[center][b][url=http://www.roleplayerguild.com/topics/5256/posts/ooc?page=1#post-83626]Lothmor[/url][/b][/center]
[center][b]Visiloth, Viridian Manor[/b][/center]

Anca struggled to keep her smile polite, to not laugh at the man kneeling before her. His singing voice was pretty enough, but he seemed to think the little harp he held was in fact a lute by the way he strummed the sorely abused instrument, and his improvised lyrics praising her beauty were embarrassingly juvenile to say the least. Even so, she did not stop the fellow, she simply listened and kept control of her outward expressions whilst internally cackling at the ridiculousness. When this new suitor finished his piece, he stood and bowed. Anca faintly shook her head, the cue for her herald, the role filled by a Wood Elf named Saris today, to relay her decision; though capable of iron-willed control over her expressions, Anca knew full well that speaking after these sorts of performances would let loose the flow of her thoughts, thus the use of a herald for these occasions.

"Lady Cillois appreciates your efforts and thanks you for coming, fair sir, but you have failed to pierce the veil round her heart." Rather than showing any disappointment or anger, the Forest Dwarf performer grinned and bowed, flourishing his harp in an amusingly parodic imitation of courtiers with their intricate waving of hats and cloaks in their own bows. The herald took no notice of this and continued on as he saw Anca lift a hand briefly from her lap. "That will be the last for today. Those gentlemen who did not get a chance to make their case today shall be given priority when next the Lady Cillois deigns to receive suitors." As the men filed out, some ribbing each other for their performances and others bemoaning the need to wait for another try, Saris turned and gave a proper bow, though without flourishes. The Wood Elf fellow kept his eyes locked with Anca's through the bow, perhaps imagining the move to be intense and smouldering where instead it simply made the bow look awkward. Heralds were selected at random for suitor days, and some seemed to think the position a preferable path to the Lady's heart for some reason she couldn't fathom.

"Thank you, Saris, that will be all for today." The look of disappointment on the man's face was quickly masked, and he gave another brief bow. "Speak to one of the clerks if you wish payment for your services this day." Saris smiled and shot Anca a wink before making his way out the same door the suitors had used, which led out of the manor and down to the docks. This was another of the amusing intricacies the men dreamed up for these so-called suitor days, that if they refused payment for acting as herald then surely the Lady Cillois would look upon them favorably and it would perhaps even plant the seeds of love. In truth, she simply felt that doing a job deserved payment, thus it was offered, and she found the arrogance of those who rejected compensation to be somewhat annoying.

The whole thing was a farce, as far as she was concerned, just as was her supposed ruling over the city of Visiloth. The people wished her to lead them, she wanted nothing to do with leadership, and so she compromised by being a leader who left the important work to those who would do best by the city and its people; they wanted to call her any number of foolish titles, like Queen and Her Reverence, but Anca had managed to successfully argue that Lady was the appropriate title given that she was in fact not a queen by any definition, since she had sworn the pledge of fealty to their true leader of Lothmor, Arch-Mage Skarx Foulclaw. The people wished for her to be happy and find love of the kind known only in fairy tales, she was perfectly content to live without romantic interests, and so she compromised by allowing suitors to attempt to woo her. They attempted all sorts of feats, from music and poetry to shows of strength and martial prowess, and it seemed that everyone was perfectly happy with this illusion of progress in Lady Cillois's pursuit of love. She could not foresee any performance, no matter how impressive, setting her heart aflutter as the suitors hoped, but if playing the act out made her people happy then Anca was willing to see it through. Truth be told, these acts had initially pained her by dredging up memories of love and family lost, long ago in the Unification when Tek Foulclaw, ancestor to Arch-Mage Skarx, brought a ten year long war to Visiloth in order to bring it under the banner of his rule. It was a fleeting pain, almost a nostalgic reminiscence of sorrow long past than a fresh wound, and she worked through it with the suitors none the wiser. Nowadays those memories were laid fully back to rest, giving not even the faintest echo of a whimper during the suitor days, and that was fine by her reckoning.

