Luftwaffles

To Meddle in the Affairs of Dragons

The gardens of Zelemoyod were known for being fabulously extravagant. Swaths of strange tropical plants and sweeping arrays of multicoloured flowers were placed artfully in planters and constantly attended to. Fountains and braziers crafted by magicians could preform without any system of circulation or maintenance. Even as winter arrived and snow coated the rest of the city, walls of glass were raised around the gardens and they were painstakingly maintained by skilled magicians that created a constant layer of heat to keep the plants alive and thriving. Only the house of Virtanen, one of the most ancient and powerful families of shadow elves, could consistently afford to expand and maintain the gardens in their capital city. They paid for this exuberance with their many plantations in the south of the country, where slaves toiled in their fields and mines to produce the vast wealth that was then squandered on flowers and magical fountains. Rosiland was a land of regular such contrasts.

A woman in a fine dress sat on a stone bench in the magnificent gardens, surrounded by exotic flowers that she tended to carefully. Her clothing was made of soft wool and sable fur, with intricate golden designs playing across the black fabric. Her hair, too, was interwoven with shining metal and polished coins that chimed as she turned her head. On her face she wore a mask of polished wood that was coloured the same as her skin. The woman was a shadow elf, and she sat in the garden that bore her families crest. She tenderly plucked a leaf from one of her many plants, crushing it in her hand and letting it fall to the floor. The elf sighed.

“Your excellency, the delegation has arrived.” Another elf, dressed in similar but decidedly inferior clothing, spoke from behind a curtain of hanging wisterias. She nodded, waving the servant away with a nervous flick of her wrist. The vague sound of opening doors could be heard, and then the click of boots on a polished floor. The elf stood up, clasping her hands together and reviewing herself in a reflecting pool behind her seat. She looked as presentable as one could expect, given her current situation. Before she could linger on her appearance any longer, her visitors passed through the hanging flowers.

There were three of them in total. All of them wore plated mail of similar quality, but the question of their leader was instantly clear. The woman at the head of their delegation looked moved with hawkish confidence, and settled into an entirely severe expression as she entered the meeting grounds. The two behind her were recognizable for their movement as well, as robotic and distinct as it was. Religious-soldiers, from the mountains of the eastern lands. The chamberlain that had lead them into the gardens raised his voice. “You are now in the presence of Volikova Irina Virtanen, daughter of Masher Valerian Virtanen, the lady of Zelemoyod and all estates subordinate, rightful heir to the highest seat of the elven table, first ruler of the true race and all others inferior.” The chamberlain now turned to Volikova, bowing deeply. None of the foreigners did the same. Without missing a beat, the noble servant rose and continued with his introductions. “Your excellency, this is Azima on the Path, High Zealot of Sindhus.” Volikova nodded and dismissed the chamberlain as another servant entered with a sliver platter carrying a bottle of wine and accompanying glasses. The Virtanen sat down, prompting the High Zealot to do the same. The Sindisi elected to stand.

“Your holiness, it is a true pleasure to host you in glorious Zelemoyod." Voilkova delicately removed her mask, placing it on the bench beside her. "I am glad you arrived safely. Would you care for some sort of beverage? After such a long journey through our angry seas, you must be parched. Some spiced wine to warm your soul?”

The High Zealot shook her head slowly. “I do not partake.”

Volikova smiled cordially and poured herself a glass of wine. “I understand. A holy commander such as yourself must be very busy these days, now that the throne of Sindhus sits without a monarch. Protecting the faith, the country, and your own armies… It must be a relatively exhausting affair. No time for such trivialities, I suppose.” The shadow elf shrugged inconsequentially. “I must also say, I am heavily interested in your curious religion. I’ve been reading much of your scripture, and as complex as it can be, I believe I am learning much from it. We have our own Signal on the Path here in Zelemoyod - did you see it on your way in?”

Azima looked unimpressed.

The shadow elf tapped her glass awkwardly. The easterner was obviously not one for small talk. “Let us cleave to the matter at hand, then. Rosiland is in a terrible state of decay and chaos. My house was once the undisputed leader of this land, both in terms of influence and wealth. We lead the High Table that unified the great families and provided stability and profit for all. Now, these golden days have been abandoned in favour of infighting and withdrawal. The humans that dwell under our banner are on the verge of separation, slaves free themselves and form barbaric war-bands that plague the countryside, and my fellow elves have abandoned my rightful claim in favour of a parade of imposters and replacements.” She raised her chin in an attempt to appear stoic. “Azima, your father and my father were steadfast allies. Now that this misfortune has befallen my house, those that I called friends have left me like rats fleeing a sinking ship. As was dictated by the past agreement created by our noble fathers, the nation of Sindhus and the house of Virtanen are true confederates. You are my last ally.”

“Our fathers are dead.” The High Zealot shook her head. “Their informal agreement died with them. I am not bound by law to support your claim, and as such, I see no reason to. Your estates are in a state of ruin after the crusaders razed them, and your army is spent for the same reason. Based on my most recent reports, your army is hardly capable of capturing a grain store, never mind the country. Your vaults are empty and at least a third of your slaves have been freed.” She frowned thinly. “If I should like to find an ally in Rosiland, I would look to the other great families who now emerge to usurp you. They are the true power now.”

Volikova pursed her lips, attempting to contain her visible disgust. “The upstarts in Rvymoyod that would have the audacity to call themselves great have no right to my seat at the High Table. They circle like vultures, breaking their oaths of support and instead relishing our downfall. Some of them even supported the slave revolts that swept through and continue to devastate our plantations." Her hands curled into fists. “House Virtanen will reign again, and all those that detracted will be punished. I ask you for your support in this endeavour.”

“Your family is incompetant.” Azima waved her hand, gesturing to the many servants and mages that milled about the gardens just out of earshot. “You maintain this place of flowers and fancies, but not an army large enough to defend your lands?” She shook her head. “The only reason your house even stood a chance against the crusaders was the support that the east provided. I would find it easier to personally conquer the whole of Rosiland than support your attempt in the matter.”

The shadow elf set her drink down. “You would not.”

Azima smiled without mirth. “Oh?”

"We elves are a proud and stubborn race, and the vast majority of us consider your kind to be..." Volikova paused for a moment, attempting to find the right words. "...inferior in many ways. Your governance would be accepted for a time, but it could not last. Rosiland would never bow to a human. After all, if a rabid dog walks into your home, do you let it assume control, or do you merely wait for it to turn its back so you can simply hit it with a stick?”

The High Zealot didn’t respond, but her expression made it clear that her patience was wearing thin.

“Not that I meant to compare you to a hound, my friend.” The shadow elf sighed. “It is true, what you say. Virtanen estates were burned, our armies decimated, and my family massacred. My great house was decimated. As you fought the crusaders in the desolate fields of Iurusolym, so did I resist them in these lands. One by one my siblings, my parents; all of them were slaughtered by the sanctified mob that touted around the countryside. When they finally left, I was the sole heir to these devastated lands.” Volikova’s voice was lined with venom. “But there will come a time when they are not so strong, when their own holy vultures begin to circle. And at that time, when Rosiland is united under my banner, I will come to see vengeance be done.”

A spark of interest flickered in Azima’s steely eyes.

“For the sake of our fathers,” Volikova eyed the easterner willfully. “bring your legions to Rosiland. Assist me in crushing my enemies and seizing my rightful seat at the High Table. Once I am solidified in my position, I shall be your steadfast ally in all matters. Your armies will be given free and open passage through Rosiland, and your merchants and tradesman shall be elevated above all other sort."

Azima was silent for a short period, considering all that had been said. “If you will recognize the authority of Sindhus over the whole of Rosiland, I will give you a crown to rule it in my stead.”

Volikova narrowed her eyes. “There is no crown you can give me, Azima. The High Table is a council, not a throne. Besides, I find it rather insulting that would attempt to lower me - the last daughter of Virtanen - to a client in service of your empire.”

“I don’t care about the High Table. The system has failed, obviously. The crusaders crippled Rosiland in months despite your armies being far larger and numerous. The blue knights tore a violent path through the entirety of your grasslands and your entire race was powerless to stop them. This land must be united and ruled, not shared between vindictive houses.” The High Zealot continued as if her deal had already been accepted. “You will have full autonomy and the protection of Sindhus. The slaves that rebelled will be found and desolated. The other families that slighted you will be crushed. The crusaders will not dare to attack your estates. Rosiland will prosper under the standard of Sindhus, and your ambitions will be realized with my steel.”

Volikova said nothing for a long while, stunned into silence. “I will be Queen of Rosiland?”

“Undisputed. Your rivals in Rosiland will bow to your rule, or they will bow before an executioner. Virtanen will be a strong name once more.”

The shadow elf nervously fidgeted with her fingers. She would be undermining tradition and religion if she accepted, but if she didn’t, she would never get the chance to make the other families pay for their many transgressions against her great family. She would be giving up her nation, putting an end to thousands of years of self-determination, but in turn, she would instantly be made the most powerful figure in Rosiland. Second only to the Sindhusi, she supposed, but the humans would never stay in Rosiland permanently. The desert-people would go back to their sea of sand, and she would unquestionably rule in their absence. She could take her vengeance on all that had wronged her, all that had turned their backs when she needed them most. Rosiland would be awash with the hot blood of traitors and conspirators.

Volikova looked upwards, her decision finally made. “Very well, Azima. I shall rule for you.”

The High Zealot smiled thinly. “Good. I will travel to Zayditrah, where my fleet is already preparing to bring my legions across the sea. I will lead them here while you are busy spreading news of your new claim to all that will listen. There are many faithful in this land, elves that believe in the Flame as fiercely as I do - they will be your first supporters. Reach to them as a starving man grasps for a meal. In fact, it would be best if you publicly renounced your false gods. Tell the public that Dolekar has abandoned them.”

Volikova was not disturbed at the idea of forgetting her traditional religion, not now that it couldn’t assist her influence. “I will do that. Proclamations will be posted at every Signal on the Path from here to Rvymoyod.”

“Then I welcome you as my sister, and promise that Sindhus will do the same.“ The High Zealot stood, calling both her guards to attention. “I expect your own forces gathered when I return. We will march immediately.”

The shadow elf stood and respectfully approached the High Zealot. “Excuse me, but wouldn’t it be best if we spent some time consolidating our power? What if the western kingdoms decide to intervene as you have?”

