This is the main game thread for my newest creation. Lurkers are welcome, but only players may post here. This game will contain violence and explicit language. Discretion is advisable. Welcome to Season of the Witch.
Volla 27th, 1021
Vyrrmas, Alcana
Fereln Square
Fereln Square was a chaos zone.

Crowds howled and jeered at the site at the centre of the market area, pushing and shoving in order to get a spot closest to the scaffold. In the light drizzle of the late spring morning, on the central platform, stood a sight that was not very common within the walls of Vyrrmas, or anywhere else inside the borders of Alcana, for that matter, though as of late…it had become more frequent. Standing tall and addressing the crowds in a fervent manner, a member of the Church of Mallien stood before a man bound to a tall wooden post.

With one hand in the air, and the other clutching an unfurled scroll that was dampened by the rainwater, the cleric, marked an Inquisitor by the open-eye emblem that was embroidered in gold upon the breast of his robe, shouted and gestured to the gathered citizens.

“People of Vyrrmas! I call your attention upon this display set before you!” The Inquisitor’s powerful shouts had no means of not pulling eyes on him. People from several blocks away were drifting in to see what was going on here, and as they did, they, too, were worked into the mentality of the mob. “From within out midst, the watching eyes of Mallien have identified one soul turned to darkness!” At this, an enormous roar came forth from the people of the city.

“Fear not, for he has been captured and brought forth to show you his face!” Sweeping a hand back, the cleric pointed at the man tied to the post. Rain had matted his mid-length black hair to his face, but his visage was clear enough. Sharp features, unshaven beard stubble growing in, and some wrinkles near the eyes. He was an older man, though in good physical state. Possibly a farmer or a labourer, judging by the broad shoulders. His gaze was directed downwards towards the dais, whether out of defiance or in despair.

“Look at them, heretic!”

No response was given.

The Inquisitor glared at him, then looked to the masses. “The darkness has snatched his soul from his body! There is but one way to ensure that no more are led away from the righteous path by the allure of black magic!”

Whirling back in such a way that his dampened robes fluttered out behind him. He thrust a hand in the man’s face. “Speak now! Seek forgiveness in Mallien by confessing to your sins!”

The man gave no reply.

Grinding his teeth, the cleric placed his palm on the bound man’s forehead, pushing it back so that he could lock eyes. The brown orbs that looked back at him were full of hatred.

He released his hold, and turned to the crowd gathered around. “The devil seeks your souls next. I shall not allow that to happen!” He faced the captive again. “Repent!”

Finally, a response was drawn, though it was uttered slowly, but with extreme force and volume.

“Go....to...hell!”

The Inquisitor lowered his head, allowing his short brown hair to drip water onto his face. “It is a shame there is no other way...”

In a fluid motion, he drew his ornate sword from the belt around the waist of his robe, flourished it once, and struck the head from the neck of the accused. Blood splashed the pole and stage, while the head dropped to the ground at the cleric’s feet.

An enormous roar went up amongst the audience as the priest placed the scroll into a pocket inside his robes, lifted his bloodstained sword high into the air, and snatched up the head of the witch by the hair. It, too, he hefted up for all to see.

“This is the face of the heretic! The one so tempted by the black arts that he would forsake everything for the ability to harness the dark arts!” The masses went wild. “There is nothing to fear! Lend your support, and Mallien shall ensure that nobody else shall be tempted to walk in darkness!”

Sheathing his sword, the Inquisitor took the spear from one of the standing soldiers near the dais, and mounted the head upon it. In a great display, he lifted it up so that even those farther away could see.

“Mallien will guard your souls, so long as you have lend your arms and hearts to discovering those amidst ourselves that would wish to see us fall to ruin!”

The crowd erupted in a tempest of roars and jeers as a pair of temple knights untied the body and dragged it from the scaffold, blood staining their grey robes. The cleric launched into a protective chant, casting a blessing upon the masses as they howled in judgment of the witch. And all around, the rain drizzled gently, a peaceful contrast to the execution that just unfolded.

-----------

As mob fervour finally began to die down, the citizens of Vyrmass began to slowly return to their daily business before their interruption from the preacher. City watchmen stood near the edges of the square, keeping an eye out in case any who opposed the execution merely waited to act until the crown thinned. But all remained at ease as life returned to normal.

Six individuals left the square bearing more than they entered with; a neat envelope, pressed from real paper and sealed with a red wax, had been tucked amongst their belongings somewhere in the crowd. Addressed correctly, right down to surnames, the envelopes contained a message written in smooth, short script,

The times upon us are rapidly changing the world, and I fear not in ways for the better.

How can anything truly be for the better when pointing somebody out and declaring them a practitioner of the black arts, accusing them of heresy and conspiring in the creation of the Scarlet Flashfever, can earn one praise and the other damnation? We are a people who pride ourselves on logic and reason, and yet, this is how the sun sets every day? With an execution in the square that the public goes wild over?

There is a truth to be uncovered here, one that is being hidden from the public eyes. It is a truth that Cardinal-Deacon Ilphian knows, but will not acknowledge. Eyes must be opened in the ways that Mallien would wish, but whether we serve that faith or not, the goal is still commonground.

You are not the only one to be selected in this unveiling. There are many needs to be filled. A sword-arm with a resolve as strong as steel. An open hand, to spread healing in the name of true peace. A voice of the earth, as deep as the mountains themselves. A woodsman, to guide through this twilight hour. A sneak, to slip past even the sturdiest walls. And finally, a spellweaver, even in these darkest times.

It is still the early hours, and the watchful eyes of both town and temple will scour the lives and souls of everybody within and without these walls. But under night’s embrace, the house adjacent to the Burning Treant, in the Warehouse District, will be empty. I expect to see you there, when darkness falls.

E.
Such a curious letter to discover, but where did it come from? The sun hadn’t even reached the highest point in the sky yet, and the invitation stated for at night. That meant nine or ten hours away. It was inevitable, though, that the time would just fly by.

(OOC: Its not the greatest, but here we go. Enough to start the game off! Remember its been nearly a year since I did anything for a game of mine, so it’ll just get better from here. Any questions, use the Q/A. Otherwise, get creative. First post will fill the gap in between now and the meeting. Backwrite, shop, do whatever you might to fill some time!

We’re on our way now.)

Igni huddled just outside of the tavern he meant to be staying in. The sight of the executions was a daunting one, and the sight of the crowd whipped into a frenzy was terrifying. During the entire display Igni’s terrified and sorrowful eyes never left the prisoner chained to the pole like an animal. A show piece. It was disgusting how easy humans could strip a once proud member of their society of their humanity and then butcher them. Disgusting and terrifying. All the more so because Igni was one of the hunted. He knew this because the whispers of the hunted’s powers were too similar to his own, though at an exaggerated ratio. He had only just learned that the tricks he picked up in meditation were enough to condemn him to the brutal death he was witnessing. Igni did not fear death if it came upon him at a time and place of his choosing but he was terrified of dying helpless. If he was to go it would be in battle and proud. But he couldn’t die yet. As much as he wished he could, he was honor bound to try his best to stay alive. And that meant not being caught by these… zealots. This was the second execution Igni had the misfortune of witnessing. Like the crowd around him he was drawn to the drama of the event, but unlike them he left feeling sick. Igni physically winced as the sword sliced through the man’s carotid vein. He could almost feel that same sword slice his head from his shoulders. Don’t look guilty Igni thought as he glanced at the mob around him. They won’t notice you if you simply don’t look guilty But even as he thought it he could feel the blood rushing to his face, and his stomach churning. I need a drink. Igni slinked back into the tavern and ordered a light ale. He would have liked a stiff drink but the way his stomach felt as if it would betray him at any moment he didn’t want to chance anything heavy. As the drink arrived he took a shaky but long drink from the tankard. With the ale flowing down his throat Igni felt better. He picked up his guitar and began tuning it when he noticed slipped between its strings was a letter. He gingerly pulled it free and began reading it.

 And finally, a spellweaver, even in these darkest times.
Igni felt a chill race up and down his spine. Someone knew! Someone knew his dreaded secret. He could feel the entire tavern’s eyes upon him and hear everyone whispering about him even as he could feel the blade of the eye pierce his skin. Keep it together. Obviously they haven’t told. He glanced around the tavern and while no one was paying him any mind his paranoia whispered that they were all secretly watching him. He continued to read the letter.

It is still the early hours, and the watchful eyes of both town and temple will scour the lives and souls of everybody within and without these walls. But under night’s embrace, the house adjacent to the Burning Treant, in the Warehouse District, will be empty. I expect to see you there, when darkness falls. The reminder of having his life scoured did Igni little good. He decided he needed to replace his mask and costume and so headed for his room. Escaping into the room Igni carefully laid down as if to sleep. He began to focus his thoughts and control his breathing. In, out, In, out as he did it seemed the room began to spin and his body became lighter. Lighter and lighter he began to float. Peering over his shoulder he could see his true body as if in sleep lying on the bed. Ahead of him was the light that would take him to the Astral Plane where he would regather himself and perhaps learn a new spell, the powers willing.

Hours later Igni returned to his body breathing deep and rising to a full sit as if awakening from a nightmare except for the smile that crept across his face. He always felt better after wandering the Astral Plane even if like today he came back with nothing but peace of mind. He glanced around the room. It was still the tavern room, so this E had still not told any authority of the suspected mage. It will be to my advantage to hear what this E has to offer Igni thought as he reread the letter with a clearer mind. He doesn’t seem to be for the current administration which is something that as a spell weaver That alone is reason enough to join this expedition. But the idea of a different truth to that which is proclaimed piques my interest, for with knowledge comes power and I seek power. Igni rose from the bed and strode into the common room looking around. The common room was a little fuller than this morning which was to be expected, and might prove profitable. Obviously this E will want to begin his unveiling immediately which means I must be prepared for at the very least going into hiding and at the most a journey. Igni began planning out his day. As a rule Igni kept himself pretty prepared to skip town. It was a necessary precaution in these hunted times. He had not as of yet required the precaution but his mother had always preached ‘If you’re not prepared you’ll wish you were.’ and the lesson had stuck. Running a mental check on his traveling gear Igni decided he had what he needed and therefore he could spend the day attempting to make what he did not have enough of. Coins. He selected a darker corner of the tavern and dressed in entertainer’s clothes with his guitar in hand Igni waltzed with exaggerated self importance to the selected corner.

“Gather around dear patrons and learn of a race different from your own yet similar. Listen to my words and learn the lore and stories of the Dwarves.” Igni laid at his feet a hat designed to catch and hold coins. “And if you can find it in your hearts to be entertained please enough for meal and drink is all I ask.” He strummed the C chord on his acoustic and began to tell the story of finding the secrets of mining while keeping a close eye on the time.

(I will tell stories and play songs most of the day giving myself time to eat if I made enough coin for it. Because of my venue I will tell the tales in common as best translated as possible. After eating I will arrive at the meeting on time. +4 on perform)

Volla 27th, 1021
Vyrrmas, Alcana
Fereln Square

Fereln Square was a chaos zone. The fact that Thealora was amongst this chaos was a mistake, pure and simple. Widmar had sent her on an errand, the temple needed more cotton and she had been sent to procure some. The crowds around the Square had drawn her curiosity, mainly because she wanted to make sure that none in them needed assistance. When she noticed the scaffold and remembered that today there was to be an execution she had tried to leave, but the crowds were stronger and she had been swept up into them.

