Lore of Leyuna RPG (FRPG)

[Hopeflower]

Rowan wrinkled her nose. "Sounds like hazing under the guise of training," she said, and her lip twitched as though she wanted to let it curl. Her hand found Arsenic's arm. "Humiliation isn't necessary to encourage adaptability."

'But that does explain a lot,' Arsenic mused, somewhat dryly. 'Still. Give me a match with the guildmaster any day. At least then you know what you're getting and why.'

[The Kingpin]

"I suppose that is a fair point," conceded the Knight with a shrug, before taking another mouthful of his food. "Though, on the topic of embarrassing things, what would you say is your most embarrassing scar?" he inquired, having been wondering about that particular detail.

[Hopeflower]

The mute redhead tipped his head back, draining his mug. 'It's generally considered impolite to strip in public, so how about the second most embarrassing?' Arsenic twisted in his chair and lifted his hair away from the back of his neck. His other hand pulled his collar down to expose a thin white crescent of scar tissue near his shoulder. He explained, 'Shapeshifter. She had a preference for taking kids home with her...and making a meal of their vital organs. The bite was her way of leaving her signature.'

[The Kingpin]

"I was going to say I had no qualms with 'public' exposure among friends, but as you wish," was the Knight's response to the first statement as Arsenic turned around. His head visibly tilted however, as Arsenic explained the cause of the scar, needing a moment to process it. "Kids? How long ago was this? Or are you implying giving Ambrosia a love-bite would leave you with one as well?" asked Andruil.

[Hopeflower]

'It would, actually,' Arsenic said, turning around and indicating the bruise on his cheek. 'Assuming I was physically involved and not just making the person in question think I was. In this case, I was sixteen. It was one of the first jobs I worked solo.' He folded his arms loosely and glanced away, shrugging one shoulder. 'As it happens, I used to look pretty young for my age. Before people started aiming for my face.'

[The Kingpin]

"Must have been a pretty face to garner such eager attention," teased the Knight with a lopsided smirk.

[Hopeflower]

'Mom always said blue was my color,' Arsenic deadpanned, and the color bled into his irises until they were, indeed, quite eye-catching.

Rowan swatted him gently for his trouble, and got a small smirk for hers.

[The Kingpin]

"I have to agree with her," he acknowledged, amused. "On that note, I must say I am still somewhat...ill informed about her. I have heard stories from others, but I do not really...know about her."

[Hopeflower]

Arsenic blinked and his brows rose as if he was surprised that this was the direction Andruil would take the conversation in. 'What did you want to know?' he asked slowly.

[The Kingpin]

"I suppose...what she was like, as a person?" asked Andruil, realising he'd phrased his inquiry a bit too broadly, and that he was somewhat uncomfortable, now that it was already said, about bringing such a tender time in the Mute Assassin's life to the surface. Thoughts went back to what Viho had said not too long ago; thoughts that were closely guarded now, lest they slip into the Mute's reach and paint a less pleasant picture of their conversation.

[Hopeflower]

There was no outburst of emotion, no outraged response to the topic. Instead Arsenic merely seemed a little confused and a lot caught off guard. Out of habit, he cleared his throat before he spoke. 'She was...driven. Had a heart of gold and the will to act on it. Viho wasn't really around much, even before he left, so she put most of her energy into raising me, and the rest went to helping to feed the village.' He leaned back, studying the ceiling thoughtfully. 'And when she needed a break,' he added in that soft tone he reserved for talking about his mother, 'she'd make us tea and have me sit with her in her library for a while. Sometimes we wouldn't even talk, we'd just enjoy the quiet.'

[The Kingpin]

"That sounds pleasant... Tranquil." It was certainly an image that induced a smile in the Knight, the thought of a little Nick, in the company of an elf so warm and caring was certainly something he would have liked to have seen, had things been a bit different. "Peppermint tea?" he asked.

[Hopeflower]

'It was her favorite.' Arsenic smiled faintly. 'If she didn't have any, she'd settle for black. Always made it with honey.' He glanced at Rowan, and she nodded encouragingly rather than adding her input.

