“For now, this is the only blade I have and this thing,” Ch’dau gestured at the rags around his waist,, “the only bit of concealment. It has been my experience, since arriving on your shores, that most do not appreciate or tolerate monsters inside their walls, let alone walking their streets. My presence is apt to bring much unwanted attention and interference.”

"Odd, I trusted you immediately," Kith tugged at the cloak around her neck, "I could let you bor-"

“Ikhari?” A hesitant voice called from the top of the steps into the main building, interrupting Kith’s reply, and followed by the soft glow of candlelight, “Ikhari, is that you?”

“Oh,” Kith jumped to her feet, “That’s me. I mean it's one of the names I . . . I’ll be right back. Don’t talk about me when I’m gone,” and she dramatically limped over to the stairs, calling out breathlessly as she began to ascend, “Yes, Jerrod, it’s just me.”

The candlelight washed over her bandaged form and he sucked in his breath, “Don’t tell me you went out in that . . . that madness last night!”

“Alas, I did. You know me, can’t help but help those in need.” She winces and grabs her side, “Salenia, Uncle Domand, the children, they’re alright?”

“Yes, yes, we hunkered down upstairs and waited it out. What were those things?”

An undead skeleton army belonging to a necromancer witch out to drain my cat-beast friend of all of his blood for some gods-only-know plan, “Hard to say. Some, some kind of monster is all I could make of it. Please stay inside if you can.”

“Of course, of course. And you, are you okay down here? You are more than welcome to join us up here. There isn’t much space, but it isn’t a cellar, and I know we would all feel better having you near.”

“Oh, why, I would love to, but,” she looked sheepishly to the side and then back up to him, now speaking quickly, almost stumbling over her words, “I must admit that I have already taken far too much advantage of your hospitality. Two brave young townsfolk joined me in the fight last night, and suffered even more than I had. I have brought them here to recover. I apologize, Jerrod, last night was so wild and I wanted to ask, it was just that so much was happening and I was also nearly deliri--”

He put a hand up to calm her and chuckled, “It’s okay Ikhari, it’s okay. I understand. I know you’ll do what is best. Was that the loud noise we heard earlier? Can we offer anything? We don’t have much, but we can spare a little.”

She bowed lightly to him and sucked in a sharp breath again as she rose, this time drawing her hand to her neck, saying in a strained voice, “You and your family are far too kind, sir. And honestly, it would be greatly appreciated. One of the lads, he almost lost both legs to those things! That is who you heard howling earlier as we set his leg. Once we have the strength we will take him to a cleric, if the coast is clear. That being said, his pants are in shreds. If you have any spare trousers, more . . . Uncle Domand’s size would likely fit best.”

“Ohoho, a big boy.”

“Well, a large boy. And,” she continued, “I know these days it is difficult, but if you have any food to spare, anything would also be nice.”

At this his mouth nearly disappeared into a thin line, “I will see what I can find. Please, wait here and I will be back.”

As the door closed softly behind him, Kith straightened back up and stretched, this time actually wincing at the pull of her wounds. She wondered at the quality of their wine. Kithran didn’t know many who dealt in wines, but the few she did were rather well off, and ruthless to boot. Not only that, but she had heard that grapes for wine tended to thrive under some of the worst conditions, and Sendria had proven quite sinister thus far. Somehow she had stumbled across a humble wine peddler in the dregs of Antaron.

She shook her head that Fortune still seemed to Smile on her sometimes, as she heard Jerrod approaching again. She dropped back into a pained hunch, leaning against the wall for support, “Hello again. Oh, Kammy, Darrin, you’ve come to help poor Ikhari!” Children . . . please don’t hug me again.

“Yes, yes,” Jerrod cooed, “they wanted to help. Go on, hand them over.” The children held up two items wraps in pieces of cloth and beamed up at Kithran. She smiled politely back, “Salenia found half a loaf and some cheese for you lot. I wish we could spare more.”

“Not to worry, this should be more than enough.”

“And here,” he held out a heap of material, “those ought to do for your friend. Domand was none-too-pleased, but then he did not spend the entire night rescuing the city, did he?”

Kith chuckled, “We can hardly claim that much. The city guard did their job much better than we could. I am, however, eternally grateful once more for your unending kindness. Please, tell the others I wish them all the best, and again, stay inside.”

“Of course, you stay safe as will, Ikhari.”

She grinned and could feel the split in her lip threatening to reopen, “I always do.”

The door closed behind her and she skipped down the steps, back to where the bladesinger and Kazari rested, setting the food down before Aranwen, and handing the pants to Ch’dau. “Old bread and cheese for the lady, and a very large pair of trousers for the r-raw-r’kah? The best Sendria has to offer!”

((OOC: any replies))

She looks Ch’dau up and down and again tugs at the strings of her cloak, “I suppose I can lend you this as well. I took it off of a very wealthy dead man, so I will want it back." She hands over the long, dark cloak, petting the fine yet durable fabric once more before fully letting go, "As far as more weapons, that will take me a little longer, but if you like I am sure I can find those for you as well.”

((OOC: replies)

Kithran turned to Aranwen, “Our path is rather . . . terrifying. I am grateful for your offer to help us, and in turn would be happy to lend my assistance in your task,” assuming those wizards pay up, “I suppose I mean, I would be happy to lend our assistance, as the brave warrior swimming around in those pants will go nowhere without me for the rest of my--” she sighed, ”Ch’dau, just untie the knot and re-tie it so that it’s tighter around your waist. Have you never worn pants before?”

((OOC: Kitty reply, perhaps))

She rolled her eyes, “Anyway, Aranwen, I’ve only been here for a day or two, but I can point us in the direction of almost anything we might need in order to prepare. Any suggestions?”

“Oh,” Kith jumped to her feet, “That’s me. I mean it's one of the names I . . . I’ll be right back. Don’t talk about me when I’m gone,”

Aranwen continued to watch her until she was out of sight, her eyes a bit distant, "She wears different personae like clothing as a seasoned performer, and her skills with her daggers are also no small feat," Aranwen mused, "And she is so young..." she paused, "Hmm, perhaps that is unfair. In my eyes, she appears as a child, but... I have no knowledge on how quickly a half-Syl grows," Aranwen gave a wry smile, "Probably too quickly."

Aranwen looked to Ch'dau, "I've a black cloak in my bag I wore while I was travelling," she considered, "I fear you'd find its size lacking, however. It's tailored to the shape of a Sylvari."

"Can you tell me more of yourself, Ch'dau?" she asked, "I fear you have me at a disadvantage if you already know of bladesingers, and if we are to find ourselves with blades ready side by side, I'd like to know of your blade's style. Or do you fight by claws?" 

That his quest had brought him into Sendria wasn’t truly much of a surprise; scourges like the one Mosic sought to dispel too often found their origins or endings in dark places, after all. The fact that his searching had brought him to Davnor, the very heart of this darkest of nations, troubled him a bit more than he might have liked. For one thing, it made him wonder at the power that had brought the curse forth to begin with and, also, to question his own ability to bring it to an end. For another, he wondered if his ending up here might have nothing to do with the curse, at all, but, instead, Falloes had brought him here with simpler designs. If there was any place on all of Antaron wherein one might find the hopeless, lost, and needy, Davnor was surely that place. Whatever it was that had led him here, though, be it mission or magnanimity, Mosic Townes was grateful, at least, that he hadn’t come upon Davnor’s gates in the dark hours of the night. He much preferred to get his first true feel for the place with the sun on his shoulders and chasing the shadows from the city’s darker corners before he found himself needing to delve too deeply into them.

“Before I delve much into that, though,” the diminutive cleric of Falloes said in answer to the rumbling of his stomach, “I’d like to dig into a nice porridge and a pint.”

The day before, Mosic had shared what was left of his trail rations (and a goodly portion of his purse) with a travelling family who had depleted their own supplies. It had been since that mid-afternoon meeting that he’d had anything to put in his belly aside from the now stale water that filled his wineskin. It was early, now, and the streets of Davnor had yet to start bustling save for the few beggars and urchins who stirred from their alley-hidden hovels and the rather pronounced presence of the city-guards patrols. The Cid couldn’t help but wonder at the need for so many sentries on the streets at this hour and, in fact, had asked a pair of them about what troubles might plague the place…

“None o’ yer concern, Pick,” had been the curt reply, “Ever’thin’s under control. Go on ‘bout yer day.”

“Blessings of The Helping Hand upon you, then,” Mosic had replied, the twin pony-tails sprouting from the crown of his head bobbing as he nodded at them. “I wonder, though, if you might point a weary traveler in the direction of a…”

The patrol had put their backs to him before he could finish his inquiry as to an inn or tavern, though, and were far enough down the street that, even if he had finished, they’d likely not have heard. Or even bothered with and answer if they had. So, with a shrug of his shoulders and a jaunty tune whistling across his lips, the cleric of Falloes turned back to his course and strolled along the thoroughfare in search of a place to eat or, at the very least, to sit for a while, sheltered from the cool morning air. He hadn’t made it far when a rasping cough drew his eyes to the mouth of a narrow alleyway. Huddled there, in a small nook created by the meeting of chimney-stone and clapboard walls, was an old woman wrapped in threadbare blankets, her tired, rheumy eyes peering blatantly in his direction.