Finally the young woman struggled her way toward the back of the crowd and to a building which she could press herself up against and at least stop her own progression in the tidal wave.

“People of Vyrrmas! I call your attention upon this display set before you!” The Inquisitor’s powerful shouts drew her sparkling emerald eyes up. “From within our midst, the watching eyes of Mallien have identified one soul turned to darkness!”

She pulled her arms in narrowing her body as the crowd erupted with cheers around her. Those green eyes that had been looking on the Inquisitor then fell upon the man tied to the post, they were filled with compassion.

“Fear not, for he has been captured and brought forth to show you his face!” Sweeping a hand back, the cleric pointed at the man tied to the post. Rain had matted his mid-length black hair to his face, but his visage was clear enough. Sharp features, unshaven beard stubble growing in, and some wrinkles near the eyes. He was an older man, though in good physical state. Possibly a farmer or a laborer, judging by the broad shoulders. His gaze was directed downwards towards the dais, whether out of defiance or in despair.

“Look at them, heretic!”

No response was given. Thealora fought back the desire to rush forward and at the very least find the man’s hand, hold it in her own and let him look into a pair of eyes that bore him no ill-will for his final moments, instead of the hay strewn dais that would soon drip with his blood.

The Inquisitor glared at him, then looked to the masses. “The darkness has snatched his soul from his body! There is but one way to ensure that no more are led away from the righteous path by the allure of black magic!”

Whirling back in such a way that his dampened robes fluttered out behind him. He thrust a hand in the man’s face. “Speak now! Seek forgiveness in Mallien by confessing to your sins!”

Thea flinched as the Inquisitor pushed the man’s head back so he could look him in the eyes. The moment would come soon enough she knew. Already the thought was making her tremble and she tried to back away but the building held her position.

The Inquisitor released his hold, and turned to the crowd gathered around. “The devil seeks your souls next. I shall not allow that to happen!” He faced the captive again. “Repent!”

Finally, a response was drawn, though it was uttered slowly, but with extreme force and volume.

“Go....to...hell!”

The Inquisitor lowered his head, allowing his short brown hair to drip water onto his face. “It is a shame there is no other way...”

“By the Gods…” she whispered softly, and found herself thankful that the crowd was too embroiled in the events before them to have heard it. Her delicate fingers pressed against her lips, holding them closed so nothing more could escape. The look on her face was probably enough to betray her though.

She watched as the Inquisitor drew his sword and in a fluid motion pulled it into the air above the man’s head. The emerald eyes closed and she turned her head, pressing her cheek against the rough siding of the building and winced as she heard the thud that could only be a head falling to the wooden platform.

She kept her eyes closed as the crowd roared with glee.

“This is the face of the heretic! The one so tempted by the black arts that he would forsake everything for the ability to harness the dark arts!” The masses went wild. “There is nothing to fear! Lend your support, and Mallien shall ensure that nobody else shall be tempted to walk in darkness!”

“Mallien will guard your souls, so long as you have lend your arms and hearts to discovering those amidst ourselves that would wish to see us fall to ruin!”

Her eyes stayed closed, and she continued to remain pressed against the wall for a long time. The gentle rain became her focus and she hoped that it was hiding the tears that escaped from her closed lids. Silently she began to pray

Lady Mirros… please if you can hear me… grant mercy upon the soul that has just been given to you. May you help guide him into the light of your embrace and not to fall into the darkness of hell. Please let your light also fall upon those here today. Let them feel the warmth of your grace and your mercy… let them find it more pleasing than the vengeance that currently lights them. Help them discover a greater truth than that that Mallien offers. Truth alone is not enough, one must know what to do with that truth, let them see that killing is not how to spread the truth… if it is a truth. Lady Mirros… please… I offer myself as a vessel of your light and your love, help me to help them… her prayer went on while the crowd slowly began to dissipate.

Once the crowd had finally died down and she had finished her prayer she finally pulled herself off the wall and wiped at her damp cheeks before pulling the heavy white cowl of her cloak back up over her head. Silently she made her way through the streets, there was still an errand to run for the temple she reminded herself.


It was not until she reached into the pouch hanging on her hip for a few copper coins to give in exchange for the cotton batting that she noticed the note. Curiously she pulled out the square of real beautiful paper with the red wax seal closing it. Nothing about it was familiar and after hesitating a moment she slipped it back into her pouch and offered a polite smile to the proprietor of the small store before heading out with her purchase.


Back at the temple she first made sure that she properly noted her expenditure, returned the extra money to the treasury and stored the cotton away. That all being taken care of she nestled into a pocket of the store room and carefully pulled open the seal on the letter with a finger that trembled slightly.

Settled against a pile of clean linens awaiting beds she read it. Now it was not just her fingers that trembled, her whole body seemed to be shaking. The words were shocking to her. It was as if someone had read her thoughts while she stood in that crowd earlier. The note was even addressed to her, someone knew who she was. At first she thought it was a mistake, that they had perhaps gotten her confused with someone else. But later it mentioned ‘an open hand, to spread healing in the name of true peace…’ Was that in reference to her? But she was merely a servant of Mirros, not even a full sister of the temple. Who was this ‘E.’ and what could he (she?) possibly want with her?

More than anything she wanted to ask Widmar what to do, he was always so good with advice for her. Yet something about the letter said that perhaps she should not. It did not directly say not to mention it to anyone, but the mere way it had been delivered and mostly unsigned at that left an air of clandestine about it that was hard to ignore. She needed to think.

When Thealora Justinia needed to think there was one place that she went: the kitchen. The kitchens here at the temple were not as good as her mother’s kitchen. Her mother baked the most amazing apple tarts that Thealora had ever tasted, and she baked them at least twice a month, sometimes more if it was apple season. The kitchens here were more suited for making soup. There were biscuits however and often honey. The honey seemed to move places in the kitchen, however, and she had wondered if perhaps they were trying to hide it, perhaps even hide it from her, but if that was the intention thus far they had failed; she always found it. Today was no different. It was ‘hiding’ behind a basket of carrots. Once found it had been liberally lathered onto six biscuits and she sat down at one of the simple wooden tables to eat them, one at a time while she considered what to do about this note.

When the biscuits were gone, save for the crumbs that clung to her dress, she still did not know and decided that perhaps a nap would help. Laying in her cot, however, she found sleep to be elusive and instead kept seeing the poor man who had been slain that morning, which brought her to tears. Finally she got up and decided to go try and help out with the temple’s patients.

“Whe had rabbitses ye know?” The strained voice of the old blind woman Thea had been instructed to keep company whispered. She had sprained her ankle the previous day and was waiting for her grandson to come into town with a cart to bring her back home. Until then the church had wrapped up the swollen joint and did their best to keep her comfortable.

“Rabbits? Out on your farm?”

“Yehp… ton’s o’ em. Black un’s and brawn un’s eden ‘ad a few whait un’s…”

“Sounds nice”

“hmmmm… de were. Dun ‘ave em any mer…”

“No? Why not?”

“Whell… ye sees… sumptin’ ‘appened. Un day dis ‘ere ‘igh class lahdy come by ye sees. She got’s lats and lats o’ coinses too. Flashed dem coinses at me son she did. She gone wanted ‘erself a rabbitses cloak ye sees? Rheal soft… dat cloak be rheal soft… der’s a problem d’ough. Needs ‘er a lats o’ rabbitses to maken a whole cloak.”

Thea listened to the woman and nodded slowly even her lips pressed together and she could see the tiny little bunnies hopping around in her mind, their noses twitching as some noble woman bent down and let them sniff her fingers, those bunnies bringing their dark trusting eyes up at the woman.

“Needs ‘er a lats o’ rabbitses…” the blue hair around the woman’s face moved as she nodded her head in agreement with what Thea was thinking. “but… der twas lats of coinses… so me son took dem rabbitses an ‘e skinied dem. Ghave ‘er all de fhurs, an’ so now she gots a rabbitses cloak… rheal soft… yeh know?”

Sadly Thea nodded her head and took the paper thin hand of the old woman into her own and held it lightly.

“Sad fer de rabbitses… but… did ye know ders mer? Ye sees dhear… dem rabbitses twas on de farm fer a ree’son. Me famlee raise ‘em, we khep ‘em te let de chil’ren play wit ‘em, an’ de whoul’ sleep in wit de ot’er anmals in de winter, khep ‘em warm… we also khilled some, te eat when de ‘unt went bad, we’d use der fhur fer our own clothin’ te khep warm too… de was part o’ de farm… but now de gone. We didan’t even know jus’ how muchin we needs dem ei’der… not till de all gone… maybe if un ‘o us ‘ad think it through an says sumptin’…”

For as soft as the old woman’s features were there was something sharp to the dark blue eyes that despite the fact that Thea knew no longer worked she still felt as if they had suddenly turned to look straight into her. As the conversation fell into silence Thealora let her eyes drift across the hall toward the stained glass window bearing the figure of a woman in a blue dress her hands crossed, palms open to those before her.

I think I hear you Lady Mirros… and I thank you, I thank you as always for your guidance. Stay with me please. Stay with me tonight for I might your strength…
And so it came to pass that when night settled upon the city a figure draped in a long white cloak moved through the darkness. Her hands clasped tightly together before her, her heart pounding in her ears as she approached the seemingly abandoned house.

The morning sun had rose as it did ever day before, and would God’s willing every day after; but this morning it shone just a little bit brighter, the glow of its rays just a little bit warmer as they caressed the soft cheek of Anora Arlessa, paladin of Liris. Anora had awoken this morning in a particularly good mood, for today there was to be a spectacle she had awaited seeing for quite some time. Today, in open declaration of the providence of justice would a defiler of life and home be put to death. And as she thought of one of the conspirators of the epidemic which stole from her an invaluable member of her family, she grinned. “At least you fall to the grace of Liris’ mercy, a quick and painless death, unlike the destruction and pain you caused not only to those who succumbed to the disease, but to those forced to live with the loss as well..” As she spoke, her grin turned to a momentary scowl, but she shook the thought from her mind. A cleansing wash will better prepare me for the trials of the dayshe thought.

As Anora’s toned form crossed her bedroom floor to the simple alcove which served as a shower, the warmth of the morning light bathed her in its embrace, and as her naked body felt the first droplets of cool water cascade over flawless skin and tender flesh. Anora had always made a habit of bathing in cool water, saving a hot bath only for special occasions. There was something about the chill, the shiver that coursed across her body leaving goose bumps that made her feel alive. She showered under that gentle stream humming to herself, a smile tugging at the corner of full pink lips. Pulling the simple chord which stemmed the flow of water, Anora stepped from the alcove to the simple wooden floor of her room, dancing to some silent tune, though she hummed to the choir song which played out fully in her mind. She cast water across the room as her strawberry hair whipped to and fro, her body twirling in the sun’s rays , her partner in this dance as she danced within its embrace. By the time she had finished her little song and dance, she was nearly dry, lifting a towel and patting herself free of any lingering moisture and wrapping her hair up into a knot.

Seeing as the execution in the square would be a public affair Anora decided she had best present herself in the dignified manner of her order, lifting the heavy steel suit of scale from it’s place atop the footlocker at the base of the bed. She took forth a cloth, and rested the suit across her lap, the cool metal against her skin. Gently, gingerly, and with great patience and care did she dab the cloth into a small well of oil sitting next the lamp at her bedside, and clean each scale, each link and joint of the suit to a polished shine. To be a paladin carried with it the responsibility of being a beacon of light in the eyes of the populous, a shining example of good and right to those who may have lost their way. The initial observation of a paladin too should reflect that mandate. As Anora held the scale up to the window, the sunlight reflected off of each perfectly crafted scale. Not a notch or nick marred the piece, and though Anora had wished it was due to her meticulous care for her armor, it was the lack of real combat experience which attributed to the pristine nature of it. Anora had only recently been inducted as a paladin, and even then had yet to see any real combat outside of training against her instructor’s and peers.

