It has been more than a fortnight in the dungeon, whether you have already lost track of time or whether you have been obsessively counting the days, hours, minutes. Whether you were waiting in line at a soup kitchen, being relocated for sleeping in an unauthorized area, or simply minding your own business, a contingent of city guards had happened to be around, with a mage, dowsing for corruption. And they had found you. With terror and duty in their eyes, with or without a fight, you were restrained and brought here.

And here you have stayed, in a cramped cell with a thin pile of rotting straw to sleep on and a shallow gutter with which to relieve yourself. You have been fed and watered, but only just. You have been under observation. Sometimes the same mage that arrested you, sometimes others, would come by and stare at you in veiled horror and curiosity. And scribble down notes. As the days progressed these observations became more frantic. Hurried whispers between mages expressing confusion, but the conclusion was clear, nobody survived the curse this long. Until finally, you and three of your fellow prisoners were retrieved from your cells, one at a time, thoroughly shackled, and marched out of the dungeon, flanked by guards, confused and wary. For the more aware, it was obvious that you were in the Administrative Center of the City of Light as you passed through hallways, and high-roofed plazas, white and pristine, or at least as pristine as could be maintained, given the ongoing cataclysm outside the city's walls.

You eventually found yourself relocated to the Grand Temple of Light, a great circular chamber filled with the pious, or those feigning piety just for some reprieve from the conditions of the city streets. You were led upwards, to a chamber above the main prayer hall, a smaller room, but taller, a crescent-shaped table at the center, the opening of the crescent pointed towards you and the other prisoners, and into the jaws of this crescent table you were marched. Sitting at the table, spaced out evenly in six directions were what remained of civilized government, leaders chosen from their respective races, some perhaps too old to lead, some perhaps too young. Behind these leaders stood their retinues, comprised of councillors, advisors, and military personnel. Inside the crescent with you, besides the other prisoners, stood vigilant guards, just waiting for you or your peers to lash out in madness to attack the important members of this Council of Light. But behind the political retinues stood tall statues dedicated to the Six Gods of Light, each glowing with an otherworldly light in their respective divine color.

The human member of the Council stood up, a man in his fifties, with graying hair and beard. He had the physique of a military man, formerly captain of the city garrison, now leader of what remained of the known world. "I am Lord Protector Bron Silversmith," the man introduced himself, then gestured to the others seated at the table, "Head of the Council of Light. First and foremost, we the Council would like to extend our most sincere apology for your stay in the dungeons. I believe you understand why you were imprisoned. This rule has kept us safe from madness and subterfuge. Ever since we've been able to detect the corrupting influence of the God's of Darkness, anyone found with this corruption is to be incarcerated and observed until the madness takes them and they are euthanized."

Then the leader of the Elves, a wizened old crone dressed in traditional spellcaster's garb, spoke up, "Every individual found with the corruption has so far been found mad, or is taken with madness within days of imprisonment. You have been brought before the council because you have survived a fortnight without succumbing fully to the madness. We do not know what this means, but our mages and clerics surmise that this is a sign. Perhaps as a people, we are becoming acclimated to the presence of the Dark Gods," she chuckles sardonically, "though I do not want to imagine a world where that is true. Others say this is a sign that you have been chosen, but by whom, and for what purpose? Even the Gods of Light do not know!" The six statues seemed to glow softly in agreement, the presence of gods could be felt more clearly now in the room.

"We are taking a heavy risk by even bringing you into this chamber," snapped the Harpy leader, a male in his prime and a man of the faith, "But we are desperate for some change to this slow death our city, nay, our very civilizations face. Here you see our greatest secret. We have re-established communion with the Gods and have presented your unique case to them."

"TELL US OF THESE SURVIVORS OF THE CURSE" Six impending voices sounded out through the minds of all in the room as the statues flashed brightly.

"Yes, my Lords!" The Harpy held his wings up in supplication, before addressing the warden, "Please, sir."

"Sir! This elf," the warden said, gesturing to Ahelair, "is Kind Ahel, known to many in the city for his altruism and healing skill. Without him, the slums would have descended into anarchy and disease. I...it was a shame we had to lock him up. This orc..."

"His markings show that he is a terror knight," came the high-pitched voice of the boy orc leader, dressed up as a warlord, but whose fur-lined boots didn't even touch the ground. He looked back at his advisors, who nodded in approval that their leader had recognized the cultural markings.

"Yes, my lord. Lans has been on and off the Garrison, and proven himself on the battlefield many times, though he has demonstrated episodes of...uncontrollable violence. The Garrison captain can vouch for his bravery though, I'm sure. This one...the chicken, I do not know his name, but he's been caught on multiple occasions in possession of tomes and scrolls, and may be linked with the recent string of library robberies. He is considered mostly harmless. And finally, this one is a fishmonger, brought in after an altercation at the marketplace."

"So, basically, nothing in common?" asked the Dwarf leader, a woman with all the trappings of a merchant and lawmaker, "And hardly the stuff of legends."

