Athaliah made her way to the 'Laughing Fiddler' alone - she had been told that Ceara and her... well, associates, would be there. Hopefully with the papers that Herbert and Erika needed. The streets were getting dark and Athaliah found herself getting much more tense despite the fact that guards were pretty much everywhere. That in itself wasn't unusual - what was, however, was that these guards seemed to be much more armed and armoured than was common. Maybe it was just normal for a huge city like Viarosa, but for a village girl like Athaliah, it was quite unsettling.
After getting lost in the backstreets more than a few times, Athaliah finally located the tavern; it wasn't much to say the least - sure, the windows were clean and the door was in one piece, but compared to all the luxurious inns she passed in the city centre the tavern may as well have been a shed. She quietly pushed the door open.
To her surprise, the tavern had a lively, almost friendly atmosphere to it. The patrons were mostly workers from the city who looked like they couldn't afford to go anywhere else for a mug of beer or cider, but that didn't seem to bother them much. Ceara, Mostafa and someone else she didn't recognise were sat at a table right at the back of the tavern - they all wore expressions of boredom, and Athaliah's habit of getting lost didn't seem to help matters.
She approached the table where the redhead and her 'friends' were sat, hoping that she had managed to recover what the group so desperately needed. "Hey, Ceara!" she greeted when she was close enough. Athaliah realised a bit too late that she wasn't exactly familiar with the woman, so that greeting seemed forced. Oh well, it was out now. "How are you?" She figured it would be best to start with small-talk; straight up asking if she finished the job seemed rude to her.
The thief perked up as she heard Athaliah call her name, pulling out the chair adjacent to her own so that the girl could sit down. “Oh, I’m doing grand. Pulled it off without a hitch, didn’t we?” The redhead nudged Mostafa, who played a single chord on his lute, looking generally pleased with himself. Ceara then pointed to Mortimir. “This is the grand magister Mortimir. He helped too.”
"Ahem. My title is magister maximus, thank you." Mortirmir said haughtily, stiffening at the misnomer before grinning somewhat politely.
"Really? That's great!" Athaliah grinned. It suddenly dawned on her that she, a guard responsible for upholding the law, was happy that Ceara had broken into a home to steal some papers. Oh well, they weren't in Hoffen anymore so it seemed like somebody else's problem now. "What do the papers say, then?" Ceara raised her eyebrows. "Don't give me that look - I'd be surprised if you didn't read them."
Ceara seemed to deflate for a moment, but quickly regained her cheery composure. “Well, I can’t really read… words. So, no, I didn’t check it out.” Mortimir harrumphed, grabbing everyone’s attention. “Well, it just so happens that I am a scholar of some renown, and possess an aptitude for the written word." At their blank stares he continues somewhat belatedly: "I could read your papers. Right now, if you would like it. Your friend won’t let me touch them.”
Athaliah hadn't gave so much as a thought that others couldn't read and write - her grandfather served the King of Foveros back in the day, and he passed down his knowledge through the family. When her family moved to Hoffen, her parents taught the village's adults, who in turn taught their own children. She had assumed that everyone else in the world had the same privilege.
"Oh, right..." she thought about what Herbert and Erika would think about them reading their old friend's notes behind their back, but she came to the conclusion that the pair would tell them anyway. "Okay, what's the harm in it?" she smiled to Ceara. "Could you give our friend the papers, please?"
Ceara nodded and retrieved the papers from her travelling bag, delicately setting them on the table and sliding them towards Mortimir.
Mortirmir drew up his sleeves, adjusted his spectacles, and set to reading the documents. He pulled at the wisps of facial hair on his chin that he generously called a beard. "Hmm... Most interesting, yes..." He flipped through the rest of the papers, his eyes enlarged behind his heavy spectacles. "Something about a hunt... For a dragon?" He frowned, shooting a glance towards Ceara before continuing. "Is this a jest? Htraknu? This is what you're after? Myths and tall tales?"
The thief shrugged. "Don't look at me. I'm here for the money." Mostafa leaned forward, setting his instrument on the table. "It is no myth. The priests of Solanius felt the death of a demon, and the world shuddered in horror. I was there - we all were."
Mortirmir scoffed derisively. "As if men of the cloth knew anything of such things. Pah."
"Honestly, I'm hoping that this is all a wild goose-chase." Athaliah sighed. "I'd rather not have to fight a god. Besides... I miss home." she slouched in her chair. "But hey, it's better than doing nothing if its true, I suppose."
"So Athaliah, where is everyone else?" Ceara scratched her head, looking uncomfortable with the talk of Htraknu. "I'm getting a little eager to leave this city. That arse of a lord has gotta figure this whole thing out at one point, right?"
Cowritten with @BlondyMcHuggles The back door of the Treis Ippótes swung open with an audible creak, its rusted hinges straining against the weight of the oak planks they supported and the sound of laughter and song floating out from within. Gottmar von Eibenschütz peered into the darkness beyond; the sun had not long ago sunk beneath the horizon and cast the shadow of night across the city. With a cautious hand on his sword-hilt in case of an encounter with the sort of common thugs and cutpurses who frequented such gloomy back alleys as this, the witch hunter stepped outside into the cool night air and looked around. Sleep, for him, was not a necessity by any means, and as a devoted Brother-Soldier his duty was first and foremost to carry out his investigations without delay. If the foul stain of dark sorcery had infiltrated Viarosa, he had not a second to waste.
And yet, he had not a single lead. Certainly, he had hunted witches not far beyond the city walls, yet frustratingly enough not one, even when subjected to the very harshest of interrogations, had provided a single ounce of information that might serve to incriminate their fellow black magi. Still, that did not mean there was nowhere to start. On the contrary, in fact, a city such as this, containing as many drinking establishments as it did, was ripe for harvesting the kind of information Gottmar sought - after all, with their inhibitions lowered, who knows what kind of strange and mysterious tales the locals may tell, and for every ten that were pure invention, one might hold a grain of truth. He glanced back at the inn he had just left. No, he thought, not that one. Full of sailors and dockworkers; not the sort who would know of the intricacies of affairs on land. He would have to go elsewhere.
It was a long and winding walk that had brought him to this door in particular, through labyrinthine slums and past many a shifty character who gave him a glare of disgust, yet thought better of provoking a fight. The witch hunter raised his gaze to the worn, faded sign that hung above the entrance to the simple timber building that rose up before him. 'The Laughing Fiddler', it read; a tavern whose outside appearance was certainly less than impressive - although, to the owner's credit, it seemed to have been kept clean enough. Satisfied that this place would do, Gottmar pushed open the door and strode inside with the air of a conquering general, surveying the wretched array of patrons with thinly veiled suspicion. He came to the bar, slamming a fist down on its splintered surface. "Flagon of weissbier, goodman," he grunted dismissively to the barkeep, pushing a silver coin across the bar before turning his back on the man and scanning once more over the occupants of this tavern. Half a minute later, a battered tin mug of hazy golden ale appeared at his side, and he took a long swig, wiping the drops from around his mouth with his gloved hand. The conversation had dwindled noticeably when the witch hunter had entered, but now it slowly began to resume its usual volume.
As Gottmar listened, one table's conversation in particular caught his attention. Amidst the din, it was hard to piece together the exact nature of their discussion, but a few choice words had been unmistakeable to his trained ears. The swarthy one spoke most definitely of a demon, and the scholarly-looking fellow across the table from him made some less-than-favourable comment about 'men of the cloth' in response. The witch hunter stifled a vindictive smile. Truly, it was as if the hand of blessed Calidorus himself had guided him to this place tonight, that he might encounter this wicked gang of demon-worshipping blasphemers and serve holy justice unto them. He paused. They did not look like the sort to fraternise with devils. But then, the corrupting forces of the arcane could ensnare anyone, anywhere, at any time.
Slowly, he edged his way along the bar towards them, interrupting his movement to take another gulp of his ale; it would not do to alarm the blasphemers before it was too late for them to escape. Then, when only a few paces separated him from the heretics, he drew his sword from its scabbard and closed the last distance between them in a split second. "Heathens!" he bellowed, slamming the tip of his sword down upon the table, sending a crack snaking through the aged wood and turning the heads of every patron of the tavern. "I have heard your foul talk of demons and death. Did you think that your evil ways would not be discovered? That your evil deeds would go unpunished? With Calidorus as my witness, I hereby charge you with conspiracy to commune with beings of the Infernum, a grave offence for which the only sentence is death. Have you any words to say in your defence?"
Athaliah was just about to reply to Ceara when the sword plunged into their table; the man responsible for it definitely looked rough, but not the type to be such a devoted man of the gods. Well, maybe the God of War liked his followers to look like they'd lost a few fights.
Once the initial shock of the encounter passed, she shared a quick look with everyone else at the table - they looked just as confused and shocked as Athaliah did, but even after a few seconds nobody spoke up. Just as the newcomer opened his mouth to speak again, Athaliiah left her seat and stood up; she was shorter than the scarred man and she'd fought men like him off before - not that she had any desire to. Especially now.
"Look, Ser," she began, doing her best to maintain eye contact with the rough man. "I know it sounds bad, but I promise, we're not planning anything evil." she nervously glanced around the tavern, taking note of all the people still staring at her and their assailant. It wasn't likely that anyone would come to their aid if something went wrong - the common folk wouldn't so much as blink if someone accused of demon-summoning was killed, guilty or not.
Athaliah sighed quietly and continuted. "We need what's on these papers we have so we can have a chance of saving the world." She saw the skeptical look on the man's face before it even appeared. "I know, I know how it sounds. Just... at least give them a read before you do anything?" she gestured for Mortirmir to hand the man the notes, hoping that the sudden movement woudn't get her impaled.
With one hand still on his sword, Gottmar snatched the stack of papers from the scholar, spreading them out across the table and beginnning to read. After a minute of silence, the witch hunter let out a menacing growl. "I ask for your defence, and you present me with a childrens' tale? Truly, you are beyond all hope of redemption." He raised his sword, the dim lantern-light of the tavern shimmering as it met the weapon's steel blade. "The charges stand: conspiracy to commune with beings of the Infernum, and mockery of a representative of blessed Calidorus. The sentence is death by fire." He turned to address the assembled crowd. "Citizens, restrain these heretics and take them outside." Several of the burlier patrons moved forward, giving a dutiful nod to the witch hunter and a withering glare to the accused. "Barkeep, a bottle of your strongest spirit. Fear not, you will be compensated when my work is done."
The sun broke upon Esben's face. A few hundred years ago he would've called this a pleasant day. But not anymore; not while daylight still burned. He reclined in the shade of some fir trees, as he pondered his next action. "Lord, we have some urgent news. A band of refugees from the north is heading right under us, they seem to be heading south." The cultist bowed, and waited for a response. "Prepare the Magi, we shall capture as many as we can alive, but leave any that prove resistant to me." The cultist bowed once again, then departed. Esben hadn't had any quality vitae in weeks, only the vapid blood of the northern cultists. While he respected their sacrifice for him, Esben was going to relish the opportunity to sink his fangs into some animated prey.
As night fell, the refugees slowed, and made camp. Tired from their long journey, they would be easy prey. From atop the hills, the Thaumaturgists prepared to strike. Esben conjured his sword and shield, as he waited for the camp to settle down. When the last light was snuffed out, he sounded the horn; the cultists laid into the camp and decimated the night watch. After the men fell, the women and children weren't far behind, except for one boy. He was dragged, kicking and swearing, to the feet of Esben."Well, I didnt think I'd find anyone with any fight left in this camp. Say, boy, what is your name?" "My name is Magni Feigrrson, and I am no boy." He said, as he spat into his oppressor's face. "If you have any honor, you would allow me to die in combat; so I can join my father." "Bold words from a man child, but I will grant your request." Esben whistled, and a cultist threw an arming sword in front of Magni. As he reached for the weapon, Esben spoke once more, "If you pick up the sword, boy, you sign your own death warrant. You have no hope of defeating me. How about you join our cult instead?" He extended his left hand to help the boy off the ground, but Magni instead picked up the sword with lightning speed and severed Esben's gaunlet at the wrist. He cried out in pain, but the cry devolved to maniacal laughter as the blood from his wound coagulated, forming a new hand. "Too bad I already lost that hand, kid." Esben's sword, Deathknell, was conjured through the blood from his wound as he struck the boy's sword; leaving an audible screech in the air as metal and Bloodsteel collided ."Lets see how you fight without your cheap shots! He swung again, nicking Magni's ribcage with a glancing blow. "I would rather die on my feet, than serve on my knees!" He said, wincing at the pain and slaming his sword into Esben's. "Sorry, boy, but thats not how this is going to end!" Enunciating his threat with a riposte, and a cleave through Magni's swordarm. As he fell to his knees in pain, he spoke through clenched teeth, "You promised you would kill me!" The boy flung his head up to look at Esben, who was now also kneeling. "Oh I am going to kill you; I'm a man of my word after all. But first, I'm hungry. You put me through a lot of trouble, cutting my hand off. You will pay for that, now." Esben sunk his fangs into his opponent's neck as Magni screamed in agony. Esben then whispered into his ear, "what was that about dying on your feet?" He said as he conjured two daggers and hewed Magni's calves from his legs. "This is only the beginning of your suffering. You will be made an example of as to why you do not disobey the orders of out Dark Lady." He said, sinking his fangs once more into Magni's neck, who had passed out from shock by now.
That was fun, Esben thought as he recalled the raid. That boy's vitae was the best he had tasted in a while. "Maybe I should sample more of the Northfolk", he thought to himself. Esben strolled back into the secluded monastary to oversee Magni's recovery. "How's the boy doing?" "He's recovered from his wounds just fine, minus his calves. Thanks to your Coagulate technique, he was saved from complete bloodloss. The only major problem is he is still dormant after 3 days." Esben smirked, "Oh don't worry about that; I know just the thing to wake him up." He then removed his left gauntlet to reveal the pulsing, undulating mass of blood; vaguely in the shape of a hand. Esben then manifested a needle on each finger, and drove them under Magni's fingernails. The Boy's eyes shot open, and he prepared to scream; but not before the needles grew hooks, and Esben ripped his fingernails out, along with a few veins. The cry of pain shot through the halls like a banshee as Esben calmly walked out of the room and informed the cultist standing in the main hall, "Prepare the Bull." The cultist bowed, and scurried away. Damn, he thought to himself, I'm hungry again.
"How many more times I have to tell you..."The cloaked, diminituve humanoid said, rubbing his temple with a somewhat wrinkled and tattoed hand, a bone bracelet hanging from it. "You don't feed that kind of treats to the beasts, lackwit." The height and somewhat gutural pronounciation of such words denounced the beast as one of the most known pests of the kingdoms. A goblin. And one quite rare at it, for he was of advanced age. Normally these creatures did not live that long. The most surprising part was however, that the denizens of Viarosa were giving him and his minions wide berth.
It was because of the motley. Excluding the cloaked elder, every single of the half a dozen of goblins that surrounded him was dressed in a garish attire, announcing their stated profession to the world. Circus performers. Two of the male ones were juggling small balls, swapping them as they balanced themselves on two large balls, showing near perfect coordination, despite the rough monstrous features of the couple. A third one, female, with somewhat more softer features and closer to what humans deemed as acceptably presentably was announcing the name of the Mist Goblin circus with surprising diction, not skipping a beat to squeeze the most of her tiny lungs to announce the different numbers. A fourth one, female was sitting on a crude stand, made out of a box, and posing with a head-dress dedicated her time to perform card tricks or Crystal ball readings for free as a way to advertise.
They had been moderatedly successful despite the crowds of the street and the location, a little way off the main streets of Viarosa, having atracted several kids and even the surprised adult. And luckily, none from the guard nor any zealot had driven them out.
But the fifth male goblin was bowing before the leader. "Me sorry! Me sorry!". The flustered goblin added, exchanging looks with one of the beasts of the circus. It would have been an splendid example of male wolf, if the pitiful beast wasn't whining and puking in the dark section of a back alley, too sick to even stand up. The leader shook his head, sighing deeply.
First there were the bad omens. Me and Zema get bad readings with our cards and bones. Then the temple of Hagash crumbles, and that damned spirit of the relic tells me that a God died. And that is supposed to be really bad news. Of course, given how much unrest there is these days, we can barely scrape by. And now this. That fool poisons my prized wolf companion because he didn't pay attention to what kind of seasoned meat he was giving to the animal.
"Well, can't be helped." The Goblin said as he clenched his teeth, revealing his most recognizable feature, a golden tooth. "Kruk, you did this, so you're going to tend to my wolf for the time being." He said, indicating the apologizing goblin to keep cleaning wolf puke from the street. "Zema." He said, catching the attention of the fortuneteller goblin. "You will come with me. We are going to find an emetic for this poor beast."
"Yes Goldtooth", said the female goblin as she packed up her stand, and followed the elder goblin as he squirmed past the people. "We need to find an apothecary, but failing that, any tavern will do. We can fetch ingredients for the emetic from food spices aswell." He added. "Mayhaps we should try the Laughing Fiddler."
"I can certainly see why and how your friend would get lost in this labyrinth of a city," said Sorano to Rhiara, as they carefully trod side-by-side down the cobblestone streets. "All the better to delay besieging armies, not so fortuitous for the non-native traveler. If only the bastard nobility would let us open a chapter here, I might have more familiarity."
"I'm completely out of my depth in a city like this." Rhiara sighed as she looked around at the buildings she and Sorano walked past. She had never seen so many inns and taverns all in one place before. "Athaliah is, too. We're both from this cute little village up north, and... well, Viarosa is something else entirely." she shrugged. "Why won't the nobles let your order set up here, anyway? I thought most people would have appreciated their own holy order on their doorstep."
The Sun Elf let out a hearty chuckle, shaking his head. "Viarosa is the See of the Patriarchate of Celestis. This city, like much of Foveros, is very orthodox in thought. Our Order is understood to be 'heretical' for our faith in our Grandmaster. The more zealous types disregard our benevolence and condemn our beliefs," he explained. "Or, at least, those who pretend to be zealous. He who puts on airs of holiness for appearance's sake alone, you know the sort. Did you see how easily that hypocrite fop Demetrios was purchased by our Lord? Oh, Lucian told me everything; arrogant leech let us walk right through the gate, betraying whatever God he says he prays to, and besmirching his position and responsibilities for thirty silver an 'entrance fee.' If you didn't see it, you can ask him to confirm when we get back," he said, rolling his eyes in disgust, though not at Rhiara. He had a special distaste for men of false faith.
