Many thanks to @PrinceOfHeaven for his assistance in writing this.

The Year is 1308 in the Age of Solanius. The World of Thurius is as dangerous as it is magical, home to many races of people from the gallant and enterprising humans (by far the most common race of Thurius), to the majestic and proud elves; from the ferocious and powerful orcs, to the wise and gentle samothaurs.

Long ago, on the peninsula of Gelidia, a mighty empire rose to power, conquering and colonizing all within its path. The Aesernian Empire, as it came to be called, dominated nearly the entire known world, stopped only by the barbarian tribes to its north, desert wasteland to its south, oceans to its west, and the empire known as the Savarian Caliphate to its east. As the world's wealthiest, largest, strongest, and most advanced civilization, the Aesernian Empire was said to have been granted the blessed favor of the Living Gods of the Great Pantheon, in whom the Aesernians possessed an unwavering faith.

However, what is fated to rise is also doomed to fall. Rife with corruption and conflict within, the Aesernian Empire swiftly collapsed, shrinking down to a single divided province beset on all sides by enemies, all of whom desire to claim the mantle of the Empire for themselves, though the strongest claim and the proper throne of Aesernia belongs to its Emperor, Vittorio III. To the east of Aesernia, sharing the Gelidian Peninsula, stands their greatest rival: the military junta of Nursia led by Generalissimo Leonardo Speziale. Other Kingdoms seeking to claim the mantle include Foveros, Illyrica, Narbos, Bryon, the Elvish Kingdoms of Tarraconia and Aquilania, and the southern lands of Marrakech and Cathion.

To the far North, the warring Norsidic tribes have established three kingdoms of their own, embroiled in their own three-way conflict of ideas and territory. Osland, a country of warrior-poets, embracing the traditions of their pre-Kingdom elders, consider themselves the true Nords of the North, seeking to one day unite their people under the banner of Norsland. Rosiland, a country shared by the proud Nords, reclusive Shadow Elves, and aggressive Plains Orcs, seeks only to maintain its independence. And last, the Kingdom of Asmeinland, rejecting the traditions of their savage ancestors, turn instead to more modern sensibilities and ways of thinking, seeking to civilize the North in preparation for the creation of a new empire to replace the fallen Aesernians as the world's capital.

And to the east, the Savarid Caliphate had faced great turmoil of their own. Likewise collapsing into many warring sultanates, the Savarids soon abandoned their faith in the Great Pantheon, their piety now turned towards a new and rapidly growing religion in the element of fire itself, the Path of the Sacred Flame. Beginning in the Kingdom of Sindhus and spreading by the sword and the flame, the zealots of the Path immolate heathens and heretics alike, seeking to purge all sin from their souls as they assimilate their consciousness with that of their mystic flame. The Path would grow to consume all Kings and Sultans and become the dominant faith of the east.

Marking the beginning of a new era, the Savarid Sultanates waged Holy War for the province of Iurusolym, an act responded in kind by the Aesernian Kingdoms, temporarily united against the Path of the Flame in a call to Crusade by the High Priest of the Great Pantheon. After years of fighting, however, the Savarids prevailed, forcing the Crusaders out of their Holy Land, now free to incinerate all sinners without interference.

Now, in an age of blood and steel, the Aesernian Kingdoms do battle once again with themselves, the North Kingdoms, and the Savarid Sultanates, all yearning to once again hold the favor of the Gods and restore the glory of the Pax Aeserna. Yet as they wage war to do so, the Legions of the Infernum grow ever stronger, pulling Thurius closer to a hellish demise.

Alas, the Legions of the Infernum and the Shaituns are not the most pressing problem. Htraknu, Father of all Dragons, has awoken. For twenty years, he has lurked in his mountainous realm, plotting, scheming, and preparing for an undertaking that most would consider madness at best. Ever since Htraknu burned the Asmeinlander village of Krossavik and slaughtered all but six of the inhabitants, the Elder Wyrm has been mobilizing his forces in search of artifacts that will help him slay the very gods and take their power. Should he succeed in his endeavor to become the One God, Thurius will fall under a rule more tyrannical and wicked than any other. Mortals will be slaves at best and livestock at worst. The Shaitun known as Hargath is the first target of Htraknu's plans, as the dragon has already taken the means to slay him from the ashes of Krossavik.

---

Htraknu gazed upon the captive demon with the same contempt he held for the overwhelming majority of non-dragons; along with a more personalized degree of irritation that came from his patience being sorely tested. Despite the best efforts of his one of his most sadistic goblin lackeys, the beast was being rather stubborn and had not yet revealed the secret of how to enter its master's realm. It wasn't a matter of courage that kept half-rotting demon from surrendering the information. The wretched creature was simply more afraid of the Shaitun known as Hargash than it was of the ancient dragon and his underlings. This irked the great reptile greatly but ultimately, it was of no real matter, for that foolish notion would soon be cured.

The dragon's deep intake of breath was the goblin torturer's only warning to get out of the way. As the green humanoid scampered out of the way, Htraknu exhaled and sent a gust of flame toward one of the demon's hoofed feet with all the precision of a master artisan. The demon shrieked with pain and would likely have shaken the now-flaming foot frantically if not for the slightly molten manacles. With the demon seemingly now sufficiently intimidated, the elder dragon spoke. "Your choice is quite simple. Either you tell me what I wish to know and thus earn your freedom, or you keep silent and I slowly roast you alive before devouring you."

Eyes wide, the demon spoke so quickly that it was barely understandable. "I'll tell you whatever you wish to know! The conditions necessary to enter the Citadel of Rot are rather specific and require a great deal of magical power, though I'm sure a being as mighty and wise as yourself need not worry about the requirements. To enter the Citadel, you must first find the ruins of a once-great city brought down by plague. Once there, you must bind the souls of seven beings that died alone after a life of rejection. Using the bound souls, you can open a portal to the front gates of the Citadel. That's all there is to it! You said you would set me free if I told you!"

Htraknu smiled. "Indeed I did," to which the demon relaxed somewhat, "but alas, only the dead are truly free." Before the demon had a chance to register this statement, the ancient dragon opened his mouth and unleashed a flame hot enough to melt the chains around the demon within seconds. Without further ado, the great reptile bit into the demon's charred corpse and immediately spat out the mouthful. Even in death, the creature was utterly repulsive. He began looking for something else to eat, content that he knew how to reach at least one of his intended victims. Soon enough, there would be much that needed to be done if he were to realize his ambitions. In the meantime, he was hungry.

Co-written with @EvangelineMarie

---

The first orange glow of the rising sun edged steadily over the horizon, silhouetting dense pine forests against a dimly lit backdrop of the night's deep indigo as it gave way to wispy streaks of peach-stained cloud. From the tallest tower of Graafenschloss Veresegyházhof, a thick granite spire culminating in a dramatic needle point that stretched up to touch the heavens, the view was astonishingly beautiful. The fortress's owner, however, was rather less appreciative than one might expect. A black-gloved hand reached lazily out from a shadowed corner, drawing a curtain of deep crimson velvet firmly across the window, letting not even a meagre streak of sunlight filter inside. There was a satisfied exhalation, before silence hung over the room once more, punctuated only by the occasional rustling of pages being turned, accompanied by bursts of sporadic scratching from a quill pen as it danced lightly over the surface of dry parchment. A grunt of frustration cut through the quiet, and Erwyn, Count of Amstetten-Szatmár-Bereg for over eight centuries, rose from his chair, padding across the pitch black room, his vampiric eyes picking out every exquisitely crafted detail of the ornate four-poster bed that dominated the opposite wall with ease despite the gloom. As a creature of the night, he did not need sleep, of course, but the Count often found his mind refocused; rejuvenated by a short spell of rest. Lowering himself onto the soft silk sheets, Erwyn allowed his thoughts to drift away, closing his eyes as he sank into unconsciousness.

A sudden chill caused Count Erwyn to rise from his slumber not moments after first closing his eyes. He attempted to go back to sleep, but to no avail; try as he might, he could not shake off the chill. Climbing out of bed in an attempt to discover the source of the strange sensation, he found that the curtains of his room were blowing in the wind as if the windows of the tower were open - but how could that possibly be? He parted the curtains carefully, so as not to bathe himself in the harmful rays of the morning sun, and was shocked to see that he was no longer overlooking the pleasant expanse of pine forests his fortress once towered above. Instead, he gazed out into a chaotic and shadowy void. Jagged spires of black marble rose up from a seemingly bottomless pit, and there were no clouds in the dark sky. It was as if it was perpetually midnight, and this strange new world was dimly illuminated only by the cold light of a great white orb of magical energy high above the Count. Floating islands composed of the same black marble could also be seen in the distance, but even with his vampiric sight the Count could not make out what they were carrying. It was as if something was obscuring his vision, even though there was nothing there. Count Erwyn found this place to be simultaneously idyllic and nightmarish. He found it difficult to pry his eyes away from the window, but upon turning around his room had vanished, replaced instead by a marble platform. Confused and now stranded, the Count felt as if he was being watched. The chill he felt earlier grew stronger and stronger, increasing in intensity as the vampire sensed another being drawing closer to him.

Then he saw Her, seemingly materialising from the shadows before him and levitating above the nothingness below. Her face conveyed both enchanting beauty and paralysing terror, and her perfect body was draped in revealing silks, the ends of which seemed to taper off back into the shadows, swirling and writhing in the alien air. She circled about the platform that the vampire was standing upon, studying and examining him, before her bare feet touched down on the freezing surface of the stone and she finally spoke.

“Welcome to my domain, Count Erwyn,” the stranger began, her enrapturing voice echoing off the surroundings and almost enthralling the man immediately, “or at the very least, a tiny pocket of it. I see that my gift has treated you well; eight hundred and thirty-four years of life is no small feat. I wonder, child of the night, how grateful are you for your vampirism?”

The vampire’s eyes flashed crimson as he muttered a brief incantation, clearing his mind of the intoxicating effect of the woman’s voice. Attempting to, at least – against this strange apparition, even this simple spell pushed the limits of Erwyn’s sorcery. He was silent for a second, his gaze locked upon her own, a tiny hint of amusement creeping across his stony visage. “Your ‘gift’? Ah, I do apologise, my lady, I entirely forgot to write you a thank you letter. How careless of me. I shall do so just as soon as you return me to my castle – who might I address it to, by the way?”

The strange lady did not take too kindly to the vampire’s sarcasm; she did not bring him to her realm to be disrespected by him. Nor did she like his use of magic to counter the effects of her beauty, and even though she could dispel the man’s incantation with but a thought, she tolerated it to avoid angering him. “You will not be returning to your castle just yet, Count Erwyn,” she finally responded, “and I suspect that you already know who I am. I am the one who made you what you are today, after all.”

Erwyn took a step towards the woman, the amusement vanishing from his expression. "You interrupted a perfectly pleasant hunt, and confined me to bed for a week in rather severe discomfort. If you're trying to imply that I owe you anything for that, you are sorely mistaken. Just as you are mistaken if you believe you can faze me in the slightest with your petty tricks and childish games." He looked her straight in the eye, unblinking, holding her gaze without so much as a hint of unease.

The woman unflinchingly reciprocated the vampire’s stare, moving ever so slightly closer to him before responding. “There are no petty tricks or childish games in my realm, vampire. You know where you are, and so you know that could not possibly be the case. You may have been confined to a bed for a week, but is that not a trivial price to pay for the powers I have given you?” She did not wait for Erwyn to respond before she vanished once again into the shadows. The platform the Count was standing on suddenly began to shift and rearrange itself, with a large, obsidian throne now at its centre, upon which sat the woman. “I know that you have no love for me, Count Erwyn, nor for the many cults devoted to me throughout the world, but there is a great calamity about to befall all of existence. I have seen it, and with the disaster at Krossavik two decades ago, so too have the survivors, although given their lack of urgency in taking action I doubt that they realise the true danger of the coming storm. Do you know of what I speak?”

"Not for certain, although I trust you will permit me to make an educated guess..." Erwyn thought for a second. "Given your mention of Krossavik, I'd wager the dragon that razed that town is about to cause more trouble, correct?" Muttering a brief incantation, the vampire disappeared into thin air, only to materialise again in a dramatic puff of black smoke, perched nonchalantly on the arm of the woman's throne. He smirked. "I must say, I didn't have you down as the type to be scared by a big lizard."

Rolling her eyes in annoyance, the woman took the hand of the vampire, and the second their hands made contact his smile immediately dropped and he fell from the arm of the throne as his mind was invaded by images and visions that he struggled to make sense of. Attempting to focus on what he was seeing, he saw the Krossavik disaster unfolding before him as if he was there in the flesh. With a flash, he was now witnessing the destruction of Asmeinland at the hands of the same dragon. Amstetten, Szatmár and Bereg all burned, culminating in the total annihilation of Graafenschloss Veresegyházhof and the Count’s death. This progressed as dragon fire continued to engulf the world and the dragon began to challenge the gods themselves. Each of them fell, and the dragon stole their power. Eventually, the Count could even see the dragon rising to challenge the divinity of the goddess who was revealing all of this to him, Lilith. The visions ended there, and the Count found himself lying on the ground with the goddess standing over him. “This is the future that I have seen if I do not act now; no-one can escape this!” The goddess’s voice was no longer as enchanting as it was before, with it instead now conveying feelings of fear and concern. “I can see no further than that, and the outcome of my eventual battle with that vile creature are completely unknown to me, so can you see now why I am scared? Why you should be scared?”

In a flash, the Count was on his feet again, calmly dusting himself off as he silently surveyed the goddess, slowly circling her as if trying to find a vulnerability in some unfortunate prey. "A very dramatic little demonstration. But, point taken, the lizard is dangerous." He stopped, just in front of her, raising a curious eyebrow. "What do you expect me to do that you could not accomplish yourself? According to you, my abilities are your 'gifts'; does it not therefore stand to reason that you would hardly be lacking in the capability to deal with this dragon?"

Lilith’s expression quickly changed to one of anger. “I cannot accomplish anything on my own because the petty gods that the mortals worship so fervently prevent me from truly entering that world! They see me as a disease, nothing more than a being of pure malice and evil, and even though they are essentially committing suicide unknowingly by preventing my intervention, they still spite me so. Those pompous fools refuse to see reason, as to them I am only ‘The Great Deceiver’. I cannot combat this fiend alone, and I refuse to allow myself to be subject to the fate that both of us have now seen. As such I must ask you this: Will you be my champion in the mortal world? Will you fight this dragon in my name?”

Erwyn stroked his chin pensively. "I don't have much of a choice, do I? Assuming what you just showed me is true, of course, and not one of your 'Great Deceptions'." He fixed the goddess with a suspicious glare, trying to spot the tiniest hint of dishonesty in her expression. Satisfied that there was none - none visible, at least - he gave her a slow nod. "Very well. It seems we have an accord, my darling Lilith. Now, without further ado, may I perchance return to my humble abode, that I might prepare for such undertakings?"

Lilith smiled as the Count agreed to become her champion. “This pleases me greatly, Erwyn, and of course I will now permit you to return to your castle. However, before you return, know that I intend to reward you handsomely should you complete this task. Kill this dragon for me, and power and pleasure beyond mortal reckoning will be yours. No man will be your equal.” The goddess moved back from the vampire, levitating away from the platform as it began to crumble and disintegrate around Erwyn. “Now go, kill the beast.” Lilith commanded as she vanished into the shadows. The platform continued to fall away until just Erwyn and the stone he was standing on remained, however soon that too began to dissolve. Just as he was about to fall into the nothingness below, he was back home, lying in his bed. The vampire sighed, shaking his head in exasperation as he dragged himself out of the silk sheets and walked across the hard stone floor. Sleep would have to wait. There were preparations to make.

The workshop of Hoffen was always rather loud; master and apprentice were constantly at work creating construction materials for the expanding town. It was quite a mess with wood shavings and bits of iron littering the unimpressive wooden floor. The workshop’s master was a middle-aged man, his height as equally impressive as his beard. His apron wasn’t light brown when he bought it. The apprentice, however, was almost the exact opposite of the master; she was soft and squishy where he was muscular; had long, white hair while he had barely any and a feminine, almost cute face instead of the master’s chiselled profile.

“Weiss, how are the chair legs coming along?” the master asked, he himself working the seat and backrest of what will presumably be the same chair. Rhiara, or Weiss as she was sometimes called due to the colour of her hair, was concentrating so hard on carving a leg that she didn’t hear her master’s question. “Rhiara. The chairs?” he asked again, louder that time.
“Oh! Er, I’m carving the last one now.” She pointed in the general direction of the carved legs. “They still need sanding though.”
“Once I’m done with this…” he grunted as he forced a joint together. “back – I’ll be with you.” Rhiara nodded to her boss and they were both once again hard at work.

Rhiara found her job to be hard at first, but as the year went on she actually began to enjoy it. It helped her with the wood carving that she did whenever she got some free time which, between working at the carpentry workshop and going hunting with her dad, wasn’t very often. She began thinking about what she would start to carve next; a deer? Maybe a unicorn. Her line of thought was interrupted when the only door to the outside opened.

She and her master both looked up from their work to see a person clad in the light armour of a town militiaman. Rhiara’s mind began racing to conclusions even though she didn’t need to be worried about anything. That was until she saw the militiaman’s face. The militiawoman’s face, that is. Her name was Athaliah; she was a Foverósi, though her family moved over to Illyrica when she was a child; she was also Rhiara’s best – well really, only – friend in Hoffen. She gave Rhiara a little nod with a smile, before eying the master. “Barclay, you don’t happen to have five mirrors laying around, do you?”
“Whatever the hells for?” he replied, looking at Athaliah like she’d finally lost her mind.

“Someone new in town asked. He doesn’t look like the kind of guy who wants to decorate his house; he said he hunts magic creatures, so if I had to guess, he’s after the bounty on that basilisk.”
Barclay looked like he had even more questions and no answers following Athaliah’s explanation. “Well, we have a few in the back room, but…”
“There’s another thing. He said he’s looking for someone good with a bow.” Her eyes fell on Rhiara, who immediately shook her head vigorously.
“I go hunting with my dad, once a week! I can’t take on a basilisk, if that’s what he’s even doing!”
“Just talk to him, he’s in the town square last we spoke. Think of the bounty…” she added, a teasing undertone in her voice.

Rhiara sighed and glared at her best friend. She didn’t want to go hunting now, much less with a stranger who’s after a basilisk. Then again, Rhiara had a habit of doing what other people wanted without much persuasion; it was one of her bigger weaknesses. “Okay, fine - I’ll find him when I finish work for the day; I’m not just leaving right now. Tell him to be in the tavern for three.”
“Will do. I need to get going anyway; the Captain’s going to be pissed if he finds out I’m not making myself useless today.” After an exchange of departing pleasantries, Athaliah left the room, leaving Rhiara and Barclay on their own.
“You’re not seriously thinking about doing this, are you?” Barclay muttered, shaking his head in disappointment. While he didn’t always show it, he cared about Rhiara in a purely platonic master-apprentice way.
“I guess I am…” she replied, though her voice clearly gave her doubts away. With nothing more to be said, the two carpenters continued their work in silence.

---

Rhiara made her way towards the tavern at the centre of the town; it was an old, ugly building with decaying wood, mossy stone and dusty windows which somehow still managed to let some light through to the outside world. Still, it was where people in town came after a day of work to socialise and get drunk, much like in any other town. Despite its rather ramshackle appearance, it had a certain charm to it; since it did what it was supposed to, nobody cared how it looked. Much like the people who lived there.

The heavy wooden door opened with a quiet creak and Rhiara found herself in a large, open room with tables on both sides of the room and a semi-circular bar in the middle. The bar was probably as old as the building itself, and obviously in the same state of disrepair. She slowly made her way to the woman behind the bar; she was young - like most bar maids, come to think of it – with long, flowing golden hair and not to mention, an impressive bust. Lysandra had been kind to this woman. Rhiara caught herself staring probably a little too long, causing a cute blush to appear on her face.

Rhiara slowly made her way to the woman, while looking around for the man she was supposed to be meeting. “Well, you’re new! I didn’t think Hoffen had any cuties left to find! What can I do for you?” Rhiara found herself blushing furiously; she wasn’t used to being called cute by, well, anyone.
“I’m looking for someone who’s calling himself a magic creature hunter and I was supposed to meet him here, any idea where he is? And, uh, thank you, by the way.”
The barmaid smiled and pointed at a table in a dark corner of the tavern, where a lone man sat with his drink and a book. “I think that’s your man – he was nice enough, but I’d be careful if I were you. I can’t lose a customer as adorable as you are!”
“You are relentless… Thanks for the help!” Rhiara walked up to the table where the hunter was sat, though she kept the barmaid’s warning in her head.

As the young white-haired woman approached, the man closed his book and gave a respectful nod. He wore a hooded cloak over a leather cuirass. At at each of his sides was a scabbard holding a sword. His face likely would have been quite average if not for the four long scars across it.

Once the scarred man had put his weathered book away in a satchel, he extended a hand in greeting. "Herbert T. Leintke. I take it you're the one who asked to meet me here?" Despite his somewhat intimidating appearance, he seemed relatively friendly, or at the very least, polite.

“I am, correct.” She replied as she shook his hand. “I’m Rhiara Ludenburg. I heard you were looking for someone who could use a bow, so here I am. If you don’t mind my asking, what exactly are you going to hunt?” Rhiara knew the answer already, but she wanted to hear it from the man himself.

"I'm here to hunt the basilisk that has been causing trouble around these parts." Replied Herbert, rather predictably. "Seeing as basilisks can kill with a look, I have to ask, just how skilled are you with a bow? I need a completely honest answer on this." She seemed rather young to be hunting monsters, but then again, he himself had started rather young and he had been on his own for the most part. As long as she could follow instructions, she'd probably be fine. Still, there was a chance she'd be killed and that was what worried him.

Rhiara sighed deeply, knowing that her answer wouldn’t be one that Herbert would have hoped for. “I’m okay with a bow; I go out into the forests with my dad once a week, hunting small game like rabbits.” She could have mentioned her magic shapeshifting ability, but she didn’t know if she could trust a person who hunted magical creatures with that kind of information. “Have other people volunteered to help you, at all?”

Herbert grimaced. "You're the only one who has stepped forward. If you can follow instructions, then I suppose you'll have to do. At least hunting small game requires accuracy. If you're willing to come along, we'll split the bounty halfways, but I get to keep the basilisk. Fair enough?" He much preferred working with hirelings rather than volunteers as they tended to know the dangers a bit more, but a town like Hoffen had a distinct lack of mercenaries.

Rhiara nodded. “Of course. So, before we go I heard you wanted some mirrors as well? There are a few in the workshop I, well, work at, that should be big enough.” She hoped the tales of mirrors distracting basilisks were true, but as basilisks could kill people with a mere glance she had a tough time believing that tale.

---

After Rhiara and Herbert had collected five rather large mirrors from the workshop, they began heading through the forest near Hoffen towards the basilisk’s lair. Rhiara carried two mirrors on her back while Herbert carried the other three. The forest had been explored enough that it had its own dirt trails winding through wide enough gaps in the trees. The trees reached up to touch the sky and small animals ran along the forest floor, avoiding the two humans who were giants compared to them. Rhiara didn't like the silence that had fallen between her and Herbet, but she - as was common for her - remained quiet. The silence could help them locate the basilisk, so it had its advantages.

Once Herbert had managed to figure out the basilisk's location, the pair began placing mirrors nearby. With the mirrors ready, Herbert gestured for Rhiara to move behind some nearby trees before taking cover near one of the mirrors and pulling out a small metal flask. As soon as they were both in place, the scarred hunter bellowed a challenge to the sky. Within minutes, the basilisk arrived on the scene and began searching for the source of the noise.

Upon spying its reflection in the mirror, the beast advanced hissing loudly with its neck frills out. Herbert waited for it to move closer to its glassy rival and once its attention was fully focused, he attacked. The slayer inhaled the air above the opened container, concentrated and spoke a word of power while thrusting his gloved palm in the direction of the basilisk. A ball of blue fire raced from his hand and scorched the reptile's scaly hide, drawing its attention.

Rhiara saw her opportunity, as plain as day. With the basilisk’s attention focused on Herbert, she could get one of two arrows out before it knew where she was. Rhiara put her bow and a spare arrow in one hand, while her other hand nocked another arrow and drew the bow. She loosed her grip on the string, sending the arrow flying straight into the basilisk’s side. She took the arrow already in her hand and nocked that one, though before she could send it at the basilisk, it began turning around to face her. Rhiara’s eyes snapped shut involuntarily, and she dove behind the nearest tree to avoid the creature’s fatal gaze.

As the beast turned to face Rhiara, Herbert willed forth the flame once more. The fire scorched the basilisk’s side and it wheeled about, hissing angrily. The animal’s sizable burn seemed to slow it down somewhat but its eyes were no less deadly and Herbert dove back to cover. Unable to see its fiery adversary, the beast tasted the air with its tongue to try to locate the monster hunter.

Almost as soon as it had turned around, another arrow slammed into the beast, where its neck might be if it were an incredibly long person. Rhiara would have hoped to hit the basilisk in the head in order to shorten the fight, though that meant being able to see its head in the first place – and the beast’s gaze made that plan unbelievably risky. Rhiara sighed in frustration as she nocked another arrow. The arrow flew downrange into the basilisk’s neck frill. The beast hissed in pain for the first time, its head swivelling at an inhuman speed to look in Rhiara’s direction.