[The Kingpin]

"That does explain some things. A lady of refined tastes," noted Andruil, taking a sip of his own mug of tea as if reminded of it by the Mute's descriptions. "I take it that was when you learned to draw?" he asked.

[Hopeflower]

The mute elf huffed a short laugh. 'Something like that. I've been drawing for as long as I can remember. People, mostly. Mom encouraged it, said that it's good to have something to do in your spare time.' He was quiet for a moment, settling more comfortably in his chair. 'It's helped, so I guess she was right. She was right about a lot of things.'

[The Kingpin]

A thoughtful hmm responded to that as the Knight pushed his plate away slightly, having finished its contents as he had. Bringing his mug forward in its place, he looked up from the deep red-gold liquid and asked, "Like?"

[Hopeflower]

'The usual,' Arsenic replied. 'Don't go exploring during tick season without being covered, don't walk on thin ice, don't run in the house...life has to go on regardless of what happens.' He sighed and shook his head a little. 'But that, as Vix says, is a topic best not discussed over breakfast.'

[The Kingpin]

Another thoughtful sound, and Andruil took a sip of his tea. "Fair enough," he said, managing a small smile. Reconsidering what Viho had told him those weeks ago, it made him wonder...perhaps it wouldn't be so hard to learn more about his friend after all. It seemed time would tell how much more he would learn...

[C S]

A wintery rain began to fall when Desrium stepped foot in front of the wall of snow. The first droplet he saw narrowly missed his gray brow and disappeared into the litter by his boot thereafter. The second and third were separated by seconds, and within the minute, the cold downpour was upon the city. The sunlight over the forest arena streamed through gray clouds as rays smothered by the rolling storm.

"Ah. We couldn't have reached spring without a few of these, huh, benefactor?" one of the guards stationed at the improvised fortification commented. Desrium looked to her, then to the very top of the snow-wall.

"It is a sign that the coldest days are behind us. If it is not this storm that makes this post unsound, it will be the next, or the one after that. I relieve you and your company of this duty," he said.

The plated guard saluted. "It's funny -- the work of a dragon being undone so."

Desrium hummed and returned his gaze to the sky. "If the Stormweaver gives, he is entitled to take as well, if this is his doing. If not, Leyuna will undo all that is eagerly built with time and the elements."

"Also funny," the guard continued, "on the subject of 'elements' and things ruined over time. Would I be right in thinking that the Lady of Light has returned to her charge of the elementals?"

Desrium confirmed that was so. He wondered what that had to do with ruins.

"Right. As for the ruins, which I am sure you are curious about--"

"I am," Desrium stated.

"-- One of the survey teams is back."

Desrium looked from the guard, down the wide track of cobblestone that led to the metal gates of the city. A small wagon with a torn up canvas over the wooden frame was parked in transit through the checkpoints of portcullis. Curious was suddenly not the most appropriate word for that this was. Mysterious in the best of light. Alarming in the worst.

"Thank you for this news," he replied to the woman in armor, before adding, "And please stay out of the rain."

The guard saluted a second time as Desrium started to walk down the road. A short while later, the chains rattled their clanging song in raising the steel gate, and Desrium headed into the avenue the returning wagon was idle in. The pounding raindrops were amplified inside the gate station, the expansive stone archway.

The crates in the wagon cargo were dinged and scratched, as was the wagon frame itself. The wheels bore damage more in line with an attack than any roadside trouble. Notches were gouged into the wood, possibly from a sword or a frenetic, mishandled axe. Desrium regarded these details with a discerning, analytic mentality. Where someone else might have stroked their chin or crossed their arms as they inspected the extent of the damage, Desrium simply stood there beside the wagon. He was wary of the animal it was saddled to, a creature with wrinkled leather skin with many folds and rolls and several tusks that bowed outwards and upwards, terminating in curls that wound inwards again. A creature like that being distressed by his more unsettling qualities in confined spaces was an incident the Stalwart wanted to avoid.