As Anora exchanged armor for blade, cleaning and polishing the longsword to a gleam, a rush inside her had her wondering when she’d first put the blade to use; what evil would she rid the world of with its righteous steel? As the paladin swung it around cutting nothing but air, she recanted her oath as a paladin. “I am the armor against cruelty, strong and resilient. I am the shield against intolerance, ever vigilant. I am the sword against injustice, swift and merciful.” Anora found herself sheathing her sword then as she finished her cant. “Though the sword should only strike if the armor and shield first fail. Compassion and understanding will halt a foe faster than any blade, so it is said..”… And there’s no blood to clean up afterwards Anora added to herself, as she donned a simple white and yellow ensemble, the feathered sword, symbol of her deity embroidered upon the shoulders of her tunic.

As she donned her armor, adjusted her sword sheath and shield bearing a similar emblem emblazoned into the heavy wooden planks, she set the rest of her gear upon her bedside, taking only her money pouch and head out into the streets, anxious to be a part of history, a part of cleansing Vyrrmas of an impurity upon the land, but when she arrived…

Fereln Square was a chaos zone.

Crowds howled and jeered at the site at the centre of the market area, pushing and shoving in order to get a spot closest to the scaffold. In the light drizzle of the late spring morning, on the central platform, stood a sight that was not very common within the walls of Vyrrmas, or anywhere else inside the borders of Alcana, for that matter, though as of late…it had become more frequent. Standing tall and addressing the crowds in a fervent manner, a member of the Church of Mallien stood before a man bound to a tall wooden post.
Anora had arrived late, her preening and polishing had prevented her from an optimal vantage point, but as the sister of mercy entered the crowd, many allowed her passage closer to the dais, perhaps expecting her to deliver final rites to the condemned man. Whatever their belief, Anora found herself standing at the forefront of the crowd, her presence ignored soon after as the cleric of Mallien spoke.

With one hand in the air, and the other clutching an unfurled scroll that was dampened by the rainwater, the cleric, marked an Inquisitor by the open-eye emblem that was embroidered in gold upon the breast of his robe, shouted and gestured to the gathered citizens.

“People of Vyrrmas! I call your attention upon this display set before you!” The Inquisitor’s powerful shouts had no means of not pulling eyes on him. People from several blocks away were drifting in to see what was going on here, and as they did, they, too, were worked into the mentality of the mob. “From within out midst, the watching eyes of Mallien have identified one soul turned to darkness!” At this, an enormous roar came forth from the people of the city.
Anora could not help but join in the cheer, though she was not as energetic in her display. Her eyes were locked upon the man who stood mere feet above and before her, his visage clear before her intense green eyes.

“Fear not, for he has been captured and brought forth to show you his face!” Sweeping a hand back, the cleric pointed at the man tied to the post. Rain had matted his mid-length black hair to his face, but his visage was clear enough. Sharp features, unshaven beard stubble growing in, and some wrinkles near the eyes. He was an older man, though in good physical state. Possibly a farmer or a labourer, judging by the broad shoulders. His gaze was directed downwards towards the dais, whether out of defiance or in despair.

“Look at them, heretic!”

No response was given.
As Anora looked on upon the man tied to the post before her, something inside her became unsettled. The man looked to be the type toiling in a field, or constructing something from the blessings of the land upon which he lived, not a dabbler in heretical powers of corruption and evil.

The Inquisitor glared at him, then looked to the masses. “The darkness has snatched his soul from his body! There is but one way to ensure that no more are led away from the righteous path by the allure of black magic!”

Whirling back in such a way that his dampened robes fluttered out behind him. He thrust a hand in the man’s face. “Speak now! Seek forgiveness in Mallien by confessing to your sins!”

The man gave no reply.

Grinding his teeth, the cleric placed his palm on the bound man’s forehead, pushing it back so that he could lock eyes. The brown orbs that looked back at him were full of hatred.

He released his hold, and turned to the crowd gathered around. “The devil seeks your souls next. I shall not allow that to happen!” He faced the captive again. “Repent!”

At the powerful words spoken in defiance of Mallien’s inquisitor, Anora found herself mouthing a response, her words lost under the din of the crowd. “Please repent.. Forsake your evil ways and repent.. Seek mercy before the gods, allow Liris to embrace your conflicted heart and tarnished soul… please…”

Finally, a response was drawn, though it was uttered slowly, but with extreme force and volume.

“Go....to...hell!”
The response shocked Anora, and she reached out, her white gloved hand extending towards the condemned man.. “No… Liris have mercy…”

The Inquisitor lowered his head, allowing his short brown hair to drip water onto his face. “It is a shame there is no other way...”

In a fluid motion, he drew his ornate sword from the belt around the waist of his robe, flourished it once, and struck the head from the neck of the accused. Blood splashed the pole and stage, while the head dropped to the ground at the cleric’s feet.
Blood sprayed from the severed neck, and splashed the pole and stage, but a few stray droplets had flown farther, and stained her outstretched glove, the crimson a stark contrast to the brilliant white of the material… As Anora’s eyes fell upon the sight of the blood upon her hands, her shoulder’s sagged. This was not what she expected to feel. Certainly the man was a felon, a maleficaer, an apostate against the virtues of the pantheon of light… but such a gruesome display did not seem befitting of the man.. Of any man. A soul’s final judgement on this mortal plane should be held between his accuser, and the authorities, not made a debacle… Anora shook her head as she realized her thoughts were in the minority.

An enormous roar went up amongst the audience as the priest placed the scroll into a pocket inside his robes, lifted his bloodstained sword high into the air, and snatched up the head of the witch by the hair. It, too, he hefted up for all to see.

“This is the face of the heretic! The one so tempted by the black arts that he would forsake everything for the ability to harness the dark arts!” The masses went wild. “There is nothing to fear! Lend your support, and Mallien shall ensure that nobody else shall be tempted to walk in darkness!”

Sheathing his sword, the Inquisitor took the spear from one of the standing soldiers near the dais, and mounted the head upon it. In a great display, he lifted it up so that even those farther away could see.
The head upon a pile seemed barbaric, it turned Anora’s stomache, and she fought to keep from wretching at the sight.. Before the Inquisitor had even finshed the words that followed she had already begun pushing herself away from the dias and through the crowd, desperate to get away from it all.

“Mallien will guard your souls, so long as you have lend your arms and hearts to discovering those amidst ourselves that would wish to see us fall to ruin!”

The crowd erupted in a tempest of roars and jeers as a pair of temple knights untied the body and dragged it from the scaffold, blood staining their grey robes. The cleric launched into a protective chant, casting a blessing upon the masses as they howled in judgment of the witch. And all around, the rain drizzled gently, a peaceful contrast to the execution that just unfolded.
Anora rounded a corner and her heart pounded in her chest. She was angry at the display, and she wasn’t even sure why. Subconsciously her hand had clenched into a fist and she struck the wall before her, nothing but moisture locked dirt clinging to her glove now mixed with blood and earth. “Why.. His death was quick.. Quicker than those who died at the hands of he and those like him… why then do I feel anger towards the manner in which he was executed, surely his death will bring happiness to the masses, but was this really the way for it to have been done?”

Anora spoke to noone in particular, but her mind raced, and she needed some clarity. When in such a state, there were only two places the paladin liked to find herself, and seeing as it wasn’t even midday yet, one was certainly out of the question… perhaps tonight after the sun had set.
In the meantime, Anora removed the gloves from her hands, placing them into her right as her left rose to run through her wet hair, removing the matted strands from her face. As she went to tuck the gloves into her belt however, she found a strange letter there instead, it’s finely pressed paper and red wax seal a startling sight. Spinning round, Anora cast a gaze at anyone around her, then immediately her hand went to her money pouch, still securely tied mere inches from the letter.

Confused, Anora returned to her room, before removing the letter from her belt and breaking the wax seal, perusing the contents. As Anora’s eyes finished scanning the document, she felt as though someone had read her thoughts, and put them to paper. Someone else, this “E” seemed to have similar feelings as her, and what’s more seemed to have information regarding something deeper than public knowledge on the matter.

You are not the only one to be selected in this unveiling. There are many needs to be filled. A sword-arm with a resolve as strong as steel. An open hand, to spread healing in the name of true peace. A voice of the earth, as deep as the mountains themselves. A woodsman, to guide through this twilight hour. A sneak, to slip past even the sturdiest walls. And finally, a spellweaver, even in these darkest times.
“A sword-arm with a resolve as strong as steel.. Could this be referring to me?” As Anora finished the paragraph, her eyes focused on the final sentence. And finally, a spellweaver, even in these darkest times. Whomever is calling this meeting must have put much thought into this indeed, especially if they risk bringing an apostate into these affairs… Anora folded up the letter and gently set it into her pack.

There were still many hours till the evening meet, and Anora had every intention of being there, if only to confront this spell weaver, and bring them to justice herself, but in a manner much less disrespectful than the public display she had just witnessed. She was interested to meet this “E” person as well, and hear what they had to say.

Picking up the rest of her belongings, and strapping them securely about her person, Anora gave a prayer to Liris, thanking Him for setting her on what she presumed to be His divine path of guidance. Heading out into the streets of Vyrrmas once more, she would kill the hours until the meet fulfilling her normal duties of peacekeeper, visiting the orphanages and hospices, slums and less than respectable areas of the great city, spreading what aid and signs of mercy she may amongst those less fortunate. (She’ll give a pair of copper to any homeless she comes across to fetch them a warm meal, complete any errands of kind requests asked of her, while killing time for the sun to set and her approach to the abandoned building.”

The tend was cold and the fire dead when Éofara rose in the morning, he shuffled out of his bedroll wishing that he’d taken a winter blanket to wrap himself in. At least it hadn’t rained. Pulling on his shirt and breaches he finally reached his boots, pulled them on as well, and stepped out the small tent into the darkness of the night. It wasn’t that he was nocturnal; it was just very early in the morning (just gone 2 o’clock). He ducked back into the one-man tent to find his backpack to get at his flint and steel, he quickly returned to upright and set about lighting the fire from the small pile of wood that hadn’t got too wet from the due and the embers of last nights fire. Soon the campfire was burning and giving of a little heat and light, taking out his axe he set about preparing the rabbit he had caught to eat. Cutting off the skin with attention and care none would think possible with an axe he pealed it back from the flesh, having gutted the animal last night so that it didn’t fester he continued preparing it until such time he began roasting it on the fire.

He had no more water then his waterskin contained so had no opportunity to wash so began to pack up camp, it was still a way to Vyrrmas, and by the time he had finished the rabbit was closer to being cooked. Taking out his fletching tools he began to finish the arrow he hadn’t been able to last night, before long he had finished it and the rabbit was ready. He ate his fill and laid the last just within the tree line; let his labour be of benefit to which ever scavenger found the roasted meat first. Pulling on his leather armour, longsword in its sheath and quiver he tossed his backpack across his shoulders and began his walk to the city. His movement slowed by the weight of the pack it took him longer then it otherwise wood to reach the city even though he had been closer then he thought. Arriving just after daybreak he picked his way through the city to find an inn, crossing the square he saw one.

