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Our story begins in the port city of Ardent's Fall; quite arguably the crown jewel of Astoria. Throughout the city the sounds of anxious crowds, swindling merchants, and minstrels with heavy pockets fill every street corner. The beautifully paved cobblestone roads and impressive contemporary architecture serve as a familiar sight to the culturally diverse citizens, but also as a source of boastfulness to its many visitors. For today, is the day of the annual Festival of Broken Conquerors. No other day could a Vicellian noble recall his stories of valor whilst pouring spirits with impoverished Dwarven handmaidens. Only at the Ardent festival could an Orcish warlord share laughs with the stuffiest of Caracan elites. Of course then, it made sense for our heroes to have been assembled here together on such a day. Their stories together begin here, but ‘tis wise to beware the misty glimmer of Ithean shores; for not all is at it seems. We live in an era of owls, but in the shadow of something that exists beyond our wildest wandering thoughts...

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To our most trusted and loyal of beneficiaries,

It is, today on the 1st of Merrus, 138 Owl that we humbly request your presence in a meeting with our representatives. The Talon Company is an honored and respected guild that prides itself on compassion and civic duty above all else. As such, it is most imperative to our efforts that the debts that our patrons incur be returned to us in full. We understand that, of course, the scarcity of coin in such uncertain times means you may not have the funds necessary to return to us what is owed. It is for this reason, that instead, we've arranged a deal that is beneficial for both parties.

You are to arrive in Ardent's Fall on the 18th of Summerhill in this same year, 138 Owl. Your traveling and lodging expenses will be satisfied per our arrangement. Your passage to the city will see you here early in the morrow. You'll find our guild near the docks across from a rather fine bakery. Talis Cleverfoot will be your contact, and will be expecting your prompt arrival. Come, and enjoy the merriment of the Festival of Broken Conquerors.

We assure you there is little promise in the lives you now lead. Adventure beyond the familiar, and return your favors in the process. There is so little to lose, and everything to gain. Secure your future with Talon Company.

Should you fail to comply with our requests please know that the Talon Company is determined to uphold its reputation as a forceful presence in Ithea no matter the cost.

Your eyes and ears,
Mikael ibn Da'ud

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You shake off the thoughts of your journey here. Your thoughts travel to the new companions you've come to meet today. All very different from yourself, but all indebted to the Talon Company. You find yourself residing, for the foreseeable future, in “The Wrangled Drunkard”, a rather large and expensive inn that was well known for its hosting of foreigners during the festival. Most readily apparent is the large number of people conversing in your vicinity. The sing-song cheer of those around you competes with the clanking of drinks against wooden tables and stands. For the more perceptive, you hear the sound of dice sputtering out onto the wooden floors. There is an air of comradery that fills the air. It wasn’t every day that dwarves, orcs, elves, humans, and all other manner of species celebrated in jovial wistfulness as they did tonight.

What fills your ears next is the sound of lute strings plucked with a careful melancholy. The notes are amplified throughout the tavern, and as the melody begins to pick up you hear a woman’s voice. Its sounds are sweet like Gnomish wasp’s honey, but there is a confidence that looms within.


Before, the minstrel can finish her song you hear the sounds of dwarves, humans, and some elves join in before she can finish. The sound of their voices combined is gruff and twisted like the howls of werewolves. Drunken werewolves, but werewolves all the same.



The charismatic might notice that some of the elves in the tavern weren't singing along, and instead shuffled uncomfortably as the others in the tavern cheered among themselves. The noise died back down to a less intense tone, and you notice that the main tavern is quite busy in its design. The bricks themselves feel stained with many-a-hushed-whisper and forgotten night, and are neatly stacked giving a sense of perpetuity that might make you feel safe and protected. Decorating the walls are various banners from local shops.
“Jonathan’s Fabrics”, you note, is having a particularly enticing sale on all boot fittings. You also see the official banner of the city. The red tapestry is adorned with a teal fish supported by two swords and a golden leaflet beneath it.

Looking to the barkeep you notice that the elven woman is working particularly quickly as she tries her best to keep her patrons satiated. She looks frustrated, and her dirty blonde hair is tied messily in a loose bun. You can see her muttering to herself.

Just outside the tavern you remember beholding a great number of attractions dotting the plaza. A group of tall and scantily clad Dalic exotic dancers beckon drunken suitors. Dwarven craftsmen have set up a small series of shops neighboring one another with a hodgepodge of trinkets, weapons, jewels, and other commodities. You remember a stout woman standing next to a strange wheel carved in the shape of a round noblemen a look of horror drawn on his cartoon face. There are also a few fortune tellers gathered outside of the taverns at a small bench. Beside them, underneath a large oak tree is a storyteller surrounded by children. From the windows of “The Wrangled Drunkard” you notice an array of fire jugglers, a shouting apothecary, what looks to be a group of student mages, a mercenary troupe, and local noblemen conversing on a balcony overlooking the event. ‘Tis enough to overwhelm many an unaccustomed traveler. Fortunately, should you need to retreat from the festivities, your quarters await you upstairs.

This is where your story begins, in the port city of Ardent’s Fall.

Normally, Light worked alone, however, the opportunity had presented itself to see new places and finally use his spells. In his home country, mages were often disowned, especially ones of the destruction magic like himself. People were always,

'Light, you blew that tavern up.'

'Light, that library is on fire.'

No one appreciates destruction magic. There could be a battle or bandits, and they couldn't do a thing. What are they going to do, heal someone to death?

So anyway, here Light was, sitting by a window in the Wrangled Drunkard. He was there first since he was always early. On time, to him, meant 15 minutes before arrival. Being late, was highly upsetting, to say the least. The bar was crowded, but that was okay. It was interesting. The people of Carthus were completely different. Their clothes, their accent, even their hair was odd. He kind of expected the table placement to have three spoons.

Since Light's trip was being paid for, he got the most expensive thing on the menu he could find. It was some sort of... lamb. Whatever it was, it was delicious. After eating the swill that people on the boat dared to call food, this was a very welcome change. Flame outside the window caught his eye. He turned to look at the source, sweet drink still in hand. The crowd gave oo's and ah's.

Light scoffed into his cup, "I could do that."

Yet, he was mesmerized. The things that he'd witnessed today had been astounding. There was vender just selling cheeses. Every kind you could imagine. It was a miracle that someone could base their entire livelihood around cheese. Light swished his glass, recalled how much cheese he had purchased. Five blocks. On second thought, it suddenly made sense how people could sell cheese for a living.

Light looked at his pocket watch. Why didn't others share his love of being early?

Barris Isengrim walked his faithful mule Victor through the crowded streets of Ardent's Fall, the Dwarf Gunslinger being in a state of mental contrition. For while the sights, smells, and overall jubilation of the Festival of Broken Conquerors were great enough to merely begin to approach the average day of controlled chaos within The Charred Republic, he was in no immediate mood to partake in the Festivities or even take much notice of much since he'd passed the city gates.

For Barris was here on business, particular business that perplexed him greatly. He had previously been tailing a mark he'd been assigned to from a client, a fellow who'd ratted out on his fellow gangsters with the Constabulary in Redcliffe. Unfortunately for the mark, at least one of his former compatriots had escaped to the Charred Republic and had set about seeking a hunter who'd be willing to exact vengeance on him, Barris being available, and not being particularly picky on jobs, had taken the job as the client offered a a fairly tidy sum in a pouch of rubies as reward.

It hadn't taken Barris long to find his target when he got to Redcliffe, though the city was vast, every active criminal knew where the mark was, what with the snitch having become a paranoid individual with city watchmen having a patrol guard his house and check all of his visitors. He waited for a week, in an inn down the street, watching his target's routines and tailing him when he could, and had thought of a few appropriate times to make his move. Unfortunately for Barris's plans, his mark threw a snag into them, as he overheard a conversation among watchmen entailing that they were to move the mark into protective custody, apparently someone had found out that he was a wanted man with hunters out to kill him.

Barris had no choice, he'd not wait however long the proceedings would go, or for the man's paranoia to finally break before getting the job done, and he wasn't going to drop a job and disgrace his name to his clients. So, he decided to be bold. A contingent of watchmen had come to escort the mark to their headquarters in Redcliffe, and Barris raced through the streets ahead of their route to cut them off, and stepping his way through the slightly crowded streets, waited for them to pass, his hand ready and guns loaded. The escort passed and within a moment faster than one could blink, a pistol cleared leather, a crack and flash like lightning and thunder, and with a smell of gunpowder filling the air, Barris shot between the guards, his shot catching his target in the chest, he didn't know if he even killed the man on the first shot but he didn't have time to check. Everyone on the street panicked, horses bucked riders off their mounts and general chaos ensued, but the trained and veteran Town Watch of Redcliffe moved with purpose, sounding the alarm and giving chase to the Dwarven hitman, who fired a couple more stray shots at the tailing Watch while bolting.

In his rush to get Victor and his belongings, he ran back to inn where he had been staying, only to find Watchmen there. The innkeep must have tipped them off this morning and suspected the Dwarf was up to no good. They surrounded Barris, who surrendered himself and was taken into custody. His charges were murder of a civilian, the attempted murder causing injury of 2 watchmen, inciting mass panic causing minor property damage, and criminal conspiracy to commit murder being the most notable charges. Combined all of which carried a hefty sentence, he wasn't executed. Barris' luck had run out, his impatience and greed had led him to take a job he probably should have dropped and had led to him making stupid mistakes.

He was resigned to almost pleading guilty and accepting a slightly lighter sentence, or even worse, offering the watch his entire savings as a massive bribe, but then something very strange happened. The officers released him, and the charges were dropped, with his belongings all returned to him and a sealed letter bearing the Talon Company's emblem was with them. Barris knew of the company by name, but knew actual little of their business or their interests, merely that they had a great deal of power within the world to get what they wished. Which in his case was evidently true if they were able to leverage his charges into being dropped. He felt immense relief but also curiosity as to why the Talon Company would do this, Barris wasn't ungrateful, but he was suspicious as to who specifically he was indebted to.

Regardless, the letter's content proved his suspicions that this was not out of charity, the Talon Company wanted him for a job in Ardent's Fall, with all expenses being covered by them, and for him to arrive on the 18th of Summerhill of this year. Though for what this job entailed, the letter was incredibly vague, and only seemed to imply that there would be others working alongside him, and that they were asked to enjoy the Festival of Broken Conquerors.

Knowing better than to cross people with the power to exert great influence over constabularies and Gods knew what else, Barris set out for Ardent's Fall as soon as he had been able. His client in The Charred Republic could wait, it would take too long for him to get to that underground paradise of libertines beneath High Mist from Redcliffe and get back to Ardent's Fall in time for the stated date. And he'd done the job anyway, if his client didn't have his payment ready for him or it had mysteriously vanished when he got back, he'd take it and more out of the bastard's cheating corpse, maybe his relatives too, that would depend on how pissed Barris was.

These were the thoughts going through Barris' head as he led Victor along the waterfront of Ardent's Fall to where they were supposed to meet and be staying: "The Wrangled Drunkard", a fairly impressive-looking inn by Barris's standards which looked to be fairly bustling within with all manner of drunkards, gamblers, and patrons of all kinds brought here by the port and Festival. His kind of place. Walking over to the stables adjoining the inn, he showed his letter to the stable-hand and asked that Vic be given a spot and looked after. The mule, loaded with luggage as he was, was led into the stables by the hands, while Barris walked through the front door of the inn, pulling back his hood and looking around at the liveliness of the place. Grinning beneath his red beard as he approached the bar and climbed up to a recently vacated stool. Not even interested in a drink yet so as getting off his feet from the long road.

He had no fucking clue as to what he was going to be asked to do, or who he was going to be working with but even he could admit that anything was better than his circumstances before this.

A cacophonous roar of laughter quickly took to the air. In the center of the tavern was a mix mash of both drunks and the sober had gathered around a table and were shuffling and stumbling about in their fits. At that table, both a distressed male Orc and an amused female Brithian sat. Plenty of green was open to the air, as the orc sat with a large majority of his clothing and equipment resting on the table. All the poor fellow was left with was his loin cloth and his boots. He glared down to a flipped cup with an intensity that could engulf the whole place with flames that even the fury of hell couldn’t match.

As for the Brithian, she held an air of confidence. How could she not? She was still, and for the most part, fully clothed. But even then, one could easily get the feeling that she wouldn’t care if she was disrobed or not. The multi-colored wraps she uses to force her braided mane back rested on the table. And under those was her fashionably loud maroon long coat. That left the woman dressed in her silver-gray trousers, boots, a belt, and a long sleeved shift with an argyle pattern that travels up the sleeves around the collar and just a ways under her nearly flat chest. She was leaning back in her chair casually, one paw like foot pressed against the edge of the table, and the other’s leg crossed over the top. The hurdy gurdy made it clear she was a minstrel. The long sword made it clear that she was likely a traveler, or just a woman that takes personal defence seriously enough. And oh the grin she wore. It was broad and shaped like a crescent, showing off teeth that could reflect light even in the dark. In many cases, it’d be charismatic. But now? For that Orc, it was a thing of pure evil.

It was the Brithian’s cast, but she allowed the die to remain covered for now. If only to let the Orc stew and fester in his own emotions.

“Hurry it up you damned woman,” The Orc bellowed, making it clear he was kept waiting long enough. To which earned him the lovely sight of watching that grin widen just a hair further.

“Now now! Anticipation is what makes a treat all the sweeter. But… looking at you,” the catlike minstrel chimed. She trailed off just long enough to reach over and lift the cup to reveal her four die. Six over the opposition’s cast. “... I’d say the treat was only intended for me.”

