Vigil's journey to the Castle Gardens is fruitful; he is beckoned forth on his anticipated path by the strumming of a lute, halted situationally with the experimental twang of the instrument being tuned slightly. By the time he properly rounds the run in the Palace Garden, he finds U'Nunlo, Regis, and Gen all sitting in a semicircle around a statue of Braedan. The statue depicts Braedan holding the Blade of the Dale, in his time depicted as a simple Longsword, skyward. Regis lays at the foot of the statue, his body wrapped around the marble human's large foot where the sun had warmed the stone. U'Nunlo sits awkwardly, cross legged in a spidery fashion, nearby to the flowers and shrubbery of a flowerbed, their long fingers splayed and pressed against their mirror digits as their hands press together. U'Nunlo's fingers wiggle and snap together as Gen plays, a pleased expression plain on their face.

And Gen, cleaned up as she is now, bathed and given a haircut, is a pretty young girl- but the hard edge of the streets is impossible to wash away, and her hands are heavy with callouses, and she still goes barefoot- her feet just as rough as her hands. Those rough hands of the young girl play at the lute in a skilled manner, the music weaving into the air like a tangible story.

Re-Gis and Ge-en
Lost and found
Goin' Round
and round again!

Re-Gis and Ge-en!
Forever will they~
Be-e-e-e
Good, Good friends!

Re-Gis and Ge-en!--

Her voice, clear but thick with the accent of the commonfolk, was quite pleasant when accompanied by the instrument. Her playing cuts short suddenly as Regis launches to his feet at the sight of Vigil- then, without warning, Regis leaps across the grounds at Vigil, spines flaring along his shoulders- but on this day, his hide had thickened into larger, heavier, scales rather than the softer leathery appearance he had during the attack on the market.

He lands a few feet in front of Vigil and roars.

Hello, Elder. I greet you with respect. his body language portrays this concept, his roaring quieting down as he lowers his posture and offers up a deferential positioning, his own more vulnerable and passive despite his initial boisterous greeting.

"Ah. The Big One." U'Nunlo says, their shyness softening with the time here in Fenhall. "Er. Large. Big too soft. Large of presence. Large of might. Large, good word."

"'Allo!" Gen calls, waving to Vigil. "Howsy day goin', cos?"

---

Iris' journey takes her into the heart of the Palace, her direction indicated by helpful guards from the Barracks. In short order, she arrives in an underground room, ventilated with multiple bellow shafts to the surface where they expel smoke and hot air out through shafts that lead to the interior of the castle wall, on the western side. Aglow from the fire of the forges, this place is so unlike the smithy in the town market that she witnessed before; great bellows fuel a mass forge, whose construction, while old, is magnificient for the works of the Dale Folk. It is a far cry from the Zephyrsmithies in the Cloud Kingdom and their elaborate artificery, but this great chamber would certainly produce finer works.

A series of assistants muck about in the room, hydrating themselves and slaving away at the various pieces in varying stages of completion-

But an air of deference and veneration hangs in the air over a slight man, wiry of frame, but heavily scarred and wearing the heavy apron and leathers of a smith. His face is bare, shaven and clean, but marred by burns and the streaks of ash. He sees the Zephyrite enter the room and nods to her, before focusing back on his task for a few moments more. With great deliberation and skill, he was working at the trim of a shield; it bore the same crest as Ser Pyke's armor, denoting it the shield of the Ashen Knight himself. Finishing up the last section he was currently focusing on he waves a heavy gloved hand and an attendant comes and relinquishes the shield from his focus, granting him the time to approach Iris.

"Hail, welcome to the smithy Zephyrite. I am the Smithmaster, Dane, how may I help you?"

---

((In the concept of me shaving out a chunk of admittedly needless narration, I have cut that in the interest of time and shortened it to this;))

Alison expresses a silent state of disgruntlement at the library now being filled with other beings. Grumble grumble, mumble mumble, generally haughty demeanor. She's there, reading scrolls on undead and the history of Waltone Lands, if anybody feels like bothering her. The other three have ample time to do their research and collaborate;

The Rot and Heartroot
Dag'Tyr is able to supply the basic information of Heartroot; it grows from old trees of any species, pulses and throbs like a beating heart in the rain, and grows upwards out of the ground and is recognizable by its beet-root red coloration. His basic information will allow the others to get more specific related information from their time researching in the library;

Heartroot is a mystical growth from the blessings of the Everbloom and its presences across all of Aesithas; the fact that the trees of the Heartland are rotting and decaying and the root is being made scarce is not a good sign.

This guides their research on the Rot, leading back to old scrolls and tomes that are so aged that the pages threaten to tear as turned and their vellum is cracked and flaking. The language is more difficult in these older Dale Tomes, but it's clear that they reference the invasion of the Shadow Lord;

Harken ye, the root of all Aesithas growes sicke uponne the shadows ov eville. The Lusterre ov the Blayd of the Dayl waynnes, the Lands of the Dayl growwe weiry, and illnes threttens those who dwel in thisse playce...

It tells of old Wooden Ones decaying and dying suddenly, painfully, over time; Heartroot Scarcity; and the schism that the root madness brought between the Dale Folk and the Wooden Ones in this ancient time. The perceived hostilities drove the Dale Folk back into their homes, abandoning their union with the natural world, and leaving the Wooden Ones to defend themselves from the unseen and secret attacks of the Shadow Lord. Very similar to what is happening today!- except the business with the Shadow Lord. Nobody's heard of that fellow in one thousand years. Surely this is just coincidence and any other theories are baseless fearmongering. Surely.

