K O P R U S T

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Rain drenched the city of Koprust. All but the main streets turned to mud, and those cobbled lanes became muddy too in short order. It was a miserable, cold rain from dark clouds turning day into night. Torvellians were used to this kind of rain. Merchants continued to wheel their carts through the gloom and the normal folk plodded along on their daily tasks. A little rain was nothing to complain about. A bit of mud on one's boots was hardly the worst thing they'd stepped in. It was far lighter than a shackle, after all, and didn't stain the way blood did.
To say it was a beautiful city would be a crude joke. It's walls were of ancient timbers hewn from the Old Forest, at first as a simple palisade and then clumsily added onto as the city grew from bandit fort into capital city. It's streets were hardly planned well, twisting and winding, a blessing to thieves that preyed on lost visitors. Homes were stacked next to businesses and invariably leaning to one side or another. Miraculously, there were few instances of collapse or fire or calamity of any kind. Things in Torvelt simply Worked, and it's people just as simply Made Do. That was the charm of it. There wasn't necessarily a 'rich part' of Koprust, there were only ones that smelled better than others.
Perhaps the best smelling of all was also the most recognizable from any point in the city. The Castle of Koprust stood in the very center, upon the highest hill, an extremely defensible position that the first King of Torvelt recognized immediately. It's walls were of sturdy dark stone, it's windows naught but slits made for arrows. Decadence was unknown to even the royal family of the land, only prudence. And it was here, on this average dreary day of the year, that a historic gathering of heroes was taking place.

The throne room of Castle Koprust was bare of gold or jewelry, and resembled more a meadhall with particularly fine hunting trophies. Long wood tables were normally laid out in the huge expanse of the room, but these were now pushed to the walls to make room for all those inside to stand at attention. At the top of a raised floor were two empty wooden thrones, along with a line of guardsmen. A bard strummed a melodic chord, to cut through the murmur of talking from all those that had answered the King's call for heroes.
Guardsmen parted, and made way for the King and Queen of Torvelt. They held hands as they walked around and to the front of their thrones, only breaking that touch when the queen gracefully seated herself. Queen Lianna wore age beautifully, grey streaks in her black hair, lines accentuating her clever eyes. However, those normally crafty brown eyes were puffy and shot, and her face was hollow and pale. She did not wipe away tears that even now were coming. In the span of days, she had aged years.
King Brand was little different. The stocky hill of a man was known for his virility, his bushy red beard, his mess of hair and his fat red nose. Now, he limped forward a step, to address the crowd assembled before him. He looked tired, but trying to fight it with all his might. His wooden cane stabbed into the ground at his feet, clasped in both his hands, he rose his booming voice.

"I greet you all, on this day, a day of both sadness and of glory. A day I never wished I'd have to see." The King said to all, some dozens of adventurers standing in the hall.
"My boy has been taken from me." His voice caught, but he pressed on angrily. "Prince Owen. But of course, you all known that much. It is why you've been gathered here today. You all have read my decree. This vile Fog has stolen from me a son, and from the people of this land much more than that. Whole villages of sons and daughters. And before I talk of glory and riches and reward, I must first make sure I send no more sons and daughters to their deaths, unaware."
At this some of the adventurers began to grow restless, eyeing one another.
"We have no idea what the Fog is." He said, monotone, words hollow. "We've no cure for it. We've no way to fight against it. We have not even a way of predicting from whence it comes and when. It is an invisible enemy, an omnipresent one, and any that take up this quest will have little hope of success. To even survive is unlikely."
With every word, some of the many dozens of men and women began shifting more uneasily. A few began to turn, and walk for the exit.
"Go ahead, those of you that wish." The king looked towards the line of people streaming out. "I bear no ill will to any that leave now."
The king waited, as more lost their courage and left the room, until there was but a small fraction left standing.
"To you who still remain, I applaud your courage. And I tell you what I offer you in return." King Brand held up his hand, in oath. "Any that undertake this quest and bring my son home to me, I swear this reward. You shall have one favor of me, King Brand of Torvelt, that I shall be dutybound to honor as long as it is possible. Whatever wish you have, I shall make true. If gold is all that you prefer, then riches you shall have as well."
He lowered his hand, and looked on the remaining heroes.
"Those that accept this quest, rise your voice, and tell me your names."

