[IC] The Silver Leaves; A Northern Crusade.

[Hellis]

The City of Egralia

The City of Egralia, referred to the Merchants Paradise, This city holds one of the biggest ports on Eleorna. The streets of this melting pot of a city bustles with the sound and sights of a its many different citizens. Luni preachers stood in the town forum, spreading the word of the light to those who would listen while some human two bit shaman tried to sell spices and talisman. Tindra dancers snared the hearts of men and women in the taverns and Dwarven traders offered high quality iron tools and steel weapons. People were going at it like nothing had changed in the world around them.
If they cared enough to look up at the walls however, they would notice the increasing numbers of guards stationed. Elven archers from the Wings of Light (an all Luni guild) were talking to human crossbowmen and dwarven ballista crews who all fielded their own equipment. And they would notice the mercenaries and hirelings at every corner. They would see that foreign vessels are docked in the part of port used exclusively by warships. Mandi Har pirates, Black Blood* Crossbones and Legato mercenary vessels all shared the waters. If they were able to perceive just how their city had changed from a merchant port to fortress, they would certainty act differently. 

 Eleorna, this jewel of a continent is the home for many wealthy and powerful city states. But the jewel is slowly cracking into pieces as Agren, the mighty nation of the southern Eleorna has begun a offensive towards its neighbors. Engli, Aurona, Vestilia have all fallen under the onslaught, their merchant kings and queens forced into the grip of the High Countess of Agren*; Lady Mezellin*. The ambitious and young Countess have only barely grazed the throne, and yet she is currently leading a army several thousands men and women. Her knights now set their sight on a walled in city, one that is far better prepared then they could ever guess. 
-x-x---x-x-

Agren Warcamp, within the borders of the now subdued Aurona city state.

“Why is that Egralia have never been taken again Uncle..” The Countess, her black hair draped over her shoulders and the velvet red dress she was currently wearing, starch contrast to the usual fair of being dressed in a copper and gold colored set of armor. Her long bangs obscuring her face as she was leaning over a heavy oaken table. The woman, no more 24 years old, had an air about her that would ensnare any man and woman. People followed her blindly it seemed. Everyone but her Uncle. The grizzled vet stared straight at her and his one good eye had nasty habit of never blinking, so it was red as blood. As he began to speak, she listened intently. Her Uncle was fountain of martial wisdom if a bit set in his ways. The young Countess had trusted his judgment this far and it had led them to victory.

“Egralia is surrounded by massive walls and half of the city is situated on a small peninsula, Countess. Its commerce is second only to us and the Empire. As such there is no shortage of knights errands and other soldiers of fortune to defend them. They even contract corsairs and known pirates to defend their harbors. It'd be foolish to try and waltz in there without a plan." The man spoke, his voice gravely and tired.

“Are you telling me, Their entire army can be bought?” She raised a eyebrow as she asked this. The idea of buying themselves a victory from within the enemies own walls was most amusing.

“Not so, most have settled in a agreement with them, to the point were they call it their home. Take the Silver Leaves for example. They would throw themselves at us in droves to stop us. And knowing the Silver Leaves, the losses we would take would be gruesome.” His voice betrayed a ounce of admiration as he spoke of the mercenaries. The countess suddenly changed from listening idly to narrowing her eyes.

“...Wasn't uncle a silver leaf at one point.” Her voice was that low, dangerous tone she had whenever she spoke about things that displeased her. He had seen people being forcefully drafted into the front lines when she got into this mood.

“Aye, and I can guarantee you, that if we were to attack carelessly, we would only see defeat. ” His tired, old man voice gave way for a much more authoritative one, with a hars edge to it that Almost made the Countess flinch. His niece was forced to admit defeat, even if she didn't like it one bit. She could not handle her Uncle going into full lecture mode.

“So then we wait. There are still the matters of rebellions to handle in our newest provinces... But we need Egralias port in the future.” Her voice shifted back to that of idle boredom. Her uncle sighed, she still had ways to go.
-x-x---x-x-
12 miles from the City of Egralia, Silver Leaf Bastion.

The main Head quarters for the silver leaves was a real fortress. The massive keep was made with finest, sturdiest dwarven cut stone. The valved gates read “A soul. A blade. A purpose.” Its Around the castle a lake and a thick and deep forest offers both fish and wild game for the hunters and the fishermen.
Their founder had been a noble who served Egralias former King once, a bannerman for the old Merchant State. Somewhere down the line, he had fallen out of favor and taken his knights with him as he started as a small elite force who rode with those who could offer them gold. Even then, they never fought directly against Egralia. As mercenaries, their reputation was what to be expected. Soldiers of fortune have never been ones to receive praise other then when they were on the winning side of a conflict. And even then, their efforts were only for money. Outside the city walls, they were merely mercenaries, If incredibly talented such. But the Silver Leaves reputation in Egralia was different. Here they were part of the standing army in times of crisis, and they held respect. And they were far more then just a group of greedy soldiers used to pad out a army of peasants. No these men and women were all considered to be the very elite of Egralias military might. You didn't join unless they found you worthy, and each one who got accepted had the talent to become something great. They had produced Generals, tacticians and royal counselors who all rose to their position by being tested in true, deadly conflict.

It was inside the walls of this mighty Fortress that the Silver Leaves latest batch of talent found themselves. Some here fresher to the guild then others. Some had lived long lives off conflict before reaching the guild. Some were young talents recruited fresh from Academys in the magical arts. All of them are exceptional within their fields of expertise.
One of these people is Iano, a wild soul, blood dancer, redheaded menace of a pirate. The Tindra corsair awoke feeling stiff and sore  all over. His Yavnei, his friend and sometimes partner was ferocious creature, and were as likely to go for his throat as she was to cozy up to him. The wild elf he had once saved had found him some time back and the two, while wild and free spirits did every now and then gravitate to stay with one another. Lin and him shared a bond in a way, one even he in all his Tindran tradition of poetry and wordplay, found hard to explain. The lack of her this morning indicated that someone else had been in his room. Nothing to strange about that in itself, Iano was not one to suffer a night of lonelyness if he could help it.

As his feet swung over the edge of the bed for him to sit up, he reached for his silken clothing, the vest slipping onto his torse with practiced ease. The loosely fitting silk and cloth he wore did little to protect him usually but it served it purpose admirably; He looked good. Iano slid his cleaver back where it belonged on his back. For some reason it had been lodged into a table earlier, and he wondered just how much he had drank last night. His saber was still were it should be however, in its sheath on the wall. He picked it down and strapped the belt around his waist again. The sabre, a keepsake from his captain, was always kept in pristine shape while the cleaver had seen uses no weapon should ever have to endure. He stretched as taut, lean muscles ached and protested from last nights abuse. He liked the pain however, it was good one. Reminded him of who he was, why he was here. Finding it impossible to recollect last night, he then shrugged and began to lace up his long leather boots.

---

Act 1: Morning Routines

Welcome to the fray everyone! The Silver Leaves Bastion is quite large, and surrounded by a small village meant to house the families and servants of Silver Leaves. Those who do not own land within the walls are most likely housed within the barracks or in the keep itself. The town is bustling with life, and albeit far smaller then the capital, its worth exploring. Feel free to start any where within the village or the Bastion.  Its approximately 7 in the morning, the sun is shining. Its typical early spring for a temperate area with a cloudless, blue sky.

Locations

Castle:

Courtyard: Large and spacius, this area tend to work as a place for sparring and training drills. 
The Inner Sanctum; A underground shrine dedicated to 7 of the 8 Infinites.  Zails shrine is just outside the town, and is not officially recognized. This place has a a tending priest or Priestess of each Infinite. Among the catacombs connected to this shrine are various smaller shrines dedicated to smaller deities.

Mess Hall : This is where most mercenaries would eat when not on duty. The mess hall is quite possibly the largest indoor area in the castle. The long tables and benches have been worn down by years of heavy festivities and drunken mercenaries.

Gathering Hall : This place is where most people come to discuss guild politics, change information and hold official ceremonies. The notice boards with requests can also be found here.

Town;

Barracks: There's a female part, and a male part of the barrack complex. The barracks are mainly just large houses with rows of beds and bed rolls. There are a few rooms for recreation and smaller courtyard in them midle of it all.

Smithy: There are several black smiths in town, some of them old Silver Leaves that got to wounded to continue fighting and instead began to craft for the guild. Here you can find most things you need.

Silver Leaf Plaza: Marketplace and general gather spot for the villagers.
The Grilled Goose: Large tavern near the Silver Leaf Plaza.
Outer Wall: Surrounds the village and joins with the Castle in each end.

Outside The walls:

Zail Shrine: Guarded by a dark priest at all times. The Shrine allows only worshipers of the dark god to enter. Considered something of an eyesore by most but is otherwise left alone.
Laka Litna: A small lake connected to the sea by a large river.
The Woods: Stretches as far as the eye can see north where the river cuts if off suddenly. Rich on wildlife and rich in dangers.

(Glossery)
*Goblins, Kephuli, Orchs and similar races are called black bloods due to their ichorlike, black blood.