To that end, he was perfectly still.

Only the glimmer of his eyes spoke to any presence within his armored shell.

"Ah, benefactor. May I help you?" the apparent wagon driver asked after several minutes of Desrium staring at his wagon, while others were rolling in and out of the other avenues, stopping in between grated barriers for their respective security checks. Desrium turned his attention to him. Unlike his wagon, the driver looked to be completely devoid of signs of struggle. No injuries. His light blue uniform was pristine.

"If you can answer some questions, I would appreciate it greatly."

The driver laughed. "Ha! No worries. I will be answering plenty of those in the near future, while I compile my report."

"Report. Survey team." Desrium inclined his helm slightly. "Were you alone on this outing?"

"No. I had Ruby with me the whole time!"

Desrium looked to the tusked animal. Ruby. "You did not lose anyone on this trip?" he wanted to clarify.

"Nope."

"And Ruby is uninjured?"

"She's a pretty tough ruglio."

"You were not attacked, then."

The driver had a short bout of laughter. "Oh, I was attacked alright. There are spirits that would rather make sure the lost city of Yuraelia remains lost."

"Ah." Now things were beginning to make some sense to Desrium. After Septimus had told him about that misadventure, Desrium wanted to verify that the so-called mana vortex was losing power. It had been quite a sum of time since Acharown was deprived of its vitorite core, so if Septimus had been successful, there would be a measurable difference in that anomalous activity. This mission was meant to collect this data to either confirm that Acharown would go dormant in the future, or reveal that further action was needed in the event that the mana vortex was operating above projected estimates. The specific details of the construct beneath the city were not mentioned in the mission outline, but the danger of a spectral occupation was.

"You are qualified in curtailing supernatural foes?" Desrium asked this wagon driver, who flashed a confident smile and pumped a fist into the air.

"Am I ever!" He turned the inside of his collar out, revealing an emblem that Desrium recognized as being fashioned after the image of Arashi. The driver was not part of the Assembly, but one of the more generalized schools founded in Mercutio. A local guild, most likely, dedicated to handling minor cases of paranormal threats and perhaps the occasional dragon attack, even.

"Impressive."

"Heh, 'impressive' says the demon slayer." The wagon driver had a good chuckle about that while he fixed his collar. He did not hold his services in such high praise as Desrium did. "Yeah, the spirits didn't like my gear." He gestured to the boxes in the wagon. "Can't blame 'em. Crushed garlic and herbal mixes, incense... a few charm beads... I brought them for self-defense but you can't really carry this stuff in secret against ghosts. They sensed the juju I was packing and they did not like it one bit. It took some finagling to get the wagon back in as good a shape as it is."

"You are truly skilled in your craft," Desrium replied. The wagon driver waved a hand dismissively.

"Aw, shucks. You're just saying that. All I did was roll into the city square, pull out a few measuring quartz and high-tail it back out while a bunch of phantoms tried to bite off my wheels!"

"Your work is invaluable and your dedication is commendable," said Desrium in response. Internally, he took note of the fact that the spirits only attacked the wagon-driving gallant from Mercutio when he reached the city square. Septimus had described specters around the city's outer limits in his account. While a more formal team of scholar-mages would have to examine the man's findings, Desrium took heart in that it seemed Septimus had resolved the issue of Acharown, and as it continued to lose power, the radius of the haunting spirits diminished in turn.

Desrium bid his farewells to the man from Mercutio, who was now off to write his report and collect his pay. He may not have been fully conscious of it, but he had left a lasting impression on the Stalwart. Brodudika could use a dedicated group of gallants specializing in defense against exotic creatures and entities of an incorporeal sort, and a school in which to train more of them. In the foundation of this new department, the man may be offered a more stable job.

Something to discuss with the elven council, in addition to the construction of Shiryaz's tribute.

