Herendiel walked slowly up to the room, wondering what it was that actually got him selected from all the others. He thought to himself, pondering about what it could be.

"Obviously it wasnt because of his physical strength, as they had turned down enough muscle to tear down the walls of this tavern. So if it wasnt that, then it was for his mighty magical abilites. Obviously they needed someone who could read and understand the arcane things all around us, and who is also very intellectual, because someone has to do all of the thinking in any sort of group. And gods for bid that those giants with arms bigger than my thigh have any sort of smarts within them. I bet that with all their "brain power" combined, they could almost figure out how many legs a stool has. Maybe if I turned it upside down and made them sit on it, then they probably would figue it out."

Herendiel chuckled to himself as he made crude jokes in his head, and suddenly stopped, as he was told to go to the room to his left. He entered, and inside already was quite the crowd. All looking fit to take down a mighty orc, or go swimmining in a mud pit. Either one. But as his eyes quickly swept over the room, his eyes stopped on a giant woman...thing. She was dressed out in what looked like to be tribal type outfit. And obviously she hailed from some, far off land where they eat bugs and play in dung all day. How disgusting. He made sure to get a seat far away and out of sight of her. Actually, everyone kind of made him a little nervous, if not queasy. Everyone, so sweaty, and dirty, in armour of all sorts, with dusty clothes underneath.

Herendiel was glad that he had just bathed, and smelt faintly of flowers.

He pulled out his pipe, since he didnt have enough time to finish his other wad downstairs, and lit it up.

The silence held for a few moments before the young man wearing the bandana shifted forwards in his seat. “Well, since we’re travelin’ together, I think this is a good time to at least get each other’s names. I’m Basque. Its nice to meet you all.”

Seated beside him, the dwarf scratched his beard with grubby fingers and huffed deeply. “My name is Arback, of the Starbreaker clan.”

On the other side of the seating area, the lovely woman smiled sweetly and tilted her head, allowing her light brown hair to fall to the side. “I’m Celene Rivercrest. My pleasure.”

Soon after these three oh so gracicously bewildered us with the most boring greetings, something a little more interesting happened.


“My name is Vyarp Longtooth, of the tribe of the Twisted Horn. If you need a trapper, scout, knife fighter or archer then I’m your man.”

As soon as the kobold was done introducing himself, which, from coming from a kobold, was much more entertaining than from ordinary dwarves or humans, a woman stood up, almost broke her chair, and threatened the kobold Vyarp.

“Kobold, What business do you have here? Which band of thieves cut throats to send you on this task?”

The room stayed quiet for a second, until Herendiel uncrossed his legs and let out a ring of smoke. He felt kind of sorry for the kobold, so out of place, scared, and different. But he felt a connection to. Never in his life would Herendiel be accompanied by or around such lively and simple people. Herendiel looked down at his bright red robe, and his ivory white tunic underneath. His short white hair cut to perfection, and his sandals, a finest leather. He felt out of place to. So, that put Vyarp and him in the same situation, sort of.

Herendiel tapped his pipe twice and spoke up, looking at the cieling, eyes closed.

" Woman, what in the nine hells do you think he is doing here? Obviously he was selected to go on this mission or quest or whatever the hell it is along with us. He wants fame and fortune along with the rest of us."

Herendiel tilted his head downwards and looked at her and her dagger.

" Now if I were you, I would put that dagger away. He recieved the same seal as us, and is just sitting in a damn chair. If you try an kill him, and I say try because I have no clue what he is packing, but if you do try and do kill him, I dont think that the Zantrical will be to happy. Ya know, since the selections are over and everything. they would be one short, and plans would be screwed."

He inhaled the sweet smoke and puffed it out, and continued.

" I wouldnt want to get the Zantrical mad. They have powerful people amongst there ranks, and I'm sure they could have you dealt with very quickly. Now, stop theatening every one else who is different, sit down, and shut up. That chair is probably Zantrical property, and I know I wouldnt like it if you killed one of my hired sell swords, AND broke my chair too."

Herendiel puffed a few more times on his pipe, re crossed his legs, and relaxed, reveling in the lucious feeling of the very expensive, yet satisfying weed.

Kälte stood rather than sat in the private room booked at the top of the Blazing Heretic. Something about having a room full of strangers about her did little to ease her nerves, and she knew her height gave her an intimidating image she chose to flaunt on a regular basis. The details of the mission were stated by a well dressed man, and Kälte couldn’t help but wonder what power and influence this Zantrical organization actually had backing them. As she pocketed her sealed parchment, stuffing it into the belt loop of her revealing leathers she took the time to cast her gaze over everyone in attendance. There were warriors both male and female, a servant of some faith she cared little for, a wraith of a girl who belonged more at Madam Von Helson’s than in an expedition by her choice of dress, and a curious little creature sat perched atop the back of one of the lavish chairs.

As introductions were made, Kälte made note of each member’s words, their connotations and body language, as well as physical appearance. She wondered if Raen was as strong a woman as Kälte behind all that armor, and if Herendiel would make a delightful popping sound if she squeezed him hard enough. The dwarf was of little concern to Kälte, and she didn’t look twice at Basque or Celene. Her eyes fell upon the strange one, Vyarp as he introduced himself.

“My name is Vyarp Longtooth, of the tribe of the Twisted Horn. If you need a trapper, scout, knife fighter or archer then I’m your man.” Uncomfortably aware of so many eyes upon him and regretting the last word already, Vyarp sank to a crouch atop the chair seat, ready to spring for the window should it become necessary.
“Little one do not be so quick to feel the need to respect the title of ‘man’” and she spoke of the gender with little respect. “You are of the world, and the world of you. Leave the men to their ways and delusions of superiority, your kind have been round since before our forefathers, and will likely live to dance upon our bones if man is left unchecked.”

“Kobold,” hissed Raen, though not moving forward as Vyarp crouched on his chair. “What business do you have here? Which band of thieves cut throats to send you on this task?”
Kälte turned her attention to the other female warrior, who already brandished a weapon in the confines of a would-be-diplomatic introductory meeting. “Violence in the peace tent, no matter the structure is heretical. Would you curse this voyage before it begins by so hastily spilling blood?” Kälte slipped a javelin from her back quiver and thumbed it between her fingers. She knew what she spoke was hypocritical given her rash and aggressive nature, but she had traveled too far and dealt with too much crap already to have this partnership crushed before the bonds were even forged.

