Luftwaffles

To Meddle in the Affairs of Dragons

Pad status: F U C K E D

Let me know when it rises from the ashes

@PrinceOfHeaven

Wow I went out for dinner and to buy some stuff and it's still down

this is getting bad gois

To Meddle in the Affairs of Dragons

West of the Savarian Gates

The red sun beat down on the lands of the East, blasting the desolate landscape with heat unknown anywhere else on Thurius. The rocky plateaus were high and hard, giving way to the sifting ergs that rolled southwards and rising into the vast mountains that sprawled across the north. This land, the disputed territory between Sindhus and Savaria, was not a place that allowed weakness. The predators hunted alone, the prey died alone, and even the flora wore prickly armour.

A great cloud of dust rose in the distance, slowly drifting across the clear blue sky. The sound of hooves pounding against the rocky ground was heard before the perpetrators could be seen, thundering across the crest of a barren hilltop. The riders were few in number, wearing loose linen tunics of vibrant patterning and cloaks of brightly coloured silk. Most of the horsemen had a weapon hanging from their belt, sabres encrusted with gems and gilded with fine silver and gold. Two of the foremost riders carried long lances, each with different standards waving at the end of their pole-arms. The men rode down the windswept hill, passing a trench lined with guards cloaked in mail and white linen, and entering the encampment of the Sindhusi legions.

Thousands of tents stood in orderly rows, each with banners denoting their numbered position and ranking on the field. The quarters nearest the edge of the camp were utilitarian and small, each with room for six soldiers and all their equipment. As the riders continued deeper into the halted army, the tents increased in size, but remained plainly raised and almost completely without decoration. Ordered pairs of eastern infantrymen patrolled the tent line, marching up and down the camp. Occasionally, the riders could spot a figure cloaked from head to toe in pristine white vestment, the inverted triangle of displayed clearly where their faces would have been had they not been entirely covered. Disciples of the Sacred Path.

When the riders reached the exact centre of the camp, they dismounted. Laid before them was a massive bonfire, around which a great many soldiers and disciples sat and talked. Nearby the fire, a group of larger pavilions that had been erected - large tents of plain white colour, each with an inverted triangle displayed clearly on each of the silken walls. The largest tent was raised to form a pyramid, wooden framework connecting the fabrics and keeping the structure grounded and making sure it held shape. Sindisi stood as straight as the mountains, ringing the silk pyramid with their plated mail. Each slave-soldier wore a crimson cloak, fastened at the plates of steel that covered the midsection, and a plume of red ribbony that hung from their conical helmets. As the men approached, now on foot, the Sindisi braced their shields, bringing spears down to bear at the approaching visitors. The men stopped in their tracks, placing hands on their sabres as they realized that the slave-soldiers would not permit them into the tent.

Instead, the flap was opened from the inside, and a figure dressed in crimson robes all but identical to the ones worn by disciples of the Sacred Path stepped forth. He waved a hand, his vestment flowing with his movement, and the Sindisi raised their weapons. The Zealot gestured for the visitors to enter, disappearing back into the pyramid. The men hesitated for a brief moment, warily eyeing the slave-soldiers as they passed into the commanding pavilion.

Inside, the pyramid was as orderly as the rest of the camp. Books were stacked on tables at the back of the structure, columns of thick tomes and stacks of paper on each. Simple cushioned settees were arranged to face one another in the centre of the pyramid, seating several Zealots clothed in the same crimson that distinguished them from simple disciples. A table filled with flatbread sat in the middle of the Zealots, who spoke and drank tea, paying no regard to the new visitors. Standing nearby the dining clergy, three figures standing in full plated mail addressed a woman sitting at a small table.

The woman wore crimson silk, same as the other Zealots, but her robes opened in the midsection to reveal a shirt of mail with a series of enameled plates wrapping around the torso. Her armour was coloured a deep red, a shade darker than the robe that cloaked it. Her face was not covered like the other Zealots - instead, the woman's vestments wrapped around a crested helm, fluted and topped by a transverse array of red feathers. Her exposed face was narrow, sharp, and visibly scarred. Her hand was raised to her temple, which she massaged as the men before her continued to argue. The woman's eyes flickered to the entrance as she saw the visitors come through the main flap but she quickly regained focus on the discussion at hand.

"The rioting lasted for two days, and even after the garrison cornered the mob in the public square, the people continued to fight." The speaker's ranking sash was coloured a plain silver that matched the mail that he wore underneath it. Like the rest of the men, he wore his hair in the traditional military knot. "Dispersing the mob took nearly an entire night, during which several of our soldiers were killed and many wounded."

The woman pursed her lips. "And the mob? What casualties did they suffer?"

The man looked uneasy retelling the statistics. "Once the rioters were surrounded, those that fought were easily dispatched. Hundreds were killed. All but three of the suspected instigators went with them. Those that were captured are held in the citadel of the city, awaiting their holy punishment. One of the captured is a holy figure, a hermit of sorts. People have gathered outside the citadel, begging mercy."

“Good. A chance for a standard to be set.” She said. “We intend to burn them, correct?"

A murmur of agreement rippled through the assembled advisors. "The men are to be set on the Path, yes."

The woman stood up, smoothing the papers arranged on her desk. "This unrest is more about bread than it is religion. Now that we've finally and completely destroyed the marauders and demons that plagued our merchants, food will flow to the people." She looked up. "I want the instigators desolated, not burned. They will be shown tolerance, and we will have order." She glanced at the man in the silver cloak, her mouth briefly twisting into a frown. "Make certain it is done in public. The mob should see their leaders expire. If these demonstrators decide that our mercy was lacking, you will have them in their homes before they can raise fists against us again. Your governance over this region has been adequate until recently - I trust you do not intend to make failure your new trend?"

The man reddened, but he seemed more embarrassed than angry. "I will not lose control again, you can be sure.“ He gave the woman a curt nod, brushing past the other advisors and newcomers alike as he left the tent. The woman watched him leave and then turned her attention to the remaining men. "I have visitors, noble masters. We will meet again once midday draws to close."

The lords voiced their agreement, following their comrade's footsteps and leaving the pavilion. Once they had gone, the woman directed her attention to the group of newcomers, their elegant clothes marred with dust from their journey. She bowed for the lead man and then offered him a seat at a set of cushioned seats near her table. "I will not speak with your entire entourage," she said matter-of-factly. "Tell them to wait outside, and I shall receive Your Highness with traditional customs and tea."

The prince of Sindhus looked reluctant to send his companions away, but he complied nonetheless. They left, and the tent was clear of everyone save himself and the High Zealot.

"I did not expect to find you discussing matters of state, nor did I wish to interrupt you, dear Azima.“ The prince smiled, smoothing his quilted tunic as he moved to sit down. The heir to Sindhus was a typically handsome man, with a finely groomed beard and the golden tattoos that eastern nobility had found fashionable as of late. Unlike the officers that had just made their exit, his long black hair was worn on his shoulders rather than held neatly above his head. "It is good to finally see you again, half-sister. I only met you and your brother once as children, and it was so desperately brief that I could not even call you my sworn friend." He tone became serious for a moment. "I am deeply sorry to hear of your sibling's demise, by the way. We can only hope that he is a ranking officer in the Bright City as we speak."

"He apparently died well. I thank you regardless."

The younger Razah smiled amicably. "Indeed. Onto happier subjects, I suppose. The capital prospers in your absence - Razatash has never in our history had such a majestic aura about it. Perhaps I can show you the palace as it looks now? One day, one day.” His confident smile widened. “I must say, you have become a strikingly beautiful woman. Why do you burden your visage with clothing so unwomanly? You do yourself a disservice."

Azima did not look impressed. “Womanly clothing does not usually stop arrows." She frowned. “I have heard you know much of womanly clothing, but little of arrows.” The High Zealot stood, moving to her desk and retrieving a ceramic pitcher of earthy-smelling Sindhusi tea. She poured it into two painted cups and took them back to the low table where the prince was waiting. “Your name is Razah, but I see little of your father in you. The Emir’s last wish was to have you brought to the middle realms on the dawn of your twentieth year so that you might learn to command men. If I am not mistaken, that day passed over six months ago.”

Prince Razah smiled again, but there was little warmth in his expression. “I truly left when he had me summoned. Unfortunately, my journey was slow, and hindered by weather and issues with my supply." He took a sip of his tea, visibly disappointed with the taste. "What does it matter?" He continued. "I am here now, am I not? I have brought the royal seal and am ready to receive your religious approval of my righteous rule."

Azima placed her own tea on the table, folding her arms around her back and clasping her hands together. "Our father dictated your arrival personally. It was one of his last commands." She paused. "He was a towering hero. They called him sickly behind his back, called him weak of heart and body. They said an army would never follow him. The Va'ad couldn't control him, and so they feared him. He may have been crippled by that horrific disease, but his will never faltered. He was a righteous man." The High Zealot looked down on the prince, arching a single eyebrow. "The Va'ad seems to love you, though. I suppose you think that's because you're a good ruler, experienced in all your years of eating and sleeping?"

Razah's smile slipped away. "I don't know what you're insinuating-"

"I insinuate nothing. The Va'ad loves you because they can control you, and through that, they can control the path that all-mother Sindhus travels." The High Zealot unfolded her arms. "They have showered you with praise, consorts, and wealth until your head swelled to the size of the palace you dwelled in. You are their puppet."

The prince stood abruptly, knocking his tea aside as he rocked the table. "How dare you speak of the noble school of the east like you are above it! Like you come from anything but a pathetic mountain house, emboldened by my father’s misguided favour for your mother and his silly devotion to your pathetic religion!” He jabbed an accusing finger at Azima. "My loyal ministers told me my father had instilled you with his arrogance, but I had not expected he had given you such a degree of insolence! He may have treated you like a daughter, but I am his true born male heir, and now that the disease has finally taken him, my right is to rule. I will not suffer your words of madness any longer - I will return to the capital and demand that you disband your command. This fanaticism that my father so willingly fostered has clearly spiraled out of control, and I must do my duty as Emir to end it!"

The High Zealot maintained her composure throughout his tirade, eyeing the heir to Sindhus with an indifferent gaze. “Hear me now,“ Azima moved to her desk, delicately lifting a piece of aging paper and holding it close to her face. "As my words are sacred law." Her eyes drifted towards the paper, which she began to read aloud. "I, Razah Va Azuri, do hereby decree that my power as Emir of Sindhus and First of the East will not pass to my eldest son, Razah Sa Marzo, for he is not equipped to hold my power. The title shall be held in sway until another can be found to rule, decided by a council of my choosing. These are my words, my orders, my law. It shall fall to the most trusted and honourable High Zealot of Sindhus, Azima on the Path, to right any deviance from my last command.” The High Zealot stopped reading, looking at the prince, who had paled considerably since his outburst. "His words end there, empowered by the very same royal seal you have brought here today. This is the original copy, but he put many more to paper, and I assure you, they have been delivered to the officers intended."

Razah stood like a frozen monument, his mouth agape. "My father has stripped me of my birthright?” He croaked. "You forged this document. You have made my father speak this treason."

"The important masters already know this paper is authentic. I showed them this page when you failed to arrive on your twentieth day." Azima glanced at the saber sheathed at the prince's waist. "I am on the council your father speaks of. They will convene in the capital, and the majority legions will be scattered to make certain the Emir's words are obeyed." She pursed her lips. "And they will be. I care for the sacred law, unlike your wretched ministers and the corrupt Va'ad."