Dag'Tyr's contribution to this research is simple but very significant; he harkens to an old Kin rhyme he learned as a young child from Nursery Fables, which adds more context to the circumstances of the Heartlands;

Though root faces rot
and streams flow not
though spring held still
and heartland lakes refuse to fill
though shadows grow-
There lurks the foe!-
Pure water and seed
is all the good earth needs.

Bandits In The Realms

There simply isn't much to be found; banditry and piracy have always been an issue, in increasing or decreasing amounts, over the ages. River pirates are the most common, the many tributaries and diverging streams of the River Dale having countless places to hide small vessels of raiding intent, and many villages isolated and forgotten along its routes. The recent, alleged, bandit unifications and discipline are unheard of. The Dale Folk have, historically, always been united- with a few specific exceptions hinted at in these particular research paths.

That makes what is happening now in the Southlands an anomaly. It is unclear what it could mean, but there are several isolated noble houses in the south that have long been detached and silent from Fenhall; the most significant thing of note is that apparently a small family of rebuffed and wounded refugess claimed that they saw smoke looming over the ancestral home of the Family Gostling, the Castle Lancre. No followup on that claim has been possible thus far.

On Wizards for I'Rajith

Wizards are few and far between in the lands of Aesithas, most of them hermits in secret towers hidden away in places of power; none have been heard from in hundreds of years, and the dominant study of the Arcan has largely been left to the Noctem to keep alive and share in their collective memories. New and enterprising young arcanists spring up naturally from time to time, documenting their studies, but there is no large and collective place of study to reference. Of recent note, the people of Fenhall received word of a Witch settling in the east, her services apparently benefiting the coastal province. No name was mentioned, just talk of 'a witch'.

Just How Do We Reach The Zephyrites

To be brief on this one; nobody is certain how without their help or consent. Ever since the Cloud Kingdom moved over the Oceans to the East, the only devised method has been to rediscover the method told in the Tale of Prospero; search the coastlands for the ancient Flying Machines of the Zephyrites, or hope that a band of them are willing to take you up there. There are plentiful ancient discussions and notes on the description and make of the Flying Machines; To avoid dense and difficult descriptive language, they are described as gyro-copters that seat three, with one seat being a pilot, and their construction largely being based on canny applications of the Air Rune; propulsion, lift, and aerial control operated by a complex 'keyboard' of runes...

But the Dale Folk records aren't complete or comprehensive on this, and harken primarily back to the Legendary Tale; these mythological threads point towards the coast, claiming there's a secret alcove carved into a sea-facing cliff face. The best hope anyone has of searching for that is in the far north, where the Shield Mountains reach the Sea.

Vigil was hesitant to approach the trio, feeling he was intruding upon a moment of close camaraderie that he wasn't meant to be a part of. He was considering leaving them be and returning at a later point when Regis suddenly jumped to feet and approached him, causing Gen to cease playing as all three of them turned their attention on the Behemoth warrior. He lowered his head, feeling slightly embarrassed, but none of them seemed upset at his interruption. In fact, Regis bounded over to him excitedly, and the smallest hint of a smile appeared on Vigil's face as, for a brief moment, he imagined not Regis coming over to greet him but one of his own cubs. A pang of homesickness as he beheld the young cub, noticing his new armored form, not so different from Vigil's own. He nodded in a approval, and felt a rush of pride and protectiveness towards this boy he barely knew.

It was only when U'Nunlo spoke that Vigil seemed to remember there were other people about, and his smile and the warmth in his eyes retreated back into a mask of stoicism. He raised his and glanced towards Gen. "I am... fine, little one," he said. Due to his slow way of speaking, it was difficult to tell if that pause was just part of his speech or betrayed some deeper meaning. "We, err, haven't had much chance to speak. I wanted to, hmm, know if... you are settling in okay?" He glanced up towards the palace ."I know that it can, err, be much to take in."

U'Nunlo's eyes, canny as they are, seem all too knowing to Vigil when he raises his gaze- but the being stays quiet, their fingers working at that same rhythm they had been when Gen was playing. Seems U'Nunlo was fond of music.

Gen laughs and bounds to her calloused feet, brandishing the lute forward; "I'm off-ish-ee-uhl-lee-" She enunciates the word comically, wriggling her eyebrows to indicate it was a deliberate effort to sound clownish. "Palace Bard."

"In absence of Prospero." U'Nunlo clarifies. "Understudy position. Assistant bard. Er, instrument tuner." Gen's cheeks redden and her own embarassment burns- not so unlike Vigil's internalized feeling made flesh before him. Gen rushes at U'Nunlo in the fury of a young woman scorned, but U'Nunlo, even seated, manages to weave themself out of Gen's way with long limbed movements until U'Nunlo has somehow scaled the statue of Braedan and is hanging upside down, their legs hooked onto the statue's shoulder, their long arms waving at Gen from above. Gen can no longer maintain her fury and laughs, falling back in her boisterousness at the strange sight of U'Nunlo like this.

Regis sits down and his tail flicks in annoyance, his body language portraying that he would rather his 'tribe' be presented more honorably in this moment- but he also seems pleased and amused in his own youthful way. He growls under his breath;

"The queen is good to us, but I can smell fear. She is wary of our journey, and she does not hide her prayers; she hopes the Gods go with us on our Quest."

