Lore of Leyuna RPG (FRPG)

[The Kingpin]

A weary sigh escaped the elf as his grip loosened on Syria's. "Syria...What is the gap between the social classes where you live?" he asked. "I would ask Septimus, but dragons are a peculiar sort...Not many I know of share the traits of elvish and human civilisation. Or am I mistaken?"

"No, you're not. We have a different perception of social standing," responded the Scholar.

"I suspected so. Syria?" asked the trader as he looked to the Daavenian to answer his question.

[C S]

"Daaven -- I come from Daaven -- is a city-state, like Thimeyra, and like Thimeyra we were once an isolationist state. However, unlike Daaven, we did not erect a monarchy, but a stately council. You may envision it as Antar's advisors, without a Qa'id," Syria choked out, her words as eloquent even as she faced falling apart in the market. Enough eyes were looking upon her as it were. "The council heads are the oldest and most experienced in a certain field, but that is the only clout they hold in a uniform working class. 'The weight of many, alone, is impossible to bear, but many hands in unison can move mountains'."

[The Kingpin]

"It was once said that Daavenians were believed to be like some insects; a hive, of sorts," noted Septimus as he lent the mage some strength, one of the rare cases he used his magic on her, calming her much as he did during her memory training.

"And what happens to the traders there? Those who earn more by their trade than others? Do they hand the excess wealth to this council of yours?" asked Ameen, speaking slowly and clearly. He was familiar with Daaven. Intimately so. The Caravan had gone there many times over the past two years, eager to profit heavily off the exotic wares that the two sides had to trade.

[C S]

"For the development and protection of Daaven, yes," Syria confirmed. Maintaining a healthy standard of living, putting an end to polluting practices with Urlox's policies, staying on the very edge of newly developed technologies and engineering feats... Daaven was never going to grow into a sprawling kingdom. It, however, was sure to stand against any wayward conqueror, or Qahir, to the desert elves.

[The Kingpin]

"Then I suppose it is reasonable that you do not understand," responded Ameen as he shifted in his stool. "Thimeyra is a nation state that is built around everyone working towards a common goal through personal improvement. You work for what you have, and what you have is the sum of your work. It is your right to keep it, and spend it as you will. We all pay a tax that goes into the upkeep of the city, but in addition to that, the charitable donate from their own wealth for specific improvements. Say, an update to the supply of books in a library, or to improve the City Guard's arms and armour," he explained.

Septimus listened intently, deciding to let the elf be the voice here, to perhaps show Syria what he could not.

"What this means is that a person's wealth and lifestyle depend solely on their employment and their initiative. The state will not carry a man who does nothing to a life as comfortable as that of one who toils day in and day out. It also means that there are different classes in our society. Those whose jobs do not earn them much coin have a lower standard of living than those who earn more. The wealthiest of these classes are the traders and their families. My family are counted among them." He slowly took the opportunity to sip his water, gathering his thoughts to continue.

"The Hakeemi family, on the other hand, is a family of soldiers, dock workers and common labourers. Beshayir's father, Shemlan, was a high ranking officer in the Qa'id's Guard. My daughter Imneera entered the military for him. It was a life of hardship and prestige, but not one of affluence. But my daughter has her wealth, her share of the family earnings that she earned alongside me and my wife for a great many years. She walked through Thimeyra like a queen. Respected, loved, and wealthy enough to give both her and her husband a life of comfort that no one else in the Hakeemi family could afford, especially not Sufyan, a lowly dockworker." Beshayir straightened as she stood by her grandfather, looking between him and Syria.

[C S]

"So he let my daughter--" Syria put a steadying hand on her chest. Too brash. "He let... Imneera's daughter suffer... for his greed? Was Beshayir's death supposed to be a stroke of fortune for him?" Syria shook, her steadying hand turning to a fist. "And what of this inheritance, then?" she went on with a sternness that surpassed any tone she used with Perioul. "Did his greedy self take it as his own already?"