[MelonHead]

Joshua Garred, Silver Leaves Bastion
“Keep those hands up.” His vision blurred in and out of focus, the ringing in his ears almost drowning out the thunderous bellowing of his sparring partner. The greying veteran threw a punch the burlier, but obviously outmatched, brawler just couldn’t stop. Joshua sprawled on the ground, coughing in an astute pain he couldn’t quite describe, mostly because he couldn’t actually breathe.

“Not too bad kid, but you fight like a tavern brawler and it shows, you’re too easy to read, keep practicing, you’ve got the muscle at least.” The instructor made to walk away, dropping his guard as he moved over to some other youngling he wished to bestow martial wisdom upon.

“Cheers, I think.” Joshua grunted finally, throwing one huge fist into the ground and pushing himself up, definition rippling over the body one would guess belonged to a serious labourer, or a particularly beefy soldier. As sweat ran down his six and a half foot frame, and he wiped a hand through short military-styled hair, not many would see a priest. Then again, Joshua was a priest in theory only, as if his position in a mercenary guild wasn’t enough to suggest that already.

He rolled his shoulders, and cracked his neck, sighing as he walked away from the training grounds in the Courtyard of the castle, making a beeline for his barracks in town. Bloody early-morning training sessions… he’d left the priest-hood to get away from regime, and here he was, this was practically the military! Then again, he summarised it was the discipline that made the Silver Leaves as good as they were, and he wanted to be a part of the best.

Leaving through the well-guarded gates of the castle with far less hassle (due to the far more lenient nature of guards when it came to letting people out again.) he breathed in the fresh morning air, admiring a clean and crisp day for all of five seconds before his mind flittered to more appealing subjects then the natural beauty of the world. There was at least three hours to kill until his next sparring session, followed by a long and incredibly boring set of lessons on the art of warfare and other topics the Silver Leaves deemed it useful for their recruits to know. At least he wouldn’t be required in the medical hall today, using his gift tended to be thrice as exhausting as swinging a club around for a couple of hours.

His stay in the barracks was short and sweet, donning a course tunic after a quick rinse with water to cleanse himself of the sweat and discomfort of sparring. He considered healing the bruises already beginning to form on his side and arms, but he knew somehow that the injuries were a test in themselves, and he might not be able to heal his wounds in the coming years. Better to learn to deal with the pain now, so he grinned and bared it so to speak, swaggering into town with the air of a man overly confident in his own abilities, first a quick foray through the plaza to be followed by a brief stay at the Grilled Goose, he fancied some breakfast.

[Bucket]

Radan Undyer held his breath. It was something he always did before loosing an arrow, whether at a target dummy or at a piece of game. Radan himself had never killed a man before; despite his position in the military at Valania there was never any call for arms. Even after joining the Silver Leaves as recruit was he yet to kill a man. The furthest he had come to claiming a human life wasn't even really that close - it was this deer that was about to find itself part of a large collection of meat that fed the Silver Leaves. And thus it was true, as Radan let fly the projectile from his bow and took down the deer. He let out a deep sigh as he rose from his position, camouflaged by brush and sticks, a place he had been resting for a few hours since the early dawn. It was a rather tedious assignment he had been given: find food. The stocks in the kitchen were running low and the cooks had some sort of arrangement with the archery masters that required their students being sent to hunt game. It was most definitely a long shot from the glory that Radan had imagined as he set out from Valania to the Silver Leaves Bastion.

The ranger set about preparing the dead foal for travel, using his knife and some rope to ensure ease of transport. Hoisting the the dead weight onto his back, Radan began his journey back to the Bastion. It would take a couple hours easily, especially since he bore extra weight on his back. Radan had to admit this wasn't the most glamorous assignment and position he had ever been given but if there was one thing he had ever learned when he was with his family it was this: nothing is given, it is earned. Radan's father, the current though old head of House Undyer, had seen to that when gifting a lash and a scar to Radan's face. The Silver Leaf recruit understood this from day one when he was accepted into the mercenary guild. He could tell the authority members were impressed by his archery and scouting abilities but like all members before Radan they were going to treat him as if he knew nothing. And really he didn't. He had never killed a man nor had he ever been sent on an actual scouting mission to gather intelligence about an enemy. But hopefully that was soon to change.

As he closed in on the Bastion Radan thought of what surely seemed was an impending war with the Kingdom of Angren. They were a menacing foe, well equipped and well trained. It was clear to everyone their eyes were set on Egralia yet they did not move nor did they waver. For a nation known for their aggressive tactics they sure were patient and calculating. And Radan Undyer, a noble, was too. He knew that once war came it would be his time to prove himself. He wouldn't be overly ambitious or foolish, but he would show his commanding officers what he was capable of. It would be a much better life than what had been waiting for him back at Valania anyways. Radan sighed once more and shook his head at the thought of his home. A welcome distraction was brought he reached the gates of the Silver Leaves city.

Allowed entry and also a few snickers from the veterans at his grunt work, Radan went straight to the castle mess hall. He dropped off his assignment and received a few grunts as thank you. Stretching his back, Radan decided this was a good time to grab something to eat before he became busy with training and various other assignments later in the day. Radan stopped at his barracks quickly to drop off his bow and bag, though kept his sword, and made his way to the Grilled Goose, a tavern with a very appropriate name. They served some of the finest meat that Radan had ever tasted. The door already open, Radan strode in and took a seat and requested a meal. He saw one of the brawlers and a few others but for the most part the building was only slightly populated.

Hearing his stomach rumbling, Radan began to enjoy his meal.

[Grif of Hearts]

Daphne exhaled slowly, pulling back from her stance until the leather of her boots rubbed together with a soft squeak, and she took in another long, deep breath. She exhaled just as slowly and pulled both of her arms back slowly, her long-sword clasped tightly in both hands. The blade pointed upwards, held in such a way that the hilt touched the leather belt wrapped tightly around her hips lightly. Daphne took in another deep breath as she held her preparatory stance again and her eyes locked onto a single point on the wooden wall, examining it intently.

The auburn-haired woman did not see the wall of her tiny shack. She saw soldiers of all kinds before her, from Tindra berserkers to Hari duellists, all of them with their fire in their eyes and with their weapons poised to strike. Some of the individuals resembled people she knew, or at least had known, but many were simply figments of her wild imagination. Their movements were slow and deliberate as if trying to keep a safe distance from Daphne while they sized up their competition. Daphne placed one foot further forwards than the other again, a wide stance to give her the greatest amount of balance, and tilted her sword forwards ever so slightly as if offering her challenge.

Her first opponent mimicked a foe she had duelled two days prior on a contract for the Silver Leaves. Daphne felt as If her battle against him had been sloppy, and she decided it was best to tighten up her skills against such a towering opponent. A large, burly black-blood, made almost entirely out of rippling muscles that were barely covered by metal plating, came into view. He held a gruesome looking cleaver which rested loosely in his right hand but in the other he held a finely crafted short-sword. It looked more like a knife in the hulk’s hands, and as if to prove it he ran the edge of the short-sword against the edge of the oversized cleaver, the swords letting out a high pitched whine as metal struck metal.

Grinning a toothy grin, the orc positioned himself a few metres away from Daphne. He raised his cleaver and pointed it menacingly towards the mercenary woman, an attempt to appear imposing and threatening which had almost no impact. Daphne paid little attention to the façade, only acknowledging the strength that was needed to raise such a weapon with one hand, and locked eyes with the orc. His lips moved just as they had done when they had fought, hurling some threat or insult towards the smaller woman which she paid no heed to. She didn’t need to be ridiculed by her own imagination.

As the sun rose just enough to peak over the skyline of the village that was nestled just outside of the Silver Leaves’ bastion, Daphne’s room was flooded with the dawn’s sunlight. It irritated her eyes even while they were closed, and quickly brought her out of her rather lucid daydream. One hand left the hilt of her blade and moved up to her eyes, rubbing them softly as they adjusted to the light, and she moved to draw the curtains of the only eastern window in her bedroom. Light still filtered through the thin strips of fabric but it made the morning light a little more tolerable. With the distraction reduced she returned to her stance, trying to visualise the goliath in her mind once more.

Sunlight was not the only distraction Daphne was fighting against and she found her focus hard to find. Her neck ached and the skin underneath her eyes was dark, a clear sign of how hard she was fighting to stay awake. When Daphne healed a wound it was always done with haste and was never done with traditional healing magic. A gash along her side that she had received a few days ago from the very same orc she was imagining fighting, a mild wound that was not particularly serious but had hurt more than she wanted to admit, had been stitched together in a rush by her magic but was clearly not done tormenting her. The pain had flared up an hour after she had finally dropped off to sleep the previous night and it kept her awake since.

While the pain had faded it was far too late to consider sleep, but the lack of it was making it hard to concentrate on anything but the comfortable bed that rested beside her. How tempting it was to get another few hours rest before she was needed up at the Bastion and arrive there rested and recuperated.

Daphne’s face twisted into a scowl and her grip on her sword’s hilt grew tighter. She had to abandon any ideas of rest out of her mind. She threw her body forward in a sudden lunge, the metal edge of her long-sword slicing through the air with a clean and sharp whistle. She imagined it piercing the arm of her foe who had not expected such a swift strike, ripping flesh and tearing skin. Daphne’s right hand left her weapon and she followed up the thrust with a sudden punch to the figure’s gut. The black-blood recoiled but Daphne was not finished with him, pulling with her left hand and pushing with her right to draw her blade out of his arm quickly and cleanly.

