This is the thread for The Search For Tomorrow. Lurkers are welcome, but this will be a story containing explicit content, and thus, may not be for all.
Tirmut 5th, 1022
Refugee Camp, Near Scarwood.
Northern Alcana.
A year had passed since the calamity began.

That black day, where the baritone voice of Cardinal-Deacon Ilphian damned the proud people of Alcana to a future of unrest, terror, mistrust, and civil war, all in the name of bringing justice to the progenitors of the Scarlet Flashfever. Season of the Witch, it was titled in history. Now, Ilphian's inquisition left Alcana broken and bloodied, and the citizens scattered throughout its borders.

Countless lives were put to the sword, those who bore the brunt of people's suspicion. And yet, the fever never truly vanished, though it did quell. Replacing fever was fervour, and the efforts to preserve oneself often cost the lives of others.

It had been a few months since a revolt began beneath the machinations of the mysterious Erkand Vale, raising up a small group of resistance fighters who pulled the veil from the people's eyes and showed the true motives behind the hunt – the elimination of the Barovain noble family line, and the placement of the Fairneise family upon the throne of Alcana. Although the revolution was put down by the Temple knights of Mallien, it was enough to light the fires of justice in the oppressed peoples, and uprisings began all throughout the land. But regent Akkeyl Feirneise countered by instating the Temple Knights as the national military force, and Alcana underwent a dark age as the Witch Hunts were used as an official means to execute instigators of trouble, as well as continue to seek out the arcanists who were attributed with devising the Fever.

Now...refugee camps littered the landscape, peoples of all races congregating in them for safety in numbers. Shanty towns and tent camps fill out the spaces between the woodland realm of Alcana, where people struggle to eke out survival amidst a hostile environment. But the winter had passed, as did the spring, and now the approaching warmer summer months promised relief from the elements.

************

Hope is the one crop that can grow in any climate...
- Sister Adriss, Priestess of Liris
“Another batch..”

“More to feed. More to hide.”

“Clear some room for 'em.”

With the warmth of the rising sun came a new group of refugees, entering the boundaries of the camp bearing their lives on their backs, and evidence of hardship on their grim and tired faces. Primarily Syln, a few members of other races could be seen within the numbers. From the looks of it, they'd travelled all night to reach the shanty town beneath the twisted boughs of Scarwood Forest. Campfires burned to heat large batches of stews and porridges, around which the hungry gathered to eat their morning ration. More than a few heads of the newcomers looked hopefully towards the cookpots, and onlookers could only guess at the last time the poor souls had consumed a hot meal.

As he always did with new arrivals, camp leader Jauris approached them, welcoming them as best as he could and calling over a few helpers to get them settled. Appointed for a combination of his coordination skills and commanding presence, Jauris held a sturdy figure even in the worst times, his grizzled and scarred face able to beam with warmth to keep spirits up, but just as easily he could take hold of a situation to organize for stability. And as such, he'd been in charge of the camp since the early winter months.

His siting of the refuge in the cleared out crook of western Scarwood had proved to be an effective hiding place, while still accessible to those who knew how to look. The ancient sentinels of the forest provided shelter and timber, as well as game to hunt and food to forage. Though, the woodland had a reputation for danger; as far as anybody was concerned, bandits were preferable to Temple Knights and militants. Isolation from other camps was the primary obstacle, and thus, communication with the outside world was difficult beyond what news entered with the refugees.

Still, newcomers brought talents that allowed the camp to survive in these difficult times. A small group of priests of Liris tended to the needs of the sick, and there were enough hunters to provide a semi-regular supply of food. But with the consistently growing numbers, rations were being stretched thinner. Fortunately, enough arrivals ensured that able tradespeople could fill out some of the important tasks, such as clothing, drying, and the building of more shanties to house the stranded.

As they did each morning for the past several months, the refugees stirred to life, trying to keep busy and remain helpful with tending to the needy, the frightened, and the hungry. Boredom killed, and staving off depression was a labour all in itself in times like these. But a rare phenomenon was likewise attained, for race and background aside, these few hundred assembled on the shadowy edge of a northern forest, were one family, united by civil war in the search for tomorrow.