The High Zealot frowned at the mere suggestion. “Indecision is the death of victory. We will march, and if the west interferes, we will march through them.” With that, she brushed past Volikova and through the gardens, following swiftly by her dutiful Sindisi.

To Meddle in the Affairs of Dragons

An old vendor emerged from his colourful stall with what looked to be poorly-made jewelry strung across both his arms. He rushed towards Nima, extending his hands in a sort of display of his wears. “Finest jewelry in the southeastern markets, I make it all right here, materials bought new and uncut. Fine metal, I tell you, finest in the southeastern markets.” The slave-soldier didn’t react, which seemed to irritate the tradesman. “Just four arums for a piece. Fine metal, you’ll take one home for your wife?” Nima forced the man out of his way, which caused the vendor to curse and give up on his sale. Viarosa was an unorganized beast, poverty and wealth all overlapping and catching on each other. Mansions and tenant buildings, ramshackle apartments surrounded by homeless, priests distributing bread and criminals standing shirtless with all their markings on display. The grand markets were patrolled by the mafia rather than the guardsmen, but the exotic goods that made the coastal city so famous were still being sold in their droves. Grandmaster Lucian had let the refugees rest under the watchful eyes of some priests while he and his disciple bought supplies for them. The hunter and his woman were elsewhere, probably buying blood and other magical necessities. Nima walked a short distance behind the pair of holy knights while they bought food and chatted amiably - he thought it would be uncomfortable for the Samothaur if he did not keep a respectful distance.

Every step was fairly painful, due to the injuries that he had sustained during the battle several days prior, but he continued dutifully. The manticore had offered to heal his wounds, but he had explained that it would not be right without a purified flame present. She had argued with him for a short while, but eventually relented. Now that he was in Viarosa, a major city, he could find someone that could properly assist him. Someone on the Path, preferably a red zealot, could make the correct fire and heal his wounds. If he couldn’t find any eastern ecclesiastic, then he would be forced to summon the Flame himself.

As the slave-soldier wandered the market, Lucian took notice of his pains. At the time he was discussing future plans with Kinara as the two purchased arrows and fletching materials for her. And as the salesman exchanged arrow bundle for coin purse, Lucian patted her on the arm and whispered something to her, gesturing back towards the hostel they had left the refugees. She nodded courteously and sauntered off with the arrows, leaving him with Nima. He quickly caught up to the Eastern warrior and called for his attention.

"Aye, Nima," he began, "I could not help but to notice that you are still nursing your wounds from the village incident. Have you not found a Zealot by which you can accept treatment?"

The soldier pressed his fist to his chest in salute before he spoke to the grandmaster. “I do not think there are Zealots still in this city after all that has happened between west and east. Now, the few that travel to these lands do so only under the standard.” Nima paused. “If you would give me leave, I will find my own way to right myself.”

"With all respect, soldier, you may be able to summon your flame, but you can provide no healing for yourself after first aid," Lucian replied. To illustrate his point, he raised an armored hand, a golden mist dancing about his extremities and over the palm, before he waved it away. "If you would permit me, should we find no zealot, I can enhance your recovery once the proper fire is burning?"

“Very well.”

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Allen sat hunched over in the middle of the group of refugees, wondering what would become of them. He'd only been in Tiraști for a week when was attacked, so he was only vaguely aquainted with the people sitting around him. Allen thought about the battle and made a list in his head of the notable fighters that participated; much to his chagrin, he couldn't include himself on that list. He suddenly sat upright, realizing something about one of the fighters. Though he couldn't read, Allen had seen a picture of the tall, blond man in full plate in a book when he was young. The Mač that had adopted him told him stories about this man, and the influence that he'd had on stategy and swordsmanship.

No sooner did he realise this than the Samothauress, whom he had seen leave with the man he was interested in, came back into the one roomed hostel with her arms full of parcels.

Allen leapt to his feet, addressing the Samothauress. "Here, let me help you with those."

As the boy ran up with his arms reaching for the bags and boxes, Kinara smiled and offered them over, letting him take what he could carry. Given her inhuman strength, the packages weren't as much a burden for their weight as much as they were for how much space they took up, making the load fairly cumbersome. So she was glad to receive any measure of assistance nonetheless.

When his own arms were full, she curtseyed politely to him and said, "Thank you kindly, sir."

After the packages were placed down in an orderly fashion, Allen turned to Kinara. "One of the men you left with, before. He wouldn't happen to be Ser Aquila, would he?"

"Why yes, actually," she replied, crouching down to open one of the bags, revealing it to be filled with foodstuffs, presumably for either the hostel to use or for the road, once the travelers set back out. "He is my Grandmaster, and I his Apostle." The Samothauress plucked a peach from the bag and paused, subtly offering the fruit to the boy.

Allen accepted the peach gratefully, it had been a long time since he'd had a fresh fruit. "You wouldn't be able to tell me where he went, would you?" Allen inquired, "I um... Want to ask him a couple of questions."

"Oh! Are you interested in joining the Order?" Kinara asked, smiling brightly. "I'm certain he'd be delighted to have you with us! He just left the market, headed east with that slave-soldier, probably to have him patched up after Tiraști," she added, raising an arm to gesture in the proper direction.

"Thanks!" Allen yelled, dashing out of the room without a second word leaving the Samothauress without warning.

Blinking repeatedly, Kinara briefly processed what had happened before letting out a quiet, delighted chuckle, before resuming her duties.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

“Not in my city, understand? The good lord cast the tinders out, made a mockery of them. He should’ve done with you too, eastern murderer.” The shopkeeper waved the two men away with a dismissive flick of his wrist, going back to chopping his cuts of beef and pork. Nima looked to Lucian, a restrained expression on his face. The grandmaster nodded to the Viarosan, exiting the small butchery and stepping back onto the street. Nima followed dutifully.

“Even if there are Da’avi in this city, which I doubt, we will not find them,” The slave-soldier remarked dejectedly. “I must make the fire myself.”

"So be it then, but with what would we do so?" Lucian asked, scratching his beard thoughtfully. "And must it be living, or deceased?"

“The Flame can only be called with sacrifice. We must find something that lives and I must burn it.” Nima paused. “Legionnaires in the field use vermin to worship before a battle, if they are separated from those on the Path. There are rats in this city, yes?"

"There should be plenty, though they would be drawn more towards the poor districts. The challenge is catching one alive," Lucian replied, scanning the cobblestone streets as he walked alongside Nima. "In your condition it would be unwise to reopen your wound or risk infection in the more decrepit alleyways. Nevertheless, keep an eye out for me, if it pleases you?"

Nima looked at the grandmaster strangely. “You cannot taint the vermin with your magic. Once you have it, we will need to make a fire, again without your magic.”

"No, I would not require magic to capture one. Unless that is to say that I cannot so much as touch it?" he inquired, leading the soldier back behind the butchery, watching carefully to see if any had witnessed him. "Anyway, if we cannot acquire anything live from inside the butchery, we are certain to find scavengers picking off the man's refuse near the butchery. Without alerting the butcher, shall we look around?"

"You can touch it. It cannot be tainted with anything unnatural." Nima followed the grandmaster behind the shop, careful to avoid any windows through which the butcher could see them. They walked into the alleyway that connected the near of several buildings, immediately noticing the piles of filth that had gathered in several areas. The scraps of rotting meat and decaying garbage were swarming with flies and plagued by a company of rodents who scurried into darker parts of the street as soon as the two men came near. "Rats will do," remarked Nima, watching the vermin intently.

Lucian fixed his gaze on one of three rats currently gnawing on a slab of rejected venison, each attempting to wrest control of it from the other two. Slowly inching closer and closer to the rodents, Lucian flexed his fingers slowly, mentally preparing himself for the pounce. They seemed to pay him no mind even as he drew nearer. And finally, without a word or sound to announce himself, he dived for the middle rat.

Instantly, the other two scurried away as Lucian collapsed on top of the rotting clump of flesh, just barely missing the rat's tail as it ran away. He scrambled up, trying to rise to his feet again, sliding on the slick refuse. He snapped up the rat by its tail, only for it to curl up and slip from his grasp. To the Paladin's credit, it struck its head on the cobblestone, and as it attempted to flee, it moved much slower and more erratically.

Nima limped forward surprisingly quickly, bringing his sole down on the rodent's tail as it struggled to escape. The rat squealed in confused pain as Nima bent down and grasped it firmly in both his hands. He looked to Lucian, who was busy wiping filth from his fine clothes. "Grandmaster," He said. "Could you hold the rat? I must summon the Flame."

Lucian stared up from the ground and at the rat in Nima's hands. Brushing it off like he hadn't just gotten his ass kicked by a rat, he rose up to his feet and attempted to dust off his surcoat in as dignified a manner as he could make the gesture. "Aye, you get started on that then," he replied, taking hold of the rodent in both of his hands, holding it stiff as it squeaked angrily.

The Easterner reached into a pouch and produced a tinderbox, kicking around a few loose, trashed items on the ground into a pile. When enough flammable material had been collected, he crouched down, wincing through the pain in his side, and with the tinderbox sparked a small fire, uttering a prayer in his native tongue as he cultivated the fire. The flame crackled to life, and as soon as it was stable, Lucian knelt down and, making the Solanian Sigil over his heart, he stuck the rat into the fire. He tried not to listen to its screeching as the fire burned away its fur and flesh.

Within moments the rodent had perished, its body now fuel for the fire. "The Flame is here with us," Nima remarked breathlessly, nodding to Lucian. "You may now heal me, by magic or by medicine." Punctuating this point, he reached for his cuirass and unbuckled the leather straps, removing the damaged armor before lifting his tunic, gesturing to the location of the wounds he had received in Tirasti. The linen was matted with a terrific amount of dried blood, discolouring the regular crimson into a darker shade. "By the Light of the Gods, man," Lucian said, eyes fixed on the gash as he removed the spent bandages that had covered the wound. "Be it by your iron will or the hand of destiny, for you to survive such a loss of blood is inconceivable. Let us get this taken care of."

At that moment, Allen walked around the corner of the butcher's shop, having found his way there from Kinara's directions. He stopped dead in his tracks and stared with wide eyes at the two men, who were absorbed in their task. The he recognised to be Ser Lucian Aquila, who was currently placing his hands against the side of the other; from his discarded armour, Allen could see the man came from the East. To top it all off, the smell of singed hair and burning flesh filled the air, emanating from a smouldering rat the two had apparently ignited.

