Apex Sunburn

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Minor characters dump

Iyen

Rasehnyas Iyen Jodhesi • 24 • Female

Adiyan's Shadow, Blade of the Shadowed Green, and Emergent of Sudhrayar

Appearance

Height: 1.65 meters / 5'4
Weight: 52 kg / 114 lbs
Eye Color: Dark brown
Hair Length & Texture: Long / Smooth
Hair Color: Black
Skin Color: Earth-brown
Facial details: No features of particular note
Distinguishing features:

• She always seems to be smirking, as if she knows something you don’t.
• She has a few healed and faded scars on the insides of her arms
• Rope burns on her limbs, particularly after a fight

Clothing Preferences:
According to traditional Sudhrayarn beliefs, one shouldn’t hide too much of themselves from the natural world and its gifts. Iyen takes that to heart, and tends to wear clothes that could be considered risque and scandalous in certain parts of Viserjanta. She prefers loose fitting items that allow her maximum freedom of motion, and thin fabrics that allow her skin to breathe.

When on official duty, or when she knows a battle is due, Iyen would wear the typical uniform of the Commonwealth military, but with her own personal modifications to suit her style of fighting, as well as to give it a more Sudhrayarn flair.

Likes:

• Nature; specifically flora
• Exploring new sights and learning new things
• A good laugh and/or a practical joke
• Causing harmless mischief
• Music, dance, and theatre

Dislikes:

• Close-minded people
• Serious and formal situations
• Malicious mischief
• Boredom

Sexuality: She's not particular, but leans towards women

Hobbies:

• Singing, particularly Sudhrayarn and Jafin folk songs
• Dancing, particularly Sudhrayarn dances
• Reading and/or watching theatrical performances
• Daydreaming

Life Goals / Dreams:
She doesn’t have any at the moment. Not ones she considers seriously, at least. As things stand, she’s perfectly content with going anywhere so long as she’s with Lady Adiyan and Sjan-dehk. With those two around, she’s confident she wouldn’t find herself anywhere too strange.

Personality Summary: Free-spirited || Easy-going || Aimless || Playful || Impulsive || Tactless

Background

Current occupation: Lady Adiyan's bodyguard

Past occupations: N/A

Relatives:

• Rasehnyas Jodharsa Gajan; Father
• Rasehnyas Mahyon Jodhesi; Mother (Deceased)
• Rasehnyas Shoyojah Jodhesi; Older sister
• Rasehnyas Daman Gajan; Younger brother (Deceased)
• Rasehnyas Sejar Gajan; Younger brother (Deceased)
• Rasehnyas Sayan Jodhesi; Younger sister (Deceased)

Skills:

• Fighting, particularly single combat
• Marksmanship; pistols and bows
• Stealth and subterfuge
• Tracking and hunting
• Information gathering
• Dancing
• Singing

History Summary

Iyen never intended to be a warrior. Or have anything to do with arms, in fact. The performing arts had always been her greater – and in many ways, only – interest. Songs, dances, traditional theatre, such things were what a young Iyen had seen in her future. Unfortunately, the civil war that tore the Commonwealth asunder put a quick end to those plans. Sudharyar was one of the first provinces to declare themselves for the High Queen, and as such was also the first province to be invaded and occupied by the Imperial Restorationists. Most Sudhrayarns chose to stay and resist their occupiers in a guerrilla war. Iyen and her family were amongst those who decided to flee westwards.

It was a perilous journey, one made all the worse as province after province in East and Central Viserjanta either fell to, or declared themselves for the Restorationists. At Weksah, the Sudhrayarn refugees faced their worst day when almost half of their fleet – and the people they carried – were either sunk or captured in battle. Amongst the former were Iyen’s mother and younger siblings. By the time she and the survivors found refuge on Jafin shores, only a third of those who originally left Sudhrayar still remained.

Deep in mourning, angry, and thirsty for revenge, Iyen did what most of her people did, and joined the Sudhrayarn military-in-exile. She proved to be an excellent fighter, but a poor soldier. Although her skills in various weapons couldn’t be disputed, her personal discipline and ability to fight as part of a larger unit left plenty to be desired. That would have been the end of Iyen’s military adventure, had the High Queen’s Representative in the East – Lady Adiyan – not requested for a personal bodyguard. Iyen was given the task, as it was thought that her personal prowess in combat, and the expectation that a bodyguard would not be expected to fight in the line of battle, would make her a good fit for the job.

For the rest of the war, Iyen followed Lady Adiyan wherever the latter went. Most of the time, these travels also involved the Fourth Lesser Marquis of Jafi, a certain Wasun Sjan-dehk. Whenever Iyen had to go ashore for her tasks, it was usually in the company or with the support of the Jafin noble. Together, they wreaked havoc on Restorationist forces in Viserjanta’s western territories. And once they were done with the west, the three of them followed Commonwealth forces eastwards, until they liberated Sudhrayar from Restorationist control. Unlike her family, Iyen chose not to stay, and instead continued to accompany Lady Adiyan and Sjan-dehk as they spent the last year of the war tying up loose ends.

By war’s end, Iyen had forged a close friendship with both Sjan-dehk and Lady Adiyan. Moreso with the former; for close to five years, they had eaten, slept, fought, laughed, cried, and celebrated alongside one another on a near-daily basis. To Iyen, Sjan-dehk was akin to a brother, and Lady Adiyan, their motherly and concerned aunt. It thus came as no surprise to anyone that Iyen volunteered to follow them to seas and lands unknown, even when she was given the option of staying behind.

It wasn’t a difficult decision for her to make. Exploring the wider world, and with those closest to her outside of her family, no less? That was a dream. Iyen would have never forgiven herself had she allowed that opportunity to slip past her fingers.

Kidelaut

Myaatyun Kidelaut • 28 • Male

The Traitor of Hartworth, Renegade, and Knight of the Masses

Appearance

Height: 1.75 metres / 5’9
Weight: 65 kilograms / 143 lbs
Eye Color: Black
Hair Length & Texture: Short / Wiry
Hair Color: Black
Skin Color: Almond
Facial details: Stubble on his chin and jaw
Distinguishing features:

• Healed scars on the outside of both arms
• Rough callouses on fingertips
• Chemical scarring on the back of his right hand

Clothing Preferences:
As someone living outside of Caesonian law, whilst operating within Caesonia, Kidelaut wears whatever that will help in blend in with the crowd the most. That usually means clothes in flat shades, hoods, cloaks, and anything that would hide or obscure his outline. His equipment are supported by waist- and shoulder-belts, much like a regular musketeer.

In a fight, he wears a stripped-down version of the panoply he used in Caesonian service, consisting of a lightened breastplate, a pauldron on his right shoulder, and shortened tassets. All Caesonian insignia are either removed or defaced. When he needs to hide his identity, he wraps a simply, plain orange cloth around his face, or wears a white theatre mask that covers his entire face.

Likes:

• Views of the Caesonian countryside
• Calm, melodic music, particularly instrumentals
• Aiding the weak, the sick, and the forgotten
• Meting out justice

Dislikes:

• Injustice of any stripe, in any place
• The Caesonian upper classes, and profiteering merchants
• Exploitation of the weak and powerless
• Greed and avarice

Sexuality: Mostly straight

Hobbies:

• Sketching Caesonian scenery, particularly that of the countryside
• Scribbling his thoughts in a journal
• Peaceful meditation, especially at the end of a long day
• Exercising and keeping himself fit for task

Life Goals / Dreams:
A fair and just world, one where the common person's life is worth as much as that of a nobleman. Or the extinguishing of the nobility as a whole, as well as a thorough scouring of the merchant class to address injustices caused by their greed and avarice.

Personality Summary: Well-mannered || Forward-looking || Self-hating || Repentant || Regretful || Tenacious

Background

Current occupation: Sellsword / Insurgent

Past occupations:

• Apprentice blacksmith
• Apprentice leatherworker
• Apprentice carpenter
• Apprentice fletcher
• Apprentice gunsmith
• Apprentice chemist
• Squire
• Knight

Relatives:

• Myaatyun Satsuut; Father
• Myaatyun Kiisu; Mother
• Myaatyun Yatkyaki; First older brother
• Myaatyun Ratsaada; Second older brother
• Naangse Daiyat; Older sister

Skills:

• Melee fighting, particularly with heavy weapons
• Musketry; long arms
• Small-scale unit tactics
• Tactical planning
• Blacksmithing and leatherworking
• Basic chemistry
• Basic art, specifically sketching

History Summary

Maybe he should never have touched that hat.

Maybe he should have left it where he had found it; forgotten on a muddy road, and soaked by the falling autumn rain. Maybe he should have pretended that he hadn’t seen it drift from one of the woman’s over-laden baskets. In hindsight, it would have certainly saved him plenty of trouble, and a world’s worth of heartache. But Kidelaut, honourable and dutiful knight of Caesonia that he had been, simply couldn’t leave it alone. He just had to pick the damnable thing up. He just had to run over to the woman to return it. And then, he just had to help her carry her finished hats over to the millinery’s warehouse.

Still, that could have been the end of it. There had been no need for him to seek her out in the following days; no need for him to come up with silly excuses as to why he kept running into her, and there had surely been no need for him to – after a few ‘chance’ encounters – join her for dinner and drinks after her shifts at the millinery. But Kidelaut did all of that. Then, he did more. He grew to love her, and she grew to love him. And for a few sweet months, that was all that mattered to Kidelaut.

But as with all sweet things, the bitterness that followed cut deep.

Kidelaut never gave much thought to the intricacies of hat-making. Who did? A hat was only ever a thing to be bought, to be worn, and to ultimately be left collecting dust in a closet. But the woman – Kidelaut’s dear lover – taught him many things. One of which was how raw fur was separated from hides and matted together to form felt. It was a simple process, really, and one with a strange name – carroting. Anyone could be taught to do it, and so everyone who worked at the millinery was expected to work the carroting station – ‘fingering the felt’, as the workers called it – at least once a day.

Turning matted furs into smooth felt, however, involved the use of a chemical. The orange stuff, as it was colloquially known. What comprised it, how it worked, and what exactly it did, Kidelaut never found out. He did know, however, that it contained a poison. A dangerous one; one that accumulated in the body over many, many periods of exposure. It was a slow, insidious, and cruel killer. It had no cure. And it was that which afflicted Kidelaut’s lover.

Naturally, Kidelaut ignored common medical knowledge, and went about seeking a cure. Although his efforts were in vain, he did uncover an alternative to the orange stuff. It wasn’t completely safe, but it was at least a lot less likely to poison an unsuspecting worker through regular use. And it wasn’t even anything new; it was already in use in millineries outside of Caesonia.

Kidelaut took his findings to the merchant who owned the millinery. The merchant listened attentively to his words, took them all in, and disregarded them with a flippant explanation. This alternative chemical wasn’t unknown to the merchant, but it was simply too expensive to bring in the quantities needed to replace the existing stocks of orange stuff. Kidelaut, naturally, pointed out that the millinery could afford it in exchange for just a year of reduced profit. Their doors would still be open, Kidelaut argued. The merchant simply had to live with a year of less money. And naturally, he was shown the door.

So, Kidelaut went to the lord he served. Surely, the man who had, so many years ago, given a young Kidelaut – back then a mere youth of sixteen earning his keep by working odd jobs and fighting in tournaments – a chance would be more reasonable. Once again, Kidelaut presented his argument. And once again, he was told, albeit in a nicer manner this time, that his suggestion wasn’t feasible. The lord couldn’t order the merchant to make the changes because the merchant would simply up and leave for another holding, and the millinery alone hired most of the locals. Its disappearance would be disastrous.

And that, really, was all the answer Kidelaut needed. What use was a lord who couldn’t even corral a single merchant? And what worth was a merchant whose greed blinded them to decency? His mind made up, Kidelaut began to make his plans.

He stayed with his lover throughout her final years. He watched as the poison took her health, her mind, her body, and when she had nothing left, her life. The very same night she drew her last breath, Kidelaut prayed for her soul, asked for her forgiveness, and – as per her request – cremated her and scattered her ashes in a nearby meadow.

The next day, Kidelaut returned to the merchant and cremated him as well. Sadly, he failed to properly kill the man before setting him alight. Kidelaut then left for the wilderness, where he killed every guard, every mercenary, and every bounty hunter his former lord sent after him. When the merchant’s son took over the millinery, Kidelaut sent him a message containing the exact same things he had told his father. And when the son chose to ignore it like his predecessor, Kidelaut returned to finish things once and for all.

He roused the workers – already upset about the hazards of their work – into action, and together they stormed the millinery and torched the place to the ground. The lord’s guards arrived and, naturally, slew a number of the workers, but the survivors fled with Kidelaut back into the Caesonian countryside. Most decided to leave for greener pastures, but those that stayed became the core of Kidelaut’s loose group of part-time mercenaries, and full-time rebels. They wouldn’t stay together for long, of course – it made it too easy for the King’s men to catch them all at once – but when needed, they would come together to raise more havoc for the powers that be.

Maybe Kidelaut should never have touched that hat. But he never regretted doing what he did. For he had been blind before he met his lover, oblivious to the evils of the land, and she had helped him see.