Two long years had passed since the cleric known as Nicholas Zahrdahl had left his cloistered existence deep in the mountains, two long years of living and learning what the world had to offer. Through this time he had witnessed so much pain and suffering, especially during the time that some were already referring to as the Season of the Witch. Despite all the horrible things he had seen and experienced he would not let these glimpses into the darker side of the world ruin his experiences, he had also, during this time, witnessed much good, experienced great hospitality, and learned many things he had never even thought he'd learn in his wildest dreams. Recently he had stood up and spoke out against the destruction of a collection of books confiscated from a wizard's personal library, an act that had nearly cost him his life and labeled him a heretic by the Temple Knights. Following a narrow escape Nick had found himself accompanying a group of similar refugees who wanted to stand against the tyranny that had arisen during this age. The naive cleric was not too thrilled with the prospects of having to go underground, figuratively speaking, but remained optimistic that even during this time he could learn and experience the thrills of living among the rest of the world.

For days now the group the Nick had been traveling with had been doing much of their moving during the night, when the cover of the shadows would make it easier to avoid detection by those who would want to bring them harm. During the day they usually hid out in the basements, cellars, or attics of sympathizers who were not yet targets. Nick's eyes were hungry for the light and warmth of the sun, but he knew that the companions he had come to rely on knew best and stayed out of sight and hidden away when they said to. During this last night they had made their way into a forest that the sympathizers had said was the home of a refugee camp where they could all be safe and of use to others like themselves. They wandered lost in the forest for hours, seeking out the signs that would supposedly lead them to safety. While wandering the forest they came across a couple other small groups seeking safety, and eventually the group finally made it into the camp.

After a hearty welcome into the camp the cleric wandered the clearing taking in the sights and sounds, listening to stories in passing, pausing when something interesting caught his chronically curious ears. He had always had a soft spot for stories, legends, and the various other traditions of passing on information orally through the generations. If a story really caught his interest, kept his attention, and pulled at his heartstrings he would write it into his journal along with the other experiences he was sure to live through as he traveled.

"... So I was making my way through the house of the Knight, as quiet as a mouse and... oh what do we have here? More newcomers..."

Koriss had been in camp for several weeks now, after fleeing for his life from a nearby city. Apparently the Templars didn't take kindly to theives in their own homes. With his small frame he wasn't much good at manual labor. But he could weave a heck of a tale. In the past weeks he could be found recounting one of his adventures or tales to a group f fellow refugees more often than not. Who knew if they were true or not, but they were at least entertaining. More than once he had his audience rolling on the ground in much needed laughter. He seemed to be a light-hearted little guy for the most part, however... when not in public, the dark melancholy within him surfaces.

He was a street thief once, profiting off of the rich and living life on the edge of adventure. Stealing was always an adventure, as was the escape afterwards. But here, the adventure was survival. There was less thrill day-to-day than on the streets. Less life flowing through his veins. He did his best to maintain an up beat demeanor and truly enjoyed telling his tales, but if he stayed couped up in this camp for too much longer, he would waste away. He was sure of it.

"Well, time to go greet our new friends."

Ignoring the grunts from his audience he hopped up and pranced out of the group towards the newcomers. It seemed Jauris was already at work getting them all set up in what would be their new home. Perhaps he could be of help. He made sure to keep a smile on his face, even as he approached the downtrodden looking refugees.

"Welcome to Scarwood! I see you haven't brought much with you. That's alright, we'll get you taken care of. Just set what little you have right there by the fire. One of these guys will help you get some food in your stomach."

He walked over to the nearest fire pit, glancing around at the refugees that were already sitting. "Hey guys. We got room here for a few more?"

Light of the moon be my guide.
Despite the light of the sun Aya let the prayer rush through her mind over and over. She was Mith'ganni and the pull of the moons were never far from her. Whether the sun shone or clouds covered the night sky Aya always felt the lunar presence. It was in her blood and no matter how far from her people that connection would always be there.