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Imalessa stood near the doors, staring out at those who remained from beneath the safety of her hood. She felt caged here - wrong - without the clack of ancient branches and the open air of the forest. Her sisters thought she was setting traps, waiting for dinner to fall into her lap. They didn't understand the struggle of hunting, how hard she had to work to bring home the most meager of scraps.

She looked at the King. This man could make all her troubles go away. If only she could find his son. She knew the forest was dangerous. Gods, she had grown up in it, lived off it, survived it, but now with the Fog . . . She shook her head. They couldn't go on like this. With game becoming harder to find and three mouths to feed, they wouldn't last much longer. If she didn't find her way into some money soon they would be dead in a matter of months, maybe a year, Fog or no Fog.

A woman stepped before the King. At first Imalessa thought her to be human, but she started at the fine elven features and delicately pointed ears, same as her own. The woman knelt and pledged her allegiance to the King and to the quest. Imalessa looked around at the others before pushing off the wall.

She pulled off her hood, not caring too much if her ears poked out of her sheath of honey-gold hair. "I am Imalessa Sharis, Your Majesties," she said. Her voice faltered before steadying and growing in strength and volume. "The forest birthed me, shaped me into its huntress. If your son has found himself in its heart, I will do everything in my power to return him to you." As the woman before her had done, she kneeled and lowered her head. "I offer you my bow and a willing heart." With that, she rose and walked to the entrance, ignoring the burning in her cheeks.

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Among the audience gathered within the throne room was a stout Dwarf, leaning against one of the far walls with his arms crossed. Solveig was still recovering from a partial hangover with last night's slim prize-money filling his pouch. He listened intently to King Brand's words. The task was clear. Venture into the Torvelt Fog to recover the King's son. This was by far the biggest challenge Solveig was presented with but this... This could be the exact ticket he needed to return home.

The Dwarf would watch as many of the court would exit the room. To be honest, Solveig couldn't blame them. You'd either have to be desperate, foolish or just a downright crazy bastard to take on this quest. The funny thing was- Solveig couldn't figure out which category he fell under. Solveig would wait a moment, seeing if there was anyone else who would take on the call with him. Afterall, he didn't want to be the first one to volunteer for a suicide mission. Two half-elves and a Dragonborn would precede Solveig's answer. This wasn't a bad crew by any stretch of the imagination, at least by first glance.

Solveig pushed himself off of the wall and uncrossed his arms. "Right then..." He began, mostly murmuring to himself. "I am Solveig Forgeheart of Tharum Kholdur!" The Dwarf introduced himself in an almost boastful manner, pounding his chest. "By my fists and my honour, I will help find yer son!" He answered, the Dwarf's accent was thick and typical of his race.

__________

Those with lesser mettle parted around Stur in a steady stream, headed for the doors at the opposite end of the hall. He supposed he did not blame them; there were easier ways to make coin in Koprust, many of which didn't involve throwing your life away. Nobody with a home to return to or a promising life ahead of them would walk willingly towards the Fog. Stur rolled his shoulders slowly in anticipation as the king finished his hopeful entreaty to the few that remained. He had learned well over the years that having one of these soft lowlander nobles indebted to you was a very useful thing indeed, and he intended to take full advantage of the opportunity, whatever the potential cost.

He eyed those that stepped forward first with some suspicion, looking them over. Before coming to this cursed place, he had scarcely seen other civilized races than his own - the occasional Orcish raiding party on the northern borders of his land, maybe, and a few half-elves in the columns of Ephreian regulars - and he sometimes felt that he was still getting used to their various oddities. In particular, he kept an eye on the big red lizard. Stur never let his guard down around those fortunate enough to be taller than him.

There was a brief lull. He stepped forward. Gods, I could use a drink.

"I am Stur." He let the name speak for itself. "I've pulled many free of the talons of death, sire. I'll find your boy for you."

---

The Minotaur stood in the shadows at the back, trying to make himself as inconspicuous as possible – how successful he was in that goal was up for debate, what with being a pretty damned conspicuous nine-foot tall horned monster and all – and tried not to let the crowd of would be heroes nervous energy get his blood pumping too fast. It was a pretty well known fact that getting a Bull ‘Taur like him too excited was like to end in tears, and though he’d gotten a better handle on things of that nature in his old age it still didn’t do to tempt the Gods. And seeing as he’d somehow managed to get the attention of not one, but two divine beings, he’d decided it would pay to be careful.

