It was one of those summer days that seemed to stretch on forever. The air was heavy with the scent of the sea and the faint sweetness of things growing too fast. Though as evening fell the call of the gulls and the merry chirping of the sparrows and finches faded as they found their roosts for the night, leaving only the steady, rhythmic crash of the sea waves.

In a particular inn, close to the harbour, a group was gathering: a strange group by most people's reckoning. There was the Sylpharim woman with the amber hair and the striking gray-blue eyes, slight, and unimposing were it not for the huge black wings behind her back. Then, there was the Firindorian woman, taller than most men, with leaf-shaped pointy ears and a youthful face that belied her advanced years. Then there were the two men, both foreigners, one of whom spoke none of the local language.

"I'm sure it's Turakindi," the Sylpharim woman assured the others, "I stepped across the threshold before being ambushed by troglodytes. The scale of the building was quite unmistakable... plus I had the opportunity before the troglodytes showed up to take a look at some of the statues and inscriptions. I can't read Turakindi, but I do know what it looks like."

"I trust what you are saying, Aderynel," the Firindorian woman assured her, "What I'm most interested in is why you believe it hasn't been entered before you?"

One of the men, the taller one with the dark hair gave a chuckle, "At the end of the day, she doesn't... but who cares? It's not on any map, so that means it hasn't been properly explored. It goes deep underground. There are troglodytes and other dangers. Who knows what lie in the deep places no person has gone since the Turakindi sealed the place up? I, for one, am excited to find out."

"The place is well hidden in the mountains," Aderynel explained, ignoring his outburst to address the Firindorian's question, "If there is a path to it, it was lost to nature millennia ago. From what I could see the entrance was covered by rockfall aeons ago. Further rockfall revealed it and, in the process, brought one of the massive doors down, which allowed me to enter. I can't say with certainty, but I think I was the first person over that threshold since the Turakindi left."

"Good enough for me!" the tall man announced with a grin.

The Firindorian woman took a moment to consider this, leaning back in her chair, "From what I know of the time, and I have spoken to some of the ancient wood elves who lived through that time, the Turakindi did not imagine the cycle war would devastate them in the way that it did. They built vaults to safeguard things for later, not imagining that their people would slowly fade from the world with the passage of time. It is a sad but inevitable truth that all things pass and fade away. The Sidfir were the first people and they, for the most part, have passed through the Vale of Mists, never to return to these lands again. The Turakindi have faded into history with the same, sad inevitability... which is all to say that I can imagine them creating a vault with the thought they would return to it, only to never return," she nodded, "Like Hagen, I am excited to know what lies behind those doors."

She turned to the shorter man, "Quintus?" she prompted.

He was a tanned figure with a mop of dark hair that marked him as a Southerner, though, unusually, he had blue eyes. He gave a small shrug to her question, "I'm sworn to you, M'Lady -"

"Tárwen," she corrected.

"I'm sworn to you, Tárwen," he said, with a slight smile and nod to concede she preferred to be referred to by her given name, "I go wherever you go."

"Yes, yes," Tárwen waved that away, "But do you want to go?"

Quintus gave a small shrug, before replying, "An ancient ruin infested by the Host of Darkness? I was, and remain in spirit, a soldier of the Regnum. It is our duty to cleanse such places."

"I'm not sure how much cleansing we'll be doing as the four of us!" Hagen declared, "Let us hope some others have been intrigued by young Aderynel's call to arms!"

vashthishtra silent sands. “Vashra”

The large rabbit fell almost instantly to a large arrow that hit its side in the dusk light, its hunter had been silently moving from the wind of it and sensed its heat against the cooking night. The world was cooling from the sun and made the living creature glow hot against the hunters arrow. A slowly gathering pool of hot blood that turned from a vibrant yellow slowly into blue likes its life force gone. “Excellent” the hunter said turning back to its camp leaving a S shaped marked in the packed dirt of the main path and heads into the scrubby brush and low trees out the way where a carefully concealed fire lay in a rocky dip, lowly smoking, and giving very little signs of the scale folks presence.

The camp was all but invisible and the under had been here for a few days, taking time to rest after an extended journey and also to undertake maintenance, craft new arrows and to think over what to do next. An adventure to a place once thought myth and lost, an adventure deep into the unknown would bring great honour to his name among the tube especially if he returned with valuable metal or materials belonging to the God people of times of creation. Scale folk might not be the civilised city and town folk that gathered in other lands but they were far from barbarians and clans and small tribes were strongly bonded even when many leagues were far from each other. Loyalty to the clan was in soul, not just sight of one's home.

vashthishtra was now far from home, far from the sands and rocks that he had started from and deep into lands where water ran in great rivers rather than small rocky springs. Things were green here and the sun was weaker compared to what he was used to, not the imposing force that burned the landscape dry and forced the strongest even to be tested against the might of the desert and the light. he followed rumour despite many that looked at himnwith a mix of fear, curiosity, hate or just confused. They had never seen one of his kind it seemed.

Word brought him down to a place he would not normally venture often, by water, where houses rose like rocks in neat patterns in tight canyons of structures built by people not nature's forces. The Inn he found by its sign more than anything and checked his Seax and the scale folk pushed the door open and slid in deliberately making a noise as he remembered most people got spooked by how silently the scale folk could slither and move outside of their simple senses… Luckily he had learned from others, those he helped, escorted and guided using the coins he possessed to purchase an ale which helped soothe the people's view a little. He knew how to at least act like one of them even if he never would and always be an outsider to these folk.

“I hear, a party seeeeeeks adventure. Deep in mountains, seek treasure yes.” He said palming a coin to the chieftain at the bar, it was a small coin but it was a gesture he had been told to make. People needed a little … lubrication he was told the word was. He did not fully understand but he knew when it worked and when he was directed to a table.

Men, winged, a long lived one. Woman, they made an odd mix and the table looked like the one he sought. His own appearance probably caused some stares, snake like, scales and an armour that was made from a dozen other nations, kinds and technologies combined into a set hand crafted by the scale folk that wore it. He had stashed some gear at his own concealed camp, deciding on a spear and so would be…overtly armed.