Tragedy had led her to travel far from Mith'ganni lands into a world wholly foreign to her. Now she stood in a strange forest watching a camp of disheveled refugees. Retribution led her now and Aya saw the path to it in the bedraggled encampment. Still she stood and watched hidden in the cover of forest shadow. Although she remembered naught of her life the reclusive nature of her people ran deeper than memory. The thought of stepping into the sunlight and standing among the refugees unnerved her to the core.

Light of the moon be my guide.
Aya took a deep breath and let the words of the prayer echo in her mind. The blood of her people had been spilled and that was a debt that could only be repaid in blood. Stilling herself the Mith'ganni took a step forward and then another and another until she no longer stood in the protective embrace of the forest.

Sunlight shone brighter in the refugee camp illuminating the elf. Thankfully most were too preoccupied with their own problems to notice a lone she elf standing at the thresh hold of the camp. That changed the further Aya moved within. Her people were rare outside of their lands and the elf had little doubt she was the first Mith'ganni most had ever laid eyes on. With the feral grace of a creature of the wild Aya moved through the camp. Her yellow eyes looked into the pathetic faces of the refugees ad she sighed. From the look of it many of these people were barely eating and in some only force of will alone kept them alive. The witch hunts had destroyed many more lives than her own, she did not doubt she would find others who sought to make Mallien's clergy pay.

Absently Aya ran a pale finger along a black crow feather braided into her silver hair. She had worn a crow's feather in memory everyday since she awoke covered in blood. True she might not be able to remember any of the slaughtered when they were alive but she saw the faces of their corpses and the memory of their loss gripped her deeply.

So she moved further into the camp. Somewhere amongst these bedraggled refugees she would find those of like mind. Whether Aya liked it or not she was now one of them.

Light of the moon be my guide.

Shenandoah knelt beside the young buck, swiftly drawing his long knife before his knees touches the earth. The creature before him was calm now, embracing the death that was surely coming. “Shenanhah, I give you thanks for your sacrifice,” the K’urn hunter whispered, and with a quick movement his blade cut deeply through the buck’s neck.

“Let your spirit be at peace, knowing your death is bringing life to many.”

+++++++++++++++

Being some of the first to join Jauris, Shenandoah and his adopted brother had been with the camp for many weeks now. Not really refugees, the camp had been an extended way stop on what had become quite the journey for the K’urns. Conversations with the Syln, and with the other refugees, seemed to suggest that Quintosonas was drawing closer to the completion of his quest.

Shenandoah carried the slain buck across his shoulders, like an honored companion who had fallen in battle. Bringing the creature into camp, he laid it before those who would prepare it. The meat of the creature might be able to feed half the camp for the day if rationed well, and the hide would be useful for when the seasons changed again. Even the bones and rack could be put to use.

It was still early morning, and Shenandoah joined others by the fire listening to the stories of Koriss, the Raslan who had joined the camp several weeks ago. Shenandoah thoroughly enjoyed the little thief and his tall tales. The Raslan’s presence in the camp had also lifted the moral of the camp, as people struggled to understand the injustice that had fallen on their land.

"... So I was making my way through the house of the Knight,” Koriss recounted. “As quiet as a mouse and... oh what do we have here? More newcomers..."

Shenandoah groaned inwardly at the interruption of the Raslan’s story, but did not begrudge the arrival of the new refugees. Like Koriss, the K’urn busied himself helping the newcomers with their packs and finding them a place around the fire.

It was while he was escorting a mother and her two children to the warmth of the morning fire that he first sensed her, though if asked later Shenandoah would have been hard pressed to identify what sense had first noticed the arrival of the Mith’ganni. Regardless, the K’urn warrior was enthralled by the exotic woman with the yellow eyes and silvery hair. It was not so much her form that had captured Shenandoah’s attention (though she was lovely), but her step… the step of wild grace. “Leotie,” Shenandoah whispered to himself with reverence as the Mith’ganni entered further into the camp. Like a wild mustang of the Wasteland.
With the boldness of a K’urn warrior, Shenandoah approach the her, though he was wary… recklessness before a creature of the wild often left one injured or dead. Shenandoah desired neither.

