Knights: You find yourself arriving at a small wooden dock at the edge of the isle of Ekilore. There are no villages or towns, nor are there inhabitants or animals. There is only a small dock where your ship arrives and the Tower of Oculus. The Tower itself stands at an immeasurable height, ascending deep into the clouds. It is one of the great wonders of the world, having stood for as long as civilization existed, with myths and legends of Old Aerion describing its ornate design in great detail. It's white-silver marble craftsmanship being the envy of many masons. It's sky stabbing height is legendary. It is said that no matter where one stood, the grand tower could be seen. Upon the tower also is seen the insignia of the monks of Ekilore:


Your opening post should include any detail you want to provide about your journey to Ekilore, and your arrival. You will proceed on your own through the tower, where you will wait at the top to be summoned into the monks’ dwelling.

Mercenaries: As a mercenary, your group has recently accepted a contract to eliminate a group of orcs who were rampaging through a village on the outskirts of Dalenham, Ethora. The village, known as Sabamin, consisted no more than a few dozen homes made of wood, standing close by each other. Successful in your contract, your group decides to meet at the tavern in Dalenham known as the “Broken Keg” for a celebratory drink and the splitting of the shares of the contract.

Varian walked casually through the streets of Dalenham. For the most part, the people of the city paid him no heed. It was not so unusual to see a Highmen in Ethora. Travelers from Miraheim, Falke, Ethora, and even Miracia was a customary sight. For the most part, many did not care either way, and those who did were usually in no position to do anything about it.

But Varian cared only about receiving the reward promised to himself and his group for the job they had just completed up in Sabamin. He carried a sack in his hands, which inside was the head of the recently slain orc bandit leader, the bounty the group needed for payment. Varian had only recently begun travel with the group, as before it had been just himself. It was the first time in a while that he actually worked together with so many people without them... well, dying. It was a promising sight, but Varian still didn’t quite know what the future held for himself and this new mercenary company. He turned right on the corner, exiting from the Market Street and heading down a smaller, shabby street. The buildings which stood here were even less impressive than those on the main street. Most were old and looked like they stood upon their last inch of life. Horse manure was all across the pathway, and no one bothered to clean it up. Varian walked into the second door from the left into an old, wooden tavern. The inside reflected much of the outside: old, filthy, and for the most part vacant, except for a few men on the second level, drinking, and the tender of the tavern, who stood behind a wooden table and wiped it. Varian noted at the odd paradox of this, seeing as it was painfully obvious the place had not been cleaned since... well, ever.

The man at the bar was a short one, at least to Varian, probably not coming up to his shoulders. He had long, black hair he kept in a ponytail and an untrimmed beard. His face was covered with grime and dirt, to such an extent that Varian could not tell his true skin color. His clothes were modest for the area he occupied. The man’s supposed name was Edward, but Varian was certain that was an alias. But Varian didn’t care. To him, he was his contractor, a middleman between the client and the sellsword. The contractor would hear the requests of folk for certain jobs that needed to be done, and the client would deposit the gold with them. Mercenaries would then seek out these contractors for potential jobs, and if fulfilled to the client’s demands, the gold would be given. Varian always preferred receiving his money from a contractor rather than the actual client. With a contractor, it’s a simple checklist to see if every task assigned is complete, and the exchange commences. When handling an actual client, it becomes more personal. Jobs wouldn’t be about rescuing a man or a woman, but rather rescuing ‘my brother’, or ‘my betrothed’. You feel that you’re not working to get paid, but to help someone. And while that might sit well with others, it gives Varian a feeling of added responsibility which he doesn’t want placed on his shoulders. Making sure his men (or in this case women) are paid and alive is dependability enough for him.

Edward looked up from his cleaning job and acknowledged Varian’s entrance with a wave of his hand. “Ah, Varian! Back so soon. Is the job complete?”

Varian nodded as he lifted up the sack he was carrying around and dumped the contents of it on the table. It was the head of the chieftan of the orcs, the ringleader in the attacks. The head rolled out of the sack and landed facing Edward. Edward made an aggravated face back at the head and sighed.

“Gods, I hate it.” Edward said, shaking his head. Varian looked up at him, wondering what he meant. “I hate it when they look at you when they die. Makes sleep much harder.”

“It’s just an orc.” Varian replied casually.

“That does not make him any less alive. It doesn’t make his eyes’ last sight of he who killed him any less damning.” Edward retorted, placing his hands on the table as he continued to gaze at the head.

“If you are so worried about the damned eyes of every creature I fell, the next time I bring one in, I’ll pluck them out before entering.” Varian retorted, a hint of impatience able to be detected from his tone. To this, Edward snapped into a smile and removed the orc head from the table, placing it into the sack and putting it below.

“Right, the money. The money. It’s always about the money...” He said, searching for a particular bag below. Varian noticed he marked every one of them with something different. He assumed each one applied to a different job. “How fares the village?”

“Sabamin still stands.” Varian said, crossing his arms as he waited for him to bring out his bag.

“And your company?” Edward said as he brought a bag with an ‘S’ labeled on it. Edward dropped the bag onto the table, with the sound of coin being heard when it impacted the table.

“No casualties.” Varian said as he opened the sack and dumped the silver onto the table. Edward sighed and rolled his eyes in response.

“Must you always do this?” He inquired, clearly irritated by the act. Varian began counting the silver, now lifting his eyes from his task as he monotonously answered back.

“Thrice before have you tried to swindle me.”

“Those were innocent jests!” He said. Giving up, he threw his arms up in the air and leaned back on a table behind him, crossing his arms as he watched Varian count. “Bah... do what you want.”

For about a minute, the two remained silent, Varian busy counting the gold while Edward wordlessly observed. Of course, Varian had just cause to do this. He had known for some time that Edward had some ties to the Shadowfox Guild in Ethora, and Varian knew as such their reputation as thieves. Eventually, Varian concluded the count and separated each stack into equal portions, fitting them all into separate sacks he carried on him.

“All in order, then?” Edward asked, to which Varian nodded, turning around and heading for the exit. “Excellent. A pleasure doing business with you. Pass on my regards to the rest of your motley band, eh?”

Varian waved a hand back as he exited the tavern and went back to the street. He turned the corner once more, and proceeded down the Market Street, people still walking down, busy tending to their own affairs. Varian stayed his course as well, heading into the “Broken Keg” tavern. He scanned the room, seeing the different men and women who occupied it and confirmed his group had not yet arrived. He scoured for an empty table, finding one closer to the front of the room, and turned and whistled at the bartender, a stout man with a rather thick mustache.