Entering the inn, the guests had not risen yet but the proprietor, sleepily turning stools off tables, didn’t take long to notice Éofara enter.
“A room, I think I’ll be staying for at least tonight. And something to have a wash.” The woman was happy to comply, handing him a key after taking his coin and hooking it from a cabinet behind the counter. She explained she’d send someone up with some hot water. The narrow staircase that wound its way steeply up the corner of the building creaked worryingly as he kept to the wider parts, he’d never been inside a permanent building before let alone upstairs, and although he wasn’t claustrophobic he was more used to wider spaces. His tent had been small and he’d slept in that so it was more the ‘going up stairs’ that worried him. He didn’t feel as lonely upstairs, although no one was up he could sense the presence of each person behind each door, slotting the key into the keyhole he supposed he’d have to turn it to open the door. He knew what all these things were; he’d just never had to use them in his life before. The door swung open revealing a sparsely furnished room, a low bed with a mattress and blanket, a chamber pot, a small table and a window. Looking out of the window he realised he’d never been this high before but for some reason it didn’t panic him, the building was thick wood and stone, more sturdy then his tent or any of the trees he’d climbed in his youth.

He first removed his leather armour and laid it on the table, he did the same for his quiver, taking the unstrung bow from it and laying in on the table individually. The axe from his belt joined them on the table and so did his longsword and sheath, not long after laying down these and sitting his backpack against a leg of the table a nock came at his door. Opening the door he revealed a boy, no older then 9 or 10, holding a heavy bowl of water he knelt down and took it from him. The boy ran off from the strange pointy eared man who had taken the bowl from him. Pleased that the water in the bowl did contain some warm water he placed it on the floor and stripped off, placing a heavy pouch of coins to his side, to wash.

Having cleaned himself properly for the first time since he had left the centaurs he pulled on his old and dirty cloths, after replacing the heavy pouch of coins under his shirt, armed himself and placed a second pouch onto his belt before locking the door and leaving. Downstairs the patrons had mostly drift in to find their breakfasts, he asked the owner of the inn if there was somewhere he could get new clean cloths. Directed to a small shop that would exchange dirty cloths for matching clean ones he was able to exchange his shirt, breaches and cloak for clean articles of clothing before visiting the place he had come to the city to visit, the Temple of Mallien. He intended to enquire about a cure that he could take for his people, he actually had very little idea clue about if they had one or if they would be willing to help him but he had to enquire.

He entered the Temple and was immediately approached by a priest, or whatever they liked to be called, and asked why he had come to Mallien on this blessed day.
”I must know about the plague, my family may die if…” But he was cut short, the man had simply said:
“Say no more. We have the situation under control. We will make an announcement and an example in the square later today.”
Blinded by gratitude and hope he accepted this statement without argument or question. It was his immaturity and lack of understanding of humans that cause him to come to the conclusion that they were going to show an example of the cure later in the day, besides, in his tribe you never questioned the word of the priests. They spoke one what was true and best of the community.

He returned to his room in the inn where he waited for the announcement in the square. When the mob started gathering he left the inn and joined them, standing near the back, but still surrounded by men, he could hear whisperings. Occasionally the chatter of the mass died back and let him overhear a snippet of conversation. Then a priest came onto the stage, followed by a man in chains. The priest had an eye on his tunic and a sword at his side. Strange, why does he have that? It was a short wile until Éofara realised what was going on, and by then the priest had started talking.

“People of Vyrrmas! I call your attention upon this display set before you! From within our midst, the watching eyes of Mallien have identified one soul turned to darkness!”
Disgusted by the idea of it he simply returned to the inn and his room to find a folded and sealed letter had been slid under his door. It was addressed personally to him, Lainon.

The times upon us are rapidly changing the world, and I fear not in ways for the better.

How can anything truly be for the better when pointing somebody out and declaring them a practitioner of the black arts, accusing them of heresy and conspiring in the creation of the Scarlet Flashfever, can earn one praise and the other damnation? We are a people who pride ourselves on logic and reason, and yet, this is how the sun sets every day? With an execution in the square that the public goes wild over?

There is a truth to be uncovered here, one that is being hidden from the public eyes. It is a truth that Cardinal-Deacon Ilphian knows, but will not acknowledge. Eyes must be opened in the ways that Mallien would wish, but whether we serve that faith or not, the goal is still commonground.

You are not the only one to be selected in this unveiling. There are many needs to be filled. A sword-arm with a resolve as strong as steel. An open hand, to spread healing in the name of true peace. A voice of the earth, as deep as the mountains themselves. A woodsman, to guide through this twilight hour. A sneak, to slip past even the sturdiest walls. And finally, a spellweaver, even in these darkest times.

It is still the early hours, and the watchful eyes of both town and temple will scour the lives and souls of everybody within and without these walls. But under night’s embrace, the house adjacent to the Burning Treant, in the Warehouse District, will be empty. I expect to see you there, when darkness falls.

E.
This ‘E’, the writer of the letter, was right. How could such a death be right for a civilised age. He was in from the moment a new truth was mentioned, he wouldn’t find what he was looking for from the same priests who had just executed a man, justly or not, and could only assume that when the letter mentioned a woodsman ‘to guide through this twilight hour.’ it could only mean himself. His entire race was in its twilight hour and he couldn’t imagine a second Mith’ganni too close to the city. He wondered about the spellweaver though, could this spellweaver be trusted, it was his kind that had unleashed the plague on the world.

Having made up his mind he left the inn once more, if he was going any were then he’d need to be prepared. There was very little time for craftwork on the road, he’d make the most of his time between now and the meeting, so he searched the city for the people who would have what he needed: a smith’s shop for arrowheads, a poultry farmer for feathers, a lumberjack for coppiced wood and a general store for thin twine, suitable resin for glue and a long cloth bag for a quiver. Returning to the inn he fetched his fletching jig and tools before starting his work. Later that day, when night began to fall he returned to his room and armed himself properly; sliding on his armour, strapping on his quiver and axe, placing the bag of new arrows in his backpack and pulling that over his shoulders. He made his way to the Warehouse district, to the house opposite the Burning Treant.His slightly less than almond eyes the colour of the moons overhead.

(OOC: OK, may not be my best work, it’s certainly my longest but I’m not too great with introductory posts. I have deliberately chosen not to include a description of my character in this post, I will include one when we all meet at the house opposite the Burning Treant.)

It had been almost twelve days among the lesser races now. Twelve days of near gagging at the stench of the unwashed masses, twelve days of being forced to walk amongst them, but worst of all, twelve days of listening to their stuttered, foul sounding speech. How Agrin longed he had never learned their bastard tongue, if only that he could be bothered by the sound of words, not the lack of intellectual meaning behind them. It seemed these mongrels weren't satisfied with simply having their guttural language offend the ear, they seemed determined to make the actual act of listening just as appalling, if not more so. He felt his bile rise each time he heard of the unwholesome practices of some human's local whore, or an abortive discussion on the thoughts of the frail, briar-dwelling, knife-eared elfkin.

The humans of the city seemed to take great pride in their contamination, they and their filth filled the alleys to capacity. No less than twice since his arrival had some foul, diseased human harlot offered herself to him for a pittance of coin. Their persistance showed a history of success in their endevours and Agrin wondered if perhaps humans were not of wise enough to find a mate at all save these undesirable strumpets. He could only imagine how many of these creatures were whorespawn, perhaps as many as half? Such contagion and stain among the surface folk, it should never find it's way to infect his clan, Hamar's stone embrace shield them.

How he longed to return to his people. He spent every moment he could spare among those dwarves who, however foolishly, had chosen to live amongst those of lesser breeding. Displaced as they were above ground, they had fortunately managed to keep their stonesense about them, and Agrin found their company comforting, though it did worry him that they so readily accepted so many of the human's ways. Were it not for the obligation his church had placed upon him, he would leave this land at once, return to his clan in their earthen home and, should Hamar's steadfast will allow it, never leave it again.

As the sun set each evening, he prayed that Hamar grant him the stonelike resolve to last his term among the pestilient surface dwellers and to find it within his benevolence to enfold those dwarves infected by them back into the protective sanctuary of their clans, away from this contagion surely sent to punish those not of dwarven blood. Surely, the earthen sensibilities of the dwarves, undoubtably the chosen of Hamar himself, would lead them through this ordeal unscathed. Until that time he would fulfill his duties as they were described to him, surely his exposure to the humans was a test from his patron, and Agrin would sooner die by human hands than fail in the eyes of Hamar.

Days passed, and Agrin continued his duties in Vyrrmas. As word arrived that a cure for the plague had been found, the foolish minds of the surfacers turned to errant thoughts, seeking the source of the contagion. The dwarves he met about the city spoke word that was the work of arcanists, sorcerers who would play as gods. The death of some human lord had caused unrest, and the unruly mobs that formed shortly were all but expected. Agrin laregly avoided their lynchings and attacks, if the humans felt the urge to remove another of their worthless species from Hamar's soil he would not be one to stop them. Despite this, he managed to find himself in Fereln Square upon the morn of the 27th, trapped in by the masses of bodies pouring in to see whatever spectacle was to be performed.

As the humans pressed around him, he found himself unable to leave, though he could not see whatever was being presented neither. He spat upon the back of a taller human in front of him and uttered a few choice curses as the clumsy oaf stumbled backwards a pace, pushing the dwarf into those that stood around him. The human paid him no heed however, captivated by the speaker whose words had just now reached Agrin's ears.

“People of Vyrrmas! I call your attention upon this display set before you!” The Inquisitor’s powerful shouts had no means of not pulling eyes on him, save Agrin, who could not see but for his own feet. People from several blocks away were drifting in to see what was going on here, and as they did, they, too, were worked into the mentality of the mob. “From within out midst, the watching eyes of Mallien have identified one soul turned to darkness!” At this, an enormous roar came forth from the people of the city.
Agrin spat again at the praise of Mallien. Were he not held back by the sheer numbers of those around him, he would have dearly loved to reach this speaker and let him know of the glory of Hamar. As it were however, he was forced to shout his objection from the crowd, his words drowned out by the roar of the mob that had formed.

“Fear not, for he has been captured and brought forth to show you his face!” Sweeping a hand back, the cleric pointed at the man tied to the post. Rain had matted his mid-length black hair to his face, but his visage was clear enough. Sharp features, unshaven beard stubble growing in, and some wrinkles near the eyes. He was an older man, though in good physical state. Possibly a farmer or a labourer, judging by the broad shoulders. His gaze was directed downwards towards the dais, whether out of defiance or in despair.

“Look at them, heretic!”

No response was given.

The Inquisitor glared at him, then looked to the masses. “The darkness has snatched his soul from his body! There is but one way to ensure that no more are led away from the righteous path by the allure of black magic!”

Whirling back in such a way that his dampened robes fluttered out behind him. He thrust a hand in the man’s face. “Speak now! Seek forgiveness in Mallien by confessing to your sins!”

The man gave no reply.

Grinding his teeth, the cleric placed his palm on the bound man’s forehead, pushing it back so that he could lock eyes. The brown orbs that looked back at him were full of hatred.

He released his hold, and turned to the crowd gathered around. “The devil seeks your souls next. I shall not allow that to happen!” He faced the captive again. “Repent!”

Finally, a response was drawn, though it was uttered slowly, but with extreme force and volume.

“Go....to...hell!”

