Lore of Leyuna RPG (FRPG)

[Hopeflower]

Arsenic hesitated in carefully lifting his own mug with both hands to eye Andruil at the topic change. After a moment's consideration, he took his sip and responded, 'Better than yesterday. Still unsteady, though the fever that developed last night has broken.' He released the cup with one hand to demonstrate the slight residual tremors. They intensified as soon as there were only a couple of fingers supporting the mug, and he took hold of it again before his tea could spill. 'I can't say for sure, but I suspect I breathed enough of that gas for it to be slightly toxic to me. It has to work its way out of my system.' He paused again, adding almost reflexively, 'I'll be fine. And you?'

[The Kingpin]

"That depends," he responded after a short moment of consideration. "Physically, I am fine... Aside from too little sleep. The mind however..." he trailed off. "The mind has a penchant to burden itself with the pains of those close to it as though they were its own," he continued, taking a sip of his tea as he reminded himself that everyone in that room was acutely aware of that, too. "I will be okay again when Shiryaz is strong enough to go back to his old self."

[Hopeflower]

The mute assassin's gaze slid toward Vix, then Rowan. They knew better than most that one needed to find a way to be okay again after the worst had passed. They also knew better than most that they were each made up of their own formations of clumsily glued-together pieces and jagged edges. Rowan gave the slightest encouraging nod.

'We'll be here.' It was a simple assurance to give. Not the one he wanted to give, because he couldn't claim to know whether or not Shiryaz would be alright. This was all he had.

[The Kingpin]

The Knight nodded, smiling, a bit more genuinely this time. "I know. And I am grateful." He went to take another sip of his tea, blinking when he realised he was not getting any. Looking down, he saw the mug was empty. "Well then... I believe it is time I made myself useful. There's somewhere I need to go...Questions I need to ask." With that, he rose to his feet, setting the mug down on the table by his chair, to be reused when he returned. Looking down at his dishevelled looking clothes, he got to straightening it out, undoing his waistcoat and tucking his shirt in properly, tugging up his collar to straighten out the creases. His waistcoat got the same treatment, and one of the middle buttons of his wirshah were done up, the lower portion of the coat left open to allow him to reach for his sword if he needed to. He doubted it. Unfortunate as it was to say, yesterday's events had made him a lot more recognisable in the streets of Brodudika than he would have liked. On the one hand, it meant that those that sought vengeance would know who to go for. On the other, it meant that most of the petty criminals targetting elves would know to steer clear of him.

Pulling up his hood, he looked over to the others. "Anything you want me to bring back when I return?"

[Hopeflower]

Another round of exchanged glances, followed by Vix giving a half shrug and Rowan shaking her head. Arsenic imitated the motion after some thought.

'There's nothing I need, except maybe more rest.' He rubbed at his knuckles gingerly; they were bruised almost as badly as his cheek. All things that would heal, in time.

[The Kingpin]

The Knight nodded, and with that, stepped out the door and into the chilling grips of the winter cold. Closing the door behind him, he lowered his head and began to walk, pushing against the windy weather and the flurries as he did so. His face may have been recognisable at this point, but it would be harder to identify one cast in shadow.

He noted with a cringe that his stomach seemed to be clawing at itself with the pangs of hunger. Perhaps on the way back, he'd grab something to eat. He hadn't really eaten since...yesterday, apparently.

[Hopeflower]

Another quiet moment in which the three old friends tried to figure out how to handle the situation they found themselves in. Instinct insisted one of them go with Andruil. The bonds forged by time and hardship demanded that Vix and Rowan stayed with the ailing assassin. And Arsenic, despite the knowledge that his friend had only spoken so carelessly thanks to his own pain and fear, wanted to take some time to let the dull ache in his chest go numb again.

Forgiven or not, Andruil's words had cut very close to home indeed.

Vix was the first to open her mouth. "Nick?"

'I'm okay.' Arsenic spoke softly and stood stiffly, wincing at the protests of his abused knees. He waited for the slight dizziness to pass and took a few limping steps toward the stairs. Once he realized he wouldn't be able to get up them alone - at least, not without quite a lot of difficulty - he turned to ask over his shoulder, 'Help me? I think I want to lie down a while longer.'

The fact that Arsenic was faring the worse in terms of physical health won out. The women rose almost as one, and took up positions on either side of Arsenic, the better to catch him if he started to fall.

"You know," Rowan mused, "I think we could all use a lazy day. What do you think?"

'I think you're a little late to be using the word all,' Arsenic replied with a shadow of his usual dry sense of humor.

"Nah, he said he'd be back. Sooner or later."

The mute hummed neutrally. 'In any case,' he said, releasing a breath of relief when they reached the top of the staircase, 'don't let me slow your research down just because I'm not up for much running around today.'