Her whiskers twitched in delight as she saw the boots hit the table. She reached over, grabbed them, and started to playfully stamp them around the table by the ankle. “Oh what a shame it is for you darlin~. Stomper’s like these tells a girl you’ll have them singin like a minstrel, and a minstrel? Well… I’ll leave that to your imagination.”

“Oi,” the barkeep chimed up from her post. “Unless you both plan on wiping down my tables for the duration of your stay here I’d recommend keeping your boots…” she shooed at the brith woman sitting at the bar “And your paws of my bar, lass.” The elven woman spoke with a tired Dalic accent. She seemed to be relatively young, but the bags under her eyes indicated premature aging. She was somewhat frantic, and her voice hoarse. The festival no doubt took its toll on the woman. Fortunately, the Brthian minstrel seemed to be quite empathetic about her woes, and had removed both her feet, and the orc’s boost by request.

The Orc, clearly too frustrated to speak, slammed his cup down with enough force to shake the table. He set his jaw, and quickly lifted his cup. The look of hope quickly faded from his face, once his cup dropped to the table.

Before she could respond to the orc’s subtle protests a dwarf two seats down from this confrontation slid his mug down towards the server. “No...no...I’ve told ye Normand that you’ve reached ye limit. It’s the tap for ye.” She sighed to herself before gripping the mug in her left hand. “For the rest of the night.” She eyed the dwarf. His bulging eyes couldn’t manage to stare her down, and instead his gaze shifted to the ground. Furrowing his eyebrows and tugging on his beard he began to mutter to himself before forcing himself from his stool and waddling towards the stairs to the far left of the tavern.

The barkeep turned her attention back towards the orc and the brith for a moment before walking over to wash out the cup. Though her back was turned the woman still managed to seem vigilant. If one squinted hard enough they might mistake her for a knight of Ardent’s Watch; perhaps even an Oathkeeper.

The Brithian’s gaze had remained on the barkeep for some time. One could even see a glint of curiosity in her eyes before they turned to look down to the die on the table. Her eyes sparkled with humor while she bellowed out a heartful laugh, “Double snake eyes eh!? At this point, I’d wager that your luck current luck speaks volumes of how ‘lucky’ you get at night mm? No matter!”

The cat scooped up the die and rolled them across the table. There was absolutely no need to check once one saw one of the four cubes stop at a two. And especially not when you could be watching the display of the brith quickly rounding the table to pounce the loser to the ground. There was a brief tuffle before the minstrel stood up high and tall with her bounty in her hands. The Orc’s loin cloth tripped firmly by the lashings, was waved in the air like a flag.

“Behold! Raux The Minstrel is victorious for the night! Saved by the merciful grace of luck from the…” She looked to the Orc as he stood up. Something waved into view and quickly caught her off guard. Her eyes flicked down, and by reaction her head quickly recoiled back.
The display is, at first, met with cheer from the other patrons of the tavern. Their joyous banter though quite quickly turned to disgusted muttering. This was enough to make the barkeep turn back to the two.

She gasped as fits of red lined her cheeks. She nearly dropped the sud soaked cup in her hands. It slipped from her grasp, but in a hastened fumble she managed to catch it before its descent onto the floor. She stammered trying to find words, but there simply were none.
“Be that another fist down there boy,” Raux chirped with surprise. The comment was met with a chuckle and a comment from the Orc.
“Well.. damn, good for you. Good thing you lost, cause I don’t think I’d be able to make good on the bet. I bet they call you Galag Three Arm back at the camps, eh?” That earned her a laugh. And to greater effect the Minstrel turned to regard the audience.

“Am I not the only one seeing this, boys and girls? Why by the twelve we celebrating a magus who killed three dragons? Ye should be celebrating that this Orc wasn’t on the lines to knock down them gates with a thrust of what’s between his legs!

The minstrel quickly clapped her hands together after the situation had been diffused with some light laughter. “Tell you what! Being a good sport, and given us all a… enlightening view. I give you a consolation!” With that… the brith produced a pair of women’s undergarments from seemingly nowhere. The fur suggested that it might have been worn at some point. And whether it was warm or not would only be known to the Orc, who found the bands quickly looped around his tusk like teeth and pulled over his head. She snatched up her mug from the table and raised it high. One arm to clasp the orc by the shoulder and pull him close.

“TO GALAG THREE ARMS EVERYONE! CONQUEROR OF LANDS! ORC OF ASS DESTRUCTION!” Raux called out, drawing out a mix of cheers and laughter to those who had been surrounding the table.

Seated in a booth next to the tavern’s inactive fireplace sat a rather large human male. His bald head was decorated with a number of scars, and his beard dripped with the finest Dwarven Brandy. He belted out in a fit of laughter. “Galag? Has that boy been telling his war stories again, Mira?” The human had a particularly mocking bite to his words.

Sighing to herself the the barkeep, Mira, looked on at the orc in pity. “Put your clothes back on, Bryce.”
Raux, having finished her drink and collected her things, sauntered up to the bar with that same broad grin she wore before. “Come now, my good lass! That blush on your face tells me you liked what ya saw!”

“Careful my good lady, your employers paid good coin, but that doesn’t mean I won’t make you clean the throw-up outside of the tavern.” Mira gave Raux a cautious, but friendly smile. It seemed the dishes she’d been doing were all cleaned now. She made her way back to the counter. It seemed that was her sanctuary. Though she was clearly tired there was an aura of peace and motherly instinct about her.
The cat’s eyes dipped down to the counter. A finger idly feeling the grain of the bar, and the many nicks, scratches, and grooves that marred the surface. It did not show it’s age though, from what she could see. It had been roughed up, but the wood did not show any signs of being rotten, or have nearly as many stains as it should. If anything… the elf seemed to look as if she had several years shaved off her lifespan in a mere few hours.

“Is that so,” Raux chimmed with her grin softening to a smile. She sat up straight for the moment and leaned in. “Cause to me, it looks like that little show slapped the life back into that lovely face of yours!”
She smiled for a second before looking to Raux. “I think I’ve had enough excitement for two life times. Between, Normand, Bryce, and Dig,” Mira motioned to the the bald human male that had spoken up before. “And my drunkard brother, Josrian- I’ve got enough headache. You lot will drive me to Organa before long.”

The Brithian leaned in closer now, planting an elbow on the counter while her cheek rested in a hand. “All the more reason to live like I do! Like everyday is your last,” the edge of Raux’s lips pulled a little further to widen her smile as she continued, “of course I mean lying in your own filth while screaming to the nurse for more pudding!”

Her eyebrows rose in one part amusement and the other part horror. “Then she’s taken you already, it seems.” Smiling, the elf reached down below her before perking back up. She brandished a rather expensive looking bottle in her hand. “A peace offering,” she propositioned. “My name, as you might’ve heard, is Mira.”

Raux looked over the bottle with a hint of curisoity in her eyes, and pursed lips. “Ah! Something has taken me! For better or worse,” The minstrel chirpped as she slipped her coat back on. Once she finished tying the wraps back over her mane, she extended a hand with a charming smile. “Raux! Though I’m sure you already know! You seem to know of my arrangements too!”
“Aye, but we have little else in this world save our formalities.” She let out a small sigh that could’ve easily been mistaken as a muffled groan. “At least, that’s what mother always said.”

“Ah, my mother always told me to find a man and give her grandchildren to spoil. I’m sure she’d have a fit when I tell her I’m now in my thirties and across seas,” the cat laughed before accepting the pro-offered bottle. “So! Do you know where I’m supposed to meet the man of the hour?”

Mira shuffled slightly before popping the cork on the bottle, and grabbing the nearest mug. “That’d be Viceroy Bayim Cadby, he’s typically out drunk as a monk on his balcony for the festival. I had heard that Lord Caldwin von Gudeuir was attending the festival as well.”
The cat raised a brow to the sudden misdirection. But, she allowed it to slide by freely. Afterall, there’s a good chance that the bar lady doesn’t want to overstep and get into the deep end of things. “Lord Caldwin you say,” Raux chirped with a hint of interest. “Well, can’t blame the stuffy collars for wishing to get out and about. What’s he doing this time round?”

((Ignore this... internet was freaking out.))

Everything seemed strange and disgusting, from the streets to the very people that dared to walk them in her presence. At least many of the residents knew to stop and gaze in awe at the woman as she passed, she of the most noble of births. It was Lucilia Von Wolfram who captured the attention of the crowd, clad in her finely made iron armor, her family’s name being the primary factor for stopping to gaze upon her. Some associates that the family had dealt with in the past, probably by a cousin or one of her siblings to the opportunity to bow.

A lustful smile came to her face as she thought of all the ways she rally the crowd under her, many of them being peasantry meant a cheap source of a ragtag army, or simply those who would aid you should you need to be aided. However, Lucilia was not here to win the affections of the people at the moment, no, it was actual business that need to be tended to, at least that is what the request stated. Granted, had she not wanted to seek out a moniker of game she would not have come along for as a Von Wolfram, time wasted is a grave offense for all time must be used, whether it be for plans or carrying out those plans.

In here thought, Lucilia managed to find the inn, she gripped the door and thought what best way to make a grand interest so that she may hold the attention of the patrons. Mere presence alone would suffice, she was not there to impress anyone, only business and nothing more, nothing more than business. Thus when she opened the door, it was in all her humility and subtleness that she proclaim to the patrons, ”Bow for you are in the presence of a Von Wolfram!”

Real subtle.

While her voice did nothing more than silence the happy attitude the bar beheld, and force others to look upon the Wolf in awe. Some of the lower class did her request and bowed, though foreigners mostly didn’t unless they knew what the family was truly capable of, and at least the bartender some staff bowed as they should. Plus it started a chain reaction, of those who didn’t know her or the family to simply bow. Lucilia signaled for them to rise, before she walked to a corner booth and stared down the individuals inside of it her glare making them pick up their drinks and belongs and scatter away like the rats they were.

Seating herself, she gazed around the room, the happy attitude coming back back still weary of the unpredictable Wolfram that sat within, ready to lash out should she need. However, things were better when she ordered herself a bottle of the finest wine that the inn had instack at the moment and for the time being she would be sipping on that while making calculations in her head, simply waiting for someone or something to do anything of her attention. While thinking, she had remembered that she wanted to see Viceroy Bayim Cadby sometime while she was here, getting a Viceroy to be loyal to her would be a beard stunt to pull but she would likely be able to manage.

Aria arrived in the city on the back of a covered goods cart belonging to a dwarf family who where happy enough to give one of their own clanswomen a lift. She had of course trailed the group unseen for a while before coming up with a name and face they would accept as one of their own and a few on the spot lies got her a far more pleasant and inconspicuous ride than charming a beast of the wild would have given. It may have not been the fastest ride, but it meant she could pocket the coin that was supposed to pay for her transport to Ardent's Fall. It seemed odd to her that a debtor would be so willing to pay out of pocket for anything that might help the people they were leaching off in any way. It had seemed odd to Az-Set as well, as had the entire endeavor. For the Fay lord that meant it was interesting (and she had to admit she shared his curiosity), which was why “Gadria IronHeart” was going to Ardent's Fall to repay her debt instead of simply ceasing to exist.

While they traveled she spent the time copying her notes from her main journal into her backup one while occasionally trading small talk with the dwarf family and warding of a barrage of questions from one of the children with a short little magic display, using glamor to play out a well known fairy tale with visual accompaniment. At long last however the city came into sight, as to did the seemingly endless line. After bidding farewell to the dwarves she used glamor and halfling stealth to weave her way through the crowd in order to get to the front faster, emerging on the other side with her well kept clanswomen guise dropped, replaced with the shock of tangled ginger hair perched atop a rather eccentrically dressed young dwarf known to the talon company as Gadria. The only thing that remained the same was her backpack, tightly sealed to protect the valuables within, the simple wooden shield hanging of one side of it and a curved Otmon saber sheathed at her hip. Hidden beneath her guise Aria slowly made her way through the festivities that filled the streets. Slowly, because she kept getting sidetracked by, well, everything. As someone who had grown up in the sparsely populated wilds cities never failed to amaze her and the chaotic bustling of Ardent's Fall in full festive swing was an experience she just had to take in. After being sidetracked a dozen times and getting lost twice she finally made it to The Wrangled Drunkard.

When Aria entered the inn its patrons where in the process of recovering to their royal interruption, the general chatter picking up once more but not quite retaking the heights of revelry the bard had brought it to. Aria knew nothing of the events that had transpired previously, but she could pick up some cues to make a guess, namly the nervous glances the dignified woman sipping wine in the corner. While she wanted to know more there would be time for questions and eavesdropping later, for now she made her way to the bar so she could get a drink.

The Essential Ithean Atlas has been updated!

As Lucilia found her place in the bar a young errand boy approaches. His leathers are a deep brown, much like his hair and nervous eyes. His large pupils study the noble woman timidly, and the young man tugs on the teal and maroon shawl draped about his neck and upper chest. He looks to Lucilia before pausing frantically. The boy had clearly forgotten his formalities. Quickly seeking to remedy this he bowed in obedience.

“M’lady, Viceroy Bayim Cadby has r-requested audience with y-you,” he managed to stutter out. He studied the noble. Everything about her seemed fearsome and deliberate. Her armor alone was enough to make the boy quiver. Did she actually do battle? In some nervous attempt to re-focus himself his eyes traveled anywhere but on Lucilia, and certainly not to her own eyes.

