[IC] The Blighted Kingdom

[Roman]

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T H E B L I G H T E D K I N G D O M

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P R E M I S E:

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Vassidia is a plagued land.

The people are not unfamiliar with sickness; under the Garland lineage, the kingdom has already suffered and survived the Wailing Death, the Red Plague, the Ursine Pox. The cities know how to quarantine, how to detect, how to treat and experiment with cures. Vassidia is not unfamiliar with sickness; but this is not a mere sickness.

The citizens see it every day; cracked statues, eery in their accuracy of form, mottled ruby chunks bursting from cracks that run across their entire surface. They depict agony, despair, rage and resignation. In the first weeks, before word spread and knowledge grew, the rubies were stolen, chiselled, even thought to be lucky. Now, with wisdom of terrible truth, they are avoided, demolished, known to be cursed. The statues are no depiction; they are the last living moments of those victim to the Stone Blight, captured forever in petrified rock.

Across the continent, beggars and barons alike are developing blisters and boils that burst into encrusted maroon gemstones, fat and dewy rubies that begin to spread lethargy and dullness as quickly as they do a cracked, hard black skin rash that grows to encase the victim as the metamorphosis continues internally. Nearly every resource the kingdom possesses is now dedicated towards a cure for the accursed blight that has seized the kingdom.

The High Lord Jocun is running out of hope, and his subjects moreso. From his seat, he has called for adventurers, mercenaries, academics, peasants, nobility - anyone willing to travel the continent in search of answers. Many have departed; few have completed their journey. Fewer still have returned.

Vassidia is a plagued land. How will you fare against the blight?

[Roman]

As eras passed, rulers came and went, lineages rose up and fell to give way to new lineage, it became clear to historians, scholars, archivists across the land that Jocun Garland had faced perhaps the single most adverse, and arguably tragic, crisis of his family’s time in the palace, and perhaps of any High Lord that had come before him; certainly, far more wretched an age than any High Lord has presided over since. His fall, shared by the kingdom his bloodline had built, has left a ragged and untended scar upon the history of the realm and the memories of the people, and to this day stands as a brutal reminder of the fickle nature of everything we have, hold, or create, hoping to carve a tiny piece of our identity into the record books and hold on to a fleeting form of immortality. Many of our attempts are not as disastrous as the crisis of the Stone Blight, but an unlucky few can find their legacy becomes imprinted upon the world in despicable ways.

Broadly speaking, Jocun Garland made an acceptable attempt at High Lord. Lacking the fiery bravado of his father, he accepted the crown with some not-unnoticed reluctance, and made his best attempt at a responsibility he never desired to shoulder. His lack of passion for his heritage was reflected in his behavior in office; a little blase, a little lackadaisical, a little prone to allowing his Warlock and his Queen sway his decisions, or make them for him. No bother; they were both far sharper minds than his, his Queen a keen politician and his Warlock a great scholarly presence. In any case, Jocun turned out to be far too lazy to be malevolent. There of course remains much discourse about how his palatial arrangements forged the disasters to come, and how perhaps a steadier hand may have eased the descent, but that story has been discussed time and time again in multiple texts, and is not one that concerns this record, at least for the time being. No, this record, and the grand tale that it will tell, pertains to the unlikely band of heroes - heroes here a subjective term, applied a few years after the rubble cleared and true events became known - that came together in aid of Vassidia, seeking revolution, retribution, and restoration, not only for the kingdom but for their own personal demons.

Of course, the protagonists that our grand epic weaves around were not the first party of adventurers willing to risk everything they had for the good of the kingdom. In fact, at the time of embarking upon their odyssey, the palace had no intentions of publicly acknowledging their quest whatsoever. But first: context.