"We have little choice in the matter, for the Gods have already decided," came the Merfolk leader, a woman admiral, "But before we get into the details of the mission, I believe our guests have the right to speak their minds. After all, it may be the last sane conversation they have."

The room falls quiet as the council waits expectantly.

Mort's beak moves as if to speak, but finds that the effort to form words is too much. He knows the Harpy leader by name, from some Who's Who thing he'd read back before all this misfortune. He wants to blurt out his family's proud name. He wants to also shrink into a corner and sleep and never wake.

Still, the talking statues make him wonder if maybe there's some purpose left in the planet for him. The idea of a purpose is a small twinkling light at the end of a dark, tortuous tunnel. He decides to take on whatever the fates have planned for him, and speaks in assent:

"Statues babblin' under some dumb light trick ain't no basis for a system of government, ya loony hoots. Y'all are off yer rockers. But I'm tired of that dungeon, and a breath of fresh air to stretch my wings in is more than this humble bird can ask fer."

With every ebb, the statues' glow seems to urge Lans' fury to rise, tugging at his chest, drawing out occasional grunts. He keeps his head down and closes his eyes to avoid any provocation. His temper has gotten worse of late and he wonders if being free of the dungeon will help in this regard?

He glances around. He's seen his peers before as they were brought into the dungeon. "Strange," he muses, "We were all accosted at the same time and appear to manifest the same rare condition." But his imagination suddenly goes wild and his chest heaves for an instant before closing his eyes.

No good. His temper is rising. His eyes force open, as if to release the pressure building. He starts breathing harder, as if the increased breaths will help his efforts to subdue the rising tide. His hands ball up into fists. His vision starts going into a distance.

And then it all stopped.

Lans, relieved and surprised, focuses his vision to see what changed him so quickly. He just sees his comrades and his mind races... were they truly chosen? Did curses relieve each other somehow? He begins to have hope again... something he did not think he would feel in a long time. Perhaps there is a way out of this spiral into purgatory? And although he never really truly believed like the devout shamans did, Lans finds that his faith is suddenly brimming and overflowing.

However, he had no words for the Council. His upbringing taught him not to speak during such times. It was unbecoming.

Rehsif glanced around the room and couldn't help roll her eyes, yet another example of the decadence of rich folk. How many people could they feed with the cost this building incurred on a yearly basis? A lot she wagered.

The booming voices of the statues blasted through her mind, triggering a headache. Dehydration and sleeping on a stone floor was almost as bad as being hungover, at least she thought it was.

Facing the Council of Light, she barely listened to anything they had to say, her head was throbbing and she was starving.

All she knew was that she'd somehow managed to survive this long, and that was something to be grateful for.

The Mer Admiral commanded the others to speak, the Chicken Man seemed annoyed at the statues as well, and the Orc looked like he wanted to break something... or take a large dump. She couldn't really tell.

When it came time for her to speak, she opened her mouth but nothing came out, clearing her throat, she tried again, "Uhrm... If I can get a shower and... and some water, I'm up for anything." She looked around at the large statues, "Also those statues are a bit loud, if they could lower their voices a bit... I have a headache." She swallowed, her dry throat sticking together.

Slumped and limping on his way to the council chamber, Ahelair Ander of Flandasyria thought to himself,
Ah, it seems my time has come... I wish I had time to do more but at least I'll finally be with my lovely Flyssia, my children and theirs... wait for me, just a moment longer...

Ahelair is roused from this thoughts when he noticed the eyes of the council we're on him, waiting for him to speak. Though visibly tired, he stands up straighter, and with an old but clear voice, Ahelair addresses the council.

"My esteemed Lords and ladies..." he bows slightly before continuing, "I can hardly fathom the weight of responsibility you all must bear in these troubled times, and I apologize profusely for being an added burden... I of course accept whatever punishment you deem necessary. I only ask that you grant this old healer a last request?"
He pauses, turning to watch his 3 grandchildren scamper across the room screaming in laughter. Clearing his throat, he continues,
"Ahrm hm. Dear leaders, I would humbly ask that all my assets and property, whether in current form or as funds from being sold, be used to aid the weak, the destitute, and the helpless, for they are indeed helpless...
And while I know that most or all persons with medical training are currently in service to the military, I would beg your Graces to allow for 2 or 3 to dedicate themselves to care for the citizenry. Please dear council, you would find this tired old elf most grateful..."

Ahelair let's out a long breath before lowering his head, ready to let go of the weight of his guilt and loneliness.

The Harpy Councillor, Sharmukh Isra'fil, was quite famous among Harpies. A young, up-and-coming cleric of great status known for his fiery zeal, he was the favorite to take on the mantle of Great Priest of Lathesa once the previous died. He had been sent as Lathesa's representative on the all-important mission of unifying the faiths by contributing to the building of the Temple of Light in the City of Light, and it was here that he has since become trapped, unable to return to Lathesa's Roost since the Behemoth fell. Like the other Councillors, he and the other social elite of the city had gathered together when communication with the other Great Cities was cut off, and was chosen, by virtue of his fame and status, to lead the Harpies by sitting on the council. As is apparent, each race had chosen their representative based on different criteria: the Elves by seniority, the Orcs by royal blood ties, the Humans and Merfolk by military service, and the Dwarves by political station.

