Many tales have been told about the monks over many years, often evolving from place to place, and changing from era to era. They have existed for as long as the tower has, but even then no precise date of their commencement is known. Some say that the monks were sent by the Council of Nine to watch over the world of Ekilore. Others of the north claim that they are the gods of Ragnell incarnate. There is also debate about the longevity of the monks. Some believe that there were only ever these monks, and that they are more than human, but less than gods, gifted with long-lasting life. Various other stories hint that the monks are in fact human, and that when a monk dies, they are secretly replaced by some furtive means. There are countless other tales told and retold about the monks, but few facts. However, in his studies, Roland has ascertained a few: to be summoned by the monks is considered an immense honor; many find the monks highly respectable, though there are those few who believe them meddlesome; the monks on the very infrequent occasions in history have provided prophecies to those who would hear them, and they have consistently been accurate.

Roland listened silently, trying to focus on the monk’s message even if his eyes kept a good bulk of his attention as well. There was something ominous about them, as if they stared right into Roland’s very soul. Perhaps it was the gods’ way of testing him, and from the sound of it, this would indeed be his ultimate test. And the rewards promised, one in particular caught his fancy. The idea of immortality. The way they said it, it seemed as if they were appealing directly to his own soul's nature. Roland knew he would never get the fable of immortality, as these monks may or may not have. Yet immortality has many forms, and the way that one is remembered is part of it. He was intrigued, but Roland’s better judgment still found too many unknowns about this quest. Even if something about this situation called him towards it, he still felt obligated to know more. The whole idea seemed a bit far-fetched, after all. While the odd-looking knight and another agreed initially, another, darker fellow appeared more cautious.

The unhooded monk's red eyes peered at Catskull and studied him closely. They lingered on him for the briefest of moments, before the monk gave the man a smile. "I unfortunately do not have this information in full, Lord Catskull Maclung. The text speak of something which tried to stop them; an opponent, or enemy, one whose visions for the world were misaligned. And perhaps this led to them being unable to use the stone, or to have it destroyed before its use."

The monk continued, freeing his gaze from Catskull and turning his attention to the entire group. "The Orb of Ardor is an artifact from an age in which magic was potent and continuously studied, a far cry from today's Aerion in which magic is an art that people fear and prosecute. From what research we could complete, the Orb of Ardor contains extraordinary power and knowledge within it. In the proper hands, it could cure disease, end famines, and influence nations. In the improper hands, it could cheat death, kill millions, and bring about those same things we seek to cure."

"I will not pretend to know everything however. We are the voices of the prophecies, not necessarily the interpreters of them. Our duty is to utter that which we see and hear, not decipher what is being said. The only knowledge given to us by this prophecy is that with it held the power to save this world. Yes, the idea of such an object existing is dubious. Yet throughout the millenniums of our existence, these prophecies have proven to be accurate. We present the opportunity to partake on a quest that could end in creating something that seems so unbelievable, yet now appears to be possible. Is it not worth taking the risk of uncertainty for a purpose far beyond any one individual or country?"

Roland crossed his arms and stared at the monks with a certain sense of superiority, before casting his gaze at the red-eyed monk. Even with his oddly colored eyes, Roland made every effort to put off a strong front, neither flinching nor showing signs of discomfort, though secretly, he had to admit he was quite uneasy.

Yet what the monks said next made Roland think. The goal of creating something that this world desperately needed was enticing. But it was as the monks said: Was it worth the quest? Roland thought it over. His loyalty lied with Hector and Reigncliff foremost. He would want nothing more than to see his lord sit upon the thrown of Ethora, which is his rightful position. Roland would do anything to bring him there. If what the monks said was true, this orb could help bring him there. Through Roland’s fame and reputation upon its completion, he could be boosted into a more respectable position, which would no doubt help in Hector’s claim to the throne. But besides all of that, Roland truly recognized that there was something wrong with Aerion. Maybe it was always like this. Maybe it only recently became thus. Either way, it was in need of fixing, and Roland could think of no one more capable of doing so than himself. He pulled out his sword from its sheath.

“This quest is indeed befitting of one such as me. I vow to gather these shards and place them back together. I will not falter, and every foe that will stand in my way, no matter where he may hail from, shall be felled in pursuit of this cause. Let it be known that upon this day, Roland of House Grey, champion of Reigncliff, will see this mission done.”

"Hmph... Very well. But know this! I shall not trust thee monk, for the faith in me only flows between the spaces mine blade cuts. Let us partake of this quest, and see if dreams may come true in this world."

Whatever the outcome, Catskull supposed that he should at least ensure things not take a turn for the worst. Quests of such an undertaking didn't pop up every day, and this was as good a chance as any to restore the honor and fame of the house Maclung.

Sir Duncan Goldenheir, Lion of Dawn

Sir Duncan studied his company surreptitiously. This was the group that was to save Aerion, and what a group it was. Sir Roland, who for all his boastfulness at the very least Sir Duncan knew would be a competent fighter, the half-dwarf, the Elven Knight, of which Sir Duncan had seen very few of the sort in Ethora, et cetera et cetera; they were an eclectic bunch, to be sure. Then there was this Catskull Mclung fellow—Sir Duncan had already decided he was not fond of him. The man seemed rather skeevy to him, the funny way he spoke bothering Sir Duncan in a way that he could not quite place. He had an air of unpredictability, and Sir Duncan, judging from the way he had been carrying himself already, decided he would be a loose cannon, someone to watch out for.