“Orbrigg Ale!” Varian yelled at him. The bartender went to fetch the drink, groaning as he went. “Highman Brew, Raelus Ale, Falkan Wine! Makara help me because I'll never understand! Why is it that every foreigner that passes through Ethora never orders a drink that was actually made in Ethora?!”

“The good folk of Aerion will buy goods from Ethora the day Ethora makes something worth buying.” Varian replied calmly and coldly. The response was an eruption of laughter across the tavern. The bartender flicked his arm in Varian’s direction and continued to prepare the drink. Varian eased into his seat, awaiting the arrival of the others of his group.

Sir Roland of the House of Grey adjusted one of his dark-red gauntlets onto his arm as he prepared for his ship to arrive on Ekilore. He had answered the summons of the Monks of Ekilore in representation of Hector Reigncliff, his lord and who Roland believed was the true and rightful King of Ethora. It was an honor he could not describe, but Roland couldn't help but wonder of the circumstance of the summons. He assumed it was largely due to the assassination of the Ethorian king. If that was the case, he wasn't certain if he would take much pleasure in the visit. They would no doubt seek a diplomatic solution to the problem of the empty throne, and yet Roland would prefer if they would not meddle in the affairs of the Ethorians at all. Hector was the true king, and Roland had every intention of seeing him crowned, no matter who got in his way. Whatever the monks had planned, it usually came in the form of prophecy, so no matter if Roland wished not to have foreigners meddle, it would be foolish not to at least hear them out.

Moments later, Roland was upon his horse riding through the small wooden dock of Ekilore. He looked upon no one but the large Tower of Oculus before him. Roland rode up to the entrance of the tower. His eyes was set on the enormous building the whole time he rode, even as he got off his horse at the entrance. For the knight, no one else mattered.

A loud, screeching creak came from the large iron door as it cracked open, revealing an average sized and plump bald human wearing opulent brightly colored robes. Roland recognized the man's profession immediately. He was an apprentice of the great monks of Ekilore, dedicating his entire life to their surface often in the pursuit of knowledge. There was often a trade off however, and one had to look no further than their title to discover the sacrifice. These men were called the Eunuchs. For generations, men would come to Ekilore and pledge themselves to the monks, revel in their teachings and then perform whatever was requested of them. Some stayed in the tower. Others were planted in the courts of the various kingdoms.

"Greetings my lord," the eunuch began. As he did, a rush of cold air swept through Roland, though he tried to rub off the chill as soon as he could. "You are the first ones to arrive. Do come in. The lords above have been expecting you for some time. I do fear a few of them have become oh so impatient."

Roland stepped into the tower, with his footsteps producing a slight echo. As Roland came into the tower, the Eunuch closed the door creating a thunderous 'clank' that reverberated throughout the base of the tower. "Welcome to the Oculus Tower," he said as he took a position in front of Roland. The two found themselves at the base of the tower, standing near the middle of a large circular room build around a golden platform squarely in the middle. The room was fairly well lit, at least well enough for the group to behold what many called the "Grand Library." Any person who considered themselves a scholar would call it Astrum, as the greatest written works called this library their home. The bookcases that housed these works ascended deep into the dark abyss above them.

Works of art were scattered about, often lying on the blank walls between the oversized bookcases. There were paintings on the walls depicting characters, emotions, events in histories and some harsh realities in the world. Feasts were balanced by famines, health to pestilence, peace to war and life to death. Glorious moments in history were immortalized, as were some more subdued moments. However, the most thought provoking pieces of art were pieces of art with interesting characters as the subjects. There was a prince appearing to sleep on his throne, a woman enjoying men drooling over her beauty and a man bathing himself in his gold and riches. Roland could not recognize such figures, though some bore a resemblance to figures he recalled studying. The Eunuch seemed far too focused on leading the two of them up the small metal staircase onto the golden platform, so Roland didn't bother to ask more.

When the two took their respective positions on the platform, Roland became breathless for a moment as his eyes were set on a mural. He couldn't understand what captivated him so, but he was lost in its details and majestic design. The mural towered over Roland at well over two meters tall, and about one meter wide. The frame surrounded the painting in a bright golden color, with decorative streaks of texture across it, as if to further demonstrate the significance of the image within. The painting itself utilized bright, beaming colors, the likes of which could produce a feeling of euphoria in even the greatest artists. The style of painting involved unusual brush strokes and indistinct lines and shapes, giving it a rather mystifying sensation, probably done purposefully by the creator. The mural itself contained at the foreground a gathering of men and women, their knees bent as if they were praying, or perhaps worshipping. They faced the direction of a lone figure on top of the painting, positioned on the hill. The figure’s arms are stretched outward, as if acknowledging their prayers, or perhaps forcing them down to the ground. The image is so vague that multiple interpretations could be given. Perhaps that was also purposefully done by the creator.

Above the mural was another set piece that quite literally gazed into Roland's being. Another rendition of the monks' symbolic eye loomed over the base level of the library. It was as massive as the one on the tower, with a seemingly glowing red eye that pulsed in the soft light provided by the torches. The other Eunuchs at the base did not seem to be bothered by the gaze of the red eye, minding their own business whether it be cleaning, organizing, reading or studying various novels and works. Some were appearing to write as well, while others were simply minding their own business. Regardless, there was a certain peaceful serenity about everything.

"Now my lord, do stay on the platform. Hold on to the railings if you feel like as though you will fall off," the Eunuch said, before pulling a small lever. The platform shook violently before suddenly moving. Roland lost his footing before catching himself on the railing, holding on to dear life. The Eunuch smiled and stood still, clearly used to the sensation of the moving platform. "We shall be there shortly," he nodded. The platform ascended up the tower at a fair speed, fast enough to make modest progress but slow enough that they could see the bookcases ascended high into the tower, at the various paintings decorated on the wall. Roland could of sworn he saw the characters from before continue to be the subject matter of various works of art, as if part of a series chronicling various lives. A story was being told, but he failed to make sense of it.

The platform came to a stop in a dimly lit stone room free of the opulence of the base of the tower, with a small iron door leading out of the room. It was rather depressing in comparison, but clearly it was a room that saw little use. "Come this way," the Eunuch said continuing to lead the way before pausing at the door. "I must warn you. The climb up the next of stairs is quite perilous. Stay close to the wall and you shall be fine."

"What do you mean 'perilous'? Roland demanded, crossing his arms in skepticism.

