Courier for hire!"

A wealth of raven locks spilled out over the pillow underneath her head. Pale eyes were looking up at the wooden beams of the ceiling, worry drawing down her features into a frown. She was safe.......for now at least. The town of Alonso wasn´t very different from the other small hamlets she´d passed on her wayward journey. A useful difference however was the mixture of ordinary common folk and travelers from all over the provinces. It made her less of an attraction. No one would give her a second look if she snuck out of the young farmer´s barn, and come the morning she wouldn´t be on the lips of every housewife in the village. It was the easiest and most safe method of finding a place to spend the night, next to a preferably handsome farmer, blacksmith or whoever cared for her company.

At times like this, where she was alone with her thoughts, the uncertainty of her future could drive her to madness. The caravan she grew up in was no longer her safe haven. Floure had no idea where they were, what had happened to them after that Midsummer eve, or if they were even still alive. She dreaded to think about her family no longer breathing the same air as her, but the possibility seemed more likely every day. She had put as much distance between her and the place where she´d last seen them, fearing whoever or whatever had attacked them would come back for her. Distance never mattered, they always knew of a way to pass on a message. Why had no one sent her a letter?, a sign?, a whisper in the night. It had been dishearteningly silent.

Floure slipped out of bed quietly, holding the bedding to her chest, tying them around her body as a make shift dress. Somewhere in the corner of the room she'd gathered her belongings. She rummaged through a bundle of tangled up clothes to uncover a small wooden box, taking it with her back to bed. Every trinket that spilled from the box conjured up its own memory and emotion. An old deck of frayed playing cards, used many times by her revered grandmother, a small glass bottle of precious jasmine oil gifted to her by an equally precious sister, a silver comb with swirling vines and flowers. The contents of the box made her smile and soon her mood was lifted.

The sheets next to her moved, someone stirred and shifted. Then suddenly she felt a pair of soft lips follow an invisible trail of kisses up her arm. A strong arm wrapped itself around her shoulders.
"What are you smiling about?" His boyish voice was a strange match for his mature physique, but it was also endearing in a way.
Floure dabbed a little jasmine oil on her neck, the back of her ears and the insides of her wrists. The sweet floral scent immediately surrounded her, casting its enchanting spell.

"Were you thinking about last night?" The young man continued in a husky voice, sniffing the scented air. Floure bit her lip trying not to laugh. She didn't even remember his name much less what they had or hadn't done. She'd slipped a sleeping potion in his drink after they kissed, so whatever he thought had happened was a figment of his imagination. Maybe she gave him a bit too much, hallucinations were a common side effect after all. Floure slid out of his embrace and safely put her keepsakes back in the box.

"Don't get any ideas" Floure said with a cheeky smile on her face. He tried to pull her back to bed, grabbing onto the end of the sheets she had wrapped around herself. His efforts were clearly in vain, she had no intention of coming back. He groaned and fell back onto the bed, faking defeat. Triumphant Floure continued on her way when a sudden forceful tug nearly made her fall over. She whipped her head around, the beginnings of an angry frown on her usually sweet face. Any anger however quickly disappeared when she stared back into the handsome face of the young blacksmith. He had scruffy brunette hair, warm brown eyes, and the beginnings of a light beard. His body betrayed his trade. Strong muscular arms, skin flecked with small scars where he'd accidentally touched hot iron, calloused hands from working the rough material.

"I have to go, there's something going on outside" She explained, trying to be serious seeing his disappointed face, which was not unlike that of a young puppy dog.

"Will I ever see you again?" He sounded sad all of a sudden. Floure found herself feeling remorseful. He'd given her a place to stay, drawn her a bath, put food in her belly. How did she repay him? She had cheated him out of his fun. Biting her lip she kept her back to him, thinking on her answer. She quickly gathered up her clothes and got dressed. As she made her way to the window, the blacksmith jumped out of bed, afraid this beautiful girl would be gone forever if he didn't stop her.