Rhiara ran a hand through her snowy hair, somewhat uncomfortable with the discussion. She had seen and heard of plenty of injustice in the world in the short time she had been out of Hoffen, but she still tried her best to be optimistic. "W-well... maybe that entrance fee goes towards running the city. Or maybe he spends it on making his family happy. People need any bit of joy they can find, especially now. Lysandra knows that there's already enough negativity in the world."
Sorano paused a beat, sighing sadly. For once, a tiny smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he looked over to Rhiara. "If only the world were so innocent. You saw how he clothed himself, how he walked and gesticulated, how he surrounds himself with gossipers and harlots, whom he needs to provide him his ego he himself cannot sustain alone. He took that money and pocketed it for no other reason than to have it," he replied. He shrugged to himself, and added, "His kind would argue that perhaps that's how things have to be, that life is about those who can merely survive, and those who cannot. Those above, and those below, who serve to prop up those who are born above, or slither into their status."
He pursed his lips, stroking his hairless chin thoughtfully. "And maybe there's truth to that. But I ask you to consider, how much darker the world would become if every man and woman felt this way. If there's anything Lucian has taught me, lass, it's that people like you are lamps; the Light of Solanius burns brightly in people who think in ought-to-be's, for hope is fostered in people such as these. And when you lend a lamp's flame to another wick, the flame is never lessened. True love and happiness never decrease by being shared, and when many lamps burn brightly, they illumine the darkest of rooms. What good is it, then, that men should yearn to snuff the flames of one another, all for the sake of being able to say they are the brightest flame burning?"
Though he clearly enjoyed musing like this, he quickly realized where he was, who he was with, and what he was doing, and his expression fell. "My apologies, for getting carried away on a sermon undesired."
Rhiara fell silent, and simply nodded as the elf spoke. "Don't worry about it, Sorano. You've... you've given me quite a bit to think about." She really did spend time thinking about what he had said as they continued their journey; she was glad that she could affect others' lives for the better if she tried.
"My response was the same when it was Lucian doing the talking," Sorano said with a genial laugh. "This is the sort of thing that got me to join the Order, personally. But alas I've digressed too long; let us focus on finding the others." And so he fell silent, turning his attention on his surroundings. As they came to the end of the street, they could hear a growing commotion not too far from them. Sorano held his arm out to stop Rhiara, his ears twitching as he looked for the direction of the shouting.
He began following the clamoring voices, turning the corner to spot a tavern with a wooden sign bearing the image of a jovial looking bard holding a fiddle. An audience gathered outside as four figures were marched out the door, secured by peasants, seemingly led by an imposing, pale man. Athaliah, Mostafa, Ceara, and... someone Sorano didn't recognize, but figured was probably involved in whatever just happened in there. As the gathering stopped in the street outside, a growing crowd of peasants emerging from their houses, the pale man stepped atop a conveniently discarded crate, placing him well above even the tallest of his audience. "Good and faithful citizens of Viarosa, hear me!" he shouted, his voice gruff and commanding. "Before you stand four heathens, who sought and plotted to consort with the demons of the Infernum for their own nefarious ends, placing at dire risk the entire realm of mankind! For this most detestable crime against humanity and against blessed Calidorus himself, there can be no acceptable punishment but death! Death, by the fires of Calidorus that they might purge these sinners of the foul taint of the arcane!" Hopping down from his makeshift platform, the witch hunter took a bottle of clear liquid out of the hands of the nearby barkeep, uncorking it with his teeth and taking a step towards the four condemned.
"Sorano!" Rhiara whispered, but hopefully loud enough for the elf to hear her. She pulled her bow off her body, now really thankful that she had brought it and a few arrows along. "What do we do? I could put an arrow in him, but..." she trailed off, looking at the crowd surrounding her friends and the man that was about to kill them. "That'd prove what everyone already thinks."
"Nock an arrow and hide. If I need your assistance I will whistle. I must first win the mob," he muttered to her. As she moved to comply, he stepped forwards into view of the pale man and the mob.
"Enough! Those four are not guilty of your charges, you accursed dogmatist! That you would immolate supposed heathens on a whim, you are no better than the Easterners who menace us for the same!" Sorano cried, jabbing an accusatory finger towards the man, the digit crackling with lightning.
The witch hunter glared, recognising Sorano's efforts to sway the assembled peasantry and noticing the arcane electricity which danced about his finger. "And lo!" he shouted, drawing the attention of the crowd once more. "Behold, a dark elven mage, come to meddle in the justice of man! To threaten good and faithful citizens, to sow the seeds of doubt in their - in your - minds! People of Viarosa, will we stand for such heresy?! Will we allow evil sorcerors to rescue those who would call demons forth upon us?!" A resounding "No!" came back from the mob. Gottmar turned to face the elf. "You were not present when I heard these four discuss their intentions. Yet, in a startling coincidence, you are present now to assure me of their innocence? What possible explanation could there be, other than the fact that you are their co-conspirator?!" More shouts erupted from the peasants; cheers for the witch hunter and insults and threats hurled at Sorano.
"Oi! Wait a second," cried one of the peasants, pointing curiously at Sorano. "That's not a shadow elf. Shadow elves got skin black like charcoal. 'Is skin is like piss," he observed. "Innit the Darkies that are in with the devils?"
Sorano seized the opportunity to elaborate on his unlikely and unwitting ally's case, ignoring the piss-skin comment for the time being. "Indeed I am a Sun Elf, a loyal and blessed child of Acanthio, God of Magic, Father of Elvenkind. But foremost I am a follower of our Lord Solanius, Light of Light, God of Gods. And it is chief among his Commandments that we judge righteously! Do you know not of the evidence for his charge? Has he shown you, or has he merely captivated you with honeyed words? This man is a would-be-murderer in the clothing of a guardian, who beguiles you, who ignites a blaze of your sensibilities! For I am here not because I am a co-conspirator, but because I am their friend, and I can vouch for their innocence!"
Seeing the expressions of doubt on a few of the peasants' faces, Athaliah decided to join in too - if they could turn the common people against the scarred man, she and the others would have a very good chance of living. "Calidorus is a god not only of mankind, but of law and honour!" the dark-haired girl began, shouting as loud as she was able. "Is it honourable and lawful to kill people based on nothing more than a conversation, and without even the mention of a fair trial?!" she turned to the captor himself, glaring at him with anger and contempt. "You follow Calidorus only when it suits you, murderer." she practically spat her words at him. "How many families have you torn apart because somone just so much as uttered the word 'demon'?!"
"Enough!" the witch hunter roared, unbridled rage rising upon his scarred face. "How dare you call into question my faith in blessed Calidorus! It is unwavering; unfaltering!" Gottmar raised his sword, brandishing it at Athaliah, and with his other hand drew his short falchion. He turned to the peasants who restrained the accused. "Release them, citizens. I shall duel them myself, one after the other, and let Calidorus decide which of us deserves his favour!"
A low murmuring could be heard from the crowd as the peasants hesitated, before a few stepped up to fulfill the witch hunter's order, pulling the four captives off to the side to secure them. At this point, a protest had begun to emerge from the crowd, whisperings of "unfair," and "hypocrite" bubbling up.
Sorano let off a proud chuckle, rolling his head to the side, cracking his neck as he stepped forwards. He made the sign of Solanius over himself with one hand, drawing his broadsword in the other. "Mother Aurelia, pray for our souls," he said, flourishing the blade, taking a few practice swipes. He spoke up, loudly enough to be heard by the audience. "I shall be the first to duel. Shall we take this to the death?" he asked.
"The prayers of a common whore won't save you, heretic." Gottmar nodded. "But if death is what you wish for," He made the sign of Calidorus across his chest with the tip of his blade. "For your sake, let us pray that you are granted a swifter end than the pyre."
"A rich statement coming from a man mere skin shades away from being a proper Easterner," Sorano replied with a wry smirk. "The divide between your blasphemy and the worship of the Flame grows thinner with every innocent life falsely accused and taken by your kind, 'Witch Hunter.' You stand between me and the last shred of hope this world has for surviving Htraknu's wrath. But I'll ensure you receive a proper burial."
At the mentioning of Htraknu, those peasants who had begun doubting Gottmar cast wicked glares at the pale man, appearing to study their environments as whispers could be heard from that half of the mob that was being won over.
And as they deliberated, the clapping of thunder boomed through the square as Sorano stepped forwards, skipping a considerable distance to meet Gottmar head on, attempting a single-handed swipe at the base of the neck. The hunter had anticipated sorcery, stepping back as the elf used his arcane craft to close the distance between them and ducking under his swing. From almost a crouch, Gottmar barreled into Sorano's torso with all the force he could muster, bringing his falchion around to swipe at the mage's side.
The elf's lungs emptied as the armored warrior charged into him, sweeping him off his feet. As he landed on his back, he saw the pale man attempting to slash him across the middle, likely to try and gut him. Lifting up a hand as if to vainly attempt to stop the blade or cry mercy, instead a pulse of lightning fired off, striking his cuirass.
As Sorano recovered, shouting could be heard as the peasants began to fight amongst themselves, pulling on each other, shoving others away, with some now attempting to strike their opponents. A couple of freemen in the crowd ran to the four captives with knives, but instead of taking "justice" into their own hands, they moved behind them to cut the ropes of Athaliah and Mostafa, who stood side by side, closest to the rioters. And as the ropes came loose, peasants on the side of Gottmar clubbed the two rescuers, striking them over the head with stones, presumably plucked from the misshapen street, screaming about not letting the witches escape.
The sudden burst of lightning crackled around the witch hunter's metal armour, protecting him for the most part from the brunt of its energy. Still, sparks flew in front of his face and small bolts of electricity arced onto his skin, forcing him to release the elf and jump back. Growling, he blinked to clear his vision, before launching a thrust with the tip of his sword directly at the elf's chest.
Sorano deftly swung his blade, misdirecting the human's weapon to safely sidestep away. "Athaliah, get the papers!" he cried, thrusting his fist forwards and attempting to strike Gottmar with the crossguard to push him away. "Bard, grab the others and run!"
As he gave this order, he let out a shrill whistle, no doubt signalling Rhiara to offer aid. It was only a matter of time before someone tipped off the city guard, so the party had to act quickly to retrieve the objective and escape the scene.
Now that he was free, and the others were distracted by the ongoing brawl, Mostafa could see to his companions. He pulled Ceara with one hand and Mortimir with the other, rushing them into the empty tavern and seeing to their bonds.
Athaliah, once freed from her bonds, immediately ran towards the tavern. The only thing standing between her and Bjorn's notes was a wooden door, closed and probably locked. She steeled herself and shoulder-barged the door with all the power she had - the door flung open and Athaliah found herself on the hard and slightly sticky wooden floor. As it turned out, the door wasn't actually locked.
She groaned as she rose to her feet; her shoulder was beginning to bruise. Bjorn's notes were resting on the table where they were sat before all this happened. Their enemy mustn't have found them worth bothering with, she assumed.
Upon hearing Sorano's whistle, Rhiara emerged from her hiding spot, on a balcony overlooking the street. She had already nocked an arrow, prepared to make sure the group could escape. Athaliah was outside once more, with the papers in one hand and her sword in the other; a few townsfolk that followed Gottmar stood in her way, armed with shivs while one man held a simple woodcutter's axe. She cut one down as he ran towards her, axe raised high above his head. Another two got behind her - Athaliah barely blocked one knife in time, but another was making its way to her chest.
She prepared herself for pain that never came; the blade merely scratched Athaliah's cuirass as the peasant fell forwards with a pained grunt, an arrow lodged firmly into one of his kidneys. Rhiara still hated having to harm people regardless of whether they deserved it or not; every time her arrows found a target, she felt pangs of regret. Though she'd never admit it, she also felt pride in saving the lives of her friends, regardless of how she did it.
Gottmar continued to parry the elf's attacks as they came, watching out of the corner of his eye as arrows began to fly into the crowd behind him. Making a quick jab with his sword to force his opponent backward, he took the opportunity to scan the rooftops and soon spotted the mystery archer; a girl of no more than twenty years loosing shots into the assembled peasantry. Anger rose up inside him - was there no limit to the evil these heathens were capable of?! Hurling his falchion at Sorano's chest, both in rage and to buy himself a little time, the witch hunter reached behind him for his repeating crossbow and sent three bolts in rapid succession towards Rhiara, levelling the weapon at the elf afterwards to deter his advance.
The first bolt fired by Gottmar hit Rhiara's bow almost perfectly - the wood cracked and splintered, and it looked like it was close to snapping completely. Rhiara ducked when she saw the man out of the corner of her eye; it turned out to be a smart decision, as another two bolts flew through the air and hit the wall behind her.
The sound of dozens of heavy boots on cobblestone began to echo through the streets, gradually becoming louder and louder until the noise of the marching almost drowned out even the sounds of combat.
Two formations of armoured men appeared on either end of the blood-soaked street ; their armour, while ugly and dull, was still functional - better than most soldiers got, even. They wore brigandines of various colours, their arms and legs were well-protected with full plate and their heads were protected by all kinds of helmets. Some carried spears, others swords and some brought axes. Each man carried a massive circular shield four feet in diameter.
The guardsmen began to close the fighters in by advancing from both sides; many of them saw what was happening, and made a break into the alleys close by. Soon, the entrances to the alleyways were a crush of bodies all trying to force their way in. Athaliah, Sorano, Ceara, the demon-hunter Gottmar - all of them had nowhere to go and they knew it.
Everyone in the middle of the two walls of iron and men stood still, some examining whether an escape was possible while others merely looked down at their feet and sheathed their weapons, resigned to their fate.
One of the guardsmen left the safety of his formation just by a few paces; the only notable thing distinguishing him from the other guardsmen was his hefty brown fur cloak, probably taken from a bear. He lifted up the front of his bascinet, revealing a lightly bearded, chiseled face, and the disapproving scowl on his lips.
"All of you are coming with us!" he sounded like he wouldn't take 'no' for an answer. "For the crimes you have all committed in the City of Viarosa, and against her people." He and the dozen other men behind him marched towards the battered group, while the men on the other side of the street turned around and headed in the direction of Viarosa's keep. The circle was closed so that nobody could escape.
An old vendor emerged from his colourful stall with what looked to be poorly-made jewelry strung across both his arms. He rushed towards Nima, extending his hands in a sort of display of his wears. “Finest jewelry in the southeastern markets, I make it all right here, materials bought new and uncut. Fine metal, I tell you, finest in the southeastern markets.” The slave-soldier didn’t react, which seemed to irritate the tradesman. “Just four arums for a piece. Fine metal, you’ll take one home for your wife?” Nima forced the man out of his way, which caused the vendor to curse and give up on his sale. Viarosa was an unorganized beast, poverty and wealth all overlapping and catching on each other. Mansions and tenant buildings, ramshackle apartments surrounded by homeless, priests distributing bread and criminals standing shirtless with all their markings on display. The grand markets were patrolled by the mafia rather than the guardsmen, but the exotic goods that made the coastal city so famous were still being sold in their droves. Grandmaster Lucian had let the refugees rest under the watchful eyes of some priests while he and his disciple bought supplies for them. The hunter and his woman were elsewhere, probably buying blood and other magical necessities. Nima walked a short distance behind the pair of holy knights while they bought food and chatted amiably - he thought it would be uncomfortable for the Samothaur if he did not keep a respectful distance.
Every step was fairly painful, due to the injuries that he had sustained during the battle several days prior, but he continued dutifully. The manticore had offered to heal his wounds, but he had explained that it would not be right without a purified flame present. She had argued with him for a short while, but eventually relented. Now that he was in Viarosa, a major city, he could find someone that could properly assist him. Someone on the Path, preferably a red zealot, could make the correct fire and heal his wounds. If he couldn’t find any eastern ecclesiastic, then he would be forced to summon the Flame himself.
As the slave-soldier wandered the market, Lucian took notice of his pains. At the time he was discussing future plans with Kinara as the two purchased arrows and fletching materials for her. And as the salesman exchanged arrow bundle for coin purse, Lucian patted her on the arm and whispered something to her, gesturing back towards the hostel they had left the refugees. She nodded courteously and sauntered off with the arrows, leaving him with Nima. He quickly caught up to the Eastern warrior and called for his attention.
"Aye, Nima," he began, "I could not help but to notice that you are still nursing your wounds from the village incident. Have you not found a Zealot by which you can accept treatment?"
The soldier pressed his fist to his chest in salute before he spoke to the grandmaster. “I do not think there are Zealots still in this city after all that has happened between west and east. Now, the few that travel to these lands do so only under the standard.” Nima paused. “If you would give me leave, I will find my own way to right myself.”
"With all respect, soldier, you may be able to summon your flame, but you can provide no healing for yourself after first aid," Lucian replied. To illustrate his point, he raised an armored hand, a golden mist dancing about his extremities and over the palm, before he waved it away. "If you would permit me, should we find no zealot, I can enhance your recovery once the proper fire is burning?"
Allen sat hunched over in the middle of the group of refugees, wondering what would become of them. He'd only been in Tiraști for a week when was attacked, so he was only vaguely aquainted with the people sitting around him. Allen thought about the battle and made a list in his head of the notable fighters that participated; much to his chagrin, he couldn't include himself on that list. He suddenly sat upright, realizing something about one of the fighters. Though he couldn't read, Allen had seen a picture of the tall, blond man in full plate in a book when he was young. The Mač that had adopted him told him stories about this man, and the influence that he'd had on stategy and swordsmanship.
No sooner did he realise this than the Samothauress, whom he had seen leave with the man he was interested in, came back into the one roomed hostel with her arms full of parcels.
Allen leapt to his feet, addressing the Samothauress. "Here, let me help you with those."
As the boy ran up with his arms reaching for the bags and boxes, Kinara smiled and offered them over, letting him take what he could carry. Given her inhuman strength, the packages weren't as much a burden for their weight as much as they were for how much space they took up, making the load fairly cumbersome. So she was glad to receive any measure of assistance nonetheless.
When his own arms were full, she curtseyed politely to him and said, "Thank you kindly, sir."
After the packages were placed down in an orderly fashion, Allen turned to Kinara. "One of the men you left with, before. He wouldn't happen to be Ser Aquila, would he?"
"Why yes, actually," she replied, crouching down to open one of the bags, revealing it to be filled with foodstuffs, presumably for either the hostel to use or for the road, once the travelers set back out. "He is my Grandmaster, and I his Apostle." The Samothauress plucked a peach from the bag and paused, subtly offering the fruit to the boy.