The Stone Blight had been ravaging the kingdom of Vassidia for over a year before the gathering of the first chosen saviors. It had crept up slowly at first, and many people had mistaken the first victims for mysterious wonders, strange humanoid rock formations, fat and dewy rubies sprouting from the surface, ripe for chipping off to be smuggled away as treasure, or for private sale for a quick fortune. But in the few months following, as rumors swept around and communities heard of similar statues across the realm, people began studying the rock, and what they found traumatized the nation. Peering past the rough, cracked surfaces, those who once picked away at the gems began to see the faces hidden beneath the rubies, and as more time passed, fear and panic and dread set in as more and more statues appeared, and the truth behind these terrible monuments became apparent. 6 months after the initial wave, the palace officially acknowledged it and made quarantine orders; by then, the plague already had its name. By the end of the first year, there was no corner of Vassidia left unscarred by this new horror, and all research, treatment, and experimentation had done nothing to slow or contain the spread. There was no known vector or method of transmission; symptoms were identical, but chose victims randomly. You’d get a rash. You’d get blisters. You’d turn to stone. The palace closed its gates, and desperation set in.

The palace’s silence lasted three months before the rising unrest in Vasilius’ citizenship could be ignored no longer; the people’s dissatisfaction was answered in the form of a task-force of sorts: a hand-picked cabal, composed of the best scholars and knights and nobles that the throne could assemble. Together, they would act as a dedicated group of heroes, who would be well-equipped to scour the kingdom, bring some respite to the public’s unquiet minds, and search every corner of the land for a cure or treatment. Their number totaled seven: and for posterity, we will list them here:

Malcom Blythe, a formidable and well-respected soldier, whose military prowess had elevated him to Captain in the palace’s Crownguard; Cara Brume, Aborran’s own apprentice, and a respected scholar in her own right within the palace; Logan Stone-Shatter, the eldest Mountain-Brave of Mornfell, a powerful and battle-wise warrior who had left his beloved city behind in hopes of saving it; Rufus Daurian, a Commander of the Wardens, the impartial peace-keeping force that patrolled the Sychan Desert and the Eastern Tundra, a patient, level-headed man with years of experience surviving, fighting, and leading his men in extreme conditions; Count Sylquen and his Housecarl, Oramir, of the Karnels, a revered family of aristocratic merchants and artists, well-known in Vasilius for their philanthropic efforts; and Gideon Bhurke, an extremely wealthy arms merchant, who was much-talked-about in Ferros and had been poised to join the Iron Council as a chancellor.

These seven forsook their individual riches and endeavors - instead, they banded together, graciously accepting their place beside each other as Vassidia’s best hope. They were lauded as heroes, and heroes they would be, for they equipped themselves with the greatest arms and armour the kingdom could offer, and set out on a perilous journey across a crumbling and diseased kingdom in search of salvation. On the shining day of their departure from the capital, it had been sixteen long months since the first victim of the plague, and the sickness showed no signs of stopping. The noble seven were paraded from the palace through the heart of Vasilius, the people celebrating their departure with heartfelt sincerity; this group of stalwart adventurers held the first spark of hope that any citizen had felt in the better part of a year.

Two months passed from the day of the group’s first steps upon their odyssey, and there had been no word, no grand return, no hailed coming-home of saviors with cures in their arms and epic tales in their hearts. It was just more deafening silence, a world’s hope pinned on seven men and women who had yet to deliver. In secret, the palace devised another group of agents; rumors and spy-craft used artfully to spread word, while the official stance stood steadfast behind the continued efforts of the chosen heroes. They were gathered in secret under cover of darkness, huddled together in a hidden courtyard on the outskirts of the palace grounds, debriefed by agents of the royal family without being granted the audience of their predecessors.

The original seven had dropped contact a few weeks previous, having otherwise been sending couriers and birds every few days following the start of their quest. The information held by the palace as to their whereabouts was limited, and at least a month out of date; the last definitive location of the party had been a missive from Ferros, and they had indicated they were due to leave the following morning to follow a lead they had uncovered regarding the old druids of Marisma - but since that last letter they had sent no more, and the Iron Council had since locked Ferros down in complete quarantine, closing their gates to trade, and, more worryingly, ceasing all work in the mines that were so vital to their economy and the kingdom’s supply of iron and steel. This new party, made of those who had responded to rumors and word-of-mouth, making their journeys to Vasilius to seek a new mission, find a new fortune, carve their names in new glory, were simply told to find the first party and whatever they had discovered, and report back; they were given all the information the palace had, and then quietly escorted from the city the same night, their mission never acknowledged publicly, and any prying citizens silenced covertly.