“I could use the blessin’s of a helpin’ hand,” the woman croaked, her arthritic fingers slipping from the folds of her blankets to beckon the young cleric closer, “For the right blessin’, I’d even tell ye where ta find what ye seek.”

“And what is it you think I seek, mother?” Mosic smiled softly, his gray eyes brightening to a pale blue as he stepped from the street and into the alleys mouth.

“Same’s the rest of us, minister,” the old woman coughed, “A warm place ta rest yer bones and answers ta the why of things.”

“Sage wisdom, mother,” Mosic beamed, his small hand reaching out to close around her gnarled one. “What can you tell me of the why?”

“I suppose,” the wretched woman wheezed, “that all depends on the blessin’, doesn’t it?”

“I suppose it does,” Mosic chuckled lightly as the old woman’s joints crackled in the clasp of his hand, “What blessing might be worth such answers, then?”

“Coin enough for a meal,” the crone suggested, a cough rattling her lungs, “and, maybe, that cloak of yers ta keep off the cold?”

The little priest’s smile never faltered and, nodding, he slipped his hand gently from hers. “The coin is easily enough provided by The Helping Hand, mother,” he said, his fingers dipping into the purse lashed to his belt, “but I’m afraid I must keep the cloak. I do have a rather new blanket in my pack, though, if that would do? It’s of the finest wool to be found in Ertain.”

Wracked again by a fit of coughing, the old woman simply nodded her assent. Mosic pressed the three silver coins he’d pinched from his purse into her bony hand and, then, shrugged his pack from his shoulders, failing to catch the surprise in the crone’s eyes as she gawked at his offering. The little Cid produced a thick woolen over-blanket from his pack, then, and, with a smile, unrolled the thing and draped it around the woman’s shoulders. It was only then that Mosic took note of the astonishment that shone even from behind the clouds in her eyes. “Are you all right, mother?”

“I… Ye… err,” the woman croaked, “I’d never hoped fer such a generous blessin’, minister… I… Yer vera generous.”

“The things one does for oneself are gone when they are gone, mother,” Mosic smiled warmly, his little hands resting on the crone’s softly hitching shoulders, “but the things one does for others remain as one’s legacy…”

Whether it was the warmth of the blanket, the heat from the little cleric’s hands, or the gentle wisdom of his words that seeped into her, just then, the woman couldn’t be sure. Whatever the source, though, the little priest’s attentions seemed to flow through her in that moment, easing the ache in her joints, clearing the clouds from her eyes, and filling her lungs with air cleaner than she had tasted in quite some time.

“…Blessings of The Helping Hand upon you, mother,” Mosic grinned, his hands falling away from her shoulders.

“Blessin’s of all th’ gods on you, little man,” the woman wept softly as the Cid closed and reshouldered his pack.

“Thank you,” Mosic beamed happily, his eyes finding their way back to the woman’s much healthier looking face. “Now, if I recall, you had said something about answers?”

“Yes. Any answers ye like, dear boy,” the woman nodded, her hand nimbly disappearing into the folds of her blankets to secret away the coin that would feed her for days, then reappearing to wipe joyful tears from her cheeks, “Ask away.”

Mosic asked, first, about the need for so many guards on the streets and the woman regaled him with a tale about the dead swarming the city the night before. The things had been driven back to whence they came, she said, but, this being Sendria, she couldn’t be sure for just how long that might last… and, apparently, neither could the city watch. The tale, as told from her perspective, was both terrifying and fascinating and, in her telling of it, Mosic found a foothold in the fact that he was, likely, on the proper path to locating the end of the curse.

“Skeletons, you say?”

“Aye,” the woman nodded, “saw them with my own eyes. Them and worse! Seen a right proper monster, too. All soaked in blood and covered in fur and fang. If it’s horrors ye seek, minister, yer in the right place.”

“So it sounds,” Mosic nodded, “but I’ll leave that seeking for later, I think. What I’d like, now, is a place to find my own meal and, as you said, warm my bones.”

“Of course,” the woman nodded, leaning over to peer around the corner and gesture up the street, “Continue on the way ye were goin’, about a block or two, then ye’ll come ta a lane goes off ta the left. A door or two down that way, ye’ll find a place called The Countess and Cockatrice that’ oughta suit yer needs. Probably pullin’ the loaves from their ovens, now.”

 “My thanks, again, mother,” Mosic nodded, still smiling, as he reached a hand out to her, once again, “Would you care to join me for breakfast?”

“… It has been my experience, since arriving on your shores, that most do not appreciate or tolerate monsters inside their walls, let alone walking their streets. My presence is apt to bring much unwanted attention and interference.”

"Odd, I trusted you immediately," Kith tugged at the cloak around her neck, "I could let you bor-"

The faint snort of a chuckle escaped the Kazari at Kith’s quip. Whatever reply he might have made, though, and whatever she might have planned to say next, was lost to the interruption of a door creaking open and an unfamiliar name being called…

“Oh,” Kith jumped to her feet, “That’s me. I mean it's one of the names I . . . I’ll be right back. Don’t talk about me when I’m gone.”

…Ch’dau watched the girl hobble toward the steps and couldn’t help but wonder if Kithran or Ikhari, either one, was her true name. Was she only Kithran to he and the Bladesinger; Ikhari just to the folk who apparently resided upstairs? How many names did the shadow-girl have? How many of them were real? And did she, herself, even know which was which?

“She wears different personae like clothing as a seasoned performer,” Aranwen’s voice drew his attentions from the stairway, “and her skills with her daggers are also no small feat…”

“Mmm,” Ch’dau rumbled quietly, “She does fight well for one who has chosen such an occupation.”

“And she is so young...” the Bladesinger paused, “Hmm, perhaps that is unfair. In my eyes, she appears as a child, but... I have no knowledge on how quickly a half-Syl grows,” she gave a wry smile, “Probably too quickly.”

“Probably,” the Kazari chuffed in agreement, his ears flicking, “I have no knowledge of these things, myself.”

Aranwen’s golden eyes turned to regard him then, the ghost of her sardonic smile still on her lips. She seemed to study him for a moment; then, as if a thought had just occurred to her, she said; “I've a black cloak in my bag I wore while I was travelling.” Her assessing gaze danced over him, again. “I fear you'd find its size lacking, however. It's tailored to the shape of a Sylvari.”

“Your offer is appreciated, rrow’ka,” he returned, his own gaze appraising her, now, “but you are right; I am far from Sylvari shaped.”

The smile she offered, then, was as demure as her eyes were daring. “Can you tell me more of yourself, Ch'dau?” she asked, “I fear you have me at a disadvantage if you already know of bladesingers, and if we are to find ourselves with blades ready side by side, I'd like to know of your blade's style. Or do you fight by claws?”

“I fight with whatever I have, Aranwen,” the big cat answered, something that looked like it might be a smile tugging at the corners of his feline mouth. “This blade,” he continued, lifting the dagger Kith had gifted to him, “is a bit smaller than those I am accustomed to, and I prefer a pair when possible, but I have not seen my own blades in…” He offered an uncertain shrug, “…I do not know how long.

As to style; mine is not as graceful and elegant as I have seen in your kind,” Ch’dau offered with another chuffing chuckle. “I had a friend in the Wyverns who described it as… how did he say… ‘scream and leap,’ yes? They liked to put me at the front where I could tear holes in the enemy’s lines; cause panic and disorder, and diminish their numbers as best I could.” If it was possible for a kazari face to emote such things, the expression that flitted across the feline features in that moment might have been seen as disappointment or, perhaps, sadness. “It was a tactic that served us well until recently…”

((OOC: Anything else here as you see fit, Butterfly))

“…you stay safe as will, Ikhari.”

“I always do.”

The voices and the creaking of door hinges drew both Syl and Kazari eyes back to the stairs where Kith had reappeared, minus the exaggerated limp and pained hunching of posture. The shadow-girl veritably skipped across the floor, now, carrying a plate of food in one hand and a broad bundle of fabric in the other. “Old bread and cheese for the lady,” Kith quipped, setting the food down before Aranwen, “and a very large pair of trousers for the r-rawr-kah?”

“Rrow’ka,” Ch’dau corrected as he took the proffered bundle.

“The best Sendria has to offer,” Kith grinned mischievously.

“I am sure,” the kazari chuffed, unfurling the borrowed trousers and eyeing them skeptically, “My thanks, Kithran.”

As he got to his feet, still apparently dumbfounded by the concept of the trousers, Kith looked him up and down; then, after a moment, deftly untied the strings that held her cloak. “I suppose I can lend you this, as well,” she said, shrugging the black fabric from her shoulders and giving it a rather fond pat before handing it over. “I took it off a very wealthy dead man,” she added, “so I will want it back.

As far as more weapons,” Kith continued as the kazari nodded his appreciation, “that will take me a little longer, but, if you like, I am sure I can find those for you, as well.”

“A pair of short swords would not go amiss,” Ch’dau answered as he stepped away.

 He only half listened to the conversation that continued on between Aranwen and Kith, then, but most of his attention was given over to making sense of how to don the trousers the thief had procured for him. It took a moment but, soon enough, he was able to figure out where his legs were meant to go. That part was simple enough. The rest, though, was an exercise in frustration as he wrestled with trying to fit himself into the things…

The conversation at his back was interrupted with a sigh that he wasn’t sure was born of amusement, exasperation, or both. “Ch’dau,” Kith called, prompting the kazari to glance back over his shoulder, “just untie the knot and re-tie it so that it’s tighter around your waist. Have you never worn pants before?”