In the ensuing silence, the guards had lowered their spears or placed hands upon the hilts of their swords when Lans began to strain menacingly against his restraints, yet the tension seems to release slightly as Lans' temper wanes. however, the silence is broken by Mort's statement, which causes Councillor Isra'fil to slam a wing on the table, "How DARE you speak of the Gods in this..."

"SHARMUKH! HE IS CURSED. HERESY IS TO BE EXPECTED." The voice of the Gods collectively speak out again, causing Councillor Isra'fil to fall into a fuming silence.

Then Rehsif spoke, asking for accommodations and complaining about the statues. The Merfolk Admiral shot Sharmukh a death glare from across the table to ensure that he didn't open his beak, before she replied, "Yes, of course, after this meeting is over, you will be allowed access to the baths, and to room and board. You must understand that we still do not fully trust that you are not sleeper agents for the Gods of Darkness, so we had to keep you as weak as possible leading up to this meeting." The council listened also to Ahelair's statement, before the Merfolk Councillor replied, "You are not...going to be executed. But..." She looked over at the other councillors, somewhat at a loss.

"A last request is still valid, considering what we will be putting them up to," the Dwarf Councillor stated, continuing in an almost professional detachment, "In your absence, and in the eventuality of your death, your property will be seized for the good of the City. However, the existence of your clinic is too crucial to the continued survival of the City to liquidate. As it stands, the nurses from the City Volunteer Corps that have been assisting you heretofore shall continue to operate from your clinic, while suitable healers from Councillor Isra'fil's contingent of clerics will be assigned to take over operations. In short, we will insure that the people will continue to be in good hands. And as you are the only property owner among this group, the assets of the rest of you will be liquidated, your fish will be sent to the soup kitchens to continue to feed the masses," the Dwarf addressed Rehsif specifically, before returning to the rest of the group, "We do not expect any of you will be returning to claim what the City has seized. If you do, you will be subsidized by me, personally."

Councillor Silversmith cleared his throat, "Let's get on with it then, after much discussion amongst ourselves, and with the Gods, we have agreed upon a mission. As you all are surely aware, a Great Temple to each God resides in each race's capitol. Before the Behemoth fell, our respective holy men and holy women communed with the Gods for blessings and signs. Since we have successfully reestablished communion with the Gods through this chamber, we have learned that the Temples remain besieged, but unbroken. Here, the individual Gods have less power, but at their respective temples, they can grant blessings, power that could turn the tide in this relentless onslaught of darkness. The temples must be liberated from the grip of darkness, but we fear that this alone may not be enough, after all, the temples were free before the Behemoth landed, yet we were not able to push them back. Then the four of you land in our dungeon. Unknowns. Dangerous. Touched by the enemy. Yet, holding on to your sanity. Perhaps you are our doom. Or perhaps, you will be the way in which we use the powers of darkness against itself. The Council is in agreement, as are the Gods. Your mission is to travel to each city, commune with the God who resides there, and attain their blessing. This is...an incomplete mission, as the Gods will update us on your progress, and further decisions will be made based on knowledge as it presents itself. We believe that the curse you carry will be the key, whether it helps us understand our enemy better or gives us some way to learn how to prevent from succumbing to the madness. You will be escorted by what members of the Garrison our City can spare. You...don't really have a choice in the matter, but I would like your consent all the same. As Councillor Lavinia pointed out," Bron gestured to the Merfolk Admiral, "After this meeting, you will be treated as guests, and not as prisoners. You will be given a few days to regain your strength, to eat, to wash, to prepare. You will be given the option to stock yourselves with gear from the barracks, and a small quantity of coin should you choose to purchase anything from the markets. There is one undecided factor though. Each member of the council wants to know the status of their capitol first, each God wants their temple liberated first, so on this point, we are at odds. Perhaps we could leave the decision to the four of you, or perhaps if you require more information, you can seek the six of us out, and we can tell you the benefits that our cities can offer you, and the blessings that our Gods have been known to bestow upon their champions from legends. But for the sake of the continued unity of the Council, we have decided that you are to seek us out individually, lest this Councilchamber turn into a bloody auction house." A silence falls over the courtroom. "Guards. Unshackle them."

The guards that had herded you into the chamber approach slowly, and gently unlock the shackles that had bound your wrists and ankles. Taking the chains, they pull away, though remain at high alert.

After having his shackles removed, Ahelair slumps to the floor in defeat from having his sweet release denied him...

Having no recollection of it, he was somehow ushered into a guestroom...
In a bewildered state and mostly through force of habit, he thoroughly washed himself before going to bed...
After a good nights rest (especially after 2 weeks in the dungeon), after another, even more thorough washing, and maintenance of his beard and hair to a semi-decent state, Ahelair sat down on the side of his temporary bed, head down, face in the palms of his hands to try to come to terms with his current situation, and trying his best to ignore his wife Flyssia sitting next to him.