Anca rose from her throne (though in truth it was just a finely crafted wooden chair, carved in fine patterns but lacking in gilding or ornamentation, and she thought of it as a throne simply because that was what those around her had been calling it for some hundred years or so) and made her way to the wide double door that had been used by the suitors and heralds. They were kept open permanently by her order (despite the grumblings of her advisors that a throne room shouldn't be made so casual) for the simple reason that she enjoyed the breeze and sounds of the city and ocean drifting in; the chamber had previously been a simple sitting room when the building had been known simply as the Cillois Manor (before folks had managed to pester Anca into renaming it into something more suitable for the abode of a ruler, after they'd failed to convince her to approve the construction of a grand palace for her to live in), so she found their complaints just as silly as the fact that they called it a throne room in the first place. Her so-called throne was not raised on a dais, there was no grand entryway, and it could only comfortably hold about thirty people. Anca had put her foot down about altering the room, and the rarity of her actually taking a firm and uncompromising stance had apparently been enough of a shock that in the five years since there hadn't been even a single suggestion of replacing the few chairs in the room that dared to have higher backs than her throne (which all suitors and most guests refused to sit in anyway). The sitting room was something of an escape from the silliness of the world, despite the fact that the suitor performances were the silliest of all and were held in this room, a place she could relax and listen to the multitude of sounds drifting in from people going about their day to day lives.

Those sounds grew all the more clear as Anca stepped out into the small courtyard outside the doorway, strains of unintelligible words and the clatter of cargo being loaded and unloaded down at the docks. Once, long ago, this had been a modest yard that gave a clear view of the ocean; now there was a wall closing the area off, a relic of the centuries old Unification War when the estates of the wealthier residents of Visiloth had been turned into miniature forts in case the wall around the city had been breached. Luckily it hadn't come to that, but the casualties had been great nonetheless. Anca had chosen to let the wall stand as something of a monument to both what has lost and what was gained in joining into the nation of Lothmor, though the privacy it afforded was also a part of that decision. Her eyes slid closed as she walked slowly down the path toward the wall, smiling faintly as the noise of life flowing through her helped to paint the image of the happy city beyond. Soon the trading season would pick up and the sounds from the docks would overwhelm almost everything else, but for now she should hear hawkers calling their wares and some children running and playing nearby, with a constant murmuring undertone of the waves crashing on the shore. Visitors from the smaller villages throughout the nation tended to find this level of noise overwhelming, but it had grown soothing to Anca over the years. Simply hearing that people were living their happy lives out there was enough to set her worries melting away, though today she had none in need of such soothing.

A repetitive thudding sound became apparent after a few minutes, and as it drew closer there were a couple audible screams from the same direction. Anca sighed and hurried back inside, grabbing a stool from inside the sitting room and bringing it outside. She placed it just outside the doors and sat down, taking a moment to wipe away her minor annoyance at the screams. There were always a few when he came to visit, of course, but she still couldn't understand why giants so terrified people. They weren't monsters, after all, so what was there to be fearful of? The heavy steps stopped just outside the courtyard wall and their source was easily visible towering over the structure, his bearded and gnarled face turned downward to see Lady Anca with his customary broad smile of greeting.

"Welcome, Oaksmasher. Please make yourself at home." The giant dipped his head at her words, meant as a mix of acknowledgement and a sort of bow, and stepped easily over the wall. He sat down slowly, taking care not to smash any of the manor to pieces with a carelessly swung limb, and propped his humongous wooden axe against the stone wall he'd just stepped over. Oaksmasher's loincloth did little to protect his dignity as he maneuvered into a cross-legged position, but then the Forest Giants of Lothmor only bothered with clothing because the small folk of the nation found public nudity improper, so it came as little surprise to most folks that they were careless about actually staying covered; Anca politely averted her eyes, simply to save herself from the potential embarrassment. When the giant was finally settled down and properly covered once more, she looked up at him, having to crane her neck a bit even though he was sitting, and continued with the formalities; giants were sticklers for formality, and though Anca had no fear of this fellow reacting violently to a lack of it, she also had no desire to insult him. "What brings you so far from your home and into mine, Oaksmasher?"

There was no reply for a long stretch of seconds, which some mistook as a slackness of wit in the giants, but Anca had long ago concluded that it was in truth a matter of deliberation and not wanting to say anything incorrectly. Oaksmasher's voice came much quieter than one would expect from a giant, only barely rattling the windows of the manor, due to him politely keeping his voice down to a level more bearable for the fragile ears of the smaller races; his first ever visit to the manor had necessitated the replacement of most of the windows, as he'd still been getting used to speaking with small folk at that time. "Nothing pressing, Lady Cillois, so let formality sleep for now." Oaksmasher's rumbling voice took on a lighter tone now that the formal greetings were out of the way. "You call it rude with every saying, but I tire of the fleeting folk sometimes. They are birds, flitting through the branches, and spinning round and round to keep them in sight is tiresome. You are a tree, Anca, that the little birds fly round and perch upon, and sometimes it pleases me to speak to the tree. Have they built a nest in you yet?"