There was an awkward pause for a moment; the boy stifled a pathetic smile and laugh to fill the void. He was never quite good at reading people. Especially not the ones who could order his execution or personally carry it out.

"So Ser Cadby has finally decided to send for me? Shame he didn’t decide to meet me at the gates in person, but what can you expect from such a busy, busy man," Lucilia hummed, not bothered by how the boy acted for it was only natural when it came to dealing with someone as powerful as a Wolfram. She let out a huff and rose from her seat, "Where might Ser Cadby be at the present time?"

The Wolf supposed she could make time for someone who had decided not to escort her through the city that he managed. Though it did annoy her, knowing that Cadby had done nothing other than send a meager boy who seemed ready to wet himself.

The messenger nearly choked on his own spit. A question? Cristo, she wasn’t supposed to ask a question. “Uhm, yes...he...at the Viceroy’s estate! He’s at the Viceroy’s Estate. If you’ll look outside you’ll see him from the balcony...m’lady.” The boy almost managed to faint from all of the excitement. He mustered another bow before extending an arm to escort the noble woman as was common custom.

The noble looked upon the boy, her eyes still holding their cold look but hiding something on the inside. She did not want to take his arm out of her own fear of being touched, a flaw that was hard to come to terms with. Lucilia let out a sigh as she composed herself, though she had looked composed the entire time regardless, a took the boy’s arm and accepting that she would have to be unnerved for a bit. A shiver ran up her spine as she felt the boy through her armor, she hated being touched, despised, no, feared it. While she could take a punch, that was only for a instantaneous period of time and not prolonged. His touch felt dirty, and every shutter or tick of the nervous boy’s body felt like a transgression. His weak grip was strong enough to feel as unnerving as leeches squirming and sucking on the skin. Before they started moving, the noble looked over to the bartender and called, "Send somebody to take my belongs to my quarters, the wine included!"

Then she went back to internally screaming.

“My apologies...m’lady. I-I've forgotten my formalities; as I usually do...” His accent was one common among the slums of Astoria. He was a human, but his small stature was that of an elf. The only part of him that stood out as human was the small pot belly that protruded from his clothing. “I am Edwin Myer, m’lady.” The two made their way through the crowds of belligerent people. Merchants clinging to their wares were soon trying to shove their items at the noble as she passed by. It wasn’t everyday that an Earl’s daughter made her way through throngs of commonfolk, and a Wolfram at that.

“Lord Cadby is so glad to have you in the city, Lady Wolfram. He’s been quite busy setting up preparations for own city’s inspection with Earl von Gudeuir’s son Caldwin.” The two made their way through the back of the estate. The two hastily made their way through the courtyard. As they did, Lucilia’s silver armor reflected the uniquely colored embers of the mage fire decorating the vibrant garden. Vines hung from the architecture; curtains, no doubt, spun by the Gods themselves. There was a distant sound of harp-playing and the laughter of nobleman young and old.

Walking through the palace Lucilia was met with the smell of incense. The scent of hickory and wine permeated the air as the two made their way up a series of stairs. The walls felt archaic, but the fire that lit their halls showed that the design was contemporary. The brick was almost orange in its coloring, and was smooth. The design was rather extravagant especially given Cadby’s reputation.

Finally arriving outside the door to the Viceroy’s office the two could heard the boisterous and jovial sounds of Cadby’s unending laughter. More subtle to your ears was the sound of a crackling fire place, and the sounds of the festival from outside the walls. Edwin opened the door carefully.

---

“M’lord, Lady Lucilia of house Wolfram. As you requested.” The boy bowed his head, and soon felt the weight of the large man approaching him.

Cadby was truly a giant in human form. His weight and height made him tower over most Astorians. The nasty rumors of the court alleging Orcish ancestry didn’t help. He wore various scars upon his face, and his face was twisted by deep wrinkles along the nose and forehead. These were accompanied by eyebrows thick as marron grass, and a pulled back mess of brown hair reaching to his neck a single braid crowning the back of his head.

"Very good boy, here’s your copper. I’ll send for you in an hour’s time."

His glazed light blue eyes studied the messenger before him. "You can see yourself out now," the Viceroy spoke abruptly to Edwin, Cadby’s cheerful demeanor quickly morphing into one of annoyance. Edwin quickly found himself ready to comply before being stopped by Cadby. The larger man motioned back towards his chalice before looking at the noble. Instinctively the messenger retreated to the glass before handing it over to Cadby; all the while never making eye contact. He, of course, closed the door behind him.

As if the interaction hadn't happened the Viceroy motioned towards Lucilia.

“Ah! It’s Lion’s girl!” Cadby’s warm welcome implied a familiarity that wasn’t really there. At least, not between he and Lucilia. Cadby’s accent was clearly Astorian, but not fitting of a noble. He sounded like a dock-worker or soldier more than the ruler of a city. His large body extended over Lucilia in a cheerful embrace. “Cristo’s tits, it’s been ages, girl!The last time I saw ye, you’d been only about yea high.” Cadby’s hand lazily extended down towards his right thigh.

“I trust you’ve met Lord Caldwin,” he said before moving slightly to his left side.

It was then Lucilia noticed the presence of another. Lord Caldwin von Gudeiur, the son of Earl Claudius von Gudeiur. The von Gudeiur house held claims to Ardent’s Fall, and as such held incredible political power in Astoria. Half the kingdom knew of Caldwin’s role as the errand boy for his father, but in some ways this made him all the more prominent as a relevant noble.

His dirty blonde hair was mostly shaved save for the tufts of shaggy hair that sat at the top of the head. His blue eyes studied Lucilia as he took a sip of his wine before rising himself.

No longer being touched was a great relief to Lucilia, she let out a deep breath, having to have had to concentrate very hard on not losing her sanity. She disliked the common custom, yet knowing that as a noble she had to follow else she be judged by even the common folk. Her eyes gazed up at the towering man and with an inhale of the incense, the look of a Wolfram came back to her. A form a sadistic smile ran across her immaculate face, then she spoke. "Good day, Lord Cadby. I had expected you at the gate, but unfortunately I did not meet that kindness. Though I understand that you are busy, which is why I am… unbothered towards the notion."

“Bah!” Cadby waved the noble off. While he was deeply entrenched in the political meandering that seemed to occupy most nobles he was quite disillusioned with it. “I’d only just heard of your arrival, girlie! It’s not everyday a Wolfram steps through these gates!” Cadby’s exuberance seemed genuine. He wasn’t as crafty or devious in playing the game of politics, but he was well equipped nonetheless. Typically though he used his size and bluntness to get the upper hand.

“I know our festival is quite the attraction, and our whores some of the finest in all of Astoria, but I doubt tits nor the drink have brought you to my wonderful city.” Cadby guided Lucilia to a seat beside Caldwin as he himself pivoted back towards the chair at his desk.

"You’d be correct to assume that. I am here because I was sent for by Talon Company, specifically a Mikael ibn Da'ud," Lucilia stated, deciding it would be best if she were honest with Cadby rather than skirt around the facts. She reclined in her chair, her hands folded in her lap. ”As much as we Wolframs pride ourselves on being the most knowledgeable family, I have rarely heard of this ‘Talon Company’ nor the person who sent for me. You wouldn’t mind on filling me in on some of the essential details, would you?”

“Mikael, that little shit! How I’d love to have him flogged and paraded about the plaza. Be you in trouble girlie you come to me. I’ll handle the bloody Talon Company the same way my fathers before me handled those damned elves. Swords to chests!” Cadby's hand crashed thunderously against the wood of his desk. Never a man of cowardice Cadby hated those who clung to the shadows.

“With due respect Viceroy that may be ill-advised.” Caldwin finally spoke up. His accent wasn’t nearly as thick as Cadby’s. In some of his words there was a distinct Vicellian pronunciation. “I do not mean to imply your safety isn’t of importance, m’lady. It’s just...you must understand that the Talon Company has contributed quite generously to this very office.” Caldwin looked to Cadby as if to subtly chide him.

“All of that is irrelevant, of course, the Talon Company is an upstanding organization. They’ve been instrumental in this city’s continued success. If they’ve contacted a member of the Wolfram family it’s because they wish to better the realm.” Caldwin didn’t seem to be as forthright as Cadby; instead every word was chosen carefully. His eyes continuously shifted between Cadby and Lucilia; he wasn’t afraid to hold the gaze for as long as necessary.

Cadby muttered to himself in protest.

"Anyone who contacts a Wolfram better have a good reason for holding our time, and while your words help, Caldwin, I’m afraid that does not answer my original inquiry." She studied the noble that sat next to her. He seemed to be indifferent, but she would have to expect that from someone who was supposedly equal in her status. With a sigh, Lucilia looked back over to Cadby before continuing. But I have gathered that Talon Company is run by elves, yes? And that the one who summoned me is also an elf. Though I must ask, what exactly does Talon Company do?"

Caldwin was nearly brave enough to sneer at the woman. Her arrogance was typical of nobles he had dealt with before, but she seemed to be as stubborn as Cadby on top of that.

“They’re as damn bloody close as any man can be to an elf. Most of their lot, including Mikael ibn whatever, hail from Vigo in the Union across the ocean. Humans, but I’ve seen their kind a thousand times over. They think that in my old age and love for good wine that I don’t know exactly what they’re up to. Skulking about like gossiping housewives. Bah!”

“As we’ve discussed Bayim, they’re a vital and necessary component of our economy.” Caldwin scolded the older man, but soon turned his gaze to Lady Wolfram. “They’re a collection of guilds, from performers to blacksmiths. Cadby’s paranoia is noted, but through their efforts we’ve allied with Caracas and Vigo. They’ve done quite well in representing the people of Ardent’s Fall. They aren’t creatures of the night like our good Viceroy suggests.”

Caldwin stood up from his chair before walking towards Lucilia. He extended an arm towards her. “Unfortunately, m’lady we must adjourn this meeting for the evening. Lord Cadby and I have much to discuss regarding the city’s finances. We needn’t bore you with such minutiae especially during such a lovely festival.”

"Very well, I suppose we will get to talk again some other time." As she rose to meet Caldwin she eyed the nobleman. They approached the door, but not before she pressed herself uncomfortably close to him. She started with a whipser. "Though, Caldwin, do remember which family holds the most power power in the kingdom. And before you say your own, beware the Wolf Pack, for they are always one step ahead," before the noble could get in another word the Wolfram was gone to return to her quarters at the inn.

Barris, after having shown his letter to Mira in a free moment, proving that he was hired by the Talon Company, ordered a pint of Astorian lagerand a plate of food to start off the evening. A simple meal of beef, assorted vegetables, and a loaf of soft bread. Once he had satisfied himself with dinner, he turned towards surveying the bar and the rest of the patrons as he steadily got more drinks throughout the evening.

Raux, on the other hand, had spent a good bit of her evening chatting with those at the bar, and doing some light drinking. And no matter how spread out her drinks were, she couldn’t help but notice her own mind feeling a bit slugish. Fortunately, her movements were only partially impaired… and years of practice had prevented a slur from biting her words. Still, one of the more wiser decisions to be made of the night, was her quickly declining the next drink from being poured. She’d rather not take this slight tipsy, into a buzz and beyond. Now left with a moment of fuzzy thought, she gave the bartop a quick pat before slinking out of her chair to go harass a nearby dwarf with her antics. Afterall, the letter she caught an eyeful of showed they were likely to be working together.

“This seat taken here, my bearded compatriot,” The tall cat asked with a grin. Without waiting for an answer she slipped into a seat across from the other. “Course not, little guy like you spent the better part of some hours alone despite the rugged good looks yah sporting.”

Barris looked over at the Brith Bard, the one he’d overheard the antics off earlier in the night. She certainly seemed to be one of the more fun people seeking to be the center of attention this evening, compared to the arrogant human noble who’d walked in earlier. He smiled as he turned on his stool.

“One would not think you’d turn to one such as me for company. You looked like you could steal anyone’s attention in the room. Got bored with that game for clothes earlier and think you’re set for more private albeit no less tame pass-times?”

Slowly, Raux’s brow raised while her grin widened to a frightening size. Though her head slumped a bit to the side on her shoulders, likely suffering the mild buzzing effects of alcohol. “Aye, I could steal anyone’s attention if I wanted. But there’s no sense in tryin' to charm a laddie if they don’t have the balls to ask themselves. You however, gotta say. Like the way you think. Subtle and blunt at the same time. Decided to run the axe through a door and whisper through the hole, hm?”

Barris drew his short pipe from his jacket and checking to see if he had any spare tobacco left, lit using a nearby candle and took a small puff from it before proceeding. “Let’s just say I’m a bit more ballsy than probably most of the schmucks in here. Then again, such an attitude has gotten me into trouble as often as it has gotten me into a more than a few lady’s knickers. Such is the gamble for one of my lifestyle.”

“Known trouble all through your days, mmm,” Raux chirpped as her eyes shifted down to look at the dwarve’s hands. Despite how tipsy she seemed, she clearly was picking through the details… though not at record speeds. No callus, scar, or bent out of shape finger seemed to slip past her gaze by the time she looked back up. “Yeah look the sort. Also look the sort to get into another lady’s nickers. If I was actually sure about what in the blazin hells I’m even sayin, I’d go through with this offer.” She slumped to one side and rested an elbow on the table. “Find a decent enough lass, and we go halfies as long as we share.”

