Written with @PrinceOfHeaven and @BlondyMcHuggles

A Call to Arms

With the unfortunate thieving incident behind them, the Order continued their feast in Mirador Keep. At this time they had progressed to the fourth course, consistering of light wafers, jellies and preserves, cream covered in fennel seeds and preserved in sugar, white cream with cheese and fresh strawberries, and plums stewed in rose syrup. Each dish was served by young pages and squires to the guests, who occupied themselves once again with their companions and with the music of the bards.

Apostle Sorano seemed to favor the white cream and strawberries at first, though was beginning to noticeably slow down, his brow furrowed as if he were in deep thought. He had a contemplative aura about him as he looked off into the distance. Delicately placing a cream-dipped berry into his mouth, he looked over to Erika and Herbert. "Tore apart a werewolf unarmed? Normally such a feat is performed by the werewolf. I have a few ideas as to how this is possible, but I would not like to make baseless assumptions; each seems more ridiculous than the last, which leads me to believe that perhaps your partner's tale is mere embellishment. Fiction."

Erika smiled back, now somewhat amused by the elf's lack of faith. "Truth can be stranger than fiction, Apostle Loraethal. Why not tell us what these 'ridiculous ideas' are?" With that, she took a small bite of her own serving of white cream and strawberries. Meanwhile, Herbert sipped at a cold beverage and listened to the conversation with a smile twitching at his lips.

"The first is that you killed the werewolf in a fit of desperate wrath, killing it with your bare hands before ripping it open," Sorano replied, leaning fowards. "The second, that you possess some sort of magical power, potentially a form of berserker rage. Third, is that you are of questionable heritage, granting you strength superior to that of the lycans." He punctuated his explanation with another strawberry, chewing quietly as he looked the unassuming human over.

"'Questionable?' All this time and you've never once commented on my giant blood," Katla remarked, chuckling at Sorano. "What pairing would you consider so out there as to be questionable?"

The Sun Elf swallowed the strawberry and glanced over to the half-giant woman. "Something volatile to most people. A rare pairing, possibly a black-widow mating," he responded. "But I do not wish to insinuate that which is false..."

The healer contemplated Sorano's theories for a moment before speaking. "Desperate wrath - even in the most dire of scenarios - is no match for a lycanthrope on its own. As for berserk fury, I'm not entirely sure who would win in unarmed combat between a berserker and a werewolf. Nor am I cursed by Odys. Your last theory is the correct one. My parents were indeed a rare pair, but not a black-widow pairing." She paused, reflecting and then chuckled. "Let's see if you can guess my heritage, shall we?"

Sorano leaned back, narrowing his golden eyes at the Asmeinlander. "Ah... what could be vicious enough to take a werewolf..."

"Cyclops?" suggested Apostle Alessio.

"No, you dumb bastard, she'd only have the one eye if that were the case; Cyclopses are close enough to human to not need polymorphing, same with giants," retorted Apostle Sidon. "Clearly she is part Karkadann."

"And what in the fuck is a Karkadann, Sidon?" Alessio replied.

"Savarian unicorn, essentially, only it more closely resembles a rhinoceros. Hulking, black-scaled mass of muscle," said Apostle Yusuf as he continued to eat, staring nonchalantly at his meal and not once sparing the other two Apostles a glance, as if speaking to himself.

"A Karkadann doesn't have the power to tear something apart though. Goring, yes, but not ripping. Perhaps you are half-chimera?"

"No," Said Erika, "but it's definitely closer than a rhinoceros unicorn, except for the fact that a chimera is a beast rather than a being." She stretched briefly. "I'll give you a hint, it's native to the west and capable of thought."

"Capable of killing a werewolf in such a manner... native to the west... sentient. Which was the human if I may ask, the father or the mother?" Sorano inquired.

"My father was the human." Replied Erika, trying to think of what creatures might be ruled out by such a statement.

Sorano went quiet, his focused expression indicating that he was calculating the likelihood of each possibility. As he opened his mouth to speak, there was the low, deep sound of rumbling. Seconds later, plates, bowls, utensils, and goblets began shuddering atop the tables. Moments after this, Rhodric, Aranirya, and several other priests became visibly distressed, with Lucian following shortly.

"No, no that's not..." Aranirya mumbled to herself, holding her head.

"What is it this time...?" Sorano inquired, perking an eyebrow.

Lucian sat back in his seat, a glazed expression forming across his features as he stared off towards the ceiling. "So they do bleed..." he murmured. The rumbling grew more intense, turning into an outright tremor as the faint sound of something distant could be heard in the air. This sound was prolonged, hanging in the Great Hall for an extended period of time, before it suddenly exploded into an omnipresent, monstrous blend of a bloodcurdling scream and a ferocious roar, chillingly similar to that of a dragon's cry. Curiously, only the priests and Lucian flinched and blocked their ears.

"By the Gods! Hargash! Hargash!" screamed one of the priests, dropping to his knees in a panic. "The Shaituns, they can die, the Gods, they can die!" he said. "What black sorcery is this?! Has the Flame advanced?! It burns! Heat, fire! Scorched undeath!"

A couple of knights ran to his side, helping him up to his feet. The priest was a hyperventilating mess of a wood elf, clutching a knight's cuirass, gripping the surcoat. "Hargash is dead! I feel it, they feel it! The Whore Queen Rastuna weeps, the Army of the Dead bows to a new master!"

The raving priest's speech devolved into muddled Narbosi as he was escorted out of the Great Hall.

Erika grimaced and looked to Herbert. "That seems an Infernum of a lot more serious than a gutsy thief." The tenseness of her body language and the tightness with which she gripped her cup were the only clues as to just how uneasy she felt.

Herbert, meanwhile, had paled. "It can't be..." He said in a half-hushed whisper. There was fear and despair clearly present in his eyes and he seemed to be speaking to himself, as if desperately trying to convince himself that what he knew to be true was false. Eventually, he took a deep breath, and with determination replacing despair and fear, he looked to Erika and spoke. "It's Htraknu. It must be."

The half-manticore regarded her lover with equal parts confusion and concern. "Honey... Why do you think that Htraknu is the one who killed Hargash? All the priests said is that Hargash was slain, and that there was fire. Fire doesn't necessarily mean dragon fire."

The monster hunter shook his head. "It's not just the fire. He has Veturia's scalpel."

"Oh. Right." Said Erika quietly.

"He does not work alone," said Lucian, rising from his seat. "I hear and feel Hargash's presence in the Infernum dwindle, and mingle within the energy of another, stronger entity. Whatever it is, if it can kill a Shaitun, it can kill more. It's not like such creatures to stop once they've had a taste of dark power," he said. "And in order to invade an Infernal Realm, they had to have had some sort of help..." he sighed, holding his head as his premonition began to fade.

"Ladies, Gentlemen, I do thank you from the bottom of my heart for attending tonight's feast, however strange and eventful it was. Alas, I must excuse myself and my Apostles, for I need time to pray, to commune with the Gods and determine what this latest interruption means for us all. You are free to help yourselves to whatever food may be left, dismiss yourselves at your pace. Farewell, and have a blessed night, all of you." With that, Lucian gestured for his Apostles to rise and gather. "And, honoured guests, you are welcome to stay the night in the Keep," he added, bowing courteously to Herbert's group. He then walked off, headed out of the Great Hall with his ten Apostles in tow.

"I've had more than enough to eat." Said Erika to Herbert. "What are we going to do? Surely we can't take down Htraknu ourselves."

Herbert exhaled and thought for a moment. "I don't know how, but we need to find a way to end him. Lucian's right, he isn't going to stop - though I don't know what the dragon is planning." He paused. "We won't have to do it alone, though. Let's stay the night and in the morning, I'll ask Lucian for his help."

Athaliah and Rhiara looked absolutely stunned by what they were hearing everyone come out with. “Herbert, Erika – I’m coming too.” Athaliah said, resolutely. She looked at Rhiara, who nodded meekly. “If there’s something out there that can kill the very gods themselves, nobody is safe.”

Erika and Herbert regarded the pair from Hoffen quietly. Finally, Erika spoke. "Your help is certainly welcome, just remember what you're getting into. You said it yourself - this is a being that can kill the very gods. The odds aren't exactly in our favor."

“I know.” Ath looked down at the ground, thinking of how big her adventure had become. “It’s a stupid idea, but frankly, if we don’t kill him as soon as possible, then it’s all over.”

"Aye." Said Herbert. "If we don't stop him, the world as we know it will most likely burn. It's unlikely that we'll manage to defeat him, but there's at least a tiny chance, and that's better than just waiting for the end."

Rhiara, who had been silent throughout the affair, finally spoke up. Her voice was quieter than usual and she unsurprisingly looked troubled. “This isn’t a fight we can win; do you not see that? We’ll all die for nothing.” Her voice had gradually raised until she was nearly shouting. “You three can’t stop him, the Order can’t stop him-” Rhiara interrupted herself with a gulp. “Honestly, we lost as soon as Hargash fell.”

Herbert regarded her with steely determination. "Htraknu himself proved that that which lives can be slain. If the gods themselves can die, so can an overgrown megalomaniacal winged lizard. All we need is a plan and appropriate preparation." The monster hunter thought for a moment and then spoke. "Do you remember that other survivor I mentioned? He's probably long-dead, but he was the type to record his battles. If we can find where he lived while fighting the dragon's servants, then maybe we can find some information that will help us kill Htraknu."

“I guess we’re doing this, then…” Rhiara replied, back to her quiet self. She still thought that it was a stupid idea and a stupid plan that would get them killed, but she could see how determined Athaliah, Herbert and Erika were, and she saw how much that meant to the pair from Krossavik in particular. “Hey,” Athaliah said as she put an arm around her shoulder. “Everyone’s going to be fine, Rhiara.” The two looked each other in the eyes. “Nothing is going to hurt us, okay?” Rhiara nodded slowly in response. Privately, neither of them believed what she had just said.

@PrinceOfHeaven

As morning broke upon the Holy Order's citadel, Herbert awoke. He was in a luxurious bed, with Erika slumbering peacefully beside him. As he curled up contentedly beside his lover, all seemed right in the world. It was then that he remembered that he had to petition a man believing himself to be the Prince of Heaven for assistance in trying to kill a dragon that was capable of slaying deities. The monster hunter gave a strangled half-sigh and began gathering the willpower to get out of bed.

Before Herbert got out of bed, Erika began to stir. The half-manticore yawned and stretched. "Good morning Herbert."

Herbert leaned over and kissed Erika. "Good morning, my sweet little lioness." The scarred hunter lay down and snuggled next to her. Erika chuckled and embraced him. "We're keeping the lioness moniker then?"

"Indeed we are." Said Herbert with a mischievous smile as he softly caressed her hair. The pair lay together for a while before Erika spoke. "While I certainly enjoy having you here, I thought you were getting up earlier?"

Herbert sighed. "Ah yes, I have to go ask a self-righteous megalomaniac to help us kill what is now a dark god. At least he's a somewhat well-mannered self-righteous megalomaniac." He gave Erika another kiss and got out of bed. "Hopefully I won't be too long."

"Alright." Said Erika. "Good luck with Lucian, I'll get a little more sleep and then once you're done talking to him, we can spend a little more time together."

---

[/hr]

The Grandmaster of the Order of the Knights Solanian awoke to his own circadian rhythm, occupying one of the modest beds of a guest chamber. The room was dark, owing to the fact that the sun had not yet come to the horizon to illuminate the sky. Rolling over, he could see on the endtable besides his bed a little wooden geared clock, one of those new time-tellers from Tarraconia. Supposedly synced with a sundial during the day, the hands on the clock's face read "5:32."

That seemed about right. Back in Aesernia, him and the Apostles would rise early for morning prayers, chores, and other exercises to be done before breakfast. However, recalling last night's fiasco and the arduous journey that awaited them, he felt it fitting to allow them to rest up further. Rising from bed, Lucian approached the wardrobe and donned a simple linen shirt and a thick, woolen, brown robe with a rope belt which he tied tight around his waist. Slipping on a pair of leather boots, he grabbed his sword in its scabbard and strapped it to the rope belt. With that, he crept out of his chambers and quietly made his way up and out of the keep's interior.

Cracking open the strong wooden door separating him from the frigid outdoors, he stepped out onto the snow with a light crunch. The snow had fallen hard in the time between the feast and his awakening, leaving Mirador coated in several inches of pure, white snow. As the wind whistled past him, he slipped the hood of his robe over his head and his arms into their opposing sleeves as he proceeded to walk the ramparts of the keep, gazing out into the valley below to see torches lit about the city. Some of the peasants had risen early for work it seemed, and Alvar was working the forge, if the larger glowing light in the market square was of any indication. Lucian walked over to the edge of the wall, leaning comfortably against the crenel between two merlons, and kept his gaze fixed on the world beyond the keep. The winter sky was alight with the galactic bands, the Celestial Nest and Dove forever entwined as the twin moons Feynia and Askion floated parallel to each other in the night.

As Lucian was complemplating the pre-dawn sky, the sound of footsteps behind him heralded Herbert's arrival. To protect against the chill, the monster hunter wore his usual gray cloak with the hood pulled up. "Grandmaster Aquila, my apologies for interrupting your morning, but I need to speak with you."

"Ah. Ser Leintke," Lucian said, still gazing up at the stars, soaking in the sight before it vanished with the morning light. "I'd like to thank you for attending the feast, though it's a shame we didn't get to converse much before that unsettling incident with Hargash -- I imagine that is what you've come to discuss?" he asked him, now turning to face the monster hunter.

"That it is." Stated Herbert with a grim expression upon his scarred face. "I know who - or what - killed Hargash. The dragon Htraknu possessed the means to kill him, and the fire the priests saw further implicates him. I want your help to kill the dragon."

The smile left the Grandmaster's face, being replaced with a look of pure concern and wonder. "Htraknu, the very same that attacked Krossavik?" he asked, stroking his stubble thoughtfully. "I can see why you'd ask for help. Our interests align, then. You want justice for your people, and all I want is for the people of Thurius to survive his rampage and live in peace. You and I must both doubt then that he'd stop at just one Shaitun. So we must act quickly, lest he target the Gods, or worse, the Flame's mad cultists discover a moment of weakness and declare another Hariq War, this time on Samothrace and Foveros." The Aesernian began pacing back and forth, visibly worried but a far cry from being panicked. Instead the dilemma seemed to intrigue him, as though the conflict were one he was passionate about.

"And if he's now a dark god, we musn't assume he's operating alone. He has to have followers or accomplices. Perhaps that is the source of the recent outbreak of highly organized marauders," he theorized. "Alas, I cannot build walls without stone; I haven't enough information to be certain of his cult status. Have you any leads?" he suddenly asked Herbert. "Witness reports, captured equipment or uniforms, maps, journals, anything?"

"There was another survivor from Krossavik," began Herbert. "He set out to kill Htraknu twelve years ago, and is probably long dead by now, but he was the sort to record his battles. Once we find where he stayed while trying to kill Htraknu, we might be able to find information about the dragon's weaknesses or any followers he might have. I know of some other information, but I can't really get to it."

"That would do perfectly," Lucian replied, beaming eagerly, "a journal filled cover to cover with 12 years or less of information has to be of some substance. All we need is a reliable lead to its location and a way to acquire it and we'll swiftly have the journal. What more do you know?"

"A Viarosan nobleman took some of the survivor's things after he left for spite's sake. Bjorn - that's what his name was - made a lot of enemies, and this one in particular would never return the items, no matter what might be offered. If we did manage to retrieve the items in question, we'd be able to track down his hiding place and his notes." Replied Herbert thoughtfully. "We may need underhanded methods to acquire them, though..."

The Aesernian stroked his chin thoughtfully, leaning back against the merlon. "Given the necessity of Bjorn's information, one could hardly call this a wrongful cause... Alas, the Order is no thieves guild, and we do not train rogues and scoundrels." He paused for a moment to think, looking up to the star spangled sky, perhaps for inspiration. "That thief, although a disrespectful wretch, most impressively stole into the keep's cellars and managed to get past the guards to and from. Had we all been drunk, they'd have gotten away," he admitted. "Suppose we could direct them to steal Bjorn's items from this spiteful noble? The alternative of course would be to turn them in for the bounties they no doubt have accrued in the West." He shrugged indecisively, clearly open to ideas. "And again, my deepest apologies for my outburst as well as Kinara's. The Crusade... It's a sore spot for all of us. I assure you that the conduct you saw tonight is not indicative of the Order's usual."

"The thief could work..." Mused Herbert. "If you can get her to cooperate, then it sounds like a good idea. Do what you must to gain her cooperation. Bribery, holding her companion hostage, whatever you think will work. The items and papers could be the very key to stopping the dragon."

"Given her tendency towards insolence, it would be difficult to get her to cooperate. Though, I'm certain some sort of compromise can be reached," Lucian replied. "Our plan thus goes as follows: bring the thief and her slave-soldier to our side, have them steal into this nobleman's home and recover the missing items of note, bring them back to us, and study Htraknu's faction and weaknesses. We are agreed?"

"Aye." Replied the monster hunter. "Erika and the Hoffen girls have already volunteered to come along, by the way. Will any of your followers be joining us for the trip?"

"I will have to confer with my Apostles. Before I leave I will be making a decree to the people of Mirador. I am not sure if this is within my authority, but I am calling a Crusade against this beast and his followers. The entire Order will be actively hunting for further information and, if possible, those in league with Htraknu, as soon as the pigeons can spread the message to the other Seneschals. Those Kings and Queens who seek to aid us may potentially allocate resources towards stopping the dragon," Lucian explained. "To answer more directly, I'm considering bringing Sorano and Kinara with us, though I don't know how well they'd take to the thief and her eastern companion... especially Kinara, the poor darling." He spoke softly and empathetically for the lattermost statement, his gaze trailing off, as if he were in thought about something.

"I wouldn't advise calling for a Crusade." Said Herbert. "From what I know, not many outside of your Order appreciate the claims of your parentage. Calling for a Crusade would likely be seen by the Pope as an attempt to seize leadership of the Solanian faith. You might just end up with a Crusade against yourself." He paused in further contemplation with a grimace. "An appeal to self-interest might be more effective in persuading monarchs to assist us. As for your companions, Sorano would probably be an asset but I don't know if bringing the Samothaur is wise - we'll likely come across far worse than easterners."

"Then I will beseech the Patriarch to make it a Crusade," Lucian replied. "And if he cannot see the danger of this Shaitun-killer, then so be it; the Order will stand alone against him. As for 'the Samothaur' as you put it, Kinara is no coward, nor is she to be considered a nonthreat. She is a powerful archer and has killed her share of slavers, monsters, and easterners. She would be an asset just as much as Sorano or any other Apostle. I handpicked them for a reason."

Herbert took a breath that was just barely noticeable as deeper than usual and looked Lucian in the eye. "This is not the Order's fight alone. I must ask that you do your best to be diplomatic when asking for help. As for Kinara, if you believe she will be an asset, then by all means, bring her along. Do know however, that I will not hesitate to cut away any dead weight. Taking down this dragon is far more important than the Order's glory."

Lucian smiled and laughed, "Oh, you misunderstand me Ser Leintke. I have no intentions to make this about honour and glory nor to seize credit where it is undue. If the Patriarch in Aesera refuses to acknowledge Htraknu and the death of Hargash after the facts are presented, then we can wage this war without the help of the other rulers. And I assure you, Apostle Kinara will prove herself to you as anything except dead weight."

Leintke was irritated, distrustful, that much Lucian could read like an open book. For that he had nobody to blame but himself; for a more attentive man and a better leader would be more inquisitive, and would seek to understand his allies, never to make conclusions without proper knowledge, lest he bias his judgement.

He, like so many outsiders before him who had been in contact with the Order, mistrusted it and its Grandmaster, seeing only heretical fervour and megalomania. Still, it was forgivable to assume many falsehoods. Lucian felt no ill will, he decided. It wasn't as though the man before him had blatantly mocked the Order's dead...

"I plan on accompanying you myself, rather than sending men to do this for me -- It's been far too long since I've been traveling with outsiders. Not since the Crusade, I don't think," Lucian eventually said, breaking the silence that had just set in. He seemed enthusiastic about that. "So I'd like to get to know you better before we get on the road."

Herbert smiled politely. "I'm afraid I must decline, Grandmaster. Erika is waiting for me. We will have plenty of time to get acquainted on the road. I daresay you'll find there are few other options while travelling long distances. In the meantime, I bid you good day." With that, he turned to leave.

Lucian perked his brow, watching Herbert leave the way he came. He was a curious individual, and it was most unfortunate that their first impressions of each other were so muddled by circumstance and rumours.

The Grandmaster turned around once again to gaze out over the wall of the keep, looking out upon the city below. The pristine view of the galaxy began to fade away as the first glimmers of light pierced the horizon, bringing forth the dawn. Lucian lingered a moment longer, reflecting on the journey that awaited him, then took his leave.

It was dark, save for the poor lighting of the occasional torch, and the air was dank and musty. In this regard it was not dissimilar from other dungeons. The only true difference was the superior security presence, with armoured warriors draped in Order tabards standing watch outside the cells, patrolling the halls. Built underground, no light could enter the dungeon of Mirador Keep and so time telling was nigh-impossible, but to those with attentive memories, it was roughly the time of dawn.

“I know this looks bad,” Ceara felt the walls of her black cell, running her slender fingers across the smooth stones. “But I’ve been in worse, much worse. Well, maybe not much worse. You get the idea, right? Nima?” She placed her ear to a stone, wrapping it with her knuckles. “Nima? You hear me?”

Nima’s voice sounded in the darkness, coming from the cell adjacent to the one holding Ceara. “I hear you.”

The thief paused for a moment, cocking her head. “Are you mad at me?”

“I’m not pleased with our situation.”

Ceara sighed. “Nima, come on… You were right, ok? Happy?”

“No.”

The thief rolled her eyes, placing her hands on her hips. “We can't do anything about it now, right? You’re acting like a child.”

"You are right, we can't do anything about it now."

The sound of footsteps approaching the two cells grew louder by the second. A familiar voice could be heard echoing through the dungeons. "Ser Petros. Move these two within the same cell, for I wish to speak with them both." As this was said, the jingling of keys could be heard as the door to Ceara's cell was opened. Metal clanked about as soldiers moved to the cell doors and opened them up to retrieve the prisoners within.

"Grandmaster's orders, lass," Ceara's guard said to her, gesturing her to stand up.

The thief stood, brushing grime from her clothing and sweeping past the guard. She entered the other cell, smiling at an annoyed-looking Nima, and then settling her gaze on the Grandmaster, who stood at the other side of the stone room. "To what do I owe the second honour, Grandmaster? Here for my fingers?"

Lucian stood near the open door, leaning out to gesture for someone out of sight to come forwards. Instead of a cloaked torturer or maimer, a little boy no older than 13 approached, holding two fine wooden mugs in his hands. Lucian delicately took the mugs from his hands with a smile and slight, no less courteous bow, thanking him for his work. The boy grinned from ear to ear, saluting the Grandmaster before running off.

Lucian walked back inside the cell, the guards closing the door behind him. He took a seat before Ceara and Nima. He started to offer the drinks to the two, but stopped and looked at Nima. "Does your religion prohibit you to drink qahwe?" he asked the slave-soldier, staring him in the eye.

Nima shook his head, slowly and deliberately. "No. My vows to Da'av do, though. I may only drink before combat."

Lucian nodded, shrugging passively. "It lacks alcohol, but I suppose the Da'avi Creed does not quite care. If you don't mind, may I?" he asked, lifting what was supposed to be Nima's mug near his lips. He looked over to Ceara and handed her the other mug, meant for her. "Qahwe. It boosts your energy, helps you to wake up. Among the few things we brought home from Iurusolym."

"Thank you kindly." replied Ceara, wrapping both her hands around the warm mug. She moved closer to Nima, eyeing the Grandmaster suspiciously. "Why are you down here, truly? To give us this... qahye, or whatever? I doubt it."

"Well clearly, that's still part of why I'm here. I'm not here to take your fingers, but to give them back to you. Or, rather, a chance to keep them when otherwise you would be sentenced to lose them," he explained, taking a sip of the faintly steaming qahwe. It was thick, somewhat syrupy, and bitter. Original recipe, unfiltered. "Last night, after the two of you were extricated from the Great Hall, there was a second, more pressing interruption. One that I'm certain concerns you as well as the rest of this mortal world."

Ceara raised her eyebrow. "I'm certain you don't have the slightest clue what concerns me, Ser." Nima crossed his arms, but the slave soldier said nothing. Ceara continued without missing a beat. "But if it'll keep my fingers firmly attached to my hands, I'm ready to listen."

"I'm certain your continued life and the security of your mortal soul would deeply concern you," Lucian replied. "Our priests detected a monstrous imbalance being made between the Light and the Darkness. The Lord of the Revolting, Hargash, was slain in his own Infernum Realm by what my honoured guest Herbert Leintke informed me, and what my archivists confirmed for me, was the Father of Dragons, Htraknu. His essence taken by a power-monger who does not seek to stop at one Shaitun. Should he continue, he may well progress to stake claims on the æther of the Living Gods themselves. For what purpose he wages this war we don't yet know, but I doubt his intentions are benevolent."

He took another sip of his drink, gently wiping off the residue from his upper lip with the edge of his sleeve. "Ser Leintke also informs me that there was another survivor of Krossavik among him and Erika Nilsson. A man who compiled extensive documentation of Htraknu for over longer than a decade. Problem is, said documents are under lock and key in Viarosa. A stingy, petty worm of a nobleman holds them with no intention of ever releasing them. That, young thief, is where you and your bodyguard come into play."

A smile spread over Ceara's face. "So you need me, do you? What happened to fingers or tongue? Don't have someone in this little castle of yours that's as good at being some hollow knight as they are stealing, don't you?" She snickered, looking over at Nima. The thief was obviously enjoying this. "I don't work for free, no matter where you're holding me. Stealing those papers is gonna cost you."

Lucian was completely unamused. Right away he could read her every expression and tell precisely what she was; insecure, petty, vindictive, and simple. "Right. The 'fingers or tongue' spiel was entirely the product of Seneschal Hristov's pride and admiration of the Order and its leadership, him being part of it. While I am on Mirador's grounds, I am the final arbitrator in such matters, and I had no intention of maiming you on the spot before countless witnesses like some childish mad-king," he clarified, leaning forwards. He was violating Ceara's personal bubble, deliberately getting in her space. "Secondly. Payment is of nothing. Within reason, set a price and it shall be fetched. Say, 500 arums. 200 up front, 300 for finishing the task and bringing the journal and associated documents to me. If you require gear, such as new weapons, we will commission them for you - though I prefer this to be bloodless."