Grabbing the hilt of the blade with both hands once more, Daphne aimed the tip in the centre of the orc’s chest. She imagined him looking up to her, fear spread across his face and his blood running cold as she brought the blade forwards and impaled him swiftly. The blade jut out from the orc’s back, coated black grime. The orc’s last breath would escape his lips and, when she drew her weapon back out from his chest, he would sink to the floor and move no more.

No, that was too easy.

The woman imagined her first thrust met clean air, the orc dodging it seamlessly. He struck the side of her face with the back of his hand. The metal of his gauntlet cut lightly into her face, a small trickle of blood moving down her cheek. Daphne managed to keep her balance after the strike, yes, but she purposely threw herself to the floor and rolled a short distance away from the orc. She narrowly missed the brute’s cleaver which he swung overhead and brought crashing down into the ground beside her. Her grip loosened and her own sword fell from her grip, clattering across the floor and just out of reach. She felt herself crash into a small table in her room when she rolled, knocking off everything on top of it, but she was entirely focused on the combat style that her mind had constructed for her imaginary foe and cared little about the trail of destruction she was starting to leave through her room.

A hand fell down to her belt and gripped her knife. Daphne pulled it out quickly and brought her arm forwards, aiming the blade for the orc’s forearm. Grabbing his wrist with the other hand to hold his arm still, Daphne brought he knife down to hack at the black-blood’s limb. He yelped in pain and his grip on the gigantic cleaver slacked, giving her enough time to twist her body and kick the blade away across the floor.

She heard a chair topple over as she kicked it.

Preparing herself for her meeting at the Bastion, tiding up her room. hiding all of the new sword marks in the furniture, and apologising to a neighbour who had complained about her making such a racket had taken another forty minutes. Daphne was now outside, walking the streets of the village that lived in the shadow of the Silver Leaves bastion. The wind was cold and sharp and bit at her face, just like every morning, but it put a spring in Daphne’s step as her tiredness began to subside.

She took in a breath of fresh air, pulled her cloak a little closer to her body and set her sights on the Bastion. Daphne made a slow march towards the towering castle, down the winding streets and passages of the village that she knew all too well until the Bastion’s towering gates were in sight.

[Noxious]

Memories of the night before trickled in.
Her head pulled back in a hungry howl moments before she struck her first target. Their bodies collided and she wrapped her arms about the other rookie. She snarled down at him as his own fierce will met her cheek in the form of a tightly pulled fist.

Her head lashed to the side after the blow but she only seemed to turn wilder, pressing one arm against his throat while the other battled against his unpinned arm. He needed to tap out. She could smell the faint hint of fear strongly masked in valor as she snarled against the sweaty nape of his neck. She pressed her arm hard against his windpipe. Cowl, accept dominance—these thoughts burned through her eyes and mannerism.

His fist hit the ground, angry yet beaten, still riddled with giddy adrenaline. Submission. She darted into the woods to acquire more wounds, more submissions. The night screamed a warrior rapturous beat.

Her morning begun in an absorbedly languid manner. As soon as light began to nuzzle upon the dark skyline, lids perked open. The sun had not yet begun to sprinkle glints of expression across the ocean during the calm and muted time in the morning. The leaves above crinkled in her vision, glistening between a sleepy silver and a dawn dulled green. She knew there was no real chaos at this gate, a man stood alert and watchful not 15 feet to her elevated right. She sniffed at the air, smelling her comrades of the Forest Gate, the thick mold of the cyclical land, and the dew from the coastal night nuzzling in the breasts of the organisms around her. She wished the great city didn’t taint her track on Silver Leaves, and those present. Though, she was thankful that the smells did not hint at intruders. She wasn’t in the mood today for battle.

The birds rustled awake to catch that defiant time particular worm just as she too began to curl and ruffle her still tense muscles. Her eyes opened wide for the first time. Pupils twitched and accommodated quickly and her glance instinctually traveled the length of the branch and into the bucket they called home when guarding the Forest Gate, property of the Silver Leaves; specifically, Drui’Maori, a branch of the Silver Leaves designated to dwell in the outer forest expanse of the Silver Leaves.

She rubbed her hands across the warm bark, confirming her bearings before tensing her arms and popping her wrists. She rolled her shoulders against the large tree frame, ridging her back against a few bruised muscles. She licked a pointed tongue across her lip and tasted blood. She was fully awake now and the dull throbbing hangover tempted both memory and numbness, but she remembered. The hum of the night still vibrated through her body, aching now more than thrilling without the bass of adrenaline.

The game was tradition. Anyone who chose to join the Forest Guard, even if it was just transitional, played the game. They called it “Capture Their Flag”. They divided the Drui’Maori involved and split the “rookies” amongst the teams and played war. It kept them alert. It kept them aware. There was intelligence in the games that those playing most assuredly failed to grasp. Yes, there was a large enough percentage of the population of Silver Leaves that preferred isolation and the dense forest that populating the ranks of the Drui’Maori was not difficult, but it could become dull. Just like any section of Silver Leaves there was expected awareness. The games enforced an ongoing awareness. A practiced knowledge and tact. An enemy in the flesh to placate the forever mental game of waiting.

She relaxed her muscles and curled upward until she was sitting on the branch, creating the gentle clicking caw of the Randabird to entice her fellow watcher. He nodded in affirmation, but didn’t turn back towards her. He was watching something. His demeanor almost appeared tense. She rose to grab the branch above her and peek over his head with her added height. Her form was crisscrossed with stains of greens and grays, some permanently tattooed circular and linear centric patterns, while other colors could be attributed to stitched clothing and the grime of two days watch. She would have giggled then, if that was something her people did, but the sound that escaped her was an ecstatic chipper all the same. She rushed to the veteran Drui’Maori Guhlaures’ side.

“Now?”

The seasoned watcher looked down at the odd little wild’har. There was still blood staining the mahogany of her cheeks. Neither of them were sure if it was hers. “Perhaps they realized you skipped orientation?” A gentle smile flirted with appearing on his brutish countenance, but then his expression went stern, exerting a bred dominance. “It’s changing of the guard, not for us to question. Good luck.”

As they headed back to camp the mood seemed somber, but knowing glances shared among the group hinted that they were anxious, still the wired adrenaline junkies. Lin’s rival from the previous night lunged a playful push at her side. He connected and she barely stepped for a save, glaring back at him with a joking smile that barely masked the dominant “haha-okay-you got me-don’t you do it again” inflection.

They were all tired. They had switched to a schedule that was not nocturnal, nor was it diurnal. It was something that they were not promised or forced into. As sleep and death, loathed and relished. There were four of them in all that had been relived in the changing, Lin and two others were rookies. The veteran made his way towards the mess hall so the other three subconsciously followed. The two boys talking steadily while Lin walked just a step before them. They seemed to be speculating on the reason for their sudden recall. Lin watched her surroundings; sniffed at the air: the wafts of the mess hall, the body fluids that couldn’t be burned out of the surrounding land. She allowed her gaze to roam, briefly assessing those around them, ranking her status, ranking their status together. Her thoughts rarely varied beyond physical verses.

As they entered the mess hall the Veteran's direction changed towards the higher ranking enclave. Lin and her two companions walked into the mess hall as a unit, still thriving off the games, off the woods. Their senses were still attuning to the obvious social nature of the mess hall and with the added dominant influence of Lin the pack like mannerisms riddled the group. Once they had some food they allocated a table, none sitting in a common fashion but rather a variety of stances. Crastel, the smaller human that made an excellent tracker and was sneaky as a mouse, knew his place among the more brutish new friends. He crouched over his plate. His exhaustion showed more than the other two. Dalk, the glory hungry idiot who left her cheek still aching straddled his seat, picking at his food as well as Crastel’s, when the latter became distracted with exhaustion. Lin leaned with the wall against her back, resting against long beaded dreadlocks that hung from her head. She knew she would need to sleep soon, she could feel it in the weight her body pressed against itself.

She watched for Iano while picking at her food. The other two dared not touch the unguarded plate that rested on the table in front of all of them. She was thinking about last night. She was thinking about war. She was thinking about food and sleep, but she wasn’t thinking about why they had come back earlier than expected…even though that is all her companions seemed to be talking about. She wasn’t listening anyways.

[Hellis]

Iano left his quarters while stretching his lithe form, stifling a yawn as leather clad feet brought him down the halls. He was in a somewhat docile mood to be sure, the last night having temporarily quelled the mans endless thirst for excitement. He was fairly sure he had to eat and drink however, because he felt like a starved wolf at the moment. With that in mind, he steered his steps towards the mess hall. He took time to stop and talk to some people on the way, never one to really hurry anywhere. He was a friendly sport, the kind who got along with most. Some thought light of him, mainly becouse he never seemed to dwell to long on anything. He decided to take a stroll trough the couryard were many recruits were allready practicing. Among the many basic training hopefulls, he saw a familiar face.

Thomas von Lerz was one of Ianos sword instructors, a tall, gangly looking man. A Human from the legato empire, and the best duelist Iano had ever met. Ianos first fight with a silverleaf had been against Thomas, and Iano had gotten severly beaten. Several times. For a week. Iano was not a sore loser by any means but he was also persistent and lived for the rush. Of course, his swordsmanship was crude in comparison to the way Thomas wielded his flamberge, so many times Iano find himself eating a mouthful of dirt due to a simple miss step. Iano of course, still strives towards beating the man. But for now he was cordial.