[The Kingpin]

"I will get to that," responded Ameen, taking note of the Mage's choice of words. It seemed she had grown very attached to Beshayir in the time they had been with her. Both of them, actually. He noted the concerned look in Septimus's eyes as he heard the story, and how Beshayir had spoken of them. It was almost as though she had come to see them as her own family in blood as well as spirit. Perhaps letting her stay with them would be a kindness to her after all.

Clearing his throat to cover up his moment of thought, he continued. "When my daughter died alongside her husband, Spirits rest their souls, their wealth was claimed by the Familial Courts; specifically, the Inheritance Office, to be secured until the heirs could arrive to claim it. Normally, in a situation like this, the entire inheritance goes to the surviving children. If no children exist, it goes to their next of kin. However, if there are children but they are not present, that wealth is frozen until the children are found or a certificate of death can be presented. Naturally, that means the Temple Mortuary Office has very stringent rules to avoid fraud."


"Terrible as it is, this works in our favour. The last I heard of Sufyan, he was going to the Familial Courts demanding that they hand over the inheritance on the basis that there was no one alive to claim it but him. You may yet be able to bring justice to that snake. I can speak to my friends there. They will hasten your audience. But I do not know if they will accept Beshayir's claim without witnesses."

"We have witnesses. There are two in the city who know she is who she says. They met her when we first took her in as our own," explained the Scholar.

"But are they reputable witnesses? Are they trustworthy?" asked the merchant elf as he reached for a small cup of water he had at his stall, taking a sip.

"One of them is Qutaiba Farisi, Guardmaster of Thimeyra. The other is the Qa'id, Antar Timeem."

Ameen almost choked on his drink, requiring several moments to recover, several coughs accentuating his surprise before he settled. "Ah. Yes, I suppose someone of your reputation would have friends in high places in Thimeyra. I believe that would be more than sufficient."

[C S]

Syria pulled in a sharp breath to calm herself. This... this... anger. It was unlike anything she'd ever felt before.

It was going to make her lightheaded if she didn't breathe easily.

Another sharp inhale.

And another.

Her magic took her quills while her bag opened up on its green-lit accord. As she put the quills, inkwells in her coat pockets and her book back into the bag, Syria said, "Well, we're going to get the rest of those spices we need to make Beshayir a delicious dish that will keep all the good Thimeyra represents in her heart. Then, we're going to buy her and a few friends of ours some gifts. Before the day is through, dear Ameen, I --" She stopped herself. One arm wrapped around Septimus' waist. "We will get Beshayir what is rightfully hers, and we will be forever grateful for this blessing that came to us in her time of need."

[The Kingpin]

"If it is spices you need, I am sure I can part with some for you. It is only fair, seeing as you have been taking care of my granddaughter. Help yourself," stated the trader as he gestured towards his stall, the wide, well stocked thing lined with rows upon rows of spice sacks of dozens of different colours. While Septimus moved forward to take a look, Ceridwen pointedly kept her distance. "The courts will not be open now. Their hours are limited, and they close in the afternoons. Though you would do well to speak to the Qa'id and the Guardmaster so that they would be ready if they are summoned to testify." Septimus was quick to nod, reminded that he had to meet with Antar soon anyway.

"So, what dish are you planning to make?"

"Murga!" said Beshayir, eager to steer the conversation away from such a depressing topic.

"Murga? My...You'll need many spices indeed. "Lets see if I remember them all..."

[C S]

After procuring the last of the missing ingredients, things were beginning to feel like they were going back to normal. Perhaps normal wasn't the right way to describe it. The troop was on its way to doing what they had planned for the day, which was a welcome boon to all their spirits after recent developments. They still had to deal with Septimus' surge in popularity among the shopkeepers and the mutual trepidation concerning Ceridwen, in which the small dragon put her best towards not inconveniencing another merchant with a destructive fluke, and the merchants who begged for the Life Bringer's favor to not to be inconvenienced by another destructive fluke.

They could plan, but "routine" was far from what their lives had become with one another.

Once the murga was squared away, Septimus and Syria were free to look into getting their Solstice gifts in order for when they next met their village-friends, currently away from their village. Two days late, and later still when they actually got their presents, but the meaning was all the same.