The scholar tipped his pipe and spoke words befitting a man partaking of troll-weed, and she couldn’t be entirely sure this one wasn’t. He was calm, collected; entertaining in his easiness but that unsettled the barbarian woman on a level she couldn’t currently place.

“The half-breed speaks the truth. If we’re to travel together their needs to be a level of trust.” Kälte removed her javelin and twirled it nonchalantly. “If that means playing big sister and beating that trust into you, then by all means step up and lets get down to the nitty gritty.”

(Kalte will make it very plain in her stance that should Raen make a motion towards Vyarp, she'll have to go through her first. OOC: to speed things up in the instance she does. Kalte will throw the javelin into the ground at Raen's feet as a warning, and draw her great-axe instead, shaking her head like Raen's making a big mistake. Nice RP start guys Having a blast!)

Mairon 5th, 389 P.D.
Near Normaund, Veythor.
Western Road.
Trail-worn boots thudded dull steps upon the packed dirt road, carrying Tempest forwards at a rapid pace. The stars were bright, though only one moon, Cornecus, was visible tonight. The rest were either distant in their orbit, or in their new phase, and thus, hidden away from sight. Regardless, the keen eyes of the elf had more than enough light by which to see. Not like last night. Cloud cover had obscured the constellations, his star map by which to discern his placement beneath the heavens.

Much to his dismay, he’d found himself taking a wrong turn on the road, and therefore placing himself quite some distance from Sankirst, his destination point. Though humans were often tardy in their endeavors, as he knew very well, it was unlikely the recruiting drive would still be taking place. Chances were he’d missed his chance.

Cursing under his breath, the Dur’amani shook his head. Maybe there was still time. If only he’d owned a horse… Even his unfortunate detour wouldn’t have kept him far if he had some sort of mount. Not that he was much for equestrian, but it would have helped him reach that destination point regardless. He’d found the road again, at least, and was making his way in the right direction.

Drawing a deep breath, the elf put on a bit more speed, and hurried along the Western road, trying to cut down the miles between his current spot and the capital on the lake.

His strong legs, the legs of a hunter, carried him quickly, but no matter the pace, he couldn’t help but think it futile. And he’d always been so good at navigating the woodlands. Why were the open plains more difficult? Everything looked the same, that’s why. An elf belonged in the forest, not in the grassland.

He slowed a bit, halting momentarily. Ahead, seated on the side of the road, was a lone figure, hood thrown back, and head looking up at the stars. When Tempest neared, the stranger turned slightly, casting a grin over at the elf.

“Evenin’ traveler. Where ya headed?” The scratchy voice identified a man, and one who smoked too much tabac at that.

“Sankirst.” Tempest replied, being polite to the man on the roadside, and began to pick up his stride again. There were farms nearby, and the sky was clear. It was probably just some bumpkin out looking at the stars.

The man snorted, turned his head away, and spat into the dirt of the road. Slowly, he rose to his feet, and took a step towards Tempest. On the roadside beside his seat was a knapsack, and what looked like a crossbow. At this, he quickly discarded the farmer notion. This stranger was traveling.

“Sankirst, eh?” He peered at the elf. “Dur’amani?”

Tempest nodded, moving to walk around him.

“You’re a long ways from home.”

“I like to travel.” Tempest answered him as a cool breeze picked up, ruffling his hair. He winced as it carried the stench of the wanderer to his nose; a smell not unlike pig dung.

Just as the ranger passed the man, a hand shot out and grabbed Tempest’s sleeve, halting him.

“’Fraid there’s a road tax in this trail, friend. An’ the price is pretty high fer people like yerself.” Still grinning, the man wheezed a breath that stank of pipeweed and whiskey. His left hand remained dug into the ranger’s sleeve, and to his dismay, Tempest realized that an oaken cudgel was gripped tightly in the figure’s right.

***

Meanwhile…
Reward!

A reward of twenty Rommels to the man or woman who apprehends the notorious highway bandit Ortega Longsaul. Ten Rommels if killed, but proof of his execution must be supplied. Preferred alive.

Report to the Shambler’s Rest to collect reward. Ask for Mau.
Beneath was a sketch of the man whom was mentioned. Rough features. Short, sandy hair. Slightly larger than medium build. A scar underneath his bottom lip. His eyebrows were thick, covering eyes that squinted slightly. Easy to pick out from other humans.

Nyx crushed the paper in his hand and rammed it into his pocket, taking off at a run across the short grass that carpeted the low hillside. His hair flaring out behind him as he moved, like a ghost through the night, he ignored the crushing ache in the back of his skull.

He ground his teeth together, almost ready to shout with rage. Just when the Mith’ganni had come across Ortega’s campsite a few miles outside of Normaund, he’d been blindsided by the thug, sent reeling by a smash with something hard to the back of his head. Crashing to the grass, he’d blacked out, and awoken not only to find no trace of the bandit, but also to have all of his gear missing!

Bad enough to have been taken by surprise, but nobody stole from Nyx Shyndyn, especially not his quarry. But one thing remained certain. He could see better in the dark than ordinary men, he was swifter of foot, and no longer encumbered by his gear, paired with his fury, he was rapidly on Ortega’s trail.

Fortunately, when the highway robber had filched his belongings, he’d missed the kukri blade sheathed at his lower back. The knife was as sharp as its bearer’s wit and instinct; Ortega was in for a bad surprise.

Running in the grass to mask the sound of his boots, Nyx spotted a pair of figures in the distance, and slowed his pace, ducking low and creeping in. His keen ears picked up a few of the words, something about a ‘tax’ of some sort or another, and saw as he drew near that one was grabbing the other. A sense of hostility was in the air, though oddly enough, fear was missing from the scene.

Nyx took a moment to analyze this. One of the figures seemed to be an elf, a Dur’amani. One of his distant kindred. Though their relationship was very distant, he still felt the familiarity of one of his own. He was the one being held. The other… The stench, the voice…

The Mith’ganni grinned maliciously, and pressed his body low to the grassy roadside. It was Ortega, and his back was turned.

(OOC: Welcome to Beneath Shadowed Skies, Eol! Here’s your chance to try out Nyx in his primetime. You’re about twenty-five feet away from Tempest and Ortega, and neither are able to see you. From your position, you can’t spot your belongings, either, and the only things you’ve got aside from what might be in pockets or pouches is your kukri in the back sheath.

Tempest, you’re held by Ortega, and he looks intent on taking a swing if you don’t fork over some cash. He’s got you by the right arm.