Allen accepted the peach gratefully, it had been a long time since he'd had a fresh fruit. "You wouldn't be able to tell me where he went, would you?" Allen inquired, "I um... Want to ask him a couple of questions."
"Oh! Are you interested in joining the Order?" Kinara asked, smiling brightly. "I'm certain he'd be delighted to have you with us! He just left the market, headed east with that slave-soldier, probably to have him patched up after Tiraști," she added, raising an arm to gesture in the proper direction.
"Thanks!" Allen yelled, dashing out of the room without a second word leaving the Samothauress without warning.
Blinking repeatedly, Kinara briefly processed what had happened before letting out a quiet, delighted chuckle, before resuming her duties.
“Not in my city, understand? The good lord cast the tinders out, made a mockery of them. He should’ve done with you too, eastern murderer.” The shopkeeper waved the two men away with a dismissive flick of his wrist, going back to chopping his cuts of beef and pork. Nima looked to Lucian, a restrained expression on his face. The grandmaster nodded to the Viarosan, exiting the small butchery and stepping back onto the street. Nima followed dutifully.
“Even if there are Da’avi in this city, which I doubt, we will not find them,” The slave-soldier remarked dejectedly. “I must make the fire myself.”
"So be it then, but with what would we do so?" Lucian asked, scratching his beard thoughtfully. "And must it be living, or deceased?"
“The Flame can only be called with sacrifice. We must find something that lives and I must burn it.” Nima paused. “Legionnaires in the field use vermin to worship before a battle, if they are separated from those on the Path. There are rats in this city, yes?"
"There should be plenty, though they would be drawn more towards the poor districts. The challenge is catching one alive," Lucian replied, scanning the cobblestone streets as he walked alongside Nima. "In your condition it would be unwise to reopen your wound or risk infection in the more decrepit alleyways. Nevertheless, keep an eye out for me, if it pleases you?"
Nima looked at the grandmaster strangely. “You cannot taint the vermin with your magic. Once you have it, we will need to make a fire, again without your magic.”
"No, I would not require magic to capture one. Unless that is to say that I cannot so much as touch it?" he inquired, leading the soldier back behind the butchery, watching carefully to see if any had witnessed him. "Anyway, if we cannot acquire anything live from inside the butchery, we are certain to find scavengers picking off the man's refuse near the butchery. Without alerting the butcher, shall we look around?"
"You can touch it. It cannot be tainted with anything unnatural." Nima followed the grandmaster behind the shop, careful to avoid any windows through which the butcher could see them. They walked into the alleyway that connected the near of several buildings, immediately noticing the piles of filth that had gathered in several areas. The scraps of rotting meat and decaying garbage were swarming with flies and plagued by a company of rodents who scurried into darker parts of the street as soon as the two men came near. "Rats will do," remarked Nima, watching the vermin intently.
Lucian fixed his gaze on one of three rats currently gnawing on a slab of rejected venison, each attempting to wrest control of it from the other two. Slowly inching closer and closer to the rodents, Lucian flexed his fingers slowly, mentally preparing himself for the pounce. They seemed to pay him no mind even as he drew nearer. And finally, without a word or sound to announce himself, he dived for the middle rat.
Instantly, the other two scurried away as Lucian collapsed on top of the rotting clump of flesh, just barely missing the rat's tail as it ran away. He scrambled up, trying to rise to his feet again, sliding on the slick refuse. He snapped up the rat by its tail, only for it to curl up and slip from his grasp. To the Paladin's credit, it struck its head on the cobblestone, and as it attempted to flee, it moved much slower and more erratically.
Nima limped forward surprisingly quickly, bringing his sole down on the rodent's tail as it struggled to escape. The rat squealed in confused pain as Nima bent down and grasped it firmly in both his hands. He looked to Lucian, who was busy wiping filth from his fine clothes. "Grandmaster," He said. "Could you hold the rat? I must summon the Flame."
Lucian stared up from the ground and at the rat in Nima's hands. Brushing it off like he hadn't just gotten his ass kicked by a rat, he rose up to his feet and attempted to dust off his surcoat in as dignified a manner as he could make the gesture. "Aye, you get started on that then," he replied, taking hold of the rodent in both of his hands, holding it stiff as it squeaked angrily.
The Easterner reached into a pouch and produced a tinderbox, kicking around a few loose, trashed items on the ground into a pile. When enough flammable material had been collected, he crouched down, wincing through the pain in his side, and with the tinderbox sparked a small fire, uttering a prayer in his native tongue as he cultivated the fire. The flame crackled to life, and as soon as it was stable, Lucian knelt down and, making the Solanian Sigil over his heart, he stuck the rat into the fire. He tried not to listen to its screeching as the fire burned away its fur and flesh.
Within moments the rodent had perished, its body now fuel for the fire. "The Flame is here with us," Nima remarked breathlessly, nodding to Lucian. "You may now heal me, by magic or by medicine." Punctuating this point, he reached for his cuirass and unbuckled the leather straps, removing the damaged armor before lifting his tunic, gesturing to the location of the wounds he had received in Tirasti. The linen was matted with a terrific amount of dried blood, discolouring the regular crimson into a darker shade. "By the Light of the Gods, man," Lucian said, eyes fixed on the gash as he removed the spent bandages that had covered the wound. "Be it by your iron will or the hand of destiny, for you to survive such a loss of blood is inconceivable. Let us get this taken care of."
At that moment, Allen walked around the corner of the butcher's shop, having found his way there from Kinara's directions. He stopped dead in his tracks and stared with wide eyes at the two men, who were absorbed in their task. The he recognised to be Ser Lucian Aquila, who was currently placing his hands against the side of the other; from his discarded armour, Allen could see the man came from the East. To top it all off, the smell of singed hair and burning flesh filled the air, emanating from a smouldering rat the two had apparently ignited.
The palm of Lucian's hand began to emit a faint, golden light that grew more powerful as the seconds ticked by. He hovered his hand over the wound,crossing the other hand over the back of it, as if pressing the magical energy over the open flesh. "Minions of Hargash are known for being more brutal and unclean than they are efficient killers. So it isn't so much luck that they missed your vitals as it was force of habit for such repulsive creatures of the Infernum. Had they been Lotec's spawn, you would already be long dead, most likely in two halves," he stated, rather bluntly. He lifted a finger, eyeing him sternly. "And what they lack in accuracy they make up for in foul magics, stable-guard. Count yourself blessed that this did not develop into an otherworldly disease. I have seen limbs grow black and pulpy, like the flesh of a rotted fruit, falling apart with the bone. Pustular blisters that consume the face entirely, disfiguring permanently one's countenance. Worse still, but I will spare you the details. You should have had this treated long ago when the Krossaviker had offered her aid, and made do with a small flame such as this."
"Your orders were clear, and delaying them with minor injuries would be insubordinate. The retreat was tactically far more important than my blood." Nima pulled his tunic down, covering the now fully-healed wound. His gaze was locked onto the newcomer that Lucian had not yet turned to notice. "Grandmaster," he reported matter-of-factly. "A boy." The easterner knelt downwards, whispering another prayer and putting out the fire with a few waves of his hand. All the while, he kept an eye on the young man.
Lucian turned to see the young man standing before them, now rising to his feet. "You there, are you with the butcher?" he asked, glancing towards the back door of the butchery. "An apprentice, of sor--" he stopped, falling quiet as he looked the boy up and down. His eyes narrowed, and a thoughtful expression appeared on his features. "No, I recognize you somewhat. You were with the refugees, were you not?"
The direct address snapped Allen back to reality. He nodded his head, then took a deep breath. "Are you Ser Aquila? I'm Allen. I helped to protect the all the sick and the old and the children at Tiraşti. I was kind of hiding though. I know how to fight, but I've never fought anything other than humans before, but you fought like it was nothing. Will you teach me? Was that magic? Why are you hiding in the trash? Are people looking for you? Why was that rat on fire? It smells bad out here," Allen left barely any space between his words, let alone enough for a response to be given. Finally, Allen pointed at Nima, without taking his eyes off of Lucian. "And why was that man taking off his clothes?"
The Paladin cocked an eyebrow, his lips parted as he waited for a point to interject. When none came, he instead waited until the kid ran out of breath. Pausing for a solid five seconds to ensure he had nothing else to say, he slowly lifted his hand to gesture for Allen to wait before he responded. "Boy," he said, "I will be honest in saying that I did not understand the majority of what you have asked unto me. Breathe, and ask one at a time, that I may properly answer you. From what I gathered, you asked my name, and why the Easterner here had lifted his tunic. The man was wounded severely, and required healing. And though I adhere not to the Path of the Flame, his survival is necessary for my companions and I, and thus I had to acquiesce to his need for a burnt offering to summon his Flame," he explained.
"Now, I ask you, slow down, and clarify for me, who did you say you were?"
"I'm Allen. I was with the refugees, like you said. What were those... Things? Did one of them hurt your friend?"
"Aye, several of them in fact," Lucian replied, glancing back at Nima. "Were it not for the Krossaviker and Apostle Kinara, he'd have surely perished under the claws of those that had him pinned down in Tiraşti. The fact that he survived as long as he did speaks of his strength to me." He turned back to face Allen and offered his hand. "Pleasant to meet you Allen." He stopped and looked down at his hand, remembering it had been on both the rat and the filth-covered ground. He retracted his hand and awkwardly wiped the palm on his tabard, bowing to Allen instead. "Apologies. I wish we could meet under better, cleaner circumstances than these."
Allen nodded, though he hadn't really registered what had been said. "You look completely different than in the picture my Mač showed me of you. In the book you looked all old and scarred; your armour is the same though, and your... sword." Allen pronounced the word with some reverance, as his gaze shifted to the distinctive blade. "Is that the same one you first did the Aquila Absetzen with?" He was of course referring to an obscure parry allegedly developed by the man standing in front of him.
Lucian chuckled goodnaturedly, waving a hand dismissively towards the boy. "Ah, Evroult Thévenet. Father pardon that man's departed soul, alas so much of the content of his De Universo is false. To include his article on myself and my Order in Volume VII; the Aesernian Church and Heretical Sects," he explained. "And indeed," he said, gesturing to the wing-shaped crossguard of his sword, "I've had this blade about four years now. And I assume the 'Aquila Absetzen' refers to my duel with Merodach? Your Mač is a knowledgeable man, to know of that battle. Was he with the Order then, perhaps?"
Before Allen could respond, several men appeared at the entryway of the alley, blocking any chance of exit. All were dressed in the armour of Viarosan guardsmen except for the man at the head of the loose formation, who Lucian and Nima both recognized as the butcher that they had met earlier. “There they are!” He jabbed a finger at the smouldering rat. “Caught trying to burn my shop to the ground, all for the honour of their eastern god!” He turned to one of the guardsmen, his face twisting with disgust. “You know how these people are with fire. They can’t be allowed to run free; they’ll set the city ablaze!”
The guard drew his sword, prompting the rest of his men to do the same. “They’re not going anywhere.” He levelled his blade at Lucian. “For attempting to do harm against a good citizen of Viarosa, and for spitting in the face of the true gods, I am putting you all under arrest. Throw down your arms.”
Lucian stood his ground, glaring at the butcher. "I tell you, this once proud bastion of learning and culture has become a doomed by its own hand. Truly, I know not what I expected other than false piety and treachery," he said, cocking his head to the side. "I told you in your shop, the Easterner was severely wounded and in need of treatment, which thankfully I have provided when you were unwilling to obey the commandments of the Gods you invoke." He faced the guardsman and added, "I do not follow the Path of the Flame, but the moral law of my Father who is in Heaven. You would do well to be warned, that it is by neither my hand nor the armies of the East that this den of iniquity will be burned."
He took a deep breath, calmly letting it go. "I will go quietly, but spare the boy, here. He only just got here, and was not involved in the burning of that rodent there. Investigate the area, see that there is no property damage. Nima, we will not resist. Hither, then, and we will take our case to whomever shall be our judge."
The dungeons underneath Viarosa's keep were similar to those all across the continent - dark, dank and cold. It was a seemingly-endless maze of crumbling stone and black iron bars with very little natural light. Instead, small torches sporadically placed on the walls provided what little light there was.
Silence in the dungeon was rare - not entirely surprising given the nature of a few people who were imprisoned. If prisoners weren't arguing with the dungeon's guards, you could be sure that they were arguing with each other. And that was on the best of days.
Everyone who had participated in the brawl in the street found themselves in the dungeon's cells; they had all been interrogated and were simply waiting for what would come next. Plenty of time had passed, but nobody knew exactly how much. Definitely a few hours, at least?
While the official capacity for the cells was five people, the guards constantly and conveniently forgot about that - everyone that supported Gottmar, and Gottmar himself, were crammed into one cell. The others didn't have it any easier, as they found themselves in the same position. Everyone had their weapons and armour confiscated from them; those who wore nothing but underwear under their protective gear, like Rhiara, could count themselves lucky - she got to keep hers.
Insults were occasionally traded between the two sides, but there wasn't much anyone could do besides that. A pair of plain city-folk were in the midst of a particularly strongly-worded argument when a loud 'clack' and then a drawn-out 'creak' from the dungeon's entrance made them both quiet down almost immediately. A few pairs of footsteps came stomping down the hallway towards both of the cells.
The source of the sound was a duo of guards, decidedly less well-armed and armoured than their counterparts that apprehended the group. They wore simple leather armour and carried a shortsword with them wherever they went. Accompanying the guards was a very well-armoured man clad in full plate armour with white and blue accents.
One of the guards pointed to Gottmar, and then at Athaliah, Sorano, Ceara and the rest. "These are the ringleaders; the ones the Chevaleresse-Lieutenant will want to see." The other guard nodded and walked towards Gottmar's cell while the knight stood watch. "Your lucky day, scarface." the man sneered at the witch-hunter as he used his key on the cell door; the knight behind him had his hand on the hilt of his sword, ready to deal with anyone who thought about running while the cell was open.
"Were it a lucky day for any of us, you would not have intervened in the execution of my sacred duties," Gottmar snarled, glaring furiously at the guard. He rose, stepping through the open cell door to face the knight.
Meanwhile, his companion did the same to the other door; Sorano, Mostafa, Mortirmir, Rhiara, Athaliah and Ceara were all escorted out of the cell, the knight's presence ensuring that everyone else stayed inside. Both of the doors were soon locked again.
Athaliah and Sorano glowered at Gottmar, who did the same in return - the only thing stopping them from trying to kill each other were the armed guards separating them.
The journey into the keep itself didn't take too long - soon enough, the group was walking along the richly-decorated hallways filled with valuable paintings, statues and other trinkets that only the insanely rich would own. Milo Demetrios, the man who owned the city and the keep, couldn't resist flaunting his weath, it seemed.
Eventually, they reached the keep's church; somehow, it avoided the disgusting lavishness that had affected the rest of the keep. It was actually somwhat bare, especially considering that it was one of the more important churches in the city - all the nobility would go to worship there, and the local knights of several holy orders called it their home.
Waiting for them was a woman in her early thirties, with brown skin, braided brown hair and sharp, grey eyes. She wore a set of blue and golden robes; while it was a bit more form-fitting than normal robes, it still did an excellent job at covering her up. Both Sorano and Gottmar recognised the colour combination and the exact type of robe - the woman belonged to the Vilvere Order, from to the east a ways.
She walked forwards to meet the group; the woman moved with purpose, like a soldier, rather than taking the delicate steps of a priestess. The way she moved also gave hints as to how powerful her legs were - she wasn't someone who sat in church all day.
"Chevaleresse-Lieutenant." the knight bowed his head respectfully, finally breaking his silence to greet his counterpart. From his accent, he was Illyrican, probably nobility. "This is the group that caused chaos in the streets. According to scarface here," he gestured one of his hands in Gottmar's general direction. "the rest of these people are demon summoners, while they claim that they're trying to save the world from some god-killing dragon, or something." the knight shrugged. "They say that they have proof, but it's only some notes that look like they were written by a madman."
The woman, now confirmed to be another knight, raised a critical eyebrow as her fellow knight shared what he had learned. "And you expect us to believe that?" she said flatly, looking at each prisoner with a less than amused expression. She had a distinctive southern-Rosilandi accent. "Do any of you want to clarify it for me?" she glared at each person besides Gottmar, daring someone to volunteer.
Ceara stepped forward, nodding her head respectfully before speaking. "Look, lady-knight, we hadn't done anything to cause this fighting. We were just eating and talking, nothing close to the intentions that this bedlamite has accused us of." The thief looked down. "He brought us outside and tried to set us ablaze like a bloody madman. We had not a hand in it, I swear."
Athaliah nodded slowly at the redhead's explanation. "It's true, madam." she added. "We were discussing the contents of the notes - we were hoping to use them to find wherever our... associate, made camps, and continue our quest from there." The woman let out a simple, unconvinced 'Hmm' before turning her full attention to Gottmar. "You. Care to explain why you thought these people were demon-summoners, and a threat to the realm?" she took a quick glance at the rest of the group, Rhiara and Athaliah in particular. "To me, it looks like they're just inexperienced 'adventurers', barely out of their teens."
The witch hunter gestured to the rest of the prisoners, contempt in his eyes. "I heard them myself, huddled around a table in the corner of a tavern, speaking in hushed tones of demons, of sorcery and death. Conspiring, clearly, to commune with creatures of the Infernum." He made the sign of Calidorus across his chest. "Tell me, lady knight, have you spent decades of your life hunting all manner of witches, warlocks, undead abominations and heretical demon-worshippers? For my fellow Brother-Soldiers and I have done just that, and more besides. You will heed my words, therefore, when I say that the innocent appearance of these heathens counts for naught. Justice must be served."
"I'm inclined to agree." the knight frowned at the rest of the group, disapproval plainly written on her face. "Tell me about this 'god-killing dragon' that you claim to be trying to stop." that specific detail was the part that intrigued her the most - after all, her order was founded on the art of hunting dragons, and all its knights still pursued the craft. "How do you know it can kill gods, and how do you know it exists in the first place?"
Sorano had been silent up until this point, carefully considering his testimony. At this point, his scholarly knowledge would help convince the Vilvere Knight. "The journals were written by a man named Bjorn, the third survivor of the Krossavik Disaster. The Godslayer's name is Htraknu, the one responsible for the village's destruction. That much, I can assure you, is no myth," he explained. "Furthermore, ask any priest with any shred of genuine piety what they felt little over a week ago; as the Order of the Knights Solanian feasted in Castle Mirador, Grandmaster Aquila and the clergy -- all ordained with the proper rites and the orthodox understanding of holy orders -- experienced a violent portence that Hargash had died, the cosmic order thus sent into discord."