In addition to everything else that required Desrium's attention. He walked into the city with the sky pouring onto him, seeing the traffic of carts rolling along the road towards the gates. People were still out and about doing what they had to despite the storm hanging overhead, though the crowds still found the time to separate and steal a few glances of the elusive benefactor, gone from the city for a whole day for reasons that were only rumors at present. In this setting, walking up the stairs that marked the end of the residential district and the beginning of the the district of towers, it was no trouble at all for Desrium's thoughts to return to things that had been done, and things that had yet to be done. On the way to city hall, he spied a shape shoot across the street he was on, doing her daily deliveries.



While Desrium returned to his normal affairs in presiding over abnormal happenings, far away and far below in the subterranean citadel of Vonaeghardt, rangers struggled to establish their own routine for the time they would be spending in the depths of Leyuna. Baaz, prone to restlessness, endeavored to explore the fortress-city. It was suggested that Valeria accompanied her. Despite her timid nature and underlying grief, she had proved herself to have a level head and an amicable personality. If there was anyone to keep Baaz out of trouble with the dwarves, it was her.

There was as much a chance of Baaz and Chandra trading blows as there was a chance of them carrying on in a civilized manner if they were paired together. Urlox was the sort to be tempted by the outlandish, so he was vulnerable to being swept up in Baaz's pursuits of amusement. Besides, he was already occupied with thoughts of repairing his sword. That left Matthias. Matthias had not the patience to keep Baaz out of trouble, and Baaz was bound to try to spar with him in the depths of her boredom.

Valeria was the only choice, out of logic and of necessity.

The two of them wound up at a ravine that divided part of the city's lowermost reaches. An overhanging extrusion of rock that defied the sheer drop was turned into a park area. Brass railings along the sides of the outcrop made it a little more difficult to fall over the side, benches and tables made for a scenic picnic place, and a series of metal tubes occupied the dwarven children, who navigated the bends and spirals in their play. Lanterns decorated with stylized fireflies -- at least they were supposed to be fireflies in Valeria's mind -- kept the place lit in golden light, mixed with the other lights from higher up in the fortress.

Not here for food or a view, Baaz gravitated to the mass of piping she was convinced was just discarded in the middle of the park. Some other dwarves didn't have any use for them anymore, so why not? It was only coincidence that the dwarf-kids liked playing in them. Baaz had seen another use for the pipes, though. They had a lining of small metal beams along the junctions, and she had her legs slung over one of these beams currently, holding herself upside down by the knees, doing crunches.

Exercise was the easiest way to pass the time as a soldier. Conversation could be worked into it, in small places.

"They tell time with clocks and watches, Baaz," Valeria said to her as she lifted her trunk up. "And before you ask how they can tell night from day, they have small indicators near the middle of the dials that have pictures of the sun and the moon, calibrated to flip over as appropriate for the time."

Baaz lowered herself, her head level with Valeria's when her body unfurled, looking at the soldier sat hugging her knees with a flat expression. "How do they know how to time their timepieces?"

Valeria put a finger on her lips. After a little thought, she said, "I presume they send someone up to match the clocks at the surface--"

"So they still have to go up top, outside--"

"Baaz."

"-- this place is ********."

"Baaz, there are children here. Watch what you say."

"Half of them can't even talk yet-- fine. Fine. I don't care anymore." Baaz pulled in a breath and did a few more rapid crunches.

"... It still means half of them may repeat what you say, even without knowing the meaning of what they're saying," Valeria pointed out, to which Baaz replied with a profound,

"Man, kids are dumb."

"Baaz." Valeria sighed. "You are incorrigibly boorish, aren't you?"

"When I'm in a bad mood."

"Is this how you 'blew your last dating chance', or am I reaching?" Valeria muttered. She then instantly regretted it. "Uh, I mean-- don't be mad!"

Baaz straightened out, gave Valeria a searching look, then smiled, which Trupont couldn't help reading as a frown in her panicked backpedaling. "Please, please--"

"I'm not mad, damn it. Not any more than I already am, I mean." Baaz breathed a flustered sigh then chuckled. "I blew my last dating chance by being stupidly sweet. I wrote, while holed up in a sled-ship, how I loved someone in a letter."