The Inquisitor lowered his head, allowing his short brown hair to drip water onto his face. “It is a shame there is no other way...”
Though Agrin could not see the cause, an enormous cheer emerged from the mob.

“This is the face of the heretic! The one so tempted by the black arts that he would forsake everything for the ability to harness the dark arts!” The masses went wild. “There is nothing to fear! Lend your support, and Mallien shall ensure that nobody else shall be tempted to walk in darkness!”
The cause for celebration was quickly made clear to Agrin, as a severed head was soon raised high enough he could see it over the bodies of the crowd. The crowd soon began dispersing, and Agrin could barely contain himself as he pushed through them towards the exits of the square. While he was never one to object to the removal of a human, the means by which the humans defaced the remains of one of their own were distasteful. How could a race such as this have risen to such prominence, even in a land as untainted by thought as the surface countries.

Agrin made his way to the tavern he had found lodging in. He passed through the entrance without a word. He had no desire to speak to the innkeeper, and the local whore's glance filled him with nothing but disgust. He made his way past to his room, stripping his armour, changing into comfortable wear for the night. As he packed his mail away, a scrap of paper tucked within them caught his eye. The seal was not his, nor did it belong to a member of his order. He broke the seal carefully and opened the letter.

Whosever swifts hands had placed this one him clearly knew him well, as it addressed him by his full name, while the remainder of the letter was written proficiently in a dwarven script. He had not deigned fit to tell any among this city his name save the clergy, and his suspicions quickly turned to the Innkeeper. Perhaps the trecherous whoreson has forgotten the extra coin he had paid for his discretion and violated his the privacy he had paid for. Mindful that even now he could be observed, he sat himself in the corner and read the contents of the letter.

You are not the only one to be selected in this unveiling. There are many needs to be filled. A sword-arm with a resolve as strong as steel. An open hand, to spread healing in the name of true peace. A voice of the earth, as deep as the mountains themselves. A woodsman, to guide through this twilight hour. A sneak, to slip past even the sturdiest walls. And finally, a spellweaver, even in these darkest times.
This one passage stood out to him, perhaps his suspicions in the innkeeper were misplaced, though undoubtably he was untrustworthy regardless by virtue of his breed. Clearly whoever had given him this had connections, and clearly he was not alone in this mysterious person's interest. He resolved to investigate this, Hamar grant him the resilience to endure whatever trials it may cause him to face.

(OOC: I am running out of insults already, I need to refuel. Agrin will spend the rest of the day in solitude in his room, cautiously heading to the abandoned building at the time described in the letter.)

Rain, hate the rain. Though it does make it harder to spot me. Moving swiftly between the crowd, rain dripping down her dusty brown hair, the people don’t even notice the child with the spectacle standing before them. Magic has never been a big concern to Kammie. In all honesty, she had never even seen an example of it. Not entirely sure what the big deal is though. However, big crowds mean payday, and that is something the mischievous rogue understands.

With all eyes glued church man, Kammie makes her way through the crowd, cutting pouches off people at random, sticking them all in a larger pouch on her hip. Don’t want to leave a clear trail right. That’s what ever mentor said. At the thought of her mentor her heart aches. To think she had been abandoned again. Well, when she saves up enough money, she’ll find her mentor and get answers.

“Repent!”

At the sound of the yell, Kammie’s eyes bolt up.

Finally, a response was drawn, though it was uttered slowly, but with extreme force and volume.

“Go....to...hell!”

The Inquisitor lowered his head, allowing his short brown hair to drip water onto his face. “It is a shame there is no other way...”

Locking eyes with the man, Kammie’s heart sinks. The man looks like a farmer. With his death, what will happen to his family. Can farmers even do magic? She would help him if she could, but she knows she would die in the attempt. And she can’t afford to die just yet. She turns away to make her way out of the crowd, and the tears begin to flow.

In a fluid motion, he drew his ornate sword from the belt around the waist of his robe, flourished it once, and struck the head from the neck of the accused.

Breaking free from the crowd, Kammie makes her way down the street and turns into an alley. Catching her breath and wiping away her tears, she puts her hand into her pouch to count today’s profits. To her surprise, she instead pulls out an envelope, one addressed to her! It takes a certain amount of skill to rob someone and get away unseen, but to place an object among the belongings of a thief, what ability! Fortunately, she was taught to read by her mentor. Opening the envelope, it reads:

The times upon us are rapidly changing the world, and I fear not in ways for the better.

How can anything truly be for the better when pointing somebody out and declaring them a practitioner of the black arts, accusing them of heresy and conspiring in the creation of the Scarlet Flashfever, can earn one praise and the other damnation? We are a people who pride ourselves on logic and reason, and yet, this is how the sun sets every day? With an execution in the square that the public goes wild over?

There is a truth to be uncovered here, one that is being hidden from the public eyes. It is a truth that Cardinal-Deacon Ilphian knows, but will not acknowledge. Eyes must be opened in the ways that Mallien would wish, but whether we serve that faith or not, the goal is still commonground.

You are not the only one to be selected in this unveiling. There are many needs to be filled. A sword-arm with a resolve as strong as steel. An open hand, to spread healing in the name of true peace. A voice of the earth, as deep as the mountains themselves. A woodsman, to guide through this twilight hour. A sneak, to slip past even the sturdiest walls. And finally, a spellweaver, even in these darkest times.

It is still the early hours, and the watchful eyes of both town and temple will scour the lives and souls of everybody within and without these walls. But under night’s embrace, the house adjacent to the Burning Treant, in the Warehouse District, will be empty. I expect to see you there, when darkness falls.

E.

Interesting. I hope I can help. Perhaps we can end these horrible public executions. And perhaps get some answers of my own. If the person was good enough to place that letter, perhaps they have heard of my mentor.

Returning to the streets, Kammie returns to the hovel she calls home, and lies down to rest. This evening is likely to be, interesting, and so she wants to be wide awake. Upon awaking, she makes her way through the dark like the sneak she is to her destination.

(OOC: sorry for the delay. Three of my teachers were kind enough to give assignments with a week of school left. Sorry if it's not great, will do better!)

Volla 27th, 1021
Vyrrmas, Alcana
Warehouse District
As the daylight hours rolled by, it appeared as though the rain would let up, allowing for a cool twilight hour. However, perhaps thirty minutes passed to allow the streets to begin to dry before a hefty downpour erupted from the heavens, tears wept for those slain upon the scaffold.

Whether spent in leisure, business, or personal activity, the hours between the execution and sundown ticked by at an alarming rate. Perhaps in anxiety, the uncertainty of this mysterious meeting, eating away at any perception of time. When the sun had set beyond the western wall of Vyrrmas, the six invitees crept out into the shadows, taking great care to avoid the eyes of the town watchmen.

If the heavy torrent served any purpose beyond dredging both body and spirit, it was useful in obscuring their ghostly forms as they crept after-hours towards the warehouse district.

The looming hulks of the warehouses, great dark blocks owned by the city’s various guilds, cast deep, dark shadows across the streets. Raindrops battering against the tiled rooftops and brittle glass panes drowned out all sounds among the cobbled streets with an all-consuming staccato. Perfect for obscuring wanderers after established curfew.

Nestled in between the Zantrical’s locked down storehouse and the Burning Treant Tavern was a small ramshackle home that had been evicted and boarded up years ago. A close inspection revealed only by those who would deliberately approach it revealed that the boards and nails were fastened to the door, and not the frame.

Slipping inside when the streets were bare, using the cover of rain and the noise from the tavern next door, six strangers met for the first time in the sitting room.

Dim candles burned on a half-rotten table, casting orange flickers into the corners of the derelict room. Junk had been pushed away, and six chairs had been seated around it, a curious count, considering the meeting had been called by one who would make the number seven. Within an hour of the first arrival, all six had been assembled, their cloaks dripping rainwater to the floor to create a dull reflection of the candlelight.

Silence held for a moment while each clutched their invitations, each wondering what request would group together three Syln, a Duskarn, and, perhaps most curiously, a Mith’Ganni and a Krosan. Before any could speak, the silence was broken.

“I am pleased to see you have all accepted my humble, if short-notice, invitation.” A smooth, low male voice spoke just above a whisper, drifting out of the darkness of a doorway into a bedroom. One footstep echoed through the home. Then a second, and a third. A tall figure, shrouded in a black cloak, slowly emerged. “Gentlemen, gentlewomen. Allow me to introduce myself,” He spoke from beneath the raised hood. “I, am Erkand Vale.”

Something about the way this strange man set his statements, using pauses and intonation to establish his words, held all eyes on him. The low candlelight allowed the barest view of a clean-shaven jaw beneath his hood, lips pulled into a sly smile, but the dark material obscured the rest of his visage.

“I hope that my request for your attendance met you swiftly and without alarm. Difficult it may be to ensure that you all attend – particularly yourself,” He nodded gently towards the Krosan. “such delivery measures were required.”

The figure chuckled softly and indicated the rundown abode with a gesture of his gloved hand. “It is less than ideal to host such a…gathering, but for security measures, it is necessary. For myself,” Each participant felt a steely gaze upon them, one by one. “And for yourselves.”

A hand darted beneath his cloak, moving like liquid shadow in the flickering light. Casting it forwards, six sheafs of paper hit scattered onto the tabletop. As six pairs of eyes fell upon them, shock welled up within as each member of the group looked at a coal-sketched portrait of themselves, set above a declaration that chilled the blood.

A Reward of Fifty Ketch for Arrest and Detainment, for Participation in the Outbreak of the Scarlet Flashfever and for the Crime of Witchcraft.

-Chief Inquisitor Venaullan
“To be posted tomorrow morning, among many others. I managed to acquire a few copies before they were tacked up.” Erkand’s voice was silk amidst the drawn tension. “I can help to keep you safe from the Temple Knights, but nothing in this world is for free. There is something I, too, am seeking in this desperate time, and your talents are…ideal.” Erkand hissed the emphasis on the last word.

Once again, he looked at each individual seated around the moisture-rotten table. “There is something I need you to locate for me. With your spread of skills, I have contracted you into my service. Your assistance is required. In turn, you shall be aided in avoiding those who would see you on the scaffold, as you all saw this midday.” Erkand chuckled darkly. “And since I hold all the keys to the doors of this little arrangement, it would be in your best interest to assist me.”

The tiny fingers that stretched out of the soaked white cloak shook as they took the handle of the door and opened it. Despite the fact that fat rain drops were crashing against her and splashing into her cowl and across her face she paused at the doorway and sent another silent prayer toward the heavens.

My Lord Liris… by the grace of your sister please grant me the strength to do what I must do now…
Breathing in the cool rain-sweet air she walked into the abandoned house. Despite the weight her cloak had taken with rain water and the chill that that water sent to her bones she kept it on. Under it she shivered as she took a seat in one of the chairs. However, removing the cloak would not stop them, and she hoped that by keeping it on the others who were taking seats around her might not notice how terribly she shook.