The robed knight looked disturbed at the mere mention of Htraknu; she and the Order knew that it was he that attacked Krossavik and other villages in northern Asmeinland, but they were never able to find and kill him. Now she was hearing that he had killed a god. She had a sudden, almost crippling headache a week before that awoke her from her sleep, but she had no idea what caused it. Until now. "You're certain?" her voice was almost silent and much less commanding. It was a moment of weakness she would make sure wouldn't happen again.
"We are, my lady," Rhiara spoke up. "We know two of Krossavik's survivors... They told us of an artifact, a... a scalpel? It was in their village when Htraknu attacked. They said that the scalpel had the power to kill Hargash... Now Hargash is dead."
The knight spent a second or two thinking on what the archer had told her. Their story definitely added up, much to her own dismay. After all, not only did she know that one of the only dragons to have escaped the Order was now a threat to the entire world, she now knew that the people in front of her were associated with that order of heretics in Mirador. People she absolutely despised.
She turned to Sorano with a sudden, newfound fury; she grabbed the elf by the collar of his robes and pulled him towards herself. "Now, don't you dare talk about 'genuine piety' with me, heretic." she snapped. "The other Orders, they may tolerate your power-hungry lies, but we will not. Your band of heretics is doomed to fall, one way or another."
Relatively unfazed as the knight yanked him close, Sorano glanced down at her hand with a mild grimace. "Now while I can certainly understand the anger with which you disparage me, I must ask you to quell it for but a moment," he said, cocking his head to the side. "Firstly, these folks who are with me are not of the Order. I and I alone follow the Son of Our Lord Solanius, and should you hold anyone here for 'heresy' then let it be me, as these others go free."
He reached to gently brush her hand away, giving her a more stern but sincere look. "Secondly, Lady of the Vilvere, I would have expected you were aware that Viarosa, once a shining citadel of progress and trade, has fallen into corrupt hands. The love of money over the Gods has become apparent in many a nobleman, and undoubtedly some clergy. I wouldn't think to question your faith -- and I see that you are a holy woman -- but that of Viarosa's." He paused a beat, glancing over to Gottmar. "And should it be of consolation, that however power-hungry you believe us to be, at least Aquilans refrain from burning the innocent alive on misunderstood hearsay for a God who does not canonically desire such action."
Depsite Sorano's admittedly half-hearted efforts at getting free, the knight kept her grip on the elf's robes - at least until he finished speaking. His selflessness surprised her; she hadn't expected such values from an elf, and a heretic at that. She finally released her hold on him, pushing him back as firmly as she pulled him before. "My being in this rat's nest of a city is not by choice, elf." She turned her attention to Gottmar, who himself looked to be on the verge of snapping. "As for you, I advise restraint in the future. Not only did your actions lead to half a dozen deaths, but almost resulted in the information they hold being lost forever." She was unimpressed with his conduct, unsurprising given that he was supposed to be part of an order too. "As much as I'd like to have an example made of you, we have more pressing issues right now."
Gottmar snorted. "Restraint? Had I exercised restraint, and my suspicions of these people had proven to be correct, what then? Certainly, we would be facing far worse consequences than a few deaths in a street brawl. Do not dare presume to tell me how to do my job, 'knight'." He turned to Sorano. "And you, heretic, do not lecture me on the will of the gods! You are soft; weak. If it was left to the likes of you to interpret their wishes we would all have died out centuries ago."
"I'll tell you how to do your job whenever I damn well please, especially since you insist on being this bad at it." she retorted coldly. "What was it, five minutes after you entered the inn that a brawl started in the streets, and you've got nothing but damaged pride to show for it? Get out of my sight."
"Absolutely not," the witch hunter spat. "If this dragon is real, and as powerful as you claim - and still I do not believe you entirely - then certainly I cannot allow the task of slaying it to be left to a gang of jumped-up heretics." He glared at the knight. "And as your order holds precisely no authority over mine, you will not attempt to issue commands to me again. Is that clear?"
The knight opened her mouth to retaliate, but she was cut off by a new voice.
"It interests me immensely that mere moments ago you were willing to slaughter my allies in the streets on simple impulse, refusing to believe our justified claim that Htraknu has slain a Shaitun," said Lucian Aquila, his presence now announced to those in the room. He and Nima stood together with the guard that ushered them in, but until this point none of them had sought to interrupt the Knight Vilvere.
"...and now that you have but the faintest inkling of faith in that same claim, you seek to cut us out of the picture and claim our task for yourself that you may seize the glory?"
Lucian smiled, chortling in amusement as he momentarily glanced at the knight, as if checking to see if she found that as noticeable as he did. "Unfortunately for you, I don't think anyone else in this room is willing to let that happen. Were the responsibility of the world's salvation left to a murderous wretch who responds to a castrated ego by puffing up his chest against those who hold him accountable for his actions, and who cannot stand to work with others for the betterment of Thurius, then there certainly would be far worse consequences for everyone on Thurius than the casualties you caused trying to stop better men and women from saving it."
"Pretty words, preacher," Gottmar replied, voice full of malice. "I wonder though, are you prepared to back them up? For if you are not willing to 'let' me do something, surely it falls to you to stop me." He gestured to Lucian, beckoning him forward. "So come on then. Stop me."
"Enough!" the knight yelled at the top of her voice; it seems her patience had finally worn thin. With a simple tilt of her head, the two guardsmen, who were still present, restrained both Lucian and Nima. Meanwhile, the other Vilvere knight grabbed both of Gottmar's wrists in a grip of iron.
"Let me make this perfectly clear, if any of you so much as breathe towards each other, I will kill the both of you." She stalked towards Lucian with a scowl on her face, shoulder-checking Gottmar along the way. "Tell me what that creature is doing here." she didn't even bother looking at Nima. "Now."
"The Easterner, I would presume," Lucian replied, glancing over at Nima. "He is a close friend of the red-haired woman over with the others. On our way to Viarosa together we encountered a village being razed by Hargash's spawn, in a frenzy following their sire's demise. Though the village was lost, we succeeded in intervening in their attack long enough to rescue a great many civilians, who are being sheltered in a hostel not far from the market square," he explained. "The Easterner was wounded in the process, and as per their fickle customs, a cleansed flame was needed before he could accept my healing power."
"As you could probably gather," he casually gestured to the filth on his tabard and face, "I had to search for something he could use to burn for the proper rites. It was moments after I had sealed his wound that this wonderful gentleman here accosted us for attempted arson, though I can assure you this was not our intent." He directed an open hand to the guard whose left arm was locked around his right, weapon at the ready should the Grandmaster try anything brash.
He paused, looking the Knight Vilvere over. "I can tell as it stands that the two of us rather heavily disagree on the details of my ontology, and on our respective doctrines regarding the Gods and the dragon race. But let it be said that I have no ill will to express. Our world is at stake, madame, and I can tell you have a heart for the Gods and their Commandments, as well as for the people of this realm. If you have not already seen the notes that Bjorn of Krossavik composed on Htraknu for yourself, we would be well pleased to show you. Doubtless, a Knight of the Vilvere Order would be instrumental in bringing down the Father of Dragons once and for all, that never again the tragedy of Krossavik could be repeated?"
Her only response, at least for a few seconds, was a deep sigh. "Let them go." she spoke with a certain tiredness in her voice. Lucian, Nima and Gottmar were released from the grips of the guardsmen and the other knight. "Alright, you've convinced me."
She took several steps backwards. "I'll need to tell the Clergy of my intentions... you lot are going to wait just outside, under guard." she began, before turning to her comrade. "Chevalier, make sure these people don't move a muscle until I'm ready." "Of course, ma'am." he gave his commander a respectful nod before walking towards the exit with everybody in tow. The city guards also took their leave, intending to support their knightly companion.
Although it took a short while, the Vilvere knight had finally dressed herself for the quest of a lifetime. Doubts about the whole thing were still etched firmly into her mind, like if she'd make it out alive or if the threat was truly real at all. Not that she feared death itself; every Vilvere Knight who went through the process of joining was prepared for it. She was more afraid of her death meaning nothing.
She wore a steel-scaled tabard with blue accents- its arms, which were also blue, were padded and pockmarked with numerous steel studs. She would normally wear even more armour on top of all that, but it would inconvenience her in situations like the one she found herself in now.
"You don't need to kneel every time you visit, you know." a middle-aged man, clad in typical Solanian robes, stood in front of her. He always spoke in one of those soft, sincere tones that could probably placate an orc. "Apologies, Father." she replied, rising back up to her full height. While she was just barely taller than the spindly priest she figuratevely looked up to, she probably weighed about twice as much - the outlines of powerful muscles in her arms and legs were decently visible in her under-armour. "Old habits." The priest nodded slowly, understanding precisely what she meant by that. "Now, what can I do for you, Ser Angela?"
Angela sighed and let her shoulders slump. "It's about what I'm going to do. Did you read the letter I wrote to you half an hour ago?" The priest raised an inquisitive eyebrow. "About Htraknu?" Angela nodded in response. "Yes. I need to make up for Vilvere's mistakes, Father. We failed to kill it before, and now it might be the end of all of us." she didn't actually sound worried. Instead, her voice was full of determination. "Is this what's bothering you?" The knight shook her head no. "The people who gave us that information were affiliated with the Knights Solanian. I know I have to go with them to solve this, but... well, you know how I feel about them." she paused for a short second. "Not to mention that Eastern dog they have with them."
The priest put a hand on Angela's shoulder. "My lady, you have a lot more to worry about these days than mistrusting your new allies. You may hate it as much as you wish, but the world as we know it could be at stake, and the people you so despise are willing to work together to save it." Angela averted her gaze towards her feet. "You need to be willing to do the same."
"Okay." she sounded uneasy with the whole idea, but she'd always listened to what the Clergy had to say. "I can't promise I'll have a good relationship with them though." "Good relationships are necessary. You may have to rely on them to save your life one day." "I doubt it'll be a battle that finally gets me." "Angela." The knight sighed. "Okay, I'll do my best." she looked down at two vials full of dark red, viscous liquid that were attached to a string tied around her wrist. "What do I tell them about...?" she trailed off, almost mesmerised by the contents of the vials. "Whatever you want."
"I understand." she put on an expression of determination. "May I take my leave?" The priest gave her a simple nod. "Of course. Stay safe, knight." She bowed slightly in response. "You as well, Father."
Krink hated scouting alone in the desolate mountains. He hated the frigid winds tearing at his face and clothes. He hated the way the deep snow slowed him down as he trudged through it and then slowed him again as he covered his tracks. But what the small goblin hated most of all was the peril he was now in. It was common knowledge across most of the tribes loyal to Htraknu that the mountains to the north of Krossavik's ruins were cursed. Far too many scouts and patrols had gone missing in those parts. Most recently, a band of twenty orcs had failed to report back. Having been the most recent to displease his chief, Krink had been volunteered for the unenviable task of trying to figure out what had happened to them. Sure, there were a few others as well, but they were all so spread out that they offered him no comfort.
As the sharp wind bit at his face, the little goblin exhaled a small puff of fog and wondered darkly what manner of horrors the frozen wasteland had in store for him. Some said a lone warrior stalked the mountains, seeking vengeance, but that was preposterous. How could a single fighter be responsible for so many going missing? No man, no matter how skilled could take on twenty orcish warriors alone. Other rumors blamed the dwarves, but that was even more ridiculous. The dwarves were nothing more than stories to frighten children. The tales that worried Krink the most were the ones that claimed that the mountains were haunted by the wrathful dead of Krossavik. Ghosts who hung on to the world of the living through sheer hatred and answered to no god or Shaitun. How in the Infernum was he supposed to deal with ghosts? He was a scout, not a shaman.
It was the harsh cawing of crows that snapped him out of his thoughts. Nocking an arrow to his bow, he began to walk up a small hill. Suddenly, the wind shifted and his nose was assaulted by the scent of blood and death. He grimaced, not wanting to continue, but, knowing that if he turned tail and fled his own comrades would kill him for cowardice once he made it back home - if he made it home - he pressed on. Upon reaching the top of the hill, he scanned about for the source of the smell. He soon saw what had attracted the birds and his heart skipped a beat.
Facing Krink was a pyramid of severed heads. The orcish heads on the bottom were largely stripped of their flesh, but judging by the freshness of what was left... Well, it seemed he'd found out where the missing patrol had gone. What really made him tremble, however, were the goblin heads that made up the top of the pyramid. He recognized those as the other scouts that had been investigating with him. He was about to turn and run for his life when he became terribly aware that a large shadow had fallen over him. It was one of the last things he ever knew.
Bjorn Theobald contentedly placed the little goblin's head atop the pyramid of its comrades. Sure, it was a tad excessive and there was a good chance that either it would be knocked down by wildlife or covered by snow, but every now and then, one of his decorations managed to survive long enough to give his foes a good scare. Besides, after years of being out here on his own, he'd learned to find amusement where he could. Technically he hadn't been alone for the last couple, but, for the most part, his unwelcome companions were rather poor company.
Idly, he shifted his attention to the howling maelstrom of spirits surrounding him. To his bored disappointment, he found that they were - for the most part - simply repeating the same old accusations and insults. Before he had learned to tune them out, they had nearly cost him his sanity and his life. Now, with a few exceptions, they were little more than background noise.
Turning his attention back to the decapitated corpse, Bjorn sighed and slung it over his shoulder. He hated the taste of goblin even more than he hated the taste of orc, but it wouldn't hurt to have more emergency rations stashed away in the ice cave near his hideout. There had been times where he'd almost had to contend with starvation while lying low as Htraknu's minions scoured the mountains in force. He consoled himself by remembering that he'd at least be able to subsist on the provisions the greenskins had been carrying for a while. Without further ado, the scarred warrior started heading back to his hiding place, lest a more dangerous force be used to search the area.
The red dragon Htraknu stood tall amidst an endless sea of trees; the few leaves that they had were shades of red and purple, mixed in with valuable trinkets like necklaces which clung to the branches. In the distance, bright red light extended high into the sky, breaking the natural skyline. The sky above was in perpetual blackness, save for the shine of distant stars and an arm of the galaxy stretching diagonally across the sky.
At the dragon's colossal feet lay the broken body of the Shaitun Latemis - her trickery and her subtlety was no match for the sheer brutality of Htraknu and his new army of the dead. Though the goddess had hidden herself amongst the shadows of trees giant and small, the walking corpses burned them down without a thought. Her bands of spectral thieves and assassins could not hope to compare to thousands upon thousands of mindless warriors and the dragon-god's fire.
All things considered, that fight was a relatively easy one for the red dragon. Well, as easy as a fight with a god can be. Htraknu felt the power of yet another dead god coursing through his veins. A colossal roar of triumph left the beast's mouth - his undead followers all across this forlorn realm joined their own cries, resulting in a haunting shriek that could be heard for miles around.
Htraknu felt a strange tingling sensation in one of his front limbs; he looked down to see that the normally crimson scales on his foot had changed into a mucky green-brown colour, perfectly matching the shade of the dirt beneath him. With some intense thought, he managed to get his foot back to its regular bloody colour.
'This will take some getting used to...' he thought. After a few tries, he was able to shift the colour of his entire leg, then eventually, his entire body. He felt... smarter somehow, too. Clever little strategies to defeat the various gods passed through his mind. He also thought up ways of commanding his undead-orcish-goblin armies to victory... that would go far to save him from the indignity of relying on the orcish chiefs' aid in planning his next movements.
He still had a ways to go before he could take on the more powerful gods such as Solanius and he knew that even before he absorbed Latemis' knowledge and powers. So, next on his list would be Molarten, the God of domination, enslavement and the orcs. His powers would certainly come in handy, and he needed all orcs on his side, without question.
The group made their way out of the keep and towards the public square at the centre of the city, which was their designated meeting point with the others. It was early in the morning the day after they were all arrested, but hopefully the rest would be there waiting. After all, everyone had agreed on getting a good night's sleep beforehand.
Lucian, Kinara and Sorano, along with the newcomer Allen, led the bunch of weary adventurers towards their destination; Gottmar and Angela walked right at the back - there was a charged tension in the air between them that could be cut with a knife. Nima and Ceara were busy chatting amongst themselves.
Athaliah and Rhiara were chatting the time away as well - they were both devastated by the lack of sleep they got in the cells, but hardly anybody could notice once they started speaking to each other. "So, why were you and Sorano there to help in the first place?" Athaliah began. There wasn't a hint of suspicion in her voice at all. In fact, she sounded happy more than anything. "Not sayin' I don't appreciate you, but you've gotta admit, it's kinda fortuitous."
"Well..." Rhiara looked down at her feet. "You hadn't come back when you were expected, and we... uh, I, got worried." "Worried, about me? C'mon, I feel like you don't take me seriously enough." A little grin appeared at one of the corners of her lips. Rhiara, however, was less amused; she put a hand on her own hip and looked her friend in the eyes. "You were nearly burned alive for witchcraft and then nearly executed by that knight," she retorted, her voice in a deadpan tone. "How are you not taking this seriously?"
"I'm sorry," Athaliah gulped, looking suitably scolded. "I just wanted to lighten the mood." Athaliah had always hated it when people began to worry for her safety. Of course, that didn't stop her from worrying about Rhiara in much the same way.
"Speaking of lightening the mood..." Rhiara suddenly started beaming as she pulled her quiver full of arrows off of her back. She began to file through the arrows, in search of something. It didn't help that both she and Athaliah were walking at the same time. Athaliah looked at the white-haired girl quizzically. "Uh, what're you doing?" "I didn't bring my pack with me." Rhiara shrugged as she replied, gesturing with a free hand to a spot on the front of her armour where she'd normally keep a small leather bag. A few more long seconds passed.
"Yay! Got it!" Rhiara cheered triumphantly as she pulled out a slightly dirtied red rose. Not a real rose, obviously. It looked to be made of clay, or some other similar material. Nevertheless, it still looked as a rose should, with all the textures that entailed - whomever made it took a lot of pride in their work. "I wanted to get you something. You know, to, ah, thank you for the gift you got me last time we were here. That's why I left you alone last night. Good thing I did..."