"Ahelair... Ahelair Ander. You... you have a job to do. It... might, not be the craft of healing you have dedicated more than a century to, but... if you... if we succeed, will you not have saved lives? Possibly the lives of everyone in all the known nations? And on this dangerous venture, will they not need a healer to make sure they have a better chance of success?...
...
..
.
If I can help to fight back against those monstrosities... will I not have avenged my poor family...?"
Without looking, Ahelair knew that his family was standing behind him, staring, waiting. The weight of their empty-eyed glares bore into the back of his head...

Later that day, Ahelair went to barracks to retrieve his whitewood staff and medicinal leather satchel that were confiscated from him a fortnight ago. While there he also procured a knife, which should be handy when traveling.
Afterwards, he went back to his clinic and home to get dressed in his most well-kept robe (which isn't saying much) and cloak, refill his satchel with fresh herbs and a variety of completed potions and ointments, and to give some final, detailed instructions to his nurses, to hug them and wish them the best.

Then, going upstairs, Ahelair took down various paintings of his family that he had commissioned back when life was perfect...
He stared at them until nightfall. He then removed them from their frames, and even knowing they would crack, break... he folded them to be stored in his satchel, before returning to the Administration to see what the next step was.

Mort broods. If he could feel something, it would not be happiness. He does not want to go on some loony, suicidal mission. But he also does not want to eat, most of the time. To live purposefully is to act in a way that is consistent with what one wants, but what he wants, it seems, is largely immaterial to what he finds his body doing nowadays. It's strangely transcendent, like a parable in one of Master Zhou's Meditations on Mortality. Perhaps the hands of the Gods guide him, and he has truly given himself to Fate, in a true act of self-annihilation. He grimaces at the thought of six immaterial hands touching him, and he ruffles his feathers in annoyance.

He sees if there are knives in the barracks, and attempts to stock 8 knives in a carrying belt. He tries on some leather armors and light mails, to see if he can find anything to protect him while allowing him to still take flight. (Wait, can Mort fly?). Mort next looks for throwing stars. He also looks for any sort of chained, long-range weapon he can wrap around himself and fling at enemies. He bosses around some of the serving staff for clothing, camping materials, and foodstuffs.

"And if yeh can do it, get me a strong, hard bottle of something sinful. I need a break from sobriety."

Mort also puts in a request at the local library for books on the geography of the continent, books on the creatures and plants of the continent, mythical/historical lore, and if possible, any sort of functional magical tomes. He files the request under "Mort, Officer of the Six Gods and Six Council People."

He files another request to some serving staff for some sort of pack animal or cart for the party's use. And oh, how could he forget: he needs a few bottles of different poisons.

He then seeks out the Harpy Councilman. Or does he need to do this with his colleagues? Hmm. He grabs another innocent member of the serving staff. "Hey, where do I find wossname, Isra'fil? Tell him Mort bin Hytham wants a word."

Res rushed to the barracks, still filthy from her stay in the dungeons, she didn't own much but she wanted to make sure her stuff was still there. She spotted her fishing spear and grabbed it, forgoing the other weapons in the room as she wouldn't know how to use them anyway. She was keen to find her overcoat and shoulder bag, which she spotted haphazardly piled among the other confiscated things, as she lifted it she noticed it was significantly lighter than it was before, "Drats." She muttered, pulling the bag open, sure enough, her coin was missing. She scrounged around and pulled out the molding letter form her uncle, no one would bother taking it anyway but she wanted to make sure it was still there, she needed it for later.

Pulling the bag over her shoulder, she dropped the coin she'd been given in the outside pocket.

Heading back to the accommodations they had given her, she locked the door and proceeded to scrub herself clean, it was hard getting old crap and dirt out of her pockmarked skin, but she managed. She supposed they must have some sort of laundry service, but she didn't bother, she was used to hand washing her clothing and she was used to sleeping in damp cloth.

Dusting off her overcoat she threw it on, she was colder than normal and wanted to hurry up and get the talking with the councilmen out of the way. The faster she was done with whatever this mission was, the faster she could get back to her own life, or at least she hoped so.

She had no opinion on who to help first so she decided she'd go with the representative closest to her room.

Res looked around, hoping to spot someone who could point her in the right direction.

As each of the cursed prisoners left the room, a guard was assigned to escort them, keep an eye on them, facilitate their preparation, and provide directions if asked.

@Tricheus

During Ahelair's return to his clinic, a few healers from the Volunteer Corps solemnly introduced themselves, and ask Ahelair and his nurses some questions to familiarize themselves with the clinic, and the area that it serves.

@tekkaiwallace

Mort's escort, who happened to be a human, helps fulfill his requests for equipment, and makes an effort to blunt any potentially abrasive exchanges. Mort's escort assures him that the party will not be traveling alone, and that camping materials and food will be part of the entourage when they leave, which will include several carts and pack animals. The escort also provides Mort with a bottle of the barracks grog, it's not good, but it's strong. The books are harder to acquire, as the city libraries are only willing to relinquish extra copies, and even those they are loathe to part with. In the end, with the escort's coaxing, Mort is given a few maps of the continent, a simple bestiary and horticultural guide, a copy of the Book of Light (compiled scriptures of the Six Gods), and a historical mythology primer intended for fledgling priests. The escort also leads Mort to Administrative Center's alchemy lab, where an apprentice requisitions a small chest of sample vials of various poisons, as requested.