"Uh."

"Then I sent that letter on a messenger bird."

"Uh."

"And I didn't get a reply."

"Uh."

"In fact, the only bit of communication I had since doing that, was the news that Urlox needed me out of the desert for some cockamamie reason I found out later, well after returning to Daaven. And that's why I'm here in one of the most ******** spots in all of Aster."

Valeria coughed. "L-language."

Baaz gave an inverted shrug. "I guess I deserve it. 'Love' means different things to different people, and it must have been scary as hell for someone like him. There were probably better ways to say 'I'd like to be a close friend of yours but I'm stuck up in sand-hell getting shot at every so often when hungry worms aren't chasing the boat'."

"I think the blood's rushing to your head."

"Very likely. It doesn't matter now though. The letter nonsense, I mean. That was ages ago, and for all he knows I'm dead; if he ever got around to sending a letter back and is waiting for a reply from the desert when I am here. Or maybe he got himself killed before my letter got to him. Also very likely."

"You don't seem so troubled by the idea that someone you cared for might be dead."

Baaz pulled herself up, holding onto the bar with her hands while she worked her legs free of it. She then dropped down and turned around to face Valeria, also sitting on the ground. "Mistake number two, which can be taken as mistake number one if you're of the mind: trying to start a meaningful relationship with an assassin across long distance, at the time. Before the months of desert duty, at the time-at the time, to be clear."

"... Right."




Over a bridge, over a river.

Things were looking up for Rutgers under a cloudy sky. The bridge crossing came and went without fanfare, despite it being a rope bridge. It wasn't a rickety construction either, each wooden panel feeling solid beneath the man's boots and the suspension staying more or less still as he crossed it.

It was shaping up to be another uneventful day for Rutgers Malganis on his way back to structure and reason. Uneventful, but serendipitous. He walked the brush until he came to a point where the treeline thinned, and he saw the pale dirt indicative of a trail. It was not a major road, but it was a sign of regular traffic, which meant the axeman was bound for another out of the way settlement. Rutgers wove his way through the woodland obstacles in his way and started to walk this trail.


He turned a bend some time later and saw the wooden arch denoting the name of the village. "Opalden" it read, multiple branches of nearby foliage weaved into the outlines of the letters, which were held up by the frame the arch created over the gates. The guards had their watchtowers and stations, and Rutger's intuition told him that there were others out of sight, lying in wait. A band of rangers all their own. Though he did not show it on his face, he had a knowing sensation as he walked past their cover of leaves and forest litter. He saw the whites of their eyes against the paint they smeared over their faces.

He pretended he was not aware of them, for the good graces that no one had fired an arrow at his feet yet for his arrival. Rutgers spoke to the head guard on post and was admitted entrance into Opalden as per the norm. He expected to pass through the place without much pause, as he had many times before along this aimless journey. However, things changed before he had even passed the middle of the small village.

"Hail, traveler!" someone called out to him from a bench underneath a wide wooden awning. Rutgers looked into this enhanced shade, as they day was darkening quite a bit. The herald of a coming storm.

"Hail," Rutgers returned the greeting dryly.

"Come on up here!" The seated man beckoned. He was holding a fairly long flute-like instrument with small notches and strange pipes winding in and out of the sides.

"... I would rather not," replied the axeman with diffused dubiety.

The man, an apparent bard by the way he spoke with such personality and force, flapped a hand back and forth with a strong sound of disapproval. "No no, that won't do. We can't have someone like you just passing along without stopping by the pub for tales and drinks! I'll treat you!"

Rutgers raised a brow. It dawned on him then that he had a sense that several eyes were on him. Without moving from his spot along the gravelly path that ran through the settlement's compound, he panned his eyes to scan his peripheries. Blurry, and positioned behind him, there were several villagers. Regular people it seemed, husbands, wives and children. They'd stopped their daily doings to look at him. Guarded.