“I have not,” the Silver Cat snorted. “How do monkey-folk move in these leg sleeves,” he snarled softly, “let alone fight?” He fidgeted the knot loose and, once more attempted to get the trousers set comfortably about his waist. “And where in seven hells is my tail supposed to go?” The appendage in question lashed at the air, punctuating the frustration in his voice. After another attempt or two, though, Ch’dau finally resorted to cutting a hole, just below the waistband of the borrowed garment, which would accommodate his tail and, at last, managed to get the trousers situated properly.

“Uncomfortable,” he grumbled, even as he draped the rich, dead man’s cloak over his shoulders, “but still better than that, I suppose.” He disdainfully kicked the discarded loincloth away as he secured the cloak about his neck, then returned to join Kith and Aranwen.

((OOC: I'll stop there... room for interjections/interatctions throughout, of course... Off to do something about HC, then I'll be back with Adedre.))

“I fight with whatever I have, Aranwen,” the big cat answered, something that looked like I might be a smile tugging at the corners of his feline mouth. “This blade,” he continued, lifting the dagger Kith had gifted to him, “is a bit smaller than those I am accustomed to, and I prefer a pair when possible, but I have not seen my own blades in…” He offered an uncertain shrug, “…I do not know how long.

As to style; mine is not as graceful and elegant as I have seen in your kind,” Ch’dau offered with another chuffing chuckle. “I had a friend in the Wyverns who described it as… how did he say… ‘scream and leap,’ yes? They liked to put me at the front where I could tear holes in the enemy’s lines; cause panic and disorder, and diminish their numbers as best I could.” If it was possible for a kazari face to emote such things, the expression that flitted across the feline features in that moment might have been seen as disappointment or, perhaps, sadness. “It was a tactic that served us well until recently…”

As Ch'dau shared, Aranwen's eyes were drawn to his. She could see the flames in them sparking stronger as he talked of his ability in battle. A fire that burned strong in spite of the wounds he still had, strong enough to see him awaken fighting, though it faded a bit as his voice trailed off.

Aranwen gave a solemn nod. She didn't need to ask; that Ch'dau was the only one here of the 'us' he spoke of was enough for her to know, and she thought she recognized in him a familiar feeling. One that haunted her for the past thirty years.

"You did everything you could," she replied, her voice gentle as she lifted a hand to place upon Ch'dau's uninjured shoulder, "We can't ask of ourselves any more than that."

At least, that's what I keep telling myself.

"The way you describe it, it sounds as though in battle I should weave the song in a way that leaves you room to maneuver and strike. Unrelenting, unpredictable," Aranwen mused, before she offered a smile, "Your reputation is definitely well earned, Ch'dau."

* * *

“Old bread and cheese for the lady, and a very large pair of trousers for the r-raw-r’kah? The best Sendria has to offer!”

Aranwen shook her head, "When last have you two eaten?" she asked, before she withdrew a few leaf folded parcels from her bag, a couple bearing dried meat and others dried fruit, and the water skin she had, "Here," she offered, "This should help for the moment."

“Our path is rather . . . terrifying. I am grateful for your offer to help us, and in turn would be happy to lend my assistance in your task,” Kithran had shared, "Anyway, Aranwen, I’ve only been here for a day or two, but I can point us in the direction of almost anything we might need in order to prepare. Any suggestions?”

"Tell me more of the owner of that estate. I presume it was they who brought forth the skeletons that were so prevalent there," Aranwen asked, "As to our own preparations, we should certainly see about getting a full meal. That assortment of food is suitable for the road, and will hold you over until we eat proper, but it will not sustain you through healing and the battles ahead," Aranwen observed, "On the topic of healing, we may need to see a cleric about our injuries, as well as pick up more medical supplies. If we can enlist the aid of a cleric for the upcoming battles, that would be even better. Devotees of Kith-Jora or Falloes might be our best options there."

Aranwen paused, "Two days?" she asked Kithran, before she considered, "It's unrelated to anything else, but if you've seen a mask or antique store, I'd like to know of those as well."

Flanked by a pair of attendants and encircled by a retinue of guards, Adedre Undolithe trod the halls of her manor-house, surveying the damage that had been done in the wake of the kazari’s escape from her dungeons. The vaults, themselves, had fared well if one didn’t count the sheer amount of blood, bile, and bone that painted the walls and floors. The worst of it, of course, had been centered on the cage in which she had kept the cat-beast but there were others, too. Some further in, near the sumps and storerooms, killed in a neater fashion than the kazari would have done, and concealed, too…

The accomplice, the witch surmised, the thief who stole my prize.

…Others, guardsmen and skeleton soldiers alike, were found closer to where the oubliette’s corridors connected to the manse above. A number of those bore unmistakable signs of the cat-man having ended them, but nearly as many showed that their deaths had been granted in a more precise (and mayhap merciful) fashion. Given that the kazari had escaped – or, more accurately, been freed – the carnage in her dungeons was to be expected, Adedre supposed. The destruction wrought in the halls of her home, though, was another matter entirely.

The guards posted at the dungeon’s door had been a predictable enough loss, as were those that may have found themselves between the dungeon and the manor’s entryway. That the path of devastation had led to the second floor of her abode, though, was a curiosity. If the thief’s goal had simply been to liberate the kazari, an escape could have been easily enough made through the front doors. That such an exit had been passed by in favor of breaching the upper floors told her that the Silver Cat or, possibly, the thief had other designs beyond simple escape. Had it been the kazari’s idea, Adedre imagined, the goal most certainly would have been retribution – the beast had threatened her with it more than once in the time that she held him – but what could the faceless thief’s motivation have been? What presumed prize might have coaxed a sticky-fingered footpad into risking his or her life (and whatever may come after) by coming here?

“Reckless,” the witch hissed, gliding to a stop between the splintered remains of a bedchamber door and the broken panes of the window on the opposite side of the hallway. Wan, yellow eyes flicked toward the room, occupied now by a rather impressive spider-like conjoining of skeletons, then tracked toward the jagged shards of glass that still hung in the ruined casement. A sigh, dry as grave dust and cold as the autumn air that stirred in the gardens below, whispered over her blackened lips as she paced closer to the shattered window. Taking note of a rivulet of blood that snaked along the ragged edge of a glass shard, she dragged a finger through it, then touched the salvaged ichor to her tongue, and shuddered at the taste of it. “The kazari’s blood has made me reckless,” she whispered, continuing her thought as she peered at the sprawl of the courtyard beyond the window, “Emboldened me so that I failed to properly contain my creations. Emboldened me so that I gave no consideration to what else my power might have drawn in…”

The witch sighed, again, heavier this time, and tickled another dribbling of kazari blood from the window frame. “You’re certain that it was a bladesinger that came to the aide of the beast,” she asked her newly appointed guard captain.

“I believe so, mistress,” the man replied, trying not to watch as Adedre stroked her blood-tipped finger along her tongue, “She was a Syl, for certain, and gained entry by claiming to be with the city watch. Once inside, though, and from all reports, she didn’t fight like any normal city-guard and the sounds that accompanied her could only have been bladesong.”

“And the guard who granted her entry?”

“Dead, mistress; along with a couple more who were assigned to the gatehouse.”

“Good,” the witch nodded before ruefully surveying the decimated hallway, once again.

“Gather the fallen and have them await my attentions in the dungeons,” she commanded, waving a dismissive hand even as she turned to stride away with her attendants in tow, “Then summon my whisperers to attend me in the library…”

“It will be done,” the guard captain bowed dutifully to Adedre’s back. “Uh… mistress? What about the… uh… skeletons?”

“All of the fallen, Captain,” the witch hissed, not bothering to give so much as a backward glance, “Flesh on their bones or otherwise.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the guard returned.

“And, Captain…”

“Ma’am?”

“…It goes without saying that I expect this mess to be tended to, as well.”

“Of course, Mistress Undolethe.”

“Very good. Be quick about getting those whisperers here,” the witch purred, her voice fading as she and her attendants ascended the stairs, “I’d like to have them in the streets before the kazari manages to find a way out of the city.”

12th Day, Sempore, 437 E.R., Stone’s Hollow, Coria

Randel Aldeath opened his front door to a townguard holding his angry twelve-year-old daughter by her elbow. The guard shoved the arm and the rest of the girl at the merchant, “For the last time, Randel, keep your kid’s hands to herself.”

He sighed and looked down at her, fairly tall for twelve, and now glaring at his chest, her cheeks nearly as red and dirtied as the torn dress she wore, “Kithran, give it back.”

She turned the glare back up to him, “I already gave it back!”

The guard nodded. “The Daldens caught her in the act of trying to swipe the misses’ fresh biscuits right out of the bakery window. All of them. That’s their living, and this little scamp had half a sack full before I spotted her,” he scowled at the back of the girl’s head, ”She tried to run away and got stuck on their fence.”

“Biscuits?” Randel raised his eyebrows at the furious young lady. She had left in her new dress, her hair perfectly in place, and not a smudge to be seen. Now there wasn’t a part of her that wasn’t a mess. For biscuits? “What else did you take?”

The glare dropped too quickly, “Nothing! Just the biscuits. I’m hungry, is dinner ready?”

“You know good and well that dinner is ready, with no help from you yet again. What else did you take, Kithran?”

