It was dark, save for the poor lighting of the occasional torch, and the air was dank and musty. In this regard it was not dissimilar from other dungeons. The only true difference was the superior security presence, with armoured warriors draped in Order tabards standing watch outside the cells, patrolling the halls. Built underground, no light could enter the dungeon of Mirador Keep and so time telling was nigh-impossible, but to those with attentive memories, it was roughly the time of dawn.

“I know this looks bad,” Ceara felt the walls of her black cell, running her slender fingers across the smooth stones. “But I’ve been in worse, much worse.  Well, maybe not [i]much[/i] worse.  You get the idea, right?  Nima?”  She placed her ear to a stone, wrapping it with her knuckles.  “Nima?  You hear me?”

Nima’s voice sounded in the darkness, coming from the cell adjacent to the one holding Ceara.  “I hear you.”

The thief paused for a moment, cocking her head.  “Are you mad at me?”

“I’m not pleased with our situation.”

Ceara sighed.  “Nima, come on…  You were right, ok?  Happy?”

“No.”

The thief rolled her eyes, placing her hands on her hips.  “We can't do anything about it now, right?  You’re acting like a child.”

"You are right, we can't do anything about it now."

The sound of footsteps approaching the two cells grew louder by the second. A familiar voice could be heard echoing through the dungeons. "Ser Petros. Move these two within the same cell, for I wish to speak with them both." As this was said, the jingling of keys could be heard as the door to Ceara's cell was opened. Metal clanked about as soldiers moved to the cell doors and opened them up to retrieve the prisoners within.

"Grandmaster's orders, lass," Ceara's guard said to her, gesturing her to stand up.

The thief stood, brushing grime from her clothing and sweeping past the guard.  She entered the other cell, smiling at an annoyed-looking Nima, and then settling her gaze on the Grandmaster, who stood at the other side of the stone room.  "To what do I owe the second honour, Grandmaster?  Here for my fingers?"

Lucian stood near the open door, leaning out to gesture for someone out of sight to come forwards. Instead of a cloaked torturer or maimer, a little boy no older than 13 approached, holding two fine wooden mugs in his hands. Lucian delicately took the mugs from his hands with a smile and slight, no less courteous bow, thanking him for his work. The boy grinned from ear to ear, saluting the Grandmaster before running off.

Lucian walked back inside the cell, the guards closing the door behind him. He took a seat before Ceara and Nima. He started to offer the drinks to the two, but stopped and looked at Nima. "Does your religion prohibit you to drink qahwe?" he asked the slave-soldier, staring him in the eye.

Nima shook his head, slowly and deliberately.   "No.  My vows to Da'av do, though.  I may only drink before combat."

Lucian nodded, shrugging passively. "It lacks alcohol, but I suppose the Da'avi Creed does not quite care. If you don't mind, may I?" he asked, lifting what was supposed to be Nima's mug near his lips. He looked over to Ceara and handed her the other mug, meant for her. "Qahwe. It boosts your energy, helps you to wake up. Among the few things we brought home from Iurusolym."

"Thank you kindly."  replied Ceara, wrapping both her hands around the warm mug.  She moved closer to Nima, eyeing the Grandmaster suspiciously.  "Why are you down here, truly?  To give us this...  qahye, or whatever?  I doubt it."

"Well clearly, that's still part of why I'm here. I'm not here to take your fingers, but to give them back to you. Or, rather, a chance to keep them when otherwise you would be sentenced to lose them," he explained, taking a sip of the faintly steaming qahwe. It was thick, somewhat syrupy, and bitter. Original recipe, unfiltered. "Last night, after the two of you were extricated from the Great Hall, there was a second, more pressing interruption. One that I'm certain concerns you as well as the rest of this mortal world."

Ceara raised her eyebrow.  "I'm certain you don't have the slightest clue what concerns me, [i]Ser[/i]."  Nima crossed his arms, but the slave soldier said nothing.  Ceara continued without missing a beat.  "But if it'll keep my fingers firmly attached to my hands, I'm ready to listen."

"I'm certain your continued life and the security of your mortal soul would deeply concern you," Lucian replied. "Our priests detected a monstrous imbalance being made between the Light and the Darkness. The Lord of the Revolting, Hargash, was slain in his own Infernum Realm by what my honoured guest Herbert Leintke informed me, and what my archivists confirmed for me, was the Father of Dragons, Htraknu. His essence taken by a power-monger who does not seek to stop at one Shaitun. Should he continue, he may well progress to stake claims on the æther of the Living Gods themselves. For what purpose he wages this war we don't yet know, but I doubt his intentions are benevolent."