Enjoy guys!)

Preferred alive…
That’s what the bounty flier for Ortega had said and, even though Nyx was sure that the bandit deserved death just like everyone else, the Mith’ganni had been prepared to deliver his quarry alive this time. Twenty rommels was a better purse than ten, after all, and would go a long way towards securing the tools of his chosen vocation and perhaps paying membership into an assassins guild where he might be properly trained.

Had been…
He had found the highwayman’s campsite, of course, and had been scouting the place out, preparing to bait and spring the trap that would deliver Ortega into his grasp and, shortly thereafter, the twenty rommel bounty. Before Nyx could finish his recon of the bandit’s encampment, though, he had been blindsided and knocked unconscious by his own mark Worse that that, Nyx had awoken a short time later with a throbbing pain in his head only to realize that Ortega was gone and had apparently taken all of Nyx’s own gear with him. “Damn the preferences of those that want this one alive,” he snarled as he got to his feet, smiling viciously as he realized that the bandit had somehow missed the kukri nestled at the small of his back, “and damn the loss of ten rommels, as well! Far simpler to transport a head back to the Shambler’s Rest than an entire body, anyway.”

Nyx turned his pale yellow eyes to the night sky for a brief moment, as much to stretch the knotted muscles in his neck as to seek solace and guidance from the moon and stars that hung there. “You left me a blade, breeder,” he hissed as he broke into a run, having determined that, if Longsaul stuck true to form, the man would likely be lying in wait at the side of some road for a new victim, “That mistake will cost you dearly…”

Uttering an oath to Prien, the Twilight elf, tore off across the landscape, moving quickly and quietly through the grasses in search of his quarry once again. The Executioner must have heard Nyx’s plea and been exceedingly happy with his intent for it wasn’t long before his god offered up the object of his wrath. It wasn’t immediately apparent, of course. At first, Prien’s gift was only the sight of two figures on the road… a sight that urged caution and closer investigation. Sinking lower and slowing his pace, Nyx crept ever closer…

The pair seemed to be in the midst of conversation and, though he couldn’t hear all the words, the mention of a ‘tax’ and, as the would-be assassin drew nearer, the sight of one’s grip on the other confirmed that one of these was likely Ortega. In only a few more stealthy steps, the distinctive voice and fetid stink of the bandit removed any lingering doubt. The other figure, Nyx determined as his slender fingers curled around the kukri’s hilt and drew the wickedly curved blade from it’s sheathe, was a Dur’amani… a distant cousin from another clan a peculiar sense of familiarity advised him, as well as a distraction for Nyx’s prey… Carefully, then, the Mith’ganni’s inner voice suggested, but quickly, before either see your approach. Pray that the forest-dweller doesn’t ask for death as well…
Now, with his one remaining blade held at the ready and pressed as close to the earth as was practical to provide a swift and stealthy approach, Nyx edged closer making sure to stay at the highwayman’s back and stay out of the Dur’amani’s sight as much as possible, as well.

((OOC: Don’t want to go too far, here, so… once Nyx gets close enough to do so (and assuming he doesn’t give away his position) the plan is to attack Ortega from behind, leaping suddenly from concealment with hopes of dragging that kukri from one side of the bandit’s neck to the other… edits as necessary))

Mairon 5th, 389 P.D.
Trade City Sankirst, Veythor.
The Blazing Heretic Inn and Tavern
The smile that once adorned Basque’s face as he had started to get introductions moving quickly drained away, and was replaced by a tight-jawed look of unease as hostilities erupted between Raen and Vyarp, as well as a number of others. While Kalte and Herendiel stood up for the kobold, warning Raen against what should happen if she struck out at the small fellow, Arback had leapt to his feet, and had a hand at his hip, gripped around the head of an elaborate iron war mallet hanging from his belt.

“Since when do they let these fiends into anything ‘cept for cellars an’ latrines?!” He bellowed, moving to stand beside Raen, his beard flailing about as he shouted, and his eyes burning. There seemed a mutual dislike of Kobolds between himself and the soldiering woman.

Celene, on the other hand, opted for a peaceful solution here, slipping her slender frame between Vyarp and those shouting at him. A look of fury lit up her emerald eyes as she flitted them back and forth between Raen and Arback. “Cool it!” Her sweet voice seemed almost laughable when she yelled. “Nobody is hurting anybody, got it?”

The Kaulian and Half-elf held their positions, Kalte standing towering above the others and truly looking to beat the crap out of Raen should she make a move on Vyarp, while Herendiel dealt out his blows verbally, rather than with his fists, or even worse, with his magic. Reya was ready to act, as well, though her role would take place should blood hit the floorboards.

Basque finally rose up to his feet, his eyes narrowed and grinding his teeth tensely.

“Weapons away!” He pointed to both Raen and Kalte, who had their arms drawn and ready to go. “Maybe you had a bad time with Kobolds in the past, miss, but that doesn’t nail him to be just like those who did you wrong. You too, Arback. I’d hoped we could get to know each other peacefully and civilly here. Its not too late for that!”

The young fellow looked as though he were about to start laughing at Kalte’s brutish statement towards Raen, but nothing more than that. It was clear he didn’t want people to start throwing weapons around.

Arback, on the other hand, seemed to bear the gusto that Raen herself was holding back. Surging forwards like a minute juggernaut, he shoved Celene out of the way with one arm, and took a swipe at Vyarp with the other. “Don’t care, lad! These buggers collapsed the tunnels onto the ‘eads of my kindred sixty-some years ago! Its thanks to his kind that I’m the last of the Starbreakers!”

The kobold ducked beneath the strike, and pulled away a bit, while Celene scrambled to her feet, readjusting the shoulder strap of her halter and scowling at the dwarf, while Basque rushed over, grabbing hold of Arback around the shoulders and neck in a half-nelson hold. The room rapidly became filled with Dwarven obscenities while the two wrestled about in the center of the room, knocking over a chair in the process, and likely causing the patrons downstairs to wonder what the hell was going on up here.

Moving across the plains, few plants to be seen in sight, shivers run through Tempest’s body. The woods were where he belonged. He could tell if an animal had passed a spot in days, and tell where it was going in his forest home, but out here where there was nothing but long, ever winding roads, he felt lost. So much open space seemed unnatural. Clearly that was why he had taken a wrong turn and journeyed away from Sankirst. It was no fault of his own, his tracking and directional skills were first-rate.