When the monks posed the quest, there was only one answer for Sir Duncan. He had known it since he had stepped foot in the Tower, he had felt it in the air as he had clambered up the spire's steps, and he had felt it in the very way the sun glinted through the great monolith's towering glass panes; he was Andal's chosen, and he knew the Great Lord Andal had placed him here in this very moment to accept this quest. All his life, he had wondered who he was, and why he had survived as long as he had. Why did he get left on those monastery steps? What did the Lord Andal want with him? For what purpose was he surviving, striving for? To what end was he to achieve in the Great Lord's game? But now, everything, all the noise, all the wondering, all the not knowing, all of it deafened; now, he knew what his purpose was. The story of Sir Duncan Goldenheir still had it's most important chapter yet to arrive; he had a greater purpose to achieve, he was put here for a reason. He had always known that he was to be a part of something greater, a great player in some ineffable great game, but he had not known why or what; otherwise, why else had the Great Lord Andal brought him to the Knights' doorstep?

This quest was the sign he had finally been waiting for all these years. The Great Lord Andal had put him here, right now, in this colossus of a tower, to accept this quest. He knew it.

"I, Sir Duncan Goldenheir, in the name of the Great Lord Andal, hereby do accept this quest. Until my dying breath, I will do everything within my power to restore these shards. Should it kill me, I will die a happy man knowing I did so serving the Great Lord's Purpose."

Edon Wolf
Broken Keg Tavern
Dalenham, Ethora

Edon watched the cloaked tradesman leave with naked disdain in his expression. He was already in a sour mood before the surprise offer and now he didn't bother to hide it. When Varian called for another round of drinks, the nobleman waved his hand.

"None for me. See you in the morning."

He hadn't considered backing out of the group over this job. The whole reason he joined with Varian was to learn about leadership from a different perspective. The idea of staying in this town any longer than absolutely necessary sickened him and he wanted to prepare for the morning.

With his head held high, he marched out of the drinking hole and made his way to the gates. From there, it was a short walk to their encampment. Edon took care of his hygiene while the others were still out then ate. He cleaned and serviced his arms and armor then went to bed early.

Hours, still, before dawn Edon awoke. He ate a small, quick meal and did some light exercises to loosen his muscles and get his heart rate up. Then he broke down his part of the camp, donned his armor and shouldered his travel pack. If Varian and Drostan were up by then, he would help them with their gear would they desire it.

Edon was fairly well protected, which was a big reason he did not consider a shield necessary. He wore a segmented chest plate with additional pieces over his shoulders, elbows and forearms. A chain shirt sat snugly under that to add additional protection for his joints while a modestly quilted gambeson acted as padding for the armor and protection for his upper legs. The gambeson was split up the back to his waist for riding. Armored grieves and knee pads rounded him off. The kit was designed for maximum range of movement at the expense of coverage while also protecting is vitals. Edon considered it a good compliment to his mobility-based combat training. His helmet, when he bothered to wear one, was designed to be solid and sturdy but to leave his eyes and ears open, sacrificing some protection for increased awareness.

With or without the others, he would aim to arrive near the location an hour before the arranged meeting time. None of them seemed to trust the tradesman so Edon wanted to act as though an ambush was expected. He would, of course, change his plans if Varian ordered otherwise.

A sharp pain came from the center of Varian's forehead. He groaned, placing a hand upon the area of discomfort, as if to try and rub it away. Ironically, went he rubbed his hand around the area, he felt an oddity, and looked back upon his fingers to see the remains of dried blood. Despite the throbbing in his head, Varian sat up, his gaze lingering on his fingers for a moment longer. As he looked around the room, a few questions came into his mind. How did he end up here? Where exactly was he? And who in Isir's name was the naked woman lying next to him?

As he got out of bed and began dressing himself, he contemplated these questions. By the sound of his movement, the woman began to stir, yawning and stretching her limbs as she opened her eyes. She looked up at Varian who stared down at her. Her features were quite nice. Long brown hair and eyes to match it. She was well-figured and fair-skinned. For a Dalenham girl, at least. There was a moment or two of silence between the pair, before the woman gave the Highman a smile, and spoke softly. "Good morning." She said softly to him.

"Good morning," He stated back to her. He continued to dress himself as he placed on his sleeveless leather vest, and then his baldric over that. Harnessing his axes upon his back, he looked back down to the woman. Again, a brief pause between the two. She continued to smile up at him, while Varian shifted between examining the room and the woman. "Sleep well?" she asked him.

"More or less." Varian replied. He paused momentarily on what he should say next, but then decided to blurt out, "So... shall I pay you now or have I already done so last night?"

The next sight Varian saw was a hand coming upon his cheek, smacking him loudly enough that perhaps if others outside the door were present, they too would have heard it. Varian's cheek instantly starting becoming red from the slap. "Right." He said, heading for the door. "I suppose that means last night..." He said in a rush, exiting the door, just as the woman began cursing after him.