"I can get some work done here," Vix assured him, giving him a gentle squeeze.

They picked one of the two rooms the group called theirs for the moment, and had soon settled comfortably on one of the beds. Arsenic, true to what he'd said to Andruil, was shortly dozing with his head on Rowan's stomach. She laid sprawled with her upper back pressed to the headboard, carding one hand through his hair and holding a book in the other. Her quiet humming filled the room. At the foot of the bed, with her legs laid companionably across Rowan's, Vix settled to keep working as best as she could from where they'd left off.

It was as close to home as they could get here. For this moment, it was enough.

[C S]

"Morning, Johnny-boy."

"The best of it to you, Kenneth. However much is left."

The visiting Green-Coat plopped down into the seat he had associated with Natalie over the last several days and proceeded to lean it back so that he was rocking himself on the rear two legs. Johnathon paused in his writing, took a deep breath through his nose, then said: "I thought you told me you kicked that habit."

"Kicked..." Kenneth tucked his chin into his chest to give Johnathon a questioning look. It was the act of doing so itself that brought things into perspective. "Oh. I thought I did too," he replied as he gently eased the chair back into its intended position. He then crossed his legs. "I reckon I've been thinking about work too deeply lately."

"You and me both," Johnathon wanted to say, but didn't. He would not be much of a confidant if his sought after insight was I've got the same problem. "I heard you broke up an incident at some bar last night. What's there to get caught up on?"

"Fair play; you usually go to a place like that to stop thinking for a little bit," Kenneth chuckled despite himself. "What's been whittling me down though, is how we've wound up here. Think about it: we've been doing this job for years, most of it just run of the mill petty crimes and a few missing people here and there. The serious stuff... the serious stuff..." Because sometimes, a missing person became something very serious, "... That used to be few and far between."

"Wishing for the days when our biggest cases were determining if Urlox's latest 'dueling partner' was actually a reasonable threat, or if he had finally gone out of his mind with that sword of his to come back?"

"Can't say that I am, but those were simpler times, back in Daaven. The showdowns in the streets were regrettable, the old gang-families and their feuds were just damn shames, people using the lake to dump their unwanted was a travesty, but at least we didn't have to deal with a four-pronged psychotic attack... with one of those prongs being magical." It was difficult for Johnathon to tell if Kenneth's shudder was legitimate or something done for emphasis.

The detective hummed his acknowledgement all the same. To be fair, another of those prongs was just a guy with a pickle jar. That's pretty strange by itself, now that I think about it. What Johnathon chose to voice was, "We get to see a lot more undesirable traits working in this city, I won't deny that one bit. A lot more than what Daaven on its worst days had to offer. But we're needed." Johnathon did his best not to stumble over the visual of carrying a girl covered in blood through the cold night. He moved right along, adding, "Magic complicates things; again, no contest from me. But it's from that complicated mess that we got Natalie, and after yesterday, that means one less person facing the death penalty for terrorism."

Of the three surviving prisoners, only the pickle guy would serve a sentence out in jail, solely for how inconsequential his methods were. The sentence came with counseling, in the hopes of rehabilitating him in a more tried and true manner that didn't mean risk to his already damaged psyche.

Kenneth hummed his agreement. "We're needed, able and somewhat-mostly willing," he said, finding some reassurance in that conclusion. "Thanks a lot, buddy. To be honest, I thought I'd be a wet blanket and make you as glum as I was a moment ago."

"I probably would be if I hadn't been told something... uplifting? It's a bit of a chore to describe, really." Johnathon sat back in his chair and leaned his head back, rolling his shoulders. "'None of the world's evils are inevitable. They're born of the choices a person makes.' Doesn't take the hurt out of knowing that a few bad decisions can ruin whole lives, but it means we're not headless chickens running around, trying to herd sprites or something equally impossible. And maybe we do end up helping some people with what we do. Isn't that why we do it?"

Kenneth added astutely, "And to get paid. Gotta pay those taxes to keep this city of heroes going." It was to be a lighthearted jab, but it reminded Kenneth, "As a matter of fact, a few of Viho's students got recruited for the special measures needed to hold the one calling herself Glee. The psychic. A little extra coin for every hour they can keep her out of their heads. From what I last heard, she's probably still trying to order one of them to let her out of the cell."

Johnathon let out a sigh. He was not surprised. It was good to know that the city's benefactor had all the small details covered, though. "I will hazard to presume that the use of 'still' there means she's not getting through and will just tire herself out."

"They're good students. Managed to speak to one on break before I came to lounge in your therapy space."

"Don't call my office that."

"Something-something about mental barriers and memories being used to trap intruders in limbo. Or something. I'm not a mind-magic user. Speaking of therapy spaces--"

"What did I just say?" Johnathon asked shortly, eyes snapping to Kenneth.