And now, Kidelaut would make sure the rest of Caesonia saw what he saw as well.

Sioridann

Sioridann Morcant • 25 • ???

The Whispering Death, Songbird, and Melody of the People

Appearance

Height: 1.70 metres / 5’6
Weight: 54 kilograms / 119 lbs
Eye Color: Pale blue
Hair Length & Texture: Medium-long / Smooth
Hair Color: Ash blonde
Skin Color: Rosey ivory
Facial details: They have prominent dimples when they smile
Distinguishing features:

• Healed whipping scars on their back
• Healed point burns on arms and abdomen
• Burn scar on right hip

Clothing Preferences:
As a performer by trade, Sioridann tends to wear brighter, more elaborate clothes to attract more attention. A keen enthusiast of fashion, they would also often wear accessories to further accentuate their appearance. Although this can sometimes make it hard for them to do their other activities, it works out when they are working with others – namely Renegade and Seahawk – as Sioridann's usually the only person anyone can remember.

When on the road, Sioridann prefers to be more subdued. Heavy, utilitarian cloaks and roughspun traveling clothes would be their preference, along with tough boots for long treks over rough, country roads.

Likes:

• Making someone smile, especially with their performances
• Anything cute, adorable, or just endearing
• Sweet desserts
• Striking fear into Magehunters
• Mingling with a tavern crowd

Dislikes:

• Magehunters and those who enable them
• Caesonian authorities
• The flesh trade
• Discrimination against magic users

Sexuality: ???

Hobbies:

• Knitting, sewing, textile crafts in general
• Songwriting
• Singing, particularly folk songs and original pieces

Life Goals / Dreams:
The end of Caesonian persecution of magic and its users. A world that embraces both the common and the magical. Bringing those who would hunt mages, and those who allow such hunting, to justice. A purge of the Caesonian underworld and the vices it permits.

Personality Summary: Sociable || Flirtatious || Vengeful || Optimistic || Haunted || Compassionate

Background

Current occupation: Travelling bard / Insurgent

Past occupations:

• Apprentice tailor
• Mage's assistant / apprentice
• Streetwalker
• Tavern waitress

Relatives: None they find worth mentioning

Skills:

• Performing Arts: Singing, Dancing, Acting
• Manipulation, both magical and normal
• Seduction
• Tailoring
• Rumour-mongering
• Planning, particularly for long-term tasks
• Make-up and disguise

History Summary

Sioridann never was an agreeable person.

Or they assumed they never were; they couldn’t think of any other reason as to why their mother would so readily sell them to a trader of illicit goods so soon after their father’s death. And as if to rub salt into the wound, they were chosen out of seven other siblings. At least the money was good – or at least, that’s what Sioridann often drily hopes – otherwise the suffering they would go through for years would be all for naught. And it was indeed a terrible few years, the time they spent with the trader. Sioridann witnessed just about every possible depravity one could imagine, and had the same inflicted upon their person.

But in hindsight, and in an ironically twisted way, it was during that time that Sioridann picked up most of the skills that would prove most useful in destroying the very system and people that tormented them.

Sioridann’s time with this dark aspect of the Caesonian underworld came to an end when an adventurer attacked the trader’s encampment. This was also Sioridann’s first encounter with magic, and at first, it absolutely terrified them. To see someone manipulated forces unknown and infernal to crush, maim, and utterly destroy people – even ones as vile as the trader – was enough to put the fear of the Gods in their heart, and Sioridann hadn’t believed in them for years by that point. And yet at the same time, they felt a strange sense of kinship with the adventurer.

And so, after all was done, and the trader and his fellows were no more, Sioridann followed the adventurer as a mere assistant at first, and when their own abilities began to manifest, as an apprentice. This period of their life remains one which they remember fondly. Their days were spent either practising, studying, or helping the adventurer with his daily tasks. An older man, who seemed to carry the weight of the world upon his shoulders, he was simultaneously a father figure and a mentor to Sioridann. Through him, they learned the tricks of living outside of Caesonian law, and the ways of a hedge mage.

But where there’s magic, there’s the King’s men.

Sioridann wasn’t there when the adventurer was finally taken by Magehunters – she was busy gathering firewood – but they did witness the gruesome aftermath. And when they finally arrived at the town where the adventurer was receiving his sentence, they witnessed the end of the man who, for a good few years, had been their only friend and companion. And just like that, Sioridann was alone in the world, once again.

For a while, they did everything and anything to survive. But soon, that wasn’t enough. They wanted vengeance. Who were these Magehunters, these people of status who saw it fit to murder a man who had done nothing wrong? Who had, in fact, been the one to dispense justice to those who received none? The righteous indignation burned within Sioridann until one day, they decided to act upon it. Sioridann was no fighter – they were perhaps the farthest thing from it – but that didn’t stop them. With their abilities, it took only a mere rumour, whispered into the right ear, for a Magehunter to be bludgeoned to death in a dark alley behind a tavern.

Another whisper, and a Magehunter was killed in a drunken brawl.

A few whispers, and a group of them were stabbed to death by an angry mob.

And this was how Sioridann wandered from village to village, town to town, and city to city. Each time, they would first see if there were any Magehunters around. If there were, they would then take the time to ingratiate themselves with the local tavern crowd. Not a difficult task for someone as skilled in the art of seduction as Sioridann. Every night, they would sow a new whisper of strife and doubt. Every night, they would nurture it, until the time was right. Then, they need only give things one simple push, and things would take care of themselves. By the time the dust settled, they would have returned to the road.

Sioridann never was an agreeable person. And Caesonia was about to see how disagreeable they could be.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Time: Morning
Location: The Church
Interactions:
Mentions:
Attire:

Hider

(Placeholder until I get a better reference image)
Roughspun, blue trousers
A shoulder belt and waist belt carrying his equipment
Two swords and two pistols, one on either side
A woven, conical hat wide enough to shade his entire face (in his hands)

It didn’t take long for Sjan-dehk and Iyen to find the temple. The radiant morning sun was still where it had been when they left the docks – lingering midway between the horizon and its zenith – and that alone was far more than what could be said for Sjan-dehk when he navigated the city on his own.

That little fact didn’t escape Iyen’s notice – how she even found out about it was a mystery – and she used it to its fullest extent to tease Sjan-dehk. For the most part, he didn’t particularly mind. If this was all it took to get a rise out of him, the two of them wouldn’t even be friends. And besides, she deserved to have a bit of fun, and he somewhat deserved to have that fun be done at his expense. Iyen had been the one to read the map and lead the way this entire time, after all, and she had done a good job of it. Far better than what he would have done, Sjan-dehk had to admit.

He just wished that she would stop playing jump rope with the boundary between teasing and gloating.

“This wasn’t so hard, was it?” Iyen’s grin was full of unrestrained smugness, and her eyes didn’t twinkle as much as they scintillated with wicked mischief. Loose strands of hair hung like black, wispy vines down the sides of her face, and tickled her cheeks. The corners of her lips rose even higher. “Really, a Captain such as you shouldn’t have any trouble finding his way around. Or should I say, ‘charting his course’? That’s the way sea-faring provincials like you put it, isn’t it?”

Sjan-dehk grumbled beneath his breath. “You’re just as provincial as I am, Sudhrayarn,” he shot back, but his words lacked strength. There wasn’t much for him to say, not when Iyen’s navigation had brought them here, in the midst of the crowd gathering before the temple’s doors. He pulled his hat a little lower over his eyes to shade them from the sun’s glare. “Charting a course at sea’s completely different from finding one building among hundreds that look the damn same in a city this fucking confusing.”

Iyen giggled. “Excuses, excuses,” she sang and danced a few steps ahead. When Sjan-dehk didn’t follow, and she saw how utterly unimpressed he looked, she returned to his side and gave him an affectionate pat on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, Young Marcher Prince. You’re still a brave and intrepid sailor to me. One I’d follow all the way to the ends of the world.”

Despite Iyen trying to placate him as she would a child, Sjan-dehk chuckled. “If by ‘ends of the world’, you mean the Kokinshun islands, then you’ve already done that many times.” He cast her a sideways look and a cheeky grin. “Might want to consider changing your words. Otherwise one might think you’re insincere.”

“Oh, it’s the thought that counts with such things. Besides, I came all the way here with you, didn’t I?” Iyen replied and took him by the arm. “Anyway, let’s hurry. We’re not going to find out what these people pray to by standing around out here!”

There wasn’t much Sjan-dehk could do apart from allowing himself to be dragged by Iyen as she barrelled through the crowd. For someone with a physique as slender as hers, she had little trouble pushing people easily twice her size aside, and each time with a friendly smile and word of excuse. Unfortunately, she said it all in Viserjantan, leaving Sjan-dehk the trouble of providing hurried translations and additional apologies to those who had the misfortune of being in her way. She only stopped and released Sjan-dehk once they were at the base of the steps leading up and into the temple itself. Dark grey stone, joined by pale mortar, towered over them. Panes of coloured glass decorated the walls, and ornately carved statues stared down imperiously from the roof’s edge.

“Impressive place,” Iyen remarked.

“That, it is,” Sjan-dehk agreed and immediately turned to look at her. “You’re sure you won’t get the both of us kicked out dressed like that?”

Iyen clicked her tongue. “What’s that supposed to mean? I’m perfectly decent.”

“By Sudhrayarn standards, yes,” Sjan-dehk replied drily. Iyen’s clothes were still largely similar to what she had been wearing earlier, aboard Sudah, and therein laid the problem. Most of the people here – the ones he could see, at least – were dressed rather modestly. Nothing fancy or elaborate, just clothes that left far more to the imagination than what Iyen wore. Her shirt was little more than an decorated strip of cloth that was wrapped tight around her chest, leaving her shoulders and belly exposed. And while her skirt reached down to her calves, the thin fabric favoured by the Sudhrayarns were almost translucent in the radiance of the Caesonian sun. Thankfully, the pants she wore underneath still left plenty to the imagination.

Iyen rolled her eyes. “When did you become so…So fashion conscious?”

“I’m not,” Sjan-dehk said with a shrug. “I just don’t want this to become another Som Dran Incident. You do remember what happened then, don’t you?”

“Sjan-dehk, they didn’t throw me out because of what I wore. They threw us out because someone tried to touch me and I almost gelded him.” She smirked. “And you got thrown out because you just jumped in and almost turned a small fight into a full battle. Which reminds me, are you sure you want to go into a place of worship looking like you want to pick a fight with their Gods?”

“Yes,” Sjan-dehk’s response was instantaneous. He didn’t like the idea of being disarmed, and besides, no God worth that title should be worried about one man armed with only two swords and two pistols. “Maybe I’m the one who misremembered. Sorry. I think the fight's really what stayed in my memory. Was a good one, I think.” He gave Iyen an apologetic nod, who looked as if she wanted to say something, but settled on waving it off with a smile. Then, Sjan-dehk pulled out one of his spare shirts, which he had tucked between his shoulder-belt and his body. “I grabbed this when I got my weapons from Sada Kurau. You might as well take it since I brought it all the way here.”

Iyen tittered and accepted the shirt. “My, what a gallant Captain,” she teased. “Are you that worried about me? You know as well asI do that I can take care of myself. Anyone who tries anything would have to deal with this–” she patted the curved sword and pistol sheathed and holstered on her left, then the rope coiled around her waist “–and this.”

Sjan-dehk grinned. “It’s not you who I’m concerned over. It’s whoever that offends you. Lady Adiyan would skin us both alive if we ended today with a murder, however justified it might be. I hear that that’s not great for establishing trade relations. Or relations of any kind.”

“I’ve heard the same,” Iyen replied with a laugh. She threw Sjan-dehk’s shirt around her shoulders and tied the sleeves over her chest, wearing it much like a cape. “Oh, by the way,” she began as they quickly went up the steps. “Do you know anything about what’s happening here? I’ve heard talk that they’re going to be worshipping their king or something.”

Sjan-dehk frowned. “No, I haven’t,” he replied truthfully. How did Iyen hear of such things, when she spent far more time away from the city than he? Sjan-dehk decided against asking. Iyen’s ways were mysterious and sometimes better left unknown. “But that can’t be. I just saw their king a few days ago. Unless they’ve got a damn good sorcerer on their payroll using his corpse like a puppet, he was alive then and he’s likely alive now. Worshipping someone still living…” He wrinkled his nose. “That’s just not right.”

Iyen was quiet for a moment. “Do you think they’re going to sacrifice him?” She asked casually. “Make him a deity by giving him a hand in ascending?”

“Careful, your Sudhrayarn instincts are showing.”

A playful punch to his shoulder was Iyen’s immediate response. “Oh, shut up,” she said. It was clear in her tone that she wasn’t offended in the least. “We haven’t done that since three centuries ago. Two at least, if you want to be one of those hair-splitting scholar types.”

“Well, I hope it’s not a sacrifice,” Sjan-dehk said flatly. “Going to be hard to explain to Lady Adiyan that the king we want to negotiate with decided to up and become a God.”

