Lore of Leyuna RPG (FRPG)

[The Kingpin]

"All history is young history, when one considers the age of the world we live in. Anything we could hope to uncover, anything recovered, it's all a blink in the eye of this world, is it not?" stated Faruq. His knowledge of the true age of Leyuna was frustratingly limited, but he had heard enough to know that the Gods, and their creation of the continents, were several thousand times more ancient than any book that existed, and to his knowledge, any tablet or stone wall, for that matter. Such thoughts were sufficient to absorb the Storyteller in ruminations on racial history, and from there, his focus on their conversation swiftly unravelled.


"Ceridwen," responded the dragoness, her feathers dense enough and fluffy enough that she did not feel the cold suffered by the others, or at least, not as severely. She had yet to rebuild her fat reserves for the winter. "A pleasure to meet you both," she added a few moments later, realising she had not said that to them. Or to any other humans, or elves, for that matter. It was something she would have to get used to...

[C S]

"Very true. To the likes of tings like the Life Bringer, we're just a bunch of tiny things that happen to make bigger things all over this wide, varied land of ours," Syria replied. Old history was admittedly unfathomably ancient to her human perception of... reality itself, really.

[The Kingpin]

"One wonders what races came and went before we emerged on the face of this world," mused Faruq, envious for a moment of those beings thousands, or even tens of thousands of years his senior. What tales they must have had to tell, many of which he would probably never hear, so isolated from the world as he was here.

[C S]

"In idle chat, Septimus has told me of a dwarf who lived a very long time ago who was convinced that elves are descended from a race of cats. Septimus couldn't give me an answer when I asked him how he became so sure of that, but he did tell me of his time in Tyrbenetus. There is a race of people called leonines who live there, alongside others called anubids. I don't think Garrodin, the dwarf, ever knew of them, but it's something to behold, all the same," said the mage, grateful for less austere conversation.

[The Kingpin]

"It would not be the first time I've heard a non-elf compare us to cats. I used to think it was the pointed ears that earned us the nickname, but that is a curious possibility. Perhaps there is some legitimate history to it, hm?" stated Faruq, seeming genuinely amused at the thought that his great great great grandparents may have been felines.

[C S]

Syria, on the other hand, pursued the logical conclusion to the thought. There were humans, elves, dwarves, orcs and goblins, the masked ones and even the vaun on Aster alone. The general shape of a head, two arms and two legs extended past the shores of the continent. With the knowledge that at one time, in an age only remembered by elementals from a primordial age, the ocean was not what it was today, it made sense that every sapient race that took after the sapien portion were all related, somehow. One, until separated by geology, and when thoughts became complex enough, ideologies.

"It is a fascinating thought. It isn't something we're likely to answer definitively. Not in our lifetimes," Syria stated in a disarmingly scholarly way. She had taken to holding her chin in that ponderous way she was prone to, and realized it around the same time that she thought back to Vix, standing there listening to two intellectuals babble on about things that had nothing to do with the present.

"Er... so how about we find you some reading material?" she asked her, bracing some of her weight onto her staff, almost bashfully.

[The Kingpin]

"I should honestly return to my work, so I will leave you to it. It was a pleasure meeting you, miss Vixen. May peace and fortune accompany you until we meet again," said Faruq graciously before turning around, disappearing amidst the bookshelves on his way to his desk once more.


"I swear, ever since that magic suit of armour took over this place there's been no end to the strange and confusing happenings here," grumbled a heavily built behemoth of a man at the counter of the dimly lit tavern. Andruil observed, a few stools over, that the man's tattered coat was speckled with bloodstains, the fur around the hood that hung on his back completely matted with something he could not quite identify. A blend of blood, booze and something else. Urine, perhaps? Could have been the effect of the two other liquids drying that produced that scent, or the fact that this was a tavern and that some people quite literally got pissed-drunk at night.

"Maybe, but between him and the monsters up in Freyr-Lunge, I'd take the former any day," responded a woman clad in leather armour. It was oddly form-fitting, the Knight noted. It was not quite armour, but not just your average clothing. Somewhere between the two. The equipment of a person who needed to be quick and agile, but also somewhat decently protected. Her hair, or what little he could see of it, was jet black, an oily sheen visible where the candlelight struck it. It seemed to be straight and cut short, not even reaching shoulder length. Slender features and faintly pronounced cheekbones suggested she was an elf, and with her frame he doubted she was anything but. But most notable of her features were her eyes. Intense, in a word. The storm-grey gaze seemed alert by definition, even now when she seemed at ease, a bottle of ale in one hand and a note, or poster of some sort in the other.

"Honestly I'd prefer the monsters. At least you know they're out to kill you. The kind of things I've seen in this city recently...Travellers in big coats and shadowy hoods, with big axes and swords, even bigger crossbows...So many foreigners. And the dragons! Never in my life did I think I'd have two dragons soaring past overhead. One maybe, if I was lucky. Maybe close enough I could see its belly scales if I was near enough a river that it might be comin' in for a drink. But two? In a city? It's absolute bloody madness is what it is. And a bad omen at that. Last dragon that visited a Draxonian city brought the whole bloomin' kingdom down on our heads," grumbled the man. Andruil noted, now that he wasn't looking away from him, that he had a thick black beard and brows, and a face scarred with a burn mark on one cheek.

"Honestly Yotunheim, you're sounding like those superstitious zealots in Germania," responded the woman, amused. Her back was pressed against the counter as she sipped her drink, her gaze fixed to the poster, not bothering to give the man her full attention.

"Superstitious? Nay. But I know a pattern when I see it. Back in the old days dragons were feared. They brought death and destruction wherever they went. Half the Elvish kingdoms in Aster were smoking ruins before they were beaten," grumbled the man as he reached four a pouch at his side, drawing a rectangular wooden case from within, from which he drew a cylindrical brown thing, seemingly made of paper. The Knight's nose twitched at the scent, recognising it as tobacco, though he hadn't seen it in that form before. Dangling one end of it over the candle at the edge of the counter, he lit it up, before putting the other end between his lips, a couple of puffs of smoke spilling forth moments later.

"Not the same dragons, lad," stated the bartender, a burly man who seemed to be in his fifties, light blond streaks in his light brown hair. "The ones that arrived here are different. Hueilin, they call 'em in Valenhad. More intelligent than your average fire-breather. More sensible too," he stated. Andruil noted he spoke with an accent native to the province of Tremaine. What in Leyuna was he doing here?.

"Doesn't matter. Dragons have been said to like riddles and stories just as much as gold and virgin sacrifices. Could be they're just trying to get their bearings before they burn Valenhad to the ground," responded Yotunheim flatly.

"With how wide spread they are, I'm fairly sure that would've happened by now. Especially with that big one they say arrived a couple of months ago. Blotted out the sun over Crestvale with its size. Not even Valenhad has the firepower to kill a monster that big," stated the bartender.

"Ha. Mate, I've seen Valenhad's armies. I was in the Draxon Legion before everything went to ruin. They were tearing our forces apart. Enough artillery to reduce Grymhaven, oh, excuse me, Brodudika, to dust. Doesn't matter how big the dragon is, they'd kill it if it attacked openly. S'why these dragons are playin' it smart. Lets not forget Valenhad has its own flying force of dragons, not to mention gryphons and all manner of other exotic beast," responded Yotunheim.

"You've been drinking too much, Yotunheim," stated the woman as she downed the last of her drink, rolling and putting away the poster she'd been holding.

"Maybe. But that doesn't change the fact I'm more perceptive than any of you sods. Forget the dragons if you like. Forget the mercenaries. Hell, you could even forget the fact that you're letting a possessed suit of armour run the city. There are odd people going around town doing things that are right suspicious," grunted Yotunheim as he let loose another thick puff of smoke, the entire cloud glowing orange as it passed over the candle, which fluttered and flickered in response.

"Oh? Like who?" asked the bartender with a sceptically raised brow as he finished rinsing off one of the mugs, setting it down under the counter.