The moment it began turning towards Rhiara again, Herbert used up the last of the magic in the flask of blood to unleash another ball of fire that scorched the reptile's tail. As quickly as he could, he reached for another flask while the basilisk turned. The beast began slithering towards him rapidly, apparently now considering him to be the greater threat. Knowing that it's gaze would be upon him the moment it neared his hiding place, he used all of the magic in the second blood flask to hide his face with a small curtain of flame that he then willed towards the basilisk. The monster tried to turn away but momentum carried it directly into the fire. It's eyes were burned out by the magical flames and it collapsed, dead. Herbert breathed a sigh of relief. Fighting something like a basilisk was always a major risk. He called out to where the arrows had come from. "Are you alright?"

“I’m fine!” Rhiara shouted back. She could feel her heart slamming against her chest at what felt like a million miles an hour. As she took in several deep, shaky breaths, the reality of the situation began to hit her; the basilisk was dead. She almost died a few times, but she and Herbert had succeeded. “Brilliant magic, by the way.”

Herbert smiled and stepped out into the open. "Thanks. Your shooting and timing were rather impressive as well." He walked over to the dead basilisk and picked up the end that had most of the arrow wounds. "Help me carry this to my wagon, will you? We've got to get it back to town to collect the bounty. Be careful of its blood, it's still quite dangerous."

A symphony of wind and birdsong filled the crisp air as it rolled along the grassy hills of Illyrica. The weather happened to be having one of those moments of interesting indecision, as the sun shone brightly over the fields, while the few dark clouds that did hang overhead sprinkled what rain they could onto the land below.

The stamping of hooves against the damp soil and the clattering of equipment and armor could be heard as a group of knights, five in count, came over the hill. The first, a burly man clad in plated mail and a pure, white surcoat with a golden, twin-headed eagle emblazoned upon the front. He rode a well-armored charger, looking back to his similarly equipped companions with an excited grin tugging at his lips.

"We're nearing the beast's lair. I can feel it. Towards those hills to the north," he said, gesturing towards the spoken direction.

"Good. Let's slay this creature, bag its revolting head, and ride home," said the hooded Shadow Elf just behind the human to his left. She examined her nails, faint wisps of ice dancing around her fingertips. "Perhaps I can freeze its flesh for use later at tonight's Feast?"

"Does the Grandmaster like basilisk?" asked another human, behind the first knight to his right.

"It's a delicacy whence I hail. Though doubtless it is lost on your human palettes..."

"Maybe we should be more concerned with killing the basilisk instead of whether or not to serve it to the Grandmaster?" said the meek voice of the fourth knight, a lithe young wood elf clad in painted white for his Order. He anxiously fiddled with the arrows in his quiver, ready to draw if taken by surprise. "Be on your guard. Basilisks are extremely deadly, and yet you treat it like it's the same as hunting a buck."

"Is Basilisk flesh not absurdly poisonous? How do you elves stomach it?" asked the fifth and final knight, a dark-skinned human in armor similar to the first knight's. Her face scrunched up in disgust at the mention of such fetid flesh.

"If you know how to properly drain it and cook it, it is a sweet and savoury meat. But the boy is right. Kill the monster before we argue recipes," replied the Shadow Elf. "Aethelred," she asked the human on the right flank, "Have you the mirrors? It would be a shame to lose the rookie on his first venture as an ordained Knight Solanian."

"Fuck off, Satresi," the wood elf muttered. The Shadow Elf only chuckled.

Aethelred pointed his quarterstaff to the wood elf. "Bite your tongue, Thulim." He aimed the staff towards Satresi, "Yours as well. There will be none of this in the presence of Captain Vilhmir."

"Kiss-ass," the dark-skinned woman coughed. As Aethelred swiveled around to silently threaten her, she began casually examining her flanged mace.

"Ease up, Aethelred. Tensions are high as it is. Look where we are," Vilhmir said. "The emerald fields of Illyrica. Take a breath of Goddess Veturia's finest air and admire the mountains in the distance."

"Well and good, but we cannot afford to in-fight this way. Someone has to deliver discipline," Aethelred curtly replied. He turned back to the dark woman. "This does not make me a kiss-ass, Khadijah."

"Basilisks are practically routine bounties by now, Red," Vilhmir laughed. "You'll learn soon enough, Thulim. Just don't look it in the eye and aim for the spine. Tether it down and I'll take my axe to it. If we work quickly it should be about five minutes, factoring in a victory mead."

As much as Thulim was encouraged by the sound of that, Aethelred could only think about how he was beset on all sides by madmen. "Routine? Victory mead? I assure you this is no game. Norsid you may be, the basilisk is one of the most dangerous creatures ever spawned by the Shaituns of Hell to plague the mortal world!"

"Seems like the wolf and the vixen are getting married," Vilhmir replied, holding his armored hand out and looking up into the sky. The sunshower was a peculiar occurrence, though nothing unnatural. It was a good omen, the Northman figured.

"You call it a wolf's wedding as well?" asked Khadijah from the back of the group.

"Huh. The Wood Elves always said the wolves and the deer were--"

"Not one of you is concerned for your lives, are you?" said Aethelred.

"I've lived thirty and three years. I'm nearly into my middle life," Satresi remarked. "If I die today I'll have died fulfilled, having served our Lord Solanius. I'll rise cleansed of Dolekar's Curse."

To that Aethelred went silent, having no argument with which to challenge the elf. Thulim, on the other hand, did have something to say. "Are we any closer to the beast's lair? I'm eager to try it's meat tonight. Sooner we kill it..."

"We're closer to a local hamlet," said Khadijah, reaching for the pack strapped to her horse's saddle. She pulled out a rolled up map of Illyrica. "Hoffen should be to our west. Vilhmir, should we stop there and ask around about the basilisk?"

Vilhmir quietly considered for a moment, before looking over his shoulder. "Absolutely. After all, there's no doubt in my mind other hunters are aiming to slay the monster. The more the merrier."

So Khadijah advanced towards the front of the group, leading the five knights on the trail to Hoffen. The rest of the trip was largely silent as the companions focused on following the proper trail to their destination.

When they finally arrived, there was a distinct moment of collective dismay; the town was largely empty, with the sound of raucous celebration roaring from the tavern.

"Seems we were late to the party," Thulim noted, dismounting his horse. "That, or something else is being celebrated. Shall we?"

The rest of the knights dismounted and followed Thulim into the tavern.

The celebration seemed largely centered around a table where a white-haired young woman and a scarred man in a black cloak were sitting. The man's hood was back, showing his dark hair, and he calmly sipped at a mug. On the table was the sizable severed head of a basilisk. In addition to being severed, the head was complete with charred flesh where the eyes had been and a couple of arrow wounds were visible. As the knights entered, the scarred man looked to them and raised an eyebrow.

The response to the slain basilisk was mixed. Aethelred and Thulim were relieved enough that it was dead, Khadijah was indifferent, and Satresi - upon sighting the charred flesh - frustratedly huffed and decasted the faint, wispy aura of ice around her fingers.

Vilhmir, however, was markedly impressed and intrigued. He was first to step forward, arms held out wide. "Brother Nords! I would be first to congratulate you, but it appears that the good people of Hoffen were first to hear of your great deed!" He said, to the confusion of his companions. He withdrew his coin purse from within his surcoat and approached the barkeep, personally handing him three gold coins. "A round of your best mead for the brave warriors and for myself," he told him.

As the bartender worked to deliver, Vilhmit turned to the man and gave a deep, courteous bow. "Knight-Captain Vilhmir Jorleifsson, of the Knights Solanian. My companions and I owe you for disposing of the basilisk; we had intended to kill it ourselves."

The scarred man gave a respectful nod but did not quite bow. "Herbert T. Leintke, no affiliations. Were you hoping to collect the bounty?" As he spoke, Herbert put down the mug. It wasn't a very strong drink, but better safe than sorry. This crowd didn't look like an average band of mercenaries, and they might have claimed to represent the Knights Solanian, but one never knew. If they were after the bounty, they probably wouldn't be too happy about someone else claiming it. If they did try to rob him, he'd best take down the shadow elf first; she was clearly a mage. Hopefully they weren't looking for trouble, though. Even with Rhiara's help - which he couldn't really count on - he'd still be outnumbered more than two to one. As the basilisk would no doubt have agreed, those were not favorable odds.

Rhiara definitely felt intimidated the presence of five knights at the end of their table. Even with Herbert, they wouldn’t stand a chance in a fight. Still, the ‘knights’ wouldn’t be stupid enough to try anything in the tavern. She might as well introduce herself, she thought - after all, they could indeed have no intentions of malice, and she didn’t want to be rude. “I’m Rhiara. I work for the carpentry workshop you might have seen in the town, so… this is not how I expected my day to go…”

Vilhmir let out a boisterous laugh, removing his sword from his sword belt, taking a seat at the table and placing the sheathed weapon at his side. A barmaid had come around with the requested drinks, setting three new mugs on the table. "Bah, a bounty is only money. Though the Knights Solanian always appreciate the funding, what we have within us is worth more than any King or Sultan could offer. What I want is to hear your story, my friends. How did you slay it? What do you plan to do with the money?" he asked, then taking a swig of his mead, nodding approvingly. White Acre was, in his opinion, one of the finest brews available. What a wealthy land, this Illyrica.

"Ah, Captain Vilhmir?" Aethelred started.

Vilhmir turned to his four companions, all awkwardly standing in a line facing him. "Oh, by the gods, please forgive me my rudeness. These are my brothers and sisters in arms who accompanied me looking for basilisk blood. My second-in-command, Sadresi Nadthran. A close friend of mine, Khadijah Nedali. The young wood elf with the bow is Thulim Willowvale. And last but not least, the Bryon with the quarterstaff up his ass is Aethelred of Faeborough. Please, have a seat, you four."

Each of the knights pulled up chairs and sat around the table, eyes on Herbert and Rhiara. "I'm interested to know if your plan was any different than Vilhmir's, here," Sadresi commented, regarding the captain with narrowed crimson eyes. "Ice magic, tether arrows, and many mirrors."

Herbert shrugged. "Somewhat different. We used fire, normal arrows and five mirrors. The basilisk only came across one mirror. As for my share of the bounty, that's my business. Why did you come to kill the basilisk?" He supposed it was possible for them to be hunting it for altruistic reasons; after all, he'd slain a few beasts for free when they were preying on folks who couldn't pay. The phrasing of 'basilisk blood' however, sounded as if they might be glory hounds. Folks hunting dangerous creatures for egotistical reasons tended to be trouble.

There was a moment of silence as Herbert told his riveting tale, much to the disappointment of Vilhmir. 'He must be one of those fancy New Nords. Damn Asmeinians think they're so above their heritage, so much better than the rest of us for forsaking their warrior-poet traditions,' he thought to himself. He exchanged a few glances with his party, who were just as let down as he was.

“My friend here, left some details out.” Rhiara said, looking at him with a small smile. “You see, we placed five mirrors near the general area of the basilisk’s lair, hoping that it would come across one nearby to us. While it was distracted, we’d kill it by the means Herbert mentioned.” She tapped the table with a few of her fingers. “It came across one of our mirrors, which just happened to be right next to us. We got a nasty surprise when we heard it hissing with its neck frill out to here. We both looked at it and we were both lucky enough not to look into its eyes – so Herbert here distracted it with his fire magic while I went around it with my bow and a few arrows. I loosed arrows on it a few times which made it turn around, then Herbert burned it with his magic some more. We repeated it a couple of times, before the basilisk made a bee-line towards Herbert. He just burned its eyes out. That’s that.”

Now that was how one told a story of valour. Well, it was better than the Asmeinian in any case, Vilhmir decided. Had it been him, he would have elaborated in an prose-like fashion, starting from the beginning. If it had been especially tipsy, he'd have sang the tale, like the Skalds from up north and back home would do it. Most intriguing was Herbert's ability to manipulate magical energies. As he didn't *seem* like a halfling, he suspected the use of blood.

"A fine tale from mighty warriors indeed," Vilhmir replied. "My sincerest congratulations to the both of you." He turned to Herbert. "Ah, now to answer your question. We were on orders from Lord Konstantin Hristov of Mirador, the Seneschal of the Illyrican Chapter. The well-being of the people of Hoffen was our chief concern, of course," he said, shrugging dismissively, "However the prestige is certainly a motivator. We weren't here for the bounty, my friend - that is your well-earned money. We simply wished to eliminate the blighter after reports of deaths were collected from this area."

"Hey, Captain Vilhmir?" Thulim asked.

"Hm? Yes boy?"

After a brief moment's silence the wood elf managed to spit out his request, "Perhaps we should invite them to our feast?"

At this, Herbert raised an eyebrow. "Who is hosting this feast you speak of and what are they celebrating? You might just coax a few proper stories out of me yet." If he were invited to this feast, hopefully he would be permitted to bring someone along. It would be nice to spend some time at a celebration with Erika. A little time off wouldn't be such a sin, would it? Of course, that was assuming that he was invited.

Khadijah leaned forward, suddenly becoming engaged in the conversation. "Lord Hristov is our host for the evening. He's in the midst of preparing a grand dinner for the people of Mirador in celebration of the safe arrival of the Grandmaster, who has come all the way from our capital holding in Aesernia to address the rise in otherworldly, unholy activity in Illyrica. The basilisk you two slaughtered was just one in a series of attacks on behalf of magical beasts here and up in the mountains."

"Of course, while this makes it so that there is no small shortage of bounties to collect," Satresi remarked, "there is a clear pattern, so the Order has noticed. The Grandmaster suspects darker forces are at work, and he wishes to get to confer with his vassals in the area personally, lest any..." her voice fell to a whisper as her eyes darted about the tavern full of excitable and curious peasants, "unpleasant and unwelcome individuals, get a hold of any parchment correspondence between Illyrica and the capital."

Vilhmir appeared to be considering something to himself, grooming his long, blonde beard. "The two of you took on a beast that usually requires small warbands like ours to kill. You did this yourself without restraining the monster. If that is not the mark of the blessed, I'm unsure what is. What if I were to say you and any friends of similar calibre you have were invited to Mirador for our feast. What say you in response?"

Rhiara listened intently to the knights at the other end of her and Herbert’s table, but she didn’t like what Vihmir suggested. “I’m flattered, but I have commitments here – with my work, my family, my friends. Mirador is quite a trek away…”

"Lass, if you took that work seriously, you wouldn't have shirked it to run off with a strange man and kill basilisks. Believe me. When I was your age I was but a farmhand with a knack for killing dire wolves in the fields of Osland," Vilhmir said with a chuckle. "It wasn't my job to kill them, and I usually didn't kill them on civilized territory, either."

She nodded slowly at the knight’s explanation. “I suppose you’re right… Okay, I’m in – so long as I can bring my best friend along.”

"As long as she can fight nearly as well as you can – the Grandmaster is going to want to see you all, no doubt in my mind," the Nord replied, nodding his head gently. "Well. You can travel with us or by yourselves. I suppose we'll stock up on supplies and make the trip back to Mirador?" he asked, looking back to his companions, who all nodded at him. "Catch us on the way out of Hoffen, we'll be happy to escort you."

Herbert broke his silence. "Well, assuming there's time for me to pick someone up from a few days away, I'll be there. I mean no offense to your warband, but no escort is needed." If they were liars after the bounty, they were elaborate ones. He knew for a fact that Mirador was indeed an Order stronghold, so they'd hardly be trying anything there.

With that, Vilhmir and the rest of the knights stood up. The captain finished his drink and collected his sword, nodding to the two adventurers. "Very well. I suppose we'll be on our way then. Feast is in about a week, when the Grandmaster is expected to arrive. Gather any friends you wish to bring and come down to Mirador. I'll send word ahead of me that we have additional honoured guests," he said. As he walked towards the door, a seemingly distracted young woman walked into him, spilling her cup of mead and letting out of gasp of horror as the Captain's white surcoat was splashed with drink. "Terribly sorry, sir..." she stammered, wiping the knight's clothing in a futile attempt to clean it.

Vilhmir cursed in his native tongue as the mead splashed onto his surcoat, soaking through under the cloth. He let out a sigh, gently shoving the woman aside. "You've done enough, lass," he said, brushing past her.

"Tough luck, Captain," Satresi remarked, walking alongside him.

"It's not worth a barfight. I can have it cleaned here in town," Vilhmir replied.

At least so he thought.

---

Once the knights had left, Herbert looked to Rhiara and spoke. "You did quite well with the basilisk. What do you think of this feast that they were talking about? It is located at an Order stronghold."

Rhiara rubbed the bridge of her nose with two fingers. “I’m not sure what to make of it; I’ve never concerned myself with the Order before. Couldn’t they just be… bandits? Extremely good bandits, with all that gear?”

"They could be." Said Herbert. "If they are, they could be trying to lure us out of town to rob us on the way to Mirador. You'll notice that I didn't mention which direction that someone a few days away was. Myself, I'll probably go, but I wouldn't recommend taking a direct route from here to Mirador. I'm going to head down to Viarosa and then to Mirador. You and your friend can come along if you like."

“I do think that would be best. We’re less likely to be robbed and murdered when we have more people with us… or well, murdered and robbed - I’m not happy with either of those outcomes. Are you going to start heading off right now?”

"I'm all packed up and ready to go but I'll wait for you and your friend. How much time do you need?" Herbert sipped at his drink, more relaxed now that the knights or bandits - whichever they were - had gone. He idly wondered if he should train the young woman in the art of hunting monsters as she had some potential. Well, he'd do so if she asked him to but he wouldn't bring up the matter himself.

“I only need about… half an hour, at most?” she replied, rubbing her chin. “I need to get some supplies for the trek and not to mention, I have to convince my friend to actually come along. I’d best get started; I’ll do my best not to keep you waiting for too long.” Rhiara offered her hand to Herbert. “It’s been a pleasure, by the way.”

Herbert shook her hand. "Likewise. I'll see you within a half hour."

Night was beginning to fall on the town of Hoffen, and a cold one at that – winter was approaching too fast for the townspeople’s liking. The few people that were still outside didn’t walk around without holding their torches, and burning fires could be seen through people’s windows. Rhiara’s destination was on the other end of the town, though it was really only a few minutes’ walk away from the tavern. One of the main advantages of living in a small town like Hoffen was that everything was within walking distance, no matter where you were.

Athaliah’s house was one of the smaller homes in the town, but she insisted that it was a feature rather than a downside. The house did have a small fenced patio at the front, though. Rhiara knocked on the wooden door, using the heavy iron knocker that was shaped like a ring inside a lion’s mouth. She could hear the door being unlocked, and a few seconds later she was met with Athaliah’s face from behind the edge of the door. Athaliah was nearly a year older than Rhiara – not that anyone would have noticed. Her normally neat black hair was in a curly mess going down to her shoulders and there was a little hint of tiredness in her bright blue eyes.

She seemed quite surprised to see Rhiara at that time in the evening, but happy at the same time. “Weiss!” she shouted gleefully, pulling her in for a big, friendly hug. “You’re alive, so that’s a great sign. Did you kill the basilisk?”
“Easy, easy!” Rhiara replied with a laugh, hugging her back. “Me and the strange man killed it, yes; we had a little party at the tavern that I was going to tell you about, but you were out of town, apparently.”
“Militia stuff.” She replied nonchalantly. “Anyway, you didn’t come here just so you could stand out in the cold, did you now?” She led Rhiara inside, showing her the way to the front room. Athaliah wondered what Rhiara could have wanted; neither of them went to each other’s houses all too often – their work hours and other commitments saw to that. “So,” she began as she lit another candle to light up the room a bit more. “to what do I owe this rare pleasure?”

Rhiara sighed, still thinking of a way to tell Athaliah about their possible journey across the country. “Well… while we were celebrating in the tavern – Me and Herbert, that is – this group of well-armed and armoured people walked up to our table, and they claimed to be from the Knights Solanian – you know, that holy order from the south?”
Athaliah raised an eyebrow. She had never heard of the Order coming north that often. She wasn’t a fan of the Order by any means either – she always found religious militants untrustworthy at the best of times. “What are they in Hoffen for? I thought they hung around their fancy castle and never did anything unless it involved those fire folks.”

“They said that they intended to claim the bounty on the basilisk for themselves.” Rhi answered. “They seemed to take the news that we got to it first rather well. Now speaking of their fancy castle, they invited Herbert and I to Mirador, and they said we could bring friends. We have thought about it being a trap, but I’m travelling with Herbert to Viarosa first, to get his friend. We figured we’d be safer travelling in a group if they are bandits.”
Athaliah listened intently as Rhi told her story, and a little smile slowly appeared at her lips. “And you want us to go together? I’m not opposed to going anywhere with you, that’s for sure.” Athaliah bit her lip in thought. “Okay, I’m in, if only for the adventure.”
Rhiara jumped up with joy and gave her friend a tight hug. “We’ll be meeting Herbert back at the tavern in about twenty minutes.”
“Okay, okay!” Athaliah replied, ruffling Rhi’s snowy hair. “I’ll meet you back at the tavern then; I need to, y’know, get changed.”
“Me too. Oh, by the way - travelling to Viarosa will take about three days; I have a tent laying around that should be big enough to share.”

With everything said, Athaliah showed her friend to the door in the politest way possible. They both had a trek to prepare for.

Hoffen - Illyrica

The dilapidated tavern door swung open, filling the silent streets of Hoffen with the sounds of laughter and song. A woman stepped out of the brightly lit establishment, closing the door behind her. She took a deep breath, scanning the darkened road ahead. She tugged on her simple sheepskin cloak, pulling back the hood and letting her thick red hair tumble onto the worn linen blouse that she wore with riding leathers and ragged boots. She smiled as she began to stroll away from the muffled noises of merriment, her belt sounding a soft jingle with every footfall. The woman weaved through the short village buildings, rapping her fingers on the stone walls as she passed through the narrow alleys and sharp corners enroute to her destination.

The woman found the end of her small journey at the edge of town, in the tiny ruin of an abandoned house overrun with moss and undergrowth. It had never been a large building, but it had been made from solid stone, just large enough to house a small family. However, it was clear that time had eaten away at the integrity of this once sound home, and now all but one wall had collapsed. The crumbling structure shone in the full moonlight, and the larger plants swayed softly in the evening wind. In the distance, crickets chirped methodically. The woman stepped over one of the fallen walls, glancing back to make certain no one was following her.

"Nima?" She hissed, harshly calling to whomever would hear her. "Nima, where are you?"

"Here." A man emerged from the corner of the abandoned structure, where he had been shrouded in darkness. His frame was lean but muscular, a build that had known a mighty share of labour but not as much food. He was clad in a full-length hauberk of chainmail, with overlapping plates of polished steel wrapped around his legs, arms, and midsection. His skin was darker than most in Hoffen, with a patchy beard and an unkept head of black hair. His voice was thick with a guttural accent, but he spoke well enough to be understood clearly. ”Ceara, did you get the food?"

Ceara nodded, producing a crusty loaf of sourdough bread and tossing it to her armoured companion. "I ate in the tavern, and now you should too. We'll leave as soon as you’re ready, I have enough money to buy fast horses."

“Fast horses…?” Nima furrowed his eyebrows, confused. "I thought we would stay here a while? There are no mercenaries this far south, and the shadow elves have no power in Illyrica. We are safe here."

The young woman laughed. "Hoffen is not the place I aspire to winter in, my friend. This town is too small, too bland. Don't you want to be somewhere bigger? Somewhere with a little more than a single tavern?" She muttered to herself. “A tavern that’s not a rundown mess, anyway…”

"I want to keep us alive. Both of us." Nima pinched the end of his bread, tearing off a piece and eating it slowly. “Bigger cities attract more attention. There is a possibility that the elven masters will catch wind of us.”

“Masters? You're not one of their soldiers anymore, Nima. You don't belong to anyone, and you don’t have to answer to anyone. Do you understand?" The armoured man nodded in wordless agreement, but he seemed to struggle with the concept. Ceara sighed, smiling helplessly. "In any case, we can't stay here. I must have stolen from half the town in that tavern." She tapped her belt, where several small purses were tied to her hip. On contact, the leather pouches made a metallic noise.

“That is quite a lot, Ceara. More than caution demands.” Nima folded his arms, the metal sleeves scraping against one another. “What if you had been caught? What if they notice their loss?”

The thief passed the rest of the bread to her companion, looking over her shoulder with a small grin. “They might notice. Might be too drunk to really care. Better safe than sorry though, right?” Ceara patted her friend on the shoulder. “Come on, eat the rest of that while we walk. We’ve got to get going.”

Nima obliged, picking up a strange, conical helmet and slinging the rest of his equipment over his shoulder. “Where will we go? North is dangerous, even more with winter bearing down on us. War rages in the old Empire, and the eastern lands would sooner sell me back to the shadow elves than take us in. The roads of Illyrica are treacherous as well, you know. Just as you saw, these beasts are coming down on folk from all corners of the world. A walled settlement, like this one, that is the best place to be.”

Ceara rolled her eyes, turning for a brief moment to deliver a agonized groan. “I know, Nima. But we’re not exactly helpless travellers, are we? You, a trained warrior of the shield, spear, and sword, and I, the quick-witted brains of our delightful operation. Someone should make a song. The lower classes would probably like it, but I doubt the nobility would take kindly to being mocked so soundly in a melody as sweet as-“

“Stop.” Nima fell still, literally putting his foot down. “Where are we going, Ceara? I need to know.”