The palm of Lucian's hand began to emit a faint, golden light that grew more powerful as the seconds ticked by. He hovered his hand over the wound,crossing the other hand over the back of it, as if pressing the magical energy over the open flesh. "Minions of Hargash are known for being more brutal and unclean than they are efficient killers. So it isn't so much luck that they missed your vitals as it was force of habit for such repulsive creatures of the Infernum. Had they been Lotec's spawn, you would already be long dead, most likely in two halves," he stated, rather bluntly. He lifted a finger, eyeing him sternly. "And what they lack in accuracy they make up for in foul magics, stable-guard. Count yourself blessed that this did not develop into an otherworldly disease. I have seen limbs grow black and pulpy, like the flesh of a rotted fruit, falling apart with the bone. Pustular blisters that consume the face entirely, disfiguring permanently one's countenance. Worse still, but I will spare you the details. You should have had this treated long ago when the Krossaviker had offered her aid, and made do with a small flame such as this."

"Your orders were clear, and delaying them with minor injuries would be insubordinate. The retreat was tactically far more important than my blood." Nima pulled his tunic down, covering the now fully-healed wound. His gaze was locked onto the newcomer that Lucian had not yet turned to notice. "Grandmaster," he reported matter-of-factly. "A boy." The easterner knelt downwards, whispering another prayer and putting out the fire with a few waves of his hand. All the while, he kept an eye on the young man.

Lucian turned to see the young man standing before them, now rising to his feet. "You there, are you with the butcher?" he asked, glancing towards the back door of the butchery. "An apprentice, of sor--" he stopped, falling quiet as he looked the boy up and down. His eyes narrowed, and a thoughtful expression appeared on his features. "No, I recognize you somewhat. You were with the refugees, were you not?"

The direct address snapped Allen back to reality. He nodded his head, then took a deep breath. "Are you Ser Aquila? I'm Allen. I helped to protect the all the sick and the old and the children at Tiraşti. I was kind of hiding though. I know how to fight, but I've never fought anything other than humans before, but you fought like it was nothing. Will you teach me? Was that magic? Why are you hiding in the trash? Are people looking for you? Why was that rat on fire? It smells bad out here," Allen left barely any space between his words, let alone enough for a response to be given. Finally, Allen pointed at Nima, without taking his eyes off of Lucian. "And why was that man taking off his clothes?"

The Paladin cocked an eyebrow, his lips parted as he waited for a point to interject. When none came, he instead waited until the kid ran out of breath. Pausing for a solid five seconds to ensure he had nothing else to say, he slowly lifted his hand to gesture for Allen to wait before he responded. "Boy," he said, "I will be honest in saying that I did not understand the majority of what you have asked unto me. Breathe, and ask one at a time, that I may properly answer you. From what I gathered, you asked my name, and why the Easterner here had lifted his tunic. The man was wounded severely, and required healing. And though I adhere not to the Path of the Flame, his survival is necessary for my companions and I, and thus I had to acquiesce to his need for a burnt offering to summon his Flame," he explained.

"Now, I ask you, slow down, and clarify for me, who did you say you were?"

"I'm Allen. I was with the refugees, like you said. What were those... Things? Did one of them hurt your friend?"

"Aye, several of them in fact," Lucian replied, glancing back at Nima. "Were it not for the Krossaviker and Apostle Kinara, he'd have surely perished under the claws of those that had him pinned down in Tiraşti. The fact that he survived as long as he did speaks of his strength to me." He turned back to face Allen and offered his hand. "Pleasant to meet you Allen." He stopped and looked down at his hand, remembering it had been on both the rat and the filth-covered ground. He retracted his hand and awkwardly wiped the palm on his tabard, bowing to Allen instead. "Apologies. I wish we could meet under better, cleaner circumstances than these."

Allen nodded, though he hadn't really registered what had been said. "You look completely different than in the picture my Mač showed me of you. In the book you looked all old and scarred; your armour is the same though, and your... sword." Allen pronounced the word with some reverance, as his gaze shifted to the distinctive blade. "Is that the same one you first did the Aquila Absetzen with?" He was of course referring to an obscure parry allegedly developed by the man standing in front of him.

Lucian chuckled goodnaturedly, waving a hand dismissively towards the boy. "Ah, Evroult Thévenet. Father pardon that man's departed soul, alas so much of the content of his De Universo is false. To include his article on myself and my Order in Volume VII; the Aesernian Church and Heretical Sects," he explained. "And indeed," he said, gesturing to the wing-shaped crossguard of his sword, "I've had this blade about four years now. And I assume the 'Aquila Absetzen' refers to my duel with Merodach? Your Mač is a knowledgeable man, to know of that battle. Was he with the Order then, perhaps?"

Before Allen could respond, several men appeared at the entryway of the alley, blocking any chance of exit. All were dressed in the armour of Viarosan guardsmen except for the man at the head of the loose formation, who Lucian and Nima both recognized as the butcher that they had met earlier. “There they are!” He jabbed a finger at the smouldering rat. “Caught trying to burn my shop to the ground, all for the honour of their eastern god!” He turned to one of the guardsmen, his face twisting with disgust. “You know how these people are with fire. They can’t be allowed to run free; they’ll set the city ablaze!”

The guard drew his sword, prompting the rest of his men to do the same. “They’re not going anywhere.” He levelled his blade at Lucian. “For attempting to do harm against a good citizen of Viarosa, and for spitting in the face of the true gods, I am putting you all under arrest. Throw down your arms.”

Lucian stood his ground, glaring at the butcher. "I tell you, this once proud bastion of learning and culture has become a doomed by its own hand. Truly, I know not what I expected other than false piety and treachery," he said, cocking his head to the side. "I told you in your shop, the Easterner was severely wounded and in need of treatment, which thankfully I have provided when you were unwilling to obey the commandments of the Gods you invoke." He faced the guardsman and added, "I do not follow the Path of the Flame, but the moral law of my Father who is in Heaven. You would do well to be warned, that it is by neither my hand nor the armies of the East that this den of iniquity will be burned."

He took a deep breath, calmly letting it go. "I will go quietly, but spare the boy, here. He only just got here, and was not involved in the burning of that rodent there. Investigate the area, see that there is no property damage. Nima, we will not resist. Hither, then, and we will take our case to whomever shall be our judge."

To Meddle in the Affairs of Dragons

Athaliah made her way to the 'Laughing Fiddler' alone - she had been told that Ceara and her... well, associates, would be there. Hopefully with the papers that Herbert and Erika needed. The streets were getting dark and Athaliah found herself getting much more tense despite the fact that guards were pretty much everywhere. That in itself wasn't unusual - what was, however, was that these guards seemed to be much more armed and armoured than was common. Maybe it was just normal for a huge city like Viarosa, but for a village girl like Athaliah, it was quite unsettling.

After getting lost in the backstreets more than a few times, Athaliah finally located the tavern; it wasn't much to say the least - sure, the windows were clean and the door was in one piece, but compared to all the luxurious inns she passed in the city centre the tavern may as well have been a shed. She quietly pushed the door open.

To her surprise, the tavern had a lively, almost friendly atmosphere to it. The patrons were mostly workers from the city who looked like they couldn't afford to go anywhere else for a mug of beer or cider, but that didn't seem to bother them much. Ceara, Mostafa and someone else she didn't recognise were sat at a table right at the back of the tavern - they all wore expressions of boredom, and Athaliah's habit of getting lost didn't seem to help matters.

She approached the table where the redhead and her 'friends' were sat, hoping that she had managed to recover what the group so desperately needed. "Hey, Ceara!" she greeted when she was close enough. Athaliah realised a bit too late that she wasn't exactly familiar with the woman, so that greeting seemed forced. Oh well, it was out now. "How are you?" She figured it would be best to start with small-talk; straight up asking if she finished the job seemed rude to her.

The thief perked up as she heard Athaliah call her name, pulling out the chair adjacent to her own so that the girl could sit down. “Oh, I’m doing grand. Pulled it off without a hitch, didn’t we?” The redhead nudged Mostafa, who played a single chord on his lute, looking generally pleased with himself. Ceara then pointed to Mortimir. “This is the grand magister Mortimir. He helped too.”

"Ahem. My title is magister maximus, thank you." Mortirmir said haughtily, stiffening at the misnomer before grinning somewhat politely.

"Really? That's great!" Athaliah grinned. It suddenly dawned on her that she, a guard responsible for upholding the law, was happy that Ceara had broken into a home to steal some papers. Oh well, they weren't in Hoffen anymore so it seemed like somebody else's problem now. "What do the papers say, then?" Ceara raised her eyebrows. "Don't give me that look - I'd be surprised if you didn't read them."

Ceara seemed to deflate for a moment, but quickly regained her cheery composure. “Well, I can’t really read… words. So, no, I didn’t check it out.” Mortimir harrumphed, grabbing everyone’s attention. “Well, it just so happens that I am a scholar of some renown, and possess an aptitude for the written word." At their blank stares he continues somewhat belatedly: "I could read your papers. Right now, if you would like it. Your friend won’t let me touch them.”

Athaliah hadn't gave so much as a thought that others couldn't read and write - her grandfather served the King of Foveros back in the day, and he passed down his knowledge through the family. When her family moved to Hoffen, her parents taught the village's adults, who in turn taught their own children. She had assumed that everyone else in the world had the same privilege.

"Oh, right..." she thought about what Herbert and Erika would think about them reading their old friend's notes behind their back, but she came to the conclusion that the pair would tell them anyway. "Okay, what's the harm in it?" she smiled to Ceara. "Could you give our friend the papers, please?"

Ceara nodded and retrieved the papers from her travelling bag, delicately setting them on the table and sliding them towards Mortimir.

Mortirmir drew up his sleeves, adjusted his spectacles, and set to reading the documents. He pulled at the wisps of facial hair on his chin that he generously called a beard. "Hmm... Most interesting, yes..." He flipped through the rest of the papers, his eyes enlarged behind his heavy spectacles. "Something about a hunt... For a dragon?" He frowned, shooting a glance towards Ceara before continuing. "Is this a jest? Htraknu? This is what you're after? Myths and tall tales?"

The thief shrugged. "Don't look at me. I'm here for the money." Mostafa leaned forward, setting his instrument on the table. "It is no myth. The priests of Solanius felt the death of a demon, and the world shuddered in horror. I was there - we all were."