"--Where is Natalie? Didn't see her on the way in."

"She's with--" Johnathon's gaze shot from Kenneth to the opening door. Kenneth followed, turning in his seat.

Natalie returned the gazes of the two men in the office, initial surprise transitioning into a criticism of herself. "Oh, I'm interrupting some important discussion. I should have knocked first, I'm sorry."

"No apologies needed," Kenneth offered brightly. "It's I who should be apologizing for yesterday. Spoke out of turn, I did."

"We were just wondering about you," Johnathon said. "Did you enjoy your 'show' at the church?"

"Oh, it was splendid," Natalie replied. She stepped into the office and closed the door behind her. She started undoing her coat and Kenneth sprung from the chair to offer it to her, to which she bowed graciously and sat. "The songs were great, but there was more to that visit. Evisa advised me to start looking into a proper residence as a way to get situated now that I don't have charges against me. She's even willing to help me find a job if I don't have any luck on my own."

She continued in a more subdued tone, "I'm reminded of communion back home. I wonder if the Drakenhallowed is still standing in Freyr-Lunge. You would go there and speak to the Intendeds if you needed to be grounded in life after disaster or tragedy. I don't consider myself very religious, but things like this make me think. I went to church again for the first time in... a very long time... for songs of vikings, and I leave with a renewed sense of promise and purpose."

"Would I be speaking out of turn some more if I said that Greshlynk's forgiven you, as well?" Kenneth pondered aloud with a gentle smile.

Natalie shrugged. "I'm not a priestess. I can't say what Greshlynk's motivations are and aren't, and it's the job of the clergy to be angry at blasphemers. I know they've been angry at people like me for a long time." There was a choking sensation at the base of her throat, and she clasped her hands to fight back an onset of tears.

She snapped her fingers abruptly, seeing an opening to change the topic of discussion. "I saw Desr-- er... the benefactor when I left the church." Why people didn't just call him by name went over her head, but she didn't want to stand out too much by insinuating she was a close friend of that armored oddity. "I think Evisa is with him now."

Kenneth glanced over to Johnathon. "You ever notice how things get really quiet around the city whenever those two are out and about on the streets? It's nice," he joked.

"No contention here." Johnathon jotted a few more things down. "What do peop-- beings of their caliber talk about, I wonder?"



At that moment, outside of the city walls...



"So you've got shadows in your sword, now?"

"Yes. Not just now, however. It is only today that I have been able to channel them, but they have been with the Fang for an extensive amount of time."



The viking did find it uncanny how Desrium was taking the same route she was taking on the way back to her elemental babs. At first she took it as just coincidence -- he must have been on his way to handle some important issue. When he did not stray, she asked about things, and Desrium's response, as was common for him, was vague and unhelpful. "There is something that has come up that needs to be addressed before I can continue with the day's plans."

"So is that an important issue, or what?"

When Desrium made to walk off into the wilderness, Evisa confronted him. "You're just going to disappear without telling anyone? Or does all of your staff know and you're not going to tell me? Because if you think you can just dismiss me like that, you have another thing coming."

Desrium's response disarmed Evisa's roused temper. "You are also part of my staff, to be technical."

"... What the hell is going on?" she asked.

And Desrium told her. He spared her the lecture of Leyuna's history, of knowing things that happened far before his time. That was a talk to be had with Septimus, whenever their paths crossed again. What Evisa heard was the tale of the True Blood Omen, starting from the night he woke up on a beach, the day it was taken by Eredar, its clash and subsequent defeat against the holy Lance, and its return to him in Thimeyra. The story came full circle when Desrium described unlocking the eclipsing dark.



Evisa cocked her helmeted head after hearing that last bit and braced her back against a nearby tree trunk. She thought back to her first meeting with Desrium. If it could be called a meeting.

"You are not going to draw your weapon?"

"Weapons such as that sword are only meant to be used against an unreasonable and unwavering foe. That was what my teacher in the Order, Ghul, used to tell me. You are not a burning terror. I do not intend to have you be my foe, either."

Evisa realized that there had been something more to the armored being's words. It wasn't that he was assured of his sword's effectiveness in a battle, that he felt as though it was too great an instrument to be wielded in petty duels. That was what she made of it at the time, and it drove her up the proverbial wall that her opponent could be so arrogant.

She couldn't have been more wrong, Evisa now knew. Desrium called it 'that sword' back then because he feared its use, reserving it only for the enemies that were irredeemably rotten, if only for the fact that it did not matter what terrible fate the metal teeth along the sword's edge would bring in that case, as long as innocents were spared in their place. It was only after being named the Stalwart did he have a renewed reverence of the Fang, but he was still left with controlling that unknown power. What would happen if he used that sword?

Evisa folded her arms after the period of thought. "You want to find out."