Athaliah cringed inwardly. "Rhiara, I appreciate it, truly. But... well, I hate roses." "Oh." Rhiara looked down at her feet, suddenly and utterly dejected. "I-I'm sorry." Rhiara began to whine like a scolded dog. "I just thought... you know, the symbol of Karargos includes a rose, and I thought it would remind you of home..." Athaliah gingerly took the fake rose out of Rhiara's hand. "Stop worrying, ya big baby." "Sorry?" "I think it's wonderful. Thank you." Athaliah gave her friend a genuine smile. She slipped the stalk of the rose into one of the buckles that fastened her red jerkin up. It was really all she could do with it, given how she didn't bring any storage space with her either. "When and how did you even get this, though?"
"Well, you remember that I said I needed to do something when we got here yesterday?" Rhiara was back to her usual, bubbly self as if she was never saddened in the first place. "This was that!" she exclaimed with glee. "There were so many things that I could ave gotten for you..." Rhiara turned around to cast a quick glance towards Sorano. "I'm glad he came along with me; it might have been boring listening to him going on, but I learned what so many flowers symbolise!" Athaliah chuckled. "So I guess it's him I need to thank, and not you?" "What? No, no!" she replied hastily. "Well, kind of. It was mostly me though." Rhiara added, a hint of pride in her voice.
"So..." Athaliah couldn't hide the hint of a cheeky grin on the edge of her lips. "Sorano convinced you to get this little rose, didn't he?" "I thought of it first!" she replied quickly, taken slightly off-guard by the question. "I knew that the red rose symbolised where you came from even before Sorano helped me make up my mind!" Athaliah narrowed her eyes with suspicion, though her voice remained light-hearted and playful. "Hmmm. So did he say to make up your mind completely, then?" "Please stop." Rhiara groaned as she glanced around nervously, as if silently begging someone to save her from embarrassment.
A smug grin appeared on Athaliah's lips; her reply was a simple "No." "Fiiiine!" Rhiara whined. "Apparently it, uh... well... a red rose also means, um..." her face had gone beet red as she squirmed, creating a nice contrast with her white hair. "It represents love and passion." she finally answered. Her voice was as meek as it had ever been. She took in a deep breath before continuing. "I love you."
Upon saying that, Rhiara felt as though a whole two years' worth of feelings were suddenly lifted from her shoulders. Athaliah fell completely silent, dumbstruck. She eventually swallowed her nervousness after a few tense seconds. "Can we pick this conversation up somewhere private, Weiss?" she put an arm around her friend's shoulder and gave Rhiara her more reassuring smile. "I'd rather not talk about this in front of other people." Athaliah pulled Rhiara closer and brought her lips to the white-haired girl's ear. "But for now?" she whispered. "I do too."
At that, Rhiara's purple eyes started to glaze over; even the thoughts of Htraknu and gods were forced from her mind as she looked forward to the future with absolute glee.
Allen and the samothauress he had briefly met earlier that day navigated the narrow back-streets of Viarosa, steadily making their way towards the city's keep. After Ser Aquila and his eastern friend's arrest, Allen ran back to the hostel to retrieve the only other order member he knew. Luckily, it appeared that she knew exactly what to do. Kinara led, with long and purposeful strides; she seemed to pay no attention to her surroundings, totally absorbed by her thoughts. Allen practically had to jog to keep pace with her. He wondered how she knew the way in such a big city, or if she did at all. Having been raised in relative isolation, Allen wasn't used to being surrounded by buildings, or navigating such confusing roads. He'd gotten lost several times while looking for Ser Aquila, despite the samothauress's directions.
Eventually the pair came to a space between buildings, a fountain for the city's poor to draw water from tucked in a corner of the small plaza. Kinara made as if to keep going, intending to get to the city centre as fast as possible.
"'scuse... Excuse me, Miss Kinara?" Allen panted, his hands on his knees. "Is it alright if we take a little break here?"
"It can't be that much further. If Lucian was arrested with Nima, I fear they would have brought him before the Vilveres," Kinara replied, continuing to speedwalk despite the boy's protest. "If we don't hurry to the keep now, th-they'll-"
"Please Miss Kinara? We've been walking for hours. Plus," Allen added, standing up straight with a smile on his face "if Ser Aquila is as tough as my Maç told me than I'm sure that we have nothing to worry about. He certainly didn't seem worried when they arrested him."
Kinara slowly came to a standstill, raising her fingers up to press into her temples. She did not appear to be angered with the boy, and yet there was a palpable and thick aura of tension around her, were he to draw nearer to her. She weakly nodded to Allen, gradually sinking to her knees, leaning against the stone wall of the closest building -- a small bakery, by the look of the wooden sign overhead.
"I have lived to see what the Vilvere is capable of," she muttered. "They have slain dragons without hesitation for no other reason than that they were dragons. They have skirmished with our Order, found an excuse to make war with us for what they call heresy; they slander us before the Divine Sees and the nobility of these kingdoms. And they devour it as if it were a suckling pig. Hence, in this ancient and accursed city, the debased cretins calling themselves highborne make a show of their 'love' for the Gods they would sell for a room flooded with aurums, and along with the Vilveres, they oppress and harass Aquilans whensoever they chance upon the opportunity." By now, she was speaking with particularly viscous venom in her voice...
Allen sat down and stared quietly at Kinara while she spoke, absentmindedly fidgeting with the ring on his finger. He knew who the Vilvere were, but only so much as to know they were extremely secretive and that they hunted dragons. Allen didn't fully understand why the samothauress was so incensed, but he knew better than to ask right away. The pair passed some minutes in silence before he spoke up.
"My Maç said that there're plenty of Holy Orders that don't get along with the Aquilans. Do you despise them all as you do the Vilveres?"
"We are reviled because we believe our Lord of Light to have had a son by a mortal woman he loved, whom he translated into Heaven, and apotheosized. Not every Holy Order belonging to those who proclaim orthodoxy actively persecute us. I cannot say I consider them to be enemies. But the Vilveres. In Rosiland the Vilveres defend those coal-skinned, slavekeeping monsters. To their credit their defense of slavery is not direct, and they do not guard estates, yet they have made war with us on behalf of the nobility, and so defend it by proxy. That cannot be forgiven. Not by myself, not yet. For in Rosiland, slaves are beneath the cattle -- taken from good lives by manstealers, and disciplined by beatings, by starvation, and by far more malicious violation of the mind and body. They are not like the handservants of Aesernia or Tarraconia, treated at least as men and elves. Not even as the eunuchs in Marrakech, Cathion, and Sepsouten, seen as loyal and trustworthy. As animals," she explained. She was visibly shivering as she digressed on the subject of Rosilandic slavery, her fists clenching tight.
She looked up at Allen with a stern grimace, though not one that seemed to be directed towards him. "No, I do not feel hate towards the other Orders within 'orthodoxy.' They have done right by their beliefs, and have not compromised themselves the way the Vilveres have. Were they any worse than what they are, one would not be in the wrong for mistaking them for a fringe movement of Radicalist heretics, as the Order of Witch Hunters are considered."
Allen examined the samothauress carefully while she spoke; he noticed the fire in her voice and her aggressive stance, yet there was pain in her eyes. He dropped his gaze to the cobblestones in front of him. "You were a slave." His words barely a whisper, still they seemed to echo off the walls of the buildings surrounding them.
Kinara did not immediately reply, raising a hand to cover her face as she let off a deep sigh. Taking a moment to cool off, the faintest of smiles tugged at the corner of her lips as she steadily sat up straight. "You're more perceptive than most, I have to admit. Most outside the order assume that I am merely a passionate abolitionist, when I do speak of Rosiland," she finally replied. "But, I am curious. How exactly did you put that together?"
Allen looked up again, relieved to see that Kinara wasn't angry, and that she was even smiling a bit. Pleased that his assumption had been correct, a small smirk came to his face, before he remembered the seriousness of the subject at hand. "You're passionate to be sure, but your eyes - they know too much, they've seen firsthand the horrors of which you spoke." He cocked his head to the side slightly. "My next guess would have been that you had friends and family who were taken as slaves, or perhaps children."
The samothauress slowly shook her head, pulling her knees up to her chest and adjusting her position against the wall, staring dolefully down the street. "No, I haven't any children, nor am I married -- there isn't anybody of my kind and faith. Nobody who would feel the same," she replied. "I was taken as a child, along with my mother and father. And years of agony and futility in Shadow Elven fields went by before the Order raided Kylesha. Lucian himself was among them, and it was he who rescued me and brought me into the fold. I owe him everything. My service in the Order is the least I can give."
"Let's go get him then," Allen rose to his feet and walked towards the wall, offering his hand to Kinara.. "I feel plenty rested now."
Seeing the boy was ready to continue, she reached up to clasp his hand and rose to her hooves. "Then onwards, the Keep should not be far from us," she said. She gestured straightaways down the street they were walking, and started off on her way with Allen in tow.
However, just as she had picked her pace back up into a light jog, a familiar voice cried out to her. "Kinara! You need not worry, for we are safe and free!" Stopping in her tracks and turning to the source of the voice, she sighted Lucian, with the others in tow (plus a few additions she did not immediately recognize). Almost right away, however, she noticed that the paladin was much the worse for wear, his tabard and face covered in grime. Seeming to forget Allen's presence, she hastened to her Grandmaster, her expression filled with dread.
"Lucian! What did they do?!" she exclaimed, clasping the sides of his face, "What did the Vilveres do to you?" she repeated. She frantically started looking his features over for any cuts, bruises, or other unnatural blemishes, picking at his matted, muddied beard and hair as she searched for any. more subtle, head wounds, or for some trace of blood or other dried fluid.
Lucian smiled warmly, chuckling as he reached to put Kinara's hands away from his face and back down to her sides. Locking eyes with the slightly taller samothauress, he could see a particular fear in her that he knew well. And so he spoke calmly, and didn't yet release her fidgeting hands. "I am not wounded, and this dirt is from my attempt to help the slave-soldier heal properly. You know how the Easterners can be about medicine and restoration magics. I tell you, it was a mighty struggle to capture the sacrificial rodent," he jested. "I am unharmed, though apprehended on false charges of arson and blasphemy. The godless own this city, and so what to them is blasphemy is anything that should discomfort their own sensibilities, but this is besides the point," he explained. "The Chevaleresse-Lieutenant was more than sensible, and has agreed to dedicate forces towards investigating the matter of Htraknu." He saw her expression change from one of dread to one more mixed; confused and angry would be simple and precise.
"I dedicated myself," Angela corrected him, her voice giving away her frustration. "I can't give you anything else." Angela was clad in armour more befitting a knight now, instead of the robes or light armour she wore beforehand. In addition to her padded blue and steel tabard, she protected her arms and upper torso with darkened steel plate armour while a set of dark tassets protected her thighs. Finally, a pair of solid leather boots and steel greaves protected everything below both her knees. She carried her dragon-skull helmet under her arm; red and black plumage erupted from the back of it, reminding many who saw it of Aesernian commanders way back in the Empire's heyday. In its place, a small, chequered shawl was wrapped around her head. Its ends were tattered and torn from what looked like years of use.
"So." she began again, looking up at the Samothaur with disdain. She was at least seven inches shorter than Kinara, though she didn't seem to be bothered by that fact. "You're another heretic in 'the Grandmaster's' band?" Angela scoffed. "They really are scraping the barrel, it seems."
"If someone who could drill an arrow between your eyes before your sword cleared leather is considered 'scraping the barrel,' then yes. And that doesn't even begin to describe what his other Apostles could do," Sorano remarked. "Or what he is capable of, for that matter. Do not test the Son of Your--"
"That will be enough Sorano. The last time Kinara was underestimated, she proved she could more than carry her weight in Tiraști. Heaven forbid we battle another horde of Infernum spawn, but I suspect the Vilvere will come around," Lucian replied. He released Kinara's hands and waved the Sun Elf away, before gesturing to the Knight Vilvere. "Chevaleresse-Lieutenant Angela Kõivli. She will be accompanying us to the North, where we will hopefully recover Bjorn, or whatever the man left behind."
Angela chose to avoid escalating their argument; while she despised everything these heretics stood for, there was little point antagonising her allies further. At least for now. As she was introduced, she gave those around her a small nod. Those who weren't part of the Knights Solanian, anyhow. "So, he was one of the survivors from Krossavik..." Angela felt as though she'd been stabbed in the gut every time she even thought of that attack.
"Indeed. One of three, and the most knowledgeable on Htraknu. Which is why it is imperative that we locate him or his remaining notes and accounts. If Htraknu is hunting for the means of slaying Shaituns and Gods, surely Bjorn would know where objects of such power exist, or how to locate them if he doesn't already have a location," Sorano replied.
"I've been into the Spine before." Angela added. "If that's truly where this Bjorn was, I suggest we only bring a small number of us." In her mind, that suggestion made sense - there would be fewer mouths to feed and it would be easier for them to remain hidden. "The others who stay behind can help in other ways, gathering the support of local towns."
"I have already sent forth calls to arms to the nobility and royalty of the Western Kingdoms. Many of whom are past clients of the Order's monster and bounty hunting services," Lucian replied. "And I have already committed the Order's full might to investigating Htraknu's activities and gathering support. I believe that the influence campaign will therefore work itself out. What we need to do is attempt to beat Htraknu at his own game. As Sorano stated, primordial and otherwise legendary objects of power clearly exist with the capability of stealing into the realms of the Gods and Shaituns. We must secure them before the Father of Dragons can claim them for himself."
"A truly flawless plan," Gottmar finally grunted, pushing his way through the group to confront Lucian, his ever-present glare intensifying. "Certainly, we should not seek out and destroy our actual enemy - let us chase after trinkets and curios instead!" He shook his head in disgust, turning away from the knight. "Every moment we spend listening to this heretic brings us closer to defeat. We find the dragon, and we hit it until it dies. A simple method, but a proven one."
"Do you not think the Vilvere Order has already tried that?" Angela sighed. "As much as I despise this heretic, he has a point - another dead god is bad news for us. Besides, all you'll accomplish is your own death. You're no good to me dead..." The knight slowed down her speaking and rubbed her forehead; she could feel a headache coming on. Maybe Gottmar's statement was more stupid that she thought.
The Apostles and their Grandmaster appeared equally befuddled by Gottmar's plan of action, with Sorano seeming visibly offended by it. As Lucian was about to speak, he fell silent, and glanced away, raising a hand to the side of his head. "...the Lady of Schemes," he mumbled under his breath. "Were we to follow the Witch Hunter... the Godslayer now would merely outsmart us before we had time to strike." The paladin spoke lowly, staring at nothing in particular. He turned mournfully to Angela and inquired, "Do you feel as I do?"
Angela could only mumble as she nursed her head; it suddenly felt heavy, as though her skull had turned into a one-tonne weight. Finally, she managed to eke out a grumbled reply. "Of course I do, you profligate."
"So much for 'hitting it until it's dead,'" Lucian retorted, glaring at Gottmar as he stepped forwards and turned to the rest of the group. "We retrieve the Krossavikers and leave Viarosa as soon as we have our equipment and supplies together. We go together to retrieve Bjorn, or what he left behind. And when we have leads and means to delay Htraknu's ascent to power, we will split into two teams accordingly - one to pursue Htraknu, and one to safeguard or destroy the means of slaying more important deities, namely those of the Pantheon. I will send correspondence to my Apostles who are not with this party to update them on what to expect, and how to proceed."
As Angela began to reply, Athaliah broke her silence. "We should have both groups looking for artefacts, Lucian." Angela stared at her through narrowed eyes, shocked that anyone would have the gall to interrupt her. "If one team happens to find that dragon, they will die. Do you understand?"
"The Hoffenite is correct on that count, Grandmaster," Sorano replied, "While I can see the good you had in mind by keeping tabs on the monster, I do not think he actually knows we are actively opposing him in this way. Were we to give ourselves away..."
Lucian mulled over Athaliah and Sorano's input, pursing his lips and idly rubbing his chin. "A good catch, Athaliah. The death of Latemis only makes him a strategist, not omniscient. Wherefore Sorano makes an excellent case. If he does not know about us, we have the element of surprise -- the one thing that would disrupt even the most masterful plans of action."
Ceara stepped forward and held up a hand. “Can we slow down a moment?” The thief looked at the array of men and women with a fairly anxious look in her eyes. “This thing has killed two gods, and our plan to defeat him is to neatly collect all the things he needs to kill the others Whats to stop him from murdering the lot of us and taking it all back?”
"He did say 'destroying the means' was in the cards, in fairness," Kinara chimed in. "Or returning them to the Gods who left them on Thurius when they ascended from this world so long ago. I can imagine that if something is killing Shaituns, the Gods would certainly hear."
Gleefully making the sign of Solanius over his heart, Lucian glanced up to the sky with a smile. "Though I wish it were around better circumstances, I do long to meet my Father, face to divine face."
"Not another word!" Angela snapped, her face aready going bright red with fury. "If I didn't need you alive, my sword would already be in your skull. Don't push your luck."
"This is ridiculous!" Gottmar shouted, turning furiously on the apostles. "You admit that we have the element of surprise, and still you want us to waste time hunting these artifacts of yours?" He took a step towards them, hand edging closer to his blade. "You are either stupid or malevolent if you wish us to throw away our primary - perhaps our only - advantage, heretic. Which is it?"
"Yes! You are just absolutely the best!" Sorano cried with a huge grin on his face. He clapped his hands once and turned aside, clearly trying to stifle laughter. "You think that the element of surprise means that we can sneak up to a being that has slain the God of Undeath and Pestilence, and the Goddess of Thievery, Tricks, and Schemes, and just start hitting it until it's dead," he said. Taking a deep breath and a moment to clear the amusement from his system, he shook his head slowly and continued, saying, "This is not a wargame. This is not so simple a matter as saying, 'if it bleeds, we can kill it.' We can't waste our element of surprise on a head-on assault, because if we do, we will certainly fail, and anyone who survives is now marked for death, and we won't have the option of going after artifacts of power to limit the extent of Htraknu's ability to steal the essences of Shaituns and Gods."
"It's best we limit Htraknu while he's unaware of our meddling and our location," Kinara added. "Especially if we recover artifacts belonging to the Pantheon -- the Gods would surely know of our efforts and support us in a concentrated attack on Htraknu once we're actually ready to do that."
The witch-hunter launched a sharp backhand across Sorano's face, leather striking skin with a loud crack. "You think this is a joke, pathetic elf?! You think we can afford to waste our time playing at being archaeologists instead of fighting the entity we wish to slay?!" He turned away, disgusted. "If it bleeds, we most certainly can kill it. It will be hard to make it bleed, and it will need to lose far more blood than any of the eastern hordes you may have faced, but it will die! And as for you, cow-woman," his attention shifted to Kinara, still no less furious. "If, by your logic, the Gods will know of our deeds, and Htraknu has the power of two Gods, why would we have the element of surprise at all?"