Mortirmir scoffed derisively. "As if men of the cloth knew anything of such things. Pah."

"Honestly, I'm hoping that this is all a wild goose-chase." Athaliah sighed. "I'd rather not have to fight a god. Besides... I miss home." she slouched in her chair. "But hey, it's better than doing nothing if its true, I suppose."

"So Athaliah, where is everyone else?" Ceara scratched her head, looking uncomfortable with the talk of Htraknu. "I'm getting a little eager to leave this city. That arse of a lord has gotta figure this whole thing out at one point, right?"

To Meddle in the Affairs of Dragons

Ceara and Mostafa pushed through the busy streets of Viarosa, their clothes dusty from the road. The coastal city was crowded with merchants and tradesmen from every corner of the world, all clamouring to sell exotic wares at the common passerby. Most natives knew how to shrug the vendors away, but tourists and foreigners were sometimes caught in the haggling. From the street level, the cliffs were just visible through the gaps in the tile roofing, a towering wall of rock and falling water. The domed temple to Celestis, god of sea and sky, was sat on the edge of the highest cliff, watchfully looming above the city.

Ceara quickened her pace as she waved her way through the mobs of traders, commoners, and guarded nobles. The thief wrinkled her nose at the smell of the city - as beautiful as it looked from a distance, it smelled the same as every large town, and that wasn’t anything to revel in. Viarosa was one of the cleaner cities, but still, the stench that rose from the alleys and trenches was nothing short of incapacitating. At least, for someone not adjusted to it. Ceara might have been on the road for a few months, but she had spent most of her life in the poorer parts of cities exactly like this one. Mostafa looked particularly disgusted, which amused the thief to a certain degree. He had been silent for most of the journey, stewing in his indignation at being forced to accompany her.

Ceara turned to make sure that the bard was still behind her. “We’re going into a poorer bit of the city, so keep your hands on your belt. Don’t look anyone in the eyes, and try to stay at least an arm away from them. Got it?” Mostafa furrowed his brow, smiling vindictively. “What, will they rob me of my clothes and leave me to die on the street?”

“They’ll cut your throat and leave you in a ditch full of their own filth.” The thief sighed. “Look, I said I was sorry when we left the camp. It was wrong of me, I’m sorry, can’t we leave it at that?”

Mostafa raised his chin proudly, but his hands lowered to his midsection as the pair turned onto a street flanked by ramshackle huts. “You are a bird of prey, Ceara. You prey on the weak and vulnerable and cower under the strong. You have no loyalties except to the shine of gold.”

“Well, here you are, being paid to help me.”

The bard’s expression faltered for a moment, but he quickly regained his composure. “I am paid honestly!”

Ceara stopped in the middle of the road, turning and glaring at the minstrel. “I said I was sorry.” He opened his mouth to reply, but she continued before he could talk. “I said I was sorry. If you’re being paid honestly, then do your job and help me. We don’t have to be friends, but we do have to work together. If either of us makes a mistake, we’re both dead. I have friends in this city, but we’re about to steal from one of the most powerful people in Viarosa, and if he catches us red-handed, no one is going to stop him from burying both of us in a shallow grave. Then you’ll be with me for eternity.” She paused. “Let's just get this done, alright? Then we can go back to glaring at each other.”

Mostafa opened his mouth to speak but seemed to think better of it. After a short, silent moment of contemplation, he nodded his head.

Ceara sighed and smiled. “Good. Let's go get some old papers, shall we?” The pair continued to walk through the slums until they came to halt at the entrance of a building marked ‘Lonely Lion’. Ceara pulled Mostafa aside and placed him at the right side of the door. “The person I wrote to is only expecting me. Doesn’t like strangers. Stand here, keep your eyes on the ground, and try to look tougher than you are. I’ll be back in a couple minutes.” The bard nodded, straightening his stance.

Satisfied with his composure, Ceara walked into the tavern. The building was hazy with smoke, filled with addicts, drunkards, and a cheaper variety of companions. Sitting alone, at the far side of the establishment, was a thinly built man with a mane of greasy black hair and a hooked nose. His fingers were covered in rings, but all of the criminal patrons seemed to gravitate away from him. The thief sashayed across the floor, plunking herself in the chair opposite the loner. The man didn’t flinch, simply lowered his gaze to observe Ceara. “You’re late,” he said, speaking with a thinly veiled Narbosi accent. “Very late.”

Ceara gave him an apologetic smile. “Incident on the road, that's all. Had to make camp sooner than expected.” She leaned forward. “But never mind that for the moment. We should catch up, Remy! Are you doing well? Healthy, I presume?”

"I've been well." Said the man, waving idly before beginning to clean his dirty nails with a dagger. "You're looking fine, as usual. Anyways, what's this about a job concerning Milo Demetrios? You know he's an esteemed business partner of the family."

“I’m working for a higher power now. A holy mission.” Ceara placed her fingertips on the table, leaning forward. “I’m on quite a high payroll, Remy. The Order has given me a sack of gold so heavy you could kill someone with it. Help me, and I’ll make sure you get some of it.” She stopped talking as a server moved to the table, placing two cups of cider on the rough wooden surface. Remy nodded, and the barmaid moved away. “I just need to know where Milo keeps his old documents. Stuff from the old times.”

Remy laughed. "There's no way in the Infernum that the Order's paying you to steal from Demetrios." He smirked and continued. "Of course, if you really do have that much gold, I don't care if the dwarves themselves are paying you. Your patron can remain anonymous. How old are we talking?"

“The one that was at the front before you and your friends pushed them out. I think mister Milo was in league with them as well, wasn’t he?” Ceara pulled her cider towards her. “He took something from some friends of mine. They want it back.”

The smirk dropped from the mobster's face and he let out a low whistle. "You've found yourself some interesting friends, petit renard. If I'm right, you're talking about the stuff Milo took from the Krossavikers after their fellow Bjorn slaughtered most of the folks who used to run this city."

Ceara furrowed her brow. “Yes, the Krossavikers… I did not expect you to know them.” She sipped her drink uncomfortably, silently scanning the tavern with renewed caution. This massacre was news to her. “I need Bjorn’s documents. Do you know where they are kept?”

Remy exhaled and drummed his fingers on the table. "I'm going to need to see some of that gold before I tell you that. Neither Milo nor the Krossavikers are to be taken lightly."

Ceara nodded, reaching underneath the table and into one of her boots. She removed a small pouch, opening it and pouring a few coins onto the table. “I’ve left most of it with my associate, but once he comes to the city, you’ll have a full share. Make sure to give some of it to the Patriarch to show him my gratitude, yes? Now, tell me what you know.”

His spirits seemingly bolstered by the sight of the money, the mafioso eagerly scooped up the coins before speaking. "I will, of course, make sure the Patriarch knows of your goodwill. Now, Milo keeps almost everything in his country estate. He's got about sixty guards around the place and throughout the house. Doors, vaults, those sort of things would be guarded along with a few patrols in the countryside that he owns. Getting in should be relatively easy though. He's constantly got friends, guests, servants, and entertainers of various sorts going in and out. You'd just have to disguise yourself as one of those. Once you're in, you just have to find the room where he keeps old papers. It's on the second floor, third door on the right once you come up the stairs."

“Second floor, third door. Got it.” Ceara folded her arms, thinking for a long moment. “Could you get me one of the serving dresses? I've got a plan, but it'll only work if Demetrios doesn't know the staff well. How is he with them? Loved?"

"Well, petit renard, you've got a bit of a mixed blessing here." Began Remy. "Demetrios does not know his staff, and they don't like him, but he's a tad aggressive in his desires. I can get you a serving dress, but if Demetrios sees you, he'll want to get into it."

“Good to know.”

---

Ceara and Mostafa split up at the forked road that leads to Milo's personal country estate. The thief had donned a serving dress, a simple black garment accompanied by a headscarf and apron. The bard, on the other hand, had donned one of his most obnoxious ensembles - a poofy red tunic complete with yellow tights and a ridiculously large feathered hat. He had turned his lute the night before, while Ceara had been meeting with some of the more rebellious members of staff and scouting the outskirts of Milo's massive country palace.

While Ceara walked towards the servant's entrance, Mostafa would present himself at the front gate, explaining that he was a travelling bard and eager to play for the 'Lord O' the Port'. He had rehearsed his music through the early morning, deeply angering the other patrons of the tavern that they had chosen to rest in.

Ceara continued to walk towards the wrought iron gates that marked the entrance to the complex via the servants quarters, spotting guards patrolling all along the fence line. The air was fresh and clear, now that she was outside the city, and birds sang and danced to the distant melody of the waterfalls cascading over the cliffs and onto the green meadows that made the grounds of this beautiful property. Her hands were placed timidly at her sides, and she made sure never to make eye-contact with any of the soldiers that marched across the damp fields of morning grass.

As she neared the entrance, she curtsied to the guards and presented her proof of employment, which they accepted with bored agreement. In fairness to the soldiers, the fake papers were incredibly convincing - Remy had forged them himself, glad to help for a few more coins. When she passed the gates, she was greeted by an older servant, who emerged from the rear building to pick a herb from the gardens. When she saw Ceara, her indifferent expression quickly soured. "Girl! What are you doing out here, waiting for an invitation to get to work? Come on, then!" The servant stalked across the gardens, and before Ceara could voice a defence of herself, she grabbed the thief by her wrist and unkindly dragged her into the serving quarters. "Where do you work, girl?"

Ceara looked down, feigning a sense of shame. "I work in the kitchens, ma'am, cleaning them."

The servant cocked her head, frowning. "Are you the replacement for Sara, after she burned herself? I thought they already hired girls to replace her."

"I suppose they hired one more, ma'am."

The servant pursed her lips. "I suppose they did. Well, we don't need you in the kitchens at the moment. Come with me, the good lord has decided to entertain some morning guests, and they should like some refreshment."