"I call it rude because it [i]is[/i] rude, Oaksmasher." Anca couldn't help but smile when talking to the fellow in front of her, the giant she proudly called friend, as if her mouth was trying to match the broad grin her visitor always brought with him. "People don't like to be compared to animals, and you make them sound like their shorter lives are the product of some kind of pitiful disease. But never mind that, we both know you're too stubborn to change your thoughts." The giant's brief chuckle of amusement was like the rumble of thunder, and Anca wouldn't be surprised if it caused some folks nearby to look up at the clear sky in confusion. "I think I'm more like a boulder, being worn down by the elements no matter how much I fight it, but that would break your lovely metaphor. My branches remain free of unwelcome nests, despite the persistence of prospective builders. I had a few of them here not long ago, but I sent them away disappointed yet again. Do you think they'll ever give up and let me alone, or shall I be fighting off suitors until I'm returned to the earth?"

"Hmmm..." Oaksmasher ran a massive hand through his beard, considering her words before replying. "Give them my words and they will scatter to the winds to bother you no more. Tell them the only worthy man is he who can fight Oaksmasher and win. No man will take that challenge." He paused once more, but Anca waited rather than interjecting, as she knew the giant well enough to see that he had more to say in his own time. "You are no boulder, Anca. Rock stays solid, no bending, hard and stubborn. Rock." He thumped a fist against his chest to punctuate the word and indicate himself. "Trees move with the wind, they grow greater with time. Once you were a sapling, afraid of the world. Now you tower high, roots sunk deep, protecting forest animals from storms. Wind and water make you grow stronger, they do not break you down like stone. The tree is life, the boulder is death. You are life. It is obvious."

Anca rolled her eyes, not bothering to hide her amusement from Oaksmasher as she had with the suitors earlier. His simultaneous flattery and self-deprecation was a common component of their conversations, and she'd poked fun at him for it many times before. He was a rather humble giant, which led him to make himself sound simple, but his flattery was no affectation; he had once said that if Anca was a giant he would have made her his wife long ago, and she had been shocked to find that he had such sentiments to match her own that she had held secret for many years, but in the handful of decades since then they had both come to the unspoken understanding that they could only ever be good friends, thus it was best to let those thoughts lie dormant and say no more of them. Even so, their conversations often had a strangely flirtatious nature to them that they were both happy enough to follow along with, though outside listeners probably wouldn't be able to hear the flirtation in the heavily metaphorical and often philosophical back and forth.

"That would be far too cruel, I'm afraid. The point of allowing the suitors a chance is to shelter my people from the unwelcome rain of reality, and letting a big oaf run around swinging his absurdly large axe would chase them out into that rain despite my efforts." Anca crossed her arms and cocked a brow up at the giant. "Besides, we both know some would be foolhardy enough to take up the challenge anyway, and what then? I would rather not see some fool get hurt trying to win my approval. That wouldn't make me a very protective tree, now would it?" Oaksmasher shrugged, dipping his head in acknowledgement of her sound point. "Anyway, enough about my small woes and complaints. How has the life of the rock been treating you? It's been almost a year since we last spoke."

Oaksmasher began to relay something of a military report, mixed with his own opinions on events (whch he wouldn't have given to a superior officer asking for such a report) that made for a rather interesting telling. Their conversation carried on through the day and into the evening, and nobody attempted to intrude to pull Anca away for any of the frivolous business that filled most of her days. Everyone knew that the Lady Cillois was a close friend of the great hero Oaksmasher, and it was something of a point of pride for the people of Visiloth that she could lay claim to that while even the great Arch-Mage was just another short-lived ruler to the giant, and so they let her have these relatively rare days with the giant as something of an impromptu holiday. Anca always took full advantage of such occasions, though it was simply for the pleasure of Oaksmasher's company rather than to avoid irksome responsibilities, and as usual it was fully dark out when she finally made it to bed and fell asleep before the thudding of the giant's steps had passed out of hearing range.