Careful. Lot of that going around apparently. A goodly more than half the room had upp’d tails and left at the kings words, no doubt remembering that discretion was the better part of valour. Cowards, some would call them, but not Gentle. No, he was too long in the tooth to be throwing words like that around when people were showing good sense. Hell’s, he just wished he could join them. Instead he watched the young, the able, the smart and the strong line out of the hall, and pondered just how desperate the king and the God’s had to be for them to have to rely on an old, demonstrably-past-his-best-that-wasn’t-even-all-that-good-anyway bull like him. Though he supposed that Torvelt was a desperate country, so he guessed they were in the place for it.

His attention slowly shifted to those wannabe-worthies who hadn’t been dissuaded by the kings words.

First was the serious looking half-elf, she who moved like a chimera. The way those swords sat upon her hip; easy, free, and always within an easy pull, he was willing to bet she was almost as deadly as a chimera too.

After her was a second half-elf, uncommon to see two at once in Koprust. She didn’t move quite so assuredly as the first, though if she spoke true and she did make her living out of the forests of Torvelt then she would be more capable than most. Dangerous things lived in those woods, would take one cold-eyed killer to survive them.

Following them was – rarest of rarities – a Dragonborn. He had an incongruously gentle voice, and a calming demeanor about him that seemed at odds with his reptilian visage, but if the stories of his race where to be believed then it would be a damned fool that underestimated him.

Then there was the dwarf. Didn’t seem like much to Gentle, but then to him most dwarves were barely knee high. He supposed Solveig looked fit enough, for a midget. Smelled like a condemned brewery though, which wasn’t ideal.

Behind the dwarf there was a human. He looked worn. Battle-worn, age-worn, world-worn, just worn. For a moment Gentle had the uncomfortable thought that if he’d been born human he’d probably look something like the man in front of him. Besides that he didn’t think much of Stur. Humans brought little to the world in his opinion. They weren’t graceful as the elves, sturdy as the dwarves, or strong like the ’Taurs. More like a hells-spawned plague than...

The old Bull felt his blood getting hot and took a breath to calm himself. Probably not all that surprising that even after all this time living among the frails he could still fall back into his old prejudices so easily. Shows that some shackles are harder to break than others.

Stur was stepping back now, sending a wary glance Antraro’s way – showing good sense or displaying common human racism, Gentle couldn’t decide. Regardless he sensed that the time was now upon him to introduce himself. He took a few lumbering steps forward towards the throne, though didn’t bother with the bowing. He’d stopped bending the knee to frails in crowns a long time ago.

Besides, he wasn't as limber as he used to be. If he got down he wasn't all that sure he could get back up again.

“Call me Gentle,” his voice came out like a distant rumble, thunder rolling across far off mountains, “The God’s have tasked me with finding your boy, so . . . I’m doing it, I guess.” He almost shrugged, slightly embarrassed that he couldn’t have found fancier words. Everyone else had fancy words, even the bloody dwarf. If Apollokeos and Minoas really were watching him he was guessing they were hucking it up right now.

Damage done, he was keen to get out. He cast around and spotted the two half-elves making their way out the door. “Reckon I’ll follow them.” That rumble of a voice sounded a touch less impressive now as he made after the women, more sheepish than bull.

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Zosimos eyed the gathering of travellers in the royal court with suspicion from underneath her hooded cloak and nimbly side-stepped any who drew too close to her person. She kept to the back of the hall, sequestering herself in a nook behind a lit torch that was attached to the wall. There she hid in the dancing shadows the flames cast and observed those who came forward to answer the King’s quest – a fool’s quest. Many times, between setting foot inside the royal castle and leaving behind her reclusive life in Torvelt’s mountain forests, Zosimos had questioned her own sanity following her decision to journey to Koprust to embark upon this fool’s quest. As many travellers turned and filtered out of the King’s hall after his wise words of warning, she mused that many shared her thoughts on the matter.