The guard looked from father to daughter, each a stubborn mirror of the other, until finally the little thief sighed, “Fine,” she grumbled and turned back to the guard, reaching into her ponytail she pulled out a stone carving of an elephant with intricate designs painted all over its back, small green and white gems placed in patterns throughout them, “It’s pretty.”

The guard held out his hand to take the trinket and looked up at the girl’s father, “You know her well.”

Randel shrugged, “It’s a new trick she learned from those horrendous Lovers of Fortune: if she thinks she’s likely to get caught in the act of taking something, she makes a blatant show of taking something else, to avert the gaze from her true prize. Isn’t that right, my little sticky-fingered peach?”

He watched her teeth grind as she grumbled more at the facetious endearment he knew she didn’t approve of, and looked away from him.

He shook his head and looked back at the townguard, “I will end up having to clip those little fingers off soon, I am sure of it.” He sighed, “Thank you for looking out for our neighbors, Glendon, and for helping me show this little peach she isn’t as clever as she thinks she is.”

“Good night, Randel.”

Later that evening, long after her father’s endless lecture, and threats to write Tara, while they packed to begin traveling the next morning, Kithran lay in her bed, staring up at the clear summer sky. She softly hummed a tune she had been working on in her head when the glimmer through a second floor window of Daldren’s Bakery had caught her eye earlier that day. She reached into her nightgown and pulled the sparkling dragonfly pin from the leather strap around her thigh. If they suspected her, they had yet to push any blame. And besides, they had been home the entire time, surely they would have noticed a tall, half-Sylvari twelve-year old running around their shop and home in a red dress?

Kithran smiled as she played with the moonlight on the sparkling beads, and reveled in her cleverness, before falling asleep with it clasped tightly in her hands.

27th Day, Sempore, 437 E.R., Coria, Coria, 17:06

The merchant sighed at the sight of the flaxen-haired, magenta-clad Laughing Maiden of Shinara dragging his daughter by the elbow, back to his stall.

Over the years, it had been a delight for Kithran to be able to meet up with her friend and mentor, Tara Ikhari. The traveling maiden and her group never stayed in one place for a very long time, or even in Coria for very long, for that matter. So when Shinara saw fit to bless Kithran with a meeting from the woman, she was ecstatic. Lately, however, the meetings seemed to have become fewer, and further between, as Tara ventured further and for longer periods of time. And Kithran, in the unspoken loss she felt in the spaces left by Tara, filled them by turning to another, more boisterous lot within their temple: the Lovers of Fortune. The rowdy, risk-taking sect of the temple was viewed more as reckless than anything else, as they consistently found ways to show the world that no matter what they did, Shinara’s smile would always look down on them in favor. Though in Randel’s view, her frown seemed to fall upon them just as often.

By the look on Tara’s face, Kithran had once again been goaded into their mischief. Tara dropped Kithran’s arm as they approached the merchant, “I have to say, Randel, your little peach here is nothing if not persistent.”

“Peach?!” Kithran looked to her father, “You gave her that one?!”

“I told you I’d write her, Kithran, now what’s happened this time?”

She looked up at the Maiden, who simply pointed back to her father, “I . . . fell through a roof.”

“You fell through a roof?!” Whatever her excuse was as she rambled one off to him now, he did not hear it. He had taken her disheveled look in stride, as this was becoming more and more common for her, but the pieces of thatch and other materials in her hair, the scrapes, tears in yet another new dress, even the streaks of blood were a bit more profuse than usual. But through a roof?!

Randel assumed she was done with whatever she could come up with as a reason for her not to be chained to the stall from now on because Tara had now taken to talking, “As with the guard in every town but your own, she was brought to Shinara’s temple, since she refuses to give away your name, Randel, and lucky you. Especially you, as Shinara’s favorite little peach here has charmed the temple leaders so much they are willing to pay for the damages to the Cinderfell storagehouse.”

The merchant blinked, “Cinderfell? Cinderfell?! You decided to go off and destroy a Cinderfell property?! Oh, child, you shall be the death of me.”

“Father, no one knows who you are tho--”

“I know, I know, you only give them the name of Shinara’s flock, which I am also incredibly sorry for, Tara,” she shrugged and waved it away, “but Kithran, if you go messing with people like Cinderfell, they will find out who I am, and I don't particularly like them knowing who you are. It will not end well for either of us.” He patted her shoulder, “Please, think about what your actions will mean for us. And keep those sticky little fingers to yourself.” He sighed and stroked his stubbled chin, “We’ll speak more on this soon. For now, say your farewells to Tara, and we will go find supper.”

When her father was out of earshot, Kithran looked up at the woman, now smirking back at her and shaking her head. Kithran crossed her arms, “Why didn’t you tell him they kept the wine?”

“Because it isn’t important, and it would be too difficult to explain that the temple accepted it as a symbol and offering to them of your maddening luck--running along rooftops like a wild child, happening to fall through one filled with a highly coveted wine, surviving the fall, obtaining two bottles and keeping them hidden while two guards escorted you back to the temple. I wish you would not grin like that, Kithran.”

She could not stop, “Fortune favors the bold, Tara, and I love fortune.”

Tara scoffed, “Honestly, I do love your luck, darling, but the Lovers of Fortune burn bright and fast. There’s an entire world out there, and they’d waste it hopping through a roof.” She sighed, “Fortune favors who it favors. I apologize that I have not been able to be much of a mentor to you as of late, and until you join the--I mean if you would like to join the Laughing Maidens and adventure, I could do a much better job by you. But until then, be quick first in your mind,” she held out a closed fist, turned it over and revealed a familiar wine bottle stopper, donning Shinara’s symbol, “and then in your hands.”

“What?” Kithran patted herself down, “H-how did you get that?! I was paying attention! Was it--how long?”

Tara laughed and hugged the confused girl until she felt her relax and hug her back. She stepped away again then and booped her on the nose with the stopper as she had so many years ago, to a much shorter version of this half-Sylvari girl, and handed it back to her. “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t surprised you still kept that odd little trinket on you, but it does make me happy that you do. The Maidens and I are leaving for Calestra in the morning, and as I believe that shall be one of your next destinations as well, come find me once you arrive. I will stay put until you are there, as I would like to continue working with you where we left off in your studies. Would you like that?”

Kithran looked away from the stopper and shoved it into a pocket, “Yes, Tara, I miss our studies.”

“As do I, darling peach, I will see you then.”

28th Day, Sempore, 437 E.R., Coria, Coria, 01:26

Kithran crept through the darkness unimpeded, as the moon shone bright in the clear summer sky. Nevertheless, she neither saw, nor heard their approach.

A hand clamped over her mouth and pulled her lanky frame back into an alleyway. Fear gripped her stomach for just a moment before she was released and turned to face the grins of her Coria friends and fellow Lovers of Fortune. Tibbon, Mareth, and Etan were all human, donning matching Shinara pins, and all older than her by a couple springs. Despite this, Kithran would often be the one to lead them into whatever trial the others were excited to throw themselves at--partly because she was just a little quicker than them, but mostly because she could see best in the dark.

Tonight they would be raiding a Cinderfell storage room. There just so happened to be a very large hole in the top, and the others in their group were very thirsty.

Kithran would be leading them back to the storagehouse, warning them of city watch, or anything else that might give them away. Once there, they would spread out and lure the Cinderfell thugs away from the building: Mareth and Etan taking on the guarded roof, and Tibbon, the fastest after Kithran, luring the one at the door.

At Kithran’s nod, the other three dispersed and she awaited her signal to run in. Tara would surely not approve of this. Or maybe she would. She was difficult to pin down at times. She could be sneaky and sticky-fingered as well, but she was also always so poised, seemed so proper, almost regal. At least as far as Kithran could tell. She appreciated luck and chance more than tested it. Perhaps that is what she had been rambling about earlier about fortune’s favor.

She noticed movement on a rooftop just moments away from where the Cinderfell guards stood and her breath caught in her throat. Appreciation was nice, but it never made her heart race like this. Yes, failing was not preferable, but succeeding was exhilarating--better than making a sale on some hard-to-push spice, and better than just appreciating some stroke of luck. This was creating it, basking in your success or learning from your failures.

Mareth and Etan snuck poorly toward the storagehouse, finally making enough noise for the buffoons at the top to notice them and chase them off.

Kithran ran silently into a closer position as the rooftop guards returned. Tibbon’s job may have been the most difficult. He had to get the thug to actually chase him away. Usually you had to tease them a little first, make them angry, otherwise they give up the moment they realize they’ll never catch you. That was the hardest part. Once he was gone though, Kithran would run in, which was Mareth and Etan’s queue to truly go at the guards on the roof, until they finally took chase. By that time Kithran would have the bottles, and have climbed up to the hole, escaping before they came back.

She had gotten a good look earlier when she had “accidentally” fallen through, and was confident she’d be able to climb back up without issue, even with a couple bottles strapped to her.

A rock hit the brute at the door square on the side of his head. Kithran was sure any normal man would have crumpled to the ground at that, but luckily for him, his skull looked to be thicker than a donkey’s, the bray that followed only further proving her thought. It was easier than she had anticipated, though she did not anticipate a man with the brain of a pack animal to be who Tibbon might be up against. The rock to the head had likely tipped him over the edge of rage a bit faster than usual, and the endless slew of perfectly horrible insults from the young Lover certainly helped.

