Lore of Leyuna RPG (FRPG)

[C S]

Imposing claws on the wyvern's forelimbs dug into the dirt as the bulk of the creature came down abruptly, holding up its torso. The wings flexed around the scaled body that lunged for Pamela, huge jaws held agape. The muscular tail of the ferocious animal whipped about, smashing a tree behind it in a reckless show, a nightmarish scenario to any other. The stench of death blew from its maw as its growl filled the area.

[Turbo Tyrannophonic]

Putting the blades together with a loud clatter, Pamela swung down in an arc. The two weapons smashed into the side of the wyvern's head as it lunged, pushing it off course and sending its head careening into the soggy forest floor, splattering mud in all directions with the impact.

[C S]

The drake-like predator produced a sound much like a bark, or maybe a grunt, so caught off guard it was by the strength Pamela exhibited. Its hands dredged up the mud beneath it, and its taloned feet stamped about to bring its tail to bear on the woman. It came careening down towards her as the wyvern spun itself about in the direction of the blow dealt to it.

[Turbo Tyrannophonic]

Crouching, Pamela sprang straight up. The woman's leap allowed her barely a hair's width of room between her and the tail sweeping beneath her, even with her legs brought close to her chest. As she reached the apex of the jump, and while the wyvern's back was turned to her, she threw her bladed appendages in a fashion reminiscent of a mallet swing.

The two monstrous limbs sank into the beast's scaly hide, anchoring themselves in place without sinking too deeply into what lay beneath. Pamela pulled herself onto the draconic giant's back, feet planted against its scales as she used her sunken blades as leverage.

[C S]

That brought forth a howl that pierced the hearts of the waiting band on the edge of the chaos. They flinched as one, the ambiance of battle plunging into their primordial fears. Imaginations of what was happening were forsaken for ancient memories that plagued both man and orc alike, for both knew what it meant to be hunted by prehistoric behemoths. Bart let out an uneasy breath as he stared into the rainy gloom that made the pine forest especially unsettling in the context of what was happening.

What exactly was happening out there?

The wyvern bucked wildly. It threw itself against the neighboring trees in an attempt to dislodge what was supposed to be its prey. In the process, its huge feet crushed the bodies on the floor into the earth. Armor caved in on petrified flesh with nary a noteworthy sound in the beast's furious throes.

[Turbo Tyrannophonic]

Determined to keep her balance, Pamela's arms changed their shape once again, curving the blades even further to better serve as anchors. The red woman's feet began to devolve as well; each was consumed by the fleshy, muscle-like substance that engulfed her arms, but instead of a pair of blades, each formed into a grotesque clawed limb. Looking like a twisted mockery of the wyvern's own appendages, each foot possessed four curved claws, made of the same metal-like material as her forelimbs. Sinking into the beast's scaled hide, the change offered the stability she so desperately needed.

With one monstrous tug of her arms, pulling in opposite directions, Pamela ripped the wyvern's scales asunder and exposed the soft flesh beneath. The red woman's head itself began to contort, and soon, part of her skull and much of her hat came to form yet another wicked, curved blade.

...Which she brought into the wyvern's spine with a decisive thrust.

[C S]

And that put a decisive end to the frantic animal's thrashing. One final groan escaped it before its legs gave out. Tons of weight crashed into the forest floor. Bart, Rastif and Ghaal could have sworn they felt the slight tremor where they were standing. Veera glanced up from her book, her harsh expression breaking for the first time in a very, very long time. In its place was the worry she fought so hard to suppress. Now her pages were ruined by the raindrops, soggy and runny with ink.

Things were not normal.

The crippled beast, both paralyzed and having suffered multiple fractures from the fall, lolled its head to one side. One last, fleeting moan came from its toothy mouth, and then its eyes closed for the last time. Its leathery wings opened lazily, body limp. The beaten giant, once a tool of resentful men, was finally dead. It no longer had to deal with a world that harbored things like the one known as Pamela.