"Hey....a..at least let me make you some breakfast." He stammered, frantically trying to find his clothes. Floure gazed through the window, a soft drizzle was muddying her view, but she could tell there was some sort of event taking place on the square. There were three cages lined up with people inside. They were surrounded by men in uniforms and a crowd of whispering towns folk. The gallows were looming up behind them. A chill ran down her spine, the sight filling her with a sense of dread. Floure wrapped her shawl around her head, shivering.

The blacksmith came up behind her giving her shoulders a reassuring squeeze.
"Don't worry, those are not for you"

She turned around to face him, finding his wide eyed, slightly fearful expression amusing. Floure smiled while she took of one of her necklaces, drawing the string over her neck and down her long hair, careful not to get it caught. It was a braided cord of blue silk with a shell pendant filed down into the shape of a heart. She attempted to put it around the blacksmith's neck but even on her toes she couldn't reach the top of his head. He bent down with a nervous laugh, the pendant resting right in the centre of his chest. Floure put her palm on his chest, feeling his heartbeat.

"I'll come back one day....." She said, sounding wistful. Maybe this time she'd fallen in love a little bit too, but he would probably be another broken promise. Sad but true.

She tugged on the necklace to bring his face closer to hers and gave him a kiss on the lips. The blacksmith closed his eyes in delight, but when he opened them again she was gone.

Reverante, the last name was Reverante, the surname of reverence. You could not simply be a Reverante and not have reverence for the world around you. Even while suffocated by the Efertide the world was still rather deserving of the reverence of hedgewitches all around the country. Levranelle pondered these things as he fiddled with a daisy he had in his hand, sniffing at it and inspecting it for imperfections like the slight browning of one of the pretty yellow petals. Over his shoulder was a large sack that made the light tinking noise of glass. He was wondering into the town square as he needed to do a little bartering for some meat of some kind.

Not long before actually entering the square Snuffles began some rather loud mewling, with his fur standing on end. The magical connection between them facilitated by Agatha, Lev's grandmother, caused the hairs on his neck to do so as well, which of course caused his head to jerk up and look to see what Snuffles was going crazy about. "Gods have mercy on our poor souls Snuffles, at least stop meowing when I figure out what's going on, you're going to wake up the dead. The townspeople don't like me too much when I'm talking with their deceased grandparents." He lamented as Snuffles walked in and out between his feet as he walked, the two traveling in a rather unified fashion.

Lev finally found out what Snuffles was mewling about once they were actually in seeing distance of the cages hanging in the middle of town. Brutish Legionaries and their cruel, insufferable hangings. To kill was ignorance, there was so much to learn from the societal deviant, it'd just be better to lock them up and poke them with a large stick and make them tell you about their lives and thought processes. Suck the wisdom from the living before they become the dead and the living are a lot less ignorant for it. No, the Legion can't possibly be that intelligent, especially if they're going to imprison a ma...gic user.

Levranelle locked his eyes on the woman with two irises, almost seething in the cages. In the full day his own eyes were only different in color than others, not something people notice off their first or even second glance. However, if it became darker they'd become slits and be a lot harder to hide. Either way they were a blessing compared to this woman's curse of gemeneyes. Lev began laughing at the joke he thought of rather loudly as he walked to another corner of the town square, the one where he normally set up his little shop. All the while his laughter, knowable by most of the townfolk, would've been noticeable by the mayor and the legionnaire he just passed.

The Legion giveth, the Legion taketh away. Kaeli had made a killing over the past couple of days, what with all of the minor repairs. It had scarcely been challenging work - not for one more accustomed to working on the machines of yore - but it had put more coin in her purse than anything else she'd done in this town - the people paid mostly in eggs, bread, and mead. Still, the legion had deprived her of her fountain. Every day, for the past two months, she'd perched on its lip, partly to place herself closer to eye level, and partly because restoring it had become something of a pet project. Every day, she'd sat there and offered her repair and appraisal services to passerby and actually made enough to live on. Kaeli felt that she'd claimed the old fountain, at least to the point that some of the townspeople had more or less come to expect her there, but perhaps that was an Elven conceit: the idea that your space was your own to the exclusion of others.