Whatever the case, the moment Tibbon made himself visible, it took only a couple more taunts for the lumbering idiot to chase after him, and the moment he did, Kithran took her chance. She sprinted to the door. Once she slipped inside she took a brief moment to take a breath, grin at her good fortune, and hastily made her way forward.

Shwoop

In the near pitch dark, save for the bit of moonlight shining through the ceiling, she looked down at the dagger that now stood poised in the dirt at her feet. Its handle was tightly wrapped, and lettering she could not read cascaded down the middle of the blade.

Oh gods, she stepped back, looking around, but nothing caught her eye. It couldn’t have been the rooftop guards. Cinderfell must have planted someo--

Shwoop

Another dagger struck down even closer to her and this time, despite not seeing anything, she could hear the light, rapid footsteps approaching her. She spun around and ran back to the door, attempting to swing it open and flee, but even as the door began to move, it was slammed shut again. The two daggers that had just been at her feet now stuck in the door on either side of her head. This time, with hands gripping the handles.

“Clever,” the voice came from just above her head, “your friends riling up his hired lot, not that it’d take much. Lucky for him I am a bit more worth my coin.” The dagger on the right side of her head was dislodged and a moment later she could feel it poking through the fabric of her tunic at her back and he sighed, “Don’t shiver like that kid, I’m not going to hurt you unless you do something even more idiotic. That will be for Lord Cinderfell to decide. So be good.”

Kithran’s heart pounded heavily in her chest. She didn’t need her father or this person to warn her of Cinderfell’s cruelty. The rumors were well-known and far-reaching. It was said that not even children would be granted mercy from his ruthlessness. Through heavy breaths, as she tried to calm herself, she asked, “Wh-what is going to happen to me?”

He laughed, “Oh, scared? You should have thought about that befo-”

Kithran jumped up, smashing into the bottom of his jaw, stopping his reply and knocking him backwards for just a moment. A moment she tried to capitalize on and run out the door, but he was swift and reached out as she reached for the door, pulling her back by her collar and shoving her to the ground before turning on her and shoving his blade in her terrified face, “Gods damn it you little--”

“Castien?”

She watched the anger from the pain in his jaw begin to dissipate as his eyes narrowed suspiciously at her, the point of his dagger pressed against her neck, “Should I know you?”

She didn’t know many Sylvari, but since that day in Calestra, she had never met one with hair quite as bright and orange as his, “Yes you should, you owe me a wine stopper.”

He blinked, his face scrunching first at the odd comment before clarity washed over him. He shook his head and sheathed his dagger, not bothering with the other still stuck in the door, before sitting down next to her, rubbing his chin, “Of course it’s you. Still at it I see . . . Kithran?”

She nodded as she sat up, rubbing the spot on her neck where his dagger had jabbed at her, and looked him up and down. He was far taller than the boy she remembered, but somehow even more lanky, and looked much older than he should be. She hadn’t seen him since that day and did not trust yet that she was safe from him.

Searching for something that would keep him from dragging her to Cinderfell, her tone was light in reply, “I didn’t take anything that day,” she grinned, ”And as you know, I’ve taken nothing today either.” 

He scoffed, “I know well and good you took that stopper, and you would have taken from Cinderfell again had I not been clever enough to outsmart your troupe.”

Kithran scoffed this time, despite herself, and wished that she hadn’t, but the corner of his mouth raised at it, “At any rate, orders are orders, and I have always followed mine.” He stared off for a silent moment before jumping to his feet, “Come, I’ve caught you red-handed both times, it is only right that I let you go both times.” He lowered a hand to help her.

She stared at the outstretched hand wearily before taking it, “Won’t you get into trouble?”

Castien pulled his second dagger from the door and shrugged, “I don’t know, as I said, I have never disobeyed an order.”

“What was your order?”

“To catch anyone trying to sneak into his facility and bring them to him to personally . . . deal with. Being ‘dealt with’ is never as good as it sounds, and I am sure it doesn’t sound great.” He reached for the door and stopped, whispering, “The guard is back. You will need to run as fast and as far as possible. And, I would not go home straight away if I were you, do you understand?”

She nodded before whispering back, “You do everything he wishes to the very end?”

He nodded, “I would have no life without that man, I owe him everything and more. Now, get ready.”

In one swift movement, Castien flung the door open and slammed the butt of his dagger into the back of the thug’s head. Unlike Tibbon’s rock, the blow knocked him unconscious immediately, and Castien caught the man before his large body hit the ground, growling at Kithran, “What did I say?! Go!”

And Kithran fled.

28th Day, Sempore, 437 E.R., Coria, Coria, 03:14

“Wha-oh gods it’s you. Kithran, you’re getting much too big for this.”

It had in fact been quite some time since the half-Sylvari had snuck into Tara Ikhari’s room to fall asleep. When she was younger she had thought herself very sneaky, tiptoeing in without the Maiden knowing she was there, and allowing her to steal some comfort from the woman. Looking back she was sure Tara had never been fooled by her once, in any circumstances.

Now though, Tara dropped any pretense of obliviousness as Kithran unceremoniously threw her covers aside, and hopped in next to her, throwing the blankets back over them both. The Maiden grunted at the intrusion but draped an arm around the girl’s shoulders, stroking her matted hair, “Fine, but seriously darling, this can’t go on much longer.”

Kithran scooted closer and took in Tara’s sweet scent. She had never had a mother, or an older sister, or anything of the sort. She liked to imagine that someone in that role, who could have actually cared about someone like Kithran, would be like Tara. Once or twice she had contemplated trying to find a way to get her and her father together, but the Maiden was much too adventurous, and probably a bit too young for him. Instead, Kithran sought out simple, easy moments like these with her.

“Find a bigger bed then, Tara. When and if I join the Laughing Maidens, do you expect me to sleep anywhere else?”

Tara chuckled softly and sighed, “I suppose not.” She gave Kithran a squeeze, “Though I do expect to sleep through the night. I have to be up fairly early, little peach. Can you manage, or will I need to smother you with a pillow?”

“I can manage.” She yawned, and in the brief silence that followed, Kithran’s night played over and over in her head, before finally she tapped Tara’s chest with her forehead, “Are you asleep yet?”

“Mmmm,” she said, on the absolute cusp of oblivion, “what is it, darling?”

“I saw Castien.”

“Oh? An interesting one, that boy. I buy wine from him every now and again, when I can afford the price of a mansion.”

Had Tara been even half awake she would have seen or felt Kithran’s eyebrows raise at that. Had she kept in contact with the Sylvari boy this entire time? What did she know of him? “I met him after trying to sneak into the Cinderfell storagehouse tonight with Etan, Mareth, and Tibbon. He nearly killed me, several times actually. But he let me go and probably followed me here.”

Tara’s eyes flew open, “I’m sorry, what did you just say?”

Kithran grinned and snuggled in closer to Tara, “Never mind, I will tell you all about it in Calestra.”

Tara sat a moment in surprise before allowing exhaustion to take her, “Okay, I suppose . . . Good night, darling.”

Kithran smiled, “Good night, Tara.”

As Ch'dau shared, Aranwen's eyes were drawn to his. She could see the flames in them sparking stronger as he talked of his ability in battle. A fire that burned strong in spite of the wounds he still had, strong enough to see him awaken fighting, though it faded a bit as his voice trailed off.

Aranwen gave a solemn nod. She didn't need to ask; that Ch'dau was the only one here of the 'us' he spoke of was enough for her to know, and she thought she recognized in him a familiar feeling. One that haunted her for the past thirty years.

"You did everything you could," she replied, her voice gentle as she lifted a hand to place upon Ch'dau's uninjured shoulder, "We can't ask of ourselves any more than that."

“Yet, everything I could do was not enough,” Ch’dau rumbled softly. “They died honorably,” the kazari’s ears twitched, flattened against his head briefly, and stood back up again, “but not well. Had I to fight that same battle, again, I would see it otherwise.”

He gave a slow shake of his head, then, and his massive hand came to rest atop her more graceful one where it rested on the fur of his shoulder. “I thank you for your words, m’sia.”

The smile the bladesinger offered, then, was warm but, under it, there was also something melancholy… a memory, perhaps, of a regret she had that was similar to his own… It was gone before he could capture it, of course, and, before he could comment, she had turned the conversation back to other matters. "The way you describe it, it sounds as though in battle I should weave the song in a way that leaves you room to maneuver and strike. Unrelenting, unpredictable," there was no sign of lament in the next smile, "Your reputation is definitely well earned, Ch'dau."

“I am honored that you think so,” the kazari said, his head bowing before the chuffing chuckle escaped him, once more, “Though, in these lands, it seems, ‘monster among men’ is not a hard reputation to come by.”

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

 “When last have you two eaten,” Ch’dau heard Aranwen ask as he padded away with the loaned cloak and trousers in his hands.

It wasn’t an unusual question given the circumstances, he thought, but his own answer was difficult to come by. Unless the bits of guard-flesh he had swallowed during his rescue/escape counted towards eating, the big cat couldn’t honestly recall the last time he had had a decent meal. Before his capture, certainly. Whatever the witch had fed him, if she had thought to at all, wouldn’t have counted as food in his mind. As it was, he chose not to offer any sort of reply to that particular query, although the scent of the dried meat Aranwen had produced from her pack definitely caught his attention.