[The Kingpin]

The sand rose in vast clouds alongside the Dunefox as its vast sails billowed in the scorching desert winds. Two more vessels could be seen around her, each heading in a slightly different direction, guided by the steep rise of the massive dune alongside which the vessels were sailing. The Valenhad flag fluttered proudly from the main mast of the scout vessel, the ensign of the Desert Corps flying proudly on the mizzen mast. The crewmen rushed back and forth across the decks as they prepared the ship to dock. Andruil hung from the rigging, a foot on a pulley block as he leaned over the side, high enough off deck level that he wasn't exposed to the blasts of sand that made leaning over the side of the ship below such a hazard. Pyranex observed from the stern of the ship while Shiryaz circled the ship above. The Captain, usually quite the talkative fellow, was focused on navigating the vessel towards a circular sledship port ahead. It was still a few miles off from them, but the Dunefox was nothing if not a fast vessel. At the foot of the main mast, a man in an officer's uniform and a large box of small flags busied himself raising and lowering sequences of multicoloured banners, signal flags used to communicate with the port, which he then watched with a spyglass for a responding signal. It was an involved process, but it was how an operation like this could be managed in an environment where the 'sea' could engulf formerly treacherous routes and make them safe, and bring to bear jagged rocks that would make a formerly safe route deadly.





Darkness gave way to luminous blue light as the Scholar followed the Maelgwyn dragoness into the heart of her ice cavern. The Scholar's sapphire eyes, for once, had been surpassed in brilliance by that which he gazed upon. wide black pupils stared adoringly at the rich hues of the ice cave ceiling, lit up by the sunlight above and ahead of him, reflecting off the frozen liquid to create hues he could not believe were natural. But yet, that was exactly what they were. No aura of magical power coursed through this place. No magical creatures skittered across the ceiling or floated lazily in the air. All that could be observed in this place was the thick pale mist that spilled forth from his maw with every breath, tinted blue like the surroundings.

Inside the satchel, the walls had been engulfed by the very thing that now surrounded the Scholar, Beshayir gasping in awe at the sight she thought to be impossible. "It's so blue!" she cried gleefully, a string of Thimeyran following her brief statement as she tried to put what she saw and felt into words.

Ceridwen smiled softly as she saw the drake's reaction. "Nice, isn't it?" she asked over her shoulder, head craned as the plumage around her head puffed up.

"Beautiful," rumbled the larger dragon, breaking his silence for the first time in hours, admiring the majesty of this place in the way he knew best; quiet, meticulous observation. He took in everything, absorbing every detail, so that, when the day came that he found himself in places dark and miserable, he could return here, and experience it anew, in just as much detail and beauty.

[C S]

Desrium was indifferent to the sandblasting he was receiving just from standing near the bowsprit of the sledship. The scalding hot sand rolled across the metal that comprised his face and chest in billowing sheets. Though he lacked the means to feel it, the vicious sands did a number on even his hardy body. Tiny streaks were engraved onto his armor, the marks following the flow of sand bombarding Desrium. The scratches were alight with a barely visible green glow, as well as the tiny sparkles that jumped from the marks. Though the damage was mitigated considerably by the armor's nature, not even it was impervious to the hardships of the desert.

But what was it that had Desrium's attention so?

He too heeded the flag-bearer at the Thimeyran port all the way across the tan, striated gulf. So intrigued by the policy, which was another similarity he noted with seafaring ships, he was absolutely oblivious to the disastrous exposure he was subjecting his body to. In one of his rare times of quiet, Desrium sought to reason what the different signal flags meant, in relation to how the ship maneuvered. He had felt the Dunefox alter course whenever a curious yellow flag with blue stripes was raised, the stripes invoking the cardinal directions with the way they were crossed. Though he did not know the specifics of it, it was one of the few signals he'd come to guess at its significance.



Syria was off on her own, led wayward by her own curiosity. While she was not too far away from Septimus -- not that she could lose him, his aura being what it was, what she saw was more than just an unbelievable blue in the ice. So deep into the mountain, the walls of winter contained more than just water.

The mage ran her hands against the surface of the ice, which she thought was far too smooth for a natural occurrence. Her eyes were wide with wonder as she traced the immortalized air pockets with her fingers. The tiny bubbles seemed to be filled with shadows whereas the rest of the ice had a glowing quality to it. Closer to the ground, the ice bore a misty texture of many colors, though most of them were overwhelmed by the blueness. Syria inferred this was due to minerals settling in the freezing water. Each layer in the pattern was some kind of rock swept by once-mobile water and suspended indefinitely as powder.

It got the mage thinking. She stuck her tongue out of the corner of her mouth as she stepped away from the frozen wall, engaging in great focus. She pulled her hands together but did not clasp them, her palms bowled as if to hold water. Syria stood there, leveling her breathing and maintaining her will until everything around her became subdued. Light and sound faded from her perception while she stared into her gloves, summoning her magic to make her desires reality.

Little by little, moisture in the air condensed over the material of her green gloves. It was a gaseous, amorphous gathering that started small, and did not grow much more. The still air within the cave stirred around Syria, taking up specks of dust and rock with it and adding it into her ever-developing creation. The bits of earth intermingled with the gas, and when she was satisfied with the dispersal, Syria commanded the vapor to become liquid, and from liquid to ice.