Angela sighed and planted a firm hand on Gottmar's shoulder. "Listen here." she growled. "I don't care how good you think you are at dragonslaying. You genuinely think that we can stop a dragon that has the power of two gods with our swords and arrows and magic? You'd see us all killed, and our deaths would add nothing to the cause!" she paused for a second to allow what she said to hopefully sink in. "We're not talking about your own glory here, we're talking about the very fate of the world! We cannot afford to be thinking that small, it's far too late for that. We need to think big."
"We need the powers of the gods on our side. These artefacts will give us the means to gain just that!"
"How so, exactly?" Gottmar enquired, roughly brushing Angela's hand away and turning to face her. "What real advantage do we stand to gain by recovering these artifacts? Correct me if I am wrong, but our foe did not acquire his power by collecting trinkets - he slayed gods. Unless we mean to do the same, we will be no more powerful with the artifacts in our possession than we are now. All we will have accomplished is delaying the dragon's plans, and we will eventually have to fight the beast regardless. The sooner we attack, the less time it will have to prepare. In all likelihood, we will die trying, no matter when or how we approach the enemy." Imitating the Vilvere knight's gesture, he placed a gloved hand on her shoulder. "Does that scare you, knight? Is that why you are so determined to buy time?"
The knight shook her head, looking extremely irritated by the question. "What scares me, Eibenschütz, is my death not mattering. You don't think I wouldn't die the slowest, most painful death imaginable to give the world even a tiny chance? Your plan wouldn't be giving the world a chance, it'd be throwing our lives away and I can't allow you to do that." she slapped hard at the hand on her shoulder as if she were swatting a fly. "We can get the artefacts and take their powers to stop Htraknu! The more power it gathers, the harder it will be to stop it."
The witch hunter gave an exasperated sigh. "I will concede that you are not wholly incorrect, at least in theory," he grumbled. "But you neglect one very important factor, knight - an elder dragon with the power of two gods is hunting these artifacts even as we stand around bickering now. There is but one holy relic of power I am even vaguely aware of the alleged whereabouts of. What miracle do you propose will guide our little band of commoners and heretics to the rest before our enemy?"
"I don't know." Angela said frankly as she looked Gottmar straight in the face. "What I do know, is that Htraknu won't stop. Ever. First it's the gods, then our children, and then the rest of the world. I will not take that lying down while the Infernum still boils." She glared at everyone around her. "Are you coming with me? Or do I have to do this myself?"
Gottmar snorted derisively. "I have been suggesting the precise opposite of 'taking it lying down' for the entirety of this argument. If you believe implying you would undertake this task alone makes you appear any more courageous or virtuous than the rest of us, you are sorely mistaken."
"Was that so difficult?" Angela smirked, her voice full of condescending venom. "Besides, you've been advocating getting us killed for no purpose, as I have told you countless times." She studied the witch-hunter from head to toe, as if she'd only just cared to give him that attention. "I have no idea how a madman like you lived past thirty."
"As do I, striking mages and warriors out of turn," Kinara sneered as she tended to Sorano. Not that he needed any aid, though the Samothauress still made a brief check for blood. The Sun Elf dismissively pushed her hand away and wordlessly shook his head.
"By being very good at killing very dangerous things," the witch hunter replied, ignoring the cow-woman's feeble jabs. "You'd do well to remember that."
"Have you ever killed an adult dragon before?" Angela didn't feel the need to say any more than that.
The corner of Gottmar's mouth twitched into a cold approximation of a smile. He nodded.
Angela tilted her head just slightly. She didn't make any further comment - she simply smirked.
"Then we are agreed," Lucian said, stepping forwards. "We make for the Dragon's Spine, where we locate Bjorn or his information, and we split off from there to seek divine and shaitunist artifacts to delay Htraknu's ascent to solitary godhood. A monopotheosis that would doom Thurius," he said. He turned to give a sideways glance to Gottmar. "And one final statement before we set out on this journey that we all share mutually, Witch Hunter. Though perhaps these sentiments go unrequited, I have tremendous respect for the Chevaleresse-Lieutenant and, like her, I wish to see healthy cohesion within this travel party. I do not want there to be senseless violence among ourselves when the object of our more righteous anger is a dragon which threatens to kill the Gods we love and worship," he explained, now fully facing Gottmar. "Alas, even my patience is limited when it comes to the welfare of my brethren. Treat my own with due civility and there shall be no issues." With this, he gestured for Sorano and Kinara to follow, with Allen following of his own accord and curiosity, and the four departed to return to the hostel where they had left the Krossavikers.
The gardens of Zelemoyod were known for being fabulously extravagant. Swaths of strange tropical plants and sweeping arrays of multicoloured flowers were placed artfully in planters and constantly attended to. Fountains and braziers crafted by magicians could preform without any system of circulation or maintenance. Even as winter arrived and snow coated the rest of the city, walls of glass were raised around the gardens and they were painstakingly maintained by skilled magicians that created a constant layer of heat to keep the plants alive and thriving. Only the house of Virtanen, one of the most ancient and powerful families of shadow elves, could consistently afford to expand and maintain the gardens in their capital city. They paid for this exuberance with their many plantations in the south of the country, where slaves toiled in their fields and mines to produce the vast wealth that was then squandered on flowers and magical fountains. Rosiland was a land of regular such contrasts.
A woman in a fine dress sat on a stone bench in the magnificent gardens, surrounded by exotic flowers that she tended to carefully. Her clothing was made of soft wool and sable fur, with intricate golden designs playing across the black fabric. Her hair, too, was interwoven with shining metal and polished coins that chimed as she turned her head. On her face she wore a mask of polished wood that was coloured the same as her skin. The woman was a shadow elf, and she sat in the garden that bore her families crest. She tenderly plucked a leaf from one of her many plants, crushing it in her hand and letting it fall to the floor. The elf sighed.
“Your excellency, the delegation has arrived.” Another elf, dressed in similar but decidedly inferior clothing, spoke from behind a curtain of hanging wisterias. She nodded, waving the servant away with a nervous flick of her wrist. The vague sound of opening doors could be heard, and then the click of boots on a polished floor. The elf stood up, clasping her hands together and reviewing herself in a reflecting pool behind her seat. She looked as presentable as one could expect, given her current situation. Before she could linger on her appearance any longer, her visitors passed through the hanging flowers.
There were three of them in total. All of them wore plated mail of similar quality, but the question of their leader was instantly clear. The woman at the head of their delegation looked moved with hawkish confidence, and settled into an entirely severe expression as she entered the meeting grounds. The two behind her were recognizable for their movement as well, as robotic and distinct as it was. Religious-soldiers, from the mountains of the eastern lands. The chamberlain that had lead them into the gardens raised his voice. “You are now in the presence of Volikova Irina Virtanen, daughter of Masher Valerian Virtanen, the lady of Zelemoyod and all estates subordinate, rightful heir to the highest seat of the elven table, first ruler of the true race and all others inferior.” The chamberlain now turned to Volikova, bowing deeply. None of the foreigners did the same. Without missing a beat, the noble servant rose and continued with his introductions. “Your excellency, this is Azima on the Path, High Zealot of Sindhus.” Volikova nodded and dismissed the chamberlain as another servant entered with a sliver platter carrying a bottle of wine and accompanying glasses. The Virtanen sat down, prompting the High Zealot to do the same. The Sindisi elected to stand.
“Your holiness, it is a true pleasure to host you in glorious Zelemoyod." Voilkova delicately removed her mask, placing it on the bench beside her. "I am glad you arrived safely. Would you care for some sort of beverage? After such a long journey through our angry seas, you must be parched. Some spiced wine to warm your soul?”
The High Zealot shook her head slowly. “I do not partake.”
Volikova smiled cordially and poured herself a glass of wine. “I understand. A holy commander such as yourself must be very busy these days, now that the throne of Sindhus sits without a monarch. Protecting the faith, the country, and your own armies… It must be a relatively exhausting affair. No time for such trivialities, I suppose.” The shadow elf shrugged inconsequentially. “I must also say, I am heavily interested in your curious religion. I’ve been reading much of your scripture, and as complex as it can be, I believe I am learning much from it. We have our own Signal on the Path here in Zelemoyod - did you see it on your way in?”
Azima looked unimpressed.
The shadow elf tapped her glass awkwardly. The easterner was obviously not one for small talk. “Let us cleave to the matter at hand, then. Rosiland is in a terrible state of decay and chaos. My house was once the undisputed leader of this land, both in terms of influence and wealth. We lead the High Table that unified the great families and provided stability and profit for all. Now, these golden days have been abandoned in favour of infighting and withdrawal. The humans that dwell under our banner are on the verge of separation, slaves free themselves and form barbaric war-bands that plague the countryside, and my fellow elves have abandoned my rightful claim in favour of a parade of imposters and replacements.” She raised her chin in an attempt to appear stoic. “Azima, your father and my father were steadfast allies. Now that this misfortune has befallen my house, those that I called friends have left me like rats fleeing a sinking ship. As was dictated by the past agreement created by our noble fathers, the nation of Sindhus and the house of Virtanen are true confederates. You are my last ally.”
“Our fathers are dead.” The High Zealot shook her head. “Their informal agreement died with them. I am not bound by law to support your claim, and as such, I see no reason to. Your estates are in a state of ruin after the crusaders razed them, and your army is spent for the same reason. Based on my most recent reports, your army is hardly capable of capturing a grain store, never mind the country. Your vaults are empty and at least a third of your slaves have been freed.” She frowned thinly. “If I should like to find an ally in Rosiland, I would look to the other great families who now emerge to usurp you. They are the true power now.”
Volikova pursed her lips, attempting to contain her visible disgust. “The upstarts in Rvymoyod that would have the audacity to call themselves great have no right to my seat at the High Table. They circle like vultures, breaking their oaths of support and instead relishing our downfall. Some of them even supported the slave revolts that swept through and continue to devastate our plantations." Her hands curled into fists. “House Virtanen will reign again, and all those that detracted will be punished. I ask you for your support in this endeavour.”
“Your family is incompetant.” Azima waved her hand, gesturing to the many servants and mages that milled about the gardens just out of earshot. “You maintain this place of flowers and fancies, but not an army large enough to defend your lands?” She shook her head. “The only reason your house even stood a chance against the crusaders was the support that the east provided. I would find it easier to personally conquer the whole of Rosiland than support your attempt in the matter.”
The shadow elf set her drink down. “You would not.”
Azima smiled without mirth. “Oh?”
"We elves are a proud and stubborn race, and the vast majority of us consider your kind to be..." Volikova paused for a moment, attempting to find the right words. "...inferior in many ways. Your governance would be accepted for a time, but it could not last. Rosiland would never bow to a human. After all, if a rabid dog walks into your home, do you let it assume control, or do you merely wait for it to turn its back so you can simply hit it with a stick?”
The High Zealot didn’t respond, but her expression made it clear that her patience was wearing thin.
“Not that I meant to compare you to a hound, my friend.” The shadow elf sighed. “It is true, what you say. Virtanen estates were burned, our armies decimated, and my family massacred. My great house was decimated. As you fought the crusaders in the desolate fields of Iurusolym, so did I resist them in these lands. One by one my siblings, my parents; all of them were slaughtered by the sanctified mob that touted around the countryside. When they finally left, I was the sole heir to these devastated lands.” Volikova’s voice was lined with venom. “But there will come a time when they are not so strong, when their own holy vultures begin to circle. And at that time, when Rosiland is united under my banner, I will come to see vengeance be done.”
A spark of interest flickered in Azima’s steely eyes.
“For the sake of our fathers,” Volikova eyed the easterner willfully. “bring your legions to Rosiland. Assist me in crushing my enemies and seizing my rightful seat at the High Table. Once I am solidified in my position, I shall be your steadfast ally in all matters. Your armies will be given free and open passage through Rosiland, and your merchants and tradesman shall be elevated above all other sort."
Azima was silent for a short period, considering all that had been said. “If you will recognize the authority of Sindhus over the whole of Rosiland, I will give you a crown to rule it in my stead.”
Volikova narrowed her eyes. “There is no crown you can give me, Azima. The High Table is a council, not a throne. Besides, I find it rather insulting that would attempt to lower me - the last daughter of Virtanen - to a client in service of your empire.”
“I don’t care about the High Table. The system has failed, obviously. The crusaders crippled Rosiland in months despite your armies being far larger and numerous. The blue knights tore a violent path through the entirety of your grasslands and your entire race was powerless to stop them. This land must be united and ruled, not shared between vindictive houses.” The High Zealot continued as if her deal had already been accepted. “You will have full autonomy and the protection of Sindhus. The slaves that rebelled will be found and desolated. The other families that slighted you will be crushed. The crusaders will not dare to attack your estates. Rosiland will prosper under the standard of Sindhus, and your ambitions will be realized with my steel.”
Volikova said nothing for a long while, stunned into silence. “I will be Queen of Rosiland?”
“Undisputed. Your rivals in Rosiland will bow to your rule, or they will bow before an executioner. Virtanen will be a strong name once more.”
The shadow elf nervously fidgeted with her fingers. She would be undermining tradition and religion if she accepted, but if she didn’t, she would never get the chance to make the other families pay for their many transgressions against her great family. She would be giving up her nation, putting an end to thousands of years of self-determination, but in turn, she would instantly be made the most powerful figure in Rosiland. Second only to the Sindhusi, she supposed, but the humans would never stay in Rosiland permanently. The desert-people would go back to their sea of sand, and she would unquestionably rule in their absence. She could take her vengeance on all that had wronged her, all that had turned their backs when she needed them most. Rosiland would be awash with the hot blood of traitors and conspirators.
Volikova looked upwards, her decision finally made. “Very well, Azima. I shall rule for you.”
The High Zealot smiled thinly. “Good. I will travel to Zayditrah, where my fleet is already preparing to bring my legions across the sea. I will lead them here while you are busy spreading news of your new claim to all that will listen. There are many faithful in this land, elves that believe in the Flame as fiercely as I do - they will be your first supporters. Reach to them as a starving man grasps for a meal. In fact, it would be best if you publicly renounced your false gods. Tell the public that Dolekar has abandoned them.”
Volikova was not disturbed at the idea of forgetting her traditional religion, not now that it couldn’t assist her influence. “I will do that. Proclamations will be posted at every Signal on the Path from here to Rvymoyod.”
“Then I welcome you as my sister, and promise that Sindhus will do the same.“ The High Zealot stood, calling both her guards to attention. “I expect your own forces gathered when I return. We will march immediately.”
The shadow elf stood and respectfully approached the High Zealot. “Excuse me, but wouldn’t it be best if we spent some time consolidating our power? What if the western kingdoms decide to intervene as you have?”
The High Zealot frowned at the mere suggestion. “Indecision is the death of victory. We will march, and if the west interferes, we will march through them.” With that, she brushed past Volikova and through the gardens, following swiftly by her dutiful Sindisi.
Two weeks after Viarosa, the band of would-be dragonslayers rode through the mountains now known as the Dragon's Spine. If their mission was not so important, it would have been wisdom to wait until some season other than winter. Alas, things were truly dire and so, they were here in the cold, unforgiving mountains as a blizzard did its very best to punish them for their audacity. Icy winds full of snow whipped at the riders and it became increasingly difficult for them to see. "We need to find shelter!" Herbert tried to shout, but was drowned out by the wind's howling. Unable to speak, he gestured desperately for the others to follow him in the hopes that they could still see him and would comply. Those nearest to him followed in the hopes that he had some sort of plan. By luck more than anything else, the smaller group managed to find the entrance to a cave and led their horses inside. For some reason, the beasts seemed more and more uneasy the further in they ventured.
The monster hunter from Krossavik took note of the horses discomfort and dismounted as quietly as he could before turning to the others, putting his finger to his lips in a shushing motion and gesturing for them to get down. Experience had taught him that when the animals started getting nervous, it was often a warning sign that something nasty was nearby. He didn't know exactly what was in this place, but if they could get the element of surprise, it certainly wouldn't hurt. Herbert beckoned the others closer and whispered an explanation of the situation. "Usually when the horses start acting up, it means there's something nearby. Don't know what's down here but let's stick together and keep quiet. If we're lucky, we can surprise it." As he spoke, he took a quick headcount of who was with him. Erika, the Hoffen girls, Ceara, and Angela were the only ones he saw. He hoped the others would survive, but there was nothing he could do for them right now and he'd have to look after those he could.
Rhiara and Athaliah huddled together under a heavy fur cloak, while Angela used her magic to summon a fireball in her right hand. Her dragon-skull hemlet covered her head, but it didn't do much good in helping her warm up. She clicked her tongue disapprovingly as Herbert laid out his plan. "If there's anything in this cave, it's either hibernating or it's frozen; no mountain creature would be stupid enough to be active in the winter." Angela stuttered a few times, even with a fireball right next to her; Vilvere knights never did do well in the freezing cold. Athaliah shook her head, but never opened her mouth to speak.
Herbert looked at Angela with annoyance. "Dragons are not the only dangerous and often unfriendly creatures in this world. I assure you that there are plenty of monsters that are unbothered by the cold and even thrive in it. Have you heard of wendigos? Formerly humanoid beings that resorted to eating the flesh of other sapient humanoids to survive and were met with a terrible curse. Neither alive nor dead, but possessed of an eternal and insatiable hunger, they love isolated places like this and only venture out to hunt. Count yourself lucky that we're too far from the ocean to face an Akhlut, but they venture onto land in the frozen north to hunt. The Qiqirn - though not particularly dangerous - wander the snowy wastes. Need I go on?"
"Leintke," Angela sighed. "there's nothing here." She nodded her head towards the deeper part of the cave. "If something were awake in there, we'd have heard it." Angela glanced back towards the entrance of the cave - the snow was hammering the ground and showed no sign of stopping soon. "We'd better go deeper; don't want to freeze to death, do we?"
"Lets just walk carefully, ok everyone? No use squabbling." Ceara rubbed her hands together to restore some warmth to them. "We need to warm up and then go back out and find everyone else. This weather isn't going to get better anytime soon." She looked at Herbert. "I don't know about your a... akulits... or anything else, but this place seems better than the howling storm right out there."
"Aye, it's better. I'm just saying we should proceed with caution. To be careful and find nothing is better than to be careless and run across something decidedly unfriendly.'" Agreed Herbert before continuing to lead the way. Close behind, Erika quietly wished the cave was bigger. If it turned out that there was something here, she simply didn't have the space needed to transform and contribute significantly to the fight.