”Instructor Lerz” He bowed, a gesture he rarely indulge in. The man scoffed at the gesture. ”No need to bow, doesn't suit you. You heading for the Mess Hall?” He inquired, the man looked more haggard and worn out then usual. He jabbed two fingers painfully hard in Iano shoulder. ”Things have started to moving again. Brigands. Would not surpised if they wanted to send some new bloods like yourself to deal with it.” Thomas then went on his not so merry way. With no more delays, Iano arrived to the where the smell of food were leading him. He quickly spotted Lin and waved at her. The hall was filled with men and women from all over, talking, complaining, eating and arguing. In short, Iano was the most home in here. He wasted no time, soon face to face with her, almost challenging her to fight by the way he carried himself. Two wild souls who were always on the edge.

”Hello Linweî” He spoke, his voice at once soft and yet terribly violent with emotion.

Tavern

There sat a man in the Tavern that rarely were seen inside the city walls. Grashnak, one of the few Uruki, that is to say Orchs, who made into the silverleaves. He was a shrewd, hostile presence. Feared by every man who ever been dumb enough to spar him one on one. He was currently drinking and the half a turkey not yet eaten was disappearing at astonishing rate. As he saw a fellow Silver leaf like Joshua enter he bellowed out, ”YOU. COME HERE:”

[MelonHead]

Joshua barely had a moment to take in the other proprietors, only managing a slight nod of acknowledgement towards an archer named Radan he recognised as a fellow new-blood, before he was taken aback by a loud shout from one of the tables.

Unconsciously almost, he shook himself and adrenaline started pumping, then his glance caught the Orch who had called him and his stance relaxed -a little- though a slight twitch of contempt marked his features. It was hard to shake off years of xenophobia over the course of a year after all. His hand rose and he pointed at himself questioningly, then assuming it was indeed him that was being verbally accosted by the Orch he began to walk over. It was one who he had heard tales about but couldn't quite remember the name of, which was always awkward in a first encounter. Then again, it was possible the Orch wasn't even interested in pleasantries, and the more he thought about it the more the large human figured that was likely to be the case.

"What's up?" He asked cautiously, either looking down at the Orch without getting too close to the table if he remained seated or attempting to look him in the eye if he stood to greet the priest. Joshua wasn't exactly the hyper-observant type, but he couldn't help but notice how heavy the Orch's breakfast was.

He didn't quite puff himself up, but he allowed his stance to remain rigid and controlled, ensuring he was at his full height as he regarded the Orch, trying not to show weakness, he was treating him like any other potential fighter at a tavern. Hopefully he wasn't going to have to employ any of his new hand-to-hand skills, if that turned out to be the case he was definitely screwed.

[Grif of Hearts]

Daphne’s metal and leather boots clanked against the stone bricks of the Silver Leaves bastion as she walked through its gates, and she was filled with the same sense of enthusiastic monotony that had become all too familiar to her. She passed a few other members of the mercenary group, fighters and caretakers alike, as they meandered about in the early hours of the morning. She paid them little mind and they seemed to do the same, more concerned with committing themselves to their early morning rituals than bothering the lone woman that had only just arrived. She did not politely to a guardsman as she passed and she did the same, if only to be courteous.

She pulled her cloak around her a little tighter as she walked with one hand, and then used the other to rummage through her satchel quickly. Pulling out what little stale bread she had stuffed in her pockets she began to chew on it slowly as she made her way towards the mess hall, silently wishing that they had something more flavoursome on offer for her breakfast.

The mess hall was not difficult to find, having tread the route towards it a thousand times before. She followed her nose, the smell of wine and food starting to fill the air as breakfast was prepared for the dozens of mercenaries that would soon flood the doors. Even now it smelled divine. She pushed open a side-door into the mess hall and stepped inside, greeted by the sight of a few Silver Leaves mercenaries who had woken up early enough to get first pickings at breakfast. Daphne joined them shortly after gathering some soft bread, cheese, and meat to eat, sitting by a pair of dwarven brothers who were downing their second glass of beer this morning.

“Ah, Daph’,” said one of the dwarves. He was older than the other, with a thick blond beard that was braided quite delicately. His nose was large and his eyes were a steely grey, covered by a small pair of spectacles. “Good ta’ see ya’. Sleep well?”

“Not particularly,” she replied, kicking her legs up onto the table in which they ate. She felt a slight sting run up her side, reminding her of the reason why she hadn’t slept well. “Fresh injuries keeping me awake again… I don’t think I sealed the tissue right. Blasted magic.”

The younger dwarf spoke next, running a few fingers through his longer but less well managed beard. “Das’ what’cha get when ya’ dabble in necromancy, gal. A whole bunch of nasty side-effects ya’ never wanted nor needed! You should go see on of tha’ healers right away and get it looked at.”

The woman rolled her eyes at the nag, having heard it all a dozen times before. The Silver Leaves were more tolerable of necromancy than most, acknowledging its tactical use and practicality, but Daphne was no stranger to being criticised for her craft. While the eldest brother, Asmund, had long accepted the usefulness of necromancy in the Silver Leaves organisation and was perfectly happy to let Daphne practice it, Ake had never taken to it and insisted on reminding the woman of that fact.

“I’ll be fine,” she said, rubbing the position of the wound through the fabric of her clothes. “They’re always like this for a day or two.”

Ake did not seem too impressed but Daphne didn’t care, more concerned with the plate of food that rested on her lap which she picked from mindlessly as she spoke with the two dwarven men for a while longer, recounting the past few days as she had not seen either of them in some time. Ake and Asmund told her of a few contracts they had undertaken and she told them of the same, but each one of her exploits paled in comparison to those of the brothers. Daphne had no idea if any of their stories were even truthful but she enjoyed them none the less, even when they claimed to have slain a dragon with nothing more than a knife and a fork between them.

Slowly the mess hall filled up with all sorts of faces, many of which Daphne recognised. They eagerly dug into their breakfast and made themselves merry before they faced the trails of the day which would arrive soon. Two faces of note were Linwë and Iano, two fellow fighters and mercenaries. Daphne nodded a welcome to them both as they entered, still keeping one ear to the conversation as Ake recounted the time he threw an axe one hundred feet, made it ricochet off the wall of a church, only for it to embed itself in his bounty’s skull.

[Dylan]

In all of his 24 years, Mozan had never witnessed the culmination of an event this beautiful. The plan, distraction, and execution were flawless in their structure and completion. His team worked in tandem as if sharing one individual psyche, and all of the careful planning and anxiety had finally looked as though it was about to pay off. Mozan had gathered a team of like-minded individuals who were looking to earn an extra few pieces of gold, and orchestrated the perfect crime. They infiltrated the Cralldor Estate in the midst of a massive gathering of nobleman. They were about to be some of the richest men in all of Uliar. Or at least they would have been if the rogue hadn’t rolled out of his bed with an alarmed screech as one of his lovely neighbors kicked a chair into the wall. He squirmed on the floor for a brief moment before he kicked the blankets off of his body and rose to his feet.

‘To have a dream like that conclude in such a startling manner is the epitome of all irritation.’ Mozan thought to himself as he slowly crawled back into the comfort of his bed. Another ending would be much more gratifying to his mind, body, and soul. However, he quickly realized that he would never find his lazy dreams for as long as his neighbor continued slapping furniture around their side of the wall. He heaved a heavy and dramatic sigh before rolling out of his bed into a push-up position, and began his morning routine. After doing a few pushups, he proceeded to stretch and contort in a variety of directions to loosen his joints and prepare his musculature for the limber dexterity necessary for his profession of choice. It was at that moment that he began to mutter a lengthy series of obscenities and complaints about the situation he had found himself in. He was a new recruit of The Silver Leaves, the prestigious and well-respected mercenary company responsible for slaying beasties and doing generally anything for the right amount of gold. Most would think a man like Mozan comfortable in his situation; everyone had a like minded goal here. Coin, blood, and glory. However, it simply meant he’d have to work himself three times as hard if he wished to build the skills and reputation necessary for his goals to become reality. There were simply too many others around to lunge for the spotlight, and Mozan simply could not have that.

Mozan continued brooding through the length of his hour-long morning workout after walking outside, then resigned himself to tidying up his section of the barracks. Within ten minutes, he had the place completely spotless and looking professional and orderly. He sighed and ran his fingers through his thick black locks before submerging his head in a basin of water and splashing water along the length of his body. He scrubbed himself off to the best of his lazy ability before shaving his face, combing out his hair and dumping his night soil out the window into a drain for such purposes. After doing so, he reached into a nearby set of shelves and withdrew his clothing for the day. His clothes were utilitarian and comfortable; a white tunic of cotton with the sleeves ending at the elbows alongside a well worn leather vest containing a plethora of pouches and pockets inside and out. He wore a simple pair of loose fitting brown cotton trousers and a belt of leather, and the ensemble ended at wool socks of a navy color and worn brown leather boots. Dressed and ready for anything, Mozan took ten more minutes to sharpen and oil his swords before gathering his tool pouches and attaching them to his belt. Alongside his blades. Now it was time for some breakfast.