"Excuse me?"

"You're going to march out into the middle of nowhere, make sure nothing is around to get hurt, and find out."

Desrium was left standing where he was; his focus on Evisa could have been described as staring.

"You're going off to train, jeez. I might have skipped a few logical steps in conversation, but you're smart enough to fill in the blanks."

Desrium bowed his helm.

"I'd be lying if I said I didn't want to know. What the sword can do, I mean." Evisa pushed off of the tree and assumed her battle stance, pantomiming a few quick jabs Desrium's way.

"I cannot spar against you," Desrium said, his gaze still lowered. "Not until I am able to... quantify these abilities. And even then, it may be too dangerous for you."

Dangerous.

Really.

Evisa scoffed. "Do you know who you're talking to? Went out on a ship to fight a leviathan? Dangerous? When has danger stopped me? I even fought you without hesitation." I do not intend to have you be my foe, either. There was some guilt to be felt after that slipped out.

"The leviathan was young," Desrium replied simply after Evisa's internal flinching. She found it funny and endearing in an odd way.

"Yeah, well so was I." Evisa held an arm out and leaned against the tree again. "Anyway, that's just rambling-talk. You want to learn how to use that sword in the most righteous way possible, with as much restraint possible, right?"

Desrium raised his gaze, only to nod.

"Well once you learn what you can do, you can practice restraint against me. Damn if I'm not the only one who stands a chance of keeping up with you, if only for a little while."

"Thank you, Lady of Light," Desrium replied. He could not express his gratitude as he felt it. He owed Cleotaire a bit of a debt as well, for giving him that extra push needed to triumphing over the fear of the imperceptible shadows. It was his deepest regret that he could not pass on those sentiments. Again, something to be done when Septimus came his way next.

"Lady of Light. Huh. No problem... uh..." Evisa ran through all the things she'd heard Desrium be called. She felt it would be most fitting, given her previous recollection, to say, "Justicar."

Which made Desrium remember: "In eight hundred years, brother, her light has been the truest I have ever laid eyes on. The only sunshine that has made me feel warmth. That circle pasted on this red sky is nothing but a paltry imitation."

He hummed a quiet tone. "I have come some ways since my days of sunlight," Desrium said. "I do not hold an unending torch, but an absolute cloak, in my hands. Though Moria is also the patron of the night, the power stems from Eredar, so among the warriors of Tyrbenetus, I am an outsider. A servant I will forever be, but Justicar and Champion, I am not since I fulfilled that sacred duty."

Before he set off on his way, Desrium told Evisa, "May you and your creed heed the sun, for you draw the greatest strength from it. I will beg favor from the moon, and Aster itself. It was once protected by Eredar's veil, long ago. Perhaps it will accept me as a feeble replacement, yet."

"Godspeed," was all Evisa had to say to that.

It seemed fitting.

[The Kingpin]

The Knight's arrival at the precinct had been a muted and unannounced affair. He walked in quietly, asked for some directions, and went to the alchemist's office. That this place actually had a dedicated alchemist for studying such things was something that impressed Andruil. For a small city state, this place, this 'city of heroes' was almost as well equipped as some of Valenhad's provincial capital cities in terms of its investigative capabilities, if perhaps eclipsed in sheer manpower.

But that was to be expected. It wasn't even a year old yet. It would be many decades or even centuries before Brodudika grew to such a scale.

There was a knock at the door as Carver Chadwick looked up from his notes. He was an older man, fairly lanky and gaunt-faced, with a grey smattering of hair on a head that had spent a great many years digging through alchemical tomes. By this point, he knew most of the important ones by heart. Dark, thick cotton clothes in hues of green and black were worn under a long white coat emblazoned with the crests of Daaven on one shoulder, the Tremaine Alchemical Society on the other, and Brodudika over one breast.

"Come in."

The door creaked as it was pushed inwards, and the tall man with the yellow eyes beyond crossed the threshold, the shimmering gaze unnerving under the hood. "Greetings, master alchemist." The voice was low, rough, and seeming the faintest bit tired to the ear.

"Greetings. Can I help you?" asked Carver as he rose to his feet.

The man before him pulled down his hood, a small, tired smile crossing his features. "I pray you can. Sir Andruil Lyall, Valenhadian Silver Knights. I have been working with your colleagues downstairs for some time now," explained the man...no, elf. The pointed tips of his ears were barely visible in his light brown hair.

"I see. I do not often mingle with them unless something comes up that requires my knowledge. Admittedly, that has been surprisingly frequent in the past few days. Please, have a seat," responded Carver as he sat back down, releasing his grip on the dagger behind his back as he did so.

"Understandable. I'm here about yesterday's incident," explained the Knight as he pushed the door shut and sat down in one of the chairs in front of the desk. He took an opportunity to examine what was in the room.