It was natural to not trust a stranger. Rutgers also supposed it was natural for people to want to know other people when times were good. When times were good. Rutgers gave some thought to the bard welcoming him while the rest of the village folk were acting like they were in the midst of a raider presence in the area.

It could be telling of things being more dire than they appeared around these parts. For that impulse, that drive to do good that survived even the most harrowing nights and trying days, Rutgers approached the bard. He presumed the pub was the large building the man was resting in front of. Not an inn -- Opalden was not a place to stop at for any extended period of time. That, and it most likely did not harbor a bunch of homegrown mercenaries. Probably.

"What's your name, performer?" Rutgers inquired when he reached the top of the patio steps.

"Jack-o the Jackendape-Player!" the bard provided with earnest zeal.

Jack-o. Rutgers let out a quiet breath and lamented addressing the man as a 'performer', as he was given a performer's handle, for sure. "You needn't buy me a drink, Jack-o."

"But I insist!"

"I don't drink." Rutgers did not, in fact, partake in alcohol. It did not lend itself well to his lifestyle.

Jack-o laughed. "Oh, have you been born without the need of water? If so, would food interest you?"

Rutgers let out a short, dry chuckle. "Do you compensate every story-telling traveler this way?"

"Not every. Special ones. We can tell you're special," Jack-o laughed. Rutgers kept his inquiring self hidden underneath a rigid persona. We. How many more people were eying him now?

"How about I ask you some questions about what's going on around here?" Rutgers said in an attempt to deflect and redirect the conversation towards what he was interested in finding out. Jack-o wouldn't have it. He snapped his fingers and pouted his lip defiantly. Rutgers let out a quiet, resigned breath through his nostrils.

Jack-o was one of these characters.

"Inside, inside. There you will find friends and a little refresher before you head out again. Rest those undoubtedly tired legs of yours!"

If it appeased the bard's stipulations and got him his answers, Rutgers obliged. The former ranger nodded, then made for the double doors nearby, with Jack-o trailing behind him. Rutgers was not entirely comfortable about that. He didn't like people behind him at the best of times but there was something in his gut that told him there was something more foreboding at play here. It was a toss-up whether or not he was just being paranoid after being mobile for so long. He'd experienced this feeling several times in the past, wandering from residence to residence. Rutgers did not experience it last time he went out for an extended "trip" from the nameless village because that time, he was in the reassuring environment of one of Valenhad's cities. As reassuring as seeking out the dark and dank, nitty gritty underbelly of the city can be.

The inside of the pub was pleasant. Unlike some places of a similar aesthetic, there was a lack of mounted animal heads, which Rutgers appreciated as he thumped along the wood floor. At this time of day, business was slow inside the gathering hall. There were a handful of patrons at most, and the staff lazily flitted about the stations of cookery and barrels of drink. There were some pronounced stairs near the back, which led up to a balcony where people could go to when the bottom floor was packed, looking over the busting party with their beverage and company of choice.

The quiet and pleasant surroundings put Rutger's unease to rest a tad. Jack-o sat him down at a table, and took the seat opposite him.

"Do you mind me playing some music?"

"I thought you wanted stories." Rutgers pounced on the opening that presented. "We can forego the stories for some insight as to any troubles you all might be having around here."

Jack-o laughed heartily. "Oh, such haste! Stranger, please indulge this player and listen to his music! After, you can tell me the stories you have, and then we can eat and drink and you will be on your way, well rested and happy! You can stand to smile more often."

That was likely true. There was not much that could make Rutgers smile. Not much he'd encountered as of late.

Rutgers listened to the fast-paced music Jack-o the Jackendape-Player belted out. The instrument had the peculiar ability to add its own backing rhythm to the main arrangement, thanks to the diverting pipes which the bard played differently than the body of the instrument. Rutgers was genuinely captivated by the unfamiliar sound and the song it crafted. This was the work of one man? Were his fingers blessed by a saintly mage? Though Rutgers did not smile, his senses were dulled enough to miss the fleeting shadows that ran across the large windowpanes that let silvery light into the tavern.