Her frozen ball was tiny, just big enough to be held by her thumb and index finger. It was crystal clear, however, with the particles at the center held as a spiral cluster. Syria held it up to her eye and looked through it, pleased with herself.



Baaz was lying down in her bunk with her arms crossed behind her head. The vibrations running through the planks as the sledder plowed through sand were especially noticeable now. For some time now, all she had done was lie still and stare at the ceiling, caught in deep contemplation. She hadn’t been like this since the fall of Draxon. Being called home was not anything near that bad, was it? What supernatural beast was there to slay after Immanis? Though there was horror in warfare, were the things she had seen out in the desert on par with bodies set ablaze by the arrows of those who were once called countrymen? Baaz searched herself in the silence for an answer. Could she honestly say that those things were worse than leading survivors through the carnage and then setting them loose in the wilderness in the hopes that they could start their lives again elsewhere?

There was no definitive way to quantify the things she’d been through, she was beginning to find, the longer she thought about it. For instance, whereas the official report of the incident in Freyr-Lunge took note of a lost battle-mount, Baaz retained the memory of Brambleblight as a comrade slain in action, not something bred to give its all in combat. The Frondfoot was equal to any person wearing the uniform in her eyes. She was told to let go and move on. Baaz was indignant, and it only fed her dark mood in those days after returning to Daaven. The fixation was back in her head as she stared at the ceiling, nagging at her.

Brambleblight served Daaven as a soldier’s tool, endured a most inhumane agony before her ultimate fate, and was replaced by another.

“She was more than just a lizard... she was a friend, and I failed her...”

“If only I had done things differently, maybe she would have still been alive...”

Thus the question remained: was the desert truly something worse than what came before it? Was she already broken, and her decision to abandon her rank a sign of her failure as a ranger? Or was everything equal in how awful it was, and only now was it becoming clear where she stood in relation to it all?

The only thing missing was some wretched soul to hunt down in the depths of her frustration, the ranger noted silently. And that was when she heard the door swing open and the footsteps entering the room.

Trist ambled past her bunk, boots thudding dully along as she did, before doing a spin on a heel and letting herself fall into a sitting position on the edge of the bed across from Baaz. She crossed her legs and folded her hands over her lap. Trist looked disarmingly civil.

Baaz turned away from the ceiling and eyed her with an expression devoid of any endearment. “I thought the devils were only supposed to appear when you spoke about them.”

Trist snorted in stifling a laugh. “I’m not here to stir up drama and discord, relax.”

“Forgive me, I’m not inclined to believe you,” Baaz deadpanned.

“Not too long from now you’re going to be gone,” Trist said. She looked off to one side of the quarters and shrugged her shoulders. Her eyes wandered further, up and down, before she added, “we might as well have one sensible conversation together. No egos, no stress.”

“What sense does that make?” Baaz asked bluntly.

Trist shrugged again. “All our fun times will be coming to an end. Riling you up and watching you go will be something I’ll miss. Cassidy... she’s too reserved, too stuck in her head to get as angry as you do.”

“You’re dumb,” Baaz retorted without fanfare.

Trist turned her hands up, conceding. “I never won a battle of wits. Bolts and swords, sure, plenty of those.”

“I bet.” Baaz had to admit that Trist was scariest when she wasn’t taking herself seriously. A dimwit holding a weapon, executing whoever her superiors pointed to with regimented efficiency, boy oh boy. She sat up in her bed, deciding to humor Trist for now. “So what do you want to talk about?”

“Dunno. It just set in that I won’t be seeing you, and soon after that I’ll be working on another ship with another bunch.”

Baaz shook her head. “And you’re going to press any and all weaknesses they show you, huh?”

“Gotta keep myself in good spirits somehow. I’ve been told that once you start enjoying the killing, you’ve stepped over some boundary or something, so I’ll just stick to tormenting people.”

“Lesser of two evils.” Baaz rolled her eyes. And she was the one called a *****?

“I guess if there’s anything I want to know, it’s whether or not it’s true... about you and the captain.”

“With Jhotan? Purely professional,” Baaz responded even as she heard the echoes of Jhotan’s words in her head. The daughter she wished she head...

Trist scoffed. “Urlox, the big captain, beginning and end of all soldiers in Daaven. Is what they say true?”

“No, you stupid *****,” Baaz spat. She wanted to hit Trist over the head with her pillow but resisted that much. “If you must know, my eyes were set on an elf by time I was shipped out here. I had a few flings here and there, but nothing with Urlox.”