“Welcome, daughter of Wild Grace,” the K’urn greeted the Mith’ganni. “There is room around the fire here.”

Tirmut 5th, 1022
Refugee Camp, Near Scarwood.
Northern Alcana.
With introductions and guidance from the camp-dwellers to the newcomers, a feeling of welcoming drifted through the atmosphere. The tales spun by Koriss hit home to lighten the moods of those in need, the typically wary view on the foot-bound gutter halflings overlooked in the scene of hardship. The fresh kill of a young buck, brought about by the sandy-skinned Shenandoah, would ensure that there was enough to eat for at least some of the day.

Her emergence from the treeline so smooth and graceful, few beyond the K'urn hunter took note of the beautiful Mith'Ganni, the fabled Twilight Elf of Elrithia. While Shenandoah crossed the shanty town to greet the wanderer, Nicholas, the cleric of St. Manquo, moved with Koriss to help out the newcomers where they may.

Food was distributed from the cookfires to empty stomachs by some of Jauris' aides, morale immediately improved among the road-weary refugees. If there was one thing that could boost anybody's spirits, it was a hot meal in hard times. A few of the newcomers began to speak to the residents of the Scarwood camp, trying to get acquainted and break the ice for a little bit of comfort.

Though the newcomers seemed to largely keep together, an elder Syln man with an unshaven jawline and a bit of a stoop to his posture was speaking to Jauris near one of the campfires, surprisingly animated for a trail-worn old man. Judging by his composure, the wizened figure seemed to be the representative for the mewcomers. Both Koriss and Nick, near enough to overhear, were able to pick out the details of the discussion. From the sounds of things, a number of the refugees had been picked off on the road by bandits, which was to be expected with any kind of evacuation through the wilds of Alcana.

However, the relatively discreet conversation between the two leaders was made much more apparent when a copper-haired youth, not more than eighteen or nineteen, raised his voice to be heard above theirs.

“What about Rain?!”

Nearby heads turned towards the scene, though to most, it was mere curiosity towards the sudden outburst, rather than its meaning. While the elder turned from Jauris to address the lad, keeping his tones even, the response was full of ire.

“She's gone. They took her on the last raid. And what did you do about it? We kept running!”

Jauris raised a hand, not in aggression, but to command silence from the young man. It seemed to work, for he settled somewhat before speaking out again, but by now, silence resided from those nearby. The camp leader spoke in lower tones, obviously desiring privacy, but the youth seemed to disregard it.

“You don't understand... She's more than my sister. Rain knew how to remedy the fever.” He looked to the dirt and kicked a divot with his worn-out boots. “Rain knew how to treat the dying and keep it from spreading...”

A number of onlookers had drifted over now. As much as people feared the Inquisitors and the ranging bandits, the Scarlet Flashfever was not gone from Alcana. Due to the inability to treat it, those who showed signs of the rampaging plague were cast away from the camp. Their fate was sealed, but they would perish on the roads or under a bush somewhere. A dismal prospect, but everybody accepted it as their duty if they contracted it.

Sacrificing the few for the many.

(OOC: Bear with these weak posts. I'll get my power back as we go! The point is we now have something to work with!)

The normally cheerful halfling strides quickly over to the out-of-sorts youth.

He speaks calmly, but with threatening seriousness in his low tones. "How would she know of a cure? Others have searched for a long time. This is not something to get the others riled up about. Their hope hangs by a thread as it is. If you are lying about this, and it is merely a selfish attempt to save your sister, yourwelcome here will be swiftly worn out." Looking at the others gazing in on the conversation. "And likely your life may be stopping a bit short of old age. Hope is a deadly dangerous thing in these times. Now, with that in mind, is what you say true?"

Koriss eyes the youth with a penetrating gaze, attempting to detect any sign of dishonesty or disception.