Pieced together from word-of-mouth, letters and communicado, and even scraps of the personal journals of those involved, what follows now is the tale of that second party: an unlikely group of mercenaries and exiles and rejects, survivors from all levels and fringes of society from all the kingdom over, their true story detailed as accurately as possible, in hopes of creating a true record of the events of the fall of the Garland lineage from where it began: at the doorstep of the palace.

[BlackBlood]

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Lan Ra'Nok

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The first figure at the city gates was a silhouette dressed in cloth. The figures head wrapped in a material that many of the locals weren't all too familiar with, concealing almost all of their face, apart from a pair of yellow irises. The body covered in strange markings, detailing a story of some sort, but the edges of them look as if they're missing something. The procedure was never complete. The figure looked battered, bruised and scarred, the clear bags under their eyes showing restlessness. Surely they could do better than this couldn't they?

This is, or this man was, Lan Ra'Nok.

Once a young boy with aspirations and dreams of becoming a great hunter and leading his tribe into greatness, but then a boy who came back from his search for his manhood only to see the most grave of horrors. His tribe, all of them, taken by the Stone Blight. His Mother, Father, Brothers, Sisters, Aunties, Friends - all of them, frozen in time. Dead. Lan didn't like the taste in his mouth when he thought about the latter. He was here to correct it. He was going to do whatever he could in the effort of hopefully beating back the plague that had befell all of them. He stormed off from his tribes tents, taking his father's curved blade and horse with him.

Lan found himself here five months later, galloping in on an emaciated horse, nearly dying from dehydration. That was two weeks prior. Luckily, Lan had gotten himself to his destination, and he could finally let the horse free. He had driven it to the point of barely being able to stand and his need with it was done, so he would let it depart onto a better life. He consumed it, offering its bones and fat to the spirits, and eating the rest. He prayed as he ate that the horse's spirit would guide him, it's knowledge as a traveller animal bestowing him with the wisdom of which direction to take. He found himself happening upon a band of doctors as he walked the final stretch, barely shambling toward them with his thinned frame and dry mouth. Luckily, they gave him water, and he was able to continue.

He got to the gates of the great city soon after and allowed himself in. He had almost nothing to his name, The jewellery he could sell only got him the basics for a week in an inn, but he took what he could get. His original mission was to tell the west about what was happening, but it seemed that the west was hit just as bad as the tribes.

The pained faces. They followed him everywhere.

Lan now found himself standing outside the city gates, looking up at the grand walls in front of him, his yellow eyes piercing through the fabric. Lan lowered his face coverings, exposing his mess of black hair and tired expression fully. He clicked caused his neck to make a loud pop as he rolled his neck, allowing his headscarf the hang around the back of the neck.

The mission was to find the first convoy of heroes that had been sent out, or what remained of them, and report back to the capital. A simple enough job granted that they had enough to go on. While Lan was more accustomed to chasing down big cats and other desert fauna, he would still help in any way he could. "A tracker is a tracker, doesn't matter his prey." As his father once said.

"May the spirits guide me." Lan sighed in his mother tongue, clinging to his knife, praying in whispers.

[Tackytaff]

Shyria Thorne

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Shyria was collecting frogs when Kadir found her. The western swamps were good for collecting ingredients, and little else. The humid heat never suited her well; her preferred clothing was built for the arid south, and in the wetlands served only to cling to her sweat and cake with mud. She had come upon her temporary 'home' to find the curtain that served the dual purpose of a front door and wall to the poorly constructed hut already pulled aside, and a number of figures waiting for her within. She left her full traps at the top of the steps, the grey sickly looking child bleeding over her floors demanding her immediate attention.

It wasn't until after she'd accept his mother's payment and begun boiling water with cloth rags that she noticed her former college, apparently quite at home going though her belongings.

"What are you doing here?"

"Oh don't mind me I have time" Kadir replied with his wonted causality, gesturing to the boy; who was barely able to stand on his own.

He had a blood disease, Shyria had deduced, after learning his wound had been open and bleeding for a number of days. After dressing the wound, she placed a rag soaked in water and Anali viper venom in the boys mouth and gave the mother horsetail to aid in any further side effects the venom could produce. The woman tried to question her, but was instead ushered out of the hut with no politeness or well-wishes for her son.