"600. 300 on both ends, when I start and when I finish." Ceara thought for a moment. "Nima needs his armour back, and his sword as well. I won't travel without him, and I'd prefer to travel on horseback."

"Fair. Done, done, already polished and ready for return. We'll have your horses returned to you posthaste," Lucian replied, taking another drink of his beverage, nearly halfway finished. "Any further requests?"

"Only one." Ceara looked at the Grandmaster, her grin fading slighty. "I want you to write the western lords, with your own lettering, and tell them that you've forgiven me for all past crimes. Politely suggest they should do the same. Tell them that my work is holy or something, you know how the nobility loves to look like they eat that up."

Lucian remained silent for just a moment longer, before he burst into a chuckling fit, trying to maintain a civil volume. His laughter became hushed and wheezy as he looked between the thief and the slave-soldier. He quickly regained his composure, but the smile held steadfast to his face. "See, a higher price warrants greater service," he replied. "I'm absolutely willing to pardon you both and forward the notice to the major duchies and kingdoms, but I'm afraid that's not a one-task price you're asking for. Would you just as quickly spoil your pardon to continue your thievery for 600 arums? You would ruin my reputation for having good judgement and bespatter the Order with the stain of alleged corruption."

He cleared his throat, rubbing his hands together. "What you are charging for, you see, is continued service under our extended travel party, Herbert, Rhiara, and I; but then there is a value disparity. That's too expensive a task for 600 arums and a pardon. So I see your hit, and I raise you one better," he continued, "Htraknu, the Father of Dragons, is a wealthy monster, with an entire Infernum Realm now at his command, with others likely to follow. Possibly with command of a cult. Who has to acquire funding..." he rolled his wrist slowly, gesturing for Ceara to think critically a moment. "Do you hear me?"

Ceara frowned, furrowing her brow. "I've heard of Htraknu, everyone has. They say his wings block out the sun, and his fire takes forests in single breaths. He is the largest dragon the world has ever known, and he has reigned on this world for far longer than you or I." She paused. "I like gold, thats true, but I like my life better. If you lot are planning on going charging off to a fiery death, thats fine. I'm not dying alongside you. I'll just take the 600, if thats 'right."

Lucian looked the thief in the eyes, twiddling his fingers impatiently. He cocked his head, and all expression vanished from his visage. "I don't plan on dying," he said, as matter-of-factly as physically possible. "And those who stand with me against Htraknu will be safeguarded. For my Father in Heaven is a God of Justice. He will permit no ill fate to befall those charged with preserving Heaven and Thurius themselves." He slowly finished off his qahwe, not once taking his eyes off of Ceara's. Setting the mug down he continued, "Untold riches, perfect remission of sins and legal transgressions, and freedom are yours, being offered to you on a platter of gold. I would think twice before replying to me, and hold your tongue lest ye disrespect the Order's fallen as you have before. You can deny me all you wish, deny my Father my God, and deny my Order's validity and the chances of our success, but unless you would rather crack jokes at the expense of those who died in the name of countless millions to include yourself and thus lose this golden opportunity at a new and better life, I would very carefully consider what it is that next leaves your lips."

“Look, I don't mean any offence, but the thousands that marched into the eastern deserts under your Father’s banner didn't exactly sing of his protection. Noble deaths, probably, but deaths all the same. Your Father couldn’t save them, no one could.” Ceara looked down. “I am in the business of surviving more than I am for stealing. Stealing from some noble is one thing, and fighting a dragon and his army is another. This thing can only end one way, and it’s going to be with—“

“I will go.” Nima leaned forward, interrupting Ceara as she spoke. “Freedom, this is promised? In all these western lands?”

"Absolutely, on my honour I swear it to you. Freedom is yours. Warrior-poets in the North shall sing your praises, and will honour you appropriately as well. As for the East, I can make no guarantees, unfortunately, yet the rest of the world, I can and will. Look me in the eyes, and tell me you see but a trace of insincerity in me." He kept his eyes open wide, staring down Ceara, slowly looking towards Nima.

“Your honour, Northern honour, poetry, none of it matters.” Nima stared back at the Grandmaster, holding his gaze. “I want your freedom, and I will have it in writing before I ride with you. We do not deal in sincerity where I am from.”

“What are you doing Nima?” Ceara put down her drink, a vision of confusion on her face. “Do you think this is funny or something? If you go with these idiots, you're going to die. I can't do that.”

“So be it. I would rather die standing than live running.” Nima turned his head so he could regard his friend, speaking softer than before. “You did not win my freedom the day you took me from the battlefield, Ceara, you merely gave me the chance.”

“Running hasn't been so bad. I've been doing it my whole life.” The red-haired thief was almost pleading now. “We can run together, at least.”

“I was not born to run. I was not raised to run. So I will not run."

Ceara moved across the room, stopping directly beside Nima and whispering in an atttempt to communicate without the Grandmaster's hearing. "Nima. Please. Don't do this. This isn't living, this is marching to death." She wiped her eyes, angrily fighting the panic that was now taking hold of her. "If you do this, I'll never see you again."

Nima looked at her, but his solemn expression did not change. It never changed. "Then our time has been good, Ceara of Helrith, and I thank you."

The thief made a strangled sound, backing away from the easterner and running her hand through her hair. She was quiet for a long while, occasionally muttering in her native language. Finally, she looked up, with fire in her eyes. "Fine. If I'm going to die, my price is going up. I want 800 for stealing the documents, plus my share of the dragon gold, plus this damned declaration of innocence. And if we kill the Father of Dragons, your Patriarch better make me a fucking saint."

"I'm afraid the process of Glorification requires far more than the good word of the Patriarch of Aesera, to include miracles made by the effect of your soul's intercession on behalf of those who pray with you in mind," Lucian replied, shaking his head solemnly, "But 800, 400 both ways, a generous share of Htraknu's ill-gotten fortune, and the pardon are yours." He turned to Nima, bowing his head respectfully. "You will have it with the pardon in writing. And should it be of further consolation, I will have my scribes draft a contract to put these discussed terms in writing as well for posterity."

Nima nodded, accepting the terms silently. Ceara, meanwhile, crossed her arms, glowering at the Grandmaster. "Can I have my saddlebags? I'd like to change into my proper clothes before we get started. Nima'll probably want his armour now, too."

"Right, right, of course. Can't have you charging into battle with no equipment," the Grandmaster replied. "I'll have my men bring your things around. As it currently stands, I have business to attend to scrambling the Order for this coming war. Go with the guards, stay close, and do what you must." He raised an authoritative finger, waving it to and fro pointing at Ceara, then Nima, then back again. "And no stealing. Not from us or our allies, anyways." He stood to leave, picking up his empty mug and offering a hand for Ceara's.

The thief pressed the mug to her chest, shaking her head slowly. "Just hold on for a moment, I'm not bloody done with this yet." She paused, raising one eyebrow. "Don't worry, I'm not going to steal it."

"Aye, just hand it back to an attendant upon finishing. I hope it's to your liking," said Lucian. He turned heel and began to walk towards the door. He stopped just at the exit and turned back around to face Nima. "One final note for 'Nima,' was it?" He approached the slave-soldier, crouching to eye level with him. "I have tremendous respect for your unwavering senses of loyalty, bravery, and determination, not that it likely matters to you. While I may be willing to accept you into the traveling party's fold, I strongly doubt that the Apostles would be as welcoming. Especially Kinara. As a matter of fact, I would prefer it if you stayed away from her. My earlier threat stands -- you will not attempt to finish the last task your Rosilandic owners gave you."

Nima was silent for a long time, and when he spoke, his voice was low and firm. “I do not serve the elves anymore. You will have your wish.”

"Then we'll have no problem with each other. Thank you both for your time, you won't be disappointed." He stood up, bowed to the two of them, and left the cell. He mumbled his instructions to the guards before walking out of sight.

"Gods, we're going to die." moaned Ceara, burying her face in her hands soon after the Grandmaster had gone from sight. Nima ignored her, turning away from his friend and staring at the uneven walls of their dark prison.

Athaliah groaned as she got out of her bed; she’d have preferred staying in a little while longer, of course, but she and Rhiara were going to be busy this morning. Rhiara still slept in her own bed on the other end of the room. There was a room divider in the corner, for people to get changed away from prying eyes.

Athaliah appeared from behind the divider a couple minutes later, wearing her red jerkin and black trousers. The middle of her jerkin was unfastened, showing a simple black leather shirt. Rhiara was sitting up on her bed, patiently waiting for her friend. “Morning, Ath.” She said drearily, before getting up and heading behind the divider herself.
“Tired?” Athaliah replied as she flopped down on her own bed again.
“A little,” said the white-haired girl. “Uh, can I ask you something important?”
Athaliah sighed; she already knew what the question would be about. “Sure…”
“What’s going to happen now? With the whole ‘hunting a god-killing dragon’ thing?”
“We’ll meet Herbert and Erika back at their wagon in an hour or two. Then, well, I have no idea…”

The next two minutes passed by in complete silence. Rhiara emerged wearing a short black pad and leather dress, her high boots and her long gloves – her usual adventuring attire. Her metal knee guards and her pauldron were missing, being in Herbert’s wagon. “I’m gonna get some breakfast before we meet with Herbert and Erika,” Rhiara gestured towards the door. “are you coming?” Athaliah groaned again, forcing herself off her bed.

The two walked down the halls to the kitchens, dodging the odd servant who all seemed as energetic as always, despite their very early rise. Athaliah even noticed one or two that were present at the feast, long into the night. ‘These men must be made of iron.’ Ath thought to herself.
“Guess we’ll have to wait until I can teach you woodcarving, huh?” Rhiara sighed, breaking the silence between the two.
Athaliah shook her head, with a small laugh. “Really? We’re about to go hunting for a huge, god-killing dragon and that’s what you’re worried about?”
“It’s just… I don’t know, I don’t like breaking promises.”
Athaliah patted her friend’s shoulder. “It’s not breaking it; we’ll still do it, just later than we planned.”

Athaliah opened the door to the dinner hall, where many guests were already eating their own breakfasts. Almost as soon they sat down themselves, a servant approached them. He was rather old to be catering to the needs of the order’s guests, looking around thirty years old or so. “What would these two fair ladies like to eat, on this cold morning?”
Ath did her best to sound friendly to the man, even if she was still tired. “Two bits of hot, saucy mutton if that’s not too much trouble, thank you.” The servant nodded and left as quickly as he arrived.
Rhiara raised an eyebrow. “How’d you know I wanted mutton, Ath?”
“You’re very predictable.” Athaliah shrugged. “Mutton’s usually your first choice if you get to pick.”
Rhi smiled, privately glad that someone had noticed something so silly about her. “You notice the most useless things, you know that?”
“I do. You see those two people over there?” Ath nodded her head in the direction of two people chatting. When Rhiara looked, she ruffled her friend’s white hair playfully. “And you’re too trusting.”
“Hey! I worked real hard on my hair today!” Rhiara pouted. Without another word, she did the same to Athaliah. The servant from earlier on stood at their table, looking both confused and a bit vexed; he was probably standing there for a while. “Your muttons, my ladies.” He placed both plates on the table with a nod, and then hurried along to another.

"Arise, O Champions of the Gods"

As the sun rose over the horizon, filling the valley of Mirador with its light, the Order of the Knights Solanian scrambled about the city and the keep; scribes researched the Father of Dragons Htraknu, soldiers rushed to Alvar's Smithy to have gear forged and repaired, and the officers and Apostles of the Order convened in the Great Hall to discuss the Order's course of action.

Grandmaster Aquila had long delivered his speech to the people of Mirador by the time the assembly began. He spoke powerfully, imploring his men and women to make ready for war, for Htraknu posed a significant cosmic threat. He spoke of the need for unity, declaring that he would reach out to the many lords and doges of the Western Kingdoms as well as the Northmen for aid. The speech concluded with morning prayers as the Order's honoured guests busied themselves in the guest chambers, packing their gear for the journey ahead, aided by the Order's squires and pages.

Within the Great Hall, Lucian had revealed Herbert Leintke's plan, that valuable information was being held by a spiteful Viarosan noble. Given the necessity of said information, and the Apostolic preference for clemency, there was not much protest to the plan to use the thief and her eastern slave-soldier to retrieve this information. Though some did resist, Apostle Kinara chief among them, the matter was put to a vote and was passed by majority of the Apostles and the officers present, to include Seneschal Hristov.

Then came the matter of what Lucian himself would be doing to lead the effort against Htraknu. It was then that the Grandmaster expressed his desire to travel with Herbert's party, to lead from the field and not from Aesernia. This naturally sparked an outcry from his devotees, who naturally all yearned to travel with him. After some time discussing the merits of each volunteer, Lucian ultimately decided on taking Apostles Sorano and Kinara with him. Sorano stood out among the Ten for his prowess in storm magic and his profound knowledge of ancient history - surely useful in the pursuit of artifacts of power, which would open the way to the Infernum and to the Kingdom-Realms of Heaven. Kinara was an outstanding archer and brutal opponent in close range. Though her shy and unassuming personality was anything but intimidating, her fierce loyalty and defensiveness of her Grandmaster made her an excellent enforcer.

In his absence, Lucian appointed Apostle Raoulin de Argenroux to serve as Acting Grandmaster in the Holy Bastion on Thysdrus, in Aesernia. Apostles Rhodric Beynon and Aranirya Silinosin were to rally and direct Order Clergy in spreading word of Htraknu's power struggle to their congregations, to make the common folk aware of the threat they faced, to urge them to do their part.

Apostles Sidon of Carinthagia and Serena Fioravanti were placed on research detail: take troops to hunt for items of interest to the Order and keep them on the move, away from Htraknu and any of his accomplices.

Apostles Yusuf Barakat, Katla Gunnulfdottir, and Alessio Barbieri were ordered to organize and command Order armies and mobilize them on Lucian's word or - in the event they did not hear from him in a certain amount of time - Raoulin's.

When it came time to begin the next phase in the Order's War with Htraknu, they would meet again in Thysdrus if possible and plan their next course of action.

The assembly concluded with a prayer for divine intercession, directly specifically to the cause of felling Htraknu and saving Thurius from his rampage. With the assembly out of the way, Lucian, Sorano, and Kinara left to pack up for the journey.

Ceara patted the flank of her brown mare, now dressed comfortably in her own travelling clothes. Her trousers were worn and dusty, her white blouse was oversized and smudged with dirt, but it was comfortably familiar. She opened the flap on her saddle bag, making sure that the first payment that Lucian had owed her was securely packed. She looked past her horse, watching Nima carefully fix his fiery standard across the withers of his mount. His armour was returned and gleaming with polish, with she knew had him nettled. Polish was for parades.

The thief swung around, scanning the courtyard of Mirador for the rest of the little group as they attended to their own steeds. A small band of squires lead three destriers from the castle stables, each of the horses draped in gilded steel and padded surcoats. Ceara rolled her eyes at the heavy armour, turning back and tying her bags closed. The thief noticed a basket of apples sitting next to another couple getting ready to leave the castle, these ones with an entire wagon to prepare. Ceara stroked her mare, gently leading the horse over to the bin and taking a large fruit from the top of the pile. She raised to her horse, who brayed softly and then gladly accepted.

As the thief drew near, Erika moved from the wagon to greet her. The half-manticore had changed into a set of travel clothes and smiled at Ceara. "Ah, I do believe you are our item retrieval expert." She then extended her hand in greeting. "I don't believe we were properly introduced earlier. My name is Erika Nilsson."

Ceara tied her horse to a wooden stake beside the apples, raising her eyebrow. “Item retrieval." She grinned crookedly. "I like it. Did you come up with that just now?”

Erika shook her head. "No, I came up with it on the way out here. It seemed politer than your usual job title." She paused. "What did the Grandmaster tell you about the items that needed retrieving?"

"Documents on Htraknu, held by some spiteful dickhead." Out of the corner of her eye, Ceara could see Nima approaching, probably to scold her about the way she had arranged her horse. "My name is Ceara, by the way. You could probably tell, but I'm from Cairnleath." The thief pointed to 'Ser Leintke', who was still lingering near the wagon. "Is he actually a knight? Doesn't look like a knight."

"That I am not." Called Herbert from by the wagon before walking over to where the two were chatting. "I am but a simple monster hunter instead. Come to think of it, I am not entirely sure as to why actual knights would refer to me as 'ser'."

Ceara snorted. "They sure as hell didn't call me ser." Nima arrived at her side, silently staring at the monster hunter through the gaps in his aventail. Ceara patted him on the armoured shoulder. "This is Nima. Didn't call him ser either. I'm feeling a little neglected." The thief leaned on her friend, propping herself up while he stood straight and silent. "Do you have a stake in all this, then? Killing the most dangerous monster that ever lived has gotta be good for business, right?"

The monster hunter's expression darkened somewhat and a touch of sorrow was displayed in Erika's. "We do have a stake in this, but it's more personal than professional." Explained Herbert. "The two of us are from Krossavik, and if the dragon's causing trouble again, then it's time to pursue the old vendetta." He paused. "Besides, if we don't go after the dragon, he might just come after us."

Ceara jerked her chin towards the Knights of Solanian, still strapping plates of steel and padded material across their massive horses. “If mister holy fingers over in that castle is right, the dragon is hunting the gods. I don’t think he’s going to have time to come after anyone else.”

"He probably is hunting the gods as I haven't heard of any particular feud between him and Hargash." Mused Herbert. "But if he is hunting gods and he manages to pull it off, he'll have all the time and power in the world for clean-up."

"Alright, you've got a point, but..." Ceara shrugged. "Not to undermine the morale, but if this dragon isn't stopped by the gods, do you really expect us to do anything?"

"The dragon has proved that anything that lives can die." Replied Herbert, seemingly unfazed. "As long as we can find the dragon's weakness, we can end him. We can learn from the dragon himself in this case. He only went after Hargash after years of planning and preparation - just as we must plan our attack carefully."

The thief looked unimpressed. "We don't have years to plan our little excursion. I guess these documents are supposed to fill in the gaps, right?" She paused. "What do you know about the guy that's holding them? Who is he?"

"His name is Milo Demetrios, and he is a distant cousin of the Ilyrican king." Began Herbert. "Somewhat cunning and ambitious, but greedy, spiteful and with limited self-control. While he's managed to amass a sizable fortune, his flaws and indiscretions have kept him from being too influential in the politics of Viarosa or Illyrica in general. Feel free to help yourself to a bit of his wealth while you're retrieving the documents - so long as it does not jeopardize your success."

Ceara smiled again. "I'd be happy to bring you two a little gift, courtesy of Lord Milo." She wiggled her eyebrows at the pair, her grin growing larger. "Always nice to see young love, eh?"

"Very thoughtful of you." Said Erika good-naturedly. "But you don't have to go to any particular trouble for us youngsters." She paused, still smiling and continued with a twinkle in her eye. "We would, however, appreciate hearing some of the wisdom that you have gained over your years of life experience."

Ceara’s smile dropped from her face. “Are you calling me a whore?" She put her hands on her hips. "Gods, I offer to steal for you, and you repay me by calling me a harlot mere minutes after you’ve met me?” Erika's expression shifted rapidly to one of embarassment and horror. "No, no! Not at all! I merely meant to play along with the age jokes..." She trailed off with the horror being replaced with more embarassment and just a touch of amusement. "You were joking again, weren't you?"

“Plenty more where that came from!” The thief smirked, draping her arm around her eastern companion. “Just ask Nima, he loves my jokes.” The slave-soldier nodded absently, but his attention was busy elsewhere. Instead of replying, he put his hand on his sword. Ceara frowned for a moment, following his gaze and spotting the supposed danger - Mostafa Idrissi, the bard they had robbed blind and set alone on the road, stood directly behind the couple from Krossavik. The thief sighed, grabbing Nima’s hand and pulling it away from his sword.

“What…?” The bard’s eyes searched all four of the people gathered, filling with anger. “How did this woman escape her imprisonment? This… this… witch was the one that left me for dead!”

Ceara raised her hands in her own defence. "Hey, that's not exactly fair-"

"You, you, quiet down! I won't speak to you!" Mostafa looked to the pair of Krossavikers, visibly infuriated. "Do you know that these two are criminals? We should report them at once, there are guards all across this courtyard!"

"We are indeed aware of that fact." Answered Herbert calmly as he met the bard's gaze unflinchingly. "As are the guards all across this courtyard. Ceara and Nima have not escaped, they've merely agreed to accompany our band of adventurers."

"I was not told that these two would be accompanying us when I agreed to follow this retinue!" Mostafa shook his head, jutting an accusing finger at Ceara. "This woman took my clothes and my lute, and her mindless pet tried to kill me! These two cannot be trusted, mark my words!"

Ceara rolled her eyes. "You have your lute back, don't you?"

The bard shot her a sharp look, balling his fists. "I do, but-"

"You've got new clothes as well, I see." Ceara smiled wistfully, taking a small step forward. “Shame, you don’t look half bad without them.” Mostafa was taken aback, gasping at the sheer audacity of the woman's advance. He looked to the Krossavikers, waving his hands at the thief. "Do you see? She is without reverence, a creature that seeks only to vex me!"

Herbert rolled his eyes at the bard's theatrics. "Well, whatever the case, she has skills that we require. You'll have to put up with her for the time being." He then turned to face Ceara. "As for you, perhaps you should leave the poor bard alone?"

Ceara shrugged, while Mostafa seemed to calm slightly. “I apologize for appearing so unruly. You and your fair lady do not deserve to witness such animosity.” He glanced at Ceara, his eyes hardening for a brief moment. “I will be speaking with Lucian about you and your murderous companion.”

“Nima’s a sweetheart when you get to know him.”

“I’m sure.” replied the bard, his voice thick with sarcasm. He nodded to the Krossavikers, raised his chin in indignation to Ceara, and continued on his way through the courtyard. The thief whistled, watching him go. After Mostafa had left her sight, she turned back to Herbert. "Sorry about that. He has a right to be angry, but I just hope he calms down during this ride. I don't know if I can stand some dramatic minstrel raving on for a few days straight."

"I also hope he calms down." Said Herbert, gazing off in the direction the bard had gone. "We've got enough problems without infighting. So remind me, what exactly it was that you and your friend did to him?"

"Well, we saved him from a group of bandits." The thief clicked her teeth together. "Then, we stole his clothes and everything else he had on him." She put her hands on her hips again, shaking her head. "In my books, that makes us even. Right?"

Herbert's mouth twisted somewhat, for a moment, as if he were trying to hold in laughter but it was soon replaced by a disappointed frown. "Winter's coming, the first snows are falling, and the roads are dangerous. Poor bastard must have had the Trickster's own luck to have run into the Order when he did. I'm of the opinion that you should apologize, as you nearly condemned him to freeze to death."

Ceara sighed, rolling her neck in exasperation. "He was a man that lives on the road, and there were cities all around him. I had every confidence he would survive, and he did." She crossed her arms. "Still, I will say sorry, as meaningfully as I can."

"Thank you." Said Herbert. "I'm sure he'll appreciate it, and be less of a pain to deal with." The monster hunter paused for a moment. "It was nice to meet you, but Erika and I still need to pack a few things. If you have any other preparations you need to make for the journey, you should probably take care of them now."

"Yes, a pleasure to make your acquaintance as well." Ceara took the reigns of her mare once again, pulling the horse away from the wagon. Nima nodded to Herbert, and then again to Erika, and then followed his friend back towards the other side of the courtyard.

Written by @Mardox and I

Soon enough, the two had finished their food and were now on their way back to Herbert’s wagon; both of the girls were now wearing their cloaks. Rhiara’s fur cloak had plenty of white fur at its top, which bended in with her hair to give the illusion of a mane. Athaliah’s however, was the traditional brown and grey. There was perhaps an inch of snow on the ground and the girls were now even more thankful that they wouldn’t be walking. The pair spotted two more figures leading their horses, leaving where Herbert’s wagon was parked – though the wagon was still there, with Herbert and Erika themselves next to it. “Morning, you two!” Athaliah shouted merrily when she was close enough.

"Morning!" Called back Erika cheerfully as Herbert pushed a large iron chest into the wagon before smiling at Athaliah and giving a friendly wave to both her and Rhiara. "Ready to hit the road?" Asked Erika. "I guarantee that adventuring with Herbert is always interesting."

“Yeah…” Rhiara fidgeted with her glove nervously. “I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.”
Athaliah was busy watching the two people lead their horses away. “So, who were they?” she asked inquisitively.

"Our item retrieval expert and her eastern bodyguard." Replied Erika. "They'll be joining us to get some documents and stuff that we'll need from a rather unpleasant Viarosan nobleman. They might stick around afterwards."

“Item… retrieval… expert?” Rhiara narrowed her eyes. “What’s –”
Athaliah interrupted her. “A thief, Weiss.” She spoke disdainfully. “Well, what’re these people ‘retrieving’?”

"There was another survivor from Krossavik who was obsessed with slaying Htraknu. Before he set off to do battle with the dragon, he amassed a sizable amount of information." Explained Erika. "When he left Viarosa, the nobleman in question seized the documents he left behind, along with some of his personal possessions. Once we have the documents and his personal things, we'll have more intel about Htraknu and we may be able to pinpoint where Bjorn hid out during his campaign."

Athaliah raised her eyebrows. “Okay, assuming that the noble has these documents and those thieves are able to steal them, what do we do then? Look for the camps this man set up that might not exist anymore?”

"The camps are one option," Interjected Herbert grimly, "but if we use the documents and items to find his remains - at least part of them anyways - then we can ask the man himself what we need to know." With that, he began rummaging about in the wagon's boxes for something.

“Sorry, sorry, what?” Athaliah replied, her expression in-between confused and mortified. “How can we ask the man if we find his remains?”

"Here it is!" Said Herbert in an almost triumphant manner as he produced a rather dusty and battered-looking book from a crate. The black-covered tome appeared to be positively ancient, and due to its black cover, the locks keeping it shut, and the unsettling symbols on the cover, it gave off a somewhat sinister air even in the bright morning light. The monster hunter turned to Athaliah and presented the book with a grim smile. "A little bit of magic, of course."

Athaliah squirmed on the spot. “Uhh, are you sure you know what you’re doing, Herbert?”
Rhiara also seemed uncomfortable, and she took a step backwards. “Please tell me you don’t do that kind of thing regularly.”

Herbert met Athaliah's gaze with a rather serious expression. "This isn't the sort of thing to fool around with. If I didn't know what I was doing, I wouldn't suggest it." The monster hunter and apparent part-time necromancer turned his attention to Rhiara. "I assure you that I do not partake in this sort of activity any more than absolutely necessary. Necromancy is not to be taken lightly."