On the other side of the door, Varian found himself in the familiar sight of Edward's tavern. The old, creaky, filthy-looking tavern looked much the same as it did when he entered it the day before to collect his silver for the job, though some tables appeared to have been damaged. A few stools also appeared to be out of place. Varian began to recall a bit of what happened though it was all very hazy. After he split apart from the group, he must have headed here. He remembered someone challenging him to a drinking game. He didn't remember exactly how, but the damned man had somehow managed to coerce him into it, and the rest was history.

"You silver-tongued devil, you." The familiar voice of Edward said to Varian from behind his counter at the helm of the tavern. He smiled spitefully at the Highman as he cleaned a mug with a dirty rag. He headed towards Edward without an immediate reply, rubbing the side of his face as he tried to orient himself.

"How much for the room?" Varian asked in his usual cold voice.

"Oh, you already paid las-", Edward stopped himself in the middle of his sentence. "...Uh, that'll be fifteen bronze pieces." He said with a smile. Varian did not bother to put up a fight about the ridiculous price of the room, still feeling the effects of the no-doubt large amount of drinking he had done the night before. He placed the bronze pieces from his bag onto the table, and looked around the dump of a tavern, before proceeding to the exit. Edward shouted something after him, but Varian mostly ignored him.

Varian was able to get it together along the way, shaking off most of the effects of liquor through the 'fresh' air of Dalenham, and was feeling loads better as he approached the gates of Dalenham, where the group was supposed to meet. Already at the gates was Edon. He was early, and looked quite comfortable where he was at. Varian guessed he was there for a while, but he was too out of it to make a big deal out of it. Varian nodded at Edon, and tried his best to be casual and he sat on a large rock he spotted. He placed his head in his palm and looked down as he awaited the rest to arrive.

The lead monk seemed to be pleased as a small smile stretched across his face, as one by one the Knights accepted the quest despite some hesitation. The hesitation was understandable to be sure as such as a powerful artifact did sound too good to be true, but one had to place faith in the Monks of Ekilore. They were to be trusted as they have guided civilization with benevolence.

The monk raised a eyebrow, amazed by the enthusiasm of Roland. "While your desire to be the champion of the land is welcome, do not dare think you can do this alone. Pride comes before the fall."

Roland eyed the monk and his words. It wasn't the first time he was scolded by others in this regard, but Roland had proven he was more than capable of balancing what he would call his 'confidence', and his skill. But in an effort not to show disrespect to the monks, he merely nodded in understanding, if only for the sake of their titles.

"I do have a few words to say before I send you all into the world. Firstly, while we have kept knowledge of the Orb of Ardor hidden within the confines of this great tower, they are others who undoubtedly have knowledge of it as well. These nefarious groups will seek you out once word of your actions spread throughout the lands of Aerion. You must prepared to fight. Blades will bleed and shields will shatter. They will do everything they can to stop you. You must make sure they do not succeed."

"Second, to aid you in setting out on your journey, we have commissioned a ship to send you off to your first of many destinations. We realize you may have traveled on your own ships. For this quest, a good amount of discretion is needed. The ship awaits you at the dock at the base of the tower, where it will take you to the borders of Falke and Miracia. Upon arrival, you will be greeted by a friend, one who will help guide you to where the first shard of the Orb is presumably located. My Eunuch friend there will set you out the door. The fate of Aerion rests in your hands. And may the grace of your Gods guide you."

Roland Grey bowed to the Monks and slowly made his way to the door, awaiting the Eunuch to guide them. "Come with me, my lords. I fear time is not our friend." The Eunuch shuffled his feet to the door, opening it for the others and guided them down the stairs, elevator, and through the grand library back outside on the ground level. Roland welcomed the ground, enjoying the smell of the fresh air of the Deep Blue. Seeing everything from ground level was strangely refreshing, if only because he could see literally the entire world as he knew from the top of the observatory.

"Come with my lords. We must head down to the docks." The Eunuch walked a fair pace down to the docks where a large boat was awaiting them.

Sitting at a small, quiet port was a single ship. Black as night with red accents, the ship had white sails with the symbol of the monks of Ekilore embroidered in red. It was a fair size, clearly having a few decks and rooms to be used. It appeared sturdy, fast, and a perfect ship for traveling the Deep Blue and Sea of Storms, the named waters around Ethora. A number of sailors were preparing the ship, hoping to get it ready for departure in time. They were rushing, clearly, but were doing so with some degree of effectiveness.

"I must say, I expected the vessel to carry us on this most noble quest to be something a bit less...shabby." Roland stepped forward, looking over the ship.

"Shabby is one way to look at it." A voice addressed the knights. Roland turned around and saw a man, about the same height and build as he, but with a large, black beard. He wore a large, black Tricorne, accompanied under hair combed underneath. He had a black waistcoat with red and orange linings across the edges of it, and matching styles in pants. If Roland knew anything about the styles of Ethorian dress, and he most certainly did know, than he was certain the man was from Ethora, particularly from the accursed region of Dedris, and probably the captain of the vessel. "I look at its dark colors as subtle. I look at it's size as inconspicuous. I look at its unadorned design as discreet. Given the nature of your journey, I imagine these are advantageous, are they not?"