The desk was piled high with notes that he presumed were alchemical in nature, as he had no clue what any of them said. A bookshelf covered much of the wall to his left, and a row of counters lined the walls to the right. The bookshelf was a new addition. The counters were not. He noted, looking down, that there seemed to be an outline of something that once was there in the middle of the floor, between his chair and the desk. Some odd stains here and there told the story of a torture room that had once existed here. Usually, his nose would pick up on such places, the scent of stale blood clinging long after the source was long removed. But it was clear that this alchemist would not have stood for such a thing if it was to be his office. He undoubtedly managed to dispose of most of the residue. Not the stains, however. Those, he knew, had a tendency to burn their mark on their surroundings. Especially in places where none cared for their removal.

"Of course. Laughter is a real piece of work. Some of the things she had in that coat of hers could have caused a lot of damage and chaos. It's surprising she went for something so harmless as a laughing gas," explained Carver as he reached for one folder in his pile, opening it up and setting it down in front of Andruil.

The Knight leaned forward to take the folder, putting it in his lap as beginning to read. "Sear root?" he asked, looking up at the alchemist with concerned eyes.

Carver nodded easily. "An odd plant known for causing an exothermic release of energy when the surface of the root is broken. Combined with the spores of the popcap mushroom, it creates a very rapid dispersal of whatever is clinging to them," he explained, standing up and gesturing to one of the counters, where an enchanted crystal shone brightly over several small clay orbs, a number of small vials filled with powders of different colours set up beside them. Andruil looked at the vials, then back down to the notes.

"Mind Nettle? As in the-?"

"The recreational herb, yes. Hence the laughter. The primary reaction to inhaling the chemicals within the herb is to have an uncontrollable urge to laugh. In the form it was used, a few other chemicals contributed to hallucinogenic effects and a possible post-contact shortness of breath."

"I don't recognise many of the ingredients in this paper, master alchemist. My concern is very specific. Was there anything that could cause lasting harm in that blast in the square?" asked Andruil as he looked up from the document to Carver.

The Alchemist turned to consider Andruil's inquiry more closely, his brow furrowed. "Someone you know?"

"A griffinhawk, to be exact. Hunting companion and something of a family member for nearly twenty years now. It was he who brought down Laughter before she could do more harm, but he ended up being in the thick of the cloud when she hit the floor."

There were many expressions that Carver was seemingly known not to have. Surprise was one of them. It would also be something that could be crossed from that list. "Hm. Interesting," he said as he reached a hand out for the folder in Andruil's hand, which was returned in short order. "As far as I was able to determine, none of the ingredients used were harmful to humans, and most animals are exposed to these things in the wild anyway, either by consuming them themselves, or through the blood streams of their prey. The concentration is much higher in this form, of course, but in theory, your bird friend should be completely fine."

"He's currently being kept at the medical centre and being watched. Last I saw, he seemed almost as though he was unconscious. Weak breathing, needing help to keep hydrated."

"Peculiar. Though extremely high doses of Mind Nettle do cause those effects, they usually pass quickly."

Andruil was getting restless now. "Did anything else dangerous get exposed when she fell? Any residue on her clothes, perhaps?"

"I already checked that thoroughly. The only thing she managed to release to the public, intentionally or otherwise, was that one chemical weapon. 'Hysterics Humour', Laughter called it. Unoriginal as far as alchemical concoctions go," stated Carver as he closed the folder, setting it down on top of the stack before turning back to the Knight.

"But to address your question, nothing dangerous was found to have been exposed there. Most of the ingredients she had in her possession were harmless, in fact. The most dangerous thing there was a powdered form of a tundra plant known as fury weed. Known to induce a destructive frenzy in the consumer. It is sometimes consumed in leaf form as a kind of tea, used as a wartime drug in the far North to enhance battle prowess."

Reaching an arm forward to Andruil's shoulder, he gave a reassuring squeeze. "You needn't worry, Sir Andruil. Your griffinhawk will be fine. It will just take some time to recover from that high a dosage of the concoction. Keep him hydrated and fed, and in time he'll be back to normal," he stated, offering a reassuring smile that seemed odd and out of place on his face, though Andruil appreciated it regardless.

"I see. Thank you, master Chadwick. You have my gratitude," said the Knight, nodding respectfully as he looked back towards the door. "I believe I will take my leave, and let you get back to your work."

"Of course, Sir Lyall," responded Carver as he walked over to the door, pulling it open and stepping aside to allow the Knight passage. "If any further developments arise, let me know. I have already sent my report to the clinic on how to remedy the effects in severe cases, so they should be making use of the treatment to help your bird."

Andruil nodded, his expression lifting with relief at that last bit. Stepping out, he turned. "Farewell, master Chadwick."