Before the prince could reply, the flap of the tent opened, and a line of Sindisi stormed into the pyramid. They stood at attention near the exit, blocking any route of escape. The prince looked to the slave-soldiers, and then back to the High Zealot, panic beginning to take root in his eyes. "What is this? Do you have ill designs on your own kin?” He dropped to his knees, grasping for her hand. "I am your brother, Azima! I am your monarch!”

“You are weak.“ The High Zealot stared down at the prince, a small frown appearing on her face. “Sindhus cannot be weak now, not while the world upon her with such envy.“ She turned her back to the prince, waving her hand in signal to the Sindisi. Two of the slave-soldiers moved forward, roughly grasping a wailing Razah and dragging him from the tent, where he could see his guards lying in the sand, each of their throats cut. Whimpering and kicking, Prince Razah Va Yatash was dragged away by the leading Sindisi. He cried out for the soldiers gathering to view the commotion to assist him, but the legionaries remained still.

The High Zealot stepped out of her pavilion, scanning the crowd of soldiers that watched grimly as their prince was clasped in irons and pulled away to an unknown fate. She examined the faces of the legionaries, trying to discern whether they approved of her action or not.

There was silence for a few tantalizing moments as the High Zealot stood before her legions. In the midst of the crowd, someone raised their fist and covered it with their open hand in an eastern salute, bellowing a cry of Varidis - commander. Suddenly, the encampment exploded with cheers of the same sentiment, and in a few brief moments, the soldiers erupted into praise for their leader.

Satisfied with the response, Azima on the Path turned to the officer that was closest to her. “Arriah, fetch the royal seal from my poor brother's traveling equipment. He has suffered a bout of strange madness and entrusted the safeguarding of the seal to my person. In addition, instruct the officers of both the jade and phoenix legions to prepare their troops and remain here while you lead the bulk of my forces east. I will ready my vanguard personally, don't bother yourself with it.” The armoured figure nodded, marching off to obey her command. The High Zealot took her last look at the men before her, returning to the shade of her pyramid tent while her triumph echoed through the arid plateau.

To Meddle in the Affairs of Dragons

Ceara patted the flank of her brown mare, now dressed comfortably in her own travelling clothes. Her trousers were worn and dusty, her white blouse was oversized and smudged with dirt, but it was comfortably familiar. She opened the flap on her saddle bag, making sure that the first payment that Lucian had owed her was securely packed. She looked past her horse, watching Nima carefully fix his fiery standard across the withers of his mount. His armour was returned and gleaming with polish, with she knew had him nettled. Polish was for parades.

The thief swung around, scanning the courtyard of Mirador for the rest of the little group as they attended to their own steeds. A small band of squires lead three destriers from the castle stables, each of the horses draped in gilded steel and padded surcoats. Ceara rolled her eyes at the heavy armour, turning back and tying her bags closed. The thief noticed a basket of apples sitting next to another couple getting ready to leave the castle, these ones with an entire wagon to prepare. Ceara stroked her mare, gently leading the horse over to the bin and taking a large fruit from the top of the pile. She raised to her horse, who brayed softly and then gladly accepted.

As the thief drew near, Erika moved from the wagon to greet her. The half-manticore had changed into a set of travel clothes and smiled at Ceara. "Ah, I do believe you are our item retrieval expert." She then extended her hand in greeting. "I don't believe we were properly introduced earlier. My name is Erika Nilsson."

Ceara tied her horse to a wooden stake beside the apples, raising her eyebrow. “Item retrieval." She grinned crookedly. "I like it. Did you come up with that just now?”

Erika shook her head. "No, I came up with it on the way out here. It seemed politer than your usual job title." She paused. "What did the Grandmaster tell you about the items that needed retrieving?"

"Documents on Htraknu, held by some spiteful dickhead." Out of the corner of her eye, Ceara could see Nima approaching, probably to scold her about the way she had arranged her horse. "My name is Ceara, by the way. You could probably tell, but I'm from Cairnleath." The thief pointed to 'Ser Leintke', who was still lingering near the wagon. "Is he actually a knight? Doesn't look like a knight."

"That I am not." Called Herbert from by the wagon before walking over to where the two were chatting. "I am but a simple monster hunter instead. Come to think of it, I am not entirely sure as to why actual knights would refer to me as 'ser'."

Ceara snorted. "They sure as hell didn't call me ser." Nima arrived at her side, silently staring at the monster hunter through the gaps in his aventail. Ceara patted him on the armoured shoulder. "This is Nima. Didn't call him ser either. I'm feeling a little neglected." The thief leaned on her friend, propping herself up while he stood straight and silent. "Do you have a stake in all this, then? Killing the most dangerous monster that ever lived has gotta be good for business, right?"

The monster hunter's expression darkened somewhat and a touch of sorrow was displayed in Erika's. "We do have a stake in this, but it's more personal than professional." Explained Herbert. "The two of us are from Krossavik, and if the dragon's causing trouble again, then it's time to pursue the old vendetta." He paused. "Besides, if we don't go after the dragon, he might just come after us."

Ceara jerked her chin towards the Knights of Solanian, still strapping plates of steel and padded material across their massive horses. “If mister holy fingers over in that castle is right, the dragon is hunting the gods. I don’t think he’s going to have time to come after anyone else.”

"He probably is hunting the gods as I haven't heard of any particular feud between him and Hargash." Mused Herbert. "But if he is hunting gods and he manages to pull it off, he'll have all the time and power in the world for clean-up."

"Alright, you've got a point, but..." Ceara shrugged. "Not to undermine the morale, but if this dragon isn't stopped by the gods, do you really expect us to do anything?"

"The dragon has proved that anything that lives can die." Replied Herbert, seemingly unfazed. "As long as we can find the dragon's weakness, we can end him. We can learn from the dragon himself in this case. He only went after Hargash after years of planning and preparation - just as we must plan our attack carefully."

The thief looked unimpressed. "We don't have years to plan our little excursion. I guess these documents are supposed to fill in the gaps, right?" She paused. "What do you know about the guy that's holding them? Who is he?"

"His name is Milo Demetrios, and he is a distant cousin of the Ilyrican king." Began Herbert. "Somewhat cunning and ambitious, but greedy, spiteful and with limited self-control. While he's managed to amass a sizable fortune, his flaws and indiscretions have kept him from being too influential in the politics of Viarosa or Illyrica in general. Feel free to help yourself to a bit of his wealth while you're retrieving the documents - so long as it does not jeopardize your success."

Ceara smiled again. "I'd be happy to bring you two a little gift, courtesy of Lord Milo." She wiggled her eyebrows at the pair, her grin growing larger. "Always nice to see young love, eh?"

"Very thoughtful of you." Said Erika good-naturedly. "But you don't have to go to any particular trouble for us youngsters." She paused, still smiling and continued with a twinkle in her eye. "We would, however, appreciate hearing some of the wisdom that you have gained over your years of life experience."

Ceara’s smile dropped from her face. “Are you calling me a whore?" She put her hands on her hips. "Gods, I offer to steal for you, and you repay me by calling me a harlot mere minutes after you’ve met me?” Erika's expression shifted rapidly to one of embarassment and horror. "No, no! Not at all! I merely meant to play along with the age jokes..." She trailed off with the horror being replaced with more embarassment and just a touch of amusement. "You were joking again, weren't you?"

“Plenty more where that came from!” The thief smirked, draping her arm around her eastern companion. “Just ask Nima, he loves my jokes.” The slave-soldier nodded absently, but his attention was busy elsewhere. Instead of replying, he put his hand on his sword. Ceara frowned for a moment, following his gaze and spotting the supposed danger - Mostafa Idrissi, the bard they had robbed blind and set alone on the road, stood directly behind the couple from Krossavik. The thief sighed, grabbing Nima’s hand and pulling it away from his sword.

“What…?” The bard’s eyes searched all four of the people gathered, filling with anger. “How did this woman escape her imprisonment? This… this… witch was the one that left me for dead!”

Ceara raised her hands in her own defence. "Hey, that's not exactly fair-"

"You, you, quiet down! I won't speak to you!" Mostafa looked to the pair of Krossavikers, visibly infuriated. "Do you know that these two are criminals? We should report them at once, there are guards all across this courtyard!"

"We are indeed aware of that fact." Answered Herbert calmly as he met the bard's gaze unflinchingly. "As are the guards all across this courtyard. Ceara and Nima have not escaped, they've merely agreed to accompany our band of adventurers."

"I was not told that these two would be accompanying us when I agreed to follow this retinue!" Mostafa shook his head, jutting an accusing finger at Ceara. "This woman took my clothes and my lute, and her mindless pet tried to kill me! These two cannot be trusted, mark my words!"

Ceara rolled her eyes. "You have your lute back, don't you?"

The bard shot her a sharp look, balling his fists. "I do, but-"

"You've got new clothes as well, I see." Ceara smiled wistfully, taking a small step forward. “Shame, you don’t look half bad without them.” Mostafa was taken aback, gasping at the sheer audacity of the woman's advance. He looked to the Krossavikers, waving his hands at the thief. "Do you see? She is without reverence, a creature that seeks only to vex me!"

Herbert rolled his eyes at the bard's theatrics. "Well, whatever the case, she has skills that we require. You'll have to put up with her for the time being." He then turned to face Ceara. "As for you, perhaps you should leave the poor bard alone?"

Ceara shrugged, while Mostafa seemed to calm slightly. “I apologize for appearing so unruly. You and your fair lady do not deserve to witness such animosity.” He glanced at Ceara, his eyes hardening for a brief moment. “I will be speaking with Lucian about you and your murderous companion.”

“Nima’s a sweetheart when you get to know him.”

“I’m sure.” replied the bard, his voice thick with sarcasm. He nodded to the Krossavikers, raised his chin in indignation to Ceara, and continued on his way through the courtyard. The thief whistled, watching him go. After Mostafa had left her sight, she turned back to Herbert. "Sorry about that. He has a right to be angry, but I just hope he calms down during this ride. I don't know if I can stand some dramatic minstrel raving on for a few days straight."

"I also hope he calms down." Said Herbert, gazing off in the direction the bard had gone. "We've got enough problems without infighting. So remind me, what exactly it was that you and your friend did to him?"

"Well, we saved him from a group of bandits." The thief clicked her teeth together. "Then, we stole his clothes and everything else he had on him." She put her hands on her hips again, shaking her head. "In my books, that makes us even. Right?"

Herbert's mouth twisted somewhat, for a moment, as if he were trying to hold in laughter but it was soon replaced by a disappointed frown. "Winter's coming, the first snows are falling, and the roads are dangerous. Poor bastard must have had the Trickster's own luck to have run into the Order when he did. I'm of the opinion that you should apologize, as you nearly condemned him to freeze to death."

Ceara sighed, rolling her neck in exasperation. "He was a man that lives on the road, and there were cities all around him. I had every confidence he would survive, and he did." She crossed her arms. "Still, I will say sorry, as meaningfully as I can."

"Thank you." Said Herbert. "I'm sure he'll appreciate it, and be less of a pain to deal with." The monster hunter paused for a moment. "It was nice to meet you, but Erika and I still need to pack a few things. If you have any other preparations you need to make for the journey, you should probably take care of them now."

"Yes, a pleasure to make your acquaintance as well." Ceara took the reigns of her mare once again, pulling the horse away from the wagon. Nima nodded to Herbert, and then again to Erika, and then followed his friend back towards the other side of the courtyard.