“My name is Vashra, you seek clan mates for adventure yes? To visit the man rocks of the past ones? To gain treasure?” He paused before taking a drink, they seemed well armed and the long lived one… they were truly hard to guess. “Two shod, winged ones seek to enter the lands of dead masters and claim gilt prize, I can help, I travel, I see many places, I help you avoid scale clan homes, seek food.” He finished and rested lower on his tail like body, the place did not really have a place to sit for his kin folk, bar perching on it in a facsimile of sitting, a gesture that looked and felt a little unnatural.

The Beast folk tilted his head and drank from his ale, that ale was … Interesting though his sense of flavour and tastes did not quite align with the human kinds and unsure what the difference would be to its makers. He swayed slightly as he waited, slightly hopeful and interested with the idea, this adventure had potentially gathered the scale of folks' sense of adventure and desire to travel beyond the borders.

@Dyelli Beybi

"We're not heading all the way to the Morgador," the Sylpharim replied, "So I doubt we'll encounter many of your people... but I'm not averse to you joining us and a share of whatever treasure we might encounter," she paused momentarily before adding, "Aderynel, at your service. I am a historian so am mostly interested in this place of scholarship."

"Hagen," the taller man introduced himself, with a wry laugh, "And I have to admit, Vashra, I only half-understood what you said. I am here because it looks more interesting than managing a farm."

"Quintus Laeca," the shorter man replied, subjecting Vashra to an inscrutable stare as if trying to measure the worth of him, "I'm here because I've taken an oath."

"And I'm here for something very specific," the tall, Firindorian woman declared, without actually saying what it was, "If we find it, I will claim it, otherwise I have no interest in anything else you find... oh and I'm Tárwen. We don't see too many of your folks outside of the Morgador. You would make the first now I come to think about it. A pleasure to meet you, Vashra."

Arda was listening to the sea.

When the tinker had directed Ardashir to this inn, Arda had not expected it to be so close to the harbor. It was dusk by the time he reached the wharf. The waves beat against the weathered stones of the piers. Arda stood on the waterfront and listened. The steady boom and crash of the surf, like a great drum, rolled in ceaseless rhythm. The Farseeker touched the reed flute tucked into the red silk sash that wound around his waist. His gloved fingers tapped the tone holes, playing a silent harmony in counterpoint to the singing of the sea.

For a moment, there in the soft grey twilight, his burnoose sodden with ocean spray, Ardashir felt that it was almost in reach: whatever secret of ages past he had been chasing since he had first glimpsed it in the eyes of his Sidfir teachers. Arda had chased that secret through ancient scrolls, inscriptions - even shattered seals like the one the tinker had given him. Now, as his fingers played their silent music, those relics suddenly seemed futile to the point of absurdity. What Arda had seen in the eyes of his undying teachers wasn't some historical text; it was enlightenment, a sacred wisdom beyond the cycle of life and death and time and war.

The sea did not live, did not die. It was unmoved by time or war. For a moment, Arda allowed himself to entertain the possibility that he had spent half his life looking in the wrong places - that he should have spent all this time listening to the music of the sea.

No. Perhaps it was true, though? Yes, perhaps. Yes, almost certainly. But Ardashir of Navavasta had not been born to listen. He had been born to search. He knew that about himself, knew it in his bones. He could not rest from searching. Not even to find what he sought.

"Hm." The young man chuckled softly. He shook his head. He thought of a snippet of poetry - Tinwë, he thought, early Silver Age. "Áni amúle i-nor, naite omentielmo esë." How sharper than a thorn, the mind that knows itself.

A passing Stromish sailor blinked in surprise and squinted at Arda, for Sidfirian sounded but little like Mitradaevaka. The Farseeker glanced back at him, and straightened his back. The hilt of a scimitar rustled through the folds of his burnoose to glint in the twilight: an ivory handle long enough for two hands. Sapphire eyes winked from a golden lion's-head pommel. The sailor grinned and made a little open-palmed gesture with his hands - meant nothing by it - and continued on his way.

Arda turned. The sea was the sea again: beautiful, no doubt, but it did not sing. He sighed, and in two long steps passed to the door of the inn, and stepped inside.

Mitradaevaka were not an uncommon sight, here in Ealdormuda: the Empire lay directly to the south, and much of its gold and incense and silk flowed through this port to the rest of the North. Southern traders followed wherever such goods passed. But Ardashir of Navavasta did not look like a trader: not with a tabbādeh of midnight-blue watered silk beneath the road-stained burnoose, and with a glinting steel vambrace encasing his left forearm, and with that kingly sword at his side. Nor did Arda carry himself like a man who dealt in trade: there was an easy assurance in his bearing that could not be taught or feigned. No - despite his dusty boots and well-used knapsack, this was a lord of the Empire past all doubting. The inn's barkeep took the newcomer in with a single practiced look, and smiled, and offered a respectful nod.

Arda inclined his head in response, and bought a bottle of decent Arventian wine, and paid in silver. Then he turned to the business that had brought him hither. The tinker had said that a sylph was staying at this inn - a sylph who had come into town with Turakindian artifacts. There was only one sylph here that Arda could see: a slip of a girl with amber hair and grey-blue eyes and great ink-black wings folded behind her.

She kept strange company. Ardashir made out a young man in an Arventian tunic, and an older man, scarred and scruffy, with a well-made spatha at his side. Then there was an elf: Firindorian, Arda thought, though so fair that for a moment he took her for one of the Fae. But there was something a bit too human in the way she waved away some blandishment from the Arventian. And as Ardashir watched, a fifth joined the group: legless, slithering, sheathed in a ragtag coat of homemade armor. One of the Scale Folk, Arda realized with surprise: for he had come but recently from the Morgador, and creatures like this one had served him well as guides there.