Shyria stared at Kadir, and waited for the strangers' footsteps to fade into the rest of the sounds of the swamp before addressing her 'guest' again.

"What do you want?"

"I see travel hasn't done much for your manners."

Shyria was decidedly unafraid of Kadir, he was slimy as they came; but adamantly not a killer. It was his greatest downfall and why Hennan never had use for him despite his other many talents. No, had she been born more beautiful, she would have other worries about him- but things as they were, the most Kadir was capable of was selling her location, which his showing up had already ruined any chance of.

"There's a bottle buried in the water under the stairs outside - get it for me." She didn't look for his reaction, instead pulling her gloves back on and going back to the frogs. He watched her as she took the first one out of it's trap and promptly decapitated in with a cleaver, before going outside.

When he returned she had moved to using a much smaller blade to scrape at the animal's skin.

"Leave it on the table." She instructed as she rubbed the thin sticky film that had formed on her knife into a vial. "Are you ready to tell me why you're here?"

"Yes but- could you wait until I'm gone to continue with that?" Shyria hesitated and dropped the second frog back into it's twig cage and peeled off her gloves again. She approached the table and began to pour two glasses of a pale red liquid from the bottle Kaldir had retrieved.

"Go on then."

"Someone came to me with a business proposal that isn't exactly... Well suited for me."

Shyria snorted, and offered him a glass, which he immediately refused. "Doesn't involve enough skirts for your interest? Or just too much physical effort?" She smiled and downed her own glass, sighing as the slightly cooled alcohol gave respite from the stifling heat.

Kadir frowned, and looked to the refused drink with sudden regret. "The pay is motivation enough for me to come out to this forsaken place that should say enough. Why are you even here? It hardly seems to your tastes"

"I've learned to appreciate the smell of mud and rot." She replied sarcastically. "I have things to do Kadir, get to the point."

"Someone wants Aslac Calcote dead."

"Should I know who that is?"

"An emissary from the Barbed Church, he's meeting with the druids to share knowledge about the blight."

"Politics and the Church at the same time?" She shook her head, "You know me better than to ask me to get involved with that." It was enough trouble keeping one step ahead of Vasilius' underworld, the last thing she needed was attention from even more powerful groups.

Kadir took a slow, obvious look around the inside of the tiny hut. The fireplace that let as much smoke escape into the single room as the chimney, the glass-less windows, and total lack of a front wall. "Time changes things." Was all he said before snatching the bottle from the table.

Shyria took the glass he had refused and took a small sip. "Something like that would just put more marks on my head."

"Maybe." He acquiesced, with a thoughtful nod that turned into a smile. "What if I told you something like that could get you back into Vasilius, bounty-free?"

---

In hindsight, she probably should have been more suspect as to how exactly Kadir had gotten the entire interior layout of Marisma's Druids tree. But the thought of a return to Vasilius, a place that was at least familiar if not home, and no longer being on the run was all too tempting. His instructions were clear and detailed, including even the emissary's eating and sleep schedule. Most importantly it mentioned the oil used in his hair each morning, kept with his belongings in his room. A mixture of monkshood, hogweed, and castor seed extract, was safely tucked against Shyria's thigh as she squeezed herself through the chimney system of the massive tree with nothing but her sense of touch and trust in her memory as guides. It had been years since she'd had to work in such a way. People had tried to hire her services since being on the run, but typically it was more profitable to simply go to the would-be victim and accept a second payment for offering the client's name, then flee. It wasn't the killing the Shyria had a problem with, it was the resulting fallout that worried her. From her experience, renowned assassin wasn't a job title that lasted long.

There were voices on her right, that when along with directions, told she was somewhere near the kitchen. It was still too early for breakfast to start but knowing that didn't put her nerves at ease. The voices were too muffled to be understood, and Shyria continued moving much more slowly. She kept her breathing controlled, slow and shallow breaths, doing her best not to cough on the soot and ash that had long since filled her lungs. Eventually she was far enough away that the sounds receded to silence; she was in the upper levels, where those of importance remained asleep.

By the time she reached Calcote's chambers, her muscles were stiff and joints ached. As such when she emerged from the fireplace with great care to remain quite, she didn't immediately make an attempt to escape when she was greeted with half a dozen figures staring at her.