To Meddle in the Affairs of Dragons

It was dark, save for the poor lighting of the occasional torch, and the air was dank and musty. In this regard it was not dissimilar from other dungeons. The only true difference was the superior security presence, with armoured warriors draped in Order tabards standing watch outside the cells, patrolling the halls. Built underground, no light could enter the dungeon of Mirador Keep and so time telling was nigh-impossible, but to those with attentive memories, it was roughly the time of dawn.

“I know this looks bad,” Ceara felt the walls of her black cell, running her slender fingers across the smooth stones. “But I’ve been in worse, much worse. Well, maybe not much worse. You get the idea, right? Nima?” She placed her ear to a stone, wrapping it with her knuckles. “Nima? You hear me?”

Nima’s voice sounded in the darkness, coming from the cell adjacent to the one holding Ceara. “I hear you.”

The thief paused for a moment, cocking her head. “Are you mad at me?”

“I’m not pleased with our situation.”

Ceara sighed. “Nima, come on… You were right, ok? Happy?”

“No.”

The thief rolled her eyes, placing her hands on her hips. “We can't do anything about it now, right? You’re acting like a child.”

"You are right, we can't do anything about it now."

The sound of footsteps approaching the two cells grew louder by the second. A familiar voice could be heard echoing through the dungeons. "Ser Petros. Move these two within the same cell, for I wish to speak with them both." As this was said, the jingling of keys could be heard as the door to Ceara's cell was opened. Metal clanked about as soldiers moved to the cell doors and opened them up to retrieve the prisoners within.

"Grandmaster's orders, lass," Ceara's guard said to her, gesturing her to stand up.

The thief stood, brushing grime from her clothing and sweeping past the guard. She entered the other cell, smiling at an annoyed-looking Nima, and then settling her gaze on the Grandmaster, who stood at the other side of the stone room. "To what do I owe the second honour, Grandmaster? Here for my fingers?"

Lucian stood near the open door, leaning out to gesture for someone out of sight to come forwards. Instead of a cloaked torturer or maimer, a little boy no older than 13 approached, holding two fine wooden mugs in his hands. Lucian delicately took the mugs from his hands with a smile and slight, no less courteous bow, thanking him for his work. The boy grinned from ear to ear, saluting the Grandmaster before running off.

Lucian walked back inside the cell, the guards closing the door behind him. He took a seat before Ceara and Nima. He started to offer the drinks to the two, but stopped and looked at Nima. "Does your religion prohibit you to drink qahwe?" he asked the slave-soldier, staring him in the eye.

Nima shook his head, slowly and deliberately. "No. My vows to Da'av do, though. I may only drink before combat."

Lucian nodded, shrugging passively. "It lacks alcohol, but I suppose the Da'avi Creed does not quite care. If you don't mind, may I?" he asked, lifting what was supposed to be Nima's mug near his lips. He looked over to Ceara and handed her the other mug, meant for her. "Qahwe. It boosts your energy, helps you to wake up. Among the few things we brought home from Iurusolym."

"Thank you kindly." replied Ceara, wrapping both her hands around the warm mug. She moved closer to Nima, eyeing the Grandmaster suspiciously. "Why are you down here, truly? To give us this... qahye, or whatever? I doubt it."

"Well clearly, that's still part of why I'm here. I'm not here to take your fingers, but to give them back to you. Or, rather, a chance to keep them when otherwise you would be sentenced to lose them," he explained, taking a sip of the faintly steaming qahwe. It was thick, somewhat syrupy, and bitter. Original recipe, unfiltered. "Last night, after the two of you were extricated from the Great Hall, there was a second, more pressing interruption. One that I'm certain concerns you as well as the rest of this mortal world."

Ceara raised her eyebrow. "I'm certain you don't have the slightest clue what concerns me, Ser." Nima crossed his arms, but the slave soldier said nothing. Ceara continued without missing a beat. "But if it'll keep my fingers firmly attached to my hands, I'm ready to listen."

"I'm certain your continued life and the security of your mortal soul would deeply concern you," Lucian replied. "Our priests detected a monstrous imbalance being made between the Light and the Darkness. The Lord of the Revolting, Hargash, was slain in his own Infernum Realm by what my honoured guest Herbert Leintke informed me, and what my archivists confirmed for me, was the Father of Dragons, Htraknu. His essence taken by a power-monger who does not seek to stop at one Shaitun. Should he continue, he may well progress to stake claims on the æther of the Living Gods themselves. For what purpose he wages this war we don't yet know, but I doubt his intentions are benevolent."

He took another sip of his drink, gently wiping off the residue from his upper lip with the edge of his sleeve. "Ser Leintke also informs me that there was another survivor of Krossavik among him and Erika Nilsson. A man who compiled extensive documentation of Htraknu for over longer than a decade. Problem is, said documents are under lock and key in Viarosa. A stingy, petty worm of a nobleman holds them with no intention of ever releasing them. That, young thief, is where you and your bodyguard come into play."

A smile spread over Ceara's face. "So you need me, do you? What happened to fingers or tongue? Don't have someone in this little castle of yours that's as good at being some hollow knight as they are stealing, don't you?" She snickered, looking over at Nima. The thief was obviously enjoying this. "I don't work for free, no matter where you're holding me. Stealing those papers is gonna cost you."

Lucian was completely unamused. Right away he could read her every expression and tell precisely what she was; insecure, petty, vindictive, and simple. "Right. The 'fingers or tongue' spiel was entirely the product of Seneschal Hristov's pride and admiration of the Order and its leadership, him being part of it. While I am on Mirador's grounds, I am the final arbitrator in such matters, and I had no intention of maiming you on the spot before countless witnesses like some childish mad-king," he clarified, leaning forwards. He was violating Ceara's personal bubble, deliberately getting in her space. "Secondly. Payment is of nothing. Within reason, set a price and it shall be fetched. Say, 500 arums. 200 up front, 300 for finishing the task and bringing the journal and associated documents to me. If you require gear, such as new weapons, we will commission them for you - though I prefer this to be bloodless."

"600. 300 on both ends, when I start and when I finish." Ceara thought for a moment. "Nima needs his armour back, and his sword as well. I won't travel without him, and I'd prefer to travel on horseback."

"Fair. Done, done, already polished and ready for return. We'll have your horses returned to you posthaste," Lucian replied, taking another drink of his beverage, nearly halfway finished. "Any further requests?"

"Only one." Ceara looked at the Grandmaster, her grin fading slighty. "I want you to write the western lords, with your own lettering, and tell them that you've forgiven me for all past crimes. Politely suggest they should do the same. Tell them that my work is holy or something, you know how the nobility loves to look like they eat that up."

Lucian remained silent for just a moment longer, before he burst into a chuckling fit, trying to maintain a civil volume. His laughter became hushed and wheezy as he looked between the thief and the slave-soldier. He quickly regained his composure, but the smile held steadfast to his face. "See, a higher price warrants greater service," he replied. "I'm absolutely willing to pardon you both and forward the notice to the major duchies and kingdoms, but I'm afraid that's not a one-task price you're asking for. Would you just as quickly spoil your pardon to continue your thievery for 600 arums? You would ruin my reputation for having good judgement and bespatter the Order with the stain of alleged corruption."

He cleared his throat, rubbing his hands together. "What you are charging for, you see, is continued service under our extended travel party, Herbert, Rhiara, and I; but then there is a value disparity. That's too expensive a task for 600 arums and a pardon. So I see your hit, and I raise you one better," he continued, "Htraknu, the Father of Dragons, is a wealthy monster, with an entire Infernum Realm now at his command, with others likely to follow. Possibly with command of a cult. Who has to acquire funding..." he rolled his wrist slowly, gesturing for Ceara to think critically a moment. "Do you hear me?"

Ceara frowned, furrowing her brow. "I've heard of Htraknu, everyone has. They say his wings block out the sun, and his fire takes forests in single breaths. He is the largest dragon the world has ever known, and he has reigned on this world for far longer than you or I." She paused. "I like gold, thats true, but I like my life better. If you lot are planning on going charging off to a fiery death, thats fine. I'm not dying alongside you. I'll just take the 600, if thats 'right."

Lucian looked the thief in the eyes, twiddling his fingers impatiently. He cocked his head, and all expression vanished from his visage. "I don't plan on dying," he said, as matter-of-factly as physically possible. "And those who stand with me against Htraknu will be safeguarded. For my Father in Heaven is a God of Justice. He will permit no ill fate to befall those charged with preserving Heaven and Thurius themselves." He slowly finished off his qahwe, not once taking his eyes off of Ceara's. Setting the mug down he continued, "Untold riches, perfect remission of sins and legal transgressions, and freedom are yours, being offered to you on a platter of gold. I would think twice before replying to me, and hold your tongue lest ye disrespect the Order's fallen as you have before. You can deny me all you wish, deny my Father my God, and deny my Order's validity and the chances of our success, but unless you would rather crack jokes at the expense of those who died in the name of countless millions to include yourself and thus lose this golden opportunity at a new and better life, I would very carefully consider what it is that next leaves your lips."

“Look, I don't mean any offence, but the thousands that marched into the eastern deserts under your Father’s banner didn't exactly sing of his protection. Noble deaths, probably, but deaths all the same. Your Father couldn’t save them, no one could.” Ceara looked down. “I am in the business of surviving more than I am for stealing. Stealing from some noble is one thing, and fighting a dragon and his army is another. This thing can only end one way, and it’s going to be with—“

“I will go.” Nima leaned forward, interrupting Ceara as she spoke. “Freedom, this is promised? In all these western lands?”

"Absolutely, on my honour I swear it to you. Freedom is yours. Warrior-poets in the North shall sing your praises, and will honour you appropriately as well. As for the East, I can make no guarantees, unfortunately, yet the rest of the world, I can and will. Look me in the eyes, and tell me you see but a trace of insincerity in me." He kept his eyes open wide, staring down Ceara, slowly looking towards Nima.

“Your honour, Northern honour, poetry, none of it matters.” Nima stared back at the Grandmaster, holding his gaze. “I want your freedom, and I will have it in writing before I ride with you. We do not deal in sincerity where I am from.”

“What are you doing Nima?” Ceara put down her drink, a vision of confusion on her face. “Do you think this is funny or something? If you go with these idiots, you're going to die. I can't do that.”

“So be it. I would rather die standing than live running.” Nima turned his head so he could regard his friend, speaking softer than before. “You did not win my freedom the day you took me from the battlefield, Ceara, you merely gave me the chance.”

“Running hasn't been so bad. I've been doing it my whole life.” The red-haired thief was almost pleading now. “We can run together, at least.”

“I was not born to run. I was not raised to run. So I will not run."

Ceara moved across the room, stopping directly beside Nima and whispering in an atttempt to communicate without the Grandmaster's hearing. "Nima. Please. Don't do this. This isn't living, this is marching to death." She wiped her eyes, angrily fighting the panic that was now taking hold of her. "If you do this, I'll never see you again."

Nima looked at her, but his solemn expression did not change. It never changed. "Then our time has been good, Ceara of Helrith, and I thank you."

The thief made a strangled sound, backing away from the easterner and running her hand through her hair. She was quiet for a long while, occasionally muttering in her native language. Finally, she looked up, with fire in her eyes. "Fine. If I'm going to die, my price is going up. I want 800 for stealing the documents, plus my share of the dragon gold, plus this damned declaration of innocence. And if we kill the Father of Dragons, your Patriarch better make me a fucking saint."

"I'm afraid the process of Glorification requires far more than the good word of the Patriarch of Aesera, to include miracles made by the effect of your soul's intercession on behalf of those who pray with you in mind," Lucian replied, shaking his head solemnly, "But 800, 400 both ways, a generous share of Htraknu's ill-gotten fortune, and the pardon are yours." He turned to Nima, bowing his head respectfully. "You will have it with the pardon in writing. And should it be of further consolation, I will have my scribes draft a contract to put these discussed terms in writing as well for posterity."