---

[center][b]Tekis, The Maw[/b][/center]

Fitful flames filled the large stone chamber with a shivering orange light. The whole castle, called The Maw after the fact that its many towers looked like a set of jagged teeth, was made of a dark and almost greasy looking stone. It seemed the place should be damp and dank to suit its looks, but it was well constructed and dry as a bone, though drafty as evidenced by the flickering torches. The side walls of the throne room were lined with Skaven and Night Goblins wielding bows, and a compliment of Draconians and Forest Dwarves wielding axes guarded the bottom of the dais, which was itself somewhat crowded. A Draconian and a Forest Dwarf stood out among the four smaller folks standing near the throne, which Lord General Orix the Cleaver and General Hirol Elfheart were well used to. The four were the mages of Lothmor, whose positions as advisors or perhaps friends to the Arch-Mage were ambiguous at best, but all knew they answered to him alone despite formally being part of the military and thus supposedly under the command of the Lord General. Skarx Foulclaw himself was the centerpiece of the arrangement, the hairless and scarred Skaven easily drawing eyes away from the prestigious figures around him.

Facing this intimidating array was a lone Night Goblin, kneeling alone in the center of the room with dozens of arrows trained on him in case he were to try to do anything stupid. Normally petitioners to the throne were only tracked by a few arrows as a precaution, and in truth this one should have been afforded the respect of weapons being put away completely, but even the Arch-Mage was wary enough of the fellow that he let the impertinence stand; the petitioner didn't seem to even notice the arrows trained on him. Normally, General Zarex Giantbiter would be standing on the dais (with Orix and Hirol remaining conspicuously between him and the throne at all times) to give advice should it be requested (which it almost never was, not from him) or should he feel like butting in with it despite the lack of request. Instead he knelt like a commoner and looked up at the throne with his customary manic grin in place.

The clicking of claws on bone was the predominant sound in the chamber following Zarex's request. Skarx often drummed his claws on whatever surface was handy when he was thinking, and the throne's armrests combined with the natural acoustics of the chamber made for a satisfyingly loud clacking. The Bone Throne, always said with enough gravity to make the proper noun obvious, was rumored among the common folks to be made from the bones or those who the great Tek Foulclaw slew to forge the nation of Lothmor; in truth it was made from the bones of early rulers of Lothmor, and the yellowed Skaven skull currently being assaulted by the claws of Skarx's right hand was supposedly that of Tek himself, but this fact was dismissed by the people as nonsense, because apparently they couldn't imagine that anyone would show such disrespect to their ancestors. In the long gone days of shamanism among the people of Lothmor, ancestor worship had taken the form of using the bones of deceased loved ones in various ways to honor them, to make the spirits pleased that they were not forgotten and were still of some use to their descendants. Elves who had lived through that time confirmed such practices, and Lady Cillois had told Skarx that the bit about Tek's skull was indeed true (and that various other bones of the nation's founder made up the seat), but of course the common people would believe whatever suited them over the actual truth.

The Arch-Mage laughed at his thoughts, which flowed into speech without a pause. "You are mad, true to your name as always, Giantbiter. I approved of your crazed plan to put archers on the backs of Hydras, and now you want mages up there too?" He laughed again, though this one edged into cackling territory. "Madness. Are the Hydra Riders not deadly enough already? Are they not dangerous enough for your liking? Not crazy enough?"

Zarex answered the almost-cackle with a true cackle, one that would turn a witch green with envy, the kind of cackle that only one who was intimately acquainted with madness could pull off. "No such thiiiiiing!" The Night Goblin spoke in a broken sing-song, monotone speech on some words and a warbling singing on others, elongating various words for reasons grasped only by his strange mind. "Deadly enough? Nooooo, no such thing. Can't be toooooo dangerous. More dangerous, beeeeeetter, never too much. Enough-" he broke off into a giggle before continuing, "crazy, couldn't be, caaaaaaan't be, aaaaaaaaalways more crazy." Zarex coughed and stood up. The arrows already pointed his way were lifted upward to stay aimed at his chest, and a few more archers pulled and readied arrows. When the lone Night Goblin in the center of the room spoke again, it was utterly normal and conversational. "Archers are good, and you gave me some of the best for the Hydra Riders, no doubt about that. Mages would be better though. It's simple: hydras plus archers are terrifying, mages are scarier than archers, so hydras plus mages would be an unmatched horror." He lifted a gloved hand and pointed a finger at Lord General Orix; a few more arrows left quivers. "You said once that fear is demoralizing, and demoralizing the enemy means you win. I'm just being logical about it."