Having found himself an animated storyteller to listen to Nick subconsciously followed the little halfling over to the troubled youth, listening and eager to hear himself if what the boy had said was true. If this Rain truly knew of a way to treat the Fever then this was the discovery of a life time, information he would surely want to document for the good of generations to come.

Despite his normally optimistic outlook, he found himself sharing in the Raslan's skepticism, "Our halfling friend here is right, many wise and knowledgeable scholars have searched for cures and treatments for the Fever, including many clerics of my order. It is curious that your sister would discover a treatment where none before could." Nicholas was not ready to dismiss the boy's claims as entirely false, just highly unlikely.

Ilphian's crusade against magic spread like wildfire, his holy cleansing wiping from the land many a splendid thing and replacing it only with the stains of bloodshed and tears fallen. So full of blind zeal were his Templar’s that even innocents, those blessed with the gift of innovation, science, or herbology were often branded as heretics in need of cleansing. This conquest of the ill-informed, swept across Alcana, and it was in this tyrannical exploitation of fear and ignorance that chanced Ilphian's templar’s across a small Kirvassian gathering. The Winter month's had proved long and harsh, but spring was here, and thus the circled caravan's lay ablaze with life, music and mirth as the nomadic tribe celebrated another cycle complete. As the Templar's approached, and noticed the foreign accents carried upon the night air, strange powder's thrown upon campfires, bursting into coloured smokes and flashes of light, Arrogance, and superstition fed their zealous nature, and the camp was marked for cleansing... This particular Kirvassian group was filled with scholars, poets, musicians and frivolous folk, not weave winding spellbinders. They were no match for the armored and trained knights. It was a massacre.

The screams of the dying carried upon the wind, into the darkened nearby woods, where Kresimir was stalking wild turkey for future meals. Upon straining leg's the large, muscular man ran for the encampment, with nothing but anguished cries echoing through the air to meet him. When he arrived, the horses had been ransacked, the caravan's ablaze, and those who had not managed to flee, or be arrested, lay strewn about the circle, cut down like stalks of wheat before the scythe. Sorrow filled the Kirvass, but it was quickly replaced by a much darker, stronger emotion that filled his veins with fire, and turned his eyes to orbs of darkness capable only of seeing bloodlust as they fell upon one of the attackers.

The soldier was straightening his cloak, wiping the mud from the heavy fabric, as he turned towards his horse. He spoke something too soft to hear, and spat upon the earth as though to say "good riddance." Kresimir lost any control he had, his vision tunneled till he saw only that open lidless eye open the back of that muddy grey cloak. With a bloodcurdling scream he charged, and if the scream didn't set the startled straggler of a soldier aback, the frenzied look in the large man's eyes would have. Sword rattled in scabbard as he tried to defend against the stranger and by the time he had managed to free the weapon from the confines, the man had covered the distance between them impossibly fast, and he was upon him like a feral beast in the night.

Rage filled Kresimir's arms as he took a painful gash across his midriff as the soldier finally pulled his weapon free, steel glinting in the firelight as blood flew free from the sharp edge. The gash was deep; would have halted a lesser man, but what man remained within the incarnation of hate and anger that stood here? Ignoring the dull pain, Kresimir's hands found steel coif around feeble neck, knuckles whitened, and muscles clenched, as he began to squeeze, his momentum bowling the armored man over as he went. The soldier panicked, dropping his weapon as his hands gripped Kresimir's powerful forearms desperately trying to loosen his grip.

There would be no denial of vengeance tonight. Kresimir's arms flexed and his fingers dug in, the steel coif once worn for protection, now a cage of steel, heralding an eternal prison in death. The soldier's eyes bulged, and his nose began to bleed as his hands desperately clawed as Kresimir as his lungs were denied breath. As his arms fell limp by his side, Kresimir howled an inhuman cry into the night, before battle-rage and bloodlust were sated, and exhaustion coupled with his wound set in. With little strength left, Kresimir managed to commandeer the soldier's horse, along with a scarce few effects that lay scattered about the clearing unmarred from torch and flame, before donning the muddy grey vestments of his fallen adversary, and taking up his shield, strapped to the horses pack as a token of prowess, and a symbol of his wrath, and making into the night upon his newfound steed, until he could keep his heavy eyes open no longer; leaving his direction, and his destiny, in the hands of the gods and the hooves of his horse...