Barris laughed, catching a slight cough as he was mid-puff of smoke on his pipe. He places the pipe down and takes another drink to clear his throat. “I wager that shouldn’t be too hard. We are in Ardent’s Fall, by the port, at the Festival of Broken Conquerors. No shortage of fun to be had here for those with the coin, or who’re inventive enough. Fortunately, I have both.” At this, a new thought entered Barris’ head, he should check his room to make sure all of his stuff had been moved, and that nobody with light fingers had tried to tamper with his chest. He doubted any thief in this city would talented enough to be able to pick the lock so quickly and steal all his money, but it’d be just his luck right now. He made a addled mental note to check on that before he settled on whatever he and perhaps his new friend here, intended on doing for the evening.

The cat let out a long whine, “Currently, the best selection probably taken, by folks of faster wit and raised swords during the wee daylight hours. Hell, our dear Orc, who blessed us with a wonderful belt warming display of nudity, is currently introducing a lass to his third arm. She…” the cat paused and covered her mouth as she made a small burp. It looked like that one hurt. She moved her forehead into her plam… as the soft sounds of whatever was going on upstairs drifted down into her feline ears. “She… sounds as if she’s not handling it well. Both a poor and lucky gall. For creativity? Can’t think much right now. Well… I suppose I can think of my tongue… but you have a tongue like mine, and you’ll learn quickly you can’t sit still long enough to be sure it stays in good use. Give me a few hours… I’ll show you how to light fire underwater though.”

Barris snickers, and drains the rest of his pint. “I’m sure I can buy out or intimidate a guy twice more size. Not every day gets one of these pointed in their faces.” Barris then reaches into his coat and draws one of his pistols, to Mira’s brief horror as she suspected the inebriated Dwarf to scare off her whole crowd by shooting randomly, he waved his hand at her briefly in reassurance before stowing it away. He shook his head. “Gods, sometimes I forget everywhere’s not like home.”

The Brithian laugh and slumped onto the table. She reached down to her hip and undid the claps holding her hurdy gurdy to her hips and slung the strap off of her shoulders. Afterwards she thunked it down on the table, looked the Dwarf in the eyes with a smirk. “Mine’s bigger. Ten pounds of sculpted hickory, fourteen wires, tuned between high-low Gs, and a crank barely held in place by the threads. The hurdy gurdy. Smash someone over the head with this, and the only thing they’ll be mumbling is ‘hur-dur’.”

Playfully, Barris slams his fist onto the counter. “Come upstairs, I’ll show you my blunderbuss, bastard can clear a whole room in a single shot, far quicker than even that fine instrument of yours.” He leaned back, smirking beneath his beard at his pun, the more reasonable tracts of brain wondering what the hell he was doing, but the more dominant parts telling them to shut up and enjoy it.

Now… Raux couldn’t contain her laughter. Oh she was hawing up a storm, she was! She’d likely have relocated across seas and into the next major landmass if she wasn’t holding onto the table. But when her merriment finally died down, she gave nod through teary eyes and a grin, “Alright. Yeah. Name’s Raux by the way…” she slowly stood up, shakily at first. Then fetched the letter from coat pocket and tossed it across the table, “A distant Jarl’s wit, and a wayward minstrel. We’ll be working together.”

Barris glanced briefly at the letter, and waved an identical matching one to hers from his pocket.”Figures that one of the more interesting people in the room was evidently one of the people I’d be working with. Makes me wonder how many of the others have walked in. Smart money’s on that Lady demanding the attention of the entire room being one of them . . . though she could also be one of my cousins for all I know, she’d certainly fit with them. Name’s Barris Isengrim by the way, Gunslinger formally of Viguard, now of the Charred Republic.”

“Mmmph… Lucilia Von Wolfram, Heiress to the legacy of Earl Von Wolfram… and also bond-maiden to it’s property, lands, and exploits,” Raux drawled as she lifted her gurdy off the table. Once she had her letter slipped back into the pocket’s she made a nod to the stairs, though had to move a foot to counter balance herself. “The family of power in these lands. Drunk, and lustful in the limelight forged from a foundation of brutality… be it pen or blood. They cling to the animal of wolves. Yet shows none of the majesty such beast afford, but the predators they are. Poweful yes. But they’ve not learned one thing. A lesson in humility.. Or a lesson in frailty.” She sniffed and looked down to the dwarf with pursed lips. “Also the family tree is a cactus. Everyone on it is a prick.”

Things had seemed to calm to a more manageable pace back at The Wrangled Drunkard. Many of the rowdier patrons had found their way upstairs or out in the back of the inn to relieve themselves. An elder woman sitting at the bar recounts stories of her youth to a rather tired looking Mira. Meanwhile Dig and his band of mercenaries play quartermage at a table near the now lit fireplace.

The moonlit sky pierces the windows of the tavern as night time summer winds sail through every crack and crevice. There is something mystifying yet fear inducing about Astorian air. The smells of the festival and sea salt travel throughout the bar, and the cold had snuffed out most of the overwhelming warmth of drunken guests.

---

The clock tower that loomed over the port city of Ardent’s Fall struck midnight, a hint for the revelers in their drunken stupor to return to their families, but only a few took the hint, evidently preferring their newfound companions in taverns and on the streets much more favorable than what awaited in their own homes. Between the raucous throngs of foreign party-goers and frustrated guards attempting to quell their noise slipped a solitary cloaked figure bearing a singularly peculiar mask upon his face. Among the ruckus of the crowd, all in equally strange and festive clothing, Falk was able to slide through to his destination unmolested. He wished every day in Ardent’s Fall was as chaotic as this one, filled to the brim with curious characters and foreigners so that he would fit right in, almost feeling at ease. For the time being, Falk would simply have to enjoy the freedom the Festival of Broken Conquerors allowed him, though it would likely be cut short by the damned Talon Company. Indeed, much of the festival’s charms were lost upon him. The bright, vibrant colors of the city and patrons all came to Falk in muted greys and blacks, while smells both delightful and abhorrent fell upon dead senses. Truly what Falk reveled in the most was the persistent jaunty tunes of minstrels and bards as he walked to The Wrangled Drunkard. The monster hunter’s solitude on the road, while welcome at times, left him desperate for a tune of any form. Even the cacophony of songs and shots that assailed his ear canals was a nice change from the silence of nature and the occasional croak of his raven companion.

The cloaked hunter stepped into the inn and felt all eyes lock onto him. A wave of nervous energy flushed over him. Surely they saw through his crude façade and would take him out and rip him limb from limb. He certainly looked strange, a man wearing so many layers of clothes in the heat of summer, not an inch of flesh exposed to the warm air. Why, he didn’t even have a horse or bag, simply carrying everything within his coat. A gloved hand wrapped bony fingers round the hilt of his sword. It took Falk more than a moment to realize that, in fact, no one was looking at him; another bout of paranoia, cursed things, which were becoming even more frequent. This wasn’t some backwater tavern with three patrons, the place was packed to the gills with drunks and whores, neither of which he particularly enjoyed, but he could blend in with ease. Falk slowly strode towards the barkeep, a frazzled elvish woman, a little homely, but still attractive. In the past, the hunter would have flirted incessantly with the elf, bedding her with ease, but now he could barely mutter the words “Checking in, Falk..” The woman nodded, and he settled into a corner seat alone, observing the crowd, finally feeling some level of comfort.
....

From across the bar Barris nodded at Raux’s words, thinking to himself briefly. The two seemed much too caught up in their drunken conversation to notice the the new guest. “Definitely sounds like my family. Except they pretend they have such power, the Wolframs probably have a little bit more substance behind their pride than my own relatives I’d wager. Doesn’t make them any more endearing, I’ll grant.” He sighs. “Well, she certainly looks mighty capable, hopefully she backs it up.”

The slightly intoxicated feline thought this over, and gave a brief nod when a few stories cropped up. “Aye… I’d say she can prove herself with ease. Word of the people is she’s quite the fierce fighter. Hardened to the concept of death quite early, sadly that also means we’re gonna be dealing with a wacko.”

Barris shrugs and slips off of his stool, a bit wobbly on to his feet. “Wackos come in spades where I’m from, just gotta know how to deal with one, or give them a fair distance depending on which one they are.”

The cat clicked her tongue and started to step for the stairs, each step she took was made slow and steady to make sure she doesn’t just topple over. “Yeah? Well frankly you got two to deal with. I’ll let you figure the other out…” The cat mumbled with a sigh.

The illusions of comfort and drunken camaraderie were soon shattered by a chorus of horrible cries from outside

Raux too had heard the commotion from outside the tavern. She paused as her ear flicked, and for that moment… she was deciding to ignore it… or go check it out.

Barris thought on Raux’s words but then turned towards front door as he also heard something going on outside the inn. Taking a few steps, carefully to mind his disoriented state, he looked out of a window pane at the street outside. “Looks like something’s got folks’ attention out there, not that means much during the Festival, but something’s drawing a crowd . . . Not hearing many cheers either.”

“Always the excitement in a large port town… not always the sort I’d prefer…” The cat mumbled as she stumbled up to a window. She did not lean against it, as much as she did throw herself against it and stick. Her drowsy eyes rolled down the streets, and quickly took note of a gathered mob. “Ah… hell… looks like the shite up, jumped, and slapped the fat lady in the face…”

The Dwarven gunslinger waved his hand dismissively. “I’m not the city watch, let them handle mobs, even though I can’t vouch for how many of them haven’t been drinking.” He steps away from the window and starts walking back over to the stairs up. “I’m off to check my room and sleep some of this off. My hand’s no use to anyone if I can’t aim straight. I’d advise you the same, my feline friend.”

“Aye, aye…” Raux mumbled. Though she did not move, she just… laid against the window, letting her eyes watch the streets for her. “Ave a good night my short bearded friend.” Her gaze remained transfixed on the mob. And soon she found the sea of bodies growing angry. Rapid ungulating waves and accusing glares as they spoke among themselves. “Oh great… it’s about to be… about to be a damned lynching.”

Raux would watch as most of the patrons rushed from the inn and to the streets, where they were met with a gristly scene. The cougar grumbled before slinking her way out of the tavern, then ambled to the crowd.

---

Mobs of townsfolk are huddled around the Viceroy’s Palace. The swell of the crowd, which had originally died down, seemed back to its numbers during the height of the festival earlier in the day. It's difficult to make out the scene in front of you with so many people in the way, but you do your best to push past some of the townsfolk. There are a few particularly enticing merchant stands around for those who might be not be able to see over the large humans, elves, and other creatures.

“Everyone, step back, now!” You hear the sound of a gruff voice yelling out to the crowd. “I said move back, now or I’ll have the lot of you in the mines by the morrow!” Making your way out into the crowd you see a city guard adorned in a rather majestic maroon cape. His helm is, unlike the other guards, made of brass and styled like a bass. It framed a face twisted in grief and disgust.

“By the ten! He’s dead,” you hear shouted out by a woman in the crowd of people.

“A murderer...in the city. Gods protect us,” you hear another civilian whisper.

The murmurs of the crowd begin to permeate the area, and so to does a light rain. You feel the rain wash over townsfolk and cobblestone alike. As you look at the crevices in between the bricks you notice the trail of blood riding along the rain water.

You notice a number of guards making their way towards the estate in formation with weapons and shields drawn. You can still hear whispers of panic throughout the crowd, and among many of the low-ranking guards. You wonder to yourself what this commotion is coming from, but your thoughts are quickly tuned out by the sounds of familiar church bells. Their melancholic song rings throughout the city, and over head a flock of crows seek refuge from the intense sounds.

Upon looking again towards the Viceroy’s Estate you see it. It’s marvelous antiquity serves as an oxymoron or some kind of cruel joke. It is an affront to the onlookers for what seems obvious now. Investigating the building you notice the window to the Viceroy’s balcony opened wide with the drapes dancing like wild fire in the wind, and hanging from the balcony is Viceroy Cadby himself.

His shirt is torn, nearly off, exposing his gut as abrasions and cuts dot his exposed skin. His eyes are rolled back into his head, lifeless, and his face stained with a blue tint.

(Double Post)

---

The murmurs of the crowd begin to permeate the area, and so to does a light rain. You feel the rain wash over townsfolk and cobblestone alike. As you look at the crevices in between the bricks you notice the trail of blood riding along the rain water.

You notice a number of guards making their way towards the estate in formation with weapons and shields drawn. You can still hear whispers of panic throughout the crowd, and among many of the low-ranking guards. You wonder to yourself what this commotion is coming from, but your thoughts are quickly tuned out by the sounds of familiar church bells. Their melancholic song rings throughout the city, and overhead a flock of crows seek refuge from the intense sounds.

Upon looking again towards the Viceroy’s Estate you see it. It’s marvelous antiquity serves as an oxymoron or some kind of cruel joke. It is an affront to the onlookers for what seems obvious now. Investigating the building you notice the window to the Viceroy’s balcony opened wide with the drapes dancing like wild fire in the wind, and hanging from the balcony is Viceroy Cadby himself.

His shirt is torn, nearly off, exposing his gut as abrasions and cuts dot his exposed skin. His eyes are rolled back into his head, lifeless, and his face stained with a blue tint.

---

Lucilia pushes her way through the crowd of people, her armor still clung to her body as she finally broke through the crowd and looked up at the dead viceroy. She looked around, the guards were in a panic and as were the people. This was a delicate situation, a most delicate situation indeed. The Wolfram turned towards the crowd and raised her hands to try and get the people to become silent before raising her voice, ”Please remain calm! I know this situation is dire, but we must remain calm and collected if we want to know what happened. Now please, we will launch an immediate investigation into the situation.”

Baffled at your presence, the distinguished guard turns to Lucilia. “Ah, Lady Wolfram!” In a hushed tone the guard continues, “I had heard of your arrival. I am truly sorry that it has come at a time such as this.” The soldier quickly realigns his posture, now standing straight with a fist over his chest.