“That doesn’t make me feel better.” Athaliah replied. “I trust you though.”
“Me too. I know you’ll do what’s right.” Rhiara nodded. “What’s our next step, by the way?”

"Well, we gather the party and head back to Viarosa." Said Herbert. "If you've got any more packing left to do, you should probably get it done now."

In the courtyard of the keep, Order squires had brought in a large carrier wagon with two horses to pull it. In the wagon were the trio's necessities, deliberately overstocked for the sake of being able to provide food and drink for the rest of the group not aligned with the Order. Crates of dried, salted, or smoked meats, barrels of clean water, good brew, and sacred wine, ample medicinal supplies, tools, and miscellaneous supplies made the bulk of the Order's contribution to party resources. Additionally the wagon carried their communal tent and bedding, a chest of Arums, and a chest of books, divided among the three Order officers - Sorano's tomes, Kinara's fiction, and Lucian's Holy Codex and books of common prayer. Supplemental ammunition was also stored in the cart for Kinara's usage, as the trio's markswoman.

A brief exchange was had between the Order's representatives and Herbert's party, lasting no longer but a single moment as they fell silent, focused instead on the road ahead. When all carriages were packed, and all heroes were mounted, one of the Miradorian attendants summoned the fanfare, prompting Lucian, who opted to drive his own cart, to put the horses into motion and take point, with the rest of the party following close behind.

The energy in Mirador was palpable as civilians and soldier alike flocked to see their Grandmaster as he departed from the city, singing the praises of the Gods as soldiers paraded along with the procession, escorting it out of the city. It had all felt as though it went by in a blur; before anyone knew it, the din of cheering commoners had faded, replaced by the hooves of the horses crunching along on the snow laden road...

Osvaldus had had a busy night. There seemed to be an abundance of letters from advisors and various peasants regarding matters such as his recent tax hike from 50% of all profits and products to 55%, managing the distribution of resources to his holdings around Terneuzen, and organizing his levies.

As the night went on, the Asmeinland noble looked at a folded up letter laying on his desk. His grey eyes quickly fixated on the seal holding it shut. The seal clearly indicated that the letter came from Lucian Aquila, Grandmaster of the Order of the Knights Solanian. He thumbed it slightly, brushing the wax seal a fair bit as he thought it over. Pondering what was inside, he peeled off the seal and opened it, ready to see what the man had to say.

His eyes scanned the parchment. So, it appeared Lucian wanted to lead a foolish crusade against Lord Htraknu? He grinned at their bold stupidity. Mere mortals stood no chance against He Who Swallows Gods Whole. And yet, here it was, plain as the ink on the parchment, they planned to go to war against Htraknu. Osvaldus grinned. Damned fools, he thought to himself, they'll be nothing more than bloody sacrifices to the Great Dragon.

He calmly opened the various drawers of his desk, looking for spare paper. When he found some he grabbed a small inkwell, dipped his pen into it, and began to scribble out a quick letter to the Acolytes of the Great Wyrm, alerting them to Lucian's Crusade. He told them to gather up their weapons and to fortify Htraknu's lair. No need to bother him with a few peasants and Knights.

Osvaldus smiled as he finished writing his letter. An odd way to alert Htraknu, perhaps, but the only way he could think of alerting him. He headed down to the lower levels of the Governor's Palace and ordered a messenger to send the letter to the mountain wher Htraknu resided, informing the young man that the letter was for one of the nobleman's friends. Naturally one of the devotees would take it and alert Lord Htraknu.

With that out of the way Osvaldus returned to his office and reread the letter, wondering where this "Crusade" would assemble. Perhaps he could send some of his forces to intercept them. Then again perhaps it'd be best if he sent his troops to help bolster the defense of Htraknu's Lair.

Having thought it over for a few minutes, Cientus decided it'd be best if he sent his levies to reinforce the Lair and assist the Acolytes in defending it. WIth instructions to assist the "natives" however they can, the nobleman sent his Marshal and troops to reinforce it, knowing it'd take a few weeks of marching before they'd arrive with troops, armor, weapons, and supplies of various sorts. Having done that, and not wishing to keep governoring when His Lord was under attack, he informed his regnant that he'd be gone for a few months, saying it was "various business matters with neighboring realms". He donned his finest suit of armor, grabbed a few weapons, before he then headed to the Governor's Barracks to gather a few bodyguards for his trip.

Inside the barracks the cultist saw a sight that'd frighten other men. At the far end of the room were three large men, the three of them standing rather tall and wide, armored with steel, and armed with battleaxes or longbows. They turned when they heard Cientus shut the door behind him. They spotted his smile and slowly lumbered over to him, their gold eyes fixated on his grey.
"I'll need your assitance in acting as my bodyguards." he said simply
The men nodded and followed their liege as he got on his horse and began to set off. The quickly mounted their own horses and followed, their hooves thumping on the dirt road that laid before them.

Rumors abound in the Acolyte ranks of an adventuring party setting out to stop Htraknu's plan of ascending to Godhood. If he could have his way, Osvaldus would stop it. Preferably by spilling blood in Htraknu's name...

West of the Savarian Gates

The red sun beat down on the lands of the East, blasting the desolate landscape with heat unknown anywhere else on Thurius. The rocky plateaus were high and hard, giving way to the sifting ergs that rolled southwards and rising into the vast mountains that sprawled across the north. This land, the disputed territory between Sindhus and Savaria, was not a place that allowed weakness. The predators hunted alone, the prey died alone, and even the flora wore prickly armour.

A great cloud of dust rose in the distance, slowly drifting across the clear blue sky. The sound of hooves pounding against the rocky ground was heard before the perpetrators could be seen, thundering across the crest of a barren hilltop. The riders were few in number, wearing loose linen tunics of vibrant patterning and cloaks of brightly coloured silk. Most of the horsemen had a weapon hanging from their belt, sabres encrusted with gems and gilded with fine silver and gold. Two of the foremost riders carried long lances, each with different standards waving at the end of their pole-arms. The men rode down the windswept hill, passing a trench lined with guards cloaked in mail and white linen, and entering the encampment of the Sindhusi legions.

Thousands of tents stood in orderly rows, each with banners denoting their numbered position and ranking on the field. The quarters nearest the edge of the camp were utilitarian and small, each with room for six soldiers and all their equipment. As the riders continued deeper into the halted army, the tents increased in size, but remained plainly raised and almost completely without decoration. Ordered pairs of eastern infantrymen patrolled the tent line, marching up and down the camp. Occasionally, the riders could spot a figure cloaked from head to toe in pristine white vestment, the inverted triangle of displayed clearly where their faces would have been had they not been entirely covered. Disciples of the Sacred Path.

When the riders reached the exact centre of the camp, they dismounted. Laid before them was a massive bonfire, around which a great many soldiers and disciples sat and talked. Nearby the fire, a group of larger pavilions that had been erected - large tents of plain white colour, each with an inverted triangle displayed clearly on each of the silken walls. The largest tent was raised to form a pyramid, wooden framework connecting the fabrics and keeping the structure grounded and making sure it held shape. Sindisi stood as straight as the mountains, ringing the silk pyramid with their plated mail. Each slave-soldier wore a crimson cloak, fastened at the plates of steel that covered the midsection, and a plume of red ribbony that hung from their conical helmets. As the men approached, now on foot, the Sindisi braced their shields, bringing spears down to bear at the approaching visitors. The men stopped in their tracks, placing hands on their sabres as they realized that the slave-soldiers would not permit them into the tent.

Instead, the flap was opened from the inside, and a figure dressed in crimson robes all but identical to the ones worn by disciples of the Sacred Path stepped forth. He waved a hand, his vestment flowing with his movement, and the Sindisi raised their weapons. The Zealot gestured for the visitors to enter, disappearing back into the pyramid. The men hesitated for a brief moment, warily eyeing the slave-soldiers as they passed into the commanding pavilion.

Inside, the pyramid was as orderly as the rest of the camp. Books were stacked on tables at the back of the structure, columns of thick tomes and stacks of paper on each. Simple cushioned settees were arranged to face one another in the centre of the pyramid, seating several Zealots clothed in the same crimson that distinguished them from simple disciples. A table filled with flatbread sat in the middle of the Zealots, who spoke and drank tea, paying no regard to the new visitors. Standing nearby the dining clergy, three figures standing in full plated mail addressed a woman sitting at a small table.

The woman wore crimson silk, same as the other Zealots, but her robes opened in the midsection to reveal a shirt of mail with a series of enameled plates wrapping around the torso. Her armour was coloured a deep red, a shade darker than the robe that cloaked it. Her face was not covered like the other Zealots - instead, the woman's vestments wrapped around a crested helm, fluted and topped by a transverse array of red feathers. Her exposed face was narrow, sharp, and visibly scarred. Her hand was raised to her temple, which she massaged as the men before her continued to argue. The woman's eyes flickered to the entrance as she saw the visitors come through the main flap but she quickly regained focus on the discussion at hand.

"The rioting lasted for two days, and even after the garrison cornered the mob in the public square, the people continued to fight." The speaker's ranking sash was coloured a plain silver that matched the mail that he wore underneath it. Like the rest of the men, he wore his hair in the traditional military knot. "Dispersing the mob took nearly an entire night, during which several of our soldiers were killed and many wounded."

The woman pursed her lips. "And the mob? What casualties did they suffer?"

The man looked uneasy retelling the statistics. "Once the rioters were surrounded, those that fought were easily dispatched. Hundreds were killed. All but three of the suspected instigators went with them. Those that were captured are held in the citadel of the city, awaiting their holy punishment. One of the captured is a holy figure, a hermit of sorts. People have gathered outside the citadel, begging mercy."

“Good. A chance for a standard to be set.” She said. “We intend to burn them, correct?"

A murmur of agreement rippled through the assembled advisors. "The men are to be set on the Path, yes."

The woman stood up, smoothing the papers arranged on her desk. "This unrest is more about bread than it is religion. Now that we've finally and completely destroyed the marauders and demons that plagued our merchants, food will flow to the people." She looked up. "I want the instigators desolated, not burned. They will be shown tolerance, and we will have order." She glanced at the man in the silver cloak, her mouth briefly twisting into a frown. "Make certain it is done in public. The mob should see their leaders expire. If these demonstrators decide that our mercy was lacking, you will have them in their homes before they can raise fists against us again. Your governance over this region has been adequate until recently - I trust you do not intend to make failure your new trend?"

The man reddened, but he seemed more embarrassed than angry. "I will not lose control again, you can be sure.“ He gave the woman a curt nod, brushing past the other advisors and newcomers alike as he left the tent. The woman watched him leave and then turned her attention to the remaining men. "I have visitors, noble masters. We will meet again once midday draws to close."

The lords voiced their agreement, following their comrade's footsteps and leaving the pavilion. Once they had gone, the woman directed her attention to the group of newcomers, their elegant clothes marred with dust from their journey. She bowed for the lead man and then offered him a seat at a set of cushioned seats near her table. "I will not speak with your entire entourage," she said matter-of-factly. "Tell them to wait outside, and I shall receive Your Highness with traditional customs and tea."

The prince of Sindhus looked reluctant to send his companions away, but he complied nonetheless. They left, and the tent was clear of everyone save himself and the High Zealot.

"I did not expect to find you discussing matters of state, nor did I wish to interrupt you, dear Azima.“ The prince smiled, smoothing his quilted tunic as he moved to sit down. The heir to Sindhus was a typically handsome man, with a finely groomed beard and the golden tattoos that eastern nobility had found fashionable as of late. Unlike the officers that had just made their exit, his long black hair was worn on his shoulders rather than held neatly above his head. "It is good to finally see you again, half-sister. I only met you and your brother once as children, and it was so desperately brief that I could not even call you my sworn friend." He tone became serious for a moment. "I am deeply sorry to hear of your sibling's demise, by the way. We can only hope that he is a ranking officer in the Bright City as we speak."

"He apparently died well. I thank you regardless."

The younger Razah smiled amicably. "Indeed. Onto happier subjects, I suppose. The capital prospers in your absence - Razatash has never in our history had such a majestic aura about it. Perhaps I can show you the palace as it looks now? One day, one day.” His confident smile widened. “I must say, you have become a strikingly beautiful woman. Why do you burden your visage with clothing so unwomanly? You do yourself a disservice."

Azima did not look impressed. “Womanly clothing does not usually stop arrows." She frowned. “I have heard you know much of womanly clothing, but little of arrows.” The High Zealot stood, moving to her desk and retrieving a ceramic pitcher of earthy-smelling Sindhusi tea. She poured it into two painted cups and took them back to the low table where the prince was waiting. “Your name is Razah, but I see little of your father in you. The Emir’s last wish was to have you brought to the middle realms on the dawn of your twentieth year so that you might learn to command men. If I am not mistaken, that day passed over six months ago.”

Prince Razah smiled again, but there was little warmth in his expression. “I truly left when he had me summoned. Unfortunately, my journey was slow, and hindered by weather and issues with my supply." He took a sip of his tea, visibly disappointed with the taste. "What does it matter?" He continued. "I am here now, am I not? I have brought the royal seal and am ready to receive your religious approval of my righteous rule."

Azima placed her own tea on the table, folding her arms around her back and clasping her hands together. "Our father dictated your arrival personally. It was one of his last commands." She paused. "He was a towering hero. They called him sickly behind his back, called him weak of heart and body. They said an army would never follow him. The Va'ad couldn't control him, and so they feared him. He may have been crippled by that horrific disease, but his will never faltered. He was a righteous man." The High Zealot looked down on the prince, arching a single eyebrow. "The Va'ad seems to love you, though. I suppose you think that's because you're a good ruler, experienced in all your years of eating and sleeping?"

Razah's smile slipped away. "I don't know what you're insinuating-"

"I insinuate nothing. The Va'ad loves you because they can control you, and through that, they can control the path that all-mother Sindhus travels." The High Zealot unfolded her arms. "They have showered you with praise, consorts, and wealth until your head swelled to the size of the palace you dwelled in. You are their puppet."

The prince stood abruptly, knocking his tea aside as he rocked the table. "How dare you speak of the noble school of the east like you are above it! Like you come from anything but a pathetic mountain house, emboldened by my father’s misguided favour for your mother and his silly devotion to your pathetic religion!” He jabbed an accusing finger at Azima. "My loyal ministers told me my father had instilled you with his arrogance, but I had not expected he had given you such a degree of insolence! He may have treated you like a daughter, but I am his true born male heir, and now that the disease has finally taken him, my right is to rule. I will not suffer your words of madness any longer - I will return to the capital and demand that you disband your command. This fanaticism that my father so willingly fostered has clearly spiraled out of control, and I must do my duty as Emir to end it!"

The High Zealot maintained her composure throughout his tirade, eyeing the heir to Sindhus with an indifferent gaze. “Hear me now,“ Azima moved to her desk, delicately lifting a piece of aging paper and holding it close to her face. "As my words are sacred law." Her eyes drifted towards the paper, which she began to read aloud. "I, Razah Va Azuri, do hereby decree that my power as Emir of Sindhus and First of the East will not pass to my eldest son, Razah Sa Marzo, for he is not equipped to hold my power. The title shall be held in sway until another can be found to rule, decided by a council of my choosing. These are my words, my orders, my law. It shall fall to the most trusted and honourable High Zealot of Sindhus, Azima on the Path, to right any deviance from my last command.” The High Zealot stopped reading, looking at the prince, who had paled considerably since his outburst. "His words end there, empowered by the very same royal seal you have brought here today. This is the original copy, but he put many more to paper, and I assure you, they have been delivered to the officers intended."

Razah stood like a frozen monument, his mouth agape. "My father has stripped me of my birthright?” He croaked. "You forged this document. You have made my father speak this treason."

"The important masters already know this paper is authentic. I showed them this page when you failed to arrive on your twentieth day." Azima glanced at the saber sheathed at the prince's waist. "I am on the council your father speaks of. They will convene in the capital, and the majority legions will be scattered to make certain the Emir's words are obeyed." She pursed her lips. "And they will be. I care for the sacred law, unlike your wretched ministers and the corrupt Va'ad."

Before the prince could reply, the flap of the tent opened, and a line of Sindisi stormed into the pyramid. They stood at attention near the exit, blocking any route of escape. The prince looked to the slave-soldiers, and then back to the High Zealot, panic beginning to take root in his eyes. "What is this? Do you have ill designs on your own kin?” He dropped to his knees, grasping for her hand. "I am your brother, Azima! I am your monarch!”

“You are weak.“ The High Zealot stared down at the prince, a small frown appearing on her face. “Sindhus cannot be weak now, not while the world upon her with such envy.“ She turned her back to the prince, waving her hand in signal to the Sindisi. Two of the slave-soldiers moved forward, roughly grasping a wailing Razah and dragging him from the tent, where he could see his guards lying in the sand, each of their throats cut. Whimpering and kicking, Prince Razah Va Yatash was dragged away by the leading Sindisi. He cried out for the soldiers gathering to view the commotion to assist him, but the legionaries remained still.

The High Zealot stepped out of her pavilion, scanning the crowd of soldiers that watched grimly as their prince was clasped in irons and pulled away to an unknown fate. She examined the faces of the legionaries, trying to discern whether they approved of her action or not.

There was silence for a few tantalizing moments as the High Zealot stood before her legions. In the midst of the crowd, someone raised their fist and covered it with their open hand in an eastern salute, bellowing a cry of Varidis - commander. Suddenly, the encampment exploded with cheers of the same sentiment, and in a few brief moments, the soldiers erupted into praise for their leader.

Satisfied with the response, Azima on the Path turned to the officer that was closest to her. “Arriah, fetch the royal seal from my poor brother's traveling equipment. He has suffered a bout of strange madness and entrusted the safeguarding of the seal to my person. In addition, instruct the officers of both the jade and phoenix legions to prepare their troops and remain here while you lead the bulk of my forces east. I will ready my vanguard personally, don't bother yourself with it.” The armoured figure nodded, marching off to obey her command. The High Zealot took her last look at the men before her, returning to the shade of her pyramid tent while her triumph echoed through the arid plateau.

Co-written with @Edgy Erwyn, @Luftwaffles, @Mardox, @BlondyMcHuggles and @PrinceOfHeaven

Let's Hit the Road!

"Hey, elf, what are you reading?" Ceara smiled crookedly, switching her tone to a snobbish slur. "That better be a classic Aesernian piece. Anything else is simply drivel, I say. The common mob is so fickle, chasing trends rather than proper literature! You and I, we understand."

Sorano slowly looked over with perhaps the driest and most bored expression a mortal being could muster. Besides the Order wagon, the ginger devil was riding along on her mare, staring over his shoulder and at the pages of his book. "Do you even read, vulture?" he asked, contempt oozing from his lips as he spoke. "You think I don't know the sound of insincerity?"

The thief rolled her eyes, turning her attention towards the armoured figure that rode at the head of their mismatched procession. “Oh, grand old master Lucy, good ser!” She clutched her hands to her chest, sobbing dramatically. “My honour as a fair maiden has been questioned! Won’t you raise a noble hand to strike the perpetrator down?”

Lucian remained silent, listening to the steady rhythm of hooves on snow, twigs, and dead leaves. Sorano replied with a wry chuckle. "Were 'honour,' 'fair,' and 'maiden' apt descriptors for you I'm certain the man would not hesitate. It appears I'm in luck, for it's just you.

"Come now, Sorano, have a bit more respect. She doesn't look ugly at all," said Kinara. She tried to maintain a smile, but occasionally stole a fearful glance at Nima, clearly uncomfortable with the easterner's presence. Still, she tried to keep her attention on the thief.

Ceara nodded to the Samothauress, bobbing her head with gratitude. “Thank you! I'm glad to see your order has some true knights in it.” She cocked her head, shifting in the saddle as she addressed Kinara. “Everyone I meet seems to call me a whore. It pains me. Relatable?”

Sorano's eyes narrowed, and his lips curled into a startlingly menacing frown as Kinara tilted her head quizzically and smiled innocently, unknowingly. "What do you mean by that?" she inquired. Lucian's head slightly rotated towards Ceara, subtly enough to not be noticed, but now his attention was honed in on what she said next.

The redheaded thief raised her eyebrows. “Has anyone ever called you a harlot? I think men tend to say it to me because they’re threatened by my sharp wit and high functioning intelligence.”

Kinara's smile was nigh-instantly replaced with a shocked, deeply insulted look. She wasn't sure how to reply to the thief, stumbling over her words. Well, not until just now, she thought. She didn't think of herself as a harlot, anyway...

Sensing the Samothauress's discomfort, Erika intervened. "It was a joke, Kinara. When Ceara and I met, she saved me the trouble of calling her a floozy by being kind enough to do it herself." She said cheerfully. "I'm sure she didn't mean any real offence."

Kinara nodded uncomfortably, looking away from Ceara and the others, staring down at her hooves. "...I'm not a whore," she murmured weakly.

Lucian looked fully over his shoulder, first at Ceara, then Erika, then to Kinara. She wasn't normally like this, and it was becoming troubling. No doubt old wounds had been pried open by the slave-soldier's presence. As much as he sympathized, he knew she was going to have to adapt eventually or she would be a liability, as Herbert complained. "Ceara, lay off," he demanded, turning back to the thief. To Erika he nodded and said, "I understand, but you must know that there are matters that Apostle Kinara is deeply uncomfortable discussing in such company." He punctuated his reply by jabbing his shoulder in Nima's direction, gesturing to him for Erika.

Erika gave a polite nod towards Lucian, but her smile seemed somewhat strained now. Meanwhile, Herbert made a faint "Hmmpf" sound that was likely drowned out by the horses' hooves long before reaching the Grandmaster. His expression as he looked Lucian in the eye, however, seemed to convey quite well that he was unimpressed by the explanation.

Nima looked on as the rest of the party quieted. His expression was hidden underneath the curtain of mail that fell over his face, but his gaze seemed to be directed towards Ceara, who appeared uncomfortable at the reaction to her joke.

Sorano leaned forwards, taking Kinara's hands into his own as he looked upon her empathetically. More impressively, he didn't blurt out a better explanation on her and Lucian's behalf. Instead he calmly and politely asked her, "Are you comfortable explaining to them what happened those years ago?"

The Samothauress considered silently before calmly shaking her head. "Perhaps at a later time. I'm sorry, I'd just like some time to adjust to all of this. Gather my thoughts."

"That's quite alright. Shall we discuss lighter, lovelier things?" Lucian suggested, turning his eyes back towards the road. "I suspect we'll be a while before arrival in Viarosa, I suppose we might as well get to know each other better. Things we may like to do, songs we might love to sing?"

The bard Mostafa almost instinctively clutched his lute, ready to go on cue. Sorano chuckled and suggested, "I once played this game with some Bryonic fellows while investigating this old stone calendar circle in the north of the Isles. They had a penchant for asking each other strange, personal, but charming questions as a sort of game to pass the time. Now while I would say we don't start deliberately poking at old wounds, it should be captivating enough."

"Was it Firinne?" asked Mostafa.

"I don't rightly remember trying to figure out truth from lie, but we could play that."

“Mostafa had it right, it’s called Fírinne.” Ceara replied, sounding distinctly subdued. “It’s from Cairnleath, though. I suppose it's fallen south, but I didn't expect you all... Well, that matters not. Does everyone know how to play?”

"To an extent," Sorano replied. "You tell a truth or a deception to someone, and they must work out whether what you told them was factual or fabricated. If in groups, whomever is not sharing will vote their piece on the status of the speaker's fact. Am I correct?"

“What?” Ceara furrowed her brow, trying to understand the scholarly language. “Uh, sure.” Nima spoke up, his rasping tone joining the air for the first time. “He knows how to play.” Ceara nodded, smiling unsurely. “Right. Who will go first, then?”

Athaliah looked around at the people in the group, waiting for just one to volunteer. When nobody did, she let out a sigh. “I guess it’s me, then.” She paused for a few seconds to think of something to say. “Uh… I’m really good at ballroom dancing.”

Herbert stroked his chin before answering. "I'm going to guess that that's a lie." Ballroom dancing didn't seem like it would be a big thing in a small town like Hoffen and Athaliah hadn't even owned a dress before the Feast. It just didn't make sense for her to be skilled at ballroom dancing.

Erika on the other hand spoke a different answer. "I think it's the truth." She said. "Can't really say for certain though since the Feast didn't have any dancing." Unlike Herbert, she hadn't known that Athaliah's dress for the Feast was brand-new.

Ceara tapped her thigh. “I’m with Herbie. Lie. I’ve never seen any ballrooms in Hoffen.”

"I'm fairly certain there aren't any," began Erwyn, cocking his head towards Athaliah. "But you're not from Hoffen originally, are you? 'Athaliah Priscou' is hardly an Asmeiner name, after all - Foverósi, perhaps? I'm inclined to believe you could've learned before you moved. Truth."

"Lie. You wouldn't have had the time to master ballroom dancing. And if you're Foverosi as your surname implies, the Foverosi do not dance in the style associated with the Narbosi or Aquilanians," Sorano replied. "

"Ah, it could be true!" Lucian said with a hearty chuckle, "Everyone has hobbies of some sort. Perhaps she and a friend practiced the art from time to time in the local tavern." He turned to look over his shoulder at the Samothauress behind him. "What of you, Kina? Your thoughts on the matter?"

Kinara looked up and smiled faintly, "I think she's telling the truth. She has the grace for it, anyway. Even if she's lying, I'm certain you or Sorano could teach her and she'd learn swiftly."

Sorano snickered, rolling his eyes with what appeared to be an actual smile. "Perhaps," said Lucian, "Though it depends on whether she is being honest about her talent."

"You are, I trust, aware," Erwyn interjected, shooting a disparaging glance at the insufferably arrogant elf, "that 'ballroom dancing' is a rather broad category, encompassing far more than just the Narbosi and Aquilanian styles? And that thus your logic is incredibly flawed?"

"Please, everything about Asmeinland from its culture to its government is just Oslandics attempting to emulate the Southern Kingdoms. Then they wonder why the Oslandics despise them for claiming to have a superior, better refined way of life," Sorano retorted. "The Narbosi and Aquilanian styles of ballroom dancing were among the first to popularize the dance. Tarraconian, Gelidian, Asmeinlandic, Bryonic, all the rest of them, they all sprang from those two. I'm saying that the Illyricans and the Foverosi are more foreign to the Narbosi tradition than are the Asmeinlanders and Aesernians, as historical precedence indicates, and thus their forms of dance differ from ours."