Immediately she cursed which resulted in a fit of choking and coughing. By the time she recovered, no one had moved or spoken. She took the opertunity to analyze each of the figures; four were obviously there for security, armed and baring the sigil of the church of barbs, behind them was an older man richly dressed. No doubt Calcote himself. Very smartly hiding behind him was Kadir. For the first time in Shyria's memory of the man, he did not look completely at ease with his surroundings.

"I'm sorry 'Ria but this is important." He managed to blurt out.

"'Suppose this is what a deserve for trusting the most famous liar in Vasilius." With no one having moved, and no weapons being drawn on her, Shyria took a step out from the fireplace, straightening her back and scanning the room for another exit when the emissary began to speak himself.

"If you please Miss Thorne, despite what you may think, your friend truly does have your best interests at heart."

She would have laughed at that, had her throat not been clogged with equal parts fear, rage, and possibly some remaining ash. "A friend indeed."

"I didn't lie. Calcote can get you back into Vasilius. But I knew you wouldn't hear him out."

"And now I have no choice. How kind of you." Shyria looked to the old man. "It would appear I'm at your disposal my lord so speak."

"Careful." He replied, seating himself at a table in the center of the room "I can help you, but I do not have much patience for... those of your reputation." He nearly spat out the last word. A step forward from one of the guards to block the door behind her, kept Shyria from commenting back.

"I am forced here to seek aid against the blight. The druids do what they can, but they are isolationist to put it mildly. They care first and foremost for their own kind. The Barbed Church on the other hand seeks to heal all of Vassidia and her people." He paused there and poured a glass of water from a large pitcher. Shyria was so absorbed by the action alone and remark about the church's ideal died on her dry and cracked lips.

"The first attempt to search for a cure at the King's behest has so far failed to continue contact. Times are growing desperate, and time is ever more of the essence. The King has decided it best to try again."

He took a long drink of water. Shyria swallowed with him. He continued; "The King is assembling another group to go out and search for a cure, he is seeking warriors, mages, scholars, and, herbalists."

"No poison I know of acts as the blight does."

"Of course not. You're hardly the first alchemist we've approached." He dismissed with a wave of the hand. "You are however, one of those who remain, and one we could promise to the king with some assurance you would volunteer."

"How generous of you."

"I assure you it is. So long as you are working for the king, we can promise your safety in the city of Vasilius."

"And when my 'service' is ended?"

"Should you survive, and actually find a solution to problem of the blight, you will be free to go. With compensation; regardless of your previous, shall we say, indiscretion with the law."

She shook her head in disbelief "How in the hells did you end up in all this Kadir?"

Swaggering, pompous Kadir looked almost sheepish among the taller, armored men. "You've been away Shyria. You haven't seen how bad it is in the cities. I just want the blight to be over."

She did find her laughter that time. Of all the things that had come to pass in a but a few hours, Kadir's bleeding heart was the most unexpected.

"Do you have an answer?" The emissary cut her off, obviously displeased with her countenance.

"As you said my lord." She said, lowering herself in a bow so low that the grime that had accumulated from her time in the chimneys fell to the floor. "I have already volunteered."

"Good!" He clapped his hands together with enough force to make Shyria jump. The guard on her left moved to stand directly at her side. "This is Rislen. He will accompany on your journey. I would shake your hand, but well..." He let a cursory glace over the small pile of filth at her feet complete his thought. With a wave of his hand, she was hurried out by her minder.

---

Never before had Shyria seen the gates of Vasilius closed. It was the first and most obvious change that she noticed. She had long dreamed of her homecoming, and envisioned the city with it. In her memory it had looked nearly identical. The second obvious change was one that they'd seen in each town they'd crossed during their journery; no one was out. The once busy entrance to the city was bare of merchants, travelers, and guards alike. The capital was hardly an exception to the blight it seemed.

Shyria pulled the scarf that covered most of her face just below her nose to get a better look. From what she could tell, there wasn't anyone inside the city, though there did seem to be enough of a crowd that wanted in. How exactly was anyone supposed to differentiate between those wanted in the city and those not? She looked over her shoulder to her companion. Having long ago learned better than to try to converse with him she new better than asking. His attention was on the surrounding people. Either looking for anyone who would potentially rob them, mounted with goods as they were, or a potential escape Shyria could make herself. She had no doubt keeping her on route to the capital was just as much part of Rislen's job as keeping her alive, but the locks to her supplies having been changed and her belongings being too heavy to carry alone, neither murder or escape had ever really been an option. She doubted the man ever slept anyways.