Her head turned towards the decorated guard with the cape, and ordered ”I have been in company not twenty minutes ago with the Viceroy and Lord Caldwin, can you find me the Gudeiur?”

“M’lady, I assure you that we are investigating the matter. I implore you to seek refuge in the barracks tonight. I will assign an active patrol to your care. I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to stand down in this matter. We are searching for Caldwin. Here,” the guard turns whistling to some of the guards patrolling the area. “I’ll have my guards escort you to safety.”

”I am not some defenseless dame! And furthermore it is likely that the killer is still around. I want all entrances and exits to this city covered! No one in or out until we find this noble killer.” Lucilia snapped, unafraid of the situation nor the guards and his men. This city may not be claimed by the Wolf Pack but she would have to find the swine who did this or the peasantry would panic. A panicked sheep is one not easily controlled.

The guard captain looks on at Lucilia completely unsure of the protocol for this situation. Puzzled, he nods his head before standing back behind Lucilia. He motions towards the guards that awaited his orders. The group of them head inside of the Viceroy’s Estate through the public entrance.

The crowd, however, still seemed panicked. The presence of a Wolfram surely wasn’t helping matters. Had she just said that she was with the Viceroy just minutes ago? Whispers stirred about the crowd as the eyes of the common folk pierced right through Lucilia.

---

Falk could almost feel the nervous energy among the crowd, like electricity jumping from one person to the next. He didn’t know the man whose body was on gruesome display, but judging from the crowd’s reactions, he was a man of great importance. Not anymore Falk mused. The man’s blood was dripping into the streets, suggesting that he’d been killed only just recently. The killer couldn’t have gotten far. Falk gripped his sword tighter. He spotted an authoritative figure in glistening wet armor push their way through the crowd and address the sordid lot. A woman, judging from his figure. She addressed the crowd, and Falk couldn’t help but feel a mixture of admiration and jealousy; the woman possessed the confidence he once had, to stand before a crowd and rally an investigation, despite not having any real jurisdiction in the matter. The woman didn’t even wear the ridiculous captain of the guard hat. The rain began pulsing down on his heavy cloak as Falk moved closer towards the scene of the crime, vigilant eyes scanning the crowd for any sign of the killer. He caught the exchange between the woman and the captain, shocked she wasn’t put in chains on the spot; but then he recalled the value of a royal name. The woman was practically untouchable, even if she held the bloody dagger in her gauntleted hand. Nevertheless, they were on the hunt for one Gudeiur, and Falk’s purse was feeling empty. “Blood’s starting to congeal. If you don’t hurry, porky’s killer there will be back home before the rest of these yokels. You’re gonna need a hunter,” Falk said coolly from beneath his mask to the armored woman. “Or a spare blade, from the looks of this crowd.” As if sensing the timing was all wrong, the now-soaked raven perched on his shoulder croaked “Heh-low.” Falk turned his head and quickly shushed the bird before turning back to the regal woman.

The noble woman gazed upon the man who had come up, not knowing whether to be offended that he referred to a noble, whose corpse he stood in front of, as ‘porky’ or to be amused that a crow could talk. She raised an eyebrow before looking to the guard and back to the man. Lucilia walked towards the man, ”Firstly, you will refer to Viceroy Cadby as that, as a peasant should. Secondly, it would seem that we may need help in the investigation, while I shall hire you, momentarily as a bodyguard-“

“But my lady,” The guard captain tries to interject. Stepping forward he looks on before him at this apparent mercenary with disdain. “My men are more than capable of-”

”Let me finish, fool!,” Lucilia snapper towards the interrupting guard captain, before continuing, ”I wish to employ your served because I feel that the guards men will need their manpower for searching the city for the one who could have done this.”

Peasant? Falk’s blood boiled. He fists clenched his fists so hard his thumb popped out of place, which brought him back to the moment. Who was he, really? A disgraced noble, no royal name, no holdings, nothing, dressed in rags fit for a beggar. So, peasant was not far off from the truth. Falk let this slight pass. The guard attempted to interject, but the woman cut him off with even more scathing remarks. It seems he’d landed a job after all, though he certainly didn’t enjoy the title bodyguard. Falk didn’t have time to celebrate his little victory, as the crowd began edging closer despite the shield-bearing guards digging their heels into the ground. “Well, my lady, we might need the whole city guard here to make sure you’re not strung up with Viceroy Cadby.” Shouts of murderer filled the air as the drunken citizens flew into a violent fervor, throwing sticks, rocks, and whatever else they could get their hands on, though the trio were shielded from the debris by guards. Falk finally drew his bastard sword, though he kept the steel pointed at the cobblestone.

---

---

Aria had decided to get some rest after the excitement of the festival only to find Az-Set laying nonchilantly on her Cot after she had locked the door behind herself. Or was it the seductive kind of lying down. She couldn’t ever tell, casualy dangerously sexy was basicly his default apperance. His only appearance now that she thought about it.

”What are you doing here, now?”

”Town and a night like this is bound to have something interesting happen. I, my dear servant, am simply making sure you don’t sleep through it.”

”What makes you so sure that...”

And then the screaming started. ”Ah, there it is. Now, on you go and investigate. And before you try to worm your way out of it, I’ll remind you that you swore to 'find out what this talon company business in Artend falls, that you find so interesting for some reason, is all about'. This could be related to that could it not.”

”It could also not be relevant at all. Do you want me investigating every vaguely unusual sound I hear now? Because I can, and it would be really boring for both of us.”

”Not at all. Only the ones I find it interesting. It’s in the deal, I remember even if you do not.”

”Oh fuck me. 4 years and I’m still...”

"What was that first bit, hmmm?”

"Nope. No. Not dignifying that with a response. I am going.”

"Heh."

---

---

Raux ambled her way slowly down the street with a sweeping swagger to her step. She walked a straight line like a fly could fly straight. That was all over the place. But that did not matter, most of the streets were full of drunks. And at some point… the cat had found a fresh bottle in her hand. How strange. Regardless, she bit down on the cork and twisted it off.

The cork was dropped to the ground to make way for the fluid to brush against her tongue. The sweet taste of honey was quickly overpowered by the foul taste of alcohol. She retched, quickly spitting up what had made its way into her jaws.

“How do people drink this horse piss…” she mumbled to herself, her blurry eyes fell on the people shuffling on the streets. Like her… they had the pleasures of experiencing alcohol. Unlike her… they were roaring drunk and wandering aimlessly. This was quite pitiful to the Brith, who felt they could use a cause to help take up their time.

So… she inhaled. And with a surprising lack of slurring in her voice, she chanted out with a musical fever a few words that’d quickly gather the attention of both brithians and sailors. For that moment, her soprano voice echoed in the air over, and silenced all the bothersome noises while her hypnotic bardic performance began. Oh how sweetly and gently would her song pull at their attention, and draw them in with a desire to follow and sing along in merriment.

“OOo-ooo-oh we’d be all-llll-lll right, if the wind was in our sails,” Her voice rang out. She playfully rolled a few words, turning her voice into a beautiful yet rustic instrument of its own. One born of a long lived sailor. Somewhere down the line she had emptied her current bottle, and picked up two more bare ones. They were worn on her fingers and cracked rhythmically into a tempo.

“OOoooooh we’d be alllllllll right, if the wind was in our sails!~” As she repeated herself, a few men walked up beside her. One, a human with leathery skin burned repeatedly under the fury of the sun over the seas. He was beating on his chest and drunkenly humming a tune. The other, who Raux now leaned on, was a fellow brithian belting along with the chant.

“OOoooooh we’d be alllllllll right, if the wind was in our sails!” Come the third, quite a group had lifted themselves from the sides of the streets or pulled themselves away from the back alley and their… various reliefs… to join in the song.

“AND WE’LL ALL HANG ON BEHIND!” It was a motley group… but it did exponentially swell in size as sailors from various races and backgrounds took to the streets to join in on the merriment wherever this brithian lead. Together their song was resounding through the air, assisted with various methods of creating musical sounds. Chest beating, tapping on glass, or carrying empty barrels to drum on with their knuckles.

And we'll ro-o-oll the old chariot along!
We'll ro-o-oll the golden chariot along!
We'll ro-o-oll the old chariot along!
And we'll all hang on behind!

Following along behind the swelling crowd of drunken singers with a look of bemusement on her face. Az-Set, she imagined, was loving every second of this ridiculous display. When the cat’s herd wobbled into the confrontation in front of the Viceroy’s Palace she clambered her way atop one of the market stalls to get a better look at what all the commotion was about.

There was a weight in the brith’s lyrics that was difficult to ascertain. It was one part liberating and another part constricting if such a feeling was even possible. While the sailors and the drunkards felt bound to Raux’s enchanting rhythmic magics the growing animosity within the crowd was still palpable. As the brith guided the sailors towards the mob it seemed that some of the tension was alleviated. Ceasing the storm of rocks that had pelted the guards’ shields many in the crowd had turned their attention to Raux and her singing. Everything was quite contradictory; what an odd night indeed.

Among the confusement a man ushered his way through the crowd gracefully. His hand glided across backs and waists as if each member of the crowd had been familiar. His was a complexion the color of sand. He wore loose fitting garments: a white long sleeved shirt with modest ruffles lining the collar and buttons, a slim black coat hugging his thin frame, and a red sash that covered a good portion of his lower body looping around a brown belt.

The man made his way toward Lucilia and the guard captain. As he did so it became apparent that he was missing his left forearm completely. The sleeve of his black coat was tucked inward neatly at the bicep. He eyed Raux and felt himself smirking at her antics.

And seeing the effects of her efforts, with the crowd drawing to a calm, if not confusion. Raux, slowly began to lag behind her group before the attention fully settled on her and made her more memorable than she would like. The singing cat’s body disappeared within the shuffling sea of singing drunks. She stopped singing, but that did not stay the merriment her little herd had.

He stood behind Lucilia nodding to her in greeting before stepping out ahead of her.

“Good people, of Ardent’s Fall, I hear your cries for justice” he began. His voice managed to echo throughout the plaza. “I assure you that the Talon Company will be working diligently to get to the meaning of this and bring those responsible to justice for their heinous crimes.” He looked out at the crowd his hand extended.

“While I understand your pain and your frustration it is imperative to the pursuit of justice for our fair city, that you all return to your homes as the guards have instructed. We do not yet know of where the perpetrators of this crime lurk or if they still roam among these streets. Protect your families, and stay inside until further notice is provided to you.”

---

The lull of Raux’s performance managed to pacify the bewildered crowd well enough that they were in no condition to protest the man’s words. After all, Mikael ibn Da’ud was a protector of their great city. His Talon Company was a great boon to the city, and if they were investigating the matter then surely it’d be resolved promptly.

And speaking of Raux… she was temporarily nowhere to be found. Temporarily being that she was not seen inside crowd. Instead she seemed to be stumbling in from a direction that did not make much sense from her last location. A good choice for someone not trying to be publicly known as much more than a common minstrel. “Lassy… mind…” she paused as she moved to cover her muzzle with a hand. Quite an audible belch could be heard leaving her jaws. “...mind tellin’ me how in the blazin hell you threw a lynching party for yourself.”

Lucilia let out a very clear look of disgust at the bard, taking a step away and looking back towards Mikael.

Raux raised a brow to the glare she received from the noble, and clicked her tongue. Though her head was starting to clear up as the alcohol started to work its way out of her body… it still was quite a chore to stand on her own. So she pulled the longsword and sheath from her belt, and tacked it into the ground like a cane to prop herself with. “Riiiiight… well my obnoxiously assertive lordling... locking down a town by -your- orders after seeing that mob of pissed faces? Looks like a downright good idea if you plan on having your head kicked about like a ball.”

Her eyes snapped to the cat, narrowed and judging of the words that the bard had presented. ”I am Lucilia Von Wolfram, peasants such as yourself and the crowd should not question what is best for the situation. And-“ she took a step towards the bard and raised the back of her hand to slap her, but she hesitated, not wanting to touch the dirty creature before her, ”-and I would recommend you watch your tone in front of me unless you want to be the one whose head is rolling.”

“I know who you are, and frankly your title ain’t worth a pitcher of piss to me. I’m not of these lands sweet heart, and you’ve got me to thank for calming the crowd enough to keep them from decking the streets with lordling giblets like a blood fueled holiday, ye highness,” The Bard drawled, freely letting her own annoyance poison her words.

---

The crowds began to disperse slowly as various weapon-clad guild members, all doning uniforms with a color pattern similar to Mikael’s, consoled stragglers. Among these guild members was the elf you’d met before, Talis Cleverfoot. Her red hair was tied back in a ponytail, and her small crossbow hung from her belt. Her larger ears distinguished her as a wood elf. She, and many others in the group looked less than thrilled to be walking the streets so early in the morning.

Mikael turns to Lucilia with an expression of bemusement staining his face. “I suppose staying out of trouble wasn’t an option…” He sneered, but his tone was at least somewhat jovial. Looking out at the whittling crowds, the man continued. His gaze remained fix forward now, but his attention was turned to the guard captain. “Asher, your men will follow Lady Wolfram’s instruction to the letter. Understood?”

“Yes, m’lord,” Asher nodded in compliance before straightening his stance.

“Good, and by the ten, get that damned body down.” Asher again nodded to Mikael’s commands before rushing off to rendevouz with his men.

“Any commands in particular, m’lady?” Mikael’s eyes playfully wandered to Lucilia as he feigned respect for the formalities of nobility. “Other than establishing a retainer for drunken sailors all out of wars to fight,” he noted as he studied the raucous swelling crowds of seafarers.