A while further into the cave, they found a small cavern full of icy corpses. The bodies were primarily those of orcs and goblins with a few other other races sprinkled in and most had snow packed upon them to keep them cold and preserved. Herbert looked about before creeping forward to inspect the bodies. Much to his surprise, he found that some of the corpses had what appeared to be wounds from a sizable battleaxe. There was one orcish corpse, however, that caught his attention. Unlike the others, it was not packed in snow and it had sizable amounts of flesh missing as if they had been hacked away. Also concerning was the fact that this particular body was the one closest to the cavern's other exit visible from where the six of them stood.
Ceara crouched near the pile of wretched bodies, peering at them with deepening concern. “Herb, could you tell me which kind of monster can do something like this?"
"A barbarian, that's what." Angela said, before Herbert could even open his mouth. "He's been killing them, and freezing the corpses to eat later." Rhiara already had her bow out, with an arrow at the ready. Her expression was one of extreme discomfort - the sight was terrible, but the smell was worse. Meanwhile, Athaliah had taken her shield off of her back and readied her spear, just in case. "Whomever did this is still nearby." she pointed towards the exit to the cavern with her spear. "See those footprints? I'd say they were here at most a few minutes ago."
"She's right, some of the bodies have blade wounds and those footprints still look fresh. We're probably dealing with a who rather than a what." Said the monster hunter as he drew one of his swords and a canteen of blood. Meanwhile, Erika readied her knife. It wasn't much, but at least it was something. Her job would be to make sure her companions were put back in one piece if things went poorly.
Herbert walked forward to the exit, doing his best to keep quiet. When he was close, he caught another scent besides that of death. It was faint but it was definitely there. It was the smell of cooking flesh. Whatever savage was responsible for the cave full of bodies, it seemed they were preparing for a meal.
Angela pulled her sword from its scabbard, and the metallic schwing reverberated around the open cavern. "Get inside here, right now!" her voice carried the same tone of authority it had when she was in Viarosa. When no answer came, Angela used her magic to set her left hand on fire and then ran her armoured hand across the length of her blade; the sword eagerly erupted into flame.
The knight marched towards the exit, with the rest of them following a little further behind.
Before the party reached the exit, the hulking frame of an aging brute of a man filled the mouth of the tunnel carrying a sizable axe. He was wrapped in furs to keep out the cold and the parts of him that were visible bore many a scar. He scowled at Angela and hefted his axe as a dire warning. "It ain't exactly the best of manners to enter a man's home uninvited and make demands." With that, he stepped forward menacingly. Fortunately for all involved, the confrontation was interrupted by Erika who looked at the barbarian with disbelief and spoke. "Bjorn? Is that you?"
The man turned his attention away from Angela and to Herbert and Erika who had both sheathed their weapons and were quickly moving past the Vilvere Knight. His stony face broke into a grin as he put down his axe and spread his arms to embrace the pair with a laugh. "Herb! Erika! I've missed you two! Sorry for the mess, what are you doing here?"
Angela extinguished the flames clinging onto her sword, before sheathing it soon afterwards. Angela had never expected to find Bjorn at all, much less alive and well. Despite the fact that Herbert and Erika clearly trusted him, she did not. Whomever the man once was might no longer be inside the barbarian's head.
As Bjorn let go of his adoptive children, Erika began to explain. "Well, we're trying to find a way to kill Htraknu and we figured we'd start by looking for your hideout in case you had information about where to find artifacts of the gods. I'm pleasantly surprised to see you're still alive and it was by luck rather than anything else that we stumbled into your ... ice box ... while looking for somewhere to shelter from the blizzard."
The berserker's expression turned grim once more. "Well, I'm glad you've come to join me - especially now that Htraknu's started killing Shaituns instead of just towns." He gestured to his axe. "Makes my desire to lodge this old thing into his skull seem even less practical than before." Bjorn finally turned his attention back to the others accompanying his fellow Krossavikers and spoke. "I suppose you should probably introduce me to your friends."
Ceara took an apprehensive step towards the immense man, making absolutely certain that there was leeway between herself and Bjorn. “Hello,” she said cautiously. “My name is Ceara Eachaidh, I’m a friend of your, um…" The thief paused, her eyes drifting towards the pile of frozen corpses. "I work with Herbert and Erika.”
The hulking barbarian smiled down at the red-headed thief in an attempt to be reassuring that was somewhat undermined by the scars marring his face and the contents of the small cavern. "My full name's Bjorn Theobald. Nice to meet you, miss." He said before extending his hand for her to shake.
Athaliah and Rhiara stayed where they were, between Herbert and Angela. "I'm Athaliah, Mister, ah... Bjorn. And this..." and trailed off and looked towards Rhiara, but her lips were sealed. "this is Rhiara. Herbert and Erika are good friends of ours."
Bjorn withdrew his hand since Ceara didn't seem inclined to shake it and waved to Athaliah and Rhiara. "Nice to meet you as well. Any friend of Herbert and Erika is a friend of mine." He then turned his attention to the last member of the party who had yet to be introduced. "And who might you be?"
"Chevaleresse-Lieutenant Angela Kõivli." she could not have sounded more uninterested if she had tried. "All we need is any information you can give us, then we'll be going and you get to back to doing whatever it is people like you do."
This was met with a chuckle from the scarred Northerner. "You honestly think I'm just going to lurk in the mountains picking off some underlings here and there when I finally know that others are eager to do something about the dragon? Clearly, I need to properly introduce myself." With that, he cleared his throat before bursting into song.
"Okay, okay, I see what's happening here You're face-to-face with madness and it's strange You don't even know how you feel, it's adorable Well, it's nice to see that heroes never change Open your eyes, let's begin Yes it's really me, It's Bjorn, breathe it in I know it's a lot: the scars, the bod I'm blessed and cursed by a dark god
What can I say except "you're welcome"? For keeping dragon overlords from the sky Hey, it's okay, it's okay, you're welcome I'm just an ordinary berserker guy!
Hey, what has two thumbs and roared at the sky When you were waddling ye high? This guy When the nights got cold, who slaughtered demons from down below? You're looking at him, yo! Oh, also I lassoed Htraknu's son, you're welcome So you could live in peace and have fun Also, I called on the furies, you're welcome To make the cultists shake at the knees
So, what can I say except "you're welcome"? For the islands safe in the sea There's no need to pray, it's okay, you're welcome I guess it's just my way of being me You're welcome, you're welcome
Well, come to think of it Kids, honestly, I can go on and on I can explain every nearby going-on Especially the angry dragon sound Oh, that was Bjorn just messing around I killed a dragon, I ate its guts Climbed a tree, heard Htraknu go nuts What's the lesson? What is the takeaway? Don't mess with Bjorn when he's on the breakaway And the tapestry of my enemies' skin Is a map of the victories I win I've been making sure Htraknu's dreams don't happen Look at that crazy Bjorn just tippity tapping Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, hey
Well anyway, let me say you're welcome For the wonderful world you know Hey, it's okay, it's okay you're welcome Well, come to think of it, we gotta go Hey, it's your day to say "you're welcome" 'Cause I can't keep doing this alone Today's the day, the day, you're welcome 'Cause I can't kill Htraknu on my own You're welcome, you're welcome"
With his song complete, Bjorn coughed and smiled with amusement in his eyes. "My apologies, I have a lot more free time than I know what to do with, so I wrote and practiced that in the hopes that someday, help would show up."
“Aha, wow! Well done. What a song, thanks for that one.” Ceara did her best to sound genuine. “Well, I hate to leave this event, but I’m going to go check for our pals near the entrance of this cave. I’ll let you guys, um, catch up or whatever is going on right now.” With that, the thief nodded to her compatriots and speedily made her way out of the corpse-filled cavern.
Angela watched and listened to Bjorn's singing, utterly stunned at this new development. Athaliah and Rhiara smiled as Bjorn went through with his song; Rhiara began to clap almost as soon as he had finished. "Where'd you learn to sing like that?!" the snowy girl had not expected this man, of all people, to be a decent singer. "Oh, and why did you create a song in the first place?" Athaliah asked soon after.
"Practice and far too much free time, to answer both your questions." Said Bjorn as his smile widened into a grin. "Gotta do something to pass the time up here while lying low to avoid being spotted by angry dragons. They don't usually come to investigate, but every once in a while, they decide to something about all the disappearances. I'd have a go at them too, but they've since learned not to travel alone."
Erika cleared her throat. "Bjorn, do you mind if we wait for the blizzard to let up somewhere other than your ice box? We have provisions that aren't fallen enemies and we have enough to share."
"Oh thank the gods." Said the berserker with a sigh of relief. "You have no idea how rare real food is up here." With that, he started walking back the way he'd come and motioned for the others to follow him.
Angela clicked her tongue and rolled her eyes. "Great, sure, let's follow the mad barbarian." Despite her complaining, she nevertheless followed the rest of the group.
Outside the cave entrance - or rather, a good half mile's trek ahead over steep, rocky ground - the remainder of the party pushed ever forwards, a thick veil of driving snow blinding them but for a few feet ahead and freezing their fingers to the bone. Jagged icicles formed on clothes and hair, and the poor horses that carried each adventurer snorted and stamped in distress, clouds of steam erupting from their flared nostrils only to be blown instantly away by the chill winds. Pained grimaces barely concealed worried expressions, that small group having realised some time ago that the rest of their comrades had disappeared. Yet turning back, deeper into the heart of the all-consuming blizzard, was suicide, as was staying still and waiting for their friends to catch up - and what if they had gone on ahead, anyway? Truly the only recourse was to push on, and hope and pray that no terrible fate had befallen any one of them.
The Grandmaster had since taken point the moment it was apparent that the others had vanished into the opaque ice clouds that surrounded them. Frantically searching about for their missing allies, Lucian noted that it was becoming all the harder to see those that were still with him. He counted the Krossavikers, Hoffenites, the thief, and the Vilvere among the lost, which left him with the slave-soldier, his Apostles, the Bard, the Magister, and Allen. Oh, and the witch-hunter.
That was half the group, and this storm was intensifying, with no shelter in sight. Attempting a deep breath, the sub-zero air was like needles in his lungs. He closed his frosted eyelids and muttered a brief prayer. He brought his wagon to a stop and stepped back over the driver's seat and onto the top of a crate in the middle of the wagon itself. With as loud a voice as he could muster, Lucian roared for everyone around him to stop moving and stay close. As he said this, he held his hands aloft, bright orbs of white light enveloping his palms. Directing his hands to the ground, he fired his magic down at the ground besides the carriage.
What began as two orbs of light, merged and became one. Then, upon contact with the snow, the light began expanding outwards, the source spreading out towards the other members of the party. It became more sparse as it grew, the bright white dimming to reveal a shimmering golden aura ballooning out in the shape of a dome. And as it did so, the others would notice that the snow which had been assailing them became misdirected, sliding off of the dome of light as a sense of warmth came over them. Steam billowed forth from the snowy ground as the rapid shift in temperature melted some of the ice and snow away.
"Solanius spes nostra," Lucian mumbled as he hopped off the cart and stepped around to the back of it. He signalled to Kinara and Sorano to aid him in unloading a few boxes, likely containing food or drink.
As the others warmed themselves in the sorcerous heat Lucian had conjured, Gottmar merely turned ever paler, greyer, the ice that coated his eyebrows and hung from his hair creeping further over him even as its outermost layers began to melt. He grimaced, silent, and with stiffened hands grasped his horse's reins as tight as he could, that they might not slip from his hold should the bitter cold take him completely.
Allen dismounted from his chestnut mare and led the aging horse closer to the center of the dome. He shed his quilted gambeson as the air quickly heated. He used his fingers to brush the snow out of his hair, looking up in awe as a small coating of snow began to build on the dome above.
"How long can he keep this up?" He asked aloud, to no one in particular.
"Long enough for us to catch our breaths, warm up, get our bearings, and find the others," Lucian replied. Cracking the lid of the crate off, it was revealed that the crate was carrying bottles of some alcohol. A clear, foggy pomace brandy in short, stout bottles. "Tsipouro. Sorano found this in Viarosa and ordered a small supply," he explained, taking out a bottle to better display it to those watching.
"Figure that we might as well enjoy something a mote stronger than the usual drinks. This should give us the feeling of warmth, at the least. As for actually warming up, are we in favor of a fire and a meal?" Sorano inquired, glancing over to the other party members and gesturing as if to count a show of hands.
"And before you ask, neither smoke nor quantity of air is going to be an issue," Lucian clarified.
Nima adjusted his heavy cloak, casting the red cloth over his armoured shoulders now that the cutting winds of the blizzard were blocked. The slave-soldier peered through the golden shield that protected the adventurers, discerning nothing but the furious snowstorm that clouded the mountainous landscape. “We should not pause to break provisions.” He reported. “The storm is dangerous, and the others will die in it. Until we find them, we cannot stop.”
"So that's one vote against a fire," Lucian remarked. "Though you raise a fair point, Nima. We're going to retrace our steps once we've recovered from the elements for a brief time, precisely because this storm is so dangerous. It wouldn't do us any good to keep freezing and reverse progress. Besides," he said, pointing to the preserved horse tracks within the dome. "We've been moving a fairly straightforwards path for the better half of the day. We follow the tracks even after they have faded, we may eventually reunite with our lost comrades."
"We won't be here long, anyway," Kinara remarked, scowling at Nima. "Better to spend five minutes warm than another hour nearly frozen over. Do you want any of the pomace brandy or not?"
"Easy, my friend. I'll be happy to make him something warm if he turns down the alcohol. He has been accommodating to us thus far, despite our history. What hypocrite would I preach yet not practice that we ought to do the same for him?" Lucian replied, gently patting Kinara's arm. Wordlessly, she relented with a light huff and focused her attention on the others.
“The snow will cover these prints in a short time, and we will not uncover them again. I know this well. The ones that ran from the Najul were rarely found in the winter. The elf-masters would only see them when the snows melted and the bodies rot.” Nima paused, turning and staring at Lucian through the chainmail that covered his face. “I will not drink anything now. I would continue alone, if permitted by my officer.”
Lucian considered his request, glancing between Kinara and Sorano before smiling at Nima, and yanking the metal, leatherbound canteen from off of his belt and handing it to the soldier. "Very well, but at the least take some fresh water with you, or fill this with snow and have it melt over time to keep up the supply," he replied. "Given Ceara is among the missing, it could not be a stretch to suggest you would want to find her and bring her and the others hither?"
As the paladin and the slave-soldier conversed, Sorano and Kinara were already setting up in the center of the light shield. The Samothauress was breaking firewood down and trying to establish a firepit in spite of the slowly melting snow, digging a hole to solid ground before starting. Besides her was the inert body of the witch-hunter, and as toxic as the fellow had been to her and her compatriots, she could not help but feel concern, for it just as easily could have been Allen, Sorano, or worse still, Lucian.
The Sun Elf continued to set out cookery, fully intending to try a quick and simple recipe for soup. Yet, as he watched Kinara work by the body of Gottmar, he solemnly remarked to himself the condition of the Witch-Hunter. "Not even the holy magic of the Gods has any effect on the man, neither to his benefit nor his detriment. What sorry and ironic conclusions one could draw about the nature of their rituals, the Witch-Hunters." He chuckled to himself and crouched over the rudimentary firepit, hands now crackling with shock magic, held over the sticks and straw in an attempt to spark the first flames. "Well, Lucian seems all the more content to labour with the likes of Easterners, vampires, and Vilveres," he admitted with a casual shrug as smoke began rising from the pit, the fires spreading around to slowly but surely overtake the kindling. Clapping his hands together and rubbing the palms as the last arcane sparks dissipated, he smirked at Kinara and finished his thought, saying "What, then, is a church radical to the man whose mother was murdered by the sort?"
Kinara carefully dragged Gottmar closer to the fire, then planted her bottom in the snow, holding her hands out closer to the flames. She sneered at Sorano in mild disgust. "I don't care for the Easterner either, but that isn't fair to Lucian in the slightest, Sorano," she spat, "It wasn't the witch-hunters that took Lady Aurelia from this world."
"We're beset on all sides by those who despise us. Between this frozen bastard, the woman with the dragon bascinet, the five borderline apatheists to include the red-headed klepto who pilfered from the vault at Mirador, and the Sindhusi demon who murdered Themistokos, I feel like Lucian is putting too much trust in people who would just stab us all in the backs the moment our usefulness expires."
She glared coldly into the elf's bright yellow eyes, clearly resenting the mention of her fallen friend. "Everything he does, he does for a purpose, Sorano. I trust him with my life, and I know without a shadow of doubt that you do as well. We've been in worse company before. You saw yourself, it took time for me to adjust to him. Patience is a virtue we cannot afford to lose."
Sorano took a deep, irritable breath, but slowly let it out, his expression softening. "So be it, Kina," he replied. He glanced over to Gottmar and gestured towards him, adding, "Turn the maniac over. I think he's starting to thaw. I'm going to get some lunch going for us while the Easterner tracks down the others."
Nima walked past the fledgling flame, pulling his crimson cloak forwards again before he returned to the winter uproar. He paused at the edge of the golden shield and drew an inverted triangle on his chest with his right hand, whispering a few words in his own language. Without speaking to anyone else, he moved through the curtain of shimmering light and disappeared into the snowy tempest.
As the fire crackled beside him, the last of the ice that had covered Gottmar's skin finally melted, droplets of water running off his pale face and hitting the ground below. Still, though, the man remained motionless, with not even a heartbeat to signal that he remained in the ranks of the living. Seconds came and went, minutes passed, and still the witch hunter was, to all intents and purposes, a corpse.
Without warning, a great rattling wheeze erupted from Gottmar's mouth. He jolted upright, looking around with wild eyes, rasping breaths filling his lungs with warm air. With a shaking hand, he reached up to touch the symbol of Calidorus that hung around his neck, before collapsing back down to lie by the fire, groaning as he slowly tested his stiffened limbs.
"Welcome back, high and mighty," Sorano quipped, wooden spoon in hand, stirring the contents of an iron pot suspended over the firepit. Whatever he had been preparing for the last several minutes looked to be some form of pottage, smelling of herbs and meat. Were one to look into the pot, they would notice that it certainly did not seem professionally made, the slices of vegetables and chicken sausage being quite irregularly sized. Then again, he was preparing it without many tools save for the knife and stirring spoon. It smelled appetizing enough, at any rate. "It'll be a few more minutes if you care to eat. If not, there's a freshly cracked-open crate of Viarosan tsipouro to drink," he said, withdrawing the spoon and emphatically tapping it against the rim of the pot before sticking it in the snow.