“I am really going to miss your wonderful personality,” Trist said, propping her chin up on her palms, elbows planted on her lap.

“If only I could say the same, Trist. If only.” Baaz shifted about on the bed and lied back down.

“You think Elisa and Roundha are going to work out?”

Baaz cracked a smile. “I wish them the best.” Hell if I know in other words.

“And what about Dole? What do you think he’s been through to make him mister-knight, defender of right?” Trist pantomimed a retch.

“Why don’t you go ask him?”

Trist snickered. “He’s a man of patience. I fear I’ve whittled it down to the point that the moment I go after him --”

“He’s going to level your ***?” Baaz asked.

“Yeah.” Trist laughed. “You have some experience with that, I take it?”


“I was the one being crossed. Part of the reason I’m here, really.”

Trist’s amusement drained away. “Oh...”

“I almost had a repeat a while back, you know.”

“After Jhotan crashed those raider sleds...”

Baaz, reveling in the other ranger’s dawning revelation, grinned wildly. “Goodbye, Trist.”

Suddenly lacking words to say, Trist uncrossed her legs and stood up. She gave Baaz one last wary look before heading out of the door. When she heard it close, Baaz chuckled bitterly to herself.

She couldn’t deny how good that felt.

Not a moment later the door opened again and Dole stepped into the room. It was almost karmic how he followed in the wake of Trist. Baaz sat up a bit to look at him. He didn't seem to be on some crusade to figuratively skewer their joyously obnoxious crewmate. He seemed somewhat melancholy. He opened his mouth, and Baaz knew why.

"Captain says we're just about back at homebase."

"Ah. Pulling into port, then?" Baaz asked. Dole nodded.

"Just about," he said again. He looked sternward to the back of the rangers' quarters. "Need any help gathering your things?"

Baaz sat up fully and crossed her legs. She surveyed the room. She had her desert ranger's uniform, which she suspected she'd have to swap out for her old green and silvers soon enough. Her sling-bow was on its rack, as well as her quiver and supply of bolts. "No, I think I can manage just fine."

Dole grunted. "What about your collection out in cargo?"

"You keep it," Baaz told him. She then pressed a finger against the side of her chin and thought about it a little more. "Actually, you might want to see if you can't offload some of that stuff. The ship might get a pretty big supply to run, and you'll need all the spare space you can get."

Dole crossed his arms and leaned against the doorframe. His gaze was intense with deep thought. After a silence, he was visited by inspiration. He smirked and said, "How about I just get that chest and stow it up in here?"

"Uh..." Baaz considered it, then shrugged. "With one less person in here come shuteye-time, a big block of wood lying around won't be so bad. The question is: how's it going to work out when someone else takes my spot on the crew? Or, what happens when you get swapped out?"

"I'll figure it out."

Dole seemed content to leave that as that, and Baaz put up her hands, conceding.

[The Kingpin]

As the Dunefox pulled up to the port, the sound of bells reached their ears. The rattle of anchor chains rang out at the bow and stern of the ship, the sails being furled almost as the ship began to suddenly slow. Andruil was pulled forward, the Knight swinging around the rope and descending, letting go as his momentum launched him at a mast, kicking off it and landing on the deck. "You're going to break your neck one of these days, Elfson," growled Pyranex from his spot near the stern of the ship.

"We all have our talents, Pyranex. Yours pertain to the sky. Mine involve getting from place to place, be it from the ground or through the trees," responded Andruil with a lopsided grin.

"That is no tree," corrected the gryphon.

"It was once. It serves that role even in death," argued Andruil.

"If you insist," grunted Pyranex, losing interest in the conversation. The heat was significant, and left the gryphon without his usual patience. He could not muster the drive to argue with the Knight, who was spared that fate by his enchanted attire.

"Not a bad performance, m'Lord. I've only had a handful of men and women on my ship who have ever shown that amount of ease traversing a ship's masts. Rumours they were half-monkey follow a few of them wherever they go," commented Vern amusedly.

"Growing up in Riverdale you learn to think vertically when it comes to getting around," said the Knight with a shrug.

"I suppose that is why you were so effective against Krukev's men," mused Vern.

"Not really. They were idiots that took charge without learning what they were trying to take charge of. Lives were lost, sure, but it's hardly the worst civil war I've ever heard of. Our neighbours the Draxons have that privilege. Ironic, isn't it?" commented the Knight.

"M'Lord?"

"Krukev was a Draxonian; a Freyr-Lunge nobleman," explained Andruil.