The man eyed the group of so-called knights, and took off his hat to them, giving them a bow of respect. "My name is Richard. Richard of House Crewe, service to House Morok. I shall be your captain on this voyage. You best get all of your belongings on board. As I am told, we are on a tight schedule."

Kace smirked subtly at the monk’s rebuttal to the Ethoran man who had called himself Roland. The young half-dwarf knew he was at a disadvantage due to his age but he hoped that the mere fact that he had been summoned along with these others would earn him the respect he was due. He wondered if any of the rest of his new companions had fought in wars, or led men into battle. He wondered if any of the rest of them had cradled dying friends in their arms or emerged from a besieged fortress, covered in the blood of their kinsmen. He wondered if any of them knew the stark difference between the bitter taste of defeat and the sweet relief of victory. He supposed he would find out soon enough as they would all be confined to a ship together. He followed the Eunuch out of the tower and back the way the came, back to the docks after they were bade to depart.

When he heard the Ethoran Ego, as Kace had taken to calling him in his head, speak on the quality of the ship, he opened his mouth in preparation to retort but missed the opportunity when the captain of the vessel, a certain Captain Richard, spoke before him. Kace nodded in silent agreement after the captain spoke, as he moved to pick up the only bag of his belongings that remained on the dock, assuming his crew had packed the rest aboard and departed already, as the Sea-Wolf was nowhere to be seen.

“Don’t worry Sir Roland. If you think this is going to be a rough ride, just be thankful they didn’t give us a Miraheim Longship. At least this ship will provide you a roof instead of a canvas tarp.” He said jovially, smiling to the Ethoran as he boarded the ship.

He made an observatory pace around the perimeter of the deck before turning to where Captain Richard now stood at the helm.

“I must say Captain, she’s a fine vessel. What do you call her?” Kace asked with genuine interest.

---

Sunlight streamed through the window and directly into Drostan's eyes, as he groaned into hesitant consciousness. His head hurt, his throat felt dry. He hadn't even thought he'd drank that much the previous night, but his body begged to differ. He was glad that he'd managed to drag himself back to his room at some point, though the rented bed hadn't done much to ease the various aches and brusies from the last job. And, as he thought about jobs, he remembered with a subdued despair that he had another one to do that morning. He weighed his options. It would be oh-so-easy to remain in bed, sleep for another few hours, and then hightail it out of Ethora before any of his more responsible comrades could confront him.

Or, he could wake up and do what he said he'd do.

He sat upright, rubbed his eyes and was up for the day. He splashed some water from the room's washpan in his face and then began the long process of armoring himself. A process, to be sure. He didn't wear full plate, couldn't afford it even if he wanted to, instead opting for a hodgepodge of leather, chain, and the odd bit of solid metal. It was the result of many repairs, by many blacksmiths of various skill. It didn't look terrible, he supposed, but he'd still wear it even if it did. After all, he hadn't gotten killed yet. Once his armor was dealt with, all that was left was to strap his shield and spear to his back and his sword to his waist.

About ten minutes later, he found his companions, stepping into their midst squinting against the sunlight.

"I'm not late, am I?" He looked around, nodded at Edon and Varian. As he looked at the highman, his eyes widened as though remembering something, followed by a small, knowing smile. "Ah, Varian, I think I lost track of you last night. What happened to your head?" He wanted to ask about the girl that he vaguely remembered seeing him with, but he supposed it wasn't his business. He wanted to say something to Edon, but he wasn't sure what. The man hadn't joined in with his and Varian's carousing. Well, Drostan hadn't done much carousing, unless that definition included sitting in the same spot and drinking for a few hours. The way he felt, though, he had to admit that Edon might have had the right idea.

Varian momentarily raised his head and gazed lazily at Osmund as he made his way to them. The Highman gave the Ethorian a shake of his head in response to Osmund's first question. When he inquired about his head injury, Varian buried his head back into his palms and shrugged. "Still piecing it together myself. Probably best we keep it that way," The Highman groaned and looked around before sighing deeply. He glanced at Osmund and Edon and then again looked around for any sign of the merchant.

"Looks like fat man isn't here yet," Varian commented lowly. "Which works out anyway because I hired a few new recruits last night. They should be here soon too."



Roland scowled at Kace. The Ethorian knight was always quick to judge people, and he had since judged Kace as someone he'd rather not associate with, if he can help it. "I should hope the monks do not give us such an abhorrent vessel as one of those savage Highman warships. I'd sooner find myself swimming in all my armor than take refuge in one of them."

Captain Richard glanced at Roland and cocked an eyebrow, before he returned his attention to Kace.

"Ah, well a very merry thank you to you, sir." Captain Crewe exclaimed to Kace, removing his hat from his head again and gesturing with it as part of a bow. "I'm glad the monks rounded up at least one gracious guest." He said, his tone directed at Roland as he made his way onto the boat. "'Tis called the Pendant. Though small, it is a jewel of craftsmanship. Made with Ethorian sails, Highman wood, and Raelusian weaponry. When I heard of this journey, I simply could not decide what type of vessel to manufacture. But I can admit when another nation does their craft best. And I wanted what all the best had... for this journey, of course." Captain Richard smiled and cleared his throat.