Nima nodded, accepting the terms silently. Ceara, meanwhile, crossed her arms, glowering at the Grandmaster. "Can I have my saddlebags? I'd like to change into my proper clothes before we get started. Nima'll probably want his armour now, too."

"Right, right, of course. Can't have you charging into battle with no equipment," the Grandmaster replied. "I'll have my men bring your things around. As it currently stands, I have business to attend to scrambling the Order for this coming war. Go with the guards, stay close, and do what you must." He raised an authoritative finger, waving it to and fro pointing at Ceara, then Nima, then back again. "And no stealing. Not from us or our allies, anyways." He stood to leave, picking up his empty mug and offering a hand for Ceara's.

The thief pressed the mug to her chest, shaking her head slowly. "Just hold on for a moment, I'm not bloody done with this yet." She paused, raising one eyebrow. "Don't worry, I'm not going to steal it."

"Aye, just hand it back to an attendant upon finishing. I hope it's to your liking," said Lucian. He turned heel and began to walk towards the door. He stopped just at the exit and turned back around to face Nima. "One final note for 'Nima,' was it?" He approached the slave-soldier, crouching to eye level with him. "I have tremendous respect for your unwavering senses of loyalty, bravery, and determination, not that it likely matters to you. While I may be willing to accept you into the traveling party's fold, I strongly doubt that the Apostles would be as welcoming. Especially Kinara. As a matter of fact, I would prefer it if you stayed away from her. My earlier threat stands -- you will not attempt to finish the last task your Rosilandic owners gave you."

Nima was silent for a long time, and when he spoke, his voice was low and firm. “I do not serve the elves anymore. You will have your wish.”

"Then we'll have no problem with each other. Thank you both for your time, you won't be disappointed." He stood up, bowed to the two of them, and left the cell. He mumbled his instructions to the guards before walking out of sight.

"Gods, we're going to die." moaned Ceara, burying her face in her hands soon after the Grandmaster had gone from sight. Nima ignored her, turning away from his friend and staring at the uneven walls of their dark prison.

To Meddle in the Affairs of Dragons

Ceara examined an ornate candlestick, drawing her finger across the gilded surface before tossing it to her armoured companion. “Thats the last of it. Here, hand me that bag.” Nima nodded, closing the burlap sack and dropping it on the floor. The redheaded thief rolled her eyes, sauntering to the bag of stolen goods and grasping it with both hands. “Oh, that’s quite heavy…” Ceara pulled upwards again, to little avail. “Alright. You’ll carry that, then.”

Nima nodded again, slinging the spoils of their victory in Mirador over his shoulder as the thieves began to draw their heist to a close. The bowels of Mirador were rich with gold this and silver that, and Ceara had been sure to clear every last room of their valuables. Now, the bag they had brought was full, and the feast upstairs sounded to be in full swing. The time to slip away was now.

The thieves rattled their way through the empty cellars, the valuables they had stolen clanking with every step. Fortunately, as they drew nearer and nearer to the feast, the sounds of song and drink began to overpower every other noise. Clambering up the stairs that lead into the kitchen, Ceara pushed open the thin wooden door that separated the Order’s depository from the feasting Great Hall. The thief scanned the kitchen, looking out for knights, soldiers, and most of all, the bard.

Ceara looked for a few moments, sighed, and closed the door so she could comfortably addressing her friend. “There’s only one exit not covered by gaggles of drinking knights - we’ll have to go right out through the Great Hall.”

“We will be caught. You will have your hands cut off, and I will lose my head. These knights do not like me.” Nima said matter of factly.

Ceara snorted. “The vast majority of these knights are too drunk to cut off anything, never mind notice a bard leaving their little party.” Ceara composed herself, putting a confident smile on her face. “If you walk with purpose, people won’t question you. Come on, lets get this over with.”

The thieves walked through the kitchen and into the Great Hall, making their way towards the exit.

They arrived to the sound of drunken laughter and raucous singing in the lower tables, whilst the guests at the Great Table and its immediate surrounding area remained relatively sober, a few priests reading from the Holy Codex in Foverosi Tone. The Grandmaster sat in the center of the Great Table, merrily conversing with his Apostles and his honoured guests.

Seneschal Hristov, somewhat further down the path of intoxication than the others, was still functional enough to spot and recognize Ceara as she was creeping past the more hammered soldiers and peasants. "Aye! She with the hair of saffron and the voice of silk!" he called out, gesturing to the "bard." The Apostles ceased whatever they were speaking about and turned towards Ceara and Nima. Physical responses raged from general apathy to outright antipathy from the more zealous Apostles upon sighting the Easterner, but other than scathing glares, nothing was said or done. "You were the one toasting tables earlier. Right, put the other minstrels to shame," he explained, chuckling aloud.

The actual bard, Mostafa Idrissi, recognized the false bard for who she was almost instantly, glaring daggers at her. However, his expression softened the moment more eyes began falling on her and her companion, knowing she was caught.

Caught in the middle of dipping a chunk of bread into his goblet of wine, Grandmaster Aquila quickly consumed it, sizing up the bard. Her hair, complexion, and travel partner fit the description Mostafa had given him, yet he regarded her with complete neutrality. "Indeed?" he asked in Hristov's general direction, his gaze not yet leaving the thief's. "It's a shame you haven't yet graced our guests for the feast proper. Like the loveliest member of a choir leaving after Morning Vespers, never to sing the Liturgy." He smiled kindly, leaning forwards and resting his elbows on the table. "I'd love to hear what you have to offer." There was a drunken holler from the other guests, who clearly desired a performance for all the wrong reasons.

Ceara could only smile as she approached the Great Table, giving the Apostles a small curtsy as she surveyed their faces. Mostafa was staring at her, with the hint of a smile tugging at the edges of his lips. If the bard was sitting with these men and women, then her game was up. The thief sighed, and waved to her companion. He dropped the bag of stolen goods with a metallic clank.

Apostle Alessio froze, narrowing his eyes, looking over to Nima. "Wait. What?"

"Pastries." replied the redheaded thief, gesturing to the sack with a wry grin. "My armoured friend has quite a sweet tooth, and your kitchen was too happy to oblige." She took her lute in both hands plucking a few of the strings to practice. "Now, shall I sing?" She turned to the lower tables, raising her voice to address the whole of the feast. "Does anyone have any recommendations?"

A response of mixed requests filled the air. "Ballad of Port Allilona!" some cried, "Wulfhard the White!" said others.

Grandmaster Aquila lifted a hand, and his followers gradually but obediently fell quiet. "Surprise us with your best or most favorite, my friend. Whatever you play the best."

Ceara turned to the Grandmaster, her eyes flashing ruefully. "I think I know just the song, your holiness." She motioned for Nima to stand beside her, and began to play.

“There once was a crow named Lucy,
who set out to find his flock.
They laughed and jeered,
and told him to rightly fuck off.

But Lucy, he did not falter.
He knew deep down they were wrong.
So he found some friends and made his band,
a bunch of birds lead by a mong.

There once was a crow named Lucy,
Who lead his flock to the east.
He spent his days chasing camels,
Who didn’t care in the least.

But Lucy, he never faltered.
The crow would have his day.
So he took his band to the field,
Yet even to camels,
Lucy was naught but prey.”

As the "bard" sung in quick, overly merry time and played in a talented albeit exaggerated manner, the smiles and optimism of the guests slowly disappeared, starting most visibly with the Apostles, spreading throughout the Great Hall. By the song's end, only Lucian himself was smiling, appearing to have enjoyed the song. There was a morbidly painful silence as even the priests and minstrels stopped reading or singing. A few grown squires preemptively escorted any children and pages from the room.

The void of sound was broken by the slow, steady clapping of Seneschal Hristov, who had his eyes firmly locked onto the thief, having apparently spontaneously sobered up, no longer laughing and celebrating. A few guests looked over to Nima's burlap sack, noticing the tell-tale glimmer of gold against the firelight.

"I daresay that was a stunning performance, lady bard," Hristov said, letting his arms drop to his lap. "You've rendered us all speechless with your lyricism and skill. Though, tell me, bard; do you prefer your fingers or your tongue?"

Ceara’s smile faltered for a moment, and before she could reply, Nima’s sword was out of his scabbard.

The Apostles were the first to respond, followed by the knights who happened to be armed. Swords, axes, maces, polearms, daggers, and all assortments of arms were drawn. "You know, if there's one thing I admire about your kind, it's that even when faced by far better armed, more numerous forces, you are still willing to battle to the grave. More like the Nords than even some Nords," Apostle Sorano sneered, electrical magic sparking between his fingertips as he readied a spell should things go awry.

Lucian stood up, raising his arms high and beckoning his men to settle down. "At ease! At ease, come now, there is no reason for such pointless bloodshed."

Seneschal Hristov was first to protest. "Grandmaster, with the deepest sincerity: they come into my castle, disrespect our Order, and attempt to steal what we have earned through great tribulation, as we pray to the Gods and celebrate in their names."

"What is a ruler if he cannot find it in him to laugh at himself from time to time? We are not the Kings and Generals, and we are most certainly not the Sultans and Emirs. Her song is forgivable; we know it in our hearts that she and her sort are led astray, that their scorn and mockery is derived from ignorance of mind and impurity of soul. We will be vindicated in the end when it is demonstrated before them by the Gods themselves."

"To forgive them is up to the Gods, Lucian," said Apostle Yusuf, gesturing towards the two offenders with his sword, "to send them to their judgement is our duty, is it not?"

"They did attempt to rob us. In fact they did rob young Mostafa," said Apostle Aranirya. "Surely we cannot let a thief roam?"

Lucian gave an apologetic glance towards Herbert and his party. "That is true, and we shalt not suffer a thief to continue stealing. Though I ask, for the sake of our guests, we do not carry out retribution in the Great Hall."

"Very well, then I ask of her again," Hristov replied, turning back to the thief and slave-soldier, "Do you prefer your fingers or your tongue?"

Nima growled like a wild animal, but Ceara pulled him backwards and said something quietly. He seemed to calm, and she addressed the Seneschal. "Exactly how many fingers are we talking? I've only got one tongue. And it's quite the tongue, believe me."

"Fingers? Or your tongue?" Hristov repeated again, more sternly. "I'd like to know."

"You never answered my question. It's a fairly big decision, so I'd like to know all the details." Ceara took a step towards the Great Table, narrowing her eyes. "I've heard some of your knights decided to choose the pyre over slavery. I wonder how long they got to make that choice?"

Immediately as she finished her sentence, the room was fully illuminated in a flash of golden light as a roaring thunderclap ripped through the air. Ceara was blasted off of her feet, thrown from the dais and onto the stone floor, her vision whitened and blurred, and her hearing naught but an incessant ringing for a few moments before clarity returned. A strong, blunt pain developed, as though she had been beaten across the face.

Lucian was standing with his arm outstretched towards where her face had once been, his palm open and flat, the last wisps of golden mist dissipating from around his hand. "You will not dare," he said as his hand closed into a fist and authoritative finger, which he jabbed in her direction, "desecrate the blessèd names of my brothers and sisters whose souls were stolen from the gods, families, friends, and people whom they loved so dearly that they were prepared to die in their names, to ensure that countless millions in Iurusolym and beyond would not be forced to the pyre as they were! For in death as in life, they were more righteous and far more brave than you will ever be, you craven, loathsome maggot."