Finally, the escort brings Mort to have an audience with Councillor Sharmukh Isra'fil in the High Priest's office. Sitting at a desk, flanked by guards and clerics, Sharmukh invites Mort to sit, and for the escort to remain outside. "I wasn't sure whether to expect you or not, but I suppose what they say is true, 'birds of a feather...' I suppose you have come for information on our homeland? To be fair, I probably know as little about it's current events you, possibly less, as I have been stationed here in the City of Light since long before the calamity. I had more hoped to convince your...fellows...to liberate Lathesa's Roost first, though I doubt I'll need to convince you, as I'm sure you weep for our people and our home as much as the rest of us. Did you come to seek some way we can leverage the others? Or for something else?" Sharmukh narrows his eyes at Mort, curious of his intentions.

@Fiya

The escort that had been assigned to Res happens to be a dwarf. As Res looks through her old pack for money, the escort strongly suggested to Res that if she required her money back, she could make a formal request to Gudrun Harkenstone, the Dwarf Councillor. After Res washed up, the Dwarf escort waiting outside leads Res, as requested, through the halls of the Administrative Center. The escort looks around with shifty eyes as the stroll takes an unusual amount of time, before arriving at the Office of the Treasurer, the Office of Councillor Gudrun Harkenstone. The escort announces Res' intention to be led to the nearest Councillor.

Gudrun silently looks up from her desk at Res, then at the escort. "You are aware that my office is hardly the closest one to the living quarters?" The escort remains silent, though is visibly shaken. Gudrun sighs and pulls an empty parchment and begins scratching her quill on it furiously. "I am suggesting to the Lord Protector that you be flogged for behavior unbefitting of your rank and station, and for allowing your personal bias to interfere with important matters of state."

"I did it for Thromburg!" the escort retorts.

"Have some Dwarven Dignity!" Gudrun shot back. "Divine Law is...?"

"...mithril." The escort finished.

"And Dwarven Law is...?"

"...iron."

"Our people did not become great through subterfuge and dishonesty. Go find your replacement escort for this elf," as the escort leaves in shame, Gudrun looks at Res again, "Since it seems, based on your request, that you do not care which Councillor you speak with, I suppose I'm as good a place to start as any. Sit, and let's talk business. I do not much like the idea of 'bribing' you and your party to liberate 'my city' first, but as you can see from the behavior of your ex-escort that we all desperately want this nightmare to end."

Some part of Mort wants to speak, like regular, functional people do. The problem with chronic depression, Mort finds, is the inconveniently massive amounts of inertia required to do any action whatsoever. So Mort seats himself in Isra'fil's office, and takes a deep breath... and then another... and another...

Finally, after much chewing of his tongue and swatting at his comb, Mort speaks.

"I'm Mort ibn Hytham, of the Makhlab clan, of Al-Tahliq Industries. Sure, you've been holed up here, away from the homeland for whatever amount of time, but you must still know my family.

More silence, and rapid blinking, before he speaks.

"You must also know of the many other families. You must know that, under our custom, especially in the south, that power was, sure, centralized in the capital and doled out by some governor, but real power, real influence, the birds who really made things happen... well, that came down to the clans, dinnit? And things were fine. A tiff here or there, but it was good, under the peace, even you know that."

Mort licked the inside of his beak. Scratched the floor. Twitched. Then, as though suddenly remembering he was in the middle of a conversation,

"Well, now all this awful business has happened. All the birds I know are dead. If there's any trace of my clan left, they've been scattered into the wind, eh? And so are the other clans. Now," Mort picks his beak with a talon, "say we succeed, however damn improbable it is, at all this. Then what? I'm no heroin' type. I'm Makhlab. I know my place. And old habits die hard. If this all works out, and that's a big, honking 'if', then I'm gonna need to be guaranteed my clan's hegemony over the south. Don't tell me you're horrified that I'm still thinkin' about that. It's clan law. Blood first. And if there's a future out there, then it's a Makhlab future.

"So, yes, I'm going to want to find surviving relatives and soldiers. I want to re-establish some semblance of order. There. I'm honest. And I'd rather do it sooner than later. What sort of stuff do you know about liberating our land could be beneficial to my hodge-podge party?"

Res watched with barely bridled annoyance as her escort scuttled out of the room, she despised manipulative people, even over stupid little incidents like this. Looking back at Gudrun, she wasted no time in getting to the point, "I'm sure everyone feels the same way about their city."

The fact that the appointed escort was a liar, and how opportunely the Dwarven councilor decided to take advantage of the situation made Rehsif wary of the Dwarf's agenda, however it was true she had little to no opinion on who she wanted to help first. So she took a seat in front of Gudrun's desk and made sure to tuck her bag by her feet, her coin wasn't leaving her sight again if she had any say in it.