A huge portrait of the King, mounted in an elaborate – almost overly so – altar which dominated the entire temple, was what greeted Sjan-dehk and Iyen as they stepped onto the polished marble floor. As the two of them quietly made their way to a corner far to the back, they noticed more portraits of the King hanging from the rafters. There was even a painting of his face on the floor, something which struck Sjan-dehk as a particularly confusing decision. Either the King was inviting others to walk on his face, or he was making it difficult for his own people to walk through the temple. Neither seemed befitting of anyone holding a title of that stature. A deep discomfort filled Sjan-dehk. This didn’t feel like any religious service he knew.

Iyen felt the same. “By the Shadowed Green, what’s going on here?” She asked in a hushed whisper.

Sjan-dehk shook his head. He didn’t know. But he did have a good guess. “I think we just found ourselves a cult.”

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Watcher from the Mist

---

He was amidst the inky black, once more.

But this time, Sjan-dehk didn’t feel its icy touch chill him to the bone. He didn’t feel its clammy grip mire his movements. He drew in a deep breath, and his lungs filled with…Something. It didn’t feel soft and light like air. Neither did it drown and choke him like water. It didn’t feel like anything at all; as if it was a fragment of pure nothingness from the void. And it was a void that surrounded him. A dark, featureless sea of opaque blankness that stretched into eternity, and at the same time remained permanent and unchanging. It was ominous in its mystery; eerie in its silence, and disorienting in its emptiness.

And yet, Sjan-dehk felt naught but calm. There was a strange comfort in this formless chaos. Or perhaps it was formless order? It was impossible to tell, and he didn’t care to. What did it matter? He was safe here, amidst this infinite obscurity. Here, where everything happened at every point in time; here, where nothing ever happened, and would keep never happening, he was at peace.

“Tsaan-teik, my dear.”

There was that voice again. It had always been there, always whispering, but it had been unclear. Muffled, garbled, like a vague murmur reverberating through the void. Now, however, its dulcet tones were clear in his head. The words were soft, and spoken with soothing gentleness. And still they seemed to fill the void from its countless corners, and to its boundless borders. “Tsaan-teik, Protector of Jafi.” The voice called to him as a mother would sweetly call for her child. Sjan-dehk smiled. Or he thought he did; he didn’t feel his lips move. He didn’t feel any part of himself. The void and he were one and the same.

“Tsaan-teik, open your eyes.”

Were they even closed? Did he even have eyes, here in the inky black? Either way, he didn’t listen. In the darkness, he found peace. In the darkness, he was safe.

“Tsaan-teik, open your eyes.” Louder. The whispers grew louder with each word.

Still, he refused.

“Tsaan-teik.” The voice turned hard. It was still that of a mother’s, but a strict one. A stern one. One whose patience was at an end. One whose commands demanded obedience. “You will open your eyes.”

And so Sjan-dehk did. He had no choice. The darkness lifted like a veil snatched from his eyes. White light blinded him. A pained cry welled within his chest, but had nowhere to go. Scorching heat seared his flesh, and biting cold numbed his joints. Treacly wetness crept up his legs and down his arms. His body was his once more. His limbs and senses were returned. His mind was returned. And fear grew in his heart. Fear rooted his feet to the soft ground. Fear turned his mouth dry. The peaceful darkness of the inky black was no more. The safety he felt was no more. The comforting void was no more.

The light subsided. Sjan-dehk’s sight returned. And he wished it hadn’t.

Crimson clouds, dripping with blood, hung frozen in a burning sky. Shattered hulls and broken masts rose out of the ground like grotesque monuments. Torn flags and ripped sails fluttered from these carcasses in a ghostly wind. Corpses were everywhere. Falling from dead ships. Impaled on splintered wood. Hanging from ropes. They littered the ground. They were the ground. All half-buried in each other. All broken. Some with innards spilling from wounds. Some little more than viscera. Rot blackened their flesh. Flies swarmed them. Writhing maggots crawled from open mouths.

Sjan-dehk wanted to scream. He wanted to run. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t do anything. He could only stand in the middle of everything and stare. Stare at his hands, which were drenched in a never-ending flow of blood. At his feet, which sank deep into the bloated dead. At the sky, which seemed to curve around him. And at empty gazes filled with accusations. He was their killer. It was their blood which stained him to the soul.

“Tsaan-teik, Favoured Child of the Mother.” It was that voice again. Still, it was gentle. Still, it was that of a mother’s soft call. But Sjan-dehk felt its mocking bite. Felt the stab of its barbs. An unseen force turned his attention to a horizon distant and close.

And from there, a ship approached. Swirling, undulating, and ever-changing mists formed its phantom hull; its sails stitched from dense clouds of dark fog. It carved a path through the wreckage and gore. Corpses and flotsam alike were crushed beneath its infernal keel. Once again, Sjan-dehk wanted to run. But still he couldn’t. The ship approached. It left. It came closer. It went farther. It was everywhere. It remained in one spot, frozen like a statue. Sjan-dehk felt the macabre ripples of its wake through the sea of dead. Surely, it would be on top of him soon. And yet, it still looked to be far away.

A figure stood at the ship’s bow. Like their vessel, they were formed from mist. Or shrouded in it. Or simply consumed by it. They were formless. Shapeless. Featureless. And yet Sjan-dehk felt their cutting gaze all the same. Felt their presence looming over him like a grey shadow. “Tsaan-teik.” When they spoke, it was with that voice. But it didn’t come from them. It came from the sky, the ground, the wrecks, the bodies. “My dear, lost child of Jafi. Favoured by the Mother, but unguided by her grace. Devoted to her name, but lost amidst her endless seas.”

They reached out with a tendril. Grey wisps draped from the gangly, ever-shifting limb.

“Come to me, my dear Tsaan-teik.” Sjan-dehk knew he had to resist her call. But her words, echoing in his head, overpowered all else in his mind. “Come into the Mists of Dusk and Dawn. Come sail across seas of doubt and thread the Paths, and I shall bring you to where you must go, and instruct you of what you must do. Come to me, lost Jafin child, and remember your forgotten roots.”

Sjan-dehk’s hand shivered. It reached for the grey wisps.

---

Time: Morning
Location: Aboard Sudah
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Attire:

Hider

(Placeholder until I get a better reference image)
Roughspun, blue trousers
A shoulder belt and waist belt carrying his equipment
Two swords and two pistols, one on either side
A woven, conical hat wide enough to shade his entire face (in his hands)

A powerful slap across Sjan-dehk’s face pulled him from the nightmare.

“Hey, wake up!” It was Iyen. The cheek where she had struck him stung – it would almost surely redden as the day went on – and she had used enough force to almost throw him from his seat and onto the polished woodwork of Sudah’s accommodation deck. Even so, Sjan-dehk couldn’t find it in him to feel anything but gratitude towards her. Although nightmares weren’t anything new to him – they were almost nightly events at this point – this one felt particularly unnerving. It had been too visceral; too uncanny; too confusing. He understood not even half of all that he had experienced.

Well, more likely than not, there was nothing to understand. The sleeping mind was a mysterious thing, as the scholars and mystics liked to say, and Sjan-dehk’s seemed to make a hobby out of tormenting him. He was glad to be freed from its demented hold, even if the unease it caused still lingered.

With a tired grunt, he righted himself on the chair. Dull aches dotted his body – a result of yesterday night’s adventure – and his heart drummed a frenetic rhythm against his ribs. Whether because of the nightmare or Iyen’s unique method of waking him, the reason for the latter was up for debate. Sjan-dehk decided that it was a combination of both. He placed a hand on his chest. “You’d better hope my heart settles soo–” He began in a grumble, but Iyen didn’t let him finish. She took him by the chin and turned his head to look her in the eyes. Large, hooded, and upturned, their dark irises bored holes into Sjan-dehk’s own.

The blank expression he gave her reflected his utter lack of amusement. “What in the abyss are you trying to do?” He asked drily.

“Checking to see if you’ve finally lost your sea-addled mind,” Iyen replied, her eyes scrying his features for whatever it was that she hoped to find. Despite the seriousness in her voice, the smirk growing across her lips gave her true intentions away. “I’m serious!” She said through a laugh. “You looked like you were close to having a fit! Or you were about to shit yourself. Either way, aren’t you glad I woke you when I did?”

And just like that, memories of the nightmare began to fade. Most of them, in any case. Sjan-dehk tittered quietly and pushed Iyen’s hand away with the back of his. “Sorry to disappoint,” he said with a shake of his head. Letting out a long sigh, he added, “But it was just a bad dream. Strange one, too.”

Iyen’s face fell into a troubled frown. “You get them too, huh?” Her voice had turned soft, and she placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. Comforting warmth radiated from where she touched him. Sjan-dehk reached across his chest to brush his fingers against her hand. “None of it’s real, you know?” Her voice had turned soft, and she averted her eyes. “It’s all just our imagination playing tricks on us, and it’ll stop on its own. It’ll just take time, that’s what they all say.” She drew in a deep breath. “Wish they’d stop sooner, though.”

Broken corpses. Shattered hulls. A ship of mist and her grey captain.

Fragmented scenes – the ones too stubborn to leave on their own – flashed through Sjan-dehk’s mind. He very briefly closed his eyes and willed them away. This wasn’t the time to dwell on them. Well, there never would be a time for that if he could do anything about it, but now was a particularly bad moment. Iyen had her own terrors to battle, and they were arguably far worse than his. Sjan-dehk had only fought a war. She had done the same, in addition to witnessing the invasion and occupation of Sudhrayar, and surviving the subsequent evacuation of her people across treacherous waters to faraway Jafi. She rarely spoke of those times, but what little she had shared in the past was enough to paint a very, very unpleasant picture.

If anything, Sjan-dehk should be the one to comfort her. And so, he covered her hand with his own, gave it a gentle squeeze, and said the only words he could think to say. “I hope the Mother brings you to peaceful shores soon, Yen-yi, and with following winds.” The smile he gave her was small, and hesitant, but one of heartfelt affection.

Iyen giggled and brought her eyes back to him. “Looks like someone’s feeling soft today,” she teased with a playful grin gracing her face. Then, it turned into a look of sincere tenderness. “Thank you, Shanya. Your words mean plenty to me.” In a softer voice, she added, “And may the Shadowed Green grant you peace and calm within its protective shade, seafaring one.”

With that, she pulled away and took a bounding step back. “Well, that’s enough moping for one day.” Mirth and chirpy lightness returned to her voice. She twirled in front of Sjan-dehk, the wide skirt of her dress like verdant waves flowing and fluttering around her legs. “Lucky for you it was me who woke you,” she said, a playful twinkle in her eyes and her mouth pulled into a toothy grin. “There’re many who dream of waking to sight as fine as this. Makes you forget about that nightmare, doesn’t it?” She struck a pose, accentuating her slender face with her hands.

Sjan-dehk chuckled and stood up, taking his time to stretch his limbs. In truth, he found it hard to disagree with Iyen – she was, indeed, attractive by most standards. Lithe and cutting a figure that was both elegant and strung with subtle, wiry muscles, she struck a fine balance between beauty and brawn. And her dress certainly didn’t hurt her appearance. Made in typical Sudhrayarn fashion, it hugged her body tightly where it did, like bark on a tree, and flowed loosely where it didn’t, like the fronds of a palm. Her shoulders, arms, and stomach were left bare.

“Almost,” Sjan-dehk replied with a grin. He had known Iyen long enough to know when she playing the tease. “I think the way you woke me gave me something new to have nightmares about, though.”

Iyen laughed and winked. “Damn. I’ll have to do better next time, then. Maybe I should dress as a fish next time. That’s what you sea-loving folk like, right?” Then, she cleared her throat and folded her arms across her chest. “Anyway, I didn’t wake you just for fun, though your reaction was very entertaining, I’ve to say. I bring word from our good Lady Adiyan.”

It was only then did Sjan-dehk remember why he was even here, aboard Sudah, in the first place. He had received a missive earlier that morning, summoning him for an audience with Lady Adiyan. By the officious tone, stern wording, and lack of any cordiality, he had assumed that he was due for a scolding for what he had done the previous day. It wouldn’t have surprised him – he did take Sada Kurau out to sea with barely any notice, and he hadn’t written a report about that incident to Lady Adiyan. In fact, he hadn’t written any report on yesterday’s affairs. That was probably another reason for her to be upset with him.

“She regrets that she can’t see you,” Iyen continued, much to Sjan-dehk’s surprise. He must have made it clear on his face, as Iyen then explained, “Our wise doctor–” she made no effort to hide the sarcasm laden in her voice “–has decided that she had done enough work for the morning, and has ordered Lady Adiyan to rest.”

Worry entered Sjan-dehk’s heart. “Is she alright?”

Iyen shrugged and gave a dismissive wave of her hand. “She’s fine. As fine as she can be, at least. She’s definitely not so sick that she can’t work, though.” She huffed. “Anyway, Lady Adiyan asked me to remind you that we’re not in Viserjanta, so don’t go around intervening in things you shouldn’t. It’s fine to help the locals, and she encourages you to do that, but don’t take it too far. The pirates here might not be the same as the pirates we understand as Viserjantans, so be careful when hunting them. Don’t start an incident we can’t handle, and most importantly, don’t take the law into your own hands. Keep in mind that we’re simply guests here.” From the boredom in her tone, and the way she spoke progressively faster and faster as she went on, this was clearly something she had been made to memorise.