They combed the rows of market stalls, carts, wagon-side shops; they even came across the square where Septimus talked to the quite literal spirit dragon, though a new act had taken the place of the muse wandering Aster. They found a clothing store early on in the outing, and Beshayir was given free rein to put together her ideal Thimeyran outfit.

It came as some surprise when she raced back to the front of the shop not too long after she went in, as if she did not need to gaze at the displays and hanging gowns at all to know what she wanted. Her outfit consisted mainly of a dress that could have been mistaken for a robe. It was an earthly ocher, and Syria thought it matched one of the spices they had gotten for the murga. Blue vine decorations circled the shoulders and waist, but they broke Thimeyran convention by including bright orange blossoming desert flowers on the designs as well. It was an artful expression in thread. A plain blue headveil completed the piece, and when Beshayir wore the dress and covers together, it was self-evident what she was going for.

She looked like a Thimeyran mage, a desert flame. If only her pyromancy teacher could see her now, or even the very-much-a-spirit dragon roaming Aster's holds.


They bought Beshayir's dress and continued on poking about Thimeyra's shops, spying a few Solstice decorations still up, usually on high places that involved some effort to get to. Effort that no one could really muster in the aftermath of celebrations. This was the case in many cities across the land, and would continue to be so well into the spring-time season.


Syria picked out a curious feather duster for Ceridwen. The feathers were an exotic black, green, blue and white, but the mage was assured they were actually very common. "They are from paropera birds! They live out in the desert around Thimeyra, and are smaller than the hawks that rangers use to send their messages around their shipping routes." Syria told the merchant that she wasn't familiar with any sort of messenger birds, and was informed of outpost Neghisa, The Fountain, where birds wearing caps and goggles were sent out with letters to get speedy word out of the desert. Syria learned that some sled-ships were carrying them on board as well, scouts that kept tabs on conditions out on the dunes, be those conditions pertaining to raider activity or dust storms swelling from the base of the Razors. "But enough about the desert hawks. Paroperas frequent the places where the shaak'talas grow." Cactus eaters, Syria learned with some help from Septimus. Perhaps something to see before they left the desert enroute to Drakhunmiir.

The interesting tidbit aside, Syria bought the duster for its short handle made from the smooth wood of a palm tree, striped and ridged for a firm grip in hand. It wasn't that she found the need to dust off the shelves in the satchel, though now she had something for just that, should it ever arise. No, she bought it for the fact that she thought it would be useful in helping Ceridwen groom herself, a comb for her feathers. One that happened to look very beautiful.

The hours passed them by picking out the rest of the presents for the others. That evening, the quartet was up the steps to the Qa'id's palace, outside his doors for one last bit of business. It happened to be a very large bit of business, nevertheless.




The evening marked the closing of another busy day in Brodudika filled with chatter of the 'emblem of heroes'. The streets were mostly clear of snow, the ones who did battle against winter standing by for the next snowfall. Guards began their rounds lighting the streetlamps, and tired people took themselves from their places of daily toil to their personal bastions of peace and quiet. Or not, in some cases. Moira and Orthelia met up for another trip to the tavern, "Last night was so much fun, we've got to make this a thing for the two of us!" as suggested by the lady in the the wide brimmed hat.

The rooftops were a different setting entirely for the watchers that took up their mantle again, tempting fate to send another snowstorm their way as much as they were tempting their enemies to show their faces that night.

Dahnae was uncharacteristically tired after the begrudging early morning. No detours or antics as an ocelot, her nose was too precious any which way, no fuss about being bored alone in her room. She just wanted to eat her dinner, change out of her clothes and roll up in her bed. The dwarf that had watched over her until class started was still at the school, finalizing Viho's glove. The vaun that usually accompanied her was on the fifth floor -- "Isn't that the critter that fell into storage room down the hall?" -- helping to prepare the little vials of powdered herbs that would be given to the psychomancer. It was thought that allowing him to add his treatment to his preferred drinks would make it easier for him to indulge the mixtures regularly. It was easier to down some off-tasting tea than a slurry of medicine that a certain field doctor would be wont to make on the side of some forlorn road.