"From what I understand, you're all in for quite a storied journey ahead of you. And though this quest may be secret from most, the eyes of the enemy are ever-moving. When the lot of you are aboard, we set sail to just outside of the port city of Fornond, in Miracia. If your luck holds on and our grace with the Gods holds true, then the skies will be kept clear, and our presence may go unnoticed."

Wordlessly, Catskull boarded the ship and surveyed the top deck. The boards seemed solid, and despite how the ship appeared it was indeed well put together. He imagined pirates boarding the ship, and permitted himself a leonine smirk at the thought of their faces upon encountering not a crew of hapless fishermen or sailors, but armed knights. He couldnt help but hope for such an amusing diversion.
with a sigh he strode towards the entrance to the hull, ready to get out of the sun. His pale skin burned easily, and he felt lethargic now that nothing but a long, tedious voyage awaited him. Fantasies of conflict could only sustain him for so long and he sought the oblivion of sleep.

"Wake me if ye' sight anyfoe worth cutting", He called. "I, Catskull Maclung, shalt not rest amongst the others, thus do not seek me. Merely shout mine name if it is thy wont, but do so not lightly or for mere trifles."

He slipped below deck like an eel into dark waters, footsteps making nary a sound to be heard.

Elric watched as each of his companions accepted the quest in turn. He almost immediately took a disliking to the Ethorian man he had seen first upon his arrival at the tower. This Sir Roland seemed far too arrogant for Elric's liking. In fact, nearly every one of Elric's companions had something that put Elric off in some way: Catskull Maclung seemed both rude and far too predisposed to violence; Sir Duncan also seemed arrogant in his own way, not quite like Sir Roland, and certainly less off-putting than Sir Roland, but his idea of being somehow hand-picked by Andal himself rubbed Elric the wrong way; and the elf just seemed a bit too stand-offish. Of all the companions to undertake this quest, Karl was the only one who seemed to project a friendly and courteous air that Elric took a liking too. However, regardless of how Elric might feel about any of his companions, they were all on the same quest, and Elric would stand beside them all staunchly through the conclusion of this quest, and maybe he would come to learn that his first impressions of them were wrong.

In any event, the monks informed them that their first destination would be Miracia, near the border of Falke, and that they had already commissioned a ship to bear them to this destination and hired a man to guide them to the presumed hiding place of the first shard of the Orb of Ardor. Elric bowed to the monks as he and his companions were dismissed, then donned his helmet and followed the Eunuch to the docks. The ship awaiting them seemed to be of middling size, dark and unadorned save the embroidered insignia of the Monks of Ekilore on the sails. It should provide them with a comfortable enough voyage, though Sir Roland saw fit to insult it on first sight. Elric, in his usual quiet manner, boarded the ship wordlessly and stood at the starboard side, looking out to the sea as he waited for the ship to shove off.

Edon Wolf
Outside the City Gates
Dalenham, Ethora

And so Edon had arrived on his own well ahead of time. Nothing had happened to him and there was no sign of an ambush. Slowly, as the sun eagerly began to peek over the horizon, tradesmen began to drift out of the city with wagons loaded heavy by goods. Woodsmen and farmers filed into the city with wagons loaded with goods to trade or empty and looking to be filled. A beggar seemed to eye the location to ask for scraps; he reconsidered after a withering glare from Edon and went into the city.

Eventually, Varian arrived. The man was clearly hungover. Edon did a poor job of hiding his shock at this, and a much poorer job of hiding his detest over the affair. Then again, his scowl might just as easily be mistaken for the same expression he had worn since arriving at this city.

When Drosten joined them, he would be given a glare that suggested Edon did not like him much. He was just in a bad mood now. However, hearing about how messy drunk they had gotten on the eve of meeting with a suspicious benefactor for a too-good-to-be-true secret mission didn't make him any happier.

The sailors had finished loading all of the supplies, and everyone now appeared to be on board the Pendant. Roland watched the sailors load up the last of their rations curiously. They weren't any of his men. Nor were they any of those from the other knights' ships. The Ekilorian knight assumed this was some neutrality security measure, but he didn't like the idea of sailing with unknown men. What if they were incompetent? What if they were spies? Thoughts like this pestered Roland constantly. However, he was confident even if they did end up being more nefarious than they appeared, he would cut them down without hesitation.

When the odd man Catskull announced his departure below deck, Roland wasn't sure what to make of it. On one hand, he disliked his odd cadence and demeanor. On the other, he respected his isolation and quick-to-action attitude. He was not sure about him.