Now on the right track, Tempest hurried toward his goal, knowing but still denying the fact that it would likely still be in vain. He had missed his chance for adventure. A new land would be discovered without him, new species of plant and animal never before seen. With a curse and a kick to the ground, Tempest had nearly walked into a man on the side of the road before he returned his attention to the world around him.

The man appeared to be enjoying the stars of the night, probably more so than usual with the heavy cloud cover of the previous night. Tempest himself appreciated the stars, when he thought to look at them, but his upset demeanor that night had kept him from looking at them longer than necessary to determine his needed direction. At first glance the man seemed to be from one of the farms around the area, but with the knapsack and crossbow by him, Tempest decided he must be a traveler, like himself.

“”When Tempest neared, the stranger turned slightly, casting a grin over at the elf.

“Evenin’ traveler. Where ya headed?” The scratchy voice identified a man, and one who smoked too much tabac at that.

“Sankirst.” Tempest replied, being polite to the man on the roadside, and began to pick up his stride again.

“Sankirst, eh?” He peered at the elf. “Dur’amani?”

Tempest nodded, moving to walk around him.

“You’re a long ways from home.”

“I like to travel.” Tempest answered him as a cool breeze picked up, ruffling his hair. He winced as it carried the stench of the wanderer to his nose; a smell not unlike pig dung.

Just as the ranger passed the man, a hand shot out and grabbed Tempest’s sleeve, halting him.

“’Fraid there’s a road tax in this trail, friend. An’ the price is pretty high fer people like yerself.” Still grinning, the man wheezed a breath that stank of pipeweed and whiskey. His left hand remained dug into the ranger’s sleeve, and to his dismay, Tempest realized that an oaken cudgel was gripped tightly in the figure’s right.””

Realizing the danger he was in, Tempest immediately set about determining his means of escape. He could attempt to fight off the loathsome drunk with his left-hand, though drawing his sword might be difficult. He could attempt to detach the man from him and run away. Or he could pay the man some money. The first two seemed more likely to get him hurt than to get him away. So despite his better judgment, Tempest pulls out a pouch from his pocket containing ten Rommels.

Living in the forest most of his life, money has very little meaning to him. The money he had acquired he collected as, tax, from the men who would defile his forest home, after he had dealt with them. Holding the pouch out to the drunk bandit, Tempest intends to leave if the man lets him go, but will fight, likely trying to stab an arrow in his eye if the man attacks wanting more.

Chapter 2: Rough Starts

“Woman, what in the nine hells do you think he is doing here? Obviously he was selected to go on this mission of quest or whatever the hell it is along with the rest of us.”

The words, pompous as they were, came from the mouth of one of the unintroduced. By the look of him, Raen guessed he was half-human, half-elven in blood. He tapped his pipe as he leaned forward to continue his rant about her behaviour.

“Now, if I were you, I would put that dagger away. He received the same seal as us, and is just sitting in a damn chair. If you try and kill him, and I say try because I don’t know what he is packing, but if you do try and do kill him, I don’t think that the Zantrical will be too happy. Ya know, since selections are over and everything. They would be one short, and plans would be screwed.”

“I wouldn’t want to get the Zantrical mad. They have powerful people amongst their ranks, and I’m sure they could have you dealt with very quickly. Now, stop threatening everyone else who is different, sit down and shut up. That chair is probably Zantrical property, too, and I know I wouldn’t like you to kill one of my hired sell swords, AND broke my chair, too,” he said with a puff of smoke. Sitting back puffing upon his pipe and looking perfectly relaxed about the excellent speech he had just made, the unknown mage took his attention immediately away from Raen who stood staring dumbstruck at the man who spoke oddly and seemed to act with the wisdom of a the door with which they passed upon entry.

“And, sir, if I be you,” retorted Raen, “I mayhap would have spent a little less time in my tower reading upon such creatures as we may be encountering and rather been outside defending the flocks against raiders such as we may see at the present.”

Raen had barely shifted her stance and attention back to the kobold who crouched upon the chair, either confused, petrified or belligerent and ignorant of its danger when the large woman, who towered even over the men in the room such as Basque, spoke up to her.

“Violence in the peace tent, no matter the structure is heretical. Would you curse this voyage before it begins by so hastily spilling blood?” Said the woman, spinning a javelin between her large forefinger and thumb. Her hands were well worn, muscles large and breasts tight against her chests, even more so than Raen, though they were still larger simply due to sheer size.

“The half-breed speaks the truth. If we’re to travel together, there needs to be a level of trust,” spoke the large woman as she removed the javelin and twirled it about her hand. “If that means being a big sister and beating that trust into you, then by all means step up and lets get down to the nitty gritty.”

“You speak of trust as if you took it to bed with you and made love to each form, barbarian,” spat Raen. “Respect is earned through sweat and blood, neither more nor less of either. Trust once broken takes a lifetime to repair. His kinds broke the trust of my people generations ago by stealing from out fields and culling our flocks. When they encroach upon your lands and begin the kill the beasts you rely on to survive, you may speak of trust and the ‘nitty gritty’.”

Raen did not move, simply shifting the dagger in her hand, spinning it so that the hilt of the blade reversed sides several times. The situation was tense, and perhaps she began to think her reaction harsh and over what was needed in such a place. But still, how could a kobold be chosen for this journey? The race was loathsome and thoroughly evil, or at least in her experience. None of these people had ever encountered one, of that she was sure by the fact that they had stood up for the creature.

The heel of her left and rear foot began to slide backwards towards the chair as the dwarf, Arback, howled at the site of the kobold, leaping to his feet beside Raen. There was no turning back now, as apparently the dwarf had a deeper seed of hatred towards the kobold than even she. Or perhaps it was simply his robust nature, being a dwarf, to be loud and overbearing in all things. Raen could not tell. If nothing else, he was now an ally in this, the first conflict of the journey.

“Since when do they let these fiends into anything ‘cept cellars and latrines?!” He bellowed, deep voice rumbling and bringing all eyes to his stout frame. His hand sat upon the head of an iron war hammer upon his belt and he looked about to draw it as well.

“Cool it!” called Celene, stepping in front of Vyarp. Again, all eyes shifted, following each action in a very slow, choppy moving scene. “Nobody is hurting anybody, got it?”

The large barbarian woman now stood in front of her chair, still twirling a javelin and looking down up Raen as others moved to get in, behind or speak.