The witch hunter heaved himself painstakingly off the ground, finally standing on his own two feet once more. He looked down at the elf, then to the food and drink, and back once again to the elf. "You... have my gratitude," he muttered gruffly. "...heretic."
Recognizing that this would probably be the most he'd get out of the Witch-Hunter, the mage nodded towards Kinara, who sat warming her hooves, then looked to Gottmar and replied, "You should thank her -- she built the pit and dragged you out of the snowbank you collapsed into." Kinara said nothing, but gave a gentle wave in response. "All I did was spark it."
Gottmar gave a nod of thanks in the direction of the samothaur, accompanied by the closest thing to a smile the perpetually grim man could force himself to muster. It was not an expression he wore well.
Ceara sat at the mouth of the cave bundled in her winter clothes. The horses shifted nervously, seemingly unnerved by both the storm and the cavern itself. The thief could understand both their concerns - the blizzard was dangerous, but the maniac that dwelled in this place seemed similarly alarming. Ceara hadn’t started this journey with much confidence in victory, but if that singsong murderer was the key to defeating Htraknu, things looked even less promising than before.
Out of the corner of her eye she spotted a dark shape forming in the swirling midsts of the storm. The thief instantly rose to her feet, spooking several of the horses in the process. Ceara couldn’t make out exactly what it was, but she feared that whatever was wandering around in such weather could only be wild. Her thoughts drifted to the frightful beasts that Herb had described earlier, and also to the tall tales that she had heard of these mountains before ever getting involved with any of these people. Cannibals and feral giants, terrible stories of doomed adventurers and obscure horrors. Be it a monster or a man, the shadowy outline continued to move towards the entrance to the cave. The thief thought about calling for the others, but decided that it would be best not to draw attention to herself with this thing meandering directly outside. Instead, she knelt to the floor of the cavern and grasped a sizeable rock, ready to use it if the figure drew too close.
The horses seemed to realize her own tensity and began to panic themselves, struggling to move deeper into the cave. The figure continued its invariable pace, and now Ceara was certain that it was making for the cave. “Oy! Guys!” she yelled to her comrades deeper in the cavern. “I’ve got problems up here!” When she turned back, it seemed that the shape had quickened its march. Preparing to retreat, Ceara threw her rock in the general direction of the advancing threat and turned to scramble into the lower parts of the cave. Instead, she heard a faint metallic clang rise above the wailing winds, followed directly by an apathetic groan.
“Oh infernum, Nima?” Ceara walked out of the cave and closer to the figure, finally making out the distinct armour and glowering eyes of her eastern friend. She smiled broadly, grabbing his arm and helping him make the short trek into shelter and out of the raging blizzard. “You hit me with a missile.” mentioned the slave-soldier as they both shook the snow off their covers. “A rock.”
“I only did it because I thought you and the rest of the team would be long gone by now.” Ceara beamed again, gladdened by the appearance of her friend. “I was being cautious, like you’re always telling me I should.”
Nima wiped the freezing sleet off his armour, reviewing his surroundings as he recovered from the elements. It was very clear that he had been struggling in the storm, and nearly every part of him was covered in some form of ice. “Very well.” He accepted. “I have come from the others. They have paused a long distance from here, using the grandmaster’s magic to block the weather. Where are the rest of the missing?”
“They’re here with me, not to worry.” Ceara replied. “We found this cave after we lost you lot. Good to hear that you’re all alright, I should say.” The thief paused for a moment, as if remembering something important. “We’ve found Bjorn, by the way. Turns out he was living here, eating frozen corpses and writing a song. I don’t know if he’s completely, ah, balanced.”
With spectacular timing, Bjorn and the others arrived behind Ceara mere moments after the thief questioned Bjorn's mental stability. Fortunately,the aging berserker didn't show any indication of having heard Ceara's remark, or at the very least, he didn't show any sign of taking offense. With his axe over his shoulder, Bjorn eyed the Easterner innocuously and casually asked "I take it this fellow is part of the problems you mentioned having up here?"
Catching his adoptive father's implied offer to dispose of Nima, Herbert quickly clarified the slave-soldier's identity. "Nima's with us and he normally sticks together with Ceara. There were more members of our party, but we were separated by the blizzard. I doubt he's one of the problems, if the problems weren't just a misunderstanding."
Nima eyed the berserker cautiously, but he only addressed Herbert. “The Grandmaster has settled on the road with the rest of our party. He has created a barrier from the elements, but I do not know how long it can last.” He paused. “We should all move to this shelter, but I am uncertain that the party can move while this blizzard makes travel dangerous. I believe it would result in yet more separation and confusion. How should I proceed?”
"We should probably wait here until the blizzard dies down." Decided Herbert. "Odds are that Bjorn's weathered plenty of blizzards, so we're safe here. Hopefully, Lucy'll be able to hold out until the blizzard dies down. I doubt he's half-god as he claims, but hopefully whatever his non-human half is, it'll give him enough strength to keep the barrier in place. Odds are that if we went to join him, it'd do more harm than good since he'd have to make the barrier large enough to account for us as well as the others. Unless of course, you're suggesting we head to the shelter to try to bring the others here, which would be difficult due to the blizzard hindering travel. It's unlikely that we can help them so it might be best to stay here and hope for the best rather than put ourselves in danger as well. How far do you think they are?"
"I do not know the exact distance. It is difficult to know in the storm." Nima looked back at the cave entrance, watching the snow howl past the rocky opening. "I think casualties are likely if we go back to the grandmaster. The weather is... not good."
"No point in getting ourselves killed. Hopefully they'll make it, but there's nothing we can do for them." Said Herbert, matter-of-factly.
Nima trudged through the unbroken snow, sinking up to his knees as he searched for the lost members of their party. The storm seemed to have passed, and the sun now shone on a landscape choked with white. The slave-soldier had left the rest of the group as soon as the blizzard looked to be clearing, and although there was no distinct trail to follow, his duty demanded that he search for his commander and report presently. Whether Lucian had kept the magical shield functioning through the whole storm or the stranded group had found shelter of their own there was no way to know, but he was confident that tracks or evidence of some sort would present itself soon enough. As Nima crested another snowbank, he finally spotted the other adventurers struggling to maneuver their horses down the road. Nima quickly accounted for every lost member of the party, even the witch-hunter that was seemingly dying of hypothermia when he had ventured into the squall. Raising his hand to greet the adventurers, he gestured for them to follow him, which they did until the entire party had reunited at the entrance to the cave.
Angela, in the meantime, had used her magic to light a moderately-sized fire within the cave's entrance. She, along with everyone that Nima had left in the cave, sat huddled around the fire for warmth. The fire also served another purpose - it would make a good beacon.
After what felt like an eternity, Nima had returned with the rest of the group in tow. Angela glowered at them as they entered the cave; needless to say, she did not appreciate having to wait around for them. The dozen or so adventurers were all tightly crammed into the entranceway at this point. "Well, that was a disaster." Angela growled. While they were waiting, several thoughts ran though her head - the most notable of which was the group's size and unwieldliness. If it were to be split, the natural leaders of the group would have an easier time and more ground could be covered for the next leg of their quest... not to mention, Angela would be getting rid of a few of her potential rivals. She neglected to mention that part when she explained her thoughts to the rest of the group, however.
"Besides, we each proved we can handle ourselves in small teams." Angela concluded. She looked to everyone else for what they thought, for possibly the very first time.
"For once, a sensible idea," Gottmar grunted, nodding in agreement. "That way Htraknu can only roast a handful of us at a time - may I suggest all the heretics form one team?"
"Great!" the dragonslayer responded without giving any of the Solanians a chance to speak up for themselves. "Ludenburg, Priscou, you're with me. Same for you, Eibenschütz. As contemptible as you are, you're certainly no heretic." She stared daggers straight into Nima's eyes. "And you as well, cur." Angela wanted to keep as close an eye on Nima as possible. 'Keep your enemies closer' indeed.
Ceara put her hands on her hips angrily. “Oy, bitch.” she spat. “I know its hard for your sort, but try to keep things civilized.” If the insult bothered Nima, he didn’t show it. His head turned to Lucian almost immediately, and his rigid gaze remained on the grandmaster, as if waiting for some sort of confirmation.
Before the other dragonslayer or the grandmaster could continue the argument, Bjorn had interjected his hulking frame in between the others to interrupt the confrontation. "Now, I don't know what sort of bad blood there is between you lot or what manner of heresy we're talking about, but if we're splitting up, we might as well split up the folks who can't get along. So, alleged heretics, ginger, and Easterner, you lot should probably be separate from Mr. and Mrs. Sunshine." The barbarian gestured to Gottmar and Angela. "And yes, I am bad with names. Other than that and any other hostilities I'm unaware of, you folks probably have your own ideas on who should be in what group."
Lucian turned to Ceara, smiling faintly. "I would happily take you and Nima if you would rather work with the Order. If the Hoffenites are to go with the Vilvere and the Witch-Hunter, it is meet that our group be equally capable in battle should we be caught up in armed conflict." With that, he glanced towards Herbert, Erika, and Bjorn. "I would appreciate the company and the strength of a manticore, as well as two fellows who know their way around slaying dangerous beasts."
Sorano nudged his Grandmaster on the shoulder, gesturing to Erika. "Are you not both healers? What of the welfare of the other group, if we were to claim you and Erika?"
Reflexively, Lucian's eyes snapped to Angela as he followed up on Sorano's inquiry. "You, Chevaleresse-Lieutenant, can you mend wounds, magically or otherwise?" he asked her. It certainly did not sit right to frontload the healers in a single group, but it also did not feel proper to break Herbert and Erika apart, or to deprive what was currently a three person group (conditionally five, should Nima and Ceara accept his offer) of additional aid.
Angela shrugged her shoulders nonchalantly. "Magically? No. I learned how to fix people up with my own two hands." She turned all her attention to Nima once again, if only for a second. "I can thank your friends for that." she snarled.
"You lot can have Leintke and Nilsson; you'll need them a lot more than we will." Athaliah emerged from the back of the group, certainly eager to make her opinion known. "Th-that's preposterous! Our group needs healing magic as well!" Angela barely spared her a glance. "They need those healers because our group has more experienced fighters. Eibenschütz and I, we have more experience than the rest of you combined." She looked at Nima out of the corner of her eye. "And... that, so long as it can kill the right things."
"So, I'll repeat it. Easterner, you are with my group. Take the ginger ninja if you really must." She laid her eyes on Allen next. "Kiddo, you can join us as well; you're looking for a mentor, no? A good mentor." While she didn't make it known, it was obvious that she was making a stab at Lucian.
Allen snapped to when he was addressed. He'd have prefered to stay with Ser Aquila, soley because he'd already met the man, but he didn't really care much which group he went with, so long as it meant he could continue to improve his swordsmanship. He knew very little about Angela, other than that she was a Chevaleresse-Lieutenant of the Vilveres; Allen had never seen her fight, but he knew of her order, and that she had to be good to attain such a rank.
He studied her for a moment, her confidence and the authority with which she spoke her words, and reflected on what she meant by killing "the right things". During the battle of Tiraști, Allen had stayed with the non-combatants; partly for their protection, but mostly for fear of the hideous monstrosities destroying the town. He knew Ser Aquila was capable of killing monsters; he had seen him do it. But the Vilveres slew dragons-not just occasionally, but as their main function. If he were to have any hope of facing Htraknu with the others, he wanted that kind of help.
Allen looked wordlessly to Ser Aquila, an apology plain on his face before turning back to the Chevaleresse-Lieutenant, bowing his head. "I'd be honored to travel with you, Ser Kõivli."
"It matters little. Depart then. When the hour arrives and the Sun claims His son, those who have deemed him their foe shall be humbled," Lucian remarked, stepping forth to close some distance between him and Angela. "A mentor who cannot control their hubris can scarcely be called good," he sneered. "You would deny those under you proper care because you believe yourself superior to your own allies based on conjecture. I know that I stand with my brethren and those who choose to follow me."
"By Calidorus, you sorely lack common sense, heretic," Gottmar growled, glowering at Lucian. "As little as I enjoy speaking in defence of the Vilvere, she is right; what good would a damned sorcerous healer do for us? They would be useless to me. The Eastern heathen would deny their aid. Ser Kõivli evidently trusts her skill enough to believe that she does not need a mage, as do I. We both have practical knowledge of conventional healing." He glanced at Allen, then over at Athaliah and Rhiara. "Only the two girls and the child would possibly benefit, and if three experienced warriors are so badly beaten that it falls to them to fight whatever defeated us, we're all as good as fucked anyway. Take your fucking healer, and if I hear one more self-righteous monologue come out of your cunt mouth I'll plant my fist in it."
"I lack common sense," Lucian replied with a little smirk. Gesturing behind him, towards Erika, he just barely stifled a chuckle and added, "She is far from a mage, preparing medicine from herbs and other substances of nature. Poultices, neither prayer nor arcane power. And perhaps she is blooded in a way that she might use some restorative magic, but I have seen more of potions and splints from her than curative laying-on-of-hands. I am telling you this for your own damned sake, for neither I nor any 'mage' can heal you. That was demonstrated clearly to us all when my protective barrier failed to regulate your temperature as it did for all others we were lost with, Witch-Hunter! And strike me as you may, the Vilvere's word is still good on infighting," he said. He paused, expecting the man to lash out at first. With no physical response, he turned his head to Erika and shook his head in Angela's direction. "It is a choice that you must make, Erika, Herbert, and Bjorn -- if you are coming with any of us. Are you with the Vilvere, or are you with my Apostles and I?"
Erika glanced between the two groups before speaking to the Vilvere. "Angela, you, Gottmar, and Nima might not be particularly interested in my healing, but half of your group still does care about having a healer. I'll stay with Herbert and Bjorn, but I think it may be best if you all considered grouping Athaliah, Rhiara, and Allen with some capable of healing. They may not have the best odds of defeating something that defeats you three, but I'm not fond of the idea of them being doomed to a slow and painful end if they are wounded in battle and there is no one to treat them. You say you learned to heal people with your own two hands, but you are a warrior, not a doctor and I would like to know the full extent of your capabilities before leaving Allen and the Hoffenites under your care."
Angela sighed with exasperation. "Fine." She began. "Let's see... I've cleaned and stitched countless wounds from swords, arrows, whatever. I helped amputate someone's leg and they didn't die. Well, they did, but that was due to starvation on the march home." She paused to think for a second. "Oh, and I helped another knight give birth. I swear to all the Gods, that better not come in handy on this expedition."
"I don't know if we even have nine months, but I doubt it'll come up either way. I'll trust you with the medical care of those under your command. Please do not disappoint me." With that statement that could very well have been a threat if it had come from someone else, Erika turned to Bjorn and Herbert. "Which group do you two want to travel with?"
At this, Bjorn shrugged. "I've only just met this lot." The two looked to Herbert. The scarred monster hunter glanced between the two groups before speaking. "Grandmaster Lucian has requested our presence while Ser Angela has verbally pawned us off onto the other group. I think the choice is clear."
As the adventurers prepared to split up and set out, Bjorn tapped Angela on the shoulder. In his other hand was a small book. "Think you might want this. It's some of my notes about where to find various artifacts." The hulking barbarian explained.
The dragonslayer glanced down at the book offered to her. "Don't ever touch me again." With that said, Angela grabbed the book from the barbarian's grasp. Everything about that damn barbarian grated on every last nerve she had - whenever she blinked, she could hear his voice and parts of that infernal song in her head, teasing and taunting her. That was definitely not what she wanted. Not now. She had already gone through two of her vials and she only had a handful left...
The knight inhaled deeply, casting those unwelcome thoughts from her mind. She turned to the other members of her group, all of whom seemed raring to go. "Wait a moment. We're gonna read this to decide on our next move; we might as well do it in this cave." Without another word, she sat down on the ground, with her legs crossed before opening the book. It should prove a valuable distraction from the goings on in her head.
Bjorn bristled at the other dragonslayer's insult. He hadn't really planned on touching Angela again, nor had he meant anything other than getting her attention, but he did not take kindly to being disrespected like that. He itched to draw his axe and end her or even just grab her by the throat and hurl her into a cave wall with all his might. There was a time when he would have done just that without so much as a second thought, but he knew all too well that if he lost his temper, he might lose control altogether. His adoptive children were also nearby and he had no desire to harm them. Perhaps he'd be able to get even later, but for now, he'd just have to content himself in the knowledge that he was traveling with far more likable companions. At least, he hoped they were more likable. He hadn't gotten to know the Solanians well, but it was a rather low bar for them to jump, in his opinion. Biting back on his anger, he walked away.
Ceara walked past the irate berserker, making sure to give him a wide berth as she approached Angela. Nima lingered close behind her. “Whats the move then, boss?” she asked. “That book have some stuff on those trinkets we’ve been talking about or what?”
Angela shrugged, continuing to skim through Bjorn's book. She quickly found something that got her attention - one good thing she could say about Bjorn was that he did not bother with useless information. "The Barbarian has noticed a lot of activity coming from a cave to the north-north east, and what's interesting is that he doesn't think this cave is one of their lairs."
She carried on reading the book for a minute. "He doesn't know what's in there, but based on what's in this book I think we should investigate it." When she looked up to hear the team's replies, Bjorn's whispering and the song began anew. It was like having soft wind inside her head that would never end. At least, not until...
Ceara bit her lip apprehensively. “Right… Sure, caverns, dragon-cultists, sounds grand.” The thief looked across the mountain pass to peer at the other group preparing their horses. She turned back to Angela, lowering her voice to a whisper. “But maybe this isn’t the smartest thing to do? You were in that cave with him, same as me. This Bjorn seems unsound at best and completely batshit insane at worst. Do we know that the scribbles in that book are describing real places? What if he’s in tight with these people?”
Glancing to the pile of frozen corpses further in the cave, Allen shook his head. "I don't think he's in tight with anybody. He doesn't exactly seem like the type to make alliances with his food," He looked at Ceara, and then to Angela. "I trust Ser Kõivli's judgement; if she decides do investigate this cave, I say we go."
"Agreed. Besides, the barbarian wouldn't be smart enough to deceive us." Angela looked back towards the cave entrance. "If he really is leading us on, well... we'll burn that bridge when we get to it."
Angela got back up to her feet and began a brisk walk towards the exit. The rest of her group followed closely behind. "If we're quick, we should get there before it gets dark."