"You haven't heard about them? I spoke to six people in the last six days that said they've been seeing a couple of chaps in green coats, asking odd questions that don't seem to mean anything. They've been floating around guard posts in the upper districts, if the people who spoke to me about em are to be believed. They all saw them in the same general area, a few blocks down from the magic school... what's it called... Septimus Place. I swear there's something going on in this city and it is bugging the hell out of me," grumbled the former soldier.

That caught Andruil's attention. Men in green coats weren't that unusual, admittedly, but that a couple of them would be dressed so similarly and operating as a pair was suspicious.

"Paranoid is what you are, Yotunheim. Really, you should cut down on the liquor and stop smoking whatever form of tobacco that is you're puffing. It's playing with your head," said the woman, amused as she brushed up against him, a hand squeezing his shoulder. "And maybe find a girl to help you with all that pent up frustration, yeah? It'd do ya a world of good," she stated, the man stiffening in response to something neither Andruil nor the bartender had seen.

"That an invitation?" grunted Yotunheim as he looked over his shoulder to the pale woman.

"Nah. Just advice. I prefer people who know the concept of bathing," she responded with a mischievous smirk as she turned away, waving over her shoulder. "Have fun you two. I'm off to take a look at this bounty!" she stated as she walked out the door.

Andruil was already standing by the time the door closed, a couple of silver coins left by his finished drink as he headed off. As he walked out through the doorway, he heard a muffled "Damn it, she's done it again!" from the grizzled soldier. Quick hands. Not bad.

[Hopeflower]

Caught in the middle of contemplating slipping away while the two talked about things that went a little over her head, Vix jumped guiltily and straightened. For a second, the hint of what her mother had managed to teach her bled into her posture. However she stood, though, the next words out of her mouth were an eloquent, "Ah, yeah." In her brief hesitation, the stranger was gone before she could thank him, or wish him the same.


Sensing that the conversation had run dry, Rowan decided that it - once again - fell to her to be the ruder of them. Offering Ceridwen a nod, she nudged Arsenic's foot with her own and said, "Much as I'd love to drag this out, it's too cold to stand around. And we should at least make an attempt to find out where Vix and Andruil went."

The look Arsenic gave her spoke volumes about how little he wanted to imagine what their companions might be getting up to, alone or otherwise, but he inclined his head. 'Of course,' he murmured. 'Excuse us, Ceridwen. Maybe we'll have other chances to talk.'

[The Kingpin]

The Knight stepped out the door and turned, coming face to face with the woman, a blade pointed at his chin as a small smirk curled across her delicate features. "Not bad, but you could stand to be a bit more discreet," she stated, her tone somewhat amused.

"Why were you following me?" she asked, the smirk melting off as she spoke, realising that there was a rather hefty dagger pointing, somewhat painfully, against her side, right between two of her ribs. He wasn't as much of a fool as she thought. She lowered her own knife, slipping it back into her scabbard slowly, though Andruil did not do the same.

"Just curious as to why this," started Andruil, a hand holding up the coin purse she'd just snatched from Yotunheim, "Is in your possession and not his," stated Andruil, a smirk of his own greeting the surprised look on her face.

"We're friends. We borrow eachother's cash all the time. Some of the bounties require a fee to ensure we follow through. Not everyone in this city has a heart of gold. Some want to plate theirs in it," she explained simply.

Andruil had not looked into the bounty system in sufficient depth to confirm or deny her claim. "Say I believe you. Why not use your own? Why take his money for it?"

"If you must know... He borrowed my coin purse at the boarding house we were staying at yesterday. My clothing was being washed, and I had to pay to get my clothing back. Pay with money that was conveniently missing. This is just my way of getting back at him. He'll be helping old Boris clean the tavern's dishes tonight after dinner since he can't pay for his drinks. A fair trade for making a girl do the same in a boarding house, naked, wouldn't you say?" she asked, a sweet, if not entirely pure-intentioned smile on her face, a hand settling on his chest, tracing downwards as she spoke.

He caught the hand just shy of his sash, under which his scabbard and a handful of other bits of his effects were strapped. The cringe on her face as the coin purse was pressed against the inside of her wrist told him she wouldn't be trying anything else with that hand. "Fair enough. I admit it's what I would do. But for the sake of... clarity, why don't you knock on that window, get his attention, see if he'll confirm your story?" he asked smugly. "Oh, and no more tricks. You're not the only one with a host of them up your sleeve," he added.

"He will...Not that it's any business of yours whether or not it's true," she stated.

"Well seeing as I'm... how to put it... a friend of this city's benefactor, yes, it is very much my business whether it's true or not. Can't have theft running rampant, after all. Especially not theft by such a... pleasant young lady such as yourself. It's not flattering to your image," he stated.

"Friend, my image was shattered, tarred, burned and buried a long time ago. A pretty face and an attractive figure are all I have to show for it. But fine. If you insist," she stated, stepping back a bit so that she was visible through the tavern window, before knocking on it firmly. "Yotunheim!" she called. Sure enough, the burly man whirled around on his stool, looking towards the girl and the slightly distressed look on her otherwise smiling face. He got up, and thumped across to the door, pulling it open and turning around. "What's wro-Oh. Tiva, don't tell me you took his purse too?" he asked with an exasperated tone.

"What's that supposed to mean!?" she responded, seeming genuinely offended.

"Ah. So the story is true. You two friends?" asked Andruil, trying not to comment on the fact that this man was even bigger then he looked in the inn. He's as big as a dwarf's thirst for booze... Even looks and smells the part.

"Yes, we're friends. Admittedly friends with odd notions of friendship. Who are you?" asked the former soldier, fixing Andruil with a stern, appraising gaze.

"Call me a secretary to the benefactor of the common man. I saw her borrow your coin purse and thought to... reclaim it for you." explained the Knight, as he stepped back from Tiva.

"It's fine. She can have it. It's actually hers anyway," explained the man, earning a raised brow from Andruil, responding to it with a simple shrug. "But I want a name, not an occupation."

"Andruil." answered the Knight simply as he handed the coin purse back to Tiva, who put it away in one of the many pockets in her outfit.

"I would say well met, Andruil, but honestly, this is the strangest introduction I've ever had. Assuming you were somehow deaf to our little raven's squawking, my name is-" he started.

"Squawking?!" choked Tiva, offended.

"My name is Yotunheim," he continued over the girl's protests. "Former Draxonian Commander. Back when such a title meant something. And this here is Tiva. I'll let her tell you who and what she is in her own time. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a drink and a story to get back to," stated the man simply, turning to re-enter the tavern. "Perhaps I'll see you around...Andruil," he stated finally as he crossed the threshold of the tavern and disappeared behind the heavy thud of the door closing.

"I hope you're satisfied, mister 'Secretary'. You were an assistant in the public humiliation of a girl who hardly deserved it," scolded the raven-haired thief.

"Sometimes a bit of embarrassment does one's ego wonders. Keeps you in check," retorted Andruil amusedly as he put away his dagger. "But seeing as how Yotunheim and I have been formally introduced, perhaps you will grace me with the same?" he asked.

"Tiva. Professional mercenary, bounty hunter, gambler and all-around ne'er-do-well. Happy?" she stated, fixing him with a stern look.

"Positively charmed to make your acquaintence, Tiva. Perhaps this will be the start of a beautiful friendship," stated Andruil with a smirk as he turned away.

"I doubt a good little boy like you could handle my notion of friendship," she teased as she watched him leave, turning away once it was clear he wasn't going to respond with some snide retort. Incredible, she thought, rolling her eyes as she continued on her way to city hall.


"Perhaps we will," chirped the dragoness as the two departed, before stepping back towards her spot by the school, settling down. Her tail curled round under one of her wings, keeping it warm in the chilly winter weather.

[C S]

The mage found the catalog on display a lot more handy when she actually had something of value to look for. It wasn't quite as robust as Koganusan's system, but it certainly got things accomplished. The books Desrium had brought from afar were included with some of the newer entries logged on the brass, so it wasn't a long search to pick them out of the staggering block of titles. As for works of the scribes, those were kept on record in a ledger that was overshadowed by the sizable display case, made more poignant by the lamps hanging in the metalwork overhead. Flipping through the pages revealed where the newest writings were kept. There were scrolls in stands in the depths of the archives, though a few of them were indeed at the university library.