The young woman’s wry grin slowly faded, melting into a more serious expression. “I was going to explain this on the road, away from ears and eyes. It seems like the whole town is gathered at that tavern, and I suppose you have a right to say your piece before we commit to anything.” Ceara removed a larger pouch from her belt, marked with a twin-headed eagle. She opened the top, displaying the glimmering pile of coin hidden beneath the smooth leather. “I took this from one of those knights, the servants of the sun god. He was wearing it on his person, spotted it when he sat down with these two locals at the tavern.” The redheaded thief took a coin from the purse, examining it. “There is more gold in this purse than the rest of that tavern combined.”

“Where are you going with this?” Nima shook his head. ”That money was probably for mercenaries. You should be glad you weren’t caught - those knights are not the sort that you should seek trouble with.”

Ceara frowned, closing her stolen purse but keeping the coin in her fingers. She continued to speak, ignoring the easterners caution. “I heard them speaking, talking with the locals. They’re holding some sort of feast, some great party to which I’m sure plenty of nobility will be in attendance. Now, if a single knight is carrying this much coin, can you imagine the wealth that will flow at their feast?” Her frown faded, and a sly grin reappeared. “The rich will come from far and wide, I’m sure, to make certain their peasants know how virtuous they are in supporting the honourable order. Security will be tight, but once we get past that… all of the money? It will be practically laid out before us.”

“I do not think robbing a military fortress filled with powerful nobles is a good idea. At best, we will be captured. I will be sold back to my masters in Rosiland, and you will have your hands cut off. At worst, they will send us to the abyss. Forgive me, but this is far too brash. We must be cautious.”

“You can make anything sound bad, can’t you?” Ceara toyed with her coin, moving it through her fingers as she thought. “I’m tired of being cautious, Nima. If you had your way, we would be living in the stables and eating rabbits for dinner the rest of our lives. I’m not going to live in the dirt for the rest of my life. I want to stop worrying about those damn slavers, I want to stop running like a scared little child. Once we pull this off, we’ll have enough money to do anything. We can buy a farm or a vineyard, have a manor built, hire servants and mercenaries. I don’t want to be a noble, and I don’t plan on becoming a pretentious little rich weasel. But yes, I want to live without the shadow of caution strangling all the joy in my life, alright?”

Nima looked slightly hurt. “I am only trying to do what is best for us.”

“I know, its… Maybe some of that was a little condescending. I’m sorry. You’re my best friend, Nima, and I have no doubt in my mind that you’ve saved both our lives several times over.” The thief spun around, shrugging. “But just look around. Don’t you think it’s time we started really living?”

The armoured man did not answer for a long while, letting the ambient sounds of the town replace his silence. Finally, he spoke up. “If you truly believe that this is something we can do, then we will do it.”

Ceara broke into another grin, playfully punching her friend on his metal shoulder. “I knew you would come around, Nima. Come on, we need to saddle the horses. I'll tell you what I'm planning on our way.”

Graafenschloss Veresegyházhof, Province of Amstetten-Szatmár-Bereg, Asmeinland
18th November, 1306 AS

A chill hung in the midnight air, eerie moonlight illuminating the stone-paved courtyard of Graafenschloss Veresegyházhof, picking out servants and soldiers as they rushed back and forth across the castle grounds, fetching provisions and equipment and loading it methodically into chests and crates lashed securely to the roof and rear of a jet-black dormeuse, its small windows covered with curtains of dark crimson velvet and the Count's coat of arms affixed to the side in intricately engraved silver; a bat extending its leathery wings across a dark shield topped with a knight's helmet, all above a swirling banner emblazoned with the words 'Nox Sine Fine'. Hitched to the carriage were two similarly black horses, their manes decorated with feathered plumes of deep red. A third horse stood a short distance away, a taller, altogether more formidable beast outfitted in masterfully forged steel barding, its metallic faceplate forming an angry glare as it stamped its hooves impatiently against the ground.

The servants' activity slowed as the last few bits and pieces were loaded on board, and they halted their now-complete work just as the castle door swung open, the gargantuan slab of iron-banded wood coming to a rest with a deep thud. The chill seemed to intensify, a biting wind blowing through the courtyard, making lamps and torches flicker and throw wild patterns of shadow up the thick fortress walls. Silhoutted in the doorway, the soft orange glow of candlelight at his back, Count Erwyn stood, observing. Moving slowly down the wide stone steps into the courtyard, his footsteps utterly silent, he made his way past a small row of armour-plated soldiers, who stood at attention as he strolled by them and on towards the dormeuse. Giving the vehicle and its cargo a quick inspection, he gave a satisfied nod. At once, one of the guardsmen barked a sharp command in the harsh, guttural Asmeinlander tongue, and the Count's staff rushed to business once more, a servant outfitted in a long travelling cloak hopping up into the driver's seat of the carriage, while two men-at-arms stepped up onto narrow platforms on the vehicle's side, grasping handholds with one hand and their vicious poleaxes with the other. Erwyn himself leapt effortlessly atop his armoured destrier, and with a quick jab from his spurs, the beast began to trot forward, the pair of cart horses following its lead as the short procession made its way under the still-opening portcullis, steel spikes missing the top of the speeding dormeuse by mere centimetres.

---

Amstetten, Province of Amstetten-Szatmár-Bereg, Asmeinland
A few hours later

The city of Amstetten was as darkly beautiful as it was prosperous, a twisting maze of sharply-peaked roofs and tall, elegant spires sloping down towards the sea, which lapped gently against the towering harbour walls. Torches glowed softly on every street, and the sounds of music and laughter drifted up to the heavens, even at this late hour. Making their way through the centre of the thriving metropolis, the Count's small party drew no small degree of attention; citizens rising to their feet in gestures of respect, gangs of children running excitedly behind the carriage, a handful of angrily fearful glares as Erwyn and his men passed the narrow steps of a church of Solanius - the nobility and the priesthood in these lands had not been on the best of terms for many centuries now, for obvious reasons. Erwyn gave the clergymen a cheery wave from atop his steed in passing, and their glares only darkened.

Riding through the labyrinthine alleys for a few minutes longer, the Count and his men came to a halt outside a particularly grandiose building set back a little from the rest of the street, its pale stone edifice adorned with elaborate works of sculpture in the old Aesernian style, carved from marble and inlaid with shimmering gold. A plaque sat affixed to the wall beside the entranceway, bold text engraved into its golden surface; "De Királyi Asmeiner Brandewijnhaus. 1084 Év Sol' Gevestigd. Mitglieder Csak." Erwyn dismounted his destrier, his calfskin boots landing silently on the cobbles, while his servant and soldiers hopped down from their own positions to take the horses' reins, and led the beasts around the side of the building where a row of hitching posts awaited. Giving a sharp rap on the solid mahogany door, the vampire waited for a second before a small panel opened up and a pair of beady eyes stared out at him. A moment later, the door swung slowly open, a short, portly man dressed in silken finery which made him look more comical than dignified holding the slab of wood aside to allow the Count to pass. Erwyn gave the man a polite nod as the door swung closed behind him. "Goed estét, András." The doorman, András, returned the gesture, bowing slightly as he did. "Goed estét, mein geschätzter Graaf."

Continuing on, the vampire passed through the dark green velvet curtains that separated the entrance passage from the rest of the establishment, the soft sound of music drifting through as the fabric parted; an ethereal, breathy voice singing of lost loves and far-off lands over the delicate plucking of a lute, cutting through the murmurs of conversation and clinking of glasses. He stepped further into the cavernous, opulent room, strolling over to the elegant bar that dominated the far wall. Glancing around, he took in the details of the scene. Rows of tables and booths, surrounded by soft satin chairs, hosted an array of merchants, nobles, and other members of Amstetten's high society. Up high, in a small gallery, sat the singer, draped in translucent white silks and perched on a small stool as she crooned her gentle melody, even the harsh syllables of Asmeinspraak made beautiful by her elysian voice. The Count closed his eyes for a second, listening momentarily to the exquisite refrain, before returning his attention to the bar - and the pretty young barmaid who waited on the other side of it. She curtseyed reverently as she addressed him. "Een ehre zu látni, mein Graaf. What can I get you?"

Erwyn surveyed the shelves full of bottles and casks that lined the bar, eyes flicking over each handwritten label. "I think I shall have..." he gestured to a bottle, and the deep amber liquid visible inside. "The '23 Bács-Kiskun. With a few drops of the usual, bitte." He glanced about surreptitiously. "And may I speak with the owner?"

The barmaid smiled and nodded. "Of course, mein Graaf. I shall fetch Franziska - and your drink - at once." As she disappeared through a narrow doorway, Erwyn could hear her footsteps echoing hurriedly on a wooden staircase. A minute later, two sets of footsteps returned, and there was a soft clink as a bottle touched the rim of a glass. The barmaid re-emerged, setting an intricately filigreed snifter in front of the vampire, the golden brandy within stained by a swirl of crimson. The door opened again, and a second woman sidled over, placing a soft touch on the barmaid's shoulder to send her off to attend to other patrons. The new woman grinned as she hopped nimbly over the bar and perched on a stool beside the Count, flicking her flowing raven hair back aross her pale shoulders. "Erwyn!" she purred. "So good to see you, darling. It's been too long!"

The Count returned her grin, shifting his barstool a little closer. "It has only been a week, Zissy - although I can assure you, a week without you felt like another eight centuries." He gave her a cheeky wink as he took a sip of his brandy.

"Turning on the charm already, are we?" With an alabaster hand, Franziska reached out and took the Count's glass, taking a delicate sip of the liquid within. Savouring the taste for a moment, she placed the snifter back down, leaning in and brushing her lips against Erwyn's for just a fleeting split-second. "Two can play at that game..." she whispered.

"We have time for games later, meine liebe," the Count replied in a low murmur, running his hand slowly along the woman's stockinged thigh. "For now, information. I must shortly depart once more, I'm afraid. I have business in the south, and I may be some time." He sipped his drink again, rolling the liquid around in his mouth for a second. "Have your little birds down there brought back any interesting news?"

Franziska let out an exaggerated groan. "Business it is then. Not that there's much, the southerners have been quiet these past few months. Well, comparatively quiet - Vittorio and Speziale are at each others' throats, as always. The eastern firefuckers make another unsuccessful push, face another half-hearted counter-attack, as always." She thought for a moment. "Oh, the Solanian Order seem a little more active down there now. By which I mean they're holding a feast down in Mirador, not actually doing any work, of course - although knowing that arrogant little band of murderous szarik, that may not be such a bad thing. Anyway, this feast... maybe you should go!"

Erwyn raised an eyebrow. "Perhaps I will. One must admit, there is a certain poetic irony in a being they despise so fervently feasting in their halls." He smirked, hand still resting on Franziska's leg. "Maybe you should come too!"

"I would love to, my darling Erwyn," responded the woman, running her fingers down the Count's cheek, "but I'm afraid my duties forbid me. The oldest and most exclusive drinking establishment in Amstetten doesn't run itself, you know." She leaned in close once more, a sultry smile forming on her scarlet lips. "Now, you've had your information - I believe you mentioned something about having time for games?"

The Count finished the last of his drink, sliding the glass back along the bar, and rose from his seat, taking Franziska's hand in his own. "I believe I did, my sweet Zissy; my journey can wait until the morning, at least. Shall we head upstairs and... play?" The woman slid from her own barstool, circling Erwyn before placing another kiss upon his lips. The two looked at each other, and for a moment both sets of pale grey eyes flashed crimson. Franziska giggled, and the two vampires made their way upstairs.

Co-written with @BlondyMcHuggles
The road from the town of Hoffen to the city of Viarosa primarily cut through farmlands and forest, with the occasional grouping of hills. As the afternoon sun beat down on Herbert and his wagon, he adjusted his wide-brimmed hat to shade his face, though with winter coming, the sun was not as strong. He had his weapons, a flask of blood and a a container of basilisk blood within easy reach despite not expecting any trouble. After all, it was better to have a weapon and not need it than to need it and not have it. Sitting in the back on boxes and a large iron chest were a pair of young women from Hoffen.

As Athaliah and Rhiara sat in Herbert’s wagon; Rhi kept herself busy with one of the books she brought along for the trip, while Athaliah kept herself occupied by staring at the never-changing scenery out of the back of the wagon. Athaliah was quite curious about Herbert, and since they were going to spend the next few days together, she figured she might as well learn more about him. “Herbert,” she began. “What kinds of magical creatures do you actually hunt?” Rhiara threw an unimpressed glance her way.

"Well," began Herbert, "I don't really have a specialty. I generally just hunt whatever creatures happen to be causing trouble. You already know that basilisks are on the list, of course." He paused in thought for a moment to remember a few examples. "Let's see, I once killed a Gorgon, I've hunted yetis in Rosiland, sometimes some demons get loose from the Infernum and need to be disposed of."

Herbert turned his head and gestured to the scars on his face. "A werewolf in Viarosa gave me these, but don't worry about that, we're going to pick up the person who killed it." Turning back to the road, he continued. "All sorts, really. It's not all blood and death though. I've put a few ghosts to rest and convinced a couple of sapient creatures to play nice. Do you deal with much trouble as a town guard?"

“Militawoman.” Athaliah replied, correcting him. “Anyhow, bandits come over to attack the town every so often, but they usually run when they see a phalanx blocking their entry through the gates.” She paused for a few seconds to think. “Not a lot exciting happens apart from that, though. My job mainly consists of patrolling the town and the surrounding area to ward off thieves and such. So, how’d you learn to use magic?”

"I'm largely self-taught, though I have been given some help here and there." Replied Herbert. "When I was younger and before I started hunting magical creatures, I managed to scrape together enough cash doing odd jobs to buy a scroll that taught how to conjure a rather simplistic fireball and someone was kind enough to donate some blood to actually make the magic work. To this day, fire magic is the kind I'm best at. Have either of you two ever been interested in learning?"

Athaliah simply shook her head. “Nope. Blades and shields have worked for me, and they’ll continue to do so. What about you, Weiss?”
Rhiara looked up from her book, wearing a thoughtful expression. She was thinking of how long she could keep her shapeshifting ability a secret, and if Herbert even needed to know about it in the first place. After all, after the feast they’d be parting ways anyhow. “I’ve tried it once or twice, so I might need tutoring. Just not any time soon.”

"Fair enough, magic's not for everyone. What kind of magic did you dabble in, Rhiara?" Asked Herbert. "There are a number of disciplines to study."

“Oh, I know,” Rhiara replied, her voice carrying a hint of happiness. Mock happiness, to be sure. “Fire’s a well-known discipline and I think it’s the most popular, actually. There’s also water manipulation, too. So, you’re really good with fire magic, I can attest to that, but how are you with the other disciplines?”

"Lightning and storms are my back-up plan for creatures that aren't particularly scared of fire, so I'm proficient with that as well. I've tried ice and cold, but for some reason, they just don't come to me as easily as other sorcery and I've never really gotten the hang of them." Herbert explained. "Other than that, I have some spellbooks in one of those boxes to reference before a hunt if I think some other trick will come in handy. I do believe you've dodged my question regarding your own dabbling, though."

Rhiara sighed and sat up straight against the wall of the wagon. “My magic isn’t something I’m exactly proud of, and besides, I can’t do it naturally anyhow.” She shrugged. Athaliah thought about speaking up for a moment, before she realised why her friend was being so hesitant to reveal what her magic consisted of. “Can we please leave it there, Herbert?”

"As you wish." Said Herbert. He hoped that whatever she was ashamed of wasn't too serious. It would a be a tragedy if she'd gotten herself into an infernal pact of some sort. Alternatively, there was the possibility that someone had gotten hurt so that she could use blood magic. After a short but awkward pause, he spoke again. "So, uh, how's the carpentry business?"

“It’s going brilliantly!” she replied merrily, like the earlier conversation never happened. “It gives me the experience I need to do my woodcarving that I do in my spare time, and I get paid for it - which is certainly a bonus. My master is one of the nicest people you’ll ever meet, too. Trust me, you two would get along famously.”

"That's nice. Perhaps you could introduce me to him sometime." While it might have seemed silly to some, Herbert couldn't help but feel more uncomfortable in this conversation than when draining the blood and poison from a dead basilisk. Rhiara's fake cheeriness - or any fake cheer for that matter- had one purpose, and that was to hide someone's true emotions or thoughts.

Athaliah sighed, happy that the awkward conversation was now seemingly over. She looked over to Herbert, and decided to switch to a happier topic. “Herbert, can you tell me about this woman we’re picking up? Erika, was it?”

Herbert smiled, though it probably wasn't visible from where his passengers where sitting. If they were observant, they might have noticed him relax. "Yes, Erika is her name. She's my beloved, and we've known each other for twenty years. Currently, she provides both mundane and magical healing to the people of Viarosa. Never will you find a kinder or more trustworthy person."

“She sounds like a great woman,” Athaliah replied. “How long have you two been together? And, since she does healing magic, does she know any other types?”

"We've been together for ten years." Answered Herbert. "She can do a little bit of shape-shifting if necessary, but for her day-to-day business, she only needs healing magic. How long have you and Rhiara known each other?"

At the mention of shape-shifting, Rhiara looked over the top of her book at Herbert; she felt safer about telling him, but now she was unsure of how he would react now that he had been lied to. “Almost ten years. Both of our parents decided to make us spend time together, because that’s what parents do. We’ve been great friends ever since, really.”

"Haven't really heard of folks forced to play together becoming great friends too often, but I'm glad it worked out for you two. How did your parents meet then? I assume they were friends if they forced you to spend time together."

Athaliah let out a “hmm” in thought. “I actually don’t know. My parents never mentioned how they met Weiss’.”
“Nor did mine,” Rhiara stated, still staring at her book. “I don’t think it was anything unsavoury though, it’s just that neither of us thought to ask.”
“What about you, Herbert? How’d you and Erika meet?”

Herbert winced. "We were both born in Krossavik and properly met because we were both lucky enough to survive when that godsdamned dragon attacked. After the destruction, the folks who were still alive looked to see who else was."

Athaliah looked down at her feet and gulped hard. “Sorry, Herbert. But on the bright side, you found the love of your life. You’ve got to take these victories where you can, you know? Do you… do you know why the dragon attacked Krossavik, if you don’t mind me asking?"

The monster hunter stroked his chin in contemplation. "If my history's correct, the dragon had been sleeping for thousands of years. It could just have been that he was hungry. There is another possible reason though. Most folk don't know it, but a long time back - generations, that is - someone managed to get their hands on a rather special knife."

Herbert paused. "I'm not talking about a dagger or a knife to eat with, it more closely resembled a surgeon's scalpel. According to legend, it was originally given to a healer of great skill by Veturia, goddess of air, nature and most importantly, healing. Supposedly, it could cure any ailment or wound short of death and so long as the wielder only used it for good, it would protect the wielder from old age as well. It was said to have a more martial purpose as well. Many said that it if one were to cut out the heart of the Shaitun Hargash with this scalpel, it would end him completely and utterly. Whatever the case, the dragon took it after destroying Krossavik, and I'm still looking for a way to kill him."

Athaliah and Rhiara both stared at Herbert in disbelief. “You’re… you’re going to try to kill a dragon? The dragon?” Rhi said, utterly shocked. “That’s… I heard it was the biggest dragon the world had ever seen! I’m not sure even you could manage to kill it.”

Herbert gave a nod. "Big or not, he isn't invincible. Obviously, a head-on confrontation and a fair fight are suicide on one's own, but I have an idea or two. For example, basilisk poison is extremely lethal and rather fast-acting, but it has a distinct green color and foul odor. If I could find a way to distill it into something clear, odorless and tasteless, I might be able to dump some into a lake near where he lives. An army might also do the trick, but I don't have one and quite frankly, casualties would be far too high. Whatever the case, he exists and therefore, can be killed."

“That sounds awfully risky, Herbert. There’s no way you’d manage to do that without it seeing you.” Athaliah said, gazing out of the back of the wagon. “Revenge like that isn’t something you should be seeking. Instead, get revenge by living long and well. My dad told me that.”

Herbert shrugged. "Poisoning his drinking water was just an idea rather than a plan. I'm no alchemist, so it's unlikely I could distill it anyways. As for revenge and motivation, I won't deny that I want vengeance but there are other considerations as for why he must die. He seems to regard humanity as nothing more than a food source - or at best, entertainment - and as such, is likely to keep killing innocent folk whenever the whim takes him, so long as he is able." He paused in thought for a moment. "I do try my best to avoid being overwhelmed by the desire to slay Htraknu though. Another survivor let the need for vengeance consume him and I know not what has become of him. I doubt his fate is a pleasant one."

Athaliah bit her lip for a second while she thought of what to say. “Did you know him well?” She knew it probably wasn’t the best thing to ask as soon as it slipped out of her mouth, but it was asked and there was nothing she could do about that.

Herbert nodded and a bit of emotion slipped into his voice as he spoke. "He practically raised Erika and myself after Krossavik was destroyed. He left when I came of age, telling us that he had a duty to kill the dragon. Just set out with his old armor and sword, and that was the last any of us saw of him. Let's discuss happier topics, shall we? Are you two looking forward to the feast?"

“I am, surprisingly. It could still be a trap so I’m a bit sceptical and prepared to be disappointed, but if it’s true then it’d be enjoyable. I’m not sure about the Order in any event, though. Giving religious people a militant desire is a bad idea. Also, Weiss here has brought a dress along with her for this feast.”
“It’s a cute dress!” Rhiara retorted, a little too defensively.
“What about you, Herbert?”

"Well, given that we have yet to encounter any sort of bandits or highwaymen, I don't think it's a trap." Said Herbert. "I think it'll be fun. What kind of dress did you bring, Rhiara?"

“It’s one of those cute dresses from the east" Rhiara explained. "I got it off a trader a few months ago, and I’ve never had an excuse to actually wear it until now. Herbert, did you not bring any clothes exclusively for the feast? Am I really the only one who planned ahead?”

Herbert waved the concern away. "I've got some fancier clothes at home in Viarosa, but not in my wagon. My normal routine doesn't really call for such garments. Who knows, these Order folks might appreciate something more suited for combat anyways. What about you, Athaliah, did you pack a dress or anything?"

Athaliah shook her head. “I don’t have anything fancy at home, to be honest. I’ve never needed to wear anything of the sort, and this news of a feast came a bit fast. I hope they’ll appreciate my armour, at the least. Who knows, maybe I’ll find one in Viarosa.”

"Has your armor seen much use?" Inquired Herbert. He remembered how when he was a boy, Bjorn had told him of various attacks that Krossavik had fought off. The attacks had supposedly been less frequent after Erika's mother arrived, though. Even the bloodlust of orcs and greed of shadow elves dimmed somewhat at the thought of fighting a manticore.

“I mean, I’ve wore it a lot if that’s what you’re asking.” Athaliah replied, looking at her armour which she had placed next to her. “It’s taken a few hits and scrapes from knives and such, but nothing too big; I let my shield take those kinds of hits.”

"What I meant by that was 'how many fights have you been in?'" Explained Herbert.

“More than I’d care to admit. I usually try to avoid getting into fights; they’re not good for either person. That said though, people will always fight when I try to enforce the law upon them. Maybe they think they can beat me because I don’t look that intimidating. I win most of the time anyway. I’ve been in some big fights against whole gangs of bandits, but that’s rare.”

"Never had to deal with marauding orcs from past the Dragon's Spine or slavers from Rosiland then, eh? Is the law any different in Hoffen than other bits of Asmeinland given that it's enforced by the militia?" Herbert couldn't help but be especially curious about the law there, given that he had had the occasional disagreement with Asmeinlander law.

“Well…” Athaliah stopped for a second to think. “In theory, no. In practice, yes. You see, the only law enforcement that Hoffen has is its militia, which as you know are civilians who are trained in warfare and all that stuff – we have no full-time guard. So because of that, there are some Asmeinland laws that Hoffen doesn’t recognise; Hoffen is not obliged to send soldiers into war because we technically have none, for example. Basic laws are the same, though. Don’t steal, don’t hit people, et cetera.”

"Sounds reasonable. I take it that if I made the odd joke about the king, you'd show me some mercy then?" Herbert's tone was joking but disrespecting the king had gotten him into his agreements with Asmeinlander law.

Athaliah shrugged her shoulders. “I guess so. Disrespecting the King is legal if there’s no rebellious sentiment, or whatever. To be honest, I don’t concern myself with it; let people say what they want.”

Herbert nodded thoughtfully, but spoke no more. It seemed that the conversation was over for now and the three of them lapsed into silence as the road stretched on. There was still a good bit of land to cover before they reached Viarosa.

After three days of travel, the trio had finally reached the city of Viarosa. It was built onto a small peninsula, with a small mountain on one of the coastlines. It was, of course, one of the richest cities in the known world, owing to its naval trade routes and thus, one of the best defended. Just on the approach road, the three had met multiple guard outposts. Its navy was nothing to sneer at either; a dozen warships patrolled the coast while dozens more were in the many docks the city had. A pearly white wall went around the entire peninsula except for where The Rock stood, towering over anything and everything for many miles around.

