JJ Doe

Avalia

Time: A.M.
Location: The River Port Lodge
Interactions/Mentions: @Conscripts @mole
Equipment: Knife (Barrock took it), drugs, and wallet looted from dope peddler

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The oak door wheezed on its hinges as Vasco stepped into the daylight and sighed his disappointment. No ice for the lizard-man today. That much was clear when Barrock had confiscated his blade with those meaty paws of his. “So much for my lizard skin suit,” he muttered, running a calloused thumb along his jawline.

Beneath his skin crawled that familiar itch—insistent, demanding attention. Dipping into his trouser pocket, he fished out one of his latest acquisitions—strange nuts he’d lifted off the two-bit dope peddler the other night. What they did exactly? He couldn’t say. But in Vasco’s world, where tomorrow wasn’t guaranteed, some things deserved at least one chance.

He popped one between his teeth and began to chew. Bitter flooded his mouth first—Christ, like licking a rusty razor! Soon after came warmth, then tingling, then the flood of crimson juices that stained his teeth. Methodically he worked the quid. The rush would come soon enough; it always did. Already he could feel the first hints of it—tightening in his jaw, the slight quickening of his pulse…

“You’re very brave,” came Aurora’s voice behind him. “Both Barrock and you… Thank you.”

What burst from him? Not laughter—nothing so kind. A bark, humor nowhere to be found. “Brave, eh?” He hawked and spat a stream of crimson juice that hit the dirt with a splat. The red stain spread like a fresh kill on the ground.

Vasco squared himself to the light elf. “In that highfalutin religion of yours, doll, is lying a sin? Or is it a bigger sin to say the words you really wanna call fellas like us?”

With jaw working mechanically, his gaze bore into her unseeing eyes, his intensity undiminished by her blindness.

Their standoff broke at the creak of the lodge door. Barrock, massive frame filling the doorway, lumbered toward them.

Between cheek and gum Vasco tucked the quid, then asked, “Why didn’t you bump him off?” Stretching out his hand, palm up, fingers impatient, he beckoned for his knife. “You know he’s gonna scram and squeal to his buddies the first chance he gets.”

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

Hala Sami

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

28 Sola, Night
The Grand Banquet
@PapaOso @Helo @Potter

Hala swirled the wine in their glass as they studied the artist who went by the name of Milo St. Claire from across the banquet hall. His outfit wasn’t just assembled—it was curated, calculated, and criminal in all the right ways. In this wasteland of sartorial despair, the man’s attire was a revelation.

“Well, well,” Hala said, wine glass dangling from manicured fingers. “Someone actually dressed for the occasion they wanted, not the one they were invited to.”

When Rohit mentioned exclusive gatherings, Hala’s smile unfurled like a poisonous flower.

“VIP party? Sounds delicious. I’ll be joining you in the next one.” Not a question. Not a maybe. A fact. The sky is blue, water is wet, and Hala would be at that party. Invited or not.

Reluctantly, they dragged their eyes away from Milo to locate this other VIP Rohit mentioned—Mina, the flame-haired woman. Instead, he pointed toward a plain-looking girl who must’ve stumbled in here by accident. “Rohit, locks of any shade adore you.” They plucked a sugared fig from his plate and popped it into their mouth. “Don’t insult me by selling yourself short.”

“How was your journey? Have you been bored without me?”

Hala sighed, their head falling back slightly. “Mind numbingly. I was hoping we’d get attacked by pirates on the way just to spice things up. Alas.” A shrug, then a sharp pat on Rohit’s arm. “You’ll have to make up for your absence.”

The introductions between Rohit and the woman sitting across from them—Kira, if the castle staff hadn’t botched the name cards—barely registered in Hala’s consciousness. Their focus magnetized back to the golden-haired artist.

“I’m going to go say hi to this Milo man.” Hala announced, rising from their seat with sudden decisiveness.

As they navigated the crowd, Hala felt the familiar weight of eyes following them. Nadim’s protective presence trailed behind like a shadow, and conversations briefly stuttered as they passed—a small pleasure Hala had come to expect but never tired of.

Hala stopped short of Milo, making no effort to hide their blatant assessment of his ensemble. When his hazel eyes met theirs, acknowledging their inspection, Hala merely offered a smile—part challenge, part approval, all confidence. They closed the remaining distance between them, fingers reaching out to ghost over—but not touch—the fine embroidery on his sleeve, examining the quality of the material while the rest of the room faded to background noise.

“Are you an artist who creates with your own hands, or do you direct others to make your vision a reality?”

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

Hala Sami

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

28 Sola, Night
The Grand Banquet
@Helo @princess

Hala stifled yet another yawn behind a bejeweled hand, eyes glazing over as Bey Whatever-His-Name droned on about his hunting exploits. The Grand Banque—crown jewel of Caesonia’s Courting Season? Please. They’d seen more excitement at a meeting of elderly carpet merchants haggling over thread counts. The meal, at least, wasn’t terrible, but these people! Dull as dishwater and twice as tepid.

Adding insult to injury, Hala had been subjected to the revolting spectacle of King Edin at the head table. The man ate like he’d never see food again—a travesty, considering his girth suggested otherwise.

Hala reached for their wine, tempted for the tenth time in as many minutes to make up some crisis to flee. But no. As much as every fiber of their being craved to sashay out of this overwrought display of mediocrity—perhaps knocking over a candelabra on the way out for dramatic effect—they remained seated. The Grand Vizier had requested their presence, and for him, Hala would endure this torture.

Besides, there was a six-foot-three, two-hundred-and-five pound reason to stay.

Nadim, ever alert at Hala’s side, perked up his massive head before they registered what had caught the dog’s attention. Just as the cool rim of their glass touched their glossed lips, a familiar voice—a touch too loud and carrying that unmistakable accent—cut through the dull hum of conversation.

“Hala?!”

A slow, satisfied smirk curved their mouth before they took their time finishing that sip, savoring both the fine wine and the moment.

“Not long,” they replied, setting the glass down with a delicate clink.

They rose to their feet in a fluid motion, careful to shift the warm bundle nestled within their layers of silk aside before finally turning to face Rohit.

“What are you doing sitting down?” Hala chided, one perfectly arched eyebrow raised in mock offense. “Get up and give me a proper greeting.”