Basque, the first to introduce, and probably the most likely to be disappointed no matter the outcome of this current battle of words and races, found himself on his feet now, shouting, “Weapons away!”

Raen could feel his eyes on here and as she and the brute were the only two holding any, it was safe to assume he meant them. However, Raen’s eyes did not move this time, not away from the threat that made itself very apparent in the barbarian’s eyes and expression.

“Maybe you had a bad time with kobolds in the past, miss, but that doesn’t nail him to be just like those who did you wrong. You, too, Arback. I’d hoped could get to know each other peacefully and civilly here. Its not too late for that!” He said, worry for violence on the edge of his tone.

Raen held back, not moving, still staring at the woman who would fight her over this challenge of a race far beneath her knowledge and stature. But it was not her move to make, not this time, as Arback surged forward, short legs pounding across the wooden floor to shove Celene out of the way and swing at the kobold.

“Don’t care lad! These buggers collapsed the tunnels onto the ‘eads of my kindred sixty-some years ago! Its thanks to his kind that I’m the last of the Starbreakers!” Arback cried. Raen could hear the anguish in his voice, as difficult as it was to discern from the loud rumblings of the enraged dwarf. Her jaw dropped open as she heard the statement. The villagers had lost some lives to kobold raids, but it had not been more than one or two in her lifetime. Kobolds were generally in and out quietly or too stupid or hungry to be organized enough to mount a proper and deadly attack. Arback’s concern was terrible and more personal than hers.

Raen’s mind switched gears then. If this dwarf was indeed the last of the Starbreaker clan, she would not let it be on her conscious that this be his final act, drawing blades against a creature upon the dawn of a fresh journey, even a kobold. She quickly flipped the dagger in her hand, sheathing it at her belt from where she had taken it, and stepped forward to grab Arback and restrain him.

“Arback, calm thyself. This is not the place nor time to bring about the end of your lineage! Save your honor for a battle more deserving. When money speaks, the truth stays silent,” grunted Raen through breaths as she tried to help Basque restrain the dwarf.

Mairon 5th, 389 P.D.
Near Normaund, Veythor.
Western Road.
Although he was a very able warrior in his own right, and could likely have dispatched this thug without a great deal of difficulty, the odds were far from being level. His weapons were put away, and his adversary was armed. Any attempt at struggling would result in getting his face bashed in. Thus, discretion served him better at the moment, and he withdrew his coin purse and handed it over.

The look on the thug’s face gleamed with pleasure for a moment, but Tempest saw a dangerous look in his eye, and the grin that crept across his face as he pocketed the pouch told the elf as much as words would. Before the ranger could move away, the brigand had hauled back his cudgel, ready to swing at close range before his prey could escape.

On the other side of the road, Nyx had continued his creeping, and realized that his moment would soon be past. Even the fact that Ortega was hauling back for a hit forced the Mith’ganni to think on the fly. Like liquid, he moved to his feet, and rushed in at a dash, his feet padding softly.

Killer instinct took over.

Before Tempest could get out of the way, Nyx appeared behind Ortega, his knife-arm cocked and ready. The twilight elf’s leg formed a brace behind the legs of the bandit, and his left arm caught the cudgel-hand at the wrist, pulling to bend him back over his leg. Nyx’s teeth grinding, a flash of fury burned in his eyes as he looked at Ortega’s exposed neck, and swung his blade in a deadly arc. The swept edge tore into the thug’s neck, severing the windpipe and connecting with the vertebrae in his neck with a sick thud. Blood gurgled out of his lips as the eyes glazed over. The sliced throat may as well have been a second mouth for the opening it provided.

Nyx straightened his stance, the leverage of his hip turning Ortega’s body over and to the ground with a dull thud.

There, he thought, smiling to himself.

Tempest stood in suspense at the sight of his long-distant kin, one of the few Mith’ganni still alive. Though he’d never met any personally, he knew a little bit about them, but it was about as much as any who knew of them did. What stunned him a bit more was the gruesome murder of his would-be assailant. Was he next?

(OOC: Ortega is dead. Sneak attack, paired with Nyx’s normal damage was sufficient to kill him most efficiently. You’ll spot all your belongings nearby.

Tempest, you can find your money in Ortega’s breeches pocket. You and Nyx are about six feet apart, with the dead bandit between you.

There, Nyx thought, smiling to himself as he dropped Ortega’s near headless body to the road, that was worth ten rommels, wasn’t it?
The Mith’ganni’s yellow eyes gleamed in the moonlight as they slithered from the highwayman’s still quivering corpse to where his stolen pack sat by the roadside and then, as if an afterthought, flicked in Tempest’s direction. Nyx spent a long moment studying the Dur’amani – taking in every detail; from the way the forest elf carried himself to the way he was outfitted and equipped – then, offering a curt upnod, prowled off to retrieve his pack.

“No worries, cousin,” he hissed in elven as he snatched his gear up from the roadside, “That breeder chose his own death. He could have chosen otherwise but…” The twilight elf shrugged and strode back, unceremoniously dropping his reacquired pack in the road beside Ortega’s body. Nyx’s gaze fixed on the dur’amani’s face again as he tugged the crumpled wanted flier from his pocket and offered it over to the ranger – perhaps by way of justification – before crouching down over Longsaul’s corpse and proceeding to finish the separation of head from body.

“You’ve got nothing to worry about,” he whispered… maybe to Tempest… maybe not, “For you, this is finished.”

Once Nyx had finished cutting through the remaining bone and tissue, he dragged the head away from the body by a handful of its hair, glancing up at Tempest (almost surprised that the forest elf was still there) as he rolled the brigand’s body over and started tugging the shirt off of the corpse’s torso. “No place else to be, cousin,” he asked, wrapping Ortega’s head in the shirt. Having wrapped the head, Nyx dragged his pack closer, opened it, and before stuffing his prize inside, withdrew the twin of the weapon with which he had recently dispatched the thug and secured it to its rightful place on his thigh. He then wiped the blood and gore from his other blade onto Ortega’s breeches before looking up at the Dur’amani once more.

“That’s yours, I believe,” he tapped the kukri’s point against the bulge in Ortega’s pocket, a wicked smile playing on his thin lips as the coins inside clinked together. Nyx rose gracefully to his feet, then, and hoisted his pack over one shoulder; “If you’re heading for civilization, cousin,” he said, now in heavily accented Common, “I’d recommend not parting with your coin so freely. You’ll find that most breeders respond better to coin than they do anything else…” The wolfish smile broadened and his eyes glinted, “…except perhaps the promise of death, yes?”