Whilst Zosimos held the Prince no ill will, she did not desire to forfeit her own life in the search for his – and yet, her feet remained rooted to the spot. The very thought of banding together with an assortment of miscreants and would-be heroes had the Tiefling’s pistris-like teeth tingling in her mouth. She watched closely as members of this band stepped forward and wondered what motivated them to do so. For some it seemed it was honour; for others perhaps it was compassion of some kind; and for those like herself, it was the promise of the King’s reward should they succeed.

It was that tendril of faith in this promise and what she would claim from it that finally gave Zosimos the nerve to walk through the remaining members of the Hall towards the King and Queen. She stopped in front of them and lowered her hood. She heard a few gasps and sharp intakes of breath as eyes fell upon her disfigured face and demonic features. Zosimos’s hand tightened on her Warlock’s staff. She gave a small bow to the King and then to the Queen before lifting her eyes – or rather, her one good eye – to meet theirs.

“Zosimos Blackcoil. I pledge my staff in the quest to find your son,” the Tiefling spoke calmly before moving off to follow her fellow companions.

Naldir was ready to leave before the King even began to speak. As he stood in the great hall, standing among adventurers of every kind, Naldir felt out of his element. He had long surrendered his sword and shield, instead walking the path of a civilian. But why then did he feel so unfulfilled. His thoughts nagged at the back of his mind, as did the words of the divine interloper. For the past several nights the God Amaldi had come to him in nocturnal visions, pleading for him to return to the path of the just. And now for several days Naldir had attempted to ignore the pleas, as he did now, moving to leave the hall.

It was then that the King began to speak with a mighty voice that had a quiver of sadness. Naldir turned back to hear what he had to say, owing the Lord that honour at least. As Naldir listened he pondered over the quandary that was the Fog. For many weeks he heard tales of it, how it swallowed people up forever. He had also heard whispers of the Prince disappearing, but it was still a shock when King Brand confirmed it. Naldir felt a knot form in his stomach as he remembered what it was like to feel like you have lost someone very close to you. He focused on that feeling as the King continued talking, even glossing over the reward. There was nothing physical that Brand could offer Naldir, he did not need riches or land. Naldir was painfully aware that no mortal could repair his soul, for he truly believed that it had been damaged.

Naldir remained in the hall as many began to leave, obviously not ready for the danger required in dealing with the Fog. As Naldir began to think that everyone may leave, a Half-Elf approached the King and knelt before him, swearing herself to the cause. Immediately afterwards several others approached, first another Half-Elf, then a fearsome looking Dragonborn, a Dwarf and a Man, a Minotaur of all things, then a lady Tiefling. All pledged themselves to the cause. Most of the others had left the room and Naldir greatly considered following them. Surely this was enough heroes, as they all seemed quite capable. But Naldir remembered the lessons of a Paladin, that an extra blade in good faith is always needed. With the knot tightening in his stomach, Naldir stepped forward.

“My name is Naldir Kadim, and I shall pledge you Lord my sword and shield,” Naldir said as he knelt, “As I devote myself to returning the young Prince.”

Naldir looked up, locking eyes with the King. Realizing that there was no going back now, Naldir stood up and followed after the others who had sworn themselves to this quest. In the back of his mind he recalled the dreams of Amaldi telling him to follow the path to redemption.

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Mingling somewhere among the middle of the crowd, Aoné listened closely to the words of King, her head propped up on her hands. She hadn't expected herself to be here, much less have stayed when the majority of the room cleared out at the mention of the amount of danger the fog held; however, this fog had a mysteriousness that she couldn't ignore. She didn't yet know how she felt about the reward for there wasn't anything she needed at the moment, but she was sure she'd come up with something. As of now, learning as much as she could was her top priority.

Glancing around the room at the faces left standing, Aoné raised an amused eyebrow as they introduced themselves. Certainly a diverse cast they were. And certainly unexpected. She supposed that's because all the truly rational folk left while they could, though she wouldn't call herself irrational per se. Just intrigued. The tiefling, Zosimos, and minotaur, Gentle, were the ones that truly caught her eye, and although a bit intimidated, her eyes and thoughts lingered on them just a tad longer.

Her eyes moved back to the King as a silence fell, signaling her turn to speak. Standing up slowly and raising her chin, her hands folded in front of her, Aoné began her introduction, trying to maintain elegance the best she could.