It was little over an hour later when Andruil finally returned to the boarding house. In hand was a roll of some form of paper, a large sheet narrowed out at one end and wide at the other, like some form of bouquet, though the contents were somewhat more edible than the flowers he would probably otherwise be bearing.

He made his way up the stairs and stepped through the doorway to the room where the others were doubtlessly lounging around. His features were somewhat less dour than they had been when he left, the alchemist's statement doing much to ease his mind. But with that had come a wave of sleepiness and hunger that threatened to collectively overwhelm him.

So he got everyone an early lunch.

[C S]

Desrium put Brodudika far away from him in his journey to the west. Not too far west.

Just the westward foothills of the summit he and the Scholar had intercepted a wayward plot to summon the harbinger of oblivion to Aster. Intercepted. As Desrium stood on the top of a tall hill, looking up the slope of craggy rocks, he could not help feeling a strong sense of irony; the memory of the act compounded with what he knew Morrelie was seeking. What she was seeking right that moment, however far away past these mountains she was. In another time, in another place, just perhaps.

Just perhaps;

In the most slightest of fantasies;

They could have been allies in this venture. That was all Desrium had in reserve for this tangent, however.

"Up until the last moment, I will give her every chance to change her ways."

Just perhaps; in the most slightest of fantasies; they were yet to be allies on the path of redemption. Desrium turned to look towards whence he came. The bare forest was a tight cluster of timber when seen from up high, a band of browns interspersed with white and sparse green. It partially obscured the city which, as small as it was in the distance, stood out from the surroundings. Or maybe that was just how it looked to Desrium, with his eyes keener than those of most living things.

Given the fact that Brodudika's purple banner flying over the main gate was as visible to him as any other minute detail, from the foothills, it was very likely the latter.

"Is it not hubris to view yourselves as angels?" he asked the volunteer warriors who carried these notions with them into battle.

Desrium reached over his shoulder and drew the Fang.

"Or do you find comfort in it, viewing myself as an archangel?" Like the buffer of bravery he had witnessed the devout on the wasteland killing fields exhibiting. Servants of a goddess, who in turn served them until their very last moment. Desrium had to confess that he too once felt the same way. He was no different than they, and yet he was their idol. Champion, for wielding the Lance. Benefactor, for lifting up the oppressed. Flawed just like any other.

The Stalwart held the hilt in both hands, the blade rising up and parting his field of vision, a sliver of metal that caught shining gleams on its bevels. Sunlight. Red light.

"As much as I disagree with it, I will not deny you all."

A red sun. A red moon. A false light portrayed by well-meaning shadows. No matter what form it took, Desrium aimed to protect. An unfortunate reflection of the Eight's deception.

"Even gods are flawed. I will do the best I can."

The gems in the sword's hilt flared in unison with Desrium's eyes. A serpent of dark emerged from the surface of the jagged edged sword, creeping up its curve and then spreading to encompass it entirely. Tarry, inky strands rose lethargically like sluggish flames, an inverted drip that turned into vapor and then disappeared a short distance away from the Fang.

Desrium moved the blade through the air slowly, inspecting the way the gas streamed behind the trailing edge. He turned the sword about in his grasp, and the smokey dark reacted the same way, reminiscent of the trails left by his perpetual glare. It was a mirror of himself -- not just an extension, Desrium realized. With the divine phantom's pain laid to rest, and the past accepted and forgiven, there was a strengthened unity between Desrium and his sword at long last. Polished of the marring mistakes and misdeeds. A feeling that things were right. There was no weight of regret when Desrium swung his sword, slicing the air with elegance and grace, the blademaster he was and had been for centuries.

Faster and faster he went, horizontal arcs turned vertical by seamless twists of the wrists. The curved sword left an ambient thrum in its passing, moving without resistance, no longer hindered. In tune with the Fang as he was, Desrium bested his greatest performance with the True Blood Omen two years ago. Every movement had purpose, there was no wasted effort, and no effort was greater than it had to be.

All the while, it painted the night sky, the picture lasting for only a few fleeting seconds, but that was enough. The immaculate span of a moment in time, where the balance of all things could be meditated on, appreciated, and perhaps even found beautiful. This was Desrium's inner peace: when his thoughts followed the rhythm of the Fang, and he did not think of what was done and what was yet to be done. When his winding swings and adjustment of footing went with his visions of a maned dragon circling with him along with an uncanny young drake that had an assortment of horns, one on the nose and a veritable crown of them on his head. They beat their wings and flew around him in concert with each other, directed by the motion of the Fang.

Somewhere in the aether, Desrium could almost hear a single voice rejoicing. Someone struggling to slip the bounds to offer her encouragement. He knew that she was watching.