When, at last, he had managed to figure out the trousers Kith had gotten loaned to him, and, too, had her borrowed cloak secured over his own shoulders, the kazari rejoined the women in their makeshift circle around the mat on which he had slept the night before. He crouched down, one of the women on either side of him and, nodding his thanks to the bladesinger, took up a bit of the dried meat and immediately poked it into his mouth. It was almost embarrassing how quickly the purring welled in him at the taste of it… it was far from bloody, as he preferred, of course, but to have meat of any sort, now, was a bliss he thought to have never experienced again. He tried to stifle the sound, at first, but it had been so long that even his will could do nothing against his want.

"Tell me more of the owner of that estate,” Aranwen queried, “I presume it was they who brought forth the skeletons that were so prevalent there."

“She’s a monkey-faced bitch called Adedre,” Ch’dau said through a mouthful of leather-like meat, “and I imagine that the skeletons are the least of the horrors she has at her disposal.” For a moment, the kazari looked as if he might say more, but soon enough, he shrugged, and said; “I know nothing more of the city. Until tonight, all I had seen of it was the bitch’s dungeon,” he scooped up another pinch of dried meat and stuffed it into his mouth, “I had no idea there was even a city about me.”

"When last have you two eaten?"

Kithran had to stop herself from laughing. Here was a legendary bladesinger, nearly unmatched in combat and battle tactics, checking to make sure she had had her supper. Despite the absurdity of it, Kith could feel her stomach ready to growl at her, “For myself, it has only been about a day, so I am not ready to chomp the necks of any necromantic guards like our trouser cat,” she gestured to Ch’dau as he cut a hole in his trousers for his tail to fit through, “but--” Aranwen unfolded parcels of dried meats and fruits and Kithran’s stomach did growl then, giving away her true feelings. 

“Here," Aranwen offered, "This should help for the moment."

“Oh gods, thank you,” she took one of each, waiting at least until Ch’dau had a chance to sate some of his appetite, as he likely hadn’t had a decent meal in a much longer time than herself. Kith could settle with nibbling on stale bread if need be. There were certainly worse things.

At the purring that erupted next to her as the massive Kazari chewed on the dried foods, she was happy for her decision. Her black eyes light on Ch'dau as he delightfully chewed the food, Kith turned them on Aranwen, "Truly, thank you."

"Tell me more of the owner of that estate,” Aranwen queried, addressing Kith’s question of preparedness from before, “I presume it was they who brought forth the skeletons that were so prevalent there."

Kith took a bite of the cheese the children had handed her as she turned her head back to Ch’dau, who spoke with his mouth full of meat, “She’s a monkey-faced bitch called Adedre, and I imagine that the skeletons are the least of the horrors she has at her disposal.”

Kithran nodded, “A few skeletons are not so difficult, as you may have come across last night, but a group of them,” she spun her hands around each other, “tangled together into one horrid mass. Those are nightmares, Aranwen. We will need a plan of action for dealing with those creatures again.”

Ch’dau shrugged beside her and continued, “I know nothing more of the city. Until tonight, all I had seen of it was the bitch’s dungeon,” he scooped up another pinch of dried meat and stuffed it into his mouth, “I had no idea there was even a city about me.”

The stoic bladesinger took in their information, and looked back to Kithran, who had just taken a very crunchy bite out of the loaf of bread, "As to our own preparations, we should certainly see about getting a full meal. That assortment of food is suitable for the road, and will hold you over until we eat proper, but it will not sustain you through healing and the battles ahead. On the topic of healing, we may need to see a cleric about our injuries, as well as pickup more medical supplies. If we can enlist the aid of a cleric for the upcoming battles, that would be even better. Devotees of Kith-Jora or Falloes might be our best options there."

Kith squinted in thought, “Kith-Jora or Falloes? Unfortunately I have not stumbled across either of their flock yet, but I, or we I suppose, can ask around. I hope we find a Falloes cleric first. Growing up with my name, well, you understand,” she swiped a piece of fruit Ch’dau and Aranwen had missed and continued, “We can likely find information in the same places we look for a full meal--I can point us in the direction of a few taverns, and there’s an inn nearby as well that’ll serve us. As for medical supplies and such, if you have some coin to spare, I can point you in the direction of an apothecary, but if not,.” she held up a palm and wiggled her fingers, “I may be able to find something.”

Aranwen nodded again, and Kith could almost see her creating a plan for them. Her golden eyes looked back at her again, "Two days? It's unrelated to anything else, but if you've seen a mask or antique store, I'd like to know of those as well."

Kithran raised her eyebrows at that, “Hmm, specifically a mask, I have not seen. There is a storefront here with some different odds and ends. I don’t know if it is an antique shop exactly, but I can point it out to you if you’d like. Preparing for a party, are we?”

((OOC: Ara’s lovely words))

She leaned back on her hands, “Alright, well as I mentioned, I can take you there if you’re interested.” She looked down at bits of food leftover between the three of them, ”I believe I am ready to go, whenever you lot feel up for it,” she only winced a little this time as she hopped up to her feet, and made her way toward the door, “We can go in whichever order you like. Just,” she looks at Ch’dau and smirks, “try to be as inconspicuous as possible.”

Aranwen smiled as she watched Kithran and Ch'dau eat, only taking a small portion for herself after she saw their hands slower to pick up more. Her smile only widened on hearing the gentle rumbling of Ch'dau's satisfaction in his throat. It was a lovely sound, one she wanted to hear him express again. After what he had gone through, she hoped he found more and better respite sooner than later. 

Aranwen gave a nod to Kithran at mention of the apothecary, "It isn't much, but I do have enough that I think I will be able to stock what we need from this apothecary," She offered a gentle smile. 

“Hmm, specifically a mask, I have not seen. There is a storefront here with some different odds and ends. I don’t know if it is an antique shop exactly, but I can point it out to you if you’d like. Preparing for a party, are we?”

Aranwen's sigh escaped her lips before she could hold it, her eyes a bit distant, just briefly, before she refocused on the present and the two in front of her, once more giving a warm smile, "No, I can't say that I am. Perhaps a souvenir ere I return to Sylvari when we are finished here."

It was not hard to see through her words. But before she let herself be cornered by a question, she nodded once more, "But that can wait until later, we should consider what is in front of us first." 

 “Alright, well as I mentioned, I can take you there if you’re interested.” She looked down at bits of food leftover between the three of them, ”I believe I am ready to go, whenever you lot feel up for it,” she only winced a little this time as she hopped up to her feet, and made her way toward the door, “We can go in whichever order you like. Just,” she looks at Ch’dau and smirks, “try to be as inconspicuous as possible.”

"Indeed," Aranwen observed, "Were I a holder of a keep in this particular city, I'd make certain to have eyes in the city itself that I might know of events beyond my gates. And if her eyes are looking for you two, well, we best be cautious. Kithran, you can wear my cloak. The black should serve to obscure your appearance to an extent. Let's be on the streets as little as we can."

Just like the forests, never be in the open too often or too long if you are trying to be unseen. It made sense to apply that general tactic here in the city. 

"If we are followed, what would you suggest we do, Kithran? I expect you have more practical experience with that than myself," Aranwen asked. 

((Kithran's suggestions )) 

"Ideally we won't be put in a situation where we will need to employ countermeasures, but it be best to have something planned in advance, just in case," Aranwen mused

"Now then, let's get you two a real meal," Her warm smile broke into a gentle laugh, as she retrieved her sword and sheath from its position as improvised door bar and fastened it back to her hip. 

"Were I a holder of a keep in this particular city,” Aranwen says, “I'd make certain to have eyes in the city itself that I might know of events beyond my gates. And if her eyes are looking for you two, well, we best be cautious.”

Kith nods, “Mmm, that is a good point. Perhaps it is best if I keep ahead of you two as we wind around this city.” She reaches for her hood reflexively before turning back toward the door and is reminded of its absence as she grabs the air.

”Kithran, you can wear my cloak.” The bladesinger offers, “The black should serve to obscure your appearance to an extent. Let's be on the streets as little as we can."

She takes the proffered garment and wraps it around her shoulders. It has a different smell to it, as the bladesinger herself has, but it is earthy and pleasant, and the fit is much better than the wealthy man’s cloak she had been using for the last year.

“Once again, thank you Aranwen. I feel a bit naked without some sort of cover while sneaking about.”

Aranwen nods and continues, "If we are followed, what would you suggest we do, Kithran? I expect you have more practical experience with that than myself."

“I suppose it depends. How good are you two at disappearing?” She eyes Ch’dau wearily, “If that is possible, that is my preference. Otherwise, I lead them into a place in which I may quickly and quietly dispose of them.” She shrugs, “In that scenario we could attempt a nonlethal subdual if you like, but given that these are loyal servants of the, as Ch’dau puts it, ‘monkey-faced bitch’, I see no reason to spare any mercy.”

"Ideally we won't be put in a situation where we will need to employ countermeasures,” Aranwen muses, “but it would be best to have something planned in advance, just in case."

“Right, well, this city is large and terrible and crowded, so if we are followed I will attempt to lead you two into obscurity. But if that doesn’t seem to work, we will lead them away and . . . .” She scrunches her face dramatically and makes stabbing motions with her hand.

The bladesinger chuckled, as she retrieved her sword and sheath from its position as improvised door bar, "Now then, let's get you two a real meal."

“Excellent plan,” The thief grinned, and was able to actually pull a hood over her head this time when reached for it.