Mozan navigated the streets at a slow pace as he advanced toward the castle, and made sure to make small talk with a few of the other Silver Leaves and gaze at the artwork and architecture of the bustling village outside of the castle’s walls. He began to walk a bit quicker as he felt his stomach grumbling at his pace in disagreement, and eventually he found himself at the gates of the fortress. He snapped his eyes back and forth at the words engraved upon the structure, and pondered his own purpose as he was admitted into the courtyard. He paused to watch several of his fellow recruits spar with the veterans, and began quickly reevaluating his combat strategies as he watched their elegant and masterful use of fist, sword, and bow alike. He decided to explore the castle a bit further, and admired the craftsmanship of the fortress from every angle he could possibly find. Everything was cut with care and precision only dwarven artisans could perfect, and Mozan began to feel that his stay with the Silver Leaves might not be so stressful after all. As he continued his aimless wander around the castle, he eventually made his way down into The Inner Sanctum. Though Mozan was not a particularly religious individual, he had respect for the infinites. He spent time pledging fealty to each individual deity by joining each of the priests in prayer before lighting a stick of incense and placing it on the shrine. After reflecting for a moment, Mozan rose to his feet and proceeded back up to the surface, and toward the mess hall.

The pungent fragrance of meat and bread made the rogue’s stomach scream at him in lustful anticipation of the meal to come, and Mozan wasted no time in filling his plate with bread, eggs, meat and fruit. He filled a large goblet with wine before tasting it and assessing its quality, then strode through the mob of mercenaries in an attempt to find somewhere to sit. He saw a few familiar faces such as Iano the flamboyant Tindra, but instead of finding a place next to a familiar face he chose to break his fast with a duo of extremely egotistical dwarves and a quite peculiar looking woman. The dwarves mentioned something about necromancy and Mozan eyed the woman with wary respect. Most kept them at arm’s length, and were justified in doing so for the most part. But Mozan had never quite formed an opinion on the touchy subject. Though before he could ponder on her presence further, one of the dwarves boasted about throwing an axe a hundred feet into a church before making it ricochet into his target’s skull. He tried, oh he did, but Mozan could not help but attempt to top his exaggerating compatriot next to him.

“Oh, that’s nothing.” Mozan said as he placed his elbows on the table. He paused to take a sip of his wine before clearing his throat, and then resumed speaking. “I once threw my sword off a cliff , only for the wind ta’ blow it straight back up the Cliffside inta’ a bandit standing in its path. The damned thing has a mind of its own, I tell ya’.” He patted the hilt of the bastard sword at his side with appreciation for a moment before tipping an imaginary hat at the dwarves sitting at the table. “A pleasure, gentlemen. And lady.” He added as an afterthought before beginning to chow down on the food in front of him. “To whom do I have the pleasure of fasting with on this fine morning?” His tone remained playful and jovial from the moment he sat down at the table. No, he had a feeling that he would get by just fine around here.

[Noxious]

The mass of people within the mess hall began to swell. It hadn’t been that long ago that this type of environment would have sent her running for the hills, literally. The tables seemed to constantly rotate occupants. Others milled about, chatting and moving amongst the groups. The voices all became a blurry chorus with the more soprano and baritone being distinctive. Her head canted and turned slowly to pick up specific conversations and sounds in the now thrumming center of the Silver Leaves, though she couldn’t follow any and it seemed both her compatriots were letting the exhaustion take their voices. She made no effort to start one, content with the position of observer. She was thankful to have the wall to her back, for even amongst friends it was hard to fight the compelling instincts of self-preservation that gave her anxiety issues in the city that nagged at her, especially when fatigued.

She could find interest in the physical and subconscious interactions that were going on around her at least and they distracted her from the claustrophobia. There were no written rules in regard to seating arrangements, not that she could have read them anyways. But there was definitely an order. Just as she and her two companions had fallen into her accustomed pack mentality those around her broke up and fit in. Surprisingly it was not their specific skill sets that created the minute divides drawing them to their tables. You didn’tt see archers only surrounded by archers; though the healers seemed to be the main exception, grouping together more often than not. Rank was a much better indicator. Her eyes traveled towards what would be considered the head of the mess hall. The tables in this area were mainly populated with the jaded, the respected; teachers, leaders and veterans. The man they had followed in was sitting at a table closer to the front. He seemed warmer amongst comrades he had probably fought alongside for years, but the spilling of blood does that to people.

Just as Lin was thinking this her own blood brother had slipped his way in front of her. What could only be called a squeal escaped her, slightly startling her two half sleeping friends. As Iano spoke her arms wrapped around his neck just as quickly as he stepped into range. It was hard to tell with a thing like Lin whether or not she was embracing him for a hug or she was going to strangle the jovial tindra. Her tanned arms didn’t flex though and simply kissed across his own exotic coloring. She released him, pushing him back a little and then hitting her forehead against his like a feline nuzzling a friend, though her skull was not exactly gentle and if the room had been quite there surely would have been a soft thwack. A cringe threatened her upturned lips, but only for a second as last night’s activities rose fresh to her consciousness.

Having remembered last night she brushed at Iano, urging him to turn towards her gaze without actually spinning the boy. “Crastel, Dalk, Iano.” She grabbed at a piece of meat, barely cooked that had been wrapped in a lettucelike leaf, gesturing for Iano to help himself to her plate as she took a bite. She knew he would be hungry. He had obviously chosen to see her before heading towards the grub line which was wavering but steady. There was no worry. The food was plentiful. She was honored nonetheless. She really couldn’t shake some of the pack habits and the importance of food was one such nuance that still dictated rules and instincts. She was unsure if the two new friends knew of Iano so her sharing her food also went to show them of her high respect for the tindra beside her. In between chewing she smiled at Iano.

“You look tired. You’re getting old.” She was teasing him of course, nudging playfully into his ribs with a bruised and slightly dirty elbow.

[Grif of Hearts]

Picking slowly at her food, Daphne sat and half-heartedly made conversation with the two dwarves that sat next to her. She was far happier just listening to their babbling and tall tales than she was joining in, never quite able to stretch her stories far enough to beat those that either Ake or Asmund spun, and opted to make the occasional jibe towards the stories when she could instead. Ake frowned, as he often did, but Asmund’s chuckling showed it all to be in jest. The dwarves threw them back just as easily as they always did, and time flew by quickly from then on.

Both dwarves went silent about ten minutes afterwards although Daphne was not quite sure why. She looked up from what scraps of her meal remained, spotting a tall, wiry looking man who had come to sit by the table. He placed his elbows on the table and spoke, carrying himself confidently and enthusiastically. Daphne swallowed a mouthful of bread, and she let a small grin curl up along her lips when she realised what the man was doing. A glance to her left saw that Ake was starting to grind his teeth which only made her grin grow larger.

“Well, tha’s all well and good,” Ake said, standing on top of his chair to meet the man at eye-height. “But ah’ think ah’ve found an itty bitty flaw wid’ yer’ story. Aye can’t think of a reason why ya’d be tossin’ yer’ sword off’a cliff. Seems ta’ me lah’ke you might’ve made the story up.”

Asmund cleared his throat, resting his hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Maybe someone put a spell on it. Made tha’ hilt burn so hot that he ‘ad ta’ drop it,” he said, and he smiled softly when he heard Ake begin to grumble under his breath.

“Or he was aiming for something someway down the cliff,” Daphne added.

“Or ‘e was surrounded by bandits an’ they forced ‘im to throw it over!”

“Or he just made the story up for fun,” said Daphne, raising an eyebrow and looking up to the human. She sat up a little straighter, extending a hand to shake. The man before her looked somewhat familiar although she could not place him. It was likely that Daphne had just seen him in passing about the Silver Leaves fort. “I’m Daphne. Daphne Darlon. And you are?”

Asmund introduced himself and his brother, Ake too busy mumbling to himself to really pay attention, and soon after dragged himself and the other dwarf beside him back into his seat. The three tucked back into what was left of their meals, Daphne tearing apart small pieces of meat and popping them into her mouth while Ake and Asmund shared a bread roll which they tore in two.

“So what brings you to our table?” Daphne asked, eying the man before her curiously.

[Hellis]

Grashnak was a massive creature. He was Uruk-Hai,the black bloods elite warrior. The black iron lamellar armor looked more like a afterthought on his massive frame, added to make him more of a civilized warrior then a monster. Orchs were good fighter, the Hai caste were exellent ones. They were bred for it, lived for the fight, to prove their strenght. And unlike the grunting, screaching uruk, Uruk-Hai were every bit as intelligent as a human. So Grashnak, with eyes that were far to tiny for his massive face, leered at the fellow mercenary.

”You are new” He spoke, with a tone that didn't allow much for arguing. ”I do not recognice you.” He continued as his jagged teeth tore into a chicken leg greedily. He was a messy eater, not that his kind ever known proper table manners anyway. As he was about to coment on the other mans 'frail', human physique, there was the sound of screams. And then there was a crash as something heavy crashed trough the wall of the tavern. A smoldering piece of metal.

”..I see the siege engineer messed up her new powder formula again” The tavern host mumbled to himself. Luckily, trough some miracle, there was no wounded. But a young, elven woman peaked her head inside trough the newly formed hole. ”Nobody hurt? Good. I still can't wrap my head around Dwarven technology...”