The shadows did not just exist upon the Blood Dragon's Fang. Draped across his spiked shoulders, like another incorporeal robe, the dark fabric rippled and waved about in the breeze Desrium created in his speedy waltz. As his passions expressed themselves in movement, the fabric separated and grew, rising upwards and outwards.

These were the umbra wings, twin capes of darkness. Their ends were sharply tapered, invoking images of feathers, just like the wings of light that had grown from the armored being the night Zuppoland slipped beneath the ocean, kin to the wings of light that belonged to the Champion of Moria.

Balance in all things.



Rutgers splashed water over his face at a wide river. The water was clear, yet when viewed at his full height, the silt and sediment that rested at the bottom gave it the appearance of grays and browns. Colorful pebbles were deposited close to shore, but their colors were figuratively and literally drowned out in the deepest parts of the river. The trees were further away from the bank, giving him an uninterrupted view of the sky.

The river was not only wide, but long. Rutgers had looked to his left and right and saw water gently swooping in and out of the landscape, meandering as far as he could see. He knew this river. The Roundabout, it was called by the spaced out villages and town in the province, for its notoriously wide bends and valleys. There were points down its length where the detours were so drastic, they made the shape of a bell from above. Crews on small boats purposely ran aground on the bank and dragged the boat across the sandbar to the other side where the water flowed straight, preferring this to save time as opposed to rowing around the bend and following the curve. Crews on larger barges did not have this option.

The old river was one of many fed by the runoff from the northern peaks, such as the Kirrahara, and was one of the fastest way to reach the jungle locales to the south. From the climate and environment, Rutgers figured with some degree of certainty that he was around one of the more northern stretches of the Roundabout, meaning he was some distance from Valenhad. A few days of walking to the east and the axeman was comfortable in the assumption that he'd come across some border towns on the outskirts of the cities. Inversely, he was comfortable in his reasoning that a few days of walking west would have him back on the road connecting the eastern holds to the heartlands. His aimless wandering had come to an end, finally.

All he had to do now in the short term was find one of the bridges that spanned the river. There were arched bridges made of wood, flat bridges with wooden lattice work underneath them, and rope bridges, all spaced out at different parts of the Roundabout. Any of them would do for Rutgers.

In his moment of rest, the axeman spotted movement on the other side of the water. The creature stepped out into the sun, and its raven coat made it appear a shadow still, the illusion only challenged by the golden highlights on the feathered mane.

The hawkorski, though described as a bird-horse, did not completely look the part. Rutgers found hawkorskis to be more akin to gryphons, yet they did not have wings. Their heads bore a strong resemblance to avians, and their feathers bore the features of flight, but these animals were strictly land based. Also unlike gryphons, they were adverse to being domesticated and tamed, much to Rutgers' chagrin.

It really would have cut down his walking time if he could just hop onto a mount and crossed the river on its back.



Morrelie was also one keen on saving time. She had no interest in riding an animal to cover more ground, however. It was not about how wide of an area she searched, but rather the likelihood she was going to find what she was after in the places she did search. In a way, it was no different to hunting Desunka across Zuppoland. With vision into the flow of mana around the island, she searched for vortexes in the current that were indicative of the armored being's whereabouts. Even when he grew wise to this effect himself and took measures to lessen it, it was not something he could have negated entirely.

Things had changed considerably since those times, as was unavoidable. When Morrelie walked the countryside and panned her black eyes over huge plains and the treeline of forests, she was not seeing the ethereal gamut of colors that magical saturation brought about. That ability was something she lost when she was exposed to the reverberation of the mana well on the night all things ceased to be in that kingdom. If she tried to use it today, all she would see is a sepia tone covering everything, with patches of dark and light where shadows fell on the land, a sort of blindness that extended past sight.

The Interceptor was a stubborn entity, and defects in her physique and capabilities were not going to slow her down or deprive her of any advantage. She simply did not allow it to be. Blind to how mana concentrated, Morrelie resorted to pursuing auras in another way entirely. Wherever her eyes fell upon with the explicit intent to do so, she reached out with her power, just enough to probe for passive spells and active users. Incorporeal threads of a web to go with her chains that, when disturbed just the smallest amount, when tripped by mana responding to one's call, told her exactly where her potential quarry lay.

This method was acute enough to pinpoint what kind of magic was being used as well. If the Brotherhood was actively trying to summon their twisted lord from the underworld, then its members would unwittingly reel her into range of their secluded camps, where the taint of demonic sorcery would lead the Interceptor right to them.

Then, when it was far too late for them, they would know why she was called the Interceptor.

[Hopeflower]

The humming trailed off and two heads turned. Rowan cracked a crooked smile and lifted one finger to her lips in a request for Andruil to keep his voice down. Arsenic's breathing was deep and even, the assassin looking untroubled in his dreams for once. And with one hand loosely curled into Rowan's shirt, he seemed considerably younger than his scars and the weight of his experiences usually made him look. His chest rose and fell in a sigh when her fingers resumed their gentle combing.