"Oh, you will see," the Eunuch replied opening the door, only to once again unleash strong gust of wind upon them. The Eunuch walked through the door with the knight, showing another sight to them. This one was received by a mixture of intimidation and awe from Roland. Intimidation in that Roland feared for his own well being. Awe in that he could see the world of Aerion from his vantage point. From the kingdoms of Ethora, to the snow capped mountains of Miraheim, to the sands of Rastra, to the lands of the west, to the coast of Falke, Roland could see from this own two eyes through the thin white clouds of the blue sky. Never before would he see such a sight and tried his best to etch into his mind. Roland let go of the railing as he marveled at the view in front of him, almost forgetting where he was.

“By the gods…” Roland whispered to himself, unsure if what he was actually seeing was true. From the top of the stairs, Roland could see the eunuch addressing them, but he was too far below to hear what was being said. Roland finally snapped from the sight of the view and proceeded to the top of the stairs, still taking the occasional glimpse at the lands below.

The Eunuch lead them all the stairs, making their way around the door until they appeared to be behind the door. The view of the world that made Roland feel like a small child in a dream world was obscured by the room that only myths told of: the observatory of the monks of Ekilore. It appeared that the monks admired the view as much as anyone else as the observatory had every wall crafted by pure glass. Only the sold stone foundation and the pointed marble roof were exceptions, though the iron door and marble archway they stood underneath (with marble walls on each side to protect them from elements) that stood before them could mentioned in the same sentence.

"We are finally here," the Eunuch said. "Now we must wait for the others before the monks shall receive you. It should not be long."

Elric gazed up at the Tower of Oculus, even more amazed by it's size up close than when he saw it from afar in Falke. When word had come that the Monks of Ekilore had a prophecy and requested emissaries of the nations to hear the prophecy and thus change the fate of their world, Elric had immediately requested permission from Lord Dunston Hawke to travel to Ekilore as an emissary of Falke. Like all the soldiers of Falke, he had heard the rumors of Miraheim mobilizing for war and the civil unrest in Ethora and the quarrels within Raelus and Palaven, and so much more that could portend the collapse of the world as we know it. With so much turmoil in the world, even a glimmer of hope would be welcome, and a prophecy from the shadowy, but respected, Monks of Ekilore was so much more than a glimmer of hope - it was a beacon, a light in the darkness. And so, with the blessings of both Lord Dunston Hawke, and King Frederick Highclaw III, Elric had journeyed to Ekilore on a mission to save the world from catastrophe.

The journey to Ekilore had been rather uneventful. He had traveled on horseback from the garrison at Skyfall to the port at Falcon Peak, and from there he had boarded a ship bound for Ekilore. The tossing of the ship on the waves had unsettled Elric's stomach at first, but after one short bout of seasickness, the queasiness subsided and the rest of the voyage had passed quietly, the ship aimed always at the Tower of Oculus, seeming to rise out of the sea even before the island came into view.

Finally, the ship docked at the island and Elric disembarked, taking a moment to marvel at the massive tower before he grew uneasy with the insignia of the monks that seemed to be watching him. He stepped forward and the massive iron door to the massive building opened. Stepping inside, Elric was greeted by a Eunuch who led him to a golden platform in the center of the Grand Library that Elric found himself in. Elric stood in awe of the vast collection of books and art housed in the library. He had never seen so many books and artwork in his life, and he was certain that some of the pieces contained in this library were the only one of their kind, or at least the only surviving one of their kind. He gazed around him at the massive library as he followed the Eunuch onto the platform. Once Elric had joined him, the Eunuch pulled a lever and the platform rose up, giving Elric a view of all the books and paintings and murals that resided in the Grand Library. Elric would have commented on the amazing vastness of the library and the tomes and works of art it contained, but the room's sheer vastness left him speechless.

Finally, the platform stopped in an empty stone room that seemed to serve no other purpose than as an antechamber between the library and the room beyond the iron door. The Eunuch opened the iron door, and Elric was greeted by a strong wind. Looking through the door, Elric could see the reason for the wind: this section of staircase had no outer wall; it was completely open to the elements. Looking out from the stairs, Elric could see the entirety of the lands of Aerion laid out in the distance on the sea below. From such a high vantage point, many of the landforms of the continent were indistinguishable, and cities and villages and other human dwellings could not be made out at all, but remembering his geography, Elric could tell exactly where the borders of each nation were. He kept himself close to the wall as he followed the Eunuch up the stairs, constantly glancing out at the breathtaking scene laid out below. Finally, he reached the archway over the iron door that led to the observatory of the Monks of Ekilore. Here he would wait for the monks to summon him to their presence, a bit of nervousness showing on his face, wondering what prophecy the monks had to speak to him.

Elric leaned against the wall and waited. One other person had arrived before him - a military man much like Elric himself, judging by the man's armor. Elric recognized the sigil of House Reigncliff on the spaulders of the man's armor, marking him as Ethorian. Elric regarded him silently, his gaze, as usual, hidden in the shadow cast by the hawk helmet of the High Dragoon, making it impossible for the man to tell if Elric even was looking at him or merely gazing idly as he waited for the monks to receive them.

Kace raced up the rigging of the mainsail of his father’s vessel, The Sea-Wolf. Propping himself on top of the singular mast that propelled the wolf-headed longship, Kace gazed in wonderment at the massive soaring tower, wondering how it maintained its straight rigidity considering how tall it was. He figured magic was involved somehow. Reluctantly tearing his gaze from the colossal tower, he glanced at the crew bustling around below him. Half were his father’s men, Highmen, and the other were Dwarves from House Cilrok, like Kace himself. He knew them all by name and grew up with a fair number of them.

Kace had received a summons to Ekilore about a month and a half prior. It was a mysterious letter signed only with a black sigil in the shape of an eye. He had spent a fortnight preparing, receiving blessings from elders from both peoples, Dwarf and Highman and packing the proper supplies. His mother insisted on Kace taking his best finery and his father insisted on half his armory. Their journey had been relatively easy. He and his Dwarven entourage of eight departed from his mother’s estate, where his Grandfather, Orik Cilrok still reigned as Lord. They journeyed for half a day across the border to Miraheim, arriving on his father’s lands where they spent the night and were joined by another eight Highmen. They rode for another day to the river, where his father’s longship was docked. The crew of seventeen boarded and sailed downriver to the coast, over the course of another week. Once they reached the ocean, the journey to Ekilore became a bit more hazardous. They were plagued by a storm that seemed to follow them, disappearing after half an hour, before reappearing out of thin air an hour later. The storm only lasted for half of their journey at sea however and the final leg of the journey was blessed by the gods with a strong breeze and clear skies, day and night.