Ardashir approached the table. In doing so, he overheard the strangers introduce themselves. Aderynel, the sylph, sought history; Hagen, the soldier, sought adventure; Quintus, the Arventian, had taken an oath; and Tárwen, the elf, gracefully but definitively declined to say just what she sought. Arda smiled briefly, and walked up next to Vashra, the beastman.

"Ardashir of Navavasta," he announced, "if I have arrived in time to join in introductions." He smiled a bit ruefully. "Pardon the interruption." A handsome man, this, and that smile said he knew it: warm olive skin and bright green eyes, a bit boyish despite his beard, with a swift flashing grin and a faint scent of agarwood and dried limes. Arda held out the bottle of Arventian red, and placed it on the table. "In my defense, I come bearing gifts."

Then his leaf-green eyes settled on Aderynel. "Word around town is that you found something in the mountains," Arda remarked. He reached into his burnoose and retrieved a small stone seal, half chipped away; the Mitradaevaka's gloved finger traced the runes around its rim. "I believe you said that you are a historian, Aderynel. So am I. I can read these runes. If they resemble those you found up in the mountains, then I think we could help each other. What do you think?" With a quick turn, Ardashir glanced around to include Aderynel's other companions in his question.

vashthishtra silent sands. “Vashra”

Vasha nodded his head, he had picked up the gesture off others, he had learned and copied off others. That was how Vashra had adapted and learned from, so many times he learned and adapted. That was the scale folk way. They learned to live in the Morgador, they learned to travel, they learned to widen and slithering deeper and further into the lands that few others wanted or dared to travel. That suited the Scale folk just fine, very few wanted to even travel into the lands. Those who did, were far more interesting and also more dangerous.

“You see my people. When we want you to. If you traveled to Morgador, we saw you, tracked you, but not saw us. They approach when they want, or stray too close.” He said frankly. The scale folk were a reserved group and kept to themselves, it was only those who ignored the warnings, ignored the bones set of past invaders. They could choose, the Morgador was their home, a home few others could make.

He was frank, honest and did not hide his people's nature. The Scale folk were odd,but honest.

“Crop Smith, adventure better, crops important but adventure …. Good.” Vashra said with a drink of his beer, resting more casually and lower on his muscular tail, he curled about and blended in…well as best as one could be able to bend into the place full of two shod on leather and metal covers, winged and few were of genuine beast folk. “I hold my word to the clan.” Vashra met his eyes with slit eyes set in scales and a hint of fangs, the Scale folk said. He could read people, it was an essential skill to survive.

“We stay in our lands, we not always welcomed beyond the sands and rocks. Adventure, treasure to take home, clan wealth mean better for me. Clan rise, so will all.” He said not giving too much away about their culture but explaining the rough context. “We still find things in Morgador, many secrets. You should be careful if you seek us out, let scale come first, people slow welcome into hearth..” He said with a slight hiss, it was true even after generations they still found secrets and places hidden in the land they called home. The place had been home to those of great cunning who hid their secrets well and took those of great cunning to unlock them.

The 6th figure came with a bottle, one who seemed to bring gifts and also seemed more comfortable…a two shod always was on land of stone valleys… Vashra was not, beast folk did not venture deep into such places without reason. Scented, dressed like a smart two shod and clean. He definitely smelt of something.. different than normally he smelt in towns or out in wide lands.

He also had a faint.. very faint sense of dust, travel or something about him. Far to faint to make any use or detail. Vashra ignored it as some random fact or a rock in the path. This group was an odd mix, but no stranger than any other caravans or groups of adventurers who wanted to delve into the lands of Morgador. Not all welcomed their guides but also few were stupid enough to go without. Well the ones that returned.

“I Vashra, I can guide, hunt and … “ he paused seeing the symbols but they made little sense to the scale folk, he was not skilled in this… clan had many skills, but this was not his. He had seen many runes and left overs of structures still in the ruins they called home, but understood … no. “Runes, marks, in mountains ruins, sand and stone not eaten by mountains clear blood. Dead Stone masters carve and build many thjngs. Read no.” He said, if it was of the stone masters' works, they did like to carve and their works lasted a long time. The Scale folk still live in those, reinforced by their more simple stone and earth works used as wood and other materials were harder to get on mass. They were skilled at making the best of a place where there was not much to use and local materials helped them hide their works into the environment.

---

The road to Ealdormuda wound down from the high ridges in long, dust-bitten turns, its path basking with the day’s hot sun. By the time Jair reached the harbor’s edge, the scent of the sea was heavy in the air, the shipyards were visible, he had not been near the sea in many years now. For a moment he remained still as he looked onto the ever expanding and neverending sight of the sea. Soon enough his arrival into town did not go unnoticed, a lone rider of the Prathmava drew eyes wherever he went and the white headband with blue embroidery marked him plain as one of Tridanu’s steppe folk. He met the stares with the same stoic gaze he’d worn half his life.

Yade’s hooves clicked against the cobbles, her breath rising in pale wisps. She tossed her head once and gave a low, impatient snort.

“I know,” Jair murmured, “Too many walls.”

The mare huffed again, Jair answered with a faint smirk, the pair rode on through the town past dozens of curious and perhaps suspicious glares until they arrived to the docks.

Two locals sat on a bench by the roadside, pipes glowing dimly in the dark. Dockmen by the look of them, their rough hands, oil-stained tunics and faces weathered by salt were dead giveaways. Their talk dwindled as the rider approached and Jair halted Yade a few paces off and leaned slightly in his saddle.

“You’ve seen strangers come through lately?” His tone was leveled but courteous, as much as a lone steppe rider could be, “Not sailors... travelers. The kind who don’t linger long.”

The older man took his pipe from his mouth and squinted up at him, “Strangers, aye. Plenty of ’em since the storms eased. You’ll find your sort inside the inn up a-ways round that corner there,” he said, jerking the stem of his pipe toward the harbor inn. His companion exhaled a slow ribbon of smoke and muttered something that drew a crooked grin from the first.

Jair inclined his head in a silent thanks and nudged Yade forward. Behind him, the two resumed their murmured talk.