"Weigh anchor, all hands. Prepare to make sail!" Captain Crewe exclaimed as his busy sailors go to working the Pendant out of the harbor and out onto the open sea. Roland meanwhile took a look at the shrinking island behind them, though the Tower of Oculus still stood proudly into the sky. He turned around again and gazed at his companions on his quest. While he was unsure of what to make of Catskull, he had already begun to form opinions of the others. He already viewed Kace as a uncultured savage, but that was confirmed when he announced himself as a man of both dwarven and highmen descent. Roland was not going to get along with him. The elf knight was an elf. That was all Roland had to go off of, and in his mind really all he needed. While he knew of Sir Duncan's skill, he was less so impressed with his pious devotion to Andal. While devotion to the gods was acceptable in Roland's eyes, he is cautious when that devotion becomes fanatical. To Roland, Duncan was dangerously stepping into that territory. The Knight Elric appeared more subdued to Roland, but he still didn't know what to make of him. Needless to say, he doubted the skills of a Falkan knight, even a Dragoon.

As unimpressed as he was, he also knew he would be around these men for quite a while. If they didn't die too fast, Roland thought it be a good idea to get to know them some more. "Quite a quest we find ourselves on, hmm?" He questioned the others as his continued to wander across their faces and clothes with an unimpressed, smug glance. "I suppose since we shall be around each other quite a lot, it is imperative to know more about one another, yes? So... I hesitate to ask, but do any of you have anything worth sharing?"

Elric turned around at the sound of Sir Roland's voice addressing him and the other knights. He raised an eyebrow curiously at Roland's question, though this gesture was lost in the overhang of his helmet. "Why do you hesitate to ask, I wonder?" he muttered in Falkmor, before responding to the actual question in Ethorian, this time loud enough for Roland to hear. "I suppose that depends on what you consider to be worth sharing, yes?" he said, his tone guarded as usual, and offering no further information.

Kace smiled, not waiting for Roland to reply to Elric. He had no desire to see the Ethorian Ego argue or try to prove himself superior again.

“I’ll share first. My name, for those that arrived after myself, is Karl Cilrok Ulvarsson, but you can call me Kace for short. My mother is Gisli of House Cilrok and my father is Ulvar Siggurdsson. I spent half of my life in Mindirion and half in Miraheim. I’ve only seen nineteen winters, nearing twenty. I suppose I was summoned here due to my experience in the Seven Month War, almost two years ago. You may have heard of it. A civil war waged over the Dwarven throne. My house led the loyalist forces, and I myself led a host of 5,000 that only saw two defeats. I lost many a childhood friend in battle, but by the end of the war, I was asked to negotiate the truce between the loyalist and rebel forces due to my half blooded heritage. Both parties saw me as relatively impartial. I like to think I did a good job as I secured the throne for our current king and there has been peace since.”

Kace stared at the sails rippling in the wind, lost in his recollections as he spoke.

“I keep to the faith of my father,” he touched the pendant of Isir around his neck, “but I respect the ideals and beliefs of all peoples.” He added, glancing at Duncan.

“And I’m not here for any of the rewards the monks mentioned. I’m here solely for the benefit of Aerion and for the honor of my family.” He looked around as he finished speaking, glancing at all of his companions in turn, waiting for either questions or someone else to share their story.

Down in the rear of the hull Catskull rested on his knees, beyond the reach of the dusty beams of sunlight that filtered through the gunports. He contemplated the blade that lay before him, seeing not the ship around him nor the floor upon which he kneeled. He drew in deep breaths in through his nostrils and slowly exhaled through his mouth. Aside from the gentle motions of his respiration, he was statuesque. His mind was not. He recalled the basics that had been drilled into him his entire life.

~There is timing in the whole life of the warrior, in his thriving and declining, in his harmony and discord. Similarly, there is timing in the Way of the merchant, in the rise and fall of capital. All things entail rising and falling timing.~

Catskull knew that this timing went by another name. Tempo. Even from one style to another, separated by the breadth of the world, it stood true in the same way that the mythology of dragons could be found amongst many cultures regardless of time or location. Expand when the enemy contracts, and contract when they expand. It all begins the same way; with observation.

Catskull continued his meditations. He did not intend to leave, even for food or drink, until evening.

Kadrin often chafed at the idea of working with others, which made her taking a job that involved a mercenary group an uncommon occurrence. That being said, problems that arose from working in a group were often caused by her. Communication and working as a team were not among her any assets that she possessed. It was the nature of the job that drew Kadrin to accept in the first place. The jobs that involved helping others tended to be the ones that she gravitated towards the most, even if her disposition indicated there was some irony.

As the night began to wind down, Kadrin spent her time preparing for the task ahead of her. However, her preparation didn't deviate much from the way she typically spent her spare moments. She went through her mundane routine, beginning with sharpening her weaponry. After sufficiently preparing her axe and sword, she unpacked her rucksack and carefully returned everything so that she was able to make the most of the space. Kadrin made note of the items at hand so that she would know what she might need to restock on. Upon further thought, Kadrin realized that her supplies would be adequate to get her through the mission. Her rations were enough to get her through five days, but most of her items were questionable. Kadrin was caught between wondering if she could make her supplies stretch or if she should take precautions. Some of the items weren’t even a great benefit. She didn’t exactly have a lantern to use her lantern oil. So the fact that she had a minimal amount wasn’t indication that she should purchase more.