Vigil blinked in bemusement as he watched the exchange between Gen and U'Nunlo, before glancing back towards Regis. "She is right to be afraid," he said. "These are... dangerous times for all of us. We have, err, no idea what we're going to encounter, once we leave the palace." He tilted his head to the side. "I have been meaning to ask... your parents... they're not, err, with you anymore, yes?" He made sure to phrase that as gently as he could, not wanting to upset the cub. "Have you, err, had anyone to train you in combat? What about hunting or, err, navigating the wilderness? You did not, erm, seem too harmed by the Tralaya, so I assume you have some, err, experience in defending yourself."

It had been some time since Fran had been to the capital city. Not since the Pretender Uprising had she been here, and while things looked the same, she could feel a certain air of quiet desperation as she walked through the streets. People are safe here, yes, with a roof over their heads and work to do. But there was an ever looming threat of worse to come that kept everyone on edge. Fran prayed that these people only have to worry, and never have to suffer their fears becoming a reality, as so many have before. Still, there were luxuries here in the city that Fran wouldn't be able to find easily or cheaply in her travels.

One such thing would be music. Many are too busy eeking out their lives to compose a poem or write a song, and Fran certainly had found many traveling bards accosted by disgruntled locals for their perceived friviousity. Which was a shame considering how uplifting music can be in times of hardship and stress. Fran was a warrior through and through, but even she would appreciate the soothing tunes of song during her weary travels.

Fran was on her way to the market when disaster struck. Descending from the heavens came a swarm of crows - no, monsters much worse than that. They seemed to have spread throughout the entire city without warning, with many people scrambling to safety. Immediately Grab leapt into action, shouting over the crowd to direct them to safe places such as churches, large buildings, or even in people's homes if there was nothing else. She was quick to use a calm but authoritative tone, one which she had learned during her time as a Squire, to get people to listen to her. She spent most of her time getting people to safety but when one of those monster swarms arrived Fran was not afraid to leap right into battle either.

Fortunately for Fran and the common folk, the city guard were quite dense here and we're able to slay the monsters quickly and efficiently. Fran herself hardly did much beyond being a distraction and drawing the attention of the monsters onto her: she very intentionally exposed herself to be attacked, keeping the monsters' attention on her while keeping the others safe. Any that had tried to go after them were quickly attacked by Fran herself, to force the swarm to deal with her or die. Ultimately by the time the city guards had slain enough of the monsters to send them fleeing, Fran was surprisingly alive, and not nearly in as bad a shape as one would think after being mobbed by hundreds of crow monsters. Shortly after she was asked to head to the Palace to meet with the Princess, as every able-bodied warrior was needed in these trying times. After making herself presentable, Fran would head to the palace as asked.

Fran conducted herself quietly, dining separately from the others and watching the meeting with the princess with stoic silence. She always respected the royal family and while she understands the people's distaste for the royal family, their blame on the Princess was harsh and misdirected. That being said, Fran was not so naive as to think the royalty were faultless. The king had sired no proper heir, with no queen to rule in his stead. No line of succession beyond the title passed down into his daughter who, while kind, was unprepared for the burden of leadership. Untested and now the target of everyone's ire, Fran understood people's hate towards her. But Fran did not hate the princess. She was making the most out of a terrible situation, with the weight of an entire realm on her shoulders. The stress would be unbearable, but just as well the princess would have the means to make the world a better place. And thus Fran put her faith in the princess, and would gladly quest in her name to bring peace and prosperity back to not just the Dale, but their world as well.

After the meeting, Fran received a stipend of 100 gold to assist in her quest. Fran would do some shopping for supplies though the situation the nation was in made useful supplies in unfortunately short supply. Initially she wanted to purchase some armor for herself however no blacksmith had any armor ready for her. She would have to commission them which made them immediately useless; Fran can't afford to wait for weeks or months for equipment she needs now. The only place that had armor right now was the royal armory, who's equipment was well outside of Frans budget. This got an exasperated sigh from the warrior. "I can see why there aren't many heroes in these lands. There's no shop to supply any up-and-coming warriors, and only the wealthy and connected can afford the immediacy of basic protection. With the bar so high and minimal standards so low, little wonder why there aren't many adventurers interested in exploring the lands."

Finding regular supplies wasn't any easier. Many rations were worth a day's wages, and even rope was worth half of that. When Fran tried to find some medicine for first aid those were quite more exoe since than last time she was in the city. No doubt that many folks are suffering from sickness and famine now, which makes food and medicine in high demand. This made Fran wonder how anyone manages to get by these days… and chances are they get by the same way Fran does: with violence.

As Fran was buying what supplies she could find she reflected on her day's pasts. Many villages were afflicted with sickness and famine that made their already short supplies thin. And many of these folks were, in turn, a target for bandits. And the unfortunate truth was that many of those bandits were little more than village folks who had turned to steal and raid their neighbors for supplies they needed to feed themselves and their families. Fran was no mage: she could not conjure forth food and water like a cleric could, or make the ground fertile like a druid's magic can. All Fran had to offer was her blade, and even that she couldn't provide forever. But she could offer the next best thing: training. Before she had arrived in the capital Fran had been training villagers in battle, using simple weapons like staves since that was the most ubiquitous. Fran herself was a Polearm Master and was able to teach the basics to the villagers, hopefully able to form a militia to defend their homes. Though Fran also had no doubts that those same villagers may one day use the knowledge she taught them to raid and pillage others. Such was the circle of life.