The rider guided his mare around the corner, stopping where the shadows from the eaves fell deep. He dismounted without tying her. Yade shifted, her tail flicking once as she looked toward the inn door.

“Patience,” he said softly, running a gloved hand down her neck. She whickered and once more he felt the echo of her thought, wordless prod of amusement that made him shake his head.

He stayed there a while, watching the lantern-lit windows, the silhouettes passing inside. The call of treasure and Turakindi ruins had reached far, but it was the draw of something else that held him, the hope, however faint that somewhere in the bones of the past, a man might find absolution. But habit born of years on the road urged caution; walk into a den of unknown blades and tongues and you might not walk out again.

Yade stamped once, as if in agreement.

After a time, two travelers passed him on their way into the inn. One was a tall man in foreign leathers and another cloaked figure whose gait seemed that of someone who was of a commanding stature. They vanished through the door and the hum of voices rose briefly to greet them. Jair exhaled, swung the reins loosely in his hand, and gave Yade one last look.

“Wait here,” he told her. She met his gaze, ears twitching once as she then lowered her head in understanding.

With that, Jair stepped from the street wall into the inn’s light, the scent of salt and smoke following him through the door. The inn was heavy with smoke and the smell of old ale. Jair’s eyes adjusted quickly to the dim lamplight, picking out faces along the rows of chairs and tables as the noise of laughter and talk dulled to a murmur when the door closed behind him.

It wasn’t hard to find the ones he sought. A winged woman with amber hair sat with a Firindorian of striking grace, a pair of men, one foreign and one scarred and, most peculiar of all, a scale-skinned traveler whose voice hissed softly as he finished speaking. The others listened with curiosity rather than fear. That told Jair enough.

He lingered for a moment by the door, brushing rain from his cloak before stepping forward. His boots made little sound on the wood as he crossed the floor and stopped a respectful distance from the table.

“Sounds like you already have one guide,” he said, his voice even as his gaze flicked briefly toward the man who had called himelf Vashra, then to the rest of the company. “I won’t pretend to know all of Morgador… but I’ve ridden near every other corner of this realm once or twice, at least. If you’re heading into mountains or ruins, you’ll want a man who’s done more than follow roads.”

He rested one hand lightly on the back of a vacant chair, the other on his belt where the worn leather met the hilt of a well-traveled blade. “Jair, from the steppe lands,” he added simply, "my mare waits outside.”

...

Ardashir approached the table. In doing so, he overheard the strangers introduce themselves. Aderynel, the sylph, sought history; Hagen, the soldier, sought adventure; Quintus, the Arventian, had taken an oath; and Tárwen, the elf, gracefully but definitively declined to say just what she sought. Arda smiled briefly, and walked up next to Vashra, the beastman.

"Ardashir of Navavasta," he announced, "if I have arrived in time to join in introductions." He smiled a bit ruefully. "Pardon the interruption." A handsome man, this, and that smile said he knew it: warm olive skin and bright green eyes, a bit boyish despite his beard, with a swift flashing grin and a faint scent of agarwood and dried limes. Arda held out the bottle of Arventian red, and placed it on the table. "In my defense, I come bearing gifts."

Then his leaf-green eyes settled on Aderynel. "Word around town is that you found something in the mountains," Arda remarked. He reached into his burnoose and retrieved a small stone seal, half chipped away; the Mitradaevaka's gloved finger traced the runes around its rim. "I believe you said that you are a historian, Aderynel. So am I. I can read these runes. If they resemble those you found up in the mountains, then I think we could help each other. What do you think?" With a quick turn, Ardashir glanced around to include Aderynel's other companions in his question.

"A pleasure to meet you," Aderynel spoke for the group, reaching over the receive the stone from Arda. She paused, then gave a rueful smile and a shrug, accompanied by a slight unfurling of her wings, shrugging with those limbs as well, "I'd like to say yes, but I really don't know."

"I'm a Northerner," she added. The sing-song accent while speaking Arventian was a bit of a giveaway though not everyone would be able to discern it, "The Giants never made it across the Stormsund Straights, as far as anyone knows. Their ruins are a thing of the Southern lands and, I will confess, I have never seen them or felt the need to study them. This was my first encounter with anything built by them... what I would say about these letters were they were very big, as if carved by someone wielidng a chisel I would struggle to lift."

"The other possibility, from what you've described is a Gundrukan vault," Tárwen chipped in, "But that seems less likely. I could give you a long explanation as to why I think that, but you'd get bored... the short version is they aren't known for completely forgetting the existence of a place."

Quintus, the more taciturn of the group took his moment to chip in, "I trust you know how to use that?" he motioned at Arda's scimitar.

"Oh yes," Aderynel gave a small laugh, acknowledging her earlier oversight, "I guess I should probably ask what your interest in these ruins is?"

Jair son of Rensar

---

...

“Sounds like you already have one guide,” he said, his voice even as his gaze flicked briefly toward the man who had called himelf Vashra, then to the rest of the company. “I won’t pretend to know all of Morgador… but I’ve ridden near every other corner of this realm once or twice, at least. If you’re heading into mountains or ruins, you’ll want a man who’s done more than follow roads.”

He rested one hand lightly on the back of a vacant chair, the other on his belt where the worn leather met the hilt of a well-traveled blade. “Jair, from the steppe lands,” he added simply, "my mare waits outside.”

"And greetings to you, Jair. I'm Hagen from the Strommark," Jair received the attention of the larger of the two warriors at the table, "We're not heading for the Morgador, just the mountains and, from what I can tell we don't have much need of a guide since our skyborn friend knows the route, and I'm pretty sure all of our little group has travelled offroad before. We have an Decurion from the Regnum, a skyborn and a low elf and one of the scalefolk and of course yours truly."

He didn't include Arda in the list, mostly because he didn't know much about him yet, but there hadn't been anything about his appearance, in Hagen's view, to suggest he wasn't capable of a journey across country... "Though I will not turn away another sword, especially since we know there are creatures of darkness in this ruin. What are you looking to get out of this little expedition?" he asked.