With the long-winded tirade over, Lucian raised a hand to silence Sorano, giving him a cautious glance. "I think perhaps it is best that Lady Priscou clarify for us if she was lying or speaking truthfully, lest this devolve into petty argumentation."

"...that and I would very much like to go next if it is all the same to you folks."

Athaliah glanced at each person in the group who answered. “I was lying,” she replied with a little smile. “I mean, I did a bit of it as a child before my family left Foverós, but I’m not very good at it.” She shrugged her shoulders.
“Oh well.” Rhiara said, breaking her long silence. “You’re good at other kinds of dancing.”
“I guess so. So it’s Lucian’s turn now?”

Sorano gave a vindicated smirk towards Erwyn as Lucian mulled over his options. "Aye, it is," he mumbled, scratching his stubbly chin. "I'm fully literate and fluent in Common, Narbosi, and High Aesernian, and I record my travels in narrative journals, much like our good fellow Bjorn has done."

"Cela ne devrait pas être difficile à vérifier," replied Erwyn in perfectly accented Narbosi. "Praeter diarium, utique," he continued, now switching to the High Aesernian tongue that Lucian had also claimed knowledge of. The vampire watched the holy knight carefully, looking for the trace of confusion on his face that would signal a lie.

Erika gave the holy man a brief look and spoke. "I believe it." Meanwhile, Herbert studied the Grandmaster for a short while longer before speaking. "I think it's true." It seemed in character for the man, so why not?

"Ton Narbosien, estais fals. Ou, au leau, cels est solement del reiuns su. La langue propre de clergié et nobilite, cels est del reiuns et citez nort," Lucian replied to Erwyn, speaking quickly, fluently, and matter-of-factly in a thick yet proper Capital Narbosi accent. Then it became a perfect Aesernian accent as he continued. "Scio. Linguae Narbonis et Aesernae studēbam. Ita vero! Veritas dīxī." He chuckled and waved his hand dismissively, "The journals are off limits however. Firstly, they are private, secondly, they are unfinished, and I would rather complete them before publishing. If I decide to publish that is. So whose turn is it?"

Erwyn smiled. "Tu as raison, j'ai étudié en Asselineau, et en Mesny pour un peu. But anyway, I suppose I shall go next." He paused, deep in thought for a moment. "Hmmm... I was the Sheikh of Ciprius for about a week."

Nima’s mail shifted as his head turned towards the Asmeinlander Count. “True.” Ceara glanced backwards at her armoured friend, raising an eyebrow. “I thought you hated this game? Ah, whatever. Its obviously a lie, nobody can just become the Sheikh of Ciprius.”

Herbert snorted. "Yes, and I was the Emperor of Aesernia for a day. I highly doubt you were Sheikh of Ciprius." Erika nodded in agreement. "While it sounds a bit like something that might have happened due to you specifying how long, I'm going to have to say false."

Sorano chuckled and shook his head, "The marvelous bastard's immortal, and with all of the other titles you have acquired and with how spastic feudal borders happen to be, I'm going to say true. As for holding it for a week, whomever you usurped the Sheikhdom from likely returned in force to take it back."

"You're right, it's true," replied the vampire. "I may have... dumped the old Sheikh in the desert for a while, and used a little bit of magic to take his place. It was fun while it lasted, but by the time he found his way back I was getting rather tired of the incessant bloody sun anyway, so I was all too glad to head back home." Suddenly, the gut-wrenching sounds of a desperate scream in the distance shot through the moonlit forest, muffled by the dense mass of pines and concealed by the brisk winter wind until it finally petered out, unheard but for its origin. Almost. A mile away, seated on his black destrier as it slowly walked through the trees, one person was listening, his ears pricking up at the distant sound, ignoring the progress of the game he and his companions had been playing. Erwyn Kásimir Hendryk Szilveszter, Graaf van Amstetten-Szatmár-Bereg, glanced around at his party. They showed no sign of having heard it - of course they hadn't; their senses were merely human, for the most part, and certainly none came close to those of an elder vampire. The Count sighed, and deftly dismounted, handing the reins of his horse to the closest of his soldiers. "Please do excuse me," he began, "but I must take a short walk."

Ceara rolled her eyes, cupping her hands and shouting after him. “Try not to become the King of Illyrica while you're out!"

Stalking off into the trees, Erwyn responded merely with a dismissive grunt and an impolite gesture; he no longer had time for petty banter. After a few steps, he faded into the inky darkness, a brief gust of air rustling the nearby leaves as he suddenly flitted away with the blinding speed only a vampire could attain.

---

Sprinting frantically through the trees of the forest, a young girl hopelessly tried to escape her fate. An assistant to her village’s only healer, she had come out into the forest in order to gather herbs and other supplies sorely needed to help treat a particularly nasty outbreak of disease amongst the villagers. She knew it was a mistake to come out here at such an hour. Now, with adrenaline coursing through her veins, the only thing on her mind was to run from the monster that was hunting her. She knew it was a vampire, and deep down she knew that she didn’t stand a chance against such a creature, but she was not willing to give up and surrender her life so easily. Unfortunately for her, however, it did not take long for the unholy creature of the night to catch up to her and tackle her to the ground. Time seemed to slow for the girl as she realised that this was the end for her. With the vampire now pinning her to the ground, she could see its face clearly for the first time. It was a woman, with ghostly blue eyes that were seemingly filled only with a predatory hunger and not a shred of humanity. Hidden beneath the veil of the vampire’s savagery, the woman actually appeared to be quite beautiful. But alas, all the girl could do now was plead for her life, to which the vampire quickly responded was a terrifying hiss. The pleas were ignored, and she tore into the unfortunate girl’s neck with her fangs, beginning to feed and eliciting another sickening, albeit short-lived, scream from her victim.

Nestled between the thick branches of a nearby conifer, Erwyn watched silently as the young vampire drank her fill, blood splattering over her face and clothes, and forming a growing scarlet pool on the forest floor, all accompanied by the sickening squelch of tearing flesh. He shook his head. Messy, he thought. This one has a lot to learn.

The girl had long since passed away as the vampire finished her meal. With her bloodlust finally sated, the vampire began to calm and regain her composure. Upon seeing what she had done, her mind immediately began to flashback to the Massacre of Asselineau Castle in which her own mother met the same fate at the hands of her daughter, an act that she has never forgiven herself for. Tears began to well up in her eyes, before she flashed back into reality and broke down. As she wept, her tears flooded down her pale cheeks as she closed the still wide eyes of the young woman she had just murdered, cursing herself all the while. She struggled to control her predatory instincts, and this girl was now just another name on the list of many innocent people she had unwillingly murdered in order to sustain herself, and this pained her greatly. The vampire then fell onto her back and stared up into the night sky, her lips still covered with the blood of her victim, where she simply lay still in contemplation and depression, unable to stem the flow of tears as they trickled onto the forest floor.

A twig snapped loudly under the sole of Erwyn's boot as he emerged from his hiding place, the sound made quite deliberately to announce his presence. Immediately, the young vampire shot up from the ground and drew her sword on Erwyn, her hand visibly shaking as she cleared the tears from her eyes so that she could see her new visitor clearly. “Who are you?” she asked, her voice shaky and nervous. “Has someone finally come to kill me?”

"My name is Erwyn," the Count began, taking a small step forward. "And you have nothing to fear from me; I would not so readily kill my own kind." He placed a pale hand on the end of her sword, gently pushing the icy blade away from him. "But if you cannot control your thirst, sooner or later someone will come for you; perhaps a man, perhaps an army, perhaps even a god. I would rather see you avoid such an end - it is not befitting one such as you or I."

The undead woman was not so quick to trust this mysterious Erwyn. “I already know people are coming for me. Do you know how many people I have killed? How could I not be hunted like the monster that I am with the trail of corpses that I leave behind?” The woman paused as she fought back her tears yet again, before raising her sword once more between the two. “We might share the gift of the Dark Lady, but how do I know that I can trust you? How do I know that they didn’t send a vampire to kill a vampire?”

"And what motive could I have? What could the nefarious 'they' have offered me in return for my services? Money? Power? Knowledge?" He shook his head. "All three I have accumulated in abundance in my eight centuries on this rock, and all three I could acquire in far greater quantities without the need to whore myself out as a murderer and a traitor." The Count pushed the sword aside once more. "I wish only to help you; you have my word."

The pair remained in complete silence, staring at one another whilst the young vampire processed the Count’s words, and decided whether or not she could trust him. “I do not know what you could have been offered; all I know is that there are a lot of people out there who want me dead, and most of which don’t even know my name. To them, I’m not a person. I’m nothing more than a monster that needs to put down, and maybe they are right…” The silence resumed for a moment, until it was broken when the woman lowered her guard and returned her sword to its sheath on her belt. “I need help. I will be honest and say that I still do not trust you, but I would be stupid to turn down such an offer given my present state, especially if you are as old as you say you are.” She let out a reluctant sigh as she continued to speak. “It has been far too long since I have said this to anyone, but my name is Élise d’Astier, and it is a pleasure to meet you, Erwyn. I just hope that my name does not sound familiar to you.”

Erwyn thought for a moment, trying to recall the name. "Perhaps it does," he began, slowly, "then again, perhaps it does not. Regardless, I do not think you are a monster, whatever deeds are in your past. It is likewise a pleasure to meet you, Élise."

“You may come to reconsider that stance, in time, but I suppose only one question remains,” Élise responded, “how are you going to help me? I cannot imagine that to be a simple task.”

"That will require no small amount of thought on my part," the Count replied. "But I am confident that there will be a way - multiple ways in all likelihood, be they through arcane or mundane means. Or, if certain other matters go to plan, I may just be able to call in a favour from our mutual friend."

“That wasn’t the most reassuring answer, but thank you. Thank you so much for giving me a chance!” The woman almost managed a smile, until she remembered the grisly scene behind her and her expression sunk. “So then, Erywn, what happens now? Where do we go from here?”

Erwyn smiled. "Back to my travelling companions. They're an odd bunch, but I'll make sure they don't give you any trouble." He gestured for the young vampire to follow, beginning to stroll back through the forest, before stopping abruptly. "Ah, one more thing, for the sake of giving fair warning. The 'certain other matters' I mentioned... well, to cut a long story short, I'm on a quest from Lilith to kill an elder dragon that wants to destroy the world. And has already murdered a dark god. Trivial business, really, just thought you ought to know. Anyway, shall we go?"

Élise quickly wiped both the blood and tears from her face and clothes to the best of her ability using a handkerchief from her pocket, before returning the smile. “I doubt being covered in blood would make the best first impression amongst your friends, but yes, let us go. This suicide mission of yours sounds like the perfect way for me to redeem myself in the eyes of the world.” She then caught up to the older vampire as he resumed his course. “You did mention the Dark Lady however… did she give you the Blood Kiss like she did with me? And what’s this about a god being murdered already?!”

"The Blood Kiss? Nothing quite so romantic, I'm afraid. Unless that's just an especially poetic name for some cunt jumping out at you and sinking their teeth into your throat." He chuckled. "Perhaps she hadn't quite perfected the technique back then." The Count's expression grew serious. "But yes, the dragon in question somehow slew Hargash not long ago, and according to Lilith he will not stop there. Even she will die if the beast is not brought down."

“What?!” Élise’s sudden outburst caught Erwyn off guard, her voice conveying a feeling of desperation. “We cannot let this happen!” Realising she had raised her voice, she calmed down and apologised. “I’m sorry, it’s just that… Lilith is very important to me, as you can probably tell. She gave me my gifts and the Blood Kiss, and I almost feel sorry for you for not getting to experience that yourself. But regardless, if Lilith were to die, I do not know what would happen to me… Nothing good, that is certain.”

The older vampire nodded slowly. "Glad you're in agreement."

---

The pair walked on for another few minutes, brushing aside the emerald pines that littered their path. Emerging into a clearing where Erwyn found that his party had made camp during his absence, the two vampires silently sidled over to the flickering campfire. "I'm back," the Count said, his voice cutting suddenly through the quiet conversations between the other adventurers. "And I brought a friend."

Sorano, ever the vigilant, turned first to find the bloodstained woman at Erwyn's side. Suspecting her to be a recently fed Vampire, he rose immediately and drew his knightly sword. His hand was stayed by the hand of his master, who gripped the elf's wrist and pulled it down. "Sheathe thy blade, lest you provoke an untimely battle," said Lucian. The Apostle hesitantly lowered his weapon and nodded to Lucian, putting the blade away.

To Erwyn and his new companion, Lucian turned with his hand on the hilt of his own weapon, not yet ready to draw, but prepared should either start a fight themselves. "Forgive my errant Apostle, Ser Erwyn. Though upon first glance, your blood-coated friend does not implicate a particularly positive impression. Nor does her abject lack of lifeforce. A vampire for long, or is she recent?"

Sensing the hostility towards her and not trusting the many new faces nestled around the camp, Élise retreated behind Erwyn, keeping her hand on the hilt of her sword just in case anyone were to try anything. Thoughts of turning around and running danced through her mind, but she needed Erwyn’s help and this was the only way she was going to get it.

The Count glanced back at Élise, before his gaze returned to Lucian and his hand moved to reach inside his coat where his daggers were sheathed. "Fairly recent, I would say." His hand edged closer to the daggers, and the slightest trace of red began to creep into his eyes. "I get the distinct impression you believe that to be a problem. Please, do tell me I'm wrong."

Herbert - who had remained quiet at the newcomer's arrival and had stayed seated at the fire - chose this moment to finally look at the Count and his new friend. Noting Erwyn's attempt at intimidation, he spoke up. "Being a vampire is entirely acceptable, so long as one with such a conditions behaves him or herself. If they stop behaving, they have to be dealt with. Vampirism is like one of the lovers' plagues. You probably didn't mean to catch it, but now that you have it, the responsible thing to do is to avoid hurting others with it." The monster hunter idly began fidgeting with a golden medallion. Meanwhile, Erika, upon seeing the medallion, began to stir and eyed the pair of vampires intently.

Ceara burst into laughter at the comparison of the two diseases, stifling it quickly as several of the other more serious members of the group glanced in her direction. Nima stood up, gripping the hilt of his sword with an armoured hand while he waited for someone to make a move.

"The monster hunter and I agree whole-heartedly. And you musn't embarrass yourself with attempts at intimidation, 'Count.' Your friend will abide by the same stipulations you yourself are held to and there will be no problem. And her being recent is absolutely an issue. I take it she has not learned how to properly control her sanguine thirst? If this is the case and my concerns are not unfounded, you will teach her to keep herself under civil control. If you can do that, I will have no problems whatsoever with your new friend." He accentuated this statement with a polite bow in Élise's direction.

Athaliah was more casual about her stance; she had her hand on the pommel of her sword – ready to grab the hilt if she needed to, but she tried not to be threatening about it. Meanwhile, Rhiara had taken several paces away from the group, not wanting to be involved in whatever was about to happen.
“I wouldn’t threaten people when you’re at a disadvantage, Count.” Athaliah said, taking a step closer to the vampires. “Besides, we’re not in your lands; you have no power here. Now, surely you can talk like a reasonable person for once; what’ve you brought that girl here for?”

Erwyn chuckled and moved his hands back down to his side, empty. "A little naive to assume one's power simply ends at the boundaries of one's territory, and a little hypocritical to whinge about threats while you all clutch at your weapons. Regardless, I shall indulge your question." He looked back at Élise. "I want to help her. Help her to control her nature, and help her avoid the end that so many of our kind have met. A satisfactory answer, or are the hands on your swords now a permanent fixture?"

Ceara stepped forward, extending her hand towards the younger vampire. “Ceara Eachaidh, property enthusiast.” She cocked her head, examining Élise with a small smile. “You don’t look much like a bloodsucker, besides that stain there, but I guess that's part of the point. The way I see it, there's a lot more of us than you, so you’re probably going to get murdered if you try to kill anyone." She grinned. "So let's just save the hostility. What's your name?"

The woman in question still did not trust all of these new faces and looked to Erwyn as if asking for help, but he seemed to be too busy trying to be antagonising. If these people were always so aggressive towards one another, did she really want to be here? Would she even be safe here? “Élise.” She finally answered as she stepped towards Ceara, although she refused to extend her hand in return. “Élise Marianne Lucie d'Astier. As Erwyn has already said, I am here because he has offered to help me. In return, I will of course help you in your quest to slay the dragon that threatens us all.” As she spoke, her thick Narbosi accent was readily apparent to those around her. “That is, if you will have me. I trust that my presence will not make you too uncomfortable?”

Ceara's hand dropped to her side, but she didn't look disappointed that the newcomer hadn't returned her gesture. "Ah, it doesn't make me too queasy. I've known some pretty weird humans that drink blood, and as long as you stay the fuck away from mine, we'll be the best of friends."

“Fine,” Athaliah replied, taking her hand off the pommel of her sword. She walked over to Erwyn and patted him on the shoulder, quite hard. “She’s your responsibility.”
Rhiara did think about giving the girl a chance, but she felt intimidated by someone who literally had blood all over them. She figured she’d introduce herself and get to know her properly tomorrow, when everyone else would have hopefully calmed down – and when the vampire was no longer bloody.

Herbert pocketed the medallion and shifted his attention from Erwyn to the young vampiress. "I did not know that there were any d'Astiers left. I'm happy to learn that someone survived." He stated with an unreadable expression before giving a small, quick bow of the head. "Herbert T. Leintke, monster hunter. Your presence does not cause me any discomfort." His gaze seemed to linger slightly on the bloodstain, but there didn't seem to be any hostility in it.

Once Herbert had introduced himself, Erika smiled warmly at Élise, gave a slightly larger bow and spoke. "Erika Nilsson, healer and occasional assistant monster hunter. Nice to meet you." The half-manticore had relaxed and was now sipping at a mug of something.

The second Herbert alluded to the Massacre of Asselineau Castle, Élise knew she should not have given her real name. She wanted to be honest to show that she genuinely meant no harm and to make a good first impression, but she had not expected someone this far away from her homeland to know of the massacre. If they were to deduce that she was the one who murdered all of those people, she could be in serious danger. “It is a pleasure to meet you all of you, too,” Élise finally responded. Her voice was nervous and shaky, and she struggled to maintain eye contact with Herbert. “I just hope that your monster hunting does not include vampires.”

"It does, at times." Admitted Herbert. "But only when said vampires make monsters of themselves. I am of the belief that beings capable of thought should be judged by their actions rather than their race. As you mean to help us in our quest, I'm sure that we'll get along just fine. While I may not be a vampire myself, I do enjoy a good bit of research, so if I find anything information that might help you with self-control, I'll let you know." Herbert hadn't expected Élise to be so frightened. In his experience, her kind tended to think themselves nigh-invulnerable and usually scoffed at meeting him.

Lucian let his hands fall to his sides, but continued to eye the woman suspiciously. "Very well. Welcome to our warband then, madame," he said with a respectful bow. "Everyone, we'll be moving in the morning and it would be ideal that we all get some much needed rest. We should let our new companion acclimate, rather than crowd her and cast judgements."

As everybody made their way to where they all slept, Athaliah gestured for Herbert and Rhiara to talk to her. She had her arms crossed against her chest and looked uneasy for the first time in a while. “Guys? I’m not sure about that new vampire we’ve got with us now. Or the other one for that matter.” She looked at Herbert. “Herbert, is it fine if I stay up all night and make sure they don’t try anything? That means I’ll have to get some sleep in the wagon once we’re moving, though.”
Rhiara nodded slowly, and she looked at the ground. “I’d prefer that you were in the tent with me, but I understand.”

"I've got a better idea." Replied Herbert as he looked in the direction of the vampires. "How about the four of us take different watches, just in case? If our dear friends the bloodsuckers do try anything, you won't be as much help if you're exhausted and sleep-deprived."

Athaliah gave out a small “hmm” in agreement. “Okay, you guys go and get some rest, I’ll wake you in a few hours?” she lightly tapped Herbert on his back. “Thanks for listening, by the way.”

Herbert awoke to the smell of cooking meat and the sound of religion. For some reason, the Order knights seemed to think that dawn was an excellent time to sing hymns. Beside him, Erika slumbered peacefully, undisturbed by the Order's morning routine. Taking care not to wake her, he got out of bed and adjusted the blankets to keep the cold off his beloved.

Erika stirred somewhat and muttered something in her sleep before turning over and unconsciously wrapping the blankets further around herself. Herbert smiled at this and began to get dressed. Once he was done with that, he exited the wagon and walked towards the trio of knights. He had been meaning to speak with Lucian.

The monster hunter found the three sitting a distance from the main camp, having built a crackling fire, wrapped in thick, wooly winter cloaks. They were indeed singing western-traditional hymns in High Aesernian, with Lucian leading the three-person choir, reading from a hymnal he had gotten from a chest of many tomes. As they sung their praises to their gods, the three of them worked together to cook up salted venison over the fire, pairing it with some sort of unleavened bread and some vegetables -- carrots and cabbage it appeared. Judging from the fact that they had already set down three full plates before themselves and yet still continued cooking, it became clear they weren't just making breakfast for themselves.

As soon as he was near enough to greet the three without waking the others, he spoke. "Good morning, mind if I borrow the Grandmaster for a minute?"

The Grandmaster did not initially reply, instead abbreviating the hymn in progress to bring it to an ending as he looked up at Herbert, eyeing him warily. He rose from the frost-covered ground and put away his hymnal, locking up the small chest and picking it up as he stepped over to the man, also picking up a plate of food and handing that off to him. "Continue as you were with the breakfast, Sorano, Kinara," he said, looking back over to his two disciples. "I will return momentarily and we'll serve once we are finished." He walked alongside the monster hunter, walking a fair distance away from the camp. "Now, what was it that you needed to discuss with me?"

"I have some concerns regarding Kinara." Began Herbert. "I have seen her rendered incapable of functioning twice now, and I naturally must worry that she is not fit for this endeavor that we are embarking upon. If we cannot rely on her, then both her safety and the safety of everyone else in our warband is further jeopardized." He then began to eat some of the food he had been given as he waited for the Grandmaster's response.

Lucian stared at the monster hunter completely unfazed as he let out a quiet sigh and set down his chest of books, popping open the locks and looking over a set of books with numbered spines. "I hear your concerns, and by initial appearances, they stand valid. However I believe this to be indicative of a concern of mine," Lucian said, reaching for the leatherbound book whose spine was labeled "K - 1" and holding it out for the man. "When I had asked the morrow of the feast to get to know each other, that was the time to bring forth such issues. Forsooth, you have yet to inquire as to why you see what you see; you have simply only lodged complaints however rational they seem," he said, smiling as he stood up to offer the book.

"You did the same the morning we met to discuss our current plan. You called her by her race and told me it was unwise to bring her with us to begin with. Know first that I can look at you and read your thoughts on the matter as easily as one might read this tome," he continued. "You wonder to yourself questions you know not the answers to: 'why is this unstable cow an Apostle to begin with if this supposed holy man handpicks them all? What does he see in her? Why bring her on such a dangerous task? Why not the Narbosi fellow with the black beard and sharp blue eyes wielding the large sword, he could hew a dragon's arm from its socket!'" Lucian chuckled good naturedly and waved his hand reassuringly. "Perhaps that last part is embellishment, or perhaps you truly would have preferred Raoulin to Kinara. Regardless, I say unto you that you have neglected to pose those questions to those who hold the answers you seek, and in this neglect, I feel that unnecessary tension is drawn between the two of us and our respective companions."

Herbert accepted the book and met Lucian's gaze unflinchingly. "The morning after the feast, when you asked to talk so that we could get to know each other, you gave the impression that you wished to discuss the two of us rather than Kinara. Furthermore, I had obligations to meet. Erika was expecting me. Last night, when Kinara had another episode, I would have spoken with you, but the arrival of our latest companion disrupted things."

"Assuming Raoulin is more stable, I would indeed have preferred Raoulin. Though whether he could hew a dragon's arm from its socket probably depends on the dragon. Explain then. Why did you pick 'this unstable cow' as you put it?"

"The text I have handed you contains Kinara's account of her life, summarized. When we had recruited her, I noticed what could only be described as the opposite of instability. She possesses a great and holy spirit, with strong determination, a powerful will to persevere, and an unwavering sense of justice. She is loyal, tenacious, faithful, and compassionate. She seeks knowledge where she can get it, craving it for the sake of self-betterment where Sorano desires the power, prestige, and piety that comes with his knowledge. She, in my staunch opinion, is a model Apostle. I respect her greatly and love her as I do all of my students, whom I am proud to associate with," Lucian replied. "As for her presence in this quest, I explained to you when we met that she was a strong archer. She spoke with Athaliah and Rhiara about her love of hunting as well, which will provide us additional food."

He gestured to the book and nodded. "Do read the tome , but return it to me upon finishing it, and speak not of it to Kinara. The issues addressed are of a personal nature, but I feel through her memoirs that much could be learned about her."

The monster hunter almost handed back the book with a somewhat disapproving expression. "I will not read this book without her knowledge or permission. If Kinara wishes for me to read this tome, then I will read it. I cannot meet your condition of not speaking to Kinara about it and fully intend to ask for her blessing."

Lucian paused, mulling over the possible outcomes. "Very well," he said, somewhat hesitantly. "Though, upon reading it do hope our interactions and Kinara's behavior will make more sense to you. A simple, swift summary cannot do Kinara a mote of justice, I feel. We have time before we must pack up to get back on the road, anyway. But anyways, was that all you require?" He asked, bowing courteously to the Asmeinlander.

After thinking for a moment, Herbert nodded. "That's all unless you have any issues that you feel should be addressed."

"Not at all, Ser Leintke. Though do eat hearty, the road ahead is long and I can make no guarantees of its safety from beasts and bandits," Lucian advised, bowing respectfully before the monster hunter before departing.

The Grandmaster dismissed himself, leaving Herbert to his own devices. He began walking back to camp, holding his hands up to his mouth and breathing on them, the vapor billowing past his lips like steam. Rubbing his hands together, he shoved them into the pockets of his woolen robe. Part of him missed the milder winters of Aesernia, though he wasn't exactly unused to such temperatures.

To his immediate left, the shrubbery began to shift, rattling clearly in the crisp morning air. Lucian turned swiftly, putting his hand on the hilt of his sword and preparing to receive whatever was rustling in the foliage. Instead of a wild animal, he saw a redheaded woman stumbling out of the trees. Her clothes were wet with melting snow, but she looked cheerful enough. “Lucy! Finally, there you are.” The thief paused. “Do you mind if I call you Lucy?”

Lucian rolled his eyes, shaking his head slowly with a tired sigh. "Some folks call me Luca. Your land specifically would call me Luke. Luke would do nicely," he replied. "What is it you require, lass?"

