Seeing the change in Davena's mood, Aranwen attempts to reassure her. "I apologise, my lady. I did not mean to imply that I wished you any harm, or that you were somehow responsible for those attacks. I am merely puzzled, and trying to figure out the purpose of these events. I fear for the residents of this town and the surrounding areas, for surely they have not seen the last of these attacks."

Ch’dau’s meeting with Mortimer Greenfield had been both more and less than he had expected it might be. The innkeep, a former mercenary as it turned out, had served with a kazari before and in doing so, it seemed, had cultivated a respect for the cat-folk that was exceedingly uncommon among his kind to say the least. This bit of information had kindled a spark of hope in the Silver Cat’s heart; even if he were to never find a way to return to Capasha, he was apparently not the only Kazari to wander the vastness of Antaron and, perhaps, someday, Ch’dau would have the fortune of encountering his own kith and kin in these very lands. Unfortunately, Greenfield could not recall the other kazari’s name and, too, the human had said that it had been ten years ago or better since he had seen the Capashan, in service to the Lockshir Regulars Company, far off in Pardinal. Much could have happened in a decade’s time; the cat of whom Greenfield spoke could well be dead by now and, if not, surely no longer in Pardinal were he still with the mercenary band. As disheartening as not knowing more of the other kazari’s whereabouts, though, Ch’dau’s hopes had been bolstered with the knowledge that he was not alone here on these foreign shores and that there was some possibility that he might someday find himself in the company of his own kind even this far from home.

Mort had also honored the kazari further by offering Ch’dau a pint of his own reserve ale and the promise of a red chunk of uncured, uncooked beef to be delivered to his table in short order. He’d known the man only moments but, in that short time, knew he had made another trusted friend in lands that were woefully bereft of such things for those of Ch’dau’s ilk. After thanking Greenfield and blessing him in the names of both Rrowl and Keziri (as the human had refused coin for the meat and drink), Ch’dau left the man to his work and, with something of a lighter heart than he’d had in hours, if not days, returned to the common room and the company of his friends. Nursing the fine ale that Mort had gifted him, Ch’dau prowled across the floor toward his party’s table, his tail waving happily in his wake, and arrived back at the bench just as Gib was taking his leave.

“…I’ll go see to a room and give thanks to the Battle Lord,” the warrior-priest was saying as Ch’dau approached, “I bid you all a good night.”

“Rest well, Gib,” Ch’dau purred from behind the kazari equivalent of a grin, resting a friendly paw on the battle-cleric’s shoulder as the man turned for the bar. His blue-green eyes, glimmering with positivity and, perhaps, a small bit of mischief as they flicked toward where Aranwen and Davena still lingered in their conversation, he added in a not so subtle tone; “It does surprise me that you would be the first to retire, my friend. I would have thought that our bladesinger might have already found herself abed.”

A chuckle on his breath, Ch’dau steps aside and lets Gib pass without further interference before tipping his fresh-filled tankard to his lips and spilling a bit of the fine ale down his throat as he reclaims his seat on the bench next to Kith. “It has been a good day, little kitten,” the Silver Cat rumbles, settling down next to the half-syl thief, “regardless of the horrors we faced on our road here…”

Across the table, the tone of conversation between Aranwen and the foreign woman suddenly becomes a bit more heated and the kazari’s gaze ticks their way…

“I apologize, my lady. I did not mean to imply that I wished you any harm,” the bladesinger was saying.

…The Silver Cat’s chuckle, emboldened by Mort’s reserve ale, became more of a full-fledged laugh, then, and, as he banged his mug down on the table, “Then stop interrogating the woman and take her to a room, friend Aranwen,” he winked at the noble sylvari, “I am certain she’d be more than interested in your… ahem… swordplay techniques, yes?”

((OOC: Room for interjection/interaction/embarrasment abound, of course. Back posts as necessary!))