An outside observer might have found Zarex claiming the grounds of logic to be utterly absurd. As it so happened, so did those in the room with him, though only one made it apparent. Skarx Foulclaw laughed long and hard, which Zarex stood and watched without any sign of being offended by the response; he truly was not offended by it, but then he also didn't get offended by people saying he was a rabid maniac who should be put down for the good of the world. He was a rather special Night Goblin, after all.

"I almost want to grant your request just because it's so absurdly amusing." Skarx drummed his claws on Tek's skull for a few seconds before turning to address one of those standing atop the dais. "Orix, what do you think? Should I ride a Hydra and set my mages to the same?"

The Draconian answered immediately, having anticipated the question and already formulated an answer. "It would be a dangerous waste of resources. The archers have an advantage from the backs of the beasts due to the elevation, but mages aren't under the same constraints as someone using a bow. The only thing to be gained from such efforts would be slightly greater sight, but for that I would rather see mages standing atop the shoulders of giants, which would make for greater height and reliability than riding a Hydra. The risk of the monsters going berserk and turning on their riders is too great, the cost too high if we were to lose a mage. Even though they are some of our best, the Hydra Rider archers are far more expendable than our mages, especially you Arch-Mage."

"Hm, I suppose you're right." Skarx turned back to give his ruling to Zarex, but the goblin was muttering and gibbering to himself excitedly. He sung the word 'giants' loudly enough that those on the dais could hear it, and Orix's sigh was loud enough to be heard by those guards nearest the doors. "Zarex." The goblin looked up, a bit of spittle shining on his chin. "There will be no mages riding Hydras. Feel free to go talk to the giants though, if you think you can keep yourself from biting them." Zarex gave another cackle and skittered out of the room, running hunched over and occasionally using his hands on the floor to keep himself from falling on his face. The sound of bowstrings relaxing and archers letting out held breaths held a relieved tone that was shared by most everyone in the room.

"He's so cute when he gets worked up." Skinripple, a Murioanthrope mage, was known to have a soft spot for the crazed little goblin. Nobody bothered commenting anymore, as she tended to get defensive about it. Skinripple was known to have a rather aggressive defense, and only the suicidally foolish were dumb enough to antagonize a mage of her skill.

"Is that all? Any more petitions?" Skarx looked round at his advisors, then drummed his claws quickly on the armrest once more, a quick series of four taps. "Scratch that, no more petitions, we're done for the day. Tell them all to come back tomorrow."

"Arch-Mage, if I may?" The seated Skaven nodded, and Orix stepped round to be in better view, but remained on the dais. "There are two more matters of importance that ought to be dealt with today. The others can be delayed with no ill effect." The Arch-Mage considered for a moment, accompanied by more drumming claws, before growling and waving for the Lord General to continue. "Thank you. The first is an apprehended criminal, a Skaven currently in training to join the Arachnid Host." Most would have given them their casual moniker, the Spider Cavalry, but the Lord General always referred to the military regiments by their proper titles. "He stands accused of theft and assault. Shall I have him brought up from the dungeon?"

Skarx grunted a noncommittal response to the question. "Witnesses? How many and how reliable?"

"One for the theft, the blacksmith he assaulted, indeterminable reliability. He said the Skaven stole a dagger, but when he was apprehended he had three daggers on his person and none of them bore a maker's mark. The blacksmith claims his display samples go unmarked because they aren't intended for sale, which we confirmed." Skarx nodded, drumming his claws again, and Orix took that as a sign to continue. "Dozens of witnesses saw the assault, many of them were from the Skaven's own cadre of trainees for the Host and others were passing by in the street. All of them were questioned separately and agree that the blacksmith yelled something, then was attacked with no true provocation. He's fine, by the way, a few bruises and a cut on his arm that required no stitching."

"Did he claim any excuse or defense?" Skarx asked it more as an afterthought than anything else, which was clear to everyone else since his drumming claws had stopped; they all knew he'd made up his mind, and given the laws of the land the verdict was obvious.

Orix shook his head. "He wouldn't say anything when questioned."

The Arch-Mage shrugged. "Probably knew it was pointless. Let's see if he dies silent and stoic. Execute him for his crimes, then give all three daggers the Skaven had to the smith he attacked. Tell him to keep or sell the extras as he wishes, and to consider them as payment for the pain and the loss of business caused by the ruckus."