The next stop was a music shop. However it seems like during the previous fight against those flying monsters, someone had taken the opportunity to loot the store. This just got a tired sigh from Fran. "Even in times of crisis, there are folks who are willing to steal from each other. How does the saying go? 'Loot the burning house?' for shame." Fran does take the time to buy an instrument from the shop, hopefully it'll help them with repairs. A sturdy drum, something she can play to keep herself entertained while traveling but can also be used to signal others during the chaos of battle. Drum signals are important in bigger battles where one might have a hard time hearing things over the sound of things like clashing steel and shouting men. After paying for these supplies, Fran heads out back to the castle.

There was one last place she wanted to shop at, though given the state of the city she has little doubts that it would not end well. She went to check the stables to buy a horse. Ideally a war horse, but she could suffice with a riding mare if that's all they have. Unfortunately her concerns were correct: by the time Fran finished examining the horses available, all that she could buy were draft horses, and at quite a mark up at that. Most of the better horses were already given to knights and messengers, so any available steeds were mere work horses. Fine if Fran had intended to pull a wagon, but these horses were also quite expensive and Fran couldn't afford one, let alone two. "Suppose I shouldn't be surprised. Horses tend to be reserved for mobility anyways. Just goes to show I've still a long way to go before I earn my title." Fran tried not to think too much about how someone with a noble title can't seem to afford much more than her halberd, which she's been using since the days she was a Squire. "Discretion is the better part of valor I suppose. To be able to connect to the common folk I shouldn't be on a high horse."

With most of her shopping done there wasn't much left for Fran to do beyond training. To that end, she will need to get her weapon maintenance. She hates to admit this, but Fran does a terrible job keeping her own equipment in order. Perhaps back when she was a Squire she was far more dutiful about maintaining Sir Astrea's arms and armor, but as a knight Fran had gotten incredibly lazy at it. Sure it still slices, dices, and slashes as it should, but even Fran could feel it's edge full by the day and it's half creaking under the strain of battle. So Frans final stop would be the castle smithy. Perhaps here she can pursue some new armaments, or at least maintain her current weapon.

It did also make Fran wonder: with the economy in shambles as it were, would it help if Fran was able to contribute to it somehow? She has no doubt that they will come across resources in their little adventure. Off the top of her head she can imagine that they will fancy many enemies. And unless they're all Behemoths, she's certain most of them will be mortal folks with arms and armor which could be repaired and repurposed. Because if the 100 gold is all the crown can afford to pay their heroes, Fran will have to find out her own means to acquire wealth and resources. Nothing in this life came for free, and time was money. It would be cheaper for Fran to take what she needs from those who have it, which unfortunately is likely the mentality of the various brigands and bandits that plague the land. But turnabout is fair play, and if those thieves have filthy lucre from stealing from others, than Fran in turn shall make a fortune off them.

Entering the smithie, Fran makes her presence known with a knock on the door and a polite smile. "Hello. I am Sir Francesca Varangian. I wish to leave my weapon here for maintenance. It has served me for many years and it is due for some proper love and care."

Regis' tail flicks from side to side in contemplation and a subtle agitation. At the question? At memories? It is initially unclear, but Regis' gaze swivels to focus on Gen and her antics as Vigil speaks. At last, after a pause, he responds;

"Gen saved me. Me, Behemoth, one of the Tribefolk, protector of the Badlands...Saved by a human girl with a dagger and a song. A Great Beast came from the Lands Beyond. I was in training. I was to be a hunter. I can move quiet. I can stalk prey. All I could do when the Beast came was hide. It was terrifying." This revelation comes hard for the young man, but his respect for Vigil obligates him to share in it. "And my people perished. The Tribe of Gen was born in the aftermath of the destruction of the Tribe of the Shrouded Fang."

Vigil would have heard of this tribe; Regis' story corroborates the general consensus of what must have happened to the elusive tribe of shadow-seeking hunters. It was an old name, one that had faded suddenly and recently; in short, the disappearance of the Shrouded Fang tribe was a spark on the powder keg of growing Behemoth dissent. Having seen Fenhall, and travelled the Dale Lands briefly as he has, Vigil can likely reconcile the feelings of abandonment and neglect the greater Behemoth community is feeling in their role of Protectors of the Realm with the destitution and slow decline of the Dale Folk.

Regis continues;

"I was hid, halfburied, in the shade of a boulder. I watched as my chieftain claimed the Beast's eye. I watched as the tribe fought as one, trying to bring it down. 'For the safety of the Realm!' they cried. It still haunts me, some nights. That war cry. To the last, protectors of Aesithas." He growls low in his throat. Anger, sadness, all of it rippling through his body. "But it was Gen who protected me. Only the Gods know why she was in the Badlands- but when she came across me, she was as wild as any beast and as crafty as a serpent. The Great Beast was lingering on the Tribe Grounds, and so I was stuck. Hidden there. Waiting. After what must have been days I was delirious. I thought I heard the Gods speaking to me, telling me everything would be okay. Turns out it was just Gen, and she sang to the Beast as she dug me out of the earth. Watching such a creature slumber while a girl sang..."

He snorts.

"I put my faith in her now. The Gods are good, but Gen is right there. She has a good head. She just can't remember anything before the Badlands besides 'hearing Prospero play'. She raved about it, and so we travelled here to find an instrument. At first she wanted to beg for the coin. Try to find jobs to do. But in the end, when the Tralaya attacked, she resolved to just steal the lute. She intended to come and pay it back. I would have just left the city."...