Rohit complied with that adorable eagerness he’d never outgrown. They clasped hands and drew close, their free hands clapping each other’s shoulders in a half-embrace. Hala hummed their approval and pulled away. “Smells like someone’s been having fun without me.”

Not to be outdone, Nadim pushed his head between them. His tail wagged with such force his entire back end swayed. The dog’s eyes fixed adoringly on Rohit, clearly expecting his due attention.

Readjusting the bundle of fur to its original place, they retook their seat. The silk rustled softly as they settled, arranging their outfit to fall just so.

“How’s your vacation been so far, Rohit?” they asked, lips quirked in that particular smile reserved only for old friends. “Found anything worth writing home about, or do I need to rescue you from your boredom as well as mine?”

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Fritz "Ryn" Hendrix

Time: Sola 28 1739; Nighttime Hours
Location: Castle Dining Room
Interaction(s)/Mention(s): @CitrusArms @princess @FunnyGuy @Potter @PapaOso @Apex Sunburn

“Ser Durmand,” he greeted, the firmness of his grip matching the Knight Captain’s own. “A pleasure to cross paths again so soon.”

In response to Captain Durmand’s first question, he lifted the small plate he held. On it balanced three vol-au-vents, each a marvel of architectural pastry—flaky, golden, and collapsing slightly under their own delicious weight. Their mushroom hearts released a savory aroma—rich and buttery, earthy yet bright with scattered fragments of thyme and tarragon. “I believe you. Every function in Sorian has proven a superb culinary experience.”

Turning from the Captain, Ryn surveyed the dining hall, where candlelight caught on jewels and polished buttons. The ambient noise of aristocratic chatter bounced off the high ceilings. “Quite the gathering tonight—many fresh faces.”

From across the room, he spotted the Vikenas with Ms. Persephone beside them, looking somewhat overwhelmed but maintaining her composure. They all were. He raised his hand in a quick greeting, careful not to let his face betray his concern. With Count Damien assigned only a few seats away from them, the evening promised excitement of the wrong sort for the Vikena party.

With a tilt of his head, Ryn directed the Captain’s attention toward their assigned table with its elegantly handwritten place cards. A few lacked the usual parade of titles and honorifics—a curious diplomatic omission in such company.

“Have you had the pleasure of acquainting yourself with any of our dining companions?” he asked, taking a sip of champagne. Pale gold and crisp, the beverage offered just enough sweetness to take the edge off the bubbles. “I recognize most of the names, but several others elude me.”

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Fritz "Ryn" Hendrix

Time: Sola 28 1739; Nighttime Hours
Location: Castle Dining Room
Interaction(s)/Mention(s): @SilverPaw @princess

Ever since he and Peter discovered the enchanted spyglass, Ryn had harbored no illusions about its eventual use. His foresight led him to request that Wayra work on a countermeasure—the very one now pinned to his formal attire. But after Prince Wulfric revealed Queen Alibeth’s plans to eradicate magic from the kingdom, complete with witch hunters, the timeline, as they say, dramatically accelerated.

His physiology presented unique challenges. He could not prevent himself from attracting others’ magicae. Nor could he control the constant flux that caused the energy surrounding him to shift through various spectral hues with all the subtlety of a crystal prism spinning in sunlight.

Ryn had hoped, rather optimistically, for something akin to Lady Charlotte’s necklace—a piece that completely masked the wearer’s magicae signature. Sadly, that had proven difficult to replicate. The best they could manage was a brooch with a dampening effect—reducing the vibrant aura to a faint glow and slowing the color shifts to such a glacial pace that casual observation would likely miss the changes altogether. Not perfect, but better than nothing at all.

Moving through the Grand Banquet, Ryn shook hands, kissed cheeks, and exchanged pleasantries with practiced ease and a smile firmly fixed in place. All while watching out for that someone who seemed a touch too interested in everyone else.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

The Alidasht dignitary straightened his formal attire for perhaps the tenth time that evening. With each adjustment to his collar and sleeves, he silently celebrated his extraordinary fortune—not only had he secured an invitation to the Grand Banquet, the crown jewel of Caesonia’s Courting Season, but he’d been assigned a seat that defied his wildest aspirations. To be placed beside Rohit, son of Vali Navi Amar, and within conversational distance of both the Shehzade and Shehzadi! Such proximity to royalty was an opportunity that came once in a lifetime, if at all.

The woman assigned to sit across from him was unknown to him, but possessed an unpretentious beauty that would make the evening’s conversation all the more pleasant. He couldn’t have asked for better arrangements.

For the past hour, he had meticulously worked the room, bowing with practiced precision to nobility from across Eromora. He had showcased his knowledge of Caesonian customs while subtly highlighting Alidasht achievements, careful to neither boast nor appear obsequious. In his own estimation, he had struck precisely the right tone with everyone he’d met.

“Another success,” he murmured to himself, accepting a fresh glass of sparkling amber liquid from a passing servant. The crystal goblet caught the light from the chandeliers overhead, sending tiny prisms dancing across his fingers. It was time to take his seat and cement his newfound connections.

As he turned toward his assigned table, a flash of movement caught his eye.

Like a desert mirage given form, a figure glided across the banquet hall. Flowing fabrics of deep turquoise billowed around them, embroidered with intricate gold patterns that seemed to ripple with each graceful step. Gold bangles and chains adorned their wrists and neck, tinkling softly with movement. A translucent veil of the same turquoise was draped artfully over one shoulder, trailing behind like water flowing over stone.

The figure moved with undeniable confidence—no, more than confidence—with the certainty of someone who had never questioned their right to be anywhere. Their stride was neither hurried nor hesitant, simply purposeful, as if the very floor should feel honored to support their weight.

The dignitary found himself momentarily transfixed. It wasn’t until the figure reached his table and gracefully lowered themselves into his assigned seat that the spell broke.

Into his seat.

The dignitary blinked, then frowned, then felt heat rise to his face. Had this flamboyant interloper just stolen his prized seat at the table? He gripped his goblet tighter and marched toward the table, composing his features into a mask of diplomatic displeasure.

“Excuse me,” he said, his voice carefully modulated to convey authority without aggression. The last thing he wanted was to appear uncouth before the others.

The person turned, and the dignitary found himself staring into eyes the color of aged cognac—penetrating, deep, and unsettlingly direct. Their warm brown skin contrasted with long, blond hair gathered into a thick, loose braid that hung down their back. High cheekbones and a strong jaw gave their features a regal quality, while full lips curved into a smile that managed to be both polite and dismissive. Gold dust highlighted their brows and cheekbones, catching the light with each subtle movement.