With Syria aided by magic and her staff, retrieving the wealth of knowledge for Vix was a relatively simple task that entailed strafing along rows of books and scrolls while repeating what the catalog read in her head in a sing-song manner to keep it in her head. She did not envy the librarian who had to reshelve everything when Vix was finished with them. The large books and rolls of text floated around the mage when she returned to the lobby like her own personal bookish posse before she stacked them up on a table, said her goodbyes to the innkeeper and then made her exit, riding on a wave of fulfillment, having been of use as she was.

She rode her staff through the doors of city hall into the sunlight, and that's when everything started to sink again. The staff slowed, then spun, turning Syria to face the black building with a contemplative look upon her face. What was this building, truly, she wondered. A symbol of government stability, with a legend at its helm? To some, it must have been. That was respectable. Everyone needed something to put their faith behind. Syria saw it as something else. Syria looked at the individual bricks that all interlocked to comprise this substantial building, and only got the sense of weight.

The grandeur of Brodudika's mission, its sole purpose, emanated from this single building. It was a vault that guarded the precious mentions and details that Vix was after, a source of livelihood for all kinds of people, a force for change for the better, it was all sorts of things to just as many people; but most of all, Syria noted, it was a burden set squarely on the one who could move the world's shoulders.

Her actions in the near future could save Desrium from Morrelie... maybe. Only time, and his own mettle, could save him from his own design.

"Be well, friend. Take care of yourself, however you must. Make the most of that honey--"

"Hey!" Syria stiffened at the sharp voice, angry and feminine. "You're the one that's been buzzing around the top floor, aren't you!?"

"Dearie, dearie!" Syria muttered to herself. She huddled down on her staff, concentrated her efforts, and made a blazing escape from city hall's courtyard, soaring over the gates. In her wake were several, gargantuan brown butterflies that rained sparkles underneath their illusory wings.

It was a good enough distraction, just like Freyr-Lunge.


She was grateful that she hadn't become wanted by the law in the time since. Still, Syria was just a little too coy around the guards she passed on the way to Septimus Place. She had her staff over one shoulder and whistled as she mingled with the crowds of people going on their own way. They probably didn't even notice her, the mage thought. She greeted Ceridwen when she saw the dragoness at her usual haunt, then through the school doors she went without a hitch.

"Here for your daughter, miss Letant?"

"No sir. I'm just here to look around."

"I trust you'll be less meddlesome than the last bunch who came here to do that," the receptionist muttered.

Syria arched a brow. "I hope classes weren't affected too badly," she commented.

"Only one class, it was on hiatus at the time, and things were handled... quickly."

"Ah." Syria lingered a bit longer than what was most likely deemed acceptable on the man's tired face. "It must be eventful around here."

"The pay is generous. I can relax when I am not going through my hours," the man said in a way that had Syria thinking this was what he told himself.

"That is a good attitude, mister. Keep up the fine work."

And at that, the receptionist's dour appearance brightened somewhat. He actually smiled and nodded while Syria inspected the lobby. "How often does this lift get used?" she asked, leaning into the cage-work of metal.

"Fairly often, but usually during the time of day when only the faculty is around. Early mornings and late at night."

"It looks like it could lift a lot. What does it carry?" Syria looked back at the suited man curiously.

"Oh, it can carry quite a bit -- the benefactor himself was called upon to test it. As for what it carries, I don't know myself. All I know is that it all goes to some branch of experimentation or another."

"Experimentation?"

"This isn't just a school. It's a ministry of magical research. Promising students are just as likely to be recruited for some upper-level magic tinkering as they are to join some other academy or university out in Aster."

"Ah, that is fascinating." It wasn't just empty banter. With Beshayir set on being the most decorated and accomplished mage in the history of Aster -- or was it the world? -- some education at this school was definitely going to be a boon for her studies. Who knows, when she was old enough, she could end up enrolling formally. Beshayir in her well-earned robes...

The receptionist pulled her from her mulling over the image. "I wouldn't tell anyone else this, miss Letant, but given your one-of-a-kind standing with the benefactor, I think you could take a look up in one of the research areas. Ah, just stay away from anything too secretive. Or dangerous."

Syria considered it. She did have some more time to spend. She'd been searching for traces of Septimus' aura since leaving city hall, and she couldn't get a read on him. She reasoned that whatever business he had with Arashi was more in-depth than she had thought it would be, and resolved to let him deal with it without distraction. Whenever he was ready, he would find her again. Until then...

"I'm always open to learning a little more about whatever there is to learn about," Syria replied amicably, "Thank you very much. You must be one of the most helpful receptionists I've ever met."

"Just doing my job, miss Letant. You'll find research departments in the cellar, the fifth floor, and the sixth floor."

"This place has a cellar?" That came as some surprise to Syria, but the man's explanation had her feeling a bit sheepish about it. Of course.

"It used to be a place for nobles to hold private events. They had to have some place to keep the wines. The poor servants who had to fetch them up and down the stairs, though. They didn't have a lift for that."

"May their toil award them happiness, wherever they are now," Syria replied. She went to the stairwell, humming thoughtfully. At first viewing, the stairs only went up. However...

The mage took a few steps around the first few stairs. They were snug in the stairwell, as they should have been, but then -- ah ha! -- there was the door to the cellar, tucked out of sight. Just right for people paranoid about who was getting into their stores of alcohol. It was kind of comedic in a way. "They don't still have kegs down there, right?" she asked the man at the desk.

"Oh no. I'm sure the researchers would have wanted it to be so, but they take up too much space. Can't do experimental magic research without space."

"All too true," Syria said, and then pulled up the wooden hatch to begin her descent.


Understandably, when Syria reached the bottom of the stairs and was seen by a few of the mages in white garb, they were taken aback. Syria was too, for they did not look like one's stereotypical, robe and hat wearing mage. Not that she herself fit that stereotype, but it was the rough quality of their uniform. The light cloth that made up their base clothing was weighed upon by protective overalls that had so many pockets and bandoliers.

One of them pointed at her, their hand covered in thick, black leather gloves. "What are you doing down here?"

"Are you... uh... is this... secret? Or dangerous? The receptionist told me that I could probably look around if there weren't secret or dangerous stuff down here. Um... I'm Syria Letant. I'm a friend of Desrium's. I should have mentioned that first, really..." While she spoke, Syria took quick looks around the cellar, just in case she was going to be told to leave.

Gemstones fitted into the foundation had the cellar illuminated in a soft pale light, bright enough to work in, but not harsh. Where barrels and kegs would have been lined up and stacked, strange arcane peripheries were erected, tangles of wood and metal that had light running along the sinuous shapes...

"Syria Letant? Letant? As in the explorer?" The researcher lowered their hand and nodded to their fellows.

"The very same."

"We never expected anyone like you to take interest in what we are doing down here," another one of them said. "It wouldn't be too much trouble to have you look around for a little bit... not too long though. Sensitive stuff, and all."

Syria smiled in delight. "Oh, that would be wonderful, but please, I'm not so different than any of you." She looked up to the brick ceiling. "... Except for the fact that this isn't my job, of course. That's completely yours."

That got a good laugh from the lot in the cellar, and Syria felt a lot better about her chances of being shown something interesting. There wasn't a tour to be had, but Syria was allowed to look over the shoulders of the researchers as they worked at a few stations. Some stations, she recognized as some sort of alchemy operation, though it was unfamiliar to her. Metal, which looked to be ordinary steel, was being introduced to ores, one of which was unmistakably vitorite.

"Some new method of enchanting?" Syria would have to write this down in her journal as soon as possible.

One of the mages, seeing Syria being the embodiment of curiosity, decided to sate her yearning mind. "We've been trying to make a breakthrough with a material that could revolutionize the way magical instruments are created. Something that takes to mana, and responds to one's magic almost as quickly as they can think to cast a spell."

"What a hefty undertaking," Syria said. Wands and staffs that could be that attuned to their users...