In his humble retreat, Desrium had his legs crossed over one another, hands on the crux of his knees. He also happened to be a few feet off of the floor, meditating, bending magic around himself to enable levitation. He once resorted to this ability on purpose, to ascend the sheer cliff outside of Jiier's cavern before he was retrieved by the dragon a little ways up it. He also blundered into it when he'd first encountered Arashi at Agnaroth, suddenly floating past Septimus and the Steward to meet the wyrm that he'd taken as an oppressor and opponent of his Scholarly friend. Its greatest use was after the Justicar Keep was bested, and the then-Champion needed to clear the rubble of a tower by his lonesome.

Many things had changed in such a short time.

As his eyes pulsated, pumping out streams of blues and purples into the air around his helm, the ethereal Desrium within the confines of his mind reflected back on the use of a crane to place his shell onto the Dunefox. He could not say whether or not he would have been able to levitate safely in meditation with the bustling chaos of a sand-harbor around him, but some part of Desrium did regret the hassle that came with him not trying.

Then again, if he'd miscalculated, the Dunefox would have had a hole through its deck and hull, and Andruil's meeting with Cleotaire could have been delayed significantly. It would have been a costly gamble.

But had he not gambled overwhelming stakes in his most heroic acts in the past?

Would saving some dockworkers a little effort for his sake be worth such a gamble?

This was why the armored being meditated. Sensing that the uneasy truce brokered by the world was almost at an end, he chose to spend some time exploring these mostly inconsequential matters while he still could.

[The Kingpin]

"...So you're telling me that you did not take care of this paperwork before you departed Thimeyra?" asked Antar, sipping his qahwa as he lounged in the throne room of the palace, the low-set chairs that curved around the fireplace moved a bit closer than Septimus remembered them being during his last visit. The fire was roaring, the heat considerable. He wouldn't have known it was a winter night outside had he not been in it less than an hour prior.

The throne room was once more empty, the day's diplomatic and social responsibilities tended to.

"We didn't realise there was any paperwork to be done. She was an orphan in the street with no family, no food, barely anything more than the clothes on her back. We did not suspect she had anything else. And apparently, neither did she," explained Septimus, taking a sip from his own cup of the earthy drink. Ceridwen, he noted, was curled up between the chairs and the fireplace, a short distance from them. She sat much like a cat, on her haunches, her forelimbs between her hinds and her tail curled around her, puffed up to the point she looked like some form of strange fluffy cactus, no defining features visible with her snout and feet buried in feathers.

Antar nodded, his brow furrowed in concentration. "I understand. I am simply making sure that I have the full story. How did you learn of this matter?"

"Her grandfather, a trader named Ameen Hifaadhi, told me the story. He travels with a Sahari Caravan and told me he was not here when Beshayir was thrown out by her uncle. This is the first they have seen of each other in two years," stated the Scholar. Beshayir sat beside him, clad in her new outfit. Septimus had to admit it was becoming of her. It suited her personality, her practical mindset that was born of hardship.

"Very well. Eshraf!" called Antar, a servant in the corner of the throne room rushing over.

"Yes, Qa'id?" asked the elf, the two having shifted to their native tongue.

"Bring some parchment, a quill and ink. There is something I need written," explained the Lord of Thimeyra. "Send for the Guardmaster, and two priests from the Temple, too. We will need respected witnesses to oversee it."

"At once, Qa'id," responded Eshraf, the young elvish scribe rushing off to do what he was asked.

Septimus watched, somewhat surprised. "Is all that truly required?" he asked.

"Such grave matters as inheritance fraud need to be dealt with thoroughly. Procedure must be followed, or the Inheritance Office may dismiss the claim," he stated simply. "More than once, people have tried to wrest what was not theirs from their rightful owners. It is always the more orderly and thorough account that succeeds. I may be the Qa'id, but that does not mean they will simply take my word for it."