It would seem the God’s have a sense of humor, to lead this beleaguered warrior into a den of lost souls. Here amongst the rabble and the downtrodden he was to find salvation, to be charted upon a path of destiny that would clear his heart of the ache of loss and his mind of the fog of a personal vendetta; he did not know… but it was here that his eyes opened wearily as he woke from a less than enjoyable night’s sleep, as his horse, still bearing Mallien’s markings upon the barding, the same trappings draped over his own scavenged armor caked in blood and mud with wound still aching in his gut. Here he would find those with the strength to judge those who had slaughtered, so many innocents, but first let he himself be judged, for surely he walks into the herd of sheep, unwittingly in the guise of the feared and reviled wolf.

The horse, ‘Deliverance’, as he would come to be named halted long before the actual gates of the encampment, as the eyes of scouts and hunters fell upon him. Kresimir blinked away the grit and sleep that had gathered in his eyes over the course of his uncharted overnight ride, sliding the shield bearing Mallien’s emblem upon it from the hook and raising it for all to see; before throwing it to the earth at his side and spitting upon it much the same way it’s previous owner had spat upon the ground soaked with his clan’s blood.

“Grim Morrow Strangers...”

As the ruckus started up off to the side, Tobias moved himself deliberately to Jarius' side. He was not meaning to intimidate the lad, though with his bulk and height it was difficult to avoid.

Tobias did not speak, but the boy's words that his sister might have a cure for the Fever caught him off-guard. The disgraced knight wanted to believe it true but, like the Raslan, was not interested in tall tales and false hope.

He waited (rather impatiently) for the boy to response.

Tirmut 5th, 1022
Refugee Camp, Near Scarwood.
Northern Alcana.
The returned hostility upon the young lad efficiently shut his mouth for the time, looking cautiously between the soldier, the priest, and the small Raslan. However, he held his ground and stood strong, hands clenched tightly at his sides.

“She can do it..” He said through gritted teeth. “I'm not lying to you!”

While it was true that desperation drove many to do absurd things, dark times caused many to remain hopeful, including Jauris. The words of Nicholas, however, spoke with great wisdom. It was true; many had sought a remedy for the Flashfever, and all came up dry thus far. If the girl was the sister of this young fellow, whether younger or older than himself, surely she was too young to have spent much time researching a cure.

However, the eyes of Koriss, keen and well learned in spotting deceit in the composure of speakers, gleaned none from this lad.

The elderly man who seemed the representative for this load of refugees, quiet after the boy's outburst, stayed a few steps away from him. “Bandits attacked us shortly after we entered Scarwood. Some of our group were slain, while a few others were taken captive. Mostly women...”

He wrung his hands together uncomfortably as he spoke. “In all actuality, I do think they were seeking our loads of supplies more than prisoners of any sort. Rain, unfortunately, happened to be among their number.”

Jauris seemed to think this over for a moment, absently scratching his unshaven chin. “What is your name?” He asked the youth, as it suddenly seemed to dawn on him that it was not yet known.

“My name is Asten.” The copper haired boy replied sharply, though appeared to immediately regret his choice of tone in response to the camp leader's inquiry. “Rain and I came from Dauran Elm, farther east of here. We joined in with these people when they neared our village. Muussa said it would be the best thing for us to do...”

“I understand. Muussa made the right decision in trying to get you to safety.” It was clear Jauris did not know who or what Muussa was, but part of his leadership ability shone in his consolation talents. “If we can get some volunteers armed and ready, we will do our best to get your sister back.”

Right when Asten began to show the crack of a hopeful smile, his ire fading with Jauris' moralizing words, a commotion erupted on the north edge of the campsite. All eyes turned to see a few of the hunters and border patrolmen surrounding a lone horse and what looked to be a bloodied and beaten member of Ilphian's Seekers.