“I’d like to ask to go ahead to Viarosa, alone.” Ceara smiled uncomfortably, brushing snow from her rough spun cloak. “You were the one to hire me, so asking your permission seems like a good idea.”

"Very well," Lucian replied, eyeing the thief carefully. "Although, I suppose you won't mind that I retain Nima with us? I can't imagine such a well armored warrior is conducive to a task requiring stealth."

Ceara’s smile fell from her face. “What?” The thief folded her arms, frowning. “No, I want to take Nima with me. He’s fairly… I don’t know, he doesn’t work well with others. Most others.”

"And were I to let the two of you leave the party to move ahead to Viarosa, how am I to be sure that you will not exploit the opportunity to flee or alert our target against us?" asked Lucian, folding his arms. "I cannot yet say that you have earned our trust."

Ceara looked disgruntled, but the Grandmaster’s logic didn’t seem to be lost on her. “Fine. You’ll be holding the Sindisi as ransom to make certain I come back, see how rightly that works out for you.” She thought for a moment. “Still, you can’t expect me to steal from such a big fish by myself, can you? I suppose you don’t understand the intricacies of these things, since I’m assuming you’ve never, um, acquired anything of great value, but it’s going to take more than one person. If I don’t have Nima, I can’t do this.”

Without missing a beat, Lucian shrugged and said, "Simple. Take Mostafa with you. Noble pomps enjoy entertainment by music, do they not? You won't have to rob the bard stark naked, he performs for pay while you seize Bjorn's items without being suspected. Do not allow yourself to be spotted at any point during the heist by our target and Mostafa will handle distraction." He spoke as though it required little thought. "Practical strategy. Apostle Sidon had developed a similar operation to recapture some goods he had lost to Savarian raiders during the Crusade for Iurusolym."

The thief cocked her head. “I’m sorry, who is the thief here? Certainly not you, or your friend Sidon!” She changed her voice to mock his own. “Practical strategy. To a plan like that to work smoothly, I would have to have someone that doesn’t hate my guts. If you haven’t noticed, our friend Mostafa has really taken that little incident to heart.”

"And can Nima steal half as well as you, or play the lute?" Lucian asked. "When bridges are burned, it is not meet to leave two sides of a river divided, rather you should build anew. If necessary, I will pay Mostafa. If he will not listen to reason he will listen to coin. Your task is not to salt the wounds you cut. If you can avoid this, you may yet find a friend in him."

Ceara mumbled something about unlikely odds, but eventually sighed her defeat. “Fine, the bard it is. However, if my newest friend decides to turn me in while I’m working out of sheer spite, I’ll be haunting you rather than him. Got it?”

"I doubt the man is so petty as to jeopardize this quest out of spite," the Grandmaster replied, chuckling dismissively. "I will bring this to his attention momentarily. For now, you have my blessing to proceed onwards to Viarosa."

"Oh, and I thank you for your holy blessing, oh mister grandmaster knight, and I'll be sure to tell the sinful heathens in Viarosa of your favour when they're about to gut me like an incredibly clever and beautiful fish." Ceara bowed awkwardly, extending her hands and balancing perilously on one foot. "Won't you walk me back to your holy place of camping and rest, oh ser knight grandmaster ser?"

Lucian stared at the thief, all traces of emotion having vanished from his features. Looking her over, he gestured to the camp a distance away and said, "Forthwith, then. Compel me to march a mile and I shall go twain."

Ceara rolled her eyes. "Right. To the campeth, leadeth on, mine own lief cousin."

Written with and primarily by EvangelineMarie, EdgyErwyn, Luftwaffles, PrinceOfHeaven and BlondyMcHuggles

An uncomfortable silence filled the air more than a massive argument could; Erwyn’s recruitment of Élise the night before didn’t leave most of the travellers in a talking mood.

Rhiara had been thinking about introducing herself to Élise all morning, to make her feel welcome more than anything. Of course, she didn’t take the plunge. For all she knew, vampires could smell fear and they ate their own children. Athaliah had always said that those stories were made up to scare misbehaving children, but she wasn’t in a hurry to speak to the vampires either. It was Erika who gave Rhiara the little push she needed. As Rhiara fell back to the rear of the group towards Élise, Herbert, Erika and Athaliah kept their distance but were ready for anything nevertheless. Just in case…

“Uh… Élise, was it?” Rhiara said after clearing her throat, trying and probably failing to hide her own fear. “I’m Rhiara, and I… uh, just wanted to give you a proper welcome…” she fiddled with her hands and looked at the ground. “We’re not normally that… poisonous. The quest we’re doing has just got all of us on edge…”

“I would not worry about it; I understand completely,” the vampire responded, “people like me should not expect a warm welcome.” Élise, who had been walking on her own with her cloak covering her face to stave off the morning sun, was quite surprised that someone was actually willing to come and talk to her. Any happiness this brought to her was quickly lost, however, as she noticed how scared Rhiara seemed to be of her, reminding Élise of her monstrous nature. “I didn’t exactly make the best first impression myself last night either, but I do appreciate that you want to talk to me, it means a lot. Most people would just see me as nothing more than a fiend of the night, and so it gladdens me that you are willing to give me a chance. Thank you for that, Rhiara.” Élise pulled her hood back slightly to expose more of her pale face, and she let out a brief but friendly smile as her intense blue eyes made contact with Rhiara’s.

Rhiara felt herself calm down somewhat; not getting mauled to death instantly was a great start. “We’re going to be travelling together, so… we should get to know each other better.” She even smiled back at the vampire. “I’m really sorry if I’m overstepping my bounds, but… uh, why were you covered in blood last night?” Rhiara was fearful of the implications of it and she knew full-well what she did, but she figured that hearing it from the woman herself would be best.

Élise froze. She had not expected Rhiara to ask her such a difficult question, especially so soon into their conversation. This situation left the vampire feeling incredibly uncomfortable, and it showed in her expression. If she were to tell the truth, she could be putting herself in great danger, and yet if she were to lie, she would never gain their trust. An awkward silence ensued for some time, until Élise finally worked up the courage to answer Rhiara. “I will not lie to you, Rhiara. Last night, when Erwyn found me, my vampiric curse got the better of me and I lost control.” Her voice was shaky and her eyes had become watery as she answered and was forced to remember what she had done. She spoke quietly, to avoid having the less tolerant members of the group hearing about the events of last night. “I had not fed for a while, and the second I noticed a girl from the village I was staying in venture into the woods alone, the hunger within me took over and I… I murdered her.” Élise wiped the tears from her eyes before they had a chance to run down her cheeks. “I am sorry. I’m sure you can understand that talking about this is difficult for me, but it was a mistake to have told you what I did. You probably just see me as a monster now, although with that said, perhaps you would not be wrong…”

Rhiara looked down at her feet, unable to find the words to reply. Strangely though, she didn’t run off screaming, like she herself thought she would. Instead, she nodded solemnly and allowed an awkward silence to come between them for a minute, though it felt much longer to her. “I’m… I’m sorry for asking.” She put her hand onto Élise’s arm, with an immense amount of reluctance. “I’m glad you told me the truth. If you ever need to talk about it… well, I’d be happy to listen.”

Not expecting Rhiara to be so understanding, Élise found herself stunned yet again. She could sense Rhiara’s hesitation, but even still, the fact that she was willing to actually listen to Élise without being judgemental, and then go on to offer her help, was a great relief to her. “It is fine, you did not know,” Élise replied, easing up and beginning to feel more comfortable talking to Rhiara as she raised her own gloved hand to meet hers. “Thank you for being so understanding and for your offer though, I might just have to take you up on that. As you can probably imagine, I have not had anyone to talk to for far too long.” She felt comforted as she made eye contact with Rhiara again, her own eyes now slightly reddened after holding back her tears, even going so far as to cause her to smile involuntarily. Perhaps it was just the fact that someone was actually willing to listen to her when she needed it, but Élise found herself feeling strangely happier as she talked with Rhiara.

“It’s nothing. Really.” Rhiara replied with a smile of her own. “We all have to stick together now, with the god-killing dragon we’re hunting. As far as I’m concerned, we… well, we can’t afford to mistrust each other.” She looked towards the others in the group, some of which subtly looked back at the two girls every so often. “I’ll, ah... I’ll go and talk to the others, and see if I can get them to go easier on you. Take care of yourself, okay Élise?” After giving the vampire a parting smile, Rhiara skipped over to Herbert with a spring in her step.

With a smile on her face, Élise watched Rhiara walk away; almost wishing that she would stay and talk for a while longer. Many thoughts flooded the young vampire’s mind as she mulled over what had just happened, and she came to a surprising conclusion. She was falling for her new friend. Élise attempted to banish such thoughts, although she found it impossible to do so. She was already viewed with suspicion, and knowing that attraction between women was viewed as sinful in this part of the world, she didn’t want to give anyone more cause to hate her. Her unstable vampiric nature also made any relationships with her very dangerous, and prone to heartbreak and tragedy. Élise knew this, and yet she still struggled to avert her eyes from Rhiara. However, this desire was quickly turning into something else. Hunger.

She had only fed yesterday, and yet Élise could still feel herself on the verge of succumbing to the Blood Hunger. As a pureblood vampire, she must feed more regularly than other vampires, but even still, Élise had not expected to feel the Hunger quite so soon. Her hands began to shake as she attempted to control herself, however she quickly realised that these efforts were failing. Stumbling from the frozen path, she collapsed under the shade of a frost-covered tree, hoping that Erwyn would notice her and avert disaster.

Her hope was not in vain. In a blur of blinding speed the elder vampire was there, materialising next to Élise as he drew a small vial of deep scarlet liquid from within his long coat. Unsealing the container with a faint hiss of air, he gently lifted the young woman's head, waving a hand in front of her eyes to check that she still retained some degree of consciousness. Through his black calfskin gloves, his palms glowed with the eerie light of necromantic magic; a healing spell, but one attuned to undead flesh. "Here," he whispered, holding the blood vial to her lips. "Drink."

On the verge of losing control, Élise initially fought against Erwyn as he attempted to get her to drink, however his magic quickly calmed her. As she drained the vial, the black colour of the sclera so characteristic of hungry pureblood vampires began to fade from her eyes, and she regained control of her own body. Her eyes darted around as her consciousness returned to her, and stopped when she made eye contact with the man who just prevented a tragedy. “Thank you,” she weakly responded, “if you weren’t here, well… That’s not worth thinking about.” She lay back against the tree and buried her head in her hands as she recovered.

“She is turning. I can see it.”

The voice that rasped from behind the two vampires was accented and muffled by a curtain of chainmail, and before they even turned, it was clear who had spoke. Nima stood, gazing at Élise, one hand on his sword and the other lingering near the leather pouches that ringed his leather belt. His armour was still gleaming from the polish that the Order had applied in Mirador, and the snow that had started to fall was melting on his shoulders and rolling over the shining steel. “Step away from her, creature. She must be dealt with.”

Erwyn rose slowly, turning to face the easterner with cold grey eyes. His hand slipped down to his side, grasping the hilt of his sword and drawing it in an instant, the shimmering flamberge blade of his rapier marked with strange, ancient symbols; arcane runes that seemed to writhe and warp like nightmarish creatures from the depths. Flipping the sword deftly around in his grip, he rested his hand on the weapon's hilt in a manner akin to a gentleman's cane, his stance calm; relaxed. "Then by all means, deal with her," he said, his tone not betraying even a hint of anger or stress. "I invite you to try."

Nima looked past the showy display, his eyes fixed on the younger vampire. "She is not a natural creature. What you gave her before, it was blood, yes? She feels hunger so soon after she fed, on the night she came to us?" He shook his head, producing a soft clatter of steel clashing with steel. "Dangerous. What will you do when she needs the blood again? When she drinks all of your supply? Even if you are in control, she must die, this is clear."

"Do you believe I had not noticed that her hunger was unnatural in its frequency? Had it not crossed your mind that perhaps I intended to find out why?" The Count shook his head contemptuously. "I was about to ask her, in fact, before you so very rudely interrupted. And with the answer, I would be a significant step closer to helping her control herself." He glanced back at Élise for a second, before returning his gaze to Nima. "I take your point, of course; she is dangerous. So am I. So are you. If everyone in this group who is dangerous was to be slain, do you think we would stand even the slightest chance of defeating the greatest danger of all?"

"The Count is correct, Nima," said Grandmaster Aquila, a ways away from the conflict. He stepped forwards, unarmed, into the center of the confrontation, looking either way at the two of his belligerent companions. To Nima he spoke first, to follow up his introduction, bowing his head courteously to the slave-soldier. "I beseech you to stay your blade as it stands for the time being. I say unto you that our warband would benefit from Élise's company, should Count Erwyn properly control her. As she is recent in her conversion to undeath it is to be expected that she has not yet learned to fully take back her mind from the curse." He turned to Erwyn, gesturing for him to sheathe his own weapon. "Having said this I must reiterate that, Erwyn, you are indeed responsible for her as the most qualified individual to teach her self-restraint. I offer my assistance, and would glady do so were the lady to accept the aid of my Father, Mother and I. However the brunt of this task falls to you. And should she indeed lose control and vindicate the Furusiyya's concerns, verily she must be put down for the good of the rest of the warband. We have discussed this and I am placing my trust in you -- something that I do not offer blindly."

"That helping her is my duty is something of which I am very much aware. It is not a responsibility I have any intention of shirking, I can assure you." Slowly, the elder vampire slid his sword back into its scabbard, eyes flicking back and forth between Nima and Lucian. "I rather suspect, though, that she will not be particularly accepting of your parents' help. Rather, her devotion lies firmly with your grandmother." He turned his back on the pair, crouching down beside Élise as she slowly recovered. "One more thing; a condition, on your last point," he said, speaking over his shoulder at the Grandmaster. "If there comes a time when such an unfortunate deed must be done, it will be done by my hand. Agreed?"

Seeing it as not worth further conflict, Lucian dismissed the remark regarding the faith of Lilith, replying, "Your condition is agreeable, but do not think for a moment that I will not defend myself or my companions in the event she loses control spontaneously. I trust you will follow through on your end of the condition, but I cannot afford to wait if attacked without warning. I suppose, though, that this is also not something you need to be told."

Nima obeyed the Grandmaster, moving his hand from his blade and noisily stalking away from the confrontation. The Grandmaster turned to the two vampires and bowed to each of them once before following the slave-soldier away from the center of the incident, leaving the two to themselves.

Élise was still recovering from her episode, and was feeling incredibly faint, but upon realising what had just been said, she lifted her head from her hands and gave Erwyn a look of sadness. “You would kill me?” Her voice was soft, and a bit strained, conveying with it a feeling of betrayal. “Am I beyond redemption?”

"I will do everything in my power to help you, for as long as I possibly can and then longer still; that I promise," Erwyn replied, reaching out and laying a hand gently on the young vampire's shoulder. "But our ultimate goal is to slay a being that quite literally threatens all of existence. If your loss of control threatens to jeopardise that goal, and all other measures any of us can take to pacify you fail, I may have no choice. You must understand that if I am forced to choose between you - between any one person - and the whole world, I will choose the latter."

“I… I understand,” Élise replied sorrowfully as she wiped tears from her eyes.

The Count sighed. "Good." Rising to his feet, he offered a hand to his fellow vampire to help her to her feet. "I meant to ask, before our eastern friend made an appearance... do you have any idea why you were so hungry so soon after you had last fed? Even in the very youngest vampires, I have never observed the Blood Hunger manifest so quickly before."

With the help of the Count, Élise rose from the ground and onto her feet, making her feeling slightly light-headed in the process. She was surprised by the Count’s question, as she had assumed this was something he would already know the answer to. “I am unsure,” she responded after pondering the question for a short while. “I was under the impression that all vampires must feed this regularly, but thinking back to yesterday, I do recall you mentioning that you were not turned by Lilith herself. I was. Perhaps this is why I find it so much more difficult to resist such urges?”

"Perhaps," murmured Erwyn, deep in thought. "It would make sense, certainly - as far as I am aware, direct conversion by Lilith is an incredibly rare phenomenon, but the magic of a goddess would in theory be able to more efficiently strip the mortal essence from one's body and replace it, thus creating a biologically purer vampire than the standard conversion-via-bite ever could. And that purer vampire would logically require more blood to sustain." He shook his head. "A blessing and a curse, then. You may have divine favour, but I only need to feed once a week. Good thing I brought plenty of blood along."

“Will that be enough?” Élise responded worriedly. “Your supplies are limited, and there is no way you could have predicted that you would encounter another vampire on your quest, let alone a pureblood like me. What happens when your supply is exhausted? Is this when I must die?”

"I'll find a solution, don't worry." The Count paused, thinking. "When we reach the next town, I shall send a rider to Graafenschloss Veresegyházhof, under instruction to collect as much blood as his horse can carry from the castle cellars - more, if possible - and rendezvous with the party at a later date. The journey may take a while, but I think my existing supplies will last that long."

The Count’s words did not seem to reassure Élise. “And what if they don’t last that long?”

Erwyn's mouth twisted into a wry smile. "Well, while we can hardly have you running around preying on the innocent... not everyone is innocent, are they?" The Count chuckled, and shook his head. "Anyway, I must excuse myself for a while. Letters to write, and other such dull duties. Goodbye for now." He began to walk off in the direction of his carriage, stopping and turning back to the younger vampire after a second. "Oh, and Élise? Be careful what you say to that lot. They're already suspicious, and I can't guarantee they have no plans of treachery."

As Erwyn left, Herbert and Rhiara approached the young vampiress with the intention of discussing her problem. The monster hunter had kept Rhiara occupied to discuss whether the Narbosi woman could be trusted. With their conversation concluded, Rhiara almost ran to Élise’s side, a look of concern on her face in stark contrast to Herbert, who looked as collected as ever, though there were clear signs of interest in his expression. “Hey, Élise?” Rhiara began, sounding as soft as ever. “Are you okay? I, ah, wanted to come sooner, but Herbert kept me.”

“I’m fine,” Élise responded, looking almost embarrassed about what had happened, “I hope I didn’t scare you.” She was gladdened to see that Rhiara cared enough about her to be concerned, but was also worried considering that it was Rhiara who had inadvertently triggered her hunger in the first place. Herbert’s presence was causing her some concern, however. She had felt uneasy around the monster hunter before, but with her having just lost control, this feeling was somewhat amplified.

"Glad to hear that you're feeling alright." Said the monster hunter as he studied Élise thoughtfully. It was certainly intriguing that she had felt the hunger again so quickly. Herbert had heard tales of vampires directly transformed by the Dark Lady, but he had never come across one before. "With any luck, Erwyn's supplies will last, but if not, I may have a back-up plan. Would you mind terribly if I took a blood sample from you?"

The monster hunter’s request further amplified her sense of unease, and this reflected in her nervous body language. “What?” she replied in shock, “You want my blood?” This caused Élise no end of distress. She knew that he had promised to help her, but she also knew her blood was powerful. Being as knowledgeable about blood magic as she was, she knew that he would be able to use her blood to enhance his own abilities, and more disturbingly, track her down or potentially even control her magically. “Why do you want my blood?”

Herbert gestured for the frantic vampiress to calm down. "Three reasons. First of all, if I have it to study, I may be able to find a way for some of my reserves of magical creature blood to provide you with nourishment. Second, I may find a way to help you with self-control. Lastly, I've never come across a pureblood before and I'm curious as to what properties your blood has."

Bearing what Erwyn had said to her earlier in mind, Herbert’s words offered her no comfort. “Forgive me, Herbert, but why should a monster trust a monster hunter with her blood? I know you promised that you would help me, but if I were to give you some of my blood for study, would I not just be assisting you in your efforts to hunt and kill people like me? Surely there has to be another way?”

"On the contrary," replied Herbert, "you would assist my efforts to hunt and kill beings unlike you. Those who slaughter the innocent without remorse and have no intention of changing. Your kind has a choice as to whether or not to be monsters. You wish to control yourself and therefore have chosen not to. Surely a person can trust a monster hunter with her blood for the purpose of saving lives. Or are you more comfortable with creatures you see as similar to yourself being permitted to murder as they please?"

Rhiara simply listened to the conversation between the vampire and the monster hunter play out, fearing that she’d get in the way. However, she knew she had to say something once they had reached an impasse. “Herbert, m-maybe we should leave her blood alone. She’s not going to trust us if we force her to do things she doesn’t want to do.” She turned to Élise, who seemed grateful for her speaking up.

“Thank you, Rhiara.” Élise responded in an appreciative voice, before turning back to the monster hunter and returning to a more sour tone. “Now I’m sorry, Herbert, but I am not going to be allowing you to take any of my blood. I know you mean well, but this is something that I am absolutely not comfortable with. Blood magic is not something I am unfamiliar with, and so I know what my blood could be used for. This is not a risk that I am willing to take, even if you are being honest with me.”

An expression of faint disappointment crossed the monster hunter's face and he a gave a curt nod. "Very well. I understand your reasoning and wish you luck in controlling your hunger." He turned to Rhiara and continued. "You are probably right. I will leave the matter be."

As the band of adventurers continued on their path to Viarosa, Herbert set down the book beside him and took a long gulp from a waterskin. He idly reflected that the memoir had been somewhat interesting and he was certainly sympathetic to the Samothaur's misfortunes. However, the monster hunter still had his doubts as to whether or not the cow-woman should be brought along. The book had certainly given a glowing report of Kinara's abilities, but as it had been written by Kinara, it was bound to be at least somewhat biased. He sighed. If only there was a way to simulate a moment of crisis without the actual danger to see how she'd perform.

The four men began their long journey East, heading towards Jászberény, planning on stopping there to get more supplies and information about this supposed adventuring party. The horses hooves thumped against the hard dirt road beneath them as the riders advanced at a slow trot, not wishing to tire out the beasts of burden. Not before they even ran into any trouble.

As the journey continued they encountered various travelers and creatures. Some were traveling merchants that had various wares and supplies for sale while others were simply farmers heading to the city market to sell their produce. Others were scholars traveling to different cities to view their libraries and some were simply idle rich nobles traveling the land out of sheer boredom and wondering what each town had to offer.

As they began their last half of the journey to Jászberény they had to traverse through a, supposedly, "haunted" swampland. Thick, muddy, and drenched grounds made traversing hard, the thick tree cannopy blocked out the sun, and various magical creatures lurked in the area. Cientus had to admit, he doubted he'd ever get used to the creatures he'd run into. He looked to his left and right and saw his guards were with him, though their faces showed no fear or curiosity. With how much they'd seen, the lord pondered if they had ever encountered the creatures in the dark swamp.

Suddenly a fierce howl came from their right. Cientus wildly spun his head that way only to be face with what looked like a very large wolf's head. His horse, firghtened by the sound and sight, bucked him off and galloped wildly forward, putting as much distance between it and the wolf looking creature as it could. The man quickly got to his feet and pulled out his sword, looking around wildly for the beast.

A large several wolf heads, with glowing red eyes, stared at him. If he wasn't sweating before, he was drowned in it by then. He gripped his sword tightly, his knuckles turning white as he slowly backed away from the large beasts. They slowly crept out of the murky waters, their bodies glistening as the filthy liquid reflected the bright full moon. Their eight spindley...
Eight legs?
The pale skinned noble shook his head and stared at the four beasts in shock, wondering how a wolf could have eight wirey legs when it suddenly hit him. They weren't wolves at all.
They were Darklings.
The guards, on the other hand, didn't look frightened at all. As the massive ugly beasts raised their large, sharp pincers, one of the guards casually pulled out his sword and jammed it straight inbetween the beasts pincer base. It gave a banshee like screech before it quickly scampered off, fearing further pain.

The other guards pulled out their weapons and began to wrestle with the unholy creatures of the swamp. Their horrible screeches filled the warm night air as the large men began to fight with the equally if not more massive spiders. One of the guards, with his massive battle axe, had been scratched badly by one of the venomous fangs of the spiders. Enraged he glared at it, gave a fierce aniamlistic roar, and smashed it with his axe, gleefully shouting as he was covered in specs of it's blood.

Cientus looked at the fight and almost got caught by surprise by one of the spiders charging him.
"GET OUTTA THE WAY!" One of the guards shouted.
Cientus blinked before he saw the huge rushing spider. He leapt aside, bemoaning how he accidently landed in a massive murky puddle and ruined his fine clothing. He then looked up and saw the black furred creature turn to look at him. He thanked Htraknu that he didn't get killed by it. Getting up he raised his dirty blade and stared at the beast.
"You're nothing next to the power of my God, beast!" He shouted before he let the creature rush him. He looked at it as it rapidly closed the distance, hoping his plan wouldn't be his end.
Finally the spider was right on top of him and began to try and bite his face off. Osvaldus smiled as he watched it's fanged pincers open before he thrust the sword right into his mouth and into its brain.

As the man got up, he looked behind him to see the guards snarling as they glared at the bug corpses. He then watched one of the guards pull out a dagger and begin to cut up the flesh of one of the massive spiders before taking a large bite out of it. The pale and dirty noble quickly got on his horse and ordered the massive men to get back on their own horses before they continued their journey to Jászberény

They still had a long way to go before they caught up to the adventurers.

The Agony of Hargash

The winter's breath had returned nearly in full force, the snow falling heavy around the marching warband as they proceeded on the road to Viarosa, over the rolling hills of Illyrica. Having recently eaten and packed up camp, the party of travelers kept mostly to themselves, a few still waking up. Lucian and his two Apostles had donned their armor and Order surcoats, kept warm by gambeson padding beneath their plates and mail in the case of Lucian and Kinara. Sorano made do with his mage's robes, spun with thick wool and protected by riveted mail beneath the cloth exterior.

They were not anticipating Fall to be this cold, even so late into the season. Keeping such complaints to himself, Lucian looked behind his shoulders and called to the party, "So, how was breakfast for everyone? Was the Venison to preference?"

Erika gave a nod. "It was good. I normally eat my venison less thoroughly cooked than that, but I liked it anyways." Herbert gave a small chuckle that would likely go unnoticed by the knight. He knew full well that Erika normally ate her venison uncooked. "I liked it too."

"It was delightful," replied Erwyn with a courteous smile. "Although I personally would have smoked the venison over cinnamon and finished it off with a little brandy - really brings out the full flavour." He smirked. "May Solanius smite me for my sinful decandence and all that."

What this actually did was elicit a bout of laughter from the three knights. Their Grandmaster smiled at Erwyn, shrugging defeatedly. "Hardly would he smite you for having taste! Alas, I neglected to stock brandy. When we arrive in Viarosa, I'll certainly purchase some should the opportunity arise."

"Personally I agree with the nightstalker," Sorano replied deadpan. "We've cinnamon for preservation no?"