Both fortunatley and unfortunatley (depending on how one would look at it), the rest of the inn seemed relatively tame. Kithran slowly turned her attention back to her own table when nothing more interesting caught her attention. She nodded vaguely at Midge's suggestion that he wait to find Balewood until the morning. Even she wasn't too keen to creep the city at night and Kithran would typically leap at the chance to prowl for a score. Their travels had shaken her, though, and until Crandel was more familiar Kithran was happy to stick close to her companions.

Davena and Aranwen's exchange was by far the most intering thing happening and Kithran found herself listening in again as she studied the woman's guard. Garn seemed to be doing much the same as her: conspicously staying out of trouble, but keeping an eye out for any that might arise. Davena's comment about Garn's ability to keep his place made her lips twitch. Trouble staying to his lady's side?

Gib's voice drew her away from the conversation and Kithran turned as the warrior priest shifted. "I find no fault with this logic, then I'll go see to a room and give thanks to the Battle Lord."

"I bid you all a good night."

"Goodnight, Gib," Kithran said softly as he rose from their table and collected his things. She was tempted to follow him, but was waiting until Ch'dau returned. As if on cue, the kazari appeared in her line of sight and clapped Gib on the shoulder.

“Rest well, Gib." Kithran caught the dart of his eyes as he sized up Davena and Aranwen, still chatting (though it seemed perhaps the woman's interest had begun to fade). “It does surprise me that you would be the first to retire, my friend. I would have thought that our bladesinger might have already found herself abed.”

Despite her serious nature, Kithran snorted quietley at Ch'dau's implication. As he slid in beside her, she dropped her own voice in an attempt to keep her words from the others: "It would seem she is unable to seal the deal, as it were."

At his comments regarding the day, her shoulders lifted in a non-committal shrug. "It has been a passable day. A good day would have filled our coin purses along with our bellies and I wouldn't still be able to smell rotten flesh." As if to solidify her point, Kithran's nose crinkled.

The mood of the table shifted slightly and Kithran looked to where Davena had leaned back, apparently upset with Aranwen's words. The bladesinger seemed to backpedal slightly and attempt to rectify the situation: "I apologise, my lady. I did not mean to imply that I wished you any harm, or that you were somehow responsible for those attacks. I am merely puzzled, and trying to figure out the purpose of these events. I fear for the residents of this town and the surrounding areas, for surely they have not seen the last of these attacks."

Beside her, Ch'dau split into a roaring laugh and banged his mug down on their table. “Then stop interrogating the woman and take her to a room, friend Aranwen. I am certain she’d be more than interested in your… ahem… swordplay techniques, yes?”

"If Arcanon is lucky enough to earn an invitation to the lady's room, perhaps it is time for the rest of us to suggest roommates?" A lazy grin crept on to Kithran's face. The expression was odd to see, but it had a pleasant effect. The harsh lines of worry that usually filled her face seemed to soften and she looked younger, much more her age. It was a brief glimpse into the girl she had once been: quick to smile, easy to laugh, innocent to the wickedness of the world. But it evaporated just as quickly and the cool expression she typically wore slid back into place.

The halfling sorceror found himself more or less alone with his own thoughts.  Neither Atharis nor Cedric seemed perticularly communicative, and Midge had long since learned that this was the default behavior for Kith.  As the bustle returned to the Inn, Midge elected to focus more on the ale - which wasn't half bad.  Not great, but not bad.

Aranwen did provide somewhat of a diversion.  While Midge was no expert in sigie mating rituals, the blonde human woman did seem to be all but waving her smallclothes in the sylavri's face, but for some reason, she seemed more interested in worrying at the reasons behind her and her bodyguard having not been attacked - much like a hairy hound with a soup bone, she simply seemed unable to leave it alone.  She ignored it for a time, but it did seem to eventually rub her the wrong way, as it were, and the bladseinger finally seemed to realize it.