The elf was not the typical, slender, frail looking thing that commoners usually attributed to female elves. In fact, her arms were about as frail as a oaken oar and about as soft a irongirder. Her face was somewhat plump and pleasant and her body was everybit the blacksmiths of a her human and dwarven comprations in the trade.

”Hey Grashnak. Hello new guy.”

.-------

Iano grinned and hugged his beloved friend back harder then her, becouse she filled him with such ferocity he might aswell have been her race and blood. He bore his eyes into her gaze as their foreheads collided none to gently and he cradled her face in his two hands.

”Yatira, N'men yslera Linwé” He spoke softly, a murmur that resembled a growl more then anything. It was the same feral dance they had started at their first meeting, two uncivilized souls in a world decaying from the thing called civilization. He took the uncooked piece of meat and tore it with his teeth effortlessly. His smile, now marred by the trickle of blood from the steak, was brilliant like the sun. He nodded to the others, fellow wild ones from the way they stared at him. Linwe was building herself a pack, he could tell. And here he was, a strange delicate looking thing that were on equal terms with the Alpha. He could tell they wanted to test him out in combat. The wild red eyes of the Tindra stared them down untill one of them actually flinched.

As if the others hesitation had been a signal. he dragged Lin by the hand to a table where he saw some people that were new like them. He slid onto the table with no small amount of flair, beef still in his mouth. His eyes held the necromancer woman under scrutiny. Completely disregarding all sense of timing and respect. He had butted in, interupted them. It was his way.

”Gravespeaker.” His word for those with necromantic or spiritual power of the dead. The ferocity of his eyes threatened to light things on fire if it could only be harnessed. He then realized he had interupted something and sat, middle of the table, staring at the other man. "Ah. Sorry. I am in the way again." Yet he made no motion to move.

[MelonHead]

"Yes I'm new to the Leaves, name's Joshua." The priest was fortunately spared the indignity of being ridiculed by the massive Urak by a sudden explosion and crashing metal wiping out some of the furniture. Joshua's head ducked reflexively and his hand grasped a free chair, preparing to launch it as hard as he physically could manage.

The relatively little alarm that pervaded the inn convinced him this was at least a semi-regular occurrence, though a strange one. He settled down however as an attractive, though equally strange elf entered the Inn through the wrecked wall. His eyes narrowed with appreciation, surprised to find a real woman even here, and then he returned to his more normal stance and crossed his arms as she spoke.

"Joshua." He corrected, aiming to cut down on the new-guy talk as soon as possible, he wasn't the sort to let that sort of thing stand. He shrugged his shoulders and half-smiled. "Sorry, I'm used to being the biggest guy in the room, this is a little strange for me."

"Still" he gestured to the elf in a slow motion humans sometimes used when they wanted someone to tell them their names so they could slot it into a sentence, a strange practice but an ingrained one. "You know how to make an entrance." He chuckled, though Joshua could hardly be considered the wittiest of men, he was more than comfortable with observational humour.

[Grif of Hearts]

The four mercenaries chatted amongst themselves for the next few minutes, recounting long-winded jokes and tales of grand heroism, exaggerated drama, and blithering idiocy that they had heard or been a part of since becoming a hired blade. Daphne had heard most of the tales before, particularly those that were told by Ake, many of which were identical to the ones he had told not ten minutes ago but had repeated for the sake of the newcomer. With a fresh face in the group she expected to hear a few new ones that might surprise her, but she was sure that the two dwarf brothers had spoiled her interest in these stories since she met them and tried to not put too much faith in him. One gains a tolerance for listening to the same thing over and over again, I suppose, Daphne thought, twiddling her thumbs in her lap having finished gorging herself on bread and meat.

“Gravespeaker,” said a voice, interrupting their conversation just as Asmund was about to deliver the punchline to a joke that had carried on for far too long. The dwarf groaned, the moment gone and his joke ruined by the disruption, and sunk back into his seat in a huff with his arms folded almost childishly.

“I don’t get it,” said Ake, looking confused and scratching his chin thoughtfully.

Daphne looked up to the man and furrowed her brow. Iano, dragging his friend Lin by the hand half way down the mess hall, stood above the group of four and scowled at them, focusing most of his attention on Daphne and later the other newcomer, Mozan. Daphne’s eyes never left Iano’s figure though, examining the tindra male inquisitively. He was a strange looking man who wore brightly coloured clothes and further decorated himself with face paint, with deep red hair and eyes that were not uncommon for his people. His build was lithe and his features soft, but that only made Daphne feel wary of him. Looks could be deceiving, and the small assortment of blades sheathed on the man’s belt only confirmed that for her. Iano was dangerous.

“It’s no problem, I’m sure,” Daphne said through gritted teeth, responding to Iano’s apparent disapproval of her powers as civilly as she could. She motioned to the spare chair by their table, suggesting that he should join them. “Please. Sit. We’re just spinning each other a few tales to help pass the time,” she said, closing her eyes and resting comfortably against her chair.

“Asmund here was just telling us a joke,” she added, and the dwarf grunted in response.

[Grif of Hearts]

[Double Post]

[LimeyPanda]

Evalyn's morning had begun as every morning did. She rose at the crack of dawn, washed herself with a basin of water collected before sleep, then she clothed herself: today choosing a set of soft cotton underclothes, a similarly light doublet, a leather jerkin, a form-fitting set of leather trousers and some worn boots.

Evalyn had long since abandoned the finery that came with her former status. Yet she would never admit to missing the pleasures that came with those fineries. To do so was, at least in her mind, to admit her father was in some ways correct. Her pride would not allow such a step back; Evalyn only accepted steps forward.

Her morning routine continued after she dressed, and soon Evalyn was walking through The Silver leaf compound, spear resting point-up on her shoulder. She had heard a few rumours surrounding herself in the months she'd been a part of the company of the Silver Leaves. Most seemed to revolve around the strange circumstances of her joining the company: It was more common for people to seek membership amongst the elite guild, so when one of the company's more well-known instructors strolls back with a woman in tow, people took notice.

Today, it seemed, Evalyn met very few people with an interest in the Luni and even fewer that she was interested in. She had decided to perform her morning practice in a private spot near the edge of the compound.

After a few minutes of walking, Evalyn found her spot: a small clearing underneath an old birch tree. Underneath the shaded spot, the Luni sat down cross-legged and lay her spear across her lap, where she closed her eyes and began to focus.

After ten seconds of concentration, a figure shimmered into being opposite her. The being was a beautiful Luni woman...in fact, she was the same beautiful Luni who sat cross legged under the birch tree.

Despite the illusion mirroring her position opposite her, Evalyn did not move. Concentration remained etched onto her face as, fifteen seconds later, a second copy of the Luni spearman shimmered into being, followed by a third illusion in the following twenty seconds.

The small company of four identical spear wielding women rose at the same time, gripping their spears in the right hand. Each entered a different stance, spear pointed down, and ready to strike. Suddenly, the original elf surged forward, charging at the greatest sparring partners she could readily find...herself.

Thirty minutes later, Evalyn made her way into the officer's halls, and rapped her knuckle against the wood of the door she knew to belong to Isabella. The Elf had a good relationship with the Instructor, as the woman had once saved Evalyn's life. If nothing else, Isabella was the closest thing that Evalyn had to a mentor and, perhaps more secretly, an accolade to work towards

"Isabella, I would very much like a word."

Isabella was a statuesque woman. Her body was that of a warrior in her absolute prime. She was studying something when the knock on the door brought her attention away from the books. She pushed back from the table and rose to her feet. Ah, it was Evalyn. The woman was a straightforward sort, even if her magic wasn't. A bit haughty, yes, very sure of herself to be certain. But none the less reliable and focused: A good student too. All she needed was to learn to fight a bit dirtier, in Isabella's opinion. the whip wrapped like an ornament around her shoulder, its spine-like, metal scales rested perfectly against one another. It looked like a part of her armor where it lay.

"How can I help you? And I do believe it is Instructor Isabella, is it not?" She mused.

Evalyn winced when the warrior woman corrected her. It was correct and proper for Evalyn to refer to Isabella as instructor, so she dipped her head in a formal apology to the higher ranking woman. "My apology, Instructor Isabella. I was hoping to get some advice from you today."

Glancing into Isabella's room, Evalyn tried to gleam into the instructor's room, so as to better understand her. She had shared a large amount of her 10 years of travelling alone with the instructor, only leaving out the more intimate details, or the mention of her identity prior to her travels.

Yet Isabella had listened much more than she spoke.

"I was hoping you would tell me how best to deal with the induction today. I am not foolish enough to be unaware of my faults, so how would you advise I go about dealing with...interacting with my fellows?"

The instructor laughed, it was a rather pleasant sound she had been told. It was not in mockery, but of surprise. Surprise at the concern of her stern, very resilient student. Surprise at the glimpse of her true self she guarded so protectively. "Yes. Yes, indeed. How do you talk to them? Well. I'll let you in on a secret: There is trouble looming on the horizon, and I am sure you'll find yourself with ample time of figuring it out. For now, I suggest addressing them as you would me, sans titles of course. Oh, and if you run into the Tindra. Do not accept an invitation to spar, the boy likes to cop a feel every chance he gets." She said with a smirk. "That and if you hurt him too badly, his friend tends to bite. Throat and all." She watched her reactions, amused to no end. She was terrible, she knew. But Evalyn could use a little humor, however dark, in her life.