"But ma'am, I am to work in the kitchens." The plan had been to blend into the bustling cooking staff and slip away at the height of their work, but now this woman seemed adamant on placing Ceara in direct sight of everyone she had hoped to avoid. The thief tried to banish her annoyance with the old woman from her tone, but some of it obviously crept through. The servant's expression darkened, and she slapped Ceara on the forearm. "Don't you get smart with me, girl! You are a servant, and you will go where we need you to go." Without another word, the woman pulled Ceara by the wrist again, passing squalls of gossiping workers and servants on her way towards the centre of the estate. They passed the kitchens, great rooms stocked with chickens, loaves of bread, cheeses and fruits all stacked and prepared on rows of wooden tables. They passed a series of interior gardens and fountains, all filled with blooming flowers and elaborate sculptures of the same man. Ceara even spotted a mural on one of the passing walls, depicting a massive bluefish grasping a key of the same colour in its open mouth. If all this was the right wing of the estate, then the only way to get to the left was through the main hall, which looked to be exactly where the woman was leading her. Suddenly, this encounter seemed to be more blessing than a curse.

Finally, the old servant stopped at a pair of closed wooden doors, from behind which the sounds of music and laughter were already filling the air. The servant turned around and looked at Ceara from head to toe. "You look awful. Straighten your hem. Smooth that apron. Pull your scarf down, on all the gods." Once Ceara had obeyed her orders to a level of satisfaction, the old woman once again eyed her with a wary gaze. "Now, do you know how to address nobility? Lord Milo, especially?"

Ceara looked at her feet. "I thought I was to be working in the kitchens, ma'am, they never told me I was too-"

"Just quiet yourself, girl." The servant sighed. "In this estate, you will address all of Lord Milo's guests as 'My Lord' or 'My Lady'. You will smile when addressed, curtsy when dismissed..." She paused. "You do know how to curtsy, yes?" Ceara nodded, and the woman continued. "Lord Milo will be referred to as 'Good Lord' when formality is appropriate and 'Sire' when it is not. You will not call him 'master', is that understood?"

"It is, ma'am." Ceara saw another servant approaching from the corner of her eye, another girl dressed identically and carrying two trays of small pastries. The older woman hurried her along with a motion of her hand and then turned her attention back to Ceara. "When presenting yourself with your refreshment you will ask all of the guests if they would like a 'fresh raspberry cake' and smile no matter their answer. Once you have asked everyone, or run out of cakes, you will return to me and I'll give you another job. Understand?"

Ceara nodded as the other girl passed her a platter, which seemed to please the older servant. She pushed open the door, ushering the younger girls into the dining hall. The room was wide and long, with a vaulted ceiling covered in paintings and murals of Viarosa and the falls. The floor was blindingly white marble, the same colour as the columns that supported the massive stone roof. Guests were milling from one end of the room to the other, dressed in fine clothes and furs that were now in fashion since the winter has arrived. Ceara spotted Mostafa entertaining a large group of guests, all of whom seemed to be gravitating towards a man reclining across an elegantly carved mahogany couch. He looked to be at about average height, with well-groomed blonde hair and finely tailored clothes. His build was fairly soft, but his garments had purposely been made relatively overfitting to counteract this appearance. His mouth was slightly agape as he watched Mostafa play, who he seemed to be enjoying. The rest of the nobles looked to his expression for guidance, and so when the minstrel finished his tune and Lord Milo erupted into sporadic applause, the majority of them followed suit. Mostafa lowered his lute, bowing to Lord Milo and his assembled friends. He caught sight of Ceara as he bent over, but to his credit, he did not react in any wildly noticeable way.

Ceara decided to move towards this largest group first, but she spoke quietly to offer her platter of cakes and tried to stay out of any notable sights. While she silently handed out the raspberry cakes, she heard Lord Milo begin to speak. "You know, I used to import spices and oversee ships from the scorched coast." His words were obviously in reference to Mostafa's homeland, but he seemed to be speaking to the nobles rather than the bard. "We would get all sorts of strange goods rolling into our warehouses. Strange goods, strange people, strange tales! Cathion still readily accepts the trade with the East, did you know that?"

The nobles murmured amongst themselves, mostly coming to the conclusion that they did not. Milo seemed pleased with their response. "Yes, well, not many people do. You see, we would get all sorts of Eastern merchants coming into Viarosa on a weekly basis. Even during the crusade, which I sponsored wholeheartedly, I might add, this swarthy bunch would roll through the streets with talk of their silks and swords. Several trading stalls were set up in the great market, selling their smelly clothes and disgusting food. When one of the hooded priests came sauntering off a merchant ship, I knew something had to be done. I gathered the city guard and put an end to it all, I say!" He leaped from his couch in excitement, his expression becoming more animated as he prepared to finish his story. "When we rounded them all up, they all gravitated towards the priest like a herd of goats. I was having them all shipped right back to Cathion, but before I did, I wanted to draw posters to sure they never came back. When we came to the hooded one, they all started to panic! Told me it was unholy to remove the veil without the presence of a purified fire. I did it anyway, as was my dedication to the law, and they all wailed like lamenting women. The priest WAS a woman, it turned out." He waved his hand. "I put them all back on the ship, sent them back where they had come from. I heard that the priest choose to burn herself alive as soon as she reached dry land, so great was her shame." He laughed at this, and the nobles all realized their cue and chuckled with him. "I suppose all they had to do to win the crusade was unmask a few idiots! Ha!" He threw back his head and laughed harder, causing a few more bouts of forced laughter among his friends before the hall began to settle again. He wiped tears from his eyes, and then raised his hand to the air. "Now that everything has calmed down, I've let a few back in. Mercy is a virtue and all that. Still don't like them, though." He paused. "Servant? I was told there would be cake. Hello? Servant?"

Ceara emerged from the crowd of nobles, carrying a platter sparsely populated with cakes. "My Lord." She stated, offering the plate outwards.

Milo frowned, turning his attention from the cakes to Ceara. "Are you new, girl?"

Ceara realized her mistake as soon as he finished his sentence, recalling the old woman's words of advise before she had been ushered into the hall. "Yes, Good Lord. I've just replaced one of your other staff."

Milo looked her up and down, his gaze lingering in a few noticeable places. "Good help is hard to come by these days, I suppose." He paused. "You are a pretty thing though, aren't you? I shall have to get you a smaller dress! Ha!" He began to laugh once again, prompting a circle of chortling from the nobles that surrounded him. Ceara formed a few choice words in her mind but decided that the look on his face would be better when he realized that he had been robbed rather than insulted. Instead, she gave him a smile and nodded her head.

Milo yawned, looking around at his other guests. "Where is that bard that had been wandering about? Now seems like a good time for a song, doesn't it?" Mostafa appeared at the edge of the nobles, strumming his lute and smiling vicariously. He began to sing as Ceara backed away, leaving Milo with her platter of remaining cakes. While the bard had distracted the room, she was free to slip away. However, the thief wasn't about to report back for round two of serving duty - now it was time to find those documents. She spotted the doors where the older servant would be waiting and walked through the pair on the other side of the room.

She closed the doors quietly, blocking the sounds of laughter and music once again. The corridor was empty and dull, without a single torch burning. The series of doors seemed to be an elegant bunch of living quarters, for guests or for Milo himself. Since all the guests were assembled in the centre of the estate, this wing would hopefully be completely clear. If the maps that Remy had given her were to be believed, this would be the left wing of the estate. On the second floor, on the other side of the third door on the right, the documents were supposedly ripe for the taking. Again though, if Remy was to be trusted, there would be two guards watching the door. She would have to distract them from picking the lock and stealing the papers.

Ceara walked briskly down the hallway, trying to carry herself with a sense of purpose. If anyone was under lingering in this section of the palace, perhaps she could talk her way out of suspicion. As she moved, she tested the locks on the doors. All seemed to open fine, which was a clear relief.

The thief made her way to the stairs, ascending the stone steps and peeking around the corner to make sure the halls were empty of guards. Seeing nothing, she padded into the upper corridor, passing two doors before she came to the one that was supposedly her target. It looked fairly plain - almost exactly the same as any of the other doors in the hall. She checked over her shoulders, still not spotting a single guard. Pleased with herself, she bent down to check the lock. Ceara removed her tools - several picks and a twisted hairpin - and went to work on the door, checking one final time to make sure there were no guards. The thief placed her hairpin inside the lock, applying some delicate pressure while she gently scrubbed with the pick. After about a minute and no broken picks, the pin slid to the right with a satisfying click. Ceara opened the door, slipped inside, and closed it again.

The first thing that she noticed was how disorderly the room was if you could call it a room. It was larger than she had expected, dimly lit through several tiny windows at the back of the library. Shelves lined each wall and the space in between, overflowing with books, scrolls, and unchecked piles of paper. The thief went to the first shelf, removing an older tome and getting a face full of dust. She coughed and blew the particles away, reviewing the title of the tome in the dim light. The title was longer than anything she'd ever seen before, and as always, she couldn't read it. Ceara groaned in despair, putting the book back in it’s messy home. She had thought the papers would be in some sort of strongbox, not a room full of paper. This was quickly turning into a bit of a wild goose chase.

---

Mortirmir stretched idly, his back popping in a most unpleasant manner. He made one final mark with his quill on the log he had been working on, blew on the ink to make it dry, then shut the tome with a huff. He looked about the room with undisguised disdain; books and scrolls of all sorts lay about in various states of disarray, covered in copious amounts of dust. It seemed to him that he was the first soul to venture into this so-called "library" in half an age. When he had offered his services as a scribe to the Baron, he had expected, surely as any other academic of his reputation would, to be utilized for more than mere bookkeeping. Honestly! The renowned master Mortirmir, magister maximus of the University, perhaps the greatest scholar of his generation, keeping tally sums in a dusty logbook! The very thought drove him to clench his teeth in fury. He had expected restoration work at the worst, or perhaps the creation of a new family tree. Nobility loved to trace their lineages, and he had illuminated more than one illustrious bloodline before. But no, here he was in some dank, stuffy room keeping track of which peasant had the most pigs this harvest!

Mortirmir sighed elaborately. It couldn't be helped - he was almost out of funds. And frankly, the Baron paid quite well for such loathsome work. Still, he thought to himself as he spun his quill idly over his knuckles, I could use something to break the monotony. Something exciting perhaps, or at least less tedious than simple mathematics. He sighed again. If only...

Suddenly, the silence of the library was shaken by a loud series of tumbling crashes that ended with a heavy smack. Some choice curses followed almost immediately, and then the study was silent again.

Mortirmir started, his hand jerking against his inkwell and spilling its contents all over the cluttered table. He swore, leaping up from his chair and desperately grabbing an ink-stained clothe which he promptly threw on top of the mess. After a few seconds of inneffectual wiping - which only served to spread the ink further around - he paused and peered nervously around the corner. "H-hello?"