[C S]

Hearing this, Syria hummed and almost seemed to sink further into her seat on the other side of Beshayir. She had her staff in her lap almost like a cane, legs crossed. With the way she'd been silently thinking about what was being discussed, it could have been taken as her sulking. She wasn't. Her thoughts had wandered away on a tangent she thought ridiculous in retrospect. After paving over her anger and grief over the last few hours, the thing that crossed Syria's mind was, "In the stories, she'd have some family heirloom... the secret ring with the bloodline power... that would prove that she was the real princess, and the villain of the story would bring about their own demise by trying to take it..."

[Hopeflower]

As things wound down in Thimeyra, beyond the edges of the activity of civilization, the desert was coming to life. Small prey ventured warily from their burrows, always aware of the predators who would hunt them.

Even more slowly, an unremarkable bit of sand shifted until a pair of eyes could peer above the surface. Their owner was still for as long as it deemed it was necessary to be. A forked tongue licked the air once, twice, and then inch by inch the humanoid reptilian pulled itself free of its sandy bed. It had lain in wait all day for the heat of the day to begin to cool. The winters might still have been bitterly cold in the desert, but nature had its way of balancing punishing environments with the ability to sustain life. The Oniare rested its belly on the sand, lifted its blunt head a fraction to better keep an eye on its surroundings, and waited for its blood to warm that crucial few degrees more.

Around it, a handful of nearly identical silhouettes emerged and took up similar postures. Though nowhere near as numerous as the families of their forest-dwelling cousins and smaller than Sami and her kin, these predators were no less dangerous - or wary.

And so, when they were good and ready, the pack of well-camouflaged reptilians slipped away to track down a meal.


This was, Viho thought, one of the few times he could say he felt like his heart was beating in his throat. When instructed to do so, he lifted the gauntlet carefully and started strapping it to his forearm. They needed to know it fit tightly to his arm - he was aware of that. What he was less certain of was how his shoulder would react to the magic without the benefit of painkillers. Thus he was cautious in flexing his fingers once the thing was on, and he didn't try to lift his arm just yet.

Baby steps.

[The Kingpin]

"These things take time to do, and we will likely be sitting here for some time yet before everyone is assembled. So let us speak of better things, for now. Tell me, how was your Solstice?"


"Spent in Daaven, to the sight of thundersnow, the taste of wonderful food, and the company of wonderful people. They have another name for it there. Guthander," replied the Scholar with a smile.

Antar seemed greatly interested by the description, leaning forward in his seat, seeming to be asorbed in thought over something of what was said. "Thunder..snow? It sounds like an interesting sight. I must admit, I have never seen snow myself," said the Lord of Thimeyra.

"I suppose that's understandable. A desert would not see much snow. Though I did see snow on the Razors on the way here," noted the Scholar.

"Oh, I have seen it on mountain tops, of course. But I mean falling from the sky. I have not seen such a thing before."

A smile graced the Scholar's features at that. "Well, you have both me and Syria here. We could both show you, if you're willing to allow for a bit of magic," offered Septimus.

"I would like that, but perhaps after our business here is concluded. I do not think any contacts this 'Sufyan' may have would resist the chance of discrediting my testimony by saying I was bewitched. And the Temple Priests will sense if I have been touched by magic," responded Antar somewhat disappointedly, an apologetic smile meeting Septimus's curious expression.

[C S]

Syria rubbed an eye and yawned quietly, but sat up in spite of her declining energy. She could never be too tired to talk about things of a mystical nature. "Touched by magic... you mean, if I were to reach into your mind and share memories, right?" the mage inquired. The funny thing about mana: it was so versatile she was sure she could figure out a way to share the experience through technicality, like a proper Daavenian law-speaker. One that used a staff, and did not study the law of the province for many years.

So anything but a law-speaker, she realized, rubbing her chin thoughtfully.




The gauntlet fit onto Viho's shoulder. It was tight and snug. The padding meant that it did not constrict or dig into his flesh. The elf could be forgiven for a moment of thinking it mighty stylish, as well. Vanity was not going to send a surge of agony -- fresh agony -- through his shoulder and bring him to his knees. With all of the staffers watching, Solaurn at the forefront, Viho donning his new equipment was...