He took another sip of his drink, gently wiping off the residue from his upper lip with the edge of his sleeve. "Ser Leintke also informs me that there was another survivor of Krossavik among him and Erika Nilsson. A man who compiled extensive documentation of Htraknu for over longer than a decade. Problem is, said documents are under lock and key in Viarosa. A stingy, petty worm of a nobleman holds them with no intention of ever releasing them. That, young thief, is where you and your bodyguard come into play."

A smile spread over Ceara's face.  "So you need me, do you?  What happened to fingers or tongue?  Don't have someone in this little castle of yours that's as good at being some hollow knight as they are stealing, don't you?"  She snickered, looking over at Nima.  The thief was obviously enjoying this.  "I don't work for free, no matter where you're holding me.  Stealing those papers is gonna cost you."

Lucian was completely unamused. Right away he could read her every expression and tell precisely what she was; insecure, petty, vindictive, and simple. "Right. The 'fingers or tongue' spiel was entirely the product of Seneschal Hristov's pride and admiration of the Order and its leadership, him being part of it. While I am on Mirador's grounds, I am the final arbitrator in such matters, and I had no intention of maiming you on the spot before countless witnesses like some childish mad-king," he clarified, leaning forwards. He was violating Ceara's personal bubble, deliberately getting in her space. "Secondly. Payment is of nothing. Within reason, set a price and it shall be fetched. Say, 500 arums. 200 up front, 300 for finishing the task and bringing the journal and associated documents to me. If you require gear, such as new weapons, we will commission them for you - though I prefer this to be bloodless."

"600.  300 on both ends, when I start and when I finish."  Ceara thought for a moment.  "Nima needs his armour back, and his sword as well.  I won't travel without him, and I'd prefer to travel on horseback."

"Fair. Done, done, already polished and ready for return. We'll have your horses returned to you posthaste," Lucian replied, taking another drink of his beverage, nearly halfway finished. "Any further requests?"

"Only one."  Ceara looked at the Grandmaster, her grin fading slighty.  "I want you to write the western lords, with your own lettering, and tell them that you've forgiven me for all past crimes.  Politely suggest they should do the same.  Tell them that my work is holy or something, you know how the nobility loves to look like they eat that up."

Lucian remained silent for just a moment longer, before he burst into a chuckling fit, trying to maintain a civil volume. His laughter became hushed and wheezy as he looked between the thief and the slave-soldier. He quickly regained his composure, but the smile held steadfast to his face. "See, a higher price warrants greater service," he replied. "I'm absolutely willing to pardon you both and forward the notice to the major duchies and kingdoms, but I'm afraid that's not a one-task price you're asking for. Would you just as quickly spoil your pardon to continue your thievery for 600 arums? You would ruin my reputation for having good judgement and bespatter the Order with the stain of alleged corruption."

He cleared his throat, rubbing his hands together. "What you are charging for, you see, is continued service under our extended travel party, Herbert, Rhiara, and I; but then there is a value disparity. That's too expensive a task for 600 arums and a pardon. So I see your hit, and I raise you one better," he continued, "Htraknu, the Father of Dragons, is a wealthy monster, with an entire Infernum Realm now at his command, with others likely to follow. Possibly with command of a cult. Who has to acquire funding..." he rolled his wrist slowly, gesturing for Ceara to think critically a moment. "Do you hear me?"

Ceara frowned, furrowing her brow.  "I've heard of Htraknu, everyone has.  They say his wings block out the sun, and his fire takes forests in single breaths.  He is the largest dragon the world has ever known, and he has reigned on this world for far longer than you or I."  She paused.  "I like gold, thats true, but I like my life better.  If you lot are planning on going charging off to a fiery death, thats fine.  I'm not dying alongside you.  I'll just take the 600, if thats 'right."

Lucian looked the thief in the eyes, twiddling his fingers impatiently. He cocked his head, and all expression vanished from his visage. "I don't plan on dying," he said, as matter-of-factly as physically possible. "And those who stand with me against Htraknu will be safeguarded. For my Father in Heaven is a God of Justice. He will permit no ill fate to befall those charged with preserving Heaven and Thurius themselves." He slowly finished off his qahwe, not once taking his eyes off of Ceara's. Setting the mug down he continued, "Untold riches, perfect remission of sins and legal transgressions, and freedom are yours, being offered to you on a platter of gold. I would think twice before replying to me, and hold your tongue lest ye disrespect the Order's fallen as you have before. You can deny me all you wish, deny my Father my God, and deny my Order's validity and the chances of our success, but unless you would rather crack jokes at the expense of those who died in the name of countless millions to include yourself and thus lose this golden opportunity at a new and better life, I would very carefully consider what it is that next leaves your lips."

“Look, I don't mean any offence, but the thousands that marched into the eastern deserts under your Father’s banner didn't exactly sing of his protection.  Noble deaths, probably, but deaths all the same.  Your Father couldn’t save them, no one could.”  Ceara looked down.  “I am in the business of surviving more than I am for stealing.  Stealing from some noble is one thing, and fighting a dragon and his army is another.  This thing can only end one way, and it’s going to be with—“

“I will go.”  Nima leaned forward, interrupting Ceara as she spoke.  “Freedom, this is promised?  In all these western lands?”