The thought of treating unknown, untested strangers as her equals left Evalyn with a little wrinkling of the nose, as if the idea were immensely unappealing. Still, she had come here, asking for advice and she knew that each member of the company, recruit or not, had done something to earn their place.

It was Isabella's joke that caught her interest. Something about a Tindra who liked to 'cop a feel.' The Luni smirked at the thought, prompting a strange look from the Instructor. "The Tindra can try and challenge me, if he likes. The only thing he will 'feel' of mine is my spear." She seemed to ignore the comment about the feral accomplice of the Tindra, seemingly missing either the mirth or the threat in the statement.

"I thank you for the help, instructor. I will do my best to be...respectful."

"You will, because you are amongst equals here. Well, some of them." Isabella chuckled, and turned back to her papers. "Oh." She raised her hand "And good luck."

Evalyn only bows her head again in response to Isabella's words, then turned to leave the mentor to her work. In truth, her practice and the following conversation had left her feeling hungry. She quickly decided to make her next destination the Mess hall.

In short time, Evalyn had made her way to the mess hall and she was quick to join the back of the food queue, her spear held against her side, tip pointed to floor. She took a moment to glance at all the many tables and the occupants that sat at them. None of them were free, meaning Evalyn would be forced to...socialise.

A few moments later, Evalyn had a plate of food in one hand and she was forced to pause and consider her seat. Eventually, she settled on the table of the Tindra, a Wild-elf, a pair of dwarves and a few humans. There were two main reasons for the choice: one being the Tindra, who she expected to be the same that Isabella had intentionally told her to avoid sparring with; and the other was the Wild-elf. Evelyn was reminded of her time among in the Wild-hari village, and the good memories that came with it.

Pulling up a chair, Evalyn parked her plate of food on the edge on the table. She picked idly at a bunch of grapes, before offering a curt "Hello." to the gathered individuals: deciding to air on the side of caution, when it came to saying things that might cause offence. Her mouth may have said little, but her eyes were judging the five people. She found the two dwarves wanting, but her eyes dwelled longer on the Tindra and the Wild-hari. Even the human had an air of interest about her, although it was less the sight of her that caused interest, but the strange aura she seemed to radiate.

[NeutralNexus]

"Andras? Andras open this door!"

A loud pounding came at the door of the new recruit known as Andras Zsolstas following the perturbed bellow of the rather gruff looking human soldier. Nobody had seen the Shadowborne since he had arrived in the Silver Leaves all of a few days ago, almost disappearing from view among his cohorts within the first few hours of his coming to Egralia. It had taken them fairly long to ascertain his location, finding out from the Zali priest that Andras had 'borrowed' a small shack near the Zali shrine ouurside the compound. There was no response originally for the soldier, who angrily pounded on the door once more after a brief silence, once again hollering for Andras to show his face.

"Damn it, man, answer this door!"

"Hm? Oh, come in!" Said a voice on the other side, polite and earnest in its response, as if the man had not even been at his door for the past three minutes. "The door is open!"

The soldier did not hesitate on the suggestion, nearly bursting the door off of its hinges as he barged into the room, an annoyed scowl on his face. To his further his disappointment, he saw the Shadowborne simply at his desk, scribbling away on some parchment, with his back turned from the door. The room was barely lit by a single candle, all the windows shut tightly, leaving most of his room enshrouded by the dark.

"Andras, you were supposed to report for training three hour ago, what are you doing that is so--" The soldier began, marching towards him in a brisk stride.

"Ah, ah, ah, I would not take another step if I were you." Andras replied as he raised a hand to stop the soldier, his gaze never leaving the parchment he was working on. "Lest you scuff up the circle I worked so hard on."

Surprisingly, the soldier indeed stopped in his tracks, glancing down to indeed make out a very defined magic circle, painted on the floor in what looked like black ink. The soldier now took the time to glance around Andras' room, the light from the doorway beginning to illuminate much of what had transpired to make up Andras' absence. The wall was lined with parchment, much like the one he was scribbling on, filled with drawings, runes, glyph, notations, and all sorts of other information penned by Andras himself. The floor near the wall looked to be riddled with books, piling around the small desk Andras was continuing to work on.

"What...what exactly have you been doing in here?" The soldier asked, his ire turned to perplexion as he eyed the many drawings.

Almost immediately regarding the question, Andras whirled around in his chair, an enthusiastic grin plastered on his face. "I'm glad you asked, good sir!" He sprung from his chair, darting from his seat to plaster the parchment he was writing on to his wall. "You see, I've been making extensive use of the Silver Leaves' libraries, along with resources from the Church of Zali outside, you guys have a much larger collection of books and tomes than my own village possessed, makes my work much easier, I've made leaps and bounds since I got here in my research!"

"A...and what does your research entail, exactly?" The soldier asked, scratching his facial hair as he continued to leer at the spellwork. "Are you calling some spirit from the grave?"

Andras' brow raised, darting by the man with a loud scoff and a wave of his hand to dismiss the insinuation. "Oh good heavens, no! I work with darkness, not the dead, I'm not some Summoner after all." His speech seemed to be more in enthusiastic rambling than solid answers, as if he was simply trying to keep the man occupied while he continued to work, "Though the idea of Summoning is quite fascinating, have you seen some of the things that can be accomplished with it? Simply astounding, why I read in one book--"

"Then what is it, Andras?" The soldier proclaimed, stopping the young man's rambling before he got completely off topic. "And it better be good to skip morning drills."

"Hm? Oh! The spearwork?" Andras replied, grabbing his own spear that was leaning in the corner. "I reviewed a bit of the work in the library on the subject, I figured practicing on my own would be sufficient. That way I could continue to work on this without having to bother any of the trainers here."

"That's...that's not how things work here, Andras. You cannot just shirk duties because of personal affairs."

"Oh? My apologies then, I suppose I have things to learn about actually part of a group, don't I?." Andras made a quick shrug, his red and black eyes making a once-over of his work, making sure there were no imperfections in his incantations.

"This is...a lot of work for the few days you've been here." The soldier stood to the side of Andras, looking over his work as well. "Have you slept at all since you got here?"

"Yes! Well...sort of--no, not really." Andras scratched his chin, pulling what looked like a small satchel from his belt, he loosened the leather cord to reveal some kind of sparkling dust was contained inside, "I figured that sleep was unimportant in the face of progress."

At this point, the soldier had buried his face in his own palm, sighing in the knowledge of this recruit's complete lack of common sense. "You cannot just avoid sleep, boy, you will exhaust yourself before you ever hit another battlefield."

"Alright, alright, point taken, I understand." Andras replied in a flat tone, pardoning off the scolding as if it was a mere slap on the wrist and not a direct talking to from a superior. "Nevertheless, to answer your earlier question, this is not a summoning circle, but an invocation circle."

"And...I hate to ask, but how is that different?"

"Well, summoning takes something already alive and brings it from its home dimension and brings it here." As he spoke, Andras began lighting candles surrounding the circle, though suspiciously, each candle's light was blocked from shining on the circle, as if trying to keep just the circle in the dark. As soon as that was done, Andras took the powder he was holding and sprinkled a small bit of it into the middle. "Whereas this invocation is going to take something that already exists in this domain, the shadows, and try to create something out of them."

"And what are you trying to create."

With that question, Andras whirled around with another enthusiastic grin and gestured to the circle.

"I'm trying to create life, my friend!"

"W...what?"

"Well, alright, alright, it will not be one hundred percent real life, but its close. In the magic of my people, shadow constructs are common, I daresay easy. Some children in my home village could create a small stick out of the shadows to play with, but I'm going to trump those creations by making the first ever sentient shadow!"

"Sentient...shadow?"

"Yes! If my theory is correct, I will be able to create a shadow construct with a basic set of orders, a simple purpose, much like one would create a golem. It would be able to think on its own, fight on its own, problem solve to accomplish set goals without further instruction! Imagine the uses something like that could have! They could perform menial tasks, power unmanned suits of armor, it would be a true boon for society!" Andras dropped into a cross-legged position, holding his spear before him at the point of balance before him. "Now to see if my experiment is a success!"

"Wait a minut--"

The soldier was cut off by the beginnings of a Shadowborne chant. Andras' words came as a strange, reverberating whisper as the chant went on, a clearly ancient dialect filling the room. As he spoke the words of power, the candles in the room flickered and waned, a clear sense of powerful magic flared through the room. All of a sudden, the shadows in the room began to convulse and contract, retreating from the corners of the room, being concentrated into the center of the circle, the airless lack of light beginning to bunch into something of mass, the powder sprinkled on the floor rising into the coming darkness, seeming to fill the empty spaces. The soldier moved back to the door with hand dropping to the sword on his hip, wary of what was transpiring before him. As soon as the shadows were concentrated, Andras laid a hand on the circle, and at his touch, the circle burst with a bright, vibrant flash of light, but only for a moment. The shut windows sprang open, and the room was enveloped in a momentary fog.

The soldier lowered his hand, and what he saw was nothing more than Andras and a single, solitary shadow staring back at one another.