"Oh! Oh, of course," responded the Captain. "Quite ironic, indeed," he added. "I have to admit, I wasn't aware the traitor was a Draxonian," he explained sheepishly.

"It's not accidental. The Council of Lords saw it prudent to keep the origin of the traitor a secret to avoid risking the people calling for war against Draxon. We were weak and vulnerable. We needed time to regain our strength before we could mount an offensive against anyone. It's for good reason you were unaware," clarified the Knight.

"Oh...So the collapse of Draxon...?"

"No. It crumbled on its own after the war with Eredar. King Draco's greed set in motion a series of events that ultimately destroyed the kingdom," answered Andruil simply as the scraping of a gangplank overwhelmed the conversation, the vessel, now in port, preparing to offload its passengers and restock on cargo. "That is my cue, I believe. It has been a pleasure, Captain. I hope to see you again soon, perhaps on my return journey to Syrakina," he stated finally, turning towards the gangplank, giving the Captain a brief nod as he departed.





The Scholar, meanwhile, took to observing the ice closely, noting many of the same impurities that Syria herself had seen. "If only one could see this as it was forming so long ago," rumbled the dragon. It amazed him how clear the ice was, seeming as though it were actually glass, if not for the chill that surrounded him to prove otherwise.

"Another ice cave south of here collapsed last year. I ran into that one by chance. It must've simply melted," mused Ceridwen, the Scholar nodding, lost in thought. How could did it have to be for such a beautiful thing to form. And how was it so clear? In his memort, ice tended to be cloudy on a large scale. But that wasn't the case here.

With a thought, a book floated out of the satchel, earning a surprised and slightly indignant chirp from the Dragoness at his side, annoyed he'd ruined the mood. He was oblivious, however, seeking out a very specific bit of information, not knowing if he would find it.

Under his wing, the satchel stirred, Beshayir climbing out and landing on the floor, which was drier and more stable than she had expected. Time to take a look around, she thought...

[C S]

Desrium's heavy footsteps followed Andruil's own until he stopped by Siril. His boots thudded one after the other as he locked step and stood straight, looking over the port. Its wharves were cut of the bedrock that the sand did not cover. Like Syrakina, the docks extended from the main construct, which was a speckled mass of dark and white surrounded by an orange hued dust. The structure at the center of the hub reminded the armored being of Thimeyra itself. It was made of a reddish brick, just a tad darker than the surrounding landscape, and reached up high in a spire-like cascade. The base was wide and decorated with arches that ran around the circumference, and the motif continued upwards and grew smaller and smaller before finally ending with a brass urn that burned a white fire.

Desrium thought it looked much like a bell, though upside-down. The windows were built to have their tops angled inwards some, so that the light of the urn reflected off of the glass from the pinnacle to the base. The Thimeyran outpost was a twinkling beacon for miles upon miles. The armored being made a mental note to look out for this tower when inside the city limits.

"My gratitude, captain," Desrium said after taking in everything.

He would not need a crane to depart the Dunefox.

Desrium strode forwards, and leaped just before he stepped foot on the exit ramp. He cleared it easily and landed on the granite dock, dropping and tucking his metal body into a roll before standing back up again, the wharf no worse for wear.




"I find the south does not bode well for ice much at all," Syria commented as she approached the dragons. She used her telekinesis to wind the ball between her fingers, quite taken by her simple toy. "Southwards is towards the jungle... and heat." She stopped by Septimus and prodded his foreleg with a finger. "You think Beshayir would like this?" she asked as she closed her hand and caught the ice ball in her palm.

[The Kingpin]

The Dunefox creaked in response, rocking slightly, but suffering no further problems from the Armoured Ambassador of Brodudika. The Knight, eyeing his otherworldly benefactor, smirked. "Need a hand?" he asked jokingly as he offered his hand for the Desrium to grasp.

"He clearly does not," rumbled Pyranex, unamused by the Knight's antics.

"One must always strive to be of assistance to their companions, whether or not they appear in need of it, Pyranex," Andruil recovered expertly.

"That sounds incredibly bothersome. I would probably electrocute you if you tried it with me," responded the gryphon flatly.

"I would not try it with you," stated Andruil simply. Around them, the crowds that made up the deckhands and dockhands rushed back and forth, stacks of various wears in their hands, on wheeled trolleys and on beast-drawn carts towed by steed-sized reptiles in their rush to get ships loaded and unloaded; the endless hustle and bustle of the Thimeyran sledship port of Dhul'Valen.