"Your Majesties," she gave a small bow with her head. "I may not be one to meddle in the affairs of royalty, but I feel great sorrow and pain for the disappearance of your son, the Prince. And as not to waste any time, I'll finish by saying this: I will do as much as I possibly can to help find your son, and to find a cure to this terrible fog. My highest prayers to the safety of your son and the three of you the best of health for years to come."

With a more dignified bow, Aoné turned and followed her newfound group, letting out the smallest of sighs. She hadn't been that formal since her last interaction with her family, but she didn't let her uncomfort show. Shoulders back, and head raised, she mentally prepared herself for the hard times to come.

The king listened to each introduction with growing difficulty in controlling himself. To each hero, no matter how strange they might seem, he inclined his head in grateful acknowledgement. The words of them all touched him deeply, and the queen as well behind him. She touched at her eyes with serene grace. Finally, once they had all spoke their names and acceptance of the quest, he spoke once more.

"I thank you, all of you, from the bottom of my heart. May the Gods have mercy." He said, then turned and limped to his throne. He sat and watched them leave, gripping his wife's hand.

The motley group would find themselves in a smaller square room, bare of furnishings aside from torch and tapestry and one long carpet. This was the sitting room, normally where men and women would be made to wait before entering the great hall. At the opposite end of the room was a large double door of iron-banded oak, lit by two iron braziers on either side. Stood between the braziers, blocking the door, was a man in a black robe from head to toe. Light from the fires glinted off of the bronze mask that covered his face, under his hood.

"Well, well, more than I expected!" The strange man said, clapping his gloved hands together before him. His voice echoed oddly through the mask. "And uh, quite the 'honorable' looking lot, too. Well, no matter."

The man pressed one glove to his chest, presenting the other hand behind him like a dancer.

"I am Nathaniel, the court magician of Torvelt. It will be my job to guide you do-gooders in the right direction." The mask turned slowly, as Nathaniel looked over the group. His face paused momentarily on the dragonborn, then on the minotaur, the aasimar... and then on the tiefling... At that point he gave up. "Contrary to what our King may have told you in there, I have a few theories about this whole Fog business, and where we might find it's source. We will be setting out for the frontier lands as soon as you all have readied yourselves, to the town of..."

He paused and cocked his head to the side. "Damn. I forgot the name of it. Something drab, surely. Mudshit? We'll just call it Mudshit." Nathaniel shrugged. "It is about a day's travel from here. From there, I shall brief you on the real mission."

His bronze mask darted to one end of the party, then the other. "I suppose I should give you all a chance to ask a few questions first, shouldn't I? Well, feel free. Let's get to know one another a bit. Anyone?.."

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The utter bareness of the room made Imalessa uneasy. She was used to having many hiding places and perches among the branches, just as she was used to the steady weight of her bow on her back. Its absence was painfully noticeable, and she wished she had brought it with her. The idea of carrying a weapon into the castle, though, had set her on edge. She had been unsure how they would react to a strange half-elf, especially one who was armed.

As she stepped past the threshold, the other half-elven warrior gave her a small nod. She did not return it. These people were new to her. Regardless of the fact this woman obviously shared her heritage, she didn't know who she could trust. Though she suspected she would be more at ease once she returned to the forest. She wouldn't let her guard down, no, but maybe she would feel comfortable enough to feel out the rest of the company.

Her eyes scanned the room. She had only been around the race of men and elves, her father being the only full-blood elf she'd ever met, though she had heard tales of dwarves. The tiefling, dragonborn, and minotaur appeared dangerous, and Imalessa knew they could be, but it was the others that truly set her on edge. She knew enough about wolves to know that they weren't always grizzled and bloodthirsty. Sometimes they were calm, sleek and beautiful. It was those you had to watch out for.

She moved to the edge of the room, keeping mostly to herself, and listened as the masked man - Nathaniel - spoke. The idea of yet another joining them bothered her. Not just because it was another person she would have to watch out for but because the trees would not like it. The forest did not like strangers trampling over their earth and leaves and twigs. Her sisters thought she was crazy, they thought something had broken inside her when her father had died. Maybe they were right. Maybe she only thought she could hear the trees because her father had loved them so dearly. But they were not of elven blood; they were fully human.