"Hah! It worked! It worked!" Andras screamed enthusiastically. "I've done it! I've created the sentient--"

The poor man did not even get to finish his sentence before the entity melted into the floor and dispersed back into darkness, filling the room once more with shadows.

"O...oh." His momentary shriek of glee followed up with a series of scrunched features, he stumbled back over to his notes to look them over. "The invocation circle was perfect, the candles were all aligned, the shadows were concentrated...did I do the chant wrong?" His finger ran down a bunch of words, his hand scratching his chin as he did so. "Perhaps it was...no that couldn't be...but what did..."

"Enough, Andras." The soldier, now fed up with the Shadowborne's antics, marched over and grabbed him by the back of his tunic. "If you signed up with the Silver Leaves, you did not to it to stay locked up in some shack and ignore it. You're going to the mess hall, and then you are going to perform your duties as a mercenary here!"

"Ack! Wait, hold on!" Andras began, though his protests fell on deaf ears at this point. Before he could even come up with another argument, he was being dragged back to the castle and off to the Mess Hall.

"Go on, get in there!" The soldier ordered, pushing him through the doorway. "Then you should actually look for some work, Shadowborne!"

"Now wait just a--" Again, his words had fallen on deaf ears, and the soldier had hurried off to complete whatever other task he was assigned, leaving Andras stranded on the edge of the large Mess Hall. He sighed, momentarily dejected at being dragged away from his failed experiment, but the feeling did not last once Andras realized he was standing in a room filled with races he had never seen up in the mountains. His scrunched features suddenly beamed with excitement as his eyes scanned the room, he could see Dwarves, Humans, Tindra, Wild-elves, and was there even a few Luni-Hari here? He had never even seen Luni before! With renewed vigor, he darted over to the nearest table to him, grabbing a plate of food somewhere along the way, he found himself sitting among a small group. There was a human woman with a rather hardened visage, two stout, able-bodied dwarves, an exotic and wiry Tindra with a Wild-elf, a human rogue seemingly boasting about his current achievements, and sitting right next to him was a rather stern-looking Luni-Har, and judging by her posture and features was a very refined Luni-Har at that.

Wasting no time, the Shadowborne quickly attempted to join the conversation as well, offering a. "You don't mind if I join you folks to eat, do you?"

[Noxious]

She stood just behind Iano’s shoulder. Her posture seemed inquisitive, not aggressive, head canted to the side. The movement tossed some stray fringe falling over the designs that licked across her face. The majority of her hair was long, partially dreadlocked, and the color of mossy brown and black that glinted green undertones in the light. Sections were pulled back and twisted into a messy bun revealing pointed ears, decorated with scars and fresh cuts from last night. There were bits of dry blood freckling across sections of her skin if you looked closely; some was hers. She was still dirty from her foray out in the woods; none of them had taken the time to shower. This seemed to strike her larger friend as they approached the table. He sniffed at himself and then fidgeted in irregular intervals, acknowledging a group etiquette faux pas ingrained in him. His actions rubbed off on the other one. Lin on the other hand didn’t seem to notice, or was indifferent. She remained standoffish, even as Iano asserted himself into the conversation.

She had eyes that flickered the color of burning leaves during autumn. Her gaze traveled about the group, with thoughtful pauses on each with a small gesture of acknowledgment. She made broad judgments based on build, breed. Her thoughts dwelled mostly on trying to figure out the ranks within the group but the signs were mixed. She decided that as of now there was no established hierarchy. While she did command respect to the degree of dominance from some, she was not foolish or naïve enough to presume that would apply to the whole group. She would not be proving the ferocious stereotype of the Wild’Har at the moment, instead accepting the part of observer for now. Each time a new individual joined the group she offered them an attentive glance in an attempt to gauge them.

She had met humans. Her opinions on humans varied almost as much as they did. She would hold off on her opinion for those two, though they did seem rather, well, breakable. Dwarves talked too much. She never cared for a lot of talking; but, to be fair, they appeared sturdy. The Luni, well, the Luni caught her attention. She had never actually engaged in conversation with a Luni, but what exactly would there be to talk about? Just as she was the last time she had seen a Luni she was struck with the almost exact opposite shading they possessed. Negatives. She sniffed almost imperceptibly at the air trying to see if she smelt as bright and crisp as she looked, but then the Shadowborne was there. She stiffened, and this was more noticeable than the sniffing at the air. Her lips curled and sharp teeth became visible for a moment. She forced herself to relax enough that she wouldn’t be drawing attention, but her attention had most definitely found its focus.

She had been ignorant to the conversation around her, and continued to be as she made her way towards the Shadowborne. She stopped and stood quite still about a hands reach away. She regarded him curiously for a moment. She had thought it would have appeared more evil. Perhaps when it was angered? Her eyes glittered and she smiled a bit, the expression creasing the dirt and distorting the pale hued patterns on her cheeks. Her fingers were most assuredly elven, though true to Wild’Har nature they were elongated with thicker muscle and pads, tipped with thicker sharpened nails. She twirled her fingers in the air as she reached towards him to touch a piece of his hair. Her movements were slow, almost a question. Shadowborne. He didn’t seem very scary, but either way she watched him closely. Didn’t need her hand bitten.

[Hellis]

The elf shook the monks hand suddenly with a hand that might aswell be made out of pure, unapologetic iron. Her grip was that of a vice, a terrible 'your bones are better suited as bone meal' kind of vice. Few luni would be able to rival the woman in hand strenght, sure, but with this kind of grip even a orch would think twice to shake her hand. Of course, poor Joshua have had no way of knowing this, and was now reaping the rewards of courteus bahavior. When she finally let go, she stepped back and looked him over with some smug look on her face.

”Ah... A briar are you. Not one to wear my pieces then I take it. Damn shame, you'd be a real menace, wearing my armor. Unless you are going for the whole Legato Crusader look. Those holy men wear armor as thick as a door.” She chuckled. ”I am Aluiwé Saälmir. Formerly a scholar from the *Golden Embrace. But alas, i found engineering much more enterteining then old philosphy and stale magic invocation. So I ended up here.” She grinned at the mention of engineering like only a true engineer could.

”Besides,. The only argumenting you have with a set of gears is the cursing as you kick it” She added thoughfully, rubbing her chin. A action that only served to smudge more grease and sot into her skin.

”Perhaps, you should kick less, and fix more then.” Grashnak guffawed and then devoured what was left of the chicken. It was quite a sight to behold. All that food, vanishing down his body at a rate that should be criminal on account of all the starving people in the world. As he finised, he let out a big belch and swept the entirety of his mug in one go. Aluiwé gave him a look of amazement and disgust both.

”Weren't you out on a recognicance mission Grashnak?” She asked, eyebrow perpetually raised at the orc at this point. This got a response from the orch, who got up from his seat and was suddenly towering over everyone inside. His small eyes stared them both down. ”Oh. Right. ” he said, sounding utterly confused. ”I was here to request a garrison to be sent.” He looked at once more alert. He turned and walked towards the door, each step making the boards under his feet creak. To see a creature the size of him move with the sudden grace that he had by the time he had gotten trough the door, would scare any sane man.

”..A garrison? For one of the old forts? That means things are moving quicker then we thought.” The elf mumbled at this new revelation. Untill she realized she was spacing out and turned to Joshua, scratching the back of her head.

”Tell you what, I buy you a beer and your breakfeast friar, and we'll take a walk back to the keep. I believe this something none of us should miss.

Mess hall.

The slender, dancers physique of the tindra warrior belied the sheer physicality of his lifestyle. Yet here he was, and everyone watching him somehow knew better then to judge him by appearences. He appreciated that, made for a much more fun fight should things come to that. He had the necromancer fixed with his eyes, red irises belied anything but keen interest. If the Necromancer thought he thought less of her for her talents, she was wrong. But, Mother Death had cursed his kind with fleeting lives that were snuffed out at the cusp of their existence. So necromancers were merely seen as something other races did, no Tindra wanted to face Morbidias rage ever again. Never the less, he spoke to her directly. The reason to his scowl, was the fact that to the Tindra, all necrmancers were supposed to be shriveled husks. Here was youthfull woman. It was new, and somewhat confusing. Iano only knew one way to act around people who attracted him. He smiled like the most deviant of people.

”A joke?” He asked, his head pivoting to take in the increasing audience. He waved to the disgruntled Dwarf as he just now seen him. ” Well now. ” He tilted his head as he seemed lost in thought. He looked happy, to happy. And he was still sitting ontop on the table, not budging.

”Do not take my choice of words for dissaproval. Tindra do not judge. Although, Gravespeaker, Mother Death has short temper. As my people have seen once.” He spoke witha voice that indeed, held no judgment or dissaproval in it. No chiding or comment about the fruitlessness of pursuing life after death. No damning of messing with the souls of others. Just, experience of a people who drew the Goddess ire once to many times. That is, they drew it once. He could see another had joined them, a shadowbourne. And a Luni, no less. Again, the twitch in his face. Elves were always attractive, and his eyes took in the form of her. Warrior. Yet, something told her she was more finesse then strength. He turned back to the necromancer.

”I have a joke for you.” He grinned. ”What do you call a woman who raise her lover after his death? ” The double entendré of his words hung in the air. He had never been one for subtle humor.

--