Septimus craned his neck to eye the object Syria had drawn his attention to, raising a scaly brow curiously. "That is an interesting thing you have found...Or made? But regarding Beshayir's interest in it, it would probably be wise you asked her," he rumbled, looking around to see where the Thimeyran girl had gotten to, spotting her further down the tunnel, having just climbed up a stone ledge to get closer to the incredible blue ice. Ceridwen had followed her, the dragoness making little puffs of frost with her breath that promptly floated to the floor before crunching softly under her taloned feet.

[C S]

"The sentiment is appreciated. There may be a time when I need to call on you for a favor. However, I would make sure that it would be of more importance than helping me stand, and something that you can reasonably accomplish," said the red eyed roamer to the knight. With that said, he started off on his way to get out of the workers' way. On the innermost side of the granite rim, a set of stairs set at a shallow angle went down to paths of sandstone leading towards the hub-tower of Dhul'Valen. There, they would speak to the officials that allowed access from the port to the desert city-state.


Syria followed Septimus' gaze and hummed. For some reason, it struck her that Beshayir wasn't completely unfamiliar with climbing over things and finding purchase where most others would have difficulty. She couldn't put a finger on it. "Flying lessons," she told herself, and then nodded to the Scholar. The lady walked over to Ceridwen's side, running her thumb over the ball as she went before floating it up to Beshayir's level. The green glimmer around the clear ice only accentuated its fetching peculiarity. It was like the glow was caught within the ball, rather than covering it.

[The Kingpin]

In an echo of Syrakina, Dhul'Valen had an outpost at one end of the port. This one was much larger however, and occupied the entire end of the land-bridge leading towards the hard desert surrounding the city. A sign over the tall riveted double doors stated 'Dhul'Valen-Thimeyra' in two languages, or so Andruil guessed, as the other was in a script that he couldn't read, but which resembled old Elvish. Beyond, a tall room awaited, the insides completely invisible to them on account of the lack of windows and solid wooden doors. "After you, Desrium. You seem better acquainted with these people than I," stated Andruil matter-of-factly. He knew that if the staff within were Valenhadians, even partially, it would be fairly easy to arrange for him. But if not, Desrium would be a better representative of their group. While Andruil's influence was substantial, Desrium's was universal in Eastern Aster.



Beshayir paused her explorations as she saw the glow of something off the ice, turning to stare at the glowing orb. At first she was gonna back away, startled, but then she saw that Syria was there, manipulating it, and calmed. Reaching for the orb, she brought it closer, her soft hazel eyes taking in the details with a look of wonder. "Beautiful," she said softly, the Scholar smiling in the background as he approached. As much as he considered the Elven girl an adopted daughter, he knew that Syria would always be a better parent to her in ways that Septimus himself could not. It was a painful thought to consider, but he had to accept the facts. A human was a much more viable parent to an elf than a dragon, even one that was a shapeshifter.

[C S]

"By Septimus' doing," Desrium replied internally. Out loud, he said, "The Qa'id has been gracious in his reception of me in the past. He has promised a warm welcome in Thimeyra henceforth." The word Qa'id sounded odd spoken in Desrium's voice. His manner of speaking did not allow the accent to be conveyed as any other speaker would attempt to. Nevertheless, Desrium walked up to the doors and pushed them open. The daylight spilled into a dimly lit room that was substantially cooler than the outside.

When Andruil and Pyranex were back inside, Desrium closed the doors. They made a metallic shudder when they came together.



"I thought you'd like it," Syria said with a broad smile on her face. Now she was enthused and proud of her feat. It wasn't the most impressive of things, but to someone who struggled with the elemental magicks, it meant the world for it to be appreciated as Beshayir did.

[Turbo Tyrannophonic]

What stood atop the fallen wyvern now seemed a cruel mockery of what had entered the camp to confront the poachers. Despite an apparent lack of eyes, the vile assortment of muscle and blades looked around, scanning for any remaining signs of life.

Of which there were none.

Just as seamlessly as they had appeared, the woman's monstrous limbs contorted back into their original shape. The process - while disturbing, by all means, to look at - seemed to come natural to Pamela. Like a soldier sheathing his sword after a battle.

Not a speck of blood or dirt, in spite of the intense battle, was found on the red woman's body or clothes. As if to drive this point home, a pool of the sanguine liquid had formed at her feet upon the wyvern's back, pulled from all reaches of its body. In time it, too, disappeared, absorbed by the woman's very presence.

With that, she jumped down from her fallen foe and made her way back in the direction she had come. In no time at all, she found herself back on the road, with the town's gates not far off.

