[center][b]A rainy evening.
An unexpected summons.
No place for heroes.[/b][/center]
By the time the meeting at Taranidorn Keep ended, the weather had taken a turn for the worse. The night sky was the color of a fresh bruise, an angry purplish black, and a light rain began to fall on the capital's inhabitants. What started as simply a dreary evening rapidly devolved into a dreary and wet one. Not even the Loyal Hearts Tavern, a well-known pub huddled amidst a cluster of buildings less than an hour from the keep, was immune to the ravages of the weather. A three-legged dog, who'd staggered into the taproom nearly an hour ago, was still struggling to warm himself by the meager hearth. Several gaps in the thatched roof let the rain in while also allowing a damp, unpleasant wind to scourge the building's occupants. Even the table Myranda Tavellan was sitting at was damp to the touch. The elf hated the Hamrock Isles for many reasons, but the inescapable wetness was one of the big ones. That and the poor quality of their beer. As she took a dissatisfied gulp from her flagon, Myra admitted she wasn't feeling too pleased with the balding Jadisi man sitting across from her either.

"Gods above an' below, Sweet Thond," Myranda snarled as she set her mug down on the tabletop with a loud [i]thud[/i], "jest play yer damned tiles so I can take me turn. Yer hand ain't gonna get any better the longer ye stare at it, I promise."

But the southerner, a bright-eyed man wearing the same red criminal's sash as the elf over his tunic, chuckled and said, "Ahhh, patience, patience, my dear Myranda. I would hate to lose this game simply because I allowed you to rush me. Especially when I'm on the cusp of another victory. I swear, my long-eared friend, it's almost as if you've forgotten how this game works since we played last night. Allow me to remind you while I consider my next move, yes? We each have five tiles in our hand at all times. The goal is to line up three tiles of the same kind in a row. Three orcs, three dragons, and so on. Each time we do this we are awarded a single point, though if one of us lines up three God-King tiles then we-"

Myranda took another slurp from her tankard, wincing at the taste, and said, "Then ye win the whole fuckin' game, I know, I know. I'm not a complete idiot, ye dark-skinned bastard. I jest don't recall there bein' nothin' in the rules 'bout takin' a year ter lay down a single bloody tile!" Despite her harsh tone, a wry grin flickered across the elf's face as she waited for her fellow conscript to make his move. Myra rarely felt comfortable around Jadisi, especially men, after her former lover nearly killed her during the Battle of Mervyn's Crossing. That wasn't something one forgot or forgave. And yet Thond "Sweet Thond" Kassis somehow put Myra at ease, though she didn't know how the scrawny southerner managed it. Maybe it was because they both agreed the swill served at most bars across the Hamrock Isles was little better than piss. Maybe it was because they were both "red sashes," meaning they were criminals who'd agreed to serve in the God-King's armies in order to avoid the hangman's noose. Or maybe it was because they both enjoyed a good game of tiles. Unfortunately, Myra, who'd once considered herself a skilled tiles player, had yet to win a single game against Sweet Thond. And she was running out of gold.

"Oi, keep it down over there, long-ear!" the overweight tavern-owner snapped from behind the slab of driftwood masquerading as the bar's counter. "As soon as the meetin' up at the keep ends, I want you two red sashes out o' me place. Officers an' soldiers an'... well, goodly folk are goin' to be comin' in here wantin' to spend coin. I don't need any thieves or murderers makin' trouble." The portly man's glare vanished, however, when Myra looked over Sweet Thond's head and stared at him, her brown eyes like two dark, gleaming holes punched into her scarred face. There was a heaviness to that gaze, a weight of years beyond human reckoning, and the barkeep decided it might be in his best interests to shut up and leave the two criminals alone. At least until he had more customers to help him kick them out. Shaking his head at this lamentable state of affairs, the barkeep reached for a filthy rag so he could resume wiping his filthy counter when the door burst open.

Four men wearing polished lamellar armor beneath gray wool cloaks marched into the room, and the last one, a slender fellow with a shabby tricorn hat on his head, closed the door silently. The three-legged dog looked up from his spot by the fire, decided the newcomers didn't warrant his attention, and lowered his head once more.

Clearing his throat and forcing a welcoming smile onto his round face, the barkeep said, "An' a good evenin' to you, masters! Welcome to the Loyal Hearts, finest tavern in all the isles or me name isn't Padric Roche. Might I suggest our best-?"

"Peace, man, peace," the soldier with the tricorn hat said, his voice carrying the clipped, almost brusque, accent of northern Tolos. His sharp blue eyes roved over the few patrons, most of whom hadn't looked up from their drinks when the soldiers entered. "We're here to find a convict for General Claes Astra of the Gray Winds. Apparently, she's a one-eared elf woman covered in scars. She also has brown hair and brown eyes. Answers to the name of Myranda Tavellan or possibly...erhem, Red Myra. Can you help us or should we be on our way?"

Myra's ears, or rather her one good ear, twitched at the way the human said the name 'Red Myra.' Unless she was mistaken, which did happen every now and again, this man sounded like he knew she was more than just some Hamrock Isles bandit who'd gotten caught. If he knew about her exploits back on the mainland than this rainy evening was about to get much more interesting. The barkeep, his greasy black hair shining in the guttering light of the tavern's torches, frowned and pointed at Myra as he said, "The only elf in this place is sittin' right there, sir. She's a criminal all right, her an' that brownskin she's with. Might be she's the one yer General is after?"

