[b][u][center] Adjutor Insula[/center][/u][/b]

[center][b]Blind Justice[/b][/center]

Marcus emerged from the Three Tails with feigned humbleness. He bowed deeply, but somewhat unsteadily, to the squadron of mounted warriors before him. 

"How can I help you, brothers?" he asked, stifling a laugh. 

One of the riders, marked as a captain by his burnished helm and red plume, bowed in his saddle. "Forgive me, Lord Defender, but I have orders to secure your arrest."

Marcus gasped, surprised, or so he made it seem. "Arrest? But my brother captain, what on earth for?"

The captain shook his head. "I do not agree with it, Lord Defender, because to me you are a hero - the saviour of Love. When all else fled and fell, you stood against the tide... and somehow lived. You are Faran's chosen."

Marcus smiled warmly; inwardly he savoured the captain's admiration, even if it was based on lies. "Come, tell me, what offence have I committed to my beloved peoples?"

"Warmongering and disruption of the peace," the captain replied with a heavy sigh. "By order of Matron Scribe Mercella. Her motion was backed by the other branch members. I am sorry, Lord Defender, but I have no choice in this matter." 

Now it was Marcus' time to sigh. "If it is what the Adjutor Order wishes, then I shall obey. I am under your command, my brother." 

And with that, Marcus was led away from the Three Tails under an armed guard, and a swelling surge of open-mouthed spectators. 

[center][b]He With No Name, No Past, No Future[/b][/center]

Urek stalked the streets of Hope with a single minded dedication to his goal: redemption. 

Ten years a warrior, five years a general, six months a coward. 

He had failed his master at the Battle of Bloodspire Pass. When the Scorched King's lines held against his beserkers, he had fled with the remainder of his men, rather than die in a haze of glory. That was not the Karkarthian way, and the rightful King Ragnak the Fanged had stripped Urek of his wealth, possessions and name. Though he did not take his life.

Ragnak did not take his life, because men with no futures, such as Urek, had their uses. And he was about to fullfill his final duty. 

A dozen Sword Brothers crossed a narrow street; in their midst, a fragile feminine figure of white robes and greying hair. She had on herself a kind face, and she had made it her custom to stop every few paces to give praise to the commoners that paid her heed. It was a stupid idea, especially for someone who held the reigns of a Kingdom, to mingle with the mob in such a fashion. Urek made his move.

"My lady," he croaked through cracked fangs and a forked tongue. 

Marcella Colias, Matron Scribe of the Noble Way, and no doubt soon to be Guide of Adjutor Insula, turned to face him. So did her bodyguards, but they did not draw their swords in anger. Even from a distance, Urek could see a form of kindness in their eyes - weakness, truth be told. They were not warriors, just wonderful men with armour. 

"I wanted to apologise, my lady," Urek lied. "For the destruction my people have wrought upon your lands. I do not stand with them."

Marcella pulled back her floral veil and smiled at him. "Nor do I suspect that you do, brother. Your kind is not to be judged by the actions of a misguided king and his lackies. You have my blessing, Draconian, may Faran be with you."

"And with you," Urek replied, as he reached the first of her bodyguards. 

A few seconds passed, and neither he nor Mercella moved. Her kind eyes kept his curiously. "Is there something else brother?" 

Lonan Brill had been a Sword Brother since his thirteenth year. A full decade in the drill yard had taught him many things, mostly about how important it is to not kill prisoners, or not to strike a man on the ground. Some things in a man however, cannot be taught, and he sensed something. A danger. This Draconian was not a friend, no, he was an assassin. 

Brill's shout of warning ended in a gurgled scream, and he fell back with a pierced throat. The other eleven bodyguards reacted slowly; shocked almost into inaction. Urek made good the opportunity and surged between them. 

Marcella did not move. She did not cower or scream. She only smiled, and as Urek's venom laced dagger penetrated her chest, she held no ill will against him. War was a vicious circle, and she reasoned in those last moments, that she would have no part in propelling the senseless hatred. A noble ideology, but ultimately flawed in the face of reality.

"For the Scorched King of Karkarth!" Urek screamed, and then he turned on the hapless bodyguards; some of whom had collapsed to their knees in disbelief. 

He tore into them, knocking swords out of the way, and stabbing anywhere his blade could find a weakness. With venom, you didn't need to cause serious injury, you just needed to cut the skin, and this he did to great effect. Eight men were fitting on the ground, coughing red foam, by the time Urek was finally brought down by a lucky sword blow to the shoulder. 

Before the remaining guard could subdue him, he was able to plunge the dagger deep into his heart. His lips formed a smile as he embraced his redemption.