“Perfect,” the stranger said, plucking the goblet from his hand with elegant fingers adorned with gold rings. “I was just about to call for a drink.” They turned away without another word, resuming what appeared to be a lively conversation with the others at the table.

The dignitary stood there, empty-handed and increasingly outraged. “I believe there has been a misunderstanding,” he said, his voice sharper now. “That seat is specifically assigned to me as an official envoy from Alidasht. I don’t know who you are, but I must insist—”

As he reached forward to place a hand on the intruder’s shoulder, a low, rumbling growl froze him in place. The dignitary’s eyes dropped to the floor beside the chair, where they met the intense stare of a massive Cane Corso. Muscles tensed visibly beneath the dog’s gleaming black coat as its lips curled back to reveal impressive teeth—a warning that required no translation.

The stranger sighed dramatically and turned back to face him, the polite smile replaced with obvious annoyance. “Hala Sami,” they said with a dismissive wave. “And this seat just got a significant improvement in its occupant.”

Hala Sami? The dignitary felt the blood drain from his face so quickly he feared he might faint. Great Umbra preserve us, what had brought Vali Malik Sami's child to this gathering? His gaze darted involuntarily to the high table where Grand Vizier Hafiz sat.

If the Grand Vizier had summoned a Sami to the banquet, it could only mean one thing.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Farim & Fritz

Time: Evening of the 26th (Flashback)
Place: The woods between Sorian’s Graveyard and the Athletic Stadium

---

It was deep into the night, where Farim stared at a set of correspondence on his desk. They were a mixture of letters and requests from all over the land of Alidasht - things he had always either addressed or outright ignored if the sender proved bothersome enough. He filed away most of the unimportant things until two distinct things lay on his desk. One, a report from his personal entourage of mercenaries reporting back on their most recent findings. The envelope bulged with the stacks of papers that led Farim to believe there was quite a discovery to be unveiled in the parchments that made it to his temporary office. However he decided to push those to the side for the moment, choosing the second envelope with the sigil his company chose to bear for urgent or expedited mail.

He flipped the envelope open with ease, the seal coming undone at the flick of his finger - yet it showed to him there was no tampering done with the letters as the Sorian royal mail service had handled it. This was a reassuring detail to the Shehzade. Inside this envelope was a simple letter, a request of services rendered. It seemed like an almost ordinary transaction, and his brows furrowed in frustration as he wondered why the hell someone would send this kind of thing to him with the level of urgency and notoriety. Then his eyes glanced over it once more, and he chuckled lightly as his naivety. The letters and the inks used to write them were intermixed with bits of black and gold that Farim had initially mistaken for bits of filigree and attempts at making the ledger seem fancy and prestigious. Upon closer inspection, there was a hidden code in the words chosen to be “highlight” with the bits of golden ink - which after some quick translating from Farim’s mental dictionary amounted to the following message:

“Goods found. Purchased required amount. Meet me behind the tombstones.”

Farim sighed. He had hoped to avoid some of his more shady work while out on this “vacation” he liked to affectionately refer to it as. But it would seem that opportunities rarely wait for the optimal moment to present themselves. He took the care to house Thara in her cage and lull her to sleep, placing the black veil over her cage. He then put on his walking shoes and made for the door, informing the scant remaining servants that he simply desired to go for a walk to clear his head, and would be back within the hour. Any longer and they should send for the Royal Guard. From there he took a brisk pace, walking with a purpose as conspicuously as one could, and made his way out of the walls that protected the royal palace. The man took the path down Flora Road, and made a slight detour around the Athletic Stadium. As he pathed along Clover Road, he made it about halfway before lazily shifting his way towards the woods that lined around the stadium. The trees weren’t nearly as dense as he would have liked but they provided light cover from any prying eyes as he neared his target destination: behind the Graveyard.

Little did he know there was someone in the woods there before him.

Wayra’s birds pecked at their reward with all the dignity of seasoned professionals collecting payment from Ryn. In the quiet night, only the soft tik-tik-tik of beaks against dirt filled the air. Then: a ripple through the flock. Every feathered head lifted in unison to catch something beyond human perception. Having learned through considerable experience that when animals behave oddly, one ought to pay attention, Ryn ceased his movements immediately.

Through the gaps between the trees, a figure moved with purpose, their shape barely distinguishable in the darkness. Ryn tracked their progress until moonlight stripped away the mystery, revealing none other than Shehzade Farim.

Naturally, Ryn did what any sensible person would do upon discovering a noble skulking about at night—he followed at a discreet distance. One of the nightingales, apparently sharing his curiosity, fluttered over to perch on his shoulder. Their pursuit led them to the graveyard, where the shehzade moved between the headstones in search of someone. Whether his quarry still possessed a pulse was, Ryn supposed, the sort of detail that would reveal itself shortly.

Making his way towards the farther end of the cemetery, Farim spotted the cloaked figure of his contact sulking near a tombstone. ”This better be worth the trouble.” He coldly stated to the man. The figure walked out from the shadows and gave a bow to Farim. The man was of an average build, choosing to lower his cowl and reveal a head of black hair, fair brown skin, and a short beard that was extremely well groomed. The facial expression on this individual was incredibly intense, despite it seeming like his resting face. The neutral way his mouth was sitting flicked into a smirk as he procured a small pouch from behind him.

“Your warnings were not ignored without good reason, Shehzade. We have finally secured the final bits of materials you requested and could start on the gem shipments you desired and be ahead of the competition on ruby sales. This was on your list of high priority items while you were away. Shall we reschedule?”

Farim shook his head. ”Of course not. Let me see the items, make sure you have the right things.” The prince scanned through the contents of the pouch, seeing various precious metals scattered about in random quantities. Farim rolled his eyes slightly, realizing that he would have to do the quick mathematical calculations for what he desired to do next. He reached into the pouch, picking various bits of the hardened metals until he had assorted just the right proportions. In his hand were bits of aluminum to oxidize into the proper element he needed to bind and color the gemstone he wished to craft. The metals needed for this procedure were chromium for color and corundum for structure. All of these with the ample oxygen in the air would make for a perfect alchemical transaction that he made entirely in his own head while the other man watched.