The Mith’ganni’s gazed slid away from Tempest, again, surveying either end of the road and the surrounding landscape before snapping sharply back. “Mind the road, cousin,” he suggested, reverting back to the elven tongue, his eyes dipping to the headless cadaver that lay between them, “its perils are many.”

With that, Nyx snatched the wanted flier back and turned to go. “I’ve an appointment at Shambler’s Rest, now,” he offered with a final glance at the Dur’amani. His gaze then traveled skyward and, for an instant, he seemed lost in his contemplation of the stars. “Enjoy the night, cousin,” he whispered at last before finally stalking off in the direction of his waiting bounty.


((OOC: Room for interuptions throughout, Tempest. Nyx, of course, is heading off to collect teh bounty on Ortega's head... unless Tempest stops him for some reason. ))

“My name is Vyarp Longtooth, of the tribe of the Twisted Horn. If you need a trapper, scout, knife fighter or archer then I’m your man.”
His piece spoken, Vyarp’s eyes flickered between the other members of the group, watching, testing them for a reaction. The path to safety was plain enough, should it come to that: a quick leap from where he sat coiled across the chair top, a few heartbeats at a frantic sprint and then a final plunge through the open shutters to the street below. With close to a dozen others standing ready to block his passage, however, he did not rate his chances should flight become necessary.

In the moment’s silence, his brain working overtime as adrenaline coursed his veins: he had seen the people of this city gnawing with inadequately sized teeth at what small claws they had in such moments as this. Such an impulse was alien to him and his kind, but he instead ran his tongue over thin black lips to relieve the tension whilst a bead of sweat which had formed in the room’s oppressive heat became a rivulet and traced its slow path down the dome of his forehead.

“Little one do not be so quick to feel the need to respect the title of ‘man’” and she spoke of the gender with little respect. “You are of the world, and the world of you. Leave the men to their ways and delusions of superiority, your kind have been round since before our forefathers, and will likely live to dance upon our bones if man is left unchecked.”
A vast leather-clad female, tall even among the giants of this city and with a vast tree-splintering axe close by her side, was the first to speak and he was almost too distracted to comprehend her words save that they bore no openly hostile intent.

What little did reach his mind made still less sense, for “the world” was there for the taking- wood and soil and meat on the paw or hoof- and men were simply those able to wring the greatest wonders from its sundered flesh. The thought of a great city like this given over to his folk, its marvels given over to the hunting party and the plunderer’s sack, of dancing a merry jig, upon the well chewed bones of those too slow or foolish to flee made a fine vision indeed, but was a dream all the same, and he, along with the ownerless dogs that roamed Sankirst’s back alleys, was content merely to feast upon its leavings. Now was not, however, the time to voice his dissent and the kobold instead merely nodded mutely, waiting to see if he could expect similarly benign responses from the rest of the group.

“Kobold,” hissed Raen, though she did not move forward toward where Vyarp crouched on his chair. “What business do you have here? Which band of thieves cut throats to send you on this task?”
Another female, this one protected by a breastplate of crafted steel, glimmering harshly in the yellow candle-light, was the next to respond, rising to full height and almost unbalancing the chair in which she had reclined as she did so. A foot of tapered metal was quickly within her grasp and Vyarp hissed softly to himself, waiting to see if she would approach. A blade of his own, forgotten in his earlier panic, nestled snugly against his forearm in its sheath, ready to be propelled into his waiting hand should bloodshed become expedient.

“Woman, what in the nine hells do you think he is doing here? Obviously he was selected to go on this mission or quest or whatever the hell it is along with us. He wants fame and fortune along with the rest of us."
A thinly built letterman, conspicuous in the robes of red and white which marked him among the shamans of this place, was next to respond, his voice strangely calm amid the tension of the moment. He could only assume that the man’s mind was still lingering amidst the smoky coils of his pipe, though the intervention was most certainly a welcome one, for Vyarp did not relish the prospect of dueling with even one of these giants.

It seemed this shaman had words to waste, continuing unabridged for a score of heartbeats of more, though the kobold could hardly object to hearing them. The wrath of the Zantrical was evidently as much to be feared as that of any witch doctor or war chief, and with so much to be gained by simply compliance it was to be hoped that those who had yet to commit themselves might he willing to heed this reasoned call and likewise prove willing to suffer his presence for the duration of the trip.

“Violence in the peace tent, no matter the structure is heretical. Would you curse this voyage before it begins by so hastily spilling blood?” Kälte slipped a javelin from her back quiver and thumbed it between her fingers.

“The half-breed speaks the truth. If we’re to travel together their needs to be a level of trust.” Kälte removed her javelin and twirled it nonchalantly. “If that means playing big sister and beating that trust into you, then by all means step up and lets get down to the nitty gritty.”
The first warrior was next to speak, drawing herself out of a wooden chair frame creaking beneath the weight of her muscle, and even going so far as to draw a weapon to prevent harm to his person.

What was happening, fantastic as it seemed, made precious little sense- for he could not credit that such a being would be so easily intimidated by the distant prospect of reprisals from their employers- until suddenly the truth dawned up him. The struggle for the band’s leadership had already begun and this female was staking her claim to superiority over the other on quarrel over whether he should be permitted to survive as part of the group. As in any tribal hunting party, within which each member knew his strict position as part of the group and his superiors and inferiors within it, such disputes would continue throughout the next few days until a leader had been established, along with a pack order beneath him.

“You speak of trust as if you took it to bed with you and made love to each form, barbarian,” her rival shot back in angry retort “Respect is earned through sweat and blood, neither more nor less of either. Trust once broken takes a lifetime to repair. His kinds broke the trust of my people generations ago by stealing from out fields and culling our flocks. When they encroach upon your lands and begin the kill the beasts you rely on to survive, you may speak of trust and the ‘nitty gritty’.”
For all her hostile words, however, it seemed that this one had recognised the other as being stronger and made no further move toward his person. His position within the group was, it had seemed, neatly established, for as a consequence of this most fortuitous turn of events, any further violence towards him could only be taken as a challenge to the muscle-bound outlander’s authority and would be punished accordingly.

In the eyes of the mountain man-Arback- who had eyed him so suspiciously during the long line-up downstairs, however, such an arrangement was plainly unsatisfactory and it seemed that whimsy dictated that the outsider be crushed outright. “Since when do they let these fiends into anything ‘cept for cellars an’ latrines?!” the creature roared, drawing a heavy war hammer from a leather belt loop to make its intentions obvious.