A small bedroll was strapped at the bottom of her bag. Kadrin also had a quarter of a bar of soap, which was wrapped in a leaf and tied with twine. The rope she had was unraveled beyond repair, but Kadrin was loathe to get rid of it. Disposing of it felt wasteful. One could call it hoarding, but she preferred finding a creative use for the item so that she could get the most out of her money and items. Among the items in her pack included an empty canteen, flint and steel, a broken compass, a small knife with a dulled edge, and a piece of wood that she had been whittling away at. Kadrin figured she should probably use her whetstone to sharpen the knife, but she often failed to devote her time to doing so. There wasn’t as much care granted in maintaining much except for her weaponry. Her father would probably have lectured her for her negligence.

After debating whether to replace anything or to stock up on supplies, Kadrin opted to make due with what she had for the time being. She would likely buy anything she needed when the job was finished, especially considering that her coin purse was looking quite apologetic with how empty it was. It had compelled her to take the job more so than her desire to help others. Greed wasn’t a typical motivator, but having a bit more coin was necessary if she didn’t want to start spending every night hunting and sleeping outside. There were other jobs she could take helping someone. She hoped the one she had just accepted would pay a little more handsomely.

When morning came, she ran through some training exercises in part as an obsession with constantly honing her physical abilities. In part it was to help her limber up more quickly since her body typically felt stiff after waking up. Feeling adequately prepared, Kadrin set out for the meeting place that Varian had described. It wasn’t long before she reached the gate.

The sun was dipping below the horizon. At the edge of sight, the twinkling torchlight from a distant town began to come into view. The glare from the setting sun was halted by a large, rustic iron spike, with a long hilt and a broad guard on one end. The vamplate quickly tapered into a rather effective, if not wicked looking, point, about eight feet in length. This was the marker of a roughly set camp, featuring a small, smokey fire, and a shelter of sturdy branches and furs.
Sat in front of this fire stood a figure, broad of shoulder and grey of skin. At his side rested what appeared to be a large dog or wolf, and a dark bird circled overhead, taking advantage of the updraft created by the flames. His blue eyes peered out over the horizon, as one hand idly turned a haunch of roasting meat on the fire.

---

A Highman casually strolled across the road. He had an odd stumble to his walk, probably having something to do with the ale in his hand. Varian Sigmund was not sure how his inebriated mind convinced him to make it this far outside Dalenham, but here he was, wandering off into the wilderness. Perhaps it said something about his state of mind that he found the wild so calming. Perhaps this is where he felt most at home.
Or perhaps he was drunk. Regardless, here he was. The last thing Varian expected to see was another soul along the path. Varian took a second to adjust his eyes, as he squinted toward the figure’s small encampment. His eyes quickly caught sight of the large wolf near the figure, as well as the figure’s weapon of choice. Varian was even more surprised when he got close enough to see his face. “... Oi.” Varian greeted as he raised his mug of ale lazily.
“Town’s back that way,” the figure uttered in a clear, deep, somewhat gravelly voice, “You lost friend?”
To punctuate his words, he gestured slightly with the meat in his right hand, past his campfire, and the lance set in the dirt. At about that time, the dark bird swooped down, landing upon the pointed butt of the lance, and croaking ominously at the approaching drunk man. This momentarily startled the drunk man, which caused him to furrow his brows in confusion. He gazed at the dark bird, and then the figure, and the wolf beside them, and repeated the process once more.
“Are you a traveling circus or something of the sort?” The Highman asked with a confused gaze, “Have you got a boar or something else wandering around?”

“Not that I’m aware,” the brutish looking fellow marked, his shock of black hair waving in the air as he turned his head slightly, as if to look around, “Traveling, yes. Circus, not sure what that is. What brings you out here, human-fellow?”
As he spoke, the large, pointed teeth in this grey man’s mouth were made plenty apparent. This man looked like an orc, from what any who had heard tales of those creatures could tell, but also different. His eyes were more clear, his chin less jutting, his ears more flat, and he also had rather prominent eyebrows, as opposed to a low brow-ridge like other orcs possessed. The large canine stirred slightly, but only seemed to rest its chin behind the man, head leaning against his back, and licking its chops in rest.