Looking around, Farim took a quick scan of the surroundings, failing to notice his hidden spectator before turning back to his palm. A brief shining blue light rippled from underneath his shirt as the necklace he wore began to emanate with magical power. His own eyes seemed to glimmer with a light blue hue as he closed his fist around the metals. Farim muttered words to himself, only audible to the forces that willed his work into existence. This was not merely just a spell to be cast, but a transaction to be agreed upon. Raw materials and life force to be traded away for a desired end product. Most who would dare such feats would find themselves aged by years for every time they decided to brave such powerful magicks. Yet mysteriously, Farim seemed to stay completely in his physical prime, unaffected by the toll of the spell. Aside from a brief dizzy spell, the Shehzade remained stoic and focused while watching the light blue light pulse from the palm of his hand, and when he opened it back up, a pristine bundle of rubies had taken the place of the metals before. The other man looked in awe as the process occurred, distracted from any onlookers while going to reach for the gemstones to secure them back into his bag.

Through the enchanted lenses perched on his nose, Ryn witnessed what ordinary eyes could never comprehend. The magicae manifested as gossamer threads of blue light, unspooling from the raw materials in Shehzade Farim’s palm. Each component surrendered its original form, dissolving into their purest essence. Like a master weaver at an invisible loom, the magic pulled and twisted these strands into a new pattern until what once was became what must be, and brilliant rubies gleamed before the men.

The nightingale tilted at that peculiar angle birds favor when something catches their attention. “What do you think?” Ryn whispered to the bird, knowing full well that Wayra could hear him through their feathered proxy. If Wayra had formed any opinion about this display of alchemical mastery, they kept it to themselves, and the nightingale merely preened its wing in response.

Ryn returned his attention to the scene before him. He would wait until the shehzade’s cloaked companion took his leave—then they could have a proper conversation about what exactly one does with magically transmuted rubies in a graveyard at this hour.

The rubies shimmered and almost glistened despite the lack of natural light shining through them - the traces of magic still fading with each moment. Farim took a moment and held his head on the tips of his fingers to stave off any exhaustion that crept over. His associate took the rubies into his pouch and nodded. “These shall come home with our newest shipment, I already have three buyers ready and whenever you are ready - I can supply more of the chorundum and chromium for more transactions at a moment’s-” Farim quickly hushed the man, turning his eyes around the graveyard and stopping for just a moment.

In his time training with Thara, there were often moments like this. Moments where the bird of prey would be stalking out of sight and ready to get the jump on Farim. To the two of them it was merely a game they loved to play back home. Here, the sensation of being watched had an entirely different connotation. Farim looked at the other man, who quickly nodded and raise his cowl back up, seemingly fading into the darkness behind the tombstone and moving through a crack in the fence that was previously unseen. Farim, however, chose a different path. He walked out the front entrance to the cemetery and immediately turned left - away from the way he came.

—And when he turned the corner, someone was waiting there. “Good evening, Shehzade.”

As soon as Shehzade Farim’s clandestine friend had slipped away, the nightingale lifted into the darkness, carrying their shared questions on its wings. Left alone to face the shehzade, Ryn bowed—not too deep, not too shallow—and watched the other man for what might come next.

The answer to his gut instinct from before had finally arrived - what he thought was perhaps an animal was instead a fully clothed man. This could be problematic. How much did they see? Was he the one I felt watching me earlier? This is what I get for trying to do business on foreign soil…” Farim stopped, keeping his external reaction relaxed and measured. He stopped to return the bow, placing his arms over one another before smiling at the man. “Good evening to you as well, my friendly Count Fritz.” Farim said while scratching his chin. Feigning ignorance and innocence was a good place to start, but the Shehzade was in for a rude awakening once Count Fritz would reveal what he saw play out before his very eyes.

The silence stretched between them until Ryn, thinking it would be unkind to keep the shehzade in suspense any longer, broke it. “I wonder,” he said, his voice carrying the lightness of someone discussing the weather. “When someone transmutes items in such a fashion... Does that make them counterfeit?”

The count tapped his chin thoughtfully, “The rubies are genuine—as far as I can discern, they possess all the qualities one expects of rubies. Their provenance is simply, shall we say, unconventional.”

“So it would seem you saw quite a bit of my last little transaction. Is this …. Provenance, as you put it, going to be a problem with you?” There was some concern in his voice - but Farim still kept his attitude level. There is a chance the count could simply be curious. He seemed like the curious type after all. But this was a secret scant knew about, and he found it rather sloppy of him to let himself be discovered so easily.

Removing him from the equation is out of the question. Murdering a foreigner in foreign lands would land me in the deepest of troubles to say the least. I only hope this man can be bartered, bought, or reasoned with. Elsewise this is going to be a problematic situation. Even a memory wiping spell would rouse suspicion, but … if I must… Farim tried to quickly recall the necessary incantations in the back of his mind, but still waited to ‘pull the trigger’ until the Count’s intentions were clear.

“Me? Oh no, I couldn’t care less.” Step by careful step, Ryn drew closer to the shehzade. Like a cobra poised to strike, the man held himself still, muscles locked in; Ryn pretended not to notice. “What I do care about is what price you’re paying for these transmutations.”

His gaze drifted to where the necklace hid underneath Shehzade Farim’s shirt. When their eyes met, genuine concern colored his words: “Are you alright?”

Farim arched an eyebrow. The man seemed awfully casual about the display of magic, despite its natural stigma. “If you must insist. I perform the feats myself to inflate the supply of a rather bottle-necked market. Not enough to ruin its worth, but enough to make its price more reasonable to the common buyer - while still maintaining a profit myself.” Farim began to continue his walk, silently inviting Ryn to join him.

“Me? I am fine. I hope you remain the same. I frankly do not have the energy to be fighting off conspirators against me. But I will if I must.” This served as both an admission of no ill-intentions, yet reminded the Count that should things go south he would not hesitate from protecting himself.

“You talk of worth. Of price. In the monetary sense, that is largely negotiable. It depends largely on buyer and seller. But in the matters of transmutation, it is a lot more cut and dry. Components come together to form an equal whole - a transaction that is indisputable and very dangerous if mishandled. But fear not, I am expert in the realm of alchemy.” His hand instinctively grazed along his chest, resting over the necklace that was underneath his nightgown. “So I perform a transaction with the forces of nature that bring this world together, and strike a deal with the men and women who bring our society together. Quite the grand exchange, no?”