Imalessa shook her head almost imperceptibly. The forest would not like this.

---

He passed a few more adventurers – companions, he supposed they should be called – on his way out the hall. First an impressively scarred Tiefling woman. If her mug was anything to go by then she dealt with most of life’s obstacles by barging through them face first. A girl after his own heart. The horns were also a nice addition. Never could have too many horns on an expedition like this.

After her came what he assumed was an Aasimir. Gentle didn’t know what to make of him, slight little frail that he was. He supposed that looks could be deceiving, and the shield he lugged seemed sturdy enough, though the Achean’s had been fans of big shields themselves, and Gentle had seen plenty of those shattered in his time. Maybe he was being harsh on the blonde boy, but if experience had taught him anything it was that the size of the dog in the fight definitely did matter a hell of a lot more than popular wisdom would have you believe.

The last member of their little coterie was even skinnier than the Aasimir, bearing the sharp pointed ears and delicate features of an elf. In her case being fragile didn’t seem like such an impairment. Elves had access to magics that featured in the other races nightmares, every calf knew that, and you didn’t need biceps to cast hocus-pocus. Gentle had run afoul of a few spellcasters in his time, and wasn’t keen to repeat the mistake. He’d walk carefully around this one.

The crew filed back into the sitting room that they’d passed through on their way into the hall, to be met with the sight of a berobed, masked figure. Nathaniel didn’t even have to open his mouth for Gentle to figure out he was a spellcaster. From the way he dressed, to the way he moved, everything about him said ‘I’m quite interested in wizard bollocks’. Gentle didn’t like him on principal, if for no other reason than his daft mask and the overbearing stench of his lavender perfume. Any man who wore that much perfume was hiding something.

As if the mask didn’t say that succinctly enough.

Still, rules were rules, and Gentle wasn’t about to start arguing with a mage without good cause. If Nathaniel wanted to act like the king-swinging dick, he was more than welcome to the role. Gentle had done his share of leading in his younger days, and it hadn’t turned out pretty for anyone involved. He was happy to let the bemasked wizard bear that load. However it seemed like not everyone shared his sentiments. The sword-slinging half-elf, Gentle didn’t know her name because she had quite helpfully declined to give it to the people she intended on leading, got up in the overly-perfumed mage’s face and started acting hard.

Gentle would have been more than happy to let them go at it – personal combat to decide which bull led the herd was pretty common in ‘taur culture after all – and if this kind of confrontation was likely between the half-elf and the spell-man then it was better to get it out of the way sooner rather than later, but he couldn’t help but wonder if this kind of ruckus would be seen as ‘barbaric’ to the more civilised amongst their numbers. He waited for someone else to speak up, to show support for one side or other, or maybe even throw their own hat into the ring. Nobody did. Looking around he wasn’t sure what he seen on the faces of the others. He’d never been all that good at reading others. Imposing his own will on the people around him, that he could do, but divining what they wanted themselves was a skill that had always eluded him. He snorted audibly, and stepped forward. If no one else felt like speaking then he supposed he’d have to give it a try himself.

“Does anyone else here care whether Nathaniel, the surely learned and powerful mage who can’t remember the name of the place we’re supposed to be going, or the lady elf so desperate to display the length and girth of her no-doubt titanic cock leads us ‘honourable do-gooders’?” He did his best to emulate Nathaniel’s painfully sarcastic tone, but wasn’t sure he got the inflection quite right. “Personally I’m happy to form a square in the dirt outside and let them tear lumps out each other to decide, but then I am just a simple Minotaur. Whatever we decide I gotta point out that while I’m not a betting bull I think that the odds are good that if there is any sands left in the prince’s hourglass, then they’ll be trickling down quick while we're standing here. Even if they weren’t the daylights burning and I’d like to leave some miles in our tracks before sundown.” He realized that he hadn't managed to go all that long without insulting both a court-mage and a pretty dangerous looking half-elf. So much for staying in the magic-types good graces.

Oh well, he'd never been all that good at taking good advice. Especially his own.