Myra glanced at Sweet Thond, who shrugged and began gathering up his collection of tiles as if four armed men weren't marching towards their table. Truth be told, the elven berserker didn't feel particularly anxious either as the strangers reached the table, their muddy boots squelching to a stop behind her chair. When you'd seen enough bloodshed and carnage to last several lifetimes it took more than a few humans to make you nervous. Myranda drained the last mouthful from her tankard and started picking up her own tiles as the soldiers loomed over her ominously like the Warspear Mountains of northern Tolos. She was pleasantly aware of her sword's weight against her right leg, though the elf didn't plan on making any trouble. Of course, the best laid plans often went awry as Kurdan had told her at least a dozen times. Smiling her gap-toothed smile, Myra looked up at the four men and said, "An' what can ol' Myra do fer ye fine men, hm?" The leader of the group, his blue eyes narrowing slightly, didn't smile back as he took off his hat in a begrudging show of politeness.

"General Claes has commanded me to bring you to Taranidorn Keep, convict. She has something important to discuss with you. Will you come with us quietly?" the man asked and Myra didn't miss how his three companions casually laid their hands on their weapons. One had a nasty-looking mace while the other two carried pikes made of Tolosi thornwood. Their stern, hat-wearing leader had two shortswords belted to his hips as well. This was getting more and more interesting by the moment. 

Still grinning widely, the elf nodded and collected the rest of her tiles before strapping her sheathed sword to her belt. Myranda stood and cracked her knuckles as she said, "See ye 'round, I guess, Sweet Thond. Looks like me gold is safe from yer greedy paws for one more night at least." If the Jadisi made any reply, however, Myranda didn't hear it because she was already being escorted outside by the tricorn-wearing man and his companions. It'd been a good long while since she'd had an honor guard. It didn't feel quite as nice as she remembered.

"I am Major Aliden Bayaz of the Gray Winds," the sword-wielding soldier said, his voice controlled and staccato yet a hint of something more lingered over his words like a foul stench. "I don't know why the General wants to see you, but then I don't get paid to ask questions. Thank you for coming with us." 

"Oh aye, it's me pleasure," Myranda said as the group slowly made their way along the muddy road leading from the tavern to the keep, dodging the occasional peasant trying to escape the steadily worsening rain. After a period of uncomfortably wet silence, the elf looked over at the major to find he'd been staring at her for several minutes, his tanned, leathery face contorted in a grimace. Hatred. That's what he'd been trying to hide when he spoke to her yet it was as plain as the nose on her face now.

Tilting her head to the side and hunching her shoulders, Myra said, "Ye got vengeance in yer eyes, Major Bayaz. Can I help ye with somethin'?" One of the other men in the group coughed awkwardly and the elven warrior wondered if the major was going to draw his fancy-looking blades. If he did then things would certainly get...messier. Eventually, the quintet reached the drawbridge that would grant them access to Taranidorn Keep proper and started to cross, a rumble of thunder accompanying the tramp of their feet across the planks.

"Do you remember the Siege of Fort Angharad, elf?" the major asked about halfway across the bridge. His icy blue eyes were focused on the path in front of them, and he didn't turn to meet Myranda's inquiring gaze.

"Oh aye, major. That was the last fight I got inter before...before Mervyn's fuckin' Crossing. What about it, hm? If I recall correctly, there was some kind o' peasant uprisin' or sommat. Called themselves the Voice of the Border. Anyways, they took the fort from the League, though I think it used ter belong ter the Empire, and said they wouldn't leave until the fightin' stopped. That arsehole, Clan Lord Miridon, wanted me an' me White Hands ter retake the fort since it was close ter his clan's territory. Shortest siege I ever did see, I'll tell ye that. Only lasted a week," Myranda said, pursing her lips as she struggled to recall the details of the battle. 

By that point, the group was moving through the keep's massive great hall and making their way towards a flight of stairs with images of sea serpents and merfolk carved into them. Myra grinned when she spotted a merman locked in a suggestive pose with a sea serpent. Who would think to use a trident like that? She'd have to try it sometime. Several dignitaries and visitors from across the Hamrock Isles stared at the strange party walking through their midst, though they quickly returned to their various tasks. War was coming and nobody wanted to be caught with their breeches down. Especially if the person catching them was an immortal God-King who wanted to rule all of Tverios.

"My grandfather, who cared for my mother and me when my father got himself killed by bandits, was in that fort, elf," Major Bayaz said as he led his ragtag band down a long, chilly hallway on the keep's second floor. "He helped organize the defenses against your White Hands. Always had a bit of a soft spot for the downtrodden, my grandfather did. He was killed during the siege and his head ended up on a pike outside the main gate. The work of those monsters under your command, I'm sure." Another unpleasant silence descended upon the group as they continued down the corridor, passing countless servants and more than a few soldiers running to and fro on various errands. Outside, a flash of lightning lit up the night sky and thunder quickly followed, rumbling like the growl of some great beast.

"Ahhh, I see," Myranda said, licking her lips slowly and wondering why the major was telling her this. "Well, I'd say sorry, major, but shit happens in war, aye? Somebody's gotta die an' unfortunately good men tend ter go sooner than most. Always gotta be heroes, don't they?"

"Well said," Major Bayaz snapped in a voice colder than the wind howling through the keep, and he marched into a small, well-furnished room on the right side of the hall. Gesturing for his men to take up positions by the door, the blue-eyed swordsman saluted to the red-haired woman sitting behind the large desk that dominated the chamber. "General Astra, forgive the intrusion at this late hour. I have brought you the convict, Myranda Tavellan, as you commanded." 

Lumbering forwards and tugging at her red criminal's sash, Myranda held out one callused hand to the general, a warm smile splayed across her face and said, "Greetin's, General Astra. And what might Red Myra do fer a woman like yerself?"