"I'd also like to put in a formal request to have my missing money returned. It was ten silvers I had that went missing."

Res scratched at the scars on her chin, such a long stay in the dungeon left her feeling very itchy, "And as to why, or who, or what I need to do. Just give me a list and I'll do my best, or tell you if I can't. I don't need any other explanations."

Lans had been deeply shaken by the events that transpired. And even as his newfound safety net of being around the other chosen was slowly separating from him, he only had the thought of what all this meant. He always dreamed of making a difference... of rising to the highest ranks of the Corps and earning the right to carry on the Hannery name. But this was much more than he ever dreamed.

And now he not only had a chance to find his father as well as redeem himself for his rage kills, he seemed to have been granted a chance at reaching immortality... the stuff of dreams of every boy at the Academy.

But he shuddered at the thought of facing each city and attempting to liberate each one. He had not thought himself fit to even control himself anymore.

And with that thought, Lans turns to his escort and asks if he could meet with the Orc Councilor. He has some spiritual inquiries to pursue.

@tekkaiwallace

Councillor Sharmukh's eyes widen at first, then narrow at Mort's explanation. The Councillor's retinue shuffle uncomfortably, knowing that an admitted mobster was negotiating with their High Priest. "HAH!" Sharmukh laughs sharply, and leans forward in his seat, "In better times, I would have preached for the purging of your corrupt ilk from our lands, let alone negotiate with you. Still, the world order as we know it has been shattered, and it is anyone's guess if any remnants of Es Harpina nobility have survived to take up the reigns of rulership afterwards. And it may be that your clan clung to illegitimate means to power only because all legitimate means had already been claimed. And history has shown that even the worst, murderous warlords, once they had achieved victory and laid down their arms, have proven to be decent enough kings. Perhaps it is no different with the son of a crime lord. To be frank, I am surprised by the optimism of someone in your position, most have lost hope. Most think only as far as their next meal. You are thinking of the world after the calamity. Perhaps I will admit that I am a little impressed. Despite communing with the gods themselves, even I despair at times. But let's say I guarantee your clan's hegemony. What do you offer in return for this great boon other than putting forth your 'best effort' to succeed in this quest? See it from my position, your 'best effort' does not fill me with confidence, and in my opinion, three cursed individual is as good as four."

Sharmukh was silent for a moment, but continued, "While you ponder that, I can share the benefits of liberating Lathesa's Roost. First off, Lathesa's Roost is probably the nearest city to The City of Light, if you want even a chance of making it to a city before the forces of darkness slaughter you, I would suggest your party not spend too much time exposed. Of course, Hosumaria, is closer, but you'll have the sea to contend with. No travel by land is certainly safer. Rumors of great aquatic abominations abound. Lathesa also provides great blessings, especially regarding flight. This is perhaps, less enticing to your land-based allies, but it would be indispensable for you, and whatever other harpies accompany your endeavor. Lathesa, as I'm sure you know, is also the god of music, and divine music has great morale boosting affects, and may even have the ability to combat the terrible mind-altering effects of the Gods of Darkness. As for the city itself, Our civilization is most known for its medicine, having access to high mountain herbs not found anywhere else. So it is the best place for your party to acquire quality medicine and healers, an ideal location at the center of the continent to plan your excursions to the other cities."

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@Fiya

Councillor Gudrun eyed Rehsif skeptically before opening a drawer of stacked and organized currency, counting out ten silvers, and sliding them across the table at Res. A nearby secretary began jotting down the details of the transaction. "This is not a bribe, I am merely fulfilling your request of requisition of confiscated property. If I were bribing you, you'd see a lot more than ten silvers." She then looks to one of her attendants, and motions with her head. Catching her meaning, the dwarf turns to some cabinets and rifles through the files, finally pulling out a map which he lays on Gudrun's desk.

"Your task is, unfortunately, poorly planned, but I do not commune with the gods, so it is not my place to challenge them. The initial goal is simple enough, you and your fellow 'accursed' will travel, with a small armed escort, to each of the six great cities, and communicate with the god at the Great Temple of each city. Perhaps speaking with the god is enough, or perhaps they will ask you to do something for the city. As far as we know, each city is under siege, and it may be that the god will request that the siege be lifted. It is uncertain what condition is necessary for the god's power to be unshackled, but there you have it. Once each god's power has been unsealed, we may stand a fighting chance against these otherworldly monstrosities. Each city is the heart of their respective civilizations, and offers a strategic resource that may benefit your journey.

Starting from the north, we have Omega, the true financial capital of the world, though money means very little these days. Still, Omega is a hub of knowledge and a good place to obtain whatever the world has to offer, perhaps not the best quality, but decent. The god there, Omega Mammon, will also bless those among your party who are of the metal affinity, and is known to increase their champion's luck.

Then you have Thromburg, where you will have access to the best forges and equipment. Our artisans have no equal, and despite the sorry state of the world, that is something that will endure until the last breath of the last Dwarf. Thrombur will bless earth affinity individuals, and guarantee the sturdiness of your carts, wagons, and other miscellaneous equipment and transportation.