"Welcome back," Vix murmured, setting her notes aside for the moment.

[The Kingpin]

"Thanks," responded the Knight quietly as he walked over, giving the Innkeeper a peck on the cheek as he took a seat beside her, setting down the food carefully on an unused surface. He was wary of making noise as he helped himself to one of the wraps. They were a strange cuisine, supposedly coming from the West. Where, exactly, was kept vague. But the man selling them called them shvarba...or something to that effect. The man had not been making very much sense, seemingly ill as he was.

Looking over to the sleeping assassin, Andruil couldn't help but smile. "There's something you don't see every day," he murmured thoughtfully.

[Hopeflower]

"I can count the number of times I've seen him sleep so soundly on one hand," Vix agreed softly, tucking one leg underneath her with care and leaning back until her back hit the wall. "Find the answers you were looking for?"

[The Kingpin]

"Yes and no," responded Andruil, his expression sinking somewhat from the smile it had been moments earlier, though it was mostly hidden by the fact he was soon taking another bite out of his wrap. "The alchemist said that there was nothing dangerous in that cloud yesterday. Just Mind Nettle and a few things to help it spread. He said that it'll take time to go through the system of those closest to it because they'd have breathed in so much of it, but that food, water and rest would fix it. He did not know what to make of Shiryaz, however. He told me he sent his report to the clinic and that they would be using his recommended remedy to help treat those affected, Shiryaz among them."

[Hopeflower]

Vix was quiet for a long, thoughtful moment, chewing on her cheek and the information she'd been given. She offered, "I was saying to these two earlier, animals are a lot more sensitive to a lot of things than we are. Some of them, we wouldn't even think twice about." Arsenic shifted and she waited until he'd settled again before continuing, "The cat we had before Ohanzee, Pumpkin - once, he got into a bowl of something that had shredded lemon peels in it. He was so sick, we had a grave dug for him and we were trying to brace ourselves for the inevitable. But he was a tough cat. He'd come wandering in one winter, skin and bones, and just like that he'd adopted Isa, instead of the other way around. He pulled through in the end." Vix clasped her hands in her lap and wrung them slightly, uncertain if she'd chosen the right way to go about being reassuring. "Shiryaz is in good hands. He'll be okay."

[The Kingpin]

"I know," responded the Knight. His response sounded rather hollow, even to him. "I suppose I'll simply have to suck it up and be patient....and have faith in his ability to endure," he concluded. It was one of those moments when he found himself looking at his hands. His useless hands. Hands that killed, but could not heal.

Hands that, at this moment, were holding his food.

It was a reminder that he was letting his mind drift where it shouldn't. And that he needed to eat, gather his strength, and get some rest. Arsenic had the right idea.

[Hopeflower]

Vix hummed softly, setting a comforting hand on Andruil's knee. Though she tried as she might to come up with more ways to offer comfort, she couldn't find any words that hadn't already been said.

As though the thought of his name had called Arsenic from sleep's grasp, the mute shifted again, flinched, and sucked in a deep breath. He propped himself up on one elbow, reached up to rub at his eyes, and yawned - which, for him, was a quiet rattle in his throat. He'd settled himself more comfortably against Rowan's side and closed his eyes again before he registered that there was someone else on the bed.

One eye half-opened to reveal a blue iris, and Arsenic promptly proved that it was possible for a telepathic projection of a voice to sound muzzy with sleep. 'I can move if you need room.' But he seemed uninclined to, as long as Rowan kept petting him.

[The Kingpin]

"No need," responded Andruil softly around a mouthful of brunch. "There's plenty of room. I may go to bed myself afterwards," he added after a moment's thought. Rest had been illusive the previous night. His ability to think straight had waned somewhat as a result.

[Hopeflower]

"By all means, pile on," Rowan invited, only half joking. "I'm told I make for a great pillow."

Arsenic's hum was half agreement, half contentment. Even more or less awake, he was virtually boneless, and one might almost have expected him to start purring. It was surely the most relaxed he'd been in a long while. Whether or not it had anything to do with the day before, it remained a glimpse at the young man behind all of the walls he put between himself and the rest of the world.

"I'm not sure you'd be comfortable with three people lying on you," Vix replied, the familiar teasing lilt making its return to her voice.

Rowan snickered, careful not to jostle Arsenic too much. "I've been in far more uncomfortable situations than sleeping in a pile of people."

[The Kingpin]

"Also involving being in a pile of people?" asked the Knight as he glanced towards the scarred assassin, finishing the wrap in his hand, before reaching for another. His expression lacked the typical mischievous smirk, though be it because he was too tired, or because he did not find his typical sense of humour entertaining in his current state was anyone's guess.