---

Gweirca landed near the entrance to Ealdormuda, her white wings kicking up dust from the sudden slow down. Nearby commoners were startled by her abrupt and chaotic landing, staring daggers at the young Sylpharim. Unfortunately, the mean looks from the townfolk was the least of Gweirca's problem. She looked like she had been running, well flying, from something for awhile now. Her clothes were dusty, her hair sticking to her sweaty forehead, and she was severely out of breath. Nothing about her appearance screamed that she was having a fun time.

Gweirca after having landed, bent over to catch her breath, her hands on her knees and her wings folding behind her. Unfortunately, her reprieve was short lived as two rough looking men riding horses, stormed through the main gate. She looked behind her and saw them just as they saw her.

" Oi, there's the bitch!" One called out, prompting the chase once again.

" Shit..." Gweirca muttered as she began to run through the streets, pushing herself even more through her exhaustion.

She pushed her way through the crowds of people, trying her best to lose her pursuers. Gweirca loved being a Sylpharim, but it was inconvenient at times. Trying to blend into a crowd was one of those inconvenient times. Her massive white wings stuck out like a sore thumb amongst humans. Quite problematic given her chosen profession.

Gweirca, trying to find a place to hide, ran towards the nearby inn, just as she spotted the men trying to spot her through the townfolk. She busted through the doors of the inn, almost stumbling as she did so. The young Sylpharim quickly scanned the room for a place to hide, having already gained the attention of the patrons. Spotting another Sylpharim hanging around a table with a group of other people, she decided that was a good enough place. Gweirca jogged over, looking behind her to see if she was followed.

" If anyone asks, I'm not here. " Gweirca say to no one in particular as she hid behind the tallest one.

Just then, two men burst through the door in a similar fashion. The duo glanced around the dimly lit room, their eyes immediately falling on Aderynel.

" Is that her?" One of them asked the other.

" No. That one's wings are black. Our thief's white." His friend responded. " Let's go, she's not her."

The two men would quickly leave as soon as they had arrived.

---

So far, Markiel has been having a good time at Ealdormuda. He had arrived earlier in the day and had some time to explore the city before nightfall. The city was like what he had heard, and he was glad of that. Plenty to see and do in the capital of the Eahamingas, and Markiel spent most of the day seeing the sights of the city. Taking the land of a new place as he walked the streets and gazed at the buildings and landmarks.

Now Markiel had found himself near the harbor, and seeing how it was nightfall. He figured a trip to a tavern would be his next stop. So after looking for a bit, Markiel found one nearby and went inside. Taking a drink and choosing to sit down at a semi-filled table.

He was thinking about his next move as he sipped his drink when he noticed a group forming near him. When he heard about what sounded like a vault and he was interested. So he listened more, and he became more interested. So, a group of people want to explore a long-lost Turakindian vault by the sounds of it. He thought as his mind pondered the idea. He knows some about the Turakindi from his travels, nothing his father would care to teach him about. But, for someplace that old, and sounding forgotten. There can be relics or something of value inside.

Perhaps this is his next adventure, he thought as more people joined the group. Markiel came to this city to see what his next adventure would be, and it seems like he discovered it. He had a big smile on his face and time to see if this group would let him join them or not.

So as he took a final sip from his drink, and after seeing a female Sylpharim quickly rush in and seemly join the ranks of the growing party. Markiel stood up and walked over to the group and introduced himself to them.

"Hello there, and I could not help but overhear what plan you all had, and I would like to join." He had a friendly tone to his voice. "My name is Markiel, and I am a good fighter if you need another blade for your party." Which is all he can offer, unfortunately, but time to see how the leader of this group's leader feels about him.

Aderynel took the stone seal from Ardashir. She said that it was a pleasure to meet him, and that she was a Northerner; there were no Turakindi ruins in her homeland, and therefore she had never learned Turakindian. Arda watched Aderynel closely: noted the music of her accent, noted the rustle of her wings when she shrugged. When she remarked that the inscriptions she had seen were large, as if carved by a chisel too big for a sylph to lift, Ardashir nodded thoughtfully.

Tárwen observed that there was a chance that the ruin was Gundrukan, not Turakindi, but that she thought it unlikely: the dwarves did not simply forget their own vaults. Arda smiled. "No," he agreed, "they are not known for that." He poured some wine for the table. "Some years ago, I had the privilege of helping an expedition out of Stormfjellheim to excavate a Turakindi ruin in the eastern Morgador. They had preserved a folk memory of that place, though it had been abandoned for thousands of years. I doubt they would have forgotten one of their own mines more swiftly."

Quintus, the quiet Arventian, seemed unimpressed by this anecdote. He glanced up at Ardashir, and motioned at the Southerner's scimitar. "I trust you know how to use that?" the archer demanded.

Before Arda could reply, a white-winged young sylph woman burst through the door of the inn - stumbled - nearly fell - and rushed over to the table. She ducked out of sight behind Ardashir and Hagen, hissing: "If anyone asks, I'm not here." Scant moments later, two burly men in dusty road leathers followed her through the door, and glared around the inn. Their eyes rested on Aderynel.

Ardashir turned to face the door. He set his feet in a certain way, a certain distance apart. He bladed his shoulders a certain way, at a certain angle to the men. His hand rested on the ivory hilt of his scimitar; his wrist bent; the seal of the scabbard broke silently, and an inch of watered Vardaban steel glimmered in the candlelight. No one in this room was likely to recognize the aghaz: the preparatory stance of the Arsama school of Varadaban furusiyya, designed to make it possible to draw and strike in a single lightning blow. But there was no mistaking the training behind those precise motions - or the confidence.

The men exchanged some quiet words, and ducked back out of the inn. Arda glanced back at Quintus. Belatedly, he answered the archer's question. "Yes," Arda replied laconically. "I do." He slid the inch of exposed blade back into Nashkasta's worked silver scabbard, and turned back to face the table.