"I apologise, my lady. I did not mean to imply that I wished you any harm, or that you were somehow responsible for those attacks. I am merely puzzled, and trying to figure out the purpose of these events. I fear for the residents of this town and the surrounding areas, for surely they have not seen the last of these attacks." she offered by way of apology and explanation.

Midge snorted into his fourth mug as Aranwen tried desperately to extricate her foot from his mouth.  "Oriana's teats, woman! " the mage exclaimed.  "The lady wants you to tell her tales of your bravery and adventures.  So tell her some tales!"

He cut his eyes at Davena.  "You should have seen her with the bandits a fortnight ago.  Three of their swords against her one - but it was they who had no chance."  The cid catches Aranwen's gaze, then subtly leans his heard toward the blonde woman. 

Come on, woman!  he mentally admonishes the warrior. Take the opening!

Cedric is amused at both the discomfort of Aranwen and Ch'dau's reaction. While very interested in this meeting we are to have, it seems nothing is happening tonight.

"Who do we talk to about a room? Anyone want to share a room?"

If accomadations can be made then Cedric will retire and sleep like the proverbial log.

The plan is to get up with the sun and get an early start on his prayers.

Midge looked over at the Sun priest. "Yeah, I'll bunk up with ya, I don't think there's much more to see here."

Standing up on the bench, Midge tries to flag down the serving girl as best as he can. When she swings by their table, the wizard piped up, "Honey, can you get a room ready for me and Solanis' favorite here?" he gives a nod in Cedric's direction. Calling out after her as she leaves, he adds, "Quickly, please. I can't bear to watch this any longer!"

OOC: Once the room is prepared, Midge will head there, saying a courtesy "good night" to those that remain at the table. 

It appears that once Aranwen changes the subject, Davena is suffiently mollified.  The bladesinger's tales - and the glasses of wine - seem to serve to relax the blonde woman, who asks quite a few very insightful, intelligent questions.  Whatever her other interests may be, it is clear that she is telling the truth regarding her academic interests.  As the conversation wears on, Davena's body language shows more and more physical interest in Aranwen.

Eventually, Davena kills a glass of wine - her fourth(?) of the evening - before placing her soft, warm hand atop Aranwen's. "I have some texts in my room," she speaks, double meaning doing a poor job of hiding between every word, "and I would like your thoughts on them. Perhaps, lady, I could persuade you to come and give them a detailed inspection?"

As well spoken as she is, the woman likely does have some sort of historical texts in her room, but even the most obtuse can recognize the actual invitation being offered.

OOC: assuming a positive response by Aranwen...

A sly smile spreads across the blonde woman's face as she takes Aranwen's hand and stands. She looks around the table. "If you will excuse us," she speaks.

Davena and Aranwen take a few steps before Garn catches up to them. The couple stops, and the woman shakes her head slightly. The bodyguard leans in close, a fierce expression on his face, and he whispers something to her.

Davena's blue eyes flash with fiery anger, and she hisses a retort easily loud enough for everyone to hear. "Mind your place, Garn Kargest! Who I share my bed with is my business, and no one else's! Leave me now!"

Garn's shoulders slump and his cheeks burn crimson. The warrior spins on his heel, ignores the others at the table, and stalks off towards the bar in apparent search of something stronger than ale.

As he leaves, the blond woman's cheeks color slightly with embarrassment, but the anger evaporates as she flashes a sheepish smile to the table. Then, she and the bladesinger head toward the stair, hand in hand.

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

Upstairs, Davena leads the sylvari warrior into her room and closes the door. She turns to face her and cocks her head to one side. "As for the texts... I would love to peruse these with you, but there are other matters I would rather attend to first."

With that, most of her clothing falls to the ground.