While they waited the white shelf of her cowl kept her relatively in shadow. Now and then the candlelight caught the green specks of her eyes as she looked around at those gathered with her. As the note had suggested they were a varied group. The words from the letter that brought her hear played through her mind:

A sword-arm… the follower of Liris? It is exciting to see one amongst us, I wonder if the others recognize the symbol on her cloak?
An open hand, to spread healing… obviously me.
A voice of the earth… perhaps the dwarf, don’t they live underground?
A woodsman… with the cloaks it is so hard to tell…
A sneak… I probably shouldn’t know if they are any good
A spellweaver…a spellweaver…

Rabbitses… who is the rabbit?
Her stomach took a nervous flip. Instinctively she reached into her pocket and pulled out a small cookie she had secreted there earlier. Her other hand finally resigned to pulling her cowl down. The face that was then revealed to those gathered was that of a young girl who only recently discarded the frivolousness of childhood. Long red hair darkened with dampness cascaded to her shoulders and clung to her forehead. Her skin was soft and pink, freckles dancing over the plump cheeks. Long lashes hid the sparkling emeralds of her eyes and beneath it all a pair of cupid shaped lips prepared to inhale the cookie that drew toward them. The cookie stopped short however when the fingers that held it registered the dampness to it. Instead of inhaling the cookie she exhaled a sigh as the looked down at the ruined morsel.

A nervous laugh drifted over the table and she shoved the squishy cookie back into her pocket with a blush. Her lips reopened as if to say something but the words fell short and her mouth stayed open in a dark little ‘o’ as out of the dark a voice came forth.

“I am pleased to see you have all accepted my humble, if short-notice, invitation.” One footstep echoed through the home. Then a second, and a third. A tall figure, shrouded in a black cloak, slowly emerged. “Gentlemen, gentlewomen. Allow me to introduce myself,” He spoke from beneath the raised hood. “I, am Erkand Vale.”

Thea watched the clean shaven jaw pronounce the words slowly, and tried to make a mental note of the name even as she cross referenced it against the names she knew. The result was less than satisfactory, however.

“I hope that my request for your attendance met you swiftly and without alarm. Difficult it may be to ensure that you all attend – particularly yourself,” He nodded gently towards the Krosan. “such delivery measures were required.”

The figure chuckled softly and indicated the rundown abode with a gesture of his gloved hand. “It is less than ideal to host such a…gathering, but for security measures, it is necessary. For myself,” The dark shadows fell upon her and she felt the biscuits she had eaten earlier drop to the bottom of her stomach. “And for yourselves.”

The next thing Thealora knew she was staring down at an image of herself over a declaration to bring her in for suspicion of aiding those spreading the plague. The digits that still smelled of cookies fled to her lips as she gasped audibly. Damp red locks peeled from her forehead as she began to shake her head in defiance of this.

“To be posted tomorrow morning...” Erkand’s silky voice was speaking but she couldn’t hear it all she just kept looking at the poster and shaking her head. “…keep you safe… need you to locate for me… I hold all the keys to the doors of this little arrangement, it would be in your best interest to assist me.”

“But… but sir…” she stammered behind her cookie fingers and raised those emerald eyes up to him just as they began to spill over with tears, “it’s a mistake! I swear! I’ve never… oh please… this isn’t funny! I am sure it can be worked out. Widmar will tell them!”

She nodded at that and tried to wipe the tears from her eyes. “Widmar will tell them. I’ve been in the north, helping to heal those that have fallen to the plague! I held their hands while they died! Stared into their eyes! I didn’t… I couldn’t… I swear I could never do anything to harm a soul! My Lady be praised! Don’t let it be so!” She fell into a whimper as the tears started up again and her bottom lip trembled as they spilled down her chin and onto her lap.

The rain continues to fall as the lithe figure makes her way through the shadows. Even moving through the shadows, at her speed she makes it to meeting place with time to spare. Eyeing the door warily, she makes her way inside to find six chairs around an old table. The letter named six people, so perhaps the informant would stand?

Moving within, she closes the door and proceeds to examine the room. Once finished with the room, she proceeds to examine the rest of the house that is accessible. If this is some form of trap, I won’t be caught unawares. Making her way back to the front room, she sits on the floor between the front door and the back of the house, with her eyes on the table

Slowly, the rest make their way into the house and proceed to sit at the table. Confident that she can use the others if need be to escape, Kammie seats herself in the remaining chair. Each seemed to eye the others. This was certainly a strange group for what could only be a troublesome job. No one wants to meet you at night in an abandoned building to make plans to help the poor. She was just beginning to wonder what the holdup was when the silence was broken.

“I am pleased to see you have all accepted my humble, if short-notice, invitation.” A smooth, low male voice spoke just above a whisper, drifting out of the darkness of a doorway into a bedroom. One footstep echoed through the home. Then a second, and a third. A tall figure, shrouded in a black cloak, slowly emerged. “Gentlemen, gentlewomen. Allow me to introduce myself,” He spoke from beneath the raised hood. “I, am Erkand Vale.”
The sound of the voices raised the hair on Kammie’s neck. Keeping from jumping had required tremendous control.
How, where. These are skilled ones. Perhaps they do know Valeria.
“I hope that my request for your attendance met you swiftly and without alarm. Difficult it may be to ensure that you all attend – particularly yourself,” He nodded gently towards the Krosan. “such delivery measures were required.”

The figure chuckled softly and indicated the rundown abode with a gesture of his gloved hand. “It is less than ideal to host such a…gathering, but for security measures, it is necessary. For myself,” Each participant felt a steely gaze upon them, one by one. “And for yourselves.”
Something about this man. Our lives mean nothing. What is he planning?
A hand darted beneath his cloak, moving like liquid shadow in the flickering light. Casting it forwards, six sheafs of paper hit scattered onto the tabletop. As six pairs of eyes fell upon them, shock welled up within as each member of the group looked at a coal-sketched portrait of themselves, set above a declaration that chilled the blood.

A Reward of Fifty Ketch for Arrest and Detainment, for Participation in the Outbreak of the Scarlet Flashfever and for the Crime of Witchcraft.

-Chief Inquisitor Venaullan

“To be posted tomorrow morning, among many others. I managed to acquire a few copies before they were tacked up.” Erkand’s voice was silk amidst the drawn tension. “I can help to keep you safe from the Temple Knights, but nothing in this world is for free. There is something I, too, am seeking in this desperate time, and your talents are…ideal.” Erkand hissed the emphasis on the last word.

Once again, he looked at each individual seated around the moisture-rotten table. “There is something I need you to locate for me. With your spread of skills, I have contracted you into my service. Your assistance is required. In turn, you shall be aided in avoiding those who would see you on the scaffold, as you all saw this midday.” Erkand chuckled darkly. “And since I hold all the keys to the doors of this little arrangement, it would be in your best interest to assist me.”
Seething with rage, Kammie glares at the man. Such gall. The man himself probably created the papers. I knew it, adults cannot be trusted. But then, perhaps this is another test from Master Valeria. No, then what of these others. I must know if there is a connection. I must find her!
“The guards aren’t exactly happy with me as it is, I don’ need the religus, relig, rel. Don’ need no temple people after me too. Cept, I see no reason to trust you eater. My supply of trust is low dese days. You throw out papers and say dat youse, that you, got them from the temple people. Who’s to say you aren’t just baiting us. Use us for what eva you need, then hand us ova or dipose of us. I bin used and left ta rot before. So talk.”

(OOC: i won't be posting again until after the 22 for finals. just letting you know.)

The weather had descended on the city and pelted it with tears, the streets muddied and the squalid conditions became more obvious, how can a life like this be more advanced, more civilised then life as a nomad. He made is way to the house in the warehouse district, cloak drawn tight against the rain, wanting to arrive quickly but not too keen on the idea of another square building with a roof, the starts and moons were coming out and he’d felt them calling to him in the inn before he’d left. He was pleased to be meeting some people though, he doubted there would be a second elf among them but they would probably mostly be human and humans were friends enough at difficult times, he’d been lonely on his walk to the city and he’d felt slightly lonely downstairs fletching, at least he would have something in common with the people he’d meet.

He wasn’t the first the enter the house, there were already two people inside, so he would make the third person of the group, and as soon as he entered he dropped his sodden cloak onto the seat of one of the six wooden things. Six things to sit on, not blankets but wooden constructions, one of each of them when they were all here, so where was the host unless he was one of the still cloaked figures in the room, and if so then would he stand and they would sit, it was polite to hold meetings seated cross-legged upon blankets in his clan. He stood waiting in the odd silence for the rest of the group to arrive, they tricked in out of the weather, water dripping off their cloaks in an unpleasant fission. Not long after the last person arrived their host announced his presence.

“I am pleased to see you have all accepted my humble, if short-notice, invitation.” A smooth, low male voice spoke just above a whisper, drifting out of the darkness of a doorway into a bedroom. One footstep echoed through the home. Then a second, and a third. A tall figure, shrouded in a black cloak, slowly emerged. “Gentlemen, gentlewomen. Allow me to introduce myself,” He spoke from beneath the raised hood. “I, am Erkand Vale.”
He produced sheets of parchment from a fold in his cloak and cast them on the table, one for each of them, each depicting his or her own face and name, 2 adult humans, two dwarves, a human child and himself, Lainon, but who was who. He had been more shocked by the public execution earlier. He was in his 13th decade and although unused to the trickery and lies of other races was used to the brutality of the world, earlier it hadn’t been the execution that had stunned him, it had been the manner and reception, because he’d killed before. At his first battle some decades ago they had planned to raid a gnoll camp but were greated by the smell of burnt flesh and the cloven heads of their kindred, young and old, on pikes.

To be posted tomorrow morning, among many others. I managed to acquire a few copies before they were tacked up. I can help to keep you safe from the Temple Knights, but nothing in this world is for free. There is something I, too, am seeking in this desperate time, and your talents are…ideal.”
He paused
“There is something I need you to locate for me. With your spread of skills, I have contracted you into my service. Your assistance is required. In turn, you shall be aided in avoiding those who would see you on the scaffold, as you all saw this midday. And since I hold all the keys to the doors of this little arrangement, it would be in your best interest to assist me.”
It was a funny way to go about things, help me or die, and he wasn’t good at guessing peoples bluffs, not of his people were. He picked up his poster and suddenly wished he had a charcoal to scribe his given name over his birth name, this was no choice at all, and he wouldn’t risk his own life as he couldn’t risk the lives of his people if he failed. He spoke in Alcanese to the man who had summoned them, his smooth voice making best of a rougher language then his own.

“If you’d provided horses we could ride for my clan or the mountains, it’s been generations since we welcomed dwarves into our community but not so long since we had humans travel with us.” He slipped back into his race’s form of elvish for a single word (that roughly translates as ‘life is sacred’ but anyone who knows the language knows its true meaning is closer to ‘life and sacred are one and the same’)
“… so tell us what you’d do with ours if we accept.”
The concept of a life belonging to the person who saved it isn’t a new concept in his clan, but it’s still undecided if this man has saved them.

Seated at a small table in the far corner of the tavern, Agrin had scarcely let his eyes drift from the horizon since reading the letter. He had spent the day in quiet contemplation, granting his words to none but Hamar, may he provide him with the wisdom to choose correctly in this dilemma put before him. Whoever it was that had invited him to this gathering, though they were proficient in the language of his people, could not possibly be of dwarvenkind. More than likely a human, bereft of a clan and ties to the community, or perhaps one of the fey-touched twiglets, the elves. The discreet method by which he received the letter, the meeting by nightfall, the shady location, only one without true honour needed to seek refuge in such environments. They would be well connected however, and surely powerful within the surface lands, and Agrin had not discounted his theory that the boorish barkeep had been paid to keep eyes on him.