Sjan-dehk nodded slowly. There was sense in Lady Adiyan’s warning, even if he would rather not see any of it. “Is there anything else?”

His question brought a grin to Iyen’s face, and it wasn’t the sort that he liked. “Our good Lady also strongly suggests that we learn more about local culture. She’s heard word that there’s to be a religious ceremony happening somewhere in the city, today. You’re strongly advised to attend.” That meant that Lady Adiyan expected Sjan-dehk to be there. “And I am to go along with you. To keep you out of trouble, you know?”

Sjan-dehk blinked. “What do you mean, ‘keep me out of trouble?” He asked incredulously. “You were there with me when we went out to get those pirates!”

“Oh, was I?” Iyen’s grin widened, and her tongue peeked through her lips. “I must’ve failed to mention that to Lady Adiyan last night. My mistake.”

A long, drawn-out sigh of resignation left Sjan-dehk’s lips. Well, he supposed it could be worse; attending the ceremony on his own would have been painful. At least with Iyen around, the pain would be shared. “I guess I’ve no choice,” he grumbled. This was likely Lady Adiyan’s way of punishing him. She knew he had little interest in religious affairs; the occasional visit to a temple or shrine, and the occasional assisting of a priest or priestess was the most he had ever done as far as the Gods were concerned. “So when must we leave?” He asked.

“As soon as I get my things,” Iyen replied cheerily. “It’ll be just like old times! Let’s see what trouble we can try to keep ourselves out of.”

---

The Navigator in the Mists

The Navigator in the Mists

The Navigator in the Mists (Alternatively known as The Misted Lady, Mistress of the Doubt-Sea, They-of-Many-Paths, Master of Dusk and Dawn, the Unmentioned God, She-who-is-most-Humble, the Eternal Tomorrow, the Harvester of Fates, They-of-two-Faces) is a Goddess – or God, depending on depiction – of the orthodox Jafin pantheon. They have dominion over fate and prophecies, possibilities, misdirection, twilight – both in terms of the time of day, and boundaries between two opposites – and the destiny of mortals. Modern interpretations of her lore place them as a primordial deity that predates the ascension of the Mother of the Waves. It is widely believed that the Navigator was once the prime deity of the ancient Jafins, a position since taken by the Mother.

Depictions of the Navigator are varied. As with most Viserjantan deities, they are not viewed as inherently good or evil. However, myths related to the Navigator largely paint them as a negative entity; one who leads the righteous astray and seduces the lost to be their unwilling servants. However, alternative interpretations exist, where the Navigator is instead merely a neutral force that brings one to where they are needed, rather than where they want to go.

A newer, and more radical interpretation of the Navigator paints them as simply another aspect of the Mother. Indeed, the similarities between them are plenty – both are seen as ‘guiding’ deities, both are seen as progenitors of the Jafin peoples, and both have domains related to the sea – and arguments have been put forward that the Mother was, in fact, either a projection or manifestation of the Navigator.

The Navigator in the Mists’ domain is known as the Infinite Obscurity. The nature of their plane is said to be utterly incomprehensible to mortals. It is a place where every possibility of every fate happens at the same time, or never happens for all eternity. The realm changes its form and nature according to the whims of the Navigator, although it is said that its true form is a featureless, ink-black sea. The Navigator sails through their realm upon a ship made entirely out of sea fog and mist, and from there, they chart the courses of mortals from birth to death.

They are considered to be the patron of the lost, the uncertain, and those whose life is at a crossroads.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

A couple of days ago

Time: Night
Location: Somewhere around the Varsonian Strait
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Attire:

Hider

Plain roughspun shirt (white) and trousers (brown)
Patched knee-length coat
Shoulder- and waist-belts
Old leather boots

For a man who was held at the points of several muskets, bayonets, and cutlasses, the Caesonian captain was remarkably calm. He stood with his back ramrod straight, his hands clasped behind his back, and his head tilted just enough to allow his frigid, blue eyes an imperious glare down his aquiline nose. Dressed in an immaculate uniform – with its yellow trimmings bright against the night and spotless fabric shimmering in the lamplight – his presence contrasted starkly with chaos unfolding around him.

Cynwaer met the captain’s contemptuous gaze with a mocking smile. The two men said nothing, with only the clamour of looting punctuating the extended silence. With a wave of his hand, Cynwaer dismissed the men guarding the captain. They hesitated for a brief moment, glancing at each other with uncertainty upon their grimey and sooty faces before nodding their acknowledgements and moving off to join their fellows in plundering the captured merchantman.

“So,” Cynwaer began and hooked his fingers into his sword-and-pistol belt. “Are yer gae’n– goin’ tae finally start talkin’, or do I ‘ave tae ‘elp yer find yer tongue?”

The Caesonian captain's eyes narrowed. Then, he exhaled sharply through his nose. “I am Captain Oscar Soderman, Captain of the Summer Evergreen.” Exasperation and impatience laced his words, and he did nothing to hide the scorn in his voice. He looked Cynwaer over, examining him as if he were nothing more than some strange specimen to be studied. “Surely, you are tired of hearing the same thing over and over again as I am of saying it…Captain.”

The Caesonian spat that final word out like it was some disgusting thing, clearly meaning for it to be taken as an insult. But Cynwaer instead chuckled. As much disdain as he had for anyone serving under any and all Caesonian flags, he had to give credit where it was due. Only a Caesonian officer could willingly strike his colours and surrender after the briefest of skirmishes, and still sound like an arrogant lordling. It was, if nothing else, highly amusing.

And Oscar – insufferable as he was – did have a point. Although Cynwaer was the captain of his own ship, he certainly didn’t look like one. At least, not one similar to his Caesonian counterpart. Where Oscar was refined, with clean features and holding himself with the airs of a gentleman, Cynwaer was rough, and not just around the edges. From his drab and roughspun clothes – over-patched and stained – to the shadow clinging to his chin and jaw, and to his unkempt mane of rusty hair, everything about Cynwaer spoke of a man who cared little about the elegance of higher society. And judging by the smirk on his face, and by the confidence in his mossy eyes, that was a source of pride for him.

“Aye, I am,” Cynwaer replied. “And I’m nae interested in any o’ that nonsense. ‘Tis yer cargo that I’m after knowin’ more about.”

Oscar stiffened – if that were even possible – and his thin lips cracked into a frown. “You know as well as I do that I cannot tell you that,” he said. “The Rule of the Sea is explicitly clear on such matters. The captain of any boarded merchantman is required to divulge only three things. His name, his ship’s name, and their destination. I have already told you all three, and I am under no obligation to tell you anything more. I trust that your…crew will undoubtedly discover all that you wish to know whilst ransacking my ship.” He paused for a moment before continuing, “And I do hope, captain, that you are aware of your obligations to myself and my crew, seeing as how you accepted our surrender under the white flag.”

Cynwaer shrugged. “Cannae say I dae, ta’ be honest.”

“You are to treat myself and my crew fairly, captain,” Oscar said pointedly.

“Aye, aye.” Cynwaer waved his hand dismissively in front of him. “I’m nae sure if you’ve noticed, cap’n, but we’re nae privateers. We’re feckin’ pirates. Yer rules mean piss-all ta’ us.” For the first time since boarding the merchantman, Cynwaer’s smile disappeared. “Aye, I’ll treat the lot o’ yer fairly, yersel’ and yer lads, but it’ll be what we consider ta’ be fair. Not what feckin’ moronic rules yer crown decided ta’ be fair.” The threat in his words were clear, but Oscar didn’t seem too perturbed by it. Perhaps he believed that Cynwaer was merely trying to sound tough. Perhaps he simply didn’t understand the gravity of the situation. Either way, Cynwaer decided to approach this in another way. He tilted his chin towards Oscar. “Soderman’s a strange name fae a Caesonian. Yer nae Varian, are yer? Or ‘ave yer got some Varian in yer?”

Oscar scoffed and folded his arms across his chest. “Of course not,” he replied, sounding almost offended and looking like he had just been slapped. “Montauppe has been my home all my life, and so it is our King Edin’s authority which you go against, should you decide to be…Unreasonable.” He fixed Cynwaer with a glare, and the corners of his lips twitched in a smug smile. “I am sure you know what the consequences of doing such a silly thing would be, captain.”

Cynwaer ignored everything Oscar said about the King. “Montauppe, aye. I’ve ‘eard good things about the place,” he remarked with a series of nods.

Then, very casually – as if it were the most natural thing in the world – he drew a pistol from its holster and pointed it squarely as Oscar’s chest. The Caesonian captain’s eyes widened. Panic broke his composure, and his face visibly paled. “Wha-what–” he stammered, holding up both hands in front of him.

“Oh, ‘tis simple, cap’n,” Cynwaer said with a shrug. “If yer nae wantin’ ta’ return ta’ Montauppe in a feckin’ box or barrel or whatever the feck we’ve got fae a coffin, then I suggest yer gee’s– give us aw’ that I want ta’ know.” He thumbed the pistol’s hammer. It locked into place with an ominous click.

“You–” Oscar began, his voice starting to crack and waver. “You would really shoot a man over grain? Are you mad?”

Cynwaer smiled darkly. “See? That was’nae so hard, aye?” He kept the pistol aimed at Oscar, and took in the look of realisation creeping over the Caesonian captain’s face. “Yer’ve almost a thousand tons burden o’ grain in yer hold, aye? An’ aw’ bound fae yer capital o’ Sorian, no less. ‘Tis a lot o’ grain ta’ take frae the common folk. Aw’ frae just one village, aye?” Oscar began to stammer something, but Cynwaer cut him off before he could even get one word out. “Surprised? Word o’ advice frae cap’n ta’ cap’n, make sure yer lads can ‘old their drink, an’ if they cannae, make sure they’re nae the sort ta’ get loose lips after just one drink. ‘Twas feckin’ embarrassin’ for aw’ involved, mysel’ included.”

“If you knew,” Oscar swallowed hard and hissed. “Then why do all this?”

“Just wanted ta’ ‘ear it frae yer, ta’ be honest,” Cynwaer replied with a nonchalant shrug. He briefly turned his eyes towards the deck. “So aw’ o’ this ‘neath our feet, ‘tis just grain ta’ yer, is it? Ne’er crossed yer wee mind that ‘tis what some folk need ta’ live, aye?”

“We didn’t take everything,” Oscar protested. “Just what is rightfully the crown’s by tax. Those people have enough to eat. You are making a mistake, captain.”

Cynwaer didn’t reply immediately, and instead raised his brows. “Are yer a farmin’ man, cap’n?” He asked, and when Oscar didn’t respond, chuckled. “I did’nae think so. Yer types ne’er are. But I s’pose I’m nae the person ta’ talk. I used ta’ fish fae a livin’, yer see, but I knew some farmin’ types. Want tae know somethin’ interestin’ I learned frae ‘em? See, aw’ the grain they ‘arvest duin’ ta’ season’s nae just fae eatin’. Some o’ it’s stored awa’, some turned ta’ feed fae livestock, an’ that livestock’s made ta’ salted meat ta’ last ‘em the winter.” He paused, and upon seeing no understanding on Oscar’s face, continued. “So if yer leave ‘em wi’ just enough fae them ta’ eat, then they’ve nothin’ ta’ feed the animals an’ nothin’ ta’ store. They’ve nothin’ ta’ feed the animals and nothin’ ta’ store, they’ve nae salt meat or stores to last ‘em o’er winter. An’ when they’ve nothin’ ta’ last ‘em o’er winter, then people start dyin’.”

He jabbed the pistol towards Oscar. “An’ everythin’, cap’n, starts wi’ yer takin’ their grain. Ta’ me, it sounds an awful lot like yer’ committin’ murder, aye.”

“That– That’s ridiculous!” Oscar protested loudly. “You can’t know–”

“Oh, but I dae, cap’n,” Cynwaer interrupted. “‘Tis a story I’ve ‘eard and seen many times, aye.” He stopped smiling, and gave Oscar a hard look, one discomforted the Caesonian captain greatly. “Normally, I’d shoot yer and be done wi’ it, but I’ve places ta’ be. More o’ yer bastard king’s ships ta’ rob, yer see. An’ I s’pose ‘tis yer lucky day, ‘cause I’m feelin’ particularly generous. I’ll let yer live, but only if yer turn this ship around and bring it back ta’ where yer came frae. Gee’s o’er the grain ta’ the village, gee’s ‘em an apology, an’ I’ll consider everythin’ o’er. That’s more than fair if yer ask me.”

Oscar baulked at the suggestion. “Th-That’s crazy! I will be branded a criminal–”

“Aye,” Cynwaer agreed. “Yer can join our wee club.”

“–the King will place a bounty on my head–” Oscar’s words tumbled and fell from his mouth, each melding into the next, in a semi-coherent ramble. He barely noticed Cynwaer’s interruptions.

“Again, we’ve a club for yer ta’ join.”

“–And I have a family–”

“So did I, pal. Yer’ll be fine.”

“–I need the money–”

“The people need ta’ eat.”