”I have already made my instruction clear, the city is to be under complete lockdown until we find this noble killer. Now, tell me, Mikael, why might the Viceroy have disliked you and your company? He spoke very ill of you before I departed back to the inn,” she inquired before continuing, ”Do not assume I am pointing fingers at you or your company, but it is something I must confirm.”

“I rarely make false assumptions, m’lady,” his voice was sharp, but there was a coyness to it. “I’m well aware of who you’d see hang for this. Under normal circumstances locking down the city might work. Unfortunately, it won’t do any good here. With the festival having come to and end our guards couldn’t possibly house the absurd number of travelers that now occupy our docks.” Sighing to himself, Mikael’s hand traced the outline of his jaw; unlike many men in Astoria, he was clean shaven.

“As for the Viceroy’s distaste for me and my guild?” Mikael looked to be recalling a particular memory. “That requires time we don’t have. Sadly, for the people of Ardent’s Fall, Viceroy Cadby wasn’t the most... apt politician. He prefers, or rather preferred, the art of swordplay over wordplay. He sought to let his prejudice and his pride take hold of this city, and cripple it. Luckily, for Cadby’s legacy more than anything else, my company and I did his talking for him. It often left his pride bruised, and his perceived wisdom threatened.”

The noble let out an aggravated sigh before turning to Mikael, ”Keep those at the docks entertained, I will be investigating this matter personally. Newly hired guard, come with me and we shall investigate his office personally.” With that she motioned for Falk and the guard captain to follow her into the palace.

“That’s not how our arrangement will work, I’m afraid. Falk, here, for example is already working for the Talon Company- same as you.” Mikael nodded to the armor clad warrior before turning his attention back to Lucilia. “I’d had other work for you all to carry out, but this must come first. Admittedly, starting with the office might prove fruitful. I’ll have the body sent to the mage academy, and it’s possible going there could provide some insight.”

If Falk still had eyebrows, one would be raised. “So, I guess that makes us partners, my lady,” he said at her side, obviously humored by the notion. Still, something in his posture suggested his words weren’t entirely true; he lent her more respect than the hunter would to most. Despite his scathing words towards the viceroy, he still respected regal titles. “Will I be paid for services rendered? I’m sure the mob would have ripped you to shreds had it not been for me.” Falk’s concealed face made it difficult to determine whether or not this query was in jest.

”Frankly, you just stood there and drew your sword and the guards held the crowd back. Thus the answer is an astounding no.”

Before Mikael can continue, Talis walks towards the group. Her hazel eyes study Lucilia, Raux and Falk. She wasn’t quite sure what she should make of these new allies. “Gudeuir’s personal guard Evangeline is staying at the Temple of Cristo, in the merchant district. The guards say that Gudeuir is nowhere to be found.”

“I see... any other word, then?” Mikael, looked to have a decade on the elf. His deep brown eyes met hers with a trusting gaze.

“Cadby’s children have been notified of what’s happened. They’re at the guard barracks,” she responded.

“Good work Talis. This...certainly postpones what I’d intended for our new friends.” Mikael walked forward motioning for Talis to follow. He turned back to Lucilia. “I’ll leave following up on a few of the leads to to you all Lady Wolfram. We can’t do all of the work for you, after all. Meanwhile, the myself and some of our other guild members will work on finding Gudeuir and maintaining order at the docks.”

“I expect consistent progress reports. I’d recommend, at least, getting some rest before you begin the investigation.” Mikael and Talis headed off to the west, no doubt back to the guild or the docks. “Oh, and do try not to kill each other. This city’s had enough murder for one day.” Mikael’s hand extended lazily over his head to wave off the group.

”Oh, how convenient. So, in addition to our original debt, we get the pleasure of investigating Viceroy Cadby’s death, and free of charge I’d assume. I can see why the man wasn’t fond of your little company,” Falk grumbled as the two walked away. His voice had a peculiar quality about it; though the Vicelles accent and regal air were mostly restrained, what struck one as odd was the lack of natural pauses in a sentence. Falk didn’t drone, perse, but something was certainly lacking in his cadence. “Mikael’s right, though. We’ll need our strength for tomorrow, the gods only know what they have planned for us.”

Lucilia stopped, everyone would seem to be insistent that they went to bed and get rest when there was much work to be done. It would be a lie if she had stated that she was not feeling the effects of exhaustion, especially after having traveled to the city for most of the day. With an audible inhale, she turned back to Raux and Falk then proceeded to walk past them, ”I expect everyone to be up at first light. I will not wait to begin this investigation.”

The ragtag group of adventurers made the short walk down the battered cobblestone road back to the tavern. As lamplighters went about extinguishing street lamps, the coastal city was illuminated only by the sliver of dull moon peaking from behind the rainclouds. They passed a small city watch patrol on their return journey bearing torches and steel, but aside from that, their trek through the dark city was quiet and uneventful. Each of the members wordlessly went their own way after passing through the tavern’s foyer; though they knew not what tomorrow held for them, they were certain the day would not be easy.

A collab between Shiver and Tangle
Ambiance

---

As the rest of his new companions walked, and in one instance crawled, up the stairs, Falk instead chose to settle in at a small booth by an open window. He didn’t need much sleep as of late, so he decided to take in the sounds of the sleeping city. After the commotion caused by the Viceroy’s death, and perhaps more significantly the lynching mob von Wolfram had gathered, a blanket of silence had prematurely fallen upon Ardent’s Fall, as if a fresh snow muted the ambient noise. It was likely the city guard forced everyone into their homes following the murder, and locked up those who wouldn’t end their celebrations on such short notice. Though Falk welcomed the solitude, he couldn’t help but miss the bawdy tunes of the city’s minstrels. He even loved the cat bard’s drunken shanty, and couldn’t help but tap his foot as she sang despite their perilous situation. Falk went many days on the road before hearing a melody of any kind. He didn’t like to linger long in small towns filled with superstitious locals, he could no longer play his flute, and the birds refused to sing for Falk in the wild. No, they all fled save for vultures, ravens, and other dark creatures, and sadly his raven couldn’t carry a tune.

Even the tavern had grown silent; only a few patrons remained on the warm ground floor, either sullenly sipping at their mugs or sprawled out on the dusty ground. Mira, the barkeep, hummed silently to herself as she cleaned up after the drunks, sweeping the floors. She gently kicking one who had fallen asleep, and the brash man ogled and attempted to charm his gracious host as he woke, though she kindly rejected his advances. Falk felt a flare of anger – insolent, lecherous degenerate – but even the drunkard’s antics couldn’t sully his mood. He was part of a team now, however brief it may last, and though they had barely met the lone hunter felt their comradery. With a warm feeling in his empty ribcage, Falk turned back to gaze out the window.

“My… are we feeling disconnected from the world,” A voice spoke softly, and as clear as day. It came from a male sitting in the other seat of the booth. He had made no sound, or reflection in the glass that could harold his sudden approach.

The male appeared to be a mortal of Brithian descent. The keyword being appeared. While it is true that Brithians often had massive genetic variety when it came to species of cat, they tended to resemble large cats that were capable of living in well enough in the cold, and large in size. This one broke that norm several times over. For one, on first glance the man bore a feminine look to him. A long mane that hung loose past his shoulders on one side of his head while the rest was tied back by a ribbon. It wouldn’t be hard to mistake him completely for a female with a few drinks or just a quick glance. All together, though he appeared to be a desert cat. A serval. Large rounded rectangles for ears, and an angular face.

For clothes… he had the attire of someone whom had been in the desert. He wore no shirt, but a simple red shoulder drape that wrapped around his neck and shoulders, hid his chest and fell down his left arm. His pants were incredibly baggy and bore vibrant hues of red and gold. They were held up by a silk belt, and the ankle’s cuffs had been tied off. His eyes are a pale yellow color, that stared to the other with humor. And sitting in the seat next to him, towering over his head, an arch lute.

He remained silent, judging the other’s reaction with a soft smile, then continued. “I couldn’t blame you. A fate like yours is rare and often unheard of. Often.”

Falk shifted in his seat uncomfortably. He hadn’t heard the man approach his table, nor did he enjoy the company. Grey cawed at the Brithian and flapped away, preferring to nest by the fireplace rather than Falk’s shoulders. Evidently, he wasn’t the only one unnerved by this uninvited guest. The hunter’s blood ran cold when the cat spoke, obviously aware of his hidden nature. Was it that obvious? Who else knows? Did he tell anyone? It was times like this that Falk wished he kept his knife on his belt rather than his boot, for he’d very much like it in his hand. For the moment, the hunter’s eyes substituted his dagger as he stared at the man in silence.

“Two cats in one day? To what do I owe the pleasure?” Falk said stiffly, ignoring the Brithian’s comments. If the cat was indeed some sort of undead hunter, he’d need to proceed very carefully. The skeleton had dealt with their ilk before, and in each case they were no laughing matter.

“Yes, two cats. Did you plan on adopting,” The cat chuckled softly before waving the tavern keeper over. While she made her way closer, he began to fumble through a coin purse. He mumbled softly to himself as he dropped some ancient and incredibly dated coins onto the table, and fished out a few -proper- coppers. Once he had enough he offered them off to the lady, “A loaf of bread and some pork if you have any please,” The feline chirped with a smile.

His gaze returned to Falk. Though he remained quiet for now. His ear twitched, flicking a few earrings through the air as he listened to the woman’s footsteps. And once he felt she was far away enough he spoke again. Though this time, his smile grew slightly wider.

“No pleasures. I’d offer to pay for your meal, but… well you don’t have the stomach for it.”

Falk did not laugh at the Brithian’s joke, feeling far too vulnerable for the cat’s quips. He noticed the coins that fell from the stranger’s purse, bearing ruined faces of rulers long past he’d only read about as a youth. Curious that one would carry around such antiquated currency, perhaps as a sort of memento, though the hunter felt that this odd creature wasn’t keeping them as part of his collection. The Brithian’s next comment secured Falk’s suspicions; he knew, and that made the skeleton shiver. If it weren’t for the padding in his clothes, one would hear his bones rattle. Had the two been at some solitary tavern on the road, Falk would have cut the cat down right at the table, but here? No. Too many witnesses, too much attention drawn to him.

“You’ve a keen eye, friend. Tell me, what gave it away? I’m always looking to improve,” Falk replied, crossing his arms.

For the moment… the nature of the feline’s smile changed. It did not change in shape, it made no visible movement. Rather, the emotion changed behind it without a single twitch of a muscle or a word. It went from humor to a small pang of pity as the creature shook his head slowly.

“I am afraid I cheated in some ways. But… if I had not known before our conversation. Then I’d have to say it’d be my ears. Nothing falls short of a cat’s ears.” He dropped his coin purse on the table, then one by one pinched the coins and dropped them back inside.

Falk leaned back into his seat. If this Brithian was in fact a hunter of the undead, he certainly enjoyed taking his sweet time. Though the cat could simply be playing with his prey, a trait unlike the others Falk had encountered. They simply charged headlong towards him; with the gods on their side and good steel in hand, how could they ever lose? This Brithian, on the other hand, carried no weapons at all, or none that Falk could see, unless a lute could be considered one. Perhaps he misjudged, and this was simply some knowledgeable companion of the drunken cat upstairs. What struck Falk as odd was how the stranger had discovered his condition. Very few knew of his fate, and those who did were sworn to secrecy by his father at the risk of execution. In the annals of his family, he simply disappeared. Even then, he was certainly not recognizable as the swarthy Vasan Greyward by any eye.

“Hmph, I’d like to hear how you learned this. What’s your name, stranger? I’d tell you mine, but I’m sure you already know.”

The cat’s smile faded for the moment while he calmly lifted his coin purse by the drawstring. He watched as the loot closed it off, and moved it to secure it back to his belt. If he was a hunter of the dead, he was definitely delibrately taking his sweet time. He looked as if he was about to speak. But was quickly cut off as a platter of fresh bread and cutlets of pork had been plunked down in front of him.

“Ah! Thank you dear,” The feline chirped with a warm smile to the woman. Once she left, he returned to his ritual of silence. He sliced a piece of the pork with his fork, and brought it to his jaws. He quietly chewed. Slowly. Then swallowed.

Finally he spoke.

“Pork… it’s sweet, and savory. Full of juice that explodes in your maw when you bite down. Fit for warming a man in the cold of the night, and fighting back the pain of hunger. Unfortunately, one of those sensations are lost upon me, as they are you.” The cat hummed softly.

He smiled again and cut another slice delicately. He showed no desire to add context as he moved to the next topic. “Mmmph…” he mumbled through another bite, “You’re welcome to call me anything you like. It won’t make much difference for me later. The other cat called me ‘Old Man’ though.”

This would definitely be an odd nickname to give someone like him. He looked quite young actually. A male probably just entering his thirties.

A tinge of hunger struck Falk as he watched the cat chomp away at the plate before him. Of course, he didn’t need to eat, but like an amputated limb that still ached, so too did Falk’s absent stomach long for some form of sustenance. Just like his parched throat cried to be wetted, his eyes begging to close, and his loins… Well, Falk’s humanity was long gone, but he still remembered what it felt like to be alive. Perhaps one day he would return to flesh, or maybe just forget what it was like in the first place. Either way, he wasn’t fond of the cat’s teasing. The Brithian’s mention of their shared curse certainly caught his attention, and he cocked his head. “Really? You don’t strike me as an undead, though looks can be deceiving,” Falk muttered, giving a slight nod to his own appearance.