Athaliah and Rhiara were simply stunned by the size and beauty of both the city and the Rock while Herbert remained himself, given what he had seen the city many times before. There were open pathways with trees and arches on the main roads going in and out of the city which led travellers all over the city. Herbert led his horse and wagon towards the stables, which were more or less dead-centre in the city.

The trio left the wagon, leaving their weapons and most other bits and pieces inside. There were numerous guards inside the stables exclusively for protecting goods and animals, so they could be sure their equipment would be safe. “Okay Herbert,” Athaliah began. “You lead the way? You know this city better than we.”

With a smile on his scarred face, Herbert waved for his companions to follow and began walking through the city. The three of them soon arrived at a townhouse with a sign bearing the symbol of healing. Positively grinning, Herbert pulled a key out of his pocket and opened the door after unlocking it. He stepped inside and placed his cloak on a nearby rack before calling out into the house. "Honey, I'm home. I've brought guests."

The response came from a few rooms away. "Welcome home. I'm with a patient, but I'll be there in a few minutes. Why don't you show our guests to the living room?" With that, Herbert gestured for Rhiara and Athaliah to enter and guided them to the living room.

“She sounds nice,” Rhiara said, looking around the living room.
Athaliah nodded in agreement. “You’ve got a fantastic house by the way, Herbert. Do you mind if we sit down, at all?”

"Thank you, feel free to have a seat on the couch." Replied Herbert. "Can I get you anything while we wait for Erika?"

Athaliah and Rhiara both sat down next to each other on the couch; they both looked somewhat happy to be next to each other, though of course, neither of them told the other one that. “Could I have some tea, please? Weiss, what about you?”
Rhiara began fiddling with her hands and she looked slightly uncomfortable. “I don’t want to impose…”
“He’s offered,” Athaliah said, patting her friend gently on the shoulder. “It’s rude not to take a man up on his offer.”
“Okay, could I have some tea as well, please?”

"Not an imposition in the slightest." Assured Herbert. "Feel free to make yourself at home while I get the drinks."

Once Herbert had left the room to get them their drinks, Rhiara and Athaliah began to talk among themselves. Athaliah’s hand was still on Rhiara’s shoulder, and she felt conflicted about the whole thing; she knew it was just a gesture of friendship and nothing more, but she did think of turning it into that something. Eventually, she decided against the idea – she’d rather not pursue a romance with her best friend, in case it failed.
“Rhiara? You there?” Athaliah said, snapping her out of her trance.
“Oh, yeah, sorry!” she replied, a little embarrassed. “I was just lost in thought.”
Athaliah raised an eyebrow. “Anyway… what do you think of Viarosa so far?”
“It’s beautiful! It feels safe, and there’s The Rock as well… I could just look at it forever.” The sound of footsteps coming back into the room broke their conversation.

The monster hunter returned carrying a tray with four cups and set it down on a small table in front of the couch. Two of the cups contained the tea that the guests had requested, while the third and forth contained hot cocoa and vodka respectively. With the tray in place, Herbert sat down on a smaller couch, and picked up the mug of hot cocoa, blew on it softly and began to sip at it carefully. As he was doing so, a shapely blonde woman with wavy hair entered the room and sat beside Herbert. She regarded Rhiara and Athaliah with a warm smile and greeted them. "Hello, I'm Erika. Who might you two be?"

Athaliah and Rhiara smiled back. “I’m Athaliah; it’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Erika.”
“I’m Rhiara,” the white-haired girl said, looking slightly uncomfortable due to the situation she found herself in. “Sorry, I’m not… great when it comes to meeting new people.”
Athaliah spoke again, “Don’t worry about her; she’ll be fine once she’s spent a few minutes with someone. Herbert’s told us a lot about you, you know. Only nice things, I promise.”

Erika chuckled and leaned affectionately against Herbert, who gave her a quick kiss. "I should hope so. It's nice to meet you two as well. What brings you to our humble home?"

"Well," Herbert began as Erika sipped at her vodka, "after Rhiara helped me kill a basilisk, she and I were invited to a feast by men claiming to represent the Knights Solanian. I thought you might want to come along and enjoy the party."

"I'd love to come!" Said Erika enthusiastically. "A feast seems like great fun, and besides," she added playfully, "someone has to keep you out of trouble if your main business rivals are hosting the party."

Herbert chuckled. "Can't deny you've gotten me out of a tight spot or two. That one werewolf and those manticores are the first that come to mind."

With that, Erika turned her attention back to the guests. "So, tell me about this basilisk that you brought down."

Rhiara sighed deeply, not because of the story and her experience, but because she was shy. “Well… it was about twenty metres long, so it was really, really long. Herbert did most of the work really, I just helped. We took turn in attacking it while its attention was distracted, and then Herbert set it on fire with his fire magic.”

Erika raised an eyebrow. "Don't sell yourself short. It takes guts to go anywhere near a basilisk, let alone try to attract its attention. Even if you did 'just help', you helped fight a creature that could kill with a look." She turned to Athaliah and inquired. "What about you? I take it that you are a friend or lover of Rhiara's?"

Both Athaliah and Rhiara’s faces went red from embarrassment. “N-no, no! We’re just friends!” Athaliah stammered, looking around the room. Rhiara, meanwhile, had her face buried in her hands. “There’s absolutely, uh, nothing romantic between us. At all.”

Herbert and Erika shared an amused, knowing look as the two denied any romantic feelings a tad too energetically. Erika gestured for them to calm down and spoke. "Alright, alright, I didn't mean to upset you, you've made your feelings quite clear." The double meaning in Erika's words was, of course, entirely intentional. "I take it you are close friends?"

“Close friends, yes,” Athaliah replied; she had calmed down faster than Rhiara had, who was still blushing. “We’ve known each other for almost ten years. It was a good idea of our parents to make us spend time together, I think...”

"That's nice. We should probably get ready for the feast." Erika paused and corrected herself. "Well, I need to pack anyways and I think Herb might need to get a few things from around the house."

Athaliah and Rhiara had both been staring at The Rock for quite some time. They had both left Herbert and Erika alone so they could have some room while they got ready for the coming trip to Mirador. Or, whatever it was that couples did. They were sat in the middle of a roughly square, grassy park bordered on all sides by white stone colonnades. There were plenty of other people in the park as well, but that was to be expected from a city such as Viarosa.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Athaliah said, half to Rhiara and half to herself.
Rhiara nodded slowly. “It is. It’s amazing to see civilisation and nature this close to each other.” If she had to be honest, she felt small looking up at the behemoth of a hill. She told her best friend as much.
“It’s kind of humbling. You can be the strongest, biggest man alive, yet you’ll still never come close to even the smallest of mountains.” She inhaled and exhaled deeply, as if to prepare herself for something. “Anyway, I’ve got something to show you.”

Athaliah pulled out a small wooden sculpture, in the shape of a winged unicorn. “I had it carved by Barclay last week, and I was waiting for a decent opportunity to give it to you.”
“I love it, thank you!” Rhiara replied, throwing her arms around her friend in a big hug. “Look at you, giving me a gift and I’m here with nothing.”
“That hug was enough of a gift, trust me.” Athaliah said, with a small laugh. She was sincere about what she said, though she hid it behind humour so she didn’t make Rhiara uncomfortable. Truth be told, she was quite smitten with her friend.

“Don’t be silly,” Rhiara replied, still smiling and staring at her wooden figurine. “You’ve started a dangerous game, Athaliah. You can’t get me a gift and expect me to not get you anything back.”
“Consider yourself lucky – I thought about carving it myself and you’ve seen how bad I am.”
Rhiara looked at the ground and shook her head with a smile. “That I have. Remember that time when you tried to carve a stag?”
“Don’t remind me…” Ath covered her face with her hands and exhaled deeply. She suddenly brightened up and pointed at Rhiara, usually her signal to say, ‘I have an idea’. “Hey, maybe you could teach me!”

“Well…” Rhiara began, in thought. “once we get back home after the feast, I will.”
Athaliah held out her pinky finger. “Promise?” She apparently took pinky swears more seriously than she should, if their past swears were anything to go by. She’d never let anyone hear the end of something until the promise was completed.
“Promise.” Rhiara replied, entwining her pinky finger with her friend’s. An unbreakable pact was now in place that could only be removed with the completion of that promise.

The road to Mirador was long and unkept. The path remained cobbled for a few meagre meters once it stretched outside the thin walls of Hoffen, and after that, it was dirt for as long as the eye could see. Tiny hamlets sometimes dotted the road to the larger cities of Viarosa, Adesteim, and Weissburg, but most were nothing more than three or four settled buildings. The road grew even more unruly when it split, with one section going to the east and another continuing south. Forests rose in place of farmland, and people became scarce. There was little or nothing for the good citizenry in this region, just wilderness and hardship.

Fortunately for Ceara Eachaidh, she didn’t plan on staying long. After lightening damn near every purse and pocket in Hoffen, she had bought good horses that would make short work of the restive trail. In addition, she had picked up a few things that would be crucial for her time in Mirador as well. Just thinking about the scheme began to make her smile. The thief slowed her cream-coloured mare, reaching into the saddle bag and removing a purse of coin. She turned to the rider beside her, a man clad from head to toe in steel and mail. “You’re rather quiet, Nima. We’ve a long way to go - want to play a game?”

Nima’s reply was as methodical as ever, albeit muffled behind the curtain of mail that covered his face. “I do not know any games.”

Ceara poured the currency into her hands, counting it absently. “Luckily for you, I know plenty.” She glanced at Nima. “We’ll play Fírinne. I ask you a question, that can be about anything, and you answer. Then, I have to guess if you were lying or telling the truth. Sound easy?”

“Easy enough.”

“Good.” Ceara furrowed her brow, pretending to be deep in thought. Suddenly, she grinned. “Have you ever been with a girl, Nima?”

Nima’s strange helmet hid his expression, but his tone remained even. “No.”

“Hm. I think you’re…” Ceara raised an eyebrow. “Telling the truth?”

The eastern warrior nodded. “Yes.”

“Oh?” Ceara grinned. “Not even some blushing eastern girl? A woman of religion and substance? I bet you fighters of the flame make all the commoners swoon as you march past, don’t you? All with your shining plate and polished swords, on gleaming Savarid mounts?” The thief waggled her eyebrows, running the Arums through her fingers and into the purse. “Ah. I think I understand. Here in the west, our knights take off their helmets when they go through a town of eager little milkmaids. I bet you never even thought of that, eh? Oh, the enemy might get a bolt in me eyes if I take me ‘elmet off for more than three minutes. What enemy? I don’t rightly know, but you never know what some starving peasants could do ‘gainst me mighty host.”

“I did not deal with any peasants, nor did I march through the villages. Any women that came to our hallowed Ember were Zealots, and they were only interesting in our vows - one of which is never to take a woman.” Nima paused. ”I did not break my vows while I guarded the stables in Rosiland, and I will not break them now that I am free.”

Ceara furrowed her brow. “You don’t belong to the damn shadow elves anymore. You don’t belong to the damn Zealots anymore. Zealots and elves, both of them can go fuck themselves. Whats the point of being free if you’ve still gotta adhere to some stupid vows? After we do this job, we’ll go somewhere with lots of girls. And you’ll have enough money for all of them, eh?”

The warrior twisted his head towards his companion. “I will not break my vows.”

The thief shook her head, but she did not object. “Fine, fine. Do what you want, ya miserable bastard.” Ceara scratched her red hair. “Back to the game, right? My turn. Ask away.”

Nima nodded again, his mail softly clinking against the plates on his chest. “Alright. I shall ask you… How long have you been a thief?”

Ceara frowned, looking at her horse. “The day I was robbing the corpses on your battlefield was the first I’d ever done it.”

“Liar. Wouldn’t be as good.”

Her frown turned to a sly smile, and she admitted her concession. “Yep. I’ve been a thief for quite a long time now. Lets see… I’ve lost track of the years, but I suppose I’ve been doing it since my father died. I was just angry then, take it out on a few taverns in my hometown. After the army came and took us away from the village, though, I started doing it to survive. Taking stuff from my master at first, and once I got out of that deal, I was pick-pocketing every rich bugger who came down to watch the street performers. Been doing it ever since. Guess I just never get tired of it.”

Nima gripped the hilt of his sword, as if it was muscle memory. “We used to punish slaves that stole from the master in Rosiland. Shadow elves are creative. They would take the strongbox and fill it with this strange venom that melted skin from bone like it was butter on a pan. They’d force the thief to put his hands in that strongbox, try to steal what he had been caught with. Most passed out, the pain was too much. The Samothaurs were stronger. Smelled like burning jerky…”

“No offence, but you’re kinda putting a damper on the mood here buddy.” Ceara winced at the thought of elven punishment. “I’m a thief, and I don’t really want to hear about thieves getting their hands burned right off and all that. Smells like bad luck, especially before something like this.”

“Yes, of course. I’m sorry.” Nima paused for a moment. “Speaking of, if I might ask, what is the plan for this job? You told me we’d speak on the road.”

Ceara spread her hands, feigning innocence. “We’re speaking, aren’t we? I’ve a few ideas. I’ll make sure that you’re kept…” The thief’s voice trailed off as the pair rounded a bend in the road, coming across a fallen tree and the men that had cut it. There looked to be four of them, each wearing some mismatched gambeson or strip of mail. Two wore half helms, while the others had nothing but hair on their heads. Each man carried a weapon, be it a club, axe, or sword. The rough looking bunch was gathered around their makeshift roadblock, standing in an unorganized circle around another figure, one that seemed to be on his knees. He was of a dark skin colour, unlike the men that threatened him, but he was dressed flagrantly enough to attract a great deal of attention.

As the duo turned the corner, one of the armed men twisted in his place to face them. “Boys, we’ve got two more.”

The largest man turned around, stepping forward as the obvious leader of the group. He stared at Nima mostly, his frown deepening as he did. “You two. Keep on heading right through here, and that’ll be the end of this little meeting. We’ve got us a fine one ‘ere, don’t need any more trouble.” He waved his hand, and each of the bandits sheathed his weapon.

The Cathionic remained silent, but he flashed Ceara a pleading, desperate look, as if silently asking for help. His eyes darted about, keeping check of each of the four bandits, then they fell back to Ceara and Nima. Nima he eyed fearfully, recognizing his armor as that of the slave-soldiers of the North, or worse, the Furusiyyas of the Flame.

Ceara regarded the situation carefully. “Are you lot bandits? I’ve heard about your sort. I bet the Order would love to know where you’re operating these days.” She paused, watching the implication settle into their faces. “I’m a little short on coin at the moment, otherwise I might stop at a tavern and drink this little encounter away. Doubt I’ll remember a damn thing.”

The bandit on the far left seemed to be baffled at the notion she was pushing. He pointed a gloved finger at her, spitting his words. “You’ll not squeeze one Arum out of us, ginger bitch!”

The leader held up a hand, still eyeing Nima as he silenced his man. “You’ve ‘ave to forgive my company. Mothers weren’t around to teach them how to speak to a lady, it’d seem. Luckily, I’m a bit of a gentleman, and I won’t see a woman destitute in my land. Aida, give her some coin.”

The bandit on the left opened his mouth, only to close it again. Grumbling about redheads, he took a leather pouch from his belt and tossed it towards the pair of travellers. Ceara caught it with her right hand, shooting Aida a mocking smile as she deposited the pouch in her saddlebags. Turning her gaze towards the leader, her smile remained arrogantly plastered across her face. “A pleasure, gentlemen. Have fun with your friend there.”

“Yeah, you and your steel bitch have a great evening as well. Make sure he burns some children before he goes to bed, ‘else he’ll get nightmares from his fucking crazy god.”

Immediately, Nima began to dismount. Ceara glanced at him, grinding her teeth as she tried to retain her composure. The bandits drew their blades once again, each of them facing Nima as he ripped his shield free from the saddlebags and smashed his sword against it. He advanced, not a single word escaping his lips. “You fuckin’ idiot Aida! Do you see what you’ve done, you prick!” Aida was quick to respond. “That’s only one man of the east, alright? Four of us, one of ‘im. Lets fuckin’ kill the bastard, and then we’ll get his whore as well.”

“I’d advise against it.” remarked Ceara.

“Shut your gob, you pretty little-”

Nima dashed forward, faster than any of the bandits had expected in all those layers of armour. He smashed his shield against the man that had been speaking, sending him crashing into the dirt. The three other bandits slashed towards the armoured easterner, but he blocked two strikes with his shield and backed away before the third could land true.

“Fuckin’ bastard! I think he broke my nose!” the bandit rose to his feet, blood streaming from the place where Nima had attacked with the shield. He took a position with his comrades, and prepared to charge with everything they had. With a scream for blood, they did just that.

Ceara dismounted her horse, nervously watching the battle unfold as she swept her leg across the mare to land on the dirty road. She unsheathed her longest dagger, clutching it tightly as she moved to the man that the bandits seemed to have entirely forgot about. She took the purse that the bandits had given her, tucking it into his shirt and slapping him lightly on the cheek. “Thats probably yours, I realize. Sorry about trying to sell you out there, but we’re all in the same boat now, and I'm going to have to ask you to row. Try to distract one of those bandits, Nima is going to need help."

A bit irritated that the woman had tried to abandon him in his time of need, the man was still in no position to complain. "A thousand thank-yous, miss. But I need a weapon. I'm skilled with light blades: daggers, knives, swords."

The thief looked uneasy, but after hearing another terrible clash of metal on metal, she passed the bard her dagger. "Right, use that. I have plenty." A strangled cry went up from the fight behind her, and Ceara turned to see a bandit falling to the ground with a large red gash in his chest. Three remained, each of them attempting to break Nima's guard at the same time. The eastern warrior made no attempt to call for help, but it was obvious he was having a bit of trouble. "Get one of them off of him, if you can. I'll be back." With that, Ceara ran away.

Nodding to the thief, the man scrambled to his feet, sprinting to one of the bandits without a helmet. Said bandit had attempted to flank Nima as he dealt with the other two remaining enemies. The man leapt towards his target, tackling him to the ground, flat on his face. With a loud, victorious cry, the man held the bandit down and thrust the dagger into the nape of his neck, drawing the attention of the remaining two bandits.

The leader that had spoken earlier turned his attention from Nima, his face locked in a deep scowl. He began to advance, gripping his axe firmly. The Cathionic yanked the dagger out of the corpse and began backpedaling away, dagger raised in icepick grip. Should the bandit attempt the swing, the man would try to parry. The lead marauder growled, taking another step forward.

With the slick sound of steel tearing through flesh, the bandit fighting collapsed. Stabbed in the back by Ceara, who had used the Cathionic distraction to help her friend. The leader of the bandit turned around, seeing all his companions crumpled on the road. Ceara opened her mouth to speak, but Nima brushed past her, punching the bandit with his sword arm and then driving his blade through the man's chest. Kicking the corpse free of his sword, he stood still, breathing heavily.

The Cathonic man watched the bandit leader crumple to the ground, breathing a sigh of relief as he doubled over, catching his breath. "Many thanks for the aid, travelers," he said to the two as he offered Ceara her dagger back. He reached into his shirt and fished out his coin purse. "Please, keep this. I will be sure to make up for it myself when I get to Mirador. Oh, pardon me; my name is Mostafa Idrissi, from Thobos. I am a bard by trade, and I had heard that the Grandmaster of the Knights Solanian was to be present in Mirador. I was on my way to entertain him and his entourage when these four brutes... well."

"I am Ceara, that is Nima." The thief took her dagger and pointed to herself, and then to her armoured companion. She weighed the man's purse in her hand, carefully stepping over the corpses to approach the bard. "Grandmaster? Is he the one that is the son of a god or somesuch?"

Mostafa smiled and shrugged. "So they say. Whether he is or isn't, he does much good for the world, he and his Order. Though these bandits slipped through their fingers, I am sure we will be rewarded, well, *you* will be rewarded for bringing them to justice, and for alerting them to the problem."

"Nima did most of the work, he should be the one rewarded." Ceara tucked her dagger in her belt, kneeling beside the man Mostafa had killed and checking the corpse for valuables. She glanced upwards, pausing for a moment. "What kind of reward? Does the Order have a lot of money?"

"A fortune," he replied. "Loot they seize from bandits like these, treasures they take from cultist lairs, generous donations from Lords and Ladies, bounties on demons and every manner of beast that terrorizes the people... the Grandmaster is no pauper. Most certainly blessed, if not divine himself!"

"Oh, surely." Ceara stood up, smiling. "You've been a bard for these crusaders a long time? Make good money?"

By now the bard was growing suspicion, raising a dark eyebrow as he slowly, carefully replied to that question. "...no. I have not been working for the Order at all, and I have not heard of any further crusades. I was simply going to perform before the Grandmaster." He paused, remembering who exactly he was dealing with. "...I make more than the average troubadour. I sing and play the lute, my father's lute, to be exact, in a variety of different cultural styles. It impresses most Lords and Ladies, anyways."

Ceara placed her hand on her dagger. "Thats nice." she grinned, watching Nima unsheathe his bloodied sword out of the corner of her eye. "I feel bad about doing this, seeing as you've already seen some trouble today, and you helped my friend, but I'm afraid I have no choice. I want you to undress, slowly and carefully. Don't rip anything, or I'll take one of your talented fingers."

"You... what?!" the bard cried, taking a step back from the thief. Seeing the furusiyya unsheathe his blade was intimidating enough. With an infuriated but defeated growl, the bard slowly began removing his clothes, starting with the feathered cap. Within a minute or two, he was down to his loincloth, his clothes laying disheveled on the ground before him.

Ceara took his clothes, gesturing for Nima to watch their new prisoner as she tucked them into one of her saddlebags. She turned back around, rope in her hands. "This isn't what it looks like, by the way."

"I do not care what it does and does not look like!" The bard cried, "You help a man merely to rob him blind yourself! To go steal from holy men, no less! Men and women who have contributed far more to this world plagued by the living dead, unholy spawn, and honorless whores such as yourself! And what do you spend your ill-gotten gold on?!"

Nima stepped forward, raising his sword for a sweeping blow that would take the bard's head clean off. Before his blade could strike true, Ceara dropped the rope and pulled him backwards, shooting him a scathing glare. The easterner shook his head, stepping away and putting his sabre in it's scabbard. With her companion sorted, the thief turned her attention back to the angry minstrel. "I spend my money on whatever I please, because I can. You can have your honour and your holiness all you like, Mostafa, but I've got your coin and your clothes. World seems to favour me at the moment."

"Because, you craven parasite, you have a slave-soldier to kill those who resist! Do not speak to me about worldly favour, you devil-haired mongrel! You take and you take, never to give! You bring shame to your fellow Bryonics and Cainleathites, especially to those of your profession who at least give what they take to the poor!"

Ceara absently touched her hair, scratching the top of her head while she sighed in annoyance. Nima picked their rope off the ground, and used it to tie the bards hands together. Ceara nodded to him. "Oh, nobody actually gives to the poor. Maybe in your stupid little ballads."

"We should kill him."

Ceara glanced back at her companion, raising her hands in exasperation. "I said no. He walks."

Nima shook his head slowly. "He dies. His fury is hotter than a forge, look at him. While you debate, he plans to turn us into the nearest guard. We are hunted already, I do not wish the Order to track us as well. We kill him here, and then it is the bandits that did the deed. Safe."

"First you trudge into those bandits for a fucking insult, now you want to run this bard through? We've been through this, dammit! Cool your fucking head, go gather the horses. I'll be fine." Nima didn't move. Ceara sighed, putting her hands on her hips. "Go, Nima." Reluctantly, the slave-soldier finally agreed.

"You. I'll take your lute, as well." Ceara used one hand to pick up the intstrument, with her other clutched on the grip of her dagger. "I know how to play, don't worry, I won't bring dishonour to your name."

"And you would steal from a man his dead father's lute! You can run and hide in the shadows like the coward you are, but the Gods will cut you down and you will burn in the Infernum!"

"If it's any consolation, I'll try to return the lute. If you hang around Mirador for a while after the feast is finished, I could..." Ceara shook her head, as if to clear it. "The nearest city is Viarosa. Have fun walking."

The bard fell silent, taking a final look at the lute before turning and storming away, marching to the southwest as though he still had a shred of dignity left.

Nima appeared at Ceara's side, the leads for both of their horses in his mailed hands. He stood beside his friend, watching the bard leave. "This will end badly." He remarked, mounting his horse.

Ceara followed suit, taking her eyes off the wandering bard and setting them east. "You worry too much."

With formal attire packed, the band of four set out once more on the road to Mirador. Athaliah and Rhiara sat in the back of the wagon once more while Erika and Herbert sat together in the front of the wagon. The two snuggled together, sharing a large blanket to keep out the cold as Herbert drove. The first snows of winter had fallen and the road was covered in a fresh sheet of pristine, untouched white. Indeed, the snow was so picturesque that it almost seemed a shame to disturb it with the horses' hooves and the wagon's wheels.

A few hours into their journey, they ran into what appeared to be an obstacle. The bridge they had intended to cross was blocked by a dozen unscrupulous-looking men brandishing weapons in a decidedly unsubtle attempt to appear menacing. Herbert sighed and lightly tugged at the reins to get the horses to stop before reaching for a bag. "Good afternoon gentlemen." He called out in a rather neutral tone of voice.