Of course, the irrational bit of resentment - they'd given her far more than two days worth of regular business - didn't stop the elf from availing herself of the free food. She'd even considered joining up and hitching a ride out of town, but then there was the 'able bodied' stipulation. Legs must be so convenient, she grumbles inwardly, making her way through a gaggle of curious onlookers. She doesn't see much but knees, thighs, crotches, and glimpses of grey sky when she glances upward. She slips between the moving bodies, paying careful attention to the placement of her hands. It wouldn't do to get them stepped on. Her hands are everything, and the fact that this town is mostly paved is half of the reason why she's stayed here so long. It's nice not to be all muddy for once. Nonetheless, she's been feeling the itch to continue on to a larger city, one where she might be able to find more of use and work with some dignity.

Eventually, Kaeli finds her way out of what is actually quite a small crowd and remembers a nearby building with a decent-sized ledge and an awning, only to find that a traveling courier has already set himself up over there, his sign - replete with misspellings - posted up behind him. She looks around the square. There's the upcoming hanging, of course, all the better to remind people of who makes the rules. Kaeli avoids looking at the magic user. Anyone who can break the natural laws of the world and has been backed into a corner is not safe to be around. The Legion recruiters are taking advantage of the spectacle: a bearded man on a mule has just signed up and there are sure to be others. One of the recruiters is regaling the townspeople with a tale that Kaeli supposes is good. She's been living among humans for some time now and even aping their behaviours, but understanding what actually makes them tick is not as easy as imitating that ticking.

No more than a dozen people are lounging around over in the Boar while a bard plays a soft tune. Kaeli generally avoids anything stronger than the occasional glass of wine. She glances down a couple of roards to see if interesting folk filtering into the square, and spots a spidery-looking Carnelian. You're as rare a creature as I, she muses. Her eyes rove one more time across the loose gathering of mostly-cloaked figures and then they stop. That one. She's an elf. It's subtle, but Kaeli can tell by the way that she walks. Your ability to recognize your own people is magnified in a place where they're so few among so many.

The hour is growing later and the shadows would be getting long if there were any on a day like this. Kaeli does not like executions, but she does like money. She scoots up to the courier and asks him a question: "Sorry to bother you, sir, but just how much weight can you carry in that bag of yours?"

Rogafi had, of course, noticed the strange elf woman. Probably the entire square had noticed her. Some looked at her with shock, others with pity, others with barely-disguised revulsion. Rogafi had tried to keep all emotion off his face. He'd seen many strange things during his years as a courier, but this... this was head and shoulders above the rest.

'Mostly because that's all she is. Stop it.'

Rogafi composed himself. He was a widely-traveled, open-minded man. He had broken bread with elves, goblins, carnelians, even a Nephilim, on one occasion. He could manage this. Don't make any jokes, maintain eye contact, don't make any jokes...

"That depends, madam. My main concern is volume, so my rates for packages are decided based on how much space they would take up in the satchel or my saddlebags. May I ask what you're thinking of sending?"

'I hope she doesn't mean for me to carry her. And did she really walk all the way here on her hands...?'

OOC: Oops, sorry, I forgot to mention, it’s late evening, approaching sunset, and the fountain at the center of town is mounted on a disc-shaped electric lantern, which functions as the town bonfire.

@wxps350
The tall, pointy man with the eyepatch seemed eager enough. “Absolutely!” said the skinny Legionnaire. “I promise, years from now, you’re gonna look back and think, this was the moment that split my life in before and after. The Legion’ll do that, mark my words.”

The chubbier Legionnaire, Louis, put down his clipboard. “Actually, if you don’t mind, we could use your help for a demonstration. We can loan you some Legion gear, if you don’t have any, and maybe stage a public swordsmanship drill. It sounds like you have some experience, and we’d appreciate the help.”

---

@CrimsonAmaranth
The Legionnaire had moved on from the serial killer. He had entertained the crowd enough—there were two more prisoners to cover. In the middle cage was a man with tangled blonde hair and many missing teeth. He had plenty of colorful and illegible words for the crowd earlier, and a fair bit of defiant screaming, but when attention fell on him, he hushed up immediately, like a school boy caught misbehaving. His fingers rubbed his knuckles, and he stared holes into his bare feet.