Shyria let out a forced, dramatic sigh and slouched in her horse just precariously enough to draw attention from her companion.

"Stay still and be patient." Was all the response she received. The horse flicked its tail, apparently feeling her agitation as well.

She picked up the scarf to cover her face better again, and looked over the crowd seeing if there was anyone there she recognized. Just as a figure made eye-contact with her, but before she could place the memory of the face, the mass of people surged forwards- the gates were opening. Two guards stood at the entrance, checking for papers to let some through.

"Welcome home." Shyria silently whispered to herself, as she followed behind Rislen into the city.

[Stitches]

In the Bourdonne county, the fields were burning.

Rioting had broken out amongst the labourers in the province, the culmination of many months of poor management and cruel suppression of the spread of the plague amongst the borders of the once pleasant pastures that supplemented the Bourdonne coffers. Their spirited mares choked on the smoke, colts and fillies that would have gone to showmen now butchered at the hands of their owners to feed themselves - and in retaliation, the knights responded by setting fire to the harvest to starve out the protesters and draw their attention away from sieging the lordship’s estate and castle. This was one province out of many, but the first to begin to cannibalise itself in the wake of the Blight. With the Bourdonne retinue holding strong and the nobleman’s stockpiles high, the Bourdonne family stood a decent chance at withstanding the initial assault.

Simultaneously, the sole heiress of the ruined province was eyeing the vastness of the palace gates alongside her steadfast companion. Unbeknownst to Lady Alexi Bourdonne, a litany of measures had been put into place to not only protect her fortune but also her wellbeing and her identity; she was swathed from head to foot in fabric, a heavy veil pinned to her wimple, a pinafore buttoned over her full length gown, and gloves that reached her elbows have been reported by eyewitnesses when travelling throughout the kingdom of Vasilius, though her letters (see appendix) imply that she shed some of these protective layers in less populated areas. Scholars largely agree that the initial meeting had shrouded the young maiden in complete anonymity. Their preferred weapon of choice to defend this was silence. Neither the heiress nor her hired muscle said a word upon approaching the palace gates, kept a respectable distance from the others and refused to participate in idle conversation until all of the heroes had gathered.

As for Roderick la Rochelle, the looming figure was more identifiable by his features than his armour. Like many of the Bourdonne retinue, the knight wore plain and pragmatic plate with no identifying insignias to allow the lordship to exert his terrible will upon both his people and the peasantry of neighbouring provinces with the plausibility of blamelessness. All it took - especially in the company of such far-fetched and unlikely adventurers - was the addition of his helm to mask his identity to any onlookers. The amusing height difference acted as a deterrent to any curious souls who sought to approach the girl and peek under the veil, making the cruel figure seem even larger than he truly was. His silence, however, was not uncommon; were it not for the donation of Lady Bourdonne’s complete set of letters, archivists would have very little to quote from this formidable presence amongst the party.

[Hillan]

"LUCKY"

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His feet were pattering slowly on the ground. He wasn't in the mood. He wasn't in the mood for any of this. He had just met the man himself. The big guy. The most powerful man in all of Vassidia, if not the world. And Aborran had told him lies. Nothing but absolute lies. None of it could be true. These thoughts made Alvar angry. His feet picked up speed. He needed to hit something. Break something, before he broke.

He began running, running to the only place he knew. He went home. To the old chapel. To where his boys were, his brothers would welcome him with open arms. He climbed a wall, using it as leverage to jump onto a ladder, climbing onto the balcony, vaulting over the railing and then out the other side, jumping up onto the wall, grabbing onto the ledge and pulling himself up. Days like these, when all he wanted to do was run, he came to appreciate that years on the streets had given him fingers as strong as fishhooks.