They arrived at the docks of Ekilore in good spirits, laughing and singing shanties, another fortnight after departing Kace's father's lands. With the Sea-Wolf anchored at the dock, Kace set to work helping his crew unload all of his supplies that he would be keeping with him. After about five minutes of work however, he heard a soft ahem. Turning, Kace saw a plump, bald man with powdered skin and in rather colorful robes.

“If you would sir, follow me. We’ve been waiting anxiously for your arrival. Two of your fellow summons have already arrive. I’m sure your men can finish unloading, and I will show them where to take everything once I return. Come with me please.” Said the eunuch before turning briskly and walking on towards the tower, not waiting for a response.

Kace followed, shooting a look to his men, grinning confidently. They all gave him silent signals of encouragement. Kace and the eunuch entered the tower and into a library with the largest collection of books he had ever seen. His grandfather’s library was no modest collection by Dwarven standards but it could fit half a million times in this great tower. There was a golden platform in the center of the room that the eunuch was leading him to. The eunuch mounted it and gestured for Kace to do the same, which he did. Pulling a lever, the platform began to ascend. When it stopped, the eunuch led Kace off the platform and to a set of iron doors. The eunuch gave Kace a small, knowing smile, before opening the doors in a grand gesture, revealing the entirety of Aerion. Everything that Kace had seen thus far paled in comparison to the view before him now. He walked up the staircase before him, not really paying any attention to where he was going, just gazing at the land of Aerion below him. Once they reached the top, the eunuch led him to where to others stood, both clad in armor. Kace glanced down at his own garb, a simple green tunic that reached his knees, covering a brown shirt and cinched at the waist by a black belt made of twisted leather with a seax hanging from it, a pair of grey trousers and simple leather shoes. His clothes were of good quality and they were clean, but simple as well, making it hard to place his social class just by judging his appearance. He felt oddly underdressed but he hadn’t thought armor was necessary. Maybe these others had received news different than his? Maybe these monks would test them with combat? He did not know. But he found himself resting his hand on the hilt of his knife.

“Hail,” he raised a hand in greeting and smiled to the others, “I’m Karl Cilrok Ulvarsson.”

The gangplank creaked. A looming figure dressed like he belonged in a mortuary exited the ship, sheathed blade leaning against his left shoulder and a wicked looking targe slung over his back. The black silhouette of his squared frame filled the waiting monk's widening eyes. He stopped abruptly before the monk, casting a smouldering, baleful glare down without so much as acknowledging the great tower even once. When he was still, he moved not a hair but to breathe. When he moved, it was with the silent intensity of a big cat.
The monk took a step back, wiping a sleeve over his brow. This was one of those types. One gear, no off switch. He was here to slay or else twiddle his thumbs.

"You aren't a knight, are you?" Asked the monk.

"I can see mine own image reflected within thy shiny dome. Prithee be still, knave, that I mayest preen these nose hairs of mine."

Catskull leaned forwards and began studiously plucking out his protruding nosehairs as he peered into the monk's bald head. The monk's train of thought nosedived into a ravine.
Wait, nosehairs? Is he actually... But I... What? WHAT??
The monk opened his mouth and inhaled a stray nosehair. A coughing fit overtook him, and in earnest Catskull began slapping the monk's back to help him cough it up. Slowly, several eunuchs began drawing near, having heard the commotion.

"Ah, I see thou hast partook of mine hair. How fortuitous thou art, for I, Catskull Maclung shall grant thee a second chance at life! Breath, damn ye! Breath!"

When Catskull arrived with the others, having entered the tower heedless of its wonders, he had a black eye and several bruises on his face. If this drew any looks, he'd look away curtly, and with shadows brooding in his eyes, would answer simply thus; "Prithee do not mind me. A learned man is he who finds that eunuchs are formidable in packs."

The eunuchs had apparently beat his ass, having thought he'd been assaulting the monk. The issue was cleared up, but it'd be a few days before the shiner he'd recieved followed suit. Was he really a knight? Nobody would have seen him on the ship. A stowaway? Why this destination? If he wasn't a knight, he was certainly armed just as well, and likely not for no reason.

Sir Duncan Goldenheir, Lion of Dawn

The ship's mast-head, a great, snarling golden lion, rolled through the waves, with the hull of the ship cutting the ocean's currents, skiffs rolling off of it. Sir Duncan Goldenheir stood at the bow of the ship, his squire Alistair at his side, gazing off into the distance at the once inscrutable land mass that was beginning to crystallize and clarify itself as it drew closer into the ship's view. The Tower of Oculus' smooth marble was becoming perfectly visible by now, and it's unparalleled height was unmistakable, even at this distance. The Tower of Oculus' grandeur, to Duncan, was unmatched in all of Aerion, and he believed that no man could have ever created such a display of power. He believed it was some divine show of force, one that the people of the lands had long forgotten who had delivered it, and could not fathom the possibility that any man had created such an obelisk.

"By the Great Lord Andal..." Sir Duncan muttered to himself, in awe of the Tower.

"I've always heard the stories of it, but to see it, with my own two eyes..." said Alistair, trailing off in thought, "... Well, to actually see it, that's an entirely different thing."

Sir Duncan nodded in concordance, his eyes roving all the way up the pillar, trying desperately to see where it ended, but to no avail.

"Sir Duncan?"

"Yes, Alistair."

"Be careful," Alistair said, his eyes filled with all the naivety and compassion that Sir Duncan remembered from his own youth, "You know, when you're in there with them. I shudder to think about what sort of sorcerery lies within such a structure."

Sir Duncan gave the boy a smile of understanding. He liked Alistair; he was a good lad, one that reminded him of himself—always concerned with the wellbeing of others. It was for this reason Sir Duncan had chosen to squire the boy, even though others had shown much more potential with the sword than Alistair. Alistair had a big heart, and Sir Duncan had taken to liking him over the boy's cohorts for this reason.

"Not to worry lad. The Monks of Ekilore are some of the most esteemed that Aerion has ever seen. They are noble in their own way, always looking out for the good of the realm. Besides," he continued, giving him a reassuring smile, "I've got the Great Lord Andal as my guide."

---

The path up the tower had been breathtaking. Sir Duncan had heard tales of the view from the Tower of Occulus, but seeing it... as Alistair had put it, was an entirely different thing. The sunlight glittered through its great glass panes, and the sea that surrounded them and its' waves raged on, like a torturous beauty. He stood in the company of two others, one who he recognized as Sir Roland Grey, and the other whomst he did not yet know. Sir Roland, if he was not mistaken, was a member of the Lionsguard and he had heard much of his deeds, or rather, Sir Roland's great boasting of his deeds. It was one of the worst kept secrets in the realm that Sir Roland was a man whose ego eclipsed all others, but Sir Duncan was not one to let the talk of others sully a man's reputation before he had met him and decided for himself.