The weather did little to encourage him, bringing forth torrents of water to crash upon the earthen flesh of Hamar, flooding the poorly the city streets. That was another thing Agrin would not miss about the filth encrusted kingdoms of man, and his heart ached briefly at the thought of his safe, secure vault home, protected from the elements by the rocky flesh of Hamar. Were it not for the threat of the sweaty barkeep slitting his throat while he slept for a handful of copper, Agrin would have remained content to stay within the tavern, sheltered by the shoddy construction of the surface folk. Though he had no true desire to bow to the wishes of his supposed host, he was not a fool, and it would serve his own cause greater were he to play along, if only to assess the threat.

Agrin was the first to arrive at the house, though he felt others’ eyes on him as he entered through the door. The letter had named five others, and Agrin repeated their “descriptions” to himself as more entered. He snorted audibly as ”the sword-arm with a resolve as strong as steel” entered, as well as the cloaked woman who nibbled constantly while she sat, as if she were bred from rats. Surely these women had no place in any situation that required his attention, they should return to their homes as was their place. That was, if they had homes, Agrin was not yet unconvinced these humans had any women that were not harlots of the street.

The waiting displeased Agrin. Their host was surely not of his proud breeding, lack punctuality and delaying to make some manner of entrance. Such cheap theatrics were the tools of one without the bearing to gain notice for his own deeds. Agrin spat on the ground in disgust and rose from his chair to leave. Just as he rose did he hear a voice emerge from the shadows.

“I am pleased to see you have all accepted my humble, if short-notice, invitation.” A smooth, low male voice spoke just above a whisper, drifting out of the darkness of a doorway into a bedroom. One footstep echoed through the home. Then a second, and a third. A tall figure, shrouded in a black cloak, slowly emerged. “Gentlemen, gentlewomen. Allow me to introduce myself,” He spoke from beneath the raised hood. “I, am Erkand Vale.”

Something about the way this strange man set his statements, using pauses and intonation to establish his words, held all eyes on him. The low candlelight allowed the barest view of a clean-shaven jaw beneath his hood, lips pulled into a sly smile, but the dark material obscured the rest of his visage.

“I hope that my request for your attendance met you swiftly and without alarm. Difficult it may be to ensure that you all attend – particularly yourself,” He nodded gently towards Agrin. “such delivery measures were required.”
Agrin spat again. That a human would have the nerve to address him in such a matter did not win him any favour with the Krosan. He returned to his seat however, his curiousity overriding his desire to silence the man was a swing of his mace.

The figure chuckled softly and indicated the rundown abode with a gesture of his gloved hand. “It is less than ideal to host such a…gathering, but for security measures, it is necessary. For myself,” Each participant felt a steely gaze upon them, one by one. “And for yourselves.”

A hand darted beneath his cloak, moving like liquid shadow in the flickering light. Casting it forwards, six sheafs of paper hit scattered onto the tabletop. As six pairs of eyes fell upon them, shock welled up within as each member of the group looked at a coal-sketched portrait of themselves, set above a declaration that chilled the blood.

A Reward of Fifty Ketch for Arrest and Detainment, for Participation in the Outbreak of the Scarlet Flashfever and for the Crime of Witchcraft.

-Chief Inquisitor Venaullan
“To be posted tomorrow morning, among many others. I managed to acquire a few copies before they were tacked up.” Erkand’s voice was silk amidst the drawn tension. “I can help to keep you safe from the Temple Knights, but nothing in this world is for free. There is something I, too, am seeking in this desperate time, and your talents are…ideal.” Erkand hissed the emphasis on the last word.
Agrin glanced at the paper. A roughly sketched bearded face stared back him. Whomever the artist, he had no grasp on the proper talents of producing an image, he knew of children in his homeland who could turn out better in an hour. Still the image unsettled him. Though he knew not whom or why, someone had made plans against him. Not unexpected while on the surface, but to this degree was certainly not an eventuality he had thought of.

The others took the news strangely. The cloaked woman dissolved quickly to tears, her womanly frailties obvious to those around her, while another, younger girl (who Agrin had originally mistake for a male) launched into a tirade of half formed words and babbling incoherency that prevented him from hearing the empty words of the bastard roaming elf. Agrin could only begin to imagine why anyone with the connections their host clearly possessed could have need of anyone so weak of will or mind. Agrin could only hope he would be rid of them soon enough, Hamar fill his ears with earth to drown out their idiocy.

Once again, the looked at each individual seated around the moisture-rotten table. “There is something I need you to locate for me. With your spread of skills, I have contracted you into my service. Your assistance is required. In turn, you shall be aided in avoiding those who would see you on the scaffold, as you all saw this midday.” Erkand chuckled darkly. “And since I hold all the keys to the doors of this little arrangement, it would be in your best interest to assist me.”
Though he felt nothing but distrust towards this man, Agrin had to admit respect for his manoeuvring. He had them in an unwinnable position, entirely at his mercy. His duty lay with Hamar and his clan, and he could serve but one of them if he lay still beneath the earth.

”Very well,” Agrin spoke gruffly in Krosan, gesturing to Erkland as he did, ”I will hear ye out cur. Though be warned ye be speaking to one who is guarded by the very earth on which ye walk. Tread carefully should ye wish to tread evermore.”

Anora’s afternoon was spent in the very area she was to be meeting at tonight. The ramshackle buildings wedged tightly between the larger warehouses of the docks were blights upon the landscape to some, but to Anora they were reminders that change was inevitable, and if you could not adapt or adjust, then you would simply be left to the ravages of time. There, in the underbelly of her beloved home, the paladin found solace, and even the rain could not dampen her spirits, rather it had the opposite effect. The gloomier the day, the more Anora was thankful to be alive, and she held onto the notion that the next sunrise would be all the more beautiful as it cut a swath through the veil of night or the obscuring cloud and rainfall.

Stopping by the “Sisters of Hope” orphanage, a small overly crowded and grossly understaffed and funded safe haven for those children left without family or home due to all manner of reasons, Anora smiled as she stepped in out of the rain, and was greeted by a pair of smiling faces no higher than her waist, as small arms wrapped around her legs and children’s laughter rang as music in her ears. Lowering her cloak and wiping her strawberry hair, now a dark auburn from the thorough soaking it had received, Anora’s smile widened still as a familiar face exited a nearby doorway to greet her.

“Sister Maribelle, it is good to see you well.”

“And you as well m’lady, it is always a pleasure to have a servant of Liris grace our humble refuge.”

“Now now, the pleasure is mine, nowhere else in all of Vyrrmas can one find so much innocence and purity, I daresay not even in the Grand Cathedral or the great forges of the Duskarn does such warmth and light shine true than from the eyes of these children who have lost so much.”

Sister Maribelle shook her head humbly, before gently corralling the two stray children from Anora’s legs and back into the room with a gentle push.. “Well now you know you’re more than welcome to step in, but by your dress I take it this is not time for a lengthy leisure call?”

Anora still lay strapped for combat in her armor and all, shield thrown over her pack and sword securely sheathed at her side. “No, I’m afraid not today good Sister, there is much to do, and little time to see it done, I just needed a pick me up after the execution earlier.”

Sister Maribelle shook her head in disgust, lowering her voice as she spoke to avoid little ears overhearing. “Yes, I heard about it, ghastly thing to display, and in the public where children could see it, a horrid thought.”

“Yes, it was an unpleasant event ,not only for the condemned, but for all who jeered and saw no wrong in its… execution. That was not a merciful death for the mind nor the soul, despite the quick death of the body… “ Anora shook her head. “But that is not why I am here.”

Sticking her hand into her pack, and deftly pulling out a folded piece of parchment, Anora handed it to Sister Maribelle who looked at it curiously.

“Voucher for food, paid upfront, ready for pick up good Sister, on behalf of House Arlessa.” As Sister Maribelle scanned the page, her eyes began to twitch as she fought the oncoming tears. “Liris bless you child, and your house.”

“Liris bless you and yours as well Sister, for you hold under its roof the future of the world.”
With that, Anora raised her hood once more, and turned around, feeling good about the deed she had done, and she headed to the last stop on her agenda before the meet tonight.
(Voucher is for 10gp’s worth of meats grains and basic foodstuffs)

Anora made her way across town, out through the large defensive walls and home to her family’s vineyard. Her father was out in the fields, she saw him in the distance as she passed, but did not tarry to stop him. She knew her mother would be in session with the guilds or the Reagent, so she entered the home and removed the strange letter that had been placed upon her person. Entering her mother’s quarters, she left the note upon her pillow, with an added note penned in her own hand.

Mother

Forces are at work here and I know not who or what motives they carry, I will be home late this night, if at all, for I intend to meet with this “E” and see what they have to say. I stopped by the Orphanage today, have you been lately? I’m sure the good Sister would be glad to see you if you could tear yourself away from your duties, important as we all know they are.

Anyways, I shouldn’t tarry, I will see you on the morrow Liris willing

With love,
Your Rose.

Confident her mother would at the very least ensure a proper investigation was formed should this clandestine meeting end in foul play, Anora slipped from the manor as the sun ducked behind the horizon and made her way back to the docks.
~*~*~*~

Anora was one of the last to enter the dilapidated building under cover of night. As the door creaked shut behind her, there was already a group of strangers sitting around a small table in the middle of the room candlelight flickering in the otherwise encompassing darkness. Anora strode into the room confidence in each step as she lowered her hood, and untied her cloak, setting it over the back of one of the only free chairs left. (or only free chair if Igni’s post has him arriving earlier)

As candlelight hit polished steel and emblazoned crest, Anor’s roll in the secretive missive was made very clear as the sword arm mentioned. Preferring to stand rather than sit, Anora stood with her hands upon the seat-back, and cast her gaze at those gathered. (Detect Evil upon other Pc’s including Igni when he’s there and our ‘host’) Strong green eyes cast about the room, but a curt nod of her head and the faintest of smirks over this adventurous meeting gave light to her serious demeanor.

She stood in silence, though she smiled as the nervous glance of a white robed girl’s eyes met her own, similar in both hue and hair color to match, the freckled lass could have been her sister if people didn’t know any better. A quiet wink was sent to reassure the young woman as her head turned to regard a voice from the darkness.

An introduction, a fluid motion, and the scattering of paper later, had Anora looking down at a rendition of her own self, a wanted criminal for the aiding and abetting of the Scarlet Feverflash…

Anora’s mind told her this was some cruel joke, but her gut told her otherwise. Somewhere in the pit of her stomach the paladin realized she had been thrust into something very serious.

“Mr. Vale, these proclamations are absurd. I am a holy knight of Liris. Tack the poster to my chest and march me straight to the Cardinal himself if you like, the Lady will judge me pure within the zone of truth… unless of course they who cast such dweomors are under some foul influence of the heart or mind.. “
Anora stopped long enough to look at each of those around her once more, particularly Thea, who expectedly panicked and broke into a tearful outburst of emotion. Walking over to Thea, Anora placed a calming hand on either shoulder, patting them gently raising her gaze to look at their host turned employer.

“Mr Vale, I can only account for the weight of my own soul, but I will not stand idle while others are thrust into the machinations of some foreign entity's plans. What would you have us do?”

As the hour grew late too fast Igni bowed to his audience.

“I have another engagement to attend and must prepare myself.” Igni began to gather his trade tools., “Thank you fro listening to my tales.” Igni shakes the hat and smiles, “And thank you for the coin to feed myself.” He walked with less theatre to his step than when he came down from the stairs but with more than his usual. I’ve learned a good exit sets the stage for tomorrow. As he passed the halfway point on the stairs he returned to an average step. I shall eat and then journey to see this E. Though it’s probably a trap. Entering his room Igni pulled his clothes off and carefully rolled them up. He pulled out a shirt and breeches, and while slipping them on mentally tugged at his familiar, a raven. His Raven, Blackfeather. Blackfeather was Igni’s only friend these days. Igni opened his window pretending to enjoy the feeling of raindrops against his face and feigning surprise when his raven landed on the windowsill.