He stood up, watching the moon howl in the sky, lighting the city in a mellow, somber light. The city was quiet. Quarantine had done that to the capital. The city that never sleeps was now in a coma. And Aborran, the bastard, said that Alvar could wake it from it's deep slumber. He hated that assumption. The very idea, the things the Wizard had told him, they didn't match with the way his life had been. He leapt over the rooftop, onto the next. His feet picking up speed, his breaths got more shallow, quicker. His heart rate picked up, and a bead of sweat began forming on his forehead as he pushed hard on the next jump, it was a big gap. Flailing his arms in the air with great intent, he just made the jump, rolling on the rooftop, the tile weren't soft. But the hardness of the city had formed him into the man he was today.

The Chapel was just a few more blocks away. Another jump, this one smaller, he didn't even need to roll here. He just kept on running once he hit the roof. Grabbing a flag hanging outside of the facade of the building, he used it for leverage to make a gap too big to jump. He landed on his shoulder, rolling on his side to brace. He was getting a little tired. And yet, the anger hadn't washed off him. He climbed back onto his feet and pushed on. Almost home.

He climbed up the garrison tower in the Chapel Quarter, the guards had all abandoned their post in this area. Nobody cared what happened to this place, except the people that lived there.

And there it was. The Chapel. His home. Brother Eli had lit the torches, almost to guide him. Alvar climbed down, sliding down the waterways, coming jogging towards the front port, opening it up, he spoke, loudly.

"Guess who's home?!" He shouted, and words filled the room. The youngest brothers were asleep, but they woke up to find Alvar coming home. Two of them came running at him.

"Alvar! You're home! Are you okay?!" The bigger of the two, Gus, asked, while Oscar jumped into his arms, he hugged them both. Nodding.
"Yeah. You know me. No guards can harm Alvar." He said, arrogance showing. He was putting on as much bluster as possible. He couldn't really let them in on how he was feeling. He was their leader and the closest thing to a father figure some of these kids had. He couldn't show his weakness.

"Go wake up your bigger siblings, Oscar." He told the boy in his arms.
"I need to speak with Himler and Taj." He told Gus. Gus nodded and ran off to find Himler and Taj. Alvar removed his drenched jacket, hanging it on one of the homemade hangers, kicked off his boots that were also wet, and removed his shirt. A few fresh new bruises covered his torso, but that was hardly something new after a few nights in jail. He had ran into one of the older members of the Wolf Gang inside, and promptly thrashed him, and his two friends. Guards had to break up the fight. They never did that.

Alvar grabbed the cloth bandages and began bandaging up his ribs, and then his left shoulder where he had torn a stitch from a few weeks ago. He should've re-done the stitches, but there was no time. Once he was done, he got dressed again, a slightly less torn and dirty tunic, and a mostly clean leather jacket. He had stolen it from a trader in the upper district, it was meant for a knight, and was therefor padded in the vital areas. He strapped on the hardened shoulder pads and elbow guards he always wore when a fight was brewing, and grabbed his best pair of boots. The ones without any holes. He opened the chest that was under his bed after he had pulled it up and placed it on said bed. Opened it up, it revealed the wrapped sword and the leather bracers he had gotten from Yoseth so long ago. They never fit when he was a kid. But he was a man now. He tightened them and put the sword over his shoulder. He didn't own a sword belt or even a proper sheath for the blade, the one he owned he had made himself, and it barely covered half the blade. The strap rested in his hand as he filled his satchel with his necessities are Taj walked in.

"Alvar?" Taj asked, surprised.
"What's going on? We getting ready for a fight?" He asked, as Alvar put the first-aid supplies into the bag. Finishing it all off by putting in the bottle of whiskey he had been saving in the satchel, closing it. He turned.

"There's plenty wrong, Taj. I don't have time to properly explain everything. Is Himler out there?" Taj nodded, and Alvar motioned that he should bring the other boy.

Taj and Himler were the same age, they had come to the Lost Sons at the same time. They were big and mean, and they respected Alvar above all else. They were his best soldiers, Taj a better fighter than Himler. But Himler was far better at taking care of the chapel. He was the only one who could cook, and he was great with the young ones.

"I have to leave. It's urgent, and I can't tell you why, because you'll be in danger. Just know that I'm doing it for you, for all of you. And if all goes well, when I come back, we'll be living like kings." Alvar told them, bluntly. They both tried to object, but Alvar put his hand up, and they both shut up.

