Solyanik. The third capital-city of Allyanik. Situated at a halfway point between the Mallaene Mountains and Barras' bay, and resting nestled just north of Barras' river, Solyanik serves as the most highly-populated stronghold which dare stand against the expanding wickedness which seeps out of the Mallaene Mountains.

The people of Solyanik, whom number roughly fifteen-hundred, are varied, and more importantly, stubborn. With the longest history of any city in Allyanik, its inhabitants are loathe to leave it. Those who visit the town soon come to realize its hardiness even without explanation. The western-most establishments - homes, businesses, and administrative buildings alike - are all laden with scars. Claw marks, gouges, scorch marks, and all matter of wounds mark almost every building from all sides. It is clear that the people of Solyanik do not simply live here - they survive here. Even if barely.

The truth of the matter is, Solyanik's fifteen-hundred people is a shadow of what it once was. And it's only getting worse. And the same can be said for every town that stands in the way of Xepreath's chaotic nature.

But.. that's why we're here.

The morning was warm, the almost-humid air thick with the scent of morning dew and churned dirt. The dark, worn leather of Sen Rak's boots ground against the bits of soil and gravel that were strewn across the aged cobble of one of Solyanik's main streets. She was one to sleep early and wake earlier, and having done so, decided to take a personal look at the state of the city's defenses by herself - and though she and her squad had done so briefly already the evening before, it was easier to focus when she was alone. Now, her stroll carried her back on her way to the "Toremont Inn", where she had stayed the previous night with her squad: Aren, Lillian, and Tarrot.

The people of Solyanik seemed equally inclined to wake early, as the streets were decently populated at the current hour, which could be assumed to be somewhere around seven o'clock. The town around the Toremont Inn was one of business. A couple general stores, several smiths, a Marshal's stables, and several other manners of shops. There was, notably, little in the way of non-functional establishments. No discernible jewelry shops, and tailors of fine clothing seemed few, in turn.

Of course, this wasn't on Sen Rak's mind. She simply enjoyed experiencing the air outside of what she considered a "stuffy motel". In truth, it was of moderate quality and more than capable of meeting their needs. Those needs being a place to stay just for the previous night. Now, they would see to meeting the squad they'd be joining up with. Through carrier, the meeting place was decided to be a Tavern not too far from the Toremont inn, a tavern called the "Tipsy Tumbler".

Finally, Sen Rak managed to reach the two-story Toremont Inn. She made her way inside, the spring-hinged doors that filled most of the doorway pushing to the side with ease. Her eyes smoothly scanned the lobby-room, searching for her compatriots, if they had even made their way downstairs yet.

It mattered not, though - Sen Rak would be making her way to the main bar regardless, and would haphazardly toss her rump into one of the sturdy stools as she rocked into the counter, then settling into a comfortable position, one of her large arms lain across the bar. The barkeep, a middle-aged human man who was quick to approach her as she sat, seemed entirely unintimidated by her large stature, and addressed her while vigorously scrubbing a large tumbler with an aged rag.

"Welcome back, what can I getcha-"

"Drink." The gruff response came suddenly, but the man seemed unphased as he turned to retrieve some form of alcohol from a shelf nearby. "Strong drink."

It was but a moment later that Sen Rak was swilling down the drink as she waited for her team to gather for their departure.

The moon was gently setting behind the imposing mountains to the West when Tarot left the inn. It wasn't an unusual habit, when his squad was resting within relatively safe territory, that they would awake to find him and his gear missing. The sheets of whatever dusty cot the bard rested in were neatly folded. Without the need to carefully keep watch for the latter half of the night when resting in an inn, Tarot opted to slip out of their accommodations and wander about the dark town. He was known enough by the guards, either by his own reputation or the reputation of the Red Wraiths as a whole, that he was hardly ever bothered on his nightly strolls. He was glad tonight was no exception.

Tarot made his way to a more secluded part of the city, in the western-most part of Solyanik. He dipped into an alleyway that showed marks of significant damage. He traced the claw marks etched into the alley's stone walls. The Shadar Kai bard lowered a knee and slipped a candle from a holster on his belt, standing it on the ground in front of him. He closed his eyes, and spoke softly in the language of Devils. "(Infernal) Gracious spirits, I call to you. Tell me your story.*"

This next instant was always the unsettling part. The candle wobbled slightly, before a faint green flame engulfed the wick on its own. Discordant whispers in a number of languages, a few notably in more common tongues the bard was unfamiliar with, filled the air around him like falling sand. The temperature dropped a few degrees, making the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. But soon, a single voice emerged. A harsh voice, weathered with time and age. The words almost sounded like they were being swallowed, though Tarot had been doing this long enough to recognize the voice of a man choking on his own blood. It was very common among those who met violent ends, and Red Wraiths weren't known for living long and peaceful lives. Of course, this isn't what Tarot dwelled on. He was far more interested in the ghostly tale.

"I was a guard, born on a farm near Barras Bay. Came to the city to become a butcher. This was my shop, and my home. My boy took over when he came of age, and I took up a sword when things got more dangerous. Was busy doing my duty, didn't realize one of those beasts had gotten past us. They took my world from me... so I cut until I could cut no more."