“Ah,” The Highman had come close enough to fully discern the man’s features.
Even in his intoxicated state, he knew an orc when he saw one. Or orc-kind. After all, he had spent the better part of the day killing many of them. The Highman shuffled his feet closer to the orc’s encampment, as he eyed a tree and proceeded toward it. He then leaned along the tree and took a small swig of his ale. “Just taking a break between jobs,” The Highman explained as he raised the mug to his mouth. “Mmm… orcs oddly enough,” He added, before once more gulping down the contents of the mug.
The man stood, shifting his shoulder only slightly to release the cooking meat, standing at about eye-level with the Highman, “What’s odd about orcs, eh fellow?”
Eyeing the man with a steely gaze, he noticed the baldrick, the wolf’s pelt- the garb of a hunter, the orcish man would surmise. In the fire’s light, he saw the glint of metal on the Highman, showing he was armed. The orcish man, now agleam upon the chest, knees, wrists, and hands with iron in firelight, gave a half nod, hovering his left hand over the small, simple war hammer on his left hip, also bearing a spiked base. These didn’t seem to be typical weapons of the orc.
The grey one then noticed that the garments aside from his armor, and those on the drunk were made of similar materials. Perhaps he was from those icy mountains as well. The Highman had noticed the same garment similarities as the orcish man. Even in his current state, he knew one of Miraheim when he saw them.
“Orcs eat children. They burn villages and slaughter for sport. I’d say that’s pretty odd,” The Highman crossed his arms and leaned on the tree further. At some point, his mug landed on the ground, but the Highman hadn’t realized it happened. “But I was talking about my last job. Sent out to slay a group of them who’d burned a village down. And then I run into an orc after the job… I think? What are you? You don’t look like the others.”
He gave a wide smile, showing off his sharp teeth, “Children,” he began, stretching his back slightly after hours of sitting, “are hardly a challenge. No sport in ‘em. And- it sounds like you’re the same, hunter. Killing for sport? ‘Job’, as y’ said?” the man then sat down, removing the haunch from the fire, and taking a bite, “Aye. I’m an orc. Raven Rock,” he clarified, “You still seem lost, fellow.”
“I’m not lost. I’m just looking,” The Highman replied matter-of-factly.
He scanned the orc, taking in the orc’s appearance once more. He seemed much more docile than other orc the Highman encountered before.
“Raven Rock, eh?” He repeated, and pointed at himself, “Renvall… you looking for a challenge?” he asked, surprised at his openness in extending an offer- he figured it was largely due to the alcohol.

“I was told never to go to Renvall,” he stated flatly, before straightening his posture, and taking a bite from his haunch of meat, “What kind of challenge, man-fellow? And what are you looking for?”

“That’s right, your kind doesn’t do well in Renvall,” The Highman murmured and instinctively reached for what he thought was his mug in his hand, only to find an empty hand.
He pouted for a moment and returned to answer the rest of the orc’s questions.
He snorted. “I can’t say for sure what I’m looking for. I suppose I will only know when I find it. As of now, I am looking for recruits for a job. A fat man’s lost his daughter to some bandits,” The Highman explained, as he pushed himself off of the tree he had been leaning on and walked a few steps in the orc-man’s direction. “The pay is 30 silver each and another 200 divided among the survivors. So two questions: can you swing that warhammer, and do you want to make some money doing it?”

“Aye, those are agreeable terms. What of the conditions?” asked the orcish man, before he cleared his throat, setting the meat at the edge of the fire, and grabbing the hilt of the weapon on the ground, causing the raven perched upon it to flutter about, “I can do more than that, I assure you.”
To punctuate his words, the man drew the spike from the ground, revealing it to be a rather sharp lance. The way he rested it in his grip showed a certain familiarity, and there was the matter of the armor he wore. That should have been enough to signify that he was capable in combat- that, and his most apparent physical prowess.
“Tell you what,” began he, returning the lance to the ground, causing the raven to land upon his shoulder, “I’ll make sure you make it home safely, and you tell me where you’re starting this job.”

---

Astride his tusked wolf, the grey skinned individual approached the gates of the town that had seemed so distant the night before. Seeing a group of individuals standing at the passage, and the drunk from last night among them- less drunk and slightly more injured, he raised his lance straight up in the distance, before stopping at a nearby rise.
“What ho, fellows!” he declared loudly.

Roland turned his head at the Falkan Knight and cocked an eyebrow. He was about to respond in a condescending manner, but was stopped by Kace providing his own introduction. Roland nearly rolled his eyes when Kace spoke, but resisted. Instead, he listened a bit to his accomplishments. The Ethorian had indeed heard of the Seven Month War. Indeed, and impressive accomplishment, especially for one so young. Yet Roland had no intention of letting the younger warrior know.

"Gods, a dwarf and a Highman?" Roland asked incredulously. He looked around at the others knights, as if to gauge their reactions and smiled cockily to them. "How did you parents ever manage to have you? I imagine the height difference would make the deed quite challenging no? No matter... And..." Roland turned to Elric to clarify. "That sort of information I would say is 'worth sharing,'" Roland explained. "Anything you may have done that's worth something..." Roland's eyes scanned up and down the Falkan knight. "If anything... I suppose there's no need to introduce myself. The Lionsguard speaks for itself, if my vast collection of tournaments do not."

Varian's headache seemed to be clearing a bit, though not enough for him to keep his hands off of his forehead. He rubbed it methodically for a few more moments before hearing the familiar voice of the orc he had met the day before. He suddenly snapped up and looked across the other members of his group. He had forgotten to mention to the group that an orc would be joining their midst. He didn't anticipate it being a problem. Varian had little time for pointless bickering about race and the like. If a warrior could follow decent orders and kill a few bandits, that warrior was fine by the Highman.

Of course, orcs were also pretty ugly looking, and Varian was conscious of that. Folkmar seemed better than most, but he figured he ought to say something. "I expect this won't be a problem," The Highman commented to his other two mercenaries. "Edon, Osmund, meet the new orc." Varian gestured to the approaching Falkmor. As he did, he could spot in the near distance their last addition, the Highman-Raelusian Kadrin, on approach. "Ah, and there's our last one: Kadrin. Now all that's left is fat man," He looked across the four of them and pointed to each of them briefly. "Best get comfortable with each other. There's no telling how long this one will take."