Hosumaria has the best ships, which may be necessary to reach the lands of the United Elven Tribes. The Lacertan navy may yet survive to aid you. Hosumar will bless those of water, and bless your safe passage on the seas. Some say Hosumar can even summon storms to aid their favorites.

Lathesa's Roost has the best healers and medicine. It is also strategically located in the center of the continent and the closest city by land. Lathesa blesses those of air, and their music has been shown to have some effect when it comes to staving off the darkness.

At Sarm's Tears you will hopefully find the best warrior who can aid you. You saw Councillor Graft, the young Orc? Even their young are trained in combat. Though the world has not known great conflict for generations, they have kept the practice alive. Sarm will bless those of fire and will bless your military prowess, so the stories go.

And finally, Flandasyria. The Elves are the greatest mages, a potent force if you hope to go up against the darkness. Flandasyr will bless those of wood and supposedly Flandasyr's chosen can live without need for food or drink for significant periods of time.

The vain hope behind all this is that with the blessings of all six gods, and the resources of all six cities, the gods of darkness can be taken down, one-by-one. Beyond this, there is very little plan, and should you liberate any of the gods, our temple here in the City of Light will know, and we can change plans accordingly. Does this knowledge suffice?"

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@Geos

Lans' escort readily agrees and brings him outside the building of the Administrative Center proper, to a large courtyard with toppled marble columns and broken statues, the lawn and shrubbery torn up by the criss-crossed marching of hooves and feet. In the center of this lawn sat a large tent surrounded by many others, smaller in size. It was an ancient tradition among the Orcs that when battle lines had been drawn, an Orc combatant did not sleep with a solid roof over their head until the battle was over, so it seems that what remained of the Orc host at the City of Light had chosen to pitch camp under the sky.

The escort went inside first to announce Lans' arrival, before re-emerging to allow Lans to enter. The entrance was flanked by two Orc guards, their hands on their hilts. A handful of commanders crowded around the Orc Councillor's war table, looking over a map of the city and its surrounding lands. Their forces had made a desperate effort to protect what little farmland remained to keep the city as adequately fed as possible, though they were losing land bit by bit, and the sky and the seasons seemed to have turned against the crop and the livestock. The commanders turned their attention to Lans as the young Orc Councillor looked up at him. "Yes?" he asked plainly, with a slight apprehension in his voice. A commander gave the boy Orc a nudge, prompting him to continue, "Ahem, I am Councillor Graft, Blood of Sarm. Councillor Silversmith has told me of your commendable service...and unfortunate incidents. Am I to offer you a reason for liberating Sarm's Tears before the other cities?" The boy seemed to become slightly emotional before a commander whispered in his ear. "Excuse me, I did not know. Are you an orphan? My sources tell me your lineage cannot be traced." If Lans knew anything about orc culture, then the surname: Blood of Sarm, indicated direct royal lineage.

Lans did not, in fact, have much knowledge of his blood. He had always considered himself a human by most measures and only Orc by physical prowess. Compared to his Human classmates, he never needed to exert himself too hard to outdo the best among them. But now, as he had so rarely experienced, he noted the distinct difference between him and the Hosts of Tusks. Tougher, larger, and brimming with vigor and might, the Orcs began to test his skills as a Terror Knight. He felt both an intense urge to prove that his speed and technique could overcome any of their brutish brawling as well as an utter craving to beg them to endow him with their blessings and training. He was entrapped in his own identity.

"My Lord... ah... Councillor Graft... Blood of Sarm," Lans ventured forth with trepidation, "I am Lans of Castle Hannery, West of Men. I am known among the warriors of men as Lans the Ghukzoul... a term thrust upon me for many reasons."

Lans took a short bow and immediately regretted it.

"I have three requests to plead: Firstmost, I would request any and all support for finding my father Lord Hannery. Any details on his whereabouts or aids to find him would be dear to me; secondmost, in whatever capacity is possible, I beseech you for aid in the Rite. I was advised by a shaman that I should undergo the harshest trial you may muster as I am far beyond the age; thirdmost, I request training with your best warriors to test my skills and to learn from my blood."

Lans half stifled a breath of relief but then decided that since he had gone so far...

"My Lord. I am sure it is obvious that I am no Orc. Nor do my mannerisms agree with Orc culture. And with all that has happened, I seek counsel from your wisest. I no longer know who I am. As a fourth request, I seek wisdom from the Hosts of Tusks."

Lans dropped to his knees and hoped.

Rehsif thought on Councilor Gudrun's information before offering a quick nod of affirmation. The list, which was extensive, included things on some of the cities she had never heard of. Res appreciated the matter of fact tone and, from what she could tell, fairly objective dictum of information. She had always thought of herself as well traveled, but judging by the information she had just heard she was clearly not.

She'd also had few dealings with Dwarves and always assumed them to be a greedy, temperamental people. Whether or not this were true, at least Councilor Gudrun seemed to function otherwise. This quick assessment of character put Rehsif at a bit more ease, though she was far from feeling safe.