He was clearly livid, but he did not speak in a manner that openly flaunted his wrath. Rather he maintained a generally calm, collected attitude, if not firm and aggressive.

Nima, enraged at the sight of his friend knocked across the room, began to stalk towards the Grandmaster. Knights on all sides of him began to ready themselves for combat, but he paid them no mind. His raspy voice was lined with venom. “You will answer for striking her, crusader.”

The sound of rapid, shallow breathing became audible as Apostle Kinara sprung from her seat, clutching one of her dinner knives. Her eyes locked onto the slave-soldier, and she was nearly overcome with terror, shivering and stammering about how she "refused to go back." Lucian eyed the Samothauress empathetically, then looking back to Nima.

"Honoured guests, you have my absolute sincerest apologies for the terrible turn this has taken," he said to Herbert and his party. "I was not anticipating such familiar and unwelcome company."

"Oh, shit, it looks like I missed one," said Apostle Katla, eyeing the slave-soldier up and down as the Grandmaster walked around the Great Table, towards Nima.

"And you will answer for your treatment of my Apostle and her loved ones, slave-soldier, just as your companion will answer for her theft and her appalling lack of tact and decency towards those who died so that she could live. But I respectfully ask that we not do this in the Great Hall, before so many who have nothing to do with this conflict. Put down your saber and go with the guards, and there will be clemency for you both. I am a man of my word. Strike, and you will instead force my hand."

This sparked a mixture of applause and protest, with the guests and Apostles roughly divided on how to proceed. Some, to include Mostafa, Hristov, and Kinara, bayed for their blood, others such as Apostles Rhodric, Alessio, and Serena, lauded the negotiation.

"That will be enough!" Lucian cried, lifting his hand to gesture for silence. "The Order is not some band of vengeful barbarians and zealots. We are warriors of the Gods, and Solanius chief among the Ten would have true justice, not passionate revenge. Have I not taught you better than this?"

Immediately, the protestors fell silent. Every eye in the room turned to the slave soldier, but the man himself seemed strangely detached from the unfolding situation. His eyes were locked to the Samothauress, watching her sputter and squirm with fear. “You…” he whispered. “I know you.” He lowered his sword, cocking his head while the apostle cried in terror.

Kinara lifted her knife up defensively, practically on the verge of hyperventilating. Before Nima could make any further moves, Lucian stepped between him and the panicking Apostle. "If you so much as consider finishing the last task your masters gave you, I will personally finish the task I gave to my men. You will not hurt her any longer," he growled lowly, just for Nima to hear. "Now, I will offer one final time," he said more audibly, as a pair of knights grabbed Ceara by the arms and lifted her up, taking her away to the dungeons below. "Drop. Your. Sword."

Nima looked confused more than anything else. He tore his eyes from Kinara when he saw his redheaded friend meekly struggling against her captors as she was dragged away from the Great Hall, and he set his gaze on Lucian. There was a moment of hesitation, and then the slave soldier sheathed his blade and removed the belt from his waist. Neatly wrapping it around the scabbard, he carefully presented the sword on the ground, and started to follow Ceara towards her imprisonment without another word.

Two knights stood up and followed behind the slave-soldier, hands on the grips of their weapons, as they escorted him down to the dungeon. Lucian, inwardly pleased with the nonviolent outcome, carefully picked up Nima's sabre and handed it to an attendant. "Have this polished and brought to my quarters," he said. When the attendant left to follow his command, Lucian turned to Kinara, who was being looked after by her fellow Apostles. She was slowly calming down, now having dropped the knife back onto the table. He approached her carefully, reaching over to gently tilt her head in his direction, bringing her to look at him.

"I a-apologize, Grandmaster, I don't know what..." she tried to say, the pace of her breathing decreasing.

"I understand, Kina. Are you going to be okay with staying with us for the remainder of our time in the Great Hall, or would you prefer someone to take you to the guest quarters?" Lucian asked, speaking softly. She pondered her options for a moment, then shook her head. "He can't hurt you any longer. I wouldn't let him. None of these men and women would."

As the thieves left and an awkward silence settled over the feast, Herbert remarked drily "Well, that certainly wouldn't be my choice of dinner entertainment, but to each their own." With that, he turned his attention back to the meal and conversation with the other guests.

Following Herbert's example, the Apostles began to act more naturally, resuming their meals. The rest of the guests followed, laughing boisterously at the incident that had just unfolded. Lucian sat back down, nodding gratefully to Herbert. "I truly am beyond sorry for what just transpired, Ser Leintke," he said, picking up his knives and resuming his own meal, stabbing a slice of heron and putting it in his mouth.

Herbert nodded absentmindedly, paying the Grandmaster's unnecessary apology little mind. Despite his sarcastic remark, he hadn't really minded the drama and interruption.

To Meddle in the Affairs of Dragons

“There once was a crow named Lucy,
who set out to find his flock.
They laughed and jeered,
and told him to rightly fuck off.

But Lucy, he did not falter.
He knew deep down they were wrong.
So he found some friends and made his band,
a bunch of birds lead by a mong.”

Ceara flipped the stolen lute in her hands, beaming as she finished her short song. “I made that one in about five minutes. Impressive, yes, I know. I accept tips, if any of you are feeling generous?”

The knights that she had preformed for didn’t look too pleased, but they coughed up a polite sum of money for the bard. Ceara eyed the coins with another grin, clapping her hands twice and turning away. Nima approached the table, taking the money and bowing to the gathered knights. The thief and her armoured companion retreated to the edges of the feast, where servants and stewards went about their business of preparing to feed the gathering host. Ceara scanned the room, taking a measure of the people already inside the Great Hall. “It looks fairly crowded. Only the high table is empty.”

Nima nodded. “Are we to stop singing, then?”

“Stop?” The thief smiled ruefully. “I think I’m doing rather well. We might make more money if we keep toasting these tables. Perhaps I’ll even preform for that high lord that everyone is waiting on.” As if on cue, the heavy doors to the Keep swung inward, and every head in the hall turned to catch a glimpse of the new arrivals. The thief rolled her eyes, watching the entire feast gawking at the opened doors. She began to form a snarky comment in her throat, but as she looked closer at just who was coming into the building, the words died in her throat. Escorted by a few holy knights, a man covered with furs was brought into the building. His skin was darker than those around him, and his clothes seemed to be missing.

“Nima.” She whispered calmly. “Move to the kitchen. Follow the next servant that passes.”

“Is there a problem?”

Ceara sighed heavily, slowly removing the feathered cap from her head. “The bard is here.”

The eastern soldier’s voice was as calm as ever. “The next servant that passes, then.”

To Meddle in the Affairs of Dragons

Co-written with @PrinceOfHeaven

A Feast for Kings

As the week rolled along, the stronghold of Mirador was bustling. As a holding controlled by the enigmatic Order of the Knights Solanian, a great many of its citizens were soldiers of the Order themselves, drilling for the imminent arrival of their Grandmaster. Those who did not fight for the Order but served it passively went about preparing the décor, casting banners down the walls of the city and stringing up ribbons around the city exterior. Alternatively, farmers worked to gather food for the night's feast, for the harvest ran concurrent with it.

Within the stony keep, Seneschal Konstantin Hristov sat upon his throne, surrounded by his advisors. His central priority at the time was ensuring that Mirador was in perfect condition for his Grandmaster and his chosen Apostles; the Illyrican Order had a remarkable track record thus far, and Hristov had no intentions of tainting it tonight.

To his right stood a wizened Priest of Solanius, draped in the white and gold of the order. The priest had been reading the castletown's ledger to him for many minutes now, and it was beginning to feel more like hours. Eventually, the Seneschal found the confidence in him that everything was accounted for, and that minor errors could be overlooked. "Father Rosenveld, I do so sincerely thank you for your time, but I am almost certain that we have all of our supplies in order; the oil for our lanterns is plentiful, the wine varied and abundant, and the meat and bread are all fresh," he said, somewhat tiredly. He gave every impression that he had heard the list before, though that had only been a brief summary of the fully detailed ledger's contents.

"My Lord?" asked the priest, slowly closing the book.

"By now it is pointless to continue checking and checking so compulsively," said the Seneschal, rising from his throne. "The Grandmaster is a merciful man, I know him; he is not one to chastise for something minor, so long as we have what is necessary." He walked down the steps of his throne's platform and turned to his advisors. "And while we concern ourselves with something we know our citizens both noble and common can provide, why have we not considered who will be in attendance? Did not the knights under Captain Jorleifsson mention that they had encountered a couple of persons of considerable interest to the Order not long ago?"

"My Lord... the feast is open attendance, as suggested by the Grandmaster himself. Apart from him, knowing who our guests are strikes us as paltry, no?" asked the Seneschal's steward, a middle-aged, fairly scrawny Sun Elf.

Lord Hristov put a hand to his face and shook his head. "Captain Jorleifsson spoke of their valour, Sanyriil," he said, looking up at his steward, "Whereas it takes most basilisk hunters small warbands to properly kill the things, these two did it alone! He requested to me what I will request of the Grandmaster: that the two heroes and their entourage receive an audience with our leader." He took his hand away from his face and began pacing back and forth. "Now, in a show of proper respect and hospitality to these guests of honor, I fully recommend an escort -- nay, I order one." He turned to one of his knights, who stood at the base of one of the pillars lining the great hall. "See to it they arrive before the others."

With a salute, the knight turned and proceeded out of the castle hall...

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Ceara spurred her horse towards the open gates of Mirador, taking a long look at the streets in front of her. The city had been built in the barren valley of a rocky canyon, with natural walls protecting it on all sides. A narrow river split the settlement in two, winding past the hill and continuing south, through the craggy formations. Buildings rose around a hilly centre in the shadow of the crag, on which the mighty castle of Mirador was raised so many years ago. The castle itself was large enough to house a sizeable garrison, and as was clear from the streamers and banners all over the city, a sizeable feast as well. The holy sun flew in every window, knights clothed in blue and white at every street. Nima rode behind his friend, cloaked from head to toe in his polished armour. Steel plates were wrapped around his midsection, his arms, and his legs. The rest of his body was covered with finely made chain mail, all the way up to his forehead. His headpiece was distinctly eastern, a steel helmet that rose to a point that was distinguished with two red ribbons. He one hand on the sword sheathed on his saddle, and another carrying a shield that bore the red triangle of Sindhus.

The thief from Cainleath was no exception. Her attire was particularly festive - she was dressed in a showy blue tunic, with matching breeches and stockings. With a feathered cap on her head, and curled shoes on her feet, she certainly looked the part of a minstrel. She waved to the guards at the city walls, singing a fond hello as she dismounted. “Hello, valiant knights! I am Aerona of Cadwalader, a travelling minstrel! If it pleases the honourable lord, I would offer my service as a bard for your virtuous gathering! Is there a place myself and my shining companion could rest our horses?”

Four guards clad in plate armor, each wielding halberds, stood watch at the main gate at ground level, as archers stood watch along the ramparts. Though they had been ordered to allow travellers into the city, the sight of the bard's heavily armed and armoured companion warranted caution; all four guards lowered their halberds, pointing them at the duo.

One of the guards, a shadow elf of considerable height, inched forward and began to speak for his patrol. "We weren't aware that we'd be joined by a Furusiyya of the Flame," he growled. "So you're supposedly a bard," he said to Ceara, then turning to Nima, "You, state your business!"