She takes a step towards the bladesinger, a crooked grin on her face. The term "exquisite" would not be out of place when describing her body, though a portion of Aranwen's brain does idly note that the silvered scars from her face continue down her neck, across her chest, and down to her belly; however, the scars easily appear in their greatest concentration upon both of her breasts, centered around the nipples. It is clear that some years ago, this beautiful creature must have endured some sort of unspeakable torture. Be that as it may, she seems to not be self conscious in the slightest; she stands straight and tall, her natural assets proudly on display as her gaze fixes the warrior.

As the rest of her clothing falls to the ground and she advances further, Aranwen discovers that most of the blood seems to have been diverted from his brain, causing deep analysis to become impossible. Her own clothing falls away, Davena's warm, soft body embraces her, and for a time, conscious thought becomes astoundingly unimportant.

12th Sempore (Fallday), 453 E.R.
The Nicked Shill Inn, village of Crandel

An hour or two after midnight, Ch'dau is the first to be awoken by a banging noise from downstairs. Less than a minute later, Kithran - in her room - is awoken by the same. Then, there is a scream.

The others quickly awaken. There are fearful voices downstairs, and the banging continues - as if someone is trying to force their way into the inn.

Aranwen is the last to awaken - naked and alone in Davena's room. There is no sign, however, of the blonde woman or her possessions - or of Garn, for that matter.

As dismal as the march to Crandel had been, and despite the less than friendly reception upon the party’s arrival, Ch’dau found himself rather enjoying the mist enshrouded town of Crandel as the night went on. Not only had he learned that, somewhere in the vast sprawl of Antaron, there were others of his kind but, also, the proprietor of The Nicked Shill had gifted him with a fine ale and a sizable chunk of bloody beef which had gone much farther toward sating his appetite than the pork and pepper stew could ever have done. The big Kazari was content enough, in fact, that he had lingered in the inn’s common room much longer than many of his companions and happily watched as, one by one, they had excused themselves from the table and disappeared upstairs. It was only after Kithran had decided that she was finished for the evening that Ch’dau left the common room behind and claimed a room of his own.

Sprawled across the smallish bed, his belly full and his blood warmed by good ale, sleep found the cat-man quickly and quietly and it wasn’t long before a contented, purring snore rumbled from within the kazari’s room. The peaceful slumber was not fated to last, though. Only an hour or two had passed, it seemed, when a loud banging from downstairs reached Ch’dau’s ears and rousted him from his catnap.

“Rrowl’s whiskers,” he growled into the darkness of his room, “what is that noise?” He rolled off the bed and stretched lazily before reaching for the door latch. It was then that a horrified scream split the night, drowning out even the banging that echoed from the lower floor.

As a chorus of fearful voices joined the incessant banging and screams, the Kazari’s ears flattened against his head and his tail lashed in anticipation of conflict. He tore open the door to his room with one hand and, with the claws of the other, severed the peace knots that had, to this point, secured his blades in their sheathes. “The inn is beset,” he snarled as he sprang into the hallway, “To arms, my friends!” The call to battle sang in his blood and, as his friends emerged from their own chambers, a ferocious growl welled in Ch’dau’s throat and he bounded down the stairs…

((OOC: Assuming, here, that, Ch'dau taking the lead down the steps isn't going to majorly fudge any strategery from the rest of the party. If orders are called out by Gib or Aranwen, he will, of course, comply but, at the moment, the big cat is intent on getting to the lower level, assessing the situation, and putting himself where he figures he'll be of most use.))

Serenity does not often come to the warrior class, but in sleep—in righteous sleep—a servant of the Battle Lord finally finds peace. At least, until the scream tears through his respite like an archer's arrow through chainmail.

"The inn is beset,” Ch'dau's snarling rumble echoes through the hallway, “To arms, my friends!”

Now sitting upright on the worn mattress of his rented bed, Gib responds instinctively and rolls to his feet, snatching up his shield and sword from the bedside as he does so. With a practiced swing of his sword, he sends the sheathe across the room revealing the well-cared for blade. In times of emergency, there's no time to don armor so he will rely on his shield, swordsmanship, and the oversight of Therassor, the Honored General, instead.