"Greetings, friends. I am Sir Duncan Goldenheir, Knight of the Knights of Andal, Andal's Chosen. May Andal's Blessings be upon the both of you," he said, using his usual customary greeting. He turned to Sir Roland, "Ah, Sir Roland. I have heard much of your bravery in the Lionsguard. I trust you are doing well."

---

Drostan didn't particularly like being back in Ethora. He supposed he didn't have much reason to be afraid. They were well away from the lands of House Welm, well away from anyone who might have seriously recognized him. And it wasn't as though his name was being spoken much, anymore. Doubtless, it had been months, even years since anyone had thought of Drostan Welm. But it wasn't just fear that had kept him out of Ethora for so long. The place was his homeland, and for all its flaws and depravity, it was a part of him. When he was away, he could pretend as though he'd always been Osmund Griff, as though he'd never before visited Dalenham with his uncle and his sister when he was a boy. But staying here, amongst the people who were once his own, brought back all kinds of memories.

"I'm getting to be too damn old for this, Varian." He said, mostly in jest as he took a seat next to his fellow mercenary. He said something to that effect after almost every job. It was funny, because he was only thirty-one and because Varian was barely younger than him. But, then again, he was sore and tired more often than not and sometimes his back popped when he sat down. He raised a hand and looked at the bartender. "Barkeep! I'll have some of that Raelus Ale you were whining about." Truth be told, he normally ordered Ethoran drinks in Ethora, just because they were a bit cheaper. They weren't as good, but he didn't mind. Alcohol was a means to an end so far as he was concerned. But he'd heard the barkeep groan about it and couldn't resist. Besides, after this job, he could afford to splurge a bit on some finer brew. It wasn't like he was saving for anything.

He'd changed out of his battle wear, trading his light armor for simple travel clothes and stashing away his shield and spear. His sword was still buckled on his hip, as it always was. The blade had a name once, not that it mattered much anymore. He'd worn down the identifying inscriptions on the blade and replaced its ornate scabbard and belt with simpler fare a long time ago.

"I'm never quite prepared for how... monstrous Orcs can be." He shook his head, taking a long draught from the tankard that the barkeep had brought him. "It's as though every time I see one, I forget about the last however-many times I've seen them." When he was a boy, he'd read 'Treatise on the Orc Dilemma,' by some Falkian philosopher he'd forgotten the name of. It was a long-winded essay that basically said that orcs were just of a different culture and that it was the responsibility of the other intelligent races to educate them, or something to that effect. Having never seen an orc before, he'd brought the paper to his father, interested to see what he thought. Robert Welm had torn it in half, and had the eleven-year-old Drostan fitted with armor and attached to a group of soldiers that were hunting an orc raiding party. What he'd seen had made him seriously question whether that philosopher had ever met an orc. Drostan wanted to believe there was good in the Orcs, as there was in all the other races, but he didn't want to be the poor bastard whose job it was to educate them.

Edon Wolf
Orc Camp
Sabamin, Ethora

Embers rose steadily into the air from burning huts and tents as the sound of sporadic battle and butchery surrounded him. The main part of the actual 'fighting' had ended some time ago after Varian's assault. Now it was simply cleaning up the stragglers.

A brute of an orc yelled his savage fury over the just work that Varian's crew had carried out. He hefted a long axe that he no doubt had lifted from the corpse of one of his raiding victims and charged toward Edon. His swing could have split the noble man's head down to his sternum for all the might behind it.

These beasts have no disclipline, Edon thought as he stepped to the side and retreated. The axe bit the ground and cost the orc precious seconds to reset. All fury and strength with no finesse or subtlety.

"Is that all you are," he spoke in a soft, disappointed tone. The orc was clearly strong enough to crush his head with his bare hands. To Edon, he saw a creature who had grown accustomed to solving its problems only through force.

When the next attack came, it was just as clearly telegraphed as the last. Edon moved in to meet it with the metal-covered shaft of his halberd. His arms flexed under the sudden impact of the sideways swing but he managed to stop it cold, sending the axe rebounding. He followed it up by stepping back and striking the orc in the side of its head with the metal-capped 'butt' of his polearm. It wasn't an especially hard strike but the lights visibly dimmed in its eyes from having his brain rattled.

The orc was huge and fierce but Edon was not a small man either. He stood just over six foot tall and had the fit, full build of a person who had steady and easy access to food and fitness for his whole life. He was a fighting man and took pride in his physical fitness and skill. Being from Raelus, speed and quick footwork was essential, even if he tended to go for half plate instead of the lighter armor favored by his noble brethren. Butchering scavengers was so far beneath him that it felt like an insult.

He waited for the orc to shake away the dizziness and ready himself for another assault. This time Edon assumed a defensive posture with his knees bent and the halberd aimed straight for the orc. He almost didn't even have to aim. When the beast charged him, it swiped at his polearm to try and knock it away. Edon simply dipped his weapon then brought it back up into the creature's stomach. The orc howled in pain and rage and pressed on, but Edon dropped the butt of his polearm into the ground and held fast to it, bracing it against the attempt to push him back.

For a short time, the orc swung at him without success. Then he beat at the shaft but struck only the metal strip that reinforced the wood. When its strength began to wane, Edon pushed back, eventually forcing the beast to the ground. He extracted his halberd and stood away from the orc.

For some time, he stood there and watched the creature as it bled out in the dirt. Its breathing slowed and fire dwindled to just a spark in its eyes but it did not show any of the pain it must have been in.

"Very well," Edon whispered. "You have earned this much."

He dropped his halberd and drew his bastard sword then moved to stand by the orc's head.

"A clean death."

As he made ready to end its suffering, the orc suddenly reached for him with both hands. Edon swung out of reflex to cut down one of the hands but failed to stop the beast's attempt. His sword was knocked to the side and he found himself flat on his back after his feet were pulled out from under him. Quickly, he pushed himself away from the wounded animal and lashed out at it with kicks. Adrenaline surged through his system and, before he knew it, he was free of the struggling, dying creature.

The orc's grab had been its last attempt at revenge rather than some masterful trap. As he watched, the thing breathed its last breath and began to grow cold.

Edon climbed back to his feet and gathered his sword. He checked his surroundings but the fighting was over with. His eyes soon came back to the dead orc. Its lack of dignity in defeat offended his sense of propriety. But its defiance even in death was something he respected. After a minute of silent contemplation, he cleaned off his sword and retrieved his halberd then moved to rejoin the rest of the company.