"Is it?" questioned the tallest of the bunch, a dark-haired man wearing a shirt of boiled leather and a light blue cloak. "My friends and I were just talking about the weather. In my home, the sky is always blue, the seas clear as glass, and the trees are young and pretty." He smirked roguishly, raising his chin to look towards Erika. "Just like our women. I will say, in all my time in this muddy land, I have not seen a girl so beautiful."

Erika stiffened, sensing danger in the man's praise. She kept quiet with a stony expression but mentally prepared herself for the possibility of a transformation being necessary. Meanwhile, Herbert really didn't like where this was going, but perhaps he could stall the man and keep him talking for a while. Sure, it wouldn't compare to proper preparation and planning, but he'd like to at least size them up a bit. "I find that I'm fond of the cold and snow. Gray skies might not appeal to many, but to me, they feel like home. What are you doing so far away from your home with its wondrous weather?" The sea near Viarosa was often rather clear, as was the sky often blue, but Herbert wasn't particularly inclined to be truthful with this fellow.

The man looked to his companions, laughing haughtily with them in response. "I am Benito Aquilinus Caelinus, third son of Severus Aquilinus Caelinus, the wealthiest noble in all of Momosessuale. I was levied like a commoner, and sent to the godsforsaken east." He shook his head. "As much as I despise these lands, at least the locals don't set things on fire. I took the men that rightfully followed me, and we left that pointless quest to pursue our noble right, as heroes of the forest and road. We protect the weak, uphold the laws of the Aesernian Empire, and drink our fair share of whisky!"

A cheer went up from the men, but Benito calmed them with a wave of his hand. "Now. We must ask for a small favour of your support to our righteous cause, in exchange for your safe travel through these lands free of villainy. You are bringing goods in that carriage? We will take a share, and send you on your way." He turned his attention to Erika once again, raising an eyebrow. His men began to circle the wagon, spotting Rhiara and Athaliah in the back. "I see you have more than one lovely companion. Perhaps your women would like to display their appreciation more... Personally? I'm sure my men would all love some time with them."

“You’re not my type,” Athaliah said in the friendliest voice she could muster. Hidden next to her was her sword, and she held it with a grip that turned her knuckles white. “but surely such staunch, gallant heroes like yourselves could find any woman you wanted.” She purposefully made herself seem meek, more as an attempt to put the gang into a false sense of security than anything else. “You must let us fair ladies through; you wouldn’t insult the honours of maidens like us, would you?” she let out a forced giggle, which she swore she would hate herself forever for doing.

Rhiara, meanwhile, avoided eye contact with anyone except Athaliah. She wrapped a big fur cloak tightly around herself partly because she was cold, but mostly because she held a dagger in one of her hands. She had never used a dagger on a person before and she hoped she wouldn’t have to, but she saw Athaliah’s grip on her blade and knew full well what was going to happen.

Erika eyed the encroaching bandits with an icy frown. Her displeasure clear, she spoke. "Alas, good sirs, I cannot indulge you in such a manner as I am already in love with another. Surely, noble soldiers of Aesernia such as yourselves would not ask a woman to be unfaithful?" She'd only killed animals and a werewolf before, but these men were certainly acting like animals.

Herbert tossed a burlap bag to Benito. "My wagon primarily contains the tools of my trade, supplies for our journey and what's left of my last project. I offer you this instead as proof that I too help to protect the weak, make the roads safe for travel and keep these lands free of villainy." With the bag tossed, Herbert drew his swords and quickly applied basilisk poison to their edges. There was no point in being subtle now. The threat of violence filled the air and he could feel bloodshed coming.

Benito opened the bag, his smile fading as he reached inside. When his hand emerged, it was grasping a tooth the size of a dagger. He dropped it with disgust, throwing the bag to the ground. "Trinkets? You savages think that you can win your passage with trinkets?" He snorted, waving his bandits forward. "I will not be insulted so! I am the third son of Severus Aquilinus Caelinus, did you not hear! You will pay with your blood!"

At their leader’s order, two bandits climbed into Herbert’s wagon with what looked like well-forged daggers in their hands. One of the men tried to grab Athaliah by the throat, causing her to shout. “Now, Weiss!” she simply said, an instant before the sword in her hand drove into his gut. Rhiara followed her friend’s lead, burying her dagger to the hilt into the second man’s chest. They both let out horrible screams of pain which prompted their comrades to spur into action themselves.

As five of the deserters drew near, Erika and Herbert exchanged a look and a nod. Each then leaped into action. Erika lunged towards one of the bandits, seemingly unarmed and with a death wish. When she landed however, she was no longer human. Instead, she had transformed into a massive lion-like beast with a scorpion-like tail and the wings of a gigantic bat. With her new manticore form, she batted away the man's sword with a clawed paw before biting his head off and spitting it at one of his comrades. Upon being struck with his friend's head, the man - quite understandably - chose to run away. The normally gentle healer then roared a challenge at the remaining nearby bandits. Surprisingly enough, the horses did not panic. It seemed they were used to Erika's manticore form.

Meanwhile, Herbert was having a bit more difficulty fighting another pair of bandits who were each armed with sword and shield. Herbert was fast and years of hunting monsters had gifted him with good reflexes but he had little experience fighting people. These men, on the other hand, were trained soldiers with the advantage of numbers, even if they were deserters. He'd never win a fair fight against them. Of course, that was why he didn't fight fair.

Herbert parried a blow from the man on his left and was promptly bashed in the shoulder with Left's shield for his efforts. He dropped his broadsword and grabbed a metal flask from his hip, causing the bandits to laugh as he chugged it rapidly. "Liquid courage won't save you boy!" Called Right. The bandits stopped laughing when they saw some of the flask's contents dripping down his face due to his haste to imbibe it. It was clearly blood. Herbert swallowed, tossed the flask to the side, took a deep breath, and spat liquid fire in Left's face. Left fell back shrieking and clutching at his face. His end was not a pleasant one.

With the bandit no longer near his fallen blade, Herbert picked up his sword and wheeled to face his second adversary. The remaining bandit was keeping his shield near his face after his comrade's fate. Herbert advanced, taking another deep breath. He didn't actually have enough magic for another trick like that, but the bandit didn't know that and lifted his shield to protect his face. As the shield rose, Herbert lunged forward and swiped at the man's legs. He managed to draw a thin line of red on the man's thigh before the bandit realized his mistake and bashed his shield into Herbert's head. With the monster hunter stunned and disoriented, the bandit stabbed him in the torso and kicked him away, thinking him dead. A few moments passed as the bandit went for another of the group and the bandit doubled over, coughing up discolored blood and sweating profusely. The basilisk poison on Herbert's blade had kicked in. The deserter turned a deathly pale shade and collapsed, dead. Meanwhile, Herbert laid there on the ground, putting pressure on his wound and trying not to draw attention to himself. He was still alive, but he wouldn't be much more help in this fight.

Athaliah looked at Rhiara, who was staring in disbelief and shock at the body of the person she just killed. “Hey, Rhiara, look at me.” Athaliah said, forcefully grabbing her shoulders and looking into her eyes. “We can talk about this later, but we all need you focused right now if we’re going to live; do you understand?”
“Y-yeah,” she replied, taking in several deep breaths. “What’s the plan?”
Athaliah picked up her shield from under a blanket. “You stay in here and use your bow to pick people off.” Athaliah stated while attaching her shield to her wrist with some straps. “I’ll fight them out there; make sure you don’t get swamped.”

Athaliah jumped out of the wagon to come fact-to-face with three more bandits; two of which carried simple swords, but the last one – pretty much a giant of a man – carried a huge double-headed axe almost as tall as Athaliah was. They didn’t even wait for Ath to think of a proper plan before the two swordsmen charged in. One of the men gave out a gasp of pain as an arrow flew into the side of his chest, right where one of his lungs would be. Despite having what many would consider a life-threatening injury, he continued to advance for a few seconds.

He was by no means in peak condition after that, however. The man stumbled and fell to one knee leaving Athaliah only one foe to deal with. Rhiara jumped out of the carriage as well, bow in hand, and approached the man. She didn’t intend to kill the man, but she had no intention of leaving him unsupervised either. She nocked an arrow and pointed it at the man, making sure he didn’t contribute anything more to the fight.

The axeman seemed to be hanging back for the moment; maybe he didn’t want to harm his comrades with his axe swings? Athaliah’s and her foe’s swords crossed two times, both testing each other’s defences. The fight began for real when Athaliah hid fully behind her shield and thrusted her sword directly at her adversary. He jumped back instinctively and began to circle Athaliah. She kept her shield facing her sword-wielding opponent in case he tried a futile attack. Unlikely for a man who fought in war, but she never knew.

“Athaliah!” Rhiara shouted, sounding extremely frightened. Athaliah suddenly remembered that there was another bandit lurking behind her and ducked as fast as she could. She felt a ‘whoosh’ of air just inches above her head and heard the sickening sound of hefty steel cutting into flesh and bone. The swordsman she was facing just a second earlier had been cleaved in two by the axeman, who looked at his fallen comrade with a brief expression of sorrow that really didn’t fit the man. It was soon replaced with one of fury. Athaliah turned to face her new enemy as quickly as she could, and tried to put some distance between him and herself.

Athaliah tried her best not so show it, but she was intimidated, to say the least. If just one of her foe’s swings connected then the fight would be over just like that. The deserter swung his axe once again; the blow slammed into her shield with enough force to send splinters flying across the snow. Athaliah concluded that the shield wouldn’t save her if it was hit directly, and it was slowing her down anyway.

The shield found itself on the ground in short order. Soon enough, their fighting began again; Athaliah charged at the man and swung. Her attack was blocked by the man’s axe and was met with his own heavy swing. She stumbled back, avoiding being hit by mere inches. Not wanting to give her foe the upper hand, she thrusted her sword at him while his axe was out of the way. His reactions were faster than expected however, and he managed to snag the sword under one of the blades. Athaliah pulled her sword upwards, taking the man’s axe up with it. Seeing the best opportunity yet, she freed her sword and charged forward.

The man was a fantastic fighter, and he’d probably danced like this dozens of times. He blocked every single one of Ath’s attacks and brought a powerful fist to her nose; blood fell onto the ground in large, steady drips. She fell backwards onto the ground. Surprisingly, he didn’t bring his axe down and end the fight immediately. Instead, he pounded at her face with his fists, turning much of her face red.

Not wanting to give her a chance to recover, he brought a boot to her head; her vision went black for a fraction of a second, followed by blurriness. He grabbed Athaliah by the throat, managing to lift her off the ground by sheer brute strength. Athaliah knew that she’d never escape from his grasp by force; instead, she opted for a less honourable approach. Plenty of blood and spit landed directly in the man’s eyes, distracting him enough to make him lose his grip on her neck.

She launched her own barrage with her fists, sending him staggering backwards. Using the moment’s respite, she picked her sword up off the floor and immediately ran it though his throat. Blood flew from the gaping wound when she withdrew her sword, quite a lot of it landing on Athaliah. The axeman covered his throat with both of his hands and he fell to the ground, squirming.

Seeing the majority of their comrades dead, dying, or fleeing, the three remaining bandits began to falter. Their leader took a look at the bodies sprawled near the wagon, and another at the ferocious manticore pacing near the fallen monster hunter. Benito, third son of Severus Aquilinus Caelinus, turned his tail and dove into the rushing river behind him. The Aesernian thrashed in the churning water, carried away from the bridge and the wagon he had stopped. Upon seeing their leader flee, the final two bandits broke entirely, turning and running as fast as their feet could carry them.

As the surviving bandits broke and ran, Erika flung venomous spines from her tail at them. Since she was more concerned by Herbert's wounds and not trying too hard, it was more by chance than accuracy that one of the fleeing brigands was struck in the leg. The blade-like spine stabbed through his armor and deep into his flesh, making him fall. The half-manticore paid him no mind however, and returned to human form. Erika examined her lover's injuries and to her relief, she found that the stab wound hadn't damaged any vital organs. The bottom half of Herbert's face was covered in blood, but that was just from a nosebleed rather than anything particularly serious. Despite the mask of red and wooziness, Herbert smiled at Erika as she worked. He stayed still and didn't speak, however. He knew from experience that it was best to just let her focus on healing.

Erika closed her eyes, put her hand over the wound and mouthed an incantation. Soft white light emanated from her hand and beneath her touch, Herbert's flesh wove itself back together. Within moments, the wound was gone and she helped Herbert up. He'd have a bruise or two, but he'd be fine. The pair embraced, knowing how close they'd come to losing each other. "I'm glad you're alright." They said, near-simultaneously. With a quick smile at that, they turned their attention to Athaliah and Rhiara. "Any injuries or wounds?" Herbert called out to the two Hoffen women.

Rhiara jumped out of the wagon herself when she was certain that the fight was over, and immediately ran to Athaliah to give her a crushing hug. “Please, never do that again. Okay?” she begged, a tear running down her cheek.
“I won’t.” Athaliah replied weakly; she was obviously out of breath and bleeding heavily out of her head. “You might want to let go; I’m covered in blood here.” Rhiara let her friend go, and looked down at her black leather tunic to see some red smears.
“I’ll clean it out later. Now, you need to sit down; you really, really need to rest.” Athaliah took her advice and sat on a step at the back of the wagon. She had a colossal headache, blurry vision and she was horribly dizzy – a result of getting punched and kicked in the head by a man that big. “Erika!” Rhiara shouted. “Could you come over here and take a look at Ath, please? She looks horrible…"

Erika moved quickly as time was precious when treating wounds. The medic took one look at Athaliah's head and leaped into action. Once again, she channeled her healing magic and the light emanated from her touch. While it was not so visible as Herbert's torso pulling itself together, the pain, blurred vision, and dizziness quickly faded away. The half-manticore gave her another quick check over and then looked over Rhiara just to be sure she was uninjured. Content that everyone was safe and in one piece, she glanced at the corpses near Rhiara and Athaliah and let out a low whistle. "No offense, but I didn't expect you two to kill so many." Now curious, Herbert also took a look and raised an eyebrow. "Neither did I. Let's get going, shall we?"

Rhiara climbed into the back of the carriage first, and gave Athaliah a hand in getting inside too. “How are you so calm about this?” Rhiara asked with a hint of annoyance in her voice that surprised even herself. “Yes, they were bad people, but… they were still people. They had childhoods, like us. They had dreams, and we robbed them of those.” She was mainly talking to herself by that point. The carriage had begun to move, and by the time she finished what she was saying she and Athaliah finally saw the destruction caused by Herbert and Erika. They both stared at the bodies wordlessly, shocked by what their comrades were capable of doing.

Herbert stroked his chin. "Well, look at it this way. Remember how I said I hunted all sorts of magical creatures so long as they preyed upon people? As such, I prefer to say I hunt monsters since it's implied that my targets act in a way that makes them monsters. Some of those monsters are sapient. They have childhoods and dreams just like us, that I take from them, don't they? Problem is, they kill innocents. If I don't slay them, they'll keep robbing folks of their childhoods and dreams, and all that. Killing these folks is like that. We've ended a threat posed by human monsters and kept them from robbing weaker travellers of their childhoods, dreams, lives, goods and maidenhoods. In other words, this isn't so different from my normal work and all of are okay, so why not be calm?" With that, he casually flicked the reins to get the horses moving.

Erika on the other hand, winced. "I don't know why I'm so calm, but it just feels... natural? I'm a little uncomfortable now that you've made me think about it, but that's more because I don't feel uncomfortable about having killed someone, you know?" She suspected that her comfort with biting a man's head off came from her mother's side, but that was unlikely to reassure the girl. Nor would the fact that she had enjoyed the taste.

Rhiara looked down at her feet and sighed. “I guess you’re right, it’s just… I’ve never killed anyone before. Besides, I didn’t think it would be so... brutal.” Athaliah changed seats, so she could squeeze in next to Rhiara. “I know, okay?” she said as she wrapped an arm around Rhi’s shoulder, pulling her close. “But Herbert has a point. If we hadn’t dealt with those people then we’d be in serious trouble. We’d either be dead ourselves, or the playthings of whomever those men were. We did a good thing today, and it’s the good things that are hard.”

As they spoke, Herbert stopped the wagon and hopped down. The man that had been hit with Erika's projectile was still alive and whimpering as the monster hunter jumped down. "Mercy?" Asked the bandit pitifully. "Aye." Replied Herbert, drawing his hunting knife and approaching with a grim expression. The man didn't resist and Herbert slit the brigand's throat as quickly and neatly as butcher might kill a hog. After quickly wiping off his knife, he sheathed it and climbed back aboard the wagon, setting off once more.

Co-written with @PrinceOfHeaven

The soft crunch of horses' hooves on snow was barely audible, drowned out by the whistle of the winter wind and the creaking of bare branches as Count Erwyn rode upon his destrier, closely followed by his packed dormeuse, snowflakes forming a blanket of white upon the vehicle's roof. The sky was overcast; a rippling sea of grey, the sun only barely managing to peek through in a few spots, casting bright beams of light down from the heavens to land on the towers of Mirador. The Count was safely out of its direct light, but still he kept his eyes concealed behind a pair of smoked eyeglasses, and his head covered with a dark felt tricorne, its edges trimmed with subtle silver detailing. His hood was not up, but it hung at the ready from the back of his riding cloak, in case his eternal nemesis in the sky were to make a less inhibited appearance. Before this small procession, the gates of the Order's fortress loomed high, and Erwyn tugged sharply on his steed's reins to bring the beast to a halt, the carriage rolling to a standstill behind him.

A Norsidic warrior stepped forwards, hands gripping his halberd firmly, slightly lowered and ready for battle on the offchance this individual turned violent. "Evening. Here for the feast I'd imagine?" he said, in his thick Oslandic accent. His eyes wandered to the carriage and the man's entourage. Most people who showed up to Mirador for the feast were locals with no real need for packed carriages. The most people usually brought were the horses they rode in on.

The Count spend several seconds studying the warrior and his weapon intently over the top of his dark glasses. At last, he nodded. "Indeed I am, soldier," he replied, his words inflected with a heavy Asmeinlander accent. "May I enter?"

The Nord lightly jabbed the spearhead of his halberd towards the carriage. "It would be ideal if my companions and I could search your carriage before you enter? Just a quick look around in the interior and you'll be good to go."

Dismounting, Erwyn strode around to the door of the vehicle and gestured for his soldiers to move aside, before flinging the wooden panel open to reveal a spacious interior richly decorated in crimson velvet, at odds with the crates and cases strewn across the floor and seats. He beckoned the Nord forward. "Search it as you wish, friend. I assure you there is nothing untoward."

The Oslandic warrior gestured for his companions to approach as he stepped into the carriage, looking around for anything that seemed out of place: vials of strange liquids (potential poisons), concealable weaponry... anything that could be considered a threat to the guests of honor. Finding nothing, he carefully stepped out of the vehicle. "Very well. Proceed, and cause no trouble," he said, nodding to the Asmeinlander.

"Trouble?" the Count exclaimed with mock surprise. "I would not dream of it, my good man!" Jumping back onto his horse, he gestured to his entourage to move forward, and spurred his horse into a gentle trot through the gates of the Order's fortress.

"One last thing!" the soldier called out as the carriage moved past the gates. "The stable is by the blacksmith in the market square! Talk to Alvar if you need any gear repaired, and to his wife Madalen if you'd like something to tide you over until the feast!"

Looking back, the vampire lightly tapped his tricorne in gratitude, before proceeding onwards in the direction of the stables, passing through the winding cobbled streets of Mirador, his armoured mount and jet black carriage drawing more than a few stares from the local townsfolk. After a few minutes, he emerged into a spacious square, draped with banners and streamers and packed with crowds thronging around the various market stalls. His gaze panning over the scene from atop his steed, Erwyn spotted the stable instantly, trotting around the side of the bustling market towards it. Drawing to a halt alongside the building, he dismounted, his soldiers holding the reins of his horse and the pair of carthorses as they glanced around to find an empty stall.

As the man approached the dark, stone building, a young elven man, probably just out of adolescence, approached him and the carriage. He wore the simple clothes of a stableboy, with the addition of a white and gold tabard with the image of the sun emblazoned on the front. "Milord," he said with a nod, reaching for the reins of the horse. "Keep's not far, up on the top of the hill," he added. Bowing courteously to the Asmein nobleman, he took his horse to the nearest empty stall, guiding the soldiers along to help park the carriage.

Erwyn gave the elf a polite nod as he carried out his work. Waiting until the carriage was safely parked and the horses hitched, he passed the man a fat bag of coin. "Much obliged." He began to walk away, before stopping abruptly and spinning back around to face the elf. "Ah, one more thing - just to check, I shall find Alvar next door, ja?"

"Uh..." the elf looked down at the generous payment, before snapping back to reality. "Yes, Alvar runs the forge, it's the building next door," he said, nodding vigorously to the Asmeinian.

With a final nod of thanks, the vampire departed, followed close behind by his servant and soldiers, the latter of whom had left their poleaxes in the carriage and now sported just their arming swords - it was unlikely the Order would take kindly to weapons of war at their feast. Striding over to the next building along, the Count pushed open the door, a small bell above it ringing as he entered, its delicate chime drowned out by the clang of hammers on steel and the whoosh of bellows. "Hello?" he called, listening for footsteps as he inspected the weapons and tools that hung from the walls.

A tall, stocky Norsidic man was operating the forge when Erywn had come in. It seemed as though he were crafting some sort of longsword. His aged, wrinkled face looked up to the pale man standing at the door of his shop. He smiled and set his work aside, moving everything to a proper, safe place before dusting off his hands and wiping his sweat-soaked face with a nearby rag. "Ah, hello there! I take it you're here to buy arms and armor? Maybe new gear for your horses? I make excellent barding! Fine Oslandic equipment, the envy of the Aesernian Kingdoms, with regular shipments of Valgarde Steel!" He said this as he walked behind the store counter.

"Always good to find proper northern metal in these parts," Erwyn said, taking off his hat and tucking it under his arm. "I may have a little work for a skilled smith, you'll be pleased to know. I'll start with the smaller job; it's about time I got a new rapier. Forty-five inch flamberge blade, swept hilt, and if you could engrave my crest somwhere..." he tapped the ornate silver pin which held his cloak, the bat sigil of his house displayed upon it. "I'll write it all down for you in a minute, anyway. The second commission is a little more interesting." Reaching into his coat, his gloved hand re-emerged with a thick sheaf of papers, which he placed on the counter and spread out, revealing a series of intricate diagrams interspersed with scrawled notes. "I've drawn up a few plans, as you can see; I just require the actual parts. And if you make a few copies of this particular piece, let's say twenty or so..." he pointed to one of the sheets, bearing a long, lance-like object, "that would be much appreciated."

Alvar took a look at the diagrams, and a wide smile tugged at the corners of his lips. "You must be here to see the Grandmaster! He could use weapons of this nature against the foul demon that plagues Illyrica," he said with a hearty chuckle. "Unfortunately he isn't here yet, but I'm sure we can pass the time while I fill your orders. Do you need anything else before I get started?"

The vampire gave the question a moment's thought, before shaking his head. "No, I think that will be all, thank you. Although... I don't suppose you know of a good inn nearby, do you?" He chuckled. "It's been a long journey, and gods know I could do with an ale and a bed."

"Smart question!" Alvar said with a chortle. "The Broken Flagon is west of of the market square. It's a three-story Aesernian insula building. Modest rent, good fare, better ale. The risk of fire is quite low, as well."

"Sounds like it will do just fine. Thank you, my good man." Erwyn turned to leave, pausing to withdraw another full bag of coin from within his coat. Tossing it gently backwards, the purse made a satisfying rattle as it landed on the counter. "I almost forgot. Twenty gold Thalers as an advance payment, in case you need to buy any extra materials. Another sixty when I return after the feast." With a cheery wave, the Count made his way through the door, leaving the Northern blacksmith to his considerable workload.

---

The Broken Flagon, as quaint as it was, was packed with travelers who had all come in from out of town to partake in the festivities. The air smelled of bread and mead, and was otherwise filled with the sound of metal clinking, men laughing and hollering, and the occasional refill as alcohol flowed from the taps of kegs. The door swung open, and Erwyn stood silhouetted in the doorway for a few seconds, surveying the room. Satisfied, he strolled in, removing his tricorne and gloves and tucking them under his arm before running a pale hand back through his luxuriant jet-black hair. Ambling over to the bar, his small entourage leaning on the wooden counter beside him, the vampire gave a polite nod to summon a nearby barmaid as he slipped his dark glasses into a coat pocket, revealing the almost otherworldly silver-grey eyes underneath, that had until now been concealed.

One of the barmaids, a young Shadow Elf holding a tray of mugs, approached the vampire, looking him over with a tired, though polite smile. "Welcome to the Broken Flagon, traveler. What would you fancy?" she asked. She looked a tad impatient, though given the tray of mead mugs, she likely had other customers.

The Count glanced down at the full tray before looking apologetically back to the barmaid. "Ah, I didn't realise you were busy. Please, serve those who were already here first; my men and I can wait a few minutes."

The barmaid gave a slight curtsey. "Thank you greatly, milord," she replied as she walked off to deliver the mead. For a few minutes the Vampire and his soldiers would wait, idly watching the antics of the other patrons. Much of it consisted of drinking games between Nords, Aesernians, and their haplessly featherweighted Elven companions. A few surcoat-clad knights threw knives into a sturdy wooden post, aiming at an artist's cheap rendering of the Shaitun Hargash, Patron of That Which Is Revolting. Others still played various board games; one table was playing chess, another mancala, for instance.