A young servant stared back, her hands full of books and loose paper. Tomes littered the ground around her, and it looked like one the decaying shelves had broken in half and spilled its contents all over the ground. Upon seeing Mortirmir, the servant’s eyes widened. “Hello! Gods, I didn’t know Lord Milo had someone in here. Sorry about this, the, uh, books just came down.”

Mortirmir frowned, the expression looking somewhat comical with his heavy spectacles and recently ink-stained robes. "I see." He gestured disparagingly around the library and said, "Well, it is not exactly tidy in here. Have you come to perhaps fix that?"

The servant looked confused for a brief moment, but quickly regained her composure. She set the books down on one of the shelves, making sure the wood wasn't rotten this time. “Ah, no, sorry. I’m here to retrieve something for the Lord, some papers. He needs them for his gathering.”

Mortirmir frowned even more severely than before. He did not relish having to sift through this mess. Adjusting his spectacles, he glanced about the room dejectedly. "Did he happen to say what kind of papers, exactly?" He asked, a hint of despair in his voice.

Ceara smiled uncomfortably, looking down at the books at her feet. “I’ll help you with these, of course.” She began to gather the volumes, waving the scholar over while she continued to speak. “Milo said he wanted some documents. Things that belonged to a man from the north, from Krossavik. The burned village. Do you know where that might be? I don't know how to work with books.”

He paused, tapping his teeth with his finger. A bit of residue ink blackened his teeth - a terrible habit. "Krossavik, hmm... Perhaps, perhaps..." The magister mused, stepping delicately around the stacks of books. He sifted through one shelf, then another, before at last pausing and turning to consider a third. "Ah! Yes, yes, I remember looking at these a few days past," He said triumphantly, pulling a sheaf of documents from the decrepit shelf. Out of the corner of his eye, he spied Ceara's lockpicks. Mortirmir paused halfway to handing the documents to Ceara. "Say," He begins suspiciously, "Who did you say you were again? You aren't the normal maid that usually helps me around here."

Ceara shifted in place, eyeing the papers that he held in his hands. “I’m a replacement. Sara burned herself in the kitchens.”

The magister narrowed his eyes. "Sara? The normal maid is Alice." He drawed himself up to his full height, all geniality gone. "I think I'll bring these to the Baron himself. I could use a break," He said, moving towards the door.

The thief watched him for a few seconds, and then sprung forward without warning. She pressed a dagger to his back, tapping his arm with her free hand. “No, we’re not going anywhere.” Ceara pulled the scholar backwards, away from the door. “I’m not going to hurt you if you do as I say. Drop those papers gently.”

Mortirmir gasped, his eyes widening in alarm. "I-I demand you let go of me this instant!" He cried, his left arm cartwheeling about as he is yanked backwards.

“Shut up. Next time you demand something, I’ll take one of your fingers off. See how much ink you get on yourself then.” Ceara pushed Mortimir into his desk, keeping her blade levelled at his midsection. “Give me the papers. Don’t say a word, just give me the papers.” The thief thought for a moment. “Actually - you got any rope in here?”

He looked aghast. "You simply are not tying me up! In fact," He paused, and then suddenly the sheaf of documents in his hands were shrouded with a burnt orange color. "You will release me this instant, o-or I'll turn these to ash!"

Ceara’s eyes widened, but her dagger stayed up. “Unbelieveable... If you burn those pages, I’ll stab you right in your stupid mouth! Are you gonna die for some old papers?”

Mortirmir harrumphed. "I'll only burn them if you, ahem, stab me." He says, his eyes briefly goggling at the dagger. "If you lower that blade, perhaps we can talk like civilized people, y-yes?"

Ceara narrowed her eyes. The library was silent for a few moments, and then she sighed. The dagger came down, but only just. “Alright. Two civilized people, me and you, talking this out.” She paused. “Give me those papers, please?”

He adjusts his robes self-importantly before speaking. "I'm afraid that would put me in a great deal of trouble with Lord Milo," The magister says dryly, one eye still on the rather sharp-looking blade. "And although I bear no great love for the man, he does pay well."

The thief gripped the dagger tighter in her hand, sighing again. When Mortimir began to adjust his clothes again, she lashed towards him, striking his chin squarely with the grip of her blade. Ceara moved forwards, crashing on top of the scholar and wrenching the documents from his hand. He protested weakly for a moment, hazily voicing his concerns, but soon the papers were free from his grip. Ceara backed up, tucking her prize into her apron but keeping her dagger close to a pained Mortimir. “Hows that, dickhead?”

Mortirmir pressed his hand to his chin, mouth agape. "Y-you, you... hit me." He said faintly, his tone edged with disbelief.

“Yes, I did. Remember that the next time you start getting some bright ideas.” Ceara pulled him up by his collar, pressing the dagger against his throat now. “I’m going to tell you exactly what’s going to happen, and you’re going to believe me this time, right?”

The magister's eyes were clouded in shock, but the dagger to his throat cleared them. "Ah...yes. Yes I shall."

“Good. Because if you screw me, I will make sure you come crashing down with me.” Ceara kept the knife at his throat, but her expression somewhat softened. “We are going to take a walk now. Out of here, down the stairs, and through the hall. You are going to carry these documents, and I am going to carry this dagger near your spine. We’re going to walk right out of this place, you’re going to hand me the papers, and then we’ll just go our separate ways. Alright? Nobody gets hurt, everyone goes home tonight.” She paused. “Unless you stab me in the back. Then I’ll kill you.”

Mortirmir paused to consider all this. On one hand, the thief's proposition was abjectly humiliating for a magister of his status; on the other, the dagger was very sharp. And pointed in his direction. He cleared his throat. "That would be agreable to me, madame."

Ceara grinned. “On your way then, my friend.” The thief pushed the papers into his hands, pointing to the door. Mortimir started to walk, with Ceara following close behind him. The pair descended the stairs, travelling through the silent corridors as quickly as was possible. The sounds of the party began to reappear as they reached the centre of the estate, and soon, the two were at the doors to the gathering. Ceara opened the door, pushing the scholar through first. She pocketed her dagger, making sure that Mortimir couldn’t see that the knife was away. She made eye contact with Mostafa as soon as she spotted him, silently gesturing to bard to start playing his role in the robbery.

The minstrel stood up, strumming a single cord on his lute. “Attention, everyone!” the guests turned their attention to him, looking away from Ceara and her hostage. “Attention! I shall now sing a song I have written for our dear host, Lord Milo, himself.” He launched into a tune, singing about the bravery and shrewdness of the great lord of Viarosa as loudly as humanly possible. Milo, and in turn the nobles attending his morning party, seemed enthralled by his rendition - or at least interested enough for Ceara to slip by them. She lead Mortimir past the gathered guests, through the servant’s quarters, and out into the gardens. Once she was through the iron gates, the thief began to relax. She turned Mortimir around, holding her hand out politely. “Please?”

"Well, I'd say my employment with the good Lord Milo is officially severed, thanks be to you. He'll undoubtedly think that I stole those papers." Mortirmir complained, handing over the documents. "Pray tell me what I shall do now, that I have no income. How am I supposed to travel without coin?" He continued heatedly, his voice growing in volume. He threw up his hands angrily. "And further, this damages my reputation amongst the nobility in his circles!"

“Technically, you did steal it.” replied Ceara, grinning as she reviewed the papers. She looked up, her smile fading when she saw just how angry he was becoming. “Look, buddy, we all have problems. You look like a guy that’s put together, I’m sure it’ll all work out.” The thief grinned again. “Besides, those nobles seemed like a bunch of pricks. Now, off you go.”

The magister scowled, then sighed as he looked around. He paused, chewing his lip idly. "You knew the bard. This was all planned, yes? So," He gestured with one hand, as if struggling to make a point. "There are others."

“There might be. There might not be.” Ceara took a step backwards, ringing the collar of her apron in an attempt to remove it. “That doesn’t really concern you, does it?”

"I take it you are no band of petty robbers. Few criminal bands would break into a wealthy Lord's castle simply to steal some papers, especially ones such as these." He tapped his teeth, which were still partially blackened from earlier. "I wonder what your purpose could be, hmm?"

Ceara pulled her apron above her head, smiling as she folded it across her arm. “I’m a damn good petty robber. Unfortunately, I’m the only one in the little group.” She wiggled her eyebrows. “Or am I? Misinformation. First rule of warfare. Second. I’m sure it’s on the list, eh?” She waved the though away. "In any case, it's not really any of your business."

Mortirmir knit his eyebrows in confusion at the rules of warfare comment. "Misinformation is the fourth rule in Attaliates' Gladiatoria, and seventh in Walpurgis' Kriegsspiel." He waved the quibble aside. "Regardless, I happen to be a scholar and magister of...some renown." He says, with a haughty sniff. "And I'm now seeking employment."

Ceara regarded him with an unimpressed expression. "I bet. My boss seems to be a fan of deadweight, so I'm sure you'll fit right in."

Mortirmir gaped at her. “Deadweight!?” He cried incredulously. "I am the magister maximus of the Imperial University! I mastered two schools of the hermetical arts by the time I was eighteen! Why, I could-" He paused. Considered. Then, he abruptly said, "None of that means anything to you, does it? Very well," Mortirmir adjusted his robes, smoothing out his wrinkled ink-stained sleeves. "My things are in an Inn not far from here. If you'll accompany me, madame...?"

"My name is Ceara, and that's that." Ceara squinted at the sky, checking the position of the sun. "Yeah, I'd say we've got a bit of time before Mostafa finishes his little poetic rounds." She smiled, extending her arm. "I'd just absolutely adore accompanying you. Let's talk about history and magic till the sun goes down, shall we? Oh, even better, perhaps you could tell me more about your titles and achievements! Those made me shiver, no lying! First, you should tell me your name. Add a couple middle ones, I won't know the difference, truly."

The magister looked down his nose at her. "I do not appreciate being mocked." He glared at her for a bit before relenting and taking her arm. "I am Master Mortirmir. A...pleasure."

"Master, eh?" Ceara raised an eyebrow. "Like the Eastern title, or the one they give to spoiled little noble children?" She grinned from ear to ear. "You know what, I think I know the answer to my own question."

He refused to be baited. "Neither. It's an old Imperial title. Κύριλλος or Kyrilos, in their tongue." He pulled at his rather unimpressive beard. "So, tell me about this party of yours. How many of you are there?"