Old man? A glamor of sorts perhaps? The hunter considered this as he gave the lithe creature a second scan. An odd name for an odd cat to be sure, though Falk wasn’t entirely convinced that the other cat bestowed the name in an unironic fashion. “Old Man? Could have fooled me. Wouldn’t mind picking up a few of your tricks, Old Man. Hmm, think I’ll call you Valkav. I had a cat with that name as a boy, looked just like you, just little smaller,” Falk said with a slight chuckle. “You said no pleasure, so what business brings you here?”

The cat drew another sliver of pork from his plate. His eyes never blinking, remained fixed on the skeletal male across the table. He lazily licked the morsel from his spoon. Those many barbs lining his tongue easily caught the scrap by the flesh and drug it into his maw. He didn’t chew this time, only swallowed.

“Just thought that I’d give you some insufferable company,” the cat chuckled as he pondered the name he was given. “Valkav… I like that. However… that is oddly... “ he trailed off for a moment. His head rolled from side to side in a steady tempo as he tasted over his words.

“... intimate. The cat you speak of. You loved the creature. Though it was a wild animal, and doing well on its own… something about it fascinated you. Perhaps it was a graceful predator? Perhaps you were a boy with a kind heart for animals. Regardless… the two of you grew quite close. You were inseparable. As dog to his master, you were cat to his boy. Every night, he’d lay by your chest. When you shook and fretted in your sleep from night terrors, it licked at your nose. When morning came, it’d paw at your ears. Where you went, it went. Sadly your father grew careless. The hounds cornered my feral kin, and tore him to pieces. Those ravenous, clacking, lusting jaws did horrid work. Rip and tear till it was done. Till his pelt was removed from his flesh. And till his mewling ceased. And all that remained were torn limbs, scattered organs, and tuffs of matted fur. Perhaps if he was in a more suitable environment, he’d have been safe. He left his mark though… like all of my kin they do not die without a fight. It destroyed an eye from one, and caused the eventual act of mercy to the other.”

The feline’s eyes had not left the other, though his smile did fade. He remained quiet for the moment. Then he sat up straight. “Very well, Valkav it is. Perhaps I’ll fill that empty void where your heart is supposed to be.”

“Now then… to address the curse. There are similarities… but there are discrepancies. I am alive… but not quite. My condition is unusual. It is no curse, it is no blessing, and it certainly is no boon. I’ve come to terms that this will be how I remain… till the last of the stars fade to black. Fortunately, you needn’t to come to such conclusions.”

Falk had almost grown used to the cat’s company, until he released his sick little tale from the man’s youth. He hadn’t thought about the feral cat’s demise in a long time, the memory of blood and violence both repressed and replaced with so many other deaths, but his new companion’s vivid knowledge of Falk’s past chilled him. As Valkav ended the story, the hunter felt disgusted with the man seated across from him. He shook his head and moved to leave, but something drew him back in. You needn’t come to such conclusions.

Slowly, Falk returned to his seat.

“Well then, enlighten me of how I might avoid your fate, Valkav. The night grows late, but that is of little concern to kindred spirits such as us, yes?” he replied bitterly. His mind was racing with who, or what, was sat before him, happily chewing and teasing. Falk had read more than his fair share on undeath, immortality, and curses in the past few years; he was growing to become something of an expert. Yet nothing he learned even hinted at the nature of this omnipotent Brithian. Perhaps he was some sort of mind reader? Or maybe Falk had truly gone insane, visioning his childhood cat as an anthropomorphic creature that signaled his first steps into total madness. Either way, he found himself repulsed, yet enraptured by every word that spilled from Valkav’s mouth.

And like that, the cat’s friendly smile returned with a blink of the eyes. He tore into his bread, a bit awkwardly as a cat obviously lacks the correct teeth to eat something like this easily. “Though you control your path like many others, the winds guiding your sails will not lead you to the same mistakes I’ve made.” He paused, and repeated the word mistake to himself. Like he was unsure of if he’d even call it that. There was a shrug.

“My ailment is of no one else's will but my own. And by my word, I’m bound. It’s a pittiful existence. To be forgotten with time, again… and again… and again… again. With not much more than my songs as my breadcrumbs. But it is mine. And I enjoy it when I have it.”

The cat then grinned, quite broadly. He gave the skeletal man a wink, “But shouldn’t you be more concerned about yourself?”

“Nothing is more easily broken than words,” Falk muttered, thinking back to the Lanzknecht’s Oath. The Brithian’s riddle swirled in his skull, a riddle he hoped to unfurl in time, perhaps a piece of the puzzle to the being’s mysterious nature. Falk had never been one for mincing words, typically blunt and to-the-point, but something in Valkav’s words drew him further, both mentally and physically, leaning onto the table. The cat enjoyed playing this little game, and Falk would play along, but perhaps not as willingly as Valkav would like.

“Well, despite what you say, it seems to me we bear a similar burden Valkav. Knowledge is knowledge, and what helps you may help me.” Falk shifted closer. “Besides, I’m sure if you knew how I could shed my burden, you’d have already told me, right old friend?” he continued wryly.

The feline smiled, and shook his head slowly. “I don’t do spoiler’s sweetheart,” the cat chuckled softly. He raised a hand, and with a flick of a wrist a tarot card appeared. He rotated it between his index fingers. First, it showed death - dressed as a fool and laughing with a bow in hand. Second it showed a Hanging Man, bound upside down by the ankle from his own will and at peace with his decision. And finally, it was blank. The cat laid it down on the table and scribbled his new name on it. Afterwards he pushed it towards the skeleton and slipped out of his seat.

He slung his long lute over his shoulder, and looked down to the man with a soft smile. “I’ve traveled further from the border’s of my kingdom than any man under my charge. To lands where my title and birth right of King sings no tune, and fades away in silence to the ears who listen. I stepped barefooted and without steed across scorching heats, so nature may humble me to the hardships of life. I waded rains and sundering winds till the color of my clothing faded, and the rags I wore had all but rotted. I treaded lightly to lands unknown, of vivid color. And there I saw it… A beacon of light. A grand city of immortals. City of gods. Tomb of the damned.” With that, the cat cut the recitation of the story short.

“It… is typically not my style… I prefer giving parables. I enjoy watching people squirm as they search for the meaning. But I am afraid this one will strain you more than any other story I may tell. With that… I bid you a good night. And… please… do not tell Raux of my presence. I’ll see her again soon, but not now.” Valkav gave a brief nod and made his way out through the tavern door.

“So long, old friend…” Falk muttered as he watched the cat saunter away. He turned to the window to catch one last glimpse of Valkav, but he didn’t get one. Almost immediately, the hunter retrieved his battered journal, scrambled towards the end, and started scribbling away. The riddles, the cat’s appearance, the card, everything he documented as best he could. Falk was a fairly learned man, having read much both modern and ancient literature, but none of what the cat said alluded to anything he possessed knowledge of. Perhaps with time, the meaning would come, but in the moment, Falk was lost, a ship adrift on a foggy night in foreign seas. Like it or not, the man was fully enveloped in the cat’s game now, and though he wasn’t squirming, he certainly felt… Uneasy.

Falk closed the journal, satisfied he’d taken note of everything worth writing down; he even made a rough sketch of the cat in charcoal. The hunter kept the card in hand though, twirling it absent-mindedly as he thought. Falk was tempted to rouse the drunk bard from her sleep and demand an explanation of her curious comrade, but he decided against it. There was little to gain, and more than likely he’d just look mad. Eventually, the cloaked skeleton made his way upstairs to the room the Talon Company had so graciously covered for him. The room was modestly decorated, a little plain perhaps, but Falk was easily impressed after spending years resting beneath trees. He settled down on the soft bed, his unblinking eyes staring at the rafters. He wished he could shut them, just for a moment, a brief respite from the world. More than sex, food, or drink, Falk missed sleep, that blissful dream world where one could escape from this one. For him, there was never any escape, only the tenuous meditation he barely managed to achieve that was becoming harder and harder to achieve. The skeleton sat up and began clearing his mind of the day’s events, of his thoughts, of everything. This was as close to sleep as he’d ever come.

Your legs can only barely carry you up the stairs; their sole motivation lies in the reprieve they’ll soon know. Finally making it to your cot you feel the heaviness of a worn body and eyelids sunken deeper than the brith warships scattered about the Ocean Abyssal. Collapsing in your bed your face meets soft fleece as it collides with a cushy pillow. At last there was quiet, perhaps not a blissful quiet, but quiet indeed.

The world and its light fades from you as the night takes you into its realm.

---

You wake up to, what sounds like, a thunderous assault on the door to your room. Still dazed and half asleep you find the strength to pick yourself up from your cot. Your gate is slow and without reason, and the coldness of the floor nips at your feet. You finally make it towards the door, your arm now leaned against a wall for support. You carefully turn the the knob, but it feels wet and unsettling to the touch. It feels like you’ve been turning the damn thing for an eternity.

At last, the door concedes to your meddling as it ushers in the morning air. Upon investigating beyond the door you see nothing. There is no one there, but one thing is for certain, the blackness that erodes the hallway in front of you is not supposed to be there.

Stepping out into the darkness you find that there is no floor to support your footing. Much like the hallway before you the blackness engulfs you as you fall into an abyss. You try to catch a breath while you fall, unsure of what to do. Your fall feels weightless, but unimaginably heavy. There is no air surrounding your descent, and any words or shouts for help are met only with the all-encompassing blackness.

---

As you continue to pierce into nothingness you feel a bitter warmth on your back. A wind soon picks up, but its gusts give you no quarter from the heat. You realize that you are no longer falling. As if by magic or some twisted demon’s meddling the world before you is brought to the light. You find yourself lying on your back. Pulling your hand from under the weight that constricts it you see piles of red sand seep through its grasp. The blistering heat of what appears to be a desert crack down on furrowed brows.

There is a presence, something that beckons you forward through the dunes. Picking yourself up you feel no choice but to heed its commands. You again feel the warmth of the sand on your feet, but it not longer hurts you. The intensity of the sun’s heat causes rifts about the air. The sky itself dances before your eyes. The scorching radiance is enough to bring you to your knees on a few instances throughout your trek in the sands, but each time something pushes you onward.









In the distance you see what’s been calling to you all of this time. The ringing that’s filled your ears. Another phantom of the sands? No. This was real. You see an elaborate temple in the distance. It’s sharp architectural designs like horns crawling out of the sands. It feels ancient, and the bleak red coloring of the temple walls feel ominous. As you near the structure you realize its incredible size. The tower walls jut out far above you, and pierce the arid skies. You’re forced to tilt your gaze upwards to see its bell tower. As you walk closer to the temple, you hear the bells chime. It’s sounds familiar. The bells that chimed denoting the death of Viceroy Cadby.

Reaching the large metal doors to the keep you realize that you cannot open them. They appear to be barred shut.

---

You are awoken from your slumber by knocking. It's scattered across the entire hall.

“Talis Cleverfoot came by the tavern." It's Mira. You hear her pause for a moment before continuing. "She wants all of your arses downstairs in the next ten minutes! I don't take her for the waitin' sort.” Mira called out to each one of you. Her voice was a pleasant relief from the ones that haunted your rest.

Barris had woken up in a cold sweat, that nightmare he saw, a little bit too clear to be merely a result of his drinking, and was one that didn't sit well with him since he had no headache indicative of a hangover either. The Dwarf was not a particularly religious sort, nor did he put much faith in dreams, but that didn't mean they couldn't make one uneasy, especially when whatever it was within it had known him, and spoke his doom.

He shook his head and stepped out of bed. Everything of his had been moved in neatly by the stable hands the previous day, and in his addled state he had removed his cloak, braces of pistols, and other equipment before slipping into bed. He was impressed with himself that he'd merely hung the braces on one of the hooks for coats and that they hadn't landed on the floor, the rest of his clothes weren't so lucky and were scattered around besides his simple shirt and trousers which he'd fallen asleep in. Mira had awoken him though, saying that he, and evidently everyone else he was working with, was expected downstairs in ten minutes. Finally he'd learn exactly what business the Talon Company sought him for, and he'd meet everyone else he'd be working with. He fondly recalled the Bard Raux from last night, and less fondly the vain noble warrior Lady Wolfram, but beyond that he knew little.

Making himself presentable, he didn't bother with putting on too much, merely fixing his shirt and pants, quickly combing out his hair and beard, and strapping on his two hip holsters to show he wasn't just some random Dwarf but their actual gunslinger, and opened his door to head downstairs.

As he walked down the main stairway, he rubbed the sleep from his eyes and looked around at the sparsely filled bar compared to yesterday. He muttered half to himself, half to anyone else listening.

"I don't suppose we're this empty on account of Mira running a bad breakfast."

He saw an Elf woman who matched the description of his supposed contact, sitting at a table set aside, and patiently awaiting him and the others, he walked over and leaned against one of the beams supporting the tavern.

"I'd ask you if you were Talis, but then what would the odds be of two different people having the same exact name and description? . . . Two beautiful city-born elvish sisters I suppose, or a doppelganger. Though I doubt either is the case here."

Everything had been wrong, that dream was wrong and yet denying that it was anything more than a childish nightmare seemed to stab her in the back like a dagger is the silent killer it is. Lucilia woke up sweating, gripping her blankets as she sat up with side eyes. Nothing seemed right anymore, the walls and floor had betrayed her so what was it that means this wasn’t a dream as well? Her hands immediately went to her locket and she gripped it tightly, but she dared not do anything else with it, not yet.

