[table][row][center][h3]Artemisia[/h3]
[i][b]Army Encampment to Merchant Row, Garleton[/b][/i][/center][/row][cell]

True to Artemisia's prediction, Trace took her up on her offer, and within short order the pair embedded themselves in a local eatery to pass some time. In the period that followed, they broached a number of subjects, but seldom got deeper than the surface. While at the dark mage's prompting Trace gave up a couple stories about his mercenary past, which seemed fairly standard fair as far as Artemisia was concerned, he did not open up about anything further back or more interesting. That was fair, though, since neither did Artemisia. Whenever asked, she demonstrated a decisive refusal to share any details of her origins or goals, though that only seemed to pique Trace's curiosity. She did, however, opt to tell him that she sought someone with an incurable sickness and pink eyes. That reveal gradually led to Trace making a new offer, which Artemisia understood as a futile attempt to convince her to rethink mercenary work with him, but one that she accepted nonetheless: to spend the remainder of the evening among the armed forces, with Trace as her guide, to look for and inquire about her VIP.

That led to a less-than-pleasant romp through the army's turf over the course of the whole afternoon. While not always threatened, Artemisia managed to feel out of place the whole time, and even with Trace helping progress came slowly. Nobody seemed to know who she sought, nor did any soldier or squire bear the characteristics she watched for. She ended up in the castle barracks by the time Prince Alnard himself opted to give the recruits a rousing speech, thanks to Trace, who as an independent mercenary answered to that noble alone. The prince's word's rolled off her back like water across duck feathers. She harbored no intention whatsoever of fighting alongside him, let along dying with him. Important things remained for her to attend to—besides, she rather liked being alive, her comrades within the Coven, and most of all her dear father. As the mercenaries were dismissed, Artemisia found herself wondering where Solomon was now. The Wyvern Courier traveled far and wide, the breadth and beauty of the whole continent beneath him. With a smile, the dark mage remembered the last time he'd taken her up with him on that surly old drake of his. Flight was a glorious thing. If she'd been born in a city rather than the swamp, Artemisia wondered if she might have followed in his footsteps as a pegasus rider. Things would have been so much less complicated.

A short time later, as Artemisia put the finishing touches on a new entry in her Book of Secrets, the hairs on the back of her neck began to tingle. The air felt...charged. As in moments before a thunderstorm burst. Galvanized into action, she jotted down another line, snapped the diary shut, and stood up from where she sat against the outside of Trace's tent. Her baby blues scanned the night sky. Two seconds passed. Three. Four. The silver-haired woman furrowed her brow. Had she been imagining things...?

Then the starry heavens lit up with flame, and the entirety of Garleton shuddered like a stuck pig. “Whoa.” Artemisia steadied herself, watching as her vision filled with brilliant, hungry orange. The town was burning. She thought of jostling the tent and telling Trace to come out, but surely he heard and felt the blast for himself. The same thought scalded itself onto everyone's minds: they were under attack. All around, chaos had erupted. There weren't many citizens in this particular area to flat-out panic, but not all the soldiers kept their heads. For her part, Artemisia surveyed the tempest coolly, looking for an exit. “Resonant flames,” she explained to Trace with nonchalance. “The work of a large mage circle. I must confess myself impressed, though not so much that I shall hesitate in my withdrawal. Thank you for your help, Mr. Trace, but I believe it is time to depart.”

That proved easier said than done, however. Orders came in, as best she could tell, for the soldiers to help evacuate the citizens via the castle. Since evacuation sounded pretty good to Artemisia, and running willy-nilly through the city could very well lead her into the enemy force responsible for the fire strike, she allowed herself to be swept up by the current. That, however, turned out to be a bad idea. With her lack of size and athleticism, as well as her robes, keeping up with the stampeding civilians ended up being both difficult and hazardous. As the stream of humans rounded a corner to head up the main thoroughfare to the castle, Artemisia took a hard shove, tripped over the edge of her gown, and stumbled out of the crowd. She hit an abandoned horse cart head-on and dropped like a sack of flour. After rolling a couple times, she came to a stop, clutching her head as unbidden tears filled her eyes. “Ow ow ow, Gwyn damn it.” Despite her arching noggin she struggled to her feet, lurching in the wrong direction a short way before falling to her knees.

One of the soldiers tasked with evacuating noticed and left the crowd to jog her way down Merchant Row. “Miss? You alright? You're going the wrong way.” The man, with long blonde hair in a ponytail, wielded gauntlets and wore a concerned expression. With his green eyes on Artemisia he didn't notice the arrow sailing his way until it was too late. “Gah!” It sunk into his right thigh, provoking an agonized grunt. He staggered but avoided falling over as a few marauders came into view. Gritting his teeth, he raised his gauntlets into a ready stance, only to wince again as Artemisia used him for support to stand up again. In grim silence the woman held up her hands, surrounding them in purple energy and black particles. Whether he appreciated it or not, this fistfighter would be backed up by a practitioner of the dark arts. Whoever these aggressors were, they had no idea what they were in for.

[/cell]

[cell][center][img]https://i.imgur.com/wW8IBnQ.png[/img]
__________________________
Status: [color=lawngreen]Dazed, small, and ready to brawl[/color]
[/center][u]Class:[/u] Occultist
[u]Inv:[/u] Vulnerary, Book of Secrets
[u]New entry                                     [/u]
[sub][i]This afternoon I spent perusing the area's armed forces. I expect ordinary soldiers would be loathe to have someone such as I in their midst, but I had the fortune of being vouched for and guided around by my new acquaintance, Trace. While our conversation at lunch did precious little to endear himself to me in terms of intrigue, the fellow is certainly proving himself obliging and useful. All the same, I fear today's end will mark the termination of our cooperation. I did manage to behold the prince himself, whose striking features have inspired me to learn more about his exploits come the next opportunity. Perhaps it is construable as indulgent, but I am sure time spent learning the tale of the royal family is not time misspent.

As I write now, I find certain sensations gnawing at me. A lick of magic haunts the air, tingling the mind and body. I am sure that something interesting is soon to happen.[/i][/sub][/cell][/table]