One of the Skaven mages, she who was called Dreadfang the Shadowbinder, had perked up at the mention of execution. She moved closer as the Arch-Mage spoke, until she was right by the arm of the throne and leaning forward slightly, as if intending to whisper in his ear. She didn't get the chance, however, as he noticed her looming presence and waved her away. "I told you to stop that, damn it. Yes, you can carry out the execution and do whatever it is you do with the bodies. Just make the death clean and quick this time." Dreadfang scurried off without saying anything, heading for the side door of the throne room that gave the quickest path down to the dungeons. Skarx watched her go, wondering for what must be the hundredth time if the mage was attempting necromancy or if she had some other purposes for playing with the corpses. As he always had in the past, he brushed the thought away as unimportant and turned his attention back to Orix. "What was the second thing? Is that damned Cult of Light causing problems again?"

"Probably, but that's not relevant to this issue." The Draconian pulled a sheet of parchment out of a pouch hanging from his belt, then read over it with a frown before explaining himself. "There have been numerous stories coming from southern Lothmor, near Korvan. They speak of a spirit of some kind taking in the fearful and wounded, all brought to a particular region of the forest, then being healed or soothed. All of the stories share the same core details, so it seems there must be some truth to them."

"Fine, fine, a helpful spirit. Why is this important again?"

Orix looked down at the paper again. "That's the issue: I don't know if it's actually important or not, but I felt you should be informed and make a decision just in case. This spirit has apparently told those it helped that it wishes to speak to the leaders of Lothmor," at this the Lord General looked up from his paper to meet the Arch-Mage's eyes, "and that it cannot leave its home forest lest it die. I have no advice or suggestion to offer on the matter, as magical spirits are not my domain of expertise."

The familiar clack of claw on bone started up yet again, this time at a vigorous pace. General Hirol Elfheart took this opportunity to speak up for the first time this day. "It said leaders? Could mean it wants to talk to Lady Cillois as well." The mood of the others standing on the dais grew palpably tense, as they often did when the Forest Dwarf mentioned the elven woman who many saw as a potential threat to the Arch-Mage; Skarx himself showed no sign of being perturbed, he just kept on with his claw tapping. The tension dissipated quickly enough though, as the amiable dwarf spoke onward. "Of course, maybe it said 'leaders' just in case. Some places have those group things, councils, that run everything. If it wants to talk to whoever's in charge, can't get any more in charge than the Arch-Mage. Could make for a fun trek through the forest, at least."

"Fun?" Skarx spoke the word as if deliberating on its meaning. "Yes, fun, maybe. Might be nonsense, might be lies, might be fun." The hairless Skaven pushed himself forward and moved quickly, already halfway down the dais steps before the others started moving. "Orix and Hirol, gather whatever soldiers you deem fit for safety. Send someone to make sure Zarex is occupied and doesn't tag along. Oh, and send a runner to the dungeons to see if Dreadfang wants to come along." The three other mages of the cadre, including the Night Goblin Draz Darkrant and the Skaven Moz Earthwhisker who had both remained customarily silent during the morning's events in the throne room, stayed near the Arch-Mage without need for any orders. They were granted a high level of autonomy, such that they could have left and gone about their own business if they chose, but all of them were suitably intrigued by the spirit and wished to see it for themselves. Skinripple was already chattering away at them, speaking of what it could possibly be and what they might learn from it.

By the time they were heading out the front gate of The Maw, called The Teeth by most, Dreadfang had rejoined them with some conspicuous drops of blood marring her fur. Orix and Hirol had gathered a full six regiments for the excursion, taking the full troops of the four that had represented the on duty guards of the throne room and adding to that the two Arachnid Host regiments stationed at The Maw, all looking pristine and ready for war atop their giant spider mounts. It all made for quite a procession through the city of Tekis, though the citizens were mostly used to seeing troops heading through the city. Hordes still came out and cheered, as if they were some heroic party setting out to vanquish evil, simply because word spread that Arch-Mage Skarx Foulclaw was there. There were plenty of negative things one could say about the leader of Lothmor, but he most definitely had the support of the people.

***

They arrived in the area of the forest said to be home to the spirit, after getting some local guidance, while there were still a couple hours of light left in the day. Skarx and his mages set about combing the area for the spirit or anything nasty lying in wait, with compliments of soldiers going with each of them just in case of such a surprise. The Arch-Mage called out his identity and intent to speak with the spirit at regular intervals as he moved through the woods, impatiently awaiting the appearance of the spirit or whatever it was that was the source of the tales.