Nima turned his head slowly, blankly regarding at the commander of the patrol. “My life for Aerona of Cadwalader. My sword for her enemies, my shield for her protection.” Ceara beamed, glancing back at the holy knight. “I know it must be strange to have a man such as he in this hallowed place, but my guard no longer fights for the Path of Flame. The story is long, but fortunately, it can be told through song!” Reaching into her saddlebag, the thief removed a finely crafted lute, and began strumming “When Nima was in Rosiland… Let my Nima goooo…”

Minstrels were always total hams, but something about this one seemed odd. Skeptically lifting his halberd, he kept his eyes trained on the furusiyya and his ears on the bard. Ok, play the song. This sounded like an original.

Ceara dramatically swept her fingers across every string, letting the sound hang in the air for a few moments before raising her voice again. "Allow me to begin." She cleared her throat.

"Twas the dark of night, in the dark of year,
Two armies stood locked, facing so gravely,
Twas the time of fire, the grand smell of fear,
Who but the son of a sun, rallied so bravely,

One man lies dying, left fallen for his fate,
A man for the fire, but now for the dirt,
One man lies dying, but never too late,
A bard most heroic, now he does not hurt,

Fire and music, together in journey,
Come to bring song to most every tourney!"

Each guard placed their halberds under their arm, giving the bard a round of brief, subtle applause, their gauntlets clanking together with each clap.

Her ballad completed, Ceara lowered her lute, grinning arrogantly as she glanced between each of the guards. "You are too kind. Is my story clear now? I suppose I could explain in words, if you're truly-"

"Wait, no, that won't be necessary," one of the other guards said, looking back and forth between her companions. The wood elf grinned knowingly and gave the bard a once-over. "You were there at the Battle of Klyesha, that plantation up in Rosiland?" she asked.

"Then that means we missed one," said the shadow elf, pointing his halberd again at Nima.

"Stand down, Tirunil. He doesn't work with them anymore, he serves the bard. Let them pass," said a third guard, a brawny human encased fully in a slightly stronger set of armor. "Apologies on behalf of the squire, Miss. He's new. Right this way, please."

"No apologies required, noble knights. After this celebration, I believe I shall make a song about your victories in Iurusolym." She steadied her steed, with Nima following suit. Ceara patted her horse, looking to the guard that had spoken recently. "Could you handle our mounts? If not, point us in the right direction? I cannot rightly bring a horse into the keep. Or... It may add a certain element to my performance..."

"Not... necessary," said the human, shaking his helmeted head. "Continue on horseback through the city, the stables are beside the smithy. Old Alvar makes plenty of horseshoes and barding for our mounts, so proximity is only natural. The smithy, for reference, is a large, dark-coloured stone building in the market square. You should be able to smell the forge. The stables are behind it, technically part of the same property, walled up in what would be the house's garden. Take them up to the iron gate, it should be open during business hours, drop them off in the yard."

"And you simply must try some of Madalen's... what does she call it, that stuff she found in Ciprius, the wine with the lemons, dates, and honey?" asked the wood elf, turning to the human.

The shadow elf, "Tirunil," interjected. "Well the Savarids call it qatarmizat, I think Madalen and Alvar just call it lemonwine, it's that simple."

Smacking herself in the forehead (clank), the wood elf nodded and corrected herself. "Madalen's lemonwine, yes. Try a mug before you head for the keep!"

"That we will, friends. Well, my guard does not drink. I shall drink two mugs for him!" She moved her horse forward, leaving the patrol behind as they moved farther into the city. Ceara slowed, letting Nima take a position beside her. "Fuck the lemonwine," she remarked, whispering harshly. "We're getting into the keep as soon as possible. I'll sing a few songs, you'll stand behind me, and when the crowd starts to get bigger, we'll slip away."

Nima examined his surroundings. "You should have killed that bard. He'll be in Viarosa in a few hours."

Ceara frowned, looking down at her saddle. "We already talked about this. We tied him up, left him on the road. That should keep him occupied for tonight at the least. I'm not going to just..." She glanced up again, clearing her thoughts. "Lets focus on the task at hand, alright? No point worrying about what's done."

The duo rode in silence the rest of the way, trotting through the city with the mighty keep looming in the distance. They stopped at the stable, releasing their horses with a smile and a song, and journeying the rest of the way on foot.

To Meddle in the Affairs of Dragons

The road to Mirador was long and unkept. The path remained cobbled for a few meagre meters once it stretched outside the thin walls of Hoffen, and after that, it was dirt for as long as the eye could see. Tiny hamlets sometimes dotted the road to the larger cities of Viarosa, Adesteim, and Weissburg, but most were nothing more than three or four settled buildings. The road grew even more unruly when it split, with one section going to the east and another continuing south. Forests rose in place of farmland, and people became scarce. There was little or nothing for the good citizenry in this region, just wilderness and hardship.

Fortunately for Ceara Eachaidh, she didn’t plan on staying long. After lightening damn near every purse and pocket in Hoffen, she had bought good horses that would make short work of the restive trail. In addition, she had picked up a few things that would be crucial for her time in Mirador as well. Just thinking about the scheme began to make her smile. The thief slowed her cream-coloured mare, reaching into the saddle bag and removing a purse of coin. She turned to the rider beside her, a man clad from head to toe in steel and mail. “You’re rather quiet, Nima. We’ve a long way to go - want to play a game?”

Nima’s reply was as methodical as ever, albeit muffled behind the curtain of mail that covered his face. “I do not know any games.”

Ceara poured the currency into her hands, counting it absently. “Luckily for you, I know plenty.” She glanced at Nima. “We’ll play Fírinne. I ask you a question, that can be about anything, and you answer. Then, I have to guess if you were lying or telling the truth. Sound easy?”

“Easy enough.”

“Good.” Ceara furrowed her brow, pretending to be deep in thought. Suddenly, she grinned. “Have you ever been with a girl, Nima?”

Nima’s strange helmet hid his expression, but his tone remained even. “No.”

“Hm. I think you’re…” Ceara raised an eyebrow. “Telling the truth?”

The eastern warrior nodded. “Yes.”

“Oh?” Ceara grinned. “Not even some blushing eastern girl? A woman of religion and substance? I bet you fighters of the flame make all the commoners swoon as you march past, don’t you? All with your shining plate and polished swords, on gleaming Savarid mounts?” The thief waggled her eyebrows, running the Arums through her fingers and into the purse. “Ah. I think I understand. Here in the west, our knights take off their helmets when they go through a town of eager little milkmaids. I bet you never even thought of that, eh? Oh, the enemy might get a bolt in me eyes if I take me ‘elmet off for more than three minutes. What enemy? I don’t rightly know, but you never know what some starving peasants could do ‘gainst me mighty host.”

“I did not deal with any peasants, nor did I march through the villages. Any women that came to our hallowed Ember were Zealots, and they were only interesting in our vows - one of which is never to take a woman.” Nima paused. ”I did not break my vows while I guarded the stables in Rosiland, and I will not break them now that I am free.”

Ceara furrowed her brow. “You don’t belong to the damn shadow elves anymore. You don’t belong to the damn Zealots anymore. Zealots and elves, both of them can go fuck themselves. Whats the point of being free if you’ve still gotta adhere to some stupid vows? After we do this job, we’ll go somewhere with lots of girls. And you’ll have enough money for all of them, eh?”

The warrior twisted his head towards his companion. “I will not break my vows.”

The thief shook her head, but she did not object. “Fine, fine. Do what you want, ya miserable bastard.” Ceara scratched her red hair. “Back to the game, right? My turn. Ask away.”

Nima nodded again, his mail softly clinking against the plates on his chest. “Alright. I shall ask you… How long have you been a thief?”

Ceara frowned, looking at her horse. “The day I was robbing the corpses on your battlefield was the first I’d ever done it.”

“Liar. Wouldn’t be as good.”

Her frown turned to a sly smile, and she admitted her concession. “Yep. I’ve been a thief for quite a long time now. Lets see… I’ve lost track of the years, but I suppose I’ve been doing it since my father died. I was just angry then, take it out on a few taverns in my hometown. After the army came and took us away from the village, though, I started doing it to survive. Taking stuff from my master at first, and once I got out of that deal, I was pick-pocketing every rich bugger who came down to watch the street performers. Been doing it ever since. Guess I just never get tired of it.”

Nima gripped the hilt of his sword, as if it was muscle memory. “We used to punish slaves that stole from the master in Rosiland. Shadow elves are creative. They would take the strongbox and fill it with this strange venom that melted skin from bone like it was butter on a pan. They’d force the thief to put his hands in that strongbox, try to steal what he had been caught with. Most passed out, the pain was too much. The Samothaurs were stronger. Smelled like burning jerky…”

“No offence, but you’re kinda putting a damper on the mood here buddy.” Ceara winced at the thought of elven punishment. “I’m a thief, and I don’t really want to hear about thieves getting their hands burned right off and all that. Smells like bad luck, especially before something like this.”

“Yes, of course. I’m sorry.” Nima paused for a moment. “Speaking of, if I might ask, what is the plan for this job? You told me we’d speak on the road.”

Ceara spread her hands, feigning innocence. “We’re speaking, aren’t we? I’ve a few ideas. I’ll make sure that you’re kept…” The thief’s voice trailed off as the pair rounded a bend in the road, coming across a fallen tree and the men that had cut it. There looked to be four of them, each wearing some mismatched gambeson or strip of mail. Two wore half helms, while the others had nothing but hair on their heads. Each man carried a weapon, be it a club, axe, or sword. The rough looking bunch was gathered around their makeshift roadblock, standing in an unorganized circle around another figure, one that seemed to be on his knees. He was of a dark skin colour, unlike the men that threatened him, but he was dressed flagrantly enough to attract a great deal of attention.

As the duo turned the corner, one of the armed men twisted in his place to face them. “Boys, we’ve got two more.”

The largest man turned around, stepping forward as the obvious leader of the group. He stared at Nima mostly, his frown deepening as he did. “You two. Keep on heading right through here, and that’ll be the end of this little meeting. We’ve got us a fine one ‘ere, don’t need any more trouble.” He waved his hand, and each of the bandits sheathed his weapon.

The Cathionic remained silent, but he flashed Ceara a pleading, desperate look, as if silently asking for help. His eyes darted about, keeping check of each of the four bandits, then they fell back to Ceara and Nima. Nima he eyed fearfully, recognizing his armor as that of the slave-soldiers of the North, or worse, the Furusiyyas of the Flame.

Ceara regarded the situation carefully. “Are you lot bandits? I’ve heard about your sort. I bet the Order would love to know where you’re operating these days.” She paused, watching the implication settle into their faces. “I’m a little short on coin at the moment, otherwise I might stop at a tavern and drink this little encounter away. Doubt I’ll remember a damn thing.”

The bandit on the far left seemed to be baffled at the notion she was pushing. He pointed a gloved finger at her, spitting his words. “You’ll not squeeze one Arum out of us, ginger bitch!”

The leader held up a hand, still eyeing Nima as he silenced his man. “You’ve ‘ave to forgive my company. Mothers weren’t around to teach them how to speak to a lady, it’d seem. Luckily, I’m a bit of a gentleman, and I won’t see a woman destitute in my land. Aida, give her some coin.”

The bandit on the left opened his mouth, only to close it again. Grumbling about redheads, he took a leather pouch from his belt and tossed it towards the pair of travellers. Ceara caught it with her right hand, shooting Aida a mocking smile as she deposited the pouch in her saddlebags. Turning her gaze towards the leader, her smile remained arrogantly plastered across her face. “A pleasure, gentlemen. Have fun with your friend there.”