Ceara smiled ruefully, patting Mortimir's arm. "Oh, we're a wonderous band. Crusaders and thieves, soldiers and heroes, minstrels and nightstalkers! They'll be writing songs about us for years! Oh, I’ve got a friend called Nima, he's a walking history book. Loves talking about it, too. Well, I mean, he sounds the same, but I know he's enjoying himself."

Mortirmir perked up a bit at the mention of Nima. "A fellow historian you say? I would love to make his acquaintance..." He began, as they entered the town proper. "Ah! There is my Inn, across the way." He said, pointing to a somewhat worn down three-story building. A sign hanging above the door proclaimed the establishment as The Laughing Fiddler.

"Get your things quickly, then. Don't want to leave our musical friend hanging high and dry, do we?” Ceara followed him through the doors, looking around. It wasn't a nice place, but it was better than the ones run by the mafia. "Do they sell anything hard here?"

"Ale, mostly. And some wine," He called over his shoulder, as he walked up the stairs. He returned a few minutes later in a fresh set of robes indistinguishable from the previous ones besides the ink-stains, and wearing a large backpack positively bulging at the seams. A satchel rested at his hip, a large tome peeking out of the cover. Mortirmir paid the Innkeep - an oily middle-aged man with a large gut - and turned to Ceara.

"Travelling light, are we?" remarked Ceara with dry amusement. "Mostafa will be getting out within the hour, and I think he'd appreciate my not being late. Follow me, if you can make it through the door."

Mortirmir snorted in indignation, and followed Ceara outside.

Scourge of the Seas

APPLICATION:

NAME: Cato Valentinovna

SEX: Female

DATE OF BIRTH: November 7th, 1690

PLACE OF BIRTH: Moscow, Russia

BACKSTORY: Cato Valentinovna was born into the proud nobility of the Russian Tsardom, growing up in the distinguished court of Peter the First. Her father was a rich merchant that sold luxurious fabrics and clothing to the aristocracy. Her mother was a French noblewoman and avid artist. Her childhood was as comfortable for her family as it was insufferable for her sensibilities. She was raised to be a gentle and polite lady of the court, but she longed to take part in more boyish fields of study like science and history. Both her parents heavily reprimanded her for this behaviour, as they did not want to damage their reputation with the other more traditional Russian nobles.

Inspired by the sweeping modernization reforms enacted by her own monarch, Peter I, Cato resisted her mother’s desperate attempts to civilize her. She stole books on medicine and surgery, which she studied profusely. After a year of maintaining her fascination with the medical profession, she declared that she would become a doctor to the Tsars of Russia. Her parents, who had already planned to marry her off to another Russian family in order to better their position in the nobility, completely forbade her to pursue her new ambitions. In response, she stole as much money and product from her father’s storehouse and fled from her home. She paid her way through Europe, learning what she could from willing medical institutions and moving on. She spent a year in Paris, becoming a novelty in the court of Louis XIV. She treated the aristocracy of the Sun King until she realized that she was more of a novelty than a doctor to the decadent French peerage.

After leaving Paris, she decided to travel to the Americas, where she believed that she could be taken more seriously as a medical doctor. As she neared the Caribbean, a fierce gale struck, driving her ship off course and tearing its sails badly. Drifting a few miles out of Nassau, the ship was easy pickings for the first pirate to inevitably happen upon it: 'Black Jack' Blackett of the Bucephalus. Boarding the battered vessel, the pirates swiftly overcame any resistance, and began the process of transferring cargo and captives across to their own ship. Without warning, however, a third ship began to fire upon the Bucephalus. A pirate hunter sloop-of-war, its deck packed with veteran privateers. Blackett's crew rushed to man their own guns, but amidst the chaos the pirates' quartermaster was hit by dozens of splinters from a nearby cannon impact. The wounds would certainly have killed him, had a certain Cato not stepped forward from amidst the captives and offered to treat the wounded man. With the captain's permission, she proceeded to meticulously remove every trace of shrapnel from the quartermaster, disinfecting and stitching his wounds quickly and cleanly, even as the two ships continued to exchange cannonfire. Recognising the value of having such a skilled surgeon on board, Captain Blackett immediately offered her a choice: take a position on his crew, or be enslaved, ransomed, or killed like the rest of the captives. After some decidedly brief consideration, she accepted his offer.

APPEARANCE: i.imgur.com/YzCUqqb.png

MOTIVATION: Cato wants to be recognized as a proper medical professional in some great court of Europe, although that ambition has somewhat fallen to the wayside since her first taste of the adventure of piracy. At the moment, she has decided to see the world before settling anywhere.

SKILLS/STRENGTHS: Cato is a skilled surgeon and regular doctor, with knowledge on much of the world and many fields of medicine. She has been known to make sparkling conversation with both crew-members and captives, and she can play the violin nicely.

WEAKNESSES: She is well versed in swordplay on paper, but in actuality she has quite a bit of trouble holding her own. Instead of joining the fight, she can usually be found below-deck either taking shelter or treating the wounded.

NAME OF CAPTAIN: John Lysander Blackett

ROLE ON SHIP: Ship’s Doctor

NAME OF SHIP: The Bucephalus

SHIP DESCRIPTION/SPECS: The Bucephalus is a 32 gun frigate, formerly a 5th rate warship of the Royal Navy. It carries 24 broadside 12-pound guns, 4 long 9-pound bow chasers, and 4 long 9-pound stern chasers, along with 6 swivel guns on deck for close action. It has a crew complement of 145. Under Captain Blackett, the ship is decorated with crimson sails, a Jolly Roger depicting a horse with the lower half of a fish (hippocampus) piercing a heart with a trident, and a bronze figurehead depicting the same creature as on the flag, minus the trident and heart.

Scourge of the Seas

APPLICATION:

NAME: Cato Valentinovna

SEX: Female

DATE OF BIRTH: November 7th, 1690

PLACE OF BIRTH: Moscow, Russia

BACKSTORY: Cato Valentinovna was born into the proud nobility of the Russian Tsardom, growing up in the distinguished court of Peter the First. Her father was a rich merchant that sold luxurious fabrics and clothing to the aristocracy. Her mother was a French noblewoman and avid artist. Her childhood was as comfortable for her family as it was insufferable for her sensibilities. She was raised to be a gentle and polite lady of the court, but she longed to take part in more boyish fields of study like science and history. Both her parents heavily reprimanded her for this behaviour, as they did not want to damage their reputation with the other more traditional Russian nobles.

Inspired by the sweeping modernization reforms enacted by her own monarch, Peter I, Cato resisted her mother’s desperate attempts to civilize her. She stole books on medicine and surgery, which she studied profusely. After a year of maintaining her fascination with the medical profession, she declared that she would become a doctor to the Tsars of Russia. Her parents, who had already planned to marry her off to another Russian family in order to better their position in the nobility, completely forbade her to pursue her new ambitions. In response, she stole as much money and product from her father’s storehouse and fled from her home. She paid her way through Europe, learning what she could from willing medical institutions and moving on. She spent a year in Paris, becoming a novelty in the court of Louis XIV. She treated the aristocracy of the Sun King until she realized that she was more of a novelty than a doctor to the decadent French peerage.

After leaving Paris, she decided to travel to the Americas, where she believed that she could be taken more seriously as a medical doctor. As she neared the Caribbean, a fierce gale struck, driving her ship off course and tearing its sails badly. Drifting a few miles out of Nassau, the ship was easy pickings for the first pirate to inevitably happen upon it: 'Black Jack' Blackett of the Bucephalus. Boarding the battered vessel, the pirates swiftly overcame any resistance, and began the process of transferring cargo and captives across to their own ship. Without warning, however, a third ship began to fire upon the Bucephalus. A pirate hunter sloop-of-war, its deck packed with veteran privateers. Blackett's crew rushed to man their own guns, but amidst the chaos the pirates' quartermaster was hit by dozens of splinters from a nearby cannon impact. The wounds would certainly have killed him, had a certain Cato not stepped forward from amidst the captives and offered to treat the wounded man. With the captain's permission, she proceeded to meticulously remove every trace of shrapnel from the quartermaster, disinfecting and stitching his wounds quickly and cleanly, even as the two ships continued to exchange cannonfire. Recognising the value of having such a skilled surgeon on board, Captain Blackett immediately offered her a choice: take a position on his crew, or be enslaved, ransomed, or killed like the rest of the captives. After some decidedly brief consideration, she accepted his offer.

APPEARANCE: i.imgur.com/YzCUqqb.png

MOTIVATION: Cato wants to be recognized as a proper medical professional in some great court of Europe, although that ambition has somewhat fallen to the wayside since her first taste of the adventure of piracy. At the moment, she has decided to see the world before settling anywhere.

SKILLS/STRENGTHS: Cato is a skilled surgeon and regular doctor, with knowledge on much of the world and many fields of medicine. She has been known to make sparkling conversation with both crew-members and captives, and she can play the violin nicely.

WEAKNESSES: She is well versed in swordplay on paper, but in actuality she has quite a bit of trouble holding her own. Instead of joining the fight, she can usually be found below-deck either taking shelter or treating the wounded.

NAME OF CAPTAIN: John Lysander Blackett

ROLE ON SHIP: Ship’s Doctor

NAME OF SHIP: The Bucephalus

SHIP DESCRIPTION/SPECS: The Bucephalus is a 32 gun frigate, formerly a 5th rate warship of the Royal Navy. It carries 24 broadside 12-pound guns, 4 long 9-pound bow chasers, and 4 long 9-pound stern chasers, along with 6 swivel guns on deck for close action. It has a crew complement of 145. Under Captain Blackett, the ship is decorated with crimson sails, a Jolly Roger depicting a horse with the lower half of a fish (hippocampus) piercing a heart with a trident, and a bronze figurehead depicting the same creature as on the flag, minus the trident and heart.

Wanted: Squad of killers to dispose of Chosen One

Name: Raadia

Sex: Female

Race: Djinn

Age: 97

Appearance:
Raadia is Djinn, and as such, she is prone to shapeshifting. In her own preferred form, she appears as a woman dressed in red clothing.

Religion: Raadia follows the Path of the Sacred Flame, although not exactly in an orthodox fashion.