Kinara mentally ran through what she remembered of the ledger, turning to Sorano and replying, "I believe it is in the spice and herb box, what amount of it we didn't use for immediate preservation. Along with the saffron. That reminds me, we brought the olibanum and myrrh, yes?"

"Yes, for use Saturday evening?"

Coincidentally, as they spoke of burning incense, Kinara could swear that she herself smelled something burning in the air. Looking forwards, her eyes widened at the sight of a pillar of black smoke that had become visible above the sloping hill. Given their trek was through open plains, this was either a brush fire or far worse. Moments later, the sound of screaming comings RT the hill confirmed the latter.

Erwyn was the first to react, his vampiric reflexes spurring him into action instantly. Urging his warhorse forward, the Count's ornately decorated crossbow appeared in his left hand, already loaded, and with his right he drew his long, razor-sharp rapier from its scabbard and held it aloft. The vampire raced to the front of the party, he and his armoured destrier reaching the hill's summit at breakneck speed. As the immortal and his mount crested the hill, they were greeted by the sight of a pack of demons ravaging the village. There were about thirty to forty of the fiends, and each one invited revulsion in its own unique way. Some were partially decomposing, some had insect-like features on a larger scale, and yet others resembled beings turned inside out. It was not only their appearance that drew disgust, the very way they moved seemed a near-blasphemous thing. Some slithered, some oozed, and others loped along at an unnatural gait. The villagers were doing their best to fend off the attackers, but they were poorly armed and seemed to lack skill. The Count turned his head back towards the party, eyes blazing with a furious crimson light. "Demons!" he yelled in his thick Asmeiner accent, waving his sword towards the hordes of hellish monsters. "We must protect the villagers! Charge!" Not waiting to see whether any of his travelling companions were following, Erwyn spurred his horse forward once more, his rapier extended out in front of him like a lance, the ancient runes etched along its blade glowing with raw sorcerous power.

Élise had heard the screams just as Erwyn did, however instead of charging straight into battle as the elder vampire did, she froze. She had visited this village the night before, and this was the home of the young girl that she had hunted through the forest and murdered to sate her unnatural thirst for human blood. She could hardly bear the thought of returning to the village, even in the state that it now was. What if she was recognised? Surely it wouldn’t be too difficult for the villagers to realise that she, a complete stranger, had suspiciously disappeared on the same night that one of their own went missing? Nevertheless, Élise drew her sword in preparation, the Dark Lady’s enchantment causing the elegant blade to emanate an icy chill, and yet she still remained frozen in place. Even if she did want to return to the village in an attempt to save it, which was an idea that she was not particularly fond of, what could she be expected to do? She was a pureblood vampire, and the sun was blazing high in the cloudless sky. If her skin was to be exposed to the punishing rays of the sun, which was a distinct possibility in the heat of battle, she would burn as if she was engulfed in flames. Élise could do nothing in this situation, but it seemed as if her new comrades had other ideas.

Upon hearing the Count's cry of demons, Kinara was second to spring from the carriage, clutching her bow and quiver. Slinging the latter onto her back she drew an arrow and nocked it, charging up the hill. Lucian pulled the horses to a stop and leapt out of the driver's seat, a hand on the top of his scabbard as he followed after the Samothauress. "Kinara!" he cried, "Stay back with Rhiara, give us supporting fire! Sorano, Nima, come with me, prioritize the villagers!" The Elf did as commanded, his body crackling with white hot lightning as he sped up the hill, soaring over the peak and downhill slope towards the village. Nima was quick to follow with his horse, pulling his shield closer to his body and couching his lance at the encroaching demons.

The Krossavikers rallied third, delayed only by Erika taking a moment to transform into a ferocious manticore while Herbert quickly unlocked an iron chest and pulled out a few flasks of blood. Blood in hand, Herbert leaped onto Erika's back and the two flew towards the village, soon overtaking the knights. Upon flying over the hill and sighting the demons, the healer roared a challenge to draw their attention away from the villagers. As some of the villagers spotted the two and paled, the couple charged into battle with Erika launching a volley of venomous spines at some of the demons that had not yet reached the surviving villagers.

Athaliah grabbed her shield from the back of Herbert and Erika’s wagon; the worst of the damage it took from the fight with those bandits a few days ago had been repaired, albeit rather shoddily. Even though Lucian basically ordered Rhiara to stay behind, she had other ideas: seeing Erwyn and Nima ride off into battle on horseback made her think that she and Athaliah could do the same. Just as Athaliah was about to charge off into the fray, Rhiara called out. “Ath, wait up for a second, please? Oh, and uh… can you grab your spear?”
Athaliah was obviously confused; what could Rhiara need that was more important than the villagers’ lives, and why would she need a spear in this fight anyway? Regardless, she did as she was asked. “Weiss, what is it?” she asked, frustration clear in her voice.

Not wanting to waste any time, Rhiara decided to be direct. “How would you like to ride me as a winged unicorn?”
Athaliah’s face displayed quite a few emotions: surprise, confusion, and a bit of sadness, for starters. “You know I’m not trained to fight on horseback, right?”
“Yes, but I’m sentient, and normal horses aren’t; just trust me, okay?”
Athaliah sighed, and shrugged. “Okay, fine. But if I die, I’ll haunt you.” She turned to the rest of the group who were still within hearing range and shouted. “Rhi and I will go around and hit them from the side!” At that, they disappeared into the cover of some nearby trees, where Rhi made her transition; the second one of her whole life, in fact.

As a winged unicorn, her hide, mane, and tail were bright white, and her large feathery wings almost glowed. Although she couldn’t actually speak, she could communicate telepathically, much like all humans who had an animal form. ‘get on, quick!’ Athaliah didn’t need telling twice; she almost leapt onto her friend’s back, and with her spear and shield in hand, she rode back towards the town.

Concurrent to the spine volley, Sorano landed squarely in the middle of a small group of inverted-flesh demons, his electrical aura exploding on impact with the ground. Bolts of lightning bounced between his targets, frying them where they stood as the elf drew his broadsword, issuing a coup de grace to each hellish creature in his vicinity caught in the blast. Nima crashed into a group of demons near Sorano, savagely impaling one monster on his spear and trampling another underneath his screaming horse. The slave soldier dropped his lance as his mount began to slow in the face of so many monstrous creatures, rearing and nearly launching the cataphract out of the saddle. He drew his sword with his free hand, hacking and slashing into his demonic enemies.

Upon sighting the new, mortal belligerents, some of the cornered villagers took advantage of the provided distraction to flee from their assailants. The moment one hellish soldier turned to face its challengers, it took a toxic spine to the bridge of its nose, or at least the structure analogous to a nose. That was when its intended prey, a peasant man and a small boy, took off towards the caravan. The peasant scooped the child up and began sprinting out of the village, pursued by the slain demon's partner.

It raised its infernal claw, seeking human flesh, when Lucian collided with it, his shield bared in a shoulder charge. Bashing the insectoid demon in the head, Lucian lifted his blade and in two powerful swings, slashed the demon's exoskeleton to open the throat and stomach, black blood and fetid, burning gore dropping from its body. "Run to the caravan! The archers will protect you!" he cried to the pair of villagers. He turned back only just in time to see the edge of a greatsword coming down upon him. Skipping to the side, he swung his own blade in return, cutting his titanic attacker across the hip. His holy weapon ignited the flesh, the blaze spreading around the wound as the demon cried out in agony, picking up its dark sword and sweeping it at Lucian's waist-level, seeking to cleave him in two.

Before it could complete the motion, an arrow shot from the hills burrowed its way through the demon's helmet and inverted flesh, stopping short of exiting the other side of the skull. The swing lost much of its force as the body went limp, and Lucian was able to leap back, away from the crumpling corpse. Looking to the source of the arrow, Kinara glanced back for but a moment before nocking another arrow, taking aim at some of the smaller, quicker monsters that scurried up the hill after the refugees she stood back to protect.

Erwyn had circled wide, to avoid being caught in the manticore's barrage of deadly spikes. Raising his crossbow, the vampire loosed a pair of bolts in rapid succession, each of the hardened steel projectiles slamming directly into the heads - the writhing mass of deformed flesh and hideous snapping jaws that vaguely resembled heads, at least - of two insectoid demons, a spray of thick green fluid erupting from each wound.

A shrill scream echoed to the left, and Erwyn turned his head to see another pair of demons advancing towards a young mother and her child, sprawled helplessly on the ground as the monsters closed in. Urging his horse back around, the vampire charged again, ploughing into the fiendish beasts, hurling one's hellishly deformed body aside and slicing clean through the other with his blade. In a flash, the Count had dismounted, loosing a bolt at point-blank range into the demon his horse had collided with. Slinging his crossbow onto his back, the vampire scooped up the two cowering civilians and threw them onto the back of his destrier, giving a cursory glance to check they were not going to fall before planting a firm slap on the beast's hindquarters, sending it and its new riders galloping back towards the safety of the caravan.

Continuing on, Erwyn began to advance towards the main body of the horde, cleaving another unfortunate demon in twain before moving straight on to the next; his relentless sword strokes interrupted with bursts of dark magic as tendrils of shadow reached out to claw at his monstrous foe.

Confronted by the newcomers, most of the fiends wheeled to face them while others continued their cruelties against the villagers. Despite the fearsome nature of their new foes, the unholy creatures did not seem at all fazed. Instead, a good many of them seemed to be relieved, if not outright delighted. Then again, the demons were perverse, otherworldly creatures, so perhaps they only appeared to be relieved or delighted. Regardless, there seemed to be a frenzied madness to their actions beyond that of normal demons - as if they were driven by a rage and desperation like no other. The demons swarmed towards the village's would-be saviors as a wave of claws, teeth, mandibles, tentacles and twisted, rotting flesh.

They were soon met with equal - if not greater - ferocity by the Krossavikers. Herbert dismounted and drew his weapons - a sword of steel and cold iron in his right hand and a dark iron symbol of Dolekar in his left hand. The unholy symbol was a disc emblazoned with a set of scales balancing a sword against a pile of skulls. Running forward, the monster hunter brandished the disc at the demons and willed his fury into it. His desire to harm the demons, the need to avenge the wrongs committed, older grudges against malevolent magical creatures in general - all these he used to invoke the vengeful deity's power against the demons.

Purplish-black flames flickered around the metal but Herbert was unharmed. The demons, on the other hand - while not slain or even seriously injured - seemed pained, disoriented and slowed. As the monster hunter continued his advance, he kept the symbol raised and Erika lept past him into a cluster of fiends.

Upon landing, the manticoress crushed two of the demons beneath her paws. Fittingly enough, the unholy creatures in question were reminiscent of insects in form. With a flick of her tail, Erika impaled three more of the fiends with spines at point blank.

Despite the ease with which their comrades were dispatched, the remaining five demons nearby swarmed towards the healer with weapons and claws at the ready. Even hindered by the power of Dolekar, they were still quick-moving. As Erika batted one away and moved back to face them, they fell upon her.

While the claws of one fiend did little, another rammed a spear into her side and another stabbed the back of her foreleg with a rusty sword. The last one was the first that Herbert reached and as the demon raised its axe to bring it down on Erika, the fiend was surprised to find a blade erupting from its chest.

As swiftly as he had skewered the fiend, the hunter withdrew his blade and continued his assault. The next fiend he dispatched by slamming his symbol of Dolekar into what passed for the wretched creature's temple. With a scent like rotting meat being set ablaze, the creature collapsed with half of its head burned away.

Though the symbol had merely weakened the fiends before, its effects were more tangible now that they had given Herbert true, personal reason to seek vengeance upon them. With a speed not entirely his own, Herbert ducked under Erika's torso and emerged on the other side to face the last two demons. With a flick of his wrist, he disemboweled the one before proceeding to stab the other.

Erika meanwhile, had been struggling with the pain of her wounds. She may have been able to take the form of a killing machine, she was no warrior and it was rare that she had to deal with sharp objects being inserted into her flesh. With a whimper, she collapsed to the ground and returned to human form.

Within a heartbeat, Herbert dropped his weapons and rushed to her side. After giving her hand a quick squeeze for reassurance, he drew a knife and cut several sizable strips out of his cloak. Without wasting any time, he bandaged her wounds with the thick, black cloth. Fortunately, the transformation had removed the spear.

Once he had bandaged Erika's wounds, Herbert sat beside her and held her. The two of them sat there for a minute or two. Finally, Erika took a deep breath,closed her eyes, and placed her hands over the bandages before quietly speaking an incantation. Soft white light emanated from her hands and she was whole once.

As she removed the bloody rags, she looked to Herbert and gave a sort of embarrassed half-smile. "I'm sorry for ruining your favorite cloak."

The monster hunter smiled back gently. "I'd much rather lose my favorite cloak than my favorite person." As he spoke, he stood and picked up his weapons. "Now, if you're ready, our companions and the villagers might still need a blade or a medic."

---

Through the crackle of the fires and the shrieking of the demons, Lucian could hear cries for help coming from the council hall. The village's militia stood their ground around the building, fighting in vain against beasts they were not trained to fight. Still, they held their own, preventing the building from being entirely overrun. They wouldn't last, however, not by themselves. So Lucian charged towards the council hall, through what resistance the demons put up. As he passed by two of the abominations, he moved to incapacitate them. Swiping downwards, his blade sliced into the leg of the first, severing the sinew, causing it to drop to its knee. The demon in question lifted its axe to guard against the next attack, catching the edge of Lucian's sword in its wooden shaft, which was deceptively strong despite its rotten, twisted appearance.

Lucian clobbered the demon in the head with the edge of his shield, knocking it onto its back. As he moved to execute it, its partner advanced towards him, driving its foot into Lucian's breastplate, splaying him out on the ground. It lifted its maul, its insectoid mandibles clicking in anticipation. Before it could start swinging, Sorano appeared, driving his sword through the demon's back, the blade exiting out of the stomach. It crackled with lightning, electrocuting the demon as it was impaled.

Kicking the beast over, Sorano retrieved his sword and hastily strided towards Lucian, offering him his hand and quickly pulling his liege off the ground. "These creatures are no doubt from Hargash's realm. I can tell, they're grotesque enough to be his and Rastuna's spawn," Sorano stated as Lucian stood to his feet.

"Whatever they are and whencever they proceeded, we banish them. Follow me, the villagers have taken refuge in their council hall," Lucian said, pointing to the hall. Sure enough, human soldiers held their foes at bay with polearms, keeping a healthy distance from the slower, bulkier monsters that padded the Infernal army.

‘I’m starting to regret this idea!’ Rhiara thought to Athaliah as she charged at a pair of demons, who were busy tormenting a simple farmer.
“Just keep going in a straight line, Okay?!” Ath shouted, levelling her spear and keeping her shoddy shield close to her chest. Rhiara chose to remain silent, focusing entirely on running as fast as she could. When the demons finally noticed the two girls, it was far too late for them to do anything; one was impaled in the chest by Astela’s spear, and the other found its face directly in line with Rhiara’s almost glowing horn. The monsters were carried for a few dozen metres before being thrown off to the side like useless junk.

Athaliah looked around her, seeing that her companions were mostly successful in fighting off the demons elsewhere. ‘Eww!’ a thought resounded in Athaliah’s head. Rhiara must have forgot that she could communicate telepathically.
Athaliah sniggered at her friend’s disgust. “What’s the matter, Weiss?”
‘Oh, er… I forgot you could hear me think. I’ve got this horrible demon face-blood on my horn and it’s all sticky and… eww.’
"Aww, c'mon, you'll get over it." Ath patted her friend on the neck. "Let's keep at it."

The pair continued to charge at separated demons for a little while longer, in an effort to thin them out before they reached the council hall; the fact that the demons were more focused on simply creating chaos and killing defenceless men, women and children made their jobs plenty easier.
A lone demon, much larger than many of the monsters in the attack, stood at the far end of the now-trashed village. Its armour seemed to have fused to its body, almost as if it was part of the being itself. Its eyes shone a dull, almost lifeless red, but it had no other facial features at all. The demon had a mace where its right hand should have been, made even more deadly by some nasty spikes around the mace’s business end.

The demon seemed to only be surveying the battle, at least for the time being. Then, almost as if it detected their very presence, it turned its head in the girls’ direction. Athaliah and Rhiara both locked their eyes on the demon’s own; something in the backs of their minds told them that they had made a grave mistake.
“Rhiara?” Athaliah’s voice was quiet and shaky, and her skin was almost completely white. “We need to go.”
‘Yeah…’ Rhiara turned around and galloped as fast as her legs could carry her.

Soon, the council hall – and their friends – were in sight. Ath looked behind her to see if the demon was still there. It wasn’t. Just as she turned to look ahead of her again, the demon suddenly manifested itself right in front of Rhiara and Athaliah. They could only watch and prepare themselves as the monster lifted its hand and prepared to bring it down upon them. Athaliah closed her eyes and braced for the impact that never came. Instead, the demon's hand grabbed Rhiara's neck and, with strength not expected even from a demon, sent her falling backwards.

Rhiara had switched back to her human self just before she and Athaliah had hit the ground; not only did she not see the point in it anymore, she also wasn't happy with the possibility of crushing her crush either. The two girls landed in quite a crumpled heap; the demon stood over them, its featureless face and empty eyes still giving away no emotion. It almost seemed... serene, in a strange way.

The Hoffen girls scrambled off of each other and armed themselves once again. Rhiara's clothes were quite badly torn because of her transformation, but she paid it no mind and had her bow and an arrow pointed at the monster before her. Athaliah had dumped her spear, and instead decided that her sword was the best weapon for this fight.

An arrow was already flying through the air, digging in to where the demon's right cheek might have been. If it had felt the arrow entering its face, the demon made no show of it. Instead, the demon rushed towards Athaliah with speed that surprised them both; Athaliah only barely managed to brush aside its mace as she drove her sword into the demon's side. Her efforts were rewarded with a high-pitched shriek and a rapid punch to her sternum.

She fell to the ground gasping for breath as Rhiara began shooting more arrows. The monster's face looked like a pincushion but it showed no sign of slowing down. Finally, the demon turned its full attention to Rhiara. She took several steps back and by this point, she was visibly quivering in her boots. She took a quick glance at her best friend; she was on her knees, trying to use her sword to help her get back to her feet.

The demon lunged and was upon Rhiara in the blink of an eye - she made an attempt to duck under the demon's attack, but to no avail; she found herself in the demon's hand, its crushing grip threatened to turn her neck into dust. She was completely off the ground by that point, and already she could feel herself slipping away - her thoughts lingered on her family and friends, and the things left unsaid...

Its death-grip relaxed a little as it let out another scream; Athaliah stood behind the demon, her sword hilt-deep in its lower back. Regardless of whether or not it actually had a spine, it certainly seemed to hurt. Its eyes flashed a brighter shade of red than before as it turned around to face its attacker. Rhiara would soon get the breaths she was begging for, just not in the way she had hoped.

She found herself flying through the air for not even half a second, coming to a stop when she smashed into Athaliah. Once again, the two were stuck in a heap. They tried to untangle themselves, but they weren't in the condition to do so anymore... The demon no longer looked serene with its glowing red eyes and its balled fist.

Likely to the immense relief of the Hoffen girls, a new sword emerged from the unholy being's torso. As the blade passed through first one way and then back, the demon's flesh sizzled and withered away from the metal. Furious, the fiend turned to face its new adversary with its mace-like fist swinging.

The monster hunter from Krossavik ducked the blow and brought one of his blades up to sever the moving limb while bringing his other blade across the beast's body to leave a smoking cut. With a scream, the fiend grabbed at Herbert with its remaining hand and caught him by his already-damaged cloak.

As the hellspawn lifted him up and prepared to smash him aginst the ground, its legs buckled and it fell forward to its knees, shrieking in pain. Behind it, shoving a jagged, poisonous spine into its back with her bleeding hands was Erika. With the demon weakened and distracted, Herbert swung his blades once more and severed its head along with the hand that held him. As the slain beast fell forward towards him, Herbert rolled nimbly out of the way.

Seeing that Herbert was unharmed, Erika began to bandage her hands and the two walked to the Hoffen girls. The healer took one look at the heap the Hoffen girls were in and exhaled. "Herbert, I'm going to need some blood for this." Wordlessly, the monster hunter handed her a couple of the canteens hanging on his person. Without further ado, the half-manticore began tending to Athaliah and Rhiara. "We should probably stick together in the future. We almost lost you two."

"Y-yeah..." Athaliah replied breathlessly. She put one of her hands on Erika's shoulder. "Thank you. You too, Herbert. I... well, I don't want to think about what could have happened if you weren't there."
Rhiara had just finished wiping a few tears from her eyes. "I-we, owe you everything."
The pair of girls couldn't quite find any more words to do justice to what happened; they would have died, but Erika and Herbert didn't let that happen. Because they cared? Because the girls were somehow important? Whatever the answer was, it filled them with relief and joy.

Erika gave Athaliah a quick hug and a gentle smile almost graced Herbert's visage. "We're glad you're alright." Said the monster hunter. "Now let's go find the others, they may also need our help."

---

The reinforced oaken door slammed shut as Lucian pressed himself hard against it. Holding it closed, militiamen close by rushed to pull the bar down and stop the door. Lucian ambled away from the door, setting down his shield and leaning against one of the tables. Breathing heavily, he scanned the room for Sorano, finding him resting on the floor of the town hall, looked after by some of the surviving peasants.

"Where's Herbert and the others?" the elf asked his Grandmaster.

A few moments after Sorano asked his question, the pounding of the demons upon the door came to a halt and was briefly replaced by a mix of shrieks, roars, and a battlecry. The noise went ominously silent for several heartbeats and then there was a knock at the door rather than the previous assault. "Open up!" Called the gruff voice of the monster hunter from Krossavik.

Lucian held up his sword and lurched for the barricade, pushing it up to let the door swing open, revealing the Krossavikers, the Hoffen girls and the remnants of the carnage just beyond the doorway. "Inside, quickly!" he called, ushering the four inside. As soon as they scrambled inside, the door was once again shut.

"I've never seen these creatures so frenzied, so determined to raze a single village," Sorano noted, his hand squeezing a recent wound to the shoulder. "Whatever it is that they want, they've come in stronger force than what usually leaks through into Thurius."

"There is nothing here but the land we tilled and the cattle we raised," cried one of the militiamen, looking away from the door for a moment to address the elf. "We have nothing that they would want but our lives! And we certainly would have lost them all sooner had it not been for your interference."

At that, a horrifying thought popped into Lucian's mind. He snapped to attention, grabbing Herbert's arm, "Where is Kinara?! Dare I ask, the vampire and the slave-soldier, Nima?!"

The bloodstained Krossaviker stared back with a stony expression on his rarely smiling face. "I caught a glimpse of the vampire slinking off the battlefield. I assumed Kinara was with you and haven't a clue where Nima is. We'll have to look for them, though you'll have to let go of my arm before we depart."

The two Knights fell silent, exchanging a sullen glance. Lucian released Herbert's arm, took in a deep breath, and let it out slowly, quickly performing the sign of the Sun over himself. "Solanius benedice, there is hope yet that we can all get out in one piece. Alas..." he replied. He stepped towards the center of the room, clearing his throat as he announced, "I want every man and woman in this room not bracing an entrance to listen carefully." He paused a beat, as the civilians and wounded soldiers alike turned to face him. "These creatures, these servants of Hargash, have come in numbers, and with a fury unprecedented. We will be overrun, but only if we choose to hold our ground longer than it can hold us. Thus, we must retreat, and create enough distance between us and them that we can safely send a messenger to Mirador; the Order presence there would never let such a Shaitunic force go unchecked within their jurisdiction. But I have never been a man who would leave men, women, and children to die when I had every opportunity and the power to save them. Gather what belongings you can carry, arm yourselves with whatever you can. Go with the Sun Elf by the hearth, and make for our caravan well outside the village. We will delay the demons and rescue any survivors we can find. If any should object, speak now."

The Krossavikers listened attentively. If Herbert resented the Knight taking command, he didn't show it. Now was hardly the time to be squabbling over petty group politics regarding who was in charge. There was another issue though, that Erika knew would interfere with just how much she could help. Herbert knew it as well and handed her two of the containers of blood hanging on his belt before she spoke to Lucian. "I'm low on magic, but I'll do what I can. I'm not used to using blood magic, but it'll do for first aid. I won't be able to whip up anymore transformations today though."

"Then I will need you to accompany the survivors back to the caravan with Sorano, to keep them safe. Many of them require medical attention and doubtless, you can provide it," Lucian said, nodding his head graciously. He turned to a pair of soldiers and gestured for them to follow. "You there, on me. We search for survivors and to rally with the others fighting immediately," he said. He reached to pick up his shield, looking over to Herbert. "Ser Leintke, will you accompany these gentlemen and myself to retrieve those still in the village, or protect the escapees?"

Erika quietly moved to begin administering aid to the villagers while Herbert gave a nod and spoke. "Whichever's more needed." He wiped off his blades with a cloth and looked back to the Grandmaster. "Is everyone ready to go then?"

"Indeed I am. I would appreciate the aid in retrieving Kinara and Nima, if you wouldn't mind, Ser Leintke," Lucian replied. He then turned to the Hoffenites Athaliah and Rhiara, gesturing to them, "I need the two of you to aid Sorano and Erika and protect the fleeing villagers while these two, Herbert and I hunt down our missing comrades," he said, starting for the door. "Stay with them at all times and do not get separated, if this plan goes even the slightest bit awry it could cost us dearly, and we are deeply pressured for time!" He signalled to the guards to carefully open it as he drew his sword, and right away the group was met with resistance on the other side. The time to cut their way out was at hand.

---

There was a horde of demons at the other end of the village, all of them pressed against a single house. At the head of the swirling mass of claw and tooth, and with his back against the poor wooden walls of the village shack, there was a figure wrapped in polished armour struggling against his many opponents with a kind of mechanical determination. One demon had dug his claws into Nima’s side, pressing the armour inward rather painfully. Another was repeatedly attempting to bite through the chainmail that covered his neck, while the slave-soldier continually stabbed it in the stomach with a dagger. The rest of the monsters pushed forward, crushing both friend and foe together in a terrible battle between steel and rotten flesh.

The sound of an arrow piercing flesh was heard, and the pressure on the slave-soldier's throat was lifted as the demon slumped onto the ground at his feet. The surrounding monstrosities ceased their ravenous growling and roaring, a few turning towards the source of the arrow.

Thwip.

Thwip.