Eventually the same Shadow Elf returned with the empty pewter platter, setting it down on the counter. "My deepest apologies for the wait, milord. Many have traveled to see the Grandmaster, and I've never quite seen the Flagon so full before," she explained. "But nevermind excuses; can I get anything for you and your men?"

"Four ales, four meals, and a couple of nice rooms for a few nights," Erwyn replied. "That will be all for now, thank you." His hand slipped into a pocket and reemerged with a handful of coins, which he slid across the bar.

"I'll have to check with the innkeeper to see if we've any available rooms, but we'll work something out, hopefully. Thank you for your patronage in the meantime." With that, the barmaid accepted the gold and walked off to have the order filled.

Co-written with @PrinceOfHeaven

A Feast for Kings

As the week rolled along, the stronghold of Mirador was bustling. As a holding controlled by the enigmatic Order of the Knights Solanian, a great many of its citizens were soldiers of the Order themselves, drilling for the imminent arrival of their Grandmaster. Those who did not fight for the Order but served it passively went about preparing the décor, casting banners down the walls of the city and stringing up ribbons around the city exterior. Alternatively, farmers worked to gather food for the night's feast, for the harvest ran concurrent with it.

Within the stony keep, Seneschal Konstantin Hristov sat upon his throne, surrounded by his advisors. His central priority at the time was ensuring that Mirador was in perfect condition for his Grandmaster and his chosen Apostles; the Illyrican Order had a remarkable track record thus far, and Hristov had no intentions of tainting it tonight.

To his right stood a wizened Priest of Solanius, draped in the white and gold of the order. The priest had been reading the castletown's ledger to him for many minutes now, and it was beginning to feel more like hours. Eventually, the Seneschal found the confidence in him that everything was accounted for, and that minor errors could be overlooked. "Father Rosenveld, I do so sincerely thank you for your time, but I am almost certain that we have all of our supplies in order; the oil for our lanterns is plentiful, the wine varied and abundant, and the meat and bread are all fresh," he said, somewhat tiredly. He gave every impression that he had heard the list before, though that had only been a brief summary of the fully detailed ledger's contents.

"My Lord?" asked the priest, slowly closing the book.

"By now it is pointless to continue checking and checking so compulsively," said the Seneschal, rising from his throne. "The Grandmaster is a merciful man, I know him; he is not one to chastise for something minor, so long as we have what is necessary." He walked down the steps of his throne's platform and turned to his advisors. "And while we concern ourselves with something we know our citizens both noble and common can provide, why have we not considered who will be in attendance? Did not the knights under Captain Jorleifsson mention that they had encountered a couple of persons of considerable interest to the Order not long ago?"

"My Lord... the feast is open attendance, as suggested by the Grandmaster himself. Apart from him, knowing who our guests are strikes us as paltry, no?" asked the Seneschal's steward, a middle-aged, fairly scrawny Sun Elf.

Lord Hristov put a hand to his face and shook his head. "Captain Jorleifsson spoke of their valour, Sanyriil," he said, looking up at his steward, "Whereas it takes most basilisk hunters small warbands to properly kill the things, these two did it alone! He requested to me what I will request of the Grandmaster: that the two heroes and their entourage receive an audience with our leader." He took his hand away from his face and began pacing back and forth. "Now, in a show of proper respect and hospitality to these guests of honor, I fully recommend an escort -- nay, I order one." He turned to one of his knights, who stood at the base of one of the pillars lining the great hall. "See to it they arrive before the others."

With a salute, the knight turned and proceeded out of the castle hall...

---

[/hr]

Ceara spurred her horse towards the open gates of Mirador, taking a long look at the streets in front of her. The city had been built in the barren valley of a rocky canyon, with natural walls protecting it on all sides. A narrow river split the settlement in two, winding past the hill and continuing south, through the craggy formations. Buildings rose around a hilly centre in the shadow of the crag, on which the mighty castle of Mirador was raised so many years ago. The castle itself was large enough to house a sizeable garrison, and as was clear from the streamers and banners all over the city, a sizeable feast as well. The holy sun flew in every window, knights clothed in blue and white at every street. Nima rode behind his friend, cloaked from head to toe in his polished armour. Steel plates were wrapped around his midsection, his arms, and his legs. The rest of his body was covered with finely made chain mail, all the way up to his forehead. His headpiece was distinctly eastern, a steel helmet that rose to a point that was distinguished with two red ribbons. He one hand on the sword sheathed on his saddle, and another carrying a shield that bore the red triangle of Sindhus.

The thief from Cainleath was no exception. Her attire was particularly festive - she was dressed in a showy blue tunic, with matching breeches and stockings. With a feathered cap on her head, and curled shoes on her feet, she certainly looked the part of a minstrel. She waved to the guards at the city walls, singing a fond hello as she dismounted. “Hello, valiant knights! I am Aerona of Cadwalader, a travelling minstrel! If it pleases the honourable lord, I would offer my service as a bard for your virtuous gathering! Is there a place myself and my shining companion could rest our horses?”

Four guards clad in plate armor, each wielding halberds, stood watch at the main gate at ground level, as archers stood watch along the ramparts. Though they had been ordered to allow travellers into the city, the sight of the bard's heavily armed and armoured companion warranted caution; all four guards lowered their halberds, pointing them at the duo.

One of the guards, a shadow elf of considerable height, inched forward and began to speak for his patrol. "We weren't aware that we'd be joined by a Furusiyya of the Flame," he growled. "So you're supposedly a bard," he said to Ceara, then turning to Nima, "You, state your business!"

Nima turned his head slowly, blankly regarding at the commander of the patrol. “My life for Aerona of Cadwalader. My sword for her enemies, my shield for her protection.” Ceara beamed, glancing back at the holy knight. “I know it must be strange to have a man such as he in this hallowed place, but my guard no longer fights for the Path of Flame. The story is long, but fortunately, it can be told through song!” Reaching into her saddlebag, the thief removed a finely crafted lute, and began strumming “When Nima was in Rosiland… Let my Nima goooo…”

Minstrels were always total hams, but something about this one seemed odd. Skeptically lifting his halberd, he kept his eyes trained on the furusiyya and his ears on the bard. Ok, play the song. This sounded like an original.

Ceara dramatically swept her fingers across every string, letting the sound hang in the air for a few moments before raising her voice again. "Allow me to begin." She cleared her throat.

"Twas the dark of night, in the dark of year,
Two armies stood locked, facing so gravely,
Twas the time of fire, the grand smell of fear,
Who but the son of a sun, rallied so bravely,

One man lies dying, left fallen for his fate,
A man for the fire, but now for the dirt,
One man lies dying, but never too late,
A bard most heroic, now he does not hurt,

Fire and music, together in journey,
Come to bring song to most every tourney!"

Each guard placed their halberds under their arm, giving the bard a round of brief, subtle applause, their gauntlets clanking together with each clap.

Her ballad completed, Ceara lowered her lute, grinning arrogantly as she glanced between each of the guards. "You are too kind. Is my story clear now? I suppose I could explain in words, if you're truly-"

"Wait, no, that won't be necessary," one of the other guards said, looking back and forth between her companions. The wood elf grinned knowingly and gave the bard a once-over. "You were there at the Battle of Klyesha, that plantation up in Rosiland?" she asked.

"Then that means we missed one," said the shadow elf, pointing his halberd again at Nima.

"Stand down, Tirunil. He doesn't work with them anymore, he serves the bard. Let them pass," said a third guard, a brawny human encased fully in a slightly stronger set of armor. "Apologies on behalf of the squire, Miss. He's new. Right this way, please."

"No apologies required, noble knights. After this celebration, I believe I shall make a song about your victories in Iurusolym." She steadied her steed, with Nima following suit. Ceara patted her horse, looking to the guard that had spoken recently. "Could you handle our mounts? If not, point us in the right direction? I cannot rightly bring a horse into the keep. Or... It may add a certain element to my performance..."

"Not... necessary," said the human, shaking his helmeted head. "Continue on horseback through the city, the stables are beside the smithy. Old Alvar makes plenty of horseshoes and barding for our mounts, so proximity is only natural. The smithy, for reference, is a large, dark-coloured stone building in the market square. You should be able to smell the forge. The stables are behind it, technically part of the same property, walled up in what would be the house's garden. Take them up to the iron gate, it should be open during business hours, drop them off in the yard."

"And you simply must try some of Madalen's... what does she call it, that stuff she found in Ciprius, the wine with the lemons, dates, and honey?" asked the wood elf, turning to the human.

The shadow elf, "Tirunil," interjected. "Well the Savarids call it qatarmizat, I think Madalen and Alvar just call it lemonwine, it's that simple."

Smacking herself in the forehead (clank), the wood elf nodded and corrected herself. "Madalen's lemonwine, yes. Try a mug before you head for the keep!"

"That we will, friends. Well, my guard does not drink. I shall drink two mugs for him!" She moved her horse forward, leaving the patrol behind as they moved farther into the city. Ceara slowed, letting Nima take a position beside her. "Fuck the lemonwine," she remarked, whispering harshly. "We're getting into the keep as soon as possible. I'll sing a few songs, you'll stand behind me, and when the crowd starts to get bigger, we'll slip away."

Nima examined his surroundings. "You should have killed that bard. He'll be in Viarosa in a few hours."

Ceara frowned, looking down at her saddle. "We already talked about this. We tied him up, left him on the road. That should keep him occupied for tonight at the least. I'm not going to just..." She glanced up again, clearing her thoughts. "Lets focus on the task at hand, alright? No point worrying about what's done."

The duo rode in silence the rest of the way, trotting through the city with the mighty keep looming in the distance. They stopped at the stable, releasing their horses with a smile and a song, and journeying the rest of the way on foot.

Sorry guys. Mispost.

Cowritten by @Mardox

The Grandmaster Arrives

The four travellers found themselves walking through the tight streets of Mirador, which had an almost pristine white sheet over them as a result of the snowfall. As much as the group would have preferred staying in the carriage, especially for the uphill journey still to come, they had to leave the wagon and horse at the stables – at the entrance to the town. The snow crunched under their feet as they walked.

Their trek mostly passed by in silence, save for Athaliah’s occasional complaints about the placement of the stables or the upcoming hill. “Hey, Herb? Erika?” Rhiara said, sounding slightly uneasy. “After this feast we’re going our separate ways, aren’t we?”

"I guess so." Said Herbert with a shrug. "If you like, we can stay with you until you're back in Hoffen. Especially if you don't feel safe on the roads, it seems they've gotten worse lately. Why do you ask?"

Rhiara began fiddling with her own hands. “Well… it’s just that I’ve got used to the company of you two, is all. Ath might not say it, but she has too. What I’m trying to say is that I feel like I’ve made some good friends on this journey, and that’s not something I’d thought would happen.”
“I can hear all of that,” Athaliah patted her friend on her shoulder. “Let’s not be so glum, eh Rhi? We came here to have fun and a feast, and that’s exactly what we’re going to do.”

"Oh." Said Herbert with surprise. "Well, I've enjoyed your company as well, and would be happy to call the two of you friends. I'm sure Erika and I could visit you in Hoffen sometime." He looked to Erika, who had donned a large, furry cloak over her party dress. Erika nodded. "I'd certainly like that. Is there any particular time you'd like to see us again?"

“Whenever is convenient for you two.” Athaliah replied. The group were now making their way up the hill towards the keep. “We like you two a lot, but you should think about your own lives before seeing us.” Rhiara nodded in agreement. “If you ever decide to visit, the end of a month is a good time; we usually have little going on at that time.”

Erika nodded. "The end of the month sounds good, though it might not be the best time when the full moon starts coinciding with it. Business tends to pick up for the both of us around then. Feel free to swing by Viarosa sometime. Chances are that I'll be around and Herb is around whenever he can be. If not, you could always meet the others from Krossavik."

“They’re in Viarosa too?” Rhiara said, clearly surprised. “I suppose you’re all close, then?”

"Oh yes," replied Erika, "we're as close as family. After the dragon attacked, it was agreed that we should stick together. Just tell them you're friends with Herbert and me."

The four finally found themselves facing the doors of the keep. “So… do we just walk in?” Rhiara asked uncertainly. Athaliah shrugged. “That’s what the guards at the main gate said.”

“Do any of you want to go first? You know how I am with new people. What if a paladin talks to me and makes me represent the group?” she was getting worried, clearly, and she was also concerned that Herbert and Erika would feel like they were being thrown into the deep end. Really, Rhiara felt that one of them would actually be the best choice.

"I'll go first." Volunteered Herbert to put an end to the purple-eyed girl's anxiety. "I don't mind representing the group to any chatty paladins." With that, he stepped forward and moved to open the door.

Just as they approached the doors to the great hall, they both swung open wide, revealing one of the many knights of the Order. He froze in place, looking Herbert over for a moment. Eyeing the monster-hunter from head to toe, he nodded to him and said, "Aye, you match Captain Jorleifsson's description alright. I take it you are Herbert Leintke?"

"That I am." Replied Herbert. "With me are Rhiara Ludenburg, our friend Athaliah Priscou and my beloved, Erika Nilsson." He gestured to each of the women in turn. "May we come in?"

"Well absolutely, I was just on my way to come escort you folks into the keep anyways," the man said with a hearty laugh. "Right this w-"

As he spoke, he was cut off by the sound of roaring fanfare echoing through the valley. Brass and percussion alike signalled the arrival of the chief guests of honour. Behind Herbert and his party, further back in the courtyard, a convoy of carriages came moving up towards the fountain in the center of the keep's yard. Behind the carriages (and to some extent, besides them), a horde of townspeople and knights had congregated, applause and vocal prayers and hymns being said and sung, all melting into barely more than white noise.

Erika swiftly and skillfully guided the group out of the newcomers' way. "Let's give the bigshots their fancy entrance, shall we?"

“Fashionably late to their own feast, huh?” Athaliah muttered. “If I was fashionably late for my dinner, mother would have gone mad. You know the Orc berserkers they tell tales about? They have nothing on my mum.”

The four of them watched from the side as the convoy approached, curious as to who or what all the fuss might be about. Each carriage was identical to the others, keeping the exact position of the most valuable individual within the convoy a mystery. Trusted soldiers of the Order approached each carriage and opened their doors. From the first in the convoy, two humans, one an darker-skinned Aesernian, the other, Bryonic (Narbosi, from his ebony locks, for shades of brown, blonde and red characterized Bryons from the Island). The Bryonic fellow stepped out of the carriage first, dressed in rather heavy looking steel plate armor, addressing the crowds with a wave. He was followed by his Aesernian companion who carried over his shoulder a sizable sack, possibly filled with personal belongings.

From the third carriage, three individuals stepped out onto the snowy ground, one at a time. First, another Bryonic, this one very clearly from Cainleath, going from his cinnamon red hair. He and the Sun Elf woman to his right wore similar, flowing white robes, trimmed with a gold coloured fabric. Priests, from the looks of it. To the human's left, an Aesernian woman of diminutive stature with a small trunk strapped to her back. The lass was stronger than her tiny frame let on. Each lifted their hands up, humbly waving to the commoners and soldiers alike as a line of troops formed to keep the tide of people away from these apparently important individuals.

First in the convoy, three additional people exited their carriage, hailing the cheering crowds delightedly. The first two had the tell-tale dark brown skin of Cathionic humans, though the lightly armored fellow to the far left of the trio was much lighter in complexion. Between them stood a towering, muscular, fair-skinned and fair-haired woman clad in a suit of steel armor, not dissimilar from the Narbosian's. There was no doubt in anyone's mind that she was a Daughter of Osland, though her sheer size would inevitably lead the more imaginative to assume she was also a daughter of a giant, whether halfling or pure - more likely the former.

And finally, last in the line of carriages, appearing to be tightly packed as the door opened up, out stepped a Sun Elf in dark azure robes. He smiled confidently at the crowds and turned to help another Cathionic human out of the wagon. Notably, he was draped in a thick and fluffy blanket, his bare feet hitting the snow hesitantly. Patting the man on the shoulder, he summoned over a knight and muttered something to him; likely a command to take the nearly nude man into the keep. With him out of the way he turned back to the crowds and waved, smoothing the front of his robes. He looked to be a lithe elf, not the type one would assume to be a warrior of any sort, though if he didn't look to be clergy, he may well be a mage. Which was likely, as his people had a strong natural affinity for magic. He seemed to be the most well groomed of the group of people that had made their appearance this evening, his sun-gold hair and skin equally immaculate, not a speck of dirt on him. Rather out of place given the time and circumstances. Though he did seem to have smudged something on his robe, perhaps wine or the filling of some pastry, and if one were notably good at reading individuals, the elf was slightly distressed over the matter, as calmly as he tried to present himself. Quintessential elf...

Then from the carriage, a Samothaur stepped out onto the snow, smiling faintly at the crowd as she turned back around to face the open door of the carriage. She was an unusual sight to say the least, as the Samothaurs were a fiercely xenophobic people with a long history of being a popular choice among slavers of all races to capture and sell to the pompous Shadow Elven lords of the North or the brutal Orcish warlords that roamed the Northern Plains and Southern Deserts. She had a strong, yet plump, stocky physique under the layers of gambeson and mail that served as lightweight and effective protection from most weapons from close or long range. Given the powerful bow strapped around her and the quiver stuffed full of bodkin arrows, she appeared to be an archer.

The clamour of the peasants and knights alike seemed to boom ever more thunderously as the last person to exit the carriages made his appearance. A tall, strong human in ornate steel plate stepped out onto the snow, holding his helmet under his arm. He was Aesernian by most of his features, in particular his sun-kissed complexion and slightly aquiline, narrow nose. Yet his oddly golden hair and cerulean eyes -- much more at home on a Nord's head than an Aesernian's -- would muddle most preconceptions as to his heritage. He smiled warmly to the people frantically pushing against the line of guards. He approached the guards slowly, gesturing for them to stand aside.

In an unexpected orderly, quiet fashion, he reached out to those close to him, mumbling prayers in High Aesernian, misty particles and sparks of golden light dancing about his hands and digits. Arms reached out for him, the occasional outstretched hand brushing past his cloak and armor. "It it good to see all of you," he clearly stated, switching back to the common tongue of Low Aesernian. He looked up and around the courtyard as the snow fluttered to the ground around him. "It's just as I remember it all." Looking back to the people who had gathered before him, he nodded and added, "Come, out of the frost and into the Keep, and may the common eat as royalty." He stepped away, adjusted his cloak, gestured to his close followers who had disembarked from the four carriages, and took point, moving towards the Keep and towards Herbert and his party.

The pair from Krossavik watched the procession with moderate interest, blinking in confusion as the nearly naked Cathionic exited one of the carriages. As the man's bare feet hit the snow, Herbert quietly murmured in Erika's ear. "I now remember why we normally avoid the Order. Folks as devout as them are completely and utterly mad. I mean sure, we offer the odd prayer, but I don't think either of us would walk barefoot in the snow for our faith."

Erika gave a stifled snort of laughter. "I don't think that's why he's barefoot." She whispered back. "He's probably just some beggar they found and took pity on." The healer paused. "Then again, some folks can find anything in religious texts if they look for long enough."

The couple hushed and fixed more serious expressions as the Aesernian man approached. Once he had drawn nearer, Herbert gave him a respectful nod and Erika gave a quick curtsy. Neither bowed, though they were uncertain if that was a form of address expected by the man. Herbert watched very closely as the light danced around the Aesernian's hands. It was clearly magic and that meant that something was not as it appeared. The man didn't appear to be a Solymic, so that left three options for where his magic was coming from. The first and probably least alarming possibility was that the man was a magical creature in human form or at least part magical creature like Erika. The second possibility with moderate alarm was that this man was willing to expend blood for a parlour trick. The final and likely most damning possibility was that the man had made some sort of bargain for his power or otherwise earned the favor of an entity that could grant it to him.

Keeping these possibilities in mind, Herbert idly let his hands drift down near the hilts of his swords. He took great care not to actually touch them, it would be the height of folly to display hostility regardless of whether this man meant to do harm. If this strange golden man didn't mean the four of them harm, there was no point in offending his hosts. If the golden man did mean harm, it simply wouldn't do to let him know that Herbert was onto him. The scarred traveller lightly drummed his fingers against his thigh. To the overwhelming majority of folk, it would have been a meaningless display of energy and possibly impatience. Erika, however, knew exactly what it meant. It was a signal they had made up to subtly communicate to one another if they suspected danger.

The Aesernian and his ten companions stopped short of the Keep, just before Herbert, Erika, Athaliah, and Rhiara. The accompanying crowd and guards stopped a short distance away from the fifteen warriors. The golden-haired Aesernian took a moment to size Herbert up before offering his hand with a smile, displaying his teeth. "Ah, yes, I don't believe we've met, but I've heard so much about you, Ser Leintke!" he said. "My name is Lucian Aquila."

Up close, he looked nothing like the countless rumours portrayed him to be. Neither was he a towering, brutish, scarred-up titan in his middle years, nor was he a wizened, bearded sage. In fact, he looked to be still well into his youth, and had only a modest stubble on his face - hardly worth calling a beard. Or at least, not a beard as large and full as those on Nordic men.

Herbert accepted Lucian's hand and shook it with a polite smile. "I've heard a great deal about you as well, Ser Aquila. However, I must admit that a sizable amount - if not most - of it is no doubt untrue. Perhaps you could clarify what is fact and what is fiction in regard to yourself?" He'd heard of Lucian Aquila and relaxed a little to hear the name. At the very least, they would be safer due to the man's need to maintain his reputation. The origins of his magic were still unclear, however. If anything, they were further muddied by the rumors surrounding the Grandmaster of the Order. Why, some folk even believed he was the son of Solanius.

The Grandmaster shrugged casually. "Why certainly. You can ask me anything once we're all inside. We'll have plenty to discuss over the feast, I would imagine," he replied. He turned to Rhiara and offered his hand to her. "If it isn't Ms. Ludenburg. Quartermaster Alvar wouldn't stop about how you and Herbert slayed that basilisk; word traveled quickly, and I just had to meet you all."

Rhiara shook he Grandmaster’s hand, somewhat softly. Everything about her stance, from her crossed legs to her fiddling with her clothes, screamed ‘not confident.’ “It’s nice to meet you, Grandmaster Aquila.”

"Come now, no need to be shy. It's an honour to meet you both, and -- oh, I beg your pardon, I can't say I'm familiar with your companions?" Lucian said to both Herbert and Rhiara.

“My name is Athaliah Priscou, Grandmaster.” In contrast to Rhiara, Athaliah looked more confident than one might have expected; she held her arms behind her back, stood as straight as she could and she looked the Grandmaster in the eyes. “I’m Rhiara’s best friend.”

"Pleasure to meet you, Ms. Priscou," came the reply.

Herbert's smile was more genuine now as he introduced Erika. "This is my beloved, Erika Nilsson. Since we've brought up slaying beasts, she once slew a werewolf in unarmed combat." Erika blushed somewhat at that and objected slightly. "That's only techically true and that was with you fighting it, using silvered weapons and magic." With no weapons or armor and bundled up in her furred cloak, she certainly didn't look particularly dangerous. In fact, the more chivalrous-minded might have worried for her safety if she traveled the roads alone.

"Is that so? I'm eager to hear more of the tale, then!" Lucian said with a warmhearted, genuine laugh. "After you, my newfound friends," he added, bowing respectfully to Herbert and his companions. The fifteen warriors began moving to the Keep again, followed by those soldiers and commoners who sought to join the feast.

The Samothauress accompanying Lucian leaned towards Herbert's party to speak to them in a hushed voice. "You wouldn't happen to have seen a scarlet-haired woman in bard's clothing and a Furusiyya in your travels, have you?" she asked, a touch meekly, "That poor man in the blanket was robbed blind and left to walk to civilization in the snow when we chanced upon him. Says his father's lute was taken, too."

Erika shook her head. "The only criminals we came across on our way here were the sort no sane woman would willingly keep company with, and even that mad faith of the East would demand better behavior. We'll keep an eye out though. That sounds like a rather distinct pair, and if they would leave a man naked in the winter, they should be caught."

"Absolutely," said the Sun Elf to Lucian's right. "And if they're dressed as a bard en route to Mirador, no doubt they're here to steal Seneschal Hristov's belongings. I recommend you keep a firm hand on your coin purses until we find the two and sever their fingers from their hands."

“There once was a crow named Lucy,
who set out to find his flock.
They laughed and jeered,
and told him to rightly fuck off.

But Lucy, he did not falter.
He knew deep down they were wrong.
So he found some friends and made his band,
a bunch of birds lead by a mong.”

Ceara flipped the stolen lute in her hands, beaming as she finished her short song. “I made that one in about five minutes. Impressive, yes, I know. I accept tips, if any of you are feeling generous?”

The knights that she had preformed for didn’t look too pleased, but they coughed up a polite sum of money for the bard. Ceara eyed the coins with another grin, clapping her hands twice and turning away. Nima approached the table, taking the money and bowing to the gathered knights. The thief and her armoured companion retreated to the edges of the feast, where servants and stewards went about their business of preparing to feed the gathering host. Ceara scanned the room, taking a measure of the people already inside the Great Hall. “It looks fairly crowded. Only the high table is empty.”

Nima nodded. “Are we to stop singing, then?”