Backstory: Raadia spent her first years travelling the Barrens with a nomadic band of Djinni merchants, stopping at the fringes of settled civilization to trade and broker with human cities. She was given a basic education in magic and shape-shifting at twenty, as is custom for Djinni children. Once she passed her first tests, she was sent to the hidden city of Vargos to further train in magic. Although she spent all of her required twenty years at the institution, she did not prove a talent in any magic except shape-shifting, which she excelled at. Presented to the Red Council at fifty-three, they denied her an extended stay in the city and relegated to the same merchant band that she was born into.

Raadia did not take this rejection well. She snuck into the exalted halls of the Elder Ones after the black sun had set, stealing ten of the oldest souls stored within. Knowing the heavy price of her blasphemous act, she attempted to flee the city before anyone took note of the theft, but she was discovered by a watcher of Vargos. The watcher cast a spell to annihilate Raadia, but she was able to deflect it at the last moment. She escaped, but the magic seared into her flesh and marked her as a traitor to the Red Council and to the Sacred Flame. She ran far from the sifting city, far from the barrens, and far from her family.

Raadia spent the next thirty years in hiding, moving from place to place in a desperate attempt to keep the souls in her own hands and away from the Watchers that had been dispatched to obliterate her. They found on the eve of her eighty-fifth year, committing to a duel and forcing her to retreat yet again. She spent three of the souls merely keeping the watchers at bay, and collapsed outside the walls of Zal Drudakk. The young master of the tower, Zalhedias, ordered her brought into the city, knowing that the Djinn watchers are forbidden from entering a city other than ancient Vargos. Raadia gave him the rest of her stolen souls as thanks for saving her life and pledged her service to his throne.

She became a spy for Zalhedias, keeping tabs and reporting on his many enemies. She spent years of her life entrenched in the courts of the elves, the humans, and even some of the undead. When she returned from a particularly murderous mission in Zelamoyod, she discovered that the master of Zal Drudakk had finally found a use for her stolen souls. The army of Zalheider was created, and when the finest soldiers rose from their ranks, Zalhedias placed her in a special unit dedicated to the destruction of all other contenders to the prophecy that he believed belonged to him.

Motivation: Raadia wants to survive, and so, she's chosen the faction that she sees as the most likely to win.

Magic: Some fire magic. The spells cast that marked her as an adolescent have marred her ability to extensively use the arcane arts.

Skills/Strengths: Raadia is a Djinn, and so, she is able to change her appearance incredibly easily. She is able to use magic as well, albeit not as effectively as others of her kind.

Weaknesses: Raadia is fairly arrogant in her ability to deceive, and as such, she underestimates most of her enemies. The patterns that were burned into her skin by the Watchers stay with her in every form, and although she is very good at covering them up, they can sometimes cause her trouble.

Gear: Her red clothes, pistol, and dagger.

Other: Nothin'

Wanted: Squad of killers to dispose of Chosen One

Name: Raadia

Sex: Female

Race: Djinn

Age: 97

Appearance:
Raadia is Djinn, and as such, she is prone to shapeshifting. In her own preferred form, she appears as a woman dressed in red clothing.

Religion: Raadia follows the Path of the Sacred Flame, although not exactly in an orthodox fashion.

Backstory: Raadia spent her first years travelling the Barrens with a nomadic band of Djinni merchants, stopping at the fringes of settled civilization to trade and broker with human cities. She was given a basic education in magic and shape-shifting at twenty, as is custom for Djinni children. Once she passed her first tests, she was sent to the hidden city of Vargos to further train in magic. Although she spent all of her required twenty years at the institution, she did not prove a talent in any magic except shape-shifting, which she excelled at. Presented to the Red Council at fifty-three, they denied her an extended stay in the city and relegated to the same merchant band that she was born into.

Raadia did not take this rejection well. She snuck into the exalted halls of the Elder Ones after the black sun had set, stealing ten of the oldest souls stored within. Knowing the heavy price of her blasphemous act, she attempted to flee the city before anyone took note of the theft, but she was discovered by a watcher of Vargos. The watcher cast a spell to annihilate Raadia, but she was able to deflect it at the last moment. She escaped, but the magic seared into her flesh and marked her as a traitor to the Red Council and to the Sacred Flame. She ran far from the sifting city, far from the barrens, and far from her family.

Raadia spent the next thirty years in hiding, moving from place to place in a desperate attempt to keep the souls in her own hands and away from the Watchers that had been dispatched to obliterate her. They found on the eve of her eighty-fifth year, committing to a duel and forcing her to retreat yet again. She spent three of the souls merely keeping the watchers at bay, and collapsed outside the walls of Zal Drudakk. The young master of the tower, Zalhedias, ordered her brought into the city, knowing that the Djinn watchers are forbidden from entering a city other than ancient Vargos. Raadia gave him the rest of her stolen souls as thanks for saving her life and pledged her service to his throne.

She became a spy for Zalhedias, keeping tabs and reporting on his many enemies. She spent years of her life entrenched in the courts of the elves, the humans, and even some of the undead. When she returned from a particularly murderous mission in Zelamoyod, she discovered that the master of Zal Drudakk had finally found a use for her stolen souls. The army of Zalheider was created, and when the finest soldiers rose from their ranks, Zalhedias placed her in a special unit dedicated to the destruction of all other contenders to the prophecy that he believed belonged to him.

Motivation: Raadia wants to survive, and so, she's chosen the faction that she sees as the most likely to win.

Magic: Some fire magic. The spells cast that marked her as an adolescent have marred her ability to extensively use the arcane arts.

Skills/Strengths: Raadia is a Djinn, and so, she is able to change her appearance incredibly easily. She is able to use magic as well, albeit not as effectively as others of her kind.

Weaknesses: Raadia is fairly arrogant in her ability to deceive, and as such, she underestimates most of her enemies. The patterns that were burned into her skin by the Watchers stay with her in every form, and although she is very good at covering them up, they can sometimes cause her trouble.

Gear: Her red clothes, pistol, and dagger.

Other: Nothin'

To Meddle in the Affairs of Dragons

The Grandmaster dismissed himself, leaving Herbert to his own devices. He began walking back to camp, holding his hands up to his mouth and breathing on them, the vapor billowing past his lips like steam. Rubbing his hands together, he shoved them into the pockets of his woolen robe. Part of him missed the milder winters of Aesernia, though he wasn't exactly unused to such temperatures.

To his immediate left, the shrubbery began to shift, rattling clearly in the crisp morning air. Lucian turned swiftly, putting his hand on the hilt of his sword and preparing to receive whatever was rustling in the foliage. Instead of a wild animal, he saw a redheaded woman stumbling out of the trees. Her clothes were wet with melting snow, but she looked cheerful enough. “Lucy! Finally, there you are.” The thief paused. “Do you mind if I call you Lucy?”

Lucian rolled his eyes, shaking his head slowly with a tired sigh. "Some folks call me Luca. Your land specifically would call me Luke. Luke would do nicely," he replied. "What is it you require, lass?"

“I’d like to ask to go ahead to Viarosa, alone.” Ceara smiled uncomfortably, brushing snow from her rough spun cloak. “You were the one to hire me, so asking your permission seems like a good idea.”

"Very well," Lucian replied, eyeing the thief carefully. "Although, I suppose you won't mind that I retain Nima with us? I can't imagine such a well armored warrior is conducive to a task requiring stealth."

Ceara’s smile fell from her face. “What?” The thief folded her arms, frowning. “No, I want to take Nima with me. He’s fairly… I don’t know, he doesn’t work well with others. Most others.”

"And were I to let the two of you leave the party to move ahead to Viarosa, how am I to be sure that you will not exploit the opportunity to flee or alert our target against us?" asked Lucian, folding his arms. "I cannot yet say that you have earned our trust."

Ceara looked disgruntled, but the Grandmaster’s logic didn’t seem to be lost on her. “Fine. You’ll be holding the Sindisi as ransom to make certain I come back, see how rightly that works out for you.” She thought for a moment. “Still, you can’t expect me to steal from such a big fish by myself, can you? I suppose you don’t understand the intricacies of these things, since I’m assuming you’ve never, um, acquired anything of great value, but it’s going to take more than one person. If I don’t have Nima, I can’t do this.”

Without missing a beat, Lucian shrugged and said, "Simple. Take Mostafa with you. Noble pomps enjoy entertainment by music, do they not? You won't have to rob the bard stark naked, he performs for pay while you seize Bjorn's items without being suspected. Do not allow yourself to be spotted at any point during the heist by our target and Mostafa will handle distraction." He spoke as though it required little thought. "Practical strategy. Apostle Sidon had developed a similar operation to recapture some goods he had lost to Savarian raiders during the Crusade for Iurusolym."

The thief cocked her head. “I’m sorry, who is the thief here? Certainly not you, or your friend Sidon!” She changed her voice to mock his own. “Practical strategy. To a plan like that to work smoothly, I would have to have someone that doesn’t hate my guts. If you haven’t noticed, our friend Mostafa has really taken that little incident to heart.”

"And can Nima steal half as well as you, or play the lute?" Lucian asked. "When bridges are burned, it is not meet to leave two sides of a river divided, rather you should build anew. If necessary, I will pay Mostafa. If he will not listen to reason he will listen to coin. Your task is not to salt the wounds you cut. If you can avoid this, you may yet find a friend in him."

Ceara mumbled something about unlikely odds, but eventually sighed her defeat. “Fine, the bard it is. However, if my newest friend decides to turn me in while I’m working out of sheer spite, I’ll be haunting you rather than him. Got it?”

"I doubt the man is so petty as to jeopardize this quest out of spite," the Grandmaster replied, chuckling dismissively. "I will bring this to his attention momentarily. For now, you have my blessing to proceed onwards to Viarosa."

"Oh, and I thank you for your holy blessing, oh mister grandmaster knight, and I'll be sure to tell the sinful heathens in Viarosa of your favour when they're about to gut me like an incredibly clever and beautiful fish." Ceara bowed awkwardly, extending her hands and balancing perilously on one foot. "Won't you walk me back to your holy place of camping and rest, oh ser knight grandmaster ser?"

Lucian stared at the thief, all traces of emotion having vanished from his features. Looking her over, he gestured to the camp a distance away and said, "Forthwith, then. Compel me to march a mile and I shall go twain."

Ceara rolled her eyes. "Right. To the campeth, leadeth on, mine own lief cousin."

To Meddle in the Affairs of Dragons

And it's up

Praise Solanius

@PrinceOfHeaven

Solanius had n o t h i n g to do with it
obviously this is the work of a frisky bonfire