“–What will I do–”

“Yer free ta’ join us. Plenty o’ yer kind sailin’ wi’ me.”

“–No, I cannot do this. Please, you must understand–”

Cynwaer sighed heavily and shook his head. “Took yer own sweet time ta’ say that, did yer?” He grumbled with a huff. “Yer know what, feck it. I’ve nae the time ta’ reason wi’ the likes o’ yer. Yer bastard king’s grain ships’ nae gae’n ta’ wait.” He lowered the gun, and pulled the trigger. The frizzen flashed, flames shot from the muzzle, and the crack was deafening amidst the relative silence of the night. A bullet crashed through Oscar’s knee, snapping bones and cutting flesh as it sliced cleanly through the joint. The man immediately crashed to the deck, howling in pain and clutching his thigh.

“Y-You bastard!” He managed to shout through clenched teeth. “When my family finds you–”

“Oh, nae bother, pal. I’ll send ‘em aw’ yer way, don’t yer worry,” Cynwaer interjected and casually stepped over to Oscar. Kneeling beside his head, Cynwaer said, “Yer cannae blame everythin’ on me, aye? I gave yer a chance ta’ walk awa’ untouched, and yer did’nae take it.” He patted Oscar on the shoulder. “Learn ta’ take some responsibility fae yer decisions, aye?”

“Gods damn you,” Oscar hissed. His eyes were wide with both pain and rage. “Just kill me, pirate. You’ll be joining me soon enough. When the King’s forces find you, you will pay with your life, but only after days of suffering and pain. You will find no respite and no relief.”

Cynwaer shrugged. “Tell yer what, pal. I’m plenty damned as ‘tis, aye,” he said. He leaned over Oscar with a wicked grin pulling his lips wide across his face before continuing. “Nae need ta’ worry. I’ll be sendin’ yer on yer way in due time, but what’s it yer people say about me? Was it that I torture folks like yer until death seems merciful? Nae sure I like the sound o’ that, ta’ be very honest, but reputation’s reputation, aye? An’ I hate disappointin’ folk like yer, so I s’pose I’ve ta’ live up ta’ yer expectations. Pretty sure some o’ my lads would want ta’ ‘ave a go, too.” Oscar’s face paled even more. His lips trembled, as if he were trying to say something, but no words left his mouth.

“Take it as time ta’ reflect,” Cynwaer said and stood up. “I gave yer a chance ta’ show some compassion fae us lowborn folk, and yer chose ta’ be selfish. Kept thinkin’ about yerself, din’t yer? S’pose yer just bein’ what yer are. Dis’nae matter. You showed nae compassion. Yer kind ne’er showed compassion fae us little folk, and so now we will’nae show you any.” He nudged Oscar’s ruined knee with his boot, and that was all it took to get the man to start screaming once more. His pleas for mercy gradually turned incoherent, and his screams into nothing more than animalistic, blood-curdling shrieks.

“An’ we’re makin’ nae excuses fae our terror,” Cynwaer said and turned away. There was plenty of work to be done. By the time the night was over, Sorian would have a new taste of the Seahawk’s vengeance.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Cynwaer 'The Seahawk' Fiachin

Appearance

Cynwaer Fiachin | 32 | Male

Captain of the Remembrance, The Seahawk, and Terror of the Caesonian Coasts

Height: 1.85 meters / 6'1
Weight: 76 kg / 168 lbs
Eye Colour: Mossy green
Hair Length & Texture: Medium / Coarse
Hair Colour: Auburn
Skin Colour: Tanned
Facial Details: Dark freckles across his nose; horizontal scar on his left cheek
Distinguishing Features: None that is known. Cynwaer is very careful to hide any and all features that would make him easy to find.

Clothing Preferences: Cynwaer changes his attire depending on the port-of-call. He dresses as inconspicuously as possible, and always in a fashion that is common to wherever he finds himself. Solid, plain colours are his usual choices, with either minimal or no patterning at all.

Likes:

• Bringing harm to Caesonian nobility
• Fighting for the common man
• Redistributing his spoils to the needy
• Oppressing the oppressors and terrorising the tyrants

Dislikes:

• All nobility, specifically Caesonian nobility
• Injustice of all stripes
• Inequality and inequity
• Greed and avarice
• Sorian

Sexuality: Straight

Hobbies:

• Spending time with his pet Harrier, Neirynn
• Scribbling in his journal
• Reading, particularly political and military treatises

Life Goals & Dreams: The destruction of the Caesonian noble class, the overthrow of the current order, and the death of King Edin and all who allowed such barbarous laws to pass and be maintained

Personality summary: Charismatic || Driven || Unfettered || Ruthless || Partisan || Sensible

To the nobility, Cynwaer is one of the worst criminals to plague the seas. Bloodthirsty, rapacious, and utterly repugnant, he attacks and robs merchant ships with neither compunction nor mercy. Gods help those who he catches sailing beneath a royal standard, for it is they to whom he shows no mercy. The lucky ones can expect to be summarily executed. The unlucky ones can only wish for the mercy of death while they are tortured for sport. Any ship flying any Caesonian flag is considered fair game by this voracious corsair, in fact, and he considers any person serving any court of any noble to have forfeited their lives. To make matters worse, this violent criminal is also a skilled rabble-rouser. His glib tongue pulls throngs upon throngs of the masses to his banner wherever he makes landfall, all lured by promises of so-called emancipation.

To the common folk, Cynwaer is a beacon of hope. For those chafing beneath the boots of the nobility, and those whose fates are controlled by an aloof and uncaring upper class, whatever terror he visits on his victims are, at worst, a necessary evil. Others even call it justice, for why should mercy and compassion be given to those who had none for their own people? And so, to the oppressed masses, Cynwaer - the Seahawk - is a paragon of virtue. With determination and tenacity worth of a knight-of-old, he fights for those who are unable to do so for themselves. Best of all, he remains true to his humble roots despite the fame - or infamy - he has earned. Fair and just, he treats everyone - from pauper to merchant - as an equal, and judges them with temperance and wisdom.

The truth, of course, is a lot more mundane.

Cynwaer is ruthless, but he is not mindlessly violent; he is kind to the oppressed, but he is far from virtuous. Injustice fills his heart with burning indignation and rage, but it is tempered by the vengeful calm chilling his blood. And it is that vengeance which truly drives him. Yes, he fights for the underclass because he empathises with their plight. Yes, his belief in the cause of emancipation is true. But were it not for the vendetta which turned him into a pirate all those years ago, he wouldn't do or believe any of those things. Cynwaer is himself all too aware of that, and it matters little to him. He is, after all, a simple man. He has a goal. He has a mission. What happened to him cannot be allowed to happen to anyone else.

And if liberating the masses and ending the nobility is the best way to achieve that, then, well, that's exactly what he will do.

Background

Current occupation: Corsair

Past occupation: Fisherman

Relatives:

• Cedric Fiachin, Father; Deceased
• Wynne Fiachin, Mother; Deceased
• Cecilia Fiachin, Wife; Deceased
• Nerys Fiachin, Daughter; Deceased

Skills:

• Sailing
• Fishing
• Rigging, ropework in general
• Weaving
• Gunnery; muskets, pistols, and cannons

History Summary

"Beware, you haughty nobles, beware the Seahawk
For he is a creation of your own making
And he will be your undoing."

Drinking Song, location unknown

In another life, Cynwaer would have had everything.

Well, he wouldn't have adventure, but he was hardly the sort of man to ask for such a thing. A simple life was all he ever wanted, and for a while, it seemed like that was exactly what he was destined for. Both of his parents had been fisherfolk, and when they passed, they left their boat, their nets, their lines to Cynwaer, who - as most coastal folk were wont to do - followed in their footsteps. Even in this regard, he had been luckier than most. It hadn't been disease or cruel waves that took his parents. Rather, it was simple age. And while they were alive and spry, they had taught a young Cynwaer everything he needed to know about the ocean and its bounties. And so, while Cynwaer had spent months grieving their passing all the same, it didn't take long or much for him to not only recover, but flourish as an accomplished fisherman in his own right.

In another life, Cynwaer would have been the envy of many men.

On the day he married Cecilia, his childhood sweetheart, his fellow villagers had told him as such. It was something that could have come out of a storybook, they had said. Cynwaer didn't disagree back then, and he still didn't, now. He had known Cecilia when she had been a timid girl who cried during storms and hid from the tides. Falling for, and then marrying, her after she had grown into a daring young woman had felt like a dream. And when Cecilia gave birth to a daughter, Cynwaer felt convinced that he had everything he could ever ask for. In another life, that might have been true. The rest of his days would have been spent working the sea in the day, returning to his family as the sun slipped beneath the horizon, and teaching Nerys - his daughter - the tricks of the trade. When she became of age, he would gracefully retire and live out the rest of his days in peace.

Another life, perhaps, but not this one.

Sorcery ran deep in Cynwaer's blood. He had known that all along - his father had been the one to tell him about their magical ancestry. But it wasn't anything to fret over, the old man had said. The magic was dormant, he had said. Sleeping and inactive. Minor parlour tricks - simple and inconsequential - were about the best Cynwaer could ever hope to conjure, if even that. And that much was true. Aside from performing the odd feat to entertain his drunken fellows every other night, or as a conversation starter, he never found any real use for his meagre abilities.

But in Nerys, the magic awakened. She had only just turned five when she had her first outburst. Had Cecilia not calmed her in time, Cynwaer had no doubts that the gusts she had inadvertently summoned would have turned into an uncontrollable tempest. And it only got worse from there. Nerys might call forth a gale one day, and a premature high tide the next. The magic in her blood might scry every mind she passed against her will, or it might send her into a catatonic state. As she grew older, so too did the magnitude of her powers. Cynwaer and Cecilia had agonised over what to do. The logical solution would have been to send Nerys somewhere away from Caesonia, where her magic might see her imprisoned or worse. But the logical solution was rarely every the easy one, and so the two found every reason to wait and dither and delay, all in the vain hope that one day, Nerys would simply wake up and it would turn out that all this was naught but a passing phase.

The King's men found Nerys before that day came. They came during the night, when all others were asleep. Cynwaer had been the one to open the door, in response to their impatient knocks. Clad in ornate armour and wielding weapons that were fit for a lord, the soldiers had been an intimidating sight. But none of that mattered when they demanded for Nerys to be handed over. Cynwaer had protested. Cecilia had protested in a louder manner. Raised voices turned to shouts. The demands of the King's men turned into threats. The neighbours gathered to watch the commotion, and before long, they too were shouting at the soldiers. The tension had been thick enough to taste. Swords were drawn, pistols cocked, and arrows nocked. Fear had made a home in Cynwaer's heart, but for his daughter, he stood firm.

Then, someone - a soldier, a village, it didn't matter - lost their nerve.

The resulting fight was wholly one-sided, with plenty of blood spilled. Little of it came from the King's men. Fortune, however, had Cynwaer survive the massacre - for that was the only way he could describe it - with only a scar on his face. But fortune, unfortunately, did nothing for his wife and daughter. He found both of them dead amidst a pile of corpses. The very next morning, he buried Cecilia, but couldn't do the same for Nerys. More of the King's men returned at dawn and took her body away. Still in shock from the previous night, and with little fight left in him, Cynwaer could only watch as they wrapped his daughter's body in roughspun linens before unceremoniously loading her onto a cart. He never did find out where they had taken her, or even why they had done such a thing.

What was there for him to do after that?

The grief came, and it went. The sorrow came, and so too it went. Then the rage came, and it refused to leave. It demanded recompense. It cried for vengeance, not only on the soldiers who had killed his family, or the nobleman who sanctioned their actions, or even the King who sat upon a throne of blood and suffering. No, it called for something more. Killing one, killing an entire family, or even an entire city, wouldn't be enough. Not when it was laws centuries old that were the true problem. Not when it was society - a society that abided such cruelty - that needed to be changed. The whole system had to be uprooted, burnt, its ashes scattered to the winds, and a new order - fair and just - built upon its ruins, for Cynwaer to consider his revenge complete, and justice done for Cecilia and Nerys.

And so, he took to the seas. Not as a fisherman, but as a corsair. Learning the criminal trade was by no means easy, but he didn't care. It didn't matter how many times the Caesonian navy sank him. It didn't matter how many times he slipped beneath the murky waves. He would always return. It didn't matter how many times he had to find a new ship or assemble a new crew. There were plenty of people like him - angry, disgruntled, dispossessed, and more than eager to bring the fight to a crown, a court, and a system that treated them like dirt. It didn't matter how much money Caesonia placed on his head. Cynwaer feared neither death nor capture nor torture. Let the crown do as it pleased. He would gladly return the favour. And so long as he still drew breath, Caesonia would know no peace.

In another life, Cynwaer would have been a simple man. But not this one.

---

Questionnaire

Questionnaire

History
Did you grow up nurtured or neglected?
"Nurtured enough ta' learn, neglected enough ta' figure things out on me own."

When you were upset, where was your sanctuary?
"Nae where. If you're upset, go do somethin' about it, aye?"

What were you like in your teenage years?
"Proper mongrel, I imagine."

How close are you to your parents?
"Close enough, aye."