“Stop?” The thief smiled ruefully. “I think I’m doing rather well. We might make more money if we keep toasting these tables. Perhaps I’ll even preform for that high lord that everyone is waiting on.” As if on cue, the heavy doors to the Keep swung inward, and every head in the hall turned to catch a glimpse of the new arrivals. The thief rolled her eyes, watching the entire feast gawking at the opened doors. She began to form a snarky comment in her throat, but as she looked closer at just who was coming into the building, the words died in her throat. Escorted by a few holy knights, a man covered with furs was brought into the building. His skin was darker than those around him, and his clothes seemed to be missing.

“Nima.” She whispered calmly. “Move to the kitchen. Follow the next servant that passes.”

“Is there a problem?”

Ceara sighed heavily, slowly removing the feathered cap from her head. “The bard is here.”

The eastern soldier’s voice was as calm as ever. “The next servant that passes, then.”

Cowritten with @Mardox and @BlondyMcHuggles

The Feast Begins
As the party entered the Keep, each of their senses were assaulted by its magnificence: the Great Hall was truly massive, with plentiful seating for the guests. Its stone interior was livened up by many banners and ribbons along the walls and windows, the latter of which let in what light was left in the sky as brilliant torches and candles illuminated the rest of the Hall. The sound of servants and knights conversing and rushing about filled their ears as they made their last rounds to put any finishing touches they could manage into place, and the songs of practicing minstrels and dancing mummers echoed throughout the chamber. The chill of the outdoors was thawed from their bodies as they noted the warmth that filled the Hall, insulated from hellish winter. Almost immediately after they stepped inside, the scent of many cooked meats, freshly baked breads and pastries, and additional indiscernible but no doubt appetizing dishes struck their noses and brought their mouths to water.

Athaliah, while not exactly happy about being in an Order stronghold, did admittedly find the keep to be remarkably beautiful. Of course, that was hardly the Order’s doing. She leaned in close to Rhiara. “They’re a bit showy, aren’t they?”
Rhiara nodded and whispered back. “You know what they say about men with big castles…” The two girls giggled as quietly as they could for longer than they should have.

As they entered the Order keep, Herbert contentedly took in the pleasant aromas of the various foods and Erika removed her furred cloak to reveal her dress. The dress in question was blue with floral patterns on the torso and brown leather at the shoulders. She then folded her cloak and handed it to a nearby servant who was taking garments at the door.

The tables were set, though food had not yet been brought out, signalling that the smell of the feast's main attraction was coming from a nearby kitchen room. At the center and towards the back of the Hall, the Great Table stood, with enough space for the Grandmaster, his followers, and several more. Upon the lord's throne, Seneschal Hristov sat, though he quickly rose with open arms and a joyous grin as he made eye contact with his Grandmaster. "My friend! It is so good to see you after so long!" he called out, stepping down from his throne to navigate around the many long tables to the Grandmaster. The two men briefly embraced with haughty laughter, and seconds later broke away.

"You've outdone yourself, Konstantin," Lucian replied, gesturing about the Hall as he looked around, soaking in the sight.

"Nonsense. Only our best for you and the Apostles, Lucian," Seneschal Hristov said, laying a hand on the Grandmaster's armored shoulder. "So, how has Narbos treated you?"

"Oh... no grand feast such as this," came the reply, "I arrived on a Sunday, we held a wonderful service, and I had the time to rally our forces in Auvergnonne against our enemy. Parties of knights have already begun scouring the Kingdom for activity relating to the outbreak of organized mauraders." He had a bit of a start, realizing who was with him at the time. "Ah, yes, our guests of honor are with us! Let's not hold them up!" With that, he brushed by Seneschal Hristov, letting him do his work.

The Seneschal of Illyrica summoned a great many attendants, who moved towards the guests with basins, pitchers, and cloth napkins, beckoning them to cleanse their hands before proceeding to the tables. The water in the pitchers was perfumed with various aromatics, certainly to prevent disease from traveling by its stench by eliminating the latter, and the water in the basins was filled with rose petals. Said attendants bore the colours of the Order, and judging by their youth (some being children) it was evident that they were squires and pages. Each guest, including Lucian and his followers, offered their hands to be cleansed before heading up to the Great Hall proper and taking their seats.

“Hey, Rhiara?” Athaliah whispered, looking suddenly embarrassed and uncomfortable. She gestured subtly around the room to people who were, by the looks of things, in their best sets of clothes. “We still need to get changed.”
“We do… Well, there’s nowhere we can change, is there?”
“I’ve not bought a dress for nothing; let’s see if we can find something.” Athaliah grabbed Rhiara’s hand and pulled her along, in search of someone to ask about this whole ordeal. Ath caught sight of an armoured figure in white and gold – the standard colours of the Order. She concluded that there was no reason not to talk to the man; after all, if he had no information then it’s not a loss.

“Erm, excuse me, sir.” She began, hoping he was at least somewhat friendly. “You wouldn’t know where my friend and I could change into our more presentable clothing, would you?”

The knight looked their way and nodded. "Why yes, certainly. Down the hall," he says, pointing to the door on the right hand side of the foyer, "To the left. There should be a door to a water closet behind the kitchen. Yeah, we recently imported a Foverosi engineer," he added, smiling and nodding. "Indoor plumbing... I digress, it should suffice. Better than changing in the kitchen in front of the staff or in one of the barracks."

“Many thanks, sir.” Ath replied with a polite nod of her head. The two girls followed the knight’s instructions, both thinking to themselves how much they owed the person who built that closet. Athaliah peeked into the room, making sure it was unoccupied. Thankfully, it wasn’t.
Rhiara looked around the small room, looking slightly saddened. “It’s a bit… tight, isn’t it?”
“Yeah…” Ath replied as she un-fastened her jerkin. “Couldn’t they have found a room with a divider or something?”
Rhiara blushed as Ath stripped down in front of her. “Do you want me to turn around, or…?”
Ath just sighed in response. “Look, it’s going to take forever if we get changed one after another. Let’s just… you know, get changed at the same time.”

Rhi and Ath emerged a little while later, wearing their dresses. Athaliah’s dress was long and dark blue, though it had small patches of lighter blue fabric giving it the look of a starry night sky. The dress hugged her waist slightly and the bustier she wore underneath accentuated her chest that bit more. Fastened around her waist was a small half-cape, with its shades of blue getting darker near the bottom. Her long black hair was tied into a braid down her back.

Rhiara’s dress had a more foreign look to it; It was strapless, dark blue with golden floral designs on the edges, and even the blue fabric itself had subtle floral patterns on it. The dress was longer on one side, ending in a point; The dress was split at the sides and the back part went down to her ankles. The fabric itself was semi-transparent, though another layer was added to the main part of the dress to make it opaque. She wore a semi-transparent black cheongsam collar around her neck and her shoulders, leaving a small part of her upper chest area open. Finally, some black lace stockings and a pair of black shoes completed the outfit.

Meanwhile, in the Great Hall, most of the guests had been seated at the numerous long-tables, and the Grandmaster, his followers, and Seneschal Hristov had gotten out of their armour and by now had taken up much of the space at the Table of Honour, leaving four seats for their guests from outside the Order.

With smiles on their faces, Herbert and Erika cleansed their hands before beginning to move towards the nearest empty seats at one of the nearby tables. To their surprise, they were quickly ushered instead to a different table by a servant who managed to be both sycophantic and rather pushy. "Right this way, Ser and Madam." Simpered the attendant. "I must insist that esteemed persons such as yourselves sit at the Table of Honor with the Grandmaster himself." Mildly bemused that they were the recipients of such attention, the couple followed and were sat by the Sun Elf and Samothaur woman from earlier.

The Sun Elf was first to notice the two, simpering at the Asmeinians as they sat down. "Oh, you're joining us at the Table of Honour? Interesting, I figured it was reserved for Apostles and the Castle Lord," he said.

The Samothauress furrowed her brow and lightly swiped at his shoulder, "Sorano, that's Herbert Leintke, you know this. He and his friends are honoured guests tonight, why wouldn't they be here?" she whispered.

"No, no, you're right. My apologies, the both of you," said the Sun Elf. "Sorano of House Loraethal, Apostle, Archaeologist, Storm Mage, and Graduate of the University of Salaminica," he said, giving a quick, courteous bow with a flourish of the wrist. "Charmed to make your acquaintances."

The Samothauress was more humble in her introductions. "I am Apostle Kinara. Of Nikidon. I think." Her confidence seemed to falter and her expression became more thoughtful and deliberate, as though she were trying (and failing) to remember something of vital importance.

Herbert gave the two a respectful nod and a polite smile while Erika smiled more warmly at both of them. The Samothauress seemed nice enough, but the Sun Elf gave a less favorable first impression. Herbert cleared his throat and introduced himself. "Herbert T. Leintke. Of Krossavik. No affiliations or titles." His introduction was casual, despite the mention of his destroyed hometown.

Once he had finished, Erika gave a similar introduction. "I am Erika Nilsson, also of Krossavik. No titles beyond that of healer. A pleasure to meet you both." She proceeded to intertwine her arm with Herbert's in a way that seemed purely affectionate - and largely was - but also disguised a small nudge to remind him to be friendlier. The monster hunter complied and adopted a more genuine smile.

Kinara's expression slowly changed into one more downcast at the mention of Krossavik, the scorched town. Her ears folded down as her smile fell. She opened her mouth to speak, but she simply couldn't force any words out, lest she touch any nerves.

Sorano seemed to sense her apprehension, and spoke on her behalf. "The pleasure is mutual for the both of us. Though the two of us agree; Krossavik was a tragedy, and we're glad to see that you survived."

"Thank you." Said Herbert, warming to the Elf somewhat. Perhaps he wasn't such a bad fellow, after all. "It's very kind of you to say that." There was a brief pause in the conversation before Erika broke the awkward silence. "Never mind the sorrows of the past, this is a joyous occasion. Though I must admit that I am not entirely sure what we are celebrating. Could you enlighten me?"

"On a more practical note, Seneschal Hristov believed a feast would be a good way of rallying our forces in Illyrica; something powerful lurks on the horizon, our priests can sense it, as can Lucian," Sorano explained, gesturing to the Grandmaster as he took his seat at the "head" of the table. Apparently his definition of "head of the table" was the centermost seat, facing the rest of the Great Hall.

"Coincidentally," Kinara interjected, "Today is the day that the Living Gods came to Thurius in corporeal form, to inhabit the Cathedrae Deorum in Aesera, when the Empire was still whole."

Athaliah and Rhiara walked up towards the two free seats beside Erika while Sorano and Kinara were speaking. They both tried to be as quiet as possible, and only spoke after Kinara had finished so they didn’t come off as rude. “Sorry for our lateness; we needed to look presentable,” Athaliah said, gesturing at her and Rhiara’s dresses.

The Krossavikings were swift to acknowledge their friends' arrival. "You look nice." Remarked Erika. Herbert, meanwhile, addressed Kinara and Sorano. "And here is the other half of our party. The lady in the Far Eastern dress is Rhiara Ludenburg and the lady in the dress from the nation of your mortal enemies is Athaliah Priscou." His tone was light-hearted as he mentioned the second woman. It was likely that he was trying to defuse any potential tension over the dress with humor.

“Thank you.” Athaliah and Rhiara replied, at the same time. They both glared at each other before laughing it off; Ath gave her friend a soft, friendly punch on the arm. Athaliah’s face fell slightly at what Herbert had said. “It’s a nice dress!” she replied defensively. “I wouldn’t expect a monster hunter like you to know anything about fashion.” She retorted in an equally light-hearted manner.

"He doesn't know anything about fashion." Chimed in Erika, cheerfully. "I'm the one who suggested his current outfit. Left to his own devices, he would likely try to wear his cloak and cuirass to feasts like this."

Herbert clapped his hand to his chest melodramatically, before speaking theatrically. "Even you, Erika? Such betrayal breaks my very heart. Whatever shall I do, when everyone around me questions my knowledge of fashion?!"

"Ah, loosen up girls, that's just the true Nord in him clawing his way out!" said the gigantic Norsidic woman from the carriage convoy, sitting on the opposite end of the table. "So what if he wants to carouse in armor, that's just as fashionable, innit, Ser Leintke?" Notably, she too was still encased in her armor. Interestingly, the Cathionic man who had earlier been draped in the fur blanket was now in more decent clothing, and had already begun sipping from a hot bowl of soup. Poor man was most definitely freezing.

"That would be Katla Gunnulfdottir," Sorano replied, leaning towards Herbert. "'Stormbreaker' they call her. Actually killed several storm atronachs and their electromancer demon summoners all with just a warhammer."

Herbert chuckled good-naturedly at the massive woman's . "I could certainly live with that fashion. I think my adoptive father Bjorn might have done that a couple of times." He raised an eyebrow towards Sorano's statement. "Surely that can't be the case. The electricity of such atronachs would cause serious harm to anyone striking them with a held weapon."

"That's the point. How do you think such an event warranted the title 'Stormbreaker?'" Sorano retorted. "I respect her as a warrior and a fellow Apostle, but I do not believe she inherited her father's brains."

The monster hunter's mouth twisted slightly as he processed this claim. He opened his mouth slightly, as if intending to offer a rebuttal, but promptly closed it with a somewhat perplexed expression. Eventually, he merely shrugged and smiled, gesturing to Erika. "They call her the Lioness, for in her ferocity, she tore apart a werewolf with only her teeth and nails."

Erika blushed slightly but smiled with amusement at Herbert. "Since when do 'they' call me that?"

Herbert grinned back cheekily. "Since now."

Sorano gave Erika a completely deadpan once-over, examining the woman, his eyes occasionally glancing towards Herbert. He opened his mouth to speak when his first word was cut short by the sound of a spoon hitting a goblet. Several times.

All eyes fell on Seneschal Hristov as he stood directly across from Sorano at the other end of the table. "Hear ye. Firstly, I see it fit to gives thanks to every man and woman who has come up to attend this gathering," he said. Almost as if on cue, attendants came in with golden ewers of wine, pouring the deep red contents into the glasses of each guest. "We are joined here in Mirador tonight by our very own Grandmaster, Lucian Aquila, Son of Solanius, and rightful Prince of Heaven, and his host of Apostles. Furthermore we are blessed to have in our company the noble Herbert Leintke, the learnéd Erika Nilsson, the valiant Rhiara Ludenburg, and the lovely Athaliah Priscou."

There was a round of raucous applause as he concluded these introductions.

Ath leaned in close to Rhiara to whisper something. “Lovely? Everyone says that, and then they spend enough time with me to see what they said wrong.”
“It’s the dress, Ath; how could anyone think you’d be anything not lovely?”
“Thanks,” she replied with a small smile.

Herbert, meanwhile, raised an eyebrow at the knight calling him noble. He liked to believe his work did good but he seriously doubted that the paladins would approve of his dirty fighting style, not to mention his occasional prayer to Dolekar. Erika, on the other hand, quietly enjoyed her recognition as a scholar.

As the applause died down, the Seneschal spoke up once more. "And as destiny would have it, we gather here today on a most auspicious occasion. A holy day celebrated across the shattered empire! Today was the Day of Manifestation, when the Living Gods descended from Heaven to live within and to guide the Aesernian Empire. In light of this, I ask that we all rise for the Benediction."

Every native guest, from peasant to soldier to nobleman, all ten of the Apostles, and Lucian himself rose from their seats. There was a period of silence, during which the Apostles and Lucian formed prayer gestures, a few of them clearing their throats, in particular the two priests.

A low, deep hum emerged from each of them, and Lucian began to "speak."

"Arise, O Gods..."

In true Church fashion, his speech was more of a melodic chant. Joined now by his Apostles and any guests who knew the words of the hymn, he continued.

"Arise, O Gods, judge Thurius... for Thou shalt have an inheritance among all the nations."

"Sol stood in the congregation of the gods, and in their midst he asked of the gods..."

"Arise, O Gods, judge Thurius... for Thou shalt have an inheritance among all the nations."

"How long have they judged righteously, in the blessed Empire of Aeser...?"

"Arise, O Gods, judge Thurius... for Thou shalt have an inheritance among all the nations."

"Judged for the orphaned and the poor; done justice to the humble and the pauper..."

"Arise, O Gods, judge Thurius... for Thou shalt have an inheritance among all the nations."

"Rescued the poor man and the needy from the hand of the sinner, and delivered him..."

"Arise, O Gods, judge Thurius... for Thou shalt have an inheritance among all the nations."

"They both know and have understood; they war with darkness; let us descend and crown Aesernia our Champion..."

"Arise, O Gods, judge Thurius... for Thou shalt have an inheritance among all the nations."

"They said: 'We their gods, do grant them the blessings of the divine, and with them, we will fight, and through them the Shaituns will fall..."

"Arise, O Gods, judge Thurius... for Thou shalt have an inheritance among all the nations."

The Hymn concluded with a long, fluid, drawn-out "Amen" as all attendees sat back down. With that, the doors to the kitchen burst open and the minstrels present in the Hall burst into song, flutes, lutes, and drums playing merrily as tabard-clad attendants brought trays of roasted meats, seasoned vegetables, fresh baked goods, and steaming soups and stews. They set about placing the trays on the wooden buffet shelf, and began serving the guests, starting with the lower tables. The bounty of food was remarkably ample, and there was certainly enough for many courses for many guests.

The first course served consisted of roast hare, stag which had been left a night in salt, stuffed chickens, and loin-cuts of beef. The latter two dishes were covered in an Asmeiner blonde sauce, served with gilt sugar-plums and pomegranate arils.

As the meat arrived, the Krossavikings contentedly helped themselves. Erika cut a slice of the stag, while Herbert opted for the beef. "You should really try the beef." Remarked the monster hunter, after taking a bite.

"I intend to." Replied Erika after chewing and swallowing a piece of venison. "Just thought I'd try the game animal first."

“Game meat is the best, in my opinion.” Said Rhiara, breaking her long silence. “it’s not so much the taste, but it’s the sense of accomplishment that comes along when it’s an animal you hunted yourself. It feels like I’ve done something, you know?”

Erika smiled and nodded. "I can certainly understand that. Do you do a lot of hunting? I do some every now and then. Herb also sometimes brings home something he's killed for dinner."

Rhiara nodded her head. “I hunt with my dad every week, I think I mentioned that? It’s the only real source of income my family gets, but we make do. About a quarter of the food that people in Hoffen eat is because of me and dad; I’m very proud of it.”

Erika's eyes widened in surprise. "That's rather impressive. I mostly do it recreationally instead of on a large scale. Do you mostly hunt small game or larger animals? Myself, I primarily go after deer and the like."

“We try to go after big game like deer, but it takes a while bringing a corpse that big to town. On a good day, we can maybe get three or four deer if we do it all day, back and forth.” Rhiara just shrugged her shoulders casually. “Me personally, though, I go for rabbits in addition to the deer – they’re easy to carry and you can hold onto a few at a time.”

"Ah." Said Erika. "I just go for one deer normally and I tend not to go for rabbits since they're small and they have a tendency to vanish into little hiding places when I draw near. I take it that hunting is how you learned to use a bow?"

“In a manner of speaking, yes. You see, my dad’s father was a hunter, as was his father and it goes on for generations. It was only the firstborn man of the family that would go hunting with his father, but I’m an only child so my dad had to make do, essentially.” She shook her head and clicked her tongue. “That’s not the answer you wanted, sorry.” She said sheepishly. “But yes, the only reason I can use a bow is because of the hunting. I think I knew my way around a bow before I could even run – at least, that’s what mum says.”

"I was an only child as well." Remarked Erika. "Though neither of my parents really had a trade that had been passed down through the generations. My father was an undertaker before he met my mother and served in the town guard after that. My mother also served in the defense of the town."

Rhiara struggled to think about what to say next, as she knew how well defending the town went for them. Athaliah might have joined the conversation if she weren’t talking to somebody else. “Didn’t you ever feel like they might have forced you into the same profession if they had the chance? I feel like my family did to me, to some extent but I couldn’t bring myself to disappoint them. That’s not to say I don’t like it now, but who knows where I’d be if I wasn’t a hunter.”

"Not really." Replied Erika. "My mother simply joined that profession due to her natural skills and my father joined because the town no longer needed an undertaker and the town guard was hiring. I thought you were a carpenter, though?"

“Well, I am…” Rhiara confirmed. “But what I meant was, everything in my life has been defined by hunting; even my woodcarving hobby came about when I chopped up bits of wood for a fire one day.”

"I understand. What kind of things do you normally carve?" Inquired Erika. "I do a bit of drawing, myself."

---

Most of the Apostles opted to talk amongst themselves, given the majority were on the other end of the Great Table, and talking across the table simply wasn't convenient. Sorano kept up a conversation with Grandmaster Lucian - from the bits and pieces that Herbert and his companions picked up on, it seemed to be a discussion of ancient Savarian ruins and pre-Flame eastern theology.

Apostle Kinara, on the other hand, had been engaged in a conversation with Athaliah.

“So, you’re a bow woman, huh?” Athaliah said thoughtfully. “How good are you with a blade, though? If someone gets up close to you and you can’t fight back well, you’ll die. It’s as simple as that.”

"Well, I am skilled with a mace or battle hammer with a buckler. It's good at crushing armour when arrows don't pierce," Kinara replied. "The balancing and techniques of swords are different, and I find myself just a bit less skilled with the blades than the blunts. What about yourself?" she gave the human a genuine smile, pleased to be socializing with people from outside the Order, it appeared.

“I’m more of a blades girl myself,” Athaliah shrugged. “I’ve never seen the value of blunt weapons in combat, if I have to be completely honest with you. They’re too heavy - in my opinion - and if you’re fighting several people, it’s over. No offence, by the way. If it works for you, keep at it.”

"Well, I think you underestimate my strength," Kinara replied with a smirk, "If I were using a maul or warhammer, weight would be an issue indeed. I'm unarmed now, so I cannot show you, but it's a flanged mace, good for striking plate armor, excellent for battering Great Helmets, especially on the flat top," she added, poking the crown of her head. "Rarely do I need to be so close as to use the mace as it stands, though, but I will keep this in mind - my buckler should aid me in multiple enemy combat at least, no?"

Athaliah nodded as the cowgirl spoke. “So, you prefer fighting on your own, I take it? I prefer fighting as part of a formation; there’s something special about being shoulder-to-shoulder with the men and women you’re fighting with. We all come together as one,” Athaliah entwined her fingers with each other, “and I love that. I know people are watching my back, and they know the others and I are watching theirs.”

"Formation fighting is good, but in the event such a formation is broken and you must fight alone, how do you go about doing it? Do you have any sidearms, like the phalanxes and cataphracts in Foveros have? Small swords or axes when you can't use your spear and shield?" she asked Athaliah.

“I carry a sword, just in case.” Ath replied. “In the militia that I’m part of, everyone who is part of a shield wall has to not only be able to use a spear and shield, but a sword and shield too. In my experience, the phalanxes that I’ve been part of have never broken because we only face small groups of bandits who’d rather run than fight us. If we fought orcs or something, well, that would probably be different.” Ath stroked her chin. “What made you choose archery, anyway?”

Kinara paused, tapping her chin thoughtfully. When she had sufficiently considered her response, she looked at Athaliah and replied, "I chose to be an archer because I fell in love with hunting. Being alone -- or among those I trust -- out in nature is soothing to me. Being the hunter, earning my own keep is empowering. And as it happens, through the Blessing of Veturia placed upon my people, I can control the winds to a degree. It helps me to aim and to curve the path my arrows fly. Not to mention," she explained, flexing her arm for emphasis, "I am stronger than most; more draw power, deadlier arrows. It all just fits, I suppose."

“Hmm… maybe you could teach Weiss some things.” She saw the look of slight confusion on Kinara’s face. “Oh, Weiss is Rhiara. You know, white hair. Anyway, she’s just so squishy; could do with a bit more muscle, ya know? That sounds like an insult, doesn’t it? I mean, it isn’t. It’s kind of cute. But still…”

Kinara chuckled at Athaliah's attempt at damage control. "If you want somebody to turn her into a block of muscle, speak to Katla," she said, nodding to the half-giant, who laughed and proudly flexed her arms. "Though I suppose I could teach her things about the bow and arrow. I'd like that," she added, smiling at Athaliah as she stabbed a slice of the stuffed chicken and put it in her mouth.

“Well, there might be some time in the morning before we have to be going back home, if you’re really offering. And if she agrees, that is.” She looked over to her friend, who was busy chatting away with Erika. “I’ll ask her later.” She returned her attention solely to Kinara. “So, what is it you do in your free time, then? You can’t hunt all the time, surely.”

"Well, ever since I learned to read I've enjoyed literature," the Samothauress replied. "Rhodric and Aranirya insist that I put my literacy to use reading the Holy Codex, and I do, don't misinterpret me, but for entertainment I much prefer the works of the Avidii. I've been a fool for tales of heroism and romance ever since I picked up Sidonius Avidius's The Argent Voyage." She smiled half-nervously, as though embarrassed by her taste in literature.

Ath gave out a small ‘hmm’ and nodded. “I read it once, but it wasn’t really my kind of thing. I like adventure books, I like romance books occasionally, but blended together? Nah; they’re usually not done very well in my opinion. It’s pretty hard getting hold of any books though, unfortunately. Hoffen is a pretty… uh, isolated place.”