[C S]

What a sight it must have been. Discarded weaponry of all sorts, most of it deformed beyond use via melt. Pale shriveled bodies of men and women embedded into the mud, some half crushed and smeared about in bloodless gore. Then there was the ravaged forest, and the slain wyvern on top of it all. The fire in the middle of the collection of logs had gone out in the downpour of rain and became a pit of gray ash, black char and stubborn embers. Its billowing smoke rose high into the sad sky as a thin wisp to distant eyes who saw over the tops of the surrounding pines.

The agents of Brodudika were not quick to come out of their concealment when Pamela reappeared from the thicket. Bart and Rastif peeked around their trees, and Ghaal peered through the leaves, crouched down into the underbrush. They all saw this lone woman walking towards them with an unaffected stride, unshaken by whatever atrocious deed or deeds that needed to be done away from the eyes of others. The timing of it could not have been more ominous -- or it could have been that it was ominous because of those few hints to the unknown. Raindrops dripped from tree branches into various puddles that lined the way back to town all around Pamela. Her distorted reflection in the ripples and the shadows of the rain-beset forest made for a grave scene not helped by her apparent aloofness.

It was Bart who stepped out of hiding first in a show of meek courage. "Uh... h-hey there, Pamela," he began. He took a steadying breath to work the quiver out of his voice. "Everything's gone well? Got your proof of completing the mission and things?" he asked, a little more collected, though very uncomfortable.

Rastif and Ghaal followed his lead for the most part. They were not hiding per say anymore, but the former still had his hands on the hilts of his knives.

[Hopeflower]

Though he should have taken note of the fresh footprints on the porch and the fact that there were two new sets of tracks leading up to the inn, being tackled by a bundle of red hair and limbs was not something Arsenic expected when he finally got back. Reflexively, he returned Vix's hug with a startled laugh. The innkeeper was practically bursting with excitement, and it seemed it only partially stemmed from being home.

'Hello to you too.' Arsenic kicked the door shut behind him and moved them away from it, so they wouldn't be in the way. 'Andruil didn't come back with you?' he asked once he'd had a chance to look around.

"He got called away while we were there." There was something off about her statement, but before Arsenic could pin it down, she went on, "You won't believe what we found!" Vix was already pulling the battered journal from her bag as she spoke, and she held it out for him to inspect, looking so proud of herself that he had to wonder just what she'd done to get it.

"She stole it," Rowan said, anticipating the question. She'd already made herself at home in Arsenic's usual chair and, with her legs thrown carelessly over one of the arms, showed no sign of moving. He took Vix's chair with little more than a shrug.

He gave Vix a sharp, questioning look even as he opened the little book to flip through it carefully. 'Where'd you find it?'

Vix shrugged and didn't quite meet his eyes. "It was in a library. It wasn't theirs, so I just...borrowed it from the owner. Indefinitely." Looking rather like a scolded child, she scuffed the toe of her boot against the floor and added, "I'll give it back, if someone comes looking for it."

Which they won't, was what she wasn't saying. Vix perched on the arm of the chair and seemed set to leave the topic at that.

'Of course.' He set the journal in his lap for the moment, not seeing what had Vix so worked up, in favor of asking Rowan, 'So, how'd it go?'

The scarred woman smiled bitterly. "It went as well as Andruil said it would," said Rowan, sitting up straight. "Except for the part where I completely flipped out."

"Nobody blamed you," Vix replied immediately, and as firmly as she got.

Rowan didn't offer anything other than a snort to that. "It could be a great opportunity," she went on, softening some. "Not for me, but..." she trailed off and shrugged.

'It could be both.' Arsenic leaned toward her. 'Don't tell me you just left it at that.'

"No, I - " Rowan sighed, ran her hand through her hair in frustration, and tried again. "I left a way for Akando to find the guy. Haven't told him yet." She waved a hand at Vix somewhat impatiently. "Enough about me. I don't want to think about it for a while."

There was a moment of silence in which Vix and Arsenic exchanged glances, but the innkeeper straightened her back and cleared her throat. "I have something for you," she told Arsenic. "And I have - well," she broke off, losing her nerve at his curious look. "I mean, let's see what you think of it first, before...yeah." She dug into her bag again and, after some muttering and rustling, offered Arsenic a package wrapped in brown paper.

'Just what I always needed,' he said, just to tease her. 'Paper.' He got poked in the chest with his gift for his trouble, and offered a smile as an apology. Arsenic opened the package with care - too slowly for Vix's patience to hold out, judging by the nervous bouncing of her knee - and was tempted to make another joke when he was faced with a simple wooden box. A couple of hinges told him he had it backwards, and he quickly turned it around to open it.

And was left a little floored. Paints, charcoal, inks, and even paper to use them on. Very fine quality paper, at that, he found when he touched it.