According to the Legionnaire, this prisoner had traded Legion secrets to the Army of Heroes during the war. When a superior officer discovered his misdeeds, the man attacked, and in the struggle the officer was killed. The man ran. When the war ended, he was eventually tracked down and arrested. There was a short speech on cowardice, on the glorious history of the Tempesta, and the legacy of Miranda Newcastle, all delivered with dignified aplomb.

“Feel sympathy for this man,” the Legionnaire said finally, “turned to murder by hard, desperate times—feel sorrow, and pity, and regret. Feel whatever you think is respectful, and appropriate. But never forget his crimes. The dead won’t.”

The man seemed not to hear the Legionnaire.

“But there are worse things than murderers,” said the Legionnaire by the cages. His voice seemed to lose something, or gain something, not a dramatic hush like before, but a hard, cold bite. If he was still performing, then it was a very convincing performance. “Do you know dry drowning? The water cure? They call it waterboarding in the far south. A victim, see, is strapped to a table, a damp cloth is placed over their face. Water is then poured over them, over and over and over, forcing the victim to experience the sensation of drowning. They cannot see, and they cannot move. All they can feel is asphyxiation. Sometimes the cloth is removed, and the victim drinks the water until their stomach bloats, and the Army of Heroes would then beat them until they vomited, so the process could be repeated. Brain damage, lung damage, shock, and death were all common, by the end. Sometimes the victim would break their own bones when their body convulsed against the restraints.”

The giggles and gossip fell out, like a candle muffled under a damp pair of palms. “This woman does not deserve to have her name known. Like all the Army of Heroes, she proved herself a soulless traitor during the September Uprising. But she didn’t just betray her homeland—she used the Solvita, the holy gift of Miranda Newcastle herself, to torture Legionnaires and civilians alike. There are no words to express her betrayal. Rest assured, she will hang at the noose until dead.”

---

@FrozenEcstasy
“This isn’t the heartland,” said the Mayor. “You can’t just—“

A clear, tinkling laugh cut him off. Not too far from where he was arguing with the Legionnaires, a slim young man made his way through the crowd, a large pack slung over his shoulder, a cat perched comfortably on his shoulders.

“The Hedgewizard?” asked the first Legionnaire. The Mayor nodded. “But, I’m telling you-—

“You, young man.” The Legionnaire and his companion approached the Hedgewizard. They were tall and sad-eyed fellows, one with no hair to speak of, the other boasting a neat gray mane that went to his shoulders, and a beard that went nearly to his belt. “We’ve heard of your work here. You seem like an admirable fellow, Hedgewizard Reverante.”

“I hope you won’t expect prejudice from us,” said the bearded man wheezily, who appeared much older than his bald, rheumy-eyed companion. “The old powers bless all who walk in the footsteps of Lady Miranda. But do you think you could be doing more? The People’s Legion seeks powerful magicians like yourself. And your powers are quite something, if the Mayor speaks truthfully.”

“Rare these days,” said the watery-eyed bald man.

“But he seems reliable. As do you. The Legion calls on all children of the Tempesta, and would give them seats at Castle Miranda herself, where we might arm you, support you, and give you all the tools necessary to lift up your country and its people.”

---

@vietmyke
There were a group of them, four men, huddled up by one of the tavern's windows. It was frosted with age and boasted a meager collection of dead flies by the sill, but it was still clear who they were staring at through the glass—a slouched, hooded man playing the cittern.

"I saw him when he came in," whispered one of the men. "Eyes without pupils, and they were full of a mist, a foggy old something—he's devil-marked, believe you me."

"He's a blind old man and you're a fat old drunk," said one of the others, but his voice wavered with doubt, or maybe watered-down alcohol.

"Big guy like that? I saw him, he's all scarred up, see? Battle scars. That's no witch, I bet you it's an Army mage, on the run. What kind of bard looks like that?"

"We'd get a reward, if we told a Legionnaire."

"You're out of it. He's just an old man. They'll tell us to eat shit."

"It's worth a shot, isn't it?"

After another bit of talking, they four men left. It wasn't long after before a Legionnaire appeared by the tavern porch, asking for the large man with with the cittern.