“Food” The raven asked in dwarven. “Food?”
“I’ll give you food if you do an errand for me.” Igni replied petting Blackfeather’s bill.
“Errand?” The raven replied, “What errand?”
“I need you to look over a house and tell me if there are any of the evil eyes there.” Igni described the location contained in the note. “After you look I’ll give you some food.”
“MMM Food I look then get food.” The raven spread its wings, “Be back.” Leaping into the air the raven was swiftly out of sight. Igni closed his window, collected his belongings, and went downstairs. Might as well eat. If it’s a trap then I’ll want some food in my belly. Igni moved cautiously even after leaving his room. After the show and before the party there’s no reason to attract attention. He ordered a small bowl of rabbit stew and sat alone purposely away from everyone else. He ate swiftly but time it seemed moved faster. Making sure to save a small piece of rabbit, Igni stacked his dishes together and tucked his chair into the table as he left. I feel like I’m heading to my execution. Igni carefully gathered his gear making sure to strap it tight and in a way that he could run while unslinging his crossbow. He walked out of the tavern and scanned the skies. Ordinarily it would be foolish to search an ever darkening sky for a black bird but Igni was a Duskarn and his darkvision was superb allowing him to easily spot his raven as it circled above him playing in the storm’s wind currents.
“No evil eyes, just other people.” Blackfeather reported flying down to perch near Igni. Once Blackfeather would have perched on Igni’s shoulder, but after the plague was blamed on magic users Igni had slowly and painstakingly taught Blackfeather to be subtle about their relationship and about showing how special Blackfeather was. The only thing Igni had yet to teach the raven not to do was speak out loud. Igni had discovered that he and Blackfeather could communicate empathically, with emotions, but Blackfeather preferred talking and in truth Igni preferred listening. Still Igni thought scanning the near empty street to see if anyone had heard. It is dangerous to have a talking bird. Sighing relief at the lack of people Igni trudged toward his destination. He took no unnecessary action to hide himself, nor did he slink from wall to wall. He merely placed one foot in front of the other having come across the thought that attempting to not look guilty usually brought more suspicion than just being there.

The looming hulks of the warehouses, great dark blocks owned by the city’s various guilds, cast deep, dark shadows across the streets. Raindrops battering against the tiled rooftops and brittle glass panes drowned out all sounds among the cobbled streets with an all-consuming staccato. Perfect for obscuring wanderers after established curfew. Nestled in between the Zantrical’s locked down storehouse and the Burning Treant Tavern was a small ramshackle home that had been evicted and boarded up years ago. A close inspection revealed only by those who would deliberately approach it revealed that the boards and nails were fastened to the door, and not the frame. 
Igni was the last to arrive. Before Igni entered he slipped his crossbow from his shoulder and locked in a bolt. No use making this easy on them.
Dim candles burned on a half-rotten table, casting orange flickers into the corners of the derelict room. Junk had been pushed away, and six chairs had been seated around it, a curious count, considering the meeting had been called by one who would make the number seven. Within an hour of the first arrival, all six had been assembled, their cloaks dripping rainwater to the floor to create a dull reflection of the candlelight.
Igni glanced around the room as he entered crossbow ready to fire upon the potential ambushers, but the scene that greeted him was not one of violence, at least not yet. The table had four of the six chairs claimed, a count that almost panicked Igni until he saw the fifth person sitting away from the table equidistance from the able and the door, and Igni made the count six. So the meeting will be short but the wait long. Igni thought to himself. As the arrangement is obviously set up for us to sit but the host doesn’t seem to think they will be here long enough to sit. And it may not happen at all. this last thought was in answer to the obvious tenseness in the room. The one sitting on the floor looks ready to bolt and I imagine they don’t trust easily. The sword arm of the party is obvious, but I would think from her distinctive attempt to look confident that she is rash as a youth with that confidence is either foolhardy or attempting to hide fear. Igni unloaded his crossbow as he scanned the gathered. At least it isn’t a trap for the honor of the Krosan would prevent him from working with these humans to trap a fellow dwarf even if he believes the foolishness about spell casters. And whatever this is can’t be particularly dangerous if the host wants us alive. Igni looks at a short young plump girl, Because that one wouldn’t survive long. I’ve never seen that particular variety of elf before I wonder what he is capable of.
“I am pleased to see you have all accepted my humble, if short-notice, invitation.” A smooth, low male voice spoke just above a whisper, drifting out of the darkness of a doorway into a bedroom. One footstep echoed through the home. Then a second, and a third. A tall figure, shrouded in a black cloak, slowly emerged. “Gentlemen, gentlewomen. Allow me to introduce myself,” He spoke from beneath the raised hood. “I, am Erkand Vale.”
The voice broke Igni’s train of thought and he spun around calling to mind the magic which would grant him extra fortification, before he released it, however, he calmed himself as he watched three individuals enter form the shadows. So now we find out why.
Igni listened closely to the words spoken by Erkand Vale, even more so once the poster were tossed to the table. He didn’t need to see the poster to know what it was, and everyone else’s reaction simply confirmed what they were. Surprisingly Igni didn’t feel the terror he thought he would have with this evidence presented. I knew my face would appear on poster some day.Igni thought with resignation. I just didn’t know it would be used to manipulate me. I hate being manipulated. The obvious hoax of Erkand Vale’s claim that he liberated these posters from the followers of Mallien angered Igni more than his personal disgust that he had somehow been found out. The difference from the others gathered here and Igni however was that the accusations were true and somehow Erkand knew it. This fact forced Igni’s hand.

“I’ll join you’re quest.” Igni said in a low growl. “But know that I won’t forgive you for manipulating me, and just tell me; What’s keeping these people from killing you and pronouncing you as the witch? Since without your fabricated testimony there is no real proof as to their misdeeds but I’m sure the Paladin has proof as to her own good deeds. I on the other hand simply have my tales, and they would likely be used against me before Mallien’s corrupt judges. However if any of you should wish to declare Erkand a witch I‘ll add my testimony.” Igni eyed Erkand measuring for a reaction. Men who would play with other’s lives are scum and should be killed. However, I do not think I have the strength to kill this scum and in such a perilous situation I might have done too much already.

Volla 27th, 1021
Vyrrmas, Alcana
Warehouse District
Erkand waited patiently, or perhaps out of quiet irritation, until everybody finished declaring their piece – whether it be the tears that Thealora shed in fear, the open-mindedness offered by the outlandish Éofara, or the threat issued out by Igni. Hands folded beneath his cloak, jaw set firmly, the dark stranger waited for silence until he finally spoke.

“It is understandable that you would each have your own perspectives in this dark situation. However, your accusations regarding my playing with your fates is misplaced.” He gestured to the posters scattered on the decaying tabletop. “This is no drafting of my own, and should you choose to turn on me, you’ll find that my name is already out there among the signboards and tavern walls. Your attempting to turn me in would provide you with no strategic advantage. But I assure you, tomorrow morning, should you look carefully enough, you will all spot yourselves looking back at you from some wall or post.”

From beneath his shroud, Erkand produced a folded kerchief, midnight blue and spun from fine silk. With a black-gloved hand, he offered it to Thea before he looked at the others again, eyes still veiled by his hood.

“There are a number of reasons you have been selected by myself,” He began, his voice silken and each word carefully articulated. “All of you are nobodys in this materialistic society we live in. Three temple servants, a street rat, a wandering elf, and a minstrel, hiding away his true colours.” Erkand set his gaze on Igni, obviously irritated by the accusations of a few moments earlier. “There are warrants for your arrest, yes, but nobody will notice if you vanish. Do you think Lord Bronkald had that luxury? What about Vintas Murannas? No. They are the leaders among men. They cannot disappear without an uproar.”

A swift hand snatched up the posters, returning them to some inside pocket of Erkand’s cloak. “Did you hear the most recent news?” Six sets of non-understanding eyes looked back at him. “Mekkalt Barovain has been accused. She fled their home, and vanished before sundown. Nobody has seen her since. But now the temple knights are seeking her with bloody zeal. Be thankful you are not in the same situation. Well...” He nodded towards Anora. “Perhaps not you, Madam Arlessa.”

He turned and took a step towards the back of the room. A trusting move, turning his blindside on some who obviously felt great resentment towards him. “You all possess talents that will be of extreme benefit to this cause. Fully halting the Flashfever. Part of it. The others…” He looked back. “You will learn as you go.”

The flickering candlelight presented Erkand with a very looming aura, a feel that was most unsettling to be in the presence of. “You are young in your careers, your lives…you have much to learn. Together, you can forge a formidable force. But you’re in no positions to hold out in this grim world by your lonesome. If you wish to, the door is there. Some of you can edge out a bit longer, some not. Believe me, in this place, one who can wield the shalma will quickly find his boots to the hangman.

“There are challenges before you, but this is a rapidly changing world. None could have foreseen this outcome. Which is why we are all here. You’re all innocent thus far. Do you think that farmer was not? Perhaps you possess a soul as light as down, or maybe you don’t. That doesn’t matter when the country is collapsing around us.” Erkand licked his lips and grinned. “Like the gods, I only gamble with loaded dice. Your displeasure is evident, but do you think you can take me on? Surely you understand that I would not invite you six here if there were immense risk to myself? Quite the contrary. I am very comfortable in your presence.”

Erkand chuckled darkly and flexed his hands with a low creak of his gloves. “Violence is not the way, and it would be preferable for the Temple of Mallien to realize that. That is not the case. I’ve called upon you because there is a certain man who must be removed. You are familiar with the Cardinal-Deacon?

“Make no mistake. Attempt now, and any would fail. You all have such potential, however, to do the right thing here. How many are fated to die before justice is truly served? Perhaps yourselves. Perhaps me. But before I’m hung out to die, I want to see the real truth behind this witch hunt. And you…” Erkand indicated the half-dozen assembled. “You will be the best we can make you.”

A quick step brought the cloaked figure to the table edge, where he slapped his palms down upon it. “None of you know each other, and thus, none know each other’s capabilities in any situation. Thus, I presented you all a brief descriptor in your invitation. Though words to not make one a person. It is up to you to learn. Provided you accept my cause.”

Erkand reached beneath his veil once more, this time producing a strange stone disk, embedded with a symbol in the form of a spider. “There is a ruin in the forest west of here. Gurit-Marnairan.” He spoke the name is accented Dwarven. “Deep inside is something for you, as well as something for me. To recover these objects will take the abilities of all of you combined. So its either all of you join, or none of you do. The choice is yours.”

He indicated the strange disk. “This will unlock the gates to the ruin. Inside are a number of challenges to test your worth. What I require is a silver amulet. You will know when you see it. You will also find valuables for yourselves, so don’t think this one-sided. Your efforts will be rewarded, I assure you that.”

The strange man laughed once more, flickering candlelight illuminating the slight motions of his jaw. “The door is there, but I am quite confident none of you will be using it. Though, perhaps you will prove me wrong here. All of you have little to lose, but much to gain – including your lives.”

(OOC: Tough negotiator, hey? Sorry if there are any mistakes or whatnot in this; I’ve been attempting to write it with my roommates six year old brother hounding me, so I may have inadvertently written something twice in a row.

New glossary term added!)