“Out of the way!”

The escorts were trying to get some of the onlookers clear and backed up before any of them panicked at the scene. Or worse, let emotions take over and get a mob fired up when order was necessary. This blood caked giant of a man seemed to bear no intention of harming the refugees, however. Rather, the unshaven look to his face, the Templars armour, fitting a bit too tightly around the Gano's large frame, suggested that hostility was the last thing on his list.

“What is going on here?” Jauris exclaimed as he hurried towards the scene, leaving Korris, Tobias, and Nicholas behind with Asten.

“He showed up leading that horse in the current state he's in.” Called out one of the escorts, a longbow in hand but with no arrow notched to string.

“Evidently,” The leader stopped a few yards away from them and assessed the scene. “A Templar?”

“I don't think so ser. He had a shield with him, but he threw it to the dirt when we saw him coming. Looks like he wants to help out.”

***

Being left short on their discussion by the scene at the boundary of the camp, Asten capitalized on the absence of Jauris to seek help again. His eyes settled upon Tobias, obviously the most battle-hardened of them. “You have to help... Rain is more than all I have left. She may be all any of you do, as well.” His voice was shot with need. “I don't have anything to give you for this. And I know those bandits are dangerous. But please... We can't abandon her. Please...”

Nicholas, whose eternally thoughtful mind was always working, clicked in understanding for just a moment. Muussa was a word he had read somewhere before. But this boy was Syln. Muussa was a Kirvass word. A title, or a name for a family member, or...something. Perhaps he'd learn more on this later.

Commotion rose as the rider was brought near.

I've been a bit jumpy lately. he thought to himself as he slowly sheathed the dagger he didn't remember drawing. Perhaps this will work...
He turned to the youth and spoke, still suspicious but now willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. "I will go and try to rescue your sister and the others. I'm certain there are others here that will be willing to as well. However, it will take some time to organize, and we must see about this newcomer before we can depart. So calm yourself, pushing on this will only give rise to anger and make already willing souls less willing."

Without waiting for a response he hurried over to the not-quite-Templar. A flurry of thoughts and possibilities shot through his head as he gazed upon the main. A spy perhaps? Sent to gain their trust and expose them? His sharp eyes scoured the man for any telling sign. He was clean, and he was wounded. The halfling stepped forward out of the crowd, easily avoiding those guarding the newcomer.

"It would seem we are having quite an eventful night. First the refugees, and now you... a large man dressed, albeit haphazardly, as a Templar. But you don't have the look of arrogance they do. Your eyes do not show the ignorant pompousness so common in those that hunt us. Hmmm..."

He takes a few strides around the man, eyeing him the whole time.

"Jauris, might I make a suggestion? Is it possible for us to bind this man's wounds a bit, and then give him the opportunity to show his true colors? It seems I will be seeking out this Rain woman. I hope not to go alone, and with this newcomer I don't believe I'll have to. With your approval he can be healed and accompany me and any others who wish to go along in search of the prisoners. It would give him a chance to show where his loyalties lie, and likely dispel much of the doubt caused by his current dress and appearance. What say you Jauris?"

Tobias kept his eyes on the boy, while Jarius attended to the stranger who had entered the camp. He overheard talk of seekers and templar, and it was all he could do not to move towards the newcomer.

“You have to help...”

The plea from the boy drew his attention back.

“Rain is more than all I have left,” Asten continued. “She may be all any of you do as well. I don’t have anything to give for this... and I know those bandits are dangerous. But please... we can’t abandon her... please...”

Koriss the sewer rat spoke first, "I will go and try to rescue your sister and the others. I'm certain there are others here that will be willing to as well. However, it will take some time to organize, and we must see about this newcomer before we can depart. So calm yourself, pushing on this will only give rise to anger and make already willing souls less willing."

Brave for his size, thought the soldier as Koriss turned his attention to Jarius.

Turning back to the boy, Tobias spoke as well, “Jarius willing, I will help you as well. Now, like Koriss said, be at peace and hold your tongue.”