"Undertaking is right. We've managed to achieve a few successes, but the principle doesn't seem sound for its purpose. It is too expensive and arduous to create this 'super-core', as we've taken to calling it." The mage sighed. "With as much 'super-core' as you'd need for it to have any notable effects, you could... I don't know... make some kind of light armor with it instead. A gauntlet, or something."

Syria put her hand on her chin and tried to visualize that. She wasn't an expert in smithing, but she did have Desrium's arms as a benchmark to judge from. A gauntlet like his would need quite a bit of this super-core indeed. "How would it hold up as armor, by any chance?"

Her initial response was a laugh. When the researcher realized she wasn't joking, they cleared their throat and said, "I would not recommend anyone try to use it as some kind of actual armor. They might be able to get a few nifty effects off, but the material is steel that's been deliberately botched to include silver and vitorite. It doesn't hold together well..."

"And it's prone to coming apart when, say, a sword is shoved into it."

The researcher nodded.

"I can see how this is a problem. You need too much of it to use in a wand or a staff... and it isn't up to snuff as something of its own..." Syria scratched her head. "I got nothing. I guess that's why I don't work here."

That got its intended laugh.

[Hopeflower]

With more material than she'd thought she'd find, it quickly became apparent that Vix was not going to be able to sort through all of it in a matter of days, as had been her tentative plan. Well, maybe she could have, if she could get away with only a few hours of sleep every night. It was unlikely that her companions would let her run herself that ragged, though, and so she needed to take a step back and try and plan this out. She knew what she was looking for, and she knew that it was something likely kept on a need-to-know basis - so probably not going to be in just any history book. Even so, she found a comfortable position and settled in to start taking notes on the Adsila family's relationship with the Iupan.


"So Viho wants to talk," said Rowan after a short but comfortable silence. She tried for and almost managed a conversational tone - worry bled through, making her sound uneasy instead.

'Seems that way.' Arsenic's voice came out perfectly smooth and neutral. On the odd occasion, Rowan had found his complete control over that more than a little unnerving. She didn't know what was going through his mind. The little, physical tells all pointed to agitation - but his voice? It gave nothing away.

Right now, that emotionless tone was pretty damn close to terrifying.

Not that she'd ever let that stop her from trying to talk to him. "Nick," she began quietly, "maybe you should hear him out."

Arsenic just barely turned to her then, giving her an unreadable glance. His jaw clenched, though, and she could read that just fine. 'I don't think I want to hear his excuses.'

Rowan spread her hands helplessly. "I don't think you're going to hear excuses. I think he wants to...clear the air. In his own way."

'There's nothing I want to talk about with him. He knows mom's dead because he left.'

The scarred assassin sucked in a deep breath. Reached out and caught Arsenic's arm. Squeezed gently to let him know that she was there, damn it, and she knew how he was hurting...and that she was going to open her mouth anyway. "We both know that's not true," Rowan said, and then it was out and she'd never be able to take that back. She squared her shoulders and braced for a fight.

Arsenic didn't exactly stop in his tracks, but he did catch the toe of his boot against an uneven stone edge and stumble slightly. They kept moving once he regained his balance. 'You want to run that by me again?' he asked, and there was finally a shift in his tone. Softer, and cold as the snow beneath their feet.

Rowan cleared her throat. "Arsenic, we know it wasn't Viho that killed Zaltana. He couldn't have known. He wasn't there - "

'It was his own damn fault he wasn't there to protect her - '

" - and I know he should have been," Rowan continued evenly, forcing herself not to raise her voice, though it shook and threatened to break. "Hell, Nick, I blamed him for a while too, remember? But I thought about it, and I realized he thought you both were safe."

'Oh yes. In a village that was regularly under threat from wildlife and thieves. Perfectly safe,' Arsenic replied, venom dripping from his words. 'As far as convincing me to forgive Viho goes, Rowan, this is a sad attempt.'

"I'm not trying to convince you to forgive him," retorted the scarred woman, frustration making itself known. "He said himself that he doesn't expect it. I'm trying to get you to see there's another side to this story, one that I think you need to hear."

Something rusty and horrible to hear rasped in Arsenic's ruined throat. It took Rowan a few seconds to realize that he was frustrated enough with her that he'd - if only for a moment - reverted to trying to express that verbally. It might have been an attempt at a growl, or it might have been him preparing to shout at her. Whatever it was, it died without him opening his mouth. They stood for a moment, old friends so completely divided on this one thing that it threatened to escalate into a serious fight, quietly searching each other's faces.

Rowan was, again, the one to break the silence. "Nick, you know I love you. I'm here for you. All I'm asking is that you let him talk." She hesitated, then added, "Please."

Whatever he found in Rowan's expression took the fight right out of him. Arsenic looked away, his anger draining away slowly and leaving him looking very tired. 'I don't know when or where he wants to meet,' he said. 'And I don't think it would be a good idea to wander an unfamiliar city alone.'

It was as close to an agreement as she was going to get, and Rowan knew it. She gave Arsenic's arm another little squeeze. "Hey. Why don't we tell the others when we find them and decide how we're going about this then? You don't have to worry about it now."

Arsenic hummed, neutral rather than angry or disinterested. He didn't pull away from her, and Rowan breathed an inner sigh of relief.

Baby steps.

[The Kingpin]

"Well well," mused Andruil aloud, as he stopped midway-across a buttress-bridge connected to one of the uppermost floors of Septimus Place. He guessed that the best way to get a view of the men in green coats would be to observe from above. He had not expected that in so doing he would find himself staring beyond the walls at the figure of the Scholar atop the rocky outcrop. The dragon's wings were pulled shut around him, an aura of light floating around the drake's hide like a cloak. It shimmered and danced, looking like an aurora visible even in daylight. Most in the city would not see it, but those who could would be treated to quite a spectacle, and probably more than a couple of questions, which, he reckoned, would never be answered.


He could not have known what was unfolding at that moment in the Scholar's mind, so distant and inexperienced as he was with the ways of magic. Those with a talent for reading the minds of others would have been able to see clearly that the Scholar was sorting through his thoughts, bringing what he had experienced over the past hour or so together, making meaning for himself.


"...For what but the mind can wield magic so effectively?"

The statement rang resoundingly true, but not only for magic. He had seen, through his meditations, as his mind single-handedly drew him through issues he wasn't aware had shaken him so thoroughly. His uncertainty over his past deeds, his fears and concerns regarding Morrelie... Even his distrust of Syria's convictions, his fear that it would hurt them both to follow that path with the Interceptor.

And just as his mind had brought all these concerns to light, it had effectively resolved them. For the first time in a long time, the Scholar felt... content. Comfortable. Grounded. He no longer felt lost in his own insecurities. For once, he felt he had a conviction, a focus. Some semblance of direction he could stand by. He couldn't honestly say he was not still drifting, but now at least, he knew where the current was headed...


A pulse of energy spilled out around the Scholar as his wings unfurled, his meditation dissolving with force as he rose to his feet. All across his hide, streaks of white light could be seen weaving and flowing between his scales, a liquid web woven from the auroras themselves. Hues of yellow, blue and red were momentarily visible in the web at various intervals, and even from the city, the Knight could see the Hueilin's eyes shining like literal stars. "That can't be good," he stated as he leapt off the edge of the buttress, landing in a roll on one of the nearby roofs. From there he hopped from rooftop to rooftop, balcony to bannister, signpost to wall to cobblestone path as he made his way to the gates.

The Scholar, meanwhile, examined himself, noting the curious changes. It wasn't quite the Elemental Form, but it was definitely not his normal self, either. The membranes of his wings shimmered, the colours and hues of their ventral sides richer and deeper, what was once a rough mimicry of the night sky now looking like the cosmos itself had been trapped between the tiny scales of their leathery surface. His clawed limbs, both feet and forelimbs, were a brilliant white from the wrists and ankles to the claw tips, and he noted that the stone beneath his taloned feet was glowing a dim orange shade.

For what but the mind, indeed.


Tiva, meanwhile, had all but forgotten her incident with Andruil, happily humming away as she marched through the gates of city hall, intending to take on a very specific contract. She took note of the disgruntled tone of the guards on her way in, hearing one babbling on about a witch on a broomstick or something to that effect. You'd think that was normal in a place with a magic school, she thought amusedly. Ah well. Not her problem.