With the door unlocked, Kith slowly pulled it open and peered out. The alleyway was clear, though crowds passed or huddled at either end. Almost directly across from her she could see where they had rested the night before, before she had revealed her sleeping spot. Blood set splattered across the opposite wall, stuck at a height likely to indicate Ch’dau’s wound from the bone spider beast. More dripped toward the door and it almost seemed unreal, her last twenty-four hours, but with a nigh mythical Kazari and bladesinger at her back, it was undeniable.

She turned back to the others, “Alright, the Cock Inn is closest, so we’ll head there first. Give me space, but don’t lose me.” She begins to step out, but stops herself and turns back to Aranwen, “I should have perhaps brought this up earlier, but before I rely on you, I have to ask, where do your loyalties lie, Bladesinger? Not just for this task, but overall? Mine are to my well-being and to finish my jobs. Ch’dau is relentlessly devoted to me, which I cannot help but have come to accept, but Sylvari . . . well, you are a very loyal lot in my experience, sometimes to a point at which I am very uncomfortable with, so I would like to know where yours lie before we proceed.”

((OOC: Ara’s reply. Will revise Kith’s response if necessary))

“Very well then,” Kith turns back around and with that, she leaps forward into alleyway, walking easily to the end and glancing back to the door. As the other two stroll out, she hops into the crowd, progressing forward as well as in the direction of the inn.

Some time passes and she lowers her hood, approaching a merchant’s stall with a pleasant grin, inquiring of his wares. As he speaks she peaks out to make sure the others had been able to follow her movements and she sighs. Ch’dau does well to slither in and out of the crowd, but while anyone not looking for a giant cat may not realize the cloaked furball just ahead of them, she imagined one interested in his blood may not let such a hulking being slip by. Luckily, it didn’t seem as if anyone had caught wind of them yet.

Once she noticed the two stop and wait for her, Kith thanked the merchant for his time with a wide, genuine smile, and jumped back into the crowd, drawing her hood back over her head. They continued like this for the several blocks that remained, until Kithran finally reached the entrance of the Countess and Cockatrice Inn. She rested easily for a moment, scanning for anyone who may be following their little group, before slipping inside.

The smell of a decent meal hits her immediately, and she forces herself to push it aside as she searches for any who may cause them any trouble. Though relatively full for the breakfast hour, she is satisfied with her initial search, and steps out to find Aranwen and Ch’dau waiting for her.

She nods her head inside, “Come, we should be okay in here for now.”

Settling themselves into one of the only remaining tables, Kithran leans in, “I didn’t notice anyone following us here, so I believe we should be okay for now. Did either of you two see anything?”

((OOC: Any response))

She then looks pointedly at Ch’dau, “I believe I told you to be inconspicuous, my friend.”

((OOC: any response))

Kith smirks back at him, “If we have not joined a skeleton army by the end of this, how about I give you some lessons on how to disappear, even as a giant silver cat man, and in exchange you give me some tips regarding limb-ripping and fighting as fiercely and explosively as you?”

((OOC: assuming a positive))

“It’s a deal then!” she turns back to Aranwen, “Have you noticed the Cidal priest a few tables away, Aranwen? Will he do?”

“I should have perhaps brought this up earlier, but before I rely on you, I have to ask, where do your loyalties lie, Bladesinger? Not just for this task, but overall? Mine are to my well-being and to finish my jobs. Ch’dau is relentlessly devoted to me, which I cannot help but have come to accept, but Sylvari . . . well, you are a very loyal lot in my experience, sometimes to a point at which I am very uncomfortable with, so I would like to know where yours lie before we proceed.”

"My... Loyalties?"

For the first time in present company, Aranwen truly faltered, the smile fading from her lips and left slightly agape as her brow furrowed ever so slightly in confusion, unable to keep the uncertainty from her eyes. Were it thirty years past, she'd be able to answer such a question with ease and without hesitation. Now though, here in this wine cellar, alone among companions, she looked almost lost.

Then she shrugged her shoulders, offering an apologetic smile for the delay, "All bladesingers are trained to work with the other groups that uphold law in Sylvari, so by nature of that upbringing we hold loyalty to the well being of all Sylvari, and the Crown."

Though, presently I'm on leave, Aranwen noted to herself. 

"I do not know how much you know of bladesingers, but there is something else as well, loosely unique to each of us," she offered, "Oaths we take when we complete our training, which we adhere to from then on. Mine is to care for well-meaning folk, to look to their well-being beyond the present where I can. Perhaps naive to your ears and experiences, I'll admit. But, as you called it earlier, this can be a dismal plane to be on, and I'd be glad for making it less so for those people that generally don't wish ill on others."

"Does that answer your question?" Aranwen asked. 

Kith and Ch’dau having provided whatever information they could in regards to Adedre and her estate, Aranwen considered all that she had heard and, after a moment, offered a solemn nod. “As to our own preparations, we should certainly see about getting a full meal. That assortment of food is suitable for the road, and will hold you over until we eat proper, but it will not sustain you through healing and the battles ahead...”

Still contentedly chewing on a mouthful of dried meat, Ch’dau nodded his enthusiastic concurrence with that idea. The bladesinger’s rations were good, of course, but the mouthfuls he had swallowed already only made him realize how truly hungry he was.

“…On the topic of healing, we may need to see a cleric about our injuries, as well as pickup more medical supplies,” Aranwen continued, “If we can enlist the aid of a cleric for the upcoming battles, that would be even better. Devotees of Kith-Jora or Falloes might be our best options there.”

The cat-man shrugged at the mention of Kith-Jora and Falloes. These were not names he was familiar with. In his time with the Wyverns, the human clerics who had tended his injuries had been followers of Therassor, Lysora, or Solanis. He couldn’t help but wonder, though, just how many gods the furless folk of Antaron might actually have and why there might be a need for so many. The Kazari only had three entities that they revered with such esteem and, in the course of his life, they had seemed plenty.

“We can likely find information in the same places we look for a full meal,” Kith said, drawing Ch’dau’s mind away from his contemplation of the many monkey-gods, “I can point us in the direction of a few taverns, and there’s an inn nearby as well that’ll serve us. As for medical supplies and such, if you have some coin to spare, I can point you in the direction of an apothecary, but if not,” she held up a palm and wiggled her fingers, “I may be able to find something…”

The Silver Cat chuffed out a faint chuckle at that and offered something of a nod. As dishonorable as Kith’s thieving ways seemed to him, he couldn’t deny that her skills were largely responsible for his new found freedom and for the rather uncomfortable clothing that would serve to hide him from curious eyes. It was this that he considered as Aranwen and Kith’s conversation turned to the topic of masks and antique stores (whatever those were). By the time that talks had turned back to venturing out into the city, once more, Ch’dau had decided that, despite Kithran’s chosen vocation, he was truly beginning to like the girl. The bladesinger fascinated him, as well. She had the heart of a warrior and the mind of a leader… This Aranwen would make a worthy khatun, he imagined as he swallowed the last morsel of the food she had offered.

“…I believe I am ready to go, whenever you lot feel up for it,” Kithran said, wincing only a little as she bounced to her feet and made for the cellar’s door, “We can go in whichever order you like. Just,” she looked at Ch’dau and smirked, “try to be as inconspicuous as possible.”

The kazari equivalent of a smirk played on Ch’dau’s features as he, too, got to his feet. “I will do the best I can, Little Kitten,” he chuffed, tucking the dagger she had given him into the waist of the trousers he wore and, then, drew the cowl of the cloak over his head.

"Indeed," Aranwen observed, "Were I a holder of a keep in this particular city, I'd make certain to have eyes in the city itself that I might know of events beyond my gates. And if her eyes are looking for you two, well, we best be cautious. Kithran, you can wear my cloak. The black should serve to obscure your appearance to an extent. Let's be on the streets as little as we can."

“Mmm, that is a good point,” Kith nodded, “Perhaps it is best if I keep ahead of you two as we wind around this city.” 

“Kithran, you can wear my cloak.” The bladesinger offered, “The black should serve to obscure your appearance to an extent. Let's be on the streets as little as we can.”

“Once again, thank you, Aranwen,” the thief said, accepting the offered cloak, “I feel a bit naked without some sort of cover while sneaking about.”

Aranwen nodded. “If we are followed, what would you suggest we do, Kithran,” she asked, then, “I expect you have more practical experience with that than myself.”

Kill them, the kazari almost suggested.

“I suppose it depends. How good are you two at disappearing,” the shadow girl asked, forestalling his answer and eyeing Ch’dau skeptically…

“I can disappear well enough,” the kazari snorted, “Your cities are unlike the jungles of Capasha but I am sure I can make due should I need to.”

There was more talk between the two women, then, and a moment or two spent with Kithran surveilling the alleyway beyond the cellar door. Then, at last, the shadow-girl led them out into the city’s streets. Ch’dau did his best to stay concealed beneath the cloak and cowl he wore and, in fact, tried to make himself appear smaller than he was in order to avoid drawing any undue attention as Kith guided them through Davnor’s crowded thoroughfares. He must have done a passable job as there had been none who tried to confront them along the way.