Do you have any trauma that haunts you?
"Aye, the King's bastards murderin' yer whole family's pretty feckin' traumatic."

What advice would you give your younger self?
"Learn how ta fight."

Were you an obedient child or defiant?
"A bit o' both."

What is your biggest regret?
"Should've probably feckin' bottled one o' them soldiers when I had a chance, aye."

Romance
"Aw'right, piss off with these questions, aye?"

Personality
Describe your ideal Sunday morning
"Just set one o' those fancy royal merchant ships on fire this past week. T'was a proper crack, aye."

What kind of person do you aspire to be?
"Whoever the stories say I am, tae be honest. You 'eard 'em? Feckin' ridiculous, I tell yer what."

What bad habits do you have?
"I'm nae tellin'."

If you could go back in time and change anything in your past, what would it be?
"Aye, I'd move the feck awa' frae Caesonia."

What is your greatest fear?
"Ever wondered if that bastard king's wantin' ta live fore'er? Feckin' ghastly thought, aye?"

What are your pet peeves?
"Oh, I'm nae one for pets. Wee Neirynn 'ere's enough for me."

When you are in a sour mood, do you like to be alone or with others?
"Others, aye. Preferably Caesonian sailors sailin' for the navy, and preferably wi' 'em afire."

Are you more likely to fight with your fists or your tongue?
"Both. Nae need tae get tanned if yer can talk it o'er, aye?"

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Sjan-dehk & Kalliope

Time: Late Evening
(Thanks to @Tae for helping with this)

---

Sjan-dehk followed half-a-step behind Kalliope as she led him away from the docks. Most of these streets, with smoothened cobbles sheened by warm lantern-light, and narrow grouts coloured by stubborn mosses and hardy lichens, were familiar to him. Well, they were to his feet, in any case. His eyes recognised none of the buildings lining his flanks – even though he had trudged past them several times since he arrived to Sorian – but all the same, his legs seemed to remember his current course as one he had charted before.

Not that it mattered a great deal; Kalliope did most of the navigating. She kept a hand around his arm in a gentle hold, and used it to guide him through the thronging crowd and into the encroaching night.

And it was a pleasant night, he had to say. The fading light did plenty to hide away the few imperfections which day had been so unabashed in showing him. Dancing shadows, cast by murky lanterns swaying in a soft wind, concealed from sight the muck and grime which caked the ground in patches. Were it not for the not-so-occasional squelching of his boots, Sjan-dehk might have even completely forgotten about the disgusting, sticky stuff. Accentuated by the low light, every source of light – no matter how little – seemed all the more comforting and warm. Even the narrow side-streets leading off into the warrens of slums, with flickering lamps hanging precariously from doorways, managed to look inviting.

Of course, being in good company played a major part in keeping Sjan-dehk’s spirits buoyant.

Despite all of his earlier misgivings – about Cassius and Kalliope, about how he should conduct himself in her presence, about the entire masquerade itself, about why he even had such concerns – Sjan-dehk was strangely at ease as he walked with her through the city. Granted, the light and relaxing atmosphere surely helped him to push such thoughts aside, but there was something disarming about Kalliope herself. What it was exactly, he didn’t know. Maybe it was how she carried herself, or maybe it was her natural charm, or maybe it had been that long since he had a night out that wasn’t related to his duties. Either way, he found himself chatting with her about everything and nothing, all at once. Just simple small talk about their days, about what they had done, and yet it still brought smiles to his face and pulled quiet laughs from his lips.

“Stop, thief!”

The booming, angry shout – loud enough to rise high above the din of the crowd – interrupted Sjan-dehk’s retelling of his earlier adventure at sea. Looking away from Kalliope and further up the street, his eyes fell upon a diminutive figure clumsily weaving between surprised pedestrians. A woman yelped and tripped as she flung herself out of their way. “That boy’s a thief!” That same, booming voice bellowed. “Someone stop him!” A sharply-dressed man tried to do just that, and reached for the elusive darter, but his fingers found naught but air. The boy threw a glance over his shoulder, but continued scrambling ahead.

As the commotion unfolded, and the lively atmosphere of the pair’s conversation was brought to an abrupt stop, Kalliope’s instincts had her tighten her grip on Sjan-dehk’s arm. Keen eyes, sharp and green, tracked the accused thief as he flitted and stumbled through the crowd. A look of determination hardened her face, and a plan materialised in her mind. “Grab the boy, but try not to harm him,” she said. “There may be more to this than we realise. I’ll handle the man.” Glancing at Sjan-dehk, she swept a hand over her dress. “I’m better suited to deal with the pursuer currently, anyways.”

Sjan-dehk understood right away what she meant. He responded with a nod when she loosened her hold on his arm, but she didn’t notice. She was already taking action.

Kalliope dashed ahead, expertly navigating the sea of densely-packed people. Neither the fleeing boy nor the man chasing him expected her sudden appearance. Kalliope swiftly intercepted the former, positioning herself directly in his path. The boy let out a surprised yell as he collided with her. She left him little time to recover his bearings or even realise what was going on, however, as she skillfully redirected him towards Sjan-dehk. Unable to stop himself, the boy’s own momentum sent him crashing into the Viserjantan’s legs.

So waifish was the boy that Sjan-dehk felt little of an impact. It didn’t take much to restrain him, either – a firm grip on his shoulders was all it took to root him in place. “Let off!” The boy yelled through gritted teeth, his feet kicking against the ground as he struggled with all his might to break free. Sjan-dehk tightened his hold on the boy, but only slightly – the boy was so skinny that it felt as if his bones would snap with even a touch too much force. “Let off! I didn’t do anything!”

“Be calm,” Sjan-dehk said gently. Or at least, he tried to. The boy’s wild flailing – futile as they were – had annoyed him somewhat, and his words came out sounding like an order. Not surprisingly, they did little to assuage the boy, and he continued to struggle. “Be calm,” Sjan-dehk repeated. “Or we cannot help.”

The boy’s pursuer soon caught up. He was a rotund man, with a round face, and wearing a white shirt that was mottled with old stains. Sweat dripped from his brow and clung to him like a second skin. He glared at the boy – who glared back – but could do little else. Kalliope stood firm in his way, arms crossed over her chest and back straight. “Alright,” she began. The man almost looked small in her presence. “Let’s calm down for a moment, then you can explain the situation to me. My friend stopped the kid, but I’m not about to allow you near him till I know the full story here.”

“That boy stole from me,” was all the man managed to say between gasps and pants before he hunched over, hands braced against his knees. He drew in a deep breath and grunted as he righted himself. “A loaf of bread, would you bloody believe it? Now, I’m not looking for trouble. Have him return what he took, and I’ll consider the issue settled.”

Sjan-dehk immediately looked at the boy. “What he say, it is true?”

The boy bit his lip and stared at the ground for a moment. All Sjan-dehk could see of him was the shock of dirty, unkempt brown hair covering his head like a mass of seaweed washed upon shore. “So-So what if I did?” The boy said defiantly after some time, but there wasn’t as much of a fight in his voice as before. “It’s just bread, and it’s not like the old man’s selling much of it! I-I’m not hurting anyone!”

Sjan-dehk grimaced and looked at Kalliope. Regular thieves weren’t the sort to steal something as cheap and as worthless as stale bread. Such an act was that of the desperate, and the boy certainly looked as if he was in desperate need of just about everything.

Kalliope’s gaze shifted between the boy and the man a few times before she caught Sjan-dehk’s. Hearing the boy’s words ignited a burning fury within her, the sort which wouldn’t – couldn’t – be easily doused. In an instant, she rounded on the man. Her eyes burned with indignation, and disdain dripped from each and every one of her words when she spoke. “You chased this boy relentlessly and caused such a scene over a fucking loaf of bread?” The man shrunk before her, his earlier anger gone, replaced by worry and some amount of fear. His eyes looked to Sjan-dehk, as if asking for help. The Viserjantan merely responded with a grin and a shrug.

“Can’t you see this child is starving?” Kalliope’s voice rose, and she gestured vehemently at the boy, who by now had stopped struggling against Sjan-dehk’s grip. A disgusted smirk played across her lips as she leaned in towards the man. “But no,” she continued, her voice dropping to a threateningly low pitch. “Your fat ass has decided that your precious profit comes first, doesn’t it? One look at this boy, and anyone with a shred of decency would see that he’s desperate. Yet here you are, making a scene over a morsel.” She stepped forward, her eyes burning unabated. She looked the man up and down. “You’ve probably never missed a meal in your cushy life, have you? I can tell you haven’t! How about showing a bit of compassion for once? Or is your heart as bloated as your belly, filled with nothing but greed?”

Sjan-dehk said nothing as Kalliope verbally lacerated the man. What else was there to say that she hadn’t already said, and with far better words? And so, he simply listened and watched. It heartened him greatly to see Kalliope rebuke the man and defend the boy with such passion. That alone would have earned her his deep respect, but she managed to go even further. With each successive word, the man’s discomfort grew until it became impossible to hide. He shrank and looked as if he would rather be anywhere else but here. Kalliope was clearly not a lady to be trifled with.

But they couldn’t stay here forever. Neither of them could order the man to leave, and once he figured that out, he would likely recover some modicum of courage. And after that, things would simply devolve into a shouting match where nobody won. “Kali,” Sjan-dehk called out to her. “Can you get my coin pouch? Left side of my belt, on my back.”

Kalliope snapped off a few parting words – all of them dripping with acerbic contempt and accompanied by a withering glare – at the man before moving to Sjan-dehk. She plucked the pouch from his belt and gave it to him. “I am well aware that stealing is wrong,” she said in a voice low enough for just him to hear. “But I’d rather this boy steal food than starve to death. No one deserves that fate.”

“I agree,” Sjan-dehk said and fished a coin from the pouch. “And I honestly wouldn’t pay this man for a loaf of stale bread, but I don’t think he’s going to leave us be, otherwise. Could always use threats of violence, but…” He trailed off as he beckoned the man over. The man hesitantly approached, his eyes gazing at the ground, but glancing at Kalliope every so often. “Think of it as me paying him to piss off,” Sjan-dehk added and pressed the coin into the man’s palm. With a wide grin on his face, and keeping his gaze locked onto the man’s the entire time, Sjan-dehk said in a cheery voice, “Now kindly fuck off, thank you very much.”

The man eagerly turned and hurried back the way he came.

With that settled, Sjan-dehk turned his attention to the boy. “So why steal?”

“I told you, I–”

“Yes. You were hungry. I know.” Sjan-dehk released his hold on the boy, but he didn’t run. Kneeling to look him in the eye, Sjan-dehk continued, “You do not have money, yes? Not enough to buy food. What…Why is that?” The boy didn’t reply, and instead stared at the ground between his fidgeting feet. Sjan-dehk’s lips curved into a frown, but he had expected this. Here he was, a total stranger who couldn’t even speak the local tongue with any sort of fluency, questioning a child. Of course, the boy would be uncomfortable. But still, Sjan-dehk pressed on. “You tell us, and maybe we can help.”

“He’s not a bad person,” Kalliope added, and cast a sidelong glance at Sjan-dehk with a teasing smile. “A little rough, but he’s not bad. We want to help you, but we can’t if you don’t tell us anything.”

The boy looked up at her, then at Sjan-dehk, then back to her. He gulped. “T-There’s this gang,” he began, his eyes darting around as if he were worried that someone might be listening. “They-They’ve been askin’ my mother for money. Tellin’ her that she either pays or somethin’ bad’ll happen to us.” His lips trembled and he gulped once more, but he carried on. “So she’s been payin’ them most of what she earns, you see, and what’s left ain’t enough for us to buy anythin’. I just wanted to help, is all.”

Sjan-dehk sighed. He had heard this story – and many others like it – far too many times. In the immediate aftermath of the war, Iwa-Jafi’s poorer quarters had been rife with similar gangs attempting similar rackets and schemes. An unfortunate side effect of the chaos and confusion that came with the end of a conflict. It had been Shim-sen’s – one of Sjan-dehk’s brothers – to put an end to such criminal activities, and that he did with ruthless efficiency.

But Shim-sen wasn’t here now, and Sjan-dehk was. And so there was only one thing for him to do.

“This…Gang. You know where they are?” Sjan-dehk asked.

“Yeah.” The boy nodded, looking at Sjan-dehk momentarily before turning his gaze to Kalliope. “Everyone does. We’ve to go there to pay our dues.”

Sjan-dehk nodded slowly, then stood back up. “I can’t leave this,” he said with a heavy sigh and placed his hands on his hips. “Not as how it is. It’s not the Way. By the Abyssal Depths, it’s not even the right thing to do, Way or not.” He turned to Kalliope with an apologetic look on his face. “I know I promised to join you at the ball, and it’s not my intention to break my word, but…” He trailed off and nodded towards the boy. “This is something that must be fixed, and I need more guns and more swords to do that. Means I have to return to Sada Kurau before teaching some ruffians a lesson, and I think the ball will be long over by the time I’m done with everything.”