[C S]

A woodsman he was, and a woodsman he had been. Days upon days have passed. He hadn't seen one like the scarlet woman in these expansive barrens since, but the axeman held her presence close still. One beyond him. One that remained. Wherever she -- it -- roamed weighed heavily on his conscience. The apparition of the sanguine had spared him. It had the capacity to reason, and converse, all while existing outside of any one warrior's capacity to kill it. It was the most mundane terror Rutgers had ever known. Finally, he could acknowledge a fear that was greater than the terribly dark depths of some men.

Haunted as he was by the one whose limbs were blades in disguise, and tormented by his aversion to his condition, for to do battle with these horrors was all he lived for, Rutgers did not let the finer details of the days escape him. Aster, to his eyes, was one sprawling forest. It was true that mountains and plains dotted the land, as did lakes, ravines and all sorts of other things. Rutgers had been traveling for over a month now, and one leaf-less forest bled into the next leaf-less forest.

It wasn't just a wanderer's seldom that he'd known. A few small settlements had crossed his way, and he made the most of short comforts before going back on his way. Where his destination was, that was a little amorphous. He was not being tracked by fiends anymore, Rutgers knew that as fact. It went back to something the red woman had said to him. "You've missed quite a show." Something or someone... most likely something, had gone through with them all. Kin of the body-changer or otherwise. An appreciation of how widespread Aster's many trees were came with the shadow that they all hid some kind of secret. Those secrets had an alarming correlation to things concerning blood, Rutgers had mused on more than one occasion.

With these heavy thoughts carried in his head, Rutgers figured he wouldn't mind going back to the village, to find rest in his familiar recluses, to mark the trees with his axes in the way that comforted him so.

A woodsman he was, and a woodsman he had been. But finding the village again without a map was a task with the odds stacked very much against him. Rutgers didn't let it stop him from trying, walking where the underbrush would let him underneath intermingling branches. He just didn't expect to succeed.

There was something to be said about those who walked far enough, for long enough. Eventually, all roads defined or not led to destiny. That was not always a good thing. Not that Rutgers could have known that when he caught sight of a man that he simultaneously thought he knew, and thought he didn't know. It was something to note, the man being so far away from any place frequented by civilization. Those that Rutgers knew about, which, granted, was not much. It was also something to note, and something that turned Rutgers' instincts wary, that the man sitting atop an old and withered log looked at him as if he were an old companion.

"I never thought I'd be seeing you again," said the man in black in a way Rutgers found unhelpfully cryptic. The bearded man stopped walking and casually rested his hands on the hilts of his axes at his side. He could only afford a neutral stare through slightly narrowed eyes at this unknown, and nothing more. He had been turned away from speaking to others out in the wilderness in meetings under dubious circumstances.

"Not too impressed. It must have been a long trip; from where we first met, to that hidden hamlet, to here. The time has been long enough, yeah."

Rutgers assessed this man who spoke so easily. Black clothing, cloth and leather, a few straps over his shoulders, telling of some concealed item on his back. A weapon? Probably a weapon. A bandit? If this was an ambush, then the axeman was dealing with a professional bunch as far as outlaws went. The air did not tell of any others in the area. Just a few scatterings of wildlife in the crowd of bark. His guard was raised but he did not let it show on his face.

The man on the log was puzzled. "Were you this quiet before? I don't think you were. Has the hunt been hard on you?"

"The hunt?" Rutgers rasped, the bitterness somewhere between a growl and a snarl.

"Oh. You've forgotten me. Fair enough, I've done much so that most would do just that, I can't hold it against you if you let another killer of fiends go to the masses."

"Hidden hamlet." Rutgers' face wrinkled with realization. It wasn't surprise, it wasn't disbelief. He was confused. "If you are that one assassin, then how come you're all the way out here... wherever here is. I would have thought that you went back home at some point or another." Rutgers kept his restraint on inquiries relating to fiends.

"Ah, perhaps I was a little dishonest in our first encounter. I was born there, made an effective fighter there, I call it home all the same, but make no mistake, I won't be going back myself. I'm well and truly dead in the eyes of those who might have remembered me." The man had this tranquil air about him, quaintly patient. It was a dated memory, scarce of insightful details, but Rutgers was certain this man in black was not this way when they did happen upon each other before. He would have found him too weird to listen to anything he had to say.

He pressed on, "It's a place that keeps to itself. Why send outsiders after it?"

"You were a special case. Are still, a special case. I know a man hard on his luck when I see him. I've had to kill a few myself. But you're a man marked, and I felt for your plight."

Rutgers grunted. As vague as the reply was, it made perfect sense to him. An assassin turned slayer of bloodfiends. The man on the log had a long story of violence and some personal draw, just as he did, and it was with that understanding that Rutgers decided to take a seat next to him. He had walked long enough, a rest with unusual, but not unwelcome, company would not hurt him much. He set down his bag and put his hands in his lap.

The former ranger could have spoken about his battles while in the woods around the village. It was a fact that many of them could have been fatal for him despite his victories, and they hadn't been for his proximity to others. The story would have been long, but enough to bridge the gap between the two hunters. Perhaps, the man thus far nameless would have been inclined to share his own tales of bracing against that cold and dark night.

Instead, Rutgers chose to ask, "If you can smell my mark, how come I can't smell yours?"

The man's answer was a simple, "I'm not marked, is all."

"How?"

The first hint of discomfort went across the man's face. "It is only natural that the cursed seek the means to walk amongst the living again," he said in a wistful way that conveyed to Rutgers he wasn't speaking to him, not directly. And then it was gone, the nervousness replaced by a jovial demeanor. Through the lips of a warm smile, the axeman was told, "The taint that follows our fellowship is not of the same kind as its legion. It will waver, for an arrangement, of course."

Rutgers gave him a look that was not quite expectant. Yes, he was waiting for more. Yes, he already had a sense he would not like what he was going to hear. It colored his expression towards anger.

"The dregs of the unturned are not a fanciful sort, but to imbibe in them is an exchange for freedom. I admit to an advantage, as an assassin. Finding those who would go unmissed so that I may claim my dregs is something I have a penchant for, but judge me not too harshly. The world is better off without them."

Rutgers was fuming on the inside, but it did not bubble up to the surface. "If I follow you correctly, you feast on blood to stave off the mark?"

"Flesh and blood. The dregs are incomplete without the full essence of the body, I'm afraid. One gets used to the taste."

Rutgers exhaled sharply through his nose and looked off into the trees. "To keep the mark of the taint away, one has to become a fiend in of their self, is that what you are telling me?"

"Judge me not too harshly," the former-assassin emphasized. "The dregs are a means to kindle the beast inside, without succumbing to it within and without. It is a balance of resolution to keep from slipping too far and twisting the body, while keeping yourself alive in a fight against them."

"To wallow in the same pen as these monsters, to give them any common ground past their former selves, all in the name of discarding the shackles of our lives..." Rutgers, disgusted, stood up and glared at the man in black. "My name will forever be marred by desertion, but this is a truer cowardice than even my broken loyalty."

"Honor? Why must you be so distracted by such an inconsequential thing?" The man's genuine ignorance only strengthened Rutgers' resolve that he had fallen past a certain threshold that men were not allowed to cross.

"The foolishness of bravery, righteousness and honor are the pillars that keep hunters men, and not the beasts we destroy with such impunity!" Rutgers barked, and it made the man reel.

Hapless, he replied, "You wear yourself weary and thin with that belief, friend. This is the truth of our lives. We need to be more than men if we are to survive against these things lurking in the dark."

"I am already more than a man, without sacrificing my humanity." The thought, "It wasn't enough," wasn't something he could help, but as before, it did nothing to change his determined expression.

The former-assassin shrugged. "Then you will die. Those like you will die out. By the merit of dregs, only those like I will be left to take up the mantle."

"You don't seem to get it," Rutgers stated, "It's already too late for you. Your body may not be twisted but you are a leech on the blistered back of a monster, drinking with premeditation and method. You are a fiend, and I cannot ascertain whether or not you are a lesser one, or one of another distinction." His hands locked around the hilts of the axes and he drew them halfway. His only warning for what was to come. He felt this misguided lone wolf deserved that much, and that much alone.