"Oh, that's quite alright," Kinara replied, "Not many copies of the classics are in circulation these days anyways. Much of them are handwritten in the temples and monasteries. I suppose what they lack in speed and quantity, they make up for in sheer beauty. I've even got an Argenreaux copy of Li Desfaires. Lucian gave it to me himself. It's a beautiful tale, if not tragic," Kinara said. She was visibly enthused to be carrying on the conversation, especially with another literate.

“The language is too flowery for me, but I suppose it did its job well enough.” Ath replied, somewhat enjoying the conversation herself, even if they disagreed on a couple of points. “One of my favourite books is ‘The Lion and the Tiger’; I don’t think it’s the most well-known pieces of work, but I’m sure someone as into reading as you might have at least heard of it?”

Kinara smiled, her tail flicking about and her ears folding downwards. She wasn't sure how to respond to that verbally, but something about this human's tastes in literature irritated her. It wasn't anything to fight over, though, to each their own, but she vastly preferred the original telling of that story; Petronius and Philyra.

“You disagree.” Athaliah said blankly, with a shrug. “What don’t you like about it?”

Kinara's smile faded and her eyes widened, her expression becoming more regretful, as though she had been caught doing something wrong. "Well, I..." she paused, trying to think through what she had to say. She had been doing so well as it was socializing, better than she usually did with outsiders, and she hardly wanted to jeopardize it or alienate the guests. "I mean, I like it, but I can't say it's nearly as good as the original story it's based off of. I appreciate the author's use of hubris and dramatic irony, but..."

"The leads are too perfect," Sorano interjected (to Kinara's chagrin), "or, rather, the lesbian author insists that her lesbian protagonists are perfect victims who did no wrong or harm. Meanwhile every character that disagrees with the protagonists, regarding their single-track-minded motivation to simply get married, gets utterly fucked by the end of the play, either by their own hubris which admittedly was well designed, or by the machinations of the lead characters -- who again 'did no wrong or harm.' It comes across as the publicized sexual fantasies of the author, in which designated 'victims' prosper while their critics burn."

Kinara shrugged passively, a bit miffed that Sorano had gone and interrupted her, but ultimately agreeing with his description. "He's not mostly wrong..."

Athaliah nodded at some points of the elf’s rant, but shook her head at others. “No, no, no. I’d like to say that the leads aren’t perfect, first of all. They act out of love for each other more than anything, which is far from perfect. They were naïve to believe that their fathers would actually keep their words about having peace with the other side. Plus, they don’t prosper, by the end, at all; Acacia and Estana are both wrecks because of their families destroying each other, and they only have each other for comfort early on. Besides,” Ath shrugged. “love makes people do stupid things.”

"It was naïve to believe a homosexual marriage was legally binding to begin with, given the lack of heirs. Their fathers merely sought to exploit this by placating their daughters, whom were getting in the way of each others' conquest. As sick as it is to play with people's emotions, it was fair and legal play," Sorano continued.

"She's absolutely right about the flaws of the characters, though," Kinara retorted. She flashed him an irritated look, silently gesturing for him to politely fuck off. Turning back to Athaliah, she replied to the human, "I understand the motivations and actions of the characters, and I think the playwrightess did marvelously, but it just simply doesn't hold up as a tragedy the way Petronius and Philyra does in my opinion."

“I agree; they’re really completely different stories.” Athaliah nodded. “Petronius and Philyra is great for what it is – a tragedy. Meanwhile, the Lion and the Tiger plays with multiple genres at once. In my opinion, the tragedy is as good as in Petronius and Philyra, but you disagree, others probably do, that’s fine. The action in the book is second to none, as well; you truly get a sense of scale in the great battle scene, for instance.”

"The Battle Scene translates terribly to the stage though," Kinara said with an amused chuckle, "Act III is as good as it gets for on-stage fighting. With all the extras playing fighting soldiers on stage, you really get a feeling for how chaotic the Fall of Messerae was. And I think that playing with multiple genres only serves to confuse the audience; should they laugh, cry, scream, boo, cheer? Petronius and Philyra focuses on being a tragic romance, and does it well every time it's played. A pity it's so rare, you'd be hard pressed to find a theatre in all of the Western Kingdoms that puts it on. Despite the romanticism of events, it accurately portrays the tension between the Foverosian humans and Samothaurs of Messerae before and during the War of Samothracian Secession, and because of that, I think it makes the love between Petronius and Philyra all the more genuine and bittersweet."

“I think it’s to do with how it’s shown. To properly appreciate the Lion and the Tiger, you have to read it, on your own. Or, at least, I assume so. I’ve never been to a theatre before. Besides, can you imagine cramming thirteen thousand men onto a stage? It’d be chaos.” Ath gave out a small giggle. “Anyway. There’s another reason why I like the book."

"And what would that be?" Kinara curiously asked.

“Uh…” Athaliah began, her cheeks going pink. “You know… It’s… Damn, I thought I’d have an answer ready. I… like someone. Like like.”

Sorano had been quietly listening in, and upon hearing this shot the Foverosi a curious albeit unamused glance. What truly caught his attention however was the fact that Kinara herself was blushing. "Well, that's one thing we've in common," she meekly replied.

Ceara examined an ornate candlestick, drawing her finger across the gilded surface before tossing it to her armoured companion. “Thats the last of it. Here, hand me that bag.” Nima nodded, closing the burlap sack and dropping it on the floor. The redheaded thief rolled her eyes, sauntering to the bag of stolen goods and grasping it with both hands. “Oh, that’s quite heavy…” Ceara pulled upwards again, to little avail. “Alright. You’ll carry that, then.”

Nima nodded again, slinging the spoils of their victory in Mirador over his shoulder as the thieves began to draw their heist to a close. The bowels of Mirador were rich with gold this and silver that, and Ceara had been sure to clear every last room of their valuables. Now, the bag they had brought was full, and the feast upstairs sounded to be in full swing. The time to slip away was now.

The thieves rattled their way through the empty cellars, the valuables they had stolen clanking with every step. Fortunately, as they drew nearer and nearer to the feast, the sounds of song and drink began to overpower every other noise. Clambering up the stairs that lead into the kitchen, Ceara pushed open the thin wooden door that separated the Order’s depository from the feasting Great Hall. The thief scanned the kitchen, looking out for knights, soldiers, and most of all, the bard.

Ceara looked for a few moments, sighed, and closed the door so she could comfortably addressing her friend. “There’s only one exit not covered by gaggles of drinking knights - we’ll have to go right out through the Great Hall.”

“We will be caught. You will have your hands cut off, and I will lose my head. These knights do not like me.” Nima said matter of factly.

Ceara snorted. “The vast majority of these knights are too drunk to cut off anything, never mind notice a bard leaving their little party.” Ceara composed herself, putting a confident smile on her face. “If you walk with purpose, people won’t question you. Come on, lets get this over with.”

The thieves walked through the kitchen and into the Great Hall, making their way towards the exit.

They arrived to the sound of drunken laughter and raucous singing in the lower tables, whilst the guests at the Great Table and its immediate surrounding area remained relatively sober, a few priests reading from the Holy Codex in Foverosi Tone. The Grandmaster sat in the center of the Great Table, merrily conversing with his Apostles and his honoured guests.

Seneschal Hristov, somewhat further down the path of intoxication than the others, was still functional enough to spot and recognize Ceara as she was creeping past the more hammered soldiers and peasants. "Aye! She with the hair of saffron and the voice of silk!" he called out, gesturing to the "bard." The Apostles ceased whatever they were speaking about and turned towards Ceara and Nima. Physical responses raged from general apathy to outright antipathy from the more zealous Apostles upon sighting the Easterner, but other than scathing glares, nothing was said or done. "You were the one toasting tables earlier. Right, put the other minstrels to shame," he explained, chuckling aloud.

The actual bard, Mostafa Idrissi, recognized the false bard for who she was almost instantly, glaring daggers at her. However, his expression softened the moment more eyes began falling on her and her companion, knowing she was caught.

Caught in the middle of dipping a chunk of bread into his goblet of wine, Grandmaster Aquila quickly consumed it, sizing up the bard. Her hair, complexion, and travel partner fit the description Mostafa had given him, yet he regarded her with complete neutrality. "Indeed?" he asked in Hristov's general direction, his gaze not yet leaving the thief's. "It's a shame you haven't yet graced our guests for the feast proper. Like the loveliest member of a choir leaving after Morning Vespers, never to sing the Liturgy." He smiled kindly, leaning forwards and resting his elbows on the table. "I'd love to hear what you have to offer." There was a drunken holler from the other guests, who clearly desired a performance for all the wrong reasons.

Ceara could only smile as she approached the Great Table, giving the Apostles a small curtsy as she surveyed their faces. Mostafa was staring at her, with the hint of a smile tugging at the edges of his lips. If the bard was sitting with these men and women, then her game was up. The thief sighed, and waved to her companion. He dropped the bag of stolen goods with a metallic clank.

Apostle Alessio froze, narrowing his eyes, looking over to Nima. "Wait. What?"

"Pastries." replied the redheaded thief, gesturing to the sack with a wry grin. "My armoured friend has quite a sweet tooth, and your kitchen was too happy to oblige." She took her lute in both hands plucking a few of the strings to practice. "Now, shall I sing?" She turned to the lower tables, raising her voice to address the whole of the feast. "Does anyone have any recommendations?"

A response of mixed requests filled the air. "Ballad of Port Allilona!" some cried, "Wulfhard the White!" said others.

Grandmaster Aquila lifted a hand, and his followers gradually but obediently fell quiet. "Surprise us with your best or most favorite, my friend. Whatever you play the best."

Ceara turned to the Grandmaster, her eyes flashing ruefully. "I think I know just the song, your holiness." She motioned for Nima to stand beside her, and began to play.

“There once was a crow named Lucy,
who set out to find his flock.
They laughed and jeered,
and told him to rightly fuck off.

But Lucy, he did not falter.
He knew deep down they were wrong.
So he found some friends and made his band,
a bunch of birds lead by a mong.

There once was a crow named Lucy,
Who lead his flock to the east.
He spent his days chasing camels,
Who didn’t care in the least.

But Lucy, he never faltered.
The crow would have his day.
So he took his band to the field,
Yet even to camels,
Lucy was naught but prey.”

As the "bard" sung in quick, overly merry time and played in a talented albeit exaggerated manner, the smiles and optimism of the guests slowly disappeared, starting most visibly with the Apostles, spreading throughout the Great Hall. By the song's end, only Lucian himself was smiling, appearing to have enjoyed the song. There was a morbidly painful silence as even the priests and minstrels stopped reading or singing. A few grown squires preemptively escorted any children and pages from the room.

The void of sound was broken by the slow, steady clapping of Seneschal Hristov, who had his eyes firmly locked onto the thief, having apparently spontaneously sobered up, no longer laughing and celebrating. A few guests looked over to Nima's burlap sack, noticing the tell-tale glimmer of gold against the firelight.

"I daresay that was a stunning performance, lady bard," Hristov said, letting his arms drop to his lap. "You've rendered us all speechless with your lyricism and skill. Though, tell me, bard; do you prefer your fingers or your tongue?"

Ceara’s smile faltered for a moment, and before she could reply, Nima’s sword was out of his scabbard.

The Apostles were the first to respond, followed by the knights who happened to be armed. Swords, axes, maces, polearms, daggers, and all assortments of arms were drawn. "You know, if there's one thing I admire about your kind, it's that even when faced by far better armed, more numerous forces, you are still willing to battle to the grave. More like the Nords than even some Nords," Apostle Sorano sneered, electrical magic sparking between his fingertips as he readied a spell should things go awry.

Lucian stood up, raising his arms high and beckoning his men to settle down. "At ease! At ease, come now, there is no reason for such pointless bloodshed."

Seneschal Hristov was first to protest. "Grandmaster, with the deepest sincerity: they come into my castle, disrespect our Order, and attempt to steal what we have earned through great tribulation, as we pray to the Gods and celebrate in their names."

"What is a ruler if he cannot find it in him to laugh at himself from time to time? We are not the Kings and Generals, and we are most certainly not the Sultans and Emirs. Her song is forgivable; we know it in our hearts that she and her sort are led astray, that their scorn and mockery is derived from ignorance of mind and impurity of soul. We will be vindicated in the end when it is demonstrated before them by the Gods themselves."

"To forgive them is up to the Gods, Lucian," said Apostle Yusuf, gesturing towards the two offenders with his sword, "to send them to their judgement is our duty, is it not?"

"They did attempt to rob us. In fact they did rob young Mostafa," said Apostle Aranirya. "Surely we cannot let a thief roam?"

Lucian gave an apologetic glance towards Herbert and his party. "That is true, and we shalt not suffer a thief to continue stealing. Though I ask, for the sake of our guests, we do not carry out retribution in the Great Hall."

"Very well, then I ask of her again," Hristov replied, turning back to the thief and slave-soldier, "Do you prefer your fingers or your tongue?"

Nima growled like a wild animal, but Ceara pulled him backwards and said something quietly. He seemed to calm, and she addressed the Seneschal. "Exactly how many fingers are we talking? I've only got one tongue. And it's quite the tongue, believe me."

"Fingers? Or your tongue?" Hristov repeated again, more sternly. "I'd like to know."

"You never answered my question. It's a fairly big decision, so I'd like to know all the details." Ceara took a step towards the Great Table, narrowing her eyes. "I've heard some of your knights decided to choose the pyre over slavery. I wonder how long they got to make that choice?"

Immediately as she finished her sentence, the room was fully illuminated in a flash of golden light as a roaring thunderclap ripped through the air. Ceara was blasted off of her feet, thrown from the dais and onto the stone floor, her vision whitened and blurred, and her hearing naught but an incessant ringing for a few moments before clarity returned. A strong, blunt pain developed, as though she had been beaten across the face.

Lucian was standing with his arm outstretched towards where her face had once been, his palm open and flat, the last wisps of golden mist dissipating from around his hand. "You will not dare," he said as his hand closed into a fist and authoritative finger, which he jabbed in her direction, "desecrate the blessèd names of my brothers and sisters whose souls were stolen from the gods, families, friends, and people whom they loved so dearly that they were prepared to die in their names, to ensure that countless millions in Iurusolym and beyond would not be forced to the pyre as they were! For in death as in life, they were more righteous and far more brave than you will ever be, you craven, loathsome maggot."

He was clearly livid, but he did not speak in a manner that openly flaunted his wrath. Rather he maintained a generally calm, collected attitude, if not firm and aggressive.

Nima, enraged at the sight of his friend knocked across the room, began to stalk towards the Grandmaster. Knights on all sides of him began to ready themselves for combat, but he paid them no mind. His raspy voice was lined with venom. “You will answer for striking her, crusader.”

The sound of rapid, shallow breathing became audible as Apostle Kinara sprung from her seat, clutching one of her dinner knives. Her eyes locked onto the slave-soldier, and she was nearly overcome with terror, shivering and stammering about how she "refused to go back." Lucian eyed the Samothauress empathetically, then looking back to Nima.

"Honoured guests, you have my absolute sincerest apologies for the terrible turn this has taken," he said to Herbert and his party. "I was not anticipating such familiar and unwelcome company."

"Oh, shit, it looks like I missed one," said Apostle Katla, eyeing the slave-soldier up and down as the Grandmaster walked around the Great Table, towards Nima.

"And you will answer for your treatment of my Apostle and her loved ones, slave-soldier, just as your companion will answer for her theft and her appalling lack of tact and decency towards those who died so that she could live. But I respectfully ask that we not do this in the Great Hall, before so many who have nothing to do with this conflict. Put down your saber and go with the guards, and there will be clemency for you both. I am a man of my word. Strike, and you will instead force my hand."

This sparked a mixture of applause and protest, with the guests and Apostles roughly divided on how to proceed. Some, to include Mostafa, Hristov, and Kinara, bayed for their blood, others such as Apostles Rhodric, Alessio, and Serena, lauded the negotiation.

"That will be enough!" Lucian cried, lifting his hand to gesture for silence. "The Order is not some band of vengeful barbarians and zealots. We are warriors of the Gods, and Solanius chief among the Ten would have true justice, not passionate revenge. Have I not taught you better than this?"

Immediately, the protestors fell silent. Every eye in the room turned to the slave soldier, but the man himself seemed strangely detached from the unfolding situation. His eyes were locked to the Samothauress, watching her sputter and squirm with fear. “You…” he whispered. “I know you.” He lowered his sword, cocking his head while the apostle cried in terror.

Kinara lifted her knife up defensively, practically on the verge of hyperventilating. Before Nima could make any further moves, Lucian stepped between him and the panicking Apostle. "If you so much as consider finishing the last task your masters gave you, I will personally finish the task I gave to my men. You will not hurt her any longer," he growled lowly, just for Nima to hear. "Now, I will offer one final time," he said more audibly, as a pair of knights grabbed Ceara by the arms and lifted her up, taking her away to the dungeons below. "Drop. Your. Sword."

Nima looked confused more than anything else. He tore his eyes from Kinara when he saw his redheaded friend meekly struggling against her captors as she was dragged away from the Great Hall, and he set his gaze on Lucian. There was a moment of hesitation, and then the slave soldier sheathed his blade and removed the belt from his waist. Neatly wrapping it around the scabbard, he carefully presented the sword on the ground, and started to follow Ceara towards her imprisonment without another word.

Two knights stood up and followed behind the slave-soldier, hands on the grips of their weapons, as they escorted him down to the dungeon. Lucian, inwardly pleased with the nonviolent outcome, carefully picked up Nima's sabre and handed it to an attendant. "Have this polished and brought to my quarters," he said. When the attendant left to follow his command, Lucian turned to Kinara, who was being looked after by her fellow Apostles. She was slowly calming down, now having dropped the knife back onto the table. He approached her carefully, reaching over to gently tilt her head in his direction, bringing her to look at him.

"I a-apologize, Grandmaster, I don't know what..." she tried to say, the pace of her breathing decreasing.

"I understand, Kina. Are you going to be okay with staying with us for the remainder of our time in the Great Hall, or would you prefer someone to take you to the guest quarters?" Lucian asked, speaking softly. She pondered her options for a moment, then shook her head. "He can't hurt you any longer. I wouldn't let him. None of these men and women would."

As the thieves left and an awkward silence settled over the feast, Herbert remarked drily "Well, that certainly wouldn't be my choice of dinner entertainment, but to each their own." With that, he turned his attention back to the meal and conversation with the other guests.

Following Herbert's example, the Apostles began to act more naturally, resuming their meals. The rest of the guests followed, laughing boisterously at the incident that had just unfolded. Lucian sat back down, nodding gratefully to Herbert. "I truly am beyond sorry for what just transpired, Ser Leintke," he said, picking up his knives and resuming his own meal, stabbing a slice of heron and putting it in his mouth.

Herbert nodded absentmindedly, paying the Grandmaster's unnecessary apology little mind. Despite his sarcastic remark, he hadn't really minded the drama and interruption.

Mostly written by @Luftwaffles and @BlondyMcHuggles

The ground was not solid, but alive. It was a sea, an ocean of squirming masses, piles of bones, rotting flesh, broken bodies and crushed corpses. The world was dark and massive, but it was not silent. The corpses that made this land groaned and whimpered, countless voices raised in a twisted chorus of long, sobbing, wracking cries. No distinguishable words were spoken, but the screaming went on, always on. Some bodies were fresh, their vocal cords intact; and so their howling wails were the loudest. But there were older creatures as well, broken figures of nothing but bone and sinew. Their bodies squirmed as well, but not as vigorously.

There was one small crest in this void of despair and anguish, one shape that stood against the rolling swells of undeath. It looked to be a wretched creature, a pale figure of white skin and jutted bone. The monster’s body was smooth, but it seemed as though the skin had been stretched against it’s skeletal frame, as if a sheet of pale leather had been wrapped around a starving child. The creature’s face was milky and pure, and it had no lips or hair or nose or even eyes - the only thing on that could be distinguished was the mouth, from which sprung forth a set of chipped white fangs, all stained with red and black. When it reached from underneath the threadbare blanket covering it’s bony back, the corpses beneath it seemed to shrink away, as if desperately trying to keep out of its horrible reach. The creature’s fingers were long and spindly, sharpened at their ends and blackened by filth.

The Lord of the Lost wrapped his fingers around a fresh body, his forced smile widening as the decaying skull was raised to his teeth. Opening his mouth and exposing a black maw, Hargash began to devour his broken follower. Hargash greedily forced the decaying corpse down his gullet, pushing the body deeper with his thin fingers. Once the rotting toes disappeared down his throat, the evil god’s jaws slammed shut with a sickening crunch, and the shaitun continued on his shaky steps through the realm of the undead.

As the wretched god stumbled through his world of suffering, his routine was disrupted by a gout of flame that tore a hole in the sea of the damned. With a sound like the screams of a murdered legion and a smell like a graveyard burning, a pair of massive black gates composed of charred bones appeared within the fire. With a screech, they swung open and an enormous crimson dragon flew through them.

The dragon's snout was scarred by several long gashes, and the scales around the old wounds were paler than the rest, giving them a sickly sort of look. Perhaps a poison or venom had tainted them. The rest of the great reptile was marked with a number of other scars telling the tale of a lengthy life of violence. Here, a group of scars marked where dwarven crossbows had sent their bolts. There, claw marks spoke of another dragon who had been foolish enough to challenge him. He was Htraknu, Father of all Dragons.

The monstrous size of the dragon was apparent even from where Hargash was standing. Hargash was tall compared to humans in his own right at around nine feet, but Htraknu was easily seven times that. The dragon’s long face was always in a scowl, and this time was no different; his razor-sharp teeth the size of small men were bared for the god to see. “You couldn’t run forever, demon.”

His voice boomed around Hargash’s realm for anyone and everyone unfortunate enough to be alive to hear; it was deeper than a voice had any right to be and the end of every word was stretched out in his throat. Hargash, though, hadn’t done anything to show fear; after all, what could an immortal being be frightened of? The Father of Dragons stalked towards the god and every step brought the noises of bone being turned into powder and flesh being squished.

Hargash snickered, but he made sure to begin scrambling away from the gargantuan beast. “Yoooouuu werrreeee a fooollll to come heeereee, woooorrrrmmm.” He gnashed his fangs, oozing black discharge leaking from his closed teeth. “Thissss reeaaallmmmm isss mmiinnnee ooowwwnnn…” His voice broke into twisted cackling, and the Lord of the Lost disappeared into his ocean of the damned.

Htraknu let out a snarl of anger, attempting to raise his massive claws as he tracked the fleeing demon. However, he felt far more resistance than when he first arrived. The dragon looked down, seeing thousands of wretched bodies clambering on his mighty frame, dragging him downward.

The dragon lifted his colossal tail and brought it down onto the living, writhing ground with a mighty crash. It was all for nothing, however; the bodies that were crushed simply continued to move, spurred on by whatever evil magic controlled them. Htraknu managed to get his forelimbs free of the sea of flesh, though a few mangled corpses were still clinging on to his scales and claws. He stood up on his back legs and let out an immense roar as fire blasted from his mouth onto the ground.

The vile stench of melting flesh mixed with the horrid smell of death that was always in the air. “Hiding are we…?” the dragon growled but his small smile showed that he was relishing the hunt. He breathed fire at the ground again and again, and stomped his way around, dispersing some of the bodies. “You’re not… you’re not scared of me, are you?”

Without warning, the entire realm turned black for a split second; Hargash emerged from the black directly in front of where Htraknu stood. “Fffeeeeeeeearrrr isssss ffffforrrrrr plaaaaaythiiiiinnnnngsssssssss!” The demon was far larger than he was before as well – a benefit of being in his own realm. Hargash was in a frenzy as he swiped at the dragon’s head and neck, leaving several long and deep wounds. Getting so close to the dragon was not without its risks, however, as the demon soon discovered. He felt dozens on teeth puncturing into his body, before being shook around like a toy in a dog’s mouth. Hargash broke free of the dragon’s deadly grip by slashing at the beast’s eyes. The dragon let out a roar of fury, giving Hargash the perfect view of Htraknu’s teeth; a metallic glint caught the demon’s eyes and stark realisation hit him.

Hargash felt his power waning somewhat, and he knew that the only object that could do that was Veturia’s scalpel – unfortunately for him, that very scalpel was in the dragon’s mouth, acting as a tooth. “Do you feel it, demon?” the dragon taunted. “Do you realise how pathetic you are?” The demon turned around and ran as fast as his spindly legs could carry him, and instead of running him down and ending the fight, the dragon simply followed him.

After some time, the demon fell to his hands and knees from exhaustion. It was something a god could never have experienced before. He looked around his real and surprisingly, he saw no sign of the colossal dragon. His relief was smashed to pieces when a voice boomed from above. “It is truly a wonderful sight; a god on his hands and knees before me.” The dragon landed in front of the god and folded his wings back onto his back. “Thank you kindly for the entertainment.” He growled before biting into the weak god’s body. Just as the dragon had hoped, the scalpel had pierced Hargash’s heart. The demon squirmed pitifully for a second or two in the dragon’s maw; Htraknu simply shook his prey in his mouth to end him permanently. The ground started to shake as soon as the god perished, soon turning into what felt like an extremely powerful earthquake. A horrid scream came from the now-dead god, and its corpse convulsed uncontrollably while Htraknu felt himself growing in power. He commanded the corpses on the ground to stop moving, and they did just that. Htraknu now had control of his own divine realm and as far as he and his followers were concerned, he was a god already.