A merchant’s answer from a merchant prince—that Shehzade Farim’s immediate answer was about the monetary angle of “price” rather than the toll such transmutations could take on body and mind spoke volumes.

The threat washed past Ryn like water over stone. Not that he doubted the shehzade’s capability or resolve—such a confrontation between them would surely leave both men broken and bloodied—but the warning seemed more for the shehzade’s comfort than any real intent to fight.

“You could achieve the same ends through other means, especially for someone of your station.” Ryn said, falling into step beside him. His hands loosely clasped behind his back. “Why court such danger?”

Farim nodded in affirmation. It was certainly true he could just scour the market. But why not use the tools at his disposal? Well that…and a few other reasons he would disclose. “Well, as I said, it is to bring more supply into an otherwise starved market. The mines back home can only bring in so many gemstones. And most of those mines are owned by corrupt warlords who wish to charge exuberant prices for meager goods. So in one fell swoop I control my own supply from production to supplier to seller, and make it more affordable and accessible to the public. These are both rather beneficial things no? Not to mention the amount of social capital that comes from being the guy who can essentially get you any good on the market for a much fairer rate.” He smirked, pride shining off of him from his not-so-humble description of his status as a Trade Prince. “Such things do come with risk. Competition begets opposition. And opposition is what gets you gutted and ditched in a back alley.” A sad but all too gruesome reality that he would have to be wary of, even here in the far off lands that knew little of his struggles back home - save a scant few.

The shehzade coughed slightly, and his step wavered for just a moment before he rebalanced and continued. “This form of magic is admittedly taxing for the average individual, but I am someone who has a vast supply of resources … and help.” He nodded, practically to himself, at the mention of the word ‘help’. “So with such magical affinity I figured I may as well run the well for as long as I can - before it dries up naturally. My youthful vigor and stamina will only stay with me for so long!” He chuckled as he made a playful gesture with his hand, pointing at the sky. It was then that Farim turned and actually looked at Count Fritz rather than at the road ahead.

At the slight cough and unsteady step, Ryn’s hand found its way to the shehzade’s back without thought or hesitation. Even after Shehzade Farim recovered his balance, Ryn’s hand lingered, hovering just above the fabric. Only when the shehzade’s next steps proved sure did Ryn finally let his arm fall back to his side.

Although there were many things left unsaid, Ryn simply nodded. “I see.”

“You seem awfully comfortable with a topic that most would consider deathly taboo or otherwise unspeakable. Am I to understand that you are a purveyor of magical arts as well? Or know someone who is?”

“Yes,” Ryn said, continuing past him.

After a few steps along the empty street, the sound of his footsteps fell silent. He turned, meeting Shehzade Farim’s gaze through the darkness. “Which is why I’d like to propose a partnership.”

Farim raised an eyebrow and cast his intrigued yet skeptical expression towards the man. “You have my attention. What kind of partnership?”

“Your work is remarkable, Shehzade.” Ryn said, “However, it’s clear you’re shouldering a considerable burden alone. Crosswinds Trading Company has the resources and reach to help you achieve your goals on a much larger scale—and with far less risk to yourself. A way to transform your solitary operation into something sustainable.”

Moonlight spilled across the empty street as clouds parted overhead. In that silvery illumination, the tiredness etched in Shehzade Farim’s features seemed more pronounced. The sight only strengthened Ryn’s resolve.

“We can provide secure supply lines for materials and finished products across multiple borders, eliminating the need for clandestine transactions in graveyards. More importantly, we can connect you with others who understand magical craftsmanship. With our access to alchemical components, you could distribute the workload among skilled practitioners. This would free you to explore the full breadth of your talents without sacrificing your wellbeing, all while expanding your production capacity.”

He nodded. “I am quite familiar with the capabilities of my competitors.” Farim gave a sly smirk. “I say that in the friendly sense. Alliances can be rather lucrative in the right hands.” There was a fair amount to consider here - what he was doing was merely a supply line - a test for the end goal if anything. But things could prove far more interesting and bountiful if he were to start laying his influence/presence in places outside his home - an international trading company would be quite the feat. He smiled at the thought.

“The strain is merely a bit of dizziness and fatigue. Much like after a long physical exercise. The body can recover so long as you do not push it past the breaking point - a line that I am all too familiar with.” He guided their steps away from their current path along Priscilla Avenue and made their way into the Sorian Botanical Gardens - a short detour that would hopefully throw off any further people tailing them.

“Today was more of a test than the real thing - back home there are many ways I can alleviate the work duties I am hounded with. But that is not to say I am not interested in how your company handles the alchemical arts. With magical persuasion to boot. Sounds like a rather one-sided affair if I am to be frank - what is it that you desire out of such a relationship, my friend?”

“We’ll take our fair share of the profit, naturally—all quite negotiable. However, I believe what we could achieve through this partnership goes beyond coins.” A gleam sparked in his eyes as he gestured at the empty night around them. “Together, we could reshape the market, make the unreachable reachable for those who’ve never had the means.” His voice quickened with rising enthusiasm.

“And the knowledge, Shehzade—when great minds converge, we could birth wonders in alchemy that neither of us has dreamed alone.” The words came slower now. “And knowledge, once gained, benefits all.”

Dropping his passionate tone to something more measured, another thought surfaced. “If you are interested, I should very much like your assistance in crafting enchanted items.”

Farim stroked his chin in thought, he was hesitant to jump into such arrangements with a man he had only met the other day - but the implications were indeed tempting. Count Fritz had been speaking just the right language for the pragmatic Trade Prince to see eye to eye with him. He grinned at the ideas that formed in his cranium. “Coins are material and can always be arranged with little effort. But such capital is not to be disregarded. Money holds power in today's world. One day it may not - but we must use this to our advantage.” He took a brief pause to graze his fingertips over the nearby tulips in the garden as they made their way out onto the main street once more. He cast a wary gaze behind him to check for any onlookers and tailgaters - but found none.

“You know. I did have aspirations to go international. I did not think such an opportunity would strike while I am doing questionable exchanges under moonlight - but I suppose life is about those little surprises, no?” Farim chuckled, but morphed into a business-like cadence. “I am interested in putting together some arrangements - I have conscripts and available muscle to secure anything and everything you could possibly want - and of course you know about the secret ace in my sleeve. So what exactly is it you need? You mention the thought of enchanting items…is there a particular desire you have in mind?” Farim’s voice slid like silk from the bottom of his throat as he seemed to pace around the man, oozing a charismatic glow like that of a proper salesperson.