The former-assassin sighed a quiet sigh. "When the wind told me of your passing, I thought you were one that could have been saved."

"I want nothing of your kind of saving. If anything, you being drawn to the taint is just another sign of your sickness."

The man hummed. "I would rather not fight. But you won't have it any other way--" He lunged, giving no quarter; hardly any time to react to him pulling his weapon from his back. Rutgers ducked and threw himself backwards, trudging through the snow before standing upright again.

"Call me Copper!" the one-time assassin bellowed. He turned his peculiar short sword in his palm. It had a long hilt and a blade that was angled forward at a sharp angle. The edge, likewise, gleamed with its cutting quality. A false edge on the back of the sword's tip meant it was deadly in all manner of swings and strikes. "It should show you that I am still man enough to heed my name!"

"Malganis," the former ranger said flatly in turn. He knew the style of sword. The bushmen of the south used them to deal with the specific challenges of their environment. This Copper had trodden upon similar ground to him, appropriating similar knowledge. Rutgers pulled his axes free of the sheaths and turned them over in his hands.

Copper bent his trunk forward, then powered towards Rutgers with large strides. He held his sword out to his side as he ran and once he was in range, he sent its nimble profile slashing ahead, the odd shape of the sword rendering parries a haphazard gamble more than any display of skill. The ex-ranger knew he didn't have to block the strike, nevertheless.

He sent his arm out and turned the top of an axe into the swing, forcing the broadside of the bush-sword away. Rutgers then brought his other axe around and used the distinct shape of his axeheads to lock the angled blade between them. One of the more lethal forms of tug-of-war.

Copper turned his wrist. His longer sword produced enough torque to break the hold, and its light stature meant the former-assassin was back at it again, carving the air precariously close to the ranger with deft swings and finessed twirls of the wrist. All Rutgers could do was step away and to the side, careful not to catch himself in the thicket and the snow. Other than that, he deflected the tip of Copper's bush blade with the sides of his axes, the clang of each false strike ringing out in the empty woods.

How much of this was Akando's legacy? How much of this was years spent on dregs? "You certainly have the unrelenting swiftness of a bloodfiend!" Each impact rode up the axeman's arms. The small sword carried such tremendous force in its end. Making his own daring play, Rutgers knocked the sword away again with one axe, then rushed in to strike with the other, jabbing the topside of it into the crook of Copper's elbow. It was like being stuck with a large hammer right in the joint, and Copper reacted as such, his arm tensing up, his hold on his sword almost broken.

Rutgers forced him to be on the defensive with his own series of swings, stepping forward with each of Copper's retreats. With the dull ache pulsing through the length of his arm, the former-assassin's combat ability had diminished considerably. He was the type to wait for defeat. His very nature defied such a thing. He struck out with his sword and Rutgers moved an axe to intercept, but Copper twirled the blade out of the way. Sparing motion in his arm, the former-assassin stepped past Rutgers' blades and stuck him with the pommel of his sword, square in the sternum.

Rutgers groaned. Copper reached out with his less dominant hand and pulled one of his axes right out of his grasp. He wasted no time in bringing it down on the axeman, and it was only the grace of the Daavenian parrying with the one he still had that stopped his own weapon from ending him. Rutgers kicked Copper in the stomach and sent him staggering away.

After stopping himself, Copper sneered and flung the axe at Rutgers. The axeman stepped out of its path with the timing of one intimately familiar with the weapon and caught it by its handle.


"Absolutely dazzling," Copper heaved.

Rutgers fixed him a cold gaze, a clinical stare, one that was decidedly quantifying. Lacking emotion of any sort. He looked to the axe he had caught seconds before, and nodded. Not in agreement with the former-assassin. It was as if to affirm that the trespass had been made. "Here's something you should remember if by some touch of fate you escape me," Rutgers began impassively.

"When a man has faced death as many times as I have, he gets attached to certain things. I am attached to my axes, all four of them. I consider them truer than any soul who has crossed my path since I acquired them, so long ago."

He cracked his neck and bared his teeth.

"I certainly don't appreciate your audacity, trying to use one against me."

Copper hummed thoughtfully. "A bit territorial. Defensive about our toys, are we?"

In response to the slight, Rutgers dragged the side of one axe over the other, creating a chilling, rattling scrape. It echoed into the wild.

"You hear that? That's an anthem of death, right there."

"Frightening."

Rutgers' pupils dilated as he lost himself to fury. In the next moment he was barreling towards Copper. The man in black moved his sword to defend but Rutgers swung an axe about so that the angled sword was taken by the underside of the head. The sheer brute strength behind it wrenched the sword from Copper's hand and it was lost to the snow. Rutgers himself slammed into the former-assassin and sent him careening into the side of a tree.

Copper came out of his daze with a shrill cry split-seconds after the weighty thud. An axe lodged in a shoulder. He reached for it with his other arm, a futile reflex. What was he to do? Pull it out, when its head and sunken so deep, driven in by the power of the throw? He gasped and cried, sliding down the trunk of the tree.

"You should have known better than to take fear lightly, Copper. Fear is one of those few things that keep us men, and not restless animals." Despite his words, Rutgers gave no regards to the agony of the other man, had no remorse for the blood streaming out of his torso.

"Is... compassion... still on your list of joyfully... human things?"

"It's a plus. Not a requirement. Such sentiments have a bad habit of being fleeting things, prone to disappear in times such as now. But you are not so abandoned, Copper." Rutgers flexed his wrist, readying his other axe. "It helps to carry spares."

Reflected in the gleam of the discarded sword, was the image of Rutgers raising his weapon overhead, and then using it to split Copper's down the center, spilling red and grizzly viscera onto his black clothing.

[The Kingpin]

Andruil bolted out of the city gates, a sharp whistle calling the attention of Pyranex, who was busy picking away at the bones of a recent kill. A thick-feathered brow furrowed at the thought Andruil had forgotten he was not to behave in such a way towards him. His reluctance to move from his spot quickly reminded the Knight of his mistake. "Pyranex, we need to leave," he stated.

"Why?"

"Can you not see it? That's Septimus! Something's happening, we need to investigate!" stated the Knight. as he gestured towards the shimmering drake in the distance.

"Only a fool meddles in the affairs of dragons. And I have put my lot in with a fool. Very well," sighed Pyranex as he rose to his feet, crimson snow kicked up in the gryphon's wake as he leapt to the Knight's side, his wings flexing for flight. Andruil gripped hold of the saddle, leaping onto the back of the gryphon, the two taking flight in one fluid movement, leaving behind confused guards, who had been awestruck by the flash in the distance.

The flight to the Scholar was a brief trip, the dragon only a short distance away from the city itself. His wings were spread, the cosmic membranes swirling with a vision that would baffle astronomers for years had they seen him then. A wingbeat trailed a deep blue and purple mist, as though they had carved a rift in reality itself, giving a vision of the stars to those forever apart from them.

Septimus marvelled at how the form, partial though it was, changed over time. The effects grew stronger, and he noticed how they specifically affected his paws, the rough glowing scales of a moment prior now replaced. The definition of claw and scaly hide was absent, supplanted by what seemed paradoxically, to be solid light, shaped and tangible despite the fact the fundamental laws of the universe insisted that could not be so. Momentarily amused, the Scholar pondered the implications of what he was experiencing. Was he more, or less like his Stalwart brother in having become a paradox all his own?

It was an incomplete change, however. Even as he considered these thoughts, he could see the coat of light splitting and shrinking into veins that rippled across his smoky grey scales, soon disappearing entirely. His wings had returned to their navy hue, the cosmic illusion replaced once more with a more mundane version, the speckles of light dotting the membrane that had had hid him in the night sky so many times before. By the time the sound of Pyranex's wingbeats reached him, no one would have been able to tell that a moment earlier the Scholar had become an avatar of the cosmos itself.

"What happened?" called Andruil, sounding distressed.

"Oh! Andruil! How pleasant to see you again... Don't mind that... It was just an... experiment, if one could call it that," explained the Scholar.