If Asten is calmed, Tobias will turn his attention to Jarius and the newcomer. Koriss’ plan seems well enough, though if the man was truly one of Ilphian’s, he wouldn’t likely have any problem with putting down a group of bandits. Regardless, Tobias keeps his thoughts to himself for the moment. Eying the wounded man with distain, not because of who he was, but because of what he represented, Tobias looked for an opportunity to ask Jarius’ permission to lead a group to rescue Asten’s sister and the other captives.

If Asten is not calm, Tobias will remain with him and attempt to quiet him.

[OOC: This will be my last post until next Monday]

Kresimir lifted weary eyes to those gathering, a small but steadily growing group before him congregating and passing on remarks, suspicions, concerns and the ilk. When one with more courage and half the stature of most stepped forward and actually addressed him, the large man slid down from the horse and took a step forward.

"It would seem we are having quite an eventful night. First the refugees, and now you... a large man dressed, albeit haphazardly, as a Templar. But you don't have the look of arrogance they do. Your eyes do not show the ignorant pompousness so common in those that hunt us. Hmmm..."
“The insignia emblazoned upon this steel strikes terror into almost all who behold it.. So was the case as the Templars came across my clan.. So likely was it that Mallien’s unblinking eye was the last visage many of my people saw, coupled with glinting steel and blood before the unyielding black.”

Kresimir took another step forward, towering over the Raslan before him. The little one merely strode around him, eyeing him up as though weighing the man beyond his size.

He takes a few strides around the man, eyeing him the whole time.

“This symbol, he said pointing to his breastplate; these Templar’s are heralds of death and ignorance to the populace, blinded by arrogance and a lacking moral compass shielded in denial; it’s about time someone took that fear and shoved it right up Ilphian’s holy arse. And if not Ilphian or your tyrannical new regime, if not the mortals who hold the lives of so many in their hands, than in the very God who empowers them! And let him see it coming!” Kresimir fist pumped to the air in defiance and turned to the little one before him.

“The previous owner won’t be needing such trappings where he’s at little one, and I’ll send any who compare me to those bastards speedily to the next life to keep him company.” With that, he let loose a deep guffaw, wiping spittle and dried blood from the corner of his mouth.”

"Jauris, might I make a suggestion? Is it possible for us to bind this man's wounds a bit, and then give him the opportunity to show his true colors? It seems I will be seeking out this Rain woman. I hope not to go alone, and with this newcomer I don't believe I'll have to. With your approval he can be healed and accompany me and any others who wish to go along in search of the prisoners. It would give him a chance to show where his loyalties lie, and likely dispel much of the doubt caused by his current dress and appearance. What say you Jauris?"

Kresimir raised an eye towards Jauris, as he went back to the horse and pulled free a large two handed blade, the length and then some of the very being who stood before him. Lifting a pack over his shoulder and stabbing the blade into the earth a foot from Koriss, he leaned on it looking at the refugee’s appointed leader for a reply.

The halfling flinches but a little when the sword is embedded in the ground. Despite his actions, he didn't believe this one stupid enough to assail the one coming to his aid (whether he realized it or not) in full view of the rest of the camp.

"My suggestion was to give you the benefit of the doubt. Threats will not earn you friends here. We have all heard our fill of them from the very Templars you claim not to be. You say you killed the last owner of this garb and stole it from him. I assume it was to prevent others from bothering you. But remember, you came to us. And there are people here not as willing to look beyond the garb and see what and who is behind it. If you keep flapping your lips and giving voice to threats no deed will prove their impressions wrong! So, if you would have the revenge you claim to seek, then calm yourself and stop trying to intimidate those who are the victims of the very torture and blind ignorance you say you fight against!"

The rage he felt was clear both in his tone, and his stance. He raised his voice to the big man, heedless of any danger he may present. He would not let ANYONE intimidate those who came here for protection. In his mind, those who would try to have no place here. Koriss was beginning to have second thoughts about his suggestion. Perhaps this man was a Templar after all...