The night air stilled first around their feet, then crept upward like frost climbing a windowpane. As the raven-haired man’s eyelids fell shut, even the crickets went silent, their songs snuffed out like candles in a gust.

“One item to unveil truths forgotten and lost.” The words emerged without breath, as if spoken directly into the mind.

Nature itself seemed to draw back, leaving a void where summer sounds should have been. No rustle of leaves, no whisper of wind, no scurrying of small creatures in the underbrush. A silence thick as cotton wool smothered the night—wrong in a season that should have hummed with life.

“Another to sever the chains that bind blood to oath, generation upon generation.”

The count turned to face Farim, until shehzade and noble stood eye to eye. Where light had danced in those black eyes moments before, now gaped twin wells of darkness, drowning what little illumination the night offered. “And lastly, an item to separate beings from the minds and spaces they’ve claimed, but should not possess.”

The shift in tone and demeanor noticeable in the man was enough to put Farim on edge for the duration of his descriptions. When a man goes from being upfront to cryptic it often bodes ill, at least in Farim’s experiences. Despite the skepticism, Farim observed the man carefully and continued with his friendly approach, playing ignorant to the dancing orbs of darkness in Ryn's skull.

“Well as colorful as your descriptors are, I am afraid I am not aware of such items. It sounds more like you have a purpose in mind for such an item rather than an item in mind for such a purpose if I am making any sense.” Farim spun around, hands clasped together and index fingers pushed outward. He walked with him once more down the street, continuing their lackadaisical journey back to Danrose Castle.

“An item to unveil truths forgotten and lost - like ones that a person has forgotten? Something to recover memories perhaps? Or to maybe find lost relics? I am buzzing with questions now!”

“As would I, if I were in your position,” the count said with a smile. “I’ll answer your questions as plainly as circumstance allows.” There was a pause before he continued, “That said, I hope you’ll understand that certain details must wait until we’ve properly agreed upon the scope of your involvement.”

“Oh,” The raven-haired man blinked, and the glimmer in his eyes returned, bright and steady as if it had never faded. “And please, rest assured on one point: this matter stands entirely separate from our earlier discussion of partnership. Your Highness’s decision about the items will have no bearing on Crosswinds Trading’s offer.”

Extending his hand toward the shehzade, Ryn said, “I have no intention of leading you blindly into any undertaking, Shehzade Farim. This, I can promise.”

Farim raised his eyebrows - this was certainly an interesting predicament to be found in. An alliance and a shady deal all in one? This seemed a little odd and nefarious for his liking - but he was not one to turn down such a lucrative and informative endeavor. Farim reached a hand out, pausing to decree his stance on the matter first. Not to mention, someone owing you a favor was the most valuable currency of all. “Based on what you have described, an alliance between companies seems only logical. However the more mystical-aligned tasks are clouded too far for me to grant you any guarantees. I will however humor any proposals you send my way - but it must be through encoded correspondence.” His hand finally reached the distance to the Count’s and firmly shook it.

“Any direct letters asking such favors will be promptly disposed of and I shall deny any and all further contact in such regards. Possibly even all contact if word gets out - as casual as I am about this secret I will make the greatest of efforts to assure it stays here.” Farim added his emphasis to the last of his sentence. He figured the Count would not be as foolish as to do such a thing - but he had to make sure things were crystal clear from both of their points of view.

The Shehzade was cautious, but not cautious enough. “Your terms regarding encoded messages are quite sensible, Shehzade. However, might I suggest a slight amendment? No written correspondence, encrypted or otherwise, until we’ve formalized our agreement concerning the requested items. Given the delicacy of the situation, I believe these conversations are best held face to face. After all—” smiling faintly, Ryn added, “it'll be easier for your Highness to maintain plausible deniability without a paper trail.” Once the agreement was reached, their mutual need for secrecy would bind them.

Farim raised a brow and smiled at the idea. “Well a meeting in person is just as dangerous to be fair - I was not discovered until my business partner had asked me to come out this evening.” He offered a slight wink. “If you are requesting we meet in person - it shall be under a guise different than tonight. In cases that you wish to speak with me over a transaction or some kind of acquisition, you need only invite me for some tea. From there we can hopefully speak in private, should you know of any good areas to congregate. If not I can find my own.” Farim smirked.

Ryn nodded. Perfect. The shehzade arrived at the same idea he had. Two nobles with mercantile interests sharing tea were less likely to cause suspicion. “And should I find myself simply wishing to enjoy your Highness’s company over tea?” Then, his gaze lifted to the darkened sky above them, searching for a silhouette among the scattered stars. “Or to make the better acquaintance of your feathered companion?”

Farim chuckled. “Then do not ask me for tea. Ask for some brunch, or perhaps some coffee!” The tension wrought from trying to meet in secret was smoothed out by the promise of consensual camaraderie, and Farim felt himself ease up slightly. “Thara is happy to make new friends as well. She, however, is not present. I wanted her to enjoy some rest tonight - as this was originally going to be a quick little outing. But I am not complaining about the circumstances that I have met with tonight.” He said with a smirk, and continued trailing them back towards the castle down the main road.

Ryn nodded, a smile finding its way to his lips. “If fates are indeed the weavers of circumstance, they’ve been most generous with their threads tonight.” His voice carried the warmth of genuine satisfaction. “I’m grateful our paths crossed when they did. Perhaps next time, Thara might honor me with her presence.”

When they reached the front doors to the guest house, Ryn turned to face the Shehzade. “Thank you again for even considering my proposition. The evening has proven far more productive than I dared hope.” The anticipation practically made him glow. “I look forward to our next conversation.” Then he bowed—not too deeply to suggest subservience, not too shallowly to suggest disrespect.

Mirroring the gesture, Farim bowed towards the man. An equal exchange of hopes to bettering the future of tomorrow. “It has proven a far better turn of events than it could have been. As far as potential personas to happen upon my outings - it js fortuitous that it was you, my friend.” Farim smiled, reaching behind him to slowly and quietly open the door inward.

“Until our next tea time.” Farim winked.