Improbable as it seemed it was a slender woman, protected only by the clinging garments designed to display her flesh to a waiting audience, that stood to block his path. “Cool it! Nobody is hurting anybody, got it?” From what little Vyarp had seen of city life such a being was viewed as a desirable mate by the people of this place, and he could only suppose that the mountain-dwellers had similar standards, but be that as it may if she did not move from the bearded warrior’s path quickly she was likely to be crushed. Beneath the sleeve of his robe, the kobold’s long fingers found and began to coax out the end of his dagger’s hilt, should this creature expect to find him unarmed then it would be sorry.

It seemed that the bandanna-adorned man who had first introduced himself- Basque- was now forced to take sides. “Weapons away!” he shouted “Maybe you had a bad time with Kobolds in the past, miss, but that doesn’t nail him to be just like those who did you wrong. You too, Arback. I’d hoped we could get to know each other peacefully and civilly here. Its not too late for that!”
Now that he was no longer in immediate danger, Vyarp paused to view the proceedings with rising curiosity. This man’s words were as much a bid for authority as any that had been spoken before, though lacking the confidence to stake his claim physically he instead sought to do so with his mouth. Such behaviour, in upbraiding his martial superiors, though have the height of foolishness in the warrens of a kobold tribe, was apparently to be tolerated in a city like this or the attempt would not have been made. A most interested spectator, Vyarp strove to better understand the rules by which hierarchy was to be decided within this place.

Whilst his attention was thus diverted, however, Arback darted forward, shouting as he did so, and it was all that Vyarp could do to leap aside as the hammer blow fell, punching a gaping hole in the chair’s back. Whilst the stout warrior’s weapon was thus entangled, however, Basque was able to seize him in a wrestling hold, dragging him backwards. The armour-clad female warrior, presumably sensing that the argument had been lost, finally sheathed her weapon and opted to help restrain the dwarf.

His breath heavy in his throat, seething at the closeness of the brutal attack, Vyarp picked himself off the ground where he had fallen. The palms of his leathery-skinned hands raised, spread open to show that he bore no weapon, he cautiously made his way forward toward the scuffle. “See” , he hissed as he made his way closer to the struggling dwarf, his voice a low rasp, “I mean no harm.” The pommel of the dagger, now worked loose for ready access, brushed against the heel of his hand beneath the sleeve of his loose robes- should this bearded mountain-dweller manage to work his way free to make a second attempt then he would feel its sharpness for himself.

OOC: Should Arback manage to break free and make another swing then Vyarp will make an attack with the dagger. I don't know 3rd ed. well enough to know whether he can get a sneak attack out of that one, but if it's possible then he will.

It was over in moments, from handing over the money, to the bandit raising his weapon, to the stranger saving his life. Staring with wide-eyes, Tempest looks at the man who had just saved his life. He hadn’t even sensed anyone else nearby. Clearly this man spends his time concealing himself for Tempest not to notice him at all until he was right in front of him. But, regardless of his profession, the man had just saved his life.

“ I’ve no quarrel with you for killing a man about to kill me. Thank you for your help. Things might have been worse if not for you.” Catching his first good look at the man in the moonlight, Tempest realizes that he is a Mith’ganni. He had met his fellow kin once before, and recognized them now.

At his direction, Tempest bends down and retrieves his coin once more. As he gets a lecture on the important of coin from the elf, Tempest realizes that he could probably use some help. He is not as well equipped for the outside world as he though. Perhaps his brethren will aid him. As he turns to leave, Tempest puts out an arm and calls to him.

“I know very little about the outside world. I can track, and hunt as well as any, but it seems there is much I have to learn. Perhaps we could journey together, at least until Sankirst, if it is in the direction you are going?”

(OC:Anything Tempest says is in response to what Nyx says in Common, becuase as you said, i cannot understand Mith’ganni)

Reya jumped when the fight started, one of the people who yet to introduce herself leapt up, looking almost ready to attack Vyarp after the little kobold introduced himself. Reya sat back and watched as the room broke into chaos, fortunately though, there were others on Vyarp's side and started to convince the others to back down.

Reya, who had stayed back in case of injury, moved to gently put a hand on Vyarp, stopping him from moving closer to Arback.

"You have proven you meant no harm when you revealed your race to us, no need to provoke Arback any further."

Reya then looked up to the others, especially Arback and the woman who had started this, "I'm sorry to hear that Vyarp's kind has caused you grief in the past, but to throw the crimes of his race onto him just because he's near makes you no better, please everyone, sit down. While we're not here to like each other, we are here to get along to complete our mission together."

Even as Nyx turned to leave his distant kinsman standing in the road beside what remained of the wanted highwayman he couldn’t help but wonder if the Dur’amani had understood anything Nyx had said to him. The forest elf had stood blinking at him most of the time and, when Nyx had spoken in Mith’ganni, Tempest hadn’t really made any reply. How appropriate that even our language seems to be dying, Nyx smirked to himself as he padded along the road, unaware that though their languages were similar the difference in their dialects was enough to muddle communications, how long before the breeders languages find themselves on that same decline, I wonder?
“I know very little about the outside world,” the Dur’amani called out before Nyx got very far.

The would-be assassin stopped and turned to look at Tempest. Indeed, cousin, he thought, it would seem not. Not long from under the roof of the wood, are we?
“I can track and hunt as well as any,” the ranger continued, “but it seems there is much I have to learn.”

A wry grin tugged at the corners of Nyx’s thin lips and his eyes shone in the light of the single moon. “As do we all, cousin,” he replied, skulking back towards Tempest, “and as quickly as his kind changes things,” he nodded at Ortega’s body, “there is always more.”

“Perhaps,” Tempest suggested, “we could journey together, at least until Sankirst, if it is in the direction you are going?”

“Perhaps,” Nyx replied, that wry grin spreading again into a wolfish smile as he absorbed what the Dur’amani had said… Track and hunt, he says, but has he hunted men?… His yellow eyes flicked back up the road… Sankirst. Lots of death in the capitol, I would imagine.… then back to Tempest; “Hunt and track, you say, cousin? Better to travel with those skills than any other, I suppose. Lots of coin to be made with them, too, if you track and hunt the right prey, as well, yes?

