[h2][color=olivedrab]Drusus the Erudite[/color][/h2]
[url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4jdhJ1caaOc]Catechism of the Gift.[/url]
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"Bear in mind just where you are bound for, Drusus," the bishop said as he undid the clasps on his snuff tin, "A treacherous land full of barbaric heathens. Don't trust a single word they say," he glanced upwards, locking eyes with the wizard, "Never forget where your loyalties lie."

[color=olivedrab]"I have served faithfully for many years, Most Reverend,"[/color] Drusus said, offering the Bishop of Foleci what was supposed to be a disarming smile, one in good humor, [color=olivedrab]"Bad weather and log cabins won't make a traitor of me."[/color]

The Bishop was entirely unimpressed with the quip, and instead of dignifying it with a response he brought a pinch of powdered tobacco to his nose and snorted it. "They are all rapists and murderers up north," the old, robed man continued after some seconds of silence, "You would be wise to understand the implications of venturing to a pagan realm."

[color=olivedrab]"With respect, Most Reverend, I do not think the destination of their prayers will be my foremost concern. Perhaps you should save such advice for your missionaries?"[/color] Eyes narrowed around the table as the bite in Drusus' words sank in. There wasn't a single person in the marble conference hall that wasn't uncomfortable, save for the Bishop that is, whose eyes lit up, whose expression could be likened to a lion eyeing its prey.

"But perhaps - oh perhaps - cursed man, their prayers should be exactly what you scrutinize. As your colleagues say, and as mine say, from all the information we have gathered, the plague is most definitely unnatural in nature. It makes monsters of men, yes? It spreads like a wildfire. It is the scourging of heathen man. Curious that it is the pagans of the north that are its sole victims, yes? Curious how the enlightened realm of Dawn is content with simply repelling them from our shores, yes? They are being punished. This trip is folly."

[color=olivedrab]"I'm willing to wager that even if we had their whole realm prostrate before you with open ears, minds, and hearts the plague would continue its work,"[/color] Drusus muttered.

"Oh, yes, but it is not for the reasons you think. You of all people should know that a week of prayer does not absolve one of a lifetime of idolatry and sin."

A woman present at the table, one dressed in the most current, and opulent of Florine fashions softly cleared her throat and gave each of them a pointed glance. "If we may proceed to matters of practicality, Drusus? Most Reverend? Folly as it might be, we must hedge our bets," she said, choosing her words carefully, the singsong of her southern Florine accent all too apparent. Her lips curled into a wry smile. "And besides, Most Reverend, I am sure you will not miss Drusus while he is gone. You have precious little to lose by giving your blessing."

The Bishop grunted and gave those assembled a dismissive wave of his hand. The talks continued.

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He had been waiting for a long, long time for this. The trip to the Cross Roads has been an arduous one. The effects of the plague grew more pronounced as he had made his way further north on roads that were simultaneously well travelled and dangerous. Refugees made easy pickings for opportunistic slave snatchers and bandits, and the stories he'd heard in passing from the downtrodden of Vasili had left him on edge. He was fortunate to have been able to accompany an opportunistic, rotund merchant and his many guards on the way north, he supposed. A man dressed as finely as he was, in his cloak and his wool and cotton, walking alone, would have made a fine target. But then, what rich man walked alone? And what rich man walked alone towards the ruination of the north?

Maybe the highwaymen would have given him a wide berth. Still, he re-affirmed in his mind that he was not a man for stupid risks. The lower his profile the better, there needn't be any whispers of wizards brazenly walking the roads of Vasili. He was a foreign dignitary bound for a meeting with the rich and influential of the Cross Roads, that was the story that he had stuck to, and the one that he intended to stick to even with the Consano. As well as he knew them already, by means of divination, study, and hearsay, he could not say with confidence that they would be receptive towards the aid of a cursed man.

And so when he said his goodbyes to his travelling company at the gates of the Cross Roads, as the sun sank below the distant pines and cragged hills, he didn't make straight for the tavern that supposedly served as their headquarters. He walked the city. He took in its sights, its sounds, and especially its smells. The incense and perfumes and blooming flowers of wealthy Florine were all but forgotten to him, replaced by mud, shit, pines, and fresh rain. The stink of human living unmasked. He'd become quite used to it in his sojourn towards his ultimate destination, towards the Consano. He'd stopped wrinkling his nose and grasping for a handkerchief some time ago, and good thing. That sort of behavior would breed disdain here in Vasili, he believed.

He'd talked and walked, mingling with locals and refugees alike, offering alms and offering meals as it suited him. He'd gleaned some useful information from those malnourished thankful, peculiar characters arriving, a tavern being closed for the night on behalf of some royal expedition or other. All of what he heard fit the bill, but it dismayed him all the same. The Consano was so meager that it had posted a sign outside of a rented tavern, yes, they didn't even have the ear of the city's master, indeed. Upon getting his bearings he made for the tavern itself, and for a long while he lurked on the periphery, making himself occupied with whatever he could as he watched and waited.

He contented himself with an alley across and down the street from the so-called Kevil Arms. In passing he had indeed found the sign and the desperate recruiter's scrawl. The tavern, and the whole street for that matter were quiet enough. The sun had gone, and the drizzle continued. But there was, in time, a slow trickle of those aformentioned peculiar outsiders making their way in. He watched from afar, brazen as could be considering the sheer distance, eyes and cloak embroidery alike glimmering in the alley gloom.

Men and women alike, and of all sorts, at that. His gaze lingered on each in turn, and he leaned forwards and craned his neck from his vantage point, the small of his back remaining propped against the dampened structure of the building behind him. He could glean precious little from where he stood, and the words they exchanged were indistinct. There was attitude though, that was for certain, and he could see the seeds of confrontation being sowed just fine. These individuals were just meeting for the first time, he could ascertain as much, and there was a characteristic lack of tact, there was no cohesion and it worried him.

[color=olivedrab][i]Does the king not care? Can he not find a dozen knights of his own to go north? This is not a faerie tale. Plucky underachievers don't save kingdoms.[/i][/color]

The whole situation seemed more and more rotten to him as he continued to stare unabashedly. So rotten that he emerged from his hiding place and started down the street towards the inn. Sorcery be damned, he was much less a misfit than the rest of the bunch, or so he told himself. There was a spring in his step now, a hurriedness that betrayed his frustration with what he'd spent the last few minutes watching.

[color=olivedrab][i]Griping about the Consano will not change things. I will change things. Maybe.[/i][/color]

His pace slowed again as he grew closer, but he made no effort to hide himself. He did hide his demeanor however, taking the time he needed to recompose himself as he approached. His face became an immutable mask, one that was cold, vaguely unfriendly, and above all else professional. He settled himself maybe ten or twenty feet from the closest presumed Consano member, head inclined, chin jutting outward and eyes narrowed, arms simply at his sides. His boots sank an inch or two into the mud as he settled there.

He cleared his throat and brought an open hand up in greetings, parting his olive cloak and giving a glimpse at functional, but pricey travelling garb just beneath.

[color=olivedrab]"I'd speak with your leader, Consano,"[/color] he said, in an effort to cut through whatever arguing he'd just stumbled his way into, [color=olivedrab]"That is if you have one fit to speak with me. I can wait."[/color] His gaze darted this way and that as he waited, from one person to the next, addressing the collective group rather than any particular one. He couldn't pick out a particular hierarchy, it seemed. And so the standoffish question lingered in the air.