Kalliope reached out to gently touch his arm, her eyes soft with understanding. “Sjan-dehk, darling.” There was warmth in her words. “You don’t have to apologise to me. I would never expect you to turn a blind eye to injustice like this, especially when it’s right in front of us.” She spoke reassuringly and gently at first, but then her lips curled into a playful smirk. Twinkles of mischief lit up her eyes. “But you’re a damn fool if you think I’m going to stand aside and let you have all the fun, especially in my own city. I’m coming with you and you can’t stop me. First, though, I need to do one thing.”

She had been listening intently when the boy related his story earlier, and her heart had grown heavy with empathy for his struggles. The desperation that drove him to theft, the threats made by ruthless people far more stronger than him, she understood them all, all too well.

Crouching, she met the boy’s eyes with a compassionate gaze and smile. “Listen, sweetheart,” she began, her tone gentle but firm. Even so, the boy looked away, as if he were expecting a scolding or a lecture. But Kalliope continued anyway. “I understand why you had to steal, but stealing is dangerous, especially when you’re up against those gangs. You could get yourself or your family hurt, or even worse.”

She paused for a moment, a thoughtful expression painted across her face. “But I have another idea. How would you like to work for me?” She asked, her voice brightening with enthusiasm. In an instant, the boy’s attention returned to her, his eyes snapping back to her face. “You see, I need someone with sharp ears to keep me informed about what’s happening in the city. Just listen out for any interesting tidbits of information you come across and bring them to me. I’ll pay you weekly, no matter what, but I do expect you to keep me updated from time-to-time. Another thing I’ll occasionally need you to do is to deliver messages for me. Do you think you can do that?”

“Y-Yes,” the boy croaked, eyes wide in surprise at the generous offer. He quickly cleared his throat, and repeated in a clearer voice with a series of enthusiastic nods, “Yes! I can do that for you, miss!”

Kalliope smiled. “Perfect. Your first job will be to deliver a message to my sister who should be at the ball at Count Damien’s. I’ll write up the letter and give you the details on how to find her.”

She looked up at Sjan-dehk, her smile bright. “My dear captain, do you think you could spare some clothes, weapons, paper, and ink?” She asked, eyes sparkling with mischief as she stood back up. “I don’t think this dress, beautiful as it is, is quite suited for a fight.”

Sjan-dehk chuckled and nodded. In truth, he had been half-expecting Kalliope to come with him. Part of him wanted to turn her down – things could get quite rough, after all – but then there was something about her that made him feel as if she could handle herself. Something about the way she carried herself that reminded him of some women he knew. Women who were proper terrors on the field of battle. “Can’t say I’m not curious to see how you’d fight in that,” he teased with a grin. “But sure, there’s more than enough onboard Sada Kurau for the two of us.”

He turned around, facing the way they had come. “Let’s go.” It was difficult for him to hide the excitement in his voice, and so he didn’t. Who could blame him? This was far better than any ball. “We’ve got a long night ahead of us. Best not to keep it waiting.”

Avalia

---

What had he done?

Ashen smoke and putrid rot mixed to form a nauseating miasma in Scathael’s nose. Blackened wood and shattered corpses greeted his eyes wherever he rested his gaze. Behind the crackle of smouldering thatch and groans of collapsing houses, Scathael heard the screeches of carrion and growls of scavengers. That there was ever a village here – with people who lived and dreamed and just existed, and people whom he knew – just felt so surreal. As if this burnt, devastated ruin had been just that this entire time, and Scathael had dreamt up his entire time here.

But that wasn’t the case. He knew that.

That smoking hut to his right, with its once-flowering garden of pungent herbs and vibrant flowers now little more than mounds of mud, had once been the apothecary. The kindly old woman who had lived there had helped Scathael patch up his wounds the day he first entered the village. On his left, the pile of rubble that stretched out onto the main street had once been a house. Scathael knew the family who lived there – the mother had fed him on the two occasions he had to help the father with repairs. And there, near the head of the main street, laid what once was a simple farmstead. The old man who worked the fields there never did warm up to Scathael, but always paid generously with his produce.

Scathael didn’t know them well, but they had treated him fairly. They surely didn’t deserve such an end, to lay broken amidst the remnants of their own homes.

Just what had he done?

You wanted to stay.

The answer came to him quickly enough. Though the voice was hers, he knew the words weren’t. That did little to stop the sting, however used to it as he was. But she – or it, or they, or whatever it was – was right; all of this came about simply because he even entertained the idea of stopping. Nevermind that he never would have seriously considered the option. Just the mere thought of it was enough for fate to decide that he needed another reminder to always be on the move. It happened with his family. It happened with her, it happened with many other places, and now it happened again.

This was your fault.

Scathael squeezed his eyes shut. Focus. He had to focus. What was done, was done. All of the guilt, all of the sorrow in the world wouldn’t change a thing. The village was gone. On whose head was the blame laid was irrelevant. Scathael had to look ahead, at where his path would bring him next. He had to be prepared for whatever would come his way, and that meant that he needed supplies.

And so, he made his way back to the blacksmith’s home. Compared to the rest of the village, it was largely intact. The walls were still standing, even if the roof had caved in. Most of the tools and materials Scathael wanted – such as ingots, files, sandpaper, and whetstones – were gone, but still he searched. He tried his best to ignore the familiar corpses that laid in misshapen heaps not too far away. It had only been just two days ago when they had been conversing about everything and nothing amidst a peaceful night. And now, they were dead and Scathael was left alive. The dark elf tried not to think about that as well, as difficult as it was. How could it be easy, when their bloodied faces were right there for him to see?

“Scathael?”

That hoarse, whisper-quiet voice came so suddenly, and so softly, that Scathael didn’t believe it to be real at first. Only when it repeated itself – straining to call for him once more – did he understand that he wasn’t hearing things. He immediately stopped whatever he was doing and dug his way towards the voice, prying burnt planks from where they were jammed, and tossing loose debris aside. “Yes, it’s me,” he replied. “Try not to move. It’s dangerous.”

Hidden behind a stack of crates and empty roughspun sacks was the foxgirl, Vallana. She was huddled on the ground, with knees brought up to her chest. Tears, both fresh and old, stained her face. Her ears were flat against her head, and she couldn’t stop shivering. Whether it was out of cold, hunger, or fear, Scathael couldn’t tell. Black soot and dirt covered her skin and clothes. “S-Scathael? Are…Are you real?” Her voice quavered and faltered as she looked at him with wide, disbelieving eyes.

“Yes,” Scathael answered, but heard himself as if he were a mere observer.

Vallan’s lips quivered, and she sniffed. “Th-They came–” she began, but had to stop as she choked. Large tears dripped onto the ground, and she wiped her eyes with filthy hands as she wailed. Through her sobs, she cried for her father, her mother, for everything that she never again would have. Her little body heaved with grief and sorrow.

For what felt like an eternity, Scathael could only watch. His worry and concern were plain on his face, but he didn’t know what to do. This wasn’t a problem he could fix; there was nothing he could make that would make things better for Vallana. And so, he froze. His mind, however, dragged him back to the day when he found his own family, cold and dead in their own home. He recalled the dark gloom that had consumed his entire being; the grey nothingness which had coloured his world, and the dreadful uncertainty that had left him paralysed for so long. But he was lucky. He had already been an accomplished engineer and tinkerer when that happened. Good enough to let him survive on his own until he was well-enough to move on.

Vallana, however, had nothing. What would she do from now on? What could she do?

Scathael gulped. He didn’t have the answers to those questions. But he knew that he couldn’t leave her. It would be unconscionable, even for him. “Vallana,” he called to her as gently as he could and knelt. “I can’t reach you.” He reached for her with both arms outstretched. “You have to come to me. We can’t stay here, whoever did this could still be around.” The foxgirl flinched at the mention of the ones who had sacked the village. “Vallana, you have to come. You know you won’t last long alone. I don’t want that, so please, come to me and we can get away from here. We can think about what to do afterwards, but we can’t do anything until we’re safe.”

Vallana sniffed, but nodded. She crawled her way to Scathael, and it was clear from her slow and lethargic movements that she was nearing the end of her strength. Thankfully, she got close enough for Scathael to pull her from the rubble. “It’s okay,” he whispered as he carried her in his arms. She was light. Too light for a girl of her age. “It’s okay,” he repeated. Those words didn’t even register in his head. All that mattered to him was that they seemed to calm Vallana somewhat. “It’s okay.”

And somewhere in his head, he heard a response. Liar.

Only this time, the voice was his own.

---

Time: Morning
Location: Campsite outside Roshmi
Interactions: Mari @princess
Mentions: Thraash @funnyguy; FIVE @shiningsector
Equipment:

Hider

His travelling clothes - Dark, earthy shirt and coat, with trousers tucked into boots
A hooded, oilskin cloak
His bow, unstrung
A musket
Two pistols
Two hatchets
His travelling pack

Morning came as a dreadful surprise for Scathael. The past two days – or was it just one – had been but a blur to him. Between taking care of Vallana and making adjustments to the Warforged’s repairs, he barely had any time to sleep for long, nevermind go about his daily work.

The latter was an easy, if boring and mind-numbing, task. Reattaching the Warforged’s arm to his shoulder had been a fairly straightforward job, as such jobs usually were. The problem had been mechanical – the Dragonborn had thankfully avoided damaging any magical circuitry – and so all Scathael had to do was to grind the damaged, jagged parts smooth, and rejoin the limb to its socket with the aid of patch plates. That was where most jobs would end, but because the repair involved a joint, Scathael had to keep watch over the Warforged to make sure that the plates weren’t getting in the way of their arm’s usual range of motion.

It was a lengthy process – one that required a lot of welding and de-welding – but it was the proper way of doing things, and most importantly, gave him a reason to stick around the motley group.

As much as Scathael preferred to be alone – and as experienced as he was a wayfarer – he wasn’t foolish enough to believe that he could take care of Vallana on his own. The traumatised foxgirl had barely left his side since leaving the village. Whether it was eating, sleeping, or travelling, she refused to even be a step away from Scathael. The Dark Elf had to admit, however, that he wasn’t quite sure whether that was due to what Vallana suffered, or simply because of their travelling companions. A Warforged and a Dragonborn were intimidating presences even to seasoned adventurers, let alone a mere child. And Mari, friendly and loud as she was, was still a stranger.

Either way, it meant that Scathael spent most of whatever time he had left after inspecting the Warforged on Vallana. He didn’t regret it – it was his choice to take her, after all – but he did find himself wishing that a day had at least a dozen more hours.

And now, as the sun rose on a new day and breakfast sizzled over an open fire, Scathael sat on the naked earth with legs crossed and shoulders hunched. In his hands, he whittled curves into a small block of solid oak. Vallana was sound asleep beside him, swaddled up in his travelling cloak. This was probably the first proper rest the girl managed to catch since leaving the village, and so he took care to be quiet. Every now and then, he glanced at her, making sure that she was still asleep and undisturbed.

Mari’s sudden statement caught his attention. “Are you going to tell us why?” He asked pointedly in a quiet voice, then tilted his head towards Vallana. “Keep it down if you do. She’s finally sleeping soundly and I’m not going to be happy if she gets woken prematurely.”

Avalia

Time: Evening
Time: Evening
Location: Village on the outskirts of Roshmi
Interactions:Mari @princess; Thraash @funnyguy
Mentions:
Equipment:

Hider

His travelling clothes - Dark, earthy shirt and coat, with trousers tucked into boots
A hooded, oilskin cloak
His bow, unstrung
A musket
Two pistols
Two hatchets
His travelling pack

---

Scathael arched a brow at the Dragonborn’s words. He wasn’t offended – this wouldn’t be the first, or last, time someone mistook him for a mere village smith – but rather, he was amused. “You walked all this way, only to question my skills when you’re here?” The look in his eyes was one of utter disinterest, his voice a flat monotone, and every part of his body telling the two that he honestly couldn’t care less whether or not they actually hired him. Granted, the prospect of working on a warforged was tempting, but he didn’t trust these two. Not enough to follow them to who-knows-where after dark, at least.

It was for that reason that he started to dismiss them. But then, the Light Elf spoke up. Her words carried a sort of energy that was somehow simultaneously eminently annoying, but also strangely nostalgic. As if it reminded him of someone.

Scathael quickly nipped that thought in the bud. She was dead. There were many people who were similar to her, but none who were her. He had made the mistake of going down that road once. Never again. Still, he couldn’t help but soften his tone as he addressed Mari, something which didn’t escape his own notice, and something which annoyed him to no end. “You already know who I am, so I won’t bother introducing myself,” he said and looked at her and the Dragonborn in turn. “I saw the two of you in Roshmi. You fought a warforged there, did you not?”

He paused for a moment, then turned to pack up his tools. “I’m guessing that the warforged you want fixed is the same one you tried so hard to destroy. Not unless you have another one tucked away somewhere. I don’t think that’s the case, though.” Turning back to the pair, he continued, “Surely you can see why things feel suspicious to me. Why are you going through so much trouble to fix an enemy? I’m not saying I won’t do it, but I want to know more before agreeing to anything. And I want a guarantee that I won’t find a knife in my back once I leave with you.” He paused again and shrugged. “Some have tried that before.”