Trusting that the Silver Cat would have alerted him to any danger in the corridor, the warrior priest quickly exits his room and makes his way towards the direction from whence the scream came, shield in front of him, sword at ready. Battle Lord, grant me prudence, skill, and awareness that I may serve thee well.

Cedric is awakened from a deep wonderful sleep by a blood-curdling scream. Then he hears his friends calling all to arms. Cedric dons his armor, grabs his staff and makes sure his holy symbol is in place.

[If after opening his door there is any of his friends around Cedric will cast bless. If noone is around then he will go downstairs and try to cast bless on as many people as he can.]

Cedric pulls out his holy water and holds his Holy Symbol of Solanis high and chants a prayer to Solanis while sprinking holy water all around him. "May Solanis bless you!"

Aranwen wakes to an empty room. The sounds of a comotion in the hallway and downstairs reaches his ears. Knocking sounds and screams can be heard. Memories of what happened between she and Davena quickly run through her mind. But inside the room is silent, Davena is nowhere to be seen. 

What is happening? No time to ponder.

Shaking her head to clear the cobwebs, Aranwen rushes into action. She quickly puts on her clothing, after finding them strewn about the floor. Strapping her belt and scabbard about her waist, she heads for the door, leaving her leather armor behind. As she opens the door and steps out into the hallway, Aranwen draws her blade and heads for the stairs, listening intently as she goes, trying to ascertain the situation below. 

Kithran was not one to sleep deeply, so when she was roused from sleep by some sort of banging, it wasn't a surprise. She blinked into the dark and stirred slightly while trying to process what had awoken her. While she was still deciding if it was worth it to awake and investigate, a piercing scream split the air and her decision was made for her. Kithran slid one arm under her pillow and snagged her daggers, then untangled herself from the sheets and hit the floor. She paused at the sight of her armor nearby. Currently, she was only dressed in leggings and a thin tunic--no shoes, no armor, not even a second layer that could dull a blow. But the thundering footsteps outside of her door drew her away from the equipment. She had her blades: she'd just have to be careful.

Kithran threw open the door in time to see Ch'dau rush past and bound down the stairs. “The inn is beset,” the Kazari snarled as he rushed down the hallway. “To arms, my friends!” His battlecry erased the last lingering webs of sleep and Kithran followed quickly, her hands wrapped tightly around the hilts of her blades.

<<BANGING AROUND>>

Midge rolled over. Though the noise could wake a tiger, sleep grasped the Cidal tightly in it's loving embrace.

<<SCREAM CRIES OUT>>

Midge's brain begins to reach for consciousness. His eyes still closed, the wizard perceives his priestly bunkmate moving around. "Can you tell them to shut it already, Cedric. Surely, not even the Sun Lord himself is up yet!"

<<CALL TO ARMS>>

Minto's mind is suddenly fully alert. With agility, the Cidal bounds out of bed and throws on his clothes and then quickly turns to help Cedric into his armour. "Think they'll give us free breakfast if we save the day?" the small mage asks as he grabs his staff and satchel before they head out the door, but the priest is already busy talking to his god.

Midge feels a sprinkling of water as he passes under Cedric's arm. "May Solanis bless you!" the priest calls out. 

"And Shinara you, friend!" the Cidal replied without looking back.

His mind was already seeing the strands of eldritch power coming together. Deft hands palmed the piece of leather from his satchel, even as the ancient words of creating formed in his mouth, "Vindr varden varda iet hjarta."

OOC: Casting Armor and looking to seeing where the commotion is coming from.

Atharis rises quickly at the sound of the screaming, praying that the dead are not behind this.

He springs to his feet, clumsily lacing his boots in his haste and dawning his cloak, he heads behind Kithran, studiously repeating incantations in his mind preparing to face whatever dread terror may meet them within this hall, his head still dizzy from the ale.