“Yeah, you and your steel bitch have a great evening as well. Make sure he burns some children before he goes to bed, ‘else he’ll get nightmares from his fucking crazy god.”

Immediately, Nima began to dismount. Ceara glanced at him, grinding her teeth as she tried to retain her composure. The bandits drew their blades once again, each of them facing Nima as he ripped his shield free from the saddlebags and smashed his sword against it. He advanced, not a single word escaping his lips. “You fuckin’ idiot Aida! Do you see what you’ve done, you prick!” Aida was quick to respond. “That’s only one man of the east, alright? Four of us, one of ‘im. Lets fuckin’ kill the bastard, and then we’ll get his whore as well.”

“I’d advise against it.” remarked Ceara.

“Shut your gob, you pretty little-”

Nima dashed forward, faster than any of the bandits had expected in all those layers of armour. He smashed his shield against the man that had been speaking, sending him crashing into the dirt. The three other bandits slashed towards the armoured easterner, but he blocked two strikes with his shield and backed away before the third could land true.

“Fuckin’ bastard! I think he broke my nose!” the bandit rose to his feet, blood streaming from the place where Nima had attacked with the shield. He took a position with his comrades, and prepared to charge with everything they had. With a scream for blood, they did just that.

Ceara dismounted her horse, nervously watching the battle unfold as she swept her leg across the mare to land on the dirty road. She unsheathed her longest dagger, clutching it tightly as she moved to the man that the bandits seemed to have entirely forgot about. She took the purse that the bandits had given her, tucking it into his shirt and slapping him lightly on the cheek. “Thats probably yours, I realize. Sorry about trying to sell you out there, but we’re all in the same boat now, and I'm going to have to ask you to row. Try to distract one of those bandits, Nima is going to need help."

A bit irritated that the woman had tried to abandon him in his time of need, the man was still in no position to complain. "A thousand thank-yous, miss. But I need a weapon. I'm skilled with light blades: daggers, knives, swords."

The thief looked uneasy, but after hearing another terrible clash of metal on metal, she passed the bard her dagger. "Right, use that. I have plenty." A strangled cry went up from the fight behind her, and Ceara turned to see a bandit falling to the ground with a large red gash in his chest. Three remained, each of them attempting to break Nima's guard at the same time. The eastern warrior made no attempt to call for help, but it was obvious he was having a bit of trouble. "Get one of them off of him, if you can. I'll be back." With that, Ceara ran away.

Nodding to the thief, the man scrambled to his feet, sprinting to one of the bandits without a helmet. Said bandit had attempted to flank Nima as he dealt with the other two remaining enemies. The man leapt towards his target, tackling him to the ground, flat on his face. With a loud, victorious cry, the man held the bandit down and thrust the dagger into the nape of his neck, drawing the attention of the remaining two bandits.

The leader that had spoken earlier turned his attention from Nima, his face locked in a deep scowl. He began to advance, gripping his axe firmly. The Cathionic yanked the dagger out of the corpse and began backpedaling away, dagger raised in icepick grip. Should the bandit attempt the swing, the man would try to parry. The lead marauder growled, taking another step forward.

With the slick sound of steel tearing through flesh, the bandit fighting collapsed. Stabbed in the back by Ceara, who had used the Cathionic distraction to help her friend. The leader of the bandit turned around, seeing all his companions crumpled on the road. Ceara opened her mouth to speak, but Nima brushed past her, punching the bandit with his sword arm and then driving his blade through the man's chest. Kicking the corpse free of his sword, he stood still, breathing heavily.

The Cathonic man watched the bandit leader crumple to the ground, breathing a sigh of relief as he doubled over, catching his breath. "Many thanks for the aid, travelers," he said to the two as he offered Ceara her dagger back. He reached into his shirt and fished out his coin purse. "Please, keep this. I will be sure to make up for it myself when I get to Mirador. Oh, pardon me; my name is Mostafa Idrissi, from Thobos. I am a bard by trade, and I had heard that the Grandmaster of the Knights Solanian was to be present in Mirador. I was on my way to entertain him and his entourage when these four brutes... well."

"I am Ceara, that is Nima." The thief took her dagger and pointed to herself, and then to her armoured companion. She weighed the man's purse in her hand, carefully stepping over the corpses to approach the bard. "Grandmaster? Is he the one that is the son of a god or somesuch?"

Mostafa smiled and shrugged. "So they say. Whether he is or isn't, he does much good for the world, he and his Order. Though these bandits slipped through their fingers, I am sure we will be rewarded, well, *you* will be rewarded for bringing them to justice, and for alerting them to the problem."

"Nima did most of the work, he should be the one rewarded." Ceara tucked her dagger in her belt, kneeling beside the man Mostafa had killed and checking the corpse for valuables. She glanced upwards, pausing for a moment. "What kind of reward? Does the Order have a lot of money?"

"A fortune," he replied. "Loot they seize from bandits like these, treasures they take from cultist lairs, generous donations from Lords and Ladies, bounties on demons and every manner of beast that terrorizes the people... the Grandmaster is no pauper. Most certainly blessed, if not divine himself!"

"Oh, surely." Ceara stood up, smiling. "You've been a bard for these crusaders a long time? Make good money?"

By now the bard was growing suspicion, raising a dark eyebrow as he slowly, carefully replied to that question. "...no. I have not been working for the Order at all, and I have not heard of any further crusades. I was simply going to perform before the Grandmaster." He paused, remembering who exactly he was dealing with. "...I make more than the average troubadour. I sing and play the lute, my father's lute, to be exact, in a variety of different cultural styles. It impresses most Lords and Ladies, anyways."

Ceara placed her hand on her dagger. "Thats nice." she grinned, watching Nima unsheathe his bloodied sword out of the corner of her eye. "I feel bad about doing this, seeing as you've already seen some trouble today, and you helped my friend, but I'm afraid I have no choice. I want you to undress, slowly and carefully. Don't rip anything, or I'll take one of your talented fingers."

"You... what?!" the bard cried, taking a step back from the thief. Seeing the furusiyya unsheathe his blade was intimidating enough. With an infuriated but defeated growl, the bard slowly began removing his clothes, starting with the feathered cap. Within a minute or two, he was down to his loincloth, his clothes laying disheveled on the ground before him.

Ceara took his clothes, gesturing for Nima to watch their new prisoner as she tucked them into one of her saddlebags. She turned back around, rope in her hands. "This isn't what it looks like, by the way."

"I do not care what it does and does not look like!" The bard cried, "You help a man merely to rob him blind yourself! To go steal from holy men, no less! Men and women who have contributed far more to this world plagued by the living dead, unholy spawn, and honorless whores such as yourself! And what do you spend your ill-gotten gold on?!"

Nima stepped forward, raising his sword for a sweeping blow that would take the bard's head clean off. Before his blade could strike true, Ceara dropped the rope and pulled him backwards, shooting him a scathing glare. The easterner shook his head, stepping away and putting his sabre in it's scabbard. With her companion sorted, the thief turned her attention back to the angry minstrel. "I spend my money on whatever I please, because I can. You can have your honour and your holiness all you like, Mostafa, but I've got your coin and your clothes. World seems to favour me at the moment."

"Because, you craven parasite, you have a slave-soldier to kill those who resist! Do not speak to me about worldly favour, you devil-haired mongrel! You take and you take, never to give! You bring shame to your fellow Bryonics and Cainleathites, especially to those of your profession who at least give what they take to the poor!"

Ceara absently touched her hair, scratching the top of her head while she sighed in annoyance. Nima picked their rope off the ground, and used it to tie the bards hands together. Ceara nodded to him. "Oh, nobody actually gives to the poor. Maybe in your stupid little ballads."

"We should kill him."

Ceara glanced back at her companion, raising her hands in exasperation. "I said no. He walks."

Nima shook his head slowly. "He dies. His fury is hotter than a forge, look at him. While you debate, he plans to turn us into the nearest guard. We are hunted already, I do not wish the Order to track us as well. We kill him here, and then it is the bandits that did the deed. Safe."

"First you trudge into those bandits for a fucking insult, now you want to run this bard through? We've been through this, dammit! Cool your fucking head, go gather the horses. I'll be fine." Nima didn't move. Ceara sighed, putting her hands on her hips. "Go, Nima." Reluctantly, the slave-soldier finally agreed.

"You. I'll take your lute, as well." Ceara used one hand to pick up the intstrument, with her other clutched on the grip of her dagger. "I know how to play, don't worry, I won't bring dishonour to your name."

"And you would steal from a man his dead father's lute! You can run and hide in the shadows like the coward you are, but the Gods will cut you down and you will burn in the Infernum!"

"If it's any consolation, I'll try to return the lute. If you hang around Mirador for a while after the feast is finished, I could..." Ceara shook her head, as if to clear it. "The nearest city is Viarosa. Have fun walking."

The bard fell silent, taking a final look at the lute before turning and storming away, marching to the southwest as though he still had a shred of dignity left.

Nima appeared at Ceara's side, the leads for both of their horses in his mailed hands. He stood beside his friend, watching the bard leave. "This will end badly." He remarked, mounting his horse.

Ceara followed suit, taking her eyes off the wandering bard and setting them east. "You worry too much."

To Meddle in the Affairs of Dragons

Hoffen - Illyrica

The dilapidated tavern door swung open, filling the silent streets of Hoffen with the sounds of laughter and song. A woman stepped out of the brightly lit establishment, closing the door behind her. She took a deep breath, scanning the darkened road ahead. She tugged on her simple sheepskin cloak, pulling back the hood and letting her thick red hair tumble onto the worn linen blouse that she wore with riding leathers and ragged boots. She smiled as she began to stroll away from the muffled noises of merriment, her belt sounding a soft jingle with every footfall. The woman weaved through the short village buildings, rapping her fingers on the stone walls as she passed through the narrow alleys and sharp corners enroute to her destination.

The woman found the end of her small journey at the edge of town, in the tiny ruin of an abandoned house overrun with moss and undergrowth. It had never been a large building, but it had been made from solid stone, just large enough to house a small family. However, it was clear that time had eaten away at the integrity of this once sound home, and now all but one wall had collapsed. The crumbling structure shone in the full moonlight, and the larger plants swayed softly in the evening wind. In the distance, crickets chirped methodically. The woman stepped over one of the fallen walls, glancing back to make certain no one was following her.

"Nima?" She hissed, harshly calling to whomever would hear her. "Nima, where are you?"

"Here." A man emerged from the corner of the abandoned structure, where he had been shrouded in darkness. His frame was lean but muscular, a build that had known a mighty share of labour but not as much food. He was clad in a full-length hauberk of chainmail, with overlapping plates of polished steel wrapped around his legs, arms, and midsection. His skin was darker than most in Hoffen, with a patchy beard and an unkept head of black hair. His voice was thick with a guttural accent, but he spoke well enough to be understood clearly. ”Ceara, did you get the food?"

Ceara nodded, producing a crusty loaf of sourdough bread and tossing it to her armoured companion. "I ate in the tavern, and now you should too. We'll leave as soon as you’re ready, I have enough money to buy fast horses."

“Fast horses…?” Nima furrowed his eyebrows, confused. "I thought we would stay here a while? There are no mercenaries this far south, and the shadow elves have no power in Illyrica. We are safe here."

The young woman laughed. "Hoffen is not the place I aspire to winter in, my friend. This town is too small, too bland. Don't you want to be somewhere bigger? Somewhere with a little more than a single tavern?" She muttered to herself. “A tavern that’s not a rundown mess, anyway…”

"I want to keep us alive. Both of us." Nima pinched the end of his bread, tearing off a piece and eating it slowly. “Bigger cities attract more attention. There is a possibility that the elven masters will catch wind of us.”