Edon Wolf
Broken Keg Tavern
Dalenham, Ethora

Edon walked through the streets of Dalenham with clear contempt in his eyes. These people lived like animals and he hated them for it. He made no attempt to converse with anybody and continued straight toward the tavern where Varian had insisted they meet.

He had cleaned his halberd and his armor and left it at the camp for this. Instead, he wore his trusty mantled riding coat (the finest thick, black treated leather) over a deep red button up piece of formal wear. His bastard sword hung from his left hip, often with his left hand perched comfortably atop its pommel.

His resentful scowl remained even after he reached the tavern. The idea that people could adapt to this level of filth appalled him.

Drostan and Varian were easy to spot in the crowd. Edon worked his jaw for a moment and considered his next action. He didn't know either of these men, despite the previous mission they had carried out. He had only recently been hired on and even then it was through another person. This would be his first true meeting with the man.

Edon shook away his doubts and marched over to the table. The other two were already seated, but he came to a stop at their side, well in easy view of them. Again, the noble from Raelus seemed to search for the right words before saying, stiffly, "Commander Varian."

Varian scoffed in response to Osmund's jest. The man had said practically the same sentence every single time he did something even remotely tiring. The Highman scanned over his mercenary companion for a brief moment - he was decent enough of a fighter, and didn't annoy Varian as previous companions of his had in the past, which made him tolerable. Varian knew there was more to this man, but he also didn't care enough to find out what that was. In all likelihood, Osmund would either move on or end up dead within the month. That's generally how these mercenary bands played out for Varian.

There was a time when he traveled with a female sellsword where that didn't play out as he predicted. He had found her in southern Miraheim, nearly frozen to death and more drunk than a woman of that size ought to be. The woman, Cassandra, ended up being quite a skilled swordswoman herself, and the two traveled for a few months together, before they separated. Varian wondered for a few moments what ever became of the young woman.

He snapped out of his thoughts as Osmond spoke aloud about the orcs. Varian took another large swig of his ale and shrugged his shoulders. "If they weren't monstrous, we wouldn't have gotten paid as well as we did. Speaking of which..." Varian began reaching in his bag by his chair, removing the sack of coins given to him by Edward. He distributed Osmund's share to him, just as he heard Edon's voice above him.

Varian glanced at the man and cocked an eyebrow and snorted. "Just Varian. Saying 'Commander' won't get you any extra silver," He motioned for Edon to take chair beside him. "The payment. Ten silver for each of us. Job well done. And a good job staying alive." He said to them, before leaning back and grabbing hold of his ale and downing the contents. He let out a satisfying sigh and leaned back as he watched the others look over their payment.

Edon Wolf
Broken Keg Tavern
Dalenham, Ethora

"I am not asking for handouts," Edon snapped after hearing Varian's jest. He narrowed his eyes and clenched his jaw, taking a moment to calm down and collect his thoughts. It seemed like he had something more to say, however, instead he took a breath and let it out in a soft huff. He seemed to be considering his next action carefully.

"Thank you," he said, his voice formal. Edon was not a man to mumble his words nor was he without manners.

Having visibly come to a decision, he stepped around to one of the seats at the table and stiffly took a seat. Unless stopped, he would reach for one of the pouches of silver and slip it into a pocket without counting its contents.

Varian eyed Edon curiously as the man grabbed for the coins without checking for anything. He wondered briefly what his reasons for doing so were. Did he trust Varian and believe he was honest enough to split it wisely? Did he not want to seem to eager to do so in front of others and risk unwanted attention? Did he simply forget due to stupidity? It could have been any number of reasons. The man did not strike Varian as someone interested in the money. At least, not to the extent of being greedy. Soon enough Varian dropped the thought out of his mind. He shook his head, and took a few gulps of his Orbrigg Ale before slamming the goblet on the table, satisfyingly letting the aftertaste develop in his mouth.

As Varian prepared to speak, he was interrupted by a throat clearing from a short, stout man in front of him. The plump man wore a large, hooded black cloak, and although Varian was no connoisseur on clothing, he could tell it was crafted of luxurious material, perhaps silk. The man kept very well hidden that which he wore underneath, but Varian could have sworn he saw some sort of jewelry on his garb. No matter how well the man probably tried to hide it, he was evidently quite wealthy.

“Excuse me, but I do believe I overheard that you are in fact mercenaries, is that correct?”

Varian looked back at the others, and then turned to the man in the cloak. He put one arm over the back of his chair as he continued to gaze at him. “I suppose we are.” Varian finally replied, much to the apparent joy of the cloaked man.

“Splendid!” He exclaimed, perhaps too loudly for which he intended, causing him to look around the tavern to make sure nobody else heard. After composing himself, he spoke again. “I am in desperate need of assistance, and I have no one else to turn to. My daughter has been taken by brigands. They took her north and are holed up north in a fort just outside of Curilan. I have sent others to try and release her, but none have returned. I implore you, please rescue my daughter!”

In Varian’s eyes, the man seemed sincere. It was against his better judgment to usually go directly for the client instead of through contractors, but he seemed like he was distressed and in desperate need of assistance. But Varian knew the others might be tired from just accomplishing one mission, and might have liked to stay in the city for a few nights before going on another job. He disliked the notion of turning down a potential client, but the lives and well-being of his group would always take precedent over the client.

“Sorry, but we’ve only just returned from a job of our own, and we’re tired. I’m sure you can find ano-“ Varian was suddenly interrupted by the man in the cloak.

“How much did you earn on your last job?”

Varian looked at him curiously, bringing his mug up to his mouth and taking a gulp of the ale, and replied. “30 silver.” The man was quick to respond.

“I will pay you 30 silver to each of you, and an additional 200 to be split amongst the survivors upon completion.” He said, unflinchingly. Varian nearly spit out his drink from his mouth as he heard the offer. He place the mug down on the table and eyed the man suspiciously.

“Who are you exactly?” Varian questioned him. The man in the cloak looked around for a moment before replying. “I am... a reputable merchant wishing only to have my daughter returned to me.”

"Most 'reputable merchants' don't mind sharing their name," Varian shot back.

"You'll forgive me if I don't share my name, but I came with the job offer under the intention of secrecy," The cloaked merchant explained. "Had I not wanted that, I would have chosen a more... direct way of getting my daughter back to me. This offer shall only come once. Either accept it, or do not.”

Varian sighed and leaned back a bit further in his chair. He looked over the faces of the others.