Aderynel let out a small laugh, and changed the subject. "Oh yes," she remarked, "I guess I should probably ask what your interest in these ruins is?"

Arda crooked an eyebrow. "I told you," he replied. "I'm a historian." He slid a glass of wine toward the white-winged sylpharim newcomer, but his gaze did not leave Aderynel. "I'm chasing the same quarry as you, I'd expect: learning something that no one in Minadra has known for thousands of years." Ardashir smiled wryly. "Something tells me that I needn't explain to you just how much foolishness a dream like that can justify." He drew a gloved hand through the air: a gesture of cheerful finality, dismissing any further reservations. "So. Like I said: if this ruin is Turakindi, then I may prove of some use when we get there. And I won't slow you down on the way. Let's help each other, then. Are we in agreement?"

vashthishtra silent sands. “Vashra”

Vasha swayed slightly as someone ran in and the two shod caused all manner of something going on. A thief or was that a clan theft, or a stranger theft…because one of those was deeply against the scale folks code and a line considered traitorous to one's own clan and people. Enemies were fair game and a matter of honour to deprive them.

She shifted to take in the arrivals, a man and a newly arrived winged one but hers were black and the others were white. The Morgador was far more quiet and even traveling he was not used to places being this busy. He tended to shun towns and such places for obvious reasons, scale folk were treated like beast folk and not all beast folk where treated well by so called civilised folks.

“You. How we trust? Clan trust of is life. Go dangerous place, mountains high and danger lurks. Success as Clan, or fail alone.” Vasha said he was a little blunt but Scale folk were very much tribal and they considered some things of utmost importance. Life and death relied on those about you. They were an odd breed but their word was their bond and would hold to it unless you broke it then they would actively work against you. Deal fairly. The scale folk were fair. Maybe a little simplistic…life was complicated but that boiled down their mindset when life and death. “I am Vashra, that is what other 2 shod call me.”

Vashra was harsh, maybe he was but he also wanted to live. He was not foolish and there was no coming home if someone left you when you needed them most.

“What you know of this place, dark ones, a tomb, a … town, kill place,...fortress? Old ruins? May ruins, so many kinds of ruins.” Vashra asked as he turned his reptilian eyes about the group sipping his drink in a rather normal manner…he had that part down even if not understand all social graces. “Moutains cold or hot.. or both.?” He added, the Scale folk had been on adventures and knew planning would help save his life and others. He had coins to purchase if the merchant would take it..

“This ale is good…” He said casually deciding he liked his town's ale.

...

"Hello there, and I could not help but overhear what plan you all had, and I would like to join." He had a friendly tone to his voice. "My name is Markiel, and I am a good fighter if you need another blade for your party." Which is all he can offer, unfortunately, but time to see how the leader of this group's leader feels about him.

"Is that so?" Hagen asked, leaning back and stretching his shoulders, "So for you, I've got the same question we've asked everyone else, and one other. Why do you want to go?" he asked, before adding, without leaving time for a response to the first question, "And tell us a bit about yourself... 'good fighter' can mean different things to different people. I want to get a gauge of what that means to you."

---

...

Arda crooked an eyebrow. "I told you," he replied. "I'm a historian." He slid a glass of wine toward the white-winged sylpharim newcomer, but his gaze did not leave Aderynel. "I'm chasing the same quarry as you, I'd expect: learning something that no one in Minadra has known for thousands of years." Ardashir smiled wryly. "Something tells me that I needn't explain to you just how much foolishness a dream like that can justify." He drew a gloved hand through the air: a gesture of cheerful finality, dismissing any further reservations. "So. Like I said: if this ruin is Turakindi, then I may prove of some use when we get there. And I won't slow you down on the way. Let's help each other, then. Are we in agreement?"

Aderynel glanced in the direction of the newcomer, raising a cool eyebrow, but her attention quickly snapped back to Arda, "I'm more than happy to delve into secret places with another historian. It's always better to work in a group! Hopefully if the group is large enough, the creatures in the dark will keep their distance. We'll still need to be careful of course, but who knows, this could actually turn out to be fun."

"Are you with a University?" she asked Arda, changing subject, "I was with the University of Bryncaer but managed to do a few stupid things and land in disgrace." She was being reasonably open about the events of her past and her tone suggested she was happy for Arda to delve further, should he wish, "I uncritically published documents from someone I trusted and ended up defaming and innocent, but powerful and angry, man," she grimaced then gave a rueful smile, "I learned a hard lesson. My hope npw is that, if I can do some good work here, I might be able to find a position at a University in one of the human realms. Perhaps even Segestica?" she mused.

---

...
" If anyone asks, I'm not here. " Gweirca say to no one in particular as she hid behind the tallest one.

Just then, two men burst through the door in a similar fashion. The duo glanced around the dimly lit room, their eyes immediately falling on Aderynel.

" Is that her?" One of them asked the other.

" No. That one's wings are black. Our thief's white." His friend responded. " Let's go, she's not her."

The two men would quickly leave as soon as they had arrived.

The shorter man in the party, Quintus, had been watching Gweirca like a hawk. As the men searching for her departed he spoke up, "I don't imagine the gentlemen you brought here have got very far. Why are they hunting for you?" he asked, his tone level, conversational, "If I think you're lying or trying to give me the runaround, I'll call them back in and we can figure the question out together."

The shorter man in the party, Quintus, had been watching Gweirca like a hawk. As the men searching for her departed he spoke up, "I don't imagine the gentlemen you brought here have got very far. Why are they hunting for you?" he asked, his tone level, conversational, "If I think you're lying or trying to give me the runaround, I'll call them back in and we can figure the question out together."

@Dyelli Beybi

---

" That was close." Gweirca said as she emerged from her hiding spot behind the tall one. She then turned towards the man who asked her about the men.

" Oh those two? They accused me of cheating them in dice. I was, but there's no way they caught me. Speaking of which, wanna play dice?" Gweirca grinned slyly as she flicked her hand, causing three die to appear between her fingers.