And so his elaboration concludes and he marches forth to engage with U'Nunlo and Gen once again, Vigil free to engage deeper or leave as he sees fit...

---

Regardless, the Party is Gathered. The Journey soon to begin. Tomas Smithson, garbed in what must be hand-me-down garb of Ser Pyke's, cleaned up well enough- but hot baths and new clothes cannot wash out the upbringing and hard-wrought traits of the smith's son. His hammer is looped upon his belt, and as everyone gathers at the gate they witness Ser Pyke teaching him how to properly strap a shield upon his arm- the same shield that Iris saw being repaired in the Castle Smithy. Seems Pyke was bestowing it upon the boy who was to be his new Squire.

Alison and Crimson make their appearances promptly upon the designated time; U'Nunlo manifests from the nearby Noctem Shanty as if she had been waiting for people to gather in a state of ambush; Regis comes, dragging a half-asleep Gen along on her feet as she mumbles a sleep-addled count of her and Regis' supplies.

At last, as the party gathers in full with the presence of all of you, Ser Pyke steps away from Tomas and addresses the gathering.

"There will be one other to join us. Another Knight has taken up the Summons, and been tasked by the Princess. She will be joining us; I know her to be true, and a powerful warrior in her own right. Take note, Tomas, for there are more ways than mine to take heed of. Let us make our introductions and be off- Castle Lancre awaits. I will begin; I am Ser Pyke, and have born the title of the Ashen Knight in my time as Lord Commander of the Palace Guard. Tomas Smithson I name my Squire."

"T-Tomas Smithson." Tomas jumps to the introduction at that. "I met most of ye before the um..Tralaya attack. Born a smith, but it didn't feel right to hammer out horse-shoes and nails when all the news we was getting was so bad. When Ser Pyke came to my village, I left with him. To try and help the Realm."

"U'Nunlo. The name, er, I mean. Ranger of wild places. Dreamer of big dreams." U'nunlo says, keeping it brief. Their spidery limbs straighten for the introduction, the being bowing deeply to formalize it.

"Alison of Waltone. Attended by Crimson, sworn sword of Waltone. I wield powerful sorceries, as has been the birthright of my family since long before the Line of Braedan ruled these lands." Alison says with a prideful and regal tone. Crimson looks down at his breastplate and twirls a finger in his cloud-puff-moustache as he shines a smudge off his armor- silent as ever.

"Regis." Gen says happily, clapping the young Behemoth upon his shoulder. Today he was back into a more lithe, leathery, appearance for the travels. "And Gen!" She flashes a smile that could light up the black of night. "of the Tribe of Gen. Heroes!"

And with their introductions out of the way formally, the group has a chance to reintroduce themselves and (re)familiarize with the party before the Quest begins in earnest...

After dropping off her weapon at the smith's, Fran took some time to relax. Her quest would no doubt be full of tension and terror, and if she spent every waking moment stressing over the situation she would snap. She took the time to find a room available, handing her traveling attire to be washed and went to bathe. Even a simple cold-water wipe down was soothing to the young knight. Noble as she may be now, she hasn't forgotten the rigors of life as a squire, living in relative squalor both in civilization and outside of it. It thus makes simple things like a bucket of clean water to wipe herself down with feel like an absolute luxury compared to wallowing in her own stink for days on end. After cleansing herself, Fran ate a simple meal of stew and wine before she went back to the smith and received her weapon.

Taking her halberd back, Fran gave it a few practice swings. It flexed but did not bend, it struck hard but not stiff. Though a mundane weapon of mortal steel, Fran knew the importance of keeping one's blade well maintained. She made a note to take better care of her halberd from now on, knowing that this was still her duty even if she wasn't a squire. As Fran was leaving she received a message that the first of the heroes called by the Princess was leaving. She was to join the entourage quickly. With a firm nod, Fran gathered her belongings, changing into her now cleaned traveling clothes and went to join the others.

Truth be told, Fran felt a bit out of place. Though she recognized a few folk here such as Ser Pyke and his squire Tomas, everyone else was unfamiliar, many of them not even human. It brought a somewhat dark thought to Fran: the Dales were suffering from weakness, and this weakness makes them an easy prey to their neighbors. As much as they were all brought together so long ago under the guiding hand of Prince Braedan, that was ancient history. Their current situation was bleak, and it has always been a worry to Fran that those outside of the Dale may try and attack them for what resources their lands could provide. Food, wealth, people. But Fran shook these thoughts off. If she thought of these people as her rivals or enemies, they would never be able to fix the problems plaguing their world. Approaching the gathered group Fran gave a sharp salute, a strong smile, and made sure to look at everyone here, be they fellow knights or even what seems to be orphaned children.

"Greetings and well met. I am Ser Francesca Varangian. I have served the Kingdom of the Dales for over twenty years, first as a squire and now as a knight. Whatever foe we face, I promise you that I will face them with you. My blade will protect the innocent and slay the guilty. I am pleased to be traveling in such company."

While Vigil had been hoping to lead up to asking about Regis' absent family, he had certainly not expected the boy to give him the entire story right here and now. Guilt and discomfort scratched at his heart as he listened to Regis' tale, knowing had painful it must be for him to relive such memories. He himself had yet to tell anyone of how he had come to be separated from his own tribe, how he had come to be here among the Dale Folk, and even thinking about those memories for too long caused him incredible pain that threatened to transcend emotional and become physical, tangible, unavoidable. How could someone so young possess enough courage to do what a battle-scarred warrior like himself could not?