Then she heard Talis speak, wondering if those words were true or they were just meant to draw her out so that she could be ridiculed and taunted by that voice once more. With a few deep breaths she forced herself out of the bed and over to her suit of armor, picking up the chest piece to view the Wolfram emblem. Would those words be true? Would the house be slaughtered and forgotten? No, impossible, that much power would not simply be forgotten, yet those words count to her conscience as if it had been nailed there by a hammer.

However, another feeling arose within her, determination. Lucilia would not be forgotten and neither would the Von Wolfram house for she would make sure of that to her dying breath. This Wolf Pack would not be last, and their fangs were not dulled, she would be sure to show that.

Quickly, Lucilia out of the armor before sitting down and brushing her raven hair. While it was not as in depth as she would have liked, it would have to do since she would have to take orders from someone who was not her father for once. Upon finishing, she arose and walked to the door, gripping the handle but unable to turn. What if the nightmare would begin anew, remembering that touchering her own father was the most unpleasant thing in her dream. While she feared his harsh touch, and vein the direct cause of her fear, never did it feel like that.

With a deep inhale and exhale, she tightened her grip around the handle and opened the door, awaiting the world to turn into blackness. It did not, that was a good thing. A sigh of relief would be heard by any nearby as she began to walk downstairs, having her rapier close to her certainly made her feel better. Her eyes came across Talis and a dwarf, she could only assume it was the one called Barris for she already met Falk and Raux, and Aria did not seem like a male name.

”Good morning,” were her only words at the time, instead holding to be silent and take a seat as they awaited the others, her face still holding a cold, arrogant glare.

To Aria the knocking was not a reprieve from the terror the nightmare, but instead a continuation. Her nakedness within it had felt so real that in the first few moments of paranoid wakefulness she believed she was about to be discovered without her glamor, so she hid beneath the covers. There she curled up, embraced by the warm furs that were made slightly damp by her sweat, and clutched at one of her shaking hands, bringing it up to her face. In the dark of her cowering spot it looked gray. Gripped by even greater panic she practically fell out of the bed, pulling the furs after her onto the floor to stay hidden, where she groped blindly under her cot till her hand found sharp metal.

Aria dragged the Khopesh from its hiding place into her fur nest, cutting her hand on the sickle shaped sword edge in the process, before grasping the handle with both hands and planting the tip of the blade in the wooden floor boards. She tried to calm herself, praying that it would still work, and focused as she tried to banish her fear and loneliness. Ths caused the glyphs along the blades sies to glow with a soft, warm, golden light that revealed Gadria the dwarf to be the person hiding beneath the covers, rather than Aria the halfling.

She was safe.

She was hidden.

He was still there for her.

The illusion holds for another day.

_{The delusion holds for another day.}

She let out a gasping filled bout of laugh in relief as the fear and adrenaline faded away.

Just a dream Aria, it was all just a dream.

She reassured herself before throwing the covers back onto the bed only to find a small fairy sitting on one of the posts. Fairy was perhaps not the most accurate description, but was the closest parallel to a creature of myth she could think of. The pint sized creature had dark obsidian chitin instead of skin and were a fairy had insect wings it instead had a beetle shell covering a pair of rainbow feathered wings. Its head was of an insectile humanoid, featuring large dark eyes, a pair of antennae and mandibles where its mouth should be. It carried small composite bow and had two small quivers of arrows hanging from a belt that was the only thing the sexless creature was wearing.

”you called?”

Aria had not meant to do that. She was rather glad she had stopped the summon spell she had cast in her panic before she got someone who would make fun of her sorry state.

”you’re a mess”

Carmista damn it

She was a mess. Not that she looked it, Gadria hair was still immaculate braided and her skin unblemished, but Aria could feel how bad it was beneath her glamor. She felt like she needed to wash several times over, but recognized there was no time for that, having finally registered what Mira’s words had actually been. First she dealt with the consequences of her self inflicted hand injury, bandaging the wound with a strip of cloth and wiping the blade clean of her blood. Then she dried herself off as best she could with the light clothes she had worn to bed and hung it up on the same stand that her clothes had been drying on, damp as they were from the previous nights excursion into the rain. Aria’s clothes, a simple and drab shirt, worn trousers, tough boots and a long may pocketed coat all became the colorful blue and red outfit of Gadria the moment she put them on. Her journal was retrieved from the night stand, her Otmon saber hooked onto her belt and the Khopesh stored in a single sided leather sheath beneath of her jacket, where it joined a small number of knives in remaining hidden yet close at hand.

The bug creature watched all this patiently. Or tried to anyway, as Aria thew a sock at it when she realised it was watching her change, which stunned it long enough for it to not see her naked. Seeing as it was here already she might as well make use of the fairy however.

”Name?”

”Hek”

”... ok Hek, stay in my hair and watch my back”

The little bug person compiled without complaint and ended up dangling upside down from Aria’s ponytail, hidden from sight by merging its own weak glamor into that of Gadria’s long fluffy red hair. Aria was somewhat frustrated with the fact that she felt better simply from having Hek’s silent company.

Now ready she proceeded to move a chair out of the way of the door and then unlocked it. As she headed down the hall she tried to push the dream of the desert from her mind, explaining it away as but a broken recollection of her first task. Yet the voice in the temple stuck with her. Most of it she thought of as simple self deprecation, an out-welling of loathing for her lot in life, but the last part. The last part had her confused as she tried to rationalize it all away.

I will devour him, and when I do...you will be mine.

The scruffy Aria was haunted and confused by that final line, the source of it eluding her self reflection, as the immaculate Gadria IronHeart headed downstairs to meet her fellow debtors. Those that she found already there were a dwarven gunslinger and, to her surprise, the noble woman who had almost been killed by an angry mob yesterday.

She greeted them with a simple ”Morning” and then sat down at the table, as far from the noble woman as possible, to wait for the others. What she really wanted to do was get something to drink to get the dry taste of sleep out of her mouth, but that would have to wait.

Was sleep ever the fit full chore for the Brithian. She’d desired to wake up at multiple instances from this nightmare. Though the aide of what alcohol that still lingered in her system kept her dead asleep. And once she was finally released from this spell, she through the furs off with enough force to toss them against the wall. She sat up. Her breath was ragged and panting. And her claws clutched at her muzzle, threatening to punch through flesh. At least it was physically impossible for the majority of her body to sweat, the smell wouldn’t be pleasant.

She stared down at her own underdressed form with pen prick eyes that twitched feverishly. One hand eventually left her muzzle to clutch at her heart, and felt it drumming away. Combined with that, she swore she saw –things- lingering just at the cusps of her vision, fleeing away when she turned to look to them directly. Creatures the size of dogs who’s shape is rarely constant except for the feature of the claws and pinchers of scorpions.

She sat in quiet, staring down to her Hurdy Gurdy. Her mind kept flashing back to the image of Old Man. Well… old wasn’t the proper description. He was young then, and had enough charm to peek a fancy stronger than a girlish interest. He was likely old now, and approaching the end of his days. Storms, what was his name again. She could of sworn he’s told him before. Valkav… that’s what it was. Such a strange name.

Still… it was horrible to see him like that. Someone as close as family or dare-say a lover. Pocked of holes and decaying alive. Like he was beaten, strung up, and infected with some sort of plague! But those holes! Those holes! Like something bored an abyss through flesh! Horrid ichor, puss, and… the cat coughed for a moment. Then gasped for air, but felt nothing rushing to her lungs. It felt like something was around her neck. A collar put on too tight. She clutched at it, feverishly, but only managed to scratch at her fur. Her vision was blurring as the shadows felt like they were creeping up on her. Oh she could hear the blades coming. The blades scratching against each other to hone their edges just for her! Her heart had practically taken off, and would have sorn through the sky if a voice hadn’t echoed in her head.

The sands lie to you as it feast.

By that she stopped, and sat still as if to accept her fate. Her gasps grew shorter and instinctively more depserate. The feeling of suffocation had grown to it’s peak… and faded. She blinked, and all appeared to be normal. Well, normal if you discount the strange creatures that lick at the edges of her peripheral.

She began to wonder to herself, what the hell does that even mean?! More importantly, she realized what she was doing. She was contemplating a dream. A nightmare. Why? And why did it bother her so? She had experienced far worse visual images. Yet this crawled under her skin with a swarm of hissing cockroaches in tow. Reguardless… it was one hell of a way to start a morning.

She slipped out of the bed, and redressed her bare form. She was partially thankful that she spent some time to clean her clothing before she dropped into the bed during her drunken stupor. They no longer clung to the smell of alcohol from last night, or the grime from the boat ride. The colors were vibrant once again. She straightened her fur and hid the scars on her neck once more.

Once she made her way down stairs, she found the group waiting. And caught Barris’s words just in time.

“Hun, I’m feeling empty for a different reason. Shame folks were too drunk last night to think of company,” She took a sniff. Then paused. She sniffed once more, and looked to the group with a raised brow. She smelled the sharp scent of salt and hormones floating in the air – and the hint of something sour. Fear? “Though I’d say, two of y’all had some fun of your own. Didn’t feel like inviting me?”

The summer’s early and vibrant light ripped through Falk’s sealed curtains, but neither the morning rays nor the incessant pounding of Mira's fist upon the room’s heavy door alerted him of the new day’s arrival. The hunter’s meditation session ended prematurely, his flimsy concentration broken by a chorus of cries in the night’s late hours. The inn’s walls were deceptively thin, and it seemed that sleep brought with it unspeakable horrors for both his neighbors. Falk discontinued his meditation, leaving him feeling perhaps a little weaker than normal, but he knew any further attempts at achieving his curious form of rest would be foiled by the mumbles and shouts in either room beside his own. Even without his neighbor’s nightmares, Falk knew he simply couldn’t return to rest, for his mind was completely enraptured with the mysterious Brithian he'd met. Though a total stranger, Falk felt as though he knew him, or at least of him. A vague recollection, or some fleeting familiarity.

The skeleton turned his attention to the rough leather book sat at the room’s quaint desk. In total darkness he flipped through the pages, each containing a queer combination of forbidden, dark knowledge and quaint journal entries, complete with dates, sketches, and titles of literature he intended to seek out. It did not do a hunter well to travel encumbered by books, equipment, and other items, so Falk simply took note of whatever knowledge he needed from a tome and copied it into his journal. It was a sloppy method, to be sure, but the only one available to him. Through his notes, Falk slowly began unraveling the enigma of Valkav. There was only a vague mention in each instance, references to a nameless Brithian travelling the lands, bearing some dark curse. He, or sometimes recorded as she, took many forms, and even more names, but in every instance of his appearance The Stranger carried with them a distinctive lute. What puzzled Falk more than anything was just how wide in time these appearances occurred. The Tome of Bunnir, a text Falk stumbled across in the ancient Four Pillars City, dated back over two millennia, but even this wasn't the first reference of The Stranger. The stone tablet mentioned a cat-like human who arrived in the king’s court, speaking in riddle-like prophesies which predicted the king’s descent into madness. The king ordered The Stranger’s execution almost immediately for such blasphemy, but after the public hanging the royal slowly fell into insanity after claiming he was visited again by The Stranger. At the time of copying it, Falk was interested solely in the cat’s resurrection and apparent immortality, similar to his own curse, but now he was not so sure of the relationship. A more recent text, Zanitha’s Tales, was perhaps not as reliable, but nevertheless relevant. Zanitha was a scholar who traveled the land, collecting folk tales from various cultures and publishing them in her anthologies, often adding her own dramatic flair to enrapture the reader. One brief tale Zanitha gathered from a small human fishing village in Crysteria, revolving around a beggar boy’s rise from poverty to become a great minstrel. The boy was visited by a travelling Brithian who showed him kindness, despite the cat culture’s cruelty towards humans on the island; the Brithian visited him on occasion, giving him coin, advice, and even teaching him to play the lute before disappearing altogether. The boy grew up a successful minstrel, always crediting his abilities and songs to the Brithian, though none believed his stories. However, on his deathbed surrounded by family and friends, the now-ancient minstrel was visited by a Brithian carrying a lute, but he looked to be a young man. In his age-addled mind, the bard claimed it was the Brithian who saved him as a boy, though his loved ones cast the cat out. The cat came to be known in Crysterian culture as The Stranger, though the people today doubt his very existence.

Falk wasn’t entirely convinced of the stories either. Surely, history was filled with many odd cats, and it was all too likely the connections he drew were simply coincidences. The physical appearance was constantly changing, along with names, time, and age. But then again, hadn’t Falk named the Brithian himself? The pounding on his door drew the hunter from his thoughts as he slammed the journal shut, turning to the window. The morning had crept up on him. He gathered his belongings, strapped on his belt, beckoned Grey to join him on his shoulder, and headed downstairs, the last of their party to arrive. The sunlit tavern floor hit Falk like a warhammer to the head; the skeleton rarely occupied the waking hours, preferring to live when most slept. It was in the night he felt most safe, his malformed shape and unnaturally still chest cloaked in darkness. He felt vulnerable in the day, as if all eyes were burning through him, right through the facade. Falk observed his new companions as he approached the table, spilling into a seat near the end. He spotted a familiar face in Lady Wolfram, but was surprised to see the Brithian bard among their ranks. The others, a male and female dwarf, he hadn’t seen before.

“You lot look like hell. Heard at least two of you screaming all night, pleasant that,” Falk said casually as he drummed his fingers on the table. The raven on his shoulder puffed up and imitated one of the voices he heard in the night, croaking in a tortured voice, "The sand, sand.” Falk turned to Talis at the head of the table. ”Well, Talis, any more demands from the Talon Company?”

(Double post)