Avalia

Time: A.M.
Location: The River Port Lodge
Interactions/Mentions: @Conscripts @mole
Equipment: Knife, drugs, and wallet looted from dope peddler

✠✠✠✠✠

Whatever secrets that lizardman was fixing to spill to Aurora died in his throat when Vasco spoke first. “You know what I been thinking? I ain’t never owned a proper pair of lizard skin shoes.” He swirled the beer in his glass, foam clinging to the sides, before taking a sip. “Hear they last forever if you take care of them right. Waterproof too. Imagine that.”

The glass hit the counter hard enough to make the bartender jump and retreat to the far end of the bar. In a few strides, Vasco reached the wooden pillar where the knife still jutted from their earlier disagreement and wrapped his fingers around the handle. He yanked it free with a single tug on his way to Zarnak.

His eyes measured the lizardman from snout to tail. “Figure with a specimen like you, I could get a three-piece suit, couple pairs of wingtips, maybe even one of them fancy valises the fellas from New York carry.”

The lizardman's throat worked up and down. “Y-you wouldn’t f-fucking dare,” he hissed, but the stutter gave him away. Amazing what an ice water bath does to a tough guy’s constitution.

Vasco laughed. “Pal, I absolutely would.” He flipped the knife between his fingers. “You think the green man’s bad? See, between the two of us, I’m the real hoodlum. I used to break and put fellas in the ground for a living and for fun.”

He jerked his chin toward Aurora, who stood watching with that particular blend of horror and resignation Vasco had seen before—on judges, on priests, on good women who found themselves in bad company. “And sweetheart ain’t gonna lift a finger to stop me. Cause you see, for all her high-minded talk, when chips are down, your scaly hide ain’t worth squat next to her brother’s. She don’t wanna get those pretty hands dirty, so she’ll just turn away and pray for our damned souls.”

Vasco circled Zarnak slowly, appraising him like merchandise as he considered where best to start skinning from.

“Kill me, you’ll n-never find out where the p-pretty boy elf is,” Zarnak managed, desperation seeping through like sweat.

Vasco shrugged, loose and easy. “Too bad for them, then.” He settled on the thug’s left arm, where muscle bunched beneath scales that caught the light like oiled metal. “Maybe a nice belt and a wallet might ease their grief some.”

The lizard’s jaws parted, but Vasco pressed the knife tip against a scale where arm met shoulder, silencing him. “Save your breath, buddy. I want those shoes more than the elf.”

The blade slipped under with surprising ease. Vasco worked it flat against the connective tissue, separating the tough outer layer of scales from the flesh beneath.

He was no backwoodsman—he’d grown up where streetlamps outnumbered trees and concrete covered the earth. But he’d stood behind enough butchers in enough basements, watching as the Family’s problems disappeared one cut at a time. Some things you learn without meaning to.

Being a thug, Zarnak had probably survived worse—most muscles do—but Vasco understood the difference between pain and suffering. When you’re trading punches in an alley, the blood pumping and fists flying, your body gives you something for the pain—a rush that makes you crave it. But strapped to a chair? That slow, methodical suffering with nothing to do but feel every second of it? That's when even the toughest wiseguys start singing.

He’d separated about six inches of scale when Zanark’s curses turned into something useful.

“S-storehouse! STOREHOUSE!” The word tore from his throat.

Vasco paused, cupping his bad ear and leaned closer. “What’s that? Gonna need you to enunciate, pal. Can’t hear so good.”

“There’s a storehouse! Near the graveyards! Behind the large abandoned warehouse! That’s where they took him!”

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

^{Inspiration Music:Siúil A Rúin}

You watch from the shadows of the wings. Each performance holds you transfixed—the falconer and his bird dancing through the air, the pianist pouring his soul through ivory keys, the performer who makes himself a puppet to tell a story of loneliness, the poet bleeding his heart onto the stage. You respond exactly as expected, exactly as needed. Eyes sparkle, a breath catches in your throat, the tears well in your eyes at precisely the right moments.

As each performer exits the stage, you rush to meet them, effusive with praise and gratitude for their part in the event.

The worst part is your sincerity. Every word genuine, every sentiment real. Even as you play your role, you can’t help but mean it all.

We do not fault you for this. You are only doing what you and yours were bred for. Generation after generation, carefully cultivated to be the consummate host.

And so when the cellist finishes her piece, her tears falling freely for her lost friend, you don’t hesitate. You move to her side, offering comfort wrapped in gentle words and gentler touch. As she seems to struggle to find composure, you turn to face the crowd, voice rising in song.

The audience stirs in confusion. This isn’t in the program. The curtain whispers closed behind you as you approach the edge of the stage.

Your voice carries alone at first, clear and unadorned in the hushed space. Then—a child’s voice joins yours from the audience. Sweet and uncertain. Others shush them, but you gesture for them to continue, humming the opening notes again in encouragement. The child’s voice returns stronger, and other children join eagerly. The elderly come next, memories crystallizing as the familiar tune awakens something long dormant. A folk song from nurseries and market squares. The kind of song that fades from memory in the busy years of adulthood, only to resurface with startling clarity in life's twilight, when the oldest memories shine brightest. Before long the whole theater resonates with voices in harmony.

We don’t know why you chose that old song—perhaps you didn’t choose it at all. Perhaps it chose you, this fragment of a time when we were still theirs, when they were still ours. When the world was smaller, softer, though no less cruel.

And it hurts, to be reminded that no matter how many times they betrayed us, damned us, abandoned and forgot us, we can never stop loving our perfectly imperfect children. We keen our loss to those who can no longer hear us, while still catching their every whispered prayer, every muttered curse, every muffled sob.

Through you, in this moment, we can pretend. Our children’s voices rise to meet yours, and for a heartbeat, it feels like they are answering us. We weep.

You smile through our tears, for you are, and always were, only a puppet.

So continue your performance. Sing until your voice gives out. Dance until your legs splinter and your strings fray. Smile until the paint chips away. When you’re finally spent, you’ll be discarded for another.

Then we’ll do this all over again, Griffith. Forevermore.

---

---

Fritz "Ryn" Hendrix

Time: Sola 28 1739; Daytime Hours
Location: Edin Theater
Interaction(s)/Mention(s): @Lava Alckon @samreaper @FunnyGuy @princess @Silverpaw @Helo

Light flooded the stage as the curtains swept open to reveal the grand finale, carried by a surge of music that nearly—but not quite—drowned out the collective intake of breath from the spectators. Dancers spun and leapt in perfect synchronization, creating a dazzling whirl of color that held every eye in thrall. Ryn slipped into their ranks, matched their movements as if he had rehearsed with them a hundred times instead of joining on the fly. At just the right moment, he used the choreography to mask his exit, and left the onlookers none the wiser.

