[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/VuLUHbY.png[/img][/center][center][h1]Alba[/h1][/center]
[i]"So the great hero of myth is unwilling to take a risk."[/i]

The voice in the Black Archer's head did not speak in anger, nor even irritation. It could have been an earnest impression or a sarcastic barb; Alba's childike intonations were so dry and dispassionate that it was often hard to tell what she was trying to convey. It hadn't helped that she'd been on her own for most of the last hundred years, and was severely out of practice when it came to speaking with others.

[i]"These are not your Argonauts, Archer. Our so-called faction cannot be trusted, nor can it be relied upon. Child mages without an inkling of experience, a menagerie of zealots and madmen plucked from history: you think that this rabble can hold against a competent and unified enemy?"[/i]

A pause. She gave him a moment to consider her words, and at the same time considered them herself. In truth, she didn't particularly mind letting her Archer follow his own course of action; a warrior like him knew battle more intimately than a mage ever could. On the other hand, he had been raised in the shadow of heroes bound together by strong leadership and united in purpose, which was a far cry from their current situation. His history colored his perceptions, and that was a flaw she aimed to counterbalance.

[i]"If you will not draw the enemy's attention, then take care to protect the Servants of Black. I've little confidence in them surviving an assault nearly so well as you would."[/i]

In the cold house with its dead hearth, the lady in white unclasped her hands. Raising one arm, she snapped her fingers, unleashing a sharp [i]crack[/i] that echoed through the darkened rooms.

In its wake came a growing rustle, as small, dark shapes shook themselves into motion. Like a swarm of rats, they scuttled downwards, crawling between floorboards and into the basement. There were tunnels there, small burrows dug by familiars and small golems over the past week, leading far away from Alba's workshop. Down and down the many holes the shadows crawled, until they eventually emerged into the rain, spreading sharp wings and thin as wafers and taking flight. To any unsuspecting passerby, they would seem like nothing more than a flock of bats, fluttering about in the dark. 

To a mage, however, they were death on the wind, a host of tiny killers and spies streaking south in search of their prey.