" Wait..." Gweirca paused, taking a closer look at the group before them. "...you lot are those people that was going after that treasure in The Morgador, right? If so, I want in! You'll need my skills." Gweirca said as she flickered her hand again, the die disappearing just as magical as they appeared.

---

"Well, honestly, I have been thinking about doing another adventure, and when I overheard your tale. I figured this would make a good adventure, considering what was found." Adventure, Markiel thought. That was one of the reasons why he came to this city, hoping to find another place to visit and gain a tale to tell people if he desired. It seemed that he found the right group for one if they accepted him, that is.

"But what I mean by a good fighter is that I know how to use and fight with a sword and shield." He gestured to his sword, seax, and his shield. "I am no novice, and I am no stranger to conflict." Markiel almost sighed there, not about his fighting skills, but he is indeed no stranger to conflict. He was raised in one, and that conflict he does not wish to see anytime soon.

"I can handle myself is what I am getting at, and I am an experienced traveler if that means anything to you." Markiel hoped that was enough and was willing to say more if needed. Hoping that this will not be a missed opportunity, and he can see this vault. But, it is up to Hagen, and now Markiel is waiting for his response.

“Thanks for the help!” A stubby hand made a lazy wave at the poor sod behind the counter. Although he was richer for it, he didn’t relish the thought that this particular Gundrukan might return to pull out the rest of his hairs.

The tiny woman grinned, eagerly skipping out the bookstore and into the bustling street of tall people.

For it was always tall people, wasn’t it?

Fig clutched her newfound tome like a newborn babe held its latest teddybear; cradling it as she huddled back towards the center of the village.

Her tiny legs paused as she glanced upwards with a smile plastered on her lips when she caught Elenor fluttering down.

“Show off…” She muttered under her breath, kicking herself off the ground in a mock flight before continuing her path.

Elenor landed in one of the quieter streets not too far off from the bookstore she’d agreed to meet up with her companion at. Sylpharim towns were… far more accommodating for such things. The architecture back home offered more readily available perching space. At least on this occasion, El had been able to touch down with only a minimum of disturbance to the locals.

She stepped out into the main street, eyes peeled for her friend amidst the hustle and bustle. The Skyborn herself didn’t exactly cut a towering figure among humankind, but her wings were enough to make her stand out all the same.

And, of course, she could stretch them out a little to create some much-needed personal space among these lanky groundwalkers.

“El!” A voice bellowed from the tiny frame that darted up towards the Sylpharim, hands holding the book aloft like an olympic trophy.

Fig grinned, stopping just short of her companion as she beamed with pride. “Look, found a rare copy of the Amani Bear Warriors.” The tome was worn, the title edged in the leather faded and indecipherable unless you looked closely.

Or a Gundrukan with a weird obsession for whimsy and useless…

Fig balanced on her tippy toes, nearly shoving the book in Elenor’s face. “See? Pristine condition.” She flopped back on the soles of her boots, the strain sending a discomforting pang down her calf. “Only missing two pages, oh and someone gobbed on the writer’s foreword.”

Fig danced on her feet, her excitement palpable as she hopped into the air, her feet but an inch off the ground. “And one page was used to start a tealight.”

The Gundrukan’s green eyes widened, shaking her head as she chuckled. “Silly me, how was your flight?”

Elenor returned a bemused smile - Fig had been talking her ear off about finding a book like this for the better part of a week.

“Skies were clear, no strong winds… perfect weather for it,” replied the Sylpharim, her brow furrowed. “Didn’t quite find what I was looking for up there though. You remember that peddler who mentioned there were a few ruins in this region? Supposed to be something like that up in the mountains - mine, fortress, I don’t quite know which. Thought I could get a sketch of it for your book, but…”

Her gaze turned back toward the mountain in question, squinting at it as though standing in the middle of town afforded any better vantage than a literal bird’s eye view.

“Mind you… I could have been looking at it from the wrong side…”

The bird woman’s wings twitched as she let out an irritated sigh.

“You know what, I’m not going back up there again without knowing where I ought to look. The weather may be fine, but it’s not half nippy when you’re that high up.” Adjusting the straps on her backpack, she began to head off down the street. “Come on, Fig. I say we look for a decent pub round here. A nip of something to keep the cold out, and maybe we can find out if there really is anything on that mountain…”

“Like killing two birds with one stone?” Fig’s face flashed a toothy grin, her eyes glinting with a friendly mischief.

El looked askance at her friend. “That’s a horrible saying.”

The Gundrukan giggled with a bounce in her step as she eagerly followed Elenor to the pub.

...
" Wait..." Gweirca paused, taking a closer look at the group before them. "...you lot are those people that was going after that treasure in The Morgador, right? If so, I want in! You'll need my skills." Gweirca said as she flickered her hand again, the die disappearing just as magical as they appeared.

"I rather think your skills are of little use outside of a tavern," the short man raised an eyebrow, "I don't think loaded dice will be of any use to our expedition. Unless you happen to have some other talent, skyborn?" he asked, eyebrow raised.

"While she is the one actually making the decision," he nodded towards the dark-winged sylpharim who was chatting with the Southerner, "I don't particularly want to spend this trip constantly checking my purse is still there." The eyebrow stayed up, as if inviting Gweirca to provide some kind of assurance.

---

Markiel Sviatolev

---

"Well, honestly, I have been thinking about doing another adventure, and when I overheard your tale. I figured this would make a good adventure, considering what was found." Adventure, Markiel thought. That was one of the reasons why he came to this city, hoping to find another place to visit and gain a tale to tell people if he desired. It seemed that he found the right group for one if they accepted him, that is.

"But what I mean by a good fighter is that I know how to use and fight with a sword and shield." He gestured to his sword, seax, and his shield. "I am no novice, and I am no stranger to conflict." Markiel almost sighed there, not about his fighting skills, but he is indeed no stranger to conflict. He was raised in one, and that conflict he does not wish to see anytime soon.