Very well,” he nodded, gesturing up the Western Road, “I have business in Normaund. Once I have completed that, there is nothing to tie me there and Sankirst does sound promising. Given a good road and no unforeseen obstacles, I’d wager we could make Sankirst in a day’s time.”

He turned again and started off along the road; “You won’t mind a stop at Shambler’s Rest, I hope. The sooner we get there, the better. I’d like to get this breeder’s head out of my pack before the stink seeps in.

What is your name, cousin?”

((OOC: All righty, off to Shambler’s Rest to collect the bounty… assuming Tempest does come along, Nyx will more than gladly converse with him along the way, as long as silence isn’t called for. Backposts as necessary…))

Mairon 5th, 389 P.D.
Normaund, Veythor.
Western Road.
The rapid removal of the bounty piece from Ortega’s dead body set a slight unease within Tempest’s stomach, watching the gruesome spectacle even as he collected his coins back from the thief – as well as a bit more, he found. It seemed the bandit made that pocket the one to keep his pluckings in. Removing his respective Rommels, he found eight silver pieces, two Rommels not of his own, and a dull brass ring with a slight ripple pattern engraved into it. Pocketing all of these, the two held their crude introductions, and through knowledge supply and demand, established a rough companionship.

Beneath the light of Cornecus, the two elves of different breeds turned to head back in the direction of Normaund, the comfort in numbers making the road travel much more pleasant. And, both being from the more nimble of races, traversed the miles in little more than an hour. The dull lights of the small town appeared in the distance, barely awake at this time. As the road ran along its northern edge, they veered off and stepped into the boundaries of Normaund.

Composed entirely of log-stacked buildings, a small network of streets formed the groundwork for the Normaund. Almost all the homes were small, probably not consisting of more than one or two rooms. The Mayor’s house was the exception, merely having a second story on the already modest ground level. Shutters were drawn, and from perhaps a handful of the houses could dim light be seen between the window slats.

Tempest had never before been here, but Nyx knew the locale well enough. Stalking through the empty streets, the pair of elves made their way to the ramshackle, but comfortable, Shambler’s Rest.

As the duo approached the broad, woodwork building, the shingles beaten and sporting a weathered sign bearing the image of a man dressed in travelers clothes sitting with his back to a tree. While at first the idea for the tree was somewhat unclear, Tempest rapidly realized it when he noticed that the inn was set almost completely against a small wood. Listening carefully, the Dur’amani could faintly hear the sound of wild birds. Nyx merely shoved the door open and entered silently.

The common room was small, organized with four round tables, a few benches along the walls, and a few green overstuffed chairs seated near the cobbled fireplace, burning lowly to warm the room.

While the in had a homey atmosphere, it was quite barren. Only two others were present, sitting near the fire and talking lowly, as if not to disturb the already silent air. They looked over when the pair of elves walked in, and one of the men excused himself, rising to his feet and strode across the room.

Dressed in dull brown trousers and a white long-sleeved shirt, the man’s hair, pulled back into a ponytail revealing a slightly balding pate, made motion to greet them, when the Mith’ganni looked over to him.

“Nyx Shyndyn!” Flethon Wironath, the current owner of the old inn exclaimed, halting in his tracks.

Tempest was uncertain of why the innkeeper reacted so strangely towards Nyx, but didn’t push it at the moment. He simply stood to the side as the man wrung his hands nervously, swallowing hard before speaking to the pair.

“Its…good ta see ya ‘gain.” Nyx knew the man was lying. He could see it in his eyes. Like a scared deer… “The fact yer ‘ere probably means the road’s clear, ey?” He looked back and forth between the two elves. “Well, Mau’s not ‘ere at the time. Out huntin’ or somethin’. Said he’ll be back tomorrow. In the meanwhile, I got some rooms if ye need, but suppers over.”

The man looked to Tempest, looking almost relieved to take his eyes off Nyx, if even for just a moment. “Name’s Flethon Wironath.” He said, offering his hand, cold with sweat. “Welcome ta the Shambler’s Rest.”

Mairon 5th, 389 P.D.
Trade City Sankirst, Veythor.
The Blazing Heretic Inn and Tavern
Tension loomed in the air, emphasized by the hairline grip on Arback by Basque, doing his best to restrain the dwarf. To the others, especially Vyarp, it looked like somebody trying to restrain a wild animal, though the young man’s hold on his neck began to sap away his vigour. Arback’s face was a deep red, though whether from the lock or from rage, it was unclear. However, the situation eased slightly when Raen and Kalte put away their weapons, the woman who initiated the fight even moving over to help Basque hold the furious dwarf in check.

Finally, Arback slowed, and Basque let him go. Gasping for air, the dwarf looked at everybody with a dark glare, and moved over to his chair, dropping down heavily.

Reya’s words of peace served their purpose to the fullest, helping to calm down the group, and lighten the air. She did speak logic, after all; none of them had to be friends here, although it would certainly help if they could come to trust each other, if not now then later on their trek.

Silence, but for Arback’s heavy breathing, held for a few moments before Basque broke it. Readjusting his bandanna atop his head, he offered a weary smile and scratched at the side of his chin. “That could have been easier, I think.”

Celene chuckled lightly, while Arback looked away and crossed his thick arms. “You can say that again.” The dancer spoke softly, sitting and leaning back in her chair, hands laced beneath her flowing hair. “We’re all adults here, right?” Suddenly, she tilted her head forwards, looking straight at Vyarp. “I think…” The corners of her lips upturned in amusement. “We should get some rest, and make our way out in the morning.”

“Right.” Added Basque. “Let’s put this aside, all right? Arlaun told us we’ve got a tough road to walk. Let’s do it together, not having to look over our shoulders.”

The young man walked over to his chair, which had been knocked over in the tussle. Righting it, he picked up a brown knapsack with a bedroll lashed to it and shouldered it. “I’m turning in. Let’s meet back here at sun-up, all right? I’ll see you then.”

With a short wave, Basque opened the door and left. Arback was quick to follow, jumping to his feet, snatching up his own pack, and stormed out, shoving the already-opened door back on its hinges with a bang. His footsteps were audible all the way down. The sounds of the common room drifted up to them, which seemed to prompt Celene. Rising to stand, she gave a serene smile. “Going to have a glass of wine, then bed down. Blessed sleep, everybody.”

She left quietly, walking with smooth strides and a grace that only a dancer could bear. Indeed, it was getting late; it would be seven or so hours before the sun came up. The road awaited them the next day, and far beyond the horizon, the port of Caraboln, and a whole new world.