Well, that at least Vigil could venture a guess. He looked towards Gen, considering what Regis had just told him. It was very lucky that a Behemoth cub could survive in the Badlands without the rest of their tribe, but for a child of the Dale? That was nothing short of a miracle.

Once Regis ended his story, Vigil let him return to his comrades without another word, and for a few moments, just stood there watching them. While he hadn't said anything, he had been very concerned when the Princess had said these two would be joining the party, but if the two of them could traverse all the way from the Badlands to Fenhall unscathed with no one looking out for them, then surely they would be fine on a journey with several warriors. Plus, if they needed any further training in defending and taking care of themselves, Vigil and the others would be there to supply it. With a nod to the trio, the older Behemoth turned and left them to their devices.

---

Leading up to the day the group was supposed to leave on their journey, Vigil once again kept to himself. The most others would see of him would be him either wandering aimlessly around the palace grounds or training by himself in whatever facilities were available to him.

When the day came to embark on the quest, he joined the rest of the group quietly and with little fanfare. Only those paying close attention would notice that he looked slightly different than usual: his tail had lost it's club-like tip and was now much longer, resembling that of some kind of monkey so as to better be able to pick up, hold and carry things. To make up for this, his fangs and front claws had become much sharper. These were the only real differences, however, and it would be fairly easy for his companions to recognize him.

Vigil noted some faces among the group he had not seen before, particularly one Dale woman who introduced herself as Francesca and gave a speech worthy of any warrior that she was glad to be traveling with the group. He gave an approving nod towards her before giving a short introduction of his own. "Vigil of the Tough Shell tribe," he grunted. "Looking forward to, erm, traveling and fighting alongside you all as well." Despite his words, his tone may have sounded a little pained, more so than usual, and he kept flexing his new long claws - not in a manner to show off, but in a way that hinted that they were somehow causing him a little discomfort.

---

"Glad to meet you Smithmaster Dane," she said with a friendly smile. "I was simply curious to see what the Royal Smithy would look like as I am a smith myself." She looked around the room, admiring the fine craftsmanship of the forge. It has been a while since she came across one of this quality so she could not help but say, "It's a mighty fine set up that you have here. I was wondering if you would let me craft some things here if I ever have the material to. If not, I understand."

Regardless of Smithmaster Dane's answer, Iris would accept it graciously. But she also thought there was no reason for him to refuse. The princess did say that they had access to the faciltiies of the palace-- assuming this was considered a facility.

---

At last it was time to go on the quest. Iris had grown a little restless from staying at the palace. She joined the group with simply a smile and a wave as a greeting. Once everyone has arrived, they began to give their introductions. Some she already knew from their audience with the princess, and some were new. Iris wasn't the best with memorizing names, but everyone was so unique, she thinks it might be possible for her.

After Vigil had introduced himself, Iris decided to go next. "I go by Iris. I am trained in the way of the Kensei and I seek to increase my skill as a swordsman and a swordsmith. I look forward to fighting along side you all."

She glanced at the Behemoth who was flexing his claws. Did he have claws like that last time? Would it be rude to ask? She had a habit of saying the wrong things at the wrong time, so she decided to keep her mouth shut. It felt like common sense that one shouldn't offend a Behemoth. She looked around and waited for the next adventurer to introduce themselves. Hopefully this would finish soon so they could be on their way already.

The party sets forth from Fenhall, introductions and grand purpose fueling their steps across friendly Dale-country. The rains of the past week were sorely missed; despite the coolness of the season, the earth was desperate for replenishment and the torrent of day of the Tralaya attack had barely sated the need for moisture. The surrounding farmlands struggle to produce healthy crop; Amaryllis' attunement to the lands gives her the beginnings of a dark unease as she traverses this place, no longer bearing the immense haste she utilized to reach Fenhall.

And yet, things were worse elsewhere. The road was clear, and as the first few days of their journey pass they encounter amicable-enough travelers on the road. The safety wrought by the First Fort over the western Dale roads was not to be discounted. On the third day, they pass under the shadow of the First Fort, and over the ridge of the Dale. They leave the valley behind, and following rumor of Castle Lancre and the chaos of the South, the River makes for the best guide. Following its waters brings with it a health and vitality juxtaposed against the encroaching dryness of the Dale itself- and a brightness that contrasts the gloom of the Heartlands, which loom over the southern ridge of the Dale Valley here. Their route bypasses the forest directly, skirting its edge as they follow the river southwards.

@Guardian Angel Haruki (Do not feel pressured, your absence is explained; I rolled perceptions on your behalf to keep Amaryllis along with the company; she netted 22 and 23). Amaryllis' extreme capabilities in this familiar environ proves to be a boon. As they skirt the edge of her homeland, she discerns a tree of note on the edge of the river. Digging at its roots, she verifies that it is indeed a Heartroot! Though struggling against the rot of the deeper wood, the tree still lives and bears its blessing. The party can harvest a bounty of 6 Units of Heartroot from the tree; a generous boon of the Gods to be sure.

@Lucius Cypher: Fran's experience in the field pays off as the party rests one night. As they made camp, she discovered markings carved into the trunk of a tree w hose boughs stretched lazily over the river and cast shade upon its dappled waters in the day. The markings, by her reckoning, mark this tree as a landmark for River Pirates. A warning to turn vessels back; the edge of the bandit territory. From this day forth they were entering the perilous Southron Dale-Lands.