---

Drostan didn't acknowledge Edon beyond a grunt. He didn't have a terribly strong opinion of the man, but there was something about him. Drostan could almost smell the high society on him, as far as his mannerisms went. If he wasn't blue-blooded, as Drostan had the feeling he was, then he was sure that Edon wished he was. His stiffness and formality when talking to Varian and his lack of a greeting for Drostan didn't much help his distaste. But at the moment, it was just that, distaste. He couldn't bring himself to hate him, certainly not yet. At least the man had proved himself a capable warrior. He'd never turn up his nose at the prospect of a skilled halberdier on his flank.

He raised an eyebrow as Edon took the money without counting it. Odd, but he understood. When he first started taking jobs on his own, a few years ago in Falke, he had never wanted to count his money in front of his clients. It felt rude, but after the second time, he'd been cheated he'd made it a habit. As such he made sure to count this, too. But he did it sort of lazily, just opening the bag and doing a quick count with his eyes, shifting the coins around to be sure it looked right. If he was dealing with a contractor, he'd have dumped it out on the table and made a show of counting each coin, but Varian had shown himself a decent sort so far and, besides, company commanders, in general, were good about this sort of thing. Most realized it wasn't wise to cheat the people who traveled, slept, and ate with you, all while armed.

He frowned as the short man found them and started speaking to Varian. Jobs for anonymous clients were always on the shadier side. He had his doubts that the brigands were actually brigands and that the man's daughter was actually his daughter, but there was no way to know for sure unless they did the mission. The way he figured, either they were hired and they did the job themselves, or they turned it down and the man found some even nastier bunch of bastards to do it.

"Could always do with a bit more silver." Drostan said, without much expression. He took a drink of his ale, but kept his eyes on the man. He was rich, plainly. If the robe and the garb concealed beneath didn't give that away, the payment he was offering did. He didn't trust the man, didn't trust the job, didn't trust the money. "Your daughter, sir. What's her name?" He locked eyes with the man, trying to read him. "It's just, the way I figure, might be hard to find her if we don't even know her name."

Edon Wolf
Broken Keg Tavern
Dalenham, Ethora

Indeed, Edon had mostly ignored Drostan. It was an unconscious thing rather than an active slight on the man. He had been, and largely still was, focused on his own thoughts.

He hadn't eaten since before the raid on the orcs. Some food sounded good, however, the idea of consuming anything from this place turned his stomach. The camp seemed more cleanly by comparison. He neglected to order anything to drink either. Edon wasn't about to risk his bowels on the local water and wasn't willing to dull his senses with something alcoholic.

For a few minutes, the nobleman's eyes were unfocused as he was lost in thought. When somebody came too close to their table, his blue eyes snapped up at them. As the cloaked figure engaged Varian, Edon's eyes turned to the mercenary leader with critical interest.

Salesman, he thought as he listened to the apparent merchant. The man was a salesman and his pitch was one Edon had heard in nearly every market he had visited. He would have sent him on his way but Varian and Drostan seemed to consider it.

Unhurried, Edon rose from his seat and stood to his full height. From there, he glared down at the portly man and said, "Some details would be nice." His tone had the practiced impatience of a man whose time was worth far more than the life of some merchant. It wasn't the most subtle trick but he knew this man's type; he needed to be reminded of his place.

The portly shorter man visibly paled as Edon stood before him. He was clearly not used to being in front of men like this, giving Varian even more indication that this man came from some money. The cloaked merchant cleared his throat and seemed to take in a few sharp breaths before responding to Osmund and Edon's inquiries. "H-her name is Priscilla. A young, dear lass. Beautiful long auburn hair, eyes like mine. A sweet girl. U-unfortunately beyond that... more information I cannot give. Respectfully, sire, as I have said before, I come to you under the garb of discretion. I ask you to honor that... or I will take my business to others."

A few more moments passed before Varian once more sighed and looked at his two companions. He figured whether they wanted to come or not, he could always take the job and leave it to them to decide whether to stay. They had no obligation to do so anyway. With that thought in his mind, the Highman turned back to the corpulent merchant and nodded. “Alright. We accept.” He said, picking up his mug and finishing the rest of his ale before slamming it down hard on the table. The merchant seemed overjoyed.

“Thank you, warriors!” He began fiddling in his pockets as if looking for something, but did not necessarily pull anything out. He continued to speak. “Now, I know you wouldn’t want to set off right away, and without any further knowledge of the mission. Tomorrow at the break of dawn, meet me in front of the gates of Dalenham, ready to go, and I’ll bestow upon you the first half of the payment, as well as additional information. Is this acceptable?”

Varian nodded, and the merchant smiled, speaking again, apparently on the verge of tears. “I will see you tomorrow, then. I cannot thank you enough.”

“Save your thanks for when we actually finish the job.” Varian said coldly. The merchant nodded in understanding, and departed as swiftly a he came, his larger size deceiving in his movements. Varian eyed him the entire time while he left the tavern, before leaning over to the others. “I don't trust him, but I trust the silver. If you want to continue on with me, then we'll go together on this job tomorrow. If you don't, here in Dalenham is where's we'll part ways." There was a lot to consider; what equipment to bring, what path to take, whether he needed to hire additional swords for the job. But for now, "Either way..."

Varian motioned to the bartender. “Oi! Another round for us!” He yelled at him. The bartender was quick to yell back. “Aye, I’ll get you your damn foreign pisswater!”

---

As the others quickly moved from the ship and walked ashore Oriril stayed back and watched as the humans conversed with one another. Had High Druid Valieon not made mention that the Monks requested a nobleman from Miracia he personally would have left humanity to itself. His cool gray eyes peered across the lot of the with mistrust as he made his way off the ship, the sound of masterwork elven greaves clunking against the deck. The day had been spectacular as nature tends to be and he couldn't help to stand in silent admiration of it. Until his eyes came to rest on the tower.

The craftsmanship could not be denied, of course, but here among nature it seemed so out of place. The marble looked TOO perfect...
too...Man-made. Just the thought of Old Aerion man creating such an presumptuous building reaffirmed in himself why humans couldn't be trusted. In a hurry get his assignment over with Ori quickly walked towards the entrance of the tower, bumping into a pair of men speaking with one another.

It didn’t take long for the rest of the gathered to arrive. Roland didn’t do much to acknowledge them, even cocking an eyebrow but remained silent as the tattooed shorter man addresses him. He did acknowledge Sir Duncan when he arrived. The man was a radicalized holy warrior in Roland’s eyes but he knew his skill was legendary.

“Sir Duncan,” The knight gave Duncan a curt nod. “Yes, I’m sure you have.” Roland replied in a mildly boasting manner.