Time to round up everyone for the curtain call. Darting backstage, he corralled participants like a shepherd collecting wayward sheep.

As he gestured to the large mirrors lining the stage, the count reminded all present of the setup. “Everyone, please get into position behind the mirrors. When the lights dim, we’ll have the flash powder go off,” he mimed an explosion with his hands, “—and then, poof! You appear before the audience, then take your bows.” He grinned, but the expression faltered as he counted heads. Someone was missing. “Has anyone seen Master Kazumin?”

Ryn found him in short order, wedged between two of the sovereign’s knights, looking rather like a mouse that had stumbled into a cats’ tea party. The knights, for their part, seemed to be practicing their most menacing looms—quite successfully, he had to admit.

“My good sirs,” Ryn’s voice carried just the right note of scandalized disbelief. “Surely the king’s own knights wouldn’t dream of doing something as gauche as dragging Baron Hugonin’s ward away like some common criminal before the curtain call?” He paused for effect, his expression one of polite horror. “Why, think of how poorly that would reflect on His Majesty! No, no, a ruler of King Edin’s sophistication would undoubtedly wait until the event’s proper conclusion before having his distinguished knights respectfully escort his guest to him.” Another pause, this one weighted with a terrible realization. “Unless... you fine gentlemen are implying that His Majesty lacks the patience for basic etiquette?”

The knights exchanged uncomfortable glances that suggested they were reconsidering their timing, if not their intent. After a moment of pointed silence, they released their grip on Mr. Kazumin and stepped back.

“I thank you, gentlemen.” Ryn said with an inclination of his head. “Your dedication to duty is commendable. His Majesty clearly chose his knights well. The curtain call will commence shortly.”

With that settled, he turned to the other man. “This way, Master Kazumin,” Ryn said, steering Mr. Kazumin away before anyone could change their mind. Once they were out of earshot, he murmured, “Quite the fan club you’ve acquired. Are you unharmed?” His tone was light, despite the small knot of worry in his chest.

Hurrying toward the stage, he added more seriously, “The curtain call should buy you some time to consider your options. Whatever you decide, I’ll help however I can.” He gave Mr. Kazumin’s shoulder a reassuring pat.

They reached the wings to find the other performers had already lined up behind the mirrors. Ryn positioned Mr. Kazumin with the others, then darted to his mark.

The finale proceeded like clockwork—the stage went dark, the mirrors were whisked offstage, a brilliant flash lit the theater, followed by a shower of confetti, and all the performers stood revealed to meet thunderous applause. The company bowed as one, then Ryn stepped forward, arms spread wide.

“Ladies and gentlemen, what a feast of talent we’ve witnessed today! I hope you’ve all enjoyed this showcase as much as I have.” The audience’s cheers swelled in response.

“Please, let’s hear it once more for our incredible performers who shared their gifts with us.” He led another round of applause as the crowd obliged enthusiastically.

“And for you,” Ryn turned and gestured broadly, “our wonderful audience, who made this event truly special with your support.” The cheering grew louder.

“And of course we must thank—” Then, with perfect timing, the spotlight swung to the royal box, “the gracious royal family for their presence.”

He smiled expectantly. “Would Your Majesties, Highnesses, and Ladyship honor us with your thoughts on each performance?” The light illuminated King Edin, Queen Alibeth, the princes, and—well, it would have shone on Lady Morrigan had she not retreated further into the box, her fan snapping open to shield her lower face.

The former king’s maxim about women being seen and not heard still held sway in public events, it seemed. For whenever her turn came, Lady Morrigan conducted her approval through an elegant semaphore of silent gestures—a nod here, a graceful wave there.

Only twice did she deviate from this style of review. Once, for Duke Vikena, she fanned herself rapidly, her hand pressed to her chest. The other time, for Princess Anastasia, she mouthed what might have been superb and blew a kiss.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Fritz "Ryn" Hendrix

Time: Sola 28 1739; Daytime Hours
Location: Edin Theater
Interaction(s)/Mention(s): @princess @Silverpaw

The organized chaos of final preparations echoed through the theater. Ryn darted between velvet curtains and gilded doorways, checking and double-checking arrangements that would ensure every guest—whether they arrived in silk finery or worn woolens—felt equally welcome within its grand walls.

Movement in the royal viewing booth caught his eye. Ryn’s smile at seeing both monarchs, and the princes, in attendance withered as he watched King Edin settle into his seat with all the enthusiasm of a man attending his own tax audit. Beside him, Lady Morrigan maintained a steady stream of cheerful conversation, her hand occasionally touching his leg when his gaze drifted toward the exit. Clearly, it had taken more than Ryn’s personal invitation to get him here.

He found Princess Anastasia tucked away in the wings, her fingers tracing invisible patterns on her dress. “Are you ready, Miss Annie?” he asked, tapping her elbow. He then gestured in the direction of the royal box. “Look who's here to see you!”

Right on cue, Lady Morrigan caught sight of them and waved enthusiastically. The king, meanwhile, had apparently discovered a heretofore unknown passion for architectural lighting fixtures. His studied ignorance of his daughter was so pointed it might as well have been a stranger sitting in the box.

Why did King Edin go to such lengths to ignore what was right in front of him?

Ryn watched Princess Anastasia’s face, noting the minute shifts in her expression and her hands. He leaned closer, pitching his voice low enough that only she could hear. “As much as I’m looking forward to your performance... you don’t have to force yourself to be here. If you need more time for yourself, that’s perfectly fine. I can fill in.” The train incident hung unspoken between them. Even without Wayra’s birds keeping watch over the city, word of her railway stunt had raced through the capital faster than the train itself.

“If you do choose to take the stage. Whatever’s been eating at you—” his eyes flickered meaningfully toward the royal box, “this is your chance to let them hear it.” He indicated her cello, knowing that music could be just as powerful as words.

“These acoustics?” Ryn pointed above them. “They’re perfect for reaching even the most determinedly distracted audiences.” And with considerably less risk than making her point standing on the tracks in front of a moving train.