Fairly ordinary, really. Just like putting on any other kind of protective gear.

"How's it feel?" broached one of the voices in the back.

[The Kingpin]

Antar had been sipping his drink when Syria spoke. Swallowing it, he nodded. "Exactly. I am not sure how it is done, specifically. But those touched by magic are very visible to them. I have heard tales of mages able to change one's mind so absolutely that even the recipient himself cannot tell that they were ever any different. So in theory, if one such mage were to touch my mind in such a way..."

"...Even the Priests would not know what was there originally. I can see their point. My father is known for his skill in that field. Well, that and bending the weather to his will," responded Septimus.

[Hopeflower]

Viho considered. Carefully, he put his arm through the limited range of motion he knew he was capable of without jarring the injury. In the months of disuse, his muscles had weakened - he could feel that in the minor additional effort it took to lift his forearm toward his shoulder. He could also feel that in that motion, the setup on his shoulder pulled just slightly on the injured limb. Simple, but meant to maximize the motion with as little effort and stress on the joint as possible.

It was, in fact, quite ingenious. Especially for a first attempt.

"Secure," he replied once he was done with his initial experimenting. "I believe it will do what it's meant to do. We'll know for certain soon." And he looked up to offer a small but genuine smile to the researchers. "Thank you."

[C S]

Syria nodded. "I would imagine you would want a psychomancer in your court. A trusted one to share your mind with regularly, so that in the case of this 'bewitching', they would be able to pinpoint what exactly was meddled with," she reasoned out loud. "That, and identify the magical signature of the subverter. Ah, perhaps you should keep an eye out for a potential wife with the skills?"



"Great! Now, here's the kicker," one of the white-coated mages said, stepping up to the elf and gently tapping on the shoulder piece of the assembly. It looked like a rounded shoulder guard made out of ordinary steel, and to an extent it was. "Underneath this bowl here, is our talented gemcutter's work."

Solaurn looked off to one side bashfully. It was a great honor to compliment a dwarf's craftsmanship, and always humble, Solaurn didn't want anyone making a big deal out of her skills.

"She says you've been helping her tap into her slab's innate magic, so you tapping into that jewel shouldn't be too hard. Go ahead, link your mind to it."

[The Kingpin]

"The last time I sought a wife with magical power, she laughed at my audacity and gave me the Trial of Kings," responded Antar with a chuckle. "Mages tend to be a critical and free-spirited lot. Not the kind that would take well to living in a palace in a city for the rest of their lives. The only exception I have seen are the Temple Priests, and they are only the way they are because they have sworn oaths, vows to the Spirits."

"The Trial of Kings?" asked Septimus, intrigued.

"The lady in question was the Life Bringer. The Trial of Kings is a trial of the mind, usually restricted to those who would be expected to rule."

"Oh. Oh." The Scholar was flabbergasted by the revelation. He shouldn't have been, he knew. The gemstone in Antar's crown was, on closer inspection, undoubtedly an Eye. And as he recalled, in order to receive an Eye, one usually had to endure a Trial.

"Yes, I was a bold and adventurous man in my youth. Recklessly so, at times. It is perhaps why I found my meeting with Andruil so pleasant. He reminds me of myself in my younger years."

[Hopeflower]

There was a second's confusion and admiration when Viho did so. The stone, instead of leeching his magic like he'd half expected it to, resonated with its own power. Then awareness hit him, and he reached to brace himself against a table while he tried to adjust. He knew every impulse, every muscle that went into the clenching of his left fist. He could sense the emptiness where the muscle of his shoulder had been torn from him and the new energy that wanted to compensate for the loss. His magic flared, snapped - across the room, it sounded like a rather heavy book went flying from its spot and hit the floor - and settled again.

It took Viho a few moments to realize he'd done that.

Even with that understanding, all that the psychomancer could manage was a somewhat strangled, "Oh."