Standing on the high ground, Kinara released another nocked arrow, letting it fly into the throat of a demon before pulling another out of her quiver by the nock. There was a hatred burning in her eyes, though whether it was to Nima or the Horde she gave such a surly glare to was unclear. Several of the attacking monsters detached from the house, now targeting the Samothauress on the hill. She let loose the next arrow, following up with the next in rapid succession and with a keen eye. Each demon struck was felled in short order, but their companions charged forwards to meet their killer in close quarters. Swinging her bow over her shoulder, she reached for her mace, slamming the head into the skull of a lunging abomination, knocking it to the side, dead where it collapsed. She clutched her buckler, deflecting a wretched, jagged sword before thrusting the top of the mace into her attacker's throat, rearing back while it staggered, and driving the weapon down onto the crown of the skull.

While the demons' attention was divided between the Easterner and the cow-woman, another combatant joined the fray. Herbert stabbed one of the abominations in the back and then, as the beast howled in pain, the monster hunter used his spare hand to raise a canteen full of blood to his lips and gulp it down the way an alcoholic chugs beer.

With the attention of the closest demons drawn, Herbert quickly lowered the empty canteen and drew the unholy symbol of Dolekar once more, holding it out in front of him towards his enemies. He poured his bitterness and his fury at the slaughter of innocents into the magic, and like his sworn enemy, the dragon Htraknu, he breathed forth flame. As the fire passed over the unholy symbol, it changed color to the earlier purplish-black that had enshrouded the metal and struck the demons with a roar.

The grim Krossaviker watched with just a hint of glee as the fiends melted before his eyes and he sheathed the unholy symbol to draw a second blade before advancing towards the survivors.

One of the flaming demons flailed wildly about, thrashing at Kinara. The Apostle struck the fiend in the wrist with the head of her mace, snapping its arm, its bone piercing through its bubbling, near-liquid and rotten flesh, parrying the blow before driving the rim of her buckler into its throat, staggering it back. The flames weakened it severely, and yet, suffocating on its collapsed windpipe as well, it tried once again to advance. It was promptly met with a bovine hoof to the chest, and its feet left the ground, the monster tumbling down the hill, a trail of Dolekarian flame flickering onto the dead grass before fading in wisps of smoke.

Kinara turned to Herbert, locking eyes with him for but a moment before snapping to attention to parry a battleaxe with her buckler, swinging her mace into the head of her assailant. As soon as the demon crumpled over, a shrill, but undoubtedly human scream could be heard from a ruined barn to the east. "Get the slave-soldier and go!" she called to the Krossaviker. The sound of her hooves beating against the ground followed as the Samothauress sprinted off towards the barn, putting her melee equipment away and drawing her bow and an arrow.

Nima threw the last demon off of him, quickly thrusting his sword directly into the beast's face and twisting the blade free. The horde that had pinned him was broken, and he began to stagger towards his allies, blood seeping through the links in his chainmail armour. Although he was clearly injured he continued to fight, roughly charging into any demon that approached him and dispatching them with relative ease. He fought through the remainder of the horde until he was near to Herbert, whistling weakly for his horse before standing at the ready and waiting for some sort of order.

Herbert took one look at the Easterner and shook his head before moving to support Nima should it prove necessary. "You aren't in any shape to fight at the moment. Let's get you to Erika to make sure you get another chance to kill demons."

Nima didn’t respond for a moment, wrapping a thin piece of cloth around a segment of chainmail that was particularly slick with blood. “No,” He rasped. “I cannot use your Western magic without a purified flame. I will be fine for now, and I will make the fire when this is over.”

Herbert looked at the slave with clear irritation. "Magic's magic. Doesn't matter if you worship the Pantheon, Vakarlon, Lilith, a Shaitun, or an uppity campfire. All sorcery comes from blood one way or another and provided you have the know-how, it all works just fine. Suit yourself if you do not want to be healed, but we're getting out of here."

---

The ruined door of the barn burst open as soon as Kinara had driven the flat of her hoof into it. She nocked her bow and took aim, witnessing a towering demon, with a chilling insectoid countenance, snapping up a woman in its mandibles, thrashing its helpless victim about, ruthlessly thrusting its scythe-like forelegs into her until the screaming ceased. Arriving too late to save the woman, Kinara let loose the arrow intending to at the least avenge her. The arrow lodged itself in the beast's neck, but did not drop it dead. Savagely tossing the limp corpse away, the mantis slurped up the flesh left dangling in its maw and turned to rush towards its next prospective meal.

The Samothauress moved further into the barn, running behind a stack of hay as the monster took a wide slash, its leg getting caught in the densely packed straw. Kinara took an arrow and fired it, piercing the demon's chest, to which it responded with an instinctive roar. In a fit of rage, the beast reared back and slammed the blunt side of its forelegs into the bale of hay, lobbing it off and into Kinara, throwing her onto her back. As it scuttled over to finish her off, she succeeded into firing a last arrow up into its frenzied face, putting out its eye.

It staggered, its head snapping up as its eye took in the arrow. Almost as soon as it had done this, the light of the outside shined through as the back door of the barn opened up. Before Kinara could even scramble to her hooves, she witnessed a brilliant, golden light striking the creature's throat, visibly crushing its windpipe in on itself before vanishing in a puff of shining mist. The beast stumbled around, suffocating on its caved windpipe, before falling onto a burnt wooden beam, which gave way under the demon's weight, bringing the loft down onto it, killing it. Kinara rose to a knee and looked over to see Lucian signalling the frenzied civilians towards the swiftly evacuating caravan; Herbert, Rhiara, Sorano, and Athaliah were joined by the local militia in fending off Hargash's spawn as they tried in vain to rush the caravan.

Lucian rushed over to his Apostle and helped her up to her hooves. "Thank the Gods that you still breathe, woman," he said to her, holding her steady, "Are you injured?"

"I can walk it off, Ser Aquila," Kinara replied, and Lucian released her carefully, "But I thank you nonetheless -- that could have been grislier." She slipped an arrow from her quiver, nodding to her Grandmaster as the two began running back to the caravan as it made its way up the hill, Hargash's horde giving chase.

As the cow-woman and the self-proclaimed demigod drew near, Herbert rushed to aid them. To engage the demons with mere blades would be folly. Once the Order pair had passed him, he drew the last two containers of blood on his bandolier, willed the magic within them to ignite and hurled them at the oncoming demons. With a boom, they scattered pieces of the first few fiends all about and opened a gash in the earth that would slow down the rest of the horde. He'd have to replace the containers, but long-term survival relied on short-term survival.

As the earth was torn open, it went without saying that the subsequent tremors caught the fleeing caravan off guard, as militiamen struggled to keep the frightened horses in line, and the refugees crouched to the ground. Lucian watched as the abominations closest to the epicenter fell into the ground, and those more determined to catch up attempted, in vain, to leap across the chasm. Those with more developed intelligences stood at a distance, unable to pursue further, and with that, they began slinking away back to the village as the caravan kept moving.

The paladin tilted his head quizzically as he began to cautiously backpedal, following the others. When it became clear that they would no longer be under attack, Lucian finally sheathed his blade and turned on his heels, marching with additional haste alongside the wagons. "Let's keep a move on to Viarosa! I need an ablebodied courier front and center, let the Knights at Mirador know what happened here today," he cried out.

This was how the spawn of a god raged upon the death of their father. If Htraknu was indeed capable of slaying the Shaituns, and they did not make haste to stop him, this was only the beginning of a brutal end.

Ceara and Mostafa pushed through the busy streets of Viarosa, their clothes dusty from the road. The coastal city was crowded with merchants and tradesmen from every corner of the world, all clamouring to sell exotic wares at the common passerby. Most natives knew how to shrug the vendors away, but tourists and foreigners were sometimes caught in the haggling. From the street level, the cliffs were just visible through the gaps in the tile roofing, a towering wall of rock and falling water. The domed temple to Celestis, god of sea and sky, was sat on the edge of the highest cliff, watchfully looming above the city.

Ceara quickened her pace as she waved her way through the mobs of traders, commoners, and guarded nobles. The thief wrinkled her nose at the smell of the city - as beautiful as it looked from a distance, it smelled the same as every large town, and that wasn’t anything to revel in. Viarosa was one of the cleaner cities, but still, the stench that rose from the alleys and trenches was nothing short of incapacitating. At least, for someone not adjusted to it. Ceara might have been on the road for a few months, but she had spent most of her life in the poorer parts of cities exactly like this one. Mostafa looked particularly disgusted, which amused the thief to a certain degree. He had been silent for most of the journey, stewing in his indignation at being forced to accompany her.

Ceara turned to make sure that the bard was still behind her. “We’re going into a poorer bit of the city, so keep your hands on your belt. Don’t look anyone in the eyes, and try to stay at least an arm away from them. Got it?” Mostafa furrowed his brow, smiling vindictively. “What, will they rob me of my clothes and leave me to die on the street?”

“They’ll cut your throat and leave you in a ditch full of their own filth.” The thief sighed. “Look, I said I was sorry when we left the camp. It was wrong of me, I’m sorry, can’t we leave it at that?”

Mostafa raised his chin proudly, but his hands lowered to his midsection as the pair turned onto a street flanked by ramshackle huts. “You are a bird of prey, Ceara. You prey on the weak and vulnerable and cower under the strong. You have no loyalties except to the shine of gold.”

“Well, here you are, being paid to help me.”

The bard’s expression faltered for a moment, but he quickly regained his composure. “I am paid honestly!”

Ceara stopped in the middle of the road, turning and glaring at the minstrel. “I said I was sorry.” He opened his mouth to reply, but she continued before he could talk. “I said I was sorry. If you’re being paid honestly, then do your job and help me. We don’t have to be friends, but we do have to work together. If either of us makes a mistake, we’re both dead. I have friends in this city, but we’re about to steal from one of the most powerful people in Viarosa, and if he catches us red-handed, no one is going to stop him from burying both of us in a shallow grave. Then you’ll be with me for eternity.” She paused. “Let's just get this done, alright? Then we can go back to glaring at each other.”

Mostafa opened his mouth to speak but seemed to think better of it. After a short, silent moment of contemplation, he nodded his head.

Ceara sighed and smiled. “Good. Let's go get some old papers, shall we?” The pair continued to walk through the slums until they came to halt at the entrance of a building marked ‘Lonely Lion’. Ceara pulled Mostafa aside and placed him at the right side of the door. “The person I wrote to is only expecting me. Doesn’t like strangers. Stand here, keep your eyes on the ground, and try to look tougher than you are. I’ll be back in a couple minutes.” The bard nodded, straightening his stance.

Satisfied with his composure, Ceara walked into the tavern. The building was hazy with smoke, filled with addicts, drunkards, and a cheaper variety of companions. Sitting alone, at the far side of the establishment, was a thinly built man with a mane of greasy black hair and a hooked nose. His fingers were covered in rings, but all of the criminal patrons seemed to gravitate away from him. The thief sashayed across the floor, plunking herself in the chair opposite the loner. The man didn’t flinch, simply lowered his gaze to observe Ceara. “You’re late,” he said, speaking with a thinly veiled Narbosi accent. “Very late.”

Ceara gave him an apologetic smile. “Incident on the road, that's all. Had to make camp sooner than expected.” She leaned forward. “But never mind that for the moment. We should catch up, Remy! Are you doing well? Healthy, I presume?”

"I've been well." Said the man, waving idly before beginning to clean his dirty nails with a dagger. "You're looking fine, as usual. Anyways, what's this about a job concerning Milo Demetrios? You know he's an esteemed business partner of the family."

“I’m working for a higher power now. A holy mission.” Ceara placed her fingertips on the table, leaning forward. “I’m on quite a high payroll, Remy. The Order has given me a sack of gold so heavy you could kill someone with it. Help me, and I’ll make sure you get some of it.” She stopped talking as a server moved to the table, placing two cups of cider on the rough wooden surface. Remy nodded, and the barmaid moved away. “I just need to know where Milo keeps his old documents. Stuff from the old times.”

Remy laughed. "There's no way in the Infernum that the Order's paying you to steal from Demetrios." He smirked and continued. "Of course, if you really do have that much gold, I don't care if the dwarves themselves are paying you. Your patron can remain anonymous. How old are we talking?"

“The one that was at the front before you and your friends pushed them out. I think mister Milo was in league with them as well, wasn’t he?” Ceara pulled her cider towards her. “He took something from some friends of mine. They want it back.”

The smirk dropped from the mobster's face and he let out a low whistle. "You've found yourself some interesting friends, petit renard. If I'm right, you're talking about the stuff Milo took from the Krossavikers after their fellow Bjorn slaughtered most of the folks who used to run this city."

Ceara furrowed her brow. “Yes, the Krossavikers… I did not expect you to know them.” She sipped her drink uncomfortably, silently scanning the tavern with renewed caution. This massacre was news to her. “I need Bjorn’s documents. Do you know where they are kept?”

Remy exhaled and drummed his fingers on the table. "I'm going to need to see some of that gold before I tell you that. Neither Milo nor the Krossavikers are to be taken lightly."

Ceara nodded, reaching underneath the table and into one of her boots. She removed a small pouch, opening it and pouring a few coins onto the table. “I’ve left most of it with my associate, but once he comes to the city, you’ll have a full share. Make sure to give some of it to the Patriarch to show him my gratitude, yes? Now, tell me what you know.”

His spirits seemingly bolstered by the sight of the money, the mafioso eagerly scooped up the coins before speaking. "I will, of course, make sure the Patriarch knows of your goodwill. Now, Milo keeps almost everything in his country estate. He's got about sixty guards around the place and throughout the house. Doors, vaults, those sort of things would be guarded along with a few patrols in the countryside that he owns. Getting in should be relatively easy though. He's constantly got friends, guests, servants, and entertainers of various sorts going in and out. You'd just have to disguise yourself as one of those. Once you're in, you just have to find the room where he keeps old papers. It's on the second floor, third door on the right once you come up the stairs."

“Second floor, third door. Got it.” Ceara folded her arms, thinking for a long moment. “Could you get me one of the serving dresses? I've got a plan, but it'll only work if Demetrios doesn't know the staff well. How is he with them? Loved?"

"Well, petit renard, you've got a bit of a mixed blessing here." Began Remy. "Demetrios does not know his staff, and they don't like him, but he's a tad aggressive in his desires. I can get you a serving dress, but if Demetrios sees you, he'll want to get into it."

“Good to know.”

---

Ceara and Mostafa split up at the forked road that leads to Milo's personal country estate. The thief had donned a serving dress, a simple black garment accompanied by a headscarf and apron. The bard, on the other hand, had donned one of his most obnoxious ensembles - a poofy red tunic complete with yellow tights and a ridiculously large feathered hat. He had turned his lute the night before, while Ceara had been meeting with some of the more rebellious members of staff and scouting the outskirts of Milo's massive country palace.

While Ceara walked towards the servant's entrance, Mostafa would present himself at the front gate, explaining that he was a travelling bard and eager to play for the 'Lord O' the Port'. He had rehearsed his music through the early morning, deeply angering the other patrons of the tavern that they had chosen to rest in.

Ceara continued to walk towards the wrought iron gates that marked the entrance to the complex via the servants quarters, spotting guards patrolling all along the fence line. The air was fresh and clear, now that she was outside the city, and birds sang and danced to the distant melody of the waterfalls cascading over the cliffs and onto the green meadows that made the grounds of this beautiful property. Her hands were placed timidly at her sides, and she made sure never to make eye-contact with any of the soldiers that marched across the damp fields of morning grass.

As she neared the entrance, she curtsied to the guards and presented her proof of employment, which they accepted with bored agreement. In fairness to the soldiers, the fake papers were incredibly convincing - Remy had forged them himself, glad to help for a few more coins. When she passed the gates, she was greeted by an older servant, who emerged from the rear building to pick a herb from the gardens. When she saw Ceara, her indifferent expression quickly soured. "Girl! What are you doing out here, waiting for an invitation to get to work? Come on, then!" The servant stalked across the gardens, and before Ceara could voice a defence of herself, she grabbed the thief by her wrist and unkindly dragged her into the serving quarters. "Where do you work, girl?"

Ceara looked down, feigning a sense of shame. "I work in the kitchens, ma'am, cleaning them."

The servant cocked her head, frowning. "Are you the replacement for Sara, after she burned herself? I thought they already hired girls to replace her."

"I suppose they hired one more, ma'am."

The servant pursed her lips. "I suppose they did. Well, we don't need you in the kitchens at the moment. Come with me, the good lord has decided to entertain some morning guests, and they should like some refreshment."

"But ma'am, I am to work in the kitchens." The plan had been to blend into the bustling cooking staff and slip away at the height of their work, but now this woman seemed adamant on placing Ceara in direct sight of everyone she had hoped to avoid. The thief tried to banish her annoyance with the old woman from her tone, but some of it obviously crept through. The servant's expression darkened, and she slapped Ceara on the forearm. "Don't you get smart with me, girl! You are a servant, and you will go where we need you to go." Without another word, the woman pulled Ceara by the wrist again, passing squalls of gossiping workers and servants on her way towards the centre of the estate. They passed the kitchens, great rooms stocked with chickens, loaves of bread, cheeses and fruits all stacked and prepared on rows of wooden tables. They passed a series of interior gardens and fountains, all filled with blooming flowers and elaborate sculptures of the same man. Ceara even spotted a mural on one of the passing walls, depicting a massive bluefish grasping a key of the same colour in its open mouth. If all this was the right wing of the estate, then the only way to get to the left was through the main hall, which looked to be exactly where the woman was leading her. Suddenly, this encounter seemed to be more blessing than a curse.

Finally, the old servant stopped at a pair of closed wooden doors, from behind which the sounds of music and laughter were already filling the air. The servant turned around and looked at Ceara from head to toe. "You look awful. Straighten your hem. Smooth that apron. Pull your scarf down, on all the gods." Once Ceara had obeyed her orders to a level of satisfaction, the old woman once again eyed her with a wary gaze. "Now, do you know how to address nobility? Lord Milo, especially?"

Ceara looked at her feet. "I thought I was to be working in the kitchens, ma'am, they never told me I was too-"

"Just quiet yourself, girl." The servant sighed. "In this estate, you will address all of Lord Milo's guests as 'My Lord' or 'My Lady'. You will smile when addressed, curtsy when dismissed..." She paused. "You do know how to curtsy, yes?" Ceara nodded, and the woman continued. "Lord Milo will be referred to as 'Good Lord' when formality is appropriate and 'Sire' when it is not. You will not call him 'master', is that understood?"

"It is, ma'am." Ceara saw another servant approaching from the corner of her eye, another girl dressed identically and carrying two trays of small pastries. The older woman hurried her along with a motion of her hand and then turned her attention back to Ceara. "When presenting yourself with your refreshment you will ask all of the guests if they would like a 'fresh raspberry cake' and smile no matter their answer. Once you have asked everyone, or run out of cakes, you will return to me and I'll give you another job. Understand?"

Ceara nodded as the other girl passed her a platter, which seemed to please the older servant. She pushed open the door, ushering the younger girls into the dining hall. The room was wide and long, with a vaulted ceiling covered in paintings and murals of Viarosa and the falls. The floor was blindingly white marble, the same colour as the columns that supported the massive stone roof. Guests were milling from one end of the room to the other, dressed in fine clothes and furs that were now in fashion since the winter has arrived. Ceara spotted Mostafa entertaining a large group of guests, all of whom seemed to be gravitating towards a man reclining across an elegantly carved mahogany couch. He looked to be at about average height, with well-groomed blonde hair and finely tailored clothes. His build was fairly soft, but his garments had purposely been made relatively overfitting to counteract this appearance. His mouth was slightly agape as he watched Mostafa play, who he seemed to be enjoying. The rest of the nobles looked to his expression for guidance, and so when the minstrel finished his tune and Lord Milo erupted into sporadic applause, the majority of them followed suit. Mostafa lowered his lute, bowing to Lord Milo and his assembled friends. He caught sight of Ceara as he bent over, but to his credit, he did not react in any wildly noticeable way.

Ceara decided to move towards this largest group first, but she spoke quietly to offer her platter of cakes and tried to stay out of any notable sights. While she silently handed out the raspberry cakes, she heard Lord Milo begin to speak. "You know, I used to import spices and oversee ships from the scorched coast." His words were obviously in reference to Mostafa's homeland, but he seemed to be speaking to the nobles rather than the bard. "We would get all sorts of strange goods rolling into our warehouses. Strange goods, strange people, strange tales! Cathion still readily accepts the trade with the East, did you know that?"

The nobles murmured amongst themselves, mostly coming to the conclusion that they did not. Milo seemed pleased with their response. "Yes, well, not many people do. You see, we would get all sorts of Eastern merchants coming into Viarosa on a weekly basis. Even during the crusade, which I sponsored wholeheartedly, I might add, this swarthy bunch would roll through the streets with talk of their silks and swords. Several trading stalls were set up in the great market, selling their smelly clothes and disgusting food. When one of the hooded priests came sauntering off a merchant ship, I knew something had to be done. I gathered the city guard and put an end to it all, I say!" He leaped from his couch in excitement, his expression becoming more animated as he prepared to finish his story. "When we rounded them all up, they all gravitated towards the priest like a herd of goats. I was having them all shipped right back to Cathion, but before I did, I wanted to draw posters to sure they never came back. When we came to the hooded one, they all started to panic! Told me it was unholy to remove the veil without the presence of a purified fire. I did it anyway, as was my dedication to the law, and they all wailed like lamenting women. The priest WAS a woman, it turned out." He waved his hand. "I put them all back on the ship, sent them back where they had come from. I heard that the priest choose to burn herself alive as soon as she reached dry land, so great was her shame." He laughed at this, and the nobles all realized their cue and chuckled with him. "I suppose all they had to do to win the crusade was unmask a few idiots! Ha!" He threw back his head and laughed harder, causing a few more bouts of forced laughter among his friends before the hall began to settle again. He wiped tears from his eyes, and then raised his hand to the air. "Now that everything has calmed down, I've let a few back in. Mercy is a virtue and all that. Still don't like them, though." He paused. "Servant? I was told there would be cake. Hello? Servant?"

Ceara emerged from the crowd of nobles, carrying a platter sparsely populated with cakes. "My Lord." She stated, offering the plate outwards.

Milo frowned, turning his attention from the cakes to Ceara. "Are you new, girl?"

Ceara realized her mistake as soon as he finished his sentence, recalling the old woman's words of advise before she had been ushered into the hall. "Yes, Good Lord. I've just replaced one of your other staff."

Milo looked her up and down, his gaze lingering in a few noticeable places. "Good help is hard to come by these days, I suppose." He paused. "You are a pretty thing though, aren't you? I shall have to get you a smaller dress! Ha!" He began to laugh once again, prompting a circle of chortling from the nobles that surrounded him. Ceara formed a few choice words in her mind but decided that the look on his face would be better when he realized that he had been robbed rather than insulted. Instead, she gave him a smile and nodded her head.

Milo yawned, looking around at his other guests. "Where is that bard that had been wandering about? Now seems like a good time for a song, doesn't it?" Mostafa appeared at the edge of the nobles, strumming his lute and smiling vicariously. He began to sing as Ceara backed away, leaving Milo with her platter of remaining cakes. While the bard had distracted the room, she was free to slip away. However, the thief wasn't about to report back for round two of serving duty - now it was time to find those documents. She spotted the doors where the older servant would be waiting and walked through the pair on the other side of the room.

She closed the doors quietly, blocking the sounds of laughter and music once again. The corridor was empty and dull, without a single torch burning. The series of doors seemed to be an elegant bunch of living quarters, for guests or for Milo himself. Since all the guests were assembled in the centre of the estate, this wing would hopefully be completely clear. If the maps that Remy had given her were to be believed, this would be the left wing of the estate. On the second floor, on the other side of the third door on the right, the documents were supposedly ripe for the taking. Again though, if Remy was to be trusted, there would be two guards watching the door. She would have to distract them from picking the lock and stealing the papers.

Ceara walked briskly down the hallway, trying to carry herself with a sense of purpose. If anyone was under lingering in this section of the palace, perhaps she could talk her way out of suspicion. As she moved, she tested the locks on the doors. All seemed to open fine, which was a clear relief.

The thief made her way to the stairs, ascending the stone steps and peeking around the corner to make sure the halls were empty of guards. Seeing nothing, she padded into the upper corridor, passing two doors before she came to the one that was supposedly her target. It looked fairly plain - almost exactly the same as any of the other doors in the hall. She checked over her shoulders, still not spotting a single guard. Pleased with herself, she bent down to check the lock. Ceara removed her tools - several picks and a twisted hairpin - and went to work on the door, checking one final time to make sure there were no guards. The thief placed her hairpin inside the lock, applying some delicate pressure while she gently scrubbed with the pick. After about a minute and no broken picks, the pin slid to the right with a satisfying click. Ceara opened the door, slipped inside, and closed it again.

The first thing that she noticed was how disorderly the room was if you could call it a room. It was larger than she had expected, dimly lit through several tiny windows at the back of the library. Shelves lined each wall and the space in between, overflowing with books, scrolls, and unchecked piles of paper. The thief went to the first shelf, removing an older tome and getting a face full of dust. She coughed and blew the particles away, reviewing the title of the tome in the dim light. The title was longer than anything she'd ever seen before, and as always, she couldn't read it. Ceara groaned in despair, putting the book back in it’s messy home. She had thought the papers would be in some sort of strongbox, not a room full of paper. This was quickly turning into a bit of a wild goose chase.

---

Mortirmir stretched idly, his back popping in a most unpleasant manner. He made one final mark with his quill on the log he had been working on, blew on the ink to make it dry, then shut the tome with a huff. He looked about the room with undisguised disdain; books and scrolls of all sorts lay about in various states of disarray, covered in copious amounts of dust. It seemed to him that he was the first soul to venture into this so-called "library" in half an age. When he had offered his services as a scribe to the Baron, he had expected, surely as any other academic of his reputation would, to be utilized for more than mere bookkeeping. Honestly! The renowned master Mortirmir, magister maximus of the University, perhaps the greatest scholar of his generation, keeping tally sums in a dusty logbook! The very thought drove him to clench his teeth in fury. He had expected restoration work at the worst, or perhaps the creation of a new family tree. Nobility loved to trace their lineages, and he had illuminated more than one illustrious bloodline before. But no, here he was in some dank, stuffy room keeping track of which peasant had the most pigs this harvest!

Mortirmir sighed elaborately. It couldn't be helped - he was almost out of funds. And frankly, the Baron paid quite well for such loathsome work. Still, he thought to himself as he spun his quill idly over his knuckles, I could use something to break the monotony. Something exciting perhaps, or at least less tedious than simple mathematics. He sighed again. If only...