@karamonnom@Neianna86@XxFellsingxX: With this warning from Fran, your vigilance is keen and well rewarded. As the party emerges from the Heartland Border, the River Dale winds and bends against the rise of a hill and arcs far to the west. Iris, aided by her flight, detects a small village to the south, otherwise concealed from sight by the rising of young hills here, in a place where the River Dale arced back to the East through a gap in the hills. It was two days' journey to the south as the crow flies, or another five by following the river's bend... This revelation, whilst potentially critical, cannot be immediately acted upon yet however; Dag'Tyr witnesses a portent in this moment, and Vigil's keen senses and life-instilled cautious nature pay off.

As Iris relays this information back to the group, the afternoon uncharacteristically warm for the early autumnal season on this day, a Thrush alights upon the top of the hill and, seemingly at random, lifts a rock and cracks it upon a larger stone outcrop. The sound reverberates within Dag'Tyr, drawing his attention to the bird as it tosses its stone aside and flies away. As Dag'Tyr mounts the crest of this hill, he sees that the stone outcrop he had been drawn to was in truth a barrow-mound capstone. The mound was man-made atop the natural hill, and this cap-stone bore no inscription save for the simple engraving of his God; the neverending circle of Life and Death. His familiarity with Veratul's rites would reveal to him that a capstone such as this could be easily moved with the aid of his companions, and that these tombs had the potential for both great treasures or terrible curses alike. Such was the nature of Veratul.

Vigil, perhaps driven by his past to maintain...er...vigil... Notices before all others, a pair of masts rising over the low hill; two small river-boats, moving upriver, small box-sails furled. The pennants they bore were unfamiliar to him, but Alyson of Waltone fills that gap in his knowledge swiftly upon his raising the party's attention to them;

"...Those are the flags of the lost castle Lancre, if memory serves; Crossed scythes upon a field of grain..." She offers in a grim tone. "Peasants usurping an icon. A sign of the times."

They must be pirates, coming up the river and towards the Heartland Forest at the party's back...

How do you react? You are not yet seen, and collective assessment of potential vessel sizes based on the sails and masts would give reason to estimate the ballpark of a dozen potential hostiles.

Knowing that they were entering dangerous lands, Fran remained ever vigilante as they traveled. She always kept her halberd on hand javelins ready in the even they were assailed by enemies from afar. Sure enough as they came across a tomb, there was also word that river pirates approached. They were vastly outnumbered, but also unseen, so the group had the tactical advantage of first move. Fran spoke up quickly, clearly, but quietly as to not alert any scouts of their presence. "We should take shelter within the tomb. While I've half a mind to investigate it for anything of use, I'm also not a graverobber and don't wished to be cursed for my greed. We should wait for the pirates to pass us, and then strike when they least expect it. I'd feel far less guilty taking the ill-gotten gains of those those ruffians than plundering a gravesite."

While Fran was no rogue, she felt she could reasonably stay hidden. Though if anyone could assist her in that regard, she'd be very much grateful. "If possible, we should try and conceal our presence with any spells, if available. At the very least it should be placed on those of us who'll attempt to raid the ships. We should try and take on the flag ship, to cut off the head of the beasts before the rest can rally. Without their leadership the craven would scatter and those left would be without their strongest or smartest members to guide them." Fran has done similar assaults with Astrea before. When dealing with the likes of bandits, they may seem fearsome and intimidating, but once you take out their leadership many of the lower ranks will lose morale. Even if they stay and fight, they're usually much weaker than their leaders, making them less of a threat even in numbers. Even so Fran does have to keep in mind that their leader is no doubt at the center of the crew, so reaching him would be easier said than done. And if they don't defeat him quickly, they'll just find themselves surrounded from all sides. So they needed to attack fast in a coordinated matter.

Vigil, as usual, remained silent for a good portion of the journey. In fact, he very rarely made eye contact with any companions, preferring to survey his surroundings and keep his eyes and ears open to any sound or flicker of movement within their vicinity. This was partially due to his own experiences in the Badlands, where danger could be around any corner, and the Tralaya attacking the city had proved that nowhere was truly safe... but it was also down to the fact that small talk was just not his forte. He wasn't familiar enough with any of his traveling companions to strike up conversation, and he felt that looking in their direction for longer than a couple of seconds would just highlight this and make his silence all the more awkward. Better to make everyone think he was too preoccupied to engage in conversation than cause everyone needless discomfort.

Eventually, Vigil's constant alertness paid off as he spotted the telltale signs of river-boats, and he quickly draws the party's attention to them. He listens as the group chatters amongst themselves as to what to do, his tail flickering side-to-side with agitation. Were he back in the Badlands and alongside a patrol of fellow Tough Shell warriors, he would be quick to organise a plan attack to drive these pirates away. However, this is not the Badlands, and he is too unfamiliar with the skills of his companions to theorize how best they could deal with this threat. He instead listens to the back-and-forth between Fran and I'Rajith, as the two discuss whether it was possible to sneak aboard the ship. "In my, err, current form, I fear stealth will not be possible for me," he interjects, his face bearing into a slight grimace. He's starting to realise that Regis probably had the right idea about choosing a less defensive form for the journey. "However, I, erm, do think the lady Francesca has a point," he says, nodding towards the human woman. "About taking shelter within the tombs. Give us time to observe these pirates. We don't want to be hasty, don't want to end up in a fight we're not prepared for." He winced slightly as he spoke, as he couldn't help but feel somewhat cowardly for suggesting such a thing. However, considering the events that had lead him to being in the Dale Lands, separated from his family and tribe, he wasn't about to suggest they rush in either. Being killed was a bad enough prospect, but the idea of his new allies being captured and finding themselves in a situation akin to what he had once been in was something he would not stand for.