Seeing that Arsenic didn't know what to say, Vix ventured, "I thought you might be running low, since I never see you buy these things for yourself. And, um, actually...I want to ask for your help with something." Her hand found the journal cover and she fidgeted with it.

'What's that?' Arsenic asked quietly, tearing his gaze from the art supplies to look at her.

Vix met his eyes - blue eyes, she noted with no small amount of relief - and told him, "I wouldn't have stolen this journal if it wasn't important." She flipped it open to a carefully marked page and pointed to a rough drawing. "Whoever owned it went to Lysanthir," she said quietly. "They found part of my family's history with the Iupan." She swallowed hard. "I want to restore it. Will you help me?"

Arsenic didn't allow himself to hesitate. Not when she looked so hopeful, even if the weight of what she was asking of him settled on his shoulders. 'Of course I will.' It was a huge project, one that had been carved out and lost already. Getting it right would take a very long time. It would need research, resources they didn't have here...and of course, it might very well lead them to look for the ruins of Lysanthir themselves. But Vix had never asked Arsenic for much, and when it was this important to her...he couldn't deny her.

Vix teared up then, and the rush of emotion that hit Arsenic was too chaotic to decipher fully. She started to offer, "I know it's a lot to ask. I have some money saved up, so anything you think you'll need - "

He shook his head sharply. 'I'm not going to take your money, Vix.'

"We told you he'd say yes," Rowan cut in, standing up to move close enough to hug the innkeeper gently. "Now maybe you'll stop doubting me."

Though hardly worth Arsenic's snort, the comment got a genuine laugh from Vix. And for a little while at least, all was set to be normal in the inn again.

[The Kingpin]

The room beyond the doorway was tall, dark, and, surprisingly, breezy. Andruil looked around for the source, noting that the walls were lined with narrow slits that seemed to extend from further up, and that, to his best guess, was the source. The vents channelled the hot air on the roof down along the walls, before releasing it into the room, by which point the air had cooled.

The floor was covered in smooth, unpolished granite, designed to be gentle on a traveller's feet, but sturdy enough to handle the hooves and paws of large beasts passing through the outpost. Several such beasts could be seen lined up ahead of the trio, each loaded with massive amounts of resources. To the right, a counter manned by several Thimeyrans, each wearing an iron helmet tipped with a metallic point and surrounded by a tightly wrapped turban. It looked like the kind of helmets the soldiers during the Battle of Eredar had been wearing, but was notably different to the designs of the officers of that force. Andruil assumed this was likely the basic military gear for Thimeyran soldiers, which made the port operators a military rather than civilian force. It made sense, in hindsight. Control of a city's borders should always be that of the military, not the civilians. Glancing around, he noticed what his adjusting eyesight had overlooked before; every doorway was guarded by two men of tall stature and broad build, each with a polearm in hand and a scimitar at their sides. Around the room, benches could be seen, where some traders were waiting outside of the line. Several of them looked tired, and the Knight guessed they had probably been here a while, or at the very least, had just arrived after a long journey. It seemed out of place, all things considered, considering what he was told about Thimeyran hospitality.

"Welcome to Dhul'Valen, gentlemen. Please, step forward. I will try and process the necessary paperwork quickly so you can be on your way," said one of the men at the counter, a young man judging by his appearance, a very short, neatly groomed goatee adorning his chin. Rich dark green eyes seemed out of place on a native of the desert, and Andruil was forced to remember that they were not truly natives of this place.

Smiling, he stepped forward, Pyranex starting behind him before he was stopped with a gesture. "I'm not sure they would be too pleased with you coming up to the counter, Pyranex. Wait for me here. I won't be long," said Andruil apologetically, earning a scowl from the beast. Shiryaz chirped almost tauntingly on the Knight's shoulders, earning a brief irritated grunt from the beast, but no more was said.

"So, what brings you to Thimeyra?" asked the man with the goatee as he turned a page on a thick leather-bound ledger, pre-printed with several fields in the same exotic script that was over the door.

[C S]

While Andruil dealt with the proceedings at the desk, Desrium came up alongside the storm gryphon and stood with him. His company was a silent one as the knight spoke, and his eyes cast melding shadows on the floor where his silhouette joined Pyranex's. With his hands behind his back, Desrium's stature fit right in with the soldiers standing guard.

"I understand how you feel," Desrium said after he had gathered his words. It took some finesse to reach out to an individual that, by his very instinct, despised him. It was precisely why he understood these situations, however. "There was a time when I could not walk freely among men. A beast in their eyes."