"Experiment? I saw the flash from the school! Your eyes were like stars! Are you sure nothing is wrong?"

"That far?" asked a breathless Septimus, amazed by the statement. That form was more powerful than he thought if the flash that triggered a partial transformation could be bright enough to draw attention near the heart of the city. "Fret not, son of Riverdale. I'm certain. Call it... Self development. I want to be prepared for future dangers, so I must improve my abilities. This is just the latest step towards that end," explained the Hueilin, deciding not to mention that he was bracing for an undertaking that could end up killing him if he failed.

"Such power... I see it is with good reason humans fear your kind, dragon," growled Pyranex, reminding the Scholar that while the visual effects were gone, the aura of magic he gave off was still considerable. That too would fade, eventually, as the source feeding it had receded and been sealed once more, but it was a pleasing thought. It did however make the Scholar wonder; was such a form even sustainable if it expended mana at such a rate? Something to meditate on and consider once he actually achieved it.

"An unfortunate curse that comes with power. One perpetuated by the weak who gain power, that do not learn to use it responsibly. But that is something I can't help. The races of Aster, with a few exceptions, know that I am a protector, not a foe. And those who think me dangerous rarely ever see me. They keep to their mountain keeps and towered cities," responded the Son of Storms.

"They're nothing you have to worry yourself with. If it came to it, I am quite sure many would lay their sword down in your name against them," stated Andruil matter-of-factly.

"I wouldn't ask them to, Andruil. If ever there came a time when they sought to destroy me, my response would be simple. I would ask that they join me in the places they cannot reach, far from my friends and anyone else that would be hurt by their foolishness," stated Septimus.

"Where would that be? I doubt you could reach the moon," joked the Knight.

"I wouldn't need to go that far. The bottom of the Revenant's Tomb would be far enough," answered the Scholar simply.

"The Western Sea? Would that not be even deadlier for you than facing them yourself?"

"Krakens are picky things. They'll devour whole ships and tear leviathans to shreds, but a dragon of my size isn't worth their effort," responded Septimus.

"I was more concerned with the cities of angry elves that would shoot you down between here and there," said Andruil half-jokingly.

"Even if I were to go in a straight line, I can fly higher than any arrow will ever reach. Even their most refined ballistae and bolts would not find my hide. And I have yet to see anyone invent a flying machine, much less one that can match a dragon," was the Scholar's response as he examined his remarkably clean talons. The Cosmic Form must have burned away the dirt, for them to gleam so brightly. They may as well have been made of polished marble.

"And gryphons?" asked Pyranex, somewhat offended, both of the Scholar's neglect to mention them and of his own consideration that his kind would be used as mounts; a thought he detested.

"With all due respect, Pyranex, I have yet to find a gryphon who can match me in the air. You may be intelligent, but you are not as fast. And those who are lack the wit."

The gryphon's feathers ruffled at that. "I would beg to differ. The Sphinxes of the southern desert could put the fastest dragon to shame," snorted Pyranex.

"I will definitely have to look into that next time I visit Antar. I have read that they were fast, but also that that speed was restricted to diving. Their smaller wings also mean they cannot soar very high. They would not be able to reach me," stated Septimus, amused by the turn of events and genuinely enjoying the gryphon's persistence.

"They are smaller than you, but also faster than a dragon of your build could hope to be, diving or flying. In older times they were worshipped by the people of the desert as beings of wisdom. Antar told me of the old tales shared among his people, of gryphons with masterfully crafted riddles that would confound any who attempted to challenge them," insisted Pyranex.

"Then I will certainly have to visit such gryphons and experience this skill for myself," stated the Scholar diplomatically. "In any case, I am afraid I must cut this conversation short. Time is limited, and Syria, Beshayir, Ceridwen and I must depart" he explained.

"So soon? Such a pity. Still, I understand. I myself am similarly predisposed. I have an investigation of sorts to look into, and should probably find out what Vix and the others are up to. But perhaps another time soon, we can arrange to meet somewhere and catch up on lost time, yes?"

"Of course, Andruil. Until then, farewell," rumbled the Hueilin, his wings spreading wide. Pyranex jumped from the rocky ledge he had used as a perch, landing a short ways down and bracing as the dragon's vast wings kicked up snow as he took flight, gliding down to the city with a long, droning call.

[C S]

Sunset marked the occasion of Septimus and his company leaving Brodudika again. The shade of the mountains had fallen over the incomplete walls and buildings. The streets were corridors of torchlight with people on their way home from a busy day, while the rooftops were busied by those whose day had only begun, and those who continued on into the night as secret sentinels of the common good. In trying times, the persecuted were wont to feel caged, backed into a corner and confronted with hostility. It was woefully easy to forget that they were not without allies out in the dusk, on lonely street corners and ominous alleyways. They could not be everywhere at once, but they were doing the best they could. Maybe tonight would be the night that, by their efforts, those of evil intent will be routed. They too would have some help, in the form of their fellows on the ground, wearing green coats to keep warm in the cold night air. And then there was the girl in the coat too big for her body, up to her own dealings among them.



At the same time, the rangers were on their way out of Gryerwun, on their way to the mountain pass. They had yet to leave the city limits, as moving through the sprawl at a pace that would not expose themselves to the law enforcement was slow going. There was a lot of stopping and waiting in inopportune nooks and crannies, but with the grace of the sun's movement in the sky, it was nearing the time where they could move more freely. The hours of streetlamps, vacant streets and more obvious patrols. If they were lucky, more than a few guards would have taken to drinking before their shift. There was little more fortuitous to a shadow-prowler than drunken guards haphazardly doing their jobs.

Seeing as nightfall was due to coincide with their exfiltration of the city, the avenue of their escape, the three women felt their operation was coming to a close that was a slight hint of normalcy in their hectic lives. No burning buildings, no panicking people, no buckets and, cherished more than anything by Valeria in her troubled mind, no more killing. Unless it was absolutely necessary. Always a catch.

This was just their end of things, though. There was still a little more than a day between the rangers and their commanding officer; they had yet to learn that he and his close companion had their own share of difficult situations that day. More difficult than the others was getting out of the junkyard while it was crawling with Royal Arms soldiers. Distractions gave them the window to make their moves without starting a fight they could not win, such as Matthias throwing things to invoke the disturbance of scurrying pests and the mild inconveniences he and Urlox had erected in the junkyard, the likes of refuse ropes tied into nooses that would snare the ankles of those who stepped into them.

Matthias and Urlox were cut from a different cloth, as far as soldiers went. Even when they had superior senses and excessive numbers on their side, not to mention weaponry, the Royal Arms had to accept that they had turned up nothing after gaining such a potent lead on their mystery pair. Sunset in the junkyard was one of heavy disappointment for the ones on field, and nail-biting anxiety for he who oversaw them from the aristocracy of Niyera. Rumors of Elias' involvement were not things to be taken lightly.

[Hopeflower]

As night fell, Viho found himself tugged in two directions. On the one hand, there were the whispers of heroics and the edges of malicious intent that begged him to investigate. People were still being attacked, and those who took it upon themselves to do some good needed every helping hand they could get. On the other...

A puff of vapor curled from his mouth and nose in a long sigh, snatched quickly by the frosty breeze. There was always the option of asking for Arsenic's help after - he had no doubt that his son's moral code would bid him to step in. But who knew how long their talk would take, or if the deep-rooted bitterness would prevent Arsenic from working with Viho? There was no telling until they'd spoken.

The brush of magic alerted Viho long before he saw Arsenic approaching. The assassin was alone.

"I don't like that idea," Rowan had protested when Arsenic had told her that was his intent. "One of us should go with you."

Vix, looking deeply troubled, had glanced from one of them to the other and said quietly, "I don't either. The last time he got you alone, you didn't talk at all and you almost killed yourself trying to meet his standards."

Arsenic had hesitated, then admitted, 'No. I almost killed myself trying to meet my standards.'

Rowan closed her eyes for a long moment, and uttered a simple, "Ah," as if that had explained everything. She'd sounded...almost disappointed. In herself or him, he didn't dare look closely enough to tell.