__________

The weathered mercenary pushed open the doors and emerged into the soon-to-be cramped sitting room. Internally, he winced at the thought of that huge bull-beast crushing him against the walls. The less said about the growing strangeness of their little band, the better. He had neither seen nor heard of whatever species this Gentle belonged to, he who looked like he could knock down a small building or two if presented with the slightest inconvenience. The others didn't exactly put him at ease, either. Though, there was something to be said about that full-blooded elf. Sorceress though she may be, she was the only one of the group that had professed to wanting to find a cure for the Fog. Stur had resolved to keep a closer watch over her than the others - someone with the guts and the brains to try to tackle that particular problem stood to help everyone in the entire country if they were successful, and they couldn't afford to be lose her by way of running some fool king's rescue mission.

That first half-elf was propped up against the stones right next to the doorway, looking everyone over with a studious eye. Stur returned her gesture in kind, carefully breaking down just what about her set off those faint alarums in his mind. The way she held herself seemed almost effortless, like every little motion was a part of some dance. He reckoned she was fast with those blades of hers. Too fast. Maybe five years back, he would have been able to match her blow for blow, but nowadays, if it came down to it, he figured he'd need to keep her at a distance, using his longer reach until he could wear her down and knock her on her back. Let her get in close, and he'd be dead before he hit the ground.

He didn't trust her one bit, neither her haughty expression nor her pair of sinuous swords.

Stur's train of thought was soundly interrupted by the introduction of the man in the strange mask, this Nathaniel. The mercenary grunted sourly; he knew of nobody that hid their face unless there was killing or stealing to be done. This one reeked of dishonesty, but then who that he had met today didn't? Lowlander hexers like this one were no small amount of trouble, though, it was true. He'd had to rough up one or two in his time; one of them had tried to turn him into a pigeon.

Things took a turn for the worse when that same haughty half-elf stepped right up and challenged their supposed guide. Stur rolled his eyes; so, the she-bitch was going to let her ego get in the way of the job now, too? By her words in the king's presence, she seemed like she was directly involved in his affairs before this. Had she somehow gone and gotten His Royal Backside lost in the first place, then? He had half a mind to say something before the situation got worse, but his job had taught him when to hold his tongue and when to-

The bull-man had stepped forward. Stur's eyes widened slightly as he proceeded, in his rumbling, implacable voice, to give the both of them the dressing-down they deserved. He listened in rapt silence until the words titanic cock reached his ears; his mouth twitched, and it was all he could do to stay silent until the talk had almost died down before the steely composure that he had been holding so valiantly abruptly cracked. The man doubled over, raucous laughter pouring out and bouncing off the stone walls.

He gasped a long breath, reaching up to wipe a moistened eye. "Ohh, ah, gods without," he managed, "he's got you both, there."

Nathaniel's mask, an artistic approximation of an expressionless human face, swiveled slowly from the minotaur, the laughing man, and then back to Brynan. It was more felt than perceived, for obvious reasons, that the mage was raising an amused eyebrow. It came through in his icy tone.

"I do hope none of you others have any lectures prepared. The hourglass, and all that..." He clasped his gloves behind his back, drawing his robe tight against his skinny form. "Brynan, my dear, to answer your question... you see, you are quite good at the breaking down doors version of guidance. Not so much at the dealing with magical plagues variety. That is where I come in. Once we get to the dirtier parts of our quest, I will be glad to let you take over."

Nathaniel opened up his arms and offered them out to the others in the room. "How about this, so that we can know a little bit more about our party here. What sort of skills do you all bring to the table?" His mask cast around to each of them, awaiting the first to speak up.

---

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"Wow, we certainly have a vulgar group," the elf said, a light smirk on her lips as she curiously listened to the banter that played out among her new comrades. She was tempted to speak up, but she couldn't find a good reason to as of yet, so instead she held her tongue and stood near the edge of the near-empty room, watching the argument play out. She silently applauded Gentle and Stur for stepping in, but you wouldn't find her doing the same. Not wanting to go toe-to-toe with the fighter (had an argument started, she knew she wouldn't have been able to stop), and ending up dead.

Her eyes traveling from the confident half-elf to Nathaniel, Aoné couldn't say she exactly trusted him, especially in being their guide, but he seemed to know a lot more about this fog than anyone else. She admired Brynan's antics, but in terms of logic, it was obvious Nathaniel was the best pick for leadership right now, though she fought an urge to declare herself leader instead. And even though she didn't trust him right away, then again, this was Koprust after all. It's not like she could trust anyone. She'd have to keep her distance.