With the collective strength of the party, as well as the awareness of custom endowed by Dag'Tyr's religious knowledge, the required haste to avoid detection by the River pirates is met. The capstone reacts to Dag'tyr's hymn and trembles, and with the assistance of the party's physically powerful companions is removed. A ramp of dry earth descends down into the stale air and darkness of the tomb. As if drawing the first breath in time untold, the warm air of the day is sucked into that dark tunnel. The descent is dim, but the Noctem eyes in the group see a clear path that soon gives way to carved stone steps. Whether guided in the dark by their dark-vision possessing companions, or by way of producing a light source, the way is safe.

The earthen ramp gives way to the sureness of stone steps, the steps lead down into a widening, circular, room. The darkness of this place is heavy and thick- but presuming a light source is produced, the party sees the antechamber of the tomb;

The walls and floor are a smoothed stone. Alcoves are carved into the walls at regular intervals, housing statues preserved by the tomb against the elements and time. The statues are complex depictions of humanoid figures, man and woman, all kneeling with outstretched hands.
The statue opposite the entrance is a lordly figure, depicted in chain armor and holding a Warhammer aloft whilst leaning upon a shield to his front. The shield is cracked, a deliberate bit of artistry from the carver rather than the wear and tear of elements, but is held together by a growth of vines. These same vines coil about the Lordly Figure's boots, and rise up his armored legs as if the stone vines are climbing his personage.

The statue to the left of the Entrance is a robed woman, hands clasped as if in prayer. Nothing stands out about her, her hood is drawn over her head and she has no facial features whatsoever. The silhouette within the hood is blank and featureless, and the only thing that assures the party this statue is not unfinished is the immense detail in the clasped hands; her nails curl into the backs of her own hands, where they dig deep scores into her 'flesh' and the stone fingers are even detailed to depict, in frozen macabre, dripping blood from this tightly gripped prayer.

The statue between the Robed Woman and the Lordly Figure is a man whose gaze focuses upon the ground in front of him, a farming hoe leaned upon one shoulder while his other hand lies empty and angled towards the ground. {Passive Investigation: I'Rajith} The hand is clearly meant to be grasping something- but whatever tool or object is supposed to be in his grasp is missing.

The statue to the right of the entrance is a woman with ropes bound about her arms, depicted in the uniform of a lord's yeoman. It is clear the intention of the statue is to depict someone at work on a boat. {Passive Perception: Iris, Amaryllis} The statue appears gripped by sorrow, even in its stony features. The ropes of the ship are shackles. The uniform is prisoner's garb. The detailed work of this statue rivals that of the Lordly Figure, but is far more subtle and focused on capturing this understated and soft eminence of sadness. Smile lines give way to wrinkles of worry; calloused hands grip the ropes tightly as they descend into the stone floor at the front of the statue; is she raising anchor, or fighting with her bonds? Someone cared for this woman greatly.

Between the Sailor Woman and the Lordly Figure is a youthful man. He is garbed in finery, and is poised in the midst of a poetic recital. His outstretched hand offers up a singular rose, stem adorned in thorns. His other hand touches upon his own breast in a display of tenderness. {Passive Investigation: I'Rajith} The rose is stone, but is a separate piece of craftmanship; it can be removed from the Prince's hand.

Four paths [Five, counting the Entrance] extend outwards from this circular antechamber between the statues. Each descends downwards at identical angles. They each end in stone doors, hiding whatever lies beyond. For the sake of ease, these paths will be called Paths 1-4, radiating left from the entrance starting with Path 1 [Between the Robed Woman and the Farmer] and ending with Path 4 [between the Sailor and the Prince].

A silence grips this place. Your own footsteps and breathing fill this place. Stir it. And with the stirrings of your own lives, a gently rising wrongness seems to stir as well. Something about this place is off.

Dag'Tyr looked at I'Rajith and gestured after you. Before he looked around for a loose branch or twig on the ground.
When found he struck it against his left hand as if he was striking a match whilst he said "Lys".
The spell instantly light up the branch and he snapped it in 3 several pieces handing the other two off to the others, before making his own way down into the tomb.
He did not expect what waited below the surface for them. The stone stairway lead them down to a rather curious sight.
Was this truly a Burial Tomb?
This almost seemed like a place of worship, in a twisted sort of way.
The statues standing there silently depicting scenes of certain events. Worship? Fear? Defiance? Suffering? Dag'Tyr wasn't sure what he was looking at as he moved closer to inspect them.
The scenes they portrayed worried him, gnawed at the back of his mind. There the small voice inside told him something was dreadfully wrong here.
He looked back to his companions.
"Be careful." He could only offer as advise, before curiousity stilled his tongue once more.
He raised his stick higher up and his eyes caught sight of the doors on the other side.
4 of them.
Four potential options to take if the road back was no longer an option.
Why four? Was it connected to the statues?
He scratched the back of his head with his free hand in wonder, thinking back on his own studies.
If this was a burial mound then those that had perished and were buried here had been of some significance.

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Ooc: Can I roll for a Religion check?
Cause I want to see if there any religious symbolism Dag'Tyr knows or recognises either from his own studies or that have connections to his people.
If so:
https://www.roleplayerguild.com/rolls/24559 (10+2+0) 12*