“Masters? You're not one of their soldiers anymore, Nima. You don't belong to anyone, and you don’t have to answer to anyone. Do you understand?" The armoured man nodded in wordless agreement, but he seemed to struggle with the concept. Ceara sighed, smiling helplessly. "In any case, we can't stay here. I must have stolen from half the town in that tavern." She tapped her belt, where several small purses were tied to her hip. On contact, the leather pouches made a metallic noise.

“That is quite a lot, Ceara. More than caution demands.” Nima folded his arms, the metal sleeves scraping against one another. “What if you had been caught? What if they notice their loss?”

The thief passed the rest of the bread to her companion, looking over her shoulder with a small grin. “They might notice. Might be too drunk to really care. Better safe than sorry though, right?” Ceara patted her friend on the shoulder. “Come on, eat the rest of that while we walk. We’ve got to get going.”

Nima obliged, picking up a strange, conical helmet and slinging the rest of his equipment over his shoulder. “Where will we go? North is dangerous, even more with winter bearing down on us. War rages in the old Empire, and the eastern lands would sooner sell me back to the shadow elves than take us in. The roads of Illyrica are treacherous as well, you know. Just as you saw, these beasts are coming down on folk from all corners of the world. A walled settlement, like this one, that is the best place to be.”

Ceara rolled her eyes, turning for a brief moment to deliver a agonized groan. “I know, Nima. But we’re not exactly helpless travellers, are we? You, a trained warrior of the shield, spear, and sword, and I, the quick-witted brains of our delightful operation. Someone should make a song. The lower classes would probably like it, but I doubt the nobility would take kindly to being mocked so soundly in a melody as sweet as-“

“Stop.” Nima fell still, literally putting his foot down. “Where are we going, Ceara? I need to know.”

The young woman’s wry grin slowly faded, melting into a more serious expression. “I was going to explain this on the road, away from ears and eyes. It seems like the whole town is gathered at that tavern, and I suppose you have a right to say your piece before we commit to anything.” Ceara removed a larger pouch from her belt, marked with a twin-headed eagle. She opened the top, displaying the glimmering pile of coin hidden beneath the smooth leather. “I took this from one of those knights, the servants of the sun god. He was wearing it on his person, spotted it when he sat down with these two locals at the tavern.” The redheaded thief took a coin from the purse, examining it. “There is more gold in this purse than the rest of that tavern combined.”

“Where are you going with this?” Nima shook his head. ”That money was probably for mercenaries. You should be glad you weren’t caught - those knights are not the sort that you should seek trouble with.”

Ceara frowned, closing her stolen purse but keeping the coin in her fingers. She continued to speak, ignoring the easterners caution. “I heard them speaking, talking with the locals. They’re holding some sort of feast, some great party to which I’m sure plenty of nobility will be in attendance. Now, if a single knight is carrying this much coin, can you imagine the wealth that will flow at their feast?” Her frown faded, and a sly grin reappeared. “The rich will come from far and wide, I’m sure, to make certain their peasants know how virtuous they are in supporting the honourable order. Security will be tight, but once we get past that… all of the money? It will be practically laid out before us.”

“I do not think robbing a military fortress filled with powerful nobles is a good idea. At best, we will be captured. I will be sold back to my masters in Rosiland, and you will have your hands cut off. At worst, they will send us to the abyss. Forgive me, but this is far too brash. We must be cautious.”

“You can make anything sound bad, can’t you?” Ceara toyed with her coin, moving it through her fingers as she thought. “I’m tired of being cautious, Nima. If you had your way, we would be living in the stables and eating rabbits for dinner the rest of our lives. I’m not going to live in the dirt for the rest of my life. I want to stop worrying about those damn slavers, I want to stop running like a scared little child. Once we pull this off, we’ll have enough money to do anything. We can buy a farm or a vineyard, have a manor built, hire servants and mercenaries. I don’t want to be a noble, and I don’t plan on becoming a pretentious little rich weasel. But yes, I want to live without the shadow of caution strangling all the joy in my life, alright?”

Nima looked slightly hurt. “I am only trying to do what is best for us.”

“I know, its… Maybe some of that was a little condescending. I’m sorry. You’re my best friend, Nima, and I have no doubt in my mind that you’ve saved both our lives several times over.” The thief spun around, shrugging. “But just look around. Don’t you think it’s time we started really living?”

The armoured man did not answer for a long while, letting the ambient sounds of the town replace his silence. Finally, he spoke up. “If you truly believe that this is something we can do, then we will do it.”

Ceara broke into another grin, playfully punching her friend on his metal shoulder. “I knew you would come around, Nima. Come on, we need to saddle the horses. I'll tell you what I'm planning on our way.”

To Meddle in the Affairs of Dragons

Character Sheet

Name: Ceara Eachaidh

Sex: Female

Race: Human

Age: 23 (Born 1285 AR)

Religion: None

Backstory: Ceara Eachaidh was born in Cairnleath, a land independent from the Kingdom of Bryon in every way except officially. The young girl was raised in Helrith, a large city near the northern coast of the country. The poverty of the city was crippling, and Ceara, the daughter of a lowly shoemaker, was unable to escape any of it. She starved for the majority of her young childhood, and when she reached the age of seventeen, the young girl turned to theft to support herself. She fell in with street gangs and eventually even began to associate with members of the infamous Narbosi mafia. Her faithful father vehemently disapproved of her conduct, feeling it incredibly unbecoming of a young woman. Ceara ignored the patriarch of her family, refusing to return to a life of lawful poverty. Even with their disagreements, the two remained close.

In 1303, conflict broke out between Bryon and Cairnleath. A band of Cairnleathite nobles raised their banners in rebellion, refusing to allow Bryonic tax-collectors to enter their lands. The King of Bryon, Henry Redmoor the Tenth, raised his own army and met battle with the rebellious men and elves. He soundly defeated them and went on to sack three cities, including Helrith. Ceara and her father were caught in the chaos of the looting, and they were forced to seek refuge in different sections of the city. Ceara was taken in by the Narbosi mafia, who hid in the sewers while the streets were burned, and her father claimed asylum in the temple of Solanius. When the destruction finally subsided, Ceara emerged from the underground and learned that the temple had been burned to the ground and everyone inside had been killed. With nothing left in Cairnleath, she used the last of her money to pay the Narbosi mafia and sailed north. The young woman spent years wandering throughout the continent, stealing from both the poor and rich alike. She left the mafia and spent time in Rosiland, where luxury could be purchased easily.

She left the great elf-cities as they began to war with each other, following their armies and looting the dead nobles of their finery. On the bloodied ground of one such battlefield, the thief found a large group of dead Sindhusi slave-soldiers. Ceara attempted to remove the obsidian ornament from a sword belonging to one such soldier when the man she had believed to be dead began to protest. The thief quickly gave the wounded man her water, letting him drink while she apologized profusely. After a short moment of thought, Ceara decided to help the wounded soldier and spent the next few weeks bringing him food and using her basic understanding of medicine to heal his injuries the best she could. Nima made a full recovery, and when he was on his feet, he offered to leave Rosiland and pledge the remainder of his holy service to Ceara. Although she rejected his pledge, she let him travel with her, and soon, the two were friends.

Ceara spent the next couple of years stealing and traveling through Narbos, Asmeinland, and Illyrica with Nima in tow.

Motivation: Htraknu is bound to have bundles of dragon gold - Ceara intends to take more than her fair share once he’s dead.

Magic: Ceara cannot use magic.

Skills/Strengths: Ceara is handy with picking both pockets and locks, and she is proficient in a certain brand of stealth that can only be learned from years of hard experience. She can use a knife well enough, but fighting isn't her strong suit.

Weaknesses: Ceara tends to be untrustworthy and not willing to trust - she has a hard time forging any sort of relationship with anyone except Nima. She is arrogant, spiteful, and generally unpleasant to everyone she meets.

Gear: Ceara usually wears plainclothes.

Other:
Her appearance — i.imgur.com/r1ErLIh.jpg

Name: Nima

Sex: Male

Race: Human

Age: 34

Religion: Nima follows the Path of the Sacred Flame.

Backstory: Nima was born into slavery, raised the harsh northern mountains of Sindhus.
He was to be a man of complete loyalty and discipline - Sindisi, a holy soldier from the ancient citadel of Sindis. Compassion, empathy, fear - all emotion was painstakingly drilled out of him as he grew up with steel in his hand. By five, the master of Sindis put a sword in his hand. At eight, he was ordered to kill a lamb. At twelve, he would stab and kill another condemned slave to complete his psychological training. Now, he was to become fully proficient in the art of war. He would need to know the sword, the shield, the spear, and the charge. He would ride to battle on horseback, but his masters did not ease his dismounted training. At eighteen, Nima was an expert with all his weapons and ready to fight for the Sacred Flame. He was ordained as 'Sindisi under the standard', a soldier legally bound to holy service for fifty years of his life.

Nima was inducted into the Sixth Cohort of Sindisi, a respected regiment. Emir Razah of Sindhus pledged the Sixth Cohort to the House of Virtanen, a powerful family of Rosilandic shadow elves. The Emir did this as an act of friendship because many in the Virtanen court had converted to the Path. Nima, a soldier born and bred for the only heat of combat, was assigned to protect the stables of a Virtanen estate. Many of his brothers in the Sixth were also squandered in similar positions. His life remained unchanged for many years, during which he simply guarded, trained, and slept. Then, one day, a war would come to his post. A military order dedicated to Solanius attacked the estate, breaking the elvish army and entering the plantation. Nima joined the last stand near the main residence, filing in with his brothers from the Sixth Cohort, a collection of mercenaries, and drafted slaves. The two armies clashed, and as the battle raged on, it became clear that Nima’s master was tactically inept. His centre collapsed, and although the Sindhusi lines in courtyard held against the enemy at their front and now their flank, a cavalry charge directed at the rear broke their formation and allowed the enemy to slaughter the Sindhusi ranks. Nima was stabbed, and he was then trampled by the advancing enemy.

When he woke, he was being robbed by a strange woman. He raised his voice in protest, but only began to cough weakly. The thief decided to tend to his injuries, and once his wounds had healed and it became clear his former elf-master had long since been killed, he decided to accompany Ceara wherever she went. After all, a soldier needs a commander.

Motivation: Nima will follow Ceara wherever she goes, and if that means slaying an ancient and incredibly powerful dragon, then he will be along for the ride.

Magic: Nima has been trained to use some combat magic with the help of beastblood, but his knowledge is far from extensive and heavily restricted by religion.

Skills/Strengths: Nima is expertly trained, virtually fearless, and completely without mercy. In battle, he cares for nothing except defeating the enemy. Becoming proficient with all of his weapons - the shield, the spear, the sword, and the charge - at a very young age, he does little but practice and wait for the next fight. In single combat or fighting in rank, he is a truly a force to be reckoned with.

Weaknesses: Nima has difficulty making individual decisions, and although he is able to make suggestions and think independently, he is unable to act on most things without an order or a plan. This makes him a very inflexible fighter, which can sometimes be detrimental.

Gear: Nima wears a full suit of chainmail, with overlapping steel plates that cover more vital areas. His helmet is conical in the Sindhusi style, and his shield is painted with an inverted triangle - the symbol of Sindhus, his home. He carries a sword, a large oval shield, and a spear.

Other:
His appearance, in full armour — i.imgur.com/DtaBgJx.jpg?1