One after the other, figures walked along the patio outside, amassing at the doors. When Jack-o hit was a particularly powerful note, the doors flew inwards with a whump and protested loudly against their hinges. The shadow of a mob reached past Rutger's table. Someone shouted something.

"Wickendale sends its regards!" he remembered later. "Retribution for the black-furred murderer of Copper!"

Copper going missing before the Solstice celebrations, this hero of Wickendale, did not go over well, Rutgers reflected after all was said and done. Of course people would have spread the word across the neighboring outposts and settlements, wondering if their beloved warrior had passed their way. A kind of outpouring of care that he himself would not find anywhere on Aster. And there was bound to be a witness. An admirer perhaps, who had snuck away from everyone else in Wickendale in search of a private meeting with the enigmatic bushman, arriving just in time to see Rutgers split Copper's head open against that trunk.

He should have thought about that, but he was instead preoccupied with his stupor after his failure against the Red Woman.



After those doors were forced open, Rutgers shot upright. In a split decision, he kicked the table into Jack-o, his leg forcing its edge into the man's stomach. The note his jackendape played then was sour and pained, matching the disposition of the player. Rutgers then spun, had a split-second to regard the closest of his would-be attackers, and kicked his chair into them.

They were caught on the back, bumping their shins and stumbling onwards, nearly toppling over over it. Rutgers caught them by the scruff of their shirt and drove his knee into their skull. That was enough to take them out of the fight. Rutgers then threw them back from the chair, took heed of the next attacker, and sprung up onto the chair.

He leaned his weight forward and the chair went with him.

The angry man brandishing a tanning knife had but seconds to see Rutgers leap from the chair, pulling his legs in so that his boots would land squarely on the tanner's shoulders. The impact was heavy, sent the man off of his heels and slammed his head against the floorboards. Another down.

A flash of steel caught Rutgers' eye. He stepped out of the way of the perceived attack, then took another step back reflexively when he sensed another coming by the way the villager repositioned their self. His hands went to his sides and drew his tomahawks. The axe heads parried strikes sent his way, ravenous, sloppy, but passionate. Copper was truly loved far and wide.

With each broken strike, Rutgers slammed the bottom of his axe handles into his foes. The chest, the gut. There was enough power behind the weapons to keep an attacker down for quite some time when hit in these sensitive points. An almost chronic pain in the sternum that came back in waves. A nauseating pang around the abdomen that left the sufferer with bleary eyes. Bruises abound.

But Rutgers did not take any lives. And he did not let his life be taken.

After defeating the front lines of the assault, Rutgers jumped and sprung off of a nearby table, sending it crashing down noisily, the chairs next to it scraping across the floor. He brought a boot down on a hefty villager's shoulder and shot through the air over most of the others. He tackled an unfortunate woman to the ground, holding his arms out to keep his axes away from her. The mercy of it all was easily lost by the way she immediately went limp after landing with the axeman's weight on top of her. Rutgers couldn't make sure she was entirely uninjured by it either.

There was no time. He threw himself into a roll towards the door and came out of it in a mad dash, knowing the village guards would not be far from the commotion. And they had bows and arrows. The axeman's knuckles were white as he ran out into the rain, swerving around the village well and keeping it behind him as an obstacle for the guards he left behind.

Like a bat out of hell, Rutgers went through the formation of guards stationed on the other end, farther away than their brethren. Their reactions were slowed by their lack of knowledge -- who was at fault? They could not act blindly, and though the stranger was armed, there wasn't blood on him or his weapons.

And for that, Rutgers disappeared into the trees off the path, slowing only to sheath his axes. Once his hands were free, he proceeded to spring in between the bare trees, kicking off from bark to bark in an effort to negate tracks in the snow, confident he was running too fast to be in earshot of his delayed pursuers. He did this until he was winded by it, slowing his retreat to a stealthy creep in the woods. In his element, he was prepared to fight a prolonged campaign against any of Opalden that were still on his trail.