After a time, Kith brought them to halt beneath a sign that Ch’dau couldn’t read but, based upon the strange pictures carved into the placard, he imagined it was the Countess and Cockatrice Inn. As the thief slipped through the door of the place to perform a bit of reconnaissance, he caught scent of the food that was cooking inside and his stomach grumbled in anticipation as he and Aranwen awaited Kith’s return. It didn’t take long before the door opened, again, and Kith motioned them inside and led them to a table.

“I didn’t notice anyone following us, here,” Kith said quietly as they seated themselves, “so I believe we should be okay for now. Did either of you two see anything?”

“I saw nothing,” Ch’dau rumbled softly, his gaze slowly scanning the inn’s occupants from the depth of the cowl.

“I believe I told you to be inconspicuous, my friend,” Kith said, casting a pointed look in his direction.

“I did the best I could,” he chuffed in reply, “It is no fault of mine that you people are so small.”

The thief smirked. “If we have not joined a skeleton army by the end of this,” she smiled, “how about I give you some lessons on how to disappear, even as a giant silver cat man, and in exchange you give me some tips regarding limb-ripping and fighting as fiercely and explosively as you?”

“This is a good plan,” Ch’dau rumbled, his blue-green eyes glinting even in the shadows of the hood, “I do not know that you have the strength for limb-ripping, but I believe I can teach you a thing or two about fighting.”

“It’s a deal then!” Kith grinned before turning to Aranwen, “Have you noticed the Cidal priest a few tables away, Aranwen? Will he do?”

Cidal? Ch’dau’s gaze swept the room. Those are the very tiny monkeys, yes? Just as he caught sight of the little man to whom he thought Kith might be referring, an unfamiliar female voice snatched his attentions back…

A flaxen haired human woman, clad in a green blouse, dark skirt, and pale apron stood at the end of the table. “G’mornin’ an’ welcome ta The Countess an’ Cock’trice,” she said, “Fer breakfast this mornin’, we’re offerin’ a selection o’ meatballs, chicken or quail eggs, fresh pears, an’ nut bread. What can I get fer ye folk?”

“Meat,” the cat-man said, trying not to speak overmuch, “and eggs.”

“…and so it is, Mother, that my brothers, sisters, and I go where there is need and loss and hopelessness,” Mosic said, dunking a bit of nut bread into the runny yolk of an egg.

Across the table, the crone nodded as she sucked the remains of her second egg from her fingers. “And ye think there’s them things, here, do ye, minister,” she queried, scooping the sop from her plate with a crust of bread, “Need, ‘opelessness, an’ loss?”

The little Pick smiled as he watched her eat. “Perhaps a bit less hopelessness than when first I arrived,” he offered after swallowing his mouthful, “but, yes, The Right Hand has led me here and, so, I can’t help but know that there is much need, here,” he took up his flagon, then, and drained the mead that remained within and, with a faint shrug, added, “and there are some that say Sendria is more lost than any other place in all the world.”

“Hmmm,” Mother murmured, her cheeks rounded out by the food stuffed between them. As the cleric’s mug plunked down on the table, she took up her own to wash down the hastily chewed mouthful of sop-bread. As she tipped the thing to her lips, the inn’s doorway opened to admit a svelte figure clad in shadowy hues. “Reckon yer right, minister,” she said, wiping her mouth on the back of a tattered sleeve as she watched the watched the younger girl survey the place before ducking back out, “Heard that said, m’self, an’ I’ve lived ‘ere nigh on m’ ‘ole life.” Turning her gaze back to the blonde Cid, she lifted the sleeve to her mouth, again, this time to muffle a burp and, following that, offered the cleric a grateful smile. “Seen more’n m’ share o’ lost souls wanderin’ these streets, I ‘ave.

There’s them, too, that don’t wander th’ streets but stay hidden be’ind their walls an’ manor ‘ouses,” she added, her eyes flitting away as the door opened, again, to readmit the shadowy girl, this time followed by a rather large figure, shrouded in cloak and cowl, and, curiously enough, a golden-eyed Syl with a blade on her hip. She watched as the trio found their way to one of the few empty tables and, as they settled into their seats, the crone shrugged her boney shoulders and turned her attentions back to Mosic. “Some say those’re more lost than th’ others, eh?”

“Some would say that is an exceedingly wise observation, Mother,” Mosic smiled, his own gaze tracking to the table which had caught the woman’s attentions…

It wasn’t difficult to see why the small group had drawn her eye. They were a curious lot, to be sure. The Sylvari woman, judging by her armor and the elegant simplicity of her blade, was a Bladesinger; unusual enough in Sendria, he imagined, but in the company of what appeared to be a half-syl thief and a hulking shape that refused to doff cloak and cowl even under the shelter of the inn’s roof… Highly curious, indeed… Being that it wasn’t a wise thing to let one’s gaze linger overlong on any group in any tavern, Mosic quickly abandoned his appraisal of the motley crew and turned his attentions back to the old woman.

… “What might you tell me of those lost souls who hide behind their walls, Mother,” he asked, lifting his flagon, again, only to find it empty.

“Only rumors an’ passin’ observations,” the beggar woman shrugged, “Tha’ sort keeps their secrets close an’ folk like me b’neath their notice, mostly.” Licking her lips, she nodded at the cleric’s plate on which there was still another soft-boiled egg and a few slices of pear; “Gonna eat that, minister?”

Chuckling softly, Mosic pushed the plate across the table and, then, as Mother set about devouring what was left, set his eyes in search of the serving girl. Oddly enough, he found her tending to the recently arrived trio and, as he waited for her gaze to turn his way, couldn’t help but study the three a bit more. Something tells me that this lot are somehow tied to what brings me here, he mused, hefting his mug to signal for a refill when the serving-girl glanced his way.

As they progressed down the street, Aranwen felt a shiver down the back of her neck. Subtly looking over from side to side, she tried to identify the source of that feeling. She let Ch'dau ahead of her as she briefly paused mid step. But she could see no one who had stopped with her. Frowning, Aranwen moved to catch up with Kithran and Ch'dau.

“I didn’t notice anyone following us, here,” Kith said quietly as they seated themselves, “so I believe we should be okay for now. Did either of you two see anything?”

Aranwen shook her head, "I didn't, but I thought I felt eyes on me in the street. I could see no sign of anyone looking, however. Mayhap nerves are getting the better of me."

Aranwen smiled, stifling a giggle as she watched Kithran and Ch'dau make their plans to teach each other. By her eyes, Ch'dau didn't look that bad in the streets, but she had a vague suspicion the two were more keen on spending time together. Then Kith turned to her, “Have you noticed the Cidal priest a few tables away, Aranwen? Will he do?”

Aranwen looked over, seeing her eyes meet Mosic's in that moment, "It seems he has noticed us too," she smiled, "I'll find out more of him."

A flaxen haired human woman, clad in a green blouse, dark skirt, and pale apron stood at the end of the table. “G’mornin’ an’ welcome ta The Countess an’ Cock’trice,” she said, “Fer breakfast this mornin’, we’re offerin’ a selection o’ meatballs, chicken or quail eggs, fresh pears, an’ nut bread. What can I get fer ye folk?”

“Meat,” the cat-man said, trying not to speak overmuch, “and eggs.”

"Nutbread and eggs sound lovely to me," Aranwen replied with her own order. 

After Kithran made her order, Aranwen was about to stand to go to Mosic's table when a voice spoke beside her. 

"Are you hide and seeking?" 

Aranwen nearly went to her blade in reflex, but stopped on recognizing the voice, "Dear goodness, don't scare people like that," she sighed. Beside her was the little girl she had helped the previous evening, "Did you find your parents, little one?"

"Yep! They said you pro-teckd them and we went inside like you said. I saw you and wanted to say thanks!" the girl beamed at Aranwen.

"It was no trouble," Aranwen shrugged her shoulders, "You should wander back before your parents worry," she observed, before she stood from her seat, "I'll be back in a bit."

Aranwen moved towards Mosic's table, but the girl instead of leaving hopped onto Aranwen's chair. Looked human, sandy and messy hair and a round face, "Are you her friends?" the girl asked. 

* * *

Aranwen approached Mosic's table with a hint of trepidation. She certainly recognized the cloth of a priest, but what kind of priest, and of whose domain? She needn't have worried. Seeing the older woman seated with him, she relaxed.

"May I borrow of your time?" she asked with a gentle voice. 

"Certainly," Mosic offered, "What might I do for you?"

"Am I really so transparent?" Aranwen chuckled, taking a seat beside the Cidal. 

"Oh, I wouldn't say that, m'self," the older woman snickered, "But if your eyes are open to seeing what comes your way, you can see some things before they happen. You young'ns don't mind me. My ears aren't what they used to be. Can't always be sure what gets into them."

Aranwen smiled, "I suppose that's true, there's only a few reasons to visit another table," she looked to the Cidal, "I am Aranwen Galandel," she offered, "I would ask for healing or aid on a friend's behalf. Our situation requires some discretion, but you have my word as a Bladesinger that in this venture we seek to make right something very wrong."

"I am Mosic," the Cidal replied, "Now, very wrong?" Mosic repeated, lifting a hand to his chi in thoughtn, "What kind of a wrong are you talking about?"

"I speak of the undead outbreak last eve," Aranwen replied, "Among other things, though those are not mine to tell."

"I see," Mosic nodded solemnly, before giving a kind smile, "Well, I go where the Right Hand leads, and it seems it has led me to you. Pray allow me attend the Mother here, and I will be with you soon,"

Aranwen returned the smile, "After breakfast then,"