"I don't wanna hear it. I... I can't hear it, boys. You're my brothers. I've watched you grow up. And that's why I know you're ready to take the lead while I'm gone. When you two work together, you're unstoppable. If there's any two boys who can keep the Lost Sons in line, it's you two. You'll both become better man than me. And I'm so very proud of you." Alvar said, his voice almost breaking several times, Taj had a tear running down his face and Himler still couldn't quite understand.

Alvar walked towards them, putting his hand on each of their shoulders.

"Please, lend me your strength so I can put a brave face on for the others. You may doubt me this time, or be angry with me. You can fight me about it when I come home." He said, cracking a slight smile, his eyes watering. He quickly wiped it away, as he walked through the doorway, seeing all of the other 14 boys sitting in a circle, waiting for him.

"Boys. I got a tip in Jail for the biggest score yet." Alvar began, bravado filling his voice.
"But, sadly. It's a score that's far away, and none of you ladies are prepared to go the distance like that." He taunted them, and they boo'd him. Laughing.
"And I must leave. I promise I won't be gone long, but when I come back, we will be living like kings." He simply said. It wasn't the first time he had been gone, and the boys were all incredibly independent.

He heard the rain starting pouring outside.

He opened his satchel and got out his bottle.
"Join me for a drink, my friends." He told them, and all of them managed to find a glass of really cheap beer, even the smallest of the kids, Oscar was after all just seven. But he was putting on a straight face, just like all the others.

"Here's to us. The Lost Boys of Vassidia. May the fire never go out in our chests and may we never go hungry again!" They all cheered in unison. Taj and Himler both lifted their glasses in solidarity. Hiding their sadness, anger and worry, just like Alvar did. He was their leader, in a sense, their king. And he had to leave them. He hated it.

The four chugs of the burning whiskey were the longest chugs of his entire life. He wanted to stretch this moment into infinity. He'd do anything to just stay here, party with the older boys and play with the young ones. Teach them how to fight, to cook and sew. To just feel at home.

But if he didn't leave, there would be no home to love. So he put away the bottle, put on his cloak and walked towards the main courtyard, where this shadowy cabal of rogues and outlaws would gather to take on a task too dangerous for anyone else to know about.

[Enarr]

_{Alden The Black}

---

How the mighty had fallen. The once beautiful Alden Blackstar had everything in the world to live for. He was wealthy, young, attractive, strong; you name it: he had it. The world was his for the taking and the best part was that his father was in the process of taking it for him. But unfortunately for him, things changed, as they so often do when they are progressing as one wishes. While some suspected, and most of whom wholeheartedly accepted, that Alden had been injured in a hostile takeover engineered by his own kin, Alden knew the truth. He had been stricken by his master, punished for his misdeeds and as penance for his gluttonous embrace hedonism, never again would he feel the warmth of a maiden fluttering her eyelashes his way nor would he be severing heartstrings with his razor sharp jawline any time soon.

Just as a runner would feel a pleasure when he ought to feel agony, hoofing the soil itself into submission, he had made his own flesh subject to the font from which the world had emerged. It was that which brought him where he now stood, to the palace of the Garlands. Jocun was a man who Alden admittedly knew exceptionally little about. In years past, he had little reason to care about the politicking and whatever goings-on there were within the land, his concerns had essentially been limited to his business. But becoming a servant of that which was sacred meant safeguarding that which was more mundane.

Approaching the gates of the palace, he had several testimonials to his identity, letters of recommendation and various other papers to verify his identity should they not be able to spot him on sight. That said, he doubted that he would really need them. After all, he was no longer the boyishly handsome youth Alden Blackstar, he was the saggy-skinned remnant Alden The Black. The title, like a weighted shackle, was not something he'd endorsed but there was little he could do to divorce himself from it at this phase.

As he peeked through the gates towering iron bars, he felt a fresh presence come to stand amongst the gathering crowd. A fresh-faced, unkempt youth, looking a bit peckish, stood hooded with his face obfuscated, though not nearly so thoroughly as Alden's own. Suddenly inquisitive, Alden stepped near him with a small wave and a quiet humor about him as he closed the distance, "Is it true that our very own king is subject to his queen?"