But no one came. Not even a contingent of Opalden rangers.

[The Kingpin]

Light of a million colours reflected and refracted across the onyx drake’s scales as he wove his way through the forest’s outskirts. This place was one he seldom dreamt he’d ever find himself; not only a fairytale, but a human one at that. The Lover’s Crossroads, they had called it.

It hadn’t been easy to find. As it turned out, one who couldn’t read the language of men was at a disadvantage in this world, depending on the likes of hearsay and legend. But after a few months of trying, he had actually been given a name, and a place.

Mayara had been gone for four years now. His last memory of her involved them both perched atop the highest peak in Drakhunmiir, tails and limbs entwined with one another as they rested there, pondering the nature of what lay beyond the Veil. Who could have known that the next day, she would be sent out, to see it for herself. Lazarus, by contrast, had not been included in the exiling of the dragoness he so adored. And contrary to his wishes, he was all but forced to stay behind. Dragons far older, stronger and wiser than he had forbidden his departure, and when he tried to resist, he had been pacified with a spell.

And when he awoke, Mayara was gone. Tempers had flared. Her parents, Khulruudi dragons both, challenged the Stormweaver’s ruling. They had been told that it was for the good of all of their kind that she went out there, that she would learn what lay beyond. That she would become strong. That she would become the pride of the Hueilin one day, after she had put her intelligence and her inquisitive nature to use.

That was four years ago.

They had heard no word of her, or what became of her. Lazarus had gone to every single village, town and city in Eastern Aster, questioning the common folk, the guards, the mystics, the men of science and magic wherever he could find them. He cast his web as far as he could, begging information to any who would hear him.

And it eventually led him here. To the Lover’s Crossroads.

It was an old, overgrown portion of what was said to be an unfathomably ancient city. One that barely existed now. A pillar here, a few stray bricks there. And a statue of two elves, blissful and carefree in their features, bodies intertwined not unlike he and Mayara had been four years ago. The Lovers of the Crossroads.

Legend told of an Elvish princess, the daughter of a highborn king whose family had ruled elfkind for as far back as they had existed in this world. This princess, adored by many and envied by yet more, fell in love with a lowly farmer whose crops went to the King’s palace and the surrounding villages. His station meant that he travelled often, and he was beloved by the common folk wherever he went, so humble, kind and cheerful was he, in spite of all the foul fortune and servitude to which his life was subject.

Their love, predictably, was unacceptable. At first, the King refused to acknowledge the musings and ponderings his daughter put forward regarding the farmer. When he learned that she had been venturing out of the castle, under the cover of nightfall, to meet with him, the King had the slave thrown in the dungeon. The King sought to end this quickly, betrothing the princess to a Count in a neighbouring kingdom. Their wedding was rushed to its conclusion two months later, and shortly after that, it was discovered the princess was with child; one that could not have been her husband’s.

His wrath was terrible, and she fled in the night to be with the one she truly loved. Welcomed into his home, she told him of everything. And it was not a day later that the Count found her. In his rage at the knowledge of what he saw as deceit and betrayal, he had his archers burn the cottage and barricade the doors, leaving only when the entire homestead had been reduced to ash.

It was said that the Lovers were found, in their final moments, entwined in eachother’s arms. It was said that the uprising, the anger of the people of the kingdom, devoured everything in its reach. It was said that the Count and King both were executed by their own people on the anniversary of the Lovers’ deaths.

Many things were said. Many things were rumoured. But one thing stood as a testament to truth. The statue of the Lovers still stood; a memorial by the peasants to the two people they so adored, and a stand in the face of injustice.

Fitting.

Among the things that were rumoured, was that the two souls still resided there, drawn to the last link to them in this world; the statue of the Lovers. It was said that they, or something linked to them, offered guidance to the lost, and to those seeking loved ones, aiding them in finding them. Normally, Lazarus would have dismissed it as a fairytale, scoffed at the notion of falling for such hogwash.

Funny how desperation could drive someone to do the most ridiculous of things.