OOC: Oops, sorry, I forgot to mention, it’s late evening, approaching sunset, and the fountain at the center of town is mounted on a disc-shaped electric lantern, which functions as the town bonfire. [@wxps350] The tall, pointy man with the eyepatch seemed eager enough. “Absolutely!” said the skinny Legionnaire. “I promise, years from now, you’re gonna look back and think, this was the moment that split my life in before and after. The Legion’ll do that, mark my words.” The chubbier Legionnaire, Louis, put down his clipboard. “Actually, if you don’t mind, we could use your help for a demonstration. We can loan you some Legion gear, if you don’t have any, and maybe stage a public swordsmanship drill. It sounds like you have some experience, and we’d appreciate the help.” [hr] [@CrimsonAmaranth] The Legionnaire had moved on from the serial killer. He had entertained the crowd enough—there were two more prisoners to cover. In the middle cage was a man with tangled blonde hair and many missing teeth. He had plenty of colorful and illegible words for the crowd earlier, and a fair bit of defiant screaming, but when attention fell on him, he hushed up immediately, like a school boy caught misbehaving. His fingers rubbed his knuckles, and he stared holes into his bare feet. According to the Legionnaire, this prisoner had traded Legion secrets to the Army of Heroes during the war. When a superior officer discovered his misdeeds, the man attacked, and in the struggle the officer was killed. The man ran. When the war ended, he was eventually tracked down and arrested. There was a short speech on cowardice, on the glorious history of the Tempesta, and the legacy of Miranda Newcastle, all delivered with dignified aplomb. “Feel sympathy for this man,” the Legionnaire said finally, “turned to murder by hard, desperate times—feel sorrow, and pity, and regret. Feel whatever you think is respectful, and appropriate. But never forget his crimes. The dead won’t.” The man seemed not to hear the Legionnaire. “But there are worse things than murderers,” said the Legionnaire by the cages. His voice seemed to lose something, or gain something, not a dramatic hush like before, but a hard, cold bite. If he was still performing, then it was a very convincing performance. “Do you know dry drowning? The water cure? They call it waterboarding in the far south. A victim, see, is strapped to a table, a damp cloth is placed over their face. Water is then poured over them, over and over and over, forcing the victim to experience the sensation of drowning. They cannot see, and they cannot move. All they can feel is asphyxiation. Sometimes the cloth is removed, and the victim drinks the water until their stomach bloats, and the Army of Heroes would then beat them until they vomited, so the process could be repeated. Brain damage, lung damage, shock, and death were all common, by the end. Sometimes the victim would break their own bones when their body convulsed against the restraints.” The giggles and gossip fell out, like a candle muffled under a damp pair of palms. “This woman does not deserve to have her name known. Like all the Army of Heroes, she proved herself a soulless traitor during the September Uprising. But she didn’t just betray her homeland—she used the Solvita, the holy gift of Miranda Newcastle herself, to torture Legionnaires and civilians alike. There are no words to express her betrayal. Rest assured, she will hang at the noose until dead.” [hr] [@FrozenEcstasy] “This isn’t the heartland,” said the Mayor. “You can’t just—“ A clear, tinkling laugh cut him off. Not too far from where he was arguing with the Legionnaires, a slim young man made his way through the crowd, a large pack slung over his shoulder, a cat perched comfortably on his shoulders. “The Hedgewizard?” asked the first Legionnaire. The Mayor nodded. “But, I’m telling you-— “You, young man.” The Legionnaire and his companion approached the Hedgewizard. They were tall and sad-eyed fellows, one with no hair to speak of, the other boasting a neat gray mane that went to his shoulders, and a beard that went nearly to his belt. “We’ve heard of your work here. You seem like an admirable fellow, Hedgewizard Reverante.” “I hope you won’t expect prejudice from us,” said the bearded man wheezily, who appeared much older than his bald, rheumy-eyed companion. “The old powers bless all who walk in the footsteps of Lady Miranda. But do you think you could be doing more? The People’s Legion seeks powerful magicians like yourself. And your powers are quite something, if the Mayor speaks truthfully.” “Rare these days,” said the watery-eyed bald man. “But he seems reliable. As do you. The Legion calls on all children of the Tempesta, and would give them seats at Castle Miranda herself, where we might arm you, support you, and give you all the tools necessary to lift up your country and its people.” [hr] [@vietmyke] There were a group of them, four men, huddled up by one of the tavern's windows. It was frosted with age and boasted a meager collection of dead flies by the sill, but it was still clear who they were staring at through the glass—a slouched, hooded man playing the cittern. "I saw him when he came in," whispered one of the men. "Eyes without pupils, and they were full of a mist, a foggy old something—he's devil-marked, believe you me." "He's a blind old man and you're a fat old drunk," said one of the others, but his voice wavered with doubt, or maybe watered-down alcohol. "Big guy like that? I saw him, he's all scarred up, see? Battle scars. That's no witch, I bet you it's an Army mage, on the run. What kind of bard looks like that?" "We'd get a reward, if we told a Legionnaire." "You're out of it. He's just an old man. They'll tell us to eat shit." "It's worth a shot, isn't it?" After another bit of talking, they four men left. It wasn't long after before a Legionnaire appeared by the tavern porch, asking for the large man with with the cittern.