"Absolutely, on my honour I swear it to you. Freedom is yours. Warrior-poets in the North shall sing your praises, and will honour you appropriately as well. As for the East, I can make no guarantees, unfortunately, yet the rest of the world, I can and will. Look me in the eyes, and tell me you see but a trace of insincerity in me." He kept his eyes open wide, staring down Ceara, slowly looking towards Nima.

“Your honour, Northern honour, poetry, none of it matters.”  Nima stared back at the Grandmaster, holding his gaze.  “I want your freedom, and I will have it in writing before I ride with you.  We do not deal in sincerity where I am from.”  

“What are you doing Nima?” Ceara put down her drink, a vision of confusion on her face.  “Do you think this is funny or something?  If you go with these idiots, you're going to die.  I can't do that.”

“So be it.  I would rather die standing than live running.”  Nima turned his head so he could regard his friend, speaking softer than before.  “You did not win my freedom the day you took me from the battlefield, Ceara, you merely gave me the chance.”

“Running hasn't been so bad.  I've been doing it my whole life.”  The red-haired thief was almost pleading now.  “We can run together, at least.”

“I was not born to run.  I was not raised to run.  So I will not run."

Ceara moved across the room, stopping directly beside Nima and whispering in an atttempt to communicate without the Grandmaster's hearing.  "Nima.  Please.  Don't do this.  This isn't living, this is marching to death."  She wiped her eyes, angrily fighting the panic that was now taking hold of her.  "If you do this, I'll never see you again."

Nima looked at her, but his solemn expression did not change.  It never changed.  "Then our time has been good, Ceara of Helrith, and I thank you."

The thief made a strangled sound, backing away from the easterner and running her hand through her hair. She was quiet for a long while, occasionally muttering in her native language. Finally, she looked up, with fire in her eyes.  "Fine.  If I'm going to die, my price is going up. I want 800 for stealing the documents, plus my share of the dragon gold, plus this damned declaration of innocence. And if we kill the Father of Dragons, your Patriarch better make me a fucking saint."

"I'm afraid the process of Glorification requires far more than the good word of the Patriarch of Aesera, to include miracles made by the effect of your soul's intercession on behalf of those who pray with you in mind," Lucian replied, shaking his head solemnly, "But 800, 400 both ways, a generous share of Htraknu's ill-gotten fortune, and the pardon are yours." He turned to Nima, bowing his head respectfully. "You will have it with the pardon in writing. And should it be of further consolation, I will have my scribes draft a contract to put these discussed terms in writing as well for posterity."

Nima nodded, accepting the terms silently.  Ceara, meanwhile, crossed her arms, glowering at the Grandmaster.  "Can I have my saddlebags?  I'd like to change into my proper clothes before we get started.  Nima'll probably want his armour now, too."

"Right, right, of course. Can't have you charging into battle with no equipment," the Grandmaster replied. "I'll have my men bring your things around. As it currently stands, I have business to attend to scrambling the Order for this coming war. Go with the guards, stay close, and do what you must." He raised an authoritative finger, waving it to and fro pointing at Ceara, then Nima, then back again. "And no stealing. Not from us or our allies, anyways." He stood to leave, picking up his empty mug and offering a hand for Ceara's.

The thief pressed the mug to her chest, shaking her head slowly.  "Just hold on for a moment, I'm not bloody done with this yet."  She paused, raising one eyebrow.  "Don't worry, I'm not going to [i]steal[/i] it."

"Aye, just hand it back to an attendant upon finishing. I hope it's to your liking," said Lucian. He turned heel and began to walk towards the door. He stopped just at the exit and turned back around to face Nima. "One final note for 'Nima,' was it?" He approached the slave-soldier, crouching to eye level with him. "I have tremendous respect for your unwavering senses of loyalty, bravery, and determination, not that it likely matters to you. While I may be willing to accept you into the traveling party's fold, I strongly doubt that the Apostles would be as welcoming. Especially Kinara. As a matter of fact, I would prefer it if you stayed away from her. My earlier threat stands -- you will not attempt to finish the last task your Rosilandic owners gave you."

Nima was silent for a long time, and when he spoke, his voice was low and firm.  “I do not serve the elves anymore.  You will have your wish.”

"Then we'll have no problem with each other. Thank you both for your time, you won't be disappointed." He stood up, bowed to the two of them, and left the cell. He mumbled his instructions to the guards before walking out of sight.

"Gods, we're going to die." moaned Ceara, burying her face in her hands soon after the Grandmaster had gone from sight. Nima ignored her, turning away from his friend and staring at the uneven walls of their dark prison.