"Ah, it is time my lords. Come right this way. Do watch your step. All these stairs can be such a chore," the Eunuch said with a sheepish smile. Roland did not see or hear a signal. Odd. Perhaps it was magic of some sort. Despite it's growing rarity, it would not be unheard of. The monks have had access to old magics for generations.

Roland entered through the door and climbed a brief staircase and entered the observatory. The group stood in the middle of the room, surrounded by the monks. They sat in what appeared to be small thrones on a stone platform that circled the outer edge of the room. There were seven in number, each of them cloaked in a grey-white robes with a hood hiding their faces. All except one who was not presently in his seat, instead gazing out the glass walls watching Aerion through the thin clouds.

As the group placed themselves in the middle of the room, the standing monk turned to face them, stepping down from his platform to meet them face to face. He stood taller with excellent posture than Roland and seemed to have a solid build. It was impressive considering the supposed age of the man, given that his hair had little color other than its full silver grey. His face was fairly youthful too with no disfiguring marks or facial hair. It was a bit disorienting really. Was this man old or young? The most unusual trait was his eyes however. They were a deep red and drew Roland in, as if they were attempting to hypnotize him.

The red eyed monk spoke with a strong voice: "Thank you for coming, brave Knights of Aerion. You stand in the room of the monks of this grand tower on a day that could decide the fate of this very world." The monk looked at the "knights" with a discerning eye, analyzing them one by one. He then smiled, as if he was pleased with the collection of men and women he had gathered. "We monks are gifted with many abilities that have been developed over the course of many long years. These abilities allow us to see things that others can not. In these visions, my fellow monks and I have seen something that brings great hope for this world. Through deeper mediations and some readings of ancient texts, I believe that we have found the possibility of everlasting peace" the monk said with a deep pause.

"It is no secret that Aerion has encountered many difficulties its rather grand history. With such things as pestilence, war, and famine all leading to many untimely deaths. It is all such a grim tale that I dare not elaborate any further. But..." the monk continued waving to the eunuch that escorted them earlier. "This artifact, known as the Orb of Ardor in your common tongue was a recurring motif in our visions," the monk said showing them a rough sketch of the orb from one of the books that clearly based on the condition was one of the most ancient of the many books in the Grand Library. "If the myths surrounding this orb hold true, this may be able to fix all that and end the chaos that is sweeping the land."

"And what do you want us to do?" Roland asked curiously.

"A fair question to ask," the monk replied. "This Orb was believed to be shattered long ago with its pieces becoming the desire of many because of its so called 'value' as a treasure with no owner being astute enough to realize its true purpose. This, in turn, caused the shards to be scattered across all of Aerion. For this prophecy to hold true, we must gather all these pieces to put the Orb of Ardor back together to unlock its power. Undoubtedly, you chosen few will become heroes.”

"The quest will bestow its own rewards. Mountains of riches you shall receive," one of the monks said suddenly.

"The conclusion of this quest will fulfill all your ambitions, and thus you can finally revel in languor and indolence," said another.

"The pleasure of the flesh will be forever yours to partake."

"Others will look upon you with eyes of jealousy, at what you have accomplished, and at what they wish they had."

"Your cravings will eternally and everlastingly be fulfilled."

"Your thirst for battle will be seen, and in the end your enemies will fear your name. Your own might will be the last they see in your path of destructive power!"

"Your names and your legacies, that which binds you to this world, will be forever transformed on this quest. All shall know your names, and you will become more than what you are. You will become truly immortal," said the red eyed monk before them, being the final monk to speak allowing the other 6 to speak first. “And most importantly... you will save this world.”

"Do you accept this quest?"

Elric silently regarded each new arrival as they came to the entrance of the observatory. Though some of them introduced themselves, Elric did not reciprocate as of yet, merely watching each of the arrivals as they came. Finally, the eunuch returned to allow the knights into the presence of the Monks in their observatory. Apparently their company was complete. Elric looked over each of the men once more as they stepped through the door of the observatory: three men, himself included; one half-dwarf, if his size was any indication; and an elf.
As he entered the observatory, Elric removed his helmet and held it under his right arm. He gave his full attention to the monks, and particularly to the one who appeared to be their leader, and listened to the quest that the monks wished to set before them. The quest seemed nearly impossible, and the rewards seemed too good to be true, but Elric trusted the visions of the monks, and he trusted the gods to guide him and his fellow knights on this quest, and so, when the monks asked if they accepted the quest, Elric stepped forward, giving the monks a respectful bow. "I, for one, accept the quest," he announced.

Kace stood for a few moments, anticipating a response. When all he received was a cocked eyebrow from one of the Ethorans, he dropped his smile and replaced it with a stoic look. He knew all too well these types of nobles, having grown up around many of them at court in Mindirion. He turned to face the door and awaited a signal to proceed.

Three others arrived after Kace. Two more men and an Elf. Kace noticed a rather unfair amount of representation amongst those gathered. Once the Elf arrived, a Eunuch appeared to lead them to the monks. They all looked and sounded so similar that Kace could not tell if it was the same one who had led him here from the docks.

When they entered the observatory, a monk with hypnotic pure red eyes began speaking. He spoke of riches and immortality. Things that Kace was not here for. He was here to protect his people and the world. He could not shake the uneasy feeling this group of mystics gave to him. However, he was here on a mission and he was not going to turn back just because more humans made him uncomfortable. When posed the question on if they accepted their quest, Kace was the second to step forward.

“On behalf of House Cilrok of Mindirion, of the Highmen of Miraheim, and of the all the peoples of Aerion, I too accept your quest.” Kace projected with confidence.

Catskull glanced from side to side, then over a shoulder, then back at the monks. They had just finished talking, but Catskull had come to his own conclusion beforehand. He knew well how treacherous magic could be in the wrong hands. His uncle had taught him many things, and one of the big ones was to never mistake a horse for a zebra. If something is too good to be true, it likely is.

"Say, monk... Thou wouldst not be plotting to use the orb for thine own nefarious and selfish desires? Prithee, tell us thy real name. Surely no such thing may cure the free will of men that begets war, and of nature's cause and effect. Should not thy orb have worked its miracles when it first was fashioned? Set this mind to ease and mayhaps I, Catskull Maclung, may still assist thee."

Catskull stared intently at the monk, looking for any tells. A bead of sweat, dilated pupils, a hastening of the breath or hurried explanations. He supposed that this monk may have been an entity wise enough to keep a cool head, but it was worth a try. Regardless of whether or not he was right, he wasn't about to slip right back into blind obedience at the whim of another evil wizard.