Tarot nodded, staring into the flickering light of the candle. It wasn't a particularly new story. He had heard tales like these before, but he wasn't here to judge which stories should be shared. Tarot was merely there to preserve what memories and echoes he could. Besides... the alliteration of butcher and Barras Bay was too pleasing to pass up. "(Infernal) I will remember your story, spirit. You are welcome to join me a while."

The candle's pale, heatless flame dissipated as a cold breeze seemed to seep into the seams of Tarot's armor. His chest felt heavy, and saliva burned with the metallic taste of iron. He was right: the poor butcher had choked on his own blood. Nonetheless, Tarot holstered the candle once again and wandered the streets back in the direction of the inn. He could have sworn he caught a glimpse of a red scarf as the morning rays of dawn basked the city in a golden glow. Sen Rak was almost certainly appraising the city's defenses. So, Tarot slipped back into the Toremont Inn. He took a seat in the corner of the lobby bar, taking off his coat to reveal the blood red vest underneath. He unhooked the lute from its shoulder strap, and rested it in his lap as he faintly plucked a few strings to accompany his soft murmurs. "He cut through all in his way, the Butcher of Barras Bay... ^{That works. Let's see, then next I could do something like...} On those cracked streets did lay, the family of the Butcher...^{No, no, breaks the rhythm. Let's try...}Right there his family lay, the Butcher of Barras Bay..."

For some time, Tarot tweaked his song in the corner. It wasn't particularly great work, but it passed the time. He kept his eyes tracing over the lobby, waiting to see any of his squad. When Sen finally entered, Tarot finished strumming his melody as he watched the shifter take their place at the bar. The elf swung the lute over his shoulder as he sauntered over to the bar, taking a seat next to the ranger. He made eye contact with the barkeep, tapping the bar once with a finger and nodding to one of the barrels of mead resting on the back counter. It was a silent, but simple order. As the barkeep was pouring the drink, Tarot looked to his squadmate with a smile. As per usual, Tarot spoke quickly and almost to the air around him rather than to Sen. "Seems like I wasn't the only one to take a morning stroll through the city. But I think you have the right idea, Sen. Best to leave this other group waiting a bit, and go for the more... dramatic entrance. Besides, we've still got to wait for the blonde tyrant and our handsome mage." The barkeep set down a full mug of mead, and Tarot picked it up swiftly. He gave the barkeep a nod, and savored his drink as the two waited.

"Oh beautiful, long time no see", the Changeling chimed as they stretched their sore back by pulling their arms up high above their head. The open window let in the warm morning breeze as Aren shoved their head outside to take a deep breath of air. The sun had already risen, it must be drinking hour for their companions. "Shall I find you where I usually do?", they spoke into the empty air. Aren and their companions, three lovely people - some more lovely than others -, had been summoned, so to say. And for the night, had stayed in the Toremont Inn, a two-story building even they could afford.

They put their arms on the window sill and let their head hang low, stretching those sore neck muscles. The inn was a nice enough establishment, Aren surely had seen worse. Though they had been in this area before on their travels, Aren had never stayed at this inn. At least not to their memory. The last time they came through these parts was a bit blurry. It all faded at some point. And ever since returning to this realm, Aren had not quite felt the same.

Aren pulled their head back inside. Leaving the window open for some air circulation, they headed over to the dresser which had a fresh bowl of water and a washing cloth placed atop that Aren had requested be brought up in the morning. They began to wash their face and wipe down their arms and legs a little before hopping into their usual clothes. A wide, frilly white shirt and a black leather jacket. That jacket was probably the priciest item Aren owned that was actually not stolen. Apart from their weapons perhaps which really didn't count as items to Aren, those were survival instruments.

They closed the window, swung their backpack over one shoulder and headed downstairs, curious about their new assignment and the other team that would be joining their crew. Hopefully, they had some interesting personalities amongst them. Aren swiftly moved over to the bar just as Tarot commented on their absence. They dropped their backpack down to the floor, between their stool and the bar with one foot on it just to be sure, and cheeky grinned at the bard. "I heard that." Aren gave the bard a wink as they leant on their arms, slouching against the countertop a little. "No surprise to find you two here with those in your hands." Nodding at the drinks their companions were downing. "So we're still missing our bonde tyrant", Aren used the words they had just overheard. "Any idea of what personalities are gonna be on the other team? Or on our newly fused team, I suppose."

Aren was always one who enjoyed change. It was necessary, it was interesting, it was fun. But they would have a job to do, one they would hopefully get paid for handsomely, and Aren knew that some teams struggled when asked to work together with another one. Dynamics were challenged, leaders were anxious, old tactics had to yield to new ones. Usually, such endeavors consisted of a couple of weeks of... let's say... bumpy, chaotic relationship establishment. That is saying it kindly. Aren had no idea who those other people were they were gonna work with and what their team dynamic looked like. They could be strict with a love of routine and order and rules. Not Aren's favorite work conditions. They could be slackers for all they knew. Chaotic and rash and unorganized. Maybe that was a little more Aren's style but an entire group of that would surely lead to more disaster than would be good for them. Of course, most groups had a healthy dose of everything. The moral compass, the rule observer, the chaotic one, the one who flirts their way through everything somehow. Would that be me? Ah, probably not. Most adventuring groups usually had a sneaky one, a brawl one, one with a plan, and one who fucks up the plan. For a moment, Aren wondered what categories their team members filled out. We know who the brawl one is, at least...