"I can handle myself is what I am getting at, and I am an experienced traveler if that means anything to you." Markiel hoped that was enough and was willing to say more if needed. Hoping that this will not be a missed opportunity, and he can see this vault. But, it is up to Hagen, and now Markiel is waiting for his response.

Hagen gave a small shrug, "Everyone here is a seasoned traveler, but booking an inn isn't the kind of skill that will keep you alive in the underground spaces. That being said, I'm happy to bring a few more warriors aboard. We need more of your kind to keep the historians from stabbing themselves in the foot."

He tipped his mug of ale back, chugging the contents before slamming it down on the table, "So Markiel, do you have any good stories?" he said, inviting a tale to be told.

Hagen gave a small shrug, "Everyone here is a seasoned traveler, but booking an inn isn't the kind of skill that will keep you alive in the underground spaces. That being said, I'm happy to bring a few more warriors aboard. We need more of your kind to keep the historians from stabbing themselves in the foot."

He tipped his mug of ale back, chugging the contents before slamming it down on the table, "So Markiel, do you have any good stories?" he said, inviting a tale to be told.

Markiel smiled, "I am glad to hear that I am in," sounding relieved. For a moment, he felt like he had made a mistake, but it turned out he did not. "I bet, and I have traveled with a few scholars, and it is surprising how some seem oblivious to danger." Not all scholars might you, just some, as Markiel has observed during his travels.

"But a story," Markiel grinned eagerly. "I have some stories I can share that are good." With some, he would not like to speak about. Mainly one, but when being a traveller for some years. You experience some good and some bad things. Especially out in The Plains of Morgador.

"Well, which would you like to hear? An odd venture into The Plains of Morgador or that time I almost had to fight a beastfolk?"

"Tell us of the Morgador," Hagen requested, with a cheerful smile, "I have spent plenty of time in the frozen lands of the North but have never ventured into that place. I had been planning an expedition to the uncharted lands South of here, but then the young lady approached me and suggested I join her for a time," he nodded towards Aderynel.

"But anyway, on with your tale! I hear there are ruins in the Morgador, the scale of which is beyond imagining!" he declared.

Leofric Aelwinovich

Markiel smiled, "I am glad to hear that I am in," sounding relieved. For a moment, he felt like he had made a mistake, but it turned out he did not. "I bet, and I have traveled with a few scholars, and it is surprising how some seem oblivious to danger." Not all scholars might you, just some, as Markiel has observed during his travels.

"But a story," Markiel grinned eagerly. "I have some stories I can share that are good." With some, he would not like to speak about. Mainly one, but when being a traveller for some years. You experience some good and some bad things. Especially out in The Plains of Morgador.

"Well, which would you like to hear? An odd venture into The Plains of Morgador or that time I almost had to fight a beastfolk?"

"Tell us of the Morgador," Hagen requested, with a cheerful smile, "I have spent plenty of time in the frozen lands of the North but have never ventured into that place. I had been planning an expedition to the uncharted lands South of here, but then the young lady approached me and suggested I join her for a time," he nodded towards Aderynel.

"But anyway, on with your tale! I hear there are ruins in the Morgador, the scale of which is beyond imagining!" he declared.

The mention of the north, or perhaps the sound of a Vedosever Jugkraian accent, drew sudden attention from a hunched and silent figure lingering near the bar at the back of the establishment. Wreathed in the haze of smoke that filtered through the establishment in the dim firelight the figure sat upright quite suddenly, not fast, but a slow and deliberate unfolding that revealed a large figure with a broad and powerful shoulders.

Then came the slow turning.

The dim firelight of the tavern caught half in light and shadow an expressionless face - one full lines and scars and the texture of weathered and worn leather - marked by two cold blue eyes that slowly rolled over the collection of adventurers assembled behind him. The man's nose was crooked, like it had been broken more than once. He wore a simple woolen tunic as weathered as his face, cut short at the arms. He came to rest his right elbow on his knee, turning to the group a right arm of corded muscle etched with scars that seemed kin to those he bore upon his face.

He wore a worn leather belt, from it the hilt of a long steel dagger peaked from his left hip from where he'd twisted in his seat.

If the man was interested in any member of the group, his face betrayed none of it. His gaze, though, seemed to finally settle and narrow decisively upon the young Jugkraian noble, Markel Sviatolev.

Slowly, calmly, the scarred figure shifted and emptied his earthen cup, his expressionless and unblinking eyes not leaving Markel for a moment even as rivulets of frothy liquid began to run through his broad, dirty blonde beard. Eyes still fixed, he shifted again as he set the stein almost gently upon the bar. He took his time before running a broad forearm across his beard to clear it.

The scarred man seemed not to care if he was staring at the Jugkraian noble. Like a cat watching a canary. At the same time, his left hand had come to rest upon the hilt at his side, not gripping it, but thumbing the leather bindings - threadbare, half worn away - that wrapped the dagger's grip.

Elenor pulled her wings close against her body as she and Fig pushed open the door of the tavern. The warmth and the faint scent of alcohol gently wafted over her, notable but not unpleasant. For all the humans' faults, they could still make some good ales.

Her eyes swept the room practically by instinct, assessing the interior and its occupants before settling on the small group that stood out among the usual crowd. She gently nudged Fig and nodded in their direction.

“Think we might have any luck asking them?” El suggested. “Maybe that Sylph there could have seen something I missed.”

Before Elenor could even suggest anything more, Fig had clocked the group of individuals congregating like they’d been conspiring deep dark secrets - and the Gundrukan’s small frame had already ambled near them without even trying; that damned grin flashing all teeth, curiosity and mischief like she was born for eavesdropping.

Which, considering her small stature, was probably true.

“‘Lo!” She offered it like meeting old friends, stubby fingers tugging at a sleeve as she eyed the Sylpharim in question. “Couldn’t help but overhear some things,” The grin widened as she pointed to Elenor. “Figured I’d prod.”

El flashed her companion a smirk - Fig could certainly make an entrance for someone so short - and gave a polite nod to the gathering. “That mountain outside of town - any of you lot hear tell of something said to have been built up there, long time ago?”