"I'm familiar with Hosumar's supposed blessings." Res said nonchalantly, trying to sound at least a bit cultured. She scooped up the coins and unceremoniously dumped them in her bag, "I've spent time with the Merfolk, and I am most comfortable at sea."

Tying up her bag she again crammed it at her feet, "However... based on the information you've given me, I would assume attending to the Dwarven city first would be most practical."

Rehsif pulled the map closer, tapping on the location of Thromburg, "We'll need equipment and supplies to liberate cities, so it only makes sense we go there first. Who makes the final decision on this matter?"

For all her posturing and pretend arrogance, Rehsif was entirely unsure of herself at this moment, she truly did not know if going to Thromburg first was a good idea, but it was the best she had, and she'd be damned if she let her insecurity show.

@Geos

While Lans bowing was a bit of a cultural faux pas, the other orcs took it in stride, having received plenty of bows from non-orcs, and having given some in return so as not to offend.

"Lord Hannery? West of Men?" Councillor Graft asked, realizing a bit of Lans upbringing, "Councillor Bron Silversmith will be the best person to ask concerning the whereabouts of human noblemen. Other than that, if he lives, then seeking him out in Omega is as good a place to start as any. As for your next two requests, there isn't much time before you and the other accursed are expected to set out, and my men are busy protecting the surrounding lands. Any training you might receive in a few days from a pre-occupied mentor would probably do little to help. As for the rite..." Graft shudders a bit, remembering his own, "An adult undergoing the rite is rare, yes, it should be more painful that a child's rite, but care must be taken to not kill the rite-goer. There is no shaman in the City of Light who who could organize such a rite, even orc children born since the calamity have had their rites postponed. if you seek to undergo the rite, you would be better served to seek a shaman in Sarm's Tears. But perhaps, we can partially fulfill your third, as well as your fourth request. When you set out, a host of escorts will accompany you and the other accursed. A few from among my ranks have volunteered for the mission. Seek out their captain, Tandrik. She can train you along your journey, and teach you our ways."

When Lans dropped to his knees, the whole tent blustered, with a few guards reaching over to lift him back to his feet. Orcs bowed often enough out of formality to the other races, but kneeling was a different matter. Graft had a quaint, amused look on his face, betraying his childish sense of humor, but one of his advisors glared and the child regained his composure. Clearing his throat, Graft added, "An orc only kneels when dead. Stand tall and stand proud, Lans the Ghukzoul, and welcome back to the fold."

---

@Fiya

Councillor Gudrun scowled at Rehsif's final question, and leaned back in her seat. "I am a politician and a businesswoman. I leave pondering about faith and the gods to those more inclined to do so, so it strikes me as ironic that on this point I have more understanding than some of the other councillors. There is a certain degree of mystery and liberation, to leave decisions up to matters beyond your control. Like casting lots, or gambling, there is a randomness, or fate if you prefer, in the outcome. Some might try to influence your decision, but we councillors agreed to leave the decision up to the accursed themselves: you and the other three, something, that should be beyond our control. This was something the gods themselves decided. Ironic isn't it? The gods themselves leaving it up to fate? Don't tell the harpy councillor I said that, he'd hang me for a witch. So there you have it. If you're dead set on going to Thromburg first, you'll have to convince your fellows that that is the rational choice. Or perhaps, they will convince you of another route? Whatever you choose, your escort will follow."

Mort's mind wanders a lot in these dark days. Focusing on a conversation is a bit difficult. There is an intelligent, cultured way to reach a rational, strategic objective here. Some optimized combination of words and mannerisms must exist that can convince this councilor of his worthiness to liberate Lathesa's Roost. There were times, when he drank the right amount of tea in his grandfather's study with the windows open and a nice stiff breeze brushed by, that his mind worked swiftly. This was not one of those times.

"Er, check this out," Mort says, and proceeds to hurl himself at the window, trying to fly while doing that spike thing from his body that kept happening at the most inconvenient times. Mort hopes his insanity, willingness to smash into things to prove a point, and spike condition can prove to be compelling arguments.

Rehsif shrugged and took her leave, she had no intention of convincing anyone to do anything and resigned herself to tagging along with whoever made the strongest argument, or biggest scene.

As she had no choice but to go along on this quest, she'd try and prevent it from burdening her thoughts for as long as possible. Ignoring problems didn't usually make them go away but at least you didn't have to waste energy on them until you were cornered.

The escort scuttling behind her was an annoying presence so she made the intention of ignoring them completely.

Time to see what everyone else thinks... she thought to herself, wondering where and when they could possibly meet.

Lans asks the escort to lead him back to the others.

Despite the niceties, Lans, as always, feels dissatisfied. Nothing was achieved in the end. He had hoped the Orcs would be more decisive than their human counterparts. But he supposes that this sort of bureaucracy was universal.

And then a dark thought ran through his head: "What if the Madness was the only way to get things done the way he wanted?" He quickly dismissed this idea, scared of where it would take him. He never was one for philosophy.