After listening to the wizard's smooth recovery one might agree, Aoné moved forward to answer. "Oh, it isn't obvious? I'm a barbarian. Clearly." She stated with sarcasm, placing a hand under her chin. "I have the strength of the gods and could defeat death itself in a fist fight," a slight smile danced across her lips, pausing for dramatic effect. "Ah! It seems I've forgotten to introduce myself- Aoné Inalor; sorceress. I deal with arcane magic, mostly medical care and whatnot, though I do know some offensive and defensive spells."

---

---

Solveig smiled as others began to join the party. This was certainly becoming an interesting lot indeed! Humans, elves, a tiefling and a cow man to boot! With a grin on his face, Solveig bowed to the King and Queen before following the group out of the hall, an obnoxious whistle in his step. He noticed the horned lady's face was marred by an unfortunate disfigurement, however he could only shrug his shoulders. Five years in Torvelt, you see and hear a lot worse happening to young women.

His attention was drawn to this Nathaniel character. However, there was something about him that struck him as off. It would be uncharacteristic of Solveig to trust a man who wore a mask especially one who carried himself with that smarm. It seemed it didn't take much to put this Brynan character on the offence. Solveig's style! The Dwarf would smirk at her exchange of words both with Nathaniel and the Minotaur, Gentle. This Stur character seemed reserved for now. In all honesty, Solveig didn't quite care as to why Brynan didn't take kindly to Nathaniel.

"Ladies, ladies! There hasn't even been any ale flowin' yet and yer already slingin' insults at each other!" Solveig would point out as he got close to them. It was... an odd sight seeing a Dwarf approach two taller beings, especially the Minotaur who towered over the entire party. That didn't seem to phase the pro fighter one bit. He would untether the drinking horn from his belt as he sloshed around the contents of what was inside. Ale freshly poured from the Tavern he stumbled out of to get here. "We can fix that though!" He grinned with a hearty chortle.

It was then that Nathaniel offered his sentiment of a more detailed introduction. Aoné was the first to take up that offer. Her sarcasm had a bit of charm, but it was going to wear thin on the Dwarf if this was gonna end up being a thing. "I think a shared drink is better for opening up but what the hell!?" Solveig shrugged. He took a long swig of the ale, wiping his mouth before continuing his thoughts. He playfully flexed his arm with a chuckle. "Like I said! Solveig Forgeheart! I'm a Prizefighter by trade, and it's how I solve me problems too! Ya need someone punchin', I'm yer man."

---

---

For a few brief moments, the tension in the air was enough to choke. Imalessa was grateful for the banter and smart wit that seemed to dampen it enough for her to breathe. So many people, and already they were fighting with one another. She scowled. If they expected to go trampling through the forest this way, starting shouting matches and raising hell, they would not get very far.

The elf, Aoné, spoke, voice practically dripping with sarcasm. Elves, Imalessa thought. Though she may have been a half-blood, she knew very little about her father's kin - her kin. Regardless, though she'd loved her father dearly, he'd had certain qualities that she just couldn't stand. She still wasn't sure if it was an elven trait, or if her father had simply been a bit of a prick.

She was starting to think it was an elven trait.

Luckily, it seemed her human blood had diluted it. She had to admit she could have a bit of a temper . . . and that she had a tendency to be stubborn. Something both her parents had had, in their own ways. Imalessa had apparently inherited the worst of both of them.

She pushed off the wall and toward the center of the room, toward the rest of the group. "I'm a huntress," she said. "I like to think I'm skilled with a bow." Again, she ached with its absence. She wished to feel its familiar weight on her back. "And I know the forest as well I know myself. Better, even."

She sniffed, looking around at the group. "If you think you can just waltz in acting as you are now, you have another thing coming. The trees don't like strangers as it is, let alone a group of squabbling, overgrown children." That temper inside her flared. It occurred to her then that, while she had solely taken on the quest for her sisters' sakes, the forest would need her, too. It was old, ancient . . . She would not let it suffer such trivial quarrels. It deserved better after all it had done for her family, for her.