Now, Arsenic stood just feet from Viho, waiting for him to say something. He knew fully well this could go badly. It could escalate into another fight, one he wouldn't have any backup for and stood little hope of winning...in terms of psychomancy, at least.

"I'd wondered if you were going to come." Viho clasped his hands behind his back, standing straight and proud - just like in the few memories Arsenic had of him, before everything. His crippled shoulder did little to hinder that movement, it seemed. "And if you'd bring your friends."

'They weren't happy I decided not to,' Arsenic said. He didn't quite fall in beside Viho when the older man started walking, keeping a little behind in case things went south and he needed room to move.

If his caution bothered Viho, he didn't let it show. "No, I can imagine not." He turned his head just slightly, looking at Arsenic out of the corner of his eye. "Which would you like to start with - why I left, or why I'm here?"

Arsenic hesitated, taken by surprise. He hadn't expected to get right to it - he'd thought Viho would give him the runaround, avoiding the hard questions to the last possible minute. 'Always did prefer to hear the bad news first,' he muttered.

"Something that we share," Viho agreed, then took a deep breath. "You must understand something before I explain myself. I will...never forgive myself for not being there when your mother died. Whatever mistakes I made, however badly I failed you both, I love her still."

Arsenic wanted so badly to be nasty - to say that Viho had a funny way of showing it. But those few memories of having a whole family prevented him. He knew that Viho was at his most gentle and unguarded when he was around Zaltana. He'd known but hadn't told anyone - hadn't wanted to acknowledge it. Accepting that Viho had been capable of love made him a person, made him harder to kill than a monster responsible for Zaltana's death.

Viho broke the heavy silence. "I always had trouble picturing myself as a father. I never knew what to do around children, especially small ones. Learning that your mother was pregnant with you, it - I panicked."

'So what, hurting your wife and abandoning your kid was preferable to trying?' Arsenic asked, every ounce of his bitterness coloring the question.

"I tried," Viho said quietly. "For a time."

'Not hard enough.'

"No," the older psychomancer agreed tiredly, feeling every one of his failures in that moment. "Nowhere near hard enough." He tipped his head back as though searching for the stars, firmly reigning in his grief before it could overwhelm him. "Your name was cruel enough. Your mother wanted me to be the one to name our son - and that was the first time I let you both down."

Arsenic didn't know what to make of that. It had turned out to be his inspiration for specializing in poisons - a fitting name, he'd thought. But his mother had only ever called him Nick. Looking back, it was easy to see that what his father said was true. It was a cruel thing, to be named after a slow-acting toxin. He'd been blissfully ignorant until he'd actually been taught about what arsenic did to a person. Even then, he'd been too young to make the connection.

He wondered, now, if his friends had come to the same conclusion when they'd learned his name.

'It has come to serve me well,' he finally said, as neutral as he could manage. He'd been asked on more than one occasion if it was an alias, after all. Sometimes, Arsenic had let people believe that.


Warm and safe inside, Vix was quietly losing her mind with worry. She'd been pacing since shortly after Arsenic had left to talk to Viho - which had come as a shock in of itself. Viho, staying in Brodudika. Viho teaching impressionable students about psychomancy. It was a position he could do a lot of damage from, if he wanted to.

But from the sound of it, he didn't want to, and that confused and agitated Vix even more. Was there an angle to his being the good teacher, looking out for his students? Should they be keeping a closer eye on him?

Finally, Rowan lost her patience with Vix's restlessness and yanked her down to sit beside her on the bed. "Settle down, sunshine. You're making me nervous."

"Sorry," Vix muttered. "I just - I wish Arsenic wasn't so stubborn sometimes."

The scarred assassin snorted, draping her arm around Vix's shoulders. "That makes two of us. You won't do anyone any good getting yourself all worked up like this, though."

"I wish I could help it."

"Hey, don't worry about it. Why don't you tell me about what you found today, instead of worrying yourself sick?"

It wasn't a perfect distraction, but Rowan breathed a quiet sigh of relief when Vix allowed the subject change. "Not much, yet. There's a lot of reading material to go through, and it's mostly things mom taught me years and years ago." She shrugged one shoulder. "'In the beginning there was no kingdom. The Adsilas were but one family among many, living off the land and clashing over borders with neighboring families.' That sort of thing."

Rowan tilted her head. "Your mother must have had an impressive memory," she said. "I barely remember what I had for breakfast," she joked quickly, in case she'd accidentally jabbed a sore spot.

But Vix didn't seem offended or like she'd been overtaken by bad memories. Instead she smiled, a little sad at the edges, and agreed softly, "Mom was really good with details. She loved to tell stories. I just wish I remembered more of what she talked about."

[The Kingpin]

"Don't we all?" asked Andruil to nobody in particular as he walked into the room, a small tray with three steaming mugs in hand, the smell of peppermint wafting in with him. "Still, it is something, no?" he offered with a smile as he set the tray down on a nearby table, handing them each a mug before sitting down on the floor by the Innkeeper's feet, for a moment seeming more like a child eager for a story than a battle-hardened warrior. He reflected on that, somewhat amused at himself. Still, he had to admit it was a comfortable habit of his since he actually was a child. And at a time when one of his friends was outside, facing what could well be a life-threatening danger, and when said friend would not allow him to follow, even at a distance, this was as much as he could do. Comfort everyone else that worried as he did.



"Bloody Royal Arsehats," grumbled Matthias under his breath as he sat on a barrel at the edge of the docks. It was a frankly little more than a wide alleyway that he and Urlox had stopped at, littered with barrels and crates and tarps; resources intended to be loaded onto the merchant riverships bound for the likes of Turingen. The various nooks and crannies that all this cargo provided was an ideal hiding spot and a means of arranging a new plan. And now, with the two clad in fresh disguises, and as the dayworkers were departing and the night crew moving in to take up the slack, it was easy to go unnoticed. Even if someone were to walk through this particular alley and round the two bends in the cargo to the spot where the two current spoke, it would take hours before any of the foremen realised that these two men in particular were not their own. Time enough for us to get gone, thought Matthias with what little shred of amusement he could manage.

"They'll be scraping that cat-man off the floor for a week," he stated, particularly pleased with that minor controlled calamity. It had been the distraction they needed to slip away. Traps were one thing, and those caused a hell of a racket, but the staged collapse he triggered moments later had a profound impact. It slowed the Royal Arms down, made them back off, and reconsider the possibility that their quarry was actually present. After all, who in their right mind would stay in a place where solid oak armoires and abandoned scaffolding could kill them with barely any disturbance?

But then, it had been a long time since Matthias was described as being in his 'right mind'. Elias and the Royal Arms both lost that advantage when the former sent an assassin after him in Valenhad.

[C S]

"Royal asses." Urlox hummed and grunted as if he had taken a sip of fine wine. "Royal asses." The eloquence of it was like a delicate, but expert prose, simple, and delivered to an impactful beat. "They'd best leave the oak off of their crest and put a donkey on it instead," he said, then raised his hand to trace through the air, "'The most elite 'ousecat fighting force, fed only the most 'earty of grains and mince." Urlox adjusted the collar of his work shirt. It was a little too small for his broad chest, but if anything, it added to the authenticity of him being a brawny dockworker, with his braided beard and all.

[The Kingpin]

"You're really having fun with that, aren't you?" asked Matthias amusedly as he considered his friend's tangent. It was a welcome touch of amusement in their less than pleasant day. They would have to address more important matters soon. For one, where to set up their base of operations, and how to see to it the rest of their little squad didn't end up walking right into a trap.

[C S]

"Mhm," Urlox said, then pushed off of the loading crate he was resting on. It was much taller than him, taller than two of him standing on each other's shoulders, probably. What was even in that thing? The thought crossed his mind that he should have known that, being one who supposedly handled the cargo. Oh well. He walked to the opposite side of Matthias to put his back on another box.

"It was after we saw each other last, I think. The last time, before the last time when you asked me for my 'elp, around the time when I became guard captain. It must have been... about ten years ago." Urlox pulled in a deep breath of the cool, riverside air. "About ten years ago, I learned 'ow important it was to smile. And laugh."