Suddenly, the silence of the library was shaken by a loud series of tumbling crashes that ended with a heavy smack. Some choice curses followed almost immediately, and then the study was silent again.

Mortirmir started, his hand jerking against his inkwell and spilling its contents all over the cluttered table. He swore, leaping up from his chair and desperately grabbing an ink-stained clothe which he promptly threw on top of the mess. After a few seconds of inneffectual wiping - which only served to spread the ink further around - he paused and peered nervously around the corner. "H-hello?"

A young servant stared back, her hands full of books and loose paper. Tomes littered the ground around her, and it looked like one the decaying shelves had broken in half and spilled its contents all over the ground. Upon seeing Mortirmir, the servant’s eyes widened. “Hello! Gods, I didn’t know Lord Milo had someone in here. Sorry about this, the, uh, books just came down.”

Mortirmir frowned, the expression looking somewhat comical with his heavy spectacles and recently ink-stained robes. "I see." He gestured disparagingly around the library and said, "Well, it is not exactly tidy in here. Have you come to perhaps fix that?"

The servant looked confused for a brief moment, but quickly regained her composure. She set the books down on one of the shelves, making sure the wood wasn't rotten this time. “Ah, no, sorry. I’m here to retrieve something for the Lord, some papers. He needs them for his gathering.”

Mortirmir frowned even more severely than before. He did not relish having to sift through this mess. Adjusting his spectacles, he glanced about the room dejectedly. "Did he happen to say what kind of papers, exactly?" He asked, a hint of despair in his voice.

Ceara smiled uncomfortably, looking down at the books at her feet. “I’ll help you with these, of course.” She began to gather the volumes, waving the scholar over while she continued to speak. “Milo said he wanted some documents. Things that belonged to a man from the north, from Krossavik. The burned village. Do you know where that might be? I don't know how to work with books.”

He paused, tapping his teeth with his finger. A bit of residue ink blackened his teeth - a terrible habit. "Krossavik, hmm... Perhaps, perhaps..." The magister mused, stepping delicately around the stacks of books. He sifted through one shelf, then another, before at last pausing and turning to consider a third. "Ah! Yes, yes, I remember looking at these a few days past," He said triumphantly, pulling a sheaf of documents from the decrepit shelf. Out of the corner of his eye, he spied Ceara's lockpicks. Mortirmir paused halfway to handing the documents to Ceara. "Say," He begins suspiciously, "Who did you say you were again? You aren't the normal maid that usually helps me around here."

Ceara shifted in place, eyeing the papers that he held in his hands. “I’m a replacement. Sara burned herself in the kitchens.”

The magister narrowed his eyes. "Sara? The normal maid is Alice." He drawed himself up to his full height, all geniality gone. "I think I'll bring these to the Baron himself. I could use a break," He said, moving towards the door.

The thief watched him for a few seconds, and then sprung forward without warning. She pressed a dagger to his back, tapping his arm with her free hand. “No, we’re not going anywhere.” Ceara pulled the scholar backwards, away from the door. “I’m not going to hurt you if you do as I say. Drop those papers gently.”

Mortirmir gasped, his eyes widening in alarm. "I-I demand you let go of me this instant!" He cried, his left arm cartwheeling about as he is yanked backwards.

“Shut up. Next time you demand something, I’ll take one of your fingers off. See how much ink you get on yourself then.” Ceara pushed Mortimir into his desk, keeping her blade levelled at his midsection. “Give me the papers. Don’t say a word, just give me the papers.” The thief thought for a moment. “Actually - you got any rope in here?”

He looked aghast. "You simply are not tying me up! In fact," He paused, and then suddenly the sheaf of documents in his hands were shrouded with a burnt orange color. "You will release me this instant, o-or I'll turn these to ash!"

Ceara’s eyes widened, but her dagger stayed up. “Unbelieveable... If you burn those pages, I’ll stab you right in your stupid mouth! Are you gonna die for some old papers?”

Mortirmir harrumphed. "I'll only burn them if you, ahem, stab me." He says, his eyes briefly goggling at the dagger. "If you lower that blade, perhaps we can talk like civilized people, y-yes?"

Ceara narrowed her eyes. The library was silent for a few moments, and then she sighed. The dagger came down, but only just. “Alright. Two civilized people, me and you, talking this out.” She paused. “Give me those papers, please?”

He adjusts his robes self-importantly before speaking. "I'm afraid that would put me in a great deal of trouble with Lord Milo," The magister says dryly, one eye still on the rather sharp-looking blade. "And although I bear no great love for the man, he does pay well."

The thief gripped the dagger tighter in her hand, sighing again. When Mortimir began to adjust his clothes again, she lashed towards him, striking his chin squarely with the grip of her blade. Ceara moved forwards, crashing on top of the scholar and wrenching the documents from his hand. He protested weakly for a moment, hazily voicing his concerns, but soon the papers were free from his grip. Ceara backed up, tucking her prize into her apron but keeping her dagger close to a pained Mortimir. “Hows that, dickhead?”

Mortirmir pressed his hand to his chin, mouth agape. "Y-you, you... hit me." He said faintly, his tone edged with disbelief.

“Yes, I did. Remember that the next time you start getting some bright ideas.” Ceara pulled him up by his collar, pressing the dagger against his throat now. “I’m going to tell you exactly what’s going to happen, and you’re going to believe me this time, right?”

The magister's eyes were clouded in shock, but the dagger to his throat cleared them. "Ah...yes. Yes I shall."

“Good. Because if you screw me, I will make sure you come crashing down with me.” Ceara kept the knife at his throat, but her expression somewhat softened. “We are going to take a walk now. Out of here, down the stairs, and through the hall. You are going to carry these documents, and I am going to carry this dagger near your spine. We’re going to walk right out of this place, you’re going to hand me the papers, and then we’ll just go our separate ways. Alright? Nobody gets hurt, everyone goes home tonight.” She paused. “Unless you stab me in the back. Then I’ll kill you.”

Mortirmir paused to consider all this. On one hand, the thief's proposition was abjectly humiliating for a magister of his status; on the other, the dagger was very sharp. And pointed in his direction. He cleared his throat. "That would be agreable to me, madame."

Ceara grinned. “On your way then, my friend.” The thief pushed the papers into his hands, pointing to the door. Mortimir started to walk, with Ceara following close behind him. The pair descended the stairs, travelling through the silent corridors as quickly as was possible. The sounds of the party began to reappear as they reached the centre of the estate, and soon, the two were at the doors to the gathering. Ceara opened the door, pushing the scholar through first. She pocketed her dagger, making sure that Mortimir couldn’t see that the knife was away. She made eye contact with Mostafa as soon as she spotted him, silently gesturing to bard to start playing his role in the robbery.

The minstrel stood up, strumming a single cord on his lute. “Attention, everyone!” the guests turned their attention to him, looking away from Ceara and her hostage. “Attention! I shall now sing a song I have written for our dear host, Lord Milo, himself.” He launched into a tune, singing about the bravery and shrewdness of the great lord of Viarosa as loudly as humanly possible. Milo, and in turn the nobles attending his morning party, seemed enthralled by his rendition - or at least interested enough for Ceara to slip by them. She lead Mortimir past the gathered guests, through the servant’s quarters, and out into the gardens. Once she was through the iron gates, the thief began to relax. She turned Mortimir around, holding her hand out politely. “Please?”

"Well, I'd say my employment with the good Lord Milo is officially severed, thanks be to you. He'll undoubtedly think that I stole those papers." Mortirmir complained, handing over the documents. "Pray tell me what I shall do now, that I have no income. How am I supposed to travel without coin?" He continued heatedly, his voice growing in volume. He threw up his hands angrily. "And further, this damages my reputation amongst the nobility in his circles!"

“Technically, you did steal it.” replied Ceara, grinning as she reviewed the papers. She looked up, her smile fading when she saw just how angry he was becoming. “Look, buddy, we all have problems. You look like a guy that’s put together, I’m sure it’ll all work out.” The thief grinned again. “Besides, those nobles seemed like a bunch of pricks. Now, off you go.”

The magister scowled, then sighed as he looked around. He paused, chewing his lip idly. "You knew the bard. This was all planned, yes? So," He gestured with one hand, as if struggling to make a point. "There are others."

“There might be. There might not be.” Ceara took a step backwards, ringing the collar of her apron in an attempt to remove it. “That doesn’t really concern you, does it?”

"I take it you are no band of petty robbers. Few criminal bands would break into a wealthy Lord's castle simply to steal some papers, especially ones such as these." He tapped his teeth, which were still partially blackened from earlier. "I wonder what your purpose could be, hmm?"

Ceara pulled her apron above her head, smiling as she folded it across her arm. “I’m a damn good petty robber. Unfortunately, I’m the only one in the little group.” She wiggled her eyebrows. “Or am I? Misinformation. First rule of warfare. Second. I’m sure it’s on the list, eh?” She waved the though away. "In any case, it's not really any of your business."

Mortirmir knit his eyebrows in confusion at the rules of warfare comment. "Misinformation is the fourth rule in Attaliates' Gladiatoria, and seventh in Walpurgis' Kriegsspiel." He waved the quibble aside. "Regardless, I happen to be a scholar and magister of...some renown." He says, with a haughty sniff. "And I'm now seeking employment."

Ceara regarded him with an unimpressed expression. "I bet. My boss seems to be a fan of deadweight, so I'm sure you'll fit right in."

Mortirmir gaped at her. “Deadweight!?” He cried incredulously. "I am the magister maximus of the Imperial University! I mastered two schools of the hermetical arts by the time I was eighteen! Why, I could-" He paused. Considered. Then, he abruptly said, "None of that means anything to you, does it? Very well," Mortirmir adjusted his robes, smoothing out his wrinkled ink-stained sleeves. "My things are in an Inn not far from here. If you'll accompany me, madame...?"

"My name is Ceara, and that's that." Ceara squinted at the sky, checking the position of the sun. "Yeah, I'd say we've got a bit of time before Mostafa finishes his little poetic rounds." She smiled, extending her arm. "I'd just absolutely adore accompanying you. Let's talk about history and magic till the sun goes down, shall we? Oh, even better, perhaps you could tell me more about your titles and achievements! Those made me shiver, no lying! First, you should tell me your name. Add a couple middle ones, I won't know the difference, truly."

The magister looked down his nose at her. "I do not appreciate being mocked." He glared at her for a bit before relenting and taking her arm. "I am Master Mortirmir. A...pleasure."

"Master, eh?" Ceara raised an eyebrow. "Like the Eastern title, or the one they give to spoiled little noble children?" She grinned from ear to ear. "You know what, I think I know the answer to my own question."

He refused to be baited. "Neither. It's an old Imperial title. Κύριλλος or Kyrilos, in their tongue." He pulled at his rather unimpressive beard. "So, tell me about this party of yours. How many of you are there?"

Ceara smiled ruefully, patting Mortimir's arm. "Oh, we're a wonderous band. Crusaders and thieves, soldiers and heroes, minstrels and nightstalkers! They'll be writing songs about us for years! Oh, I’ve got a friend called Nima, he's a walking history book. Loves talking about it, too. Well, I mean, he sounds the same, but I know he's enjoying himself."

Mortirmir perked up a bit at the mention of Nima. "A fellow historian you say? I would love to make his acquaintance..." He began, as they entered the town proper. "Ah! There is my Inn, across the way." He said, pointing to a somewhat worn down three-story building. A sign hanging above the door proclaimed the establishment as The Laughing Fiddler.

"Get your things quickly, then. Don't want to leave our musical friend hanging high and dry, do we?” Ceara followed him through the doors, looking around. It wasn't a nice place, but it was better than the ones run by the mafia. "Do they sell anything hard here?"

"Ale, mostly. And some wine," He called over his shoulder, as he walked up the stairs. He returned a few minutes later in a fresh set of robes indistinguishable from the previous ones besides the ink-stains, and wearing a large backpack positively bulging at the seams. A satchel rested at his hip, a large tome peeking out of the cover. Mortirmir paid the Innkeep - an oily middle-aged man with a large gut - and turned to Ceara.

"Travelling light, are we?" remarked Ceara with dry amusement. "Mostafa will be getting out within the hour, and I think he'd appreciate my not being late. Follow me, if you can make it through the door."

Mortirmir snorted in indignation, and followed Ceara outside.

Cowritten with @Luftwaffles

---

The Viarosa Witch Project

Heavy boots pounded on the forest floor, kicking up piles of dead leaves and splintering rotten, bug-infested logs under their thick soles. A faint trace of moonlight filtered through the dense canopy, casting eerie shadows that danced a sinister jig around the trees. A long howl echoed in the distance; a wolf, or something worse? It did not matter. Gottmar von Eibenschütz had travelled to these lands for a singular purpose, and it would take more than wild beasts and tricks of the light to deter him from his pursuit. Vaulting over a fallen tree and resuming his sprint without so much as a second's pause, he kept his eyes fixed firmly on the faint light that flitted in between the distant trees - no ordinary light, but the sickly glow of foul sorcery; a taint, a plague upon the land, a corruption that must be purged without hesitation or mercy. With every second that passed, the faint light grew stronger, edged closer as Gottmar sprinted as fast as his aching legs would allow, carried forward by willpower alone, reaching for the bulky repeating crossbow at his back as his prey came into range.

Without warning, the trees parted, giving way to a clearing that was somehow no less ominous than the darkest depths of the forest itself. The grass and shrubs that covered the floor were not their usual vibrant green, but a pallid grey that resembled the skin of a corpse. Puddles and patches of mud littered the ground - rains had fallen not long ago - but the water here was thick and crimson. Unfazed, Gottmar pressed on. He had seen worse sights than this more times than he cared to count. The sorcerous light burst out of a patch of shrubs across the clearing, heading for the relative protection of the trees once more, and Gottmar raised his crossbow, loosing a pair of bolts that whistled through the air and slammed into their target with the sickening crunch of metal shattering bone. A shrill scream echoed into the night, and the distant wolves replied with their own howls. The glow of magic began to dim. Gottmar gave a satisfied grunt.

Striding up to the fallen foe, the hunter surveyed the pitiful specimen before him. A woman, elderly and frail in appearance, if not in ability, with almost skeletal, gangly limbs and wild grey hair, her frame covered in ragged, filthy robes. She could have been simply a brain-addled old crone, were it not for her eyes. Or rather, the lack of them - the empty sockets replaced instead by the dim shimmer of magical light that Gottmar had been following since the chase began. He glanced down. The crossbow bolts had sheared almost clean through her kneecaps, splinters of bone protruding from the gaping wounds. The skin surrounding the bolts had begun to blacken and shrivel - the work of the holy oil that lubricated the weapon's intricate mechanism and thus coated its ammunition. Gottmar's gaze shifted to the woman's face. "Witch," he began, his voice cold and unforgiving. "You are accused of the practice of dark sorcery, a most unholy affront to humanity and to blessed Calidorus. Have you any words to speak in your defence?"

The witch laughed, a harsh rasping sound that brought flecks of blood spraying from her twisted mouth to land on Gottmar's boots. The light in her eyes grew brighter for a second as she chanted in an alien tongue, forming a spell to vanquish her assailant. Her chant grew louder, until she was almost roaring each syllable, and wind and leaves rushed around the pair in a twisting whirlpool. The glow grew almost blinding, and a pulse of arcane energy emanated from her battered body, enveloping the hunter and... nothing. No scream of pain, no sudden collapse, no equally broken form lying next to her. Nothing.

The witch hunter's cold glare did not falter for a second. "Very well. For thy crimes, I sentence thee to death and damnation eternal. May the holy fire of Calidorus render your black soul naught but ash." He reached down to his belt with a gloved hand and withdrew a short, brutal falchion, dropping to one knee and pinning the exhausted witch to the ground. With a swift chop, her throat was split open, and with a second her spine was shattered in two, separating her head cleanly from her body, the light in her eyes finally extinguished entirely. Gottmar's hand reached into his coat, and he began to lay out before him the tools required to finish the job. From a small leather pouch, the witch hunter took a pinch of salt, rubbing it evenly on the witch's severed neck, both the shreds still attached to the base of her head, and the bloody stump that sat atop her shoulders. From a metal flask, he shook a few drops of holy oil above her heart. Then, placing a wooden stake in the same spot, he produced a mallet from his belt and struck until the spike had been driven as far in as it could go. Lastly, gathering a good bunch of the dead shrubbery that littered the clearing to use as kindling, he withdrew a firesteel from his pocket and drove a shower of sparks down onto the witch's corpse, waiting until the blaze had fully caught hold before he rose and placed his tools back into their various pockets and pouches. As the body burned and blackened, Gottmar bent and picked up the sorceress's head, giving one final glare to its ugly, wizened features before stalking back into the forest, clutching his trophy as the fires raged behind him.

---

Moving at a brisk trot through the towering wooden gates of Viarosa, a dappled grey draft horse stamped and whinnied as it was confronted by a pair of halberd-wielding guards, drawn to the animal in no small part due to the menacing appearance of its rider. Bringing the beast to a halt, Gottmar dismounted in a swift movement to face the guardsmen, fixing them with his usual cold, grim expression - an expression only magnified in its intensity by the network of scars that covered his pale visage. "What is the purpose of this delay, soldier?" he enquired, his tone calm and level yet still giving the air of a rather less civil interrogation.

The closest of the two guards gulped. This new arrival was not a man he particularly wanted to find himself in confrontation with; a hulking figure with the scent of death on his clothes, who towered over him by a good foot - although how much of that was due to his tall, wide-brimmed capotain hat the guard could not tell. Nevertheless, he steeled himself, puffed out his chest, and addressed the newcomer. "It is standard practice to enquire as to the reason any heavily armed stranger such as yourself might wish to enter this fine city, sir. A precaution, nothing more."

The witch hunter grunted dismissively, reaching across to his horse and unfastening a burlap sack from its saddle. "Is it also standard practice in this 'fine' city to allow the forces of evil to run rampant less than a league from your walls?" Letting the top of the sack hang open, he gave the guards a glimpse of the shrivelled, half-rotten witch's head that sat within. "Behold. The head of a dark sorceress, executed by my own hand in the forests not far from here. You will take me to your Lord that I might receive the appropriate compensation for my work."

"For the love of Solanius, who the hell are you?!" the guardsman shouted, jumping back as his eyes met the empty sockets of the deceased witch and lowering his halberd to point towards the stranger. "You murdered this woman and now you want to wave her head in front of Lord Demetrios himself? I should kill you where you stand!"

Gottmar's hand came to rest on the hilt of his arming sword. "I would not advise it, soldier. Many have tried, but by the blessing of holy Calidorus I still stand." As if by instinct, he made the sign of Calidorus across his chest. "If you will not take me to your Lord Demetrios, you will bring him to me. You will tell him that a representative of the Altenschloss Chapter of the Order of Brother-Soldiers of the Temple of Blessed Calidorus in Asmeinland is here to collect what he is rightfully owed." The guards stood still, unsure. "NOW, SOLDIER!" bellowed the witch hunter, prompting the foremost guard to give a sharp nod to his partner, who jogged away into the city to find the Lord.

The guard returned a while later, followed closely by a rough-looking man dressed in fine clothes. Although he wore their garments, it was fairly clear that the newcomer was no lord. “Are you the witch hunter?” he asked, looking Gottmar up and down.

"Aye," said Gottmar. "But you are not the man I requested." His attention left the new arrival, and his gaze fell back upon the guard. It was not a pleasant gaze. "Did you not hear my words the first time, soldier? Or did you wilfully disobey me?" He took a step towards the guardsman, who visibly flinched in response. The witch hunter gave a disgusted scowl. "Return to your duties at the gate, soldier. I have no further need of you." Once more he regarded the newcomer, sizing him up properly now. "You are a representative of Lord Demetrios?"

“I’m a representative of Viarosa, my friend.” The man smiled. “And its grateful citizenry. Show me the head, and I shall pay you in full.”

The witch hunter nodded, taking the decaying head out of its bloodstained sack and dropping it at the man's feet. "As you wish. Now, my payment. One hundred pounds, in weight, of sufficiently pure silver, delivered to me within twenty-four hours. Think of it as a donation to the Order - a gift to blessed Calidorus himself, if you will. A gift that will help to fund my further investigations in Viarosa, that I might know how deep the taint of black magic pervades this city." He glanced down at the head, lip curling with disdain. "As a representative of Viarosa, you will deliver the head to your Lord, inform him of the presence of Brother-Captain Gottmar von Eibenschütz in the city, and tell him that the Order expects his full compliance in the investigations and potential witch-hunts to follow. Am I understood?"

“Of course you will have your silver. Our fine city values the work you do for the gods.” The man turned to the guards behind him and nodded his head, sending both of them off to complete some unknown task. “I shall convey your message to the Lord O’ the Port. Now, where shall you be staying? We will need a place to send your reward.”

"The Treis Ippótes inn down by the docks. The Order rents the east wing of the establishment as an outpost in this city. You shall find me there. If I am not present, you may leave my silver with any of the senior Brothers you may meet there; they will ensure my payment is kept safe until my return." Turning away from the man, Gottmar swiftly mounted his horse once more. "In the meantime, if you hear or see anything suspicious, I expect that you will not hesitate to inform me. For the sake of your city, and your soul." At that, the hunter gave his mount's flank a sharp slap, and the beast began to move off towards the city streets beyond.

The weary group of travellers arrived in Viarosa in the evening, several days after that fateful fight - the vampires were still missing and it seemed that only Rhiara regretted their disappearances; the rest didn't really acknowledge the fact.

It was the second time in quick succession that the Hoffen Girls and the Krossavikers had seen Viarosa - it was a very welcome sight indeed. The Rock that dominated the skyline was painted orange by the sun, slowly disappearing behind the watery horizon.

The travel time had of course been extended on account of the some dozens of refugees from the village-formerly-called Tiraști, whom the party had to take care of. As the rescued citizens informed them, it had once been a proud breadbasket, and the site of one of Illyrica's finest martial academies. To their disadvantage, they were accustomed to fighting the wars of men, and not Shaituns and their spawns. And so they were overrun.

Many lives were lost in an impromptu rescue charge, and there was not enough time to recover adequate supplies for the journey to Viarosa. Thus, the party had to part with some of their own supplies, rationing food and drink to the refugees until they could bring them to the safety of Viarosa's walls. The Knights tried to keep spirits high in light of the dire circumstances, between day-to-day assistance making and breaking camp, the opening of the trio's packed supply of alcohol, and Lucian's frequent sermons and sacramental services to faithful Aesernites.

The group's charity had not come without cost, for when they finally came to the gates of the city, they found themselves drained of supplies and energy, with a platoon's worth of vagrants in tow. Understandably but unfortunately, the city guard refused them entry; still, they sent one of their own to retrieve a superior, and after a brief period of waiting, an extravagantly dressed nobleman pushed through the crowd of guards, trailed by a small army of courtiers and curious peasants. He frowned at the assortment of refugees and travellers standing in front of the gates, rolling his eyes and clearing his throat. “Hello, poor wanderers. I am Milo Demetrios, the humble lord of the great port of Viarosa. I am also currently in command of the walls, you see, and so I must ask why exactly you expect to be let through. Now, I’m a very busy man, so I’d like the explanation rather quickly.”

Upon seeing the nobleman and his entourage, Lucian stepped forwards, the clanging of his armor drawing the attention of Lord Milo. "Hail. The full truth is long and troubling, but the result is that these people have lost their homes and their loved ones. Assuredly, had it not been for the intervention of my companions, they would not even be here. All that we ask for them is that they be allowed passage into the city, so that they may rest well, so that the sick and the wounded may receive better aid, and that those who are able-bodied may work to provide for those who cannot," Lucian said. He had initially thought to give this Milo Demetrios additional details, but for the size of the crowd, and how swiftly rumors flew, he decided against provoking mass hysteria with the notion that a Shaitun had truly died, and his spawn were ravaging the countryside destroying whole villages.

Milo looked relatively unmoved. “And who are you, exactly? You must understand that an armed band cannot be taken at their word, especially in these dark times.”

"Lucian Flavia Aquila," he replied simply, staring Milo down.

The lord narrowed his eyes. He waved to his guards, who began to push the crowds that had gathered to see the commotion back into the streets of Viarosa. Another group of soldiers emerged through the gate, their hands gripping their swords. "Aquila. Now that I know these people are your petty followers, I shall certainly turn them away. Viarosa is a city for the truly faithful, not rabble rousing rustics."

Lucian quietly sucked his teeth in response, subtly nodding his head. Then he spoke, lowering his voice down so that only he and Milo could hear what he said. "I understand that times are dire, and the city can only afford to open its gates for so many people. Perhaps if I were to pay the entrance fee for my guests, we might see it open for them?"

Milo gave the knight a condescending smile and held up his hand. The guards around him relaxed, and the lord himself gestured for Lucian to come forward. "For the betterment of the city, I shall have to look past heresy." He paused. "For now, that is. Move your band of serfs forward, then. You can pay while they're walking."

Lucian lifted a hand, waving it forwards, and Kinara and Sorano gestured for the caravan to follow. As the refugees and the core members of the party proceeded into the city, Lucian waited for the opportune time to present a bag of coins. Subtly, he handed it off to Milo.

Milo took the bag and measured it with his hands. Satisfied, he handed it off to one of his guards, taking a last glance at Lucian and then turning to walk back into the city.

The Paladin was not yet done. Walking up to the nobleman, he snatched the edge of his tunic and pulled him back, again speaking just quietly enough for him alone to hear, "A city for the truly faithful, indeed. My Father knows your heart, and you will be met with His judgement sooner than you think."

Milo snorted. "Your father was as common as these people you bring through my gates. I don't fear his wrath any more than I do yours. Take your hands off me, now."

Lucian complied, lightly nudging the hypocrite as he released the cloth. "You should," he growled. With him out of the way, he followed the party into the city.

---

As the party entered the city, Herbert tapped Athaliah on the shoulder. "Do you mind fetching Ceara and her target? I have to run a couple of errands."

"Uh," Athaliah turned round to face Herbert. "Sure, I don't see why not." she shrugged. Being Herbert's errand-girl for a few hours was slightly insulting, but at the same time she was proud that Herbert had trusted her to collect something that seemed so important not just to him and Erika, but possibly to the entire cause.

For the first time since the fight at the village, Rhiara looked somewhat pleased, or at least relieved, that Ath was going to be leaving her alone for a while; she had something of her own to take care of in the city. Nevertheless, she still felt some measure of worry when she and Athaliah were separated.

"Where am I supposed to be meeting her, Herbert?"

"The tavern's called the 'Laughing Fiddler', it's a ways past the centre of town and a bit small." Said Herbert, before continuing to give directions. "Thank you for taking care of it."