Avalia

Time: Evening
Location: Village on the outskirts of Roshmi
Interactions: Mari @princess
Mentions: Thraash @FunnyGuy
Equipment:

Hider

His travelling clothes - Dark, earthy shirt and coat, with trousers tucked into boots
A hooded, oilskin cloak
His bow, unstrung
A musket
Two pistols
Two hatchets
His travelling pack

---

“Looks like we’ve visitors.”

The huntsman’s words were said nonchalantly, but the slight furrow in his brow and brief downward curl of his lips betrayed his unease. Scathael followed the man’s gaze, leaning as far back in his seat as he could and looking down the village’s main street. Despite being a visitor himself, he regarded both strangers with as much suspicion on his face as the blacksmith beside him. A village this small and this far off the beaten track might expect the odd wayfarer during the day, but at night? And two at the same time, at that? Either they were lost – their steps carried enough confidence to make that seem unlikely – or they were looking for something. Or someone.

And there was also something about the pair that struck Scathael as familiar. He didn’t like that.

The blacksmith shrugged and returned his attention to more important things, such as the half-empty mug sitting on the table in front of him. “Eh, they don’t look like they’ll be trouble,” he said and brought it up to his lips. Just before he tipped it back, however, he lowered it and glanced at Vallana. The foxgirl sat on the bare ground, deep in concentration as she glued pre-cut feathers to prepared arrowshafts. Headless ones, of course; Scathael knew better than to let a child anywhere near sharpened arrowheads. “It’s a little late for me to mention, Sadras,” the blacksmith said, addressing the huntsman. “But are you absolutely certain that it’s alright for us to drink in front of Vallana?”

The huntsman shrugged. “I’m not fussed, if that’s what’s worrying you.”

“It’s not you that concerns me. It’s your wife. I swore in front of your little girl the other day and I swear she would’ve torn my head off if Scathael wasn’t there.” The blacksmith glanced sideways as the dark elf with a grin. The gesture wasn’t returned, but Scathael did nod as if to confirm the story.

Sadras chuckled. “Ah, she’s far too refined for the likes of us.” He smiled softly, and his voice turned warm as he went on to say, “Gods alone know why she agreed to come back to this shithole with me.”

“Love makes idiots of us all, as they say.” The blacksmith raised his mug and drank heavily from it. “Can’t say that they’re wrong.” He nudged Scathael with the mug. “What about you, Scathael? I don’t recall you mentioning anything about a lady in your life.”

Scathael gently, but firmly pushed the mug away. “There’s none to mention,” he said curtly. It was, at best, a half-truth and at worst, a quarter-lie. He didn’t care either way; he had no intention of sharing that part of his story or his life with the present company. Or anyone, for that matter. Clearing his throat, he carried on in a level voice, “If there was, I don’t think I’d be here right now.”

“Makes sense,” Sadras said with a nod. “I suppose you’re still young for an elf. Remember us when you’re finally old enough to think about putting down roots, eh?”

Whispers of painful memories drifted through Scathael’s mind, and he pursed his lips. Sadras was right on one thing – by Elvish standards, Scathael had only just begun his foray into adulthood – and wrong on the other – Scathael had considered a less-itinerant life many times over the decades. As much as he enjoyed the freedom a life on the road afforded, he wasn’t blind to the security and simplicity that would come with settling down. In many ways, he preferred the latter. It was just pure misfortune and a string of strange and terrible coincidences that kept him moving. That, and he also had a promise to keep. The sort which would be quite tricky to fulfil without travelling.

Fortunately, Scathael didn’t have to spend too long dwelling on the matter, or even give Sadras a reply, for that matter.

"SCATHAEL! HEY SCATHAEL!!! GET YOUR ASS OUT HERE, BOY!"

A thunderous shout echoed down the street, made all the louder by the prior quietness. The blacksmith let out a string of expletives, his colourful words and angry voice joining a chorus of similar voices and words thrown from open windows and doorways. “Gods above, Scathael. Did you piss off a banshee?” He said in a low grumble. “Haven’t heard a woman scream that loudly since Old Idrid dug up a dead deer in her back garden.”

“I think she was louder,” Sadras said wryly. He knelt on the ground, gently patting Vallana’s back. The poor girl was huddled on the ground, with hands over her ears. “But it looks like you’re wanted, Scathael.”

Scathael looked back at the strangers. Now that they were closer, and in better light, he could tell that they were a Light Elf and a Dragonborn. A strange pairing, if he ever saw one. Stranger still, however, was how familiar they seemed. Scathael was sure that he had seen them before; he just couldn’t quite put his finger on where and when. Perhaps they were past customers? They seemed to be adventurers, and Scathael had certainly done plenty of work for plenty of such travellers and wayfarers. It didn’t seem likely; he didn’t think that he would easily forget such a distinctive pair.

Well, it didn’t matter. If they were looking for him, it could only be for one reason. Work was work. Scathael wasn’t in the habit of turning down work over personal misgivings. He would be a lot poorer and a lot less well-travelled if that were the case.

“I'll call them over. Do you mind?” Scathael asked the blacksmith. Normally, he would have no problems with going over. But considering the manner in which the Light Elf had called for him, and the hour at which she had done it, he felt like making things just that little more difficult for her.

“Go ahead,” he replied with a shrug and stood up. “Come on, Sadras. Let’s get Vallana inside.”

The foxgirl looked up at Scathael as her father helped her to her feet. “Are they friends?” She asked.

Scathael shook his head. “No. I don’t know them,” he said bluntly. “Now go inside.” He got off his seat and walked over to the open gate, brushing off the dirt and dust from his earlier work as he did so. There was no need to rush. More like than not, whatever work they had for him would have to wait until morning. Not that he had any issues with working in the dark, but because he was already done for the day. Working on his personal arms was always his very last activity before sleep. It was an age-old routine, and he wasn’t going to break it without a very good reason.

"Be quiet, lady. It's too late for all that noise," Scathael called back from the gate with arms folded. "I'm who you're looking for. Come over if you've got work for me. We can discuss. If you're looking for me for any other reason, turn around and leave. I won't be interested and you will be disappointed."

Avalia

Time: Evening
Location: Village on the outskirts of Roshmi
Interactions:
Mentions:
Equipment:

Hider

His travelling clothes - Dark, earthy shirt and coat, with trousers tucked into boots
A hooded, oilskin cloak
His bow, unstrung
A musket
Two pistols
Two hatchets
His travelling pack

---

“I knew you’d be back, kid.”

The village blacksmith’s voice was harsh, but his words were affable and teasing. Scathael’s ears twitched as an involuntary show of his annoyance at the interruption. He didn’t respond, pretending to hear nothing, and instead focused his attention on the partially-disassembled musket neatly laid out on the workbench in front of him.

It was an interesting weapon. Certainly more interesting than whatever inane chatter the leonine smith had just attempted to coax him into, at any rate. A wheellock firearm, the musket was an interesting oddity at a time when almost every gunsmith in Avalia seemed to favour the more modern snaplock mechanism. And for good reason; a snaplock was simpler and cheaper to manufacture, easier to maintain, and much faster to load. Everything any gunsmith or gunner looked for in a weapon. At least, that was what the dwarf who had sold Scathael the musket had said. The dark elf hadn’t any reason to doubt the merchant’s words, not when he had been so eager to get rid of the thing that he accepted the robber’s price Scathael had offered with relief instead of complaint.

“Aye, our wee village just has a charm few can resist.” A different voice – this one belonged to the village’s chief huntsman, Scathael recognised – spoke. His words came out smoother, and carried a smile within its melodic and lilting tone. “But truly, it’s good to see you again, Scathael. You did good things for us last time you were around. Don’t suppose we could convince you to stay? I know my wee Vallana here would love it if you decided to stick around longer. You should’ve seen how mopey she was while you were gone.”

Perched on a high stool beside Scathael, the vulpine girl sputtered. “F-Father, s-stop it,” she protested in a whine, almost dropping the brass plate she was polishing. Scathael placed a hand on her back, preventing her from completely losing her balance, though it was more out of concern for the plate than it was for the girl's safety.

Aside from that minor action – which wasn’t enough to get him to look away from his task – Scathael didn’t pay the huntsman’s question any heed. There were still plenty of tiny and easy-to-lose components dotting the tabletop, and the flickering lamplight made them cast dancing shadows that confused even Scathael’s keen eyes. Missing even one of them would render the musket useless. He had to be careful in putting the thing back together. Senseless talk was a distraction he wouldn’t, and couldn’t, allow.

“Interesting firelock you’ve got there, by the way.” The blacksmith was, if nothing else, persistent. “I haven’t seen a wheellock in ages. I think that’s what you’ve got, at least. You’ve done plenty of strange work to it, I can tell. Can’t say I understand what for, however.”

That brought the ghost of a smile to Scathael’s lips as he popped the firing mechanism back into its carved slot in the stock. Few could discern his intentions for the musket from just a glance, and that was always a source of pride for him. It was a vanity, he knew, and certainly one borne from his pride for his work, but it was one of the few which he allowed himself.

He secured the mechanism firmly into place with a handful of screws, then held out his hand. Vallana gave him the brass plate, and he similarly fastened it to the butt of the musket. After giving everything a forceful tug to make sure all was right, he raised the weapon and aimed it towards the night sky. A push and swing of the trigger guard forward tightened a spring within. He returned the trigger guard to its original position, and squeezed the trigger. The quiet whirr of a steel wheel spinning at speed inside the mechanism was all Scathael needed to know that all was well.

Satisfied, he lowered the weapon and finally turned to face the two men sitting with him in the front yard of the blacksmith’s home and shop.

“May I?” The blacksmith asked and held out a hand. Scathael shrugged and passed him the musket. The blacksmith turned the weapon over, looked down its sights, and felt its heft. “Impressive, I’ve to say. I can’t recall the last time I handled a wheellock that wasn’t on its last legs. This feels very well-crafted.”

Vallana beamed. “I helped!”

She had really only handled parts which Scathael had given her. None of them were essential to the basic functioning of the musket. However, the dark elf kept that information to himself. He couldn’t bring himself to, especially not after hearing the joy in her tone and seeing the wide smile stretching across her face. He might be a dour grouch of a dark elf, but even he wasn’t immune to the innocence of a child.

“Yes,” he said simply. “You did.”

“But I have to ask,” the blacksmith continued. “Why not just get a snaplock? It’d save you all this trouble to keep this antique in working order.”

“A snaplock’s easily doused by rain. A wheellock doesn’t have that problem,” Scathael replied. “I simplified the mechanism. Reduced the number of parts by more than half, re-built the entire mechanism as a single block that’s easier to remove, and–” he pulled his chair forward and pointed to a segmented portion at the rear of the barrel. “–made it a breechloader. Makes it easier and faster to load. You also tension the spring by operating the trigger guard, which makes it even faster to fire. I’d say this thing fires at least five times faster than a regular muzzle-loading musket. It still needs work, however. It’s less powerful than a regular musket of the same length.”

“Less powerful, he says,” the huntsman repeated with a chuckle. “Unless you’re planning to hunt a dragon or shoot through a solid block of steel, I don’t think the difference would matter.”

“Who knows?” Scathael regarded the man with a deadpan expression. “I might run into a steel dragon one of these days and wish I had something that could hurt it.” Vallana gasped, and so he clicked his tongue and quickly added, “It’s a joke. Only dragons I’ve ever heard of are made of scale and blood. Bad manners and worse houseguests, though, I’ve heard that too.”

The blacksmith snickered and shook his head. “Don’t worry, Vallana. He’s only being half-serious.” Holding out the musket in front of him, he gave it an approving nod. “In all honesty, you did fine work with this one, Scathael. You’ve taken a wheellock and turned it into something a snaplock could only dream of. I’ve only got one other question, however. Why do you carry a bow on your person if you’ve already got such a fine piece of weaponry?”

“The bow’s for hunting,” Scathael replied simply. “I want my prey dead, not its meat obliterated.”

At that, the huntsman guffawed. “See? This dark elf understands! If you want a good cut of meat, it’s bolts and arrows you’ll have to use.” He gave the blacksmith a hard, but friendly slap on the back and turned to Scathael. “Truly, Scathael, you should stay. We could do with another smith in this wee village of ours, and I don’t think anyone would complain. We live simply here. You’d have a nice, peaceful life, I imagine. After spending the time I assume you do on the road, that should sound quite pleasant, aye?”

Scathael exhaled slowly through his nose. The huntsman was right; it did sound great to his ears. Deep in his heart, however, he knew that it would only ever be a dream. The chance for him to settle down passed a long time ago, along with the one person he likely would have ever settled down with.

The features of her face fading from memory. Yet still beautiful enough to warm his heart. “So.” Her voice, so clear in his head. “What do you think? This place would make a nice home, I think.” A smile on his face, and one on hers. The rest of the world falling away. Joy. Expectation. Anticipation. All filling his body. And then a flash. In the cave once more. Fear clawing at his heart. Regret sapping his strength. A body, broken beneath rocks. A scrawled apology, red ink darkened to brown. Pain. Tears. Anguish.

Scathael shook his head and blinked that vision away. Then, he cleared his throat. “Thanks, but I’m going to have to decline.” He turned back around to pack up his tools. “It’s not for me.”